“THE SOCIETY DETECTIVE.” BY OSCAR MAITLAND, NEXT WEEK

 

Hintered According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1884, by Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Connress. Washinaton. D.C ——~Entered at the Post Offic xewYork. as Second Class Matter.

 

 

ANCE.

 

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Office

Vol. 39.

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

 

 

 

A WOMAN'S RESOLUTION.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

Well, let him go! What dol care

For his luminous eyes and his dark-brown hair,
And his teeth of pearl, and his form of grace,
And the smile that lights up his handsome face ?
He may go and stay! I will let him see

That he cannot make a plaything of me.

There are plenty others on this fair earth

With sense to appreciate beauty and worth.

He shall see I have pride! What, must I bow,
And dread the frown on his lordship”s brow ?
Must I give way to his petty airs,

And try to soothe him with tears and prayers?
I loved him once, but the spell is o’er—

I never will see the creature more.

A ring at the door the lady hears,

And hastily wiping away her tears,

She listens to learn who it may be

That calls to disturb her reverie.

Fast beats her heart, and her pale cheeks glow

With life’s red tide as she murmurs low,

««°Tis Charley’s voice! He has come to explain!

I think I wili see kim, just once, again !”
————

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.)

THE CHILD BRIDE:

Wife of Two Husbands

By CARRIE CONKLIN,

AUTHOR OF

“The Banker’s Foe,” “Lady Leonora,’ etc.

CHAPTER I.
AUNT DOROTHY’S WARNING.

Thewsun had gone down, and the stars shone
very faintly in the dull October sky; the shut-
ters were still unclosed, and the fire burned low
in the dining-room at No. 17 Clarges street,
London. The dusky embers made flickering
shadows on the wall, but Sir Henry Selton did
not ring for lights; he sat in deep reverie, with
an open letter in his hand.

He was a handsome man of five-and-forty, |
rich, anda bachelor. That luxurious house in |
the heart of Mayfair, where the slaves of fash- |
ion live in dingy dwellings, and pay fabulous |
prices for the privilege of living uncomfortably, |
was but one of his many possessions.- He had
every pleasure that might have stirred his jaded
fancy, and yet-for ten long years or more exist-
ence had given him nothing but weariness.

A dreamer sometimes, an idler always. selfish
by habit, generous by impulse, careless of
friends, and cold to womankind, he was rarely
moved out of his listless way. There were those
who said hehad no emotion, and never had pos-
sessed any. Certainly those who knew finn
best would not have believed that he could have
been so moved by a letter from a man he had not |
seen for twenty years.

“Things seem to have gone hard with poor old
Medhurst,” he mused, as he rang the bell for
lights; “but he always was a sanguine, helpless |
kind of a mortal. It’s an odd thing that his re- |
minder of my promise should take that shape.”

A well-trained servant, one of those who can
move quietly without irritating a_ sensitive
nerve by being stealthy, entered with a mode-
rator—gas was an abomination that had no
place in Sir Henry Selton’s dwelling.

“You rang for the lamp, Sir Henry ?”

“Yes, Palmer.”

‘Are you at home this evening?”

“To General Gunter—no one else.”

Palmer withdrew.

Sir Henry Selton read the letter over again.
By the postmark on the envelope, which lay on
the table, it had come from india.

“Long before you get this,” it began, ‘‘I shall
be at peace—that is to say, if one whose spirit
was ever at home on the banks of the Thames
or the Isis can rest in peace by the dull, wide
ditch they call the Ganges. You remember our
old metaphysical arguments, Harry, and your
Germanized idea that after death the soul would
wander back to its chosen places?

‘“‘Madelon died two years ago. Did you see
the announcement, and did the ‘friends will
kindly accept this intimation’ touch you at all?
She talked of you frequently on her death- |
bed. I can write so calmly of that time, because
Iam wiser; and let me confess to you, Harry,
that after all the phases I have gone through,
beginning with the ologies and ending with in-
fidelity, [have begun again to find much com-
fort in the old. simple faith that death—grim
old sentinel, nghting for me against my own
sense—will lead me to her.

“We talked of you frequently—of that even-
ing when you, chivalric gentleman and noble
friend, found out that we loved each other—|
how in my presence you took both her hands |
and said, ‘You havechosen Jack Medhurst, Mad-
elon, and if I had not loved you myself, he is the |
man I would have chosen for you; but Heaven
bless you both, and remember that now, or in |
fifty years to come, you may rely upon measa!
true old friend in everything you may require.’

“Do the words seem strange, Harry—yourown
words—written after a lapse of more than
twenty years? Isthe college chum changed so |
much that the baronet will
them? I will not think so, and so, Harry, to |
come to my request,

“You were abroad whenI received my ap- |
eos for India, though I knew whose kind |

and made it so good and so easy stepped into. |
Madelon came out with me, but we had to leave
our child behind—a little girl eighteen months
old then, nearly eighteen years now. Why did
we leave her? you ask, and why did we not
fetch her afterwaid? Well, the doctors said
that the voyage would kill her. When we were |
out, others were born and Madelon could not |
leave them. Time passed, the babes sickened
and died, one after the other, and she broke
down underit; and just when she died I was
thinking about bringing her home and settling
down on my pension and the little I had saved, |
with our one darling, who had been taken care |
of for us in Engiand. |

“In these last two years, Harry, I have lost |
everything. Brandy and dice have had their

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revenge onme. If you ask me why I went to
them, I point to the graves of my children and
my wife, and tell you that,in the midst of
strangers, they wereallI had. Miriam is father.

less—or will be before you receive this; she is |

enniless, too, living on the scanty income of

lands, a little village in Herefordshire.

‘So, there is my legacy, Harry—a pretty, ill-
trained child, if they have told me the truth,
bronght up in a cottage, educated by a rustic
schoolmaster, and finished by the aunt in aues-
tion. Forthe sake of ‘auld Jang syne,’ Harry,

you will take care of poor Jack Medhurst’s |

atte one, and do with her whatever may seem
est."

Thus the letter ended. It was writtenina
faint, impetuous, straggling hand, and in the
somew hat sad—altogether characteristic—word-
ing Sir Henry Selton could almost trace the
changes that had come upon the chosen friend

| of his early manhood—the friend whom he had

forgiven for taking away his one and only
dream of happiness.

Yes, the batonet remembered Madelon, as
some men remember the only love. He had seen
others since, as fair in face, as true in heart,

but the time was past, and they could_not stir |

the depths of his jaded fancy. Since Madelon
went to find a grave by the dark waters of the
Indian river he had never met one who could
wake a thrve of the fierce, sweet tenderness he
had given to her.

“You will put afew things in my traveling-

case,” he said to Palmer, ten minutes a fterward, |
“and tell me what train to take for Rylands in |

the morning.”

“Rylands, my lord ?”

“Somewhere in Herefordshire—a dirty, little,
out-of-the-way place, I dare say, but I am
going.”

The yalet, entering deeply into the mysteries
of “Bradshaw’s Guide,” discovered that Rylands

| was a small village, four miles from Longford

station. The first train was at fifteen minutes
past nine,
“But there is a second at half-past two,” he

have forgotten | suggested, with a tone which apologized for |

having mentioned the first unseemly hour.

“T shall go by the nine-fifteen,” said Sir Henry,
and he went.

He found Rylands, and he found the cottage
inhabited by Miss Dorothy Bond, Miriam Med-
hurst’s guide and mentor. The journey had
tired him, and it had made him hungry—so
hungry that, doubting what might be the do-
mestic arrangements at Primrose Cottage, he
took the precaution to go to the Ryland Arms
for refreshment,

“Is there a lady named Bond in this neigh-
borhood?” he asked of the landlord, who, im-

ressed by the aristocratic stamp of his guest,
10vered about him with a servility that made
the baronet inclined to kick him out of the
room.

‘Yes, sir. Primrose Cottage—lived there this
thirty years.”

“Ah! andachild of whom she has care—a
relative.”

It was just likely that John Medhurst might
not have written to his relatives for years, and
when he wrote the letter to Sir Henry did not

| know whether they were living or dead.
| “There is a young lady, sir. Miss Medhurst—
| not a child, sir; why, it’s twelve months or more

| her aunt, a quaint and antiquated spinster even | since there was something said about her and |
las I remember her. You will find them at Ry- | Mr. Grey, the squire’s son, who was sent away |

| in consequence, and Miss Bond took the young
| lady away, too. They did say—”

“What did they say ?”
| “Nothing, sir,” said the landlord, suddenly
|struck with the possibility that he might be
|saying too much. ‘There’s always scandal in
little places like this.”

Sir Henry asked no further questions.

“Some boy and girl flirtation,” he thought,
“that this small country squire very wisely
stopped at the outset.
| from Miss Pond.”
| He made a substantial luncheon
| water in preference to a half-bottle of wine,
| which he ordered and paid for.

There was no conveyance to be had at the
| station or in the town, except a rusty open car-
riage and a horse with a nibbled hide. The bar-
| onet walked in preference.

Though he had taken little notice of the inn-
keeper’s words, they made him uneasy as he
went along. Sir Henry Selton had no faith in
the unsophisticated innocence that is supposed
| to exist in rural places,
| himself the danger that might grow from an in-
timacy between an untanght child and the son
of a man who, doubtless, thought her beneath
him in position.

;. But his latent fear vanished when he saw
| Miriam. He knew her by her resemblance to
her mother, and his heart yearned toward her.
Like the lost Madelon, and yetso unlike; as
| beautiful, but with a different kind of beauty—
tall, dark, and willowy, with large, sleepy eyes,
a sorrowful look in them, asif the young life
had been already clouded,
| “Miriam,” he said, kindly, ‘‘no need. to ask
| you now, poor child, have you heard from
| India ?”
Her large eyes filled with tears, and she
| pointed to a letter and a newspaper that lay
| side by side on the unpolished table. On the
| uppermost portion of the paper was a paragraph
marked out by a line of ink.
| “At Gossapore,” it ran, “John Medhurst, Esq.,
| aged forty-five.”
‘Poor child!” he said again—he who had loved
Madelon could speak with parental tenderness
‘to her danghter—‘‘I have cometv take you home
| with me.”
“You are Sir Henry Selton ?”
“Ves ”

He drew her to his breast, kissing her soft red

i lips, and she wept upon his shoulder. Aunt

Dorothy, sitting grim and silent in the corner,

| surveyed them gravely through her spectacles.

| There was little love in the glance she cast upon
| her niece.

“T will be to her what John Medhurst ought

to have been,” the baronet said to himself.

|“This beautiful girl has no right to be here in

I shall hear the truth }

of home- |
cured ham and cold fowl, drinking clear spring |

He could picture to |

a false position, and in the midst of the dangers

that belong to it. Iam glad that I ean do this

service for my poor old friend, thongh Heaven
| knows it is the last lever thought he would
ask of me. Can you be ready soon, Miriam?
There is a train at five o’clock, and it is nearly
three now.”

‘Yes, Sir Henry.”
| “You must find some other name for me, my

child. The formal title that my friends and
servants give me sounds oddly from your lips.
I want you to love me as you would have loved
your father.”
| “TI never saw my father; but Ishould have
| loved him had he been like you.”

It was the only answer of its kind that she
| could make to his remark, yet it did not please
him altogether.

‘‘Ag you learn to know me better we shall find
|a@name, Miriam, Do not be long; we have four
miles to walk.”

“T shall be ready in a few minutes; I have
/not much to pack,” she said, with a sigh, and a
| glanee at her merino dress—plain and gray, like

her aunt’s, but it could not hide the splendid
outline of her figure.

The baronet noticed that the girl and the
| grim lady in the corner were prepared to_part
with no great regret on either side. Miss Bond
had not spoken since the first few words she
uttered when he entered; but, as the door closed
on Miriam. she pointed to a chair. .

“You are undertaking a serious charge, Sir
Henry Selton,” she said, beginning without cer-
emony, and speaking in the hard, hollow voice
which seems the familiar property of those who
have never spoken gently to a husband, ora
husband’s little one. “You will have to guard
her with a watchful eye.”

“You may leave her to me in perfect safety,
Miss Bond.”

“Ah, you think so in your pride of heart; but
she has caused me bitter trouble, although I
brought her up in love and fear of this——”

She brought her gaunt hand heavily down

‘upon the open leave of a large-print Bible, and
said:

‘Would you like to hear ?”’

“Nothing against the daughter of poor John
Medhurst,” he said, gently, ‘‘Nothing against
the child of Madelon. She will have good
teachers, Miss Bond. She will be educated and

sared for as becomes my ward.”

‘Miriam needs no education, Sir Henry Sel-
ton—that has been my care. Now that I am
near threescore, I may say that I, like her, was
called beautiful in my time. I could speak in
foreign tongues, and play and sing. I hada

| voice as sweet as hers, and mensought after me,
but I knew the wickedness of their ways, and

| always sought my consolation here.”

Again the gaunt hand fell upon the Bible.

| ‘Poor Miriam!’ thought Sir Henry. “She has
had astern teacher. No wonder that her large
eyes look so sorrowful.”

| ‘You are poor, Miss Bond,” he began, ‘John

; Medhurst told me so, and you will let me look

| after your future——”

“JT have enough—lI take no charity.”

“Your pardon, madam; I did not mean——”

n that struck a chill to him.

 

 

 

She waved her hand impatiently.

“T would never have refused Miriam Med-
hurst the shelter of my roof, though the path of
sin is not new to her. Take her, stranger as
you are, for what she is, but see that she does
not blight another’s heart.”

“Madam!”

“T have no more to say. I have warned you.”

‘Tt is unnecessary,” he said, quietly. ‘I have
already heard 4

“What ?”

“Everything. Remember, Miss Bond, that
one year ago she was buta child, and what
passed between her and Mr. Grey was buta
childish indiscretion.”

“Tf you think no more of it than that, Heaven
help you both!”

Sir Henry took his hat.

“T will return soon,” he said, glad to get away
from that grim presence, with its hard perver-
sion of the creed, and its ungentle voice. ‘TI
will stroll through the village till Miriam is
ready.”

“He has heard everything,” muttered Aunt
Dorothy, “‘and yet he takes her to his home—to
his heart. Does he know everything, or does he
put his own interpretation on afew chance
words picked up on the way ?”

CHAPTER II.
MRS. MAJOR DIGBY.

Miriam had no farewells to make to Rylands, and, by
the time the baronet had smoked a cigar in the damp
dust of the narrow lane, she was waiting at the door
with a little shabby trunk, which contained her worldly
possessions.

Sir Harry had pondered over Aunt Dorothy’s warning,
and thought it strange; but whatever suspicions it
might have given rise to took flight when he recalled
the lovely face, with the large, sorrowful. eyes and the
soft, red lips, that had kissed him so fondly. Then, as
in his sight she grew more and more like her mother,
the croaking of a gaunt and withered woman had little
weight with him.

“She is one of those sternly righteous women who
think the world should be a vale of tears,” he reflected,
‘and do their best to make it so—one of those who hate
to hear the pretty prattle of a child, and find sounds of
sin in the merry laughing of a girl. She would make me
believe that my little Miriam committed a heinous
crime, because, perhaps, she romped with and kissed
this scape-grace son of a half-bred country squire. I
am glad I came to take her away before the grim old
lady crushed her spirit.”

He threw away the stump of his cigar, and went back
to the cottage, pleased to see the eager face waiting at
the door. He smiled as he pointed to the shabby little
trunk with his tasseled cane—tasseled canes were a
touch of dandyism rather in yogue five-and-thirty years
ago.

‘‘What have you in that, Miriam ?”

“My wardrobe,” she said, with a slight tinge of bit-
terness, “my work-box, and a few books—nothing
more; they will remind me of old times. The carrier’s
cart will pass here presently—can we send the trunk
by that ?”

“‘Any way you please, Miriam. Have you said good-by
to your aunt ?”

The hard, hollow voice answered for her.

“Yes. AllI wish to say to her and you, Sir Henry Sel-
ton, is farewell to both; and whatever may happen, re-
member I have warned you.”

“Good-afternoon, Miss Bond,” he said, so courteously,
that she was compelled to-rise and return his salutation.

He saw then that she had not boasted idly about her

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

SER

beauty in her youth. There w. P
figure still, despite its age and features—the remains otf
striking beauty in her face, despite the deep, hard lines
and resolute mouth.

The carrier’s cart did not come, and Sir Henry had to
beckon a rough-headed youth out of an adjoining field,
and put a temporary stoppage to his lively occupation—
picking stones out of plowed ridges.

“Carry that box to Longford station,” said the baronet,
“and sit upon it till we come. You shall have half a
crown for your trouble.”

The lad shouldered the shabby trunk, and trudged on
in front, proud of his task, and glad in the anticipation
of his reward. The poor fellow had to toil six days out
of seven from dawn fill sunset to earn such a sum.

As the baronet gave Miriam his arm, and they started
on the journey, the door of Primrose Cottage was closed
by a steady hand, and Miss Bondshut herself in with
her loneliness and her Bible. She had turned its pages
over from the first page to the last, and read every line
and every syllable, day by day, for nearly forty years,
turning back to the first page when the last was finish-
and gathering a sort of strength, but no comfort,
from what she read. Her favorite texts were those
which tell us that all men are liars, and the wages of
sin is death. For the gentler, better teaching she had
no mercy. :

Sir Henry and Miriam walked down the narrow lane
leading to the station, he refrained from mentioning any
topic which might have induced her to begin the confi-
dence that was ready to brim over in her soul. The girl
had her father’s instincts and her mother’s nature, and
both prompted her to love such a man as this, and trust
in him implicitly.

He talked to her of many things—such things as she
thought only existed in her imagination and her stolen
books.

He took a reserved compartment for her and himself—
firstly that he might not be seen traveling with one

whose attire was so strange by comparison with his |

own; chiefly that he might study the sweetly sorrowful
face, and read its history at his leisure.

She soon began to talk of herself, and of her life at Ry-
lands. It had always been the same. She was so willing
to idolize her father. Aunt Dorothy had never spoken of
him except in terms of disparagement—he was thrift-
less ; he was extravagant and worldly, according to Miss
Bond’s merciless creed.

“Aunt Dorothy was not very kind to you, Miriam ?”

‘Kind—in her way.” '

“In her way—yes} but hers is such an austere way
that I should think her unkindness would be prefer-
able. Why was she so angry with you about a certain
Mr. Grey ?”

«J don’t know, except that she said I was too yo
to think of such nonsense,” said Miriam, innocently.

«Were you fond of him ?”

“J thought so then,” she answered, with a far-off look
in her dark eyes.

“Ts it so long ago that your ideas have changed? Tell
me, my child, why was he sent away ?” ‘

“They bought him a commission in the army so that
we should not see each other any more.”

“Because they thought you were not his equal,” said
the baronet, with a slight frown. ‘It would be dit-
ferent now. What if I go and see this proud squire, and
hele four lover brought back—would it not make you

a r?
N no, no!” she said, with a quick, frightened ges-
“J would not see him again for the world!”

She despises him for leaving her,” he thought, by
no means displeased that there was to be no other
claimant on her affection. «Itis as Il expected—a mere
boy and girl flirtation. Sheis just atthe age whena
year makes a great difference. The hero of seventeen
is apt to be a dull personage when viewed through a
sober retrospect of twelve months.”

Sir Henry took his ward to Clarges street, and told
Mrs. Sanders, the housekeeper, to prepare a suite of
rooms for Miss Medhurst. It did not seem to him, till
he got home, that he had undertaken a serious re-

bility. He had no lady friends; no one to play
propriety ; no companion for his protegee ; and for the
time he had to throw himself upon the merey of Mrs.

Sanders..

eee will stay here,” he said to Palmer, to
whom delegated the task of acquainting the house-
keeper with the impending change in his arrangements.
“Tell Sanders to send me a dressmaker in the morning’;

”

‘You have a bad habit of gliding out of the room be-
fore I have finished spe Write out an advertise-
ment for the Times. I want a middle-aged gentle-
woman to undertake the education of a young lady
whose education has been neglected. You know the
kind of thing I mean.”

Mr. Palmer comprehended perfectly. The dressmaker
came in the morning, and received a carte blanche. The
advertisement eee in the Times, and on the day of

ranges nt e postman delfvered a deluge of letters
street.

Sir Henry set hi lf leisurely to their perusal with
the stoicism of a martyr.

He shuddered to think what might have been the re-
sult if his thoughtful valet had not taken the precau-
tion to inform the applicants. per advertisement, that
they were to apply in the first instance by letter only,
oan street would have been in a genteel
state i;

siege

In the midst of his work, while he was slitting envel-
opes at the top with his penknife, and growing bewil-
dered oyer the contents of the letters, the door opened,
and i announced General Gunter.

Never came better man at better time. The general
was six years Sir Henrys senior, and you would have
taken. for an old soldier at any time and in any
dress. It is possible that to his military aspect the gen-
eral owed his rapid promotion—a prominent chest, an
erect carriage of the head, and a severe eye, backed by
patronage, are the inevitable elements of success.

“Well, general, yousee I am busy. Will you help me

aa oy th ly. “Why did

“T came on purpose,” was the reply. ‘‘Why you
not apply to me at the outset, duck spare yourselt all
that trouble? I know the very woman you require.”

The baronet smiled. General Gunter was an invalu-
able man to his friends. He knew everything and eyery-
body, always had the latest gossip at his fingers’ ends,
was indefatigable in making club-talk, and did much
harmless mischief in his own way; but he was good-
hh —that was universally said of him.

«| know the very woman,” he said, sitting down—
“you may ring:for a seltzer and_ brandy, Selton—a
cheasnine person in her day—poor Digby’s widow, you

now.” :

«7 had not the pleasure of knowing Digby.”

“Digby of ours—sold out by the money-lenders three
Se ago, you know—died. All the Jews got off well.

‘en to one she has written to you.”

“Tf you know her handwriting, look and see,” said
Selton, pushing the mass of correspondence toward him.

“The prettiest hand, the briefest letter—that will be
hers,” said General Gunter, going through the letters as
Se they were a pack of cards; ‘‘and here it is, by

ove!”

He pulled out one, and threw it down with the tri-
umphant air of a whist-player making the odd trick.

“There! Shall I read it ?”

“By all means.”

“ Mrs. Major Digby presents her compliments to the adver-
tiser, and begs to inform him thatshe is wae. to undertake
oO

“e

such duties as are mentioned. References e Duchess of
Gifford, Lady Pedlington, ete. Address

“And you know her ?” asked Sir Henry, looking alittle
doubtfully at the warrior.

“Yes; stood her friend in Digby’s affair, you know—
mediated between them.”

“What is her age ?”

“She confesses to forty, and is still presentable ; but
her character is irreproachable, and a young bachelor like
yourself can have her in your house without risking
your reputation. Seriously, Selton,” said the general,
“you could not do better. She is the most elegant and
accomplished woman of her time.”

“The most elegant and accomplished woman of her
time” was engaged next day at a liberal consideration.
He did not like to offend the several and he could give
no valid reason why he would rather not have had Mrs.
Major Digby in his house ; but he stood by when he had
introduced Miriam to her, and as the lady looked at her
charge, the blonde and faded beauty of her face took an
expression that struck a chill to him.

“You will have a very docile pupil,” he said. ‘and she
will be entirely in your charge, Mrs. Digby.”

“Sweet child,” and the lady’s blue eyes fixed them-
selves On Miriam wlth a covert smile ; ‘I feel already
as if I had known her for quite along time. I hope you
will like me, dear.”

Miriam faltered out an affirmative ; but she was deadly
pale. She went to her room as soon as she could get
away, and then she burst into a passionate fit of silent

“That woman, of all others,” she said, under her
breath. <The only one, besides Aunt Dorothy, who
could tell him of——”

Then she stopped, the word unspoken. Whatever it
was, it deepened the sorrowful look of her large dark
eyes, and she sat brooding, almost in despair; and
after a while she rose and paced the room with a firm,
defiant footstep.

“Let her beware,” the girl muttered; “let her be-
a for, if she comes in my way, I will have no pity
on her.”

CHAPTER III.
THE SHABBY TRUNK.

The girl sat down to think, with her heavy forehead
in her hands. Brief as the time was since she left
Rylands, Miriam had begun to be happy under her
guardian’s tender care. The past, with all its bitterness,
was fading till this woman came.

“T am sure she recognized me,” Miriam reflected. “TI
recollect her cold, pale eyes so well; Lrecollect her pre-
tended pity, her hypocrisy, and how she talked as it all
her life had been saint-like ; I hated her even then for
her false yee put I did not think she would ever
come in my way like this.”

The little shabby trunk that Miriam had brought with
her had been placed under the bed by her request.
Placing a trunk under a bed was such a very humble
and ill-bred pene that the housekeeper felt in-
clined to expostulate ; but Miriam insisted, and there
it was.

She went to it now, opened it, and drew out several
things—some letters tied round with a piece of ribbon,

a small white cap, a tiny embroidered robe, and a tinier
pair of worsted shoes knitted by her own loving hands
| fora little one who had cost her many a tear.

| tionate; but in the cottage which had been her home |

| never think of worldly pleasure; she made the girl at-

| after sunset.

the relics with glistening eyes. “I never can forgive |
Aunt Dorothy. She would not tell me where to find my |
cae: though my heart was breaking when I asked |
er to.’
Putting them gently back into the trunk, Miriam |
began to read the letters, picking out from the many
a few that seemed to have a special interest. They
were all in the same hand, and addressed to Miss Med-
hurst, Rylands.
The girl had read and wept over them many times; |
now she read them without a tear.
‘“J shall be with you again in six months’ time,’ she

said, repeating the words that ended. one, ‘‘‘and then | begin

we can make all known. I always think of you, my |
darling—I always think of you.’ How the tone changes
as he goes on,” muttered Miriam; aloud. ‘This in
which he says so little 6f me, and so much of what he
is doing.”

These letters were the history of her young life, and
as she read them her young life seemed a long one,
She had barely turned eighteen, and it waS a very early
age at which to have gone through love's feverish dream
—known its bitterest pam, its most passionate joy.

Brought up under the rigid discipline of her aunt, and
having no companions of her own age, her fettered im-
pulses had grown of their own strength. She had a
strange nature—deep, self-reliant, yet gentle and affec-

there was no outlet for a loving word.
Aunt Dorothy trained Miriam-after her own fashion,
tried to teach her to do everything in humility, and

tend to the household duties, and never allowed her out
Miss Bond had an idea that no folly, sin,
or mischief could take place in the daylight.

It was in her daylight rambles that Miriam met Tal-
bot Grey. He was a handsome young Oxonian, in his
one-and-twentieth year, a scholarly gentleman, and a |;
rich man’s son, handsome, and too good-hearted to let |
the lax principles of college associates spoil him. If he |
had the vices common to men of his age and means, he |
had the grace to keep them away from home and be
ashamed of them everywhere. |

He met Miriam frequently, and she was always alone. |
By her plain dress and childish face he might have
thought. her an ordinary village girl ;.but the thought-
ful beauty of that childish face, and her high-born, un-
conscious dignity of bearing told him she was nothing
of the kind.

There was the charm of novelty in meeting such a
girl in such a place. Young as he was, he had seen
society, had formed society’s idea of what he had seen.
It was not his fault that he had very little faith in a
poor man’s honesty or a poor girl’s purity. The rich,
who know how hard it is to be pure and honest in spite
of their wealth, had infiuenced him with their impres-
sion that neither could exist in those who were hourly
e€ to temptation.

t was left to Miriam to instruct him in a new belief.
He found that the girl of sixteen years, living in a cot-
tage with a ni 7 aunt, had a high, pure intellect,
and an unsullied spirit, which changed him from a
trifling flatterer into an earnest, respectful lover. They
met in secret, and the dream was sweet until it ended—
ended in shame to her, people said, when her aunt took
her away for a few months, and Talbot Grey was sent
abroad by his father.

Nothing was known, though much was rumored. Gos-
sip pointed a slanderous finger at the poor, sad-eyed
child, who returned with her grim relative soon r
Grey departed. She did not go out as formerly ; her
rambles were prohibited. She had a secret to Keep, and
much misery to bear. Aunt Dorothy never gave her a
kind word. :

Talbot's letters were all she lived for. These were full
of glowing love at first. He hated himself for his cow-
ardice*in going away. He would work for her. He
would rather they should live together than be sepa-
rated. He would defy his father, and set fate at scorn,
so that he might be with his darling, and so on, through
every stroke and every page—burning words written
from a burning heart.. But hearts do not burn, and pas-
sion does not last forever.

The elder Mr. Grey was sufficiently worldly wise when
he sent his son to a gay regiment, and supplied him
Ne ee so that he might hold his head with the
proudest.

«Let him have a liberal purse,” the old man reflected.
“Let him drink, and gamble, and go into every kind of
gentlemanly sin, till he is sick of wine and sated of
women. He will settle down by and by, and we shall
have gained our great point—Talbot will have forgotten
his disgraceful fancy for a Village girl—soear home, too.”

That was the sting of it—“so near home!” At the
distance of a hundred miles—at any distance wheré bit-
ter facts would be faint rumors—Talbot Grey might have
given the shameful heart-ache to as many poor girls as
he pleased. His father, like an old mo English gen-
tleman, would never have inte x

This plan succeeded so far, apparently, that Talbot's
letters grew less frequent—shorter, and different in
tone. He took the style of his brother officers, and
learned to think little of what, in their elegant and evil
fashion, they termed a liaison. What if, in plain,
strong English, it meant infamy to a girl and ruin to a
Lo ? Officers and gentlemen were used to that kind
of thing.

He learned to laugh with the rest—learned to speak
lightly with them—learned to smile when they bantered

about that ‘little affair at Rylands,” and asked if
there was not a big brother in the way. -

That li affair at Rylands—the girl who had gone to
him with her first full, earnest passion—the girl who
never went to sleep without praying for him and their
little one—the girl who kept their secret, and was con-
tent to be pointed at as at of shame, and wait for
the keeping of his promise!

The letters changed in tone. The six months passed,
and he was of age; but he did not go home. Rumors
reached her of a beautiful and titled lady, to whom it
was said he was engaged, and in her deep faith she let
the rumor sink from her mind, as if it had never been.

But as time wore on, and the change deepened,
Miriam took his letters and reflected over them; the
words took new meanings when re-read. At first the
epistles were for her—only the postscripts touched upon

m and his companions; by degrees it came that the
endearing terms were in the postscripts—just a line or
two put in like an afterthought,

He did not return to Rylands. Their secret must still
be kept. He found that they acted unwisely, and he
blamed himself for having been so selfish. He feared
that their separation might be eternal, and if in his ab-
sence she formed new ties—was loved by another, a
nobler man—he would forgive her, and let her go, pray-
ing for her happiness.

That letter she read last of all now, while on her
knees, and ee. its meaning with the change which
had come upon him, she saw that its pretended self-
sacrifice was but a prelude to a contemptible course of
action. He would never return to her—he would ask
her to resign him.

«And I would let him go,” she said, under her breath;
“Jet him go go, and hate him all my life—pursue him—
be his Nemesis—drag him down. He does not think
how, in the long days of his absence, my heart has been
turned back upon itself. I am a woman—a Child no
longer—a woman, with a woman’s yearning for love, a
woman’s passion for revenge.”

Two little hands clapped softly together in applause,
followed the end of her faintly whispered words. She
turned and saw Mrs. Major Digby looking at. her—smil-
ing at her... ,

“My sweet child, what are you reciting? It sounded
like something from a play.”

“Something from what may be a tragedy, madam,”
said the gin. without changing her position.

She had been startled by the silent, stealthy entrance,
but she did not show it.. She put the letters and the
relics slowly back into the shabby trunk, locked it, and
rose quietly.

“T came to have a nice little chat, dear,” said Major |
Digby’s widow. ‘I have been talking to our charming
friend, Sir Henry.”

‘-T am tired to-night, Mrs. Digby.”

“My sweet, and it so early.”

es ou correctly understand your duties, madam ?”
asked Miriam, resting her head on the back of a chair,
witnout the least consciousness of the effect of grace
and power in her attitude.

“Perfectly, darling. You are ie snlgare, beautiful,
self-possessed ; but you need training—what shall we
call it ?—tinish ; and then you have a slight brusqueness,
not to say oddity, and you require a chaperon—a——”

‘Not in my own apartment, Mrs. Digby. As much
finish as you please, chaperonage as it may be needed,
intrusion never. We had better understand each other
at the beginning.”

5° Yeu.”

There was a cold flash in the widow’s pale-blue eyes.

“You dear, odd child.”

Every one was dear, and sweet, and charming, with
Mrs. Digby, and she was never more dangerous than
when she spoke caressingly.

“We had better understand each other at the begin- |
ning,” she said, sternly, after the second pause, ‘‘and we |
had better understand whether I am to be your friend or |
not. I know you, Miriam Medhurst.” |

“Well—or say you think you do.”

“I say Iam sure, sweet. Let me tell you a pretty little
story about a very young girl. whom I met——”

“Kighteen months ago,” put in Miriam, ‘when you, |
in your capacity as companion to a visiting lady for a
philanthropic institution, came to read the Scripture to
a very young girl who was thought to be dying. It was
in a nurse’s house in Fuller road, Camberwell, and the
dying girl had a baby by her side. That is what you
were going to say.”

“Part of it.”

«“T will tell you the rest, Mrs. Digby,” Miriam went on, |
with low voice and distinct articulation. ‘J am the girl
who was dyAng and the baby was nine.” |

Mrs. Major Digby gazed at her in silence. In those |
deep, dark eyes, in that pale, resolute face there was no
token of a tender, timid nature to be held in bondage. |

«} will tell you more,” Miriam said ; ‘‘for I Can tell you |
what your motive was in creeping in upon me. You |
know that Sir Henry Selton has adopted me, and you |
think I shall one day be rich. You think, too, that you
might make terms with me for the keeping of my secrct
from him and from the world.”

‘Not make terms, dear; only, you see, if I am your |
friend and companion always, I can watch over you so
well.”

«And be a fetter to me—a specter—a shadow—a mis- |
ery! No, madam. I may tell you at the outset that |
my aunt told Sir Henry everything ; and that even if she |
bad not, the revelation would not benefit you.. Be my

 

 

 

 

 

|
friend if youiike. Stay with me, according to your en-
gagement. You know so much that you may as well be '

as stately grace in her| ‘Hard and stern to the last,” she mused, looking at | here as away, but do not make an enemy of me if you

are wise.”
“why?”
“There is sure to be some secret in such a life as
yours, Mrs. Major Digby.

it out.”

Mrs. Digby became deadly pale. There were pallid
lines round her well-cut mouth, and she could not
speak for amoment. Miriam did not give her time to

“T will find that secret out,” she repeated, with her

| White teeth set resolutely. ‘‘We are at war, and we will |

be at war; but it shall be on equal terms.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.]

———___—_ + F-@~<-

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

BRUGE ANGELO,

THE CITY DETECTIVE.

OR.

A GLIMPSE of LIFE IN NEW YORK. |

By OLD SLEUTH.

Author of ‘‘VAN, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE,” ETC.

“Bruce Angelo,” was commenced in No, 36. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XLV.
A FREE MAN.

After a moment the detective asked :

“Have you a young lady patient here named Grace
Luqueer ?” id

“No, sir!” came the prompt reply.

A shadow settled over the detective’s brow.

The doctor said, after a moment:

“The young lady for whom you inquired may be here
under another name. There is a beautiful young miss
here, who was placed under my charge by that fellow
there.”

The. bright look came once more to the face of Bruce
Angelo, and he said :

“That is enough. And now, doctor, please conduct
me to the room where Frank Baldwin is confined.”

The doctor told his assistant to keep an eye on Bru-
tone, and not to let him escape. ;

The fact was the doctor was preparing to save himself
and his institution from complicity in the forcible con-
finement of the two parties as lunatics.

Bruce Angelo was shown to the room where Frank

was confined, and was also furnished a duplicate key to
open the door at his convenience.

‘You may leave me alone, doctor.”

The manager of the asylum retired, and the detective
put his ear to the keyhole.

He had arrived at an opportune moment.

Voices were Overheard within.

cate will sign those papers or remain here until you
TO ae. , .

“JT will not sign them.”

“Then why did you write to me, offering to sign
them ?”

“At that time I was prepared to do,so, but since writ-
ing to i I have received certain information that leads
me to that I can get out of here without your aid.”

“Delusive hope! Young man, I have something to
tell you—to your wife, your friends, and the world you
are a dead man. And a dead man in one sense you will
remain until the day of judgment unless you sign these
papers. p

“J will not sign them.”

The detective looked through the keyhole and beheld
a blonde man, evidently reduced in flesh by men-
tal suffering, but a man who, at his best, did not have
the eer of ever haying been a person of any

at 8

“The doctor,” continued Weston, ‘‘has told me, as a
good joke, how you made an offer to him.”

A look of pain Came over the young man’s face.

‘He told me he had made certain promises to you to
humor you. He Says that in his experience he always
finds it better to humor crazy people.”

«The rascal!” ejaculated Frank Baldwin.

“Ah, no; he is not a rascal. He is an honest man,
who firm believes that:you are as mad as a loon.”

“He told me differently.”

“To humor you. He not believe a word you have
told him ; he does not believe you are an heir ; that you
could reward him with one penny. I tell you ‘he looks
upon you as a young man stark mad, and upon all lyour
mae as the ready fabrications of a diseased imagina-

on.”

«You made him believe this of me.”

‘JT enco him in the belief he had already
formed.”

‘Tam atyour mercy! YetI will not sign those papers.
I prefer to die here.”

“You do not’ wish to see your wife again ?”

“My wife! Oh, Heaven !”

«And your child !”

“My ¢ ! Does it live ?”

“Yes.”

«And my wife ?”
“Js beneath this roof!”
‘ “And you, a heartless wretch, had her confined
ere ?”
ee you sign the papers and free your wife and your-

“Oh! will you have no mercy !”

“T have a right to my share of this money.”

“J do not care for the money, but I do not wish to en-
courage you in your scheme of vi Pe

“Do not use harsh terms, or I will go away.
the last time, I ask, will you sign these papers ?”

“What guarantee have I that you will keep your word
if I do sign them ?”

“I would have no object in keeping you here after the
papers are signed.”

‘Will you swear to release me and my wife this very
night if I sign ?”

“Yes, I swear to release you and her.?

“7 will sign the papers, and it you fail me, may Heaven’s
curse rest upon you!”

“The papers are all ready,” and he placed the papers
before him. ‘Sign there !”

«Will you not permit me to read them ?”

«J have told you their conditions.”

‘But you may not have told metruly. I may be sign-
ing away my whole estate.”

“No; you are only signing away one half.”

Just as the wretched young man was about to sign
the documents, the door opened ; Bruce Angello entered
the room, and in a decided tone said :

«You will sign nothing, Frank Baldwin.”

James Weston turned and beheld the detective, and a

yell burst from his lips as he rushed toward the man who
ad defeated all his plans.

The detective did not seek to’ayoid him, but seized
him, and in an instant later the handcuffs were on
James Weston.

The man moaned and gnashed his teeth as the de-

tective turned to Frank, and said: ‘You are a free |

man.’

CHAPTER‘ XLVI,
THE GAME UP.

Frank Baldwin was not more than two and twenty, |

and, as intimated in a previous chapter, was a rather
smart, but effeminate and irresolute young man.

When the detective said to him ‘You are a free man,”
he answered with the inquiry :

“Who are you?”

“Tam a friend.”

“Do you know of my wife ?”

oy do.”

«And is she safe and well ?”

«She ts.”

«Thank Heaven! And my child ?”

«Your child is also safe and well.”

The detective narratedall the events that had followed
his incarceration in a lunatic asylum.

Frank Baldwin was astounded, and constantly inter-

rupted the detective with declarations of his thanks for |

the part he had played.

The detective went to the door and called in one of his
friends, whom he had ordered to follow him.

Frank Baldwin and James Weston were removed to
the office of the establishment.

The latter cursed and raved and threatened yen-
geance, but the detective paid no attention to him.

Betore being removed to the office Frank had said ;

«You will free my wife ?”

“Your wife is free.”

“You found her here in this building ?”

‘No; it was the face of your sister-in-law whom you
saw.”

The doctor had been ordered to await the detective,
and when the latter came out to the hall, after sending
Frank and his prisoner below stairs, he said :

“Lead me to the room where the young lady is con-
fined.”

As the two men proceeded along the halls, the doctor
said :

“JT trust you exonerate me from all complicity in any
villainy that has been carried on ?”

“We will maké inquiry, sir.” ;

“I can prove that I am an innocent man.”

“So much the better for you.”

They reached the room door and the doctor knocked.

The answer came :

‘Who is there ?”

«Are you prepared to see a visitor ?”

“Who is the visitor ?”

‘A friend.”

Upon hearing the sound of that voice the heart of the | cures Piles, Rheumatism, Neuralgia, Varicose Uleers and |
‘ Veins. '

detective beat with rapture.

Ican see that there is, just | voice exclaimed :
| aS plainly as I see the rouge on your faded cheek, the |
| false curls in your padded hair, the enamel on your |
} Shoulders, and the hypocrisy of your eternal, simpering |
| Smile. Iam sure that you have a secret, and I will find | She had recognized him as a friend’; the very fact of his |

| The brook’s faint swirl will calm the whirl of brains

Now, for |

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

|

|

ys motioned to the doctor to remain silent, and called
| out:

| “T am here, Miss Luqueer.”
| Atonce there came a glad shout from within, and a |

“T am saved! I am saved!”
The detective Was overjoyed.
The beautiful girl had at once recognized his voice. |

| presenee meant to her rescue and safety.
; “Can J come in ?” asked the detective.

| The door was opened. Bruce Angelo stepped into the |
| room, and in an instant a pair of lovely arms were |
| thrown over his broad shoulders, a lovely face was laid |
upon his bosom, and, in a yoice choked with emotion,

Grace exclaimed :
| “ABT you have come at last! I waited, watched, and |
| prayed tor your coming. good, great, noble man! I

knew you would come! I knew you would come!” |

The detective had dismissed the doctor before entering
the room.

“Yes, Miss Luqueer, I haye been searching for you |
ever since the hour I learned you were missing.”

“I knew you would! J knew you would! And, oh,
how I have watched and prayed for you to come!”

«Well, Iam here!”

“Yes, yes; and I am saved!
horrid place !”

“You shall go. I willtake you away, you may rest
assured. No one can wrest you from my hands now,
and live. But let me tell you all that has occurred.” |

The detective related all his adventures, as he had re- |
lated them to Frank Baldwin.. He went into more mi- |
nute details in telling his story to Grace, and introduced
certain other incidents. |

In the wild joy of the moment, the beautiful girl put |
aside all conventional forms, and actually pressed her |
lips in a wild burst of thankfulness against the cheek of |
the detective, and she clasped him in her arms in a wild |
delirium of gratitude.

The fact was, the detective enjoyed telling that story,
and the fond caresses that he received appeared to aid
his memory wonderfully, and he told a very long story.

When he had reluctantly concluded, Grace asked :

“And my sister ?”

“She is safe and wel.”

“The €hitd ?”

“Ts all right.”

“And Frank ?”

«Well, you shall see Frank in a few moments.”

“Oh, how can we ever reward you, good man, for all
that you have done ?”

“Would you really like to reward me—reward me to
my utmost satisfaction ?”

“J would.”

The words were spoken with marked emphasis.

“Grace, I am a man of few words and plain speech.
oe not been altogether unselfish in all that I have

one.”

Grace Luqueer was not a dull, foolish girl, but bright,
quick, and intelligent.

A glimmer of the truth flashed across her mind.

The blush that came to her beautiful face indicated
that she had comprehended what was to come.

«Shall I proceed ?” he said, in a low tone.

“Proceed,” came the response.

“Grace, I love you. Will you become the wife of a!
detective ?”

The girl recoiled from him, and, with a merry twinkle
in her eye which made her look enchantingly lovely,
she said, archly:

“It depends upon which detective Tam to marry.”

“T want you to marry me.”

“I will; and I consider myself the happiest woman
on earth to have won the love of so brave, so true and
noble a man.”

We draw the curtain here.

Half an hour later Grace was led down to the office
by her rescuer, and brought face to face with James |
Weston. :

The man looked miserable enough, yet there re-
mained in his eye the gleam of a bitter hatred.

“James Weston,” said the detective, “your game is
up.”
“Make any terms you can!” exclaimed Brutone.

‘Hold your tongue, fellow!” commanded the detec- |
tive; and, turning to Frank Baldwin, he continued: |
‘Frank, do you wish that your miserable relation there |

{

Ah, take me from this |

 

 

should be punished as he deserves ?”

“No; let him go free.”

“Grace Luqueer, do you wish to press your complaint |
against that wretch ?”

“No; let him go his way in peace.” |

“Tt’s my turn now,” said the detective, and he drew
some papers from his pocket.

‘Tve some papers here, James Weston. You can sign |
them or not, just as you choose.” |

“What are they ?” |

“A full confession.” |

“Tl not sign.” |

«You prefer to go to jail ?”

“Can you send me to jail ?” |

“T can, for the remainder of your natural life.” i

‘If I sign the papers ?” |

“You will be permitted to leave the United States.”

“Will I be guaranteed ?” |

«You will have my word, nothing more. You are not
in a position to make terms.” j

«J will not sign on those terms.” |

“Allright Here, Tom!” called the detective; ‘‘take |
this man in charge. He has made his choice.”

“Hold!” yelled Weston.

“You go to jail, sir!”

“T will sign.”

“Tt’s too late.”

«Have mercy !”

Grace interfered, and pleaded for the wretch.

«Well, sign.”

The two detectives were called as witnesses, and
James Weston signed the papers.

“Will you sign, Brutone ?”

i. the Same terms ?” demanded the fellow.

‘Yess

“7 will sign,” was the reply.
Ca both men had signed the papers, the detective

 

“Brutone, you and Weston must find another convey-
ance to take you to New York. You are free; but, remem- |
ber, do not show either of your faces near the residence |
of Mr. Frank Baldwin.”

“T have private papers,” said James Weston.

«They will be sent to you; Mrs. Baldwin is already in |
possession.”

Such was.the fact; the detective had been so sure of |
his game that he had ordered Mrs. Frank Baldwin to |
be taken to the home of her husband, Z

Bruce Angelo knew the advantage of possession, and |
proceeded accordingly.
: Upon the following morning the party arrived in New |

York. {

A grand and glorious reunion of the long-separated |
ones followed, and happiness reigned on eyery side. {

Reader, it is not necessary for us to write more.

You can look in upon a luxurious home in, your imagi-
nation, and read the full sequel to our narrative.

You ask, did Bruce Angelo marry Grace? and we an- |
swer, you know he‘did, or his wonderful adventures and |
| strange experience would never have been the basis of |
the preceding romance. |

Bruce is still on the force.

Frank Baldwin's wealth was not his wealth, and al- |
though he received a handsome reward in payment for |
his services, he did not accept anything further; but we |
| may say that he is rapidly carving out his own for- |
| tune, as the chief of a remunerative private detective |
| bureau,

{THE END.]

eo a eg
SUFFERING ANGELS.

Confidences are being exchanged by two young wives |
| in regard to the general objectionableness of their re- |
| spective ‘lords and masters.”
“Yes,” says one, “mine treats me shamefully. No}
| longer ago than last night, when I was alittle out of
| temper—a mere pophing ane snatched up a candle-
stick (I forget whether the candle in it was alight), and |
threw it at his aggravating head, and then the clock |
trom the mantelpiece, and was going to follow it with
the other candlestick—in which, I remember, the candle |
was purning——”

«Well ?”

“Well, my dear—you'll hardly credit what I’m going |
to tell you—if he hadn’t the mean cowardice to place |
himself directly in front of the only loaking-glass we |
possess.”

‘““My dear, my heart bleeds for you.”

> @ 4

| Afraid of Powder.

“George,” said Mrs. Goodwin to her nephew, “how
are you getting on with Susan ?”

“Not very well, aunt. You see, Isuspect she pow- |
| ders her face with chalk, andi don’t like that sort of)
| thing.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” replied Aunt Goodwin, laugh- |
|ing. «‘A nice soldier you would make, wouldn't you?
If you can’t face powder, George, how can you expect to |
get into an engagement ?”

A Hatchway.
“Oh, ma, I fell through a hatchway and hurt me |
awfully !” sobbed little Henry, as he came limping into |
the house.
“Why, there isn’t any hatchway on the premises that |
you could fall through,” replied his mother. I
| «¥eg there is, ma. I fell through the manger where
pa set the black hen.”

- Taken! for Him.
“Colonel Wilson is a fine-looking man, ain’t he ?” said |
friend of ours the other day.
“Yes,” replied another; «I was taken for him once.”
“You! Why, you’re as ugly as sin !”
«7 don’t Gare for that. I was taken for him. I in-
| dorsed his note and was taken for him—by the sheriff.”

A Frightened Milkman.

 

 

 

| through the air and set her down in a milkman’s yard,
| He was so scared that he stopped grinding chalk and
| yan four miles to get a rifle to shoot the curious-looking
| creature with.
-—_— > © <—____——
Lieut. S. M. Symonds, U. S. N.,

says: “By the use of Liebig Co’s Arnicated Extract of Witch
Hazel I cured myself of asévere and chronic catarrh.” Also

 

| But now I trust the world no more—alas!

| treaties will ring in my ears as long as [ live.

| tune, and a charmed life will be yours,’

| But, Arley,

A Western zephyr carried a cow a quarter of a mile |

| with, and doubled my stake.
| ent places, and then came home.

| since I hope, like one of old, 1 ‘am come to myself.’

A SILTED MaN.

BY H. FRISWELL.

| There is a little river-path beneath the sunlit beeches,

And weeping willowS«trail their boughs, within its
watery reaches ;

Where birds may drink, and men may think—for both a
wholesome diet—

unused to quiet.

| So let us try, my dog and I, this little rustic journey ;

He is a calm old setter—lI, a half-employed attorney.

He. shams to smell a water-rat, and dashes at
bramble,

Then barks—the echoes illustrate the quiet of our
ramble.

a

| Ah, could my heart bound up like his! could I forget

each trouble—

| The broken troth which made my life seem but an

empty bubble ;

| Could I bring back my youth once more, my joy in all

things human,

| My loving trust in all mankind, especially in woman.

because I
know it.

No friend like Ponto brings my stick, when in the

stream I throw it;

man is false, and woman too—especially Miss

Spooner,

The jilt! JZ trust her sex again? Id trust a dog much
sooner.

For

-e<—____.

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

LY OF MORDAONT

By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON,

AUTHOR OF

“THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “BROWNIE’S
TRIUMPH,” “STELLA ROSEVELT,”’

“DOROTHY ARNOLD’S ESCAPE,”

ETC., ETC.
(“The Lily of Mordaunt” was commenced in No. 31.
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]
CHAPTER XXIX.—(CONTINUED.)

Pride and passion, evil thoughts and wrong-doing had
left their fell impress upon him, and the better nature
which had been stirred within him, shrank from fhe

Back

| face which looked forth upon him.

“How I have warped and defiled myself!” he pursued,
“can I ever become a good man again?” I can never

| hope for pardon—I can never hope for happiness again ;

but, oh! if I might but bridge over the slough in which
Ihave wallowed, pass to the other side and begin anew
—if there is any other side for me,” he added, wearily.
“What a fool I have been!” he continued, fiercely, as
with clenched hands and a stern, set face, he paced the

/room back and forth like some enraged wild beast,

‘how she must despise me—how her very tones rang
with contempt and aversion! I wonder,if the torments of
the lost can be any worse than what I suffered last night,
as I stood there before that pure and beautiful woman,
feeling myself to be like some hideously deformed
wretch, soiled, blackened and defiled through and
through.”

«Arley, Arley!” he suddenly cried out, in an intense,
remorseful tone; ‘how could lever have been such a
knave? I know now what T have lost. I have known it

all along, but [have been mad, wild, demonized. Ah!
Ishall never forget how sweetly your voice sounded,

| when. you stood beside me in the court-room in‘Madrid,

and urged me not to ‘waste my life thus’—to ‘be the
true-hearted man you believed me to.be when you first
knew me,’ and begged me so earnestly to come back to
England with you.. Oh, why—why wasIso blind and
hardened that I would not heed you? But it is too late
now. Ihave lost you forever, though your gentle en-
Ob, fool,
idiot, that I have been !”

All day long the wretched man battled with himself—
with the evil spirit, the stubborn will and pride that had
so long ruled him with such arbitrary power. All day
long he was alternately besieged with anger at his folly
and remorse and grief over his ruined life.

Having once again realized and acknowledged his love
for Arley, there had come into his heart such a rush of
passionate longing for her, such a wild, despairing re-
gret over the affection which he had scorned and tram-
pled upon, as bowed the strong man like a reed laid
prostrate by some fierce tempest.

Night coming on again found him exhausted, and his
worn-out nature succumbed to.a deep and dreamless
slumber, which steeped his senses in grateful oblivion
until far into the hours of another day.

Almost like a ghost of himself looked Philip Paxton
When he at last arose and dressed. For more than
thirty-six hours he had not tasted food or drink, and
he was as weak and trembling as an habitual drunkard
who has been deprived of his accustomed stimulants.

But there was a new purpose in his face, which was
eo to sternness, while his lips and eyes were reso-

ute.

He went to a coffee-house and breakfasted, then to

| his old chambers—Gray’s Inn—which had been so long
| deserted.

He spent the day in putting them in order, and the

| next morning the London Times contained a notice calli-

ing attention to the fact that ‘‘Philip Paxton, attorney-
at-law, had returned from abroad, and was prepared to

| resume his business,”

That he had been a good lawyer was proved by his
former patrons at once pouring in upon him, until,
within a week, he was flooded with work, and the idle,
dissolute man of six months previous was bending
every enersy to the task which he had imposed upon
himse

A month after this good beginning, he might have
been seen writing far into the night, while his pale face,
compressed lips, and troubled brow told that he was
engaged upon no pleasant work; and when at last it
was finished, he threw down his pen and laid back in
his chair, with a sigh that was almost a groan.

What he had written was this:

““ARLEY :—I do not know where you may be, nor how
you may be situated, but, believe me, I hope you are
much more comfortable and happy than I ever made
you. Why I write you at this time, is because, I, wish to
make you what restitution I can, and while I have it in
my power to do so, FPhave also a confession to make to
you. Heaven knows that my treatment of you has been

| bad enough, but you do not yet know all the wickedness

and heartlessness of which I have been guilty. ‘I was
mad, almost to insanity, over the’ loss of your fortune,
and the fact that, you persisted in thwarting me by giv-

| ing it up, and something possessed me to make you as

unhappy and uncomfortable as I could for it. How well
I succeeded you alone know. But, to make my con-

| fession complete, I must tell you that before marrying
| youLhad already proposed to Lady Elaine Warburton.

Ambition had ‘whispered, ‘Secure her magnificent for-
She refused
me, and then, With: a sullen stubbornness not to be
baffled.in my money-getting, I resolved to win; you and
your twenty, thousand pounds. Had you, both been
poor girls and La better man, I should have sought you
alone, and then set myself bravely to work for the treas-

| ure I had won; for /voved you—yes, really and truly—
| as well'as my greedy nature would allow me to love any

one beside myself:
«But it 11 becomes me to speak of this now. I believe
that, you would have finally won me to a better life by

| your sweet, patience and gentleness, if it had not, been
| for that letter which you received from Annie Vane,
| telling youof Wil Hamilton's death.
| ment it seemed if all the furies of the, lower , regions
| were’ Whispering in my ears, ‘Lady Elaine is free, and if
| you were, also, adukedom and a magniticent fortune
| might yet be yours.’

From that mo-

“Tt seems to me now that I must haye become insane
upon the subject, forno one in, his right, mind | could.
have nourished the fiendish purpose which took posses-
sion of me, and from which now my whole soul revolts—
that of releasing myself from the bonds which united
me to you, returning to England, and winning Lady

| Elaine, if I could.

“You know’ how Ischemed for a divorce ‘and failed.
I was ‘ever nearer throwing off the
shackles which, bound me, and trying to become a good
man, worthy of you, than when you. came to me after
the court and pleaded with me so patiently and earnest-
ly. But the money-fiend still beckoned me, and ] turned
a deaf ear to you, resolving to return to England, file a
petition for a divorce, feeling sure you would not oppose

/ me again, and then try to achieve my purpose regarding
| Lady Elaine.

“You doubtless wonder how I obtained means to do
all this, knowing that I was almost. penniless when you
left me; and now comes the most humiliating portion
of my confession. Arley, I entered your room one day,

| during your absence, and stole the contents of your

jewel-casket. Yes, Iam a thief with all the rest. I
meant 'to take your diamonds only and'sell them ; but,
doubtless, you were wearing them, for they were not in
the box.

‘7 found, however, to my intense surprise, a hundred-
pound note, and no miser, coming suddenly upon unex-
pected treasure, ever gloated more than Lover the sight
of that English money. A portion of it I used to gambie
Thrice I did this in differ-

“Your jewels are all safe; my gaming operations had

/ been so successful that I decided to reserve them for a

future emergency, and as. that is not likely to occur,
I
am spared the additional shame of having pawned my

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
    

   
   
  
  
  
   
   
    
   
  
   
   
   
 

 

 

 

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THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #=>

 

 

 

By jewels—the treasured mementoes of happier
ays.

Ishall inclose them in a package with this, also the
hundred pounds, with interest, and leave them in my
safe, directed to you, so that, in case anything happens
to me before I can ascertain where you are to send
param to you, you will be sure to get them upon your
return.

“This is all the restitution that Iam able to make you
at present; but I have resumed my old business, and as
Iam prospered I will dé t a sum, trom month to
month, in the Bank of England to your account, so that
in the future you need lack no comfort that money can

buy.

“Something tells me that you will scorn this, coming
from one who has used you so badly ; but, Arley, if you
could know the tortures which I now suffer over the
guilt of the past year, you would not have the heart to
add another pang to my misery—you would, at least,
allow me the comfort. of feeling that my efforts to. atone,
as far as may be, for the wrong I have done you are not
entirely fruitless. Ican almost see the .pruud. curl of
your lips as you read this, and hear you ask, ‘What has
brought about this radical change? What has induced
him at this late hour to. begin over again, when nothing
seemed to have power to turn him so short a time ago ?’
Itis because Thave seen a picture of myself as Tam,
and it was drawn; too, by a vivid and no gentle hand.
I have been shocked, electrified into new life, morally.
How? Let further confession answer. I will not spare
myseli—my humiliation shall be complete.

“JT returned to England immediately after -you left
Madrid, expecting to find you here and our affairs the
subject of. every gossiping tongue. But you were not
here; no one knew anything, and the field was clear
for me to do whatIliked. I immediately applied to a
‘broker in divorces,’ who advertises to secure them
‘without any unpleasant publicity,’ and meanwhile I set
myseif to work to ‘snare my other game.”

“Lady Elaine was in town. I man to gain access
to her presence, and then employed every artifice to
make myself agreeable to her. “Believe me, not because
my base soul held one spark of real love for her—I was
not capable of that, for gold alone had become my god,
and Tt had sworn to possess: myself of a fortune at any
cost. Do you pity me for a dolt—an idiot, and say I
might have known what the result would be? I could
not have won her.under any circumstances, least of all
now, for her heart is in poor Wil Hamilton’s grave,
wherever that may be, and she is wedded to his memory.
I told her a tissue of falsehoods—anything I could think
of to make her believe me an inj , deserted husband ;
told her that you had gone away with another man;
that you refused to remain with me because I could not
give you the luxuries to which you had been accustomed,
etc. But by some means—I know not what—she learned
the truth, and when I went to her and made my wicked
proposals, she turned upon my like an avenging angel,
and if evera man was made to realize his moral deform-
ity and hideousness, and made to hate himself as some-
thing too loathsome for earth, Iam that man. I cannot
repeat what she said, but she made me see that morally
I was like some one who has had an eruptive disease in
its worse form, and barely escaped with his life—whose
vitalforees have perhaps been renewed, but who had
been so disfigured by the terrible ordeal through which
he has passed, as to be absolutely repulsive, even to
those who had been his best friends, and cause them to
turn from him with disgust. Looking upon such a
wreck as this, is it to be wondered at that I recoiled from
myself with horror?

“Only one thing more and I will weary you no longer.
As soon as I came to myself I stopped all proceedings for
a divorce—I had no right to obtain it; you had always
been all that was patient, kind, and true, and the per-
jury of the thing appalled me. It remaines for you to
take that step, and you have every right and reason to
do so, and I assure you that whatever you may see fit to
do in the future, I will remain perfectly passive in the
matter—I will never willfully cause you another pang,
nor trouble of any kind, whileI live. You shall be free
it you desire ; I will strive never to meet you nor offend
you with my presence, and whatever sentence may be
ag upon me, I will bear it patiently and in silence.

ut, oh! Arley! Arley !——

Aline had been drawn through those last few words,
as ifthey had been unwittingly wrung from him ina
moment of passionate paim.and remorse, when, as if
suddenly recollecting himself, he had ee d and tried
- obliterate them ; then he had closed with this almost

es ap

peal : 5
“TL have told you all now—my heart is laid bare before

you, even as it is before the eye that searches every
sour; you know all my folly, weakness, and wickedness.

“TI do not ask your forgiveness—I have no right to ask
it; but sometime—when, perhaps, long years have soft-
ened somewhat your sense of wrong and pain—if you
should chance to learn that I am honestly striving to
attain to better th to regain my lost manhood—w.
you not let a little divine compassion into your heart
and breathe one single prayer—I should know it and feel
its influence, though the world divided us—for

“PHILIP PAXTON ?”

Such was the confession of this man, who had hung
suspended, so to speak, over an awful precipice, and
who, looking in helpless and dizzy horror into the depths
where he was about to pu , had been snatched back
by arude, but merciful hand, and now, weak and faint,
but resolute, was struggling to get away from the pit
that had so nearly proved his ruin.

If the ‘Lily of Mordaunt’ had never performed another
noble action during her whole life, the rough probing to
which she had subjected Philip Paxton’s soul, the truth-
ful picture which she had painted in such vivid colors of
his moral depravity, waking his soul to consciousness
and better purposes, was a victory which must have
won a brilliant star in her celestial crown, and made joy
in heaven oyer the sinner who repenteth.

After sitting awhile in sad musing, Philip Paxton
aroused himself to told the thickly written sheets before
him, though his.hands shook visibly while doing. it;
then taking a bank-note from his pocket-book, he in-
closed it with the letter in an envelope, and drawing to-
ward him a small box which lay upon the desk, he made
the whole up into a neat package, and addressed it. to
Mrs. Philip Paxton.

Opening a small drawer at his left hand he laid it
carefully within, shut and locked the drawer again, and
the next moment his head dropped forward upon his
Bene while great, deep sobs shook him from head to

oot.

It was as if he had just buried forever from his sight
the dearest object of his life—and he had. For, hence-
forth, he felt that Arley would be naught but a. sweet
memory to him;.one. whose beauty, gentleness, and
value he had, all too late, learned to app rere, and
who was as completely lost to him as if she were really
dead and had been laid to rest in the bosom of the
e

CHAPTER XXX.
FORTUNE’S WHEEL.

Many weeks went by, and one would scarcely have
recognized in the quiet, hard-working lawyer, who toiled
early and late with such persistence and energy, the
idle, defiant, unprincipled man who had _heartlessly
dragged his wife away from home and. friends, subject-
ing her to almost every Kind of discomfort, and refusing
to put forth a single effort for her support.

Philip had, not yet ascertained. where Arley was, and
the letter which he had. ,written, with her jewels and
money, were still.in his keeping.

He could not make up.his mind to call upon Miss Mc-
Allister to obtain her address, for he dreaded both her
questions and her displeasure. He had heard that she
was someth of an invalid and did not go out at all, so
he hoped. she had not yet heard of his return.

She had not, and it was known but by very few outside
those doing business with him, for he did not frequent
his old haunts; he shunned his club and all society, de-
voting every hour, not needed for rest, to. his business,

When questioned by any old friends who chanced to
meet. him as to why he had returned alone, he invariably
replied that his business needed him, but that Mrs,
Paxton had)an opportunity. to extend her travels with
friends, and;her return was indefinite.

He was sure that this was.no untruth, for he surmised
that, Arley had indeed found friends through the young
Englishman who had so nobly espoused her cause in
Madrid, and he, believed that she would shrink from
coming. back to have her story known, and to encounter
the scandal Which would ensue.

He had resolved that he would shield her in every

ossible way; he would speak no word to feed the eager,
Sunesy GOssIDS, until she should make her appearance
and institute some action against him,

His business increased so rapidly that he was obliged
to hire assistants, and the gold which he had so coveted
began to pour in upon him from every quarter; but
every pound over and above his actual needs he con-
scientiously deposited in the Bank of England to swell
the account in Arley’s name.

He had resoived to lay up a competence for her; she
should have an income sufficient to supply her with
every comfort to which she had been accustomed before
she became his wife, if it was in his power to secure it
to her,

It was all the reparation that he could make her now,
though his heart often sank as he thought that tn her
pride and contempt for him she might refuse to appro-

riate it.

, And so six months went by in this busy way. At the
end. of that time he balanced his accounts, and was as-
tonished with the result.

“This is not bad for a beginning,” he said, as he looked
at the generous figures. ‘‘A few years like this, andI
could put Arley back where I found her.”

“Ah, no!” he added, in a,tone Sharp with pain. “I
could) give her her twenty thousand pounds perhaps,
but I cam never give her back her tree, happy life—I can
never blot from her memory the bitterness, the pain,

and disgrace ch. I have since inflicted et her. Oh,
Arley, my bel ! why did I not appreciate the prize
Thad won? IfI had but heeded your counsels, I should

now have you and happiness, together with my pros-

erity !
F, “Pool ! fool!” he erled, leaping wildly to his feet, as if
he could not bear the thought of it; “you are rightly
unished! No fate, however wretched, no penance can
too severe for you; you have brought it all upon
yourself, and you must bear it as best you can!”

There came a rap on his ane door just then, but it
took him more than a mine to compose himself suffi-
ciently to go and answer the summons.

It was only the postman, who silently handed him an
official-looking document and then hastened away

n a listless way Philip broke the seals and proceeded
toinspect its contents, supposing it to be something con-
nected with his own business.

 

 

But after he had read a page or two, he was seized
with amazement, and perused the remainder of the
communication with breathless interest.

That old adage, ‘It never rains but it pours,” seemed
destined to prove true for Philip Paxton, for he learned
that a widowed aunt and her whole family, consisting of
ason and two daughters, who lived in Wales, had been
suddenly swept out of life by that dread disease, diph-
theria. ‘The children had first fallen victims to it, and
then the worn-out, heart-broken mother had lain down
to follow them.

She was the widow of the late Sir Frederick Sharpley,
Baronet, who had been Philip’s mother’s only brother,
and the paper which he held in his trembling hands told
him that he, being the nearest. living relative, was heir
to the estate and title of his uncle.

He could not realize it; it had come upon him so
suddenly, so wholly unexpected that he actually could
not comprehend it, and sat staring at the document in a
way that would have been ludicrous under any other
circumstances.

Twice he was obliged to read it through before he
could realize that it was not all a vision of his own im-
agination. But it was all therein black and white ; the
family lawyer had made it ven plain, and had written
him immediately after Lady Sharpley’s funeral, at her
request.

She would allow no notice to be sent him of her
children’s death, on account of the fear ef contagion,
and when she found that she also could not live, she ex-
acted a promise that he should ‘be told nothing for the
same reason, until she should be lain in the family vault,
and the house thoro y purified, lest he, too, contract
the fatal disease, and the estate, for the lack of an heir,
fall to the crown.

“Tell him,” were his last words, ‘to be a good, an
honorable man, and keep the title unspotted. There
has never been a stain upon the fair escutcheon of the
family, and my personal Lemacy to him is, its purity—let
him maintain it as long as he shall live.”

It was with a very white face that Philip at length
folded up that startling communication and fell to mus-
ing upon its contents.

The estate of the late Sir Frederick, the lawyer wrote,
was a remarkably fine one, wholly unincumbered, and
with a rent roll of nearly fifteen thousand pounds, while
there was a bank account yielding nearly as much more.

How strangely fortune’s wheel turns round !

Coming just at this time, Philip felt as if he could not
bear these new honors which had been heaped so unex-
ee upon him, and bowing his head upon his desk
aes aloud, feeling humiliated and crushed as he

never felt before. ;

If he could have only blotted out the last two years;
or if he could begin them over again, how differently he
would live.

His aunt’s solemn legacy had been the ‘purity of the

name” to maintain; while if the truth should be
revealed, he would enter upon his new inheritance cum-
bered with shame and dishonor.

“If I could only have known,” he said, ‘‘my life need
not have been a wreck.”

“If Lhad known!” How many give utterence to those
words! But it is not God’s purpose that we should know.
nig noble life consists in doing right for the sake of the

ht.

Two years ago Philip Paxton would: have been exult-
ant over his good fortune. It would have placed him
just where he had wished to be. He could have gratified
every taste—he could have allowed his affection for Ar-
ley to have full play; the loss of her fortune would have
made no difference ; he would have married her and sur-
rounded her with every luxury within his reach, and
they might have been happy to this day.

But instead, he had, by his stubborn wickedness,
sacrificed his manhood, proved a traitor to his dearest
friend, brought down upon himself the scorn and aver-
sion of Lady Elaine, and forfeited the affection of the
only woman whom he could ever love.

What were houses, lands, rent rolls, or bank accounts
to him now? They were like the “apples of Sodom that
turn to ashes in the grasp.”

His new position would bring him no happiness; it
could not restore to him either his own self-respect or
Arley’s love—the only two things which seemed really
worth anything just now to him.

But with new honors came new cares; his inheri-
tance must be looked after, and as soon as he could
arrange his business so as to leave it, he repaired to
Elmsford, as Sir Frederick’s estate had been called.

He found it a beautiful place. The mansion itself was
very old, but, having been built in a most substantial
way and kept in thorough repair, with modern conveni-
ences added from time to time, it was a house to love and
be eee of. The grounds about it had been laid out
with exquisite taste and judgment, and were consider-
ed the finest in the county. There was a deer-park,
abounding in deer, for Lady Sharpely had allowed no
ee since her husband's death, five years previously;
while the wide-spreading upland and meadow on every
hand were rich with grain and herbage.

There was a fine picture-gallery in the mansion, con-
taining works of some of the best artists—both of
sculptors and painters—of several centuries, and there
was a wealth of plate, of solid silver, that was fairly
dazzling to the eyes.

As Philip Paxton roamed over his new possessions,
visiting room after room, noting the beauty and ele-
gance of everything about him, no smile came to his
lips, no gladness to his heart, for it all seemed to mock
at him, to jeer at the emptiness of his soul.

How happy he might have been had he but done
right; had not his own relentless hand dashed the cup
from his lips.

There could never, while he lived, be any mistress at
Elmsford ; there would never be the music of childish
voices, or the patter of little feet in those airy rooms
and lofty halls, and when he should be done with it, the
very doom which Lady Sharpley had somuch dreaded
would fall upon it ; for the lack of an heir it would go to
the crown. 4

Thus Philip reasoned within himself, and with ex-
ceeding bitterness, as he made a mental inventory of his
treasures, He felt that he could never live there alone,
surrounded by all that magnificence ; it would be but a
mockery to drive him wild, while nothing would ease
his recently aroused and smarting conscience but dili-
gent, unce labor.

Mr, Farley, the steward, appeared to be a competent,
trustworthy man, and he was much pleased with him.

He had received the young baronet with great cour-
tesy and friendliness, conducting him oyer the estate
with evident pride in its fine appearance, while his
books, upon examination, showed excellent business
capacity ; and Philip resolved to leave: the management
of it stillin his hands—at least for the present—while
he returned to his own labors in London.

There was no longer any need of this, pecuntarlly,
but work had become a mental necessity ; it would not
do tostop; he must not have time to brood over his
past, lest his remorse and misery drive him to des-
peration.

So giving Mr. Farley full control, Sir Philip Paxton
went back to his close chambers in Grey’s Inn, leaving
all this beauty and luxury behind him, and plunged
more assiduously than ever into his business.

He said nothing to any one regarding his brightened
prospects, norso much as hinted of the title that had
fallen upon him, and thus no one suspected his altered
circumstances.

How he had plotted and schemed for what had now
come to him without an effort of his own!

How he had coveted the handling of Lady Elaine’s
fortune, believing that he should be supremely content
if his object was once achieved !

But now, with an income exceeding hers, with a posi-
tion which would give him influence among, and the re-
spect of men, there was no sense of satisfaction ; it was
comparatively useless, for he had no one to share it with
him, and no heart to enjoy it alone.

But one thing he had resolved upon, and now carried
it into action.

To the sum which he had already deposited in the
Bank of England, he added enough to make it up to the
amount which Arley had so cheerfully made over to
Ina Wentworth, and then he paid a visit to her old

lawyer.

«Aha, Mr. Paxton!” he exclaimed, as Philip entered
his office, while he shook him warmly by the hand; ‘I
did not know you had _returned, but am glad to see you
back pips How is that noble-hearted little woman of
yours ?”

“Mrs. Paxton is still abroad, sir,” Philip quietly re-

sponded.
“What! didn’t she return with you?” asked Mr. Hol-
ley, in surprise, while he directed a keen glance into his
visitor’s face, which struck him.as being much too
grave and pale to belong to a happy young husband.

“No,” he replied; ‘I was obliged to return—you know
a young lawyer needs to apply himself if he would rise ;
but Mrs. Paxton is with friends, and will travel awhile
longer: However,” he added, hastily, in order to prevent
any more questions, ‘‘that will not interfere with a little
matter of business which I wish to leave in your hands,
if you do not object.”

“Anything that I can do for you I shall be very glad to
do,” Mr. Holley answered, cordially.

“Thank you. You know that until our marriage Mrs.
Paxton had been accustomed to an independent in-
come; you know, too, how nobly she relinquished her
fortune when she found that she had no longer a right
to it——”

“That I do, bless her honest little heart!” interrupted
the lawyer, heartily.

“Well,” Philip pursued, anxious to get through with
this trying business, ‘‘I resolved that, as soon as it was
in my power to do so, I would make it up to her, and I
have recently deposited twenty thousand pounds in the
Bank of England in her name, and have brought you
the papers declaring the settlement, to take charge of.
I thought it might séem more real to her,” he explained,
seeing Mr. Holley’s look of surprise and inquiry, ‘if she
should receive the income from you the same asin the
old times; besides, I wish to guard against any con-
ten: such as an accident or a fatal illness to
myself.’

“Surely you do not apprehend anything of the kind?”
remarked his companion, again observing his pallor,
and also how thin he had grown since he last saw him.

“Oh, no; yet it is wise to be prepared, and such settle-
ments are very common, you know. You will not refuse
my request ?”

“Certainly not ; and it is most proper and considerate
of you to do this, while it will give me great plasure to
be able to pay over to my favorite the old amount. I
declare I never experienced more regret over any loss in
my life than over your wife’s on her wedding-day. But,
Mr. Paxton, your business must have been very lucra-
tive to admit of your settling such a fortune as this
upon her,” Mr. Holley concluded, wondering where all

_tthe money had come from.

 

 

“Yes, it has been,” Phili
ly, though he flushed slightly; ‘‘and I will tell you in
confidence,” he added, ‘‘that I have had something of a
wind-fall, which.has helped me in this matter.”

“Oh! ah!” and Mr. Holley’s perplexity vanished
instantly.

He knew that a young barrister does not often lay up
a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, under the most
favorable circumstances, during a year or two of prac-
tice in London, where there are so many competitors.

“I congratulate you,” he went on, ‘‘and regard it as
very considerate of you to settle it on your wife. When
does Mrs. Paxton return ?”

Philip's heart flew to his mouth at this query, and for
a moment he found it impossible to reply.

“She has not written me yet just when,” he said,
evasively ; ‘‘and this money which I have deposited will
have to remain on interest until she does return. I will
see, however, that you are notified when she needs her
income.”

Philip did not wait to be questioned any further; he
ow ah engagement and took his leave, feeling that

e had managed the matter quite cleverly, and much re-
lieved to know that at last Arley was secure from all fu-
ture want or pecuniary embarrassment.

If he could only feel sure that she would not resent
it—that she would accept it as her right, and use it
freely for her comfort—he would be at rest.

But he knew that she was very proud, and if she had
succeeded in supporting herself abroad, she might in-
sist upon doing so at home, if she ever returned—he
began to think that perhaps she might remain away to
escape unpleasant developments.

Hewever, he had done what he could to atone for his
neglect and ill-treatment, and he must leave the result
for time to disclose, and so he went back to his work,
striving to school himself to patient endurance.

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE RING.

“Miss McAllister, do you know the name of the vessel
in which Arley was sent home from India ?”

This question was asked by Lady Elaine, who called
to see that lady the day following her visit to Captain
Conway at Portsmouth.

She had been telling her something of Jane Collins,
and her meeting with Arley in Madrid, and of the story
which had been elicited by Arley’s resemblance to the
aera lady who had been rescued by the Black

Swan.

She did not, however, say anything about her troubles.
She thought that if Arley had written nothing about
them herself, it was because she still wished to conceal
them ; though with Philip in London, she did not see
apt it was possible for her to remain in ignorance much

opger.

Miss McAllister complained that Arley’s letters were
very indefinite and unsatisfactory, at least about herself
and her husband.

In mentioning any contemplated change, she would
merely say, ‘‘we are going to to-morrow ; we ex-
pect to be in next week ;” leaving the reader to
infer that ‘*we” meant Philip and herself, though she
never entered into details except in her descriptions of
places and things.

The last letter that they had from her had been writ-
ten from Rome, where she had spent nearly three
months, but was soon to go for a time to Naples.

She said not a word about returning at present, and
her letters were usually written in a cheerful, or at least
a tranquil strain; a fact which greatly surprised Lady
Elaine, for Arley had been of a passionate, impulsive,
and rather imperious temperament, and she would have
looked for rebellion and recklessness, rather than this
unnatural calm and secretiveness.

“Yes,” Miss McAllister returned to her question, ‘it
was the White Star.”

‘“No—I mean the name of the vessel by which she was
rescued, not the one that was wrecked.”

“Oh, that was the Vulcan.”

Lady Elaine wrote the name down on her tablets.

“What was the name of the captain of the Vulcan ?”
she asked.

“That 1 do not remember—it has gone from me; but
it will be in my brother’s diary. Ina, dear, please hand
it to me from the upper drawer in his desk ; there are
three volumes, bring me the second,” the old lady said
to Ina Wentworth, who, under the influence of happi-
ness, and surrounded by every luxury, has grown a hun-
dredfold more beautiful than when we saw her for the
first time on Arley’s wedding-day.

“But why are you so very eager about these partic-
lars ?’ Miss McAllister continued to Lady Elaine, as Ina
rose todo her bidding.

 

 

“Because,” she answered, with heightening color, “I | ®

believe if I follow this clew closely, I shall discover who
Arley’s parents were. I cannot help thinking that she
is this lost baby, Allie, for whom that poor mother
mourned so, and if I can but find the captain of the
Vulcan, I believe he will be able to give me valuable in-
formation. Have you any of the clothing that she wore
home at that time ?”

‘Nothing but her little shoes and stockings and a tiny
ring set with an emerald. Her clothing was so soiled
~ defaced by the sea-water that we did not preserve
t

“A little ring set with an emerald,” repeated Lady
Elaine, quickly, not heeding the rest of Miss McAllister’s
sentence, while a quick, eager flush mounted to her
forehead—“‘a ring, or ajewelof any kind, is often the key
to such mysteries ; may I see it ?”

“Of course you may see it,” the old lady returned, with
an indulgent smile, ‘but I hardly think it will prove
anything unless you first find the parents to identify it,
for there might be a hundred such rings in the world.
When it got too tight for Arley’s little fingers I pnt it
away with the shoes and stockings, and have always
regarded them as sacred relics, since they were all that
remained of her parents’ loving care for her.”

“Now dear, she added, as Ina came forward and laid
Dr. McAllister’s diary in her lap, ‘‘in the second drawer
ot my escritoire you will find a small box tied with a
blue ribbon ; will you please bring that to me also,” and
the beautiful girl, always attentive to her slightest wish,
hastened to get it, and at a gesture from her aunt handed
it to Lady Elaine. 3

But her fingers trembled so with excitement and eager-
ness, that she could not unfasten the knot in which the
ribbon was tied.

Miss McAllister reached out her hand and gently took
it from her,

“My dear, how excited you are over a trifle, she said.
“There is nothing here which can possibly Re any-
thing, unless, as I said before, you can find the parents
themselves.”

She untied the knot, lifted the cover, and then laid the
box back in her visitor,s lap.

There were two little packages init, wrapped about
with tissue paper, showing that a loving hand had cared
for the contents.

Lady Elaine lifted one and took the paper from it.
Two tiny Shoes fell out. They were wrinkled and worn,
stained and defaced with sea-water, while their little
buttons were blackened and tarnished with time.

There were three buttons on each, and Lady Elaine
examined these carefully—so carefully that Miss
McAllister gave vent to a low, amused laugh.

‘My dear,” she said, ‘they are nothing but common
buttons, such as you would find upon any child’s shoe ;
did you expect to find a coat of arms engraven upon
them ?”

Lady Elaine smiled, but did not reply.

There was a flush still on her face, and her eyes glitt-
ered strangely.

The little things appeared to a a peculiar fascin-
ation for her, for she looked them over and over, and
almost turned them inside out, but apparently without
making any discovery, for she soon laid them down
with a soft sigh, and took the other little roll from the
bo rc ®

X. .

It contained a pair of blue silk stockings of very small
demensions, evidently hand-knit, but faded and streaked,
and full of holes where ten little chubby toes had tried to
work their way out. :

The fair girl sat and gazed upon them, as if spell-
bound, while two great tears welled to her eyes and
dropped upon them.

‘How well you love my poor Arley,” Miss McAllister
said, her own eyes Pra moist as she observed
her emotion, but she believe

with which to prosecute her search.
“The little ring,” she added, ‘you will find in another
box inside the one you have got there.

Lady Elaine ‘found it, opened it, and on a bed of pink |

cotton lay a plain gold ring, having a small but beauti-
ful emerald set in it. 4

The ring was quite a heavy one for its size, and the
stone, instead of being set up in a crown, was let into
the circlet itself.

“Oh!” cried Lady Elaine, as she caught sight of it,
and she seemed about tosay more, but checked her-
selt.

‘Tt is a beautiful little stone, isit not? and quite an
expensive one, too, I should judge,” remarked Miss
McAllister. “Iused often to wonder how Evelyn hap-
— to buy such a thing fora baby. Lonce told my

rother thatI never knew her to doa really extrava-
gant thing before, but I might have spared her that re-

roach, since she was never guilty of it. Her husband
had a captain's pay and a private income besides, while
her father gave hera handsome allowance; but she
had been taught not to spend money foolishly, and I do
consider it foolish to deck children out with precious
stones.”

‘May I take these things for a little while, Miss
McAllister ?” Lady Elaine asked, as she laid the shoes,
and stozkings, and ring back in their places, and coy-
ered them with an almost reverent hand. ‘I will guard
them as I would a priceless treasure, and see that noth-
ing happens to them,” she added, re

carci! you can take them and keep them as long
as you think you may need them. I never attached any
importance to anything but the — until we discoy-
ered that our dear Arley did not really belong to us—I
merely kept them because I thought she would prize
them as being the last things that her mother had pro-
vided for her.

“But we had nearly forgotten about the captain of the
Vulcan,” she continued, taking up and opening the
diary which Ina had brought her.

She turned the leaves until she found the date of
Arley’s return, and after reading afew pages, she looked
up, saying :

‘It was Captain Simons, dear; but that 1s all I can
find about him—there is no mention of anything regard-
ing him, save hisname. Iam afraid you will findita
hard matter to find him, and even if you should, I do not

that he could tell youmuch. You must remember
that afeallor from the White Star rescued Arley, and

{
tried to answer indifferent-

that it was caused by dis- |
appointment at not having discovered anything tangible

the captain of the Vulcan would know nothing, except
what “e could tell him, or what he could learn from her
prattling speech.”

That is so—he could tell me nothing—how blind I
have been. Of course, if he had known, there would
never have been such a blunder about her in the first
place,” and Lady Elaine looked much disturbed over her
short-sightedness.

“T can see only one hope of getting at the root of this
matter, and that is to find the captain of the White Star,
if he is living,” Miss McAllister said, after a few mo-
ments of thoughtful silence. ‘You say that this Col-
lins woman told you that the lady and gentleman who
were rescued by the Black Swan were passengers on
the White Star? Arley, too, left India on that vessel,
and our only way of learning anything is to find the
captain or some other officer who served upon it.”

“Who brought Arley to you?” Lady Elaine asked, as
if inspired by some sudden thought.

“A poor woman who was flying from poverty and pes-
tilence in France, and who hoped to find friends and
help here in London. She had lost a little one just be-
fore leaving home, and gladly took charge of Arley
ee the remainder of the voyage after she was res-
cued.’

“But there were others rescued at the same time,
were there not ?” asked Lady Elaine, anxiously.

“Oh, yes, several.”

“And did no one know anything about the child? Oh,
it seems so strange that there should be all this mystery,
when others were Sayed from the same vessel!” and
Lady Elaine was greatly agitated.

“Yes, itis strange; but you know that every one is
for himself at such a time; the sailor told the captain
that she was the child who was to be sent to Dr. McAl-
lister, of London, and he immediately gave her to the
first one who was willing to assume the care of her.
This woman—Mary Nelson was her name—yearned for
the little one, cared most tenderly for her until the ves-
Selreached port, when he ordered a carriage for her
and sent her to us with the child.”

“God bless her, and the sailor also who saved her !”
cried Lady Elaine, with streaming eyes.

“My dear, I am afraid you are getting very nervous
and excited over this matter,” Miss McAllister said,
gravely, as she looked into the flushed, beautiful face.

‘What became of this woman afterward ?” Lady Elaine
asked, struggling for composure.

“She died—” -

“Died ?” interrupted her listener.

“Yes. My brother was so grateful to her for the ser-

family as her nurse. But she only lived three months.
She took the typhus fever, and died very suddenly.”

Lady Elaine sighed heavily.

«I do not see as there is any hope but to find the cap-
tain of the White Star,” she said.

“No, dear, and that, I fear, will be a doubtful under-
taking; for so many years have elapsed since that
wreck, that I fear he may not be living, even if he suc-
ceeded in escaping at that time, which is also doubt-
ful, ae a captain is usually the last one to leave his
vessel.’

Miss McAllister certainly was not in a very encourag-
ing mood to-day.

‘Do you know what line the White Star belonged to ?”
her visitor asked, with a very downcast face.

“I do not know,” was the reply. ‘“You will have to go
to some one who has a vessel register or directory—I
should suppose almost every shipowner would have
one—and you will doubtless find out there who was the

| owner of it, and, with that knowledge gained, it will

be comparatively easy to learn who had been its cap-
tains.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
eo

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs.

 

 

Helen Wood.

 

*‘Dorothy,” Newark, N. J.—ist. For children’s dresses,
madeira embroidery and guipure, both white and ecru, are
much more fashionable than fine flimsy laces. They are
more economical on washing dresses, for they stand the
wear and tear of repeated washings, and also the violence of
childish play. 2d. Entire sets of willow-ware are fashion-
able for summer bedrooms. The bureau and washstand

haye marble tops, and all of the finishings are of a substan-
tial order. 3d. A charming fashion for summer costumes,
and which is very ie that. of the corsage slightly
n at the neck, with a scarf of tulle, gauze, or crape, cross-
| on the chest, and passing a wide waist-band, the two ends
of the scarf fomming a little drapery over the hips and tied
in a bow or knot at the back. 4th. We will send you the
“Language of Flowers” on receipt of twenty cents, from
which you can gain the information you desire. 5th. Foun-
dation skirts are still made rather narrow, but the dress
skirts worn over them are of more than reasonable width
and it is probable that before long the foundation skirt wil
either follow the example of the real ss skirt, and be in-
creased in width, or be epee with altogether. 6th. Long
pelisses, with yokes of velvet or embroidery, are worn by
misses.

“Alice E.”—Ist. Puffs, loose curls arranged in a circle and
pinned down with jeweled ornaments, and bow-knots of hair
are the prevailing modes for fixing the hair, though almost
any disposition of it is fashionable that is becoming. 24. The
casaquin bodice is made in the same way as the Parisian
blouse—that is, shirred at the waist, front, and back, and
fastened around the waist with a silk cord. Itis usually
made of dark green, garnet, or blue India cashmere, and the
tunic is of the same material, draped over a skirt of shot silk.
The collar, reyers, cuffs, and a soft cravat are made of shot
silk to match, andthe whole costume is very becoming to
young ladies of slender figure.

‘Mary C. M.,” Henry, Kans.—White dresses this season are
lovely beyond compare, and are seen in every style, from the
plain white linen lawn, with full tucked skirt and Mother
Hubbard waist, to the most costly and delicate creations of
lace and satin. Between the two contrasting models is a
wide range of fabrics and garnitures, one of the leading ma-
terials being the old favorite of last year, nuns’ vailing, in
cream orivory tints, A dress of this fabric is now almost as

neral and ae much worn on every occasion as the regula-

ion black silk toilet always has been.

Mrs. Laura C.”—I1st. The employment of velvet is not af-
fected by the rise in the temperature, as it is not considered
a strictly winter fabric, and even light goods, such as mus-
lin, gauze, and lace are trimmed with it. 2d. The patterns
for the infant’s wardrobe, comprising four garments, will
cost you twenty-five cents, on receipt of which we. will for-
ward it to you. The spencer waist and pointed girdle of vel-
yet are fashionable.

“Julia Carroll.”—The chemisettes of colored linen with
standing collars are worn with the tailor-finished dresses. A
very high standing collar is styled the Dude. 2d. Jersey
cuffs, two inches wide, are convenient for the slight sleeves
now so fashionable, and they come with round or square cor-
ners, plain or hemstitched. 3d. “Martine’s Hand-Book of
Etiquette” will be forwarded to you on receipt of fifty cents.

“J. L. B.’—Lovely hats for garden parties are made of
sprigged organdie shirred over fine milliner’s reeds, with
about an inch between each runner. The wide brims are
lined with two rows of lace laid one over the other, the edge
of the last row extending about half an inch beyond the rim
of the hat. A wreath of flowers goes around the crown, and
the same are worn on the corsage.

“Bella R.”—Ist. Red silk Jerseys are worn with dark silk
skirts. Those woven in ribs have long, pointed vests of vel-
yet, and hook over the apron-front of surah skirts matching
the Jersey, the yest being in contrast. . The New. York
WEEKLY Purchasing Agency can send you a good cook-book
on receipt of thirty cents.

“Addie M.”—The puffings of back draperies are not so much
| bunched. up at the top asformerly. The puffing is longer,
| and extends farther down toward the bottom of the skirt.
| Many draperies are joined to the foot of the overskirt with a
| band of ribbon, others with a fan-plaiting, and still others
| crossed like a braid.

| “Miss Clara B.,” Brooklyn, N. ¥Y.—The one-dollar outfit of
| Perforated Patterns for stamping consists of fifteen pat-
j-terns, powder, pad, ete., and two initials. We cannot give
| choice of patterns in these outfits.

| “Miss L. C.,” Plainfield, N. J.—Ist. We can send you the
| “Arts of Beauty,” by Lola Montez, on receipt of twenty-five
| cents. 2d. The price of the “Sensible Letter Writer” is fifty
cents.

 

 

“Lottie.” —Ecru is as fashionable as ever. Many dresses are
made of ecru lawn and embroidery, and the costume is com-
pleted by a hat and parasol to match, covered with ecru lace.

“Miss Ida C.”—Plaited skirts still remain fashionable, and
will be probably more worn than ever, now that the accor-
dion skirt has become such a favorite.

“Mrs. 8. C.,” Salem, Mass.—The NEw York WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency will furnish you with the article you desire
on receipt of the price, fifty cents.

POE ETO Te

“Towe my
Restoration
to Health
and Beauty

  
 

Testimonial ofa
Boston lady,

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and Sores, and restores the Hair. : b

CuricuRA Soap, an exquisite Skin Beautifier and Toilet
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OCuTICURA REMEDIES are absolutely pure and the only in-
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Sold everywhere. Price, Cuticura, 50 cents ; Soap, 25 cents ;
ae $1. POTTER DRUG AND CHEMICAL CO., BosTON,

88.

 

vices which she had rendered Arley, and she appeared |
to be so fond of her, that he at once took her into the

 

 

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

SPRING

 

WATER.

 

The greatist possible injury that aman kan do to hu-
manity iz to preach infidelity.

God never has placed one single thing we must have
out ov our reach ; our great misfortune iz, the things we
kant get we want most.

It iza terrible burden for the heart to carry to the
grave a secret it cannot reveal.

The strongest trait in human karakter iz the love of
chance. A man who never takes a chance, will never
git abuv the dignity of tending a gide board.

A man without habits iz without karakter; he is likea
bull’s-eye watch—he may keep time, but he has got to
be wound up regular to do it.

Progress iz the great law ; and the more progress we
— here the nearer we shall be to Heaven when we

e:

Every man kan be a hero on hiz own dunghill, but to
be a hero on sum boddy else’s dunghill iz what strains
the rooster.

Originality haz done its work long ago in literature ;
the best that enny one kan do now iz to steal with
nerve and hide with judgment.

The greatest bore on this earth, iz the one who kant
talk about anything but himself.

A very long kreed iz like a very long tail, more liable
to tangle the possessor and be stept on bi others.

Spots kount mi child; yu kant take the 8 spot with
the seven.

The kontest between muscle and brains iz past, brains
hereafter will wear the belt.

Wait and watch, yung man, and most ov the good
things in this life will eddy around near yu.

There are a few things, in the ekonemy of Heaven,
placed out ov the reach ov man, but not one ov them iz
a necessity.

I detest a creaking, kroaking, caterwauling fault
finder; but I do luv an original hater—one who hates
from the shoulder, and kan giv good reazons for hiz
hate.

Without faith or hope, this world would be a mere
charnel house, but I don’t know which one ov the two
we could spare the best.

Truth iz the same the world over, and it is the only
thing that iz.

A phool may be happy, but he kant prove it.

If aman iz kind to me once, he iz kind to me allways,
I don’t kare how mean he may be afterward.

Yung man, go ahed in sum direkshun; yu kan’t stand
still long without going bakwards,

A certain amount of kulture iz good, but we should
not forgit that the poorer the sile iz the less manure it
will stand.

If it wazn’t for the phools in this world, mankind
would hav tired out long ago.

Coquetry iz perhaps oftner artyfishal than natral, but
when it is natral, it is delightfully so.

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MADE ONLY BY
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Indigestion,
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stipation, — other

 

 

 

 

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woke am Paeaes
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AYER’S PILLS,

PREPARED BY
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Sold by all Druggists.

 

 
   

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WEEKLY. @3¢e5<- ©

 

 

 

NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 15, 1884.

Nearer oo Ol eer

Terms to Mail Subscribers:

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Year . aie bas, (004.8 copies s 20.00

All letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,
P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

A Story of Fashionable Life.

Is there any deed so base as to daunt the woman mad-
dened by jealousy and the pangs of unrequited love? A
satisfactory answer to this question is given in the ex-
citing action of the sterling story we will begin next
week under the title of

THE SOCIETY DETECTIVE

By OSCAR MAITLAND,

 

 

 

 

AUTHOR OF

‘6A LIFE STRANGELY CURSED,” etc.

 

The story portrays with graphic and vigorous touches
various scenes peculiar to fashionable life in New York.
The rivalry and envy of society queens—the constant
struggles to sustain at least the show of wealth while
standing on ruin’s verge—the wearying efforts to pro-
long deception and prevent exposure when the whis-
perings of dishonor threaten social downfall—are some
of the distinctive features of this very fascinating story.

“Tye SOCIETY DETECTIVE” Will be begun next week.

——-——__ + e-~

AUNT NABBY,

BY KATE THORN.

Your Aunt Nabby means well. Everybody says that
she means well, but that she has a queer way of show-
ing it.

She is liable to drop in upon you at any time. She is
always ready to give her advice. She generally brings
her knitting along, and she will stay just as long as she
finds it to her pleasure to do so, and you needn’t give
her any hints about cutting her visits short, for she
doesn’t take hints.

She makes her boasts that she doesn’t take hints, and
you might as well undertake to pierce the hide of a rhi-
noceros with a cambric needle as to try to hurt her feel-
ings. It can’t be done.

She drops in for a sociable afternoon, as she says, and
she opens the ball by inquiring if you suppose you are
any relation of the Jenkins that was hung the other day
for killing his grandmother. And when you indignantly
diselaim the relationship, she will exclaim:

“Oh, you hain’t? Well, I thought you might be, see-
seeing as you was aJenkins, and Nephew Tom allers
was kinder silent about your family.”

She counts her stitches, and shows how far she has
knit on the heel of her stocking, and then she takes you
on another tack.

Are you aware that your husband admires the
Widow Green? Do you know that he has been heard
to say—heard by a certain person—oh, no, she couldn’t
think of calling names!—heard by a certain person to
say that Mrs. Green has the finest foot and ankle of any
lady in town? Foot and ankle indeed! And she gives
a sniff, and says she thanks the Lord that she ain’t got
aman of her own to be running off after other women,
and admiring of their feet and ankles!

And then she counts her stitches again, and remarks
on the new wall paper, and wants to know if you ‘‘ain’t
afeared the green in it will pizen somebody?” and she
wonders how you ever find time to paint so many gim-
cracks, and she saysif she were in your place she
would bring her children up to knit their own stock-
ings, instead of painting cats, and dogs, and things to
stick up round the house.

Aunt Nabby always finds fault with your cooking.
She wants to know if you don’t think it extravagant to
use white sugar every day? She objects tolemon in the
pudding sauce. Lemon is awful expensive. She doesn’t
see how ‘‘some folks” can afford to use napkins right
along. Do you keep two cats? Goodness gracious!
what awaste! Andacanary? Well, she never!

Plants—what! plants in three windows! And she
throws up her hands in horror, and says that plants are
dreadful unwholesome things to have in the house, and
she knows now what makes you and your children look
so dreadful sallow and ‘‘pindling,” and she sniffs more
indignantly than ever, and her needles click viciously,
and the false front she wears rises up with horror.

Your house comes in for a share of her criticism. She
never did like a house with the front-doorin the middle.
It takes twice the fuel to warm it; and there is always
a draught. And she coughs, and draws up her break-
fast shawl, and declares she has got cold now.

Aunt Nabby lives in every neighborhood. She is never
satisfied with anything. She is generally an old maid,
though sometimes she may be a widow, who has not
succeeded in entrapping a second man into misery. She
has a Sharp nose; her eyes run water; her front teeth
are gone ; she wears cloth shoes. She will open a door
so easily you never hear it squeak. She always succeeds
in making you unhappy, and you can’t help yourself.
You can’t very well kick her out doors, and down the
steps ; you can’t set the dog on her; you can’t give her
strychnine, or run her through with the carving-knife,
because she means well. But you want to, and who
says you are to blame ?

_— FO

HOW OPIUM IS SMOKED.

 

 

Everybody has heard how opium is smoked. The
smoker lies curled up, with his head resting on a bam-
boo or earthenware pillow about five inches high. Near
him stands an opium lamp, the flame of which is pro-
tected by a glass shade low enough for the point of the
flame to project above the top oftheshade. Thesmoker
takes a wire and dips it into a little box containing pre-
pared opium. Asmall quantity adheres to the point

of the wire, which is then held over the flame of the

lamp until the heat has swollen it to about ten times its

original size. Thisisrolled over and over on the flat
side of the clay bowl, the opium all the time adhering
tothe wire. When ithas been rolled toa soft, solid
mass it is again applied to the lamp, and this alternate

roasting and rolling is kept up for at least ten minutes,

by which time itis in the shape of a pill and ready for
use. The aperture in the pipe issosmall thatit can
only receive the smallest quantity, and the most careful

manipulation is needed to. transfer the tiny ball of
opium from the endof the wire tothe bowlof the

pipe. The point of the wire is inserted into the hole

of the pipe and worked round and round till the soft
opium forms into a conical-shaped ring around the
wire. By twirling the wire the drugis gradually de-
tached from it, leaving a hole through the opium
about as large as the hole of the pipe bowl, with which
it communicates. The pipeis now ready, and the bowl
is held over the lamp so that the opium comes in con-
tact with the flame. A spluttering noise ensues as the
smoker sucks at his pipe. After each successive draw
he ejects from nose and mouth a volume of smoke, the
very smell of which is enough to turn a horse’s stomach.
By the end of the fourth or fifth whiff the pipe is empty.
The smoker scoops out another dose of opium, rolls it
into a pill, and repeats the operation with the same pa-
tience as before, and smokes away until the pipe falls
from his hands and he is lost in dreamland. One thing
is very certain, that if tobacco-smoking were only
half a trouble, tobacconists would soon have to shut
up shop.

—————_>-@+—____—_

‘A shrewd old lady cautioned her newly married
daughter against worrying her husband too much,
and concluded by saying: ‘‘My child, a man is like an
egg. Kept in hot water a little while, he may boil
soit; but keep him there too long, and he hardens.”

VANQUISHED.

BY EDWARD OXENFORD.
Into the North a knight rode forth,
His trusty lance in rest,
With shining mail that could not fail,
And proudly waving crest.

 

To all he met the gage he threw,
And dared them to the fight.

He knew no fear, as each spurred near,
To prove his matchless might.

‘*Ho! ho!” quoth he, ‘‘whoe’er you be,
I dare you to the fray!
With lance and sword, I pledge my word,
That I shall win the day !”

But as he neared the border side
A maiden fair he met,

And drooped his lance before the glance
That flashed trom eyes of jet.

‘* In truth,” he cried, ‘‘both far and wide,
The tourney I have won;
But now I own, by thee alone
Vm vanquished and undone.

« Ah me!” quoth he, “I plainly see
My heart thou’st won to-day ;
So keep it, love, and let it prove
The guerdon of the fray.”

>-@

A BROTHER'S LOVE.

BY E. T. TAGGARD.

 

 

 

“She’s all my fancy painted her,
She’s lovely, she’s divine,
But her heart it is another’s,

And never can be mine.”

“What a beautiful, sad face!” exclaimed Bob Sheldon
to his friend, as alady clad in deep mourning passed the
hotel in which they were temporarily staying in the
town of in the State of Pennsylvania.

«A second Madonna, as I live. The same pallid face,
the same soft beaming eyes that seem to look upona
world beyond. She’s going to the little village grave-
yard that you see on the rise of yonder hill.”

“Then you know her history, Stryker ?”

“Yes, Bob. It is her history, and the eventsI am
about to recite, that form a part of the history of this
town itself ;” and Stryker continued as follows :

Twenty years ago, not far from where we now stand,
in a pleasant little cottage, where the roses clustered in
the summer, and the ivy bushes clambered upon the
shelving roof, lived Emily Thorpe. She had recently
budded into womanhood, and her fascinating manner,
merry laughter, and great beauty attracted to her side
the best and noblest young men of the village.

Among the admirers of Emily Thorpe were the two
brothers Newell, Tom and Dan. They always visited
the house together, and left at the same time. and it
was remarked that y bestowed upon them her
sweetest smiles and kindest words. The other suitors
were not slow in observing the conduct of Emily toward
the brothers, and in the course of time their visits were
discontinued, and Tom and Dan Newell were left the
sole suitors of Emily Thorpe.
The two brothers were twins, and so identical were
they in appearance, character, and disposition that it
was always a difficult matter to distinguish them, and
it was in vain the gossips of the town used every effort
to determine to which of the brothers Emily was most
inclined. If Emily’s heart warmed more toward one
brother than the other she never, by any outward mani-
woot displayed it, but kept it locked up within her
reast.
Time wore on ; the sere and yellow leaf was buried be-
neath the sun ; the birds of spring awoke the earth from
its lethargy; the flowers began to bud and. blossom;
and still the brothers continued to visit the little cottage
ot Emily Thorpe, and still were the village gossips busy
with the reports as to which of the brothers was the
favored suitor.
It was a matter of surprise to the girls of the village
that Emily should have become so attached to the
brothers, who were comparatively poor, when she
might have become the wife of one of the wealthiest and
most respectable citizens. But ‘love is blind,” said
they, ‘‘and Emily Thorpe is more than blind.” As the
Newell brothers were comely and well favored, there
was undoubtedly a little envy mingled with the remark.
Old Mike Newell was the father of the boys. He was
a miner, and dug and delved in the earth for many a
year, until one day the town was shaken to its founda-
tion by a rumor that the mine had cavedin. The re-
port unfortunately was too true, and Mike Newell was
among those who were buried beneath the ruins.
There is a saying among miners, that when one of
them loses his life in a mine, the next generation will
meet with a similar fate; but these startling prophecies
did not deter Tom and Dan Newell from accepting ap-
pointments in the mine, and if they turned a deaf ear to
these ominous words, they were urged to it from a
knowledge of the almost destitute condition in which
bee father’s terrible and untimely death had left their
mother.
Though Tom and Dan Newell both loved Emily
Thorpe, yet they were in no sense rivals. There was
no feeling of antagonism existing between them; there
were no covert visits to Emily on the part of either,
nor were any of lovers’ little tricks resorted to which
would have enabled either one to have a last whis-
pered word with her.
While Emily Thorpe mystified the inquisitive village
gossips in regard to her love for the brothers, yet as she
had never, by act or deed, shown any preference for
either, they themselves were as much mystified as any
one else. And although the subject was never refer-
red to by them, yet in their hearts they began to ask
the question, ‘‘Which of us ?”
One morning Tom Newell started for the mine, unac-
companied by his brother. They had been employed
there for over three years, and this was the first occa-
sion on which he had traveled to his work alone. The
cause of his solitary journey was the sickness of Dan,
whom he had left at home suffering from a severe fever.
The day passed away in the usual monotony attend-
ing a miner’s life, and the time arrived for the men to
ult work and return to the surface through the shaft.
The last installment of the miners had nearly reached
the surface, when a terrible noise was heard, followed
by a cloud of steam. The boiler had burst.
The rope which held the bucket in which were the
miners was severed, and with a terrible cry the miners
fell, striking the sides of the shaft, until, with a thud,
they struck the bottom of the mine, a mangled mass
of inanimate flesh. The hot coals from the furnace were
scattered in every direction, and in a moment the
boiler-house, which was situated at the mouth of the
shaft, was in flames.
The alarm spread through the village, and people
hastened to the mouth of the mine, which was ablaze,
while the insidlous flame was rapidly working itself
down the trestle-work of the shaft into the mine itself
below. Tom Newell was at the bottom of the mine.
From mouth to mouth the news flew like wild-fire
through the village untilitreached the earsof Dan
Newell, who, above the delirium of his fever, heard and
understood it all.

It was in vain that his friends attempted to restain
him. With the strength of a giant he hurled them trom
him and prepared to leave the house.

“T must see Emily and break the news to her. I must
be the first to tell her, for unless caution is used the
shock will kill her,” said he, siezing his hat and rushing
from the house.

His friends, perceiving his condition, followed at a
distance, so as to escape his observation. He went
direct to Emily’s cottage. He entered.

When Emily saw his pale and haggard face, his wild,
piercing eye, and the tremor of his nerves, she became
alarmed, for her woman’s nature told her immediately
of some dire calrmity. She entreated him to speak, but
it was some minutes before he could sufficiently control
his fevered brain to speak connectedly.

At last, by an almost superhuman effort, he managed
to ejaculate :

«'Tom—_” :

“Tom!” shrieked Emily, anticipating the very worst.
“Tom! For Heaven’s sake, speak! What has happened
to Tom ?”

“The mine is on fire——”

«The mine is on fire,” repeated Emily, like the ghastly
echo of the grave.

“And Tom is dead at the bottom of the shaft!”
shrieked Dan Newell, jumping to his feet and pacing
the carpeted floor like a caged tiger.

“Tom dead atthe bottom of the shaft?” repeated
Emily, as though each word seemed to bring with it
deep and bitter reflection. ‘‘Dead! and yet you hasten
here to tell me of it. You, his brother, bring me the
news! Isee your motive Dan Newell. I canread your
heart, but I will rend it, too!”

‘Oh, I never loved but Tom. I tried to keep the secret
locked up within my heart, but, now that he is dead, I
mee not if the whole world knows it. I never loved but

om.”

Dan Newell heard these words, and he felt the last
hope die within his breast. She loved Tom, his brother
Tom, and now he was dead. And she was lost to him,
too, the only person upon the face of the earth who
could fill the void that Tom’s death had left in his heart.
He stood like one entranced.

‘T see it all,” shrieked Emily, wiping her tears, and
jumping to her feet with an emphasis that was start-
ling. ‘You think you cansupplant Tom. You pretend
to show grief for his death, but, in your soul, you re-
joice, because you think that death has swept away the
only rival in your path. You hasten here before the

rave has covered him to take his place by my side.
Never! Isee it all. Dan Newell, these hands will never
grasp yours again, these eyes will never look upon you,
this tongue will never utter your name, save it be to
curse you. Begone, Dan Newell! Leave this house of
sorrow.”

“Emily,” hoarsely whispered he, ‘‘you have wronged
me.

 

 

“Wronged you? You have wronged yourself. What
do you here, when perhaps the feeble voice of poor Tom
is crying from the bottom of that shaft in vain upon his
brother for that help that does not come? How know
you he is dead? Oh, he may be living, and yet you
linger here !”

«Emily, you love my brother Tom ?”

“Oh, how dearly and how fondly !”

“Then I will save him !”

He was gone.

The hectic flush of fever which had now returned to
his cheek and the wild expression of his eye did not now
escape the notice of Emily Thorpe.

She opened the door and looked after him in the dark-
ness, but he was gone. She skrieked for help. It came.
The friends wbo had followed Dan from the house im-
mediately appeared. 5

“Save him!” shrieked Emily.

“Save whom ?” exclaimed they.

“Dan Newell.”

“Which way did he go ?”

«Toward the mine.”

The refiection of the conflagration of the passing
clouds proved that the fiery element had not yet been
subdued when Newell's friends ran with all haste to-
ward the mine. They had concealed themselves so as
to be able to watch the front of the cottage, not antici-
pating that Newell would make his exit in any other
way. Unfortunately for their calculations he in the de
lirium of his fever rushed madly through the first open
door. Itlead tothe garden. He scaled the little picket
fence at a bound, and rushed across the meadow toward
the mine like an affrighted deer.

Left to the solitude of her own sad thoughts, Emily
Thorpe began to comprehend the nature of the terrible
accusations she had hurled at Dan Newell. Her sensi-
tive spirit recoiled at language, the very echo of which
made her shudder and tremble. A refined, amiable,
and sensitive girl, from whose lips no angry word had
ever fallen, to be suddenly transformed into an enraged
tigress! With her humiliation came regret, and then
followed a grief so intense, that she could nof be con-
soled by the kind friends who had dropped in to offer
her their sympathy.

In the suddenness of her bereavement, and owing to
the abrupt manner in which the news of the accident
and death of Tom Newell had been communicated to
her, she had failed to observe the physical and mental
condition of his brother, and now that her eyes had
been opened to a realization of his pitiable state, when
she recalled the fevered flush upon his face and the wild
expression of his eyes, she hegged her friends to bring
him to her, that upon her bended knees she might
crave his pardon for her unkind words.

When Dan Newell left the cottage of Emily Thorpe,
with her terrible words still ringing in his ears, he ran
toward the mine, around which had congregated the
people of the village. Agony and consternation were
pictured upon every face. Strong men ran in every di-
rection, eager to do everything to rescue their com-
rades who were in the mine below, but unable to do
anything. The fire which had extended into the shaft
of the mine, arose like a pillar of flame, notwithstand-
ing the fire company of the village poured uponita
continuous stream of water. Above the crackling of
the flames could be heard the shrieking of terrified
women, for the extent of the disaster had been exag-
gerated, and many mourned the loss of husbands and
brothers, who at that very time were making herculean
efforts to rescue their comrades.

There was an ominous silence on the edge of the
crowd, and as the stillness approached it was discovered
that Dan Newell had arrived. His friends had gathered
around him, and were urging vainly for him to retire to
his home. He heard them not. His eyes were riveted
upon the blaze that waved above the shaft. Slowly he
walked toward it. Itseemed to have the same fascin-
ation for him that the flame of the lamp has for the
winged insect.

He reach the outer edge of the spectators, who had
approached as near as the heat would permit, but still
he advanced. Then kind hands were placed upon his
shoulders, and kind voices expostulated with him. He
could do no good there. On the contrary, sympathy for
him was paralyzing the efforts of the strongest men.
Ob! was allin vain? As a last resource they surrounded
him, and tried by gentle pressure to force him back to
the outer edge of the crowd.

Then he became yiolent.

“Unhand me, boys,” cried he, ‘“Tom is in the shaft—
my brother Tom, We slept in the same cradle, we’ve
lived together and we’ve loved together. I must save
him. Foor Emiiy loves him. She told me so. She
shall have him. J’ll save him, He’s down there at the
bottom of the shait calling tor me—Emily said he was.
You must not hold me, boys. I must bring him up, and
you shall not stop me.”

There was a desperate struggle. The voices of strong
men were heard, and above them all was heard the
shrieking voice of Dan Newell, now transformed into a
raving maniac. It was appalling to the stoutest heart.
They tried to hold him, but he eluded them. They cast
him upon the ground to bind him with ropes, but he
cast them off.

Suddenly he ceased his struggles, and agreed to ac-
company them to hishome. Tnen his friends released
their hold of him. It was the cunning trick of a maa-
man.

When he found himself freed, he watched his oppor-
tunity, and with a shriek that will never be forgotten in
the village, he bounded from the crowd, rushed toward
the flame, gave a wild leap into it, and was gone.

In afew hours thereafter the fire, which had not ex-
tended beyond the shait of the mine, was completely
subdued. An exploring party was immediately organ-
ized, and the bodies of ''om and Dan Newell were found
side by side at the bottom of the shaft. Death, who had
separated them, had reunited them.

Emily Thorpe never married. But see—here she comes
with her sad, pale face. She is returning from a visit
to the graves of the twin brothers.”

ACTS OF HEROISM IN HISTORY.

BY J. ALEXANDER PATTEN.

 

 

AT BLOODY SAN JACINTO—ON THE DECKS OF THE BON
HOMME RICHARD.

The battle of San Jacinto, by which General Sam
Houston won the independence of the then Republic of
Texas, was one of the most heroic and remarkable ever
fought. It occurred on April 21, 1836. When General
Houston took command of the army it consisted of 374
men, which number he increased to 783. They were all
volunteers, and most of them had never seen a battle.
For a time a complete panic reigned in the camp, by
reason of the massacre of the garrison of the fort of the
Alamo of 170 men, and another force of 357 men, by the
Mexicans. Santa Anna had an army of 5,000 men, and
was butchering and burning all before him. General
Houston obtained two six-pounders from Cincinnati, and,
with great skill and courage, made ready for battle.

Santa Anna came up with a force of 1,600 Mexican
regulars. General Houston led the general charge, as
fearful shouts came from all his little army, ‘‘Remember

the Alamo!” ‘Remember Goliad!’ The carnage was
terrible. The Texans were fighting for liberty and in-
dependence, and to avenge the massacre of more than
500 of their people. At the close of the battle 630 Mexi-
cans lay dead on the field, and nearly all the remainder
were captured. Of the Texans only eight were killed
and twenty-five wounded. Santa Anna sought safety in

the disguise of a common soldier, but was captured next

day. The Texans wanted to kill him, but General
Houston protected him, while he rebuked him for his
cruelty. A treaty was made that secured the independ-
ence of Texas, which later became a State of the Union.
Heroic in the most exalted degree, no battle ever had a
more important bearing upon the future and happiness
of a people.

The brave exploits of Paul Jones in foreign waters
have never been exceeded. ‘It is true,” he wrote, “I
must run great risk, but no gallant action was ever per-
formed without danger. ‘Therefore, though I cannot
insure success, I will endeavor to deserve it.” He was
the first man who ever raised the American flag on
board a vessel, and the first who had it saluted in a
foreign port. Having landed at Whitehaven, with
thirty-one officers and men, he captured the batteries
and soldiers, spiked the guns, and then with his own
hands fired one of the large ships, which was surround-
ed by many others. Says the account; ‘‘The inhabitants
began now to appear in great numbers, and attracted
by the flames to run toward the pier. Paul Jones stood
between them and the ship on fire with a pistol in his
hand, and advised them to retire, which he says they
did with precipitation. The sun was now an hour high,
and it became necessary to bring this daring enterprise
toaclose. There being no spare space in the boats, the
captured soldiers were released, with the exception of
three, whom Jones said he ‘brought away for a sample,’
and the party re-embarked. Jones stood for a mo-
ment alone on the pier, contemplating with no little

ride and exultation, the terror and awe with which he

ad impressed the inhabitants of this considerable
town, who stood gazing on him with stupid and panic-
stricken wonder from the surrounding eminences. At
length he entered his boat and rowed quietly out of the
harbor.” This, and other proceedings at the same time,
created the greatest alarm in England and Scotland.

The e ement between the Bon Homme Richard,
comman by Paul Jones, and the English ship Sera-
pis, Captain Pearson, off Flamborough. Head, in Sep-
tember, 1779, was a desperate affair. Jones was at that
time commander of the American squadron in European
waters. Three vessels had been fitted out in France,
and this one, by request of Jones, was named in honor
of Dr. Franklin. Indeed he had obtained the command
by Sey in practice one of ‘‘Poor Richard’s” sayings
in Dr. Franklin’s famous almanac, which was this: “If
you would have your business done, go; if not, send.”

Other vessels were present, but the chief engagement
was between the two named.

The battle began at half-past seven in the evening,
and lasted for three hours anda half. A beautiful day
was followed by a moonlight night. Thousands of the
inhabitants watched the battle from the shores less
than a league distant.

The Bon Homme Richard mounted forty poor guns
and hadacrew of 227 menof different nationalities,

 

while the Serapis was a new vessel, armed With forty-

four guns, and had a fine crew of 320 men. About 100
prisoners on board the Richard were released during the
fight, and became another source of danger.

After the battle had raged for some time, the English
captain asked :

“Has your ship struck ?”

Jones answered, promptly :

“T have not yet begun to fight.”

He now ‘‘determined to lay his ship athwart the en-
emy’s hawse.” Says the account: ‘The Serapis’ jib-
boom hung her for afew minutes, when carrying away
the two ships swung broadside and broadside, the muz-
zles of the guns touching each other. Jones sent Mr.
Stacy, the acting master, to pass up the end of a haw-
ser to lash the two ships together, and while he was
gone on this service, assisted with own hand in making
fast the jibstay of the Serapis to the Richard’s mizzen-
mast. Accident, however, unknown for the moment to
either party, more effectually secured the two vessels
together, for the anchor of the Serapis, having hooked
the a er of the Richard, the two ships lay closely
grappled.

The Serapis let go her anchor, which also held the
Richard, and the yards were entangled fore and aft.
The guns of either ship actually touched the sides of
the other, and some of them being opposite ports, the
rammers entered those of the opposite ship when in the
act oft loading, and the guns were discharged into the
side or the open decks. The effect of the cannonade

“was terrible to the ships.

Fighting with pikes and pistols through the ports
also took place. ;

Some of the gunsof the Richard burst, killing the
gunners and blowing up the deck. A hand grenade,
thrown on board the Serapis, caused an explosion of
cartridges, killing twenty men. The Richard's ensign
was shot away, and a gunner called out:

“Quarter ! for God’s Sake, quarter! Our ship is sink-

ing!
yi ones had just discharged a pistol, and this he threw
at the gunner, fracturing his skull and knocking him
down the hatchway. He met the boarders of the Sera-
Be he the head of a party of pikemen and drove them
ack

With his ship sinking and on fire, and surrounded by
carnage, he refused the bean of his officers to sur-
render. On the quarter-deck, he personally directed
the fire of the guns.

“In the moonlight,” says another, ‘ blended with the
flames that ascended the rigging of the Serapis, the
yellow mainmast presented a palpable mark against
which the guns were directed with double-headed shot.
Soon after ten o’clock the fire of the Serapis began to
slacken, and at half-past ten she struck.”

The Richard had five feet of water in her hold, and it
was still entering in many places; her rudder was cut
entirely through; transoms were driven in, and the
timbers shattered so that it looked ‘‘asif the ship had
been sawn through by ice.” The losS on board was 42
killed and 40 wounded, while on board the Serapis it
was more than 100 killed and 100 wounded.

Jones, in his official report. says: ‘‘A person must
have been an eye-witness to form a just idea of the tre-
mendous scene of carnage, wreck, and ruin that every-
where appeared.”

Paul Jones was anxious to send the Bon Homme Rich-
ardinto port, but when on her way, in charge of a small
crew, ‘‘she rolled as if losing her balance, and settling
forward, went down, bows first, her stern and mizzen-
mast being last seen.”

On the decks of this ship was fought a naval battle
early in our history, but it may well be regarded as a
standard of heroism for ourselves and all nations for-
ever.

 

e~

Correspondence.

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

{We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart-
ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal.
Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and
fairly, even though it may take a month of research to arrive
at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared tu render
the answers to questions absolutcly reliable.]

 

T. E. B., W. Territory.—lst. To make gold plating powder,
wash thoroughly a quarter of an ounce of chloride of gold;
then add it to a solution of two ounces of cyanide of potas-
sium inapint of water; shake well, and letit stand until
the chloride is dissolved. Add one pound of prepared Span-
ish whiting, expose to the air until dry, and then put away in
a tight vessel for use. To apply it, make some into a paste

with water. and rubit on the surface of the article with a
piece of chamois skin or cotton flannel. The surface of the

 

article should be thoroughly cleansed before applying the
plating powder. 2d. To make a silver plating fiuid, dissolve
one ounce of crystals of nitrate of silver in twelve ounces of
water. Then dissolve in the water two ounces of cyanide of
potassium. Shake the whole together, and let it stand until
it becomes quite clear. Have ready some half-ounce vials
and fill them half fullof Paris white, or fine whiting. Will
ap the bottles with the liquid, and it will be_ ready for use.
The “Arkansas Traveler,” in book-form, will cost 50 cents.

Knarf, Augusta Ga.—ist. See any work on geometry. 24.
We can send you a photograph of the Siamese twins, Chang
and Eng, for 35 or 50 cents. 34. They were born in 1811,
were exhibited in most partsof Europe and the United
States, and died within a few hours of each other, in North

Carolina, on Jan. 17, 1874. Each was married, and had sey-
eral children none of whom were monsters. Chang died
first during the. night. When Eng awoke and found his
brother dead, his fright soon ended his own life. 4th and 5th.
We are unable to enlighten you. 6th. One hundred yards
was run in England, on Sept. 30, 1844 by George Seward (an
American), in 9/4 seconds. This is the fastest recorded time.
6th. The duty on marble, in block, rough or squared, is 65
rcent. per cubic foot. 7th. Not to our knowl 8th.
our penmanship is very good.
drawn match.

A Constant Reader, San Francisco.—ist. Miss Regina Maria
Roche, a once famous English novelist, wrote the following
works : “Vicar of Lansdowne,” “Maid of the Hamlet,” “Chil-
dren of the Abbey,” “Clermont,” “Nocturnal Visit,” “Dis-

carded Son,” “Houses of Osma and Almeria,” “Monastery of
St. Colombe,” ““Treothick Bower,” “London Tales,” “Munster
Cottage Boy,” “Bridal of Dunamore,” “Chapel Castle,” “Con-
trast,” “Nun’s Picture,” “Tradition of the Castle.” 2d. Miss
Roche and Mrs. Anne Radcliffe were the rival female novel-
ists of the latter part of the 18th and the commencement of
the 19th century. 3d. Mrs. Radcliffe’s publications appeared
in the following order: “The Castles of Athlin and I Dun-
bayne.” “A Sicilian Romance,” *"The Romance of the Forest,”
“The Mysteries of Udolpho,” “The Italian ; or, The Confes-
sional of the Black Penitent ;” “Gaston de Blondeville,” “St.
Alban’s Abbey.”

An Anxious One, Stratford.—ist. The salary of the first-
class clerks in the U. 8. Treasury Department is $100 a month.
2d. Write to the Secretary of the Treasury, Washington, D.C.
3d. To make blackberry cordial, press the juice from the

berries and strain through a muslin bag; to one quart of
juice put one pound of loaf ar; let it stand for three
days; strain through a sieve; put to each quart a half pint
of brandy and bottle for use. 4th. To make pie paste, take

flour, three quarters of a pound of butter, and

7

Neither; it was a

one pound of
one tumbler of water. Divide the flour and butter into three
parts, and mix them gradnally together with a spoon, reserv-
ing one part of the butter; roll out the paste, and add the
butter; work lightly and roil again. This quantity will make
five small covered pies. Do not handle the paste much, as it
is apt to make it heavy.

“J. C., Tarboro, Ga.—ist. Rock-salt is the name sometimes
given in the United States to salt in large crystals, formed
by evaporation from sea-water,in large basins or cavities.
There are numerous mines of rock-salt in Germany, Austria,
and Poland. _ In the United States rock-salt is found only in
Virginia and in Louisiana. When rock-salt is pure it is
mined like other minerals, but when it is mixed with earth
and other ay water is let into the salt and left there
until it dissolves it, and the brine is then pum out and
evaporated—that is, the water is made to pass off as steam or
vapor and leave the salt. 2d. Hoar is pronounced 3 :
A letter addressed to aie paper named will reach the pub-

lishers through the post-office.

Lawrence, Massachusetts.—Plane tree is the name of the
tree commonly called buttonball or buttonwood in the Uni-
ted States, and sometimes sycamore. It grows almost all
over the United States east of the Rocky mountains. Itis

ey more than one hundred feet high. twelve to fifteen
feet thick, and makes a good shade tree. Its wood
ain and hard. In Eastern countries it is eres for ship-
uilding and for joiners’ work, but it is not much used in
this country. The buttonballs, which are the fruit of the
tree, are made up of a single seed covered with bristly down.
The plane tree gets its name from a Latin word signifying
broad, its top being broad and spreading.

C. R. J., Mascot, Va.—ist. We are unable to say. 2d. We
know of no “sure” remedy for chicken cholera, but among
other things recommended is bi-sulphate of soda—one ounce
to one gallon of water. Setit where the fowls can drink it.
As a preventive it is necessary to have the roosting place for
the fowls dry and clean, and spri with lime or wood
ashes as often as once a week. Feed with dry feed. Another
remedy is strong alum water mixed with their feed for two
7, a days, Cath Tited once a week. + is a yoo that

' m each o pepper, gunpowder, an n-
tine, well mixed with cooked Toiiien hesl, and given ren

other day for a week or so, will in most cases effect a cure.

Reader, Albany, N. Y.—Hay fever appears to be unknown in
the Southern States and in the northern regions of Canada.
It is never developed on thesea; and persons suffering from
it find complete relief from it after the first twelve or twenty-

four hours of asea voyage. Relief is also obtained in situa-
tions where there is little or no vegetation. It is also stated
that it may be cured by go to certain portions of the White
Mountain region, to Mount Mansfieldin Vermont, to the
Adirondock mountains, or pene to aay point lying 800
feet aboye the sea. metimes a change of residence from
— . to another in the same town or city will afford
relief,

Brooklyn.—To brown gun-barrels, mix equal parts of but-
ter of antimony and sweet oil, and apply the mixture to the
iron previously warmed. Use a linen rag or sponge, and keep
applying from time to time until a proper color is produced ;
then wash in Tlash water, and afterward in clean water,
and polish, either with a burnisher or wax; or, if pre-
ferred, apply a coat of shellac varnish, which is made by dis-
solving one ounce of shellac and one dram of dragon’s blood
in a quart of alchohol, and filtering the solution farousn
blotting-paper into a bottle, which must be kept closely cork-
ed. This varnish, after oming perfectly dry, must
rubbed with a burnisher to render it smooth and glossy.

J. J. S., Olean, N. Y.—1st. “The Cabinet Maker and Uphol-

sterer’s Companion” will cost $1.25. 2d. Yes; subscription
ce $1 per year. If you wish either or both, write direct to

 

e NEW YOLK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.

W. S.—1st. The Presidents of the United States have, we
believe, been mostly of English descent. The well-known
exceptions are Jackson (Scotch-Irish), Van Buren (Dutch),
Polk (Irish), Buchanan (Irish), Grant (Scotch), and Chester A.
Arthur (Irish). 2d. Henry Clay, like Daniel Webster, had, it
is understood, enguse ancestry. John C. Calhoun, who will
always be associated in political history with Clay and Web-
ster, was the grandson of James Calhoun, who emigrated
from Donegal, Ireland.

Brown, Oak Lawn, R. 1.—1st. We would advise you to obtain
a clerkship in some good mercantile house, The “education”
you will get there will be of the right kind—practical and
thorough. .2d. We con recomend the following books :_‘‘Web-
ster’s High-School Dictionary,” $1.25; “Brown's English
Grammar,” $1.25; “Parker’s Aids to Composition,” $1; ‘Har-
pers School Geography,” $1.25; ““Quackenbos’ American His-

ory,” $1.25.

Miss M. A. Y, Kalamazoo.—\st. No. 2d. ‘“Wright’s Practical
Poultry Keeper” will cost $2. It is illustrated. If you wish
it, write direct to the New YorK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.
3d. By taking more pains at might in time make your pen-
manship quite elegant. 4th. Bellevue Hospital is at the foot
of 26th street, East River, this city.

A Printer, Tipton, Iowa.—ist. To measure type by the 1,000
ems, take a lower case letter m, and count the number which
will go in one line, and multiply the lines by that number.
2d. Leaded is measured the same as solid matter, the com-
positor getting the benefit of the leads. 3d. Job printers are
generally paid by the week. -

A Reader for Ten Years, Crestline, Ohio.—ist. A fortune-
teller’s book of the kind you wish will cost 40 cents. 2d. A
dictionary of populer uotations, taken from the Latin,
French, Spanish, and Italian langu . with ro pa trans-
lations, can be sent to you for 15 cen 3d. Certainly, if not
engaged to either lady. +

Old Reader.—\st. ‘The Art of Letter Engraving,” by George

F, Whelpley, will cost $2. It is for the use of jewelers and all
engravers on metal. 2d. For the information desired, apply
at the office of Nd Police Commissioners, No. 300 Mulberry

street, New York.

B. C. M., Long Island.—The salary of the President of the
United States is $50,000 a year; that of the Vice-President is
$8,000, The salary of the seven members of the Cabinet is the
Same—$8,000.

W.C. D.—The salaries of pension agents are limited to
$4,000 per annum, and an allowance of 15 cents for each pen-
sion voucher issued in excess of 4,000 vouchers per annum.

A Subscriber, Longview, Texas.—‘‘Silent and true, original-
> “A Little Queen”, by Mrs. May Agnes Fleming, is in book-

orm. Price $1.50.

Grit.—One hundred yards was run in ten seconds by Evert
J. Wendell, of Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass, on
May 24, 1881.

Madcap.—You certainly owe the young man an apology,
and we advise you to make one at the first opportunity.

J., Wilmington.— Write to the Secre of the Treas
or the Commissioner of Pensions, Washington, D. C.

N. E. B., Oxford, Pa.—We will send you the book requested
on receipt of the price, 25 cents.

Mrs. A. A. F., Westfield, Wis.—We have no personal knowl-
edge of the company named.

Geo. E. C., Fort Lyon, Col—Write to John Reilly, Register
(Hall of Records), this city.

Sport, Hamburgh, N. J.—B wins, according to your state-
ment of the bet.

H. H. B.—Cold water bathing will help you. Try it night
and morning.

A. A. U., Winsport, Pa.—Ex-President Hayes is still a resi-
dent of Ohio.

A. L. B.—Wiiliam M. Smith is the Health Officer of the port
of New York.

Gatl Mordaunt, Linkville, Oregon.—ist. No. 2d. Yes, if as
well written.

1 ry H., Newark, N. J.—The president of the club should
e -

Julia, Paris, Mo. The word “Thanks” would be sufficient.
L. C. W.—Give up the use of stimulants in every form.

D. O., Clinton, Iil.—The author is not known to us.

E. T., Richmond, Ind.—ist. and 2d. Yes.

To Conrrisutors.—The following MSS. are accepted :
“The Angels Loved Her Better;” “The Doctor's Dupe ;” “In
the Dark ;” ‘A Wise Lecision ;” “Under the Rose ;” “A Terri-
ble Experience ;” “An Ungrateful Widow.” The followin

MSS. are declined: “Starlight and Moonlight ;” “Scenes o

Childhood ;” “three Girls on a Summer Trip es Sraening
Affair ;” “Pat’s Hope ;” “A Slippery Count ;” “Adventures o:
a Gold-Seeker.”

 

Os

DIFFERENT KINDS OF HORNS.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL.

Anybody who has gone through a menagerie, and in
these days who have not, must have noticed the differ-
ence between the horns of the various horn-wearing
animals. How great the difference really is, or in what
the difference consists, would never be suspected by the
casual observer. . Indeed it is possible that the existence
of any difference has passed unnoticed by very many in-
telligent persons, for I have known cases of ignorance on
every-day matters which one might fairly fancy could
not pass unobserved. For example, I have seen more
than one farmer who has been associated with cows all
his life, and yet who did not know thatcows never have
teeth in the front part of the upper jaw.

The horn-wearing animals are cows, sheep, goats,
antelopes, and deer, and there are also a few more
species which naturalists call horn-wearing, which
really do not have horns. Some of these animals have
horns which are never lost, except accidentally; while
others have horns which, like the leaves on the trees,
drop off eve: ear, and every year grow again larger
than pefore. * /ith some the males only have horns,
and with others both sexes have them. The cows, or
as the naturalists say, the oxen—for that name covers
the whole tribe—have horns in both sexes, and these
horns are hollow, resting on little humps which form a
part ot the skull. The horns grow somewhat every
year, and the growth can be seen by the ridge left near
the base. Originally all oxen had horns, but by a culti-
vation of the domestic animal, cases are very frequent
now of cows that are hornless.

The sheep is usually distinguished by the curling of
the horns, and the goat ‘by the backward curve of the
horns, which are also us ridged on the outer edge.
In the wild state the ewe sheep have horns as well as
the buck, but in the domestic state usually the buck
only has horns. The antelope, like the cow, sheep, and
goat, has horns in both sexes, and like these species
retains its horns through life. In the antelope the horns
frequently grow of an enormous length, sometimes
stretching out six and seven feet.

But of all the horned animals the deer is the most
peculiar in that particular. The horns of the deer drop
off every spring, and in June begin to grow again. The
first year the horns are small, the next they are larger,
and finally, when the deer ‘is mature, the horns attain
the magnificent proportions which have rendered them
the admiration of the world. Because of the great size
to which the antlers sometimes grow, many persons
have doubted the possibility of the full gro being
made in a few months, as is really the case. The
manner of the growth is as peculiar as the final result,
for the horns of the deer are radically different from
those of any other animal.

At the outset they are soft, like velvet, and the blood-
vessels extend into them and make them very warm, so
that the horns while growing seemed filled with a
throbbing fever. When the full growth is attained, and
it is so rapidly done that one can almost see the horns
lengthening, the blood ceases to flow in them, and the
whole structure begins to harden into bone. Then is the
time of the buck’s glory. With his antlers towering
above his graceful, poised head, he a emerges from
the retirement he has sought during the period of

wth, and goes in quest of mate. And, then, woe

to the presumptuous creature, man or beast, that
dares to cross his ue Fearful are the battles then
waged between the lordly bucks who have fixed their
choice on the same fair doe.

There are other animals, too, that have horns besides
those already mentioned, and among those none is more

eculiar than the rhinoceros. This ugly-looking and not

ess ugly-tempered brute will sometimes have a horn not
less than four feet long, though that is exceptional. This
bone is unlike the bones before described, and is not set
into or even on the skull, but is merely a growth on the
skin over the nose. In fact itis much more of the nature
ofacorn on your foot, than an g else, and is pos-
sessed of the same characteristics as the hair. In for-
mer days the horn of the rhinoceros was supposed to
have an antipathy for poison, and eastern potentates
had goblets carved from the horns, and magnificently
set in gold and precious stones. In those unfortunate
days and places monarchs had need to guard t
poison, and it is not strange that they usually made vain
efforts if the rhinoceros horn cup was their only test,
for, of course, it had no such power as "was ascribed
to it.

Going now from land to water a last example of a still
different sort of horn will be taken. The norwhal,
one of the whale family, has a horn of ivory
which projects straight out from the upper jaw for &
length of eight or ten feet. It is spirally formed, and a
terrible weapon it becomes when the narwhal is enraged.
Just what the real use of the horn is, is not known, for
as the female does not possess it, it is natura. to suppse
it is not areal necessity to the male animal. Some sup-

that the horn is used to bore holes through the ice
so that the animal may breathe, for like all whales it must
breathe atmospheric air. Others suggest that it is used
to spear fish with, but nobody can as yet do more than
theorize about it. Like the horn of the rhinoceros it was
formerly supposed to be a certain antidote for poison,
and even shavings from it were thought to be able to rob
the most poisonous draught of its danger. :

 

6

A GREAT big dog was roaming about the yard, muzzled,
when a little girl rushed into the house in terror. Her
sister, younger but more valiant, coolly surveyed the
situation, and reassured her by remarking :

 

“He can’t bite; he’s got on his bustle.” —

 

 

cn a CC TR He

 

 

      
       
 
    
     
     
     
        
  
       
 
     

 

    

  
 

 

idieies
Ck gO TT

iia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
  
  
  
  
     
     
      
      
  
  
   
  
   
  
  
   
   
     
  
  
   
   
  
  
  
   

 

    

 

  

 

 

  

  

  

  
     
    
 

 

    

  
  
 

 

   
   
  
  
 

  
      

  
  

  
  

 

    
   

   

 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
    
 
  
   
  
  
 
     

   

 
   

 

   
   
   
    
   
   
      
 
   
    
  
  
  

  

 

 

;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AS WE SAT BY THE FIRE.

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

AS we Sat by the fire, my darling and I,
On that last treasured night of our courting,
With ae meeting oft, and our hearts beating

&:
And our fancies at random disporting,
Old Time seemed to mock
At our tongue-tied dismay,
As the little round clock
mn the wall seemed to i
Tn its quick, pettish voice, that seemed never to tire,
“Speak it out! speak it out!” as we sat by the fire.

Ne’er before had such bashfulness come o’er us both,
And the silence seemed scarce to content us ;
To have the thing done I was not at all loth,
But recoiled from the question momentous.
On the door was a knock,
And her mother came in
To wind up the clock,
Which still kept up its din,
In the thin, chirping voice, that rose higher and higher,
“Wait a bit! wait a bit!” as we sat by the fire.

 

 

But the dame had no sooner gone out with a cough,
the house-cat curled up by the fender;

With her weather eye fixed on us, thus cutting off

The speech I was planning to render.

rp The words to unlock

Allin vain did I try,
While the round little clock,
+ _ Yet more urgent and high,
Cried, oe up your courage, lad! draw to her

nigher!
Speak in deeds, if not words!” as we sat by the fire.

I obeyed, all confused, while my darling’s
Was so great that, in haste to assist her,
I somehow just then round her waist found my arm
And, before she could hinder, P’d her;
When, because of the shock,
Or from motives discreet,
The little round clock
e - Wholly hushed its wild beat,
Or we heard not its voice as, to Love’s golden lyre,
We whispered our yows as we Sat by the fire.

Then her mother intruded again, and the cat
Arched her back, p out as in laughter;
But little cared Mary and I, for so pat
Were we each one another’s thereafter
That we felt we could mock
At whate’er might befall ;
While the live little clock
Piped again from the wall,
“Love away, love away, and to Love’s goal aspire
Till ticks his last!” as we sat by the fire.

 

¢ ;
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] =

A CLOUDED CAREER:

The Los Huecos Mystery.

A STRANGE TALE OF CALIFORNIA LIFE.
By EUGENE T. SAWYER,

AUTHOR OF
“The Maltese Cross,” “Ramon Aranda,’ Etc.

 

 

{A Clouded Career” was commencedin No. 43. Back num-
bers can be had of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER IX.
POMEROY’S CONFIDENCE.

Roger Darrell, after leaving Mrs. Pomeroy, proceeded
to his office in the next block. He had rented the room
the day before, and a small tin sign which he had

brought with him on taking possession, was aifixed to
to the door, and bore this legend :
“R. DARRELL,
Attorney and Counselor at Law.”

In this office he remained for some time writing letters
and arranging his belongings. »

He had been thus employed about an hour, and was
standing near the street window, assorting some books
that were piled below it, when a man passed by on the

sidewalk. Darrell caught a glimpse of a portion of his.
face, and then he dropped the books that were in his’
hands, while a look of mingled amazement and indig-

nation sat upon his handsome face.”
“He here in Los Huecos! No, I must be mistaken.

He could not have the effrontery to come here. And
yet, why not? He cannot know that I am in the town,
and in his ignorance of my whereabouts he would have
the recklessness to go anywhere. Ob, Duke, Duke,
what have re not caused me tosuffer. False to your
promise, to her who loved you better than life, why
should Ispare you now? She is

. Imust keep it, and I will.”

Acting upon a new impulse, he started out to follow
the man whose presence had so annoyed him, but after
a thorough search he failed to find him.

A few afterward, when he again called at the
Melville ranch, Kate received him rather coldly. He
could not divine the reason for the change in her man-
ner toward him until she deigned to enlighten him.

‘Is your wife stopping in Los Huecos?” she asked,
after the exch ot a few commonplaces.

“My wife?” and he looked at her in intense wonder-
ment. ‘I have no wife, Miss Melville.”

There was an awkward pause. Miss Melville’s face
reddened, and her earnest gray eyes put on a look of

reproachful sadness.

- ‘Jam sorry that Lwas mistaken,” she faltered. “I
thought better of you, Mr. Darrell.”

She met his glance at that moment, and there was
naught of shame in the expression. The blue orbs, full
of innocent astonishment and mild remonstrance,

ead, and yet—my prom-

seemed to say, plainer than words, -‘You have wronged
me. ‘ am still worthy of your confidence and your
regard.

His lips said :

“JT confess I do not at all understand you. Will you
kindly explain? Has some enemy been seeking to prej-
udice you against me ?”

She felt her doubts, her suspicions, disap like
mist before the morning sunshine as she marked the
frankness, the honesty, and the truthfulness that were
exhibited in iis looks and in the tone of his voice.

“Forgive me if Ihave wronged you,” she impulsively
replied; ‘‘but Phineas Tucker said he saw you walking
along the road yesterday with a baby in your arms and
a woman by your side. I thought, of course—tor our
acquaintance has been slight—that the woman was your
wife, the baby your child.” t

A glad smile shone from his face, and his eyes were
dancing with merriment, as he responded :

‘T thought my reputation had been compromised
when Tucker passed us. Butitis alla mistake. Inever
saw the woman before in my life. I met her at the
cross roads carrying her baby, and ready to sink to the
ground from exhaustion. She was going to Los Huecos,
and I relieved her of the baby for the short distance
that intervened. I left her at the town, and have not
seen her since. I do not even know her name.”

His fine sense of honor prevented him from mention-
ing Chester Pomeroy’s name, or alluding to the con-
yersation that passed between him and the woman.

Kate Melville believed his statement es a , and
her eyes spoke the satisfaction his explanation afforded
her; while in her inmost heart she honored him for the
kindness and courtesy he had shown to one of her sex,
who was so poor and friendless.

Her coldness vanished, and during the remainder of
his stay she was more than usually gracious and enter-
taining.

Roger Darrell left her with the feeling that she was
the loveliest and most lovable creature he had ever
see.

n.
“JT must not love her,” he said to himself. ‘“‘What have
I to do with love—with love for such as she?”

It was very easy to say, “Love, begone!” but Roger
Darrell found that, strive as he would to efface her im-
age, it remained engraven on his heart.

He longed for friendship, and when he afterward | it

sought hersociety he tried to assure himself that it was
but her friendship that he prized, and which would sat-
isfy him as aguerdon, which should spur him on in the
battle of life.

Chester Pomeroy did not time his visits so as to find

Miss Melville alone, but it so happened that whenever

he called, Darrell was not Birese: Her manner was
more polite and condescen

the first meeting with Darrell, and the real-estate agent,
who was of an obse nature, arrived at the conclu-
sion that he was making good headway in his suit.

The fact was that Miss Melville had changed her tac-
tics. She was too honest to lead him on, or to simulate
afeeling she did not entertain; but she had resolved
not to treat him coldly, but as she would treat any ordl-
hary acquaintance, poping that by this means he would
soon come to the point. His dismissal given, he would
oe she argued, and she would be rid of him forever,

there was the least particle of guile in this mode of

procedure, she did not feel it.

She considered herself justified in the course she in-
tended to pursue, for she did not want to be rude to
Pomeroy, nor did she desire that he should be dancing
attendance on her for months. The sooner he knew his
gave him none of that en-
Soaxpgmuent, which she felt the lover should receive from

She was the more deter-
. because her knowledge of Pomeroy’s

fate the better, provided she

the object of his adoration.
mined on this point

character led her to believe that nothing short of down-
right rudeness would cause him to discontinue his visits.

 

 

g than on the occasion of

 

 

 

He au ee thick-skinned, too egotistic, to accept ordi-
re Ss.

About two weeks after the stormy interview with his
wife, Pomeroy determined to bring matters toa crisis.
Arrayed in his best suit, and carefully gotten up from
top toe, he started on horseback for the Melville
ranch,

It was evident from the expression of his face that he
expected a favorable answer, as it was also evident
that no other trouble beset his mind.

«Alda has gone, and thanks to Fisher no interference
can come from her. As long as Darrell keeps his dis-
tance, Pll let him alone. From the looksof things he
is off the track. Win? Of course I shall. As if any
woman could resist me?”

His inordinate vanity was destined to receive a shock.

On reaching the house he was told by Phineas Tucker
—who grinned significantly as he observed the fault-
lessness of his attire and his ‘‘slicked up” appearance,
as he afterward expressed it—that Miss Melville was in
the arbor, down in the orchard, reading.

After disposing of his animal, the over-confident
wooer proceeded toward the spot indicated.

In an arbor formed of rustic boughs, and covered with
honeysuckles and jasmine, he found the object of his
search rec! in an easy-chair, and reading one of
Mrs. Fleming’s latest publications.

She glanced at him as he came up and stood by the

oor.

“Ah, is that you, Mr. Pomeroy? Good-afternoon.”

He took a step nearer, and she divined what was
coming. :

 

CHAPTER X.
A VILLAIN’S DISCOMFITURE,

Chester Pomeroy’s manner was deferential, and his
bow the acme of politeness. With an oily tongue he re-
sponded to Miss Melville’s salutation :

‘‘Good-afternoon. I hope I am not disturbing your

“Oh, no, not at all,” she coolly replied.
‘May I ask what you are reading ?” he asked, in his
most engaging manner.

¥ a novel,” indifferently.

% a of love and trouble, and a happy ending, I sup-
pose

“Yes, they are all like that, I believe.”

‘Miss Melville,” he said, with his eyes fixed upon her
face, ‘I have been reading a book like that for weeks.
It is full of love, of passion, doubt, and uncertainty.
The last chapter alone remains, and I do not know
whether the end will be happiness or misery. I fear to
turn the leaves.”

She looked at him in feigned surprise. é

“You seem to take much interest in your reading.
rim what is the book? But never mind—it is nothing
me.

He approached still nearer, and, bending over her
chair, said, in quick, passionate accents :

“You may read it if you will. That book is my heart.
Its pages contain but one word—your name. Kate, I
love you aS man never loved woman before.”

She arose haughtily and looked coldly at him.

«This is presumption, sir,” she said.

Consummate actor that he was, he was not acting
now. He felt, as he looked at her, that he loved her
with a devouring passion, and her haughtiness and dis-
dain but increased his desire to possess her.

“You must—you shall hearme. I have come to tell

ou this, and I must know my answer. I offer you my

dand all.I have; my heart is yours already. Shall

the end of my life’s romance be a happy one, or shall I
close the book in despair, in hopeless misery ?”

She tried to release her hand, but he held it fast.

“Tt is useless to prdiong this interview,” was her an-
swer, given as gently as the circumstances permitted,
“for Ican never be your wife.”

aa dropped her hand and stared at her in amaze-
men

“Refuse me? Refuse me ?”

He could not bring himself to believe that his ears
had heard aright.

She was nettled by the very insolence of his egotism.

“TI do not know, Mr. Pomeroy,” she replied, with proud
disdain, ‘‘what reason you had to suppose that I cared
for you, even in the slightest degree. You must have
been unreasoning, indeed, to construe ordinary civility
into indications of that feeling which you call love.” ,

His face was pale with anger when she closed.

“So you scorn me, eh ?” was his fierce utterance. “You
are too proud to mate with me, are you?”

She gave him a contemptuous glance, and moved
toward the door-way.

‘Leave me, sir,” she said, imperiously, ‘‘and never
dare to address me again.”

Her superb disdain maddened him, and quickly plac-
ing himself in front of her, he barred her progress
from the arbor.

«You taunt me, sneer at me,” he hissed, his features
convulsed with malignant rage, ‘‘but take care that the
time does not come when you will be glad to have Ches-
ter Pomeroy for your friend.”

‘Tt has not yet arrived. Will you permit me to pass?”

There was an angry oie in her beautiful eyes as she
made the request, which, as she spoke it, amounted to
a command.

“You shall not pass until you have listened to all I
wish tosay. You spurn me. Perhaps you would pre-
fer some white-faced, curly-haired coxcomb, who comes
from nobody knows where, and may be a fiend in dis-
guise, for aught you know.”

«Another word, sir, and I will call for help and have
you whipped off the place. Stand aside!”

Chester Pomeroy was beside himself with rage, and
his customary prudence was for the moment forgotten.

“Not yet, my fine lady,” was his insulting rejoinder,
‘for [have not finished. Oh, curl your pretty lips all
you please. It only makes you look handsomer—as ¥ou
doubtless well know—and tempts me the more. Give
you up? Icannot, shall not give youup. And, what’s
more, ’'m not going to be balked by a woman’s whims.”

“You call yourself a man,” she said, slowly, and with
cutting emphasis, ‘‘and offer such insults as these toa
woman! Icannot find words with which to express my
utter contempt for you and your brutish love. despise
you. Your admiration is an insult that brings the blush
of indignation to a woman’s face. As for your threats
and your actions, they but reflect the spirit of the
veriest coward.”

Another man than Chester Pomeroy would have
stepped aside, upon these words, and allowed Kate Mel-
ville, grandly beautiful in her indignation and scorn, to
pass out unmolested. But the real-estate agent was
no more the man—he was the brute, whose base in-
stincts prompted him to still baser acts.

“TJ am hateful and a coward, am1?” he sneered. ‘My

You'll sing

re

love is an insult, is it?” Curse your pride!
another tune some day for this. No woman can treat
me like a dog, refuse my love, and forget it as a matter
of no consequence.”

There was a murderous gleam in his sharp black eyes,
but Miss Melville exhibited no signs of fear. Proudly she
stood her ground; contempt, scorn, and derision written
on every line of her lovely countenance.
ae the last time, sir, I command you to stand

ey

She stepped forward on the words, when he caught
her wrist and heldit in a vise.

«Scoundrel! release me. You shall be pnnished for
this insult.”

“And whe will punish me ?”

“7 will.”

There had been a quick step along the graveled path
to the arbor, but neither Miss Melville nor Pomeroy had
heard it. The latter felt that the scene had been inter-
rupted, for the voice had no sooner uttered ‘I will,” than
a muscular arm shot forth, and the villain found himself
lying ‘‘all in a heap,” in the further corner of the arbor,
rubbing his nose against the branches of the‘honeysuckles
with more force than was necessary to obtain the full
richness of the perfume ; and his head aching from the
effect of the sledge-hammer blow that had been so op-
portunely administered to him.

“M thanks, Mr. Darrell, for your timely assist-
ance,” and Kate Melville, smiling and blushing, held
out her hand to the young lawyer.

Roger Darrell’s pulse quickened as _ he took the fair
hand of the queenly young woman, and his reply seemed
eminently characteristic :

“T couldn’t do less and be a man, I am sure.”

They passed from the arbor without bestowing a look
upon the discomfited villain. ®

Chester Pomeroy rose to his feet as they started up the

ath, his eyes glittering with demoniacal wrath. He

ad wisely concluded not to forcibly resent the young
lawyer's interference, for he knew in a personal encoun-
ter he would be as a child in the hands of his pow-
erful adversary.

He walked out without a word, and Darrell, hearing
his footsteps, stopped with Kate, to allow him to pass.

‘It is your turn now,” he as he came up; “but
mine will come.”

“Coward !”

Darrell’s voice was low, but intense, and the look
which accompanied the word was one of defiance.

With a muttered imprecation Pomeroy hastened

away.
His evil brain soon became the repository of a fiendish
scheme, and he chuckled malignantly as he thought of

“Glorious,” he gleefully murmured, as he rode away
from theranch. “Both shall be cut down at one blow.
I must bide my time, for the revenge will be all the
sweeter for the nursing.”

When he reached the office he found Duke Fisher
awaiting him.

“J have been waiting here for an hour, Pomeroy.
Mae the dickens don’t you do your courting in the even-

ge”

“Do my courting ? Whatdo you mean ?” and Pomeroy
bestowed a black lock upon his companion.

“Oh, Lam not so green as Il look. Icame here gn hour
ago to see you; found you were gone, and went to the
livery stable where you keep your horse. The ostler and
Lare pretty well acquainted—in fact, he knows a thing
or too, and so do I—and when I asked him if he knew
where you had gone, he winked an eye and said ‘the
same p ace.’ Of course, as I am naturally of a very in-
quisitive disposition, I wanted to know where ‘the same

lace’ is. ‘The Melville ranch,’ said he. Aha! thought
I, that is your little game, isit? First rob a man of his
money, and then rob him of his daughter. Pomeroy, I
have never appreciated your talents. Why do you bury
them in Los tiuecos ?”

Thus bantered by his devil-may-care companion, Pom-
eroy lost his rae and swore frightfully.

Fisher laughed in his face.

«This is no laughing matter, you empty-headed fool,”
cried the villain, in a rage, “
good for you, you will drop the subject.”

-

d if you know what is

Fisher’s manner changed instantly. He was not
angered at Pomeroy’s speech, for he had known that in-
dividual too long to take offense at a harmless explosion;
besides he had intuitively fathomed the cause of his
companion’s ill-temper.

“Everything goes,” he said quietly. “And now to
Sees. if you are ready for it,” he added.

“6 O on.”

‘You promised to stand in with me in this Melville
racket, but wanted me to wait for afew days. Ihave
waited a week, and grass is getting shorter with me
every day. Why not do the job at once? Melville comes
to town every Saturday, and draws money from the
bank to pay his hands and meet his weekly expenses.

To-day is Friday, Why can’t we hang him up to-mor-
row ? :

“We can.”

«And will you stand in ?”

“To the death, if need be.”

There was no mistaking the tone of Chester Pomeroy’s
voice. There was a deadly ring in it, and Fisher knew
that he meant business.

“And we'll have the account charged to Captain
Thorne ?” “

“By all means—to Captain Thorne,”

>
—

CHAPTER XI.
A STRANGE WOOING.

“And how did it happen that you arrived so oppor-
tunely ?” Kate Melville asked Darrell, as, at her sugges-
tion, they walked back to the arbor.

‘A briefiess barrister has plenty of time at his dispos-
al,” he replied; ‘‘and the exceptionally fine weather
tempted me hitherward. My acquaintances are few,
and my friends fewer——”

“You will always have a friend in me,” she interposed,
looking at him with be eyes.

“T thought you were my friend,” he resumed, with his
face turned from her, ‘‘and that is why I have sought
your companionship.”

They stepped into the arbor, and sat so that they
faced each other.

Kate Melville was surprised at his expression. His
features were contracted, as ifin pain, and in his dark
blue eyes was a ers a+ despairing look.

«You are in trouble, Mr. Darrell,” she said, gently, all
her womanly sympathies aroused. °

Her look thrilled him, and his face lighted up for a
moment. But only fora moment. Not even the mag-
netism of her presence could divest his mind of the
gloom that enshrouded it.

“Yes, I am in trouble,” he moodily replied, as he
looked away.

“T don’t ask for your confidence, Mr. Darrell,” she said,
with tender earnestness, and bestowing upon him a look
that caused the blood to rush to his face; ‘but if you
are in need of theservices of a true friend, do not hesi-
tate to make known your wishes to me. You see how
trustful I am,” she added, with a little laugh; for his
nervousness and peculiar manner began to affect her
pea’ ye shee

“IT dare not confide in you, Miss Melville,” he respond-
ed, with agitation, ‘for then our friendship would

“IT do not believe it,” was her brave and earnest reply.
“TJ have seen but little of the world, it is true, and yetI
am sure that your breast holds no disgraceful secret. I
feel, furthermore, that I can be of service to you. You
are in trouble, yousay. Let me help you—let me prove
my gratitude for your kindness and courage.”

“Prove your gratitude ? Ah, Miss Melville, it is I who
owe a debt of gratitude to you.” .

“To me ?”

“Yes,” he went on, with glowing face, and in tones
that seemed like music to the lovely listener; ‘for it was
the magic of your voice, the encouragement of your sym-
pathizing words, that lifted me out of the gulf of despair,
and made this earth seem not a barren waste, a cheer-
less desert, but a land teeming with the choicest bless-
ings. And yet,” he added, in mournful cadences, ‘1
now wish that I had died before I met you.”

There was a tumult within her bosom, and her eyes
sought his with a frightened expression.

«What have I done?” was all she could say.

‘Done !” and carried away by his feelings, by the love
that now permeated every fiber of his being and de-
throned reason and judgment, he poured forth a pas-
sionate avowal to the beautiful girl who sat tremblingly
before him. ‘Done? You have made me love you, in
spite of myself. I love you better than life itself. I
know now that I have loved you ever since your sweet
presence graced the room where I, a poor, miserable,
forlorn outcast, fought with the poison which should
have destroyed me.”

She did not speak, and he went on more calmly:

“IT meant never to have told you this, but fate has
willed that you should know to what heights my pre-
sumptious eyes have dared to look. I cannot, dare not
hope that my insane desire shall reach fruition.”

“Dare not? Why?” she softly asked, with downcast
e€

yes.

He looked at her with intense amazement.

“You love me?” he exclaimed, aS a wave of rapture
swept over his finely chiseled features.
“Yes,”she murmured, and then he took her in his

arms.

One passionate embrace, a kiss lightly, almost rever-
ently imprinted upon her pure, white brow, and he
drew away from her with a sigh, that had in it the ele-
ments of hopelessness and sorrow. ;

The chaste blushes on her sweetly innocent face fled
as she noted the strange mood of her lover. Compas-
sionate love beamed from her soulful eyes as she quietly
spoke to him.

“Have I offended you, re

She had never called him Roger before, and the tone in
which the name was uttered lit up the cavernous gloom
which again had found lodgment in his heart.

“Offended me ?” he cried, in the rich mournful tones
that had so often thrilled her. ‘No, you have not of-
fended me. The boon which you have offered to my
thirsting, desolate heart, is too priceless for my accept-
ance. Offended me, sweet soul! No, a thousand times
no. Itis 1 who have offended you, in daring to seek the
divine essence that your love vouchsates.”

A touch of wounded pride made her reply seem cold
to the man who had so strangely wooed her.

“Are you sure you are in yourright mind,” she said.
‘Do you regret your utterances? Am I to have no
voice in this matter?”

“Yes,” he responded with earnestness, and once more
resum: his place by herside. ‘You shall judge, I
will not longer talk in riddles. Ido love you, fervently,
passionately, purely. In my eyes you are queen among
women—the best, the sweetest creature that ever lived.
Itis my unworthiness that makes me a doubter.
love for romencwa not have been spoken. But I could
not keep back the avowal, and now my burden is all the

arder to bear.”

“Your burden, Roger? Why canJ not share it with

ou.”

Kate Melville was proud, but she was like her mother.
Her pride was not mingled with arrogance, but with
comprehensive discrimination. She looked upon him as
a brave and loyal gentleman, and the fact that he had
met with reverses did not serve to eliminate one particle
of the respect and esteem she had originally entertain-
ed for him, and which had now deepened and intensified
into love.

Roger Darrell looked at her searchingly.

“You remember how our first meeting came about ?”
he “ as reason struggled with inclination.

oe es. ’

“J was poor and friendless, and must have resembled
a—a tramp.”

She did not like the word or the application.

«You were not that.”

“No,” he replied, ‘I was notatramp. Circumstances
forced me to appear in the role, I was poor, but no dis-
grace was attached to my poverty.”

“7 knew that,” was her quiet response. ‘It was not
necessary for you to make that explanation.”

“You love me then—poor and unknown as I am ?”

“Yes,” she said. ‘‘Were you rich as Croesus I could
not love you more.”

Once more he embraced her, but his lips did not touch
hers. If she noticed this omission her respect for him
was not diminished.

A struggle, short but silent, raged in his breast.

“JT cannot speak now,” he thought ; ‘coward that I
am, I cannot tell her that which would cause her to
dismiss me with scorn and contempt. At another time
I will tell her, and then farewell to happiness.”

He was but human, and when the next moment he
gazed upon her glowing face all was forgotten save the
glorious certainty of her love.

So he procrastinated.

“You must wait for me to make a name and fortune,”
he said, after a pause, ‘‘for I cannot ask you to share a
poor man’s home.” :

“Tt will not be poor with you.”

He forced down the reply that was rising to his lips.

“But your father ?” at last he said.

ae father will approve my choice,” she proudly re-
ed.
a He said no more on the subject, but his thoughts
troubled him.

It was late in the afternoon when they left the arbor.

Mr. Melville was not at home, and after an affection-
ate leave-taking Darrell departed, promising to return
on the Monday following and acquaint her father of the
engagement.

When he reached his office he found a note on the
desk, and his face blanched as he read the following :

“T did not know you were here until Isaw your sign. At
first I determined to either avoid you or leave the country,
but on reflection, it seemed me that we have an_un-
derstanding. Icome to you witha flag of truce. On Sun-
day, at 7 P. M., I will be at your office, and will abide the re-
sult of the interview. We must meet at some time. Let it be
as soon as possible. DUKE.”

OO

CHAPTER XII.
CHARGED TO CAPTAIN THORNE.

A dry creek formed the townward boundary of the
Melville ranch, and intersected the country road which
assed the house. Whenever Melville went to or from
s Huecos with a team, he used the road; but when he
went on horseback, he turned into the creek bed,
a forming a cut off, made the distance much
orter.

On the afternoon of Saturday, the day following the
events narrated in the last chapter, he left Los Huecos,
mounted on a roan mare—that was noted more for her
gentle disposition than for her fleetness—having some
eight hundred dollars in his sack, with which to pay off
his employees. The most of them were married, and
lived in small dwellings on the ranch, where they either

 

looked after the stock, attended to the vineyards, or

eaea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

e ws

worked in the fields. In selecting his house, instead of
the town as the place of disbursement, Mr. Melville was
actuated by the very laudable desire of protecting the
interests of the families. He understood weak human
nature, and he well knew that if the men were paid off
in Los Huecos, but a portion of their earnings would be
spent for the benefit of their wives and little ones.
Saloons were numerous, and gambling was carried on
openly at every drinking place. The practice of paying
the men weekly, and at the ranch, had had this effect:
The men left for their respective homes on receiving
their wages, and if they went to town aiterward, it
ie ae but a small portion of their wages in their
pockets.

He rode along the road slowly, until he came to the
small bridge which spanned the creek. There he turned
into a path that led down into the creek bed, and soon
was cantering ane the hard, gravelly bottom.

The banks and sides of the creek were lined with huge
willows, and on turning the first bend. two men, dressed
in long black gowns, like monks, and with their faces
concealed by black masks, sprang from behind a tree.
One se the bridle of the mare, bringing the animal
to a stand-still, while the other—the taller of the two—
presented a pistol at Melville’s head.

“If you move your hands you are a dead man,” was
the warning command, uttered in a dis; voice.
Robert Melville was no coward; neither was he fool-
hardy. Hesaw ata glance that the odds were against
him, and he felt that an attempt to ride on, or make any
resistance, would result in his discomfiture.

He resolved to parley with the robbers, for such they
evidently were. :
«What do you want ?” he calmly demanded. ;
“Your money. Hand over you sack, and then dis-
mount.”

‘“‘Why should I dismount ifI give up my money ?”
“We are not consulting your pleasure. You will do
well to obey without making objections. Throw down
your sack, and be quick about it.”

The speaker was the man who held the pistol. The
second robber, who stood at the head of the mare, had
not yet uttered a word.

Melville, looking straight ahead, beheld something
which the robbers did not see.

“Tf I shall refuse to comply with your request,” he
coldly replied, ‘‘what will you do ?”

The spokesman of the villainous pair burst into a
horse-laugh.

“What will we do? Did you ever hear of Captain
Thorne ?”

“I believe I have,” Melville slowly replied. ‘And you
are ”

“Captain Thorne, at your service. And no man has
ever resisted his demands and lived to tell the tale.”
‘How about the San Lorenzo stage ?” asked Melville,
who seemed desirous of prolonging the conversation.
«That was the work of some booby who palmed him-
self off as Captain Thorne.”

“And you are the great original ?”

“Yes. And we will conclude this original conversation
by taking up a collection. For the last time, throw down
the sack !”

The robber emphasized his command by raising the
pistol until the muzzle was on a line with the farmer’s
forehead.

But the words were no sooner uttered than there
came a whirring, whizzing noise, and a Mexican lariat,
thrown with unerring precision, encircled the neck of
the speaker. It was quickly drawn up in a noose, and
with such force as to hurl the vietim to the ground,
er he lay, writhing, breathless, and black in the

‘ace.

“Hooray !” shouted a well-known voice, and Phineas
Tucker sapped into view from behind a huge rock close
at hand, where he had been concealed.

He had been looking after stray cattle, when, from the
baie She spectacle of Melville’s peculiar situation greet-
e eyes. .
ey: yet expeditiously, he climbed down the bank,
and the backs of the road agents being turned to him,
he was enabled to reach the shelter of the rock without
being perceived.

When he gave the yell and emerged from his place of
concealment, the second robber dropped the mare’s
bridle, darted across the flat bottom, and clambered up
the bank on the opposite side to that from which the
Yariat had been thrown.

“Here, squire, yew attend to this rat-killin’ skunk”—
pointing to the prostrate form of the robber who had
announced himself as Captain Thorne—‘‘and I'll settle
the hash of Injun No. 2.”

So saying, he threw the end of the lariat to Melville,
who had by this time dismounted, and bounded after
the fugitive.

As Phineas began to clamber up the bank, the road
agent was at the top. :

Robert Melville watched until both had disappeared,
and then turned his attention to the man at his feet.

The mask had fallen from his face, and the farmer,
stooping over him, saw that the countenance was that
of a stranger.

Duke Fisher—for it was he—had now recovered his
senses, for Melville's first act on reaching the ground
had been to slacken the noose.

“Get up,” said the farmer.

Fisher staggered to his feet, and his eyes fell upon
his pistol, which lay on the ground some ten feet away.

He made a step to reach it, when there came a sharp
report, and he fell forward on his face with a bullet in
his brain.

This startling interruption sent the frightened mare
fiying from the scene, and Melville, turning quickly with
amazement written on his rugged, honest features, saw
amasked pedestrian standing at the bend, with a smok-
ing pistol in his hand.

“Don’t move,” commanded the stranger, in a muffled
voice, whose accents, to Melville, seemed strangely
familiar, ‘‘or I’ll blow your brains out.”

The farmer’s desire to possess the pistol, which Fisher
had dropped when the lariat caught him, was not strong
enough to induce him to stir in the face of the danger
which now menaced him.

The new-comer, who wore a long linen duster and a
black mask, now stepped nearer, and, picking up the
dead man’s weapon, said to the dumfounded farmer :

“So much has been said about the sack, that I have a
curiosity to seeit. Throw it down, and without ony
waste of words.”

Melville glanced up the bank, where Tucker had last
been seen, but there was no indication of his presence
in the vicinity.

Click, click! and two revolvers were raised.

“Quick! your money, or you'll become like that car-
rion,” indicating the body of Fisher by a movement of
his head.

Melville made a virtue of necessity. He took the sack
from his coat-pocket, and threw it at the feet of the
road agent.

“Now git, and charge this to Captain Thorne !”

Robert Melville gazed at the man in surprise.

“You Captain Thorne? Then whois that man!” and
he pointed to Fisher, whose lamp of life had been so
suddenly extinguished.

“A fraud—a base imitator. There is but one Thorne ;
I am the man, bi ‘

The farmer went, and, much as he was agitated over
the startling events of the afternoon, his thoughts
could not help reverting to the voice of the man who
had robbed him. Though muffied and eens yet he
was satisfied that he had heard it before. here? But
he could not tell. Memory refused to come to his aid,
and the puzzle remained unsolved when he reached
the house, and tothe men assembled recounted the
story of the strange happenings of the last hour.

AS pc as possible he organized a posse, and re-
turned to the scene of the murder and robbery. The
dead man was there, but the murderer had fled.

The pursuit was kept up for hours, and ere long the
sheriff took the field. But though he scoured the
country, no trace of Captain Thorne could be dis-
covered.

He had disappeared as mysteriously as he had come.

It was close on sundown, and some two hours aiter
the tragic occurrence on the creek bottom, that the
sheriff, riding toward the San Lorenzo creek, met Roger
Darrell coming on horseback towaid the town.

The officer knew the young man by sight, and at once
accosted him. 4

‘Have you passed a man in a linen duster, afoot, or in
the saddle ?”

“No. What’s the matter. Another robbery ?”

“Yes, and a man killed besides. This last job will
hang Captain Thorne, if I ever catch him.”

Darrell’s tace turned as pale as death, but he said no-
thing in reply.

The sheriff rode on, nor wondered that the lawyer had
not wished him success in his undertaking.

That night sleep came not to two men in Los Huecos.

They were Chester Pomeroy and Roger Darrell.

(TO BE CONTINUED.]
>e-+

THE MODERN SHAKESPEARE.

 

“Andromeda! there besuch tidings ? the air this morn
as will thine interest fire to fervid fever.”

“This likes mine ear, good sir, for I’ve just returned
from formal round, and hints mine arm of something
like the ‘shakes,’ ”

“Then is thy preparation fit, me maid, for there is
further agitation i’ me news.”

“Give it me then, that I may break me Quaker silence
with a quake.”

‘Have at thee, damosel!
Marcia ?”

‘He that is sire to that jade, Beatrice, whose alti
freights the Sabbath air with onion taints ?

_ “The same, Andromeda !” ;

“I know him as the parent of a witch whose garments

fit her as the pod doth fit the bantling pea.”

“Or as these tidings fit thine ear, mayhap. This same
Lucullus Marcia hath suspension made, and weighs his
assets i’ the lesser scale.”

“Hath what, Henrico? Pare off the furbishments of
this, thy news, and give it me in naked Anglo-Saxon.”

“It be a stripling bit of news, thus do I strip it, girl.
Lucullus then, hath failed ?” ;

“Failed, saidstthou? Failed? Oh, that the fates had
spared me this, Henrico!”

“Spared thee which? Why, thou bedizened one, this
hampers not thy credit nor thy sire’s, an’ wherefore
should it grieve thee then, I pray ?”

“Grieve me, thou beetlehead! Dost thou not weigh
the outcome ofall this? Her father fails, Beatrice goes

Thou knowest Lucullus

 

to Newport or the Branch, and drives a dog-cart thro’

the summertide! With difference twixt the slim per
cent. he pays and that imposing item which he owes, she
and her sire will dalliance make with ease and luxury,
buy them new poodles and rare bric-a-brac, pose them
as objects of the world’s quaint sympathy, and ere the
autumn wanes, hie them to Europe for a round of
months, and hither bring them back again blazoned
with some new lie in heraldry !”

“Marry, Andromeda, an’ thy wits are ripe !”

‘Would that my father’s were as ripe, Henrico, for

often hath he poised him on the very verge where failure
would have overwhelmed us with its weal, and then
some hint of olden-time integrity would win him from’t,
and, like a dog, he’d
empty fame it brings.
that he who helps himself, sets quickest ? the tide of
booming fortune.”

back to work for honor and the
O, good me lord! well it is said

—__—___ > e+ ____—__
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLASHED IN BOOK-FORM.}

TWICK AN HEIRESS;

The Prophecy Fulfilled.

By LUCF¥ RANDALL COMFORT,

Author of “GRATIA’S TRIALS,” *“‘THE WID-
OWED BRIDE,” etc., etc.

 

 

(“Twice an Heiress” was commenced in No. 42. Back num-

bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]

 

CHAPTER ITX—(CONTINUED.)
THE TEMPTATION.

For some minutes Larisse and Clark walled slowly
and silently along the quiet streets. The former was in
deep thought, and the latter deemed it unwise to dis-
turb his reflections.

At length the Frenchman said :

“Nick, I hope you were not in earnest about that
scheme you proposed.”

“Never more in earnest in my life,” replied Clark.
“You don’t mean to back out ?”

“I will have nothing to do with it. Iwas at first
stunned at your proposal, and only my sincere friend-
ship for you made me listen to it.”

“Come, come, man—don’t be weak-kneed. Itis only a
few minutes’ work. Old Seyton hasten times as much
as he needs, while you are absolutely helpless—a miser-
able dependent upon your poor little wife’s labor for the
bread you eat. Can’t you see, man, that the little wo-
man is visibly failing in health, and becoming more
dispirited every day ?”

‘Heaven help her, she is indeed,” Larisse answered,
with a dreary sigh.

Should he permit her to sacrifice herself for him?
This be the burden of his thought, as the tempter con-
tinued: ;

“Ig it manly in you to wreck your wife’s health and
happiness, in the effort to sustain you, when with a lit-
tle stretch of conscience you could give her much need-
ed rest and recreation ?”

‘Nick, I know it is very hard to see my little girl toil-
ing and suffering day after day.”

“Come, man, nerve yourself. Here, take a long pull
of this brandy.” And Nick called to his aid the most
potent tempter that weak man has ever had to encoun-
te

se

As he spoke Nick took from his breast-pocket a flask
of brandy, and gave it to Larisse. Hedrank repeatedly,
and as the stimulating fiuid coursed rapidly through his
system, Nick gladly noticed that under its influence
conscience temporarily slumbered.

 

CHAPTER X.
THE MIDNIGHT ROBBERY.

The little bronze clock on the old-fashioned wooden
mantel had just struck the half-hour past ten, and Pa-
tience Seyton rose softly from her chair to give her
father his medicine. The rustle of her dress, faint
though it was, roused the old man from his brief doze,
and he called fretfully to his daughter :

«Patience! Patience, I say! Why don’t you answer
me when I speak? You know I can’t even turn my head
to see you!”

“Here I am, father, close to you!” Patience answered,
coming quietly round, and standing in front of him.

She was a tall, spare woman of forty or thereabouts,
with a high forehead, from which the hair was brushed
plainly back, large, wistful black eyes, and clear, sharp-
cut features—not a handsome woman, yet certainly not
to be passed by without notice.

“Why don’t you give me my draught ?” petulantly in-
terrogated the sick man. ‘‘It’s past the time—but you
don’t pay as much attention to me as you used.”

Patience Seyton did not reply, but dropped out the
dark-colored mixture with careful exactness, and, lifting
her father’s head carefully, held it to his lips.

“Ah—h !” he muttered. ‘‘That’s reviving, that’s good!
Do sit down, Patience, what are you fidgeting about
for!’

Patience obeyed, again busying herself with some
fine knitting.

“Talk to me, Patience. Say something,” urged the
feeble old man. ‘‘One would think you were all struck
dumb in this house.”

“Father,” said Patience, speaking rather abruptly.
“T had another letter from Harry to-day.”

She looked earnestly at the withered yellow face
among the pillows, as she uttered the words, to see how
their import might affect him. But the bright eyes so
painfully active in contrast to the helpless body, avoid-
ed hers, and wandered restlessly around the dimly
lighted apartment.

“Did they pay up that mortgage to-day, Patience ?”
he broke forth. ‘The Greenes, you know. It was due
yesterday, but everybody is behindhand, it seems to
me,” 4

“Yes, father, it was all settled this morning,” Patierce
answered, in a soothing tone. ‘‘Pray don’t annoy your-
self about these business matters. Mr. Wallace will see
to them, and they always excite you.”

“Don’t trouble myself!” shrilly echoed the old man.
“Patience, you talk like a child. Who is to see to them
if Idon’t. What did you do with the money, Patience ?
You didn’t keep it in the house, I hope? There's quite
enough here already.”

“It isn’t in the house, father. Mr. Wallace took charge
of it. You directed me to leave it with him, when we
aoe on the subject last Saturday. Don’t you remem-

er 2”

«Remember! remember! Asif I could remember aii
the nonsense you talk!” was the rather unreasonable
reply. ‘‘What was that you were saying about Harry
just now? What does he want this time ?”

‘It is the same old story, father,” sadly responded
Patience—‘‘small income, heavy expenses. Mrs. Seyton
has another baby, it seems, and the poor fellow com-
oo piteously. Don’t you think we might help him a

e 9

‘Help him a little!” irascibly mimicked the old man.
“That’s just exactly what I’ve heard ever since he was
old enoughto spend his whole quarter’s allowance on
one school-treat, and then come begging for more. It’s
no sort of use for you to talk, Patience. I'll not give him
a single cent—not one !”

Ee paused for a second, but his daughter did not
reply.

“J wonder you can have the face to ask me,” he re-
sumed, pettis “But I suppose you think he ought to
be rewarded for marrying against my will.”

“Father,” said Patience, not without a tone of spirit,
“he married expressly to please you the first time—
married an heiress, for no other reason than that you
wished it.”

“Yes, and what did he donext? Spent and squan-
dered every cent the poor girl had. He did that to please
me, I suppose ?” :

“He was unfortunate in his money matters,” admitted
Patience; ‘“but——”

«And then he must go and marry a penniless widow,
with a great hulking boy of her own—a precious pair
they must make !—and settles down, as he calls it, ina
country village; hangs out his sign, and expects to
make a living by his practice. Fudge! I’ve no patience
with him.”

Miss Seyton made no attempt to stem the wordy tor-
rent of her father’s wrath, well aware that when it had
thus expended itself he would quiet down into some-
thing more reasonable. And, after a few minutes of
silence, he began again, in a somewhat altered tone:

“And yet I shouldn’t dislike tosee him again. How
handsome he was, Patience, and how fond we all were
ot him! Yet, after all that promise, he has settled down
into a mere country doctor. Patience.”

“Well, father.”

sono you write to him to come down and see us ?”

Patience, too wise a tactician to acquiesce at once,
shook her head doubtfully.

“It costs money to come, father, and I don’t think he
could afford the expense.”

«We could send him some money, I suppose,” barked
the old man. ‘‘You get more and more stingy every
day, Patience. Your only brother, too! Get the pa
and paper, and write at once. Maria can run around to
the post-office before it closes for the night.”

Only too thankful to take advantage of this brief
gleam of kindly feeling, Patience wrote the letter as
promptly as her father could desire, and crossed the
room to ring the bell. Butas her hand touched the
faded silken rope, there was a knock at the door, and
Maria herself appeared—a well-dressed woman, with
bold eyes, and a high color on her round cheeks.

‘I was just ringing for you, Maria,” said Miss Seyton,
quietly. ‘I want this letter taken around to the post-
Office at once.”

“Yes, miss,” the woman answered, taking the out-
stretched letter. ‘But, Miss Patience; would you step
down stairs an instant? There’s a young man at the
basement door as wants to see you partick’lar.”

 

Patience Seyton frowned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

  
 
 

   

 

Sea CER IP Te cc TIS

 

 

wwe re me URNECURpeS

rata iin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ee

 

 

 

CSS eh

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

“You know, Marla, that I cannot leave my father. I
dare say it is only a beggar or a peddler. Go down stairs
and send him away at once.”

But Maria stood her ground valorously,

‘Indeed, Miss Patience, I don’t think it’s no beggar,
nor yet a peddler. He’s quite respectful and decent-
looking. I asked him couldn’t I take a message, and he
Says no—nothin’ would do but he must see Miss Seyton
herself. He won’t detain you long, miss, he says.”

Miss Seyton shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

‘Well, well, I suppose I must go down and get rid of
him the best way I can,” she said, leaving the room with
a slow, measured step.

Maria leaned over the banisters, listening intently,
until she heard the sound of her mistress’ voice in the
basement hall, and then swiftly gliding to the front
door, she withdrew the massive bolt, admitting two
masked figures, and silently pointing up the stair-way
with a nod.

Old Mr. Seyton had fallen into a slumber, from which
the whispered conference of Maria and his daughter
had failed to waken him; but the stealthy rattling of a
res in the secretary-lock was more potent to disturb his

reams.

Opening his eyes, he beheld, to his horror and dismay,
the figure of a man rapidly removing packet after pack-
et of bills, and slipping them into pockets which ap-
peared to be endless in their receptive capacity. For a
second or two he stared in helpless wonder at the un-
wonted sight, half disposed to beiieve that this was one
of the hideous dreams that haunted him so often in the
silence of the weary nights, when the low voice of
another man (hitherto unseen) hissed close to his ear :

‘Now, then, old man, we don’t want to hurt you, and
we won’t if you'll keep your head shut, But just uttera
sound, and——”

The barrel of a pistol glittered in the lamp-light, and
its cold muzzle touched the old man’s temples by way of
finishing the sentence.

David Seyton’s face grew livid with horror; his eyes,
full of a nameless dread, turned mutely from one to the
other of his unwelcome Visitors, but he made no sound.
The rustle of the papers, the low, quick breathing of
the men, and the monotonous ticking of the clock were
the only noises that broke the silence, until the ruffian
at the desk softly reclosed the door, and, taking out the
key, turned to his comrade.

“It is all right,” he said, in low, husky tones, and
the two disguised figures vanished stealthily from the
Sick room.

* * * * * oo ° *

“Tt was only a beggar after all. Maria,” said Miss Sey-
ton, severely.

“A beggar, ma’am?” innocently echoed Maria, from
the kitchen door. Well, I wouldn’t ha’ believed it. If
some folks haven’t got impudence enough for anything.
What excuse did he make for routing you out at this
mee 0’ night, Miss Patience, if I might make bold to
as > 9”?

“‘Oh, he told some improbable story about just being
@ut of the peapel in Prescott, where my brother lives.
He said the doctor had sent him to me—as if I didn’t
know Harry better than that. He never would send
Without first writing. I gave him alittle money and
sent him about his business.”

Thus speaking, Patience Seyton hurried up the stair-
fase and re-entered her father’s apartment.

The instant she crossed the threshold her quick eye
detected a change—not in the room nor its appointments,
but in the yellow face among the pillows. A look of
frozen horror had glazed the eyeballs; the lower jaw
had fallen.

“Father,” cried Patience, ‘‘are you worse? Shall I
‘send for the doctor ?”

The withered lips parted, but a faint moan was all
the sound they uttered—the eyes turned appealingly to-
ward the desk.

Patience observed their direction.

“It ds all right, father,” she said, reassuringly.
locked it myself this evening—see !”

And she took the key from her pocket, and held it up
to him.

A look of wild despair swept over the seamed and
wrinkled face ; a rattling murmur came from the lips,
from which speech had departed forever, and the suffer-
er’s eyes closed.

‘‘Father—father!” cried Patience, as she’ jerked the
bell-rope, ‘‘can’t you speak to me ?”

But there was no reply.

Maria hurried into the room, with a guilty face and
scared eyes.

“Run for the doctor, Maria, quick. Don’t stop for your
cloak-—take this.”

And Miss Seyton seized her own shawl and threw it
over the woman’s shoulders.

«What is it, Miss Patience ?” Maria faltered, growing
very pale. ‘“He—he isn’t dead? Has anything hap-
pened? Oh, Miss Patience, do tell me!”

“No, no; don’t, for Heaven’s sake, stop to ask ques-
tions, but run for your life! Tell the doctor my father
is worse—dying, I think.”

Half an hour later the physician, an old and experi-
enced practitioner, was bending over the old man,
closely examining his white, pinched face, and feeling
the pulse whose flutter was barely perceptible. He
shook his head as he completed the examination.

“He must have sustained a fearful shock of some
nature, Miss Seyton,” he said.

“Indeed, doctor, you are mistaken,” persisted Pa-
tience. ‘He has been perfectly quiet since you saw him
this morning.”

‘Nevertheless, there is a great change,” said the med-
icalman. ‘It would be worse than folly for me to de-
lude you with any false hopes, Miss Seyton. The end is
very near, and all that remains for us is to await its
coming. He will never speak again.”

For the first time in long weeks of watching, Patience
Seyton lost her self-control. Sinking into a chair, she
covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

“My dear Miss Seyton,” expostulated the doctor, <I
supposed you were fully prepared for this blow. You
must have been aware that under the most favorable
circumstances your father could not last long.”

But Patience only sobbed afresh.

“If he could only speak to.me,” she cried. “If he
could but tell me what he wanted; but oh! to have him
die and leave us, with that mute look of horror in his
eyes—the eyes that asked for help and I could not give
a RS will haunt my memory to the day of my

eath.”

Slowly the long hours dragged themselves away. The
yellow light of the lamp grew dim, as the first faint
dawn of the winter morning stole into the darkened
apartment, and still the silent form on the bed lay in
oe err ae stupor, and Patience kept her lonely
wateh.

But when the first level ray of sunshine forced its way
through the chinks of the carefully closed blinds, the
flames of life which had flickered so feebly all night,
died out of the ashen face.

David Seyton had gone whither his wealth could not
follow him, and Patience’s long vigil was ended.

“]

 

CHAPTER XI.
“WHERE IS HE?”

«One y?

<Two!” ;

The iron tongue of Trinity boomed forth its syllables
‘on the still night air, and Charlotte Larisse, uneasily
‘slumbering in her chair, stirred, and half opened her
drowsy eyes.

One! Two!

The echo of some nearer bell had taken up the tune,
and pealed out the hour, and this time the girl sprang to
her teet and stared vaguely round the room.

“Is it morning yet ?” she muttered. Alas, poor child,
could she have known how bitter a sorrow was awaiting
her in the coming morning, she might have prayed to
drop asleep again, never to waken more.

“Where am I?” she cried, passing her hands over her
eyes. ‘‘Whereis Pierre? Oh, I remember now.”

The gas-light flared above, but. the fire had waned
itself to ashes. The grate looked cold and desolate.
The table stood where it had been left the night before,
and the confusion of cards, papers, and clay pipes added
to the dreariness of the scene. Charlotte shuddered.

“Two o'clock.” she said, half- aloud, and the tones of
her own voice sounded strange and unnatural to her in
the empty apartment. ‘Two o’clock, and Pierre not
come back. What can have happened ?”

Hurrying to the window, she pressed her face against
the panes of glass, and looked anxiously up and down
the street. All was hushed and silent; the gas-lamps
flickered on the closed windows of the quiet houses
around. All the world, with the single exception of her-
self, seemed abed and asleep, and the poor girl turned
oe with a sick sensation of dread creeping into her

eart.

Seizing the cloak she had thrown off when first she
came in, she drew it round her, for she was shivering
with cold, and hastily twisted a scarf over her head.

‘Leaving the door ajar, in case her husband should
return during her absence, she crept softly down the
stairs, and out into the streets, starting at every sound,
and shrinking even from a homeless gray cat that dart-
ed stealthily across her path.

“I will go to Nick Clark’s lodgings, and see if Pierre is
there,” she thought, as she sped along the solitary
streets. ‘But of course he is there—where else should
he be, at this time of night? They have been smoking
ane playing cards, perhaps, and do not think how late

tis.” ;

Thus striving to reassure herself, she hurried val-
jantly on, even while her heart throbbed with shadowy
and undefined fears.

The tenement-house in which Mr. Nicholas Clark oc-
cupied a dingy little room was fortunately at no great
distance, and as Charlotte distinguished a: dim light
burning behind its red moreen curtain, she took new
courage, and ran up the narrow staircase so hurriedly
that she failed to observe a muffled figure drawing sud-
denly back into the shadow of a neighboring door-way.
Emerging as she passed, a pair of bright, quick eyes fol-
lowed her hasty movements, taking note of the pink-
and-white stage-dress revealed by the accidental dis-
placement of the waterproof cloak.

“That was t’other one’s wife, sure enough!” thought
Dick Marley. ‘My! what a go this ’ere is!”

Arriving at the landing of the upper story, Charlotte
knocked softly at the door. No answer. She listened;
but only the sound of her own labored breathing broke
the intense stillness. She knocked again, louder than
before, but with no better success, and then she ven-
tured to turn the handle of the door.

The room was empty and deserted. Yet it was evi-
cant that Pierre Larisse had been there recently, for
ome of his gloves lay on a chair, and his meerschaum—
one she herself had given him as a present—was on the
mantel, filled with blackened ashes,

Even these mute tokens afforded a gleam of comfort

 

to the terrified young wife. At least they were together
—that was something.

«What shall I do ?” she asked herself, nervously clasp-
ing her slender hands together. ‘Shall I stay here ?
And then suppose Pierre comes home and finds me gone
—what will he think? Oh, I must hurry back; he may
be “here this instant!”

‘he sound of stealthy footsteps on the stairs arrested
her attention as she stood on the threshold. The blood
rushed to her heart with a pulsation of joy.

“How ridiculous it was of me to suppose anything had
happened to him!” she thought, with a hysterical
laugh, as the sound grew nearer and more near. “How
they will both laugh at me for coming out at this time
of night; Pierre, is that you? Nick!”

«Tain’t Pierre, and *tain’t Nick,” a strange voice an-
swered, and she found herself face to face with a boy of
fifteen or sixteen.

A thrill of disapointment ran thraugh her veins; yet
she lost no atom of her natural courage. A

“What do you want here?” she asked, sharply.
“Where is Mr. Clark ?”

“T might ask them very questions 0’ you, and not be
far out 0’ the way,” was the reply, spoken in a tone that
was at once insolent and conciliatory. ‘Where is he ?—
that’s the question.”

“I came here to look for my husband,” said Charlotte.
‘He left our house with Mr. Clark hours and hours ago.
Oh, what shall Ido!” and she wrung her hands with a
sense of her own utter helplessness. ‘‘Can’t you help
me look for him? He was not strong; he may have
fallen and hurt himself, he may have been taken sick in
the streets. What shall I do.”

2 The boy closed the door carefully and came close to
er.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Larisse,” saidhe. ‘Nothing
of that sort has happened to him.”

Charlotte looked up in surprise at hearing her own
name thus glibly spoken by an utter stranger.

“Then you have seen him. He is safe. Oh, thank
Heaven for that.” she cried, sinking into a chair. “But
where is he? Why does he not come home ?”

“Well, you see,” composedly began the boy, but as he
met the wistful eyes fixed so entreatingly on his, he
burst impetuously forth. ‘‘Confound it all, I may as
well tell you the whole truth at once, forI never was
no hand at beating about the bush. You're got to hear
itsome time.”

Charlotte’s blue eyes dilated with surprise at this un-
expected outbreak.

“What is it?” she said. ‘Tell me all, I entreat of

you.

«‘He’s been took up, that’s what’s the matter.”

“Took up!” Charlotte innocently repeated. ‘Took up
where ?”

The boy was too vitally in earnest even to smile at her
mistake.

“Took up by the police,” he explained. «Arrested,

you know.”

«Arrested! My husband arrested !” Charlotte echoed,
drawing herself haughtily up. ‘‘You must be mis-
taken!”

‘No, I ain’t,” positively asserted her informant. “I
only wish Iwas. It’s been aprecious bad job all around.
Nick’s in the same scrape, and I come within one of it
myself,” and he glanced furtively around as he spoke,
as if he already felt the iron grasp of the law upon his
arm. ‘I took to my heels just in time, and giv ’em leg
bail, I did.”

Charlotte, whose head had dropped on her arms in
utter despair, now looked impatiently up.

“There is a mist&ke somewhere,” she said, almost
fiercely, aS she rose and drew her cloak once more
around her slight figure.

“It will all be explained. Pierre has done nothing to
be arrested. But I must go to him immediately. He
will need me.”

The boy stared at her with incredulous eyes.

“Well, you must be precious green,” he said. ‘Why,
you can’t see him. You don’t suppose they hold levees

at three o’clock in the morning, do you? Sit down
peaceably, and Pll tell you all I know about it. You can
go to him to-morrow, if you like.”

Charlotte sat obediently down, her face blank with a
hopeless despair.

“Now, that’s more reasonable; just give a feller a
chance, and I'll explain it aliin a jiffy. Yousee,” he be-
gan, thoughtfully, rubbing Ris knees. ‘‘Mr. Larisse, that’
your husband, and Nick, and me, we went into a littl
spec together. If it had gone allright we’d a-made a
heap o’ money, a thousand dollars or more, and all in
bills, as could be got rid of, as easy as wink. And all
lost! Well, taint no use cryin’ over spilt milk, but——.”

“What are you talking about ?” demanded Charlotte,
who had vainly been endeavoring to follow the hazy
current of her companion’s ideas.

“To be sure. What ve I talkin’ about,” he re-
sponded. ‘I forgot you wasn’t in it, Well, Tl
begin again. <‘There’s an old ’un as lives up in
Jerome Street, who’s got more money than he knows |
how to count, and we—us three, you know—we thought
as it wouldn’t be no great harm to take a little of it off
his hands. It was a neat little lay, andI went through
my part right slap up to the mark. Golly! how the old
maid did stare at me with them sharp, black eyes o’ hern,
and me a-talkin’ away, as mild as if butter wouldn’t melt
in my mouth, about just bein’ out of the hospital, and a
lot o’ nonsense besides. Didn’t I talk the money right
straight out of her pocket. I don’t know but it would
pay me to go into that dodge as a re’glar thing. I begin
to think I’ve got a special mission for it.”

The hopeful youth chuckled at the recollection of his
evening’s impersonation. Charlotte made an impatient
movement.

“Can’t you tell me about my husband without all
this ?” she asked, sharply. ‘‘You seem to forget how
anxious I am.”

“No, I don’t forget,” said Dick Marley. ‘I’m a-comin
to that, Well, while I was a-parleyin’ with the woman,
Nick and your husband they pocketed the rhino as neat
as you please—went in at the front door, as if they
owned the house, and come out again, as safe as a thief
ina mill. There wasn’t no noise, no alarm, nor nothing
—but as bad luck would have it, one o’ them

 

sneaking police, as is always swooping around where
they isn’t wanted, was on the lookout. He’d a kind ’o
mistrusted somethin’, and while they was inside he’d
fetched another ’un, and the first we knowed—I wasn’t |
with ’em, you see, but loafing along, about half a block |
behind, as if I never’d seen ’em afore, there they was, |
catched as neat as aratinatrap. I cutaway as fast as
I could, and the two cops they had quiet as much as
they wanted, for Nick give one on’em a black eye, and
Larisse fought like a tiger. Twan’t no use, though.
They was took off.”

Charlotte looked up as he ceased speaking, deadly
pale, but quite composed.

“Will you come around early in the morning, and take
me to my husband ?” she asked.

The boy looked at her in. sheer amazement.

“You must think I’m jolly stupid,” he retorted. ‘A
police court.is just the last place you'll catch me in till
this ere pleasant little affairis blowed over. But,” as he
saw the shade of bitter disappointment steal over her
features, ‘Ill tell you what Pi do. Jill send some one as
will take you there. I Know enough that'll be willin’ to
do that much for me. You sha’nt go knocking round a
place like that—not if I can help it. And don’t you go to |
frettin’, Mrs. Larisse. Your husband ain’t the only
fellow as is took up, not by a long chalk. Law bless you,
it don’t amount to nothin’ arter ali.”

So the question was settled.

Charlotte Larisse crept back to her deserted home,
and, crouching on the hearth-rug, before the fireless
grate, wept the bitterest tears that ever scorched their
way through her fevered eyelids.

If Miss Jane Burtis could have seen her then, she
would have felt herself amply avenged.

 

CHAPTER XII.
BROTHER AND SISTER.

The blinds of the old-fashioned house on Jerome street |
were closed, and the door-bell was enveloped in folds |
and streamers of black crape. Up stairs in the gloomy |
apartment where for so many years he had led a living
death, David Seyton lay stark and coffined, the tire
brain finally at rest, the cold hands folded peacefully
over the heart which should never pulsate more.

And Patience, his only daughter, reigned in his stead.

For the old man had been scarcely dead an hour, be-
fore the tongue of gossip had rumored that Patience |
had inherited his gold. Of course, the whispering neigh- |
bors said it was a case of glaring partiality, for was |
there not poor Dr. Harry, out at Prescott, who needed |
money so sorely ?—to say nothing of Rose’s child, who |
was living nobody knew where. an orphan and penni- |
less? To be sure Rose Seyton had mortally offended her |
father by her runaway match, but such anger as that |
should not extend beyond the grave. For people reason |
so clearly on these subjects when they concern others |
rather than themselves.

But none of these comments and conjectures pene-
trated into, the gloomy apartment where Patience sat,
in her deep mourning robes, anxiously awaiting the ar-
rival of her brother, for whom she had telegraphed im-
mediately after her father’s death.

«Surely,” she muttered to herself, ‘che should be here
by this train. What can possibly delay him ?”

Even as she consulted her watch for the twentieth
time, a footstep sounded on the threshold, and a tall,
handsome man, several years Miss Seyton’s senior, stood
in the room,

“Patience! My poor girl!” he ejaculated, throwing
his arms around her neck. ‘

‘,Oh, Harry, Harry !” she sobbed.

And then ensued the useless tears, the sad repetition
of regrets, the incoherent history of the past that isa
part of such meetings as this,

«But, Harry,” Patience exclaimed, as they sat side by
side on the wide, old-fashioned sofa where they had
played as children, ‘‘you are pale and haggard, and
there are streaks of gray in your hair’—tenderly lifting
the brown curly masses in her loving fingers. ‘‘Life at
Prescott has been no bed of roses to you, I fear. And,
of course, you were dreadfully shocked to hear of my
poor father’s sudden death ?”

“Of course, of course,” Dr. Seyton hurriedly answered.
“The tidings of a death always shocks one more or less ;
but my father had been sick so long.”

“Yes; but oh, Harry, if you could have seen the
pleading, agonized look in his eyes at the last, when I
entered the room and he could not speak to me!”

ae burst into tears, and covered her face with her
hands.

“There, there, dear!” soothed her brother; ‘don’t
torture yourself by recalling these sad reminiscences.
It was nothing you conld help. You were always a du-
tiful child to him, and never caused him a moment’s
care or anxiety. I wish I could say the same for my-

 

 

heart, Patience, now that he is gone and cannot tell me
he forgives me all.”

“Oh, but he did forgive you. He did love youat the
last,” the sister eagerly interrupted. ‘‘He told me to
write for you to come to him, and I wrote; the letter
was mailed last night. He promised me that he would
a you in money matters also.”

“Heaven knows that I need help,” said Dr. Seyton,
sadly. ‘Oh, Patience, may you never taste the bitter-
ness of poverty like mine!”

“T know that you have suffered much, Harry, dear,”
comforted his sister ; ‘‘but that is all over now.”

“All over! Patience,” cried Harry, eagerly, ‘you do
not think that my father has left anything to me ?”

She shook her head doubtfully.

“T cannot tell anything about that,” she said. “But
it will make no difference to youin any event. If I in-
herit the whole of my father’s property, I shall divide it
equally with you and poor Rose’s orphan child. Surely,
surely you did not suppose I could be selfish enough to
keep it when you were in want ?”

Dr. Seyton’s care-worn face brightened visibly.

“You dear, generous girl!” he exclaimed, his brown
eyes shining with real affection and appreciation ; ‘‘you
were always the best of us three. And my father knew
it. Well, I am glad that he had at least one child whom
he could love and trust. Poor Rose! he was fond enough
of her once. Who would believe that it is eighteen years
since she ran away from us? How well I remember the
ori I’ve always thought I should like to have Rose’s
child, and bring her up as my own; but since the poor
girl died I have been so crowded for money that it was
simply out of the question. Curse that French scoun-
drel,” he added, with a muttered oath, ‘if it had not
been for him, Rose might be with us still, as bright and
happy as a Sunbeam.”

“Hush, Harry!” soothed Patience. ‘Don’t s
the dead. I believe, after all, that he loved
It I had been independent, I should haye sent for little
Estelle long ago. But the mere mention of Rose’s name
would always throw my poor father into so violent a
passion that I have long ceased to speak of her. He
never could forgive her for what he deemed the disgrace
of her falling in love with her music-master. And so
she died, a stranger in a strange land, the little Rose
whom we all loved so much.”

She brushed the blinding tears from her eyes.

“Hush, Harry! there is a knock at the door,” she
whispered; #nd at the same moment Maria entered
with a pale, frightened face.

‘‘Ploase, Miss Patience,” she began, breathlessly,

‘there’s a man below as wants to speak with you, and
he’ll take no denial.”

Patience rose.

“Tt is the undertaker’s man, I suppose,” said she. ‘‘Of
course I must see him.”

But Harry, too, rose up, laying his hand upon her
arm. “

‘‘My dear sister,” he expostulated, ‘‘why not let me
see these Reape and manage these disageeable matters
for my . t your duty to spare yourself as much as
possible.’

Maria, who had been standing by, twisting and un-
twisting the hem of her apron, in a confused sort of
Way, now spoke.

“Oh, but it ain’t one o’ them sort, Miss Patience, not
at all, if you please,” she said. ‘‘And I told him the
family was in trouble, but go he wouldn't, all I could
say, miss. He said he’d cut his business short; and—
don’t be frightened, miss,” she added, breathlessly, ‘‘but
it’s a police a

“A policeman!” broke simultaneously from the lips of

ak so of
er truly.

dota brother and sister.

. “Yes, miss. He’s dressed in plain clothes to-day, like
any one else; but I’ve seen him a-many times walking
up and down the street, and I'm dead sure it’s a police-
man. And whatever he can want here, miss——”

«Perhaps I had better see him myself, Harry,” said
Miss Seyton. ‘If I need you I can easily send for you.”

She descended the stairs, her long black skirts trailing
after her like following shadows, and entered the semi-
darkened pore.

There, sitting uncomfortably upon the extreme edge
of a chair, staring intently at the fire, sat a stout-built
man, with shaggy black eyebrows, and a nose which

some encounter years ago had flattened to his face. He
rose as she entered, and bowed, awkwardly.
“Morning, miss,” he said, in a gruff voice. “I sup

ose as you don’t recognize me in this’ere «7 touching

is coat, ‘but I knows you. I’m Daniel Walker, the
policeman as has this ere beat. You’ve seen me often
enough, I guess.”

He paused, as if this introduction of himself were all
he had come to say. Patience looked at him, wondering
What he could possibly mean.

“Well ?” she said, inquiringly. ‘“‘Why did you wish to
see me? We are allot usin great affliction here, and
unless you haye something very important to communi-
cate, I must beg of you not to intrude any longer in a
house of mourning,”

“Tm sure, miss, I don’t mean no intrusion,” said the
man, looking in a puzzled way at Miss Seyton’s calm,
sorrowful face, wherein was visible no trace of either
excitement or curiosity. ‘I only comes when I’m sent.
And I should ha’ sup youd be glad to see me.
Most folks don’t take such loss as yours So coolly.”

«“T do not understand you at all,” said Patience Sey-
ton, inwardly wondering whether or not her strange
visitor was insane. ‘‘Whoever sent you here surely
could not have known that my father was lying dead in
the house. I really must insist on your either stating
your errand at once, or leaying me in peace.”

Mr. Daniel Walker, however, answered not a word
until he had, by much fumbling, succeeded in extricat-
ing from the depths of his pocket a corpulent roll of
pills, which he presented to the lady, evidently despair-
ing of answering her curiosity by any unaided eloquence
of his own.

«You don’t seem to care very much about losing a few

stray hundreds or so, miss,” said he, sareastically. ‘Do
them there bills belong to you, or not? ’Cause if they
don’t we’ve been on the wrong scent altogether. And |.

we ain’t often bit—notin that way.”
Patience Seyton took the roll of money from the police-

‘man, and looked earnestly at it, carefully scrutinizing

the scrap of paper that encircled it. Then she turned to
Walker, and spoke hurriedly.

“How did. these bills come into your possession, Mr.
Walker ?” she asked. ‘‘They were in my poor father’s
secretary, no longer ago than last evening. I put them
there myself.”

“Well, miss, I found ’em with eight or nine rolls iden-
tically like ’em, on the person of a foreign chap named
Pierre Larisse, that I arrested last night on suspicion of
having entered your house with the intention of com-
mitting burglary,” the man responded, as glibly as if he
were addressing a crowded court-room. Then, remem-
bering that he had but one solitary auditor, he dropped
his official manner, and went on in an expjanatory tone.
“T watched ’em go in, and IT watehed ’em come out, as I
was Sartin sure things wasn’t just right, and it was no
good they were arter. Soi just called Billy Freeman as
has the next beat, and Billy and me, we nabbed’em,
and made no bones of it. And sure enough, they was
masked and disguised, as no honest man need to be, and
had their pockets stuffed out with these ’ere bills—least-
ways, one on’em did. And it’s a little job as Iifetch ’em
up safe and sound in State prison for one good five years,
at the least.”

Having delivered this lengthy speech, with ‘the tri-
umphant air of one who has done a creditable thing,
and is not ashamed to own it, Mr. Walker subsided into
silence, waiting for Miss Seymour to speak.

“He must have been an impostor!” she exclaimed,
most irrelevantly, as it seemed.

“Maam !” echoed the policeman, in his turn beginning
to doubt the eae of the tall lady in mourning robes.

“Yes,” she cried, clasping her hands together, ‘‘a vile
impostor! And they took the opportunity while I was
talking with him at the basement door, to steal in and
rob my poor father. And that was the fatal shock that
caused his death. Oh, I see it all now—I can understand
now what an father’s pleading eyes were striving to tell
me. The villains! The heartiess, cruel wretches !”

‘-Now, Miss Seyton,” said the officer of the law, who

| had stood calmly by during the torrent of her impas-

sioned words, ‘“‘has it ever occurred to you—mind, I
don’t say it’s so, but do you think it any way likely that
your servants had anything to do with this matter? Me
and Billy Freeman—the tother one I spoke to you about,
miss—it was our first idea to arrest your girl too. ButI
thought p’raps it would be as well to see you first, for
one might be entirely mistook, and it wouldn’t do to
walk into a house when there’d been a death, and go to
cuttin’ up rough on mere suspicion. But I'd liked to set-
tle the matter in my mind cause I don’t exactly like her
looks, and if you don’t object I'll just happen down into
the kitchen. I don’t need only to ask her a question or
two, and if she acts anyways guilty like, why I can fix
her in a jiffy.”

Miss Seyton hesitated fora moment. She had never
really liked or trusted Maria Clark, although she was
obliged to acknowledge to herself that the woman was
an excellent servant. But the idea of an arrest in the
house, at such a time, seemed little short of sacrilege.
On the other hand there stood the policeman, anxious to
probe the matter to its lowest depths, and her con-
science told her that it would scarcely be right to screen
the woman if she were in reality guilty.

‘Do as you like,” she said, rather irresolutely. “If
~~ really think she was a confederate of the rob-

1S-——

Mr. Walker waited for no more explicit consent, but
hurried down into the kitchen, when an unforeseen dif-
ficulty lay in the way of his investigations.

Maria Clark had disappeared.

“Up stairs and down stairs, and in the lady’s cham-
ber,” the emissary of the law searched for her, but all in
vain. Her half-completed work—the disordered clothes
in her room, from which the best had been hurriedly
culled out—the dreary aspect of her deserted apartment
bore incontrovertible witness to the fact of the woman’s
shrewdness and promptitude of decision.

The policeman looked at Miss Seyton. Miss Seyton
looked at the policeman.

“We've been very neatly outwitted, miss,” said he.
‘While we was a-talking, she was a-doing. And thisis
what comes of it—she’s cut away, and we in the house.
Well, if this doesn’t show she’s an old hand at the busi-
ness, there ain’t no truth in cats. Whatever was I
thinkin’ of, that I didn’t come down on her, proof or no

f? Billy Freeman ‘ll never let me hear the last of
this ’ere flash in the pan—never !”

There could be no further doubt of the woman’s com-
plicity in the crime; and Mr. Walker departed breath-
ing vows of vengeance on the woman who had been
clever enough to outgeneral him.

“But you needn’t trouble, miss,” he said to Patience;
“you sha’n’t be bothered about it—not till the funeral is
over, at least.”

 

self,” he added, gloomily. ‘It weighs heavy on my

.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

ANNIVERSARIES.

BY MAY PROBYN.

 

 

Near, and more near, without sight or sound,
The suns and the seasons caepe it;

And the day comes round, the day comes round,
And none of us can escape it.

We pase baffled the thoughts, we have held them at

ay ;
We have hidden their rags and tatters ;

We have turned our faces the other way ;
We have talked of other matters.

But we could not stay the leaves on the tree
From yellowing and falling ;

We could not wither the buds.on the lea,
Nor hush the cuckoo’s calling.

We cannot banish the bird that cried
As the well-beloved departed,

Nor the flowers that bloomed when the dear one died,
And we sat broken-hearted.

Year upon year, without sight or sound,
The moons and the midnights shape it—

And the day comes round—the day comes round—
Would God we could escape it!

——_—_—__>-0@<—____
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

THE BARU ATONEMENT

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘THROWN ON THE WORLD,” ‘‘ BEYOND
PARDON,” ETC., ETC.

 

(“The Earl’s Atonement” was commenced in No. 36. Back
numbérs can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]

CHAPTER XXXII.
A PREMONITION.

The mellow, golden, beautiful afternoon was at its
brightest when Sir Vane returned from Lucerne. He
had easily found out where the mistake was, and had
transacted his business in a short time. It was long
since he had enjoyed a game of billiards, and at the
Hotel Angelo there was a fine table, and always good
players; he went for an hour, but he did not enjoy his
game: the same terrible sense of foreboding followed
him there. It was so strong upon him that his hand
trembled and his game was spoiled. He tried to laugh
at himself.

«I have laughed at nervous women a hundred times,”
he said to himself, ‘‘and now I am more nervous than
the most fanciful of women.”

Yet he could not conquerit. It was all of Agatha—
the most depressing thoughts and ideas—sudden starts
of fancy. He thought once that he heard hercry out for
him in the most piteous voice. How foolish it was; yet
his nervous terror and apprehension were so great he
determined to hasten back at once. .

There is more in the world than even philosophers
dream; between these two there was the strongest,
deepest love, and though they were wide apart, the sor-
row and despair of the one influenced the other. Who
knows the mysteries thatare yet to be discovered in the
strange influence poopie have over each other ?

Sir Vane drove rapidly to Bellefleurs; he was think-
ing of Agatha the whole way; he looked with satistac-
tion on the various little parcels placed in the carriage ;
he had seen a bracelet of pale gold, studded with mag-
nificent pearls, and he had thought it would add to the
beauty of the fair, rounded arm that was whiter than
even the pearls; he had purchased it for Agatha, pay-
ing the exorbitant price demanded by the jeweler with
a sang froid that would have been creditable to a mil-
lionaire; in another shop he saw a cloud of fine, white,
peerless lace, and he said to himself how well it would
look wound round the golden head and white shoulders ;
he saw some English novels and purchased them, with
some photographs that he Si would interest her ;
finally he purchased a bouquet of magnificent flowers.

“She likes me to take her plenty of flowers,’ he said,
“she is always well pleased with them.”

So he drove home in thé beautiful mellow sunlight,
through the finest scenery in the world, with his heart

 

-

>

lained to him, but he never thought ofit; he was

urried, excited, eager to have some intelligence of her,
so that the envelope, with its inclosure, remained un-
| touched. He was absent with the men-servants for two
hours, searching the grounds, during which the sun set
and the fair green earth was wrapped in silence and
darkness, the waters of the lake were hushed and still,
there was no sound—look where they would there was
no sign of Agatha.

It was quite dark when they reached home ; the moon
and stars had not yet risen. Sir Vane was beside himself
with wonder and alarm.

Then that happened which soon brought the terrible
truth home to Sir Vane. He was going to Lucerne, and
he went to his room in search of a warmer overcoat. By
this time his alarm and anxiety had increased ; now he
knew that there was something wrong—something had
wera to Agatha—but' it never occurred to him that
she had left him of her own accord.

The lamps were sine ; everything was ready for

. Almost the first thing that he saw when he entered
the room was the white envelope, pinned on the toilet
cushion. In one moment the truth flashed across him.
She had written that letter, placed it there, and had left
him. A great fear came ever him. Surely she had not
found out the truth ; if so ?——

Great drops gathered on his forehead. He took the
ope with a low moan, opened it, and found the in-
closure.

He read Agatha’s letter first. Oh, Heaven! she knew,
and she had gone, she had left him forever!

He was stunned at first, and cbuld hardly realize the
words of the letter—that mademoiselle had shown her
the inclosed. Then he understood that he had to read
the inclosed. He read it word tor word—his own story,
written by this cruel, treacherous hand. As he read,
the veins upon his forehead swelled until they stood out
like great cords ; his eyes literally flashed fire, his strong
hands were clenched.

“If I knew the hound who had written that, I would
thrash his life out of him!” he said, aloud. “Oh, my
Agatha! my beautiful, loving Agatha! It has killed
her, I know.”

His first thought was for her—her anguish, her sor-
row, her desolation, her despair. Reading these cruel,
haunting words by the light of her pure and innocent
eyes, he knew she could never look up again; that they
would crush her and kill her.

He was a selfish man, but in that moment he would
have given his life to have saved her from the knowl-
edge. His own face burned with a crimson flush as he
read the words. How horrible they were! What must
that poor child have felt as she read them—what shame,
what humiliation! so great that she had gone out, he
felt sure, to die. i

Of all the revelations of his forebodings nothing could
have been so horrible as this. At first his thoughts
were all for her—for what she had suffered, for the
shame and sorrow that had overwhelmed her. In that
moment he hated and loathed himself; he saw his
cruelty, his deceit, his treachery in their true light, and
he hated himself. :

What would she think of him, now that she knew
What he had done to her? . He had killed this-innocent
child by the most cruel of deaths. He had never in-
tended her to know ; he had meant to keep her in utter
ignorance. far from the world, a beatitiful flower bloom-
ing in solitu#e, and blooming only for him. Now she
would know that. the man she had loved so dearly was a

; knowing it, she had gone out to die.

It he could but strike dead the one who had writte
these words! Who could have written it?—who knew
his story ?—to whose interest had it been to strike this
blow to the fair and gentle girl who had never injured
any one ?—why had it been done ?

Above.all, who had shown to her how flendish he had
been? Mademoiselle, of course. This wicked letter had
been written to her, sent to her, and she had taken it to
Agatha. Why had she not brought it to him; orhave
taken it to madame? Why have taken it to her?

While he had been away -in-the sunshine she had been
slain. How little he had dreamed. that -he was leaving
her for this. He began to see through the motive; it
was Valerie who had given that letter to Agatha, and
the motive was jealousy.

“I must. have been mad,” he said, ‘ever to have
spoken to the girl. I will see what she means by it.”

Five minutes later he was standing in the salon with
the two letters on the table before him, looking very
erect, very proud and indignant; a darkening frown on
his handsome face ; his brow knitted; such stern deter-
mination on his lips aS was seldom seen there.

‘‘Ask Mademoiselle @’ Envers if she will come to me,
at once ?” he said.

Valerie rallied all her force, and stood before him,
bright, defiant, yet with an assumption of compassion.
* # a ar Mr. Heriot,” she began, but the words died on

er lips.

One look at his face showed that her cause was lost—
at least for the present.

Then she saw that fatal letter on the table, and she
knew in one moment what had happened. She knew
that she ought to have destroyed it when Agatha had

 

heavy as lead, because he could not understand the pre- |
sentiment that seemed to haunt him.

Ah, there was the blue, gleaming water of the lake,
there the grand mountains covered with snow; and as
he drove on, he saw the tall towers of the chateau be-
tween the trees.

The sense of relief that came to him was indescriba-
ble; he found now that he had been afraid to come to
the lake, not Se what would meet him there; the
blue waters laughed in the sunlight. f

As he drove up the hill he said to himself that he
would never laugh at nervous people again—that he
es never forget that day and all that he had suf-

ered.

A turn of the hill, and then he sees the beautful

ounds of the chateau—the tall trees, the ful
ountains. the myrtle and the ilex; he sees the long,
white terrace, and he knows that he is near her now.

There stands the marble faun ; he is sure to see her in
the spot where she promised to stand. 'The sun shines
on the myrtle and the ilex where, a few hours since, the
girl who loved him so well had been slain.

She was not there. The sun shone on the white faun,
on the rippling water, but Agatha was not there.

His heart sank with a feeling of awe and fear; she
had never broken a promise she had made to him, how-
ever slight ; she had said she would be there waiting
for him, and she was not. Surely there was no reality
- re terrible fear that had been tearing at his heart
all day!

He threw the reins to the groom, gave orders that the
different parcels in the carriage were to be taken to Mrs.
Heriot’s room, then hastened to find her.

She would be among the tall myrties, he was sure—
hiding, perhaps, half in jest; resting, perhaps, for the
afterhooh was warm ; sleeping, perhaps, and he fancied
the golden head resting against the trunk of a tree.

“Agatha!” he said, gently; but there was no reply.

He did not notice a half-broken branch of the myrtle
and several crushed flowers—he did not know that just
where he stood was where his victim had fallen when
the sword was plunged into her heart. As Valeria had
said, ‘“Murder was not pleasant,” and murder had cer-
tainly been done there.

He called her name a , but there was no reply; he
went among the myrtle trees, looking where the shade
was deepest; there was no sign of her; but he saw on
the grass a piece of the ribbon she had worn that morn-
ing in her hair.

Ah, then, she had been here, watching most probably
for him, Bless the loving, faithful heart and the beau-
tiful face!

Then he walked through the grounds—he could hear
from the open window of the salon the ficent
voice of Valerie D’Envers, singing an Italfan love-song—
singing so beautifully that he stopped to listen.

“That woman would have made a fortune on the
stage,” he said to himself; and then he laughed as he
remembered the scene of the morning, as though it were
within the bounds of human possibility that he could
care for a woman of her type.

“My Agatha is an angel,” he said to himself; <‘the
light of heaven is on her face, the stars are not so clear
and true as her dear eyes; the other is a Parisian co-
quette, a stage queen.”

And as he stood listening to the rich voice, he thought
of his innocent young love. $

grown to respect her innocence and purity so greatly

If it could have been undone, he would have undone it.
The only thing that he could do now was to keep her in
the same state of ignorance and innocence.

Ah! sweet Agatha, who was like her? Who had hair
“i such lovely gold, lips so dainty and sweet? Who was

ke her ?

He walked slowly back to the house. She would be
in her room. He looked everywhere, but could not find
her; he went through the suite of rooms, but saw noth-
ing of her. He did not go into hisown. Once he fancied
he heard her footsteps in the outer hall, and he hastened
to her with a joyful cry. ~

It was only the wind sti the great vine leaves ;
there was no Agatha. In her dressing-room he saw her
dinner dress all prepared—the light blue velvet, em-
broidered with seed pearls, and the beautiful suit of
pearls to match.

Still he could not find her. The tnmates of the house
were summoned, and a strict search instituted; but it
was useless.

Suddenly he remembered what Agatha had said she
was going to read—to finish “Les Miserables.” In all
Prop if he could find the book, he should find her.

e looked where he had seen it that morning, but ft was
gone, nor could he find it. He went to the spot where
the tall myrtles grew, he called this time aloud :

“Agatha! Agatha !”

There was no reply—no sound, save the eve breeze
as it rustled in the leafy branches. But under the gar-
den chair he saw a book, and when he piched it up it
was ‘‘Les Miserables.” So that she must have been
reading, and have drooped her book. But where was
she ?

“Tf we were in Greece, I should think she had been
Stolen by brigands. Itis just as though she had come
out here this morning, and had never been seen since.”

This time he left no nook or corner unsearched, but he
could find no Agatha.

Again as he went round to the western side of the
house he heard the rich tones of the magnificent voice
singing a PES ie air, There was something of subtle
triumph in the notes.

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.
“YOU HAVE MURDERED HER.”

 

into his own room, the mystery would have been ex-

read it. And she wondered, when she stood there, how
she could have been so madas to giveit toher. Of
course she could not tell how t would turn out. She
expected to go back to Agatha; she had not said all she
wished, and while she was absent it seemed to her that
Agatha might as well read that letter again and impress
it on her mind.

She never dreamed that she would show it to Sir Vane
—she would rather have slain her a hundred times over
than that. What a fatal oversight it. was! She had
ruined herself by it, but she must face it now.

Those dark eyes of Sir Vane’s, so terrible in their anger,
were fixed upon her face, and quick as. a flash of Hght-
ning, she decided upon her course ot proceeding.

“Will you be Kind enough,” he said, sternly, ‘to tell
— a you know of this cruel, foul, treacherous let-

T 7 ‘)

“What letter?” she asked, and certainly if ever the
= ~ 2 beautiful woman expressed innocent surprise,

ers did.
“Will you look at it and see ?” he replied, eurtly.

She would sooner have touched a live snake, or an
adder, but she dare not disobey him. She raised it
slowly, then affected to find out suddenly what it was.

“Why, this is my letter!” she said, and her face fell.
No actress could have grasped: the situation -better.
“Oh, Mr. Heriot, how sorry I am that it ‘has been shown
to you!”

“Your letter ?” he retorted. ‘Yes, I see that the vile
concoction has been addressed to you. How dare you
show it te my——” He was going Say Wife, but his
conscience smote him, and the -wi died-on his lips.
“How dare you show it to that innocent girl?”

“Have I done wrong, Mr. Heriot ?” she asked.
so sorry. I had no thought—no idea——”

“Nonsense!” he eried. ‘You must have known that
that letter would either kill her or drive her mad.”

She struck her white hands together, and looked most
imploringly at him.

“Do no angry!” she eried. ‘I would not grieve
you, or vex you, or annoy you, for the whole world. If
you 100k at me in that way I shall die!” ;

She covered her face with her hands, and seemed to
tremble ; but it was too late for all those affectations—
Sir Vane’s anger was roused.

“T want to know,” he said, ‘‘when you received that
letter, why you did not bring it to me ?”

‘“J—J—dare not!” she =

“TI can believe,” he replied, ‘that you were afraid to
bring such a thing tome. My wonder is that you were
not more afraid to show it to a young, innocent, tender-
hearted girl. Do you know what you have done in show-
ing her that letter? You have murdered her !”

“J am sorry,” she. said, with drooping eyes—‘I am
more sorry than words can tell. Emeant no harm; the
letter said she was to be told. I did not know it was so
very wrong. You must not be angry with me, or I shall
die!”

“The pity is,” he said, bitterly, “that you did not die
before !”

“Tam

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.
“J HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.”
Valerie D’Envers raised her head in wonder. ‘You

would sooner that I were dead. Oh, Mr. Heriot, you
cannot mean that.”

 

 

 

Ah! thank Heaven, she would never know he had |

If once during his excitement he had thought of going

“I do mean it,” he said,” ‘‘What right had you to show

| that letter to a girl? It is no compliment to you that
that he could not bear to think of the wrong done to her. any person, man or woman, could indite such a letter to

you. _It shows plainly that the writer has no respect for
you, but that he or she considers you, to say the least of
it, awoman of the world, to whom nothing is sacred,
nothing is innocent, nothing pure. Thank Heaven, no
one would have written such a letter to her!”

| ‘How can I help it ?” she said. “It is not my fault.”

|. ‘Ido not. say that. itis; but it shows the writer's ap-
preciation of you. Had a quarter of those been
written to Agatha, she would not have understood them.
You, I must.say, haye a singular knowledge of that
which you ought not even to understand.”

- The tone of Sarcasm hurt her more than any reproach
could haye.done; she felt at once how much she had
fallen in his esteem—she saw that, in his mind, she was
far below.Agatha, and must regain that place before she
could make any progress.

“T see now,” she Said, with an air of pretty contrition,
“that Lhave done wrofg. Iam sosorry now thatI did
not bring it to you;. indeed, I meant to do no harm.
The letter was most emphatically written, ‘I must show
it to her,’ said IJ, ‘and explain it to her.’ I thought Iwas
doing right. Ido not see how youcan blame me. You
cannot ignore my share of interestin the matter. If that
be true—and you do not deny it——

He interrupted her :

“Why should I pany it to you ?” he cried.

“Tf it be true,” said she, looking at him with bright,
fearless eyes, ‘then you had _no right to intrude such a
person on my aunt and myself; it is cruel to her and
cruel to me.” :

“J do not wish to hurt your feelings,” he said, “but I
am. confident of one thing—Agathais an angel of in-
She has the trans-

nocence and light compared to you!
parent mind of a child.”

“So it seems,” she said, but her face flushed hotly. ‘“No
matter what Iam, I have kept my place among pure and
good women—she has lost hers.”

He restrained himself by a great effort. Even his lips
became white with 2.

“You take too much for granted,” he said. ‘What
right have you to assume that this miserable letter is
true? It may be a tissue of contemptible lies.”

‘“T know it is true,” she said, “andso do you. AS a

ntleman and a so-called man of honor, you cannot

eny it. You Know that you are Sir Vane Heriot Car-
lyon, of Garswood ; a know that the person you have

 

ae ht here and introduced as your wife is Agatha

 

 

x

Brooke, only a doctor’s daughter. “You know that you |

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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acne alla nsaneec beeen ty

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eengsa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #=

 

 

deceived her most cruelly, and that she believed herself
to be your wife. She would not have left Whitecroft,
but that she believed herself to be your wife.”

His face grew paler and paler with suppressed passion,
his eyes fiamed on her dauntless face.

“Will you tell me,” he cried, ‘‘what business this is
of yours ?”

“J will,” she replied. “It would have been vo busi-
ness of mine if you had taken her elsewhere. As you
have brought her here, under my aunt’s roof, it be-
comes my business at once. Isay that you have taken
an unwarrantable liberty, and one quite unworthy of an
English gentleman, in bringing such a person under
our roof. You would not have taken her to your own
mother or sister.”

“IT am quite sure I should have done so,” he cried.

“Then, pardon me, you would have married her first,”
she interrupted ; “and Imust remind you that my aunt’s
family is quite as good as your own—mine, on my
father’s side, I should say, much better; and I havea
right to complain when I find you have made So little of
our house.” ,

He had no reply to make.

“J do not see,” continued Valerie, ‘that you have any-
thing to complain about. I think the right to complain
lies with us. In all good faith my aunt takes you in—
she is one of the proudest women in Switzerland—and
you deceive her by bringing a person of that descrip-
tion here: Then Iam told of it—told to question the
person herself, and I find from her it is all true. Agatha
Brooke told me the story of her most foolish incredulity,
of her simple folly. If she had not told me, I should
never have thought that any girl could be so absurdly
and easily deceived.”

“She told you the truth, did she? And now, I sup-
pose, she has gone to die because she believes herself
unworthy to live.”

“J do not know—I know nothing of her.”

as you tell me what passed between you ?” he

ask

Ah! if she dared, she would gladly have told him
that the woman he loved lay a crushed, helpless heap
at her feet.

“There was little enough,” she said. ‘I gave her the
letter, and she read it t h. She cried bitterly, and
then she told me the whole history of her marriage, and
I told her how basely she had been deceived. AsTI told
you before, my aunt sent for me while we were talking,
and I went.” *

“And you mean to tell me that my loving, innocent
darling, read those bitter, wicked words ?”

“You should haye married her, Sir Vane, if you intend-
ed her to keep her fair name.”

“You took a base and cow: advantage of my ab-
sence, he said. ‘<You ought not to have dared to have
shown it te her, but to have waited for me. You forget
how indignant and injured I feel.”

Her whole face changed, her dark eyes grew glorious
in their softened light, her lips quivered ; she went nearer
to him, and held out her hand.

“Ah, forgive me, if I have done wrong,” she said, softly;
“7 thought of you, only of you. I didnot remember her,
or anything else, but you, only you. If I committed an
error, can you not forgive it, when it was love for you ?
Perhaps—Heaven help me!—perhaps I was not. alto-
gether sorry to know that you were free.”

The voice in which she whispered the words was so
sweet, the beautiful face she to him so bewitching
in its loveliness, he would have been more than mortal if
he had resisted her. She saw his softened expression,
and she knew that she had gained some influence, she
knew that she had chosen the right path.

“Tf you knew,” she whispered, ‘I am so sorry. I have
made a terrible mistake all through love of you, but I
will ave my lite to undo it—I will do ae ae in the
world to help you. Ifit were any man in this wide world
but you, I should hate and loathe him! Ah, me, I can-
not help loving you; do not be angry with me. Ifyou
are vexed with me, there will be no light in the wide
world for me. Say you forgive me.”

He relented visibly ; he had been terribly angry with
her, but if she meant no harm, if she had thought only
of him, if she had not been altogether sorry to find him
free, he could not be so angry.

‘J cannot say that I forgive you,” he said; ‘I must
know more of what you have done. At first sight it
seems unpardonable. What am I to say to madame ?”
he asked, abruptly.

“What you will,” she replied.

“J must tell her something of the truth,” he con-

in

“For your own sake,” she said, I advise you not. I
should give any explanation that occurs to you. but cer-
tainly vot the truth; my aunt would never forgive you,
and it will make her miserable her whole life-long.”

“Did she, Agatha, tell you where she was going, or
what she was going to do?”

‘No, not one word ; I would tell you if I had the faint-
est notion.”

He began to pace up and down the room, the frown
and perplexity deepening on his face. He did notin the
least know what to do. ‘ Z

Valerie went to the table, with the intention of re-
claiming her letter. He held out his hand.

“Do not take that,” he said; “it may be valuable evi-
dence to me another day.”

“It is my letter,” she said.

«Yes, but you have given it out of your hands,” he re-
plied. A few more turns up and down the room, then
he stopped abruptly, ‘‘Valerie,” he said, “I must find
her—I could not live without her. I shall go to Paris to-
night; itis useless looking for her here. I shall go to
Paris, and employ the cleverest agents the secret police
have. I must idind her, even if it takes my whole lite;
and when I find her, I will marry her.”

She was vexed at the words; she had not thought he
would take itin this way. She had half fancied that he
would be relieved; now she saw that he was the most
miserable of men, No arts or blandishments of hers
were of the least use now ; the only thing was to efface
herself, as it were, for the present.

“T must find her,” he said ; ‘‘and if it takes every hour
of my life and the whole of my fortune, I will find the
writer of this letter, even if only to slay him.”

She looked at him with startled eyes, and he saw the

_ Start. An idea came to him, of which he did not speak
then, but which was afterward realized.

“T shall go at once,” and catch the express from Lu-

I shall be in Paris soon enough. 1 will not
go by Basie.”

“But not now,” she said; “you cannot go now.”

“JT must. I could not stay in this place where my dar-
ling has been murdered. if I were tostay here another
hour, it would drive me mad.”

Her face grew quite colorless, and she went to him
with pleading eyes.

“Do not go. Lecould not bear it,” she said, and her
voice died with a sob. ‘Do not go.”

“T must. It is your fault,” he cried.

‘But she may return—she may write to you, and you
will not be here.”

“T shall leave my address with madame, who can for-
ward any letters or telegrams tome. I could not stay
here; every room would be haunted by her. I should
see and hear her everywhere. I am not heartless
enough for that.”

“Do think of me,” she said. ‘‘What shall I do if you

0?

‘““Much the same as you did before I came. You have
never in your life done a more cruel deed than when you
broke that girl’s heart with that letter. I will ring for
madame.”

She caught his hand between her own.

“Let me speak to you,” she cried. ‘Do not beso cold,
so cruel to me. [I shall die if you leave me in this way.”

And she fell to weeping bitter tears, which angered
him stil more.

‘“My time is too precious to waste in these scenes,” he
said. ‘Had you not better retire before I see madame?”

«You will not tell her ?” she gasped.

We ; I will not betray you as you have done me,” he
said.

Then, without another word, he rang the bell and
asked for madame.

There was nothing for Valerie but to hasten to her
room.

CHAPTER XXXyY.
A LADY VISITOR.

“T have news of my wife, madame,” said Sir Vane,
when that astonished and much-tried lady came before
him—‘‘very bad news, too.”

“Tam sorry to hear it,” replied madame.

“My wife has left me,” he continued, ‘‘under a mistake
—a great, grave, terrible mistake. I hope to set every-
thing right, and to find her; for that reason I am going
away to-night.”

“It is sudden,” said madame; ‘‘but you, are quite
right. I am very much grieved for you, Mr. Heriot.”

“Give me five minutes, madame,” he continued. ‘My
wife had left a letter for me. I did not find it until I
went into my room. She tells me why she has gone, but
not where ; and I am going to find her. I will leave here
everything that belongs to us, for we may return. I
will, with your permission, arrange our pecuniary mat-
ters now,”

Money was nothing to him; Agatha was everything.
He placed a check in madame’s hand, and she gave a lit-
tle cry when she saw the amount.

“This is too much,” she said; ‘I cannot take it, Mr,
Heriot.”

“Pardon me if I insist.” he replied. <I should have
remained here another year, but for this. My wife may
return here. [should like to keep everything just as it
is for a year. AndI will leave you my address. Prom-
ise to send to me by your own hands—not to trust to any
others—all the letters or telegrams that may come.”

“I promise,” said madame, affected to tears by his
generosity and her sorrow for him.

After a few more minutes of conversation, Sir Vane
looked at his watch.

“TI must go,” he said; ‘I have no time to spare.”

“Will you not wait to say good-by to my niece ?” she
erled, aghast at this sudden break-up of a seemingly
happy party.

“T cannot,” he said; “I must leave it, madame, for
be to do for me. Pray make my adieus to mademoi-
selle.’

Ten minutes afterward he had left the chateau; the
groom was to follow with the horses and all that he re-
quired. The address that he left was:

«Sir Vane Carlyon, Hotel du Nord, Paris.”

If madame thought anything of the name, she made
no comment.

Before sunset the next day the groom, with the horses
and all Sir Vane’s belongings, had quitted the Belle-
fleurs, and the silence/and solitude were broken no
more.

The surprise and dismay did not lastlong. Every-
thing is excused to a rich baronet—even his sins are

| know by a gentle and tender name. Valerie bided her
time; she had overreached herself, and she saw it now.
Her letter was a work of art, but her error in placing it
in Agatha’s hands had been fatal; she had that false
step to retrieve, and she could only bide her time.

There was nothing to be done at present; however
hard his words and thoughts she must not resent them;
she must appeal always to his love, pity, and vanity ;
then she felt that she should succeed. She bore it for
one week, then site could bear it no longer; she was
miserable ; she found that she loved Sir Vane with the
whole passionate love of her heart; that life without
him was not worth living. She was bitterly disappointed
at the result of what she felt to be a very clever in-
trigue. Nothing could have been better than Agatha’s
disappearance, leaving him so free and unfettered ; but
all that was nothing while he persisted in searching for
her.

He would never find her; she felt persuaded that
Agatha meant what she said, that she would never look
upon his face ree Valerie felt almost sure that she
had sought and found death. But it was not Agatha of
whom she thought now, but herself, She had played
good cards, and yet had spoiled her game, and now she
had awoke, and a strong, sudden sense of her own fate
came over her. She had not known, while Sir Vane was
with her, how entirely and completely she loved him ;
she knew it now; she knew that life without him would
be unendurable; that she could not bear 10; that she
must see, hear, and be with him, or she must die.

In her blind folly she would not look at the truth; she
would not remember the bitter things he had said to
her. She flattered herself they meant nothing. He was
angry and excited when he had said them. But she let
her mind brood, and her thoughts dwell on the other
words—all the tender, whispered nothings that had in
them no sense.

Over those she brooded, until she lost her common
sense. See would not bring her reason to bear upon
them at all. She brooded over them until she persuaded
herself that Sir Vane really loved her. He had been
obliged to show some sorrow at the loss of Agatha ; but
that would all vanish when she went tohim. Her pas-
sionate, ill-disciplined nature fad never known any
control. She was not likely to exercise it now, when,
for the first time, she loved with her whole heart.

She could bear it no longer. The long days that never
brought him ; the suns that set, the suns that rose with-
out any news of him; the longing that was eating her
heart away—it was living death. She could not endure
it. And she shuddered when she thought what the
aon girl who had rapturously loved him must have
suffered.

“Aunt,” said Valerie to madame, ‘‘of course Mr. Heriot
left his address with you?” This was a few days after
his departure. “There is a packet of letters for him
from land, and one is marked ‘immediate.’ Shall I
send them for you ?” :

“If you will, my dear,” said madame, only too glad to
be relieved of the trouble.

Since these events happened she had not been so
strong or so well. Valerie had not liked openly, and
without reason, to ask for his address. It would have
looked suspicious; but she gladly availed herself of this
opportunity. Madame gave it to her:

“Sir Vane Carlyon, Hotel du Nord, Paris.”

Valeria looked at madame.

“Aunt,” she said, ‘do you not think it strange that
your English lodger should have two hames ?”

“I cannot say so,” she answered. “I never attempt
to understand the English. I have heard of such things
before, tho People of rank often lay aside their
titles and travel igcognito—it is tosave trouble and
secure a little peace, limagine. I have always thought
this Sir Vane—how strange a name—was an aristocrat.
Tt is curious to think that gentle, quiet girl who loved
solitude was Lady Carlyon.”

Valerie’s face flushed. It was on her lips to ery out
that she was not Lady Carlyon, but she restrained her-
self; it would never do to let her aunt know that she
had had any share in the affair.

She forwarded the letters, waited afew days longer,
then told her aunt that she had received an invitation
from an old schoolfellow who had just married and gone
to Vienna, and she should probably be absent for some
time.

Madame, who never attempted to control or influence
her niece, sighed with a sense of relief. After all, she
thought, she should not be sorry to have the whole
place to herself and recover from her fatigue.

Valerie went away, and madame was alone. She
thought a great deal of the fair, angelic girl who had so
suddenly appeared. She wondered what was the

 

 

about. Every family has its skeleton, every life its hid-
den side, every heart its pain.

beautiful girl whom she had really loved.

Brooke.
* *

Sir Vane had been
already he was beginning to. tire.
his sorrow was fading.

* * *

to have found her, but it did not seem likely.

Knowing nothing of the purse in her pocket, he had
told the clever and astute agents of the secret police
that she had left home without money. Then they said
if that were the case she could not have left Lucerne.

His own opinion was that she had drowned herself in
the lake. She was so gentile, so helpless, so unfit to find
her way, he began to feel
wandered down to the lake, and was lying underneath

times, than living with the sword of burning fire in your
heart—better a thousand times.

In those days no smile was ever seen on his face ; he
wandered like an unquiet spirit; he could find no rest,
no enjoyment, no repose. Agatha’s face was never out
of his mind; he couid tell what she had suffered. Poor,
gentle child, she had seemed unwilling at first to believe
him when he told her that, by virtue of his promise, she
was indeed his wife. He remembered her anxious, wistful
face, and her sudden resolution to trust him in ail. This

them; but he had never been haunted by any sad
memories of them—he had forgotten them.

“This is the one love of my life,” he said to himself
over and over again. The more he regretted Agatha,
the more he hated Valerie—aill his sorrow and unhappi-
ness were caused by her. It was she who had brought
itallonhim. He hated her; he could not endure to
think how she had taken advantage of his absence to
give this death-wound.

There came one evening more unbearable to him than
any other had been yet. He was possessed by the
picture of a woman drowning ; he could fancy the fair
hair caught by reeds and water-lilies ; he could fancy a
white, beautiful face raised to the moonlit sky, white
hands beating the waters, then lying so still—wherever
he went this picture was with him. He wiped the
great drops of perspiration from his brow, and he cried
out once——

“Tf this be the punishment of a sinner, I would that I
had been a Saint.”

He went to the most brilliant cafes in Paris to dine,
but he could eat nothing. He went to the opera, but left
it, he could not bear the music. He went to his room at
the hotel, a bright, cheerful sitting-room, beautifully
furnished, on the first floor; he sat there, the very
picture of despondency, when one of the waiters came
to him and said that a lady wished to see him.

“A lady,” he repeated, -‘‘ask. her to come here.
Heavens! itis Agatha! Agatha ! come back to me.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
>-e~<

SMILES AND PHOTOGRAPHS.

Kind, genial, and wealth-pampered reader, as you sit
in your gaudy but still rich and voluptuous apartments
this beautiful morning, with your feet on the piano, did
you ever stop to consider the smile that looks out at you
from the portrait of one you might otherwise love? Do
I refresh your memory? Do you call to mind the genial
smirk which is, in fact, the thin silk overskirt of joy

covering the silesia sham of a nameless woe? Do you
happen to have about your house the photograph of a
friend whose petrified gayety fills your eyes with briny
weep?

Joy is something that we cannot seize ruthlessly and
lead it into the photographer’s laboratory by the ear.
Ive tried that. [always leave my umbrella and my
hope behind when I go into the photographer’s gilded
den. I can laugh while the dentist pulls out my sound
teeth and plugs the poor ones, and I can even be gay
while nature and the cucumber of commerce are en-
gaged in mortal combat, but I cannot affect a joy that I

o not feel while the cast-iron hat-rack of the artist
leans against my love of home, and the artist bids me
look at a place on the wall that is freckled with iodine.

People who will look at my portrait in the Vatican at
Rome, New York, will notice that it has this pained ex-
pression and a wild, hunted look, as though I had
dodged into the photographer's to evade a creditor or a
long-suffering and relentless vigilance committee ; but
those who think so are in error.

stances. BILL NYE.

~

—_—__ > @-<

DEAD MAN’S GULCH.

_In the early days of the California mining excitement,
a miner had died in a mountain digging, and, as he was
much respected, his acquaintances resolved to give him
a ‘square funeral,” instead of putting the body in the
usual way into a roughly made hole, and saying, by way

 

“great and grave mistake” that Sir Vane had spoken |p). nche has consented to be my wife within a week

| after the return of her father to the hall.

Madame wept more than once over the fate of the has the manse been without a mistress.

light footsteps along the floor and the faint rustle of a |

woman’s dress—but never again did madame see Agatha ed to well to close out so abruptly.”

He felt the loss; he was lonely, |
disconsolate, and would have given his whole fortune |

quite sure that she had |

I do not call to mind a |
photograph that I ever had taken under those circum- |

 

More than once, too, she grew nervous when the even- |
ing shadows fell, and fancied she could see a white |
shape moving between the trees—fancied she heard the |
wailing of a woman’s voice—fancied that she could hear | be a witness of your felicity as a Benedict.
You have open- |

| you being the next heir in lineal descent.
The entrance of Squire Draper, and his daughters, |

*

for some days at the hotel, and | to the parlor, changed the theme.

The vehemence of | ping into a ehair.
mad-c

 

attention of their parson. He opened his eyes and
stared at the whispering miners.
“What is it, boys ?”

Then, as suddenly his eyes lighted on sparkling scales
of gold, he shouted :

“Gold, by jingo! and the richest kind o’ diggin’. The
congregation is dismissed !”

Instantly every man began to prospect the new dig-
ging, the parson not being the least active of the num-
ber.- The body had to be buried elsewhere; but the
memory of the incident lived from the name given to
the locality, for ‘Dead Man’s Gulch” became one of the
richest gold fields in all California.

eed

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

Blanche the Beautiful

,

A HAND AND A FORTUNE WON.

By SHERWOOD STANLEY.

{Blanche the Beautiful,” was commenced in No. 39. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. } .

CHAPTER XX.

In the racing season no town in ‘‘Merrie England” is
more alive than @oncaster. Every inn is full, every ale-
house is astir, the shopkeepers and traders reap a har-
vest, the streets are thronged, and from the town to the
course you see a throng of showmen, cardmen, gipsies—
all the following which environ places visited by people
of means and extravagancies.

About the course, and hugging close to the neat and
roomy stables, are trainers, grooms, jockeys, and horse-
men of all grades, and when the hour fora start ap-
proaches, the grounds and the stands are all crowded.

There are sO many plates, cups, handicaps, and purses
to be run for that there is often a full week of ‘life’ in
the peace, and life there means more than existence.

As the St. Leger for which Squire Lovell had entered
the Romany Victor would not come off until the second
day, the party, consisting this time of the Earlof Dar-
lington, the Drapers, and himself, had plenty of time to
take in the town and see the sights before the “race was
on,” which most interested our party. The Prince
of Wales and family had come down, and a great many

of the leading noblemen of the realm were there.

“Have you seen or heard from Lord Fortescue in the
crowd ?” asked the earl, when Lovell joined them at the
inn they had selected for their home during their stay.

‘Not a sign of him,” was the reply. ‘He could not
enter a horse here under his own name. I believe he
has gone to the Continent, for his name has been cross-
ed in the St. James, and every other club where he was
prominent.”

“Are there many entries for the St. Leger ?” contin-
ued the earl. ;

“Twenty-one subscribers, but not over half will start,”
replied Lovell. “‘Some noble stock is up—two from
France, one from the United States of America, and the
rest are turf leaders here. Old John Haynes is jubilant,
Red Mike is wild. They say atlast there will be a race
worthy of our horse. The distance, two miles and six
furlongs, will enable us to go from the start, and to stay
at it through the race. Blue-Grass Dick will be told to
to give no chance, but to take a startif he can get it,
and hold it.. We will win, but it will not be play—it will
be work. And as it will be my last race this season,
pee forever, I wish to do the best I can in it. I shall

ay all the money I can on my horse, for I know the trim
he’ll be in. Both Mike and Haynes take turns night and
day in watching him.”

“Your last race? You surely will not leave the turf
when you have made both fame and fortune in this
short season.”

“T am about to commit matrimony, my lord. My dear

And we go
home the day after to-morrow—win or lose. Too long
When next,
my lord, you honor me with a visit, I hope to receive
you in a manner betitting your rank, my means, and the
friendship with which you have honored me.”
“Thanks, my dear squire. Ishall be but too happy to
ut we
must not lose you on the English turf.

“Tf am dryer than sawdust. These

shop to shop, trading

| over. I know ldo. Blanche there has been buying——.”

 

was how her trust had ended—in betrayal, and perhaps |
in death. He had loved other women, and had left |

| and plate.”
= *

 

of funeral service, ‘‘Thar goes another bully boy under!” |

They sought the services of a miner who bore the repu-

tation of having, at one time of his career, been ‘a
| powerful preacher in the States.” And then, far West-
| ern fashion, they all knelt down while the extemporized
| parson delivered a prodigiously long prayer.
The miners, tired of this unaccustomed opiate, to
| the earth that had been taken from the grave. Gradu-
| ally looks were exchanged, whispering commenced and

increased, until it became loud enough to attract the

|
|
}
|

{

|
|

}

‘Hush, dear father, you promised to keep astill tongue
in your head,” cried Blanche, reddening up lest the
squire should tell what she had been buying.

“So IL will, dear. I came within a neck of forgetting.
Ah, my lord, they’re a blessing, but a heap o’ bother
withal—these girls of mine.” 4

“Tf rumor tells the truth, you'll soon be rid of half

the waters. Ah, fair, sweet Agatha, betterso, a thousand | Your trouble,” said the earl, with a smile, and a glance

at Blanche.

The arrival of the old ale excused the squire froma
reply, and as the beverage was a favorite all around. it
pecame the absorbed topic of the moment.

Then the squire asked young Lovell how his horse had
stood the journey down, and if he looked all right.

“He is in better trim than ever,” was the reply. ‘‘Blue-
Grass Dick had him out for a gallop, and he could hard-
ly hold him in, he was so anxious for a run.”

“Then we can offer odds, if we can get no better on
the field,” said the earl.

“Yes, my lord. Iam not afraid to risk allI have in
the world, for, if no accident occurs, I feel sure of purse
* * *

* *

*

The grand stand and all the grounds adjacent to the
beautiful level course were crowded, long before the
bell was heard calling the horses out, on the St. Leger
day. :

The Prince of Wales and his nazti-cal brother, the
Duke of Edinburgh, were seen in the club-room_ before
the race, betting-books in hand, like mortals less ex-
alted ; but when the time for the horses to be out ar-
rived, the two went into the canopied box reserved for
royalty, to witness the grand struggle of the day.

Most of the horses, as soon as mounted, were moved
up and down the track by their proud jockeys. and the
betting became active as the favorites were seen in form
and action.

The horses of Counts Lagrange and Baythani attract-
ed the most attention of all.. One had been a winner at
the Grand Prix, the other had taken the lead in several
races at home and abroad.

The American horse won some favor, but English
turfmen all said he had been trained down too fine, and
would weaken before he got to the home-stretch.

Many looked for the already famous gipsy horse, as
Lovell’s entry was called ; but they got no sight of him.
Under his blanket near the scaling-box he stood, as
quiet. as a cow at her slop, Red Mike on one side, John
Haynes on the other, watching all who ventured. near ;
while Blue-Grass Dick was shooting marbles on the
track under his nose for his own amusement.

Old John Haynes knew too well what he was about to
send his horse out among a prancing crowd to get ex-
cited, when he soon would need all his wind and all his
nerve in astruggle which would be furious from first
to last.

The bell rang to assemble and scale for weights, and
Blue-Grass Dick .pecketed his marbles with a sigh,
saying:

“Dis chile would ha’ won dat game suah in a second
more.”

“You win the game on the horse, Dick, and I'll weigh
down all your marbles with gold pieces,” said the veteran
trainer, as the boy took his saddle under his arm and
started to the weighing-room. :

“Bet all you’re wurf on me, Mars John. I nebber
loses,” was the reply. ‘‘An’de colt knows when I yell
he has got to go his bestest, and he does.”

As Squire Lovell had predicted, out of twenty-one
entries only fourteen were ready ior a start. These, on
a wide track, with no false jockeying, got off at the tap
of the starting-bell, all bunched in magnificent style,
the crowd cheering wildly te :ce them go off at once and
so well.

Up to the first turn they seemed.yet aH together on
the flat, but at the half-mile post they had drawn apart
considerably, and at the mile turn were. scattered still
more.

Those who knew the colors now had their choice out
of four that ran so evenly that no one could say which
had the chance. The two French horses, the despised
American, and the gipsy composed the quartette.

Betting was loud and rapid now, men hedging all they
could who had bet on horses that now were without a
chance.

It was a glorious sight—one never to be forgotten by
a lover of the turf—to see those four horses come sweep-
ing home on the last half-mile, their heads low, and
stretched on a level with back and neck, their leaps so
long they seemed to hug the ground they flew over—one
rider upright, and urging his horse more by voice than
spur; another bent forward, using both spur and whip;
each in his own style; the ‘‘Demon Rider,” so far the
quietest of all, sitting ‘all in a heap,” as an old turfman
said who was watching them all.

At the head of the home-stretch—the other horses a
“distance” behind—there was a change. The American,
“too fine,” as it proved, began to show distress, while
the Bathayni horse also fell back nearly a length. The
Lagrange and the Gipsy were neck and neck, and as
they neared the wire, a blanket could have covered
poth. The French jockey was using whip, and spur,
and voice.

Suddenly—not four lengths away—the demon yell of
Blue-Grass Dick rent the air, and then in two mighty
pounds the Romany Victor went under the wire a clean

while away the time, began, digger-fashion, fingering length ahead.

«The St. Ledger is mine!” whispered Harry Lovell, as
he pressed the hand of Blanche.
“Even as Iam thine!” was the low response.

 

 

For a time, up to the very finish, so close the race. so

intense was the interest, no sound was heard above the
excited breathing of the crowd, the cries of the jockies,

and the clattering of the steel-plated hoofs that came |

home on the hard, smooth track.
But with the drop of the flag, when it was known that

England held the St. Leger yet against France and |

America, such a cheer rose as fairly rent the air. While
winners were wild with joy, even the losers, of English

birth, consoled themselves by saying, ‘‘No foreign-bred |

horse can beat ours !”

Squire Lovell had twenty immense offers for his horse
when he received the plate and purse.

He had but one reply :

“He may never run again, but Romany Victor will |

remain mine till he or I shall die!”
«The last event. may not. be far off !” muttered a voice,

| which Lovell thought he recognized.

Glancing around, he saw the notorious Melius Sharpe
sneaking away, as if he had spoken without fore-
thought and wanted to evade those who must have
heard it.

“That man is your deadly enemy.
cab with Lord Fortescue—the latter in disguise, but I
knew him for all that,” said Mr. Melton, who stood near
Squire Lovell in the crowd which had gathered about
the judges’ stand.

“They are too contemptible for me to fear,” said the
squire. ‘Nevertheless, I thank you, Mr. Melton, and
will be. on my guard.”

The Earl of Darlington and Squire Draper were heavy
es on this event, as well as our hero, Squire Lov-
ell.
winnings, for every jockey and trainer would back his
own horse, whether he had achance or not.

CHAPTER XXIL

“At home! Sweet home! There is no place on earth
like it!) All the inns in Christendom, all the palaces,
from Windsor down, cannot seem to me as dear as the
old hall!”

This was what the genial old squire said when he and
his fair daughters, with Harry Lovell in company, drew

up, in the old family coach, before the hall on their re- |

turn from Doncaster.

Every servant. young and old, the very dogs, were out
to greet them, and every face wore a happy look. For
that party at least the racing season was over.

The squire and Harry Lovell had each more than
quadrupled their fortunes over and above all expenses,
and, besides, excepting a few annoyances, had enjoyed
a glorious time.

The two sisters had been jeted and honored on every
hand, and the successes of Harry Lovell had made hima
hero among the heroes.

They had entered the hall, where a substantial lunch |
lay spread for them, for Harry had sent word ahead by |

Red Mike, who was to call there on his way to the
manse, whither he went with Romany Victor and the
rest of the horses belonging to the young squire.

While at lunch, a servant arrived from the manse,
whither he had come at full speed, fearing he was the
carrier of bad news, for he bore a large envelope sealed
with black wax, the sign of mourning.

It was addressed very strangely :

“To the Earl of Harcourt—To be opened by Harry
Lovell, Esquire, of the ‘‘Manse,” Northamptonshire. An
imprint on the face of the envelope in one corner, bore
the name:

‘"RAYNER AND RAYNER,
‘Solicitors, Temple Bar.”

Blanche turned to a deathly pallor when she saw that
black seal. She knew not what to fear.

Only old Squire Draper seemed to possess any presence
of mind.

“Open it, my dear Harry, and let us know what it
means. The girls will go into fits if you keep them in
suspense.

Harry Lovell trembled slightly, but. he opened the
ominous-looking package.

One instant he looked at the paper, then with a gasp
he sighed :

“Tt cannot be real. What will that dastard, Fortescue,
think now ?”

He spoke as if to himself, forgetful that any one else
was there.

; hee the Lord’s name art thou daft, Harry? What
S it ?
leaf in a winter’s gale.”

«Read it, my Blanche—dearer now to me that ever
before,” said the young squire, passing the inclosure to
his betrothed, for at a glance he read the material in-
formation.

“My Lord!
Blanche was all a-tremble now.

«Diana, read that letter aloud.

a week.” cried the old squire.
Diana took the letter from the trembling hand of
Blanche, and read:

“My Lorp:—It becomes our pleasing duty to inform |

you of your accession to the title of Earl ot Harcourt,
The late Earl
of Harcourt died in Paris, on his way home from a tour

z | on the Continent, one of our firm being with him at the
“Ring for some old ale, Harry,” cried the squire, drop- |

time. It may not be known to your lordship that your

| estates and income through rents and other sources are
ap girls have been running me all over town from |
till [smell of muslin and wool all |

nearly or quite the largest in the kingdom, and, as our
firm has long held the business management of the
same, we Will be happy to lay all accounts of them be-
fore your lordship, and, if it is desirable, to still serve
your lordship in the same capacity.
“RAYNER & RAYNER,
“Solicitors.”

Blanche was weeping now.

«An earl!’ she sobbed. ‘My Harry is lost to me for-
ever!”

«What do you mean, my own true love ?” he asked.

“As the richest nobleman in England, you can woo
and win the proudest lady in the realm.”

‘“T have won the fairest, truest, and best lady in all
the wide, wide world, and my coronet shall encircle her
brow. My Blanche yet—no other woman shall ever be
my Wife,” was his answer.

“Oh, Harry—my lord, I ought to say!”

“No, dear Blanche, I am only ‘Harry’ unto thee and to
our brave father and good sister here,” he cried, as he
extended a hand to Diana.

“Loyal and faithful as the knights of the olden time,”
said the happy old squire.

After a little time they all calmed down, and then
plans were made for the hear future.

The day for the marriage of the two lovers had been
already set, and now the Earl of Harcourt insisted it
should not be changed, but that the wedding should
take place as had been intended, in one week from that
day, at the parish church, only two miles from the hall.

In the meantime the new earl was to go to London to
see his solicitors, and take possession of that part of his
estate which was in the city—a town mansion, with all
its appurtenances.

This done and his legal position established, he was to
return to the hall and there remain until Blanche was
his happy bride.

Diana had a list of friends whom the new earl wished
invited to the ceremony, and during his absence she was
to send the invitations in her father’s name.

Lord Middleton, the Earl of Darlington, and good old
Admiral Wyche were on the list.

* * * * *

* *

«Well, my lord, how do you feel to-day? You played
heavy and late last night, I think, by the looks of your
eyes.”

It was Melius Sharpe who spoke. He addressed Lord
Fortescue in the drawing-room of his town residence. —

“Yes, 1 played late and lost like the duse.”

“You mistake. The comparison is bad, my lord.
Satan never loses; he has a trump hand all the time!”

“You ought to know. Have you any especial business
with me this morning ?”

“Yes, my lord. I came to advise you to take a little
country air. The Earl of Harcourt is in town—to meet
him might disagree with a weak constitution like
yours.”

q “The Earl of Harcourt! He is on the Continent—or
was two weeks ago. I saw itin the Court Gazette.”

“The Court Gazette lied, my lord. The Duke of Har-
court never was across the channel.”

«] do not care—f do not know him.”

“Oh, yes. you do, my lord. ._ His lordship condescended
to give you a tremendous thrashing not long ago.”

“Mr. Sharpe, it is a very early hour for you to get
drunk in. Or has my attention to you turned your
head ?”

“In the first place, my lord, I am not drunk,

be when you fully understand me.
Paris.

think ?”

“I do not deal in riddles.
speak out.”

“Well, my lord, since you are so anxious to hear it—
your rival in love and on the turt, the ci-devant—I learned
that at Eton, my lord—the ci-devant and erstwhile Squire
Lovell is now the Earl of Harcourt. Ihave it. from. his
own solicitors, Rayner & Rayner, at Temple Bar, where
I saw him this morning. It may be more interesting to
you, my lord, to know that his wealth will more than
double that of your lordship.”

“Melius Sharpe you are a fiend.”

If you really haye any news

“Thank you, my lord. Is that why you keep me in |

your seryice ?”

“I suppose it must, be,
up to be presented at court ?
session next week,”

“He will not be presented at court, my lord, until
after his marriage. Then his lordship and Lady Blanche
Harcourt (nee Draper), will enter society.”

“What—will he marry her now ?”

“Of course, my lord. They loye each other. He will
present the most beautiful lady in England to the queen
when he stands in the royal presence.”

‘“Melius Sharpe, I ought to kill you.”

“For what, my lord? Why do I deserve death from
such a valiant nobleman ?”

“Because you stand there, torture me, and gloat over
my misery.”

“You are mistaken, my lord. I thought if I told you
the truth in a plain and forcible manner it might arouse
your manhood, and make you strike this upstart, whom
I hate; a deadly blow.”

“Melius Sharpe I will not commit meder, The blood
of poor Jem Sands is on my head now, and that is
enough, Heaven knows! I can scarce eat, drink, or
sleep for it.”

«Bah! I do not advise murder, Abduct his girl—that
will be worse than death to him.”

Has this new-made earl come

I saw him in a/|

Even the stablemen of the latter felt rich with their |

You are as white as a sheet, and shaking like a |

Oh, Harry, what does it mean?’ and |

I’m blowed if you two ;
don’t act as soft as if you _hadn’t been lovers more than |

In the |
next. I think Iam further from insanity than you will |
The Duke: of Har- |
court, Who was on the Continent, died a week ago in |
The gentleman who, in lineal descent, succeeds |
to the estates and Peerage of Harcourt is—whom do you |

The House of Lords open |

|. “I dare notnow. He has a title and wealth superior

| tomy own. With them goes power to punish, which a

| Squire could not possess. It would be ruin to us both.”

|_ ‘Lord Fortescue, I knew you were mean and base, but

| I did oe think you were both morally and physically a

| coward !” 2

| ‘fA coward! You low-lived dog, do you dare call me a

| coward.”

| ‘Yes, to your face; a pitiful, whining coward.”

| _‘Melius Sharpe, were you even a gentleman, I would
choke the words down your throat.”

‘Lord Fortescue, I am more of a man and a gentle-
man even in my degradation than you can ever be with
your rank. I have some hold on your wealth. You owe
me fifty thousand pounds, and I hold your notes for the
| Same. They must be paid when due. If after that you

presume to speak to me in the street or elsewhere, I
will kick your lordship into the gutter.”

“FE ends and fury! dog as you are, I will not stand
that,” cried the young nobleman, springing to his feet,
and clenching his hands.

He moved a step toward Sharpe, who coolly threw up
his hands on guard; then, turning suddenly almost
black in the face, fell forward on the floor.

“Great Moses! This is more than I expected. He has
oo into a fit!” cried the gambler, and he sprang to the

ll-rope.

Servants hurried in, surgeons were sent for, and every
effort made to bring back life; but all in vain. For-
tescue never spoke again.

The doctors gravely consulted, and said he had died
of apoplexy.

With his late record against him, few cared how he
died. A poor cousin succeeded to the peerage, paid his
debts, and upheld a better name than the dead lord
could have done.

* * *

* * * *

One week later Harry Lovell, the seventeenth Earl of
Harcourt, led “Blanche the Beautiful” to the altar; and
when the Earl of Darlington signed the parish register
as witness, he turned to his long-time friend, and said:

“Harry, thou hast the best and fairest wife in Christen-
dom. An emperor might envy thee.”

And thus, with the bugle sounding for a glorious ar-
rival at the winning-post, we announce the races over,
and of our story

THE END.

——_——__+e~<

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** Wilt Thou 2
“Oh, wilt thou take this form so spare,

This powdered face and frizzled hair,

To be thy wedded wife;
And keep her free from labor vile,
Lest she her dainty fingers soil,
And dress her up in gayest style

AS ays as noe hast life ?”

ME Wwill

And wilt thou take these stocks and bonds,
This brown-stone front, these diamonds,
To be thy husband dear?
And wilt thou in his carriage ride,
And o’er his lordly home preside,
Or be divorced while yet a bride
Of ere a single year ?”
“‘T will.”

Then J pronounce you man and wife ;
And with what I’ve together joined,

The next best man may run away,
Whenever he a chance can find.”

Linus Pond.

Squire Borge is wealthy, and wishes his friends to
| understand that he is a wonderful sportsman. Last
| winter he started up country on. a fishing trip, where he
met with poor success. The first thing he did on re-
| turning to the city was to go toa market and buy fif-
| teen trout. They were beauties, and he told the sales-
man What he was going to do, and asked him where he
should say they were caught.

“Oh, tell them they were taken from Linus Pond.”

On his way home the squire called and had the largest
| one photographed. Underneath the picture he wrote :

“One of the fifteen taken from Linus Pond, January 8,
1884, by Timothy Borge, Esq.”

In two days he came back to the marketman and said:
| ‘Lookee here, where is Linus Pond, anyhow ?” They
| asked me where it was, and I told them it was up in the
| north part of Hancock County.

 

Then they got a map
and wanted me to show it to them, and for the life of me
I couldn’t tind it. Just tell me where it is, and Pll go
home and fix them. Confound their hearts, I'll tell them
where Linus Pond is, and give them enough of it,”

Then the marketman led him gently outside the shop
and pointed to his sign. It read: ‘Linus Pond. Fish,
oysters, and game.”

The Honest Countryman.

There is a cheap clothing dealer in San Francisco, on
Kearny street, near California, whose confidence in man-
kind has received a severe setback. The other day an
Donemeewiine countryman walked into his store, and
Said :

“You remember that second-hand overcoat I bought
here for $8 yesterday ?”

‘Never dakes pack anythings ven vonce solt, my frent,”’
said the hand-me-downer.

“Oh! that’s all right. I just wanted to say that I
found this $500 bill sewed in the lining. Perhaps the
owner may call for it.”

“Of gorse he vill—he has call already, my tear frent,”
exclaimed the dealer, eagerly capturing the money.
“You ish von honish man. Here, I gif you feefty tollar
ash arevard. Dot vill pe all right.”

When the honest customer got around the corner he
murmured softly :

“I guess I'd. better take this fifty and skip up to Port-
land before that Sheeney tumbles to that counterfeit.
It’s getting mighty hard to shove the ‘queer’ round
these parts, and that’s a fact.”

Warding Off the Plague.

“T hear the cholera is fearfully bad over in France,”
said one street contractor to another.

“Yes; andit may come hereif the streets are not
cleaned,” was the reply.

«Just as I was thinking,”

«Something must be done.”

“Yes, something must be done, that’s a fact, and
quickly done, too.” \

“Can you get word to the other contractors to-day ¢”

“Oh, yes, easy. I know where they meet to play
checkers.”

“Very well; tell them all to come round to my house
at 8 o’clock this evening.”

«But what for ?”

«To help pray for rain.”

Couldn’t Ride It.

A lady in a suburban town was called to the front
door the other day by the ringing of the bell. She saw
the «deliverer” of an encyclopedia publishing house,
who asked:

‘Does Dr. —— live here ?”

“Yes,” was the reply; ‘‘what do you want ?”

“TI have an encyclopedia for him in my wagon,” said
the young man, ‘‘and would like to leave it.”

“Is it a big one ?” asked the lady.

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Well,” she murmured, ‘‘I don’t know what the doctor
bought that thing for. I am sure he will never learn
how to ride it. And a big one, too! Well, well, some
men are fools.”

The Widow’s Reckoning.

A person recently met a Liverpool lady who is distin-
guished as having been four times a widow, and has
| oe pean entered the bonds of matrimony. Said the
riend:

7 a think I once had the pleasure of dining with you in
aris ?”

«When ?” asked the fair stranger.

“In 1865,” he replied.

“Ah!” she said, reflectively, ‘‘that may have been so,
| but Lhad forgotten it. You see,” she added, ‘it was
two or three husbands ago.”

Mirthful Morsels.

If you wish to make a man perfectly miserable send
him an important message by telephone. Tell him to be
| sure to meet you at a hotel ata certain hour, say. But

when he asks you who you are, don’t understand him,
' and don’t give him your name. He’ll fret off a pound of
| flesh an hour trying to make out who it is that has
| telephoned him.

“What is that?” exclaimed a Burlington lady, as she
| opened a letter and something like a crumpled postage
| Stamp fell out. ‘Oh, yes; I remember now. It’s that
| Boston bathing suit I ordered for Nellie.”
| What does ‘Good Friday mean ?” asked one urchin of
| another. | ‘‘You’d better go home and read your ‘Robin-
| son Crusoe,”’ was the withering reply.

 

| The milkman and dancing master have much in com-
/mon. They both believe in pumps.

|. A nod thing—a boy in church.

| Someone asks, ‘‘Why is a dude like a match?” and
| we can’t think why unless it is because both are light-
| headed.

| A parlor flre—when the beau is bounced.

‘The train of thought leads the pencil, and hence it isa
| lead pencil.

“My son,” said old Precept, ‘don’t take to writing
poetry. When I was young like you, I was smitten with
a beautiful creature, and wrote hera poem. IJnever Saw
her again.”

| A little girl went into a drug store the other day, and
| said to the proprietor in a half whisper, ‘If a good little
| girl ha’n’t got no money, how muchchewing gum do you
| give her for nothing ?”
we
Horsford’s Acid Phosphate,
Very Satisfactory in Prostration.

Dr. P. P. GILMARTIN, Detroit, Mich., says: “I

have found it very satifactory in its effects, nota-
‘ bly inthe prostration attendant upon alcoholism.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

8

 

 

MY LOVE.

A peerless gem for a diadem,
¥or the diadem of a king,

Is the snow-white dove, the maiden I love,
A bright, a beautiful thing!

A thing of ba ag Ar of oo birth,
In whose pale-blue velnlets runs

The enone flood that has warmed into blood
"Neath a thousand summer Suns.

Her queenly head, with a crown o’erspread,
With a braided crown of gold—

Of her silken hair, all tangled and fair—
Is a sun-ray to behold.

Her gray eyes gleam like the moon in a stream
Of silver molten and white ; 2
Her soul’s pure pride, in the depths of the tide,

Refiected radiant, bright.

Her classic face, with a stately grace,
Smiles proud on the admiring throng ;

In the days of old, a knight-minstrel bold
Would have paid for that glance with a song—

With a song of wild, of maddening love,
With a song of the heart's desire,
With a kindling eye, with a chivalry
Of intoxicating fire.

She might hold her own on a monarch’s throne,
No jewel so fair as she ;
Like the moon’s soft light, like the noonday
bright,
Like the glist of a star on the sea.

<< My love!” and in those two tender words
Let my voice to soft cadence fall ;
My radiant white dove, my beanty my love!
Saying that, I have spoken all.

—____—_ > + ___-_____

oo U FIN Ar

OF

A JOLLY DRUMMER.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

“A BAD BOY'S DIARY.”

No. 5.—Don’t Count Your Chickens before
they are Hatched.

July 15th.—Have concluded to hang on to the H. cf the
W. a few weeks longer; hope to get with Fringe & Tas-
sle early in the fall. I feel that my experience is going
to toughen me for the vacation I have chosen. I think I
grow better-looking every day, too. As for talkee-talkee,
I can take the prize away from a whole sewing-circle, I
know, for I have tried it.

Got into one last week. Asked ’em what they were
sewing for ?

“For the heathen, of course.”

I sympathized with ’em—got my history open at the
right places, and showed ’em Senegambia, Mozambique,
Coriandel, Madagascar, Zanguebar, Manchooria, Abys-
sinia, crocodiles shedding tears after devouring colored
babies, Juggernaut taking a little four-in-hand, mile-in-
three minutes, drive over a wooden road paved with the
heads of the people, poor little darkeys with their clothes
cut a year behind the styles.

I offered to read to them a half-hour, while they
sewed, and I read them some very interesting anecdotes

about the beautiful women of the world, and I was
pressed to stay to tea, and left the house with five sub-
seribers and the impression thatI was a missionary.

Trenton is a capital town for the crockery business
and the Legislature ; the latter makes lots of money,
but it’s a tough soil for a book-agent. Took a prosper-
ous looking street and worked my way through it. First
house, lady slammed door in my face before I could say
«“good-morning.” Wore new light summer suit, too
sweet for anything: tail of my coat caught in door;
couldn’t pull it out without tearing it—had to ring bell
again. Lady took no notice. Had to ring again—twice
—three times; wouldn't come to my relief.

Jerked the old knob so hard it came off. Madam
opened upper window and remarked if I didn’t go away
she would send for police—slammed it down before I
could explain what the trouble was. Couldn’t go away
—couldn’t sit down to rest—couldn’t ring bell, so
pounded on the door with the knob.

Small boys began to gather round door-steps; it was
early, and they were on their way to school. Then two
or three citizens seemed to think I was in trouble and
stopped to look. Business is business. I said nothing
about the condition of my coat-tail, but began to can-
vass for subscribers ; 30 or 40 people paused; I waxed
eloquent ; boys crowded up the steps to look at the pic-
tures; others ordered me to come down and show ’em.
I was getting up a glorious boom, when three guardians
of the peace, whom the lady had sent her little girl out
the back door to summon, charged on the crowd, and
pounced on me.

“Come along!” they shouted, jerking me sol heard a
loud splitting and ripping.

“Look here,” I retorted, ‘‘you’d much better take up
the lady for illegal arrest.”

‘Tegal arrest ?”

«Yes; she’s shut my coat in her door, and refused to
open it. How can 1 come along until she releases me?
Iwant to go bad enough. -And yow’ve jerked me and
torn my new summer suit. ['m going to have damages
out of somebody, you better believe! Is this the way
the people of a foreign country misuse a native of the
great United States? You'll hear from Washington
about this before long; we‘re not to be insul——”

Just as I threw myself forward in an eloquent atti-
tude, relying on my coat-tails for support, the door sud-
denly opened (one of the officers having gone to the
rear), I lost my equilibrium, and shot down those steps
head first, knocking down the small boys like a row of
nine-pins.

The way the crowd cheered and applauded ought to
haye done me more good thay it did. I was mad; but
business is business—I jumped up and asked who was
going to subscribe. Three or four did so, considering
they were getting a good bargain with all that fun
thrown in.

The police slid out of sight. Then I walked around to
the back door of that house, found the lady in the kitch-
en looking scared, showed her the tear in my coat and
the bump on my nose, and asked her how many copies
of my book she proposed taking. She took three.

She also offered to mend my coat, and gave me her
arnica bottle to bathe my nose, while she did the little
job. She sort of apologized, too ; said there was no one
in the house but herself and her little girl, and she did
not like to let a man in, because, about two years ago,
a lady who was alone let amanin the hall who had
fiat-irons to sell, and he knocked her senseless with an
iron and robbed the house of six plated spoons and a
silver watch in broad daylight. I told her I didn’t mind
my coat so much, seeing she was mending it neatly, but
I did regret my nose; she could not mend that—it took
all the vim out of me to feel that people would be laugh-
ing at my nose, and looking at that instead of the
pictures.

Stopped at next house—ladies had seen the row, and
did not come tothe door at all; ditto, next; at third
house, lackadaisacal woman came to door and invited
mein. She showed the way into the parlor and invited
me to sit down. She was a tall, lank woman, with her
hair in curl-papers. I began to talk about my book;
she took it and turned the leaves, but it was she who
did the talking—she choked me off—she told me what a
mean man her husband was—how ‘‘he never let her
have a cent of money to use as her own judgment dic-
tated—that she couldn’t get five cents a week to put in
the contribution-plate—that she wanted the book dread-
fully, but she could no more get six dollars out of that
man than you could get a bushel of meal out of a pint
measure—that he never let the children go to the cir-
cus, or have molasses and butter both on their cakes—
that here it was, the middle o’ July, and she hadn’t got
her spring bonnet yet;” and then she groaned and
handed me back the book, saying, ‘‘Wan’t no use her
taking up valuable time—if she’d had any money
she would have subscribed, for she was fond of books
an’ pictures, but all the literature she ever got was
when somebody left the morning paper in her hus-
band’s store after they’d read it; but she’d like to have
me calli at Skinflint’s store just to try him on an’
see if he could be persuaded; he was in the hardware
business; mebbe if I would take it out in second-hand
stoves he’d trade. She groaned me to the door again,
and I left in a depressed mood. :

Next door, small and slouchy servant showed me into
literary lady’s boudoir. Received effusively ; admired
the scope of the History—would love to have it—would
take a copy willingly—in exchange for six volumes of
her own ‘‘Poems,” which she had no doubt I could sell
for one dollar and ahalf, and so make a handsome
profit. She pressed me to sit down and read her
“Poems.” Ihad hard work to back out of the job and

get away.

Next door had a silver plate, bearing the legend—
«Young Lady’s Seminary. adame Foolaire.” Servant
refused to summon madame—told him 1 had a school-
book madame would be anxious to see—followed him, as
he went to a long recitation-room—stepped boldly in as
he opened the door—faced fifty pretty girls.

Great Scott! { would have given a day’s profits to
obliterate that ghastly cut and swelling on my nose.
There I was, dressed to kill, sweet as a rose, perfect from
top to toe, it it had not been for that unfortunate bark and
bump. Can’t repeat whatI said to madame about my
book as suitable for a class history in her admirable
school. She did not like the interruption, but I would
give her not a second to tell me so, but just rattled on,
and gave her charming pupils a free lecture on history,
from eating the apple down to crazy quilts.

Idon’t know what made those girls begin to titter.

 

Yawning is contagious, but titteringis more so. In vain
madame frowned—the titter became a giggle —the
giggle a laugh—the laugh a shout. I could not be heard,
so I sLopped short; perhaps I blushed—I don’t know—I
have, once or twice in my life, though it comes hard.
I have thought of it all day, yet I can’t tell what those
girls were laughing at. I wish I knew. Ofcourse, my
bunged nose might have pleased them; but lamcertain
it was not that alone. They tittered and giggled me out
of the room. I couldn’t hear madame decline to sub-
scribe ; all I could do was to back out hastily—in fact, so
hastily that I forgot my History of the World, and had to
return for it, running the gantlet of giggling girls
again. Myears burned all day. Iwonder what was the
matter ?

A poor washerwoman took a book of me this after-
noon.

“Sure,” says she, “the childher are larnin’ to rade ;
they can rade me this beautiful book of an avenin’ whin
I’m clare-starchin’ the gintlemin’s collars. I’ve arned
the six dollars mesilf, wid me own knuckles, praise the
Lord! ‘Twill be foine to look at the pictures when I’m
rockin’ meself an’ restin’ a bit. It’s an iligant book!
But why don't ye put a slice of raw mate on yer knob,
young gintleman, an’ not go round wid a nose that looks
like an Early-Rose praty, be sure? Have ye binina
foight? Faith, yer a broth of a boy, I can tell by yer
eye. Who did it? You gave ’em a taste of yer quality,
Tll be bound. Here’s yer six dollars—an’ faix, how will
ye carry it ?”

A mystery to me, as the motherly creature paid me
the whole amount in nickels and pennies out of a
cracked teapot. I finally emptied them into my travel-
ing-bag, and left, with her blessing on my head.

Had a little leisure before sunset, so got my photo
taken to send to Kitty—want her to see for herself how her
brave drummer-boy’s proboscis rivals that of the white
elephant. Photographer wants to keep a copy to put
in his show-case.

Had a note late this evening, written on pink per-
fumed paper, brought mysteriously up to my room by a
small boy. It’s a jolly little note. It says:

‘DEAR StR:—Inclosed please find six dollars, a con-
tribution taken up by the girls at Madame Foolaire’s, to
purchase a copy of your book, by which to remember
you. Webeg your pardon for interrupting your elo-
quent lecture; it was very rude; but Darwin, that pro-
found observer, remarks, in his work on the ‘Emotions
in Man and Animais,’ that ‘with young persons past
childhood, when they are in high spirits, there is always
much meaningless laughter.’ Our laughter, of course,
was meaningless—the mere silly giggling of ‘young
persons past childhood.’ We giggle every little while in
spite of the strictest rules, and the only reason we gig-
gled at you was because your stewed watermelon tie
was so funny, looking over your left ear as if it was sur-
prised, and a measuring-worm going up and down your
coat to see if the buttons were the right distance apart,
with such aridiculous streak of mud down one side
your face, asif you had been playing with the little
boys in a mud-puddle. We all thought you had had too
much iced milk until we heard of your little accident
down the street. Of course, your nose added to the
impression. One of us incloses a sketch of you as you
appeared at the time. You observe the tie appears as-
tonished. The worm may be slightly exaggerated, but
the nose is not overdrawn. Hoping to receive the ‘H.
of the W.’ in due time, we remain, dear sir, with great
respect, your Firry ADMIRERS.”

Confound that woman! why didn’t she have a look-
ing-glass in her kitchen, so I could have repaired dam-
ages? 1 lost my Rhine-stone collar-button, too, and my
collar must have been out of place. I shall not send
this caricature of me to Kitty; but [li have some pun-
ishment inflicted on those girls, see if I don’t!

Mem.—A few minutes agoI sawa man fooling away
his money at the hotel bar; showed him picture of the
“Serpent Tempting Eve.” He began to yell that he had
’em again—kicked the book across the room—ran out
and fell down ina fit. Think I can use the ‘‘H. of the
W.” as a temperance document.

Mem.—Telegraped to pubs. to add portraits of the op-
posing candidates—use itfor compaign purposes—both
sides. Good idea—increase sales enormously.

Mem.—Ring and order a plate of raw beet to apply to
my nose. Horrid, but must be done! What would
those girls say if they could see me with it on? Shall
send them one of my sweetest photos. in answer to their
note.

(TO BE CONTINUED.]

HELEN'S SACRIFICE.

BY VIOLA VINTON.

Eleven years ago to-night, Helen Chauser promised to
be my wife, and 1 went from her home to mine a happy
man. On her finger I had placed the ring that bound
her to me before the world, and my hopes were bright,
my heart proud. Her father, an influential business
man, was of a dignified bearing, proud to coldness with
strangers, but affectionate and kind in his social rela-
tions. Two years before my engagement with his
daughter he had buried his wife, a noble, devoted wo-
man, and as he had worshiped the living woman, he
seemed powerless to disengage his thoughts from the
bereavement of her presence. His family consisted of
four children—one, a son, older than Helen, and the
others, a son and daughter, several years younger. The
eldest son had taken charge of his father’s affairs since
his affliction, for Mr. Chauser seemed indisposed to exert
his business faculties.

I asked Mr. Chauser for his daughter in marriage; he
consented, and without a moment’s hesitation placed
her hand in mine, saying :

“Helen, cling to him in poverty or wealth, in sunshine
or storm, and ever, as your gentle mother did, soothe
and comfort. May Heaven bless you, my children! I
give you to each other—be faithful to the trust I now
impose,”

He turned from us to hide the tears that had started
in his eyes, brought there by the recoliection of his be-
trothal with one who had passed from earth, and, as he
did so, waved his hand as a signal for us to leave him.

Two months of unalloyed happiness had passed, and
the second day of the weekinthe third month had
dawned clear and bright, bringing us nearer to our nup-
tial morn, when I was suddenly awakened trom my
pleasure dreams by a startling incident. I was sitting
at my breakfast-table leisurely sipping my coffee and
reading the morning paper, when my servant entered
with a note and placed it beside my plate.

Being deeply engaged in perusing a stinging editorial,
I paid no attention to him, and had laid down the paper
and prepared to eat my breakfast ere I noticed the mis-
sive. The handwriting seemed very familiar, and,
taking it up, I broke the seal without hesitation, and
read :

“My DEAR GEORGE:—Perhaps you have heard the
dreadful news that has made us orphans indeed, and
covered our father’s name with reproach. Last night
we bade our parent a ‘good-night,’ as usual, and retired
to our rooms, having perceived nothing strange in his
conduct. I had been asleep several hours, when I was
suddenly awakened by the report of a pistol, and imme-
diately after heard some heavy body fall. I arose and
hastened in the direction of the noise, which led me to
father’s room. Brother Charles was there before me,
holding father’s head. In his right hand the dead man
held a pistol, and the indications were that he had
taken his own life. Onthe table lay my mother’s pic-
ture, together with a package of letters that were writ-
ten during my parents’ courtship. The sequelis plain—
my father could not live without mother—and I trust
they are now together.

“And now, George, I give you your freedom, not wish-
ing you to consider yourself under the necessity of wed-
ding the daughter of him who loved too well, and took
his own life. May Heaven protect and bless you, is the
prayer of your friend in affliction,

“HELEN CHAUSER.”

I seized the paper and soon found the notice of Mr.
Chauser’s death Casting it aside, rang for my hat
and coat, and was on my way to the home of the de-
ceased before ten minutes had elapsed.

Two weeks after the last rites had been performed I
called to see Helen, and manifest my sympathy for her
in her recent bereavement, and to inform her that in-
stead of censuring her parent, I believed he could not
prevent his action.

“Helen, I have come to offer my sympathy, and be
allowed to occupy my place at your side,” said I, after
some moments had passed in conversation relating to
her sad affliction.

“George, how much I thank you, but it cannot be; I
shall never marry.”

I drew her to my side, placed my arm around her, in-
4 her head until it rested on my shoulder, as I re-
plied :

«Providence has brought this affliction for some wise

se, but not to separate you from me, There is no-
thing that requires a sacrifice of our love. You need my
protection, and your faith should be centered in the con-
solation love can afford.”

“It may be you are right,” she replied, ‘‘yet, I feel there
isa duty paramount to the one 1 owe you, and that I shall
never be happy unless it is performed. My brothers and
sister now need me more than ever, and as your wife I
could not give them the attention they require.”

“Can I not persuade you to view it differently ? Your
brothers and sister would be welcome to our home. I
cannot give you up; do not say I must.”

“George, it must be. Do not urge me from the path I
have marked out. It can only give us both renewed
pain. Weare going far away among strangers, where
there will stand nothing in the way ot my duty. Charles
worshiped father, and ao a change of scene to re-
store his wonted health. Though I love you, I must re-
sign the hope of being your wife, for there is another
reason why the sacrifice must be made, though I cannot
reveal it now.”

“Oh, woman, is this the way you cast my love aside,
and bid me do the same ?”

The knowledge that I must resign her overpowered
me in such a manner that I failed to question the pur-
port of her last reason.

The day before her departure for her new home, with
emotions no pencan portray, I calied to bid her farewell.
Before we parted she laid her hand on my arm, and
rg beseechingly into my face with her thrilling eyes,

“Promise me one thing, my friend. You know that

 

 

Lillian and I have always been inseperable companions,
and I request you to be a brother to her. As her heart
determines her to remain in this city, I leave her in your
eharge, bidding you remember that in caring for her
you are pleasing me.”

Her voice faltered as she said, ‘“‘be a brother to her,”
-and her cheek blanched whiter as she concluded her re-
quest. What cared I for Lillian then? It was Helen—
my peerless Helen I was losing forever. I gave the
promise, however, in sincere faith, glad to perform any
mission that would give her pleasure.

“Helen, you will never quite forget me, and remember
my love will remain as constant as the stars. But why,”
J added, in a fit of agony, “do you resign my faithful
love? Why do you give me up?”

The tears dimmed her eyes for a moment as she gazed
at me in my bowed misery; then, with an effort, she
rose, and standing before me placed her hand on my
shoulder, saying :

‘Some day you may know why, but the deep, deathly
pain I experience at this parting is known by Heaven
alone. Now, while my purpose is strong, I must bid you
adieu, and will ever beseech Providence to bless you.”

I was about to answer with chidings, when she sud-
denly folded her arms around my neck, pressed my lips
with her last love kiss, staid one moment in my em-
brace, then freed herself, and left me standing alone.

“Farewell, farewell forever now,” she murmured, and
I felt that I had looked my last upon her face.

= = * » =

=

And I am sitting here to-night thinking over the past,
and repeating :

«Some day you will know why I gave you up.”

Helen went to her far Western home, and I visited
Lillian quite often to talk of the absent one. I had
always been a skeptic regarding the pure love of one
woman for another, but between them there was an im-
perishable friendship. I began to take a great interest
in Lillian, because of her affection for y loved one ;
and, aside from the admiration her innocence inspired,
I was actuated by Helen’s earnest request to constitute
myself her protector. Helen never mentioned my name
in the letters that frequently passed between her and
era and I was still ignorant of her reason for my dis-

ssal.

Two years passed, and finally, believing my first love
to be vain, I offered my hand to Lillian, and gave her
the little of my heart that was left to give.

Five years mingled with the tide of time, and Lillian,
always delicate, was taken suddenly ill, and died on the
anniversary of our marriage, leaving me a widower at
thirty, with two helpless children. I laid her in the
- and returned to my desolate home, for she had

en. its sunshine, and now thatshe was gone I seemed
forsaken. I endeavored to derive comfort from the
society of my children, but they were too young to
realize their loss, and, uncomforted, my thoughts re-
verted to a dear friend that I believed was somewhere in
the wide world. I had informed Helen of my Lillian’s
death, directing my letter as Lillian had been accus-
tomed to previous to our marriage, ; for since that event
Helen had written only once, and that to tender her
congratulations. Receiving no reply, I concluded my
letter had not been received. I endeavored to give my
whole, attention to my business, and thus forget the
face that haunted me, awake or asleep. It seemed un-
kind and wrong in me toso soon forget my wife in re-
membrance of another.

For six months I battled with my heart, and strove to
forget Helen in thoughts of my Lillian’s kindness and
love. and to mourn her death as I knew she deserved. I
grew pale and restless, and despite my efforts, my
thoughts would wander in search of the living. De-
spairing of conquering such remembrances in the
scenes that surrounded me, I resolved to take a trip to
Europe. :

Accordingly, I placed my children with a much loved
aunt, and commenced my travels some ten months after

wife’s decease. I reached England in safety, made
the tour of Ireland, France, Scotland, Greece, and Italy,
then returned to London. Having found the acquaint-
ance of a marquis and his family while traveling, who
resided in London, they were desirous that I should re-
main with them, previous to my departure for America.
They possessed, beside the daughter and son who ac-
companied them in their travels, adaughter Alene, who
had remained at an uncle’s to pursue her studies during
their absence.

They hadnot been home more than two hours when
she made her appearance, and being of a lively disposi-
tion, was soon recounting her experience. She had a
great deal to say regarding one of her acquaintances, a
perfect angel, one would judge from her fervent re-
marks, and whom she called Bertha. The name
awakened in my mind a host of memories, and I found
myself relapsing into the same state in whichI had
been ere Ileft America. Though I had striven, during
my sojourn in Europe, to banish a hopeless affection
from my heart, I had very poorly succeeded, and now I
was in dangar of being once more powerless to control
my thoughts. Helen’s sister’s name was Bertha, and
though I could not believe her the lady spoken of, I was
thrown into a tumult ot nervous excitement.

To such a degree did my memory gain possession of
my being, and believing that my passion could never be
subdued, I resolved to return to my native land. I was
stupid company, and so, informing my friends of my re-
solve, and that I longed to see my children, which was
true, I engaged passage on board the ‘‘Cleo”, which was
to sail in ten days.

One morning—five days before the time of my intended
departure for America—I was sitting in the drawing-
room, conversing with the youngest daughter of the
marquis, when a young lady entered, and Alene, with a
cry of delight, sprang to meet her. I imagined it was
the Bertha she so much admired, and endeavored to
still the quickened pulsation of my heart, not being able
to account for my agitation.

After many caresses and affectionate expressions,
Alene became conscious of my presence, and advanced
to present her friend.

What was my astonishment at hearing the name of
Chauser, and perceiving the Bertha I had so often held
on my knee when she was a mere child.

She had not forgotten my name, and recognized me
the instant it was pronounced; for, coming toward me,
with a surprised exclamation, she held out her hand,
saying ;

“Oh, Mr. Crawford! can it be possible ? How gladI am
to see you! How long have you been in London? How
astonished sister will be to know you are here!”

And she threw her arms around my neck and gave me |

an affectionate kiss; while I, entirely overcome by sur-
prise at the unexpected meeting, could not command
proper words to reply.

I soon recovered sufficiently to answer her questions,
and to ask some in return, but my whole frame trem-
bled. Could it be possible that I was so near Helen ? It

was like a dream, and as such for 4 moment I consid- |
Bertha was sitting be- |

ered it. But, no; it was reality.
side me asking question after question. And I should

see Helen again? My brain whirled at the thought, and |

objects grew indistinct before my gaze.

Bertha seemed to forget the purpose of her visit, and
iusisted upon my immediately returning home with her.

AS anxious to see Helen as Bertha was desirous of
having me, yet So weak I could not move without severe
effort, I signified my willingness, and, with an apology
to en for her abrupt departure, Bertha and I set
forth.

AS we journeyed toward the home of Helen, my heart
bounded with an excess of joy I had never before ex-
perienced. It seemed as though she was mine, that I
had a right to her love, and that nothing on earth
should separate us.

Leaving me in the reception-room, Bertha went to
call her sister, merely announcing that a friend desired
to see her.

I heard footsteps on the stairs, and my heart gave a
throb that almost deprived me of breath. I grew cold
and tremulous, when the door opened, and my peerless
queen entered the room. I strove to rise and advance to
meet her, but my feet refused their office. For a mo-
ment I geemed deprived of all power, but her presence
gradually lent me strength, and with an unsteady step
I approached.
ance, but no gleam of recognition beamed on her coun-
tenance. She was regally beautiful her face pale, and
pensively sweet.

“A stranger?” she falteringly queried ;
must have been mistaken.”

She was gazing at me in a bewildered manner while
speaking, and as she concluded, placed her hand upon
her brow as if to dispel some painful remembrance.
Then, as I, no longer able to restrain myself, pronounced
her name and extended my hands, her face brightened,
and with a surprised cry of ‘‘George, dear Goorge, is it
you?” she sprang into my arms and pillowed her head
on my shoulder.

‘Mine at last!” I cried, and showered kiss after kiss
on her lips and brow.

But lifting her head as if recollecting her position, she
inquired, while blushes suffused her cheeks :

“Where is Lillian? Di¢ yor not bring her with you?”

“Lillian is with the anges, Helen, and has been for
two years.”

Tears started in her eyes, and taking my hand, she
led me to the sofa, took a seat beside me, and bade me
tell her of my marriage and the particulars relating to
Lillian’s death.

Having complied with her request, and then told her
of my unconquered love and my object in traveling, I
requested a return of my confidence, and that she would
inform me why I was unworthy her love and companion-
ship in the days that were gone.

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and suppressing a
sigh for the memory of Lillian, turned her misty gaze
toward me, and replied:

“Unworthy, George! You never were. And now that
my duty to dear Lillian is fully accomplished, I am at
liberty to reveal the whole truth.

«“T met Lillian at school, and formed an attachment
for her that never experienced but one faltering hour,
and that hour was signaled by a fierce combat between
love and duty. Inviting her to visit me, my mother
an San) her as the daughter of a valued friend who
had been her playmate and confidante in early years,
and regarding whose fate she had received no intima-
tion. She was educated, as you probably know, by a
maiden aunt, the sister of her father—he having sur-
vived his wife only two weeks—a proud, yet warm-
hearted woman, who had only one thought in life after
her brother died, and that was centered in Lillian. Ten-
derly nurtured, petted, and allowed her own way, she
was yet of such a lovable disposition and innocent mind
that her ways were always good ways, and she en-
twined herself in every one’s affection without an effort.
Wherever known she was loved, and my father and
mother cherished her as their own child.

“While visiting me during one of her summer vaca-
tions, her aunt suddenly died, and she, being left with-

“my sister

She paused, surprised at my appear- |

ecomt LOHE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #=>

 

home hers until she was nineteen, when her aunt’s will
desired her to live at the ‘Farmly House,’ situated, as
you well know, one square from my old home, and
which her aunt had bequeathed her.

“In three months after her settlement at our house,
my mother lay upon her death-bed. A few hours before
her death she bade me promise to be a sister to Lillian,
remembering her orphaned condition, and to shield her
gentle nature from the rude storm of life. I promised,
such was my love for my mother, to consider her hap-
| piness in preference to my own, believing, as I told her,
that our desires would always blend and we should be
equally happy.

“Alas! they were similar in one particular. I loved
you, and so did Lillian. I knew notof her love until we
were engaged, then she, not aware of our betrothal, told
me with many blushes of her love for you. - For a mo-
ment I was tempted to speak of our engagement, but
my better nature came to my aid, and remembering my
promise to my mother, my duty as a sister, I resolved,
rather than occasion her a moment's pain, to resign my
claim to your hand. The pain, the agony of such a de-
termination is beyond description.

‘No opportunity offered for the consummation of my
design until father died. Then I acted without delay.
I heard of you after I left Norwood, and of your
marriage, and believing my duty was fiuished, devoted
myself entirely to Bertha and William. Charles married
in two years after we left our Eastern home, and is
settled in the west. Having a desire to visit Europe,
which was enthusiastically seconded by Bertha and
William, we came here three years ago, which will ac-
count for my not receiving your letter. We traveled
the first year, then settled in London. Bertha met Alene
at our cousin’s, Earl De Gray, he being Alene’s uncle,
and our cousin by marriage. Since then they have been
devoted friends. ‘And George, she concluded, after a
slight pause, while she fixed her eyes on mine, ‘language
fails to express the felicity I feel at meeting you again.’”

I drew her toward me with a thankful heart, and
pillowing her head on my bosom, said:

“Helen, there is no barrier between us and happiness
now, and I ask you, as I did nearly ten years ago. to be
mine. Your sacrifice made two unhappy mortals and
one happy one. Cannot the other two be happy, now
the sacrifice is complete, and angels have claimed the
happy one.”

Her answer was a glad one for my heart, and I was
accompanied by my bride and her sister Bertha when I
took passage for America. She has been a tender mother
to my children, and I have experienced the sweet
pleasure of having my heart’s greatest idol near me at
last. Bertha isa dear sister, and at present is in a fever
of excitement, having received a letter from her brother
William, that he will soon be in Norwood, with his wife,
Alene, and her brother. My dear old home will soon re-
sound with their merry voices, and among the happiest
of the happy Helen and George will always be found.

Before [ close this sketch, I will give tribute to my
faithful Lillian, who was my child-wife, innocent and
gentle asadove. I gave her the all of my heart I had to
give, and though my affection, in a certain degree, re-
sembled that of an elder brother more than that of a
husband, I was always tender with her, and she ex-
perienced no wants, no unhappiness. She passed away
like a child; a gentle wafting of her spirit to the skies.

Over her grave we raised a monumens bearing this
simple inscription :

“SWEET LILLIAN.”

In the summer evenings, Helen and 1 visit the cher-
ished spot of earth, and recount the innocent ways of
the one who rests beneath; and we always leave with
the glad knowledge that Helen’s sacrifice was not in
vain; that it made one pure woman happy, and proved
that triendship had possessed one advocate whose soul
was not selfish ; and that one is now my adored wife—
my peerless Helen.

—_—___—_—_—__ > ©

THE COST OF A FLIRTATION.

BY HELEN CORWIN PIERCE.

Rena Grange was the prettiest girl in Bolton, and the
biggest flirt.

All girls flirt, you say? Well, perhaps, but I think I
know several who do not. Rena certainly did. She
could never see a man without making eyes at him, and
very handsome eyes hers were, and eloquent ; she could
make them say anything.

I think Rena was really so much in the habit of flirting
that she tried her hand on the women sometimes. Cer-
tainly they were almost as much in love with her as
their sons, which proves that, notwithstanding the
story I am going to tell you, Rena must have had a kind
and generous heart, and a great many other good qual-
| ities, or the women whose sons she fooled would not
have been so ready to forgive her and take her to their
arms.

Iam not making any excuse for flirting: I consider it
| one of the meanest devices Satan has ever invented for
the beguiling of man. But I knew the girlI call Rena

Grange well, and I confess I never could see that she
had but that one fault. She was the most truthful girl
Iever knew, and the most unselfish. She must have
been born a flirt. I cannot account for her being one in
any other way. After all, it only amounted to this:

She had what she thought was an innocent fashion of
laughing and jesting with young fellows, of lifting her
small rosebud face confidingly, of looking their hearts
out of them with eyes whose expressiveness, perhaps,
she did not herself know.

Among Rena’s married friends there was one, much
older than she, of whom she was especially fond. Her
name was Mercer.

She was a widow, having lost her husband, under
peculiarly painful circumstances, when they had been
married only two years. She had never married again,
and seemed to live only in her son, her only child, who
was in California, where he had been for five years past.
Rena had never seen him.

Mrs. Mercer thought Rena the sweetest, loveliest girl
that ever was made. She did not think that she had
one fault. Even that foolish habit she had of trifling
with gentlemen quite amused her, till her son Fred
wrote that he was coming home.

Then, indeed, the mother’s heart misgave her.

She knew that Rena’s parents would never consent to
her marrying even a young man with her Fred's per-
fections, without money.

She was one of those women who tell all their
thoughts, except now and then, when they keep a
| secret that destroys them.

“Rena, dear,” she said, frankly, the first time she saw
| her favorite after her son’s letter, “I want you to prom-
ise me that you won’t flirt with Fred.”

Rena laughed, and then made a face.

“Now, Mrs. Mercer, you are as bad as the rest.
know I never flirt.”

“T know you do, my darling, dreadfully, and I don’t
suppose ina general way it matters much. Most men
have tough hearts. But now and then there is one
whose nature is so inflammable, that for a pretty girl
like you to smile and look sweet at him, is like a spark
to gunpowder.”

“Really, you quite flatter me,” said Rena, gayly.
had no idea I was so dangerous.”

The elder lady looked distressed.

“Dear Rena,” she said, ‘you know how I love you, and
how dearly, if such a thing were possible, I should like
you foradaughter. But even if you liked Fred, which
is improbable, you know as weil as I do that your par-
ents would never consent, and so, dear, I wish you
wouldn’t flirt with him. Now, that is frank, is it not ?”

There was a look of trouble in Mrs. Mercer’s face,
which Rena was quick to see, but not to fully interpret,
not having the key. If her friend had told her all, it
might have made a difference and it might not. Who
knows?

As it was, she really did mean to be careful about
Fred Mercer. She had already one or two unpleasant
reminiscences connected with young gentlemen to
| whom she had been too kind, and she did not wish to
add to the list.

Still she had heard so much of him from his mother,
his good looks, his manliness, intelligence, his affec-
tionate disposition, his passionate temper, that she was
very curious to see him.

She was disappointed in him. Instead of the gay,
eager, impulsive young fellow she had expected, she
saw a tall, cold, haughty, reserved man. who looked
much older than he really was, and in place of appear-
ing at all dazzled by her charms, showed her only mark-
ed coolness and avoidance.

Rena’s vanity was piqued.

“He shall at least treat me decently,” she resolved,
and set to work, as only a woman can, to make him do
so.

The result any one could have foreseen.

Ina week he was at her feet, not as others had been
though.

“J did not want to love you,” he said, simply, ‘‘my
mother told me you had no heart, but you must have, or
you could never look ata man as you have atme. Iam
sure you love me, Rena. If you do not, Heaven help
me.”

Rena hung her head. The agony of his voice, his
looks, pierced her like a knife. She had led him on; she
knew that she had enticed him with every sweet word
and look,

“IT am a wicked girl,” she said to herself. ‘I deserve
anything—and after what dear Mrs. Mercer said to me,
too.”
“You do love me, Rena? I was sure of it,” he said.
“My mother told me no, that you looked at every one
the same way, but I would not believe it. You will be
my wife, darling ?”

Lower, lower went the bright head

“No,” she said—‘‘no.” “But she could not look at him.

He turned cold.

“You don’t mean it—you can’t mean it!” he cried,
ae “No woman could do by aman as you

ave done by me, and not love him.”

“As long as I live,” Rena thought, ‘I will never flirt
with any one again.”

Fred Mercer tell on his knees beside her. His hand-
some face was white. The despair and entreaty of his
looks were frightful to see.

‘You do—you must love me!” he said, once more.

Rena turned away her head.

“No,” she answered again—‘‘no. If marrying you
would right the wrong I have done you, I would be your
wife. But you know as well asIdo that no woman

 

You

oy

 

 

 

out any near relatives, was persuaded to consider my | could wrong a man more than by marrying him when

she did not love him.”

“But I will teach you to love me.”

“Oh, no, no—forgive me!”

He rose to his feet.

“JT will never forgive you!” he said, bitterly. ‘You
have done me awrong for which you can make no
atonement except the one of becoming my wife. You
will not do that—very well. You have ruined my life,
and you did it deliberately. You tried to doit. If ever
the time comes when I can make you suffer as you have
me, I will do it.”

And then he was gone. Rena Grange was alone. She
was very pale, she shivered and looked frightened. Then
in a moment her color began to come back, and she
smiled nervously.

“Tm sorry, and I didn’t mean it should go so far,” she
said. ‘But who would have thought he would take it so
hard. As for making me suffer, | don’t know how he
ever can.”

But after what had happened, she felt a strange re-
luctance to meet him, and it did not seem to her she
could ever look Mrs. Mercer in the face.

She went the very next day to make a long promised
on to some friends who lived in a distant part of the
State.

When she returned, some months later, it was to get
ready to be married. She had found her fate at last. She
loved with all the strength of her nature, John Arundel,
the man she was going to marry.

The Mercers had gone away, no one knew where,
and Rena felt herself the cause. But with her remorse
for that, mingled an undeniable sense of relief that they
were gone.

She married in due time, and went away on her bridal
tour

One afternoon as she sat looking from the window of
the hotel where they were stopping for a day or two, she
Saw a lady and gentleman coming in.

They were Fred Mercer and his mother. Both were
very much altered, she saw, even in the brief glimpse
she got of them as she drew back quickly, her face
white.

Had they seen her?

In five minutes she knew. Some one knocked. It was
Mrs. Mercer. She spoke very coldly and hurriedly.

‘“‘My son is just out of the insane asylum,” she said.
‘His father was so; he killed himself. I ought to have
told you, but I could not bear to tell any one. The doc-
tors pronounce Fred cured, but he is very excitable.
Rena, don’t let Fred see you. I’m afraid he has already,
for he refuses positively to leave the hotel.”

“He sha’n’t see me,” Rena answered, her white and
trembling limbs refusing to utter another word.

The conviction smote her that he had seen her, and
that he would try to speak with her. - She had not for-
gotten his last words:

# = I can ever make you suffer as you have me, I will

o it.

Her husband was asleep in the next room. She passed
into it, and stood looking athim. A fair, frank-faced
man he was, with curly brown hair, and lips that smiled
even in slumber—not much like that other of whom she
was thinking with such dread,

‘If he ever does hurt me, it will be through you, my
darling,” she thought.

One window of this room looked upon a small flower-
garden belonging to the hotel. As she stood she raised
her eyes to it, and she saw Fred Mercer standing on the
terrace outside, and gazing into the apartment. With
one hand he held the curtain back, with the other he
motioned her to come toward him.

Involuntarily she went, though his death-white face,
his glittering black eyes, turned her sick with fear.
Was he mad again? Oh,if her husband would only
wake!

Her visitor loosed the curtain and laid a cold hand
upon her bare and shrinking arm.

‘Tve come to keep my word,” he said, in a whisper.
“That is your husband there, is it not?” and he took a
pistol slowly out of his breast and pointed it at the
i a man. “Utter one sound,” he said, ‘and I
shoot.”

But the caution was needless. Rena was too frozen
with horror to either speak or move.

“You love him, I suppose?” he wenton. ‘‘At last, at
this moment, you suffer some, at least, of those pangs
you once made me endure.”

Rena could not have moved orspokenif she had
tried.

She just sat and stared at him, and wished John
would wake, and prayed inwardly with all her soul:

“Dear God, don’t let me faint. It isn’t John who is to
biame, but me, and you know I am a wicked girl better
than I can tell you.”

Which was indeed very true.

However, to make along story short, Rena Grange
Arundel did faint; and her husband was waked by the
sound of her falling.

Fred Mercer stood inside the room now.

‘Iam an old acquaintance of your wife,” he said, in
answer to his stare Of amazement. “She was standing
at the window talking to me, when something fright-
ened her and she fainted.”

At this moment Rena opened her eyes.

She was in-her husband's arms, and ‘he was saying to
Fred Mercer, in a very stern voice:

“TI know all about you. The best thing youcan do is
to leave.”

Rena shuddered, but to her amazement Mercer in-
stantly passed through the low window, and, standing
outside, turned and looked at her.

‘I beg Mrs. John Arundel’s pardon for keeping my
word so literally to her. I shall never trouble her
again.”

And he was gone.

Rena clung to her husband convulsively.

‘I’m the wickedest girl that ever lived, John. Fred
Mercer has just come out of the insane asylum. There
is madness in his family, and if he goes back again, it
will be my fault.”

“He won't go back—no fear, my darling,” her husband
answered, soothingly.

There was along silence, and then Rena, without lift-
ing her head from her husband’s shoulder, said:

“John, I am a wicked girl, am I not?”

John Arundel laughed.

“You are my darling.’

‘Tt is a million times more than I deserve,” she said ;
“and you are the best man that ever lived to love mse
so, knowing my faults.”

“7 don’t think you have any.”

“That is just the way you men all talk; and you help
us flirt—you know you do.”

“I don’t doubt it, my darling. Men are as bad flirts as
women, and I think they do just as much mischief.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Rena answered, sadly.

And here is where I believein Rena. They were in
society, and she was much admired, but she never be-
came a ‘married flirt.”

She had girls of her own in the course of time, and
they got the benefit of her experience and remorse, in
such earnest and oft-repeated words of caution as they
never forgot.

> o—<

Items of Interest.

The proprietor of a shoe-store in Albany had just
given a pair of shoes to a customer, who, after putting them
on, said they were “‘a little too tight.” The proprietor stood
on a ladder, to take down another pair, when he espied a boy
in the act of stealing the customer’s hat from the counter,
near the door, where he had placedit. ‘‘Leok! your hat!”
he shouted to the customer; ‘“‘after him, quick!” The cus-
tomer ran after the boy, and the shoemaker has not seen his
shoes since.

A New London boy, who has very little respect for
the Salvation Army, dropped a huge torpedo on the head of
the pious gentleman who clubbed the base drum for the de-
tachment of the aggressive army which recently visited the
Connecticut town just named. A startling explosion fol-
lowed, frightening the drummer out of ten years’ growth.
And his hair—oh, where was it? Ask of the wind, that far
around with fragments strewed the scene.

Lord Petrie, who has recently become a peer of the
realm, is a Catholic priest. He will take his seat in the
House of Lords in the autumn, and wild be the first Catholic
priest who has sat there since the Reformation.

Alexander Gunn, an excise officer in Edinburgh, being
dismissed from his employment for misconduct, an entry
was made in a book kept for the purpose asfollows: ‘A.
Gunn discharged for making a false report.”

A ship canal across the province of Holstein, to con-
nect the North Sea with the Baltic, is under discussion by
the German authorities. It is to run from the mouth of the
Elbe to the harbor of Kiel.

A cyclone in Kansas recently carried off a bank. But
as afast train had carried off the cashier and all the funds
the day before, the people were not much interested in the
fate of the building.

A crazy quilt was so much prized by a lady in Fulton-
ville, N. Y., that she rushed into her burning dwelling tosave
the quilt, and forgot all about her child until reminded of it
by a neighbor.

The average consumption of beer in Munich, Bavaria,
is 470 quarts per year for each person, or about 144 quarts per
day. The beer is light, containing only about 4 per cent of
alcohol.

Another use for paper has been discovered in Ger-
many, where an ingenious mechanic has succeeded in making
the finest wheels for watches from paper pulp.

Seven brothers, named Shield, residents of Hunt
county, Texas, are so tall that their combined height is over
forty-eight feet.

A veterinary surgeon in Scotland traveled five hun-
dred miles to consult with a local doctor regarding a sick
pug dog.

Glass pulleys are made by a firm in Pittsburgh, and
are said to be more durable thaniron. Only the rim is of
glass.

The railroad at Pike’s Peak, Colorado, when completed,
will be the highest in the world—14,220 feet above sea level.

There is not a single mountain throughout the vast
extent of European Russia.