Francis S. Street. Vol. 38. Young Mrs. Charnleigh.—‘‘Captain aq! je § Office 31 Rose St. | P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. H'S NEW STORY," Wntoret Accordina to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1882, bu Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washinoton, PD. © ———Entered New York, January 29, 1883. at the Post Office New York. N. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Conies Five Dollars. TREY \ \A\i LS ° SMI \ \ AY AY YS AIR Dawn, of Beach Dale, is in a fit, come at once!’ SEPOTORLDERTRETOREEE QUESTION AND ANSWER. BY WINSLOW C. COOKE. My little lass, with face aglow, Asked me why I should love her so— > So small she was and weak to me, Who boasted in man’s potency. And looking down in eyes of blue, Where love’s soft beams were shining through, Methought my heart had flown its nest And entered in another’s breast. But I did answer brave and true, As every lover ought to do: “ Oh, what care I how small you be, Since you are all the world to me?’ MAGGIE O’HARA’S WEDDING. A COMPLETE EXPOSE OF MARRIAGE INSURANCE. A LOVE TALE OF LOVELAND. By A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. CHAPTER I. THE SQUIRE’S PLAN. The post-village of Loveland is romantieally located in the back country of Pennsylvania. There is but one street in the settlement, and that is at least a mile in length, ‘upon which are located pretty frame cottages, surrounded by vines and foliage. Loveland was a very duil and somber village until Squire Ketchum madea stir. The squire, a long time back, became bankrupt in business, entered politics, and was made successively deputy sheriff, court crier, and tipstaff for the county court; but at last his political enemies turned him out of office, and he had nothing specially to do but to watch the village blacksmith and shoemaker by day, and talk to the boys at the store at night. Finally, however, the squire was let into a-secret, and he resolved to organize a marriage insurance company. Squire Ketchum had paida visit to some of his influential friends in the city, who were also out of politics and almost everything else, and they gave him his cue, and instructed him how to get into an A No. 1 first-class vocation that would pay him handsome profits as long as he was successful in keeping himself out of the penitentiary. When the squire reached home he was full of marriage insurance ideas. He _at once proceeded to. business. He saw Deacon Sharpe and Parson Holdem, to whom he unfolded his plans, They promised to use their influence on the village storekeeper, Skinnem by name, and he in turn was to secure the attention of Rey. Jonas of the village congregation, and ex-Sheriff Scrooge, who had been in office not long ago, and hadn’t had time to run through the cash he Had drawn from the county treasurer. — 3 The squire’s plan worked exceedingly well. On the appointed evening the six men met in Skin- nem’s store, and when all the loungers had_ been invited to depart, the front door was locked, and Ketchum unfolded his plans. 29 “You see, ness. Y You run no risks, and the profits are all ours.’ Deacon Sharpe at once arose to leave, saying: “Squire, that’s pizen! can be worked as smoothly as all that.’ “Hear me out, deacon, ’ said the squire. * man. Here’s a golden opportunity for us six men; gentleman. that if ever any trouble arises, J will assume the responsibility.” Skinnem knew the squire so well that he made up his mind that if this new business wasn’t of any better character than the squire’s word or his promises to pay his store bilis, there wasn’t much 1n it. However, the deacon was persuaded to hear the squire out, and finally he got through with his ex- planation of the inner workings of the marriage insurance business. “You see,’ said he, ‘the world is full of young people who are anxious to get married. Wherever there is a pair of lovers, why there is our meat! We organize a company, send out agents, get in appli- cations for membership, guarantee to give each member $500 or $1.000 one year after they get mar- ried, take ten dollars eash down for each applica- tion—that’s ours, you know—and when thetime is up to pay the money, why——” “Bust up!” put in the sheriff. “Oh, no, not a bit of it.” said the squire; “but will pay over the money, and get the cash first from the other policy holders by assessing them so much apiece.” The six men met for several evenings, and finally resolved to organize. The greatest difficulty was in selecting a suitable name for the company. The parson wanted it named “The Brotherly Love Mar- riage Insurance Company.” The deacon suggested “Constanecy;’ Skinnem thought “Hand in Hand” was a good name; the sheriff suggested “‘Honest and Upright Company,” and the squire had a half- dozen names that his mind had dwelt upon during the day. Finally they selected a name that the squire had suggested, and the following week a neat and modest sign thal the squire himself had lettered was posted below his front window: AGENTS WANTED FOR THE CONNUBIAL BLISS MUTUAL AID MARRIAGE INSURANCE CO. The company was fully organized, and the squire had been authorized to attend to allthe details. The six men who eonstituted the company put in ten dollars each, the squire having borrowed his the night before from the ‘sheriff. The squire was elected president and the sheriff secretary, and as this worthy pair wended their way home that night (they lived at the same end of the village) the squire remarked: “See here, sheriff, there’s going to be a dused lot of work in this thing. There’ll be big money come in, and as you are secretary and I president, why, eh know what's going on in the company, you et!’ The squire attended to securing the charter from the county court for ten dollars. He then drew up the forms for all nevessary printed matter, pros- spectuses, applications, and other blanks, ineclud- ing the eertificates, and he brought home a whole wagon load of printed matter fresh from the news- paper office in the city, that had promised to take eare of their interests, puff up the company, and protect them generally from the slanders of any insidious enemy that might happen to come along. The squire also secured the services, cheap, of a first-class lawyer, for the consideration of having his name printed on the prospectuses as the com- pany’s solicitor; and each cf the directors had suc- ceeded in securing the names of every prominent man in the county for reeommendation. Widow Needy’s front room was leased for an office, a new sign was painted, a neat rug carpet was laid down, two desks and five chairs were bought at a city second-hand store, and in a few days the C. B. M. A. M. I. A. was an established fact.. The villagers were awe-stricken, and the inhabitants in general felt very much elated. The directors at first were somewhat backward, but the squire and the sheriff bravely faced the music, walked stiffly and conse- said he, ‘this is an entirely new busi- | You put in nothing and get back thousands. | | pany. The first thing you know | you'll have our church disgraced and-ourselves in | jail. No fair and square business under the sul’) and to prove that I mean business, I hereby give | you my personal word of honor as a responsible | Young Mrs. Charnleigh.—Nothing quentially, put on some airs, as the word goes. and very soon their fellow-directors joined in the cere- mony of making an impression for the new com- One fine morning, after the squire had unpacked the printed matter, the village people arose to find a ecopy of the company’s prospectus lying before each door-sill in the village. It was on | Sunday morning, and as the parson and (deacon “Listen, | had previously agreed to hold no service on that day, the people had nothing to do all that Sabbath but to read and study the plans and promises of the great American Connubial Bliss Marriage Insur- anee Association of Loveland village, in the State of Pennsylvania. CHAPTER II. THE FIRST STATEMENT. The squire lost no time in presenting the follow- ing account at the first meeting of the board of di- rectors at their “home office’ in Widow Needy’s front room: Dr. Cash capital paid in in full.......:.. a $60. $10. 25. a 1.25. 6.50. 1.50. 5.00. 1.50. rr GHATS sous ee ee CAPs. 2 Oe vets Another Desk..... Account Books ainting a Sign.>.:..... ts oe os Tr 52.75. CUBR! ON HANG, 2s oars ee eee $7.25. “Our reserve fund, therefore, is $7.25. The sheriff has charged nothing for the use of his team for us to go to town with, and so vou see we are organized and ready for business. We’ve got to organize our agencies, send out drummers for business, and start the ball rolling. We'll take no members under sixteen yeare of age. We'll charge ten dollars cash down for each certificate of $1,000, $20 for $2,000, and $30 for $3,000, and we will issue no policies of a high- eramount. We'll make the assessments $1.26 for each marriage, and make no assessments or pay- ments until the end of the first year. So that if we are smart we can insure for the first year one thou- sand people, which will constitute our class A.” Here the squire drew up a long column of figures, and then made the following explanation: “One thousand members will have paid in cash $10,000 for their certificates and $4,000 for annual dues, giving us $14,000. We pay $500 on all first year marriages, less the cost of collection. We'll charge ten per cent. If Sarah Jane, who is insured, is mar- ried one year after this, we’llthen assess the thou- sand members $1.25 each, and get in $1,250. We'll pay her $500, less ten per cent. or costs for collection, and she’ll be mighty glad to getthe $450. So you see in that way we will make just $800 on each mar- riage. That is, the more marriages that take place the more money we make. It don’t come out of our pockets, but out of the policy holders. If we have 100 marriages the second year we make $80.000, which, after deducting the fees for the agents, will leave us a good round sum.” The squire had worked up the meeting toa high piteh of excitement, and half of the directors at least began to think of placing the president and sorenaty under bonds of $100,000 each. But they aian ft. The squire continued his calculations, showing that at the end of the third year their company would have $350,000 eash in hand, from which a divi- dend of 10 per cent could be safely declared for the benefit of che eompany, which was at all times to be considered a very close corporation. The directors were extremely well satisfied, and hoped the squire was correct in his calculations, Then the parson produced his memorandum- book and remarked: “Well, there’s James Jonas and Hanna Mariah Mish, they’re to be married in two months. Then there’s Willoughby Winterline and Arabella Biddle, they’re also on my list for marriage. There’s two pair to work on. Sheriff, you’d better call. The sheriff smiled at the parson and said he rarely called on two pair. “No, no; I mean eall on them singly, under- stand ?” The sheriff good-naturedly explained his little joke, and promised to work the double pair for all they were worth. The parson and the deacon both (CONTINUED ON SECOND PAGE.) 52.75. i! ity nat 1 A I i 1 th Y.. as Second Class Muiter Francis S. Smith. arose to stay that fatal marriage—the maddest marriage ever the sky looked down upon. LIFE’S RETROSPECT. BY T. DE €LERMONT MILLER, M. D. Hours that are brightest Are passing away, Days that are fairest With us cannot stay ; Pleasures we cherished Are gone with a breath, Friends of our childhood Are silent in death. Flowers of the spring-time No longer are seen; Summer has vanished, And withered the green ; Autumn is passing So quickly away, Winter is coming, And chill is the day. Youth is now over, The green leaf is sere, Manhood is passing— The days of good cheer; Old age is coming, With cold, chilling breath; Sadly we’re nearing The valley of death. eer ort tae, ee YOUNGS Mrs. CHARNLEIGH OR, THE DARK PROPHECY. By T. W. HANSHEW, Author of “DOUBLY WRONGED,” “NO MAN’S WIFE,” “THE FATAL JEWELS,” “FOR MOTHER’S SAKE,” “A LIVING LIE,” “THE BEAUTIFUL OUTCAST,” etc. (‘“YouNG Mrs. CHARNLEIGH” was commenced last week.’’] CHAPTER III. WHAT THE NIGHT BROUGHT FORTH. Vivian Charnleigh stood quite still. From the moment his eyes rested on that pale, sweet, flower- like face he knew instinctively that he had met his fate! And there came to him then, while the sea waves boomed and the lightning flashed, while the rain drove down and the dark trees rocked, that wild, sweet rapturous fever men call love! The great stone breakwater was before him, and by the next white blaze of lightning, he saw that the shrinking little figure had slunk away, halfin terror, and stood clinging to the low iron rail, with the booming sea beneath her. “T beg your pardon,” he said, stepping from be- neath the trees and mechanically moving toward her, with much the same reason as the needle is drawn to the north—‘‘I beg your pardon if I startléd you. The path was so dark!” “And we did hit such an awful ‘bump,’ didn’t we? I’m all of a shake, like a jelly-fish !”’ He looked at her in amazement. She had quite re- covered her composure, and spoke with such a child- ish piquancy, such an artless innocence, that he was half-startled. “T—T thought it was a robber, or a highwayman— something awful, or I wouldn’t have screamed. I’m such a silly little fool when any thing startles me! Papa often tells me I should be more sedate »«nd—— Oh! I had forgotten, and it was so cruel, so thought- less of me!”’ She sprang forward suddenly, and laid her trem- bling hand upon his arm—frightened and shuddering again now, and quite at variance with the calm little thing she had seemed a moment ago, “I—I want to find Dr. Worthington,” she shud- dered. ‘Will you please direct me to his house? I— T lost the way in the dark, and wandered down here. I’m in such a hurry, and papa may die if I don’t get back soon. Papa is Mr. Dawn—Captain Geoffry Dawn, of the Forty-fifth Regulars, you know.” He did happen to know, and he greeted the words with an exclamation of surprise. He remembered Captain Dawn, of Beach Dale,when he was quite a boy—a tall, dark, gloomy man, with an everlasting air of mystery about him, and an everlasting look of pain on his face. It came to him then all the vague rumors he had heard when a boy of the gloomy old widower and his sunbeam daugh- ter, a little elfin of four or five, whom people used to regard with uplifted brows and significant whispers —rumors of a marriage said to have been contracted in Europe, where the late Mrs. Dawn was supposed to have died—Mrs. Dawn, whom nobody had ever seen, whom the captain never mentioned, and whom certain malicious tongues openly declared to be a myth. He remembered this little shrinking figure, too—remembered her as a wild little hoiden, re- markable for one thing: She was a child like other children in all else but the fact that she never spoke her mother’s name, never mentioned any circum- stance even indirectly connected with her, and could not be drawn into conyersation upon the subject by the most skillful gossip the county boasted of. “Captain Dawn!” he repeated, presently, quite oblivious to the dreadful import of her words—‘‘Cap- tain Dawn come back to America! Why, I never heard of that before. He left the country when I was butaboy. You don’t remember your old play- mate, Miss Leola? Pardon me—my name is Vivian Charnleigh, whom you ? “Oh, never mind that, Mr. Charnleigh!’”’ she said, in a tone of excitement. ‘Oh, yes, [remember you; but, please, don’t bother about it now. I’m only thinking of papa and’”’—with a hysterical little sob— ‘and the doctor. Piease direct me—please do—I’m in such a hurry !’’ “Worthington Cottage is fully a mile from here,” he madereply. “Who was madman enough to let you come out on foot such a night as this? Why, you’d never find the place in this way. Come over to the stable with me. I’ll get Joel to harness up Firefly, and I’ll drive you over myself, if—if you don’t object.” Miss Dawn signified that she did not by shaking her chestnut curls, and, drawing her arm through his, Vivian led the way to the stables. “Harness Firefly to the low phaeton, Joel; put on the rubber apron, then cut across to the house and get my coat and hat. And, mind you, don’t stand gossiping with the maids, if you know what your place is worth.” Evidently Joel did, for he set to work directly his young master ceased speaking, and the upshot was that in precisely fifteen minutes from the time of en- tering the stable, Miss Dawn, snuggled up in the cushions of the phaeton, with the rubber apron keeping off the fury of the storm, and Vivian Charn- leigh hanging onto the reins like grim death, was be- ing whirled away through the blustering night at a rate of speed highly creditable to Firefly. “They must have been mad over at Beach Dale to let you come out such a night as this,’ muttered Vivian, drawing in as Firefly pranced at a lightning flash. ‘*‘Why didn’t you send one of the servants ?” “Servants!” He heard her laugh half-mockingly, and saw her toss her head. “Mr. Charnleigh’s mem- | ory seems to play him odd tricks. Captain Dawn’s poor pay doesn’t admit of a superabundance of the article. We have only one—cook, butler, chamber- maid, and waitress all combined. Who else could go for the doctor, [ should like to know? Oh, please, ai faster !—please do! I’m so afraid papa will ie!” “Tt is as serious as that ?”’ “Yes; oh, yes; itis terrible! He got a letter from —from Europe!’ She gasped out the last word in a | manner that was highly suggestive of having caught | herself on the point of making some disclosure she preferred keeping secret. ‘‘He got up from the table | and went into his own room to read it. A minute Ib 2 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. Seem IAN. 29, 1888. later I heard the sound of acry, then a fall, and wher f hurried@to him, I found him lying on his face and foaming at the mouth. He had fallenin afit. I saw him like it once before, in England, and the doc- tors said he was liable to die suddenly in one of them.. We only returned to Beach Dale this morn- ing, you know, and—— Oh, this is the place!—I Imow it is! I haven’t seen it since I was a child, but IT recognize it now. Please stop Firefly, Mr. Charn- leigh, and let me get out. ’m ever and ever so much obliged to you—iudeed I am !—and papa would thank . you, too, if he could.” The phaeton had come toa sudden halt before a quaint little villa, where the trees rocked, and howled, and writhed, and twisted, and the great sea gleamed up from the west,. booming and beating in its fury. “ae Miss Dawn half-rose to spring out, but Vivian re- strained her, and thrusting the reins into her flut- tering hands, vaulted over the side and landed on the soaked and muddy earth. “Hold Firefly, Miss Dawn!’ he called out, sharply. “You’re soaked to the skin, and I will pull old Wor- thington out of his shell.’”’ 4 But “pulling him out of his shell,” as he expressed it, wasn’t quite so easy, and it was not until Vivian had half-wrenched off the great brass knocker, and succeeded in quite barking his knuckles, that a little window overhead flew up with a sudden bang, and a shrill voice, pitched in the highest treble, sang out: “Hello, there! What’s wanted ?” “I’m after Dr. Worthington!” bawled back Vivian, lifting his voice above the roar of the storm and the rumble ofthe sea. ‘Captain Dawn, of Beach Dale, isinafit. Don’t lose a moment, on your life, but come at once!” “T'll be there in atwinkling. Maria! Maria, I say! Wake Jeremiah, and tell him to hitch up Dobbin !” The window dropped with a sudden bang, and the shrill treble was stifled. Miss Dawn had been listening eagerly, and she drew along breath of relief when Vivian hurried back to her side. “How canT ever thank you ?” she half-sobbed, lay- ing her hand on his arm in a manner that senta quiver to his very finger-tips. “But for you I should never have found the place, and papa might have died. The doctor will follow right after us—won’t he?” “He'll be there almost as soon as we,” answered Vivian, taking the reins from her hand. ‘Now, Fire- fly, streak it, my boy. We must reach Beach Dale inside of half an hour!” And inside of half an hour they did reach it, Fire- fly tearing along by the edge of the sea, where the lightning played the fiercest, and the wild waves boomed, until the phaeton drew up at last before a low, broad veranda, half overrun with creeping vines, and green with exposure to all sorts of weather and all sorts of neglect. Vivian sprang down, fastened the horse to a ’ stunted tree, and then moved forward to-assist Miss Dawn to alight. But Miss Dawn had forestalled him by springing out directly after he had done so, and now stood on the low yeranda, with the wind and the rain beating wildly about her. She saw that he had secured the horse, and beck- oned him forward frantically. “Follow me quickly !”’ He heard the words; he saw her move forward suddenly, push open the great old-fashioned door, and flit into the dimly lighted passage beyond. He did not wait for a second bidding... Without a word he hurried after her, and the next moment he had erossed the threshold of the house whose shadow was fated to darken his after life. ‘A door to the left of the passage opened suddenly, and the one domestic Miss Dawn had spoken of, a trembling, white-faced woman of five or six-and- thirty, hurried forward to greet her young mis- tress. “Oh, Miss Leola, I’m so glad as you’ve comed !”’ she murmured, gaspingly. “T couldn’t a stood it another hour mum—it’s that dredful as it ’ud open the heart of a stone!”’ ; Leo lifted her dead-white face to the eyes of the domestic, and panted huskily: 2 ae not dead, Tina—oh, Tina, my papa is not ead?’ It was like a frightened, helpless child speaking, _and something sharp seemed to shoot through Vivian Charnleigh’s heart. “Tina, Tina! papa isn’t dead ?” “No, miss, no!” gasped back the girl, “but he comed outer one fit only to go inter another. Hear him—hear him how he screams! He’s been goin’ on like that, miss, ever since you left. Twice he called out for you, mum, then he yelled out ‘Blanche! Ad- lowe!’ and when he spoke them ere two names, wild horses themselves couldn’t a held him!” And the effect of the two names on Leola was equal- ly startling, for no sooner had they dropped from Tina’s lips, ere she echoed them with a gasping cry ; a deadly faintness seemed to have come over her, and she would have fallen had not Vivian sprang forward and supported her with his arm. Rallying quickly, she bade him,in a frightened voice, follow her directly, and breaking from him, darted into the room from whence came the shrieks and moans of the sufferer. Vivian hastened after her, but stopped on the threshold with a gasping cry. Lying there on what was fated to be his death-bed. was the livid, con- vulsed figure of Captain Geoffrey Dawn. His cloth- ing was Trent and tattered by his violent struggles ; his glaring eyeballs were fixed on the ceiling in a sightless stare, his hands were clenched at his sides, and from the lips that were stained and purple with his life-blood issued shrieks such as Vivian had never heard before. Leo uttered a piercing cry, and fluttered down be- Aide him, catching the rigid hands and pressing them to her lips. “Papa, papa. darling, don’t you know me?” she sobbed out, brokenly. ‘‘’Tis I—~Leo—your own little Leo!” “Leo!” cried out the man, hoarsely. ‘Yes, yes, Leo, whom I have tried so hard to protect. Leo, whom I have tried so hard to keep from the shadow of that horrible—Leo, ob, nry God, Leo! The past comes back again—the grave gives up its dead! Adad- lowe, curse him! Adlowe ses But Leola’s hand closed suddenly over his lips. “Papa, papa!” she cried out, wildly. “Forget the past; think of the present—think of me! Oh, my papa, my papa!” She was such a child to mingle in scenes like this, and a pang went straight to Vivian Charnleigh’s heart as he saw her clinging there to that livid, fran- tic being, marked already with the grim shadow of death’s own hand. Over the roar of the waters, above the rumble of the storm, rose up the clash of flying wheels and the thud of a horse’s hoofs. Tina ran down the dim passage with a shuddering ery; the door flew open witha gust anda roar, and then, dabbled, and muddy, and rain-drenched, John Worthington was ushered into Geoffrey Dawn’s death-chamber. ‘ He greeted the young heir of Charnieigh with a nod of recognition, set down his medicine case, and glanced toward the bed. . They saw the glance that crossed his face, and Leo looked up with a shuddering cry. “Oh, 1s it very serious, sir?” she uttered, trying so bravely to-choke back the sobs that made the fresh, sweet, childish voice quiver and break. that a wild longing took possession of Vivian Charnleigh’s heart to fold his arms about her, and shelter her for- ever from the coming storm. John Worthington stood by the bedside, counting the swift flutter of the dying man’s pulse. “He has had an apoplectic stroke, and broken a blood vessel as well,” he murmured, gravely, looking at that shrinking figure in the lamp’s pale glare. “My poor child, you had better telegraph at once for your friends or relatives.” “Friends? Relatives?’ she laughed bitterly as she spoke. ‘I—I am quite alone in the world, sir. Papa is—all—I—I—have to live for; all I have to love! Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Worthington, please don’t let him die; oh, please, please don’t! Oh, my papa, my papa!” She had slipped down on the bed beside him, Not weeping, tears would not come, only lying there with her face buried inthe sheets, and shaking from head to foot with the hard, dry sobs that would well up from her young heart. Vivian Charnleigh was the first to speak. He lifted his pale, handsome face to the old phy- sician’s gaze, and asked, in a hoarse, unnatural voice: “He will come out of this before—before——” He could not say the word while that one ve “ figure lay there, but the doctor understooc ‘him. “Yes, I think so,’”’ he answered, softly, “but noth- ing can savehim. He is past mortal aid, and—and, I think you had better drive over for the rector, Mr. Charnleigh. When the day breaks, this poor child will be alone in the world.”’ ; Not another word passed between them, But from the death-chamber Vivian Charnleigh moyed with _muffied tread, casting a last pitiful glance at that childish, shivering figure in the lamp’s dull glare, and the next minute Firefly was tearing off through the night and the storm again, dashing madly under the wind-rocked trees, and heading straight for the rectory of St. Mark’s. CHAPTER IV. HOW THE NIGHT CLOSED. The rain was still driving down in those great, solid sheets, the lightning and the thunder still eo the blackness over head, but La Belle Aure- ian pressed straight on, caring no more for the wild- a of the storm than she would have cared for dew fall, Her face shone up from the blackness of the night, white, and drawn, and ghastly with the terror of her soul. Her’ball-robe trailed in the mud and. mire of the reeking roads, but she did not stretch forth a hand to lift it, only rushed on and on through the driving, pitiless storm, through the rustling horror of the tempest-tossed trees, and the wide, white radi- ance of the lightning’s glare. A bit of woodland was.before her. A swift plunge and she was in the “open” beyond—the open where a dingy, tumble-down cottage stood, bare, and bleak, and barren, where never au atom of verdure grew, and the storm soemed to beat the maddest on this “night of nights.’’ Through the chinks of the closed shutters the yelluw glare of lamp-light stole into the blackness of the night, La Belle Aurelian was at her journey’s end. She moved forward swiftly and struck the door with her closed hand. “Who's there?’ called out a swift, low voice within. “Tis I—Zillah!’ she made reply. Ishmael.” The sound of a swift footstep struck the night, the door flew open suddenly, and ablaze of light illu- wined the darkness. La Belle Aurelian Gaught the man’s arm and blazed her dark eyes into his face. “Am I too late?’ she cried out, hoarsely. Am I too late?” ‘ “No,” the man made answer. “She lives yet, but it is only the question of an hour.” She uttered a gasping thankful cry and flashed by him into the cottage. A couch stood in the farthest corner from the door. A lamp, burning on a deal table beside it, filled the room with feeble yellow light, and shone on the haggard death-stricken face that lay back there in the pillows, its black eyes still glistening with the fire of life, its pallor heightened by the dark hair that framed it in a loose disheveled mass. Beautiful as Redempta, the Mexican Gitana, had been in the flower of her youth, there was noth- ing in that hideous, attenuated wreck of humanity to vouch for it to-night, as she lay there with the er luster of lamplight quivering fitfully over er. She looked up with a wan, sad smile as La Belle Aurelian entered. “Tt is you, Zillah, my own!” she cried out, feebly ; and La Belle Aurelian sank down beside her with a shivering cry. “Tis I, mother,” she said, huskily. to be neamthee.”’ Redeipta stretched forth one pallid skinny hand, and laid it on the girl’s black ringlets. “My own, my Zillah, issue as thou art of his ac- cursed race, thou bast still been my blessing !”’ she murmured, softly. ‘The money I have hoarded for years, that I might strike at his black heart, has not been wasted upon you my beautiful, The son of his blood shall make you his bride, but at the altar’s steps thou shalt blast him with the truth of what thou art; thou shalt wring his soul, even as his father wrung mine! Thou wilt do this—solemnly swear thou wilt!’ “T will, my mother—I swear it!” La Belle Aurelian answered. ‘“‘Not yet has he asked me to be his bride; but failing that, I will strike for deeper vengeance still. The prophecy uttered by you on the night of his birth shall be fulfilled to the last black letter. Ishmael’s partis done. Failing to win my high-born brother. I will at least take measures to make Charn- leigh Hall my home until the ends of vengeance have been fulfilled.” “Thou wilt avenge me?’ the woman cried. “Swear that thou wilt. Swear it, Zillah, and my curse be on ye if ye fail! Hark to me, carissima. From the grave [eallto ye. Swear it—solemnly swear it—the —prophecy—shall—be—fulfilled !” The pallor of dissolution was on her face, the film of death was on her midnight eyes. La Belle Aurelian saw it,and uttered a gasping cry. “Mother, mother, you are dying!” she panted; but with the last feeble fragment of her expiring strength et grasped at her wrist, and uttered. thickly: “Swear it—let me hear the music of your oath be- fore I go. Swear it—swear it, or a mother’s dying curse be on ye!” La Belle Aurelian lifted her jeweled hand. “God hear me—I swear it!’ she cried out, venom- ously. “The prophecy you have uttered shall be ful- filled— the heir of Charnleigh shall perish on the scaf- fold at the hands of the common hangman \” Over the white face of Redempta fluttered a spasm of pain. She made a last effort to speak, but only a hollow rattle came. Tha clenched hand unlocked suddenly, the dead face fell back in the pillows, and as own bridal kiss was pressed on her pallid row. For several seconds La Belle Aurelian gazed into that cali white face, then, without hint or warning, she dropped a kiss upon it and arose. “She is dead!’ she said, hoarsely, and Ishmael bowed his head. From that moment he knew that he was wifeless. La Belle Aurelian set her back to the bed. and her face was aeetly in the brassy glow of the lamp- light. She did not care to look again upon that rigid, death-stricken ou still, and white, and hideous in the dread calm of her last long sleep. “T will not come again, Ishmael,” She said, huskily. “You have been a father to me, and I thank you, but our ways must part from this night. When I have wreaked my vengeance on the Charnleigh heir, I will join the band again in sunny Mexico. We shall meet then, but not before. Adieu! You will see that she rests well—rests in one of those lonely “Open the door, “Speak! “T am come woodland dells she loved so Well in life.” Ishmael turned away his face that she might not see how pale and drawn it was with the anguish of that moment. é : “JT teok her, stained and black as she was from John Charnleigh’s arts, because I loved her,” he an- swered, hoarsely, “and what man loved in life he does not forget when it is dead. Adieu, carissima. Where she sleeps shall be the spot she loved— tee: chaparrals of Mexico and the home of her tribe. La Belle Aurelian stretched forth her jeweled fin- gers and let them flutter into his palm, ‘Adieu, then, until we meet in Mexico—until the ruin of the Charnleigh heir is completed !”’ she mur- mured, softly. “Iam sworn to the dead to lend my life to vengeance, and a gitana never forgets her vows!” Not another word passed between them. Calmly her hand fell from the clasp of his, calmly she passed to the door, looking not again upon her motber’s lifeless clay, and when the next white, ra- diant blaze of lightning illumined the black horror of the night La Belle Aurelian was on her way back to Charnleigh Hall to work out the dark prophecy of the dead. Midnight was on the land when she issued from the shadow of the writhing trees and glided up the walk to the entrance of Charnleigh Hall. The fete was at its highest. The lights glowed forth into the blackness of the night, the music surged through the rumble of the storm’s wild throb; but it was not toward the drawing-room, not toward the music, and the lights,and the dancers La Belle Aurelian directed her footsteps. Down there where the trees and the vines elus- tered the thickest a ray of light quivered, pallid and dim, from the windows of the old library. Through the parted curtains she saw the outlines of John Charuleigh’s figure, and a cold, white, joyless smile flitted over her beautiful lips. “At the heart.of the destroyer first!’ she mur- moured, fiercely, the words almost hissing through the ivory line of her teeth. ‘I must secure myself lest the scheme of marriage fail; for I have need to be ever near you—need to make your heme my home until the end is accomplished, my high-born, honorable father” Swiftly and silently she glided in and out_ through the tangle of swaying boughs; swiftly and silently she thrust the clustering vines aside, stepped upon the low plaza, and drew near to the window. The master of Charnleigh sat there still, the open parchment upon his knee, and the pale glory of lamp-light on his white face. “Tt is the prophecy he reads!’ La Belle Aurelian uttered, with a jarring little laugh. ‘He dreads it still, and dreads it wisely, too, while the blood of Redempta circles in a single living heart. Mark well the future misery of your darling, pere Charn- leigh; for with a will like mine to work that misery out, my high-bred brother, with his woman’s face and soft, white, delicate hands, with his dower from Mammon and Apollo—ay, even with a thousand guardian angels watching over him, shall, as that prophecy declares, go to the miserable, pitiable death of a felon, carrying to the scaffold the name of Charnleigh, branded with ignominy and shame, ac- cursed by the pepulace, and contaminated forever by the vengeance of a nameless sister!” Over the white malice of her face glided a look that was terrible to gaze upon. Her clenched hand up- lifted suddenly to the black horror of the sky above, her whitelips moved as though a voiceless prayer invoked the aid of “things unearthly” to the further- ance of her devilish scheme, and then, white, and calm, and beautiful, she glided forward and tapped the window-pane. She saw the master of Charnleigh start suddenly and conceal the horoscope upon bis person, then, as he wheeled round abruptly, she struck the glass again and called out, sharply : “Please let me in. Something dreadful has hap- pened and I must speak with you!” John Charnleigh moved forward swiftly, swung the window open, “Good heavens, my child! what has happened?” he cried out, hoarsely. ‘You are as white asdeath— your garments are dabbled and rain-drenched. My child! my child! surely you have not been abroad this terrible night ?’’ La Belle Aurelian uttered a gasping’ cry and fell back ina chair, clasping her jeweled hands over her white face. “T had to go!” she cried out, hoarsely. ‘What does the storm matter to me? I am a prey to tem- pests from this night forth, I am the homeless, friendless victim of a man’s duplicity—I am ruined, ruined!”’ The master of Charnleigh stared at her as though he believed her senses were departing, “Ruined !’”’ he echoed, bleakly. ‘‘You speak in rid- dles, Aurelian. Confide in me—trust me, my child, my child, what does this agitation mean ?” La Belle Aurelian let her jeweled hands fall, and lifted to his a face he never forgo} in life. “Tt means that Iam merciless and penniless, sir !’’ she uttered, with a littlesob. ‘It means that he who promised a dead father to protect his child has be- trayed his sacred trust. It means—oh, how shall I and | tell you the shameful story? Do you not understand |me? Can you not see? My guardian has—has de- | frauded me of every dollar—ay, even every penny TI possessed, and—and flown from the country! Iam homeless, a. alone !’’ You might have thought she suffered from the sob that crushed its way through her pallid lips, but La Belle Aurelian was a consummate actress, and she had a daring game to play. For several secondsthe master of Charnleigh stared at her in mute surprise. “When did you learn of this, and how?” he man- aged to articulate presently, a great pity stirring his heart for the beautiful demon who lay back there in the pale luster of lamplight—a_ glorious vision of tearful loveliness, a Niobe in flesh and blood. *“‘A—a friend sent me word that she had learned of his sudden departure in a steamer that sailed this morning,” the scheming beauty sobbed. ‘The letter reached me to-night in the ball-room, I could not stay there longer—a fearful apprehension touched my heart, and I had to go. An hour ago I learned the terrible truth. Villain that he is, he has left me alone in the world, a friendless, pewmiless outcast! Oh, sir! oh, Mr. Charnleigh, what is to become of me now? Ican do nothing, yet I must take up arms in the battle of life and struggle for my bread. Oh, papa, papa, why did you trust this treacherous man? Why did you leave me alone to the mercies of a scheming villain?” She had slipped from the chair and lay on the floor, her face buried in her hands, her figure shuddering with the sobs that escaped her, and the silken robe, dabbled and wet, and utterly ruined, crushed about her in perfumed billows. : John Charnleigh moved forward suddenly and bent above her, “Aurelian, Aurelian, my darling!” he murmured, tenderly. ‘*Hush, hush, my child, you must not sob so! Look up at me, speak tome. J am your friend still, and while Charnleigh Hall stands you shall not want for ahome. My child, my child, listen to me! You shall not leaveme, you shall not go forth upon the world; Vivian shall give me the right to call you daughter and this shall be your home to the end!” ‘Tothe end! Ah, how little he dreamed what that end was fatedto be! How little he knew what it would have spared him had he thrust her forth into the night and the storm and bidden her remove her hellish shadow from the path of him and his forever. But he was so blind, oh, so pitifully blind! and the scheme against him was so deeply laid, was in the hands of such an artful devil, that not the faintest suspicion touched him. “My child, my child, trust in me,” hesaid, tenderly. “Even though Vivian never gives me the right to call you daughter, I love you as my own, and Charn- leigh Hall shall ever be my Garling’s home.” And in those words La Belle Aurelian read the tri- umph of her scheme. “The muff, the fool!” she chuckled, silently. “There’s no credit in duping such easy prey as this. But all the same the game is won. Mother, look down upon me and see the oath fulfilled!’’. John Charnleigh lifted the drooping head, and looked down into the white beauty of her treacher- ous face. “You will trust in me, Aurelian, will you not?” he murmured, softly.. “You will try to love me too, and you will promise never, never to leave me in life?’ He little knew what he asked, little thought of the olden fable of the frozen adder, and a great sweet- ness thrilled him when La Belle Aurelian folded her arms about his neck and murmured, with a smile that might have set the senses of an anchorite reel- ing: “JT donot deserve this—you are too good to me. But I am homeless and friendless, and [I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Ienceforth I shall be ever by your side; my friend, my more than father, I will never leave you from this night!” And something ominous seemed to drive up from the sea in the brawl of the stormy wind as she spoke those words—something the master of Charnleigh never dreamed of, while the witchery of Aurelian’s face shone into the sad pallor of his own. And so the night wore on; La Belle Aurelian going no more into the ball-room, and leaving the old housekeeper to do the honors. “Vivian is there,” John Charnleigh said. ‘When the feie is over he will come to us here, and I shall tell him your sad story. Nay, Aurelian, do not leave me. I cannot sleep to-night; something seems to oppress me. Remain with me, my child, until Viv- ian comes.”’ ; And so it happened that the breaking day, widen- ingits gray line across the gray ocean, found La Belle Aurelian lingering still by the man whose misery she was plotting out. The storm had died down; the night was done, and raw, gray, watery dawn was glinting down through the sighing trees, and still Vivian came not. “Surely the boy has not retired before visiting me here?’ the master of Charnleigh said. ‘*Puil the bell, my child; I wil learn from Hopkins what has be- come of him.” La Belle Aurelian rose and stretched forth her jew- eled hand toward the bell-rope. ; But the signal for Hopkins was never given, for at that moment a hand struck the window-pane, a swift, sharp voice cried out, ‘‘Let me in, sir, let me in!” and looking up quickly the two occupants of the library saw that Joel, the stable-boy, stood on the low plaza by the window, staring at them witha face that was awfully white and corpse-like. The master of Charnleigb sprang up with a startled ery, and drew back the bolt of the window. Joel entered the room swiftly, his soaked garments clinging closely ahout him, and thrust a folded slip of paper into John Charnleigh’s hand. “Tt’s from Mr. Vivian, sir, and he sent me back to get him a change of clothing. He was soaked to the skin,’ mumbled the boy, ‘‘and if you please, sir, he’s in an awful hurry.” “From Vivian?’ uttered his master, in surprise. “Good heavens! is he not in the house?” “No-no, sir,’ stammered Joel. ‘He aren’t been in since ten last night. He’s overat Beach Dale. Cap- tain Dawn came back suddenly last night, and—and —Mr. Vivian stopped for me, and took me back with him on his way from the Rectory of St, Mark’s. Oh, sir, it’s been awful—aw/ful! over there. Read the letter and it will tell you all, sir. The saints deliver us! Inever want to live through another such a night. Read the letter, sir; there aren’t no answer, and I’m off for Mr. Vivian’s clothes!” And then, before they could recover from the sur- prise his words had thrown them ‘into, Joel hurried from the library, and La Belle Aurelian and the mas- ter of Charnleigh were alone. Sick and faint the old man staggered back with the letter in his hand. “JT cannot read—there is a film before my eyes; there is adreadful horror at my heart!’ he panted, hoarsely. ‘Powers of Mercy! what can have hap- pened? Oh, my boy. my boy, God shield you from all harm! Thelamp, Aurelian, the lamp! I must know the worst, I must learn the horror which my soul warns me has happened !”" La Belle Aurelian turned up the lamp, and dazed, and white, and trembling, the master of Charnleigh bent down and read the words that shattered all his life and hope. For one brief instant his eyes swept the written page, then hoarse, and wild, and awful a cry went up from his whitened lips. } The paper fluttered from his nerveless hand, and z ae glow of the lamplight he staggered feebly ack, “The prophecy. Great God, the prophecy!” he shrieked out, wildly, and with the utterance of those words, he fell backward to the floor—not dead, not fainting, yet uttering the last words he would speak in life again. Paralysis had stricken all but his brain, and in the dim radiance of the lamp’s pale glare, John Brace- with Charnleigh lay at La Belle Aurelian’s feet a liy- ing corpse. Not a muscle of her beautiful face stirred, nota nerve faltered as she stood there and looked down upon her father’s motionless figure. Beautiful she was, but dead to human pity, deaf to human re- morse. Coldly and calmly she picked the letter up and read it to its end, her face whitening a little, her lips setting in a cold, hard line, and the old devil light coming again into the slumbrous darkness of her eyes. “To the last letter of the last word she read on, and then hurled the paper from her. “At last I see the way clearly!” she ground out with a venomous little hiss. ‘‘He is lost to me, but my grip is now upon his heart and life. Redempta, mother, look down upon me. The hour we have waited for comes at last. The prophecy begins to work; the issue is in my hands, and I defy even Satan himself to shield the heir of Charnleigh from his future misery, to snatch him from my vengeance, and save him from the hangman’s hands!” CHAPTER V. HOW THE DAY BROKE, A brawling, dismal wind worried the writhing trees; the boom of the waves struck and struck again on the black horror of the night; the clock pealed forth a ghostly chime, the lamps burned with a blue-white horror, and shrouded all of them witha pale gray mist, and in the room where they had laid him, in the room where the Rector of St. Mark’s stood with that shuddering little figure huddled up with her face buried in the bed-clothes to choke back the fierce ut- terance of her sobs, Captain Geoffrey Dawn lay dying slowly. tae trembled on the threshold of the world; night was going out; the booming waves were striking fainter and fainter; the tide was gliding outward slowly, and the soul of the dying man was passing away with it—slowly but surely passing away and leaving that impulsive, innocent little child-woman alone inthe big, cold, empty world,a prey to the wolves of civilization, a victim for the undertow of life! He was conscious now—lying back on his death- bed as white as the spotless pillows, his hands moy- ing nervously across the sheets, and his ears drink- ingin the “sweet words of faith,’ the pale young rector was reading. air, rising above the hoarse breathing of the dying man, and the stifled sobs of the girl who was almost parentiless. **¢And they said,’ that low, soothing voice read on, ‘Cornelius, the centurion, ajust man. and one that feareth God, and of good report among all the nation of the Jews, was warned from God by a holy angel % send for thee into his house, and te hear words of hee!” The trembling hand uplifted suddenly, thg pale eyes flared into the reetor’s white face, ahd the death-marred voice broke in, saying: “Enough, enough. Leave ine in peace awhile; leave me with her, and—and—him.”’ Leo lifted her tear-wet eyes, and dropped one trembling hand upon her father’s damp forehead. “Him, papa? Whom?” With the shadow of death brooding over him, Geoffrey Dawn drew his daughter’s pale cheek closer; and pillowed it against his own. Vivian, Vivian Charnleigh, my old friend’s son,’ he murmured, feebly. ‘‘He was here a moment ago. Send for him, send for him, I say. I—I want to speak with him. I must speak with him before I go. Oh, my child, my child, you will be all alone so very soon !” “Don’t, papa, don’t!” the husky, childish voice re- plied, her face burying itself again in the white fold of the sheets, and thse strong young arms closing tighter about him, as though their young power would hold him back from the abyss into which he was sinking so rapidly. ‘*You cannot die—you must not die! Oh, papa, papa, what have I ever done that God should be so cruel to me ?”’ Geoffrey Dawn drew the shrinking figure closer to a, and lifted his pale eyes tothe young rector’s ace. , “Will—will you go for him, Mr. Sayntly ?” he mur- mured, huskily. “It is only the question of a few short hours now, and I must see Vivian Charnleigh before—before—the—end !” A low bow of the head, the gentle click of the door closing, and the next moment Geoffrey Dawn and his daughter were alone. ‘Hush, Leo, hush, my darling!” he uttered, softly, smoothing the chestnut curls with his stiffening hand. ‘‘Don’t sobso, my child. It is God’s own will, and He knoweth best, my dearest. I do not regret it for myself—itis only for you, my poor, innocent darling—only for you I fear! There has been but little brightness in my life, and Iam not loth to lay down the cross now ; but—but, Leo, oh, my child, my child, you will not let the world feast on the history of your father’s misery, you will not let the vultures of life tear open the old heart wounds, and give the secret of our shame to the four winds of heaven. Leo, my love, my life, my only one, you will hold the secret safe? You will, Leo—promise me you will, and—and—I—I shall go happier then.” The twining arms closed tighter and closer about him, and the pale young face, that was almost as white as his, huddled closer to his bearded cheek. “T—I will never tellit, papa; I promise you, I—I swear I will never téll it!” she sobbed, broken- ly. “Nothing shall wrest it from me—nothing, nothing! Do you think I cowld tell it? Itis my shame, too, papa, and—and—oh, I couldn’t, T couldn't let the world laugh over your suffering when— when——” She could not finish the sentence, for her voice failed her, But she had spoken enough; she had promised to keep Geofirey Dawn’s secret as sacred as her faith in Gsd; she had promised—God help her !—promised that which was darkly fated to crush her heart and life under the ban of a dreadful shadow! - And a great calm fell. In the yellow glare of the lamp-light the lips of the man moved in voiceless prayer, the white eyelids fell with a waxen hush, and the soul drifted farther out from earth’s storms and weariness, closer and closer to the portals of the Great Unseen, nearer and nearer to the kingdom of Almighty God. : The knob of the door turned softly; a darkening shadow fell across Geoffrey Dawn’s death-bed, and, in the presence of approaching death. in the gloom and silence of the old chamber, while the waves boomed fainter. and the wind brawled solemnly through the twisting trees, Vivian Charnleigh stood at the foot of the couch, with the lamp-light quiver- ing on the Grecian beauty of his face. The eyes of the dying man flared open suddeniy, and a Smile glided over his lips—a pale, cold, spirit- less smnile, like moonlight upon snow. Geoffrey Dawn lifted his trembling hand and beckoned the heir of Charnleigh to draw closer. Vivian cast one pitying glance at the shuddering little figure curled up in her father’s dying embrace, and sank down beside the bed. Geoffrey Dawn stretcned forth his hand and closed it over the young heir’s fingers. “T like your face—there is honor init. I like your race because it is noble and true, Vivian Charn- leigh,” he murmured, huskily, ‘‘and it is to these things I must look now, I knew your father, my boy, and I revered and honored him. With him [ would have trusted my life, and with his’ehild I feel to-night that I might trust what is far dearer. Nay, do notinterrupt me. I have little to leave that rob- bers might care to look upon with greed, but Heaven has given me one treasure the gold of the universe could not buy—my child! Oh, my boy, may God spare you the bitterness of my fate to-night—may you never know what it is to be called upon as I ave been, leaving a motherless, fatherless darling to fight out the battle of life alone!” His voice broke and ceased suddenly; his face fell closer to that other face in the solemn terror of eter- nal parting, and over the silence of her father’s speechless prayer rose up the sobs of the child he was leaving. Vivian turned his head away and brushed a tear from his eye, vainly longing to fold his arms around her and say, as the Shepherd King said unto Nestrell : “Be thou at peace foreyer. My love will shield thee from all harm!”’ He was only a boy, for all, you must remember— only one-and-twenty, when all the world is colewr de rose—and the love of his life had come upon him suddenly. If you had shown his future suffering to him then, if you had proven to him the misery of his madness, wild, impulsive one-and-twenty, burn- ing with the fever of young love, would have said to you what he said then, rising suddenly and looking down upon the dying man: “T—J understand your fears, Captain Dawn, but— but—it is strange, it is wild,itis sudden, I know— but—but I—I love your daughter; leave her to my care !”” The dying man tnrned upon him, with a. face full of white wonder. “You—love—Leo?’ he repeated, slowly. ‘‘My, little Leo, my child, my tender little blossom who has seen only eighteen summers of life. ‘*You—you love her—love her whom you have known ae afew short months as a boy, and but. afew short hours as a man ?’ “Even so,I love her!’ the young heir made an- swer, his voice thrilling’ with the passion of his words, ‘‘Love is not a plant of slow growth—it cometh up in a single night, like Jonah’s gourd, Captain Dawn, and—and, I repeat my words: I love your daughter ; leave her to my care!”’ “It was not this I meant to ask,” the dying man murmured. ‘“I—) have a little 1eft—only a thousand or so, and I wanted to ask you to invest it where the interest would do my darling the most good. But— but to your care—my child, my darling to your care, and you love her! My boy, my boy, it is a noble heart that prompts the words, but the world, lad, the world that spares nothing the malice of its evil thoughts? No, no, I could not bear that a single breath should be raised against my precious one, and her honor must. be guarded more than ever whenIam gone! God bless you! Ithank you, but —but it cannot be. You are young to be the guar- dian of an orphaned girl, and society would say—ah, I dare not breathe the words—I dare not think of them even !’’ The heir of Charnleigh felt the fingers of the dying man close tighter on his own; and standing thus, his face lighted with a glorious hope, he answered back: “Captain Dawn, your daughtar’s honor could not be dearer to you than it isto me. I do not ask you for a protegee; Ido not mean to place Leola where a single breath might be raised against her. I ask the right to defend her forever from the tempests and battles of life; I ask the power to silence the lips of slander, and still the tongues of the world. I love your daughter from the bottom of my heart, and I ask ,\you—freely, solemnly, holily ask you—in the presence of that God who readeth all our hearts, Captain Dawn, let Leola become my wife!” Silence fell, grim and ghostly silence. Even the sobbing of the girl was hushed, and he that lingered "twixt fife and death looked up in mute, white won- der into the face of him who asked at his hands that which was fated to be his curse—that which was fated to bring the prophecy home. “My little one, my child. a wife?’ murmured the dazed, bewildered man; while Leo huddled closer, and sobbed: “No, papa, no! I—I am so afraid—I feel that it cannot be right. Indeed I like you ever and ever so much, Mr. Charnleigh; but don’t talk of marriage now—oh, please don’t talk of marriage now! Papa, papa, don’t think of me. God will take care of ne; indeed He will.” Geoffrey Dawn opened his lips to reply, but. the words were never spoken in this life. Up from the sea a howling, tempestuous gale swept, with a sullén, awful roar; out from the heavens a wide, white blaze of lightning shot; and there, pressed close to the window-pane, clear and distinct in the electric glare, showed forth for oné moment the devilish, malignant face of a human being. Geoffrey Dawn uttered a gasping, horrible cry, and crushed his shuddering child closer to his heart. “The letter dld not lie!’ he screamed out, hoarse- ly. “He lives—Simeon Adlowe lives! Leo, my God! Leo, there must be no resistance now. The rector, the rector—quick, on your life! You ask my child as your wife, Vivian Charnleigh, and—and you shall have her now—now! Hush, Leo! in the name of Heaven, hush! It is the only means of saying you; Softly, slowly, soothingly they fell upon the and if you would grant peace to a dying father, let him look upon you as Vivian Charnleigh’s wife!” Arush of blood choked his utterance, his twining arms unlocked suddenly, and he fell back upon the piliows, staining them with his life-tide. Leola uttered a piercing cry, and lifted the droop- ing head in her strong, young arms. “Papa, papa!’”’ she cried out, wildly. —Mr. Charnleigh, my papais dying!’ “The rector, the rector!’ panted the expiring man. “Send—quick! I—want to—see—you his—be- fore—I go!” eee me, papa—spare me!’’ the broken voice re- plied, _But Vivian was already half way down the cor- ridor on his way for the Rector of St. Mark’s; while Geoffrey Dawn, very near to the portals of immor- tality now, lay back on the bed, and panted ; “A husband’s love shall shield you from a father’s shame, Cling close to me, Leo; cling close. Look there! look there! Powers of merey! do you not see? Itis his face—Adlowe’s face—and he is on the track! Oh, my God! these feeble limbs! Oh, for an hour’s strength to reach him! I—I—hold me, Leo; close, child, close. I must not—will not, die yet. A coldness creeps over me, a film gathers before my eyes. The rector, the rector—quick, quick!” He was going fast now,and even to his child’s eyes it was only too palpable, She had not seen that face at the window, and she deemed his words but the raying of a dying man. “Papa, papa!’’? she sobbed out, bleakly; but he made her no reply. Far down the dim corridor arose the trample of hurried feet; the door swung open suddenly, a shadow fell again across the death-bed, and into the still solemnity of that little room a silent, white- faced crowd had moved. The heir of Charnleigh had made known the dying man’s request, and they that gathered there stood ready to witness its fulfillment. The waxen eyelids lifted suddenly, the feeble, blood-stained lips moved slowly, and lying thus, Geoffrey Dawn murmured softly : “Make them man and wife before the daylight breaks !” - o There was no reply from Leo now. Her father’s dying wish was sacred, and though it killed her, she would see it fulfilled. Surely such a mad marriage—surely such a strange bridal the waking dawn had never looked upon betore. Over that still, white, rigid figure the two trem- bling hands were united; up from the glare of the lamp-light shone the pale faces of Tina and the dec- tor; and then, clearly, softly, holily, rose upon the stillness of the dying night the words that were to bind them together from that hour—man and wife, for sunshine or shadow, for better or for worse, The wind had died out to a dismal, melancholy drawl, the trees were waving softly in the eerie light; but nothing arose to stay that fatal marriage —nothing was heard but the calm, low tones of the rector’s voice, and nothing was thought of but this, the maddest marriage ever the sky looked down u “Oh, Vivian pon. Straight to its end that solemn ceremony passed ; the last words were spoken, the last holy vow was uttered; and with the first pale gleam of breaking daylight, Leola Dawn stood by her father’s death- bed Leola Charnleigh for life. Her hand dropped from her husband’s like a thing ofice; the cold, white, wondering face looked into his for an instant, and the childish lips parted. “Oh, Vivian, love me a little!” she murmured. ‘*You are all I have to live for now.” Softly, coldly, tearfully she turned away, and sank down upon the white sheets. “Tt is ali over, papa,’ she murmured, with a little sob. ‘Whatever comes of it, I am Vivian Charn- leigh’s wife.” But there came to her no answer from those pal- lid, blood-flecked lips. : Out in the east the daylight glowed, cold, and gray, and ghostly ; down on the shore the. silver-whitened sands lay in a dreary, sodden stretch. The day had broken, the tide had gone out, and taken with it the soul that lingered ’twixt the hours; and with the light of the new day touching the white silence of his face, Captain Geoffrey Dawn lay before them— dead! [TO BE CONTINUED] ——_————_ > @ MAGGIE 0’HARA’S WEDDING. (CONTINTED FROM FIRST PAGE.) romised to keep the rest of the board of directors fully posted on the matrimonial market, and do so in plenty of time to allow a full business canvass to be made. The storekeeper, too, said that his shop was a great headquarters for social news; that his three clerks were still single, and that they might soon be married, and that they should be brought into camp in due time. Hence it was that the new ©. B. M. A. M. I. A. was soon placed on the best possible foundation, hundreds of agents were em- ployed, and the little post-office of Loveland was so overrun with business that an extra clerk was nec- essary during portions of the year. CHAPTER III. MAGGIE’S PRESENTS. The squire was a very active worker, There was not a ministerial friend of his in a circuit of twenty miles that he hadn’t pressed into service in one way or the other. Ketehum was therefore the hbest- posted man in five counties on points in the matri- monial market. He knew of every engaged couple, and those he could not personally see, his agents moved down upon with all the keen and practical business foresight of a thoroughbred insurance agent. “*Good-morning, Mrs. O’Hara,” said the squire, addressing the widow of the late Michael O’Hara, who was blown to pieces three years befére in a stone quarry blast. ““Good-mornin’, squire, and won’t yez come in the gate and take achairand a drink of water on this' very hot day to-day, shure?” and the sprightly widow brushed off a chair with her apron and called out: “Maggie! Maggie! run to the spring fora fresh mug of water. It’s Squire Ketchum that is here. Oh, squire, I can never forgit ye, for all the AE you’ve been to us since poor Mike was 8 A New Bound Book iY BERTHA M. CLAY. UST PUBLISHED, in a large, handsome volume, beautifully printed and bound in cloth, with gold back, price $1.50, one of the best stories ever written by this author, entitled A Struggle for a Ring. ALSO, New and uniform editions of BERTHA M. CLAY’s other wide-selling books, as follows: THROWN ON THE WORLD. A BITTER ATONEMENT. LOVE WORKS WONDERS. EVELYN’S FOLLY. LADY DAMER’S SECRET. A WOMAN’S TEMPTATION. REPENTED AT LEISURE. BETWEEN TWO LOVES. UNDER A SHADOW. "A STRUGFLE FOR A RING. These Books are for sale by all First-Class Booksellers, and will be sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of $1.50, by G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, Wiadison Square, New York. Also by STREET & SMITH, NEW YORK WEEKLY OFFICE, 31 Rose St., New York. NEW YORK, JANUARY 29, 1888. Terms to Mail Subscribers: 3 months (postage free) 75c | 2 copies (postage free) $5.00 4 months x BAN wen - $1:00)}'4 copies 2... sss. 10.00 Bh ORR Say State eles 53.00} 8copies . 26 2. esa 20.00 Any porean who sends $20 at one time, for eight copies, is entitled to a ninth copy free. Getters up of clubs can afterward add Single Copies at $2.50 each. Postage Free to Canadian subscribers; but postage to all other Foreign Countries must be added to the subscription price. : Remittances from Canada should be in UNITED STATES MONEY. Canadian postage stamps are USELESS to us. We prefer that all Remittances for Subscriptions should be in MONRY or POST OFFCE ORDERS; Dut persons who are compelled to send Postage Stamps, will favor us by Sor- warding only ONE CENT STAMPS. te All Money Orders should be made Fe able to the FIRM NAME of STREET & SMITH. Great trouble, delay, and annoyance are caused by ad- dressing Money Orders to the individual members of the Firm. We therefore hope that in all cases they will be made payable to STREET & SMITH. All letters should be addressed to FRANCIS 8S. STREET, STREET & SMITH, FRANCIS 8. SMITH. Proprietors. P, 0. Box 2734. 25, 27, 29 & 31 Rose St., N.Y. We are not responsible for manuscripts sent to this office, and wish it understood that they are at the author’s risk. Bulky manuscripts should be sent by express, which is the least expensive. Those declined will be returned in the same way, at the expense of the authors. | Subscribers who_receive the NEw YoRK WEEKLY in a BLUE WRAPPER will understand that their Subscriptions EXPIRE in FOUR WEEKS, This will re- mind them of the importance of promptly RENEWING their Subscriptions, to avoid missing a single copy of the paper. I DONT WANT TO. By Kate Thorn, Everywhere we hear the expression—‘I don’t want to.” We commence to use it in childhood. When mamma tells the little boy or girl to put away the toys, and bringin the chipsto kindle the fire for supper, the answer comes readily—“I don’t want 16.” The young man who is requested to keep the Sabbath, and to let the whist-table, and the billiard- hall, and the wineglass alone, says he doesn’t want to. Hs doesn’t want to be sucha milksop among his companions. The rich man doesn’t give away to charities, be- cause he doesn’t want to. He will tell you that it is because he has met with losses, or because times are bad, or because he has to support his wife’s aunt’s grandmother’s brother, but he lies, every time; it is because he doesn’t want to! The politician will tell you that he wishes hecould vote for principles instead of men; that he sighs for purity in politics, that he would give half his for- tune if men could dare be honest; but he doesn’t want thingsthat way. If he did, he wouldtry for it. The fashionable woman will tell you that she wishes She could give something to buy flannels for the poor, but she has already givenso much in charity! and she wishes she could raise the state of society to a higher grade, but she is mistaken; she doesn’t want to. The world is full of people who don’t want to. There is a disposition to get through life as easy as may be, and God knows the easiest way is a hard road to travel. There are no macadamized roads on the way of life, It is mostly an uphill tug, and the man who travels it with his head up, and his courage good, must be sure-footed, and sound-winded, and he mustn’t be balky. To some people it seems to be a sufficient ex- cuse to say, ‘I don’t want to—to get them clear from the performance of any duty. If they don’t wantto, why, then they needn't.” Now, because we do not want to do a thing is not the shadow of a reason for leaving it undone. Do*% you suppose the oxen want to plough the furrows where the corn grows for our bread and Indian pudding? Do you. suppose the hard-handed old farmer, sweating through the hot days of torrid summer, wants to kill the bugs on the vines where grow the pumpkins for our Thanksgiving pies? And yet if he did not, where would be the chief charm of our New England festival ? Do any of us want to work for a living? Does the mechanic hanker after the pleasure (?) of saw- ing, and planing, and nail-driving, on the dizzy heights of seven-story-buildings, ten hours a day? Does the coal miner enjoy being down in the bowels of the earth, away from the sunshine andthe sweet breezes of the wooded hills, delving for the fuel which is to keep the children of luxury and the starving sons of poverty from freezing this coming winter ? : f Does the poor widow want to toil over her needle, making shirts for a dime, and wearing out her eyes, and her health, and her courage in the struggle to keep the vital spark alive yet a little longer ? No. It is a fact that nobody likes disagreeable tasks. But they are pretty thick in this life. Most of our tasks are not pleasant. Every woman hates dish washing, and yet nine-tenths of the women of the world have to wash dishes. Every man dislikes to do chores, but most of them have to bear that cross, and it generally re- Guiles a great deal of swearing to enable them to ear it. And now, young people, take this thought home to you, that life requires of you the performance of certain things, and it is your duty to do them whether you like to or not; and itis no excuse for you to stand back and let other people bear your uraene. because you don’t want to bear them your- selves. The Use of Foreign Phrases. To a lover of one’s own mother tongue, there is nothing more disagreeable in reading than to find the most important phrase written in a foreign language, which, unless you can at once translate eorrectly, leaves you in ignorance of not only the single sentence, but sometimes the meaning of the entire page. If writers must interlard their works with sentences in foreign languages, let them also add the correct translation in parenthesis. But in the opinion of nearly all who speak the English language, there are words for all occasions, words suitable to express every meaning; and instances are rare when any one writing for the public finds it necessary to borrow from any other vocabulary. Tf the writer of an article is well versed in lan- guages, he must not for an instant imagine that all, or even the greater part, of his readers, are accom- plished linguists. And no one, for the sake of dis- plgying his erudition, should fall into that practice. oung girls who have acquired a superficial knowledge of French, Spanish, or Italian otten in- terlard their conversation with afew set phrases, which they introduce on all possible occasions, making their bad pronunciation a source of ridi- cule to those who really understand the language. and entirely unintelligible to those who do not. Let ot, young lady make herself perfect in her own mother tongue, and value it above all others. I have been surprised at seeing letters, written by persons from whose Pepe you would judge were educated and scholarly—ladies particularly— . and detect bad spelling, wretched composition, and miserable penmanship. In these days of universal education there is no excuse for these faults. With proper care and attention every person should be able to write at least a readable letter. Composi- tion should be studied by every young person, and in every-day life be carried into practice. In ex- pressing our thoughts and ideas the most appro- priate words should be selected to convey our meaning, utterly discarding slang words and phrases, which, as a people, we are prone to make use of. Indeed, even among those who style them- selves elegant, slang words are frequently used. NONESUCH. SANTA CLAUS IN OTHER LANDS. BY GEORGE BANCROFT GRIFFITH. As a bishop fine, Who drinks good wine And wears a long beard hoary, On a milk- white ass He is seen to pass Through Germany, in his glory! In one gloved hand, All over the land, A bunch of rods to carry; In the other we view A basket new, And he never with one can tarry: But out ot his store, As the keen winds roar, A present for Gretchen snatching ; He’ll say, “Good-day, There’s nothing to pay, My eggs are rare jewels hatching!” And on Christmas Day In Sweden, they say, Old Santa in state appeareth ; On a Lapp’s sledge drawn, At the peep of dawn, And nothing his reindeer feareth! But on the street Kriss Kringle they meet, A sheet for a surplice wearing, At the break of day, In Bohemia, With his bell like a pilgrim faring. On the poor man’s floor, Or beside his door, He leaves tlie gift of some fairy ; And he bids them pray, As he hies away, So they kneel to the Virgin Mary. *>Mong the mountains grand Of Switzerland, The Samiklaus they call him; With a miter old, That shines like goln, In the Varareberg they crown him! 4 As the Sonner Klas They.see him pass Through Heligoland the olden ; As he slips his pack From his broad back, Fulfilled are the visions golden! The Austrian boy Is filled with joy, Old Niklo the saintly seeing; And the Tyrolese With a song of peace Hail him as a holy being. So every where, With carol or prayer, Saint Nicholas is greeted; May he live for aye, And on Christmas Day Be kindly received and feted. TEMPTATION. By J.’ Wm. Van Namee, M.D. “Come, Harry, fill up your glass. Drink with us, do; don’t be so unsocial.” “T cannot drink,” replied the young man addresséd as Harry. “I have told you before that when I left home I solemnly promised my mother never to touch a glass of liquor.” “And so did I,’”’ replied the first speaker, “‘ but even at the time I had no idea of keeping the promise; it was only to quiet the old lady’s curious fears. Come now—don’t be foolish—a glass of wine won’t hurt you; and it’s a shame for a fine young fellow like you to tie-yourself to your mother’s apron strings. Fill up, boy, fill up.” “I will not—I cannot—and it would be better for you, George Raymond, if you kept the promise made your mother.” “Come, come, now; no lectures here; the profes- sor gives us enough of them. ‘We have made up our minds to have a good time to-night, and if you will not join us, you shall not interrupt us.” “Very well, then, I’ll leave you; but you had bet- ter leave.the bottle alone. It can never do you good, and may be the means of working your ruin,” said Harry Burns, as he left theroom. He had been care- fully, tenderly reared, and when he had left home to some miles distant, his mother had endeavored to impress upon his mind the evils of the social glass, and she had obtained from him a promise never to indulge in social drinking. : George Sen was the son of wealthy parents; but they had, in his training, neglected to cultivate the heart. They had supplied him with every com- fort and advantage that wealth could procure, and when he left home for boarding-school, his mother had said: “Now, George, be diligent, and attentive to your books; do not dissipate or indulge in social drink- ing.” “No, mother, I will not,” replied George, “I will et and endeavor to become the first in my class. After Harry left the room, the four young men there drank freely of the wine George Raymond had set before them, and before midnight they went reeling to their beds. The following day they were unfit for the tasks they had to perform, and studies were neglected. a, left unperformed, and all for an evening’s revel. Ten years went by. Harry Burns remained stead- fast to his principles of temperance; he touched not, tasted not, handled not; and ten years from the time he graduated he held a high and honorable po- sition among men. He had amassed quite a fortune, and gathered about him an interesting and af- fectionate family. And what of his friend and schoolmate, George’ Raymond ? Alas ! he continued to indulge in the habits formed while a student—continued to love the wine-cup and the game of chance--and after the lapse of ten years he found himself broken down in constitution, his fortune squandered, and himself convicted of the murder of a companion. Yes, while in a fit of drunken rage he had raised his hand against a com- panion over a game of cards, and with one blow ex- tinguished the lamp of. life. Ah! when he sat in his prison cell, awaiting his execution, then his thoughts went back to the time when Harry warned him of the evil influences of the social glass. Then he saw his mistake—saw how he had madly perverted the gifts his Maker had en- dowed him with, and he repented; but too late to save himself from disgrace. And how many young men around us are taking the same path George Raymond took? How many are going down to ruin and disgrace? And shall we | fold our hands and sit idly seeing this destruction around us? No! a thousand times no! Let us rise }upin united strength and save the youth of our country; crush this monster, who is destroying all with whom he comes incontact. It is no time for listless inactivity. We must work—work without ceasing—and the reward will come hereafter. ad ARTIFICIAL DIMPLES. Learning that there was_a place in the city wnere dimples were made to order, I went there out of curiosity. I was shown into a parlor somewhat re- sembling a dentist’s operating room. To me pres- ently came a dapper little man. I wanted a dimple in my arm, and told him so. My arms being bare, and the exact spot indicated, he placed a small glass tube, the orifice of which was extremely small, upon thespot. This tube had working within it a piston, and was so small that when the handle was drawn up the air was ex- hausted from the tube and it had adhered to the flesh, raising a slight protuberance. Around this raised portion the operator daintily tied a bit of scarlet silk, and then took away his suction ma- ehine. The little point of skin that was thus raised he sliced off with a wicked-looking knife, bringing the blood. I tried hard not to scream, but it was so unexpected that Ihadto. Then he bound up the arm, placing over the wound a small silver object like an inyerted cone, the point of which was round- ed and polished. This little point was adjusted so as to depress the exact center of the cut. Then he told me to go away and not touch the spot until the next day. ‘ When I came at that time he dressed my arm again, and this operation was repeated for five days, when the wound was healed. The silver cone was | removed, and there, sure enough, beneath it was | the prettiest dimple in the world! And all I had to pay was $10—Chicago Tribune. complete his education at an institute of learning, |- A story of deep and thrilling interest, graphic and vigorous in description, will be commenced next week, under the title of - BRANT ADAMS, THE : Emperor of Detectives. By OLD SLEUTH. This story, which was written expressly for the New YoRK WEEKLY by “OuD SLEUTH,” is full of startling incidents, strange events, and most excit- ing tableaux. The hero is constantly in action, and plays such an important part in the life-like drama that he well deserves the title of the EMPEROR OF DETECTIVES. Do not fail to read the opening installment of our new detective story, which will be given NEXT WEEK. e PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT. By Wm, Alexander. “Not for gold, father—I will not sell myself to any woman!” The speaker was a young man, just twenty-two, who had been out of college long enough to secure a good practice as arising lawyer. His name was Reginald Roberts, Jr. Hehad just had aninterview with his father about the usual millionaire’s bete noir—matrimony. “Not for gold! Reginald?” replied the senior Roberts. ‘I never asked you to sell yourself, and I wish you would not put such metaphysical inter- pretations to my language.” “Tt amounts to the same thing, father. You wish Cousin Aline Saunders and-me to marry because she is rich; andI do not love her except as my very dear cousin—ay, a sister—and I am sure she has no deeper love for me.” : “hats ali nonsense,” replied the piqued father. “Your uncle and I decided, when you were chil- dren, that you and Aline should grow up and mar- ry, thus keeping the grand old families together.” “But, father, neither’she nor I desire this. If she has set her heart on it and expects it, I will consent, though it were to kill me.” “There—that will do!. I know what you would say. But, know you, sir, that if you marry other than Aline, without my consent, you are cut off without even a quarter!” And the old gentleman left the room in a fit of anger. After pacing up and down the room an hour or two, Reginald happened to pass by the library and saw it open. He walked in to get a book, when he saw the following letter lying on the table, open. “SAN ANTONIA, TEXAS, May 34, 1881. “MAJ. JNO. CHENOWETH, Goliad: “DEAR OLD FRIEND—I now, for the first time since we left college, thirty years ago, accept your invitation. I do not come, but send. I’ll be frank and brief. I want my son and his cousin to marry. With the usual rebel- lion of young people, they do not like the arrangement because some one else planned it. I will send my niece, accompanied by a lady friend to keep her company in your bachelor’s retreat,and they will pay you a few months’ visit. Ina few days my son Reginald will follow. See that he does not become acquainted with any suscept- ible girls there, and—well, you understand. You can have a wedding at your house, if you will arrange for one. My son will not know where Aline is gone. f “Your old friend, REGINALD.” ““W-h-e-e-w!” whistled Reginald, Jr. “Oho! that’s it, is it? Let _me see—I think I can counterplot that scheme. Yes, I have it—ha, ha, ha! We’ll see how this works.” : He sat down and wrote to his cousin all about the old gentleman’s scheme, and added: ‘Now, you go down there, and take as your ‘lady friend’ Miss Myrtle A. Mather. Father need not know whom you take; tell him you will be met at the station below by an old classmate. This will be true. And do not let Myrtle know anything of this. Tell her she needs rest, etc.”’ oe afew days Reginald’s father called him and said: “Reginald. you have often heard me speak.of my old friend, Major Clenoweth ?” “Oh, yes, sir; many times.” “Well, I thought I would get you to visit him for me. How would you like it ?” : “TI should like it very well just now, as the Alamo city is becoming warm.” ; ‘ “Tam glad to hear it; and I hope while you are gone that you will try to forget that little school- teacher, Miss Mather.” “Father, [have never disobeyed you yet, and I. promise never to marry while you live without your consent. But I beg of you not to speak lightly of Miss Myrtle in my presence. She is one of the pret- tiest and sweetest women I ever met, and even you have more than once been forced to acknowledge her superior mind and learning.” |, ‘“‘She’s very smart and pretty, which is the very reason I want you to go. But never mind. Wait till you come back.” : The day Reginald left—just five days after his father received a letter from Aline, telling of her safe arrival and delight—the old gentleman chuck- led inwardly to think how he had outwitted the young people, in spite of the old belief that two loy- ing hearts can outscheme a multitude of opposers. Aline had arranged with Myrtle Mather to get on the stage and go with her to a friend’s, not telling her anything further. While on the road she said: | “Myrtle, dear, what is the A in your name for?” “Tt is the same as yours—Aline.” ‘Why, how fortunate—strange, I mean. We can have lots of fun. If Reginald comes, you be Cousin Aline, and I will be the lady friend, and go by my middle name—Edith. You see, I never saw uncle’s friend, and he does not know my name, as uncle simply wrote that ‘Aline’ was coming. Now, if you leave it to me, you will not have to dissemble at all. I will call you Aline Saunders Edith.” 5 And thus, after a great deal of protesting from Myrtle, the matter was settled. 5 hen the young peopie had been at Live Oak Grove, as the major called his place, about nine weeks Major Chenoweth found Ediih alone in the parlor one evening, and said: “Miss Edith, I do not know whether I should speak of my feeljngs toward you or not; but you ean nO, you know what I would say. Shall I say it?” : crimson flush and a downward glance spoke the answer. ' “TI believe I read hope in your silence—or pity, Well, I am an old man, almost fifty, and am blunt and rough, I have never met a woman who has moved me as you have since my mother joined the angels. I love you, Edith—love you dearly. I would make you my wife. Will you love me—marry me ?” Slowly she raised her eyes to his, rose from her chair, stepped q ickly to his side, and said,in a voice not excited, but full of a calm assurance of perfect trust: : “Give you my love, I cannot—it has been yours for, lo! these many weeks. Marry you—yes, to- morrow, if you should say so.” Instantly he had imprinted a fervent kiss upon her forehead, and held her face in his hands an in- stant, and said: “To-morrow, ifI say so? Be it so, then—TI say it. And your friends, Aline and Reginald—are you in their secrets?” . “Yes. But Reginald cannot marry without his father’s consent, on pain of being disinherited.” _ Oh, he’llget that quick enough. I'll telegraph right away for it.” : *“Major Chenoweth—dear John—if you will let me write that telegram. so as to surprise une—I mean ‘Col. Roberts, J’ll tell you a secret.” “Very well. Write away.” “But you will not be angry with me for it, if I have practiced a little deceit—provided you think that Pagers has done you any good ?” hy, how my little girl talks! Of course I shall not get angry. ut let us see the telegram.” He read: “COL. R. ROBERTS :—All right. Send your consent for Reginald to marry Aline, and me to marry Edith. A double wedding—both gone. CHENOWETH.” “Ha, ha. ha! that is very good, little one. It will ect him. Now for that secret.” fait till the answer comes, and I give it to Aline and her lover.” “Cousin Reginald will call you Aline, and me Miss } In two hours the following telegram was handed in, directed to Maj. Jno. Chenoweth: “Well done! Reginald has my consent to marry Aline, and you can have Edith. Come over here mr day. : ‘“ROBERTS.” “Now, John, my secret_is this: I have made you believe that Aline was Reginald’s cousin. She is the very young lady unc—Colonel Roberts sent him sere to avoid. His real cousin knew of our coming, and was willing.” “And I have aided the enemy instead of my own side? Good gracious! but won’t I cateh it! How- ever, it cannot be helped So, as we do not want any great to-do, and Reginald has his father’s con- sent, which I have just given him, we will marry to-morrow, and start immediately after the cere- mony for San Antonia.” Reginald was as much astonished as any one at the turn affairs had taken; and more so when he found that his cousin insisted upon the major not being intormed who she really was. “I told him your real cousin knew of this and helped us to come.” “Well, you’re a trump at playing; but how in the mischief you are going to get out of this, I can’t e. “Wait, and you will,” was all the answer she gave. The marriages took place as arranged, and at dark the next day the two couples were standing ready to step from the ears to the platform. As they reached the ground, a fine-looking old gentleman Came up, and said; “Why, old fellow, how are you? And this is my old college chum, who could not be outwitted by a woman so as to be grappled into marriage, eh? And Aline, my love, you and Reginald have——” “Are 72 not going to allow me to present my wife, old friend?” “Certainly; I was just going up to speak to her.” “But this is Mrs. Chenowith—my wife.” “Your wife? A good joke—up to your old tricks, “Why, yes, sir, my wife. Why not?” “This, my niece, your wife! I_thought—that— Reginald, who in the devil—well—I—explain your- selves!” said the colonel, his face turning pale. Edith. burst into tears, and Myrtle, as she was known to Reginald’s father, looked imploringly into first her husband’s and then into Aline’s face, and Edith—or Aline proper—said: é “Oh, father—dearest John, forgive me. It was all a plot and acounterplot. Only love won.” And then she explained it all, while the elder Reginald first swore and then apologized and aughed. “And, my darling husband, I did not tell you I was the real cousin, because I wanted uncle to see ia you, his trusted friend, did not plot against im.’ Reginald’s father acknowledged himself beaten, and gave in with a good grace; especially, us_he said, his consent was given willingly for Reginald to marry Aline, which he did. ——_>-_ =< —____—— Correspondence. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. Anxious Mother, Bethlehem, Pa.—St. Vitus’ dance is cheefiy confined to children and youths between the ages of eight and fourteen. But few cases occur after puberty. When they do occur after that age they may be regarded as notable exceptions. The principal causes of St. Vitus’ dance are these: Overworking the mind, reading exciting books, overeating, fright, striking in of eruptions, etc. The services of an experienced and skillful practitioner are in many cases indispensable. The general treatmentis this: Remove all causes of excitement, take the children for a time from their re tasks, and give them all the outdoor exercise possible. ‘Take away all books, and avoid every occasion foranger, fear, or any injurious excitement. Next regulate the diet, making it more animal and stimu- lating if it has been too low, and more vegetable and cool- ing ifithas been too high. The bowels should be kept open with some gentle physie, and the body should be sponged every day, beginning with tepid water, and mak- ing it colder every day. ‘ Harry Bluff, Greenville, N. J.—That department of med- icine which treats of remedies, their doses, modes of using, and influences upon the constitution, is called materia medica. The sce employed in the treatment of the diseases are taken from three kingdoms of nature—the vegetable, the animal, and the mineral. The largest por- tion of medicinal substances are taken from the vegetable world. They consist of leaves, flowers, seeds, barks, and roots. These lose much or all oi their medicinal powers unless gathered at the a seasons of the year, and are propery, cured. The different parts of a plant are to be gathered when their peculiar juices are most abundant in them. For instance, barks. whether of the roots, trunk, or branches, must be gathered in autumn, or early in the spring, when they peel off most easily, and the dead out- side and all the rotten parts being separated, they must be dried in the same manner as roots. he most active barks are generally from young trees. Amateur Engineer, West Hoboken, N.J.—To promote a@ more thorough education of mechanical engineers, es- pecially those who have the charge of constructing and maneeine, steam machinery, a law was enacted by Con- ress in February, 1879, authorizing the President of the nited States to detail a certain number of officers of the Engineer Corps of the United States Navy to serve as Professors of Mechanical Engineerin in scientific schools. In accordance with this law, the Secretary of the Navy, by request of the Michigan University authori- ties, appointed Assistant Engineer Mortimer E. Cooley, U.S. Navy, to organize at the university at Ann Arbor a course of theoretical and practical studies in mechanical engineering. A letter addressed to Prof. Cooley, Michi- gan University, Ann Arbor, will receive attention. John L., North Lawrence, Ohio.—1st. Your. leading questions were answered in No. 6, in reply to “Many Readers.” 2d. The President of the Senate pro tempore (Mr. Davis) is liable to be displaced whenever the Senate pleases. He votes, makes speeches, and serves on com- mittees, none of which functions is allowed to the con- stitutionally elected Vice-President, except that of votin when the Senate is equally divided. Mr. Davis can an does vote whenever he chooses, without reference to a tie. The person occupying the chair of the presiding officer of the Senate is addressed as ““Mr. President” whether he be the Vice-President of the United States, the President of the Senate pro tempore, or a Senator called to occupy the chair for an hour, or a few minutes. Constant Reader, South Deerfield, Mass.—1st. A bill to allow a man to marry his deceased wife’s sister has passed the British House of Commons several times, but the House of Lords has invariably opposed the measure. The popular sentiment is decidedly with the House of Commons; and itis understood that Queen Victoria is in favor of repealing the presentlaw. The Prince of Wales has expressed himself as-decidedly on the same side of the question; and it is not imprebable that in a short time the will of the people will be complied with. 2d. We have not the space to spare for extended arguments on either side. We shall have to refer you to Webster’s unabridged dictionary for the information you desire gn the subject of spelling. Diabetic.—Diabetes is a kind of diarrhea of the kidneys. The kidneys having got into an exalted state of action, do too much; just as the mucous membrane of the air tubes does in bronchitis. All articles which contain sugar and starch must be avoided by persons afflicted with dia- betes. Bread and potatoes contain a large amount of starch; and beets, parsnips, aud some other vegetables have sugar. Itis best to confine the patient almost en- tirely to tender, fresh meats, and if there be much thirst, water must be taken very sparingly. A good remedy for diabetes is the following; One scruple of Peruvian bark, one scruple of wild Cranberry leaves, powdered, and halfa grain of opium. Mix, and take a teaspoonful three times a day. Reader of the Weekly, Cadiz, Ohio.—To mend rubber overshoes, rub the patch and shoe thoroughly with sharp sand paper. Smear both with liqnid rubber four or five times, every time letting them dry. Do this once more, and before they dry apply the patch, with pressure, if possible, and the boot is mended. If liquid rubber is not obtainable, dissolve small | eerie of pure rubber (not vul- canized) in warm spirits of turpentine, to the consistency of sirup. A New Subscriber, Dalton, Texas.—i1st. To preserve leaves and flowers, dip them in melted paraffine, with- drawing them quickly. 2d. We-can send you a book en- tiled “How to Make Candy” for 50 cents. It is a manual of plain directions for the manufacture of popular con- eA 8 al Inexperienced housewives will find it inval- uable. Kate, Newark, N. J.—l1st. The society for the relief of the destitute blind has its home at No. 219 W»*st Four- teenth street. It was incorporatedin 1868. Its object is to make the adult blind comfortable. Those who are able to work are instructed in some useful employment. The information you desire may be obtained there. 2d. To improve your handwriting, practice daily. An Inquirer, La Crosse.—A complete work on mesmer- ism can be furnished for $4. It comprises not only the philosophy of mesmerism, but that of the power of charm- ing. It hasan appendix containing notes on the subject, and illustrations of the brain and nervous system. If you wish it, write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchas- ing Agency. Athlete.—_In Dublin, June 10, 1874, J. Lane made a run- ning long-jump of 23 feet 1 1-2inches. This was accom- lished without artificial aid, and on level ground. In arrie, Ont., May 24, 1881, John Blair made a running hop-step-and-jump of 48 feet 2 inches. This was also ac- complished on level ground. Cc. N., Chicago.—The pay of the Speaker of the U.8. House of Representatives is $8,000 a year; of the Sen- ators, Representatives, and Delegates, $5,000 a year. Mileage is allowed at the rate of twenty cents a mile; and there is an allowance of $250, for the Congress, for station- ery and newspapers. A, R. L.—The death-rate is much higher in Italy, Aus- tria, Spain, and Prussia, than in France or England, while the mortality of the most northern countries of Europe— Denmark and Sweden—is less by ten per cent. than in See Britain, and fifty per cent. lower than in Italy or ustria. Ned J., New Berlin, Fla.—We know of nothing better for the hair than castor oil and brandy—three ounces of oil and one ounce of Aad | Mix it thoroughly and apply to the hair, rubbing it well into the roots, at least twice a week. We haveno preference for any of the advertised specifics. Old Californian.—Before the gold mines of California were discovered the supply for the coinage of American gold coins was furnished Wy parties importing foreign coins, some stray lots of African gold, and the products of ~ oon and South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia gold elds. Martin S., Wilmington, Del.—1st. Hon, John Bell, who was a candidate for the Presidency in 1860, died at Nash- ville, Tenn., September 10, 1869, aged 7 2d. Franklin Pierce, the fourteenth President of the United States, died at Concord, N. H., October 8, 1869, aged 65. : JAN. 29, 1883, B. L. M.—The alloy called pinchbeck derives its name from being brought into notice by a person named Pinch- beck. It may be made by combining three ounces of zine with a pound of copper. It was formerly used to make the cases of watches and brooch settings. T. P., Goldsboro, N. C.—lst. No. 2d. About 10,000. 3d. The distance from Rio Janeiro (Brazil) to New York is 5,920 miles, 4th. No. 5th. Very little English is spoken in that region. Inquirer, St. Louis.—lst. We cannot advertise their names in this department. 2d. The great wall of China was originally built by the Chinese as a bulwark against the invasions of the Tartars (215 B. C.). A. B. C., Chicago.—1st. The minister resident at Wash- ington from Costa Rica is Senor Don Manuel M. Peralta. 2d. It is notin our power to oblige you. 3d. The author you name is dead, S. A. F., Oneonta, N, Y.—A delicate and delicious per. fume is made as follows: Dissolve half an ounce of pure aor in one pint of rectified spirits, and add an onnée of violet. G. P.—You can obtain the information at the office of any insurancecompany. We know of no “particular intiu- ence”’ thatis necessary to secure the position referred to. Our Fred, St. John, N. B.—The salary of the Governor of New York is $10,000 a year; that of the Governor of California is $6,000 a year. 0. S. Car, eee glycerine to it as often as con- Rosie If anything will remove it, glycerine will in me. A. G., Rochester.—The chief risk you would run would be of being cheated out of the prize, on some pretense or other, after you had won it. Let all lotteries alone. _An Anxious Reader, Warren, Pa.—Write to a music pub- lisher on the subject, and he will give you all the informa- tion you desire. e Elsie, Newark, N.J.—President Arthur was born in Fairfield, Franklin county, Vermont, October 5, 1830. Buffalo Bill, Marion, Kansas.—White’s violin method will probably suit you. Price 75 cents. Violet Vincent, Baltimore.—Vour sense of propriety is just and correct. Discourage his attentions. Regina Westbrook.—You are too young to engage your- self to any one. Wait a year or two. Hugo, Fairport, N. Y.—They can be obtained at most bookstores. J. T. C., Atlanta, Ga.—The right to dramatize the stories named is not for sale. B. L. B.—The Diana you refer to wasa heathen deity. She was called the goddess of hunting. RE. M. B., Helena, M. T.—See No.9 of the present vol- ume, in reply to ‘‘Cecile.” Reporter.—We know nothing concerning it. It may be, as you say, a “catch.” Constant Reader, Fall River, Mass.—There is no institu- tion of the kind you refer to in this country. Daisy, Highlands, Mass.—1st. We cannot enlighten yon. 2d. Your handwriting is decidedly elegant. Lucky Bill, Syracuse, Ind.—We can recommend Horace Greeley’s “American Conflict.” Truthful.—We know of no way to help you. The following MSS. are declined: “Wherefore ;” “They Say;” “Out of Employment;” “Strange;” ‘ Rum;” “Lake Elmer Old Bachelor.” —_— ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT. Miss May D., Rochester, New York. 1st, If all parties live in the same city, the groom’s family call first on the bride’s family. 2d. The announcement of the engage- ment should come first from the family of the bride. 5a. The friends of the fiance usually give him a dinner to con- gratulate him after he has announced his engagement, and every one of his intimate friends requests permission to callon the lady. After this, those who are most de- sirous of Showing good will give a theater party and sup- per afterward to the rag A pee always under the chap- eronage of some married lady. 4th. The fiancee can go with a sister or with her mother to visit at the house of her future father-in-law, after the engagement has been announced, or she can go alone if her fiance have a mother or sister, but not alone unless there are ladies. 5th. The usual first attention offered to a young lady by the family ~ of her fiance is a family dinner party. This is somewhat trying, particularly # she has not met the family before except in those formal first calls which his father, mother, brothers, and sisters make upon her. However, good- feeling and cordiality will soon bridge over these begin- nings. 6th. Her mothér, in her turn, then causes the groom’s family to be invited to a dinner or evening party, and from that moment he is asked every- where with his fiancee. It would be a_ great slight to invite one without the other, after the en- agement is formally announced, excepting, of course, to a adies’ lunch or to a gentlemen’s dinner. 7th. The youn lady, if she is to be married in January, leaves the fina cards, with those of her mother in December, and her mother, chaperon or friend issues wedding invitations a fortnight in advance of the wedding-day. 8th. After the cards are out no fiancee is seen at any party or public place—that is to say, the etiquette of New York is to that effect. 9th. The wedding cards and the trousseau are furnished by the family of the bride. 10th. 1f the girl is motherless, her father issues the cards in his own name, and provides the wedding feast and reception. 11th. The cards are never sent out by the bride-elect, or in her name. Ed.—ist. It may not be necessary for a gentleman to raise his hat when speaking to a lady, or at any other time, but it is customary for him to do so in every instance, and only shows good manners and an indication of gentle breeding; to negiect to do so would be to stamp him as un- gentlemanly, and shows a lack of common courtesy. 24d. If a gentleman desires to accompany a lady home from church he will first ascertain if she is accompanied by any other escort, and if she is not he should ask if he can have the honor of escorting her home. 3d. To ask a lady for her company to attend a ball or any public gathering is done in the same manner as asking her to allow him to aceompany her home. You will ask her to “honor you with her company.” 4th. A gentleman need not always walk on the right side of a lady, but will always consider which side he can the best protect her from the crowds. 5th. Attable a gentleman will always see that the lady is helped to all that she requires before helping himself to anything. He will also look out for her wants, and see that they are en during the entire meal before con- sidering himself. ¥ Miss J., Chicago, Ill.—1st. The gentleman must ask per- mission to visit the house; he must ask the ladyto marry him, and he must ‘ask papa.” 2d. He must show that he is able to ree a wife; he ane to give good testi- monials of character, of respectable relationship, of the fitness of his position to enter into the family of his pro- posed bride. 3d. A man has no right to ask a luxuriously brought up girl to accept poverty with him, nor is it con- sidered honorable for a poor man to offer himself to a_girl who possesses a large fortune until he has asked the con- sent of her father or guardian. Nothing is easier than for an idle and useless young man to propose himself asa suitor to an heiress, and to live on her money ever after- ward, but it is an ignoble Fig tiny ee 5 and one which parents and guardians should try to defend their charges against. D. D. W.—1st. A lady should be extremely eeret dur-+ ing her engagement in her manners toward other men. 2d. She should not correspond with them, nor permit those ‘attentions which as a belle and non-affianced girl were her right. 3d. She must avoid even the appearance of co- quetry, while a lover should avoid all display of jealous and all airs of er He isin a most delicate posi- tion. 4th. He must not be unduly familiar in the family of his fiancee; he must testify interest, without claiming a place; he must be devoted and not familiar, and remem- ber always that he is a petitioner, and on his good be- havior. He is asking the lady for her liberty, her obedi- ence, her life. “OC. C. F.,” Syracuse, N. Y.—Note cards are very con- venient for short messages and informal billets, they are made nearly square, and are of pale tints, the deep color- ing that so much prevades letter paper not having ex- tended to them. d. A fac simile of the initials or first name of the writer placed across the left-hand corner, or the day of the week is sometimes substituted, either in script or Roman letters. In the latter case the heading is in a horizontal line, and is sometimes in gold characters on an illuminated panel. Birdsor other fanciful emblems are occasionally used instead. tL. S. G.—1st. If Mr. and Mrs. —— invite you to a party to meet any one, you must accept ordecline on a sheet of note-paper, not on acard. 2d. If you are invited to a wed- ding ora reception, and do not wish to attend, send your card, without any “regrets” penciled onit (thatis vulgar), in an envelope, addressed to the lady who has invited you. 3d. You can inclose it in another envelope if you wish. 4th. A gentleman would inclose his card exactly as a lady would, and, if living at a distance, send by mail. Anxious Inquirer.—1st. Your letter came too late to be answered before ‘New Year’s day.” 2d. If thereare but few callers a lady may with perfect propriety receive them sitting, but when the rooms are crowded, or there are a large number of callers it is customary for her to stand during iheir call. 3d. There should be no difference made when receiving a minister or a Sunday-school teacher than when receiving any other friend or caller. A New Subscriber.—If a woman finds it necessary to postpone her marriage to the man to whom she is engaged, she should certainly tell him the reason why. Subseriber.—It is customary to bow to a person when you meet on the street, even if you have metonly a half hour before. Louise.—It isa mere matter of taste whether gloves are removed or not when refreshments are served. @ Historical Scraps. QUEEN Mary II., daughter of James, by Anne Hyde, died of small-pox in 1694, CaNnapa was visited by a great earthquake, accord- ing to the records, in February 1663. CHARLOTTE CoRDAY was beheaded at the age of twenty-five years, on July 17, 1793. THE name Cape of Good Hope was given by John II,, of Portugal, who augured well of future dis- coveries, having found the extremity of Africa. THE law, in England, condenning suides to burial by the highway, and mutilation by a stake, was finally abolished under George IV. THE famous Jardin dés Plants, Paris, founded in - 1626, was exclusively a garden of plants until 1793, during which year animals were introduced. In the year 1444 a patent was granted John Cobbe, that, by the art of peoeo ehy, he might transmute imperfect metals into gold and silver. WHEN Texas was annexed to the United States the nation assumed its debt of seven and a half millions, which, at the time, seemed enormous, SrvEN hundred years ago, Richard’ Coeur de Lion and Saladin, Sultar of Egypt, met in battle in Pales- tine. Those were the days of the Crusaders. anteater RRNA » : ' ; pans csaremneenmeninesianasianmnpnctentat - ae ive. cated THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3> QUT IN THE COLD. BY FRANCIS 8& SMITH. While we are sitting at ease ‘round the fire, And the bright flame ascends higher and higher, See how the raging storm lashes the pane, Driving in sheets of snow mingled with rain! A terrible night! Hark how the wind shrieks, As through every crevice admission it seeks! While the slaves of the storm-king high carnival hold, God help the poor homeless ones out in the cold. Out in the cold without shelter or food, Cursed by the heartless and feared by the good. Out in the cold, poorly clothed and unfed, No fire to sit by, the earth for a bed. No one to care forthem, strangers to love, Through the great city unpitied they rove. . The dogs have their kennel, the sheep have their fold, But what has the wanderer out in the cold? Oh, sweet Jesus, pity them! Send them relief? You while on earth were acquainted with grief, Speak to the wealthy and great of the land, Teach them to give with a liberal hand. Lead them to answer Thy earnest appeal— Wake them from lethargy—force them to feel— * Bid them arouse from their stupor, pure souled, And leave not a wanderer out in the cold. THRIGE WEDDED, we ONLY ONCE A WIFE. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, AUTHOR OF “A TRUE ARISTUCRAT,” “BROWNIE’S TRI- UMPH,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “EARLE WAYNE’S NOBILITY,” “LOST—A PEARLE.” [“Thrice Wedded” was -commenced in No. 6. numbers can be had of all News Agents.) CHAPTER XVII. “WE SHALL SEE!” That same evening found Ralph Moulton and this uncle again seated in their room at the inn, engaged in earnest conversation, while the same eager listener, Ronald Edgerton, was within the closet. to devour every word that fell from the two plotters’ lips. fe “I tell you things don’t work just as I want them to, Ralph,” said the old man, discontentedly. “Why ?” asked Ralph. ‘Because the old fellow. does not seem to mind the young one’s disappearance very much. He seems to take it asa matter of course. that, if his son did not wish to meet the young lady, he should take himself off. I saw him just after he had re- eeived your cunning forgery, or-at least within a eouple of hours after, and he was as calm asa clock. It would have done me good to have seen him raye and tear a little.” . “T guess he’ll rave and tear enough when I de- -mand my rights, which I intend to do to-morrow,” Back - replied his nephew. with a touch of bitterness. His uxnele did not reply at once. He did not like to have Ralph quite so eager about this claim. When he had told him his history—or rather when he had invented this abominable lie, in order to make him a willing tool to further his own evil designs—he had hoped to be able, by promising him his whole fortune, to make him give up the idea of claiming Ellerton as his father. But he was determined to prove that he had a legal claim to that name. And the squire blamed himself now for twitting him so much about his obscure birth. Another thing troubied him greatly. He had not anticipated meeting Mr. Ellerton in Germany. His plan had been-to ruin the son, blast all his prospects in life, and then return and try to destroy the father. rig While Mr. Ellerton was in the country, he knew he could do nothing with Robert without exciting suspicion, unless— ‘ ; A bright idea struck him here, and his evil face lighted with a fiendish triumph. He reasoned that his enemy had probably dis- sed of most of his property on leaving his native and, Ne to spend several years traveling with his son. In that case he would have most of it in gold with him, orif not in the coin itself, some- thing equivalent in value to show for it. Why could he not put Mr. Ellerton out of the way, and thus ruin father and son at one blow! Then he could putforward Ralph’s claim, with no one to dispute it, and he would be sure to win. He felt he would never have so favorable an o noerneety as now, for the smugglers were at hand to aid him and once the thing was done, they could leaye the country and enjoy their triumph without a fear of being molested. : ; As these thoughts passed with lightning-like ra- pidity through his mind, he glanced askance at his nephew, wondering within himself whether it would be safe to impart to him this diabolical plan. He was a little fearful that Ralph was not quite hardened enough in sin yet, to calmly contemplate robbery and murder. At all events, it would do no harm to sound him a little upon the subject “IT don’t know about going to all the trouble and expense of trying to prove your claim, Ralph.” he a said. “I think we can come at it easier than that!” “How?” asked Ralph, looking up. surprised. “Why. I have been thinking that Ellerton must have turned most of his property into money before - leaving home. I know he did before when he went ; _ yellow and wrinkled abroad, and it would only take a little maneuvering to get possession of it,” he replied, winking wick- edly at him. ‘ : iph cast a quick, searching glance over his uncle’s face, and then replied, with an assumed air of indifference: - ro yourself, if you please. I don’t under- stand.” ; “Well, if we will only say the word, the smug- glers will quickly put him out of the way, and the money is ours.” “What then isto become of my honorable name that you have harped upon so much ?” demanded Ralph, with a sneer. d , His uncle winced beneath this quick retort, but replied confidently: “Why, you foolish boy, don’t you see that will be easy enough then. You will have no one to dispute your claim but that puling boy, and what can he do, with no proofs, against such incontestable ones as you have ?” . “Then you mean for us to cage up the father for life. get possession of his Property and let my young rival go, and work or beg for his living?” Ralph said. in @ manner which gaye his uncle some en- couragement to reveal the whole of his plan. “That is just what I mean, with one or two impor- tant alterations. which I will name,” he replied, jocosely. “I propose to cage him, as you call it, but not like his son, but rather in a wooden box, and six feet below ground, andthen let the young man go to Jericho if he wants to.” “In other words, you would murder the man,” said Ralph, in a husky voice, with apale face and stern brow. |. PUR ““You’ve hit it right this time, my boy!” he an- swered, with a wicked leer, ‘And now what do you think of it ?” Ralph involuntarily shuddered at such bold, out- spoken treachery. And he replied in a voice of in- advise you to proceed to him at once and see what kind of a reception he will give you.” Imagination cannot picture the expression of that vile man’s face as he made this sarcastic and taunt- ing reply. It seemed as if all the evil passions of his nature had concentrated themselves into one look of convulsive fear, hate,and malice. While his wicked heart beat with terror lest his tool—his dupe —should reveal everything, and thus thwart every chance for vengeance upon his despised foe. He saw it would not do to break with Ralph; he had trusted in him to such an extent that he was necessary to help him. He resolved to work upon his evil passions again. It would not do to let him madly plunge both of them into ruin by one false step. But he felt almostas if he could strike him dead as young Ralph looked him full in the face and replied to his last taunt. ~ J “T shall at least make the trial,” Ralph said, firmly. “I have done evil enough alrea\y with- out having a dead man haunting me all the days of my life. I have sworn that Dora shall be my wife; and for that I am willing to do anything reason- able to win her. I shall force her into a marriage, and teach her to love me afterward. But as for murder, ugh! Iwill not doit!” - “T tell you, Ralph, you shall not do perenitty so rash as to go, as you intend, to Mr. Ellerton. You would only get kicked and scorned for your pains. and perhaps be arrested; then how will you marry your lady-love? Besides, I think you are rather overlooking the wrong he has done your mother, and that you also forget that he has known of your own existence, and willfully deserted you all these years. Are you willing to forgive and forget all this ?” asked the crafty man. __ “T know all this,” replied his nephew. with a weary sigh, as he realized the force of his uncle’s remarks. : : “Then, don’t you see, if you make yourself known at this early hour, and get yourself into trouble, you will surely losethe girl, together with your name and fortune ?” Squire Moulton saw the advantage he had gained, and thus hastened to increase it. Ralph bowed his head upon the table in troubled thought, while heavy sighs burst every now and then from his aching heart. He felt the truth of what his uncle argued, namely, if they possessed themselves of Mr. Ellerton’s money, he would | almost powerless to resist them, and would be will- ing. perhaps, to concede what they asked. t last he looked up and said, kalf desperately, half sadly: : “Uncle, I don’t see but that one sin leads to an- other, and that we will have to get possession of the old fellow’s money before we can aceomplish much. But mark me, Iwill not have a single drop of blood spilled!” His love for Dora prompted him to use every exertion to win her, and he added: “I will tell you what J will consent to do; but beyond it I will not go. I willagree that Mr. Ellerton be way- laid and conveyed to the cave, where we can get poset of his valuables; for in all probability e carries them about his person. Then when we have him in our power, we can compel ‘him to sign papers agreeing to acknowledge me as his rightful son and heir, or at least joint heir, with Robert. The boy has never wronged me, and is not to blame for what his father has done, and I:don’t wish to take everything from him. If Ellerton will agree to this, as I have no doubt he will when_he-sees our propis. then we will freethem both. It will proba- bly take some time to bring him to these terms, and in the meantime I will secure my bride. What do you say to my plan ?” : While Ralph had been speaking the squire’s brain had been busily at work. ; ; He saw at once it would be poliey to appear to agree to his nephew’s proposition. After they had once got his enemy in their power, he knew there would be ways enough to dispose of im, Indeed he rather liked the plan on the whole, for he would then have an opportunity of triumphing over him, and making him feel his victory. Yes, he would agree with Ralph, but—he vowed Ellerton should die—and—by his own hand. If once safe within the smuggler’s eave, he should never see the light of day again. __ Oh! it would be sweet to see him chainedin.a SuBaSUe. and taunt him with his grief! It would be glorlous to tell him how he had worked out his ruin, planning it night and day for years, and see him writhe and suffer in his agony! | Then he would reveal to him how he had helped Ralph to tear Robert’s bride from his almost clasp- ing arms, and appropriate her to himself. And it was with difficulty that he disguised and concealed his anticipated triumph from the sharp eyes of his nephew. But he dropped his glowing orbs, and re- plied, calmly: : “Yes, yes, boy. Pll agree to anything to keep the peace between us; and, in fact, I guess it’s the best eer can do. When shall we put the plan in oree ?” “To-morrow, if possible. I want this thing over with as soon as practicable. I will go immediately to see Hans, and give him our instructions, and have him on Ellerton’s track before sunset to-mor- row evening.” : . aon right. The quicker the better,” replied the old villain. > Ralph instantly arose and left the room, intent on his errand, leaving his uncle maturing his diabol- ical plans for the future. Ronald Edgerton, who had listened t6 the above conversation with creeping flesh and eyes distend- ed with horror, crept cautiously back into his room, muttering to himself: “We shall see! We shall see!” CHAPTER XVIIL. THE UNHEEDED WARNING. Toward evening of the following day Mr. Ellerton stood booted and spurred upon the steps of the Glenburn House, impatiently waiting forthe groom to bring round a horse. 3 He was going for a gallop over the distant hills to get a breath of fresh air and a view of the surround- rng SO aEy : , While standing thus he saw a dirty little urchin, barefooted and ragged, behind one of the large fluted pillars which supported the porch, and every little while he caught him peeping out upon him with curious eyes. | He bore this scrutiny as long as he cared to, and then walked up to him, saying, somewhat crossly: “What are you prowling about here for, you young- ster? Anything wanted ? ‘ The little fellow tore off his tattered cap, and catching hold of the shock of yellow, tangled hair that none down over his forehead, gave it a vigor- ous pull. Hethen thrust his hand deep into his trousers pocket, pulled out a soiled and crumpled_ piece of paper, which he put hastily into Mr. EHllerton’s and, and with a low ’‘Mum’s the word, sir,’ he darted like a flash from his sight. Somewhat amused at this singular proceeding, while at the sume time he was unconsciously im- pressed by the urchin’s mysterious manner, he glanced around to seeif any one had observed the event before he opened the note. There was no one about, and he unfolded it and read the contents. It was written in a round, manly hand, which Mr, Ellerton thought had a familiar look; but where or when he had seen that same handwriting before, he could not remember. It had been carefully and neatly folded, but the boy had probably soiled and rumpled it through carelessness. : ase It contained the following words: ‘a “ROBERT ELLERTON: Be on your gifard to-day.. Do not fo beyond the reach of help without the means of self-de- ense, for danger lurksin your path ! A FRIEND.”’ Mr. Ellerton curled his lips in a scornful smile, as if he did not fully credit the author’s story. Never- theless he turned and went within the hotel, back up into his room, and slipped acouple of loaded pistols into his breast pocket. When he appeared below again the groom stood waiting with his horse. | He mounted, and, putting his spurs to the ani- mal, galloped swiftly away in the direction of the cliffs which we have before mentioned, and in the recesses of which our hapless hero was imprisoned. Mr. Ellerton thought if he could gain the sum- mit of these cliffs he should have a splendid view of the surrounding country. As he slowly ascended the side of the rugged cliffs he began to ponder upon the strange warn- tense loathing and horror: I think you are a fiend, and I only wish you had left me to die in the land of strangers, where my mother did, than to have brought the up for crimes like this. And I tell you I will never dip my hands in human blood.” “Really, young man, you are getting to be quite complimentary in your style of address,” sneered the heartless ei an angry glow suffusing his ace, “Ido but speak the truth, sir; and I would haye you distinetly understand that I will never stain my soul with the crime of murder. And I begin to. think that I have taken the wrong way after all to ‘gain my honorable name that you tell so much about. You, have inspired my heart with hatred— from my infancy, as it were—toward every legally born child, making me feel like an outeast and a beggar. I believe if I had gone bravely and openly to him whom you sayis my father, with the proofs in my hand, he might have been willing to recog- nize me equally with hisson. But you have always bribed me to hate and revenge. Oh! if my mother had only lived to teach me to be upright and truth- ful, [ would have blessed her, even had she been unable to give me an honorable name,” Squire Moulton’s heart was boiling with wrath at the boy’s bold and defiant language, and cursing himself for a fool for revealing his plans to him, he retorted bitterly: $ f “Oh, oh, my fine young man! it is all very niée to imagine a man like Mr. Elerton to be so generous and noble. A man in his position you know is apt to be willing to acknowledge his own dishonor. I' ing he had received. Who could have written it? Who was there in all the country who knew him familiarly enough to call him Robert Ellerton ? Where had he seen that handsome handwriting before? It was somewhere away back in the dim past; but when or where he-could not recall, and the more he tried to remember the more ores he grew. Neither could heimagine what the danger was that lurked in his path. Had he been in a country among barbarians, he might well give heed to such a warning; but here, in sucha quiet town, where almost every one gave his attention to cultivation and learning, it could not be possible that any very great danger could threaten him. Still, the more he meditated upon it the more un- easy he grew. By this time he had reached the summit of the cliff. The prospect from this point was attractive. Far, far away as the eye could reach was the sea in all its grandeur, and reflecting from its silver bosom the many-tinted glories of yonder sky, while just at his feet its waves gently washed the huge crags with its foam and yellow sands; and involuntarily he murmured those beautiful lines from Tenny- son’s pen: “Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, oh, sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.” With a feeling half of pleasure, halfof melancholy at his heart, he turned to leaye the enchanted spot when a shrill cry, as of some one in pain, startle im: Turning his eyes in the direction whenee the sound proceeded, he saw just below him a noble horse, madly rearing and plunging among a cluster of bushes, while near by lay the prostrate form of a man apparently much injured, judging from his re- peated cries and shrieks. _ Without a moment’s thought, except that of help- ing & suffering fellow-being, Mr. Ellerton put spurs to his horse and dashed recklessly down the narrow path of the cliff—out of sight of the village, out of the reach of help—on, on into danger and treachery, ane inte. the hands of a set of vile and heartless vil- ains Oh, why did he not heed that timely warning ? He quickly gained the side of the prostrate man, and sprang to the ground to his assistance. Searce had his foot touched the earth when the man sprang to his feet, and covering Mr. Ellerton’s heart with a heavy revolver, shouted: “Stand, or your life isthe forfeit!” Like a flash of lightning his situation rushed upon him, and-he realized all too late how neces- sary i been the warning he had that morning re- ceived! He knew he must have been followed and watched every step of the way from the hotel, and that the farce of the dismounted and injured rider had only boot An ingenious trap. into which he had so readi- y fallen. His own hand involuntarily sought for his weap- ons of defense, but at that moment a slight rustling caused him to glance up, and he saw three more ruffians surrounding him. He realized at once how utterly vain and useless would be any attempt at resistance, and without a word he submitted to have his hands bound behind im. One of the villains now approgonad him with a folded handkerchief, remarking jocosely, with a tantalizing grin: : ‘Neat little trap, wasn’t it? Now, if you please, we will cover up these peepers of yours, as you might be adding to your stock of information while we make our journey to the palace; and that would not suit the king you know.” : ; The villain laughed a coarse laugh, in which he was heartily joined by his companions. “For what am I molested ?” demanded Mr. Eller- ton, with calm disdain, while he suffered himself to be blindfolded. “The king wants you,” was the reply. ‘What king ?” “Why, our king. He’s got no perso province as I know of._ I may as well call him the King of the Cannibal Islands as anything else,” replied the ruffian, winking at his comrades. sae their rude laughter rang over the echoing ills “Where are you taking me?” asked Mr. Eller- ton, not deigning to notice the wretched attempt at witticism, . “To the palace_as I informed you before; and to safe quarters I’ll warrant you. Come, tramp, for we are ina hurry,” and the poor man was seized by both arms and hurried roughly over the uneven path. He asked no more questions. His pride kept him silent, and he would not have calmly borne their on insolence ‘had it been in his power to chas- ise it. They traveled more than a mile in this manner, then after the same ceremonies of stamping, pass- ing through secret passages and doors that his son had noticed, he was finally unbound, and found himself in a large stone cell comfortably furnished. The ruffians left him to himself after bolting and barring the door, The cell was lighted by a_ large hanging lamp, while the air which ventilated the apartment came through the upper part of the decor which was formed of an iron grating. : With a heavy heart he sat down to -eonsider his uncomfortable position, and to wonder why he was thus a prisoner. CHAPTER XIx. ‘ “T SHALL GO MAD!” The sound slumber into which Robert had fallen was broken by the sweetest strains of music. He sat up on his couch and rubbed his eyes. trying to arouse himself; he was bewildered yet enchanted, for the strains continued, now bursting forth into joyous melody, then dying away into the softest eadences, and finally sweeping on into intense pas- sion and sadness. 2 They seemed to come from behind his bed, and he vowed to himself that mortal ear never before heard such exquisite music. ‘ It sounded like a voice accompanied by a harp, and the tones so clear, so sweet, were like the chim- ing of delicate silver bells. He examined the tapestry hangings and found a place where they could be parted; he pulled aside the heavy folds, and saw a ponderous block of stune upon hinges, and swung open a foot or so into his chamber. | Determined to learn all he could of this strange underground castle, and hoping this might be some secret passage which would lead him to liberty, he swung the block still farther back, and sweeping the heavy curtain aside, he beheld a fairy bower of beauty and elegance. . The room was about the size of the one assigned, to him, but hung with elegant white velvet, with gilt and purple trimmings. The carpet, also of white velvet, was strewn with great purple pansies, so perfect with their golden centers, and in their royal beauty, that Robert scarcely dared to step lest he should crush out their brilliant hues. The furniture of purple and white, and framed in ilt, was of the most exquisite and graceful pattern. ovely paintings and statues adorned the walls and niches of the room, and upon a table of some for- eign wood inlaid with pearl, were scattered richly bound books, music, and all the delicate little trifles which one so likes to see in a lady’s boudoir. Over this table, and perched daintily upon one foot in his fancy cage, was a canary of purest gold, ever and anon twittering and chirping an echo to the song of his fair mistress. For several moments Robert scarcely dared to breathe, lest the lovely scene should melt away be- fore his vision, and he awake and find it alla dream. He stood transfixed and amazed; every step he took in this strange smugglers’ fortress, he dis- covered new beauties and fresh mysteries! A ee a divan, dressed in spotless white, sat a golden-haired maiden, Habre fingering a magnifi- cent harp, and pouring forth her soul in song. Her face was fair and pure as a lily, and round, sweet, and almost babyish in its contour. Her heavily fringed lids drooped over a pair of purple- blue eyes, ane almost lay upon her delicately tinted eheeks, while occasionally a bright drop left their wondrous depths and rolled like a sparkling dew drop down upon the purple pansies at her feet. | All at once her song ceased, and with a deep sigh the bright beauty bowed her lovely head and rested it against the harp before her. Almost involuntarily the sigh was echoed from our hero’s breast, and the spell was broken! The young girl started violently, and rising, a low, frightened cry broke from her ripe lips as her glance rested upon Robert. ; Hé recognized her at once! She was the same beautiful maiden whom he had seen the previous evening, and who had entertained him with her music while he was eating his supper. He saw that she was startled by his presence, and raising his hand with a reassuring gesture, he said, respectfully: : “T pray you, fair lady, do not be alarmed. I mean youno harm. Some kind fate, or Providence, has opened a secret passage between your room and mine, and impelled partly by curiosity, partly by your beautiful song, I ventured to seek its source. Is my apology accepted ?” She raised her liquid orbs to his, while a bright blush suffused her face, and bowed her graceful lit- tle gna in token of assent, but spoke no word in reply. ‘Iam a captive ” Robert went on to explain, ‘‘put here by some bitter enemy, and I must needs be- lieve you are in a like situation, for no one so fair and lovely would. voluntarily remain in these vaults, gloomy despite their oriental magnificence.” “I am a prisoner, and yet I am nota prisoner. There are circumstances which would compel me to remain here were every secret door and passage thrown open to give me liberty,” replied the lovely being, in tones so sweet, yet_so sad, that the tears involuntarily started to our hero’s eyes. “Can such a thing be possible ?” he asked in sur- prise. “Yes, for I have no other home in all the wide, wide world. and while I mourn, I am still glad, for it is in my power to protect and minister to others. who like yourself are held in captivity here.”’ “Will you forgive my curiosity. and explain your- self more fully? OrdoTintrude? If so I will re- tire at once ?” Robert’s eyes pleaded hard to be allowed to re- ne though he made a motion as if about to re- reat. “Nay, be seated,” the girl replied. waving him to a seat, and at the same time sinking back upon the divan from which she had risen. Robert took the seat indicated, and anxiously waited for his fair hostess to resume the conversa- tion. ; At length she said with a strain of sympathy in her sweet voice: “T know something of your history, and partly the reason why you are confined here, and I sorrow every day | live that I cannot in some way be the means of liberating the unfortunate ones who are so often brought here. But I am only a weak woman, and can do but very little against so many wicked men!” Robert thought she was 4 very, very beautiful woman, if she was weak; almost as lovely as Dora. “T told you,” she continued, “that I have no other home. My mother is dead. y father I never saw, as he deserted his wife before I was born. My uncles, who were once rich and prosperous, have spent all their wealth in trying to hunt down the man who so deeply wronged their sister; and when she died they took me, a poor little orphan, brought me up and educated me, suffering every privation that I might not be denied any dainty or luxury, Finally their last dollar was spent, and in their des- peration they joined this band of smugglers, and while on some business for the gang in the United States, they discovered my father! : “They watched and dogged his every step until he came to this country, aud are now waiting for a favorable opportunity to wreak their vengeance upon him, and claim my rights, after which they have promised me they will forever renounce this wicked business.” F ; “You say this man who is your father, is now in this GaHntKY. said Robert, as he paused for a mo- ment. “Yes, in the country and inthis very village, though Whyghe is here, Ido not know, unless a righteous Providence has driven him here to compel him to do justice to the wronged.” A shade of sudness clouded her fair brow, and a deep sigh broke from her lips. ‘““Witl you tell me this unnatural father’s name ?” asked Robert. “Ralph Moulton.” ; “Ralph Moulton!’ exclaimed Robert, wildly. “Which—who—what—pardon me, 1 am so taken by ear pee. But will you please tell me in what part of the United States your uncles found him?” Our hero leaned breathlessly forward, awaiting her reply. A “In S——, Massachusetts,” she answered, glancing up in gentle surprise. s “The same—the very same. How exceedingly strange!” he replied, starting to his feet and pacing back and forth. ; ‘Do you know this man, who,I am told, is my father?” : “Know him ?” replied Robert, bitterly. “I know him as an enemy—as my father’s bitterest enemy ; and I begin to feel convinced that he is concerned in this plot against me. Yes, yes; I see it all now— fool that I have been, not to think of it before!” _ He struck his hand violently against his brow as he recalled what the chief had told him—about his father’s unlawful marriage, and his being an ille- gitimate son. Then his mind went far back to the day when he and Dora went to the squire to be married; his questions and emotion concerning his mother; and he realized at once that there was a deep and vile | plot on foot to destroy him. He remembered that the squire had a nephew, and was convinced that it was he who had seen Dora, become attached to her, and was resolved to marry her, taking this way to get rid of him in or- der to make his own way clear. - i He was deeply agitated, and wondered what his father thought had become of him. And Dora— would she think he had willfully deserted her? He feared so, feeling that his enemy would urge this hd of the case, and eventually win her for him- self, ; He was nearly frantie with the thought, and for- got where he was—forgot everything, but shat he would wreak the bitterest vengeance upon the vile plotters, could he but lay his hands upon them; and wrung his hands in his agony, utterly regard- less of the two beautiful eyes that were wistfully following his every movement. “Yes, yes; it is as I fear, without doubt. Oh, why does Heaven permit such wickedness to go un- paniabed ? Is there no way that I can escape. that may thwart them? Oh, Heaven, give me strength to bear this, or I shall go mad!” | : He threw himself, exhausted, into a chair, and groaned aloud. i Le The lovely girl opposite him arose, and gliding softly to his side, laid one of her small white hands upon his arm, and said: ‘ ‘ ; ‘My friend, I begin to believe that a kind Provi- dence has indeed led you to me to-day; and that our lives and destinies are in some mysterious way connected, and that the same person has done us both a foul wrong. I pray that you will have con- fidence in me. Tell me your story, and perhaps I may be able to help you, or rather we may be able to help each other.” | tty He looked at her with a sad, yet admiring glance, his lips; then said: “My dear young lady, you do me honor to put so much faith and trust in me; while at the same time, you shame me with your courage and calm- ness. ,I thank you sincerely for your sympathy. for your gentle eyes tell me I have that. But I am selfish to be so bound up in my own sorrows and troubles, besides being rude to interrupt so ab- ruptly yourstory. Please pardon me, and continue your narrative, after which I shall, in return, tell you my own aoe. Be He led her gently to a sofa, and taking a seat i her, aignifiod his readiness to listen to her tale. {TO BE CONTINUED.] Old Rattlesnake, The Revenue Detective By Police Captain Fames. [“Old Rattlesnake” was commenced in‘No. 3. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents. } CHAPTER XXYI. PUMPED DRY. _ When within a block or two of the ‘‘doctor’s” the detective suddenly said: “Wait a minute.” ‘‘What’s the matter?” “There’s aman yonder,” “Tsee him.” “And [ want to speak with him.” “You know him ?” “EL 0<7 “Shall I wait for you here or go on ?” “Better wait. I'll not delay you more then a min- ute.” ; Rattlesnake advanced to the man_he had drawn Barker’s attention to. He coughed as he drew near. The man turned swiftly. Then he said: : ; “T have been waiting here fora few minutes, but hardly expected to see you.” . Well, did she recognize you ?” “8 ure?” “Yes. Before we entered the place her suspicions were aroused; she thought she recognized some- thing familiar in my tone, but I am satisfied that she does not couple me with her companion.” “Did she recognize my voice as being the person jee in conyersation with Loring a ; oO. “Good. And how did she take it ?” “Very badly. It completely upset her.” | “But she realizes that the man she loved is a heart- less villain ?” “Ske does.” ; : “Then my purpose is accomplished. Did she ask for you after returning home?” | ; “Not that Iam aware of. I waited until after she entered the house, then went in, changed my cloth- ing, and came here to see if you had any further in- structions for me.” “T have.” What are they ?” “T will tell you briefly. But—first take this little package, it may be safer in your possession than in mine.” Then the detective said further: “Danforth, the mine is charged—I am about to touch a match to the fuse.” wAnd Fred Barker will be saved ?” “And cleared of even suspicion ?” “Even so.” 7 : Rattlesnake now hurriedly whispered to Danforth for a few seconds. : ; aw As Danforth went swiftly away in one direction, Rattlesnake turned his face in the other and joined his waiting companion. ‘ : A few minutes later they were seated in the gin- mill that had been the destination in view on leay- ing the shop. rinks were ordered, A bottle and glasses were brought and placed on the table before them. Barker poured out only a tablespoonful and then stood the bottle in front of the detective. | , The latter, noticing how scanty a quantity Barker had poured out, pushed back the bottle, saying: “Take more than that—take a good stiff horn. You'll feel the benefit of it before long.” “T don’t understand——” “But Ido. I know exactly what I’m saying. Take A eoow, ent So-—that’s good!—now let me have the bottle.” Rattlestake was the first to speak after the liquor had disappeared down their throats. He said: : ‘Barker, I want to ask you a few questions.” “T thought I came here to be told something about Old Rattlesnake?” __ ; 4 “So youdid. But Igwant my questions answered rst.” ‘Suppose I won’t answer ?” : Was In a very confident tone the detective rejoined: “But you will answer them.” ‘*You are positive ?” “Tam.” 5 “You have some reason for it ?” “T have—a good one.” wae? it and then we shall understand each other.” “Very well. Let me tell you that. Old Rattlesnake knows the truth in regard to your brother’s murder |” Abner Barker shrank back in his chair, and with ghastly face stared at his vis-a-vis, and taking her little hand, pressed it reverently to. In a couple of seconds, however, he mastered his surprise and consternation. But his voice trembled in spite of his effortsto control it as he said: “So does everybody know the truth. He was mur- dered by his son, who is now awaiting execution for the crime.” ‘He was not murdered by his son,” “But Fred pleaded guilty.” “T know it,” very calmly. ‘‘And now will you an- swer my questions ?” “What am Ito gain?” “T ean’t say positively—but I may be able to save you from the consequences attaching to your share an the crime!”’ Abner Barker’s forenead was now beaded with perspiration. “How do you chance to be so deeply in Rattle- snake’s confidence ?” he hoarsely demanded. ‘Sometimes people are not very careful, and have other listeners than they suspect.” . This was a non-committal reply, which might meae one thing or might mean another exactly op- posite. Barker chose to extract from the words a meaning which satisfied him. “What are your questions about? I hope not about that?” with a shudder. _ “The first one,” was the rejoinder, “is about the woman at the shop—who is she ?” “T don’t know.’ “How long have you known her ?” “About three years.” “Where did you first, see her ?” “In the building we just left.” ‘“What does she do ?” “Takes care of the boy.” “What boy ?” ‘“‘Harris’s, of course.” “Oh! Harris has a wife, then ?” There was an eager light in Rattlesnake’s eyes as the words quoted fell from his lips.”’ ‘He has.” The next words came with an effort: "She is in that building ?” “No eo “That is what I said.” | Old Rattlesnake was silent for a couple of sec- onds. A keen observer might have found reason for believing that he was filled with suppressed emotion. ee oc meee ?” he said, in a harsh whisper. oO He drew a breath of relief, “But she is not there ?” ‘She is not.” “Is she well ?” “She is not sick.” ‘But something is out of the ordinary with her ?” es. “What is it ?” “She is insane.” “Great Heaven!” ee regaining his composure, the detective sald: “How long has she been so ?” “IT don’t know.” ‘You know where she is ?” es. “Where ?” “At Dr. Blank’s asylum.”’ “Was she driven mad by her husband’s cruel treatment?” . , OT worships her and the boy.” “I have answered your questions to the best_of my ability. You will now save me from—from—Old Rattlesnake ?” Barker spoke in a nervous tone. It was evident that he was completely unstrung. “T said “I may be able, &c.’ Please do not consid- er my words as a pledge; for they were not.” “You are breaking faith with me.” “Tam not. Bettor take another drink, and then let’s get out, for it’s stifling in here.” “Yes, another drink,” assented Barker. Liquor was ordered. The elder man needed no urging this time to make his “horn” a ‘‘stiff’’ one. “Now, then, let’s get.’’ “Tm ready.” They rose and went from the saloon, Barker never et suspecting that he had been pumped dry by no ess a person than Old Rattlesnake. CHAPTER XXVII. BLOODGOOD LEARNS SOMETHING. When Harris entered the work-room and found that the pseudo Charlie Duff was missing, his eyes kindled with wrathful suspicion. ‘“Where’s Duff?” he asked, sharply. “Gone out.” “And Barker ?” “He went with Duff.” Bloodgood spoke in snarling tones. He was out of humor. He had been so completely sat down upon in the recent destruction of his dis- tillery that he had the “blue devils” in the worst orm. “Come, Bloodgood, old man, don’t give way. Brace up!. If we get this stuff on the market once, we can make morein a daythan you madein a month at distilling, and without a hundredth part of the risk.” “Tt’s all well enough to say ‘brace up,’ but_I can tell you it ain’t so easy todo. Curse Old Rattle- snake!” and he ground his teeth. ‘So say I. But I want to speak to you about this fellow Duff,” . “What of him ?” “T don’t like him.” “No more do I.” : “And I can’t help feeling as if he isn’t to be trust- vier OM ae as he has been.” i ? oO. “Our opinions tally.” “They do.” “T wish the dies were finished.” “So dol. We’d cut Duff's throat in two shakes of aram’s tail—eh, Joel ?” “You bet. And I don’t know but that it might be wise to cut it even before the dies are finished.” Bloodgood had been lying prone on the floor. He now raised himself until he rested on one olan and looked up in Harris’ evil, scowling dark ace. ee have good reason for what you say?” aye.” “Then when he enters this place again——” Bloodgood halted, and Joel Harris completed the sentence by saying: é “He must not be permitted to go forth alive,” ‘Just so.’ “Tt is the only safe way. Do you know what kind of a notion crossed my mind just before I entered this room ?” “Of course not. What was it ?,’ “That Duff might be Rattlesnake in disguise!” “The devil!” ‘ As this exclamation crossed Bloodgood’s lips he leaped to his feet. : He demanded: “Does “your sober ‘sense approve the idea, Harris ?” “T hardly know.” ‘ : “But you have known this man in the past—have known him intimately; your manner assured me of that even when you denied it. You surely should know him in any disguise.” : “He is an expert in altering his appearance, and he might deceive even me. But there goes the door. Who is coming ?” e Harris listened for a few seconds; then, noting the footfalls. he said: “It’s Dick Loring.” “That individual presently entered. He came with light step and flushed face, They looked at him. He cried, joyously: “Congratulate me, boys!” “On what ?” “My success.” ‘“‘Suecess in what ?” . “Pye been to Rattlesnake’s den.” “What ?? : "Fact |” Pauly “You’re surely joking ?” **Don’t fool yourselves, boys,” “You mean what you say ?” “To the letter.” “What took place ?” “Various things. Bytthe most important thing to you is the fact that the Rattlesnake’s fangs have been drawn.” : “Ah!” said Harris. “Oh! said Bloodgood. : “Ves; his poison in future is N. G.” “Bloodgood began to comprehend. “You have sent him over the Styx ?” “Correct.” “Tell us about it.” d “IT will. The room above his was vacated yester- day.. I rented it at once. Rattlesnake had the whip hand of me, and either he had to die or I had to skip. "Bio had got the best of me straight along, and I got downhearted._ As both of you know, I was aw- fully blue. Well, I plucked up courage, and deter- mined to have one more hack at him, or secure the evidence he held against me. “T hired the room, as I said.. I took a rope, and went there when I left here, about an hour ago. let myself down to his window, shoved the fasten- ing aside with a thin-bladed knife, raised the sash, and went in,” ‘Well ?” “T hadn’t expected to find anybody there, sol re surprised at seeing a figure stretched on the e ” “What did you do ?” é “Knowing that discovery, might occur any mo- ment, I drew my knife, tiptoed to the bed, and any anon clean through his heart,” e > ‘He never moved nor uttered a sound. If I’d drawed the knife the blood would have spurted out all over me, so I left it sticking in him,” ‘‘And then you ‘sloped’ ?” : : _-to the top of the blouse closing. (a lriee besa iocstiinaialc ernie neatird “Yes; I didn’t wait. I didn’t know but somebody might be prowling around. But I'll go back after dark to-morrow night—or, rather, to-night, seeing it’s after twelve—and then I’ll search the place thor- oughly,” : A lond was lifted from the minds of the two lis- teners, Old Rattlesnake was dead! : “Where’s Barker ?” suddenly asked Loring. “He and Duff went out together,” answered Bloodgood. “Where did they go ?” “To the ‘Doctor’s’.” “Guess [Pll go around. Go along, Bloodgood ?” “Yos. Now that Rattlesnake has kicked, I’A fee! safe in going out.” On reaching the ‘Doctor’s” they were informed tang Duff und Barker had departed a few minutes refore. I “We may as well have a drink together,” said Loring. While they were taking it the door opened, and Duff entered. Loving saw him and asked: “‘Where’s Barker ?” “Around at the shop by this time,” was ths reply. “Guess I'll go around and eateh him if I can,” said Loring. ‘I want to see him particularly.” The detective dropned into the chair Loring va- cated, and sat opposite Bloodgood. Tho latter surveyed him narrowly but stealthily. The conversation with Harris had made him very Caen oa concerning thisman. , ( “Bloodgood,” said the detective, reflectively, as he eyed the glass of liquor he had just poured out, “there’s a certain person I want to shut up in an asylum. I’ve made some inquiries, and been re- commended to Dr. Blank. Do you know anything about him ?” “Only by hearsay,” was the reply, after mentally deciding that he would in nowise ‘‘give himself away” in answering. eo you consider himsafe and trustworthy ?” es. “Tn any kind of a case ?” “T would.” “T must see him to-morrow. ting his eyebrows—"‘his place is located found it, why can’t I remember ?” Bloodgood fell into the trap. He supplied the deficient address. Over another drink the villain said: “Have you always done your ‘biz’ in New York ?” “On, nol. New York couldn’t hold me if ’d done my crooked work here. Let me see’’—knit- Con- ain’t as old a man as you are. I’ve busted jail twice, escaped onee by jumping from a train going at thirty miles an hour, once missed being burned to death, and once syam two miles for my life.” “How was that ?” “You mean the swim ?” “Well, if happened this way. I’ddonea good job foralot of treacherous dogs. who made up their minds that they’d murder me as soon as I finished. “[T wason board of atugboat with’em, and was stretched out trying to get a snooze when 1 heard a lan for shooting me. The fellow who was to do it ee his ‘pop’ in his trunk, the location of which I chew. “Grass didn’t grow under my feet just about then. I got hold of that ‘pop’ first and doctored it. ae is, I took out the ball catridges and put in anks. Bloodgood had clutched the ends of the table with his hands, and as the detective went on he half rose from his chair, and leaned farther and farther for- ward. “The would-be-assassin went for his ‘pop,’ got it, hunted me up, and fired at me. I justtoppled over- board us though [’d been hit. I had taken care to loosen my shoes beforehand, so all J hadto do when I got into the water was to kick ’em off, and slip out of my coat, which left me in tolerable trim for swimming.” Ao was a gurgling noise now in Bloodgood's 1roat. “Tt was atough pull for it,’ resumed the detec- tive. ‘but pluek and musele won the day. I was back in New York almost as soon as the tug was.” “Where did this hanpen ?” gasped Bloodgood. And Rattlesnake, for the first time fixing his piercing gaze on the other, said, pointedly: “Tt happened aways up the Hudson River!” “My God!” groaned Bloodgood, and sank back in his chair in a cowering, huddled heap. And then, as shivers chased each other up and down his spinal column he gasped: “You must be the devil himself!” (TO BE CONTINUED.) The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram. e “Mrs. H.,’’ Chicago, Ill.—For little girls a blouse cos- tume isa style thatis always jaunty and becoming, and it develops well in any material. An exquisite little cos- tume may be made of cream white flannel, and the garni- ture, facings, and bands of blue silk, narrow white braid and ivory buttons. The body should include an under- waist, which is fitted with comfortable closeness by the customary seams upon the shoulders and under arms, and a slightly curved seam at the center of the back. This waist reaches well over the hips, and is closed in front with button-holes and buttons, the button-hole side being turned under in a hem, while the opposite edge is under faced and finished foran underlap. The outside or blouse portion consists of the same number of parts as the under- waist, and the corresponding edges are included in the shoulder-seams, the remaining seams being, however, separately finished. The blouse is both longer and wider than' the under waist, and the lower edge is scantily gath- ered all the way around, and is sewed with the waist to the skirt. The blouse'fronts are cut away in shaw]-shape from the top of the shoulder-seams to midway of the clos- ing, and then the edges are hemmed and under-faced for the remainder of their length in thesame manner as those of the waist-fronts, and closed with buttons and buttou- holes. The waist-fronts are faced with the material as far as the cutaway edges extend, and to the neck of both bodies at the back is sewed adeep sailor collar, which tapers off in the lapelfashion toward the ends, and extends The collar is of silk, and is trimmed about the edges with three rows of very nar- row braid, and a dainty frill of lace is sewed inside the neck. The sleeves are in the favorite coat shape, and are fitted comfortably to the arm’s eyesof both the waist and ‘blouse, and pretty cuff facings of silk, bordered at their upper edges with triple lines of. braid finish the wrists. The skirt of the costume is in the popular plaited style, and is formed of straight breadths joined together to pro- duce the requisite dimensions, and laid in box-plaits at the top. The bottom of the skirt is turned under for a hem, and the top is sewed to the lower edges of the body portions. The extra length of the blouse falling over in regular sailor style and concealing the seam. .A band of silk, with a row of braid on each edge, is set above the hem on the bottom of the skirt, completing it in harmony with the remainder of the costume. “Harry and Robby.’—You can use your old postage stamps to ornament the tops of‘little stands and card- tables. First stain the top of the table with lampblack mixed with gum water, laid on evenly in four coats. The stamps should be fastened on with thick gum. Arrange them in a Greek key border with a double line at either edge, if the table is square or oblong; if round, a border of pyramids, using two less in each row, and the center may be a star of. two interlaced triangles, one blue, the other red. Right in the center, gum an envelope stamped and directed to the owner. Cut the lap of the envelope away. Photographs cut oval or diamond shape and sur- rounded with stamps and placed at distances make an ef- fective border to a-table ornamented in this way. The patterns are mostly produced by the higher priced foreign stamps, while the background is composed of the common ones of ourown country. The legs of a table ornamented in this way are stained and varnished. This would be a very amusing pastime for Harry and Bobby during our cold winter evenings. “BH. EK. W.,”’ Baltimore, Md.—l1st. For the skirts of plain wool dresses the fan-plaitings are more used than they have ever been, and this is true of cloth and cashmere skirts. In some skirts there is only a single fan-pleiting; which extends nearly the length of the front breadth, and has a panel following upon it on either side, while the back is slightly draped by one deep loop each side of the pull-back breadths of the overskirt, and these back breadths are so long that they nearly conceal the single or double row of narrow knife-plaitipg that finishes all the foot of the dress back of the panels. 2d. There is no trimming at the foot of the panels; but if there is em- broidery, it extends doyn the front edge of each panel, or if there are applied, velvet. figures, or braid, or galoon, the panels receive stich trimming in rows or in groups, “Miss Mary D.,” Yonkers, N.Y.—Very pretty, useful, and inexpensive screens are made by paper-hangers. They are of elegant, heavy, velvety wall-paper, mounted on wood | frames that are ebonized or painted any desired color. Usually, one side displays a much be-flowered or be- figured design, Japanese life studies being liked; while the other is of one color, selected with an eye to its suiting the complexion of the hostess. Such screens may be made at home, it being remembered that it is necessary to put a lining of stout muslin under the paper. A border may be of paper corresponding in design, or of figured leather gimp fastened with brass-headed tacks. “Fannie B.,’’ Stamford, Conn.—The “Lady Physician” is a good character to take for a fancy dress or masquerade ball. For this a gray wig is necessary, the long curls of which fall upon the shoulders; large, blue, round eye- glasses, a peaked crowned hat, like the tall Welsh hats, with broad black band, and silver buckle; long black cashmere gown, the sleeves reaching to the floor; deep white collar of crimped muslin, and square bow of the same at the throat ; broad belt with buckle at the waist, and close interior sleeves with deep crimpef cuffs at the wrists. Low shoes with buckles, and black silk stockings. “T. N. Y.,”” Hartford, Conn.—To decorate your windows you can cut out suitable designs from cretonne, and paste them on the panes, rubbing the glass well over with a T tell you, Bloodgood, I’ve | had some adventurous experiences, even though I | ball of putty, which makes it opaque, like ground glass. Add an inch-wide border of scarlet or yellow tissue paper, and then cover the whole with several coats of fine white varnish. Instead of using the putty, fine bobbinet may be stretched over the pane before varnishing. “J. O. F.,” Albany, N. Y.--The most fashionable salt- cellar of to-day is the large, heavy, cut-glass article that formerly belonged to your grandmother. If you have only one, then it is placed near the middle of the table ; but if you are the fortunate possessor of two, then each one decorates an end of your hospitable board. A_ pretty effect is produced by placing them on deep red plush mats, which bring out the diamond cutting of the glass, and make it glitter like many Koh-i-noors. “Mrs. D. O,’--Use the ottoman satin for the skirt, which make demi-train, shirring the front between two deep sagging puffs, made rather scant, and paneling the sides with the figured velvet, which use also for a basque, which may be deepened back and front, and hollowed on the sides, or cut coat shape, and in any case finished with a jabot of cream lace. “Young Housekeeper.’’--To roast duck, make a light savory dressing of a few bread crumbs, some butter, a lit- tle chopped onion, some thyme, sage, and a little parsley, well seasoned. Cover the breast with thin slices of bacon. One hour will roast a pair of good-sized ones. Remove the bacon fifteen minutes before taking from the oven. “Ella.”—In framing photographs, itis well to beware of getting the frame or mat too light. If a dark coloring is chosen in each, the finer points in both face and back- ground are sure tobe brought out, and a “speaking like- ness” will be seen which otherwise would have been lost. “N. I. L.’—l1st. Fashionable corsage bouquets are formed of roses vr chrysanthemums of different shades, no two in the bunch being of the same color. 2d. Roses used in this way are of the deepest shade of pink to the lightest tinge of yellow, but white ones are seldom used, “Lucy G..” Wheeling, W. Va.—A pretty polonaise to wear over the black petticoat would be one of fine black cashmere, trimmed with Spanish lace, and made by pat- tern No. 8,345. Price 35 cents. | ‘Mother.’’—A pretty lap-robe for a baby is one made of | thick white flannel, embroidered in South Kensington stitch, lined with quilted cashmere, either blue or pink, and bound with ribbon to correspond. “B. F,’—1st. Lemon juice will be found good to remove stains from the hands and face. 2d. A little borax in the water used for washing the face will be found excellent tor pimples. “Mollie.”—Diagonal cloth may be worn in mourning, but | we wonid not advise trimming it with crape, Plain stitch- | ing will be better, or dead silk, if garniture be desired. “Ww. E. D.,” Boston, Mass.—The tan-colored long mous- quetaire glqves of undressed kid are the fashionable glove both for the street and for evening toilet. “T. W.”—Wraps inclining to the dolman or visite shape are much in vogue, and will be likely to continue popular for some time. “Anna.’’—A pure wool dress is worth a dozen silk in cold weather, so far as practical or sanitary value is concerned. $ “F, T.’’—An inexpensive piece of jewelry like a scart- pin would be in good taste to give to an intimate gentle- man friend. “Callie.’”—You can buy lace collars for your little girl at almost any price, from fifty cents up to three dollars each. of scarlet Japonica in combination with green moss, > e~<« Cc. C. SHAYNE, Furrier, 103 Prince St., New York, will send Fur Fashion Book free to any address. >e~ Elsie’s Estate. [‘‘Elsie’s Estate” was commenced in. No.4. Back num- bers can be obtained of all News Agents. } CHAPTER XIV.—(CONTINUED.) The door was opened by Aurora, who drew’ back to admit him without looking in to see her. Be- sides guiltily shrinking from the sight of her inno- cent rival, she had promised Alvin not to commu- nicate with or see her. “Tassume the guilt entirely,” said he, argumen- tatively,‘‘and you would but needlessly compromise yourself in having anything to do with the business beyond seeing that Kitty does not let her suffer, aad that she does not escape. Besides, she will give in the sooner if she sees no one.” But he knew all the while those reasons were a mere subterfuge; he feared she would recognize Carlia Rosenthal s features, and betray him to her mother. He entered, and ap»yroached her with a friendly smile, really pitying the misery which had wrought the great change in her appearance.. Her cheeks had lost their late beautiful roundness and eolor, her eyes were dilated’ and sorrowful, her lips pale and drawn, showing the anguish she had endured. She started on beholding him, as if a serpent had thrust itself into her presence, shrinking back as he drew nearer with inexpressible loathing. He stopped midway, having no intention of in- creasing her strong dislike by disregarding her feelings. “T regret to see that I am regarded as an intrud- er,” said he, gently, and with a compassionate look on her melancholy face. “J will not trouble you long, Miss Rosenthal. Will you permit me to take this seat, for a few moments’ conversation ?” Carlia rose to her feet, and slowly surveved him, her sense of the injustice he had done her, and doubtless meant to do, impelling her to use her limited power to banish him from her sight; but prudence dictated seif-control and cau- tion. “Tf it relates to the cause of my confinement here,” she answered, with dignity, ‘Il am interested to hear what you would say.” “It is less of that, Miss Rosenthal, than of the means of your release, I would speak,” he replied, with an air of mingled grievousness and obsequi- had been sitting. “‘That a change from these close quarters would be desirable I scarcely need assert; pou face too plainly tells what. you are suffering ere.” “[T believe you control that matter entirely,” re- plied she, calmly. **Well, no—not entirely, Miss Rosenthal. At least, I should say, it rests with you whether you will go from here shortly, or not,’ and he smiled his sweet- est—a sickening smirk it was to Carlia. . "I do not understand how,” returned she. more spiritedly, divining his intent. “‘You know J would not hesitate a moment to go, could I do so eonsist- eutly with my true interests.” “Ah, yes! your true interests are exactly what are at stake. For them I have taken the seemingly coercive measures which haye very naturally and justly aroused your indignation and inspired you with aversion #0 me, your really best friend,” he said, with alacrity catching at the point which fa- vored his pursuing the specious line of argument. ‘It was to save you from certain secret enemies, and restore to you your own, that 1 have risked so much, including your esteem, which, notwith- standing some apparently discreditable actions, I have always wished to secure. You could not, without convincing evidence, believe I meant only your good some years sinee. Nor will you believe that my recent course is prompted solely by the best .of motives. But when I have explained all, I think your excellenct sense will commend me—and more, prompt the bestowal of the only reward I ask. It is not a mercenary one—nay, do not smile so scornfully! Hear what Ihave tosay. Your father, Judge Rosenthal, hated your mother—rid himself of her, and married the woman who had stolen his heart. That woman has absolute control of his will. He would then do anything for her—will yet. She has a daughter, young, brilliant, beautiful. Forher she willdare anything. True, it needed no daring to put nerin your place in the judge’s affections, and, whagtis practically much more, in your shoes as the rightful heirof the major part of his wealth. It required no daring, I say, to displace you—it will to maintain Aurora in the place she now occupies. SolI warn you, whatever pretense of friendship Mrs. Rosenthal makes to win your confidence, it is only to destroy you.” “Yet you brought me here where I am constantly at her mercy!” exclaimed Carlia, her eyes widening with indignant astonishment. “IT brought you here because it was necessary,” replied Alvin, losing his cool lawyer’s air as he progressed with his explanation. “I was not well enough acquainted in this region to know where I could place you in safety, and as I indicated, this had to be done secretly. Mrs. Rosenthal has no idea you are here. Evenif she should suspect we have a prisoner—even if she knew your supposed name, you would still be safe, for she does not dream ofthe identity of the well-known Miss Wood- worth.” “T must say, sir, you have taken a remarkable view of your duty in the case,” said Carlia, in the firm, womanly way characteristic of the little ped- dler. “It may be I owe you thanks for this not dis- “Lillie.’—A most effective decoration is made by the use ousness, seating himself by the table at which she | personal freedom outraged, I cannot acknowledge the debt. Even if you had honestly assumed that I would be glad to possess my rights, you had no right to act without my consent. As to Mrs. Rosenthal’s murderous propensities, I feel quite as safe with her as with you. I have not forgotten the midnight assassin, with blade drawn to pierce the heart of my only earthly friend—nor will any plausible ex- cuse destroy the impression I then formed of you. I do not wish to hear more upon this subject. There is but one thing to be said—I do not desire one penny. ofmy father’s riches. He has sinned so great- y against one the hem of whose garment he was not worthy to touch, that until he makes such atone- ment as only true penitence can make, I want noth- ing todo with him or his, and I care not what be- comes of his property.” Alvin sat with flushed face and gleaming eyes while she spoke, barely able to maintain outward calm. Her allusion to the intended murder of Mrs. Wild stirred him with mingled anger and regret; regret because of its effect upon her mind, But he had one last argument which he hoped would be irresistible. “Are you aware of the double claim you hold against him and his intended heirs ?” he asked, with quiet pertinacity. ¢ Carlia looked at him wonderingly. “T only know that I am his legitimate child, and aA such should inherit a portion of his estates,” said she. “T thought you were remarkably indifferent!’ ex- claimed he, with agesture of pleased surprise. ‘I’m astonished though that your only friend, as you af- fectionately term her, has never told you the very best part of this story. Why in the world did she keep it ?—wise old lady——”’ “T will hear no slurs upon Mrs. Wild, Mr. Gessler! If she has concealed anything it has been with a wise foresight I cannot distrust,” interrupted Carlia, with eyes indignantly aglow. “Did you know the contents of the little box hid- /den in the cellar?’ he asked, abruptly, secretly hoping to learn something about them himself. “The one you appropriated ?—no, I neither knew its contents nor that she had hidden it,’ coolly re- | plied she, “until I saw you carrying it away, Aunt | informed me that it contained nothing valuable.” ‘Did she ever deceive you ?’ : ‘Never, to my knowledge.” Alvin looked puzzled, unable to question the honesty of either. Perhaps, in losing the box, he had lost nothing, after all. ““Why then did she hide it in the chest ?” he asked, with real curiosity. “We were going away, and I think she feared fire | during our absence. It had belonged to my mother, and she wished to keep it for my sake,” replied Carlia, simply. ‘‘I suppose she had not thought of doing so till late that night before we started.” The lawyer smiled queerly, rather feeling that he had sold himself, yet, because the box had been re- covered from him subsequently, disposed to believe there was some trickery in the pretense that it was of no peculiar value. a “Did you know your mother had a large fortune in her own right ?”-he asked. “T did not.” “Then,” said he, smiling. keenly watching her face to see the effect of his words—‘‘then you do not know that you are the real owner of the great stone house and extensive grounds in which you stood the morning I first saw you, and relieved you of your stock of sewing silks ?” A deep flush of joy overspread Carlia’s face, and a happy light rose to her soft, dark eyes. She re- membered it all so well—the child’s deep yearning to stand among the blossoms and shifting shadows, to hear the birds that she had felt were her own. And now to think they were her own! And sweeter still, her mother had dwelt there. The thought made the grand old place doubly dear. Did she want that? Ay, with all her heart! No wonder Mrs. Wild withheld the knowledge, and made her promise not to seek to reclaim her rights until it was perfectly safe to doso. Yet, alas! had she but known, ere this her late friends would haye obtained possession for her, and all her past misery would have been prevented. The avaricious villain was satisfled with her ex- pression. He could move her now. “You will not refuse Vaughn House and the splendid fortune in other real estate that goes with | it ?” he said, ing eat with a look in his whitish | eyes like that of a snake about to seize the bird it | holds by its magnetic gaze. “T will not,” promptly and decisively replied Car- | lia, the new light settling in her face, and a smile | on her proud lips. z | Robert would need it, and he was welcome to use i/it—more than welcome; he should not decline it. | But how could she let him know? Alvin Gessler saw the working of her mind, and | thought it time to close upon her. ; “There is one way you can get it,” said he, ina | steady, unimpassioned tone, more expressive of the resolute determination to which his whole being was given than he meant it should be. ‘J willes- tablish your claims and instate you in your own house.” P “Thanks,” returned Carlin, comprehending him, a strange, exasperatingly sareastic smile curling | the lips no one had ever seen haughty before, and |aflame glowing in her deepening eyes. “‘I prefer | toemploy my own agent. 1 shall do so, Mr, Gessler, | most certainly. I hope you will concede the use- | lessness of improper attempts to control the affairs Pf a i of age and competent to attend to them | herself.” He quailed before her burning eyes and queenly mien, but was by no means daunted. “T should have added, without me you ecanno} obtain it,” said he, deliberately. “‘I have the matter | in ashape thatno other man can effect what I pur- | pose for your benefit. Sit down, my dear girl’—for | Carlia had remained standing at some distance | from him—‘‘and hear as honest a profession as ever man made. I will not whip round the bush, but say Ilove you. Never has my being been so moved by the sacred passion as since I saw you asleep by |the brook. It was as sudden as it was overpower- | ing, and_henceforth I cannot be other than your | slave. Do not think to quench me by coldness, or | scorn, or pity. [love you, and I will not give you | up. Consent to become my wife, and nof only will I regain your mother’s estate for you, but I will be |as true and devoted a husband as ever woman | desired.” : ; ; ; | His evident sincerity surprised Carlia, who had | never thought of that motive for her abduction, and checked the scorn with which she at first listened. Her answer was respectful but resolute. “T regret that I have inspired feelings which it is impossible to reciprocate. The day after you—stole | me”’—her lip quivered with scornful anger in spite | of her effort at self-control—‘‘I was to be married | to Robert Woodworth. I love him, and cannot, if I | would, renounce him for another—not even for the | considerations you advance. It is in vain to flatter yourself that any inducement on earth will change my mind. With me, to love once is to love forever. Nor would I, evenif he were dead, enter into rela- tions requiring even the semblance of affection for another. I wish you to accept my answer as final, and spare me a repetition of statements I regret to have been obliged to make at all.” He smiled bitterly, perfectly convinced of the in- flexibility of her will. But he was prepared for all she had said. However, he would try gentle means yet further. “Robert Woodworth.” said he, quietly, ‘will never marry you. Already his fickle heart is set upon the fascinating beauty who flourishes upon your wealth—fawning upon one he fancies will enrich him—and you know he needs it just now.” Poor Carlia was dumb. It did look as if her lover had abandoned her. And had she any proof that he was not mercenary or fickle? She had never seen him tested,and her ddoring love had deified him. The stab reached to her heart’s core. But she con- cealed its effect, and bravely replied: “Tn any case, whether you speak truly or not, I will never be your wife, I have other friends to whom I will appeal—friends of my mo:her’s.” ‘“‘Who ?” he asked, with sneering doubt. “Dr. Houston, now iin Berlin,” replied she, confi- dently, “Doctor Houston, of Berlin, is dead,’’ was his ab- rupt rejoinder, Carlia uttered an involuntarly ery of pain. “T chanced upon the paragraph in the letter of a newspaper correspondent, and noticed the state- ment particularly, because he was a native of our city.” continued he. “‘I’ll get the paper for you.” “His parents live—they will aid me,” said she, rallying her hopes. “They are about settling where their son was buried—so say reliable authorities. Such business as yours cannot be conducted by correspondence ;” and he smiled upen her with ill-repressed triumph. “So, my dear Miss Rosenthal!” he said, rising as if summing up a @ase before a jury, ‘you see there is but one way open, and the sooner you give me the requisite promise to become my wife, the sooner ee will be released from this unpleasant and eauty-ruining confinement. I will give you a few days to prepare your mind for the change; would be glad to name alonger time, but our mntual inter- ests press us. This is Wednesday. Say next Sab- bath evening we will be united by a minister of your own choosing, after which I shall have the rare pleasure of introducing to your own father his lost child, and to ourunsuspecting friends. Aurora and her mother, the’little girl they drove from her own gate. Eh! my sweet Carlia, will it not be a moment of delicious triumph ?” At this familiar address she put out her hand, spurning him with ineffable scorn, The gesture was so unmistakably genuine, so exceedingly ex- prcestys: he was utterly abashed, and started for the oor. “Be sure of this,” he paused to say, with omin- ously resolute tones as he paused on the threshold, though unable to meet her great, indignant eyes. “You will not go home here until you assent to my proposition.” — He did not visit her again for several days, and ings and wishes have been utterly ignored, my very Z | called, gruffly. sistance than ever. And soshe continued until from Kitty’s representations Aurora began to fearfor her life, and begged him to desist from visiting her for awhile. The same excuse answered when, a few days later, she sought to avoid the dreadful dis- closure she had not the fortitude to make—that Car- lia was lost. } When Carlia, awakened by the judge’s heavy fall, started from her bed, she found her dvuor wide open, and thinking it purposely left so by some secret friend, she quietly walked out, down the stairs, and } into the garden through the vacant sitting-room. The voice of Robert reached her ear from the par- lor. Eager to learn the truth or falsity of Gessler’s statement, she stole tothe veranda a moment be- fore the siren'took her seat at the piano,and when she bent her bewitching face till her breath fanned his cheek, Carlia saw his infatuated expression, through exaggerating it in her mind—then he looked straight at her through the lace curtains. Lost to her forever—why should she linger? Gessler, too, with Mrs. Rosenthal, was coming. She stepped back into the shadow, and turning, fled to hide among the trees. \ CHAPTER XY. THE FUGITIVE. When Carlia discovered her pursuer she ran for the opening in the eedar hedge, and, as Mrs, Rosen- thal intended, stepped upon the planks drawn partly off the well. She went down so suddenly as to be perfectly bewildered, scarcely realizing her danger until she fouud her désecent interrupted by the debris of the old curb, which haying lodged on the projection formed by a partially loosened stone, held her firmly. Recovering her wits in a moment, she At aranaa svat the board which had gone down with her lay securely wedged in such a manner that she could easily crawl out onit. Waiting till sure her pursuer had gone, she crept out upon the grass and to the cover of the hedge. Afraid to venture upon the street, and knowing no one with whom she could seek refuge, she resolved to go back to her former home, Dov) Mi there was some satisfac- tory explanation of the seemingly cruel neglect of the farmer and his wife. Across the rear fence and through the fields be- yond she made her way inthe darkness. The walk over the fields and the climbing of fences were very fatiguing to her, weak as she was from excessive grief and her close imprisonment. When she came in sight of the great quiet house where she had spent so many happy days, she felt incapable of taking another step. She sat down upon a fallen tree to rest a moment, and watched the star-like light gleaming from one window, wondering what her reception would be.. A figure appeared at the window, extinguishing the star. It remained a few moments, then moved away, “They are not all in bed yet,” said she, rising and moving forward. She had a dozen rods to go across the pasture field adjoining the garden. Had the | person at the window been looking, he would have | discovered her approach by her white garments. | Silas Ware was not an intellectual man, but, in his special voeation, he designed to be an intelligent one. He read his agricultural papers as a Chris- tian his Bible. He had just finished a paragraph when alow growlfrom Ponto, in the yard, led him to get up and look out of the window. He noticed a white object in the distance that seemed to move. By the time he reached the fence he discovered that the white object was a woman coming to the house. A moment’s reflection satisfied him as to her iden- tity. “The wretch!’ he said. “to think, after all the dis- grace and trouble she’s made, that she can step into her old place! I’ll give her ahit onthat. But the old folks sha’n’t be bothered with her; she’ll only break their hearts again; 1’ll drive her off. Let her go back to her husband and stick to her bargain.” And so saying, he got down from the fence and boldly marched toward her. “Hi! out of this! What ey want here?” he *‘We have no shelter for vagrants— it’s no use going a step farther.” Carlia stopped as if she had been struck, not knowing whether he had assumed the authority to repel her or was acting under orders. “I should like to goin and see them, at least,” replied she, as he drew nearer, flourishing a stout walking-stick as when driving cattle. “IT suppose you would—that’s natural. But the folks don’t want to see you, so you’d better go back again.” **Are you sure they will not see me?” she asked, with calm earnestness. “Very sure, or I would not say so,” replied he. Carlia remembered Robert’s unmanly fickleness, and felt that his parents, sympathizing with him, would prefer not to be troubled with her. A sud- den great change came:over her. Forsaken, wronged, persecuted, would she die? “No, I will triumph over them all! The power and the will are within me, and I will conquer Fate herself. Iam my mother’s heiress, and I will take my mother’s place in the world. My father shall know it—I will brave even him. Robert shall know it; I will have my own despite his beautiful en- ehantress. I will defy my enemies, and scorn to recognize their existence when I have recovered my | rights.’” She turned away, and, striking across to the road, was soon-past the limits of Woodworth Farm. Under other circumstances she would have trem- bled in view of her perilous situation, wandering thus at night alone, without hat or wrappings, or any other indication that her journey was a rep- utable one. But she could not do otherwise, and so gave herself notime tothink of it. Her mind was actively planning for the course she had just resolved upon. As daylight approached she stopped to rest, seating herself upon a great stone beside the road. In afew moments she heard the rattle of a carriage and merry voices, as of a party of gay young people. They soon discovered her, and she was amused almost as much as pained by the curi- osity they exhibited. “Do find out something about her,” audibly mur- mured one of the ladies, addressing a gentleman on the front seat. He stopped the earriage, and, respectfully salut- ing her, asked: ie “Will you oblige us by saying how farit is to B— station?” : “TI cannot tell you, sir,” replied Carlia, with that native dignity and elegance she had seldom felt dis- posed to assume among hér simple country friends. “Do you live near?” he asked, more directly, ee a little astonished by her unexpected superior- ity. “Excuse me,” replied she, moving on, “i can an- swer no questions of a personal character. You will find a finger-post one mile ahead.” : “Thank you. 1 meant no impertinence, miss. The-singular circumstance’of meeting a lady thus awakened my curiosity, and my question was only prompted by the best of motives,” said the gentle- man, bowing apologetieally. : “I have to thank you, sir,” returned Carlia, court- eously, and stepped nearer the earriage. “‘Since you have expressed so kindly an interest, I may find you disposed to assist me, as very singular eireumstances beyond my control have occasioned my being here at this hour and in this plight.” The gentleman bowed awaiting her proposition. Carlia was rapidly and with tremulous fingers, in the excitement the unlooked for chance gave her, unelasping her pearl necklace. “If appearances do not deceive me,” she re- marked, holding it up in» the gray light, “this is a bridal party, and she”—glancing with a sweet, sym- pathetic smile at the beaming face of a pretty an ome meg’ eagerly leaning toward her—‘‘is the ride.’ “Very good guessing,” replied the gentleman who had been their spékesman, turning with a laugh to the conscious bridegroom, who sat beside the lovely lady in silver-drab referred to. ““We had a wed- ding day before yesterday. Now we're going to take the train for Niagara and New York city.” “IT will detain you but a moment,” said the sweet peddler, feeling more like the little blind woman’s guide than she had since the night of the railroad accident. “I am under the necessity of parting with my birthday gift. They are choice pearls—the most elegant present a bride could receive. Exam- ine them,” and sbe held out her hand, the little palm inadequate to contain the iridescent chain. The bride’s eyes glistened as she cast a shyly fond glance at her moderate-minded husband. “Not that she wanted jewels, but a bridal gift like that would be so nice to treasure up,” they seemed to say. He slipped them through his gloved fingers as if deliberating, then’ smilingly held the two ends to clasp them about her neck. She leaned forward, and the snapping of thé clasp was lost in a sGund of snapping as when twopairs of lips meet and part. Then he turned to Carlia and asked her price. She named the sum she knew them to have cost origin- ally, and he counted her the money—enough for present need. She tried to express her thanks as she took the bills, but asudden choking stopped her voice. The light had inereased so that her pure, expressive face could begédistinctly read. The spokesman ae reluctant to start the carriage and leave ner. “Were you going on to town, miss?” he asked, as if about to ask her to ride. “T should like very much to go toB station, and take the train East,” replied she, looking as if she would not refuse the invitation. “We can make room,” said the spokesman, and he descended and lifted Carlia to the seat beside his own. ; As they rode on, Carlia gave a brief account of herself, omitting the details that might perchance lead to her discovery if her enemies attempted to recapture their victim. The sympathies of the young people were easily enlisted in her behalf, and before they reached the station they were her warm friends. The bride offered to go to the store and purchase what clothing she needed for her journey, thereby avoiding one means of her identification by pursuers. Geecoss JAN. 29, 1883, At B—— station the young couple, — wan sso See eee The bride-maid and groomsman bade her an af- fectionate farewell. and returned to their home, aon miles beyond Woodworth Farm, They had delicately refrained trom ascertaining her name, and promiséd that, if inquired of, they would give no information concerning her. The fugitive traveled in company with the newly- wedded pair as far as Niagara Falls, then continued on alone in search of such employment as her ac- complishments fitted her tor, the remuneration for which, she intended, should in time enable her to attempt the recovery of her fortune. Woodworth Farm was still nominally the prop- erty of old Mr, Woodworth. His creditors, out of regard for his excellent character, giving him and his son an prpartuns sy to repair their losses, left some hope in the hearts of the afflicted farmer and his wife, who had toiled so many years for the wealth so quickly lost. One warm, bright day of Indian summer, Mrs, ‘Woodworth went up to Carlia’s room, to take a sort of inventory of the furniture in view of its possible sale at auction. Almost the first thing her eye fell upon was the trunk containing her school-books and. yarious articles of apparel worn during the summeér before her loss. Mrs. Woodworth had never lifted the lid, but now it occurred to her to investigate its eon- tents. The little scarlet jacket, so well remembered, lay uppermost, and the sight of it brought tears to her eyes. She lifted it to look beneath, and the memorandum-book fell from its folds upon the floor. ‘3 “‘What’s this ?” murmured she, opening it at the lastentry. “IfI had my specs with me I’d read it, just to see what it would tell of her real feelings. Poor child! Wiil we never know what became of you ?” “Mother!” called Robert, from below. “Son, if you’re coming up, bring my specs from the mantel,” called she, in reply, hearing his step on the stairs. But he was already on the landing, and next mo- ment siood upon the threshold. His face was graye even to sadness. He saw the book in her hand, and guessing its contents to be of peculiar interest, he took it from her, saying: “What is it you want to read? Ah! written the night of bas He stopped, unable to finish the sentence; and as he ran over the fair lines, his heart received a cruel wound. “This removes the last doubt,” said he, with deep emotion. “She has suffered all the wrongs she feared at their hands.” : And putting the book in his bosom, he hastened to his own room, where he gave way to the great agony his own unjust conclusion had brought upon im. “My innocent bride—my true, devoted Carlia!” he exclaimed, in bitter self-reproach. ‘‘That J, who loved, you so, should have been the first to doubt you! But indulgence of his remorseful grief could not long be allowed, and as soon as he could command his usual composure he sought his mother again. ‘‘Are you able to appear as a witmess in court ?” he asked, smiling to prevent the alarm the unusual question would cause, ° “TI don’t know, Robert,” yeplied she, amazed and startled despite his coolness. “‘“My nerves are not what they were once. I thought the matter was compromised forawhile. What have your credit- ors raked up now ?” “Nothing—it is nothin .You remember Judge summer ?” he asked. “Yes, indeed. That black-eyed Cleopatra came with him intending to captivate Antony,” replied Mrs. Woodworth, significantly. “I despised her before I saw her. and I more than despise her now. The wicked piece!” and Mrs. Woodworth’s mild brown eyes flashed unwortedly. ‘“‘It’s well yoy had the manhood to resist her!” “Tt’s ill though to encounter a wasp however in- nocently—as they are liable to sting,” replied Robert. “‘Iam disposed to think I owe this new trouble to her. She appears unchanged—as desi- | rous as ever of my especial regard. But I question if she would not contrive just such a trap as has been. sprung on me to bring me to terms.” “What trap, Robert.?”- demanded his mother, frightened by his paleness. “I warrant they couldn’t rest till they’d ruined you utterly!” ‘If I cannot prove certain dates and some trans- actions last summer, my case will be serious, Iam charged with forgery.” _ 7 “Forgery!” gasped Mrs. Woodworth. f Pareers Ts the archenemy himself let loose upon you? Oh, my son, this will kill your father!” ‘He already knows it,” replied Robert, his own distress augmented by the sight of hers. “‘But he seems very hopeful, so don’t be anxious for him.” ‘““What dates do you want to prove?’ asked she. “The day of my departure for Kentucky.” ‘What transactions ?” “That I obtained an extension of time on my first connected with the farm. osenthal’s visit heré last Bellville boys for asum sufficient to meet it.” ‘“‘T’m sure that is easy enough done. Your valise was packed when the judge came, and that was on the anniversary of my wedding-day. I remember, for I saw you put a cross with a lead pencil before | that date on the calendar overthe mantel-shelf. You know the judge smiled as we talked of wed- dings. Andthe Bellvilles were bere that day—the next after their sale,” said she. “The note was due the second day after I started South, and on that day White & Co. received a draft for the full amount. The judge’s signature had been used to obtainit. Who but the judge and Aurora knew the exact amount and the day it was due? Itis a plan of theirs to get me into their power. He graciously intimates that for family reasons he will not expose me,” said Robert. “If you’d only marry Cleopatra he’d giye you twice thatsum,” indignantly declared Mrs. Wood- worth. ‘But you shall never do that.” [TO BE CONTINUED,] enw Horsford’s Acid Phosphate Mental and Bodily Exhaustion, etc. Dr, G. KAISER, Indianapolis, Ind., says: “TI have prescribed it for dyspepsia,impotency, and mental and bodily exhaustion ; and im all cases ithas given general satisfaction.” ava 2 The Tram boy. By HORA 110 ALGER, Jie, Author of “TOM THATCHER’S QUEST,” “AB- NER HOLDEN’S BOUND BOY,” “BRAVE - AND BOLD,” etc. (“The Train Boy” was commenced in No. 9. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents. } CHAPTER X. MISS FRAMLEY’S ECONOMY, Three duys passed, and nothing more had been seen of Stephen Palmer, in his step-mother’s hum- ble home. 3 “T hope he’ll keep away,” said Paul. “His com- ing can do no good, and gives no pleasure to any of us,”’ “T agree with you, Paul, though it seems hard to say that of one of the family.” “He has never behaved like one of the family,” said Paul. “He was a wayward boy. and even at an early age gave considerable trouble to his father and myself.” “He hasn’t improved as he has grown older, mother.” “Tam glad you are not like him, Paul.” Paul, laughingly. “You are my main support—the staff on whfch I es my dearson. You have always been a good Oo yr 2 fhe staff will be stronger some day, mother,” said Paul, cheerfully. “Iam not always going to have you spdil your eyes by sewing.” “I feel better to be doing something. That re- minds me—I have just finished some work for Miss Framley. Do you think you can carry it after supper ?” This conversation took place at the tea-table. “Certainly, mother; you know I mare go out for a walk, and I can just as well go to Mr. Framley’s as anywhere else. How much am I to collect on it ?” ““A dollar and a half, I think, won’t be too much. It has taken me four days.” “You ought to charge more, mother. Think ofa dollar and a half for four dgys’ work! Why, it won't half pay you’” said Paul, indignantly. “T don’t dare charge more, Paul, or the Framleys will give me no more work. I was recommended to har by her friend, Miss Cutler, as one who would work cheap, and in the only interview I had with her she impressed this upon me as a matter of great importance.” : “Is she poor? Does she need togrind you down to such low prices ?” “No; she lives in an elegant house on Wabash avenue, and she is always dressed in the most costly ae No doubt she has plenty of .money at com- mand.” “Then she can’t be a lady’? said Paul, decidedly. “She certainly thinks herself so,” said Mrs. interested action on my behalf, but as my own feel- | when he did, found her more inveterate in her re- | parted from their attendants. Palmer. ‘Her father is a man, once poor, and still + f “~ ~ “ + _-_& ? ‘ a » \ ; - a ee ° . W . : si » : ¢ + = fe, as ‘ j a 4 ee ¢ t 8 . : ‘ Ye o, * n ¢ 4 es : AY Meh sr ae as “a ae * Dyas SF PA A Mie ae tia wo, ike My xy : 5 ¥ : ; . 4 ay ¢ zt ¢ ; x ‘ ONG gaa Tie a y Ae sy ‘ gaa ig \ j ra Lehr cee on \ hy Pee a PRT GE ke oy y x - crak . Ha Tp i Ss Beds ‘a ei E rt =r ies Z a » ‘os mist he note due White & Co., and that I arranged with the . es “Then I am not altogether a nuisance,” said e hh : ; { I ; { } : )- $ i : 4 JAN. 29,1888. unedueated, who made a good deal of money dur- | ing the war, and is now ambitious to live in style.” “Shoddy!” said Paul, econtemptuously. explains it.” : “Nevertheless I am glad to obtain work from them, Paul.” ’ ‘Provided they will pay a reasonable price. had better let me charge two dollars, mother.” “No, it will not do. I shall be satisfied with a dol- lar and a half.” “Very well, mother. decide.” ; Paul finished his supper, and taking the bundle, made his way, partly by walking, partly by riding, to Wabash avenue. ‘ The houses on this avenue were handsome, and looked like the abodes of luxury. : “I wish mother could live here,” said Paul to himself. ‘It makes me discontented with our poor home, after seeing so much elegance.” At last he reached the house of Mr. Framley, You whose daughter has already made her appearance in our story as the economical patron of art. Paul ascended the steps and rang the bell. The summons was answered by a man-servant, who surveyed Paul with an air of iofty superiority. “Well, young feller,” he said, ““what have you got there ?” “A bundle of work for Miss Framley, old feller!” | answered Paul. “Was you addressin’ me?” demanded the flunkey, angrily. *“T was.” “Tamnotanoldfeller.” ss, ; “Young feller, then, if you like it better.” “You are an impertinent boy!’ ; “T have no business with you,” said Paul, coolly. “Take that bundle to your mistress, if you please, | and say to her that the bill is one dollar and a half.” “You ean call forthe money some other time,” and the servant was about to close the door, when I can’t come here twice. Paul said, sharply: “Phat won’t do. Tell Miss Framley what I said.” The servant retired, grumbling, and soon return- ed with a dollar bill, which he offered to Paul. “Miss Framley says the work isn’t extra well done, and a dollar’s enough. You can take it and go.” Paul’s eyes flashed with justifiable indignation. “T should like to see Miss Framley,” he said. “This wen’t do.” j “She won’t see you. Bette: take the money and “T will take the money—on_ account, but not in full payment. I wish to see Miss Framley.” That young lady was listening at the head of the stairs, being desirous of hearing whether the mes- senger made any fuss about her mean reduction of a reasonable price, and thought it best to descend the stairs and argue the matter. “Are you the son of Mrs. Palmer ?” she asked. “Yes, Miss Framley.” “Then tell your mother she asks too much for her work. Adollaris quite enough for the little she “Do you know how long she was occupied with your work ?” said Paul. “No, 1 suppose she. did it in a day or two,? an- * gwered the young lady, in a tone of indifference. “Tt occupied four days, and you wish to pay her at the rate of twenty-five cents per day.” , ‘Really itis nothing to me if your mother is a slow worker. I oughtn’t to suffer for that.” “Wasn’t the work well done ?” **Tolerably well.” : **My mother is noted for her excellent work, Miss Framley. for this piece of work, and that isn’t enough. If she had taken my advice she would have charged | you two dollars.” : eae ‘Really, you are a very presuming boy,” said Miss Framley. some more work.” ; “She will not be contented with a dollar,’ said Paul, firmly. “I insist upon the price I named.” Miss Framley drew out her purse, and taking a half-dollar from it, with a spiteful air, handed it to our hero, “There.” she said, ‘take it, but don’t expect me to employ your mother again.” ; “T don’t.” said Paul. ‘‘Good-eyening.” : “It is absolute extortion,” said the economical young lady, as she went up stairs again. “‘Itis very provoking, for,Mrs. Palmer sews exquisitely, Tf I hold off for awhile I may bring her to my terms. Twenty-five cents a day is a very fair price for Such easy work as sewing, in my opinion.” “Well,” thought Paul, as he bent his steps home- ward, ‘there are certainly some mean people in the | world. Evidently Miss Framley is rich, but I wouldn’t be as mean as she for all her money.” He wasn’t far from home when in passirg one of the brilliantly lighted stores on Clark street, his at- tention was drawn to a young lady just descending from acarriage. As the light fell upon her face, he he emgage his traveling acquaintance of a few days ore. ; “Miss Dearborn!” he cried, hastening forward with a pleasant smile of recognition. Grace turned. : : ‘Why, it is my friend of the train!” she said, cor- dially. ‘Aunt Caroline,”—for Mrs. Sheldon was just behind her—‘“‘this is Paul Palmer, who tried to save my purse from the pickpocket.” ; “It is a pity he had not succeeded, Grace. I pre- sume the unprincipled man has spent most of it by this time.” “Very likely,” said Grace, with a laugh. ‘Well, Paul, have you met with any more adventures, or | rescued any more young ladies from the schemes of dangerous men ?” ; *T have not had a chance, Miss Dearhorn.” “But I don’t doubt you would be ready. my namesake ?” ‘She is very well. present,” “Tam glad of that. Can you spare five minutes, or are you ina hurry ?” “Oh, no, I have plenty of time.” “Then come into this store with me.” Paul followed Grace, wondering a little why she made the request. When he came out he carried in his hand a very pretty child’s cloak which Miss Dearborn had purchased, ; ae it to your little sister, with my love,” said. ‘“How generous you are, Miss Dearborn! won’t be able to sleep to-night for joy.” How is She was delighted with your she “Be sure you remember your promise to bring) ; her around to see me.” “Thank you. train during the day.” you.” “There is some difference between Miss Dearborn | and Miss Framley,” thought Paul. CHAPTER XI. PAUL GETS INTO TROUBLE. With a glad heart, notwithstanding the loss of Miss Framley’s patronage, Paul bent his steps to- ward his humble home. , Y Grace was still up, not being willng to go to bed till her brother came home. “What is there in that bundle, Paul?” she asked. “You haye not brought the work back, Paul ?” asked his mother, apprehensively, for it would have heen a serious thing to spend more time on it, when her time was so poorly paid for. ‘*‘No,” answered Paul. “‘I left the work.” **Was Miss Framley at home ? money ?” “Yes, think, she was mean enough to try to turn me off with a dollar?” *‘A dollar for four days’ work! How ean the rich be so inconsiderate ?” sighed Mrs. Palmer. “Tneonsiderate!” exclaimed Paul, indignantly. “That isn’t the word. It’s downright meanness,” “Wouldn’t she pay you the dollar and a half?” “Yes; I insisted onit. I gave her a piece of my mind.” “T hope you didn’t make her &ngry, Paul. She won’t give me any more work.” “No, she won’t, but you mustn’t mind that. IL. find some one that will pay you better. Here is the monsy,. mother.” The widow took the three half-dollars which were handed her, with asigh. In spite of Paul’s confi- dent assurance she felt disappointed at having lost Miss Framley’s-custom. She was not so hopeful as she had been at Paul’s age, having met with her share of the world’s rebuffs. “You hayven’t told me what you’ve got in that bundle, Paul,” said Grace, returning to-the charge. “Tl show you, Miss Curiosity,” said Paul, and proceeded to open it. “Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Grace, spell-bound with rapturous admiration as the beautiful little cloak was held up before her. “It’s for me,” said Paul, gravely. ‘“‘How does it fit ?”” and he threw it over his shoulders, and walk- ed about, the little cloak barely descending to his waist. “Tt doesn’t fit you at all, Paul. Isn’t it for me?” “For you? Who would buy such a nice cloak for you; do you think ?” “IL am afraid you have been very extravagant, Paul,” said his mother. “The cloak is very pretty, but we cannot afford such things.” “Tt didn’t cost me a cent, mother.” “Then who gave it to you? Not Miss Framley ?” “I should say not,’ answered Paul, contemptu- ously. “Catch her giving five cents’ worth to any- body! No, it was Miss Grace Dearborn, the same young lady that sent Grace the gold piece.” “Where did you see her? Did you eall at the house ?” So Paul had to tellthe story which does not re- quire repeating, and Grace tried on the cloak, which proyed to be an excellent fit, though it hardly harmonized with the child’s plain print dress. “Sometime I’ll buy you a new dress, Grace.” said her brother, ‘a dress that you can wear with the “That | Of course, it is for you to} She is entitled to one dollar and a halt } “My friend, Miss Culter, told me your} mother would work cheap, and so I employed her. | If she is contented with a dollar, I will send her | Grace | Will the evening do? Iam onthe Come next Thursday evening—I will expect | Did you colléct the | ‘but Thad some difficulty about it. Do you} NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3>- cloak. I wish you had it by next Thursday even- | ing.” “Why then, Paul ?” asked his mother. | “Beeause I have promised to take Grace with me | to see Miss Dearborn on that evening.” i The pleasure excited by the gift was such that | Mrs. Palmer was unusually jubilant, notwithstand- (ing the loss ofone of her customers. She did not ' seem wholly forsaken, and fortune seemed for once | to have smiled. Meanwhile, though Paul did not know it, trouble | was preparing for him. He had two enemies—one | his own brother, Stephen, already introduced; the | other Luke Denton, whose designs he had frustra- 'ted in the car. Luke had not forgiven him forthe | leap which he was obliged to make from the moving train, and the bruises which he received in conse- | quence, | “Pll be even with the young sneak—see if I | don’t!” said Luke, vengefully, to Stephen, as they sat together in the room of the latter, smoking. “Don’t blame you a bit,” said Stephen. | ‘T ean’t help it if he is your brother,” continued ee ;, “he’s injured me, and I’ll make him suffer | for it.’ | ‘You needn’t think I’m going to stand up for | him,” said Stephen: “I hate him myself. Didn’t | he prevent me from-—” “Robbing your little sister,’ said Luke, finishing out the sentence. “T didn’t. mean to rob her,” said Stephen, half- angrily. ‘I needed the money, and was only goin’ to borrow it for a day or two.” . Luke Denton laughed. He did not admire Ste- phen, though he kept his company, and felt a mali- cious pleasure in saying disagreeable things. | “Of course! that’s understood!” he said. “You’d have gone round and returned the loan, with inter- | est—that’s the way you always do.” ; |! “{T don’t like your way of talkin’, Luke,” said | Stephen, frowning. “You may not mean anything; | but I don’t like it.” | “Well, never mind that; the main thing is—we | both hate that impertinent stripling, and you won’t feel very bad if he gets into a scrape, even if you | are his brother.” ; i “No; I shall be glad of it.” “Then I reckon you’ll have a chanee to be glad | very soon.” “How’s that? Is there anything in the wind ?” | Luke nodded, and in a few sentences detailed a |plun which he had devised during the time his | physical injuries had obliged him to remain in the retirement of his friend’s room. Stephen laughed approvingly. “Good!” he said. “Couldn’t be better! Good enough forthe pious little fraud! After that, he won’t lecture me so much—me, his elder brother! I wonder | hayen’t wrung his neck before now.” “He might resist, you know,” said Luke, dryly. “Do you think I ain’t a match for the little cur ?”’ blustered Stephen. “T think he might give you more trouble than you think for. -He’s strong and muscular for a boy of his age, and he isn’t a coward. I'll give him credit for so much.” . This led to more boasts on the part of Stephen, to which his companion listened, with an amused smile. He despised Stephen, who was far inferior to himself in education and manners; for Luke was fitted for a better career than he had been led to adopt. ' The next afternoon Paul was returning to Chica- go by the usual train. He had met with fair success in selling his papers and books; indeed, with rather more than tite average, having sold three bound novels, which sale afforded him a handsome profit. In passing through the cars his attention had been turned more than once to an old man, with a long gray beard, and hair of the same color, who was | dressed in rather an old-fashioned suit. Experi- ' ence had taught him that men of that appearance are seldom likely to buy anything more than a daily paper, and he had not left any circulars with the old Quaker, for such his broad- brimmed hat showed | him to be. , | ‘Come here, boy!” called the old entleman, as | as ae passing the second time. hat has thee | to sell ?’ “All the illustrated papers and magazines.” an- swered Paul. “I have besides some novels, if you want to look at them.” “Nay, my young friend, life is too brief to read such light books. Hasthee the Atlantic Monthly 7?’ “Yes, sir, here it is.” The old man took it, and began gravely to turn | over the pages, ‘ ; ’ ‘What does thee ask for it ?” he inquired. | “Thirty-five cents,” Ne i 4 | “My wife Ruth likes to read it. I think I will | purchase it,” said the old man. | So saying, he put his hand into his pocket to feel for his wallet. | Quickly an expression of alarm eame over his face, and he exclaimed, foud enough to be heard by all the passengers near by: “‘Lhave been robbed! I cannot find my wallet!” “It may have dropped out of your pocket,” sug- | gested Paul. i | “Nay, I see it.. It is in thy pocket, thou young | thief!” exclaimed the old man, reaching out his | hand and drawing forth a large wallet from the side | pocket of Paul’s sack coat. “It is truly sad to see such depravity in one so young.” ‘Do you mean to say I took your wallet ?” asked Paul, thunderstruck. “Tt cannot be otherwise. Did I not find it in thy pocket? Is there an officer present? This boy should be arrested.” “Tam a detective,” said aman near by, showing | his badge “Then thief!” Poor Paul! Brave as he was, his heart sank as he saw the passengers regarding him with sus- picion. ‘ inom innocent,” he said. “I never stole in my ife.’ _ “So young and so hardened!” said the old man, sorrowfully, and Paul saw that his denial was not eredited. it is thy duty toarrest the boy. Heis a > CHAPTER XII. PAUL’S CRITICAL POSITION. Paul felt that he was inatight place. He could 'not understand how the wallet could have got into | his pocket. Yet there it was, and appearances were | decidedly against him in spite of his innocence. | “T did not steal the wallet!” he said, firmly. “Then how came it in thy pocket ?” asked the old man. if 3 ve don’t know. Some one st have put it ‘Verily that is a poor excuse’”’ said the aged | Quaker. “It’s too thin!” said a young man _ near by, who thought himself a wit. “‘It.wwon’t wash!” Paul looked at him in disdain. Still it troubled him, because he feared the other passengers would, agree with the speaker. Just then the conductor entered the car. He was a firm friend of Paul, whom he had known ever since he first came on board the train. “What is the matter ?” asked the conductor, look- ing with surprise at the group around Paul. “A pocket-book has been stolen, I believe,” said a quict passenger. The conductor walked up to the scene of excite- ment, Paul looked up at him with a feeling of relief. ath Bates,” he said, “do you think I would steal ?’ ‘Certainly not, Paul. Who charges you with it ?” “This gentleman here,” answered our hero, point- ing to the Quaker. “TL fear thee is guilty, for I discovered my wallet |inthy pocket,” said the Quaker, mildly. “Ts this true, Paul?” asked the conductor, puz- Yes.” “Can you explain it ?” “No: this gentleman asked me for a magazine, and on looking for his money could not find his pocket-book.” ; “T looked in thy pocket, and straightway found it,’ supplemented the Quaker. “What made you look there?” asked the con- ductor. “T thought the boy might have yielded to a sud- den ee It grieves me to think he was so weak.’ The detective here spoke. “Conductor.” said he, “do you know this boy well ?” **Yos, sir.” # “Has any charge ever been mude against him be- fore ?” “No, sir.” ‘‘Has he ever been suspected of dishonesty to your knowledge ?” “Certainly not. He isthe most popular train boy we ever had, I would stake a year’s salary on his honesty.” “Thank you, Mr. Bates,” said Paul, gratefully. He felt gratified in this trying emergency to find that there was one man who had full confidence in im. ‘ **He looks honest,” said the detective, thought- ully. ’ “Verily, appearances are deceitful,” said the Quaker. “I cannot afford to lose my money be- eause the boy looks honest. Was not the wallet found in his poeket? I call upon thee, officer, to ar- rest him.” Paul felt very uncomfortable. Though he was buoyed up by the consciousness of his innocence, he was troubled by the thought that he might be earried back to Chicago handcuffed. or at any rate, under arrest. Suppose he should meet some one whom he knew, would it not always be remembered against him, even if he were acquitted? “You wish to press the charge, then,” said the de- tective. ‘Verily, it is my duty.” ; “T hope, sir,” said Paul, “you will not injure me to that extent. Iswearto you that Iam innocent.” ‘Probably thee art equally regardless of honesty and the truth.” “Will you be prepared to appear in court upon the Yes, verily,” answered the Quaker, with a little hesitation. “Do you live in Chicago ?” “Nay, I live in Philadelphia.” “Of course all the broadbrims come from Phila- delphia,” said .the witty young man. ‘Yea, verily, they do.” “Friend, do not deride me,” said the old Quaker, looking rebukingly at the speaker. ‘What is your name, sir?” asked the officer. “My name is Ephraim Perry, answered the old man. ‘Where are you staying in Chicago?” “At the Commercial Hotel.” ‘Shall you be there to-morrow morning ?” “Yea, verily.” _ “It strikes me,” thought the detective, who was himself a native of Philadelphia, ‘he rather over- does the ‘yea, verily.’ I have lived in Philadelphia, aud I never heard any of the ‘Friends’ use the ex- pression so freely.” ““How do you identify the wallet?” he asked aloud. ‘“How do you know it is yours ?” a “By the appearance.” “Appearances are deceitful, as you said a little while ago. Can you tell me what are the contents?” So saying, the detective, to whom the wallet had been passed, made a motion to open the wallet. “T trust thee will not open the wallet?” said the Quaker, hastily. “Why not ?” “Tt contains private papers.” “Such as what? It is necessary that I should satisfy myself that the wallet is really yours.” “Will thee not take my word ?” asked the Quaker, ' uneasily. . ; “Will you swear that the pocket-book is yours ?” “Yes. Nay, I never swear,” said-the Quaker, hastily interrupting himself. ‘I will affirm.” ‘Tam ready to swear that I didn’t take the wal- let ?” said Paul. 9 “That is different.” said the Quaker. ‘Will not that be satisfactory ?” asked the Quaker, turning to the detective. INO. “Does thee doubt my word ?” asked the old man, reproachfully, and seeming very uneasy. “Not necessarily, but I think you may be mis- taken,” answered the detective, composedly. “Yes, open the wallet,” said the conductor, who, as Paul’s friend, was led to hops that the result of the search might, somehow or other, turn out for Paul’s advantage. “Thee shall not do it!’ exclaimed the old Quaker, in exciteme:t, “It is my property, and no one shall open it.” He thrust out his hand and tried to clutch it, but the detective held it above his head. “T cannot understand your reluctance,” he said, “Is there anything init that you are anxious to conceal ?” “Nay,” answered the Quaker, faintly; “but it is, my property.” ’ “Will you tell me what is in it ?” The old,man was silent. “Then will open it.” Ha!” exclaimed the detective, drawing out two pieces of pasteboard. ‘‘Here are two pool-tickets; and here,” drawing out another. paper, “is a lottery ticket. Do Quakers deal in such articles ?” “Some eyvil-disposed person must have put them there,” said the old man, nervously. “The boy—” “The boy had no chance. Come, sir, I believe you are masquerading. Let me see. Here is a eard—Luke Denton. Ha! i kegin to see what it all means.” With a quick and unsuspected movement, the de- tective grasped the hatof the pretended Quaker, and next seized his wig, which came off readily in his hands, displaying to the gaze of the astonished passengers the dark hair and the face of a man of thirty-five, instead of an old man of over sixty. “The pickpocket that jumped from the train!” exclaimed Paul, in excitement. _ “lL recognize him now,” said the conductor. “This is clearly a plot to get you into trouble.” “Yea, verily,” chimed in the witty young man. “Til clip your feathers some time, young man!” said Denton, scowling at the speaker. “My Quaker friend,” said the detective, ‘‘you are wanted for that little affair on the cars the other ay. He produced a pair of handcuffs. Luke Denton struggled vigorously, but the conductor assisted, and his hands were soon securely fastened. “T congratulate you, Paul.” said the conductor. “It was a mean plot, and might have succeeded. But I never doubted you.” “T know you didn’t, Mr. Bates. get that,” said Paul, gratefully. “IT came near_suecceeding,” said Denton, grimly. “The next time I will wholly succeed.” ‘Perhaps not,” rejoined the detective. “Your disguise was very good, Mr. Denton; but there was oue thing you forgot.” “What is that ?” “To wear gloves. Any one would know that the hands did not belong to an old man. Besides, Quakers don’t generally wear rings. I suspected you from the first.” “What a consummate fool I was!” muttered Den- ton, in disgust. “I ought to have thought of that.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) I shall never for- —>-0~<+ Harry Burr, tue Reerer: OR, Love and Glory on the Sea. By NED BUNTLINE. (“Harry Bluff, the Reefer’? was commenced in No. 7. Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.[ * CHAPTER XXIV. ‘Mil Diablos ! Sanchez—here is the key. Take these prisoners to the strong room and lock them in! Quick—I must to the front with all my force. Lock them in and come to me with the key as soon as youean. Ha! Hear the devils yell and shoot! It must be true that they are crossing.” The pirate chief seized his arms and rushed out. Lack of courage was not one of his failings. Dis- tinetly the sound of shouts and of musket shots now reached the ears of Harry Bluff and Irena. Oh, how both prayed for the suecess of brave Captain McIntosh! “Come with me! You heard the orders of the chief!” said Sanchez, sternly. Armed as he was, with strength and the power to eall for more help, it would have been madness for the unarmed boy to resist the order, therefore he rose and said: “Come, dear Irena. Thank God we are not to be separated at present, at least.” 4 ‘Never—never, while I live!” she whispered. “I ae die by my own hand if they tear me from your | side! Sanchez led the way to the back of the room, and | there touching some spring which they did not see, | a slab of stone, moved by some mechanism, slid to one side, revealing an iron door. Into a lock in this Sanchez inserted the key his chief had given him, and a small room lighted by a single lamp was open before them. : Into this he literally pushed the captives, then slammed the iron door to behind. them, they heard the key turn in the lock. . ‘Heavens! What wealth!” cried the astonished midshipman, as he saw gold and silver bars, bags of eoin, open boxes of gold and jewels all around him—the dim lamplight revealing them. Riches on every side—not even aseat except on boxes of gold or jewels. “What would it avail us, were it all ours, if we eould not eseape from here? We can hear no sounds here—we are shut in far more closely than before!” suid Irena. “Even if our side conquers, and the pirate chief and his lieutenant .are slain, how will our friends find us here ?” “Heaven will guide them, I hope. Surely they will find the outer room, and if we heat.them there we can make our presence here known to them,” said Harry. as cheerfully ashe could. “Ifthey had not taken my weapons away I weuld feel better.” “T have two good pistols and a dagger,” said Trena. “You shall have one pistol and the dagger. The other pistol 1 shall keep for a last resort. know well bow to use it. I used to practice in the nauvy-yard. I have powder and ball also for re- loading.” ‘ She handed Harry a fine Derringer pistol, alsoa long keen-pointed dirk. “Ah!—these make me feel confident. I can now do something to defend you from wrong or insult — perhaps these will yet aid us to escape.” ‘Heaven grant it!” she sighed. Both now listened for signs and sounds of strife outside. But they could hear nothing, except now and then there was a jar which Harry, well posted. said eame from the firing of artillery; they could not teil what was g ingon. He knew a boat how- itzer had been brought from the Boston, and he supposed the pirates had cannon. By his watch Harry counted the hours. They had been inside the pirate’s treasure-room or vault for over two hours, without food or drink. There seemed to be plenty of ventilation, yet they could not discover door or window except the iron door through which they had-enter:d. The top of the room was very lofty and dark, and doubtless there was some crevice or fissure which and and | bi admitted air. charge to-morrow morning?” asked the detective. | With nothing else to do, they looked wonder- stricken over the vast »ccumulation of treasure. “Tf our people conquer, and they will, or die, and this treasure is found, it will make officers and men rich in prize money,” said Harry, as he counted bag after bag full of gold or silver coin. it had been the accumulation of many years of piratical robbery. “Hark! Some one comes!” eried Irena, when they had been alone for nearly three hours. “Yes, the stone door outside the iron: one is being moyed, I hear the jarring sound | noticed when it moved before.” “Put your weapons out of sight. if enemies come they must not know that we are armed!” said the thoughtful girl. “Right, dear one—right, they shall not know I ae till the time comes when they can be used!” And Harry concealed his dirk and pistol inside his naval vest. A second later the iron door swung open and Ruy de Gonzalez alone staggered in. He seemed weak from loss of blood or over-exertion. His face was black with the grimy smoke of battle. He closed the iron door behind, and the lock sprung in with a sharp clang. Staggering forward, almost like a drunken man, without yet saying a word, he reached into a niche not yet noticed by Harry and*his fair companion. and drew out a wooden tray on which stood bottles, a water pitcher, and bread and meat. Pouring outa huge golden cup full of wine or liquor, he drank it down at one long, breathless draught. “Caramba! My throat was parched! 1 could not speak!” he suid, when he put the empty cup down. “Your Americans do not fight like men— they fight like devils. Sanchez is dead! All my best men are dead, the rest are captured! I alone am free! And Iam hit hard—sorely hurt!” ' “Let me dress that wound; you have water there, and I ean bind it with my neck searf!” said Irena, kindly, for in her womanly tenderness she forgot his eruelty, and pitied the man who spoke in a tone of despair. “What! Will you help to bind up the wounds of an enemy like me?” he asked, in wonder. She said yes, and proceeded to remove the sleeve from his bleeding right arm. ‘‘You shall not regret this!” he said. ‘‘Children, I am past all power to do ye harm. Tam worse hurt than ye dream. My days are numbered, though I may linger on for weeks.” His tone was low, and soft, and kind, when he spoke. “They would not spare you out there, or I would ask you tosurrender to me so you could be put un- der surgeons’ Gare.” said Harry Bluff, touched in his pure and chivalric young manhood by the con- dition of his enemy—the probable murderer of his parents. ‘No, Duke de Braganza, for such you are, and shall be acknowledged ere we part, it would be death by the rope out there. I will die soon enough, and of wounds received at their hands, They are busy row looking over the plunder they have found. This wealth of gold, and silver, and jewels, is all my own, the gains of almost fifty years spent in crimes and lawless life.on land and sea. Befriend me but a little,and you and that brave lady, in safety, shall hold your own. Half this wealth must go to holy church to expiate my many sins, if expi- ation can be. The other half. by deed of trust, shall go to you if you will but aid me.to a place where I ean die in peace.” “And if we do not ?” asked Harry, earnestly. “Then we three die here!’ said the pirate, not unkindly, but firmly. “I alone possess the secret by which we can leave this room and reach a dis- tant place of safety. With your united help I can gothere. Then, when you have seen your grand- sire, who yet lives, you can rejoin your American friends, if you so wish. Open that chest, look at documents and insignia there, andthen yield an answer to my proposition.” _The pirate pointed toa chest of carved oak, cu- riously inlaid with darker woods. “Itis yours now. It did belong to your father,” added the chief. Harry opened it witha trembling hand. On the top was a broad searf of purple velvet, such as was worn over theshoulder to sustain a rapier in the olden time. On this hung a magnificent jew- eled insignia of knighthood—a golden lamb, sur- rounded by eirelets of diamonds, rubies, and emer- alds, blazing with brilliant lights of every hue. “The Order of the Golden Fleece of Spain!’ said the: pirate. ‘‘The father was a decorated chevalier of that and other orders. There you will find in parchment deeds, titles, proofs of who and what you are. The chest is full of family records, plate. and jewels. Itookit from the ship Crestine, and thus knew thee, the sole survivor, by tby name and rank. Now, wilt thou and thy fair companion take wine and food, and make ready to aid me; or shall we and these secrets al) perish here together, sur- rounded by wealth enough for a king’s ransom ? ean only die a little earlier here. I would undo a part of the wrong I have done thee, if I could.” Tears started in the eyes of Harry Bluff. Itseem- ed to him asif he was doing an official crimeto thus strike hands witha foeto all mankind. Had he been alone he would have died first, But his eyes fell on that fair ange] of faith and purity, who had risked more than life for love of him—love when he vas only known to heras a poor orphan boy, on only a midshipman’s seanty pay, with no fortune but his true manhood, his reputation as a brave and promising officer. Looking at her pale face, her fragile form, his heart softened: he forgot all things but her devo- tion. He had been more than mortal to have done otherwise. “We will aid you. Promise that no harm shall befall this true and noble lady; that, ifin your pow- er, you will guide us to a place where in time I can reach my ship and she her friends and relatives, and we will help yow!” said Harry. “[ promise. May speedy death, at your hands, be my doom, if you see one sign of bad faith in me!” said the pirate chief. solemnly. ‘Here, take dag- ger, pistols, sword. -I never shall use them again.” He offered his weapons to Harry. “No,” said the latter. “Keep your weapons. We trust you.” And he at once aided Irena to dress the still bleed- ing wounds of Don Ruy. $ This done, and their hands and faces laved ina natural spring of water which the pirate showed them ina far corner of the cavern vault, the two, faint with long abstinence, partook sparingly of food and wine to give them strength. “We have asafe means of exit from here,” said the pirate—‘‘a passage known but to myself, which opens on the farther side of this mountain range. Every man who helped mein preparing doors and making the natural passage more passable, has died at onetime or another. Sanchez, killed this morning by the sword of your captain, was the last who knew the secret. When I saw him eut down, all my best men slain, and the rest crying for quar- ters like base cowards, I thought of you and this brave lady, and slipped off, unseen, and gained_the entranee which none of them couid ever find. Now, to show how I trust you and her,I will open your road to the outer world. I will stay here to rest and gain strength till you return.” He rose, and, lighting a curious torch made of resinous and fragrant wood, went to the further wall. There, calling on Harry for aid, he _ first touched and .,pressed upon a spring which he showed him, and which operated in the same way | on both sides, and, then grasping a rough projec- tion, slid back a stone door, which had seeme e a part of the solid wall of the room. A rush of air was felt as the door slid back, re- vealing anatural passage wide enough and high enough for a horseman, or even two abreast, to ride out in. “Take her for company, and a spare torch to last you back, and goon. The way is almost straight— you cannot lose it. A half-league you will go through this passage, then yoy will come out in a lovely valley at its end—small, but rich in grasses, fruits, and vegetation. A bugle hangs at the spot where this valley breaks on your sight—blow three single notes at a half-minute interval. An old Spaniard, Domingo Lopez by name, will come to you. Sayto himin French (I knd@&w you speak it): ‘Bring the animals; the master waits for you.’ “He will thus know I sent you, and ina little while will return with a pack train of mules ready to remove this treasure. Guide him hither, where I will wait for you. Then, in three days’ travel, I will place thee in the presence of thy grandsire, and re- deem a promise I made him that he should see the Duke of Braganza before he died, when he, too, made mea promise—that this done, he would for- give the deadly wrong I had done his race when I knew not him or them,” “We will go. Come, Irena,” said Harry. “No, dear Harry. He is very weak. His wounds may bleed afresh. He trusts us bravely—I will trust him. Go you on the errand—I will wait for you.” “She is an angel. I would be worse than a fiend if a thought of wrong entered my breast,” said Ruy de Gonzalez, and tears were in his eyes. He was so all unused to kindness in thought, or word, or deed. ‘ “Brave as you are pure and good, I will hurry on my errand,’ said Harry. “I may return more speedily if I go alone, for I feel very fresh and strong now.” And, with his toreh in hand, he waved adieu and hurried off down the passage. ‘He comes of the noblest stock in all Castile, and, restored to rank and fortune, will be the peer of princes,” said the pirate, ‘In his love, fair lady, may thou,be blest. Mine are wicked lips to breathe a holy wish, but the good Father above for thy sake may hear me!” to CHAPTER XXyV. Terribly did Captain McIntosh feel when he real- ized that his pet and protege, braye Harry Bluff, was in the power of the pirates again. He, too, had heard the shriek of the one who had leaped on the bridge which bore the traitor Sanchez | lady about being married, to a housekeeper, or to ¢ and his captive over the chasm, and he feared the worst, and the truth—that Miss Irena Courtney in disguise had followed the desperate fortunes of him whom she loved so well. He at once ordered the materials for bridging the chasm brought forward from the rear, deployed.his best marksmen among the rocks and trees to cover the workmen from fire on the other side, and had the boat howitzer brought to the front and mounted. Nothing could be done until day dawned, so they could see where to work. That was near at hand, and in alittle while a rope with a strong grapnel was east across the chasm by astrong man. Over this a light seaman went hand over hand. He was followed until four men were ont ready to draw over ropes, ladders, and planks. ‘These would have been quickly cut off by the pirates, but for the deadly fire of the marksmen wisely placed in position by Captain McIntosh, fer the moment a pirate showed himself he went down riddled with bullets. In a little while the bridge was made, and then, led in person by the heroic captain of the frigate; men aud officers poured across. But once over they found the pirates in force, ready to meet them and to resist to the uttermost. The:latter had the advantage of cover and position, ony at first it was slow work to gain any advan- rage. But American seamen are fearless and rash, and led by officers who had been often under fire, they took position, after position, and at last drove the pirates back into their main cave. Here the fight was -bitter indeed. Bayonet and boarding pike, cutlass, rapier, dirk, and battle- axes metin close conflict. Here Sanchez, singled out at the head of a desperate band, crossed swords with McIntosh in person. Terrible was the meet- ing. Both were strong and well-skilled in the use of their weapons. Both were full of hate and fury. Blood flowed from wounds received by both; but at last Providence smiled on the Ricutr. Slipping in a pool of blood, Sanchez lost his guard, and the keen cutlass of his brave opponent cut him down. Turning his dying eyes toward where he had heard Don Ruy shouting his war-ery an instant before, he saw the latter turn and fly toward the entrance to the secret vault. Angered at this desertion in his hour of deadliest ar he pointed toward him as he fled, and gasped out: “Follow him if you would find the Duke of Bra- ganza, your young aid, and the niece of the com- modore!”? - Captain McIntosh heard the words of the dying wretch, and he rushed madly after the pirate leader. He found the passage into which Ruy de Gonzales fled, found, too, the splendid quarters he had lately occupied; but he had not the secret of the sliding door of rock, or the key tothe iron door beyond, had the first been found. In vain he looked on every side for the leader, or a sign to mark the trail of his hiding-place, or where poor Harry Bluff and lrena Courtney were hidden. Nothing but solid rock met his eye. He shouted their names, but got no answer. Almost despairing he returned, hoping to find Sanchez yet alive and able to give some clew. .He found him stone dead; the pirates who. yet lived, disarmed and submissive... None of them knew anything about the secret hiding-places of their leader. None lived who had ever been trust- ed with his seerets. Apart from the main treasure vault of the band, which was found by the success- ful Americans, it was known his own treasures were kept—but where none of the survivors, though threatened with death, had power to say. An unayailing search was kept for the rest of the day, but it resulted in no new discoveries. Poor Harry Bluff and Miss Courtney, with the pirate leader, had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. Camping on his battle-ground that night, Captain McIntosh held a council with his officers. It was decided to-go with the fleet to Havana, thsre to turn over the living pirates to the Spanish Govern- ment for punishment, since they were captured on its territory. *‘And there we will make inquiry for this name, Braganza. It may put usin a way to trace out my lost protege, for 1 will not believe him dead. The pirate chief, to save his own neck, may have spared the boy. He fled only when he saw all was lost, and I think was little hurt then. Sanchez dying bade me foliow him and I would find my boy and the niece of the commodore. So, then, he knew they were where Ruy de Gonzalez would join them.” This decision pleased officers and crews alike. For with plenty of prize money in hand, Havana would be a Paradise to them. Cheer on cheer rose when the expedition, with its dead, wounded, and triumphant men and officers got alongside. The few captured pirates, men, women, and children, had been brought away, and were all quartered on board the frigate. It was found that Miss Courtney had been missed from the frigate, and now no doubt of her where- abouts was felt. When poor Ada MeCord heard of the capture of Harry Bluff, and knew that Irena was with him, dead or alive, her grief was touching. “If ITcould have died for him,’ she moaned, ‘‘I would have blessed the hand that slew me!” , Within two hours from the return of the expedi- tion the dead were buried, the wounded cared _ for, and the little fleet was under way, bound to Havana. (TO BE CONTINUED.) ————__ + 9+ _____ Recent Publications. 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It is the best book extant for any one to present to a married lady, to a wife, to Boe riend. There is also great knowledge and thriftin it, for it has proved to be the best guide for the kitchen in all house- holds, large or small, that has ever appeared on: either side of the Atlantic. Every family should get a copy of it at once. Itis published and for sale by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 306 Chestnut street, Philadelphia, who will send a copy to any one, at once, to any place, post-paid, onremitting the price of it, five dollars, in a letter, to them, for the same. “SOMETHING TO READ.’ Complete Stories in Bound Book-form. Publishers, J. S. Ogilvie & Company, 31 Rose street, New York. There are four numbers of ‘Some- thing to Read,’ No. 1 containing seven complete stories by Mrs. Henry Wood, No. 2 seven stories by Miss M. EH, Braddon, No. 3 seven stories by Bertha M. Clay, and No. 4 seven stories by Mary Cecil Hay. ‘Something to Read” is published in a very attractive style. Price, cloth cover, $1.50; paper cover, $1. The low price of “Something to Read” is something marvelous in the book trade, Look at a copy. THE ALBUM WRITER’S FRIEND. Compiled by J. 8, Ogilvie. Publishers, J. 8. Ogilvie & Co., 31 Rose street, New York. “The Album Writer’s Friend’’ is very ap- propyiately named, since those who are from time to time invif®a to ‘write something”’ in their friends’ albums will find the little volume quite a help. It contains 64 pages. Price 15 cents. SLOTE & JANES’ CALENDAR, DAILY MEMORANDA, ETC., for 1883 are really superb. They are not only very useful, but very ornamental, and for brightness of coloring have never been surpassed. This well established firm now occupy a fine store at 140 Nassau street (near Beekman), where the best of stationery can always be procured. VICE VERSA. By F. Austey. People’s Library, No. 319; price 15 cents. DONALD DYKE, THE YANKEE DETECTIVE. By Harry Rockwood. People’s Library, No. 321; price 10 cents. HER LAST CHRISTMAS DAY. By Mary Cecil Hay. Peo- ple’s Library, No. 324; price 10 cents. The People’s Library is published by J.S. Ogilvie & Co., No, 31 Rose street. New York. : > e<— A DOWN-EASTER’S TRADE PHILOS- OPHY. “Let me tell you a fellow’s got to have a poor thing to sell a good one by,” moralizes a Lewiston trader. ‘Lalways try to sell the poor stuff first. I always show it toacustomer first. When I show him the good thing I'm sure to put a darn good price on it, so he will be liable _totake the cheaper article. I had alot of geese Thanksgiving. I put my poor geese to the front. I offered ’em for 13 eents. I put my best geese way up to 18 to 19 cents, I didn’t want to sell them. A good thing will sell itself. When I got through I had one or two geese left and they were handsome ones. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘T don’t care whether customers come or not.’ I have anything left over I want it to be a good thing, That’s equal to money at anytime. When a man comes into my shop and asks for a good barrel of apples for instance. 1 show him some of those small ones which I ean sell for $2.50.a barrel. If he says he wants a fancy, bang-up article, I ask him if he means business, and show him that handsome fruit over there that I’m getting $3.50 for. There’s just as much ‘chaw’ in the $2.50 barrel as in the other, but when it comes to settin’ ’em on the table before company they’re no good.” THE NEW ‘ : YORK WEEKLY. ites. JAN. 29,1888, IN THE BAY-WINDOW. BY ELLA WHEELER. In the bay-window, sitting idly there, The floral background throws her in relief, Like some old painting, beautiful and rare— You would not think her supping now with grief! She looks up to the dull December skies, And thinks how soon the old year will be dead. Could you look close in those uplifted eyes, _You would see tears too bitter to be shed. Tears that are salt with sorrow ; and her breast Heavyes silently with grief that makes no moan. The dear old year is passing to its rest, Oh, God! oh, God! it does not die alone! Close in its palsied arms, in death's embrace, _ Into the past’s dark grave, where all things go— It bears the love that lit her life with grace Only a few brief happy months ago. A happy new year will replace the old, As full of cheer, with summer days as fair ; But her young heart is paralyzed and cold, And no new love can ever enter there. So now vents her stricken soul, it seems; But wounds heal over with the balm of years, And her life yet shall glow with love’s bright beams, All fairer for the rainbow of her tears. e< ____—_ A HOLIDAY STORY. NED NETTLETON’S MASCOTTE, A CHRISTMAS EVE'S REVERIE. By Ralph Royal. “‘ Heigh-ho, here Iam thirty years old this Christ- mas Eve, and the jolliest dog of the Bachelors’ Club,” exclaimed Ned Nettleton, as in the wee sma’ hours of Christmas Eve, or rather morning, he stretched his slipper-incased feet over the fender of a brightly burning grate fire in his comfortable bathelor quar- ters up town. g Everything in the room and aout the young stock- broker indicated refinement and good taste, from the meerschaum pipe between his lips and the bot- tle of Mumm’s Extra Dry on the tripod table beside the easy-chair in which he was lying, to the em- broidered robe de chambre he had on, the ends of which hung rather dangerously near the open grate fire. “And the club had arather jolly night of it,” he musingly continued. ‘ Let me see, my head’s rather muddled, but we took our Christmas pledge first. Yes, I remember that. You do solemnly pledge on your faith as a bachelor never to let a fair enslaver entrap you in the matrimonial noose Ha, ha, good enough! But, hello, that cuts out Mary——” He contemplatively took a few whiffs of his pipe and then continued: / i “Well, well, I haven’t paid her more than thé or- dinary civilities since I first saw her in Saratoga last summer. Besides, I told her I belong to the Bachelors’ Club. After that she has no right to ex- | ect—— Bah! my boy, don’t become sentimental.’” He filled himself a glass of champagne, and hav- ing drained it, watched the rings of smoke as they | ~ ascended from his pipe. “First ring, betrothal; second ring, marriage; third and succeeding rings—an interesting and nu- merous progeny—all smoke! Stocks and bonds, my ' boy, puts and calls, fast horses, champagne and \ oysters, do as you please—that’s solid comfort, that’s reality. No, thank you, no matrimony for me.” He stretched out his legs more comfortably, got his dressing gown into still closer proximity to the tire without noticing it, and thus continued in his reverie: “Then we adjourned the meeting and went in a body to hear the ‘ Mascotte,’ Had private boxes. Charming singing and lovely women. Never en- joyed myself the evening at Mary’s, though. Dare. say the poor girl was expecting me. Glad I didn’t go. Haven’t any right to keep other eligible fellows away, fel- ldws who don’t belong to the Bachelors’ Club, and haven’t signed the pledge, confound them.” He was rather angry at those “other fellows.” Not jealous, of course not, only angry because they wouldn’t join the club and laughed at its objects. .* After the opera we adjourned over to Delmon- ico’s. Had aspread, of course. Regular stag affair. None of the fair sex to make you feel so uncomforta- bly ro. We toasted the dear absent creatures anyhow. I toasted Mary, not loud.. If the boys had heard me—— “How many bottles did we have? Let me see. We sang twenty and drank nothing but comic ones. I’ve get that rather mixed. Its the fault of the mixed rinks, I suppose. However, here I am at home, in own and slippers, though how the dickens I got into hem, I don’t know. I’m going to punish this bottle anyway and then I’m off to bed. ‘Oh, when I was single, my pockets would jingle; Don’t I wish I were single again.’ he hummed, breaking off to add: “T hope I shall never be obliged to sing that song in earnest.” He poured himself out a second glass and drained it, then he refilled and relighted his pipe and settled himself comfortably for a final smoke, still with the same unconscious persistency bringing his gown yet nearer that grate fire. He didn’t hear the door open, nor was he aware that there was anybody else in the room until she | epee on the tripod table and made him:a most profound bow. By she, we mean the most comical looking little old woman that mortal eye ever gazed upon. She was only about two feet in height, with a face peaked and pinched, a nose coming down over her mouth, twinkling, greenish gray eyes, little iron-gray cork- serew curls peeping out from beneath the sugar loaf hat on her head, and a green mantle flung over _ her shoulders. What made the little old woman look so very comical was the fact that she wore the same costume as the actress who had played the ‘“Mas- cotte” at the opera that evening; a dress which, no doubt, looked very charming on a young and beauti- ful woman, but was simply absurdly grotesque on the comical little creature who kept bobbing her head up and down, as she stood there amid the glasses and champagne bottle on the tripod table. “T say, hello,” exclaimed Ned, in the greatest sur- prise, without, however, arising from his easy-chair, “Who are you, anyway, and how on earth did you get here?” ; ‘ “Be a little more polite to ladies in general and old ladies in particular,” squeaked the little old woman inreply. I’m old enongh to be your grandmother.” “That's certain. But who are you anyway. What’s your name?”’ “T’m the Mascotte,’ she cried with a shrill laugh. “Your Mascotte, all bachelors’ Mascotte, the Mas- cotte of the boobies who sign pledges and join bach- elor clubs.” ii “I’m dreaming, that’s positive,’ muttered Ned to himself. ‘‘And such a jolly Christmas dream. I say, Miss Mascotte, my good fairy,” he added aloud, ‘you cart come here just for the fun of the thing, have ou?”’ : 7 “None of your levity with me, young man. I’ve come here to show you my mirror in which each bachelor sees himself as others see him. I’m privi- leged to show it toa bachelor on Christmas Eve. I’m going to show it to you now.” She suddenly threw the champagne bottle into the open grate-fire, sent the glass of wine after it, then nimbly leaped on Ned’s lap, snatched the pipe out of his hand, and threw it on the glowing coals. His slippers went next and a portion of his dressing- gown followed. | “Those are the ingredients,’ screamed the little old woman, hopping back on the tripod-table. “Bachelor comforts make bachelor mirrors.” A thick, heavy smoke issued from the fire and formed itself into the shape of an oval mirror on the opposite wall. “Ts this a dream, or isn’t it?” muttered Ned. ‘‘I’m sure I smell burning and see the smoke. But what’s in the mirror? By Jove! That’s me with my fast team.” “He, he,’ giggled the little old woman. “There you go, 2:17 1-2 on the road to ruin.” “But I say, my dear Mascotte,” exclaimed Ned, as he contemplated his counterpart on the wall. “I’m transparent, I am. [I can see right through me. What sort of a heart is that I’ve got any way ?”’ “Orystal, Ned Nettleton, crystal. Hard but as yet unclouded. But it will change by and by, you will see.” : She waved her funny little arms over her funny little head, and the magic picture in the mirror was replaced by another. “By Jove,” exclaimed Ned, “I’m at least. twenty years older.” “Only ten, Ned Nettleton, only ten. Bachelors change in looks more rapidly than in years. Ned Net- tleton at forty, the worn-out, tired man of the world, sick of fast life, fast horses and faster companions. See how weary he looks as he sits there in his room. His heart is crystal yet, but it is clouded with sel- fishness. It is the turning-point of his existence. Love could melt even that crystal, love and mar- riage. But his pledge to the Bachelors’ Club? Will he break it”? etter in my life. Might have spent | Again she waved her arms and a third picture - peared in the mirror; the picture of a hard-featured, prematurely old man, with a heart of granite, sitting at a desk in his private office, grasping bags of money in his hands. , “Old baehelor, old bachelor,” screamed the little old woman, shaking with laughter. ‘‘Ned Nettleton, old bachelor, Only cares for money now; hugs his gold to his breast. He’s very rich, but his heart is of granite, hard, black granite. Nothing can melt it, nothing can make it transparent. No loving wife awaits his coming home, no devoted children run outto greet his returning steps. In his youth he sacrificed all to selfish pleasure, in his barren old age he offers up everything to his idol gold. But he is rich, very rich. Let him take his comfort out of that—if he can.” “That’s some comfort any how,” muttered Ned rather disconsolately, ‘I suppose we’re coming now to the last scene of this strange but not very event- ful history.” “It requires no picture, Ned Nettleton,” squeaked the little old woman with a strange sort of glee. “Ned the old bachelor, Ned the miser, is dead. Found dead in his office, hugging his gold. Strangers bury him with cold formality. No one drops a tear on his bier. There’s only one Neen in everybody’s mind. Did he make a will? Who'll get his money ? He’s made no will, he’s left no relations, none to in- herit him. The State takes all. That’s the end of Ned Nettleton and his gold.” She waved her arms and a new picture appeared in the magic mirror; the picture of a young man very like Ned, clasping to his breast a young girl very like his Mary. There was a rainbow of promise brightly beaming above them. ° “Hello, here I am again, risen from the dead,” ex- claimed Ned. , “Oh, no!” giggled the little old woman. “This isa different kind of a Ned. This is Ned Nettleton, the married man. It is his wedding-day, and the rain- bow of hope is very brilliant. But you can see his heart. It is of wax. What impression will it receive? Ah, Peete the rub—what impression will it re ceive ?”’ She waved her arms, and the picture now presented to, Ned’s view showed the interior of a fashionable house, with a fashionably dressed man and woman girl, “‘You’re on the wrong track, Mr. married-man Net- tleton. You’re proud of your wife, and you want society to be proudof her. She submits to please you, but her face looks sad and her heart is dis tressed. She would rather have you and her children all to herself, to show you how she can love you and them. But you repress her affections. You say it is unfashionable. And to be fashionable, to move in society, you are living above your income, you are contracting debts. Ah, Ned Nettleton, your heart is of wax still, but it has received the wrong impression, and the rainbow is fading away, it is fading away.” Another wave of her arms, and Ned saw himself a miserable tramp, lying intoxicated in the gutter, with his wife, meanly clad, kneeling beside him, shedding, oh! such bitter tears, and his children standing around him, crying with cold and hunger. In the dull, gray sky overhead no rainbow was visible, but the icy, freezing snow was falling flake by flake on the wretched group. “Now, that’s not a very comforting picture of mar- ried life,” exclaimed Ned. ‘I’d prefer my bachelor eevee to anything of that sort. I would, by ove! “It’s a Rome of your own making,”’ sternly re- plied the little old woman. ‘‘Where has your fash- ionable life led you to? Bankruptcy and ruin. Your business gone, your house gone, your gewgaws of fashion gone, the butterflies who fluttered around you in your days of prosperity—all gone. You could not stand the blow. Your heart was of wax. You took to drink to drown your sorrow, and see to | what degradation it has brought you, Oh, listen, listen to the angel kneeling at your side; listen to | her who has — to you through all your misery, | who has remained true to you when every one ;else deserted you. Behold your children’s woes. ‘Rouse yourself from the slough of despond into which you have fallen. Be a man, Ned Nettleton, be a man!” Half dreamily Ned muttered: ‘sT will.” Instantly the picture changed to a small room, | wanting the direst necessities of life. Buta sad ne- ecessity of death was near. A coffin—a child’s coffin |—stood in the center of the room, and around it | knelt Ned, his wife, and the boy, their only remaining | child, Poor little Mary! She had succumbed to the ; cold and the misery, the hunger and want of that | terrible night out in the street, and the snow-storm. ; As Ned raised his right hand to Heaven to register a | Silent vow, the rainbow once again appeared, shin- | ing in through the paneless window. | “Can you see his heart, Ned Nettleton,” asked the | little old woman. ‘It has passed through the fire, | the dress is all burnt away,it is coming out pure | gold, Ned, pure gold. That is why the rainbow is shining in through the window; that is why the sorrow-stricken mother, even while weeping there | over the loss of her child, feels the thrill of a new- | born happiness.” | And what’s the last picture of this series ?”’ asked | Ned, turning from the magic mirror on the wall to | where the little uld woman was standing on the tri- | pod table. | But wonderful, miraculous change! she had dis- | appeared, and before him stood Mary, his Mary, as {he had always seen her, and known her to be, the | brightest, best and loveliest of girls. | ‘Trust in my love, dear Ned,” she said, in her ‘sweet, melodious voice, while an angelic smile beamed on her countenance. ‘Trust in my love; | seek the future hand in hand and heart to heart with ime. In our married life sorrows will come, but we will bear them together, and thus lighten each other’s load. In that way we will find true happi- ness. Take me to your heart, dear Ned. [am your good fairy, your Mascotte.” | Ned stretched out his arms and embraced—his valet | Richard, who had burst into the room in a state of | the wildest alarm. Fortunately the door was unlocked, or the young bachelor would surely have been burnt alive. As it was, the whole room was filled with smoke, and the | ends of his elegant dressing-gown were still scorch- | ing where they had caught on fire at the open grate. | “TJ thought L smelt smoke,’ was Ned’s comment 'when he was finally made to comprehend that he | had fallen asleep in his easy-chair and had been dreaming. | Dream or no dream, that Christmas Eve made a changed man of him. He sent in his resignation to | the Bachelors’ Club, and before New Year’s Day pro- | posed to his Mary. | As he afterward often declared, she proved, in- | deed, to be his Mascotte. t CARD STORIES. | A eard-hating wife can upon occasion set her | scruples aside. Soon after the close of the late war | General Forrest and his wife stopped at a hotel in | Memphis, and upon examining their purses, found {that the sum-total of their wealth amounted ‘to seven dollars and thirty cents. The general | being due that evening at a house where poker was / gure to be played, proposed that he should tempt | fortune to the full extent of his means, and asked | his wife to pray for his success. She would not | promise; but he felt she was for him, and knew i how it would be. Let him tell the rest himself, “They had tables—one was a quarter-dollar table, one a half, and one a dollar and ahalf. I wanted to | make my seven dollars last as long as I could make \it, so [sat down to the quarter table. By dinner- | time I had won enough to do better; and after we had eaten, sat down to the dollar-and-a-half table, Sometimes I won, and then again Id lose, until |nigh upon midnight; when I had better luck. I | knew Mary was sitting up anxious, and it made me |eool. Iset my hat on the floor, and every time I’d | won I'd oon the moneyin the hat. I sat there | until day broke, and then I took my hat up in both | hands, smashe on my head, and went home. | When I got to my room, theresat Mary in her gown. She seemed tired and anxious, and though | she looked panty hard at me, she didn’t saya | word, I walked right. up to her, and emptied my | hat right into the lap of her gown, and then we sat down and counted it. Just fifteen hundred dollars even, and that gave me a start.” Henry Clay’s devotion to cards did not disturb his wite’s equanimity in the least. Asked by a | Northern belle if it did not distress her that her ' husband should gamble, the candid old lady’ re- plied ;"‘Not at all, my dear; he most always wins.” | A Mr. Purdy, as the end of his bachelorhood drew | nigh, let his old cronies know it was his intention |to forswear card-playing after perpetrating matri- /mony. They thereupon put their heads together, | and a day or two after the wedding, invited him to | alittle dinner at Delmonico’s, at which he was to | receive a three-hundred-dollar silver service. | /in- |/ner done, and the presentation made, the party | made themselves and their guest monte over soma excellent wine, and when they thought the time had come, proposed a game at poker; and after a little | hesitation, Purdy gave in “just for this once.”’ His hosts had fixed things nicely, and calculated upon winning the price of their wedding gift, the dinner, and the wine. The game went on till long after daylight appeared, but by that time the intended victim had eleaned every one of them out, besides Pepe ning lawful possession of the’silver service. Even the sharpest of sharpers may meet more than his match. Robert Houdin, the famous magi- |cian, happening to saunter into a continental easino. where a Greek was reaping arare harvest at ecarte, looked on quietly until a seat became vacant, and then dropped into it. The Greek, deal- ing dextrously, turneda king from the bottom of and fashionably brought up children—a boy and a the pack. When the deal came to Houdin, he ob- served: ‘““When Jturn kings from the bottom of the ack, I always do it with one hand instead of two; tis quite as easy, and much more elegant. See! here comes his majesty of diamonds;” and up came the card. The cheat stared atthe conjurer fora moment, and then rushed from the place, without waiting to possess himself of his hat, coat, or stakes. Another of the fraternity, after winning ten games at ecarte in succession, tried his fortune against a new opponent; and still his luck held. He had made four points, and dealing, turned up a king and won. ‘‘My luck is wonderful,” said he. “Yes,” said his adversary; “and all the more won- derful sinee I nave the four kings of the pack in my pocket! and the professor of iegerdemain laid them on the table. | “T remember,” said a gentleman who had travel- edin Russia, “beng at a ball given by the empress to the late emperor, on his birthday. I was playing at ecarte, when the emperor, who was wandering about, came behind me to watch the game. My ad- versary and I were both at four, and it was my deal. ‘Now,’ said the emperor, ‘let us see whether you can turn up the king?’ dealt, andthen held up the turn-up ecard, observing: ‘Your orders, sir, have been obeyed.’ dozen times afterward, the em- peror asked me howI managed it; and he never would believe that it was a mere hazard, and that I had taken the chance of the ecard being a king.” The Czar was as much astonished at the result of his remark as the young gentleman who, looking over a pretty girl’s shoulder while she was playing ecards, observed: ‘‘What alovely hand!” “You may have it if you want it,” murmured she; and all the rest of the evening he was wondering what her in- tentions were. >-~e A HOLIDAY STORY. THE LITTLE HERO. A SILHOUETTE PICTURE. By John E. Barrett. The sereen-room of the Crystal Coal Breaker pre- sented an animated picture on the day before Christ- mas. The four hundred little slate-pickers ranged in rows along the chutes were busily at work with bowed heads and nimble fingers, picking out the broken slate from the glistening coal that came rush- ing down from the screen like wheat from a hopper. On an elevated position, where he could be seen by all, stood the boss, whip in hand, sour 9f visage and vigilant as a hawk, like a sort of Nemesis, whose frown was sufficient to freeze the warmest laugh that ever bubbled from the heart of youth. Although a terror to the boys, the cracker-boss was a sort of ‘‘necessary evil,” for painful and exacting as their tasks are, it would be difficult to d a mer- rier or more mischievous set than those same slate- pickers, whose bright eyes and black faces made such an interesting study in silhouette. Tt was necessary that they watched their work well, as upon the fidelity with which these little men performed their dusty duty depended in a great measure the price that could be obtained for coal, especially such as is used for domestic purposes. When the snow is flying, and winter hangs his icy spears from the eaves, and the sleigh-bells are ring- ing, and visions of the visit of Santa Claus fill the minds of young and old, it is a pleasure to watch the clear and glowing grate-fire, free from slate and “clinkers,”’ and having only the pure anthracite to shed its soft radiance on the hearth, To this cozy picture the work of the little slate- picker contributes, and lest he should neglect it by looking around and letting some of the dull slate go past him with the coal, the cracker-boss is there with whip in hand, a greater terror than even the average political boss who lords it over the “bigger boys” that do his bidding. Those who have not visited the coal fields must know that the coal-breaker is a massive structure of wood and iron, fitted up with powerful machinery, to crush and screen the anthracite. The principle is much the same as the shot-tower, inasmuch as the massive bowlders of coal are hoisted to the summit of the breaker, which stands about 150 feet high above the mouth of the shaft, and is prepared and cleaned in its descent from floor to floor and chute to chute, until it reaches the lower floor, and is load- ed into the cars that stand on a branch track ready to receive and haul it away to market. Among those who sat in the dust and grime of the Crystal Breaker was a boy named Paul Preston —an orphan lad who, owing to the sudden death of his father in one of those terrible accidents that are of such frequent occurence in the coal region, was compelled to go to work in the screen-room at the early age of seven, to assist in earning something for his mother and her babe of three months old. Although his pay was poor, Paul worked on with a cheerful heart, and what he dreaded most was that he would be turned away, as he had heard that the law did not allow boys under the age of twelve to work in or about the mines. But the mine inspector, although a stern, conscien- tious man, ,had not the heart to enforce the law jn Paul’s case, aS he knew the circumstances, and the little fellow worked along until he was ten. years old, on the day of the occurrence which calls forth this sketch. The ponderous machinery of the Crystal Coal Breaker was revolving with thunderous sound; the coal was rushing down the chutes; the nimble-fin- gered lads were busy picking the slate, and only raised their eyes occasionally for a furtive glance at the boss. Something attracted the attention of Paul Preston. It seemed like the faint fiicker of a sunbeam, and without thinking of the man with the whif he looked up and saw a sight that thrilled him. He sprang from his seat, and before he could fully realize the situation, felt a stinging blow from the wuip of the cracker-boss. The noise of the dusty place made it impossible for the child to make himself heard, but turning to the angry boss, with a leok of terror in his eyes, he pointed to a corner in the ceiling where a streak of flame was winding like a serpent around the stout timbers which were saturated with the oil of the machinery. The sight almost paralyzed the boss with fear and he fled precipitatlely from the room. Paul re- solved on remaining to warn his comrades. How should he do it? The roar of the machinery made them deaf to all else and they did not look up very often because they feared to meet the frown of the boss and feel his whip. Paul shouted as loud as he could, but nobody paid any heed to his voice. Then he pulled off his cap, and swinging it wildly about ran across the shutes to attract the attention of his fellow-workers. They thought he was fleeing from the irate boss and did not dare to look up. The flames were spreading rapidly, and now burst forth with a shock that shook the room and filled the place with light. The boys started up suddehly from their places and were panic-stricken. Paul was composed and coura- geous and led the way to the stairs. The narrow steps were filled with smoke, but he sped on and shouted to his companions to follow him. On reach- ing the foot of the stairs he thought of the men in the mines whose lives were imperiled by the fury of the breaker at the north of the shaft. Whow uld warn them? Then he darted into the engine room, and catching the engineer by the arm whispered in his ear these thrilling words: “The breaker is on fire !’”’ The sound made evéry fiber in that stalwart frame quiver, and he looked at the boy in helpless amaze- ment for a few seconds. “Who will warn the men in the mine?” said Paul Preston. Everybody was busy. The coal trade was rushing and there were no loungers around the Crystal Breaker. , “T have no one here,” said the engineer in despair. “Then let me down!” said Paul quickly. Lower the sarriage and Ill step in.” The engineer hesitated, and as he looked at the tiny form before him, shook his head and said: “T don’t want to sacrifice your life my little lad; you can do nothing.”’ “But the men will perish,” pleaded Paul. ee let me down and I’ll warn them before it is too late.” The engineer consented, and in a few second Paul Preston was in the carriage and going swiftly down the dark shaft which was three hundreed feet deep. The carriage wasgnot more than half way when the flames burst over the shaft and sent a shower of red- hot cinders down. : The engineer was now alive to the real danger, and saw that he could not remain much longer at his post without peril to his own life, The courage of the brave little boy had nerved him so, however, that he resolved on remaining at his engine if need be, until his arms burned off. But the boy—what of him? He saw the fiery shower descend beside him, but fortunately was protected by the roof of the carriage, and so reached the foot of the shaft in safety. Then leaping from the carriage he ran along the gangway warning every boy and man he met that the breaker at the mouth of the shaft was on fire. This was a terrible message to those who were three hundred feet below, and who were accustomed to entering and leaving by way of the shaf*. The frightful news spread from chamber to cham- ber, and the workmen ran in all directions. Some of the most imexperienced hastened to the foot of the shaft and huddled together, there looking in dismay at the blazing cinders which now descended thick and fast. There was a fight for the carriage, and fifteen men finally squeezed themselves on, and were about to give the signal to the engineer for the fatal trip upward, when an experienced miner warned them of their peril, and told them of a slope in the distance through which they might escape. Then they got away in haste, but none too soon, as a blazing beam came down with a crash, and crushed the carriage like a shell. A rush was made for the.slope, and through it the frightened workmen managed to escape, and were greeted by the joyous exclamations of their wives and children, who had gathered about in frightened groups, and were weeping wildly before the ap- pearance of their imprisoned friends. The Crystal Coal Breaker stood up in the distance like a pillar of fire; and the excited people were running in that direction from the surrounding set- tlement. It was a day of fear, and it took many hours be- fore the people of the place were fully satisfied that the workmen in the Crystal shaft had been saved. A woman with a frightened face pressed her way through the throng that gathered near the breaker. She was thinly clad, and her pallid features told of penury and grief. She seemed half crazed, and asked, “Did any of you see my little Paul?” Those who saw her, shook their heads. Nobody had seen Paul, and the poor woman rushed about, the picture of despair, asking for her lad. Paul Preston was nowhere to be found. The little hero was forgotten in the excitement.. At length the grief-stricken mother approached a man who stood with folded arms looking at the blazing wreck of the coal breaker, and asked him if he had seen her Paul. A fearful thought flashed across the man’s mind, and without waiting to think of the consequences, he answered : “1 saw your boy, Mrs. Preston, when the fire broke out, and I lowered him into the shaft to warn the workmen. Hasn’t he come back?” “Alas, no!” and as she spoke these words the woman staggered and fell at the feet of the engineer as if struck by a deadly blow. “God forgive me,” muttered the engineer, ‘‘what have Idone? I should not have told her that.” Then he picked her up and loving hands volun- teered to carry her away from the crowd to the nearest house where she was laid in bed and tender- ly cared for. She had fainted and it took some time to restore her. In the overwhelming excitement of the time her sorrow was svon forgotten as rumor after rumor went flying around to the effect that several men were killed in the shaft. Toward evening she was carried to her home in such a feeble condition that the doctor who was called in to see her said the slightest excitement might prove fatal. The neighbors said it was a sad Christmas Eve for poor Mrs, Preston, whose boy Paul had met his death in the Crystal shaft, and mingled with the thankful- ness over the escape of their own friends and relatives were many words of sympathy for the miner’s widow. Her youngest child was taken to a friendly house and kindly cared for, and two kind-hearted women volunteered to remain all night with Mrs. Preston and console her. Toward midnight there was a footstep on the threshofd and a knock at the door that set the moth- er’s heart. fluttering, and she started up in the bed, but was held back by one of the women while the other went to see who was there. When the door was opened a little black-faced boy darted in out of the snow and exclaimed: ‘Mother, I am here!”’ It was Paul Preston, the slate-picker, still light of heart but oh, so tired that he could scarcely stand. His mother almost swooned for joy as he threw himself on the bed beside her. But the great hap- piness of both soon found relief in tears, and when Paul briefly told of his adventure in the mine, all the women uttered a fervent ‘‘ Thank God!” for his es- cape. He said that after warning the workmen he lost his way, and having no lamp, groped about in the darkness, until finally, after a most painful experi- ence of many hours, that seemed to him as so many days, he reached the foot of tbe slope which led out of the mine. 1 The news soon spread and there was joy in the set- tlement over Paul Preston’s escape. As it was Christmas Eve nobody thought of going to bed until a late hour, and the thoughtful, kind-hearted miners made up their minds to do something for the little hero who had risked his life to save them. When morning came Paul Preston discovered a strange stocking hanging near his clothes, and tak- ing it down, found that it contained twenty shining silver dollars. He fairly shouted with” glee as he said to his mother: “See what I have found! from?” The mother smiled proudly on her little hero, and answered : * “Paul, it looks as If Santa Claus had been here. I think he was very, very good to you and me last night.” Where could it ‘come ———_—___—_——__ > 9 _______ Pleasant Paragraphs. {Mostof our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib- uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the NEW YORK WEEKLY, and they will obiige us by send- ing for publication anything which may be deemed of suflicient interest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the articles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. ] My Choice—A Speech. Ladies and Gentlemen: I know, And oft have told my neighbors so, That coffers filled with wealth untold, Of shining silver and of gold, Are, for most woes, a healing salve, And nice things for a man to have. I know, too, that to have your name Cut high upon the walls of fame Is something gloriously grand, Something which men of every land Have struggled for, and strove to win, Through all the ages that have been. I also know thatin our breast, Kisses from those we love the best, And most especially from her, Feelings of satisfaction stir— (By “her” I mean the comely one We've oft spent our last dollar on.) I know, as.eyerybody knows, That bunionless and cornless toes— Toes upon ich no nails grow in, And prick and gouge a man like sin— Are something much to be desired, Something by all men much admired. Yet dearer than all these to me— Dearer than laden ships at sea, Dearer than rightly given kiss, Dearer than pedalical bliss, Dearer than all the pride of fame— Is one thing I soon shall name. I think of it at morn’s first gleams, I see it in my noonday dreams ; I pine for it when twilight falls, And midnight thoughts of it recalls— Morning and night, awake, asleep, Sweet visions of it o’er me creep. My friends, this thing for which I sigh Is nothing more or less than pie! A Tough Yarn. An Englishman who was triveling on the Missis- sippi River, told rather tough stories about London thieves, A Cincinnati chap named Case heard these narratives with a silent but expressive “humph!” and then remarked that the Western thieves beat. the London operators all hollow. “How so?” inquired the Englishman, with sur- prise. “Pray, sir, have you lived muchin the West?” “Not a great deal.” “Well.” said Case, “my brother once lived out West, but he had to leave, although his business wis the best in the country.” : ‘*What business was hein ?” “The luiber business—he had a saw-mill.” “And they stole the lumber ?” “Yes, and saw-logs, too.” “Saw-logs ?” “Yes, whole dozens of black walnut logs were car- ried away in a single night.” “Ts it possible ?” “True, upon my honor, sir. He tried_every way to prevent it, but it was all of no use. Just to give you an iden how they steal out there,’ continued Case, sending a sly wink at the listening company. “Did you ever work in a saw-mill ?” ““Never.” ; “Well, one day my brother bought a fine black walnut log four feet three at the butt, and not a knot in it. He was d-termined to keep that log anyhow, and hired two Scotchmen to watch it all nigtit. Well, they took a small demijohn of whisky with them, snaked tlie log up the hill, built a fire, and then sat down on the log to play ecards, just to keep awake yousee. *“Twar a monstrous big log, bark two inches thick. Well, as I was saying, they played car !s and drank whisky all night, a..d when it began to grow light they went to aicep astradle the log. About a minute after daylight brother George went over to the mill to see how they were getting on, and the log was gone.” “What were the Seotchmen doing ?” ‘Sitting on the bark! The thieves had driven an iron wedge into the butt-end which pointed down the hill, and hitched a yoke of oxen on and pulled it right out of the shell, leaving the Scotchmen there astraddle of it fast asleep.” She Knew Them. Yes, she visited the country. and considered her- self superior to ignorant, common farmers. She was learned in botany, and, with lofty airs, told Farmer D— she knew every plint that grew. The farmer coming from the field one day, plucked a cluster of blossoms and earried them to the house. “Do you know these blossoms ?” he asked of ber. “Oh. yes, of course I do,’ she replied. “They are NAT CAREY. very rare; and so beautiful—too sweet for anything. I am perfectly familiar with these flowers; I know all about plants; these grow on trees in the woods.” What is their name?” asked Farmer D—, with a sly wink at his wife, who stood by, choking with laughter. . “Why—really—I can’t recall their botanical name just now; but [suppose you have some vulgar name for them.” f ; “Well,” replied Farmer D—, “we ignorant farms ers call them potato blossoms.” “You horrid thing!” cried she, spitefully, ‘‘to bring me such a mean old weed!” She cut short her visit and returned to town. Etchings. gues thoughts and first mortgages are always est. _A WASHINGTON clerk who had a keg of specie drop on his fingers is one of the few people who ever had too much eash on hand. ““PLuG hats cause baldness,” says an exchange. We don’t believe it. Take a watermelon, for in- stance. That is bald long before it is old enough to have a plug. _ He cometh not,” she said, and she was quite right. he didn’t arrive. His intentions were com- mendable, but they failed to successfully combat the bull-dog that was screened in the moon-kissed shrubbery. “Doctor, do you think I have arrived at the years Of GBC Renn ? “No, miss, nor do I think you ever will. A POET being censured for quitting his lodgings somewhat abruptly, was told he ought to be ashamed of thus running away. ‘Pshaw!” replied the bard; we poets must be indulged in our flights.” ‘Doctor, I is anxious to understand de nature ob my complaint.” ‘“‘Whew! ’Tis berry unfortunate you hab come to me intime. You see, you hab got de inflammation ob de bronchial tubes, dat acts on de flaxon logus digitous pedis, and dis has ended in de confirmed delirium tremens for sartin. I’se de only doctor dat possesses sufficient understand- ing ob de fluxibilities of de human system what can cure you.” ‘Shades of natur! am it possible ?” CLYDE RAYMOND. Thrown In. “What do you ask for nicely cooked beefsteak, well done, with onions ?” ‘Twenty cents.” ‘And the gravy ?” Oh, we don’t charge anything for the gravy.” ‘How much do you charge for bread ?” ‘We throw in the bread.” ‘So you throw in bread and gravy ?”’ “Certainly.” .,rhen bring me some bread and gravy. I never did care much for meat.” A Wild Time. “You make me think,” John Williams said, dropping upon a sofa beside a pretty girl, on Sun- day evening, “of a bank whereon the wild thyme grows. _ ‘DoI?” she murmured; “‘it is so nice, but that is pa’s step in the hall, and unless you can drop out of the front window before I cease speaking, you'll have,a little wild time with him, my own, for he loves you not.” “His descent was rapid. Pure and Chaste. Speaking of a_ prominent politician, one friends remarked: “Yes, sir, 1 have known him for twent He is as pure as snow and as chaste as ice.” I don’t know much about his purity,” said a second party, “but you can just gamble on it that he is chased worse than any man in town. Why, I have chased him for a five-dollar account he owes me for the last year myself.” Lost! A sky-blue-pink dog, six pounds high in his bare feet, lame in right eve, wears one pink eye, and the other in a glass jar at the druggists’. His nose turns a trifle to the left-hand side of the street. Any one who sees this dog wiil please get over the near- est fence and not have him wearing out his_teeth, for I paid $10-for them. B Mirthful Morsels. “If you attempt to squeeze any solid body it will always resist pressure,” said the professor. The class smiles and cites examples of exceptions which prove the rule, : : ., Why is an apple pie like abad dollar? Because it is not currant. A very old lady on her death-bed, in penitential mood, said: “I have been a great sinner more than eighty years, and didn’t know it.” An old colored woman, who had lived with her along time, ex- claimed, ‘Laws, I knowed it all the time.” The time to take an unruly lot of children out on a sail—when there is a spanking breeze. A woman woke her husband during a storm the other night and said: “I do wish you would stop snoring, for I want to hear it thunder.” Has the “‘tide of events” anything to do with the “current of public opinion?” ~ When the young man read that the French call sun-stroke coup de soleil, and that it was usually fatal in France, he murmured: ‘Coup de sole heel! Usually fatal? No wonder. The coup of the old man’s sole heel nearly fetched me!” Why isa turnpike-gate like a dead dog’s tail? Beeause it stops a-waggin’, A furrier wishing to inform his customers that he recast their old furs, wound off his advertisement as follows: ‘‘N. B.—Capes, victorines, etc., made up a’ ladies in fashionable styles, out of their own skins.” _ Does loss of sleep make a man look worn because it takes the nap out of him. A hardy seaman who had escaped one of the re- cent shipwrecks on our coast, was asked by a good lady how he felt when the waves broke over him. He replied: “‘Wet, ma’am; very wet.” To P. P. CONTRIBUTORS.—The following articles are de- clined: ‘A Modern Munchausan,” ‘‘Peabody on Pelitics,”’ “His Sentiments,” “‘A Plain Talk with Readers,” “A New Mother Shipton,” “A Musical Duel,” ‘““How the Money Goes,” “Mrs. O’Holagan and the Landlord,” “Take a Hand and Mouth In It,” “A Good Shot.” —_—_——_————__ > 9 —+___—__- Items of Interest. An Italian priest named Ravaglia has constructed electrical apparatus which can be set in operation by sim- ply pressing a button, and by which the doors of a large building can be instantaneously opened. The apparatus was tried at the Alighieri Theater, in Ravenna, with the most satisfactory result. All the nine doors opened simul- taneously, asif through some spiritual agency. The in- ventor hopes to improve his apparatus, so that should a fire break out on the stage of a theater the rise in temper- ature would of itself set the machinery in motion. of his years. A good story comes from Geneva concerning a lady and gentleman who recently arrived there, and found all the hotels so full that they ultimately were accommo- dated with a bath-room turned into abed-chamber. Dur- ing the night the husband, wishing to call for a light, pulled a cord attached to the wall under the impression that ‘he had gut hold of the bell-rope. The immediate response was adeluge of cold water. Monsieur and madame yelled for help, bringing out crowd of guests and waiters in all sorts of light and airy costumes. Tableau. A lovely Brooklyn lady, tripped daintily down the dining-room of the Mansion House, half smiling at the admiring glances cast by the men at her white neck and arms, as they shone through the flimsy meshes of her lace overwaist. Two visitors from the interior of Long Island were transfixed at the lavish and unaccustomed display of feminine loveliness; lutone of them recovered sufficient- ly to remark: “Well, by gosh, if I had a dress like that l’d wear an undershirt.” A San Francisco tailor by the name of Felix Ever- asts lately committed sucicide with the aid of a revolver. The entire crown of the man’s skull was found fifty feet from the rest of tlie body, and the mutilation was such as could not have been produced by ordinary ammunition. The theory generally adopted is that the sucicide put in a heavy charge of powder and over that a thick wad, and then filled the barrel with water. The habitual use of arsenic. to beautify the com- plexion, only causes a temporary clearness of the skin, which afterwards assumes a puffy, dropsical appearance. For this reason, ladies who have sense will not use arsen- ic for that purpose. A Montreal gentleman, who has been harassed by a prolonged suit at law for possession of an estate valued at $50,000 which was rightfully his own, is said-to have been made insane by the news of its termination in his favor. A young Belgian woman who lately died be- queathed her entire fortune, valued at about $200,000, to the Belgian Army. Ten regiments, however, by special designation, are cut off from the inheritance. An audacious lady, wishing to gain credit for generosity she did not possess, removed the card attached to acostly gift ata wedding reception, and substituted her own eard. Astoria, N. Y., is to have a home for indigent Bap- tist ministers.