Fintere@ According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1884, bu Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conoress. Washinaton. D. C

 

 

 

 

 

Office

Vol. 39.

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

3! Rose St.

 

 

DECEPTIVE APPEARANCES.
BY N. §S,

A palace may unfold its gates,
And show its gilded halls,

While at the gates no gladness waits,
No joyful footstep falls.

A prison may have iron bars,
And walls of massive stone,

Yet through the bars may shine the stars
Of light and love alone.

A home may show to outward view
A dome of crystal light,
While to a few, who see things through,
There reigns the gloom of night.
But many a home all dark to sight,
Through poverty and cares,
Is full of light in darkest night,
For angels walk the stairs.
Oo“

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM.]

The Railroad Detective

 

By MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS,
(OF LOUISIANA.)
AUTHOR OF

“BONNY JEAN,” “A DEBT OF VENGEANCE,” |
“DICK THE DETECTIVE.” ete. ;

{“On Hand” was commenced LAST WEEK.]

CHAPTER IV.
A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.

Ray Allen, the detective, paused and glanced |
searchingly about as that fearful ery smote the |
air. Again it fell upon his ear—‘‘Marder! mur-
der! mur——”
then it died away into horrible silence.

He waited to hear no more. Dashing up the |
nearble steps, he rang a furious peal at the door-
bell.

There was some delay, and then the door was
slowly opened and one of the men-servants ap-
peared—frightened and trembling, pale to the
very lips. He uttered an exclamation of relief as
his gaze fell upon the detective—for he knew Al-
len, and had heard of his reputation for bravery
and daring deeds.

“Oh, Mr. Allen!” panted the man, breath-
lessly, ‘‘thank Heaven it’s you. We’re so afeared
—me and the other servants; there’s a dreadful
thing happened——”

“What is it!’ interrupted Allen, impatiently.
“Speak out at once, John!”

 

The man hesitated.

“Well, sir.” he began, his teeth chattering
with terror so that he could with difficulty
frame the words, ‘‘you see, we was ull too
afeared to break into the master’s room. It’s
from tbere that the sounds came; and the door’s
locked, sir, and Mary—that’s the house-maid—
she made bold to goto the door and call to the
master through the keyhole, but there wasn’t |
no answer.”

‘‘And while you all have been acting a cow-
ardly part,” cried the detective, angrily, ‘‘Mr.
Davenant may be dying, or even dead!”

He pushed the man aside as he spoke, and en-
tered the spacious mansion. It was an elegant
brown-stone front—one of those palaces which
very wealthy men delight to rear, and upon
which fortunes are lavished. He flew up the
broad velvet-covered staircase, clearing two
steps at a time, with John following slowly
after him, an awed expression upon his fright-
ened face. At the head of the stairs the detec-
tive paused.

Ph hich is Mr. Davenant’s room?” he demand-
ed.

John pointed to a door at the farther end of
the passage.

Ray Allen sprang eagerly forward and then
stopped, a cry of horror frozen upon his lips;
for from under the door a thick, crimson stream
was slowly oozing, dyeing with a purple stain
the velvet carpet which covered the floor of the
passage.

“Great Heaven!” groaned the detective; ‘‘it
is murder, sure enough!”

He tried the door, but it was fastened inside
and the key removed. But Ray Allen was sel-
dom unprepared for such emergencies; so, draw-
ing from his pocket a slender little implement,
he proceeded to pick the lock in the most dex-
trous fashion.

By this time all the servants had crowded
around—an awe-stricken, horrified group.

The door of the chamber swung slowly open,
and, followed by the frightened hirelings, the
detective entered the room.

A frightful scenemet his eyes. Accustomed
as he was to such sights, the strong heart of the
detective quailed with sickening horror.

The room was large, with two long windows
opening on an iron-railed balcony. There was
no evidence of a struggle or anything out of
olace; but there upon the velvet carpet, per-
1aps three feet from the door of the room, lay
Wallace Davenant, quite dead.

The detective stooped and examined the body.
It was clad in a rich dressing-gown of purple
velvet, with slippers of the same embroidered
with gold.

The body lay upon its back; one hand had
fallen to his side, fast growing rigid now, and

 

the other clutched a folded paper—clutched it

 

New York, August 18, 1884.

 

Entered at the Posi Offic NewYork. as Second Class Matter. _

Three Dollars Per Year,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a choking, gurgling sound, and | §

As the door opened Jacquetta turned her head, and her eyes fell upon

the little figure in bridal white—a ghost of the dead past.

| have

 

 

Hi
ie

j

“There are fearful odds against me; but, Jack Mordaunt,

you at last!”

 

 

with an eager grasp, which did not relax even
in death.

The eyes of the dead man were wide open, and
stared straight before them into space with a
look of unutterable horror frozen in their clear
blue depths. And in his breast, just above the
pulseless heart, a long, sharp incision, from
which the clotted blood was still slowly escap-
ing, told the awful story.

Shudderingly the young detective glanced
around witha wild hope of obtaining some clew
to the fiendish crime, but there was nothing,
not even the slightest clew, to be seen. Whoever
had perpetrated the hellish deed had possessed
sufficient temerity and courage to draw the
reeking weapon from the wound and bear it
away to a place of concealment where the sharp
eyes of the law could not penetrate.

Ray arose from his search with a feeling of
despair which was a stranger to his heart. He
immediately dispatched a messenger for the
family physician, asa matter of form; and, in
compliance with the law, a coroner was also
summoned, while Allen remained to keep watch
over the gory remains.

‘“‘Where is Miss Vere?” he inquired of Mary,
the house-maid—a pretty girl, with an intelli-
gent face and sharp eyes, which had been
watching the young detective furtively. ‘‘Does
she know what has happened? Why is she
not present ?”

“It you please, sir,” replied Mary, averting
her head as she spoke, “she’s not at home. She
went yesterday to visit a lady —the house was
awful lonesome, you know. after poor Miss
Hope’s funeral—and she said likely she wouldn’t
be back till to-day. So she doesn’t know nothin’
about—about—this; and it’]l almost kill her.
Hadn’t I better go and fetch her home, sir ?”

Even as the girl spoke, asking the question
with eager earnestness, there came a light foot-
fall on the stairs; a slight bustle followed, and
then a wild shriek resounded through the silent
house, and Jacquetta Vere,.in her long, trailing
mourving robes, her bonnet and vail not yet
removed, rushed into the chamber of death.

Through the crowd of frightened servants she
flew, seeming to see or heed no one, and flung
herself upon her knees beside the body, weeping
frantically. Her face was very pale, and she
trembled violently.

“All the friend I hadin the great wide world!”
she wailed, soblaing piteously. ‘‘I am all alone!
allalone! Hope dead, and now Uncle Wallace
is gone—good, kind, loving Uncle Wallace, who
was ever a father tome! Tell me”’—she raised
her glorious dark eyes, half vailed by the long.
sweeping black lashes, to the detective’s face—
‘tell me,” she repeated, wildly, ‘‘who did this
fearful deed?”

“T would give much to know that, Miss Vere,”
returned Ray Allen, quietly. ‘‘But the examin-
ation will take place at once, and I have no
doubt that some clew will be discovered; and,
once discovered, I will hunt the murderer down,
if it costs me my life! Mr. Davenant was a
good and faithful friend to me; I would risk all

 

 

I possess in the world to unearth his dastardly |
murderer!”

Jacquetta Vere made noreply. Her face was
ghastly white. She tottered to her feet and
moved away toward the window, weeping in
unrestrained abandon.

At that moment there came the sound of feet
upon the stairs, and Dr. Holden entered, fol-
lowed by the coroner.

The detective glanced toward Miss Vere. She
had fallen to the floor in a dead faint. He
beckoned Mary aside.

‘Your mistress is ill,” he explained.

Mary flew to Jacquetta, and raised the un-
conscious girl from the floor.

“She has hurt herself,” continued the detec-
tive, as his keen gaze perceived one of Jaquet-
ta’s hands bandaged, the linen stained in sey-
eral places with bright-red spots of blood.

Mary made no comment, but, with John’s as-
sistance, hastily bore the young girl from the
room.

The post mortem examination revealed death
from a sharp knife-thrust in the region of the
heart, causing internal hemorrhage, and from
the etfects of which Wallace Davenant had died
immediately.

A jury was hastily impaneled, and an inquest
took place. The whole affair was shrouded in
profound mystery. A general favorite with all
classes of society, Wallace Davenant was be-
lieved to have possessed no enemy in the world.
That the object of the eee not been
robbery, was very evident. Evefything in the
room where the deed had been committed was
found intact, and a further examination of the
whole house revealed all the silver and articles
of value safe and unharmed.

In the room where the deed had been @enom-
mitted, the dead man’s massive gold watch and
chain lay upon the marble toilet table, and be-
side it a purse containing nearly a thousand
dollars, and there were various other valuables
in the small iron safe which stood in a corner.

The servants testified that Mr. Davenant had
gone to his own apartment the night previous,
at about eleven o’clock, as usual, having passed
a quiet evening alone in the library, and they
had never seen him alive afterward.

That the tragedy had occurred at the time
that the detective had heard the fearful ery of
murder, was quite probable, since the body was
searcely cold at the time of his entrance into
the room. But how the assassin had managed
to make his escape at sunrise, right on a fash-
ionable street, where the houses are so near to-
gether, was a matter for profound conjecture,
and an unexplained mystery.

All at once Ray Allen remembered the folded
paper which was still clutched in the dead
man’s hand.

Unclasping the rigid fingers, the detective
drew it carefully forth and opened it.

It proved to be a page of legal cap, and pur-
ported to be the “Last Will and Testament of
Wallace Davenant.”

It was a concise instrument, and to the point.

 

In it he bequeathed a yearly income of two
thousand dollars to his grand-niece, Jacquetta
Vere The balance of his colossal fortune was
disposed of in the following manner, and the
announcement, which revealed a secret hitherto
unsuspected by the public, caused general ex-
citement:

“‘And the residue of my estate, together wi*h
my stocks, personal property, etc., I bequeath
to my only brother, John Davenant, in token
that I have forgiven him for the past, provided
that said John Davenant be living, as I have
not heard from or seen him in twenty years.
After due and proper steps have been taken to
discover his whereabouts, should he not be
heard from, or if he is fully proven to be de-
ceased, I direct that the whole of my estate —
always excepting the income.above mentioned
—be converted into cash, and donated to the
various charitable institutions of the city of
New Orleans.”

Ray Allen turned the document over in his
hands and studied it attentively. It was prop-
erly drawn up in Wallace Davenant’s own hand-
writing, and dated the day before; but there
was no signature attached to the paper, no wit-
nesses; consequently, the will was null and
void.

Just then the door of the room opened slowly,
and Jacquetta Vere, pale as a corpse, glided in.
She came straight to the side of the detective.
Her eyes glittered wildly, and she trembled so
that she could scarcely stand.
in Ray Allen’s hand.

“Here,” she said, in a hoarse tenor voice. ‘‘I

found this just now upon the table in my own |

room. This explains all.”

The young detective seized the paper and |
As his eyes glanced over its |

opened it eagerly.
contents, his face paled suddenly.

“Listen, gentlemen!” he cried. ‘‘This docu-
ment throws a new light upon the horrible
affair.”

He began to read aloud, slowly and distinctly,
from the paper, and every heart stood still with
horror as he read.

CHAPTER V.
TOLD BY THE SHADOWS.

This was what the paper contained:

“T, Wallace Davenant, childless and alone, seeing no
hope of happiness in this world, or in the life to come

(if indeed there be a future state), have deliberately de- |
Tleave this declaration of |
the truth to the care of my grand-niece, Jacquetta Vere, |

cided to take my own life.

she being the last of my kindred.
I leave no will executed.

I further declare that
WALLACE DAVENANT.”

And the date was not two hours before Ray |

aot had found the body, scarcely cold in
death.

Suicide! Then where was the weapon with

which the unhappy man had_ committed the |

fearful deed? Dying, he must have drawn the
knife from the wound and hidden it somewhere
out of sight. The body had not yet been dis-
turbed. It still lay just as it had fallen.

She laid a paper |

The theory of suicide was doubtful. How,
then, came he to his death ?

They might photograph the dead man’s eyes,
hoping that upon the glassy, staring retina
there might be imprinted a glimpse of the mur-
derer’s face. This is not infrequent, and more
than one dastardly murderer has thus been de-
tected and apprehended.

Remembering this, the detective made haste
to procure a camera, and the eyes were instantly
photographed. Butit wasa failure, for the dead
eyes revealed not the hideous secret, only a con-
fused blur appeared upon the plate when the
result was exhibited.

Ray was exceedingly disappointed. He had
built hope upon this frail foundation, but his
hope had been vain, and nothing now remained
but to prepare the body for its last resting-
place. Assisted by the physician, Ray Allen
raised the dead man from the floor where he had
fallen, and as they lifted the body a low cry of
triumph burst from the detective’s lips; for
directly under the body lay a small, slender
dagger, all clotted with human blood. Eagerly
the detective caught it up, and as he did so his
eyes feli upon something else—something which
lay there on the blood-soaked carpet, gleaming,
glittering.

jt was aring.

No one observed him; the physician was thor-
oughly oecupied. A strange impulse prompted
the detective to keep his own counsel. He
slipped the ring into his pocket, and, as soon as
| the body was laid upon the bed, he examined
the dagger with devouring eyes. It wasa beau-
tiful piece of workmanship, the handle gold
chased, the blade keen as a razor,
bearing ome word upon its shining surface in
quaint old German text. It was the significant
| word, “Vendetta.”

There was no name, not even the name of the
oer. Ray laid it down with a sigh.
|

 

}and well

There was nothing more to be done; and so
the jury brought in a verdict of ‘‘suicide,” with
| a hint of ‘‘temporary aberration.

?

At that juncture some one beckoned Allen
from theroom. It was a young man, and asthe
detective obeyed his signal. he led the way
silently into another apartment and closed the
door behind them. He began at once:
| ‘You would be glad of some clew to this dread-
@ful affair, I suppose, Mr. Allen?”

“Do you possess any ?” he demanded, eagerly.

The young man drew nearer, and spoke in a
low tone.

“Listen,” he said, ‘‘and I will tell you all that
I have come to tell. You can judge for yourself
\if the evidence is of any value. First, I must
introduce myself. My name is Clarkson—Stan-
| ley Clarkson—and I aman artist. Ihave rooms
|in the adjoining house, and my studio overlooks

Mr. Davenant’s sleeping apartment. I am en-
gaged at present on a picture, a head of Andre,
‘and asI have reason to believe that upon the
lsuccess of this picture all my future prosperit

depends, I have been considerably troubled,
| and have passed more than one sleepless night

|

|
}

1

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

eco THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 32>

ee
brooding: oyer my half-finished work. Last
night retired early; but evenin my dreams
the pictrre haunted me, and at last I arose; it
was very early, in fact not yet light. I lighted
the gas and dressed inyself; then I sat down to
enjoy a quiet smoke. I sat with my back to-

«Conduct me to the gates,” she commanded, imperi-

| Ously. ‘I must go home.”

| Mechanically still, Joe did her bidding—conducted her

| to the gates and opened them, by means of the false key

| in his possession. She slipped through, and was out of

sight in an instant. Joe hastened back to St. John.
‘Youfool!” groaned the former. ‘‘You’ve let her es-

ward the window of my studio, which is exactly | cape.”

opposite a window in Mr. Davenant’s house,
and, in short, in Mr. Davenant’s sleeping apart-
ment, and both windows chanced to be open.
Sitting there, buried in reverie, I was aroused
at length by hearing Mr. Devenant’s voice in
high, angry tones.

**T would not do it to save your life!’ he said,
harshly.

“And, still in the same place, my eyes fixed
upon the bright wall on the opposite side of my
room, Isaw distinctly, sir, an arm uplifted in
the air, the hand grasping a knife, or dagger;
at least, it resembled such a weapon.

“T sat there, unable to move, and watched it
with a strange fascination. The hand was
clinched over the hilt of the weapon, and I saw
distinctly, so plain and clear were the shadows,
that there was a large ring upon the forefinger.
You know howshadows distort and magnify. I
can swear that I saw the ring. “oe

‘‘Just then, to my horror and consternation,
the arm descended, and then there came a
frightful shriek, followed by fearful cries of
murder. I rushed wildly downstairs. But, be-
fore I could succeed in getting the door unfas-
tened some time had elapsed, and when 1 stood
at last in the open air all wasquiet. Then Isaw
you enter the house, and I followed, and was
told that Mr. Davenant had been murdered.
Yet the jury say that it was suicide.”

Ray Allen listened to Clarkson’s story with
sager interest. He drew from his pocket the
ring that he had found and held it up in the
sunlight.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Clarkson ?” he in-
quired.

The artist examined it attentively. It was a

large, massive ring—an antique cameo, upon |
which were carved in relief the heads of the |

three Fates. Clarkson shook his head.

“No,” he replied; ‘IT never saw it before. But,
if you would not laugh at me, and ridicule my
absurdity, I would pronounce that the very ring
which I saw on the shadowy hand. Observe its
peculiar shape. It is not one that is easily mis-
taken. _Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I found it,’ returned Ray, evasively.
“And do not think that I shall laugh at your

theory, Mr. Clarkson. Murderers have been ap- |

prehended upon frailer clews than a shadow,
and—— Hush!

He paused abruptly, and going noiselessly to
the door, he opened it suddenly.

Mary stood on the threshold, pale as a ghost.

“What do you want here?” demanded Allen,
sharply.

The girl’s face grew red and white by turns.

‘Nothing, sir,” she faltered. “I was only
coming in here for Miss Jacquette’s vinaigrette.
Excuse me, sir; 1 didn’t know that any one was
in this room.”

And she hurried away.

“She’ll bear watching,” said Allen, gloomily.

“By no means,” returned the artist, earnestly.
“With all due respect for your judgment, Mr.

Allen, I differ with you there, decidedly. That
is one of the best servants I have ever seen.
Mary has lived in the Davenant family since
her childhood, and is perfectly honest and in-
corruptible.”

“Time proves all things!” remarked the de-
tective, sententiously. ‘‘And now, Mr. Clark-
son, I propose that we go before the coroner.
The inquest is over, it is true; but, if I am not
mistaken, the jurors are all still on the prem-
ises, and I would like to have them hear this
new version of the affair. You will relate your
story, and at its conclusion I will exhibit the
ring in my possession, and perhaps some one in
the house may recognize it.”

As they hurried down the corridor, they came
upon Mary, crouched in a corner, pale and
trembling.

“Oh, sir,” she began, as the detective ap-
proached, ‘‘’m right sick—I am. indeed.
awful sights—and all—has made me that faint,
I can’t stand.” ;

“Get some wine for the poor girl from the
dining room, Mr. Clarkson,” said the detective;
and as the other disappeared on his errand of
kindness, Ray Allen lifted the fainting form of
the girl and laid her on a low couch which stood
near, just as Clarkson returned, with a glass of
wine, and followed by the housekeeper.

The two young men hastened onward to the
rooms where the inquest had been held.
crowd still stood about, discussing the awful
tragedy, and the jurors also still lingered. The
artist began at once, and repeated the same
story that he had just told the detective. As he

- proceeded, every face in the room blanched, and
all eyes were full of horror, while a conviction
that it had not been suicide after all, began to
take possession of the crowd.

When Clarkson had finished his recital, Ray
Allen arose, and drew near.

“Gentlemen,” he began, in a low, earnest tone,
“you have heard this gentleman’s story. He is
ready to repeat it, under oath, at any time.
These proceedings are informal, I know; but
since the jurors are all still present, I thought
best to make known the discovery, and exhibit
the single, solitary clew, faint and trivial though
it be, which, in my mind, extinguishes forever
the idea of suicide. I will now produce the ring
in my possession, with a hope that it may be re-
cognized by some one present. If the identity
of the ring can be established, we will have
Wallace Davenant’s murderer before many suns
shall set.”

He thrust his hand into his pocket. A blank
expression overspread his face. He grew deadly
pale, and sank into aseat.

The ring was gone! :

Atthat moment a boy in a blue uniform came

ushing his way through the crowd, with a yel-
ow envelope in his hand.

‘‘Telegram for Detective Allen!’ he shouted.

In a few moments more Allen had the dispatch
in his possession, and eagerly tore it open. This
was what it contained—and it recalled the de-
tective to his duty, and reminded him tersely
that he was stilliu the employ of the C.& A.
Railroad, and, therefore, bis business was to
obey their orders. In attempting to ferret out
the murderer of his old friend, the detective was
on the wrong “‘lay,” and the telegram brought
him back to his senses:

“RAy ALLEN :—Jack has ‘skipped’ again. Look out for
lively times—train, and highway robberies—in the old
section. Follow trail at once—first train via St. L. & C.
Railroad. Sup. C. & A.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE TRAIN ROBBERY.

With the eyes of the supposed dead girl gazing into
his own, Gerald St. John recoiled in horror and alarm,
and covered his face with his hands, as though to shut
out that mute, accusing stare.

«7 thought—I was swre that she was dead,” he mut-
tered, in low, awe-struck tones. ‘I thought she’d had a
big enough dose. It was administered to her in a cup of
coffee, just before she left the house for the church. I
was sure that it was sufficient to do the business; and I
believed that she was dead—I swear I did, Joe.”

“Of course,” returned the other. doggedly. ‘Nobody
ever knew you to make a big mistake before. Tell you
what it is, Jack, ow place ain’t here, no way. Our line
of business is out on the plains and in the far West.
There’s too much law here; too many meddling detec-
tives; we’re best off westward. In the words of the im-
mortal H. G., ‘go West, young man.’ ”

He paused in consternation. Hope Davenant was sit-
ting up in the coffin, with the moonlight glinting on her
golden hair and on the gleaming white dress, with its
lace and rich adornings—beautiful and valuable even
yet with the priceless jewels stripped from it.

“She is alive, sure enough!” Joe added, in a savage
whisper.

“Who are you ?” .

The low, clear tones of the girl’s sweet voice fell upon
the silence of the night.

«That's a question I decline answering,” returned Joe.

“Help me out,” she cried, imperiously.

All the truth of her fearful situation had dawned upon
her understanding; she knew instinctively what had
happened—knew it, and yet her brain did not turn.

Hope Davenant came of a good old stock, and in all
their family history there was no record of a cowardly
deed. She was brave, and cool, and self-possessed in
this awful predicament, for the fearless blood of her an-
cestors ran in the girl’s veins, and ‘‘blood will tell.”

She did not know that she had been poisoned, and that
the dose had only been sufficient to produce a lethargy,
from which she had just awakened, and had been mirac-
ulously restored to life. +

Mechanically Joe extended his hand, and the girl
stood on her feet, trembling, agitated, but wondrously
self-possessed.

Gerald St. John had glided away, and stood out of
sight now, behind the great Davenant tomb.

Hope turned to Joe.

The }

| of a fearful nightmare.

“You signaled me todo it and now she’s off; she’ll
| give us away before to-morrow morning!”

; ‘Don’t you believe it,” returned St. John. ‘In the first
| place she didn’t see me atall. I can follow her now,
| overtake her (She can’t walk any faster than a baby), and
| Offer my protection—but she'll never see St. Charles
| Street again. And in the next place, you'll be off for
| Colorado before sunrise. Ill join you in a day or two.
| This place is getting too decidedly hot to hold us.”

«Acreed,” returned Joe. ‘And I'll carry the shiners
with me.”

“That's O. K., or ‘Oll Korrect,’ as the late lamented
Jackson would say. You stay here, Joe, and put that
back in its place,” pointing to the white coffin on the
ground, as he spoke, ‘‘and I—well, the truth is, Joe, ’m
bound to have that girl.”

«The mischiet !”

“Tam. Not long agoI swore something in regard to
the matter—haven’t time to tell you what now; and—
well, Joe, I generally keep my promise, don’t I?”

‘You do—blamed if you don’t.” '

Joe wrung the hand extended with a cordial grip.

‘Well, I mustn’t let the grass grow under my feet.
By-by, till we meet out West.”

And he hastened away. Out of the cemetery he dart-
ed down the street. On—on, a flying white figure ever
before his eyes.

In her thin slippers, clad in the unsuitable garments
that she wore, poor Hope was chilled through and
through, and she ran rapidly—to keep warm, and witha
wild hope in her heart of reaching her own home unob-
served. This was not impossible, for the hour was late ;
the cemetery but three or four blocks from her father’s
mansion, and policemen do not flourish extensively in
the Crescent City after nightfall.

As she flew along she felt like one under the influence
Had she suddenly awakend in
her snowy bed at home, she would not have been sur-
prised to have found that it was alla dreadful dream.
But, alas! it was no dream—but a bitter reality.

And ever before her mind’s eye, one scene arose—a
scene which had burned itself into her heart, and seared
itself ineffaceably into her brain. It was this: When she
lay in her coffin, and the heart-broken bridegroom
crouched at her side, Hope had still retained the sense
of hearing.

Lying there, she could distinctly overhear all the words
that were spoken, yet she could not open her eyes or
speak a word, though her salvation had depended upon

 

it. And she had overheard Jacquetta Vere’s wild words

| of love, spoken to Harry Raymond—her husband.

| A new light had dawned upon Hope’s understanding.
She knew now that Jacquetta love Harry, and he—oh,

| there was the sting—had not repulsed her.

At last unchallenged—probably unobserved—Hope
stood upon the marble steps of her own home, and laid
her hand upon the silver door-knob. It turned slowly,
for the door was not locked, revealing the great marble-
paved hall, the gas burning low, and noone present.
For John had left his post in the hall, and had slipped
down stairs fora glass of wine to keep his spirits up.
The house had been wrapped in gloom since the funeral
of the beautiful girl, who, so strangely resurrected,
stood trembling like an outcast now upon the threshold
of her own home; and John’s spirits had gone down to
zero ; so he had slipped away to help them up.

The door swung open slowly, and the little white-
robed figure entered. Up stairs she glided, her heart
crying out for a sight of her father, so dear to her; she
flew to the door of his chamber and opened it softly. A
faint light was burning. Mr. Davenant sat with his
back to the door, in a velvet easy-chair, glancing over
some legal-looking papers, while Jacquetta Vere stood
beside him.

As the door opened Jacquetta turned her head, and
her eyes fell upon the little figurein bridal white—a
ghost of the dead past arisen to confront her.

With a wild shriek of horror, Jacquetta turned and
fled from the room, just as stealthy steps stole up the
staircase, and a hand was laid on Hope’s. shoulder,
where she crouched in a corner of the dimly lighted cor-
ridor, whither Jacquettta’s frightened shriek had sent
her in terror. A handkerchief saturated in chloroform
was placed upon her mouth, and she was lifted in a pair
of strong arms and borne away, down stairs and out of
the house, just as John, aroused by the loud cries, came
fiying up the stairs, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Around the nearest corner a closed carriage was in
waiting; Hope was placed therein, Gerald St. John fol-
lowed her, and the carriage drove off like the wind. It
paused at last before a certain railroad station. Hope
was lifted out. wrapped now in a long cloak, with the

 

|

|

 

| for they could not pass that stone barricade alive.

hood pulled over her head and a thick vail concealing

| her features; and, still insensible, she was placed on
board a train bound for the far West. Morning dawned,

The | and Hope Davenant, so strangely resurrected from the
16

tomb, was far away, and ‘‘the bird was in the snare of
the fowler.”

* * * * *

*

On, on, inthe gloomy night shadows, rushed a rail-
road train, away in the heart of the western country,
and no one on board dreamed of the dangers which
threatened them. It was a wild, unsettled region
through whieh the train was bearing them, and some
adventurous spirits on board had been entertaining the
others with wild tales of wilder exploits, performed by
the James brothers and others of that ilk, right there,
in that very region, until the passengers at last began
to cast doubtful glances at one another, and to huddle

together as though afraid. On rushed the train through

| the night and darkness ; they were nearing a dangerous

place now.

Not far from a certain city, on this railroad, is a sharp
curve and a deep cut; here the trains pass with great
difficulty; and the engineer to-night—a skillful man, and
one who thoroughly understood his business—was on
the alert for danger. All at once, to his consternation
and surprise, he saw a faint red light arise before the
approaching engine, and the gleam of the head-light re-
vealed that the strange light was being moved across
the track by a tall man, and that he was closely masked.
Another glimpse showed the startled engineer a huge
pile of stones on the track, between the rails, and a
group of dark forms clustered around.

He recalled all the wild tales which were extant con-
cerning train robbers and such desperadoes, and his
heart throbbed with terror. He knew that he must
stop the engine; there was no other course to pursue,
Bet-
ter to lose property than life, he decided, and so the
train slackened its speed, and finally stood still.

Two dozen masked men dashed forward and sprang
on board; guards were stationed at the door of every

| car to prevent escape; the engineer and fireman were

speedily overpowered and remorselesely tossed aside ;
and the train robbers, armed with knives and revolvers

| —a formidable crowd, indeed—proceeded coolly to ‘go |
| through” the passengers, appropriating every valuable |
It took but a few moments to com- |

that they possessed.
plete the work, and then the robbers deliberately locked
the door of every car (producing keys which fitted ex-
actly, and proved them prepared for their work), and
then the terror-stricken passengers were caught like
rats in a trap.

Then the entire band took possession of the engine.
It was quickly uncoupled, and in less time than it takes

started ata terrific rate of speed, leaving the demoral-
ized passengers in durance vile. On tore the fiery-eyed
monster, while the man who appeared to be the leader
of the gang stood foremost on the engine, revolver in
hand, and swung his hat aloft with a rousing cheer.

“Hooray for our side!’ he shouted, triumphantly.
«Joe !’—turning to the robber who was enacting the
role of engineer in a way which showed his proficiency
—‘“head her on! Keep her going! Crowd on the
steam! If we reach Kansas City in half an hour, we’re
safe |”

“But,” shouted Joe, his voice rising hoarsely above
the roar of the engine, ‘‘they’ll telegraph ahead, and
stop us.”

“They ll have to ‘spell able’ first, retorted the other,
coolly. “It’s half a dozen miles back to a telegraph
station, and even if they get outof their cages, that
walk will delay them a trifle, you bet. No; we're all
right, Joe. I feel safe. Weare out of the clutches of
cursed detectives at last. Even Ray Allen himself
s—:

“ON HAND!” shouted a Clear, ringing voice, and a tall,
slim figure sprang forward from a dark corner of the en-
gine, where, unsuspected, it had been hiding, and
clutched the desperado by the throat. ‘‘On hand, every
time!” repeated the detective coolly. ‘There are fear-
ful odds against;me ; but, nevertheless, Jack Mordaunt,
I have you at last!”

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)

>-e~——

A GAMBLER RECOGNIZED .

A friend, who was recently traveling by stage-coach
over a California road, told me an anecdote concerning
the driver which ratheramused me. These charioteers,
by the way, are peculiar people. I make it a point
whenever I go anywhere by stage-coach to get the box-
seat, and commune with the driver—whenIcan. Some
times he will not commune.

“My friend, Viator, found itso. The driver was dumb
as an oyster. There was even a tinge of contempt in
his monosyllabic stoppers to conversation.

At last a station was reached where, as the Jehu
tersely informed his passengers, they were to “rassle
with their hash.” They got off and “rassled.” Viator
was heavily thrown.

When the first course was removed, the neat-handed
Baylis, who generally officiates at wayside eating-
houses, came to Viator, whisked some crumbs on his
lap and some gravy on his coat-collar, and remarked :

“Pieorpudden ?”

“Pie,” said Viator, meekly.

The pie was brought. It was confected of dried ap-
ples incased with horn. Viator excited the neat-hand-
ed Phyllis’s amused contempt by calling for a fork. The
remainder of the guests pried open the pie with a knife.
As Viator was toying with this sudden-death viand, he
noticed the driver regarding him with much interest.

After the meal the journey was resumed, and, to Via-
tor’s surprise, he found the driver completely changed.
He had unbent. He was quite affable and communica-
é

 

 

tive. Before the next station was reached they were
fast friends.

“Tell me,” said Viator, at last, “what is*the reason
you were so indisposed to converse with me at first?
You must have had some prejudice against me.”

‘Wall, ye see,” replied the driver, flicking a fly with
great precision from the nigh swing-horse’s ear, ‘‘at first,
ye see, I thought you was a Methodist preacher; but
when I seen you give that high-toned touch on your pie,
I knowed you was a gambler.”

' > @-4

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

LY OF MORDAUNT

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. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXI.—(CONTINUED.) &
Baffled in his designs to secure a fortune by wedding

her, he was ready to seize upon the first pretext to rid |

himself of her, and then, perhaps, he would try to win
some other unsuspecting girl who had plenty of money,
so that he could live a life of ease.

Arley cast that hateful document from her with a ges-
ture of loathing.

«JT have half a mind never to appear against him,” she

said; ‘it might be a blessed freedom to me as well; to |

have these galling ties severed, even though a divorce to
me means nothing. I promised ‘until death should part
us’—and I meant it.

serted him, and make no effort to vindicate myself 2”

She mused a long time over these questions ; but |

finally, with firmly compressed lips and uplifted head,
she added :

“No; I will go and hear what he has to say for him-
self. I will face him, and let him know that J consider
our marriage legal. if he does not. I will tell my story.
I will tell how it happened that I ‘deserted’ him. I will
not tamely submit to this indignity.”

Then she remembered that she would appear at a

great disadvantage, and that she would need some one
to act for her in this trying situation ; for, of course, she
could give no evidence, since she could not speak the

language ; neither could she understand any charges |

that might be preferred against her. She must have an
interpreter.

“JT will go and see my kind doctor, and tell him all my
trouble,” she said, feeling that she could trust him. ‘We

can converse in French, and I know he will do all that |

he can to help me.”
She dressed herself at once to go out, and went to seek

To her dismay she was told that he was very ill, and |
could see no one—he had overworked himself since the |

sickly season came on, and was now-paying the penalty.

She then bethought herself of the proprietor of the art |
He also could speak French fiuently, and she be- |

store.
lieved he was honest, and would deal truly by her.

To the art store she repaired: but it seemed.as if the |
“fates” were all against her, for she was informed that |

he had gone to Paris on business, and would be absent
for several weeks.
“He had left orders that madam’s sketches were to be

accepted and paid for when she brought them,” the |
clerk told her, in his broken French, ‘‘and he would like |

her to do all that she could.

Arley was in despair at this intelligence, and did not |
The consul, she |

know where to turn next for help.
knew, had not yet returned, and she had not a friend in
all that babel to whom she could turn.

But she knew that it was absolutely necessary that |
she should have counsel of some kind, and she asked |
the clerkif he could direct her to some good lawyer who |

could speak French or English.

He did not know of any one who was familiar with the |
latter language, but told her of one who could speak |
French, and as a last resort she was compelled to go to |
him.

Once she thought of seeking Philip, and begeing him
to desist from this horrible proceeding—she felt that she
had neither strength nor courage to endure the ordeal.

Then ali her pride arose to arms.

«J will not go near him,” she cried, a vivid scarlet
staining her forehead, her dark eyes flashing fire; ‘I
will henceforth consider him my bitter enemy, and I will
battle for my g6od@ name with all my might, and asif I

never entertained any but feelings of hatred toward |
him. Butoh, Philip!” and a quivering sob burst from |

her lips, ‘if you had only been different—if you had
only been the noble man I believed you, when I gave
myself to you, how happy I could have been with you
even in poverty and trial.”

“But this is folly and weakness,” she added, dashing |
away the unbidden tears and struggling for self-control; °

“the dream of my life isover; One who is wiser than I
has seen fit to send this upon me, and I must meet it as

bravely as I can; but oh! if Aunt Angeline, or good Sir |

Anthony, or anybody, was only here to help me!”

She strove to put these longings away from her, for |
they unnerved her, and went at once to seek the lawyer |

to whom she had been directed.

To her great relief, she found him in his office, and at |

liberty.
But Senor Proquelin did not impress Arley favorably.

He was tall and straight as an Indian ; his thin, lank |

hair, black as the shades of Erebus, hardly covered his
ill-shapen head, which was tall and narrow like himself;
a projecting forehead, wrinkled and tawny, with heavy
brows, overhung a pair of small, piercing black eyes,

which had a cunning gleam in them that actually made |
He had high cheek- |

Arley shiver with apprehension.
bones, a thin nose, and a wide mouth, within which
there was a set of yellow, decaying, disgusting teeth—
and altogether he was exceedingly repulsive.

Arley had more than half a mind to turn and fly from
his presence, give up the battle, and go home as fast as
steam and sail could take her, for she was filled with
distrust of the man the moment she beheld him.

But he came forward, upon her entrance, and address-
ed her courteously in Spanish. P

She shook her head, and replied in French that she
did not understand; whereupon he addressed her in
that language. politely drew forward a chair, and asked
her to be seated.

She complied, and then entered at once upon the ob-
ject of her call. She told him her story as briefly as

| possible, but all the while she was relating it, with droop- |
to write it, was properly manned, and off the engine |

ing eyes and flushed cheeks, the wily lawyer was study-
ing the fair face with a rude, inquisitive stare, mingled
with intense admiration.”

“Yes, he would undertake the case for her,” he bland-
ly told her, when she concluded, and, he added, he
thought the case of the senora a strong one.

‘But pardon,” he added, with a low obeisance and an
unpleasant smirk, ‘if the senora is not fond of the senor
still, why not let him go ?—why not allow him to get a
divorce if he wishes, and be free from so disagreeable a
husband ?”

Arley flushed crimson at the question, and with up-
lifted head and Sashing eyes, replied :

‘Because he has accused me /alsely ; my good name
is at stake—my character must be vindicated; he shall
not take it before the public and blacken it, without an
attempt on my part to thwart his base purpose.”

CHAPTER XXII.
SAVED.

Senor Proquelin saw that he had a woman of spirit to
deal with, that she was on the alert, was keen-witted,
ang not lacking in decision of character.

He saw, too, that she was comparatively helpless in
this disagreeable predicament, and that from the lack of
witnesses in her favor, the case was likely to prove a
hard battle.

But he was willing to undertake almost anything for
money, while it was not often that he had to deal with
so pretty and interesting a client, and he at once be-
stirred himself zeafusly in Arley’s cause.

He was a popular, sharp-witted lawyer. though un-
scrupulous as the sequel will show, and he was not long
in discovering Philip Paxton’s motive for seeking this
divorce.

He studied him, he watched him, he followed him con-
stantly. There was nothing he did that escaped the
craity lawyer’s notice, and Philip knew it.

He also was very keen at reading character, and he
was not long in taking the measure of his opponent. He
saw that he was very clever—that a case in his hands
would be made the most of, and that he was as persist-
ent as a bull-dog at carrying a point; but one glance at
that ill-shapen head showed him that cupidity was the
strongest element of his character, and one morning he
took the crafty man by surprise by paying him a visit in
his office.

The two were closeted for a long time with doors
locked and curtains drawn close, and when at last. Phil-
iv arose to go, there was a look of relief and satisfaction
on his face, while Senor Proquelin followed him to the
door with an obsequious bow, clinking a purse full of
ruddy gold in his hands.

Alas! alas! for poor, persecuted Arley’s cause!

* * * *

* * * *

The day of the trial arrived, and the young husband
and wife met for the first time since their separation.

Arley was thinner than when Philip last saw her, and
her color was not as brilliant, but as he glanced up, upon
her entrance to the court-room, he started, and actually
held his breath, for never had he seen her so lovely be-
fore.

“Why on earth couldn’t she have been reasonable
about that money?” he muttered, with a deep-drawn
sigh, ‘it’s almost more than a fellow can stand to lose
both her and her fortune.”

Shall I sit quietly down and allow |
him to have his way—allow the world to believe I de- |

Arley was clad in the same rich dress that she had
worn when she went to call on the consul, with simple
ruffies of lace at the neck and wrists, no color, no orna-
ments; but she needed none, for she was like some
sweet flower, and needed no adorning.

The judge looked surprised when he saw her, and as
if he wondered how any man could be willing to put
away so beautiful a wife; and when Arley for a moment
lifted her eyes to his face as if to read what manner of
man was set there to pass judgement upon her, he saw
in them a look of appeal which touched him deeply.

The court was opened, Phillip’s case presented with all
due form, and then the trial proceeded.

Of course it was all like Greek to Arley; she could not
understand one word, and was obliged to depend entire-
ly upon her counsel for an interpretation of the proceed-
ings, and, although whatever he told her appeared
plausible, yet she had not been there long before a

session of her.

The court-room was not large, but there were a num-
ber of people present who appeared to be interested in
the case.

Ohe in particular Arley noticed seated in the farther
corner of the room, and her heart throbbed and her

she felt quite sure that he was an Englishman.
How could she bear to have him sit there and listen to

haps even to London, and proclaim it there ?

Several times she found herself looking at him and
wondering who he could be, as well as what motive
could have induced him to come into that place, that

 

ly regarding her.

| He had a frank, noble face, a manly form and such
| kind, sympathetic biue eyes. She longed to go and
speak to him; and once she had almost beckoned to

Strange feeling of uneasiness and foreboding took pos- |

morning of all others, and as often she found him intent- |

 

|

|
|
|
|

him to come to her; then, with a sudden ringing in her |

ears, a Sense almost of faintness at the boldness of the |
act, she thought perhaps he might be some one whom |

| Philip knew, and whom he had enlisted in his service.

When Philip gave his evidence, she noticed that the |

| stranger frequently glarfced from him to her, while a
puzzled expression began to settle over his face, and she

found herself wondering with increasing uneasiness
| What was being said regarding her.

When she was called up to be questioned, she saw him
lean eagerly forward and prepare to listen intently.

“Who can he be?” she asked herself, ‘‘and what pos-
sible interest can he have in this affair?” then she gave
herself up to the task before her.

The questions were put in Spanish to Senor Proquelin,
| who repeated them in French to her, and then translat-
| ed her replies for the benefit of the court.

Arley had not a suspicion of foul play.

Her counsel appeared to be interested in her case, and
| to throw all his energies into it, and after those first feel-
| ings of distrust, before referred to, had passed, she had
| come to rely upon him fully.

| But now, asshe occasionally glanced toward the stran-
| ger, seated at the back of the room, she perceived that
|
peated by Senor Proquelin, his face grew dark and stern,
| while his eyes blazed with fierce indignation and con-

tempt.

Once or twice he half-arose from his seat as if to speak,
| then, with an apparent effort at self-control, he settled
| back again, and listened more intently than ever.
| What did it mean ?

Arley was beginning to feel very nervous and uncom-

| fortable, while a sense of helpiessness and desolation
began to creep over her, making her almost ill.

Philip told his story glibly enough; stating that he

| had married Arley believing her to be a Miss Wentworth,

of London, with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds,

aiter a question had been put to her and her reply re- |

 

|

|

|

but that he had since discovered that she had no right |

whatever to either name or fortune, and that a disagree- | vivid blush dyeing all her face; “for I am obliged to be
this, he made it appear that throughout their travels | Seep then cle tor Tae to travel.

| able mystery hung over her parentage. More than all
she had conducted herself in an improper manner, and
| particularly so since coming to Madrid, where he could
prove she had made appointments with a gentleman,
receiving both attentions and money from him, which
| no true and loyal wife should do; and finally, to cap all,
she had deserted him entirely, and hidden herself away
in an obscure portion of the city, yet all the time con-
tinuing to meet the gentleman referred to before.

It was a story calculated to blacken the fairest charac-
ter, and Philip Paxton, with his fine face and figure, and
with all his eloquence called into exercise, did not fail
to enlist the sympathies of most of his listeners.

This cunning story, however; was very imperfectly
translated to Arley by her treachersous counsel, and she

looks which were cast upon her when what appeared to
| be her defense was repeated in turn before the court.

She could not know that all her testimony, every an-
swer to the questions put to her, had been distorted
and perverted in a way to blacken her fair name for-
| ever—until she stood there before the court self-con-
demned, having been made to admit all that Philip
claimed against her.

Several times her cheeks reddened hotly, and her
| lovely eyes drooped as she caught sight of a smile which
| now and then curled the lips of a member of the jury,

or marked the hali-triumphant leer of Philip’s counsel

after her reply to some disagreeable question had been
ven.
| Oh, it was wretched; and she wished a hundred times
| that she had never attempted any defense, while she
wrong for her and her case would be lost.

But through itallshe never once suspected the treach-
ery of Senor Proquelin; she believed that he was doing
his very best for her, and not once gave him a reproaoh-
seer or look—she was patient and gentle until the
end.

The evidence was all in at last, and having been
summed up, it was evident to all that Philip Paxton
would get his case, and poor Arley would be obliged to
go back to England a divorced woman, and with a dark
cloud hanging over her fair fame.

But just as the judge was about to deliver his charge
| to the jury, there was a stirin the back part of the room,
and a stern, inflexible voice cried out, in excellent
Spanish :

‘Hold! I demand a hearing before this case goes into
the hands of the jury.”

The next instant the gentleman whom Arley had
| noticed listening so eagerly strode forward and stood
before the judge.

‘May it please your honor,” he continued, in a clear,
musical tone, ‘I speak four languages with ease—Eng-
lish, French, German, and Spanish.”

Philip Paxton started violently at this, and exchanged
an anxious glance with Senor Proquelin.

‘Task you to stay the proceedings of this court,” the
stranger continued, ‘‘or you will be guilty of a terrible
wrong to an innocent woman. Have I your honor’s per-
mission to give evidence in favor of the defendant ?”

Philip’s lawyer here interposed, objecting very strong-
ly. The evidence had all been given and summed up,
he said, andif the stranger had anything to offer he
should have spoken before.

Senor Proquelin turned of a mahogany color, and grew
exceedingly restless; but of course he could offer no ob-
jections, since the revelations were to be in favor of his
client.

The judge, however, was impressed by the manner of
the stranger, and waving Philip’s lawyer back to his
seat, courteously told him to go on.

“My name is Charles Herbert, and Iam a baronet of
Kent County, England,” the new-comer resumed... ‘“The
merest accident brought me hither this morning—I
might say that I came out of idle curiosity, just to see
how your courts are conducted; but I thank Heaven
that by coming I shall be able to save an innocent
woman from becoming the victim of deeply dyed vil-
lains. Your honor and the gentlemen of the jury do
not understand the French language, I perceive.”

He paused a moment, and lifted his eyes with a ques-
tioning glance to the judge.

“No,” that dignitary said, ‘‘they did not.”

«Then’—and the scorn and indignation which rang out
in Sir Charles Herbert’s tones thrilled even Arley, though
she did not know one word that he was saying—‘‘you
cannot know that all the evidence of the fair defendant
yonder has been perverted and distorted in away to
make her appear the vilest of women—in a way to crim-
inate herself, so that the jury could not possibly grant
to her the least sympathy or consideration. Listen, and
I will show you what has been done.”

Then, from a paper upon which he had taken notes,
he read a brief summary of the case, presenting Arley’s
defense as she had given it—her modest, straightfor-
ward replies having been worded in an entirely differ-
ent way from what had been represented by her
treacherous counsel—until both judge and jury looked
grave and stern at the fraud which had been perpe-
trated upon them, and grew, to regard the beautiful,
wronged woman before them in an entirely different
light.

“uN ow,” continued the young Englishman, after he had
read the notes he had taken, ‘I am myself a lawyer, and
for the time being I will constitute myself this young
young lady’s counsel, although I have never exchanged
a word with her, nor have I ever seen ner before coming
intothis room. I perceive that she is ignorant of Span-
ish, and she does not even know what Iam saying be-
fore this court; but if your honor has a desire to cross-
question her further, I pledge my word that every
sentence shall be faithfully translated both to her and to
you.”

” The face of the judge was black with wrath.

His dignity had been insulted, his office outraged, by
the shameless trick which had been played upon him
and the court, not to mention the crime of attempting
to ruin the character of a beautiful woman.

He turned to Arley, and his stern face softened al-
most to tenderness ; but he proceeded to cross-question
her again, aS the young baronet had proposed, he act-
ing as interpreter.

After one or two questions she began to look uneasy,
and finally lifting her proud head haughtily, demanded
of her new interrogator :

‘What does this mean ?—why am I asked these ques-
tions twice over ?” F

A brilliant smile wreathed Sir Charles’ lips at this
query, but without answering it, he turned directly to
the judge, saying :

«The senora is indignant—she does not understand
why she is subjected to this second cross-examination.
Shall I explain to her ?”

“No,” his honor replied; ‘tell her to exercise a little
patience, and it shall be explained to her later.”

He had seen Arley’s gesture, and knew by her tone
that she had said something of this kind, but he admired
the honor of the Englishman for telling her nothing
without his sanction; it proved to him that he was, as
he had said, a stranger to her—that there was no con-

,

 

could not understand the leers and peculiar, suspicious |

seemed to feel intuitively that everything had gone |

 

|

|

|

|
|
|

 

spiracy between them, and that the young man was
simply espousing the cause of truth and right.

A half hour was spent in going over old ground, and
every word which Arley uttered went to prove how she
had been misrepresented; and, at the end of that time,
the jury, without retiring, gave a unanimous verdict
against the plaintiff, who, with his counsel, felt as if
they would like the earth to open and swallow them,
while Senor Proquelin skulked out of sight, swearing
vigorous Spanish oaths to himself—and then the case
was dismissed.

_ Then Sir Charles Herbert went directly to Arley. Hold-
ing out his hand to her with a frank, genial smile, he
said in English :

‘7 congratulate you, madam, upon the decision of the
court, Which is wholly in your favor. But,” he added,
seeing the tears spring to her eyes, and that she was
near losing her composure, ‘‘ you came very nearly hay-
ing to suffer a foul wrong.”

Then he explained to her how her evidence had been
Te and falsified and made to tell against
er.

A crimson flush of shame and indignation shot up to
the waves of brown hair that lay upon her forehead, and
bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, as she listened, and

cheek burned when her glance first fell upon him, for | understood something of the trap that had been set for

her unconscious feet.
“T cannot be thankful enough,” Sir Charles said, in

her wretched story, and then go back to England, per-| conclusion, ‘that I was impelled to come into this

court-room this morning—it has saved you from becom-
ing the victim of unprincipled men.”

“You are an entire stranger to me,” Arley said. lifting
a pair of brimming, grateful eyes to his, «but I shall
always feel that I owe youadebt whichI can never
repay.” :

“Do not speak that way,” he returned gently, “you
owe me nothing; I rejoice that I was here and able, by
my knowledge of different languages, to save you from
a very unpleasant position. Allow me to introduce my-
self, however, and to ask ifI can be of any further ser-
vice to you?”

He handed her a card as he spoke, and Arley read the
name, Charles J. Herbert, Bart., Allendale, Kent Co.,
England.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A LAST APPEAL.

«JT am very glad to know you, Sir Charles,” Arley said,
her eyes lingering on the pleasant sounding English
name, while her heart quickened its pulsatious as she
thought perhaps he might assist her about going home,
“and,” with a wistful look into his kind face, ‘ I should
like to tresspass upon your goodness still further, and
ask if you will help me to find some one who is about re-
turning to England, and who would be willing to grant
me a little protection.”

Sir Charles’ face iighted with pleasure at this request.
«Would you go with me ?—with wus, I should say, for my
mother and I are traveling together.”

Arley’s heart bounded within her at this.

Nothing could be better than for her to be under the
protection of an elderly lady, and this kind, noble young
man who was her son,

‘If you would not mind being troubled with mel
should be very grateful,” she returned, with quivering
lips and tear-laden eyes.

She tried to be brave through all that dreadful trial,
but. now the prospect of going home, under safe protee-
tion, bade fair to unnerve her completely,

“Do not call it trouble,” he returned, gently; ‘it
would give us great pleasure to have you with us. We
Poor travel for three or four months longer, and then
return.’

Arley’s face fell, and the fond hope which had ani-
mated her but a moment before died within her.

“Tam afraid I cannot go with you. then,” she said, a

I have

Sir Charles looked embarrassed, even distressed, at
this acknowledgment.

He would gladly have offered to defray all her ex-
penses, but being such a stranger to her, he dare not;
and he could see that she was very proud—a lady
through and through, who would be offended by such a
proposal.

He thought a moment, then asked:

«“‘Would you object to the delay I have mentioned, if—
if there were no other obstacles ?”

“No,” Arley answered, with a sigh; -‘it does not mat-
ter much where Iam now. I have friends in London
who would welcome me with open arms, and though I
long for then, yet I dread to meet them under the cir-
cumstances. But necessity compels me to go some-
where—to get away from this dreadful place, where I
cannot understand anything that is said to me; for—in
the future I shall be obliged to earn my own living.”

She said it frankly, and yet with a little air of pride,
as if, despite her poverty, she was not ashamed to have
him know it.

“JT am very glad that Ae have told me this, Mrs. Pax-
ton,” her companion said, eagerly ‘for now I feel free
to say that perhaps my mother can help you, and you
can-also help her out of aserious difficulty. Her com-
panion—a fine young lady who accompanied us from
England—was taken violently ill at.Lille, France, and
the physician who attended her said that it would not
do for her to resume travel with us—that just as soon as
she was sufficiently recovered she must be sent home,
and have complete rest and freedom from excitement.
It was a great trial to my mother to be obliged to part
with her, and, having been unable to supply her place,
she has been very lonely ever since. Ii—pardon me, I
mean it with all respect to you, and with the desire to
contribute to my mother’s comfort—if you could be per-
suaded to—to accept the vacant position——”

Poor Sir Charles! he knew he was talking to a refined
and cultivated lady ; it was very hard to offer her a paid
position, and he stammered and stumbled dreadfully in
his embarrassment.

But Arley came quickly to his aid, her face flushing
with gladness, her eyes all alight with new hope, for
here was a haven of refuge for her at last.

“Thank you, I should be only too glad to do so,” she
said, eagerly; ‘‘that is, if madam, your mother, would
be satisfied with the arrangement and my poor accom-
plishments.”

“There will be no trouble about that, I assure you,”
Sir Charles replied, much relieved to find how sensibly
she had received his proposition. ‘Now, if you will
please give me your address, I will bring her to see you
this afternoon, and you can arrange about our departure
from Madrid to suit yourselves.”

Arley drew from her pocket a beautiful little card-case
of filagree gold, and, taking a card from it, wrote the
street and number of her residence upon it, and gave it
to him.

“Thanks,” he said, thinking that she wrote the pret-
tiest and most delicate hand he eversaw. ‘‘Now will
you allow me to see you safely home ?—for,” with a smile
and a suspicious glance around, ‘I do not like to leave
you to go alone, while you have so many enemies around
you ?”

Arley gave him a quick inquiring look.

“T did not mean to alarm you,” he added, quickly;
“but I suppose you have heard that the Spaniards are
exceedingly revengeful in their disposition.”

“Yes, [have heard it, but I had forgotten it,” Arley
replied, looking a trifle anxious.

“J wish to make sure.” Sir Charles continued, ‘‘that
you are not annoyed by any one, so by your leave I will
go with you.”

She was very glad to have him; but as they were
passing out of the now almost deserted court-room she
saw Philip sitting in a dim corner, looking moody and
miserable.

A feeling of pity for him stole into her heart.

It was a dreadful thing, she thought, that a man with
his talents and ability should allow himself to go
straight down the road toruin, as he was apparently
doing, and all on account of the loss of a few thousand
pounds, and because his stubborn pride made him
ashamed to begin over again.

She had thought that all love for him was dead—that
she had no feeling for him now, save contempt for the
weakness and littleness of soul which he had displayed.
ever since their marriage.

But asshe looked at him, and. remembered tho$e beau-
tiful days at Hazelmere, when he had seemed so noble and
true, there came a sudden rush oi tears to her eyes, and
a pain, like the stab.of a knife, at her heart.

Should she pass on without a word, looking thus her
last upon him, and leave him to the evil which seemed
to possess him ?

Oh, she had loved him truly and fondly whenshe had
plighted her troth to him,—she would have loved him
thus as long as they both should live—she would have
been such a faithful wife to him and never murmured at
any lot, had he preserved his honor and manhood—had
he conducted himself in a way to command her respect.

It could not be possible, she thought, with that grand-
ly shaped head, that proud, aristocratic face, those deep,
intelligent eyes, and with the education which he had
received, that the man could be ali bad, even though
his countenance, at that moment, reflected all the rage
and malice which his recent defeat had stirred within
him.

It seemed as if she could not leave him so—as if she
must make one last appeal to him. She might neversee
him again—it was very probable that she would not—
surely she might speak one word of entreaty and fare-
well before she went out of his life forever.

«Will you please excuse me one moment ?” she asked,
withdrawing her hand from Sir Charles’ arm just as they:
reached the door, ‘‘I do not like to go without one last
word to Mr. Paxton—I will not keep you waiting long.”

«Certainly I will excuse you, and I shall not mind
waiting as long as you like,” he returned kindly,
and wondering, trom the wistful sadness of those lovely
dark eyes, if she could still love the man who had that
day shown himself such a traitor and wretch.

Philip had not seen her movement, he was so ab-
sorbed in his disagreeable musings that he was not
aware of her approach until a gentle voice at his side
said :
«Philip !”

Her lips had seldom spoken that name since their
marriage, and the sound of it smote him with a keen
Jain.

, But it was only for an instant—the next he turned
upon her with a malignant scowl.

She shivered and shrank from him slightly, yet looking
so gentle and lovely that his featuees involuntarily re-
laxed.

‘Well ?” he questioned briefly.

«JT just wished to say to you,” Arley said, in a hesitat-
ing tone, ‘‘ that I cannot understand why you should
have taken this action against me—if you wish to be free
Iam sorry that you cannot be, but I could not remain
silent and allow my character to be defamed, else I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ithe Riis ant LAS AERO

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

assy THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 83>

 

 

 

should never have appeared against you. I am going
away—back to England.

He started, and flashed a strange look at her as she
said this, but she did not appear to notice it.

«‘T shall go back to Aunt Angeline and I shall have to
tell her why I came back ; but further than that I shall
say — I shall never seek to see you—I shall never
meet you if I can help it, and then in time, if you wish,
the law will free you and there need be no publicity
aboutit. ‘But,’ and her sweet lips quivered painfully,
«I wish our life could have been different—I would have
been glad to share almost any lot with you, if you had
met your reverses bravely and honorably—I would have
been a faithful wife to you—you know that for I have
told you so before—for, I did love you very dearly,

uttered it, it had sounded like a knell over some bright
hope forever lost, and fora moment he seemed to real-
ize that something very precious had passed out of his
life ; while as she stood there so beautiful and winning
in her gentleness and her anxiety to speak some word
that should arouse his better nature and save him—
without one particle of anger or malice toward him for
all that he had made her suffer—he was half tempted to
reach forth his arms and beg her to come back and bless
him with her love once more—to forgive and forget.

She seemed to read something of this in the momenta-
ry flash of his eye, she heard it in the tone of his voice,
as he repeated that sad word after her, and a wave of
tenderness surged over her soul.

What if she could save him even now ?

She had suffered much from him; she had been hu-
miliated as woman was never humiliated before; but
could she not afford to forget, to crush out all her pride,
to forgive all her injuries for the blessed reward of
leading him back to a life of truth, honor, and useful-
ness ?

Her face had been very white while she stood there
before him ; now it suddenly flushed and became almost
radiant with a holy pu s

“Do you care because I spoke in the past tense,
Philip?” she asked, in alow, tremulous voice. ‘I have
thought that it was past, that all love for you had died
out of my heart, I have suffered so much of late; but at
this moment Ifeelasif perhaps it might live again if
you would only be your true and noble self once more,”

She gave him credit then for possessing a spark of no-
bility, of being capabie of rising to a position which
would command the respect and confidence of men.
Long afterward he remembered it, and it comforted him
in his loneliness and humiliation,

“JT do not believe,” Arley went on, eagerly, ‘‘that you
are acting your true nature. I do not believe that my
heart would have been drawn toward you as it was at
Hazelmere if there had not been something lovable and
honorable. in you to cali forth my affection. I know you
have been bitterly disappointed, and I have grieved
more on your account than my own that I was obliged
to come to you penniless; but the loss of money is such
a little thing compared to that of one’s honor and self-
respect. Oh, if Icould only make you see how much
nobler and better it would be to begin again ever so low |
socially, with the determination to rise—and with health
and ability any one can rise if he will—than to live as |
you have been living since our marriage! Do not waste
your life thus; be the true-hearted man that I believed |
you when I first knew you, Philip, will you? Will you |
go back to England with me ?” |

How could he resist such gentle, earnest pleading? |
How could he help yielding to that sweet-voiced en-
treaty ? |

Who can tell how he longed to do so—how, perhaps,
he had all but surrendered, when the devil in his heart }
whispered, ‘“‘The Lily of Mordaunt has twenty thousand
pounds a year, and Wil Hamilton is dead ?” : |

“No,” he said, briefly and sullenly, and turned rest-
lessly away from those tenderly inviting eyes.

A deep sigh fell upon his ear, and it smote him like a
blow; but he stubbornly crushed down every hetter
feeling, though afterward he remembered that he was
very near yielding as the hopeless sound struck him,
and then, with bitter remorse, he cried out:

“Oh,,why—why wasIso blind and hardened thatI
wowd not heed her ?”

“Good-by, then, Philip,” and there was a wistful sad-
ness in the sweet voice. ‘IT suppose our paths will
widely diverge after this, and we shall never meet again,
save, perhaps, a8 strangers meet. But I pray you—I
beseech you,” she added, with passionate earnestness,
“do not live out your whole life as you are living now;
do not let your existence prove a failure ; do not wreck
the mind, do not ruin the soul which has been given
you; for, some day, you know, they will be required of
you again. J am a woman; I have lost everything—
name and fortune—and now this added blight which you
have cast upon me presses me down still more heavily ;
but”—and now the lovely girl lifted her head with an air
of pride and resolution—‘“I am going to battle against
these adverse circumstances with all my might. Iam
going to make the most and very best of myself. I will
not be crushed—I do not believe God means me to be
erushed: so, with His help, I shall rise above my
troubles; and if, in the future, we should chance to
meet again, Philip, I will show you what a woman,
preserving her truth and self-respect, can accomplish.”

This was uttered with nothing of arrogance or self-
assertion, but with a sort of earnest faith, as if a glimpse
had been granted to her through the present darkness
of a more hopeful beyond.

peat paused a moment and drew off her glove; then
added :

«J wish toreturn this to you. I do not feel that I can
wear it any longer; but whenever you chance to look
at it, I trust it will remind you that it once bound you
to one who would have been glad to prove loyal to the
vows to which it was a seal, had you not made it im-
possible.”

She had drawn off her wedding-ring while she was
speaking, and now laid it down upon the table by which
he sat; then turning, she went slowly back to where
Sir Charles Herbert stood waiting for her.

(TO BE CONTINUED. ]
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BRUCE ANGELO,

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A GLIMPSE of LIFE IN NEW YORK.
By OLD SLEUTH,

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“Bruce Angelo,” was commenced in No. 36. Back numbers
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CHAPTER XXVIII.
WAITING FOR A CHANCE.

In the meantime, the detective had returned to his
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His little scheme had not been altogether a failure, but
he had failed to accomplish all that he had hoped to
gain by his ruse.

He had settled one point, and that was that Brutone
was the man who had disposed of Grace Luqueer ; be-
yond that fact all his deeply laid plan had resulted in
nothing valuable in the way of information.

The detective met his confederate.

“Well Clarkie, did you see your man ?”

«J just left him.”

‘Deep in the game ?”

Yes,”

“Then it’s allright. He didn’t tumble ?”

“Nary a tumble. He took me at first hand for Leff Dol-
aay and when I left him he was still under the delu-
sion.”

“All right; that little avenue is still open for me, but
on the other route I made a failure.”

We will hear explain that the detective desired to pre-
serve his disguise of Leff Dolman, as associated with
Brutone, and had got a skillful brother officer to get up
for the swell faro man.

ee did not pick up anything ?” asked Clark.

seh 0.”

“Tam sorry; but when you want me just give me the
‘tip,’ and it’s all right.”

“Thank you, my man—but hark ye, don’t lose sight of
me, please.”

And without another word the detective walked away.

Clark turned and walked off in another direction, at
the same time muttering to himself:

“7 wonder what jig he’s up to now?”

The sort of jig that was on the tapis was speedily
opened up. As Clark walked away he saw a man onthe
aay side of the street crouching behind a shutter-

Ox.

Clark was an old-time detective and did not need to
listen to a volume of explanations. He at once asso-
ciated the chap dodging behind the shutter-box, with
the sudden movement and commandof Bruce Angelo,

Clark knew his business well, and set to “pipe” the
man behind the box.

All the incidents above described occurred within a
few seconds, and Clark had only time to note the facts
above indicated and resolve upon his course, when the
fellow stole forth from behind the shutter-box and
moved stealthily forward in the direction pursued by
Bruce Angelo.

In the meantime Bruce Angelo was not acting unad-
visedly. While talking with his friend Clark, he had
seen a man pass under the glare of a gas-light upon the
opposite side of the street. He had recognized the man
at a glance as Mohawk, the Indian assassin. He had
seen the fellow dodge behind the shutter-box, and sur-
mised that the Indian was on a death-trail.

Bruce, as declared by his action upon the occasion,

termined to give the assassin a chance.

had taken place pretty well up town, an
ed down a side street toward the North er.

He intended to give his pursuer every possible chance,
and had determined to deliberately walk to a place
most convenient for a secret murder. He knew his own
game, and was prepared to play it to the end.

the detective started upon his lead off with the Indian
assassin at his heels.

There were no docks or wharves at the spot where he
ee down to the river, but a natural shore of sand and
rocks.

Bruce knew that it was necessary to pretend some
object, and upon reaching the river-shore he commenced
to search around as though looking for a lost article.

Little did the detective dream that his petended search
was destined to result in a strange discovery.

He had spent some few moments digging in the sand
with the toe of his boot, when he cast a covert glance
around to discover just where his would-be murderer
was dodging. <

The Indian was nowhere in sight, and as the detective
made the discovery his boot crushed against something
that was hollow. He picked it up, and found that he
held in his hand a lady’s reticule.

“Something the waves have washed ashore,” he mut-
tered; and, upon turning it over, he discovered that it
contained some articles.

He had no time to examine it at the moment, but de-
termined to keep it for future examination. In the
meantime he began to wonder what had become of his
pursuer. ;

He glanced around him, and calculated that it would
take a pretty good shot and a long-bearing pistol to
reach him from any covert that came under the range of
his vision.

“J reckon that the red fellow is waiting for me above

to-night.”

He referred to a pile of rocks, behind which a man
who had a treacherous purpose could easily hide.

Half an hour passed, and the detective had seen noth-
ing of his would-be assassin, and had come to the con-
clusion that the fellow had given over the game, when
he saw the figure of a man coming down the beach.

The detective recognized his man, despite the dis-
tance and the darkness, long before his face was dis-
cernible.

The fellow had changed his apparel, but the detective
recognized him all the same.

Mohawk came along, and, accosting the detective,
said :

«Want to hire a boat to-night, boss ?”

“Yes, I do.”

“ve a boat to take you out on the river.”

“J want to go over to the Jersey shore.”

“All right, [can take you over.”

«What will you charge ?”

‘Half a dollar.” ;

«)’m your passenger; where is your boat ?”

«Come along; my boat is just above here.”

The Indian led his intended victim along the shore a
short distance, and came to a place where a boat and
oars were in readiness.

«Get in and take your oars.”

«You get in first, and I will shove the boat off.”

Bruce Angelo was on his guard; his watchful eyes
noted every movement of the Indian.

They both got in the boat; the Indian took the oars,
and pulled with a lusty stroke out into the stream.

When some distance from the shore, Mohawk sudden-
ly ceased rowing, leaped up in the boat, and at the
same instant raised one of the oars aloft.

The decisive moment had arrived, but Bruce Angelo
was equal to the occasion. Without rising or exhibiting
the least excitement, he said, in a calm voice:

“Sit down, Mohawk; don’t attempt any capers—I’ve
got you covered.”

The Indian still held the oar half suspended in the
air, but at the mention of his name a curse fell from his
lips, and he said: :

“You know me ?”

“Certainly ; and I know why you have been dogging
me, and I’m ready for you.” ;

Mohawk was a powertul fellow, and he attempted to
strike the detective down.

Bang! spoke the revolver, and the oar fell from the
assassin’s hand.

The detective could have killed him, but did not choose
to do so.

As the oar fell from the Indian’s wounded hand, the
detective said:

«Sit down, or the next ball goes through your heart!”

The Indian sat down and dipped his wounded hand in
the water; then drawing a handkerchief, he bound up
the wounded member, and said :

«You were too much for me.”

«Yes; I’m used to such rogues as yourself.”

«You know me ?”

ee] do.”

Piet know why I have been dogging you ?”

se res. ?

“Who are you?”

“Ts it possible that the man who hired you did not tell
you who I was?”

“He did not; he pointed you out to me, that was all.”

“You are an outspoken Villain. You do not attempt
to deny te aa

«Why should 1? You’re too much for me.”

«And you do not know me ?”

“T do not.”

«“T am Bruce Angelo,”

«The detective ?”

«“That’s my line of business.”

«This is a nice go for me ?”

“You can get out of the box you are in.”

“HOw so ?”

“By giving your employer dead away.”

“T can’t do that.”

“J know the man who set you on to this deed.”

“JT can’t help that.”

“Then you want to go to prison ?”

“No; but I suppose I’ve got to.”

The detective was not deceived by the assassin’s appa-
rent ready submission. He knew that Mohawk was only
waiting for a chance,

It was evident that Brutone had not let him know the
character of the man he was to lay out, and it was
owing to the latter fact that the Indian had gone in such
a bungling manner about his job.

CHAPTER XXIX.
TEST OF CONFIDENCE.

‘Tll tell you one thing, Mohawk, there is no show for
you. Iknow you through and through, and I do not
propose to give you a chance.”

‘ath not looking for any chances.”

“Oh, yowre very docile, but let me tell you, old man,
the chances are that you will hang.”

“No, sir; I know the penalty for what you’ve got the
dead wood on me for.”

“You do, eb ?”

“Yes, I do.”

«Allow me to Say that you are mistaken,”

«J can’t be mistaken; it’s you who must be under a
mistake, if you think I’ve been in any other jobin which
you were interested.”

“Oh, you had nothing to do with putting a certain
handsome young girl out of the way ?”

“Brutone did that job himself. I was engaged to do
it, but weakened.”

The last hope that the detective had indulged faded
from his heart. He had trusted that there was a possi-
bility that Grace Luqueer had only been kidnapped, but,
alas! the cool admission of the Indian established the
unquestionable fact that the fair girl had. been foully
murdered.

“Youadmit that you were engaged to murder the

12”

“T do not know as you andTare talking about the
same girl. One thing I do know—Brutone spoke to me
about putting a certain girl out of the way.”

«Pid he name the victim ?”

“No; alk he said was that she was young, and hand-
some, and dangerous.”

‘“‘Why did you not take the job ?”

“While we were negotiating, as he subsequently
told me, circumstances took a certain turn that com-
pelled him to do the job himself.”

‘‘He told you so ?”

‘He said he did not require my services, as the job was
done.”

«You are a cold-blooded villain, Mohawk !”

“T need money.”

«And you would take human life to obtain it ?”

The Indian laughed and said ;
oid ‘You would not believe me it I were to tell you some-

ng.”

“IT might believe you.”

“Tf the girl had been left to me she would not have
been dead now.”

“Why ?”

«“T would not have killed her.”

“What would you have done ?”

“Kept her outof the way until I got hold of the
money.”

“And then ?”

«T should have let her go free.”

‘And you expect me to believe what you say ?”

“No; I told you I did not expect you to do so.”

«You would have murdered me in cold blood. I have
evidence of that.”

“I would not have murdered you. I merely meant to
frighten you, let you into the secret, get you to lay low
until I hac got the money, and then you could have come
out all free and clear.”

“T will be?)«7e as much of that nonsense as I choose.”

“You can beiieve as little as you choose, but if you
were willing to believe me it would be to your own inter-
est.”

“How ?”

“You are 1 detective ?”

“ok Oi,”

«You are ‘piping’ Brutone ?”

Oe en

«Suppose now you were dead.”

Wel?”

“These men would step out from cover.”

“The detective caught the Indian’s idea, and said :

«You area cunning rascal!”

“IT am showiag you how you can yet outwit your
man.”

“And how y acan get the money ?”

“Yes; but that does not concern you, aS long as you
get your own advantage.”

“This is a very nice little dodge, Mohawk, to escape
the penalty for your attempt to assassinate me,”

 

was a man who thought and decided quickly. He de-

The meeting between our hero and his friend Clark
Angelo start- |

As stated, it was at a point pretty well up town where |

there,” he soliloquized ; ‘‘but I am not walking that way |

 

say.
The detective did not look upon it in that light, how-
ever; even before Mohawk had spoken, Bruce Angelo
had made up his mind to avail himself of the Indian’s
attempt upon his life.

«What dependence could I place upon you 2”

‘All in the world. In the first place, Iam at your
mercy. In the next place, I’d rather be in your service
than Brutone’s. I’ve no love for Brutone or the man be-
hind him ; you can put me to the test.”

“T will trust you, and if you prove loyal to me, you
will make money, although I do not fancy making terms
with a murderer.”

«You can set your conscience easy on that score.
not a murderer. My hands are clean. I would not have
murdered you! I mean it. I amon the ‘make,’ that’s
all, and I’d be the proudest man in New York to serve
you.”

“T will trust you just once.”

The two men headed their boat for shore, the detective
acting as oarsman.

Once ashore, the Indian said :

«You must trust me now.”

“T have agreed to do so.”

“T must have something to show.”

“To whom ?”

«The man who engaged me to lay you out.”

«Your hand is something to show,” said the detective,
with a quiet laugh.

“JT want something from the body.”

. “Ah, Isee; and I will show you, Mohawk, that Iam
about to trust you. Here is my watch: it has my name
engraved on it, and the testimonial inscription.”

“Are you going to trust me with that watch ?”

“Tam; and here is my pocket-book, with some identi-
fying papers in it; take both.”

The Indian took the articles, with the remark :

“You will never regret your confidence in me.”

I'm

CHAPTER XXX.
EXCHANGE OF SIGNALS.

The two men held afew moments’ conversation and
separated.

The detective determined to put his man to the test
that very night, and as soon as they were out of sight of
each other our hero started on arun and made his way
direct to the residence of James Weston.

Before starting off he had held afew moments’ talk
with his partner, who had obeyed instructions and had
followed to the water’s edge without being discovered ;
indeed the two detectives had exchanged signals at the
very moment Bruce Angelo was entering the boat with
the Indian.

The detective, while pretending to be talking with the
assassin, was really conveying secret information to his
friend, instructing him not to interfere, as everything
was all right and ‘“‘hunky,” as the term goes.

The detective reached the Weston residence, and
boldly effected an entrance into the house by the same
road he had chosen when he first forced his way in to
look at the face in the coffin.

The mansion was occupied by James Weston and
Brutone alone. It was aremarkable fact that the pre-
tended owner of the place was a great student, an om-
niverous reader, aS well as a deep-dyed Villain.

It was buta simple matter for Bruce Angelo to con-
ceal himself in that great house after having once
gained an entrance.

The purpose of the officer was to test the honesty of
the Indian at once.

He did not have long to wait. It was after midnight,
and yet James Weston was sitting wide-awake in his
library.

The detective had been in the house less than an hour,
when he heard a night-key turn in the front door, and a
moment later two men entered.

One the detective judged to be Brutone; the second
he decided was the Indian ; and circumstances later on
proved both his surmises correct.

Mohawk was left standing in the hall, while Brutone
proceeded direct to the library.

Brutone was all smiles, and as his pale face was re-
vealed under the glare of light in the room, his em-
ployer noticed his evident glee, and asked:

‘Well, what news do you bring ?”

«The best in the world. Our enemy is out of the way.
Mohawk did the business.”

“You have the man’s word only.”

“The man has come with me, and bears with him the
proofs of the deed.”

“He is here ?”

“Yes?

“Why did you bring him here ?”

‘He would not treat with me. He wants his money

sat once.”

«You had no business to bring the man here.”

“JT could not help it. He insisted upon coming.”

“JT do not wish to be known in the matter.” y

“You need have no fear. A confession to you will
give us a better hold on the Indian.”

«IT suppose it can’t be helped now. Let him come in.”

“It is better to have him come in; but, if you insist, I
will tell him you refuse to see him.”

“No; let him come in to see me.”

The Mohawk was shown into the room.

The two men were not strangers, although it had been
a great many years since they had met.

The Indian acted in an excited and nervous manner.

The moment he entered the room, Weston observed
his wounded hand, and asked :

‘What does that mean ?”

«7 had a desperate fight.”

«With whom ?”

‘The man who at this moment lies at the bottom of
the North River.”

“What man lies there?’ demanded Weston, inno-
cently.

“You should know; and I’ve one thing to say—you
should have told me who the man was you had set me
to remove.”

“My dear fellow, I do not understand you; so you had
better tell your story.”

«“T want my money before I tell any story.”

«Your money for what ?”

A fierce look flashed in the Indian’s eyes, as he said :

«Do you mean to trick me ?” and at the same moment
he drew a knife from his clothes.

«“No one wishes to trick you.”

«Your conduct will soon show.”

Pointing toward Brutone, the Indian continued:

“That man hired me to put a certain man out of the
way.’

“Well ?”

“JT had a desperate fight. I came near losing my own
life. I did not know who the man was until after I had
killed him.”

“Ts he dead ?”

“He is dead.”

«This is your story. What proofs have you?”

“JT have proofs.” ;

“Show them.”

«First let me tell you it will prove a dangerous game
for any one to go back on me.”

“No one wishes to go back on you.”

«Shall I receive the money when I furnish proofs that
I have done the job ?”

«Who did you make your bargain with ?”

«That man there.”

«You must look to him for your pay.”

«Enough! I will leave.”

“Hold! Do not go.”

“‘T will not be fooled.”

“What do you want ?”

“My pay guaranteed.”

«Show the proofs, and you shall have your money.”

“The prooss are here\”

CHAPTER XXXI.
FEAR OF TREACHERY.
Mohawk, as he spoke, produced the detective’s wallet,

| containing money and other papers.

“Great Heaven!” cried Brutone, as he beheld the
pocket-book, ‘‘the deed is surely done!”

James Weston also betrayed considerable excitement.

What further proof have you?” asked Weston.

The Indian produced the detective’s watch.

A look of triumph overspread Weston’s face, as he
took the watchin his hand and examined it carefully,
reading the inscription and other engraved proofs of its
ownership.

«Are you Satisfied now ?”

James Weston was satisfied, but he was a mean-
spirited villain, and did not wish to admit at that mo-
ment that he really was satisfied.

“You have produced pretty good evidence, but the
real proof is yet to come,”

«What more proof do you desire ?”

“T must gaze upon the body of the dead man.”

«You never can do that. The body of Bruce Angelo
will never come to the surface until it is past all possi-
bility of identification.”

«Where is the body ?”

«At the bottom of the Hudson.”

«You should not have made that disposal of it,” said
Weston.

“IT was compelled to protect myself. Bruce Angelo
missing would be a mystery, but Bruce Angelo found
murdered, and the whole country would be aroused ;
every detective in this land would be upon the track of
his murderers. J acted in your interest as well as my
own.”

“How in my interest ?”

“If 1am ever arrested for the murder I will confess
all!”

‘What will you confess ?”

“T will confess who employed me to do the murder.”

i ee most innocent tone imaginable James Weston
asked :

“Who did employ you to do the murder ?”

‘Two men who will themselves be corpses in less than
three weeks, if any attempt is made to fool with me!”
came the flerce reply from the Indian.

«What! dare you threaten ?”

“Yes; I dare threaten.”

‘You have not received your pay yet.”

“7 will receive it.”

“Not if you start off to recover it by uttering threats.”

“When I threatenIl know just what responsibility 1
assume, and you might as well know, first as last, that
Iam not to be trified with.”

“You will receive your money.”

“When ?”

“To-morrow.”

“At what time and place ?”

«Brutone will arrange that.”

“T will not accept the money from Brutone. You must
pay me that money yourself in person.”

Weston reflected a few moments, and then said:

“Tf you look upon it in that‘light, !ve nothing more to

 

“T will pay you to-night.”

“J am not prepared to receive the money to-night.”
‘ “Why will you not receive your money now and
here ?”

“T will not trust you.”

‘«‘What have you to fear ?”

«Treachery !”

“I will never offer the money to you again.”

“We will see,” said the Indian. and he turned on his
heel and moved toward the door.

Brutone stepped close to Weston and whispered:

“Do not let that man leave at your peril, unless he be
Satisfied.”
“Pve nothing to do with him. I am only acting for
OU. »

 

The Indian reached the front door and passed out into
the street.

The moment the door was heard to close after him
Brutone said:

“Trouble will come of this.”

“To you, not to me.”

“I understand you, James Weston, but you may drive
me to turn against you along with the Indian.”

“T am not afraid of your turning against me ; nortam I
afraid of Mohawk. I have the halter dangling over the
heads of both you wretches, and if you fool with me, or
threaten, the halter will surely tighten round your
throats !”

“You May scare me, Mr. Weston, but you will find it
we to scare = oars like the Mohawk.”

“df you would save yourself, scare him for me; I’
time to bother with him.” we

James Weston had become wonderfully independent.
With Grace Luqueer and the detective, Bruce Angelo,
out of the way, he felt that he could defy the world.

He was a man of great nerve, and had played all his
cards very cunningly. He had never, knowingly, had
any witnesses present. He had permitted Brutone to
dispose of Grace Luqueer. He had employed Brutone to
secure the services of Mohawk.

The man thought he had the whole game in his own
hands from first to last.

‘Do you mean to refuse to pay the Indian ?”

“No; did I not offer to pay him to-night ?”

“But will you not agree to his terms ?”

‘I will agree to nothing ; to-morrow you can hunt him
up and pay the money to him. I will have nothing more
to do with the fellow.”

Brutone retired from the room, and James Weston sat
for a long time congratulating himself upon the success
of his plans.

In the meantime the detective had stolen from the
house, and had met Mohawk as though by accident.

“Hello, Mohawk !”

‘Hello !” responded the Indian.

io you have been to see James Weston ?”

SFOS?”

«And he has gone back on you ?”

“How do you know ?”

The detective repeated a large part of the conversa-
tion that had occurred between the three villains.

-‘How in thunder did you get all your information 2”
asked Mohawk.

“Ah! Pve a way for picking up news. But now you
have an idea of the real position you would bein had
you succeeded in putting me out of the way.”

You are right. I was dealing with a meaner crimi-
nal than myself.”

CHAPTER XXXII.
STARTLING EXCLAMATION.

Upon the day following the incidents just described,
Bruce Angelo made a wonderful discovery.

_The detective had secured the reticule found upon the
river-shore, and had put it away without examining its
contents. .

At the time mentioned in the opening paragraph of
this chapter, Bruce Angelo was sitting in hisroom, when
he suddenly recollected the reticule.

Upon returning to his room the previous night he had
tossed it on his bureau, and had retired, and slept until
far into the morning.

Before opening the reticule he had not expected to
make any wonderful discovery, but in a moment he was
all excitement. "

The very first article he took -from the reticule was a
lady’s handkerchief, and on its border was marked the
full name, Grace Luqueer.

Had the missing, or dead, girl appeared to him in per-
son, her presence could not have caused him greater
pe than did the finding of the marked handker-
chief.

“Great Heaven!” he cried; ‘“‘what’does this mean ?”
And with trembling hands he placed the contents of the
reticule upon the table.

Upon looking over the articles, the detective found a
card-case containing the name and address of Grace Lu-
queer, and numerous other little articles, all evidently
the property of the missing girl.

AS the reticule had been found upon the river-shore,
the natural inference was that the beautiful girl had be-
come a victim of the assassins. :

The detective paced the room for some minutes in
deep reflection ; but at length he again seated himself at
the table, and commenced mechanically to look over
the visiting cards which he had tossed out from the
case.

One of these cards proved to have some writing on it
in lead-pencil.

The detective read the writing, when, with a wild cry,
he sprang to his feet.

The card had unfolded a terrible revelation! Indeed,
it had been written upon to be found as a record, in
case the writer should be missing.

The writing was in a fine hand, and read as follows -

“T am about to enter a boat with a man at the foot of
— street. He is a stranger, but has represented to me
that he is sent to me from Frank Baldwin, my brother-
in-law. Jam suspicious of his purpose, and I shall cast
my reticule upon the shore, in hopes thatif I never re-
turn, it will be found and delivered to Bruce Angelo, de-
tective. GRACE LUQUEER.’

The excitement of the detective as he read the fateful
letter was almost bewildering.

‘That settles it!” he said—‘‘that settles it! The girl
has been murdered! But, thank Heaven! I have a clew
to the manner of her death; and, as I live, I will track
and identify the assassin !”

Bruce Angelo left the house and proceeded directly to
the foot of the street named on the card.

The detective remembered that he had found the ret-
icule at the foot of the very street named, and he se-
cured a boat and rowed across the river toward the Jer-
sey shore, on a direct line from his point of starting.

Upon reaching the opposite shore he commenced a
sharp search.

He had been searching for some time along the shore,
closely examining every footstep and imprint of every
description, when suddenly he became aware that he
was being watched.

He had suddenly come upon a human shadow, which
vanished just at the moment his eyes were fixed
upon it.

The discovery caused him a little annoyance, but he
did not attach much importance to the incident, as he
was well aware that his actions must naturally have
aroused the curiosity of any chance observer.

Bruce advanced to discover if he could find the orig-
inal of the shadow he had seen, but the party had
dodged out of sight, and, after an interval, he resumed -
his observations.

At length he came to a spot where he made an im-
portant discovery. The water dripping down from a
wall of rock had formed, for quite a space around, a
soft, loamy surface, and there, plainly indicated in the
mire, was the imprint of a lady’s shoe.

Carefully the detective stepped over to more closely
examine the imprint, when he was startled by hearing
a voice exclaim :

“Now, murderer, Pve got you!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

> @~<~—_—
A GOOD MOTHER.

One good mother is worth a hundred schoolmasters.
In the home she is loadstone to all hearts and loadstar
to all eyes. Imitation of her is constant—imitation
which Bacon likens to a ‘globe of precepts.” It is in-
struction ; it is teaching without words, often exempli-
fying more than tongue can teach. In the face of bad
example, the best precepts are of but little avail. The
example is followed, not the precepts. Indeed precept
at variance with practice is worse than useless, inas-
much as it only serves to teach that most cowardly of
vices—hypocrisy. Even children are judges of hypocrisy,
and the lessons of the parent who says one thing and
does the opposite are quickly seen through. The teach-
ing of the triar was not worth much who preached the
virtue of honesty with a stolen goose in bis sleeve.

> Oe~<+

WHERE FOOD IS FRESH.

City Boarder—‘‘The breakfast was not what I expect-
ed. I don't like coffee without cream or milk, and you
had neither butter nor eggs on the table.”

Honest Farmer—‘‘Well, yaas, that was a kind of a
miscalculation, you see. Sometimes we run short of
butter, and eggs, and milk at night. and then can’t have
any for breakfast ; but we allers has plenty for dinner.”

City Boarder—‘‘I don’t see how that can be.”

Honest Farmer—‘‘Well, you see the train from the
city don’t get here til after ten o’clock.”

>-o-~

‘LET "EM CLIMB,”

“Tcan’t keep my girls from climbing cherry trees,”
writes an anxious mother; ‘‘what shall I do about it?”

Well, mother, you can tie them to the bedpost, or to
your apron string, but our advice is, ‘‘let’em climb.” It
doesn’t cost any more to set a girl’s armor leg thana
boy’s, and grow apetie! can cling as well as boys, and
when they grow up their clinging capacities will be ap-
preciated.

—_—->- @ ~+—_________

A DISINFECTANT.

Impregnation of the atmosphere of’ a sick-chamber,

when the patient is ill of diphtheria, measles, scarlet
fever, or of any contagious disease, with the odor of a
mixture of equal parts of turpentine and carbolic acid is
recommended. Half a teaspoonful of the mixture will
be enough ata time, ifitis put into a kettle of water
kept near the boiling point.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

v

~

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #2

 

 

eat

New

NEW YORK, AUGUST 18, 1884.
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
3 months (postage free) 75¢ | 2 copies (postage free) $5.00
A MMOUINS ec os ot SOD 4 Contes ss eke Doe
T Vents BO st he ee ys BOOS .CGptee > 20.00
All letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,

P. 0. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N.Y.

 

A New Story by a Popular Author.

A remarkably entertaining story will be commenced

next week, under the title of

TWICH AN TEIRESS;

OR,

The Prophecy Fulfilled

By LUCY RANDALL COMFORT.

Author of “GRATIA’S TRIALS,” “THE WID-
OWED BRIDE,” etc., etc.

The heroine, the younger of two sisters, is forced to
desert the home of her childhood through a combina-
tion of depressing circumstances. Her pluck and amia-
bility make friends for her in the new and exciting life
she has chosen, but her beauty arouses the envy and
merciless malignity of

A TREACHEROUS WOMAN,

who cannot bear to see the man she loves lavish his
adoration upon another.

The story is vivacious and powerful, and the reader
follows the course of events with deep interest.

“TWICE AN IigrREss” is one of Lucy RANDALL CoM-
roRT’s most entertaining stories, asd many will con-
sider it her best production. Be sure to read the open-
ing installment, next week.

od

HE NEVER SHIRKED,

.
BY KATE THORN.

They were laying an old manin the grave in one of
our suburban cemeteries.

There were no carriages—only the undertaker and his
men, and the minister, who read the always solemn
formula:

«Ashes to ashes—dust to dust.”

They were filling in the grave as we passed by, and
one of the laborers, as he rested a moment for breath
and pushed back his hat for air, remarked to his com-
rade:

“Well, Jim, old Martin here warn’t none of yer high-
flown gentry, but there’s one thing about it—he never
shirked !”

It requires a grand nature to go through life without
shirking. It isthe heart of a hero which never quails.
No matter how full of courage and faith aman may be,
there will come to him seasons of doubt, and perplexity,
and weakness, and he will feel an insane desire to fling
down the burden and end it all there, even though the
end should mean the despair of total annihilation.

The man who never shirks is akin to the gods.

He is willing to do his part, and to help others who are
weaker than himself. He is not afraid of the future. He
does not want to forget the past. He is satisfied with
the present.

He is ready to lead an army on to victory. He is
ready to accept defeat with an unbroken front, if it
comes in the line of destiny. He knows that trials and
troubles are the natural order of things, and he does not
sigh for a ‘“‘bare bodkin” to emancipate himself.

He is resigned and calm when his wife asks him to
put up that clothes-line, and split the kindling-wood for
morning. He possesses his soul in patience, and “‘in all
things gives thanks to God,” when the soup is burned
to the bottom of the kettle, and he is obliged to eat cold
beans and yesterday’s flapjacks for dinner.

He does not shirk when the gas bill, and the plumber’s
bill, and the milliner’s bill come in, and he finds each of
them about three times what he expected it would be,
and twice what it ought to be. He bravely puts by the

idea he has been entertaining of a whole box of prime
Havanas, and pays the bills in full, and does not twit
his wife with her ruinous extravagance, nor give her a
single hint about poor-houses and bankruptcy.

The man who never skirks can face the contribution-
box three times on a Sunday without looking the other
way, or having a fit of sneezing when Deacon Jones
thrusts it insinuatingly under his nose. He can pass a
dentist’s office without being weak inthe knees. He
can meet the man to whom he owes five dollars, and
speak about the obligation before his creditor does. He
can say No when his friends offer him the social glass,
and not feel mean in saying it.

He can stand up like a man when the truth demands
it, and, if necessaty, he can strike right out from the
shoulder when innocence is assailed.

And in whatever walk of life he may be, there is no
truer friend, no better citizen, no more valuable mem-
ber of society, no man Whom we reverence and admire
so utterly and entirely, as the man who never shirks.

o-~<

The Man of Cheek.

Modest men, whose chief drawback in life has been
the lack of confidence and audacity, will derive pleasure
and profit from reading ‘‘THE JOURNAL OF A JOLLY DRUM-
MER,” the opening pages of which are given this week,
on the eighth page. The persevering and energetic
scribe, it will be noted, possesses the combined qualifi-
cations of the unbiquitous class he represents; and his
illimitable assurance, his heroic indifference while en-
during the frowns of fortune, his coolness under circum-
stances that would almost exasperate a saint, will be
appreciated by all who have come within range of the
voluble tongue of this champion romancer and artful
wheedler.

“The Jolly Drummer’ is a droll character, and his ex-
periences will serve to embalm him in the temple of
fame as an exact type of the man of cheek.

———_—_>-@+ +

A Bright and Entertaining Paper.

The new evening paper of Scranton, Pa., the Truth,
is rapidly advancing in circulation and» influence.
Although only about three months in existence, its
daily issue already exceeds ten thousand copies. Its
popularity is well deserved, for it. presents in compact
form the important news of theday, from all parts of
the world, while especial prominence is given to the
notable events of the immediate vicinity. The editor of
the Scranton Truth is JoHN E. BARRETT, One of the most
experienced journalists of the country, and a ready and
vigorous ‘writer. He has decided views on all the lead-
ing topicsof the time, and is not backward in clearly
and promptly expressing them.

BLEEDING HEART.
BY THEO. D. C. MILLER, M. D.

The roses have faded, the lilies have withered,
The daisies are scattered o’er mountain. and lea,

The harebells have gone and the tulips d@parted,
And bleeding hearts only are left unto me.

New roses may bloom and fair lilies may blossom,
And daisies may come again fairer to view ;

The harebell may charm and the tulip smile sweetly,
But only the bleeding heart ever proves true,

The lilac’s perfume and daffodil’s beauty
Are scattered in sweetness o’er ivy and rue ;
The cypress may charm and cinquetoil cheer us,
But, pinks in perfection are fairer to view.
The lilacs may fade and the daffodil wither,
The ivy and rue with their brightness decay ;
The cypress may die and the cinquefoil languish,
Fair pinks and the bleeding heart only will stay.

Life’s roses may fade and our fondest hopes wither
Like flowers in their sweetness they soon must decay.
We catch but a glimpse of the bliss in the future,
And joys that are purest are swept far away.
Our roses may brighten and fond hopes may cheer us,
Like flowers that grow fairer when kissed by the dew;
The bliss in the future may bless us with pleasures,
But only the bleeding heart ever proves true.

UNDER FALSE COLORS.

BY M. A. AVERY.

Our friend Harry Halpine was neither rich, particu-
larly polished, nor very handsome, and yet he was so
genial and kind-hearted that no one could help liking him,
and he could, I do believe, have had his choice out of all
the pretty girlsin Gleneden. But somehow it so hap-
pened that he and Alice Logan were always getting in
each other’s way, and as her mother was a widow, and her
only brother away at school, and she had no one to wait
on her to parties, picnics, meetings, and singing-schools,
he could not help feeling her need of astrong arm to
lean upon, and offering one on a good many occasions.
Alice was sensible, and a good scholar, and though not
a brilliant girl, she was certainly a very sweet and lovely
one. Of small proportions, she was slender and grace-
ful as a willow, with dark-brown hair, peach-blossom
cheeks, and dove-like eyes, but rather diffident and con-
strained in her manners. In society she was generally
shy and reserved, though social enough among the girls,
some of whom said, rather jealously, perhaps, that
“Alice could talk fast enough when she could get Hal
Halpine all to herself.”

However that may have been, he paid her a great deal
of attention, and though it was far from the truth, a
good many people thought they were engaged. But
just at that time the war broke out, and having few
home-ties, as his parents were dead, Harry felt it to be
his duty to enlist as a soldier in the cause of the Union.

Brave and energetic, Harry did the best of service for
his country all through the war. He had wounds, and
sickness, defeats, captures, imprisonments, victories,
and all the varied fortunes attendant on a soldier’s life,
but he came out colonel of his regiment in the end, with
the reputation of being a brave and able officer, and a
thorough Christian. He had also had one singular piece
of fortune, which though pleasant enough in some re-
spects, was very sad in others. A valiant young officer,
whose warm friendship he had won, was afterward taken
sick and tenderly cared for by Harry through a short but
distressing illness. He was wealthy, though Harry did
not know it until afterward; and having no relatives or
friends who were dearer, he, in his last hours on earth,
willed to Harry a handsome fortune.

The news of this event had not preceded the young
colonel when he came home, after the war was over;
and he thought he would see who cared most for him,
without the gold to lift him into favor, before he pro-
claimed it. Whenever he had been home on a furlough
previous to this time, he paid Alice about the same at-
tention as usual, but not more. Aware of the insecurity
of his own life and health, and knowing he had no
wealth to secure immunity from want to those he
would leave behind him, he thought it would be wrong
to imperil the future of any woman he loved.

But when at last he came home to stay, the report
met him within an hour that Alice had another: ad-
mirer; so for a day or two he nursed his jealousy and
avoided her. And when at last they did meet at the
door of the church on Sunday morning, though every
one else saw her stiles and blushes, her fitful color
and the joy shining out of her violet eyes, he saw noth-
ing of it, beeause his eyes were in a sudden eclipse.
For there, just beside her, stood one of the most bril-
liant and beautiful women he had ever beheld, with
great lustrous black eyes, long curling golden hair, a
fine creamy complexion, lips like coral, teeth like a
string of beautiful pearls, cheeks like damask roses,
and a form like a Venus. The contrast between the
two was, indeed, like that between a magnificent rose
tree of stately proportions, and a little modest violet.

What wonder was it, then, that Harry, foolish fellow,
was completely dazzled and bewildered, or that, colonel
though he was, and brave as a lionin battle, he should
scarcely know his head from his heels when somebody
presented him to Mrs. Blondel.

The lady was tastefully dressed in half mourning,
with plenty of ornaments in glittering jet, and her
whole appearance was exceedingly stylish and attrac-
tive. He learned afterward that she was the widow of
an army officer, with whom he had been acquainted,
and whom he highly respected. She lived in the city,
but having an acquaintance in Mrs. Gray, who kept a
public-house in Gleneden, she had come out there to
visit her, and, delighted with the beauty of the place
and the friendliness of the people, she had concluded to
take board for the summer. P

As Harry’s Aunt Rachel, with whom he was staying,
lived just opposite, he from that time frequently saw
the charming young widow, and in her fascinating so-
ciety he almost forgot sweet Alice Logan’s existence; or
when he did think of her it was with a feeling of pain,
and pity, and self-reproach, because he knew well that
she had refused another—a good and noble man, too—
out of regard for him.

The widow was very demure and shy at first, as was
proper for the occasion; but very soon, with tearful
eyes that glittered like diamonds wet with dew, she
would talk mournfully to Colonel Halpine about the
early blight that had fallen upon her earthly prospects,
and of the kindness'and nobleness of her lost husband.
She was well read, and could talk so eloquently upon al-
most every subject, that Harry grew more and more
fascinated every day.

But the lady, although she tried it, failed to propitiate
Aunt Rachel, who told Harry, plainly, that it was her
private opinion that the woman was nothing more or
less than a ‘“‘privateer, sailing under false colors,” and
that he had better beware. He was very indignant at
these insinuations, and would not listen to them for a
moment. He was sure she was a noble and lovely
woman, superior to any he had ever met, and he could
not keep away from herif he tried. So he bought an
elegant horse and carriage, and rode, and walked, and
talked, and sang with her almost every day. He did
not tell her that he passionately loved her, or beseech
her to allow him to devote his life to her service, that
he might in some small measure console her for the loss
of the dear departed, though the thought was forever
in his heart, and only by a strong effort ot the will kept
from slipping from his tongue. It would be impossible,
he refiected, for one who was so fondly devoted to the
memory of her lost husband to transfer her affections to
another, and it would be folly to ask it. This being so,
he felt as if he ought to go away, and forget her if he
could. But how could he do this and live?

So day after day, and week after week, like a silly
moth around a candle, he hovered, with scorched wings,
around this brilliant woman, getting more helpless every
day to contend against her fascinations, and, as she
thought, wholly in her power.

Alice Logan pined and grew pale as she saw it going
on, and when she could bear it no longer, she took a
school in another town to get out of the way of the ag-
gravation. As time went on, the beautiful widow seem-
ed to forget her desolation at times, in the charm of
Colonel Halpine’s society, and would be so gay and bril-
liant as fairly to disconcert and surprise him.

“JT don’t know what ails me, I am sure,” she said to
him one day, after one of these mirthful visitations; “I
haven’t laughed so much in three years, I do believe, as
I have to-day. You are the very best person I ever saw,
Colonel Halpine, to charm away grief and sadness,” and
with a shy, languishing glance and rosy cheek, she
turned very modestly away.

“Oh, why may not I be the one to charm it always!”
were the words that rushed to his lips; but diffidence,
or, it may be, a higher power, prevented his saying
them, although he was provoked with himself for losing
that fine opportunity for declaring his love.

A day or two after this there was a memorial service
for its dead soldiers to be held in the church of a neigh-
boring town, some seven or eight miles from Gleneden,
to which Col. Halpine and Mrs. Blondel, always inter-
ested in army matters, decided to go.

AS it was sultry weather, they started quite early, be-
fore the morning mists had vanished from the landscape,
and when every leaf and blade of grass was spangled
with dew. The lady was in her gayest mood, and de-
lighted with everything.

“Oh, this is indeed a beautiful country, and a lovely
morning !” she exclaimed, as they were bowling along.
“The earth is robed in her garments of beauty; the
breezes must have blown over the vales of Cashmere,
and the blue vault above is so resplendent that one can
almost imagine the glories,of the world above us!”

The time was favorable for unburdening his heart and
learning his fate. He opened his lips to do so, when his
guardian angel laid her hand gently over them. His
courage failed, and the words he would have uttered did
not fall upon her thirsty ear, or mingle with the spicy
breezes. But he would do it on their way home, he fully
decided. He had courage enough to face the cannon’s
mouth, and why not that of this charming woman?

When they arrived in town he drove to a hotel, and

 

they partook of some refreshment after their early ride,

ordered the horse cared for, and then walked over to the
church, which they found crowded to its utmost capa-
city. The services were deeply interesting, but the
weather was so sulty, and the house so overcrowded
and ill-ventilated, that they could not half enjoy it. The
fans were creaking in every pew, the perspiration stand-
ing on every face.

At last Mrs. Blondel, who was laced into a stylish and
exceedingly tight-titting dress of black silk, began to
grow uneasy, complained of the heat to the colonel in a
whisper, and at last said she was faint, and could bear
it no longer.

Harry rose in an instant and led her into the aisle,
which was full of people ; then drawing her hand within
his arm, he attempted to make his way toward the door.
Before he got to it, however, she was sinking down,
and he was obliged to clasp her in his arms to prevent
her falling to the floor.

Several persons who were nearest at once started up
to assist them, and, somehow, he got her out of the
house upon the church steps, where it was shady; and
almost faint himself, and pale with emotion in spite of
the heat, he sat down beside her, with her head lying
helplessly upon his shoulder, while he supported her
with his arms.

In a momeet a fan, held by a white dainty hand, was
waving rapidly, but tremulously, before her, and an
other hand, a fitting mate for the other, was holding a
bottle of strong smelling-salts beneath the lady’s nose ;
while one man went to a neighboring house for water,
and the other, who had come out with them, went to
procure camphor.

To Harry’s great relief, after the application of restora-
tives she began to revive. He had feared she was dying.
Through it all, he had not noticed the fact that though
her brow and lips were very pale, her cheeks remained
asred as roses. But just at this juncture he noticed
that the perspiration was coming out in big drops all
over her face; so, taking out his white handkerchiet,
he proceeded with trembling hand to wipe it away.

Horror of horrors!’ With the moisture came off the
lilies and roses, leaving great sallow spots and streaks,
and the white linen that caught them became as red
and bright as if dyed in carmine. And poor Harry,
opening his eyes for the first time after their long
eclipse, saw not only that remarkable fact in natural
history, but also in the slightly opened mouth that the
pearly teeth he had admired so much were of man’s in-
genious invention, and that,the beautiful golden hair
was gray at the roots, as if it had forgotten its morning
bath of youthful color.

«And worst of all, and most to be deplored,” he saw,
with the deepest shame and mortification, that the agi-
tated yet pitying face that bent over them, the hand
that waved the tan and the other that held the smelling-
salts, belonged to sweet, self-sacrificing Alice Logan,
who never looked purer or lovelier than at that mo-
ment.

They looked into each other’s eyes for an instant, with
an indescribable expression in each eloquent face.

But the men were coming back with the camphor and
water, so with rare delicacy the fan was held before the
lady’s face, and the vail drawn over with the gentle hand,
just as she opened her eyes for the first time.

Alice took the water and placed it to her lips, and
thanked the gentleman as she returnedit. Then turn-
ing to Harry, she said, with flushed cheek:

“The lady is better, sir; will you please get a carriage
and take her home. I will sit by her side until you re-
turn with it.”

Harry at once took the hint, and resigned his place,
and as his team was in waiting, no long time elapsed be-
fore he was driving with all speed back to Gleneden with
the charming widow, his heart so full that Alice Logan
got scarcely a word of thanks. Mrs. Blondel was so
dazed, and upset, that the ride home was rather a silent
one, and the colonel somehow forgot to carry out the
resolution he had formed on the way to the memorial
service. The lady, of course, did not know exactly what
had occurred; but she somehow felt as if it had been
something unpleasant, judging from the changed de-
meanor of the gallant colonel on the way home. But
when she got there bade him adieu, went upto her room,
and looked casually in the mirror, she understood it all,
and her shame and mortification were overwhelming.

She spent the night in tears, for she knew that her

summer was wasted, her plans all defeated, by this un-
lucky exposure of the truth.
When the colonel called the next morning, as in duty
pound, to inquire after her health, he was told that Mrs.
Blondel had some unexpected summons, and had leit
Gleneden by the earliest morning train; and he was glad
to hear it. For with the mortifying knowledge of the
deception she had practiced, his passion for her had
evaporated as suddenly as it was conceived.

He ascertained afterward that her wonderful love for
her husband, and grief for his death, were just as arti-
ficial as all the rest ; and that her extravagance, coquetry,
and general disregard for his feelings, had driven him to
despair, and caused him to court death by enlisting in
the army of the Union.. Since her death she had been
doing ber best to win a wealthy husband, and having
heard of Colonel Halpine’s unexpected good fortune, she
had come to Gleneden on purpose to make his acquaint-
ance, and if possible capture his hand and fortune; and
but for the accidental revelation that her beauty was a
little too artistic, and her youth a deception, there is lit-
tle doubt that she would have succeeded. Though re-
joiced to be released from her thralldom, he could not
bear to have all Gleneden know just how it was done.
He admired the delicacy and generosity of Alice’s con-
duct under the circumstances, but did not feel quite sure
that she would not revenge herself a little by exposing
him. So that very day aletter was placed upon her desk,
that read as follows:

“DEAR ALICE :—Remembering your past friendship, can you
find itin your heart to pity the mortification, overlook the
folly, forget the infatuation, and forgive the neglect, of one
who has allowed himself to be so ously duped, a:
blinded, as myself ? Yours y;

“FH. H ALPINE. ”

And this was the reply:

“DEAR Sim :—Your secret is safe with me. We are all liable
to be deceived. Ican pity the mortification of a brave man
when once disenchanted, and released from thralldom ; and
rejoice with him, that he is once more free. But there is
nothing to forgive in your case, as every man has a —"
right to choose real or artificial roses, as suits him best.
“Yours, &c., ALICE.”

How the caprain made his peace with Alice we never
knew. Hevery soon began to build his elegant mansion,
and every body thought the charming widow was going
to be its mistress. But when at last it was finished
and handsomely furnished, to the surprise of all, he one
day brought Alice Logan home as his bride. The widow
was married some weeks after she reached the city, toa
rich but aged admirer of hers, and with his money she
is still coquetting in society.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
MUSTARD.

Tallent edukates tallent, but genius learns from the
gifts ov God.

If the ability to do wrong waz equal to the desire, the
devil could cloze this world out at a moment’s warning,
at hiz own price.

Thare iz nothing that the world stands so mutch in
need ov az religion, and nothing they hav got so mutch
Ov.

Perfekshun haz never been reached in this world—it
haz been approached ; this iz a strong argument in favor
ov a life hereafter.

Thare iz no strength in a lie, Idon’t kare how strong
it iz told.

Excess ov enny kind iz a weakness; too mutch ov
enny thing haz got less strength in it than too little.

When a man shows me hiz library and expashiates on
it, ipraze the bindings ov the books. and enquire the
number ov volumes; if there iz over two thousand ov
them, i put him down at onst aza man oy giant intel-
lekt and tremenjus kulture.

Cant iz the dishonesty ov enthuziasm and the impu-
dence ov hipokrasy biled down together. ;

Beware ov the man with haff shut eyes, who talks
thru hiz noze like a bileing tea kittle—at the best, he iz
a mild ded beat.

Yung man, whatever yu learn in this life yu hav got
to learn from yure own experience, or the experience ov
others; if yu hav got enny sense at all, yu kan tell
which ov theze two skools iz the cheapest.

Dancing, at best, iz trieing to tire out a phiddle—it
kant be did.

Things hav altered since the good old days ov Adam
and Eve; the man who waz in debt in thoze days waz
to be pittyed—nw it iz the kreditor who claims our sim-
pathys. ¥

Wimmin don’t luv each other for their buty ; in fakt,
it iz hard to tell what they do luv each other for. :

The pedigree that a man leaves, not the one he in-
herits, iz the one to trade on.

Thare iz just enuff atheists and infidels in the world
to sho that sutch people exist; thare iz no more now
than five centurys ago, and not enuff now to do the
least partikle hurt to Christianity.

A bachelor iz a life martyr, a living sacrafice, a piece
ov driftwood, anginsult to every species ov virginity.

A yung mizer iz amore painful sight to me than an
ideot. Avarice inkreases with age; deth iz the only
kure for it, and the struggle for life iz allwuss pro-
trakted. ;

Bashfullness in the yung iz an evidence ov purity in
the old; it often iz just az strong an evidence ov im-
purity.

Every man sets hiz own price on himself. It iz better
then to set it too hi than too low. We kan lower it
when we are obliged to, but kan’t allwuss raize it when
we hav aright to.

Thare are various kinds ov aristokrats in the world;
the grate majority ov them are bogus. I don’t reckolekt
now ov ever seeing a Single one who added enny honor
to the title.

I don’t beleave in total depravity; a kounterfit penny
even iz worth sumthing.

Avarice iz like ambishun; when it enters a man’s soul
it admits ov no partnership.

The middle course iz the safest; if yu step over either

 

ALWAYS DO YOUR BEST,

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

There is an old saw which says, ‘‘whatever is worth
doing at allis worth doing well.”

Like every other old saying it has some truth and some
error. We are often compelled to perform a task that,
in our own judgment, is not worth doing at all. But
being employed by others we are not consulted, It is
impossible for us to have the same heart in such a task
that we would in one which we approved. Or we begin
what promises to be worth our best endeavor, and,it
turns out disappointingly day by day, and our zeal cools
off ; we slight it; we experiment; we begin to get ready
to let go. Allof which is human nature. Or, at times,
our health is impaired, and yet we must go through the
motions of work, just the same, knowing all the while
that we are not doing worthy of our reputation. Or we
have a troubled mind, a sorrow at home, a fear gnawing
at our vitals, which just as surely paralyze the arm as
clouds can dim the brightest sun.

Yet, on the whole, the old rule stands At all events,
we can put it safely thus: I will always do my best.
That applies to every exception above noted. Itisa
better shape of the old saw.

A friend of mine, a clergyman, was invited to preach
in a little country church. He assented in a lazy way,
He thought it not worth while to do his best. That was
a great mistake; for a prominent member of a famous
city church,which was without a minister, drove twenty
miles that very morning from his country-seat to hear
my friend; and he was ‘‘weighed in the balances and
found wanting.” Yet the great church lost a prize, tor
my friend, at his best, is worthy of the great church.

A young machinist in N—— was given a job one day
by the master mechanic, ‘‘just to get rid of his teasing,”
for he was without work. It was drudgery, and given
with an insult. For the first half hour, he says, he
handled his file and hammer very carelessly, and gave
way to his despondent feelings. Suddenly the thought
struck him—‘‘I will do this dirty job as near perfectly as
is possible. I will do it as it was never done before in a
machine shop for perfection. I may as well spend the
day at it, for I have nothing else to do.” Then he grew
absorbed in the pleasure of repairing that rusty old
machine till it should be better than itever was. That
job was the beginning of his career, and to-day he is
himseif the master mechanic of that railroad.

There seems almost to be a fatality that ljes in wait
for you in some moment when eee think you can be
careless. You are a singer, and, out of charity, you
agree to sing at the little church round the corner. It
is arainy night; ‘‘there is nobody in particular there ;”

should_be solicited. 2d. No. Take the articles to an experi-
enced dyer. He will save you much trouble, time, and ex-
pense.

Mrs. Nora G. W., Earlington,Ky.—1st. To cure soft corns,
dip pieces of linen in turpentine and wrap them around the

toes on which the corns are situated. Do this night and
morning, and the corns will epoody disappear. 2d. Another
new story by the lady name ill appear in due time. 34d.
‘hanks for your good words for the Nsw York WEEKLY.

Geo. D. L., Jenisonville, Mich.—1st. “The Witch Finder;
or, The Hunted Maid of Salem,” was commenced in No. 16,

Vol. 23, and ended in No. 34 of the same volume. 2d. Yes;
the report referred to the approaches of the Brooklyn Bridge.
The length of the Brooklyn approach is 971 feet; New York
approach, 1,562 feet ; length of each land span, 930 feet.

R. C.—Red ants may be banished from a pantry or store-
room by strewing the shelves with a small quantity of cloves,
either whole or ground. The former is preferable, as not be-
ing so likely to get into the food placed upon the shelves.
The cloves should be renewed occasionally, as after a time
they lose their strength and efficacy.

Mary Elizabeth.—\st. We know of no work on the subject.

2d. and 3d.—“‘Martine’s Hand-Book of Etiquette” can be fur-
nished for 50 cents. It contains among other matters direc-
tions for correct conversation. 3d. Aromatic vinegar wi
remove warts. 4th. Your penmanship is quite elegant.

Inquirer, El\kland,Pa.--1st. The duty on bicycles from England

is 35 per cent, and the royalty on each is $10. 2d. Freight is
charged according to the weight. 3d. Patents are now issued
for seventeen years without the privilege of renewal except
by special act of Congress.

The Actress’ Daughter, Basking Ridge, N. J.—ist. Refuse to
receive his attentions. 2d. Not less than $1,200 a year.
3d. Consult “The Ladies’ Work-Box.” 4th. Wear your or-
finery street apparel. 5th. No, if the parties are on intimate

rms.

James F.—As you state the case, we cannot see that there is
any help for you; but a lawyer may think differently, and
we therefore advise you to consult one experienced in like
transactions.

Old Sledge, Ottawa, Ill—The engagement-ring in this

country is generally worn on the forefinger of the left hand.
iG pastend it is worn on the third or wedding finger.
. No.

May Flower, New Rochelle, N. Y.—Ist. We do not know to
what your question refers. 2d. Any jeweler with whom you
deal will give you the benefit of his knowledge of diamonds.

Willie B., Helen, Ark.—‘‘Dick’s Original Album Verses and
Acrostics” will cost 50 cents. With the aid of this book any
one will be enabled to write an appropriate acrostic.

Sharps and Flats.—1st. Wait until you are of age before em-
barking in the business named. In the interim you can con-
tinue your study of music. 2d. No.

Mrs. E. J. B., YRieanin st is possible that the Navy De-
partment, Washington, D. C., will be able to give you the de-
sired information.

A, Reader.—ist. We know of no recei: for the purpose
Dene that is not injurious to the skin. 2d. Blonde. 3d.
e.

 

you sing negligently. That is the very time the great
manager, who lives in the next block, dodges into the
portico out of the shower. He hears you. Oh, if you
had done your best, your fortune had been made! They
told you so when it was too late.

You are a writer, and slight your topic once—only
once; but that settles you. It was a favorite theme of
the editor, and you bungled it. Away you go. Yet
twenty painstaking articles which you wrote before
never came particularly under his eye.

You are a young lawyer, and have been watching for
your chance for five years. How scrupulous you have
been with drudgery. How you have waited for some
day when the overcrowded heads of the firm should toss
you a case on which you could show yourself. Well, it
came on that very day you were so anxious to get off in
season to meet Miss Angelina and take her to Coney
Island. You skimmed your preliminaries that after-
noon. Enough. Oh, the fate of things! You disgusted
your firm, and your opportunity was adjourned.

It is never sate for the young lady to dress slouchy, to
have unkept nails, or evidences of slovenliness. That is
the precise afternoon that the young man drops in in
passing, and makes up his mind about her.

After all, eye-service is the least satisfactory service a
workman ever does. To do one’s best just because it is
“<nspection day,” or because the employer is looking on,
this is to insult one’s self the most. To a young, un-
hardened workman there always ensues a. sense of
shame. Old stagers may not mind it. To the high-
spirited of any age there is a loss of self-respect, One
feels the slavery of his toil; he lacks the freeman’s joy
of work. Itis best to be one’sown master. One cannot
do his best unless he feels himself to be his own master.
One must consider himself as looking on. It has been
said that selfis the severest master. No doubt self is
hardest to satisfy or please. Irate it thus: Hardest to
please, self; easier, the general public; next easier. a
kind-hearted and intelligent employer ; easiest to please,
a merciful God.

Insist on doing your best always, and you are sure to
grow ; you fill up the measure of your increased skill.
Speakers should beware of using old material; the min-
ister who ceases to study new discourses is doomed.

 

Very rarely is that work worth much which can be
done without leaving a sense of fatigue. -Work yourself
tired ; it is a sign that you have done something, when,
at the end, you feel so spent that you could do nothing
more. t
Shall a man decline to do a thing, on any occasion, be-
cause he feels out of condition to do his best? Yes and
no. Yes, if by waiting, you can have a more favorable
opportunity, and without injuring others or breaking
positive engagements by the delay. No,if the duty and the
hour have met; thendo your best, measured, not by the
high standard of some more happy occasion, but measured
by conscience at the time. It may be very much ques-
tioned whether the moody man, the man who waits too
frequently to ‘feel like doing his best,” ever in fact
does his best. His mind, or muscle, takes advantage of
him. The mind is a sly fox; indulge it and it must be
indulged. The will must be a tyrant, a very autocrat.

By and by, my unknown reader and fellow-worker,
you and I shall be done with our sau best or worst.
From the late gleams of my night-lamp, I, Harkley
Harker, put out my hand to you as I say good-night.
Let me beg you to believe that 1 never wrote. a line for
you to read but I did my best at the time, as Heaven
witness, to do you any simple, honest service in my
power. When wesee.each other’s faces, as we shall at
the end, God grant we may not be ashamed to have
written and read.

Se £E Se AOE PARE « Ba or, OEE aS

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 shaH 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 to render
the answers to questions absolutely reliable.]

Adnicul, Owego.—ist. The “Exchange for Woman’s Work,”
No. 4 E. 20th street, this city, was organized in 1878 to enable
the many capable gentlewomen in straitened circum-
stances, and who desire to help themselves, to dispose of their
work on favorable terms. Work is received for sale only
through a manager of the society or a subscriber to its funds

to an amount not less than $5for the current year. The
society will not take wax or feather flowers, or similar ar-
ticles, but encourages the manufacture of useful things.
Jewels, pictures, rare old laces, china, fine shawls, etc., are
taken on_ sale ough an officer. A commission of ten per
cent. is haraet on the price obtained. A ready sale has been
found and large orders are given in advance for preserved
fruits, pickles, cakes, and jellies. Letters should_be ad-
dressed to the society. 2d. Address your letter to “Her Maj-
esty, Queen Victoria, Windsor Castle, Windsor, England.”

 

3d. The letter postage to England is five cents ; newspaper
postage, two eae "eek: Your handwriting is legible and
neat.

R. K. R.—Postage stamps were adopted by the British post-
office in 1840. They were introduced into the United States
in 1847. The first adhesive stamp issued by Great Britain,
consisting of a profile of the queen, with the word “Postage”
above and the value below, was objected to by many govern-
ments on account of the seeming disloyalty of the blacken-
ing (in cancellation) of the portrait of their sovereign ; but
Brazil, the second country to adopt the system, after using a
simple figure of value, eventually superseded it with a por-
trait of e emperor. Some countries have adopted the
national arms as the principal design of their stamps. More
varieties have been issued, and a greater number have been
in use at one time in the Uni States than in any other
country. The system of prepaying postage was first advo-
cated by Rowland Hill, in England, in 1837.

J. B., Long Island.—We have recently published several
recipes to keep eggs fresh. Try this one, which has been
highly recommended: Take an old tin pail, and punch nu-
merous holes in its bottom and sides, and after filling it with
fresh eggs, lower it into a kettle of melted tallow, as hot as
can be, without burning one’s fingers when thrust into it;
then lift the pail out quickly, and the melted tallow will flow
out, leaving a thin coating on every egg. Remove the eggs
from the pail, pack them on their ends in a keg or barrel,
and place them in a good cellar until wanted for use. Eggs
—— Patter te thus races than nes fresh ee ex-

u suppos: ey were fi e eggs being so
fauch cooler than the melted tallow, a thin covering of tal-
low will be formed almost instantly, which will render the
shell impervious to the air.

James W. M., Columbus, Ohio.—ist. The general opinion of
the press of this country concerning Dickens’ “American
Notes” was that his visit to the United States had been too
brief and hurried a one to enable him to form even an approxi-

mately correct opinion of the people of their institutions,
eae some of his criticisms were considered just and prop-
er. He lived long enough to revise his views and to make an
acknowledgment of the injustice of his hasty conclusions.
2d. Martine’s “Hand-Book of Etiquette” contains directions
for conversation, etc. Price 50 cents. 3d. No. 4th. “Lalla
Rookh” is pronounced as if spelled Lalla Ruke, the accent in
Lalla being on the first syllable.

S. J. S., Springfield, Mass.—ist. Stains and discolorations of
the skin may be removed by the application of the following
cerate: Elder-flower ointment, one ounce; sulphate of zinc,
twenty grains. Mix well, and rub into the affected skin at

night. In the morning wash it off with plenty of soap, and
when the grease is completely removed, apply the following
lotion : Infusion of rose alf a pint ; citric acid, t

 

 

side ov the line, yu Kan git bak without getting hurt.

&

 

 

 

s. If an constitutional isturbance be associated wit:
e discoloration of the skin, the advice of a physician

A Constant Reader, Minneapolis, Minn.—‘‘Cora and the Doc-
tor; or, Revelations of a Physician’s Wife” will cost $1.50.

A, Reader, Red Bank, Pa.—Write to the railroad company
named. Your letter will doubtless receive attention.

_ Violet, Conway, 8S. C.—The superintendent of the U. 8. Mint
in Philadelphia may be able to inform you.

C. E. D., Woodbury, Conn.—‘‘The Still Hour” will be sent
to you on recipt of 75 cents.

G. R. Baltimore, Md.—We can furnish you with a French ©
pocket-battery (4x8) for $8.

T. F., Providence, R. I.—‘‘Pierce’s Common Sense Medical
Adviser” will cost $1.50.

W: W. B., Batesville, Miss.—The coins described are proba-
bly of only local value.

San Francisco.—We can find no record of the wreck of the
clipper ship Rainbow.

B. N., Oberlin, Ohio.—In stature, Gen. Washington was six
feet two inches.

Miss Katie P., Harrisburgh, Pa.—We know of none that we
can recommend.

= .—To clean bronze, coat it with oil and wipe off with
a dry cloth.

W. C.—“Crown Jewels,” by Harriet B. McKeever, will
cost $1. :

R. C. M., Muddy Fork, Ind.—We are unable to inform you.

Louise K.—1st. Light brown. 2d. Very creditable.

o-~

RANDOM READINGS.

A STUPID INQUIRY.

To get a joke into certain people’s heads requires a
surgical operation. The other day, at the trial of a di-
vorce case the parties to which were a gentleman of
advanced years and his young wife, the judge remarked
that this was another instance of the evil effects of
“marriage contracted between May and December.”
Shortly afterward the learned judge received a letter
from the secretary of a Scotch statistical society, inti-_
mating that that body would be much obliged if he
would favor them with an account of the facts from
which he had derived the singular rule enunciated by
him as to the infelicity of marriages solemnized during
certain months of the year, and adding that some ofthe
members wished to utilize the information which might
be thus afforded them in the shape of a paper to be read
before the society, with a view to public discussion.

THE BATTLE OF THE SWALLOWS.

A singular occurrence took place on July 14 on the
county bridge at Argentine, Kansas. A large number
of swallows congregated together, as holding a conven-
tion, most likely on the condition of the bridge, asa

number have built their nests among the unsafe timbers.
A dispute seemed to arise, as suddenly two of the largest
birds, one from each party, singled themselves out from
the others, and a regular combat ensued over the raging
Kaw River. Finally one of the birds received a wound
on the wing, causing it to fall into the river, where it
struggled for some time. A number of its companions
eame to the rescue, and by their assistance it came
safely to land, and drying its feathers soon winged its
way south.

A MOUSE THAT ATE BANK-NOTES.

A tradesman in the north of France, on opening a
mofiey drawer, found scraps which turned out to be
pieces of French bank-notes. Five notes of a thousand _
francs each had been apparently destroyed, and it was
ascertained that the culprit could only be amouse. A
trap was set to catch the thief, the remnants in the
drawer were carefully collected. and an hour later the
nibbler was taken. Immediately the mouse was put to
death and dissected. The stomach contained the undi-
gested meal of paper. The pieces were matched and
gummed together.

CARD TELEGRAMS.
Card telegrams are much in use in Paris. There are
two kinds of them—one like the ordinary postal card in
form and color, and the other blue, and capable of being

so closed as to conceal the writing. They are each large
enough to contain a message of fully sixty words. When
a card is dropped into the card-telegram box of the
nearest telegraph-office, the official in charge picks it up
and has it transmitted through one of the pneumatic
tubes which extend all over the city, thus insuring it
delivery at the place to which itis addressed in less
than half an hour from the time it was posted.

A SINKING MOUNTAIN.

An isolated mountain termed Jebel Naiba, about 25,000
feet high, situated near Bona, in Algeria, is found to be
rapidly decreasing in height, and around its base a con-
siderable cavity has formed. The whole mass of the
mountain is evidently sinking ; and the environs of Bona
seem to show that a similar phenomenon has taken place *
there before. Lake Fezarra, now some thousand acres
in extent, did not exist in the time of the Romans, and
investigations made in 1870 show that its bed was once
the site of a Roman town.

A FRIGHTENED ORATOR.

A Western man is on record as making the briefest
Fourth of July oration in history. He had his speech by
heart, but the multitude frightened him. ‘‘Twenty years
ago the place upon which you now stand was a howling
wilderness !” he began. Not remembering the next sen-
tence, he repeated that one. There was immense ap-
plause. Still he forgot. Attempt No. 3 was as follows;
“Twenty years the place upon which you now stand
was a howling wilderness—and—and—hang me if I don’t
wish it was now.”

GREEN OLD AGE.
“There goes a hale and hearty-looking old man,” said
. Jarvis to her pretty daughter at the sea-side, as @
handsome elderly man passed and bowed.

“Yes, mamma, so I see.”

“Don’t you think he isa fine specimen of green old
age, daughter ?” continued the mother, following the old
gentleman with her eyes.

“Yes, mamma, I do, and about the greenest old age I
ever saw. Why, the old fool asked me last night to
marry him.”

MILLIONS OF FROGS.
A gentleman of Los Angeles, Cal. going recently to
Alameda passed through eight miles of frogs, that filled
the road. The average size of the frogs was but that of

a large cherry, and there were millions upon millions of
them and for a long time he could not credit his senses.
To make sure that he was not dreaming he caught a box
full of them and brought them to town to confirm his
story. It is sup that a late rain brought them

 

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SOUR GRAPES.
BY JENNIE STOVIN.

A lovely summer’s evening, though it’s getting late,
Yet Kate and Annie are still lingering at the gate,
Discussing topics that the author sadly fears

Were not intended for the old foiks’ ears—

Town scandal, model cookery, lovers’ sonnets,

How dresses should be made, and summer bonnets.
Mere trifies, mixed with tales of love and strife ;

But trifles make the sum of schoolgirls’ life.

Then Annie mentioned, in a casual way,

How Katy’s hat was praised by Philip Grey,

For he extolled its shape and waving feather,

In fact, was ’raptured with it altogether.

Then Katy blushed, and owned the plume well placed.
But Philip Grey was so refined, and had sueh taste—
And then with warmth and great ability

She praised his beauty, wealth, and high nobility,
While Annie smiled and said that she had heard
That he was false, and never kept his word.

His wealth was fabled, and his homestead sold,

His beauty fading, and that he was getting old.

But Katy frowned, and called the world unkind.
“She knew him well, and naught would change her

mind,
For he was rich and faithful, and beyond all that,
A marvel of g' taste—he’d praised her hat.”
Then Annie gently said: ‘Oh, Katy, dear,
I'm so delighted all these facts to hear.
That you admire his taste I do rejoice to see,
Thus knowing you'll approve—he’s chosen me,
So now come in, and let me all confess—
I want advice about my bridal dress.”
Then Katy, turning round, exclaimed, with spite :
eee me as your bride-maid; it would not be
right
For me to say I wish you joy with one
Who’s getting old, and boasting wealth, has none.
All say he’s faithless ; you the old adage know,
That what the world declares must sure be so.
Good-night, poor Annie; I grieve your lot of sorrow,
As Philip praised my hat, I’ll alter it to-morrow.”
Then Katy hastened down the garden. On her way
Whom should she meet but handsome Philip Grey,
While Annie’s voice called from ivy bower,

“Good by! Good-by, poor Kate! the grapes are sour!”

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

LORA LANE:

OR,

A FACTORY GIRL’S FORTUNES.

A TALE OF THE LOWELL MILLS,

By GEORGE W. GOODE.

[“Lora Lane” was commenced in No. 39. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER IX.
SUSIE THE FLOWER-GIRL.

The shades of darkness were settling down over the
“Hub” city, and already the evening lights were begin-
ning to flash forth upon the murky air all over the me-
tropolis.

A swaying, surging crowd of people thronged Wash-
ington street, from Haymarket square down, for this
was supper hour, and thousand of laboring folk were
wending their way homeward.

The day had been a dark and lowering one, and now
evening was coming on with strong indications of a fog.
The air had just a dash of salt spray in it, and this
would not have been a very surprising development.

At the street corners the inevitable newsboys had sta-
tioned themselves, and were crying their wares lustily,
their shrill voices pitched to a high treble, rising high
above the din of the passing teams, whose rattle and
rumble over the cobble-stones made fearful uproar.

And at this hour, in a position just away from the hur-
rying crowd and where none could hustle her, beneath
the glare of the great gas-lights in front of the Herald
puilding on Washington street, stood the slender, yet
graceful, well-proportioned figure of a young girl, scarce
sixteen, with features which, upon a close look, would
have been perceived to be very regular and beautiful.

Ragged and scant were the garments she wore, be-
tokening extreme poverty and wretchedness; and her
long, wavy brown hair, which if properly dressed would
have graced well the head of any society belle, hung in
a wet, tangled mass over her shapely shoulders. A child
of want was she; yet the rudeness of her attire could
not conceal nor detract one whit from the natural air of
grace which permeated her whole being.

About her shoulders was a woolen scarf well frayed
and worn, the lower ends of which were attached to a
sort of wooden tray which rested against one hip, and
upon which were a number of beautifully assorted nose-
rn composed of genuine hot-house flowers.

Ss was the business which she followed, and upon
which she had to depend for her daily bread. From
morn till late at night she held forth her dainty wares to
the reckless, rushing mass of humanity upon the streets,
a portion of whom would pause, appreciate, and pur-

A dreary, wretched mode of earning a very Pou
eae may say, gentle reader, and, indeed, this was
true inevery sense. Yet, despite the humbleness of her
calling, the flower-girl seemed to be happy and devoid
of dull care, for while she proffered her wares to the
passers-by she was blithely humming the verses of a
SO

ng.

Now, under the glare of the gas-light comes a richly
dressed lady. Her attire is such as to proclaim her one
of the upper-ten, rich silk being the predominant mate-

rial in her dress. She pauses in front of the r flower-

girl’s tray, admires one of the little exquisite combina-

tions of the flower-girl’s deft fingers, purchases, and

passes on with a kind smile. She is one of the liberal

customers, and has left a quarter in the happy child’s
rs. ‘

And now comes still another purchaser, of a little
different character than the first. He pauses inan awk-
ward, hesitating way before the tray with its sweet-
scented load. He is both broad and stout of frame, and
is continually fidgeting about as though the brand-new
suit of clothes he wears either fitted him too well or not
enough, a question which would have been a hard one
to settle, judgings from his actions.

He has just had a clean shave, and the spotless paper
collar he has donned has assumed a distressed and rum-
pled appearance.

With instinctive shrewdness the sharp little flower-
girl has guessed his thoughts, his nature, and his

on.

“This would be a good one for her,” she said, holding
forth, with a naive smile, a dainty little cluster of pinks
in white and carnation hues, bewitching in their sweet
scent. ;

Ah, she knew well that this rude Barney O’Sullivan
was going to make a call upon his cherished sweetheart,
Nora or Biddy, or whatever her name might be.

The result was that the little cluster of pinks was
disposed of at a fair price, and the awkward suitor went
on his way to the abode of his beloved rejoicing.

And while congratulating herself upon her fortune in
disposing of so much of her fragrant stock in trade,
there now darted from an alley across the street, and
before the iron-shod hoofs of a dozen prancing horses,
at imminent risk of life and limb, a ragged, barefooted
urchin, with face and hands begrimed with dirt, and
carrying in his hand a gayly decorated shoe-box, and
paused at her side.

The dirty little face, with its hardened features almost

remature in their expression, and bearing the in-

elible stamp of a nature long since conformed to the
hard side of wretchedness and vice, among which the
owner had been reared and allowed ample chance to
cultivate as suited himself, was upturned to the flower-
girl in the gas-light with a comical leer.

“Howdy, Susie, old woman? How’s ther flower biz-
ness ?”

“Why, Tony, is this you ?” exclaimed the flower-girl,
turning to the little bootblack at her feet, who had now
aoe himself down upon his box, and placing both
elbows upon his knees, had pressed his cheeks between
his dirty hands and was gazing up at her.

Susie, as the bootblack Tony had called the flower-
girl, was possessed of a wonderfully rich, sweet voice,
and her smile was most bewitching as she cast it down
upon the little street Arab.

banite © mid else, Te How’s yerself ?”

“Quite well, thank you, Tony. How has your luck
been to-day ?” * 7" r

“Oh, a little above par. But how’s the old ’oman ?”

“Who, mother? Oh,I fear she is not going to live
long,” and the tears welled up in the soft eyes.

ny, the bootblack, seemed for a moment affected
but recovered himself. For some moments he sat in si-
lence regarding the grave, thoughtful face of Susie, the
flower-girl, as she gazed in an abstract manner down
the aoe street. Then asudden light of admiration
Swept across the little Arab’s face, and he exclaimed,
impulsively :
_ “Sue, I think you are jest beautiful, pon my word!
You are jest the handsomest gal in Boston !”

Surprised, the flower-girl turned. It was the first gal-
lant compliment she had ever received from the lips of
the other sex, ahd had it been from the lips of Prince
Charming, instead of ragged Tony, the bootblack, it
oe have caused a more curious thrill in her

She smiled sweetly in the simplicity of her nature. She

 

 

 

knew that the compliment, though blunt, was well
meant and delivered in an honest, sincere spirit.

«What makes you think Iam handsome, Tony ?’ she
said, seating herself on the curbstone beside the boot-
black. “I haven’t got yellow hair nor blue eyes, the
same as the girl that I read about in that novel you gave
me. An’ I hain’t got no fine dresses on either.”

‘Makes no divvy,” asserted the bootblack with a self-
assured shake of the head, ‘you are handsome. Sue
Delmaine, I don’t say this ter flatter yer, old woman,
bekase you know me too wellfor that. An’if I were
goin’ ter git married termorrer an’ wanted a pooty wife,
I wouldn’t look no furder, you bet.’

“But what makes you think so, Tony ?”

“T don’t think nothin’ ’bout it—I knowit. Why, old
woman, don’t yer s’pose Tony, yer chum and everlastin’
friend here, knows a little suthin’? I hev traveled a bit
in my short life, you bet. Why, I seed the biggest play
in the Boylston Museum—somethin’ about ‘Peradise’—
and ‘Aladdin’s Lamp’ down ter the Howard Atheneum,
an’ ther war more pooty women in that than you could
stand atwixt here an’ Atlantic avenue, an’ thar wa’n’t
one there half so pooty as you. You orter go onto the
stage, Susie. You would make yer fortin.”

“Perhaps so,” mused the little flower-girl. ‘Oh,
wouldn’t it be glorious, Tony? Lots of nice dresses, and
enough of money to spend.”

“Yes, I should smile if it wouldn’t be a fine thing for
you,” said the little bootblack, despondently; ‘‘but I
should hate awfully ter lose yer acquaintance.”

‘What do you mean ?”

“Easy enough. In course you wouldn’t know Tony
Mulligan, the bootblack, when you got to be like thet.
Couldn’t expect it, you know.”

‘Why Tony, you know better.”

‘Don’t talk to me, old woman. I know aboutit. I
ain’t afool. I wish I was rich, though, and could marry
you.”

«Perhaps you will be some time,” said the flower-girl,
in a dreamy whisper.

“Not for Joe!” exclaimed the sharp little Arab, screw-
ing his “hardened little visage up into a comical shape.
«You won’t never think of Tony Mulligan agin when you
do get high and mighty, you bet! Why there was Annie
Doulan, the leetle gal that would a starved one winter ef
I hedn’t went divvy wi’ her on my rations, an’ that want
much nuther, an’ she sed she’d allus stick terme. Why
her father got onter ther city fer a street sweep, an’
now she turns up her nose at.me. Tony ain’t a fool.
Oh, no!”

At that moment a man came into view, and when just
in the act of passing under the gas-light, the flower-girl
sprang forward and proffered her wares.

He halted, and bent over them. He was tall and
splendidly built, with along overcoat, a tall hat, long
silken brown mustache, and eyes of kindly brown, which,
when they met the questioning gaze of the flower-girl,
sent a strange thrill through her whole being.

CHAPTER X.
A STRANGE LOVE.

“Please, sir, will you not buy some flowers?” Susie
Delmaine, the flower-girl, had said, in her wondrously
sweet voice, and her eyes, as they were cast upward in-
to the stranger’s face, were dazzling in their expression.

Fred Hayden, for it was no other personage, this tall,
handsome young man halted, and stood as though held
by a spell gazing upon the marvelous beauty of this child
of poverty, a beauty which rags and wretchedness could
not hide.

So sudden had the fair vision come upon him that he
was for the moment taken aback, and hardly knew what
to say, but stood like one entranced, gazing not at the

‘flowers, but the beautiful vender.

Indeed, su deep was the impression he received that
for a moment he forgot his habitual gallantry, and stood
unmindful of the rudeness of his stare, until reminded
of it by the vivid flush of red which suddenly suffused
the pretty flower-girl’s cheeks of damask.

“Ah, beg pardon,” he stammered, confusedly, and doff-
ing his hat just as deferentially as though he were salut
ing the Princess of Wales, or some other equally high-
born lady. ‘Did you address me? Ah, I see, flowers—
beautiful, are they not? Dol want to buy some? No—
yes; I like the looks of that calla lily among the daisies.
How much? One dollar? Cheap enough. They are
indeed beautiful.” :

These were our young hero’s many and varied explan-
ations, as he selected his choice among the nosegays
and proffered in payment a crisp new bank-note.

A few moments later, on his way down Washington
street, his eyes had in them a curious glitter as he mut-
tered: *¢

“Dused pretty face that girl had, by Jove; and it
looked strangely familiar tome. Where have I seen it
before ? Somewhere in the past, I know. It’s a burn-
ing shame for her to be in that state. Some one should
take that girlin charge and make a lady of her. Iam
not so sure but there is more of the lady in her now
than many I know of who pretend to be such,”

And little Tony, the bootblack, as he sat on his box
under the -light and gazed at the two conversing
muttered, under his breath, while a painful shadow
fiitted across his face:

“Oh, she’s a masher, sure pop. Nobby gent, that, an’
he’s sngitten, too. Hum! you ain’t nowhar now, Tony.
Dear me! why can’t I be a man ?”

And he shouldered his tool-box and flitted silently
across the shadowed street.

And Susie Delmaine, now that the hour was late, re-
assorted her flowers and silently crept away, with her
young girl-heart full of the exceedingly polite and kind
young man and his ways, to her wretched home in that
part of the great city where squalor and poverty hold
sway.

And Fred Hayden, on his way down Washington
street, at a corner Suddenly ran plump into a man with
such force as to nearly knock both over.

Fred recovered himself instantly, and with the po-
liteness of a true gentleman had an apology half
framed, when, as he caught sight of the other’s tace un-
der the glare of the street-lamp, he uttered an exclama-
tion of surprise and suddenly put forth his hand.

“Beg pardon! Tom, old boy, how are you? Dused
glad to see you—indeed I am!”

It was no other personage than Tom Hawkeswood, a
particular chum and friend of Fred’s.

«What, this you, Fred? By Jeve, I did not recognize
you, old boy. You have changed since I last saw you.
You were quite portly then; now you are almost a
shadow. Been having trouble ?”

“Ay, that I have, old friend,” said Fred, his face as-
suming a serious cast. ‘““You remember my uncle
Hugh ?”

“Yes. Is he dead?”

“Ay, he is gone, but that is not all.”

“Poor old man!” said Hawkeswood, ‘I did not think
he would winter it the last time Isawhim. But you
say that is not all the trouble. Are you going to Lowell
to-night, Fred? 1was on my way to board this quarter
of eight train when we came to-gether here at the cor-
ner. Come on—we shall just have time to catch it.”

«Ah, Tom, I have no interests in Lowell now,” said
our hero, almost sadly, and with a great lump in his
throat.

“What do you mean ?”

«Just what I say.”

“How is that ?”

“IT have no longer a home, Tom; Iam poor, friend-
less, and an outcast. Tobe sure, my uncle left mea
small income, under an injunction which my pride and
sense of justice will never allow me to accept.”

“You talk in riddles. If your uncle is dead, are you
not his successor ?”

‘Ah, that is what Iwas about to tell you. His will
cut me off with almost nothing, while all the estate was
bestowed upon a cousin from New York, leaving me out
in the cold entirely.”

“The duse!” exclaimed impetuous Tom. ‘That was
downright meanness ; I never should have thought him
capable of that.”

“Yetitisevenso. Butif you wish to get that train,
wee better be going. I will see you again. Good-

t ?

“Hold on!” cried Hawkeswood ; ‘‘what is your hurry ?
Fred, I want you to grant me a favor.”

‘What is it 2%

“Come up to the hall with me and help me kill time
for a week. Itis fearful dull there just now when a fel-
low is allalone. Stay two weeks—three—a year, if you
will. I will try to make it pleasant for you. I have
some of the finest old Madeira—one hundred years old,
if you can believe the dealer—and we can while away
our evenings at whist or euchre. Besides, the Wafer
Boat Club assemblies will soon be in order. Come—say
the word ?”

“But, Tom——”
©*No ‘but’ about it. There goes the starting gong now.
Hurry! we shall miss that train.”

And a few moments later Fred Hayden was seated
tete-a-tete with his friend in the cars, speeding on their
way to the City of Spindles, twenty-five miles away.

Tom Hawkeswood was an old chum of our hero, and,
though apt to be given somewhat to whim and impulse,
was a noble, whole-souled young fellow. He was now
sole master of Hawkeswood Place in the suburbs of the
Spindle City, and could count in his own name an
almost fabulous fortune.

He was in form much like Fred, but with a slightly
different cast of features, though equally as good-
looking.

«But I have had trouble as well as you,” said Tom,
settling himself back and leisurely lighting a cigar.
“And my trouble is also near the heart.”

“So? What can it be ?” said Fred.

‘“‘Well, to be plain, I am in love,”

‘In love ?”

“Yes.”

There was a slight quizzing expression in Fred’s eyes.

«And the worst of it all is,” said Tom, blowing a blue
cloud 6fsmoke from his nostrils, ‘I do not know the
name of the adored one—do not even know her station
nor ought about her—have never spoken with her but
once, and then I picked her out from under the feet of
some omnibus horses on a street-crossing. I have seen
her several times since, but she has each time evaded
me. She is like a Will-o’-the-wisp, here and there, plainly
visible, but never to be caught.”

“Strange |!”

“I should say so.” :

ane you not know her station or occupation? Is she
a lady ?

“Yes, sir!” thundered Tom. ‘Show me the man that
will say different! But do you mean one of those giddy,
gency butterflies ? No, she’s none of those; but she’s a

ady, and I'll swear to it.”

“Ah !—curious case !”

Tom paused, and coolly stared at his friend a moment.
He thought he had detected a vein of sarcasm in Fred’s
last remark ; but our hero’s eyes did not show it, and
impetuous Tom returned to his cigar.

 

“Yes,” he said, ina musing tone—‘‘the most curious
thing that ever befell me. You know, Fred, I have al-
Ways been impervious to woman’s smiles.”

“Yes, Iam aware of that.”

«“Strange—isn’t it ?”
eae must be a sort of Diana. What does she look

SP

“Dang itifI know! She looks like herself, and that’s
all I could see about her.”

“Well, is she pretty? What's the color of her hair
and eyes ?”

«Yes, she is beautiful,” said Tom, lowering his voice
almost toa whisper. ‘Superb is not the name for her.
Her hair and eyes are brown.”

«And you know nothing further about her ?”

“Not a thing.” :

“Well, can it be love, think you? Is it not rather a
mere momentary fascination? Perhaps, if you get
closer to her——”

“No!” said Tom, decidedly ; “it’s love, and nothing
else. I wish you could see her.”

His wish was gratified. An hour later the train rolled
into the depot in Lowell, and the two chums were about

to enter the Hawkeswood carriage in waiting for them, |

when Tom, who was the last to enter, suddenly halted,
and drew his friend out of the carriage door.

And at that moment, visible just for an instant under
the glare of the station light, was revealed the slender,
graceful, and plainly clad form ofa female. Not many
of her teatures were visible, but such as were, betrayed
beauty almost transcendant.

Only a moment was the strange object of Tom Hawkes-
wood’s infatuation visible, then her form became lost in
the hurrying crowd.

CHAPTER XI.
A DASTARDLY PLOT.

Lora Lane, the heroine of this story, soon became fair-
ly initiated into the task of running a loom, and, by her
steady, persistent effort, soon made herself an efficient
and skillful operative.

And then followed an increase of pay, and words of
encouragement from the kind agent, and, for the first
time since her foster-mother’s death, the poor girl ex-
perienced her first emotions of happiness.

Gradually the way became easier for her, as she ar-
rived at a better understanding of her duties, and but
for a series of circumstances, seeming to be, in fact,
shadows of that strange fate which had so far followed
her persistently, she might have held her position in the
Massachusetts Mills an indefinite length of time.

From the first she had possessed an instinctive, un-
conquerable aversion to Simon Wilkes, the overseer. He
was continually at her when at work with those
singular, cat-like eyes of his,in which there was a sort of
irresistible, fascinating gleam, as potent and deadly in
its force, almost, as that of the poisonous serpent

Yet he was always exceedingly kind and agreeable in
his manner, and so far as outward actions were con-
cerned, Lora had no excuse for her aversion to him. It
was a strange, unexplainable emotion, and puzzled her
much.

Wilkes was not, on the whole, bad-looking. He was
to a considerable extent bloated, evidence in itself of a
life of dissipation; yet there was something in the cast
of his features which betokened him at one time a man
of some beauty, yet an evil sort of beauty.

He was exceedingly courteous to the beautiful opera-
tive, Lora Lane, and, indeed, his attentions to her, which
were always received kindly but coolly, might. have
savored a little of the ardent suitor, and many among
the other girls in the vicinity of Lora soon noted and
made comment upon this, as girls will. .

One in particular, who worked at a loom adjoining
Lora’s, noted this, and a strange, nervous glitter would
come into her dark eyes.

She was atall girl, well-proportioned, and of a dark
brunette type of beauty. It was evident by her man-
ners that she liked not the.attentions Wilkes bestowed
upon the new hand, and her black eyes would snap
fiercely, betokening, beneath the outward calm ex-
terior, a fiery temper, and jealous spirit that would brook
no rivalry.

Her name was Amy Despard, and she was evidently
of French origin, as her cast of features and dark skin
would proclaim.

From the first hour of her advent into the mill, Amy
Despard had regarded Lora as a rival, and hated her
accordingly, though she took care not to manifest this
outwardly. The truth was, she had become infatuated
with the overseer, Simon Wilkes, who had a sort of
smooth, oily way of talking, and was ee of a kind
of fiendish mesmeric power, which he had to exert to
but a slight extent to gain the affection of such a capri-
cious person as the French girl.

Yet she made herself unusually agreeable to Lora,
manifesting great friendship and aftecgion. In doing
this she was playing a cunning part.

The truth was, Wilkes had, before he saw Lora, be-
come somewhat smitten with the dark beauty of the
Parisian girl, Amy Despard, and the two had had an
understanding. Wilkes had avowed his love for her,
and they were, though secretly, yet virtually engaged to
be married.

But despite this fact, Amy Despard, when she saw
her affianced bestowing attentions upon the new hand,
Lora Lane, become possessed of an ungovernable jeal-
ousy and hatred of our heroine.

In one of her pouting moods one day she openly be-
trayed this to Simon Wilkes, who, somewhat taken by
surprise, exclaimed : :

“Why, you little goose, what, do you suppose I care
for that white-faced girl? I would rather have you,
with your dark beauty, than all the other women in the
world.”

«Ah! I donot know whether to believe you or not.
Why do you bestow such careful attentions upon her ?”

“Amy,” and there was a dark gleam in Simon Wilkes’
eyes, ‘“‘you do not know the truth. I have a purpose in
that. You must not misinterpret my actions. I do
not love her. but rather hate her.”

“Hate her ?”

“Ay, with a hatred which will last till the end of life.”

«Why do you hate her? She is beautiful.”

“Bah! her beauty, compared with yours, is but as the
poorest of earthly gems compared with a star.”

«But you have not told me why you hate her. Your
actions do not show that you do.”

«Ah! that isit. Iam playing a part, Amy, my rea-
sons for which I will give you some other time.”

“Why will you not tell me now ?”

“For many reasons. I will, in part. Let this explana
tion suffice—I intend the overthrow of that girl, for a
wrong which her mother once did me.”

This mollified the jealousy of the French girl some-
what, but she still continued to hold her hatred for our
heroine. Her reason for this was scarcely obvious, but
ss 4 bein part explained by an exclamation she once
made:

«He hates her. She has wronged him in some way,
and J hate her, too, for the same thing.”

And in his villainous schemes, which may not now be
fully comprehensible to the reader, Simon Wilkes found
a Willing and faithful accomplice in Amy Despard.

His plot was to get Lora infatuated in the same manner
with himself that he had the French girl, when he might
work to better advantage in the accomplishment of his
devilish designs.

But in this he was unsuccessful. Every attempt was
foiled. Instead of falling a victim to his wonderful fas-
cinating powers, our heroine, to his surprise and
chagrin, seemed to acquire a growing aversion for
him.

Angered by her continued disregard of his attentions,
he suddenly resolved upon anew artifice, and imme-
diately changed his tactics.

‘Tll have it yet,” he muttered to himself, darkly, ‘‘at
any cost. I will humble her—bring some manner of
disgrace and shame upon her, and then she will become
more pliable.”

He set himself about the execution of this resolve with
a characteristic villainous cunning, and skillfully laid
the meshes of the net with which he designed to entan-
gle the footsteps of an innocent girl.

And the evil hand of that fate which sometimes pur-
sues the weak and helpless rose and cast its black shadow
over the future of the poor factory girl.

And an evil spirit aided the dark schemer in his foul
plot of ruin.

a

CHAPTER XII.
A VILLAINOUS CONFERENCE.

Upon Merrimac street, just below the City Hall, there
was, at the time of which I write, and still stands to-
day, an establishment known to many as the ‘Union
Coffee House,” or ‘‘Urban Saloon.”

Flint was the genial proprietor’s name, but by no means
his nature, for none were more noted in the lively ‘‘City
of Spindles” for his generous hospitality and the excel-
lence of his ‘‘stock in trade” than this same fat keeper
of the popular cafe.

At the hour of dusk, at the close of a sultry day, there
strode into the case and seated themselves in one of the
slips a couple of men, both clad in every-day business
attire. One was by appearance of the working order,
and the other vice versa, being rather more of the gen-
tlemanly snob.

Their order was wine, and while sipping it leisurely
they kept up alow and earnest conversation, looking
about occasionally to be sure that none were near to
overhear them.

What was their reason for this ?

Upon taking a closer look it may be seen that they are
both characters several times introduced and familiar
to the readers of this story.

The thicket man, with the bloated visage, is no other
than the scheming overseer, Simon Wilkes, and his com-
panion. the usurper, Theodore Harkner.

In order that the reader may the better comprehend
the meaning of the two villains meeting in the cafe, let
us follow their conversation awhile.

‘Now you can understand what I meant, Wilkes,
when I said that one devil had at length lent me his aid
and repaid me well for services rendered in the past.”

“Ay; it is clearly devil’s luck.”

“Quite right; his Satanic majesty played the win-
ning cards right into my hand; or, rather, gave me his
best bower on alone hand, which enabled me to quite
cleverly euchre my opponent.”

‘What will young Hayden do now ?”

‘I know not and care not. If he were ten thousand
leagues under the ocean it would suit me best.”

“J presume so. Under the circumstances you would
be safer.” .

“Why am I not safe now ?”

an — hardly believe yourself out of danger.”

“ce y ”

“For many reasons.”

“What are they? You are the only one who knows my
secret.”

 

“Very true. But they say there never was a murder
but will out some time or other. Supposing some little
clew might be discovered at some time by some shrewd
man, it not a detective, and you were exposed in

our——

“That is impossible.”

“T say it is possible,” said the overseer, firmly, bringing
his fist forcibly down upon the marble stand. between
them. ‘Do you suppose for a moment that young Hay-
den, suspecting as he does a tampering with the will, is
going to give over the nice little pot of money which you
have been shrewd enough to dispossess him of without
an effort? I gave you credit, Harkner, for more percep-
tion than that.”

‘Very true,” said the smoother villain, in an irritable
tone. ‘But how is he going to do it ?”

“There are many little flaws in this transaction which
if properly followed up would overthrow you, and place
you in a by no means comfortable position.”

«What are they ?”

“One, for instance. Supposing experts examined the
handwriting, and detected the erasion——”

“T defy them. The acid will resist their best efforts.”

“But still their might be a flaw.”

“Possibly,” admitted Harkner.

‘‘In which case you would be placed in anything but
a comfortable position. The world would not be large
enough to afford you hiding place.”

Theodore Harkner started violently, and his face
darkened, while he clinched his hands violently.

“In which I——”

He hesitated, and there came a terrible glitter into his
greenish, serpent-like eyes.

“What?” interrogated Wilkes, calmly, just the faint-
est trace of a smile visible beneath his heavy mustache.

Theodore Harkner, the shrewd and consummate vil-
lain, leaned over the marble slab, and his tones had in
them a tremer which made the oyerseer shiver in spite
of himself. ¢

«In which case,” he said, ‘it is quite plain to be seen
what I should do. Fifty feet of water beneath Paw-
tucket Falls would hold the secret safe, would it not ?”

Wilkes shivered, but quickly recovered himself.

“Ah, you have grasped my meaning admirably,” he
said, rubbing his hands, with a self-satisfied chuckle.
«Tt is the able general who counts the cost of victory be-
forehand.”

“T think Hayden is the only one whom I need fear.”

Simon Wilkes started, and a strange wave of emotion
swept across his face.

“No,” he said at length, with measured emphasis.
‘There is another.”

“Who 9”?

“I will tell you presently. Ihave a matter upon my
mind now which materially concerns yourself and your
welfare.”

“Name it.”

“Wait amaoment. In the first place let me tell you
something. Now that you have made for yourself such
a delightful home, with plenty of wealth to enable you
to live to the end of your days in ease, you will, or should
begin to think of a companion to share it with you.”

“Do you mean to say that I will soon think of getting
married ?”

“Exactly.”

«What put that idea into your head ?”

«“Wait—let me tell you something. I know a girl,
young and very beautiful, fresh, and rosy; liquid brown
eyes, lips of coral, cheeks with the beauteous tint of the
sea-shell—to be brief about it, she is a goddess, and
would make you a good wife.”

“Whois she? Has she money ?”

“No; only beauty.”

«Where does she live, and what does she do?”

“She is a poor mill girl, without any known relatives
or friends. She is upon aloom in the Massachusetts
Mills, under my charge.”

“Then she is only a mill girl ?”

“That is all.”

Theodore Harkner looked hard at his colleague a mo-
ment, as though in doubtas to his;sanity. Then he
essayed a flippant laugh.

«Well, that’s a good one, Wilkes. I marry a poor mill
girl without wealth or friends. Nothing but beauty. No,
thank you, not this week. My aspirations are, per-
chance, a trifie more lofty now. With my station and
wealth, which will entitle me to an admittance into the
creme de la creme of society, my choice should fain be of
nobler extraction.”

Wilkes bit his lip, and a strange gleam shot from his
dark eyes.

‘You do not catch my meaning,” he said. ‘Supposing
circumstances should demand that you marry this girl ?”

«Explain yourself.”

Wilkes leaned over and placed his lips to his com-
panion’s ear. Harkner started at the information thus
rendered him, and fora moment a half-frightened ex-
pression came into his eyes.

That night, at a late hour, the two schemers parted at
a neighboring street corner. Wilkes stood after the
parting and watched Harkner’s form disappear in the
gloom; then he muttered, while his brow darkened
strangely :

«A double deal, and a game at which two can play.’ img:

Ah, would it not be strange if what | made an unsuc-
cessful attempt to gain in years gone by should yet be-
come mine ?”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

= - Oe

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

Blanche the Beautiful

OR,

A HAND AND A FORTUNE WON.
A Romance of the English Turf.

By SHERWOOD STANLEY.

{“Blanche the Beautiful,” was commenced in No. 39. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER VIII.

‘Into him hot and heavy! Lay him out!” yelled Slog-
ging Joe, rushing on to aid Mugger Bill, who closed in
on Lovell as he retreated.

“One at a time, old bruiser,” cried Red Mike, the
gipsy chief, clutching the pugilist by the shoulder with
one hand and holding him like a child in his mighty
grasp. ‘I thought there was a foul game afoot, and ’m
here to see fair play. Squire, knock the daylights out of
that ’un, while I let this one see what he’ll get when his
turn comes.”

The opportune arrival and interference of the gipsy
gave Lovell time to get his ‘‘wind,” and now, cool and
collected, he parried blow after blow given by the pro-
fessional bruiser until he saw an opening.

Then, with all the foree of his mighty frame, he sent a
blow in on the bull-neck of his opponent with such fear-
ful force that he went over backward on the ground
senseless as a log, the blood gushing from his mouth in
a torrent.

The man lay on his back quivering, and Red Mike, in
great glee, cried out:

«“You’ve done for him, squire. Give Slogging Joe his
supper now, and I’ll put him to bed.”

And he gave his man a shove toward Lovell.

Quick as thought out flew the squire’s fists, right and
left, and hit between the eyes with one hand and in the
mouth with the other, the second pugilist went down
on top of his brother bruiser limp and helpless. Neither
rose to resume the conflict, and amid the cheers of the
bystanders, Squire Lovell threw a crown to the hostler,
and took his bridle in his own hand.

Turning to Jem Sands, he said aloud, so all could hear

it:
“Tell Lord Fortescue that the next time he sends-for
professional boxers to revenge his well-merited punish-
ment, to get men, not miserable brutes, who have
neither science nor courage. And keep out of my way
yourself after this, or ’ll have you horsewhipped first
and have you ducked in a goose-pond after.

“Get away from the Stag and Hounds, the lot of ye!”
cried the landlord, furious when told of the attack on
the young squire, who was the most popular man in the
county, and one of his warm friends.

“Take them beasts away, or I'll scald their eyes out,”
cried Betty, the barmaid, pointing to the fallen and
bleeding pugilists.

‘Tll get ’em off, if they’re ever able to move,” cried
Jem Sands, in a lugubrious tone. ‘‘They’re all used up.”

“They’ll be worse used up if they’re here when my
cullies come,” said Red Mike. ‘‘You’d best get out 0’
here if you want to carry whole bones with you.”

Sands saw by the angry faces around, and the bitter
words he heard, that the advice was sound. He settled
with the landlord, had his pals lifted into a passing cart,
and got away as soon as he could, hiring the man to
drive inthe direction of the Grange, that he might re-
port to Lord Fortescue and get instructions what to do.

Lovell, after thanking Red Mike for his timely arrival,
handed the landlord a guinea with which to set out ale
for all present who would drink it, and then mounting
his horse, trotted back to the manse to tell old John
Haynes of his last adventure.

For the tacit acknowledgement of Jem Sands proved
that the whole affair had been planned, and these
trained bruisers had been brought down for the purpose
of punishing Squire Lovell for the thrashing he had given
to Lord Fortescue.

In any country but loyal England, where rank and
wealth have long held sway, but where each are grow-
ing weaker year by year, the people would have broken
out in violence, defiant of law and order, and wreaked
summary vengeance on the instigator of such outrages.

In this case they were satisfied with words—indig-
nant and wrathful—but words alone. _

Leaving his now conscious but powerless ruffians in
the cart near the Grange, Jem Sands hastened to pro-
cure an interview with Lord Fortescue, to whom he re-

 

lated the failure of the plans and the terrible discom-
fiture of the two bruisers, as well as the fact that Lovell
had discovered in some way that his lordship had em-
ployed them.

The latter was the only part of the news that startled
Fortescue much. His own defeat had given him an
idea of the skill and might of the young squire. But
he knew that when his host, the Earl of Darlington, and
others of rank in the East Riding, heard that he had
descended to such ignoble means to gain revenge, he
would be scorned and despised among them.

Therefore he ordered Sands to get himself and all his
men out of the county as soon as they could be taken,
and not be found within fifty miles when day dawned
again. To enable his tool to obey his orders, he gave
a a large roll of bank-notes, and bade him lose no
ime.

The young nobleman meant to deny the charge, and
he wanted all evidence out of reach of those who might
desire to use it.

When, next day, Lord Middleton came to his now
nearly convalescent guest, with a grave look in his face,
and told of the disgraceful stories going around, young
Fortescue boldly denied having had anything to do with
the men who had attacked Squire Lovell.

When told by his lordship that he had seen the land-
lord of the Stag and Hounds, and had been told by him
that Lord Fortescue’s trainer, who seemed loaded with
money, had paid all bills, the young nobleman was in a
corner. But he tried to “hedge.” He said that he was
not accountable for the over-zeal of his followers and
servants, who were much attached to him.

«The sooner you are rid of that class of followers and
servants, the better for your own reputation, my lord,”
said Middleton, gravely.

“I willsee toit. I am so much better that I shall
leave for London in a day or two,” said Fortescue,
testily. ‘I have had enough trouble about this low
clodhopper, Lovell.”

‘The low clodhopper, asI regret to hear you call a
man whose family is older than your own, is, as I heard
but yesterday, an heir in direct succession to a peer-
age, my lord. Death has recently removed two earls of
Harcourt, one after the other, and the present earl is in
delicate health. His successor will be the man you
affect to despise.”

“Great heavens! He become a peer? You are mock-
ing me, Middleton.”

“T have told you the truth. Ido not believe he’
aware of his prospects. My lawyer confided it to me
for he has also had the legal business of the Harcow
estates to attend to.” 3

Fortescue sighed. Was it a sigh of regret for what)
had done, or one for the failure of his brutal plans? V
may not say.

But, privately, we think a vision came before him
Blanche the Beautiful, wearing a coronet, and yet no
one that a Fortescue could claim. For in all his suffer-%
ing and lonely mortification the young nobleman had
constantly thought of that one beautiful woman, the
fairest that he had ever seen. And he had intended his
first visit, after convalescence, should be to Draper Hall.

Now he would not dare to go there. The old squire
would shut the door in his face.

CHAPTER IX.

“How is it, Harry, my dear boy? Are you all ready
for the races on Monday ?”

This was the question of genial Squire Draper, who
had driven down in his drag—four-in-hand, Miss Diana
holding the reins, while her father and Blanche enjoyed
the back seat to see the ‘‘cracks” of the young squire on
the training-track.

“All ready and in prime condition—so says my best
man, old John Haynes,” was the reply.

«And the unknown—your gipsy colt?” queried
Blanche.

“He has géne nobly on trial. If he keeps his temper
on a crowded track, I’ve no fears for him,” replied
Lovell. ‘But after his first victory he must have a
name. and you, dear Blanche, must choose it. You gave
me my colors—‘‘true blue”’—and I hope to keep them in
the lead through all the races.”

“You will—I will stake alll’m worth on it, Harry!”
cried the squire. ‘But look out for tricks. Fortescue
has gone to London furious, not leaving a friend in the
eounty. Even Middleton gave him the cold shoulder
when he got proof that Fortescue’s man brought those
bruisers down to thrash you and paid their way.”

“They would have got the better of me if it had not
been for Red Mike. Two professional fighters upon one
amateur, at the same time, were rather heavy odds. But
Mike held one still until I had finished the other, and
aie tossed the second to me as if he had been a

a ve

«Which he was in your hands, by all accounts,” said
the squire. ‘‘At least he was weaker than a baby in less
than a minute. To break a man’s jaw with one hand,
and mash his nose and blind him with the other, is out
of allrule, Harry. They’ll have you up for mansiaugh-

ten”
_ “Cruelty to animals, you mean,” cried Blanche. laugh-

**Which is the first race of the season.?” asked Diana,

‘“Northampton—three purses and the queen’s cup,”
was the ready answer. ‘Ihe Earl of Darlington’s string
is named, and I take the circuit with him—my horses in
the same stables.”

‘Will Fortescue be there ?” asked Blanche.

“Yes; he is on inevery race of the season. He wants
to emulate his father and become a turf leader.”

‘He'll be a light-weight in his pocket before they’ve
run through,” said the squire. ‘But, Harry, can’t the
girls see the colt on the track ?”

“Yes, squire, but old John is dead set against it. It
his performances become public, we'll get few bets and
no odds against him.”

“Then,” cried Blanche, ‘‘we will forego our curiosity.
He knows what is best.”

“Thankee, miss; you'll not be sorry for that when we
bring the horse out,” said old John, who had come with-
in hearing while they spoke. ‘He is agrand’un and
no mistake ; he'll lead the world on time, if he keeps up
to his work. Blue-Grass Dick says there is nothing in
America to head him. Newmarket will tell, and then
we'll try him at Ascot, and for the Derby.”

Invited within the manse after a brief view of the
horses in the stables, the squire and his fair daughters
enjoyed what Lovell called a ‘‘bachelor lunch.”

“How will you lunch after having committed matri-
mony, if you have to apologize for this spread ?” asked
the squire, laughing.

“My better-half will take charge then,” said the
young squire. ‘I have no doubt the change will be for
the better.”

‘Hardly possible,” said Diana the Fearless, holding
out her plate for a fresh cut from a mighty round of ten-
der roast beef.

Blanche said nothing, but she blushed rosily when
she saw the blue eyes of her manly lover bent upon
her.

Truly they were a noble pair.

* * *

* * * * *

A bright, clear day, not too warm, for a breeze swept
gently in from the coast, opened the races at Northamp-
to

n.

Early in the day the town was full of strangers, every
inn had its full quota, and as the track was close to the
town, most of those who came in coaches or their own
drags left them at the stables and sought the grand
stand for good seats early and on foot.

Outside the race-grounds were the usual camps of
gipsy fortune-tellers, Punch and Judy shows, and tray-
eling shows of all kinds and dimensions.

Inside book-makers, jockeys, touts swarmed every-
where, but the strictest guards were kept over the
stables of horses that were to run.

The Earlof Darlington, Lord Middleton, Lords Fal-
mouth, Fortescue, and Sir Charles Chetwynd had strings
there, as also Captain Malchell and Admiral Wyche, but
there were none of the great horses which had been
named for the Derby, Ascot, and New Market races up
for work here.

Harry Lovell had entered his half-Arabian horse Sul-
tan, a brother to the beautiful mare which he had pre-
sented to Blanche the Beautiful, and which she almost
always rode when out with her father after the hounds.

Blue-Grass Dick was the rider, and when a string of
twelve cantered up and their riders dismounted at the
weighing-post, it would have been hard to choosea
winner from among them, well posted as the jockeys
and touts were.

The Earl of Darlington had one horse in, Fortescue
two, while the others were from good stables and in the
condition that English trainers delight to see.

The grand stand was full, for, aside from its money
value, the honor of winning the queen’s plate, two hun-
dred guineas, brought out all the chivalry and beauty
of the section to witness the struggle.

The jockeys, in their various colors, the horses pranc-
ing along with coats as smooth and bright as satin, the
ladies dressed with taste and elegance, the men allin
their holiday garbs, made the scene brilliant.

The Earl of Darlington, Squire Draper and his two
daughters occupied seats together.

Not far away, watching the track closely, stood Harry
Lovell, while conspicuous for his loud talk and arrogant
manner, Lord Fortescue and a crowd of sycophantic
cronies had seats within speaking distance of all the
first named parties.

When at last the horses were aoout ready for a start,
Fortescue, betting-book in hand, cried out:

“Five to one on my Starling against the field!”

“A thousand to five thousand guineas, my lord?” an-
swered the Earl of Darlington, his own book in hand.

“Ay; or double the amount at same odds!” said the
young lord, seeing apparently for the first time the fair
faces between the old squire and the earl.

“Doubled let it be!” responded the earl, as he made
the memorandum. ‘And since you are so eager, Lord
Fortescue, I will wager a thousand guineas even that
I name the winner of the queen’s plate and this race !”

«Done, my lord; let me note the name.”

“Squire Harry Lovell’s Arabian horse Sultan—colors
blue and gold—tried and true !”

It would have been a picture worth painting, if the
colors could have been caught, to have got Lord For-
tescue’s face just then.

First pale as his own white cravat, then redder than
the scarlet coat of an officer by his side, then, as he saw
Lovell only afew yards away enjoying the scene, of an
ashen hue.

“J did not know that plebeians had horses here,” he
sneered.

“No member of the Royal Jockey Club of Newmarket
is held as a plebeian, Lord Fortescue, and my friend,
Squire Lovell, has all the rights on this track possessed
by myself,” said the earl, sternly.

“7 will stand the craven lord an even thousand on our
horses!” cried Lovell, returning insult for insult.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

$ ;

HE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #=

 

 

 

«Done !—if you are able to pay when you lose!” said
Fortescue, too angry to heed warning words spoken by
his own friends.

The cry, ‘Lookout! the horses are off!” absorbed all
attention now, and, though betting went on, every eye
was set on the group of horses which dashed away from
the starting-post. :

The course, nearly oval, had quite a rise on the back
at the end of the first half-mile, and before the top of
this was reached, a mile away, the horses were widely
scattered. By the colors worn the horses could be
known ; and, the hill passed, and the last mile of the
two entered on, showed that the pace was terrific, and
only held by four horses, the rest falling back, but strug-
giling to save a distance.

“Black and yellow to the front!
vet I made!” shouted Fortescue.

“Jt is booked, my lord! Blue and gold is at your Star-
ling’s heels!” cried Darlington. -

“Booked!” came from Harry Lovell, quietly; and now,
with breathless interest, the racers were seen thunder-
ing down the home-stretch.

One of the earl’s best horses, which had forced Starling
to do his best from the start, was now eased up by his
jockey till he was a couple of lengths behind, leaving a
clear track for the Arabian and Fortescue’s horse, the
latter passing the distance-stand a length ahead.

But now a yell, sharp and shrill as that of a Comanche
Indian, broke from the lips of Blue-Grass Dick, and, ris-
ing in his stirrups, he loosened his reins, and fairly flew
past the yellow and black. of Fortescue’s jockey, who
madly plied whip and spur, but allin vain. Sultan went
under the wire full two lengths ahead, untouched by
spur or whip.

“That black imp of Satan scared the life out of my
horse with his devilish yelling!” groaned Fortescue.

«How much are you out?” asked his friend, Captain
Rafferty, of the Tenth Light-Horse.

“Fifteen thousand guineas, outside of entries and ex-
penses,” said his lordship, trying to speak calmly though
his hand shook so he could hardly hold the betting-book
he was looking over.

There was a buzz of wonder among the occupants of
the grand stand. Blue and gold were new colors at
Northampton, and inquiries were at once made wheth-
er they would appear in the next race for the Northamp-

onshire Cup, three hundred sovereigns, which was to
follow the first race, after a short recess.
i one could, or would, tell; but when the call for
aa race was heard, the colors were watched
y

Tll double every

Blue and gold was there—the ‘‘Demon Rider,” as Blue-

ss Dick had already been christened, on a Colster-

ale chestnut mare—a long-bodied, low-built mare,

scarce fourteen and a half hands, that looked sleepy as

Blue-Grass Dick walked her quietly toward the weigh-

* ing-post, where old John Haynes stood ready to give the
rider his last instructions and a cheering word.

The yellow and black were worn over a horse full six-
teen hands high, of grand action, which looked as if fit
to run for a king’s ransom.

The Earl of Darlington had no horse in, but there
were six good entries besides the first two named.

Yet, as the interest of the first race fixed the ther-
mometer for the second, the betting ran mostly on Loy:
ell’s sorrel mare and Fortescue’s black horse.

The latter was ridden by Jem Sands, who had orders
from Lord Fortescue to win that race or kill his horse.
The pace was to be forced from the start.

Again the Earl of Darlington backed the blue and
gold asfar as Fortescue dared to go; and, stung with
his late defeat, the young nobleman nearly doubled his
former wagers.

But the Fortescue horse looked so grand, and was
shown up in such style by his rider, that the Fortescue
side grew strong in the books, and offered odds, largely
and freely. 4

Quietly Lovell took every bet he could get, and the
old squire, encouraged by the earl, went as far as he

ared.

Again the horses were off, well started and all in a

bunch. The rise of the hill on the back-stretch soon
strung them out, and when the second mile was opened
only two were close together. .
» The black horse of Lord Fortescue, even then under
whip and spur, held full three lengths ahead of the blue
and gold, though Blue Grass Dick seemed to ride as if
half asleep—no motion, no excitement.

«Ten to one—twenty to one on my horse!” cried For-
tescue, when his horse, still well ahead, came on the
home-stretch.

‘Done! for ten thousand more at that odds!” cried
Darlington, entering the offer on his book.

Even as he spoke, the ‘‘Demon Rider” was seen to rise
in his stirrups, slacken his reins, and his shrill yell rang
loud and clear over the breathless crowd.

And the chestnut mare, like an arrow from the bow,
shot to the front; while the gallant black, urged and
whipped beyond all power of endurance, stumbled and
fell, dying a half dozen lengths short of the wire, send-
ing Jem Sands rolling in the dirt far ahead of him.

Fortescue, pale as if stricken by the hand oi death,
gasped out:

“A year’s income nearly lost, and that plebeian has
won both races! Curse the luck, and ten thousand
curses on him who has beaten me !”

Retiring to the club-room to make out checks for his
losses, Fortescue made the air fairly blue with his
curses. -

As this was the last race of the day, the Earl of Dar-
lington, Squire Draper and his daughters, with young
Lovell and Lord Middleton, retired to the principal inn,
where they had engaged quarters, to dine together and
to congratulate Lovell on his success.

The latter had gone from the grand stand to his
Stables, where old John Hughes stood, as happy as a
man could be, to rejoice over the victories won by horses
trained and selected by him.

A hundred guineas to the trainer, seventy-five golden
shiners to Blue Grass Dick. and ten apiece to every
groom end watcher at the stables, proved that the
young squire did not forget any who had helped him to
gain his great and triumphant victories.

When he reached the inn and joined his friends, the
jovial old squire slapped him on the back with his broad,
chubby hand, and shouted :

«‘Well done, Harry Lovell! I’m richer by thee this day
than I ever expected to be in my life. And Fortescue is
so badly cleaned out, that I doubt me if he shows a hoof
at the Ascot or the Derby.”

«{ Only hope he will, and put forward something that
will not prove a mere plaything for my Unknown. He
will go his four miles at the pace Sultan made for two.
Blue Grass Dick and he are now on terms, though it was
a long time before he gat used to that yell of Dick’s. It
beats whip and spur to death.”

‘Did you hear the name they have given your now
famous Ethiopian ?” asked Miss Diana.

“Yes; they call him the ‘Demon Rider,’ and they may
have good reason for it when he rides the Unknown.
You can back him, gentlemen, to the extent of your
fortunes. If he does not go amiss and is not tampered
with, he is the best horse on foot in the kingdom, if not
in the world ?”

“Is he here ?” asked Lord Middleton, who had ‘‘cut”
Fortescue entirely on learning of his mean and treacher-
ous conduct.

«No, my lord, but he is at the manse, under the guard
of Red Mike, who almost worships him. The gipsy
chief and ten of his men guard him night and day, giv-
- ing him just the feed and exercise which old John

Haynes has ordered. But for the skill of the old man
and his faith in the speed and bottom of the chestnut
“mare, I never would have dared to start her. Heis a
wonderful man. When he saw the mare for the first
time he told her pedigree for three generations back,
and put her~at once to hard training. The result you
all know.”

«Yes, to our material advantage,” said the Earl of
Darlington, laughing. ‘The season has but begun, yet
Lhave won more money already than I ever did before
in my most successful year.”

“We're all in the same boat, my lord,” said Squire
Draper. ‘I can give my dear girls a season in London
now if they want it.”

«“Wedo not want it, dear father,” said Blanche, ten-
derly. ‘Our dear home with you in it is all of the world
we want to see—is it not, Diana ?”

_ “Except the races, sister. We could not get along

without seeing them.”

“Well said, my brave daughters, both. I often feel
like thanking my Maker that He has given me two
noble girls instead of boys, who might waste my little
substance in dissipation, or bring disgrace on a name
never yet sullied with dishonor. Ah, my lords, when I
see how the young men of to-day waste their lives, it
takes away every wish on my part to be young again.

CHAPTER X.

_. Old John Haynes had seen Squire Lovell’s winners
: fairly attended to—walked until they were cool, then
rubbed down until their coats were soft and glossy as
Satin, then blanketed lightly to keep them from taking
cold. A glance at every animal in the stables to see
that all were right, a word of caution to each groom and
watcher, and he was ready to go to the nearest tap-
room for a mug of generous ale.

While engaged in draining it, Jem Sands entered the
room and approached the old trainer,

«Mr. Haynes,” he said, taking off his hat very obse-
quiously, ‘‘may I have a private word with you ?”

«Ay, a half-dozen, if thowlt tell me how long since I
became mister tothee. Not two months ago, at Leam-
angton, I was ‘old Jack Haynes’ to thee, and scarce worth
the courtesy of a nod.”

“T beg pardon, Mr. Haynes. I must have been in my
cups, and ’m a bit ugiy then. We all know what a
‘keen man and good thou art about the stables, having a
better eye for horses than any other man in the king-
dom.”

«What art thou after with all this palaver, Jem Sands?
Thave naught to do with thy stables.”

«‘There’s the rub! We're all wishing you. had, Mr.
Haynes. If you had seen to our cracks and got’em in
condition, the ‘<yellow and black’ would have gone to
the front to-day. And my lord told as much. He said
it wasn’t the stock that beat him—it was the training
and the riding. He called me a fool.”

“Did he? And you thanked him ?”

«Not much, Mr. Haynes, for I felt bad enough to be
peat by that yellin’ moke of yours, and to be jawed as I
was afterward would have pervoked a saint.”

«Much morea sinner. 1 suppose you’ve a message
for me from Lord Fortescue, since you want to speak in
private.”
~ <Tt’s true, Mr. Haynes; he wants you to overlook his
horses for the rest of the season, or as much longer as
you will, no matter what your price is; and he wants
your black rider, too. Money is no object—you can
name your own terms.”

 

“Allright. Tell Lord Fortescue that a hundred thou-
sand guineas would not tempt me to desert a brave and
true gentleman like Squire Lovell for the purpose of
entering his service. And tell him more—tell him that
what we’ve done to-day we’ll repeat through the whole
circuit. He has a big stable and some good horses, but
we'll put something up to beat ’em every time.”

“You'd best think a bit, Mr. Haynes, before sending
a aa talk. He can be a bad enemy as well as a good
friend.”

“A fig for his enmity, and Jess for his friendship, Jem
Sands. I’ve friends who can buy and sell him, and my
present employer has thrashed him well once, and will
again if he ever annoys him. And mark ye, man, if I
catch a tout or man from your stables sneaking around
ours, he’ll wish he’d never been born. We'll beat you
fair and square, and woe be to him who tries any trick-
ery upon us.”

Jem Sands departed, as old John said when he report-
7 the interview to the young squire, with a big flea in
nis ear. :

Finding Lord Fortescue alone in his parlor seeking
comfort in sundry bumpers of hot brandy punch, Jem
Sands reported his last failure, using the very words of
the old trainer.

The young nobleman, already furious over his losses,
raved when he heard what John Haynes said.

‘‘He’ll beat me at every race, will he? He may never
live to see another. Jem Sands, you were held as my
father’s best man.”

‘He held me so, my lord. I’ve done my best for you.”

“You've got to do better. This old John Haynes, dead
or alive, has got toleave those stables. And that African
whelp, too. And you’ve got to see to it. Do you hear
me, Jem Sands ?”

“I do, my lord; but I can’t see my way clear. I’m
sharp, they say, but can’t do a murder. And what else
will get them two out of your way? Money can’t buy
them, power doesn’t scare ’em, Squire Lovell has got the
rich Earl of Darlington at his back, and your old friend,
Lord Middleton, too.”

“Yes, the accursed traitor. They'll all turn against
me if I’m beaten as I’ve been to-day. I’ve lost almost a
year’s income. A season of such luck would send me to
the Jews for money.”

“Pm sorry, my lord. There has been no treachery with
us in the stables. We've all done our best.”

‘I don’t say there has. But this, 1 know: The turf
papers say I have the best string of horses in the king-
dom, yet Pm beaten on the first trial.”

«We'll try to better it at Warwick, my lord. I’ve got
better horses than we had to-day in fine condition, and
if they run the same cracks, I know we’ll beat ’em. Tl
stake my life on it.”

‘What races will be run there ?”

«The Queen’s Plate, the Stoneleigh Plate—they’ll
not run for that, it’s a two-year-old run; but they'll go
for the Willoughby Handicap, and the Warwickshire
Cup.’ We must and will beat them. But that nigger
must be got off some way. His yell is a terror to every
rider we have. They think he is Satan, or close akin to
him.”

“Youre a beggerly lot if he ever rides again. But
poe Willoughby Handicap is for gentlemen riders, is it
not ?”

«Yes, my lord.”

“Then I'll ride in it myself. They’ not dare to put
up this petty squire against me. And Tll get Lord Cal-
thorpe to ride, too; that'll fix him.”

«Perhaps, my lord. But he has powerful friends, you
know.”

«Ay. Icare notif he doésride. Itis forall ages, and
weights specified. I'll ride two stone lighter than he.
hee my very best horse under me and Ill skin him

own.”

“Not if he rides that gipsy beast, my lord. If he runs,
don’t you beta penny. Pay forfeit, and draw off.”

Never—for him/ Vddie first. Tll ride, and run him
down !”_

Jem Sands shook his head.

«You'd best not try that, my lord. They’d rule you off
every track in the kingdom.” 8

“That would be ruin, indeed.' Has this infernal squire
got the gipsy horse here in his string ?”

“No, my lord; he is at the manse, under the care of
his old owner, Red Mike.”

«Good! That horse must either be crippled or killed.
Take all the roughs you need, get them where you
like, and see it done before he can be got with the rest
of the string. If that horse is off, I know I’ve got cracks
that will beat his best.”

*T believe it, my lord—in fact, I know it.”

«Then, if it costs a thousand pounds, have that horse
out of the way.” ‘

‘“Ttshall be done, my lord. Gipsies are wagabonds ac-
cordin’ to law, and if we kill some of ’em, itll not bring
much grief.”

‘‘No—so that infernal horse is got out of my way. I
must and will humble this upstart squire. If that
demon rider beats us again, we’li fix him like the horse.
As to training, you ought tobe as good as old John
Haynes.”

“T was counted so, my lord. Butold John has rare
luck with horses. I don’t see how he went into a stable
so little known.”

“You forget that the Earl of Darlington brought him
in. But thatis nothing. The gipsy horse must be got
rid of atonce. I want you to seeto it. I shall put up
no more horses here, and you are free till we get to
Warwick.”

“All right, my lord. I’m off for London within an
hour after you put me in funds, and from there I’ll be
down to the manse in the dead of night to do the work.”

“Take this check. Cash it at the bank and be off. it
is for five hundred pounds. WhenI know the work is
done, and well done, another five hundred goes into
your hands.”

“All right, my lord,” said Jem Sands, as he fobbed the
check and hurried away.”

“All wrong /” muttered a low voice outside the win-
dow of the room where this occurred.

It came from the lips of a keen-eyed gipsy lad, sent to
old John Haynes by Red Mike to keep watch and spy
around his stables, or elsewhere if so directed. And
old John Haynes had sent him to shadow Jem Sands,
and to learn whatever tricks the fellow was up to.

So within half an hour,old John Haynes knew all of
Fortescue’s wicked plans, and through him the Earl of
Darlington and the Squires Draper and Lovell were in-
formed of them.

‘Had Inot best go to the manse at once ?” was Lovell’s
first thought and query.

“No; that would put them on their guard and make
them extend their preparation. Just give Red Mike
warning, and he’ll take care of the horse and of those
that go to attack him.”

This was what the Earl of Darlington said, and, upon
thought, the rest coincided.

So the gipsy lad was sent with a verbal and a written
message; in the letter to Mike an order for fire-arms
from the manse was inclosed, and he was told to show
no mercy to those who came to attack the stables.

And then, to be in time for the Gentlemen’s Race at
Warwick, the colt, under a careful Pid ea and at night,
to insure perfect secrecy, was to removed to that
place to join the rest of the ‘‘Darlington-Lovell’ string,
as it was now known.

When Red Mike received the verbal message, his
towering form shook with rage.

«So that pitiful cur of a jockey has gone to London to
hire roughs to come down and break my guard, and
ruin or kill the colt,” he cried. ‘‘Let them come. There’ll
be many a broken head before they get inside my line.
And them that do get there will wish they were back
in London town before my colly boys and I are through
with them.”

The letter he could not read. So he took it in to the
housekeeper in the manse to have it read to him.

«Tl use no fire-arms, though he offers them to me,”
said Red Mike, after hearing the contents of the letter.
“A good blackthorn club in the hands of atrue Romany
man will crack skulls and not lay us liable to the
law.

And he at once sent a messenger to the gipsy camp
for twenty stout men, all to be on hand before night set
in; and, selecting four of his truest men and best horse-
men, he prepared to have the colt sent beyond harm’s
reach as soon as darkness shrouded the earth, instruct-
ing the men where to remain in concealment until he
rejoined them after having disposed of Jem Sands and
se crew of wretches whom the latter was to bring

own. ;

These preliminaries arranged, the wily giant gota
coil of fencing wire, and setting posts in the ground
about two feet high and tenor fifteen yards apart,
stretched the wires from post to post all about the
stables—a trap to trip up the trespassers and bring
them down where ‘‘clubs” played as trumps would soon
prove a winning game.

It took some hours to get ready, and having sent
scouts out Om all the approaches from London, he was
ready at dark to receive his expected visitors, no matter
when they came.

Having seen the colt off. so blanketed up and ban-
daged about the legs as to disguise him from those who
knew him best, with his men all stationed, Mike took
post, waited the reports of his scouts, and longed for the
tray tocommence. His Romany blood was up, and he
longed for a chance to show the London rougns a taste
of gipsy prowess.

Hours passed, but at last a well-mounted scout rode
in and reported three wagons, full of men, coming down
the Leamfngton road.

“They’ve gone a bit out of the regular route, but it is
Jem Sands and his party, for all that. Every man to

the spot where I placed him before dark, and knock the)

first man and*every man in the head who touches the
wire. Don’t let a man“up who falls; pound him till he
can’t kick.”

In a little while three more scouts—all that Mike had
out—came in and reported the three wagons halted ina
lane nearly a mile away, where the men all got out and
were fed, as well as liberally supplied with drink.

The scouts came in while the enemy was thus en-
gaged, for they had heard Jem Sands tell them to eat
and drink hearty, for he should move on as soon as they
were through. ‘

All lights, by Mike’s orders, were concealed, both in
the manse and about the stables. so that the roughs
would have to bring their own lights, and thus expose
themselves, or feel their way in the darkness.

Every servant about the manse wason watch and
Well armed if an attack should de made on the house
The stables and adjacent grounds were under Red
Mike’s special care.

It was nearly ten o'clock, when the tramp of many
feet, and now and then a muttered curse from the lips
Of a stumbler, reached the ears of Mike and his fol-

owers.

The gipsy chief, satisfied by the sounds that the
roughs were coming on in a compact body, silently
massed his own men directly in front of the approach, so

as to be ready to use their clubs with vigor when they
were in reach.

«There’s the stables. I’ll-bet the cusses are all asleep,”
said Jem Sands, in a low but distinct tone. :

A second later the strong iron wire was reached, and
a dozen men, Jem inthe crowd, went sprawling and
cursing over it.

These fell, and the crushing crash of a club fell on
every head as they dropped.

[T0 BE CONTINUED.]
renee Hie mete

THE

ACTRESS DAUGHTER ;

The Mistress. of Richmond House,

By MRS. MA¥ AGNES FLEMING,

AUTHOR OF

‘““Wedded, Yet No Wife,’ ‘A Wonderful Woman,”
‘‘Norine’s Reven e,? “Silent and True,” ‘A
fad Marriage.” ‘One Night’s Mystery,”
“Carried by Storm,” etc., etc.

(“The Actroge! Daughter” was commenced in No 2. Back
numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]

CHAPTER XXIV—(CONTINUED.)

“What! our coming home ?” said Randall.
you see so extraordinary about that, Curtis ?”

“No, it is not that,” said Mr. Curtis, chuckling; <‘it’s
the remarkable coincidence of your coming to-day of all
days—not you, but your sister. There, don’t ask me
now, everybody’s looking—a set of ill-mannered snipes.
Arlingford, run and call a coach, there’s a good boy,
and [ll tell Mrs. Wildair all about it. Good gracious!
if it isn’t the funniest thing !”

Mr. Curtis’ excitement and delight, as he danced up
and down, rubbing his hands and chuckling, were so
irresistible that all three, after watching him an in-
stant, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, and, be-
holding his look of dismayed surprise, laughed until the
tears stood in their eyes.

“Eh! why, what the—— what are you laughing at?
Don’t act so, don’t; everybody’s looking, and theyll
think you're crazy,” said Mr Curtis, imploringly. ‘Wait
a minute, I'll call a coach myself—you just hold on.”

Off darted Mr. Curtis, leaving them still laughing and
unable to stop, and ere five minutes he was back, and
whipped them off like a living whirlwind—pushed them
into a coach, jumped in after, and banged the door.

“Dixon’s Hotel!” he bawled to the driver, and away
they rattled over the pavement.

“Now we're comfortable,” said Mr. Curtis, surveying
them complacently, ‘‘and; only forme, you might have
stood there all night, for coaches are in demand, and
hardly to be got for love or money. Oh, Jehosaphat!
just to think of it! why it’s droll!” said Mr. Curtis,
thrusting his hands into his pockets,and, as the absurdity
of it struck him for the first time, he leaned back in the
carriage, and burst into a peal of laughter that was per-
fectly terrific, and from the effects of which he did not
recover until they reached the hotel.

“Tt’s lucky for you, in more ways than one, that you
met me,” said Mr. Curtis, as he got out and offered
Georgia his arm, ‘‘for the city’s full, and you wouldn't
have got a room in a hotel from one end of it to the
other—no, not if you went on your two blessed, bended
knees and prayed for it. Here, these rooms were en-
gaged for the governor and his suite, and this is mine,
and is quite at your disposal, Mrs. Wildair.”

«But, oh! Mr. Curtis, I cannot think of depriving
you——”

“There—not a word! not a word!” said Mr. Curtis,
briskly, as. he ushered them into a sumptuously fur-
nished apartment. ‘I'll camp with somebody else. And
now the very first thing,I want you to do is to dress and
come to the ball to-night.”

“The ball! What ball?’ said Georgia, in surprise.

«Why, the inauguration ball, tobe sure! Oh, I forgot
you did not know. Well, then, the astonishing news is,
that Mr. Richmond Wildair has this day entered B——
as its governor! Now, don’t faint, Mrs. Wildair, because
I won’t understand yourcase. And, as usual, there is to
be a ball, and I want you to come and be presented to
his excellency the governor.”

Georgia had no intention of fainting. A flush of pride,
and triumph, and delight, lit up her face, and, with the
step of a queen, She arose and paced up and down the
room.

«And so he has been elected,” said Mr. Randall,
thoughtfully. ‘I knew he would rise rapidly.”

«What says Georgia—will you go ?”

“Yes,” she said, with a radiant smile.

“Hooray!” exclaimed Mr. Curtis; ‘ Mrs. Wildair,
you're a brick! Maybe Mr. Wildair won’t be astonished
some, if not more, and a leetle delighted! It’s getting
dark fast, and I ought to be off to the executive man-
sion; but I'll let etiquette go be hanged for once, and
wait for you. You had better have tea in your own
room, Mrs. W.;.sha’n’t Tring? It will take you two or
three hours to dress, you know—it always does take a
lady that long, I believe. Here,.my man, supper for
four up here; be spry now.”

It was impossible to be serious and watch Curtis, as he
flew round impetuously, asking a thousand questions in
a breath about what they had seen abroad, and then in-
terrupting them in the middle of the answer to tell them
something about Richmond, that had not the slightest
bearing on the matter.

In his excitement he found it impossible to sit still, but
kept flying round the room, rubbing his hands in an
ecstasy of delight, and laughing uproariously as he
thought of the surprise in store for the young governor.
During supper he monopolized the whole conversation
himself, and kept the others in fits of laughter, while
his look of innocent astonishment at their mirth would,
as Captain Arlingford said, ‘make a horn-bug laugh.”

After tea the gentlemen took themselves off to dress,
and Georgia’s maid, who had arrived, remained to su-
perintend her mistress’ toilet. Those two years of ab-
sence had restored the bright bloom to Georgia’s dark
face, but the old flashing light had left her dark eyes,
and in its place was a sweetness, subdued, gentle, and
far more lovely. The haughtily curling lips were tender
and placid, the queenly brow calm and serene, the dark,
beautiful face almost seraphic with its look of inward
peace. Oh, far more sweet, and tender, and lovable was
the Georgia of to-day than the haughty, fiery, passion-
ate Georgia of other years! As she stood before the
mirror, in her rich, showy robe of gold-colored satin, un-
der rare old point lace, with diamonds flashing in rivers
of light around her curving throat, flashing in her small
ears, gleaming in her midnight hair, and glittering and
scintillating like sparks of fire on her rounded arms and
small dark fingers, she looked every inch a princess, a
“queen of noble Nature’s crowning.”

And so thought the gentlemen as they entered, in full
dress—in ‘‘glorious array,” as Mr. Curtis pompously said
—if one might judge by her brother’s look of pride and
pleasure, Captain Arlingford’s glance of intense admira-

“What do

at this, but his voice was drowned in a cry from a band
of loafers near, who shouted :

«We want to see the governor!
we see the governor !”

There was a plain dark carriage right in front of them,
and now the glass was let down, and a clear, command-
ing voice, that rang out above all the din, calmly said:

“Tam the governor! Stand aside, my friends, and let
me pass !”

That voice!
then fell back.

Such a cry as arose—such a mighty shout, at the
voice of their favorite! The crowd swayed to and fro in
their struggles*to get near. The driver whipped up his
horses, a passage was cleared, and carriage after car-
riage passed on and entered the crowded court-yard.

“Hurrah for Wildair! Hurrah for Wildair! Hurrah!
Hurrah! Hurraw for Wildair!” shouted the crowd, till
the welkin rang.

‘Hurrah for Richmond Wildair—the MAN OF THE
PEOPLE !”exclaimed a loud voice, and instantly the cry
was taken up, and ‘Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” rang
out like the roar of the sea.

And now on the balcony, clearly revealed in the tight
of myriads of lamps, stood the kingly form of Richmond
Wildair himself, his princely brow uncovered, his calm,
commanding face looking down on them, as a king
might on his subjects.

And then once again arose the mighty shout, ‘‘Hurrah
for Wildair! Hurrah for Wildair! Hurrah for the Friend
of the People !” until, hoarse with shouting, the swaying
multitude relapsed into silence.

And then, clear, calm, and earnest, arose the com-
manding voice of their favorite, as he addressed them.

A dead silence fell on that great crowd the moment
his first word was heard. Short, and well chosen, and
to the point, was his speech; and hats flew off, and
again and again the hoarse cheers of his listeners inter-
rupted him. Having thanked them for the enthusiastic
reception they had given him, he begged them to dis-
perse for the present, and then, having bowed once
more, he retired.

With three times three for the speaker they obeyed,
and, save a few who remained to watch the brilliantly
illuminated mansion and listen to the music of the
nis the crowd soon dispersed through the thronged
streets.

“There’s popularity for you !” said Mr. Curtis, as with
Georgia leaning on his arm he entered the brilliant ball-
room, blazing with lights and crowded with splendidly
attired ladies. ‘‘I should admire to see them cheering
me that way. How would it sound, I wonder? Hurrah
for Curtis! That’s not bad, is it, Mrs. Wildair 2”

She did not reply—she did not hear him. Her eyes
were wandering through the glittering throng in search
of one, the “bright, particular star” of the evening.
Yes, there he was at the upperend of the room, sur-
rounded by a throng of the most distinguished there,
bowing, and shaking hands, and smiling, and chatting
with the ladies. She strove tocalm herself and listen
to what her companion was saying, but in vain,

You won’t pass till

Georgia half-sprang from her seat, and

 

 

until the mention of Richmond’s name attracted her
attention.

“JT won’t bring you over among that crowd,” he was
saying; ‘Ill wait till he’s a little disengaged. They’ll
begin dancing presently, and then the coast will be
clear. Just see how everybody is looking at you and
whispering to one another. I guess they would like to
know who you are just now. Ah! what would you give
to Hy 2” said Mr. Curtie, making a grimace at the
crowd.

And now an audible whisper might have been heard
among the throng:

«Who is she ? oh, who is she ?—that beautiful girl with
Mr. Curtis I never saw her before.” 7

“Nori. Nor {£. Who can she be?’ ran around the
room. ‘How distingue she is! how surpassingly beau-
tiful! and how magnificently dressed! Oh, I must get
an introduction. See, he is bringing her up now to pre-
sent her to the governor. I'll ask him to introduce me.
She is certainly destined to be the belle of the evening.”

Meantime two or three quadrilles had formed, and the
group surrounding the governor had thinned, and he
was left as much alone as he was likely to be during the
evening. Leaning against a marble pillar, he stood
talking to a starred and ribboned foreigner, and when
Curtis approached with Georgia, he was so engrossed by
the topic they were discussing that he did not observe
him until his voice fell on his ear.

‘Mrs. Wildair, your excellency!” said Mr. Curtis, in
the most emphatic of voices, standing right before him.

He started up, staggered back, grew deadly pale, and
grasped the marble pillar for support.

Yes, there before him, radiant in her beauty, with
serene brow and calm smile, stood his long-lost wife—
face to face at last!

CHAPTER XXyV.
“AFTER TEARS AND WEEPING, HE POURETH IN JOYFUL-
NESS.”

“Do not spurn me in my prayer,

For this wand’ring ever longer, evermore,
Hath overworn me,

And I know not on what shore
I may rest from my despair.” Brow@ra.

From his pale lips dropped one word:

«Georgia !” ;

‘Dearest Richmond,” she said, looking up in his face
with her radiant eyes.

“Oh, Georgia, my wronged wife, can you ever forgive
me ?” he cried, passionately.

“J have nothing to forgive, my husband,” she said,
sweetly. ‘It is I who should be forgiven.”

“Oh, Georgia, Where have you been? DoI really see
you, ordoI dream? So often have I dreamed you were
restored, and woke to find itadream. Is this a delu-
sion like the rest?”

«Shake hands, and see.” :

She held out hers with a smile, and he took it, and
gazed into her face with a doubtful, troubled look.

“Yes, itis Georgia; it must be she; the same, yet so
different. You never looked like this in the days gone
past, Georgia.”

“T have been new-born since,” she said, with a serene
smile. ‘You shall learn all soon, Richmond. Do you
know I have come to stay now ?”

“See here, Mr. Wildair,” said Curtis, giving him a
poke, ‘‘don’t you keep looking so; everybody’s staring
and whispering, and our friend here, Whiskerando,”
pointing to the starred foreigner, ‘looks as if he thought
he had got into a lunatic asylum by mistake. You take
Georgia—I mean Mrs. Wildair—off into that conserva-
tory, for instance, where you can stare at her to your
heart’s content, and learn all the particulars since she
cut her lucky—I mean since she ran off and left youin
the lurch. Go; I know it will take you an hour, at
least, to settle matters, and beg each other’s pardon, and
smoke the pipe of peace, and so on; and, meantime, as
it is necessary the company should know who itis, Pll
whisper it as a great secret into the earof the first
ae eer and get her to promise not to tell. There!
va !

Passing his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a mist,

Richmond offered her his arm and led her toward the
conservatory, followed by the wondering eyes of the
guests.
But Mr. Curtis had no need to tell. Miss Harper was
there, and recognized her with a suppressed shriek ; and
in an instant after, like wild-fire, it ran through the room
that this dark, beautiful stranger was the mysterious
wife of Mr. Wildair. ; '

Dancing was nolonger thoughtof. Everybody flocked
around Mr. Curtis, and such an avalanche of ques-
tions as was showered upon him human ears never lis-
tened to before. Had he possessed a thousand tongues
he could hardly have answered one-half. But he did
not try to answer them. Mr. Dick Curtis was a sensible
young man, and never attempted impossibilities ; so he

 

tion, and Mr. Curtis’ burst of rapture.

“Why, youre looking splendid. absolutely splendid,
you know; something quite stunning, Mrs. Wildair!
Ah! I should like to be as good-looking as you. I never |
saw you looking so well before. Now, did you, Randall ?” |

“Georgia is looking her best,” said Mr. Randall,
smiling.

«Looking her best! I guess so! It’s astonishing how
handsome women can make themselves when they |
choose. Now, I might try tillI was black in the face,
and still I would be the old two-and-sixpence at the end.
I wish I knew the secret. Suppose we go now; we're
behind time three quarters of an hour as itis. The car-
riage is waiting, Mrs. Wildair.” :

“T am quite at your service, Mr. Curtis,” said Georgia,
flinging a shawl over her shoulders, and trying to smile;
but her heart was-throbbing so rapidly that she leaned
against the table for a moment, sick and faint.

Who, when about to meet a dear friend from whom
she has been long separated, does not feel a sort of
dread mingling with her pleasure, lest she should find
him changed, altered, cold, different from what she had
known him in other years ?

So felt Georgia as she took her seat in the carriage and
was whirled as rapidly as the crowded state of the
streets would admit toward the executive mansion. Her
color came and went, now that the crisis was at hand,
and the loud beating of her heart could almost be heard,
as she lay back among the coushins, trembling with ex-
citement and conflicting emotions.

A gay scene the streets presented that night. Never
had a governor received such an ovation as had this
young demi-god of the dear public. Every house was
illuminated from attic to basement: flags were flying:
arches had been erected for him to pass under, as if it
were the reception of a prince. Thousands of gayly
dressed people thronged the pavements, bands were out
playing triumphant marches, and an immense crowd
was congregated around the governor’s house, watching
the different carriages as they passed, bearing their
freight of magnificently dressed ladies on their way to
the ball. But not to behold them was the dense crowd
waiting, but to catch a glimpse of the young governor
when he should arrive.

As the carriage conveying our party approached the
arched gate-way of the executive mansion it was stopped,
blocked up by a crowd of other carriages. The people
had pressed before, and it was in vain they tried to get
on. Drivers swore, and shouted, and vociferated, the
mob laughed and bandied jokes, gentlemen in commanda-
ing tones gave orders that were either unheard or im-
possible to be obeyed, and a perfect Babel of confusion
reigned.

«Come, this won’t do, you know,” said Mr. Curtis, ‘“‘we
must get on somehow. Here, you fellows,” he said,
thrusting his head out of the window, «get out of the
way, I want to pass. I’m the governor’s secretary, and
must get on.”

A derisive laugh from a group near followed, and a
voice in the crowd inquired anxiously whether his
mother had many more like him, and also whether that

 

| said, that Mr. Wildair, his excellency,” said Mr. Curtis,

only folded his arms and looked around him complacent-
ly, listening with profoundest attention to all, but an-
swering never a word; until, at last, when quite tired
and breathless, there was a pause, he lifted up his voice
and spoke:

‘Ladies and gentlemen: On the present interesting
and facetious occasion allow me to say—(ahem !)—to
say——

(Here a voice in the crowd, that of Mr. Henry Gleeson,
if you remember that young gentleman, reader, inter-
rupted with, ‘You have said it! Push along, old boy !”]

“To say,” pursued Mr. Curtis, casting a withering
glance at the speaker, ‘‘as that very polite youth, who-
ever he may be, has falsely informed you I have already

with a dignified wave of his hand, ‘“‘has commissioned
me to say—I beg your pardon, sir; youre standing on
that lady’s dress—to say that the lady you beheld this.
evening is his wife, who has been indulging in a little

trip to Europe with his—(ahem!)—full approbation, |

 

had created such a sensation did not appear, impatient
glances began to be cast toward the conservatory, and
petulant whispers to circulate, and pouting lips won-
dered why they did not come. In vain Mr. Curtis was
“funny ;* his popularity was waning as fast as it had
risen, and it was alla waste of ammunition. His jokes
were unattended to, his puns were unlaughed at, his
most dolorous looks had no effect on the risibles of any,
except those who had a very keen sense of the ludricous.
At last, in disgust at the fickleness of public favor, he
got dignified and imposing, and that had the effect of
making sundry compressed lips smile right outloud, but
it is uncertain whether even this would have lasted any
time had net, suddenly, Richard Wildair appeared wit
his wife leaning on his arm.

In an instant a profound hush of expectation reigned
throughout the room; the music instantaneously
stopped : the.dancers one and all paused, and every eye
was bent upon them. A low, respectful murmur of ad-
miration ran round the room at her queen-like beauty,
but it lasted only an instant, and all was again still.

“My friends,” said the clear, powerful voice that a
short time before had dispersed the surging crowd, ‘this
lady, as you are all probably aware, is my wife. There
is not one here who has not heard a thousand vague,
floating rumors why we were separated, and now I feel
it necessary to say a few words of explanation, and
silence the tongue of scandal for ever. A misunder-
standing, slight and unimportant at it, such as will
arise at times in all families, was the cause. No blame,
not the faintest shadow of blame, attaches to this lady ;
if blame there be, it solely belongs to me. A mutual ex-
planation and a perfect reconciliation have ensued, and if
any one for the future shall canvass the motives which
caused us for a brief time to part, I will consider that
person my willful enemy. Ladies and gentlemen, let
this pleasant but unexpected incident not interfere with
the amusements of the evening, and as example is bet-
ter than precept, I shall join you. Come, Georgia.”

He motioned to the musicians, and the dancers again
formed, with Mr. and Mrs. Wildair at their head. And
then, when the quadrille was ended, all came flocking
round to be presented to his beautiful wife, whose Juno-
like beauty and grace was the theme of every tongue.
And for the remainder of the evening ‘‘all were merry
as a marriage bell.” If anything were wanting to add
eclat to the inauguration of the new governor this sup-
plied it, and every one grew perfectly enthusiastic about
the gifted young statesman and his beautiful wife. So
romantic and mysterious as it all was, ‘just like some-
thing in a play or a novel,” as Mr. Curtis said, that the
excitement it, created was perfectly unheard of, and
when the ball broke up and the company dispersed, in
the ‘‘wee sma’ hours ayont the twal,” they even forgot
they were sleepy and tired, and talked away of the un-
expected denouement, and elecrified their friends when
they got home with the wonderful news.

* ee * * = * *

*

“And now, Georgia,” said Richmond, ‘‘tell me what
has changed you so. I can scarcely tell how it is, but it
seems as if you were the Georgia I once knew ethereal-
ized—the spiritual essence of Georgia Darrell; as if you

 

had cast off a slough and stepped forth radiant, serene,
seraphic.”

‘«Flatterer !” said Georgia, smiling, yet serious, too.
“But oh, Richmond! I fear you will be angry when I tell

 

 

 

 

while he was seeing after the great, glorious, and im-
mortal Union in Washington, and scattering political
oats—to use a figure of speech—before that tremendous
bird, the American eagle; and the lady arriving quite
promiscuously, if | may be allowed so strong an expres-
sion, he was slightly surprised to see her—(ahem !)—as
you all perceived, and has just gone to have a little
friendly chat with her over family matters and kitchen
cabinet affairs generally. And so, ladies and gentle-
men,” concluded Mr. Curtis, laying his kid glove on his
heart and bowing gracefully, ‘‘I hope his temporary ab-
sence will not plunge you into toodeep affliction, or
cause you to feel too dreadfully cut up, but that you will
set seriously to work and enjoy yourselves, while I
represent his excellency, and during his absence re-
ceive your homage. And to conclude, in the words of
Demosthenes, the great Latin poet, who beautifully ob-
serves, ‘H Pluribus Unum,’ a remark which I hope none
of you will consider e mal, for I solemnly assure you
it was not meant to be, asI haven’t the remotest idea
of what it means. If any further particulars are needed,”
said Mr. Curtis, drawing himself up, and casting another
glance of withering scorn upon Mr. Henry Gleeson, ‘I
must refer you to‘the young gentleman who was good
enough to interrupt me, and who stands there now, a
mark for the finger of scorn to poke funat. Ladies and
gentlemen, I have spoken! Long may it wave.”

And with this last ‘neat and appropriate” quotation.
Mr. Curtis bowed and blushingly retired, leaving his
audience in convulsions of laughter, for his unspeakably
droll look and solemn tone no pen can describe. It had
the good effect, however, of diverting their attention
from Mr. Wildair and his wife for the present; and Mr.
Curtis, the center of a laughing group, while his own
face maintained its expression of most doleful gravity,
became for the time being the lion of the hour. With
edifying meekness did Mr. Curtis stand, “his blushing
honors thick upon him,” until getting rather tired of it.
he made a signal to the band to strike up, and selecting
Miss Arlingford for his partner, a quadrille was formed
and dancing commenced with real earnestness, and the

 

venerable lady was aware that he was out.
Mr. Curtis showed symptoms of getting into a passion

 

 

business of the evening might be said to have begun.
But when an hour passed and the lady whose entree

you.”

“Angry at anything that has made you just what Z
wanted, just what J tried to make you and failed! Not
I, Georgia. Tell me what elixir of happiness and in-

ward joy have you found.”

«One without price, and yet one free to all—to the
king and to the beggar alike.” ‘
«And yet hitherto it has been beyond my reach. ‘Tell
me ;Wwhat it is, sweet wife, that I may drink and live,

“Oh, Richmond, if you would—if you only would!”
she said, catching her breath.

«Why should I not? Name it, Georgia.”

«Tt is called Faith, Richmond.”

He looked up reverentially, and his face was very

grave.

“JT think I know; and yet, hitherto it has been only a
word tome. I have seen.it personified in two—in your
little friend Emily, and in——”
He paused, and his face worked.

“In whom, Richmond ?”

‘In Charley. Oh, Charley! oh, my brother!” he cried,

n passionate tones, as he began pacing rapidly up and
own.

The irrepressible cry reminded Georgia of that other
day long ago when he had received the letter in which
he learned all. At the mention of that name, Georgia
too rose, pale and trembling, from her seat.

«And have youseen him? Oh, Richmond! have you
seen him ?”

“Yes,” he said, hoarsely.

«And where is he? Richmond—oh, Richmond, do not
look so! Charley, your brother—where is he, Rich-
mond ?” :

“In heaven, Georgia.”

She fell back in her seat, and covered her face with
her hands. ;

“Dead! Oh, Charley! and I not there!” she cried,
while her tears fell fast.

«Weep not, Georgia,” said Richmond, gently removing
her hands; ‘‘his death was the death of the just. May
my last end be like unto his.”

But still she wept hot, gushing tears that would not
be stayed—tears that fell, not wildly, but that came
from the heart, and were sanctified to the memory of
the early dead. At last— ;

«Blessed are the dead;who die in the Lord,” she soft-
ly murmured, lifting her pale face; ‘‘God be merciful to
his soul! Dear Charley !”

“He died like a saint, Georgia ; he expired like a child
falling asleep in his mother’s arms, with asmile on his
lips; death had no terror for him.”

«Were you with him, Richmond ?”

*«Yes—thank God! Oh, Georgia, I had hardened
my heart against him, and yet when I would pass him
on the street—I did often pass him, Georgia—every feel-
ing in my heart would be stirred, and no words can tell
how I would yearn for him, my own, my only brother. I
saw he was dying day by day, and yet pride—that curse,
that bane that has dogged me like an evil spirit from.
childhood up—would not let me step over the barrier I
myself had raised, and sue for forgiveness. At last
came the news that he was sick unto death, and then I
could hold out no longer. I went, Georgia—went in
time to hear him forgive me, and to see him die. Oh,
Georgia, I shall never forget it—never! Oh, Charley,
my gay, thoughtless, light-hearted brother! to think
yer should be lying in that far-off church-yard, cold and

ead.’
“Grieve not, my husband,” said Georgia, earnestly, as
she laid her hand on his, ‘‘but look forward to a happy
meeting in heaven. And now of others—your mother,
Richmond ?”

“Js dead, too. Oh, Georgia, she wronged you, cruelly
wronged you. Can you ever forgive her ?” ;

«Yes, as freely and fully as I hope to be forgiven.
May she rest in peace! And your cousin, Richmond ?”
She smiled slightly, and Richmond met her bright
glance with a sort of honest shame.

“J feel like going down on my knees to you, Georgia,
when that name is mentioned. She is well—or was when
I saw her last—and safely married.”

«Indeed! To whom, pray ?”

Richmond laughed.

‘Do you remember Mr. Lester, of foppish memory,
who made one of that party to Richmond House two
years ago—‘Aw, weally such a boah’ ”—and Richmond
mimicked him to perfection.

- «What ashame!” said Georgia, laughing; ‘‘of course
I remember him. Is it possible she has married that
little dandy ?”

“That she has, and a precious life she leads him, if all
Curtis says be true, for I never go there myself. The
gray mare in that stable is decidedly the better horse.”

«So I should imagine. But where is Miss Reid? Mr.

aes used to be tender in that quarter, if I remember
right.
“Oh, yes; but she married Gleason—Lieutenant Glea-
son, you know. That gallant officer proposed, and Miss _
Reid found it too much trouble to refuse, so she became
Mrs. Gleason the second.”

«Well, I wish them joy, all. How strangely things
turn outin this world, don’t they, Richmond ?”

“Why, yes,” said Richmond, laughingly, ‘rather so—
your finding that unexpected brother, for instance. But
you don’t ask for your old friends in Burnfield—have you
forgotten them, Georgia ?”

«Forgotten them! Oh, Richmond’”
«Well, don’t look so reproachfully ; you know I didn’t
mean it. You want to go and see them, I suppose ?”

«Oh, indeed Ido. Dear Miss Jerusha, and dear little

y, and-——

“Dear little Betsey Periwinkle,” inte Richmond.

«Yes; justo,” said Georgia, resolutely ; ‘‘a really good
friend of mine was Betsey, and very intimate we were.
Yes, I want to see them all; when will you take me
there, Richmond ?” :

“In one week from this, Georgia; Icannot get away
before; and then, with your brother, we will makea
pilgrimage to Burnfield, and you can look once more at
the ‘auld hoose at hame.’ You will have to go down on
your knees and intercede for me with Miss Jerusha, or
she will never forgive me for the way I behaved to her
darling.” :

“Oh, how I long to go back there again! Now that
the time is near, 1 feel twice as impatient as I did be-
fore. A whole week! I wonder if it will ever pass.”

But it did pass, and another, too, and busy weeks they
were with the governor and his lady. The nine days’
wonder of her appearance had scarcely yet passed away

 

when Mr. and Mrs. Wildair and Mr. Randall left B—,
en route for the little ‘‘one-horse” town of Burnfield.

A fairer day never came out of the sky than the one
that heralded Georgia’s return to Burnfield—dear old
Burnfield! fairer in her eyes than Florence, the beauti-
ful, brighter than Rome, the imperial, for her home was
there. Nothing was changed. There stood Richmond
House, the pride and boast of the town still, there was
the pleasant home of Emily Murray, there was the old
school-house where her stormy girlhood had been spent.

As she gazed, she lay back amid the cushions of the
carriage and Re her hand before her face, that they
might not see how deeply she was moved. Her brother
looked out with mingled interest and curiosity, and with
a dim recollection of the few wretched days and nights
he had passed here. Richmond looked on the familiar
objects with mingled gladness and remorse, anc recol- _
lected, with many strange emotions, that the last
time he had entered Burnfield it had been with his
pride, as they returned from their brief city tour. Only
two years since then, and what changes had taken
place. Mr. Dick Curtis, who had insisted on making one_

 

of their party, and positively refused to take no for an_
answer, was of them all the only one perfectly unmoved,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

«<aea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

and sat looking at the familiar landmarks as they drove
past, with a face of grave approval. ‘ ;

“Fine place, sir—tine place,” said Mr. Curtis, with a
wave of his hand ; “considerable of a town is Burnileld,
eh, Randall? Not equal to Paris, you know, or Lapland,
or the great St. Bernard, or any of the other tremen-
dous cities, but a pretty tall place considering, and a
real, genuine Yankee town. And then the produce—I
defy the worid to raise such girls, and boys, and pump-
‘kins as they do in Burnfield. I defy ’em to do it, sir!
Look at that young lady there, in the pink sun-bonnet
and red cheeks, round as acask of lager beer, and sweet
as a eart-load of Summer cherries—there’s a specimen |
of American ingenuity for you! Could they surpass that
in Constantinople,or the city of Bublin, or any other dis-
tant or impossible region? No, sir; they couldn't. I
dety ’em to do it, sir! Yes, I repeat it,” said Mr. Curtis,
striking his knee with bis hand, and glaring round fero-
ciously at the company generally, ‘‘1 defy ’em to do it,
sir.”

Mr. Curtis was as fierce asan African lion, so every- |
body immediately settled down and looked serious.

“The notion,” Said Mr. Curtis, folding his arms and
surveying his three -companions in haughty disgust,
“that they can raise as good-looking people in any other
quarter of the world as they 7an in these here blessed
United States. Look at me now,” said Mr. Curtls, draw-
ing himself up till his suspenders snapped, ‘‘J’m a speci-
men! Mr. Randall, my young friend, you have traveled,
you have crossed that small pond, the Atlantic, and have
become personally acquainted with all the great guns of
Europe, from the Hottentots of Portugal to the people of
‘that beautiful city called Cork,’ and now Lask you as an
enlightened citizen and fellow sinner, did you ever, in all
your wanderings, clap your two eyes on a better-looking
young man than the individual now addressing you?
Don’t answer hastily—take time for reflection. You
know you didn’t—you know you didn’t ; the thing’s im-
possible.” : ;

“Mr. Curtis must be the best judge of his own sur-
assing beauty,” said Mr. Randall, politely; «if he will
old me excused, I would rather not give an opinion on

the subject.”

“Welcome to Richmond House,” said Mr. Wildair, as
the carriage rolled up the avenue. ‘And now, gentle-
men, I will leave you here for the present, while Mrs.
Wildair goes to see her former guardian, Miss Jerusha
Skamp.”

“Perhaps I had better go alone, Richmond,” said
Georgia, hesitatingly, ‘Our first meeting——”

“Had better be unwitnessed; thatis true enough,”
said Richmond. “Well, John will drive you down.
Shall I call for you in person ?”

“Jf Miss Jerusha consents to forgive you, I shall send
for you, if Fly is still in the land of the living,” said
Georgia, smiling. ‘‘Good-by, gentlemen ;” and kissing
her hand, and laughing at Mr. Curtis, who nearly
turned a somersetin his profound genuflexion, she was
whirled away toward the cottage.

Yes, there it stood still, the same old brown, low-
roofed little homestead. How different was this visit to
it fo what had been her last. There was her own little
room under the roof, and there, in the broad window-
sill, basking in the broader sunshine, lay Betsey Perri-
winkle and one of her numerous family, lazily blinking
their sleepy eyes, wood

Géofgia’s heart beat fast as she leaped out of the car-
riage and walked slowly up toward the house. Gather-
ing the sweeping folds of her purple satin dress in one
hand, she rapped timidly, faltering at the door.

It was opened by Fly—yes, it was Fly, no doubt about
it—who opened her eyes and jumped back with a screech
when she saw who it was.

“Hush, Fly! How do you do?” said Georgia, tapping
her black cheek. ‘Is Miss Jerusha in ?”

But Fly, in her astonishment and consternation, was
incapable of speech; and smiling at her stunned look,
Georgia swept past and entered the ‘‘best room.”

There it was, still unchanged, and there, in her rock-
ing-chair in the chimney-corner, knitting away, sat Miss
Jerusha, unchanged, too. Old Father Time seemed to
have no power over her iron frame. She did not hear
Georgia’s noiseless entrance, and it was only when a
bright vision in glittering robes of silk and velvet, with

THE WHITE SAIL,

BY FANNY CROSBY.

We stood and gazed on the ebbing tide,

Under an arch of ethereal blue ;

From the motley group we had turned aside,

And near to the water’s edge we drew.

’Twas a cloudless day, and a magic scene

That held us its captives, my friend and me ;
Those beautiful isles in their robe of green

Stretching as far as the eye could see,

Covered with blossoms, and birds, and trees,
Playing bopeep with the summer breeze;
Those rocks in their grandeur that stood sublime,

Rearing their forms in the golden sun,
Counted not years on the dial of time,

But numbered their centuries one by one.

And well I remember how strangely sweet

The voice of the wind as we heard it then,
And the waves that were singing beneath our feet

A song that will never come back again.

It flitted away to the sea-gulis’ home,

And its tones were lost in the surges’ roar.
It flitted afar like youth’s bright star

That rises and sets and returns no more.
And still as we gazed on the ebbing tide,

And the boats came hurrying to and fro,
Our eyes in the distance a sail descried

Over the water bending low.

White as the downy drifting snow,

Over the billows that calmly slept,

A vessel approaching we now could trace,

How steadily onward her course she kept,

And we wondered where was her mooring-place ;

Nor wondered long, for the old flag true
Fluttered aloft from her gallant mast,

Ana we heard the shouts of the hardy crew,
And they waved their hands as they quickly passed.
They had reached the land of their birth at last,
And their welcome home was the laughing gale
That played with the folds of that snow-white sail.
The day has gone, and its sun has set,

The tide rolls on with its ebb and flow,

But that snow-white sail we shall ne’er forget,

*T will live in the heart of the long ago.

——__—__ >-@—~<
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOE-FORM.]

THE EARLS 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
numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]

CHAPTER XxX.
‘‘] HOLD HER DEATH-WARRANT.”

“Do you believe that May marriages are unhappy a.
asked Valerie, suddenly. She was with Agatha in the
music-room, where the grand organ stood, and after
singing together for some time they stood talking at the
open bay-window, and Valerie thought it a fine oppor-
tunity for asking some of her most searching questions.
“Do you believe that May marriages are unhappy ?”

“J never thought about it,” said Agatha. “I should
think not—it is the loveliest month in the year. Why
should anything about it be unhappy ?”

 

 

dark tearful eyes and sadly smiling lips, knelt at her
feet, and two white youthful arms, with gold bracelets
flashing thereon, incircled her waist, and a sweet,
vibrating voice softly murmured, ‘Dear, dear Miss
Jerusha,” that she looked up.

Looked up, with a wild cry, and half arose, then fell
back in her seat, and flinging her arms round her neck,
fell on her shoulder with one loud, passionate cry of
“Georgia! Georgia!” :
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
—_—_—__ > 0 <+___—_——_

BLUNDERS OF HASTY WRITERS.

Shakespeare was wrong in supposing there was any
bourne from which no traveler could return. Glorifying
the doings of a band of arctic explorers, a hasty editor
wrote: ‘From the leader of the expedition, who occu-
pied the crow’s-nest until he was overcome by exhaus-
tion, to the humblest seaman who died from fatigue and
cold, all have earned the reward of heroes, and have
come back laden with stores of knowledge.”

Of an unlucky workman overbalancing himself and
tumbling from his airy perch into the street, we read, in
a daily paper: ‘The deceased was seen to pitch head
foremost from the scaffold, and little hopes are enter-
tained of his recovery.” Perhaps the deceased might
have got over it, had his doctor been as devoted as the
gentleman called in to do his best for a poor hurt lad,
who “was in frequent attendance on him after the in-
quest.” Not, it may be hoped, from the remorseful feel-’
ing actuating his professional brother into writing:
“This is to certify that I attended Mrs. 8. during her last
illness, and that she died in consequence thereof.”

Reporting the death of a cricketer from taking carbolic
acid in mistake for black draught, an Irish newspaper
said: ‘The shopman filled the draught bottle out of a
earbolic acid jar, instead of that marked ‘Senna Mix-
ture,’ though his orders were never to do so unless un-
der supervision.”

Anticipating the death of a whale exhibited at a pub-
lic acquarium in Westminster, a London paper observed:
“Jt will make excellent porpoise-skin boots.” —

— Relating a chase after a native robber, an Indian pa-
per said: ‘A Bheel outlaw, fleeing for the jungle, saw
his comrades captured one by one, then followed his
horse and his wife, and the wretched man at last found
that his only companion was his mother-in-law. He

«J like weddings when there are plenty of flowers,”
said Valerie. ‘“‘They seem very dull to me without.
What month were you married in, Mrs. Heriot ?”

Taken quite by surprise, and without time to reflect,
she answered:

“In June.” ic

Suddenly there rose before her a vision of that scene
in the wood, and her face flushed, not a common blush
that came and went, but a scorching flame of fire that
seemed to burn even to the roots of her hair, and which
was noted with supreme satisfaction by Valerie.

“In June,” she repeated; “that is a more beautiful
month than May. You were married in some grand
church by a bishop, I suppose. I should like to see an
English marriage very much.” She spoke in a low,
musing tone, and was looking at the far-off waters of
the lake. «‘Were you married by a bishop, Mrs. Heriot ?”

“No,” was the brief reply.

And for the first time it occurred to Agatha, what
would any one say who knew how she had been mar-
ried? Would they think it very curious? What, for in-
stance, would this brilliant French girl think ? She fully

it might seem a little curious to others.
“7 thought,” said Valerie, ‘that all rich people were
married by bishops.”

very little about it—no one less.”

Valerie. ‘Of course you had a long train of bride-
maids—young and beautifully dressed ?”
It was a pointed question, and Valerie looked into the
young face as she asked it. Again the deepened fiush.
“No,” replied Agatha, “I had no bride-maids. Do not

most cheerful subject one can discuss.”

“They seem very cheerful to me,” laughed Valerie.
«Where did you go for your honey-moon, Mrs. Heriot ?”

“To Paris,” replied Agatha.

And this time she spoke so frankly that Valerie saw
if there had been a marriage, the honey-moon was a safe
subject.

“What a curious expression it is—‘a honey-moon,’ ”

| she said, laughing. ‘* ‘Lune de mieV (a month of honey),
| we say, but I like the English expression best; tell me

about your wedding, Mrs. Heriot. I am sure it must
have been a pretty one, and I must own toa great weak-
ness in the matter of weddings. I like to hear about
them—who cried—why they cried—who laughed—who
made speeches, and what they said—tell me all about
iG”

believed in her marriage herself, but she felt now that |

“No, not at all; indeed, I think very few, but I know

“J like the form of an English wedding.” repeated

talk about weddings, Valerie; I do not think them the |

 

how he beguiled old Joan as a fortune-teller, and, after
condoling with her over the faitnless butcher, won her
~ a of Miss Agatha, who had disappeared so wonder-
fully.

He found his way into Croft Abbey disguised as a
groom, and from the other grooms there learned plenty
of Sir Vane. He did still more—he searched the mar-
riage registers of all the churches in the neighborhood ;
he found out the exact date on which Agatha had dis-
appeared from Whitecroft; and he discovered the exact
date on which they went to Paris; and he knew that
(on English ground at least) there had been no time for
a marriage.

He went on to say how Agatha Brooke was loved and
worshiped; how her memory was shrined among the

with the figure on the stained-glass window ; and how
she had been known among them as the ‘‘angel of the
poor.” There was no house he entered where she had
not taken hope, comfort, and relief; there was no man
or woman who spoke of her with dry eyes.

‘Not a very likely person,” he added, ‘‘to have run
away With Sir Vane.”

Nevertheless, the proofs that she had done so were in-
contestable. He added that among the villagers there
was acertainty that she was married; that they had
also a sure conviction that she would return to them

help them. But old Joan and the doctor wept over her
as one that was lost and would never return. Did mad-
emoiselle wish to know any more ?

It is still an open question whether the most good or
the most harm is done by detectives. They may, at
times, serve the most useful and honorable of purposes ;
again, they may be used in the most disloyal fashion,
and for the most dishonorable purposes. Certainly,
Valerie D’Envers would never have found out Sir Vane’s
secret but for them. Now, at last, she held the secret
in her own hands. She could stab her, slay her, do as
she would with her; at one word from her the whole of
the fabric would fall at once into ruins; at one word
madame would rise in righteous wrath and expel them.
But such words Valerie was not likely to speak. She
would wield her power as she liked, and always with the
soe end in view—that she should be Lady Carlyon her-
self.

Knowing the real purity and goodness of Agatha’s
character, she felt quite certain that Sir Vane had de-
ceived her in some way over the marriage. She was too
keen a reader of character to believe for one instant
that Agatha had willingly or willfully gone wrong, or
that she had been with him all this time without firmly
believing herself to be his wife. She paid her thatmuch
respect quite unconsciously.

What a power it was to hold! She looked at the lovely,
refined lady, clad in gorgeous dresses and costly gems
‘ by Sir Vane’s desire, and thought to herself that by one
word she could strip her of all this, and bring her down
to the very dust; by one word she could hurl her from
this, the height of her social grandeur, to the very low-
est depths of shame and disgrace. Yet she was woman
enough to feel sorry that another, and so peerless a wo-
man, should be sacrificed. She had a strange and com-

her ends; she would have trampled the beauty from
Agatha’s face, she would have tortured her, she would
have slain her; yet she recognized the value of the wo-
man whom she was about to destroy.

“T have read,” she said to herself, ‘of generals who
have made a ladder of the dead bodies of soldiers to scale
a fortress ; I shall have to tread upon one human heart,
and it must be broken for my sake.”

CHAPTER XXII.
“NOW I CAN BEAR MY FATE!”

One holding a sword in the hand naturally longs to
strike. There were times when Valerie had the great-
est difficulty in refraining from striking the blow. The
| one thing that restrained her was this—she was not yet
| sure of Sir Vane.

at the rebound. What she really hoped for was that
| when Agatha was dethroned, no matter in what fashion
ie happened, Sir Vane would turn to her, would seek
comfort and amusement from her. Even if he did not
love her so much at first, it would not matter—that
would come afterward. In the meantime she must try,

 

more than ever she had done, to fix his attention on her-
self.

She knew every art in the science of flirtation. She
| knew when tolaugh or to look sad, when to advance,
| when to retreat, when to be coy, and when to be dem-
| onstrative ; she understood the whole science. Hither-
| to She had been most amusing; she had helped them to
while away many hours; she had been ready to respond

to their invitations, and had seldom neglected a chance
of placing herself in Sir Vane’s way. Now she did ex-
| actly the opposite. She declined most of the invitations
| on one pretext or another; she avoided rather than
| sought Sir Vane. When with them, her brilliant spirits
| seemed to have left her—she was silent, very often sad.

When Sir Vane addressed her, she never looked at him,
| and she did just what she had wished to do—she piqued
| him. More than once he found her in her favorite seat
| by the marble faun, and the moment she saw him she
| rose hastily and went away, instead of welcoming him,
| as she had done before, with kindly words and bright
}eyes. One morning, when this happened, he hastened
| atter her. Hearing his footsteps, she quickened hers.
“Tf its to be a race, I shall most surely beat you,
| mademoiselle !” he cried. «I must-speak to you.”

He overtook her, and held out his hand in kindly
| greeting to her.

«J never see you,” he said, half-reproachfully.
is it ”

«J cannot tell,” she replied.

But the frank pleasure with which she had been wont
to greet him was.all gone; her eyes. drooped, her face
was turned from him.

“Jt must be my fancy,” continued Sir Vane, ‘or I
should feel quite sure that you avoided me purposely.”

She made no answer.

“Mademoiselle, speak to,me, I beg of you.
| done anything to displease you ?”

|

“How

Have I

“Then Iam very fortunate,” he said. ‘But how is it
we spent such very pleasant hours together, and now
we never meet ?”

She was silent, and turned away her face.

Sir Vane understood that he was in for a sentimental
scene, and his best plan was to go through withit. He
was rather amused that she gave such evident signs of
admiration for him; it pleased his vanity—showed him
that he had not lost his old power over the fairer sex. A
little incense burned before him was very sweet.
| «J have not displeased you, and nothing has hap-
| pened; then why are you not the same with us, made-
| moiselle?”

 

poor as the memory of a saint; how they associated her |

some day, beautiful and good as ever, and better able to |

| be hers.

Many a heart, she knew, was caught |

“No,” she replied, hurriedly; ‘‘you could never do that.” |

 

 

 

not care for her in the least, but it was sweet incense to
his vanity.
her. She was determined to know one truth, little
dreaming that the man before her thought truth
quite superfluous where women were concerned, and
never used it.

fully ; ‘‘but as we have been talking confidentially, I
should like te ask it.”

a pleasure to me to answer any question of yours.”

nothing to you then, but they will matter much to me.
Tell me this—if—if years ago—you had met me—when—
when you were quite tfree—should you have loved me ?”
What did a falsehood more or less matter in a case like
this? He was really touched by the quivering lips and
faltering voice.
have loved her.

her so?
“Can you doubt it?” he whispered, tenderly. <‘‘So
me ?”

ed his fate.
of her face haunted him for long afterward.

‘Is that true?” she repeated.
when-you met me—you would have—have—loved me ?
Is it true ?”

He raised her hand to his lips.

“It is quite true,” he replied.

could hardly breathe ; her senses grew dizzy with her
triumph—he should soon be free—his love should soon

fall from him.
by the completeness of her victory.
‘T_T shall live on those words,” she replied.
iw he thought to himself, ‘What a tragedy queen
she is.”

you; bend that handsome head of yours. down to me.
What a proud head it is.”

«What is it ?” he said.

«Yell me one thing more. You say that if you had
met me before—when you were quite free—you would
have cared for me ?”

clasp; in sooth, he was growing a little tired of the

ous. It was time he was back with Agatha—tair, sweet
Agatha—who would have died a hundred deaths rather
than have done as Valerie was doing now.

«Tell me,” she repeated, ‘‘would you, supposing in the

| future you were free and met me, should you care for me |

then ?”
«Of course I should,” he replied.
And she was too much agitated herself to notice how

4 | carelessly he spoke.
plex nature ; She would have done anything to achieve |

“J thank you,” she said, gently; ‘now I can bear my
fate whatever it may be. Those few words will comfort
me all my life-long.”

She trembled with the Consciousness of her victory;
but now it was time to leave him. She held out her
hands to him.

“This is good-by,” she said.
we Can neyer meet as friends—we must be strangers;
but I shall a all my life for knowing that you
would have loved me if youcould. Good-by.” -

She was gone before he could speak another word;
and it was well for her that she did not see the smile on
his lips as she disappeared.

“After what has passed

CHAPTER XXII.
“REAL LOVE BEGINS ON EARTH AND ENDS IN HEAVEN.”

| Valerie D’Envers stood alone in her room, her face
flushed, her eyes bright with yictory ; her heart beating,

every pulse thrilling, every nerve strained to its utmost
|tension. What an easy victory it was, after all—he
| would love her if he were free. He should soon be free!
| In her madness she never stopped to think that the very
fact of his declaring himself not free in reality proved
that he was not so; she did not bethink herself that if
her suspicions were correct, and he was not married to

 

other clever people, she overreached herself; in the de-
lirium of her mad love, of her triumph, of her wild

and sensible view of the case.

She had but one longing now, and it was to hurl
Agatha from her throne and take her place. She was
just a little puzzled how to begin.
and the proofs in her own hands, but. they would re-
quire delicate management. She could not go to Agatha,
for instance, and tell her the story; that would most
certainly be a blunder. She must not, at present at

with horror at the bare idea of such iniquity.
Sir Vane himself would, of course, be absurd; he knew
his own secret. It was the greatest puzzle she had
ever had.

She must strike at Agatha, if she struck at all.

no hypocrite; the sweet, spiritual character was quite
transparent to her. She had watched her ciosely, and
was sure of her freedom from all knowledge of guilt.

her hands ; how often she had seen her in the pretty
little church by the lake, kneeling there when she be-
lieved herself unseen; how often, in the twilight, had
soul on her lips, some of those grand old melodies.

| whole life. She had never heard a light word on her
| lips, she had never seen the faintest symptom of levity ;

she remembered also her wonderful charity to the poor ;

found out some who wanted help and relief.

believe that she was his wife, and that she was not
happy in that belief.
her know what her proper place was. It would, in all

must be broken—as well Agatha’s as another’s.

It was amusement to him—it was death to |

“It seems a curious question to ask,” she said, mourn- |

“Ask what you will,” he replied; ‘it must always be |
‘You will, perhaps, soon be far away from here,” she |

continued, sadly, ‘‘and you will look on the time spent |
here as a dream—a few words more or less will matter

He knew in his heart he should never |
He had flirted with scores of such wo- |
men, and had forgotten even their names—but why tell |
beautiful, so gifted, so loving as you are—can you doubt |

That whisper drove her mad, and that falsehood seal- |
She looked up at him. and the expression |

‘Had you been free |

She grew deadly pale, her heart beating so quickly she |

One word from her lips and his chains would |
She stood pale, dazed, and humilitated |

“One question more,” she said; ‘let me whisper it to |

He bent down until his brown curls touched her face. |

He made no reply—only gave her hand a warmer |

scene. Love is delightful, but flirtation is very monoton- |

Agatha, he was free that moment, then and there, to |
make her an offer if he wished to do so. Like many |

hopes for the future, she overlooked the most practical |

She held the power |

least, say one word to madame, who would be overcome |
To go to |

She |
felt a sure conviction that the girl had been deceived in |
some way, but in what way she could not imagine. She |
knew enough of Agatha to be quite sure that she was |

How often she had found her, in the early morning |
and the dewy night, with her pretty gilt prayer-book in |

she found her seated by the organ, singing, with her |
She |
remembered, too, the tender, delicate purity of the girl’s |

she was always sweet, serene, calm, and angelic. Then |
for even there, in the solitude of the chateau, Agatha |

Thinking over these things, and relying a great deal |
upon her knowledge of human nature, Valerie came to |
the conclusion that Agatha had, in some way or other, |
been deceived by Sir Vane; that he had made her be- |
She must undo that belief, and let |

probability, break her heart; but then some one’s heart |
She |

| est respect for her innocence and simplicity; he had
uever allowed the scandal or gossip of the world to come
near her, and hé looked round now most uncomfortably;
| he felt quite sure that it was the first story of the kind
she had heard. Her eyes were dark with horror, all her
| Smiles and brightness died. She hardly knew the mean-
ing of the word divorce ; in Whitecroft it was unknown:
husbands and wives loved each other there, and were
| quite content to live together, loving each other, in prim-
| itive fashion, until they died: such a thing as divorce
| was not known, and yet here they talked of it as if it
were an every-day event.

_ The white, scared face made Sir Vane feel very uncom-
fortable. He rose and invited the count to take a cigar
| with him. The two gentlemen walked toward the lake,
| the countess and madame had mutual confidences to
| make, the two girls, Agatha and Valerie, wandered to

where the marble faun stood with the eternal smile on
his young face.

“You look pale and tired, Mrs. Heriot,” said Valerie,
glancing at the pale, thoughtful face and Shadowed eyes.
| “IT am not tired, but, Valerie, is that horrible story
true, do you think ?” ;

“Which of them ?” asked Valerie, calmly.

She knew what was coming, and she was ready to
make the most of her opportunity.

“That terrible story about the young princess who
poisoned herself,” replied Agatha.

“Yes, I should say it is perfectly true.
something of it when I was in Paris.
| look so white and frightened about it 2”
| “It seems so horrible,” she replied, ‘such a foul mass
| of Sin, and they talked aboutit as quite a common event.
| It seems to me a horrible crime to marry without love—

a perjury.’
| ‘What would you think then of those w Ve ¢
| not marry ?” asked Valerie. en aes

“Love and not marry,” repeated Agatha, «that could
never be; no one would be so foolish as to love when
| they could not marry.”
bg “You do not know much of life, Mrs. Heriot,” said
nN alerie, with a smile. One might think you had always
| lived in a church.
| “I know little enough of that kid of life,” said Agatha.
| “Ihave lived among people vy called sin sin, but I

have never heard such things as these.”

“You do not know much, then,” said Valerie.
| “Tam gladI do not. It seems to me, Valerie, that
— people call any and everything by the name of
+ ‘What do you call love ?” asked Valerie.

_. I remember
Why need you

| A sudden light came into the pale face; a bi if
ae enous in the violet eyes. are J acme
«Oh, Valerie, there is but one kind of love—there could
| not be more. I believe.in the love that begins é
| ea in heaven.” ne
“With marriage as an intermediate station,”
| valerie: Station,” laughed
“TI have always thought of love and i a y
| ane repos g¢ mInalriage as one,
|} And then Valerie laughed to h tainty
| _ And’ ey , ghed to herself. Of a certaint
this fair, spiritual girl had been cruelly and willfully a
| ceived; and she tried to make herself believe that it
bes oe duty to open the eyes so long blinded to the
[TO BE CONTINUED.]

Ses Seen

THE YELLOW SILK.

BY LILIAN FITZROY.

‘Kate, I wouldn’t take that silk this morning.”

«And why not, pray ?”

‘Because you do not need it, and papa looked so anx-
ious when you asked for the money that his face will not
go out of my memory.”
| ‘ButI must have something new to wear, and what
| matters a few hundred dollars ?”

«Perhaps more than you think for just now. Butif
| you will give up the idea, I will let you wear one of the
| dresses that Aunt Rachel gave me.”
| «J wouldn’t wear the gray one, Rose, and the other
| one, Which you have not worn, you intend to finish and
| use yourself.”

“I did; but I will give it up to you willingly.”

“Then Aunt Rachel will make a fuss, for that yellow
| Silk, ‘like spun gold,’ is her especial delight, and she
| hever gave me anything one-half as elegant.”

Sica “Never mind, Kate, 1 will make it all right with her.
| You wish to look well, and I would like you to, butI
| cannot bear that you should bother papa for money
|}now. Sotake mine. Isit a bargain ?”

“Yes; but I must have some new trimmings.”

| You can find nothing half so lovely as those thread
| lace flounces on your light silk. I will arrange them so
| they will have a very handsome effect. Now, those two
| questions are settled. Get your gloves, and that will be
| all you need this morning.”

| The two ladies passed on, unmindful of a listener close
| tothem. Rose, in her earnestness, had not thought of
| a listener, and Kate was imagining herself arrayed in
| the yellow silk that had been her envy since Aunt

 

| Rachel, the Christmas before, had given it to Rose for
the Leonards’ party; but Rose was sick and could not
go, so it had never been worn.

| ‘I know Aleck Stewart can never resist that,” thought
| Kate. ‘I could find nothing handsomer in the whole
| city, and I would like to resume my old power over

The Merediths were an old family, and had for many
years resided in the city of B——. A grand reception
|was to be held the next Thursday evening at Mrs.
| Lindsay’s, in honor of the arrival home of her brother,

Aleck Stewart. Of course, the Merediths had received

| invitations, and wished to go—at least, nothing would
| have tempted Kate to stay away, though Rose cared
very little for fashionable society, and ‘preferred the
| quiet of her own home, with her books, flowers, and her
| father’s conversation.
Kate thought she had nothing fit to wear,"and had
| teased for and obtained two hundred dollars to pur-
chase her a dress and trimmings. Rose was her father’s
| confidante, and she knew that just now debts were
pressing heavily; the times were hard, large payments
| were to be made, and money was very Close.

Aleck Stewart had just returned from India, to settle
down at home once more after wandering about the
world for the last five years, and Mrs. Lindsay had built
all sorts of air castles for him. He must marry at once,
and she knew he had been very attentive to Kate
Meredith in the past. Perhaps he would renew his at-
tentions. At any rate, she would do what she could to

was the victim and must suffer, as victims always do. |
She was just a little sorry for her; but every woman |
should know how to take care of herself, and if Agatha |
had not done so, the fault was her own, and she must |
take the consequences. |

She decided that she would not be ina hurry. It was |
better to wait a few days longer than act too pre- |
cipitately ; and, during those few days, she decided that |

throw them together.

The evening came, and the parlors were crowded with
the elite of the city, and the house was one blaze of light
and beauty. Flowers bloomed in sweetness everywhere;
delicious strains of music came from the band, and the
conservatory was one mass of fragranee and vivid color.
Everything was as perfect as could be desired.

thereupon gave way to despair, and was taken by
the police without further trouble.”

Noticing the meeting of a new organization called the
Grand State Defenders, a New York journal said the
members were bound by a solemn oath “never to leave
the State, except in the case of the invasion by a foreign |
foe.” In each case the satiric insinuation is plain enough.

“No one cried at my wedding,” replied Agatha.

Then she bethought herself. How many tears must
have followed it—how her father and Joan, the women |
and the children must have wept over her—and her face
grew pale.

“No one cried! Was there no one sorry to lose you ?”

“Yes, many; but I saw no tears.”

She raised her eyes suddenly, with one swift, sharp,
mesmeric glance into his face, then dropped them.

“How do you say that I am not the same ?” she cried.

«TI see it for myself. When you see me in the distance,
you avoid me. When Mrs. Heriot sends you pretty little
notes of invitation, you find excuses always. Now,
frankly what have we done?”

 

 

 

 

 

Whether it is intentional or not, would require some
skill at thought-reading to decide.

It would be hard to resist the temptation of assisting
at a dramatic entertainment lightened by the musical

She might have added that she saw no smiles either,
but she was growing nervous and confused. It was per-
fectly natural that one girl should talk to another about

 

performances of ‘‘a band of amateur gentlemen ;” and
still harder to refuse to take a ticket for a cricket-match,
knowing ‘‘the entire proceeds are for the benefit of the
late Isaac Johnson, who is totally unprovided for;” but
the loyal residents of a Welsh village were not to be
persuaded into joining a proposed Land League by the
suggestion that they might ‘“‘send in their names anony-
mously.”

When the inhabitants of a French town compiained of |
being disturbed by the explosion of shells, the discharge |
of cannon, and the rattle of small-arms at a mimic pre-
sentment of the bombardment of Plevna, the authori-

weddings; but she knew so little what to say. If she
could have given even ever so small an account—if she
could have said, ‘‘I was married in such a place—in such
a church”’—there would have been a story to tell. How

would it sound if she told Valerie that Sir Vane had |

knelt down by her side and had read the marriage Ser-
vice over with her, and had then solemnly assured her
that she was his wife—how would that sound? Valerie,
of course, would not understand it, even though it were
all true.

“T have nothing to tell.
like others.”

Valerie’s heart beat high with triumph. To herself

My marriage was, I suppose,

ties sent a written notice to those concerned, informing | she said:

them that for the future, Plevna must be bombarded at |
the point of the bayonet.

> e+

TWO PRISON YARNS.

In a knot of prison officials recently the humorous
side of prison management came up. The story was
told of President Lincoln’s first visit to the penitentiary
of Springfield, Dlinois. An old criminal, looking out
through the bars of his cell, remarked:

“Well, Mr. Lincoln, you and I ought to be well posted
on prisons; we’ve seen all there are in the country.”

“Why, this is the first one I ever visited,” said Mr.
Lincoln, and was astonished at the response :
“But I’ve been in all the rest.”

‘obably the best tale was that of Governor Vance, of
Ohio. It was inthe early days of the State’s history,
when there were about a hundred convicts. On com-
ing into office he paid a visit to the prison and ordered
that every man there be permitted to come and talk to
him. The result was a perfect storm of petitions for
pardon—every man pleading innocence. One old and
grizzled ‘‘tough” stood apart and added nothing to the
clamor. The governor called him up. ;

‘What are you in for ?”

“Stealing.”

“Well, were you guilty ?”

«Yes; it's the way I make my living.”

The governor went back to his office and pardoned
the man. When remonstrated with, his only excuse was:

«Well, I was afraid the thief would contaminate those
other fellows.”

> o<—_____

IN THE SAME LINE OF BUSINESS.

et

A banana skin lay on the grocer’s floor.
“What are you doing there ?” asked the scales, peek-
over the edge of the counter.
“Oh, I’m lying in wait for the grocer.”
“Pshaw !” said the scales; “I’ve been doing that for
years.’ :
y > 9 —_____ -—.

Baron von Humboldt,

in his travels and explorations in South America, became
deeply interested in the wonderful ane of the Coca
plant. Consumption and asthma, he says, are unknown
among the natives who use it, and it is furthermore condu-
cive to longevity. The Coca forms one of the ingredients of
the Liebig Co’s celebrated Coca Beef Tonic. “It is conducive
to heaith and longevity. Its use is very beneficial Exam-
of longevity are numerous among the Indians, who from

oyhood up have used it. Cases are not unfrequent of In-
dians attaining the great age of 130 years,” says Professor J.
J. VAN TSHUDI (Travels in Peru). Invaluable in dyspepsia,
liver complaint, cancer, debility, billiousness.

 

“J do not believe there was any marriage at all, and if
not, I will be Lady Carlyon after all.”

The nervous confusion and agitation of Agatha con-
vinced her that she was right. If she had been married
legally with all proper form and ceremony, she would
of course be able to tell when and by whom. From
that moment she gave her life to the finding out of that
secret and the winning of Sir Vane’s affections for herself.

Looking over one of the English daily papers, she
came across the advertisement ot a private inquiry office.

“The very thing for me,” she said, and that same day
she wrote to John Miklevitch asking for all information
concerning Sir Vane Heriot Carlyon, ‘of Garswood,
whether he was married—whether he was supposed to
be paying his addresses to any one, where he was, and
if his name was mixed up with scandal of any kind. She
arranged the terms herself, mcelosing one-half of the
sum she considered sufficient, and promising to send the
other half when she had his reply. Then came a
week of anxious suspense; the answer came saying
that in three weeks he would be able to send every
particular.

They were three weeks of great anxiety to her. She
made the most of them by assiduously seeking Sir Vane,
by doing her best to amuse him, to draw him intoa
sentimental flirtation, and she did not fail.

The answer came at last, and she vowed to herself
that it was worth double the money she had spent
upon it.

Sir Vane Carlyon, of Garswood, was immensely rich—
twenty-eight years of age, exceedingly handsome, was
not married, nor had there been any rumors of his en-
gagement. He had had many affaires du ceur, and did
not bear the highest reputation—more than one ruined
life lay at his door. He was now on the Continent—
somewhere, it was believed, in Switzerland, but the
whereabouts was not certain, and—he was not alone—a
young and beautiful girl had left England with him, of
whom nothing was known.

Valerie’s face flushed and her heart beat with triumph,
as she read this letter.

‘J hold her death-warrant in my hands,” she said to
herself, with a smile, ‘but I must take my time.”

After afew days she wrote again, asking John Mikle-
vitch to find out a place called Whitecroft, where Sir
Vane had been visiting, and to do his best to discover
whether he had been privately married there, or whether
he had eloped with any one from that place. There was
to be no question of expense, She said to herself. She
would fling her whole fortune on the die. Jf she suc-
ceeded, she should be Lady Carlyon—if she failed, it
would matter little enough what became of her. The
answer was longer this time in coming, but when it did
come, she was repaid for the waiting.

Mr. Miklevitch, finding the inquiry to be an important
one, and likely to be lucrative also, had gone down to
Whitecroft himself, and made all his discoveries with
his own hand. It would be useless to narrate all his
disguises—how he went to the rectory asa footman—

 

“Nothing,” she replied, briefly.

“Then why do it ?”

“Can you not understand,” she said, interrupting him,
“that there are reasons one can hardly explain—hardly
speak of ?”

‘No, I do not,” he said. ‘I can imagine or understand

| no reason why you should avoid us.”

“With equal certainty I must add, that if you see no

| cause J shall not enlighten you.”

The accent on the ‘‘you” caught his attention. He

| looked in the dark, beautiful face.
| «Do you not know,” she said, ‘that some pleasures
| are too dearly purchased ?”

“JT do not know,” he replied.
the cost of a pleasure yet.”

Nor had she—ot a caprice.

«You will have to count it some day,” she said.

“The day is, I hope, far distant,” he replied. ‘Let me
see what I can find in your words; you evidently mean
that you find a pleasure in being with us, but that you
have to pay a price for it; now what is that price ?”

“Can you not guess ?” she asked.

«I dare not guess,” he Se in a low tone of voice.

In his heart he cared nothing for her; he thought her
very brilliant and very amusing, he admired her wit and
her accomplishments, but he was not the least in love
with her. She was the kind of woman who might at-
tract his fancy for a short time, but she would never win
his love: yet he could not resist the opportunity of a
sentimental flirtation.

He had thought to himself that she was evidently
fond of him, and it was some time since he had had any
little affair of the kind. It was no breach of truth and
fidelity to Agatha, because he cared nothing for her; at
the same time, if a pretty girl did admire him he could
not be so ungallant as to refuse to perceive it. He knew
nothing of the strong passion that filled the girl’s breast
for him; he did not know that she had for him the
maddest love one creature could have for another; he
might have paused, might have been careful! had* he
done so. How was he to guess thaf this girl, with the
beautiful averted face, had mastered his secret, knew
his whole story, held the death-warrant of his beloved
Agatha in her hands? All he saw was a beautiful
woman who, from constant association with him, had
grown to love him. He must not deal hardly with her,
for, after all, it was a great compliment to him, and the
flattery of it was very dear and very sweet.

“t¥ dare not guess,” he repeated, ‘but you will tell
me. Do not hasten away. Surely you can give me a
few minutes after being cruel to me solong. Come down
this ilex grove.”

“JT must not—I cannot!” she cried.

“Yes, you will; you have piqued something more than
my curiosity, mademoiselle—Valerie; let me use your
name. You must come!”

He*took her hand in his and led her to the shady grove.

“Who would have thought of a love adventure here,”
he said to himself, ‘in the solitudes of Lake Lucerne ?”
It reminded him of olden days, when bright eyes grew
brighter and fair faces fairer for him. The old instinct,
dulled by his great love for Agatha, woke within him.

“Now you shall tell me all about it,” he said—‘why
you avoid me. What is the cost of the pleasure of be-
ing with us ?—what is the price you pay for it ?”

She was in powerful hands now—there was no escape
for her. She was wily—he was more wily still. He
wanted to know that he had not lost his old power over
women’s hearts, and here was an instance.

He won it from her at last—the acknowledgment that
she had learned to care for him—that being with him so
much, and finding him so different to other men. she
had grown to care a little too much for him. She spoke
with lowered eyelids—a dangerous light gleamed there
when they were raised. She spoke with a repressed
passion that suited her dark, brilliant beauty. He did

“J have never counted

 

 

she would say as little as possible to Sir Vane, and as
much as possible to Agatha.

It so happened that the day after this, some friends of
madame’s, the Count and Countess Fleshen, came to
spend a day with her, and madame, thinking to give
pleasure to her English lodgers, invited them to dine
with them.

The countess herself was a pretty little blonde woman,

lighting in the social talent of his wife.

Agatha looked supremely beautiful that day.
wore a dinner dress of white brocade, with a suite of
superb pearls.
tume of pale amber, with Marechal Niel roses in her
dark hair and on her white breast. The countess ad-
mired Agatha the most, but liked Valerie the best. She
was more of her world than the refined, spiritual girl,
who looked as though she only wanted wings to make
her an angel. The countess and Valerie understood
each other by instinct; the countess and Agatha rather
avoided each other by instinct.

It was a very pleasant party, and madame gave them
a most recherche dinner. The dessert was placed out in
the garden, under the shadow of tall trees with great,
spreading boughs. Very pretty and picturesque it
looked, the dishes filled with ripe, luscious fruit; the

wine, the rare flowers, and the beautiful women.

The countess warmed to her task. There were several
very piquant scandals floating about concerning those
in high places.

suppressed amusement by Sir Vane.

than the rest.
D—.
whole heart a distant cousin of hers who was in the
army ; but her parents had wished that she should mar-
ry the Grand Duke Reinberg, whom she disliked as much
as she loved the other.
beautiful young princess, who was compelled to do what
she was told, and marry the old grand duke.

It was of the beautiful young Princess

The grand duke became a jealous tyrant, the young
lover appeared upon the scene, aud she ran away with
him, to the sorrow of all Europe.

then she could marry the old love.

It was a sorry plight at the best, but she had that one
chance of redeeming herself, if indeed there was any
redemption, But the wily old duke had laughed to him-
self. Did they think to manage him so cleverly? Not it
he lived for fifty years longer would he seek a divorce.
‘As the tree falls, so it must lie”—as his wife had chosen
to disgrace herself, she should die as she lived—no
divoree should be won from him. Then her friends
had tried to persuade her to leave the young lover, and
try to make some kind of compromise with the old duke,
which she stoutly refused. Then they avowed an inten-
tion of taking her from him by force. The result of it all
was that the beautiful young princess poisoned herself,
and in the very hight of her beauty and youth, had been
buried forever from the sight of men.

They listened eagerly. It was a tragedy—but then, as
the count suggested, it would have been more complete
had the young lover killed himself as well.

witticism, and every one present seemed to draw a great
moral lesson from the anecdote. Agatha’s fair face had

fore.
Sir Vane had done her the greatest wrong that could
be done, but he had, at the same time, evinced the great-

 

very vivacious, animated, and fond of gossip. The count |
just the reverse—tall, dark, silent, yet evidently de- |

She |

Valerie wore her most bewitching cos- |

glasses, with their long, slender stems: the sparkling |

She related one or two, which were re- |
ceived with marked admiration by mademoiselle and |

At length came one less comical and more tragical |

It was well known that she had loved with her |

All Europe was sorry for the |
That |

which might have been foreseen happened—in time the |
peautiful princess hated her lot, and found it unbearable. |

It would be all right in time, the friends of the princess |
said; the duke would, of course, obtain a divorce, and |

There was |
a languid smile for what was evidently intended asa |

grown very pale; she had never heard such a story be- |

Aleck Stewart for the last five minutes had been mak-
ing himself agreeable to Kate Meredith, who was look-
ing royally beautiful in the golden silk which hung in
heavy, lustrous folds about her, with vivid scarlet flow-
} ers in her hair and on her breast.
| Aunt Rachel and Rose were in the other room, look-
| ing at pictures, She would insist upon Rose’s coming,
| and bought her a muslin to wear, and had it made at
| her own expense, for Rose was her favorite, and she
could not do too much for her. With flowers in the
shiny depths of her golden hair, and only pure pearls
| for ornamant, she looked like a vision of loveliness, and
| so thought Aleck Stewart as she passed him, and two
| gentlemen in front uttered an exclamation of admiration.
“Cecil Wayne, that is the same face I saw’a few morn-
|ingssince. Whoisit? Pray, tell me.”
| ‘Why do you feel so much interest, Churchill ?
| Rose Meredith, and the lady with her is her aunt.”
| ‘Has she a sister here ?” {

“Yes, Kate Meredith, the lady in the front parlor with
| the yellow silk on and the scarlet blossoms in her hair.”
| ‘Twas out shopping a few mornings since, or rather
| waiting for my sister, who was making some purchases
| at one of our large establishments, and accidentally lis-
| tened to a conversation between them ;” and he related
| what occurred, and the words that he had easily caught
| in the utterances.
| Aleck Stewart passed on when they had finished, but
| Rose was invested with a new interest in his eyes for-
| evermore. He went up to Aunt Rachel, who was cor-
| dial enough in her greeting, as he had always been a
| favorite of hers in the old days gone by.

“Now you are home again, after so many wanderings
in foreign climes, I trust we may have attractions
enough to keep you among us.”

«“T am inclined to think I shall most willingly tarry—
| am, in fact, rather weary of traveling from one strange
| port to another. Iam almost sure I recall you, Miss
| Meredith, from out the past. You were but a school-
girl, but I recollect occasionally catching glimpses of
you during my calls at your home.”

Rose answered with her usual graceful manner and
expressive voice, and he was sure she was a loyal and
true woman, sweeter and purer than the sister whose
| acceptance of her generosity was so selfish.

He made himself very agreeable, taking her through
the picture-gallery, and showing her the manyland va-
ried objects of art interest he had brought home with
him, and Rose could not but feel gratified and pleased
| with his attentions, though she thought they ought to
be given to Kate, who expected them more than her-
| self. And Kate looked so splendidly, too. Even Aunt
Rachel had to praise her costume, but ended by say-
ing:

“But you never ought to have given it up, and she
never should have accepted the sacrifice.”

All evenings come to a close, however delightful, and
so did this one, but not the friendship and interest
that sprang up between Rose and Aleck Stuart; and
when Papa Meredith was spoken to one sunny morning,
he heard how one daughter’s generous impulse won for
her the life-long regard and devotedness of Aleck Stuart.

“Why was it you chose me instead of Kate?” Rose
once said to her husband; and he answered:

“Jt all lay in the yellow silk—my blossom was so pure
without its glimmer.”

—_>-o+___—_—-—-
Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
For Women and Children.

Dr. Jos. Hort, New Orleans, La., says: ‘I
| have frequently found it of excellent service in
cases of debility, loss of appetite, and in conyal-
| escence from exhaustive illness, and particular-
‘ly of service in the treatment of women and
| children.”

Itis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

 

=

 

 

 

 

DREAMING ON THE LARE.
BY sacs ss SMITH.

Once at evening’s dewy hour
On a lake I sailed alone,
Musing ‘neath the subtle power
Of the soft wind’s monotone.
And the lake’s still surface gleaming
’Neath the full moon’s glamour stare,
Seem’d to show, in my half dreaming,
Life’s full record letter’d there.

Memories of, the past came o’er me
As I view’d the magic glass,

And in still array before me
Faces dead and living passed.

Faces long ago that perished,
Mirror’d on the water lay,

Close to faces dearly cherished,
Still on earth but far away.

One who fondled and caress’d me,
Ere her spirit took its fight—
One who soothed when care oppressed me,
Smiled on me with calm delight.
Then the magic glass was shaded
By a phosphorescent glow,
And its surface was invaded
By the dark face of a foe.

And as thus like airy bubbles
O’er the stream they travel’d fast,
They recalled the joys and troubles
Of the present and the past.
And my heart was rife with feelings
Half of pleasure, half of pain,
As I saw in these revealings
Life’s full record written plain.

But anon the bright moon vanish’d,
And the li htning’s gleam
All my idle fafffies banish’d,
And I wakened from my dream.
Startled from my gunwale pillow,
While my frail bark scudded on,
And the fresh breeze woke the billow,
, And the pictures all were gone.

7 Ooty ENA

OF

A JOLLY DRUMMER.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

“A BAD BOY’S DIARY.”

No. 1.—HOW I BEGAN IT.

I began my life as a commercial traveler at ten years of
age. I went through the passenger trains, which stopped
at Clack’s Corners for water, with a basket of apples,
yelling out with a sharp little treble:

‘Here’s yer ni sripe etin’ apples! here’s yer great big
ni sripe etin’ apples ;—two fur three cents!”

Gracious! I can feel it yet, how the heavy men used to
step on my poor bare toes !—but I had a sort of revenge
—I would knock eff the old ladies’ spectacles and the
girls’ bonnets by accident—when they did not buy my
apples—with the sharp corner of my basket. However,
I will pass over the crab-apple period of my existence.

At twelve I had risen to be a prize-candy nuisance.

At fifteen, a ham sandwich fiend.

At twenty-one I had developed into a handsome,
dressy, and modest young fellow, wide-awake, with a
good address, and an aching ambition to be something

immense—say a drummer:

Yes, a drummer! I felt that I would rather be a suc-
cessful drummer than be President. Had I not watched
and envied them, as I sold gum-drops and those won-
derful tried oysters, between New York and Phil.?
Didn’t I see what good times they had? Well, I have
seen those aspirations realized—I travel for Gold &
Jewell, with $40,000 worth of diamoads in a belt around
my waist—salary, $3,000 a year, and expenses—stop at
the crack hotels—hob-nob with the fraternity—and have
a jolly time, generally. Nobody steps on my bare toes
now.

I didn’t get there all at once! I had to climb.

Tve been a book-agent, a patent-wringer and fluting-
iron peddler—a lightning-rod man—a chromo distribu-
ter—everything and anything to serve as rounds in the
ladder of fame. They were good as preliminaries ; they
toughened my cheek, limbered my tongue, gave me ease
and grace, and acertain fascination peculiar to all good

ers. I have cherished a habit of jotting down
little experiences in my note-book—I began when I first
set forth as a book-agent. Here is ascrap: ;

May 22, 188—Sold seven copies of the ‘‘H. of the W.”
—whoop! Tolerable for a beginning, but not yet up to
the scratch. Guess I’ll wear my boiled-dandelion tie to-
morrow—haven’t got that shade in the country yet—per
fectly killing. ;

Mem.—Must put a little more wax on my mustache,
more lang-lang on my handkerchief, wear my pointed
toes shoes, and’not forget to drop a little machine oil on
my tongue to make it run smooth.

IT guess I'll gargle my throat with hot water—it’s very
much swelied—before I retire. Fellow ought to have a
throat like a steam-calliope to be a book-agent—takes
an awtul lot of soap to get people to buy books. Still I
rather like the business—gives one a chance to show off
before the ladies. A good-looking fellow, with a brass
cheek, can have lots of fun, besides making money. If
he has consummate taste in dress, so much the better,
hem! .

I should go to-bed to-night with tolerable composure

_ if that farmer had not shot at me with his danged gun.
It did not hit me, as luck would have it, but the bullet
riddled my show-copy of the ‘‘H. of the W.”—shall have
to send for another—tell publishers it got wet when the
bridge went down. Don’t know what was the matter
with that man. He looked as mild. as meal at dinner. I
ere ere just as his wife was taking it up—
chicken pot-pie, apple dumplings, and coffee; young
woman—pretty. She asked if I would sit by; I said Ll
would, and pay for my a too, and talk ‘‘book” atter-
ward. She laughed and said ‘‘all right.” Farmer put
in that it was too hard times to talk of ‘readin’ mat-
ter,” ate his meal, and went off to his work; I told his
pretty wife to leave the dishes and come look at the pic-
tures—there were 1,100 of them—real beauties—1,100
illustrations to the ‘‘History of the World,” from the
Be ng down to the Brooklyn Bridge.

We sat down close together beside the table, soI could
turn the leaves and she could look at the pictures. She
remarked that she had some alta of her own,
and she reckoned she’d take the book if she liked it all
as well as she did the first part. I saw she expected me
to sit there and show her the whole of it. Feeling lazy
after my dinner, I made up my mind Id do it, tor the

ie sake of making a sale. She was a mighty pretty wo-

man, fresh a#a daisy, and she liked to have me show
her the eleven hundred pictures.

Lshowed her a likeness of Cleopatra—a genuine por-
trait taken from an old photo. which Cleo. left behind
her in the barge.

She’ said she didn’t set much store by such a bold-
looking woman as that. I agreed with her that I liked
the modern style of beauty best myself. Then my arm,
which was over the back of her chair, sort of accident-
ally slipped down around her waist, but she was so ab-
sorbed in the book she never noticed it.

I passed on to a picture of Byron’s re explain-
ing that it was a Bible scene—the head of John the Bap-
tist on a charger—worth the price of the book alone.
Then our heads went close together over a thrilling
illustration of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.
I squeezed her plump waist a little, out of sympathy for
Lot’s wite.

Just then I heard a peculiar click at the open window
behind us. Iturned and she turned at the same in-
tant. There, outside on the porch, stood the farmer,
with his gun pointed between my shoulders. She
screamed, and I jumped.

The thing went off, not in time to hit me, but it went
through the “H. of the W.” in a way that makes me
creep when I think of it.

“Run!” shrieked the woman, ‘it’s double-barreled !”
and I didrun, you bet—I ran halfa mile before I held
up, and then I found I had left my hat—a brand-new
tile, the latest shape, had it ironed the day before in
New York—so I paid pretty dear for that dinner.

I can’t imagine what that farmer stole back from his
work and pointed his gun at me for! He must be just
crazy for game. I shouldn’t have harmed _ his pretty
wife—all I wanted was to sell my book. I look on all
women alike, with one feeling, as possible subscribers
to the “‘H. of the W.” Farther than that I have no inter-
estin them. My own sweet Kitty has promised to wait
until I have sold 50,000 books—I make two dollars on a
volume—an item—hum! a nice little wife,and a nice lit-
tle flat—no, I was not referring to myself, boy; why do
you ask ?

But, to return—though I had no thought of returning
to the farmer’s house—I luckily had in my pocket my
sleeping-car traveling-cap, which I now put on, though
well aware my appearance was much injured by the ab-
gence of the silk tile. I jogged along a thinly settled
road, expecting to reach the flourishing village of Ridge-
wood before three’o’clock, where I hoped to obtain half
a dozen subscribers.

Tt was hot—one of those sultry days that come on sud-
denly ina , and I realized that the ‘‘H. of the W.” was
a great book, as I toted it in my satchel under a sun
that would have cooked an egg in ten minutes. Went
in the yard of the first house | came to—nobody at home
but big dog—interviewed him—he did not show so much
interest in the book as he did in me; floored him with
it, left him dreaming he had taken a dose of chloroform.

Came to some fine woods open to the road-side—shade
welcome. Hark! what sound is that ?—a girl’s silvery
laugh. Jeruba-bel-bubble! I am in luck. A country

icnic! Thirty or forty people! Just the field for a

olly, good-looking canvasser to obtain ten ora dozen

 

subscribers. I’m bound to join that crowd without the
formality of an introduction—here goes :

‘‘Good-afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Hope I don’t
intrude. What a lovely spot for a sylvan picnic! How
umbrageous these noble trees! how sweet the murmur
of that silver stream!

““<Dry up!’ Did I hear some one say it was dried up?
Too bad! How truly rural that gipsy kettle, these
blooming young ladies!

«« «Get out of this!’ I beg a thousand pardons. In a
moment, young man—certainly, as soon as I have trans-
acted a little business for our mutual benefit. I know I
am an intruder, but every man must live—mustn’t he,
ladies? I would not for the world interrupt the festivi-
ties of this festive occasion; I only ask to assist in en-
tertaining you a few moments by showing you the great-
est book out—1,100 illustrations, from the genuine orig-
inal ‘Serpent Tempting Eve,’down to the ‘Accident on
the Brooklyn Bridge,’ added last week, just before it
happened, so as to have the very latest—a wonderful
volume, quarto, half morocco, full gilt, only six dollars.
Just look at this, miss—it will repay you ;” and I sat
right down on the grass beside the handsomest girl in
the crowd.

‘Eve is some on style—isn’t she ?—but she can’t hold a
candle to a beauty of to-day,” I ran on, with a killing
glance into the brunette face beside me. ‘‘Ah! if you
would only give me your fairy signature to head the list!
I feel that it would bring me luck—be the making of me!
Every young fellow in this neighborhood will sign after
seeing your name down. Come,give a young man a start
in life, who will never forget her to whom he owes his—
Here, use my fountain pen; it writes nicely. Thank
you, ten thousand times! The book will be delivered
to-morrow. Only six doilars.. Oh, yes, I can change a
bill. Thanks. I shall lay this money away in my note-
book, and keep it sacredly as a souvenir of my first sale.
I shall never part withit. IfI ever marry, I shall have
it framed and hung up in my favorite room, and tell its
history to my wife and—friends.”

“Now, if the young gentleman here, who looks as if
he wanted to bite me, would do me the honor to glance
at this interesting volume, which every intelligent——
This picture ? Oh, this is a genuine likeness of Balaam’s
ass which spoke, you remember——

“< <Thought it mas a portrait of adrummer ? Ha!
ha! ha! Very __ indeed, young man—very good.
Such a smart fellow must want a good book like this—
just write your name under the lady’s, will you ?”

Well, you better believe, I didn’t let up till he signed.
Then I put my ‘History of the World” into the hands of
a stiff spinster sitting on a log, while I taught the young
lady the newest waltz, till I got him choking mad, then
I told her to teach it to him until he got over his jealous
fit. I taught it to all the other girls; told ’em the latest
news from the city ; sang them a couple of new songs;
complimented the elder ladies; helped butter the bis-
cuits, and dished out the ice-cream; passed the nap-
kins—didn’t say another word about the ‘‘History” until
the coffee and lemonade had gone the rounds ; then
when they were in a melting mood, I got my seven sub-
scribers—yes, indeedy.

I didn’t feel in any hurry to get on; they talked of a
dance in the village that evening, and I had promised to
join them, when aman who was trudging by stopped
and sauntered in.

“Hallo, Barker, where did you get so much hat ?”

«“Didn’t know Barker had begun to put on style.”

«Great Scott! if it ain’t a seven-dollar dude tile.”

Then I did begin to feelin a hurry to get !—it was
the farmer—he had on my hat—and there w gun over
his shoulder.

‘‘T think I will have to be getting on,” I remarked,
hastily picking up my book.

«Hold on! let me take a squint at that ar’ wonderful
book,” says the farmer. :

I turned cold, but there was nothing to do but to hand
it to him.

‘«“Why, thar’s a bullet hole into it, says he, affecting
surprise.

Yes,” said I, regaining my composure, ‘‘a fool tried
to murder me for showing the picture to his wife, but I
got the bead on him,” and as I said it I pulled a revolver
out of my pistol-pocket and pointed it full at him.

Then our eyes met fair and square. and the farmer
slowly, carefully and deliberately—winked at me.

I don’t know what sort of a chap he was; butI put my
weapon back and he kept my tile.

I got two meals without paying for them—but I shall
have to subtract the price of a hat from the profits of the
first day.

I have never quite made up my mind whether or not
that farmer was a practical joker. I didn’t think so
when that gun went off.

Telegraphed to New York for another tile.

Mem,—Not to tell Kitty about the farmer’s wife. Dear
Kitty! I must write to her before I join the dance—they
are tuning up in the hotel ball-room now.

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Mrs. Eliza B.”—Scrap-bags are made in every style and of
every kind of material. If for bedrooms, they should match
in color with the other bright or somber colors used there.
One very simple and pretty way to make them is to have
the bag of white butchers’ linen. Cut it square, and have it
about fifteen inches each way; across the top and bottom
put on a strip of Canton flannel three inches wide; sew this
to the linen with fancy stitches, then draw three circles at
equal distances apart, and about the size of a half dollar.
Work these, commencing at the center and going up in
straight lines to the circumference, with three or four shades
of yellow embroidery silk. The bagis not gathered at the
top, but has two blue strings attached to the corners to hang
it by. The bottom of the bag may be ornamented by a strip
of butchers’ linen fringed out, or by a row of torchon across
the bottom, slightly fulled on, or it may be left plain. An-
other way is to have the bottwm of the bag of a band of
silk, sateen, or velvet, five inches wide, and the rest of the
bag, which should be ten inches or more long, of one kind of
material. The top should be faced for about five inches, and
a shirr be stitched there and ribbons run in. And still another
style is to take a piece of silk three-quarters of a yard long
and twelve inches wide, line it with silesia, sew it up in a
long and narrow bag, leaving an opening in the cexter large
enough to insert your hand ; gather the ends, and finish with
a tassel, slip two small rings of bone or brass over these ends
up to each side of the opening. Outline work shows to good
advantage on brown canvas, and cashmere is pretty for the
upper part of the bag. Aida canvas bags, made in the shape
of the first one mentioned, are quite pretty. Embroider
some showy figure or pattern on the canvas, and have the
upper part of silk, with a very narrow ribbon to hang it by.
The canvas used by tailors in gentlemen’s coats makes nice
and serviceable bays, and may be used in place of butchers’

en.

‘Mollie B.,” Baltimore, Md.—ist. Very stylish summer
afternoon dresses are made of black Surah silk, trimmed
with white Valenciennes lace. They are made with three or
four scolloped fiounces across the front, and a frill of the
Valenciennes lace two or three inches deep set underneath
each flounce. On the black corsage there is a gathered
drapery of the lace down each side of the buttons. 2d. The
One-dollar outfit of Perforated Patterns consists of fifteen

atterns, powder, pad, etc., and any two initials you wish, or
en patterns and the “Manual of Needlework.” The NEw
York WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will mailit to you on re-
ceipt of the money.

“Alva,” White Plains, N. J—A very handsome reception-
dress for a young married lady is of soft almond-tinted otto-
man brocade, the bodice opening over a waistcoat of rich
golden-brown velvet, embroidered in primroses, devoid of
foliage, but with natural-looking stalks. The brocaded skirt
is parted in front, revealing a wide panel of brown velvet.
embroidered like the rest. Down either side of both panel
and waistcoat are full shell-plaitings of rare old_ lace, with
bunches of primroses tucked in here and there. The back is
made with a slight train, the edge of which is a mass of
ig lace and primroses, falling like a fringe over the bro-
cade.

‘Mrs. J. A. G.”—Ist. For long journeys Cheviot traveling
dresses are worn. There is a fancy for dark navy-blue that
is almost black, for the greater part of the dress. The col-
lar, vest, and cuffs are of ecru_woolen soon or bright red
cashmere nearly covered with blue braid. A very long polo-
naise is made of the Cheviot, with the front of the waist
curving around to the left hip, and the part below the waist
line shaped to form a long square apron that is en up each
side. 2d. Medici collars are faced with velvet and edged with
lace or rich beads.

“Pp. Pp. P."—To make a shopping-bag, take a piece of satin
about twelve inches wide and twenty-four inches long, double
itand sew together, leaving the top open, which must be
faced with a contrasting color of satin. Kun three shirrs
about two inches from the top, through which draw two rib-
bons, terminating at opposite sides of the bag. Any dark-
colored satin would be suitable, such as brown, gray, garnet,
etc. A row of deep fringe finishes the bottom.

“The Actress’ Daughter,” Basking Ridge, N. J.—The best
style for the sea-side is to arrange the hair in a straight

bang, as the salt air takes all the crimv_out of frizzes, and
thus leayes the ends flying loose. Some ladies, however, cut
their hair the requisite length for a bang, and then frizz it,
so that when the salt air straightens it out, it forms a bang.

“Clara.”—Jerseys come in several different styles. Some

are braided in gold on the cuffs and collar, and in straight

lines down the front, like a vest. They cost from two to ten
dollars each, and the NEw YoRK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency
will forward one to you on receipt of the money, the express-
age to be C.O. D. Send waist and bust measure.

“Elia A.,” Greenport, N. Y.—The most fashionable colors
employed in conjunction with white costumes are pdle blue,

sea green, Persian mauve, and canary yellow. White lace
worn over slips of any of these colors is considered very ele-
gant. Black lace dresses have accessories of coquelicot red,
yellow, lilac, or a deep rose pink.

“Mrs. 8. T.”—1st. The price of the short rubber gloves is

$1.50, and the long ones $1.75. The New York WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency will furnish you with them on receipt of the
price. 2d. They are worn to protect the hands when doing
rough work.

“Amber,” Flint.—A soft gray flannel, trimmed with bands
of garnet ribbon velvet, made with round, full skirt and

blouse waist, with sash of garnet, would make an appropriate |

suit for the purpose you mention.

“Bertie,” Baltimore, Md.—The New York WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency will furnish you with_a one-dollar outfit of
silk for a crazy quilt, containing eighty pieces, which is
enough to make a square yard.

“Mrs. 8. L. C.—‘‘Lady Damer’s Secret,” by Bertha M. Clay,
is in book-form, and will be forwarded to you by the NEW
komo WEEKLY Purchasing Agency on receipt of the price,

 

“Tillie L.”—1st. We will send you the hose you desire on
receipt of price. Haif length, $5 to $8; full length, $11 to
$15 apair. 2d. Our terms in all cases are cash in advance.

“Rosa.” Hellen, Md.—We will send you the ‘Ladies’ Guide
to Needlework and Embroidery,” which contains full direc-
tions for knitting stockings, on receipt of 75 cents.

_ “Dakota.”—It is too early to state what shape will be used
in the winter. We will give you description of the article
when the winter styles appear.

“Miss Lottie R.”—The price of “Lost—a Pearle,” by Mrs.
Georgie Sheldon, is = and it will be mailed to you on re-
ceipt of that amoun

“Marie,” Louisville, Tenn.—We do not advertise business
firms in this department.
“L. S.”—We cannot recommend the article.
dice

HOW NATURE MAKES PICTURES.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL.

Has it ever occurred to you to wonder how scientific
men can be so sure of many of the statements they make
about what happened ten, fifteen, twenty, or even a
hundred thousand years ago? Or how tkey can be so
sure of how certain animals looked which, not only do
not exist now, but have not existed for thousands of
years? Skeletons they can and do find—find them every
day almost, and skillful anatomists know how to put
the bones together in their proper places, but the ques-
tion is how can anybody say for a cértainty how much
fiesh should cover the bones, or what kind of hide should
cover the flesh. -And, moreover, by whut certain means
can als and men be placed back so and so many
thousand years. If there are ways of knowing these
matters, scientific men ought to tell us about them. So
they do, but really they use such language, that though
it is supposed to be English, I defy any ordinary college
graduate, even, to understand them.

Here is an example of scientific language used by an
eminent scholar, in cold blood: ‘‘Bushmen, while mesa-
ticephalis, platyrhine, microseme, microcephalis, are, as
regards the upper jaw, not prognathous, but orthogna-
thous; the skulls of the African negroes are dolichoceph-
alis, mesocephalis, prognathus, platyrhine, and mesol-

seme; while the andamanese are brachycephalis, micro- }-

cephalis, mesognathous, mesorhine and megaseme.” If
all that could not be said in plain language, there might
be some excuse, but positively it seems as if the gentle-
man were afraid somebody might understand what he
was saying, and therefore purposely avoided plain terms.
Here is a translation: Bushmen are round-headed, wide-
nostriled, small-faced, small-headed, and Straight-jawed;
the African negroes, &c., &e.

This is not explaining about extinct animals and
methods of reckoning past time, but I could not resist
showing you what a good excuse we have for being ig-
norant of much scientific information.

Let us take the elephant. We are told that although
the elephant now inhabits only the hottest parts of Asia
and Africa, there was a time, ages ago, when it lived in
the coldest regions of the world, and was found in all
parts of it; that it was much larger than it is now, and
that it had a warm coat of hair instead of the bare skin
it now has. How do they know all that?

As for where it lived and its size the skeletons found
in America, Europe, and Asia are proof. As for the looks
when alive itis another matter. The first idea of the
real appearance of the creature was gained from adraw-
ing scratched on the side of a cavein France. This
showed the animal covered with long hair, and armed
with great tusks, which curved up into a spiralform. It
was held by some that this was a genuine sketch made
by the men who lived far back in the dim ages when the
monster roamed the earth. Others laughed at it, and
said it was a hoax; first, because a wooly elephant was
absurd, and second, because man had not existed so
long ago. Well, the general public sympathized with
the doubters, partly because they laughed, and partly
because they used intelligible language. The scientific
men, you see, talked of mastodons and dinotheriums and
the pleistocene stage of the tertiary period, and of course
they were not comprehended.

However, they soon had their revenge, for one fine day
a Siberian fisherman, who made use of his spare time in
hunting for the tusks of the extinct elephant, came sud-
denly upon a sight that scared him almost to death, and
sent him flying home as fast as he could go. It was a
gigantic elephant, covered with long hair, and wearing
the long tusks he was so familiar with. There the mon-
ster stood, staring straight at him. No wonder he ran
away! In Siberia now there is no animal larger than a
deer or a bear. This happened in 1799, but the fisher-
man never said a word about it, though for several years
he made occasional! visits to the frightful monster, which
always remained standing still in the same place. At
last he plucked up courage, and went so close to it that
he could see that it was inclosed in a huge block of
transparent ice. He then lost his fear of the monster,
and chopping into the ice broke the tusks off and went
away. Aitera while a scientific man heard ofit, and
visited the spot. The wolves and foxes had managed to
get at part of it, and had eaten the flesh where it was
exposed. Enough reliained, however, to prove that the
Eo in the cave was correct. Later still, a complete

ody was found during a sudden thaw in the polar
regions, and so the fact of the looks of the animal was
established. Think of the animal having been preserved
for thousands of yeafs in the ice, and coming out asfresh
as if just killed!

This is but one example in the case of one animal, but
equally or nearly as good evidence is found in the case
of many other animals; and anyhow this is enough to
show how solid a foundation the statements of scientific
men have on this subject. Now, as to reckoning time,
there are many ways, some simple and some intricate.
One way will be enough to serve the purpose of explain-
ing the methods of science. If you have ever been in a
cave in a limestone country, you will have noticed that
the water which has made its way through the roof of
the cave and dropped to the floor is so full of lime that
it makes a deposit. This is called stalagmite. Suppose
you lost a knife in such a cave ten years ago, and should
go back to-day and find it covered with an inch ofstal-
agmite, you would know then, would you not? that it
required ten years in that cave for stalagmite to form an
inch deep. And then, too, if you found a watch two
inches from the surface, you would know that it had
been lost twenty years before. But suppose that you
had no house to live in, and had not the wit to build one,
you would want some kind of shelter, would you not ?
and you would be glad of this cave to live in—you and
your family and your descendants. And, of course, if
you lived in it and. walked in and out without wiping
your feet as of course you would not, you would track
in gravel and earth, and the stalagmite would have no
chance to form under all your moving feet. And then
too, if you were so lowin the scale of humanity and had
just shot a deer with your arrow, you would carry itinto
your cave and cook it there, and your little savages of
children would throw the bones on the floor and in the
course of time they would be covered up and so would
some of your arrows and hatchets too, no doubt.

Perhaps you cannot imagine such a state of things,
but nevertheless that is the way the first men used to
live, and it is by those caves that we have learned how
long ago not only man but various beasts lived. Such a
cave was discovered in England not very long ago.
About two hundred years before it was lately discovered
the cave had been visited by some travelers, who, like
some modest folk that perhaps you andI know, could
not resist digging their names in some conspicuous
place. They cut their names with the dates as usual,
in the floor, and there they were found under one-eighth
of aninch of stalagmite. There was something to go
by. They dug,down and down through layers of gravel-
ly earth full of bones and implements such as you are
supposed to have thrown away and last in your cave, and
layers of limestone deposit; and thé@y found that man
must have inhabited that cave hundreds of thousands of
years ago. They found two bones—ot tigers and hippo-
potamuses—which showed that England must have been
tropical once, and they found the wooly elephant! and
wooly rhinoceros, which skowed that England must
have been bitterly cold, and indeed they found there a
prpat deal more than I can tell you. But at least

have told you enough to show you how scientists
fixed dates in the remote past, and that for the present
will do.

> @<- -—

A MAZEPPA OF THE WEST.

A bronco, to which was lashed the nude*body of a
handsome young man, dashed into the cattle ranch of a
M. Boussand, in north-western Nebraska. The animal
was evidently broken down from long running, and was
readily lassoed by the cow boys. The unconscious man
was carefully released, but he was so emaciated that
about a week elapsed before he recovered his reason.
He then gave the history of the outrage of which he was
the victim.

His name is Henry Burbank, and he is an Englishman,
thirty-four years of age. About three years ago, at Fal-
mouth, England, he formed a partnership with a friend,
Thomas Wilson, some years his senior, and with him
came to America to embark in the cattle business. They
settled in north-western Nebraska, and built a comfort-
able ranch by a little stream, where Wilson’s young wife
reigned as housekeeper. One of the cow boys, having a
grudge against Burbank, reported that he was too
friendly with Wilson’s wife, and the husband was at
once maddened with jealousy.

That night Burbank was captured while asleep in bea
by Wilson and three of his men, and bound before he
had a chance to make any resistance. Wilson had him
stripped of every bit of clothing and bound on the back
of a wild bronco, which was started off by a vigorous
lashing. Before morning Burbank became unconscious,
and was therefore unable to tell about his terrible trip.
He thinks that the outrage was committed on the night
of May 27, and he was rescued on the morning of June
8, which would make seven days he had been traveling
about the plains on the horse’s back without food or
drink, and exposed to the sun and wind. Wilson’s‘ranch
is about 200 miles from the spot where Burbank was
found, but it is hardly probable that the bronco took a
direct course, and therefore must have covered many
more miles in his wild journey.

 

When fully restored to health, Burbank proposes to
make a visit of retaliation on Wilson, and in this he
will be backed by Boussand’s men and those of the
Ogallala Land and Cattle Company, whose range is near
Boussand’s.

Pleasant Paragraphs.

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
NEw YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for
POROneOe anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-

erest for anuere perusal. It is not necessary that the arti-

cles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are
pithy. aud likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be
reme: -

A Sonnet on a Bonnet.
A film of lace and a droop of feather,
With sky-blue ribbons to knot them together;
A facing (at times) of bronze-brown tresses,
Into whose splendor each furbelow presses}
Two strings of blue to fallin a tangle,
And chain of pink chin in decorous angle ;
The tip of the plume right artfully twining
Where a firm neck steals under the lining ;
And the.curls and braids, the plume and the laces,
Circle about the shyest of faces.
Bonnet there is not frames dimples sweeter!
Bonnet there is not that shades eyes completer!
Fated is he that but glances upon it,
Sighing to dream of that face in the bonnet.
WINNIFRED WISE JENKS.

He Appealed.

Soon after the train left Louisville Junction the con-
ductor came to a passenger in our coach who had no
ticket. He didn’t claim to have lost it, but leaned back,
looked the official square in the eye and said ;

«’m dead broke and have a huudred miles to go.”

“You must pay or get off,” was the reply.

“Oh, certainly. I know the rules of the road by heart.
I am now about to appeal to the generosity of the man
in the next seat.”

He appealed. He said he was an unfortunate who had
failed to strike a job in Louisville and wanted to get back
home to starve to death with his family. It was a vain
appeal. The man said he wasin the same box himself,
but was going to kill his family instead of waiting for
hunger to do the work.

“Come, you must pay,” said the conductor.

‘Oh, of course, but I will now appeal to the passengers
en masse.”

He rose up and made a little speech full of pathos, mis-
fortune. hunger, cold and several other unpleasant in-
gredients, but nobody seemed interested.

“T can’t fool with you any longer,” remarked the con-
ductor. ‘I'll stop the train and off you go.”

‘Hold on just a minute. I am now about to appeal to
you personally.”

For five minutes he flung his soulintoa grand effort
to melt the conductor. He quoted the Biblo, eulogized
charity and appealed to humanity, but when he had
ore the conductor reached up for the cord and
said :

“T must obey the rules or lose my place.”

‘Say, lemme appeal once more.”

“No, can’t do it.”

The train stopped and the man bowed good-by to
everybody and got off. Nine miles up the road, where
we stopped at a station, there was a rumpus outside
about something, and directly the man of appeals was
hauled out from under the last coach, where he had
been riding on the trucks. He was dirt and slush and
mud from head to foot, and the conductor looked at him
and said:

“Now you want to quit this business or I’llturn you
over to the first constable! You look asifa mule had
dragged you twenty miles.”

ate but I couldn’t give it up without one more
appeal.”

The platforms were crowded, and he flung down his
hat and began his appeal. In three minutes the passen-
gers had thrown him about $12 in cash, and when the
train moved on the conductor slipped him into the bag-
gage car as a dead-head.

The Bad Boy’s Joke.

The bad boy went into the shoe store the other day,
where the clerkS were taking an inventory of stock.
Going up to the proprietor, he said:

«Good-morning, sir.”

“Good-morning, my little fellow; what can I do for
you 2?”

«Will you please tell me what these men are doing?”

“Certainly ; they are taking an inventory of stock.”

«‘And will you please tell me what that means ?”

“Jt means that they are finding out how much mer-
chandise unsold we have.”

«And are all these boots and shoes what you call mer-
chandise unsold ?”

‘What's that ?”

“Do you Call all of these boots and shoes merchandise
unsold ?”

“Yes, Sir?

«JT don’t wan’t to buy anything if that’s the case.”

“Why not? Step this way and I will show you a fine
pair of boots; they will be a perfect fit for you.”

“Fits, did you say? No, I don’t want the fits; norI
don’t want the boots either. They are unsold, and when
I buy boots I would rather have them with their soles
on.”

The clerks smiled, and the bad boy went out witha
mournful air. DICK.

Blunders of the Absent-Minded.

Absent-minded people make queer blunders. Rev.
Jonathan Edwards, the great New England preacher,
when out riding asked a small boy who bowed as he
opened a gate for him :

«Whose boy are you, my little man ?”

‘Noah Clark’s boy, sir,” was the reply.

When he returned the same boy appeared and opened
the gate.

«Whose boy are you?” asked Edwards.

«Noah Clark’s, sir. The same man’s boy I was a quar-
ter of an hour ago, sir.”

The first Lord Lyttleton was terribly absent-minded.
He fell into the river once, and sank twice before he re-
membered he could swim, thus coming near committing
the egregious blunder of drowning.

A clergyman was walking one day in the country in
deep thought. He was so accustomed to riding that
when he reached the toll-gate he cried out:

«Here, what’s to pay ?”

“Pay for what ?” said the gate-keeper.

‘““My horse,” replied the preacher.

‘“‘What horse? You’ve got no horse.”

“Bless me!” looking down to his legs, “I thought I
was on horseback.”

Two for a Quarter.

He was smoking a fine-flavored Havana wlien he met
his friend.

‘Have acigar ?” he inquired, politely.

“Thanks,” said the other, gratefully, taking and light-
ing the proffered weed.

After a few experimental puffs, however, the friend
removed the ¢igar from his lips, and looking at it doubt-
fully, said, with a very evident abatement of gratitude
in his tone:

‘What do you pay for these cigars ?”

“Two for a quarter,” replied the original proprietor of
both weeds, taking his own cigar out of his mouth and
looking at it with considerable satisfaction. ‘This cost
me twenty cents and that five.”

The conversation languished at this point.

An Effective Hint.

“Johnnie,” said a girl to her bashful company, as they
occupied remote ends of the sofa the other night, ‘I see
that a lady in New Jersey, 104 years old, boasts of hav-
ing been kissed by Washington.”

“Yes,” said Johnnie, ‘‘I saw it, too.”

“Suppose you were to become a great man like Wash-

n. ”

“Well?” said Johnnie.

«And I were to live to be 104 years old.”

“Well ?” said Johnnie.

«J couldn’t say of you what the old lady said of Wash-
ington, could I ?”

Then he first took the hint, lessened the distance be-
tween himself and the fair schemer, and kissed her.

Christians and Fools.

Jenny Lind once went to hear Father Taylor preach in
Boston, but the preacher, ignorant of her presence, paid
a glowing tribute to her powers of song. As the Swed-
ish nightingale leaned forward with delight, drinking in
this unexpected praise, a tall man who sat on the pulpit
stairs began slowly to unwind himself, and when he had
done so, wanted to know whether any one who had died
at Miss Lind’s concert would go to heaven. Father Tay-
lor said:

«Sir, a Christian will go to heaven wherever he dies;
but a fool will be a fool, even though he be on the pulpit
stairs. It would take more grace to save such a man as
that than it would take skim milk to feed an elephant.”

Where She Failed.

“These biscuits remind me of mother’s,” said Mr. B.

‘Well, I declare! Have you gone crazy ?” asked Mrs. B.

“Crazy, my dear? Of course not.”

«Well, Inever expected you to say that any of my
cooking resembled your mother’s. She was a wonderful
cook, I have no doubt, for you have said so a million
times.”

“Yes, she certainly was.
dish she ever failed in.”

“What was that ?”

“Biscuits.”

In fact, there was only one

Why She Kept Him.

“Polly,” said a First avenue mother, the other morn-
ing—‘‘Polly, I heard you coax young Mr. Blank to re-
main, as he arose to go when the clock struck ten last
evening. Polly, that was wrongin you. Why did you
do so ?”

“Why, now!” artlessly replied the maiden. ‘Mr.
Blank is very good company, and as you have always
besought me to keep good company, why I kept him as
long as possible.”

Personal Property.

The other morning a woman applied at the surrogate’s
Office for letters of administration on her husband’s es-
tate—the estate being a claim of a few dollars against
the city.

“Did your husband leave any personal property ?”
asked the surrogate.

“Indeed he did,” replied the widow. ‘‘Three boys and
two girls.”

 

 

 

nue The Corpse’s Husband.

, y Was much surprised recent]

gah oe a dusky cook that she was Bhout ee

mee es ce in order to enter the holy state of matri-
“Wh ? se

aacneat’s Said she, “I did not even know you had an
“Oh, yes’m, fur some time.”

“Who is it, Mary ?”
“Don’t you ’member,
fune’al ’bout two weeks

band.”

Miss Lizzie, that I ’tended a
ago? It’s the corpse’s hus-

She Would Aid Him.
‘Arabella, do you doubt my love 2”
‘ conte: why should I ?’
“3 n, then. Ihave taken
must aid me in its fulfillment.” Dan Tet, See
a ry ae! ; What is it ?”
* solemnly sworn
ccna eccra sd to eat no more ice-cream this
‘“‘Ah, Alphonso, you shall not find me lacking courage.

I will aid you to ‘Twi
Pink ante ee your vow. ‘I will eat your share

aoe Mirthful Morsels.
as a the name of your cat, sir?” « :
William,” said the host, ‘until he had ate ee des
we have called him Fitzwilliam.” : .
“Now, then, Patrick,” said the mer
hen, . chan
office boy, ‘‘suppose you go for the mail.” es, rp an

what kind of m: ;
oat male ?” ale wud ye be wantin’? Indian male or

A New Jersey boy picked a cartridge
wit
is now learning to shoot marbles with his tert fan eh
“Poor fellow, he died in poverty,” said a man
son lately deceased. “That isn’t anything,” exclaimed
pees bystander. “Dying in poverty is no hardship.
t aa ving in poverty that puts the screw on a fellow.”
e worst thing about a ha man 5

other fellow’s Raritan your ya ae ~ a
The swells of London have what they call a crush hat

club, though for that mat
eek eee ter any club is good enough to

An onion is like a bell.
tested when pealed. il. Its strength can be better

alcts it, isa Tighter of Retion, © *S Source, and contra-
keep a 10 cent geraatabe ainda yekes 2 ton of coal to
cinated. They cant cate vert Gee t© have been vac-
ot ae ae aa aes a
murder, and rob banks, and poten reer

Maine folks have a cor .
corner of the mouth. 0" SPruce gum. It is in the

Out of print— 7’
Se tore tre see woman who has changed her calico

of a per-

> o<—_____.

Items of Interest,

The cost of sites for United States buildings in various
cities presents some very instructive and interesting facts:
For a site on Chestnut street, Philadelphia, $1,491,201 was
paid ; Boston, $1,329,096 ; and Chicago, $1,259,386, The cost per
foot was: In Philadelphia, $17.53; in Boston, $27.96; in
Chicago, $9.90 ; in Cincinnati, $9.96; and in St. Sonie. $5.98,

The farthest northern point reached by man was visit-
ed by Lieutenant Lockwood and Sergeant Brainerd; of the
Greely Arctic expedition, on May 13, 1883. It was in latitude
83 degrees 24 minutes, longitude 44 degrees 5 minutes west.
The lowest temperature ever recorded in the annals of Arctic
travel was experienced—sixty-one degrees below zero.

There is much alarm among the organ-grinders in
Italy, as a majority of the people there are opposed to the
emigration of these musical wanderers, with their playful
monkeys, saying they give a bad reputation to Italy in for-
eign countries. If we must have any of these itinerants,
give us the monkeys. :

The negroes are dying fast in the Southern cities,
During the month of May the annual death-rate among the
whites in Washington was but 12.8 per 1,000, while among the
blacks it was 27.3 ; in Charleston the figures were respectively
18.7 and 39.3 ; in Atlanta, 18 and 49.4; and in Richmond, 19.7
and 50.3.

The oldest widow alive is Marie Durand, a resident of
the French village of Auberine, in the Department of Isere.
She is a peasant, and is said to be 123 years old, and has sur-
vived her husband 9% years. She has not worn paper bustles
for half a century, as she thinks them unhealthy.

A-vein of natural coke has been discovered in Los
Cerrillos, New Mexico. The vein lies between strata of bitu-
minous and anthracite coal, and is three feet thick. It is
thought to have been made by volcanic heat acting on a bed
of bituminous coal.

Mule. Berthier, the famous actress, became so terri-
fied at the outbreak of cholera in Marseilles, that she abruptly
left the Gymnase Theater in the middle of the performance.
The audience demanded their money, and the manager was
forced to return it.

A retired New York banker is credited with aplan for
establishing a bankers’ and brokers’ library and reading-
room. It will probably contain copies of all the extradition
treaties, and judicial decisions in them, together with good
maps of Canada.

A fireless locomotive has just been projected by M.
Froncq, a French engineer. It is intended for railroads and
canals, and from a stationary generator takes a sufficient
supply of steam to last for a trip, and thus a fire is rendered
unnecessary.

A death in the royal family of Portugal prevented
their attendance at a musical festival. They heard the music,
however, through the telephone, by hurriedly connecting the
place where the concert was given with the palace.

Pressed corned beef poisoned ten families in Port Jack-
son, N. Y. It had been cooked in a vessel with a copper bot-
tom, and the verdigris coming in contact with the acid in the
beef, formed a virulent poison.

A burning church in San Jose, Cal., was saved from
destruction by deluging it with claret wine, water being
scarce. The temperance folks are now convinced that wine
is of some benefit, after all.

The bones of the wife of an Episcopal clergyman in
Minnesota have turned into a chalky substance, and are so
brittle that the greatest care is necessary to prevent them
from breaking.

Pensions are still drawn by 21,000 widows of soldiers
of the war of 1812. In the last half-century these widows
have exhibited a marked improvement in their health.

The strength of Lulu Hurst, the Georgia wonder, was
recently shown when, with ease, she raised a three thou-
sand dollar mortgage on her farther’s farm.

Dio Lewis recommends work on a farm as a remedy
for hay fever. He says that people who work in the open air
rarely suffer from this distressing malady.

Every householder in Holland, when a contagious dis-
ease prevails among his family, is compelled to placard the
fact on the outside of the house.

Clarence Three Stairs is the name of an Indian who
lives in Philadelphia. Irreverent small boys call him the
“Third Flat.”

Bishop Whipple, of Minnesota, has ridden over thirty
thousand miles on horseback during his forty years’ work in
the ministry.

The father of Charley Ross, who was abducted on July
1st, 1874, has spent over $60,000 in endeavoring to find his son.

A gas well has been discovered on Mr. Miller’s farm,
near Washington, Pa. It flows from a depth of 1,100 feet.

Vienna is to have a reading-room devoted exclusively
to newspapers.

Roses bloom all the year in California without culture.

—_—___——_ > @ + _____—__

A FRIGHTENED CROWD.

A long, striped snake crawled into a basement saloon
in Yankton, and was in the middle of the room before
anybody saw it. The inmates stood aghast and speech-
less for several seconds, when one of them, pointing his
finger at the object, managed to articulate:

“Do any of the rest of you see that ?”

They responded, in a chorus:

“Yes, we all do.”

“Jt’s a great relief tome to know it,” said the first;
‘for I thought I was going to have another attack of
malaria.”

“Me, too!” responded the chorus, and then they fell
on the snake with billiard cues, and killed it.

—___ > @+________
A DISAPPOINTFD GIRL.

“J never wish to see Mr. Fipps again,” said the fair
daughter of a retired dime museum millionaire, as she
entered her mother’s bedroom, ‘‘and if he calls again, I

shall tell Bridget not to let him in.”
“You astonish me, Cecilia,” returned the old lady. ‘I
trust he has not been too forward—that he has not dared

to——

“That’s just it, mamma,” interrupted the indignant
girl; he talked spooney the whole evening, and then went
away without even trying to kiss me.”