“THE AMERICAN MARQUIS: OR, DETECTIVE FOR VENGEANCE,” BEGINS NEXT WERK.

 

 

Fintored Accord @ na |

 

 

Office

Vol. 40.

MY OWN FIRESIDE.

BY C, T. W.

 

 

 

Let others seek away from home
Unwelcome thoughts to hide ;

I care not where they please to roam
Throughout the world so wide ;

But I, for my part, love ‘‘sweet home,”
Around my own fireside.

None know what genuine pleasure is,
Though many sorts they’ve tried,

Till they can say, ‘Our joy is this,
Our home’s our chiefest pride.”

Till then they cannot tell what bliss ;
Dwells in that word—fireside.

Oh, do not tell me there’s no charm
In that fond place implied—

The wife’s fond smile, her look so calm,
Does no spell there abide ?

Yes, there is sorrow’s healing balm ;
Then give me my fireside!

Should ever joys perchance abate,
Or sadness e’er betide,

How cheering then to hear the prate
Of children by our side!

Then may we never underrate
The happy home fireside !

Put Asunder;

OR,

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1885, bu Street & Smith. in the

 

 

 

 

 

 

3! Rose St.

New York, March 23, 1885.

Office or the Librarian or Conaress. Washinaton. D. C

 

 

 

 

 

Lady Castlemaine’'s Divoree. |

By BERTHA M. CLAF,

Author of “Thrown on the World,” “A Struggle |
For a Ring,” “A Bitter Atonement,” Etc.

 

‘(Pour ASUNDER” was commenced in No. 17. Back num- |
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XII.
SOWING THE SEED.

Christmas week at Neath Abbey passed very pleas- |
antly. Lord Castlemaine was one of the most genial |
and kindly of hosts; Lady Castlemaine one of the most
graceful and thoughtful of hostesses. The favorite guest |
was Isabel Hyde; every one saw it, but no one felt hurt |
or envious. It was well known that Miss Hyde had been |
Lady Castlemaine’s chief bride-maid, and that they were
on very affectionate terms.

Many a cozy half-hour in the warm, luxurious boudoir
did the two friends pass together, many a ramble in the
frosty woods did they take together.

True friendship, sincerity, and honesty on one side;
treachery and the desire for vengeance on the other.

“You must be very happy,” said Isabel Hyde to Lady
Castlemaine. ‘‘There does not seem to be one thing
wanting to make your life perfect.”

«“[ do not think there is,” replied the young countess.
«I ought to be very grateful, and I am grateful.”

for love, yet has all that this world can give besides.”

‘Not often,” replied Lady Castlemaine ; “but that has |

been my fortunate fate.”

‘Then she did marry for love,” thought Isabel.
the worse for her.”

Lady Castlemaine raised a bright, smiling face to
hers.

All

said, ‘‘and one only.”

«What is that ?” asked Isabel.

“T have the best and dearest’ husband in the world—I
have the kindest and best of mothers; but I have no
sisters. The only one thing I want in this world isa |
friend, a girlof my own age and of my own taste, with
whom I can talk about the things that interest me, who
would be something more to me than others girls—a |
real, true friend. And whom do you think, Isabel, I
would choose for that friend if I could ?”

“J do not know,” said Isabel, with a strange, sudden |}

AD i \
ie i

se i]
SE FW NL
ae i

We

Ee |
| cei ol

ttt, AE Aa A

MY

It is a treasure-trove,
Iam not much of a judge, but I never saw
such lace in my life.”
‘Nor have I,” said Lady Castlemaine.

They unfolded some of it—lace so fine it could have
| been drawn through a wedding-ring, yet so strong that
| not a thread was broken. Flounces, shawls, vails, col-

lars, and cuffs—never was there such a rich collection.

| Gertrude.

“There is just one thing I want in the world,” she | Lord Castlemaine gave it all to his wife.
|

‘You will be the envy of every lady at court, and
| everywhere else, Gertrude,” he said, laughingly. ‘You
will have the finest store of lace in England.”

It so happened that during Christmas week Lady Cas-
tlemaine told Isabel of the discovery, and took her into one
of her wardrobe rooms to show her the treasure. Isabel
was in raptures, her face all smiles, her: eyes bright, as
she looked and listened ; but in her heart she was say-
ing: ‘This should have been all mine; he knew me first

| and I loved him best. It should have been mine.”
“7 wonder,” said Lady Castlemaine, in her simple,

sinking of the heart. Treachery is not always free from | girlish fashion, “what mamma will say when she sees

ain.

. “You,” said Lady Castlemaine. ‘I speak very frankly,
and it is true. Of all the girlsI have met, I like you
best. Will you be my true friend ?”

The dark face and the fair one drew nearer to each
other. In the one heart was honest and loyal friend-
ship ; in the other, bitterest hate and darkest perfidy.

“T will,” said Isabel Hyde.

“Give me one kiss on the strength of it, just asa
pledge,” said Lady Castlemaine ; and the two beautiful
faces met.

“Now,” said Lady Castlemaine, with a musical little
laugh, ‘I have all that the world can give me. But,
Isabel, you look pale and tired.”

It was not so easy to look into this fair young face
and give no sign of the treachery at work. When Isabel

| this? She is a worshiper of lace; she would rather at
any time wear fime lace than diamonds.”

‘I like both,” said Isabel Hyde.

«JT hope you will always have plenty of them,” laughed
Lady Castlemaine. ‘I understand how the antiquity of
ae makes it valuable. Ido not care for antiquity, as a
rule.”

She was silent for a minute, then she laughed.

«“Jsabel,” she said, ‘<do you know that I was once very
nearly quarreling with my husband, with Rudolph, over
| that word antiquity.”

‘Was this the chance, the opportunity, for which she
was Waiting ?” Isabel asked herself

‘Quarreled!” she repeated. ‘Nay, I could believe
that the sun shone by night and the moon by day, but I
could never believe that you had quarreled with him.”

 

Hyde kissed the lips of Gertrude Castlemaine, she said
in her heart:
“T will supplant you!” and she intended to keep her
word.
It is very sweet when it is true, this girl-friendship,

and Lady Castlemaine was exceedingly happy in it.
Her husband had all the love of her heart, all her

 

| the greatest boast of a family is its antiquity.

“T said almost,” laughed Lady Castlemaine, ‘‘not quite.
It was a narrow escape, though. You have no idea how
conservative he is.”

“T always thought so,” said Isabel Hyde.

“He never talked politics with me, or anything else
much, except love,” said Lady Castlemaine. ‘‘He thinks
I do not.

thoughts and cares, but there were many things she | J think activity, energy, and industry, earnestness and
knew would not interest him, of which, young as she | perseverance, the courage to do and to dare, are all bet-

was, she liked to speak—dress, ornaments,
trivial stories of other girls—topics which would not
have interested a man, but which were pleasant and
natural enough to young girls. Lady Castlemaine and
Isabel Hyde enjoyed these themes. They discussed, as
girl-friends will, every topic under the sun—nothing
escaped them.

During: these conversations, Isabel Hyde lay, as it
were, in waiting for some indiscreet word the young
wife might utter, by ch she could make mischief, and
so insert the tht the wedge.

The time and ance, so patiently waited for, came
at last.

Lady Castlemaine had made a very fortunate dis-
covery. She had heard something of a very valuable pic-
ture that had been locked away in a lumber-room, and
she went with Lerd Castlemaine to see it.

It proved to be a valuable work of art that by some
mistake had been left in a lumber-room. A house-maid,
with a soul for art, had made the discovery, had spoken
of it to a footman who was an admirer of hers; he in his
turn told the butler; the butler teld Lord Castlemaine,
and the result was the discovery of a most noble
picture.

While they were still in the lumber-room, L Cas-
tlemaine, looking idly around, saw an old carved oak
chest; it seemed to have the rust of years upon it.

“That is a fine old chest,” she said to her husband.

‘It is large enough to have held Ginevra,” he replied.

“T wonder,” said Lady Castlemaine, ‘‘what is in it ?”

“TI will soon see,” replied the earl.

When it had been brushed free from dust and cob-
webs he opened the lid.

What should be there but untold treasures of richest
lace — Valenciennes, rose-point, Venetian — all of it
priceless.
bs on Castlemaine uttered a cry of joy when she be-

e .

Why it had been placed there no one knew.

“Tt was not my mother’s,” said Lord Castlemaine, ‘or
I should have known something about it. It could not
have been my
known of its whereabouts. It has been placed here for
safety in troubled times, by some of the Ladies Castle-

andmother’s, or my mother would have |

parties, | ter than the antiquity that he upholds so strongly. My

| father was a city knight, a man who made his own
| great fortune, and I think my family quite as good as
the Castlemaines. He does not.”

‘He would never say so ?” cried Isabel.

“Oh, yes, he did. He made no secret of it. I told you
we almost quarreled. Fortunately enough, I remem
bered just in time that it was not worth while offending
him over such a thing; but we did not agree.”

“He converted you to his way of thinking, I have no
doubt,” said: Isabel.

‘Indeed he did not, and to tell the truth I feel some
kind of vexation whenever I think of it.”

«You have radical ideas, then,” said Isabel.

“Tdo not knowif that is all,” laughed Lady Castle-
maine. ‘I am inclined to think that I was brought up
to believe a great deal of myself, and I do not think it
pleased me to hear that my husband’s family was supe-
rior to mine.”

“Perhaps, though he said it, he did not mean it,” re-
marked Isabel.

“Yes, he did. 1 should not respect him if he had said
what he did not mean.” said Lady Castlemaine.

“And that is the only point on which you have not
agreed ?” asked Isabel Hyde.

“Yes, the only point,” replied Lady Castlemaine.

“It was not mueh, certainly,” and the beautiful wo-
man who listened wondered if it were ible that she
could construct the thin end of the wedge out of this.

The next Ee she was standing by the great win-
dow in the library by Lord Castlemaine’s side, and they
were watching some robin redbreasts out in the snow.
Suddenly she laughed a little laugh of quiet amusement.

«What are you thinking of, Miss Hyde,” he asked. “It
is almost cruel to keep anything amusing a secret.”

“J do not know that my thoughts were amusing, and
they are no secret,” she replied. ‘I was thinking of you
and Gertrude.”

«“‘Were you, and what were your thoughts ?”

«You were such a conservative last year, I remember,
that I was surprised at your enthusiasm.”

“7 am conservative now,” he replied, ‘‘just asl was
then.”

“Are you?

 

I should hardly have imagined it. I was

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

Entered at the Post Ontice New York. as Seconda Olass Matter.

 

 

 

SSS

Isabel Hyde stood by, a silent spectator; each word, so expressive of his tender

| maine—perbaps during the civil wars, or the War of the ; thinking how strange it was that you should marry one
“Tt is not often,” said Isabel Hyde, ‘‘that one marries | Steneg<tann ne ean tell when. : 5 ; ‘

who has not a conservative idea. Gertrude amuses me.
| She considers the antiquity of a family to be its least
recommendation.”
Lord Castlemaine frowned, his brows darkened, he
| looked impatient.
; “Gertrude cannot mean such nonsense,” he
curtly.
: see eee does mean it, with all her heart,” laughed
sabel.

It was the thin end of the wedge. How clever she
had been to findit out. Her heart beat with delight as
she saw the frown on his face.

“He can frown when he thinks of her,” she said to
herself. ‘I shall win the victory and keep my vow.

said,

 

CHAPTER XIII.
THE WEAVING OF ANOTHER WEB.

There are many people who honestly believe that when
a woman is wicked, she is worse than a man can pos-
sibly be. How true this may be itis impossible to say ;
but no man, not even the most wicked upon earth, could
have set to work in amore treacherous and deliberate
| manner to annihilate the happiness and mar the lives of
; two people, than did Isabel Hyde.
| She had done what she could in asmall way to pre-
; Vent this marriage, but she had had no opportunities ;

now she had every opportunity. She was in the same
| house, under the same roof; she was the bosom friend
of the wife, she was a trusted and valued friend of the
husband. She had studied each separate. character ;
she knew the strength and the weakness of each; she
knew the faults and the virtues of each. She saw that
both were very proua@, both willful; that Lord Castle-
maine was impatient, that he prided himself exces-
sively on the antiquity of his name and race. That he
belonged to one of the oldest families in England was
his great source of pride and delight. He could not en-
dure one word of contradiction ; he was indignant and
impatient with every one who did not share his views,
with every one who contradicted him-or opposed him.
Next to the divine right of kings came, in his mind, the
divine right of old families.

He was not quite pleased that his wife did not share
these feelings.

During that eager wooing and impassioned courtship
of his, he had never thought of discussing such matters.
It had been, as Lady Castlemaine said, all love-making.
He had ideas of his own that were quite peculiar about
women and wives. He thought they ought to obey im-
plicitly, and believe implicitly all that their husbands
believed.

The Castlemaine ladies had all been of that descrip-
tion—all gentle, docile, and obedient, yielding to their
husbands in everything. No matter in what faith they
had been reared, the Castlemaine ladies always adopted
their husbands’ faith. No matter in what political school
they had been educated, they became conservative when
they became Castlemaines.

No such thing was ever known in the annals of the
family as the rebellion of a wife against her husband.
No such thing was known as a division of opinion. The
Ladies Castlemaine, separately and distinctly, carried
out that beautiful line of Milton’s—

“He for God only; she, for God in him.”
But this line by no means applied to Gertrude—Lady
Castlemaine. She had been brought up in more mod-
ern days, when obedience is an old-fashioncd virtue,
almost eut of date, and which few people care to prac-
tice.

She loved her husband with her whole heart, but it
would never have entered her mind to have changed
any thought, principle, or idea of her own out of defer-
ence to him.

If there was to be any changing, it should rather be
on. his side.

Had they been alone, these differences.of opinion
would never have come to the front, they would hardly
have been noticed, but the presence of their hidden
enemy, Isabel Hyde, made the whole world of difference
tothem. There was some one to note every slightest
difference, some one to repeat every word the young
wife uttered, with additions so slight they were hardly
to be remarked; yet it was these small additions that
always held the sting.

It was Isabel who always repeated to Gertrude every
remark that her husband made on ancient lineage, to-
gether with every word that fell from his lips on the
subject of the newly made titles or the want of good

 

 

 

 

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solicitude for her beautiful rival, pierced her

descent. It was Isabel who pointed all these words,
and in repeating them, made her own comments and
told them in her own fashion. She persevered so indus-
triously, and she was so untiring in her efforts, she was
so skillful that she succeeded in raising the shedow of
discord between husband and wife—succeeded to her
own unutterable delight, and rejoiced in her success.

Lord Castlemaine, who was far too noble himself to
suspect, any want of nobility in others, began aftera
time to entertain a certain sense of irritation against
the wife whom he yet loved with passionate love.

“Why could she not think as he thought? Why must
she be the only one of the Ladies Castlemaine to have
opinions and ideas different from those of the head of
the family.”

Whenever she had an opportunity Isabel Hyde talked
to him about this. Lord Castlemaine would say some-
thing either about the antiquity of his family, his house,
or his title, and dilate upon it.

She was always equal to the occasion.

‘What a pity itis, Lord Castlemaine,” she would say,
“that Gertrude is not of your opinion; she thinks so
differently.”

Then would follow a profound sigh that said, as plainly
as words could have spoken :

“T am of your opinion, and have blind faith in all your
ideas, but that is useless.”

Again Lord Castlemaine would feel irritated at some
remark that his beautiful young wife had made, and
which had been repeated with additions to him.

“T cannot imagine,” he would say, ‘‘why Gertrude is
not like the other ladies of our house.”

There were times when Gertrude would tell him, with |

laughing frankness, that ‘‘the other ladies of the house
must have had minds like sheets of blotting paper,
to receive and retain anything that was impressed upon
them.”

“] think,” she would say, ‘‘that difference of opinion
gives a great zest to conversation.”

“A zest I do not like,” cried Lordastlemaine,

«You would like it in time,” Lady Castlemaine would
reply.

‘J am quite sure, Gertrude, that I should not!” he
would answer, with offended dignity.

“You think that a husband should regulate the ideas |

and opinions of his wife, just as he regulates the hours of
meals, the quantity and quality of his guests,” said Lady
Castlemaine, laughingly, but deep earnestness lay be-
neath this laughter.

‘Most certainly, I think so,” he answered.
any sensible man.”

“Sensible men must be at a discount,” shereplied. ‘‘I
should say you are the only person in England who has
such an exploded notion of the rights of husbands.”

“Still, I do hold them,” he said, ‘‘and asI hold them,
you ought to respect them.”

‘‘No, I do not see that,” answered Gertrude. ‘I should
consider it tyranny for any man to expect such a
thing. For a wife to do that, would be to lose her iden-
tity altogether.

“A true wife should have no identity apart from her
husband,” said Lord Castlemaine.

But that beautiful young wife of his looked proudly at
him, as she answered :

“T would not do such a thing. I should never merge
my individuality into that of any other person.”

‘You forget,” he would say, ‘‘that husband and wife
are one.”

“In name, in love, in heart, but not in thoughts and
opinions. It is avery different thing; giving your heart
and giving your mind are quite distinct things. I gave
you my whole heart, Rudolph, but I did not give you my
mind. I have reserved that for myself.”

Lady Castlemaine, having the keenest wit, and woman-
like, the quickest flow of words, generally won the
victory ; but they were victories which cost. her dearly.

Each controversy, each stoutly contested argument
seemed to weaken in some little degree the love of the
man who could not endure contradiction or opposition—
who could not brook any ideas except those he held him-

“So would

 

 

self.

 

But this never happened, for
there was some one always at
hand, to fan every tiny spark
into burning flame, to irritate, to
annoy, to deepen every bad im-
pression.

Always at hand whenever one
of these little discussions occur-
red, and few days passed with-
out them, she noted with quick,
keen ears all that was said, and
she knew exactly how to fan the
fire.

Lord Castlemaine would go to
his favorite seat, the great win-
dow-seat in the library, or out on
the southern terrace, from where
one could see the shining blue
sea, and take a cigar to console
himself. Sosure as he lighted it,
he would find the beautiful face
and figure of Isabel by his side.

«TJ must try to convert Gertrude
to your way of thinking,” she
would begin; and then a feeling
of irritation rose in his heart
that even a shadow could lie be-
tween himself and his young
wife.

“T will convert her myself,” he
would answer, proudly.

Then Isabel would shake her
head.

“J do not know; I am not sure
that you will,” she would say,
doubtiully, and that irritated
him the more.

Then she wouid seek her other
victim, and would kiss the beau-
tiful face, and say, laughingly:

“You must not give in to that
husband of yours, Gertrude; he
has great ideas of his own au-

thority.”
“Far too great,” she would re-
ply, laughingly. “He wants

three years’ apprenticeship to a
class of strong-minded women.
I fear that even I am too meek
tor him.”

“You must not give way to
him, or you will entirely lose
your own individuality,” said
Isabel.

“T shall never do that,” said
Lady Castlemaine, proudly; and
although she loved her husband
with all her heart, there was
always a sense of angry irrita-
tion left after one of these con-
versations.

It was a web of another kind
that Isabel Hyde was weavin
now. It was more successiu
than the first. Then she had
tried to weave the web of love
round the heart of one man; now
she tried to weave the web of
hate over two hearts that, but
for her, could never have been
disunited.

She laughed at times with a
wicked sense of victory, and at
times she wept, despairing of
success. But, day by. day, the
web grew longer. and stronger,
and less liable to break.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
‘‘LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION.”

It isa terrible thing to throw
one’s Self willfully into the way
of temptation, ag Isabel Hyde had done. Knowing
that she loved Lord Castlemaine, she should have kept
the breadth of the world between herself and him, but
in her reckless desire for vengeance—in her mad, pas-
sionate desire to fullfil her vow, she forgot or utterly
ignored the danger and the temptation for herself.

She had given, unsought and unasked, the whole pas-
sionate love of her heart to Lord Castlemaine. . She had
hated with insane hate the beautiful girl who had, as
she considered, taken his lovefrom her. She had volun-

heart.

 

| tarily placed herself under their roof for the purpose of

seeking vengeance. But she forgot that in so doing she
must suffer unutterable pain herself.

Every kind and loving word that Lord Castlemaine ad-
dressed to his wife was like asword in her heart. She
would grow cold, sick, and faint when she saw his great
solicitude, his care and attention for her. Her heart
burned with jealousy and envy.

There came a morning when a damp, cold wind

| seemed to sweep the warmth away ; the atmosphere was
| all damp, the skies gray and lowering; the sun had set

in sullen discontent for the day, and Lord Castlemaine
saw his wife, wrapped in her costly furs, going out. Isa-
bel was with her.

“Gertrude, where are you going ?” was his first ques-
tion.

“I am going to Redmoss,” was the prompt and cheer-
ful reply.

Redmoss was the nearest town to Neath Abbey—a
bright, pleasant town by the sea.
“To Redmoss!” he repeated.

going darling ?”

‘‘With Isabel,” she replied.

“How are you going? I hope you have ordered the
brougham ?”

“Oh, Rudolph, what a string of questions!
not; we are going to walk.”

The conversation took place in the great entrance hall,
where Lord Castlemaine met the two ladies. He went
up to his wife, and laid his hand on the fur sheen of her
een a magnificent fur for which he had given a fabu-

ous price—one of his wedding presents to her.

“This is warm,” he said, ‘‘but, Gertrude, darling, it
cannot shut outthe damp. You must breathe the damp
air, in spite of your warm furs. Do not go out; or if you
will go, order the brougham.”

She cried out impatiently that it would not hurt her,
that she had often been out in the damp, and would
have no carriage.

‘You make me feel like a delicate old woman when
you fidget about me in that way.”

She looked up at him with a smile as she spoke, but
there was some little sign of irritation.

Isabel Hyde stood by, a silent spectator; each word, so
expressive of his tender solicitude for her beautiful
rival, pierced her heart.

“T will not be an old woman yet,” repeated Gertrude.

‘Tlike youto goout in the frost,” said Lord Castle-
maine; ‘that hurts noone. But damp air is quite an-
other thing.”

“Oh, Rudolph,” cried Lady Castlemaine, ‘“‘you will
make me impatient.”

“Tt is not an old woman you resemble,” said Lord
Castlemaine. ‘It is a beautiful white rose. Now I ask
you, Gertrude, how could a fragile white rose live in this
miserable damp ?”

There flashed upon him the light of two beautiful dark
eyes, in which love, pain, scorn, and despair were all
told.

“Is all your care or solicitude for white roses ?” asked
Isabel Hyde; ‘‘have red roses nothing to fear ?”

“Tt you take my advice you will not go,” he said,
slowly. ‘I do not think it is a fitting day for any lady to

‘0 out.”
. “Still,” she continued, ‘you would not have remon-
strated if you had seen me going alone.”

He looked at her somewhat wonderingly, knowing
nothing of the storm of jealousy that rent her heart in
twain.

“Well,” he replied, ‘‘you see, Miss Hyde, it is not the
same thing. I might haye advised you, but I could not

“With whom are you

No, I have

It would not have mattered in the least, had they been | interfere with you.”

left alone ; after a few minutes the wife would have gone }
to her husband, and said:
‘“‘How foolish we are to argue and disagree over trifies. |

What does anything matter provided only that we love ; he said.

each other.”
Or the husband would have sought his wife, and said: |

“IT may go out and get killed with the damp, and you
would not say one word to me,” cried Isabel.

“Forgive me, but how very impetuous you ladies are,”
“T have displeased you, Isabel, and half of-

| fended Gertrude ; yet I cannot imagine why.”

‘You are over solicitous for me,” said Lady Castle-

“We will not argue, darling; let my stronger thoughts maine.

guide you, let your sweeter thoughts guide me; nothing |
matters but that we love each other.”

| Hyde, and then seeing the startled look in his eyes, sie

“You are not solicitous enough for me,” cried Isabel

 

 

  

 

 
 

 

 

 

<<atzxa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

began to laugh, but no woman ever laughed with such
an effort betore; her jealousy had for the time carried
her beyond herself. Ail that loving care and solicitude
for Gertrude—the wind must not ‘blow too roughly on
her, the damp must not come near her; but what
did he care tor her? He was so anxious and solicitous
about Gertrude that he did not seem to notice whether
she were going out or not. But the wonder in his eyes
called her to herself. What right had she to show any
jealousy of another woman’s husband.

She laughed, but there was little music in the laugh.

“While so much care and solicitude are to be had,” she
said, ‘‘I may as well claim a share.”

“You will always have it from me.” said Lord Castle-
maine; ‘I strongly advise you not to walk out this
damp, unhealthy day.”

He looked at her kindly, and she felt that to have that
sense of loving care always over her she would give her
life itselt.

“JT shall go,” said Lady Castlemaine, ‘damp or not
damp, I have determined to go to Redmoss, and gol
will.”

“T will not,” said Isabel Hyde, ‘‘Lord Castlemaine is
quite right, the day is against us.”

After those tew kind words and that kind look, Ger-
trude could not have eer him, so a compromise was
made and a carriage ordered. .

The incident, trifling as it was, helped Isabel to weave
a few more threads in that strong subtile web of hers.

She took Lady Castlemaine to task in a fashion quite
her own. That afternoon, as they lingered in the warm
cozy boudoir, over a cup of delicious tea, she commenced
her attack.

“Gertrude,” she said, ‘“‘you do not understand your
husband.”

“Not understand him!’ cried Lady Castlemaine. ‘1
beg your pardon, I am quite sure that I do.”

 

Isabel Hyde shook her beautiful head.

“No, my dear, youdonot. Lreally believe,” she added,
somewhat imprudently, ‘that I should understand him,
in time, better than you do.”

No jealousy stirred Lady Castlemaine’s heart; she |
only thought that Isabel was a little too outspoken ; still
she would like to know what was meant.

«What do you mean, Isabel?” she asked, gravely. |

“Nothing to make a tragedy about,” she replied, “I |
was thinking of this morning. I was so struck by his |
care and solicitude over you, and you grew impatient |
with him.”

“TI am not very patient,” said Gertrude, with a sudden |
contrition, “I own it, but I cannot endure to be fussed |
over and watched. You are right, Isabel, I was, as you |
say, impatient without cause.” |

“JT knew at once that it was his care for you that made |
him persist,” continued Isabel. ‘I have often noticed |
that when he tries best to please you, you understand
him the least.”

Lady Castlemaine could not explain, even to herself,
but something in that moment seemed to rise, like a |
shadow, between her husband and herself. It was not
jealousy ; as yet that fatal and terrible passion had not |
awoke in her heart. It was an intangible something—a |
shadow: and the clearest idea she had after the inter- |
yiew was, that she did not really understand her hus- |
band, and that other people could read his character |
better than she could.

She felt further away from him, that day, than she
had since they were married. |

It was a miserable day to isabel; she had voluntarily |
placed herself in temptation, yet she could not endure |
to see Lord Castlemaine’s passionate love for his wife.

Once, as. she was standing on the grand staircase,
waiting for something that her maid had gone to find,
she saw husband and wife meet quite accidentally in the
hall. It was in the shadow of the winter afternoon, be-
fore the lamps were lighted. She heard Lord Castle-
maine say: ‘Gertrude, darling, is that you?” She
heard the gently murmured ‘‘Yes.” Love alone uses
such tones. Then she saw him clasp his wife in his
arms, and cover her face with kisses. ‘My darling, my
beautiful wife, I shall come and have a cup of tea with

you.”

7 Isabel turned away, utterly unable to bear it. If by
one wish, if by raising her finger, she could have struck
the fair white-rose beauty from Gertrude’s face, she
would. have done it. In her passionate, jealous rage,
she could have struck dead the man she loved.

“Lead us not into temptation!” The words came to}
her like faint sounds through a mist. In her heart—that
jealous, despairing heart, full of love for a man who had
never loved her—she felt capable, in that moment, of
any crime; she could have slain that fair young wife;
she could have slain the man whose dark, handsome
face had lured her to her doom. :

She turned away. Death would not have been so bit-
ter as the pain that rent her heart.

An hour afterward, when Isabel Hyde went, aS was
her custom, to the warm, cozy boudoir where the tea
awaited her, Lady Castlemaine looked at her in wonder.

«“Tsabel,” she cried, ‘‘how ill you look! You have lost
all your beautiful color. You deserve to lose your name;
7 are not at all like a Red Rose—and you are trem-

ling, actually trembling.”

‘IT do notsee anything wonderful in that, Gertrude;
Any one might tremble on a cold December afternoon.”

“T will give you some hot tea,” said Lady Castlemaine.
“Rudolph said he would join us.”

He came, looking so handsome, so brave, so kind, and
his eyes were so fuli of admiration and love for his wife,
that Isabel could hardly bear it.

“Lead us not into temptation!” Yet she had come
ere purposely to be tempted herself, and to tempt
others. }

That dark winter afternoon, as she watched the
guileless, innocent love, the simple happiness of hus-
band and wife, she repeated her vow. She would part
them; come what might, cost what it would, she would
part them, for ever and aye.

But how was it to bedone? Spirits of envy and hate
help and aid her! How was it to be done?

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

—_—_—_ > 9

{Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884
by STREET & SMITH, in the office of the Librarian of Con-
gress, Washington, D. C.]

VELLA VERNELL:

AN AMAZING MARRIAGE.

By Mrs. SUMNER HAYDEN,
Author of ‘Little Goldie,” “The Midnight Marriage,”
“Geraldine,” etc., etc.
[This story will not be published in book-form.]

(“VELLA VERNELL” was commenced in No.3. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER LXV.—(CONTINUED.)
“Voyle Vernell is about to male application for the

| rich sheeny draperies.
| lace of diamonds ran like a river of light.

| sudden panting vehemence :

| large white hands above his red

 

property out of which he and his sister were defrauded.

Your evidence will prove an important link.” |
«And what the duse are you interesting yourself in
“Are you in |

He was apparently becoming impressed at last with
the truth of their similar tale as to the deception which My clever will ruse saved you.
had been practiced upon him, for he did not allude to
Vella as his wife. |
But to neither impertinent question did Owen deign |

| curiosity, she forgot her recent anger.

his affairs for ?’ queried Jonas, irritably.
love with the girl?”

a reply.
Ten minutes passed—twenty.
Then there came a rap.

Owen sprang up. |

«Come in!” he cried.

The door opened to admit a little old man, weazen-
faced and shrewd-eyed.

He came forward and shook hands with Owen.

few minutes ago.

to see me ?”
“Yes; Mr. Clafflin here—Mr. Clafflin, Mr. Bronson !”

both men bowed—‘‘wishes to make a statement as to his

knowledge in a case soon to come up in the Chicago |

courts. You will please take it down, and the document
shall be forwarded. Now, Mr. Clafflin !”

He laid strong emphasis on the name. By that only
would he continue to be known if be did as requested.
Decidedly in this case prudence meant submission.

In three-quarters of an hour it was all over—signed,
attested, sealed, and Mr. Bronson had orders to forward
the testimony to Voyle’s lawyers in Chicago. Then the
legal Weare bowed and departed, and Owen re-
mained to say a few last words to Jonas concerning the
day which would probably be set for the hearing of the
orphans’ claim.

“If you turn up promptly you'll silence me forever,” he
declared. ‘I. am not aching to effect your ruin—only I
will stand by my friends. Well, good-night, Clafilin!”
and he turned away.

After having held himself in check so long, what de-
mon now took possession of the man it would be hard to
say; but all in a tide over his brain surged the recollec-
tion of the manner in which he had been gulled by a
couple of children, been reduced to absolute obedience
now. The thoughts maddened him. His whitish, flab-
by face became darkly red and wrathtul. His hand
sought his hip-pocket. In an excess of irresistible, bru-
tal fury, he whipped out his revolyer—fired.

Owen, just passing out at the door, staggered, reeled.

He flung up his hands.

“You contemptible cur!” he cried, as he fell.

Panic-stricken Claflin rushed forward, leaped over the
Petrie body lying half in the chamber, half in the

all, tore down the passage, down the stairs with the
speed of a madman.

A few moments later guests and servants, attracted
by the report, came hurrying to the scene of the
tragedy.

Young Costello lay face downward, bleeding profusely
from a wound in the back.

Instantly all was alarm, excitement, commotion.

A doctor was sent for.

A gentleman bent over the injured man.

|
| as did also the servants I spoke of.
“7 didn’t know you were in town till I got your note a | back with me, and locked myself into the office,
I believe it is professionally you wish |
| complete satisfaction.

 

“Have you friends in the city? Where are they?

Shall we send for them ?”

“Mr. Gage.” he whispered.

“What Gage? John Gage, of Walnut street ?”

For the wealthy old merchant was well and widely
known. ;

He nodded.

A messenger was immediately dispatched. The doc-
tor came in post-haste. John Gage soon followed him.

He had been going out with Evelyn when the sum-
mons came.

The boy had delivered his errand but imperfectly, so
he was not aware of the real nature of the calamity till
he stood above the stricken figure.

“Can he be moved ?” he asked the physician.

“J think so. The wound is avery unpleasant one to
handle, but there is no immediate danger. He will
probably continue in a stupor for some hours, You
would have him taken to your house ?”

“Oertainly !”

“Then I would advise his removal. A crowded hotel
is no place for a sick man.”

Upand down Gage’s grand drawing-room walked
Evelyn Gage. What could be detaining her father?
He had promised to be back soon.

She glanced at the little clock on the console.
almost eleven. They would be shamefully late.

In a big crimson chair by the repel fire sat Vella.
She had told Evelyn of her meeting with Claflin. She
was still very white, and her large eyes were shining.

‘You look lovely, Evvie,” she said.

Evelyn turned her dark head over her shoulder with a
pleased smile.

‘Dol, dear? I wonder what that boy could have
wanted with papa ?”

She did look lovely. ‘She was in full ball-costume.
Out of glistening satin of plush-rose pink her arms and
bosom shone like marble. Far behind her trailed the
Around her white throat a neck-

It was

‘Hark !” Vella-cried, ‘‘there he is now.”

They could hear a carriage draw up before the door.
There was quite a long pause.

“What can be detaining him?” Evelyn said, standing
still to listen.

Slowly feet ascended the steps without, very slowly—
the steps of several men.

The bell rang.

Evelyn rushed to the door, flung it wide.

Into the splendid hall came four men, bearing between
them a litter, on which lay the stalwart form, the hand-
some blonde face of Owen Costello.

Evelyn shrank back with a quick, frightened cry. AS
they laid down their burden she hurried forward, bent
over it.

“Ts he dead ?” she whispered.

“No, no!’ her father answered.

His heavy lids lifted a moment. His gray eyes, dim
with pain, brightened at sight of her. He strove to

| speak.

She bent her ear to his mouth.
“My queen !” he said.
And then his eyes closed, the deadly stupor again
crept over him.
iy She rose. She was
e.

aler than even she was used to

The misty tulle about her snowy bosom was stained

| with crimson.,

Through the group around the litter Peres a figure.
Trembling, horrified, Vella Vernell s there.

“Who 2” in a sof, Shaking whisper. And then, with
“Tf he dies Jonas Claflin
will have been his murderer!”

Gage fell back aghast.

“Jt is true as God lives!” she said.

CHAPTER LXYVI.
“AS YOU MURDERED HIM!”
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,

“Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”
WILLIAM CONGREVE.
-T will not give you another franc—I will not!” she
protested, stormily.
Up and down the long, glittering room she swept, her
gown of bronze-gold silk rustling noisily after her, her

| Sloe-black eyes snappin

Mr. Dennis Grimes, ing lazily back in a very French
chair, all gilded wood and puff ink satin, clasped his
sh head with a com-

placent smile.

“My dear Letitia,” he urged, ‘‘don’t make a scene.
Vituperation is at all times oe ean ar, and you
are contracting a most deplorable it-of the same.
Write me a check, my love, and let me go.”

Sere him, she continued her rapid, nervous
walk.

The salon which they occupied was one of extrava-
gant elegance, if questionable taste. The lofty gold-
corniced walls were covered with pictures, cabinets,
quaint bronze plaques, and curious carven brackets.
On the ceiling plump little sy or played at hide-and-
seek in masses of milkweed. e floor—to descend ab-
ruptly—was of some light polished wood, over which
were scattered numerous snowy —. The high win-
dows were draj with Persian silks. The present
diversity of taste was illustrated by the chairs, all
unique and dissimilar.

A very short. time had Mr. and Mrs. Dennis Grimes
been reveling in the delights of Parisian life. A very
short time, but brief as it was, already had it scorched
es bright but unsubstantial fabric of their mature
ove.

On her arrivalin Paris, where Dennis was to meet
her, she had discharged her maid. She had paid her
munificently. ;

“J am going to visit a friend in Belgium, Hilaria,” she
had said. ‘I shall probably be absent several months.
In the meanwhile you will doubtless find it easy to
secure employment. Before sailing for America I shall
meet you here. You will return with me.”

With lowered eyes and untranslatable face, Guila had
heard her through. . Then she had submissively bowed
and taken her departure.

But not to seek other service. More than ever was
her suspicious nature now on the alert. She was watch-
ing and biding her time. She had kept herself informed
as to the movements of her mistress. This very night
had she followed her to secure a shawl purposely for-
gotten.

The servant had shown her into a little waiting-room
off the salon to await her leisure ; and here she now sat
anot unwilling listener to the conversation in the ad-
joining apartment. :

“Write you a check ?” reiterated a decidedly ungentle
voice. ‘Only last night I did so—for a good. sum, too.
Where is that gone to, I'd like to know ?”

And still up and down the stiff silk crackled.

“Look here, Let, you’re my wife now, you know—be a
good one to a feilow,” went on Grimes, in languid expos-
tulation.

His wife!
to that already ?
not time to be cold ere they furnished forth this wed-
ding table. The indecent haste was enough to make
one shudder.

“I am,” she cried; ‘‘and Heaven pity me!”

He laughed airily.

“No heroics, my love.
audience. You were but lately anxious enough to be
what you now sorrow for being.”

She stopped short before him, clenching her hands
till the nails cut sharply into the smooth palms.

“I was a fool!” she hissed.

He raised himself up in his chair to bow deeply and |

assentingly.
“JT never contradict a lady.”
About to reply, she suddenly compressed her lips—
swept away from him.
He resumed his former lounging attitude.
“But for me, my darling, where would you be now?

~

I did draw the wool over the eyes of that little old |
maid !”

He laughed amusedly at the recollection.
Letitia turned to him. In her suddenly awakened

“7 often wanted to ask you about that. How did you
manage it ?”

“Why, of course, you know all my statements to that
ancient maiden as to the colonel’s anxiety to make a

will were sheer rubbish. We were talking that day on |

quite a different matter—some stocks which he wished
to sign away. I told him I had drawn up the document,
and that it was ready for his signature. He signed it,
I took the paper
ere
I worked all night.
If there is anything I am, itis a
capital copyist. I drew up the will to suit myself—and
you. The signatures, copied from the other document;
I defy the writers themselves to deny. That other I
destroyed, as did I also all criminating evidence.”

«And the money to Dorothy ?”

Mr. Grimes shook his head sadly.

“It went dusedly against the grain to give awaya
cent of it, but that bequest was necessary to divert
suspicion. It was a very neat bit of business all
through.”

“Very !” dryly.

He rose, with a’yawn.

“Make haste, Letitia,” he urged; ‘it’s no use drawing
the purse-strings so devilishly tight.”

The fury, for a few minutes lulled, flamed up again in
her black eyes.

“TJ tell you I shall not!” she declared, wrathfully. «“We
have not been in Paris a fortnight, and already you’ve
spent a small fortune. I followed you last night. J
know where it goes.”

He started. Then the peculiarly frank, innocent smile
which she had learned to dread crept again over his
florid face.

“Oh, you do, eh? Well, I've no objection to your
knowing. I'll break the bank there, one of these nights.
A fellow must have his fling, you know. Here, hurry
bt unr a good girl. Ihaven’t a sou to bless myself
with.’

With the possession of wealth had come to her a
keen love for it, delight in its possession, desire to
guard it.

She turned on him spitefully.

«You have my answer. If you want money, earn it!”

His usual cool impudence asserted itself.

af give you a kiss for every hundred francs,” he
said.

He was startled by the change which came over her—
a change not occasioned by his words, for she had not
heard them, did not now seem conscious of his pres-
ence.

She had grown white as death. Her eyes were dilated.
Her parted lips were stiff and pale. Her whole face was
full of fear. ’

Hilaria caught her breath. Had it come |
Truly the funeral baked meats had |

You’ve an unappreciative |

And how delightfully |

By dawn the job was done to my |

 

«What is it?” he cried.

side. :
‘What is the matter ?” he cried again.
her.

He went up to her, caught her by the shoulder, forced
her to look at him.

“Letitia! What the duse is the matter, woman? You
look as though you saw a ghost.”

Her eyes met his.

“T did!” she gasped.

And then she broke out in wild, shrill, hysterical sob-

bing. ;

All her resentment forgotten, she flung her arms
around his neck, clung to him.

He soothed her, petted her, his arm about her. And
as he did so, undetected by her, his soft fingers un-
c the ruby necklace which encireled her throat.
Like a shining red snake it siip’ up his sleeve. And
now he was anxious to get out of sight before the sub-
sidence of her agitation would make the discovery of her
loss probable.

“Well, 'l just run out and get a cigar, my dear. Ill
be right back,” he said.

“To!” she entreated.

She shrank backin the chair and covered her face
with her hands.

Hearing his words and approaching footsteps, and
fearful of detection, Hilaria whisked toward a tall car-
dimal’s chair and sank down behind it as Grimes pushed
aside the dividing portiere.

He passed through the anteroom and out.

When assured that he had left the house, Hilaria rose
and went forward into the grand salon, As she drew
near her mistress the latter looked up.

out the traces of the recent shock.

‘‘Hilaria!” she exclaimed.

How much did she know? Anything of her marriage
with Grimes? The less the better. Probably noth-

ing.

“IT came back, madam, after a shawl I had forgotten.
I was afraid pera had left for Belgium.”

“No. We—I morrow. Why, what—where——”

She had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror oppo-
site, and sprang up in excited haste.

“My necklace!” She put her hand to her throat. ‘It
is gone! I have lost it! Help me to look for it,
Hilaria!”

For several minutes they searched fruitiessly.

“T had it on whenI left my room this evening, and

Suddenly she straightened up—actually stiffened.

ae fiash the truth came home to her. Jt had been
stolen!

“Stop, Hilaria!” to the maid, who, still on her knees,
was peering under tables and around chairs.
use, you will not find it.”

She stood a few moments in meditation.

All that was worst in her, most vicious, revengeful,
demoniac, was now fully aroused.

He had never loved her, she told herself. What an
idiot she had been to have ever imagined he had. He
| was so much younger than she. It was not in nature

that he should. But he had been a prime actor. 3

That he had honestly imagined he once passionately

adored her, she did not now dream.

money he had married her.
ed, robbed her.
Of late such strange fancies, ideas, had taken posses-

And now to-night again—less than an hour ago—she
had seen— What if that which she was_ beginn
vaguely to dread were really coming? Oh, she must
somewhere, do something, to get away from herself,
out of herself. ,

But where—what? —

Quite unh Hilaria, she took from a fancy sus-
pended cellaret on the wall a flask of Grimes’, un-
corked it, swallowed half the scorching brandy it
contained.

Now she could think better. Ah, yes, she knew what
she would do! Amuse herself as he did—gamble!

“Quick, Hilaria!” she cried, in her old loud, imperious
way, quite forgetting that she had discha from
her service the woman she addressed. “Bring me a
wrap; that long otter one—yes—and a bonnet. And that
iron box in my bednann uick!”

And when all had been brought, she flung around her
the long rich cloak, fastened the golden arene. with
nerved and rapid Ts, put on the little velvet bonnet,
took a key from her and with it unlocked the iron
box the maid had brought her. From the latter she

with coin.

“You had better remain. I may need you,” she said.

Then she went down and out. The Boulevards were
all alight, astir. In the ——- winter weather Paris
was at its gayest, most brilliant. Few noticed the tall,
gliding figure, none dreamed of the mad recklessness in
the heart under the costly cloak of otter.

Breathless, she reached at last the great, glit
salons of the Monte Carlo of Paris. It was crowd
There were men of all grades, types, nationalities.
Women too. Some ,» some f flushed.
Some in bright attire, some in somber raiment. All ter-
ribly alert, oppressively silent at times, tensely atten-
tive, but every minute and second thrilling with ner-
| vousness, ¢ back d , burning with wild
hopes. The place was known only to old and inveterate
et Occasionally it was raided. Again for weeks

t would run without interference on the part of officials.

She sat down and began to ae She won. Played
onand won. Staked again, still won.

She began to be observed. Several left their tables
and drew nearer. ‘

Again she ventured. Again she drew toward her a
glittering heap of gold.

One man, also absorbed in wer
murs around him, glanced up. He
his gaze fell upon her.

She here! and playing! winning

A sudden impulse conquered him.

aroused by the mur-
started to his feet as

too.
He hastily left the

room.

And still the woman played on, on, with constant and
| unvarying success. gher grew the pile of bank-notes
| and gold beside her.

An hour passed,

Still she was ees The proprietors glanced at
each other in dismay. If luck continued to run long in
this channel she would break the bank.

The angry flush which had burned in her cheek on her
entrance deepened. Her eyes glowed and scintillated
with a certain fiery brightness.

Whispers of astonishment, envy, passed from lip to lip.
| Excitement was at its highest pitch and the crowd
about her dense and silent, when an individual, cloaked
and capped, pushed his way to the table where sat the
| woman whose wonderful luck was arousing such in-
| terest.

“T challenge you!” he said, in a deep voice.

She looked wearily up.

So muffied was he she could not discern his features.
A handkerchief was tied across the lower part of his face.
| A slouch hat hid his forehead.
| She bowed assent.

He sat down opposite her, and began to play.

In a few minutes her jeweled hand was laid over his
money. :

He staked once more—lost !

“J have no more money,” he said, in a low, hoarse
voice, ‘but I have one poor trifle left—a pledge of love at
that. Will you play for it ?”

«What is it ?” she demanded.

He drew his hat to one side and touched a long; slim,
shining nail which protruded from his ear.

Shaking, ghastly in a second, she sprang erect. Then
| with a shriek, the like of which those about her had

 

 

| never heard, would never forget, she flung up her arms
| Tr crashed forward, scattering her ill-won gold as she
| fell.
In the general movement and consternation which fol-
lowed the man vanished. i

When sufficiently revived, Mrs. Charu Vernell Grimes
| gave her address, and was placed in a carriage and
| driven home.
There. as white and still trembling, she entered the
| salon, she beheld a picture of domestic content.

In his own favorite chair, his meerschaum between his

| teeth, slippers on feet, and feet on hassock, in smokin
| cap and jacket, sat Mr. Dennis Grimes, reading a nove
| of Dandet’s.
She came swiftly up and stood before him.
| «So you’ve come at last!” he took the pipe from his
| lips to lazily ejacuiate. ‘I came straight back accord-
| ing to my promise, and have been waiting for you here
| a good three hours.”

|

perately, and look at him.

‘Dennis,” she cried, ‘do you think I am going mad?”

He replaced his pipe before he replied, coolly :

‘Tt looks that way!”

‘Don't be heartless !” she burst out, passionately.
am not joking /”

He re-opened Dandet.

‘Neither am I.” :

“Lately,” she went on, unheeding him, ‘I have had
such strange fancies. I have been seeing—seeing——”

hands.

If this awful evil she was dreading should come to her?
if he was going to haunt—oh, she could not bear it—she
could not! She would at least make restitution.

Half wild with terror she flung herself on her knees
before Grimes.

“I must go back!” she moaned, ‘I must go back,
Dennis !”

He did not lift his eyes from the fascinating page be-
fore him, nor remove his pipe.

“Go!” he said.

The recent shock at the gaming-table had quite un-
nerved her.

“IT must give the money to those children—to his sis-
ter,” she went on excitedly. ‘Perhaps if I do he will
leave mein peace. It is blood money /”

“J

i

feet with a rattling oath. Was this the result of his
pleasant little bit of masquerading ?

“Go back and give up—are you mad already, woman?”
he thundered.

A stubborn defiance came into her face.

‘7 have said I would, and I will!”

“Tf you Ofceney it,” his florid
you where you should be, in a mad-house !”

She shrank back. He looked quite capable of it.

“J believe you would!” she said, slowly.

 

ag
But still she only stared blankly and in horror before

p
A flush of displeasure and amazement blotted redly |

“It is no |

For money he had instigated her fearful crime. For |
Now for money he neglect-

sion of her, she had grown positively afraid of herself. |
ing |

took a huge roll of bills and a purse bursting its seams |

All had now ceased playing and clustered round her. |

But her only response was to clasp her hands des- |

And here she broke off and covered her face with her |

Now Grimes was no longer passive. He leaped to his

‘face flushing, “I'll put

The bare thought of losing the enormous Vernell for- | voice—dare not!

 

| tween his tight-shut teeth.
would take it into your head to murder me, as you mur-
dered him ?”

CHAPTER LXVII.
- FIGHTING FATE.
“At last the clock chimes at the hour
That brings my lovetome!”
ANON.

In the next room Hilaria heard the words, -

Her heart seemed to actually cease beating.

So it had come at last! Nowshe knew! After all her

tience, watching, she knew. It had been as bad as

t, then. It been murder! It was for this he had
said he was content to wait.

She clasped her hands tightly over her bosom as she
stood erect, straining her ears to catch more.

But there came not another word, save Grimes’ mut-
oer curse as he left the room. She rushed into the
salon.

On the floor, prone and panting, lay her mistress.

She flung up the window, letting in a cool, fresh breeze;
then hurried k to the prostrate figure, lifted it up,
leant the dark head on her knee. When consciousness
returned to her she sprang erect with a shrill cry.

“I must go back—home, to Chicago! I must go at
once. Help me to pack. Don’t say anything about it to
Mr. Grimes, if he should come in. He might not like it.
But help me. I can’tdo much myself. See how! am
shaking yet! Help me! do, do!”

In her feverish eagerness she quite forgot that she had
wished to Pe in ignorance of her relation to
Grimes. She ame oblivious of everything save thata
great blow was threatening her, and that she must
|escape it—she must! By returning, and in some in-
| direct way making restitution, perhaps peace would
| come to her, perhaps he would lie quiet in his grave. If
not she would go mad!

But Mr. Grimes did not return.

That she would really leave him he had not the faint-
| est fear. She was too infatuated with him for that. After
' all she had done, after going so far, she would not turn
back. Such a night as these two women spent in prepar-
ing for flight—busy, energetic, unresting.

y dawn they were on their way to America, bag and
* = *

* *

How the days crept by at Gage’s—the slow, weary,
hopeful, hopeless days! Over the grand house lay the
shadow of death.

> * *

heart could suggest, Captain Costello and Kitty had
come on. Of course there could be no planning now as
to when Vella would return. In this hour of gloom her
place was with her friend. One day the doctors said,
‘He will live,” and again, ‘‘There is little hope.”

Miss Dorothy had gone to stay for the present at Cos-
tello’s, they told Vella. Christmas came and went, sun-
less, almost unnoticed. Of Claflin came no tidings. De-
ee” were making for him a vigorous and fruitless
search.

All that was most kind, courteous, oe were
John Gage and his daughter to the Costellos. If Owen
had been the son of the host, he could not have been
nursed with more assiduous attention, more constant
care

And Vella? Who shall say all that, in those dragging
hours.and days, the young heart had to bear? The ter-
ible aoe ae which had been forced upon her. Mare
and Evelyn—Mare and Evelyn! Over and over, and
always united, the names rang through her soul in
never-ceasing repetition, sad as a knell of death.

So very thin she grew, so fragile, pale, large-eyed,
Evelyn became alarmed. :

«What is the matter, ae she would ask. ‘You
are turning into a veritable little spirit. I shall be afraid
that some day you Will vanish into air.”

But here the girl would laugh, and shake her head,
and vow that she would live to be as old as Methuselah’s

cat,

But all the time the heart in her bosom was like lead.
What could she doin honor, she asked herself a thou-
sand times a day. And ever came back the same-said
ve: }

“Be silent.”
And silent she was.

Now and then came letters for Evelyn, brief, affection-
ate—nothing more. Not as he would have written to
her, Vella knew. Evelyn ke of him frequently, now
that the ice was broken, an onally gave Vella his
letters toread. The sight of the bold, clear writing, the
| dear name at the end, were like death to her.

Like death? Ah, no! The thought of death held for
her no terror, only a pleasant dream of-rest. Rather
like life, as bitter and unbearable.

And now New Year’s was over, and the first month of
the year was in its prime. A cold, eerie, leaden-skyed
day was this.

n Evelyn’s own pretty room sat Evelyn herself, and
with her Kitty Costello. Here, in the coziness, and
warmth, and firelight, one would never dream how dull
and gray were the heaven and earth without.

Light hearts had both girls, for to them had come dif-
ferent but joyous
Mare was coming 7
ae wish we knew the particulars about the shooting,”

tty said.

And she lifted her little white hands above her nut-
brown head.

“What we do not know we can easily guess,” an-
swered Evelyn.

The document which had been forwarded to Chicago,
the lawyer who had drawn it up, both had testified as
to the discussion which had led to the attempt at assas-
sination. Though what power Owen had. held over
Clafiin to induce the latter to dictate a statement of any
sort, they could not ever so faintly surmise.

“Yes,” assented Kitty. ‘And he is better; he is out
of danger. Isn’t that ” :

“Very, very good!” Evelyn assented, softly, more
sympathetic than ever because of her own glad-hearted-
n

In the sick-room across the corridor Vella kept watch.
How she wished that the nurse would soon relieve her,
that she might come over. She did so want to tell her
that her letter of this afternoon had told her Marc was
coming—might, perhaps, be here to-night.

«What are you looking so grave about now ?” after a
silence Miss Gage queried, gayly.

Hastily Kitty dropped her pretty gray eyes, which had
been fastened wistfully on Evelyn’s pure, fair face.

“I dare not tell you,” she laughed. ‘In silence is
safety.”

Evelyn said nomore. Perhaps upon her dawned a
faint idea of the truth.
ar just then the door opened softly and Vella came

on the nurse returned ?” asked Evelyn.
*<¥en.”

She fiung herself down on a low, broad lounge drawn
up near the fire, and sank back among its heaped cush-
ions with a very little sigh. ;

“Tired, dear ?’ questioned her friend.

She brighted up. f

“Oh, no!” i

And if her smile was less swift and sunshiny than of
old, it had gained new depths of tender sweetness.

“Ts Owen awake ?” queried Kitty. ‘‘May I see him.”

“Yes, he is awake, and looking like himself. I think
it would only do him good to see you.”

With a happy heart Kitty sprang up and hurried from
| the room.
| And then Evelyn rose and walked over to the hearth.
| She would tell Vella now. For her sake how glad she
| would be! Not that she had ever seemed to care to talk
' much about Marc—but then she was such a mere child,
| one could not expect that she would understand.

But the words died on her lips as she looked down on
|/her. Wassheill? What had changed her so of late?
| She was woefully altered, and yet how lovely she was,
| how spirituelle, and luminous-eyed, and winsome.
| Inthe lamp-light her bronze-gold hair was yellow as
| ripened corn. Above the blue-black dress she wore her
| face looked startlingly colorless. It held never a tinge of
| its old wild-rose bloom. Almost black just now looked
| her great shining eyes.
| Vella,” Evelyn said in
| you some good news,
| Some good news! Ah, she knew what that meant,
| she knew! Only something about Marc would she call
| good news.

| She clasped her hands tightly to keep herself from
| crying out at any chance word or statement.

“Yes?”

Evelyn knelt down beside her.

«J know you will be so glad for my sake. You are my
only confidante, you know. It is this,” pushing back the

 

a quiet voice, “I want to tell
dear.”

own with ineffable delight into the browm eyes lifted to
hers, ‘‘Marc is coming home!”
Oh, what was that to her? To her!

vena hearts, still less to the jealous one of a rival.
“Ts he?” ,
And not another syllable could the brave lips utter.
“Yes, my letter came by the afternoon post, so I had
not before a chance to tell you. It was delayed so he
| may be here any hour—probably to-night.
To-night!

lips.

“Yes, I knew you would be surprised.
| him to-night.
| Such a lover, and to love him so ?”

Out of her full heart her hostess laughed merrily.

I really e t

| Swer.

But often as Evelyn spoke of her great love for Mare,
she did not mention his for her. Intensely truthful by
nature, she could not assert the same, for deep in her
| soul, I think, she knew that between them s

tral, fair, even in falsity imperishably dear.
Truly, as with Marian Erle, :
“The cataracts of her soul had poured themselves
And risen self-crowned in rainbow. Need she ask
Who crowned her ?”
She talked on for some time longer, sweet, bright
| girlish confidences. But not one word more did Vella
hear—not one! Mare was coming back to-night—
| to-night! He must not see her, oh, no! He must have
| learned to care for Evelyn by this.
| her he would never have asked Evelyn to marry him.
| She must not come between them now just when life
| looked so bright and smooth before them.
| not—she would not!
| She must not look u

 

lune fairly infuriated him, otherwise he would never |
She strove to lift her arm, to point, to speak. But have made the speech he did,

no sound came from her mouth. Her hand fell toher| “It might prove awise precaution in any case,” be-

“Who knows when you

On receiving the sad news, as gently written as tender

tidings. Owen was out of danger, and |
back

leaming curls from Vella’s white forehead and looking

But not to the most friendly gaze do we bare our

A quick, low cry of astonishment broke from Vella’s |

rling, am I nota happy girl to nave)

“Indeed you are!” came the tremulous, earnest an-

, would |
ever stand, the image of that first lost love of his, spec-.

If he had still loved |

She must

But oh, it was hard—hard! that |
n his face, hear his grave, tender
istinctly came back to her that | Tonic.

night on Lake Michigan. Above the blue sky and below
| the bluer water. And the song which fidated up to
them. And how. he had caught up one line and re-
peated it, his poetic face, fullof light, bent down to hers.

“T love you now, I love you now !”

A sob, stified at birth, broke from her. ;

Alarmed by her long silence, Evelyn leaned over her,
stopping short in her blithe chatter.

“Vella, you are ill!” decisively. “I know it. You're
not a bit like yourself lately. At first I attributed it to
the shock about Mr. Costello, but now that he is out of
danger, you go on looking more like a snow-sprite than
ever. I’m going to send for Doctor Hunt.”

“Oh, Please no, Evelyn! 1 am not ill. Pernaps
though,” a sudden thought striking her, “I am a li
bit hungry to see Voyde and Aunt Dolly.”

«That's it! you’re homesick! Of course you are. Why
didn’t I of that before? I sup because I
didn’t want to, knowing what would be the result.”

And now Vella was feverishly anxious to follow up her
advantage.

“Yes, you have all been good, far too , to me, but
I think TI must go back. You know Aun yes has been
my mother. I would so love to see her—and Voyle! I
think, if-you don’t mind, Evelyn—I will go to-night—
now !” ;

She had sprung up and was standing before her
friend, her pretty, slender fingers interlacing nervously,
A enent spot of color beginning to glow out on her
cheeks.

“To-night! Petite, you’re crazy!”

“No, no!” laughing out and speaking quite breath-
lessly. ‘‘Butif Iam homesick it will do me good to see
those at home—and the sooner the remedy is taken, the
more rapid the cure!” ,

“But papa will never hear of such a thing! To-night—
the idea! Why, the Chi train leaves in two hours.
The Costellos will be going in a week or two. If you are
bound to go, wait and travel With them. Your aunt is
at their house, to which you, too, would £0. "

But the girl only laughed out again, a little too loudly
for the mirth to be purely spontaneous, and vowed that
she was not one of those women between whose ‘‘yes”
and ‘‘no” Cervantes had declared he would not under-
take to thrust the point of a pin, that when she had
said ar would goshe was going, and now to pack her
trunk!

And all this in the cheeriest manner imaginable,

In vain Evelyn argued, insisted, entreated. No, now
that she had got the idea in her head she was going, it
was no use thinking aboutit. The excitement of going
off with so little premeditation would knock the blues
| out of her brain. She had been troubled a trifle with
{ them lately.

“But papa will be wild with me if he returns and finds
| you gone,” implored Evelyn.

John Gage was out at a political banquet.

“Thank a thousand times for all kindness and
say good-by for me.”

And in another five minutes she was in her own room
and half through packing her satchel.

She insisted that the Costellos be not informed of her
intended departure.

“Mr. Costello would only want to come and take care
of me,” she said, ‘‘and I would not take him away from
Owen just now for the world.”

Such a queer mood as she wasin! Evelyn had never
remembered seeing her so gay before, at least not since
their school-days.

She flew round making preparations lightly, as one
winged. Her laughter rang outloud and sweet. The
rose in her cheeks pecans to carnation. Her eyes
were full of streaming light.

“Oh!” Evelyn cried, suddenly, “I Anew there was
some very particular reason I had for wishing you to
stay. Marc is coming—you must wait and see him.”

Brighter grew the. girls eyes, more glowing her
cheeks, as she replied that eyen for that she could not
stay. She liked the fun of going off in a hurry like this.
It was a sensation on a small scale.

Half an hour later she said good-by to her friend. The
ae of Mare’s coming alone kept back Evelyn's

ears.

“TI did so want you to see him!” she said, as she kissed
her friend for the dozenth time. ‘I am sure you would
like each other so much. I shall tell him all about
you. ? :

“Don’t!” Vella cried, sharply. ‘You must not—in-
deed you must not, my dear Evvie. Don’t mention me
to him—don’t let any one do it. I can’t explain, but
there are strong reasons why you should not. Oh, be-
lieve me! if you let him know of—of me, the knowledge
might—ruin his whole life.” ;

Evelyn stared at her in blankest amazement.

“What are you driving at?’ she asked slowly, at

last.
ao tried to laugh airily, but it was a miserable at-
m
“Never mind. JustdoasIsay. Don’t speak of me
to him—don’t let any one else. I’m not joking, dearest.
Trust me enough to obey blindly. 1 know all this
sounds mysterious, but you will do asJI ask, I know—

won’t you? Promise!” .
frightened by her excited vehe-

Evelyn was almost
mence. 5

What had changed Vellaso? Was there insanity in
the Vernell family ? That seemed the only possible ex-
planation.

«Promise !” Vella repeated.

“I promise,” mechanically,
Good-by, dear !”

“«Good-by !”

But so bewildered was Miss Gage, that her friend had
kissed her, opened the hall-doors, and was down the
steps before she could fairly realize that she was gone.

ust as Vella entered the , another drew up
at the curb-stone. From it a gentleman descended.

The light from a street-lamp fell across his face—a
dark, grave, handsome face, shadowed by a great sad-
| aiid Y

But the word was a whisper. He/ and she must not
gotohim! He had loved her first, best; but he had
asked Evelyn to marry him. Pride beat back her pas-
sionate, rebellious, loving heart.

«‘Make haste !” she cried to the coachman.

She could not wait to see Evelyn open the door for
him—behold the meeting.

The carriage rolied away. And within a white-faced
woman crouched down in the darkness, in her tearless
anguish praying Heaven madly for death—for death !

(TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

 

“There is the carriage.

Piety and Rascali
The Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, at the annual banquet
of the New York Chamber of Commerce, responded to

ity.

the toast, ‘‘Merchants and Ministers.”
extracts from his speech.

“Tt is the interest both of the church and the store to
see to it that truth is spoken, and that honesty and
equity prevail between man and man, nation and
nation, people and people, and that men should be
worthy of trust all over the world. Speaking the truth
| is an artificial matter. Men are no more born to speak
| the truth than they are to fire rifies, and, indeed, it is a
| good deal like that. It is only now and then that a man

can hit ~ bull’s-eye, anda great many can’t hit the
target at all.

«There is nothing in the make-up of a president that

should make him make off with the funds committed to
his management. There is nothing in being a cashier
or director that ought to rot out a man so that he
snaps under temptation. I admit that all men are break-
able. Men are like timber. bear a stress that
pine won't, but there never was a stick of timber on the
earth that could not be broken at some pressure. There
never was a man born on the earth that could not be
broken at some pressure—not always the same nor put
in the same place. There is many aman who cannot
be broken by money pressure, but who can be by pressure
ot flattery. There is many a man impervious to flattery
who is warped and biased by his social inclinations.
There is many a man whom you cannot tempt with red
gold, but you can with dinners and convivialties. One
way or the other every man is vincible. Thereis a great
deal of me: g in that simple portion of the Lord’s
Prayer, ‘‘Lead us not into temptation.” No man knows
what he will do according to the nature of the tempta-
oe as adapted to the peculiar weakness of his consti-
| tution.
“But this is what is peculiar—that it requires piety
| to be a ra [t would almost seem as if a man
| had to serve as a superintendent of a Sunday-school as a
| passport to Sing Sing. How is it that leading men in
the church are running off with $100,000 or $200,000? It
would seem as if religion were simply a cloak for ras-
cality and villainy. It is time for merchants and minis-
ters to stand together and take counsel on that subject.
Truth is falling in the street. Isay the time has come
when we have got to go back to old-fashioned: plain talk
in our pulpits on the subject of common morality, until
| men shall feel not so much about Adam as about his
posterity; not so much about the higher themes of
theology, which are regarded too often as being the test
of men’s ability and the orthodoxy and salvability of
churches. Well, gentlemen, in regard to what men
thixk in the realm of theology where nobody knows any-
thing about it, it doesn’t make _ difference. The
simple virtues of truth, honesty, and fidelity will lead
more men straight to heaven than any High Church
theology or any other kind that leaves them out.”

> e<«—

The late Edmond About, whose literary efforts were
so popular in France, was a thickset, gray-haired, and not
very refined looking man. His manners were uncon-
ventional, but he was frank and sincere. The Empress
Eugenie was one of the greatest admirers of his works, which
he essayed to make as pure as possible. He was once heard
to say : “When I am correcting the proofs of any of my writ-

We make a few

 

 

 

not like my daughters to read, I at once strike it out.”

—& Oe

“My practice is among women ; with worn-out, run-down,
debilitated, over-worked school teachers, milliners, dress-
| makers, and other classes of self-supporting women, and the

all require a good tonic. I have prescribed ons and fe -
| lons of tonics. but none of them are equal to yours. Itis
| positively the best of por which I have ever taken myself or
| ordered for my patients.”—Opinion of Dr. S. E. BROWN
| (27 Columbus Avenue, Boston) of the Liebig Co’s Coca Beef

 

 

 

 

 

ings, if I come to asentence or even a word whichI should _

 

 
since

 

 

 

; shown Clara Lawton—the photograph of

. the lawyer

 

 

 

 

 

_<asa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

 

LOVELESS UNIONS.

BY 8. E.

Who that feels a noble passion,
Who that hath a lofty aim,

Pities not the base-born spirits,
(Pities e’en too much to blame),

Seeking only for their life-bonds,
Beauty, wealth, acclaim ?

Creatures who, with foul dishonor,
Make their hands but merchandise,

Trampling on those holy duties
Link’d with highest destinies,

And before God’s altar sealing

- Vows the heart denies.

Poor, deluded, groveling mortals,
Dream they of the prize they miss ?

Love—oh, where ’mong all they covet
Can they find a gem like this ?

*Tis with holiness the basis
Of supremest bliss.

Half the ill that such encounter—
Rugged roads and billowy seas,
Blights that nip their joys connubial,
pelt Vine eee omtaaed tay boodiag
ve n escaped by
_ §aered truths like these.

Would ye have a home of gladness,
Wherein Care shall lightly tread,

Peace be found a constant inmate,
Richest blessings round you shed,

Seek that peerless gem, affection—
Love before you wed. ;

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

THE BLACK HAND;

OR, THE

League of Gold.
A THRILLING DETECTIVE STORY.

By the author. of

“RAMON ARANDA,” “THE MALTESE. CROSS,” “A
CLOUDED CAREER,” etc.

{The Black Hand” was commenced in No. 14. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]

CHAPTER XX.
BILL NESTOR’S FARCE.

While Dorson Le Grand was absent from the cabin in
the hills, and on the second day after the exploration in
the deserted mine, an elderly gentleman, with white
hair and beard, and piercing black eyes, called at the
office of the executor of the estate of Gerald Lawton.

That gentleman, Martin Brayton by name, was a
keen-witted lawyer of middle age. He had a smooth,
ruddy face, sharp eyes, and an engaging manner.

He was at his desk, occupied in writing, when the
visitor entered.

The latter announced his name as Walter Esmond,
from Pennsylvania.

The lawyer bowed and motioned him toa seat. The
old gentleman sighed deeply, as he sat down.

«7 am in search of information, Mr. Brayton,” he said;
“and as you have the management of the affairs of
the estate of the late Mr. Lawton, perhaps you can aid
me.”

“What information do you require?’ was the suave
interrogatory.

“I want to know what has become of my nephew,
Paul Herrick. He is somewhere in San Francisco, but
I cannot find him.” .

The lawyer looked searchingly at the old man, and
then relapsed into a brown study.

“Can you aid me?” ;

“Ah, yes—certainly—excuse me,” was the rapid re-
sponse, as Mr. Brayton lifted his eyes. ‘The uncle of
Paul Herrick, I believe you said ?”

“Yes, sir; ‘and he left me two months ago, with pa-
pers in his ion that would prove his Claim to the
estate left by his father.” ‘

«And you have not heard from him since ?’

“Oh, yes. I got one letter two weeks ago, asking me
to come on here. I arrived three days ago, but I cannot
find him.”

«Have you inquired at the hotels?” with a sympathiz-
ing look.

Yee, sir; and I found that he was registered last
week at the Goldwin.”

Then came a knock at the door.

The uncle of Paul Herrick hastily arose, and his man-
ner showed agitation.

“Pray be seated,” said the lawyer, blandly. ‘‘Who
knows but what we are to receive some intelligence of
your nephew,” is

“IT hope so. The surprise—my eT ads

The words would not come freely, and he stopped and
began to wipe his brow with his handkerchief.

“I understand your tation,” remarked Mr. Bray-
ton, who was now at the door; ‘but good tidings never
harm.”

He opened the door as he spoke, and Alice Badee
walked in. ;

After a slight nod to the lawyer, she calmly surveyed
the aged uncle of the missing Paul.

Mr. Esmond regarded her with some interest.

e-2 girl of spirit,” he thought, ‘“‘and not to be trifled
with.’

Mr. Brayton broke the silence.

“Mrs. Herrick,” he said, with a peculiar gleam in his
sharp eyes, ‘‘let me introduce to you your husband’s
uncle, Mr. Esmond.”

The latter forgot to bow, so great was his astonish-
ment.

“My nephew's wife! Why, I don’t understand.”

He looked from one to the other with a mind ill at

ease.

‘Tt is easy to understand,” answered Mr. Brayton ;
“your nephew was married to this lady but a few
weeks ago.”

«There must be some mistake,” he muttered, but loud
enough to be heard. :

"Phere is no mistake,” cried Alice Badee, hotly, ‘‘if
you are the uncle of this man.” :

She drew from her pocket the photo; oe had
adee.

‘Ts that the face of your nephew ?” she asked.

Esmond took the picture and looked at it for some
time. He then returned it, with the remark:

“Yes; that is my nephew. And now,” he continued,
“TI would like to ask you one question: What was your
maiden name ?”

«Alice Lawton.”

“The daughter of Gerald Lawton ?”

“Yes,” said Brayton, before she could speak. ;

The old gentleman was so taken aback at the an-
nouncement that he clutched the edge of the desk for

Ret:
rayton smiled, and then his eyes sought Alice
Badee’s face.

Meaning glances were exchanged.

“You are not well,” said the lawyer, but without evi-
dencing much sympathy. :

“A sudden attack of vertigo; Iam subject toit. Iam
better now.”

And he sat down, and soon regained his self-pos-

session.

“By the way, Mr. Esmond, perhaps Mrs. Herrick can
inform you of her husband’s whereabouts.”

The old man looked at her inquiringly.

“7 am sure I don’t know where he is,” with a toss of
her head. «I have not seen him for several days.”

“As soon as he can be found,” resumed the lawyer,
“JT would like to have him appear and present his cre-
dentials.”

“Yes, em he must be found,” replied Esmond, “and I
will institute a thorough search for him.”

There came another knock at the door.

«Come in!” said Mr. Brayton, cheerily.

A short but compactly built old gentleman, of benevo-
lent aspect, with snow-white hair and beard, and dressed
in a suit of homespun, opened the door and looked at
uestioningly.

“Are you Mr, Brayton?”

Yos, sir.”

, “Well, sir, name is Luke Herrick, and I am the
uncle of Paul Herrick.”

The first old man, Walter Esmond, seized his hat and
started for the door.

‘Don’t hurry,” urged the lawyer, “for this meeting
promises to be interesting. Did you not hear what this
gentleman said ?”

_ “No; Iam a little hard of hearing. ButImust go. I
will call again.”

His manner was constrained, and it did not escape the
notice of Luke Herrick.

“Will 73 favor me with an introduction ?” the latter
said, addressing Mr. Brayton.”

“Certainly, was about todoso. Mr. Esmond, Mr.
Herrick. You are each the uncle of Paul Herrick.”

“T am glad to meet you,” said Herrick, with effusion,
at the same time extending his right hand.

Esmond took it, but did not return the pressure. ~

«What an interesting occasion!” exclaimed Brayton,
as he delightedly rubbed his hands. ‘Two uncles of the
same young man meet for the first time in their lives.
Both, I presume, are seeking the nephew. If the
nephew would only appear, what a scene of joy would
be presented !”

«Tt is strange that I never heard of you before,” said
Luke Herrick. ‘But Ican account forit. You are the
brother of Paul’s mother, I presume ?”

«Ves. ”

“And I am the brother of his father. 1 heard he was

dn California, and having plenty of time on my hands,

 

 

 

 

 

piper to make the overland journey and pay him
a visit.” , :

«Where are you stopping ?” asked Esmond.

“At the Goldwin Hotel.”

“So amiI. Shall we walk there together ?”

«Yes, for I would like to have a long talk with you.”

With a en to call again, the old men left the
office together.

When near the hotel, Esmond suggested that they
take a cut off through a narrow alley, as his age and in-
firmities made him a very poor walker.

Herrick consented, and they started through the
alley, which at the time was deserted.

The side walls of brick business blocks, four and five
stories in height, formed the boundaries on either side.

A third party, had he been in a position to see, would

have noticed that Esmond occasionally cast furtive

glances at his companion, and that Herrick walked con-
tentedly along, but with a peculiar smile on his face.

When about half way through the alley, Esmond sud-
denly drew a knife from his breast and made a thrust at
his companion.

But the blade never reached the old man, for as if the
action had been divined, he caught the wrist of the
would-be murderer before the knife descended, and held
it with a grip of iron.

For one moment they glared at each other.

Then the disengaged hand of Herrick shot forward,
and Esmond went down like an ox.

Paul’s uncle on his father’s side had developed sur-
prising strength in one seemingly so old. The blow was
of the John L. Sullivan order, and for some moments
Esmond gave no sign of life.

A huge pile of boxes obstructed the sidewalk, near
where the encounter took place, and when Esmond fell,
Herrick sprang behind them.

A few moments later a red-haired, red-whiskered
Trishman, respectably dressed, but from his walk and
> evidently in liquor, stepped from behind the

xes.

Esmond was just arising to his feet.
the Irishman, his brow darkened.

*Dhrunk, air yez?” said the latter, as he approached.
“Well, Oim ashamed av yez. An ould mon loike you to
be afther gettin’ dhrunk. Bad cess to the whisky!”

He staggered, and but for the support of Esmond,
would perhaps have fallen.

“T am not drunk,” was the reply, savagely given, ‘“‘and
I don’t need your assistance.”

“Wull, yell get it all the same, me bouchal. Ye’re
comin’ wid me, and ye'll get a dhrink that'll put the
stiffenin’ into your baick. Whisper,” and he bent his
head confidentially, ‘‘we'll paint the town rid this bliss-
ed noight. Yell carry the banner wid Larry Hooligan.”

Esmond, for’some reason, no longer resented the
Trishman’s familiarity. He even nodded his head when
Hooligan finished speaking.

“To tell the truth,” he said, «‘I would like a good horn
of whisky, although I am not drunk.”

“Not dhrunk !” incredulously—‘“‘thin phwat the divil
made yez play checkers wid your nose on the cobble-
shtones? A-eh ?”

“T was seized with vertigo, and fell down.”

“Ver-taygo! That’s the new name for it, I shuppose.
Ver-taygo! Be herrins, but it’s strange the number ay
payple in ’Frisco that are soobjict to ver-taygo !”

And he laughed immoderately.

Esmond, watching him closely, evidently arrived at
some important conclusion. ‘

«There is an underground saloon around the corner,”
he abruptly remarked ; ‘‘let us go there.”

“Faith, an’ Oi’m willin’.”

The Irishman braced up before they reached the cor-
ner, probably so as not to attract the attention of any
policeman that might be in the vicinity.

The saloon was provided with small stalls. Each stall
was furnished with a table and several chairs.

Into one of them, at some distance from the bar, went
the old man and the Irishman.

After a few drinks and a conversation on general
matters, the Irishman, dropping his brogue, suddenly
exclaimed :

“Hasn't this farce proceeded long enough, Le Grand ?”

pe or Le Grand, sprang to his feet, with an
oath.

“In the fiend’s name, who are you ?”

For answer, the supposed Irishman cast off his red
hair and whiskers.

The face of Bill Nestor was revealed.

There followed a moment of profound silence,

When he saw

CHAPTER XXI.
LE GRAND’S AMAZEMENT.

To say that Dorson Le Grand was surprised when his
Celtic companion threw off his disguise and appeared as
Bill Nestor, would but mildly express his feelings.

As soon as he could find voice, he angrily asked :

‘What does this mean ?”

“It means,” was the cool reply, ‘‘that the game you
are playing is too strong forthe single hand racket.
You want help, and I have given it.”

“You ? ‘How.?”

Le Grand’s thin lips vailed a sneer. -
“Your question shows that you are not as sharp
you might be. You remember the old man who called

lf Herrick ?”

“Yes, and I wish I had killed him!” was the savage
reply. ‘‘With him out of the way, no one can dispute
Badee’s claim as Paul Herrick.”

Nestor leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“Ourse your hilarity! This is no laughing matter, I
would have you know.” ‘

“Perhaps you will laugh when I tell you that Z was
the old man.”

“You—Luke Herrick ?”

“The very same personage; the respected uncle of
Toute "rag x, on his father’s side.”

After this exclamation Le Grand looked keenly at his
imperturbable companion.

“80 you were the old man? And what is your little

me ?” ;

“To help you.”

“Really !” sarcastically.

“Really. Iam interested in this money scheme. As
a member of the League of Gold, I am entitled to one-
third of the two millions.”

“Well 2”

“And so I am bound to look out for what concerns
me. Lhad nothing to do, andI followed you to town.
You let drop a remark before you left which led me to
believe that you were going to play the uncle dodge. I

rigged up a disguise when I got to town and then |

a you. Iwas atthe doorof the lawyer's office
when you announced yourself as Paul Herrick’s uncle.
That was my cue.”

‘I must confess, Nestor, that while I have a deep-
seated regard for your abilities, Ido not see what you
are driv at.”

‘You willin a moment. Badee’s wife has turned up.”

“A wife he never told me anything about. ButI will
get even with him.”

“Wait till we get the money, and then you can
straighten matters with him.”

“Yes, I will wait,” with a vindictive expression.
“When any one gets the best of me, I want them to
drop me a line and give that information.”

Nestor smiled and then proceeded :

*“Badee’s wife may have a suspicion that her husband
is not the real Paul Herrick, and in spite of the produc-

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establish his claim. The probate matter will be pushed
through in a few weeks.” ;
‘Curse the law’s delays!” muttered Le Grand, under
his breath. A
Then looking straight at Brayton, he smilingly re-

marked :

“I am glad for my nephew’s sake that this good luck
ee en him. He has hada hard row to hoe thus
ag

‘He will have an easy time after this ; no more worry-
ing about money and the necessaries of life,” added
Nestor, alias Herrick.

“Yes, he will be taken care of from this day on,” the
lawyer concluded.

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of
Ellis Badee. He was faultlessly attired, and there was
a look of joyous anticipation on his face. :

Mr. Brayton was favored with an introduction to the
you man, Le Grand presenting him as Paul Herrick.

“J have been out hunting in the mountains,” the pros-
pective possessor of millions said by way of explanation,
“or I should have called sooner.”

“It is better as it is,” was the queer response of the
lawyer. Then he added: ‘¥ou have the papers neces-
sary to establish your identity as the son of John Her-
rick, I presume.

“Yes ; here they are.”

He took from his pocket the package handed.to Le
Grand by Bill Nestor at the mouth of the mountain
shaft, and gave them to Mr. Brayton.

The lawyer went to the desk, opened the package, and
be a careful examination of the papers.

aoe thus occupied, the trio exchanged significant
glances.

When Brayton again turned around and faced them,
his expression alarmed at least two of them. -

With a grave face he remarked :

“Iam sorry to say, gentlemen, that the papers, while
purporting to be genuine documents, lack one important
essential. They are not properly attested, andI have no
means of knowing that the signatures are genuine.”

Le Grand forced back a savage oath, but he never sus-
pected the truth. Suddenly his face brightened.

“If that be the only objection,” he said, ‘‘perhaps we
can remedy it. You will observe that my name is at-
tached to one of the papers. I can swear to my own
signature, and also to the signatures of many others
whose hames appear.”

You will pardon me,” was the lawyer's quiet reply,
“but who will swear that you are Mr. Esmond ?”

Le Panne aazen hard at the speaker.

But he had not yet lost his wits.

Pointing to Bill Nestor, alias Herrick, he said, with all |

the dignity he could assume:

BES S gentleman will swear that I am Walter Es-
mond.”

ee a And who will inderse Mr. Herrick ?”

“T will.”

The door of the private office opened, and another
white-haired, white-bearded gentleman, of tall and com-
manding form, stepped forward.

Le Grand gazed at him in blank astonishment.

What did it all mean? Who was this new-comer, and
what did his entrance portend ?

He glanced at Bill Nestor, but that individual was
gazing at the pictures on the wall, with his face turned
away.

For a moment nothing was said.

The old gentleman took a seat beside Mr. Brayton, and
calmly surveyed the other occupants of the room.

The lawyer broke the silence.

““You know Mr. Herrick, then ?”

“Yes,” said the new-comer; ‘‘I know him well.”

Ellis Badee, who had been vainly trying to rouse him-
selt from the despairing stupor into which he had fallen
on the lawyer’s strange revelation in regard to the pa-
pers, now began to tremble, for reason told him that the
stranger’s entrance boded no good to his cause.

At this moment a voice, seeming to come through the
open window, pronounced these startling words :

“The room is full of frauds!”

Badee’s teeth chattered, and he would have presented
a pitiable spectacle had he not looked up and caught
Bill Nestor’s warning glance.

Ventriloquism! Ah, yes; that explained the mystery.
But why such an accusation ? What was Nestor driving
at? ;
His brow began to clear, howeyer, for his confidence
in his confederate amounted almost to veneration.

Le Grand knew that some trick was being played, but
~ mastered his emotion, and gazed stolidly at the

wyer.

“Who spoke ?” asked that gentleman, glancing from
one to the other.

No one answered.

The mysterious voice was again heard: %

“Ask the owner of the papers where he obtained them.”

Ellis Badee’s lips moved spasmodically.

«Where did you obtain them ?” asked the lawyer.

«In Pennsylvania.”

“Truly,” he thought, ‘‘if this be Nestor, his game is
deeper than I ed.”

«‘When?” questioned the strange voice.

‘Last month.”

“You have not been out of this State for three years.”

In the utmost alarm, Badee turned to Nestor, as if de-
sirous of an explanation of this remarkable proceeding.

He met with not the slightest satisfaction. The short

man, made up as Herrick, the uncle, wore an expression |

of imperturbable gravity.

The third old gentleman in the room—he who had
vouchsafed for the false Herrick—now spoke up:

«Some one is evidently playing pranks withus. Let
us pay no attention to him. and proceed to the business
in hand. I am an interested party myself.”

LeGrand looked relieved when the old man began
speaking; but upon his concluding words, his spirits

A terrible suspicion began to dawn upon his mind.

Had he been tricked—led into a snare ?

Rapidly his mind revolved the situation.

«‘Pshaw !” was his reflection, ‘‘there can be no abso-
lute danger, The lawyer may suspect, but he can prove
not . The witnesses who could injure me are dead.
It is this wife of Badee that has raised all this rumpus,
and it will end in smoke.”

Thus trying to reassure himself that no danger
threatened his scheme, his features became composed,
while the lawyer spoke as follows : '

«Where so much money is involved, itis necessary that
every precaution should be taken to prevent.fraud. Mr.
Herrick”—to Badee—‘‘I am not satisfied with these

papers.’

‘But the corroberative evidence of these gentlemen,”
indicating the false Esmond, Herrick alias Nestor, and
the new-comer.

“Ts also unsatisfactory, ‘In fact,” the lawyer went on,
“T have come to the conclusion that the documents you
presented are not authentic. They are not even copies
ot the originals.”

“Tis false!” was Le Grand’s exclamation, and on the
instant he arose to his feet.

Within his breast rage and fear now struggled for the
mastery. ;

“Tt is not false,” came in thunder-tones from the lips
of the white-haired man who sat by the lawyer, ‘‘for the
genuine papers are here !”

And drawing a package from his breast, he laid it on
the table.

Then springing forward with a quick movement, he
tore the false whiskers from the spurious Esmond’s face,

tion of the papers—which Z found, mind you—the law- | and the dark visage of the murderous captain of the

i aay postpone matters, so that we will be beaten in
the end.”

Le Grand was listening attentively, and the frown on
his brow had disappeared.

|

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“Bill,” he remarked, ‘‘I never supposed you had so

much intelligence. You never appeared to me to be ex-
traordinarily bright. You are really coming out strong.”

“You will know me better by and by. I’m nobody’s
fool, you understand,”

“| don’t think you are.”

“Well, let me finish. I waltzed into the room as
Uncle No. 2. Lam ee that the lawyer was favor-
ay impressed with my appearance, We went off to-

ether.’
" «And you gave me a beautiful headache.”
“Had to doit, Le Grand, or you would have carved

“Well, I'll forgive you.”

“Allright. Let’s have another drink.”

They drank, and Nestor went on with his explana-
tion.

“We left as recent acquaintances. We will return as
friends, and we both will swear to the identity of Paul
Herrick. The papers and our evidence will settle the
business. Such proof will be incontestable. Do you
grasp my scheme now ?”

“Yes, andit is a daisy,” was Le Grand’s enthusiastic
exclamation. ‘‘Hang me, Bill, but you area brick. It
will be a cold day when you get left.”

“Very cold, indeed.”

They conversed a while longer, and when they left the
saloon their plans were fully matured.

At the suggestion of Nestor, it was resolved to say
nothing to Ellis Badee concerning the latter’s wife.
Both were to pretend ignorance of her existence until

“she appeared and asserted her claim.

It was agreed that Le Grand should remain in the
city, and that Nestor should return to the cabin in the
hills, remain one day, and then start with Badee for San
Francisco. _

= the arrival of the twain, the grand move was to be
made.

Fortune now seemed to smile on the efforts of the
League of Gold.

The end was approaching.

CHAPTER XXII
A CRUSHING ANNOUNCEMENT.

It was Saturday, two days following the events nar-
rated in the last chapter.

A few minutes before two o’clock in the afternoon, the
two alleged uncles of Paul Herrick entered the office of
Mr. Brayton.

That gentleman had evidently been expecting them,
for he arose from his seat as they came forward, arm-in-
arm, and greeted them with excessive cordiality.

Mr. Esmond, otherwise Dorson Le Grand, felt his
spirits rise, and construed the reception as a favorable
omen.

‘Your note, Mr. Herrick,” said the lawyer, addressing
Bill Nestor, ‘‘which you sent yesterday, informs me that
Mr. Paul Herrick has been found. I presume, therefore,
that we shall see him this afternoon.”

“Yes,” said the false Herrick, blandly, ‘‘he will be here
presently.”

“Then the matter can speedily be settled. The pre-

‘sentation of the proper documents, taken in connection

with the testimony of his uncles, will be sufficient to

-

 

League of Gold was presented to view.

Betore the villain could recover from the amazement
into which the act had thrown him, his wrists were
encircled with a pair of handcuffs.

‘Man or devil, who are you?” he gasped, as he sank
into a chair, while his face assumed a ghastly hue.

“The agent of justice,” came in clear, ringing tones,
“and always on time. Behold the Black Hand!’

Up went his left hand, and off went the white wig and
whiskers.

“Clinton Close! All is lost!”

3 ai cry was one of despair, and came from Ellis
adee.

For one moment he gazed in horror at the brave de-
tective, and then wheeling, started for the door.

But one step made he, when a hand of iron was laid
upon his shoulder.

“Sit down,” was Bill Nestor’s fierce whisper. ‘Re-
member that my game has not yet been played.

{TO BE CONTINUED. ]

OO

Ex-Senator Buckalew, of Pennsylvania, relates that
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llth round.—K. 5over. Repeat. -

Begin again at the second round. Over means to throw the
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‘Daisy P.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Ist. Sleeves continue to be
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-dresses, and it looks very well by gas-light, and is particu-
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ot the eyes. All es of yellow are also very popular.

“Emily E.,” Pittsburgh, Pa.—Tasteful dresses for evening
entertainments are made of a combination of plain and em-
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has the lower skirt of cream vailing and the pointed corsage
and Grecian drapery of the same, embroidered at intervals
with small garnet flowers. The vest and accessories are of
garnet velvet. A beautiful dress recently worn by a New
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yellow satin of fine and heavy texture. The ground has a
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of flashing amber beads. The back falls in graceful folds
from the waist down, and is perfectly plain. Around the
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round, with a pointed front. Folds of crape of the same color
as the yellow satin trim the top of the low corsage, anda clus-
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“Mrs. L. B.,” Boston, Mass.—Ruches and ruffles of Oriental
lace are no longer the leading styles since folds came into
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etamine canvas, and Indian muslins, cut bias and laid one
edge slightly below the other until they are three or five deep.
Sometimes the finish continues around the collar and down
the front of the basque under the edge to the waist. One
fold of red velvet is in the same manner with black and
dark-colored dresses. If the color is trying without white, a
fold of crape lisse is put inside of the velvet around the neck.

“Mollie,” Plainfield, N. J.—lIst!) Handsome sashes of bro-
caded satin and velvet ribbon are worn with youthful toilets.
Pretty ribbons for sashes or bows for dressy costumes are
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touches of gilt through the wey 2d. The beauty of the
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‘Mamie B.”—The “‘ene-dollar outfit” of Perforated Patterns,
for stamping dresses, muslin, or anything on which embroi-
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fiftéen. The “Book of One Hundred Designs” for embroidery
and braiding will cost you twenty-five cents. We will send
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“Hattie M.”—1st. Good hard cider taken three times a
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3d. We know nothing concerning the preparation. 4th. The
cost of a solid gold collar-button, set with an imitation dia-
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chasing Agency will furnish it, or anything else in the Jewelry
line, on receipt of the price.

“Nellie S.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Black net, embroidered in
large gold figures, is used for plastrons, fichus, and draperies

over plain black satin or silk dresses. -collars and cuffs
to match, of fancy galloon, metal, lace, and beads, are lined
with silk and tied in front with satin ribbons. Those of gal-
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“Fannie.”—Cream-white is as fashionable for misses as for
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“Albertina 8.”—1st. The “Manual of Needlework ” will give

ou the information you desire. 2d. It is not necessary to
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- “Maud.”—An imported visiting costume is of black velvet,
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“Lizzie,” Jamesport, N. Y.—A good rubber waterproof will
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“Stella,” Columbus, Ind,—The price of “Darkness and Day-

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“Miss E. T. P.”—We can furnish “‘Martine’s Hand-Book of
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“Lillie C.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—A_book containing verses for
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Boy’s Solid Gold Key-Windin

SA Wateh; the third, a Rolid Gol

i Swiss Watch. Watches forwarded to

¢ winners April5th. Each person competing

imust send 25 cents with their answer, for

Fwhich they will receive 8 months sub-

seription to Happy Days, and 4love-

ly Parisian Dolls (¢ girls, 1 boy and

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of 85 Fashionable Dresses, hats,

Parasols, Traveling Costumes, Evening Dresses, &c., made in nine
colors, many of them from designs by Worth, of Paris, and very beau-
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outfits and 8 gold watches free, if they will send 25c, (stamps
or silver) to help pay for this advt. and the bare cost of mailing you
the paper 3 months. Pubs. Happy Days, Hartford, Conn.

W. L. DOUGLAS’

$3.00 SHOES for Gentlemen,

$2.50 SHOES for Boys,
For style, durability, and ease ex-
cel any shoes for price in the’
market. The $3. Shoe for
gentlemen, a first-class custom
made sewed shoe, fine calf, glove
‘kid tops, stitched with silk and

 

 

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e $2.50 Shoe for boys is same material and styles, and

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by return mail, and I will arantee a perfect fit. Take no

other, but see that ‘““W. L. Douglas’ $3 Shoe, warranted,” is
stamped on the bottom of each shoe.

fal UGLAS, Brockton, Mass.

DRUNKENNESS

CURED IN ITS VARIOUS STAGES.
,_ All desire for stimulants entirely removed by administer-
ing Dr. Haines’ Golden Specific. Prepared in powdered
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taking it, by eiraply placing it in tea, coffee, or articles of
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GOLDEN SPECIFIC CoO.,
185 Race st., Cincinnati, O.

| CURE FITS!

_When I say cure I do not mean merely to stop them fora
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Address Dr. H. G. ROOT, 183 Pearl St., New York.
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t. T. A. SLOCUM, 181 Pearl St., N. Y.

 

 

 

The Voltaic Belt Company

 

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Hidden Name, Embossed and New
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a 15 Hidden Name, new kind, 20c. 25
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40 HIDDEN NAME. Perfumed and Embossed Cards

Pocket Calendar and new Samples, all 10c. 13 pks, and
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tic Appliance Co., Binghamton, N. Y. P. O. Box 188.

 

A specimen of what is known in Michigan as a cran-
berry bear was recently kided in Tioga County, Pa. It has a
much smaller body than the black bear, and its legs are
longer and thinner, while its nose is considerably sharper.
Its furis nearly red. Itis usually foundin the marshes of
Michigan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

ecmit THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. = |

   

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, MARCH 23, 1885,

 

 

LLP"

Terms to Mail Subscribers:

3 months (postage free) 75c | 2 copies (postage free) — $5.00
4months- .. . . . $1.00)4 copies » --. ... 1000
1 Year 3.00 | 8 copies. a ee

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

NEXT WEEK!

The American Marquis

OR,

DETECTIVE FOR VENGEANCE !

A Story of a Masked Bride and a Husband's Quest.

BY MILTON QUARTERLY.

 

 

We have just received this brilliant story, which is full
of exciting incident, and so well told that we place it
before our readers at once, confident that it will score a
hit. Don’t miss the opening chapters next week.

 

 

INAUGURATION DAY.

BY KATE THORN.

It comes only once in four years.

And in consequence, every four years the city which is
named after the Father of his Country is turned upside.
down, and everybody within the radius of its ‘«magnifi-
cent distances” lets windows, and door-ways, and tops of
houses, and balconies, and back fences, and anything
else which furnishes the sight-seeing American an op-
portunity of looking at ‘‘the procession.”

As a people, the Americans are noted for wanting to
see processions. If it be only the funeral procession of
some poor Irish laborer, with its string of coaches hired
for the occasion, the American will stop and 100k at it;
and the boys in any country village will get up two
hours before day and walk four miles to the nearest
town for the sake of seeing the procession on the Fourth
of July.

In view of the high prices obtained for windows on
Pennsylvania avenue, it seems to be a pity that the resi-
dences there were not built on the hot-house plan, with
glass fronts, and then the residents who lost offices un-
der one President could live through the reign of the
next one on the income derived from letting out their
glass to sight-seers on the 4th of March.

Inauguration day means a great deal to some classes
of people. Itis the coming of a new policy. Somebody
must go out, and somebody must go in. Every Presi-
dent has relations and personal friends. Those relations
and personal friends will not, by any means, forget him
when he comes into power. He will be nearer and dear-
er to them than any other known man. And each one
of them will expect an office. And each one of them will
be madder than a ‘‘broke-up setting hen” ifhe doesn’t
get it, and next year he will vote on the opposition side,
and fancy he has done a big thing.

Presents will pourin on the new President. This is

another insane peculiarity of the American race. Ifa
man has everything that his proudest ambition could
claim or hope for, his admirers want to pile a few more
honors on him, and so they send him saddles of mutton,
trotting horses, bull-dogs, mammoth cheeses, barrels of
apple sauce, and, tor aught we know to the contrary,
patent gridirons and hand-painted crazy patchwork

uilts.
- Why, in Heaven’s name, people cannot be sensible
and send their donations where they are needed, we
cannot understand; but as we are not in want of any

st-office, or army commission, or place in the cabinet,
tis readily explained.

For two or three weeks Washington will be the gayest

lace on the continent. Dynamite will be forgotten,

arch winds will pelt in vain, influenza will not have a
chance to catch on, hotel-keepers will draw in their little
pile, guide-books will be at a premium, the marble floors
of the capitol will be half an inch deep in mud, the re-
tiring party will wail, the jubilant and victorious party
will swell up so big its clothes will be hardly large
enough to contain it, drums will beat, bugles will sound,
speeches will be made, congratulations will be offered,
the new ladies of the White House will be picked to
pieces and analyzed, and everybody in these United
States who reads a newspaper will know just what kind
of stockings they had on, and whether their front teeth
grew in their heads or were bought of the dentist.

Well, we are a great nation, and every man is a born,
freeman, andif he wants to enthuse over the going of
one man and the coming of another, who is to hinder ?

 

 

—>e~—__

A Little Child Shall Lead Them.

BY MATTIE D. MERRIAM,

 

 

In a richly furnished, darkened room a lovely little
face lay among the pillows, its pallor outvieing their
snowy whiteness. A man not far beyond his youthful
years sat beside the bed, and in his palm rested the
tiny hand of his dying child. His face, pale as death,
revealed the exquisite anguish of his soul as he watched
the little face far more precious to him than aught else
in all the wide world. His features bore unmistakable
signs of dissipation, which, even at his age, had made
sad progress in that wrecking of the physical powers
which is ever the inevitable result of acquaintance with
vice.

Soon the beautiful dark eyes of the dying child opened,
and fixing an earnest, intense gaze upon the drooping
form of her father, she said ;

“Papa, oh, papa! promise your own little dying Daisy
that never, never again will you taste one drop of any-
thing that will make you drunk. Tell me quickly, papa,
for I’m going fast, you know, and I want—oh, so much—
to tell dear mamma that you are a better man now and
don’t drink any more, and then she will be happier in
heaven, I know; for then, oh, darling papa, you will
come to see us !”

A quick spasm of pain passed over the visage of the
stricken man. A moment of silence, in which a fierce
battle was fought, and then—victory, and a soul was
won to Heaven. He fell upon his knees beside the
couch, clasped the little form passionately to his heart,
and said:

“TJ promise, my darling. Tell mamma all about it,
and, please Heaven, I will come to you both by and by.”

His huge frame shook in the intensity of his emotion,
and he rained kisses upon the little face, which wore a
happy, heavenly smile, and then the baby soul had fled
to the arms of the mother who gave it life.

Trials and mighty temptations came, but all were
powerless to lead astray. The pleading eyes of his
angel child always came between him and sin, and his
promise to the dead was never broken. His treasures
were in heaven, and right mantully did he seek to be-
come worthy to join his loved ones when death should
release him from sorrows and temptations here.

Verily, ‘‘a little child shall lead them.”

tl i gt oid

A DETECTIVE’sS DISCOVERY.

 

Herr Kreutzhuber is a member of the secret police of
Berlin. Being on his way home after midnight he ob-

serves on the street-lamp a placard. ‘‘Ha! these scoun-
drels of Socialists have posted a placard denouncing his
majesty,” said Kreuthuber to himself. Being determined
to destroy the placard, he painfully climbed up the
lamp-post, and, having secured the treasonable docu-
ment, he reads: ‘Fresh Paint.”

 

AN INFANT'S HAND.

BY 8. T. COLERIDGE.

 

 

What is an infant but a germ,
Prophetic of a distant term ?

Whose present claim of love consists
In that great power that Nature twists
With the fine thread of imbecility,
Motion of infinite tranquillity,

Joy that is not for this or that,

Nor like the restless joy of gnat,

Or insect in the beam so rife,

Whose day of pleasure is its life ;

But joy that by its quiet being

Is witness of a law foreseeing

All joy and sorrow that may hap

To the wee sleeper in the mother’s lap.
Such joy, I ween, is ever creeping

On every nerve of baby sleeping ;

But, baby waking, longest lingers

In tiny hand and tiny fingers,

(Like lamp beside sepulchyal urn),
Much teaching that it ne’er did learn,
Revealing by felicity,

Foretelling by simplicity,

And preaching by its sudden cries,
(Alone with God the baby lies).

How hard it holds !—how tight the clasp!
Ah, how intense that infant grasp!
Electric from the ruling brains

The wil descends, and stirs and strains
That wondrous instrument, the hand,
By which we learn te understand

How fair, how small, how white and pure,
Its own most perfect miniature.

The baby-hand that is so wee,

And yet is all it is to be;

Unweeting what it has to do,

Yet to its destined purpose true.

The fingers four, of varied length,

That joint or vie their little strength ;
The pigmy thumb, the onyx nail,

The violet vein so blue and paie;

The branchy lines where gipsy eld
Had all the course of life beheld ;

All, to its little finger’s tip,

Of Nature’s choicest workmanship.
Their task, their fate, we hardly guess—
But, oh, may it be happiness!

Not always leisure, always play,

But worky-day and holy day ;

With holy Sabbath interspersed,

And not the busiest day the worst.

Not doomed, with needle or with pen,
To drudge for o’er-exacting men,

Nor any way to toil for lucre

At frown of he or she rebuker ;

But still affectionate and free

Their never weary housewifery,

Blest lot be thine, my nestling dove.
Never to work except in love ;

And God protect thy little hand

From task imposed by unbeloved command !

A LONDON TRAGEDY.

BY LEANDER W. HARTZ.

>@

 

 

 

‘“‘What do you say, doctor ?”

«That she cannot recover, my dear——”

“Oh, Heaven !”

And with that word the man fell to the floor as if he
had been struck to the heart.

What a gorgeous dwelling it was! On what soft car-
pets the unhappy gentleman’s prostrate form softly lay.
The solemn mirrors, on every side of the darkened
room, reflected costly elegance and voluptuous riches.
The gilt chairs seemed to have started back in fright at
sight of the ghastly spectacle of their owner’s marble
face.

“Only a faint, my boy,” was the physicians cool assur-
ance to the valet, as he bent and administered restora-
tives.

«“What—what——”

“Mind your business, man! Go get water and hold
your tongue !” was the doctor’s sharp order.

But the trembling fellow could not hold his tongue ;
as he reappeared, holding the ewer of burnished silver,
forgetting the master at whose head he kneeled, he
stammered out again :

“Is—is she dead ?”

At that precise moment the insensible gentleman be-
gan to revive. He opened eyes and ears just enough to
catch those two words, ‘‘she dead ?”

The effect upon him was electric. He sat bolt upright,
thrusting out his feet and overturning a costly alabaster
vase, which crashed in fragments, scattering its white
pieces in a shower over the dark carpet. He regarded
the destruction for a moment and smiled. Then he

“So perish all my hopes! So let my shattered youth and
dawning manhoodlie. No, Dick,no. Gather up no frag-
ments, not the smallest piece. Nota chip, not a scrap
of life’s joy now remains to me. Here will I live till
those poor chips of alabaster are ground into dust and
worn into the texture of this rich Turkish. I will——”

“Man, man!” shouted the physician, now himself
genuinely alarmed. ‘Do you want to gocrazy? Con-
trol yourself. There are other days coming.”

«But—ne—other Catherine !”

‘Well, well she is not dead yet.”

Instantly the man was on his feet. His was a fine,
strong frame. Thatray of hope made a giant of him.
He heard that there was life yet above stairs. Then he
would go complete the errand that was in his resolution
on the instant when his late prostration felled him to
the fioor. He hurled the valet from him as if he were
a straw man. He threw the doctor to the other hand.
He sprang to the foot of the marble stairs, when, lo! a
female attendant, on the landing, weeping and groping
her descending way.

‘Kate, is she yet alive ?” shouted the gentleman.

Kate’s sobs were her answer! He turned and re-en-
tered the drawing-room, saying:

‘Jt is all over! ~ You were right, my dear doctor.
Now I am calm. I have just a favor or two to ask you,
Kate?” ,

The weeping maid-servant approached.

The gentleman opened his pocket-book and addressed
her:

“You have been a good girl, Kate. I shall need you
no more. Here are twenty pounds. That must surely
pay you. You can get your things and leave the house.”

A blank stare she gave him.

“But, Mr. Paul, the mistress’ body——”

“Curse you! Go!”

There was something in the man’s eyes which forbade
hesitation.

“Now, Dick, here are fifty pounds for you. Pack up
and be gone, my dear boy. You have been a faithful
servant.”

‘But, Mr. Paul——”

The long, trembling forefingers pointing to the door,
and the fiashing eyes of the master, struck terror to
the astounded valet, and he, too, crept away with his
protest unspoken.

«And all the rest of ye,” said the stony-faced James
R. Paul, of Kensington, ringing the general call that
brought cooks from the kitchen, maids from the cham-
bers, grooms from the mews, and gardeners from the
grounds.

Doors opened; men and women came in wondering
haste and stood in blank pity round a master whose

| sorrow they had anticipated and shared.

They evidently supposed it was to hear the announce-
ment of the death above stairs that they had been sum-
moned.

‘‘My servants,” began the gentleman, ‘‘you can any of
you refer to me at any time fora character; but let it be

find poor me and carry me out.” With inexpressible
eloquence he spoke it, the eloquence of despair. ‘Now,
each of you is to be paid by the steward. Doitat
once, and in full, to the utmost satisfaction of each,
See to it, Louis. Then be gone. I shall need no more
servants.”

Had not the amazed physician described this scene
and attested the facts, it would have been almost be-
yond belief. One would have found it hard to account
tor the ready compliance of this room fullof devoted
servants with so mad a command.

«And yet,” to quote the doctor’s own words, ‘‘to tell
you the truth, I stood there myself, hat in hand, com-
pletely nonplussed, as the man went on. I did not won-
der that all the underlings obeyed. I was not surprised
to see the French steward, Louis, step to the library.
open the house-book, begin to figure, and hand over the
money. I was not surprised myself when, a moment
after the last servant had left the ground parlors, Mr.
Paul turned sharply on me—on me, who had cut his
teeth for him five-and-thirty years before, and dosed
him ever since, saying:

« “Now, Dr. Graves, it is your turn. Send me your
bill. Doit quickly. I shall never take medicine again.
Here and now I bid all the outer world good-by.’

« But your dead is not buried.’

“J will bury my own dead. Isit not so written let
the dead bury the dead ?’

What happened in that lonely mansion the next day
none could ever'tell. James R. Paul was the only one
of his blood left. He was the heir of vastestates. Pol-
lyon House, this mansion amid the rural splendors of
Kensington, was his. His heart had died with the dead
woman up stairs.

Think of that maniac husband winding her fair form
for burial, with his own offices preparing her for the
grave. She had died from apoplexy on returning from
violent horseback riding, died in the bloom of woman-
hood. She had been one of the famous beauties of Lon-
don society for three seasons past. It had been his de-
light to array her with such profligate splendors as
made the proudest envy her. Who was she? Noone
| knew. It was enough that she was the adored wife of
| the opulent James R. Paul. Had she no kin? None
| could say. Certainly none came to weep at her funeral,
ot she ever had; none bent over her costly

mb.

The great world only knew that this rich merchant

 

in writing. My doors will never be opened again to |
mortals after she is carried out till men enter here to |

closed out his extensive business, resigned from his
club, and disappeared from society instantly. That he
yet lived was known through courts and attorneys, who
cared for so much of his interests as still touched other
men. That he ate was known, for the grocer took bread
to the little wicket in the garden wall, and took away
the shillings that there awaited his fingers. That he
lived in Pollyon House the neighbors could testify—
though of this testimony there was no very exact agree-
ment, some saying that they had seen a very haggard
face at a certain window, others asserting that it that
were true, the interval was so long ago now that the
man must be dead. It was even thought proper, on the
ro of the public functionary who gobbles up estates of

eirless men, to force the great doors and go in tosee.
This got into the Times. The following note was pub-
lished the next day:

“TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

“All the world is not alike in the way of joys. Some take
to one kind of pleasure, some to another. The rule holds

ood in sorrow. Most of you, readers, bury and forget your

ead, The new love supplants the old. Your memories are
like running water. Most of you look to _a place you call
heaven to reclaim your beloved again. The undersigned
never forgets, never expects heaven, takes his own way of
bearing his sorrow. Think of this, ye impudents! :

“Yours, JAMES R. PavL, yet alive.”

Of course the town laughed. What was the good of
such a card? One man is not wiser than all men. The
way of the world—that is, tae best people of the world
—is the wisest way, no doubt, after all.

In those deserted rooms the sunbeams rarely entered.
There was one exception, after a year or twu. On
Wednesday, the 15th of every month, the blinds of east-
ern windows were thrown open, and the sunlight
streamed in on what, think you? On the splendid
dresses of the lady gone. Paul hung them on chairs and
sofa, laid them out on bed and floor—silks, satins, laces,
rich and rare. The diamonds and costly stones she wore
were held in his fondling hands. He himself, seated be-
fore these things, spent the day in gazing on the adorn.
ings with which his wealth had disguised the peasant
beauty—doubtiess she was of humble origin—who had
once worn them. Behold the madman sitting there in
his rapturous and dreadful worship of these rags. How
do we know? Read on and see.

Twenty years passed. In all that time no foot of other
mortal had stepped across those floors on which the dust
was inches thick! Such filth, like a revolting gilding
over such splender! Paul slept on the floor of his cham-
ber, in front of the open wardrobe where hung the ele-
gant dresses of his dead wife.

One morning, just a year ago now, this man awoke
and his mind was restored! Astonishing fact, he was
himself again, and gazed about the gloomy apartments
in dismay. All the twenty years were a dream, not a
blank. He recalled his question to the physician, and
repeated it.

‘Doctor, what do you say. Can she live ?”

But Dr. Graves was dead himself, five years ago.

Full a week of time was consumed by the unhappy
man in recovering the simplest threads of his own
personal history. He had kis lawyers up with him.
Slowly he crawled bae@k into the bustling world, read the
papers, walked the streets unrecognized, assumed direc-
tion of his now vastly increased wealth, and came to life
again. Buthis health was gone. His end was hear;
and he knew it. What should he do with Pollyon House
and this fabulous estate ?

It occurred to him to pray. At first he ‘‘seemed to
speak to the empty air.” Yet kepton. It was the- best
of medicine. He began to read in the little Testament
which he found among his wife’s effects. A piece of blue
ribbon was pinned into the leaf of the 15th chapter I.
Corinthians. The tears that cleanse and heal flowed
often on that blessed page. With that chapter he
washed the windows of the old mansion. With that
chapter he swept down cobwebs and dusted old pictures.
With that chapter he garnished the dwelling anew.
Then he said to his lawyer:

“Find for me a well-bred, intelligent, healthy, pure-
hearted young man. Search the kingdom over to find
him. He must be already industriously toiling to earn
enough to marry some sweet girl.” With many other
minute directions he filled out his order, and waited for
the result. Last September a young fellow came into
his library, and was properly introduced by the attor-
ney, ae at once retired. Then this conversation fol-
lowed :

PavuL.—‘‘You are alone in the world ?”

THE Yours.—‘I have not a kindred living, that I
know, Mr. Paul. But I have many friends. Men are
kind to me.”

PauL.—‘‘Good;! That is because your heart is right.
I specified, however, that you should be orphaned and
without kin, because I am. I wished to reproduce a com-
plete copy of myself, asI once was. You are in love ?”

THE YourH.—‘“I am. I wish to marry, have long
wished to, but am not able even yet. Still, I shall ac-
complish it, for Heaven has given me health, pluck, and
a faithful heart to wait for me.” :

PavuL.—‘‘Good again! Is she beautiful ?”

THE YourTH.—‘‘So lovely, sir, that a duke offered to
og her introduced to him.” The youth’s face flashed

re.

PavuL.—‘‘She escaped ?”

: THE Youru.—‘‘By Heaven’s help. She is good and
rue.’

PawL.—‘‘Ernest Reed, for that they tell me is your
name, Iam about to pass away. I have been a poor
fool. Iwas selfish. I have been punished. I leave this
world behind me. I now see that the world ought to go
on just the same afterl am gone. It was intended that
we should each drink of our cup of joy, then sorrow,
then, going, pass the cup to others. I leave my cup to
you. All this will be legally yours before to-morrow
night. I leave no will; men quarrel over wills. I give
to you now. While I stay, you and your bride will be
kind tome. WhenI am dead, bury me by my mate. I
trust you will be blessed with offspring. Had I been I
might have been a happier man. But think of your chil-
dren’s succession with complacency. Be glad that the
old world will be just as new to them, when it isa worn-
out world to you. If you arechildless, do for some lone
youth what I now do for you. In your happiness Iam
happy. In your young life I live again.”
te yet he lives, and is tranquil in the joys of Pollyon

ouse.

>-e-~

DEAD MEN’S SHOES.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

Dickens never did a better thing than ‘‘Great Expec-
tations.” The principle is old. I have just been watch-
ing amodern example. Nothing will take the courage
out of a young man like the “sure” expectation of wealth,
“when his uncle dies.”

I doubt if many of us would be proof against such a
trial of our industry as that presents. Of course, if one
be already employed, and congenially too, liking his
business and doing its duties without much fret, the ex-
pectation of an heirship might not paralyze his muscles.
Now and then you find a man, who, the more he is
likely to have, the harder works. But as a rule the sud-
den news, ‘‘You are in my will fora big sum,” reduces a
young fellow’s bones to pulp and his brains to milk. All
that fine attention to the means of success which is
necessary, he begins to feel are hardly worth his while.
He is no longer scrupulous about pleasing people, ror he
is soon to be independent. He is careless of appear-
ances, for he is soon to be quite above them. He is im-
patient of control, for he is soon to be master. He lives
all in to-morrow: to-day may go to the dogs. The
future gilds over all present inconveniences, those whips
and spurs to exertion; he lies down content for the
present, since he is to bask in voluptuousness next year.

A very intoxication of hope is this waiting for dead

men’s shoes. It is a besotted condition, a laughing sort
of drunkenness. The victim is always cheerful com-
pany, if there really is no doubt about the shoes. You
| like to meet him, to hear him talk, to see his fingers
| build up the most wonderful air-castles that ever were
| put together by any but a maiden’s hands. If you are
| despondent, this heir apparent cheers you by his own
cheer. Indeed, his hope is about all there is to him that
is of any real value in the dear fellow’s society. He lives
on hope; he eats and drinks hope; he sleeps on pillows
of hope; he talks hope; hope exhales from him like
perfume from a fresh-blown dandelion. There is one
decided drawback to his society, namely: he excites
your pity. You cannot help inquiring if he is quite sure
about the shoes, and you wonder, after the dear fellow
has gone from your parlor, what would he, what could
he do, if the shoes were by any ill-luck left to his
brother? There is always a shade of sadnessin the
room after he has gone; for other people realize, what
the heir cannot, how many a slip there is betwixt the
cup and the lip.

Have you noticed how, in some impatient fit, the heir
starts off, of a bright morning, resolved to earn a pair of
shoes for himself? He isas resolute asa hero. Heis
sick of this waiting. He is stung by the laughter of
people. He protests that there is not alazy bone in his
body, and he will show us all what he cando! But,
alas for him! he never gets any nearer a situation. A
few rebuffs take all his vourage; as a hot day takes out
the strength of lingering Aprilice. He drags home as
he came. He does not care. His uncle will die to-
mor——no! He will not put it quite so bald as that.
But really, now, you know, he will be all right in a few
years at most; and what’s the use of fretting? I think
he is fast feeling the shame of defeat. He has no battle
to fight, like other men. Naturally a youth of fine parts,
he has been robbed ; robbed is the word: and that, too,
by the hand that may enrich him.

The waiter for dead men’s shoes is generous, as a rule.
He Knows not the value of money. What he now has
he probably has borrowed on the faith of friends in his
future. He borrows with a generous interest. Brokers
and sharpers all know him, or would like to know him.
All his friends are out of pocket by him. And as freely
as he borrows, so freely does he promise to lend. He
agrees to do all sorts of things ‘‘when his ship comesin,”
and in agreeing he is perfectly sincere. I never knew an
exception. He surely means to pay back the kindness
so freely bestowed on him. Asa rule, he does not keep
his. miserly uncle’s purse-strings very tightly drawn, if
he ever gets them. That is another of the misfortunes
of this kind of waiting; it cultivates a careless keeping ;

 

 

 

it pure one under countless obligations, especially if the
old uncle persists in living a very long while with his
shoes on. The heir must wear coats, and coats cost
money. Poor chap, he is mortgaged to all creation by
the time he gets the shoes on his own feet.

I have observed that the waiter always has a purpose
to kick some few people. with those shoes when he gets
them on—that is, he is provoked at a number of people,
and when he gets his money he is ‘‘going to get square
with A, B, and.” There are wrongs that he is going
to right, innocent people whom he ts going to vindicate,
oppressed people whom he will certairfly set free, etc.
Well, well, if he goes on kind errands with the shoes he
now Wears, we may trust him to set those old miser
shoes to going likewise. But inherited wealth does not
make a man’s heart any larger, be sure of that; it does
not increase his natural kindness of spirit. The ten-
dency is the other way. As for the kicking, when he
gets his money he will, we hope, feel differently. He
will feel too good-natured to kick, too lazy and sleepy—
at least, let us trust so. Why should he go about
avenging himself when he can leave his good luck to
avenge him by the envy it will excite in the eyes of his
poor enemies ?

Of all the thousands of fine fellows who have waited
for old shoes till old feet got through with them itis safe
to say the vast majority have been spoiled by the process.
Only a few got what they so fondly expected, for which
they so weakly bartered away the golden birthright of
youth. Many of them have fallen into silly habits of ex-
travagance which they afterward could not afford to
keep up. The change to enforced economy has soured
them, or led them into gambling and speculation, and so
eventual loss of the shoes. Often the shoes don’t fit
when one gets them. The care of property is an art, a
consummate art. The new position associates the heir
with gentlemen on directors’ boards, in offices, and else-
where, which positions are to him irksome and ill-fitting.
Before he knows it he has relegated the care of his af-
fairs to other hands, who may or may not be honest in
its management. In short, another man has already
got on those old shoes of his.

I am not so silly as to pretend myself indiffer-
ent to an inheritance. If any reader wants to leave poor
Harker a legacy, all right. Heaven bless him! If you
wish to inform me before hand of your intention I'll
solemnly vow to go on, in just the same way, working at
my place for the dear old NEw YorK WEEKLY—if I have
strength of mind enough to resist the temptation to lie
down on you. And yet I would rather earn my own for-
tune. So would you, reader. You and I would vastly
prefer to see the money come in, roll in, pile up, day af-
ter day, amid no one to thank for it save the good God
who so blessed us. After all, it is not the having so
much as the getting that affords the keenest gratifica-
tion. What you have, you have. Who can tell anything
about these birds in the bush? The shoes which are
ries to order fit the best. Have your own last and stick
to it.

 

 

HETHERTON’S HEIR.

BY MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS,

 

“And so Hetherton Place is open once more,” said old
Nancy Benson, the village gossip, as she sank into the
easiest chair in our cool sitting-room and began to fan
herself vigorously with a folded newspaper. ‘‘Have you
heard, Miss Hereford ?”

My mother took up her knitting work from the little
table at her side, and only answered, quietly:

‘T know little concerning my neighbors, Miss Nancy.”

Miss Nancy Benson was a maiden lady of uncertain
age—at least, it was very certain that she was rather
aged—and she spent her time in running about the
pretty town of Western, spinning yarns and retailing
gossip—an unmitigated old mischief-maker.

1 disliked her cordially, with all the vim of my eighteen
years; and I watched her now, over the top of the vol-
ume of Browning in my hand, with ill-concealed aver-
sion. Yet I listened to what she was saying with all the
avidity of any other daughter of Eve.

Hetherton Place adjoined our own humble domain,
and, to me, it was like an enchanted fairy castle. The

house, a Gothic structure of gray stone, stood in the
midst of magnificent grounds, arranged as only wealth
and good taste could arrange them, so that the lovely
spot was another Paradise. Yet for years it had been
closed and leit in charge of an old woman, who, with her
son, lived there, while the owner, Rufus Hetherton,
wandered about in foreign lands, throwing his money
away in all sorts of mad, foolish dissipation and reckless
profligacy.

All this was retailed now by Miss Nancy, until at last,
grown impatient listening to her severe tirade, I ven-
tured a remonstrance.

“But, Miss Nancy,” I queried, ‘‘hasn’t the gentleman
ne redeeming trait? 1s there nothing good about

m?

She held up her skinny hands in holy horror.

“Ethel Hereford,” she ejaculated, ‘‘what a simpleton
you are! You've been listenin’ to them tales (the truth,
too), about this fellow, Hetherton, all your life, and yet
you ask me such a silly question! Of course, he ain’t
got no good traits. If he had, do you suppose he'd be
a-livin’ in Baden Baden (he’s bad enough himself, ha!
ha!) or some other French town, a-playin’ cards and
throwin’ dice, and losin’ bis money all the time ?”

«But, Miss Nancy,” I returned, somewhat flippantly,
“Baden doesn’t happen to be a French town, unless it
has moved recently ; and Z don’t believe one-half the
stories about Mr. Hetherton.”

“Ethel!” remonstrated my mother, in alarm, for she
knew my impulsive nature, and also that if 1 espoused
the cause of this unfortunate youug man, Miss Nancy
would not leave me unscathed when her back was
turned upon our home. But I could not be quiet; I
could not sit silent longer under the rain of scandal
which descended from the gossip’s sharp tongue; and
as mother shook her head warningly in my direction, I
took my book, and tying on my sun-hat, fled from the
house.

Just outside the open window, near my seat, wasa
hedge of Cherokee roses, which divided our neat little
garden from the beautiful Hetherton Place. As I came
down the steps of our veranda, a dark, fine-looking
gentleman arose from the shadow of the hedge, and
then I heard Miss Nancy’s spiteful voice say, in a stage
whisper :

“T do believe that’s young Hetherton now. But, then,
ZInever seen him, and don’t care to know no such a
character !”

My mother made no answer, and I turned and glanced
in the direction of the stranger. The very handsomest
man [had ever seen in my life. Pale, with dark, lus-
trous eyes and hair, and heavy black mustache; a firm
chin and finely chiseled features, graceful and self-pos-
sessed. He approached me, as I stepped bravely through
the opening in the hedge, and lifted his hat with cour-
teous deference.

“Miss Hereford, I am sure!” he began; ‘show can I
ever thank you for the defense of—of one—who—how-
ever unworthy—is still to be pitied ?”

I fancied that he was laughing at me, though his face
still preserved his look of gravity.

“T have been an unintentional eavesdropper,” he con-
tinued; then pausing, he added, ‘‘Miss ‘Hereford, surely
—nhear neighbors as we shall be—we may be friends ?
Your mother will remember me, I am certain.”

“If mamma is willing, I shall be pleased,” I replied,
and I moved away. He joined me.

“May I call this evening ?” ventured Mr. Hetherton.

“If you wish,” I began, impetuously, for the handsome
face was not without effect upon me; then I recalled,
with a little shudder, all the dreadful words which our
village gossip had just uttered, and my heart stood still
at my own temerity.

He began to speak of other subjects, and we walked
along side by side, quite like old acquaintances. We
talked of books, and music, and flowers, and I found
Mr. Hetherton a very mine of information.

It was nearly sunset when I turned toward home
again, and Mr. Hetherton accompanied me. Mother met
us at the door, and to my surprise she greeted my com-
panion with undisguised delight. He passed the even-
ing at our home, and when he bade us good-night,

romised to come again soon. I felt perfect confidence
n my mother’s judgment, and knew that it must be all
right, somehow; for she had known the young man
since his boyhood, and was better authority than Miss
Benson. So Mr. Hetherton continued to call, and I, not-
withstanding the cold looks of some of the village gos-
ra continued to receive him with all the cordiality that

felt.

And so time passed, and one day Mr. Hetherton told
me that he loved me, and asked me to be his wife. I
loved him; I could not deny the truth; but would my
mother consent? If Miss Nancy’s tales were reliable,
he was surely no husband for any innocent girl; yet
surely my mother knew. Full of strange misgivings, I
went straight to her and told her all. It was twilight,
and mother sat on the porch. I did not perceive in the
gloomy shadows the angular figure, bolt upright in a
rocking-chair near; but I told my mother my simple
story, and asked her advice. She laid‘her hand on my
bowed head.

“Yes, Ethel, dear,” she said, gently, «if you love Mr.
Hetherton, I am willing that you should marry him.”

Up pop the awkward figure from the rocking-chair.

“Miss Hereford,” began the spinster, ‘‘do you really
mean to allow your daughter to marry that profligate,
Hetherton ?”

My mother arose with gentle dignity.

“Miss Benson,” she said, mildly, ‘‘you forget that you
are in my house ; or perhaps you do not know that you
are insulting in the extreme. ButI will answer your
question: Yes, my daughter has my consent to her
marriage with Mr. Hetherton. You are not aware, I
see, that Rufus Hetherton, the dissipated owner of
Hetherton Place, has been dead for two years, and that
this gentleman—Mr. Ralph Hetherton, his cousin—is
heir, as next of kin. Heis no profligate, and never has
been. He is noble and upright; a young man whom I
shall be proud to callmy son. Miss Nancy, take my ad-
vice, and henceforth always be certain before you assert.
Good-evening.”

And my mother bowed her unwelcome visitor uncer-
emoniously out.

She never troubled us again; and I, as the wife of
Ralph Hetherton, and mistress of Hetherton Place. can
afford to set at defiance all her petty spite, and all the

 

Shafts of her malice and uncharitableness.

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. ]

 

H C. K.—Ringtown.—ist. The Talmud is the book that
contains the Hebrew laws. It consists of two parts, the
Mishna and the Gemara; the former being the written law,
and the latter a collection of traditions and comments of
Jewish doctors. 2d. the Legend was a book containing the
acts of the Saints, so called because they were to be read in
the church on certain days. 3d. The Alcoran is the sacred
book of the Mohammedans. It is generally agreed among
the followers ef Mohammed, or Mahomet, that its contents
were revealed to him by the angel Gabriel, partly at Mecca,

partly at Medina. There is little doubt that it was originally
preserved by oral tradition, or handed about, having been
written on different fragments of parchment, or on palm
leaves, by the prophet’s slave or scribe. Itis held in the

eatest veneration by the. Mohamraedans, and they never
ouch it, it is said, with unwashed bands. 4th. Horace
Greeley was never nominated for Vice-President. 5th. Your
Donen Anenap eniee poe: 6th. The fare ren from New

ork to San Francisco is $136. ‘7th. Johann Wolfgang
Goethe, the celebrated German author, was a precocious
child, and inherited the best qualities of both his parents.
Before he was ten years of he wrote several languages
and was familiar with many works of art. The first part o
his greatest work, “Faust,” appeared in 1805, and fs was
acknowledged to be the first poet of his . Of “Faust”
there have been many translations. tie by Bayard ‘l'iay-
lor is considered among the One year after the com-
pletion ot his renowned poem athe was seized with an
illness which resulted in his death on March 22, 1832. He was
born in 1749. Very interesting biographies of him may be
obtained. Many of his works have nm translated into dif-
ferent languages.

A Young Reader, Atchison, Kans.—Cow’s milk is considered
the best, though in foreign countries the milk of the goat,
sheep, ass, mare, and bison is much used. After the cream
has been taken off of milk, what remains is called skim-milk,
which is made up of curd or caseine, from which cheese is
made, and of whey, a thin watery liquid, in which the caseine
is dissolved. Cow’s milk has more fat and caseine in it and
less sugar than human milk. The color of milk is generally
yellowish white, but itis sometimes bluish white. It has a
peculiar animal odor, depending somewhat upon the ani-
mal, but more, it is thought, upon the food, so thatif garlic
is partaken of in small quantities, itis as pencreere by smell
as by taste, It contains all the elements necessary for the
growth of animals. It may be impure from natural as well as
artificial causes, A large ele of the milk with which
cities are supplied is often that of diseased cows. The large
amount of saline matter found in bad milk is caused by the
addition of salt made for the purpose of disguising the adul-
teration with water. The starch and chalk used may be de-
tected with the aid of a microscope.

E. J. &., Fort Dodge, Iowa.—The Egyptian obelisk (Cleopa-
tra’s Needle) in Central Park was presented to the City of
New York, through the Department of State, in 1877, by the
late Khedive of Egypt, Ismail Pacha, and the work of remov-
ing it to this city was intrusted to Lt.-Com. H. H. Gorringe,
U. S. N.,who designed for the purpose massive and novel ma-
chinery constructed by the Roeblings and Phenix Iron Works
ot Trenton, and chartered for its conveyance a sailing vessel
adapted for the undertaking. The cost of its Saeeon,
erection, etc., was $100,000, which was paid by Mr. William H.
Vanderbilt, in accordance with a promise previously made.
It stands on a knollin the grounds adjoining the Metropoli-
tan Museum of The inscriptions upon it take us back to
a period more than fifteen centuries before Christ. For more
than a thousand years it stood erect as a landmark of the Le-
yant near Alexandria, to which it was taken by one of the
Ceesars, while its onprenian now conspicuous in London,
lay (having fallen) half buried in the sands at its feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

J. J.—\st. The oldest Protestant church-edifice in America
is St. Luke’s, Isle of Wight County, Va., about five miles from
Smithfield. It was built as early as 1635, and after being
roofless for a century, the present roof was put on somewhere

between 1830 and 1835. Itis now used for worship, and the
grounds around it for burial. Its thick walls and high
tower are still strong. 2d. To ao a fine gloss to linen, put
a small piece of spermaceti into the starch while it is boiling.

. ““‘Brown’s Grammar,” ‘“Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary,”
and “Belknap’s American Biography," will be found of muc.
value. The first-named can furnished for $1.25; the sec-
ond for oF ane the third for $2.50. If xo wish them, write
direct to the NEw York WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. 4th.
Critics differ upon the subject. 5th. Yes: either New York or
Brooklyn. The latter city is next to Philadelphia in popula-
tion, and is a ra manufacturing place. You might do
wet 1 either of the three cities. 6th. Your penmanship is
quite fair.

A. L, S., Wilmington, Il.—ist. ‘“‘The Young Seaman’s Man-
ual,” compiled from various authorities, and illustrated with
numerous original and select designs, for the use of the U.S.
training ships and marine schools generally, will cost $3.
2d. The crow belongs to the same family with the raven,
rook, jay, and magpie, and like the raven is long-lived. e
raven has been known to live one hundred years.

J. P. B.—Shells may be polished by either hand-labor or
varnishing ; in both cases, all the rough parts must be well
rubbed down with emery and water. If they are to be pol-
ished by hand (which is the best and most lasting way), after
they have received two or three courses of emery, of different
degrees of fineness, they must be finished with buff leather,
dressed with rotten-stone and oil.

W. C. P.—Alexander Hamilton, the great American states-
man, was born in the island of Nevis, West Indies, on Jan.
11, 1755, He died in this city on July 12, 1804. His duel with
Aaron Burr was fought on or ll, 1804, at Weehawken, on
the Hudson, opposite New York. Hamilton’s eldest son, a
boy of twenty, had been previously killed in a duel.

G. W., Ontario Corners.—_To make Bologna sausage, take a
pound of beef suet, a pournd of pork, a pound of bacon, fat
and lean, and a pound of beef and veal. Chop them very fine.
Add a handful of sage leaves, also chopped fine, and season
pretty high with pepper and salt. Then filleach weli-cleaned
covering.

Stella Rosevelt, Catawba, Mo.—ist. There is no rule upon
the subject, but the task is generally undertaken by the most
intimate friend of the family. 2d. “In Memory of An Only
Brother ” would be an appropriate inscription. 3d. The longest
erm in the Bible is the ninth verse of the eighth chapter of

sther.

J. W. A., Indiena.—1st. There is no mention made of the
item referred to in the biographies of the persons named. 2d.
The weight of a cubic foot of pure gold is 1,203 2-3 pounds ;
that of ‘double gold eagles (Troy weight), 633 pounds, 4 ounces
mova 4 pennyweights; number of double eagles, 576; value,

11,520.

W. G., Waterloo, Iowa.—ist. Letters will reach the parties
named through the general post-office in this city. 2d. The
trip could_be made for $300, if economically conducted. 3d

No. 4th. The penmanship is good in either style, but the
first specimen is the better one.

J. D., Fort 8., W. T.—1st. The invention named is patented.

2d. “The Young Folks’ Cyclopedia of Common Things,” by
John T. Champlin, Jr., will cost $4; and “‘Dick’s Cyclope-
dia of Practical Reci and Processes,” $5. Both will be
found very useful books.

Bertie, Portland, Oregon.—Men who marry sisters are in
courtesy called brothers-in-law ; but in point of fact they are
brothers-in-law to the sisters only. They themselves are not
related by the marriage.

Willie N. L._Harrow is the name of a famous grammar
school in the town of the same name, in the county of Mid-
dlesex, Eng. The school was founded by John Lyon, in 1571,

S. N. B., Columbia, 8. C.—The orations of Demosthenes
against Philip of Macedon, to arouse the Athenians against
his policy, were called Philippics.

A. B. T., East St. Louis, I1l.—Asa grate is a frame of iron
bars for holding coals used as fuel, your employment of the
word was perfeetly appropriate.

A Three Years’ Reader, St. Louis, Mo.—ist. We cannot re-
call any particular instance. 2d. “Webster’s Unabridged
Dictionary” will cost $12.

Reader, Lexington.—“Stonehenge’s Every Horse Owner's
Cyclopedia” will be sent to you for $3.75. It treats of the
turf, field, and farm.

R. A. H., Alleghany City.—We can furnish the music and
haat ‘iBen Bolt? for30cents. Noknowledge of the others
refer’ oO.

A. G. S., Baltimore—Regular practitioners should be em-
ree Se csess like yours. Wecannot vouch for the parties
refe \

A. T., Orono, Me.—Write direct to the NEw YorRK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency, giving the titles of the books you think
necessary.

T.L. J.—The “Young Seaman’s Manual” will cost $3. It
is = use of the U.S. training ships and the marine
schools.

Constant Reader, Auburndale.—The name of the Governor
of Louisiana (re-elected in November last) is Samuel D. Mc-
nery.

Wylie, Lake Forest, 11—The Commissioner of Patents,
Washington, D. C., will impart all the information you de-
sire.

E. T., Ansonia, Conn.—A work for the use of artists, de-
signers, engravers, and art workmen will cost $2.50.

H.S. C., Le Mont., and Old Subscriber, Germantown, Pa.—
We have no personal knowledge of its efficacy.

May Lenore.—ist. Rusty-nail water will-sometimes remove

freckles. 2d. Improper in both cases.

A Reader, Oakland, Cal._—Write to Hon. Wm. L. Dayton,
U.S. minister resident at The Hague.

C. O..T., Granville, N. ¥ and Dude, Tuscola, Ill—See Es-

ther; chapter viii., verse 9.
Chas. G.—1st. We can furnish you with Pitman’s system of
short-hand for $2.50. 2d. No.

Taxidermist.—1st. Not to our knowledge. 2d. Dip the soles
of the shoes in water.

Herb, Northfield, Minn.—“Wright’s Practical Poultry Keep-
er” will cost $2.

J. M. W., Altus, Ark.—Write to the Express. San Antonio,
Texas,

D. D., Ridgewood, Long Island.—The words are synony-
mous.

To Conrrisutors.—The following MSS. are accepted:
“Love is the Cause,” ‘Inconstancy,” “On What,” “On Sleep.”
The following are declined: “The Reason Why,” “Unlucky

oe,” “To an Autograph,” “A Fatal Mistake,” “Jack Mor-
daunt’s Mistake,” “Some Advice to Would-be Authors,”
“Howard Greystone’s Temptation,” ‘“Hints.”

 

 

 

 

 

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<a VHE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #36

 

 

 

  

 

 

WRITE TO ME VERY OFTEN.

BY FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

 

Write to me very often,
If you send me but a line,
For the ocean rolls between us,
And your life is linked with mine.
I am tarrying with strangers,
And when your letters come,
My heart is big with rapture,
For they speak of love and home.

Write to me very often—
My lone heart hungers so
For the balm your letters bring me
When my sad eyes overflow.
As I scan the kind epistle
That meets my greatest need,
I see your loved face looking up
In every line I read.

Write to me very often,
Consoler that thou art!

Thy kind words fall like cooling dews
Upon my burning heart.

They strengthen and refresh me,
Like pure, ambrosial wine,

And while I drink them in my soul
Content and peace are mine.

Write to. me very often,
For thou art far away,
And thy voice may not break on my ear
For many a weary day.
But I'll see thee in thy letters,
And I'll think I hear thee speak.
And Pll feel, in fancy, while I read,
Thy warm breath on my cheek.

So write to me very often,
If you send me but a line,
For the ocean rolls between us,
And my life is linked with thine.
And e’en one line will tell me,
With more than magic skill,
That though I’m absent from thy side,
I am remembered still.

-eo~«

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

A Red-Letter Day;

OR,

THE LADY OF LOCH ANIMS TOWERS.

By CHARLES T:. MANNERS.
AUTHOR OF
“The Flaw in the Diamond,” *“*A Silver Brand,”
“A Woman's Faith,” ‘The Lord of Lyle,” etc.
[A Red-Letter Day” was commenced LAST WEEE. ]

CHAPTER III.
KEN KINCAIRD.

Little Ailsie’s timid knock at the door roused Maude
from a most profound sleep, and starting up quickly,
she saw that the room was flooded with sunshine.

The little maid came in to bring a fresh ewer of water,
and courtesied while she wished the young lady a very

 

 

 

|. promptly.

 

good-morning.

“AmT late?” asked Maude, apprehensively, hearing |
the sound of laughter and cheerful voices from below |
the window.

“That would be of no account if you were—of no ac- |
count whatever,” said the little maid, eagerly. ‘But |
Miss Jean is only just rising. And I hope that the |
young lady from over the ocean had a good night’s sleep
beside Loch Anim.”

“Perhaps your pretty loch sang her lullaby rather
loudly, or it may be I was a little nervous. It took mea
long time to go to sleep, but you see how soundly I
slumbered when at last I succeeded,” returned Maude,
enjoying thoroughly the pretty child's blushes and timid
eagerness for the comfort of the guest, in contrast to the
English Simpson’s mechanical stiffness.

“Miss Jean sayS I am to stay and help you, if there is
anything for me todo. Which dress will you have me
bring you, miss ?”

And Maude, perceiving what a mortification it would
be to the girl should her services be declined, accepted

 

her really dextrous help, and was soon ready to de-
scend to thre breakfast-room. But before she left the |
chamber she went to the window and looked out, as she |
had done the last thing the previous night.

There was the blue water sparkling and dimpling in
answer tothe sunbeams which came slanting up over
the craggy heights which environed the loch. Here and
there a brown sail, filled out by a favoring breeze, |
caught the sunlight and showed streaks of silvery white- |
ness. The fisher fleet were still huddled together at the |
moorings like a flock of drooping sea-fowl. A portion of
the village roofs were visible, and full in view, looking
out from its belt of firs which were almost the only
trees discoverable in the scene, were the gray old towers
she had admired so much the previous day.

A soft fhush crept into the girl's face. She remembered
now the singular words which had been spoken to her |
on the beach. Was it possible, she asked herself, that |
all this was areality, and not a dream? Or had she
really strayed into the realms of veritable romance ?

«Aijlsie,” she said, turning suddenly to her pretty
Highland maid, ‘‘did you see the strange light on the old
buildings last night? What did you think about it ?”

Allsie shook her head solemnly.

“It’s aye beyond the ken of a simple lass like me. But
I hope it means no more trouble to Loch Anim’s Towers
or to poor Sir Kenneth.”

“Sir Kenneth! who is he? I have not heard of him.”

“Jt is the master, miss, the master who should not
stay so long away from his own, though there has been
trouble, oh, very much trouble, to drive him far away.”

“Did you ever see him, Ailsie ?” asked Maude, slowly.

“Oh, no, miss, only in the picture of the little boy.
He was a bonny little lad in the picture over at the
Towers. But I have heard my granny talk about him.
She will not believe the ill stories about Sir Kenneth.
No, that she will never believe, and it makes her very
angry to hear them.”

And the little maiden sighed softly as she went toward
the bedside, and began to open the linen to air.

Maude went down stairs thoughtfully. There was a
fire in the cozy breakfast-room, but the windows were
wide open, and the sweet, salt air came in refreshingly.

The major and his son were on the veranda opening
a bundle of fishing rods.

They came in to speak with her instantly.

«‘We shall give you and Jean three days grace, to make
up for the traveling fatigue. After that we shall be un-
merciful in our raillery, if you are not up to inhale this
invigorating wine of pure morning air, and to gather in
all the beautiful sights the flying mists present to us,”
said the major, cheerily. ‘Tell me, Miss Maude, don’t
you call this air the pure unadulterated elixir of life. Is
it not a delight only to breathe it ?”

‘7t is thoroughly delightful, truly, and—oh, here is
Jean !”

“Well, don’t let Jean abridge your praise of the Gull’s
Nest. Iam very greedy for them; naturally enough—
shouldn't the gull himself be that, Miss Maude ?”

And his hearty laugh showed that Donald had not
failed to repeat the jest of the previous day.

“Ob, Maude,” said Jean, promptly, ‘thank you
heartily for keeping me company in disgrace. The
others have had their breakfast an hour ago. I sup
they'll tell us that we’ve lost the finest sunrise oi the
season. But don’t you credit it. There'll be just as
beautiful lights to-morrow, and the next day, and the
next. They never fail except in the stormy winters, and
of those we know nothing.”

«You see we are all like children, Miss Maude,” laughed
Donald, “in our great glee at being back again on
our enchanted northern shore. We believe that noth-
ing harmful, or ugly, canabide here. We are full of ad-
moiration ourselves, and we want every one else to ad-
mire.”

«And who can help it ?” answered the girl).

“But there is Alassa MacDougal with the smoking
scones, and the salmon. They are going to be magnan-
imous to us, after all. We shall have some breakfast,”
declared Jean, jubilantly. ‘Come, Maude. You have
permission to come in and talk to us, Donald, if you will
be entertaining.”

The young man glanced a moment at his dainty fish-
ing rods, but the pleased smile which dawned in Maude’s
eyes conquered him, and he came with them, and sat
down by the breakfast-table thinking meanwhile that
this young American girl had a most refined and ex-
pressive face, and that there was something remarkably
winning in her manner.

“Well, what shall we discuss? Have you any defi-
nite plans for the day, Jean ?” he said.

“JT shall take Maude down to the village, and let her
hear some of the curious talk there. I hope some of the
fishermen will be angry, and vociferate the Gaelic in
their absurd fashion. hat will amuse you, dear, I

omise you. Failing that, I think we’ll drop in on old
Mrs. MacDougal, Ailsie’s grandmother; her dialect is
delicious, and she has a wild way of telling stories that
I enjoy.”

Wai she talk about last night?” questioned Maude,
with sudden eagerness. ‘Oh, how I should like to go!”

“Last night!” repeated Jean. ‘Oh, I had forgotten all
about it. Yes, of course she will, and tell us many a
blood-thrilling, superstitious story.”

Donald laughed.

“Jf she doesn’t make out anything more than we did
last night, I shall be disgusted. After all our rough

 

climb in the dark through those firs to the Towers, to

find everything quiet as a mouse, and Tam Watchett
and his old woman sitting by one candle half-asleep,
not even knowing that such a light was playing about
the place. it was a tame ending to our evening’s excite-
ment.”

“And they had heard nothing ?—felt no difference ?”
asked Maude.

‘Old Mina tried to get up a little sensation after she
heard about the light. She said she had asked Tam
twice if he didn’t hear a wild kind of singing outside.
But Tam declared it was only the wind rising and sough-
ing through the fir branches.”

“Well, we will get the MacDougal report at first hand,
and not wait for it to be retailed bit by bit in Alassa’s
slow fashion, or in pretty Ailsie’s frightened hints,” said
Jean, decisively, as she rose, and threw aside her
napkin.

“If you are going to walk down to the old woman's
house, there is no time so good as the present. I will
hunt up some of the alpenstocks, and we will take the
path over the rocks,” declared her brother.

The winding path over the brown, slippery rock looked
rather formidable tothe young American girl; but she
soon found herself losing all fear of falling as she fol-
lowed Donald’s vigorous springs, and learned just how
to use the alpenstock. Here and there, in the instersti-
ces on the landward side, she found dainty crimson
sprays of heather, or brown, clinging roots of gorse.

After passing nearly half a mile in this divided, circu-
itous fashion, Donald left the rocks and took his way
over a hill which was of a peculiarly vivid green, but
destitute of tree or shrub. Half-way down on the far-
ther side were three small cottages, none of which really
deserved a more dignified name than hovel.

There were tivo or three benches on the outside be-
tween the three, having the look of a common ren-
dezvous. None of the houses boasted more than one
small window. and all were thatched. A sluggish
smoke, like a dark cloud that was too heavy to rise,
hung low above this thatch. High poles were plantet
before each house.

«‘What are the poles for?” inquired Maude.

“Why, to dry the nets. They hang them there for
a day or two after returning from the fishing. Didn’t
you see a whole colony of such poles at the village ?”
answered Jean.

“T was in hopes the old woman would be out of doors.
Tm afraid that everlasting peat smoke will irritate
your ban Miss Estabrook, if you go inside,” objected

nald.

“Oh, but I wish to go inside. . I must see everything,”
answered Maude, gayly. ‘I shall not mind a little
smoke.”

“It may be more than a little,” he returned, and he
stepped back to them and grasped his alpenstock firm-
ly, as a shaggy dog came leaping out of the cottage,
barking vociferously.

A woman’s head, wrapped in a bright plaid handker-
chief, a promptly at the window.
aes en they heard, announced in high-pitched

mes:

“It be the gentle folk from the Gull’s Nest, granny.
Put on aclean cap and apron, and come out to the
benches ; and I will be telling them to wait there.”

“And it iss ferry kind they are—ferry kind. indeed, to
come over here to see the old woman. And it iss not I
will keep them waiting, Betty,” returned a quavering
voice.

And the next instant Mrs. MacDougal appeared in the
door-way, and waved them welcome with the blue cot-
ton hankerchief she held in her hand.

“And are you ferry well, Miss Jean and Mr. Donald ?
And are Mr. and Mrs. Elsimore ferry well? And itisa
good day that sees you back—a ferry good day what-
ever,” she said, peering out at them with a pair of sharp
eyes from under very bushy, white eyebrows.

«We are all well, Mrs. MacDougal, and pleased to be
here again. The loch is looking its best. And Alassa
tells me things have gone very comfortably with you
all, and that it was not a bad winter,” answered Jean,
“TJ have brought you my friend from across
the great ocean yonder, who has come to visit us here.
This is Miss Maude Estabrook, granny.”

The old woman gave a sharp glance into the fair face
of the stranger and smiled broadly, evidently deeply

| gratified by the attention. -

“An’ she will heff a bonny face for one who is come so
far. Oh, yes, a ferry bonny face. And it wass ferry kind
of you all to come.”

‘Little Ailsie is getting to be a woman, granny,” con-
tinued Jean. ‘And she is as sweet and pretty as ever.”

“She is a good lass, but she must na be spoiled, Miss
Jean. She must give you good service, oh, ferry good
service, to pay for all you haff done for her,” said the ola
woman, seating herself rather stiffly upon the bench,
and beginning to unroll the stout woolen stocking
which she was knitting. ‘And what will you be doing,
Mr. Donald? I hear that the fishing was not as good as
usual, Oh, not near as good, whatever.”

“I think there are salmon and grouse enough left for |
1 don’t think we shall suffer. |

all our needs, granny.
And then, besides, if our rods and guns don’t gain
much, there is your son, Sandy; he is always willing
to sell us fish and game. And when were his net and
bag lacking ?”

The old woman tried not to look immensely flattered,
as she was, and said in a careless tone:

“Oh, yes, Sandy was ferry good at the fishing, and the

. AD’a at Shame it would be, if he was not
ready to give up his fish at the Gull’s Nest. But there
was not likely to be trouble. That was never known—
never whatever. Oh, and then Norna was seeing a great
shoal of mackerel coming toward the harbor. ih, yes.”

“What does Norna say about the lights on Loch Anim’s
Towers, last night, granny ?” asked Jean, abruptly.

Granny MacDougal shook her gray head solemnly.

‘It wass haffing its meaning. Oh, yes, there wass no
doubt of that. But I was thinking it might be that the
laird wass dead—somewhere away in the wild foreign
parts. Oh, yes, that might be it wass.”

“Oh, I hope not,” said Jean, sorrowfully, “that would
finish the story too sadly. Miss Maude, here, is very
much interested in the Towers, granny, and she keeps
asking me for its history, but I wouldn’t tell it. I said,
only you could tell that story in the right way. And I
have brought her to hearit. Isit warm enough for you
out here? Or had we better go into the house ?”

The old Highland woman turned her searching eyes
slowly from one expectant face to the other.

«Bairns,” she said, gravely, ‘it was a gruesome tale
to be told any day, whatever. I canna tell it here.
Come around the hill to the benches there. An’ we shall
all be looking over to Loch Anim’s Towers from that
place. Oh, yes, and Betty shall bring mea plaid. An’I
will tell the story. Oh, ay, I will tell the story.”

She rose, and led the way around the hill. A couple of
rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired children ran up to meet her
trom that side.

“Ohe, and there wass a penter at work there, granny,”
they whispered. ‘An’ he was putting on his picture
the great towers yonder.”

True enough. As they came around the other side
the hill they saw a stout easel set there, and a gentle-
man, with a small box of colors on the ground, and his
palette on his thumb, hard at work, now looking earn-
estly across the loch and now frowning furiously at his
innocent canvas.

He was dressed in a loose shooting-suit, with a wide,
soft, gray hat upon his head, beneath which showed
close-cut hair of brown, but his long, luxuriant beard
was decidedly blonde.

“By Jove!” ejaculated Donald, taking a second look,
and then springing eagerly forward.

‘Ken Kincaird! Can I believe my eyes ?”

The artist turned around suddenly and showed a pair
of fine eyes, brown like the hair, with a tawny wine
color glinting through the iris.

«“Eisimore! Well, to be sure!” responded he, in tones
of equal surprise and pleasure.

“Upon my word, I could not tell how pleased I am,
Kincaird. Why, man, I thought you never left that
dingy old studio in London. What sent you to this out-
of-the-way nook ?”

«A holiday which I have taken in vagabond fashion.
I stay in a place a day or two and then push on in the
direction the idlest chance moves me.”

“You shall not be contented with one day at Loch
Anim, Ican tell you. You shall come and visit me. I
look upon you as a veritable treasure-trove. I am
urgently in need of acomrade. Come and be introduced
to my sister and her friend.”

And Donald led him torward to receive the introduc-
tions.

The new-comer did not seem discomposed or flurried.
He bowed gracefully, though both young ladies were
impressed with a gravity and dignity in his manner
which was not at all in the likeness of the gay, debonair
young gallants they had been lately meeting in London
and Brighton.

If Maude had imagined that he
her face than at that of Jean, she
mind after the first moment.

“You are taking Loch Anim’s Towers into your pic-
ture ?”’ she said, glancing toward the canvas.

“Tf that’s the name of yonder picturesque ruin.
much interested in it.”

“Then you have appeared at precisely the right spot
and time,” affirmed Donald, who was in the highest
spirits. “Itisto hear its story that we have come.
Well, granny, I am sure you must be satisfied with your
audience. You can begin as soon as you please.”

Granny MacDougal folded her large, bony hands to-
gether in her lap, and fixed her eyes upon the distant
building, shooting up its dark towers from the belt of
fir

ave a longer look at
ismissed it from her

Iam

Ss.

“And it iss ferry poor English that I wass speaking
always when my thoughts run away with me. 1 wass
born away up in the Hebrides, and wass living there till
I wass married, a young lass with giddy head, that wass
true whatever. Then I was twenty years in the High-
lands, and the last thirty haff I lived right here upon
the loch. And my Sandy, he was always laughing at
me for mixing up the ways of the speech in all the
places. And itis a ferry bad way, whatever; butI am
an old woman, and you heff to overlook it in me.”

“Sit down, all of you,” commanded Donald, gayly.
“Now then for the story, granny. Of course, Kincaird,
you will delay painting to listen with us, if you can hear
the story of Loch Anim’s Towers.”

 

CHAPTER IV.
GRANNY MACDOUGAL’S STORY.

“It wass a good thing that the sun shall be warm an’
bright this day,” began Granny MacDougal, putting away
her knitting and clasping her wrinkled hands closely
together, as if the task before her demanded the con-
centration of all her energies. ‘For it wass a ferry bad
story to tell in so dark and cold—‘the story of Loch
Anim’s Towers.’”

She paused a moment, with those deep-set, piercing

 

 

 

op resting sorrowfully upon the graceful towers of the
old ruin.

Donald took advantage of the pause to throw the plaid
a child brought over the old woman’s knees, and then
seated himself on the ground at the feet of the young
ladies, where he could watch all the changes of granny’s
withered face.

The artist, however, placed himself farther away, with
his face toward the loch, and in such a position that it
was quite shielded from observation. The only face
under his scrutiny was the pale, refined profile of Maude
Estabrook. If any one had been interested enough to
watch, he would have seen his long, slender fingers
clench themselves in a manner which betrayed a tense
exertion of will power, rather at variance with the care-
less ease of his outward demeanor, and have discovered
that the mobile lips worked, now an4 then, with nervous
movement under the shield of the tawny mustache.

“Oh, ay,” began Mrs. MacDougal, in a slow, impressive
tone, letting her sharp eyes wander a moment from face
toface and rather disappointed that she had only the
soft gray hat brim and the rough shooting-jacket of the
artist under her scrutiny. ‘It wass many years ago, oh,
ferry many, though I canna believe it till I spear at
Sandy’s bairns: for Sandy wass only a stout lad then,
that old Sir Duncan wass the great laird of this loch.
An’ there were fine doings at the tower—ferry fine
doings whatever. An’ they had ferry many gentle folks
always visiting there ; for old Sir Duncan wass free with
his hospitality. Many has been the one to say that his
deadliest. enemy need haff no fear whatever if once he
got across the threshold there. He would haff been
having the best in the place. Oh, yes, indeed. He had
abad temper, and wass often stamping an’ raging at
folks that tried to wrong him ; for he wass ferry proud—
oh, ferry proud, indeed, of his good name, and his hon-
esty, and his justice. And he wass sharp and keen. It
wass no good to try to cheat him, none whatever.
Sandy’s feyther often said of old Sir Duncan, that the
temper wass the only bad thing about him; but that iss
ferry bad. Aweel, aweel! I shall never be done an’ I
wander so.

‘But I canna but tell o’ one thing that wass showing
his way. There wass three bairns at the Towers—young
Duncan, who wass the heir, and Mr. Reginald, who wass
to be in the army, and Miss Moira, who wass ferry beau-
tiful and gentle. Now, there wass a young man as wass
clerk to the lawyers who wass Sir Duncan’s business
men. An’ this clerk fell in love with the beautiful Miss
Moira, and the first thing that wass known at the
Towers—he wass a- daft-headed lad, ferry daft what-
ever, not to be kenning better of his place—he wass on
his knees at Moira’s feet, asking for her to marry him.
Poor Miss Moira had no thought of him, only as wass to
be gentle and kind. Besides, she had her own sweet-
heart—a fine young captain, who wass her brother’s
comrade at the barracks. She tried to get away from
him, that none might ken aught, but this daft lad held
her dress and, began to threaten her. And there wass
Sir Duncan hearing it all, and he rushed out ina fine
rage, and there wass no name too bad, they wass tell-
ing, for the wild master to be calling the poor daft
creature, as he was kicking him down the steps, and off
until he soused him plump into the loch. The foolish
callant got out safely, but they wass saying that every
night whatever of the week after he wass in a boat be-
fore the plaee, shaking his puny fist at the Towers.
And Sir Duncan laughed him to scorn—oh, every time
tbey met, which wass not often, whatever, for the young
man went away to Glasky, and I wass hearing that he
wass now rich and right smart. Of that 1 wass not
telling, for I ken not even his name. But you wass
knowing now about Sir Duncan’s temper, though that
wass nothing—oh, nothing at all to what came after-
wards.”

She stopped a moment for breath and to smooth out
the tartan folds in her lap.

The artist was digging fiercely into the sward with
the end of his brush.

Maude had scarcely moved her eyes from the withered
face, over -which the swift changes of varying moods
played with strange effect.

«Oh !” said she, sorrowfully; ‘and was it this man’s re-
venge which ruined the Towers ?”

Now, indeed, Kincaird turned, and betrayed the first
outward manifestation of his keen interest.

Maude caught one swift, lightning look from those
wine-brown eyes, which seemed to say: ‘‘Ah! you alone
are not stupid, nor obtuse !”

The next instant, however, he dropped the eyelids,
and went back to his idleemployment of plowing up the
turf with his brush end.

«He, the poor, silly clerk!—oh, nothing whatever had
he to do with it; for it wass not for three years after,
and he wass far away—far away in Glasky. An’ what-
ever could he heff done to the Towers from there ?” an-
swered granny, promptly.

“Glasgow is farther away to granny thas America is
to you, Miss Estabrook,” said Donald, in an under tone.
«But I never heard any one advance such anidea. You
will hear by the story it was their own undoing—
all of it.”

Kincaird uttered a low exclamation, and flung the
brush out of his hand.

Then he laughed lightly, and said, apologetically :

“T nearly broke my brush-handle. I didn’t expect to
find any obstacle in this soft earth.”

“Na, na!” said Granny MacDougal; ‘it wasna the poor
clerk; it wass Duncan Rothesay, the heir, who wass the
ruin o’ Loch Anim’s Towers. An’ he, the braw, hand-
some, gentle-mannered lad, as did every heart good who
wass knowing him. Woe is me! Who kens how evil
comes? Maybe the arch-fiend himself watched an’ saw,
an’ couldna let this noble prey escape him. Young Dun-
can wass a handsome youth—oh, ferry fine, and gay,
and braw. And it wass the pride and joy of old Sir Dun-
can’s heart that he wass, though he wass ferry fond of
Miss Moira too. And he wass so proud that he couldna
be contented to let his heir be educated in the High-
lands, nor yet at Glasky, nor even yet at Edinburgh—oh,
no—but he wass to be sent away to the South, an’ be in
the English schools. Woeis me! we ha’ all of us our
weaknesses, an’ Sir Duncan thought there wass nothing
should be too fine for his heir, an’ all his thoughts wass
about the great doings should be when young Duncan
came to rule his own. Ob, an’ it wass a ferry great pity
that he wass ever going to the South. He wass so inno-
cent and kind of heart he wass to be the easier prey.
Weel-a-weel! why dol wait? Young Duncan, the heir,
came back to Loch Anim’s Towers just three year from
the great day when his coming of age wass celebrated
with-such fine doings. And he showed to his father a
terrible pitfall into which he wass fallen fast. The
bold, brave lad wouldna be mean, and hide, and cheat—
he told the truth—he took the blame stoutly. But to the
last he declared it wass a trap laid for him, whosoever it
might be had done it.”

“Oh, what had he done ?” asked Maude’s low, sweet
voice.

‘He was losing all his father’s property in gaming
debts, which must be paid. It was the bad English
drinks that turned his head, so he was having no sense
to see what wass before him. An’ old Sir Duncan wass
in ferry bad temper when it wass told. Things had
gone wrong with his property in many strange ways be-
fore. Oh, it wass not all the money lost, though it wass
a great deal; but it was the stain, an’ the wrong, an’ the
dishonor, that turned all the blood in old Duncan’s heart
to angry fire.

‘They wass telling that his eyes were like those of a
demon, an’ that his face wass livid like a corpse, when
he turned upon hapless young Duncan, and said:

«« «And is it in my own nest that I have reared a viper
to sting me? Goout, and never let me see your face
again—no, never more! An’ it would be the only happy
day left for me if I could hear that your brother was the
heir to Loch Anim’s Towers.’”

“Oh, poor young Duncan!” ejaculated Maud, with a
sob, catching at the sweet, low voice. ‘‘What did he do,
what did he say ?”

“They wass telling me that his face grew whiter than
the snow on the mountain top—that he caught at his
father’s hand, and cried :

*««Oh, my father, that is too hard!’

«And Sir Duncan shook him off, and cried:

“T have gn all my faith, and pride, and joy into your
hands, and you haff stabbed me to the heart, and bowed
my gray head ferry lowin black dishonor. Go, I tell
mots i can hear nothing so good of you as that you are

ead.

“The poor Lady Rothesay rushed forward with a
scream, and clung to him, and cried:

*«««Oh, he is our own bairn—our first-born!
curse him you curse me.
ness but from his own ?’

«But the master tore away her hands, and wass say-
ing slow, in that horrible voice :

*« «Choose you between him and me. One of our faces
you shall neffer look upon agaln—no neffer again.’

*‘An’ the poor leddy stared from one face to another,
and fell in a dead faint between them.

An’ young Duncan—oh, it was proud and. noble he
was still, surely. He stooped down, and kissed his
mother’s cold face, slowly and solemnly, they wass say-
ing. Then he turned to his father, and said :

*« “You shall haff your wish. Sir Duncan Rothesay—the
only wish left in my power to grant you.’

“He walked down out of the house, and two hours
afterward they found him in the loch, with his face no
paler than before—and it was still so bonny and hand-
some—but it wass cold and dead.”

Granny paused a moment and rocked her spare form
to and fro, while she glanced at the grave, awed faces of
her listeners.

Maude’s eyes were full of horror, and fastened, as if
ley some irresistible fascination, upon the scene of this
tragic recital.

The broad back of the artist was toward the group, so
ae of them could judge how much the story moved

m.

“Aweel—aweel!” sighed Granny MacDougal, ‘it wass
ourselves that often rails against the hard decrees of
Providence ; but there wass nothing ever so hard as the
cruel willof an angry and obstinate man—there wass
nothing whatever like it.”

“But Sir Duncan was stricken with remorse, surely !”
said Maude, wistfully.

“He wass neffer saying anything. No, no one wass
hearing him. He wouldna look upon the comely form
that wass so cold now. He would have nothing to say
about the funeral, nothing whatever, nor would he let
poor Moira go to see her dead brother. My lady hada
brain fever, and died two months afterward.

«Sir Donald put all the lands under the mortgage and
scrimped from all ways to pay the horrible debt that
wass owing; for he said no man should say he wass
cheated out of anything by one of his name and kin.

‘He wass always making great plans to get money
swiftly ; but, alack, that wass not to be for him, poor
soul! And then he got to be such a miser that it wass
no one would stay with him, an’ all the gillies and ser-

If you
Where should he find forgive-

 

vants went away. He had brought Mr. Reginald back
from the barrack, and he wass now the heir. But it
wass the curse that wass on them.

“Mr. Reginald wass drooned in this very loch, and be-
fore his old father’s eyes. It wass when he wass out in
the boat alone, and asquall came and capsized it, a
squall that came from acloud no bigger than you
hand’s breadth against the sky! and the boom of the sail,
it must have struck the poor young man’s head, for he
wass a ferry fine swimmer, and he never rose at all.
His an wife it was that said to old Sir Duncan, in the
wildness of her sorrow:

«Oh, and it wass to punish your hard heart that my
husband wass taken from you; because your cruel will
sent poor Duncan into a watery grave has the loch risen
up to swallow him you made the heir.’

“And though she had two little children, she never
held up her head again, but died mumbling still about
the curse upon them all.

“And that wass when Norna first came to Eagle’s
Cliff—oh, from whence, it wass many as inquired, but
none ever knew. And her prophecies were all about the
Towers only that she told fortunes and made many
wonderful drinks of herbs. And she met Sir Duncan
one day, and wass talking with him—oh, a ferry long
time—and Sandy Denbigh heard her last words to him,
and they wass these :

“Unhappy old man, spend the rest of your time re-

nting your unforgiving nature. Ask the pardon of
Heaven that you denied your own child. Repent, Sir
Duncan, repent!’

“And the next day the old father was found—where,
think you, but on young Duncan’s grave, muttering,
wiidly, ‘Forgive me, Duncan, my boy forgive me!’ And
that was all he would ever say afterward.”

“Oh, what a heart-rending story!” broke in Maude.
“What atragic tale for this beautiful scene! Surely,
granny, there is no more trouble to tell.”

Granny shook her head drearily.

“There wass Moira,” she said, ‘‘and the two children
left, after Sir Duncan wass found stone-dead one win-
ter’s morning on his very grave. Moira, who was such a
soft, delicate creature, grew fierce and wild in her ways,
and would see but few people. She took her solemn
farewell of her young captain-lover, and would not listen
to his wish to marry her still. The boy, he was Sir
Reginald Rothesay, though it wass a barren and landless
estate, wass put away at school, and a guardian ap-
pointed by the proper authorities. It wass many years
since he had been seen here. They say he be idling and
droning down in the South somewhere I canna say, only
I will na’ believe that the old spirit is deadin him. And
whatever fault there was in the Rothesays, this was not
one, to be careless, and have no love for Loch Anim’s
Towers.” ;

‘But Meira, poor Moira. where is she?” asked Maude
Estabrook. softly, wiping away the moisture that still
clung to her eyelashes.

The old woman sighed.

‘It was all of one piece, my bonny young leddy, an’ it
wass ferry sorry I should be to bring the tears to such
soft eyes. Poor Moira struggled hard, there wass no
doubt of that. She was often fishing alone ’way out on
sea, for she was wise in the ways of the boat and its
sails. But one day she wass out and met Norna, and
Norna said to her to beware of the sea, that it had not
yet done with the Rothesays. There wass many of the
village folk as heard the talk. And Moira flung back her
head as proud as ever old Sir Duncan had been.

«Tet the curse work its will,’ she said; ‘if it must
swallow all my father’s children, so let it be! Moira
Rothesay will no’ heed or care. But there is another
generation, and the new laird shall bring back pros-
perity and honor to Loch Anim’s Towers. Out of the
South and the West shall come a union that shall undo
all the sorrow and shame, that shall bring back peace
and honor to the name of Rothesay and to Loch Anim’s
Towers. You are a wise soothsayer. You have told me
many bitter prophecies that have come true. Now, you

| shall hear this that I have made, and you shall live to

see it come true, whatever may betide Moira Rothesay.’

“And they was saying that her eyes burned like fire
as she spoke, and that she walked off with her head held
high and proud, as had been the way with her family
for many generations. And Norna stood and looked
after her, with both arms outstretched, and kept crying:

«Oh, Moira Rothesay, go not out to tempt the sea!’”

“But she went,” shudderingly whispered Maude ; ‘‘oh,
I know she went!”

“Tender heart!” said a low, deep voice beside her; ‘‘do
not let this past-and-gone story grieve you so.”

Was it the artist who had spoken? No one seemed to
heed the interruption.

“Aye,” answered granny, ‘‘she went. She took the
little child, the fair-haired Marion with her many times
after that, and came back, smiling scornfully. But one
day the boat was found, floating keel upward, and
Moira’s head-gear and tartan, and the child’s hat were
picked up many miles away, washed ashore on a little
island. nd from that day to this no word more has
come back to Loch Anim, But it was this which she
had told to Moira Rothesay, which was making us to
know how far Norna could read into the unseen things
which wait for mortal folk. She has lived here ever
since. Aye, bairns, ye was not ever to be laughing at
Norna’s prophecies. Oh, be ferry sure of that whatever.
And now it was that I have told you the story of Loch
Anim’s Towers.”

She spoke this last with no little dignity. and slowly
rose to her feet, and began to fold up the tartan which
had been wrapped across her knees.

She had a singularly fascinating weirdness and im-
pressiveness of manner, for all her quietness. Perhaps
the varying style of speech helped her.. For now she
spoke almost pure English with eyes cast down, or fixed
far away, as if in the intentness of following some les-
son of memory. But when sorrow or anger excited,
she broke instinctively into broad Scotch or the northern
island dialect, and the color flushed into her withered
brown cheek, and a pale glitter brightened her faded
eyes so that she held her listeners spell-bound and sym-
pathetic with every word.

“Tt is very good of you, granny,” said Jean, slowly.
“No one can tellitas youdo. Every time I hear it re-
peated I wonder at it more and more. Ailsie will bring

ou down some little presents we brought for you from

ndon, and among them is a picture that seems to me
to be Moira. Itis a dreadful thing—a dead girl floating
on the water. But it fascinated me every time I looked
at it; it seemed to meso much like Moira. When you
see it will you tell me if itis at all like her? I hope it
is Eo for then I think I shall be able to put it out of my
mind.”

‘‘Miss Estabrook, do not look so piteously over at the
Towers yonder,” said Donald. ‘I am afraid it was not a
kind thing to bring you to hear thisstory. You will not
be able to forget it.”

Kincaird turned to Maude suddenly. There was a
tender gleam in his eyes, a gentle smile was on his lips.

“And you must not forget that the real tragedy is
over, and past, long ago. What was suffered on the
earth is of little account up yonder. Can we not trust
that all our dreams and hard enigmas of life are sweetly
solved there ?”

And he lifted his eyes to the clouds.

“Besides,” he added, ‘‘did not our eloquent historian
hint that there were better times prophesied ? A union
from the South and the West, whatever that may be, is
to bring back honor, and prosperity, and happiness.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Maude, half unconscious that she
spoke aloud, “how I wish I knew Kenneth Rothesay !
How I wish I could help him! If he comes back here
triumphant, and restores the old glory, let me know,
sb ot you. Promise me that you will, if I am alive,

ean.

“‘{ am afraid that isa vain hope,” said Donald. ‘Those
who should know give the lad little credit. Butitis well
enough to indulge the hope. just now, after all this dole-
ful tragedy. Now I propose a race down the hill, and a
row out on the loch after it.”

(TO BE CONTINUED. ]

MAN'S FIRST LOVE.

BY ROSALIE E. GRAVES,

 

 

“Woman's First Love—There is not as sacred a gift in the
sight of God.”

I throw down my paper, not in scorn, for my own sen-
timents echo those before me, But the thought has
come to me that, as there are always ‘“‘two sides toa
question,” there may also be to this one; and I wonder
it it is really true that ‘there is not as sacred a gift in
the sight of God” as ‘‘a woman's first love.”

How is it with a man’s first love? Oris that such an
unstable, ‘‘gotten-up” affair that its second, third, and
numerous ‘‘spasms” are each as desirable and valuable
as its first, simply because none are of much worth? I
think not; and though I admit that to woman a mighty
power of loving is given, Ido not concede that the power
is exclusively hers.

“After God’s image was man created,” and in his heart
there are pure and enduring emotions, which will
beautify his after-life if he but keep them untarnished
through the epoch in which he is most apt to fritter
them away.

“A woman’s first love.” Yes, it is a “sacred gift,” and
is it strange that she should expect its full equivalent—
viz., just as ‘“‘sacred” a gift--in return? Does she want
the ashes of manhood laid at her feet in recompense for
the undivided affection she bestows? Are wasted, mis-
spent years a fitting substitute to offer her? And is it,
think you, a wonder that so many unions of the present
day prove so inharmonious, if not really unhappy ?

How many a wife can trace her first heart-sadness to
the finding in her husband’s heart a corner which he did
not—because, it may be, he dared not—show her.

Would it add to or take from her confidence, to know
that the voice so fond and tender had whispered many a
“love-tale” in the days of long ago ?—that his kisses and
caresses were only the paltry remnant of his past reck-
lessness? Sooner or later, she will find this out. It
may be by the accidental discovery of some little hoard-
ed keepsake—his treasured reminder of a foolish but
precious past—a bunch of faded violets, a scrap of pas-
sionate verse, a stray curl, a picture—all laid carefully
away. These, once discovered, will prove to the sensi-
tive finder that to her had been given only the dregs of
the glass.

You may call all this past of yours ‘‘a foolish dream.”
Yet, will you pardon her ‘foolish dreams,” and waft into

oblivion her little errors and weaknesses as readily as
you expect—nay, demand—she shall yours ?

Man seldom gives to the woman he weds the jst out-
pourings of his heart; therefore, why cast away aS an
unworthy gift that which is far more priceless, even if it
is imperfect, than you could possibly render in return ?

Oh, you had better guard the citadel where the heart’s
pure impulses lie slumbering, lest they awaken and be-
come robbed of their value ere you need them to win for

 

 

vou that “gift” which is so “‘sacred in the sight of God.”

Woman has ceased to ask, because she has failed to find,
a full remuneration for the single, immutable love she
is ever giving. But think you she does not wish for it
because she does not demand it ?—that her life does not
hunger for it ?—and that because she is contented with-
out it, she would not be supremely happy with it ?

In ‘‘Heaven’s sight” a man’s first love, with its strong
emotional powers, and limitless possibilities, is also a
“sacred gift.”

Therefore, beware lest you fritter it away in folly and
foolishness. Piece by piece worn off through the ‘‘sen-
sational flirtations” of the present, may spoil the price-
lessness of the perfect whole, and, ere you realize it, you
may find yourself a heartless, cynical skeptic, to whom
“constancy” is a meaningless word.

————_ > o+—______
(THIS SEORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

DELLE}

WELFLEET MYSTERY

 

By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘ Brownie’s Triwmph,” ‘‘The Forsaken
Bride,” “Lily of Mordaunt,” ete.

 

[‘*The Welfleet Mystery” was commenced in No. 15. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER IX.
AMONG THE DEAD.

As John Knight drew near the cathedral. on his way
home from the river, he encountered a peculiar-looking
person, bearing a basket and an unlighted lantern in one
hand, a Aammer, chisel, and trowel in the other.

He was well known as ‘‘the sexton” in Welfleet. He
was also a Stone-mason, and being considered a good
workman—when sober, which was the excegtion rather
than the rule in his case—all repairsin and about the
cathedral had been given into his hands; for which, he
was often heard boasttfully to affirm, he received ‘five
pund” a year.

All strangers visiting the ancient sanctuary at Wel-
fleet, and wishing to explore the crypt, were imme-
diately referred to “Old Clipper,” who could tell them
more in an hour about the ghostly place than they could
learn in a week from any other source.

John Knight stopped upon overtaking the man, and
accosted him in a hearty, cheerful tone.

*Good-evening, Mr. Clipper,” he said ; ‘upon what un-
canny errand are you bound to-night ?”

The mason stopped also, and looked up stupidly at his
questioner, who saw that he was partially under the in-
fluence of strong beer, the fumes of which were plainly
perceptible in his breath.

“Evenin’, sir,” was his somewhat thick response to
John Knight's salutation ; ‘and ‘uncanny’ ye may well
call the job that brings me out the night; furI’m on
my way to raise the dead,” he concluded, with a grim
chuckle.

“To raise the dead!” repeated John Knight, while an
involuntary shiver ran over him from head to foot.

«Just what I said, sir,” replied the man, in asepulchral
tone. “The Montferris tomb—one of the oldest down
yonder in the crypt—have tumbled in. It have been
crumblin’ this many a year, but I’ve had my orders not
to meddle, though times and times I’ve begged to patch
it up, knowin’ it would come to this sometime if I
didn’t ; and now the crash have come, and it have tum-
bled in on all the lords and ladies in their coffins, and,
savin’ yer presence, the mischief’s to pay; so I’m goin’
to pick up their bones and box ’em in again.”

“Do you mean that you have to repair this tomb
to-night >?” John Knight demanded, in a tone of sup-
pressed eagerness, though the man’s weird words filled
him with horror.

“Ye’ve hit it exactly, sir; ’m goin’ down yonder to
put things to rights, and shut up the Montferris ghosts
as quick as ever I can.” 4

“Ghosts! surely you don’t believe in ghosts, my good
Clipper, after all your experience in the old crypt,” said
the organist, with a skeptical laugh.

«Don’t I?” responded the old man, with an expressive
shrug of his massive shoulders ; mabbelI don’t, and then
mabe I do have occasion to lean that way just a leetle,”
this last. in a hoarse whisper, which made the other’s
flesh creep in spite of his unbelief.

«When a inan’s twenty feet underground,” the sexton
pursued, ‘‘and knows he’s the only livin’ bein’ there, and
hears howls, and rappin’s, and tappin’s, and gurglin’s,
and hissin’s, he’s kinder inclined to think that some-
thin’s there besides dry bones and dust.”

John Knight shook himself impatiently, angry that
the words of a half-drunken sot should affect him'so
unpleasantly.

“Why don’t you take the daylight then for your disa-
Ses eae task ?” he asked, “It is said ghosts don’t walk
by

‘Daylight or moonlight, or no light at all, it’s all the
same down there in the bowels of the earth,” the mam
retorted, with an air of triumph.

“True; I did not think of that,” was the response,
“then why not take company with you ? it would not be
quite so dismal, perhaps.”

Old Clipper chuckled and shook with a derisive laugh
at the, to him, absurd question.

“Lor, sir! do ye imagine it’s such a pleasant trip to
make in the dead o’ night? If ye do, I’m sure I'll give
ye my perlightest invitation to give me yer company
’most any time.”

John Knight gave a quick, searching glance around.
There was not a soul in sight.

Then he glanced up at the moon, asif fearful that it
would betray him, thought a moment, and then said:

“Thank you, Mr. Clipper. As long as I have lived in
Welfieet, I have never visited the crypt of the cathedral,
though I confess Ihave often felt a curiosity to do so;
and as you have given me an invitation, I think I wilt
go with you to-night. Perhaps my presence—for I am
very skeptical on the ghostly subject—may serve to ex-
orcise all evil spirits, and you can pursue your work un-
molested.”

“Thank ye, sir. I’d be glad o’ yer company; but [ve
along job afore me, and if ye once got down there, ye
could never find yer way out alone, with all the crooks
and turns of the place, and I’m afeered ye’d get weary
atore my work is done,” Clipper observed, as if doubtful
about the wisdom of the proposition.

“Timagine not. At all events, I will go with you and
stay until you are ready to return to earth again—that is,
if you do not object. I am curious about the erypt—very
curious,” John Knight repeated, with emphasis.

‘Well, now, that be very clever of you, Mr. Knight.
T’'m mighty glad to have ye go along, I ken tell yer; and
I’ve a bite and a sup in the basket here, if ye should get
faint and cold afore I get through.”

He held it out as he spoke, and John Knight smiled
at the thought of touching anything from that grimy,
crate basket, no matter how faint or cold he might

e.
“Come on, sir; this way,” old Clipper continued; and,
turning, led his would-be companion toward a small
door at the base of a tower.

Arriving there, they went down two or three steps,
when the sexton set down his basket and lantern, and
drawing a couple of keys, joined together by a ring,
from his pocket, he inserted one—a large brass key,
Jobn Knight’s keen eyes observed—in the lock, turned
it, opened the door, and motioned his companion to fol-
low him,

He went down three or four more steps, then deposit-
ing all his implements upon the solid masonry under his
feet, he proceeded to light his lantern.

This done, a long, dark passage of perhaps six feet
in width was revealed, while from it, on either side,
neem and narrower passages stretched away into the
gloom.

The man gave his lantern to his companion to hold,
while he went to relock the door, putting the keys saiely
in his pocket again; then the two proceeded down the
passage toward the Montferris tomb.

The air was heavy and damp, and a moldy smell per-
vaded the place, while it was gloomy beyond descrip-
tion; but no thought of fear or discomfort disturbed
John Knight, whose bright, restless eyes went roving
in every direction, while his cool, clear brain enabled
him to fix every passage, crook, and turn in his
memory.

From the main passage, which they had first entered,
and which they traversed for some distance, Mr. Clipper
turned to the left, pointing, as he did so, to some stone
steps just before them.

«Them leads up into the chancel,” he remarked, briefly,
while his companion took especial notice of the tact, yet
without appearing to do so,

Keeping straight on, they at length came to the end
of the passage they were traversing, where a great
cavity in the wall proclaimed that the Montferris tomb,
and the scene of ‘‘Old Clipper’s” midnight labors, was
reached.

The man deposited his tools beside what appeared to
he a tub of cement, which had previously been conveyed
thither, and opening his basket, he drew forth a goodly
sized black bottle, which he did his companion the
honor of offering to him, without so much as drawing
the cork.

‘Have a snifter ?” he asked, regarding the bottle with
an affectionate glance. ‘It’s as good whisky as can be
bought in Welfleet. It'll keep off the chills and screw
yer courage up.”

“Thanks, no. I never take anything stronger than

 

wine or beer,” John Knight remarked; whereupon the

 

 

 

 

 

a

 

 
 

 

 

 

x

 

thirsty sexton uncorked the bottle, raised it to his own
lips, and took a long pull to ‘‘screw up his courage,” and
then another, doubtless to ‘‘keep off the chills.”

Then he fell to work upon the Montferris tomb, the
front of which had crumbled and partially fallen in.

The debris had to be removed, and a small metallic
casket which had become dislodged from its niche re-
stored to its place—this was probably what ‘Old Clip-
per” had meant when he told John Knight he was going
to ‘raise the dead’”—and then he proceeded to restore the
stones to their proper places and cement them firmly
together.

This work was interspersed with much interesting in-
formation regarding the place, as well as with frequent
pulls at the black bottle, and two hours elapsed before
the task was completed.

“There, sir, itis done at last,” the sexton remarked,
with a long-drawn breath of relief, as, having filled the
last crevice with cement, he smoothed it nicely off with
his trowel, ‘‘and I’ m not sorry, 1 can tell ye. I don’t
mind patching up the arches and cornice, a rat hole,
even, but when it comes to the tumblin’ in of these ’ere
old tombs, and the upsettin’ o’ coffins, and ye can’t tell
but what the next minute some grinnin’ old skull may
be poppin’ out at ye, it rather oe a feller’s nerves.
Ugh!” and Mr. Clipper’s spirits had to be again fortified
by a ‘‘long pull and a strong pull” from the black bottle.

«J did not imagine that you could be superstitious,”
John Knight remarked, with a covert sneer. ‘I sup-
posed that familiarity with such scenes as these would
“breed contempt’ for them, instead of fear.”

‘“‘Mabbe ye never heard a ghost howl,” retorted the
man, with a scowl, for the liquor he had taken was over-
powering bim and he was irritated by his companion’s
jast remark.

‘No, nor do I ever expect to,” he replied, with a laugh,
adding, as he slipped a good-sized piece of silver into the
sexton’s hand :

“But come, if your work is done, suppose you show me
about this strange place a little more.”

Clipper’s good nature was instantly restored by the
touch of the money, and gathering up his tools they re-
traced their way to the main passage.

Reaching the steps which he had told the choir-mas-
ter led up into the chancel, he left everything there, ex-
cepting the lantern, and formore than an hour longer
those two men explored those dismal aisles of the dead.
As they were entering a narrow, moldy-smelling place,
more eerie, if possible; than all the others, Mr. Clipper
remarked :

trap.

oA trap! What kind of a trap ?” questioned the other.
*‘A deep hole that looks like a well, and may have been

used for one before the convent out yonder fell to ruin,

though nobody nowadays seems to know anything about

it.”

“Ah! let us go and take a look into it,” said John
Knight, with renewed interest.

So down the narrow passage they went, their lantern
burning dim and red; their footsteps making strange
noises, for there was a peculiar echo about the place.

They came at last to the end, where, right at their
very feet, there yawned a deep, black chasm.

The choir-master took the lantern from his companion
without a word, and leaning forward peered into those
dlack depths.

He stood there, silent and motionless, for more than a
minute, and when he turned away and handed the lan-
tern back his face was as white as the linen collar about
his neck.

“I declare, ye look’s if ye’d seen a ghost yerself! Ye’re
as white as a sheet!” ejaculated the sexton, in a Star-
tled voice.

“Pshaw! it is only the gloom and the redness of the
light that makes me look so,” was the impatient reply.

Nevertheless, when the other’s back was turned, John
Knight took out his handkerchief, lifted his hat, and
wiped a cold perspiration from his forehead, his hand
trembling as he did so.

When they atlength emerged from this passage into
the main avenue, the choir-master lingered for a mo-
ment and turned back.

Was there some strange fascination about the place
which made him loth to leave it ?

Perhaps ; but if so, it soon passed, and he overtook
his guide just as he reached the chancel stairs.

«There is a little crack up back of the altar that must be
filled up, and then we will get out o’ this—that is if ye
have seen enough of the place,” Mr. Clipper remarked,
with an inquiring look at the choir-master.

“Yes, I’ve seen enough for to-night,” he responded,
with a repressed shiver.

The sexton had brought a trowelful of cement from the
Montferris tomb, and securing this, he mounted the
chancel steps, unlocked a door at the head of them, and
entered the cathedral.

John Knight followed him slowly, and while he went
directly behind the altar to attend to his work there, the
choir-master passed stealthily around the railing until
he was out of his sight, when he cautiously removed a
candle from its place on the altar, then took his knife
from his pocket, opened it, and neatly cut off a portion
of the lower end of the candle, replacing it immediately
in its socket, while he hastily pocketed th the knife,
and the wax he had stolen.

The mason’s work was soon finished, and he rejoined
his companion whom he found sitting quietly on the altar
Stairs.

With a sigh of relief he dropped down beside him,
exclaiming :

“I declare, I got chilled through down in yonder crypt.
it’s a heap more comfortable up in here.”

He supplemented his remark with another draught
from the ever-present bottle; and then the two men
fell to talking about the grand old edifice they were
in—how long it had been built, the different styles of
architecture employed in its construction, together with
some matters of history connected with it, until the sex-
ton, Overcome with weariness, and the fumes of the
liquor he had imbibed, began to droop, and, leaning
against the wall, it was not many minutes before his
Senses were locked fast in a drunken sleep, and he was
unconscious alike of time, place, or companionship.

Assured that the sexton would not awake until he
should be forcibly aroused, John Knight quietly secured
his lantern, and, with the steadiness and agility of a
cat, crept out of the place and back again into the crypt.

The clock on the great tower of the cathedral was
striking two, when he at length returned, and shaking
the still sleeping Clipper with no gentle hand, he finally
succeeded in arousing and convincing him that it was
time that they returned to their homes.

«Bless yer soul, sir!” he cried, looking around with a
stupid stare, ‘I b’lieve I lost myself! but I’ve hada hard
day’s work on’t, and it tells on me at my time o’ life.
Yes, yes, it’s high time to go home,” and shaking him-
Self like a huge dog after a nap, he stumbled back into
the crypt, gathered up his tools, and led the way from
the place.

John Knight attended him to his home—a wretched,
tumble down affair, unworthy the name of house—for he
thought it unsafe to allow him to go alone in his present
condition.

“Thank ye, sir,” Clipper said, as the choir-master de-
posited the lantern he had carried for him on the rude
Step before the door. <‘‘Hope ye’ve enjoyed it, sir.”

«Yes, [have been much interested in the crypt; so
much so that Imay wish to go again sometime.”

“All right, sir—let ‘Old Clipper’ know when ye’re
ready, and he’ll be on hand.”

‘Thank you, and now good-night. Bless me! what’s
this ?” the organist exclaimed, as he stepped back and
found something smoking beneath his feet.

‘Nothin’ but lime, sir—it aint very good for yer shoes,
though.”

“Lime? Such as I have sometimes heard called quick-
Pe ?” he asks, while he stamps the white dust from

is feet.

«Yes—quick enough to eat your shoes if ye don’t brush
it all off—quick enough to eat yer bones it ye stirred it
up a bit.”

“Ah!” said John Knight, glancing back at the heap,
which looked so white and harmless in the moonlight.
Then abruptly bidding the man good-night, he hastened
away to his own home.

The next morning he aroused his nephew at an early
hour, saying that he found he should be obliged to go up
to London by the morning train—unexpected business
of importance made it imperative, but he would return
befere evening, for he would not like to miss their antici-
pated dinner with the Minor Canon, under any considera-
tion.

CHAPTER X.
THE DAWN AND THE WAKING,

John Knight returned from London about five o'clock,
and at six he and Herbert presented themselves in the
drawing-room of good Mr. Edmonds and his mother,
and were received by them in the most hospitable and
friendly manner.

Guy was also present, but remained in the back-
ground until the other greetings were over, when he
came forward and saluted both uncle and nephew with
frank cordiality.

Then, as the Minor Canon engaged the choir-master
in conversation, Guy drew Herbert into the cozy library
aeross the hall, and immediately introduced the sub-
sage which for so long a time had lain so heavily on his
1eart.

‘7 could not rest, you see,” he said, his dark cheek
flushing, though he spoke with the utmost frankness,
“until our difficulty. which has been such a source of
discomfort for so long, was settled; so I have brought
you here to tell you at once how much I regret not only
that I should have said anything to wound you, but also
the harsh language and manner of which I was after-
ward guilty.”

“Tsay, Walton,” Bertie returned, with some embar-
rassment, yet no less frankly, ‘youre a trump; but I
meant to have made the first advances myself, tor 1 was
more to blame for what occurred than you. In the first
place I need not have taken any notice of your remarks,
tor, aS you said, you had a perfect right to your own
opinion, but I was nettled by them, and stirred you up
to a quarrel. However, I am heartily ashamed and
sorry for it; so we'll be friends, and think no more about
it, if youre agreeable, and there’s my hand upon it.”

The two young men warmly clasped hands, and as
eye met eye there was nothing to indicate any reserva-
tion on either side.

Gradually their conversation drifted to other things,
until recalled, by the sound of voices across the hall, to
the tact that there were other people in the house, they
returned to the drawing-room.

John Knight shot one quick, keen glance at the young
men as they entered.

He saw at once that the best of feeling existed between
them, though there was a look of unusual gravity, al-
most of pain, upon Guy’s face.

 

“Down yonder, at the end o’ this, there’s a kind 0 |

 

°

Mr. Edmonds advanced, and took each by the hand.

‘Well, my young friends, I perceive that it is all right
at last,” he said, his face beaming with a genial smile:
“and I trust that all evil spirits have been so completely
exorcised that they will never trouble you again.”

“I hope so, sir,” young Knight hastened to say; ‘‘but
I feel deeply conscious—more so since coming here this
evening than before—that I have been greatly to blame;
and I want to tell you that I sincerely regret it.”

‘Well, well; this is more than I expected from you,
my young friend,” returned the Minor Canon, feelingly;
‘‘and my esteem for you is increased tenfold by this ac-
knowledgment. Doubtless you also rejoice at this hap-
py conclusion of a disagreeable affair,” he concluded,
turning toward John Khight, who, after that one glance,
had turned his face to the window.

He was obliged to face them again, however, at this,

“TI always knew that Bert had a generous soul, though
he may be a trifle hasty at times—bless the boy!” he re-
sponded, while he advanced, and clapped his nephew
fondly on the shoulder; but he did not pestow so much
as a glance upon Guy.

‘He is so bound up in that boy that he has neither
eyes nor ears for any one else,” said the Minor Canon to
himself, and feeling somewhat piqued to have his pro-
tege so ignored.

‘Bless them both, I say!” he remarked, heartily.

“Ah! yes,” rejoined the choir-master, as if it had but
just occurred to him that any one save his nephew was
worthy of a blessing, While he turned to Guy and bent
that intense look upon him; ‘‘Mr. Walton, I heartily con-
gratulate you upon your happy faculty of overcoming
your passionale temper in this instance, and of adapting
yourself so easily to circumstances.”

There was something in this speech that made Guy
flush hotly—something that stirred the evil in him
again, and made him for the instant want to strike the
man to the floor; while Mr. Edmonds was also conscious
of feeling very uncomfortable over it.

But John Knight himself was apparently so innocent
of having said anything offensive, that they were forced
to conceal their displeasure as best they could.

An awkward pause was interrupted by the announce-
ment that dinner was served, and all repaired at once
to the dining-room.

The meal passed off in the pleasantest manner, and
they lingered long over it, chatting in a most social and
friendly way. Afterward they adjourned to the draw-
ing-room. where another hour was spent in singing, and
in listening to some of John Knight’s choicest selections
for the piano.

At length, however, he arose, saying he had a volun-
tary to copy for Christmas Day, and must be excused.

“Will you come with me, Bert, or shall I leave you for
awhile longer ®” he asked his nephew.

“If yowre going to copy music, I should have a lonel
time of it;” the young man laughingly replied, “so if
you don’t mind going by yourself I will stay a little later.
Walton has been telling me about some Indian curiosi-
ties which he has promised to show to me.”

“Very well, but don’t be too late or I shall be getting
jealous of your ‘new friend’,” his uncle returned in a
bantering tone, but with an emphasis upon the last two
words which somehow jarred upon Guy.

“And don’t make any more engagements,” he added,
‘for remember, my dearest boy, that you return to
London in a few days, and I shall want you to myself
as much as possible meantime.”

He shook hands all around and went out, the Minor
Canon following him to the door.

In the hall he stopped a moment to wind a long black
scarf, made of strong, closely knitted silk, around his
neck, explaining as he did so, that his throat had been a
little tender of late, and he felt the need of protecting
it.

As he opened the door to go out, a heavy gust of wind
struck him full in the face, then it rushed on with a
wailing coughing sound. leaving a chill behind, which
made him glance wistfully back into the bright and
cheerful rooms he had but just left, and which seemed
doubly inviting by the contrast.

Bidding the Minor Canon good-night, the choir-mas-
terran down the steps and disappeared in the dark-
ness.

Herbert Knight remained two hours longer in the de-
lightful home of the Minor Canon, but most of this time
was spent alone with Guy in hls own room, and in ex-
amining a cabinet of minerals and curiosities which the
young Australian had brought from his distant home.
They grew quite confidential over these, Guy tellin
him many things connected with his life in that far-o
country, and relating the adventures with which he
had met while making the collection for his cabinet.

But the clock on the mantel striking eleven reminds
him of his uncle’s admonition ‘‘not to stay late,” and so,
going below, he bade his kind host and hostess good-
night, donned coat and hat, and was ready to take his
departure.

“What a wild night it has grown to be!” Guy ob-
served, as he opened the door to let him out. <“Itis
very inhospitable to let you go home in this storm—stay
and share my quarters, will you 2?”

“Thanks, but Uncle John would be anxious,” Bert re-
plied, buttoning his coat closer about his throat, and
Shivering as a fierce blast struck him.

“Ido not believe he will expect you,” said Mr. Ed-
monds, coming out into the hall upon hearing Guy’s in-
vitation. ‘The wind has been howling frightfully for
the last hour, and Mr. Knight will think us lacking in
hospitality, as Guy says, I fear, if we let you go.” ;

«I think he would be better satisfied if I do, however,”
Bert replied,-yet with a strong desire to Stay.

“Wait a minute, then,” Guy returned, while he hastily
threw on his own coat. ‘I -willnot let you start out
alone. Ihave not had my usual tramp this evening,
and I feel like taking a turn before I sleep; so I will see
you safely to the bridge, if you do not object to my com-

pany.”

= should be glad enough of it, only don’t feel obli
to out on my account,” Bert responded, consider-
tobe yet glad to have him Prone going with him.

They went out into the wild night together, while Mr.
Edmonds, shutting the door after them, returned to the
cheerful open fire in the drawing-room, rubbing his
hands together with a sense of security anda comfort,
and congratulating himself upon the very pleasant even-
ing he had passed, and the happy adjustment of a diffi-
culty that had lain heavy on his heart for months.

Half an hour elapsed and then the door-bell rang.
Upon going to answer it, he found his pupil standing
without, hatless, his hair in wild disorder about his face,
his clothing soiled with mud, while his breathing was
labored as if trom running, or some violent exertion.

“Guy !” exclaimed Mr. Edmonds, astonished, “what is
the meaning of this? Where is your hat ?”

“I do not know, sir—in the river, I fear, and I am very
sorry to come back in such a plight,” Guy answered,
viewing his muddy clothing with disgust! ‘but just as
I was shaking hands with young Knight on the edge of
the bridge, there came a fierce gust of wind—you know
it always blows worse there than anywhere else—and
whisked my hat from my head. I sprang to catch it,
my foot slipped, and down I went into the mud. We
looked about for it fora few minutes, but I could not
keep Knight, and so came home withoutit. It is a wild
night. sir, and going to be wilder before morning, I
fear.’

“I fear so, too. I wish we could have kept. Mr.Knight
with us—he would have been much more comfortable,
and it would have saved you from your mishap,” Mr. Ed-
monds said, regretfully,

“Iam more sorry about the hat than anything else;
you know it was new yesterday. But then,” Guy added,
with a smile, “there are things more to be regretted
than new hats.”

“That is so. But see! you have cut your hand in your
fall,” the Minor Canon said, pointing to some blood
stains upon the young man’s left hand.

“That is so,” he returned, holding it up and finding a
smal! cut on the back of it. “I did not know it, however,
it isa mere scratch, and I must have struck a sharp
stone when I fell.”

«Come in and let mother bind it up for you,” said the
Minor Canon, to whom the sight of blood was exceed-
ingly paintul.

“It is not worth while,” Guy answered, twisting his
handkerchief aroundit. Then he added, while his cheek
flushed: “I have to thank you, sir, for your great kind-
ness this evening. I believe I am not at peace with all
men, and you have helped me to gain a victory over
myself which once I would not have believed it possible
to gain. Good-night, sir.”

He held out his hand in a frank, manly fashion, meet-
ing his tutor’s eyes with a look of confidence and esteem
which did the noble man’s heart good.

He grasped the extended hand and shook it heartily.

‘Heaven bless you, my boy,” he said, affectionately,
and, with that benediction falling upon him, Guy Wal-
ton passed up stairs to his room, while the Minor Canon,
well pleased with the result of his efforts at peace-
making, sought his couch, and was soon quietly sleep-
ing the sleep of the just.

Alas for the dawn and the waking!

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

—__——__>- @<—____
A YOUNG LAWYER SLIGHTED.

A prominent lawyer tells the following; An old dar-
key was underindictment for. some trivial offense, and
was without counsel. The judge appointed me to de-
fend him. I was young and very fresh at the time, and
it was my first case in court. As I went forward to con-
sult with my client, he turned to the judge and said:
“Yo’ honah, am dis de lawyer what am depointed to
offend me?” <«Yes,” was the reply. ‘‘Well,” said the
old darkey, ‘‘take hit way. jedge ; I pleads guilty.”

—_re~«
A CHURCH CRADLE,

There is.a Baptist church in Pittsylvania County, Va.,
in which is kepta cradle. During a-single sermou often

as many as half a dozen babies are rocked to sleep in it.
A child is not half so apt to make itself disagreeable in a
cradle as in its mother’s arms even, and hence, as soon
as one such begins to give trouble, it is placed in the
church cradle,

eo

CATARRH CURED,

A clergyman, after suffering a number of years from
that loathsome disease, Catarrh, after trying every
known remedy without success, at last found a prescrip-
tion which completely cured and saved him from death.
Any sufferer from this dreadful disease sending selt-
addresed stamped envelope to Dr. J. A. Lawrence, 199
Dean’St., Brooklyn, N. Y., will receive the receipe free.

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=>

 

“WHAT'S YER INTINTIONS.”
BY E. T. W.

Ah, sure now, ’tis too bad indade;

What manes all this founth’ring an’ snakin’ ?
Yer wooin’s so silent an’ staid,

‘That, faix, ye won't vinture on spakin’!
There’s Larry knows what he’s about

Winever the subject he mentions,
An’ if ye don’t mind, he’ll spake out

Before ye have towld yer intintions.

Now, Miles, don’t run aff wid the thought
Meselt’s the laste bit in a hurry,

But thruth, it sames coortin’s for nought
But to kape me poor heart in a flurry.

Och, sure, if ye’d wish to prevint
Flartations, an’ sthrifes, an’ dissinsions,

- Ye’ll take me advice—an’ me hint—

An’ tell me jist what’s yer intintions.

T’d not be so mane as to b
The big braich 0’ promise peut ye;
So, darlint, jist buy the gowld ring,
The while there’s the love-spark widin ye.
Ye’ll mate wid no chance like this same,
Me finger to take the diminsions ;
An’s sure ’twill be swate as a drame
That way to be towld yer intintions.
Tee Rae ee Te

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

FONTELROY.

By FRANCIS A, DURIVAGE,
AUTHOR OF ——

‘RAMON, THE OUTLAW,” “THE BROTHER'S —
SECRET,” ‘IDA’S HIDDEN SIN,”
‘ROSE MICHEL,” Ero.

(‘“FONTELROY” was commenced in No. 15. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XIV—(CONTINUED,)

When the lawyer ended, he said:

“Cheer up, young man, cheer up. You cannot recall
the past, and it is useless to weep over it. Your visit
has cheered me up, for I was in very low spits.”

“No personal misfortune, I trust, sir ?”

“No; but I have been trying to ferret out the authors
of an atrocious murder committed at Red Horse Point.
A young painter, like yourself, was the victim. Have
you heard of it? But, of course, you haven’t, for it’s
kept a profound secret, for judicial reasons.”

Of course, Browning had to ask for the story, and he
bore its recital with iron firmness.

“I was just saying,” the lawyer said, ‘‘when you
knocked, that I wish I could set eyes on one of the vil-
lains.”

“Perhaps your wish will be gratified when you least
expect it,” replied Browning, with perfect coolness.

«But we won’t talk of that matter, but of your affairs,”
said the lawyer. ‘You will, of course, assume at once

the name and position that belongs to you. I will ad-
vance you any sum of money you require.”

“Ihave two or three thousand dollars of my own,
sir.”
‘Pooh! what is that to the heir of Fontelroy! You
will find it go a precious little way. You must put
up at a first-class hotel and set up a carriage or coupe
of your own. And, by the way, who do you think has
just arrived in New York? The Marquis de Monterosa,
your mother’s cousin, and your father’s friend till that
infernal villain, Manuel. Perez, estranged them. He
will be wild with delight when he sees you. Let me see
you early to-morrow morning. Ill assist you in your
moving and outfit.”

“The first step is taken,” thought Browning, as he
went to his lodgings. ‘It was the most hazardous, but
I have fairly fooled the lawyer.” >

' | CHAPTER XV:
UNDER FALSE COLORS.

In a few days afterward a new guest took possession
of rooms engaged for him beforehand by Mr. Scrivner, at
the Grand Hotel. The huge trunks which preceded him
bore the name of Fontelroy. A smart servant in livery

was driven to the hotel in a private coupe.

Handsomely, but not ostentatiously dressed, wearing |
no jewelry of any kind, bearing himself with dignity and |

self-possession, the new-comer made a favorable impres-
sion on all who saw him,

Jack Browning was a genius, or he could never in a
few months have progressed so rapidly, even under the
tuition of Manuel Perez. or so completely changed him-
self from a Bowery coy to a gentleman.

The boarders of the hotel, however, saw little of him,
for he had his meals served in his room; and a man, if
he chooses, can be as retired in an American hotel as in
a private house. 3

Browning thought it best to keep out of sight as much
as possible until he should feel perfectly easy in his as-
sumed character. For a few days, therefore, he led quite
e hermit life, receiving no one but Mr. Scrivner, the

awyer.

One morning, when this gentleman entered the im-
postor’s sitting-room, the false Fontelroy rushed to him
and ped both his hands.

“My dear sir!” he cried; ‘‘you can’t think what has
happened to me—and only this morning.”

“Good news or bad ?” asked the lawyer, surprised at
his excitement.

“You shall judge for yourself,” said the young man, as
he placed a folded paper in his visitor’s hands.

The lawyer laid it on his knee, took out his specta-
cles, wiped them with his handkerchief. mounted them
on his nose, and opened the document—it was a manu-
script—with great deliberation. But he had no sooner
read a dozen lines and glanced at the signature, than
his habitual coolness forsook him.

“Great George !” he cried; ‘‘it is your father’s will!”

“Do you think it is genuine ?” asked the impostor.

“Genuine? Don’t I know the handwriting as well
as I do my own? Can't I swear to that signature
in any court of justice? I know the witnesses, too. Of
course it’s genuine. But where in the mame of wonder
did you find it? Who gaveittoyou? Let me know all
about i at once.”

“It came to me by post this morning,” replied the im-
postor.

“Ot course—a letter. Some explanation came with it?”

‘Nothing whatever, sir. It was simply inclosed ina
coarse envelope.”

“IT hope you haven’t destroyed the envelope ””

“No, sir; here it is.”

The lawyer scanned the enyelope more curiously than
he had examined the will itself. It was of coarse brown
paper, quite dirty, and had been sealed with two wafers
and a smear of shoemakers’ wax. The direction was in
a sprawling, schoolboy hand:

“MR, FONTELROY,
“Grand Hotel,

“With Cair. New York City.”

The package had the Brooklyn postmark.

Mr. Scrivner said nothing for a few minutes, during
which he was engaged in meditation.

“Mr. Fontelroy,” he said, after laying the torn enve-
lope on the table, «this is all as clear as daylight. This
document has been stolen—and stolen, too, by some
bungling beginner—perhaps a fellow who couldn’t read.
He might have taken it for a package of bills in the first
instance. The thief could not have been a hardened
criminal or he would have taken some means to secure
areward. Perhaps the theft was the solitary crime of
some sorely tempted wretch whose conscience has com-
pelled him to make restitution of the property.”

“But how should he have known anything about me,
or where I was ?” asked Browning, with great simplicity.
“Your arrival at the Grand Hotel has been recorded

two or three papers.”

“Ah! indeed! I never look at the papers.”

“Youre behind the age. Great George! what have
you done ?” mn

The last exclamation was called forth by the lawyer's
discovery that the impostor had lighted his cigar with
the envelope.

Mr. Scrivner snatched the burning fragments from the
spittoon and stamped on them; but too late; the written
part was already consumed.

“How careless!” he said. “That envelope might be
wanted in court. In such cases as. these, you should
never destroy a scrap of evidence. Iam going to show
it to Mat Sharpley.”

‘And who is Mat Sharpley ®”

“A friend of mine—a detective.”

‘Well, I suppose no great harm is done, since the
document is genuine.” 4

“No harm, perhaps,” said the lawyer; “but you
mustn’t be so careless. Why, sir, I knew a case where
a murderer was detected by means of a bit of writing
that he had used for wadding in the pistol by which he
oe his victim. But for that he would have gone un-

ung.”

Browning knew the case perfectly well. He had him-
self addressed the package and’. ee it at night into
the Brooklyn post-office. But though he had thoroughly
disguised his hand, it was quite as well not to run the
risk of having the writing scrutinized by an expert.

The will, of course, was the genuine one which Manuel |

Perez had stolen out of the safe of Fontelroy, senior,
and which Browning had filched from Perez at the time
when he enjoyed the villain’s entire confidence.

Scrivner now urged the impostor to go with him and
make a call upon the Marquis of Monterosa.

Browning consented, for there was now not only no
reason for delay, but prompt action was necessary, if he
was determined to realize his gigantic plans. Delays
are dangerous in honest pursuits—doubly so in nefarious
transactions. At any moment the pedestal on which
the impostor stood might crumble under his feet. He
was resolved to win all—Fontelroy’s fortune, and the
ony destined for the heir with the hand of a beautiful

ride.

. words are Greek to me.”

He rang the bell for his coupe. He was already elabor-
ately dressed. He and the lawyer entered the carriage
and were driven up Fifth avenue, for the marquis, as
soon as he arrived from Havana, had removed his daugh-
ter and her governess to a furnished house in that fash-
ionable quarter. t

Mr. Scrivner had penned a little surprise for the
marquis, so he merely sent up his own card when he
and the impostor were shown into the reception-room.

The marquis soon entered. He had been a handsome
young man; he was still a fine-looking gentleman,
though care and time had turned his once raven curls
to iron-gray. His bearing was courtly and dignified.

‘‘Marquis,” said the lawyer, ‘‘allow me to present to
you the son of an old friend of ours.” i

The marquis looked inquiringly at the impostor.

“Don't you recognize a likeness to his mother in the
heir of Fontelroy ?” asked the lawyer.

“Fontelroy !” cried the marquis, as, peeneecee ae
stately manner, he rushed forward and grasped both
hands of the impostor warmly. ‘‘Welcome! thrice wel-
come! Yes; Ido trace a likeness to your mother—poor,
dear Carmelita!”

What tricks imagination plays us on the slightest
provocation! Had Monterosa met Browning under any
other circumstances, this fanciful resemblance never
would have occurred to him.

“This all appears like a dream to me, sir,” said Brown-
ing. ‘But yesterday a poor, solitary artist, and to-day
a wealthy heir and the recipient of such a welcome !”

“It is all a blessed reality,” said the lawyer, rubbing
his hands. ‘We are no impostors, Senor Juan. We
have the will, sir—the will of poor Fontelroy, and we
bare our mother’s portrait, here, sir—worn next to our

eart.”

He had the lawyer’s fashion of identifying himself
with his client, and, as he spoke, he tapped Browning’s
heart as if he were tapping his own waistcoat.

é‘Will you permit me to look on the picture ?” asked
Monterosa. ‘

Browning placed it in his hands.

The marquis took it to the window, and stood gazing
on it, with his back turned to his guests. When he re-
turned to them and restored the locket to Browning, he
was very pale, and his eyes were moist.

‘“‘My dear Fontelroy,” he said, in a voice shaken with
emotion, ‘‘you must make my house your home, and
you cannot too soon become acquainted with the other
members of the family. Please walk up into the draw-
ing-room, gentlemen.”

his was a severe ordeal for Browning, brazen as he
was. He had never entered a drawing-room, and never
been presented to a lady in his life. And when he stood
before Isabella de Monterosa he was daunted by her
regal presence, by the luster of her glorious black eyes,
by the radiant purity of her Madonna-like face. He
stammered and blushed even; but feeling that this |
awkward timidity was not consonant to the character of |
an artist whose profession trains him to look undazzled
upon unvailéd beauty as eagles gaze upon the sun, he
mastered his emotion and recovered, at least apparent-
ly, his self-possession.

Isabella received him courteously, but at the same
time with reserve, while the duenna, Donna Inez, played
off on him all the grand airs with which she used to
overwhelm the hidalgos of the Court of Spain, when she
was a maid of honor, many, many years ago.”

«You young people must get acquainted at once,” said
the marquis, ‘‘for you are near relatives.”

They sat down and talked commonplaces for awhile,
Browning getting more at his ease. As for the creole
beauty, she was always self-pos i. Donna Inez said
nothing, but plied an enormousfan. Half a century

‘Oo She was famous for her manipulation of the fan, the
offensive and defensive weapon of a S$ coquette—
eloquent and poetical in the hands of a Spanish beauty.

The music-Sheets on the rack of the open piano sug-
ioe to Browning the propriety of ng the young

y to favor him with a song.

She complied with the request without the hesitation
and squeamishness that half-bred girls think it pretty
to affect on such occasions, and sang a Spanish sere-
nade with exquisite expression to a graceful accompani-

over with little black dots. His grizzled hair was cropped
short to his sku; he had no eyebrows, and he wore a
pair. of green goggles through which his eyes glared
with unpleasant intensity.

But Browning felt constrained to welcome this waif
trom over the sea with the utmost cordiality. He grasp-
edand wrung his hand, and forced him into the most
luxurious arm-chair in the room.

“My friend and benefactor,” said the impostor, ‘‘you
cannot imagine how delighted I am to meet you, and
to personolly thank you for your services.”

“Then my letters reached you safely ?”

“Certainly. You may know that by my having as-
sumed my rightful name.”

“Ay, your rightful name, Fontelroy.”

‘You have just arrived, 1 presume,” said the impos-
or.
“Not exactly, sir; I have been in town some days.”

' «Without finding me out ?” asked Browning, reproach-

fully.

“f had important business to attend to.”

“Concerning me, I presume.”

«“Well—yes, concerning the Fontelroy estate, of
course.”

“You will have little trouble now, sir, I assure you,
though your presence may indeed help matters toa
rapid conclusion. I have my mother’s miniature and
my father’s will.”

Dr. Maxwell nodded.

“Mr. Serivner, my father’s lawyer,” continued Brown-
ing, fpr ay | to my affairs and will expedite the
legal business. He has been kind enough to opena
credit for me at his bank so that I can live like a gentle-
man, pending the settlement of my affairs.”

“And you have seen the Marquis de Monterosa ?””
asked the doctor.

ieee know that ?” exclaimed Fontelroy.

“é es. ”

You have not seen him yourself ?”

‘Not yet; but I intend doing so, as well as to have an
interview with your lawyer immediately.”

“I don’t perceive the necessity of that;” remarked
Browning, uneasily. 7

“Why, it would be very strange if I, the accredited
agent of your father, employed by him to hunt up his
missing heir, 1, who have had so much trouble in the
business, should not have a conference with his lawyer
and compare notes.”

“I don’t see why you need give one any unneces-
sary trouble in this matter,” said Browning. ‘I wish to
spare youthat. But Lappreciate your labors, and wish
to repay you, not in words alone. Out of my present
means I will advance you money, and will give you an
obligation to pay you any reasonable amount as soon as
I come into possession of the estate.”

‘Young man,” said Dr. Maxwell, gravely, “you treat
me asif I were a hireling employee. I am not in want,
and I took up this affair as your father’s friend from
sympathy with his distress and from interest in a very
romantic complication of circumstances. All I ask is to
see the affair satisfactorily terminated.”

“I told you, sir, that everything was going on smooth-
ly,” said Browning.

“Yes, for you, ] admit. But there is such a thing as
mistaken identity. What, if after all, you should not
be the rightful heir ?”

Browning started and turned pale. Then he laughed.

“If I am not the heir of Fontelroy, who is 2”

Before Dr. Maxwill answered , he took out his
handkerchief, and in so rien nearly pulled a revolver
from his breast-pocket.. He thrust it back hastily, but
Browning had noted the weapon.

“T see you go armed, doctor,” he remarked.

“Yes,” replied the doctor, carelessly. «I have heard so
many stories of the dangers of your city by day as well
as night, the prevalence of ruffianism here, that I
thought I might as well carry arevolver. Forewarned,
forearmed, you know. But we are wandering from the
point under discussion. You asked if you were not the
rightful heir, who was? Now let us suppose a case.”

rowning listened intently.

‘Don’t lose your temper af anything I may say,” con-
tinued the doctor, ‘‘for remember it is a suppositional

 

ment.

During the performance Browning’s thoughts ran |
back oddly to a totally different-scene—a dance-cellar |
in the Bowery, and he seemed to see himself in the)
shabbiest and greasiest of garments, with a frowsy girl \,
hanging on his arm, and heard himself calling out in a |
hoarse voice to the solitary fiddler, «“Now, then—put in
the licks, Old Rosin-the-Bow, or else I’ll put a head on |

yer!” Which was his real self, that semi-intoxicated |

loafer, or the elegant gentleman seated in a Fifth avenue
drawing-room beside one of the loveliest women that |
ever the tropic sunshine ripened into bewildering beau-
ty? But though the Bowery coy’s hands were soiled,
it was not by blood. He checked the thought, and, as
the music died away, he said :

“Charming! I can guess the meaning, though the

 

 

| Ways sing Spanish, French, or Italian songs—English
| words mate so ill with music. Of course you know
came to see that all was in order, and finally his master |

| greeable.”

| of the sea, for there, staring him in the faee, was the

 

 

“Pardon me, cousin,” said Isabella ; ‘‘I forgot—at least
I was not aware that you did not know Spanish. I al-

French ?”

The impostor smiled and nodded—he cowld pass mus-
ter now in that tongue—and she sang him a delicious
French chanson.

He listened spell-bound. At last he rose togo. He
bowed to the duenna with a stateliness eq to her
own.

Isabella frankly gave her hand to him, and he raised
it to his lips. He had seen such things done on the
Bowery ve. The young lady looked rather surprised
and blush lightly ; her father smiled.

The marquis waited on the gentleman down stairs.
In the hall he said to Scrivner :

«Pray sit down here one moment, and permit me to
exchange a word in private with our young friend.”

The lawyer bowed, and the marquis showed Brown-
ing into the reception-room. They sat down on the
sofa.

“I am sorry you feel bound to hurry away so soon,”
said the marquis. —

“I leave my heart behind me,” said the impostor.

“Then you must come back after it as soon as
sible,” said Monterosa. “I might affect not to under-
stand your meaning, but I know that you would say
that your interview with my daughter was not disa-

“Sir,” said Browning, ‘‘she is adorable. I speak frankly
and bluntly—it is my nature, I can’t help it.”

‘“‘T like you the better for it. She is beautiful and ac-
complished—that you can see. But you know how pure,
how good, how kind she is.” ;

“Tell me but one thing,” cried Browning, earnestly.
‘Are her affections disengaged ?”

The marquis smiled.

“TI was coming to that.” Then he became grave. ‘‘You
know the sad story of the clouds that shadowed the
closing days of your mother’s lite !”

“Only too well,” replied Browning, applying his hand-
kerchief to his dry eyes.

“Then we will not dwell on it. But I solemnly pledged
myself to your father that if his son were living I would
bestow my daughter’s hand on him. Judge of my joy
when IJ found you a handsome, accomplished gentleman
—the very one I would have selected for my son-in-law.”

The impostor bowed.

“Judge of my delight,” continued the marquis, ‘when
I witnessed the impression Isabella made on you! In-
deed, you are fitted for each other. You are rich, and
with her hand I bestow a dowry of a million dollars.”

“Sir,” said Browning, ‘‘were she a dowerless girl I
would strive to win her.”

«‘Thére is no striving—she is yours,” said the marquis.

‘Pardon me,” said Browning. ‘It may be the Span-
ish, asitis the French custom, to arrange m
without consulting the feelings of the jes. t
though I have fallen in love at first sight with your
daughter, though to lose her would be certain life-long
misery, though I am proud of the prospect cf an alliance
with your family, yet, unless she reciprocates my attach-
ment, unless she can freely bestow her heart with her
hand, I will renounce my new-born hopes and never
trouble you or her.” -

«You are a noble young man !” cried Monterosa, \p-
ing his hand. ‘Your sentiments are worthy of your
estimable father and sainted mother.”

‘All Task is the privilege of paying my addresses.”
said Browning, modestly.

‘You shall woo her and win her’!” cried the marquis.
“Only remember the Scotch adage, young man—

“Happy’s the wooin.
That’s not long a-doing.”

Browning smiled. ;

‘Fortified by your sanction, sir,” he said, “you will
find that I am no dilatory suitor.”

They rose, and again shook hands at the door. As
Browning and Scrivner got into the carriage, the former
glanced up at the drawing-room windows in the hope of
getting one more glimpse of Isabella’s face ; but she was
not visible.

The adventurer stopped at the first florist’s he came
to, bought an enormous bouquet, and dispatched it with
his card to Isabella de Monterosa. At the Grand Hotel
he alighted, and told his coachman to drive the lawyer
to his lodgings.

In the hall-way he found a porter waiting for him.

“Sir,” said the man, “‘there’s been a gentleman to see

ou.”

“Did he leave his name ?”

“Yes, sir; here’s hiscard. He said he would return in
half an hour—that his business was pressing, and that
you were expecting him.”

Expecting him! Browning wished him at the bottom

name ‘“‘“George Maxwell, M. D.,” and underneath, writ-
ten in pencil, ‘‘From Havre.”

But he put a bold face on it and said, firmly:

“As soon as the gentleman returns, show him up into
my room.”

He went up stairs and prepared to receive the unwel-
come visitor.

“He will ask me a thousand questions,” he thought,
“and I must be very cautious in my answers, for I don’t
know how much he knows about the real heir. How-
ever, I have the proof that he insisted on—the woman’s
likeness, and—the will. The sharp lawyer and the Cuban
marquis have recognized me as the rightful heir. If lam
true to myself, I shall still win the prizes—two millions
and a lovely wife!”

CHAPTER XVI.
UNMASKED.

At last the servant announced Dr. Maxwell, and the
impostor scrutinized him with keen anxiety as he enter-
ed the room.- Dr. Maxwell was by no means a prepos-
sessing person. He was stout, well built, and erect,

but there his advantages ended, for his face was terribly | li

 

 

disfigured—covered with red blotches, and speckled all

case that I am presenting, for the sake of illus eee
necessity of our using every precaution for establishing
our rights. We will supRoee, then, if you please, that my
letters to the rightful heir have been intercepted and
fallen into the hands of an adroit knave. For the sake
of argument—pray, don’t be offended, Mr. Fontelroy—
we'll i dee that you are that rogue. Very well—fol-
low me closely—the knave, stimulated by the enormous

rize of two millions, decides to personate the real heir.

ut the real heir is living in the same city, and has on
his person the required proof of identity. We will sup
pose the impostor gets rid of this heir by murder, and
Steals the proof.” F

“A wretch that would commit a deed so

would be sure to cover up the traces of his crime—
would he not ?” asked Browning, in as firm a tone as he
could command. ,

“Oh, my dear sir, every assassin fancies there are no —

witnesses of his guilt. But murder will out, as Shakes-
peare says.” q 2

“I don’t see why you rack your brains to weave such a
tissue of improbable crime,” said Browning. ‘There are
no such complications in the Fontelroy case.”

“Ah! indeed! then I have been misinformed,” said -

the doctor. ‘‘]1 was under the impression that there was
in this Me a young man, an artist, who went by the
name of Norman—I was under the impression that this
man had mysteriously disap’ ay

“To reappear under the name of Fontelroy—I am the
man !” said Browning, boldly.

‘‘How is it, then,” asked the doctor, ‘‘that you do not
at all resemble the photograph of Norman, the artist,
the true heir of Fontelroy, which I have in my pos-_
session ?”

‘Do you dare to hint,” cried Browning, s: to
on ere and rushing on the doctor, with clench ts,

“TI dare to hint nothing,” answeréd the doctor, rising
to his feet, drawing his revolver and cocking it as he
leveled it at Browning’s head; ‘‘but I dare assert that
you are an impostor! ;

“I, an impostor? You old villain!’

“And a murderer to boot!” added the doctor.

y has not been found?” asked Browning,

“The
roe deadly pale.

“Fool! you Boman betrayed yourself. No, the has
not been found; but witnesses of the crime will be forth-
coming at my summons. And I charge you, John
Browning, alias Flash-o’-Lightning, with the deliberate,

perncaiowne murder of Norman, the-son and heir of
‘on y y?

A bolt of lightning from a clear sky could not have
been more unexpected to the impostor. Grasping the
arm of a chair to steady himself, he giared at his accu-
ser, and faltered out, with white lips ;

‘Who are you ?” ;

CHAPTER XVIL
RECONCILIATION.

The accuser burst into a laugh, and then, in a well-
remembered voice, asked : f

«Don’t you know me, Jack ?”"

But Browning was still bewildered.

«The voice is familiar,” he said; ‘‘but the face——”

“My dear fellow,” said Manwel Perez, ‘when a man
receives a charge of powder full in his face, it’s no won-
der that his best friends don’t know him. Your bullet
did but graze my temple, but I’m burned and powder-
marked for life. The bath in the Hudson was really re-
treshing after such a scorching. Why didn’t yoy wait,
you fool, to see that I didn’t rise? Always make sure of
your game when you’ve brought it down. That’s a les-
son derived from my experience, and I’m an old hand,
you know. I suffered excruciatingly from my wounds,
though they were tenderly cared for by an old pal. Do
you know, when I was writh
nered enough to curse you, and to swear that if ever I
recovered I would be the death of you. But I have lived
to bless you, my old friend. I might have been identi-

fied but for you. Paint and dye-stuff don’t always de--

—— but your shot has changed me indelibly
_ —

Browning had now recovered from the shock of this
yy t tell me, I suppose,” h oodily:

“You will nex me, I su ,” he said, m :
“that Mark Robbins is alive ”

“Not he, poor devil! You settled his hash effectively
—food for fishes long ago.”

“And you bear me no ill-will ?”

“Tl-will, my dear boy—to you, my pet pupil, the most
promising rascal ] ever met? Pshaw! boys will be boys,

and one never knows what they'll do when they’re

trusted with fire-arms.”

‘I know you are not sincere,Perez. You must hate me,
and you mean mischief.”

«What a boy you. are!’ cried Perez. “Don’t make a
fool of yourself, but sit down and let’s have a friendly
chat together.”

“Betray me—kill me, but don’t make sport of me.”

“Tl talk seriously enough, my lad, as you’ll find when
you have heard me out. I’m proud of you as an apt pu-
pil, and yet you have made some egregious blunders, in
spite of your sharpness.”

“How? When?” asked Browning.

“Just now, when you thought you were talking toa
Stranger, and asked ‘was the body found.’ And further
back, when you robbed me of the Fontelroy papers.”

“I thought that was rather a hit,” said Browning, with
something of his old audacity. ‘That put the game in
my own hands.”

“These papers proved the existence of an heir, and se-
cured him the property when found. But there were
other papers proving that you were not the heir, but my
tool, and no other than Jack Browning, alias Flash-o-
Lightning.”

“Ah?!” cried Browning, “I knew you were only pur-
ring over me; now you show the tiger’s claws.”

«J don’t want to rend you, but to shake hands with
you. I love my interest better than I do my vengeance.”

“I begin to understand you.” said Browning. “If you
were to denounce me, you would hazard your own ruin.
By helping me, you enrich yourself. What am I to pay
for your silence and your services ?” ;

“Now you talk sensibly,” said Perez, producing a writ-
ten -paper. ‘Sign that with your true name, and we
are square.”

Browning read as follows:

“I, the undersigned, John Browning, nicknamed Flash-o’-
Lightning, now assuming to be the rightful heir of Fontel-
re hereby agree to abandon to Manuel Perez all of the Fon-
telroy estate which may come into my possession.”

.

n{All!” he exclaimed, «this 1s more than the lion’s
share.”

“TI make no claim on Senora Isabella’s dowry, which is
of equal value,” said Perez. ‘You see I am a reasonable

on. ‘
«What if I refuse ?”

 

 

 

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--<ais¢ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #2

 

«You would be a fool to make an enemy of a man who
wishes to be your friend, but who has the power of de-
stroying you whenever he pleases. You will say I should
risk my Own ruin if I used this power—but you know
that revenge is sweet, and there is such a th turning
state’s evidence, and so testifying safely. I don’t wish
to hurry you, to force you, or to alarm you, but I must
tell you that you are in danger, and the sooner you me
ry your bride, pocket her dowry, and start on your br’
tour, the better it will be for your health.”

«What danger threatens me?”

«You aided and abetted in the murder of Norman.”

“No one witnessed it but you and Robbins. You and
I are in the same boat—Robbins is no more.”

«You are mistaken, young man. There was another
witness.”

“Who ”

«“Ermeline Montgomery.”

“You mean Mariette, who
She was drowned in ¢

“The woman we took for Mariette was Ermeline Mont-
gomery herself. And she was not drowned in getting
ashore, for she can swim like a fish.”

“But she could never identify me, my appearance has
so altered since that night.”

-Don’t be sure of that—and keep out of her way, as
you value your life. An actress’ eye is trained to pene-
trate disguises—with all my skill I never could impose |
on one.”

“But Ermeline is inactive.”

“There you are mistaken. She is determined to fer-
ret the mystery to the bottom, and one of the keenest of
the detectives, Mat. Sharpley, is in her employ. You are
surrounded by dangers, but I will pull you through.
Will you sign ?”

“T have no choice,” said Browning, and snatching up
his pen he relinquished his claims to the Fontelroy prop-

“That's right,” said Perez,as he carefully put away
the precious document. “Now Tl help you to the ex-
tent of my power. You'llintroduce me to your lawyer
now ?”

“Certainly.”

“And you'll present
family ?”

“Of course.”

«Then we are sworn friends again !” said Perez, putting
his arm within his pupil’s.

Browning’s lips answered ‘‘yes,” but in his heart he
swore to burst the chain which his old accomplice had
once more linked upon his limbs.

“Fool!” thought Perez. ‘He thinks he holds a
winning hand. But it is the odd trick that sweeps the
stake, and I hold the trump-card that will do it.”

CHAPTER XVII.
A CRITICAL SITUATION.

The impostor became a frequent visitor at the house |
of the Marquis de Monterosa, and paid assiduous court
to his fair daughter. He never called without bringing |
a costly floral tribute. He rode with her in the park, he |
escorted her tothe opera. The marquis gave him every |
opportunity of being alone with her. Yet he never
breathed a word of love, though waiting for the oppor-
tunity to do so, for he feared being too precipitate.

Isabella, young and inexperienced, received all these
attentions as a matter of course from a relative. It
never entered her head that there was any special sig-
nificance in them. Had she suspected it, her deport-
ment would have been more circumspect.

Manuel Perez was presented to the marquis’ family as
Dr. Maxwell. The hardened villain met his former mas-
ter with the utmost assurance, well knowing that he
was so disfi that there was no possible chance of
recognition and detection. ‘

The ladies found it difficult to conceal the horrer in-
spired by his face, yet his manners were so polished and

his conversation so agreeable that they soon forgot his
ugliness. He did not, however, intrude upon them very
often, contenting himself with establishing a familiar
foothold in the house.

One morning the marquis sent for his daughter in the
library. His face was radiant with smiles, and he
pressed her hand affectionately as he led her to a seat.

“My dear Isabella,” he said, ‘I cannot tell you how
happy your intimacy with your cousin has made me.”

aOt course I shouldn’t treat him an mar.

“Oh! of course not—of course not!” said the marquis,
with a peculiar smile. ‘It is quite right for you to ride
with him in the park—quite right for you to play and
sing to him, and to accept his presents.’

Isabella blushed deeply.

“Tf you think, sir, 1 have been too forward and
familar——”

“Come, come, I don’t mean to scold you, but to com-
mend you, my dear. Your conduct has relieved me from
a dreadful apprehension. I was fearful that your in- |
clination and your duty might clash. I see they har-

" monize.”

«JT do not exactly understand you, sir.” 5

«} will make everyting plain, my darling. Know then,-
that, shortly before his death, I promised my old friend
Fontelroy to bestow your hand upon his son.”

The color faded from Isabella’s cheeks and lips—the
light from her beautiful eyes. She sat like a statue, her
hands clasped, gazing before her on vacancy. She was
Pi

aralyzed.
“My dear child,” said her father, core. alarmed at
this sudden change, ‘‘are you unwell ?”

Tears came to Isabella’s relief. She leaned her head

 

personated her mistress. ,
to the mainland.”

 

me to the marquis and his

 

upon her father’s shoulder and sobbed. He was greatly
tressed and perpiexed.
“Look up, child,” he said. ‘‘What have I done to
disturb you so?”

“Tt was so unexpected—what you have told me.”

“TI was too hasty and blunt. I didn’t reflect how sen-
sitive a girl’s heartis. And yet I thought young Fontel-
- roy’s attentions had prepared you.”

«“Does—he—love me ?” she ped out.

«Love is no word for his passion, my child. He adores
you—worships you. You ure his life. And you——”

“T never—never—dreamed of his attachment.”

“What! when he has been such a constant visitor of
late? When every parting from you, even for a night, |
has brought tears into hiseyes? And you never sus-

ted ?”

“J have told you the truth, sir. And you have pro-

im my cond 7

mised hi :
“To him, and to his father. My honor was sacredly |
pledged to both.” t
“And the compact must be fulfilled ?” asked the girl.
“Ts there no escape ?” |
“None— unless Fontelroy himself relinquishes his
”

 

 

c :

“Ah! you give me hope again !” cried Isabella, with a
bright smile. ‘‘He will do so; he will never lead an un- |
willing bride tothe altar. When he knows that [regard |
him only as a friend and relative; that never—no, never |
can I have a warmer feeling for him, he will freely can- |
cel these bonds.” a

“Have a care, Isabella,” said the marquis, gravely. |
“Do nothing rashly. You.may learn to regard him as a |
suitor yet.”

“Never !” said Isabella, with decided emphasis.

“Alas!” cried the marquis; “I never dreamed of this .
disastrous destruction of a cherished project. But, if it |
must be so, amen! Only when you acquaint this poor |
young man with your resolve, do it gently.” |

“J will speak to him as a sister speaks to a loved |
brothers” answered Isabella.

At this moment a servant entered and informed her
that a lady was waiting to see her in the drawing-room.

“Go, my child,” said the marquis. ‘At another time |
we will discuss this subject more fully.”

Isabella was too young and too little practiced in the
arts of fashionable life to conceal her emotions, and her
lady visitor saw, the moment she entered the drawing-
room, that she had been weeping, and that she was agi-
tated and distressed.

This visitor was a tall, elegant woman, dressed in
black. She advanced to the young lady of the house,
and said:

“My business is so serious that I will not apologize for
my being a stranger and calling on you without an in-
troduction. You may probably have heard my name—
Ermeline Montgomery.”

“Yes, madam,” replied Isabella; ‘it is too celebrated
not to have reached my ears, and Mr. Norman has fre- |
quently spoken of you.”

The actress started at the name of Norman, and the |
tears came into her eyes. |

“And let me ask you,” continued Isabella, hurriedly,
and blushing as she spoke, ‘‘if you have heard of Mr.
Norman lately? He was my teacher. He left town
without calling on me—without giving us any intima-
tion of his nny opi absence. It was very strange, for
he a peared to be a gentleman.”

“Then,” said the actress, in a low tone, ‘“‘no rumor has
reached you, no surmise, that—that—I do not know how
to break it to you.”

Isabella grew paler than marble as she heard these |
faltered words. ‘ |

“Oh, madam!” she cried, grasping the actress’ hand, |
‘if you know anything about im, tell me, I conjure |

> -

|

u.
“Ah!” cried Ermeline. ‘‘Now I know that what I have |

 

 

to say will break her heart.”
«What is it ?—what is it ?” gasped Isabella. i
“Cannot you guess ?” faltered Ermeline. “He was my |

friend, and—and—you see I am wearing lack.” |
Tsabella did not shriek. She only pressed her hand |
upon her heart, as if to still its bitter pain. Then her |
eyes closed, and she would have sank to the floor had |
not Ermeline caught herin her arms. The actress car- |
ried the poor girlto a sofa, bathed her temples with |
water, kneeled beside her, kissed her, and finally saw
her restored to consciousness. i
“Forgive me if I did not ring for help,” she said; “but |
I thought I had surprised a secret, that we had bet- |
ter be alone.” ; }
Isabella pressed her hand. Then she sat up, arranged |
her hair, and composed her features. She was still pale, |
but the dangerous crisis had p ,
“J will be calm and brave,” she said. ‘The worst is |
over. He is dead ?” |
“Yes,” answered Ermeline. “But that is not all. He |
did not die a natural death.” i
then ?”
assed her arm round Isabella’s waist, and |
putting her Ips close to her ear, whispered : .
“Murdered !”
“J cannot believe it,” said Isabella. “He, so young and |
—he, who had not an ene in the world! How do |
you know that he was murdered ?” |
“I saw the deed myself.”
“You! and have been silent all this time! Then you |
- are an accomplice!”
“Hush! you know not what yousay. I am trying. to|
discover the actors inthe crime. I have detectives in
my employ, but I need help. You shall hear all I know |
of this terrible affair.”

usar you object to putting itin writing ?” asked Isa-
a.

“No; I prefer it, and wish your father to see it.”

“Then there are writing-materials,” said Isabella,
pointing to the table. <‘The story must be in black and
white, and then I shall know that my senses have not
deceived me.”

The actress went to the table and commenced writing.

While she was thus engi , With her back turned to
the door, Browning entered and immediately took a seat
beside Isabella.

“You do not.look well,” he said, in a tone of alarm.

“T have just received a great shock,” answered Isa-
bella. ‘I have just learned that a young man of my
acquaintance has been—oh, Mr. Fontelroy !—nvurdered/”

«His name ?” asked Browning, without wincing.

‘Norman. He was an artist—my drawing-teacher.”

«And how did you hear this? It may not be true,”
said Brow: . Without the slightest tremor in his
voice, though heart was beating violently.

“The lady who is writing yonder brought me the in-
telligence. She is Pha in tracking the assassins.
Promise me that you will help her.”

«Assuredly. Who is the lady ?”

“Miss Ermeline Montgomery, the actress. Madam,
this is Mr. Fontelroy,” she added, introducing them.

“Madam,” said Browning, boldly facing her, «I will
aid you in any way to the extent of my ability and

| Means.

Ermeline looked up. The voice struck her ear first,
and the face almost immediately thereafter. She had a
wonderful memory for tones and features. Add to this
her professional familiarity with the art of disguising
the and features, and it will not be thought ex-
traordinary that she recognized in the man who ad-
dressed her one of the parties concerned in the tragedy
of Red Horse Point. ~

The discovery was so sudden that she could not help
revealing her consciousness in her eyes and the expres-
sion of her face, er she instantly mastered her
emotion, and said, calmly :

“T am greatly obliged to you. Mr. Fontelroy.”

“It appears that you witnessed the murder of Mr.
Norman,” said Browning.

He did not notice the enormous blunder he had made.
Isabella had not told him that she was a witness. The
remark was a self-accusation. Ermeline noticed it. and
it confirmed her impression. She now required all her
art to conceal the loathing she felt for the monster who
stood before her.

“I witnessed it,” she said. ‘One of the assassins was
an oldish man.
age, sir.”
Pg: you see whether his complexion was dark or

“It was fair.” :

Once more Miss Montgomery failed to conceal the
aversion with which Browning inspired her.

«You have not seen either of the ruffians since 2”

“Not since.”

But the complete self-possession of Browning was not
without effect. He was most artfully disguised, and
Ermeline began to waver in her convictions.
a gentleman moving evidently in good society, received
by the Monterosas as a favored guest, intimate with the
marquis’ daughter. She did not know what to do, and

resolved to reflect maturely before acting. Had she not |

paused to deliberate, all would have been well ; for,
“The woman who deliberates is lost.”

However, we must not anticipate. She rose to go, first
lacing the paper she had written in Isabella’s hands.

he latter insisted on waiting on her guest down stairs. |
‘But, madam,” said Browning, ‘if I am to assist youin |

this dark affair, where can I see you to consult you %”
«At my house, sir.”

“In Thirty-fourth street. I know the number, madam.” |

Isabella escorted her visitor down stairs, and Brown-

ing was left alone to meditate on what had occurred, |

and form a plan of action.

While he was thus employed an old woman, carrying |

a large flat pasteboard box, came into the room. _
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

—__——— > © +
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.[

The Queen of the Isle

A HASTY WOOING.

By MRS. MA¥ AGNES FLEMING,
AUTHOR OF

“Guy Earlscourt’s Wife,” “A Wonderful Woman,”
6A Little Queen,” “A Mad Marriage,”
*‘Lost for a Woman,”’ etc.

 

 

(“THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE” was commenced in No. 12
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XXI.
THAT NIGHT.

“Come, madness! come with me. senseless death!
I cannot suffer this! Here, rocky wall, -
Scatter these brains, or dull them !”
DE MONTFORD.
About an hour before the storm burst upon the island
Edgar Courtney, thes victim of his own diabolical pas-
sions, reached it unseen and unobserved.
“You will await my return here,” he said, as he was
moving away. ‘I must be back in N before morn-
ing.”

 

“Don’t know “bout that,” said the boy who had taken |
him over; ‘‘there’s an awful storm rising; butif you |

ain’t afeared to venture, I ain’t.”
Mr. Courtney glanced at the dark, sullen sky; but

what was the storm without compared with the storm |

within? Leave the island he 7vust before morning, so
he replied :

“I must go back, let it storm asit will. You can re-
main here sheltered under these rocks till I come
back.”

And wrapping his cloak around him; he moved swiftly
away, and concealed himself behind some overhanging
trees to await the result.

The spot where he stood commanded a view of the

gloom, some hours after, he saw a boat approach the
isle, containing the fcrm of a woman, he had not a sin-
gle doubt as to who that woman was. E

Oh, the demoniac look that his face wore at that in-
stant! His face upturned to the bleak light was that of
a fiend.

Blinded by his passions, he did not observe, as ina
calmer moment he might have done, even in the gloom,
the difference between this tall figure and that of his
wife. He only saw a woman landing on the isle, spring-
ing up the rocks, and disappearing in the darkness, and
who but Laura would have ventured to the isle that
stormy night.

When the night fell in more than ‘yptian darkness,
accompanied by wind, and lightning, and rain, he made
his way blindly through it all to the eas ; and,
sheltered behind a friendly rock, he crouched down like
a panther waiting for its prey.

“She will not come in this storm--she cannot: you |

will wait in vain,” said the voice of Reason, faintly try-
ing to make itself heard.

“She will come—she will!” said Jealousy, ‘‘She has
braved the storm to come to the island; and, though fire
should fall from heaven, she will keep her tryst. Wait!
wait! and you will have your revenge.”

And the demon voice conquered.

e . * e e *
Meantime, how went the night in the widow’s cot ?”
When—wet, dripping, soaked through—Carl reached

the cottage, his first care was to change his wet clothes,
and seat himself at the table, where a smoking supper
awaited him.

Mrs. Tom held up her hands in wonder and amaze-
ment, when she heard that Sibyl had braved all that
furious storm to come to the isle.

«The girl must be clean crazy,” she ejaculated, ‘to
venture on the stormy sea such a night! Ido wonder,
though, what brought Miss Sibyl here to-night ?”

“Dunno,” said Carl, speaking with his mouth full of

iddle-cake. ‘She was talking sort o’ crazy in the
*Spect she thought that Mr. Drummond was
here.”

Christie, whose white fingers were, aS usual, flying
busily, as she plied her needle, suddenly flushed to the
temples, and then grew paler than before. She knew
what had brought Sibyl to the island, though she had
hardly fancied she would have ventured out in such a
storm.

“Oh, 1 wish it had been clear to-night!” she thought,
lifting her head, and listening anxiously to the howling
tempest.

Lat, true to his promise, had faithfully delivered
Drummond's note to Christie unobserved, But would he
come in all this storm ?

Some vague rumor had reached her ear that Miss
Campbell, the beauty and heiress, was soon to be the
bride of Willard Drummond. She did not believe it; it
was too monstrous, too dreadful; the bare possibility of
such a thing was maddening. But Sibyl loved him,
and might cherish hopes that could never be realized ;
and Christie felt it her duty, despite her promise, to LS
an end to all these hopes, once and forever, by proclaim-
ing their marriage. Therefore she had seized the first
opportunity, and sent the note before mentioned by Cap-
tain Campbell.

By this time Carl Henley had dispatched his supper ;
and laboring under a vague impression that some one
would be in presently to carry him off by force, as Mr.

Drummond had done on a previous occasion, he made a |
hasty exit up the ladder, to bed, firmly resolving not to |

go out again, though ‘‘Aunt Tom” should pull every hair
out of his head. :
And when he was gone, Mrs, Tom, having secured

The other a person of about your |

the windows and doors, drew up her wheel, and sat
down to spin. And Christie, with cheeks flushed, and
eyes bright with anxiety and impatience, sewed on in
silence, replying vaguely and at random to the stream
of small-talk kept up by Mrs. Tom.

There were Many anxious thoughts gneeng eronee
the mind of the young girl. Why had Willard been a
sent for so. long a time ?—why had he appointed this
strange midnight meeting ?—would he venture on the
sea in night and storm ; and, it he came, what could his
visit and note portend? His manner had changed so of
late, that, in spite of herself, the conviction that he al-
ready repented of his hasty marriage forced itself upon
her with a pang like the bitterness of death.

“Oh, Imight have known,” was her inward cry, ‘that
he, so rich, So handsome, possessing the love of one so
beautiful as Sibyl Campbell, could never be content with
poor little me! Oh, I might have known he would tire
»Of me; but I was crazed, and believed all he told me.
Something warned me it would, sooner or later, come to
this ; but now that it has come, it does not make it any
easier to bear.”

“Well,” said the voice ef Mrs. Tom, at this instant
breaking upon her reverie, as she stopped her wheel
with a jerk and looked sharply into C tie’s face—‘‘1
would like to know what’s got into you to-night! Here
Ive asked you three blessed times to hand me that there
gownd, an’ you don’t mind me any more that if I was
the cat. S’pose it’s the latest fashion not to answer your
elders when they speak to you? What is the matter
with the gal ?”

“I didn’t hear you.” faltered Christie, turning scarlet ;
— tay aches. Please,excuse me; Ididn’t mean to

end.

“Better go to bed, then, if you head aches. Time we
was all in bed, for that matter. No use sittin’ up a-wastin’
of candles, when we can get up airly in the morning jist
as well. Gemimi! how it blows!” said Mrs. Tom, as she
slipped the bands off her wheel and carried it over to its
accustomed corner.

Glad of the permission, Christie arose and began ar-
ranging her bed on the wooden settle ih the kitchen,
where she slept. And Mrs. Tom, who preferred sleep-
ing by herself, sought her own couch, where, by the
combined effects of a light heart and a clear conscience,
she was soon in the land of dreams.

Relieved of the presence of the inquisitive old lady,
Christie wrapped herself im her mantle, tied on her
hood, and softly opened the door. The storm was at its
height, and the sudden entrance of a rush of wind and
; Tain sent all the loose articles lying about whirling
through the room.

It was awful to venture out in such a storm; but had

 

Here was |

the tempest raged twice as wildly, the faithful, loving

eee would have braved it all to meet him she
oved.

| Exerting all her strength, she closed the door after

| her without arousing the sleepers, and quitted the house

| She was never destined to enter more.

On—through the falling rain, the driving wind, the
| Vivid lightning—she pl d, making her way blindly
| through it all. It was well she knew the road she was
traversing, and could pursue her way as well at mid-
| night as at noonday, or she would never have been able
| to follow that tortuous, rocky path.

But, shrinking and blinded by the rain, at times she
was forced to stop and cover her face in her mantel ;
and, anon, at some more furious blast that would have
| whirled her away as though she had been a feather, she
grasped some projecting rock or tree to protect herself
trom being blown over the crags; but still she toiled on
to her destination. <

«Will he be there ?” she said, wildly. ‘Oh, if after all
he should not come! It seems madness for me to ex-
| pect him in such astorm; but if he shouid, it would
never do for me to be absent. Ob, saints in heaven!
| What lightning.” she said, as pale with terror she hid
her face in her hands.

But there was no time to pause—even now he might
| be Pont for her on the beach; and still, on through

night, and rain, and storm she pressed, until at last
drenched, dripping, and totally exhausted, she gained
the wet, slippery beach.

Half dead with cold and exhaustion, she sank on a
| rock, and Snes the pitiless blast. The dull
| booming of the waves near sent a thrill of nameless awe
; and horror into her very soul.

; She could not long sit there exposed to the peltings of
| the storm; so, wrapping her mantle still more closely
| around her, she rose with a Shiver, and strove to pierce
| through the thick darkness in search of that loved
form.

| Invain! The gloom of Hades could not be deeper
| than that which enveloped every object. ~ ligh

But at that instant there came a flash of
| illuminating for a single moment, with a blue, unearthly
| glare the bleak, slippery shingle, and Se ek the
| black, heaving sea, with its foam-crested billows. Noth-
| ing moye. As far as she could strain her eyes, no living
; thing but herself stood on the shore.
| Oh, why does he not come ?” was her heart’s agonized
| cry. ‘Dees he not know, in spite of storm and tempest,
| lam awaiting him here ?”
| Another flash of rengeees a revealing the dark, de-
| serted beach, the wildly shrieking ocean, and a of
| gleaming, serpent-like eyes, watching from behind a
| rock, revealing the slight, delicate form of a female
| standing alone on the shore.
| “Ob, he will not come! I knowit! Shall I stay here
; longer, or shall I go home! thought Christie, in an
| agony of doubt.
| Still another lurid blaze of fame! And now, looking
up, she uttered a cry of joy ; for the tall figure of a man,
wrapped in a cloak,’was seen descending the rocks, com-
| ing toward her. :
| “Oh, he is here! he is here!” was her joytut cry.
| “Dearest, dearest Willard! I knew you would come!”
| And springing forward she threw herself into his arms.
| He did not speak—he did not move—only he drew a
| step back and folded his arms over his breast.
| ‘Dearest Willard! I feared you would not come ; but,
| oh! I am so glad you are with me once more!” And her
| encircling arms clasped him closer, while her sunny
head on his breast.
| With the storm within and the storm without, he
| heard not, heeded not the name of Willard. But another
| flash of heaven’s fire showed him a slight, slender form,
| with the shining, golden hair of his faithless wife.
| And now, for the first time, she noticed his strange
silence ; and lifted her sweet face in surprise, saying :
“What is the matter? Why do you not speak to me?
What have Idone? Oh, I am so sorry, if 1 have angered
|} you. What, what have I done? Oh, indeed, Illove you

| more than life !”

| His teeth closed together with a galvanic ep his
eyes were like two livlng coals set in a ghastly skull, and

| his hand clutched something within the folds of his

| Cloak with a convulsive grasp.

| And still she clung to him, and still he maintained

| that strange silence.

| «Tell me whatl have done? Speak to me, orI shall

| die!” she cried out, in anguish and terror. ‘Oh, indeed,

| Llove you better than any one in the world! I would

| die sooner than offend you!”

| «Die, then!” fairly shrieked the maddened man; ‘die,

guilt!” And

since your own lips have proclaimed your

the | clutching her fiercely by the throat, he plunged the hid-
sea on all sides. And, therefore, whenin the deepening |

den knife into her side.

One piercing, terrific shriek, and she sank writhing,
quivering at his feet in mortal agony. And the wretched
maniac above her unable to speak, or move, or think,

| with distending eyeballs, glazing eyes—his ghastly face

like that of the dead—his trembling hands red with her

| life-blood—stood rooted to the ground caring not, feel-

ing not the furious storm now.
Vas she dead? Would that wild, appalling shriek be
Naught

repeated? He listened, palsied with horror.

| met his ear but the shrieking of the warring elements.
| Just at that instant there came a blaze of lightning,

as though heaven and earth were on fire, and he beheld
that little, child-like form lying stiff and rigid at his
feet, the head fallen back; the blue lips parted, as if
from them the quivering soul had taken its flight; the
arms lying limp and lifeless by her side; the bright,
golden hair, half shading the cold, beautiful face, on
Which the pitiless rain wildly beat.

All his jealousy, his hatred, passed away with that
pitiful ent ; and the passionate love, the adoring wor-
ship his heart had first felt for her returned like a swell-
ing flood. The memory of the time when she had left
home, and friends, and all, to fly with him—when she
had first been his loved and loving bride—bright, happy,
and beautiful—came back in overwhelming force. And
now she was dead—dead by his hand!

“Oh, Heaven! what have I done? Oh, my wife! my
wife! my beautiful murdered Laura! Oh, what have |
done? My love! speak—look up! live for me once more!
Oh, she is dead! and 1am her murderer!” And with a
shriek of agony, the wretched man fell prone on his face
beside her.

But now there came another sound more terrible than
all else. Swollen by the heavy rain, the sea was rising
on the island,

With the roar of a beast of prey. the furious waves,
lashing themselves into foam, rushed upon the shore. It
recalled the miserable assassin from his frenzy of de-
spair; and with the instinct of self-preservation that
never deserts us while life remains, he seized the cold,
stark form, and fled wildly up the beach.

But just then—had the infernal regions yielded up
their hosts to pursue him ?—a human form, bearing the
figure of a woman, revealed by the quick flashes of
lightning, came flying toward him, her uncovered hair
streaming in the gale—her wild eyes glaring with the
fireg of madness.

Her eyes fell upon him and his bleeding burden at the
same instant; and throwing up her arms, with a pierc-
ing cry of ‘‘Murder! murder!” that poe’ high above
the raging of the storm, she fled the direction of
Campbell's Lodge.

That appalling cry, that awful apparition, drove the
last spark of reason from his maddening brain. With a
perfect yell of terror, he flung his lifeless barden on the
rocks, and fled from the spot as if pursued by the
avenger of blood.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
NEXT MORNING.

“Between the enacting of a dreadful deed

Andi the first motion, all the interim is

Like the phantasma of a hideous dream.”

SHAKESPEARE.
With blood on his hands, with horror, insanity, and

wildest woe in his eyes; and, worse, far worse! with the
dreadful mark of Cain branded indelibly on his brow,
the wretched man fied—hating himself, his crime, the
earth, and heaven—only longing to fly far away, where
human eyes would never more behold him, clutching his
| breast with his pale, talon-like fingers, as if to tear
| hence his insufferable agony and remorse,

 

 

On he went—flying over rocks, and chasms, and up-
rooted trees—on, on, still on, unable to stop. The waves
were wildly, madly cannonading against the banks, as
it they would tear their way to where he stood, and
bodily ingulf him: but he heard nothing, save that un-
earthly cry of ‘‘Murder!” saw nothing but the cold, still
face and lifeless torm of his murdered wife.

Panting, tottering, exhausted, he fell heavily at last
on the ground—shuddering, gasping, collapsed. The
deafening roar of the waves still rising and booming on
the beach, the crash of the thunder, the wild discord of
the raging elements were serenest music, compared
with the tumult, the terror of the unspeakable horror
filling his soul.

«What have I done ?—what have I done ?” was the cry
that still rived its way up through his tortured heart.
And the wind and waves, in their terrific uproar, seemed
answering the cry with ‘‘Murder! murder 1”

Eee Sap reenees, and the storm began to abate,
the rain to fall, and the mighty waters began sul-
lenly retreating from the shore.

But still the stricken man lay prone on the ground,
dead to everything above, around, about him, with that
gnawing, unutterable remorse at his heart.

Another hour waned. The clouds rolled away, the
lightning had ceased, the wind abated its fury, and the
troubled, heaving waves were slowly calming down.
And, suddenly, from behind a cloud, broke forth the
moon—brightly, gloriously, grandly shedding her soft,
silvery radiance over sea and land.

“For the first time, the murderer ventured to look up.
Morning was near at hand, and must not find him at the
scene of the tragedy.

«What is to be done next ?” was the thought that arose
through all the distracting rush of grief, horror, and re-
morse. ‘She will be missed; and if I am found here I
will be taken for the murderer, and—”
spasm closed the sentence.

He rose to his feet, but tottered so he could hardly
walk ; and, as if hurried by some uncontrollable impulse,
took the road leading to the beach.

He reached the spot where, in his first wild impulse of
terror, he had dropped the body; but far beyond that
the waves had risen, and the lifeless form was gone—
swept away by the boiling waters.

A groan, so deep and hollow that it seemed like rend-
ing his very heart, broke from his lips at the sight—his
murdered Laura had found a grave in the boundless sea.

A footstep behind met his ear, and in terror he turned

A shuddering

to fly: but seeing only the half-witted boy who had |
brought him over, he restrained himself and stood still. |

Even through the dull mist of his clouded brain the

ghastly face before him struck terror to the boy’s soul. |

And well it might; for with that white, death-like face,

branded with a look of unutterable horror; those ashen |
lips. sunken, collapsed cheeks, glazing eyes, shuddering |
form, and trembling hands, he looked like a corpse gal- |

vanized for a moment into a hideous semblance of life.
The words he had been about to say died on the boy’s

lips ; and with distended mouth, and eyes all agape with |

surprise and fear, he stared at him in stupid bewilder-
ment.

«Well ?” came at length from Courtney’s lips, ina vgice
so hollow that it seemed to issue from an empty cofiin.

«‘What’s the matter ?” said the boy, ‘‘frightened by the
storm ?”

“What do you want?” again came in deep, husky
tones from his livid lips.

“Why, you said you wanted to get back afore morn-
ing, and I reckon we can start now. The sea runs pret-
ty high yet, but I guess there ain’t no danger.”

Like a man in a dream, Courtney passed his hand
across his brow, as though to clear away a cloud: Again
self-preservation, ‘‘the first law of nature,” rose before
him, overcoming every other feeling. His eyes wan-
dered mechanically to the fatal spot, and he turned
away with a shudder.

Res ve we reach N before morning breaks?” he
asked.

“T reckon so ?” was the answer, ‘‘if we start now.”

“Do you think there is any danger ?”

“Don’t think there is. Youll be apt to be sea-sick.
though,” said the’ boy; ‘‘waves run pooty high. But
what makes you speak so hoarse, and look so scared, as
if you'd seed a ghost? P’raps you did, too; they say
there’s one up in that old house there.”

“Let us go!” said Courtney, unheeding his words, as
he folded his cloak closer around him, and started in the
direction of the boat.

The boy shuffled after him to where the boat now lay
high and dry on the strand, requiring the united efforts
of both to launch her into the water.

«Precious hard time I had of it all night in the storm,’
said the lad, as he took the oars; ‘got soaked right
through; and, by golly! if there wasn’t some thunder!
I never wants to be out such a night again.”

The boat was pitching and tossing wildly on the heav-
ing waves, threatening each moment to capsize: but
Courtney, lost to all sense of personal danger. sat striv-
ing to dispel the cloud of horror and remorse from his
mind, and answer the momentous question: ‘‘What is
to be done next?” His wife would assuredly be missed.
How was her sudden disappearance to be accounted for?
It seemed probable that none but Captain Campbell
knew of her intended visit to the isle, save the boy who

 

had brought her over; and, in waiting on the dark, dan- |

gerous beach, in such a wild tempest, with the advan-
cing tide rising on the shore, what would be more natu-
ral than that she had been accidentally overtaken, and
swept away by the rapid rising of the waves ?

The mist was passing away from his mind, his burn-
ing fever of excitement was abated hy the cool sea-
breeze, and every faculty, preternaturally sharpened by
the fear of being discovered as a murderer, was at work.
Of the stupid lad who had brought him to the island he
felt no fear. Before the coming day’s sun had set, he
would, in all probability, have forgotten all about it,
end none else knew of the visit. He would endeavor to
hide all traces of guilt, and be the most zealous in the
search after the lost one. Perhaps, too, suspicion might
fasten on Captain Campbell, and then how eed would
he be revenged! He thought of the note appointing tho
meeting, and felt in his pocket for it, but it was gone.
No matter—so that he himself was not criminated, it
mattered not.

Then came another thought: How was he to account
for his absence during the night? It seemed scarcely
probable that his wife had told any of the inmates of the
parsonage of their angry parting and his brutal blow—
she had too much pride for that—and they could easily
be made to believe that sudden business had called him
away. Doubtless, they would think it strange he had
not told them before going; but as he had already ac-
quired a character for eccentricity from his gloomy re-
serve, it would be readily set down to that. Me had

business at Westport—he would go there—remain for |

some hours, and return to N—— before night.

His plans thus rapidly arranged, he proceeded to |

carry immediately into execution. Lifting his head, he
said, briefly :

“I have changed my mind. I will not go to N i
Take me to Westport.”

Regarding him fora moment with his customary va-
cant stare, the boy, without a word, turned the
the direction indicated.

The rising sun was reddening the orient before they
reached Westport. And Edgar Courtney having paid
the boy, dismissed him, and sauntered about the town
until the business of the day would begin.

 

Gradually the streets began to fill; men on their way |

to their daily labor passed him in groups, now and then
stopping to gaze in wonder
figure, pacing through the streets as though he were
hastening ior life or death.

He noticed this scrutiny at last, and slackened his |

rapid strides, muttering inwardly :

“This will never do. I must not allow oy feelin,
to carry me away thus. I must be calm, or I may
suspected. Nothing but coolness will save me now.”

Turning down the collar of his cloak, and push-
ing up his hat, that the cool morning air might fan his
feverish brow, he turned in the direction of the Westport
House.

The door had just been eo and the rooms had
that dreary, uncomfortable look large, lonely rooms al-
Ways wear in the gray dawn of morning. A yawning
waiter, half-asleep, passed him, staring with lack-luster
eyes, as though he had seen a ghost, and a slip-shod,
frizzle-headed chambermaid uttered a faint scream as
her eyes fell on his haggard face and wet garments.

“Let me have a private room immediately,” was his
command to the waiter.

“Yes, sir; this way, sir.” said the man, recovering
from his surprise at the entrance of so strange-looking
an individual.

He ushered him into a neat, comfortably furnished
room, and Courtney threw himself into a chair, and
said :

“Light a fire here, and bring me up a cigar and acup
of strong coffee.”

“‘A fire, sir,” said the waiter, surprised at such a de-
mand in summer.

“Yes, sir, a fire; did I not speak plainly enough,”
said Courtney, in a tone that sent the man hastily from
the room.

With his garments soaked through, he began to feel
cold and chilled ; thgugh in the fever of his mind, up to
the present, he had not observed it. A fire was soon

kindled, and spreading his cloak and outer clothes before |

it to dry, he threw himself on his bed to try and lose the
maddening recollection of the past night in sleep.

Totally exhausted by fatigue and excitement, he suc-
eeeded at last, but only to re-act over again in his
dreams the catastrophe of the preceding hours. Again
he saw the lifeless form of his murdered wife lying rigid
at his feet; then would flit before his horror-stricken
gaze the ghostly apparition of the isle, with its wild, ter-
rific shriek of ‘murderer !” then the gallows, the coffin,
the hangraan, with all the fearful paraphernalia of the
felon’s death, would rise in ghastly array before his dis-
torted imagination; he could feel the very rope en-
circling his neck, and by some strange contradiction, his
wife, bright, beautiful, and happy as he had first known
her, stood smilingly adjusting it, and stranger still, he
felt no surprise at seeing her there; he heard the fatal
signal given, the drop sliding from beneath his feet, and
with a shriek of terror he sprang up out of bed, the cold
perspiration starting from every pore.

«Great Heaven! am I never to lose the recollection of
that fearful night, and my more awful crime? Oh, for
the fabled waters of Lethe to drown recollection! Must
I forever go through the world with this mark of Cain?
—this red-hot brand of murder on my face as well as
on my soul? Saints in heaven! should this dream prove
true ?”

The guilty man paused, while his whole frame shook,
and his teeth chattered as though he had the ague.

“And yet it need not, unless this paltry cowardice of

mine betrays me,” he again cried, starting wildly up |

and pacing the room. . “How many murderers

walk in the open sunshine,

boat in |

at the tall, muffled |

in the broad face of day, |

 

 

through the very heart of our most crowded cities, with
impunity ? It only requires nerve, courage, boldness to
face the worst, and I can defy Satan himself and all his
hosts. Others have committed murder before me, with-
out any provocation to excuse them, and it troubled
them not. Why, then, should I, who only acted in vin-
dication of my wounded honor—and if ever murder is
excusable, surely it was in my case? Why should }
tremble, and shrink from my very shadow? Courage,
coward soul? These dreams and phantoms of a dis-
ordered brain will pass away with time. When this af-
fair in some degree blows over, I will hasten to London
—to Paris; and in the excitement and turmoil of a great
city, forget the miserable past. Courage, Edgar Court-
ney! Thou hast begun a desperate game, and all thy
boldness is required to carry thee through! Yes, I will
ut a bold face on it, and dare the worst. And now,
Satan—for on thee alone dare I call now—help me in this
extremity, if ever thou didst help me before !”

He paused before the glass, with clenched hands and
teeth, and almost started to see the wild, fierce look his
ghastly face wore. His long elf-locks fell in wild dis-
order over his face and neck, and added to the haggard
pallor of his countenance.

“This craven face will never do,” he said; «I must
compose it. And this disheveled hair must not hang
thus disordered. She used to twine it round her fingers
once,” he said, the look of agonizing sorrow and remorse
coming back: “but that time long ago passed away. I
must not think of it more—let me only think of this
man for whose love she forgot she was already a wife.”

The thought did bring a sort of fierce composure.
Brushing back the heavy black hair off his tace and
brow, he threw on his now dry cloak, lighted one of the
cigars that lay on the table, and then rang a peal that
presently brought up one of the servants. When the
man entered Courtney was lying back in the pillowy
depths of a lounging-chair, his feet extended to the fire,
looking, as he smoked—or, rather, trying to look—the
very picture of nonchalance. It was a miserable failure
after all, as the wildly gleaming eyes still testified.

“Breaktast!” he said, briefly, to the bowing waiter.

“Yes, sir. What will you please to have, sir?”

«Anything—coffee—wafiies. I don’t care what—only
be quick!”

The man disappeared, and presently returned with
fragrant coffee, delicious waffles, and eggs.”

Courtney seated himself at the table, and drank cup
after cup of the strong coffee: but the first morsel he
attempted to swallow seemed to choke him.
| The grateful beverage soothed his excited nerves
| pe speedily than all his reasoning and philosophy had

one.

Drawing out his watch and perceiving it was after ten,
he arose, put on his hat, and having settled his bill, was
about to leave the house, when he was suddenly con-
fronted by Captain Guy Campbell, who came running
up the outer steps, laughing at something that had oc-
curred outside.

For one moment the guilty soul of Courtney quailed
| before the bold. bright glance of the young captain’s

eye—tor one moment only; the next, he looked up and
met his gaze with one of deep, sullen hate.

Touching his hat coldly, the young captain passed on,
and Courtney emerged into the street, all his fierce ha-
tred and jealousy returning with fourfold bitterness at
| the thought of the contrast between them—he himself
| SO ghastly, so pallid, so haggard, and this lover of his
| dead wife so handsome, dashing, and careless.
‘‘Heaven’s worst curses forever light upon him!” he
| hissed, fiercely. ‘That he—he who has caused me to do
| What I have done—should be happy, flattered, and be-

loved, while I—I whom he drove to madness, should be
| doomed to a life of torture! They tell us of a certain
| place—I doubted its existence once, I do so no longer,
| tor I feel already some of its torments.”
| And any one seeing the demoniac look his face wore,
| would not have doubted his words at that instant. En-
| tering a livery-stable, he hired a horse and gig, and im-
| mediately started in the direction of N :
|
|

 

 

He dreaded the coming scene, and the false part he
would have to act in it; and yet, as if impelled by
; Some inward power, over which he had no control, he*
; Whipped and lashed the horse in a sort of frenzy of im-
| patience to be there. On he flew, his horse foaming and
| reeking in sweat—houses, people, streets, passing with
| the velocity of a dream, and yet all too slow for the

| burning, maniac impatience that was consuming him.
| He reached N , and consigning his panting horse
| tothe care of an innkeeper, within half a mile of the
| parsonage, he set out for it ata rapid walk. Ten min-
| utes brought him to it, and in spite of his haste, he
| paused, as its sober, gray front and green window-shut-
| ters rose before him, while a vague thrill of nameless
| terror shot through him.
| It was no time to hesitate now—the worst must be
; faced at once. Drawing his breath in hard, hegap-
proached the door and rang.
| ‘The summons was answered by Jenny. As he passed
| into the hall, he encountered Mrs. Brantwell coming
| down stairs. That good lady’s pleasant, cheery face
| wore a look of unusual gravity as she greeted him, that
| for a moment startled him out of his composure.
| ‘Is my—I wish tosee my wife, madam,” he managed
| to say, while every word seemed choking him.
“Your wife is in the parlor, Mr. Courtney,” said Mrs.
| Brantwell, gravely, as she held open the door for him te
| enter—ascribing his evident agitation to a far different
cause.

For one moment his wild, maniac eyes were riveted
upon her with a look that actually terrified the good
minister’s wife. Reeling unste y, aS though he had
suddenly received a violent blow, he passed her and en-
tered the parlor.

And there before him on the sofa, supported by pil-
| lows, her little pale face looking out from its masses of
| floating golden hair, with a look of beseeching en-
| treaty to be forgiven, lay she whom he supposed buried

forever under the wild waves. For an instant he stood
| paralyzed, speechless, with ashen face and dilating eyes.
| And then the last glimpse of hope and reason fied, and
| with a terrific cry, that froze the life-blood of the
| hearers, the wretched man fell senseless on the floor.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
UNDERBRUSH.

 

 

Moral suasion iz good for a certain amount, but it
won't work on a rattlesnaik or an injun worth a cent.
| God made man on purpose to fall, that he mite git up

and be sumboddy on his own hook.
Ot the two, allwuss giv me the unblushing villain to
| deal with, rather than the slik and slymy hipokrit.
| . [hay lernt. more from the common people than I hav
| from the uncommon ones; the common people trust to
| their instinkts, while the uncommon ones are ever trie-
| ing to prove sumthing they don’t understand.
| The man who plays hiz kards for all they are worth iz
| the only one who can afford to git beat.
Gravity proves nothing, or else it proves too much.
+ The most improvident person iz the one who mistakes
niggardness for ekonemy—‘‘saving at the spiggot and
| wasting at the bung,” the barrell soon runs out.
Philosophy iz a noble calling, but to make money, giv
| mea 5-legged mouse or a living skeleton, a hand-organ
| and 10 cents admishun.
He who ailwus aims at the bull’s-eye is sure to hit it
| by and by, and in the meantime make menny respek-
| table misses. F
| Mankind had rather be amuzed than instruckted;
| thus a philosopher, when he competes with a monkey,
| stands no chance at all.
| Woman’s virtews are all her own; her vices, most ov
| them, she has learned from man,
| “Physician, heal thyself’—this is a big joke on the
| doktor.
| Thoze who are very weatherwise are not very other-
| wise; their genius seems to exhaust in watching the
| clouds.

Providence, for sum wize purpose, haz made the cup
ov life a bitter one to drink ;. but man, not satisfied with
the dose, haz added every vile ingredient his imagina-
shnn could suggest.

Strip a man ov hiz welth, and a peakock ov hiz plum-
age, and yu hav 2 birds ov a feather surely,

Thare are menny people whoze religion konsists in
adroitly mixing vice and virtew together; thus they
think they are temperate bekauze they hay diskovered
just the right amount ov water to put in their whiskey.

The man who wears out iz like a smoothe and nimble
sixpence ; he keeps bright allways, and iz worth his face
to the last.

Thare iz learning enuff now in the world to last for the
next fitteen thousand years, and if we could swop two-
thirds ov it off for good horse-sense, it would be a clever
dicker to make.

Epitaffs are the cheapest literature I kno ov and the
safest, for no one is rude enuff to question them.

A stupid man’s branes are lokated in hiz hed, buta
live man’s all over hiz boddy.

—_—______ > @~=+____ -______

The bell-rope on railroad trains is going to be super-
seded by the Westinghouse signal, which consists of a tube
containing air at a pressure of fifteen pounds, and running
from a whistle in the engine cab back to the rear car. There
is a valvein each car which, upon being opened, allows the
air to escape, and in this way the whistle in the engine is
sounded. The same air pump used in coupling the air-brake
tubes is employed for connecting the signal tubes from car
tocar. By this arrangement the signal of the conductor to
the engineer is rendered instantaneous and certain.

A very singular experience has been recently that of a
young man named Harshman, who returning to his home in
| Belmont County, Ohio, in company with a friend, was so
| seriously frightened by the appearance of a tall white figure,
which he assumed tobe a ghost, that his hair, naturally of
| the color of hemp, turned in a few hours as black as jet.

‘ ——————- > o~

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate,
In Debility from Overwork.
Dr. G. W. CoLuiys, Tipton, Ind., says: “I
| used it in nervous debility brought on by over-

work in warm weather, with good results.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

BS POS tia Re BIRR he me

   

ae ee an rs

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eos THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3e=

 

SHIP AFTER MARRIAGE.

BY E. L.

COURT

When Jones was young in married lite
He used to quarrel with his wife,

And tell her that a bachelor’s fate
Surpassed the matrimonial state.

If ever out he meant to go,

He did not even let her know ;

He never asked her if he might,

But went and staid till late at night.

It happened that one eve Jones meant
To celebrate some great event

By calling at a dancing-hall,

And joining in a grand dress-ball.

Now Mrs. Jones, who seldom knew
What Mr. Jones was going to do,
On this occasion found a plan

Her husband’s goings on to scan.

The ball began, and Jones was there,
And many a lovely maiden fair ;
When one arrived, a lady guest,

Who all attention did arrest.

She was half-masked, and no one knew
Whether to speak, or what to do;

She soon, however, broke the trance
By joining in the general dance.

Jones was her partner in the set,
Though he had trembled when they met;
And as he sat down by her side,

He wished that she could be his bride.

In fact, he boldly told her so
Before the time arrived to go.

He said he would love her alone.

If she would have him for her own.

Jones, there and then, was her intended,
Although at first she seemed offend’d ;
And as they rode home in the carriage, _
They spoke of nothing else but marriage.

His hopes, however, soon were blighted,
When from the carriage they alighted,
Off threw the lady her disguise ;

’Twas Jones’ wife, beyond surmise.

Jones, of course, express’d regret ;
He hoped she would his faults forget ;
And from that time they lived a life
Exempt from all domestic strife.

-—e<____

PHOTOGRAPHY AT HOME.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

The man who conceived the brilliant idea of introduc-
ing the amateur photographic outfit should not be per-
mitted to go down to his grave unhonored and unhu—
that is, unsung. He has dispelled clouds of carking
gloom and dissipated chunks of depressing monotony
from thousands of homes—including the rural domicile
of Reuben Higglesworth.

While Mr. Higglesworth was in the city during the
holiday season, a small boy thrust into his hand a
printed circular headed ‘‘Every Man his own Photo-
grapher.” Following this announcement was a lucid
description of an amateur photographic outfit, whereby
any person, without previous instruction or experience,
might take artistic photographs of all the animate and
inanimate things in his neighborhood, deriving both

very trifling cost. The amateur photographic outfit is a
great boon, and I wouldn’t part with it for ten times its
cost, if I couldn’t get another. We'll print the pictures
to-morrow, if the day proves clear.”

Next day the sun shone resplendently, and the process
of making the prints was commenced. Mrs, Higgies-
worth’s was the first picture printed.

“Let me see it, Reuben,” said Mrs. H., reaching for the
print, which her husband was gazing at in open-eyed
astonishment. ‘Is it a professional beauty ?”

‘Goodness gracious, Sary Ann?” he ejaculated, still
keeping his eyes fixed on the photograph. ‘‘Was—was
there a dime museum freak looking over your shoulder
when I shot off the muzzle of the contrivance ?”

“Why, no,” returned Mrs. Higglesworth, taking the
picture from her husband's hand. ‘What a foolish
ques-——Heavens, Reuben! What in the world is it, any-
way ?”

“Well, if it isn’t a ‘what is it,’ I give it up,” he replied,
perplexedly. ‘The lens must have slip an eccentric,
or something. You are endowed with considerable chin,
Sary Ann, but not quite such a profusion as is exhibited
in this photograph; and I admit that you haven’t four
eyes, and one of them don’t slant around to your left ear.
And look at that right ear! You didn’t hold a palm-leaf
fan alongside your head, did ye? And one of your hands
is not as corpulent as a sugar-cured him.”

‘‘And that’s the way you have made me look prettier
than a professional beauty, is it? Reuben Pome oat
if I thought this was one of your jokes, I’a—lP’d——”

And she placed her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Now, mother,” said Reuben, soothingly, ‘don’t cry
about it. A amachoor photographer is liable to make a
blunder at first. I must have aimed the machine too
high, and brought down one of Barnum’s curiosities
which happened to be passing at the time. We'll now
look at the children’s group. That’ll be a beauty.”

The print was taken from the negative, and Higgies-
worth gazed upon it with an expression of horror.

“Ts it all right, Reuben?” asked his wife, craning her
head over his shoulder, while the children stood around
with pleasurable expectancy depicted upon their faces.

“Sary Ann, it is not allright. It appears to be some-
thing like a puzzle department, and might answer for
a map of the war in Egypt. Some fiend has tampered
with the machine. There are four figures here, but they
don’t look like civilize? human beings. Here’s one got a
head as big as a water bucket, apparently, while
another’s is no larger than a hickory nut; and the feet
look like snow shovels, and here are three heads melted
together, and—— Well, I swow if I ever saw sucha
group since I was born!”

“Perhaps,” suggested his wife, ‘the lens slipped
another eccentric ; or maybe you aimed it too high and
hit a band of savages in the street ?”

“Pop,” broke in the four youngsters, ‘et me see it!”

“Geeroosalum !” vociferated Tom, “if this doesn’t
look worse than a comic valentine. Which one’s me
and which is Sue ?” ;

“Children,” said Higglesworth, ‘we'll put this away
for further inspection ; and now fet us behold the coun-
terfeit presentment of your father, the amachoor photo-
grapher.

And what he beheld nearly paralyzed him.

“Wha—what’s this?” he gasped. ‘This picture looks
more like one of the big-headed monsters in a panto-
mime than it resembles your husband, Sary Ann. The
eyes bulge out like a pair of pean door-knobs, and the
head appears to have been driven down between the
shoulders with a pile-driver. And that nose seems to
meander all over the face. Sary Ann, ye didn’t bust
anything when you removed the cloth, did ye ?”

“I—I don’t know,” she replied. ‘I didn’t hear any-
thing crack.”

“Well, Pll put this away with yours and the group for
future consideration, and examine the photographs of
the cat and dog.”

He gazed curiously at the pictures for nearly a minute,
and then broke out with:

‘Heaven and earth! what have we here? I never saw
more curious beasts in a menagerie! Sary Ann, youve
read about the frightful animals that lived before the
flood—the paleotheriums and plesiosauruses, and such ?
Well, here’s a pair of em.” And he handed her the pic-
tures. She gave them a hurried look and let them drop,
with a little shriek.

I

 

 

pleasure and profit from the operation.

“Now I call that a mighty ’cute arrangement,” said
Mr. Higglesworth, putting the circular in his pocket.
“Guess I'll invest a few dollars in the amachoor machine

and take it home to amuse Sary Ann and the children.”

When he arrived home with his purchase, Sary Ann
Higglesworth and the four juvenile Higglesworths ex-
amined the contrivance curiously. Finally Mrs. H.’s
pent-Ap curiosity exploded in the interrogation :

«‘What in the world is 1t, Reuben ?—a patent oil-stove
or a new kind of churn ?”

“Well, your guess is away off. It is a machine for
making pictures. The man who sold it to me, Sary
Ann, showed me the photographs of some likely young
women one of these machines made, and they was
pretty enough to make a man yearn to live his courting
days over again. A man can operate it b reading the

‘instructions in this little book, and when be mastered
them, Sary Ann, I'll just load up the photographic box
and take your picture first.” .

Mrs. Higglesworth’s preconceived notion of having a
photograph taken was something akin to having a tooth
extracted. She had experienced the latter torture, but
was thus far exempt from the former.

“Will it hurt, Reuben ?” she asked, backing away from
fhe camera.

. “To be sure it won’t hurt. The thing won’t explode—
not before it is loaded, any way,” he added, facetiously.
“You just slick upa little and make yourself look pretty,
andJ’ll make your photograph look handsomer than a
professional beauty.”

In a very brief space of period—for a woman—Mrs.
Higglesworth announced that she was ready.

“Now take a seat in this cheer, Sary Ann, and look

leasant and natural-like. I’m not going to wedge your

ead ina pair of tongs and twist you into a position
that'll make you 1ook as lifeless and wooden as a Cigar-
store Indian. Photographers who follow the business
for aliving always screw your head into a pair of dia-
bolical iron clamps, and make you set as you never sot
before in all your born days—and never will again, un-
less you get your photograph taken by one of the pro-
fessional chaps. Now get ready to look natural and
eas ‘bts

Then Higglesworth looked through the camera at his
wife, who was vainly trying to assume several different
positions at ane time.

“Throw up your chin a trifle, Sary Ann—not quite so
high. Twist your head a trifle to the right. There—
that’s better. You can wink all you want to. Now look
pleasant, and smile a little at the corners of your mou—
Great kingdom, Mrs, Higglesworth, don’t open your
mouth that way! D'ye want to bust the plate and spoil
the picture? Think of something cheerful, and keep
your mouth shut. Think of the sleigh-ride we took be-
fore we were married, when the horse ran away and
dumped us out in a demoralized heap, and we had to
walk three miles through snow-drifts. When I pull the
cloth off the nozzle of the machine, the performance be-
gins. Now!”

The four children stood near the camera, two on each
side of the sitter, and Mrs. Higglesworth made a heroic
effort to keep her eyes on the entire quartette, and once
raised a finger warningly and gave a thundergustic
glance at Tom, the eldest, who was enacting an orig-
inal pantomime for the delectation of his brother and
sisters.

«There—it’s all over!” said Higglesworth, throwing
the cloth over the nozzle of the camera.

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed Mrs. Higglesworth, bounc-
ing out of her chair, and giving Tom a smart box on
the ear, “how quick that was done, and I was waiting
all the time to hear it go off. Do let me see it, Reuben.”

«Can’t you wait till I develop the negative ?” cried her
husband, impatiently. T’ll let you see it in a minute ;”
and he rushed into his ‘dark room,” according to the
directions, and soon returned and held the plate up to
the light. ‘There you are, Sary Ann!”

“Do you call that me?” said his wife, gazing at the
picture with her eyes bristling with astonishment.
«Why, whatever it is, it looks as black as a n——”

«Yes, I know,” Reuben interrupted ; ‘‘but it will come
all right when it is printed. The black will then be
light, and the light dark. Now, since I’ve got my hand
in [ll take a group of the children. When every man
becomes his own photographer, Sary Ann—and every
woman, too—the business of the professional will be
paralyzed, and he will either have to skirmish around
for some other kind of employment, or go over the hill
to the poor-house. It will be pretty rough on him, but
‘every man for himself is the motto in these days. Now
tidy up the children, wash their faces, and comb their
hair, and we'll soon have an artistic group of ’em.”

Mr. Higgleworth prepared a plate, and when the chil-
dren were pronounced ready, he arranged them in a
group, threw a cloth over the back of the camera and
his head, and prepared to ‘‘focus” them.

«“Humph! you are all there, but there seems to be too
much promiscuousness about the group. Joe, place
your right hand on Susan’s shoulder, and stop your con-
founded snickering. Caroline, stop scratching your
nose; and, Tom, don’t twist your head off trying to look
around at your mother. Sary Ann, stand farther to the
left, so they can’t see you. Now, children, keep right
still, and look cheerful and pleased, as if you had ten
cents to buy taffy, or Pll skin you—d’ye hear? Great
universe ? just look at ’em!” and he abandoned his cam-
era, rushed up to the children, bumped their heads to-
gether two or three times, and posed them again.

“Now remain in that position!” he commanded, peer-
ing through the lens, ‘Don’t move, or I'll thrash you all.
Now the thing has commenced.”

He removed the cloth, and gazed at his watch.

«There—that'll do,” he said, replacing the cloth, and
withdrawing the slide. ‘‘Now, let’s see!” examining
the plate after the negative had been developed. ‘One
—two—three—tour, you are all here, anyway. Tom,
bring in Topsy, the cat, and we'll have her photographed
in a jiffy.”

aeieg Writs placed on a chair, and ‘“‘had her picture
tooken,” as Tom explained. Then, Carlo, the dog, was
introduced and submitted to a similar torture.

“Now, Sary Ann,” said Higglesworth, ‘we'll finish the
day’s operations by taking my own photograph. I'll get
the machine ready, put in the plate, and take a seat in
front of the camera. When I say ‘ready,’ removegthe
cloth, count fifty, and then replace it.”

Mrs. Higglesworth followed the instructions, but not
without manifesting considerable trepidation.

“Well, there appears to be something on the plate,”
observed Higglesworth, examining the negative, “and I
guess it is your husband, Sary Ann. Now we have taken
pictures of the entire family, without any fuss, and at

“Reuben, sell that machine—or give it away!
wouldn’t have the hateful thing about the house !”
“I'll tell you what V’ll do, Sary Ann. Tl get Tom to
write to a Boy’s Weekly, offering a first-class photo-
oc he outfit in exchange for a horse and cart ora
ushel of turnips, or something that way. Ill give some
other man a chance to be his own photographer. But I
have an idea about the pictures I have already taken.
They are not going to be wasted.”
A few days later Mr. Higglesworth took his wonderful
photog rapes to the office of the local paper, and divulged
nis little scheme to the editor. And the next issue of the
Howelllown Banner contained the following notice :

‘REMARKABLE PICTURES.

“We have been shown photographs of several mem-
bers of a new race of people recently discovered by ex-
plorers in the wilds of Boraxicum, in Central Africa.
These pictures show two adults, apparently male and
female, and a group of four children, whose sex is dfti-
cult to determine. They are probably the most frightful-
looking objects wearing the semblance of human beings.
While some of them have heads as large as half-bushel
measures, .the heads of others are as diminutive as
acorns, in comparison. There are also photographs of
two animals, which are frightful-looking monsters, and
answer the description of the ‘beasts’ described in the
Book of Revelations. ‘These marvelous pictures can be
purchased for the small sum of fifty dollars, and we hope
alee be added to the Antiquarian Society of our
county.”

P.S.—And they were.
oe +____—_—__

HOW THE WORLD RIDES.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL.

It would be difficult, if not impossible, to give the
number of different kinds of carriages in existence; both
because there are many kinds, and because some of them
are not known. When I speak of a carriage I do not
mean simply a vehicle drawn by horses, but any kind of
an arrangement whereby man is carried. This defini-
tion enables man himself to become a carriage, as when
in the Amdes Mountains he straps a chair on his back,
and carries a lazier or feebler person seated in it.

They who talk of the decadence of modern times ought
to know that carriages are a very ancient institution.
The horse, camel, elephant, cow, and other animals,
were used to ride on as far back as history or any record
takes us; and even the wheeled vehicle is old enough,
for we learn from the Bible that Joseph had the second
chariot of the Pharaoh for his ewn use, and, moreover,
that he had other vehicles at command, inasmuch as he
sent wagons to convey his father, Jacob, and family into

Egypt.
No doubt the first use any carriage was put to was the

conveyance of goods; but it is easy tosee that man could
not very long resist taking advantage of the opportu-
nity to rest his tired or lazy limbs, though the first wag-
ons could not have been especially enticing, for they
were without springs.

The Romans had several kinds of carriages, but as
they had very few places for using them, they never de-
veloped the variety that we have. Indeed, the carriages
were mostly either for show or for racing, though it is
interesting to know that a sort of public hack system
existed in ancient Rome. The Emperor Nero, it is re-
corded, had a thousand carriages which he took with
him on his travels.

In the early days, the barbarians of Europe
ons, both for war purposes and for carrying

But in the Middle Ages, when the wealth and power
were in the hands of a few persons, the use of the w:
on for riding in was prohibited, because the great lo
were afraid that the luxury would spoil the poor people
for hard work and fighting.

After awhile a distinction was made in favor of cov-
ered carriages which were forbidden to everybody ex-
cepting very great ladies. Even kings might not ride in
them. In time, however. even women and common
people were permitted to ride; but it is not likely that
many of the latter took advantage of the permission, for
the same reason that poor people nowadays seldom ride
in carriages.

The streets of the old cities of Europe were not wide
enough to accommodate many or large carriages, and
so it came about that the Sedan-chair, borne by men,
was, until a hundred years ago, a yery common mode of
conveyance in Europe. In Asia, particularly China, the
Sedan-chair is the best and commenest carriage used
by the wealthy and middle classes. These chairs are
borne by men specially trained, and able to goalong at
the rate of five miles an hour for many hours.

For the common people of China the wheelbarrow is
the ordinary mode of travel. Men with wheelbarrows
stand along the streets, waiting, like cabs in one of our
large cities, to be hired. For long journeys and where
baggage is to be carried, the barrow is vely large and
carries a sail, which is hoisted when the wind is favor-
able. Sometimes, too, a woman or a donkey—the latter
preferred—is hitched to the front of the barrow,

In Japan they formerly used a sort of sedan-chair,
which consisted of a litter swung frem a long pole, the
ends of which were supported on the shoulders of men ;
but since foreigners have obtained a foothold in that
country, a very odd vehicle has been introduced. This
is nothing more than a large baby-carriage, pulled by
one or two men and pushed by another. As the roads
of Japan are ee and the men accomplished
runners, no complaint can be made against the vehicle
either on account of speed or comfort.

In the arctic regions, as is well enough known, no
doubt, dogs and reindeer are used for pulling the swiftly
moving sleds. In Africa the.ostrich. is sometimes ridden,
and in some parts of Asia sheep are employed to drag
rude wagons.

Just as we have the wheeled vehicle for summer and
the sleigh for winter, so it is found that each country
has the sort of carriage best suited to its peculiarities.
For exaimple, the Hollander takes to skates in winter,
because the highways, being mostly water, are frozen
over. &

So in southern China, where the country is cut up by
innumerable canals, the oniy means ef communication

had wag-

 

you have sold yourself for mere wealth, and you will one
day live to repent it in sackcloth and ashes.”

eline, sweetly gracious, and sx

is by water, and, in consequence, very many different
kinds of boats have come into existence. One of these
boats is built! for speed only, and is very short and nar-
row, to enable it to go through small canals without in-
terfering with other boats. It is used principally for
carrying dispatches, but can take one passenger. He
must crawl into the cabin and lie at full length, and
there remain until the coming of night brings the jour-
ney toanend. The boat is propelle ~ a man who sits
in the stern and plies one paddle with his foot and an-
other with both hands. The boat covers sometimes,
between sunrise and sunset, seventy miles. Another
boat, seldom used, is about one hundred and fifty feet
long and three feet wide, and propelled by eighty or
more men with paddles.

Nothing shows better the progress of the wheeled car-
riage than the number of different sorts now in use
solely for the purpose of carrying persons. There are

over thirty-five distinct kinds, not including wagons oc-*

casionally used for carrying persons. Probably also the
balloon, the railway carriage, the steamship, and the
horse-car vught to be included among the modes of
riding, but none of these needs any description, for most
of us have tried three of the ways, and one—the balloon
—we are Willing to take on faith.

HOW THEY CHOSE,

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“You see,” said Addie Dellgren, ‘I have always in-
tended to marry rich.”

She sat there in her luxuriously furnished summer
parlor, the golden hair hanging down her back and her
Sapphire-blue eyes sparkling like jewels—the very image
and impersonation of some radiant Eastern queen. Her
dress was of pale blue silk, buttoned with turquoises,
beneath the hem of which peeped out a tiny embroidered
slipper, and her slender fingers glittered with the rare
and radiant gleams of ruby, emerald, and amethyst,
while one royal diamond blazed upon the forefinger of
her lett hand—the mute proclaimer of her engagement.

“Yes,” said her cousin, Bell Anderson, ‘‘but Laurence
Denholm is such a fool! Excuse the plainness of my
speech, cousin mine, but I must speak out for once, if I
hold my peace forever more afterward.”

“Oh!” said Addie, carelessly, ‘I am not offended. I

know Laurence isn’t a second Sir Isaac Newton.”
a his manners are so gruff and bearish,” pursued

“My dear,” laughed Addie, imperturbably good-hu-
mored, ‘‘a coat of gilding hides all the brusquerie! He’s
worth half a million of money—that is quite sufficient.”

“But you will always be ashamed of him, Addie—he is
like a plowman, and an ugly, stupid one, too.”

‘What does that matter, as long as I have plenty of
money to spend, the kandsomest set of diamonds in the
city, and a pair of horses such as would make Croesus
himself envious ?”

“But, Addie,” said Bell, gravely, ‘‘he will be your hus-
band. You will have to spend all your life with him.”

“You dear little eae ie oose !” laughed Ad-
die, ‘‘thatisn’t the f onable code at all, nowadays.
When you are once married to a man you see very little
of him afterward. I dare say Laurence and I shall get
along famously.”

“Addie!” cried Belle, her pretty brow contracted, anda
her hazel eyes flashing a sort of brown lightning; “it’s a
wicked sin to mnarry man just for his money—it is!
And if there is no one else brave enough to tell you so, J
will. You have broken Edwin Cliff’s true, noble heart;

“There’s no necessity for exciting yourself,” said Ad-
ng as ever. *‘You al-
ways were a romantic little enthusiast, Belle, or you
would never be engaged to Archibald Leslie, without a
cent of money to set you up in housekeeping—a mere
briefless lawyer. You may prefer to live on love alone,
but I, for my part, should find it rather a spare diet. It’s
nothing on earth but a difference of taste between you
and me, Belle—that’s all. Don’t let’s quarrel about it,
dear; but come down stairs and let me show you how
sweetly Duchatelle has trimmed that rose-colored satin
with point d’applique lace, just the color of cream. You
haven’t any dinner-dresses? Well, that comes of love-
este I always did take a more practical view of
ngs.”

But, in spite of her pretended philosophy, Miss Dell-
gren did color a littl when, on entering the drawing-
ruom, she found her bride m-clect sprawled out on
the yellow-damask-covered sofa, his heels considerably
higher than his head, reading a sporting newspaper.

‘i ‘Laurence, dear,” she said, sweetly, “this is Miss An-
erson.” ,

she have seen Dellgren himself, confused with drink, his
eyes bleared, his face flushed, and, worse than all, his
hand still clenched from the blow he had just dealt the
young creature he had vowed at the altar to love and
cherish—could she have seen Addie cowering at his feet,
in gleaming satin and jewels which seemed to blaze in
scintillating fire, her hands clasped piteously together,
her lips faintly articulating:

“Is it true? On, Laurence, is it true ?”

“Itis true!” he uttered, with an oath. “Get up, and
don’t lie sniveling there, you beggar. Yes, we are both

gars now.”
neges he burst into a discordant laugh. And Addie
knew at last that the reward for which she had sold her-
self had turned to dust and ashes within her grasp!

Pleasant Paragraphs.

(Most of our readers are undoubtedly eapable of contrib-

uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the

New York WEEELY, and they will oblige us by sending for
ublication anything which may be deemed of sufticient in-
rest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the

cles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are

neg dtr likely to atford amusement, minor defects

rem, :

‘She Could Drive.

Pat Reilly was taking a ride,
On am elegant summer’s mo.
And Kathleen sat close by his side,
Bright smiles her face adorning.

And she looked so tidy and neat,
Her figure so plump and trim,

No girl half so pretty and sweet
Had ever appe to him.

Said Pat; ‘Your eyes are so blue
And your lips so temptingly red,

They’re the purtiest ever I knew,
And belong to the Colleen I’d wed.

“Ah, darlin’. if it wasn’t this baste
That's pullin’ my poor arms apart,
They would tinderly stheal round your waist,
And yourself be pressed to my heart.

‘‘For my love is that powerful indade
Widout you I cannot survive.”
Then Kathleen blushed, and said :
“Mr. Reilly, perhaps I could drive.”

A Mantle of Protection.

He had an old horse hitched to a country ‘pung,” and
there was snow on his hat and a srow-b: in each ear
as he reined the animal up alongside the curb and shout-
ed to a policeman :

“Is this the nineteenth century ?”

«Feels like it,” said the officer.

“And is a free-born American citizen to have his life
put in peril to gratify the humor of a lot of boys ?”

“What has happened ?”

“This!” he yelled, as he picked the snow-ball out of his
left ear, ‘‘and this!” he yelled still louder, as he took the
one out of his right. ‘I’ve had to run a gantlet for three
mniles! I’ve been popped. and slugged, and paralyzed,
and pulverized. This’ere hoss has been popped, and

, and pounded till he can’t rest! I demand that
protection guaranteed to every citizen by the great
American constitution !” ‘
‘You shall have it, sir. Just consider the mantle of
protection thrown around you and your hoss.”

The old man drove off, growling and muttering, but
he hadn't progressed a block before a snow ball carried
= hat away and another lifted the old horse off his
eet.

“That’s too much, thatis!” said the driver, as he
rolled off his pung sideways. ‘If they haven’t got any
better mantle than this, | must take keer o’ my own’
liberties!”

And herushed to the sidewalk, grabbed a boy who
was going home with a quart of molasses, and tanned
his jacket in the good old-fashioned effective style.

Clerical Joke.

be .

 

“Well, we are so busy now we can’t attend to it. We
will send a man up about the middle of next month.”
“I wish you would. I am sure it does not register

more than half the gasT burn.”
“Eh! Just wait a minute. I'll send a man right up
with you now to test it!”

Out of His Misery at Last. \
“Let me see. You knew Clayson, didn’t you ?”
anit oe I po ha _ wen ‘ih
“Well, r fellow, he's out of misery at last.”
“What! Is he dead ?”
“No, but his wife is.”

The Head Boy’s Definition of Nothing.
“What is nothing, William ?” said I to the head boy,
one morning, when I and the class needed a little

diversion.
ly, but as nigh asI

“I don’t know that I know exact
can come to it, it is an old sock with no leg or foot, and
a hole in the heel.”

>-@e@

The Man Who Gathers the Rent,

Chameleon-like, he can take on all complexions. I
was at Jones’ the other day when he called. His face
was wreathed in smiles. He chucked the oldest daugh-
ter under the chin, and kissed the baby. He took out
his pocket-book, and complimented Mrs. J. upon her
pretty family. Mrs. Jones, trembling, told him that
‘they were not quite prepared ; John had lost——”

Lightning comes not quicker from the clouds than a
frown covered his countenance. He sp to his feet.
He tore the receipt. He kicked the cat. He swore with
an ungentlemanly oath that he couldn’t wait a day—
that he wanted his rent; that John wasa lazy rascal;
that Mrs. J. ought to be ashamed of herself, though he
didn’t say what for.

Polly, the girl he had chucked under the chin, was
bringing in a kettle of hot water. Accidentally—ot
sourse—she let it fall on his feet. It was boiling hot. I
left just then ; not so the man who gathers the rent. It
is now three weeks ago, and he has not called upon the
Joneses yet—nor any one else. When he does, that rent
will be ready. All they wanted was time.

GARRY Moss.

Interest.

Twenty-two lads entered for the competitive exam-
ination which took place at the hall of the Board of Educa-
tion, in this city, on Feb. 14, for admission to West Point.
The Hon. 8, 8. Cox had offered the appointment to any lad
of the Fourth Assembly District of the Seventh Ward who
should pass the examination. The boys were examined in
spelling, arithmetic, geography, grammar, and history. At
the close of the examination in spelling there were only ten
candidates remaining; arithmetic reduced the number to
nine, geography to six, and finally only four were left,
namely, Thomas Rush, Rudolph P. Miller, George A. Cherry,
and John Camp. These four will be examined by the
Board at West Point, and the one who stands the highest
will be admitted as a cadet.

A woman with very brittle bones has been a puzzle to
the physicians of Chicago for several weeks past. Sheisa
young woman, and her bones break at the slightest jar. She
hasbeen under medical treatment for sixteen years, and
during that period over 170 fractures of her ribs, legs, and
arms have occurred. Her weight is only forty-five pounds,
but merely stepping from the sofa to the floor or stumbling
on the carpet is sufficient to canse some bone to break. The
fractures heal very slowly, and the general opinion among the
doctors is that her bones consist principally of hollow shells.
She is seriously deformed, the result of the bones knitting
together in an unnatural shape. Casts of her limbs have been
made for preservation.

>

Pest of

 

 

Old Doctor Strong, of Hartford, Conn., was not often
outwitted by his rs. On one oecasion he had in-
vited a young minister to preach for him, who proved
rather a dull speaker, and whose sermon was unusu:
long. The people became wearied, and as Doctor Strong
lived near the bridge, near the commencement of the
afternoon service, he saw his people tlocking across the
river to the other church. He readily understood that
they feared they should have to hear the same young
man in the afternoon.

Gathering up his wits, which generally came at his
bidding, he said to the young minister :
“My brother across the river is rather feeble, and I
know he will take it kindly to have you preach to his
por. and if you will do so, I will give you a note to

, and will be as much obliged to you as I would

 

 

ek Denholm nodded slightly, without altering his po-
on. ,

“The horses have been waiting these ten minutes,” he
growled.

‘Dear me!” cried Addie, laughing; “I declare I never
thought of our drive to the Central Park.”

“Of course you didn’t! That’s just like you chatter-
ing Rep hbays of women!” said the gracious lover. ‘Don’t
be all day getting ready, or Pll go off and leave you.
It’s a duse of a bore this waiting!” ,
Addie flew to get on her hat and scarf.

«‘Won’t you go with us, Bell ?” she asked.

“Thank you, no!” said Miss Anderson. “I have no
oS ambition to be grumbled at by Mr. Denholme, all

e way.”

“Oh, that’s only his manner!” said Addie, coquettish-
ly, adjusting a rose in her hair,

‘“T am very glad that Archie hasn’t any such ‘man-
ner’,” said Bell.

And Addie hastened down stairs to coax Mr. Laurence
Denholme into good humer ain, with her pretty
witcheries and enchanting smiles, while Bell Anderson
went home to her own humble dwelling.
“T can’t understand,” thought~ honest Bell, “how a
woman can deliberately sell herself for mere fee
Laurence Denholme is a vicious, ill-tempered, ill-look-
ing fool, yet Addie is going to marry him next week!
Well, well, as grandmamma says, wonders never will
cease.”
She was musing over these things, when the door
opened and Mr. Archibald Leslie, her plighted lover,
came in, a tall, handsome, bright-faced young fellow,
eee to a satyr” as compared to Laurence Den-
olme.

“Where have you been?” he asked, gayly, glanc
at the little plumed hat in her hand. ing

“To Addie Dellgren’s”

‘Looking at her wedding presents, Isuppose. Well,
cara mia, do you regret that your lover can't give you
aos pearls, diamonds, brown-stone houses, or opera-

xes |”

‘Not one particle, Archie,” cried Bell, her eyes flashing
half indignantly. ‘I have you, and that is all I want.

‘My little heroine !” said Archie, proudly. «N’importe
—we'll work our way up in the world yet, and love shall
be the foundation of it all.”

Thus widely differed the views, thoughts, and ee
of these two young girls, each standing on the
threshold of life.

Bell thought Addie was crazy, while Addie secretly
considered Bell a romantic fool!

* * = * * ne

It was not a luxurious home; it was only a cozy par-
lor, with a crimson carpet on the floor, the plainest of
hair-cloth furniture, warm crimson hangings to the
windows, and a bright fire of anthracite coal crackling
in the grate ; but to Mrs. Leslie it was better than any
royal presence chamber, for she sat there in the ruddy

* *

tocome home from the office, where he was already
picking up a nice little practice, spite of Addie Dell-

en’s
his d to succeed will be tolerably certain to do so;
and Archibald Leslie was not one to be discouraged by
any temporary gloom of adversity.

Her face grew radiant with happy wifely pride as
Archie burst into the room like a six-foot-high whirl-
wind and caught the crowing baby trom her lap as if he
had been a mere feather.

‘How the little kitten grows!” he exclaimed, ‘‘and his
cheeks asred asif they had been painted. Mamma, I
believe you use rouge on your son’s complexion.”

Belle smiled.

“There, give him to me, Archie, and get ready for
tea ”

She bustled merrily round to set the steaming urn on
the table and move the big chair where it would be
warmest.

«What do.you think ?’ she said, as finally they sat
down, with the baby complacently staring round from
the safe depths of his high chair. ‘I had a long letter
trom Addie Denholme to-day.”

“Did you ?”

“Yes. She writes from Rome. They are having such
a gay time—parties, balls, operas, all manner of festivi-
ties. It must suit Addie’s taste exactly; she is never
happy except in a round of dissipation. But what
makes you look so grave and absent, Archie ?” she in-
ona to ask, as she handed him his cup of
tra; t tea.

“T was thinking of a piece of news which I heard*in
Wall street to-day,” he answered.

‘What is it?”

«That the house of Denholm & Co. have failed.”

‘Archie, surely it cannot be true !” exclaimed Bell.

“Tt is true!” he asserted.

“And Laurence Denholm’s wealth !”

“Is gone, as utterly and completely as if a whirlwind
had swept it from the face of the earth. He is a beggar
—ay, and a beggar who cannot turn his hand to one use-
ful trade, profession, or business.”

o is nothing secured to his wife ?” asked Bell, eag-
erly.

“Not one cent.”

‘Oh, poor Addie! poor Ad*te!” gasped Bell, her kind
heart feeling acutely the terrinle blow which had come
upon her beauttful young cousin. And, involuntarily,
she put one arm round her baby and looked wistf
across at her husband.

“No Wall street reverses can reach our house!” was
her mute thought. And Archibald Leslie read it in her
eyes, and smiled back the tenderest assent. _

Could she but have been d of the gift of infinite
sight that night, and penetrated into the gorgeous suite
of apartments in the Petorelli palace, in Reme, where
Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Dellgren dwelt, her heart

 

twilight, with her baby in her arms, waiting for Archie |

disparaging remarks; fora man who makes up })

have you preach for me; and I want you to preach
the va sermon that you preached to my people this
mor =

The young minister, supposing this to be a commen-
dation of his sermon, started off in good spirits, de-
livered his note, and was invited to preach most cor-
dially. He saw before him one-half of Doctor Strong’s
people, and they had to listen one hour and a half to
the same dull, humdrum sermon that they heard in the
morning. They understood the joke, however, and they
said they would never undertake to run away from
Strong again.

Did What He Was Told.

A doctor sent his Hibernian servant with some medi-
cine to a patient who was at the point of death, adding
the direction : ae
“Be sure that you wait until the medicine is safely
down his throat.” "

i the return of the messenger, the following took
Dp ¢

ace:
“Did you give him the medicine ?”

“Faith and Oi did.”

“Did he take it without any complaint ?”

“He did that.”

«Well, how did you administer it ?”

«Sure I poured it down his throat.” :
«Why didn’t you give it to him in his hand and let
take it himself ?”

«Faith he was dead.”

Leaving Tracks.

There resides in our neighborhood an old gentleman
who is slightly deaf, and whom nothing so much angers
as to be disturbed at meal times.

Just seating himself at the breakfast table one morn-
ing last winter, when a light snow was falling, he was
summoned by a message from a person at the front door,
who declined to send his name, but must see him.

Going to the door, he saw a somewhat seedy indi-
vidual, with a red nose, who evidently sniffed the break-
fast in anticipation, and the owner of which, in a dismal
whine, said:

“JT have called, sir, to see if you would allow me to
leave a few tracts at your door.”

“Tracks!” said the deaf and irascible merchant,
“tracks! Yes, leave as many tracks as you please, and
leave ’em at once, with the heels toward the door.”

" She Married A Count.

“Ah! how d’e do, countess? Am so glad to see you
home ; but I was in hopes you would bring your husband
with you. Let me see, it is three months since you were
married, is it not ?”

“Yes, three months, three months,” replied the coun-
tess.

«The*count is well, I hope ?”

«Yes, he is, I believe. ”

«And I suppose you enjoyed life in his grand castle 2”

“For a while, yes; but you see it took all my fortune
to pay off the old debts on it.”

“Indeed! Poor child! how I wish I could help you!”

«You can.”

“How ?”

*‘Let me have your family wash.”

Her Reply.

Brown has just had telephonic connection established
between his office and house and is very much pleased
with it.

“I tell you, Smith, this telephone business is a won-
derful thing. I want you to dine with me this evening,
and I will notify Mrs. Brown to expect you.” (Speaking
through the telephone.) ‘My friend, Smith, will dine
with us this evening. Now listen and hear how distinct-
ly her reply will come back.” -

Mrs. Brown’s reply came back with startling distinct-

ness.
‘‘Ask your friend, Smith, if he thinks we keep a hotel.”

An Expert.

It was during a murder trial. A witness for the de-
fense was on the stand.

‘‘What do you intend to prove by this witness ?” :

‘That the prisoner is insane,” lied the attorney.

‘Does the witness know any about insanity? Is
he an expert ?”

«Expert ?” repeated the lawyer. ‘Well, I should say
he was. He knows all about insanity. Why, your
honor, he has been as crazy as a loon for the past ten
years.”

Old Nick’s Sister.

A story is told of a shrewish Scotchwoman who tried
to wean her husband from the dram-shop by employing
her brother to act the part of a ghost, and frighten John
on his way home.

“Who are you ?” said
before him from behind l

“I am Old Nick,” was the reply.

“Come away, man,” said John, nothin
““Give’s a shake of your hand. Iam marri
of yours.”

the man, as the apparition rose
a bush.

daunted.
to a sister

The Terror.

“Say, pop, can’t I go to the lecture ?”

“No, my child.”

“Well, I want to hear about Paris and the reign of the
terrier. It must be immense.”

“My child, stay right at home with your mother, and
you will get all the ‘reign of terror’ you want.”

And when he passed cup for more tea, the ‘‘terror”
wouldn’t pour him any. -

Not Teo Busy. :
‘So you think your meter doesn’t register properly ?”

A weazel was killed in Pike County, Pa., the other
day, under exciting circumstances. Two men were talking
together, when suddenly they saw a big gray rabbit coming
toward them, clearing ten feet at every bound. It seemed to
be very much scared, and all at once cowered down by a
bush. The cause of its terror was a weazel, which leaped
after it, and sinking its teeth in the rabbit’s throat, proceeded
to suck its blood. It became so absorbed in its feast that one
of the men mentioned had no trouble in setting his foot on
the usually very wary little animal and crushing it to death.
The man who destroyed it had had fifteen chickens killed
by a weazel the night before.

The wedding tour of Mrs. Edna Anderson, of Ro-
chelle, I., was ended recently at the hospital in Chicago.
She was married to Mr. Anderson on Nov. 5, 1884, and the
happy pair extended their bridal trip to Germany. where
they formerly lived. Returning from Europe, on their wa:
to their home, they were caught in asnow-storm. While
snowed in Mrs. Anderson was taken sick, and grew worse
until she reached Chicago, when it was discovered that the
malady which had stricken her down was the small-pox.
She was taken to the hospital, accompanied by her husband,
who refused to leave her bedside. 1

President Elliot, of Harvard College, in expressing his
thanks for the bust of Longfellow lately received from Cam-
bridge University, Eng., says: “The university welcomes this
pledge of the literary fellowship between England and Amer-
ica, which the labors of the poet you have so honorably com-
memorated did much to promote. The bust will be placed
in the library, and willthere make known to future genera-
tions of students the features of one whose gracious presence
was long familiar in the academic halls and grounds, and
whose memory is cherished wherever the English language
is spoken.” :

A table accompanying the report of Director Burchard,
of the Mint Bureau, shows that the aggregate amount of
money in circulation throughout the world, including paper
and specie, is $9,991,964,524, and that of this amount $8,032,-
392,762 is in active circulation, the difference between these
two series of figures being held in the vaults of banking in-
stitutions and national treasuries. India has no gold cur-
rency, while France has $848,000,000,alarger sum in gold
than is possessed by any other nation. The United States
has of gold $650,500,000.

John Green. of Lawrenceburg, Ind., met with a severe,
if not fatal, accident the other day. He started for the
woods, carrying a newly sharpened ax on his shoulder. He
slipped on the ice and fell forward, striking his face on
the keen blade of the ax with such force that it cut
through the side of his face, buried the blade almost to the
handle, cut the lower jaw from the upper on one side, and
made a wound almost impossible to heal.

While deer-hunting in Colorado, some weeks since, a
party of men discovered a cave, and in exploring it found as
its occupants amare and colt. The former could not be
‘caught alive, and so was shot, but the colt was secured, and
turned out to be agreat curiosity. It has nota particle ef
hair on its body, has eyes like globes of glass, and cannot see
during daylight, but distinguishes everything in the dark.
It was probably born in the cave.

It is represented that there is not a better country in
the world for raising fruit than San Domingo. The great
trouble is in getting it to market. If there were a line of
“fruiters” running toSan Domingo from this port great
plantations would spring up. Good land for fruit or for
coffee plantations can be had of the government on easy
terms, and there is no tax on property. The government is
stable and the climate healthful.

A very singular and fatal disease is raging among the
horses and cattle in Monroe County, Ohio. The animals that
are attacked appear to suffer great pain in the region of the
kidneys, and sometimes tear their flesh in their agony. It is
thought the disease originated from the ergot in the blasted
grain with which they were fed. The loss sustained so far
by the farmers is estimated to be $30,000.

There was cut in Sacramento, Cal., the first week in
February last, a Sicily seedling planted seven years ago, a
branch on which were a lemon blossom, a bud starting, a
full bud, and four lemons—varying in size from that of a
small marble to the full-grown and ripened fruit—the whole
representing seven different stages, or crops, on the same
tree.

An old carpet was taken up from a room in a building
in San Francisco, the other day, and burned. There was
nothing remarkable in the proceeding, but the ashes of the
carpet, curious to say, yielded more than $2,500 in gold dust.
The apartment from which it was taken was in the U.S.
Mint.

A memorial of the right kind is to be erected to the
late Dr. Dewey in Sheffield, Mass., the town in which he was
born. It will be a plain building provided with a public
library and reading-room, and a hall for debate, lectures,
and other rational amusements.

Small tobacco pipes are frequently unearthed in Ire-
land. They are supposed to antedate the introduction of
tobacco in Europe by Raleigh. If this be so, it would prove
that tobacco was smoked by the Northern nations of Europe
long before that event.

The “Father of Freemasonry” has just died in Eng-
land in the person of William Eliot, who attained the ripe old
age of ninety-one years. He was the oldest Freemason in
Europe, if not in the world. :

Diphtheria has raged to a fearful extent in Southamp-
ton County, Va., lately, and a great many adults and children

 

 

would have ached with a still keener pang of pity. Could

“Tam sure it does not, sir.”

have died with it.