ntered’ According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1885, by Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washinaton. D. C. ——-Entered at the Post Office New York. as Second Olass Matter.
Office
Vol. 40.
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.
31 Rose St.
New York, February 2, 1885.
Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.
No. 13.
SOMEHOW OR OTHER.
BY ALPHEUS BURGOYNE.
Life has a burden for every man’s shoulder,
None may escape from its trouble and care ;
Miss it in youth, and ’twill come when we're older,
And fit us as close as the garments we wear.
Sorrow comes into our lives uninvited,
Robbing their hearts of their treasures of song;
Lovers grow cold and friendships are slighted,
Yet somehow or other we worry along.
Every-day toil isan every-day blessing,
Though poverty’s cottage and crust we may share;
Weak is the back on which burdens are pressing,
But stout is the heart that is strengthened by prayer.
Somehow or other the pathway grows brighter :
Just when we mourn there were none to befriend};
Hope in the heart makes the burden seem lighter,
And somehow or other we get to the end.
—_—__—__ > @<—_—__———_
{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]
THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE
OR,
A HASTY WOOING.
By MRS. MAF AGNES FLEMING, |
AUTHOR OF
“‘Guy Earlscourt’s Wife,” ““A Wonderful Woman,’
‘*A4 Little Queen,” “‘A Mad Marriage,’
**]_ost for a Woman,” etc.
(“Tne QUEEN oF THE ISLE” was commenced LAST WEEE.]
CHAPTER II—(CONTINUED.)
“The sight nearly drove me mad, for I sprang with a
wiid cry to my feet. But my conductor laid his hand on
my shoulder and said, in a tone so fierce and stern that
I quailed before him :
‘« ‘Hark ye, sirrah, have done with this cowardly fool-
ery, or, by Heaven, you shall share the same fate of him
you see before you! No matter what you-see to-night,
speak not, nor ask any questions, under peril of instant
death. If you perform your duty faithfully, this shall be
your reward.’
As he spoke he displayed a purse filled up with bright,
yellow guineas.
“Before I could reply, a shriek that seemed to come
from below resounded through the room, a shriek so
full of wild horror, and anguish, and despair, that even
my companion gave a violent start, and stood as if lis-
tening intently. As for me, my very life-blood seemed
curdling as the wild, piercing cries of agony came nearer
and nearer. @ ~<—_—_
Bertha M. Clay writes exclusively for the New
York Weekly.
>-e~<
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] _
A KNIGHT OF LABOR:
2
The Master Workman’s Vow.
By JOHN E. BARRETT,
AUTHOR OF
“The Rising Tide.’? ‘*The Landlord’s Crime,’’
**Love and Labor,” **The Black List,’ etc.
{“A Knight of Labor” was commenced in No. 4. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER XXVIII.
BITTER, DAYS—A BRAVE MAN’S RESOLUTION.
They were bitter days for Ruth Watkins that preceded
the trial of her father for the murder of Basil Brandon.
She felt that she was trespassing on Tom Wilbur’s kind-
ness, and, knowing how he loved her, she shrank from
meeting him alone, lest. he might mention the old sub-
ject so dear to him. so distasteful to her.
How she longed to be reconciled to her father! Yet
she had not the courage to meet him again after the
tempestuous scene in which he spurned her.
Mrs. Watkins had visited her husband and tried to
make him relent, but it was no use. Reese would not
forgive his child‘for the great disgrace which she imag-
ined she had brought upon his name.
“Tt’s no use your weeping, Bess,” he said one after-
noon, after Mrs. Watkins had pleaded in his cell with all
a mother’s earnestness that he might consent to a recon-
ciliation with Ruth; “I can’t hear of it, and I will not
consent to see yourface again. Whatever fate befalls,
ll have the consolation of knowing that 1 denied her as
being unworthy of me, and left her to the shame that
she brought upon herself when she ran away from our
little home with that reprobate, Brandon.”
«But if you knew how penitent she is, Reese, I’m sure
you'd forgive her, She thinks and talks of you all the
time, and even in her sleep she sobs and cries out,
‘Father, don’t turn me away from you!’ Ah, Reese, she’s
an only child. Let me send her to you, and say you'll
forgive her.”
‘Never, Bess; never, lass. I must not speak to her
again. Think how she’s dishonored us! Think of her
degradation, her shame, of her—oh, good Heaven! it is
fearful to contemplate!” and he smote himself violently
on the breast, and paced his narrow cell like a caged
lion ina rage. "
“Reese, ah, Reese, you wrong her. She has told me
everything. Indeed you do her and yourself great injus-
tice. Our child is as pure as the snow-flake. She has
done no wrong. This man enticed her away from home
under pretense of marrying her. They were to be wed-
ded the morning they got to New York, but he disap-
peared suddenly a few hours after they reacned the city,
and she has not seen him since. He deceived, but he
did not dishonor her, and if you could only hear the
story of the poor child’s sufferings trom her own lips,’m
sure you’d not be so hard with her. You do violence to
your own nature, I know you do, by not taking her to
your heart.”
“Say no more, Bess,” he said, laying his hand on her
shoulder. <‘‘You’ve been a true, loving, and faithful wife
to me, but don’t tempt me to do that against which my
wounded soul cries out. Ruth is dead to me, and I
would not own her if hers should be the last eyes into
which I might look from the scaffold on my way to eter-
nity. That settles it, wife. That settles it for all time.”
“But Tom Wilbur wants her. He believes in her in-
nocence, as I do, and he’s dying to make her his wife.”
“)’m sorry for it, on account of Tom. He’s a brave fel-
low, and deserves a better mate ; but it does not concern
me. I dare say the hussy is glad of the chance to have
such a noble fellow fora husband now, after spurning
him before.”
«But she is not, and that makes Tom miserable. She
won't listen to his offer of marriage, and he mopes and
carries on all the time asif he did not care for life.”
‘More fool he for doing so. But let’s not talk of it,
lass. Be brave; bear up. My trial takes place in a few
days; and we shall know the result. I don’t see how
they can hang me for this crime, of which Tm as inno-
cent.as a child.” t
“Don’t think of it, Reese. How can they injure you? |
You never touched this man. Don’t fear the trial. The
pain we have, even though it be greats*is not halt as bad |
as that we fear. A fatal wound is not as painful, asa
drawn dagger in the hand of an enemy.”
While Reese Watkins and his wife were talking, the
ee ae: who had shown great kindness to the
faster Workman during the incarceration of the latter,
came and knocked gently on the cell door.
“T never like to break in on the privacy of husband
and wife,” he said, ‘‘especially those whom I esteem, but
I’ve heard a bit of startling news that I think you ought
to know at once.”
The man was greatly agitated.
“Why, you must have heard something terrible.” said
Reese: ‘‘What is it, man? Tell,.me, quick. Has the
real murderer of Basil Brandon been found ?”
“Not that, but Jack Dabble has volunteered to become
a witness against you. It is given out that he saw you
strike the blow that finished Basil Brandon, and heis
oing to implicate several members of the Knights of
bor, including Tom Wilbur. My informant tells me it
is the talk of the town, and that the. tide of sympathy
which was formerly on teal side is now running high
against you. The people say that this settles it, and
that there is no longer any room, for doubt.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Reese, as. he clasped the
hand of his trembling wife tighter to sustain her. “No
living man, not even Jack Dabble, can swear that.”
“But you know what a desperate and unscrupulous
wretch he is. He will swear anything, and this is one
of his revengeful plans to geteven with the Order for
expelling him. Tm sorry; but, base as he is, it will
go hard with you if he swears this crime against you.”
“But why should he swear against me? I never
wronged the fellow.”
“There’s something at the bottom of it, believe me,”
said the keeper. ‘A notice of twenty percent. reduc-
tion in the wages of the men. was posted at the mill to-
day, and I think the superintendent, who is not much
better than Dabble, isin collusion with the fellow as
much for the purpose of bringing the Knights of Labor
into disgrace and breaking the influence of the Order as
toavenge the death of. Basil Brandon.. Believe me,
there’s some dark plot on foot to secure an unfair advan-
tage, and wHen the truth gets out, if ever it does, some
of those who now consider themselves high up in the
world will hang their heads in shame.”
“T did not think such infamy possible,” said Reese,
“but Tl meet it likea man. Icare but little for my
own sake, as I've not much to live for, but I think it
hard that the perjured dastard should attempt to impli-
cate the Order and try to impair its usefulness at a time
when it might be powerful to prevent trouble, No man
living can, however, cast a shadow of suspicion on the
Knights of Labor. The Orderisthe purest. most un- |
selfish, and the noblest ever organized, and I would |
gladly surrender my life at any time to promote the |
honorable interests of a body designed so well to pro- |
mote the welfare of the world’s workers.” |
Reese Watkins seemed to forget his own trouble in|
contemplating that which threatened the Knights of |
Labor through Jack Dabble’s rumored treachery.
“Is it not fearful?” he said, turning suddenly to the |
friendly prison-keeper. ‘‘Is it not fearful that treachery |
can develope a nature so base as this man Dabble has |
shown? [think Ill thwart him, though. Yes, Ill de- |
feat his nefarious purposes.”
“But how can you do that?”
“If I find there’s any chance of his being able to im- |
| plicate the Knights of Labor, I’ll confess this crime and |
say thatI alone am guilty of the deed.
checkmate him, wouldn’t it?”
_ “But ifwould be the death of you,” said the keeper,
in surprise.
“What should I care? I don’t fear death. Andnow, |
since life has gone away, I’m not anxious to live.”
“But -you are innocent of this crime. Why blacken |
your own name ahd cover your memory with infamy ?”
“Icare not. There are times when a human sacrifice |
necessary to arrest wrong and defeat treachery. Inno- |
cent as I am, I’d give my life rather than this wretch |
should succeed in bringing the Order into disrepute.”
“Oh, Reese, Reese, don’t talk like that!” exclaimed |
the Master Workman’s wife, ‘‘I cannot bear to hear you |
say it! There must be some other way to prevent Dab- |
ble trom domg this terrible wrong.”
“Don’t worry, Bess, don’t worry, lass; I’ll not sacrifice |
myself if there’s any other way to prevent this iniquity ; |
but, if the worst comes, Pll not let him put down a/}
brave body of men to gratify his revengeful spirit.”
Her husband’s determination to die an innocent man |
rather than let Jack Dabble triumph over the Knights |
of Labor made Mrs. Watkins miserable, and she pleaded |
earnestly with him to abandon the idea as one that}
would be unjust to himself, to her, and to their daugh- |
ter Ruth.
Reese reassured her by saying that such a sacrifice |
might not be necessary, and added that if the worst |
That would |
| came she would find that he could act the part of aman, |
|; and that she would never have occasion to recall his |
memory with shame. |
CHAPTER XXIX.
FROM THE GATES OF DEATH.
The case of Basil Brandon puzzled the doctors at St.
Vincent’s Hospital for several days.
All efforts to restore him to consciousness were fruit- |
less, and he stubbornly refused to die.
During those dreary days life was to him a blank, and |
all that remained to indicate that he was not dead was |
his mechanical breathing.
He was a puzzle at the hospital in more ways than |
one. Nobody knew his name, where he came trom, or |
the circumstances of the dark deed that deprived him ot |
his faculties. .
The murderous hotel porter, Zeb Grinnell, took good |
care, when he left Basil at the hospital, not to leave any |
possible clew to his own capture, and so the identity of
the patient remained a mystery to every one connected |
with the institution,
After making frequent examinations and indulging in
various learned theories as to the cause of Basil’s pecu-
liar condition, the doctors decided to perform an opera-
tion that would result favorably or fatally. :
Asurgeon who had given the case more attention
than the rest, held that a fragment of the patient's |
skull was depressed, producing compression of the brain, |
and that the only chance for his life was in trepanning. |
This view was accepted, and so the delicate and diffi- |
cult operation was performed. It was a case of life or |
death, and fortunately the operation was successful. As |
soon as it was performed Basil spoke for the first time |
since he was flung from his hotel window on that fate- |
ful night. ;
«Ruth, Ruth!” he murmured, ‘where are you ?”
It seemed to him asif he were awaking from some |
horrible dream, and the recollection of that awful night |
when he was separated from his sweetheart by the act |
| Throckton Steel Works.
| they are engaged to be married.
| low, a leaderinthe Knights of Labor, and is working
| hard to save the life of Reese Watkins.”
| Sure that he was not dreaming.
| my family’s disgraced, and poor Ruth is disgraced.
“Impossible!” said the clerk, in amazement; ‘‘you
don’t mean to say that you are the man who stopped
here that night and disappeared so mysteriously.”
“The same. I was followed to my room by your"por-
ter, who robbed me while I sat sleeping near the win-
dow. I awoke and caught him inthe act. Then we
struggled, and he flung me through the window. The
world has been a blank to me ever since, I have been
cruelly, terribly wronged at this hotel, and I will not
rest until I run down that brutal porter. Perhaps some
of the hotel hands can tell where the fellow’s home is.”
The clerk called one of the porters and asked if he
knew where Grinnell lived. The man answered that he
did, but that Grinnell had not.been there in some time,
and nobody knew where he was.
“Cahn you show me his home?” asked Basil. «‘Why,
yes, but you'll not want to go there,” said the porter.
‘It is a thieves’ lodging-house, and his mother, who
keeps it, is one of the worst of her kind in New York.”
“| don’t mind that,” said Basil; ‘I want to find him,
and perhaps his mother can tell me where he is.”
Acting under the clerk’s instructions, the porter ac-
companied Basil to Mother Grinnell’s den. It wasina
noisome street, a short distance from the river, and as
soon as Basil entered the place he did not wonder that
Zeb Grinnell was an assassin and a thief.
Mother Grinnell advanced to meet the two men, and
eyed Basil et,
“Ts your son about, Mrs. Grinnell ?” he asked.
‘‘No, he ain’t,” was the snappish reply. ‘‘What. might
you want with the boy ?”
“T simply desired to see him on a little business.”
“Well, you can’t see him now.”
Wri sorry for that. Itis a matter that concerns us
“Well, Zeb is in Bosting,” was the curt reply. ‘‘He’s
been there for some time back, and I can’t give you his
exact address.”
“What is he doing there ?” asked Basil.
“How should I know ?” retorted the beldame.
«He is a hotel porter, is he not 2”
‘‘What business is that of yours ,”
“Simply because I want a good man for the position,
and I thought he might be disengaged ;: that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Excuse me,” said the ogress. ‘I
thought you was poking your nose into other people’s
business, and I was bound to talk a little sharp, you
know, because I hate to see people too inquisitive. I
think, though, that Zeb’s in Bosting; but I ain’t quite
certain of that.”
This was all Basil could learn from the ill-favored hag
whose son had almost taken his life. He was not dis-
posed to place much reliance on the information, but, as
it was the best available just then, he was determined to
act upon it and go to the Hub, He thought it possible
that he might find Grinnell employed as a porter at
some of the hotels,
Basil obtained sufficient money for the trip from the
proprietor of the hotel at which he had been robbed.
| and took the very next boat for Boston. On arriving
there he made diligent inquiry for Zeb Grinnell, or some
one answering his description, at all the hotels, but his
search was fruitless.
Nobody named Grinnell, and nobody that looked like
| him, was employed at any of the Boston hotels, and,
| after an anxious search, Basil concluded that the mur-
derer’s mother must have deceived him, and resolved on
returning to New York.
Taking up a Boston paper the morning he had formed
| this determination, he was surprised beyond measure
| by the following item of news from his old home :
“The trial of Reese Watkins, formerly Master Work-
man of the local Assembly of the Knights of Labor, will
| take place here next week for the murder of Basil
Brandon, son of Alfred Brandon, president of the
Although there was some
doubt at first regarding the guilt of Watkins, there is no
longer any question as to bis criminality. It is expected
that he will plead guilty for the purpose of shielding
| Some of his confderates, although even if he should
not, the evidence against nim is overwhelming. Sam
Lambert, a bright, intelligent newsboy, heard him vow
to Heaven that he wouid take Basil Brandon's life, and
| alocal character named Jack Dabble, who hangs around
town at ali hours of the night, witnessed the bloody
deed.. It is said that Watkins lay in wait for young
Brandon, struck him down with a heavy bar of iron,
| and beat him until life was extinct, then flung the body
in the river, where it was.found-shortly afterward by
some workmen, and identified by the family.. There is
a bit of romance connected with this tragedy. The
victim, Basil Brandon, eloped with the young and pretty
daughter of Watkins, and betrayed and deserted her in
| New York. On his return home he was met and slain
by the enraged father of the girl. She staid in New
York a short time, drifting about with the surging tide
of metropolitan life until she wearied of it, and then
she came home, or rather to the scene of her ruined
home. Since her return, an old lover. Tom Wilbur, has
been very much devoted to her, and rumor has it that
Wilbur is a manly fel-
Basil Brandon read this paragraph over twice to make
His amazement was
great.
“Watkins to be tried for taking my life!” he said.
«There must be some terrible mistake. And Ruth, dear
little Ruth! She’s back again, and engaged to be mar-
ried to her old lover, Tom Wilbur. Well, I Cannot blame
her. What else could she think but that I played her
false. Oh, cursed, cruel fate that put us apart! I wish I
could go back and set thingsright. Butno, I’m disgraced,
It I
should appear upon the scene now it would raise a terri-
ble scandal. No, ’m dead to Ruth; dead to the world,
and dead I shall remain until after she and Wilbur are
married, unless it is absolutely necessary for me to re-
| veal myself in order to save an innocent life.
CHAPTER XXX.
IN THE SHADOWS—A FACE FROM THE GRAVE,
A strike was threatened at the Throckton Steel Works.
The notice ef a reduction of twenty per cent. in the
wages of the men was issued at a time when the price
| of steel was highest, and the employees felt that it was
unjust and uncalled for.
The superintendent of the mill was unpopular. He
was one of those men who think it necessary to have the
ill-will of the workmen in order to enjoy the favor of their
employers.
He was exacting, tyrannical, snappish, and mean.
Whenever he spoke to one of the mill hands it was in a
tone of voice, and with an air of annoyance and superi-
ority, that might be.in place if addressed to a particu-
larly obstinate mule, but certainly not to a human
of Grinnell was still with him. | bein
He was wide awake when the porter flung him through
the hotel window, and something like the sensation
which he then experienced flashed through his throb- |
bing brain as soon as the operation was performed. |
The attendants were compelled to hold his arms, to |
prevent the struggle which he deemed necessary to save |
himself, and some time elapsed before he could fully
realize the situation.
As soon as he could understand those around him and |
reason with them he told who he was, but begged that |
nothing would be said that would make the case public, |
so that he might be able, as soon as he recovered, to run |
down his murderous assailant.
The doctors were amazed to find that he was the son |
of Alfred Brandon, President of the Throckton Steel |
Works; but as Basil had suggested in the interests of
justice that the case should be kept secret, his wishes
were respected.
The first great desire of his life was to capture and
punish Zeb Grinnell.
As the days went by he progressed rapily, regaining
health and strength.
When he was alone his mind was actively occupied
with thoughts of the elopement, and he often wondered
what had become of little Ruth, who had been left all
alone in the great city when he met with his tragic mis-
hap.
ite remembered going to the hotel with her and retir-
ing to his own room. He recollected the pleasant pro-
gramme he had planned to be married in the morning,
and then came the thought of that fierce struggle with
the brutal porter at the open bedroom window through
which he had been flung.
Here memory became a blank. It seemed to Basil,
whenever he thought of the matter, as if the struggle
had but just occurred and that he was still at the
hotel.
Sometimes he begged that Ruth might be sent to him;
and when he was told that she was not to be found, and
that no one even knew who Ruth was, his distress of
mind was indescribable. :
Often and often he longed for strength to enable him |
to return to the hotel, so that he might ascertain some-
thing of her whereabouts.
-They were days and nights of mental and physical
pain that he endured while his wounds were healing ;
and when at last the doctors decided that he might
leave, he felt that he was the happiest man in New
York.
It was with an anxious heart that he made his way to
the hotel, where he had stopped on the memorable night
of the accident.
The same clerk was at the desk when Basil entered.
He did not recognize Basil, but the latter knew him at a
glance, and asked to examine the register for the date
that he and Ruth had stopped there.
Pointing to the signature, ‘‘Basil Brandon and sister,”
he asked the clerk:
“Can you tell me anything about those young peo-
le 2?” ’
F “Nothing at all, sir,” answered the clerk, nonchalant-
ly. ‘They came here on the date you see at the head of
the page; the young man disappeared suddenly during
the night, and on the next day the broken-hearted girl,
who appeared to be terribly distressed and disappointed,
went away after waitin
why her companion did not return. It was a strange
case, and we. have not heard anything of either ever
since.”
“Can you tell me where I can find the porter who
showed Basil Brandon to his room that night ?” asked
Basil, still keeping his own identity a secret.
“Ah, yes; that was Grinnell,” said the clerk. ‘He left
here shortly after that night, and we have not seen him
since.”
‘sDo you know where his home is ?”
“No; we never knew much about the fellow.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Basil. ‘I have important
business with him, and I should dearly like to know |
where I could find him.”
“What might your name be?” asked the clerk at
“Pm Basil Brandon,” was the cool reply.
here until noomand wondering |
g.
The trouble with the men had been precipitated en-
tirely by this petty official. He had a great contempt
for labor organizations, and never failed to show it in
dealing with their committees. He was very intolerant
of the question of settling disputes between employee
and employer by arbitration.
«Why should there be such a thing as arbitration ?”
he would ask, ‘‘to dispose of a matter that has only one
side. The company put its money into these works, | It
paysits men what it pleases, and if they don’t like it
they can leave. A pretty thing, indeed, to. talk of arbi-
tration and compromise in such connection. It is the
| right of the company to pay what wages it pleases, and
the right of the workman to take it or not, as he deems
proper. I cannot see any other side to this so-called
labor problem.” ;
But the men were resolved on making him see the
other side of the question, and that was why a strike
had been threatened, to resist what was considered an
uncalled-for reduction of wages.
He saw the gathering storm, and was anxious to meet
it by employing a sufficient number of men to take the
places of those who were likely to go on strike, but he
found this a difficult matter.
The superintendent was busy in his office one after-
noon to solve the problem of running the works with a
new force to take the place of the regular hands, when
a tall, strapping young man entered and asked for em-
ployment.
In reply to the question as to what he could do, he said
he could take a hand at anything, and would be willing
to work in any part of the mill,
“You are just the man we want,” said the superintend-
ent, ‘although it is not often we find one who can take
a hand at anything. When do you want to begin ?”
‘{n the morning.”
“Well, you can go to work in the rail mill. Tl see the
foreman this evening, and it will be all right. Do you
know’ of any others who want work ?”
“No, I only need employment for myself,” said the
stranger, who wore a full, fair beard, and fair hair, the
latter being of a medium length.
The voice of the applicant made the superintendent
regard him closely,as if he had detected a former ac-
quaintance, but the scrutiny was merely for a moment.
“What might your name be ?” he asked,
“Dick Russell,” was the laconic reply.
“All right, Russell. Don’t fail to be on hand in the morn-
ing. We want stanch, steady, reliable men who wilk
stand by the company in any crisis, and you look like a
man in whom we can put confidence in case of an
emergency.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Russell, leaving the office.
He had not gone far trom the place before he met Tom
Wilibur, who said :
“Pardon me, friend. Were you looking for work
there ?”
“T did apply for employment,” said the other, smiling;
‘but, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, I don’t think it
concerns you.”
“Well, maybe not,” said Tom. ‘You ain’t a black-
smith, I can see that; but it does concern others. I can
get along, strike or no strike; but there are men of fam-
| ily working here who will be injured if you take any of
their places while they are standing out for justice and
fair play. I don’t know whether you have any children
or not—if you have, it seems hard that you should put
| yourself against those who are going to make a sacrifice
| for principle, and if you have not, it is worse still. Now
| this company does not want to cut down the men, but
the superintendent says he can get a new force for re-
duced rates as easy as not, and the fight is going to be
| his. We are opposed to strikes wherever trouble can be
| settled otherwise; but in this case nothing short of a
strike will bring the superintendent to his senses, as he
| is opposed to arbitration, and will not listen to reason
| from the men. We’ve been patient. We've endured a
good deal, and we feel the time has come when we must
must make a decent resistance to petty tyranny.”
| “T was not aware that the situation was so bad,” said
| Russell, ‘or I might.not have applied for employment.
| length, his curiosity getting the better of his discretion. | Still, as I have given my word, I must appear at the mill
| in the morning to take my place.”
—-
e™
©
You mean to take somebody else’s place,” said Tom
Wilbur, in a tone of voice indicative of some bitterness.
“Well, and suppose I do,” said Russell, ‘‘what of that ?
Is not this a free country? Can I not sell my labor for
what I please ?”
«Yes, I suppose you can,” said Tom, almost despairlIng
of being able to make an impression on the stranger ;
“but ifvou be much of a man, and I think you are, it
will make you feel mighty mean when you see the
* streets of Throckton filed with idle men, to think that
you are eating the bread that belongs to some little
family.”
“What would you have me do?” asked Russell. “Pm
a workman, with labor to sell. Must I refuse to sell it
when [ find a demand, just because others, who are
strangers to me, and in whom I can have no interest,
refuse to sell theirs ?”
‘It is not that,” said Tom—‘it is not that. I don’t
want you to refuse to sell it in a legitimate field. What
I want is that you refuse to undersell it to a man who
has no regard for the just rights of labor, and who em-
ploys you, not because he wants your services, but to
use you aS an instrument against the great army of
breadwinners. -Join us. Stand with us, and assist us
in resisting what is an injustice to yourself as well as to
us. You will find that the honorable, manly course to
pursue, and you will be all the better pleased with your-
Self in the end for adopting it.”
“I rather think you are right,” said Russell, after some
hesitation. ‘But tell me how I can join you ?”
“Come with me to-night, and I’ll see that it is done,”
answered Tom. ‘And allow me to say now that I think
your decision shows that you are every inch a man.”
They clasped hands.
Something in the eyes of each told them they had
met before. :
The stranger smiled complacently, but Tom Wilbur
was puzzled beyond expression, and after telling Rus-
sell where they would meet in the evening, he hurried
away, muttering to himself:
“TI wonder where I saw that man before !”
Dick Russell kept his word. He was at the corner
where he promised to meet Tom Wilbur precisely at
the appointed time that evening, and they walked on
together to the hall where a meeting of the Knights of
Labor was about to be held.
On the way to the hall, Russell asked :
“Have the men appointed a committee to wait on the
president of the company in regard to this reduction ?”
‘Not to wait on the president; but the superintend-
ent’s been waited on.”
‘‘T-consider that a mistake.”
“Why ?”
‘Because in an important matter of this sort what’s
the use of talking to the tail while the head is to be had?
Take my word for it, all sides would fare better if the
men went direct to President Brandon instead ot letting
their interests be represented, or, rather, misrepresent-
ed, by such sneaks as that superintendent.”
‘But the men feel that the president of the works will
not listen to them,” said Tom, ‘‘and that he is likely to
send them to the superintendent anyhow.”
‘Tf he thinks it to his interest to deal directly with
them, he will do so. Suppose you try that plan.”
Wilbur had not thought of that before, but it occurred
to him as the reasonable thing to do, and he said:
“Tll submit that to the meeting this very evening, and
see what they think about ii.”
By this time Tom Wilbur and Dick Russell had reached
the hall in which the meeting of the assembly was
about to be held, and Tom said:
“Youll excuse me for not asking youin; but, if you
wish it, I'l propose your name for membership; and as
your sympathies are with us, itis allrightif you go to
work in the mill to-morrow.”
“Tamever so much obliged,” said Russell; ‘‘and I
shall think it an honor to be elected a member of your
assembly.”
“By the way,” said Tom, ‘‘where-shall I say you came
from ?”
“Well, let me see. Ob, yes, you can say that I came
from New York.”
“You don’t seem to be quite sure,” said Tom, with a
smile. ‘Well, never mind; I’ve never been mistaken in
aMman yet, and I think you'll pan out allright. Illsay
you're from New York.”
And, after a hearty hand-shake, they parted for the
night, Tom to go to the meeting and Dick Russell to
drift aimlessly about Throckton.
«What a noble fellow he is!” said Dick Russell, as he
sauntered down the street after parting with Wilbur.
“Tt seems a pity any man or woman living should
wrong him. But pshaw! why should I think of it?
Have I not suffered more than death Some say Iam
dead. Well, be it so, atleast untilI learn the drift of
things in Throckton.”
It was a clear, pleasant night. The rising moon was
just silvering the neighboring hill-tops and sending its
Shining shaits into the valley. A sense of loneliness
stole over Dick Russell. He strolled leisurely down to
the river and stood several minutes contemplating the
Witch’s Landing. Then, as if impelled by a new
thought, he started off suddenly in the direction of the
cemetery, and did not stop until he stood beside the
grave that bore the inscription telling of Basil Bran-
don’s death. He could easily read the simple epitaph in
the moonlight, and he was swayed by strange emotions
as he contemplated the weird scene.
«And so it is written on stone,” he soliloquized, ‘that
Basil Brandon is dead, and essential as he once consid-
ered himself to this great world, it goes on without him.
Such is life. But, unless I mistake very much, Basil
Brandon will yet convince the people of Throckton that
the legend on that grave-stone lies.” :
He turned away trom the burial-place of the Brandons
and hastened from the still and solemn spotin the direc-
tion of the city, which presented a scene of bustling in-
dustry in the early moonlight.
Dick Russell walked leisurely along by the river-bank.
There were clumps of trees at various points, and the
scene was well calculated to inspire romantic thoughts
in the breasts of the sentimental.
Passing ree one of those clumps of trees, Dick
Russell was startled by angry voices. At first he thought
it was a lovers’ quarrel, and that it might not be right
to interfere, but a woman’s voice, pleading in piteous
tones for some boon which seemed to her a case of life
or déath, soon decided his course.
Dick Russell was completely hidden from the others
by a large tree, beside which he stood, and although he
considered it cowardly to play the eavesdropper, some-
thing in the tone of the woman’s voice made him think
that she might need his assistance, and he resolved on
remaining just where he was, so that he might be able
to render help in case of an emergency.
“But you will not swear falsely against my poor
father? You will not swear his life away and perjure
your own soul ?”
These were the first words Dick Russell heard, and
the woman who uttered them was Ruth Watkins, who
had met Jack Dabble there by appointment, that she
might plead with him not to appear as a witness against
her father.
Jack Dabble indulged in a low, coarse chuckle as. a
prelude to his unfeeling reply.
‘‘Michty little that same father cares for you, gal. He
has disowned you, whether he lives or dies, because of
your frolic with young Brandon. Well, it’s everybody
tor himself in this world, but if you want me not to
swear against your father, the remedy isin your own
hands. Be my wife and V’ll not appear against him,
otherwise he’s got to swing.”
‘Never!” she said. ‘I could never be your wife! You
know my father is innocent, and yet you are ready to
swear against him. Oh, have pity, man—have pity !”
‘JT know no such thing!” said Dabble. ‘I know he’s
ilty. Isaw him with my own eyes strike down young
randon, and unless you agree to be my little wife he'll
swing forit. I’m the only one that saw him do the
deed. Say, will you consent to this arrangement? If
not, your father dies the death of a murderer!”
“Mr. Dabble, you are cruel. Icannot be any man’s
wife. I'll never marry!”
“Come, now, don’t talk nonsense!” said Dabble.
9+ —___—__
SICKLY CHILDREN and infants grow strong and ruddy
under the use of Liebig Co’s Coca Beef Tonic.
> oe <—______
A WARM CORNER OF THE EARTH.
M. Sylvanus, of Monterey, Highland County, Va., has
discovered some strange subterranean fires in the
mountains near that place. Ascending the summit, the
ground was so hot that he and Mr. Edwin Wade, who
accompanied him, could hardly walk upon it. They
then began to dig, and on reaching a depth of twelve
inches, found the earth smoking and burning. The
earth, from the surface to the fire, was ina high state
of perspiration. Upon exposing the burning substance
to the air it glows with alivid heat, sparkling and
crackling, and. sends forth volumes of smoke: Two
columns of smoke came out of the opening made, one of
dark-red hue and the other. black, each retaining its
distinct color until it disappeared from sight. The sub-
stance dug up looked like brick dust, and could be
squeezed into a ball like wax.
> o4
Bertha MM. Clay writes exclusively for the New
York Weekly.
— Oe
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]
3.54.23
Mystery of the Madstone.
(“The Mystery of the Madstone” was commenced in No. 2.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)
CHAPTER XXXVII.
INNOCENT, AND FREE FROM STAIN,
Simon Denton’s defense was simply to prove that he
had left the hotel before the murder was committed.
The first man whose evidence was taken was Dick,
who saw him leave.
The man swore that Denton passed out, carrying a
large satchel, and bade him good-by.
“At what time of the night was this ?”
“Half-past ten, or twenty minutes to eleven.”
‘Not later than that ?”
“No,”
«He bade you good-night. Did you observe anything
peculiar in his appearance ?”
‘‘Nothing more than he seemed in a hurry.”
The nex person called was the clerk, Crane.
He had not seen Denton leave, but he had told a lady
yee inquired for him that he would see if he was at
ome. $
«‘What time was this ?”
«Three or four minutes to eleven.”
«How do you know.”
“Because I lighted a cigarette, and threw it away
when I saw the boss coming, and as it was only half
smoked when I threw it away, I judge it was about four
minutes at the outside.”
“What has the cigarette got to do with the time the
lady came in ?”
“T lighted it when I spoke to her, and the clock struck
eleven when I threw it away.”
‘‘How long did this lady remain up stairs ?”
‘‘Two hours; it was near one, and I was reading tho
paper when she went out in an awfurhurry.”
“Ah! seemed hurried ?” ;
“Yes. She said, ‘Tell Mr. Denton I waited two hours
for him, and I can’t wait any longer,’ and off she went.”
«Now [ll ask you another question. Be very careful
how you reply, for a man’s life, good name, and honor,
hang upon your answer.”
The clerk looked rather alarmed.
«When did you last see Leslie Storms alive ?”
“At a quarter-past eleven when I gave him his
satchel.”
«You gave him his satchel ?”
«Yes, he always left itin the office. Llocked it up that
night about half-past five or_six, and gave it to him at a
quarter-past eleven.”
‘How did you happen to remark the hour ?”
“Mr. Storms asked me the time, and I told him, and he
said: ‘I’m slow,’ and put his watch forward with our
”
‘So Leslie Storms came back at a quarter-past eleven
alive and well ?”
Yes, sir.”
‘And Simon Denton left the house at half-past ten or
twenty minutes to eleven ?”
The clerk stared, and he was not the only one.
«Further, a woman goes up to Simon Denton’s room
before Leslie Storms arrives in the house, and after
Simon Denton left it, and remains there two hours ?”
«Yes, sir,” said the clerk, faintly.
“Then why in the name of all that is just and
right is Simon Denton here to-day accused of this mur-
der instead of the woman who committed it?”
This was a new view of the case.
A sensation in the court.
«And now,” Denton’s lawyer went on—‘‘now, though
this is but the preliminary examination, I wish .to clear
every suspicion of guilt from the name of my client.
With this object in view [ll tell you how and when Les-
lie Storms met his death.
“This woman, who comes after Simon Denton left the
house, satchel in hand, to return no more, paid-her jirst
visit to the house during the afternoon.”
Minnie Polland was now put on the stand.
She testified to the visit of the tall blonde lady, with
the black mole upon her cheek, to number 34.
She related the conversation she overheard, and also
testified that Leslie Storms had visitors in his room at
the same time that the lady was in that of Denton.”
Every one in court was now deeply interested.
They began to see that the commercial traveler was
innocent.
He made a jump, in their estimation, from the posi-
tion of a criminal to that of a martyr.
“J will now bring forward another piece o fevidence,”
said the lawyer. “A piece of evidence that will prove
conclusive.”
He held up the shred of crimson necktie in which was
fastened the madstone pin.
“This is the property of the woman who came at four
minutes to eleven, and left at one on the night of the
murder.”
There was a dead silence in the court.
“And this was found by the detective employed on‘the
case, clasped in the stiff fingers of the murdered _man.”
Another sensation.
“In by-gone days of barbarism my client, an innocent
man, would have been condemned to death on the evi-
dence that first pointed the finger of suspicion against
him, but, thank Heaven, those days.are past, and Simon
Denton will leave this court without a stain upon his
character. You must go elsewhere to find the hand
which*was dyed with the blood of Leslie Storms upon
the fatal 11th of January, and in finding. that ‘hand, I
regret to say you will find the hand of a woman!”
The lawyer sat down; his work was done, and well
done.
A brief silence followed, then Frederick Holt was
sworn.
He told his story clearly and briefly.
When it was told up to the arrival in New York of
himself and his prisoner, he went on to relate how his
wife had shadowed Roselle and the gambler, Highbig.
‘Is your wife in court?” asked the judge.
“She is.”
‘Then let her tell her own story.”
Menie was sworn; she told her story up to its terrible
ending in the murder of Roselle.
“You say those diamonds were found upon the mur-
dered woman’s person ?”
«They were.”
The gems were identified by Storms’.employers as a
portion of the missing diamonds.
«Where are the rest of the diamonds which were taken
from the satchel on the night of the murder in the Alton
House ?”
Another parcel was brought in—a larger parcel. It
was sewed up in chamois.
«“Where was this parcel found ?” asked the judge.
“In the pocket of the man who was arrested for the
murder of Roselle Estano.”
The dress was now produced.
The bosom was found to be thickly padded. In the
left side there was a sort of pocket. It had been cut
open with a knife,
In the right side a smaller pocket. It had been more
carefully opened
When Highbi
he had secure
have seen.
The officer who was present.when Menie opened the
dress-lining and removed the parcel testified. He also
told the strange story of the trunk.
“That evidence belongs to another case,” said Den-
ton’s lawyer.
The clerk, Crane, and the chambermaid, Minnie Pol-
land, now reappeared.
They had been absent fora short time, having been
conducted from the court-room by Fearless Fred.
Minnie Polland looked pale and frightened.
Crane also seemed agitated. ;
The girl was again put on the stand.
“Have you since seen the woman who was in cham-
ber No. 34 at the Alton House on the afternoon of
January 11?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, in a low tone.
“When ?’
“J have just seen her dead body.”
“Her dead body ?”
“Yes. She is the woman who was found murdered.”
« ‘With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured
to you again,’” said the lawyer, solemnly.
“This wretched woman murdered Leslie Storms while
he slept, in order that she might gain possession of those
diamonds. Retribution soon followed.
«She dared not attempt to dispose of the jewels. She
hid them in her bosom.
“Her accomplice in crime—this man, Highbig,’ whose
record is one long history of crime—was too cowardly to
go boldly to the hotel and take Storms’ life himself.
“The pair worked together, but the woman was the
bolder. They had trailed this man like wolves, followed
him from city to city, lured on by the glitter of these
ewels, as the wolf is lured on by the scent of his prey.
yhen they had hunted him down, and he was all un-
suspicious, the woman was put forward. Her hand
must strike the blow.
“She found, on visiting the hotel where Leslie Storms
had taken up his abode, another man.
“This man was Simon Denton.
‘He was a former victim.
a his request, I only refer to this subject in brief.
«There are secret histories in every family, skeletons
in every cupboard. Let us be merciful, and draw a vail
over this secret history, hide away this ghastly skeleton.
Enough to say, that for the sake of a much-loved, beau-
tiful, and innocent child, Simon Denton dared not dety
this woman. Deeply as she had wronged him, he must
be merciful to her, in mercy for his child.
‘took the package of jewels, he thought
all. In this he was mistaken, as we
“She threatened him, as one witness has testified.
She alarmed him so much by her threats that he made
an appointment with her, and as soon as she was clear
of the house he fled—fied in haste, like a guilty man.
ae woman knew he would do so; she laid her plans
well.
«She had discovered that the next room was occupied
by the man she had hunted down.
“Her visit to Denton was intended to have the very
effect it produced.
“She wished to frighten him from the house. It was
to be Leslie Storms’ last night in New York. Had the
man, Denton, been in his usual, composed, orderly
frame of mind, he would have gone to the clerk and
given up his key, and stated he was leaving the house.
‘He was not in his usual frame of mind; he was terri-
fied, and only wished to get away before this woman re-
turned. He fied like a criminal fleeing from justice.
“She returned, committed the murder with a knife
She stole and secreted about her person during her visit
to Denton.
«‘When he packed his satchel he missed it.
«She stole that knife with a purpose; she wished to
fasten the crime upon this man.
‘Why did not the clerk observe that the woman was
in Denton’s room two hours after, as he supposed, the
murder had been committed ?
“Tf the room was in disorder, and bloody finger-marks
told the tale of crime, would any woman stay in that
room quietly for two hours ?
‘With all that evidence of crime around her, and an
open door leading to another room where the corpse of
a murdered man lay, would not any woman raise an
outcry? These facts speak for themselves. Comment
is unnecessary. My client is innocent.”
Simon Denton was pronounced innocent, aad left.the
court without a stain upon his character.
The trial of Highbig and Long for the murder of
Roselle Estano was the talk of the country for a time.
They were both found guilty and condemned to death,
for the evidence against them was overwhelming.
Lela identified the murderer as the man she saw.
She picked him out herself, and pointing in his face,
said, in her baby voice :
«That's the man I saw standing up looking at her.”
He scowled fearfully at the little child; if he had
known of her presence in the kitchen upon that fatal
night, she would never have lived to see the light of day.
He had blundered, like most criminals.
The blood-stained knife was found in his pocket.
Also the key of the trunk and that of the back gate of
the yard through which he made his escape.
They were condemned to death, and, although they
were granted a new trial, the sentence of the law was
executed.
Olive Hardie was missed, and, as she hoped, Highbig’s
letter found.
Her mother followed her, and was in time to save her
life, though along illness followed the terrible hours
she had spentbound and helpless in the char.
Her father was taught a lesson, and now there is no
harder man in New York to get acquainted with, and he
guards his home like a dragon, and believes half the
men he meets are swindlers.
Denton lived toretire with a snug fortune, and, not
wonderful to relate, married Miss Livingston.
Dr. Woodward lives his old life; he is happy and
serene, for his wicked son troubles him no more, and he
never learned his fate.
As the gambler Highbig he lived and died. He never
revealed his real name.
Fearless Fred is still the same keen, untiring officer—
aerrr. so happy aS when a difficult case is intrusted to
He bears the name of being almost invincible.
Menie is no longer such a valuable aid-de-camp.
Little Fred takes up too much of her time.
She is training him, though, and declares he will be
even a smarter detective than his tather.
(THE END.}
(A rattling detective story, by EUGENE T. SAWYER, Will
be commenced next week. It is entitled ‘THe BLack
HAND; Or, THE LEAGUE OF GOLD.”]
e~<—______
RUTH DARRELL’S DAUGHTER.
BY MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS.
A still, summer day. Overhead, a sky of cloudless
azure; under foot, a carpet of emerald grass; mocking-
birds singing like mad in the green magnolias, insects
whirring, and the drowsy, flower-scented hush of a
Southern summer day.
A silver ribbon of a river dragging itself slowly along
through a strip of green forest, and bordered. by great
oaks, from which the long, gray moss drooped like ban-
ners, trailing to the water’s edge, standing sentinel on
the sloping bank. And under one of the largest and
greenest of the trees a man was lying at full length on
the lush greensward, a cigarette between his lips, his
eyes half closed, lazily watching the blue rings of smoke
curl upward. A handsome man; young, but with a
grave face; his dark eyes were very beautiful, and
though the upper lip wore a haughty curl, half hidden
by the heavy mustache, his smile was strangely sweet.
Barry Vane was poor and proud—a poor lawyer, strug-
gling on in his chosen profession. He had accepted an
invitation from his old friend, Bernard, to visit at his
hospitable country -house, taking advantage of this invi-
tation to secure a few weeks’ freedom from the weary
routine of the little office where he waited daily for the
briefs which, like the ships of fortune, never came in,or,
like angels’ visits, were few and far between.
He was thinking now, in his indolent fashion, how he
would like to lie there and smoke and dream forever,
when the rustle of a woman’s garments aroused him,
and with a suppressed exclamation of surprise, he threw
his cigarette aside, and sat‘up, his dark, handsome face
Se on A girl in a white muslin dress, with
knots of blue ribbon here and there, and on her golden
head a broad-brimmed straw hat, with a wreath of corn-
flowers. Barry Vane arose, with a smile of greeting.
‘‘Audrey !—Miss Leigh!” he cried. ‘How nice in you
to happen here just now !”
She smiled sweetly, showing her dazzling teeth.
“JT half-expected to find you here,” she returned; ‘‘so
I shall not pretend that this meeting is accidental. Mr.
Vane, I have been looking over those old papers which
1 persuaded you to let me have, and, I tell you truly, I
think you are the lawful claimant to the Darrell estate.
See!”
And she sank upon a mossy log, and held up a rollof
manuscript.
Vane seated himself at her side. :
‘It is the simplest thing in the world !” she cried.
“The estate, valued at a cool half million, reverts to the
next of kin. Ralph Darrell left a sister, Ruth, who mar-
ried—I cannot learn the name of her husband—and_dy-
ing, left one child, a girl. If Ruth Darrell’s daughter
were living still, she would be the true claimant. But
she and her father were both drowned while on a pleas-
ure excursion, and the property, therefore, goes to the
next of kin, your own father. He being dead, you, his
only child, are heir tothe Darrell fortune. Oh, Barry,
how glad iam, for your sake !”
She laid one little white hand on his, with a timid
gesture.
«And I have to thank you for the discovery,” he said,
softly, gazing into the drooping blue eyes. ‘‘Audrey,
listen—I have a sweet secret to tell you!”
While they had been speaking, a young girl in a
gray linen dress, with a coarse straw hat tied down
over a pale little face, had approached them, all un-
seen. She paused involuntarily, and Barry Vane’s last
words fell upon her, ear ; so she turned and glidedaway,
and they never dreamed that she had been there.
Back to the gray, old country-house she went, for
Jennie Wynne had made a discovery, and she wanted to
be alone with herself, and face her own dreary future,
with no eye to look upon her sorrowful secret. She en-
tered the house, rustling amid a bower of green trees,
and fied up the broad staircase to her little white
chamber.
«Jennie,” cried Mrs. Bernard, as she passed the door
of the room where she sat, ‘‘where are Audrey and Mr.
Vane ?”
“Down by the river, I believe,” she answered, slowly.
Good Mrs. Bernard smiled thoughtfully.
“IT think it will be a match,” she observed, ‘‘and very
nice tor Audrey, too, only Mr. Vane is poor.”
Jennie Wynne hastened away without attempting
any reply, entered her own room, and locked the door
behind her.
‘He loves Audrey!” she cried, passionately; ‘‘every-
body sees it. But Audrey would never marry him un-
less he has: money; while I—oh, Heaven help me! I
would be his wife, and share his poverty and trials, his
sorrows and burdens. But he does not care for me,
though I had believed that he did until Audrey Leigh,
with her beautiful face, came between us.”
Jennie Wynne and Audrey Leigh were boarding with
Mrs. Bernard for the summer. Both were orphans, and
both were poor, save that Audrey possessed a very small
income, while Jennie taught school in a ere
city... Her vacation was nearly ended. and she must
carry back with her the knowledge that the man she
loved (for she knew it now for the first time) was be-
tfothed to another.
For a long time she paced up and down the floor of
her chamber. f
“Jennie! Jennie!” cried Audrey’s clear, sweet voice
from the hall below. ‘‘Come down, please. We have
something to tell you.”
We. The pronoun was very significant.
“She wishes to announce the engagement,” thought
Jennie. :
She crushed her hands‘over her wildly throbbing heart
for a moment; then, pale and calm, she went down
stairs into the cool parlor, through whose open windows
strayed the sweet perfume of flowers. Mrs. Bertrand
was there, and Barry Vane, looking very pale; while
Audrey flitted about, as though too excited to keep
uiet.
m “Just think, Jennie!” she began at once. “Mr. Vane
proves to be heir to the great Darrell fortune! There is
not a doubt of it, since Ruth Darrell and her daughter
are both dead. See!” g
And she pointed to a table near, where a pile of manu-
seript lay. x
Jennie seated herself, and bent her head over the
papers for a long time, silently perusing them. At last
<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #>-
she lifted her eyes, and arose with an effort. She was
deadly pale, and her slight form trembled visibly.
“IT congratulate you, Mr. Vane,” she faltered.
And then she stole from the room. Out into the gar-
den she fled, the pain at her heart almost more than
she could bear. Down to the shimmering river—on—on!
Tired out, she sank upon a mossy log and leaned her
head upon her hand.
“T will keep the secret,” she said, aloud, ‘‘for his sake.
Oh, Barry! my darling, my darling! He loves Audrey,
and, as he is poor, he shall take possession of this for-
tune, and so be enabled to wed the woman he loves;
and he need never dream the truth, that I am Ruth
Darrells daughter, and that the Darrell fortune is law-
fully mine.”
«But he knows already !”
She sprang to her feet in startled surprise as Barry
Vane parted the overhanging branches of the tree be-
side her and stood in her presence.
Jennie,” he cried, taking her two little hands, ‘I
have just discovered the truth; for Mrs. Bernard, who
knew your mother well, revealed the true state of af-
fairs. You are Ruth Darrell’s daughter; dear, I am
glad that it is so. But though I run the risk of being
cousidered a fortune-hunter, I must tell you, darling
—ah, Jennie, I overheard your words just now, and you
are fairly caught!—I love you, and youalone. I never
dreamed of caring for Audrey; and down by the river-
side this morning I told her my secret—the secret of my
earnest love for you, and my plans for the future. Tell
me—is there any hopefor me? Will you be my wife,
Jennie ?”
And she lifted her eyes to his face with a look which
answered him.
++ @~«
Correspondence.
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.
[We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart-
ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal.
Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and
fairly, even though it may take a month of research to arrive
at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared to render
the answers to questions absolutely reliable. ]}
Hi. M., Northfield, Minn.—ist. Greenwich is situated on the
right bank of the Thames, five miles south-east of St. Paul’s
Cathedral, London. It has numerous churches, schools, fac-
tories, iron-steamboat yards, rope-walks, and engineering es-
tablishments, but its chief objects of attraction are its hos-
pital for seamen, and its observatory, which was erected by
Charles II. for the advancement of navigation and nautical
astronomy. It is charged with the transmission of time
throughout England by meansof electro-magnetic circuits.
The hospital occupies the site of the _ palace known as
Greenwich House, in which Henry VIII., Queen Mary, and
meen Elizabeth were born. It was a favorite residence of
the last named sovereign. 2d. Queen Victoria lives at Wind-
sor. Castle. 3d. The new system of standard time for the
United States, Canada, and British America went into effect
on Noy. 18, 1883. Its adoption was general. The Western
Union_ time ball in this aipcwee dropped at the standard
noon hour, and the time balls at the various scientific ob-
seryatories in different places recorded the hour. 4th. The
Suez Canal, which connects Suez, in the Sea, with Port
Said, on the Mediterranean, is one hundred miles in length.
It was commenced by a company, aided by a subscrip-
tions of. the governments of Egypt, France, and England, in
1858, and opened on Nov. 17, 1869. It is 72 feet wide at the bot-
tom, about 300 feet at the surface, and 26 feet in depth, easily
passing the largest vessels. The controlling interest in the
canal was purchased subsequently to 1874 by the British Gov-
ernment, which now holds it.
A Reader, Everetts, Va., and Ross, Hagerstown, Md.—To
make cream candy, into a bright tinned kettle, thoroughly
cleansed to free it from grease or odor, put three and a half
pounds of sugar, one and a half pints of water, and a full
teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Place over a hot fire and stir
until the lumps disappear. . Boil briskly until, by testing, the
candy becomes hard and brittle, when a little of it isthrown
into cold water. Now remove the vessel from the fire, and
pour the contents on a large earthen platter, previously
greased with a little butter. After the candy has cooled sufti-
ciently to be handled, and has reached the consistence of or-
dinary are add about a teaspoonful of finely powdered
tartaric acid and five teaspoonfuls of the strong extract of
vanilla, and work them into the mass. The acid should be |
very fine and free from lumps. The mass should be worked |
enough to distribute the acid and vanilla evenly, but no |
more, as too much handling would tend to destroy its trans- |
parency. Et may now be formed into drops or sticks. An ex- |
cellent work, entitled ‘““How To Make Candy,” will be sent to |
you for 50 cents.
Novis Nemo, Washington, D. C.—ist. Apply to the leader of |
the U. S. Marine Band, at the Navy-yard, Washington, D. C. |
2d. We refer you to “Hallam’s LiteraryEssays'and Characters.”
Hallam will be remembered as haying in 1830 received one of |
the two fifty-guinea gold medals awarded by Goons IV. for |
eminence in historical composition, while our own Washing-
ton Irving received the other. the various applications
of great are very numerous, It is often used merely as a word |
of emphasis, or to intensify the meaning of the words with |
which it is associated. As used by the writer quoted it signi- |
fies wide extent. 4th. The use of the singular number in the |
ease quoted is correct. 5th. Good judges differ upon the sub- |
ject. 6th. “A Guide to Authors” can be furnished for 50
Socal oe and 8th. We can send you a complete geography
or $1.50.
A Raftsman, Michigan:—To see under water, the experience
of. a correspondent may aid you to some extent. He says:
“T once had occasion to examine the bottom of a mill pond,
for which I constructed a float out of inch boards, sufficient
to buoy me up. ough the center of this float I cut a hole,
and placed a blanket over it, when I was enabled to clearly
observe objects on the bottom, and several lost tools were
discovered and picked up. I am satisfied that, where the
water is sufficiently clear, this plan could be successfully
used for searching for sunken articles.” The blanket ex-
cludes or darkens the direct rays of the sun, and has the
effect of lighting up the “fluid world.”
Wm. C. McN., Louisville, Ky.—Thomas Todd Lincoln (fa-
miliarly known as “Tad”), the second surviving son,of Presi-
dent Lincoln, died at Chicago on July 16, 1871, aged 18 years.
During the period of his father’s administration he was the
petted child of the White House., All who frequented it had
always a pleasant word for “Tad.” After his father’s death, |
his education, under the direction of his brother Robert (now
Secretary of War), made excellent progress, and he had but
recently returned from Europe, much improved mentally
and physically, when death put an end to his career.
Indu, Brooklyn, Conn.—The translation of Le roi et Vetat is
“The king and the state ;” Le roi le veu, “The king wills it,
or will have itso.” The latter was the imperious term used
by the Kings ot France previous to the Reyolution. Le roi
sen avisera, “The ki ill consider or think of it,” is an-
other French phrase that was used by the same monarchs to
express their dissent from any act submitted for their ap-
proyal, and was considered as an absolute veto.
E. G. W., St. Louis, Mo.—ist. The color of the hair inclosed
is red. The hair itself is very fine and silky. 2d. We do not |
know what they signify. Only the superstitious believe in |
such si 3d. 18. 4th. We cannot eulialiven you. 5th. The |
3.
ec Fem is ‘the King.” Your question, we presume, re-
lates to Dagobert L, King of the Franks, who was born about |
the year 600. His court almost equaled in magnificence that |
of Constantinople.
A. S. F., Saco, Me.—ist. Boys of 18 who wish to ship in the
United States Navy must be at least 5 feet 2 inches in height,
weigh not less than 100 pounds, and measure, when: breathing
naturally, 29inches around the chest. You can judge by this
regulation how near you come to the average or standard
height. 2d. Water acidulated with a little lemon juice isa
good Fey forashiny skin. 3d. Your handwriting is quite
fair. 4th. Yes.
J. K. B., Montgomery, N. Y.—ist. The French method of
polishing varnished work is to use apiece of fine pumice- |
stone, and with water pass regularly oyer the work with the |
ain until the rising of the grain is down’; then with pow- |
dered Tripoli and boiled linseed oil polish the work toa bright |
face. This mode of polishing requires considerable time, |
but the effect is very satisfactory. 2d. No. 3d. Your praise |
is appreciated.
1
|
‘
L.and C., New Orleans.—ist. There are various supposi- |
tions in regard to earthquakes. The most plausible theory |
seems to be that the sudden expansion of steam generated |
by subterranean heat is the main occasion of them. 2d. In |
the Lisbon earthquake, many of the rivers and lakes of Great |
Britain were disturbed. The shock was felt over the whole |
of Europe, and extended even to the West Indies. |
A. T. @.—\st. Food containing starch and sugar will help |
to fatten you, if anything will. Outdoor exercise, regular |
habits, and the cultivation of a cheerful spirit will also aid to |
impart to your face and form the “roundness” so many per- |
sons covet. Live liberally, and eschew everything of an acid |
nature. Milk is very fattening to some systems. Tryit. 2d.
Your composition and handwriting are both good. -
Lady Selton.—\st. The word calico is made from Calicut, a
seaport of India, on the Malabar coast, from which calicoes
were first brought. 2d. Cambric was first made in Cambrai,
France; hence its name. 3d, The word cotton comes from
the Arabic word koton. 4th. Muslin is from the French
mousseline, named from Moussul or Mosul, in Asiatic Turkey,
where this cloth was first manufactured.
Anzious Eva, Big Rapids.—ist. Aug. 11, 1866, came on Satur-
day. 2d. Wecan send you a book containing album verses
and acrostics for 50 cents. 3d. The person referred to should
be treated with marked indifference. 4th. Any good writi
paper will answer. 5th. The rule is to write only on one side
of the paper. 6th. Five dollars and upward; but we are not
in want of manuscripts in any form.
M. C. L., New Brunswick, N. J.—The prairie wolf, which
the Mexicans call coyote. is smaller than the gray wolf, and
istmuch like the jackal. The true wolf has a howl like that
of a dog, but the prairie wolf has only a kind of snapping
bark, whence it is sometimes called the barking wolf. It lives
in burrows on the great Western plains, is very swift, and
hunts in packs.
Nellie R., Burlington. N. J.—Bergamot is a kind of citron,
belonging to the same family of fruits as the orange, lemon,
and lime. It is sometimes called bergamot orange on account
of its resemblance to that fruit. The oil of were to
which you refer is distilled from the rind ; or it can be made
by grating the rind and then pressing it in glass vessels.
H. C. H.—The remedy for asthma to which you refer is
prepared as follows : Ethereal tincture of lobelia, two ounces;
fimeture of asafetida, one ounce; laudanum, one ounce;
iodide of potassium, two ounces; simple sirup, four ounces.
Mix. Dose, a teaspoonful every two hours.
Add&e, Wappinger’s Falls.—ist. “Clare’s Sin; or, Vowed to
Vengeance,” by Rose Ashleigh, was commenced in No. 30,
Vol. 39, and ended in No. 380f the same volume. The papers
containing it will be sent to you for 54 cents. 2d. Your pen-
manship is quite good.
| side.
| The leaves are removed from the eee and the fragrant
| white bells encircle the neck like pear
A. OC. 0.—Racing watches or horse-timers havea separate
second hand, which can be started and stopped by touching
a spring, SO as to time the horses in going round the track.
-They are made with such care that they will mark a small
part of a second.
Schoolgirl, Brooklyn, E. D.—Alcohol will not freeze. No de-
gree of cold eyer yet obtained has effected its congelation. It
was only thickened swhen Faraday exposed it to a tempera-
ture of 166 degrees below zero. It is the only liquid we can
name.
F. M. B.You have been misinformed, or haye misunder-
stood your teacher. Like the planets, the sun is all the time
spinning like atop. It turns round once in about twenty-
five days and eight hours, moving always from east to west.
A Constant Reader.—We cannot say whether the remedies
for deafness referred to are reliable or not. They may be all
that is claimed for them, but we advise you to test them well
before purchasing them.
Tom.—Get an introduction through some one who knows
the fair lady. A personal acquaintance may lessen your ad-
miration of her, particularly if you discover that your love
is unrequited.
wo sh, Monongahela 3 Pa.—ist. Spurious. 2d. No. 3d.
‘St. Elmo” will cost $2. If you wish it, write direct to the
on YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. 4th. We are unable
say.
J. W., Kansas City, Mo.—No. The supposition, no doubt;
owes its origin to the appearance of some of the seal species,
Coa ata distance resemble the description, given of mer-
L. C. N., Towanda, Pa.—Kither the Secretary of the Senate
or the Clerk of the House of Representatives, Washington,
ee will probably be able to give you the desired informa-
George A. B., Philadelphia.—ist. For the hair, try castor oil
and bay rum. 2d. Washington or Dakota Territory. Each is
fast g up with a desirable class of emigrants.
Business Boy, Ward, Ark.—ist. Glycerine and lemon juice
will whiten and soften the hands. 2d. No. 3d. Your pen-
manship for a boy of seventeen is quite good.
G. R. C., Holidaysburg, Pa.—ist. We are unable to suggest
a practical remedy. 2d. We note with pleasure your appre-
ciation of the NEw YoRK WEEKLY.
Mrs. J. L. M., Salt Lake City.—The law will hold you blame-
less in the matter. Keep up the system until the evil habits
alluded to are wholly corrected.
Cow Boy, Henrietta, Texas.—The Stetson hat can be fur-
nished for from $10 to $40, according to quality. The pur-
chasser pays the expressage.
LB. R. S., Omaha, Neb.—The address of the British minister
to the United Statesiis “The Honorable L. 8. Sackville West,
Washington, D. C.”
Another Constant. Reader.—\st. The engagement presegts
should be returned. 2d. The gentleman should make e
first present.
. Willie R., Long Island.—Fifty-nine lives were lost by the
ane of the Newhall House at Milwaukee, Wis., on Jan.
Rose.—ist. You should have invited him without any solici-
poe on his part. 2d. Yes, if you enjoyed the entertain-
, Auburn.—The Republican, published at Washington, D. C.,
is probably the paper you desire to see for the purpose named.
G. L. A., St. Paul, Minn.—ist. We cannot advertise their
names in this department. 2d. We are unable to recall it.
Chloe, Poughkeepsie, N. ¥.—The population of Malden,
Mass., in 1880, was 12,017; that of Macon, Ga., 12,749.
C. C. M., Elizabeth, N. J.—If in the city, a letter will reach
the person named through the general post-oftice.
Fred Flash, Ottawa.—ist. You are decidedly above the aver-
age. 2d. Your handwriting is quite fair.
_@. L. R., Nemaha City, Neb.—Husbandman is first men-
tioned in Genesis ; chapter IX. ; verse 20.
Mary E., Webster City.—The address, if .we understand
your question aright, is Lyons, France.
Abe Moss, Wellington, Kansas.—June 5, 1844, came on Wed-
nesday ; and June 9, 1863, on Tuesday.
W. B., Brooklyn.—According to the statement made B wins.
Harold Rutledge, Helena, Ark.—Not in book-form.
H. O. N., Galena, Kans.—Not published,
Gossamer, Habnyille, La.—No recipe.
Miss M. W., Saint Ignace, Mich.—No.
e
The Ladies’ Work-Box.
Edited by
Mrs. Helen Wood.
“Dollie W.”—ist. The most popular winter garment is along
coat of cloth, fine diagonal, and fur-finished on the inside. It
is fitted to a line below the waist at the back, and has a skirt,
the fullness of which is massed to its edge, and surmounted
by a handsome ornament of. cords with pendant ball ends.
Cuffs and a collarette of Astrakhan fur are trimmed on this
garment. and complete it, with the exception of the buttons,
covered to match the material, which fasten it down the
front. 2d. It is very fashionable to wear tea-gowns for home
dinner. Among the prettiest seen lately are some in green
or cardinal plush, cut en Princesse, with flat rows of lace laid
down the front, graduating at the waist, and forming a very
large collar. e French ones are trimmed with the new
woolen lace, and they show a preference for woolen fabrics
which they plait a good dealin the skirt, border all around
with deep lace, and add robings of lace down the front.
“Stella B.”—ist. An economical fashion isto add remoy-
able paniers of lace to silk or satin dresses, thus transform-
ing a moderately plain costume into quite a dressy one. The
paniers are made of piece lace, to which a ruffle of wide lace
is added as a finish to the edge. A fall of lace to match is also
mingled with the back drapery. Paniers of this description
have a soft and pretty effect, particularly over a pale-hued
evening dress, where the lace is cream white. lack lace
paniers are worn over black silk dresses. 24. Pretty dresses
for parties are made of white tulle oyer white satin, with a
wreath of red holly berries, with green leaves around the foot
of the skirt, and garnitures of the same upon the bodice and
the drapery. Such dresses are cut diamond shaped at the
neck, and are without sleeves, the arms being covered with
long, colored gloves.
‘Miss Emily T.,” Hyde Park, Vt.—ist. Trained dresses for
evening wear are much more fashionable this winter than
they have been for several seasons. 2d. Cloth jackets should
be lined with silk,so that they will slip on and off easily.
Low-priced American surah silk or satin meryeilleux is suit-
able for this purpose. 3d. Even schoolgirls of thirteen years
now wear their hair coiled on the top of their head.’ 4th.
Both jet and colored beaded laces are fashionable, the great-
| est demand being for colored, while the newest of allis the
woolen ones. Most of the best makes of black and white
laces are to be had in widths suitable for skirts, with piece-
net to match. In black laces, Chantilly is thrusting Spanish
out of the market.
‘Mamie S.,” Plainfield, N. J.—A very attractive street dress
shows an underskirt of dark Venetian red and wood brown
in fine check pattern, crossed with hair lines of pale yellow.
The front of the skirt is covered with three wide ruffles, deep-
ly kilted, after first being faced up with dark red velvet to the
depth of four inches. An added drapery, mingling velvet and
checked material, forms a stylish-looking tunic above these
ruffles, and in the back the deeply box-plaited waterfall dra-
pery is_lined, apparently throughout, with the velvet. The
short Hungarian jacket in front reaches to the belt line only,
and is made of the checked goods, with a jaunty postilion
back ; beneath this, and reaching quite over the hips, is a full
waistcoat of red velvet, fastened with tiny gold buttons.
‘Mollie S.,” Pittsburgh, Pa.—ist. Bouquets of more than
two kinds of flowers are considered unfashionable. Those
to be carried in the hand are very large, while corsage bou-
quets cover the bodice from the belt to the shoulder on one
Pretty necklaces are made of Mflies-of-the-valley.
beads. They are fas-
tened behind by a narrow white ribbon or a bit of black vel-
vet. . Princess undergarments, that combine vest and
drawers in one piece, are very popular, as they are much less
clumsy than two separate pieces. All underclothing now fits
qnore snugly than formerly. The pattern for a Princess com-
bination suit will cost you twenty-five cents,
“Minnie Powell.”—ist. Entire suits of brown, navy-blue
and myrtle green velvet or velveteen are very fashionable.
They are made with a plain skirt, with plaited fans let in at
the bottom, and a long plain polonaise looped tightly back.
The garniture consists of fluffy feather trimming, or a bor- °
dering of beaver or chinchilla fur. Round turbans made
of the dress materials are worn with the suit. 2d. Coiffures
| are growing in dimensions, many of them reminding one of
the elaborate chignons of the last century. . Still the fore-
head is no more exposed than it has been, but is covered with
loose rings of hair. There is also a tendency to wearing
curls four or five inches long, reaching just to the neck be-
low the chignon at the back.
“Mrs. B.,” Jersey City Heights.—lst. We have no pattern of
the hood you mention, 2d. A small capote bonnet is gen-
erally used for the theater, and the color you name would be
appropriate,.and becomi to a blonde of your desoription.
34 The Mother Hubbard style of dress would be fashionable
for your little girl of two years; also a_very ee dress
Soria be made: from. pattern No. 2,651. Price 20 cents. 4th.
There is nothing cheaper and prettier for an evening dress
than nuns’ vailing. 5th. We cannot aid you. You need the
services of a regular physician, who can give you his per-
ae attention. 6th. ere was no hair inclosed in your
etter.
“Mrs. Dorothy W.”—ist. Young girls from twelve to sixteen
years of age chiefly wear, for outdoor garments, long, tight-
fitting paletots, with plaits at the back; these are made in
black and colored cloth, and are trimmed very simply with
braid _or Astrakhan. Both plain and broche cloths are em-
ployed, and although Astrakhan, in bands down the front
re around the neck and on the sleeves is the most fashion-
able trimming, many of these long paletots are also bordered
with other furs. . Short jackets, tight fitting at the back,
but loose in front, and either double or single breasted, are
not much worn by girls under sixteen, although for girls
above that age, they are very. fashionable:
‘Miss Julia W.,” Rahway, N. J.—The “one-dollar outfit” of
Perforated Patterns, for stamping dresses, muslin, or any-
thing on which embroidery is used, consists of fifteen pat-
terns, any two initials you may desire, box of powder, and
distributing pad. e “sixty-cent outfit” consists of the
same, with ten patterns instead of fifteen. The “Book of One
Hundred Designs” for embroidery and braiding will cost you
twenty-five cents. We will send you the sixty-cent outfit, the
“Book of Designs,” and the “Manual of Needlework,” for one
dollar.
“Clara,” Baltimore.—ist. Your brilliants would be most ap-
propriate. 2d. Use your silk guard if you wear a traveling
suit. 3d. In going to the altar it is customary for the bride
to take her father’s arm, and for the bride’s mother to take
the arm of the groom, and in returning to reyerse positions.
“Clarrie M.,” Baltimore, Md.—We will send you the “Per-
fumer’s Manual,” which contains receipts for making extracts,
on receipt of thirty cents.
,
gL
Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
As a Brain Food.
Dr. S. F. Newcomer, Greenfield, O., says:
“In cases of general debility, and torpor of mind
and body, it does exceedingly well.”
mise THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 22>
NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 2, 1885.
wae es esse
aS
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
3 months (postage free) 75¢ | 2 copies (postage free) $5.00
4months- .... . $1.00\|4 copies . -.... 10.00
ae San 3.00|8 copies. . . « e « 20.00
All letters should be addressed to.
STREET & SMITH,
P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.
A THRILLING DETECTIVE STORY,
All who admire a spirited and exciting story, every
chapter of which is crowded with sensational incidents,
will have the pleasure of perusing, next week, one of
the best detective stories ever written. It is entitled
THE BLACK HAND:
OR, THE
League of Gold.
-
By the author of
“RAMON ARANDA,” “THE MALTESE CROSS,” “A
CLOUDED CAREER,” ete.
The scenes are laid in California, and are pictured
from nature, the author being thoroughly familiar with
his subject from along residence in the Golden State.
The action is brisk and vivid; the plot is new and fas-
cinating ; and while the events are thrilling and dra-
matic, there is no violation of probability.
It embodies a graphic description of real detective
work, which keeps the reader ever on the alert, eagerly
striving to anticipate the swift-changing tableaux which
greet him at every turn in this stirring narrative of Life
in California.
‘Tae BLACK HAND” will be commenced next week. A
better detective story cannot be found.
A SHIFTLESS MAN.
BY KATE THORN.
There is one character which, to our mind, might as
well have been left out of the scheme of creation. Nobody
would have missed him enough toinquire after him,
and his wife would have been much happier with a cat
for company than she would with him.
There are a great many of him. He is found in every
walk in life, but we think there are more shiftless men
among farmers than there are in any other class, or it
may be that their peculiar labor gives a better oppor-
tunity for displaying shiftlessness.
The shiftless man is never quite ready for anything.
He doesn’t want to get up just yet, because it is too cold,
or too hot, or because he doesn’t feel like it. He'll be
round by and by.
His wife never asks him to do anything, and finds him
ready. He always wants to wait aminute. There is
no hurry. He'll attend to it when he gets round to it.
Women, he says, are always driving afellow up. In
the spring he doesn’t put up his fences, because he
doesn’t need them then, and in the summer it is no use
bothering about them, for the neighbor’s cattle have
eaten all they can eat, and in the fall the days are too
short for anything, and ‘‘he ain’t going round pottering
over them fences.”
He leaves his plows, and harrows, and carts out of
doors to swell with the rains and crack with the suns,
and when an implement gives out he lays the blame on
the “‘blasted peddler” who sold it to him.
His cattle and horses sleep on the bare floor, and he
wonders what makes their coats so rough, but he never
thinks of supplying them with bedding. His father, he
will tell you, never bedded down his “‘critters.”
The shiftless man always considers himself ill-used.
Fortune is against him. All the train of evils which
shiftless habits bring he lays to fate. His neighbor who
gets up in the morning, and works with a will, and
gathers up the loose ends, and plans and contrives as to
the best way of doing things, prospers, and has money
in the bank, and drives a good horse, and subscribes for
the newspapers, and gives his wife asilk dress every
fall, and the shiftless neighbor sees his prosperity, and
envies it, and says it is all Jones’ luck.
The wife of the shiftless man is a martyr. For some
reason or other, accounted for on the score of compensa-
tions, we suppose, she is generally a smart, well-inform-
ed woman. Nature made a mistake in her husband, and
tries to atone by creating one partnerin the matri-
monial firm capable of managing.
She splits the kindling-wood, and sifts the coal, and
carries off the ashes, and waits on the table, and pumps
the water, and sees to the fires, and makes the dough
for the chickens, and weeds the garden, and rakes up
the lawn, and cleans the strawberry bed in the spring,
and locks up the doors at night, and gets her husband a
drink of water after he goes to bed, because he is liable
to catch cold if he steps his bare feet on the floor.
And he will come home evenings from the corner
grocery, where he has been smoking and spitting, and
discussing the affairs of the nation, and the best way to
raise pork ; and fling himself on the lounge, and kick off
his boots, and ask his wife to bring him that paper, for
he is so tired he can hardly move. And she will clear
her lap of the threads, and needle-work, and pincushion,
and half a pint of buttons, and the scissors, and some
foe with which she has been renovating little
‘ommy’s trousers, and get up and hunt round, and fetch
the paper.; and the shiftless man will take it, without as
much as “I thank you,’ and glance over it, and sling it
away from him, with the remark that these papers are
getting soflat that nobody but a fool would look at
them!
The shiftless man makes it a point never to pick
up anything after himself. He will step out of his dirty
clothes, and leave them in a heap on the fioor. He will
drop his soiled pocket-handkerchiefs anywhere he hap-
pens to be, when he gets through with them. He never
shuts a drawer or sets a chair inits place. He always
asks his wife what she has done with his hat. If he
loses anything, and the shiftless man is always losing
something, he accuses his wife of having put it out of
the way. He never knows the dayof the month, or
which way the wind is. He doesn’t go to church; it
makes him sleepy. He doesn’t care about music; it
makes such a noise in the house. He wonders what
makes his boys so anxious to leave him and work for
somebody else. He wonders what itis that makes his
horses always so contrary, and wishes his cattle wouldn’t
always be breaking out of the pasture.
He is ina state of continual wonderment about some-
thing.
He shuffles out of life at last, and nobody misses him
a week after he is buried; and it is hoped that, as he
was created, there may be somewhere in the future a
place where the shiftless man will be overhauled and
some backbone be put into him.
————_ >--@<.
His Wedding Present.
“There, my daughter,” said the old man, placing a deed
for a beautiful mansion among the wedding gifts, ‘‘is my
present, and my best wishes for your future happiness go
with it. God bless you, my child; God bless you!” and
he turned away, choked with omotion.
“Ts there a mortgage on it, papa?” she asked, bright-
ly, as she arranged the deed conspicuously on the table.
“No,” he said, ‘‘there is no mortgage on the deed ; it's
on the property.”
THE WELCOME HOME,
BY FRANCIS 8S. SMITH.
Toil-worn and weary, far away we wander
To seek the needful rest we find not here,
Though nowhere in the world could friends be fonder,
And nowhere in the world are scenes more dear.
A wish we feel to get beyond the border
Of ceaseless moil and every worldly theme,
And for a season list to nature’s teaching,
While reveling in Lethe’s gentle stream.
But, oh, how sweet when surfeited with roving,
And the sick brain regains its healthy tone,
To turn our thoughts once more to life and loving,
While hastening homeward to rejoin our own!
To know that hearts will throb with joy to meet us—
That eyes will beam with pleasure when we come—
That voices kind, in ecstasy, will greet us—
What joy lives in the glorious welcome home!
>~o<—____—_—_
WAS IT A JUDGMENT?
BY ELLA WHEELER.
A more perfectly beautiful and perfectly selfish being
than Peoria Huron never lived. It seemed asif the
Creator had spent so. much time perfecting her exterior,
molding her elegant form, tinting her exquisite face,
that He had forgotten to give her a soul.
Yet you did not discover this at once. She possessed
a polish of manner, a grace of speech and expression,
which fascinated you at the outset. She went out of
her way to be kind and obliging; she did you little fa-
vors in a delightfully unconscious manner, and was so
womanly, and smiling, and gracious, you declared her a
paragon of excellence. It was part of her selfishness,
however. She wanted to be a favorite—she meant to
charm and please, so long as she could without any sac-
rifice. She had never made a sacrifice—never denied
herself any pleasure for another in her life. She
had carried the day with parents, brothers, sisters,
friends, and lovers; and so successful had she been,
so all powerful had she found her rich beauty and
her imperious will, that at the age of twenty she was ut-
terly regardless of the wishes of man or God; she did
not believe anything could ever stand in the way of her
happiness, her success. A hundred times her mother
had said to her :
“Oh, my daughter, you must learn to regard the
wishes of others; you must practice self-denial, or a bit-
terness more bitter than death will come into life for
you by and by. God has commanded us to love our
neighbors as ourselves, and He will surely punish those
who utterly disregard His commands.”
On the Sabbath she heard the good pastor descant
upon the golden rule, the pleasure and peace resultin
from doing as we would be done by, and the certain an
inevitable punishment that followed those who lived
only for self.
But to all these precepts she smiled in proud disdain.
All her life she had lived for pleasure—she had done
what she pleased. Triumph after triumph, pleasure
after pleasure, success after success had crowded upon
her. Her father was rich—his fortune on the increase.
She was beautiful, accomplished, admired. .Her life
overflowed with the bounty of Providence, and now it
was crowned with the love of the handsomest and rich-
est man of all her large circle of admirers.
Gerald Depere had been the great catch for two
or three seasons. Everybody raved about him. In
truth he had much to recommend him. His familytwas
one of the oldest and proudest in the East. They
Claimed to be descended from the nobility of France of
the last century, and everything about Gerald and his
haughty, princess-like sisters supported the claim. He
was handsome, proud, elegant ; and of all the men she
had ever seen, Peoria thought him the only one worthy
of her heart and hand. She meant to win him from
the very first. She had heard him pronounced invul-
nerable, and knew halt the maids and mammas of her
set were in despair over him. Yet she believed herself
to be a favorite of the gods, and never doubted ,that
she could bring him to her feet. And she did. He
yielded to the spell of her fascinations, and six months
after their first ee ee wore a magnificent soli-
taire, apledge of their betrothal. His mother and sis-
ters called upon her, and went into raptures over her
grace and beauty, declaring her to be the only woman
they ever saw whom they deemed a suitable wite for
their Gerald.
“All our race of women have been noted for their
figures and carriage,” declared Madame Depere. “I
have always dreaded Gerald’s bringing home some in-
significant woman, who would be an eye-sore to me
moving through our ancestral halls. So tew American
women know how to walk and carry themselves. One
has to go to France for graceful carriage and deport-
ment. Gerald has always been a great admirer of
elegant women, but men are so apt to make fools of
themselves at last, I never felt sure of him. Iam de-
lighted at the wisdom of his choice. I shall beso proud
to introduce you to our relatives.”
Gerald, too, complimented his lady-love upon her
walk and bearing.
«The very first thing I notice in a lady is her walk,”
he said. ‘I care not if she be a Hebe or a houri in
beauty, I never look twice if she does not move to please
me. A woman who kicks her dress in the back, or
shows the soles of her boots, ought to be banished toa
desert island, or fined for appearing on the streets.
You have the lithe, light step of an antelope, and it
was that which first attracted me.”
If Peoria had believed herself the pet of the gods be-
fore, she was confident of it itnow. Life was a sweet,
exhilarating draught, without one drop of bitterness.
She looked forward to the future before her as toa
summer sea, Over which she would float lightly in a
fairy craft, steered by love and pleasure.
The June following her betrothal her lover was called
to France on business connected with a family estate
there. Shortly after his departure her invalid sister died.
Peoria felt no keen sorrow at her loss. The sister had
been a great sufferer, and was glad todie. But it was
of course impossible for her to take her place in the gay
throng at sea-side or at the springs, and dance and flirt
the season away aS usual. Besides, her father had just
met with heavy losses, and recommended a little re-
trenching in his family, until he could right himself.
Peoria brought her wits to work, and bethought her-
self of a way out of the dilemma. Fifty miles out in the
country lived her aunt, in a rambling, delightful old
farm-house. It was clean, quiet, and restful, as she re-
membered it in her childhood. She would spend her
summer there. She was to be married in the fall, anda
summer of rest would keep her fresh and well for the
season of gayety sure to follow her marriage. Then,
too, she would be at no expense, and her father could
not refuse her carte blanche for her trousseau later on.
She cared very little about his losses, for she was to
share a more plethoric purse after October, and no doubt
her father would right himself in time, and she would
not be obliged to retrench longer than this season. If
affairs must happen so, she was very glad they all came
together—her lover’s absence, her sister’s death, her
father’s losses, all preceding her marriage, so nearly,
that the necessary seclusion and rest, would leave her in
fine condition for the winter.
Even in annoyances and troubles, the gods seemed
careful to consult the convenience of their pet, and turn
roe silver lining toward her. She smiled as she thought
of it.
“Tf one chooses to have a good time in this world in
spite of everything, one can,” was her mental comment.
“It is all folly, this quibbling, and fussing, and consult-
ing every one else first. One never gets thanked for his
pains, and has very little enjoyment in life. And life
Was made for enjoyment.”
A July Sabbath found Miss Peoria Huron sitting in
the uncomfortable pew of the Baptist Chuch at Jones-
ville, beside her respected Aunt Priscilla Shaw. The
little church was well filled, and the gray-haired pastor
was unusually eloquent, but, alas, for humanity! his
discourse fell on waste ground ; for the eyes and minds
of the good people of Jonesville were so taken up with
the vision of elegance and beauty in the shape of Miss
Peoria Huron, that they had no room for the word of
Miss Peoria herself seemed the only devout listener.
Yet, though she kept her eyes on the face of the pastor
to all appearance, she had taken a thorough inventory
of the congregation, as her,Aunt Priscilla discovered on
the homeward drive.
“Very pleasant people your Jonesville people seem,”
observed Miss Peoria, sweetly. ‘‘The pastor has a fine
face and his sermon was elegant. Iam sure I shall like
to spend the summer here.”
She was not quite certain of her aunt’sregard; she
had not been her favorite as a child, and she knew her
faults were well known to her. She could not expect to
hide them from her, but she could at least gloss them
over with a coating of sugar.
“J noticed several very pretty girls,” continued she.
‘Jam sure I shall like them. Butdo tell me who that
lame girl is—she sang in the choir. I could not help
pitying her—she is so plain, and has that limp besides.
But she sang sweetly.”
“You need not waste your pity on her,” answered
Aunt Priscilla. ‘‘There is not a happier, better, more
beloved girl in Jonesville than Natalie Morris.”
“JT don’t see how she can be happy when she is so
dreadfully plain and lame,” insisted Peoria.
‘No one thinks she is plain who knows her. She fell
from the cradle when an infant, and injured her ankle.
But she is the neatest seamstress, the best house-
keeper, and sweetest singer in Jonesville; every one
loves her, and she is to marry the finest young man in
two counties. He is handsome, owns a splendid farm,
all cultivated, and could take his pick from the best in
the neighporhood, to say nothing of other localities ;
yet he has chosen Nattie.”
“And where may this most worthy young man reside?”
queried Peoria.
“His farm joins mine,” replied Aunt Priscilla. ‘TI
will show you his house from the observatory window
to-morrow. He was at church to-day—sat two seats
ahead, and one the right of us.”
‘Indeed !” exclaimed Peoria. ‘Is that the gentleman?
I was about to ask you who he was. He is by tar the
finest-locking man I have seen since I came to Jones-
ville. Do you think he loves that lame girl ?”
“I know he does,” Aunt Priscilia answered, firmly.
‘‘He loves her with all his heart.”
But, going up to her room, and sitting down before
the mirror, Peoria said, slowly, as she smiled at her
beautiful reflection :
“And I will wager halfIam worth that the deluded
young man has not learned the A, B, C’s of love yet. I
am very sure that girl could not teach them to him.”
That week the young man under discussion dropped
in to see Aunt Priscilla’s husband on a trade of some de-
scription. Peoria was in the yard with her,aunt as he
came up the path. So they were presented.
“My niece, Miss Huron—Mr. Everts.”
Roy Everts lifted his straw hat with easy grace, and
his blue eyes met Miss Peoria’s dark ones with undis-
guised admiration in their glance.
She was unlike anything he had ever seen, and he ad-
mired her as he would have admired a beautiful picture.
But he felt that she was as far above and beyond him
as the morning star.
She was never more charming. Gerald Depere had
never received a more beaming smile from her beautiful
lips than she bestowed on Roy Everts. She chatted
with him a few moments easily, praised the scenery,
the neighborhood, the people she had seen, and declared
eon delighted with the prospect of a summer among
em.
Roy went away thinking her a most charming woman.
He had always thought of city women as painted, over-
dressed, proud, scornful creatures, with no hearts or
kind feelings for country people. Miss Peoria, in her
gracious sweetness, was a revelation to him.
All the young ladies in the neighborhood called within
afew days, and Peoria charmed them all with her un-
assuming manner and winning smile. Natalie Morris
was the last to call.
“JT meant to come and call upon you sooner, Miss Hu-
ron,” she said. ‘As soon as J heard Mrs. Shaw-—who is
avery dear friend to me—had a niece with her, I was
anxious to meet you, but I do not walk any distance. be-
cause of my lameness, and Icould not have the horse
until to-day.”
How easily and naturally she spoke of what seemed to
Peoria such a terrible mistortune !
i ca you suffor any pain with your limb?” asked
eoria.
“Oh, no; itis simplyinconvenient. I am so used to it
I do not mind it at all, only when I want to walk,” an-
swered Natalie, smiling so brightly she seemed almost
pretty for an instant; and then she continued: ‘Iam
glad you are to spend the summer with us, Miss Huron.
We are very quiet, and yet we manage to be very happy
in our way. I suppose you have lived in quite another
world, but I do not see how people can be any happier or
find life more delightful than we doin Jonesville. lam
happy as a bird all the year long.”
In her heart Peoria felt a sense of pity and contempt
for this ignorant girl, who, plain, lame, and uninterest-
ing, declared herself so happy in abominably dull and
stupid Jonesville. Yet she answered, sweetly?:
«T'am sure you have every reason to be happy here. It
isa charming place, andI anticipate a delightful sum-
mer.”
Natalie thought Peoria a paragon of perfection, and
told Roy so that evening when he called.
‘“‘We must do all we can to make the summer pleasant
for her,” she said.
‘And for ourselves,” he laughed, ‘‘for next summer we
will be staid and old married people, so we want to make
the most of this, Nattie.”
_ ‘Ah, sir!” Natalie answered, blushing herself pretty
again. ‘I have not yet promised you so much as that.
I just said may be next spring—only may be!”
“Before the Maybees begin to fly,” responded Roy,
saucily, ‘‘you will be cooking dinner for two. Ah, my
little singing-bird, how happy I will make you in your
new cage !”
‘‘He was obliged to pass by Mrs. Shaw’s door on his
way home that evening, and seeing a white figure on
the portico, concluded to drop in a moment. Peoria was
sitting in the moonlight, with her lap full of the fowers
she had been gathering.
“T am so glad you came,” she said, as she sat down on
the steps below her. ‘Uncle is reading politics, auntie
has gone to bed with a headache, and I was just almost
wishing myself back in the city.”
“Oh, you must not do that,” Roy said, quickly. ‘I
shall think the people of Jonesville very unkind if they
allow you to get homesick.”
“I am so used to seeing people every evening,” she
said, plaintively, ‘that I get lonesome here. I do not
mind the days so much. Do you play croquet, Mr.
Everts ?”
“Oh, yes, sometimes. I used to play well.”
‘“T wish auntie had a set,” was all Miss Peoria said.
“J will bring mine over, if you would like to play,” he
responded. “It may just as well be in her yard as
mine, and I can drop in sometimes and play with you.”
“Oh, thank you; that will be most delightful.”
And Peoria went to her couch that night quite satisfied
with her beginning. For she had set her heart on teach-
ing Roy Everts, not alone the A, B, C’s, but the whole
alphabet of love.
She felt no qualms of conscience. Any man whom she
could win was her legitimate prey. No doubt her ador-
ing gods had placed Roy Everts in Jonesville expressly
for her pleasure, knowing she would be quite without
amusement. It would be an easy conquest, of course.
and consequently not so interesting as. a more difficult
one; but still it would be pastime, and a pastime she
had set her heart upon. And so long had she shut her
heart and soul to all warnings, all advice, that she did
not hear the still, small voice that whispered, ‘Be-
ware!
Roy brought the croquet set the next day,and they
played together fully two hours. Then they sat down in
the moonlight on IP a hee and Peoria sang to him
snatches of opera, ballads, anthems—all in her rich con-
tralto voice, which had been carefully cultured by the
best masters of the vocal art.
Roy had never heard such a voice—such singing. He
listened, rapt. He knew nothing of mytholog: , and he
had never heard of the ‘‘siren of the sea,” who sang
voyagers to their destruction. So he listened spell-
bound, and went away to hear her voice in his dreams
all night long. ;
The following Sabbath Roy accompanied Natalie home
from church, and after his usual custom remained to
dinner. After dinner Natalie sat down to her little cot-
tage organ, and sang some old-fashioned hymns. Much
to her surprise, though Roy sat by her side, he did not
add his fine tenor to her sweet soprano, and she had
barely finished the first hymn, when he broke out with:
“I wish you could hear Miss Huron sing, Natalie. I
never heard anything like her voice. It is wonderful.”
A quick, sharp spasm of pain shot through Natalie’s
heart. She looked up at him with startled eyes, only to
find him avoiding her gaze; and Natalie Morris knew
that she had found Gethsemene.
It was not long before everybody in Jonesville saw the
state of affairs. Roy Everts was too infatuated to hide
his folly. At the picnic, the first week in August, he
scarcely left Peoria Huron’s side. Natalie was there,
but, as usual at such gatherings in Jonesville, she had
the supervision of the tables spread in the woods, and
her time was very much occupied in making others
comfortable, keeping track of dishes, napkins, etc., to
avoid confusion in the end.
Jonesville picnics were always a success. It was be-
cause the cool mind, and careful eye, and ready hand
et Natalie Morris always had charge of all the arrange-
ments.
The platform was spread on the grass, and dancing
began. Heretofore Roy Everts had declared a distaste
for dancing. He would walk through a cotillion once or
twice perhaps, but usually took occasion to wander off
to some grassy nook with Natalie while the dancing
went on. She could not dance, and he did not care to.
This day, however, he distinguished himself. He need
hardly have relinquished the palm to the champion who
waltzed twelve hours consecutively, for he and Peoria
whirled until the chief fiddler was taken with a cramp
in his elbow, and the music stopped with a squeak.
«You are a delightful waltzer !” Miss Peoria declared,
beaming upon him with her great eyes. ‘How I should
like to waltz with you on a waxed floor to the music of
one of our city bands !”
“T know of nothing I enjoy more than waltzing,” Roy
responded ; and Natalie, passing near with a basket of
dainties for the table, heard, and could have cried, ‘‘Let
this cup pass from me.” Yet she made no sign.
People wondered at her coolness and self-possession.
One or two ventured to broach the subject. She looked
at them coldly, and said :
«7 have requested Roy to make the summer as pleas-
ant as possible for Miss Huron. He but obeys my
wishes.”
Yet the girl’s heart was breaking byinches. All the
long night she lay and moaned, and prayed, over and
over:
«Oh, Heaven, make her merciful; make him to see his
folly, and help me to be patient.”
But Roy did not seem to gain his sight, nor did Peoria
Huron seem to gain inmercy. Instead, she wound the
cords of her fascination closer ahd closer, tighter and
tighter, about her victim. He was her slave, to go and
come at her beck and call. He lived in a new world, in
which she was’the sun. Within the radiance of her
eyes all things seemed touched with an unspeakable
giory ; out of her presence all was darkness and gloom.
He had learned the alphabet of love. By and by, when
he should construct sentences, the first one he would
read would be, ‘‘Thou fool!”
And yet Peoria Huron was not wholly satisfied. In
the overwhelming selfishness of her nature, she wanted
to make Natalie Morris realize her loss. And Natalie
made no sign. She treated Peoria with the same quiet
politeness, and not by word or glance gave evidence of
the pain that was slowly eating her heart away.
It piqued and angered Peoria.
“The girl’s mind is as lame as her body,” she said,
mentally. ‘In her stupid self-conceit, she does not
know that her lover is lost, I presume. Ah, Well! in
the end I shall have done her an immense service. From
a pleasant plow-boy I have transformed her lover into a
very passable Romeo. When he returns to her he will
understand love-making much better.”
And she did not hear the voice which, louder than be-
fore, whispered: ,
“Beware !”
That very evening she went with Roy to gather water-
lilies by the lakelet half a mile distant. On the way
they passed Natalie. She had been to the post-office,
and was just nearing the lane that turned to her home.
She was passing without seeing them, but Peoria spoke:
“Is it you, Miss Morris? Are you not going to speak
tous? I think you are very cruel te be so scornful.”
Natalie looked up and met the beautiful face with a
pleasant smile. Heaven only knew what it cost her.
“TI did not see you, Miss Peoria. e you going for
lilies? Isee the lake isfullofthem. Gather a few for
me, and I will save them and press them as keepsakes
in remembrance of our summer. You can send them by
Roy. Good-night.”
She spoke calmly. Few women of the world could
have done better. Peoria acknowledged that, and yet
she had seen the agony in the girl’s eyes, and she was
content. And again the voice said “Beware!” and
again she heard not.
That night Natalie knelt and raised an impassioned,
and perhaps impious prayer to heaven. But she was al-
most mad with pain, poor child.
‘Oh, Heaven!” she cried, ‘‘punish her—make her suf-
fer as I suffer. Do not let her walk the earth and tri-
umph in her wickedness. Let me live to gee her suffer.
Oh, Heaven grant it!”
It was a wicked prayer, may be, but she hardly knew
what she said in herfrenzy. The very wording of her
agony seemed to be a relief, for she fell into a deep sleep.
She slept late into the next day.
When she awoke, she heard a great commotion out-
_ her window—a hurrying sound of feet and excited
voices.
She threw on her wrapper, and went out. Her mother
stood in the halt with a white face.
“Oh, Natalie!” she cried, ‘something (dreadful has
happened.”
“What?” queried Natalie, and her heart stood still.
“Oh, it is an accident, Natalie—a runaway horse.
Mrs. Shaw’s niece is badly hurt. She was thrown down
in the lane. The neighbors have just been here, and
your father and the boys have gone to bring her up.”
‘‘Was she riding ?” Natalie’s voice was very calm.
“Yes, she and Roy were taking amorniug canter. He
did not want her to ride the horse—no woman ever rode
him before—but she would doit. They don’t know but
she is dead, Natalie.”
But Peoria Huron was not dead. She was badly
bruised, and her ankle was wrenched terribly. raw
brought her to Natalie’s home, laid her in Natalie’s bed,
and Natalie had swift answer to her prayer. For there
before her, through long days, lay her rival suffering all
physical and mental agonies.
Physical because of her hurts, and mental because the
physicians informed her that never, so long as she
should live, would she recover from the accident—never
be able to walk without a limp—a limp a dozen times
more ungraceful than that of Natalie Morris.
A sad future for imperious Peoria Huron. Peoria Hu-
ron, I say, for she never wore the name of Depere. Ger-
ald was a man of the world, and his principal feeling
was family pride. He had admired Peoria for her ele-
ance; he could not think of marrying a cripple.
either could madam think of introducing a cripple to
her relatives.
Gerald remained in France, and mother and sister
went to him. Peoria sent her solitaire after three
months of horrible suspense, in which she heard nothing
from him.
It was very heartless of him, but she had willingly
plodavé herself to a man who had told her he was won
y her elegance. Could she be surprised if he accepted
a eon when she had lost what was most admired
y him ?
Natalie forgave Roy and married him. It seems very
weak of her, but nevertheless she did it, and goes limp-
ing very happily from cradle to crib ; for she has a brood
of strong-limbed, bright-eyed babies about her. -
ip Peoria sits in her elegant loneliness, cursing her
ot.
I do not say itis a judgment—I am not prepared to
say I believe in a special Providence. I have merely told
you a few facts as they occurred, and you can think
What you please about them.
————_—_——__>- 9 <——______
A PICTURE.
Is she beautiful? No!
Is she fair, is she tall ?
Is she dark, is she small ?
On my word I don’t know.
But she’s bonnie, that’s all.
Now, a stranger she'll greet
With a frank, ready clasp,
For her white hand can grasp
Like a man’s—firm, complete.
All through she’s just sweet.
Her clear eyes look out
On the ebb and the flow,
On the glitter and show,
Without shadow or doubt,
Like a child at a show.
Her nature’s as bright
As a glad summer’s day.
Like a streamlet at play,
Like a bird in its flight,
She goes on her way.
A coquette ? No, not she!
Clear as glass, true as steel,
While her frank eyes reveal
That her heart still is free,
Can she help what men feel?
Free, as yet, to be won,
And God speed the wooer,
For sweeter and truer
Than she there are none,
*Mongst rich or ’mongst poor.
SMART JOSH DOWSET.
BY EMERSON BENNETT.
We used to come across some very curious specimens
of the genus homo in the early days of California gold
digging.
There was arush thither of all classes, professions,
and degrees; and clergymen, lawyers, doctors, profes-
sors, and merchants were constantly jostled by out-
casts, gamblers, mendicants, gamblers, thieves, and
murderers.
Nobody seemed too great nor too little to seek the
land of gold, and in this land of promise they all looked
much ulike, and were all striving for one end—one self-
ish end—to get rich suddenly.
As one of the earliest adventurers into that auriferous
region, I tried my luck at prospecting, digging, and
rocking, till I was satisfied there was no fortune in
these for me; and then, with a small capital, I set up a
grocery at Placerville, and found myself on the high-
road to-competency.
I first started with a tent, but was soon able to erect
quite a respectable building and stock it well, and was
thenceforward looked upon with envy, as one of the
great, shining lights of that region.
My store, as I called it, became the resort of all kinds
of people ; and many were the amusing, and some the
tragic, scenes which came under my notice.
One day, a tall, lank, long-haired, lantern-jawed,
weazel-eyed individual came stalking into =a place,
with a “How de dew, mister?” in the real n twang
of a genuine Yankee.
I nodded in reply, and he went on:
“I say you, neow, how much can a feller make about
here if he digs pooty sharp all day ?”
‘‘Well, more or less, according to circumstances.”
“Yes, wal, bout how much can he average ?”
«Well, my friend, that is noteasy to say,” I smiled. ‘I
have known a man to make as much as two thousand
dollars in asingle week——”
“That'll dew!” he interrupted, as I was about to add
that I had kown others who did not make their ex-
penses; ‘that settles the thing with me. I’m jest
agoing in, 1 be. If any mancan make the dirt fly, I can,
by Jerry! I’m used to it,” he rattled on. ‘I ain’t no
ae with gloves on—I’m a Varmout farmer, I be.
can dig more ’taters, hoe more corn, mow more grass,
cradle more oats, and sickle more rye, than any other
chap you can skeer up in our parts. My name’s Joshua
Dowset; and to say ‘as smart as Josh Dowset,’ up our
way, means sunthin’,I tell you! I came out here to
make money, and I’m jest agoing to dew it, I be. Two
thousand a week will suit me wal enough to git a start
on, and then I'll look up sunthin’ better.”
«But I was golng to tell you, when you interrupted
me,” said I, ‘‘that everybody out here don’t make two
thousand dollars a week.”
«Yes, I know,” he chimed in, full of his self-conceit ;
“they hain’t got all the elbow grease of Josh Dowset,
you see, Say, now—where can a fellow git the tools to
work with? You hain’t got none to lend, have ye ?”
“No, but I have some to sell.”
aie I calkilate! You fellers out here are all on the
make.”
«That is what we came out here for. If we had come
out here merely to see the country, I for one should have
left before this.”
«Wal, yes, I guess so,” he responded. ‘’Tain’t much
of a country to look at, by Jerry! Say, now—how much’ll
the tarnal things cost ?”
«You want a full kit, I suppose ?”
“ITwant jest what I’ve got to have, and not a darn
thing more.”
“Well, you must have a shovel, a bucket, a ladle, a
rocker, and so on.”
“Wal, how much ?”
I named the price—I forget what it was now—but
things out in the mining region, in those days, did not
sell for a mere nothing, and Mr, Josh Dowset seemed
not a little staggered.
«Je-rew-sa-lem artichokes!” he exclaimed ; ‘‘you don't
mean that are in ’arnest ?—come, now !”
“Dead earnest, Mr. Dowset.”
“Why, up in Varmont, the whole caboodle wouldn’t
cost me five dollars.”
“Then suppose you go back to Vermont and get the
cam Y” said I, turning off to waiton another cus-
mer.
Other customers came in, and it didn’t come the Yan-
kee’s turn again for more than an hour.
He waited, however, and then tried to bear me down
in the price.
“Jf you are going to make your two thousand dollars
a week, why do you lose so much time over this paltry
sum?” said I, pretending to be annoyed, though I was
really much amused.
«Wal, I don’t want to be took in !” he answered.
“Allright; the trade is off!” I sharply rejoined. ‘If
you want the articles now, they will cost you just five
dollars more.”
“Oh, sho, new!”
I turned away to my business.
To be brief, I finally sold him the articles at my first
price ; and, after purchasing a few other things and
some provisions, he went off to ‘‘prospect” for his ‘‘lead,”
and to make his ‘‘pile.”
I did not see him again for several days; and then he
came in, looking quite crest-fallen, and all the worse for
the wear.
e say, you, I’m sick of this ere, I be!” he drawled
out.
‘‘What is the matter ?”
«The matter is, gaul darn it, 1 hain’t made ten dollars
at digging gold sence I left here, and that won’t pay for
my vittles afore its cooked.” ;
Seat ou haven’t made three or four hundred dollars a day
en?
“Three or four hundred thunders, mister! If I
couldn’t make more money going outa haying, for a
dollar a day and board, I hope to eat swill, by Jerry!
Darn it all, ’m sick, I be! and I'm going right back
home, Iswou! This ere’s the meanest country under
the face of the sun. You tell a lot of whoppers about
gold laying round in chunks, that a feller can jest pick
up by the bushel, git a feller to sell out a good home and
come out here with every darn cent of cash he can raise,
and then for nasty salt pork and wormy flour enough to
last him a month, you Charge him as much as he’d have
making enough to feed flies on.”
«There is more truth than poetry in what you say, Mr.
Dowset.”
‘‘Wal, I should guess so, by Jerry! Say, now, jest you
buy these ere things back, and I'll put out pooty quick.”
“T don’t care to purchase such articles just now, Mr.
Dowset,” said I; ‘but seeing you are so unfortunate, Pll
sake them at what you say they are worth in Ver-
mont.
«“Je-rew-Sa-lem-Christopher-halleluiah !” he exclaimed;
‘‘hain’t you got no conscience ?”
“No; we don’t keep that article out here,” I laughed.
“T left mine in the States.”
“Oh, wal, now—come, now—jest dew the decent thing
for once! I’m sick now, I tell ye—sick as a hoss, I be—
and I want to go home—I dew, now, by Jerry !”
After a long wrangle, I bought the articles back at
half price—not because I wanted them, but out of pity
for what I regarded as a distressed fellow-being.
AS soon asi had paid Mr. Dowset the money, however,
he was up for a new speculation.
“T say, you!” he said; “I’d jest like to make a ten-
spot off of somebody out here. D’ye happen to know of
any or that might be got to run me for ten dollars?”
I did know one, a wiry little Irishman, who was al-
ways ready to engage in any athletic sport, and I so in-
formed Mr. Dowset.
“TDoos he think he’s much ?” he queried, with a grin of
satisfaction.
ane he has a pretty good opinion of himself,” I an-
swered.
“And you expect he’ll race me, hey, for a ten-spot?”
“J think he will.” ”
“Dye s’pose I could jest make it twenty, now, and not
skeer him off ?”
“T have no doubt of it.”
“Wal, then, jest trot him out, and I'll show him how
we doos things up in Varmont. I don’t want you to tell
him now, but up in the country where I come from, ’'m
jest sot down as the smartest feller in them parts.
used to beat all the chaps round there at running,
wrastling, jumping, throwing weights, and fisticuffiing ;
and if you want to see some fun now, don’t say nothing,
but jest draw this ere Paddy on, and git him to bet.
seeded the money up in your hands, ’cause I ain’t
afe: of your running off, and in that way I'll git back
a leetle of what I’ve lost here.”
As I was eager to make up the race and see the sport,
T lost no time in sending word to Teddy O’Brien that I
had a match for him, and he lost no time in making his
appearance at my store.
he preliminaries were quickly settled, and we went
out to an open piece of ground, where there was a half-
mile stretch, which, with the return, would make the
distance that smart Josh Dowset wanted to run.
The news spread rapidly, and, as everybody was eager
for amusement of some kind, a large crowd soon gath-
ered to witness the race.
The contestants stripped off everything but their
trousers, and as they stood side by side, waiting for
the. word, they presented rather a ludicrous appear-
ance.
The Yankee was nearly a foot taller than his antag-
onist, and occasionally looked down at him with a kind
of am contempt, while the Irishman on his part,
with his bullet head and quizzical face, gave a comical
look and wink at the bystanders, which caused consid-
erable merriment.
The bets being all made, everything being ready, and
the aw devolving upon me, I gave the word:
Off the two men shot together, the tall Yankee with
long, quick strides, which carried him over the ground
eo fast, and the little Irishman with occasional
unds, not unlike a rabbit, which kept him near his
antagonist.
At the turning point the Yankee was alittle ahead,
and continued to lead by a few paces till within fifty
esa of the winning-post, when, with half a dozen
junds, not unlike a rubber ball, the Irishman came in
a clear five feet in advance,
A tremendous shout greeted the winner, for all, who
did not know the man, thought his struggle hopeless.
No one, however, waS more am: and orest-fallen
than the late boasting Josh Dowset, who, panting and
blowing a good deal more than Teddy O’Brien, could
scarcely credit his senses.
“Sure an’ ye be a purty smart runner, Misther Yan-
kee,” observed the Irishman, with a comical look and
wink at the spectators; ‘‘ye has give mea good dale of
trouble to bate yez.
““Mebby you’d jest like to try it over agin, now ?” sdid
Josh, his little eyes snapping with anger.
“Sure, and I would, now, if yez has another twinty to
spare !” replied Teddy.
The money was promptly put up, and the second race
was run.
It was an exact repetition of ‘the first—the Irishman
falling a little behind till near the goal, and then bound-
ing ahead just enough to win.
t was now evident to me that his lagging behind was
merely atrick to draw his antagonist into new bets.
“Gaul darn it all to gaul darnation, by Jericho Jerry !”
roared out the Yankee, probably feeling as much re-
lieved as if he had given vent to some terrible oaths ;
‘Tm a better man than you be, if you have beat me
running.”
‘“Tll bit ye anither twinty ye’re not, now,” said the
plucky little Irishman.
“How d’ye like to try it ?”
‘“Inny ways ye loike.”
«“Wrastling ?”
Vis.”
eee back on the ground for twenty dollars ?”
“e s.
“Put up, then.”
Another twenty from each came into my hands; a
ring was formed, and the parties took ‘a fair hold, ac-
cording to agreement.
Josh being so much heavier and stronger thon Teddy,
I did expect this time to see him put the littl man on
his back.
But I was mistaken.
After some pretty maneuvering, lasting several min-
utes, Teddy made a trip peculiar to himself, and the next
moment the Yankee was lying stretched out on the
broad of his back, with the breath half out of him, and
the spectators fairly yelling with laughter.
When Josh gathered himself up, he looked very pale
and very miserable. t
Considerable conceit, and sixty dollars in ear had
been taken out of him in the last hour, and by a
little whiffet, so to speak, that he could pick up with
one hand and carry off under his arm.
“If you’s bigger,” he said, looking savagely at the little
fellow who had so signally defeated him, ‘‘I’d double the
bet and lick ye into eternal swash!”
“Ye're a blowing, Misther Yankee!” laughed the
Irishman ; ‘‘ye’d no dare to foight the likes of mesilf for
forty dollars !”
«“Wouldn’t I now, by Jerry ?” cried Josh.
putup that are amount and see.” :
“All right!” said Teddy, thrusting forty dollars into
my hand; “there’s that much now that I can lick yez
blind inside of an hour !”
The crowd shouted, Josh covered the amount, the
ground was staked off, seconds and umpire were chosen,
and the pugilistic contest began.
But it didn't last long.
On the fourth round the Yankee came up to the
scratch with one eye closed, and on the fifth he was not
only knocked down, but out of time.
This closed the ‘‘sport” for the day, and left him just
one hundred dollars minus.
It took him two days to recover so ds to be able to
travel, and then he left the place.
His last words to me were:
“Gaul darn it all to gaul-darnation, if this ’ere ain’t
the meanest, gaul-darned country that ever any gaul-
darned fool ever see! I’m jest agoing home while I’ve
got money enough left to git there, gaul-darn it all to
gaul darnation !”
And he left with a look that was far from expressing
perfect happiness.
Though I did not know it at the time, I subsequently
learned that Teddy O’Brien was a regular prize-fighter
and champion of light-weights.
No wonder the country-trained Yankee failed to win.
$$$ >
A Hasty Wooing.
“Jest you
Miss Georgia Laramore, of Americus, Ga., was en-
gaged to be married, but her lover wrote, asking for a
postponement of the ceremony. She mentioned the fact
to Ward Holt, a railroad conductor, just as he was about
to board his train.
“Why,” said he, ‘I would not have agreed to that. If
he is not ready, Iam, and you knowl! love you. Will
you marry me ?”
The answer was yes. The conductor delayed his train,
procured his license, and in less time than it takes to tell
it, the two were made one. Five minutés later the con-
ductor was whirling off with his train.
to pay to keep a whole family for a year, and him not”
'
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«sa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3—> F
BY THE RIVER.
BY ©. STEELE.
Each of them loving, each of them loved,
Gliding down by the river.
Nature smiled, and the sun above
Brighter shone to behold such love,
By the fairy banks of the river.
Years had past, and the woman wept—
Wept as she sat by the river—
Wept for the love that had died away,
Wept for the love that was lost for aye,
By the dull, cold banks of the river,
Ever the careless streamlet flows—
- Ever on to the river.
Only the breeze a requiem sighed
For the heart that broke, for the love that died,
By the fairy banks of the river.
—_—_—____—_—_- > © —+____—__-
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]
TELE
LADY OF LYNDHURST;
OR,
A HERITAGE OF HATE.
By MRS. KATE CHRYSTAL.
(“The Lady of Lyndhurst” was commenced in No.8. Back
numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.]
CHAPTER XX.
“MAY I, ETHEL ?”
“She, turning, look’d upon re face,
As near this car Ke per Apert.
Seenktes bee ed you heart to heart.”
TENNYSON.
Arrived at the abbey, Ross declined to enter, on the
plea of an early business engagement at Dogsberry in
the morning. Yes, he would be out to-morrow, if possi-
ble, and—“‘good-night.” And so the others passed into
the big, dismal hall and he drove on to the village.
There was a cheery fire blazing in the bare, grand
dining-room, where they found Mrs. Glendennon await-
ing them.
“Up yet, mother?” stooping to kiss the withered
cheek. ‘And chocolate! That will taste good after our
cold drive... Inda, my child, you’re scorching the toes of
my great-grand-aunt’s bronze slippers.”
For she had come forward and was leaning against
the mantel, holding out one dainty high-heeled shoe to
the flames.
«‘You have had a pleasant time,” asserted, rather than
asked, Mrs. Glendennon. She was so quick to note the
faintest inflection, whether of satisfaction or disappoint-
ment, in a voice, and Max’s just now had been fairly
trembling with sheer gladness of heart.
“A grand time,” he declared, promptly. ‘I don’t be-
lieve that for eighteen hund and eighty-two years
there has been such a supremely delightful Christmas
”
eo ! ”
‘‘My dear mother, ask Inda. She will confirm it. Her
flirtation with Mr. Campbell is a madde memory.
And as for poor Alec Barron—he was fairly driven to the
verge of distraction !”
Mrs. Glendennon laughed at the gay accusations.
What spirits the lad was in, to be sure! What had
come to him ?
“Quilty or not guilty, Clarrie ?’ she cried.
But after her eerie merriment a queer moodiness had
fallen upon the girl. She stood with her arm leaning
against the high mantel ledge, her head drooping
against it, her blue, sullen eyes fixed on the crimson
flames below, still as stone.
“Silence is guilt,” decided obtuse Max. ‘Mother,
where is the mail ?”
“In the library, dear.”
He went out, and returned in a few minutes with a
handful of letters and papers.
He began opening them, standing by the table.
Opposite him, in a chair, sat Ethel. It took him quite
along time to read his first letter, so often his
sought that _ figure, every exquisite curve of which
the black, close-fitting gown revealed. And what a
“serious sweetness” lingered about the arched, proud
lips! and how brilliant, for all their softness, were the
dusk, dreamy eyes! And did ever a geranium bloom
with the glow that carmined the satin-smooth cheek ?
He opened his second letter, read a few lines, and
started with a sharp exclamation of astonished delight.
«What is it ?” his mother cried.
They all turned to him suddenly, even Clarinda.
“It is from some one who calls himself an old friend of
Robert Glendennon. It is an offer ofa Parisian position
lately made vacant. The salary is three thousand
unds a year.”
“Whois he, Max? A friend, you said, of Robert’s!”
‘He signs himself,” referring to the letter, ‘‘Wolfric
Dyneforth, Bart., Grosvenor Spuare, London.”
“Sir Wolfric Dyneforth !” rs. Glendennon rose in
her excitement. ‘Of courge I remember him. He was
a mere lad when Robert was married, but they were the
dearest of companions and friends.”
“He says he has only lately discovered our where-
abouts, and is anxious to do anything in his power for
the son of Bob Glendennon.”
“It is a rarely generous offer, my boy. A man of the
world seldom cherishes long the memory of a youthful
friendship. Itis a fine opening for you, a age position,
with congenial associacions, and life in the world you
have longed to know.”
He went hurriedly across to her and clasped her hands
hi
Ss.
“Unselfish as ever!” he murmured. “And nowI am
going to tell you a wonderful secret, you and Inda, the
sweetest and best ever heard or told. May I, Ethel ?”
“Ethel!” Mrs. Glendennon echoed. ‘‘He had never
called her so before,
Clarinda alone stood perfectly motionless.
Ethel had risen, the warm, soft color in her cheek suf-
fusing rosily brow and chin and milk-white throat.
He went over to her, put his arm around her, smiling
down on the face so beautiful in its new shyness and
confusion. He drew her to his mother’s side. She
stretched out her trembling arms and gathered the girl
to her heart with a sobbing, joyful cry.
“Oh, my dear! oh, my child! is it true? Max’s wife
—my boy’s wife—my own dear daughter!”
“But you haven’t let me tell my secret,” ‘protested
Max. -
“Itis told!” his mother laughed. ‘‘Who would have
dreamed of such a thing? Oh, yously young people!
And I thinking all the time, Max, it was Dollie Dexter!
Clarinda, help me to tell your new sister how glad we
are—how glad and happy beyond the power of words to
express.’
‘or the first time since she had taken up her position
by the mantel on entering, Clarinda lifted her head,
dropped her arm, turned round.
She came across the floor to the small group by the
table, her flaxen head held high, her eyes not nor
downcast, but level, consequently not meeting theirs.
‘T wish you all joy, Miss Esmond!” and she stood on
tiptoe to kiss the bent blushing face.
“Tm afraid to that, Inda, though I should dearly
like to!” Max cried, gayly. ‘‘The last night I attempted
it I quail to remember.”
She laughed quite a shrill, rippling laugh.
“That is so. You had better learn wisdom by expe-
rience. And now,” yawning, “I am going to my room.
I don’t want to miss my beauty sleep.”
She went toward the door, her rich, stiff draperies
glinting glossily as she walked.
e co her hand on the handle, she paused and looked
ack.
Max had flung his arms around both his mother and
Ethel as they stood together in a burst of boyish rap-
ture. His fair, handsome face was all aglow and alight
—reverent, soulful, happy.
“And so, when I go to Paris,” he was saying ‘I shall
take my wife with me.”
“Will you?” j
Had some one spoken? No; the door was closed—
Clarinda had gone. Ay, pursying along the hall with-
out, with stooping shoulders and bent head, like some
small, dark, spirit bent on an errand of evil. Her lips
were tightly compressed, her brows contracted, her eyes
flashing like blue steel.
But once in her own room and the door locked, she fell
forward on the floor, her face hidden, and lay there like
one dead.
_ Five minutes passed—ten, fifteen!
Hark!
They were parting in the passage, just without.
«“Good-night!”—oh, the low, earnest, familiar tones—
“good-night, my own dear love !”
The listener raised herself to her elbow, sprang up
nerved and shaking with sudden passion, that most ter,
rible passion ever born in the human heart—revenge
blossoming from pate root. .Her face was awful to
look upon—ghastly, distorted, glittering-eyed.
“A sweetheart never a bride!” she whispered, hoarse-
ly. “A love never a wife!—never your bride—never
your wife, at any price, at any cost—never, Max Glen-
dennon !”
CHAPTER XXI.
“I NEVER DID.”
“There’s nething half so sweet in life
As Love’s young dream !” Moore.
The next day passed without Ross Campbell showing
himself at the abbey. Toward evening a servant ap-
ared with a note sent by him from the Dexter Lion.
e had just received a cablegram relative to depression
in American stocks. He must go at least as far as Lon-
don, leaving immediately; and he wished them all a
happy Christmas.
The days slipped by—bright, clear, frosty, sunshiny,
inspiriting days—one, two, three, four!
In after hours Ethel remembered them, dwelt on
them, lived them all over again, every sweet, bright,
brief hour and minute of them—lost herself in them
heart and soul, till the present lifted its relentless hand
and struck down the past, its rival ever.
How eee seemed to have changed to Max—his
mother. Ethel. The dull, forlorn, and dilapidated old
abbey seemed dull, forlorn, and dilapidated no longer.
All life grew roseate-hued, a thing of smiles, and joy,
and beauty, and laughter.
The third day after Christmas came another letter for
Max. Sir Wolfric Dyneforth would like a personal inter-
view at Mr. Glendennon’s earliest convenience.
He read the request aloud at the breakfast-table.
“TI shall go up to-day !” he announced.
His mother caught his hand and drew his head down
to her lips as he rose.
‘‘Max,” she whispered, nervously, ‘‘did I understand
you aright last night—does Ethel know everything ?
The old accusations, suspicions, all ?”
“All! and,” with a lazy, happy laugh, ‘‘she says she
could believe no wrong of my father.”
Mrs. Glendennon laughed, too. She was positively
young again in her son’s great gladness.
«You are the most fortunate boy in the world, Max !”
He leaned against her chair a moment in silence.
When he spoke his voice was very low and wistful.
“If you could only see her!” he said.
She caught her breath sharply.
If!
Then she answered him quite cheerfully.
“What an ugly word that is, my boy! it always re-
minds me of that American insect—what is it—musquito?
it is very tiny, indeed, but it has power tosting. Well,
we sha’n’t let it sting us, shall we? Iam happy in your
joy.”
«Joy ! that is no word for it. If there is any more bliss
oe loose around, it can go begging for all J want
of it!”
She laughed again at the tone in which he said it, so
proud, gay, assured.
“Tt does seem as though it were a special act of Provi-
dence,” she mused, ‘‘that coachman of theirs losing his
way in the storm that night. And to think, just to
think that, after all, she is the very girl you were dream-
ing about, raving about, writing verses to and breaking
your heart over, after having seen her only twice! What
was that you were quoting to me descriptive of her that
night ?” ;
eWhat was it?” laughing and stroking his long, fair
mustache. ‘Oh, yes! Kickham’s lines!’
A tenderness, a gravity, came into eyes and voice, as
he quoted them softly :
“Tt was not the grace of her queenly air,
Nor her cheeks of the rose’s glow
Nor her soft black eyes, nor her flowing hair,
Nor was it her lily-white brow ; ‘
*Twas the soul of truth and of melting ruth,
And her smile like a summer’s dawn.
“Ah, yes! that lastis the line I remember. Now go
to her, you foolish boy !”
And very promptly, with most exemplary obedience,
he swung away, the last lines of the ballad on his lips.
Ethel, sitting in the drawing-room, busy sorting and
winding a mass of Mrs. Glendennon’s bright wools,
started, looked up. aS she heard that step in the hall.
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes kindled, her breath came
quickly.
The door opened.
‘ ™. ax ! ”
He was beside her in a moment—no, not helping to
sort the wools.
«Just have time to catch the train !” starting up half
an hour later. ‘Ethel,” quite suddenly, as the thought
came to him,-her hands tightly prisoned in his, “had
you ever a lover before ?”
She looked up at him, frank as a child.
«Yes, three,’
“Who were they ?”
“One was a Florentine artist, rich, and so eccentric he
was called ‘the mad artist.’ The other wasa French
count we met at Naples, and——”
She peat suddenly. He knew him! should she say ?
would it be honorable ?
«And the third,” quickly. ‘Surely you have given me
the right to know, dear! Will you tell me, or shallI
ess ?”
“I shall tell you—Ross Campbell.”
“Ah, I thought so! But you care nothing for him,”
jealously, feverishly, ‘‘absolutely nothing ? Forgive me—
ae me! but you never did, Ethel—say you never
7
‘More than as a friend,” she answered, calmly, ‘I
never did.”
Letters from Grosvenor Square, where he had been in-
stalled an honored guest, came to them soon after his
arrival in London. Sir Wolfric Dyneforth was all that |
was kind and generous. It was imperative, however,
that the position vacant in Paris, or about to be vacant,
should be filled not later than a month from date.
Could Ethel—would Ethel——
At the abbey there was much cogitation and discus-
sion. It was finally decided that the wedding should
take place in three weeks.
Ethel, totally ignorant of her financial status, wrote
to her father’s bankers in London. The reply stated
that of the immense sum eee with them by an
unknown lady to the credit of Mr. Ethelbert Esmond a
number of years ago, drafts of such unusual amounts
had been withdrawn within the last few years, the sur-
plus remaining was only eleven hundred pounds, thir-
teen shillings and eightpence. And they remained Miss
Esmond’s very obedient servants, etc.
Over this for several moments Miss Esmond knit her
retty black brows. Deposited by an unknown lady!
yho was she? What was she to. her father—his aunt ?
A benefactress surely. That it had been the proceeds of
his own properties which had been placed to his credit
she never dreamed.
With a sigh and a shrug she gave up the riddle and
wrote them to send her what“remained. So for
the next two weeks there was a good deal of sewing
done at the Abbey, and a great deal of shopping in Dogs-
berry, though the wedding, on account of the recent
death of the bride’s father, was to be strictly private.
Ethel had at first objected strongly to its taking place
at allsosoon. But they were too many against-her, and
reasoned her down, even Dollie and Mrs. Maher going
over to the enemy.
“It seemed heartless—so soon!” she had protested
ae a quivering smile, and a dimming of the sweet,
ark eyes.
“But he would have had it so!” they argued, diplo-
matically. ‘You know that, Ethel. And you are quite
alone in the world. Heis going away. There is no bar-
rier between you. What is the use ot your wearing your
hearts out for each other hundreds of miles apart. Go
with him.”
“Down on your knees!” shouted Dollie, tragically,
once chiming in at the end of a speech like the above—
“down on your knees, and thank God fasting for a good
man’s love!”
“And surely never just so before, was quoted Rosa-
lind’s sweet and earnest wisdom, with a wee Maltese
kitten swung aloft in a little fat hand for emphasis.
And so it was settled.
Clarinda and Mrs. Glendemon were to remain at the
abbey till the following August, when they would join
the others.
Four days before the wedding-day Max came home.
The dull cold day was waning and Ethel in the fast
darkening dining-room held ‘‘Ivanhoe” closer to the
pane as she sat by the window.
Hark! that firm, be, tread! that voice singing a
snatch of a nautical ballad:
“And may you meet a mate as sweet
As Nancy .
“Ah, I’ve found you at last! you blessed, tantalizing
will-o’-the wisp, I’ve looked in every room in the house
for you! Ethel,”—beside her in a second with shaggy-
coated arms nd her that would have done credit to a
Polar bear—‘‘Ethel—£thel /”
And right there pauses the discreet and sympathetic
chronicler.
CHAPTER XXII.
“JUST FOR A WOMAN.”
Three days later.
Trains decidedly are democratic and SE an es
With as big a rush, shriek, roar, as that with which it
thunders into a vast station it steamed to-night up to
the platform at Dogsberry.
One passenger alighted.
Alec Barron, lounging ora in mouth just within the
latticed stationed dow, hurried out as the light of the
depot lamp disclosed the features of the traveler.
“Hallo, Campbell! is it yourself? How are you ?”
mete * Every one here, at the Towers, at the
al i
«All well. Where’ve you been’? In London? How’s
wheat ?”
“Here, Cabby !” to one of the two venerable drivers of
still more venerable equipage the Dexter Lion boasted.
“I say,” ordered Barron, ‘‘The Towers.”
«The Towers !” exclaimed Ross. ‘I’m not going there
now! Bless you,I can’t Look at me! I’ve been travel-
ing steadily for three days.”
“Go ahead, Cabby. Oh, yes you will, Campbell. You
look all right. There’s no one there. I-want to talk to
you.”
“Well, why intthe name of common sense can’t you
come into the Lion and talk like a Christian ?”
“I tell you I’ve got to go to the Towers directly. Not plea-
sure, business. I was just at the depot on an errand for
Mrs. Glendennon, and only met you by waiting to see
the train come in. NowlI’ve got to go over with another
abbey message.”
Boiite abbey message! Word most likely from Ethel to
“All ht!’ he assented. ‘And now,” eagerly and
confidentially, ‘show is wheat ?”
Mr. Barron had taken to speculating, and was ina
constant state of hot water in consequence. Unknown
tovhis father, his predilection flourished, be it said, for
young in years was Alec.
During their whole drive to the Towers the conversa-
tion was one long business discussion, Barron despair-
ing, sanguine, nervous by turns. A thorough man of
the markets himself, to Campbell the subject was one of
interest particularly now.
They had not thought they were near their destina-
tion when the coach stopped at the Towers. They were
shown into the drawing-room, where the lights still
burned pleasantly low.
From across the hall came the sound of Dollie’s laugh-
ter and men’s deeper tones.
Mrs. Maher rose to greet them as they entered.
“Tagain!” Alec said, mournfully. ‘‘When isn’t itI
again ?”
“T have a curious fancy for bad sixpences, Mr. Bar-
ron,” she laughed. ‘No matter how often they turn up
ITrather like to see them—lI imagine they bring good
luck, value, let us say, beyond their intrinsic worth.”
“Phew !” screwing up his eye and rubbing his cheek
ruefully, ‘‘for a good, vigorous, back-handed slap, com-
mend me to Mrs. Nora.”
“Stop rubbing your cheek!” she commanded. ‘It
couldn’t have hurt there.”
“Nora!” reproachfully, and in tones heart-rendingly
tragic, ‘after our childhood together, after the pleasant
days of our youth, after our long friendship, may I use
a warmer word ?—to smite me with that adamantine
joke! Nora, Nora, Nora!”
And he collapsed sobbing on a divan.
“Why, Mr. Campbell! I did not see you before. Will
you pardon me? [could not get a glimpse of you with
that ridiculous boy.”
“T dazzled her so,” declared serene Alec, ‘‘she couldn’t
see you. You must forgive her, Ross. It’s a failing of
the ladies. Itisn’t my fault, though. I’m sure J can’t
help it. I positively go to extremes to prevent it, but
it’s no use, they never can see another fellow when ’m
in the room.”
“When did you return, Mr. Campbell?” ignoring Mr.
Barron with a glance of scorn. ‘How suddenly you
made up your mind torun away. We missed you!”
He laughed, and placed a chair for her.
“Did you? Now, I don’t like to appear to doubt your
veracity, Mrs. Maher, and I want to believe that, but
“You may,” plaintively. ‘‘We did miss you aw/ully.”
‘Ha’yo, Lamell!”
And with this boisterous war-cry, Miss Maher rushed
up the room and precipitated herself, a small cyclone
condensed in pink casmere, into Ross’ ready arms.
And just then Dollie crossed over from the library,
followed by two gentlemen, Max Glendennon and his
friend and oid school-fellow, whom he had been visiting
for the last few days at the Mountallen Barracks, Major
West.
“Mr. Campbell!” Heartily Miss Dexter extended her
plump hand. ‘We thought you would come to the sur-
face in time for the wedding.”
“The wedding ?” he echoed, blankly.
“What?” Max strode forward with outstretched
hand. “‘Is it possible, Campbell, that you haven’t heard,
that you don’t know——” _—
Heknew/ Hehad suspected, feared, dreaded it. But
as death is sudden, however long expected, it stunned
him when he met it boldly face to face at last.
+ a staggered back a step or two blind to the proffered
an
What demon prompted the words he uttered? Was
it honest regret that she should take a tarnished name,
or was it the lightning-swift madness of jealousy which
has driven to his doom many a better man ?
“She is going to marry you /” he cried, hoarsely, ‘‘you,
the son of a branded——”
“Stop there !”
Max had taken astep forward, his hands clenched,
the red blood surging darkly up to his temples.
Shocked, bewildered, the listeners had not stirred,
seemed to breathe.
Now Dollie moved forward and laid her hand on Max’s
arm.
That light touch recalled him to himself.
He fell back.
“JT beg your pardon : I did forget myself.”
He turned toward the door, but there wheeled round
and looked across the room to Ross Campbell.
“Later,” quietly, but in a tone ringing as steel on
steel, ‘‘you shall answer to me.”
He went out.
Another day was not done when the words, heavy
with a great horror, beat in his hearer’s brains again
awtully distinct as pistol-shots.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A SENSE OF RIGHT.
“Oh, I spoke once,sand I grieved thee sore;
I remember all that I said.” —BrcELow.
For a full minute the silence following his departure
was unbroken. Barron, Dollie, Mrs. Maher, West, all
were still too dismayed for speech.
It was Blossie who broke the painful stillness.
She reached up to Ross and lifted a rosy, reproachful
forefinger.
“°O00 was bad!” she declared, severely. ‘‘ ‘Oo made
Mats sorry. Isn’t’oo as’amed of ’oorself?”
«‘Bloss !” protested her mother.
But Rogs had caught her up in his trembling arms.
“T am, Bloss! Upon Ka word, Iam!”
The excitement which had prompted his wild words
was dying down, He was beginning to see calmly how
rash and unjust he had been. He was a good man.
Why should his life be darkened by the sin of another ?
Alec and Dellie walked away down the room together.
wy the fire Mrs. Maher and Mr. West talked constrain-
edly. For five minutes Campbell sat, his face hidden on
the child’s bright head, perfectly motionless. When he
put her down, and rose, the face he turned to the others
was white as ashes.
«You're not going so soon ?” protested Dollie, always a
courteous little hostess. ‘Dinner is almost served.”
“Thank you; but I must.”
He was taking down from the rack and donning hat
and coat as he spoke.
Alec followed him out on the steps.
It was a moist, sloppy, disagreeable night, warm as an
eveningin June. It had been raining pretty steadily for
two days, and the roads were fairly flooded.
«Where are you going, Ross ?”
«Back to Dogsberry.”
“Good-night !”
“Good-night !”
Alec went back to the drawing-room. Major West
was just leaving. A -looking man of forty, he—
something of a blond Dundreary, attached honestly and
warmly to Max Glendennon.
“JT can’t really stay,” he was asserting, with his cus-
tomary drawl. ‘‘Max has probably gone back to the
barracks. I should have left when he did, but was too
dazed. Good-evening, ladies. Barron, good-evening.”
And he bowed himself out.
Ross, on leaving, quite forgetful of the cab in which he
had come, and which still awaited him, dashed on down
the avenue. His head was in a whirl as he splashed
along the slushy country road.
She was going to marry him !—and so soon!
his name a thing to be despised ?
Quite suddenly he paused, and lifted his pale,'facé to
the dark sky.
Robert Glendennon had been accused of theft. Ethel-
bert, Lord Lyndhurst, of murder. Was not the latter
crime more horrible than the former? Neither had
been proven either guilty or innocent.
He would go to Max; he would acknowledge his fault,
and ask his pardon. It was the only honorable, manly
thing to do.
He walked on and on. How long he had been walking
he never afterward recollected. It must have been two
hours or more, for when he reached the gate leading to
the abbey, the stable clock was stiking eight.
He turned in and went straight up the avenue. He
was strong by an earnest sense of right. He mounted
the steps, lifted the knocker, and sent an iron summons
echoing through the house.
A servant opened the door.
“Mr. Glendennon ?”
“Not at home, sir. He is staying for the last few days
with Major West at the Mountallan Barracks”
Ross turned away.
«‘Will you see Miss Esmond, Mr. Campbell ?”
“No. no,” he answered hastily, and descended the
And was
steps.
No, he could not see her now. He retraced the path
he had come.
Close by the angle where an opening diverged to the
left, he almost ran against an approaching figure—a
small, childish, dark-clad figure.
A sudden thought came to him—a recollection which
had been swamped in the recent whirlwind of business
and floods of passion.
Now he remembered it all—all!—the girl, the song,
aoe relation to Ethel, the death-bed message found by
er.
He caught her by the shoulder, as she hurried past,
compelling her to pause.
A scream broke from her lips.
“Who are you? What—— Mr. Campbell!”
Out from under a bank of clouds sailed a white moon.
She had not at first recognized him.
Now a great shrinking and terrorseized her as the
moonlight revealed his face clearly.
«You are the very person I wish to see!” he cried.
How strange he looked! Every tinge of his usual
florid color had faded from his cheek. His gray eyes
were bright and keen as daggers.
CHAPTER XXIV,
AN APPOINTMENT.
“I ?” in apparent amazement.
She was shaking violently, however, from the surprise
and abruptness of the encounter.
“You. I must vo to you privately——”
“T can’t wait! 1 must be going!” in a fever of excite-
ment.
All along the avenue little pools and rivulets glinted
placidly, or flowed on mere threads of silver.
‘You are a very clever woman,” he said, coolly, ‘‘but
you are not quite clever enough for me. I will have the
truth and the whole truth. hat!” with a laugh. ‘‘you
can’t really wait? Thatis too bad. Then when do you
propose an interview, if not now ?”
“What do you want of me—know of me? Whatever
can you have to say to me——” she began. ,
“Much! We are old acquaintances, Clarinda Kerston,
you and I.” :
“We ”
Could she only lamely echo his words ?
He came forward a — and stood looking down with
eyes of resolute deter ation on the young, weird,
waxen-white face below.
“Five years ago, an 9 a little longer, I sauntered
poo ar into a concert-hall in the Bowery. Ah, you
start !’
And now the brown, muddy avenue was clear as day
in the moonlight. A frolicsome breeze had sprung up,
and was swaying the bare branches of the trees, which
ee downward fantastic shadows as they rose and
ell.
“T don’t understand you.”
Her voice had grown quite husky. What had come to
the girl usually so calm, collected, self-possessed ?
“Oh, yes, you do!” Ross laughed aloud; ‘‘and you shall
answer me, too! What was your motive in tampering
with the last sacred message of a dying man ?”
She wrenched herself from his detaining hand with a
very shriek.
«You are mad! Let me go, I say—let me go!”
But he was not to be foiled now. He would have no
more shamming. Evil was afloat. He would know what
shape it took.
He made no further effort to keep her.
“Go,” quietly. ‘Later, with Max Glendennon, I shall
demand a more satisfactory explanation.”
With Max! Might not they come soon—before Ethel
—_ opened that letter, discover its contents, frustrate
She did exactly what he had anticipated. Turned
swiftly, nervous, vanquished. ‘
«Not now—another time, I shall see you alone.”
= Then she told herself exultantly all would be over—
all she had dreamed, hoped, plotted for.
«When ?” grimly.
‘«To-morrow.” :
The sound of carriage-wheels passing on the road be-
low reached them where they stood.
«‘To-morrow will be too late.”
Too late! How much did this man know? With what
marvelous precision and care had not her tower arisen
stone by stone—the monument upon which she was to
stand! Might he not yet shatterit down? After all——
«When ?” he demanded again; ‘‘where ?”
A thought, a demon thought, flashed to her brain.
For a bare instant it stunned her—even her. Then the
spark kindled, blazed, leaped through heart and soul a
blinding flame.
The bridge! and there, then, silence——
She looked up at him, her eyes blue, glittering jewels
in the moonlight.
«*You know the bridge by the old Kent road ?”
He signified assent.
“T shall meet you there to-night at eleven.”
“There!” he cried, in bewilderment. ‘At that hour!
Why, it is midwinter !”
She laughed—a harsh, unlovely laugh.
‘Midwinter like May. Yes, I said there.
cannot talk, think, breathe in the house.”
He bowed.
‘‘T will be there !” :
Each turned away. She fied up the house swift as a
winged thing.
Campbell walked moodily on down the avenue. There
was a keeper’s house some distance down the road. He
would go there, get a cup of tea, and wait for the ap-
pointed hour of meeting.
There had been some valuable papers in that pack-
aoe. apart from the jewels he knew it had contained.
The seals had been broken and sealed over again—one
glance had told him that. But was it not possible that
after Esmond had shown it to him, that he had opened
it, struck by a recollection of an omission in its con-
tents? Ah, but the seal was not the same. The red
wax first used upon it had borne the impress of a quaint
crest, now it was honeycombed with a thimble. And
the cover had been folded so the second time that it
lapped over, showing by its darkened edges where it
had before met tightly over a bulkier package. Unde-
niably it had been tampered with. The gems, perhaps
the papers of value, had been abstracted. That more
deep-laid malice had been at work he could not con-
ceive, and yet—— A distance off he could see the light
from the candle in the keeper's window streaming across
the road.
He reached the place, knocked, entered.
A cheery, humble little interior. By the fire a woman
sat, hushing her baby to sleep.
“T would like to wait here an hour or two!” he ex-
plained, removing his hat. I have an appointment at
the abbey to night, and it is hardly worth while going
the whole way into Dogsberry.”
“Youre kin welcome, sir!” speaking in a low voice
not to disturb the child at her bosom. “Sit down an’
make yerself comfortable. Himself will be in soon.”
And she went on crooning softly.
“Thank you!”
He sat down m a big wooden, shabbily cushioned chair
in one. corner. How still the little room was and how
warm!
He was exhausted with traveling, walking, all the ex-
citement of the night. A languor stole through his
veins. A drowsiness overcame him. He closed his eyes
—just for a moment—he told himself.
What was that sound ?
The clock striking the hour. He leaped up, glanced at
it, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.
Eleven!
Opposite him sat a man, the keeper, nodding a little
himself and regarding him witha sleepy smile. The
woman had disappeared.
Eleven! the hour! Andit was a good thirty minutes’
walk at least to the bridge by the old Kent road.
With a few muttered words of apology and thanks he
flung on his hat, buttoned up his coat, and swung out
of doors, starting at a rattling run up the sloppy road,
and all to keep—oh, Heaven, could he but have known
it—a tryst with death !
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—_——____ > @~
[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884,
by STREET
& Smiru, in the office of the Librarian of Con-
Washington, D. C.]
VELLA. VERNELL:
»
I tell you I
AN AMAZING MARRIAGE.
By Mrs. SUMNER HAYDEN,
Author of ‘Little Goldie,” “The Midnight Marriage,”
“Geraldine,” eve., etc.
[This story will not be published in book-form.]
(“VELLA VERNELL” was comnienced in No. 3. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.]
CHAPTER XLVI.—(CONTINUED.)
That she had been but slightly injured, been taken in
charge by the best and most gentle of nurses, and under
her constant,tender care, had come back to the world to
which, be it ever so surly to us at times, we all so heart-
ily hate to say farewell, never once occurred to him.
We all have our choice of spectacles. Just now Voyle
made choice of blue rather than of amber, though
through the former he saw clouds and shadows, while
the latter would make the whole world sunshiny.
You know yourself how a conviction, especially a con-
viction of evil, will seize on one, take possession of all the
powers of heart and brain—master one. Thus was
young Vernell ruled now.
Were she well she would have written, were she too
ill to write she would have had another write for her, or
through that other send a message. She had been on
that train. Of the injured taken in kindly charge she
had been one. And she had died.
This he reiterated over and over in passionate misery,
as he strode along at a tremendous rate, white-lipped,
wide-eyed. ‘
He would make search of course, and that atonce. Ah,
terrible is the journey which terminates beside a grave!
She had been flying from her home, poor child, because of
an infamous persecution. If she had had, like other
rls, a sweet, safe, sheltering home, not a mere palace,
ut in truth a home, this had not been. Now did he owe
to James Vernell a mighty debt indeed.
The rush of noonday was over. That of ‘closing hour”
had not yet begun. p blew a sharp, bleak wind. It
swept from the lake, chilling one to the marrow. The
sun, which had made the day glorious, an hour ago hid
his royal countenance and sulked relentlessly.
And still Voyle Vernell walked on, not thinking, heed-
ing, caring whither. ;
As he passed Dearborn going eastward he noticed a
long line of carriages drawn up at the curb-stone.
He regarded them blankly. Why was there such a
crush of vehicles? How stupid he was, to be sure!
There was a matinee at McVicker’s to-day.
As he passed the side entrance of the theater a man
leaning against one of the pillows, a man _ squat
of figure, wearing a fur-trimmed overcoat and high
silk hat, roused himself with a sudden movement, sprang
forward to the pavement, confronted him.
Through sheer astonishment Voyle stood still in his
tearing walk.
Two pudgy, crimson hands were laid upon his arm, ten
fat, jeweled fingers clutched him. A broad, red face
looked up at him.
“You young hound, you! I believe you’re at the bot-
tom of it all!”
At sound of the familiar voice which had always made
the lad think of a file rasped on sheet-iron, he started
slightly. He was still too dazed, though, to speak.
«‘Where have you got her hid? It was you who in-
duced her to leave her lawful husband, was it? Where
is she? -What street? What number? Out with it!
Where is she? Where is Vella?”
The spot where they stood wag one of the most
thronged and public in the city, but though the million-
aire had spoken fiercely he had kept voice and actions
well under control.
“Vella! That name aroused the boy.
He shook off the other’s detaining hands with rising
rage.
“Vella! How dare you ask for her? Though I shouldn’t
blame you so much, Mr. Jonas Claflin,” his volce growin
louder in its concentrated scorn. ‘‘You could not resis
the temptation of conquering a woman—rather a child!
There never was a mean man yet who did not rejoice in
tyranny !”
‘Hold on!” cried the other, angrily. ‘‘What’s all this
tirade about? Remember where you are ?”
The matinee was over. Alreadyin twos and threes
the edge of the audience was beginning to trickle down
the steps within.
“T remember as wellas I wish to!” with the furious
recklessness of youth. ‘‘What dol care who hears? As
I say, I give you only contempt, but for him who ,drove
her to her death I bearaless blunt weapon. As sure
as there is a just God above us, James Vernell shall an-
swer to me for my sister’s life!”
There was quite a blockade around them now. Several
overheard the wild words.
By main force Claflin drew his companion with him
into the alley just beyond and out of ear-shot.
But one man followed them, unnoticed, for the words
had excited his curiosity, a tall. largely built fellow, with
a big blonde face and auburn mustache.
«What do you mean—life—death ?” gasped Jonas.
“That my sister is dead—give her rest in her grave!”
he panted.
Then hetore himself free, and was lost in the crowd
surging toward State street.
CHAPTER XLVI.
“MY YOUNGER DAUGHTER, BESSIE !”
“What faceis that?
What a face, what a look, what a likeness !”
E. B. BROWNING.
As he reached the corner he grew quite weak and
dizzy. From the doors and windows of Buck & Rayner’s
a flood of light poured across the sidewalk.
He would go in and rest a few minutes. And now he
recollected that from the time he had sent the dispatch
—just at dawn, it was—he had neither eaten nor drank.
He entered. The few seats were occupied. He stood by
the register, leaning against the high brass fender which
environs the heat-breathing square, protecting it from
selfish usurpation. A sort of numbness was creeping
over him. He felt exhausted and heart-sick.
A gentleman wheeling round the corner without cast
a casual glance into the brilliant drug store.
He stood stock-still on the crowded pavement. The
hurrying six o’clock multitude jostled him. Comments
of a nature wildly satirical, others savagely pleasant,
were offered him in profusion; but nota word did he
hear, nothing did he See, save that beautiful boyish face
just beyond the lighted pane.
Such a marvelous resemblance! It was extraordinary!
Could it be the same face? But that was hardly possi-
ble. He would make sure.
He swung round, hurriedin. An instant later Voyle
became conscious of a pair of spectacled eyes peering
into his altogether too intently for politeness. He started
—drew back.
As he did so the other placed his hands on the top of
the very tall brass fender and leant still more eagerly
forward. Was the man drunk or crazy? Voyle re-
garded him amazedly. A tall, stout, whiskered individ-
ual he who now confronted him, a kindly looking old
fellow, too, with a silvery fringe showing under the brim
of his high silk hat. Around the latter was bound a
very deep fold of crape. It certainly was embarrassing,
to say the least of it, this prolonged and steady scrutiny.
A flush came into Voyle’s white cheek.
“Well, sir,” he demanded, impatiently.
The other drew a long breath and straightened up.
“Til be hanged if it doesn’t—beat—creation !” he ejac-
ulated, slowly.
The younger man opposite, wrestling heart and soul
with a new and terrible sorrow, and physically weak to
bear the same, but partially controlled his temper.
‘Confound it; man, what are you staring at? I’m not
a dime museum curiosity.”
And then the offender for the first time found compre-
hensible speech.
‘It’s the—the resemblance !” he gaspe
Resemblance! To Vella, of course.
was a lightning-stroke of hope.
In a second he was beside the man, grasping his hands
with his own ice-cold ones, breathing fast and hard,
striving to speak.
“To whom ?”
The door kept banging—banging. All around them
were voices. About them hastened clerks and custom-
d.
The one word
ers. ;
; “Great Jehosaphat!” murmured the other ; ‘‘it’s amaz-
ng!
Voyle crushed tighter the unresisting hands in his.
“For Heaven’s sake answer me? Whom am 1 like?”
“A young girl who was part of the way with my wife
and daughters—it’s astonishing!” breaking off to stare
anew.
“Part of the way where ?” and now the_young fellow’s
cheeks were carmine.
“To Philadelphia.”
«To Philadelphia !” he echoed.
What clew was this which was‘falling into his hands ?
“When ?” he whispered.
Captain Costello mentioned day and date.
«You are sure ?” Voyle questioned.
His companion sighed.
“T have sad reason to be,” touching the band of crape
encircling his hat-crown. ‘In an accident that very
night my dear wife was killed.”
And now, as one will remember afterward things to
them unimportant, he recalled the name of the lady the
railroad man had mentioned as being among the dead.
“Your name is Costello?” he asked, quickly.
“Yes. How do you know that——”
“Never mind now; I willtell you another time. Oh,
sir,” in a fever of entreaty, ‘‘you don’t know how far you
can help me now—this instant !” ,
“I! S§tars and stripes !”
“Yes, you! The young lady you mention was my sis-
ter. Since she left on that awful journey we have heard
no word from her—of her. How far was she with your
6 ay Peg mean where did you take the train? Did you
see her after the collision? was she injured? did she
die? Quick, sir, tell me!”
The interrogatories, each stumbling over the: heels of
its predecessor in its haste, were low, hoarse, passion-
ful
Not one of those around dreamed of the drama one
act of which was being played out in their midst.
Costello grew almost as excited as his questioner. He
wrenched his hands free and put them on Voyle’s shoul-
ders.
“There, there! Don’t take on now, my lad—don’t!
She was injured, but I heard the doctor say not fatally.
Hope for the best. See here!” in sudden alarm, ‘‘you’re
not going to faint ?”
For from his face every drop of blood had gone tiding
back to his heart.
Hope for the best, when he had convinced himself
there was no best to hope for!
He smiled feebly.
“Not if I can help it, sir.”
Costello gave him a vigorous slap on the chest.
“Come out and have a drink.”
But Voyle was deaf to the appeal.
“Tell me some more!” he implored. ‘I know hardly
anything yet. Tell——”
“By the Ghost of Gimlets, I won’t!” came Costello’s
characteristic reply. ‘‘Nary a tell till you come across
the street to Hannah & Hogg’s and brace up. You look
like a girl who has seen a mouse.”
And the captain took off his hat, and rubbed: his bald
head with a great deal of virtuous determination.
“If I’ve got to brace up, I guess I’d rather do it at the
Boston Oyster House!” young Vernell rejoined. «Sup-
per will be my first meal to-day.”
A look of horror overspread the old gentleman’s face.
Instinctively he thrust his hand in his pocket, scanning
his companion the while.
‘Jerusalem! You don’t mean——”
Voyle actually laughed at his perturbed countenance.
“No, I don’t mean anything of the sort. I’ve enough
money in my pocket for twenty meals. The caseis one
of voluntary starvation. I’ve been so miserably nervous
all day, eating was too tame and prosaic an occupation
to be for a moment considered.”
“Come along then!”
And these two, so strangely flung together by fate,
passed out.
They turned westward.
“You don’t think she’s dead then, Mr. Costello ?” Voyle
began again in adesperate attempt to glean more news
concerning her—a ray more of light, however faint, on
the subject.
“Nonsense, lad! Of course she isn’t dead. She may
be still too languid to write, but depend upon it she’s
snug, and well taken care of, somewhere. Talk sense,
man !”
Voyle drew a long, deep breath.
“Heaven grant it!”
They passed Dearborn. At Clark they descended the
steps leading to the cafe.
oyle put his hand before his eyes a moment as he
entered. Coming in out of the darkness the brightly
lighted room with its snowy-clothed tables, and snowy-
aproned speeding waiters fairly dazzled him.
They took possession of a ‘‘two-table.”
“T would make you come directly home with me,” Cos-
tello a “put that I think you have fasted long
enough.’
‘Will they not be expecting you at home though ?”
asked Voyle, when he had given his order.
“Yes, but they know I never wish them to wait supper
for me if I’m not on time.”
His vis-a-vis looked over at him gratefully.
“You are very good to stay down town on my ac-
count !” bape’
Costello was drumming abstractedly on the table.
“Tt is no enormous sacrifice.”
And then as he glanced up Voyle saw that a certain
sadness had blotted out the humorous twinkle in his
eyes.
“They will miss me a little bit,” he said, ‘but not as
she would it I was not home to supper.”
Voyle nodded eas sep ge but said never a word.
What could he have said? What can any of us say
when Death before us rears its triple sting, the love, and
loneliness, and longing of the living ?
Supper over they took a carriage. Voyle did not hear
the address, did not even remark in which direction they
rolled away.
After twenty minutes’ rapid driving the hack stopped.”
“Here we are!” cried Captain Costello, cheerily, ‘jump
out, my lad.”
Within an iron-railed inclosure some distance back
from the road stood a square house. This was all one
could distiuguish, so dark was the night.
As they went up the path together the hall-door was
flung wide, and a billow of light surged forth a cheery
welcome.
Framed in the bright door-way a figure appeared.
“What kept you so late? Kitty and I are tired waiting
and listening for you, you blessed old sinner—no kiss to-
night, sir—unless you promise——. Oh!”
he sweet voice fluttered like a bird’s, grew suddenly
still. She had just discerned another figure than her
father’s.
“T promise !” laughed Voyle.
They entered the hall. She fell back a step or two,
staring up at the new-comer.
Her gaze remained riveted on his face.
speechless with amazement.
She was
Her father kissed her and shook her.
‘Wake up, goosie!” he laughed. “It is only a re-
Df git
6
semblance. , i
whom you and Kitty fell in love that night on the train.
Mr. Vernell, this is my younger daughter, Bessie.”
As Voyle gravely bowed to the girl in the simple
mourning dress his heart leaped into his handsome |
brown eyes and paid her tribute.
Such a pretty, demure, startled face as it was. And |
what a dainty dash of color in the clear-skinned cheeks.
And how suggestive of ripe cherries the bright, half-
parted lips. ; ;
Ah. Captain Costello, you fond, genial, ejaculatory,
unsuspicious old warrior you, put on your spectacles !
CHAPTER XLVII.
BREAKING THE NEWS.
“Doubtless we shall be moderately happy.
She’s a woman grown and I’m not over sappy ;
And we've both confessed to many early passions, :
Which have been outgrown along with other fashions.’
VANDYKE BROWN.
“Tell your mistress I wish to see her.”
‘Yes; sir.”
The servant withdrew. Colonel Vernell turned again
to the window and stood there waiting.
An afternoon in young November. A decidedly dis-
agreeable afternoon, too—bleak, chill, gusty, with now
and then a spiteful spatter of rain. Neither stingingly
eold nor yet snow-shadowy. One almost wished it
either rather than this idiotic blow, blow, and drizze,
drizzle. Just the kind of a day one wants to shut out, to
draw the curtains early, light the lamps, heap more
wood on the fire, pull closer over a chair to the hearth—
this latter more because of the friendliness of the blaze
than that one lacks warmth.
“You sent for me, James ?”
He turned at the sound of his sister's voice.
“Yes; I wish to speak to you. Sit down.”
But Miss Dorothy made no motion toward adopting
his suggestion. eee ae
Her blue eyes were fastened on him in inquisitive sur-
prise. :
“J did not know you were going out.
early. Where is it—the club ?” ;
No wonder Miss Dorothy stared, so elaborate was his
afternoon toilet. His dress suit of lusterless black was
brand-new. His huge diamond stud glistened on an
immaculate expanse of linen. A tie of cream-colored
satin encircled his clerical-looking collar. In his button-
hole was a yellowish tea-rose.
Personally he seemed to have been dipped in a bath
ot rejuvenation. The thin face, with the high, narrow
forehead, and slightly beaked nose, looked more youth-
ful than it had for many months. There was an un-
usual light in the small, close-set cunning eyes. The
whole figure had an alertness, animation new to him.
On a chair near by lay a new otter-trimmed overcoat,
on top of which was a stifffelt hat and pair of cream-
tinted kids.
“Oh, you women,” he replied; ‘one bound and you
have reached the back of a conclusion, are riding it at
full speed. Iam going out, but I’m not going to the
club.”
«‘Where, then ?”
He looked down on the energetie little woman in the
noiseless, dove-colored gown. She had held the reins
of authority solong. How would she fancy their being
wrested from her hands now ?
He spoke deliberately, watching her narrowly the
while.
“T am going to be married,” he said.
«Married !” she gasped.
Then she put her hand on her fat, fluttering bosom,
and smiled.
“What a turn you gave me, James!
I really thought you were in earnest.”
The colonel laughed—a brief grunt of a laugh.
“Then Pll have to renew the dose to insure effect. I
was quite in earnest. I never was more so. I am to
be married at six o’clock this evoning.”
«James \”
And now she sat down.
«Well ?”—stonily.
“You don’t mean it !”
“Don’t1? Itis very hard to convince you of the non-
existence of a joke when you have made up your mind
-there is one in lurking somewhere. If you want proof,
here itis!”
From his inside vest-pocket he drew a folded paper,
which he extended to her.
She did not offer to take it. She sat there and looked
at her brother as though she had suddenly discovered
his possession of a double nose. Now, if there is any-
thing aggravating it is to be regarded in this fashion—
isn’t it?
“Dorothy, have you any objections to offer?” came the
irritable demand.
She started guiltily.
«Great patience, no!
«Well ?” ; ;
He was replacing his ignored marriage license.
«T’m so astonished !”
“Tm not.” ;
He took up his gloves and snapped the connecting
thread.
You are dressed
For the moment
Only—— James!”
“Tm sure I never dreamed of such a thing !”—help- |
lessly.
He favored her with a sly glance.
“Pidn’t you, Dorothy ?” :
Her old cheeks crimsoned, whether because of his
misunderstanding, or with memories of the past, who
could say. ; HES
«You know I didn’t mean that !”—in confusion.
He began trying on his gloves.
“Yes, J know.”
“The lady is s
His rapid glance arrested her words.
“Mrs. Charu, of course,” he answered.
«Of course !”—feebly.
The story Guila had told her recurred to her. She,
poor girl! had thought Grimes and the widow well en-
gaged. And, lo and behold! it was not Grimes at all
for whom the fair sorceress had cast her nets, but her
own stiff, taciturn, self-sufficient brother !
“Jt’s very sudden, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Very sudden!” he repeated, deridingly. “It’s not a
death, Dorothy. Don’t refer to it as though it were.”
And he smoothed down, with quite vicious little rubs,
the cream-incased fingers of his left hand.
“Tm sure I did not intend it that way, James. You
must not wonder ’m—well, taken off my feet,as it were.”
“7 don’t. j
have become familiar with the idea.
minutes since I told you.” ?
The fingers had been successfully clothed. He began
onthe thumb. Miss Dorothy made a valiant effort to
look at the affair in a common sense light.
“Five minutes isn’t quite an age, James. Why didn’t
you tell me sooner ?” ;
‘Because I wanted the affair kept quiet,” tugging at
his refactory glove, ‘‘and I knew if I told you, the tempt-
ation to spread the news would be irresistible.”
And here he serewed up his mouth and fell to tussling
with the first button.
“Why, James!” reproachfully.
It’s almost five
Just how far this ‘new departure” (if the phrase is |
admissible) would affect her personally and ‘‘the chil-
dren,” she was still too thunderstruck to think.
He looked at her with asmile as he noosed the wee
ivory button.
«Dorothy, ‘you know you never could keep a secret!
Couldn’t she, though ?
hang him!” runs the proverb.
ly you may have flung the burr it will stick.
When or how her inability to retain imparted confi-
dence became accepted as a fact she had not the faint- |
est idea; but this one thing is certain—that the woman |
who is the recipient of more secrets, possesses more of
her own, and cherishes all more guardedly and zealous-
ly than Miss Dorothy Vernell has yet to be born.
So she only answered, with a peculiar smile:
“Don’t you think so, James ?”
Without the day was waning.
“The wedding is to be absolutely private—no, ’'m not
even going to take you, Dorothy. I refuse to doso
through no desire to be unkind, but because it is Mrs.
Charu’s wish that no one be present. Again, the dress-
ing, trip to the church, and ordeal there would—what is
your own word for it 2—flurry’ you. Stay at home and
get over being surprised. I'll give Letitia your love and
eongratulations.”
“Are you going away ?” j
«Yes, but for only a short time.
you what night to expect us back.”
He shook down his wide cuff over his left hand.
Miss Dorothy was silent. :
He stole a furtive glance at her. The information had
eertainly benn startling. He had managed the whole
affair beautifully, he told himseli—vbeau-ti-fully, with a
congratulatory chuckle. ;
«You look overwhelmed, Dorothy.”
«J couldn’t have been more flustrated,” declared the
Rittle old maid, solemnly, ‘‘if ’d been a Cheshire kitten.
inever was So—So——”
But no word in the English language was half ex-
pressive enough for the emergency.
The colonel had commenced operations on the other
glove.
‘Minority cannot be urged against me,” he remarked,
aryly ; ‘I’m of age.”
They could hear wheels. The carriage ordered had
drawn up at the door. He put on his hat.
@-
Bertha M. Clay writes exclusively for the New
York Weekly.
>e~<
ACTING PLAYS
and home entertainments, scenery, wigs,make-up articles,and
everything else needed in getting up Private Theatricals and
exhibitions. CATALOGUES FREE. Address
HAROLD ROORBACH, 9 Murray street, New York.
Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
SENTINELS.
The brutes seldom engage in battle on their own ac-
count; a dog fight with no nian present would be an
anomaly.
A secret is an unlawful thing, and the man who offers
one should be arrested at once for haying in his posses-
| Sion what don’t belong to him.
An originality néver grows old; what was original ten
thousand years ago is original now.
Kind words are jewels—old mine jewels.
The rich should remember this: if they ever reach
Heaven they have got to meet Lazurus there, and be po-
lite to him, too.
lfind plenty of people who can tell me just how to
make a fortune, but before we separate they want to
borrow five or ten, just. until to-morrow.
Every man seems to have his price; the only differ-
ence is in the size of the check.
Everything repeats itself; even lies are born again
once in so often.
Solitude is no refuge from the miserys of life; we have
got to associate with ourselfs while we are there.
The man who won’t shoot because he thinks he can’t
make a bull’s-eye will rarely, if ever, make a bull’s-eye
when he does shoot.
In giving penitence, and its rewards, to man, God has
made him equal to the angels.
Precept never can equal the dignity or power of exam-
ple, but it is possible even for the devil to give us a good
precept.
The mountains may crumble into dust, the great
waters dry up, and the whole earth shrivel, but God
made brains to be immortal.
Pedigrees seldom improve by age; the grandson is
peat a weak infringement on the grandsire’s pat-
ent.
Society humanizes us. Shut a man up ina library,
and in due time he would become a polished animal.
The knowledge of one age may be folly in the next,
but wisdom is truth, and truth is eternal.
Those who are the most anxious to live their lives
the woman bent down to button her high kid shoes, ‘‘but |
touches to the toilet of her mistress, and Hilaria Jack- | over again you will find have done but little this time,
| and probably would do less the next.
| There is one advantage a fool has over a wise’ man ;
| he is a fool and don’t know it.
White lies, at the best, are the ghosts of the black
ones.
who is alike half the time.
Great men have but few associates and less intimates;
two eagles are all that are ever seen together.
No man can beat his experience, but many men
think they can; this is why they: git bit twice by the
same dog.
Young man, you have got to take the chances ; if you
don’t you will find yourself just where you was yester-
day, and some other fellow has won the pool.
It is difficult to define love; the man who never felt
its glow can define it the best; the one who is all on fire
with it can’t tell what’s the matter with him.
If nature ever has made a blunder she has kept it to
herself, and we are none the wiser for it.
> e~<—
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM, ]
THe GnILD DHE:
OR, THE
By CARRIE CONKLIN,
AUTHOR OF
“The Banker’s Foe,’ “Lady Leonora,” etc.
{‘*The Child Bride” was commenced in No. 45.
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER L.
CAPTAIN CHANDOS.
There are some inexplicable perversities in human na-
ture, and Mr. Ravel was certainly possessed of one this
morning. He had a dim consciousness that, by opening
an apparently friendly treaty with Lady Gunter, he was
doing Miriam a service ; but did not care te confess it to
himself.
He staid nearly an hour, and the time passed very
pleasantly. The little blue-eyed woman tried her best
to fascinate, and she had so well acquired the art of con-
cealing art, that no one, unless gifted with Archie’s stol-
idity and penetration, would have known how unreal
she was. Had he been a stranger, she would have
charmed him, made him her slave; but he knew her,
from the top of her audacious, sinful, pretty golden head,
to the aainty morsel of afoot, which looked so tempting,
with its velvet slipper and silken limb. He knew her,
and, well as he knew her, he was not unconscious of
her power.
Mr. Ravel admitted frankly that she had been verv
beautiful in her time. Had he not known her so long,
he would have thought her beautiful still. The smali,
lithe, compact figure was faultless; the face, with its
delicate features, pearls of teeth, and rich, red, tender
lips, faultless; and the arm which she displayed with
such careless intention would have riveted the attention
of a sculptor.
And she had the rare grace of dressing well. Her
robes had the simple effect of drapery ; they marked
every outline, followed her every attitude. Cecilia saw
that he noticed it and admired her, and she half sat,
Back num-
head, smiling at him with those wicked eyes, and glad
to see that, though he hated her, he could not resist the
fascination of her supple beauty.
‘Do you remember our journey ?” she said, with the
were? Tell me candidly, Mr. Ravel—why do you dis-
like me ?”
“Say, rather, why did I?”
“Speak the truth, and say why do you?
children, you dear, uncouth, handsome stupid, and you
may as Well say what you mean in plain words. We
listen to us, SO you are quite at liberty to speak.”
Archie looked at her tranquilly.
organ of surprise to a considerable extent. She was
difficult to deal with, and he could not treat her as he
would have treated an ordinary woman. Nothing but
his stolid quietude—uncouthness, she called it—saved
the mere pleasure of hearing the reply.”
“It shall be soif you like. Do you know, I like you,
Mr. Ravel! I like you for cominghere. You were not
certain that the door would not be shut in your face;
but you risked it for the sake of seeing how I wear my
new title. Look at me!”
«You are a wicked little——”
“Say it,” she laughed, touching his large white hand.
“Tam a wicked little deémon—that is what you meant.”
Truth compelled Mr. Ravel to bow in the affirmative.
‘Well, and here I am, in my proper place. Shall I tell
you acurious story, Mr. Ravel—my own? Bad asI am,
much as you detest me, and little as I fear you, 1 do not
like to be entirely misjudged. Wiéill you listen ?”
“Tf you wish it, with pleasure.”
“You will not listen with pleasure. You are a good
man, and you will shudder, because what I tell you
will bring the truth home to you, and make you admit,
in spite of yourself, that the same thing might happen
to your own sister or your own wife. I am not afraid
of taking you into my confidence ; you would never be-
tray any woman, even were she worse than Iam; and
even if you did repeat every word, I would contradict
you to your face. I can speak fearlessly, because I have
the positign I always aimed at.. Ihave a creston my
carriage, My servants wear violet plush and silk, and I
have more than one duchess on my list of callers.
Lady Gunter, Mr. Ravel, and so I will be to the end.”
“Unless you give General Sir Montgomery Alisford,
cause- to appeal for a separation,” said Archie, placidly.
He liked the suppressed tempest in her tone. Its in-
tensity made her body quiver, and her little hands
were clenched when shé spoke again.
‘He, the purblind old idiot!
to his bed.
for his name. That, like charity—for I care not—l want
asa cover for my sins. I hate him!
years ago, while I loved him passionately.
| the depth of my soul. You will not wonder when I tell
| you all.”
) Lady——
hands, and such a sudden change of tone, such an
agonized transition from the reckless gayety of her man-
she uttered another word, “you are a man, stronger
than I am, even in my sin, and you need not mock me.
Women can only war with women. We are frivolous
‘J think too many of us do,” said Archie, gravely,
“and use the power badly; yet you often play the fool
with us!”
“But the bitter cost of it!” she said, with a slight
shudder. ‘It is not in your masculine brain to conceive,
even in thought, the self-torture a coquette endures—
tempting a lover, trifling with him, denying him at the
last moment, and suffering a pain keener than his pas-
sion at the time; and then, after all, giving in to some
one she does not love half so well—but some strong, per-
sistent, tranquil man, who makes himself her master.
Mr. Ravel, I am telling you more than any other woman
would have done, and I am telling you the truth.”
He believed her. Instinct had told him as much be-
fore, but he had never heard the words from a woman’s
lips.
““My history,” she said, after a pause.
as the proud, beautiful pu whom you love so ten-
derly. I was, asI live. have ruined her, andI am
sorry for it now itis too late. On my soul, [did not mean
to letit gosofar. If J could have reached my present
place, this room—sat here as I sit now, mistress of this
house—without making her a stepping-stone, and crush-
ing her, I would have done it; but it was not to be. She
put herself in my way. I hated her and I was terrified
by her. Sometimes, when she has turned upon me with
almost a red light in those magnificent eyes of hers, like
a splendid lioness, Ihave quailed in my soul, but she
has never known it. If she had killed me at her feet, I
would have died smiling at her, driving her mad by the
dead look which should tell her I had conquered!”
“You certainly are an interesting study,” said Mr.
Ravel. ‘Pray go on.”
He liked the scene for its novelty. The richly furnish-
«ed room, with its window overlooking the park trees,
and the fashionable street below. A richly furnished
room in a splendid house, and its titled mistress crying
over the infamous depths of her heart, he could not help
thinking what a difference there was between what she
was and what she seemed.
“Tf L were a man’s dearest friend,” she said, plunging
into her story, with no change in her voice beyond an
increase of its low intensity, ‘I shculd advise him never
to be too stern with his wife. I married when I was
barely nineteen—I am turned forty now—and you see
what I am, you can guess what I was then.”
“Prettier than you are now, I should imagine,” said
Mr. Ravel, quietly, ‘‘and with your element of wicked-
ness undeveloped. I give you credit for everything in
nature and art, except truth and virtue. I think you
struck those two small essentials off your list years
ago.’
Lady Gunter laughed bitterly. .
“JT am very truthful just at present, Mr. Ravel—I can
afford to be with you. I tell you when I married I was
as pure, even in spirit, as she whom you so dote
upon, and my husband was a poor, proud man, re-
served, truthful, austere, believing me with entire
There are notwo men alike; there is not even one |
Wife of Two Husbands
half lay upon the satin couch, with her hands above her |
ripple of a laugh on her lip; ‘how dearly you wished |
me a thousand miles away, and what a surly bear you |
We are not |
are quite alone, you know; no one will disturb us, or |
He had long since }
done with amazement, or she would have touched his |
im. |
«Why do I dislike you?” hesaid. ‘You ask that for |
Lam |
3 : ers EL : Why, he isin his dotage |
| silk, the exact shade of the gown it covered, and lined | _» miserable withered wretch, who can scarcely totter |
I would let him die, as I could, ifit were not |
He tired of me |
Now the old}
driveler isin love with me again, and Iloathe him from |
“You are not a happy woman, Mrs. Digby—pardon me, |
“Mr. Ravel,” she said, with her face hidden in her |
ner, that his heart was smitten with compassion before |
with you. Ah, it you only knew the power you have!” |
“[ was as pure |
WEEKLY. #32
i
| faith, giving me a cool, calm sort of love, which was
| torture to me. He treated me as if 1 were a pretty
| doll, caressed me at times, neglected me at others.
; When we went to India I was the prettiest woman of
| the garrison, and the most plainly dressed. I believe,
|; had I worn the untrimmed gray of a quakeress he
would never have cared.
| ‘It was fond of him—I worshiped him. Lieutenant
Digby was a very handsome man—a majestic, dignified
gentleman, unapproachable when he chose even by his
superiors. He never raised his voice to me, never put
the same request twice. His word was a law trom which
| there was no appeal. He was so proud that.I dared not
love him as much as [could—and I was very young, only
nineteen. You would pity another woman, Mr. Ravel,
but your lip curls at me.”
“However, having married an honorable man, you be-
trayed him, and now are seeking self-extenuation on the
the score of your youth. You were old enough to know
right from wrong.”
How sternly men judge,” she said, half sadly, ‘‘and
how unjustly. You were not there to see how I was
tempted. If you ever marry a young wife, Mr. Ravel,
keep her from the society of old married women as you
would keep her from a pestilence. You can scarcely
dream what an easy code of morals they have. How,
half in banter, half in pity, they work npon the feelings
of an untrained girl, till she grows discontented with
her lot. I had a passion for dress and jewelry—my
husband despised both, and for a long time I had to con-
ceal my liking. He could not afford to buy them for me,
and he would not get into debt. He told me to live down
to his income, and I could have laughed in his face. I
was the prettiest woman at the station, Mr. Ravel, and
I would not be outdressed by the others.”
Mr. Ravel wondered to himself how much of the femi-
nine sins that exist, known and unknown, comes of that
same vanity. Mrs. Digby answered his thoughts.
“IT wanted money, Mr. Ravel—more than he allowed
me. I ran up bills of which he knew nothing, obtained
feathers, flowers, jewels—all on credit; and he might,
had he given such things a moment’s thought, had he
looked at me a second time, when I went to him for ap-
probation—for we like our husbands to admire us
whether we care for them or not—he might have seen
that I was spending ten times more than he gave me.”
‘“May I venture to inquire how you got it ?”
; Cecilia shrugged her shoulders with wicked noncha-
ance,
“From a wide circle of the poor major’s friends.
There was scarcely a woman in the garrison—and they
all detested me—whose husband had not contributed to
knew, what the women would not believe, that my
reputation was spotiess. I could not afford to let it be
otherwise.”
“As arule, [suppose not; but isn’t there generally an
exception ?”
“Yes. Mine was the general—you knew it long ago.
He was so safe, you see, bore such an irreproachable
character, and his rank kept the others from going too
far. It was a parental, fatherly regard, you know,
though--I state it confidentially—that parental privilege
of age is a wretched delusion, and a friend of fifty is sure
to be a young husband's worst enemy.”
‘You understand human nature, Lady Gunter ?”
“T went to school at a very early age. But, mark me
in this, Mr. Ravel; my husband might have made me all
a good man can desire, had’ he taken the pains, and he
did not take the pains. He settled down into a quiet,
comfortable sense of proprietorship. He had courted
me—married me—I belonged to him, and there was an
end of it. As a matter of course, I should always re-
member that I was Mrs. Major Digby, whether he was
with me or not. I was always subdued in his presence,
and he never knew or dreamed that I was an inveterate
coquette. Besides, if I fancied he thought I was going
too far with any particular one, I made a diversion by
going a little further with another. I provoked him to
uarrel with Colonel Dowsman, to keep suspicion from
the general. Strategy, you know, and we understand
the art better than diplomatists or soldiers.”
“Tam glad to have met sO many good women, Mrs.
Digby,” said Archie, with uncomplimentary candor, ‘‘for
you would give me a very bad opinion of the sex.”
«Thanks! I have such a bad opinion of your sex, that
not even your primitive style of behaviour can induce
me to think better of it.
lains with the innocent, and fools wlth the cunning.
Have I edified you with my history ?”
“A little. The details interested me, though I knew
the substance long since.”
in gaining my position ?”
«7 shall give you more credit if you keep it.”
| “Ts that a warning, Mr. Ravel? What have I, an old
man's darling, to tear?”
| «That which comes to every old man’s darling, Lady
Gunter—the risk of being a young man’s slave. A woman
who is the first is rarely able to save herself from being
the last.”
|
He had touched some hidden
His instinct
| her countenance change.
train of thought, or struck upon a secret.
told him so, and he smiled as he rose to go.
“Give my kindest regards to my dear Miriam, will you,
Mr. Ravel, when you see her ?”
«JT never do see her now.”
«What a shame! Inconstant,so soon, and such devoted
lovers as you were! Really, you men are very cruel! [
did not think you would leave the poor girl in such
trouble.”
‘Are you trying to make me angry, Mrs. Digby ?” he
asked, tranquilly. ‘You know that I know you—do not
believe a word you say of her. You know that Miriam is
a true and pure woman, and that is one of the reasons
why you hate her!”
‘Well, yes; perhaps it is. Will you stay and see Sir
Montgomery ?”
“Thanks !—not now!
with him.” ;
The little lady had quieted down in the last few min-
utes; but she sprang up again, her lips quivering with
| bitterness.
“You are not glad, and you know Ido not love him,
Mr. Ravel. Why should I—since at my very worst Iam
better than he? He made me the despised thing I was
—he made me despise myself. He kept me hanging on
for years to the faint hope he would give me one day
what I long since had a right to—the shelter of his
name. I slaved for him, intrigued for him—supplied
him with money. I paid for the very dress in which he
went tocourt. I furnished his house—bought the car-
riage and the"horses. He would have cast me off had he
dared—he—he who has dragged me down, thought
me not good enough to be his wife! The old dotard
would never have married meif Ihad not frightened
him into it!”
“Then I would not give much for your ladyship’s do-
| mestic peace !”
She laughed strangely.
«He has fallen in love with me over again, Mr. Ravel.
Tam glad to see you are happy
that wears a title, and tries to Matter and caress me as he
loathe him. Do you hear him now—the wretched voice,
the feeble footsteps coming up the stairs? . I sometimes
think the title and position were hardly worth the sacri- |
fice.”
She took up a bouquet and smiled sweetly.
“Ts it not beautiful? Montgomery knew my passion
| for flowers. and he is so thoughtful, so generous; you
will be charmed to see how well he is looking.”
The change in tone, the smile, and the last wordswere
| a little piece of acting for the general’s benefit. Cecilia
pretended not to know he had re-entered the room till
she turned.
He was not alone. There was a gentleman with him
of three or four-and forty—a fine, handsome man, with
a soft, full mouth, and small, white, filbert-shaped teeth.
He was introduced as Captain Chandos, and during the
| half-hour Archie staid, he thought the general must
have a new lease of faith in Cecilia to have such a visitor
| at his house.
CHAPTER LI.
THE BEGINNING OF RETRIBUTION.
The instinct by which men know each other told Mr.
Ravel that Captain Chandos was not a desirable acquaint-
ance. He was altogether too sweet and smooth—too
level in tone for aman of Archie’s-honest nature. He
possess.
Archie gathered from the conversation that the cap-
tain and General Gunter had known each other In
India ; and taking quiet notice—as he always did—he
saw there was more than mere /riendship between
Chandos and the general’s wife. There was too much
| studied courtesy on one side and reserve on the other for
either to be real.
‘Yes, there is an element of danger in old Gunter’s
friendship for the captain,” he said, as he went-into the
park to smoke an early cigar under the trees. Their
cool green shadow was arelief to him after the inter-
view which had given him such an insight into Mrs.
Digby’s character. ‘‘He is one of those quiet, graceful,
tender-voiced men, with whom a woman is about as safe
as she would be with a tiger; and I think he has some-
thing to do with her change of countenance when I re-
plied to her remark about being an old man’s darling.
AndI was right. Not that she is so young; but she
wears well, and her indomitable pluck is worth twenty
years of youth to her.”
He went to Mount street several times after that ; im-
pelled by some such curiosity as might have taken him
to study the habits of a strange creature in the gardens
at Regent’s park. The woman interested him ina cer-
tain way; seeing her as she was to others, with her
charming society manners, and then watching the
curious pleasure she had in throwing off the mask when
they were alone.
Chandos was generally there when he went, or came
before he left ; and Archie growing observant, saw that
he was in the way when the captain arrived. Person-
ally they did not make the least progress together—
there was not a single feeling in common between them.
Archie went to Mount street several times, and gradu-
ally became conscious that he was taking an interest in
Lady Gunter which was not entirely unmixed with sym-
pathy. He told Ted Pulteney that the little woman,
tigress though she was, would not have been so sinful
had she not been deeply sinned against.
‘‘T went there first with the idea that I might do some
service to Miriam by going,” he said, ‘‘and I find my-
self pitying the golden-haired witch a little. She told
me, with real tears in her eyes, that she would never
have been so bad if the world would have given her
a chance of redeeming herself when she once went
wrong.”
“And you believed the tears ?”
“Yes; there was no sentiment, no repentance about
my wardrobe, or my jewel case, and yet the men |
You are all more or less vil- |
She looked at him steadily for a moment, and he saw
The old wreck—the almost helpless, withered thing— |
did twenty years ago, does not know how I sicken atand |
liked more individuality than Mr. Chandos appeared to |
them. They were bitter heart-drops, and she was sav-
age with herself for letting them come. I believe she
told the truth, Ted.”
Ted gave him a contemplatively dubious nod.
‘TI dare say she believed she was telling the truth at
the time, Archie. The faculty of being affected by the
falsehood we are telling, and wishing it was a truth, isa
common bit of psychology discovered a long time ago,
It comes from the same mental principle which makes
us persist in doing things we are sorry tor even while we
are doing them.”
‘*You think her utterly bad ?”
“No one is utterly bad. Mrs. Digby would have been’a
different woman had she married a different man; but
that is no excuse for her. It was her duty to adapt her-
self to circumstances. She is to be pitied, but she ought
to be punished.”
“Is it good logic to say that you can both pity and
punish at the same time ?”
“Yes; you may pity the criminal, but you must pun-
ish the crime in the person of its perpetrator. It is
too much the fashion to be lenient with pretty women,
especially if they are delicate and educated. They have
no more right to our sympathy than an ugly kitchen-
maid has.”
“You would make a splendid reformer,” said Mr.
Ravel, ‘providing there were no pretty women in the
world. Ishould like to see the delicate, educated beauty
before you, by the side of the ugly kitchen-maid, both
charged with the same ‘crime. Iam afraid the poor slave
of the dish-cloth would get the worst of it.”
‘‘Not from me.”
«You cannot argue me out ofwmy senses literally, Ted,
and admiration for pretty things is one of the keenest
with me, as with you, and every one. No, my youthful
stoic ; you may think it wrong, and wish to see it altered,
but, depend upon it, as long as mankind is mankind,
pretty women will have the best of it—and so they
ought !”
And, feeling that for once he had the best of an argu-
ment with his friend Pulteney, Archie departed while
the victory was with him.
He went to the park again, and took a refiective cigar
up and down the walk in front of the Achilles statue. It
was an object of serious interest toa man who looked
like a servant in plain livery: but he was chewing a
splinter of cinnamon in acogitative style which belonged
to no one except Mr. John Samuel Granger.
«You have a taste for the fine arts,” said Archie.
‘How do you do, sir? No, I am not much in that way;
but I was thinking what a good thing it was there were
no police in the days when gentlemen of that size went
about in that state.”
«Why?
«‘Where would have been the use of a constable being
told to take him into custody, if we weren’t any bigger
than we are now ?”
“Tt would have been awkward, certainly,” assented
Mr. Ravel, gravely; ‘‘but policemen were not required at
that period, Mr. Granger. It was a highly moral and
instructive age—remarkable for the simplicity of its cus-
toms and the severity of its diet.”
“Severity of diet suited him, anyhow,” said Granger,
surveying the Trojan hero with a glance of mingled ad-
miration and outraged propriety; ‘‘and as for dress—he
must have taken a lesson from Adam.” ;
“No; he lived a long time before Adam, Mr. Granger.”
Mr. Granger might have believed him but for that; he
ventured on a wink, expressive of incredulity. .
‘No, Mr. Ravel, that won’t do, when Adam was the
first man that ever lived.”
“Yes, in his part of the world; but this gentleman was
a Trojan, and lived a long way off.”
John Samuel’s incredulity was removed, and he made
a mental resolution to enlighten the select circle of
which he was an honored member, in the parlor of the
Lantern and Staff, down Scotland Yard.
“For though they know a lot,” he thought, ‘‘and some
of them can put me down, there isn’t one as can go in
for ancient history so far back as that ; and coming from
areal gentleman it must be right.”
«What are you doing here, Granger? Business ?”
“Yes, sir. Iam butler to a lady in Park street, anda
very nice place it is.”
«Surely you have not retired from the profession ?”
This time it was Granger’s turn to smile.
“Tam butler to a lady as takes a great interest ina
certain friend of hers—Lady Gunter, you know, Mr. Ravel
—and if you could put two and two together, you
wouldn’t be long finding out who I am butler to.”
‘*Mirlam—Lady Selton ?”
“Mrs. Hurst,” corrected Granger.
“Mrs. Hurst, widow
“And you give me credit for ingenuity, courage, nerve, | lady, No. 12 Park street. Why, sir, you have passed
| the window a dozen times when she has been looking
{at you. Not that its for me to tell; but I know you
| can be depended on, and I thought you would like to
hear.”
CHAPTER LII.
SETTING THE SNARE.
That Miriam had some strange purpose in securing
| the services of Granger, Mr. Ravel was sure, and he felt
| anxious to know what that purpose was.
| “How did you find out where Lady Selton was ?” Archie
| inquired, giving Miriam her old title.
| ‘She sent for me, and when I waited upon her, she
ployed by any one to watch me, Mr. Granger?”
| So I says, ‘No, my lady; and if I were, it would only
| be by those who meant well by you;’ and then she talked
| to me aboutsone thing and the other, and at last I was
put on to watch Mrs. “ys [>
«What has the result been ?”
“That's got to come. Mrs. Hurst, as she tells me to
call her, is quite satisfied.” ; :
“Shall I be tempting you to break a confidence,
| Granger, if l ask you to tell me the exact nature of your
mission ?”
“What I have to do is this—see who Mrs. Digby’s
friends are, where she goes to, what she does and what
she says, so far as I can get to know. Now, there’s that
Captain Chandos,” the detective went on. “You wouldn’t
think what a deal of interest Mrs. Hurst takes in him.
Iam finding out his character for her, and a pretty
character itis. One of the biggest scoundrels, ina gen-
tlemanly way, you can imagine, and never once for the
last ten years has he been without a writ after him. [
could open the eld general’s eyes a little ; but, then, he
might not care to have them opened,” Mr. Granger
added, retiectively.
“Ts the little lady indiscreet ?”
‘Tf that’s the term for it, I should say very much so.
It’s wonderful to me how careless people get as they go
on. They must think servants are blind, not to netice
what it means when they are always meeting each other
| out of doors, as if by accident. By the way, Mr. Ravel, I
| Should call in at Park street, if I were you. I don’t think
| her ladyship—I can’t help saying her ladyship—would
be very angry.”
‘Have you mentioned that you have seen me visit
| Mount street ?”
| Granger nodded assent.
| It had to be told in the order of the day, and whether
| She was puzzled, pleased, or angry, I could not tell.”
; ‘TI had better see for myself,” said Ravel, giving him a
sovereign. ‘I dare say my visits are open to miscon-
i ee for I can scarcely explain the motive even to
| myself.” :
He had an unpleasant impression that Miriam would
| think him very weak or very stupid; but he went to
| Park street, nevertheless, and sent in his card. He was
shown into the morning-room, and kept waiting some
| — minutes. He did not like the reception; it chilled
| him.
| Miriam came in, grave, reserved, beautiful as ever,
; and in the quiet touch of her hand, the calm composure
| of her smile, he felt that, for the time at least, the affec-
| tionate. familiarity of their intercourse was at an end.
| He resigned himself to the change, as he would have re-
| Signed himself to anything she chose to do.
“Are you glad to see me, Miriam ?”
“Yes, Archie, very glad. Because I want you to do
| nat a service. Bring your friend, Captain Chandos,
ere.”
‘He is no friend of mine, Miriam. He is simply a dis-
| reputable man-about-town, and I won’t bring him.”
| “J want him, Archie. I have a use for him. I know
| his character perfectly. He is a worthless reprobate,
| who has no right beyond the step of an honest man’s
ene but he will suit my purpose, and I want
| him.”
“Then you must tell me the purpose. I have too much
| regard for uncle’s good name and your own future to let
| a pie be seen at your house, or alone with you in
public.”
| “The end will justify all things, Archie, and I want
| this man to help me to the end.”
| Whatever her p was, she was firm, and Archie
ea as she knew he would, though he did so with an
| ill grace.
| “thought I should be able to do without you,” she
| said, with just enough of the old tenderness to melt him;
‘but I have missed you sadly, after all.”
«And when I have brought this fellow to youl am to
be exiled again, I suppose,” he grumbled. ‘I should not
have known you were here had it not been for Mr.
Granger.”
‘I Shali not exile you in, Archie; but we must meet
on a different footing. I have had time to refiect since
we parted, and I see that, good and thoughtful as you
were, there were times when you were almost glad that
I was free from every claim. It is best not to flinch from
the truth—wisest for you to know that I can never give
my slanderers such a confirmation of their rumors as to
be your wife.”
“Never! Not even if—Heaven forbid that I should
wish it—Sir Henry were dead ?”
“Is it kind of you to press the question? It is the
knowledge that the thought is always with you which
makes me reluctant to have you near me.”
“Well,” he said, gently, ‘‘I will not speak of 6 again.”
There was a momentary sense of jealousy in Archie’s
heart when Miriam asked him to introduce the hand-
some, dissolute soldier, but it was only momentary. He
had a dim idea of her true purpose.
The introduction took place after the lapse of nearly a
fortnight, and then it was by Mr. Granger’s agency. The
house-maid told him her mistress was going toa flower-
show at Chiswick with Captain Chandos, and Archie took
| Miriam there. Lady Gunter could not repress a start
| when she met Miriam face to face.
| “Ihave conquered-her,”thought General Gunter’s wife,
| as Miriam held out her hand with a tranquil smile.
| “She is helpless now, and resigned to her defeat. I knew
) I should break her proud spirit at last.”
| Mr. Ravel, much against his will, did the civil thing
| for Gerard Chandos, and would, ih obedience to a sign
| from Miriam, have given Cecilia his arm; but the littie
} lady would not have it yet. She wanted to talk to her
| sweet friend.
} I suppose it is a truce, my dear Miriam ?” she said,
says to me, in her straightforward way, ‘Are you em- -
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linking her hands on the arm of the woman she had so
bitterly wronged. “It was a hard battle for a poor little
thing like me to fight, and you cannot blame me if I did
my best to win.”
“I quite exonerate you, Lady Gunter. You were not to
blame for the line of conduct Mr. Grey chose to take.
You were not answerable for Sir Henry’s conduct. I am
glad to see that the general has done you justice.”
“Then we are friends ?”
} “Is there any reason why we should be otherwise ?”
“None. But I did not know what you might think;
and, seriously, I am half afraid of you. Except that you
are too proud and strong to think a helpless woman like
myself worthy of anything more than contempt.”
Miriam did not reply. There was ap under-current of
ap) in -her enemy’s voice, and she was glad to find
that her power over the little traitress was not gone.
“Will you dine with me to-day?” Cecilia went on.
“Will you come—tell me all that has happened? I have
heard so many stories of you, that I expected to see you
looking very different; but you do not seem to have
suffered.”
“Why ‘should I seem as if I had suffered?” Miriam
asked, with a low laugh. ‘‘I have two thousand a year
and my liberty, and I have an offer of marriage from Sir
Henry Selton. It is a change from the prospects of eight
one you refused Sir Henry’s offer ?”
“ es.’
“You are a strange creature, Mirlam. I never could
quite understand you; but I think I was nearer the
truth than you chose to admit when I thought you only
cared for Selton’s title.”
“Perhaps you were right, Lady Gunter—perhaps you
knew me better than I knew myself. Does your invita-
tion for this evening include Mr. Ravel ?”
“Of course. He is your true lover, and I like him bet-
ter than I did. What do you think of Chandos ?”
“He is handsome.”
“You will be charmed with him, He has been my de-
voted for more years than I care to remember, and I
must beg of you not to take him from me.”
“It would be cruel, as you are such old friends. How
long have you known him ?”
“Nearly six-and-twenty years. You will keep the
dreadful secret, won’t you ?/ ‘I could not afford to be so
frank if you did not know my age. Nearly six-and-twenty
years! He was a fledgling ensign then—used to rave |
about my eyes, and write. me. letters for which my hus-
band would have horsewhipped him had I told him of
their existence; but Gerard was such a pretty boy that
I had not the heart to get him into trouble.”
‘(He has been very constant.”
“He told me seriously that he has remained single en-
tirely through me, and I believe him. You know some
men are strange.”
“You aré a coquette to the last,” Miriam said to her-
self, ‘and your vanity will help me to your destruction,
Lady Montgomery Gunter. If you have any such folly
as a genuine bad affection for him, I shall like it the |
better, for the blow will strike yOu with more keenness
eoming through him.”
She dined in Mount street with Archie, Chandos, and
her ladyship—a little cozy party of four. It was the first
of many dinners of which the same four were sole par-
takers, and Captain Gerard Chandos was soon on a very
friendly footing in Park street. It was his pleasant de-
lusion that-he made Mr. Ravel jealous, and was always
welcome to Miriam,
“There is not a more magnificent woman in the
world!” Gerard Chandos told himself, for perhaps the
hundredth time, as he left the house at the end of one
of the morning calls that were becoming frequent, ‘‘and
I never felt so strongly inclined to sacrifice my free-
dom. She is outside society, ifis true; but, then, so am
I, and sol have been for the last ten years. She has |
two thousand a year—that, as I have ascertained, is |
true beyond a doubt—and with two thousand a year we
could make a good show on the Continent. Then her
-aiatey A I am half determined to try what chance I
ave |”
While he was making up his: mind, Miriam, with the
assistance of Granger and Mr. Medwin, was interest-
ing herself considerably in his private affairs. They
made a brief history, common enough to men of his
kind. He was heavily in debt; dishonored bills bear-
ing his name were aS common as waste paper, and
even his commission was at the mercy of disreputable
money-lending lawyers and tailors. His income barely
ene to pay the interest on his debts and avert the
evil day.
«You will buy up every debt he has,” Miriam said to
Mr. Medwin; “make yourself his sole creditor, and hold
him.so that you can throw him into prison at an hour’s |
notice should I require it.”
A Glad Husband.
“How is your wife?” a friend of mine asked a farmer,
whose wife had been ill.
‘Oh, she’s dead.”
“Dead! Surely that was unexpected. When did it
happen ?”
“It was yesterday.”
‘Did you send for the doctor ?”.
“No; ye see it was a long way, and we thought that
may be she would get over it, and there was a bit of a
powder that I got from the doctor a year or two since,
when I was iil myself, but I hadn’t taken it. I thoughtI
might give her that; and I just give it to her, and she
died soon after. It’s a great change to me, but I’m very
glad J didn’t take the powder myself.”
He Could Carry the Ceal.
He entered the coal office with a small market basket
on his arm.
“Give me a ton of coal.”
“res, sir,” said the merchant. ‘‘Where shall I send
“oh, just put it in this basket. Ill carry it home my-
se x
But we have a wagon right here, and can send it up
at once.”
“No. I can carry the coal easy enough, but you might
send the bill up in a wagon.”
Designs on Ice.
They were gliding over the ice together, making
a sweeps with the glittering blades of their
“clubs.”
‘“Tll dare you to make the fancy figures on ice that I
will,” said Reginald.
‘Tm quite sure. Regy, my boy, that you could beat
me handsomely at that,” replied Algernon. ‘‘The fancy
figures I make on ice generally depend on the particular
plaid pattern there is'on my trousers.” And he imme-
diately illustrated.
He Was Glad.
“Bric-a-brac is fast disappearing from fashionable
mantel-pieces,” read Mrs. Crimsonbeak from the daily
papers the other evening. -
“Tm glad of that,” replied her husband, looking up
fora moment. ‘Now a fellow will have some place in
the house to put his feet.”
Semething Fresh.
“Ts there anything fresh in hats ?” said the reporter,
sticking his head in at the door of a hatter’s establish-
ment in search of news items.
“Well, you’re about the freshest thgng I’ve seen this
morning,” replied the merchant, with a grin.
Mirthfual Morsels.
“Oh, mamma!” cried a little girl, whose mother was
visiting a rich old aunt, who had just been married,
“you said Aunt Sophy’s new husband had regular plan-
— for feet, but I don’t see anything growing on
them.”
Jessie, aged five—‘‘My mamma’s got a new silk dress,
and your mamma ain’t.” Harry, aged four—‘‘I don’t
care; My mamma can take her teef out, and your
mamma can’t.”
A Brooklyn woman hag acquired the art of whistling.
She probably learned it from hearing her husband when
the milliner’s bill was wheeled home.
There is one town in Connecticut that has no fear of
the measles. It’s Haddam.
“Tf you don’t keep out of this yard you'll catch it,”
said a woman to a boy in West Lann. “All right,” an-
swered the gamin. “I wouldn’t have come if 'd known,
your folks had it.”
Men are like wagons—they rattle prodigiously when
there is nothing in them.
“What is laughter?” asks a philosopher.
sound that you hear when your hat biows off.
‘There is a ring in those tones,’ shouted the girl who
had been listening to the sweet whispers of her lover.
THE DEATH OF MURAT.
BY LAWRENCE LESLIE,
lt is the
Some years ago the writer saw, in a private collection
of curiosities at Philadelphia, a yellow, dingy paper
upon which was written, in French, the following ;
“DEAR FRIEND.—In a few hours Joachim Murat will be no
more. I cannot write you a long farewell letter, for reasons
Mr. Medwin could scarcely understand, his client; but | which will readily occur to you, but asa proef of my contin-
he promised to carry out her instructions.
singular interest in her character, probably because it
mystified him.
“The total sum will be one thousand seven hundred
and forty-three pounds,” he said, quietly; “and as a
foe I would not give the odd seven hundred for
them.”
“Tam not buying the debts, Mr. Medwin; Iam buy-
ing him, body and soul! If I had not the power to drive
him into prison or from. the country, he would be my
master. Withit, he is my slave. And if he does what I
want him to do, I shall think him cheaply bought. IT
will send you a check for the amount to-morrow. Or
stay—you may take it now.”
“Strange—very strange!’ Medwin pondered, as he
bowed himself out, with the check and a liberal fee in
his pocket. ‘‘What can her purpose be? She does not
care for the fellow. He cannot have wronged or slight-
ed her; and if he had she would not pay so much to
have revenge on aman. She is perfectly incomprehen-
sible to me.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.]
>-@
Bertha M. Clay writes exclusively for the New
York Weekly.
>@
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En Masque.
‘Twas at a masquerade we met ;
A trembling cloud of fleecy lace
Fell round a form of fairy grace,
And diamonds bound her hair of jet.
Emboldened by the mask I wore,
I plead of her a single dance ;
Victory crowned my bold advance ;
I proudly led her to the floor.
I longed to see her hidden face,
And as her little form I held,
My heart with wild emotions swelled,
I asked her to her mask displace.
She lifted up her queenly head ;
With jeweled hand her mask she raised ;
I stood and looked, abashed, amazed,
Isaw it was—my brother Fred!
He Stopped the Car.
The car was going down French’s hill, and there were
afew jovial passengers aboard. At Prospect street a
lady got out. A young man who, with a few of his
friends, were having a bit of quiet fun and had evidently
been enjoying themselves, said: “I'll bet cigars for the
crowd that Tl stop the ear without ringing the bell,
speaking to the driver or conductor, or asking any one to |
stop it.”
“@h, you'll go outside and slap hold of the brake.
Yowre too smart, you are,” remarked one of his compan- |
ions, smilingly. ‘‘You'll cut oe if you don’t mind.” |
‘No, siree, Pll do no such thing. Tllneither touch the |
brake, nor ask any one to touch it for me, and I won’t
ask anybody to stop the car.”
The bet was taken.
Up jumped the car-stopper, and seizing one of the
straps, tugged at it as hard as he could.
The conductor saw him, and concluded that the man
was a greenhorn who wanted to get out and was yank-
ing at the wrong tag.
open the door.
The man had sat down again.
“Don’t you want to get out here ?” said the conductor.
“Oh, dear, no.”
“Then why did you pull the strap ?”
|b
“T was only trying to see if it was firm enough to hold |
me if I happened to come along in the car some night |
when I couldn’t get a seat.”
The door slammed, and the conductor said something
as he leaned against the rear brake. It was something
not very complimentary to such darned fooling.
But the man had won his bet. He had stopped the
car.
An Open Countenance.
The parlors were crowded with company, and every
body was having a good time, until Miss Angelina’s seven-
year-old brother came in, and sat down near Mr.
Goldime, the. wealthy suitor for Miss Angelina’s hand.
After sitting quiet for a few minutes, he looked at Mr.
G., and sai ud enough for every body to hear :
“Say, Mr. idime, do you think my mouth will ever
get as big as yourn ?”
‘Miss Angie tried to attract Tommy’s attention, but
he kept his eyes on Mr. G., who finally asked :
“Why do you ask, Tommy ?”
“Oh, nothin’!” said Tom, “only I heard Angie tell
some girls last night, that if your mouth got any bigger
you would have to get your ears set back to give it
room.”
Angie fainted.
They Missed Him.
«Do they miss me at home, do they meet me ?” roared
the vocalist, in a falsetto bass tremolo.
Before he could proceed further, a fellow in the gallery
remarked :
“Yes, I think they do. As I came by, the old man was
snoring in his chair, the dog was fast asleep before the
fire, and the old woman was telling the cat that it was
the first quiet moment she’d seen for a week. Yes, sir;
they miss you by a large majority.”
The vocalist did not finish his song, but rushed out in-
to the silent night, his bosom heaving with emotion. A
He took a | ued friendship and confidence, I request you to take charge
of my private papers, and arrange my private affairs in the
est shape possible. The little I leave to my family I desire
you to collect and arrange as soon as practicable. The ac-
companying papers will explain all. Farewell.
“JOACHIM MURAT.”
This letter was written by the great French soldier, on
the eve of his execution, to a legal friend whom he had
designated to take charge of his pecuniary affairs, and
invest whatever means he might have for the benefit of
his wife and children.
We are reminded of this incident by finding,the fokow-
ing paragraph in a volume entitled ‘‘Six Months In the
Sunny South,” published in New York in 1840. -‘We
spent the 22d of February,” says the author, “in Pensa-
cola, Florida. At an early hour the heavy bouming of
guns from the navy-yard reminded us that it was the
anniversary of the birth of George Washington. In the
evening there was a grand ball given at the residence of
Byrd Willis, Esq., navy agent at Pensacola. A brilliant
company assembled, and we noticed many whose names
are well known on both sides of the ocean. We were
most interested in a tall, dark-complexioned man, of
handsome features and polished manners, and our in-
terest was not lessened when we learned that the gen-
tleman was Napoleon Achille Murat, a son of the great
soldier of the Empire, and King of Naples. I learned
upon inquiry that he is a thriving planter, of liberal, pro-
gressive views, and a general favorite. He some years
ago married a daughter of Mr. Willis, a sweet, lovely
creature, and the marriage has been an unusually happy
one. Itisa little singular that this fugitive son of a
king should have sought and won the hand of a relative
of Washington, Miss Willis being a grand-niece of the
great republican.”
The history of the great captains of the first empire
are all of thrilling interest, but the brilliant career of
Murat eclipses all others in romance and tragedy. He
was born in France on the 25th of March, 1771. His
father was an innkeepér, but resolved to educate his
son for the priesthood, and he was accordingly enrolled
in the college of his native town. He remained buta
year or two, and was then expelled for some youthful
folly. He then enlistedin a regiment of chasseurs, and
rapidly rose through the several grades to the rank of
major; but his quick temper led him into insubordina-
tion, and he was cashiered. Out of employment, and
without a sou in his purse, he was forced to accept the
position of waiterin a Paris cafe. His love of excite-
ment and passion for the military soon drew him from
this menial occupation, and we find him enrolled asa
member of the constitutional guards of Louis XVI.
When this organization was dissolved by the revolution-
ary assembly he was transferred to another regiment,
with the rank of lieutenant-colonel. His fine figure, his
martial bearing, the splendor of his uniform, and the
eculiar charm of his voice, made him at once a favorite
n the army. Restless, reckless, and ambitious, he
readily adopted the revolutionary doctrine of the period,
| and actually wrote a letter to a Jacobin club announcing
| his intention of changing his name to Marat, in admi-
ration of the great revolutionary leader. When the
| Jacobins fell, Murat was arraigned for this letter, and
| again cashiered.
Hitherto his life had been a turbulent and changeful
one, but the current of his affairs now rapidly changed.
Napoleon had risen into military prominence, and was
gathering around him a brilliant and able staff. He
had on a previous occasion seen young Murat at a re-
| view, and he had ever since retained the favorable im-
| pression made by bis dashing, soldierly appearance. He
therefore sought out the disgraced officer, and offered
him a place on his staff.
From that hour Murat’s star was in the ascendant.
He stopped the car and threw | On his return from Egypt he met Caroline Bonaparte, a
sister of Napoleon, and they fell desperately in love.
Moreau, a rising general, had previously solicited her
hand, and, influenced by Napoleon, she had consented.
But the brilliant and dashing appearance of the neWa
lover, and the ardor of his suit, swept away all thoughts
of the less youthful and demonstrative suitor, and her
brother was. forced to the abrogation of the previous
contract, and to consent to her marriage with Murat.
Years of brilliant, faithful service amply repaid him for
this act of friendship.
For twelve years his brother-in-law was the chief prop
of his power, and the main pillar of histhrone. AS a
leader, especially of cavalry, the world has never seen
his equal, and the record of his military achievements
form the most thrilling chapters in the history of the
wars of the empire. Napoleon showered upon him every
honor and rank ; and finally, when he had expelled the
Bourbons from Naples, he placed his able marshal upon
the vacant throne, under the name of Joachim Napo-
leon, with the title of Joachim I.
The fame of his exploits had preceded him, and he
was hailed at Naples as a hero. His administration was
wise, just, and judicious. Order was restored, person
and property rendered secure, public improvements
inaugurated, agriculture, commerce and education en-
couraged, public extravagance curtailed, and the king-
dom entered upon a career of prosperity it had never
known before. In his ambition to render his dominions
contented, happy, and independent, he forgot from
whose hand he had received his crown, and several de-
crees. inimical to the interests of France were promul-
gated.
Of course, Napoleon indignantly denounced the in-
gratitude of this action, and demanded their instant
abrogation. This demand Murat resented as an unwar-
ranted interference with the affairs of his kingdom.
Both were irritable and self-willed, both felt they had
been grievously wronged, and a bitter correspondence
followed.
if Caroline, the wife of one and the sister of the other,
had not exerted herself to avert the threatened rupture
a total estrangement must have occurred immediately.
half hour later, that quiet, happy home was transformed | Even with all her tact the breach was only partially
into a maelstrom of misery. The vocalist was no longer
missed at home.
|
healed, and earnest, sincere friendship never afterward
existed between them.
It was not alone’ his refusal to make his kingdom sub-
servient to the interests of the French that embittered
the emperor against his brother-in-law. In 1810 Na-
poleon had called a council of relatives to Paris to con-
sult them upon his proposed repudiation of Josephine.
Of the large number present only Murat raised his voice
against the proposed wrong. He denounced it in terms
of unmeasured bitterness, and, asif inspired with the
gift of prophecy, pointed out to the misguided man the
numerous evils which would flow from such a measure.
This boldness of speech Napoleon never forgave, and it
wanted only these new differences to put an end to any-
thing like friendship.
However, when the grand army set out for the wilder-
nesses of Russia, Murat responded to the call of his old
chieftain, and in April, 1812, he joined the great army of
invasion.
Once at the head of his fiery legions, he forgot all per-
sonal resentments in the excitement of battle. From
the banks of the Niemen to Moscow, and back over the
same dreary, desolate track, thick with battle-fields,
and strewn with corpses, he led his gallant horsemen,
the prop and pride of the empire and the scourge and
terror of the Cossack foe.
The disastrous retreat called forth all his excellent
qualities, and for weeks he hovered like a protecting
angel around that weary, struggling, dying, dissoving
mass of humanity known as the wreck of the grand
army, and guided it safely over the Russian frontier.
The army safe, Napoleon hastened to Paris, turning
over the chief command to Murat. The latter accepted
the responsibility, but scarcely had the emperor left the
camp, when Murat suddenly resigned and departed for
Naples. Napoleon was so incensed at;what he termed
his desertion, that he issued an order, which was read
at the head of the army, denouncing him in the most
unmeasured terms, and gave it additional torture by
contrasting his conduct with that of Eugene’s, which he
said was ‘‘as noble and patriotic as the latter's was
cowardly and contemptible.”
Not content with this, he wrote a letser to Murat’s
queen, full of insulting epithets against her husband,
calling him ‘‘untfaithful, ungrateful, a bungler in states-
manship, unworthy of an alliance with his family, and
deserving, by his machinations, a severe and public
eastigation.”
Caroline endeavored to keep this dangerous letter
from her impetuouS:husband, but without success. As
would be expected he was hot with rage, and instantly
replied as follows :
“SIRE:— * * * * The wound to my honor has been made,
and itis not in your power to healit. You haveinjured an
old companion-in-arms, faithful to you in your dangers, no
insignificant means of your victories, a prop to your power,
and the _re-animator of your lost courage on the 18th. Bru-
maire. When one has the honor, as you say, to belong to
your illustrious family, nothing should be done by him to
peril its interests, or dim its splendor. But I tell you, sire,
that your family has received from me quite as much honor
as it gave on my marriage with Caroline. * * * * hus
you torture, thus you sacrifice to your suspicion, men faith-
tul to you, and who have served you_nobly on the stupen-
dous march of your fortune. Thus Touche was immolated
to Savory, Talbyrand to Chagny, Chagny to Bassano, and
Murat to Beauharnais—to Beauharnais, who has: to you the
merit of mule obedience, and of having announced to the
Senate of France the repudiation and degradation of his |
* *
own mother! om what I have said of your
majesty and yourself you will infer that-our former mutual
confidence is changed. You will therefore do what best
pleases you. i JOACHIM.”
The rupture, which had been years in coming was thus
complete, and henceforth Napoleon and Murat were
enemies, though open hostilities were delayed.
Murat saw, what everybody but Napoleon discerned,
that the colossal structure of the French Empire was
hastening to its fall, and feeling that his tenure of regal
power would be brief, unless he became disconnected
with France, he listened to proposals of amity made by
the allied powers, and on Jan. 14th, 1814, he made a
secret treaty with Austria, whereby his kingdom was
guaranteed to him, provided he would join the coalition
against Napoleon, and furnish 30,000 men.
filled all the conditions, and led his army against |
Eugene, whom he attacked with all the vigor and im- |
petuosity inspired by long hatred, and completely |
The abdication of Napoleon and the close of the |
The Congress of |
routed.
war arrested his victorious march.
Vienna followed, and almost their first act was the re-
pudiation of all their solemn compacts, and the discus- |
sion of propositions for the dethronement of Murat and
the restoration of the Bourbons.
than any other misfortune of his whole life. To retain
the crown he had deserted the man who first placed it
upon his head, and turned his guns upon the men whom
he had so ,frequently led to glory and to victory ; and to
lose it after this sacrifice was a terrible disappointment.
In his desperation he sought a reconciliation with Napo-
leon, and when he returned from Elba he declared in
his favor, and led his army against the Austrians. But
his troops could not change their sympathies as easily
as their master, and offered but a feeble resistance to
the Austrian army, and he was soon forced to ask for
terms. While negotiating to retain his kingdom, the
Bourbon element of Naples rose, the garrison was over-
powered, Murat was forced to fly, and his queen was |
driven for safety on board an English man-of-war in the |
harbor.
Abandoned by his army, all hope gone, the ruined |
man sought to reach France, where Napoleon was
waging his last great fight. About the first of June the
great warrior landed upon French. soil, almost upon the |
identical spot where the exile of Elba had landed two |
How changed was his fortune from that |
months before.
of other days.
He was an intruder and an alien in the land for |
whose glory he had fought nearly two hundred battles; |
no one called him severign, no soldier acknowledged his |
command, few were willing to be known as his triend. |
His bosom was agitated by a thousand memories and |
He thought of his early struggles, the first |
fruits of his valor, his marshal’s baton, his glory, his |
name, his crown. These were all past, ruin and black |
emotions.
despair alone remained. Adversity had chastened the
eis spirit of the great marshal, and he wept like a
child.
While waiting to hear the result of his last overtures
to Napoleon he heard with consternation of the dis-
astrous battle of Waterloo, and that a reward of forty
thousand francs was offered for his own head. Flight
was indispensable, but where should he go? His friends
finally engaged a vessel to take him away, and a small
boat was instructed to call for him ata certain place and
take him on board.
He was at the place appointed, but by some strange
fatality they failed to meet, and after waiting until day-
break the ship sailed without him.
As the morning broke over the coast the weary, de-
jected wanderer saw the vessel with all her sails spread,
standing out to sea.
He gazed awhile at the lessening masts, and then fled
to the woods, where he wandered about for two days
without rest or food. At length, drenched with rain,
weary, starving, he came upon a miserable cabin, and
asked for food and shelter, which were granted. His
humble host had been a soldier—had seen Murat fre-
quently, and was now struck by the familiarity of his
features, but failed to recognize in the soiled stranger
the dashing cavalry leader, whose tame had filled
Europe. But when Murat tendered in payment of his
accommodations a coin of Naples, bearing a faithful
likeness of himself, the truth flashed upon the humble
soldier, and he fell upon his knees and exclaimed :
“It is King Murat!”
He was somewhat alarmed at the discovery of his
identity, but his good friends assured him of their affec-
tion, and besought him to conceal himself in their house,
as, stimulated by the liberal reward, hundreds were
scouring the country for his arrest.
He consented, and had hardly been placed in safety
when sixty gevs-@’-armes arrived and ransacked the
place, but without success.
Conscious that he could not long escape arrest, and
unwilling to compromise the safety of his kind friends,
he resolved to quit France. But nearly every avenue of
escape was closed and guarded, and at last he was
forced to put to sea in an open boat, with only two at-
tendants, going he knew not where, only away from his
beloved France.
When about forty miles from shore, a fearful tempest
rose, and but for their rescue by a vessel bound for Cor-
sica, they must have gone down. But to Murat the res-
cue was quite as fatal as death at sea, The Corsicans
received him withenthusiasm, and as he entered Ajac-
cio, the. troops on the ramparts and. the populace greet-
ed him with deafening cheers. But this last shadow of
his old glory consummated his ruin.
“If these people,” he asked, ‘‘receive me with so much
joy, what could I not expect from the people of Naples,
for whom I have done so much ?” and he formed the des-
perate resolution of returning to his kingdom, as Napo-
leon had returned to France, not doubting he would re-
ceive as kindly a welcome.
He soon gathered about two hundred volunteers
around him, and .started on his desperate expedition.
The six small vessels in whch he embarked were scat-
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Murat felt this more |
tered by adverse winds, and Murat found himself upon
the Neapolitan coast with but twenty-eight men. In-
tatuated, however. by the reports brought him of the
reconquer his kingdom.
The vessel which carried Murat and his little band
was well stocked with treasure, consisting of coin, jew-
els, and other valuables, and was commanded. by a man
named Barbara. This man had once been a corsair,
but professing to abandon that life, Murat had, while
king, forgiven him, admitted him into his navy, and
finally promoted him to the command of a frigate. Mu-
rat ordered Barbara to land him upon the coast as near
Pizzo as possible, and stand by the shore ready to take
him on board again if he was unsuccessful.
Of course his attempt was a failure. The insignificant
force at his command precluded in the minds of the pop-
ulace all hopes of success, and thousands who wished
him well, and who would under more favorable auspices
have joined him, now held aloof, unwilling to take the
hazard of so reckless a venture.
It so happened that there was a considerable body of
Bourbon soldiers near, and Murat’s followers were soon
put to flight. Their leader then retreated to the shore,
as had been agreed upon, to go on board his vessel, but,
to his surprise, he saw it standing out to sea. In great
alarm, he ‘signaled to Captain Barbara, but he only
spread more sail, and left Murat to his fate. The villain
had abandoned them, and was running away with the
treasure. In thirty minutes after landing the whole
Loged were prisoners, and Murat was dragged to the
castle.
The government at Naples was immediately informed
of his capture, and quickly appointed a military com-
mission to try the prisoner. When Murat was informed
of this he exclaimed :
“Alas, I am lost! the order for trial is an order for
death.”
More than half of the officers who composed the com-
mission were meh whom Murat had raised to rank and
position while on the throne, and they now threw his
life away without an emotion of pity.
Of course he was adjudged heh and sentenced to be
shot forthwith in the castle where he was confined. Sin-
gularly enough he was convicted in strict conformity
with a law he had himself dictated seven years before,
directed at the®partisans of the Bourbons, providing for
the punishment by death of all parties who should at-
tempt to stir up revolt, excite rebellion, or overturn the
existi government. This decree, designed for the
tranquillity of his kingdom and the safety of his throne,
thus became the instrument of his death.
He heard the sentence with composure, and remarked
that he neither expected nor desired mercy for himself,
but he did hope the government would deal leniently
with those who had, from affection for him, become in-
volved in his punishment. To an old friend who called
upon him he said :
“In Pizzo there is joy over my calamity: but what
have I done to make them enemies ?
their advantage all the fruits of my long hardships in
war, and I leave my family poor. I gave fame to the
tion; I was ungrateful to the French, who would have
judged me on the throne, from which I descend without
fear or remorse. In the tragedy of the Duke d’Enghieu,
which King Ferdinand now vindicates by another, I had
no part, and I swear it to that God before whose face I
shall soon appear,”
Taking from his pocket asmall miniature of his wife
and children, he looked at it fondly for some time, and
the tears that filled his eyes, and the sighs which shook
his frame, told how bitter were the thoughts which
pressed upon his heart.
Having obtained permission to write to his wife, he
wrote in a clear, steady hand, the following :
“My DEAR CAROLINE :—My last hour is near; in a few mo-
| ments I shall have ceased to live, and you to have a husband.
| Do not forget me ; I die innocent; my life is stained with no
injustice. Farewell, my Achilles ; farewell, my Letizia ; fare-
well, my Lucien ; farewell, my Louisa. Show yourselves to
the world to be worthy of me. I leave you without kingdom,
without fortune, amo many enemies. Be united and su-
perior to misfortune. emember what you are—not_ what
you haye been, and God will bless your discretion. Do not
| reproach my memory. Believe that my greatest suffering
in the last moment Of life is the thought of dying far away
| from my children. Receive a father’s blessing, my embraces,
and my tears. Preserve always in your memory the recol-
| lection of your unhappy father, JOACHIM NAPOLEON.
“Pizzo 13th Oct.} 1815.”
: Inclosing in this letter several locks of his hair, he
| confided it to the officer in command, to be forwarded
| when he should be no more.
| He was soon informed that the hour had arrived, and
| he walked with a firm step to a large room in the castle |
| where the soldiers were drawn up, and the execution |
| was totake place. He refused to have his eyes bandaged,
| saying that for years he had looked upon death with un-
| covered eyes, and could do so still. He still held the
| miniatures of his family in his hands, and holding them
| to his lips, he said:
‘Soldiers, save my face; aim at my heart.”
A volley followed these words, and the brave marshal
was no more. The miniatures were found clasped in his
hands after death, and together with his unhappy re-
mains were buried in the castle where he fell, and to
this day, we believe, the grave is unadorned.
His disconsolate widow mourned her husband for near-
ly twenty-five years, and died at Florence in 1839. Na-
poleon Archille, his eldest son, came to the United States
| in 1821, married a daughter of Byrd Willis, a grand-niece
Tallahassee, Florida. He died in 1847. Lucien came to
Carolina.
When Louis Napoleon came into possession of the gov-
ernment of France. Lucien. and his family returned to
his native country, was graciously received, given the
title of Prince Murat, and lived in honor and opulence
until the downfall of the Napoleonic dynasty, when he
ana his family again became exiles. »
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“Why is Squire Danforth like necessity?” was the
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ing.
eas THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =
THE COUNTERFEIT CUPID.
BY JOSEPH BARBER,
Cupid! Where art thou, Paphian lad,
Child-god of Passion’s paradise,
With blushing cheeks and limbs unclad,
Soft golden curls and shadowed eyes ?
Thouw’rt gone, I fear me, to the bad,
An elf, an imp, thy place supplies,
Precocious, cunning, worldly wise.
Whom—to Pet ce him from thee—
*T were well to call Cupidity.
This modern Eros sports no wings,
Across his brow no fillet wears ;
No quiver at his shoulder swings,
Nor bow nor torch the urchin bears.
His shrines are heaped with diamond rings,
Bank-notes, bank stock, and railroad shares ;
But not a jot for hearts he cares,
And all his slaves, like Thisbe, think
Love sounds most sweetly through the chink,
The Cupid of Old Greece and Rome
Of Mars and Venus was the son,
But Plutus and some female gnome
Must have produced this sordid one.
The dove-eyed daughter of foam
Never gave birth to such a Hun.
He has no shame, no conscience—none,
But to the highest bidder sells,
In open mart, our daintiest belles.
THE DOMESTIC TYRANT.
BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.
The clock had just struck eight in the Deckerson
breakfast-room, the fire crackled and snapped merrily
in the grate, and the gray macaw in the window was
swinging backward and forward in his ring as if life
were one grand system of oscillation. Mrs. Deckerson,
in a becoming crimson wrapper, sat at the head of the
table, and the newspaper was airing over a chair, as the
head of the family stalked in.
‘Where's that boy ?” demanded Mr. Deckerson, look-
ing fiercely around.
‘He’s out playing with the snow man in the back
yard,” said Mrs. Deckerson, apologetically.
The paterfamilias opened the window and roared out
asummons. Charles Deckerson came in, looking fright.
ened.
“What do you mean, sir!” growled his father, “by
going out to play with snow-balls when breakfast is on
the table ?”
“Papa,” pleaded the youthful delinquent, ‘I didn’t
think you would be home so soon.”
“You didn’t think/” sarcastically echoed Mr. Decker-
ase , “Pll teach you punctuality, or Pli know the reason
why.”
“But, papa, you weren’t punctual yourself,” said little
May, who was buttering a muffin in her high chair.
«Hold your tongue, miss!” commanded her father.
«“Sarah,” to his wife, ‘‘what are you doing !”
ech out a little coffee to warm Charley up; he
looks absolutely blue.”
“Coffee! For that boy who is as nervous as a witch
already! Pour it in the slop-bowl, Mrs. Deckerson, and
ve him a glass of cold water. Don’t put butter on your
read, sir ; it’s too bilious.”
Charley, with a longing glance at the fragrant cup of
ceed x tasba seas eord . Freed Pye An tork
ward a where temp ands 0 en €.
lay on slices of broiled ham. But, to his Samay, the
dish was suddenly jerked away.
“Fried ham and eggs are very unhealthy for boys,”
croaked his father. <‘Let Bridget bring in some of that
cold boiled beef that was left from yesterday’s dinner.”
«But I don’t like cold beef for breakfast, papa.”
«Boys must learn to like whatever is set before them,
and not be dainty. Keep your elbows down by your
sides, and don’t make such a noise eating. Sarah, what
have you ordered for dinner.”
«A pair of roast ducks, dear, with plum pudding.”
«‘Ah—roast ducks—very good, but too rich and greasy
forthe children. Let Bridget make a beef stew for them,
and stir up a farina pudding.”
Charley’s countenance fell.
“Can’t we have a little duck, father ?” he begged, pite-
ously.
«“Charles,” said Mr. Deckerson, sternly, “I am very
sorry to see you getting to think so much about what
you eat and drink, Sit up straight sir, and don’t let me
see you at table again with a crumpled neck-tie. Now
go to your lessons.”
“But I've learned ’em, papa, and I want to make the
snow-man’s elbows a little sharper, for——”
«Go—to—your—lessons, sir, Isay! If you’ve nothing
else to do, commit two dozen extra lines of Virgil to
memory, and tell the teacher it was my command.”
Charley crept away, discouraged and disheartened,
while little May took shelter behind the folds of her
mother’s dress.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Deckerson, gently, ‘are you not
mamnecessarily strict with that boy ?” ’
‘JT ask nothing of him but what I should be perfectly
willing to do myself.”
“But he is only a child yet—not thirteen, you must
remember.”
“Children are miniature men and women; that’s my
théory,” said Mr. Deckerson. ‘May, go and get your
atch-work and your multiplication table this minute.
Lite is too short to be spent in playing with kittens.”
«But, papa——”
«Not a word, miss! Obey me this. instant, or I shall
take measures to punish you severely.”
And somehow it was as if a dark cloud had been lifted
off the domestic horizon when Mr. Deckerson took his
final departure for the office at ten o’clock.
“Papa’s sick!” cried Charley, as he tiptoed into the
breakfast-room the next morning. ‘Oh, ain’t it jolly !”
“Bie! for shame, Master Charley,” said Bridget, who
was putting an extra lump of sugar into the boy’s morn-
ing beverage of black coffee, brewed by herself; ‘‘is that
the way to talk ?”
“Oh, of course I don’t want him to die,” said Charley,
with his mouth full of waffles and honey, ‘‘but it’s so
much pleasanter when he isn’t here to scold us and or-
der us around. Isn’t it, May, bird°”
“Oh, yes!” cried May, emphatically, as she shook her
curls; “I hope papa'll be sick evy so long !”
Mr. Deckerson heard the children’s voices through the
half-open door of his sick-room, and it was not a partic-
ularly pleasant revelation to him.
“Shut the door, Sarah,” he said, tartly, to his much-
enduring wife. ‘The noise of those children makes my
head ache.”
And all day long, as he lay tossing on his bed, witha
a racking headache, andevery symptom of a fever which
was then almost an epidemic in the neighborhood, the
thought kept recurring to him with provoking continu-
ity: Suppose anything were to happen—suppose, in plain
words, that he were to die, what sort of a recollection
would his two children retain of him? Love, true and
tender, survives the grave; but fear, and dislike, and
dread—what sort of memories would these be ?
But medical skill and the most patient of wifely nurs-
ing prevailed, and Mr. Deckerson did not die, But when
he was sufficiently convalescent to be helped down
stairs, in’a dressing-gown and slippers, a new trouble
awaited him. Charley and little May were not there in
their accustomed places.
“Where are the children?” he asked of Bridget, and
that faithful handmaiden answered :
«Sure they’re both down wid the faver, but missus said
you were not to be tould, bein’ ye was so wake, and
couldn’t bear the ill news.”
«Are they very sick ?”
“The docthor says it's a toss-up whether they live or
die,” answered Bridget.
Mr. Deckerson shut his eyes with a groan. ‘Tf they
should die !”
“I must go to them!” he gasped, trying to lift himself
feebly from his chair ; but the next moment he fell back,
weak and exhausted, while Bridget uttered a shrill cry.
“Mem! mem! The master's fainted !”
Poor Mrs. Deckerson! She had a trying life of it for
the next week or two, between her convalescent hus-
band and her mortally ill children; and during those
days of agonized suspense and seeming uncertainty Mr.
Deckerson learned a lesson which a life-time would not
have taught him else.
“Please, Heaven, I will be a different man, if they are
spared,” he said to himself, sitting all alone in the blue
spring twilight, on the day the doctor had giveu nim the
blessed tidings that there was indeed reason to hope.
When first he was allowed to see them, Charley was
ae up in bed, with a tray in front of him, contain-
ng fresh chocolate, sponge-cake, and grapes—he in-
stinctively put his hand on the bloomy cluster as if to
hide it.
“Won't papa let us eat ’em ?” said little May, from her
“Will papa be cross, now ?”
“No, darling,” said Mr. Deckerson, feeling himself
nestling place beside him.
color, ‘‘papa never will be cross again.”
“And can I read Jack, the Giant Killer, instead of sew-
ing patchwork ?”
“Yes, and I'll get anew doll with real hair on it for
my little girl, anda baby house, and a lot of new build-
ing blocks—and Charley shall havea ship thatcan sail,
and a box of carpenter’s tools, and we'll see old Virgil at
the other end of the world, until we are well and strong
”
Charley threw both arms round his father’s neck as
he stooped to Pe the hair away from his pale brow,
and whispered, in a broken voice :
“Oh,
before ?”
How the simple words of almost unconscious reproach
went to the father’s heart.
He turned, and saw his wife’s eyes fixed, full of tears,
on his face.
“We'll be
n again, my boy,”
“Where is ol
‘Robinson Crusoe ?'
cake
eo lap?” pleaded little May.
their papa’s la
Oh, dear!” adde
papa, papa! why did you never let me love you
he said, cheerily.
Tll read aloud to
you a little while, and you can finish your grapes and
“And can I have my little wrapper on, and sit in
«Other little girls sit
, and I never knew what it was like.
the child, “I have wished so many
times that my papa would love me, and hug me, and
kiss me, as Dora White’s papa did.”
“And can it be possible,” Mr. Deckerson asked himself,
silently, as he took the little girl into his arms, ‘‘that I
have cast away this treasure of childish love all these
ears ?”
From this day began a new ern in the Deckerson fam-
ily—an era of love and tenderness, and mutual self-
sacrifice, which made life a gift better worth having.
The domestic tyrant. had abdicated his throne, and a
true, tender-hearted father had taken his place in the
kingdom of home.
————_>-0+_____—__
THE WEALTH OF THE SEA.
In representing the wealth contained in the sea, Pro-
fessor Huxley has pointed out that an acre of good
fishing ground will yield more food in a week than an
acre of the best land willin a year. He also has drawn
a vivid picture of a ‘mountain of cod.” 120 to 130 feet in
height, which for two months in every year moves west-
ward and southward, past the Norwegian coast. Every
square mile of this colossal column contains 120,000,000
of fishes, which, even on short rations, consume no
fewer than 840,000,000 of herrings every week. The
whole catch of the Norwegian fisheries never exceeds in
a year more than half a square mile of this ‘‘cod moun-
tain,” and one week’s supply of the herrings needed to
keep that area of cod from starving. The harvest of
the sea is truly inexhaustible.
|
BESSIE’S RESOLUTION.
BY BERYL WARDEN.
“Won't that be splendid:” and the speaker’s eyes
sparkled, while the two girl’s addressed laughed mer-
rily.
The speaker was curly-haired, rosy-cheeked Bessie
Elton, and her companions were Belle Ashley, a stately
brunette, apparently about twenty years of age, and
Clara Steele, with large blue eyes and hair like burnished
gold.
“Yes,” said Bessie, “it’s a splendid idea, and will con-
vince him that there are three girls at least who can
come in contact with his majesty and not find him
wholly irresistible either. I knowI shall hate him, for
every one extols him so, and it is ridiculous the way all
the gims are striving to captivate him. For my part, I
am going to look just as ugly as I can when he arrives,
and thus prove to him that there is one who does not
prepare for his coming,” and the red lips pouted so be-
witchingly that it seemed like an impossibility for her to
put her threat into execution.
Belle and Clara were evidently of the same opinion in
regard to the stranger, for they exeressed themselves
perfectly disgusted with this model of manhood whom
every One seemed to think perfection personified, and
who Bessie said ought to walk about bearing a card pro-
claiming him to be the ‘‘Eighth Wonder of the World.”
«And to think,” said Clara, ‘“‘that every one speaks of
his wealth as though that shouid have any influence in
his behalf. As far asI am concerned, I should like him
ae if he were poor and merited the praises he re-
ceives.”
“But don’t forget,” said Bessie, ‘‘and fall victims to
his charms, but remember our vows, and if he doesn’t
get some of the conceit taken out of him my name is not
Bessie Elton,” and she tossed her head saucily.
‘“‘What’s that—who is about to be deprived of his con-
ceitedness ?” asked Ned Harris, as he appeared upon the
scene and threw himself full-length upon the grass.
“Little boys shouldn’t ask questions,” said Bessie, and
ee mischievously, disclosing a row of pearly
eth.
Ned was her mother’s brother, and being only five
years older than herself she never called him uncle ex-
cepting when she wished to tease him.
“Well.” said Ned, “Fred telegraphs me that he will
arrive this afternoon, and I want you girls to look charm-
ing, for I expect him to fall in love with oneof you. But
be careful that you don’t all lose your hearts, for in that
case there would be trouble in the camp.”
‘Never fear,” answered Bessie, and her red lips curled
with scorn at the idea of such a thing. ‘‘We are not so
susceptible to the charms of your sex as to fall in love
with everything that can smoke cigars and sport a
cane.”
_ looked surprised at this outburst, and then gave a
Ww. e.
“Well, little spitfire, Fred is no fool, and if you don’t
change your mind in regard to him, before a week rolls
around, you will be the first who has stood proof against
his charms.”
“Then behold in me the first one,” said Bessie, pro-
ceeding toward the house, where she found every one
preparing for Mr. H:lton’s arrival.
Bessie went at once to her room, determined not to
appear down stairs until supper.
Belle and Clara, notwithstanding the dislike express-
ed for the new-comer, proceeded to don their most be-
coming costumes, in order to make themselves as charm-
ing as possibie.
Ned went to the train himself to meet his college
chum, and upon his arrival proceeded to make him wel-
come, introducing him to Miss Ashley and Miss Steele.
«And where is Elton, of whom I have heard you
= so often ?” questioned Fred, as they were strolling
through the garden.
“That's what I cannot find out,” said Ned, “for I
haven’t seen her since morning; but I suppose she has
gone over to Aunt Mattie’s. Queer, too,” mused Ned,
“that she should leave when she knew you were coming.
That isn’t like Bessie.”
Then, as the conversation of the morning returned to
him, he smiled; for he knew now to whom she referred
when she spoke of taking the conceit out of some-one.
But he thought best not to enlighten his friend until he
had proved his surmises correct.
They returned to the house to find Bessie seated on
the porch, reading. She had either failed in her attempt
to look ugly or forgotten her resolution, for she appear-
ed irresistible in her pale-blue lawn, which suited so
well her complexion.
She arose at their mperoech as if to return to the par-
lor, but Ned called to her to wait. She bowed haughtily
as Ned said, with a flourish which he meant to be very
expressive :
“My friend, MY. Hilton, Bessie ; Miss Elton, Fred.”
“T am eres to make Miss Elton’s acquaintance,”
said Fred, and as if wishing to be friends whether she
desired it or not he extended his hand.
As Bessie laid her small hand in his she glanced up
into his face, and caught two jet-black eyes looking
roguishly down upon her.
She thought if it were not for her resolution of the
morning she would like him, but she would not break
her word for a pair of black eyes and a handsome mus-
tache, and so with a glance which she meant to be very
scornful, she begged the gentlemen to excuse her, say-
ing she was wanted in the house.
“And so that is little Bessie, is it?” remarked Fred.
“She certainly is a little beauty. But I wonder what
was the cause of those annihilating glances which she
bestowed upon me. I have certainly not made a very
favorable impression upon Miss Bessie, judging from her
manner.”
Ned, producing a chair from the other end of the porch
for his chum, and seating himself in a comfortable if not
graceful position on the doorstep, said :
“J tell you, old fellow, just what’s the matter. The
girls have heard so much of you that they have made up
their minds not to become victims to your powers of
fascination. I inferred as much from their conversa-
tion this morning. The other girls have failed to carry
out their resolutions, but Bessie remains true to her
colors.”
«An act for which I admire her,” said Fred.
That evening Fred was very attentive to stately
Belle, who seemed not a little proud of her conquest,
and who lavished upon him her brightest smiles and
wittiest speeches. When Bessie perceived this she com-
municated to Clara her private opinion that they were
both affected with the ‘‘heart disease.” He did not ap-
proach Bessie but once during the evening.
She was seated at the piano, playing snatches of; dif-
ferent pieces, and he requested her to sing ‘‘The Lovers’
Parting,” which was a favorite of his, whereupon _she
informed him that she did not know it.
“Serange!” said Fred, with a mischievous look in his
eyes, ‘that Ned should tell me that you and he sang
that song together the last time he was home from col-
lege!”
“Bessie blushed, for she knew she had told an un-
truth; but she would not confess it,. for, as she said to
herself, that would make him feel smart, and his opinion
of himself was altogether too flattering already.
Things went on in about the same way for six weeks,
Fred appearing indifferent and provokingly good-hu-
mored, and Bessie very scornful, alway declining any
little attentions he might offer her, until he began to
think that she veritably hated the sight of him.
About this time Ned was called away upon business,
and committing his friend to the care of the ladies, he
prepared to take his departure. :
Fred suggested that Bessie, Belle, Clara and himself
accompany Ned to the depot.
After taking leave of him, they began making prepa-
rations to return, Fred proposing that one of the ladies
sit on the front seat with him. He looked straight at
Bessie, who immediately suggested that Belle should
sit there, as she never liked the front seat.
This arrangement evidently suited Belle, but she
found her companion rather dull, for he appeared whol-
ly occupied with the horses.
The rest. of the week was rather unpleasant for Fred,
for he could not make Bessie appear sociable, try as he
would, and he was giving = in despair.
One day, upon entering the summer-house, he found
her sitting on a rustic seat, art After hoping he
was not intruding he seated himself beside her.
‘Miss Elton,” he said, ‘I am thinking of departing to-
ates and ‘should like to leave a message with you
for Ned.
“Bessie looked up, and forgetting for an instant her
resolution, asked :
“Must you‘really go? I am sorry, for we have en-
joyed your visit so much.”
“Ts it possible ?” exclaimed Fred, ‘‘why, I thought you
disliked me and was determined to ‘‘take the conceit”
out of “‘the Eighth Wonder of the World.”
“Bessie lowered her curly head, and said:
“Tam ashamed of my rudeness, Mr. Hilton, and——”
Here she seemed to be about to burst into tears.
At this unexpected turn of affairs Fred had the au-
dacity to wind his arm around her waist and draw the
curly head toward him until it rested on his shoulder,
and, strange to say, Bessie did not resist. Then he
spoke so low that it was impossible to ascertain what
he said, but presently Bessie pushed back her curls
which were considerably displaced, and replied that she
might be induced to comply with his request providing
he did not smother her with kisses before that time.
At this juncture Ned appeared atthe door. He had
been in the house, and failing to find Fred had come in
quest of him.
“But what does this mean?” said he, with a roguish
twinkle in his eye. :
“Tt means,” said Fred, ‘‘that Bessie and I have con-
cluded to be ‘one’—which one is left for us to determine
after the all-important event takes place. But the fun-
niest part of all is that after Christmas I shall have to
call you Uncle Ned.
—+-+$_—_—_ +6
BEAR AND FORBEAR.
Take back, I pray, that hasty word,
Or it may chance to be
The little brook that swells at last
Into an angry sea.
Like letting out of waters is
The first sharp word of strife ;
One tiny drop may make or break
The sunshine of a life.
Bear and forbear! forgive—forget!
Let that our motto be;
*T will do aiike for all the world,
As well as you and me.
Be sure of this, dear fellow, that
’Tis wiser, nobler far,
To own a fault, than seek to live
With those we love at war.
Unmeant may be an angry word,
Yet it may rankle long ;
A poisoned shaft at random sent
ay do a mighty wrong.
Bear and forbear! forgive—forget!
Let that our motto be ;
"Twill do alike for all the world,
AS well as you and me.
A BIG HEAD.
BY HARELEY HARKER.
“He’s got a big head en him; look o’ that!”
The speaker was a young Sophomore, not above using
slang, who stood in the vestibule of Alumni Hall at ——
college last commencement, The alumni and trustees
were holding a meeting within one of the committee
rooms, and these gentlemen had deposited their hats on
the broad window sill in the corridor. This impertinent
Sophomore had selected a hat which had been conspicu-
ous to everybody on the head of a far-famed merchant,
and tried it on his own head with the above remark.
The hat came well down to the ears of the young ex-
perimenter and almost eclipsed his eyes.
His friend Jaughed, so did I, for I stood near enough to
hear and see.
“And do you judge, my young friend, that it is the
large head that makes the able man ?” I ventured to ask,
at the same time picking up the hat of a well-known
railway magnate which I distinguished in the pile.
‘Look 0’ here. You see this hat will hardly come to the
rim of your head well enough to outride a gentle wind.
This man’s head is very small, evidently. Yet under
this little hat thousands of miles of railway center.
This hat is aregular round nouse full of locomotives, a
whole repair shop, a grand central depot, a general
freight and passenger office, a trunk line pool, an entire
Wall street. Wonderful hat that, and yet it is not large
enough forme. But the thinking that is done under it
isa oe deal too large for me.”
What a lot of nonsense is afloat among young people,
and older people, too, for that matter, about the size of
the brain, the size of the body, muscle, and stature. It
is pitiful to think how much harm, by discouraging at
the very start of life, this sort of talk has done. This in-
culcation of an infiexible and hopelesstyranny. A mean
phase of materialism, founded on a partial and decep-
tive observation of facts. It is the quality, not the
quantity of brains that tells.
I saw, not long since, an extensive table of hat meas-
urements of distinguished men. I was astonished to
find that Dickens took 7% hat only. Well, now, a7}
needs to be made expressly for me or it is too small!
My coachman could not wear Dickens’ cast-off hats; a
fact within my experimental knowledge. Igive my cast-
offs to my neighbor’s coachman, he his to mine. I men-
tally measured hats of several neighbors, with the re-
ported figures of Scott, Napoleon IlI., Cavour, and sey-
eral European celebrities. The figures in my neighbors’
hats were full as large, on the average. Thackeray and
Daniel Webster had their hats built on the plans of ho-
tels evidently ; but they were exceptions. I looked in-
to the straw hat of a plumber as he had cast it on the
ass to enter a drain. It was of precisely Daniel
ebster’s size; then of course my plumber equaled
Thackeray in size of cranium, and of brain, if the bones
were no thicker. Yet here he was toiling in a mean
mess to ere a scanty living. Scanty? Yes; a country
plumber, if you please.
I will not take it upon myself to assert that phrenolo-
is wholly unscientific. But for my part I have
earned that I had ‘best wait till I have heard
a man speak before I attempt to judge what
he will say. The small eye of a stranger may
light up with a wonderful fire as his soul gets
ablaze. The pinched features, the apparently low and
retreating brow and dull countinance may change, like
dull clouds when the lightning begins to play on them.
I have passed the winters of twelve years in the metrop-
olis. I have seen almost all the great men in every de-
partment of life, who sooner or later appear in that
center. And it is one of the commonest exclamations
that spring to my lips: ‘He doesn’t look the great man
he is.” I hear the ladies whisper their disappointment
at receptions. It is, ‘He looks more like a Long Island
farmer!” Yet he was one of the most famous preachers
in our times. So far has this experience made me cau-
tious that, having occasion to meet many strangers,
and to deal with them, I have nearly abandoned all my
conceited boyish notions about reading men. I, at least,
cannot read them till Isee themin action. The face,
the head, the body, the dress, the air, etc., all these go
for very little with me. I must wait, on guard, till I be
gin to see the deeds they can do, then I can measure my
man. I have just left a little, mean-featured, quiet
fellow, with nothing#whatever to impress you in his
whole person. Yet he is one of the foremost manufac-
turers of New England.
And right here, let me say,apropos of reading men: A
dweller in a great city is incapacitated for such reading
by the amazing multitude of faces that he sees every day
—on the streets, in public conveyances, in places of bus-
iness. It becomes more and more difficult for him tore-
member faces as years pass; and it is a merciful provi-
dence that it isso, or our poor memories would be clutter-
ed like the lumber-room of a photograph gallery. Toa
ticket-taker in a great railway station or a ferry-house,
men are like sheep, merely to be counted; he would not
recognize his own father unless he undertook to run the
wicket. A conductor who carries all the paid fares on
his train, after he has once passed through it, forgets
them the next trip; he must, or take the train for the
insane asylum. The point of which is, that you cannot
read men by seeing many faces. If you are a city man,
you know it. Your best customer is a fellow whom you
scarcely noticed when he first entered your store, ten
years ago. You get into my habit; you want to know
your man before youjudge yourman. You have found
this to be the only correct rule inemploying help. This
is a world of probation. God has put us all on proba-
tion. We have to put each other on the same trial. All
snap judgments are conceited and foolish.
My dear boy, you are small-boned and feeble. You are
half a mind to be disheartened at life’s beginning. You
are painfully conscious of your inferior presence, and
wish you were six feet tall, with a stomach like an ox.
But I tell you that if you were tall you might have con-
sumption, the heart finding it impossible to send the
blood to both extremities and vitals. If you were fat,
you might be bilious and apoplectic. It is not true that
the famous athletés of the prize-ring live long; many a
weazen-faced little dry-goods merchant can wind them
in the amount of a day’s toil and outlive them by a score
of years. I have just noticed what a small horse Jay-
Eye-See is. Nearly all the great racers are small horses;
the big fellows could take long strides if they could only
a, as quickly, and if they could only escape pound-
g themselves to pieces. It is quality, not quantity,
that tells in horseflesh as everywhere else.
If you are not strong you must be careful, and you
probably will be. The strong fellow will be care-
less, and be dead long before you. If your head is small
the quality may be fine. Or ifit is not, you will be wise
enough to adapt yourself to the thing that you can do,
and do well and make a fortune in it. While the big
head will attempt some monstrous thing and make a
monstrous failure. I heard of a man, recently, who bas
made a fortune by the invention and manufacture of a
child’s toy; just one ingenious toy ; his house is a palace,
his family are happy, and the little man is blessed.
Economy andindustry are within the reach of all brains
that are worth calling brains. I beg pardon; the big
brains often fail to realize the value of economy and in-
dustry ; these simple things are too small for them; so
it comes to pass that they are failures.
You certainly cannot measure the size of a man’s
heart by his hat. All that affectionate nature, that love
and desire, that hope and faith which make steam to
drive the engine, these are not to be discovered by super-
ficial observation. And while the brain may not be en-
larged, yet the heart may he ; indeed, it may be changed
altogether ; it may have been one thing yesterday and a
much nobler thing to-morrow ; it may be enriched be-
yond measure and beautiful beyond degree. At any
rate, I shall not have written in vain if I help any youth
to deny the hopeless tyranny of ‘‘being born so ,” of hay-
ing a small head and a feeble frame, a frail nature and
a cast-iron destiny to plod and fail.
Wear your own hat thanktully, and lift it reverently
to your Creator for His blessing ; you shall then do well.
enc ae at ees
A MUSHROOM CITY.
A new town was laid out in Dakota last fall, and to
make it seem a desirable place, it was called Golden
City. A Chicago speculator bought 500 lots at $5 each,
and in thirty days the price of city lots had gone to $25
each. Some one built and opened a saloon, and the
figures jumped up to $50. A second saloon went up,
and the city lots changed hands at $75a piece. The
Chicago man was advised to sell, but he concluded to
hang onforafew more saloons. The snow came, and
it was with difficulty the Chicago man’s agent could get
through the drift, to find the place deserted by human
beings; but on a tree was a sign reading: ‘Sell you the
whole city for $10.”
&
THE BACHELOR'S PIG.
BY MARGARET BLOUNT.
Mr. Jones, being a bachelor, and also a contributor to
the NEw YoRK WEEKLY, bethought himself, one pleasant
spring, that it might be well to take a country house for
the season and recruit his energies, which had become
somewhat exhausted by a too constant devotion to
chicken salad and dry champagne during the gay car-
nival of the winter months in the city.
Accordingly, he sought and found a small furnished
cottage on Long Island Sound, for which he paid a rent
that would have purchased the place, outlying lands
and all, in two years’ time. But Mr. Jones was regard-
less of expense just then, being mounted on a new
hobby, and engaged in riding it to death as fast as pos-
sible. The rent was paid, the cottage taken, a house-
keeper procured Yhose age and plainness spoke well for
Mr. Jones’ sense, and then the happy man sat down to
correct a serial for the NEw YORK WEEKLY, and to enjoy
himself beneath the shadow of his own vine and fig-
tree, as became a well-known author and a respectable
and responsible man.
For one golden month all things went well; but at
the end of that time some evil spirit of mischief led the
feet of the unhappy man (when out on one of his long,
“constitutional” walks) past the cabin of an Irish brick-
layer, who was the proud owner of a penful of tiny
white pigs—or piglets, as one fest call them. Patrick
was just feeding the squalling brood as Mr. Jones
passed ; and Mr. Jones lingered to look, and was fas-
cinated by the quaint, wise face and keen, black eyes of
one of the porcine -pets.
“Tl have that fellow !” he exclaimed.
a pet for the summer, and in the winter——
“‘Ah, in the winter yer honor can ate him, and that’s
the best of pigs intirely—they can be ate up out iv the
way,” said Patrick.
So a five-dollar greenback changed hands, and the pig-
let went home with Mr. Jones that night, to the horror
and disgust of his vinegar-faced housekeeper.
Mr. Jones made a pen for his playful pet the very next
day, and getting into that pen early in the morning,
with a pail of soap-suds and a strong broom, washed
and scrubbed the little fellow till he was as white as the
driven snow. The sour-faced housekeeper sniffed at the
sight, and mentally decided. that ‘‘all writers must be
fools.” But Mr. Jones, heedless of her scorn, kept his
pig fresh and clean each day, and was rejoiced to see
him grow more playful and familiar, and also more wise,
with each succeeding visit to the pen.
But Piggy, like all the rest of his race, was possessed
by a demon of mischief.
Mr. Jones thought he should like some cabbage for
dinner one day. Piggy had escaped from the pen and
eaten it allup. He cultivated early potatoes, and Piggy
saved him the trouble of digging them. He planted
flower seeds, and Piggy’s pointed nose put an effectual
stop to their growth. He worked day and night on his
strawberry patch, and raising his eyes from the fifteenth
chapter of his serial, oue afternoon, saw with anguish
Piggy eating away among the vines, his snowy cheeks
colored to a bright rose-pink by the delicious fruit. In
fact, there was no end to the mischief worked by Piggy.
But Mr. Jones believed in him, clung to him, and loved
him still!
One day, as Mr. Jones sat placidly writing in his study,
aring came at the door, and presently the cross house-
keeper entered, flung a look of triumph at her master,
placed a chair for a lady who followed her into the room,
and retired.
Mr. Jones looked curiously at his visitor. She was tall,
and slender, and elegantly formed, dressed in widowy
weeds, and evidently a lady by birth and education.
She threw up her vail, after a moment of silence. He
saw the face of a woman of thirty, a pretty face more-
over, with ripe lips, blooming cheeks, a nose slightly
retroussee, and a pair of magnificent dark-gray eyes
shaded by long black lashes. Moreover the lady’s hair
was black, she had a little foot and hand, and her voice,
when she spoke, was singularly soft and soothing to the
musical ear of Mr. Jones.
«‘What on earth can she want ?” thought the bewilder-
ed bachelor. ‘There must be some mistake. How
pretty she is. I suppose I must speak first.”
And so he very nervously inquired in what way he
could be of service to his visitor.
The great gray eyes looked up at him with a demure
glance that seemed to struggle with a smile.
“J hope you will pardon the intrusion,” said the seveet
voice. “I know that a writer never likes to be disturbed,
and it is really toobad, but then you see, Mr. Jones, I
did not know what else todo. The pig——”
“The pig!’ said Mr. Jones, starting to his feet with a
deep fiush. “What has the little wretch been doing
now ?”
The widow looked frightened.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Mr. Jones, with a
smile. ‘But he is eternally in mischief, and has spoiled
more copy for me in the last month than his neck is
worth. As surely as I sit down for an hour's writing,
just so surely that young villain gets into some awful
piece of mischief, from which I, and I alone, can extri-
cate him. "What has he been doing now ?”
The widow’s soft gray eyes looked as if they were
about to fill with tears.
“I am so sorry—so very sorry, that I intruded, Mr.
Jones,” she faltered. “I ought to have known that
your time was too valuable to be wasted on such trifling
matters. But, you see, I am all alone in the world,
and no one to look after anything for me, now my poor,
dear Paul is gone, and so—]——”
She paused, and the gray eyes were full of tears now.
In all his life Jones had never seen anything so beauti-
ful. And what a brute he had been to rave out like
that, and make hercry!
He left his seat and took one next the widow.
“Pray do not apologize,” he said, in his gentlest tone.
“J did not mean to alarm you, and my time is nothing
where a lady young and lovely as yourself is concerned.
Tell me all about it.”
And he actually took her hand. Bravo, Jones!
The widow glanced at him, blushed violently, and
withdrew her hand. But not before the touch of the
soft palm and the slender fingers had driven the little
remaining sense out of Mr. Jones’ head.
“He got into my garden through the gap in the fence,”
she explained, in her softest tones, ‘‘and he is eating up
all my violets and fuchsias now. Poor, dear Paul set
them out for me last year——”
Again she paused, and again the soft gray eyes spoke
tor her.
Jones flung down his pen, snatched his hat, and offered
the widow his arm.
“My dear madam, let me see
I'll teach the little rascal to me
again.”
The widow did not accept the arm, but she allowed
his escort. .
Jones went to the next cottage with her, but so occu-
pied was he with the charms of her conversation that
the pig ate up the remainder of the fuchsias under his
very nose, and never even got a cross word tor his mis-
demeanors.
“} meant to haye set them out on poor dear Paul's
grave,” sighed the widow, as Piggy trotted away.
And Jones looked at her and pressed her hand, at
which she blushed again.
The gap in the fence was mended, and the pig trans-
gressed no more. But the pig’s master was forever at
the cottage ; the serial for the New YoRK WEEKLY Was
not completed; and, in October of that year, the bells
rang out merrily, and Mr. Jones was a bachelor no
longer.
The sour-faced housekeeper stood in the cottage door,
and watched the carriage that conveyed away her late
lodger and his bride. A shrewd smile was on her face
the while, for piggy was now her own.
“He has married a Tartar, as ‘poor, dear Paul’ would
tell him if he was alive again,” she said to herself, as
the carriage went out of sight—‘‘a Tartar, that won’t
let him say that his soul is his own, and that will go
nigh to drive him mad with her silly, flirting ways, And
all that comes of a bachelor keeping a pig!”
>e-
AN INEXPENSIVE SPREE.
‘6
le will make
P safely home, and
dle with your flowers
In El Paso, Texas, a Mexican dollar is worth 85 cents,
In El Paso del Norte, just across the river, in Mexico,
an American dollar is worth 85cents. Not long ago a
cowboy took a fifteen-cent drink of whisky in an El Paso
saloon. He tendered an American dollar and received
for change a Mexican dollar equivalent there to 85 cents.
He then crossed over to the Mexican town and took an-
other drink of the same stuff. He passed over the Mex.
ican dollar and received for change an American dollar,
equivalent there to 85 cents. He continued this opera-
tion all day, and at night was found dead drunk, with
his original dollar in his pocket.
RANDOM READINGS.
THE SECRET OF LONG LIFE.
Thomas Yan Valin, who died on Christmas, in Syra-
cuse, N. Y., lacked only a few days of being 105 years
old. He was born in Dutchess County, Jan. 12, 1780.
His grandfather lived to be 115 ; his father was accident-
ally killed at the age of 105. A short time before his
death, Thomas Van Valin said to a friend: ‘Do you
know why the present generation don’t live as long as
they did some sixty or seventy years ago? Well, the
reason is because the children nowadays are generall
brought up on delicacies and are handled with too muc
care. In my day we were made toroughit. Why, I re-
member that when I was a young man I traversed the
States of New York, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut,and
that afoot, too. I used to make the old Catskill Moun-
tains my hunting grounds. Many a time Ihave traveled
the entire length of these woody regions in search of
game. I once was told by a fortune-teller that I should
live to be as old as my grandfather, and, unless the in-
jury that I sustained to my hip a few months ago plays
havoc with me, I still cherish the hope to see that proph-
ecy fulfilled.”
A DEBTOR’S RUSE.
Annoyed by creditors constantly coming to his door
for money, a French artist procured a bear, which he
taught to answer the door-bell and to show its teeth
every time an unwelcome visitor appeared. The plan
was successful. Creditors, having naturally some re-
pe for their personal safety, ceased troubling him.
atterly, however, the animal died. Another not being
procurable, the artist determined to enact the part him-
Self. He sewed himself up in the bear-skin coat, set to
practictag the manners and language of the animal by
owling, screeching, and scratching at the door, until at
last the neighbors lodged a complaint against him. The
ingenious artist was finedand compelled to desist.
TO DETECT SEWER GAS.
Generally one has to rely upon the sense of smell, but
this is not usually acute enough to make a certain test.
The only mechanical test is made by saturating un-
glazed paper with a solution of an ounce of pure acetate
of lead in a half-pint of rain water. When it is partly
dry expose it where sewer gas is expected, and if there
is gas in any considerable quantity the fact is made
known by the dark hue that comes over the paper. A
small quantity of pure air coming steadily into an apart-
ment renders sewer gas comparatively harmless.
HUNTING WILD HORSES.
A body of well-equipped men are about setting out
from Laramie City for North-eastern Wyoming, for the
double purpose of shooting wild horses and poisoning
coyotes. The latter are a terror to cattle men, and a
reward of $2.50 each is offered for their pelts. Wild
horses have increased of late on the plains, and do
damage by enticing away tame ones, so that the loss to
owners is great every year, and is steadily increasing.
—_——___—__ > e+ _____—__
Items of Interest.
Brunettes are thought to be more tractable and less
irritable than blondes, and are therefore preferred as clerks
in the Treasury Department, Washington. A blonde, aware
of this discrimination. against light-complexioned young
ladies, made a change in her appearance before undergoing
examination as to her capabilities for a government position.
With the aid of a dark wig and a little coloring matter which
darkened her complexion, she made herself acceptable to her
judges, and was promptly appointed.
In a box at the opera two ladies are bringing their
opera-glasses to bear on a third—a brunette of mature years
made beautiful with superb diamonds. “Look,” said one, “it
is the Countess X. Her hair isjet black, and I am sure it
was gray last year.” “Very true, my dear. But you forget
that she isin mourning. She lost her brother some months
ago.”
A cashier in a Montreal bank was observed by the
president to be on very familiar terms with a well-known de-
faulter from the States. Fearing that the cashier was taking
lessons in finance, and that he soon intended to put them in
practice, the president abruptly dismissed him. The defaulter
thinks the Canadian cashier a little too slow for this electric
age.
One of the Japanese students at Harvard, while out
for a stroll, was accosted by a Sophomore with the inquiry,
“What’s your name?” The gentleman from Japan answered
politely, giving hissurname. “Oh,” rejoined the questioner,
you heathens don’t have but one name,I see.” ‘What was
the first name of Moses ?” was the reply.
A policy of insurance was taken out by Mr. Sparhawk
on a factory in West Randolph, Vt. While paying the money
that made the insurance yalid the fire bells rang. “How
funny if that should be my place!” said Mr. Sparhawk. And,
sure enough, the property destroyed was the Sparhawk prop-
erty—insured in the nick of time.
Barrymore, the actor, met Percy Reeve, the composer,
in a London hotel. The former was practically demonstrat-
ing to the latter the excellence of certain gripsin wrestling.
The exhibition convinced Reeve of the superiority of the
grip, for he was thrown, and had his arm broken just below
the shoulder.
A Scotch Episcopal Bishop visited a certain rector in
Buffalo, who is a strict teetotaler. Alluding to his visit some
weeks afterward, the Bishop said: ‘They were all good peo
ple, and most kind, I am sure; but they gave me water to
drink at the table. and upon going to bed, asif I had been a
horse.”
A full-blood negro woman, Mrs. Mattie Bowlin, of
Beatrice, Nebraska, is turning white. The change began
three years ago, and now her hands and wrists are white as
those of a Caucasian. Her face has also become white in
spots.
The son of the man who wanted to send his boots by
telegraph has turned up in Tacoma, W.T. He got mad and
fired two shots at the telegraph operator because he saw his
dispatch lying on the table after being told that it had been
sent.
The ruling of a Dakota judge, the other day, was
not admired by a lawyer, who made some blasphemous com-
ment upon it. The judge left his seat, knocked the lawyer
down, and then quietly proceeded with the case.
Charles O. Breed, of Lynn, Mass., has performed the
feat of lifting with one hand a barrel of flour and fixtures,
weighing 21934 pounds, 240 times in one minute. He raised
the barrel on an average four times a second.
The father of a young lady in Knoxville struck her in
the face, for some trifling indecorum. The young lady’s beau
was present, and she was so mortified that she became ill and
died, although the blow was light.
“A lady in Cleveland caused much merriment by wear-
ing on the street a new cloak bearing a card with these words
conspicuously displayed thereon: ‘Former price, $20.
Marked down to, $12, to close out.”
Indiana hotel keepers have organized to resist the
trickery of hotel “beats ”—the cheeky gentlemen who carry
most of their luggage in their hats, forget to pay their hotel
bills, and silently steal away.
A cow which was killed in Dayton, Oregon, recently,
had a twenty-dollar gold piece, a scissors, and nearly a pint
of fine diamonds in her stomach. No trace of the remainder
of the editor could be found.
A ghost in Cincinnati was rather coolly treated by
some ladies, two of whom tied the ghost to a post, and the
third played the hose on it. The spirit turned out to bea
mischievous young man.
The engagement of a youthful pair has been an-
nounced—Master Willie Scott, aged four years, of Gordons-
ville, Va., and Miss Jennie Perry, age six years; of Charles-
ton, W. Va.
The King.of Bavaria fears that he is becoming poor.
In consequence of unsuccessful building speculations, his in-
come is now 2 little less than $2,500 a day.
The beauty of the Mormon religion is, that evena
married man can sleep with a piece of wedding-cake under
his pillow and dream of his future wife.
Mrs. Elizabeth Heath, aged eighty-four, retired the
other night, in Petersburg, Va., as well as ever. The next
morning she was stone-blind.
Nearly all the sugar used in Denmark twenty years
ago was imported. Now it is produced in the country, from
beets.
The gray whiskers of a manin Rainsboro, Ohio, sud-
denly turned red, and he is the wonder of the town.
A Texas medical journal states that anything that
will cause a sneeze will cure the hiccough.