— cece pat gaye oto —s— ee Ning mer at ——_ « en me ue oem a oe VoL. XXX. STAR OF THE MORNING. BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE, Star of the Morning! beaming bright Aad fearless on the tomb of sight, O never, never yet before Thou shon’st so lovely o’er our shore. Within thy brave, fall fire, we see A lamp for Freedom’s ministry, And feel that thou wast made of old, To glitter o’er her sacred fold, Beneath its glory millions stand Trjumphant o’er the chainiess land, And lift to thee, O, cloudless gem, The Seraph-song of Bethlehem— Proprietors. The song that shouts “good will and peace}? The song that bids all battle cease, And gives to man white banners curled In God’s own smile around the world Star of the Morning! thanks, 0, thanks To Him from all our bloodless ranks, For never, never yet before Thou shon’st so lovely o’er our shore LURED AWAY. STORY OF A WEDDING-RING. By C. MW, B., Author of “THROWN ON THE WORLD ;” “LOVE WORKS WONDERS,” ete. Lured Away,” was commenced last week. Ask your News Agent fer No, 45 and you will get the opening chapters. P CHAPTER Y. AN ELOPEMENT. Bertram, Lord Oarlswood, had the reputation of being the proudest man in England. He was proud of his name, of his race, of his pedigree— proud of his unstained honor, of his large for- tune, of his gentle wife, of his fair children— proud of the repute in which he was held, of his high standing inthe country. As ariver gathers force and strength from every tributary stream, soln madeevery gift Heaven had bestowed upon him tributary to his pride. People in speaking of him said he was just and generous, but very proud. This pride was not shown in patronage of his eauals, but in the most rigid observance of class distinctions. He never pardoned any disregard of those distinetions; he was punctilious in the extreme; he gave to all persons the honor due to them, and. he expected the same in return; he addressed each one by his rightful title, and insisted on being so addressed himself. He considered the Carlswoods of Bra- Iynamong the leading spirits of the country; they had few equals, no superiors. “Had the Carlswoods been kings, they would have known how to reign,” he was wont to say. Another of his most frequent sayings was: “The Carlswoods were an old family when Wil- liam the Norman took possession of our fair Saxon land; but study their records and you will see that no Carlswood was ever dishonored. There has never been a fortune-hunter, or traitor, or renegade among us; and—thank Heayenl—no Carlswood ever made a low marriage.” There were some who said that pride of swoh a kind must have a fall—that it could not always remain so arrogant; but the stately head had not yet been bent in humility or sorrow—there was no stooping of the erect figure, no softening of the haughty face. Lord Carfswood married the daughter of the Duchess of Middleham, a gentle, high-bred, ele- gant woman. They had four children—three sons and one daughter. The father’s face would glow with pride as he looked round on the young faces. “There is no fear of the old race dying out yet,” he would say. He loved his wife, he was proud of his sons; but the great delight of his heart—the very light and brightness of his home—was his daughter Katrine, a beautiful, gay, high-spirited girl, who had all the Carlswood spirit, with its attendant pride. Her father literally worshiped her. .He watched her beauty as it déveloped day by day; he pleased himself by imagining what her future would be. What position could be too exalted for his daughter ? When Katrine reached her tenth year, Lady Carlswood died. Her husband did not marry again. ‘The Carlswoods never marry twice,” he said, grandly; and he was true to the traditions of his race. It was not 2 matter of great moment to the boys. Little of their time was spent at Bralyn; they went to Eton, and thence to Oxford; they were left principally in the charge of tutors. Lord Oariswood was careful to impress upon thom the nobility of their race, and the obligation they were under to keep the glory of their name unsullied and their honor unstained; he left the rest to their teachers. But for Katrine Oarlswood her mother’s death was afar more serious matter. Her father was unwilling to send her to school; he did not wish her to be outof his sight. He had governesses and masters for her; he did his best for her, but it was most lamentably done. He drew up a code of rus and regulations which was to be rigidly adhered to; he made noallowance for girl- ish gayety or exuberance of spirits; and the re- sult was that Katrine grew to look upon home as aprison. She loved her father because she had sufficient intelligence to appreciate his higher qualities, but she considered him to be something like a jailer, and gloried in evading his rules. The method of his training was bad; yet he would STREET & SMITH, } Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose St., TP. 0. Box £4896, New York. Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1875, by Street & Smith, in the Qffce of the Librarian of Conaress. Washington, D. C. we ha NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 20, 1875. Three Doliars Per Year. Two Copies Five Dollars. Se ketine S. STREET. FRANCIS S. SMITH. No. 46. ‘She must indeed have changed. vp UA Vi Ye 5 YEG) Yh Wii ef} tht LLL YL Ly typi, GG YY VY, Y ‘Wig Bi Lp He O Soggy LTE, Lae Wie Zi LLL eD LL Z LZ Lie Mt i, ISSSs tip Vy Wide Y Z YD See oy rs et S} e—a Carlswood—to beg for bread !” Mm i Gk ina fail i | Ho Tenitt never receive advice on the subject. Experienced matrons would tell him that change and relaxa- tion were needful for the girl; he would draw himself up proudly and gay: “The ladies of the house of Carlswood are rot to be treated after the fashion of ordinary school- girls.” When the catastrophe canve, no one was sur- prised. Lord Cariswood had decided that his daughter should make her @sSué when she had reached ther mineteenth year; until then she was to study hard, and perfect herse#f in all needful accomplish- ments by the help of masters. He frowned con- temptuously when hts friends told him that it was unfair to treat a girl of eighteen like a child. None knew how in the after years he repented of ! not having followed that adviee. There was a church at Lynn, and, before her death, Lady Carlswood had presented the rector with a very fine organ; moreover, she had asked her husband to set aside a certain sam to pay for an organist, which he had cheerfully consented todo. The first organist employed was an eider- ly man, who had a wife and family to support. A more remmunerative engagement presented it- self, and he threw up his post. He was gucceed- ed by a young and very handsome man, Thorn- ton Cameron, &@ musician of no mean skill. Lord Carlswood never saw him; he considered that his interest in the matter ended when the yearly stipend was paid. He was in London when Katrine wrote to ask if he would allow her to learn the organ—to take some lessons from the organist at St. Luke’s, Mr.Cameron. ‘Heis considered very clever,” she wrote, “and it would be a great pleasure to me to learn upon an organ that was the gift of my dear mother.” Lord Carlswood had no dream of danger; to his haughty mind then it would have seemed as prob- able that his daughter would fall in love with one of his grooms as with her teacher; not eyen the faintest suspicion occurred to him, and Miss Carlswood’s governess, who did feel some seru- ples, was silenced by being told that “Lord Carks- wood wished it.” The handsome young organist thought he was making a grand future for himself whea he saw a chance of wooing Miss Carlswood. He was very handsome, light of heart, and pleasant of speech, gay with the gayety of youth, gifted with a fatal, specious eloquence, and Katrine thought the world had never seen his peer. They could not converse freely in the quiet seclusion of the old church, when the light streamed through the stained glass and the governess stood by; but before Jong Katrine’s kindness had encouraged him to write little notes, and she had replied to them. He grew bolder, and asked her to steal from beneath her father’s roof to meet him. She foolishly consented; and when the infatuated young man told her how dearly he loved her, she owned that she loved him. Was it love, or was it an ambitious desire to raise himself far above his station, which thus actuated him? No one ever knew, and Thornton Cameron kept his secret. It was a base betrayal of trust, a cruel fraud; if was aa unpardonable deception, a most dishonorable deed; but he suc- ceeded in winning what the poor girl thought was her love, and, after great persuasion, she conser.ted to elope with him. She had been so badly trained, was so young, so wild in the flush of girlish spirits, that she thought little of the consequences. The sensa- tion that must follow, amused her. She enjoyed thinking of the fright, the search, and the emo- tion of her stately father when he should hear that she was married. “It will be stealing a march upon papa,’ she said, with a gay, ringing laugh, thatshould have smote her companion like a sharp sword. ‘He was so particular that I should aot make mg de- but until I was nineteen; what wil he say when he hears that 1 am married?” There was no excuse to be made forher save that she was charmed with her lover’s handsome fase, with his musical voice, his eloquent words, his passionate pleading and prayers. She was eharmed to be the heroine of a quasi-romance; it would be so amusing to appear in London as hirs. Cameron, instead of Miss Cartswood. The whol matter seemed to her simply a delightful adventure; she never dreamed but that her fath- er, after perhaps reproaching her in a stately fashion, would again receive her with open arms. “Bo Cariswood ever made a low marriage’ — she had heard that expression often enough, but it nsver entered her mind that hers was what would be called a “hw marriage.” Thornton Cameron was handsomer than, and quite as pol ished in manner as, the gentlemen who had visit- ed Bralyn. There was nothing about him that could be called vulgar, much less low; and Kai- rine, although clever beyond her years, did not know rauch of the world. She would have considered herself making a low marriage if she had promised to run away with a footman or a groom; but an artist was to hera gentleman. Howcould a man who created such grand harmonies, who gave his whole time and attention to the oultivation of the purest taste—how could such a man be low? She con- sidered him a genius, and genius, she said to her- self, levels all ranks. She had read somewhere of a king who stooped to pick up the brush ofa painter. Was a painter better than a musician? she asked herself. Certainly not. If, then, a king could honora painter, surely her father might respect a musician. She had read of sueh great honors being paid to them—of kings and queens who had done homage te their genius, and reverenced their names. Still it seemed strange that a girl, reared in the very atmosphere of pride, shoukl have forgotten the lesson of her life; but such was the caso when, one fine autumn evening, she stoke from the time-honored walls of Bralyn, and eloped with the handsome young organist of Lynn. CHAPTER VL A PROUD MAN’S SORROW. The anger of Lord Carlswood, when he heard of his daughter’s elopement, was something ter- rible to witness. She had written to him—smil- ing asshe wrote, thinking only ef the novelty, ignoring the terrible consequences that might folow—telling him that she had found that the happiness of her life depended entirely on her love, and that, before he had read her letter, she would be Thornton Cameron’s wife. He read the words with a frown, and took an oath never while he lived to look upon her face again—an oath which he kept unbroken. He might have taken a dozen different methods of punishing the man who had robbed him of his daughter; he adopted none of them. He content- ed himself with casting her off forever. She was no longer a Carlswood; his love for her changed into bitterest hate. She had broken the long spell—he could never say again that no Carls- wood hadeyer contracted a low marriage; he could never boast that the name was unsullied. She had stained it by running away with a low- born stranger; nothing could restore its luster, nothing could give back its lost. glory. His anger was something terrible—terrible inits depths, its silence, its intensity. To himself he said that if she were lying at his feet dying of hunger he would not give her bread. He made no loud complaints; he never men- tioned her name. If any one attempted to con- dole with him, ha held up his hand with a stately gestare that enforced silence. His scorn, his an- ger, his terrible indignation, lay too deep for words. He went at once to Bralyn, where all the household were prepared to defend themsetves; but he did not condescend to ask any questions. His game-keepers wished to tell him of rambles in the woods, of stolen*meetings in the grounds; the baughty nobleman refused to hear a syllable. He dismissed the governess with a sardonic com- pliment; he gave orders that everything which had ever belonged to the unfortunate Katrine should be removed from the house; he refused to say where they. were to be taken to or anything about them, and they were uitimately deposited in the gatekeeper’s lodge, Despite his pride, his sternness, his terrible contempt and seorn, there was something pitiful in the proud man’s silent, solitary despair. He took down the record of his children’s births; he read over the names of his boys; and thena great mist of tears seemed to hide the word “Katrine” from him—burning tears, all the more painful because sinee his wife’s death he had shed none. He sat alone in his library, and before him rose likeso many ghosts all the hopes he had centered in that beautiful daughter; he remem- bered her as a lovely, laughing child—as a lovely, high-spirited girl He thought of the dead mother who had loved her so dearly, and a deep, bitter sigh came from the; depths of his overcharged heart. His daughter—his daughter! Never more waghe tohear the gay young voice—neyer m to watch the beautiful face; she was worse, ten thousand times worse than dead. Dead, he could have loved her still, he could have visited her grave, he could have spoken of her; but she was dishonored and dis- graced, she was unworthy of regret—she who had brought the first stain upon the name of Carklswood—she who had stooped to deceive hime. Slowly he opened the silver inkstand, and drew his pen through her name—“Katrine Ismay Carls- wood.” One by one the letters disappeared beneath his heavy stroke, and when they had all disappeared, it seamed to him that his daughter lay dead. In silence more bitter than the silence of death, he laid his face down on the obliterated words. Presently he arose and closed the reeord, draw- ing his stately figure to its full height. “T have mourned my dead,” he said to himself; “now it remains for me to forget.” And forget, to all outward appearance, he did. He called the butler, who, from having been so long with him, was raised to the dignity of a con- fidential friend. *You know Mrs. Cameron's handwriting,” he said. Be good enough for the future to look over all letters before I see them; and, if there are any from her, destroy them.” And after that time Lord Carlswood Iived as though he had no daughter. Only the butler knew how many heart-broken letters came to Bralyn, how many pathetic appeals, how many cries for help. Even if Lord Oarlswood had known, it would have made no difference—he would rather have died than have yielded. So time passed on, and the name of the young ‘girl who had been the pride of his race was never even heard; all trace of her had disappeared, and the servauts had ceased, even in whispers, to re- fer to her. Lord Carlswood grew prouder than ever. “T have three sons,’”’ he would say to himself, “and they will do honor to my name.” People said afterward that he was justly pun- ished for his pride. The three young men were reali strong, healthy, and likely to live to a good old rage; but, by a strange chapter of accidents, he tost them. The two eldest, who were passion- ately fond of yachting, were both lost in a terri- ble storm —they with all on board their yacht. Lord Carlswood had often expressed his dis- like of the amusement. “Men who have to carry on the name of a great race,” he would say to them, “should notwillfully endanger their lives.” They laughed at his fears; and one bright sum- mer it was arranged that they should go through the Mediterranean. Lord Carlswood opposed the plan, but in the end he consented. They touched at most of the famous towns on the Italian coast. One morning they were about to set sail, when an Italian sailor warned them against doing’ so. “There will be a white squall before the day is over,” hesaid, but they—Lord Carlswood’s sons— laughed at his fears. “We will risk it,” they said. The sun was shining on the sea, and the white cloud in the distance was as “a man’s hand.” They set sail in despite of all advice and warning ;. they had not been long at sea before the squall in its wildest fury brcke over them. From the shore the beat was seen to founder, and desperate efforts were made to save the il- fated men, but all in vain. On the day afterward, when the sun shone warm and bright, and the angry sea had subsided, the body of Lord Carlswood’s eldest son was washed ashore, but the other was never found. Those who knew Lord Carlswood spoke of the terrible change that had come over him. Long years of care and toil could not haveaged him as his sorrow did; his hair grew white, his stately. figure drooped, his hands trembled. A few months passed, and his anxiety about his only son was almost pitiful to witness. He could not endure him out of his presence—he could not rest one minute away from him. He was so nervously apprehensive, that by his eavtions he made the boy’s life miserable. “Remember you are the last of the Carls- woods,” he would say to him, “onr name, our race, all depends on you.” But, when the fiat has gone forth, who shall ar- rest it—what human hand shall stay its course ? The last of the Carlswoods fell ill of a dangerous fever. There were many who Said that his father’s excessive care helped to kill him—that he had too many doctors, too many nurses—that he employed too many remedies. But be: the cause what it might, the result was that, after all his care, his almost frantic efforts, the boy died, and in his old age Lord Carlsvrood was left alone. For long hours after the boy's death he sat as one stunned and bewildered—he could not realize the blow. Onty a short time since, as tt seemed to him, wife and children were all around him. Death had swept him away, and he was alone. When they roused him at last, he stood up and looked around him. He bowed his head, white now with sorrow. “The hand of Heaven lies heavily upon me,” ke said; and that was the only nurmur which came from his proud lips. Even on the day his son was buried, he looked haggard and ill, but no word escaped him. “The Carlswoods know how tosuffer in silenee,” he said to himself; and no man knew the smart of his pain. CHAPTER VIL A LAWYER’S ADVICE. Lord Carlswood owned that his sorrow was a heavy one, but it did nos humble his pride. In vain the white-haired old chaplain, who had taught him when he was a boy, spoke to him of the humility that should follow a great afflic- tion. “My children are dead, sir, and every hope of my life is destroyed; but the last thing a Carls- wood lays down is what you are pleased to call his pride.” But the time came when he was obliged to look to the future. The Bralyn property was not en- tailed; it had passed at times into the hands of the male heirs of the daughters of the house, the only stipulation being that whoever reigned there must take the title and name of Carlswood. In the reign of George the First, Francis, Lord Carlswood, had three dawgzhters, but no son; he was succeeded by the second son of his eldest daughter, who had married Lord Burton, and so the succession was kept up. But now Lord Carlswood looked around him with a vague feeling of fear and wonder as to who was to succeed him, who was to carry on the glories and the honors of the grand old race. He had no next of kin; there was no stout, stal- wart young cousin whom he could summon as his heir, and every drop of his ancient blood rose in hot rebellion at the thought of a stranger’s reigning at Bralyn. What was to ba done? In great tribulation Lord Cariswood sent for his lawyer, Mr. Ford, of Lincoln’s Inn. De ng Sa Sai My. Ford had been the family solicitor for many years. When Miss Carlswood ran away from home, he had begged her father to give her at least a small fortune, but the master of Bralyn had sternly retused. From his countless thou- sands he would not give one shilling. “Not even to save her life,” he added; and Mr. Ford turned away with a sigh. After that he never dared to mention her name; and now, when his lordship sent for him to con- sult him, he hesitated before speaking. “There is but one course I can suggest to your lordship, and that will not piease you. “What is it?’ was the brief question. “I was unfortunate enough to incur your anger the Jast time I referred to the matter. Nothing but the deepest. interest in your affairs indu es me to risk a repetition ot the offense. Your lordship forgets that you have still a daughter living. “T have no daughter,” was the stern reply; “she died years ago—to me.” ‘ Sa ia? “She may have had children,” continued the lawyer. “She may have sons and daughters. Granted that the offense she has committed is un- pardonable, her children are innocent.” Lord Carlswood's face grew very pale. He pushed away his chair, began to walk with rapid, agitated footsteps up and down the room. Mr. Ford watched him intently the while. “Innocent!” he said, at length, with a scornful emphasis. ‘They may be innocent enough, but you forget they are the children of a low-born, ow-bred thief, who stole my—my daughter from me ?” It was so many years since his lips had fashioned the word that they seemed to tremble over it. j ; *‘How could I,” he continued, “bring the chil- dren of such a man to liye here at Bralyn? How could I let them succeed such ancestors as mine ? it is impossible.” “It would be better, perhaps, than to allowa stranger to come after you, or than letting the oid name goto ruin and decay. They may be the children of Thornton Cameron, but they belong to your race also, my lord--there is no denying that fact—they may even have your features. An expression of unutterable loathing came over the proud old face. “T hope not,” he said abruptly. _ s “They may even,’ continued the lawyer, with great diplomacy, “have the grand old Carlswood Salle the fire, the chivalry, the honor of the race.” Lord Carlswood’s face cleared. “Tf that should be the case,’ pursued Mr. Ford, “they have a greater ciaim to succeed than any stranger without these characteristics could have. After all, there is something in a rightful claim; and most’certainly the children of Katrine Ismay Carlswood ought to come after her father —it would be a erying injustice to pass them overt.” “You are begging the question,” said his lord- ship, sharply-——“she may have no children.” “fT grant that; but [ suggested that we should find her, and then we shall know.” : At first Lord Carlswood was violently op- posed to the idea—he would never let the children of “that thief” have Bralyn. “He was a thief! cried the old man, in a sud- den passion of anguish. “It he had stolen allmy wealth. I could have spared it far more easily than I could haye spared my daughter.” He buried his face in his hands, and the lawyer respected his grief. i Lord Carlswood, wouid not at first consent to Mr. Ford’s proposal; he was angry, contemptu- ous. indignant; but after.a time he reopened the discussion. which Mr. Ford considered a good sign: and then he listened to reason, next made excuses for himself, then wavered in his resolu- tions, and finally agreed to what was suggested. He persuaded himself that after all he had only listened to reason—that he had only consented to do what was best for his race. He would not, even to himself, own that natural affection, or a lingering remnant of love for his daughter had actuated him. Having yielded, he wrapped him- self in a mantle of reserve; he became to all out- ward appearance harder and prouder than ever. But Mr. Ford saw how the proud face quivered with emotion, and the firm lip trembled. Theold nobleman was silent for some minutes after he had given his consent, and then he turned sud- denly to Mr. Ford. ; : “Tf it has to be done at all,” he said, “ket it be done quickly; there is no time to be lost.” Then they began to discuss details. Mr. Ford tound, not much to his surprise, that Lord Carls- wood knew nothing of his daughter—that he had never heard one word of her since she left home. *‘Has she never written ?” asked the lawyer. “Yes,” was the brief reply; ‘but all the letters have been destroyed.” : It was agreed that they should begin to search for her at once; but there was not the least clew to start with. “It is more than twenty years sines she left home,” said Lord Carlswood. “It seems to me almost hopeless.” But Mr. Ford thought differently. “Tt is not so difficult to find any one a3 you imagine. I shall seek the help of one or two de- tectives from Scotland Yard, and you will see that we shall soon have news for you,” he said, hopefully, and he believed what he said. ‘For some time after this interview friends and servants ali noticed how excited and_ restless ford Carlswood had become. It seemed to him impossible that he should ever look upon the face of his child Katrine again. He was always won-~ dering-if news had been heard of her--if she were found, Weeks passed, and, though Mr. Ford wrote constantly, his letters contained but little intel- ligence. One came at last which threw Lord Carlswood into a fever of excitement. Mr. Cam- eron and his wife had been traced first to London where they had lived some months, and in all robability had spent the little money they had. n London Thornton Cameron tried hard for a professional engagement; but, young, unknown, without friends or influence, how was he to suc- ceed? From the great city he had gone to Liver- pool, only too thankful to take. an engagement that brought him in a hundred pounds Den an- num. In Liverpool he and his wife had taken furnished lodgings; and there a little child, bap- tized at St. John’s church under the name of Is- may Cameron, had been born. In Liverpool Mr. Cameron had tried the hopeless and difficult task of endeavoring to maintain a lady, brought up in the midst of affluence and luxury, on one hun- dred pounds per annum. The struggle had been from the very first a most hopeless one. With a careful, economical wife he might have weathered the storm; but Katrine had seldom heard the word “economy,” and had but a poor idea of what it really meant. She was perfectly ignorant of the value of money; she had always had exactly what she wished—the cost of it was a matter she had never considered. She had been brought up in one of the most luxurious homes in England—what could she possibly know of small economies and sordid cares? She wondered why, now that hornton had an engagement, they could not have good wine. She was ill, and she missed her father’s wine more than anything else. She raised her beautiful eyes in wonder when Thorn- ton once, wishing to please her, brought her a bottle of “Fine old Port.” “That is not good wine, Thornton,” she said— “it is not like the wine we had at home. Get me some of that.” It was with difficulty he made her understand that they could not afford it, and it was with equal difficulty he taught her even more painful facts. He gave up the task in utter despair, and started out in the world again to find something better. He was traced to Chester; and at Chester it was found that, after struggling for some time with adverse circumstances, fate and fortune both against him, he had broken down entirely. He had spoiled his life by the very action that he had hoped would make it. He had thought to reap a fortune by marrying the only daughter ofa rich nobleman; instead of which he had marred every prospect that life held for him. How could he, a poor, unknown musician, with- out friends or interest, keep an elegant, refined lady in comfort—nay, supply her with even the most common necessaries of life? He could not possibly do it,and the knowledge that he had made such a lamentable mistake killed him. He had been seized with a dangerous illness, which gave but little hope that he would ever recover. He had battled with it for some time, but at last he had died, and had been buried at Chester. His wife had remained there for some time in the greatest destitution, and then left, taking her lit- tle girl with her; and there all trace of her and the child had_been lost. Some of the cleverest detectives in England had been employed to find her and had failed. Mr, Ford, who had under- -9<—___ RECENT PUBLICATIONS. A Woman IN Armor. By Mary Hartnell. Publishers, G. W. Carleton & Co., New York. The style of this work is forcible, and the writer gives promise of rising to a high position as a novel- ist. It is not a love story, in the usual acceptation of the term, the author’s aim being chiefly to show the injustice of the law that makes the father the custodian of children without regard tohis fitness for the trust, but it issufficiently interesting to hold the reader from beginning to end. ee ee a sans + tae THE BROKEN PLEDGE. BY GUY GLYNDON, ee “As chasps thy taper finger, sweet, The ring with which we plight our vows, So, when the circling year’s complete, Pil clasp, and ne’er release, my spouse.” He spoke, and she all blushing heard, And thrilled responsive to his word, “But it, while midnight shrouds the main, My bark goes down before the gale, And if I ne’er come back again— CTis but a jest; nay, Why so pale Thy cheek ?)—but wilt be loyal still 2” She clmging whispered: “Love, I will!” “Be this our gage? A coin he broke; Each segment strung upon a thread, “Oh, peerless one, bend to the yoke!” She, smiling, blushing, bowed her head, ‘‘Now sear the heart ye rest above * That first proves traiter unto Love!” ae Ss * + * The circling year is all complete; But still her lover comes not bacix To lay his trophies at her feet. "Neath tossing wave amd soudding rack He sleeps the sailor’s dreamiess sleep, Couched in the bosom of the deep. Another year hatn cast its vail Forgetful o’er the silent dead; The maid uo longer waits his sail Upon the shore with eyelids red; Another bends to catei her sighs— To read the love-light in her eyes, The organ’s tones have died away, The bridegroom waits expectant there The holy words that give—But stay !— The bride faints on the altar stair!’’ She’s dead! Go search above her heart; The gage hath acted well its part! The Right to Dramatize this Story ts Reserved by the Authcr. THE SCALP-TAKER. A STORY OF THE TEXAS BORDER. By Ned Bunitline. [‘‘The Scalp-Taker” was commenced in No. 33. Back Nos can be obtained from any News Deaier in the United States.} CHAPTER LIT. Retreatiug to their old position in the Black Gorge, Buckskin Sain and his party, reinforced by fourteen men belonging to the eammand of Wilderness Ned, felt strong enough to hold ten trousand Indians at bay. But Sam was terribly down-hearted at the loss of paar Jatia, whom he fancied as suffering every in- dignity at the hands of Big Foot, and it wasall that his men could do to keep him trom 1oHowing the Indian trail, though the new men told him Wilderness Ned if left to work in his own way, would do more for her rescue than they all could, for he was full of cunning, brave usthe bravest, aud never at a loss for re- sources, if By ten o’clock the Indians were seen coming back in a body, and apparently in far greater numbers than when they first laid siege to the rangers. } Sam, with his glass to his eye, quickly mounted the highest peak where he.could reconnoiter the approach, looking in yaiu to see some sign ot Julia, Big Foot, or the slrange horseman Known as Wilderness Ned. Among ail the horses he could see none like Black Cloud, nor could he see the scariet blanket of Big Foot with its great white totem. “I believe this is a new band!” he shouted to his friends beiow, “And they seem determined to tuke it easy and starve us out, for they are picketing out their ponies and building fires. Lil put out their fires in a hurry it they'll build them a little closer,? ‘The Indians seemed well under controi, a few leaders carefully examined the trails leading into the gorge, and then seemed to assigu the duty of guard to about half their number, who massed strong enough to meet and resist attack, while the others got wood, water, and meat, and went to cooking. A few rode off eitner to Bunt or to act as scouts and videttes, “We're hemmed in now in real earnest,” said Sam, coming down from the look-out, while Texas Bili took his place, ‘Aud Old Big Foot don’t show himself in this gang.” “When next you hear ©? that cuss, our captain will show you his scalp,” said one of thenew men. “We wereatier the chap when your man, Colorado Hunter, met our captain, There is five thousand dollars reward lor Uaat scalp’? “A right sinart pile for one India’s bar,” said another, “Dd like to take cieania’ of en val by Contract at titty dollars a head. Vl) bet Pd make my pile on it as fast as the peace commissioners make their fortunes the other way.” “What otlier way ?’ asked Sam, “Robbing and cheating the Indians on one hand and the gov- ernment on the other, pretending to be too good to spit on Sun- day or wink on a Week-day!” said theman. “You needn’t look surprised, sir; we Texaus know them from sad experienee.”? The day wore on, aud keeping the water in the pond: high enough to use in case of a general attack, the rangers and their friends took regular turns as guards, and ate sparingly of the provisions on haud, At best it would be some days belore they pe help, without Burleson was on the march, and had been met y Celorado Huntes. Phat alone would imsure speedy relief. If help had tocome al the way from the fort, they could not ex- pect it inside of a wesk, if 60 soon. We will leave them here just now, fully able to take care of themselves, while we look for two others that require our syin- thy. ry an before night Wilderness Ned reported every Indian out of sight, though nearly all day scattered parties hau been scouting round, as if looking tor Big Foot, He shot an antelope that came in easy range, evidently coming on the trail for water, and while he dressed and cut up some to carry along, Julia cooked a coupie of thick steaks over a smoke- less fire, made from the dry twigs of willow which she picked up. Both ate a hearty supper, and then prepared for a long and rapid ride, Their horses had rested jong and fed weil, and they were how fit tor hard work, despite the terribie run of te prée- vious night, Taking his course by the stars the moment they were mounted, Wilderness Ned led off, telling Julia to let her horse follow his in silence, so fur as talk was concerned, for, beiore the night was oer, there was no knowing what they might run across. A long sweeping lope was their gait, and with such horses it was the most easy and lasting pace they could take, with less jar and least fatigue to rider and horse, They had riddenon in a north-easterly course, perhaps two hours, when, in spite ot the injunction to silence, Julia exe claimed: “Oh, look at that beautiful shooting-star!” The eye of Wilderness Ned glanced at what she thought to be a Beth Ors and an exclamation of joy and surprise broke from his ips. “The messenger must have met Burleson on the way!” he cried, ‘ier that is a rocket, asignai to your friends that help is coming. It cannot be the regular troops without they, too, were out after that reward, ‘bat has stirred up activity, but you are ahead of tuem ail!” “It that was @ rocket, there goes another!” said Julia. “Yes—help 18 Ou its way to the men at the Black Gorge. I think I will change my course and intercept these people. They may need a guide, aud you will be more sate if you have more company.” “I sball not feel so. I feel perfectly safe with only you to guide and protect me!” cr wish you were certain to feel so all our lives!” he said, ear- nestly. “T um sure I wiil—you are so good and so brave!”? Wilderness Ned sighed. He had already turned his horse so as to go west ol where they saw the last rocket. ay wish I had a rocket to answer theirs with,” hesaid. “But Wigles are rarely fulfilled in the wiluerness. If they could be, I eae a hope that would make the world bright to me once more Julia was silent. Yet she wondered what that hope could be. At last, thinking she might speak without offending him, she de- termined to ask him. “If the world has been dark to you, what woutd makeit BRD oe 27? “Your love, beautiful rase of the wilderness!" he cried, in a tone that sent the blood reeting hot to her very temps. “I am atone afd wayward man, living on the excitement.oi adventure, but love meas I would be loved, as Ilove you, and this world will be a paradise. Ishall. have something to jive for, and then you will know how much true’manhood there is in my nature.”’ Julia was silent now. She wasdumb from surprise, not wi» mixed with joy. Love was like a sveetdream to her young heart, and to be loved by syet-a man—wasit not enough to over- whelm her with a strange, indefinabe joy as it did? “Can you not love me just a littke*? he said, sadly, as his horse dropped back by the side of Black Cloud. “Vo,” she answered, with a spice of womans coquetry. ‘Not a Hitle but a great deal—with all my heast, aM my Isfe. Had it not been for you, where would I now be?’* He answered her boldly, but pot im an unnaterai way. He leaned over from his horse, threw his arm about her siender waist and pressed the first kiss of true amd ceaseless love upon her Kips. It was answered, and fer a moment those two forgot a things but that they had woke to a sudden and a joyous new ife, “There is another rocket! How much plainer it shows!” cried oe as he at last released her waist and straightened in his saddie. “Yes, they are forcing their horses. We, too, must hurry And both horseswere now.et outto avout three-quarters speed, dashing over the plains rapidly. The night was already well advanced, and they did not see an- other rocket until the morning star was wp, and it rose so close that Julia was startled. She had never before that might seen one Wilderness Ned altered his course a little. “At daylight,” said he, “I wiii be near enough to see who they are, and whether they are the kind of company for us to join. There are filibustsrs onthe plains, but they don’t often get far from the settlements,” “Filibusters! What are they?” asked Julia. “Robbers, sweet girl. They prey on the settlements in Mexico, as well as in Texas, wherever they can make it pay without too much danger.” Day was now showing rosily in the east. Wilderness Ned dis- mounted and helped Julia to the ground. “We will let our horses rest and get breath, while we wait to see who they are, We are ahead of thecolumn, It is, however, very near—not a mile back.” Day came on fast, and, just as the sun first showed its glare above the horizon, Julia and her companion saw a long line of men moving along parallel-to them, nota quarter of a mile away. ‘Mount your horse, my love!” cried Wilderness Ned, glancing at them through a small field-glass which he carried. ‘They are Texan rangers, and enough to sweep the plains—a full battalion, at least.” Iya moment more Julia-and her companion were sweeping ave e ground at full speed, steering for the head of the column, whe ilderness Ned was warmly greeted by Captain Ed Burle- son, one of the noblest, truest sons of Texas, and the best leader the rangers had ever known, not even excepting their idol, Ben McCullough, Colorado Hunter was there, guiding the column, and his greet- ing to Julia, as the captive child of Post Oak Bill, drew every eye upon her, for the command had halted, and the rangers cir- cled around their leader to hear the news. “Is this the captive heroine of whom Colorado Hunter has been telling us?” asked Captain Burleson. “Yes, sir,”? said Wilderness Ned, “this is Julia, the daughter of Post Oak Bill, but you don’t know half her title to the name of heroine. Look at_the scalp which she wears at her belt! It is the scalp of Big Foot, the Phantom Chiet, killed by her own hand. Itis his rifle which she ‘carries, Look here at his eagle l plea his oar ce wens great white totem. Now what do yo nk oO i i i i ] wi ae u the White Lily, the Heroine of the (EW YORK WEEKLY. #2 “Three cheers for her!” yetled Colorado Hunter, —— Three times three were given with a heartiness which almost deafened the blushing girl; and then Captain Burleson gave the order to move forward at a trot, for they were yet two lours’ sharp ride from the Black Gorge. CHAPTER LIII. Jeremiah Slocum, by his oddity and what seemed to be a nat- ural wit, combined with fee! arm spoiled somewhat, however, by too mush wordy show of religion, had quite won the confi- dence of Charley Gibson, and he amused Fanny Dean, though she took little stock in his piety. 1t had too much tongue to be very sincere, she thought. On the night of the day when he had intrusted his money to the care of Fanny n, Mr. Slocum, was out till about ten o’clock, the hour when Fanny Deaa invariably retired, aud he saw the light through the curtained window of herchamber when he came in. Gibson was alone in the office, where he usually remained un- til midnight, the other. guests having either retired, or, being provided with night-keys to the private entrance, were able to come in when they desired. Gibson greeted Slocum warmly, and saying he felt drowsy, asked him to tell him about his bear-hunting trip up to the head- ag ot the Guadalupe, as he had promised, Slocum, or Dave Dunning, was neVer better pleased than with this request. He wanted to ‘kill’ two hours of time. Then though the monte tadle, the fandangoes and saloons would be in full blast, the streets would be alinost literally deserted. Re- spectable people would be in and asleep, the other class busy in the dens already alluded to he sat down and began to tell story after story in his droR way until the moon, which he had been watching from time to time through an open window, went down. It was then halt- past eleven by the clock. : Atthat moment there came a low, timid knock at the front door. “I woncer who can be there at this hour?” said Gibson, rising to go and see. ve Dunning went with him, standing Just behind him as he unlocked and opened the door. Pwo men, wrapped in ponchos, stood there, but as Gibson opened his mouth to speak a gag was thrust into it by Dave, who clasped one arm about his neck and almost strangled him, while the two men rushed in and in a sec- ond put out the light and bound him hand and foot so tightly that he could not move, . Thus gagged and helpless Gibson lay, while Dunning prepared for further work. All the servants slept in a back buiiding ad- joing the maid house, and there was no danger of disturbing them. After seeing that there was no possibility for Gibson to get loose or remove the gug, the villain told the tiwo Mexicans to stay where they were watt he called them, and then he stole off in sifence to use the chloroform, That day he had so arranged the bolt of Miss Dean’s room, in amoment of access to itfrom the sitting-room, that he could slip it from the outside. And now, with his boots eff, so silent that the Mexicans did not knew when he left the darkened room where they waited, he went to carry out his vile plan. Dunning crept up threugh the sitting-room, and then, to his chagrin, he saw the bedroom door of Miss Dean open. She had not retired. She was sitting in a chair, dressed, with her back toward him, apparently reading, for a book lay upon the stand, which aJso hekt a lamp. He crept closer. Could he possibly surprise her and hold her soshe could not scream while he applied the chloroform to deaden her senses? He would try. Closer and closer, and he was on the threshold of the chamber. He panded and listened. She was breathing heavily, but stead- fly. Surely he wasin luck. She sept. He had a rope already noosed, and to slip it over her shoulders and pinion her arms was but asecond’s work. Then, as she woke, with one arm clasped close about her neck and his great, coarse hand over her mouth to keep her silent, he applied to her nostrils a handkerchief soaked in chloroform. She could breathe nothing but that impregnated air, ¥or a minute or Lwo she struggled so that strong as he was he could hardly hold her, then limp and helpless she sank under the influence of the chlorvform, and in a hitle whiie longer she was totaliy unconscious, - Laying ber down on her bed, he quickly called up the two Mexicans, and pointing to the trunk, told them to take it upand follow him. Then he raised her m his arms and carried her out of the house, wrapping a iouse siawl about her head, while he kept the handkerchiet still beneath her nostrils. They met ouly One man in the street and to him Dunning cried out: “Don’t come near us, it isa woman with the small- I'm taking her to the pest house out of town.” ry era The man hurried by and asked no questions, Fitteen minutes later, Dave Dunning entered the house where the two gamblers waited to see if he could fulfill his promise He bore the still unconscious and strangely beautiful girl in his arms, The Mexicans followed with the trunk. Laying the girl down on a large sofa, Dave turned and handed the Mexicans each a dubloom. ‘That gentleman,” he said to them, “will show you down stairs to where supper is ready, with plenty of aguadiente!” He pointed to Natchez Bill, who at once rose and took the Mexicans down to supper—the last they would ever eat, for the strong liquor they loved so well was heavily dosed with’ stry ch- aieaat an ae silence — be secured. When the gambler came back, Dunning had tak S from Miss Dean’s beit, where they hung in full —_ oon ays about to open the trunk so as to discover and make sure of his are of the a bia eit tied “Lev’s carry the girl into the back room and lock 7 Hamilton, who had cut the rope, which had bound ne clese that her hands were turnivg black with blood which could PR eras ' ein sinc “No—I want my share of the plunder now, and -wi / fooling!’ said Dave Dunning, “Betore daylight wate Be mules ie here on my way arco “het him liave iis way—let us share the pl take oe ot es : ao lie nesne said Bill. ee “AU right!” cried Hamiiton, and in a moment, aH three were bending over the trunk, throwing her rich dresses r bo gat htinw buna S right and le({t They were so eviger and hasty that they did not hear a sich of returning conscioushess from the peor girl—did net see her eyes open feet then ee —s terror, _ But almost as soon as she woke, recognizi Hami thick, bull-neck and red hair, she seemed ro Shapeetend tee her property and herself had been brought into their power. She knew ee smell ot ee and whenshe saw the man Slo- cum unlocking one of her boXes, the who rillai Gitae api es a ) le scheme of villainy Yet she was silent ,and was even nerving hers terrible effort to save her own honor us worl rll MMe Gosiy her po mores pore toa pide pocket, Hersix-barrelod revolver was there, and she kuew that if hé su was a — in every ees 4 handled calmly, there The boxes were opeved at last, and mo N allver Were exposed to view. ee ee eee “Isn’t a jolly sight!” cried Dave Dunning. “{ lay in a clam, aud make you throw dice for the ath Dutt dont a for hea tee ee ma ber of this plunder Tll get to urope, and then they can whistle for me Pew the click . a revolver ?” sh Sai Reda eaten cediean He beard more—the veport—as a ball went (hr x ilton’s brain; and as Natchez Bill turned eiibiartey of teen na second bali went fairly between his eyes, while Dunning sprivg- ing toward the girl in desperation, received two shots, neither Peay but sufficient to briug Lim helpless and groaning to the oor. And then, Fanny Dean rushed to the window, screamed: “Police! i year At In a minute the sound of rushing feet was o street, and whiie Fanny shouted for them to contenu be ne 9g and a agit eth trying to raise a pistol to fire at her. n a second his arm lay siiattered b 3 side . aie. revolver in her hand. . y his side, and she had his At the same moment, a dozen or more men rushe@ whom she recognized, fot he had dined at the Mencia Seon magece Fag aan ere of the county. “Miss Dean oW in Heaven's naw ¢ 7 se ’ cried. fees hye os mean!” My SAMS FO, bane 27? she “Ask that man. e Shall tell the truth ’ i brains as I have those of his rascally cnploverin Sn Nee Fanny pointed her pistol at the head ot Dunning. “Don’t shoot—dou’t shoot, and I'll teil!” he groaned. “I was hired to chloroform hee aud get her trunks here by them two men that she has sho: Yh, do get me stor > = REE ae g & doctor? I’m bleeding “-Lwould serve you right if you did—but no! Wh I live you’re a man I’ve looked fer a whole Suan, Selo i a ~~ a money me eas ad me a rope waiting ior your neck |” cried the sheriff. “Miss Dean, thésis a lucky thi have the reward.” i f 3 cky thing. You shall “LT want no reward, sir; but if you please Ill put my own pro- perty back in my trunk, which you'll favor me by sendi Macias, Hause,” y € by sending to the “Certainly, and Pilescort you there as coroner and look through the house.” The “look through the house” discovered the two dead at the table, and the two servanis asleep in their rooms ‘The latter two knew nothing of the crime, so they were allowed to go, and the sheriff sent Miss Dean’s trunk on by some of his men, and followed with her to the Moovie House. She bud done a good deed in thus ridding the world of two wretches, aud putting a third in the hands of justice. raised it, and soon asIsend youa Mexicans CHAPTER LIX. It was almost neon, when Captain Burleson who had halted to rest and feed his horses so as to fit them for a charge, came moving up in solid column toward the Indians massed in front of the Black Gorge. The latter had fallen back close in to the hills, to keep the rangersin_ the gorge back, while they met those who were com- ing on their trout; for they had seen the rockets in the night and by scouts learned of the attackmg force, whom they now trebled 11 numbers, and whom they. desperately resolved to fight. But they had made a terrible mistake, and Buckskin Sam only waited till the relieving forces got near enough to justify him when he took advartuge of that mistake, The pond, full to its utmost capacity, was suddenly let off by tearing out the gate, and it swept down upon the fadiniss in a torrent even more terrible than before, drowning many, while it threw the rest in a panic and confusion, in which they were utterly unprepared forthe attack now make by Burleson, who threw his column into line of battle, and it came on in full charge with the Texan yell. In the very front rode Wilderness Ned, flaunting the red blanket of Big Foot in his left hand, while his terrible revolver was wielded in hisright. On his own head he wore the weil-known eagle plume of the Phantom Chief, In despair the Indians saw these signs that their chief was slain, and when Buckskin Sam and his men came charging out close after the subsiding torrent, they scattered and fled in every direction, whipped and disheartened. It was now nothing but a massacre, though some Indians turned and fought, and several rangers were hurt, and three culled. Long before night the fight was all over, the pursuit ended, and scalps to the number oft over three hundred gathered in. When Sam saw Biack Cloud once more, and Julia, lovelier than ever, on his back, by the side of Wilderness ~ +d, Ins joy was com- plete. She had been saved, and a heavy weight was lifted trom his mind, for he felt himself to blame for not going with Wilder- ness Ned in that wild pursuit. When told what she had done—that herown hand had freea Texas from its greatest pest, and helped to save her own life, his wonder could not be expressed. i: “T aim not surprised that Post Oak Bill won such a name when his girl can outdo us alll” he said, For a wonder, Reckless Joe was silent. He had no speech to spout, But when the other rangers took her by the hand and congratulated her on her escape, he too did the same, looking as contused as a school-boy caught in the act of kissing a gir). “Joe, I do believe you're in love!’ whispered Sam, as his friend turned blushing away. Joe sighed—put on a tragic air, and said: “oTwas ever thus! From childhood’s hour Ive seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower, But ’twas the first to tade away; I never nursed a dear gazelle To glad me with its soft black eya, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die. I never had a piece of buttered bread But it was sure to slide and slip Upon the side on which was spread The butter for my hungry lip!” Joe moved off to hide his emotions, while Sam received a for- mal introduction to Wilderness Ned from Julia, couched too in such terms that Sam’s eyes opened to the true state of things in that quarter. . He was not troubled by it. He was not in love. He was too ambitious to become a leader of rangers,and to win renown over his nom dequerra of the “ScaLp TAKER,” to think of love. And he was glad that Julia, on her return to civilized life, or- eel pg she was, would have a brave manas a protector and a usband. When, ten days later in San Antonio, he offered to turn over to her ali of her father’s property and effects, she refused to take them, saying *‘Wilderness Ned,’ as she still love all him, would not let her do it, tor he was. rich, and, none, her re- ward for killing Big Foot made her even now richer than Sam. Fanny Dean, a heroine now in the town, reeeived Julia with the kinduess of asister, and thus happy and contented aH, with a noble future for Buckskin Sam on the Rio Grande and its trie- utaries, we bring our story to an END. An exciting Border story, entitled “THE HUMAN BEAR; or, THE GOLD-SEEKER’S BRIDE,” will soon be commenced. THE Pearl of the Prairie. [The Pear] of the Prairie’? was commenced in No. 40. Back Nos. can be obtain from apy News Dealer in the United States.} CHAPTER XXV. UNRAVELING THE COIL.—VIRGINE. As Lone Star spoke, he staggered—the blow was too much for even his iron nerves. It wasasif he had been stricken by a thunderbolt. His face became pallid, then flushed purple with the rush of blood to the brain, and he would have fallen, but for the promptuess of the prisoner in catching and supporting him... “My son! My son!’ excluimed the outlaw in broken tones in which shame and remorse were blended. The pathetic aud contrite tone of the prisoner’s voice, smote thegenerous heart of the young man, who hada been so stunned by this strange revelation, “Yes, yes, you are my father,” he said, with a sympa- thetic thrill in his expression. ‘In spite of your crimes I will hot disown you—even at the gallows tree.” “Heaven bless you, boy, for those words. Even with my dying breath I’ll bless you for them;’’ exciaimed the outlaw, as he sank on his couch overcome by his feelings, whispering: ‘Wait! Callnoaid. I will be better soon, and—theu—then we will talk about your mother—my— wife—wihiom I caused to die.’’ It would be hare to picture the feelings of father and son, or the pathos wilh which the doomed outlaw spoke. Alter a while he recovered and sat up, Lone Star sitting beside him. For some moments he gazed on the floor, and then said slowly, as though thinking aloud: “Yes, Isee all now. She never ceased to love me, and came to the frontier to seek me, and it waS her husband that caused her death, and the death of her little child. Yes, he sent his son among strangers, and his act turned him against his own father, to seek revenge, for bitterly had he suffered. Ohl how like an avenging angel, sweeps this tide of memory over me now.”’ Bertram, now known as Captain Bernard, buried his face in his hamds as he ceased speakiug, and great sobs shook his massive frame. ‘Pather!?? The outlaw chief started, his face paled, but catching the kind and sympathiziug look of Basil fastened upon him, he smiled, and held forth his hand, which his son grasped warmly. “Basil, my son, I cannot believe that poor Virgine is dead, for often have 1 seen her sweet face hovering around meto guide me away fromcrime. It was said that one little girl escaped that massacre, even the blood- thirsty savages refusing lo strike when she smiled npon them. The Pawnees when they came, carried this little girl to their village.”? “Hal say you so, my father? Hold! I will call Spotted Horse and question him;’? and Lone Star hastily depart- ed from the ruom, and soon returned with the chief. “Chief, I would have you tell me if you know aught of the emigrant train massacre, some fourteen years ago? Your warriors arrived and drove off the renegades and their allies, from the Sioux and Pawnees, who were dividing the spoils.”’ “It is long years ago for Spotted Horse to remember, for he was a youug brave ten, wlio had only tred his first war-path.’’ “True chief; but you have heard the battle your tribe had with the renegades sung and talked over often iu the wigwams of your people?’ queried the scout. ‘Lone Star speaks the truth. Spotted Horse has heard the braves of his nation tell of the battle.” “Did they ever speak of finding among the slain a little girl, tie only being that escaped the fearful massacre?’ ‘Phe tongue of the Lone Star is straight; the Pawnee braves found the little papoose.’? “What did they do with her ?? ; The great medicine chief of the Pawnees took her to his lodge, and she became the pride of his people.” “Oh, Heaven be praised!'the Pearl of the Prairie is that chiid!’’ cried the outlaw chief, springing to his feet and rapidly pacing the floor, while the veius on his fore- head swelled out Jike whip-cords, The scout bowed his head in thankfulness, and arose and left the room. Spotted Horse, in surprise at the emotion of the two men, siiently followed him. CHAPTER XXVL THE WAIF OF THE PAWNEE VILLAGE, — When the scout left the room where Bertram was con- fined, he sought the Pearl of the Prairie, whom he found upon the rude baicony, with Fred Hazleton by her side. _ “Prairie Pearl, I desire to speak with you upoa a most important matter—no, hold on Hazleton, it is nothing that you cannot hear. for 1 wish your advice.” , “The Pearl of the Prairie will listen to the words of the Lone Star,” said the maiden quietly. After a pause Lone Star said: : “Prairie Pearl, I am going to speak the Jangnage of the pale faces. You understaud it well, and I wish you to. listen to every word I say, for itis of you that I will speak. Do you know that you are not an Indian ?”? “The mother of the Pearl of the Prairie died many, very many moons ago, and has net told her that she was nob a daughter of the prairie.” “True; but your mother was not an Indian, a pale face.’ “The mother of the Pride of the Pawnees a pale face squaw 2’ asked the maiden with an incredulous smile. “The tongue of Lone Star is straight, Prairie Pearl, it does not tell crooked stories. You re a pale-face maiden, and your father was a brave of the fort; one of the warriors of the Great Father at Washington. Your mother Jived far from here toward the rising sun in the lonely land of the pale face, and there Prairie Pearl was born. There the Prairie Pearl was Joved by her mother and brother, who was a number of seasons older than she was. At last the mother of Prairie Pearl started with her two children, to visit her husband who was far of toward the setting sun in the land of the red man. But a band of wicked Indians attacked the wagon train of the pale faces, and all were slain, excepting litue Prairie Pearl, and her brother, who was absent from the place of attack wilh the guide. The brother of Prairie Pearl was taken by the guide to his Mexican home. There he lived until he grew up, and then he came to the frontier here, to avenge the death of his mother and sister. He did not then know that the Indian had not slain his little sister. The Pawnees carried her with them to their village, and a great medicine chief made her his daughter, and she grew up to be the pride of the Pawnees, and on account of her white complexion, she was called the Pearl of the Prairie. The brother of the Prairie Pearl became a pale-face warrior, and his name is Lone Star.’? “The Lone Star is Prairie Peari’s brother? said, or rather questioned the maiden, raising her hand to her head, speaking ina soft whisper and appearing as if striv- ing to recall some by-gone memory. ‘‘And the name of the Prairie Pear] was Virgine.”? ‘“Virginel”’? she exclaimed. “Yes; and the name of the Lone Star, the brother of Virgine, was Basil,” ‘‘Basill’? echoed the girl, in wonderment. “Basil used to take his little sister Virgine up on his horse before him, and give her a ride,” continued the scout; ‘“‘and Basil and Virgine lived with their mother in a wigwam on wheels, with a white top, and Virgine had a little dog she called captain.” “Captain! repeated the girl, musingly. “Yes; let Virgine think, and sie will remember, even though she was but five years old then.” “Virgine remembers now. Siie remembers the wagon, the pretty fields, and Basii, aud Captain, an@—but where ts Virgine's mamma?” “The mamma ef Virgine and Basil is dead; but Virgine has her brother Basil to love her.?? ‘And you are Basil ?”” “Yes, 1 am Virgine’s brother.’? “But Basil wasoa little boy ??? “True; but Basil has grown to be a man, and Virgine is a woman.” a The maiden was silent for a while—her thonghts were busy~—aud then her face brightened, a smile hovered upon her lip, and she drew nearer to the scout, who silently put forth his hand and drew her fondly toward him. “Heaven be praised, this is wonderful!” ejaculated Fred Hazleton, who had listened to the strange conversation between the brother and sister with an interest second only to that felt by the scout, After a while Lone Star said: “Is my sister Virgine glad to have found her brother??? ‘*Virgine is glad. There is sunshine in the heart of ¥ir- gine; but she willbe no longer the Pearl of the Prairie,’ She added, asshe glanced up into her brother's face. ‘*Virgine will go with her brother to the East, and see all the grand sights in the home of her pale-face people.’? “The white warrior told his Jove to the Pearl of the Prairie; will he still love Virgine? innocently asked the maiden, iooking straight in the face of Fred Hazleton, and her words cansed the scout’s heart to bound with joy. “Indeed he will; I willlove Virgine even more than I loved her as the Pearl of the Prairie. I will go with her to the far-off homes of our people,” earnestly said Fred Hazleton. Lone Star felt happy, for he no longer dreaded in him a rival in the love of Nellie Rupert. Still did the Lone Star dread to tell the sad news he was yet the bearer of, regarding their father, and leaving Vir- gine, as I must now Eall her, alone upon the balcony, he called Fred Hazleton aside, and having told him ali asked his advice. The surprised young Officer was silent for a while, but then said: “She should never knowit. Her heart is untutored like her brain, sofar. Now she recalls indistinctly her past life, she should not find @regs so soon in her cup of. joy, and from what you say of the—of Bertram, he will not wish it thus.”? ‘“‘Let the secret be buried between us, said the scont. ‘Let us yet Virgine away from these wild. scenes as soon as possible, and my word for it she will yet make a glo- rious woman in spite of the rude associations of her early life. She has an innate breeding now, a refinement never found in a redskin.” But, Basil, the chief must not diese “So say I. No, my father shall not die like a dog; will save him, and the colonel must be content with the knowledge that the renegade band is broken up, and that the stronghold is in his possession,?? She was pedis es .. SZ sii fa ‘ agate: ‘ teeta te A 5 ¥ a ~—___—_ Our Knowledge Box. QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.— Oliver Chokestrap.—DANDRUFF.—Sulphur will remove dandruff— one ounce to a quart of water, Mix thoroughly and wash the head well. Two or three applications—twe or three days apart— will probably answer...... Artist.—You must visit Philadelphia yourselt if you would secure a good place. Do not trust to let- ter-writing...... Keetsa.—Take it to a meersechaum shop. We cannot help you......N. B. D.—Ether will take grease spots out of blue cloth,.... Straighthair.—No...... Flora.—See No. 40 of volume 30, We have no other rectpes...... Charles M.—Tannic DOG, d4ca) Jennie.—We cannot tell you......H. P. & 0. Co.—You will find a geod recipe for PASTE in No, 26 of volume 30 .....G. Horn.—Linseed oil and turpentine will be found very useful..... Louis Bisang.—l. Wnabridged copy $12. 2. The dictionary will tet you, ....,. L. L. B.—1. Giyeerine and lemon jaice wil whiten and sotten the skin, and heip toremeve freckles. 2, No SS eee &, dapRaphad ang A Bartender,~-Ne recipes that we could vouch for...... Germantown, Pa.—To bronze gun-barrels see No. 24 of volume 30..... Darretl.—l. Lunar caustic will remove warts. 2. Bathe your eyes night and morning in salt and er eo. r Mary Somers.—ALUM BASKETS.—To make alum baskets preyare a foundation of wire and cover it with strips of old linen; and then dip the work in hot alum water till a thick coating of that substance is formed, The wires may be twisted into any shape that may please the fancy, and a goed effect may be obtained by leaving litue tags of the linen strips hanging in vamous ditec- tions. When incrusted with the alum they will have the ap- pearance of icicles. The first dipping of the basket should be somewhat prolonged, but atter that it may occasionally be im- mersed and dried until enough of the alum adheres to be satis- factory. Iu this way not only very pretty baskets can be ob- tained, but vases, card-baskets, cornucopias and other attractive ornaments may be prepared....J. Z. H.—No recipe for that par- ticular purpose...... “Aanzious,’—Put a little spermaceti in the starch....H. O. D.—We have not the space for a full deseription of the process, There are cheap werks on the subjeat. Write direct to the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency..... Ticen- deroga.—To make an Eolian harp, see No. 36 of volume 30........ Lady G. and Tow Boy .—FRECKLES.—Rusty nail water will some- times remove freckles. Also powdered niter....Gopher.—l. Use a little spirits of ammonia. 2. We cannot help you.... Bingham. —Take them to a dyer’s. The cost will be mueh leas..... FP. K.— Avoid food containing much starch or sugar....7erry.—Yes..... Forgetful.—l. For inks of various kinds see No 36 of volume 30. 2. For government mucilage see No. 17 of volume 30..... Szyainey. —To Krxep THE HANDS DRY.—The_ hands may be preserved dry for playing che piano, or for any delicate work by rubting a lit- tle club moss (lycopodium or vegetable sulphur) in very fine powder over them. The hands may often be kept cool, as before stated, by bathing them ina solution of alum and water........ SnowSflakei—See No. 36 of volume 30,..... Constant Reade.—No certain recipe...... True Economy.—Salt and lemon juice........ Silly Jack.—We cannot aid you........ Maude.—Tiie New York WEEKLY Purchasing Agency can furnish you with an article to bleach the hair. Price $3 per bottle...... G. H. S.—See No. 17 of volume 30 tor a good mucilage...... M. D.—Yes. Write direct to the Nyxw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency...... Tompkins.—1. Cigar. 2. To make COLOGNE see No. 22 of volume 30.......... iV. E. F.—PLAIN LEMONADE IN PowDER.—Take half a pound af tartaric acid in powder, sixteen pounds of white sugar, and one and a half drams of oil of lemons. Rub and mix well. One ounce of this powder will make half a pint of lemonade......... Nellie L. W. and Vantty.—We cannot tell yon...... Katie Daily.— Gis scam’ H. E,. H.—Make it the usual way, and keep it in a re- frigerator until wanted........ A. A.—No........ Newsdeuler.—See No. 17 of volume 30...... White Tiger.—Bathe your eyes in tepid water night and morning...... ..A. K. McG.—The item was takeu from a Maine paper...... Young Housekeeper, E. F., Petite Fan- chette, School-Girl, Nova Scotia_Reader, F. L. Wright, A Deaf Mute, Lone Star, R. T. B., W. M., Chemistry, Boy Reacer, Chemistry No. 2, Sargent Buzfuz, 8S. B. B., Ivie, A. G. S.—Your eer have been received, aud will be answered as sven as pos- sible. MEDICAL DEPARTMENT, Anxious Inquirer.—RULES OF HEALTH.—1l. The one rule for good health is to keep the feet warm, the head cool, and body open. Iftthese were generally attendeg to the phbysician’s aid would seldom be required. 2. Friction of the body is one of the gentlest and most useiul kinds of exercise, either by the hand, a piece ot flannel, a tolerably coarse towel, ora flesh brush. Fric- tion cleans the skin, promotes the perspiration, and increases the warmth and energy of the body. In rubbing the stomach, per- form the operation in a circular direction, as that is most favora- ble to the course of the intestines and their natural action. 3. Persons who take very littie exercise of any kind deteriorate ia health more than they have any idea of, especially those whose lungs are weak. Parents should see to it that their children spend, if possible, some portion of every day in the openair. The capacity of the chest is greatly enlarged by taking bes and full inspirations of fresh, pure air. B. L. M.—TOBACCO SMOKING.—We republish, at your request, the following instructions to the tobacco user who would reform. ‘It is from a medical journal: ‘‘1t is impossible to quit the use of tobacco after it has become a settied habit, without more or less bad feeling and prostration. The man who would free himself from the curse of tobacco-using must make up his mind that he has a hard struggle to pass through, call all his willand power to his aid, and resolve te quit it at once and forever. The leaving off by degrees seldom succeeds. It is better to make the battle short, sharp, and decisive. A thorough course of bathing, to elimin- ate the tobacco from the system, will make the struggle much less severe, and prove the greatest aid that can be given. The Turk- ish baths are best, if they can be had. If not accessible, the wet sheet, pack, or vapor bath should be taken instead. There will not be much appetite, and but little food should be taken. Fruit is best. No drink but water, and that may be drank as freely as desired. To allay the craving for tobacco, hold cold water or pieces of ice in the mouth.” ‘ J. J. Post.—KiDNEY D1SEASE.—Bright’s Disease of the Kidneys, which was first explained to the profession in 1837 by Dr Bright, of England, whose name it took, consists of a disorder of the kid- neys—probably a congestion and obstructed circulation in them— from which arise two most important effects: first, albumen, an essential alimentary constituent of the blood, is secreted and passed off in larger or smaller quantities; and secondly, urea, the worn out matters in the blood, which the kidneys are made ex- pressly to carry off, is permitted toremain. In treating this dis- ease the first object aimed at should be a healthy and active con- dition of all the vessels of the skin, which will greatly relieve the kidney’s themselves. The alkaline sponge bath, with vigorous friction every day, will accomplish this object. The bowels should be regulated by some simple medicine, such as cream of tartar cissolved in flaxseed tea, or rochelle powders, or epsom salts. Coffee, and all indigestible articles of food, such as rich pastries, new bread, highly seasoned meats, and fats, must be avoided. Ina word, avoid the use of any drinks or food that witl worry the stomach. Mc M.—You will find a cure for CANCER in No. 28 of volume 30. H. L. P.—For the cure for drunkenness see No. 31 of volume 30. Anxious Inquirer.—We cannot tell you. ; T. V. £.—1. When you wash them use a little spirits of ammo- pia. 2. Take a dose of magnesia occasionally. A Young Man.—Consult your family physician. Hamlet.—Wash your feet in weak alum water. is an astringent. L. M. F.—if your trouble continues, apply to an aurist. W. H., Repentance, Charles Morgenstern, H. F. Spots, L. F. B., J. P. D., B., H. W.—Your letters have been received, and will be answered as seen as possible. —_—_____> 9-~+_____ The Ladies’ Work-Box. 2. Tannie acid “Two Mothers” ask if we want the photographs of the little ones simply to make from them the engravings for the paper. No; we want to see all our babies, and many of our friends are, we know, living in such parts of the United States where it is impossible to get a good picture of a child. Now we know all about such difficulties, and can easily appreciate the fact that a parent would not want an imperfect or distorted likeness of a precious baby to go before the world, so those who have only such pictures, and yet desire to oblige us and let us have some idea of how our babies look, can send the photographs with a simple statement that itis not intended for the engraver, but simply to hang in the Work-Box, where it can be seen when we are writing our answers to questions. We have already received pictures of some handsome, intelligent babies, and very soon we hope to place their faces before our readers. We have also had many letters froma mothers, saying the photographs should be sent as soon as possible. We thank one and all for their kind words and ready appreciation of our desire to see the little ones we claim as our very own, for we can count liundreds of babies whose first garmen re prepared by the Work-Box. ““A Friend” writes: “‘Litthe Anthony, to whom you sent cutfit, is now four years old. Shall I send his likeness?” Yes, by all means,. He was among our first babies, so we should not like to miss seeing his bright young face. “Rose.”—One of our most stylish, unique, and novel costumes combines several materials and shades, so arranged as to produce a most exquisite suit. The jacket can be made of silk on heavy black net, or linen appliqued on white cotton net. The pattern is No. 3,880, price 20 cts. Itis fitted at the back in a half loose French shape. The neck isin heart form, and each front, sloping away trom the closing, is only slightly adjusted. The edge is bordered by a wide side-plaiting stitched twice to position, and then fall- ing ina full, crimped frill. The jacket is sleeveless, so the arm- holes are also friiled, while the neck is edged with a box-plaited ruche, wide and full at the back, and narrowing gradually to the top of the fronts, where it closes under a bow of ribbon with long ends. The skirt of the back has a deep-pointed center, shortens to the hips, and then forms points at thefront. The front of overskirt bas along, V-shaped gore, and forms a deep point at each sige. The bottom of this part of overskirt 1s edged with the side-plaiting. The back breadth is untrimmed. The num- berof overskirt pattern is 3,603, price 20 cts. The skirt is formed of a front gore, two side gores, and a very full back-breadth, which is gathered to the belt, and Jalls in quite a train. The bottom is trimmed with a plaiting like that already vescribed, and lying in crimped waves; above this is a scant ruffle, held in place by atiny band. A second row of plaiting above the ruffle crosses the back breadth. The pattern of skirt is No. 3,904, price 30 cts. An underwaist into which the sleeves must be sewn is needed, and a suitable pattern is No. 3.577, price 0 cts, The cos- tume is very pretty. : “Ss, P.»—Yes, we can get the articles for you; price from $3 to $5each. lt is troublesome, but an ingenious person can cut most beautiful leaves and even flowers by using the natural enes for models. , “Charlie.””—Swiss musiins should be washed in warm soap- suds, passed through one clear water, and one with a tinge of blue, then starched with reer thin starch, and_ ironed in the or- dinary manner, taking care that the iron is perfectly smooth and clean. Our wrilers are first-class. ‘“Hikdergarde Hamilton.”—The only way is to keep pulling the grass up, so Jong as the reots remain you will be troubled with it. Wave your trout hair, braid all together in the back, and coil about the head. “Florice Norton.’—You can make yourself a stylish cape or mantelet by cutting the garment after any pattern you may se- lect in coarse-meshed black net, and again in black silk, which is tacked upon the net, A design is then traced upon the silk and braided or embroidered in outline upon the sewing machine. The silk is then cut away leaving the flowers, leaves or scroll pattern in relief. This is very effective, and las the appearance of applique embroidery. Black lace capes are made by cutting them out first in net and then covering with rows, slightly full, of real or imitation lace. The,depth of each row is a matter of taste, but the prettiest are gfaduated. The serpentine corset- springs have given great satisfaction. 7 hey are certainly most desirable; price 25 cents per pair. No, they do not break easily, but are very phabie. 5 “Mrs. L. A. Maine.”—For girl aged twelve make basque witI cuirass front and postilion back; have the apron pointed and plaited at the back, and the skirt trimmed with a plaiting, head- ed by puffings. Braids of different widths, or silk in the piece, with ribbon for the sash, be used for trimming, with but slight expense. Yes, we can eee youachart for dress-cutting for $l. tMias Lelia Cyril.”—Why not get a white embroidered muslin? This you can wear with or withouta silk underdress, Make with skirt trimmed with two or three flounces, or an apron, with wide sashes, embroidered. These dresses require no lace, and little ribbon finishing, and are invaluable for wear over an old and somewhat faded sik. Of new materials, we find that the checked woolens are much more decided than last spring; they were then so indistinct as to be styled “‘rnvisible.”” Now they are larger, well-defined, and striped narrowly with colors. A plain twilled material is put with them, which is used for sleeves and for cross-cut headings to the flounces, for small side-pockets, and fer the collar or the inside of the collar, but the flounces them- selves, and the whole of the body part of the dress are formed of the check. A new way of arranging the flounces is to gut them on the bias, muke them perfectly plain, without fulfhess upon the frout and sides, and plait them inside or box-plaits ae the back. Checked foulards make charming toilets. A stylish costume wasor pale blue, or mauve silk, flounced, and worn with an overdress of white sili serge, trimmed richly with crimped and knotted fringe. “Gertie G@. May."’—You will see in the eatalogue all the patterns we now have, and from the illustrations you can select those you like best. Trim the skirt ef your black silk with two deep shirred flounces, and your silver-gray with side-paitings. Yes, linen will be worn until Jate in the season. Make suit with skirt aad polor aise. As you are going directly to New York, we advise you not to make your purchases until you reach the city, there you wilk be sure of getting fashionable articles. Of course your friends will go with you to select them. . : “Miss Millie Rogers.’—To remove freckies put a handful of nails in a pint of water, let them stand a few days or a week, and then wash your face in the water. For halt dress a netted scarf is worn to advantage. Itislike a long. but narrow, half handker- chief, and the outer edge 1s fringed. It is laid loosely about the shoulders, with many wrinkles, and gied in one Knot on the breast. Over this knot is laid a clust@#YRflowers, with 4 spray that extends up the left side of the throat. Cream white nets have crimson geraniums or other bright flowers. Pale blue nets are worn with pink Foses and brown follage and buds. These additions make a black sitk dressy enough for any occasion. Linen collars and euffs are more popular than erer, and adamt of elaborate decoration. Fhey are edged with embroicery, or hemstitehed in lines and ¢hecks, and a cravat 1s made to matcn them. Colored cambric and batiste cravats still retain thetr restige. The hair, for evening, is arranged m cofl of brail, headed y finger puffs, and shert eurts, or ivizzes, in frowt above the tore- cnn tem Oa Amanat 9 pereetiCBA ’ Number. Se See & WATT A = oS ~ Se OR a em meoimeoliOmaolmo CO Oeaaerrererverwvermmm™ NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 20, 1875. een eres Terms to Subscribers: One month (postage free) 25c, | One Year—1 copy (postage free). $3 Two Monoha... Vi... 5c. TE. BD OBDIGB. o's ods ase: 5 Three months,.......... PRCT) Ost POOP eae ieee 10 Four months........... $1 00. Ah Me MRE De ee wae 20 Those sending $20 for aClub of Eight, all sent at one time, will be entitled to a Ninth Copy prev. Getters-up of Clubs can after- ward add single copies at $2 50 each, IN MAKING REMITTANCES FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, always procure a draft on New York, or a Poest-Ofice Money Order, if possible. Where neither of these can be procured, send the money, bué al- ways i @ REGISTERED liter. ‘The registration fee has been re- duced to eight cents, and the present registration system has been found by the psstal authorities to be virtually an absolute pro- tection againstjlosses by mail. All Postmasiers are obliged to register letters whenever requested to do so. In addressing letters to STREET & SMITH, do not omit our Box By a recent order of the Post-office Department this is absolutely necessary, to ensure the prompt delivery of letters. ALL LELTERS SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO STREET & SMITH, Propréetors. 25, 27 Band Sl Rose St.. N.Y. P.O. Box 4896 A Strange, Mysterious Story. Number 498 of the New YorRK WEEKLY Will con- tain the beginning of a literary masterplece—a story so tantalizgingly mysterious that the events of each succeed- ing chapter seem to hint at a solution entirely different from what the reader previously anticipated. With every episode new complications arise, and the reader becomes so excited by curiosity that he hurries from page to page with the eager impetuosity of a detective, who, often pre- viously at fault, believes that at last he has struck the clew which leads to the solution of the PERPLEXING MYSTERY. This entrancingly interesting story is descriptive of life in London, and is entilled The Man in Blue; ae yp aio Which Bid He Love? BY SOPHIE OAKLEY. A perusal of the opening lines will at once rivet the at- tention, as an incident of astartling character is vividly Outlined at ae very commencement. The dgsexiption of this scene and those immediately following ee a fair indication of the author’s power; and the ‘Fekter who fails to become interested after he has scanned the first chapter, must be one whose curiosity is dead. ‘The Man in Blue; ee ee WHICH DID HE LOVE? WILL BE COMMENCED Week After Next! “THAT CARPET,” We wonder if there is a man living who does not dread the Reign of Terror when stoves are to be packed away, and carpets are to be taken up and put down again? if you area family man, you come home some night. after a very wearing day, tired and out of sorts, buoye up only by the pleasant anticipation of a lounge on the sofa in the sitting-room, with your wife to bathe your head, and read you the littie itemsin the local paper. When you reach the haven, you find the house literally turned upside down, and ‘‘the bosom of your family” in a state of dread and utter demoralization. Your wife will be flying round like mad, with her gown pinned ap, and a red silkjianudkerchief tied over her hair, and a duster in one hand, and a basin of soap suds in the other. She greets you with no sweet smile, or conjugal kiss, or word of love, but she cries out in a sharp voice: “Why, Jim Brown where on earth have you been all this time? You ought to have been here two hours ago. That carpet has got to be beaten and put down this very night, for Eida Simmons, and his wife and family are com- ing to tea to-morrow, and | wouldn’t have them sit any- where but in the parlor for a thousand dollars. You mildly retort that the minister and his wife and tamily may go to—grass! for what you care. And then your wife looks shocked, and inquires what you are made of, and what you suppose is to become of you if you go on in this way. Then she opens the door of the sitting-room, and shows you a palace of disorder, with the parlor carpet lying in a bundle in the middle of the floor. Iu no very amiable mood you drag the ponderous thing eut into the back yard, and string it up over a line, and with a cudgel in hand you go atit. An hourofhad work, and with the perspiration pouring down your face you 100k your work over, and conclude it is about done. Your wife screams to youto know if you are going to be till Christmas getting that carpet done? And then you give it a vigorous blow which takes effect on the thin spot just before the sofa, and a decided hole is the result. While you stand staring with dismay at this proof of utter Gepravily on your part, four wie appears on the scene, and words cannot describe it. Eery married man Knows just how itts. After the storm you drag the ear- pet back into the house again, and the puttiag down pro- cess begins. Your wife brings the tacks in a dish witha round bottom, so that it may be easily upset, and every tack is more or Jess crooked, and the leather is off from two-thirds of the lot. You get down on your knees, and spread the thing out, and pull it this way and that to make it fit, for hanging across tne line has “reamed” it, and got it out of shape. The first tack you undertaketo drive breaks and flies away, and your wife hunts for it, and orders you to join in the search, for she is sure that if that tack be not found somebody will get it into his foot, and lockjaw will be the result, And then she tells you about Mr. Somebody or other that she read about in the papers, who stepped on a nail, and swelled up as big as a barrel, and then had lookjaw, and died such a death, You are sullen, and keep on nailing, and when you have nailed the carpet a third of the way round, your wife discovers that you haven't put it down the way she wants itdone. She wants it turned round, so that a particular grease spot will come under the tete a tele; and she says it is just likea man to be doing everytning just as nobody Wants it done, and then she gently insinuates that old maids are the happiest beings in the world. In no amiabie humor you rip that carpet up, and turn it round, and begin again. By this time, the hammer comes off from the handle, and in your efforts to repair the damage you step incautiously backward, and into that dish of tacks, and the dish breaks, and the tacks fly off in Giverse directions. And your wife, in her attempt to prevent the catastro- plie, knocks over the lamp, and smash goes the ¢himney, out goes the light, and a powerful odor of Kerosene fills the room. Your wife screams ‘‘Fire! and murder!’ and feels sure the thing will explode, even after Oimmerian eri, has setin, and she is hunting round aftera match. You get up to assist in the search, but the sofa, and a couple of easy chairs, and a table, and three or four has- socks, and other articles too numerous to mention, lie in your pathway, and you stumble along at random barking your shins, and getting down on your hands and knees, all of a sudden, over the inverted table, and by-and-by you reach the place where the matches were wont to be Kept and find that the match-box has shared in the general exodus, and departed, who can tell whither? You then remember that you have some matches in your pocket, but a search reveals the melancholy fact that your lucifers are not to be spoken of in the plaral num- ber, for you have only one left, You scratch it, and it sputters, and looks consumptive, and fizzles outin a weak puif of smoke, and leaves darkness. Your wife gropes her way to the kitchen, and directly a light is the result. Then you go on with that carpet, striking your fingers and your thumb and the tacks about equally. Your knuckles are peeled by the time you are through, and your nails are torn to the quick, and your knees feelasif you had been three months to a eamp meeting, and you have used some profane language to the wife of your bosom, and she says you are a mean, ugly thing, and she wishes she had never set eyes on you, and then she gets on tlre sofa in the cheerless and comfortless room to have a good ery, THORN. A Female § Soldier. A most remarkable and successfal assumption of sex has lately been discovered by chance in Paris. It ap- pears that a pensioned officer, named Tenkeisen, now fast eighty years of age, teil ill, a few weeks since; and had tobe taken to the Necker Hospital. The invalid very earnestly objeeted to being conveyed thither, until the malady had taken such decided form as to render syste- matic treatment imperative, such as could only be ren. dered within the walls of a regular instivation. Still the patient held out till the last, and was carried to the hos- pital finally in an insensible condition. The doctor in charge discovered that the officer belonged to the female sex! Her secret—of life-long duration—being thus discover- ed, the old woman no longer hesitated to give the par- ticulars of her strange and romantic life. She was al- most an infant when she lost he? inother, and her father, a Bavarian colonel, dressed her as a boy, in order that he might keep her with him more consistently in the camp. She followed her farther’s fortunes even on the battle- field, until she was fourteen years of age, whep he died. In the meantime the gipsy life she led developed her phy- sical strength, and caused her to become stout and man- ly. The grandfather, General Baron Yon Tenkeisen, ob- serving her masculine figure and habits, carried out the idea of his son, her father. He had then the command of a Bavarian army corps, that country then being the allay of France. She enlisted in one ofthe regiments of her grandfather’s division, at his suggestion. She advanced rapidly in rank during the campaigns of Germany and Spain, anc was wounded twice, once se- verely at Waterloo. In 1830, still keeping her secret, she took service and went to Algeria, was once more wound- ed, and obtained French This is a brief synopsis of her singular career. She may well boast of her past record, and of her emblem of the legion of honor, bestowed by Napoleon for bravery upon the field. She exhibits letters received in congratulation of her valorous deeds from Marshals Berthier, Angereau, Suchet, and General Dupont. Though now in the hospi- tal, and in her eighty-first year, she is recovering from the malady which for the moment overcame her, and she may yet live for many years to come, so firm is her cour- age and so sound her constitution. —_——— > +—____—_- One branch of business is thriving in the vicinity of Babylon and Fire Island—tke trade in musquito netting. So active and numerous have the musquitoes become, thereabouts, that even the cars which run from Babylon to the beach (whence communiéation by boat is had with Fire Island) have all been decked with musquito netting to protect the passengers. If some inventive genius could construct a trap capable of catching half a million mus- -quitoes without resetting, Fire Island offers a splendid field for its use, THE BASHFUL LOVER. BY HELENA DIXON. Jolin Patterson was driving his venerable horse slowly homeward from the little village of Briarton. They were passing the low-lying farm of Nathan Wynne, and John, without daring for the life of him to turn his head, rolled his great black eyes toward the substantial stone farm- house in the hope of catching a a of Kitty, the farmer’s comely daughter. But, though John kept his eyes turned in their sockets till his head ached fearfully, he saw nothing of Kity. John was desperately in love with Kitty Wynne, and had been for mauy a day, and yet he dared not tell her so, Tell her that he Joved her, and ask her to marry him? Why he would not so much as look at her when there was any danger of his being caught atit, for the world, and simply because he could not, for it was John’s misfortune to be excessively bashful. He generally made out to bow to her when he met her, but even that always brought a great lump into his throat, and turned his face the color of a piony. As John passed over a little knoll and out of sight of the house, the farmer’s great orchard—the trees ready to break down under their weight of ripe fruit—was before him. “What a while that miller kept me waiting for my grist.’ I’m as huogry as abear. I must have a pecketful of those yellow beanties to eat'‘on my way. home.” And with this John drew rein on his horse, scaled the fence, and struck out in a bee line for his favorite tree. He knew as well as Farmer Wynne did, and in fact every man and boy around Knew just where the best apples were to be found, for Nathan was not one of those men whom large and small boys of predatory habits desig- nate as a “stingy old hunks.’? His fruit was as free to all as the water in the little brook which divided the orchard by its never-ceasing flow. John had filled his pockets, and was about to retrace his steps to the wagon when he caught the flutter of a pink dress through a cluster of quince trees, and heard Kitty’s merry voice in conversation with someone. Steal- ing a hasty glance through the trees John recognized Kitty’s companion to be her cousin, Hetty Shaw, from the village. They were coming directly toward the tree under which Joln was standing. What in the world was hetodo? He did not fancy running away like a detected thief, and his trembling knees aud palpitating heart warned him that if he would not die then and there he must seek a place of conceal- ment. To add to John’s bucketful of j}embarrassment on this occasion, he was conscious that he was not in the least “fixed up.”? He was not in his every day garb, and there was a huge biack patch on the Knee of his gray panta- loous; and Jolin hated patches, because he was poor and obliged to wear them. The sleeves of his coat were far too short, so also the legs of his pants, and to make the matter worse his clothes were covered with flour which had somehow got on while he was waiting for his grist at the mill. John glanced up into the tree, but the foliage was not thick, and there was little chance for a hiding-place there. Near the tree was an inverted hogshead, which had been used ag a Stand from which to pick apples from the tree. The hogshead had once been used as temporary dog-ken- nel, anda hole perhaps eighteen inches in diameter had been made to admit the dog. There was no time to be lost. The hogshead adgforded the only retreat within the trembling young man’s reach, and he was not long in squeezing himself inside of §f. The girls came on and sat down on the grass right where Jolin, by stooping down and peering through the circular hole, could watch them. Kitty, he thought, looked prettier and brighter than ever in her pink dress, and the sun, which was settling into the west made her brown hair as goKlen as the ap- ples in her lap. Kitty held up an apple by the stem, saying: “Name it Hetty; buat not Will Joyce, nor Jerry Davis, ner—— “There, stop; the apple is named,”? said Hetty, merrily. Kitty pared and ate her apple, carefully saving all the seeds. When she had them allin her chubby hand she held them out for Hetty to spell the name. Touching each seed with her finger, Hetty spelled: “J-o-li-n P-a-t-t-e-r-s-0-n."? “It spells it exactly. Why, Kitty, what are you blush- ingsofor? One would think that fellow’s name was spelled out in your heart in indelible letters, by the way you Jook.’? Kitty said nothing, though she looked uncommonly so- ber for her, John thought, and he wondered if tie giris didn’t hear his heart beat; he thought they must, it was thumping away so furiously. He thought, too, that Kitty Was angry that any one would suppose that she cared for him. How humble he felt; he could scarce have tald why; eee his cheeks buraed with the flushof wounded pride. “Now, really, Kitty,’ said her cousin, with a bantering laugh, “if you don’t drive away that forlorn look I shall think you Care More than your pride wiil let you ac- Knowledge for that great, awkward booby, who hasu’t the courage, nor never wil! have, to ask you to have him.’? “Hush, Hetty!” said Kitty, as she rose to her feet, and her cheeks glowed with a flush of deepest crimson. ‘You do not know John Patterson as we do, or you would not utter what you have. He is not awkward at home with his mother, You ought to see how kind and considerate he isto her. Father drops in there often, and he says there isn’t amore noble-hearted man to be found. Yes- terday, you, Hetty, were making game of Jolin because he wears clothes that are patched and old-fashioned. John is industrious, and ao you know what. he does with his money? Father says he is paying off the mortgage on his mother's little farm, and that when he has a few dol- lars gore than are necessary for a payment, he expends it for books, Mark my word, Hetty, Johu Patterson will yet be a man that you will be proud to class among your friends. He has intellect of no common order. 1t’s only his great bashfulness that keeps him back now.” “Now, Kitty, you are too absurd,” and Hetty laughed as though she thought her companion in jest. ‘Well, it is leap-year; you had better offer yourself to this para- gon. I don’t believe he will refuse.” “I Know no one whom I would sooner marry—so, there!” And Kitty’s faee was scarlet with blushes as she made this frank acknowledgment. But John was not looking at her now. He was crouched in the most remote part of the hogshead, trying by various gestures to drive away a huge mastif! whieh threatened to make his whereabouts known. The sun had gone down, and John’s hungry horse had quietly walked off home, and still the two girls chatted away. “Well, Bruno, what have you got in there? I’m sure you’ve been whining and pawing there for half an hour, at least.” And Hetty came forward and patted the dog’s hairy back with her hands, “Why, Kitty, there is some @readfal animal in here. What a pair of eyes it has! Are there any wildeats in the woods? Thank my nerves, if uncle and Charley are away, loan firea gun. I'll soon know what that horrid Creature is. In my opinion, here is where your geese have gone to. I'll wagrant the ground in there is strewn with bones. You and'Bruno keep watch while I run to the house for a gun.?? ve ona ratiled all this off tn a breathless fashion, and before Kitty had had time to look at the “dreadful ani- mal,’ only the great luminous eyes of which could be seen, her cougin was on her way to the house. “What was John todo now? Stay where he was and naturalization and a pension. |’ be shot by the courageous little Hetty, or crawl from his lair like a Hottentot from his hut, and right before Kitty’s eyestoo? The faithful dog began to wag his tailand whine witifrenewed animation, and John thought the gun must be coming surely. Life was sweeter to him now since hearing what Kitty had said of himself than ever before, and creeping to the opening, he began the getting out process, ‘Kitty, who was peering anxiously in, saw that “the creature’? was moving—that it was coming toward her— and giving a spasmodic little scream, she sank helplessly to the ground, and covered her face with her apron. Kitty’s distress made John for the moment forget that he was the most bashful man alive, aud surely the arms which Kitty felt encircling ler waist were not those ofa wild beast. Knowing this, it did not need a great amount of courage to enable her to uncover her face, and see that the great eyes which had so frigltened her belouged to John Patterson. 4 It was strange that neithershe norJohn, during the half hour they tarried together under the apple-tree, thought of Hetty or the gun she had gone to bring. Per- haps neither would have remembered Hetty’s boasted “nerve in connection with the use of that weapon again had not that young lady herself two years later remindéd a cemain happy bridegroom and his equa!ly happy bride of the incident, and informed them that she knew all the time that John was in the hogshead, as she saw him pat himself there, and that her part of the conversation under the apple-tree was indulged in solely with a view to en- courage the bashful lover to propose. Mrs. John Patterson scolded her cousin-bride-maid for her duplicity, but for all that it was plain to be seen she was not augry, especially since Hetty had that very day acknowledged that she was proud to class her cousin’s handsome husband among her friends. Remember the Poor Children. Practical philanthropy of the most praiseworthy char- acter is that which has led to the inauguratlon and con- tinuance of free excursions for destitute sick children. Through the persevering efforts of the Saint John’s Guild, of this city, these excursions now take place tri-weekly; and needy mothers and their children may, without cost, enjoy delightful sails on the river and bay, and appease ap- petites sharpened by pure air, by partaking of wholesome food bountifully dispensed on the floating hospital. The officers of the association deserve great credit for the effi- cient manner ia which they have conducted these excur- sions, and the best method of expressing appreciation is for every person to do his or her utmost to promote their continuance. This may be effectually done by liberal do- nations of money and provisions. Therefore, let the gen- erous-hearted at once forward their contributions to the Master of St. Jonn’s Guild, Rey. Alvah Wiswall, at No. 52 Varick street, New York city. Remember the children of the poor, and thus express your gratitude to Heaven 4 that you possess the health and ability to care for your own little ones. ie a 3 How To EDUCATE A DAUGHTER. Begin with considering her the paragon of her sex, but do not let it stop there. You nwest continue to Instill the same opinion into her mind early, which is easily effected by repeating (of course in her hearing) her wise sayings and doings to sympathizing aunts and proud uncles, aud the first desirable step in her education is accomplished. If she cries, give her whatever she cries for by all means. And she will soon learn (if she is precocious) that she has only to pucker up ‘that sweetest little face in the world,”? give one heart-rending sob—mamma can’t withstand that—and doll, dog, sugar-plums, and cake, shall be hers, , If her hair curls naturally, well and good; if not, the fault in nature is remedied by cnarling-irous, crimping- pins, and occasionally a heated siate pencil. Dress her from the first in the best the shops afford, and the princi- ple is inculcated, ‘Fine feathers make fine birds.’ Al- ways take her with you-to the drawing-room to receive your visitors, it undoubtedly pleases them. They are sure that their opinion of Mary and Henry—what “he said,” “she said,” “I said,” and “they said,”—is not lost upon one auditor, particularly if spoken in an undertone. If you have a marriageable daughter, and she happens to have a particular gentleman visitor, let the little one sit with them iu the parlor; it will be of two-fold advan- tage to the child—initiate her in love-making, and prevent her being bashful. Should this fail, seud her to the far- famed public school, with instruction to the teacher not to punish her; and tell your friend, Mrs. Smith, (always besure that your little charmer is within hearing dis- tance), you “‘won’t have a child of yours sent to the bad class-room, and if they ever dare do i she sha’n’t go to school another day.” If you do not teach her at home that the chief aim of woman is matrimony, she will learn it of some school- mate, whose education has not been so sadly neglected. By closely following these instructions you will have sown the seed, sure of the harvest of, ‘‘A girl of the pe- riod.’ H. B. WILLIAMS. PETTIGREW PAPERS—No 6, BY CLARA AUGUSTA. The fat man’s breath smelt of onions, with a sprinkling of whisky and tobacco thrown in, but I have found by experience that a good many men’s breaths smell the same way, and ifa woman must needs have a man a hug- ging of her, she musi put up with it, The fatman give me a very sympathetic sqyoze, and begged of me not to die then; it would spile all the pleas- ure of the day, he sed. “And besides, my dear madam,”’ sez he, “it would be so onconvenient getting the corpse down off from the mountain.” Seeze, onfeeling boy, sot straddle of a rotten log, and laffed and whistled, and told the fat man not to take on, the old gal would come round in time. To think that the boy I nussed, and physicked with cas- ter ile and magnesia, and spanked tillhe was redasa biled lobster, should live to call me “old gal,’ and to whis- ue ‘Not for Joe, while there was a prospect of my dying rite off. It made me so mad that I jumped out of the fat man’s imbrace, and flew at Seeze, and give his ears suc a box- ing that Ill warrant he'll remember it to the day of his death. The healthful exercise brought me clean to myself, and I begun to remember the duke. What had been his fate? I begged of ’em to search for him, that I might know the wustest. And I begun to wonder if it would be proper for me to put on fust mourning for him, spozen he was dead, and if it would be ixpected of me that I should travel to the country where dukes ig plenty, wherever that may be, in order to foller him to his grave? Some of the party clim down over the rocks to sarch for the body of the onfortinit man, and meanwhile the fat man consoled and comforted me. He told me some of his own troubles. He was a minister of the Gospel, and he had berried two wives, and a third one had gone back on him and left him for a perrymour, and he had had the chronic diary, and the small-pox, and had to go into bankruptcy, and had had his house burned down, and seventeen sheep killed by dogs ard lightning, all within ae space of nine year, which beat my afflictions all noller. ; I give him a drink out of a bottle of Clean Sweep that I had in my pocket, and he smacked his lips and sed that though it was asad and dying world there was a grate many blessings in it, and he whispered in my ear that if the duke was dead he should be happy to take the duke’s place in my affections. Some people might think this was ruther too soon, but a@ prudent man allers takes time by the forelock. “Be comforted, Sister Pettigrew,’? sez the fat man, whose name was Galusher Muggles. ‘The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away the duke, and he is ready to give thee Muggles in return—thy devoted Muggles, Sister Pettigrew,’’ sez he, with a squoze that bust my corset strings into three pieces, “Yes,” sea I, “I Know all about that; but alass, it was so hard to have the duke took away inthis suddint and unexpected way at the heels of that hoss. And he used to make use of such butilul languidge—words full four or five syllables long, that nobody. knowed the meaning of but hisself.”? And I begun for to snivel a little into my handkercher. “Do be comforted, dear Sister Pettigrew,” sezhe. ‘St. Paul sez there is as good fish in the sea as ever was ketched. And, being a fisherman, he ort to know.”? “Yes,’? sez I, “to be sure; but these afflictions is hard to bear,’? and then I give a cry of joy, for jest then the men that had gone in sarch of the duke made their appearances, and the duke was with ’em, alive and kicking, and none the wuss for having tumbled down the mountain, : The fat man’s countenance fell, and he hove a sigh. “Muggles,”’ sez he to bisself, ‘it’s all up with you.” When the duke spied me he rus&ed toward me wit ix- tended arrums. “Star of my life,’ sez he, ‘“‘what doI behold? Darest thou recline upon the bosom of another? Inconstancy thy name is—Mrs. Pettigrew. Oh, that mine eyes had been blasted before I had beheld this evidence of thy per- fidy. Die, monster, die?’ and he rushed upon Muggies in a Way that no fat man ¢ould stand aginst, and they both went down, and began pounding, and kicking, and lar- rapping one i’other in the most dreadful way. My hair fairly stood on eana, for | ixpected every min- nit they would git too nigh the edge of some of them pre- cipices and bounce Over, but that Seegze of miue Ife was right in his ellerments, He’d slap his legs aud holler: ss THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 30e-- “Go it, old boys! Sick him, for No. 1. for No. 2. Hooray, my jolly braves! bone in his body No. 1. serves it!’? and so on. I did the best I could to part’em. I clawed at the coat taiis of both of ’em till ’'d convarted their coats into short jackets, and the strips of broadcloth was scattered in every direction. Ihad begun to tug away at their galluses when a ker- ridge cum up the hill, with four men into it, and the min- nit they seed the duke they pounced onto him like mad. “We've got you, Tom Jinks,’ sez one of the men, grab- bing him by the collar, and setting him onto his feet in a jiffy. ‘You've give us quite a race, but we’ve got you at last,” and he put some handcuffs onte him rite on the spot. “Look here,”’ sez I, “‘what upon the face of the airth does this mean??? “Wall, I guess So,” sez one of the men. “This is a duke,” sez 1, ‘‘aregelar born duke. The Duke of Wellington that figég the batiule of Bunker Hill.” ‘Ha! hal’? sez the men in chorius; ‘so he has changed his title? He was King George the Third last time. And before that he was Napoleon Bonaparte. Come on, Tho- mas, we’ve got a use for you.” “He is my intended husband,” sez I, indignant as I could be, “and Tain’t agoing to see him abused in this way. “Intended fiddlesticks!? sez the man that had put the handcuffs onto him; ‘‘why, old woman, he’s got two wives living, and he’s crazier than a bedbug, and has been forten years. He cut the throat of one of his keepers, and abouta fortnight ago he strangled another one and escaped from the lunatic asylum.” Ithrowed up my arms and swoonded for the secont time that day, butI didn’t git so fur gone but what I knowed that it was Mr. Muggies’ smell of onions that was wafted to my collapsing oilfactories. —————_>-_9~—______ AN English clergyman, while awaiting a ‘‘call,”’ has devoted his attention to the invention and construction of an ingentous pulpit, which undoubtedly merits the ap- proval of all pious people who favor brief sermons. One ofthe features of the pulpit is an alarm-clock, which strikes after the sermon has progressed half an hour. Should the speaker omit to take the hint, in three minutes more the pulpit suddenly drops to the level of the floor, bring- ing the preacher there on his knees, and usually with such a terrified expression that he thinks it about time to exclaim, ‘Let us prayl’? The sidesof the pulpit open outward and disappear, and then the clock rattles off an alarm loud enough to awaken those of the eongregation on whom the sermon has had a drowsy effect. Hang to him, Don’t leave a whole Ditto, No. 2. Crack him—he de- HOW SHE MADE HIM CONFESS. BY HELEN OCORWIN PIERCE. ‘Dead! No, no; it cannot be. Why, we were only mar- ried yesterday. Who would kill my husband ?? The speaker, a tall, slender girl, in a gray traveling dress, rose from her seat in the cars, with evidently little comprehension of the cruel truth, from the expression of her magnificent dark eyes, and went out to the platform. The cars had stopped for five minutes at a little way station, and her young husband had left her an instant to to get a glass of water. He was a splendid-looking fel- low, and more than one pair of eyes had followed him as he darted across the station platform and disappeared within, appearing almost inslantly again at the door, That moment was his last. A pistol-shot struck him right in the center of his white forehead, and he fell without a cry. Some one, rashiy enough, and without a shadow of Warning, blurted the fatal truth in the ears of the young Wife, who sat reading, and who only lifted her beautiful eyes from the paper at the noise of the explosion. Only when the pitiful, swift-gathered crowd parted right and left at her approach, and showed her the _ terrible corpse lying with its face turned from her, did any com- prehension of the reality seem to reach her dazed senses. Not then, till, with a little, sharp, loving cry of ‘Why, Fred?’ she sprang to his side and bent to touch his face. Heaven help her. The sight seemed to turn her to stone as she knelt. He was quite dead—dead so suddenly that the smile he wore when he left her seemed still to linger on his lips. There was absolutely no clew to the assassin, though at first it seemed impossible for him toescape. The shot had come from the direction of the cars, seemingly fired over the roof, at least most seemed to agree in that conclusion, and there was a large button wood tree standing a few steps from the track, among whose branches the murderer might have been concealed. But ifso, he must have de- scended the instant the shot was fired, and made off with remarkable speed. It was in the night time, however. The station was not very well lighted, and its surround- ings were obscure and unsettled enough to furnish a tol- erable clear fieid for this fugitive from justice, whoever he was, When the poor widowed bride lifted her stony gaze from the face of her dead young husband, every body seemed too terror-stricken to think of doing any thing for her, or even addressing her. The ears had already been delayed considerably over time when the conductor called out: ‘All aboard gentlemen; we’re behind time now.” And the crowd tore itself away. Who could afford to stop over even under such circumstances? lt appeared that one man could. A rather stout, middle-aged gentie- man he was, well, even handsomely dressed, and possess- ing a peculiar but rather agreeable countenance. He had remonstrated with the conductor, reminding him that he might by this precipitancy be assisting the murderer to escape. Besides he was bound to wait the coroner’s inquest. But the conductor scarcely listened to him. He put off his trunks and those of the murdered man, the engine Wiistied, aud they were away. The stranger and the so strangely widowed bride were left with the dead man. There was an inquest as soon as the coroner could be brouglit, at which tle principal witnesses were the few loungers at the station al the time the deed was done. Meanwhile the stranger—Cornell Realf he called him- self—had taken the murdered man’s wife under his direct charge and tender attendance. Mrs, Lestrange—he had found the name on the trunks, he said—yielded to his guidance mechanically, and he watched over her asa fond and pitiful brother might have done. When everything connected wilh this sad business was done with, he conducted her to her husband’s home, still With that respectful, almost reverential air, and bade her good-by. Louise Lestrange became by her husband’s death the possessor of great wealth. Young, beautiful, rich, it would scarcely seem that the world could have lost all at- traction for her; but she withdrew herself entirely from it, and persisted in this withdrawal. Quietly, secretly, she was devoted to one absorbing idea, the discovery of the perpetrator of that cowardly murder. Agents, well paid by her, were sifting, grain by grain, the smallest particles of evidence which pointed toward the desired end, Occasionally something promising presented itself, but it always ended in nothing—detectives get credit for much more general cleverness than they deserve. There is only now and then a thorough expert in the pro- fession. The besé detectives, after all, are often the crim- inals themselves, Who in their excessive cautiou some- times overreach themselves or neglect the smallest trifles in their regard for the greater matters, Among the few whom the young and beautiful widow received in her retirement, was he who had stayed by her through those terrible hours after her husband’s death, Corneil Realf. Tie acquaintance begun under such tragic circumstances, ripened gradually into something warmer than friendship even, or it seemed so. For, after remain- ing disconsolate three years, Mrs. Lestrange consented to marry Cornell Realf, She did not, however, put off her mourning, which she had continued to wear, at once, and tliere wasa gentle gravity it her manner of receiving the raptures of her lover that made him sometimes guaw his lip with discon- tent. This Cornell Realf would have impressed you as a Goal, slow-tempered man, seen al common times; but in Louise Lestrange’s presence he became eager, restless, nervous beyond imagining. That he passionately loved the beau- tiful woman who liad promised to be his wife, no one could doubt, seeing how his cheek glowed when she drew near, how his eye fashed at a kindly word from her. He never more than Kissed her hand. She kept him at re- markable distance, if she loved him. As the wedding day approached, the gravity upon one of Lhese faces deepened to sternness a!most; that of the other grew haggard as with anxiety. They were to be married quietly at the Hollow, as Fred Lestrange named the lovely place he prepared and adorned for his bride, and to remain there after the cere- mony. No bridal tour was planned. Louise Lestrange shrank from such a thing with shuddering, and although Cornell Realf seemed eqnally to loathe remaining at the Hollow, the will of his beautiful love was Jaw for him. Mrs. Lestrange was a very peculiar woman. The bridal chamber which the niurdered nan had prepared for his bride, and which she had never beheld till after his death, had remained all these years just as she found it on com- ing to the Hollow, with all iis ‘paraphernalia of snow, its costly lace, and satin draperies. Cornell Realf had seen it once, and had shrank from the sight as though the ghost of the man whose piace he was so eager Lo fill, bad looked at him from the midst of the sheeny silken haug- ings. The pair were married in the morning. The bride in Wiimsical mood, It would seem, persisted in donning the very robes she had worn at her first bridal. They were somewhat yellow from lying, she said with an odd smile, when the bridegroom grew pale atthe sight of her, but she should not mind that if he did not. And Cornell Realf stammered something in reply which she inter- preted for approval. The day was one of ecstasy, of raptureto the newly wedded husband. He sat at the feet of his beautiful wile, with ber hand in his, and Louise suffered the light of her magnificent dark eyes to dweil on him unshadowed. She Was very pale, but gentle and kind. There were no guests, so they were undisturbed. At evening the stately and handsome drawing rooms blazed with light, and the bride lookiug like some old pic- ture sLepped out of its frame al gold, sut at the grand harp aay strings with fingers that were lily white, and seemed to hold a something of weird magte in their touch. At ten o’ciock she left him, lingering a moment beside him in the soft blaze, as if toshow him what imperial loveliness was hers. The color leaped in hisswart cheek, his eyes glowed as they rested an instant on flowing curls and velvet cheeks, on damask Ilps, and the luxurious loveliness of that perfect form. He would have clasped her in his arms, but she glided from him, bidding him fol- low soon. Her little maid would come for him. Her maid was but a child, a slender, fairy-like creature. She came for him presently. He obeyed the guidance of the pretty child eagerly, but when she stopped at the door of that chamber which Fred Lestrange had fitted for his bride, this eager bridegroom stopped, as thongha cold hand had been laid on his shoulder, and stood shuddering from head to foot. * The litle maid was innocence itself, She opened the door softly, and turning, left him upon the threshold. “Not here, sureiy not here ?”’ Cornell Realf uttered, in a ghastly whisper, as he caught at the door-post and stared into the twilighted room. “Did you speak, Cornell?” said @ tremulous, sweet voice from the heart of the dimness, He took a step forward and came in view of the bed, with its draperies of mce and snow. Over oné lace-edged pillow and down the satin coveriet flowed a mass of long black curis,and the soft dark eyes of Louise gleamed up at him like stars. But even as his heart gave one wild tlrob of joy, the silken hangings seemed swept back by a shadowy hand, aud he saw sit- ting just within them, looking just as in life, the murdered man, Fred Lestrange! He neither spoke nor moved, but one hand seemed to guard Louise aud one was stretched asin warning toward that wretched intruder. Cornell Realf stood with his under jaw dropped as though death had struck him; then his knees began to quake, and he sank upon them, extending his hands in supplication, “Leave me and | will confess; only go and I will con- fess all,’? he moaned, The silken curtain fell, and Louise stood beside him still in her strange wedding robes. “‘Oonfess, Oornell,’? she said, in low, stern tones, “you mardered him.’ ‘*Yes,’? the man shuddered, “Why py “Because he was your husband, I loved you before he ever saw you. [I was a poor man, and could only worship you afar off. Ioould not address you. I could net so much as kiss the hem of ha 3 robe. And then, one day, fortune turned propitious, was @ rich man suddenly, unexpectedly. But when I sought you, you were that morning to be married to him. I followed you. I was ou the same train, inthe samecar. I went out before he did, at every station, watching my chance. I shot kim from that buttonwood tree just as was thought at the time. Then I descended so swiftiy, and mingled so un- concernedly With the excited crowd, that.uo one suspected ine. As he ceased speaking, two men, officers of the law, who had been concealed in the room, came forward and took him in charge. He nw€de not the faintest resistance, only castivg, now and theu, shuddering glances toward the bed. “Wait one moment,’ Louise said to his captors, and, pale as marble, lifted the silken curtain again, “Itis only wax,’ she saki. ‘I have vaguely suspected you a long time, Cornell Rea, though i had only an occasional ehange of color, a tremor in your voice, the quiver of an eyelid to found suspicion on. Absurd as the idea seemed at first, it grew, day aller day. But I could get bold of nothing that would have been of value in the eyes of the law, try asl would. Finally, I fell upou this plan of frigntening confession from you. I caused Uns faithful representation of my murdered love to be made and se- cretly conveyed hither. Then 1 so far martyred the holi- est feelings of my soul as to go through twe farce of mar- rying you, to make the experimeut more impressive, the more surely successful. I am not your wile. The man who said the marriage ceremony was not a minister, You will remember that I insisted upon sending for one whem I called an old acquaintance. It was only for the sake of deceiving you. That is all. Take him away l? she concluded, falling upon her Knees beside the too faith- ful image of her lost love. ‘I have avenged you, my dar- ling,’? she murmured, “at lastl’? : The murderer never opened his lips. ‘The first shock had been too much for him; the second, or both, seemed to have bereft him of sense entirely. He was never him- self again. He went through the form of a trial; but though tlrere Was no doubt of his guilt, and his sanity at the time, he was never hanged. Instead, he wus seut to a mad-heuse, and died there. Hallucinations, Mentai Nallucination is a morbid condition of tha brain, which, while in a very active state is yet quite false to it- self, rendering impressions which really have no basis of facet. Thus Earl Grey, during the latter days of his life, was haunted by a gory head, yet the earl could banish it by the power of his will, Knowing that it was really a hallucination. Swedenborg saw members of the heavenly hierarchy seated among thesministers at the council board, and bowed reverentially tothem. Bernadotte, whenever he went forth on horseback, always met a woman ing red cloak; ang a patient of a London hospital is méntion- ed, Who was constantly followed by a cat, then by a skel- eton which never left him, walked by his side, joined his family circle, and peered through his curtains at night.- Yet Swedenborg knew that it wasnot flesh and blood realities he acknowledged, and the king, while he shrank from it, did not believe that there was really any red- cloaked woman at all, ner did the patient believe in the skeleton, knowing in fact that it was only a wild fabrica- tion, an utter delusion. ; A recent eventin Paris has recalled this subject at the present time. Rousseau once wrote: “If it were only necessary for you to hold out your thumb in order to cause the death of an immensely wealthy mandarin in China, whose heir you would be, are you sure that you would not extend your thumb?!’ This passage,one day hap- pened to attract the attention of Henri de Lacrois, a gen- Ueman of high birth and liberal education, belonging to anexcellent French family. His brain was thought by his friends to be slightly affected from the loss of his large and very handsome property. This man said to himself: “IfT could stretch out my thumb and that would be enough to kill my uncle and my cousin, I should When be- come very rich.’ He was recalling the singular hint from Rousseau. Hechanced to be ina room at the mo- ment where large penned photographs of the family were hanging. In a sort of hajlucination he extended his thumb toward the photographs of his uncle and cousin and said: “Let dhem die, so that I may inherit!” Strange to say, within fifteen days, both uncle and cousin were carried off by ty- phoid fever. Within the last few months remorse prayed upon the mind of Lacrois, and he imagined that his spell had actually caused the death of his relatives. He heard their voices calling to him, ‘Thou hast killed me. Thou hast killed us! He delivered himself up to the police and asked to be executed. Wesee by our Paris journals that Henri @e Lacrois has just died in an insane asylum. Sea eee eee Items of Interest. gar A carrier-pigeon was lately caught at sea on board the German ship Duisberg on the voyage trom Europe to Baltimore. When seven hundred miles from the nearest iand the captain’s attention was attracted to the pigeon flying near the ship, seemingly quite exhausted. Some food was placed on the deck near the cabin, and the pigeon came on board and ate greed- ily. At nightfall it nestled in the shrouds far up the mainmast, and was taken prisoner by the eaptain. The bird is of the pure carrier-pigeon breed. Beneath the left wing, on one of the large feathers, are printed in very plain characters the w “Du Siege de Paris”—(The Siege of Paris), It is thought it nad been turned loose from a French mail steamship and started back to Paris, but, becoming tired and hungry, sought food and rest on the Duisberg. : ga- A robin’s nest was recently taken from a pear- tree in a garden in Andover, Mass., the material of which it was constructed having been selected with great taste. It ineluded a lady’s collar with eambric center and lace edging, and several yards of lace, two and four inches wide. The nest had | eeovinae been abandoned by the occupant, whose income, it is suggested, was not sufficient to justify living in such style as would be re- quired in such a costly residence, sar Kentusky os had a sensation in the shape of a strange negro, ered hs race call a ‘Nick of the Woods.”’ Heis said to have only ose gre, and that isin the center of the forehead, which gives him qe odd ns well as frightful ae eae He runs with the @eeeness of an antelope, although hobbled with ehains. He has been seen a number of times lately by different parties at a place calied McKinney’s, and all give him a similiar description. kax The colored double-child recently on exhibi- tion in Augusta, Ga., isdead. It, or they, were born on the sixth of Jnne last. The two beings were bound together by a wide band, which pulsated regularly. This pulsation led to the sugges- tion that one of the lungs of the monstrosity was located in the connecting link, The female alone nursed, the male depending upon it for sustenance, and the sense of pain was evidentiy located in the developed, or female chiid alone. xar A horse, near Lafayette, Ind., that lost its Mate some months ago, is said to be dying from grief at the death of its associate. It eats little, and seems to be continual wasting away in flesh. It will have nothing whatever to do wi other horses in the pasture, and seems to be continually en the lookout for another, In addition, it every few moments, day and night, Whinnies as it used to do when the other horse was alive: and the two were separated for a time. aa A large bald eagle has been lately on the war aye in the vicinity of Goiumbia, Ky. It made an attack on @ ite son of Mr. Nathan Butler, and was with difficulty prevented ffom inflicting serious injuries, although the youth is some twelve or thirteen years ot age, and has almost half the strength of aman. The bird evidently meant business, as it made the second and third attack betore it was scared away, It was the largest eagle ever seen in those parts, which occupied a coruer of the roum, and swept tlie | great Centennial fair, ka The famous steamship, Great Eastern, oon is said, been chartered by some lish merchants to run be- tween Liverpool and Philadelphia during the continuancéaft the ee a te ee ee ee a is Oa _—_—snsnesionapmesaionte —=. a MS * rt Or ote a \ JUST AS IT USED TO BE. eee BY NATHAN D. URNER. Isaw them at Morn, when the soft-zephyrs, bern O’er the pasture, the harebelis were shaking, Twe children gay, by tae torrent at play, As the day frem the mists was breaking. Dark violets smBed from her tresses fair, While the silver iflies were bright in bis haix, And, idling and prattling together, . They Jaughed with the water that laughed from the bi, And had their pure joy and their own sweet wil, Aili ia the blithe Spring weather. And over the steep of the cataract’s leap, Like a dream from its musical thunder, Peeped the fresh new Sun, the beautiful ese, With a shy look of greeting and wonder. Just as he peeped, I know, & thousand years ago. I saw them at Noon, in the splendor of June, _ By the stream through the green meadow serayig, A proud youth and fair maid, ef their love half-afraid, Yet its beautiful leve betraying. Its fragranee the rose from her bright locke breathed, While the bays and laurels his dark brew wreathed, As, hand in hand, softly together, They dreamed with the river that dreamed through the grove, And sipped of the honey and fullness of leve, All ia the deep Summer weather. And over the wide, peaceful breast ef the tide, Like a bridegroom of God in his giery, Soared the nocn-day stn, the imperial one, With a smile for these lovers of story. Just as he smiled, I know, A thousand years ago. I saw them at Eve by the billowy heave, And the shadowy sweep of the ocean, A sad weman and man, and, though paltid and wan, Still inspired by love’s deep emotion. But the myrtle-leaves darkened the fair head new, With cypress was shaded the dark, proud brew, And, still hand in hand, together, With steps that would bound in the light never move, They brushed the dead leaves on the desolate shere, Ali in the gray Autumn weather. And over the rim of the sea dark and dim, _ Ldéke a mourner whose woes none may borrew The sad, sweet Moon, the saintly one, Leeked dewn in pity and sorrew. Just as she looked, heigh-oht A thousand years, ago. The Boy Wrestler. By Roger Starbuck, Author of“RED HELM,” “THE BOY DIVER,” ete., ete. {“The Boy Wrestler” was commenced in No, Baek num- bers cas be ebtained trom any News Agent in the te ates. } CHAPTER XIIL OUT IN THE STREETS. During the rest of the day Rikert wag gloomy and si- lent. Hesent Fanny supperiess to bed, H the miseratide old quilt which he had spread for her in one corner of the room could be termed a bed. Poor Fanny threw herself down and soon oried herself to sleep. . . The Portuguese sat watching her along timé, and tin- ally, blowing out the light, he, also, went to his bed, which was in the little apartment where he Kept his mon- key and another instrument, a hand-organ. Before getying into bed he fed the monkey with some pieces of siale bread, for which the lean, half-starved crea- ture seemed very thankiul, and expressed his gratitude With sundry squealings. Next morning, at daybreak, Rikert rose. Fanny was still asleep, and the traces of recent tears upon her cheeks showed that she had waked near morn- ing, and again wept herseif to sleep. There was, however, no look of compassion upon the face of the man, as he seized and roughly skeok the @hild by the shoulder, “QOome, get up,’”? he said, harshly, asshe opened her eyes, + % pretty time this you lie asleep. Me want you make fire,” and he pointed at the stove; ‘but be careful you no ese too much wood. If you do, me beat you to death with stick.” ' Fanoy, raising — on her elbow, looked round her with a bewildered afr. ; Then realizing her situation, she began to sob. “Stop!” cried Rikert; ‘‘me no ket you act so. See, me want fire. Memahurry. Oome, get up, me waut fire,” and seizing his stick, he shook it in her face. Fanny now looked at the stove, and striving te check her sobs, she rose and proteeded to make the fire. She was awkward at this task, for it was something she had never done before. Noticing that she put the wood in in larger quantities than he desired, Rikert again became wrathful, and sud- denly brought the stick down across the child’s shoul- ders, Smarting with the pain, she looked at the man with an expression of such grief and horror that even he was startied, “Mind you nothing tell about it,” saidhe. ‘There, now, you got wooed and paper; see there matches to light it with,” pointing to a box on the mantel. She lighted the paper; then she looked reund as if Missing something. “What now ?? cried Rikert. ‘What you want now ?? *A shovel,’? answered the child, ‘for the coal” “Me po got one. You must take your hands,’ So Fanny, thrusting her litle white hands in the coal- box, thus used them for a shovel. The pieces of coal, among which the economical Rikert had deposited many cinders, scratehed her little fugers aud made them bleed. She held them up, looking at them with childish sur- rise. 7 “Put on more coal—more—more!”’ cried Rikert. Funny hastened to obey; and then Rikert showed her the coffee-pot, and toki her how to make the coffee. “Me want you to do these things every morning,’ said he. “And if you no get up in time me must beat you.” “[T will doit! LI will get up in time!” cried Fanny, cast- ing a frightened glance at the stick in the corner. Already a singular change—that change which is al- ways caused by ill trealment—lad come over the child. The roundness of her cheeks was not so perceptible. They looked pale, and her eyes were even a little sunken, mak- ing her look older by several years than she did on the previous day. Rikert noticed the change, and a look of grim pleasure crossed his face, Tne more pitifal the aspect of the child, the better it woukl be for his pocket, when, taking this little one, he should go out with his organ and his mon- Key. Breakfast, consisting of black bread and coffee, was soon ready. Rikert cut off a slice and a half of bread, and peured out balf a cup of coffee for the girl. “There,’”? said he, “there’s your breakfast, and if you good girl, you may have such every morning!” ; She said nothing, but being very hungry, ate her bread eagerly and drank her coffee. “Now,” said Rikert, rising frem the table and putting on an old, greasy, low-crowned hat, “tie this over your bread, aud come with me.’? He gave her a faded piece of cloth as he spoke. “But,” said Fanny, who had not dared to make the re- mark before breakfast on account of Rikert then seem- jug so cross, “1 have not yet washed my face and hands,”’ *O, so you put on airs,eh? No airs with me. You don’t need wash your face and hands, Not washed all the better for my trade, for it make you 100K paler as you are, and don’t wear out me towels,”’ So Fanny, choking back a sob, tied the cloth over her head, aud followed Rikert, who, having procured his or- gau and strapped it to his back, went down stairs with his monkey squatting on the hind part of the instrument. Now, thea, out in the street, could not sie slip and run away? The thought flashing quickly through the little girl’s mind, she was about darting off, when Rikert, asif he lad guessed her intention, caugut her firmly by the hand, He went with her down Mulberry street, and then turn- ing into another, did not stop untA he had reached the corner of Broadway and White. Here he madea pause, aud commenced regaling the passers-by with music, while kis monkey performed va- rious antics, keeping time irregularly with the instra- ment, Again Fanny thought of running away, but the man now had bis eye on her, and whichever way she turned she beheld the gleaming of his two baleful orbs watching her as a cat watches a mouse. A crowd of ragged boys and a few rough-looking men and women had soon collected about the organ-grinder. They seemed very willing to hear the music and watch the performances of the monkey, but when the latter passed the hat round, not a penny was dropped into it. The organ-grinder shragged his shoulders, then looking round contemptuously at the group, he replaced hig in- strument and trudged on, Thus they went from place to place, Fanny, this man, and the monkey, the former not atall pleased with her situation, although it was a‘novel one, and she had plenty of music, Meanwhile the man kept his eyes about him, and had his ears open. Passing two men who were talking, he heard one of them say: “Yes, sie is very sick; in my opinion she won’t live a week, All noises of every kind areso distasteful to her that they set her off in a dead faint.” Noticing that,the speaker glanced toward a house a few aoors from th rner of the street where he stood, Rikert at onde coneluded that the invalid dwelt there. Here was an opportunity not to be thrown away. He _ hurried to the front of the house after the men were gone, SS = aaa ene St and at once struck up the noisiest air he could think of. In a few minutes a window was raised, and the kead of an indignant woman appeared, ‘There! there!’ sie caNed, ‘that will do. Here take this and go away;’’ throwing the man a ten-cent piece. “Ft was a ‘‘good haul,’ but Rikert hoped, under the circumstances, to obtain a better one from the same rter. : ‘Thank you; many thanks,” he called, ‘but me poor friendless mar, with sick wife and seven smal children. Me like, me bless, if you give me ten more to buy bread for me poor hungry Children.”? “Go awa answered the woman; “there is a sick person in this house and you disturb her with the maisic.”” “QO, me sorry, very sorry,’? auswered Joe with a grim- ace, “me play music she like. Me no pmy so loud.” And again he struck up a tune on the organ. The woman ina hurry to get rid of the man, threw him another ten-cent piece, when with agrin aud a low bow tke dwarf shouldering his organ, departed chuckling. And so all day long from street to street, poor Fanny was led, the organ-grinder not starting for home until about six o’elock, by which time his pocket was heavy with coppers and pieces of silver. He had done a good day’s work and felt in a good humer, but although he had himself munched a piece of bread at noon, he had not once seemed to think of buying any- thing for the child to eat. Faint and hungry during the long tramp, she had east many a wistful glance at the windows of the dining saloons and the bake shops they ha@ passed. ‘We soon be home, now,” said Rikert, as they turned into Mulberry street. “And will we have some supper, and may I go right to bed ?? asked the tired child. “Yes, you may go to bed, if you too lazy to wait for your supper,”’ said Rikert. ‘But no, me have something for you to do before you go;’? he suddenly added. ‘‘Me teach you to play on tambourine, and when you learn 10W, you Shall play in the street.’’ Fanpy heaved a weary sigh, holding her disengaged hand to her breast as if it hurt her from very weariness to breathe. Atiast they arrived home. The dirty litthe monkey was then hustled into the small room, and Rikert ordered Fanny to make a fire and some tea. Once more in among the coals her little bruised hands she plunged, and Rikert having told her kow to make the tea, she fimally set it, by his orders, on the table, “Now sit down and eat supper,’’ said the man. This the child was glad to do. She ate eagerly of the biack bread, but ere she had satisfied herseM her weary head drooped upon her arm, and she would have faen asieep but for the harsh voice of her companion bidding her remember the tambourine and keep awake. It was hard work to keep her eyes open, but she con- trived.to do so while Rikert, going imto the otker room, vsoon appeared with an old tambourine. He made her stand up before him whe he went throngh with some of the first motions. He ther put the iastru- ment in the hands of the child, who endeavored to imi- tate him, but did not suceeed very well, and was scoided severely on that account. **You no go to bed until yeu karn to play so—so,” tak- ing the tambourine from her baad and showing her how to thump upon it, ‘Wait ti morning, please,’ said Fanny, ptaintively, her eyes haif shut. . Rikert, however, insisted that she skeuld learn now. She did her best, but even while she thumped the tambou- rine her eyes closed and she staggered against the door, *“Fooll’? exclaimed the man “let me see if me no keep you awake.” He raised the stiok to deal the ch#d a biow, bot she ran into a corner and held up Ler kands, screamlug with al- fright, so that, fearfal of bringing tae neigirbors upon him, he was obliged to desist. He made her take the tamboutine, however, and dil not allow her to go te bed umt& she had performed as he wished. Then, having at last obtained permission to seek the coveted rest, the little gi sank down on her’quiit, and was in a moment fast asieep. CHAPTER XIV. THE SHOWMAN. Crip was but momentarily stunned by his fat through the trap into the undergreund apartment. He rose, and pressing a hand to his brow, looked round him. The place was at first too dark for him to see a yard distant in any direction, but gradually, as his eyes became accus- tomed to the gloom, he earid see the watis of his dungeon with tolerable distinctness. : Suddenly a deep growl arrested his attention. It came from one ¢orner of the dungeon, looking toward which he now distinguished, first tre eyes, gleaming like balls of fire, and then tke head and form of a large bear. The animal grewied again as Grip looked toward it; then rising it advanced toward him. The boy was about beating a retreatto the other side of the cell, when ke noticed that the oreature, having advanced to within a few feet of him, could go no fer. It was secured by a chain, ene end of which was fasten- ed to a large tron ring in the wall. What Mether Grimes’ reasons were A bonne * bear here the Was ata loss to hmagine. watched the animal w mauch epriosity, and concided, from its manner, that M was netvery Rerce—thas it kod been pretty weil tamed. it was plein, howevor, that the present damp, dark lo- cality was fat from being to its taste, for K would now and them raise its head and, with an impatient growl, parce the air, as WU it wished this was more pure and fresh. The boy had been abont an hourin his dungeon when the trap absve opened, and a ladder was trast through, by means ef which a man descended inte the dungeon, bear- ing a lansera in one hand and a big piece of meat in the other. Orip looking at this mar was sure he had seen him be- fore. He was of low stature, with a dark, foreign-look- ing countenance, and jet black eyes. Holding up the tern heeyed Crip a moment, and then going to the bear, he deposited the meaton the round. “What do you say for that, Brunus?’? The bear shook his head and gavetwo short growis, evidently meaning to express liis gratitude. “Hesays thank you,’? the mau remarked, turning to Crip. ‘‘What do you think of him, boy? Isn’t bea fine animal ??? “I suppose so,”? answered Crip; ‘“‘but I’m not much ofa judge of bears.”’ ie thought you had been in a circus; so Mother Grimes told me.” “They had no bears there,’? said Crip. “O, ladn’t they ?”? He looked intently at the boy a moment, his eyes gleam- ing with something like interest. “They told me,” said he, ‘that you were brought here to add to the attractions of the ‘crib.’ ” ‘So I was, I suppose; but it was against my will.” The man said nothing for some moments. Siill looking at Crip, he wou'd now and then shrug his shoulders, “It’s just like Mother Grimes to do this thing.” “How long do you tink she will Keep me here??? *“OCan’t teli,” auswered the man. ‘But one thing, boy, you mustn’t go to taking me for a thief ora pickpocket, like the rest of em here. My name is John Bean, and I'm a poor traveling showman, lodging here with my bear for a few weeks. Mother Grimes wants to buy the animal, but she can’t have it, forif 1 gave it to her, Pd have no means of earning my bread.” “I shouldn*™ have thought you’d havecome to suehka lodging-place,’’ said Crip. “‘T couidn’t get any other. Nobody wanted to be trou- bled with me and my bear, for the small pay I could give foralodging. At last I hit on this place, and Mother Grimes, on condition that I would now and then exhibit the animal here, consented to give it and me a lodging.” “Are you going Lo stay here??? “Tat depends on circumstances, I hear,’? he suddenly added, advancing closer to the lad, ‘that you are a great wrestler.’ “l am expert in that line,’? answered Crip. **How do you think you woujd make out with that fel- low iu a wrestle??? said the man, jerking his thumb to- ward the bear, “Not very weH, I should think,’? answered Crip, open- ing his eyes wide in surprise. “IT don’t know about that. I could train Brutus to wrestie with you, and if you would then go around with me we would make piles of money.” “Nos if lean get away from here I'll go back to the circus,’’ “Then I’m afraid you’ll not getaway in a hurry. If you’d go with me, say on a short excursion with the bear, I tink I could persuade Mother Grimes to part with you.”’ “She would net let me go even then, I think,’’ said Crip; “she’c be afraid l’d tell the police about her and have her arrested.”? -“Oh, no. You’d be taken blindfolded from here, and you’d never be abjeto find the place. As to your ever seeing Mother Grimes, you’d not know her if you should see her out of this place, as she always goes in disguise.” “But why sbould she let me go through your persuad- ing her?’ inquired the boy. “1m notsure that she would. If yon consent to do what Lask:of you, however—go around with me and the bear—I will try to get you out of this place.” Crip reflected & moment. Then he looked up and said he would go il he might first be permitted to see the oir- cus manager and tell him every thing. “I have no objection to that,’? answered Bean, ‘‘or to your seeing any other friends you like,”? “There are other friends I would like to see,’ said the boy, sighing as he thought of Timothy and Fanny. “Well, So then it’s agreed ?”” said the man. “Yes, it’s agreed. 1 willstay with you awhile, and go round with you and the bear,’’ cried Crip, who rather liked the idea of travel, “provided, of course, you pay me well for my work.’’ “I will give you more than you could get in the circus,”’ answered Bean. “But won’t they arrest you?!’ inquired Orip. “Of course I shall have to tell them all about you when I de- scribe any getting away from this place,’* A peculiar smile was now observable on the face of the showman. “rm not afraid of that,’ said he; ‘‘they’ll not arrest me. “How so?’ inquired Crib. ‘‘At present | cam tell you,’ answered Bean; ‘but you shall find outin time. Now, then, I must go.’ So saying, the man went up the ladder, which be pulled after him, and then shut the trap. He went straight to the door of the landlady’s back room, aud knocked thereat. GRO - Gow > retest oF PW Et ee ee en ie ee oe ers ne She opened it, and the man entered. ‘Moher Grimes,’ said he, ‘1 have seen the hd, and think, as you do, that he’s a smart one for his age.’”? “If you perferm here with himand your bear, you think itll pay me, eh 7? “Yes, it would pay you. But it wouki take the boy away with me on a tour w “Are you in earnest 2”? “Yes, I am.’? “You want me to let you have him ?”’ “sy do.” ‘It can’t be done. He will prove too useful to me.” The man drew forth his pocket-book. J will give you twenty-five dollars for him,?’ saéd he, “Where is the money ?”” ¥ Bean drew out a check for the required ameunt on a well-known bank, and presented the paper to her. “TI hope that will set us all right, Moiker Grimes.”’ The Jatter, as she took the Check, smiled. “Yes,’’ said she, “that willdo. “Yeu may have the boy for that, though I don’t think he’s worth it to you.” “Isn’t he??? said the man, with a peculiar expression of countenance. ‘“{ think heis. He will bring me in double that amount.”? “Talways believed he was a sittle light-headed,’ said the woman to herself, when the man was gone, “and now I am pretty sure of it. He must have saved up heaps of money, in spite of his pretended poverty. If he only kept his cash here,’? she added, a dark, fierce look passing over her face, ‘the wouldn’t go away from this place very soon. She looked at the check, Smoothing it with her hand; then, having in Jess than an hour changed her appear- ance by putting on a wig and applying to her face some preparation which made it look almost fair, she took the eheck to the bank where it was eashed. “Genuine, sure enougl,”? she muttered as she hurried hemeward. ‘“‘Who would have thoughtit. The fool to let me have twenty-five dollars for the boy. He must think I am ‘green’ to keep my word about that.” me better to 1 the bear.’?, OHAPTER XV. THE PLAN. A few days after Mother Grimes received her eneek, Joun Bean descended into the dungeon. “It’s all right,’? he said to Crip, ‘‘youw’H soon be away from this place.”? The boy was surprised. “So she consented to let me go?’ said he. The man skrugged his shoulders, a dark, angry ex- pression passing ever his face. “Wo; she did not. Ske pretended she would, after 1 had gyven her twenty-five dollars for you, and then she played me a trick, a8 soon she had got the cheek for the money cashed.” “Did she then refase to let me go?’ said Orip with a look of disappointment. “I thougut you just suid it was ali right. “Wait tii I get through. She toki me I should pot take you away uniess I gave her fifty dotlars more.” “And you gave it to her?’ inquired Crip. ‘No sueh thing. I was not feol enough for that. I could see that she was trying to spesge money out of me.’ “Will you have her arrested for your twenty-five doHars ?? “No; for asit happens, I’! owe her that for board in a few days. She’s welcome to the money, but ske isn’t welcome toyou. Iii have you eut of tis to-night,” “How will you manage??? ‘*You shall see;’’? answered Bean, “I happen to know a secret or two about this dungeon, There is a way out of this place whicti Mother Grimes, I think, knows nothing abdout.”’ “Did you siiy we must wait til night before we can get away 2? “Yes, There aresome moreof the woman's thieves and pickpockets up stairs, and they want to see some of your wrestling, about which the woman has told them. They will be after you in a few minutes, I daresay.” The man went away, as usual, drawing the latter after i m. Afew minutes after, the hunchback Dook, who had previously brought the boy his provisions in this place, appeared with some stale rolis anda cup of coffee, his morning allowance. “Do you feel like wrestling ??’ inquired the man. “Mot much,” answered Orip. ‘"Phere’s to be some more of that cowhide business up stairs. I’m not to use the cowhide, but you are to do the dancing,’ the fellow added, with a malicious grin. ‘So hurry up and get your breakfast, as the ‘mother’ is ina filget to see you up stairs playing of your best before her guests.?? CALS eae 0 eae. EPR ares <7 nea Orip, who now there ‘vas a prospéét of his sdon ob- taining his liberty, felt almost cheerful, ate his breakfast cheerily, and was soon ready to accompany Dook up stairs. The moment the two appeared in the room where were assembied about a dozen men, they were greeted with eleers. “Now, Dook,’’ said Mother Grimes, ‘‘go to work at once and let the sport begin.” Dook beckoned to sone person in an obscure corner of the half-darkened room, where, tothe surprise of Crip, Jack Bend, “The Little Champion,” his former opponent im Lhe circus, made his appearance. ‘ The fellow griuned maitciousiy on noticing the surprise of Orip. You aidn’s expect to see me here, but I did expect to see you kere, and there’s the difference,” said he. Logantly a tight broke ou Crip’s mind. He had always thought Jack was of a malicious, revengeful nature, but he had not hitherto suspected that he would do a person he disliked amy serious injury. Now, however, the thought forced itself on his mind that he was somehow connectad with his having been brougit to is establish- ment. He was convineed of this when Jack continued: “You didn’t thimk to see me here? You didn’t think you would ever be brougiit to such a place, did you? But I was determined to have my revenge for your coming to that circus, and getting ali tae ‘preferments’ away from me.’? “Do I understand you to mean that you got me breught here ?? “You can think so if youlike, and yeu won’t be far from the truth.’? “Then you are a worse rascal than I thought you were,” said Crip. Jaek, rit heid in one hand the long cowhide Dook haa previously used, dealt the speakeg a hearty thwack across the neck and shoulders. The sting of the lash was so cutting that the lad was almost driven mad with rage. He sprang upon Jack, dealt him a furious blow in the face, and then tripping hin up, snatched the cowhide from his grasp. ‘ “Well done! Well done!’? applauded the spectators. “A little too welll’? said Mother Grimes, ‘‘at least I don’t care to see my Own nepliew treated in this manner. The fellow should have been satisfied to throw him without hitting him in the faee.” “I must have my revengel’’ exclaimed Jack, springing up and running wildly about the room; ‘let me have a knife or something so that I can take his life atonce. Til cut his heart right out!’ “No,’’ said his aunt, ‘that you must not do; but I'll let you pay him off in some other way. We will some of us hold him some day, and let you ffeg him as much as you like with the cowhide.” She led Jack from the room, and returned soon after to tell Dook to go up and try a wrestle with Crip. Dook hung back @ little at first, but soon consented and the two grappled. Still smarting from the blows of the whip he had re- ceived, Crip was in no enviable frame of miud. He seized Dook with a grip like a bear’s, aud hurled him ip a mo- ment to the floor. Again cries of ‘‘Well done!—well done!l’? were heard, after which DooK was ordered to conduct the prisoner back to the dungeon. Dook departed and Crip did not see him again, for no dinner was brought to the poor boy on this day. At about eleven o’clock at night Bean entered witha lantern. “Well, my lad,’? said he, ‘I’m now going to get you out of this.” I see ne way,’’ said the boy, glancing round him. “Come here, and you shall see,’ auswered Bean, in a low voice. He led the way to one side of the dungeon, and pointed to a dozen large, loose stones im the wall. . “1 not sure,’’ said he, “but I don’t think that even Mother Grimes kuows of this opening.” With these words Bean, removing one of the stones, disclosed a hole whence issued cold air. “That hole,’’? he said, ‘is part of an opening leading in- to along, narrow passage, that terminates under an old dock by the East River.’’ ‘Are you sure of that??? “Yes; I have explored the passage. no time to lose.” So saying, he at once proceeded to remove the stones, which, being placed on the bottom of the cellar, an open- ing almost Jarge enough to enable the boy to stand up therein was disclosed. Crip said he was ready, when the man motioned to him to proceed. “Keep right on,’? said he, ‘until you gain the dock. Then crawl out and climb up, and stay there until you see me”? fan right,”? answered the boy, and he started. The passage was so dark and s0 narrow that he was obliged to move straight forward, keeping his body steady to prevent himself from knocking against the jagged sides, which by the feeling he could perceive were composed of sharp stones. He’ kept on fur some distance, until by the purity of the cold aw blowing upon him, and iis peculiar smeil, he knew that he was upon the river. Soon he gained the opening under the dock of which Bean had spoken, and crawling through it he sank up to his ankles in the mud ou the river’s bank, There was a rough path leading up from this spot. He followed it, aud having thus gained the upper part of the deck, he looked about to ascertain where he was. That he was some distance up town he soon felt as- sured by the scant nuinber of houses he couk! see in the lightof a half clouded moon. “It ig somewhere about Harlem,’? thought the boy, “anless I’m much mistaken.’? But the sight of a thick woods in the distance at once assured him that he was not quite so far out of town as he had supposed, “Nol there’s Jones’ Woods,’ he exclaimed, ‘and I must be somewhere in the neighborhood of the Third Avenue, pe here is the Bast River, and so the ayenue must be on the other side of the woods, And now there is AU 20 Re EAL 20 ag HT t man.?” — ~" RF EGET dO ARE te OE Oe At the period of which we write the First and Seecnd Avenue were not Haid, although they had been commenced further up. “Thad no idea,’? muttered Crip, ‘that I had been taken in this direction, for I thought 1 was aN the time rightin the heart of the city.” At that moment, hearing a growl, he peered over the dock, to see Braunus with his master ahead, leading the brute by a rope, just emerging from the opening. CHAPTER XVI. NIGHT TRAVELING. “Are yon there, boy ?’?? came the voice of Bean, “Yes, all right,’? answered Orip. “The first thing to do, then, isto strike through the eats for Third avenue. Then we will have to walk own. “Very well.”? The man, leading his bear, which followed him obe- diently, trudged on to the woods, Orip following, and by the advice of his companion directing wary glances about him to make sure that they were not observed. On they went, Bean strrking imioa path with which he seemed quite familiar. In this way they finally gained the Third avenue, down whieh they new preceeded. It was at this time of night nearly deserted, although at long intervais the travelers would meet some person who would turn and watch them long after they had passed, attracted by the novel sight of aman leading a bear by a rope. For several hours they kept on straight ahead, by which time they had gained Chatham street, and had been sey- eral times accosted by policemen. The boy had told his story, and his intentions, ina straightforward manner, and the trio had therefore been allowed to pursue their way without molestation. At Chatham street they paused. “Tam going down Catharine street to the market,’ said the man, ‘‘where I have friends, and where I can obtain aledging for the night. Will you go with me, or keep right on to see your friends ?”? “I think I will keep on,’’? answered Crip. who was in a hurry to present himself to Timothy and Fanny. ‘I will stay there all night, and in the morning I will go to some police court und make my complaint against’ Mother Grimes,” “Very well; I will stay with you until we get her den broken up. We will lose time by the operation, but [ don’t eare as I think that place is a nuisance to the city.” ‘*And shall [ go to the market to find you there in the morning ?”? ““Yes,?? Qrip then, with a light step and a joyful heart, turned his footsteps toward the Roosevelt street tenement, which he gained in less than half an hour. He mounted the stairs and knocked at the garret door, but there was no response to his summons. Suxprised at this, he knocked again, but without suc- cess. He applied hiseartothe doorand listened. Al was Silent within; he could not even hear the breathing of those whom he supposed must have retired for the night. Then he tried the door, to find it locked. “Panny!” he called aloud. ‘Fanny, are you awake? It is 1—Crip!? He tistened vainly for an answer. “What canit mean??? he muttered. have not waked them ?” Just then he thought he heard a voice beneath him. “Hey! What’s the matter? Who that??? He looked down, to see the old Italian woman who had sold Fanny after Timothy’s death. She heldin one land alighted candle, which threw over her face a flickering glare, making her hard features look even more repulsive than was natural to them. “I am come back to my lodgings—that’s all,”? answered Crip, who had never liked the woman. ‘You inake tuo much noise. You disturb people in the house. Better go away. You not find anybody in there, “Not find anybody! Why, where are they ?? “The mau—TLimothy, i believe you call—died. The little girl me take charge of a little while, but she no like me, aud she run away from me once in the street. Me have not seen her since.” Crip stood aghast, staring at the woman as if he would not believe her, Then ie left the house and went tothe baker’s prem- ises, in one ef the windows of which he could see a light. He Knocked, the baker himself came to the door, and soon corroborated the old woman’s statement as tothe death of Timothy. > “And you haven’t seen Fanny lately ?? “W6, Hot singe she went out with that old Italian wo- +! os ‘Is it possibie I Observing Crip’s grief, the good-hearted baker said: “Don’t take it too much to heart, youngster; she may yet turn up.” “No; lm afraid I shall never see her again,” exclaimed rip. Yuen the man invited him in, and heard the boy’s story of his abduction from beginning to end. ‘Well, you’d better stay here till morning and get a lit- tle sleep, if you can.” The lad went into another room and threw himself down on a cot pointed out to him by the baker’s wife. There he endeavored vainly to compose himself to sleep. The idea of Fanny being lost te him was painful, as she might fall into bad hands, and also because he had con- ceived a great affection for the little thing who had been like a singing bird in that old garret of the tenement. “lam pledged to follow the showman,’’ thought the boy. “This is unfortunate, as Pd much rather spend my time looking for Fanny.”’ Toward morning he fell isto arestiess slumber, from which he was soon waked by the noise in the street. He rose quickly, and having partaken of a breakfast kindiy tendered him by the baker, he made his way to Catharine market, The showman was there, behind the stali of a butcher friend, to whom he introduced Crip. “Well, boy, did you find ’em all well??? he then asked. “*] did’nt find ’ein at all,’? was Orip’s reply; ‘‘and I feel worried about the titue girl, Fanay. “Panny? said the showman. ‘Who is that??? “Oh, [forgot lhad not told you,’’ said the boy, who then proceeded to explain about the little girl. “You say you first found ber on the housetep?” said the man. “Yés,? Bean seemed at once to fal into a fit of musing. “And she told you her name was Fanny Dorrell??? sones,’? The man shrugged his shoulders and compressed his lips in a peculiar manner, which, however, was a riddle to Crip, who looked up at him in surprise. Bean, however, had soon resumed his usual air of care- less indifference. “We will now go to some police station and make our statement,’ he said to the boy. They went, and having told their story, a detachment of poltce was sent to the up-town rendezvous. Toward noon, however, they returned to state that they had fowud the ‘crib’? empty—not even an article of furni- ture left. Mother Grimes had taken the alarm on discovering the escape of the young prisoner, and nad cleared out to paris unknown. {f0 BE CONTINUED. A Woman’s Temptation. By MRS. FLORICE NOR10N, (A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.) i Woman’s Temptation,» was commenced in No.36 Back Nos. an be obtained ofany News Agent in the United States.) CHAPTER XXXVII. The pained, humbled, mortified look of Eric’s face seemed almost to touch Lord Arncourt’s heart. “It is always foolish for people to make plans for others,’’ he said. ‘However, fortunately in this case, there is no harm done. Ihave not mentioned my wish to any one. All yes—I remember now that I hinted them to madame; but she is discreet. I had thought of this marriage before I ever satv Reine even. When I found her so beautiful and brilliant, my hopes increased.”? “She is everything that is admirable,” said Eric, “Only you have not fallen in love with her,’ said Lord Arncourt, laughingly. ‘‘Well, as I said before, there is no harm done; and Miss de St. Lance isa most charming girl—gentle, well-bred, and beautiful. You could not have chosen more wisely, Eric. You will be very happy with her, 1 am sure.”’ “Then I have your permission ?” said Eric, gravely. “You have my full consent and best wishes, Itis rather a matter of form than otherwise, your asking me, Eric. I have no authority over you, and madame is Belle’s sole guardian.” But Eric, with a grace all his own, bent down and kissed Lord Arncourt’s hand. “TI owe you the deepest honor and deepest respect,’”’ he said. “I would do nothing without consulting you first.’? “You must go to madame, now, and—ah, me! Eric, I envy her the happiness of calling you her son-in-law. I am busy now, and cannot discuss details with you. Later on we will make all arrangements for your matriage, and what income, as heir of Neversleigh, will meet the re- quirements of your position. Go to madame, now; it is her consent that is of such vital importance, not mine.”? Eric saw that Lord Arncourt wished to be alone, and having expressed his most gratefal thanks, he went away. “T seem to have disappointed everybody,’’ he thought, as he went to madame’s room; “but I could not help lov- ing Belle.” He found Madame de St. Lance sitting quite alone, with the same sad, constrained, worn-out look on her face that had always struck him. She glanced at him in alarm, and her face grew even paler, “You want to speak to me, Mr, Ohilvers’! What can you possibly want with me ?” 5 **] will tell you, madame.’? And standing before her, his graceful figure quite ereet, his hand resting on the table, he told the story of his love. To his intense surprise, when she had heard it, she buried her face in her hands and wept, after a dreary, hopeless fashion, that filled him with dismay. “Madame,” he cried, “I pray you do not do that! You are Hot angry with me, surely, that I love your beautiful Belle ?’ : ‘“Bellel? she repeated. “Oh Mr. ‘Ohiivera, why is it not all different ?—why do you no love Reine # He looked om her in bewildered surprise. woe < a as possible. You will allow me now to speak of it? ‘“*Will you tell me your reason, Eric?’ she asked, with feminine curiosity. “I would much rather not, my darling; do nos’ ask me.*? Like the submissive, gentle girl she was, she did noé ask, and Eric was relieved by her silence. “lm going to tell Lord Brandon myself at once; and, Belle, my darling, among all your lady jends, who has the reputation of being the greatest gossip?’ “Miss Braderniss,’’ sie replied, with a prompt simpli¢i- ty that charmed him. “Then tell it to herasa great secret, and you may be sure that the news will soon spread,” said Eric, for which cynical sentiment Belle reproved him severely, and Was most properly indignant. Eric, however, had his own special reasons. They had one hour of untold happiness out among the sunshine and flowers—one hour when they forgot that earth had its cares, and rememibered only that the gates of Paradise were open for them. Then Eric went away and sought Lord Brandon. He told him his news, and the young earl congratulated him most warmly. *“) am afraid, Eric,’ he said, ‘that I shall never have such good news for you. Miss Aracourt does not as yet give me a gracious Jook.” The sunshine of iis own happiness was in Hrie’s heart; he saw all things through its medium. “I should persevere,’ he said. ‘Such love as yours de- serves its reward.”? “Do you think perseverance in this case will win the prize ?”? asked Lord Brandon, anxiously. “Ido. Miss Arncourt is a very noble girl; she can ap- preciate fine qualities, and there is nothing so fine as per- severance and fidelity.” “You give me courage,” said Lord Brandon. ‘I have not seen Miss Arncourt to-day. Ah, theresheis, I will join her.”? “You need not keep what I have been telling you a se- eret,’’? said Bric. ‘*You can speak of it if you choose.” He was anxious that the news should be told to her by some one before whem she would be unwilling to betray herself. leaceiaibe CHAPTER XXXVIII. Lord Brandon hastened to join Miss Arncourt. He saw the blooming flowersas he passed by, but none there seemed to nim so fair as the beautiful girl he loved so per- severingly. “Who so fair,’? he asked himself, graceiul?”? If he could only win her for himself, win her and keep her in his heart, he would be happy forevermore. He went up toher. She was standing by the rose-gar- den, her white hands toying carelessly with a beautiful rose, She knew that he was coming, yet her eyes never glanced at him; their expression was one of proud, cold, wearted indifference. When Lord Brandon drew near enough to look in her face he was startled by the terrible change in it. The youth, the beauty, the exquisite bloom, the ra- diance—all seemed to havs died out of it, and given pace to a haggard care and gloom. “Miss Arncourt!”’ he cried, in wonder. Slowly she turned her dark, beautiful eyes to him. “Do you want me?”’ she asked. “| saw you, and thought I should like to ask you how you were, but you surprised me.” “To be easily surprised shows a weak mind,’ she said, with a miserable attempt at her old gayety of manner. “Tam quite content to be considered weak-minded, if you choose to call me so,” he said, with a bow anda smile. ‘*But, Miss Arncourt, do pray assure me that you are not ill.’ “There is little need to assure you of the faet when you ane 08 standing before you in perfeot health,’ she re- plied. “But you look so changed—do not frown; you know the least shadow of a frown from you makes me miserable. I will not say that you look ill if it displeases you; I wih keep my thoughts to mysell.’? “Perhaps that will be the wisest thing for you to do,” she said, dryly. wi She ae annoyed that the: pallor of her face should be noticed. “I wonder, Miss Arncourt,” said the youngearl, ‘what I could do to win only one smile from you ?” “| cannot tell,’? she replied; ‘‘nor do I see why you should trouble yourself about my smiles.’ “You know how dearly and how desperately I love you,?? he retorted, ‘and you might be just a litte kinder to me?” She laughed wearily. . “You know how little I believe in love at all,”? she said. “Tt is only a poet’s fallacy, a poet’s dream.’? Yet, even as she spoke the words, a sharp pain in her own despairing heart told her how untrue they were. ‘“T ought not to give way toenvy on such a beautiful morning as this,’? said Lord Brandon; ‘‘but I feel terribly inclined to envy Eric Chilvers.”? Her heart beat at the sound of that name; a hot, crim- son flame seemed to burn her face; her eyes flashed fre, then drooped. i “Eric Ohilvers!” she repeated. him ?”? “Because he is so happy. his eyes all brightness. he loves best.”? “What do you mean, Lord Brandon?” she asked quickly. She had turned round so tiiat she could look directly at him. In her fierce impatience it seemed to her that she could have taken the words from his lips. “What do you mean?’ she repeated. “Have you not heard? Now lremember, Bric told me it was only just settled. Butsurely you know alk about it; it can be no secret, no news to you,” He was looking at her with a half-wondering air that added to her impatience, She tried to control it. “7 do not in the Jeast understand you. I know of no reason why your friend should be happier this moruivg than any other morning.’’ “| should have imagined that you knew all attoutit. I met Eric just now, and he asked me to congratulate iim; he had Just won Lord Arncourt’s consent to bis marriage with Miss de St. Lance.” Even as she looked at him the light faded from, her eyes, the flush died out of her face, Jeaving it_ white, Colorless, cold as the face of the dead. paw “Lord Arn- “Tg Belle is my only “as she? Who so “Why should you envy His face was all sunshine, He is happy, for he has won whas “Gay that yee she half-whispered, “The news has agitated you,’ said Lord Brandon, look» aa To ae eas mas e™ ing in wonder at that white face. ‘Still yon must have had some idea of it. Hric Chiivers is going to marry Miss de St. Lance.’ 1 She stood perfectly still—the same terrible shock would have killed some women; she clenched her hands so tight- ly that the thorns ef the rose ran deep into the soft fingers, but she never felt the pain. Heaven and earth seemed whirling around her. Death would have been a relief to the terrible agony of that moment, but the rest and silence of death were not for her. She stood so for what seemed to her an eternity—it was but a few minutes of time, “How long has he loved her??? she asked, in a low voice, “Ever since the first moment he saw her, so he telis me,’’ replied the young earl. “When are they to be——’’ She paused. It seemed to her easier to die than to say the words—‘*‘When are they to be married?” “In the month of October,” he replied. ‘Now have I not some reason to envy Eric?’ : “No,” she replied, with a strange smile; ‘‘you have none.”’ “I wish I could agree with you. He has won his love. I am willing to work, to serve, and to wait for my love, as Jacob did of old; bwt I fear me that my love will never smile on me.’? She did not seem to have heard his words. She was look- ing, with a Strange, far-off gaze in her dark eyes, at the distant trees, *‘Had you really no suspicion of the state of affairs ?’? he continued. ‘Did it never strike you that Hric liked Miss de St. Lance ?”? “No,”? she replied, slowly; ‘‘l can safely aver that it mever cid.” “| always fancied it, after I had once seen them togeth- er,’ he said. ‘‘Are you going, Miss Arncourt?” He never forgot the strange look she gave him, the Strange smile she bent upon him. “] must go and congratulate the bride that is to be,” she replied. ‘‘Belle and 1 were always like sisters, you know.” + ~- Without another word of apology she turned away, leav- ing the young earl more surprised and bewildered than he had ever been in his life before. <“‘What an incomprehensible girl that is,’ he said to himself. ‘I love her, I worship the very ground slie stands upon; yet I do not believe she will ever care for me.’ Oh, if Il knew—if I only knew how to win her.” She walked on, regardless of everything. Lord Arn- court saw her as she passed the library window, and called hername. Shedid noteven hear him. Madame Seut word that she wished tosee her. Ste never even hieard the message. Her brain and her heart were on fire. She went.icto the house, and her maid, who was crossing the ha!!, looked up in wonder at her white, wild face. «Where is Miss de St. Lance?” asked Reine; and the an- swer was: ‘In her own room.” Slowly, and with stately steps, she went up the broad marble stairease. She rapped at the door of Belle’s room. <‘Come in,’’ said a low, happy voice. Gravely, coldly, with haughty step, Reine walked up to the young girl. She looked in the sweet face. “We have lived like sisters,” she said. ‘Tell me the truth; are you going to marry Eric Chilvers?” And Belle, bending her head that she might not meet that cold, proud glance, said, simply: “He has asked metodo so, Reine, and my mother is willing.’ —— §CHAPTER XXXIX. It was a scene that would have delighted an artist. The two girls were so beautiful, so different to each other. Belle so sweet, so shy, shrinking from ler friend; yet with a face fullof love and hope. Reine, like a tragic muse, Stern of aspect, grave of face, the pallor of some- thing like despair vailing its beauty. They might have been taken in that moment forthe goddess of love and the goddess of revenge. It was well for Belle that sue could not see the glance bent upon her. “Your mother willing!’? she said, contemptuously; ‘‘as though that had anything to do with it.” “It has everything to do withit, Reine. I should never marry without my mother’s full and free consent.” An expression of angry scoru came over the beautiful face. “Tt is your goodness, I suppose, that has won Eric,” she said. ‘Do you love him, Belle ?’? Zhe fair face flushed and drooped; it was hard to ownthatshe loved any one, when asked in such cold, hard tones. “You need not have any affectation with me,?’ said Reine, impetuously; ‘it does not impose upou me, I ask you a question; surely you do not mind answering it.” “TI will answer any question you choose, Reine; but you are so cold—so cold and hard, dear,” “Am 1??? was the reply, and Reine laughed a moeking, reckless laugh that was not pleasent tv hear. ‘Dv you love him, Belle? or are you going to marry him because he will one day be Lord Arncourt’s heir?” The sweet face flushed again. “Why do you saysuch athing to me, Reine? know that it is for himself I love him,’ Reine was silent for a few minutes, then she spoke. in an altered voice. «Do you love him, Belle?—do you really love him very much??? ; ‘No need for words; the tender eyes, the sweet lips, tle bright, warm blush, give auswer sufficient. Neo words are needed, yet Belle speaks. «IT love him better than ny own life,’ she says, gently; and Reine stood fora few minutes irresolute, taen with sudden energy she cried out: , “~ do not believe that a girl of your cold nature knows whiat love is!"? *Yet,’? interrupted Belle, ‘‘you have known how well I love you.”’ “That is a different matter. Now, Belle, supposing that some one offered you even more wealth, every earthly gift in richest profusion, to give him up, would you do it?” She spoke very gently, and Belle did not see the fire that flashed in the dark, luminous eyes; she did not see the trembling ef the proud lip, the clenching of the white hands, “‘Would I?’ she repeated, would not. queen.’? The beautiful face grew deathly pale. § (‘Would you? Ido not think Eric shares such senti- ments. Your lover, as arule, does not forget the main ehance, You will not find him so sentimental.” But her words did not anger Belle* she looked up at Reine’s face with a smile. “You are trying to tease me, Reine,’ she said, “but L am too happy to be teased.” fmThe gloom ofthe dark eyes deepened. Belle rose from her seat; she went upto Reine, and clasped her white arm round her neck; she laid her sweet face against. the cold face tliat was to Know light and warmth never more; she kissed the beautiful brow. “JT understand you, Reine,’ shesaid. ‘You are trying to seem hard and coldto me}; you are pretending that you are not glad, you are wishing to make me believe that my happiness is a matter of indifference to you. Ah, Reine! you will not succeed. I know how dearly you love me; I Know that in the depth of your heart you are well pleased at my happiness. i understand my Reine, my beautiful, proud, stately sister. No one knows her better. And I understand how much love and true ten- derness lies underneath that proud manner.’ ® For one moment the touch of those warm, sweet lips softened her. She laid her hand on the gentle head. .-*‘Poor Bellel’? she murmured. ‘Poor, gentile, Belle!” * “Why do you call me poor?’ asked Belle with a bright Smile. “Iam rieher—at least I think so—than any one else in the whole wide world.” Those words were quite sufficient. The gleam of tender- ness died out of Reine’s heart, never to shine there again. She drew back from the soft caress of those tender arms. “How sentimental you are, Belle,” shesaid. “Senti- ment always seems to me so absurd.’ Belle merely laughed. She was accustomed to Reine’s changes of mood; they never troubled her, or affected the Sweet, contented disposition. “How much, after all, Reine, I oweto you. If Ihad not come to Eugiand with you, I should never have seen Erie.” “Eric is all the world to you now, I suppose? said Reine, with a sneer. But the sneer was lost on the happy girl. She thought Only of the words. “‘He is more than all the world, indeed,” she replied. “But, Reine, did you never suspect that he loved me? Did it never occur to you??? “Do you suppose [ interested inyself to such an extent in Mr. Chilvers as to think of his probable love affairs? siad I done so, I should never have thought he was falling in love with you.” “Mamma was surprised; and, Reine, the Only little ake my sky is this: I am afraid she does not approve of it. “What makes you think so?’ asked Reine, with sudden interest. : ‘She seemed so cold, and so uninterested; she never even kissed me or wished me happiness. Ali that she said was: ‘I have nothing to say avout it, child; be happy in your own way.’ That was not very encouraging, was it, Reine??? “‘Madame is not demonstrative,’ replied Reine, coldly. “{ must go. So love him, Belle, with all your heart? Say the words over again.”? “‘T do love him, with all my heart,’ repeated Belle. And then Reine, without another word, swept away. She did not know how to meet him. The bell woulda soon ring fer lunch, and then she must be herself, or he would know how the news affected her. He-shouid never have that triumph, she said to herself—never. He should not Know that he had had power to drive the color from her face, the light from her eyes, and all trace of happi- ness from her heart. He should not know that life had lost all its charm for her, that the news of his love for and his marriage with another had power almost to take the life from her—he,. should never know it. : She went to her room, and called. her maid. “Tam looking ill this morning,” she Said; *‘yeu must make me look as well as you can.’? The maid, who rejoiced in the name of Mary Pinthorn, promised to do Ler best, and it was soon accomplished, There was 4 faint touch of something that gave the most delicate and exquisite bloom to the fair face, there was a bright line drawn under the eyes, that changed their hag- gard expression into one of dreamy splendor. It was ae to see the white lips in that exquisitely colored __ ‘You must do something here,” said Reine, impatient- ly, touching them with her fingers. “I cannot go down stairs with lips like these.” There was another touch, magical in its effect, and then he Jips were red as any rose. You “All, Reine, you know I I would rather be poor with him than be a “Now, be careful with my dress,’’ said Reine. “I want to look as niee as I can.” A dress of shining white material threw a gleam over her, and Pinthorn, anxious to please, asked: “Shail Ll bring you some blush roses to-day, miss?” She had asked the questiou simply thinking that her youug lady preferred them to any other flowers; she was not prepared for the effect. Reine looked around quickly with a flushed face. “Do not mention them to me again,’’ she cried. ‘I de- test them. I will never wear them again,” “Well, there is no accounting for caprice,’’ said the maid to herself; and in that she was right, Reine was satisfied. at lust; she seemed by magic te have recovered her brilliant bloom, her exquisite coloring. There was no pallor, no white, ghastly despair in the beautiful face upon which she gazed. “He wili not think that Iam dying for love of him,” she said to herself. ‘‘i shall conquer yet. They shall never know what J have suffered.” So Reine, radiant und beautiful as ever, came out from her room. She met Belle, and smiled in the girls sweet face, “There is one question more I wished to ask you,’ she said. ‘*When are you going to be married?” “‘In October, 1 think, Reine; but the time is not arranged yet. It will be then, I think.” “There is time for much to happen before October,’ thought Reine. ‘Time does. wonders; it may befriend me? .* CHAPTER XL. Eric had felt some little dread of meeting Reine. “| cannot bear to meet that pained look in ter beanti- fulface,” he thought. ‘There never was anything so un- fortunate in this world. If she had only taken a fancy to Brandon, how happy we might all have been!’ The bell rang for luncheon at last, and he knew they must meet. He had done nothing wrong, but he shrank like a coward from seeing her. It was a relief greater than he could describe to find her in the dining-room, looking more brilliant, more beautifulthan ever, Sle was talking gayly to Lord Bran- don, aud Eric’s heart rose at the sight. *Conlad 1 be mistaken??? hethought. ‘Itis not possible that she could love me and yet be so happy. I must have been mistaken.” Yet he felt sure there had been no mistake. “She intends me to forget all about it,’ he thought again, ‘‘and Ishall only be too glad.” She did not appear to notice him when he entered the room. She weuton laughing and talking, incoherently enough, if the trath be known, but no one knew how her heart beat and her. brain whirled. Outwardly she was calm enough. “T have been so anxious over you,’’ Lord Brandon was saying, ‘‘and now I blame myself for it.’ “Why were you anxious?” she asked, laughingly, “Because I thought you looked so ill; but I do not know that Ll ever saw you more brilliant—I dare not say beauti- ful; you would be cross with me.”’ “Certainly I should.” Then she took her place at the table, and Lord Brandon, more enchanted than ever, followed her. ‘Then, for the first time she appeared to see Kric. She smiled at him in the most careless and unconcerned fashion. ‘JT am right about the weather,’’ she said, gayly. thought it would rain; Il knewit would not. wrong, and I am right.’? “You are always right,’ said Lord Brandon, with a bow; and, to his astonishment, she found no fault with the compliment. After luncheon was over they went out, each intent on his or her particular amusement. Eric was talking to Lord Arncourt, and Reine went up to him. “Tam behind the rest of the world with my congratula- tions,’? she said; ‘‘let me offer them now.” It was Eric who looked confused, not Reine. “You are very kind,’ he said; and Lord Arncourt, thinking they might speak more at their ease in his ab- sence, went away. “Thank Heaven,’’ said the master of Neversleigh, ‘for one thing; my plans have harmed no one. Reine does not care for him, and I was sorely afraid she did.?? “You are very kind,’’ repeated Eric. She laughed carelessly. “Yes, I think myself that Iam very good-natured, con- sidering how completely you had kept me in the dark. You had quite ignored me. I must be generous to forgive that.? “Tam only surprised thatit should be so,’ said Eric, simply; ‘I thought every one mws¢ see how dearly I loved Belle.” “You need not give me a lover's rhapsody,” she said, impatiently. ‘I never saw any particular sign of love either with you or Belle; that, of course, is not my busi- ness. Like all the rest of the world, | wish you happi- ness, Eric, and have no doubt but that in a few years you will play a very respectable Darby to Belle’s Joan. Now let us talk sense, and forget love.”? ‘sLove is sense,’’? replied Eric, with a smile—he was so entirely relieved to find that she took itso quietly. He did not.Kknow quite what he had feared; she was far too proud for any complaints, for any murmurs—too proud even. to let her love be guessed at. What, then, was there to fear? He did not know; the only thing he felt sure of was that if was an indescribable relief to find her so seemingly free from care, “Yet, last night,” he thought to himself, ‘‘she looked ts ghastly, So despairing; surely Icannot have dreamed tall. He watched her during the day, fomjt seemed to him that nis senses must have deceived him. As though she had guessed that he would do so, she played her part to perfection, She was -the graceful mistress of the gay revels. She talked to others of the engagement and mar- riage that was to be. The gossip, par excellence, Miss Braderniss Caine to her with a face full of wonder. “Dear Miss Arncourt, is this story about the marriage true??? she asked. ‘Mr. Chilvers and Miss de St. Lance, I mean,”’ “Perfectly true,’? replied Reine, whose well-tatored face betrayed no surprise. “Tam so astonished. Do you know that I—all of us, in fact—thought it was to you that Mr. Chilvers was en- gaged. She bore it and smiled. The words smote her heart with the most terrible pain, bat she gave no sign. “You, and allof you,’’she repeated, mimicking Miss Braderniss’ accent, ‘‘were mistaken, you see,”? “Still it would have been very appropriate, Lord Arn- courl’s daughter and his heir. You would not have been obliged to change your name; besides, to my mind, you are somuch more beautifulthan Miss de St. Lance, I Canngs think how it was he did notfall in love with ou.’ . Reine raised her head proudly. It was one thing to hear such matters lightly discussed, and another to pon- der them in her own heart. “I do not see that you have anyright to discuss the question,’ she replied, haugitily. “Mr. Chilvers and Miss de St. Lance have pleased themselves; I shall do the same, There need be no comment upon it.” “Oh, no—certainly not,’? replied the obsequious gos- sip. wo the same time it does seem strange, does it not? “What seems strange ?’? asked Reine, impatiently. It was torture to herto hear this girl discuss that whieh to -herself she could hardly admit. “What seems strange ??? “That Mr. Chilvers should not have liked you best. We all thought he did.” “That merely shows you are all wanting in penetration. Pray, Miss Braderniss, do not let us discuss the matter; it does not interest me.”? She knew the sharp, shrewd eyes were fixed upon her face; she Knew that the insatiable gossip would be only too delighted te note any change there, and to tell after. ward how ‘‘poor dear Miss Arncourt’) Jooked. No ene should have that triumph over her. “To tell the truth,” she continued, laughingly, “I am glad we are going to have a wedding. I have not seena regular Euglish wedding yet. But pray donot tel any one I said that, Miss Braderniss; people will think I am so childish.”? ’ She knew perfectly well that the lady gossip would re- peat toacircie of admiring friends how glad Miss Arn- court was—the very iinpression she wished to go abroad, and she had taken the surest method of spreading it. All that day, though each hour seemed to her an age, she was brilliant, gay and beautiful; she was the life of the whole party. Each hour Eric wendered more and more, while Lord Brandon fell more deeply and hopetess- ly in love. But when night came she was exhansted; the strain upon her nerves had been too great; she had overtaxed her strength. Alonein her own room the mask she had bt fell from her, even as the rouge washed from ler ace. - : “How long is it to last, and how am I to bear it? she asked herself. ‘Gould I spend years in such a manner? Could I pass my whole life so ?"? “No,’? was the answer of her own heart. The time would soon come when she would tire of play- ing apart; when the passionate nature and despairing love would rise in hot rebellion; and ,what—she asked herself in deéspair—what wasto become of her then? She did not know. Suddenly her own words recurred toher: ‘Much might happen before October!’? She repeated the words over and over again. She had no particular meaning ascribed to them in her own mind. ‘Much might happen,” but she did not say to herself what the much might comprise; accident, sickness, sor- row, death. “Men have changed their minds before now,” she said, “in less time than that—and womentoo. Eric may prove faithless; Belle may change; a thousand things may hap- pen. They are not married yet.’’ And that was the first whispering of the evil spirit to her, the first temptation, The same evening Lord Arncourt found himself by the side of Madame de St. Lanee. She was looking pale and anxious. “I have hardly found time to offer my eongratulations yet, madame,” he said; “they are very. siucereones. Your daughter wilh be a happy girl.’? “T hope so,’? replied madame, in a low voice; “but I took your side of the question, Lord Arneourt. I would far rather that he had married Reine.” “Why ?)? asked my lord, . And the strangeness of her reply did not strike him until long afterward, “Because—Reine—loyed him, I believe.” ‘Nay,’ replied Lord Arncourt, gently; “itisnotse. I found that we were both mistaken. Reine was and is perfectly indiffereut; I have ample proof of that.” [To BE CONTINUED, ] “You You are (“Ehe MAN IN BLUE; or, WHICH Dip HE Lovz,” a story of Eag- lish Society, will be commenced next week.§ |} exception, somehow, in Mrs. Graham’s favor. UNCHANGED. - Wy. Ww. MALOTT, BY Tam not changed! True as the tide That flows out to its own fair queen, My heart beats faithful at thy side, Nor can it less when thou’rt met seen; As is the needle to the pole, So constant to thee is my soul. Could I forget those blissful hears Phat glided by on noiseless wings ? Ah, no! though stern Fate wildly lowers, That memory to my heart still clings; Onee having felt thy witching sway, My soul in vain would break away. My love shall cease but with my breath, And flow out in a deep, clear stream, As true as Truth, as strong as Death, And to me as a blissful dream. Then deem not I can lightly change— Naught cam my seul from thine estrange. The right te dramatize this Serial is reserved by the Author, ONE NICHT’S MYSTERY. By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming. {One Night's Mystery” was commenced in No. 29. Back num- berscan be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.] CHAPTER IIl.—(Contixuxp). _ “Oh, solitude, where are thy charms ?” says Dick. ***Oh tora lodge in some vast wilderness,’ where talk and tea are unknown, Let’s sit down here, Sydney, and be a comfortable couple. Here is a book of engravings, they always turn over bodks of engravings, in novels, if you notice. Let us live a chapter out of a novel, and turn over the engrayv- ings.” He thinks, as he says it, that there is not a pic- ture of them all as fair and sweet as Sydney herself —a Slight flush on her clear, pale cheek, the golden hair flashing against the rich blackness of her robe. ‘Your friend Mr. Nolan is not here,” She says, as Dick spread out his big portfolio, preparatory to ex- amining the engravings. ‘““Isn’t he? Very likely not. You see he is a young man of uncommonly high-toned notions—poor and proud, as they phrase it. As Katie says, he owes all he has to Uncle Grif. His mother and sister are dressmakers, [ believe, and as yet Nolan hasn’t earned anything worth speaking of. He never goes anywhere; his voice would open no end of doors, but he won’t be asked for his voice. He makes an By Jove! there he is now.” The piano in the back drawing-room had been go- ing industriously since their entrence; but now a new hand, the hand of a master, touched the keys, and the grand, grateful notes were wondrously dif- ferent from the young lady-like jingle that had gone before. This was the touch of a musician, and the instrument seemed to know and respond. ‘Za ci Daren’’ was what Mr. Nolan sang and played; and the pictures were untouched, and Dick and Sydney sat absorbedly listening. It was a powerful tenor, with that vailed sympathetic vibration, that under- tone of pathos in its sweetness, that reaches the heart. ‘I don’t care for Italian opera,” says Captain Mac- gregor; ‘‘it’s a duse of a bore, as a rule; but I like that. ‘La ci darem la mano, he is singing now. Niceish voice, isn’t it ?” ‘“‘Niceish is a new adjective to me,” responds Sydney, laughing, ‘‘and one that hardly applies. Mr. Nolan is the fortunate possessor of one ot the finest tenors I ever heard, and I have heard some good tenors—Sims Reeves for one. There. he has finished; how sweet, how tender those lower notes were! Surely they will not let him stop.” ‘Oh, he is not stingy—when he does sing he does sing; nothing niggardly about him. I have heard him rattle through a whole opera bouffe—shriek like the soprano, growl like the bass father, shout like the chorus—take ’em all off capitally, I assure you. There, he is singing again; let’s fellow the crowd, and see him.” They leave the table and make their way to the other room, where Mr. Nolan, in regulation evening dress, sits at the piano, and where Katherine Mac- gregor leans gracefully against the instrument, flut- tering her fan and listening with downcast eyes. ‘‘As a rule,” observes Dick, in a prefound tone. ‘it’s a painful spectacle—a very painful spectacle— to watch a music man. The contortions of his facial muscles, the hideous extent to which he opens his mouth, the disloeating way in whieh he flings back his head, the inspired idiot style in whieh he rolls his eyeballs up to the chandelier, the frenzied man- ner in which elbows and fingers fly, are trying didoes to witness without a still small feeling of disgust. But Nolan doesn’t contort, doesn’t roll bis eyebaHls, doesn’t look like a moonstruck lunatic, and doesn’t open his mouth even to any very disgusting extent. Brava!’ Mr. Macgregor gently pats his kidded paws. ‘Very good—very good indeed! We will take your whole stoek at the same price.” Mr. Nolan concludes his second song and makes an attempt to get away, but he is besieged by soft pleadings, and Katherine Maegregor gives him one of those long, tender glances from beneath her sable lashes that have done such. telling execution in her time. “Just one other—in English this time—a ballad for me.” ©. ‘For you ?” repeats Mr. Nolan, a laugh in his dark eyes, but his lips grave. “If 1 were hoarse as a raven, putin that way, refusal would be an impos- sibility. Something in English, something pathetic, of course, Will this do 2?” He plays a jaunty, tripping, waltz-like symphony, into which his voice blends inan air that exactly suits the words, a mischievous light in the eyes he Keeps on her eager face : “My eye! how I love you, You sweet little dove, you! There’s no ene above you, Most beawtiful Kitty. Se glessy your hair is, Like a sylph or a. f: “ ‘s, And yoar neck, I dectare, is Exquisitely pretty. Qaite Grecian yeur nose is, And pour cheeks are bike reses, 4 So delicious—Oh, Moses! Surpassingly sweett Not the beauty ef tufips, Ner the taste of mint-juleps, Gan compare with your twe lips, Most beautiful Kat». Am new, dearest Kitty, Tt’s not very pretty, Tadeed it’s a pity O Keep me in sorrow; So, if you'll but chime in, We'll have done with our rhymin’, Swap Cuptd for Hymen, da be married to-morrew.”’ A low murmur of laughter and applanse follows, and Katherine Macgregor actuaNy flushes under his eyes. ‘And if he really asked her it might go hard with the ehances of Vanderdonck,” muttered Dick; ‘‘but no, our artless Katherine’s heart will never run away with her head.” ‘Mr. Nolan has an old tendresse, then for Katie ?” Sydney asks, carelessly. “I half thought so this af ternoon.” “By no means. He certainly had an old tendresse, ‘something more than a tendresse, and I doubt if he 3 is quite over it yet, for—— Dick does not finish his sentence, for the subject of it arises from his seat, sees them, and approaches. As he looks now, warmth in his dark face, anima- tion in the large gray eyes, a smile on the grave lips, Sydney wonders to see that he is handsome. “That was all very delightful indeed, old boy,” is Dick’s greeting. ‘‘Why weren’t we all born with blaek eyelashes or tenor voices, or both, and be the center of such a group of adoring angels as you are wherever you go? Miss Owenson and I have been listening entranced in the back-ground—you know my cousin, by the way, I think,” “T had the pleasure of meeting Miss Owenson this afternoon,” says Mr, Nolan, with that very genial smile of his. ‘Apropos, Miss Owenson, you have been the means of making very happy one poor fel- low who has not been used to over-much happiness —VYon Ette—the most excitable of living beings; he nearly expired with ecstasy when I told him of your admiration of ‘Sintram,’ and your intention of pur- chasing it, He flew to the studio on the instant, had it packed, and sent, and you will find it at home before you upon your return,” ‘Then I have been. fortunate indeed,” Sydney re- sponds, her fair face lighting up; ‘in giving pleasure to myself I have given pleasure to another. Mr. Von Ette is destined to win far higher praise than any poor appreciation of mine.” “I doubt, if he will ever vatue any more highly. Miss Owenson,” he says, abrupfly, ‘‘l am afraid my manner, My words, must have offended you this aiternoon. Fhe thought that it may be so has troubl. ed me more than I can tell. It isa subject upon which I teel deeply, and one which is likely to carry me away. Pray, forgive me.” ‘Tg he in love with this Mrs. Harland, I wonder?” thinks Miss Owenson. ‘*Wasthat what Dick meant?” “The apology is needless,” she says cordially, aloud, ‘There was no offense—how could there be? I never thought of it after.” The dark gravity of the afternoon overspread his face again—the smile vanished. What a strong, thoughtful, intellectual face it was, the girl thought. What a good face, if she were any judge of physi- oguomy, This clever Mr. Nolan, with his charming voice, a thing that will make its way to a woman’s foolish fancy sooner than more solid qualities, and his pro- found convictions, was beginning to interest her. Dick had been summoned by some fair enslaver, and had reluctantly obeyed. Mr. Nolanand Miss Owen- son had slowly been making their way to the front drawing-room while they talked, and Sydney re- sumed her seat by the table and the engravings. Mr, Nolan took the vacant seat by her side, still wearing that earnest look. “Tam glad that my words did not trouble you. Yours most certainly have troubled me.” Sydney looks at him in surprise. ‘Yes, Miss Owenson, troubled me; for if my convictions were not with Mrs. Harland, most assuredly I would not plead her case. I have conscientious notions about this sort of a. thing that are exeeedingly unprofessional, I know—notions I will never outlive. But that Mrs. Harland is a murderess, I will not, cannot believe.” “Not with intent, perhaps——” “Not at all, Miss Owenson. See! for years her life with this man was a daily and hourly martyrdom. He starved her, he insulted her—he was all the worst husband can be to the most helpless wife. She bore it patiently, submissively; she was friendless, poor, and alone—for years she endured it. One day he comes home half drunk, lays his revolver on the table, is more brutal than usual, offers her an insult, devilish in its atrocity. It maddens her. Hardly conscious of what she is doing—goaded beyond en- durance-—she lifts the pistol, fires, and he falls dead. She had not meant to kill; without thought, hardly knowing what she does do, she kills him. Is this murder?” Sydney is silent; his suppressed vehemence almost frightens her. How interested he isin this Mrs. er Does he mean to free her, and marry her after? ‘She is filled with a remorse, a despair, an anguish I never saw equaled,” he goeson. ‘How she lives or keeps her reason is more than I can understand. If she could give her life to restore his she would give it thankfully, joyfully. Is this woman then guilty? Does the crime of murder lie at her door ?” ‘Oh! I don’t know,” Sydney says, with a look of distress. ‘‘No, surely not. And yetitisan awful thing—whether by accident, by passion, or by inten- tion—to take a human life. ‘Awful! Great Heaven! yes!” he says, in a voice so thrilling that Sydney looks at him in ever in- creasing wonder. Surely he must love this Mrs, Harland, else why the passionate agony of that whisper? “Poor fellow!” she thinks; “‘it is hard on him. He deserves. something better than to care for a wo- man whose hands are red with her husband’s blood.” There is a pause. Sydney turns over the pictures without seeing them, a profound pity for this man in her heart, a dawning and strong interest. He rests his forehead on his hand, so pale, so somber, so dark a look in his face that she absolutety won- ders if this be the same man who a few minutes ago sang laughingly a comic song. That he should keep his levity for them, his earnestness for her, is a subtle flattery that conquers her as no other flat- tery could. “Surely my foolish opinions can have no weight with you, Mr. Nolan, no power to pain you,” she Says, very gently. ‘If soI am indeed sorry. It shall teach me to be less hasty and presumptuous in proffering opinions forthe future. In the sight of Heaven | cannot believe your friend is guilty of this dreadful crime, and [sincerely hope you may get a verdiet.” j ‘‘My friend,” he says, and he lifts his head, anda smile breaks up the dark thoughtfulness of his face, “IT have not seen Mrs. Harland three times in my life; after the trial I shall probably never see her again while Llive. Iam interested in her as a wo- man who has suffered greatly; but it is whether or no the guilt-of murder is upon her that eenters my interest. This is what I would give worlds if I pos- sessed them; yes, worlds to know.” ‘‘He isnet in love with this unhappy Mrs. Har- lana,” Sydney thinks. “Iam glad‘of that. I like him. He deserves something better. He looks like aman , “*To bear without rebuke The grand old name of gentleman.’ ”” “Tam afraid I have tired you, bored you merci- lessly, with this tragic affair,” he says, his face and tone changing; “‘but it is uppermost in my thoughts; I feel it so deeply; but hold. Iam sinning again while I apologize.. Let us look at the pictures; Mrs. Graham never aftronts her guests’ inteleet by offer- ing poor ones.” They look at the pictures accordingly, and talk of the pictures. Miss Owenson has seen many of the fine old paintings from which these engravings are taken, and Mr, Nolan has a cultivated eye and taste, and a keen love ofart. They talk ef Italy, and Ger- many, and those classic foreign lands which she has seen and loved, which he longs but never expects to see. And minutes fly, and hours, and to Sydney’s horror—for she hates anything like a pronounced tete-a-iae—their conversation does not end until Katherine seeks her side, and the company rises to disperse. **Really,” Miss Macgregor says, andif thereisa fine shade of irony in her tone Sydney does not take the trouble to detect it, “for two people quarreling fiercely at their first meeting, yon seem to have got on well with Mr, Nolan. Were you quarreling again, my dear, or making up, and was I not a true prophetess?” ‘A true prophetess? What did you predict?” asks Sydney, with equal carelessness. ‘‘Mr. Nolan and I reither quarreled nor made up, and I have to thank him for spending avery pleasant evening. IfI have a weakness it is for men of intellect.” “And you don’t meet them every day. Poor Diek!” laughs Dick’s sister. “‘So talk and tea are not so utterly flavoriess after all, belle cousine.” “If the talking be done by Mr, Nolan—no,” retorts Sydney, with spirit. ‘Don’t exeite yourself,” says Miss Macgregor. “I have heard before that Lewis Nolan improves on aequaintance. Does he not sing divinely? Has he net a thoroughbred look for one with so few oppor- tumities? Ah! what a pity he is so poer.” “Lord ef himself, though not of lands, And haviag nothing yet withal,’” qgxotes Sydney. ‘‘What would you? Men can not expect to have money, and brains, and divine voices. For my own part, aii the men I ever found worth talking te, even was interested in, were men with- out a sou.” “Ah! you are interested in Mr. Nolan 2” “Yes,” says Sydney, flinging back her head, and accepting the challenge. ‘‘And only in poor men? Sir Harry, I have heard, is worth twenty thousand pounds a year. Yes,Ilam afraid I shall not have a baronet for a eousin-in-law, after all.. Now, now! don’t freeze into stateliness, Syd. I don’t mean anything—I never do mean any- thing. Come.” Dick, at the foot of the stairs, looking damp and depressed,and unhappy, offers Sydney his arm. “Mr. Nolan, who stands talking cheerfully to him, does duty for his sister. “You never come to see us now,” the couple in front hear Katherine say ina plaintive voice. ‘Have you vowed a vow to honor Mrs. Graham alone with your friendship 2?” ‘Tam not sure that Mrs. Graham looks upon my friendship in the light ofan honor. It isa new idea, however, and I shall inquire.” “That is not an answer to my question. Why do you not come to see us as—as you used ?” **As I used ?” Mr. Nolan lifts his eyebrows. ‘Used Tever? Ihave no time for dangerous delights. I have to work ‘from early mors ‘till dewy eve,’ for my daily bread and butter.” : “Dangerous delights?” says Miss Macgregor, with an artless upwardglance. ‘What do you mean by that?” “Do I really need to explain, Miss Macgregor ?” retorts Mr. Nolan, looking down into the upturned, dark, soft eyes. AY : Miss Macgregor ?—it used to be Katie,” says Katie, and in the low voice there is a tremor either real or well assumed. Ds “Oh, by Jove! let us get on,” says Dick, with a face of such utter disgust that 8 bees laughs. She has been trying to get on herself, for the last two minutes, out of earshot of this conversation, and suc- ceeds so well that Mr. Nolan’s response to Katie’s last is inaudible. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, though, as she reaches the carriage, and the smile on a lips shows it has been to order. “i wish to Heaven, Katie,” growls Dick, “when Liana Se siti you make love to fellows, you wouldn't do it quite so loud. Old Vanderdonck himself—deaf as an adder as he is—might have heard you spooning to Lewis Nolan, if he had been there.” “Old Vanderdonck might have heard, and’ wel- come, my gentle brother.” “And if you think Nolan’s to be taken in by your soft sawder, you’re a trifle out of your reekoning, let me tell you. He isn’t an old bird, Nolan isn’t, but he’s not to be caught with chaff.” “Dick,” says Miss Macgregor, “it is patent to the dullest observer that the attentions of Miss Emma Winton have been painfully marked; also, that five cups ef gunpowder tea do not agree with your diges- tive organs. Therefore we excuse the rudeness of your remarks, and prescribe total silence for the rest of the drive home,” Dick growls, but he obeys—Katherine is the ruling spirit of the household. The city clocks are striking two when Sydney reaches her room. On the wall hangs ‘Sintram!” She greets it with a smile of welcome, and the like- ness to Mr. Nolan does not spoil her pleasure in look- ing at it, as she has feared. On the table lies a let- ter with a Canadian postmark, and in astiff, mercan- tile hand. She turns up the gas, and tears it open eagerly without waiting to remove her wraps. It is from Mr, McKelpin, in answer to one she has writ- ten him for news of her lost friend, Oyrilla Hen- drick. “MONTREAL, Nov. 23d, 18—. “RESPECTED Miss: Here Sydney smiles; the ‘Respected Miss’? is so ike what poor Cyrilla used to tell her of her middle-aged Scottish suitor. “Yours of the 17th inst. came te hand yesterday, and contents duly noted. In reply, I have to say I know nothing of the pres- ent whereabouts of the late lamented Miss Dormer’s niece. On the day before my return to this city, four years ago last .May, she left by train direct for Boston. Tmade inquiries concerning her—advertised for her in the Boston papers, and placed a cer- tain sum of money at her disposal. In the course of the follow- ing week I received in reply to my advertisement, a letter trom the head physician of one of the public hospitals of Boston. A young lady answering the description aud from Montreal was lying very ill under his charge. Some mental strain, apparently, and physical exhaustion, had prostrated her to such an extent that it was doubtful if she would ever recover. I went to Boston; I saw and identified her (herself unconscious), and ordered every care and attention. She recovered eventually, wrote mea brief note of aeknowledgment, and at the earliest possibile moment quitted the hespital. Since then I have neither seen nor heard from the late lamented Miss Dormer’s niece. This is all I have to communicate, andI remain respected miss, yours to com- mand, “DONALD M’KEBPIN,” CHAPTER TY. A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. ‘‘Katherine,” says Mrs. Macgregor, **do lay down that book, and get off that sofa, and dress, and go down town, and match this .tringe, and go to Fra- toni’s for ices, and to Greenstalk’s for the cut-flow- ers. Do you hear ?” : “T hear. Anything else ?” “And make- haste. Where your own personal gratification is not coneerned, Katherine, I must say you are unbearably lazy. Here; the whole forenoon was spent in bed a2 ‘‘Did you expect me to get up, and go to matins at St. Albans after dissipating at Mrs. Graham’s un- til two this morhing ?” **T expect very little of you, my daughter, that will put you to the least inconvenience. I know of old how useless it would be to expect it. Those commissions I mentioned must be done this after- noon. My dressmaker is at a dead-lock for the fringe. Perhaps you expect me-—worn out as I am —to go after it myself?” “Blessed are they who exnect nothing—of which number am J,” retorts Miss Katherine. She has been lying on a sofa in the family sittting- roem during this discussion, a provoking drawl in her voice—her eye never once leaving her book. In an arm-chair by the window, also reading, and in a dress whose faultless neatness is a striking contrast to her cousin's, sits Miss Owenson. Mrs. Macgregor, a portly matren, with a frisette of glossy darkness, coldly glimmering blue eye, an austere Roman nose, a thin, severe mouth, and a worried and anxious air generally, looks up from her sewing to regard her undutiful daughter with an angry giance. ‘Katherine, will you or will younot get up and go down town?” ‘Best of mothers, I would much rather not. The day is cold and disagreeable; I feel dreadfully sleepy yet, and this novel—Mr. Van Cyler’s, mamma—is thrillingiy interesting. Send Susan.” ‘Aunt Helen,” cries Sydney, starting up, ‘‘let me go. I will match your fringe, and deliver your other messages with pleasure.” Miss Katherine shrugs her shoulders, and smiles sarcastically behind her book. 3 “Thank you, my love, I cannot think of troubling you——” F " “Jt will be no trouble, Aunt Helen; I was just meditating a walk on my own aecount—my daily constitutional, you know. It will give me pleasure to be of servic to you.” “Very well, my dear; but if my daughter thinks she can set me at defiance after this fashion she is mistaken. Katherine!” and the cold blue eyes light and flash, ‘‘put down that book this instant, and do as I command you.” ‘“‘When my mammy takes that tone,” says Kath- erine, with imperturbable good temper, and ad- dressing her remark placidly to Sydney, ‘*I know better than to disobey. Let us see—match the fringe—order the ices—see to the flowers. But the contectioner’s and the fringe stores are at opposite ends of the town—can’t do both in one short, dark November afternoon. One of them must go, dear- est mother.” “You and Sydney can go to Greenstalk’s from here, then she can walk over to Sixth avenue and match the fringe, while you take a car and visit Fre- toni’s,” rapidly and concisely says Mrs, Macgregor. ‘What a business-like head this mater of ours has, Sydney! Pause, wonder, and admire. Very well, Mrs. Macgregor—you shall be obeyed to the letter; but what a pang it costs me to give up Van Cyler’s novel! There are times when even filial duty isa painful thing.” ; Mrs. Macgregor’s brow cleared. Sydney laughed. Katherine’s habitual manner of cheerful imperti- nence to her mother at times startled, at times amused her. Real impertinence the girl did not mean, but this vapid surface manner had become second nature. The two young girls started forth together, Sydney with her seal jacket buttoned across her chest, and a tall black hat and plume. The day was cold, gray, and overcast—windy, dusty, and supremely unpleasant. “I feel like the little boy who thought it was such a delightful thing to be an orphan, and do as he liked,” says Katherine, bending before a windy gust. ‘-Poor mamma, she works and worries, toils and troubles year in, year out, for Dick, amd me, too.” ““When you are Mrs. Vanderdonck, the wife of the millionaire, you will be able to do as you please, with a whole regiment of lackeys to fy at their lady’s bidding.” “Tam not so sure of that. ; And this may be their ultimate use. It is predicted in the Divine Word that there shall be ‘ew Heavens and a new Earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness,” and possi- bly these now vagrant masses may be incorporated with our own and other worlds, to form delightful habitations for holy and intelligent beings, who shall recognize their allegiance to their Maker by rendering Hin the service He demands of all His rational creatures througheut the whele universe. The declaration of Jehovah is very ex- plicit: **Behold I create all things new,’’ foreshadowing wondrous changestocome. Weil for usif in this new creation we are found in full sympathy with the Creator. Our next, article will be on THE ORIGIN OF WORLDS, to be followed by articles on “OUR OWN FAMILY OF WORLDS; or, THE SOLAR SYSTEM.” These will prepare the reader for several articles ou the Causes of Tides, Sea- sons, Eelipses, and mauy other interesting pkenomena of our wonderful world. 6 Pieasant Paragraphs. Women's Lies. Mrs. Smith hearsaring at the bell, peers through the blinds and sees old Mrs. Martin ou the step, and mutters to herself: ‘Dear me! I wish that old vixen was under the ocean!’ Ste smooths back her hair, opens the door, and as they rush into each other’s arms, she exclaims: “I shall never forgive you for staying away solong! I was just thinking of sending around to see if you were dead!’ A new carpet has just been laid in the parlor. Mrs. Martin thinks it the homeliest carpet she has ever seen, but she raises her hand, utters a littie scream, and cries: ‘““My soul! but how lovely! how magnificent! how charm- ing! I don’t think leversaw its equal in my life! Beg pardon, but Isuppose it must have cost five dollars per yard 2??? ; The cost was fourteen shillings, but Mrs. Smith hastens to say: “Not quite as much; wetook the whole piece, and James, being a dear friend of the carpet-man, we got it at a bargain.’ : ‘And those lovely new curtains!’’ exclaims Mrs. Mar- tin, as she turns to the Bay window. Those curtains have been hanging there for two years, and Mrs. Martin has seen them twenty times before, but Mrs. Sinith replies: “Well, they are handsome—the pattern is much prettier than in the old ones!’ Mrs. Grandsell was sailing along the street the other day, when sire caught sight of Mrs. La Rue, wearing a new suit. She followed along behind, and said to herself: “Such outlandish taste! If I] were in her place and had her form, 1’d never walk the streets by daylight!” Mrs. La Rue happened to turn around just then, and catching sight of Mrs. Grandsell, who also had on a new suit, she said to herself: “Good gracious! but wh clothes on the gate-post walk!’ Mrs. Grandsell approached. They smiled, They shook hands. “What a lovely suitl)? exetaimed Mrs. La Rue. “What an elegant dress!” eried Mrs. Grandsew. ‘‘And 1t becomes you sol? “And it matches your splendid carriage so well’? didn’t her husband put those Such complexion! Sue a Mrs. Book was ina jewelry store the other day to look ata watch. She wanted a watch because Mrs. Hathaway had one, but she reflected that $100 would go a long ways toward helping her family through the hard winter. The childven needed hats, and cloaks, aad dresses, and it looked sinful for her to invest $100 in an article of orna- ment. She was just saying to the jeweler that she could not afford the purchase, when Mrs, Clem’s earriage drew up at the curb-stone and Mrs. Clem descended, “There’s that back-biting Mrs. Olem!’? whispered Mrs. Book, but as Mrs, Ciem entered the above Mrs. Book met her, and said: ‘‘Dear me! but I was wondering only this morning if some one lad not carried you off! Why haven’t you called on me lately?” “Pve been so driven!” replied Mrs, Clem aloud, but to herself she said: ‘‘I’d like tosee myself calling on one in your station!’ She said that she had @ome in to ]ook at a watch, and Mrs. Book at once determined to close the bargain ona hundred dollar wateli, as sire will never submit to have the Clems put on airs over her. Miss Drayton met old Mr. House as she was going to church the other morning, and she said she hoped to lis- ten to agood sermon, as her heart was saddened by the thought that she had negiected her spiritual welfare of late. She had on silks, and velvets, and gold and dia- monds, but she asked him if he didn’t think there was too much dress and too little religion of late years, and when he replied in the affirmative, she added that itseemed to her as if half the people went to echurel to show off their clothes, ‘ She sat up very straight in her pew, noted that Miss Cleveland had an $8 ostrich feather in her hat, that Mrs. Julien had fixed over her velvet cloak, that Miss Hardy had some new false hair, that Mrs, Clark was losing her complexion, and that there wasn’t as nice a pair of ear- rings in the church as those in her own ears, When she came out she met old Mr. House again, and upon his ask- ing her how she liked the sermon, she replied: “T think it was gored too much, and that deep trimming was altogether out of place on goods of that character!” - M. Quan. Drying a Baby. We have in our family a thirteen year old boy wh2 is the nero of the following joke: Une morning, early, a few days ago, his mother wished to visit a neighbor, and told him to wash his baby brother, adding that he must dry him well after the operation, This he at once proceeded to do, ; When she returned, in about an hour, she perceived a peculiar bundle suspended from the clothes-line by one of her best shawls. When she asked her son to explain its appearance, he told her it was the baby hung up to dry. Lov WoerTour. — We Legend of Ye Ploitician. There was a young man of position Who thought he would turn politician, “My country,” he thought, “An idea I have caught— To serve thee i think is my missien.’? His scheme wouldn’t wait for a minute, ‘Phere was a glery to win, and he’d win if, - So he bought a new hat {A fine white ene at that) And jammed his bread, massive brow in it. He denned an exceedingly high collar, A coat of the kind called a “swaller,» A beautiful choker _As stiff as a poker, Alight pair of kids worth a dollar. His hair, with the neatest precisiex In the center attained a division, With all else in proportion (His taste was a caution) He seemed a political vision. And his mind was as fair as his ‘SON 5 “Corruption,” quoth he, “is a aon on My country’s fair name, And I think that the same Is a subject I'll be pretty terse on.’® Alas, that the mighty must tumble, Alas, that the proud must grow bi ‘Alas, that the good mye RP ee For the wicked are food, And alas, that the upright must stumble. Knowing naught of political dange Boped in by unscrupulous strangers, * His political puddie Became such a muddle, He voted for railroads and grangers. His road was a hard one to travel, in a way that I couldn’t unravel, The nose that on high Pointed up to the sky Soon pointed straight down to the gravel. Too late did this young politician Find out he’d mistaken his mission. May his fate (which was sad) Serve to point out the bad Effects of a vaulting ambition. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. The other day, asa gentleman was passing a second-hand clothing store, kept by a Jew, the proprietor accosted him with: “Mine fri—end, don’t you vant to buy some sheep clodings ?” “Yes, sir,” answeren the gentleman, “T’ll take a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” LOLLY Por, A Triune Virtue. In the town of Busti there is a queer chap, who goes by tl name of Timothy. On being asked what werd the aieber hest qualities a woman should possess, he slowly drawled out, “Pru- dence, Economy, and Saying.” : Brevities. Among the advertisements in the London Times is one fora nurse ina smal gentleman’s family, References should be ex- changed. it’s queer that when a hackney coach runs over and half er aman, the driver never fails toturm round and swear at im. We all know that there are sixteen nails in one yard. Then Pek it, pray, that there ought never to be but five nails to one oot? What is the difference between an uncleanly servant and a chicken? Why, none; for one is afoul domestic, and the other is a domestic fowl. A friend of ours remarks blandly that the reason the ladies call the gentlemen bears, is because they hug the girlsso tightly. Logic by the armful. If you don’t wish to come suddenly in contact with the shovel and poker, don’t give good advice to aman while he’s suffering from a toothache, Dr. Dewey says that everything is of some use. Perhaps. But we'd like to have our clerical friend tell us what earthly use brains are to a dandy. — > Mammoth Monthly Reader, The Mammoth Monthly Reader for September, now ready, contains, besides two serials and the usual quan- tity of selected miscellaneous matter, the following ar- ticles, written especially for its columns: ‘‘September,” “Happy at Last,’? ‘‘A Scout’s Adventure,” “The Little Un,” ‘‘A Narrow Escape,’? ‘“Love’s Exaggerations,”’ “George Seldon, or My Nurse’s Warning,”’ “The Rustic Bridge of Yew,” “The Yankee Lover,’ “The Woman’s Realm,’’ “Tne Young Hunters,’ ‘Avenged,’ ‘“Drunken- ness,” ‘‘Slander,’? “Only an Old Maid,” ‘‘A Place in Thy Dreams, Love,” ‘‘Forget-me-not,” ‘The Mad Dog,” “Jen- nie to Fred,’? ‘The Personal,” ‘An Invocation,” ‘Crook- ed Dolly,” “The Bandit’s Daughter.” Beside the above, two new features, especially interesting to our young readers, entitled ‘The Nut-Crackers’ Column’ and “‘Mod- ern Magic,” are commenced in the September number, LEST DNL LE AT AS EE LTT OY CA, EE SE TS TO" ADV EREVS BERS: One Dollar and Twenty-five cts. per line, CUTS DOUBLE PRICE. FOR EBACHINSERTION CASHIN ADVANCE LANTERN id = GIC GéNs cr at sues and pee ee lustrating every subject for Parlor Entertainment and Public Exhibitions, Pays weit on a smwil investment, Cata- logues free. McALLISYER, M’t’g Optician, 49 Nassau St , N, Y, ; 12-26. ISITING CARDS.—50 White or Tinted Bristol, post-paid, 25 cts. Send stamp for catalogue and sanrples. We have 80 styles, including glass, damask, marble, snowflake, eet elec. Agents Wanted, FULLER & Co.,Brockton, Mass, MONE w26-8e0w we Sample free. MA DE.—Ageuts, send stamp for yal- uable Catalogue. ~ » BOSTON HAND-STAMP CO., Boston, Mass. A WEEK to canvass for Vieckery’s Firesi ‘Visitor. Costs NOTHING to try it. = * Enne P. O. VICKERY & CO., Augusta, Maine. everywhere. 10 best selling articles in the worid. Address J. BRONSON, Detroit, Mich. 4-26. 7 OQUNG MEN SUFFERING FROM WEAK addressing I. H. REEVES, 27-13. No. 78 Nassau st, New York. i AGENTS for the best selling It contains 15 sheets paper, 15 en- velopes, pen, pen-holder. pencil, patent yard measure, package of perfumery, and piece of jew- Circular free. BRIDE & O0O., 769 Broadway, New York. w27-13 A CHANCE FOR EVERYBODY. WM. M. ELIAS & CO’S FOUR MILLION DOLLARS WORTH OF Diamonds, Watches, Jewelry and Silverware, Camels Hair Shawls, Silk Dress Patterns and Other Valuable and Useful Goods, OUR NEW SYSTEM then assorted on the general average plan, alter which they are placed in boxes and sealed, then they are assorted into six differ- ent departments and sold at $5, $10, $15, $20, $25 and $50 each of their money, and in many boxes they will find Diamonds, Gold and Silver Watches, Camel’s Hair Shawls, Silk Dress Pat- terns and other valuable articles worth a hundred times the Our General Average Box will be sent to any part of the Uni- ted States on receipt of price, or we will send them by express, Gc. O.D., Mi tateonae Always state what price box you wish. A MONTH SURE TO AGENT NESS, &c., will learn of a Simple Means of Cure FREE by Prize Packages in the world. elry. Single package, with elegant prize, post-paid, 25 cents. OF ALSO, All of the goods received daily at our depository are opened, box. e guarantee that each purchaser receives the full worth amount they pay. ddress WM. M. ELIAS & CO., w46-4 667 Broadway, New York. ADIES will find profitable instruction in the pages of the Lady’s Book of Knitting and Crochet. just published. New England News Co., Boston an American News Co., New York, wholesale agents. For sale by all booksellers, néws agents, Trimming and Fancy Goods Dealers, or mailed on receipt of 50 cents, by the publisher, J. HENRY SYMONDS, 68 Devonshire st., Boston. w46-3, GENTS WANTED.—Salary or Commission. Valuable samples free. Address F, M. REED, 8th street, New York. w3l-52 R VI for Catalogue of Foreign Stamps or Coins, 25 CHN TS innsratea with every style. J. W. SCOTT, '@ Nassau street, New York. Circulars sent tree. 33-13t RINTERS’ Cabinet, Type, Press, and Boxwood Depot; EAGLE CABINETS: PATTERN LETTERS for Machinists, VANDERBURGH, WELLS & OO., cor. Fulten & Dutch Sts., N. Y. 34-13t t Pm perday. Send for Chromo Catalogue. $10 g $25 eH. BUFFORD’S SONS, Boston, Mass, : W31-52 GENTS 16 OIL CHROMOS, mounted, size 9x11, for $1. 100 for $5. Largest variety in the world. 4. NATIONAL CHROMO CQ,, Philadelphia, Pa. WINCHESTER’S SPECIFIC PILL, A certain and speedy cure for NERVOUS DEBILITY, WEAK- NESS, etc., thoroughly tested for 30 years with perfect success, TWO to SIX Boxes are generally sufficient to effect a radical cure. For further information, &c., SEND FOR A CERCULAR. $1 per box; six boxes $5, by mail, securely sealed, wits ful di- ee eg et. > Prepared only by 4 7” WINCHESTER & CO., Chemists, 39-13. 36 John street, New York. P. O. Box 2430. B'S PAY to sell our Rabber Printing Stamps. TAYLOR & HARPER, Atwater Buildings, Cleveland, Oino, 39-4. ENTS Send stamp for Illustrated Catalogue AG Boston Novelty Co., Boston, Mass. w30-13t OOO per annum to all. Particulars free. WIRE MILLS, Philadelphia, Pa. w30-l3t-eow GIRARD . ail Se A Cure Guaranteed. State your case, and send with 25 cents to Dr. VAN DYKE, 13:24 SKIN DISEASES, Green street, Philadelpma. : Ht A MONTH.—AGENTS Wanted Brerywhete. ») Business honorable and first class. Particulars re? sent free. Adddress aie J. WORTH & CO., St. Louis, Mo. A : YH CURED without the knife I or pain, by Prot. Sale SINS, M. D., | 345 Lexington Ay., N.Y 41-2, 4 A handsome and mysterious Pocket-book, e@ stamp. SOMMER M’F’G CO., Newark, N. J. FOWLE’S PILE AND HUMOR CURE The greatest and only Medicine ever discovered (and warranted) for the perfect cure for all the worst forms of PILES, LEPROSY, SCROFULA, RING-WORM, SALT RHEUM, CANCER, CATARRH, RHEU- MATISM, IMA, DYSPEPSIA, KIDNEYS, and all diseases of the SKIN and BLooD. Entirely vegetable. Money returned in all cases of failure. H. D. FOWLE, Chemist, Boston, Sold every- where, $labottie. Send for Circulars, w39-4eow tree for 41-2, ei CARDS, 12 for 18 cts; Repp. &¢., 12 for 15 cts. W Send stamp for speeimen, B. E. STRONG, Gerry, N. Y, $25 43-4-eow. HE FAMILY PHYSICIAN and HOUSEHOLD FRIEND. A valuable book of information and choice Receipts. Just what Father, Mother, Sister and Brother shoula read. Send 25 cents for this cheap; book. Company, Broadway & Union Square, New York. OUR NAME printed on 12'TRANSPARENT VISITING CARDS in splended Style, and sent for 25cents. Each card con- tains a scene which is not visible until held toward the ligiit. Nothing like them ever before offered in America. Big Induce- ments to agents, Address Novelty Printing Co., Ashland, Mass. - 43-4. HOW TO MAKE MONKY! Read the Home Journal of Health, June or July numbers. Send 10 cts. for specimen copy, to HOME PUBLISHING Co., Broadway & Union Square, N.Y. : THE OLDEST CARD HOUSE IN AME RICA. 50 Bristol Cards, assorted Tints, with your name neatly printed ; sent for 25 cents. 50 Snowflake or Marble Cards, 50 cents. Agents Wienied- JOHN L, FRENCH, 391 Mau street, Brockton, Mass. oo A DAY guaranteed using our Well Auger & Drills. $100 a month paid to good agents. Auger Book free. JILZ AUGER CoO., St. Louis, Mo. ANTED, AGEN'TS, to sell my Patent to make APPLE BUTTER, without apples or cider. It costs only six cents per quart, and can be made in thirty minutes, Family right sent to agents free, for 10 cents. A G. W. GEHR, ddress 43-4, Shermansdale, Pa. argest Stationery Package in the World mailed fo 15 cents. GEO. L. FuLTON & Co., 119 Nassau street, N. Y. Scovill’s Blood and Liver Syrup.—Scrofula, Rheumatism, Pimples, Gout, aud Kidney Disorders, and all dis- tempers which affect the external portions of the body indicate an unclean condition of the venous fluid. SCOVILL’s BLOOD AND LIVER SYRUP may be relied upon as a swift and certain remedy. The concentrated extracts of Sarsap arilla, Stillingia, and other invaluable antiseptic and alterative plants and herbs torm the basis of this powerful remedy. Price $1 per bottle. w30- Edey's Carbolic Troches,—Among the various remedies for coughs, none enjoy a higher reputation than EDEY’s CARBOLIC TROCHES. ‘his fact places them above the ordinary list ot naedicinal preparations. For Coughs, Colds, Asthma, and as a disinfectant and preventive against eontagious diseases they are aspecific. Invaluable to Singers and public speakers. Sold everywhere. Price 25 cents per box, The Great American Consumption Remedy. Dr. WM. HALL’S BALSAM FOR THE LUNGS cures the worst cases of Coughs, Colds, and all the diseases of the Lungs, Throat and Chest. For Whooping Cough and Croup it is a certain specific. The most obstinate cuses surely yield to Hall’s Balsam, when used perseveringly. Stauds at the head of all cough preparations. Soldeverywhere. Price $1 per bottle. Dr. Mott’s Liver Pills,—It is easy enough to make a pill, but tomake agood pill, ah! that’s the difficulty. There are cheap, harsh, drastic pills, that are of even less value than a dose of salts. But a good medicine, like Dr. Morr’s LIVER PILLS, which penetrates to the seat of disease, is a desideratum indeed. Will positively cure all diseases of the liver. Sold every- where. Price 25 cents per box. About Bitters.—At certain periods of life a tonic ig a necessity; but there is danger in using stimulants that injure the organs of digestion while giving temporary relief. To obviate this ana present to the public a tonic free from Alcoholic poison, Dr. GREENE peeperge the OXYGENATED BITTERS, a sure cure for Dyspepsia and all kindred complaints. Sold everywhere. Price $1 per bottle. ce ear : ; Henry’s Carbolic Salve,—This article is so welt knewn that it is only necessary to caution the public against imitations. Remember that it requires a particular proportion and a careful admixture of the carbolic acid with other ingre- dients to produce a salve that may be relied upon. The genuine only guaranteed. See that it bears the fac-simile signature and private proprietary stamp of John F. Henry. Sold everywhere. rice 25 cents per box, Townsley’s Toothache Anodyne.—A sure cure. A FEW WORDS TO FEEBLE AND DEL- ICATE WOMEN. . By R. V. PIERCE, M. D., of the WorLD's DISPENSARY, Buffa- lo, N. Y. . 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As mists go up from valleys deep, And vapgs from the sea, So !et my soul in prayer and praise, Dear Lord ascend to thee. On swiltest wings I fain would rise From sorrow, strife and care, To penetrate beyond the vail, And view my mansion fair. Thankful am I for earthly gifts, And blessings as they flow, Bat yet my soul would tarry net, Forever here below. Forever here, a wanderer, Where faithful friends are few— Where eyes too dim to see, accept The false and leave the true. Where sin presents the sweetest cup, To lure our souls away, And turn our footsteps from the paths That lead to realms of day. As eagles soar toward the sun, On pinions swift and free, My soul would rise from deserts bare, Dear Lord to dwell with Thee! THE LAST DRINK. BY HETTIE M'CAMMON. A white lily, pure, fragrant and stainless, growing out of the foul ooze and slime of a noxious ditch. The simile is old and worn, but nothing’else could so fitly describe the rare, delicate loveliness of Adu Hartly and the dark- ness of her surroundings. Born of drunken parents, her childhood had been passed in such squalor and wretched- ness as only such a child could know, Kuowing nothing of a mother’s care save curses and blows, the earliest les- son she learned was to get out of the way whenever her mother’s face grew red, her voice loud, and her footsteps unsteady. Her father, although as wretched and degraded a drunk- ard as could well be found, was apt to assert the superi- ority of his sex by attempting to chastise his wife when she indulged too freely; and as Mrs. Hartly was no patient ‘Griselda even when sober, it may well be imagined she did not submit to such chastisement with proper and be- coming meekness, and many and fierce were the conflicts from which Ada fled in childish terror. And so the years went by till Ada was fifteen, each one bringing a new burden of want, of shame, of grief. Her tiree brothers grew up worthy sons of such parents. and finding the little town of Myrtleville too confined for their ambitious aspiripgs, took themselves off, and were swal- lewed up in the vortex of crime and guilt easily foune in @ great city. Soon after the last son left home the father and mother, in one of their drunken fights, fell down stairs together. When picked up the husband was found to be bruised and insensible, but the wife was dead. Out of such a life, marvelous as it may seem, Ada had brought, not only rare beauty of face and character, but some degree of education; and Mrs. Judge Summers Ofiered to defray the expenses of a year’s tuition at the Academy; an offer which Ada gratefully accepted, ap- plying herself to her studies with such zeal and earnest- ness that at the end of the year she was olfered and ac- cepted the post of teacher in the public school. But in spite of the persuasions of Mrs. Summers and other friends, she remained with her father. Degraded as he had become, utterly lost to everything but the crav- ing for strong drink, still he was her father, and because Mie world liad cast him off with scorn and contempt, she believed it her duty tocling to him, to minister to his necessities, to win him if possible from that way of sin and guilt which he had trod so many years. “As ifsuchathing was probable, or even possiblel’’ wrathfully said Mrs. Howell, the doctor’s wife. “J fear it is not probable, to say the least,” said Mrs. Summers, gravely; ‘‘but Ada will not be turned from that which she believes her duty, aud only for her beauty I would say she was right. But the child does not seem to know her danger.’? “She will be awakened to it before long,” responded Mrs. Howell, ‘“‘and rudely enough too, I dare say. Few will think it needful to respect the modesty of old John Hartly’s daughter.” Mrs. Howell predicted truly. More than one wild youth, knowing her only as the daugkter of a mau who would sell his soul, ifhe had one, for whisky, and attracted by her remarkable beauty, began to pay court to the old man. It was strange the interest so many young men suddenly developed in the miserable old sot who for years had been @ mere hanger-on at Miles’ tavern, doing any little job that would procure him a drink. Just uow, however, he was relieved from the necessity of working for his liquor. There was not an liour passed in the day, nor till latein the night, that he did not receive invitation to drink, and these invitations, as he exultingly informed Ada, were usually from the most fashionable, most respectably-con- nected young men in the town. They were very solicitous concerning his safety, too, and almost invariably insisted on seeing him safe home at whatever hour of the night or morning he could be induced to relinquish the attractions of the bar. ‘ And soe it happened that Ada often found her little sit- ting-room invaded by those who conceived that so long as they abstained from open insult she had no cause to complain. And her father, into whose besotted brain the idea at last penetrated that Ada’s good looks might be turned to some account, commanded her, with a suow of authority thas would have been laughable ifthe whole affair had not been so inexpressibly revolting, to receive kis friends properiy, without showing of any fiue-lady rs. O Harassed and tormented almost to madness, Ada knew mot where to turn for help. Her best friends were coldly withdrawing their friendship from her—there was even talk of depriving her of her situation. But help came at t. From bold, insolent admiration Frank Bennet went on to epen insult; and then Oharlie Summers, gathering up such manhood as intemperance had left him, quietly col- lared the insulter, and flinging wide the door, thrust him forth into the street, with a plain intimation that he would consult his own safety by keeping out of Miss Hartly’s way. Sir Mulberry Hawk was not more astonished at the re- beliion of his dupe than Frank Bennet at this sudden awakening on the part of one who long since had wholly given himself up to his evil guidance. Many were the vows of revenge lie uttered, not only against Charlie, but Ada aswell. But his amazement was only equaled by his rage, when the days grew into weeks, the weeks into months, and still Oliarlie remained absent from his old haunts. Surely the fool wasn’t thinking of reforming! But, as it happened, that was just what the fool was not only thinking of but doing with allhis might. It was a fearful conflict he waged, and more than once he almost yielded. ‘The fiend that had for so long held possession of him was strong and subtle, and disputed every inch of ground with him; but Ollariie was in deadly earnest—it was life or death with him new. If he went down before his foe this once, it would be forever, and come life, come death, he would conquer. And he did conquer, his foe was routed, trodden under foot, and once more he stood forth a free man. The wondering gladness of his friends, the deep, solemn rejoicing and thanksgiving of lis parents and sisters, the angry amazement of Frank Bennet and his clique, I have mot power to describe all these. It was absolutely incredi- ble, and the people had not yet ceased wondering when a new sensation left Charlie Summer’s wouderful reforma- tion in the background. This was the sudden and awful death of John Hartly, Ada's father. Just recovering from an attack of delirium tremens he had managed to secrete a razor, and Ada, re- tarning from school one afternoon, found the door of her father’s roomclosed. Some obstruction lay againstit, and a dank liquid that looked frightfully like ,blood, oozed slowly out from underneath the door. Wil@ with horror and affright, Ada called for help, and soon strong hands forced open the door. They would have kept her from the ghastly spectacle Within, but she would not be kept back. Breaking from the hands that would have restrained her, she forced her Way tnrough the crowd that had gathered about the door and there, just inside the doorway, lay the dead body of her father, the wide, gaping wouud in his throat, and the bloody razor in his hand, telling plainer than words how he had come by his death. That Ada should grieve deeply for her father could scarcely be expected, but the manner of his death added another shadow to those which had already darkened her life. As the months went by the shadows slowly and, as it were, grudgingly lifted. She had marked outa path of quiet loneliness for herself, believing that love or marriage could not be for her, and suddenly she awakened to fiud herself loving and beloved. That CharlieSummers actually desired to marry Ada Hartly astonished the town only_less than his reformation rad done. There was the usual amount of wonder and disapproval. Even hissisters, deeply as they had mourned his degradation, sincerely as they had rejoiced over the vietory which he had so hardly won, were scarcely satis- fied.« They could not understand what cllarm Charlie fonnad in Her pale face, and grave, subdued manner, and they were sure when he chose to reform it would be much better for him to select a wife from his ownsphere. How could they associate with a creature who had been brought up in the back alleys? But lis mother gave free, glad consent, only praying that Charlie might deserve her; and his father clogged his cousent, with but one eondition. Charlie had at one time commenced the study of law, and his father insisted that he should resume this study, deferring his marriage till he shouid be admitted to the bar. “She isa good girl,’? explained the judge, ‘‘no matter what her father and mother were, but the delay will do neither af you any harm. Your resolution will have stood the test of time, and you will be abie to support your wife without help from me.’? As Ada supported his father’s views, Charlie was fain to acquiesce. It wasalong time to wait, he thought, ruefully, but he must shorten it by hard work. And that he did work hard even his enemies were constrained to atknowledge—so hard that their most subthe temptations were trust aside unkeeded—so hard thas in less than two years he had been admitted to practice, and had con- ducted his first case to a successful issue, There was nothing now to prevent the marriage. Ada’s modest preparations were almost completed, aud early in October they were to be married. Onty a few days my between Charlie and the prize for which he had labo so earnestly. “A little honger, love,’? he said, one glorious moonlit evening, as, alter the fashion of lovers, they lingered at the gate; ‘‘a little longer, and we will have no more such partings. Only one short week, and even death himself will hardiy part us.” Was it the silvery light of the October moon rifting down through the maple leaves upon her upturned face that gave it sucha ghastly hue, or was it merely his faucy ? “Why, Ada,’? he exclaimed, in alarm, as she did not answer, ‘‘whatis the matter? Surely you are ill!” “J am not dj, Chariie,’ and her voice shook in spite of herself; ‘‘but just as you spoke a chill seemed to seize my very heart. If 1] were superstitious I would think it por- tended evil.” “No evil can touch us now,” he replied; ‘‘nor so long as our love shall last,” “Death might come,” she spoke, in low, hushed tones; ‘‘but there is something | dread even more than death— your old enemy, Charlie. Oh, if you should fall into its power again I, at least, wi die.” ; “In the name of Heaven, Adal” there was er and reproach, as well as wonder in his tone—‘‘what has set you to thinking of the miserable past? Why not forget it, as Ido? Surely after all this time you can trust me.”’ “I do trust you, Charite,’? she said, earnestly, “but somehow the dread will obtrude occasionally, and I can- not account for its presenee, nor yet drive it from me.” _ “Pat it away at once, Ada, it only poisons your bappi- ness, and there is not the slightest ground forit. lam safe, Ada—so safe that I could go into old Tom Horton's bar-room, and even drink, quititiag whenever I cliose.’’ Ada’s face grew paler yet as sie said, gently: “T hope you will never be induced to run such a fearful risk, for thatit would be a risk you know, better even than I do.” “Then you still doubt my resolation.”? “Not your resolution, but your strength. But we will not talk of this auy more,’’ as she noticed the cloud on his brow.’ The subject was accordingly put aside, and the rest of their conversation, though very interesting to themselves, would be voted very foolish by the general reader. It lasted a long time, too—so long that Mrs. Martin, across the way, wondered if that young Summers never intended to go home; giving it as her opinion at the same time that such proceedings were actually disgusting, and Ada Hartly a bold, shameless girl; but what could you expect from her bringing up. But altogether uncouscious of her virtuous indignation, the lovers still lingered, saying little in words, tilla low rumble of distant thunder startled them, and looking up they saw every indication of a storm coming up. He would have time enough to get home, though, Oharlie thought, and so, after a parting which he did net hurry in the least, he mounted his horse and rode slowly down the street. And Ada looking after him with a countenance that truly expressed the deepest love, the most perfect faith, was only half conscious of a feeling of regret that his way should lead past Tom Horton’s tavern. Cliarlie, cantering easily on, paid little attention to the fast darkening sky, but a vivid flash of lightning, ac- companied by a loud peal of thunder, wakeued him to the disagreeable consciousness that the storm was already upon him. ’ ‘Checking his horse, he looked around, and was startled to find that he had paused exactly opposite Tom Horton’s Seo a spot which he usually hurried past without even a look. In that half-involuntary pause he noticed the bright, cheerful lights which streamed from the windows, partly dispelling the darkness without, and through the half open door came the clink of glasses, the sound of merry voices. Why he hesitated, Heaven on!y can teli—I can only guess. ‘The sights and sounds may have awakened the slumbering tiger of appetite; or he may have desired to quiet his horse, frightened by the thunder and lightning. Whatever the cause, he paused, and in pausing was lost forever. The door was suddenly flung wide opeu and acrowd of young men, former associates, came out, and Charlie, starting with a sudden feeling of shame and guill, would have passed on. But he was al- ready recognized, and with wild shouts of drunken ex- ultation, the noisy crew approached him. “Caught, old fellow—caught in the very act!’ exclaimed one, while halfa dozen voices echoed the ery. “Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain,’ said Charlie, as soon as he could be heard. “Why,” retorted another, ‘‘you can’t deny that you were peeping in the door, like Satan into Paradise, and, like him, longing to share our pleasure.’ “Come, Charlie,’? interrupted another, “don’t be too proud to know your old friends, but join us to-night, even if it should be the last time.” “Old Tom has got some elegant brandy, just arrived to-day, and he would like to have your opinion of it, for you know you are a famous good judge of brandy,” chinfed in a third. “Will you let me pass, boys?!’ said Charlie, striving to speak resolutely. ‘You are not friends or you would not ask me to stay, for as you all know, I have taken a pledge of total abstinence.” This answer was received with a shout of derision, and the epithets ‘‘milksop”) and “‘spooney" were freely flung athim. Burning with shame and rage, Charlie was striy- ing to loosen the grasp which one of the party haa taken of his reins, when the landlord spoke, in smooth, cring- ing tones: : “T would certainly be glad to have the. opinion of so good a jugge as Mr. Summers on my brandy, and I would hot urge him to stay against his wish; but there will be a terrible storm.’? , “It is true, Charlie,” cried Fred Smith; “it is: coming on now, and it would be downriglit cruelly to take your horse through it, not to speak of yourself. Gome in, then, and let us have one drink for old times; we won’t ask you to take more, and no one need ever Know that you have taken that last drink.” “Charlie is quite right, Fred,” interrupted Frank Ben- net, who was less drunk, and therefore more dangerous, than the balance of the party. “He knows, and we all know, that although the rest of us might take the one drink and stop, yet he cowid not; and you know he dare not disobey orders by entering the tavern, even to avoid the wildest storm that ever raged; while, as for getting drunk, as he surely would if he drank one glass, why, I tremble to think of the consequences.’? The speaker well knew Ciiarlie’s weak points, and in these artful words touched upon them all. By this time the rain was falling fast. “QOome, Charlie,” again said Fred; *‘don’t be such a coward. You have no cause to be afraid.” “T tell you he is right,’? said Frank Bennet, tauntingly. eer has good cause to be afraid; he knows his danger well. Why is it that men—men, too, whom the world would call brave—will be such cowards? In his heart Charlie knew that Frank only spoke the truth, yet for worlds he would not have owned it, even to himself. He would let them all see he wasn’t afraid to encounter his old enemy. Ada, too, had distrusted his resolution, but she should see that he could take a drink and stop if he chose. At any rate he would not be called a coward; and straightway he proved that they were right who cailea him s0 by choos- ing to face mortal peril rather than the raillery of those whom he despised. “Only one drink,’? he affirmed to his own heart as the door closed behind him. But hour after hour went by, and mad revelry reigned triumphant, while in the wild voices of the storm as it swept by one might fancy the re- joicings of demons over the soul that had once escaped the toils but was again ensnared. The night was slowly growing into morning; the storm had spent its fury, the clouds were drifiting apart, and here and there the pure light of a star fell coldly and re- bukingly upon the earth. Charlie had taken his last drink, and his horse being led to the door, with the host- ler’s ald he contrived to mount, while those of his com- panions, who were able to stand, hiccoughed drunken en- couragement. At first he reeled and swayed in his sad- die as though he would certainly fall, but when the reins were put in his hand he gathered himself up and sat seemingly firm. Seizing the whip in one hand he brought it down with all his force on the horse's head, and the animal, all unused to correction, started at full speed on the way toward home. “Good-by, my dear boy,’ said Horton, mockingly, as Charlie disappeared in the distance. ‘‘Your father is go- ing to prevent me from getting license again, is he? Weil, ve him prevent me, if he likes—I guess we are even any- Low. “I wonder what the pale, proud little beauty, Ada Hart- ly, Will think of Ler Charlie’s last drink ?? thought Frank Bennet, as he, too, looked after Charlie. “Z was beyond hope of reformation because I hadn’ta rich father; but as Oharlie had why she even condescended to undertake his er herself, Ihope she will be proud of her con- vert. Dashing madly on, Charlie and his horse suffered no obstacle to check their wild course. Going through dan- gerous woods, leaping fences, fording streams, now swol- len to rapid torrents, he reached safely the stone-wall which inclosed one sideof his father’s grounds. But there was a deep ravine on the outside of this wall which rendered necessary a Circuit of about a quarter of a mile before one could reach the front entranee. On the edge of this ravine Oharlie checked his horse. That strange insanity that urges the drunkard to scale mountains, or leap down precipices, had seized him, and he determined to make his horse leap ravine and wall. “Black Harry can do it well enough, and it will save at least a quarter of a mile, and then what fun to goin among the strawberry beds.”? Wheeling his norse, he strove torush him forward to the leap, but in vain he whipped, spurred and shouted— the horse swerved, reared, and utterly refused to make the attempt that must bring certain destruction on his mnaster and himseif. This resistance enraged his rider, and the whip again fell in a shower of mereiless, blinding blows upon the an- imal’s head. Under this brutal treatment the fury of the horse rose to madness, and in one wild bound he rose al- most straight upon his hind feet. The suddenness of the movement tore the reins from Charlie’s hands. He leaned forward to recover them, but he was two late—in another instant he was flung headlong to the ground, his right foot tangled in the stirrup, A The horror of the moment dispelled the mists of drunk- enpess from his brain, and an awful cry of despair broke from him as he realized the fearful. hopelessness of his situation. A prayer for merey rese to his lips as the horse bounded madly forward, but quicker thau lightning the ineldents of the last few hours arrayed themseéives before “the last drink. Another minute and the horse dragged at his feet a scarce breathing body. Was it the echoo{ that wildory of despairing agony that, borne on the still adr of morning, reached the moth- er’s ear? Or was it some strauge instinct that roused her from deep sleep, calling wildiy on her husband to rise and go to the help of their son, who was even then in some dread extremity. “His death cry seemed but now to ring in my ear.” “You have been dreaming,” said her husband. ‘“Ciar- lie is safe enough, but he could not come home througt such a storm.,’! “Dreaming! Was thata dream?’ she screamed, as a noe gal wildly up the avenue, pausing abruptly at 1e door. The next moment both parents had sprung from the bed and rushed frantically down the stairs, It was the mother who first reached the door, it was her hand that lifted the heavy bars, drew back the bolts, and flung wide the door. And there, beside the door, quietly stood the horse of her son, while apon the broad step, one foot still heid in the fatal s , lay a Mangied, bloody heap, and the face, upturned to the morning sun, was 80 bruised, so beaten by the cruel stones, so distorted by fierce agony, that scarcely could the mother her son. Their wild outcry soon roused the slumbering house- holds. The poor, broken body was tenderly borne tn, physicians were promptly summoned, but their aid was vain—they could not recail the soul. The terror, the confusion, the frantic woe of the mother, the wild wailings of the sister, the dumb grief of the father, the wild, despairing agony that filled Ada’s heart, I cannot write of these. The last drink had been taken, and Charlie Summer’s Mangied body was given to earth, his soul had gone be- fore his Ged—and broken-hearted Ada Hartley, in afew weeks, wus laid by his side in the village churchyard. —_—__>- 0+ ____ THINGS GENERALLY. BY MAX ADELER. A MISUNDERSTANDING. — It was Keyser who was telling me about it. He said: “You Kuow we've just had the awfulest excitement over at Pencader. About two months ago we nomiuated Bill Siocuu for mayor, He was the most popular man in the place. Everybody liked him. Andatfew days after the convention adjourned Bill was standing talking to Joe Snowden about the election, and Bill happened to remark ‘T’ve gotto win.’ Mrs. Martin was going by at the time, and as Bill was speaking pretty rapid, he pronounced it like this: ‘I’ve got t? wiu,’? and Mrs. Martin thought he was telling Snowden that he’d got twins, for she knew Mrs. Slocum was expecting an event of that kind in her family pretty soon anyway. And Mrs. Martin, just like all women about such matters, she at ounce went a boom- ing through that village, spreading the report that Mrs. Slocum had twins. ‘So, of course, there was a terrific fuss right off; and the boys, they set it up that as Bill was a candidate for mayor, and a thunderin’ good fellow anyhow you took him, it’d be nothing more than fair to congratulate him on his good luck by getting up some kind of a public demonstration from his fellow-citizens. Well, sir, you never saw such enthusiasm, The way that idea took was wonderful; and }- all hands agreed that we ought to have a parade. So they run up the flags on the hotel, and the town hall, and on the two schooners down at the wharf, and Judge Pollock adjourned the court over till the next day, and the super- visors they gave the public schools a holiday, and got upa turkey dinner for the convicts in the jail “And some of the fellows drummed up the brass band, and it led off, with Major Bangs following, carrying an American flag hung with roses. Then came the clergy in carriages, followed by the Masons, and Odd Fellows, and Knights of Pythias. And the Young Men’s Christian As- sociation turned out, with the Sons of Temperance about forty strong, in full regalia. And General Thomas pranced along on a white horse ahead of the Pencader Guards. After them came the judges on foot, followed by the city council and the employees of the gas works, and the mem- bers of the Bible Society and Patriotic Suns of America. Then came citizens walking two-and-two, afoot, while a big crowd of men and boys brouglit up the rear. “The band, mind you, all this time Just smashing out the most gorgeous music—‘Star Spangled Banner,’ ‘Life on the Ocean Wave,’ ‘Beautiful Dreamer,’ ‘Home Again,’ and all those things, with cymbals, and Jenkin- ses’ nigger spreading himself on the big drum. Perliecily splendid! And Bill, you Know, he never Knew anything about it. It wasa perfect surprise to him. And when the procession hauled up in front of his house they gave him three cheers, and he came rushing out on to the porch to see what in the thunder all this huilabaloo was about. As soon as he appeared the band struck up ‘See the Con- quering Hero Comes,’ and Major Bangs lowered the flag, and General Thomas waved his hat, and the guards fired a military salute, and everybody cheered. “Bill bowed and made alittle speech, and said how hon- ored he was by such a demonstration, and he said he felt certain of victory, and when he was in office he would do his best to serve his fellow citizens faith&flly. Bill thougnt it was a political serenade, you know. And when hie got through General Thomas cried: ‘Bring out the twins)’ “Bill looked kinder puzzled for a minute, and then he says: GON ie) q ‘I don’t think I undérstand you. What d’ you say? “ ‘Bring out the twins,’ sald Judge Pollock. ‘Less look at ’em.’ “<«Twins!’ says Bill. What d’ ye mean, judge ?’ «Why, the twins. Rush ’em out. Hold ’em up in the winder, so’s we can See ’em,’ said Major Bangs. © *“ ‘Gentlemen,’ said Bill, ‘there must be some little, some slight mistake respecting the—that is you must have been misinformed about the—the—er—er. Whliy, Moses and Aaron, there’s no twins about this house!" “Then they thought he was joking, and the band lit out with ‘Listen to the Mocking Bird,’ and Bill came down to find out the drift of Judge Pollock’s remarks. And when he really convinced them that there wasn’t a twin any- where about the place, you wever saw a worse disgusted crowd in your life. Madas fury. They said they had no idea Bill Slocum would descend to such trickery as that. “So they broke up. The judge he went back to the court-room so indignant he sentenced a prisoner for twenty years when the law only allowed him to give ten, The supervisors, they took their spite out by docking the school teachers half a day, and Cutting off the cranberry sauce from the turkey dinner at the jail. Major Bangs got drunk as an owl. The city councils held an adjourned meeting and raised the water rent on Slocum, anid Jen- kins’ nigger burst in the head of the big drum with a brick. Mad’s no word forit. They were wild with rage. “And that killed Bill. They beat him by two hundred majority at the election, just on dccount of old Mrs. Mar- tin misunderstanding him. Rough, wasn’t it? But it don't seem to me like the fair thing on Bill.’* BUTTERWICKH’S BEAR. — Butterwick was out in Colorado last spring for a month er two, and just before he started for the journey home he wrote to his wife concerning the probable time of his arrival. Asa postscript to the letter he added the following message to hisson, a boy about eight years old: “Tell Charley Iam going to bring with me a dear little baby bear that I bought from an Indian.” Of course that information pleased Charley, and he di- rected most of his thoughts and his conversation to the subject of the bear during the next two weeks, wishing anxiously for his father to come with the little pet. On the night which had been fixed by Butterwick for his ar- rival he did not come, and the family were very much dis- appointed. Charley particularly was cut up because he couldn’t get the bear. Onthe next evening, while Mrs. Butterwick and the children were sitting in the front room with the door open into the hall, they heard some- body running through the front yard. Then the front door was suddenly burst open, and a man dasiied into the hall and up stairs at frightful speed. Mrs. Butterwick was just about to go up after him to ascertain who it was, when a large, dark animal of some kind darted in through the door, and with anawful growl went bowling up stairs after the man. Itsaddenly flashed upen the mind of Mrs. Butterwick that the man was her husband, and that that was the little baby bear. Just then the voice of Butterwick was heard calling from the top landing: ‘‘Maria! for gracious sake get out of the house as quick as you can, and shut all the doors and window siiutters:”’ Then Mrs. Butterwick sent the boysinto Partridge’s, next door, and she closed the shutters, locked ali the doors, and went into the yard to await further develop- ments. When she got outside she saw Batterwick on the roof kneeling on the trap-door, which he Kept down only by the most tremendous exertions. Then he screamed for somebody to come up and help him, and Mr. Partridge got a ladder and a hatchet, and some nails, and ascended. Then they nailed down the trap-door, and Butterwick and Partridge came down the ladder together. After he had greeted his family, Mrs. Butterwick asked him what was the matter, and he said: “Why you know that little baby bear I said I’a bring Oharley? Well I had him in a box until I got off the train up here at the depot. And then I thought I’d take him out and lead him around home by the chain. But the first thing he did was to fly at my leg, and when I jumped back Iran, and he after me. He would ’ve eaten me up inabout a minute. That infernal Indian must have fool- ed me. He said it was a cub only two months old, and it had no teeth. I believe it’s a full-grown bear.”? It then became a very interesting question how they should get that bear out of the house. Butterwick thought they had better try to shoot him, and he asked a lot of the neighbors to come around to help with their shot-guns, When they would hear the bear scratching at one of the windows they would pourin a volley at him, but after riddling every shutter onthe first floor, they oould still hear the bear tearing around in there and growling. So Butterwick and the others got into the cellar, and as the bear crossed the floor they would fire up through it at about the spot where they thought he was, But the bom- bardment onlyseemed to exasperate the animal, and after each shot they could hear him smashing something. Then Partridge said maybe a couple of good dogs might whip him, and he borrowed a bull-dog and a setter from Barney Maginn and pushed them through the front door, They listened, and for hal{an hour they could hear a most terrific contest raging, and Maginn said he*d bet a million dollars that bull-dog would eat up any two bears in the Rocky Mountains, Then everything became still, and a few moments later they could hear the bear eating something and cracking bones with his teeth, and But- terwick said that the Indian out in Colorado told him that the bear was particularly fond of dog-meat, and could rel- ish a litter of pups almost any time. ‘Twins! Why, my gracious! At last Butterwick thought he would try strategy. He procured a huge iron hook with asharp point to il, tied it toa and put three or four pounds of fresh beef on the hook. Then he went up the ladder, opened the trap-door in the roof, and dropped in the bait.’ In a few moments he got a bite, and all hands manned the rope and pulled, when out came Partridge’s ball-dog, which had been hiding in the garret. Butterwick was disgusted, but he put of fresh bait and threw in again, and in about an hour the bear took hold aud they hauled him out and kuocked him ou the head. Then they entered the house, In the hali the «carpet Was covered with particles of dead setter, and in the par- lor the carpet and the windows had been shot to pieces, while the furniture was full of bullet-holes. The bear had Smashed the mirror, torn up six or seven cliairs, knocked over the lamp, and demolistied all the crockery in the pantry. Butterwick gritted his teeth as he surveyed the ruin, and Mrs. Butterwick said she wished to patience he had stayed in Colorade. However, they fixed things up as well as they could, and then Mrs. Butterwick sent into Partridge’s for Charley and the youngest girl. When Charley came he rushed up to Butterwick, and said: “OQ, pap! where’s my little baby bear ?”” Then Batterwick gazed at him severely for a moment, looked around to see if Mrs. Butterwick had left the room, and then gave Charley the most terrific spanking that he ever received. The Butterwick children have no pets, at present, but a Poland reoster whioh has mouited his tall. MRS. SMYTH’S HUSBAND. — The Widow Smyth called at Mr. Mix’s marble-yard the other day, and the following conversation ensued: Mrs. Smvth.—'"'Mr. Mix, | am anxious to have my cem- etery lot fixed up; to putin new tombstones and re-set the railing, and I called to see if I could make some satis- factory arrengement with you.”’ Miz.—‘‘Oertainly, madame. Tell me precisely what it is you waut done?!” Mrs. Smyth.—‘‘Well, I'd like to have a new tombstone put over the grave of John—my husband, you know—and to have a nice inscription out in it. ‘Here Hes John Smyth,’ etc., etc. You kuow what I mean; the usual way, of enurse, and maybe some kind of a design on the stone like a broken rosebud or someting.” Mizx.—‘l understand.’? ‘Mrs. Snyth.— Weil, then, what'll you charge me for getting up a headstone just like that, out of pretty good white marbie, and with a little picture of a torch upside- down, or a weeping angel on it, and the name of Thomas Smyth cat on it?” Miz.—“Fohn Smyth, you mean.” Mrs. Smyth.—' No, i mean Thomas.” Miz.—“But you said John before," Mrs. S—“I know, but that was my first husband and Thomas was my second, and I want a new headstone for each of them. Now, it seems to me, Mr. Mix, that where a person is buying more than one, that way, you ought to make some reduction In the price, throw something off. Though, of course, I want a pretty good article at all the graves. Not anything gorgeous, but neat and'tasteful, and calculated to please the eye. Mr. Smyth was not a man who was fond of show. Give hima thing comfort- able and he was satisfied. Now which do you think is the prettiest, tohave the name in raised letters ina straight line over the top of the stone, or just to cut the words ‘Alexander P, Smyth’ in a kind of a semi-circie in sunken letters??? Mix.—“‘Did I understand you to say Alexander P.? Were you referring to John or Thomas?’ Mrs. S.—“‘Of course not. Aleck was my third. Im not going to neglect his grave while I’m fixing up the rest. I wish to make a@ complete job of it, Mr. Mix, while I am about it, aud I’m willing to let you undertake it if you are reasonable in your charges. Now, what'll you ask me for the lot, the kind I’ve described, plain but substantial, and sank about two feet, I should think, at the head of each hae What'll you charge me for them—for the whole our??? , HMix.—“Well, I think I can put you in-those three head- stones—— Mrs. S.—‘‘Four headstones, Mr. Mix, not three.” Afix.—“Four, was it? No; there was John, and Thomas, nxt Alexander P. Thav’s all you said, 1 think. Oualy three. Mrs. 8.—“‘Why, I want one for Adolph, too—as a matter of course; the sane as the others. I thought you knew 1 wanted one for Adolph, one made just like Johu’s, only with the name different. Adolph was my fourth husband. He died about three years after [ buried Philip, and I’m wearing mourning for him now. Now, please give me your prices for the whole of them.” Mix.—‘Well, madame, I want to be as reasonable as I can, andI tell you what Dildo. You give me ail your work in the future and I'll put you in those five headstones at hardly anything above cost, say-——”’ Mrs. S.—‘‘Four headstones; not five." Mix.— ‘I think you mentioned five.’ Mrs. 8.—“No; only four.” Miz.—‘‘Less see; there was Jolin, and Tiomas, and Aleck, and Adoiph and Philip.” Mrs. S—“Yes, but Aleck and Philip were the same one. denee i name was Philip, and 1 always calied him Phil. : Mix.—'‘Mrs. Smyth, 1’ll be much obliged to youif you'll tell me precisely how many husbands you have planted up in that cemetery lot. This thing’s getting a little mixed.” Hrs. S.—‘'What do you mean, sir, by saying ‘planted ?' I never ‘planted’ auybody. Is disgraceful to use such language.”* Mix.—‘I’s a technical term, madame. We always use it, and I don’t see as it’s going to hurt any old row of corpses uamed Smyth. Pianted is good enough for other men, and it’s good enough for them.” Mrs. S.—“Old row of—* What d@* you mean, you impudent vagabond? I wouldn’t let you put a headstone on one of my graves if you’d do it for nothing.” Then Mrs. Suiyth flounced out of the shop, and Mix calied after her as she went through the door: “Lemme know when you go for another man, and Pi throw him ina tombstones fora wedding present. He'll want it soon.” Mrs. Smyth is now looking at headstones ia a marble yard at Wilmington, —_—_—_>-e-<- —__—— Josh Billings’ Philosophy. HOT STUFF. A man inay ontliv hiz capasity to do good, but not hiz Ccapasity to do evil. Most all spendthrifts are avarishus kritters, they waste their substanse on themselis. Yung man, don’t hay too poor an opinyun ov yureself. The world are more aptto pitty the diffident than to’ ad- mire Lhem, and pitty too often, iz only another name for disgust, : If yu are anxious to injure a woman talk about her; if yu would use up a man, say nothing about him, I haven't moch faith in mankind, and i hav got less in miself, It iz az hard work fora man to keep quiet who haz suddenly got welth or fame, az it iz for a bladder to keep still after it iz blown up. Munny iz most allwuss a grate bother; between the de- sire to git more, and the fear ov loseing what we hav got, meu are kept all the time in bileing-hot water, Honesty iz the rarest welth that enny man kan possess, and yet ali the honesty in the world ain’t lawful tender for a loaf of bread, It will pay to edukate enny man, so it will pay to kulti- vate enny soil, but thare iz a grate difference in the amount ov potatoze yu will git. : It is the luxuries ov life that hav stimulated the ad- vancement ov mankind, if we were satisfied with the simple necessitys, we should be a lazy set all ov us, loiter- ing about bare headed, and bare footed, az the patriarks of old did, out ov a job, and not at all anxions to find one. The theorys ov wize men are allwuss better than their praktiss, they talk like sages, and akt like simpletons. To think is the grate bizzuess ov life, and to think right, and then akt, iz the consumashun. We hav sum thinkers so very profound that they Kant be fathomed,. 1 think that whatever a man sees clearly, he kan express clearly. The bizzy hay ieizure, the iazy never do. Trath is like the turtle, and a lie iz like the fox in the fable, truth travels straight and steddy en to the goal, while a lie allwuss haz so mennuy dubbies to make, that it gits beat in the race. Thare are sum lies so shallow that it iz cheaper to seem to beleave them than to try to refute them. I have seen men who had sum doubts about their re- ligion, and even their honesty, but I never cum akrost ene yet who had enny doubts about hiz shrewdness. Most men are likeahop vine, if they don’t hay sum kind ov a pole to klimb, and then stick to it, they wont promulgate mutch hops, ; Weaith will cover a multitude ov sins, but kant wipe one ov them out. : I had a grate deal rather be told that a man iz honest and virtewous than be told that hiz father iz a member ov Congress, or even that hiz grandiather fit into the grate revolushun. I dont kno whether the man who never wrongs enny- bodady but himself iz strikly honest or not. Thare iz nothing so good for enny Ov us aZ a due re- spekt for the good opinyun other people haz ov us, it iz the cauze OV two-thirds ov all the morality in the world. Thare iz no sure cure for lazypess, starvation cums the nearest to it. When i waz 20 i knew twice az mutch az i do now, and the way iam going on, if i should liv to be 75, i dont ex- pekt to kno nothing. Ingratitude iz the commonest and meanest instinkt ov the heart. When yu are able to thoroly endorse yureself there iz time enuff to seek the good opinyun ov others. We notiss that allmost every grate result haz hada small beginning. Edukashun hag rarely, if ever, made a grate man, but natral abilitys, without the aid oy edukashun haz made menny a one, Thare iz but very few men whoze merit outlasts their munny. : I notiss that them who gits angry quik, gits over it quik, and i prefer to see a man blaze like a kKandle, if he must burn ennyhow, than to see him smudge like a bun- dle ov wet straw. Ifi waz a going to painta piktur ov Peace, i would paint 2 old bull tarriers, lieiug near each other at the mouth ov their kennels, both ov them badly whipt. The poorest kompliment yu kan pay enny mian iz to immitate hiz excentricitys. Thare iz but very fu people got kKarakter enough to be suspekted with impunity. Ifa male kiks me the sekond time, 1 alwas blame mi sell, and giy the muie kre@it for ik He whe marrys for buty haz got but littie more property in hiz wife than the rest of the have. Good natur iz a rare excelence, and those who hay it the most, seem to kno it the least. The man who haz no enemys, Kan lav no true friends, and he who haz neither frieuds nor enemys iz a weak sister indeed. If a man abuzes yu, the first best thing yu Kan do iz to forgiv him, and the sekond best thing yu kan do, iz to forgit him. A haif larnt man iz like a haff broke setter dog, he flushes all hiz game. 4 . more honorabel to be a hiwayman than to be a hi- pokrit. Life seems to be mere fuss and feathers; the fools liv on the fuss, and all that the wize kan git ennyhow i the feathers, Deference, if it ain’t sincere, iz the most exquisite fraud the human heart iz capable ov. A live man iz like a nimbie sixpence, tho he may wear thin he Keeps bright, and iz worth hiz face to the last. Honesty iz like 7 per cent. interest, it will beat all kind of gpeckerlashuns in the long run. A flatterer iz either a pliool or a Knave, and i guess he iz generally a mixtur ov both. Thare iz more skillin ne big trout than in hook- ing him. It iz jist 80 when yu bob for men. The whole world seems to be either ridikuling or flat- tering each other. Thare iz nothing which men are s0 proud ov ag their experience, and nothing that they proffitt so little by. Pashunce iz ov more consequence toa skoolmaster than intellekt. No man iz fit for a skoolmaster who kant look upon muskeetoes az:a blessing. Arly impreshuns are nevyey Jost, and while tue katekism iz the hardest thing for a child to larn, {t i the hardest thing for them to forgit. , TO CORRESPONDENTS. aa GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.— Tobdacco.—Tobacco is harvested in the Northern States in Sep- tember. It is ripeness is indicated usually by greenish yellow s00% on the leaves. The stalk iscut near the ground, and the plant allowed to lay for a few hours and wilt, but should not be exposed to the sun. It is then taken tothe drying-house, where it is hung up by the butt of the stalk. These houses are so built as to have a circulation of air through them constantly. After some two or three months, eich to she weather, when the stem has become hardened the leat is sufficiently dried, and on damp days, when the leaves will not crumble or break, they are stripped from the stalk and packed for shipping. It is not fit for use, however, untilithas gone through a sweating, after which the leaf is toughened and can be better handled. Prentice M.—A frame such as described will cost $36. What the express charges would be we do not know. ; ger, Chicago.—We have no means of obtaining the informa- tion desired. John Donalson.—Write to the Second Auditor, Treasury De- partment, Washington, D. C., stating all the facts. R, M, Bretsford.—The story named was not published in the New YORK WEEKLY. R. D. S.—The sketch and poem are both interesting and well written, but we cannot accept and publish them gratuitously, with the proviso that the author will at some future time be en- gaged as a paid contributor. J, Tierney.—\st. Byron was a skeptic in relicious matters. 2d. Belles letires means polite and elegant literature. Stereotyper.—About $2 per day. Will S.—Iist. Average. 2d. It is impossible for us to say with- out going over our files and a large quantity ef MSS. 3d. The prices SS. depend on the quality, length, reputation of the author, ete. 4th. See No. 10. Miner.—ist. A very good weapon. 2d. A mustang can be bought in Texas for $25 and upward. } Ftta.—Iist, Read standard works of fiction, the poets, history, etc. 2d. Bring and fetch are so nearly synonymous that they may be used }2most instances in the same sense, Crabbe makes the distinction that bring is an action performed at the eption of the agent; fetch is mostly done at the command of another. ““A servant brings the parcel his master has sent him to fetch.” A. 0.—\st. There is no such place named in the Gazetteer as Arraco or Oroceo. 2d. The method of selling pom at horse raees is by putting up each horse and selling to the highest bid- der. The amounts paid, when put together, constitute the poel, the man that bought the horse winning the race taking the whole of the money. Reader —We cannot furnish the addresses of manufacturers of sewing-machine needles. : A, Bennet.—Among the institutions of the description referred to are the Samaritan Heme for the Aged, Fourteenth street, near Ninth avenue; Home for Aged and Indigent Females, 226 East Twentieth street, beside several others under the eontrol of dif- ferent denominations for the care of those of their own sects. Bach institution is governed by its own rules, whieh you can as- certain on application. Guy K.—1st. Minors are not enlisted in the U.S. army except with the consent of their parents or guardians. 2d. The term of enlistment is five years, and the pay $13 a month. Ui at present. 4th. You are not too old to iearnatrade. 5th. Memento meir is translated remember death. —The seven wonders of the ancient world are: The Pyra- mids of Egypt; the Mausoleum, or tomb of Mauselus, in a Minor; the Temple of Diana, at Ephesus; the walls and hanging ardens of Babylon; the Colossus at Rhodes; thestatue of Jupiter lympus, at Athens; the Pharos, or light-house, built by Piolemy Piiladelphus, at Alexandria. F. 0. (.—The fare to India is from $300 to $680. Better stay where you are. There are more opportunities here than there. Publisher. We cannot say, knowing nothing of either, A, J. Gilbert.—\st. There is no town or vil in the United States or Canada by the nameof Tyrol. 2d. The pation daily papers in Rochester, N. Y., are the Democrat and Chronicle, Ez- press, Unionand Advertiser, Beobachter and . Bach of these publish a weekly edition also. The Gazette, a weekly, is the only paper published at Niagara Falls, J. A.R.—If you prefer to please yourself rather than your lady love, join the club, Chas. Stewart,—The expression is ‘A lick and a promise,” which means to so far compiete a thing as to make it available or answer tor the preseut, with the promise or intention to fuish itin the fature. < . Halcelm.—Write to the U. S. Land Commissioner, Land Office, Washington, D. G. Nova Scotia Reader.—ist anddth. See foot of column, 2d: From $3 to $5 per day. 3d. The supply of telegraph operators is far in excess of the demand. J. A, L.—The first syliable of hysterics is pronounced hiss, A Boy.—“Rocky Mountain Sam” will cost 99 cents. W. Y. Z.—The U. 8. government will permit no expeditions to go to the Black Hills, the mining regions being within the limits of an Indian reservation. Those who have succeeded in getting ct have been ordered awuy by the military commander of the istrict. Grace P.—I\st. “Les Misevabdles” is pronounced ley me-zai-rabls. 2d. We have never seen the abbreviation referred to. Agents.—D. P. McGuire, ef St. Louis, Mo., complains te us that he sent 75 cents to P. O. Vickey & Co., of Augusta, Me., for an agent’s outfit, and that he has received nothing in return for kis money. Wil Vickey & Co., “rise to explain?” ~ C. H. Ames,—Oonsult a work on the refining of coal off, yt Lane nat was broken for the East river bridge an Wild Bill—The bonds were neither more nor less than a lottery scheme, which are not good investments. _@. W. Holbrook.—The harbor police constitute one of the pre- cinets of the, municipal police. They are on duty on the steam- er, and aiso do patrol duty around the docks in smal! rewboats. Piate.—This correspondent informs us that “Ihe Blue and thi Gray”? was written by the poet-priest, Bishop P. J. Ryan, an was first published in a Catholic paper in New Orleans. £. L. S.—lt the party insist upon retaining the badges, you have no remedy. As they are of little intrinsie value, and an action would be a costly proceeding, is 1s doubtful if it would be wise to undertake to secure their return in that way. TO PURCHASING AGENCY CORRESPONDENTS. In response to the queries of our correspondents who send no address, we give the prises at which the following articles may be procured through the Naw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agex- a “Crack Shot, or Young Rifleman’s Compiete Guide,”? $1.75; “Dead Shot,” $1.75; “Contarini Fleming,” 50 cents; “Life of Ben- jamin Franklin,” by himself, $1.50; “Manual of Etiquette,” 7 cents; “Manual of Telegraphy,” 30 cents; “Hand Beok of the Telegraph,” 40 cents; ‘*fhe Modern Practice of the Electric Tele- graph,’’ $2; Bibles, $1 and upward; Smith & Wesson revolver, $7 to $10; Remington do., $10; Oolt do., $11.25. The following MSS. have been accepted: “A Painter’s For- tune,” “The Telegrapher’s Story.”” The foilowing will appearin the Mammoth Monthly Reader: ‘Over a Precipice,” “Leave Me not Yet, Mother,” “The Robber Rats,” “Smart Children. The following are respectfully declined: ‘‘Hanging of Berry at Rog- ersville,” “An Ideal,” “The Old Home on the Hill.” “The Heart,” “The Old Spring,” ‘Jim Hines’ Story,” “Beside the Lea,” **‘Good- by,” “Waiting for Home,” “Only a Street Sweeper,” “Alone,” “Lanning’s Only Love,” “Almost a Sacrifice,” ““Maud’s Mistake,” “Ecce Feme,” ‘‘Lovers on the Sea,” “‘A Trip into the Backwoods of Maine,” ‘‘How to Bring Up your Daughter,” ‘Sprinkie Flow- ers,” “‘Answer to Where is Oregon,” “The Choice,” “Love ana Lydia,” “I did Not Think,” “O, Death, Where ts thy Siting,’ “The Anvil’s Song.” ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT. Katydid. —You are very indiscreet in accepting invitations to walk out in the evening with a man whom by your own contfes- sion you net only dislike, but distrust. By declining such invita- tions in the future, you will be relieved of his attentions, and your sense of maidenly propriety will not be shecked by famuil- mritiee anion are usually accorued only to an accepted lover or usband. HM. Bartholay.—ist. The gentleman should ask the ladies for the pleasure ef their company, if he wished to accompany them home. If an intimate friend, and should merely be walking in the same direction, it would be unnecessary. 2d. The young lady should excuse herseif, und retire at an early hour. 3d. If the lady is uncertain as to whether she conld go to the party, she should decline, stating the reason. If she reaily desired to go, she might accept with a proviso,.at the oplion of the gentle- man. Gertrude H. G.—The gentleman is either influenced by his rela- tives or hisardor has cooled. To bring him to a realizing sense of his conduct, you may make it convenient to be engaged or away from home when he calls, ma.—Treat the gentleman as coolly as politeness will per- mit, andif he persists in his attentions, forcing his society and his conversation upon you, ask to be excused, amd join some other acquaintances, when, if he follows you, you ¢an ignore his presence allogether. Rosalie.—You are too young to accept attentions from gentle- men. Subseriber.—You may send the mts by mail or deliver them in person. The former way 3s frequently adopted if the donor is inclined fo be diffident or wishes to surprise the recip- lent. Providence.—Because the gentleman frequently calls at the young lady’s house, and she sometimes goes out wth him, does notimply that she is keeping company with him. He oe an intimate friend, and as such she would not like to effend him by declining to see him or go out with him. You are just a little jealous, probably, and without cause. : —_—_—__>-2+_____- Historical Items. An American rifleman was as great-an object of curiosity in eee years ago as he has been this year. tn July, 1776, a karge number of riflemen from the South arrived in Boston to join the army. They attracted much atten- tion. They had enlisted with great promptness, and bad marched from four to seven hundred miles. They were stalwart men, dressed in frocks or rifle-shirts, and wore round hats. Ata re- view, a company of them, while on a quick advance, fired their balis into objects of seven inches diameter, at a distance of 250 yards. They were stationed on the lines, and became terrible to the British. The accounts of their prowess were cireulated over England. One of them, taken prisoner, was carried there, and the papers describe him mimutely as a “remarkable curiosity.” scribed as ‘Something like a shirt, double-caped over the sheuld- ers.”’? In these days Americans shoot with Englishmen, nos at them, which is a better way of using rifles. ehy in Mexico. The miliation to the shal Prim was aa Rmperor N ; the oe insaae, and Marshal Bazaing His uniform, made of brown Holland and Osnaburgns, was de- _ LEE STEI IEEE bys Iris a remarkable fact that fortune trewned. ali those who took part in the last ene to establish a : n @rained of bu- hee a pe, a ae —_—