A MYSTERIOUS DETECT Office ESCAPE FROM WINTER. BY J. G. PERCIVAL. Oh! had I the wings of a swallow Id fly Where the roses are blossoming all the year long ; Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye, And the bills of the warblers are ever in song ; Oh! then I would fly from the cold and the snow, And hie to the land of the orange and vine, And carol the winter away in the glow That rolls o’er the evergreen bowers of the line. Indeed, I should gloomily steal o’er the deep, Like the storm-loving petrel, that skims there alone ; I would take me a dear little martin to keep A sociable flight to the tropical zone ; How cheerily, wing by wing, over the sea, We would fiy from the dark clouds of win- ter away! And forever our song and our twitter should be, “To the land where the year is eternally gay.” We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers, And take up our lodge in the crown of the palm, And live, like the bee, on its fruit and its flowers, That always are flowing with honey and balm. ; Andere we would stay, till the winter is ~ o'er, And April is chequered with sunshine and rain— Oh! then we would fiy from that far-distant shore, Over island aria wave, to our country again. How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime, And break on the beaches in surges of gold, When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime! We would touch for a while, as we traversed the ocean, At the island that echoed to Waller and Moore, A» oinnow our wings with an easier mo. tion, Through the breath of the cedar, that blows from the shore. And when we had rested our wings, and had P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 31 Rose St. THE DOCTOR DREW BACK, AND UTTERED A CRY WHEN fed On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves, By the spirit of home and of infancy led, We would hurry again to the land of our loves; And when from the breast of the ocean would spring, Far off in the distance, that dear native shore, In the joy of our hearts we would cheerily sing, ‘No land is so lovely, when winter is o’er.” et {THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] BACK TO LIFE; OR, An Unequal Match. By MRS. M. V. VICTOR, AUTHOR OF A Father’s Sin,” “Who Owned the Jewels,” “The Phantom Wife,” etc. PART CHAPTER I. THREE TABLEAUX VIVANT. Scene First.—Summer. Sunset. A boat upon a river. In the boat are two figures. There is sumething straight and still lying in the bottom of the boat covered with an old bed-quilt. In the west a long, low, lurid cloud lies athwart the horizon. Underneath the,cloud the sky looks like a molten sea of brass, and the light which comes from it is singular and threatening. This brassy light gives a peculiar tinge to the rich foliage of the banks, and colors the water a sullen hue, while it makes still more yeliow and ugly the weird, wicked, wrinkled faces of the man and woman in the boat. Hiard faces have these two old people--hard, cunning —almost, one might say, slyly devilish. The woman’s is the worse of the two. In her cold and fishy dull-blue eyes—overlaid by drooping brows, with shaggy gray hairs standing fiercely out—lurks something evil, all the more threatening because the eyes themselves are so dull and opaque. She sits in the stern of the little boat, with her brown and withered hand on the rudder, and her eyes on \the motionless outlines of that which lies under the quilt. The man has the eye and the beak of a vulture—of a yulture who has grown gray and grizzled by a long life spent in a sharp lookout for prey. He pulls the boat up the river, arid glares back at the glaring, threatening sky. There are plenty of larger and smaller craft on the broad breast of the river. If the occupants of any of these notice the ill-favored pair in the rusty boat, itis to take for granted that they have been with their ‘‘gar- den truck” to the great city a few miles below, and are now returning home, while the old patch-work quilt is supposed. to cover their baskets and their city pur- chases. Scene Second.—The lights of the village gleaming here and there under the starless night. This village, or town rather, stands on the river's edge. Here are pleasant, tree-shadowed roads which lead out of it on the other side, away from the river. Near one of these roads, about a mile from the town, stands a country- seat. It is ten o’clock of asummer evening. Before the main entrance to the great house, on the carriage-drive, is a shackly wagon drawn by a starved horse. Down from the seat climb the man and woman we have seen in the boat. They are glad of the dark- ness ; yet they grumble because it is so very dark. They can just make out the shadowy form of the building. The sultry air, damp with hovering rain, is loaded with the sweets of a flower-garden on the south side of the house. The darkness seems to bring out more distinctly the odors of roses, heliotrope, carnations. Dimly outlined, in the bottom of the shackly wagon —as it had been in the bottom of the rusty boat— something lay under the ragged quilt, motionless and strange. The man stood by the horse’s head, while the woman cautiously ascended the broad steps of gray stone and groped for the bell-pull beside the door. She had evi- dently never been to this place before. The two had come from some distance on their night errand, what- ever that errand was. Scene Third.—A large, bare attic room in the house before whose door those strange visitors have arrived and departed. This room is brilliantly lighted; the door and windows are closed, the shades are down over the latter. It is so close to the roof that the heavy dash of the summer-rain can be heard. The slow- gathering storm has broken at last; thunder rolls heavily overhead, wind rattles the shutters outside ; lightning burns and dazzles in the midnight air, though the room is so secured that not a glimmer of its evan- escent fire can enter there. On the bare white walls. of this attic are a few shelves, and on these shelves are bottles, jars, and boxes. In the center of the room is a long, plain table. side this table stands a man. He is between thirty and thirty-five years of age. He has a foreign air—for this scene ison the outskirts of an American town—and is handsome; with a pale, in- | tellectual face, dark hair and mustache, and a pair of | bright, keen, dark eyes that seem capable of piercing to the truth of almost any hidden matter. His eyes are now riveted upon the table. ranged his lights and his instruments. Now he draws down the patched and faded quilt— draws it down, sweeps it completely from the table, and, with a suppressed exclamation, gazes, for the first time—except for a hasty glance by the dim light of the | turned-down burner in the lower hall—upon his subject. | The figure of a very young woman—a girl—lies there | before him. A garment of fine linen lawn alone vails the perfect shape. A glorious creature this must have been in life. She | is glorious even in death. Her matchless hair, long, thick, wavy, and bright with golden threads as the light of. the lamp plays over it, falls down over the edge of the cruel dissecting-table and streams to the floor in a river of gold. The ivory lids lie smoothly over large eyes, with thick lashes, darker than the hair, touching the young cheeks. The ivory forehead is low, smooth, and full. The pale little mouth mugt have been lovely when it wore the rose-hue of life. The shoulders: are-polished and fair, as of some statue ; but no Sculptor ever carved such dimples as lay imprinted, One in each, like the kiss of love. The fair, round arms, the little hands with taper fin- gers, the small, dimpled feet—the doctor looks at these, even more than on the high-bred beauty of the rigid face, and his keen eyes frown and glower. “They sold the body to me as thatof their own daugh- ter. They represented to me that she died in a fit. 7his delicate creature the child of those monsters! Never— never! Why, even the costly lawn of this garment be- trays them. There is mystery — treachery—perhaps murder, here! 1 must not make myself a party to it. Great Heaven! how did she die? There are no traces of violence ; poison would have swollen those delicate features and blackened those lips. “The mystery remains. Itis forme to unravel it. I should feel like a murderer myself if I touched the knife to this most. beautiful, perfect—perfect piece of | nature’s workmanship. How calm she lies here! How | innocent! how pure! Where is her mother? Where are herfriends? Could one so fair and young have been friendless that she should be here ?” The physician, the glittering knife in his hand, bends | over the motionless figure of the girl, while thoughts like these crowd rapidly through his brain. . She looks so strangely calm and life-like that he lifts one hanging arm, rigid as ice itself, and lays it gently by her side, while his practiced, sensitive fingers touch her wrist. Be- He has ar- Fintered According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1885. bu Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washinaton. D.C New York, November 23, 1885. Te Le A fui $7 TT AH i iy \ Entered at the Post Office New York. as Second Olass Matter Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. ‘RIGID FORM HAD RAISED ITSELF BOLT UPRIGHT. No. 3. the monsieur is handsomer, my uncle, is he not ?—so tall and rosy-cheeked !” “What! that red-faced plebeian of a young scribe !—that coarse fellow! I do not won- der Reginald. was. offended. You insulted him, my dear, and you have no choice but to beg his pardon.” ‘Beg his pardon, when he struck me! My uncle, I knew not that the gentlemen of France struck their ladies.” ‘You are right, little one. beg your pardon on his bended knee. I will see to it. But, sweet, let me tell you—you and your cousin must not quarrel; ’tis‘a low habit, undignified, unbecoming. You will marry Reginald, some day. That is fixed; my heart is set uponit. Unless you wish to break my heart—to kill me—do not come to me again to say that you are going to break the betrothal promise. I am going to leave my large estates divided equally between you two, When you marry, the property will be together as now. I have a million francs apiece for you in the bank. You are to have the family jewels, which are worth as much more. Reginald is to have the wine-vaults, full to bursting of the richest treasures of the grape, ripening through many sunny years ; and the pictures, except that of your mother, which is yours. My chateaux, my vineyards, my landed estate of all sorts, my two ships that trade with the West Indies, I have left to you two in equal proportions. You will be rich and respected together, and very happy. There is nothing to prevent but the boy’s temper. Other young men, let me tell you, have worse faults than a high temper. He loves you, and will always love you. Do not allow hard thoughts of him to arise in your heart; but, rather, dwell on his good qualities—his affection for you—and remember that it is only because his health is not good that he is so hritable. Will you promise me, little one, always to bear that in mnind ?” “Yes, my uncle,” answered the little girl, meekly kissing him. But she walked away slowly, with a heavy heart; for although she might forgive, she could not forget her cousin’s violence, and how wicked and ugly his face looked when he struck her. It seemed to her that he had trampled upon and broken the flower of love that grew in her heart for him. That was not the last time that Reginald struck her; but she never went to her un- cle again, because she could not bear to dis- tress him. She never told her uncle again that she would not marry her cousin; but the resolution grew and grew, though she dared still less to betray it to Reginald than to the old man, since it was usually jealousy which provoked his attacks upon her—a wild, uncontrolled, fierce jealousy—when she had been pleasant with others, or smiled inno- cently upon some young peasant in the vine- yard. Reginald knew of his physical imperfec- tions, and it was his fear that Virginia would cease to love him which made him unreason- able and jealous, and urged him to the very course which killed ber tender and gentle affection for him. Before these twoeweré old enough to end their betrothal by m age—when Virginia was fourteen—their ufgle died suddenly— too suddenly to allow 6? his requiring Ahe marriage service to be performed before his death, as he doubtless would have done had he had time. Reginald shall CHAPTER III. There is a loud crash of thunder overhead ; the house shakes to its foundation; vhe trees outside groan and creak, lashing the porches and roofs with their wildly- swaying branches. The keen eyes of the physician are on the girls pale face ; his fingers at her cold little wrist, where-@pulse once beat. Is he dreaming? Is he under the influence of @*spell, wrought by the midnight hour and the wailing tem- pest? Or do the dark™ashes tremble on those ivory cheeks ? : Even while his fingers Search her wrist the great dark eyes of the seeming-dead slowly open and 100k up into his face with a soft, troubled, perplexed expression: They wander over the bare walls of the room, over the glistening knife in his hand, and back to his eyes again; then they close, a faint sigh flutters over the pale lips, and the doctor fears that now, at last, she is really dead. CHAPTER II. THE WARDS OF ST. REGIS. In sunny Proverfte, somewhere between Toulon and Nice, in an old chateau, some of whose windows and terraces commanded a view of the blue Mediterranean, there lived with an old uncle, not so very many years ago; two children, cousins, a boy and a girl. The names of these children were Virginia and Regi- nald St. Regis. They were orphans, and their dead mothers had once been beloved sisters of.old Paul St. Regis, who owned the chateau and all about it for miles around. When St. Regis adopted these children as his own—he never married—it was agreed that they should assume the family name—an old name, once crowned with various patents of nobility, but in these parvenu days plain St. Regis, scorning to wear the title assumed | by upstarts, but with him inherited from long genera- tions of aristocrats. Virginia and Reginald had a happy childhood with the grim old gentleman of the ancient regime, whom his | humbler neighbors regarded with so much awe. Re was never stern to them; and so that they were always | polite to their elders, and learned the lessons PS them by tutor and governess, they were allowed un- limited liberty. The old chateau itself was a world which these chil- dren were never weary of exploring. There were more rooms init than they could ever count; some of them old and ruinous, where they used to imagine that ghosts peeped out of them, or sighed and moaned be- hind the moldering tapestry. A large part of the chateau, however, was in perfect repair, and furnished with an artistic elegance and luxury; whole suites of apartments, still set out in the graceful and lavish style of the Renaissance, furniture and painting of walls and mantel ornaments still remaining as they were in the days of Louis XIYV., being carefully preserved and re- touched from time to time. Other suites were of modern arrangement, with Au- busson carpeting, modern landscapes hanging on the bright walls, and lovely furniture of satin-wood and ebony; with hangings of satin in rich and delicate color- ings...Th@n*there*was the long picture-gallery, where they could look om the fair faces of their dead mothers; and the great hall in the center of the main part of the chateau, broader than many modern palaces, are wide, and with a grand staircase twelve feet in width, whose carvings were marvels of elaborate design. The floor of this hall was itself a superb picture, made of inlaid work of different marbles. There was a quaint and fascinating old room, called the library, where moth-eaten books jostled their more gorgeous neighbors in newer dress; and here young Reginald spent many enchanted hours; for the boy was passionately fond of reading, and intelligent beyond his years. He read everything he came across—Voltaire, the old Greek poets in their own language, Shakes- | speare in his—and of Shakespeare, his favorite play, curiously enough, was King Richard III. In this way he | had a second world of his own, into which his playmate did not enter; for Virginia, though fond enough of poetry, the songs of Berenger, and the history of -Marie Antoinette, was not so devoted to books as to devour Voltaire or Piato. The very pleasantest part of their lives was that spent out of doors; and a large part of it, too. In that beauti- ful climate winter was never biting enough to drive them indoors, and they enjoyed the sunshine and the sweetness and the beauty of nature as they did their breakfast, as a matter of course. From the southern terrace they could see the blue sea (sparkling but afew miles away; in the summer their uncle took them to spend a day on its shore nearly every fortnight. Hand in hand, the two little creatures roved about amid the great flower gardens, over the terraces, and out into the vineyards, where the merry peasants had always smiles, flattering speeches, and, in the season, clusters of grapes for them. The world seemed a very pleasant place to them, indoors or out; and the prettiest and pleasantest thing in it, to Regin- ald, was his “little wife ;’ forso all the servants, and the merry grape and fig gatherers called Virginia. It was well known to all St. Regis’ retainers that the the time when their uncle adopted them and gave them his name; and that it was the fondest dream of his secluded life that they should marry, and thus send the St. Regis blood down to posterity, uncontaminated by admixture with any of the new blood of the parvenues of the day. It seemed a pretty plan at the outset. Both were bright, handsome children, and attached to each other to rather a remarkable degree. Virginia was a little French beauty. She belonged to that rare type sometimes seen amid the ladies of the no- bility—sunny, curling, golden hair; a complexion of ex- quisite fairness, which sun nor wind could brown or burn; large, brilliant eyes of the darkest hazel. Her little figure was as graceful as that of the swaying lily ; the arts of the dancing-master and the stately governess could add little to its inherent poetry of motion. The | lips of deepest rose-color ; the flashing, smiling, change- | ful eyes of darkest hue and diamond luster; the dainty, high-bred little manners and movements; the sunny temper, the fond, affectionate disposition—no wonder | the old uncle thought her an angel, and Reginald looked upon her with the satisfied eye of anticipated possession. Reginald was a swarthy-faced boy, black-eyed and | black-haired, always pale and nervous, and under-sized, | but with a certain beauty gained from the fire in his deep-set eyes and the intellectual expression of his noble | forehead. Fond as she was of him, little Virginia had much to forgive in him, for his nerves were not under his control, and he often flew into fearful tempers, which made her tremble while they lasted ; but he was so sorry as soon as he was over with them, and so humble and loving, that she had to pardon him. It was not until Reginald was fifteen and Virginia eleven, that their uncle made up his mind that Reginald would probably never grow any more, and was destined tobe a dwarf. This pained the old aristocrat terribly; it made him, too, very lenient toward the boy’s infirmi- ties—if his growing fits of ill-temper, his bursts of dan- gerous passion, his long spells of sullenness, could be called infirmities. Truly they were. God, who knows what those suffer who are born to bear the burden of deformity, or whose nerves are continually tortured by pain or in a state of intense excitability, will judge the sins of such more leniently than we can. The more peevish, sullen, or violent his nephew grew, the more his uncle pitied, loved, and humored him. In this way he spoiled one already almost beyond reform. Then, also, he never thought to superintend the boy’s reading, who was allowed to ponder over the stories of morbid or unusual characters, and to absorb the sweet poison of conscienceless French philosophers. At fifteen Reginald St. Regis was not the fine-looking child of ten. He was just the height of his betrothed, who was only eleven ; his fiery eyes had a sullen, defiant expression ; his complexion had grown more swarthy and unhealthy, his forehead bulged out, and there was a | slight curvature of the spine, which threw his shoulders forward. It was about this time that Virginia ran sobbing to her uncle one day, and throwing herself on his breast, in a passion, ofy tears, declared that she wanted another sweetheart—that she would never, never, never marry her cousin. “Why not, my pet?’ asked the old man, uneasily, stroking the golden hair that glittered around the dim- pled shoulders. ‘He struck me just now. Look, uncle, at the red spot on my arm. And he isso surly, I am afraid of him.” «Afraid of your cousin, who loves you better than any- thing in the world! You know that he loves you, my dear ?” «Yes, my uncle, Reginald loves me too much—that is the trouble! He is so fierce about it—and so jealous! Why did he strike me but now? Because | affirmed that the young monsieur who came to see you yesterday on business was better-looking than he, Reginald! And children had been solemnly betrothed to each other at | | “IN THUNDER, LIGHTNING, AND IN RAIN.” In the great kitchen’ at the back of Bellefontaine Villa —Dr. Gerome’s residence—the two house-servants of the establishment sat by an oil-cloth covered table, trying to read, while they awaited their master’s dismissal for the night, but so frightened by the extraordinary vio- lence of the storm as to comprehend little—he of the Babylon Weekly News, she of Baxter's ‘‘Saints’ Rest’”—on which their eyes were fixed. They were a middle-aged, married couple, who had been with Dr. Gerome since the first day of his house- keeping at Bellefontaine, now a little over three years, and the only house-servants he employed, the farm, garden, and laundry-work being done by people living in cottages on a remote part of the estate. The doctor had a special aversion to having all his affairs placed in the mouths of the village gossips. He was a widower, and lived entirely alone with these two domestics, whom he prized highly for their ability to mind their own affairs and to use discretion about such of their master’s as came under their observation. A crash of thunder shook the house, and caused the “Saints’ Rest” to fall from the trembling hand of the woman. “Saraphiny,” began her husband, when the tumult ceased a little, ‘I don’t like this business one bit, an’ I don’t believe the Lord likes it either, jedging by the way he’s worked up this thunder-storm. I sha’n’t dare to sleep in my bed this night with ¢iaé in the house. I like the doctor and I like his wages, but I didn’t think o’ them sort o’ goings-on when I took a situation in this ’ere house.” «Jabez Griddly, be you a foot? know which side your bread is buttered. What busi- ness of ourin is it what he sees fit todo? Doctors have to have’em. I was told that years ago—long ’fore ever we came here.” “Oh, you kin keep as cool as a cowcumber, Saraphiny! You're never afraid o’ nothing, day or night. But I'll be atraid o’ my life in this big, empty house. If | should see aspook I’d never be good for anything again, an’ I know 1 shall, with ¢/at in the house.” “You ain’t good for overmuch as itis, Jabez. If you ever do come acrost a spook. call me, and ’ll come with the broomstick. But, husband, are you sure it was a— a- a “Yes, | am. I see the woman, an’ man, an’ the doc- tor a-carryin’ of it up the two flights of stairs. Ida offered to help, only I knew he wouldn’t like to know I’d seen it. He’s been up in the attic the last half-hour; an’ he’ll be up there all night, you'll see. 1 hope an’ pray its not Perkins’ baby as was buried yesterday. Td feel awful to have the doctor get hisself into trouble. But I think the—the body—was bigger and heavier than Perkins’ baby. To say nothin’ about the sweet, purty little critter bein’ all : “Go along, husband! What does it matter once we are dead? If 7 die onthe doctor’s hands he shall have my poor bones, if he wants ’em. Hark! Oh, my gra- cious! how it does blow, and thunder, and lighten! wasn’t that the doctor’s bell ?” They looked at the row of bells against the wall in one corner; for the noise of the storm was such that they scarcely heard the quick, sharp peel one of them had just given; but the bell was still quivering with its sum- mons; and both rose and hurried up stairs together, feeling that something unusual had happened. After those dark eyes of the girl on the dissecting table had opened, looked languidly about, and closed again asif at last in death itself, Dr. Gerome had rapid- ly descended to a medicine closet off his bedroom, for prandy and ammonia, giving at the same moment the bell of his room such a pull as said to the waiting. ser- vants below, “I need you.” Returning, with light bounds which took in two stairs at atime, to the attic, Doctor Gerome had pushed open the door which he had closed behind him. With alla physician’s power of self-control, he yet drew back a step and uttered a cry, when he saw that the rigid form on the table had raised itself bolt upright, and sat staring, with wide-open, terrified eyes, and hands out- stretched. That was what the Griddlys saw, when, rushing up all ina flutter to answer the bell, they came behind their master and peeped into the room. Mrs. Griddly began to wring her hands and make senseless ejaculations. “You are a woman of sense,” spoke the doctor, turn- ing upon her with his most authoritative manner ; “keep your wits about you, and doasI tell you. This lady is not dead, as you see; but she may easily die yet, unless we do all we can forher, There will be a You don’t seem to ~ ; anxious to undegsta ( incomprehensible. reaction after this sudden awakening, and she may sink. ‘Have you a fire? “Ves, sits.’ ‘Have warm biankets, then, as quickly as possible ; bring them to the blueroom.” Sarah disappeared. “Here, Griddly, help me to carry the poor child to bed; put wait a moment untill administer a tew drops of brandy.” The girl had sunk back with closed eyes, which did not reopen after the stimulus had been forced between her lips. ; “Lord a mercy, she’s ice itself!” whispered Jabez, as he very gently worked his strong arms under her shoulders, and so, with his master’s help, lifted her from that dreadful table on which she had been stretched. “Yes, yes; we must work rapidly and yet deliberately, Jabez I hope Mrs. Griddly will have the blankets ready when we reach the room.” “Tye scorched ’em,” said that person, ruefully, meet- ing them at the entrance to the blue room. E “All the better, if so you have them warm. Wrap them around her, and we'll lay her in the bed. Warmth must aid in restoring the circulation.” What does not a genuine New England woman know that’s to be done about a house? Mrs. Griddly was a good nurse as well as a good cook, proving an efficient aid to her anxious master, bringing hot bricks, and hot liquor to bathe the limbs of the patient, and rubbing them with strong, magnetic hands. Jabez meekly attended to the heating of the flannels and the bringing of bottles aud spoons, while the doc- tor sat holding and chafing the cold little hands, feel- ing for the returning pulse, and occasionally giving a little stimulus. i It was after midnight when Dr. Gerome finally dis- missed his two assistants with orders to retire for the night.” “Do you want to sleep on the inside o’ the bed, now?” Mrs. Griddly pleasantly inquired of her husband, as they went toward their sleeping-room. “I wonder if the doctor will feel called on to sit up all night ? remarked Jabez, ignoring her question. ° ‘‘She was sleepin’ like a baby, wasn’t she? That girl ll never git pinched clusser between death’s doors till the time comes for her to pass through. It’s mirakelous, Sara- phiny, mirakelous! I shudder when I think 0’ the doc- tor standin’ over her with a knife! She escaped by the skin o’ her teeth, that’s so. An’ such a purty young thing! She's a beauty, ain’t she ?” ; “Vm thankful the doctor didn’t cut her up alive, Jabez; but this ain’t no place for her, an’] hope an’ pray she'll be well enough to go home to-morrer, an’ surprise her relations as much as she aid us. So now hold yer tongue, husband, an’ hurry to bed—it’s past one o’clock.” Meanwhile Dr. Gerome, sleepless and vigilant of the welfare of his patient, sat near the bed in the blue room, whereon the Unknown lay slumbering. He had enough to think of to keep him wide awake. It was not without pain that he thought of this peer- less creature returning into the custody of such people | as those who brought her tohim. He wondered what steps he should take to make the recovery of the young | lady known to them. ; “7 willrefer all that to her when she is strong enough to talk about it,” he reflected. ed and distressed she will be when she realizes her sur- roundings; but she must never know the hideous cir- | cumstances which accompanied her here.” {it was about three o’clock; the rain had ceased to dash against the shutters, and the physician softly | opened a window a little way, bringing a rush of sweet, tresh air, dainty with a hundred perfumes of flower and leaf, into the room. A Chanticleer crowed cheerfully from the neighborhood of the stables; the lamp was shaded from the pale face of the unknown sleeper, and | he was gazing upon it almost with tenderness, when the great dark eyes flew open and began a tranquil | survey of her surroundings. | Hoyt, The doctor drew his chair closer and felt her pulse. It beat languidly, but not weakly; her respiration was | He saw that all danger | good, her expression natural. { was over for the ‘time, and that her restoration to a nor- mal condition of health and strength would be almost | immediate ; that after a nourishing breakfast she might | feel as well as before the attack—epileptic or what ?— which had so nearly proved fatal. After the Unknown had looked all about the elegant but dimly lighted room, she turned her eyes full on the doctor, with an expression which puzzled him. How should he interpret it? She looked at him wistfully—not as if she were afraid | of him, but with a gaze full of troubled intelligence. He smiled assuringly, and she too smiled fainly. Then | her glance, full of curiosity, wandered again over the | painted ceiling and the handsome furniture, and then pack to his face, as if there only could she find the key to an enigma which she desired to unriddile. The physician thought it natural that she should be surprised at finding herself i strange:house, though her precise expression was ut and less than mere surprise, and wholly inexplicable. It was time to explain some portion of the situation to her. gan, in a kind, fatherly voice : “What is your name, mad: moiselle ?” _ She looked at him earnesfly, making n@ reply. He repeated the question. : “Can it be that this superbly beautiful creature is in- sane ?—or idiotic ?” he asked himself, in sudden fear, as she still gave him no answer. No! no! impossible ! shaped head on one of her sex; while the calm, bright intelligence of her eyes was eloquent of a rational mind. Perhaps she was a foreigner, who did not understand English. Dr. Gerome was a Frenchman, and he jumped to the conclusion that she was of his nationality; so he addressed the question 1er in French. ' Noreply. In Spani in Italian—in German. Still no answer. Yet she looked eager, for him He be- at his lips as he spoke, as if him, byt finding his lapguage “No use to question her in Greek or Latin, I take.it,” mused the doctor, almost vexed with his lovely patient. “If she would only speak—ask me something—then we might come to an understanding.” But those lips, curling like rose-leaves, remained en- igmatical as those of the Sphinx. Gerome was a psychologist as well as physician. He | studied the girl intently for another hour; while she | studied him and her surroundings. He was then certain that he had fathomed the mys- ; tery. It was asad one—a painful, a deeply interesting - one. No such case was recorded in the books, but to him such an accident did not seem impossible. His theory was this: The girl was not a cataleptic, nor | had she lain in a cataleptic trance, but in a deep and | dangerous insensibility brought on by powerful emotion of some kind—probably terror. So tearful, so Oovermas- | tering had this fright, or other emotion, been, that it} had entirely destroyed her memory. But—and here the | peculiarity of the case began—ib-had not, in destroying | memory, done as it usually did, and destroyed sind | also. | Memory had been obliteraded, at least for the present, by some unutterable horror; but mind remained seated on its throne, despite the shock, and was there behind | those beautiful eyes as before, and capable of beginning a@ new record on the tablets of a new memory. | “J shall know very soon if my theory is the correct | one,” mused the physician. I] am afraid those degraded creatures who sold her to me haye been guilty of some fiendish cruelty toward her. It may be my duty to keep her renewed existence a secret from them, for her sake. At all events, unless she herself can reveal to me her | former home, I shall be unable to discover if, as it is not likely that those people will show themselves in this vicinity again. A scarlet streak shot up into his dark, thin cheeks. He fixed a gaze of fire on the beautiful girl which made | her eyelashes droop, she knew not why. «She is mine—all my own!” he murmured. Yet Dr. Geronie was not thinking of his patient as a woman—a lovable and lovely girl, all alive with im- pulse, emotion, and imagination—but as the subject of | his experiments; her sex, her beauty, he did not con- ; sider that night—he only saw in this superb young crea- | ture before him a white page, on which he was to print | the results of his discoveries. All his ardor was the ardor of a student—for that | night! What other and more glowing fire was to kindle on the long-cold altar of his heart he did not anticipate. He was ready to take this lovely, hapless girl into his | home, without looking forward to results which a less | wise man would have anticipated, and which were, in prophetic vision even at that moment, making the | shrewd housekeeper toss and tumble from side to side of | her restless couch. i When Dr. Gerome, in the faint light of the early morn- | ing, left the stranger sleeping quietly, it was to steal to | acertain room in the Villa, where he kept, under lock | and key, the wardrobe and jewels which had belonged ! to his wife, dead in her grave these eight years. | He opened her casket of jewels; he took forth from | scented bureaus and wardrobes dress aiter dress, which | no eyes but his own had looked on since their gentle | wearer ceased to need them. Elegant robes of silk, and velvet, and lace, of India lawn and finest cashmere; shawls and mantles, dresses with court trains; boxes of perfumed handkerchiets fine as spider's web; drawers full of dainty lingerie. The doctor sighed, his hands trembled, and his fine bright, dark eyes were dimmed with mist ; but the poor child asleep in the blue-room must have something to wear when she awoke; and so he made his selection. (T0 BE CONTINUED.) —_— > @ =< —____—__ Yung man, don’t be afrade to blo yure own horn; but Watch the time, tune, and variashuns. Lightning iz the grate reserve force, God's right hand ov power, and whether he will let man hav it to use in all its might remains to be seen. —_—__——_ > © ~-— Horsford’s Acid Phosphate. Unanimous Approval of Medical Staff. Dr. T. G. Comsrock, Physician at Good Samaritan Hospital, St. Louis, Mo., says: ‘For years we have used it in this hospital, in dys- pepsia and nervous diseases, and as a drink during the decline and in the convalescence of lingering fevers. It has the unanimous approval ‘Poor child! how alarm- | Never had he seen a more finely | i; were about twenty-five by ten feet. of our medical staff.” AUTUMN. Sweet Sabbath of the year, While evening lights decay, Thy parting steps methinks I hear Steal from the world away. Amid thy silent flowers ’ "Tis sad, but sweet to dwell, Where falling leaves and drooping flowers Around me bid farewell. Along thy sunset skies Their glories melt in shade, And, like the things we fondly prize, Seem lovelier as they fade, A deep and crimson streak Thy dying leaves disclose ; AS On COnsumption’s Waning cheek, | ’Mid ruin, blooms the rose. Thy scene each vision brings Of beauty in decay; Of tair and early faded things, Too exquisite to stay; Of joys that come no more; Of flowers whose bloom is fled ; Of farewells wept upon the shore ; Of friends estranged or dead ; Of all that now may seem, To Memory’s tearful eye, The vanished beauty of a dream, O’er which we gaze and sigh. | iii inet! | (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] THE BLACK SCOUT THE QUEEN. OF THE CANONS —_— 7 | ee Oe Cot AL Tr eee re ee By BURKE BRENTFORD, | Author of “SQUIRREL CAP,” “THE STEEL | CASKET,” “GOLD-DUST DARREL,” | “FLORENCE FALKLAND,” etc. j . ~ | (“The Black Scout” was commenced in No. 42. Back num- |-bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXX. INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH, It was a hot and sultry morning when the De Vaney | train, as it was called, quitted the little fort, and, with the little band of cavalrymen in the lead, began to wind through the rocky passes to the east of the Colorado. For twenty days the train rolled along its wearisome way, now and then beset by savages, and occasionally | forced to undergo privations that would have compelled | weaker hearts to succumb, At last, as the travelers were piercing an exception- ally deep and gloomy defile, a distant roaring greeted them, which grew gradually louder as they went on. “What is that?” said Bertie, who was riding at her lover's side. ‘ “Dat, mistis,” said Josh, overhearing the question, | am de Chiquito Ribber plungin’ into de canons. No one | basin at the foot of the ¢ataract, out of the reach of the The stream had narrowed, after entering the ravine, toa width of scarcely titty yards. The precipices arose perpendicularly on either side to a height of several thousand feet, and though the sunlight was still bright upon the outside world, their rugged bases were en- veloped in a ghostly twilight, through which the arrowy river surged, and flashed, and darkled with a continu- ous roar. Agonized, desperate, heart-broken, aS he was, at the disaster which had so suddenly, to all appearances, cut him off irrevocably from loye, and life, and hope—torn, moreover, with a suspicion that he was not altogether the victim of an accident, but was again the dupe of a conspiracy, on the part of his enemy, Markam yet rose equal tothe emergency, and with a determination to fight for life to the last. “For shame!” he shouted, ‘‘are you This is the time for action, not for prayerey eaven helps those who help themselves. Sergean 1! Josh! Upon your feet at once. Back water as much as possible. There! that is something like.” “1 is with you troo tick and tin, massa!” cried the ne- gro, springing to his feet; with his eyes blazing with the sturdy resolve, which had temporarily given place to superstitious fear. ‘Be gorra! So am I!” said the sergeant, following his example. ‘If we iver do git out, we'll be looked on as miracles, an’ we'll have a yarn to shpin that’ll take the wind out of the sails of Munchawsen himself.” “Hold hard now, and lie low! We're coming to a cataract !” mye Markham plunged his rudder-oar deep into the water, but the boat hardly needed any guidance. - Strait as an arrow, and almost as swift, itshot toward the cataract, whose noise grew deafening as they neared it, and whose spray glistened on high. It was about twelve feet high, but the boat shot over it, without injury, though its flat bottom came down with a hard shock upon the surface of the comparatively still water that swirled and darkled below. CHAPTER XXXI. “SHOOTING” THE CANON. By skillfully plying their oars, the voyageurs of the canon were enabled to remain for some time in the quiet nor babies ? swift current which again resumed its arrowy speed a short distance lower down. : They looked around in vain for a landing-place. On either hand the precipices sheered down into the deep | water almost as evenly and straight as artificial masonry could have done ; but, nevertheless, they took advantage of the comparative rest algerded them, and were enabled to recover in a measure from the breathless excitement which had so nearly unnerved them at first. “We'll have to keep on Wownh until we come to a rest- ing place for the night,” said Markam. ‘How long is the Canon supposed to be?” : “Hunderd mile,” said Josh. “Well, it isn’t more than fifteen minutes since we en- tered it, and I will bet anything that we have made more than three miles. Humph! that’s twelve miles an hour. Why, it will be a mere bagatelle to eat up a hun- dred miles at that rate.” e ‘Sure an’ it will. Bedad! I’m beginning to enj’y it!” said the sergeant, his mereurial nature speedily accom- modating itself to misfortune. “Massa c&p’n,” said Josh, after some moments of med- itation, ‘does you tink it war an accident ?” “My mind is in a whirl when I recallit; I scarcely know what to think. Whatis your opinion, Josh ?” She broke into fragments as sife struck the water, and the occupants were obliged to swim for their lives, But the terrible canon was passed, and the river now flowed leisurely through the sandy banks of what ap- peared to be an ilimitable desert. Markham was the first to gain the shore. Bewildered and almost unnerved, he looked around in vain for his companions, until at length he saw Jingo Josh a con- hand and endeavoring with the other to keep above water the head of the sergeant, who had been rendered insensible by the shock. The captain speedily ran to their assistance and helped them on shore. Flynn had received a severe contusion on the back of the head from a fragment of the boat, but quickly ral- lied and made light of it. Their guns had gone to the bottom of the river, and they recovered thrir blankets with difficulty; but they still had their revolvers in their belts, together with a supply of waterproof cartridges, which had not sus- tained ahy injury. It was about noonday, and the sunshine fell with scorching heat upon the sandy plains, unrelieved by any green or living thing except their hapless selves. Markham was the first to pluck up energy and cour- age. He began to take mental reckonings, and to draw with his finger on the sand. «‘We have sailed about one hundred and fifty miles,” said he, slowly; ‘‘and, in the same time, the train can- not have accomplished more than fifty miles. Reekon- ing the northerly turn which the river makes soon after entering the canon, the train must be about one hun- dred miles east of this, on the Rio Puerco. The Moquis Desert lies between; we must cross that desert to reach the train.” “Holy shmoke! how ?” queried Flynn. “I know not, friend,” said Markham, solemnly. ‘But can we not trust the Providence that has guided and preserved us thus far and so well? I think we can.” Here, at least, we must leave them for the present, and follow: the fortunes of other characters in this “strange, eventful history.” [TO BE CONTINUED. ] —____-_—_~—_ > @~—__ [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] BERTHA, Sewing-Machine Girl; DEATH AT THE WHEEL. By FRANCIS 8. SMITH, Author of “‘Eveleen Wilson,” ‘Little Sunshine,” “Maggie, the Charity Child,” “Galenus, the Gladiator,” etc., etc. [“Bertaa, THE SEWING-MECHINE GIRL,” was commenced “Cap'n,” said the Black-Scout, slowly and solemnly, ‘‘it | we let go ob it. : | : } | / | warn't no-accident. Dat ere rope nebber broke—it was | cut!” j “Marciful powers!” was Flynn’s horror-struck com- | ment. i “By heaven, I have suspected as much!” exclaimed | Markham. ; “I know it massa. I seed de end ob dat rope jist afore It warn’t torn nor ragged as if it had broke, or been sawed into by de edge ob arock. It war cut clean off, an’ it war cut by a Sharp Knife.” Neither Markham nor.jypn said a word. “Cap’n,” continued Josh, still speaksng slowly and de- | liberately, ‘I looked back ober de stern ob de boat—dat | is, afore de people come runnin’ down to de ribber—an’ | I seed somebody jist disappearin’ behind de rock whar | de rope war made fast, an whar it busted away.” ‘Who was it ?” SN the captain, with trembling | eagerness. : “T only seed de back of=his shirt, cap’n; but it war a | ebber goes into dem canons an’ comes back. Dey is two | blue-striped shirt, an’ dere’s only one cuss in de camp as | holler.” | At the period of which I write, the daring explorations | of the terrific gorges of the Colorado and its tributaries, | which have since taken place and laid bare to the read- | | ing public the stupendous secrets of that wonder-realm, | were just about being instituted. From lack of better information, the canons were looked upon by the In- | dians and hunte®s as being the abode of horrors and | perils too great for even the imagination to grapple with. Especially was this the case with the canon of | the Colorado Chiquito (Little Colorado). The river itself | was narrow—insignificantly so, compared with the vol- | ; ume of the parent stream—but it was in many places its entrance inte the great gorge, just below the point where our travelers were to attempt a crossing, was so | mendous precipices on either side, as to generate a holy awe and superstitious dread in much more enlightened | minds than those of the untutored hunters and trappers ; of the wild. | as swift asa mill-race. It abounded with cataracts, and | | 5 SSA , dred yards. | dismal and terror-inspiring, and marked by such tre- miles deep, an’ dey beat de canons ob de Colorado all | owns sich a shirt, an’ that cuss is Brazos Bob.” | $5 suspected as much !” groaned Markham. ‘Oh, just | Heaven! let me but live to meet my foe once more!” _«! ‘You know, massa cap’n, how I nussed Bob when he | was sick 2?” Yes; the more fool you!” | «Well, cap’n,” said Josh, with emphasis, ‘de nex’ time | { meet him, T’ll nuss him while he’s well!” “Be dad! though,” interrupted the sergeant, ‘‘per- | haps yees be countin’ your chickens afore they are | hatched. The best thing to do is to git out of this infar- nal hole ag spadily as pow*:vle.” “Youre right,” said Markham. ‘‘Life first, and re- | venge afterward. Hold hard now, for I'm about tosteer | into the current. Huzza'!’ Again they dashed through the cliffs at race-horse speed, and leaping a smait cataract at almost every hun- But present4y, a roaring sound, distinctly | audible above the steadier noise constantly produced by the river and its cascades, apprised them that they must be nearing the verge of a fall far greater than any | they had yet encountered. | | The roar of the waters grew louder as they proceeded, | |and presently they came in sight of the river itself. | they saw the ri Their gloomy forebodings were almost instantly dis- | | pelled by the tame and comparatively easy aspect of the point of crossing. : | The trailled down to a broad and sandy beach, strewn | here and there with fragments of rock, and is ouas Qn | the other side ws ajmost equally inviting. he rive, j}at this point about one hundred yards wide, flowed | swiftly through its banks, but not dangerously so, until | it approached the mouth of the gorge, about an eighth | of a mile below, into’ which & plunged with a hollow | roar; but the gorge itself was partially concealed from | of spray. | view at this point by a rocky cape which made a4 great | | bend in the river. - 4 A sectional flat-boat, bought especially for the pur- pose, was put together, and launched. Its dimensions | By means of a} light line, conveyed across by some peons who swam | the stream, a stout rope was drawn over, and this was | made fast on either side, high up among the rocks, the | center of the cable almost touching the water in the middle of the stream. The ferry was then complete, the boat being passed from one side to the other by a number of men seizing the cable and working their way hand over hand. The ladies and soldiers were first passed over. animals were then swum across, the men in the boat | holding them by halters as they swam. Then came the more difficult task of ferrying the wagons over. They had to be taken one ata time, and even this so loaded i down the boat that, in several cases, the wagons and | their contents had to be conveyed across in separate | trips. * * * * * * e day that the ferriage was completed, with the exception of a few traps belonging to Captain Markham, who had determined to be the last to make a final crossing. had, however, been on the other side a number of times, | had seen the ladies comfortable, and the camp fairly pitched in a strip of beautiful country, which gave evi- dence not only of small game but of buffalo. Josh and Sergeant Flynn were with him on this last trip. They threw in their few remaining traps, consist- ing of blankets, weapons, ammunition, and so forth, and prepared to pull out into the stream. “Sure, an’ it’s a pity to lave this purty new cable be- | hind, captain, honey !” said Flynn. “We'll have to leave the boat behind us on the other side, as well,” was the reply. ‘‘We shall have no fur- m™ | “If Lwas beginning to enj’y it before, I’m intirely lost in | ne | : At last it swelled up iike thunder, echoing through | the canon with terrific vibrations, and, looking forward, | ver leaping dowmin one mass of snow- | linded by clouds | ; | white foam, ¥y le is gone coons!” bon his breast. | P attegtive go the | et his teeth hard, | HS voice rang out | narol ‘ourselves for the | as clear as -*Hold ha shock !” ial ai al i At that instant the boat shyt over thé fall. It seemed | to dance in the air for a brbath of time, and then fell | with a crash. : But it fell right-side up, and though allot its occupants were instantly prostrated by the force of the concussion, they felt themselves still atloat upon the waters. ‘Hurrah !” cried Markham, staggering to his feet in time to recover his oar as it was being swept away. | endeavor.” That S a clean jump of twenty-five feet. “Why, | . boys, can Stand that we can stand anything!” } ‘Sure, and its right ye are!” aimed Flynn, regain- | ing his feet, while Josh aiso gathered himself together. admiration now, so lam?! «See, massa! dere is a place for to land!” said Josh, pointing to a little strip of pebbly beach at the base of | one of the precipices, and almost at the base of the | cataract itself. | They soon effected a landing, and drew the boat high | up on the beach. “Well, we're not dead yet; that is some comfort,” said | ; , 2 | the captain. : It was about the middle of the afternoon of the second | He | ther need of either, and it will enable us to abandon | another wagon.” “All aboard!” sang out Jingo Josh. an’ all together !” They grasped the cable, and made their way slowly hand over hand, out upon the bosom of the swift waters, there being no one in view on the opposite shore, the camp having been made a few rods back to benefit by the shade of a little grove of cottonwood trees. *Heabe away!” shouted the Black Scout, cheerily, and ‘Han’ ober han’, | the boat rose and fell on the rushing tide. But, just as they reached the middle of the stream, there sounded a sharp thwack, like the twanging cord of a bow-gun, and the line suddenly slackened in their grasp, the bow of the boat swinging down stream. “Heavens and earth!” cried Markham; ‘the line has parted!” Flynn uttered a loud yell for assistance. Josh alone was cool, though pretty thoroughly scared. The roped had parted on the tarther shore, and as } they still retained their hold, the boat was swinging in upon the rocky cape with frightful violence. «Let go the rope, or we'll be dashed to pieces !” Markham. As they obeyed him, in a stupid, mechanical way, he roared seized one of the oars, which luckily lay in the bottom | of the boat, and, plunging it over the stern, steered again out into the stream, whose terrible current bore them along like a cork toward the entrance of the gorge, whose appalling walls now loomed before them, gloomy and awful as the gates of death. Each ot them instinctively seized an oar, and assisted in steadying the craft as it bounded forward. *There’s no time for sniveling !” cried the young officer. “We've got to run through the canon.” A single glance behind showed that their comrades were aware of their disaster. Aroused by Flynn’s cry for help, nearly every member of the camp hurried to the river’s brink. Markham caught one glimpse of Bertie, her face as white as snow, and her hands stretched despairingly toward him. ey The next instant the blessed sunlight faded behind them, and they plunged into the gorge. “Courage !” exclaimed Markham, as they shot along on a current as smooth as glass, though the hollowness of his voice revealed how little he felt the sentiment ex- pressed by the word. ‘The water is deep, the cataracts cannot be very high, and our boat is staunch.” . ‘‘Nobody eber comed back out ob dis ’ere!” muttered Jingo Josh, still grasping his oar, but bowing his head, aS though completely overcome with fright; while the sergeant's white lips were moving, as if in prayer. The situation was, indeed, one that might well have unnerved the stoutest heart. | | } | soon raised a conflagrashurum from snappin’ my pistol. They had no fuel with which to build a fire, and no food to eat; but luckily they had thgir blankets, and, | wrapping themselves in these, they lay down, with the | thunder of the cataract in their ears, to sleep, if possible, but, at any rate, to await the breaking of another day. When the captain and sergeant awoke on the follow- ing morning, the same uncertain twilight of the pre- ceding day invested their surroundings, although, upon | casting their looks above, they could see that bright | daylight was abroad upon the upper world. But they were chiefly interested in Jingo Josh, who was kneeling at the waters edge, and chuckling to him- | self, apparently in great glee. He had improvised some fishing-gear from a piece of twine and a stout pine hook, which he was baiting with a lively tadpole he had suc- ceeded in capturing in’a crevice of the rock, while a lit- tle wood-tire sparkled and@- tracked near at hand. ‘How did you manage all that?’ asked Markham, slowly rising. “Oh! easy as rollin’ off a log,” guffawed the negro. “JT foun’ some ole staves in the bottom ob de boat, an’ Den I seed some nice fish jumpin’ aroun’, an’ I cotched a tadpole an’ made ready to cotch one, sure. Look at dat!” P They needed but to foliow the direction of his pointing finger as he spoke, to see several bright fish leap out of the water in their play. “May all the fishermen’s saints aid ye in your ixcillent’ work!” murmured Flynn: ‘for, if my mimory does not desave me, to-day is Friday, and I'm that hungry that I could ate the whale that Jonah swallowed. But whisht, man! that was a big one jumped thin.” «“Dere won’t be much trouble,” said Josh. ««Dese must be oncivilized fish down here—kind ob onsophisticated, you know. Dere! Didn’tI tole you so?” Sure enough, he landed a two-pounder at the first cast. . “Salmon, by the holy shmoke!” cried Flynn, seizing the struggler with an eagér hand. *Leabe him alone till I get a mess,” said Josh, grufily. In afew minutes he hai which the party managed to make a hearty repast, which raised their spirits amazingly. It is astonishing What effect even the rudest meal has upon a hungry man, and with what renewed energy it inspires him. In afew minutes all hands were busily and almost cheerfully preparing to renew their desperate voyage, the bare thought of which at that hour of the preceding day would lave caused them the utmost trepidation. A thorough examination of the boat showed that, ough it was somewhat strained, it had suffered no jaterial damage, and once more consigning themselves to the care of Providence, they pushed out into the stream, and were soon dancing down upon their extra- ordinary course. It is not necessary to describe the perils of our friends as their boat shot swiftly down the canon, now rudely jarred by some half-sunken rock, pow leaping a cata- ract, and requiring the closest attention and care to save the rude vessel from destruction. As they plunged on and on, the current grew swifter and swifter. The murmur swelled into a vague rum- bling, and then into a troubled roar. The water frothed upon hidden stones, the mist of the tumbling waters arose before them with its glittering sheen. = = _ “We are approaching a deep cataract. Lie low and brace for the shock !" shouted Markham, and the next moment they made the leap. This was the expiring effort of the boat which had ' should induige in occasionally. | Whatit was to want a dollar. — | caressed, and spoiled—every wish had been gratified matter. secured two more fish, upon | bec borne them so bravely and so long. in No. 49. Back numbers be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXIII. DAVID CARTER AND HIS NIECE HAVE A CONVERSATION. After Philip Hamilton had departed, the old merchant ingly deeply interested in a book which he was reading, play an operatic air. It was evident, however, that Da- | vid Carter’s reading was only mechanical. If his eyes were riveted upon the book, his thoughts were not; for ever and anon he would. steal a furtive glance at his | niece, as though wishing,t@raddress her, and scarcely | knowing how to begin. : “What are you studying, uncle ?” said the giddy girl, after awhile, as she turned on her pino-stool and con- fronted him. «Philosophy,” he replied, gravely. i “Is it possible ?” exclaimed Lilian, in a tone of sur- prise. ‘‘Well, I never supposed you would fritter your | time away on so dry a subject.” “Oh, yes,” returned David Carter; ‘sit, is a study of | which I am fond; though you might not thinkit. Iam | a true philosopher if lam anything, and have been all my lite. sindeed, niece, jilosophy is a study which all | p i Even you would be the | better for a little sober thought now and then.” | «J, indeed!” exclaimed Lilian, a merry laugh; | managed to pass an examination has always been a | mystery to me. 1 papa’s. money as it was my merit’ that carried me } through. I have already forgotten at least one-half of | all I ever learned, and what good the other half is to me | is more than I can see. No, no, uncle; no mere study | for me, unless it be to study. fashions, or the last | new opera. Reading of any] isa re to Me now. | Even a novel must be called great by t ics before I | will attempt to read it.” ; “It will not always be so,” said David Garter, decisive- . ly; ‘#am not ee. eet mi ot oo enth son, and 1 | don’t profess to a fortune-teiier, ub 1 teel the spirit | she was as, pure as an angel, and as guiltless of whe ‘UL prophec} t upon nie when I'say/that th will toine | dreadful crime with which She stood charged as the sii=—*) when you will be forced to study) philosop 1¥%” | less babe upon its mother’s bosom. ; «Well, then, [ will wait till the time does come,” said | Lilian, gayly ; ‘‘what isto be will be, I suppose, and it | is useless to frefabout it.” { “That is a horrible sentiment, Lilian,” said David Car- | ter, with a show of solemnity; *‘ ‘what is to be will be,’ | | and fold their hands under the impression that they ;/can accomplish nothing by working against an antici- pated ill, deserve all the trouble which may come upon |them. For my part, 1 believe that we gan carve out | our own fortunes, in spite of fate, by~éarnest, hard «That's all very well, I suppose,” returned Lilian, «but I don’t anticipate any ill, nor have I any fortune to carve | out. My fortune is assured, and so I don’t see that your | remarks apply to me at all.” | «We are certain of nothing in this world, Lilian,” said | David Carter, with an earnestness that would have | | startled a less volatile creature than the girl he was! entire innocence. talking to—‘no man is so rich but that he may become | poor, and no man is so poor but that he may year siderable distance down the stream, swimming with one | “Oh, uncle, you have known my father much longer than I have, but you don’t know him half ag well. The idea of his acting an improper part in any case is simply ab- surd, but that he should be the infatuated criminal which you seem to imagine him, would be more absurd, if it were not absolutely monstrous. If there were the slightest posibility that she could ever become a rival to me in my father’s affection, I believe I could poison her without compunction, but as such a thing is entirely out of the range of possibility, and as I am likely to reap good instead of ill. from my acquaintance with her, [ shall continue to befriend her, and shall do all that I can, in my poor way, to assist- and comfort her in the trial which awaits her.” “You think so now,” returned David Carter, signifi- cantly, “but if 1 know you, you will alter your mind ere you are a day older.” “Then you certainly do not know me,” replied Lilian, decisively. ‘I am nota baby, to change my mind every hour, and I tell youthat I shall stand by Bertha Bas- comb, through good and evil report, wiitier you like it or not—not because lam particularly tender-hearted or benevolent, but simply because I like her, and am de- termined to have my own way in the matter. And now, without any desire to seem inquisitive, I should like to know why you are so much opposed to this poor girl, who certainly could never have injured you ?” “T am opposed to her,” returned David Carter, while a look of terrible malignity gleamed in his black eyes, ‘because I hate her with a deadly hatred, and that is all the reason which I will give you at present. J will sleep on the matter to-night, and to-morrow I may be more explicit. Wil you meet me here to-morrow at this time, and grant me an hour’s private interview 2” “Certainly,” was the ready reply. ‘I have nothing of importance to attend to, and shall be happy to grant your request, not only because I am naturally of an obliging disposition, but because I am a little curious to know what you can have to say tome. Of one thing, however, you may rest assured, which is that whatever may be the nature of your communication, you cannot pee resolve to remain the friend of Bertha Bas- comb.” ‘We shall see!” was the sententious and significant rejoinder. ; ; “Yes, we shall see!” replied Lilian, with emphasis— ‘and now, uncle, good-morning. You must excuse me, {or J have some calls to make, and the carriage is at the oor.” And the spoiled beauty departed, humming a lively air, while her uncle closed the book which he had pre- tended to read, and settled into deep thought, an omin- ous scowl the while resting upon his tnamiable counten- ance. CHAPTER XXIY. AN UNWELCOME GUEST. Weeks flew by without any incident worth mentioning having happened, and the time at length arrived when Bertha Bascomb was obliged to return to New York to pert for her trial on the terrrible charge which had een preferred against her. : True to his word, the old merehant accompanied her, and took up his quarters at the Metropolitan, from whence regularly each day he wended his way to Ber- tha’s residence, to eheer her by his presence and to. My opinion is that it was as much | ae her to hope for a speedy ending of her troubles. But the worthy merchant’s daughter, Lilian, contrary to her expressed determination, was not Bertha’s com- panion when the latter left Philadelphia for New York. The private interview with her uncle which followed Philip Hamilton’s visit to her father’s house seemed to have changed the whole current of her feelings toward the working-girl. So far from continuing her kindly offices, she took decided ground against Bertha, and did not hesitate to express her firm conviction that the unfortunate girl was a thief and an impostor, and to ; and his wife retired to their private sitting-room, and | hope that conviction and punishment might follow her | left Lilian and her uncle together. The latter was seem- | “lal The merchant was both shocked and surprised at this change in his daughter’s sentiments, and endeav- | and the former seated herself at the piano and began to | ored, but in vain, to draw from her the reason for her sudden alteration of opinion. In vain did he by turns reason, expostulate, and censure. She was deaf to everything which he advanced in Bertha’s favor, and declared that if she possessed the power she would pre- vent her father from rendering the slightest aid to the accused girl. 4 Fortunately for Bertha, however, the old merchant was not one to be easily moved from a course which his heart told himit was proper to pursue; and so, as we have said, he accompanied Bertha to New York, and secured for her the best counsel which money could procure. ’ The day fixed upon for the trial arrived, and once more Bertha found herself in a court of justice, andthis time under more trying circumstauces even than re; | for now there was no hope of her being liberated ail it the trial went against her. If convicted, she must go tor a term of years to the State prison, and mingle with criminals of every grade—a thought that was far more frightiul to her than would have been the certainty of death itself. Her only friends in court were her co the old merchant, and Jack Ryerson el, her lover, nd his sister | “no, I thank you, uncle! 1 have no time for the con- | Maggie. Her father was still confined to his bed by the | sideration of philosophy, or any other dry humbug. 1/ desperate illness which had stricken him down long | got through studying when J graduated, and how 1 ever | weeks before, and her mother, of course, could not leave the invalid. She theretore had but one female friend to whom she could look for sympathy, and this grieved her keenly, especially as she had counted on the presence of Lilian Carter, the change in whose feelings surprised no less than it hurt her, : It was a sad picture, that unfortunate young creature and her surroundings. lmmediately near her were her few friends, but in front of her were the unsympathizing auditory—nine-tenths of whom, of course, considered her guilty—and behind her sat the twelye men who were to decide whether she should go free or be immured within the walls of a prison-house ; and yet, Heaven help her! Crushed by her great sorrow she sat for some moments with her face buried in her white hands, but at length while the preliminaries for the trial were going forward she ventured to-look around the court-room. She found nothing to cheer her in the cold, unsympathizing coun- is fatalism, pure and simple, 4nd those who sit down | tenances of the careless crowd who occupied seats as | spectators, but when she ventured to glance at the jury | She felt somewhat reassurred, for they were evidently | good, earnest, honest men—men with families, doubt- | less—some of them with daughters like herseli—she ' could see that they sympathized with her, for their looks | were full of pity, and yet she knew that. they would de- , liver a yerdict according to the testimony adduced, and she shuddered when she remembered that that testi- money was ali against her. The proof-of her guilt, | of humanly speaking, was positive in fact, and to offset 1B. she had only the sworn testimony of her friends as to her previous good character, and their firm belief in her All unused to the proceedings in criminal courts—hav- ing never witnessed.a trial in her life—the poor girl wealthy. And it isn’t all luck either that brings about | argued herself into the belief that the jury ht, af: the result. It is work, and vigilance, and cunning, and | ter all, decide against the testimoney. How f ous foresight. Even your father, rich as he is, may become | all such hope was will be seen in the sequel. : : poor.” | But before we give the result of the trial we must re- “] wish you wouldn't talk such nonsense, Unele | serious. ‘I declare you are aregular croaker!” She | paused for a moment, and her heart gave a great bound, | as the idea struck her that perhaps her father had been As we have before stated, she was a votary of fashion, and thoroughly selfish. Never in her life had she known She had been petted, almost as soon aS made, and the idea of ever coming to want was to her absolutely terrible. She thought not of her father nor of her mother. She thought only of her- self, and a thrill of fear ran through her as she asked, with a frightened look : ‘‘Uncile, has anything happened which I ought to know? Are my father’s prospects changed? Is he in any danger? Tell me,” she con- tinued, excitedly : ‘don’t keep me in suspense or J shall gomad! It is better that I should know the worst at once, but. 1 will not survive my father’s failure. The day that sees him a bankrupt will see me acorpse! I will kill myself before I will meet the sneers, and jeers, and mock pity of pretended friends! Why don’t you speak, uncle ?’ she almost screamed. ‘Have you no pity ?” | “Not much,” replied David Carter, blandly. “{ have | more patience than pity, and more philosophy than pa- | tience, but you lack both patience and philosophy. Who | the duse even hinted that your father was in danger 2?” “You did,” rejoined Lilian, as a great load seemed lifted from her heart ; ‘you certainly did, if there is any forcein plain English. Did you not say that even my father might become poor, and was not that a hint 2” “No,” replied Carter ; ‘‘at least, I did not intend it as such. The fact is, I felt like moralizing a little, that’s all. As for your father’s establishment, there isn’t a sounder one in Philadelphia. nor in the world, for that It couldn’t be otherwise—for he’s not only rich as Croesus, but he moves cautiously, and takes no chances. In his case I should look upon failure as next to impossible, and yet, asi said before, the richest may ome poor. My fit of moralizing is over, however, and so I will say no more about it. To change the sub- ject, you seem to have takena great liking for that Bascomb girl.” : ‘Miss Bascomb is a very charming young~ creature, and [like her exceedingly,” was Lilian’s reply.