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LADIES’ EYES. OD
ke
BY JENNIE STOVIN. UL,
Constance has a gentle eye,
Of the violet’s hue,
Peeping from its lashes dark,
Softly, sweetly blue;
All that’s holy, true and pure,
All that men can praise,
Seems reflected in her eyes,
Beaming mm their rays.
» Bella has a pensive eye,
Large, and softly gray;
Casting glances long and clear,
Stealing hearts away—
Sometime haughty, sometime fond,
Changing as a Star;
One can never read its thoughts
As they really.are.
Nellie has’a hazel eye,
Bright, atid russet-brown,
Laughing when '‘they’re raised to yours,
Pensive when cast down;
Arch and loving, shy and clear,
Casting Cupid’s darts,
‘Taking, 4s by sudden storm,
Captive gazers’ hearts.
Julia has.a jet-black eye,
Flashing. proud and bright,
Like a meteor beaming out
On a winter’s night.
No rebellion is of use,
No detlaring nay—
Just one sparkleof her eye
Burns the heart away.
What with black and hazel eyes,
Grey and violet-blue,
Men would rather keep their hearts —
Yet, what can they do?
hotline ly
{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]
a
OR, THE
| a
Mystery of the Charles River.
2 vale & Be HARRIET. T, LISCOMB, Ae
a | author of “His Firet Wife,” “Hate’s Conquest ig
j ated at Last.” :
CHAPTER I. / 4
AT THE BLACK HORSE INN. |
A wet night was falling fast.
All day the east wind had blown up‘cold and bleak
from the sea, and the yellow autumn leaves drifting | §
down from the desolate trees blocked up the foot-path | §
that led across the barren hill-side to the old house on | : : :
the hill, which had once been the residence of one of the | Z ee : , eeu . —* : =
proudest families in the country, but which, owing to | \ zg | e ang 2 par Eee ; wd — a rs Ss
i the death of the last heir, had passed into the hands of! : : ( VY, > a ig ina Tae
strangers, and degenerating from a summer boarding- | = ANN (| ' d=
house to a questionable hotel, was now known as ‘‘The Sr - df!
Black Horse,” and the resort of gamblers, hard drinkers, ————
and desperate characters generally. | es cS
Its isolated position—agvay from all avenues of public f Be Aa at sey i 7 * ai sae sy ead ‘ _
trae, tan Thies: froth. a railway station; and’ mnie of | RED JAQUES CAUGHT HER WRIST IN A GRASP OF IRON. HIS EYES FLAMED LIKE LIVE COALS.
the highway—made it an especially favorable place for ; ———— SE Se CET ANTEC ete eee eee eg ae opine ee Bee eens ty cate ener ee anaes tea ; ; zs Sore ee ee
Ses OATS. SE ae ere ee er Oe | re 46 tter the half-blind old wor ho acted As she stood there, there was the sound of an arrival—| black clouds, and the sull tter of thund bled | eyes flamed like li 1s, hist jaws, like those of
acl sites 2 a sant y to see after the half-blind old woman who acted as AS she stood there, there was arrival— ack clouds, and the sullen mutter under rumbled | eyes flamed like live coals, his heavy jaws, like t
lord of the Black Horse was just the ideal host we asso | COOK. the sharp clang of a horse’s hoofs on the flag-stones of | through the darkness. a Wild animal, worked with fierce passion.
ciate with dark and desperate deeds. | ‘Make the coffee extra strong to-night, Molly,” she | the stabie-yard, and the sound of a cheery voice ex- Nine o’clock struck. The Black Horse was closed for “Girl!” he hissed, ‘‘swear in the presence of Heaven,
Jim Brady had been in California; he was an old | Said. ‘Mr. Cutler is coming, and he is used to having | claiming: the night. The landlord lighted Ralph Cutler up the | and as you hone for salvation, never to reveal what you
«forty-niner,” and even in those reckless day ys | things in order, so they say.” “What cheer for a we and belated traveler, Master | stairs, and through the windy, desolate hall, to the back } have seen here, or your life shall pay for it!”
orty-niner, SS days, when | ‘Tne old woman sighed, and glanced around her appre- | Brady? 1s there bed, and board, and a little something | chamber, over the kitchen. ‘The fire onthe hearth had} ‘You have killed him !” she cried, falling on her knees
law was almost ignored, he had won for himself the rep- | hensively. Then she came close up to Lizzie. . hot for the comfort of the inner man ?” burned low, the room was full of shadows, and the old | beside the still figure. ‘Oh, my love! my love!”
utation of being the most reckless and daring man on| ., ‘‘! don’t like the look of it. I don’t likeit. It’s ill-luck “Come into the bar-room,” said Brady, cordially ; | four-posted bedstead in the corner stood out like a cata- Jaques thrust her angrily away.
he “hiant.” Ola Californians: cathe: someti: to thi {for the likes of him to be coming here. He's better | ‘‘there’s a good fire, and the women will give you sup- | falque through the gloom. ‘Swear to keep the secret !” he cried, hoarsely.

| i the “plant. sEOEL : euimes tothe: away. Better away, my lass; and if ye care for him/ per directly. It’s a nasty night.” “A ghoulish place this is, landlord!” said the guest,; “Swear? Never! ButI will swear to proclaim it on

Black Horse, and before the great fire on the bar-room | ye’d better tell him so.” “And a nasty ride from the turnpike hither. The road | looking about him, ‘‘but I feel as if sleep wouldn’t be | every housetop in the land! ‘Cowards! to murder a

: hearth told over the wild and fearful deeds in which Jim} ‘Don’t croak, Molly. What harmcan come to him | is washed, and twice my mare well nigh lost her footing, | long in coming! I am tired asa coal-heaver, to-night, ;man while he slept, anda sleep into which he was
had been an actor, until the very air seemed to teem | here, I'd like to know? You're getting old and childish.” | and the wind cuts like a knife. By Jove, this 7s com-; and I shall rest well.” drugged! Keep your secret? Never! I will thunder
with murder, and the dim firelight cast shadows onthe} «It may be old 1am, but my wits is right yet, and I tell | fort!” “Yes, you will rest well!” echoed Brady, and putting | it abroad until you stand on the gallows, with the

> bs, smoke-blackened walls that were like the ghostly phan- | ye 1-don’t like him here. He’s not one of us; he’s differ- And he threw off his outer coat, and stretched out | down the candle, he went softly out, closing the door be- | gaping, jibing multitude around you, eager for your

5 4 toms of the dead. 5 | ent; and he’s got money. Money is Satan’s own. Blood | his long legs by the blazing fire with an air of familiari- | hind him. blood !”

j Little Lizzie Brady, the old miner’s daughter, grew up | has been shed for it before now, and will be again. Doj| ty which showed he considered himself no unwelcome When the landlord had gone, Ralph looked at his pis- The words died on her lips, and the winds took up the

; among the wild set of men who frequented the Black | you know that Red Jaques is here to-night ?” guest at the Black Horse. tol, put a cartridge in each of the two unloaded cham- | wail she uttered. The maddened Jaques struck her,

; Horse, and it was little wonder that the associations of| Lizzie started, and an expression of vague alarm stole Ralph Cutler was a fine specimen of manhood, and it | bers, slipped the bolt in the door, and got into bed | and she sank lifeless at her father’s feet.
the place, and the outlawed men by whom she was sur- | over her face. was no wonder that the fair Lizzie looked on him with | dressed as he was. Jim Brady, sobered instantly by the sight, for his
rounded, should have made of her a woman of dark| ‘No. “When did he come ?” favor. Twenty-six or seven years of age, tall and robust, Accustomed to sleep under all circumstances, he still | blood had been fired by the fierce strength of brandy,
moods and passionate temper. “Two hours ago, and a stranger with him. And they | with fair hair and keen gray eyes, a complexion bronzed | to-night found it almost impossible to compose himself. | stood still, and looked down on the face of his girl—the

5 ; While her mother lived, Lizzie had felt strongly her | arein the back room, drinking hard and talking low. | by thesun and wind to which he was so much exposed, | He thought of Lizzie Brady—of her evident apprehen- | girl he had been so proud of—the little girl he had held

gentle influence, for Mrs. Brady was totally unlike her | Two bad signs.” and a general air of frankness and manly honesty which | sion for his safety, of the sweet look of solicitude which | on his knee in her childhood—the little girl who had
z= reckless husband, and the love she had early borne for| Lizzie went out and closed the door, while old Molly, | impressed itself on all who saw him. had been on her face when she had warned him. His } loved him in spite of his league with crime.

¢ him never lost its fervor through long years of neglect | crooning to. herself, went on with her preparations for His eye roved searchingly over the place; his ear | heart throbbed a little faster as he remembered how She lay there staring up at him with wide-open eyes,
and indifference, and when she died she still believed in | supper. caught the sounds of voices in the back room. He turned | she had spoken to him. Already, in imagination, he | the color and the glow fading trom her face, blood on

» Jim, the lover of her youth, and intrusted to her child Lizzie Brady paused a moment on the threshold of the | toward Brady inquiringly: saw thelittle cottage among the hills. and the sweet | her bright hair, and trickling down her white forehead,
the charge of always staying near “father,” to keep him | back room, then entered softly, and stood before the “You have rae ee ite . presence which was to make its fireside heaven to him; Dead !

i out of trouble. two men, who sprang guiltily to their feet at her ap- ‘An old pard and a friend of his,” said Jim, uneasily, | he heard dimly the howling of the wind in the trees, the He did not think of vengeance upon her murderer,

| Between Jim Brady and his daughter there was a very | pearance. stirring the fire as he spoke. steady down-pour of the rain on the leaky roof, and | though afterward he sought him over land and seas—he

7 strong bond of union. No matter how depraved a man “Good-even to you, Master Jaques,” she said, with ‘Not Jaques?” said Ralph Cutler, with a darkening | then all sound and sense were blotted out. thought of nothing but to escape from the terrible pres-

y may be, there is always something he clings to, and | head erect, and a quiver in her thin nostril that showed | brow. | oe ence of that awful condemnation—the face of his dead

> Jim’s trust was in Lizzie. For her he worked; for her he | the workings of a dauntless spirit; ‘and what may ‘Yes, Jaques,” returned Brady, a little defiantly; ‘and CHAPTER IL. girl. Witha wild cry, he dashed from the room and

i saved money. She was the only person who could turn | have brought the Black Horse the honor of your pres- | why not Jaques, pray?” ; Re ae out into the night, and it wasalong day before the
him from his wicked Bee the only one who had | ence so soon after your visit of last week ?” “J do not like him,” said the young man, frankly; THE MIDNIGHT TRAGEDY. vicinity of the Black Horse Inn ever saw Jim Brady
over his evil nature the shadow of an influence. “And may not amancallon anold friend whenever | “there is something evil about him, and—and—well, I By the side of the bed where Ralph Cutler lay so still, | again.

), A more striking looking girl than Lizzie Brady there | if pleases him? Brady and I were pards together in the | might as well say it, landlord—he has designs on | and with such an awful rigidity on his pale face, stood Red. Jaques’ ruddy face grew pale, he staggered

bs was not in all the country round. She was tall and | old times.” Lizzie.” the three men—Red Jaques, his friend, and Jim Brady. | back against the wall, and groped uneasily at his neck-

‘3 raceful, with exquisitely modeled hands and feet; her The man turned his face toward her, and the red fire- ‘Nonsense ! he is old 2nough to be her father.” It was long past midnight, and still the storm howled | erchief.

ee air was dark browh, and very abundant, and fellin | light made his complexion still more sanguinary. A ‘All the same, he adigjres herin no fatherly way. Ij}.on. Ten thousand demonsseemed to be let loose around “Give me a little air, pard, and—and some whisky, for

of masses of ripples far below her waist; her eyes were | birth-mark, red as blood, covered one cheek and extend-; have watched him, an@ Il know the signs: and heis ajthe old inn. The candle on the table guttered, and | Heaven’s sake! Iam choking!”

e- black and soft like her mother’s; her skin clear and | ed down the neck, where it was lost to sight beneath | man who would stop at nothing when it interfered with | swayed, and theembers on the hearth came whisking Jerome poured out a tumbler of brandy and. held it
pure, melting into crimson®at the lips and cheeks; and | the rough woolen collar of his shirt. his plans.” out into the room at every fresh gust that rushed down | with an unsteady hand to his companion’s lips. Jaques
the most fastidious sculptor of old could have found no His countenance was repulsive in the highest degree ; Brady laughed in a forced sort of way, and went out | the chimney. draok, and it gave him strength. He looked askance at

10 fault with her features. When aroused, she had a tem- | his eyes small, pale-blue in color, with white lashes; his|to hurry up the supper. Directly he was gone Lizzie | - There was blood on the hand that Red Jaques lifted up, | the still form of Lizzie, which had for him an awful fas-

5. per and a spirit that no sense of fear could touch, and | heavy jaw had dropped down and disclosed sharp, wolf- | came in, and brought « foaming tankard of ale. as he swore the two men beside him, by an awful oath, | cination.

Ks for one she loved she would have braved death in its | ish teeth; his hair was coarse and iron-gray, his frame Cutler rose and offered his hand, a bright flush on his | never to reveal the secrets of that night’s work. “Is she dead? Isshe quite dead, do you think ?” he
most horrible torm. slight and wiry, his voice hoarse and rasping, with a | handsome face, a slight®tremor in his manly voice. The money—the fatal money for which Ralph Cutler | asked, in an awed whisper. ‘Feel if her heart beats,

) a AS @ matter of course, she had many admirers, some | slight foreign accent. “Good-evening, Lizie, and many thanks for your| had paid with his life—lay on the table beside| Jerome. People are not always dead when they look
of them young men far above her station in life, others Jaques Leroux was a man whose record would not (thoughtful care. Therecollection of how this cheerful | the expiring candle. The knife with which his loyal | pale—not always. Maybe there is life left. Give her a

or among men of her father’s own stamp. She favored | bear inspection ; more than once he had killed his man. | room looked to me last week when I was here, kept up| heart had been reached, was in the grasp of. Red | taste of this,” holding out the brandy. ‘Rub her hands ;
none of them, so far as could be observed, but there was | He hesitated at nothing which would put money in his | my courage through the storm. Andit bids fair to be | Jaques. speak to her. She cannot be dead. I did not hit her so

us one for whose step she always listened, and at whose | hands, and all the frequenters of the Black Horse, des- | a terrible night!” “Jt is true I killed him,” said Jaques, in a tone which | very hard—I did not mean to, She raised all that’s
ed coming her heart beat faster, and the crimson in her | perate though they were, avoided provoking him -to A fierce gust of windrattled the loose doors and win- | froze the life current in the veins of his listeners; «‘but | wickedin me. Women will be so meddlesome. Don’t
round cheek took a more fervid hue. anger, dows as he spoke, ard wailed like an agonized human | you two are equally guilty. And the man who blows | tell me she is dead, Jerome.?”

Ralph Cutler was a young drover who, two or three For Lizzie Brady he felt astrong admiration ; he had | voice down the chimn2y. shall die.” Jerome had bent over and had laid his hand on her
rO- times a year, took large herds of cattle to the city mar-| vowed that sooner or later she should belong to him, Lizzie shuddered, snd drew a little nearer to him, Brady trembled and grasped the side of the bed for} heart. He took up her limp Rand and let itdrop. Ah,
rd a kets, and, coming and going, stopped over night at the | and though as yet he had never spoken to her of his in- | sinking her voice to ascarcely audible whisper. support. But he recoiled quickly, for his hand touched | what a dreadful sound it made when it fell!
ee Black Horse. He was a fine, spirited young man, of| tention, he looked upon her.as part and parcel of Ris “Have youmuch mney about you ?” she asked. something wet and warm—the ebbing life blood of the Both men shuddered.

undoubted courage, and there is little need of explain- | property. And when he once set himself upon a thing, ‘A little better then a thousand dollars. This was a | man whom he had received into his house in friendship. “Curse it! [ never meant to hurt a woman!” said Red
by ing why it was. that he selected so questionable a hos- | he was never known to fail of its accomplishment ; for | profitable venture. « few more such, and I shall be | Something in the hardened nature of. the man sickened | Jaques. ‘‘Many aman as has crossed my track have I
in telry for his entertainment. Indeed, Lizzie Brady’s } he hesitated at nothing, and there was no sin he would } able to have a home, wnd—and a wife init.” at the touch. He drew nervously aside. sent to his long home; but not a woman—not a woman.
ny handsome face was a good sign for her father’s house, | not commit to bring about his unhallowed designs. She paid no attention to the significant answer. Jaques laughed. And her—least of all, her /”
andthe old man raked in many a liberal customer’s “If | might make bold to introduce a friend, Miss Liz- “Are you armed ?” she asked, anxiously. ‘Getting tender-hearted in your old age,” he sneered. He covered his face with his hands, and stood back in
lop fee, because of the presence of a beautiful woman in the | zie? This is Jerome Leach—an old comrade, just home He showed her the butt of a pistol. “Come, this must be got out of sight!” and he pointed | the shadow.
dingy and uncanny old house. from Australia. A pleasant little trip at the queen’s ex- «But why do you ask these questions, Lizzie? Surely, | tothe body. ‘The old well at the bottom of the garden Jerome looked at the watch he carried. Its hands
in On the night of which we write Ralph Cutler was ex- | pense—eh, Jerome? Kind of the old lady to pay one’s | you do not think anydanger threatening me?” will hold it fast till the day of judgment. Whatails you, | pointed to three o'clock. Then he glanced uneasily
1 pected at the Black Horse. He had been to market with | traveling expenses, and board, too. My friend has come “J am afraid to-nigit. [am nervous, I suppose. Red | Brady? Beara hand.” around him.

1 an unusually large herd of cattle, and on his return he | to America to see a little of life in the land of the free | Jaques is here, and another man with bim.” They had lifted the limp body of poor Ralph Cutler “The night is wearing away,” he said; ‘something
would stop over night with Brady. Already the great} and the home of the brave. Bring us in a bottle of “That for Red Jaqaes,” with a snap of his thumb and | between them, and were bearing it to the stairway, | must be done. We must be away from here before day-

1as chamber over the kitchen was being put in readiness. | brandy, my dear; this beer is wretched stuff!” finger; and just then Molly brought in the supper, and | when the door opened from without, and Lizzie Brady, | break. Anda nice mess we have gotinto! Two of’em

: 1 An immense fire blazed on the brick hearth, and swayed For all answer, Lizzie turned and went out—scorn on | Lizzie retired to the kitchen. holding a lighted candle aloft, stepped into the room. on our hands, and one a woman! Come, old man, brace

ae wildly up the wide chimney. Fresh water and towels| her face and scorn in her haughty step. She never Jaques and his companion were discussing some coarse A moment she stood, frozen to the spot, and gazed on | up, and let us to business !”
were on the wash-stand, and a glass bowl of cardinal | waited on customers of thisclass. She heard Jaques’ | viandsin the back /oom, and Brady flitted back and } the scene. Red Jaques roused himself, and the two men stepped

rhe flowers stood on the broad mantel-shelt. Lizzie gave | mocking laugh as she stood a moment on the landing | forth attending on his two sets of customers. The “Great Heaven!” she cried, ‘‘what have you done to | out of the oak chamber and conversed together outside
the final touches to the preparations, smoothed out an | refiecting upon what possible object had brought Red | wind shook the old building from roof to foundation. | him ?” in low whispers, as if they feared the silent sleepers
ver . imaginary wrinkle in the spotless sheet, and went be- | Jaques so soon again to the Black Horse. Now and then a flasiof red iightning leaped: from the Red Jaques caught her wrist in a grasp of iron. His ; within might overhear their conversation.
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By and by they came back, and silently took up the
body ot the girl between them, and bore it down the
stairs and out into the darkness.

They were gone tivo hours, and wher they returned
the whole surrounding country was lit up by the flames
of a great conflagration, and all that remained of the
Black Horse Inn was a pile of blazing ruins.

Old Molly, half dressed, stood on a neighboring emi-
nence, wringing her hands and surveying the scene ;
Bruno, the watch-dog, howled dolefully from his kennel
in the stable-yard ; and the horse of Ralph Cutler whin-
nied vainly for his: master.

The two ruffians, Jaques and Jerome, silently clasped |.

hands. Fate had done for them what years of toil and
planning could never have accomplished—it had wiped
out the record of their crime. And who among those
who came next day, to look at and speculate over the
ruins, would dream of the dreadful tragedy which had
been done within those devastated walls ?

And, later on, when the ruins were examined for
traces of the humnan beings who were, it was currently
believed, burned upin the old house, nothing was dis-
covered, curiosity rested satistied, and there was no,one
sufficiently interested in Jim Brady or his affairs to
make further investigations. And the ruin was left for
brambles and weeds to grow over, and the country
people avoided the place after nightfall, and the owls
and the bats held undisturbed possession,

CHAPTER ITI.
BLOOMFIELD’ FARM.

A couple of miles from one of the many pleasant little
villages in Massachusetts was Bloomfield Farm.

Lying among the mountains, shut in from the cold
winds that sweep up from the Atlantic, sheltered from
the storms of winter by the pine forests which stretched
away tor miles behind it, and bordered by a beautiful
river, there was no fairer domain in all that region than
Bloomfield.

It had been in the Raynor family for more than a cen-
tury and a half. Old Samuel Raynor had taken up a

ant under King George; his son, who fought in the
Revolution, had succeeded him in the ownership of the
place ; and, at the time of which we write, Paul Raynor,
a son Of the revolutionary patriot, held possession.

He was an old man, with the snows .of nearly sev-
enty winters on his forehead. But he was_ hale
and hearty still, his cheek was ruddy, and his eye
bright. His wife was spared him, a lovely old lady,
whose presence made the home so sweet and cheerful ;
but all the children slept in the grave-yard, under the
ancient sycamores planted by the hand of the first
settler. One after another they had dropped out of life ;
Mary, the last one, only two years before the opening of
our story, had been laid to rest, and she left behind her,
x a legacy to the aged couple, her little daughter

ith.

The child’s father had lost his life in the war of the
Rebellion.

He was 2 brave and gallant officer, and the men under
his command had found it easy to follow on to victory
when Captain Welford led the way.

Edith Welford was the light of the house. As a child
she took all hearts by storm. The rough men who
worked on her grandfather's farm were her most devoted
servants; there was nothing they would not do to please
‘‘Kdie ;” the dogs and horses loved her, and the smooth
red cows in the clover-scented pastures came at her call
and followed at her bidding. ‘

AS she grew to womanhood, tall, and fair, and queen-
ly, many were the young swains of the country neigh-
borhood who bowed down at her shrine. But the girl
clung fondly to her grandparents, and never seemed to
need any other love.

She was just eighteen, when Uplands, the farm which
joined her grandtather’s, was purchased by old Colonel
Vincent. The Vincents were of good stock, but some-
what decayed in fortune; and the old colonel, with his
only son Charles, sought this quiet place to await the
developments of a tedious lawsuit which might leave
them penniless or independent, as the case might be de-
cided. The delays of the law are never to be accounted
for, and never to be reckoned upon, and how long it
might be before they knew what fate held for them, was
uncertain; meanwhile, it was important that they
should live as economically as possible, and hence they
chose Uplands as their home.

A friendship at once sprang up between the two old
men, and it was not dong before Charles Vincent and
aes Welford met, and found that they were congenial
spirits. :

At this time» Edith was a little more than eighteen
years of age; her form was well-proportioned, her hair
and eyes very dark, her skin like milk and roses, and
her smite sweet enough to have won the heart of a far
less susceptible youth than Charles Vincent. The
young man lost his head at once, but Edith, though she
admired and liked young Vincent, felt for him no
warmer thrill. She knew that her grandparents de-
voutly wished it might be otherwise ; she knew that it
would make them happy to see her Charles Vincent's
wife ; she knew that the old colonel asked for nothing
better than to welcome her as a daughter; but when
was ever love forced? She tried to feel tor him as they
all wanted her to feel, but beyond the sentiment of good
fellowship she might have entertained toward a brother,
she did not regard him.

One fair, bright morning in midsummer a terrible
blow fell upon the household at Bloomfield. And it fell
ali the more heavily because it was unexpected. Two
years before Mr, Raynor had indorsed a note for an old
friend of jis, a Man Of good fortune and supposed integ=}
rity, and Mr: Raynor, honest and upright himself, never

 

 

 

and the Raynor family mourned over the young girls
decision, but they knew it was useless to urge her.

Two days afterward Edith Welford announced her
decision to accept a chance in the factory at Harwell.
The wages were fair, a distamt cousin would board her
for the instruction she could give her two little girls in
music during the evenings, and the seven or elght dol-
lars a week she could earn would pay the interest on
the debt her grandfather owed. And the creditors had
agreed that so long as the interest was promptly paid,
the Raynors would not be disturbed in their occupancy
of Bloomfields.

It cannot be denied that it cost Edith many a pang to
give up her pleasant home and go out to labor for pay,
tor she had been brought up carefully, and had only
worked when she chose. But she would do anything
honorable to keep her grandparents safe in the old
home, and without telling them anything about it until
all was decided, she had arranged her plans. '

Of course, she met with strong opposition. Paul Ray-
nor had blue blood in his veins, and it seemed to him a
sort of disgrace for a granddaughter of his to work ina
factory; but Edith, with dauntless independence, de,
clared thatit was never any disgrace to work for an
honest living, and that there were just as good and
worthy girls inside factories as there were outside.

Again Charles Vincent pleaded his suit—again all the
old arguments were gone over with, and at last Edith
was lett to go her own way.

And soit happened that early in September, while
the yellow apples and peaches were falling to the
ground, rich with ripeness, and the nut trees on the
Bloomfield hills were scattering down their fruitage,
Edith Welford took her place before a row of looms in
one of the great mills of Harwell, and day after day and
week after week she toiled on, gaining a little in expe-
rience and skill every day, until by and by, at the close
of the first yearin the mill, she commanded the best
pay of any operative in her room.

Regularly every month the amount of interest due on
her grandfather’s debt was transmitted to the creditor,
and all that she could save beside was put in the bank
for other emergencies; for Edith did not despair of yet
being able to pay the debt in full, and be in a position to
give Bloomfield back free to her grandfather.

Under her tuition, her cousin’s little girls had made
so much progress that two other pupils had been added
to the class, and Edith began to think seriously of some
time in the future giving up her -place in the mill and
setting up as a music teacher.

She had for a room-mate a very lovely young girl,
named Alice Horton, an orphan, and dependent on her
own resources for aliving. Side by side the two girls
worked, together they went back and forth to the mills
and when Edith took her brief two weeks’ vacation, Alice
went with her to the dear old farm, and was warmly
welcomed by the two old people who were so glad to see
Edith back.

One of the junior partners in the mills, a young man
by the name of Hugh Gilbert—a man of no principle,
and unscrupulous <0 the last degree—had been charmed
by Edith Welford’s face soon after she entered the mills
as an operative.

Young Gilbert was handsome, ina bold and reckless
way. He had plenty of money, which he spent freely.
He was a favorite with mostof the girls, and it soon
became apparent to Edith that he had it in his power to
make things very unpleasant to. the. girl who did not
look upon his attentions with favor.

“It is best not to offend young Mr. Gilbert,” said Rose
Hart, the pretty little blonde at the loom opposite
Edith’s, ‘‘for he is really the master, now that Mr. Ger-
ard isin Europe. Anda hard master he is, too. More
than one girl has lost her place for turning up her nose
at Mr. Gilbert.”

Gilbert kept his fast horses, and his yacht in the bay,
and he boarded at the finest hotel in Harwell, and was
received into the best houses: for certain it is that a
man’s. morals are not always looked into by what we
call our best society, if he makes a good appearance and
has money to back up his pretensions.

In spite of herself, Edith could not help showing her
aversion to Mr. Gilbert whenever he approached her,
and this only seemed to make him more determined in
his advances. He flattered her, he sent her flowers, he
invited her to ride out and sail, always including Alice
Horton in these invitations, and she invariably declined
all his attentions. She felt for him so decided a dislike
that she shuddered at his approach and grew pale when
his hand touched hers.

“JT may be superstitious about it,” she said in confi-
dence to Alice, ‘but I feel as if, in some way, that man
would bring great peril and danger into my life. Itis
foolish, I know, but | cannot rid myself of the dread.”

One day, there was a great deal of unusual bustle all
through the mill. When Edith went to her work in

eral brushing up. Heaps of refuse were being removed,
windows were cleaned of cobwebs, the cashier was look-
ing anxiously over the books—even Mr. Gilbert himselt
looked wide awake, and spoke sharply to everybody.

“Mr. Gerard-is coming home,” said Rose Hart, who
always knew all the gossip of the mill. “He has been
away two years now. Heis expected to-morrow, and
as he is the chief owner in the mills, and an awful keen
busines#® man, everything has got to put the best foot
forward. Ihave heard it said that he doesn’t just like
Gilbert's goings on, and our fine young man feels a little
anxious. He didn’t even stop to pinch Lii Hathaway’s
cheek aS he went by, and he scarcely bowed to you,
either. It must be something important which. keeps
him from making eyes at the girls.”

Edith went on with her work. It made no difference
to her, she thought, a little sadly, ff Mr. Gerard. was

 
 

the morning everything seemed to be undergoing a gen- }-

 
  

TO A BRIDE.
BY NL AL

Be that fond heart for aye as light
As now—thou radiant girlish bride!
Oh! sparkle well those gems to-night
Whose luster dre whim to thy side;
Not gewgaws ne sheeny mine,
But brilliant pearls of worth, as rare,
More dazzling in thoge-eyes of thine
Than all the diamonds in thy hair.

Shine on, gay star, but be thou true,
While prostrate hearts are at thy feet,
As planets in the heavenward blue,
That all admire, but none may greet.
Guard well that silver-sounding tongue
That ravishes their inmost cells,
As through the answering caverns rung ’
The music of thy wedding-bells.

A single word or look bestowed

With guilty thoughts that make them deeds,
Where pure affection nothing owed,

Might robe thee in the widow’s weeds;
For there are hearts can only thrill

But once to love; if that forsake,
Upbraiding not, but faithful still,

Their only vengeance is to break.

oo os

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

Married at Midnight;

THE BIWOE'S FATE.

By JOHN_A. PETERS.

 

 

 

(“MARRIED AT MIDNIGHT” was commenced in No. 14. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]}

 

CHAPTER XII.
FACE TO FACE.

One fieeting glimpse had she caught of the man who
had wedded her—not for love, but from a purely selfish
motive—and he was swallowed up in the moving crowd;
but she knew she coula.pot be mistaken as to his iden-
tity. It was Gordon Graham, and none other.

At his side was a lady, stately and tall. Her face she
failed to see. Would Gordon know her? She hoped not
—prayed not. He believed her to be dead; what were
supposed to be Her remaii § Were interred in the family

id; and if 1@ met her face to face, talked

Was scaré ty Ole Chance out of a thou-
id recog aize her. She had altered in-
y moo ehiid, she was now a
fi potas trace of the hoyden
ber; even her very voice

  
   
 
   
 
   
    
 

credibly. A Home

beautiful and Gi

he remembere@l

was changed. “HB

of a man who was in. Dé
Her voice rai om miulsier.

backed, sinuou§ path leatiug tothe Pavilion, but trom

under the heavy, dangling fringe of her paragol she cas

furtive glances at the peo de hurrying by. ‘
They had reached the gi junds of the hotel, when she

again caught sight of her husband. The tall, stately
lady was with him. They were seated on one of the rus-
tic behches which were scattered over the lawn, he ab-
stractedly tracing monogrammatie figures with his
twisted cane on the graveled walk.

Hope eyed the couple codlly as they advanced. He
was as handsome as in the days of old. His companion,
arich Southern brunette, was a perfect enchantress—

oe do you suppose we encountered on our return
walk ?”

“Tam poor at guessing, and cannot tell. Some one I
know, I hope?”

“Your rival, Miss Murray, and that baffling mystery
of a man, Gordon Graham, whose romantic marriage
and the tragical manner in which his wife met her
death, have made him an object of curiosity to the
ladies. A more splendid-looking man it was never my
lot to see. Apropos, was he not so attentive to Sibyl
Murray prior to his marriage as to warrant the scandal-
mongers in giving vent to the expression that he meant
to make her his wife ””

“He was as devoted to her as if he were her flance,”
supplemented Blake. ‘‘He worshiped the very ground
she walked on. His marriage with a fifteen-year-old
child—wild as if brought up in the woods, if that off-
shoot of Satan, Madame Hearsay, can be relied upon—
took the world by storm. It was a veritable nine-days’
wonder. It must have been brought about in a sly,
underhand way. He strenuously opposed it at first,
but his father, on his death-bed, convinced him there
was no escape, so, at midnight, while a storm was rag-
ing without, and a man was yielding up the ghost
within, that unholy marriage was solemnized.”

Was it by accident alone that his eyes fastened with
an intent gaze upon Hope's averted face, as he gave a
synopsis of the story of those days, which, as she looked
back upon them through the stereoscope of memory,
seemed like a horrible night-mare to her?

She was sitting at Mrs. Northrup’s feet, on the top-
most step of the piazza, her uncovered head reclining
against an uplifted white column, around which clam-
bered a Virginia creeper. With every nerve on the qui
vive, she was listening to the ball of conversation as it
rolled around.

It was picked up by Lucy, who, as well as Hope, had
been a silent auditor. ,

‘Where is the old homestead of these exclusive
Grahams sifuated? If I have heard, I have forgotten.”

«At Warwick, in the State of——. I spent a week at
the Shadows, as the magnificent place is appropriately
named, a year ago. Graham is the prince of good fel-
lows, a model host, and, it a trifle dull at times, never
derelict in the courtesy demanded. He is justly popu-
lar in the neighborhood where he resides.”

“His wife’s death must have been a terrible shock to
him,” interposed Ethel, who was fahning into life a
slight breeze with the fan presented by Vane purposely
to exhibit a rounded, milk-white arm, on which a dia-
mond bracelet glittered.

“It was arelief to him instead, an inestimable bless-
ing, Miss Granger. He detested his wife. She was
forced upon him by his dying father, and he was
not so confirmed a hypocrite as to make any pre-
tensions of being sorry. There is a mystery connected
with the affatr I cannot fathom.”

He relapsed into silence, his gaze still riveted pene-
tratingly on the bowed head of the girl who crouched at
Mrs. Northrup’s feet. She had never stirred, never
opened her lips; perhaps she felt it incumbent upon her
now to pick up the broken thread of the narrative, for
she lifted her eyes fearlessly to the lawyer’s swarth vis-
age, and there was no break in her voice, as she said:

“How long has Mr. Graham been a widower? Isup-
pose his wife’s death occurred recently ?”

It did. But a few weeks have elapsed since her re-
mains were deposited in God’s Acre. The papers were
rife with the tragical ending of her young life. It was
too sensational an event not to figure largely in the il-
lustrated periodicals. Surely you have sufficient of
aa Eve’s curiosity to have perused the mournful

e?

“Yes, it is not wholly unknown to me. But such
shocking stories are published daily that, unless one is
acquainted with the participants, they slip easily from
one’s memory. Having met Mr. Graham, I am natu-
rally more interested in the affair than previously. This
Sibyl Murray is a miracle of loveliness—as royally beau-
tiful as the Queen of Sheba was said to be. He shows
his good sense ix striving to bombard the citadel of her
heart, if he does commence operations at a rather too
early day. She isa woman to turn men’s heads—dark,
glowing, irresistible. . It I were a man, I should fall des-
perately in love with her. HithertolI have envied fair
women: now this Cleopatra-like creature stands apart
from allthe rest, immeasurably the superior in beauty,
and embodies my ideal of a perfect woman.”

‘Why? Because Gordon Graham succumbs to her
witcheries? Would you care to reign as mistress of the
Shadows? It is a home worth battling for.”

Were his impertinent words intended to convey some
meaning to her? Did he suspect her of assuming a
character not her own? ‘That he, as well as Ethel
Granger, was inimical to her, she felt. She began to fear
and hate him, but she would not show the white feath-
er.. He should not daunt her.

“You are inclined to be sarcastic—nay, impudent,”
she said, in a voice as cool as: the water trickling from

 

 

 

on

 

 

like one of the sirens’ that lured men to death and de-
struction. : f

Vane halted suddenly, a lo)k of pleasure on his face.
He had removed his hat and vas bowing to the lady ere
she got over her surprise at leholding him there.

“1 verily believe, Miss Murry, that you are the daugh-
ter of the lady the proprietor mentioned 4s having taken
a cottage forthesummer. Ian rejoiced that you are
here. My sister isin Sharon, aid her friend Ethel Gran-
ger is with her.” F
“So? I am gl

 
  
 

 
  
  

  

ad that some of my old acquaif&tances
3 make you acquaint:

| lawyer and ambushed itself
_ | black mustache. ‘

the walls of some subterranean cavern. ‘“‘A man so
brutal as to rejoice in his wife’s death, if he did not
honor ler with his love, is too contemptible an object
for a pure woman to contemplate marrying, be she
never so mercenary.” | | i

She erected her head*haughtily, her face white as a

pe mare gallop over the Pemberton hills on Biuck’s
ack !
She wiped the tear-drops away as they rolled down
her cheeks, and manfully struggling against the weak-
| ness creeping over her, began to dress. .She smiled at
the lovely vision she confronted in the mirror ere she
went down the stairs. Would Vane deem her fair—
fairer than Ethel Granger ?”
; Lucy and Ethel were invisible, so she stepped out on
| the porch to catch a breath of fresh air. An uplifted
shadow, in the midst of shadows, Vane Hunter stood at
the extreme end of the piazza. He advanced toward
her, something sweet and fragrant in his hand.

“I have been waiting for you,” he said, eagerly; ‘‘I
have a few sprigs of my favorite blossom which I wish
you to wear to-night.”

She held out her hand, then drew back, her face
Geathly pale and cold in the weird yellow light showered
down by the newly risen moon. The delicate scent of
the odoriferous sprays was wafted to her nostrils: the
harrowing scene of her marriage—the rigid form, the
ghastly dead face of the man on the canopied bed—rose
before her; to her dying day she could never inhale the
delicious breath of the heliotrope, never 4ouech it, with-
out turning ill and faint. ‘

She waved him back as she sunk in a white heap on
the nearest seat.

‘Don't come near me with that flower,” she cried.
“It’s incense sickens me! The most. supremely wretch-
ed night of my life is associated withit. 1 cannot bear
to see it in your hands.” t

He tossed it over the railing, marveling at her yehe-
mence. This-was not the passionless gir) she at first ap-
peared to be. She was not all candor, all openness, as
he had believed. There was a secret in her .past which
worried her so thatshe had to cry out when touched by
some careless hands. What was it? What had this
bunch of heliotrope, so fraught with poignant associa-
tions to her, to do with it? Would she explain more
fully to him ? ‘

He. bent above her, tenderly touching the white hand
in her lap.

‘See! I have not only thrown the offending nosegay
away, but discarded the single spray in my button-hole.
Tam sorry that a moment’s pain came to you through
me.”

«You are most kind to have patience With my vaga-
ries,” she returned, rising to her feet and steadying her-
self against therailing. ‘The heliotrope was one of my
pet blossoms till—till it figured in a scene that was the
most prominent, as well as the most tragic inmy life. |
can not——”

What further words she might have uttered were sup-
pressed; she espied a man’s figure, which closely resem-
bled Walter Blake’s, behind one of the white, yine-
wreathed pillars of. the porch.

“He has been eavesdropping,” she thought, “and my
agitation—my incoherent words—will confirm him in his
suspicion that there is a dark secret in my life which I
wish to cover from all prying eyes. Has he a clew 2”

Vane had drawn Hope Huntley,\ sans ceremonie, into
the hail. '

“IT want to see how you look, Miss Huntley. The Miss-
es Granger and Murray are thereigning belles wherever
they go, and they wield their sceptre right royally.
| Since a new star has-risen upon the scene, will their
| light be less blinding, less dazzling than of yore? Will

their beauty suffer an eclipse to-night? I really think
so,” as his critical eye gathered in the details of her re-
cherche toilet. 7

She was peerlessly fair—lovely beyond compare in her
fleecy robe of white, looped up with exquisite clusters of
white cyclamen. In her hair—worn as in the days of
Pericles and Aspasia, may be, carelessly brushed back
from her low brow and wound in a Greek knot, at the
back of her head—gleamed an arrowy ornament of dull
gold. A knot of golden pansies clung lovingly to her
white throat, and on one superbly rounded arm was
twined an opal bracelet.

“Milky opals that gleam and shine
Like sullen fires through a pallid mist.”

“Your toilet is exquisite ; it defies criticism,” he said,
warmly, as she stood blushing under his admiring gaze,
the long, black lashes drooping over her radiant eyes
and resting on her cheeks. ‘‘You could not improve it,
unless——’

“What ?”
speech.

“Pardon me. I have not the right to suggest a cor-
rection. I meant to remove that bracelet from your
arm. Not that it is not singularly beautiful and becom-
ing,” he added; ‘‘but so much is said about the opal—
the unlucky gem, as the French call it—that it worries
me to see you wear it.’

She laughed merrily, pleased that he was interested
in what she wore.

‘You are the last person I should dream of as being
imbued with superstition. The prevailing opinion of
modern days that the opal is an unlucky stone tothe
wearer, appears, ’tis asserted, to be directly traceable to
Sir Walter Scott’s romance of ‘Anne of Geierstein.’ I ad-
mire the peculiar play of its delicate colors. This brace-
let is fine enough to please a virtuoso, and if I acceded
to your modest request and removed it, my toilet would

 

 

as he stopped rather confusedly in his

 

 

Guelder-rose, her symmetrical hands locked in her lap.
An uncomfortable silence ensued ; the low, soft strains
of some simple air stole upon their senses with the
subtlety of perfume, and shadows—the avant-couriers
of night—fell around them thickand fast. Pe ;
An inscrutable sméle trailed athwart the lips of the
the depths of his night-

 

Was he

 

 

; cal

suspected@isdishonesty in others. He had lent his name aie ee Fah + E> ia oe nen Axe perme aa
merely 23a matter of. ilandiy Manciwad 35s. - | ie ae TCS curkce Suing: Mis tae al Wi over since her em ; - Impereeptibly
uu Le me gpere OF LAS CirGamste aig ee he feat of his operatives.* She fell to wondering | she felt rather than saw her smeric glance
t, theh, was his surprise, iis dismay, &t the news} gpout hii. Was he handsome? Was he noble? Was | fastened upon her, but she made no ous-

which cams upon him that summer morning, that his~

old friend had absconded, and that he was held for
ee ore nd dollars, the amount of the note he had
indo ; ne

The oid man went down under the misfortune. “He
had no heart to try to bear the blow. To pay the sum
due would take every farthing he possessed. The money
in the bank—put there years ago, and carefully saved.to
provide for himself and his wifein their old age; the
fifty-acre field adjoining Bloomfield’s, which was rented
to a neighbor, and yielded a little dividend for current
expenses; but most of all Bloomfleld—the home of his
father and his grandfather—must go.

How he had watched the growth of every tree on the
dear old place with tender care! He knew just how the
tops of the maples his father’s: hands had planted took
on the gold and crimson tints of autumn; he had seen
the sun set for seventy years behind the rugged hills
that bounded Bloomfield on the west; he had watched
the shadows on the blue river ever since he was a boy ;
he had tilled the broad acres carefully and lovingly, as
every man should do his duty; and he had seen the chil-
dren, now dead, playing in the green meadows and wan-
dering in happy childhood, careless and laughing, over
the hills. Here they were born, in this old house, hal-
lowed by the happy years which had passed over its
venerable roof-tree; here in this elm-shaded upper
chamber they had died—yonder, under the sycamores,
they were buried.

He had hoped, after a few more months, perhaps
years, had worn away, to be laid torest in the quiet
corner reserved for him; he had hoped that Edith, and
her children, and her children’s children, would train
the woodbine over the low wall, and tend above his
last home the flowers he had planted over his lost
loves.

And now it must all go—pass into the hands of care-
less Strangers! Strange voices would echo through the
old rooms, uniamiliar laughter would make the old halis
ring; Sstrang@horses would whinnyin the stalls, where
the. faithful old roan and her numerous progeny had
grown fat and sleek; another dog than Rover would
greet his master at the gate; and he, the old man, and
his,poor old wife, must go out into the world—penniless,
at three-score and ten!

It was a hard fate to face, and no wonder that old
Paul Raynor’s heart sank like lead in his bosom when
he contemplated the dread probability.

There was no kind friend to help him. The minions
of the iaw descended upon him—the bank stock was
sold—the fifty-acre field went under the hammer, but
Bloomfield was spared to him yet a little longer. Mrs.
Raynor’s right to a homestead therein stayed the sale,
and reluctantly enough the creditors were obliged to
forego proceedings until some legal formula could be
gone through with which would give them possession.

Edith had heard of her grandfather’s misfortunes with
great distress. She loved the old place, and she loved
her grandparents. ’

It.was now that Charles Vincent told her of his love,
and urged her to let him take the burden of the family
on his strong young shoulders.

‘Uplands is large enough for us all,” he said, cheer-
fully. “We are not wealthy—I would to Heaven, for
your sake, we were—but we have enough for comfort.
My father knows what I wish to do, and I have his cor-
dial consent. He loyes you already as a daughter, Edith;
and your grandparents shall be my care so long as 1
have an arm to work and ahead toplan. And by and
by, when our lawsuit is decided, we may have money in
abundance, and then Bloomfield shall be your grand-
father’s once more, and everything that he has lost shall
be restored to him. @nly consent to make me happy,
Edith, and évérything will be so easy.” ;

His fine, manly face, Warm With @arnest feeling, was
close to hers; she realized his worth, she appreciated
his generosity, but she knew she did not love him. She

knew that he was offering everything for nothing, and

the honesty of her soul would not let him make so un-
equal a bargain. She put him gently away from her.

“No, Charles,” she said, sadly, ‘it cannot be. Ishould
despise myself if
way.”

“It is no sacrifice,”
my happiness. Iask nothing better of life than to be
allowed to work for you and yours.”

“But by and by you would ask something more.
would want your wite’s love.”

‘And 1 would win it, Edith, if devotion could move
you—if the most sincere affection that ever a man felt
tora woman could galn your favor, I know it would be
given me. Iam willing to take you, dearest. just as you
are, and await the result.”

“No, itcannot be. Idonotiove you other than asa
dear and loyal friend.”

“But if ever the time comes when you feel differ-
ently —”

“If ever the time comes when I feel differently, Charles,
and you should still be of the Same mind, I will come to
you and tell you so. Never fear. And only Heaven
knows how much I appreciate the faithful love lam
compelled to refuse.”

So Charles Vincent had to be Satisfied, and his father

You

T let you sacrifice yourself in this |

he cried. warmly; ‘‘it will make |

he a true man? Was he married? Was his wife fair,
and haughty, and overbearing ?—like some of the fine
ladies sl had seen. ; ;

“And tse shuttle tangled in fhe thread;-ahd a bad
place cemne in the cloth, and Edith bent over it and
stopped. he loom; and then it was that she heard that
awtul cry.—awful. always, but terrible to her up in the
fourth story of that busy mill, and five rooms away from
the main stairway.

«Fire | firey fire!”

How it rang out, shrill and clear, above the clatter of |
the looms and the roar of the powerful machinery that
drove the works; and it was taken up by every pale-
faced woman in the room, as rushing toward the door,
already blocked up with a crowd of terrified operatives,
they met the stifling smoke filling every nook and cor-
ner of the place, drinking up the air, suffocating, and
choking, and blinding those who vainly sought to grope
their way to safety.

The great bell of the establishment clanged out from
the tower; the alarm of the fire engines sounded; the |
roar of the assembling multitude on the street reached
even that upper story where, mad with terror, those |
hapless women strove, and trampled upon each other
in their wild attempts to escape from that horrible
death.

The ponderous elevator. came up the smoking shaft.
There was ascream and a rush. It. was filled—every
| inch of space crammed—and still Edith was left behind.
| Pale as death, she stood still, leaning against the side of
the open window, to which she had staggered for air.

Every hope of escape was cut off. Up the opening
through which the elevator had disappeared the flames
were beginning to leap; the staircase had fallen with a
aie crash; the floor was hot and smoking beneath
ner feet.

She realized fully her awful situation. A prayer went
up from her heart for the oid man and woman who
would be stricken down by her loss. She thought of the
grassy meadows of Bloomfield, and of the blue: river
winding down so slowly to the sea; and then there came
to her a voice out of. the smoke and flame—a strong
voice, full of power and courage : :

“Speak tome! Icannot see you, but I will save you!
Speak !”

She stretched out her arms blindly through the
gloom.

‘‘Here!” she said; “I am here !”

A moment of dreadful suspense, and then she was
| lifted up by a pair of strong arms; she feit the throbbing
of the heart to which she was held; she looked into a
face she had never seen before, but it was a- face she
trusted, and she closed her eyes, and knew nothing
more.

{TO BE CONTINUED. }

 
    
 
   

ery ; her heart beat not.am
Gordon Graham, whose love for the

not as fierce and passionate as in the days of “at sane
Syne,” raised his head to behold the ideal woman Of his
dreams. Buoyant and fair as an embodied spring she
stood ‘‘a sight t0 make an old man young,” simply clad
in a neutral-tinted dress that fell in soft folds:about her |
pliant shape, one white, patrician hand holding daintily
aloft her parasol, while the other idly held the fan that
Vane had given her.

“Tf her hand were disengaged, would she offer it
to me ?” he wondered. An uncontrollable desire came
over him to tough it, to claspitin hisown. There came
to him no foreboding of the truth that they had ever
met, that the “hand he longed to press had once worn a
wedding-ring, put on by himself—that she was his wife,
this pure, sweet girl, whose heart was like the white
leaf of a lily.

His insouciance deserted him for the nonce; a versa-
tile talker, he had nothing to say; he was literally struck
speechless. He had ona suit of immaculate white linen,
such as Southern young men frequently wear. A mag-
nificent looking man, but to Hope, who knew him to her
sorrow, his beauty as repulsive as that of some
slimy serpent that Crawled the ground; he could not
compare With the tall man at her side, who was flinging
back scintillant nothings to the lady with the sweet
trainante voice and thetaee ot anenchantress. He had
a frank, thoroughly nobles the face she would have
given to King Arthur, to the Chevalier Bayard, to Rich-
ard the Lion Heart.

The four formed a striking group as they stood under
one of the pyramidal-shaped trees that dotted the
greensward. Hate had brotght them together, and the
three weird sisters were weaving about them, theoreti-
cally speaking, a woofy net whose threads could not be
broken at will, and from which they could not hope to
escape.

The men were blondes, but day and night could not
be more unlike; the ladies were brunettes, but there
the resemblance ceased—they could not be likened unto
each other in the slightest degree.

A few courteously exchanged sentences, the meaning-

| less stereotyped phrase that they might be good friends,

uttered, and the two couples parted, and the wife was
unrecognized by her husban@ Hope had nothing to
fear from him. A gladsome mood came over her, and
her laugh rang out merrily as they mounted the cottage
| Steps.

The sun swung, a lurid ball of fire, low in the western
sky. It had been a Gay of dumbrous sweetness, no
vigor, no vitality in the atmosphere; hence the growing
dusk was welcomed gladly by the guests of the Pavilion,
who gathered on the immense piazza to listen to the
music that surged loud and clea about them. ‘The trees

 

 

 

a > Oo  -

A TIGER PHOTOGRAPHED.

 

|

|

The photograph of a tiger in the act of springing upon

a buffalo, has been taken by an Englishman in Madras.
The artist had just focused his camera on a buffalo tied

to a stake, when a tiger unexpectedly leaped from a
jungle and seized the buffalo by the neck. The artist,
trembling like a child, waited for the requisite number
of seconds for the negative to be completed, then closed
| the camera and put his legs in motion until they had
| carried him out of danger. When the tiger had disap-
| peared, and there was nothing but the remains of a dead
| buffalo in range of the camera, the man returned, and
| found a fair negative showing the tiger’s mode of bound-
, ing on hisgprey.

i ——__>@<—__—_

| THE TALLOW TREE,

The tallow tree of China is increasing in commercial
| importance on account of the scareity of those animal
| fats which are now so largely used in making artificial
| butter. The fat of the tallow tree is found in thick lay-
ers in its truit, which grows abundantly and is easily
gathered. The substance is of a yellowish color, and
| highly aromatic; it burns quite well in its natural con-
| dition. itis gathered in the summer and fall. Placed
; in hot water, the fat comes to the Surface, and is then
remelted and run into bamboo molds. The product is
green in color, and melts at 40 deg. Fahrenheit.

 

 

 

> © <+—_______——-

CONSUMPTION CURED.

An old physician, retired from practice, haying had placed
in his hands by an East India missionary_the formula of a
simple vegetable remedy for the speedy and permanent cure
of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, Asthma, and all Throat
and Lung Affections, also a positive and radical cure for
Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints, after: having
tested its wonderful curative powers in thousands of cases,
has felt it his duty to make it known to his suffering fellows.
Actuated by this motive and a desire to relieve human suffer-
ing, I will send free of charge this recipe, in German, French,
or English, with full directions for preparing and using.

| were full of stilly, subtle psalms.
| Witching hour of day.
| and Mr. Blake.

It was truly the most
On theporch sat the two ladies

Ethel had partially succeededin vanquishing the. vul-
gar color from her face by a plejteous use of buttermi?k,

| and she was like some blushing moss-rose in her ravish-

ing toilet of diaphanous pink. Her hair was dressed
high on her head, and was arrarged in fashionable style.
A frown darkened her brow as the two ascended the
steps, Vane’s hands loaded.dewa with his purchases.

“What a lovely fan!” sires@aplaimed, as the gentle-
man tossed the one intended fot her in her lap.

“Do you think so? Well, F tought it expressly for
you. I remembered hearing you observe that you
adored fans.”

“They are my mania.
Queen Elizabeth.” *

“And as proficient in wieldips the coquetish thing as
Mrs. Abington,” he said, gallanly. ‘“‘When you sway
it to and fro these words rise vivdly to my mind:

“Pray, ladies, copy Abbington ;
Observe the breeding ik her air ;
There’s nothing of the ictress there ;
Assume her fashion, ifyou can,

And catch the graces ofher fan.’”

She inclined her head in graciais acknowledgment of
the compliment, eagerly swallaving the pabulum of
flattery, without stopping to analyze its flavor or sweet-
ness.

“It is kind of you to bear in remembrance what I
like, but [am out of patience wth you for not asking
me to accompany you two in youjwalk. Ofcourse, you
went to the springs ?” ;

“Assuredly, and I swallowed tyvo immense glasses of
the bitter stuff. One of Sharon’s habitues pronounced
it ‘not fit for the dogs,’and declared that it ‘smelt like
rotten eggs.’ You were up stars, either beautifying
yourself or taking a siesta, when ve started out, else I
would have carried you off, too. You were fortunate to
escape a walk in the broilimg sun. To-morrow my
horses will be here, and we wWilljake many a long ride
over the Sharon hills.” ’

“That will be delightful,” her good humor ftvlly re-
stored at this pleasing announcanent. ‘‘What a pic-
turesque village Sharon is !”

“It is rightly called the Badea-Baden of America.

I am aggreat a lover of fans as

 

 

 

Sent by mail, by addressing, with stamp, naming this Rape,
W. A. Noyes, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, N. Y.

Some of the hotels on #he flat are filled with Germans.

  

   
     
  
 

 

    

’ ad accepted as his w
hesitation, to be other than she pretended?
“The resemblance may be purely accidental,” h
ated, ‘but I doubt it. Relationships must ib
ie same blood must run through their veins. They-
tf enough alike to be twins, and——Yes, yes; I can’t
He wrong. Anyhow, I must ferret out the thing if it
lies within my power. Walter Blake does not know the
meaning of the word fail, and in this undertaking he
must succeed. IfIam not laboring finder a delusion,

frustrated. My lady is in the dark as yet, and I hope
she may continue to be in the dark; but she is sharp-
sighted, and can see a good ways. Cool and passioniess
as she looks, there are volcanic elements raging within,
and she is gifted with more spirit than a cursory ob-
server would give her credit for possessing. Ha, ha! I
| roused her ire with that thrust of mine. I am sorry I
| have incurred her dislike. I made a wrong move in not
trying to insinuate myself into her good graces—a de-
cidedly wrong move. For once the Keen-witted lawyer
has acted like a fool. She will be on her guard against
me in the future, if she has anything to conceal, as TI be-
lieve. I must apologize for my rudeness.”

A favorable. opportunity arrived. In removing her
hand trom the railing, she knocked off her fan resting
there. Blake jumped with alacrity from his chair,
picked it up, and, as he handed it to her, said, peni-
tently: ’

“Forgive my rudeness, Miss Huntley ; I did not intend
to offend. Mr. Graham is such a model of manly beauty

I ought to
Say you for-

that women cannot well help adoring him.
have known that you were an exception.
give me.”

“If no offense was meait, none is taken, monsieur ;”
and the girl quietly accepted the fan and languidly
swung it to and fro.

The explanation had not adjusted matters as he could
have wished, and the discomfited man turned away, the
ghost of a smile on his lips, an angry feeling welling
up in his heart against the dark-draped figure—a
shadow among other shadows, whose eyes were bent
on the sloping green lawn, which was alive with fire-
flies, that emitted with every movement brilliant sparks
of flame.

The lamps were now being lighted. The day had died,
and the night was ushered in. Mrs. Northrup was the
first to move. s

‘“T ordered tea to be brought to the cottage to-night,
not caring to appear at the table d’ hote, and the waiters
are bringing the comestibles now.
grand hop, Mr. Blake tells me, and you ladies will like
to ‘trip the light fantastic toe,’ especially Ethel, who is
inordinately tond of dancing, if not too worn-out with
your journey. How is it, Ethel?
your buoyant flow of spirits ?”

“If not, the mere mention of hop, and the anticipa-
tion of creating a decided sensation by appearing in my
ravishing new lilac robe, would restore to me my wont-
ed vigor. You will attend, Lucy ?”

“T will act as chaperone. I donot dance, you know,
but I am always an amused spectator. Come, let’s go
to tea. You will join us in our meal, Mr. Blake ?”

 

CHAPTER XIV.
IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE.

‘After the meal had been disposed of, the ladies re-
tired to their respective apartments to do justice to their
beauty by going through the mysteries of an elaborate
toilet. i

Hope wearily examined her wardrobe. She had a
number of pretty dresses to choose from. and some
choice ornaments, gifts of the dead. She anticipated
a long, wearisome evening. Her husband would be
there, undoubtedly, as he was a guest of the hotel and
did not pretend to meurn for his lost wife; they would
meet face to face ; he perhaps would address her, and,
if she could not hide the repugnance she felt toward
him, recognize her; and then there would be an ex-
posure, and she would have to seek a situation in some
other home ; for live with him, or accept a cent from his
coffers since she knew why he had married her, was
something she could not do.

“Mr. Blake suspects that I am acting a part,” she
murmured, ‘‘and Ethel Granger hates me, though why
it is hard to determine, as I have never laid a straw in
her way. She cannot help the feeling probably. We
are antagonistic—diametrically opposed in all things. I
{do not blame her for disliking me, but, shculd a chance
| arise, she will injure me in Mrs. Northrup’s estimation,
| and Vane’s. Iam hedged round with embarrassments,
| but,” a look of determination on her face, <I will not be
| driven from the scene; I will be brave and defy them.
I will sustain my part to the best of my ability. It I
tailit shall not be my fault. After all,” growing bolder
as she thus speciously reasoned, “there is no danger
since the vulpine glance of my false husband has rested
} upoh me—and the glance of hate is keener than that of
| love—uniless, among the guests of the Pavilion, I should
meet one of my school-mates. None of the dear old
neighbors at Warwick would dream that Mrs. Northrup’s
companion, and the little wild elf that used to electrify
them as she dashed by on old Black’s back, were one
and the same. What happy days those were! Oh, for

 

 

 

 

  
   

 

day scheme is in jeopardy—in imminent peril of being confident of bearing off the palm of beauty that

There is to be a |

Have you recovered |

bea very commonplace one indeed—incomplete in every
Way.”

“‘Well, perhaps you are right,” he laughed; ‘although
Icannot divest myseli of the impression that the opal
bodes ili to the wearer. What shalll place in my but-
ton-hole in lieu of the discarded ded a
His presence was so perilously sweet to her that she
forgot she belonged to another, an@ this man could be
no more to her than any friend. She artfully’ ?

"a geranium of as fastened leaf
and pansy to the lapel of his coat. _. .
She was in the act of giving the finishing touch when
Miss Granger swept down the stairs, the glistering folds
of her fan-shaped train trailing far behind her. Radiant
in lilac silk, the corsage cut low and edged round with a
profusion oi gossamer lace, with diamonds flashing their
meretricious splendor on her showy person, blinking on
her bare arms, and peering like demons’ eyes from out
the mass of hair of so pale a gold that it looked not un-
like a flossy heap of raveled silk, the spoiled girl had

 
      
      
   
    
    
    
    
  
  

   

 
       
     
    

  

evening.

There was a greenish glitter in the blue eyes, and a
compression of the full, red lips, as she caught sight of
the girl attaching the pansy to the coat of the princely
man bending so deferentially above her.

She stepped back, arching her eyebrows significantly.

“Ah! Am I intruding ?—putting an end to a right
pretty bit of sentiment? You have imparted an artistic
look to that button-hole ornament, Miss Huntley.
a gage Vamour ?”

Hope stood haughtily silent, not deigning to reply;
but lifting his handsome
lightly :

“T lacked something to my toilet, and did not find out
what it was till I noticed the bunch of heart’s-ease at
Miss Huntley’s throat, when I petitioned for one of the
gold-eyed things to place in my coat.
accessory, I think. Where is Lucy ?”

“Coming!” cried a gentle voice; and the owner ap-
peared, habited in a costume of silver-gray, brightened
by rose-tinted ribbons.
ball-room ?

is .if

tawny head, Vane said,

It isa charming

“Are you ready to enter the
The band has been playing some time, and

1 could see figures gliding hither and thither. gorgeous,

and somber as the figures of the Renaissance, from my
How well you ladies are looking! Vane, you
Ah, here is Mr.

window.
can be justly proud of our party.
| Blake.”

| It was a calm night, with clear-eyed stars shining
| down from the vaulted dome like human eyes, and a
| soft, caressing breeze sighing over the hills like some
| Wandering spirit.
| “This breeze is exhilarating after such an enervating
day,” Vane remarked to Ethel, who was hanging on his
j}arm. ‘I don’t enjoy such ultra-hot, still days—days
| minus those electric currents that stir the sluggish pulse
: and rouse the torpid brain.”
| “No? That is odd. You never gave vent tosucha
rank, heretical opinion before. Has some fairy touched
you with her magic wand and aroused you to life and
action? Have you, then, emerged from your lotus-like
| existence, fired with the ambition, the indomitable will
. requisite to render you famous? What a jolly crowd!”
| her tone losing its petulance and adopting a lightness
peculiarly its own.

They had stepped on the broad piazza, one mass of
moving people. Out to them soared the ‘‘7ausend und
Eine Nacht” waltz of Strauss, and the party slowly
promenaded till the witching strains had died away and
the devotees of Terpsichore had ceased revolving to the
measures of the tune. Then they entered the long
room—such a distingue-looking party that all eyes turn-
ed with one accord upon them, and alow, suppressed
murmur of admiration, net dissimilar to the far-off hum
of aswarm of bees, ran around; but Ethel experienced
a thrill of envy, amounting to positive hate, as she real-
ized that the paid companion, and not, the exclusive
heiress, was the ‘‘cynosure of all eyes,” and after that
one appreciative look, as she swept by, all glances set-
tied on this

«Daughter of the gods, divinely tall and most divinely fair,”

who floated along as if unconscious of the sensation she
was creating.

By an open window sat an imposing elderly lady in
black, with hair white as snow—Mrs. Murray; and near
her, conversing in low tones, were her daughter and
Gordon Graham.

The gentleman drew hard his breath. Never in all his
wildest dreams had he imagined any one half so lovely
as this luminous-eyed girl, who swept down the room,
her carriage blending the grace of a Thalia with the
stateliness of a Juno. Was he bewitched ? Had he for-
gotten the lady at his side, in whose veins biue blood
ran, upon whom he had lavished a mine of love in the
days that were no more—the lady of whom his first
thought was when he stood looking down on his wife's
dead face and realized that the shackles had fallen from
him—that he was no longer a Slave—that he was free?
She was nothing to him now; dead and buried was the
old love, and a resurrection was impossible.

“Kismet! it is written! She is my fate, for goodor
evil,” he mused. ‘If my wife were alive I would feel
like thrusting a dagger in her heart to rid me of her, so
that I might be free to woo and win. this beauteous girl.
How the’ blood seethes in my veins! Sheis so pure and
guileless—so like a pictured Madonna—that I could al-
most turn saint myself to win her. Is she heart-whole
still? She assuredly is, if not enamored of that six-
footed blonde with the ocean-tinted eyes, who follows
her like a shadow. There is something irresistibly win-
ning about him, Pll admit, but undeniably comely as he
is, 1 am yet comelier. The woman does not exist who
can resist Gordon Graham.”

His good-humor restored, he chatted amicably with

 

 

 

 

 

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“woman buried at Warwick—the face of his dead wife.

_ Was, aS the whole wor

 

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the ladies, occasionally stealing furtive glances at the
girl who was to him so powerfully magnetic. _

She sat a little farther down the long room. half con-
cealed by the drapery at the window, using the parti-
celored fan Vane had given her, her opal bracelet scat-
tering rays of light upon the milk-white arm. A change,
subtle, indefinable, stole over the man. As she turned
her head to reply to some remark of Mrs. Northrup’s,
her eyes were like Rizpah’s—her face the face of the

The lights of the chandelier assumed various colors,
and danced before his vision like witch-lights on the
Brocken ; the music sounded like the roaring of Niagara
in his ears; everything was novel and unreal. Was he
going mad? Was there aresemblance between the

iri and his dead wife, or had it no real existence save

the shifting kaleidoscope of a disordered mind? He
must get near her, speak to her, and see if the thoughts
intruding upon him like unwelcome guests, overwhelm-
ing him with their intensity, would not go away.

He excused himself as best he could, and crossed over
to where the figure in the chilling white sat, with the
lovely, dew. oe rom pansies at her throat.

Ethel had en the arm of Vane, who was condu:t-
ing her to the head of a set bee formed on the fioor.
Blake stood atthe side of an insipid, yellow-tressed
blonde ; so Lucy and Hope were alone.

Gordon took possession of one of the vacated seats,
and,-atter he had eats tnt polite sentences with
Mrs. Northrup, to whom introduced him, gave his
undivided attention to the fair brunette, whose likeness
to his dead wife vanished as she talked.

Gordon was devoutly glad of this, and, freed from all
restraint, grew gay and debonair, and talked and
laughed merrily.

- “fhope you do not taboo dancing, Miss Huntley ?” he
said, as the figures on the floor glided by them, thread-
ing the labyrinth of a fashionable dance.

“Oh, no,” she laughed, her. hand caressing the pan-
‘gies kissing her white throat. ‘I was not brought up by
Strait-laci Puritan parents, and I am as passionately
fond of dancing as all modern girls are considered to
be. I am a stanch admirer of the goddess Terp-
sichore.”

«Are you? Perhaps you will honor me with your
hand for the next set, then ?”

“It is a cotillon, and I have promised to dance it with
Mr. Tunter.”

“Ah!” he ejaculated, as he bit his mustached lip
rather savagely, an ominous glitter in his steely blue

eyes. —
What manner of girl was this, to be so indifferent to
‘one to whom ladies never said no? He was not used to

rat are a flower so sweet that any man would like to
pluck.

Was it malice prepense or chance that the almond-
shaped orbs, over which the curling lashes drooped, were
raised unfalteringly to Graham’s face ?

¥ was not unprepared for that quick glance she shot
at him.

He smiled lazily, and said :

“What sort of a flower do you liken Miss Huntley
unto?’

“The edelweiss, growing ofttimes in such dangerous,
inaccessible places that one can behold but not touch,”
she returned, watching with listiess air the picturesque,
moving throng. 3

‘But who would choose to climb the jutting cliff and
approach the blossom that the Germans love, when be-
low, nearer at hand, appealing wildly to one’s senses,
lives a beauteous lotus-flower? The edelweiss may
beckon trom its dizzy height, but the sweet-breathed
lotus-bloom is the flower of my idolatry.”

“You show your good sense in preferring the lotus,
Mr. Grahani,” Hope carelessly remarked ; ‘‘the edelweiss
is not to be compared to it.” ,

No one answered, but Sibyl looked as if she doubted
his word.

The music had subsided, and the dancers were being
seated by their partners or taken to the broad piazza for
a promenade.

When Vane approached to claim Hope’s hand for the
promised dance, Sibyl said :

“J want you to reserve the coming waltz for me, Miss
Huntley. I like to be odd, so I never waltz with men.”

Hope eagerly assented, and was led out by Vane, leav-
ing her husband glowering after her. He who never had
cause before was now consumed with jealousy.

Admiring glances followed the two, who seemed made
purposely tor each other, and numerous were the queries
as to who this girl was—this superb brunette, to whom
the man who did not.care for the society of ladies—who
was almost, if not quite, a misogynist—was paying such
marked attention.

No one was ready to answer the question, for she was
an entire stranger to all Save the party with whom she
came, till it was put to Miss Granger by Mesdames Ros-
situr and Pendleton, who were descanting vaguely on
the charms of the ladies present. ee ae

“That girl in white ?” slowly repeated Ethel, her tone
suggestive ofa sneer. ‘‘Have you reference to the one
with that magnificent opal bracelet on her arm dancing
with Mr, Hunter, who is trying so hard to attract atten-
tion? That is Hope Huntley, I believe.”

«Hope Huntley,” iterated Mrs. Rossitur, a peony-
cheeked woman in peacock blue; ‘‘a nice name, having

 

being treated thus cavalierly.
“Tbe next set, then?” he pleaded. ‘Itis a waltz—my |
favorite.”

decidedly a Quakerish sound. Is she a relative, or his
Jiancee ? ;
“Neither,” sarcastically retorted Ethel, twirling her

“] waltz but little,” she said, coolly ; ‘and not at all | diamond-studded_ bracelet on her arm till it retracted

wi entlemen. Pardon me, but I did not suppose
Pp pated in the frivolous amusements of the day,
Mr. Graham. I thought you felt the loss of your wife,
keenly to indulge.”
; incandescent flames ——
trom fis eyes and played over his handsome face. How
he checked the fiery words, the bitter oaths that lay on
his lips, he could never tell. Was she bound to rouse
his ire—to bring into play the imps of fury within him?
Which nm Was paramount in his heart for her just
then? It was hard to decide.
¥ had sued in vain. The girl whose touch thrilled
him, whose voice was sweetest music to his ears,
cruelly unkind. - |
‘His manner was collected, and his voice did not |
vibrate with the emotion he was struggling against, as |
he made reply : ’ j
“You prove an unkind mentor, if a just one, Miss |
Huntiey. Lnever p to care for my wife. It}
ld knows, a marriage de conven- |
ance. Iflecould have prolonged her life I would have |
done so; but now that she isreposing quietly in the |
bosom of mother earth, I do not feel it incumbent upon |
me to profess a sorrow which does not exist, or resist
the pleasures which can be mine. Ido not care much

you | every spark of light; “but, j

was
only a companion was circulated through the room. It

1 her actions, I
should say she wanted to be the latter. She’s nothing

; more nor less than his sister’s paid com n.”

\: “A companion, and paid at t!” sneered the elegant
Mrs. Pendleton, whose husband had made a fortune in

| soap. ‘‘Who would have dreamtit? She has quite the
air of a grand lady, dances exquisitely, and dresses with
taste. That glittering bracelet must ‘have cost a fine

sum—a relic of better days, I presume, or a gift from an |

admirer. Well, as she is a nobody, I do not care to know
her, though she is countenanced by such high-bred

people as the Northrups.”

So the story that the girl dancing with Mr. Hunter was

did not tend to lessen the admiration she was receiving,
as Ethel had hoped when giving the intormation to the
two gossiping mesdames, and several young men, Count
Trevi among them, were bent on being her partner
for at least one dance ; so, after whirling giddily around
with Sibyl Murray to the music of the ‘Beautiful Blue
Danube,” and envied by the ladies, and extolled by the
men, as she was fanning herself by an open window,
and talking with Mrs. Murray, Vane drew near with a

| dark-browed man whom he presented as ‘Count Trey-
| lyn,” and who at once begged that he might have the

for dancing, but Lfeelit would be joy to whirl around | honor of being her partner for the next set, to which
the room with the loveliest lady at the ball—the belle of | Hope unhesitatingly gave consent.

the Pavilion—in my arms. Havelsinned beyond for-
giveness ? .

Count Trevlyn was aman of about forty years of age,
with exceptionably good manners, and a dark, refined

“You are’ over-bold, methinks, but I do not care to; face. He was sensible and unpretending; and, in no-

provoke a controversy. Your doings can in no wise
affect me;”’ and she stirred the air slightly with her
Tan. :

“Why.so? Isthe dislike you entertain toward me
so strong and invincible that it cannot be overcome ?
Speak, girl! I ani no monstrosity, but a well-made,
handsome man. Why am I an object of hatred to you?”

“] did not intimate that you were. _ Why should I dis-
like you? You get queer notions in your head, sir.
Let us change the subject, please; itisa ogy chaps cg
one to both, and hee heartily weary of it.
ham”—a moment. Tr,

Lucys attention—‘won’'t

Miss Murray is sitting ?” you pilot me over to where

“What for?” suspiciously. ‘Are you anxious to es- |
cape a tete-a-tete with me ?”
i | ham, she did not feel uneasy as she now felt; for she

considered the matter. I will talk with you
till tired some other day. This dark, glowing creature
is like one of Titian’s inspirations. She has the beauty

| wise awed by his rank, Hope enjoyed the little chat they
| had preparatory to their taking their places on the floor.
: This act. of Count Trevlyn’s stamped Hope as a some-
| body, it nothing but a hired companion, and more than
| one in Ethel’s hearing pronounced her the ‘belle of the
| ball,” causing that lady to bite her lip in vexation of
| Spirit and vow “she would unearth her secret if she
| had any to unearth.”

; _ Ethel was not enjoying the evening as she had antici-

| pated. A beauty and a belle, it was something new for
r. Gra- her to be passed over by the crowd, and to see another
as an old acquaintance claimed |

{longed to her. To be sure, when Sibyl ¥
| present the honors had been divided, and they had been

bear off the palm that she considered so ey be-
urray was

deemed rivals, but as Ethel was aware that atl the
love Sibyl had to give was bestowed upon Gordom Gra-

was bent upon becoming the wife of Vane Hunter, who,
all unconscious of her passing anger, stood by Lucy’s

ot Delilah, the fascination of C tra. I shall name | chair, fanning her, and following with his eyes the grace-

to escort me? If

can find way alone.”
neath i th offering her his arm.

and

49 pleasure,” rising
“1 hall make known to Miss Murray your partiality for
Mae at pie

CHAPTEK XV.
“ EDELWEISS AND LOTUS.

When Sibyl Murray persuaded her mother to write.
and e: a cottage at Sharon Springs for the season,
it never entered her head that Gordon Graham would
also select that very spot fora resting-place. She was

we ad not enjoyed good. health for a year past,

    

     
  

  
 

 

 

         

act—and & Tew Weeks’ Stay In tie ner Bad |
Saratoga, or a sojourn. in Newport the other |

or any of
exciting fashionable resorts she was in the habit of fre-
quenting, she had no relish for; consequently, she

a floating figure of Hope, as she moved through the

ance.
| The vexed girl crossed over to Lucy and took the seat
Vane handed her. . ‘

*Lucy,” she said, in the artless way she could so well
assume, ‘doesn’t it strike you that your companion is a
little inclined to flirt ?”

“Hal ha!” laughed Vane, ere his sister could reply,
“would she be a woman otherwise? That is her pre-
rogative, methinks, and Miss Huntley would be less
than mortal if she did not feel elated at the marked
| compliment paid her by: this titled man, who, to my
| knowledge, never asked any girl to dance before. You
| are not envious, Ethel ?” ae

 

Floyd Granger’s daughter could not be envious of a
working girl.”
“But, Ethel,” his brow darkening, “that ought not to

packed up her things and went to Sharon; and when, | lower her in the estimation of any sensible person. It
upon sauntering out the day of her arrival, she met her | is laudable and praisewouthy of her to earn her own
quondam lover face to face, she Was more annoyed than | living. Miss Huntley is a lady in the strictest sense of

 

 

ous drapery of her maize-colored silk; “1 was growing

- gome couple they are!. They seem to be created ex-
_ pressly for each other.”

- contrast to satisfy me.

a compliment, that random shot of mine.

 

  

 

- words can tell.

She was not ofa forgiving disposition, and the feel-

- ing she had fostered—kept warm for the past five years

—was akin to that of hate; and she had made many a }

_ rash vow in the days dead and gone, when she had suf-
- fered such poignant anguish through his falsity.

His
wife’s death had proven something of a shock to her,
but since it had taken place, although she had never
hoped for it, a revolution had been going on in her heart
—a revulsion of feeling had been taking place. The
rich, passionate blood of the South flowed freely in her
veins, and with the blind idolatry of an Indian fakir she |
adored this man, with whom she had held no communi-
cation for years, who stepped out from under the ;
branches of a mountain-ash, and extended his hand, |
the love-light of old shining in his eyes.
After one fierce inward struggle, She succumbed. She |
placed her dusky palm in his, and a reconciliation was
effected. No explanations were made, but there was a |

- tacit understanding that, when the year of mourning |
| gentle Lucy, who had been a pained listener to the con- |

which custom exacts had expired, a marriage should
take place between them. She was more gloriously

beautiful than when he had been compelled by circum-
_ stances to renounce her, and if fate had not thrown in

his path the girl he had once scorned, he would have
been faithful to her.

Keen of comprehension, Sibyl had intercepted that |
first admiring glance of his bestowed upon the dainty
creature, who stood unconcernedly by the side of Vane
Hunter, as introductions took place, and she felt intui-
tively that the clouds might once again drift over the
sunshine breaking through—that once again her vacil-
lating lover might prove untrue.

To-night she had arrayed herself with a view to please
his fastidious taste. More like an enchantress than ever
she looked. A maize-colored silk, profusely trimmed
with black Spanish lace, enveloped her tall, willowy
shape; a string of diamonds ran a streamlet of dazzling
light around her swan-like neck ; in the luxuriant braids
ot intense black hair, piled high above her brow, was
perched a golden butterfly, whose outspread wings were
ablaze with diamonds; and on either plump, symmetri-
cal arm was coiled a golden asp, with twinkling ruby
ot A bouquet of golden Mareschal Neil roses lay in

er lap.

_ “An Eastern princess—an Oriental queen,” thought
Hope, as her eyes rested on the rich attire, the lovely
tace of the lady, who smiled asshe made room for her
at her side.

‘I coaxed Mr. Graham to bring me here,” she ex-
lained. <I wanted to talk to you. Would you rather I
ad staid away ?” ;

“Certainly not,” smiled Sibyl, adjusting the volumin-

weary of watching the moving figures. How is it you
are not on the floor? Don’t you dance?”

“Occasionally—yes. I am not acquainted with any
one at the springs outside the tamily with whom I came.”

“There will not be a dearth of partners long. I
prophesy that you will be besieged with claimants for’
your hand, once they can get Mr. Hunter to bring them
forward. That is he now walking through the quadrille
with Ethel Granger. - Rumor couples their names to-
gether. Are they affianced, or is the gossip, as is so
often the case, without foundation ?”

[am not prepared to say,” Hope replied, avoiding the
inquisitorial gaze of her companion.

“She lights up prettily,” continued the fair interlocu-
tor; ‘men Call hera charming woman. ‘Her sobriquet
among them is ‘The Morning Star.’ Mr. Hunter appre-
ciates her evidently.”

. “Yes,” acknowledged are feeling herself arraigned
before a sort of consolidated inquisition. ‘‘What a hand-

“Do you think so? Nonsense! There is not enough
You or I,” with suspiciously
slow intonation, ‘‘would suit him better. A fair man
should always marry a dark woman, and vice versa.

much sameness palls. Congeniality of tastes should
exist, but not a similarity of looks. Hair, eyes, and
complexion should not be as if off the same piece. Am
I fanciful? Perchance; but, ma chere,” in the soft,
caressing way habitual to her, “I have singled you out
for him,

M thanks,” and the girl gave an erprernye shrug
to her shoulders which spoke volumes, ‘‘but I am quite
capable of taking care of my Own interests—of choosing
my own husband.”

A ¥ jangle of laughter followed this hasty
speech. ;

“There, don’t annihilate me, ma belle/ I meant it as
Vane Hunter
is a noble man, courtly, pleasant to look upon; and you

 

 

 

 

 

 

| his arm at once, not hesitantly, as she was wont to do

the term.” ;

‘Doubtless. Have you traced out her pedigree that
you are so prompt to espouse her cause? Of what
genealogical tree is shea branch? Who were her an-
cestors, pray ?”

«When you are appointed and constituted by lawful
authority my Boater: I will be explicit in my replies.
You are not used to being so unjust, Ethel.”

She realized that she had gone too far, so strove to |
make the amende honorable, though not in a concilia- |
tery way.

“You are right,” she said, ‘“‘andif your sister’s com-

“Nay, [cannot tell you that.
mind whom,” he hastened to answer, aroused to the fact
that he was on the point of betraying something that
must be kept secret. ‘Pardon me, but it was rude and
ungentiemanly of me to speak thus of a lady, and that
lady,” pointedly—‘‘your friend perchance.” ;

‘No, not my friend,” with decided emphasis on the
noun. ‘I do not grow intimate with working-girls. But
you needn’t hesitate to inform me of whom she reminds
you. Iam inimical to her, and you are afraid of her.
Say, of whom does she remind you ?”

“TJ tell you lam unable to say,” he retorted, vexed at
her pertinacity. ,

“Will not, you mean! You prevaricate.”

“Well, have it so, if you choose” he laughed. ‘‘Miss
Granger,” waxing contidential..‘you dislike her because
Vane Hunter is struck with her-—purposes making her
his wife in due time. Nay, do not draw away indignant-
ly. I have a confession to make. You with your super-
ior penetration have discerned that I bear her no good
will. Why, itis not to my interest to divulge, and, in
all probability, you will never learn. Suffice it te say that
she stands in way even as she stands in yours. Shall
we combine our forces and rout her, so that she flees
from the field in despair ?”

“Tf we can ‘do so—yes. Whatis to be the first move in
the scheme to overthrow and drive her from the scene ?”
“That Ihave not decided upon. We have such high-
minded people to contend with that we must be dis-
creet, and not make a move unless we are sure it will
not be afailure. You can do much. Drop well-timed
insinuations; use subterfuge or something of that sort,
and don’t matters too stringently. careful not
to overdo the thing.’ Shall we go inside ?”

Once again during the evening husband and wife
came in contact. Sibyl Murray was walled in by a cres-
cent of celebrities, and, as wit and persiflage flew
— Graham found a chance to speak alone

ope. ;

«Anticipation has not proven better than reality to
you this evening,” he said, meaningly. ‘The count has
been devoted, and the unanimous opinion of those pres-
ent is that you are the ‘belle of the ball.’ You have
danced till your head must swim. You could dance with
others, why not with me? Am I not a gentleman ?”

She would have been glad tobe able to retort, ‘‘No,
you are not,” but unless she were circumspect and hid
the hatred she felt, it might lead to her detection ; and
so she returned. evasively : y

“You could not have been iirearnest, sir, for I have
not noticed you on the floor this evening, not even with
Miss Murray.” ——

“Still | was in earnest—sadly s6.. Why do you coupl
thy name with Miss Murray’s sv persistently? I can’t
see that I am bound to be more attentive to her than to
any other lady friend present.”

“No? Thatis singular. A council representing pub-
lic opinion has sat upon the matter here at the Pavilion,
ian pronounced you the prospective husband of Sibyl
Murr: y.’ * 3

He writhed uneasily in his chair; his tawny beard cov-
ered the fiendish smile that parted his lips.

‘You have an angelic countenance, young lady,” he

take positive delight in uttering annoying things.
Why,” waxing belligerent, as she sat there calm and
unruffied, wielding her fan and letting her eye rove in-
differently about the room, “it is an t you have
offered me—a deadly insult. The nicety of honor that
prohibits a man from dancing because he has lately
buried a wife, should preclude all possibility of his rush-
ing into a premature marriage.”

The taunt did not have the desired effect.. Her com-
posure was unalterable; a sphinx could not have been
more unmoved, and she made no pretense of conciliat-
ing the man, whose proximity sickened her. If she dared
tell him how she hated him—that it was her express
wish that he should never look at her, never address her
again! :

“You are silent. Why don’t you retort? Has your
tongue lost its venom ?” he impatiently cried. :

“I have nothing further to Sayon the subject. Let it
drop, please. Why continue if, when it is proving a
bone of contention between ua? You are disputatiously
| inclined, methinks.” =
| Ere he could retaliate, with Good-night, sir; Mrs.
Northrup is becko
| prived of her society,
him.

 

  
  
 

e balliom was a dull spot for

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

TELE

Murray Hill Mystery:

HINDOO DETECTIVE’S PLEDGE.

By DONALD |, McKENZIE,

Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,”
“MIRIAM BLAIR,” etc.

 

 

“THE Murray Hint Mystery’ was commenced in No. 12.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. } ,

 

    
  
    

 

    
 

| Ary of alarm broke from the lips of the man whose
foot had been seized by the detective.

Yankee George was a powerful man, and not knowing
that he was being resisted by more than the weight of
the {person he was trying to pull away from the hatch,
he liftea and tugged with all his strength.

The Hindoo detective, with silent determination, seiz-
ed the ioot with his other hand,and gave a vigorous
downward pull. ;

With an ejaculation of dismay Yankee George let go
his hold, and the man, thus released, camé down into
the cuddy with a violence that nearly stunned him.

A glance at his face revealed his identity. He was

 

anion ogies and flirts with all the eligible men at the
avilion, it is no concern of mine ; so I will be mum, and |
allow matters to take their course. She has fine eyes, |
Tll admit, and she sways her fan with all the coquettish |
charm of a Spaniard, but she is not such a decided |

| beauty as Sibyl Murray, and I marvel at the taste of |

those who term her the ‘belle of the ball.’”
“Tastes differ, you must remember, Ethel,” put in

versation. ‘“Noone questions Miss Murray’s claim to
being a beauty; it is too assured to be disputed; but
there is a grandeur of simplicity about Hope Huntley
that would draw all eyes upon her in any crowd.
Neither do I think her a flirt. She is naturally of a}
joyous turn of mind, if she does wear such a sad, sad
face at times, and it would be prudish and absurd of her
not to talk and entertain the gentlemen with whom she
comes in contact.”

Ethel said no more, but she meant to prove to Lucy
and Vane, too, as the days went on, that the girl whom
she began to hate so bitterly was not only a coquette,
but an unprincipled one. That Walter Blake had con-
ceived an aversion to her she felt instinctively. She had
read dread in his eyes the first time they rested on her
pure face. Despite the knowledge of Hope’s being a
stranger to him, she was certain that he was inimical to
her and was afraid of her. Why? That, by fair means
or foul, she must discover. It might help to instill the |
poison of distrust in Vane’s mind. if she could once |
prove that she was unscrupulous, and not what she |
pretended to be, she would not stand in her path asa
rival, for Vane Hunter was upright and honorable to a
degree that was ridiculous.

But she must change her tactics, in order that the
seeds she was about to sow might bring forth the re-
quired fruit. She must meet Hope with a Judas smile,
and work in an underhand way, never openly, so that:
when she betrayed ber, her agency in the matter should
not be suspected.

With this project in view she was civil and agreeable
to Walter Blake when he asked her to dance, and took |

when tendering a similar petition, ani doffed the pa-
tronizing and rather consequential air with which she
not infrequently favored him, for she looked down
somewhat on this aspiring young lawyer, who, though
on the road to distinction and wealth, did not belong to
any of the exclusive, blue-blooded families with whom
the Grangers associated. :

Sharp of wit, he detected the difference in her de-
meanor toward him, but bided his time to find the clew.
She was too shallow-pated not to disclose her reason
whenever it was convenient; so, when they had waltzed
two or three times around the room, their steps beating
time perfectly, and she had given him to understand
that a turn or two on the piazza would not be disagree-
able, he felt that, figuratively speaking, she would dis-
play her hand.

They fell intothe gay procession of couples moyin
slowly across the piazza. Just ahead of them eT
to be Hope, banging on the arm of the count. Back of
them fioated the girl’s joyous laugh, provoked by some
diverting sally of her companion. ‘

“‘Sycophancy figures liberally at our popular resorts,
Mr. Blake,” Ethel said, familiarly, leaning heavily on his
arm. ‘Tbe would-be fashionables will truckle to high-
sounding names.”

“Does that trite remark apply to Miss Huntley?” he
questioned.» °

“It does,” She unhesitatingly replied.

Then, as he kept mute, she asked carelessly, as-if the
question had just entered her mind and was not volun
tary on her part: ,

«How do you like Miss Huntley ?”

The abruptness of her question threw him off his

guard. ;

“How do Llike her? Not in the least. When I first
beheid her, it was as if a ghost from the past had arisen
to confront me—a most unwelcome one, by the way.
She is strikingly like——-”

Louis Jordan, the rejected lover of Helena Evans.
Yankee George peered down into the cuddy, his brutal!
face flushed with his exertions. |
Seeing Hyjah in possession of his liberty, the ruffian
dodged away from the hatch, and the detective could

hear him running across the deck. ~

The Hindoo did not lose amoment of time. He bound-
ed up to the deck, andsprangin pursuit of his foe.

The latter had reached the low rail of the little craft,
which was a small, graceful yacht, and seemed to be
gazing in momentary hesitation gut over the water.

Yankee George glanced ove his shoulder and saw
the detective close in his rear. ‘And, before Hyjah could
seize the ruffian, the latter sprang lightly over the rail.

He struck the water with a splash. Hyjah, peering
over the rail, saw him rise to the surface at a few yards
distance from the yacht, and strike out with steady,
powerful strokes.

The detective glanced about the deck to see if there
was a Skipper aboard. But to person was visible. The
yacht rode at anchor, off a low, sandy shore, which the
Hindoo recognized as being at a point on lower New
York Bay.

Yankee Geo was not making for this shore, how-
ever, as was evident from the start. A short distance
farther down the bay a small steamer, a little larger
than a tug-boat, appeared to be drifting with the tide.
The ruffian was swimming toward this steamer.

- While the Hindoo was making these hasty observa-
tions, Louis Jordan, who had recovered trom his fall into
the cuddy, appeared on deck.

Hyjah was at his side in an instant, and firmly clutch-
ing his arm.

“1s this craft yours 2” he demanded,

«It is,” Jordan replied.

«Can you sail it ?”

“Yes,”

“Then do so,”

“7 can’t do it alone, sir.”

*«— can steer, I think. I wish to reach the steamer
yonder before Yankee Georgecan do so. He is a fast
swimmer and has a good start. We must work lively
if we wish to overtake him.”

Jordan smiled somewhat defiantly. :

“You talk as though you owned this craft!” he ex-
claimed, making no sign of obeying.

‘Does she belong to you ?” Hyjab questioned.

Yes,”

“And you control her use 2.7

“Of course.” ’

“Then it appears that you Joaned her to yonder ras-
cal to aid him in carrying out his infamous designs.”

Louis Jordan’s face paled slightly, and he replied :

“J intended no harm to you.”

“You knew I was drugged and bound down in the
cuddy ?”

“Yes, [ knew it.”

“And you were aiding Yankee George in his designs
against me ?”

«We were going to take you to a certain place, a good
distance from New York, and leave you in circum-
stances that would not allow youtoreturn for a week
or two.

«So you didn’t intend to murder me ?”

“TI did not, and I wouldn’t allow Yankee George to do
so.” ’

“How could you have helped yourself had he set out
to killme?” ,

«J should have betrayed him. I’m not a murderer!”

“You would have been an accomplice had you aided
him. You were getting yourself into a fine scrape, and
all for what?” ©

“] wished you to keep out of the way for a while.”

The Hindoo detective had been watching the ruffian’s
progress in the water while they were speaking, and at
this moment he saw the little steamer turn her prow to-
ward the swimmer and glide swiftly to his relief.

To capture the man would have been impossible, even

 

 

«Whom ?” as he paused with the word almost warm

upon his lips. i

if sO had promptly complied with the detective’s

comman:
, * ye :

oo a = be oye

I can not bring to my

jeered, “but a most scathing tongue. You appear to |

me,” sheYhad vanished ; and, de- ,

 

 

 

 

countenance of the young man.

“You don’t look like a genuine villain!” he exclaimed,
in a low, even tone.

“I’m glad of that,” Jordan retorted, with genuine ear-
nestness.

‘You would not engage in a dangerous enterprise like
this, in company of a noted criminal, without a powerful
motive,” the detective continued.

«| have a motive.”

‘*Will you tell me what it is ?”

“J should spoil everything if I did so.”

«There can be but one motive, and that I have known
to prompt greater crimes and greater sacrifices than you
have known.”

“What do you mean ?”

You think one whom you love is in danger from me.”

Jordan’s cheeks paled, and it was evident that he was
intensely agitated. The detective, in the same tone of
quiet conviction, continued :

“It is useless for you to work against me in this case,
for { shall not be beaten, and the more you assist me,
the lighter will be the penalty to those implicated in the
strange crime I am ferreting out. Will you tell me what
you know about the abduction of Grace Emory and her
little sister ?”

“I know nothing about it.”

*¥ou do not know who abducted them ?”

*T am not sure, but I suppose Yankee George did it.”

“Who-employed him ?”

“JT cannot tell you.”

a you the instigator of this crime ?”

“No.”

“Then why are you abetting it ?”

“Tam not. I was merely assisting in getting you off
the scent.” :

; ere you did not wish me to discover the reai cul-
prit?”

“That was my motive.”

‘Then you know who instigated the crime.”

“T am not sure.”

Re merely suspect the one whom you wish to shield,
en ?”

«That is it.”

«And you suspect the young lady whom you love—the

fair Helena Evans!”
ase effect of these words upon Louis Jordan was magi-
cal.

He tore himself free from the Hindoo’s grasp, and a
revolver flashed in his hands.

«You shall never arrest her for the crime.
you, and then kill myself ere you shall drag her to
prison !” he huskily cried.

The detective coolly folded his arms, saying :

“Go ahead—kill me !”

The impetuous young man whirled upon his heel and
flung the revolver from him. It fell with a splash in the
waters of the bay.

“T shall murder some one if I allow myself to possess
so dangerous a weapon!” he. exclaimed, in a changed
voice. / ;

sn looking frankly into the face of the detective, he
added :

“You had better arrest and lock me up.”

‘““‘Why should I do that ?”

“} shall commit a crime if I am allowed to remain at
liberty.”

“You will do nothing of the kind. You will conduct
yourself like a sensible young man of the nineteenth
century. You are not certain that Helena Evans insti-
gated this crime—neither am I. There are circum-
stances implicating her, but the circumstances are not
enough to satisfy me?
found no satisfactory motive for the crime, if she is the
culprit. There may be a motive for the abduction of
Grace Emory, if a certain fact of which ! have been in-
formed is true. But the evidence is not conclusive.
Helena is beautiful, and has refined, loving instincts.
This crime has been heartless in plan and detail. 1 will
not say that 1 believe Helena to be wholly innocent, for
1 fear she bas, inadvertently, perhaps, become involved
in the affair. Yet I donot believe her to be the author of
the cruel conspiracy.”

Louis Jordan’s handsome, reckless face brightened |

with a gleam of hope. He advanced:and seized the
Hindoo’s hand. =

‘You will not drag her to prison, then !” he cried.

“T think I shall be spared the unhappy necessity.”

Hyjah, in his quiet, earnest tones which invariably
won the confidence of ali those with whom he came in
contact, hastened to add: *

«Will you help me_to fasten the responsibility of this
crime where it belongs?” .

“J will, gladly.”

‘“‘What motive do you impute to Helena ?”

“She is betrothed to Philip Hayne, who, I have reason |

to believe, would rather marry Grace Emory.”

‘J am aware of this.”

«Then, of course, she would like to have her rival out
of the way.”

“Of course.”

«That is the principal motive which I think might in-
fluence her. But there is another equally powerful.”

“What is that ?” :

“She has“always expected to be the heiress of her
uncle, Amos Evans.”

*Welk?”

‘J am informed that the eccentric old man has made
a new will, in which Grace Emory and her sister are to
be his chief heirs.” 7

“AR rr

~ It will be remembered that Philip Hayne, in answer
to an inquiry of the detective, gave the latter an answer
opposite in tenor to this declaration of Jordan.

Thus.a new motive, which Hyjah had believed to be
disposed of, was again revived against Helena Evans,
“Is this all ?” the detective asked.

‘Tt is all that [ know.”

Fs you assist in my capture this morning ?”

se oO,’

“Have sa any suspicion concerning the whereabouts

II Rt ali oh ise tf se at ete
“have & suspicion.* ees +

“Name it.”

“7 think she is aboard yonder steamer.”

«Why do you think so ?” :

“Because Yankee George delivered a box at a North
River pier yesterday, and the box was taken aboard that
same steamer.”

At this moment Hyjah saw the steamer in question,
which had taken Yankee George aboard, move with
marvelous speed down the bay.

Twilight was now settling upon the scene.

The Hindoo detective, possessed of what he now be-
lieved to be a leading clew to the whereabouts of little
Ermie, exclaimed, in a tone of-intense resolve :

“We must pursue and overtake that craft.”

 

CHAPTER XXI.
THE DETERMINED HINDOO.

«We can’t overtake that craft if we do our best,” Louis
Jordan declared, after he had got the yacht under way.

«Perhaps not. But we can keep itin sight. There is
a fresh breeze and your yacht appears to be built for
speed,” returned the Hindoo detective.

«She is small, but nothing carrying sails in New York
bay can follow her,” said Jordan.

The little craft was now skimming along at a lively
rate, and it was evident that, while this breeze should
remain the same, the steamer would not be able to get
out of sight without a struggle. The steamer glided
down the bay for a short distance, and then, describing
a wide curve, made it appear as if it were her intention
to return to the city.

Twilight was now settling rapidly; and the many
vessels moving hither and thither upon the bay, ren-
dered it no easy matter to ong any particular craft,
for all carried twinkling lights, andin the gathering
gloom it became more and more difficult to distinguish
one from another at a distance.

But the keen gaze of the Hindoo could not be deceived.
While it was the evident intention of the steamer to lose
itself amid the throng of similar craft upon the populous
bay, Hyjah was not for an instant confused.

It became necessary, too, for the steamer to. slacken
its speed somewhat, so that the yacht was enabled to
maintain the gap between them without change.

The steamer led the way across the upper bay, soon
passed Governor's Island, and thence up the East River.

By this time night had settled upon the scene, and
amid the numberiess craft in this busy locality the task
of keeping the’steamer in sight was yet more difficult.

It would have been impossible for one less alert than
the detective to have done so.

As the steamer was independent of any route or time,

'it was obliged to proceed with great caution to avoid

collisions.

Hence the space between pursuer and pursued was
considerably diminished. ;

When nearly opposite Wall street ferry, Hyjab hailed
a passing tug, and got aboard, after making an appoint-
ment to meet Louis Jordan on the morrow.

The tug, not being engaged, was readily chartered to
continue the pursuit of the mysterious steamer.

This pursuit was successfully accomplished, until the
steamer was seen to glide up toa pier, just beyond the
Navy Yard. at a point on the Brooklyn side, which
seemed to be comparatively deserted. The pier and
wharf were enshrouded in partial darkness.

Hyjah ordered the captain of the tugboat to run
alongside the unknown steamer, which order was com-
plied with.

The detective had paid for the use of the tug, and
now, without a word of explanation, he leaped upon
the deck of the other steamer.

He found himself confronted by a man nearly ds tall
as himself. The man was mufiled about the head, evi-
dently for the purpose of disguise, and in a gruff tone
he demanded :

“Who are you ?”

“Am 1 obliged to tell you?” Hyjah returned, in his
low, quiet tones.

“JT rather think you are.”

‘Suppose Iretuse ?”

“Youll have to get off my boat, that’s all.”

“Is this boat yours ?”

‘It isin my care.”

Hyjab, while speaking, had taken a rapid survey of
the small craft. There was a striking absence of lights
on board; nor was there any one save the muffled stran-
ger in sight.

Having satisfied himselt on these points, the Hindoo
advanced, and sternly said:

“Back your boat away from the pier !” .

“I don’t think I will,” the other doggedly retorted.

“Then take the consequences !”"

Hyjah’s strong right band clutched the man’s shoulder
even as he spoke.

The stranger resisted desperately, but the detective
speedily convinced him that submission would be the
better part of valor, for the time at least,

I will kill |

In the first place, I have as yet |

)

 

 

Hyjah bent his keen eyes in a searching gaze upon the | ‘What do you mean to do ?” gasped the man, ceasing

| to struggle against the iron clutch of the detective.

| ‘lt mean to have this boat backed from the pier, as I
| ordered.”

| “Then take your fingers from my throat! You'll
) strangle me !” '

| **Will you back the boat ?”

i. “Xess yes.!”

| . The man, with Hyjah’s hand still upon his arm, wens
|; to the engine, and in obedience to his touch the boat
| Started slowly backward.

| ‘That will do; now keep her steady,” said the detec-
| tive, perceiving that the cable by which the boat was
| fastened to the pier was stretched to its utmost length,
| leaving a space of several feet between them.

| And, as the man stared at him in evident wonderment,
| Hyjah continued :

| “Now show me whom you have on board.”

| , ‘There isn’t anybody but myself.”

«Where are the others 2?”

‘Gone ashore.”

“That is false, my man. Now tell me whom you
have on board this boat. If you tell me another
falsehood I will drop you overboard.”

The man was visibly alarmed. Without a doubt he
recognized his captor as the Hindoo detective, of whom
all the dishonest and criminal characters in New York
stood in mortal fear.

‘There are two men in the cabin,” he declared.

«Who are they ?”

“One is George Morton.”

‘Yankee George ?”

“Some call him that, I believe.”

«And the other ?”

“T do not know his name.”

ee Yankee George charter this boat 2”

ae res ,

“When ?”

“This morning.”

“For what purpose ?”

“To meet him in the lower bay.
a yacht.” :

‘‘Where were you to carry him ?”

‘Down the bay and back again.”

‘Back to this pier ?” :

|. #! ee ?

| «Then the cruise was merely to throw possible pursu-

| ers off the scent ?”

‘Likely it was.”

«What else have you on board ?”

‘What do you mean ?”

| «Where is the box which you took from a New York

| pier this morning ?”

“The man’s face grew white as a sheet, and he trem-

| bled in abject terror.”

; ‘Mercy! I know nothing about it. The crime isn’t

| mine!” he cried, speaking in rapid, husky accents.

The Hindoo detective was thrilled by a sudden, over-

| powering fear.

| Was he too late to prevent a greater crime than the _

| one he was piping? Was little Ermie not only abduct-

| ed, but murdered also, and her body taken out in a box
by this steamer for disposal in the deep waters of New ~
York Bay ?

 

be He was to come
; in

|

| Until the present moment Hyjah had entertained no
apprehensions of violence to the little girl He did not
eo it to be the purpose of her abductors to take her
fe. ;

But what meant the pallor of this man, unless he was
| privy to a terrible crime ?
In spite of his eagerness to learn the truth, tlfe Hin-
| doo spoke in his usual even tones when he asked:
«““Was the child in that box living or dead ?”

Then the

There was a moment of breathless silence.
| Man answered, in shaking tones:
| *¥ know only as I was told,”
“What were you told ?”
“That the box contained the body of a child.”
“Who told you ?”
‘‘Yankee George.”
| And the man, ina voice scarcely above a whisper, con-
| tinued:
' ‘But, as Heaven is my witness, I had no suspicion of
the contents of the box until George came aboard my
boat a short time ago. I believed until then that it con-
tained stolen goods.”

The man shrank back under the piercing gaze of the
detective, who now said :

“Where is the box now? Your life, man, depends
upon truthful answers to my questions.”

«The box is in the cabin,” the other quickly replied.
iene Yankee George and his companion are there

SO?

“They are.”
| “Lead me to them at once.”

“They will kill me it they know Ihave betrayed them.”

«And I will pitch you overboard if you disobey me,
So take your choice.’,

“I will do as yousay. But protect me trom George—
he is a very fiend when aroused.”

The man led the way toward the cabin of the steamer,
the detective’s hand resting on his arm the while.

They had advanced only afew paces when they saw
Mee men dart forth from the cabin, and run toward the
pier.

One carried a box under his arm—the same, narrow
box which Hyjah had once before seen in the possession
ot Yankee George.

‘The detective did not wait for action on the part of
his conductor, but bounded in pursuit of the men. ~

The foremost reached the steamer’s rail, saw that it
was backed away from the pier, and for a single instant
hesitated, as though for orders.

The latter came quickly enough from Yankee George
who was in the rear. George, in a Sharp tone, cried :

“Throw the box, and jump!”

The man obeyed, and Yankee George, having also
reached the rail, tollowed suit. .
The splash, splash, splash of the box and both men,
following in rapid succession came to the ears of the

Hindoo, as the latter reached the end of the boat,

Glancing overt
struggling in ths water.

AS we have before stated, th
in almost total darkness.

The pier extended from a covered wharf; and upon
each side were tall, dark buildings, used as sugar refin-
eries, cutting off the lights from beyond.

It was a lonely, forbidding locality, and just the place
for the perpetration of a desperate crime.

That Yankee Geérge would not ‘hesitate to take the
life of the Hindoo detective, could the deed be accom-
plished without too great risks of diseovery, there was
little doubt. The bold, yet crafty ruffian had defied the
authorities for years; and there was not an officer in
the city whom he feared, except the Hindoo.

Of all this Hyjah was fully aware. He was not one to
needlessly expose his life. But now he believed the
time had come when only desperate, determined action
would avail. And he was not the man to shrink from
such action.

Hyjah, the Hindoo, without a moment’s delay, flung
off his coat and sprang over the rail.

Splash!—and a third figure struggled in the black
waters.

‘locality was enshrouded st

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—_-——- > © <+_______—_
THE_PERILS OF JOURNALISM,

 

The newspapers in New Mexico are no longer what
they were. Ten years agoit was beautiful to see the
outspoken wayin which a New Mexican editor would
handle his esteemed contemporary. To be sure the
editions were spasmodic, for the esteemed contemporary
would generally come over and clean out the office, and
then the delay incident to the inquest and funeral and
getting a new editor usually deferred the next issue,
and gave the esteemed contemporary a chance to relieve
his feelings in a burstof necessarily unanswerable
obituary. The result was that most of the New Mexican
journals involuntarily changed management about once
a month, and promotion was rapid in literary circles.
Sometimes an editor would resort to the low artifice of
seeing the paper safely put to press and then skipping,to
Texas until the trouble blew over, but as the office boy
had to be drawn upon for editorials meantime, and the
editor himself was generally ambushed on his way back,
the scheme was not a perfect success. Another draw-
back was that as subscribers and advertisers settled
their accounts in strings of red pepper, onions, eggs, and
other perishable currency, the financial interests of the
journal demanded more prompt attention than could be
given it by a man whose main object in life was to get
out otf town. Besides, as nine-tenths of the population
couldn’t read and the rest didn’t want to, the circulation
was in the main limited to the exchange list and toa
few coroners who found it to their interest to watch the
playfulness of the press. ;

In those days the life of a newspaper was brief, but it
was full of gore and glory. The rival presses would be
gin running at noon Saturday, and at four o’clock pre-
cisely there would be an impromptu massacre on the
Plaza, and then the editor whose trigger was out of
order went home on a Shutter and his type and hand
press went to the sheriff, while the other’s circulation
would increase until it mounted up to a hundred, maybe,
and everything would be quiet in news circles until the
next paper started.

Now that is all changed. To be sure one editor
will sit down and inquire in cold print why his contem-
porary, who is a well-known wall-eyed horse thief and
an intoxicated liar, has. been bribed with two dollars
into attacking the public enterprise which developed the
new horse trough at the cross roads, or something of
that sort, and his rival will simultaneously publish a
playful allusion to the fact that his brother editor’s
father was hanged for stealing a Kansas mule, and that
his mother's career terminated in the penitentiary, but
as arule no more sanguinary results tollow than per-
haps the biting off of an ear or the loss of an eye by the
rough-and-tumble process known as ‘‘gouging” next
time the two meet in the fashionable saloon. The con-
sequence is neue a great depreciation of journalism
in public esteem and a deplorable scarcity of free fights
in which the community at large can take much interest.

ng

Liebig Co.’s Coca Beef Tonic.

“My patients derive marked and decided benefit from it,”
says Professor J. M, CARNOCHAN, M. D., Professor Surgery,
New York Medical College. For bad taste in the mouth, bad
breath, heartburn, pain in_ stomach and bowels, flatulency.

 

constipation (symptoms of dyspepsia and broken-down diges-
tion), it is invaluable. so in usness, malaria, debility,
liver complaints, sick headache.

 

 

the.rail be oof Gimly see the two men...
oa ec es

 

 

 
 

OI

> teen caps,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

New

k Weekly

We aS

ran

ws

    
 

 

ao

NEW YORK, MARCH 6, 1886,

es

 

 

 

eee wy

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
€ months (wostave. free) 75c | 2 copies (postage free)

4months-.. $1.00|4 copies . - . 0.00,

1 Year 3.00 | 8 copies. x 20.00
Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis-
tered letter.
All letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,

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

SHAKING HANDS,

BY KATE THORN.

There are a great many ways of shaking hands.

$5.00

 

 

It is rather a pleasant thing to shake hands with one |

who understands the science—one who doesn’t grip
your fingers till the joints crack, and you feel con-
strained to say ‘‘Oh-h-h !”

But then the most awful way of shaking hands is
when you meet a person who hesitates, and doesn’t ap-
pear as if he was quite decided as to his course—who
acts as if he wanted to think it over and ask advice be-
fore committing himself. He holds his hand ready, in
case worst should come to worst, but he does not ad-
vance it, and you do not know whether he is going to
shake or not, and you cannot very well ask him—it
would not be strictly etiquette.

There is the person who offers you one or two fingers,
and evidently expects you to make the most of them.
He considers it a special favor to volunteer so much, and
if you do not show proper gratitude he will be disap-

pointed, and next time he will pass you by, with his chin

well in the air, riding his high horse.

There is the person who lets you hold his hand. It
lies limp and passive, like an eld rubber shoe—no throb
of life and friendship anywhere about it—and if you
chose to hold it till next week he wouldn’t withdraw it;
and you always feel guilty when you are forced to let it
drop.

There is the person whose hands are always cold, and
damp, and flaccid, and when you get such a hand in
yours you feel as if you were cClasping the body of a
fresh-water eel, that died in the deluge, and had been
preserved in rather cold brine ever since. Heaven de-
liver us from shaking such a hand as that! <

There is the fashionable shake, which consists in the
very slightest pressure of a hand glovedin No. 6 kids,
which ought to wear No. 7, and it is accompanied by a
little wriggle of the backbone and a bob of the head in
your direction.

There is the horny-handed shake of the old granger,
who drives in from the country some morning when the
mercury is at zero, with rime on _ his grizzled beard, ear-
mufiiers over his ears, a red woolen comforter round his
neck, and homespun blue mittenson his hands. He
gives you a shake you will remember, and nearly starts
your shoulder out of its socket, and hopes you and the
old woman are well, and informs you that “it’s tarnal
frosty weather.”

There is the hand-shaking in which lovers indulge.
It is a kind of a long-drawn-out sort of business, as if
there were plenty of time to 40 it in, and nothing special
to hinder.. He looks in her eyes, and she looks at the
toes of his boots, when she gets confused by what she
reads in his ardent glances, and she doesn’t mind when
he crushes lier seal ring int® her finger—no, not a bit!

The Americans are a hand-shaking race. It is a mode
of salutation everywhere. How strange it would seem
to leave it out of social intercourse! It means every-
thing. It conveys intelligence which Cannot be spoken.
It comforts in affliction. lt makes occasions of joy
more joyful. ‘I saw him and shook hands with him.”
How much that simple expression, which we hear every
day, means!

Let us go on shaking hands. Let us practice it so that
we can do it with some heart in it. Let us take our
friends by the hand, and in doing it convey to them the
intelligence that we are glad to see them—that we value
their companionship-—that between us there are love,
and fidelity, and trust.

——_>-@—<—_.

“GREAT SCOTT!”

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

 

“Great Scott, you don’t mean it!”

“And who or what is Great Scott?” I innocently
asked, for that particular slang was new in my ears at
that time.

“Oh, I know your old reproof,” was my young friend’s
reply. “But a fellow must have an expressive word, you
know. And I don’t swear.”

“But what does Great Scott express!” I asked.

The laughing fellow could not tell, of course. But we
relapsed anew into.one of our old-time talks on the sub-
ject of slang.

I object to slang because the English tongue is rich
enough in itself, if one would only try to learn it, to give
expression to all the ideas that most of us possess. To
speak good Englisk is the accomplishment of a life-time.
One must guard his speech with the utmost care. One
must keep the lips from lapsing into any habit of vul-

-garity. One must read good English composition and

make an effort to remember the graphic words and
phrases which seem to plainly tella meaning, and use
the same resolutely in his own conversation. One must
note the utterance of intelligent and refined people. And
this must be the work of years. Yet very few of us ever
acquire a remarkable facility with our mother tongue.
Very few people can readily express themselves fit to
print. Most of us abuse the grammar, and therefore I
say a youth is a fool to incorporate a lot of meaningless
words, slang expressions, into his vocabulary. Why, my
friend, you have to unlearnitall again. You must be
on painful guard lest you, utter it in the face of your em-
ployer, or ladies, or people too sensitive to overlook your
rudeness.

Slang is the rag and tatters of speech. You could not
endure a public speaker to appear before you in dirty
dress; you expect him to be clean and dressed as neatly
as he can afford. And you could not endure slang, if
your minister used it in the pulpit. I putitin this
way:

The lowest depth, Profanity.

Next lowest, Ooscenity.

Next comes Tattling and Slander.

Next | would put Slang.

Itisabad mess all; alotof abuses of our power of
speech, of which man alone is capable. A robin always
sings her own proper note. A horse never brays like a
jackass. The calf bleats and the ox bellows. But your
dude alone belies his nobility and disparages his gifts of
speech. The silly fellow gets off ‘‘the latest from Eng-
land, you know ;” and while you are puzzling yourself
how to be polite and yet not kick him, he looks round
on you with a superior air of patronizing pity. He feels
himself infinitely superior to you because he knows and
can use the latest club slang while you cannot even un-
derstand it. He says, ‘Thanks, awfully!” till you are
heart-sick. Quite likely he is your brother, just home
from the city, and you are desirous of making his visit
agreeable; but you do get so tired of that reiterated
“Thanks, awfully !” that you are ready to slap him. An
otherwise fine young fellow, who is just in the bud and
flower of ‘‘the very latest from the club, you know,”
who is inflicting it on every country youth he meets to
make the rustic wonder, who is airing his pet slang be-
fore all the girls, who utters it before his mother long
after the dear, indulgent old lady even has lost the pow-
er to laugh over it—oh, what an unmitigated nuisance
he can make himself!

Please spare us, ye sophomores! Please be merciful,
ye young sprigs just returned from London! Have pity
on us, boys from the store! Cuff us, stick an occasional
pin in us, or even kick our shins occasionally; but. rest
us from the patter, patter, most gentle shower of slang,
slang, slang!

What is more unmistakable as a sign of more than
ordinary good breeding than correct, grammatical ut-
terance, full, distinct, and proper enunciation and pro-
nunciation, and freedom from objectionable expressions ?
How pretty it isin a growing lad! How charming it is
in a young girl! Careless, slovenly dropping of the ing
from participles is more annoying to my ears in a young
lady’s speech than dirty fingers would be to my eyes;
for her hands might be soiled by honest, proper toil—it
is not always possible to have the finger-tips spotless.
But your tongue has only to make ‘the slightest added
motion to say ing instead of in’ every time. Allthis sort
of propriety is the product of constant culture on
some one’s part—either the parents’, or the school-
teacher’s, or the young persons himself or herself. It
is, therefore, the literal sign of culture.

I would not hire a clerk who approached me with
slang. You would not like it, after a while, though it
may have seemed ‘‘cunning” fora time or two, in the
girl you are thinking about marrying. Depend upon it,
young ladies, slang sounds too loud for real delicacy,
not to say virtue, in yoursex. I observe that few good

 

 

women ever use it, except in the company of their most
intimate and indulgent friends. They say all school-
girls have a regular vocabulary of slang in vogue among
their set. Of course I dare not assert or deny it. But
this I know, that I would sharply criticise a school that
was full of a rank growth of slang among its pupils.

There is no sure way of eradicating a habit of slang
other than utmost care among one’s intimates. It is
the method of privacy that becomes public. Itis howa
lot of clerks address each Other in the store that is to be
their governing habit when they go out of a social even-
ing; this or labored and laggard speech and silence.
‘There is noschool for the lady and gentleman like the
school of our daily working life. The truest lady is she
whoisalady in the factory. How engaging is refined
speech in sucha woman. You instantly conclude that
she must owe it to her natural instincts, for her sur-
roundings are often very unfriendly to proper speech.
You mark her as she answers you. Her voice is music.
You reiterate my assertion, “Sheis a lady.” Perhaps
it is easier for a young working-woman than a young
working-man ; the women read more than the men,

It seems to me 1 would try for proper speech, if 1 were
in a throng of vulgar talkers. I would brave their
sneers. It is possible to be just as cheerful, just as free,
just as “lively,” just as kind and companionable in good
English as in Pigeon English. And besides all, remem-
ber that you do not intend to pass all your days among
people who would sneer at refinement. You intend to
rise in the world. You will want aclean habit of the
tongue then. The fates save us from the bungling syn-
tax of the vulgar rich!

—>e~«

LETTER FROM NEW YORK.

BY PERMISSION OF BILL NYE,

 

Sunday Afternoon.

DEAR FRIEND: Being Sunday, I take an hour to write
you a letter in regard to this place. I came here yester-
day without attracting undue attention from people who
lived here. If they was surprised, they concealed it
from me.

(ve camped out on the Chug years ago, and went to
sleep with no live thing near me except My Own pony,
and woke up with the early song of the coyote, and have
been on the lonesome plains for days where it seemed to
me that a hostile would be mighty welcome if he would
only say something to me, but I was never so lonesome
as I was here in this big town last night, although it is
the most thick settled place I ever was at.

I was so kind of low and depressed that I strolled into
the bar at last, allowing that I could pound on the
counter and call up the boys and get acquainted a little
with somebody just as I would at Col. Luke Murrin’s, at
Cheyenne, but when I waved to the other parties and
told them to rally round the foaming beaker, they apolo-
gized, and allowed they had just been to dinner!

Just been to dinner, and there it was pretty blamed
near dark! Then I asked ’em to take a cigar, but they

mostly cackillated they had no occasion.

I was mad, but what could Ido? They was too many
for me, and I couldn’t coerce the white livered aristo-
cratic mob, for quicker’n scat they could have hollered
into a little cubbard they had there in the corner, and in
less’n two mints they’d of had the whole police depart-
ment and the hook and ladder company down there af-
ter me with a torch-light procession.

So I swallowed my wrath and atame drink of culti-
vated whisky with Apollo Belvidere on the side and
went out into the auditorium of the hotel.

Here I was very.unhappy, being, as the editor of the
Green River Gazette would say, ‘‘the cynosure of all
eyes.”

q would rather not be a cynosure, even at a good
salary; so I thought I would ask the proprietor to build
afireinmy room. Il wentup to the recorder’s office,
where the big hotel autograft album is, and asked to
see the proprietor.

A good-looking young man came forward and asked
me what he could do tor me. I said, if it wouldn’t be
too much trouble, I wisht he would build a little fire in
my room, and I would pay him for it; or, if he would
show me where the woodpile was, I would build the
fire myselfi—I wasn’t doing anything special at that
time.

He then whistled through his teeth and crooked his
finger in a shrill tone of voice to a young party who was
working for him, and told him to ‘build a fire in four-
ougbt-two.”

I then sat down in the auditorium and read out of a
railroad tract, which went on to show that a party that
untertook to ride over a rival road must do so because
life was a burden to him, and facility, and comfort, and
safety, and such things no object whatever. But still I
was very lonely, and felt asif I was far, far away from
home.

I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if J’d been a
young man I saw twenty-five years ago on the old over-
land trail. He had gone out to study the Indian char-
acter and to win said Indian to the fold. When I next
saw him he was about twenty miles fartheron. He
had been thrown in contact with said Indian in the
meantime. I judged he had been making a collection of
Indian arrows. He was extremely. no more. He looked
some like Saint Sebastian and some like a toothpick-
holder.

l was never successfully lost on the plains, and-so I
staried out after supper to find my room. [founera
SQULL WARY Ctetor TER fis; Gad UC AG Sét iGO UlCEay Val"
I did not find four-ought-two tilla late hour, then I
subsidized the night patrol on the third fioor to assist
me.

This isanice place to stop, but itis a little too rich
for my blood, I guess. Not so much as regards price,
but lcan see that I am beginning to excite curiosity
among the boarders. People are coming here to board
just because I am here, and it is disagreeable. I do not
court notoriety. Ihave always lived inaplain way,
and I would give a dollar if people would look the other
way while I eat my pie.

‘ Yours truly, E. O. D.

To E. WM. NYE, Esq. :

P. S.—This is not a dictated letter. I left my steno-
graffer and revolver at Pumpkin Buttes. E. O. D.

__-_ ___ > »@

UNCLE MEDDLE'S LETTERS.

NO. 5.

FirrH AVENUE eats

 

 

 

To Mirs. Hester Meddle, Tim Meddle’s Mother.

 

DEAR SISTER HETTIE:—Your letter tellin’ bout your
Tim havin’ taken a shine to a gal-has jest come up with
some things from the store.

I’m glad Tim’s done it, for one thing; it’s put you up
to writin’ to your old brother-in-law.

It kinder ’pears to me that I must already have heerd
somethin’, somehow, *bout your Tim bein’ in love, but it
seems altogether diffrent when J hear it from the boy’s
own mother. z

Gals think they’re the only section of creation that
does any watchin’, an’ feelin’, an’ thinkin’ when a young
feller falls in love. Bless their silly heads, the feller’s
mother could give’em half a day’s start an’ then pass
’em early in the afternoon.

An’ your dear old heart’s full of worry, of course. You
don't know as Tim’s old ’nough to marry, an’ you do
know he ain’t well ’nough off ; you ain’t sure he’s picked
out the right kind of a gal, and you are sure that no gal
alive is quite good ’nough for your first-born poy, an’
you're kinder ’fraid that when he marries, his wife’ll take
all his heart an’ not leave a bit for you.

Don’t you give yourself any fits an’ starts ’bout that
last. There’s lots of splendid wives in this world, but
none of ’em can take a mother’s place-any more than—
well, than a mother can take a wife's.

Idont b’leeve any young feller ever knowed how to
set enough store by his mother until he’s got young ones
of his own, an’ sees how much a mother does that she
never gits no thanks fur.

Your husband an’ me cared forty times as much for
our mother when we was forty as when we were twenty,
though nobody ever called us bad sons when we were
boy

.

oys.

*Bout Tim being too young: he’s not too young to
marry if he’s old enough to love. That brings up the
question whether he reallyisin love. P’raps you don’t
take his word for it. Well, he prob’bly knows as little
‘pout it as anybody.

But it’s easy enough to try him. Ask him whether
he’d stick to Mattie et all of a sudden she’d up an’ catch
small-pox.

Ask him ef he wouldn’t git tired of her ef she war
blind, or deaf.

Remind him that some women sets up for invalids as
soon as they’re married, and never git well agin. Ask
him ef he could stand a sickly wife for a matter of fifty
year or so.

Sound him on the mother-in-law, or the disagreeable
relation—(every. family’s got one)—that his wife may
bring to live with him.

Ef all this don’t make him weaken, I reckon he’s old
*nough to know his mind, soI don’t see what you’d cal
kilate to gain for him by havin’ him wait.

Ef you want him to wait until he’s got all the virtues
a good gal deserves in a husband, you'll make him die a
bachelor

A man Can learn a trade in three years, an’ tuck a hull
college course away in his head in four year; butef he
fnarries ‘fore he’s of age, lives to be the oldest inhabitant,
an’ keeps his heart in workin’ order from beginning to
aoe he’ll never see the time when he’s a fust class hus-

and.

Ef Mrs. Methuselah was alla woman ort to be—an’
ther’s no reason to spose she wuzn’t, it’s my firm belief
the last thought of her old man, as he was a shufflin’ off
the tip eend of that tremendously long mortal coil of

     

hisin, was of some way he hadn't been all he ort to his
wite.

But the only way for a boy to learn mattermony, ef
he’s got his mind set on it in dear earnest, is to marry
an’ learn the bizness.

You can’t learn housekeepin’ by lookin’ at the outside
of a kitchen.

Ez to whether he’s ficked the right sort of gal, that
depends on what you expect of her. Ef she’s only to be
a darter to you, pr’aps he’s made a mistake, but ef he’s
marryin’ fur his own sake, mebbe he’s righter than you
think.

There’s no ’eountin’ for tastes, as the old woman said
when she kissed the cow; no gal will suit a feller onless
he picks her out himsef.

’Bout no gal bein good ough for him, I spose P’ have
to take your word for ib, but | don’t mind tellin’ you, you
blessed old soul, that ’ll have to work mighty hard to do
it, an’ mebbe PH break down after all.

These fellers that no gal’s good enough for I’ve read
*bout in books, but they’ve always made me want to
lamm theauthor.

*Bout one thing I ’gree with you—he ain’t well ’nough
off to marry, an’ ef he takes it right, itll! be the salva-
tion of him. F

If it spurs him up to work harder, save up his money
instead of pourin’ it out. whenever a circus comes to
town, an’ make up his mind just what he’s goin’ to do
an’ stick to it, to make a livin’, you can bless the day he
fust saw that gal.

But ef you go to promisin’ him everything nice you
own for him to setup housekeepin’ with, you needn’t
lay all the blame On him ef he turns out a slouch after
all

Ef he can’tearn a home for his wife, it’s a sure sign he
don’t deserve one—nor a wife, nuther.

I know what youll say to yourself *bout this—you’ll
say Tim’s aright good son, so he’ll make a right good
husband; but that don’t folier.

There’s some metal so good that the soundest money
is made of it, but the man that tried to make a plow, or
a pair of springs, or an anchor of it, would make a fool
of hisself, an’ be langhed at for his pains.

I’ve never been a gal myself, Hettie, much less a wo-
man, an’ p'raps you can remember, but I make bold to
wind up this long letter with a piece of advice that I
wonder women who’ye lived with their eyes open don’t
give one another.

It’s this: Ef your boy\Tim is dead gone on that gal,
just you make love to her too; then you’ be a darter
ahead, without the trouble of bringin’ her up, and you'll
have a double LIDERB RPE boy. hisselt.

Your loving
ae BROTHER MEDDLE. *
> o<—_______

WAITING.

par

BY*GERTRUDE DE LANCIE,

 

All day havelI sat at the window
And gazed on the busy street,
Watching in vain for the coming
Of one that T longed to meet.
T have hoped against hope since morning,
And battled with numberless fears,
And now, as the dew is falling,
I cannot keep back the tears.

Oh, why do I wateh for the coming
Of one who is thoughtless and gay,
Whose Jove will fade like the blossoms
That fallin the month of May ?
And my love, like those blighted flowers,
Will neglected, wncared for, be;
But the memeryoef] ash sweet hours
Can ne'er be forgo ten by me.

But why am I thus @pinins ?
He gtood by my ¢o 1¢h of pain,
And said that if deash shovid claim me
He @ovid néver be .tappy 2gain;
And then, in th

   
  
    
  

nguished honr,
ie Hight of my life,
y pi @ cheek, aud called me
His darling! ,jove! hi. wife!
Another sad da: vanished—
Still my heagvis heavy with pain;
My bright-st hepes are banished—
I sigh fo peace in vain.
Still my p ayer is when the sunset
lllumes che distant west,
I may be clasped, with rapture,
Close, close to my darling’s breast.

 

>~o<—-

ROMANCE OF A FLOOD,

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

 

 

 

In my earliest youth I had imbibed the idea that a
loose and careless ramble throughout the country, with
no fixed purpose or end in view, but going whichever
way the whim might take me, and not knowing one

x4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

at the something before me, that to my dazed senses
seemed superhuman, I became conscious only of a
sweet, angelic face, and two large, lustrous blue eyes,
that seemed to fix and hold me as one completely spell-
bound.

ey be seated, sir,” said the mother, handing me a
chair.

I mechanically sat down, probably more with the
awkward manner of a country clown, or an idiot, than
agentieman used to refined society and possessing a
fair degree of common sense.

Fortunately I was soon able torallyinsome degree
from my unnatural state of stupor and hold something
like a rational conversation with the mother, who
seemed to be the only one of the three not affected with
embarrassment.

In answer to her questions, [informed her that my
name was Edward Thornby, and that I was traveling
merely for pleasure; and in return I learned that
her name was Weldon, that she was a widow, pos-
sessing a little means, and living here alone with her
only daughter, Ada, which was the cause of her hesita-
Gok about entertaining a strange gentleman for the
night.

In the course of an hour the advancing storm’ was
upon us With great fury, the wind blowing almosta
hurricane, the lightning flashing almost incessantly‘
the thunder crashing almost continuously, and the rain
coming down in perfect torrents.

Throughout the evening, till the hour for retiring,
scarcely half a dozen words passed between the young
lady and myself; and yet I somehow felt as if she be-
longed to me, and that I had a right to claim her as the
one in all the world that must be mine.

As the cottage was only one story in height, I was shown
to my sleeping-room on the ground floor; but, as Il-did
not feel inclined to retire at once, Isat down and fell
into a reverie, the principal subject of which was the
angelic face and sweet blue eyes of Ada Weldon.

For more than an hour I sat there, going through the
glowing and flowery scenes of imagination, totally
oblivious of the flashing lightning, rumbling thunder,
and roaring rain-fall; and then, rousing myself up with
a kind of start, I began to prepare for bed.

ASI did so, I became conscious that the down-pour
was very heavy ; and drawing back a curtain, and rais-
ing a window, I peered out upon what at first view
looked like a glistening cascade of water, so large and
close together were the descending drops.

AS a fiash of lightning illumined the scene, the whole
atmosphere, as far as the eye could reach, seemed to be
a succession of sheets of water; and [ remember think-
ing that I had never seen rain have such an appear-
ance before, and that if it were to continue any length
of time it would raise a flood.

Congratulating myself upon having found so agree-
able a shelter on such a night, I was about to close the
, Window and retire to bed, when 1 fancied I heard some-
thing like distant human shrieks.

AS | listened, I certainly became conscious of a strange,
hollow roar, that was unlike anything the storm had yet
produced; and as this rapidly grew louder and more
awful, I tor the first time experienced a sensation of
fear. ;

What was it? What could it be?

I had little time left for conjecture.

Nearer, louder, more awful it sounded, till I drew
back in awe, feeling that something terrible was about
to happen.

Even in that supreme moment the sweet face and
blue eyes of Ada Weldon rose up before me, and I
thought, if death were on the wing, I could die com-
paratively happy if Heaven would first permit me to
Save her precious life.

Suddenly there came a great shock, a great crash ;
the whole cottage shook, and creaked, and trembled;
and then the water came dashing up through the floor,
and the whole building was lifted, rocked, and whirled
around, lik a mere toy in the hands of a giant.

I heard a wild scream of distress.

Perhaps it came from my dear Ada!

Another !

I would find and save her, or perish with her!

Another !

She was still living!

“I come! 1 come!” I cried.

I could see the door, for my light had not yet been ex-
tinguished.

My room was fast filling with water, and the whole

a ~ ~ mone -
As T looked, or probabiy in my embarrassment stared,

 

 

 

 

Correspondence,

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

{=~ Communications addressed to this department will
rot be noticed unless the names of responsible -parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers.

 

[We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart-
ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal.
Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and
fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive
at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared tu render
the answers to questions absolutely reliable.]

 

Hattie C., Rothville, Mo.—“ Tam O’Shanter,” the title of a
poem by Burns, and the name of its hero, was a farmer, who,
riding home very late, and very much intoxicated, from Ayr,
had to pass by the Kirk of Alloway, the reputed haunt of
witches and fiends. Emboldened by the stuff he had drank,
he looked in and saw the inmates dancing merrily to the
music of the bagpipes. Carried away by the excitement of
the moment he involuntarily cried out to the most “winsome
wench” of all, ‘Weel done, Cutty Sark! Weel done!” In a
moment ‘all was dark,” and ‘Yam was spurring his “ eray
mare Meg” to the height of her speed ; in other words, scek-
ing safety in flight, Cutty Sark close to the horse’s heels. Tam
thought if he could reach the middle of the bridge over the
River Doon he would be safe, for it was the current belief
that witches had no power to pass beyond the middle of a
stream. This he himself accomplished. but his horse’s tail
was clutched by the leading witch and dragged off, that ap-
pendage not having passed the magic line. :

C. T. A., Lancaster, Pa.—In the conflict of laws on the sub-
ject of marriage, it has been well settled that the law or cus-
tom of the country governs. If a marriage is valid by the law
of the country where it is celebrated it is recognized as valid
everywhere. ‘“This law,” says Story, “has received the most
deliberate sanction of the Engle and American courts and
| of foreign jurists.” The most prominent, if not the only

known objections, the same American jurist considers to be
marriages involving the very near consanguinity of the par-
ties; marriages forbidden by the public law of a country
through motives of policy, and marriages celebrated in a
foreign country under circumstances which impose on the
parties the law of their own country.

Lillie M.—ist. To render the colors of cotton fabrics per-
manent, dissolve three gills of salt in four quarts of water.
Put the calico. in while hot, and leave it until cold. 24. To
restore creased ribbons, lay them evenly on 8 board, and with

@ very clean sponge gene them evenly allover. Then roll
them smoothly and tightly on a ribbon block of greater
breadth than the ribbon, and let thent remain until dry,
Afterward transfer them to aclean dry block. Next wrap in
brown paper, and keep them until wanted. 3d. To remove
water stains from engrayi fill a sufficiently large clean
vessel with pure water. Dipthe engraving in, waving it back-
ward and forward until wet through. Then fasten it toa
flat board with drawing pins, and let it dry in the sun.

W. J. A., McKeesport, Pa.—ist. No. 2d. Copper wafone of
the first metals knewn to man, and was in use before iron.
The ancient Egyptians cut their hard granite monuments

with popeer chisels, which they are supposed to have known
how to harden, in some way now forgotten. Almost all the
ancient nations used copper largely in making statues,
household ornaments and articles ot use, weapons of war,
coins, etc, 3d. The only work likely to meet your expecta-
tions is ““Reber’s Ancient Art.” Ithas over three hundred
illustrations and a glossary of technical terms. Price $3.50.

Lt. C., Sandusky, Ohio.—The “dark day”in New England
occurred on May 19, 1780. In some places, persons could not
see to read common print in the open air forseveral hours

together. Singing birds became silent, fowls went to roost,
cattle sought the barn-yard, and candles were lighted in the
houses. The obscuration began about ten o'clock in the
morning, and continued until the middle of the next night,
but with differences af degrees and duration in different
places. The cause is unknown.

G. C., Woods Run, Pa.—As you have alittle taste for writ-
ing, we would advise you to cultivate it. Your earnings may
be small at first, but by jotting down your thoughts as they

occur to you, and afterward writing out and revising them,
ee may acquire a facility in composition that will render

 

at w
terary work agreeable and profitable. Again, if you havea

 

cottage was floating down on the wild current.

Thad just succeeded in pulling the door open, when
there came a heavy lurch; my light was extinguished,
and I was pitched head foremost into the intense dark-
ness.

Another cry of distress.

Though evidently nearer to me, it seemed not so loud.
“Courage!” I shouted; ‘courage! Iam coming, and
if I can tind you I will save you!”,

I began to grope and stumble forward.

I struck another door, and went through into an-
other apartment, but, in the utter darkness, I knew not
where | was.

I floundered about in the water, and called out:
«Where are you, dear Miss Ada ?”

A kind of gurgling gasp answered :

‘Here 1”

The voice was not far off, and I struggled toward it.

taste for painting, cultivate that also. These two pursuits
would puatatnty enable you to be self-supporting. *

F. C., Jr., Doniphan, Kans.—The sucker is a fish of the
same family with the carp. The commion sucker of the New
England and Middle States is from eight inches to more than
a foot long, brownish on the back, reddish-brown on the sides,

and white below. It has no teeth, and its lips are made for
sucking ; hence the name of sucker. In the Mississippi and
other Western rivers, there is a large kind, called the buffalo
sucker. It is sometimes three feet long.

Frank W., Brooklyn, N. Y.—ist. The plumbing business is
regarded as a very profitable one; but you must act upon

your own judgment. We would not advise you to give upa
mont situation for an uncertainty. I¢ will take you some
ime to learn anew trade,and after Seng it, a longer

rhaps, obtain plenty of work. 2d. We can send

time,
you a book on plumbing, by W. P. Buchan, for $1.75.

 

Then there came another shock, another crash, an-

 

night where I should lodge the next, would be the per-
fection of enjoyment, and I then firmly resolved to put
this sort of careless tramp-life into practice at the first
favorable opportunity.

That opportunity did not arrive, however, till I had
attained my majority, and found myself the possessor |
of ahandsome competehey, and prospective heir to a
large fortune at the death of my father.

Bao 1 Ee BY, ell tem 2
foot-traveler; an = time I enjoyed this mode
of life, which alniés¢Yéiized my boyhood expectations.

I began my rambles in Massachusetts, and continued
them through Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York
New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Ohio, and might have
gone On rambling through the entire West and South,
only for the adventure I am now going to relate.

On a pleasant evening in August, the dusty road I
had been pursuing led down through a pretty valley,
and across a babbling stream, which turned a grist-mill

that stood directly upon its bank and had a picturesque
look of thrift.

About a dozen rods from the mill, but on higher
ground, stood a neat, white dwelling, with green blinds,
having a sloping lawn infront, and a few shading trees,
and the whole inclosed by a white picket fence.

As Ireached the crest of the hill and looked down
upon this picturesque scene, heard the gentle murngur
of the switt-flowing stream, the steady rumble of the
mill, saw here and there a point tipped with gold by the
setting sun, and felt the touch of a soft, balmy breeze, I
thought the whole very charming, and resolved if feas-
ible to pass the night in that vicinity.

On applying at the neat and inviting dwelling to know
if I could be accommodated for the night, 1 encountered
a handsome but haughty damsel, who held the door |
while she listened to my application.

Then coolly and céiemptuously eying me from head
to foot, she answered, with a degree of scorn which the
mere repetition of her words does not convey:

“No; we pick our company, and don’t keep a tavern.”

“lf you would pick up some Manners and better com-
pany it would be better for you,” was my sharp retort,
as I turned indignantly away, feeling that all the charm
of the valley was lost.

The beauty was so enraged at my impudence, as she
termed it, that she called loudly the name of her dog,
probably with a view of setting him upon me.

Fortunately for the dog, he was either not within
hearing or had better Sense than his mistress, for he did
not make an attack, which would certainly have cost
him his life.

Now, I was nevera vain man, and I knew that I was
not a general favorite with the other sex, but I had
never thought myself repulsive, and felt at a loss to ac-
count for the insult 1 had just received.

AsI proceeded down the valley, to where the road
crossed the stream by a wooden bridge, there came to
my ears a distant but heavy boom of thunder; and
glancing toward the west, I1saw just lifting its ragged |
rey above the horizon, an angry-looking thunder- |
cloud.

As from previous inquiry I had ascertained that the
nearest inn was not less than three miles distant, I now
felt anxious to secure some comfortable-shelter before
night and the storm should overtake me.

At a sharp bend in the valley road, afew rods from
the bridge, I came suddenly upon a bright, neat, white
cottage nestled among green trees, and, notwithstand-
ing my late rebuff, 1 Getermined to try my fortune
there.

A genteel, matronly looking lady dressed in black an-
swered my knock, and listened to my request with evi-
dent surprise.

I was favorably impyessed with her appearance, and
pressed my suit.

«This storm will overtake me before I can reach a vil-
lage inn,” I said: ‘‘and if all between here and there
refuse me shelter, I shall have a dreary night of it. At
the big, white house, near the mill, I have just been in-
sulted for daring to ask such afavor. Iam no beggar,
madam, expect to pay liberally for all I receive, and
shall try to get out of this inhospitable region as soon as
possible.”

“Jt is not with me a question of hospitality,” returned
the lady, in a hesitating manner, but——”

At that moment she was interrupted by a heavy boom
of thunder. and a sweet voice, that came floating
through the darkness like that of an angelof mercy,
asking her to let the gentleman stay.

“My darling decides for me,” smiled the mother.
«Walk in, sir.”

AS soon as light was produced I found myself ina
very neat, comfortably furnished family apartment, with
atable set for supper, and everything looking bright
and cheerful.

Seated near one of the windows was the owner of the
voice I had heard; and as I cast a grateful glance at
her, intending to follow it with some agreeable words of
thanks, I suddenly experienced a strange kind of thrill,
and pea my usually glib tongue no longer-at my com-
mand.

I have said that I was not a favorite with the fair sex ;
I may add here that I had never seen one that I cared

 

 

 

 

%

2S i aes the’ cottage partly fall ta nieces

other lurch, another rush of water, and ] was struck on
the head by some hard substance and nearly stunned.

While still foundering about, my hand came in con-
tact with a human being, which I knew must be either
mother or daughter-

I drew her head out of the water, and trembled with
emotion.

“Heaven aid me. to save.the only being Leverdoved!”
I prayed. :

The next moment there came another whirl and lurch,
and my charge and I were shot through a window into
the raging flood without.

around | :

I managed to get hold of a portion of the wreck, and

lace thetunconscious lady upon it.
so found that her heart still beat, and that gave me

ope. 2

A flash of lightning now showed me her face, and I
saw it was Ada.

I thanked Heaven for this precious preservation, but
groaned to think that the mother might be already
lost.

Down we went swirling about on the awful flood.

«Where ami?” at length came from those precious

lips.

1 briefly recounted what had happened.

“‘My mother—my dear, dear mother—where is she?”
came forth in tones of anguish.

«Alas, dear lady, I cannot answer,” was my reply.

I had no power to soothe her mental agony after that,
and it was as much as I could do to keep her and myself
upon our frail support.

We drifted downward for hours, and then lodged
among some trees on a hill-side.

Just at daylight I lifted my fair charge from the
wreck of her once happy dwelling, drew her up and
back from the raging flood, and supported her to the
nearest farm-house.

There she fell sick with a brain fever.

I hovered near, to give her all the aid in my power.

The body of the mother was found and buried while
she knew nothing of it.

Her recovery was slow, but I never left her.

When health and reason had become restored, I
told her of my love and prayed for hers in return.

She gave it.

I married her, and bore her to my New England
home.

I am happy now, and have had no desire to ramble
since I took my angel trom the flood.

The cause of the sudden rise and rush of waters was
the giving way of a great dam and reservoir above.

Among others, the mill and miller’s dwelling were car-
ried down by the flood, and the whole family perished,
including the haughty and insulting beauty.

- @ 4

CHARLES DICKENS AT WORK.

 

A sketch of Dicken’s demeanor in his study, as wit-
nessed by one of his daughters, who had been taken
there after an illness, will have the charm of novelty to
many people.

«For along time,” she writes, “there was no sound
but the rapid moving of his pen on the paper; then sud-
denly he jumped up, looked at himself in the glass,’
rushed back to his desk, then to the glass again, when
presently he turned round and faced his daughter,
staring at her, but not seeing her, and talking rapidly
to himself, then once more back to his desk, where he
remained writing until luncheon time. It was wonder-
ful to see how completely he threw himself into the
character his own imagination had made, his face, in-
deed his whole body, changing, and he himself being
lost entirely in working out his own ideas. Small won-
der that his works took so much out of him, for he did
literally live in his books while writing them, turning
his own creations into living realities, with whom he
wept, and with whom he rejoiced.”

$$ $—$_ > 6-4 ———.

THE ADVANTAGES OF CONVERSATION.

 

One of the chief benefits of conversation is that each
can learn that which his companion knows and he does
not; but this benefit can come only to the modest and
receptive mind. Most of the argument held by persons
of opposite views is quite futile for the want of this

mental condition. The object is not to find out the truth
about the mooted subject, but to shine and to conquer.
Neither party becomes wiser, neither is convinced. The
triumpb of one and the humiliation of the other are
alike fruitless, and more or less unpleasant feeling is
left behind. A thorough defeat taken in the right spirit
is more really valuable to the truth-seeker than twenty
victories that only feed vanity.

8 4

YEars of prosperity, following one upon the other in
unbroken succession, have a strong tendency to make
us blind and deaf to the deeper teachings of events.
We take the world asitis, and finding it full of good
things, we allow ourselves to be bribed with comforts.
But after a time the bolt flashes across our bright sky,
and in a glance we read the tremendous possibilities of

 

for more than another, and the first in all my life to give
me a magnetic shock was the being before me.

%

existence to which we have deliberately blinded our
eyes.

  

Q. R. M.—Venus is thetbrightest of all the planets, and Jupi-
ter is the next brightest. Though Venus approaches the earth
so much more closely than her rival in beauty, Jupiter, it has
not been found possible to examine her surface, to. any use-
ful purpose, on account of her great brightness, the best teles-
copes of modern times failing to show spots which some of
the early observers agreed in describing.

Marcus.—The chinchilla is @ small animal which is found
chiefly in the Andes of Chiliand Peru. It is about as large
asasquirrel, with a head much like a rabbit’

lack — and ears nearly as nasa the head. _
for its fur, which is thick, soft, an and is
for — ining’, trimmings, an

i. much used
i ot articles for ladies’
Lilly Lee, Hudson, N. Y.—Candace was an Ethiopian queen
who invaded Egypt in 22 B.C., but was defeated by Petro-
nius, the Roman governor. In the Acts of the Apostles men-
tion is made of Candace, Queen of the Ethio it has
been asserted that Candace was probably not an individual
name, but the title of a succession of female sovereigns.:

Wm. Cresswell, Braceville, Il.— Unless you have some
knowledge of a particular trade. we do not see, under the
circumstances which you state, how you can expect to suc-
ceed. You were unfortunate in losing a place which suited
your capacity, But donot despair. You may soon get work
again.

Geo. M. D., Des Moines, Ia.—ist. You will probably find all
the books you need _in the public library. 2d. Your hand-
writing is fair. 3d. Learn any pursuit you undertake, prac-
ls 4th. No. 5th, We can make no estimate of practical
value.

W. M. O’B., New Haven, Conn.—The New York College of
Dentistry is at the corner of Twenty-third street and Second
avenue. It was opened in November, 1866. Practical instruc-
tion in the infirmary continues throughout the year.

oO. I. €.—1st, You will find no difficulty in contracting mar-
riage under the laws of Pensylvania. There are few States
which forbid the marriage of first cousins. Pennsylvania
is not one of them, nor New York.

R. Brown, Lawrence.—“ Scott and the Veteran,” by Bayard
Taylor, will be found in “ Oné Hundred Choice Selections.”
Price 30 cents. If you desireit, write directly to the New YorkE
WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.

Albert B., Hopewell, N. ¥.—You are too young to think of
entering into the detective business, which requires peculiar
qualifications. Think of some other employment, and go
at it with a will

W. A. F., Brooklyn.—You will never succeed in any busi-
ness if you change about so frequently. If you have the least
liking for your present situation, stick to it.

R. V. L., Lockport, N. Y.—Take any employment you can
get until you find something congenial to your taste. Per-
sonal solicitation will accomplish a great deal

Aunt Moily, Bar Harbor, Me.—The criticism is just, and
agrees with our own judgment. The aggressor has reason
to regret the unwise selection.

R. W. and C. W.—The song “Maryland, my Maryland,” was
written by James R. Randall. It appeared in a Richmond,
Va., magazine in January, 1862.

Chas. McC., Newton, Kans.—The proportions of castor oil

and brandy for the hair are asfollows: Oil, three ounces;
brandy, one ounce. :

E. A. R., Ridersville, W. Va.—We advise you to take your
father’s advice, and learn the trade he has prospered in—
blacksmithing.

John T. B., Claremont, N. H.—Address a letter to the
American Veterinary College, 141 West Fifty-fourth street,
this city.

Belle J.—W ashington Irving first made use of the expres-
sion “almighty dollar,” in his sketch of a “Creole Village.”

S. M. S., Newark, N. J.—The “ or eee eoekeris Guide”
Ss.

will cost 25 cents. It contains many useful

E. C. R., Waverly, N. ¥.—ist. Not knowing your ability as
asalesman, wecannot say. 2d. Yes.

Lady Doris Studleigh.—Because not authorized to use the
name with which you are familiar.

Ida May, Long Island.—‘‘ Our Mutual Friend,” in Dicken’s,
novel of that name, is Mr. Boffin.

, J. C., Wood’s Run, Pa.—Whichever you have the most taste
or. i

Utica.—Clara Morris, the actress, was born about 1848.

H. E. B.—Manuscripts are not in request by us.

S. W. B., San Francisco, Cal.—No. .

To Conrrisutors.—The following MSS are accepted: “A
Son’s Reward;” “In the Night;” “The Pretty Governess ;”
“A Duty Fulfilled ;” “Jasper Thornton’s Venture;” “A

Strange Wish.” The solo MSS are respectfully de-
clined: ‘That Cat of Ours ;” “Isit a Ghost ;” “The Bride of
Ravaillac ;” ‘The Wicked Step-mother ;” “‘Beulah’s Faults ;”
“Je Ny Manguerai Pas ;” “Nellie Spencer ;” “A Just Punish-
ment ;” “Dreamers ;” “Pictures in the Fire;” “Musings 2
“Carter's Pleasantries ;” “Voices of the Snow flakes 7” ““May’s
Beauty ;” ‘‘Another Letter—Answer to a Married Man.”

————-e
MONEY IN CIRCULATION.

The money in active circulation in the United States,

comprising both specie and paper, averages $25.89 for

each person. In this matter France ranks highest, with

$44.23 for each person; Cuba next, with $42.21; Cape of
Good Hope, $35.41. Belgium, $81.92; the Netherlands,
$25.13; Great Britain and Ireland, $21.05; Russia, $5.18.
The Island of Luzon is lowest, with only 10 cents for each
person.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ene mer

 

 

 

 

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*
~

7

NEW YORK WEEKLY. #>

 

 

 

SWEET BE THY DREAMS.

A SERENADE.

 

BY QUALTON. -

 

Sweet be thy dreams, my love, this night,

And Tove thy only dower—*

To charm thee with its purple light,
As sunset tints the flower.

The moonlight through the lattice flows,
And shines in silver bars,

Upon thy silken couch it glows—

-Unciouded gleam the stars.

‘Sweet be thy dreams, and mayst thou own
The fairest joys and best,

To smiles of friendship only known,
And hope thy constant guest.

And mayst thou look in future years
On what the past has been;

And may thy life, undew’d with tears,
Still beautiful be seen.

Sweet. be thy dreams as gentle chimes
At eve frem trembling bells, sie
When winds through myrtles and through limes
Come whispering from the delis. _
And may thy slumber, love, be sweet,
Rare pleasures round thee spring ;
The-maids strew roses at thy feet,
When Village bells shall ring.

—______ > -@~<_ —______
{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.!

oe

 

FOR ANOTHER'S SI.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

AUTHOR OF

“A Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The
f _ World Between Them.” “Beyond
Pardon,” Etc.

 

{For ANOTHER’s SIN” was commenced Last WEEK.]

CHAPTER V.
A HOPELESS BRIDE AND A SILENT BRIDEGROOM.

In some wonderful way or other it seemed that a tele-
gram must haye run along the line, telling that the newly
married pair were on their way to Brooklands. -When-
ever the train stopped, the porters, the guards, all the
railway officials were on the alert.

“My Lord Carew and his bride!” one said to another.

My Lord Carew had a first-class compartment all to
himself; he was not to be troubled with society of any
kind. There may have been some kind of wonder ex-
pressed, that, traveling with his bride, he should pur-
chase so many periodicals and papers. Some thought’
he might have employed himself in conversation with
the beautiful girl he was traveling with. But my Lord
Carew had no such intention. He would have given any-
thing he possessed to have escaped or evaded that jour-
ney, but it was not to be done; he had promised to go
with her to Brooklands, so as to save her from comment,
yet the fulfillment of his promise gave him keen torture.

Those who watched the magnificently dressed lady

th the beautiful face as she entered the railway car-
ge, every luxury around her—servants bowing, por-
ters obsequious—one of the handsomest men in London
standing by her side—envied her, little dreaming that

beneath those costly robes, hidden by the lovely face,
was a heart full of the bitterness of death.

lady’s maid, Jane Hinton, and my lord’s valet,
Rovert Dorham, traveled together second class. Some
degree of silence and reserve reigned between these
illustrious personages. Jane had herownopinions. She

had had some experience of life. She had lived with |

Lady Isabel Rockingham before her marriage, and she
knew that a bride-elect ought to be all smiles and hap-

iness.
" y had her lady lain awake night after night, sob-
bing as though her heart would break, looking so pale
and ill that when morning came she seemed quite unfit
to rise and begin the duties of the day? Then she
had noticed that no lover-like attentions were ever paid
to her lady—no bouquets of flowers, no hastily written
little notes, such as she constantly carried to Lady Isa-
bel.. The night before the wedding she sat up to finish

some trifling details of her lady’s dress, and she had
plainly he the sound of stifled weeping. Inthe morn-
ing, the very morning of the wedding-day, her young
mistress looked so ill that, in sheer despair, she had

fetched Lady Carew ; and when they were together she
heard Miss Carlton say, with many tears:
~ “My courage almost fails me. What shall I do?”
Thinking carefully over these things, Jane came to the
conclusion that all was not as it should be. Her lady,
in some way or other, was being made the victim of cir-
cumstances. She had, beside, a shrewd conviction that

 

   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

eae mune. so lovely, and yet so sad; So weary, so unuttera-

 

my Lord Carew was something more than indifferent ;

and aopaols.

  
   
  
     
   
  

cotuant dite:
SO LUAU Si CONSLMere PuUue U
to preserve a very dignified deme
all familiar with Potten:
lord’s valet had his ideas; the little episode of
Juanita, Countess Silvara, was not unknown to him.
But Mr. Dorham, although a man of great penetration,
was completely perplexed.

If my lord did not like her, why marry her? Andthat
no liking really existed, seemed pretty plain to Mr. Dor-
ham. Therefore he, on his part, kept up some degree of
reserve with Jane, rather resenting than otherwise the
fact of the marriage at all.

They had traveied oe miles before the silence was
broken at all; then said Jane, with a deep sigh:

“T hope we shall all be comfortable at Brooklands.”

“So do I,” replied the valet.

“But J have my doubts,” she continued.

«And so have I,” he answered. “If I were a lord, I
would never marry at all. I do not think much of the in-
stitution myself.” :

“The advantages are generally on the gentleman’s
side,” observed the lady’s-maid; and then, feeling
mutually averse to each other, they spoke no more.

In the first-class carriage, where my lord and lady
$ were not much more comfortable. When
ed at different stations, people wondered
te face looking from the window ; so

U He C

anor, and not to be

 

      

ly mournful.

They had not exchanged many words. ‘
Would you like the window closed?” Lord Carew
asked, after perhaps half an hour of silence.

She replied eagerly :

‘No; | like the perfume of the newly-mown hay, and-
the hawthorn from the hedges.”

. Ae \
“God bless her beautiful face!” cried the men. “God
send her a happy life!” said the women. ‘Long live

‘Lady Carew!”

She was no ere to them; there was hardly a
man, woman, or child in that vast crowd who had not
at some time or other been relieved by her—helped
either with money or with kind words. There was not
one who did not owe her deepest gratitude; and when
they heard that she was to be Lady Carew they had de-
termined to give her what is called a reception.

“Long live Lady Carew!”

It seemed that even the birds caught up the cry, and
the wind repeated it. Her pale, lovely face flushed, her
eyes grew bright as she gazed on the friendly faces
around her.

“They seem so pleased to see me,” she said to him,
simply. ‘*You will not let them know that you do not

| like me, wi you, Allan ?”

She was so sad, so earnest, so sweet. She looked so
imploringly at him, that although his heart was
hardened against her, he could not resist her.

“They need not know,” he said, hurriedly ; and when,
amid cheers and music, and good wishes, the carriage
stopped before the magnificent entrance to Brooklands,
he took his wife’s hand in his, and in her name thanked
them for this cordial welcome they had given her.

Again, aS she passed through the hall, Lady Carew

and prevented scandal.

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE HUSBAND PROPOSES TERMS.

AS she passed through the hall, lined with servants,
Lady Adelaide had akind word for all. Yet they re-
marked to each other afterward how ill she looked—

violet eyes. .

-“T hope she will be happy,” said Forbes the butler ;
“put it is the strangest wedding I ever saw.”

In one way the whole of the establishment were satis-

dresses. o.

““My lady”—to use the housekeeper’s expression—‘‘had
behaved handsomely.” The maids were all trim and
smart in their new Ss and white ribbons; but the

lower regions.
pared for the bride and bridegroom.

My lady went to her own room as. soon as she arrived,
and when the dinner bell rang she sent an apology to
Lord Carew—her head ached so badly, and she was so

.| fatigued, that if he would excuse her she would take a

cup of tea in her own room. ot S

Lord Carew seemed pertectly indifferent over the mat-
ter; the stately butler who delivered the message quite
expected to see his master rush up stairs with haif-a-
dozen different remedies, instead of which he said,

coolly : 3 ‘
well. I hope the wine has been well. iced,

“Very
Forbes.”

Then the butler repeated that incident to the house-
eer motherly Mrs. Carbon. She shook her head
and said : ;

“That does not look much like love, does it?”

So dinner was served to my lord in the dining-room,
where, in olden times, kings had been entertained, and
my lady took some tea in her own apartment. Then
my lord took a cigar and went Into the grounds.

A very favorite spot of his was called the Lady’s Walk,
a long grove of beautiful lime-trees—so old, so tall, that

.their spreading branches met overhead, and formed
‘an arch so closely knit that through it one could not
even obtain a glimpse of the broad blue sky. lit was
dark and cool. At intervals white gleaming statues of
fairies and dryads were placed among the dense green
foliage ; often, too, at night, lamps were lighted there.
Rustic iron seats and garden chairs, with little stands
for holding flowers, or books, or ladies’ work, had been
arranged. -

It was a picturesque and beautiful place; the grass
grew green and thick; no wild-flowers studded it; in
some parts, where the foliage was thickest, even at
broad noon one could not see to read.

Here Lord Carew came every evening, when he was at
Brooklands, to smoke his cigar; and here he came on

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this evening of the fourteenth of June, his wedding-day.

Lady Adelaide drank ‘the cup of tea, but she turned
with a faint, sick shudeer from the delicate piece of
chicken and the golden jelly, which Jane perceiving,
went down stairs in sear@h of a bunch of grapesor a
ripe peach.

“You must eat something, my lacy,” said the girl,
who, by right of her utter devotion to her mistress, was
allowed more liberty than is usual. ‘Try these grapes.”

Lady Adelaide, to save further importunity, took
some, ;

‘You will not remain here all the evening, my lady,”
said the maid, seeing that her mistress made no effort
tomove. “It is very pleasant out in the grounds, and
the air will refresh you.” -

The young wife sighed as she looked atthe dresses
laid ready for her selection. What would it matter how
she looked? Noone there took any interest in her ap-
pearance. —

_ Jane held up afi evening dress of white lace and crim-
son flowers—nothing could have been more elegant.

“Will you wear this, my lady?” she asked; but my
lady never even turned her head ; it was all a matter of
pertect indifference to her. fF

When she was dressed, and the fair hair in its shining
abundance lay in rich masses over her shoulders, she
looked very lovely, but so sad that those who saw her
gazed after her with a sigh. What right had a bride, a
fair young bride, with a face like that ?

She asked where was Lord Carew; and the servant, of
whom she made the inquiry, looked at her with so much

 

She looked with lingering, loving eyes on the green
fields, and they seemed to fly past them. Poor child !—
she was not more than a child in years, she was a child
still in heart—clinging, tender, earnest, and sensitive.

erhaps, in her girlish dreams of a happy future, she
had imagined this journey—had seen herself going home
with the husband she loved to the home that was to be
an earthly paradise to her. Perhaps she had imagined

1 * herself a loved, nappy, idolized wite. If so, the reality

was terribly different.

She looked at the silent figure—the stern, handsome
face—the closed lips—and almost involuntarily a deep
sigh escaped her.

He looked hurriedly at her.
~ “You are tired,” he said, ‘‘and the day is warm.”

She was grateful, poor child, for even those few words.

“Ts Brooklands far away still?” she asked. ‘Often as
yi ha’ re traveled this way, I never remember the sta-

ons. si

Lord Carew looked at his watch.

“We shall be there,” he replied, ‘in an hour from
now. The drive trom Lyme Regis is uot a very long
one.

Once more silence fellover them. She read, or tried
to read a magazine he had silently extended to her, then
laid the book down, and turned her fair, sad face to the
window. °

How many fair scenes they passed—old churches, with
ivy-clad towers; richly-wooded hills, quiet hamlets,

- pretty villages, broad, clear rivers; dark, shady woods,
and green meadows. How quiet and beautiful the world
looked, asleep in the sunshine—how tranquil and happy!
Then the heavy heart rebelled against its own sadness.
‘The birds were happy in the trees—the flowers in the
sunshine—the buttertlies on wing. Why was she so sad,
so hopeless, and unhappy ? Another deep sigh; but this
time Lord Carew did not look round.

A few more minutes, that seemed to her like so many
leaden hours, and then the train stopped at Lyme Regis.
Everybody there knew that Lord Carew was bringing his
bride home.

There was a magnificent carriage ready for them, and
the coachman told his master that the people had in-
sisted on making great preparations for his reception.

“They have erected triumphal arches, my lord, all
through Lyme Regis and all over the estate; it was no
use trying to prevent them,” for my lord had expressed
his wish that no fuss should be made over his wedding.

For one half minute he felt inclined to go off by train
somewhere else. His brow grew dark; he frowned an-

“I told you-—” he began. ,
Then he saw her looking at him—her face so white,
her beautiful eyes so full of pain, her lips quivering—and
he left the rest of that sentence unspoken.
“Never mind,” he said; *-we must try and please them
inreturn. Drive slowly.”
But he was not prepared for the vast crowd that met
. him with ringing cheers, nor for the tall arches with
flags flying, nor for the bands of music; and though
he tried hard to steel himself against all emotion, he
felt. his heart beat and tears rising in hiseyes. Ah,
if io an site Care had re a, his side!

“Long live y Carew !” shou e le as the
carriage was driven slowly along the fie .

 
 

   

 

wonder in his face, that herown burnedlike flame. Then
came Forbes to the rescue.

“My lord always takes his cigar in the grounds,” he
said, feeling in his heart deep pity for the forlorn young
girl, who, on her wedding-day, had to inquire as to the
whereabouts of her husband. Te

**I will go to him,” she said. She remembered that
custom of his, and knew that she should find him in the
Ladies’ Walk. She went there; he did not hear her
light footstep on the thick grass ; he never saw her. He
was sitting near one of the large white statues, thinking
deeply. :

He started like one afraid when she went up to him
and laid her hand on his arm.

“J beg your pardon,” she said, blushing deeply, ‘I did
not intend to disturb you; I wish tospeak to you.”

“You do not disturb me” he replied, with stiff
courtesy. .

“1 want to tell you how grateful I am that you spared
me, how much | thank you for your kindness to me
this morning, and on our arrival I could not rest until [
had done so.”

He bowed; he could not find words to express him-
self just then; he would not say that he was glad. He
contented himself with the coldest of bows.

“If I had known that you were thinking so deeply,”

ou.” ;
. “We have something to say to each other, and it may
as well be said now. You asked me this morning—to
save appearances—to save you and myself from com-
ment, and I have done so.” +

“Yes,” she murmured ; ‘‘you were very kind to me.”

“Now we had better arrange upon what terms we are
to remain,” he continued, in a hard voice, that had no
tenderness init. ‘Will you take a seat here ?”

She shuddered as with cold, while he drew a small gar-
den chair near to the tall statue of Hercules. She sat
down, and looked at him with the expression of a help-
less, loving child.

‘You must forgive me if I say hard things,” he began.
“Perhaps I need not remind you that you married me
this morning against my own will.”

Her lips turned white; she murmured something, but
the words died away upon them.

“Whatever your motive was in so ee he said, ‘‘you
know best. It is too late to discuss it. We are husband
and wife, I suppose, before Heaven, and before the world;
although the barrier between us is one that death alone
can break.”

She made no answer. She clasped her hands so tightly
that her wedding-ring made a great red dent in the soft
fingers.

“Still,” he went on, “there was a great deal of good
sense in what you said to methis morning. J had quite
intended, the minute that fatal marriage was over, to go
away, and never to look upon your face again. But you
were right; such a course of proceeding would have
made us the gossip of all England. Iam glad now that
your better sense guided me, and I did not do it.”

“So am I,” she said, gently; and Lord Carew, hardly
heeding the interruption, it on:

«The only thing that rem , for us is to make the
best of it—to keep up appearances, so as to save our-
selves from becoming objects of gossip and scandal,

    

 

 

thanked Heaven, that so far she had softened his heart, | ~

how white and wan was the lovely face, how wistful the |
fied—there had been no stint of wedding favors and new |

festivity, sich as it was, was entirely confined to the |
A tempting little dinner had been pre- |

 

 

 

adhered to the terms he had laid dow

 

 

she said, regretfully, “J would not have intruded on | /

which would be equally hateful to both of us. We can
avoid that, I think.” ts

She raised her face to his with more of hope and light
than had yet.been on it.

“T am so glad,” she said, faintly.

“Yes; it would be better to suffer anything than to
have our affairs discussed by half Englard. This, then,
is what I propose, Lady Carew——”

She looked up at him, half wistfully.

«Shall you always call me Lady Carew ?” she asked.

“Yes; you shall have the full benefit of your title,” he
replied, bitterly.

“T do not mean that,” she said, hurriedly; ‘how you
mistake me. I thought it seemed so very cold and
formal, that was all.”

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STARTED LIKE ONE AFRAID WHE SiG WENT UP ‘TO

“You forget that the only terms on which we can re-
side here are also

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cold and formal,” he retorted.
other would be quite out of the
stand that, Lady Carew.”

“Yes, I understand it perfectly well.” ~~

«Then if you will give me the honor of your attention
for a few minutes, I will explain whatI mean. To save
appearances, we are to reside here at Brooklands. It is
to be your home and mine, and the terms 0n which we
reside here are these: You can choose any suite of
rooms that you prefer, for your own use. I have mine.
Unless we have visitors, it would be painful for us to
meet at lunch and dinner. You can have what you want,
at what hour you will, andI can have thesame. In fact
we can both live in the same house as independently of
each other as though we were each alone: When we
have visitors, I suggest that we use the dining-room in
common. Of course it will be at your own option
whether you take the head of my table or not. I shall
also consider myself at perfect liberty to go away when
I like, to remain as long as I choose; and you have the
same freedom. I shall invite what friends I like; you
can do the same.” us :

He paused and looked at her.

“You agree to these terms ?” he asked) ;

“Yes,” she replied ; ‘1 submit entirely fo anything you
may wish.” t

“When I am in the house,” he continued, “1 shall be
happy, when you wish it, to attend you indriving, riding,
or walking. As for money, you can ye a check-book
and use it as you will.” 7

The faintest glimmer of a smile playe# round her lips;
he saw it, but did not understand it foryears afterward.

«Thank you,” she said, simply. N

Then Lord Carew rose from liis Seat. .
“T think there is no need to say mores4@nly remember,

 

Lady Carew, that if you want an tance or help,
that I shall always be willing to give it.

“Thank you,” she said again ; and tuming away with-
out another word, she went back to the house. .

The last words on her innocent lips that night were a
prayer that his heart might soften tow
he might come to love her in time. g

her, and that

 

CHAPTER VII.
“I CAN BEAR PAIN IN siti”

Six weeks had passed since the wedding-day of Lord
and Lady Carew. They had paid a round of wedding
visits, and they. had given a series df stately dinner
parties. On those occasions Lady Adelaide had gone
down into the dining-room, and had taken her place as
mistress of the house; she had charmed every one by
her graceful, gracious manner, and her lovely face.

Her visitors went away declaring her to be a perfect
hostess—she was so kind, so considerate of every one’s

. | feelings—so attentive te every one’s wants; besides

which she was in herself so lovely that the pleasure of
looking at her surpassed everything else. Those dinner
parties were a great success; every said what a
great acquisition Lady Adelaide was. and what a pleas-
ant place Brooklands was to visit. After each of these
parties Lord Carew thanked Lady Adelaide in a most
formal-and stately manner for her great exertions. -
During these six weeks she had ey
never

O

  

TOurua pu + Die met
the Sunday mornings, when, fo! ng bn

house, they had driven over to the old church at Lyme
Regis; and again when visitors dined at the house, or
they went out to drive; then little or no conversation
passed between them. Whole days passed and they
never met at all. .

Lady Adelaide had chosen a suite of apartments for
herself in the western wing; they were large, cheerful,
and lofty. From the boudoir a large balcony led to a
small staircase that led dowr to the’gardens, so that she
could pass in and out of the house without going near

 

_the hall, or the principal reception rooms.

The servants either did not or would not notice this
strange state of things. They deferred to my lady as
the mistress of the house. The housekeeper went every
morning to my lady’s room for her orders—everything
was reterred to her as though she had been the idolized
wife of the master.

No rumor had at present gone abroad respecting the
terms on which my lord and lady lived. She was most
scrupulous in never intruding upon him. He sent at
first several times to know if he should ride or drive
with her. The answer was always the same.

“My lady was much obliged, but there was no need for
my lord to wait ; she was not going out.”

“‘] will be no trouble to him,” she said bitterly, to her-
self; ‘he shall have perfect freedom.” |

She continued to goin and out without inviting him.

coming, she would hasten away. He would not have
known she was in the house but for oP appearance at
church‘and at the dinner parties.

He listened with a proud look of calfn composure when
people lavished congratulations upon him, he smiled
when they complimented him on the wonderful beauty
of his wife, but the sphinx might haye smiled in the

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“I WISHED TO CONSULT YOU, LADY CAREW,” HE SAID,
RISING AND PLACING A CHAIR FOR HER.

same fashion. He was studiously polite and attentive to
her before strangers, on which occasions her lovely face
would flush with mingled pride, embarrassment, and de-
light, which people seeing, they said how very happy
she was. He was always most careful how he addressed
her in public, remembering those words of hers :

‘ Because I am so young—spare me!”

He did spare her so far that no one could ever by his
manner have detected the barrier between them.

She was not wholly unhappy. There was upon her al-
ways a keen sense of outraged love, of wounded pride,

bright, cheerful, happy nature. There were times, even
now, when she laughed and sang happily, as though no
trouble or care existed in the world; times when the
‘stately walls of Brooklands a a

music of her singing; when the

 

that she was an unloved wife.

“Any. 7
question. You under- |

ru ft the |

Jf she was in any of the principal rooms and heard him |

of unmerited shame and humiliation: but she was of a

in with the sweet
aithful old servants
went about with bright faces, thinking that as she was
so happy, all must be well; times when she almost for-
got the dark shadow that hung over her life, the fact

Then, again, the days came when she could not recover
herself, when her sense of humiliation and wounded love
was sO great there seemed” to her no resource, save
death. But Heaven is very merciful, and we are, none of
us, tried above our strength.

One morning Lord Carew sent to ask if he could speak
to his wife, if she would join him in the library. Won-
dering at the unexpected summons, she hastened there
and found him with an open letter in his hand.

“TI wished to consult you, Lady Carew,” he said, rising
and placing a chair for her. “I have received a letter
from my cousin, Lady Di Vereton ; she wants to pay us
ei visit with her husband, You remember Sir Guy Vere-

n ?

“Yes; I liked him very much. I met him several times
in London; but [ have never seen Lady Di.”

“T leave it entirely to you,” he said. ‘What answer
shall I return ?”

“T cannot possibly decide,” she said.

«Would it be pleasant for you to have visitors in the
house ?” he asked.

«JT should imagine so; it is very lonely at times.”

She looked so young, so childlike, that his heart was
almost touched.

“YOu do find it dull, Tam sure. Shall I tell Lady Di to
come ?

He had spoken to her with a smile; then suddenly re
membering that she had married him against his will,
the smile died away, and he almost repented of it. But
it had gladdened and warmed her heart.

“Yes,” she said. ‘I have heard that Lady Di is very
cheerful and witty, very clever and accomplished.”

He bowed, as though he would give her to understand
that he did not intend to discuss Lady Di with her.

‘T merely desired to know your wishes about the mat-
ter,” he said, coldly; and she, so sensitive, so keenly
alive to every change on his face andin his voice, saw
instantly that he had no more smiles for her.

«When will Lady Di be here ?” she asked, rising from
her chair. ‘‘I will give orders at once for her rooms.”

“This is Monday. She will be here on Thursday even-
ing. Sir Guy, of course, comes with her.”

‘‘Have you any directions to give?” she asked; ‘‘any
wishes you would like carried out ?”

“No. Mrs. Carbon will know what rooms my cousin
had when she was here four years ago. Thank you,
Lady Carew.” ,

Another most stately bow, and she knew that the in-
terview was ended. Without another word she quitted
ag room, and something like a despairing thought came
ex.
* “He will never like me,” she said; ‘‘and if he does not,
it will be better for me to die.”

She remembered having heard Lady ‘Carew speak of
this niece of hers; how much Sir Guy was attached to
Lie ‘how fondly he loved her, how devoted he was to

er. :

«She will see that my husband does not like me,” she
‘Said, and the thought was bitter as death toher; yet
she went at once to Mrs. Carbon and superintended all
the arrangements for the comfort of their visitors. —

Lady Di was expected on Thursday evening, and on
Thursday morning, as she was gathering some roses
trom the beds on the lawn, Lord Carew, passing by, saw
her: He stopped—courtesy seemed to demand it. Long
as they had been at Brooklands it was the first time ‘he
had met her in the grounds. ;

«Are you gathering roses ?” he asked, speaking merely
tor civility’s sake.

‘Yes; and see what I have done, Lord Carew. I have
run . sharp, long thorn in my finger, and it pains me so
much.

He could do nothing less than offer to extract it.

“It will not hurt you for more than one minute,” he
said. ‘Are you brave in bearing pain?” —_-

She could rot help the reproach that looked at him
from her beautiful eyes.

“Yes ;” she replied, gravely.
lence, and bear it well.”

He took her hand in his while he drew out the thorn.
It was the first time since his wedding-day, that he held
her hand, and his eye fell on the wedding-ring that had
meant little save an irksome chain for both of them.
What a little hand it was; how it trembled as he touched
it; how she blushed and seemed half-frightened at him.

‘“T can bear pain in si-

  
    
 
  
  
 

      
 
    

     

 

    
 
  
  
   
 

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IT WAS THE FIRST TIME SINCE HIS WEDDING-DAY THAT HE
HAD HELD HER HAND.

But Lady Carew made him no answer. She turned
from him, and walked away, her eyes full of tears.

— — a

 

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE HUSBAND’S PROMISE.

Lady Adelaide Carew sat alone in her sumptuous
dressing-room. For the first time since her marriage she
felt some little desire to look attractive. This visitor
who was coming—this beloved wife, was sure to look
beautiful. Her husband, in all probability, was prouder
of his wife’s appearance than of his own. He took an
interest in her dress; perhaps even, as she remembered
to have seen, he selected her flowers and jewels. Then
a deep sigh rose from the very depths of her heart.
Who cared so for her ?

Perhaps—and oh! how fervently she hoped it might
be so—Allan might wish her to look well—he might, per-
haps, wish that Lady Di should like her ;. and yet it was
improbable. He had plainly expressed his dislike to her,
and knowing that, why should she expect him to take
any interest in her ? ;

“The only wish he can have about me,” she said to her-
self, “is that 1 were decently buried,.and out of his
way.”

Then her heart reproached heragain. Afterall, Allan
was not quite so bad as that.

Jane Hinton looked quite rejoiced to see her lady in-
terested in her toilet. She fetched from the wardrobe a
beautiful costume of rich white lace, relieved by taint
dashes of blue, one of the wedding-dresses that had
been procured from Paris, and which even poor Lady
Adelaide thought so utterly wasted.

“It you wear this, and some’diamonds to brighten the
dress, it would be very nice, my lady,” said Jane.

Her beautiful face brightened for half a minute.
Though some of the most bitter sorrow of a woman’s lot
had been hers, she was still child enough to be pleased
at the idea of ‘looking nice.”

“J wonder,” she said, half shyly, ‘if Lord Carew likes
diamonds ?”

The maid opened her eyes in wonder; this was almost
the.first reference her lady had ever made to her hus-
band.

“T know he does, my lady,” she replied, quickly, ‘‘I
have been in Lady Carew’s dressing-room often when my
lord has looked in and asked her to wear them.”

Jane Hinton had not to say again that her mistress
was not interested in her toilet. Lady Adelaide rose
from her seat.

«Bring all my jewel cases,” she said: and the maid
complied with the request. Her slender, white fingers
trembled with eagerness as she lifted the shining gems
from their velvet beds. She would have covered herself
with diamonds from head to foot, if by doing so she
could have won one single word of praise or look of ad-
miration from him.

She chose a diamond necklace to fasten round her firm,
white throat; diamond stars to shine in the golden coils
of hair; a brooch, and a bracelet tor her rounded, white
arm. It was with the eagerness of a child she turned
over the jewels that were to win her a kind look from
him.

Never did mirror give back a fairer picture than the
reflection it gave ot Lady Adelaide that bright June
evening. Her lovely face had on it the faintest flush—
something of hope and expectation. He had been kinder
to her that morning, and her heart beat with the thought.
Would he remember how foolishly she had turned away
from him ?

No young girl going to meet her lover for the first
time, felt more trepidation, more shyness, than this un-
loved wife, who was to dine with her husband. She looked
lovely enough to have won any heart. The white lace
fell in rich cloud-like waves around her; the diamond
stars shone in the golden hair; diamonds rose and fell
on the white breast like so many points of flame.

«7 cannot think how it is my lord does not worship the
ground she stands on,” said the maid to herself. ‘1
never saw any one so beautiful, so gracious, or so kind.”
And that was the general wonder in the servants’ hall.

lf she had been a loved wife she would have gone
down stairs in a pretty flutter of impatience to receive
her guests; she would at the first sound of Lady Di’s
voice have hastened to greet her, half proud, half shy, of
her novel position. As it was she remained shyly in her
room until she heard the roll of the carriage-wheels.
Then she went down into the drawing-room; it was
empty. Lord Carew had gone to welcome his guests.

A shade of disappointment crossed her fair face. She
had hoped to see him for one moment alone—to note
whether the kindness of the morning still lingered with
him—to note whether he took the least interest in her
appearance or not. But she was not to see him alone,

 

Her heart beat when she heard the sound of laughing
voices—this unloved, neglected wife, was almost nervous
at meeting the wife who was so dearly loved and so de-
votedly cared for! Would Lady Di find out her secret ?
—would she see at one glance that her husband did not
care for her?

She had no time to ask herself more questions. Lord
Carew entered the room, bringing his visitors with him.
She advanced shyly to meet them. She felt her position
in that moment—perhaps never more keenly. There
was no proud husband to take her hand, andsay : ‘“This
is my wife!” in a voice that told of his heart’s pride and
delight. ;

Her husband simply introduced ‘‘Lady Adelaide Carew
to Sir Guy and Lady Vereton.” There was no lack of
warmth on Lady Di’s side. She went up to her—she took
the two white hands in her own—then bent down and
kissed her sweet, flower-like face.

‘We are cousins now,” she said, ‘and I am sure we
shall be friends.” ;

Then Sir Guy paid her many pretty compliments, and
Lady Adelaide began to take heartagain. She stole one
look at her husband, to see if he shared in Sir Guy's
opinion at all; but he was talking gayly to Lady Di, and
did not even seem aware of her existence.

‘How beautiful Brooklands is looking,” said Lady Di.
“I was longing to get here. I know no place that I like
so well in the Summer.”

“It is beautiful all the year round,” said Lord Carew.

. ‘You will be sure to find it so,” said Lady Di, with a
quick glance at its lovely mistress. “Guy always says
he did not know how fair Beecham was until I went to
live there.”

Lord Carew looked very grave; he had no light reply
for his cousin’s gay words. He was far too proud a man
to make any pretense. He bowed gravely, and his wife’s
sweet face flushed with pain.

“I almost thought I might find Lady Carew here,” said
Lady Di, and her husband laughed.

«‘Lady Carew is here,” he said. ‘What a confusion of
names! There should be but one Lady Carew. You
have such a pretty name—Adelaide.
the most beautiful names we have. You should be
called Lady Adelaide ; it would suit you better than the
more formal appellation of Lady Carew. Do you not
think so, Allan ?”

The fact was that no idea of the matter had ever oc-
curred to Lord Carew; he was taken quite by surprise.

“JT think as.you do, Di,” he said, stiffiy.

“Then you do wrong. You should have original ideas
on all such matters, and never follow any one’s lead. I
have always noticed though, that what I call really good
- husbands—that is, husbands who love their wives—find
pet names for them. You have one, I suppose, for Lady
Adelaide ?”

What could he say? He remembered her words,
“You will spare me, because I am a woman, and so
young.” He could not say he had found no name for her,
simply because he did not love her. He smiled, but the
smile was full of constraint, and again his wife’s face
flushed with pain. It was a great relief to them that
the dressing bell rang in that minute:

“Shall I go with you to your rooms ?” asked Lady Ade-
laide, in her sweet low voice, and both ladies quitted the
room together. Then Sir Guy turned to Lord Carew.

Allan,” he said, ‘I must congratulate you. I never
saw such a lovely woman as your wife. Why did you
not tell us what she was like. DiandI have wondered
so often. I think no woman in England surpasses her.”

Lord Carew opened his eyes in wonder at his friend’s
enthusiasm. He had never thought about the matter at
all, whether his wite was lovely or not; it was a subject
of perfect indifference to him. He only remembered
that he did not like her.

“ should have thought your letters would have been
full of her,” continued Sir Guy, all unconscious of the
true state of affairs. ‘I never Saw any one so graceful;
her voice is like music ; if she is only one half as good as
she is beautiful, you are a happy man, Allan.”

“Yes; I suppose the world calls me a very happy
man,” said the master of Brooklands; and Sir Guy did
not notice the slight tinge of bitterness in his voice. ‘It
is time we went to dress, Guy,” and Allan, Lord Carew,
without waiting to hear one word more, quitted the
room.

He went up stairs, not in the best of humor—it was
almost intolerable to bear so much of this kind of thing,
He felt quite sure that he should not be able to bear it.
It was all very well while they were quite alone, but this
would not do at any price. ;

“I must write and ask Randolph and a few more
down,” he said to himself. “Di will have something to
think of if the house is full of visitors.”

He dressed for dinner, not certainly in the most ami-
able of moods. Lord Carew was by no means a perfect
man—he was very proud, and hated to be placed in a
false position. He felt that his present position was very
false indeed, therefore intolerable, and he decided upon
altering it. But as he hurried down stairs, in the broad
corridor he saw the gleam of diamonds and the shimmer
of white lace. In one.moment a little hand was laid
timidly on his arm.

*‘L am so sorry,” said Lady Adelaide, in her low, musi-
cal voice, ‘so very sorry that you have been annoyed,
Lord Carew: but you will not be angry with me before
them, will you ?” .

“I will do my best,” he replied, abruptly.

but 1 will do my best.” ‘j

wee with that Lady Adelaide was obliged to be con-
nt.

[TO BE CONTINUED.}

TRACY PARK.

 

 

»Author of ‘“Ressie’s Fortune.” “H.
Hillside,” “Darkness and Daylight,” “Ki
Lyle’s Secret,” “Queenie Hetherton,” e

 

Sy
[Tracy Park” was commenced in No.1. Back nr
can. be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
AT HOME.

“Oh, Harold, what is that? What have you been
doing ?” Jerrie cried, stopping short, while a suspicion
of the truth began to dawn upon her.

“That is the roof Tom told you I was shingling,” Har-
old replied ; and taking her by the arm, he hurried her
into the cottage, where Mrs. Crawford stood in the door,
in her broad white apron and the neat muslin cap which
Maude had fashioned for her.

With a cry of joy, Jerrie took the old lady in her arms,
and kissed and cried over her.

“Tt is so nice to be home, and everything is so pleas-
ant!” she said, as her eyes swept the sitting-room, and
kitchen, and back porch where the tea-table was laid,
with its luscious berries and pitchers of cream.

“Go right up stairs with Harold. J have just come
down,and cannot go up again,” Mrs. Crawford said, ex-
citedly; and, with a bound, Jerrie was up the stairs and
into the lovely room.

When she saw them coming in the lane, Mrs. Craw-
ford had gone up and opened the shutters, letting in a
tlood of light, so that nothing should escape Jerrie’s no-

tice. And she saw it all at a glance—the high walls,
the carpet, the furniture, the curtains, and the lowers—
and knew why Harold did not come to Vassar.

He was standing in the bay-window, watching her,
and the light fell fullupon his shabby clothes, which
Jerrie noticed for the first time, knowing exactly why
he must wear them, and understanding perfectly all the
self-denials and sacrifices he had made for her, who had
been angry because he did not come to see her gradu- -
ated. Had she been three years younger, she would
have thrown herself into his arms and cried there. Har-
old half thought and hoped she was going to do so now,
for she made a rush toward him, then stopped sud-
denly, and sinking into the willow chair—Maude’s gift—
began to sob aloud, while Harold stood looking at her,
wishing she had not cried, and wondering what he
ought to do.

“Don’t you like it, Jerrie ?” he said at last.

‘Like it ?’ and in the blue eyes so full of tears which
she flashed upon him, he read her answer. ‘Like it!
Oh, Harold, it is perfect! I never saw a room I liked
better. But why did youdoit? Was it because of that
foolish speech of mine about knocking my brains out,
the ceiling was so low ?”

“Notat all,” Harold replied. ‘I had the idea in my head
long before you wrote that to me, but could not quite *
see my way clear until last spring. I have seen Nina's
room, and Maude’s, and have heard that Ann Eliza
Peterkin’s was finer than the queen’s at Windsor, and I
did not like to think of you in the cooped up place this
was, with the slanting roof and low windows. I am
glad you like it.”

And then, knowing that she would never let him rest
until he had done so, he told her all the ways and means
by which he had been able to accomplish it, except, in-
deed, his,own self-denials and sacrifices of pride, and
even comfort. But this she understood, and noticed
again, more carefully, the shabby coat, and pants, and
shoes, and the calloused hands, which lay upon his
knees as he talked, and which she wished so much to
take in hers and’kiss and pity, forthe hard work they
had done for her. But this would have been ‘‘throwing
herself at bis head.”

She was constantly thiaking of Artkur’s words, and
so she only cr ed the more, as she told Harold how much
she thanked him, and never could repay him for what he
had done for her. é

«But it was a pleasure, Jerrie,” he said. “I never en-
joyed anything in my life as I have working in this
room, with Maude to help me. She was here nearly
every day, and by her courage and enthusiasm kept me
up to fever heat. She -puttied up the nail-holes and
painted your dressing-room, and would have helped
shingle the roof if I had permitted it. She gave the
chair you sit in, and the table in the window. She
would do that, and I let her; but when Mr. Arthur
offered his assistance, and the other Mr. Tracy, lL refused,
for [ wanted it all my own for you.”

He was speaking rapidly and excitedly, and had Jerrie
looked up she would Lave seen in his face all she was to

 

 
 
    

 

 

I think it one of »

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the most hateful position any man was ever placed in; _

 

 

  
 
  
 
 
 
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  

 

 

 
 
 

 

 

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Ane Held AE Up Aa So

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him; but she did not look up, and at mention of Maude
a cloud fellsuddenly upon her. But she would not let it
remain; she would be happy, and make Harold so, too.
So she told him again of her delight, and what a joyous
coming home it was.

She had not yet seen Arthur’s card, and photograph,
and note; but Harold called her attention to them; and
taking e the latter, she opened it, while her heart gave
& great throb of something between joy and pain as she
saw the words, ‘‘My dear child,” and then went on to
read the note so characteristic of him.

“What a strange fancy of his to go off so suddenly to
California. I wonder Mr. Frank allowed it,” she said, as
she put the note in her pocket, and then, at a call from
Mrs. Crawford, went down to where the supper was
waiting for her.

The tea cakes were a little cold, but everything else
was delicious, from the fragrant tea to the ripe berries
and thick, sweet cream, and Jerrie enjoyed it all with
the keen relish of youth and perfect health.

After supper was over Jerrie made her grandmother
Sit still while she washed up and put away the dishes,
singing as she worked, and whistling, too—loud, clear,
ringing strains, which made a robin in the grass fly up
to the perch, where, with his head turned on one side
he listened, as if in wonder, to this new songster, whose
notes were strange to him.

And Jerrie did seem like some joyous bird just let
loose from prison, as she flitted from one thing to
another, now setting her grandmother’s cap a little
wore squarely on her head, and bending to kiss the sil-
very hair as she said to her, ‘‘Your working days are
over now, tor I have come home to care for you, and in
the future you have nothing to do but to sit still, with
your dear old lame feet on a cushion ;” now helping Har-
old water the flowers in the borders, and pinning a June
pink in his button-hole, while he longed to take her in
his.arms and kiss her as in the days when they were
children together; now, going with him to milk Nannie,
who, either remembering Jerrie, or recognizing a triend
in her, allowed her gentle face to be petted and her horn
to be decorated with a knot of blue ribbon, which Jerrie
took from her throat, and which Harold afterward took
from Nannie’s horn and hid away with the withered
lilies Jerrie had thrown him that day at Harvard when
her tace and her eyes had been his inspiration.

They kept early hours at the cottage, and «the people
at the Park House were little more than through the
grand dinner they were giving, when Jerrie said good-
night to her grandmother and Harold, and went up to
her new room under the raised roof. It was a lovely
summer night, and the moonlight fell softly upon the
grass and shrubs outside, and shone far down the long
lane where the Tremp House stood, with its thick coy-
ering of woodbine. :

Leaning irom the window, Jerrie looked out upon the
night, while a thousand thoughts and fancies came
crowding into her brain, all born of that likeness seen
by her in the mirror when Arthur was with her at Vas-
sar, and which Harold, too, had recognized that after-
noon when she sat with him in the Tramp House.
After Arthur had left her in May she had been too busy
to indulge often in idle dreams, but they had come back
to her again with an overwhelming force, which seemed
tor a few moments to lift the vail of mystery and show
her the past, for which she was so eagerly longing.
The pale face was clearer, more distinct in her mind, as
was the room with the tall white stove and the high-
packed settee beside it, and on the settee a little girl—
herself, she believed—and she could hear a voice from
the cushioned chair where the pale face was resting
speaking to her and calling her by the name Arthur had
given her in his note. i

“My child,” he had written; but he had only put it as
a term of endearment; he had no suspicion of the truth
it it were truth; and yet why should he not know?
Could anything obliterate the memory of a child, if
there had been one, Jerrie asked herself, as her eyes
wandered in the direction of the park, which had once
seemed to her like Paradise.

‘Twill know some time. I will find it out myself,”
she said, as She withdrew from the window and com-
menced her preparations for bed.

As she stepped into her dressing-room, her eye fell
upon the foreign trunk, which had come with her, and
with the contents of which she was familiar. They
had been kept intact by Mrs. Crawford, who hoped that
by them Jerrie might some day be identified. The girl
went now to the old trunk, and, lifting the heavy lid,
took out the articles one by one with a very different
feeling from what she had ever experienced before
when handling them, The alpaca dress came first, and
she examined it carefully. It was coarse, and plain,
and old-fashioned, and she felt intuitively that a ser-
vant had worn it and not she whose pale, refined face
seemed almost to touch hers as she knelt beside the
pox. The cloak and shawl, in which she had been
wrapped, were inspected next, and on these Jerrie’s
tears fell like rain, while there was in her heart an in-
definable feeling of pity for the woman who had reso-
jutely put away the covering trom herself to save a life
which was no part of her own.

“Oh, Mah-nee,” she sobbed, laying her face upon the
rough, coarse garments, ‘1am not disloyal to youin
trying to believe that you were not my mother, and
could you come back to me, Mah-nee, whoever you are,
Vd be to you so loving and true. Tell me, Mab-nee,
wholam; give me some sign that what comes to me so
often of that far-off landistrue. There was another
face than yours, which kissed me fondly, and other
hands, dead now, as are the dear old hands which
shielded me from the cold that awful night, have
caressed me lovingly.”

But to this appeal there came no response, and Jerrie
would have been frightened if there had. The shawl,
the cloak, and the dress were as silent and motionless
‘as she to whom they had belonged; and Jerrie folded

them reverently, kissing each one as she did so; then

she took out the carpet-bag,
ny body. She always laug
d tried to imagine herself}

  

yhich had once held her

 
  

re .
now, old bag; but you did 7 ‘vi
respect you, although I have own y

Her own clothes came next—the little dresse

> ;
showed a mother’s love and care; the handkerchief,

marked ‘J ;”,the aprons, and the picture book with
which she had played, and from which it seemed to her
she had learned the alphabet, standing by that cushioned
chair before the tall white stove. ‘There was only the
fine towel left of the clothing, and Jerrie gazed long and
thoughtfully at the letter «“M.” embroidered with flowers
in the corner.

‘Marguerite begins with M,” she said, ‘‘and Gretchen’s
name was Marguerite. Oh, if it were Gretchen who
worked this letter, then I can touch what her hands
have touched—the little dimpled hands in the picture,”
and she kissed the ‘‘M” as fervently as if it had been
Gretchen’s lips and Gretchen were her mother.

On the old brass ring the key to the trunk and carpet-
bag were still fastened, together with the small straight
key, for which no use had ever been found. Jerrie had
never thought much about this key before, but now she
held it in her hand a long, long time, while the convic-
tion grew that this was the key to the mystery; that
could she find the article which this unlocked, she would
know what she so longed to know—something definite
with regard to herself. But where to look she could not
guess; and with her brain in a whirl which threatened
a violent headache, she closed the chest at last, and
crept wearily to bed just as the clock, which Peterkin
had set up in one of his towers, struck for half-past ten,
and Grace Atherton’s carriage was rolling down the
avenue from the big dinner at the Park House.

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE NEXT DAY.

Jerrie was astir the next morning almost as soon as
the first robin began to sing under her window. She
had lett a blind open, and the red beams of the rising
sun fell upon her face and roused her from a dream of
Germany and what she meant todo there. Once fairly
awake, Germany seemed far away, as did the fancies of
the previous night. The spell, mesmeric, or clairvoy-
ant, or whatever one chooses to call it, was broken, and
she was only Jerrie Crawford again, dressing herself
rapidly and noiselessly so as not to awaken her grand-
mother, who slept in the room beneath hers.

“T shall get the start of her,” she said, as she donned a
singple working dress which had done her service during
the summer vacations for three successive years. <I
heard her telling Harold last night to have the tubs and
water ready early, for she had put off the Monday's
washing until I came home, as I was sure to bring a pile
of ‘soiled clothes. And I have; but, my dear grand-
mother, your poor old twisted hands will not touch them.
What isa great strapping girl like me for, I'd like to
know, if itis not to wash her own clothes, and yours,
too.” and Jerrie nodded resolutely at the fresh young
face in the mirror, which nodded back with a smile of
approbation of the towt ensemble of the figure reflected
in the glass.

And truly if was a very pretty and piquant picture
which she made in her neat calico dress, which, as it
was three years old at least, was a little too short for
her, and showed plainly ber red stockings and high-
heeled slippers, with the strap around her instep. Her
sleeves were short, for she had cut them off and ar-
ranged them in a puff above her elbows to save rolling
then up, and her white bib-apron was fastened on each
shoulder with a knot of blue ribbon, Harold's favorite
color, She had thoroughly brushed her beautiful wavy
hair, and then twisting it into a mass of curls had
tucked it under a coquettish muslin cap, whose narrow
fri just shaded her lovely face.

“You look like a peasant girl, and I believe you are a
peasant girl, and ought to be working in the fields of
Germany this minute,” she said to herself with a mock-
ing courtesy, as she left the mirror and descended to
the kitchen, where, early as it was, she found Harold
warming some coffee over a fire of chips, and cutting a
slice of dry bread.

“What in the world!” she exclaimed, stopping short
on the threshold. ‘I meant to be the first on,the scene,
and lo! here you are before me. What are you doing ?”

“Getting my breakfast,” Harold replied, turning’ to-
ward her with a slight shade of annoyance on his face.
“You see, [have a job. I did not tell you last night that
a Mr. Allen, who lives across the river, four miles away,
looked in one day when I was painting your ceiling, and

  

    

liked it so much that he has engaged me to paint one for

him. I told him 1 was only an amateur, but he said he’d

rather have me than all the boss painters in Shannon-

dale. He offered me three dollars a day and board,
which means dinner and supper, or fifteen for the job;
and I took the last offer, as I can make the most at it by
beginning early and working late, and we need——”

Here he stopped short, for how could he tell Jerrié

that/the raised roof had taken all his means, and that

  

  

  
   

upon her berries, and the butcher for the bit of steak
bought the previous night for her breakfast and his
grandmother’s. But Jerrie guessed it without his tell-
ing, but with her quick instinet and delicate percep-
tion knew that no genuine man like Harold cares to
have even his best friend know of his poverty if he can
help it. Forcing back the tears which sprang to her
eyes, she cried, cheerily :

“Yes, [know; you area kind of second Michael An-
gelo, though I doubt if that old gentleman, at your age,
could have done my room better than you did.
wonder Mr. Allen wanted you. But you are not going
to tramp four miles on a hot morning, on nothing but
bread and coffee, and such coffee—muddier than the
Missouri River! You shall have a decent breakfast, if
I can get it for you. Just sit down and rest, and see
what a Vassar with a diploma can do.”

As she talked she was replenishing the fire with hard
wood, putting on the kettle, pouring out,the coffee dregs
saved from yesterday’s breakfast, and hunting for

to make.

‘No, no, Jerrie. No, you must not take that; itis all
we have in the house, and grandma must have a fresh
one every day at eleven o'clock, the doctor says—it
strengthens her,” Harold said, rising quickly, while Jer-
rie put the one egg back in the box and asked what Mrs.
Crawford did settle coffee with. :

“7 am sure I don’t know; cold water, I guess,” Harold
said, resuming his seat, while Jerrie tripped here and
there, laying the cloth, bringing his cup and saucer and
plate, and at last pouncing upon the bit of steak in the
refrigerator.

But here Harold again interfered.

«Jerrie—Jerrie, that is for your breakfast and grand-
ma’s. You must not take that.”

“But I shall take half of it. I would rather have a
glass of Nannie’s milk any time than meat, and you are
going to have my share; so, Mr. Hastings, just mind
your business and let the cook alone, or she’ll be givin’
ye warnin’,” Jerrie answered, laughingly, as she divided
the steak, which she proceeded at once to broil.

So Harold let her have her way, and felt an increase
of self-respect, and that he was something more than a
common day-laborer, as he ate his steak and buttered
toast, and drank the coffee, which seemed to him the
best he had ever tasted. Jerrie picked him a tew straw-
berries, and laid beside his plate a beautiful half-opened
rose, with the dew still upon it. It was a delicate at-
tention, and Harold felt it more than all she had done
for him. : ‘

‘Thank you, Jerrie,” he said, picking up the rose as
he finished his breakfast. ‘‘It was so nice in you to
think of it, just as if I were a king instead of a jack-at-
all-trades; but I hardly think it suits my blue checked
shirt and painty pants. Keep it yourself, Jerrie,” and he
held it up against her white bib apron. ‘‘It is just like
the pink on your cheeks. Wear it for me,” and taking a
pin trom his collar, he tastened it rather awkwardly to
the bib, while his face came in so close proximity to
Jerrie’s that he felt her breath stir his hair, and felt, too,

lis own. ‘There: that completes your costume,” he
said, holding her off a little to look at her. «‘By the way,
haven’t you got yourself up uncommonly well this morn-
ing? J never saw you as pretty as you are in this rig.
If it would not be very improper, I’d like to kiss you,” ~

He was astonished at his own boldness, and not at all
surprised at Jerrie’s reply, as she stepped back from
him : ‘

“No, thank you; it would be highly improper for a
man of twenty-six, who stands six feet in his boots, to
kiss a girl of nineteen, who stands five feet six in her
slippers.” :

There was a flush on her cheeks, and a strange look
in her eyes. for she was thinking of Harvard, where he
had put her from him, ashamed that strangers should
see her kiss him. Harold had forgetten that incident,
which at the time had made no impression upon him,
and was now thinking only of the beautiful girl whose
presence;seemed to brighten and ennoble everything with
which she came in contact, and to whom he at last said
good-by, just as Peterkin’s tower clock struck for half-
past five.

“I must go now,” he said, taking up his basket of
brushes. “I have lost a full half-hour with you, and
your steaks, and your coddling me generally. I ought
to have been there by this time. Good-by,” and offering
her his hand, he started down the lane at a rapid pace,
thinking the morning the loveliest he had ever known,
aud wondering why everything seemed so fresh, and
bright, and sweet.

It he could have sung. he would have done so; but he
could not, and so he talked to himself, and to the birds,
and rabbits, and squirrels, which sprang up before him
as he struck into the woods as the shortest route to Mr.
Allen’s farm-house—talked to them and to himself of
Jerrie, and how delightful it was to have her home
again, unspoiled by flattery, sweet and gracious as ever,
and how he longed to tell her of his love, but dared not
yet until he was surer of her and of what she felt for
him. He had_no faith now in her fancies with regard to
herself. Of the likeness to Arthur, which he thought he
saw the previous day, there had been no trace on the
face which had almost touched his that morning when
he pinned the rose upon her bib. She was not—could
not be Gretchen’s daughter, and was undoubtedly the
child of the woman found dead in the Tramp House—his
Jerry, whom he had found, and claimed as his own, and
whom he meant to win some day, when he had his pro-
fession, and was established in business,

“But that will be a long, long time, and some one else
may steal her from me,” he said to himself, sadly, as he
thought of the years which must elapse before he could
venture to take a wife. ‘Ob, if I were sure she cared
for me a little, as I do for her, I would ask her now, and
have it settled; for Jerrie is not a girl to go back Om her
promise, ana the years would seem so short, and:

, 0 easV ‘a ar et 2 ” r

ue end o
it

U

   
 

 
 
 
  

 

ys Vea

~

Oia tO KNOW Much OF love, Oo US Symp
girl. Would Nina St. Claire know ?. Possibly
and Jerrie were great friends, and girls always
other their secrets, so Maude said, and Maude ¥
then his oracle. He had seen so much of her the Ia
few months that he felt as if he knew her even better
than.he did Jerrie, arid he was certainly more at his ease
in her presence. Then why not talk with Maude and en-
list her as a partisan. He might certainly venture to
make her his confidant, she had been so very -communi-
cative and familiar with him, telling him things which
he had wondered at, with regard to her father, and
mother, and Tom, and the family generally. Yes, he
would sound Maude, very cautiously at first, and get her
opinion, and then he should know better what to do.
Maude would espouse his cause, he was sure, for she
liked him and worshiped Jerrie. He could trust her, and
he would.

He had reached the Allen farm-house by this time, and
thdugh he was perspiring at every pore, forthe morning
was very hot, he scarcely felt the heat or the fatigue of
his rapid four-mile walk, as he mixed his paints and pre-
pared for his work, for there was constantly in his heart
a thought of Jerrie, as she had looked in that bewitching
dress, and of the bright smile she had flashed upon him
when she said good-by.

Meanwhile Jerrie had watched him out of sight,
whistling merrrily :

“Gin a body meet a body,
Comin’ through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry ?”

  

And whistling it so loud and clear that Nannie came
to the fence and put her head over it with a faint low of
approval, while Clover-top thrust his white nose through
the bars, and looked at her inquiringly, as Jerrie pulled
up handfuls of fresh grass and fed them from her hands,
noticing that Nannie had lost her knot of ribbon, and
wondering where it was. Then she returned to the
house, and was busying herself with preparations for
her grandmother's breakfast and her own, when the
latter appeared in the kitchen, surprised to find her
there, and saying : ;

“Why, Jerrie, what made you get up till I called you?
Why didn’t you lie and rest ?”

“Lie and rest!” Jerrie answered, laughingly. “It is
you who are to lie and rest, and not a great overgrown
girllike me. I have given Harold his breakfast and seen
him off. I cooked him half the steak,” she added, as she
took out the remaining half and put it on the gridiron.
“I don’t care for steak,” she continued, as she saw Mrs.
Crawford about to protest. “I would rather any time
have bread and milk and strawberries. I sball never
tire of them ;” and the big bowl full, which she ate with
a keen relish, proved that she spoke the truth.

“Now, grandma,” she said, when breakfast was over.
“T am going to do the work, washing and all. I must do
something to work off my superfiuous health, and
Strength, and muscle. Look at that arm, will you?” and
she threw out her bare arm, which for whiteness and
roundness and symmetry of proportion, might ‘have
been coveted by the most fashionable lady in the land.
“Go back to your rocking-chair and rest your dear, old
lame foot on your softest cushion, and see how soon I
will have every thing done. Itis just seven now, and
by ten we shall be all slicked up, as Ann Eliza Peterkin
says.”

It was of no use to try to resist Jerrie. She would have
her own way; and so Mrs. Crawford, after skimming
her milk and attending to the cream, went to her rock-
ing-chair and her cushion, and sat there quietly, while
Jerrie in the woodshed pounded and rubbed, and boiled
and rinsed, and wrung and starched and blued, and
hung upon the line article after article, until there re-
mained only a few towels and aprons and stockings and
socks, and a pair of colored overalls which Harold had
worn at his work: As these last were rather soiled and
had on them patches of paint, Jerrie was attacking them
with @ will, when her grandmother called out in great
trepidation :

“Jerrie, Jerrie, do wipe your hands and, come quick!
Here’s Tom Tracy, hitching his horse at the gate.”

Jerrie’s first pulse was to do as her grandmother
bade her, and her second to stay where she was.

“If Tom chooses to call so early he must take me as
he finds me,” she thought, while to her grandmother
she said: ‘Nonsense! Who cares for Tom Tracy? If
he asks for me, send him to the woodshed. J can’t stop
my work.”

In amoment the elegant Tom, fresh from his per-
fumed bath, the odor of which still lingered about him,
and faultlessly attired in a cool summer suit, was bend-
ing his tall figure in the door-way of the woodshed,
where Jerrie, who was rubbing away on Harold’s over-
alls, received him with a nod and a smile, as she said:

“Good-morning, Tom. You are up early, and so was

 

‘

a strong temptation to kiss the glowing cheek so near’

I don’t |

an egg with which to settle the fresh cup she intended ”

he even owed the grocer for the sugar she had eaten

/ and driven down to the cottage in his light buggy, with

i you are too busy.

| Shall take Care of her now.

 

|

 

 

 

I, Business before pleasure, you know; so I hope you
will excuse me if I keep right on. I have stinted myself
to get through, mopping and all, by ten, and it is now
nine by Peterkin’s bell. Pray be seated. How is
Maude ?”

And she pointed toa wooden chair near the door,
where Tom sat down, wholly nonplussed, and not know-
ing at all what to say first.

Never before had he been received in this fashion, and
it struck him that there was something incongruous be-
tween himself, in his dainty attire, with a cluster of
beautiful roses in his hand, and that chair, minusa
back, in the woodshed, where the smell of the soap-
suds would have made him faint and sick if he had not
been so near to the open door. =,

Tom had not slept well the previous night. He had
joined the fineXdinner-party his mother had given to the
Harts, and St. Claires, and Atherton’s, and had sat next
to Fred Raymond’s sister Marian, a very pretty young
girl with a good deal that was ee in her style and
in her accent, for she had been in Europe nine years,
and had only just come home. Everything in her man-
ner was pertect, from her low, well-modulated voice to
her sweet, musical laugh, and Tom acknowledged to
himself that she was the most highly polished and cul-
tivated girl he had ever. met; and still she tired him,
and he was constantly contrasting her with Jerrie, and
thinking how much better he should enjoy himself if
she were there beside him, with her ready wit and teas-
ing remarks, which frequently amounted almost to rid-
icule. Jerrie had been very gracious to him on the train,
and had laughed and joked with him quite as much as
she had with Dick St. Claire. "

“Perhaps she likes me better than I bave supposed
she did,” he thought. <‘Any way, I’d better be on hand,
now she is at home and can see Harold every day. He
don’t care a copper for Maude, or wouldn’t if she didn’t
run after him so much, and that will sicken him pretty
soon, now that hehas Jerrie. By George, I believe ’'d
be as poor as he is, and paint for a living, if I couldn’t
have Jerrie withoutit. ButI think I Can; any way,
I'm going to try. She»cannot be insensible to the ad-
vantage it would be her to be my wife, and event-
ually the mistress of cy Park. There is not a girl in
the world who would not consider twice before she
threw such a chance away.”

Such was the nature ot ‘Tom’s reflections all through
the dinner, and to him the tiresome talk which followed
it and the short summer night during which he was
planning his ngode of attack.

“lll call in the morning and take her some roses ; she
likes es thought. ‘‘I wonder what she did with

those 1] gay at. Vassar? They were not with her in
the car, unlgss She had them in that paper box she car-
ried so carefully. Yes, I] guess they were there, and I
sball see them standing round somewhere.” 5

And this was the secret of Tom’s early call. He had
thought at first to walk, but had changed his mind,

the intention 6f asking Jerrie to drive with him along
the riverroad. But she did not look much like driving
as she stood there by the wash-tub in that working-
dress, which he thought the most charming of any-
thing he had ever seen, notwithstanding his chagrin
that the future Mrs. Tom Tracy should ever come in
contact with anything as vulgar as soapsuds and pound-
ing barrels. How beautiful she was in that short dress,
with her bare arms, the whitest he had ever seen, and
how pretty her feet looked in the red stockings and
slippers, Which he would have sworn were threes in-
stead of fours and a haii.-

“Twas coming this way,” he said at last, ‘and thought
I'd stop and see how you stood the journey, and I’ve
brought you some roses.”

He held them toward her, and with a bright smile she
came forward to receive them.

“Oh, thank you, Tom,” she said; ‘it was so kind in
you. Roses are my favorites after the white pond lilies,
and these are very sweet.” }

She buried her face in them two: or three times, and
then, putting them in some water, resumed her position
by the wash-tub,

“Yd like you to driye with me,” Tom said, «but I see
Must you do that work, Jerrie?
Can’t sombody,.can’t your grandmother doit for you 2?”

“Grandin That old lady do my washing! No,
indeed!” Jerre answered, scornfully, as she made a
dive into the er with tne clothes-stick and brought
out a pair of Mrs. Crawtford’s long knit stockings and
dropped thenyginto the rinsing water with a splash.
“Grandma worked enough,” she continued, as she
plunged both her arms into the water. ‘Harold and I
He was up this morning at
tour o'clock, and has gone to Mr. Allen’s, four miles
away, to painta room for him like mine.”

She said this a little defiantly, for she felt hot and re-
sentful that Tom Tracy should be sitting there at his

 

 

 

ease, while Harold was literally working for his daily
bread, and also took a kind of bitter pride in letting
Tom know that she was not ashamed of Harold’s work.

“Yes,” Tom drawled, ‘that new room must have cost
Hal his bottom dollar. We all wondered how he could
afford it. I hope you like it.”

She was too angry to tell him whether she liked it or
not, for she knew his speech was a mean one and_
prompted by a. mean spirit, and she kept on rubbing a
towel until there was danger of its being rubbed into
shreds. Then suddenly remembering that Tom had not
told her of Maude, she repeated her question.

‘How is Maude? She was coming to see me this
morning. I hopelshall have my work done betore she

 

 

     
 
  
  

gets here.”

«Don’t hurry yourself for Maude,” Tom replied. «She
will not be here to-day. I had nearly forgotten that she
sent her love and wants you to come there. She is sick
in bed, or was when I left. She had a slight hemorrhage
last night. [ think it was from her stomach, though, and

   
  
 
  

 

KHOW, perhaps, that She W ere Ons nvly D
Harold, and I believe she actually painted for him some,
and for aught I. know helped shingle the roof, as Billy
said.” :

“Yes, I know; I understand,” Jerrie replied. “I saw |
it in her face yesterday. She has tired herself out for
me, and if she dies I shall hate the room forever.”

“But she will not die ; thatis nonsense,” Tom began,
wae he was interrupted by Mrs. Crawtord, who called
out:

‘Oh, Jerrie, here is Billy Peterkin, with his hands full.
What shall I do with him?”

Dashing away her tears, Jerry replied :

«Send him in here, of course,”

7 [TO BE CONTINUED.]
-o<

NOSES AND EARS,

 

In olden times the astrologers believed that a large
nose was always a sign of much character of some
kind, but what was determined by other characteristic
marks. A Ri nH nose was a sign of a courageous tem-
per and a dispdgition to face and overcome difficulties,
while a more strongly aquiline nose was an indication
of rapacity. The snub-nose showed little character but
much temper; while the Greek nose, even, straight, and

regular, was a signof the temperament of the owner.
Large nostrils indicated good lungs, health, and long
lite, while swelling nostrils showed a warlike spirit and
fire. A very sharp nose was considered an indication of
a busybody, while a bluntness at the end of this member
was an outward sign of the possessor’s mental lack of
acuteness. Large ears were always bad, ’'the similarity
between their owner and the donkey being supposed to
extend further than the ears, while small ears were al-
ways good. The lobe of the ear passing insensibly into
the cheek was a sure sign of a thief and a liar, while an
exceedingly sharp division between the two indicated
honesty and candor. Thick ears meant thick brains;
while thin, delicate ears declared their possessor to be a
man of refined intelligence.

 

 

>eo~<

HOW VACCINE VIRUS IS OBTAINED.

 

; &

in a cow-house at the side of the old turnpike road, in
the quaint village of Cos Cob, Conn., two calves can be
seen on almost any day strapped to a bench, their feet
Sticking up in the air and lots of quills protruding from
their bodies. Around the room are razors, knives, bun-
dies of quills and ropes. A man is usually in attendance.
This is a vaccine factory, one of the first established in
this country. The quills remain for a short time in the
flesh of the calyes. As soon as they become filled with
mucus—vacei as it is called—they are pulled out,
sealed up air-f , and in time do duty all over the
world, finding their way to Germany and Australia.
Some people inyagine that calves ‘are killed by the pro-
cess, or are injured so as to be unfit for use. This is not
the case, but it is Claimed they are made more healthy
by having these sores. for that is all the harm done to
them. They seem to suffer very little, and after a few
days frisk about as lively as ever. Calves of two colors
are preferred at the factory, white and red, and only
strong and healthy ones are selected. There is more de-
mand for vaccine at the present time than at any pre-
vious period during five years. ~

> @-<+—-

STUDY THE CHARACTERS OF THE GREAT.—It is well to
dwell in memory and imagination with the good and
the great of ali times—to study their lives, to admire
their genius, to revere their characters, ‘to keep our
hearts open to their influence. This does not mean,
however, that we are to imitate them rigidly in thought,
word, or action. He who strives to copy a great man
will never become a great man, for he misses the chief
element of bis greatness—his originality. .

> e~<~—_____
Scott’?’s Emulsion of Pure Cod Liver Oil with

Hypophesphites. for Pulsnonury A fections and Scrofulous
Diseases. DR. [Ra M. Lane, New one says: “I am wins

   

 

leased with your Emulsion. Have found it very serviceabl
In Scrofulous diseases and Pulmonary affections.” rok

*

"ABSENCE.

 

BY SAMUEL E.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder”—
Gentle reader, what think you ?
Let us this assertion ponder—
Minstrels may sing what’s untrue.

Prone we are to take for granted
Much experience oft denies ;
Haply this may be supplanted—
Ask to: whom it well applies.

Not the idle, truant pupil,
Missing oft from desk and stool,
More and more to go he'll scruple—
Less and less he likes the school.

Not the hopeful youth at college,

Seen ae ep eae eee tide oteeaepte mee meee eee wo a

a
——

“Not one living man, notone hull of your Spanish
allies is left to be looked at,” said he to the imprisoned
pirate. ‘And if I turned you into the dungeons where
your crew lie ironed like yourself, they would rend you
limb from limb for leading them into a death-trap.”

Raoul gnashed his teeth in impotent rage.
do no more.

7

 

CHAPTER XIV.
. THE EARL’S DAUGHTER.

Skillfully guiding his swift schooner through passages
not much frequented by either commercial oe or men-
of-war, young Scar-Brow made a quick run through the
West Indian range of islands, and then stood off Doldly
to the northward, intending to strike the coasts of
Wales, Scotland, and England, without looking else-
where until his first plans had been carried out.

He had gvod officers, a willing and obedient crew,
plenty of water and provisions, and a hold full of treas-

ed rather than sought for.

 

Climbing hills for mental fruit;
Tempt him from the track of knowledge—
Soon he hates the slow pursuit.

Not the sturdy son of labor,
Toiling for a daily crust;

Use him to the gun or saber—
Loom may rot, or plow may rust.

Not the votary of travel,
Strolling o’er a classic land;

At home beauties soon he'll cavil,
Lauding foreign beauties grand.

Not the debauchee, who swallows
What must set his brain on fire;

Keep him from its source—what follows ?
Long restraint doth quell desire.

Not the belle who loves to mingle
With the crowd at ball or rout;
Sojourn long near grove and dingle
Puts the cherished passion out.

Lastly, not the so-called “over,”
All intent on beauty-—gold; ;

Absence must this fact discover,
Sordid hearts are always cold.

True, the mortal more romantic,
Homage paying to mind and soul,
Oft itrenders nearly frantic,
Robs of peace and self-control.

Hearts there are in every station,
Every age, and every clime,

Proof against the stern probation,
Fired by the assaults of time.

But these few exalted cases,
Mere “exceptions” only ‘‘prove;”
This belief hath. firmer basis,
Absence lessens low-born love.

New desires, pursuits, connections,
Circumstances, prospects, aims,
Pleasures, tastes, and predilections,

League to smother parted Hames.

So, ’twere idle more to ponder,
All too much there seems to prove
“Absence makes” few “hearts grow fonder,”
Conquers much the world terms “love.”

ee

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

 

Three-and-twenty days went by without mishap and
scarce the handling of a sail from the time when the
struggle with the White Squall occurred, and the look-
outs were doubled, for the War-Eagle was now close
upon a wild and rocky coast, which gave no token by
shoal water of its vicinity, as on some shores. A ship
would be within her cable’s length of the terrible cliffs
and then not find ground which her anchor could reach,
if its use was necessary to save her from destruction.

Scar-Brow and Captain Francis often keenly scanned
their chart when their observations and reckon
them they were hear the rock-bound coast of Wales, for
they knew its dangers through many a tale that had
reached them of wreck and disaster there.

their very peaks rose tothe clouds inland, and ocean-
ward lines of gray rock rose hundreds of feet high, sheer
up out of the sea—rocks of strange shape, worn by the
beating surges of centuries into cayerns and strange
and fantastic shapes. The sunlight made rainbows in

when the great rolling waves struck the mighty bul-
or of rock which fronted this wild and beautiful
and.

Running within a mile of this rude shore, Francis and
Scar-Brow looked close to find some harbgr which they
could enter. They could see bright streams of water
rushing down the great hills, and they longed to fill
many empty casks with the clear water. The crew, too,
long fed on Salt meat with no vegetables for a change,
would gladly hail a new diet, in which juicy beet and
fat mutton would hold a place. —

They had stood along the coast until near noon, see-
ing no harbor, when suddenly a sloop of small size—say
ten or fifteen tons—seemed to shoot out from undera
great gray cliff and stand toward them. ey

in the distance, perhaps a mile back from the ocean, ~
a great castle, with many towers atits angles, crowned —
a lofty hill. tS

“Dost want a pilot?’ asked one of three men who

as it ran close on the weather beam of the War-Eagle. -

crew !” shouted young Scar-Brow, in reply.
well in gold for all we
none.”

“All right, young master,” said an old man, whose
gray hair and beard and weather-bronzed
him look like a very ‘ancient mariner.” And as the
sloop veered close to the War-Eagle he leaped on board
as lightly as it he were a boy. “I can steer thy pretty
craft into as neat a harbor as there is on the whole —
Welsh coast. It issmall, but it is safe.” th eetrt

“And where away, my brave pilot?” asked Captain
Francis, as the sloop sheered off and fell into the wake
of the War-Eagle. PD eee

“Close aboard, good sir, but you cannot see it till you
are almost inside,” cried the old fisherman, going at

 

EDGAR OF ATHOL;

2

|

The Boy Buccaneer. |

 

By NED BUNTLINE,
’ AUTHOR OF
“BILL TREDEGAR,” “BARNACLE BACK-
STAY,’ “DASHING CHARLIE,” *NAVIGA-
TOR NED,” Etc.. Etc., Etc.

[“EpGar, OF ATHOL” was commenced in No. 15. Back num-

 

bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers. ]

 

CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE DEATH-TRAP.

“Ho! ho! It isn’t so easy to get the weather-gage of |
old Bob Grimshaw as you thought it would be, is it?” |
cried the wooden-legged captain, in derision, as he saw
the rueful look of wonder on Raoul’s sickly face.

“Fire and tury? What does this mean? Where am I?”
yelled Raoul, wild with rage. .

669 2 2 W i 0 |

 
 
 

 

D y, UK UVYsel, > lronead hand and OOL.

walls to echo their complaints,” was the cold response.
‘‘All like thee are safe and surely held until the fleet re-
turns when thy shrift will be short indeed. There is no |
mercy for a traitor to the oaths of brotherhood.” |

At this moment the boom of a heavy cannon came in |
from outside.

“Ah! The Spanish fleet!
Raoul, staggering to his feet.

‘Fool! nticed under my guns by your signal I will
sink and shatter every craft of your Spanish fieet. Not |
one man shall return to Laguyra or Caraccas to report |
the fate of those who thought to conquer old Bob Grim-
shaw, and to take that which he was left to guard. |
Shake, vile wretch—shake in your chains, while I throw |
red-hot shot into their hulls to set them in flames and |
roast them ere they die!”

Grimshaw now hurried away, for he knew he had-busy
times before him for an hour or two, and every man, |
woman, and child he had on shore would be needed in |
one way or another.

When he reached the battery nearest the outer chan- |
nel, Grimshaw found the gunners all alert. His orders |
were quickly given. The leading ship of the Spaniards |
was to be allowed to pass, not a gun to be fired upon |
her. As the fleet to which Haskins had gone-out was
in close order, Grimshaw held.'that the last ship would |
be under the guns of that battery, while he was sinking
the galleon as she entered the main harbor. The gun-
ners being concealed, and no assistance looked for, it |
would be easy work to cut the fleet up before they could
resist such heavy guns at short range.

That the Spaniard believed the taleof Haskins about
Raoul being wounded was evident, for the galleon which !
had been hove to while awaiting the pilot at once braced |
around and headed for the channel almost as svon as he |
went on board. |

Standing in, the fleet following the galleon bearing the }
viceroy swept up the winding channel. The Spanish }
leader looked in wonder on the strong defenses that |
were visible, and remarked that no fleet. could ever enter |
there unless served by treachery, Such as he thought was |
then protecting him. i .

«Be ready to anchor when I give the word!” said Has- |
kins, as he steered the galleon to a spot where three bat- |
teries at half-musket shot would bear upon her.

“Lower away your sails—let go your anchors!” he
shouted. é

And in the confusion, while the orders were being
obeyed, the bold eet slipped down into his shallop,
seized her oars and was nearly ashore before his absence
was noticed. ;

Then there was no time for comments, for as if with one
electric touch, every battery opened on the doomed fleet,
and shot, round and chain, cold and red-hot, came pour-
ing into the hulls of the terror-stricken Spaniards, who
seeing no chance to escape, rather gave up in despair
than make bold endeavor to resist.

The flag-ship and half the rest of the fleet were in
flames in afew minutes, and when the crews tried to
lower boats to try and reach the shore, or else pull to
ae the boats were riddled before they could touch, the
water. .

A few tried to reach the land by swimming. But keen
marksmen from shore soon put an end to their struggles.
The orders of Grimshaw were to show no mercy. ‘And
only too well were they carried out by men who knew
that they had been doomed by the Spaniards had they
conquered. 4

Two hours went by, and wrecked hulks among the
breakers and smoking hulis within the channel were all
that could be seen of the Spanish fleet that had come so
gayly forward with flying banners and huzzaing crews.
Not a living man escaped to tell how the rest had per-
ished. Old Grimshaw was wild with joy. His men had
worked as if a thousand lives depended on each one.

Raoul with his desperate crew had heard the booming
guns, the crackling flames, the shrieks of the perishing
Spaniards, and when at last these ceased, and huzzas of
triumph broke from the lips of the proud buccaneers,
they cursed their dark fate.

And bitterly was old Raoul cursed by the rest for hav-
ing led them into their miserable condition by his
treachery and blind mismanagement.

The old wretch himself was almost stupefied when he
knew by the silence on the waters and the glad shouts
of the garrison: that the Spanish fleet was destroyed.

i will be rescued!” cried

 

  

once to the helm. oy
“Be pleased to take in all sail but the mainsail and
jib,” he said, ‘‘and have your anchor ready with scope
ot forty fathoms to your cable.” . ars
“By my sword, he steers right for the rocks gm
Sear-Brow, anxiously. x
“By the cross on its hilt, 1 will not steer ye int&

   

danger !” said the pilot, quietly. “Oursis a snug harbor —
| for a bit o’ smuggling now and then, and none ever enter

itunless they are helped by.them that know its land-
marks and its tides,” rh
Even while he was speaking, a narrow

(2

lofty cliff appeared ahead, and while the officers and

crew of the War-Eagle almost held their breath in —

anxious suspense, the schooner shotin between ‘two
lofty walls of rock and foam through a narrow channel,
which made one short turn and then opened into a little
land-locked bay where a_ half-dozen sloops, such as
fishermen use, were seen lying at anchor.

“Well done, good pilot!” cried Scar-Brow, when his
schooner swung to her cable.
pilotage well.”

And he filled his palm with golden coin.

‘Now thou canst serve us still. .We want beeves
Slaughtered—at least three or four, and a half-dozen fat
sheep. And the privilege to fill some thirty casks with
fresh water. And all the garden truck thy friends can
bring on board will be paid for. Our stay will be short
in thy waters, and our actions will show us men of peace -

ee bos
“lad I not mar good principle in thy fa
heard thee first speak, young master, Sere
thee the way in here.” ; ’
“Thanks, kind pilot.
hill 2?” ;
> (‘o o ,

   

 

oO o Dons BI oF mo oto

 

waters. He come, and thank thee, too, for

thy words!” said the pilot, taking the cross and kissing
it reverently.
beeves and sheep. Thy men can fill their casks with

| ice-cold water, clear and crystal, at that cascade w ch

leaps foaming into the ee
A lovely little hamlet of cottages filled the small val-
ley, in the rear.of the harbor, so opportunely found by
the War-Eagle and her brave young commander. ‘
The people seemed pastoral and contented. Sheep
and cattle grazed, on the steep hill-sides. Pretty

ermen on shore mended their nets, and calked their
turhed boats, while children played gleefully ote
them, singing and uttering little shouts of joy. ‘

It was a strange, sweet picture for those rude pi
to gaze upon. One to arouse the little good that can
found, if sought for, in the most wicked heart on ear
And quietly those rude seamen looked, and did th
work, as if they felt that they were living in a new 4
holy atmosphere . j

As for the young chief, who had so long been » to.
the low coral and sand islands of the Caribbean
and the level monotonous lands southward, it seem:
as if he could not tire of looking’ at those lofty moun-
tains, the tree-clad hills, the bold and lovely scenery be-
fore his eyes. }

The crew were now set to watering ship—an easy task

dens and small fields were seen near the cottages. Fis *
*

since they had but to row with their casks to the foot of "|
poured its crystal treasures into —

the cascade, where it

the bay, and there, a little leading trough made of bark,

carried the water to the bung-hole of each empty cask, —

was. en

y the

soon filling it with the bright, refreshi iquid.

Scar-Brow at last went below where: Zambo
gaged in preparing some choice dish for his 1
supper. The young chief smiled when he saw
faithful dwarf was occupied, and spoke kindly to as
he ever did. ¥

Before Zambo could make reply, Captain
hurried into the cabin.

“Thy messenger to Castile St. Donat is
said he, ‘in great haste, and not alone. A fa
shapely man, armed like a knight, with sword

   

and

pilot’s skiff when I came down.” N,
“J will go to meet him,” said Scar-Brow ; and buckling
on his own sword, which he had laid aside, he followed

Francis on deck. : Ber)
pilot with bared head bowed

Just as he reached it, the
low, and said : : :

«Young master, the great Earl of Gwyn-Alyn, hath
come himself to hear thy words.” Cm
stranger, a man of noble mien, but grave and pale as if
with the weight of some great grief, stood and looked at
him earnestly.

«Did this cross come from thy hand, sir captain ?” he
asked, as he raised the token, from over his heart, which

fer

Scar-Brow had sent by the messenger.

of Gwyn-Alyn,” replied Scar-Brow.

from a maiden, as pure as yonderc 3
tiful beyond most of her sex. A maiden with azure eyes,
might envy. She bade me tell the 1 of Gwyn-Alyn,
that she was stolen trom the Castle St. Donat by a buc-
caneer when she Was scarce two years old, and that the
cross. she sent was then upon her neck.”

“Oh, Heaven, be merciful! Deceive me not!
mourned my child as dead,” cried the earl, quivering
from head to foot with excitement. - “Sixteen years ago,
when I was away from home, attending a gathering of
our nobiles, a ship came to our harbor as thine has come, -

in crowds to see the strange men who scattered gold
who carried my only child in her arms, came down

see the strangers. She stood near the shore when they
were taking to the boats before departing. The chief
of the strangers, as for banter, offered to buy the pretty
child. The hurse, in horror, told him whose child it
was, and drew

Snatched the child away, and she has never been

”

could send this cross with such a message.
“Was, there not a

 

Grimshaw Came himself soon after to cheer (?) him with
the news. ‘

cheek, which would be remembered by her mother or
nurse, if no one else ?” asked Scar-Brow. ;

 

 

e could

*

ure. But few sails were sighted, and {these were avoid- —

ing told ~

It was a glorious morning when at last, just at dawn, —
the land was sighted close aboard. Mountains blue to —

the spray, which fiew a hundred feet high or more —

stood on-the deck of the sloop to which we just alluded, —

“Ay, if thou canst take us into a harbor where we can —
get water for our casks and fresh provisions for our

4 “We pay |
get, ask no questions, and answer ..|

face made —

opening in the oy

“Thou hast earned thy |

face when I__
ea

What castle crowns yonder |

7 W } ne mes- {|
| They too have the bare rock to sleep upon and dungeon | Sage, it indeed thou dost not get better paid.” i
“I will go to him, young. master, with the cross and —

«Meantime Iwill send men to get thee —

 

ooh a a
t
‘

 

 
 

 

Francis
ng,” 4
aag-

ger at his belt, and spurs on his heels, will be on board —
by the time thou canst reach the deck. He was in the ~

Scar-Brow touched his plumed hat in salute, as the - |

“From mine, it Was sent to thine, if thou be the Earl “Oh
“Butitcametome ©
talfountain, beau-

hair like new gold, and aform and grace that queens —
var
I have —

seeking to water and provision. The people gathered —
about them as if they knew notits worth, The. nurse, ’
with some of the retainers of the castle, like the rest, to_

(ae

back trom him. But he—the wretch —
whom I would give all [have to meet sword to sword— _

 

or heard of until this day, for it seems no other but she i

«

apm mark -on thy child’s right i

  

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_ “gave
- the ground, crying out: ‘Save the young laird!
All this comes to me

d Captain Francis,

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—

“Ay, noble captain, alittle mole, black as jet, right
in the dimple of that cheek,” answered the earl.
“Then the lady who sent the cross

the message by my lips is thy child.
I =, ot when I last saw her.”

“Men, noble captain, take me back with thee, thatI
may press her to my heart, now almost broken. Name
; ge—I care not. I would give alll
have on earth for her. Her mother died of grief.
for me, these sixteen years I have not known one happy.

price of

|
| Highlands could be seen on the shore as the schooner

by my hand and shot forward swittly in the smooth water. The heavy
J noticed the mark | boom of cannon had evidently aroused the neighbor-

| hood. i
| Hoisting a white flag at his fore to signify a peaceful
intent. Scar-Brow stood in until within half-musket shot

Then reducing sail to mainsail and jib, the schooner
| was hove to. y
| Her best boat with a picked crew was lowered, and

|" the shore.

“Noble earl, come with me tomy cabin. There thou | into it Scar-Brow and the earl stepped, followed by
shalt learn who and whatIam. Then, if thou deemest | Zambo.
me worthy to consort with thee, thou shalt hayefree| The earl had met many Scottish nobles in his day,

passage to where | left thy child in safety, and with her

a free return to thy castle home.”
‘Noble captain, I follow thee!”

| and hoped to be of service to his host by giving his own
| name and title as a voucher should occasion favor.
| Seeing but one boat and its small crew—a white flag

The two went alone down into the handsome cabin of | flying in its bow—approaching, the people on shore

the schooner.

showed no alarm and waited for the strangers to land.

Zambo, at a sign from his master, left. the cabin, first | They were all armed with dirk and claymore, and were

lacing a flagon of wine and two golden cups on the

le.
“First, sir knight, let me pledge thee fair faith and
truth in a cup of wine,” said Scar-Brow. ‘Then I will

_ Qriefiy tell my:
| The cups were
|. abruptly said:

“My lord earl, I have been raised and bred to the wild
life of a Southern buccaneer—in plain words, a lawless

rover of the sea.” | :
“Thou wert not born such.”

“No, thank Heaven—no, my lord.
year, and on the same cruise that the buccaneer fleet
made when thy child was stolen away, I, too, was torn
from a noble Scottish home. The chiet of thatfleet told

me my name was of Atho]——

“Edgar of Athol? Thou art of the kingly race of

Stuarts.”

ed and drained, and then Scar-Brow

well able to defend themselves against so few, if men-
ace were intended.

When Scar-Brow, preceded at his request by Earl
Gwyn-Alyn, stepped on shore, a tall, distinguished-
looking man, Clad in full Highland costume, with an
eagie feather in his cap, stepped forward. Speaking in
Spanish, thinking he addressed Spaniards, he asked :

“To what'end doth the Castilian land upon the shores
of Athol ?” ;

In English Sear-Brow replied, as he raised his plumed
hat respectfully :

“To make some inquiry of the owner of yonder castle,
if I can but see him.”

A strange and startling incident now occurred. An
old man, with white hair and beard. rushed forward
from amid the group of Scotsmen, and, pointing to the
| livid mark on the young chief’s brow, cried out, wildly :
| “My laird! ‘Tis he! ’tis he! See the birth-mark!

 

«J know not yet; but he, when dying, left me proofs Tis my young laird! itis Edgar of Athol!”
that I am to open and read at a certain time. Ishallgo; The tall man who had spoken first turned pale as

~ to Scotland before return to the South to look at my
 pirth-place. ‘It is known to the faithful dwarf, who lett |

| Snow and trembled from head to foot.
“Who and what art thou?” he gasped, looking in

the cabin after we entered. Nowthat thou knowest | wonder at that scarred brow,

who and what I am, as far as I know myself. art thou in |

‘That old man has spoken my name. If I have been

the same mind, my lordearl? Wilt thou take passage | told aright, yonder castle was my Dbirth-place, from

with the chief of the Los Roques Buccaneers ?”

“J will! Nought that thou hast saidor done will
change my mind. AlllaskisthatI am taken where I
ean clasp my long-lost Hlinore to my arms.

“ELINORE? She is called by the man w

' which, sixteen years gone by, 1 was stolen—the brave
| man who tried to save me cut down by a pirate’s
| Sword.” :

‘Here is the gash of that cruel sword!” cried the. old

ho stole her | man, bending his white head down and showing a deep

away from you, and who adopted her as his daughter, | cut inthe skull. “Itismy young laird! it is my young

Elisabetta.”

| laird!” he added, as he bent his knee aad kissed Scar-

“She does not trust in this man or love him?’ asked | Brow’s hand.

the e€arl.

“No, my lord: she hates and holds him in contempt.
She is brave and noble as she is lovely and pure.”
“Thank Heaven for that. How soon will you goto

sea, noble captain ?”

«Tf thou art the child that was stolen hence sixteen
years ago thou art my nephew, my brother’s son, for he
had a birth-mark like that,” said the Scottish noble.
“But how isit theu art. under that flag, with which
England is at war!”

|; Alyn. “The young captain did not know-.of the war

“‘ePhey shall be hurried on board. These are my es- | proclaimed so lately. and he was fired on by the frigate

‘tates, and my tenantry are loyal and true. I willgoto the
castle to make some preparation, and will return read7
_ to’Sail before the sun is low in the west.
time ail things here are free to thee and thine. No ten- | before,” said the Scottish lord.
ant of mine will take pay from those who have done me |

so at a favor.” :

* and the earl went on deck.

ing in the vessel to bring her home.

 

 

CHAPTER XV.

THE RECOGNITION...

In the mean- |

“We are ready and willing to pay for ail we get, my
lord. Only on sea and against our enemies do we
lift the lawless hand,” said Scar-Brow, proudly, as he

: When it was known in the hamlet that this strange

_yessel had brought good news to the Earlof Gwyn-Alyn,
the people seemed wild with joy: for the’news spread
that the earl’s long-lost child lived, and that he was go- |

Boats laden with fresh, and dried, and smoked meats
and fish, vegetables and truits were sent alongside the
War-Eagle and their contents put on board, the people
_ refusing any recompense. And when, a little before |
sunset, the earl came down with only one attendant to | ing upon him.
go on board the schooner, the people crowded around to |
wish him good-speed and a safe return.

| before he fired a shot. He has merely taught her a les-
son and let her go to make repairs.”
“Thou knowest me, and thy face is one I have seen

“fam Gwyn-Alyn, Earl of St. Donat,” was the reply.
| “In company with this brave youth I was on my way to
| southern seas in search of along-iost daughter, when
| he ran in here to look at his birth-place, which one of
| his servants knew and promised to show him.”

|  Thatis the man,” said the old servitor, pointing to
; Zambo. ‘I remember when our men were fighting he
| clove his way right and left more like afiend thana
| mortal man.”

| cut off with the child in his arms, and I had to cleave a
| pathway for him while he defended himself.”

t
A signal gun from the schooner now drew every eye | S

| toward her.
Ataglance young Scar-Brow saw a new peril frown-

| two large English men-of-war were seen near the dis-
; abled frigate, both of them now standing in toward the

wind and tide in their teeth.

Quite a crowd of people in the bright plaids of the

 

 

“Yes, it was I,” said Zambo. “Iron-Hand was nearly -

WE PART—AY, FOREVER.

 

BY JESSY.

 

We part—ay. forever, as Fate hath decreed;

And doomed me to sever from love and from thee ;
But still let thy memory sometimes recall

In mirth’s smiling hours, fond visions of mé&
Let memory recall me as wandering alone

O’er the scenes which thy presence had gladden’d

before, ..
And the cheek, as it fadeth from youth’s rosy bloom,
May tell the heart’s hope and its gladness are o’er.

But, oh! if remembrance awakens a pang,
Let the past, like a dream, be effaced from thy mind.
I can bid thee forget me, if memory pains,
Or leaves, with those visions, one shadow behind ;
i can bid thee forget me, and all 1 have borne
For a love that was fearless, yet hopeless and vain,
Whose dawn was too bright, but in clouds te decline—
We part—ay, forever !—we meet not again!

--_—_—--—__—_--—_ > @ —~4 -—--—— — —--

Pleasant Paragraphs,

 

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
oblige us by sending for

NEw YORK WEEKLY, and they will
publication anything which may be deemed of suflicient in-
terest for acral perusal. It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should. be

remedied. }

 

A Saint’s Compliment.

AS Peter sat at heaven’s gate,
A maiden sought permission, |
And begged of him, if not too late
To give her free admission.

«What claim hast thou to enter :
He cried, in honest mien. ze

«Please, sir,” She said, *twixt Tope and fear,
“Tm only just sixteen.”

“Enough !” the hoary guardian said,
: And the gate wide open threw; _
“That is the age when-every maid ~~
Is girl and angel too.” ;
The Romance of a Coal Stove,
One day last fall, after talking until 1

sore, a Detroit stove dealer succeeded in sell
a coal stove, but it was with the proviso:

 
 
 
 

    
 

hroat was
a widow
tif every-

| thing didn’t work satisfactorily he was to make it do so.
‘With all speed. As soon as wecan get our waterin| “It was butaruse, Earl of Athol,” safd Earl Gwyn- | ing dae 4 a

and some fresh provisions that I have ordered.”

Two days after delivering the stove he got his first call.
A boy entered the store, and said : et

“Mrs. wants you to come up and fix that stove.
The house is full of smoke.” ie =

A man was sent up, and he found the!
with the chimney. ; a4

Only three or four days had passed when tite
in again, and said: =

“That stove is puffing, and blowing, and
widow todeath. She wants the same man. {
again.”

He was sent, and it was discovered t
know how to arrange the dampers and dr

Everything seemed to run well for a week, and then
the boy walked in to announce : j

“She sent me down to have yousend that man up
again. ‘The house is full of coal gas.” 3

 

   
  
 

 

then gas escaped again. At length the
the house,‘and said: | ra
“Madam, you gave me $30 for the stov@ how much

Drawn thither doubtless by the recent cannonade, | wij] you take for it ?”

“T wouldn’t sell it.” 2

%

“But I can’t be sending my man up here every two or

raed making but slow headway, however, with | three days all winter.” :

| “What wilt thoudo? Thou canst not pass them to

Standing off from the surge-beaten coast of Wales, | the open sea, and they will sink thy brave craft before
Scar-Brow laid his course for the Scottish shores, de- | they ask a question,” said the Laird of Athol, address-
much on Zambo’s memory of headlands to | ing the young chief. ‘‘Wilt thou surrender ?”

corn the locality that Iron-Hand had visited when the e ,
boy chief was stolen from the home of his infancy ; for | did,” cried the chief, proudly.
_ of all then on board the War-Eagle Zambo only had | British blood-hounds, I will sink at my guns before they |

been with Lron-Hand on that cruise.

Leaving St. George’s Channel, through which he had
approached Wales, with Ireland on-his larboard hand,

‘Never! J were unworthy the blood of my race if I |

“If Il cannot escape the

| can hold me or my brave men captive.”

| “Bravely spoken. But the odds are too great. Run f
thy craft on Shore, and we will find concealment for thy |

Scar-Brow steered over the rough Irish Sea toward the ; men in our Highland glens, while the Briton can seek :
Scottish coast, for Zambo well remembered that that | satisfaction from her smoking hull,” cried the laird. | away, and returning, said: “I am informed that we left

was the route taken by fron-Hand in the cruise so event-

ful to our hero's history.

For two days, with fresh but often baffing winds, the
War-Eagle under a press of canvas held her way to the |

northward.

«Even if it be treason to the crown, I will stand to the
| death for my own blood.” ,

the open sea. Then, in a better day, I will come back

The Earl of Gwyn-Alyn, used to the boisterous fuss | to see thee, and show myself worthy of a kingly race.”

made on the coasters and packets in which he had made |

“Ay, come back, my laid, to win thy rights which

his few voyages at sea, looked in silent wonder at the yonder English curs even now usurp!” cried the old re-
perfect discipline which ruled all on board the schooner, | tainer who had first recognized the young chief,

officers and men. Every order was given in a tone}

barely loud enough to be heard, and obeyed as quickly | now slowly but surely closing in upon the schooner.

as given. The vessel was kept as neatly as the drawing-

“Tf must on board!” cried the brave young captain.

_ rooms in his grand castle. Sail was made or taken in, | ‘“They will soon be where cold iron can reach them, if

ear,

 
 
   
    
 
     

SP TOONS Oh

close to windward, the e.

Ca in Ww
glowed with an unusual fire.

which

 

  

there.”

Tremulous with anxious hope, Scar-Brow steered to-
’ ward the point indicated by the faithful dwarf, confi-
- dent in a memory which thus specified landmarks yet

el

emerald frame, was visible. .
the
_ servin:

_ Edgar of Athol if ye be men.’
now asif it were but yesterday.”

baci
_ square-

 

 

to cut them off from the open sea.

 

 
 

Ba
irigate

  
   
 

the ih flag.”

 

Glan

 
 

- had just been hoisted.

 

and Spain were again at war.”

 

 

s
¥

 

fiance!”

 

y thee to the last.”

nge of shot,” said the young chief.

 

ow raised his match, and fired.

‘elose to the mast!

By this time Scar-Brow was ready to fire. Lowering
nn a little because Francis shot so high, he sent in
iron messenger. “

and better! Thou hast hit his mast, brave
captain !” cried the earl. ‘I saw huge splinters

  

   

>.

 

 
  
 

  

 

 

  

      
     

hird Gav. as

nbo | and earnest tone.

 

n. : ;
As the schooner under a heavy press of sail opened €
the point, the deep, narrow bay was sighted, and half | cried Scar-Brow. ‘Obey his orders!”
an hour later a noble castle, with four turrets and a| As the barge was hoisted to its davits, the schooner
little lake on one side, lying bright as a mirror in an j shot ahead, right up the bay, which seemed to be utter-

“4 gracious master, there is thy birth-place!” cried
wart, pointing toward the castle.
ber that thou wert snatched away from the arms of a

man, dressed in plaids, who tought furiously to
ee, but he was overmatched, and fell bleeding to

“We've work on hand, 1 fear!” sai

a low tone, at this moment pointing to a large,
s d vessel, just showing her spars over an
island on their starboard hand and standing on a course }

_ Scar-Brow quickly scanned the stranger with his |
is an English man-of-war, a_single-banked

treble our tonnage, and most likely trebly better
manned and armed! We willfoolherif wecan. Hoist

 

| this reason he is considered an unmitigated torment by

Hardly had the banner of Spain fluttered from the | the typos who have to follow his puzzling corrections.
mast-head of the schooner, when the Karl of Gwyn-
Alyn, who had gone down into the cabin before the
strange sailcame in sight, returned to the deck.

first at the English man-of-war, now comin
“)) ‘island so asto show her dark hull pierce
| for many guhs, he looked up at the Spanish flag which

) . ‘Wehaveanenemy under our lee, but we may de-
| ceive her commander by our change of flag and save
you from the danger of a battle!” said Scar-Brow, by

_ Way of explanation. :
“That flag will but hasten a combat!” said the earl.
“Scarce a week gone by news reached me that England

‘‘Would that [had known it sooner,” said the young
hief, gloomily. “This will interfere with my business
at yonder castle, fear. Francis to the forward pivot-
2. 1 will take the after one. We must cut that fel-

ws masts away before he gets where his heavy close-
nge batteries can riddle us. My
io choice. We must fight. There goes his first gun of

“Ay, it must be so. He hath begun the battle,” said
eearl. Touching his sword, he added:

‘Nay, I would far rather have thee go below out of |:

‘he earl smiled, and shook his head, while the bucca-
3 stood to quarters without the call of fife or drum.
ell fight under these colors since they are set.
is try thy gun at the frigate’s foremast!
ly within reach!” cried Scar-Brow.

ptain Francis, who had been carefully sighting his

bly aimed! Brave shot!” cried the earl, excitedly,
e through a spy-glass. His foreyard is cut in

2 neis, again ready with even better aim than be-
fore ned the work so well begun, and the huge
coi th all its hamper of spars and canvas was seen
0 totter and reel, and then fall in a mass over the black
bows of the man-of-war, which was firing vainly at her

ocr Opponent, her slot falling short and doing no
m ;

damage.

«The tide is strong ebb. With wind and tide against
her she must drift out to sea, for she can’ hold no
weather-board under her after sail,” said Francis.
‘Ay, and we will let her go. I have no desire to send
her to the bottom, if she but lets me alone,” said Scar-
Brow, laughing. «This hath been but a short battle,

‘Ay, brave captain, and its results one-sided. Wilt
thou now bear away and leave him astonished that
line advantage is not pushed to the bitter end ?”

‘| leave not these waters, most noble earl, until I
ve entered yonder castle and learned if any there
e ever heard of Edgar of Athol,” was the reply, as
ar-Brow ordered the guns secured and had the schoon-
5 head pointed shoreward again, while her late an-

“and not the creak of an unoiled block grated on his | the fight must be.” ;

garb SHOE. n

| Atthis moment a weather-bronzed old man, in the
(2. fishermen tothe 4

The latter, his face all aglow with a new light, cried

«Long before to-day 1 have seen those hills and deep, | out:
_ dark bays which make far inland,” he said, speaking
to the young chief. ‘Steer for yonder high headland,
crowned with trees. As we approach on a | saith he can take thee to sea safely and never come un-
dee , a castle will be seen standing back scarce | der their guns if thou wilt trust to his pilotage.”

5 halt a from shore, with four turrets—one at
each corner and a lake to its left. Thereis where my
young master was seized by Iron-Hand and borne off
: re for the loss of ten good men who were slain
within the castle walls by the armed men who held

| «There is hope yet, brave nephew. Here is old Don-
ald McRea, the boldest smuggler on our coast. He

“That will I, right readily,” was the reply. ‘‘He hath
| the look of a true seaman.”

«I will see thee safe, or perish with the young laird!”
said the old man. ‘We must on board at once—the tide
is low enough at best for the passage I must make.”

The party embarked, the new pilot only an addition to
those who came on shore in the barge. ,

“Set the foresail and steer for yonder white rock !” was
the order givon by Donald McRea the moment his foot
touched the War-Eagle’s deck.

| “He is our pilot. Our safety depends on his skill!”

| ly land-locked. Not-until the vessel was within a cable’s
length of the white rock Donald had pointed out, could
any opening be seen.

Then to the right, scarce a vessel’s width, a cut
through the high rocks was visible. Toward it the
schooner swiftly flew. A few moments, and she was
in between the high walls, and then, in a quick, stern
tone, Sear-Brow, who stood forward, cried out :

«Stand to your guns! There is a sail dead ahead of
us i”

[To BE CONTINUED.]

ei it a a hig eee

HOW ZOLA PERFECTS A STORY.

 

 

 

Zola, the French novelist, usually does the most of his
work on a story after he receives the proof-sheets. For

When the first proof-sheets, in large type, have been
read, corrected, and carefully revised, clean proofs are
sent to Zola, who then begins the work ot remodeling
and amplification. He fills the wide margin allround
with hundreds of marks and letters, ink lines cut
through the text, thin threads run crossways and diag-
onally, entwining like a lasso a sentence scribbled in an
open space ; scarcely a line is exempted from the hiero-
glyphics of the master. Here anote of interrogation
must make room for one of exclamation; here a semi-
colon is changed into a full point; a comma effectively
divides a phrase; participles are replaced by adjectives:
substantives take the place of pronouns; redundant ad-
verbs must also disappear; the ‘‘past definite” is sub-
stituted for the ‘imperfect ;” more descriptive . words
supply the place of tame ones; for an expression re-
peated in five or six pages a synonym is introduced ;
whole phrases are remodeled ; sentences are condensed
into two or three words; and even haif-columns are

“] will not imperil thee, brave uncle. I will risk the |
passage. I can perchance run by them both and gain i road back here, and we save time by
cut.” '

The ships, crossing each other tack and tack, were |

early bird catches the worm.”

man. ‘‘Wasn’t he rather foolish to get

worm hadn't
home.”

 

 

 

ruthlessly consigned at once into the compositor’s case.
This: process is repeated two or three times, with fresh
revises, before Zola is satisfied that his story is fit to go |
before the public. |

(Ot :
SuccEessFUL TEACHERS.—In order to be a successful
teacher of boys it is necessary to impress upon their |

minds that you are their friend. It is necessary not |
only to take an interest in seeing that their lessons are
properly recited, but to be sure that they understand
what they are doing and take an interest init; make
them feel that it is their business now, and that their
future success in life depends on their doing their work
well in the present. Boys like a friend, not an over-
seer,
————_—_—__>-0~+_—___—_-

RESERVE.—The reserved man possesses strong affec-
tions and warm sympathies, may hold his conyictions

with fervor and his principles with enthusiasm ; at any
rate, no one has the right to assume that he does not,
simply because he does not hasten to proclaim the fact.
Reserve indeed implies that there is something to re-
serve, and we may well wait with modesty to discover
what it is that our reserved friend thinks it advisable to
keep back before he is charged with coldness or insensi-
bility.

OS

CouRAGE is always greatest when blended with meek-
ness; intellectual ability is most admirable when it
sparkles in the setting of a modest self-distrust; and
never does the human soul appear as strong as when it
foregoes revenge and dares to forgive an injury.

Yue world deals good-naturedly with good natured
people, and we never knew a sulky misanthropist who
quarreled with it, but it was he, and not it, that was in
the wrong.

©
The Horsford Almanac and Cook Book
mailed free on application to the Rumfor

 

 

nist, sorely crippled, was drifting off the coast.

the street,” said little Mollie Fizzeltop te her

 

Chemical Works, Providence, R. I.

“You won't have to. I’ve concluded ton arry him in

order to have some one here in case of accident.”

And three days later they were quietly and happily
married. Bees 5
Traveling in Arkansas, _

The other night, on an Arkansas railroad train, a pas-
senger called the conductor and asked: :

“Are we on time ?” ;

‘*¥e@s,’ ‘

“Glad. Are we on the track ?” ze

«7 don’t know, but ’'ll go forward and ask.” He went

   

the track about five miles back. Weg

| on the country dirt road, and if we don’t meet a wagon
we'll be all right. You see that there isa big bend in
<ing a short

The Age of Reform.

| A father had been lecturing his young hopeful upon
the evils of staying out late at night and getting up tate
in the morning. 5

You never will amount to anything,” he continued,
‘anless you turn over a new leaf. Remember that the

  
 
 

“How about the worm, father ?” inquired the young
p so early 7!

3
vas on his’way

Georgie Changes His Mind.

They were standing at the front gate.
«Won't you come into the parlor and sit a little while,

Georgie dear ?”

“No, I think not,” replied George, hesitatingly.
“J wish you would,” the girl went on; <‘it’s awfully

lonely. Mother has gone out, and father is up stairs
groaning witli rheumatism in the feet.”

“Both feet 7’ asked George,
«Yes, both feet.”
«Then Vl come in.”

The Little Busy Boy.
How doth the little busy boy
Improve each idle hour
By making snow up into balis
To throw with all his power,

How cunningly he flingeth them,
Regardless quite of sex,

And grinneth when the snow, in crumbs,
Falls down his victims’ necks.

Slightly Mistaken.
“Grandmamma,” saida Murray Hill young lady, in-

dignantly, ‘Clara Van Spuyten says that you and
gandpapa kept a corner grocery store when you were

>

oung.’ ie
«She is mistaken,” said grandmamma. ¥
“J knew she was, the mean, spiteful ng! The

idea !” '

“Yes, she is mistaken,” went on. the old lady, retro-

spectively,; ‘it wasn’t on a corner.” .

A Donkey That Has Grown.
A father was very much annoyed by the foolish ques-

tions of his little son.

«Johnny, you are a source of great annoyance to

me.”

«What’s the matter, pa ?”
“You ask so many questions. I wasn’ta big donkey

when I was of your age.”

‘No; but you’ve growed a heap since.”
Puzzling the Spellers.

If an S, and i, and an 0, and au, with an X at the end,

spell ‘Su,’

And an e, and ay, and an e spell “I,” pray what is a

speller to do?

Then if also ans, and ani, andag, and an h, e, d spell
e ”

“cid

There’s nothing much left for a speller to do but to go

and commit Siouxeyesighed.

Cause for Anxiety.
Young Mother (displaying baby)—Just think, Mr.

Grimes, the baby is only five months old and hasa
tooth !

Mr. Grimes (an old bachelor)—How many teeth ?
Young Mother—One.
Old Bachelor—Only one? You ought to see a dentist

at once, Mrs. Hobson. There may be something wrong.

Fun Enough for Her.
“J want to go to) the funeralof the little oe aoe
ther.
‘No, no, my child,” replied Mrs. Fizzeltop. “You were

at a matinee yesterday afternoon, last night you were
at a concert, and you are going to a children’s party to-
night. That is enough amusement for a litle girl of
twelve years of age.”

Very Weak. ‘
Boggs (at the boarding-house table)—Another cup of

tea, if you please, Mrs. Famine.

Mrs. F. (severely)—Mr. Boggs, the tea is exhausted.
Boggs—I should think it would be. It has been

growing gradually weaker ever since I made its ac-
quaintance.

A Sudden Departure.
A kitchen stove—a servant-girl ;
A benzine can—a foolish churl :
A lighted match—a fizz—a boom—
And the red-haired maiden left, the room!
Humorous Brevities.
Says a current serial novel: ‘To jump to the ground,

stretch out his hand, and seize the bird, was the work of
amoment.” Yes, and to jump six feet from the ground
and yell murder in distinctly crescendo tones, after dis-
covering that it was nota bird but a healthy wasp, was
the work, not of a moment, but of the seventeeth part
of a jiffy.”

«What is a fashionable hotel?” ‘One where you get

what you don’t want and have to pay for what you don’t
get.”

One lady said to another: ‘Have you been to church

to-day? We had a most beautiful sermon on training
children.” ‘No; I was at home doing it,” was the
reply.

No, Ethel; when you hear of a young gifl having

made a good “match” it doesn’t signify that she has got
something that will get up every morning and light the
fire,

| I ees scholarly style; so long as they are
pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be

 

 

 
   

   

A wit being asked, on the failure of a bank, ‘“‘Were
you not upset ?” replied, ‘‘No, I only lost my balance.”

Auctioneers have a nod way of receiving bids.

“T would like to have my husband bailed out,” the wife
of a drunkard said to a police judge. ‘All right,” said
his honor. ‘Send for a doctor and a stomach-pump !”

A friend indeed is one who is not in need,

A bachelor’s logic.—‘‘Marriage is a lottery; lotteries

are illegal; therefore, Isimply obey the law by keeping

single!”

“Papa,” said alad the other night after attentively
studying for some minutes an engraving of a human
skeleton, ‘how did this man manage to keep in his
dinner ?”

“Kerosene oil is going up.” You bet it is, and so is the
servant girl who tries to light the kitchen fire with it.

A Western mule’s tail was blown off hy a recent bliz-

zard. What became of the blizzard is not stated, but it |

is safe to presume that it had the wind kicked out of it.
Why is a bald-headed man like a hound? Because he
makes a little hare go a great way.
In Providence, R. I., umbrella stealing is considered a
crime. This is doing away with all inducements for at-
tending church wet Sundays.

A diamond merchant may speak of his goods being of

the purest water, but the milkman may not.

——_—_——_ > @<____

The Model for a Marble Hand.

After the restoration of Louis Philippe to the French
throne, many of Napoleon’s soldiers were left in com-
parative poverty. One of them, a famous general, had

 

a beautiful daughter whom he wished to marry rich, |

but who fell in love with a poor young man—an under-
secretary or something of that kind. She married, at
her father’s request, a rich count, but refused, at the
wedding ceremony to allow the ring to be placed upon
her left hand, upon which she wore a ruby, put there by
her lover. Her jealous husband was not long in finding
out what was the matter, and intercepting a letter in
which the ardent young lover claimed Matilda’s hand as
his he determined upon an awful revenge.

One. night as the celebrated surgeon, Lisfrance. was
returning from a professional visit, he was captured by
a party of men, blindfolded and taken to a distant
palace, and led through a labyrinth of passages and
rooms. Atlength his conductor, stopping, said :

“Doctor, we have arrived ; remove your bandage.”

The doctor, whose fears had given place to a restless
curiosity and a vague apprehension, obeyed, and found
himself in a small chamber furnished with remarkable
luxury, and half lighted by an alabaster lamp hung
from the ceiling. The windows were hermetically
sealed as well as the curtains of an alcove at the end of
the room.

Here the doctor found himself alone with one of his
abductors, He was a manof imposing height and com-
manding air, and his whole exterior of the most aristo-
cratic stamp. His black eyes gleamed through the half
mask that covered the upper part of his face, and a ner-
vous agitation shook his colorless lips and the thick
Diack beard that inframed the lower.

*‘Doctor,” said he, in an abrupt, loud voice, ‘‘prepare
for your work—an amputation.”

«Where is the patient ?” asked the doctor, turning to-
ward the alcove.

og curtains moved slightly, and he heard a stifled
sigh. ;

‘Prepare, sir,” said the man, convulsively.

«But, sir, I must see the patient.”

«You will see only the hand you are to cut off.”

The doctor, folding his arms and looking firmly at the
other, said :

‘Sir, you brought me here by force. If you need my
professional assistance, I shall do my duty without car-
ing for thator troubling myself about your secrets; but
if you wish to commit a crime, you cannot force me to
be your accomplice.”

“Be content, sir,” replied the other; ‘‘there is no crime
in this”; and, leading him to the alcove, he drew from
the curtains a hand. “It is this you are to cut off.”

The doctor took the hand in his; his fingers trembled
at the touch. It was alady’s hand small, beautifully
molded, and its pure white set off by a magnificent ruby
encircled with diamonds.

“But,” cried the doctor, ‘‘theré is no need of amputa
tion ; nothing is——”

And I, sir—I say,” thundered the other, ‘if you re-
fuse I will do it myself.”

And seizing a hatchet, he drew the hand toward a
small table and seemed about to strike. The doctor ar-
rested his arm.

» “Do your duty, then, doctor.”

“Oh, but this is an atrocious act,” said the surgeon.

“What is that toyou? It must bedone. I wishit;
madame wishes it also; if necessary, she will demand
it_herself. Come, madame, request the doctor to do you
this service.”

The doctor, nonplused and almost fainting under the
torture of his feelings, heard from the alcove, in a half-
expiring voice and an inexpressible accent of despair
and resignation :

 

Sir, SjN00-)0u-are-g SUYgeCR—yos— I entreatyoa—tet
it be you and not—Oh, yes; you! you! in merey!”

“Well, doctor,” said the man, ‘‘you or 1?”

The resolution of this man was so trightful, and the
prayer of the poor lady so full of entreaty and despair,
that the doctor felt that even humanity commanded of
him compliance with the appeal of the victim. He took
his instruments with a last imploring look at the un-
known, who only pointed to the hand. and then with a
sinking heart began the operation. For the first time in
his experience his hand trembled ; but the knife was do-
ing its work. There was a cry from the alcove, and
then all was silent. Nothing was heard but the horrid
sound-of the operation till the hand and the saw fell to-
gether on the fioor.

Lisfrance wore the ruby upon his watch chain, where
it was seen by the young lover on his return to Paris,
and out of it grew a duel thatled to the disclosure of
the infamous crime. The morning after the young
lover's arrival at the capital he was presented by a man
in livery with an ebony box. Opening it he discovered a
ae hand, Matilda’s, and on it a paper with these
words : .

“See how the Countess of —— keeps her oath.”

After the duel the young man fied to Brussels, where
the bleeding hand was transferred to canvas. Hart see-
ing the painting copied it in marble.

 

 

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provided you ‘ :
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and mail to us on or before MAY Ist, 1886. At thasame
time we send your ring we will mail you a bundle of our
Catalogues, and feel sure you will be so highly pleased with
the ring, and that it will give such entire satisfaction, that
you will oblige us by distributing our Catalogues among
your friends, and at the same time showing them the Beau-
tiful Ring received from us. You can in this way assist us
in selling other goods of standard quality, which we
manufacture from new and original designs, and which
we GUARANTEE to give satisfaction.
y our Future Sales we make our Profit.

Remember the rine we send you is net an Electro«
Plated Ring, but HEAVY 18-K. ROLLED GOLD,
and this UNPRECEDENTED offer is only made to ime
troduce our goods and Catalogues into your vicinity.
Our firm is old established and reliable, manufacturing first-
class goods from the precious metals. We can only send out
a Limited Number of rings at price named, and to prow
tect ourselves from jewelers ordering quantities we will in-
sert this advertisement ONLY ONCE in this paper, hence
require you to cut it out and send to us, that we may
know you are entitled to the benefits of this ofler.

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ;
will we send more than tworings to any one person or family,
but after you have ordered and_other rings are desired, we
will furnish 18-K. SOLID GOLD. RINGS at from
$3.00 to $6.00, If you wish one ring, send us this ad-
vertisement and 50 cents; if you wish two rings, send this,
advertisement and $1.00. If more than two are desired
you must pay full price. To ascertain the size ring you wear,
cut a piece of string so as it will meet just around the finger.
In Selb eiiash state the kind of ring or rings wanted. If you
order a stone ring say whether it is a garnet or turquoise that
is wanted, also write plainly the engraving you wish on the
inside. Small amounts can be seni at our risk, but the bet-
ter way is to send by money order or registered letter. Post-
age stamps received the same as cash. If you arein New
York at any time would be pleased to have you call and see
us. Address $ ‘ oe
ROYAL IMPORTING CO., 247 Pearl St,, N. Y«

 

 

ee

 

 

wi
HALF ROUND

 
 
  

   

 
    

  
 
 

  
   
 
  
    
 
 

cx IO
y address. one

 
  
  

 

 
   
 

    
 

   
 
 
   

 
  

 

 

 
   
      

of 890 a month and Ex-

penses paid agents every
ue Where to travel and sellig}
staple goods to dealers, or $40 a month and
expenses to distribute circulars in your vicinity
Alt expenses advanced, salary oe onoey paid.
Sample package of our goods and full particu
lars FREE. Send 8 cents for postage, pack4
ing, etc. We mean what we say.

PNATIONAL SUPPLY COMPANY,

Palace Building, Cincinnati, Ohio.|

‘CURE ™.DEAF

PrEcK’s PATENT IMPROVED CUSHIONED Ear Drums
Perfectly Restore the Henrie: and perform the
work of the natural drum. Invisible, comfortable and
always in position, All conversation and even whispers
neard distinctly. Send for illustrated book with testimoni
als, FREE. Address F, HISCOX, 853 Broadway, N.

PENNYROYAL PILLS! -

s¢ re
LADIES! CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH,
THE ONLY GENUINE. NEVER FAIL. Safe and always Reliable.
Particulars in letter by return Mail 4¢.(stamps.) Name Paper,
Chichester Chemical Co., Madison Sq., Philad’a, Pa.
Sold by Druggists. Ask for ‘‘ Chichester’s English,” take no other

EAFNESS its CAUSES and CURE, by one

who was deaf twenty-eight years

Treated by most of the noted specialists of the day with

no benefit. Cured himself in three months, and since

then hundreds of others by same process. A plain, simple

and successful home treatment. Address :
T. S. PAGE, 128 East 26th St., New York City

TRI —MEN AND WOMEN to start a
‘ new business at their homes ; can be
done evenings and learned in an hour; any person making

less ‘than 10c. to 50c. an hour should send 10c. at once for 4
ALBANY SUPPLY CO., Albany, N. ch:
id te a Brushes, etc, Large advertising, sales
Figin watch, $5.00;
A () elegant illustrated ?
: catalogue 2 cents.

eee of samples of goods, and 24 working samples (formu
AGENTS WANTED AT ONCE
& profits guaranteed, no risk in outfit. Only respectable
WILLIAM WILLIAMS, 122 Halsted Street, Chicago.

  

    
       
 
 
    

  

  
 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

as) to commence on. Address
for Dr. Scott’s Electric Corsets, Belts,
ersons wanted. ' 5, 842 Broadway,
Fesoy immediately. Fall Mall Electric Ass’) “New work:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
    
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
    
   
  
    
  
   
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
  
    
 
 
  
  
       
  
  
     
   
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
   
   
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
   
 
 

 

 

  
 
  
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

—

NEW YEAR MORNING RESOLVES.

 

 

BY FRANCIS 8S. SMITH.

 

When New Year merning broke,
Our triend Costello

With fevered brow awoke.
A jovial fellow.

He had the night before
The old year feted,

And now, depressed and sore,
The New Year greeted.

‘I’m done, henceforth,” he said,
‘With all gay places—

Farewell to Judge Smith's shed,
Farewell Gabe Case’s.

Ill straightway try to sell
My gay 2:20 trotter—

li send her to Tom Bell—
From memory blot her.

“Unsafe all vices are,
Sound health undoing ;
Farewell the miid cigar,
Farewell to chewing ;
Farewell the Fancy Ball,
And sirens attendant ;
Farewell the festive hall,
And opera resplendent.”

When summer came once more,
Our friend Costello

At Long Branch trod the shore,
A jolly fellow.

He looked out on the sea,
With aspect frisky,

Puffing a weed, and he

. Was tull of whisky.

As on he took his way,
With step unsteady,
He heard a sharp voice say,
“What! Drunk already !”
Costello heard the scoff,
And said, while yawning.
“Tm going to swear off—
Next New Year morning.”

And thus, year after year,
He wars with evil—

A season, conscience clear,
Defies the Devil;

Then lets his passions storm—
All advice scorning—

Still vowing to reform
Next New Year morning.

 

<<

THE POOR LAWYER,

BY J. ALEXANDER PATTEN.

 

CHAPTER I.
THE PRIDE OF WEALTH.

Stephen Nettleton was what the world calls a “ hard
man.” He was rich, and he thought that money could
do anything. He had no refinement of feeling, no cul-
ture; no delicacy, no sentiment in his intercourse with
mankind. He talked in those outspoken terms that none
ever fail to understand, and in every way he was harsh,
rude, and unfeeling. But he was successful in business,
and this, with most people, atoned for alf his fauits. He
had ships, merchandise, lands, and stocks, and always
ready cash beyond any other man in the city where he
lived. Part of his property had come to him by inherit-
ance, but day by day he had added to it until the ac-
cumulation had made hima millionaire. Like most men
of his class he hated the poor man. With him poverty
was little less than acrime. Generosity, charity, even
sympathy for those whu struggled with adversity were
attributes of which he would have been ashamed.

«« We may be poor ourselves some day,” his wife would
say, after one of his tirades against those who were in
indigent circumstances.

«* You think so, do you?” he would reply. ‘‘ You area
fool, Mrs. Nettleton. ‘As well might the earth dissolve
itself in the next shower of rain as for my ‘possessions to

ass away. I know how to make money, and I know

ow to keep it. Idefy calamity and all mankind. Ha,
ha ! Stephen Nettleton a poor man; I think not—I think
not.”

Laughing at the very idea of misfortune to himself,
purse-proud and incapable of an emotion which was not
purely selfish, he strode away to his Speculations and
sordid dealings with his fellow-men.

His wite and an only daughter were very different
poopie, however.. Thoy were aq gentia -amiahle— and

wcaea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

.

sympathetic as Stephen Nettleton was the reverse. The |

domestic home was not an altogether happy one on this
account, and the hard man of wealth Often went from
his door with truths of manliness and Christianity ring-
ing in his ears which he could not always forget, though
they had no effect upon his transactions or deportment.

In his personal appearance Mr. Nettleton was a tall,
stout, red-faced person, with a dark, lowering brow. He
was excitable and passionate, and only bland and polite
when there was a chance to make money by it.

William Bernard was a young lawyer in the same city.
He was educated, naturally talented, and a strictly: hon-
orable man. Nettleton had loaned him some money on
a mortgage on a small piece of property, which was all
that the young man possessed, but he disliked him.
Nay, he had loaned the money with the idea that
some day he would get the property by a foreclosure of
the mortgage.

One day William Bernard called upon Mr. Nettleton at
his office and requested to see him in private.

As they retired to another room Nettleton muttered to
himself :

“The fellow wants more money.
though.”

When they were seated Mr. Nettleton said:

«<Now what’s your business ?”

“Mr. Nettleton, I’ve called,” said Bernard, in an em-
parrassed manner——

‘To borrow more money, I suppose,” broke in Nettie-
ton,
“No, sir, not that.”

«Indeed. Then what is it?
spare.”

“jt is a matter of much more importance to me than
money, sir.”

«“There’s nothing more important than money, young
man,” replied Nettleton, reddening at what he thought
Was a refiection on his idol.

“Jt is a matter of the heart, sir,” continued Bernard.
“Mr. Nettleton, I love your daughter.”

At this announcement Nettleton turned redder than
he was naturally, then black, then pale, and all sorts of
colors, and seemed as if struck dumb. When he recoy-
ered his voice, he said:

«You are a Villain!
to love my d@ughter ?”

“Beggar !” repeated Bernard, stung to the very soul.

“Yes, beggar, sir! My daughter, sir, will have a for-
tune. Do you think she is to be the wife of a starving
attorney ?”

This was hard language to bear, but, for the sake of
the one so dear to him, the young man made no reply
to it. Meanwhile the rage of Nettleton increased, and
he remarked :

“Of all rascality I ever heard of, this is the worst. I
would have thought more of you if you had broken open
my safe yonder and filled your pockets with my money.
But to make love to my daughter, and come here and
tell me of it, caps the climax of meanness, villainy, au-
dacity. Begone, sir, from my presence, and never let
me hear of this matter again!”

«Your daughter reciprocates my affection.”

«Then she is stark mad, sir! Has she forgotten that
she is the daughter of Stephen Nettleton, the million-
es ! Sir, I forbid you ever meeting ber again. Now,
be off !’

William Bernard rose to his feet, looking very pale,
but he was perfectly composed. Proud as any man,
though he was poor, the rude words of Nettleton had
sunk into his soul like daggers, but until now, by a great
effort, he had restrained himself. The cruel insolence
of Nettleton could be endured no longer.

“Stephen Nettleton,” he said, in a.calm, deliberate
voice, ‘‘you should know better than to talk to any man
as you have tome. The wealth which is yours to-day
may be some other man’s to-morrow, and if you rest
your whole claim to the world’s esteem upon that, how
little have you to depend upon, after all.”

‘J want neither your presence nor your preaching,”
interrupted Nettleton, pacing the room, with his brow
like a thunder-cloud.

“It is trueIl am poor,” continued Bernard, ‘‘but Iam
no beggar. Ihave an honorable name, capacity in my
profession; and energy for the battle before me. Be-
cause I have these, 1 have thought it no breach of pro-
priety to aspire to the hand of your daughter. Should
she still regard my suit with favor, I will make her my
wife, and rely on my industry to win her the wealth
which I cannot now command.” °

“Make her your wife!” repeated Nettleton, as the
great veins in his forehead swelled almost to bursting,
and he stamped his foot with rage. ‘Never, young beg-
gar! T'lll up my daughter with bars and bolts.
Ill put her on bread and water. Ill carry her a corpse
from my house before she shall join her lot with a hun-
gry cur like you. Begone! begone!”

The young man withdrew without saying anything
more, and Nettleton forafew moments stamped and
raved by himself. Then, seizing his hat, he ran out and
started for his home.

He presented himself, breathless and still enraged, in
the room of his daughter.

“So you want to marry a beggar, miss?” he said, ab-
ruptly

6s

He won’t get it

Come, I’ve no time to

What right has a beggar like you

tly.
ir!” returned the daughter.
‘Don’t ‘sir’ me, you minx! I know all aboutit. Your

threadbare pettifogger has been tosee me and wants '

to marry you. I foiled it,
again.”

“Are you speaking of Mr. Bernard, father ?”

You must never see him

 

 

«T am speaking of a certain young beggar of an attor-
ney, who has informed me that he isin love with you,
and that the affection is reciprocated on your part. I
wonder if you will deny it ?”

“T will not,’ said the young lady, with spirit.

“Do you love him much ?” inquired the father, with a
mocking smile.

«With my whole heart.”

‘Well, that’s honest, | do declare. Now, listen to me.
T have not reared and educated you to be the wife of
any beggar.”

“Mr. Bernard is not a beggar.”

“Compared wita you, he is.”

«But, father, I care not for wealth. A loving hus-
band and a happy home, however humble, are all I
aagk ”

“Stuff! nonsense!” cried Nettleton, with rising pas-
sion. ‘I intend that you shall marry a wealthy man, or
no one at all.”

“7 shall marry William Bernard—no one else.”

Stephen Nettleton was speechless a second time dur-
ing this eventful day. Had he not given his opinion of
this William Bernard; had he not pronounced his inten-
tions in regard to his daughter's future, and here she
told him to his face that she would marry Bernard, or
condemn herself to a single life.

«You defy me, then!” he said, in a stern, unfeeling
voice.

“Oh, no, my father,” said the daughter, bursting into
tears; “I do not mean to defy you. But I love William
Bernard—yes, I love him with my whole soul. Do not—
oh, do not refuse your approbation !”

Fannie Nettleton was a pretty girl of eighteen years.
There was something very amiable and winning about
her, and now as she stood with her face suffused with
tears, and her eyes bent upon her father with ar im-
ploring gaze, she might have melted a heart of stone.
But her father had no heart at all. Her tears and plead-
ing gaze were nothing to him. His anger increased, and
he resolved to proceed to harsh measures.

“T have already told this beggarly attorney,” he said,
“that he must see you no more. I now tell you the same
thing. Will you obey me ?”

“7 will not. Before Heaven our love is sacred.”

«Before me it is monstrous and infernal. Remain in
your chamber, on a diet of bread and water, until you
are prepared to give up this beggar and ask my forgive-
ness.”

Thus speaking, he went to the door, took therefrom
the key, went out, and placing it in the lock outside,
slammed the door and locked it, taking the key.

«Now, miss,” he said, ‘‘we’ll see who’ll win.”

When the key turned, and Fannie found herself alone,
the full realization of her position rushed upon her.

“God forgive you, my father!” she moaned, and sank
senseless upon the floor.

CHAPTER II. *
RETRIBUTION.

From that hour no member of the family except Mr.
Nettleton passed the threshold of Fannie’s door, even
Mrs. Nettleton being excluded. Her simple meal of
bread and water was carried to her by his own hands.
Every time he came in he turned to her and said:

«Will you give up the beggar ?”

And every time he received the Same answer :

“T will not.”

Then he pointed to the bread and water, and added:

‘Kat of that until you do.”

Enraged, and with his brutal temper fully aroused, hé
went away, vowing that Fannie should obey or be
starved.

Fannie was most wretched but firm in her determina-
tion to be true to her lover. Her affection was indeed of
the most sincere character, but the persecution from
her father had intensfied it in the highest degree. She
knew that her father was likely to proceed to great ex-
tremities in the matter, but come what might she felt
herself equal to it all.

One night, seated at a table in a most melancholy
mood, with the untasted bread and water before her,
she heard a noise at one of the windows, and the next
moment it opened and the form of William Bernard ap-
peared.
bound entered the room. They embraced most tenderly,
and for some moments were too overcome to speak.

‘‘Thank Heaven for this precious meeting !” exclaimed
the young man, at length.
smiths—ha, ha!” Then noticing the bread and water,
he continued, with a darkening brow: ‘*What is this ?”

‘“*(My supper.”

‘Has it come to this indeed? A prisoner and Kving
on bread and water! Fannie, your father is-—”

‘Never mind saying what,” she interrupted.

‘‘Well, for your sake I keep that to myself. But the
moments fly, and discovery is possible. Your father
thought you were safe up here, as he has the key of the
door in his pocket, and has turned loose a pack of dogs
in his grounds. Sufiice it to say I have come to an under-
standing with his dogs—that is, poisoned them—and
have reached your apartment very handily by the grape
arbor.” The way |1came wecan both go. Will yon con-
sent ?”

‘Where can I fly to?”

“To a minister and my arms.” ‘

Fannie hesitated. She thought of her home, of her
mother, and of the exasperation of her father. But
then she thought of this father’s cruelty and threats.

«Do you hesitate ?” said the loyer. , “Look at the evi-

‘denee of your father’s love in yonder bread and water.”

I vardhl coy

The preparations were quickly made, She took her
jewelry, and few articles in a satchel, put on her bonnet
and cloak, and She was ready. The most painful emo-
tions affectei her as she was about to leave her apart-
ment where she had passed so many happy hours. She
glanced at each familiar object, and then supported by
the m@n for whom she was to risk all passed through the
window. Cautiously moving along the roof of the piazza
they reached the grape arbor, and by its assistance were
soon on the ground. Thena rapid run through some
shrubbery brought them to a back gate, and in a short
time more they were safe in the carriage, andit was
driven away at full speed.

The newspaper of the next morning announced the
marriage of William Bernard and Fannie Nettleton. The
notice fell under the eye of Mr. Nettleton at his break-
fast table.

“Thunder and lightning!” he exclaimed. ‘Wife,
they're married.”

With a look of fury he threw the paper to his wife,
and ran from the room. He did not stop until he had
unlocked Fannie’s room and stood in the middle of the
fioor staring wildly about him.

“Yes, she is gone, the ungrateful wretch,” he cried.
«Curse her—curse her. From this hourshe is no daugh-
ter of mine. I disinherit her, she shall never enter this
house. I spurn her and him as beggars.”

By this time he was joined by his wife, who was filled
with sincere grief at the manner in which Fannie had
left the parental roof. She also brought intelligence
that the dogs were in the shrubbery, dead.

“Ah! some more of that young villain’s work.-. Pll
prosecute him for trespass. I'll sue him on his mort-
gage which I hold.. I'll pursue him day and night. [I’m
his enemy forever.”

Nettleton was as good as his word. That very day he
altered his will, and literally left his daughter one dol-
lar; even her clothing was refused to her when she sent
tor it. He ordered his lawyer to sue his son-in-law for
trespass, and for killing bis dogs, and to foreclose the
mortgage. This was not all. He used his influence
to divert all business from William Bernard, he im-
pugned his integrity, and openly used every means to
destroy his good name. Thé young man was poor be-
fore, but he was now reduced to a still lower point. He
could make no headway against the machinations of his
wealthy father-in-law and foe. Business left him,
friends grew cold, and he saw beggary staring him in
the face. His loving heart and young ambition had
conceived of no obstacles like these, and he fairly
sickened at the thought of the deprivation and suffering
which he had inflicted on his dear Fannie.

In a year from their marriage they were living in a
dilapidated cottage on the outskirts of the town. The
mortgage had been foreclosed, and the only property
owned by the young man had passed into the possession
of Stephen Nettleton. Haughty and unrelenting in his
bitterness, the millionaire rode by the humble cottage
every day. His horses would not have been allowed to
remain in a stable so out of repair, but for his daughter
he cared not.

But the speculations of Stephen Nettleton began to be
unfortunate. He lost money by one thing and another,
and seemingly made desperate he still plunged into
other ‘ventures, which in time turned out badly. He
lost in ships and merchandise, on lands and on stocks,
and by bad debts. Wherever he turned there was loss,
and however much he struggled to extricate and re-
cover himself the deeper in the mire of misfortune he
seemed to sink. For two years this went on. and he

‘found that only a wreck of his former fortune remained.

But acrisis was at hand. He was an indorser to the
amount of fifty thousand dollars; that is, tempted by a
large percentage he had put his name to this amount of
promissory notes, and now, by the accidents of business,
he was called upon to pay them.

“JT am ruined!” he exclaimed. ‘I cannot raise the
money. Oh, Heaven! that Stephen Nettleton should
come to this.”

He wasin the same office whereme had taunted William
Bernard with beggary. Here he had used his unmanly,
bitter language, and here he now lowered his head on
his hands and caught a dark glimpse of poverty stealing
to his own door.

«There is but little of my fortune left,” he groaned,
‘and if my notes once go to protest the world will soon
know how rottenlam. They suspect me now. Ihave
heard them muttering, but a bold front has carried me
on until now. Fifty thousand dollars to pay at a slap.
I cannot do it. _ All is lost.” }

You feel now, Siephen Nettleton! Hardas you have
been, proud and cruel as you have borne yourself, your
head is now bowed low in sorrow. You know that the
last vestige of your wealth will be swept away, that those
who have been your flatterers and satellites will be the
first to denounce and persecute you. Ah! as you hold
your trobbing brow all this rushes to your mind, and
appalls your once stony heart. :

“Ruined! rumed!” he said, in a tone of agony.

“No, you are saved,” said a voice.

“Saved ?” shouted Nettleton, springing to his feet as
if from an electric shock.

But when he saw that the speaker was William Ber-
nard, who, with his wife, had entered, he sank back in
his seat, saying:

«You have come to mock me.”

‘Far from it,” returned Bernard. ‘Now, listen. Six
months ago I received intelligence of a large sum being

He motioned to her to be silent, and with a”

“How love laughs at lock-,

 

 

~~

“Make haste then. I Wave a carriage waiting not. far

|. was full of unhappiness. Let me tell you all about it.She

 

 

left to me by a deceased relative in England, and to-day
I have information that the money has been remitted to
New York. For reasons of my own I made no mention
of it—remained in my humble home, and awaited my
being put in possession of the money. Itisnow my own
and your daughter’s, and the first use to which we will
put it is to reli#ve you from embarrassments, which are
already thé»talk of the town.”

Stephen Nettleton had gradually raised his head at the
astonishing tale.

«Talk of the town, is it,” he said.
you save my name from dishonor ?”

“My father, is it not our duty,” cried Fannie, spring-
ing forward and clinging to the neck of her father.

“God bless you, my children,” said the softened and
repentant man, embracing them. ‘Forget and forgive
the wretched past. From this hour my pride of wealth
is gone forever, and all that I have is for your enjoy-
ment.”

To the astonishment of business people Stephen Net-
tleton paid the fifty thousand dollars. Affairs improved
with him, and it was not long before he had againa
large tortune at his command.

But he was a changed man, and he had a changed
home. Instead of being harsh and purse-proud he was
now kind and benevolent, and in the society of his
daughter and son-in-law, who lived with him, found a
peace and contentment which he had never known in
life before.

“Oh! can and will

-e@ < ——-

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most people are like an egg—too phull ov themselfs to
hold enny thing else.

Thare iz thjs difference between genius and tallent—
one iz a natral reservoi, and the other haz tew be kon-
tinually pumpt up.

**Misery Iuys kompany,” but kant bear konipetishun.
Thare aint J boddy but what thinks thare bile iz the
sorest bilefn markit.

A reputasghun for honor once lost, iz lost forever.

Men whokno the least, alwus argy the most.

A crowing hen and a kakling rooster are the poorest
kind ov poultry. :

To be a big man amung big men, iz what proves a
man’s karakter—to be a bull frog among tadpoles, dont
amount to much. :

What a blessed thing it iz that we kant ‘see ourselfs
az others see us”—the sight would take all the starch out
ov us.

Thare is lots ov pholks in this wurld who kan keep
nine out of ov ten ov the commandments, without enny
trubble at all, but the one that is left they kant keep the
small end oy.

I never question a suckcess, enny more than I do the
right ov a bull dog to liein his own gateway.

To wake up from a sweet sleep, is tew be born agin.

Expecktashun iz the child ov Hope, and, like its parent,
iz an arogrant brat.

Mi friend, vu may be more cunning than most*men
but yu ain’t more cunning than ali men.

Excentri¢itys are most alwus artyfishall, and the best
that kan bb sed ov them iz, they are quite az often the
result ov diffiggnee az ov vanity.

Ifiwant tew git at the trew karakter ova man,i

the suppressed excitement in hiseyes. He came straight
to her side, and holding the hammock steadily, gazed
into her face.

‘Helen! Miss Audenreid!” he exclaimed.
speak! Ilove you! Willyoube my wife ?”

She glanced into his face with eyes full of haughty
scorn and contempt.

“No!” she panted, ‘I will never marry a fortune-hun-
ter, a mercenary man who cares only for my wealth!
Leave me, Mr. CVarroli—I have no more to say !”

He went away—slowly and sorrowfully, as though he
had lost all hope in life. Helen’s heart was torn by con-
flicting emotions as she watched the tall graceful form,
then a mocking smile wreathed her lips.

“He will find that the heiress is not so easily won!”
she said, to herselt, bitterly.

A shadow darkened the veranda, she glanced up and
saw Royal Hurst. She had never believed in this man;
she disliked and distrusted him exceedingly. He was
very wealthy, although still young, and his splendid
estate adjoined her father’s. Royal Hurst drew near
and took both her hands in his own, and ere she could
prevent his confession hé had told her how he loved her,
and asked her to be his wife. Even as he pleaded hisown
cause, Helen saw her father coming up the steps of the
veranda, pale, and stern, and hopeless. With a premo-
nition of coming evil she flew to his side.

«‘What is the matter, papa ?” she cried, wildly.

He took her in his arms.

“My child,” be returned, ina voice which trembled
with grief and excitement. ‘I am ruined, and you and
I are beggars !”

“Papa »”

“Ttis true. That man there,” pointing to Royal Hurst,
“has me in his power; he promises to save me on con-
dition that you become his wife; and I know that you
will never consent.”

Her pale face flushed, and her eyes shone with a fever-
ish light, but she answered :

“IT will consent, papa! You shal) never suffer if I can
prevent it!” ;

And so, on the impulse of the moment, the fatalim-
pulse, the die was cast, and Helen Audenreid sacrificed
herself to save her fatber. She was betrothed to Royal
Hurst; yet she hated him. She shrank from the touch
of his hand, and the glance of his small hard eyes, and
realized, with a shudder, that he was her betrothed.

And one day—one_ beautiful day—when all Nature
seemed smiling in derision of this mockery of a marriage,
Helen Audenreid became Mrs. Hurst; yet she loved Ar-
thur Carroll with all her heart.

Time passed, and Judge Audenreid died ; Helen—poor
child—had tried to be a dutiful wife, but she had never
learned to care for her husband. One day he was brought
home to her senseless—fatally injured by a fall from a
spirited horse. He opened his eyes at last, and he
apt i his wife to come to his side. She knelt beside

e bed.

** Helen,” he gasped brokenly, ‘‘ I have been a villain,
and you are an angel! I want you to know, before I die,
that Arthur Carrollloved you for yourselfalone. He was
the first to discover your father’s financial strait, and he
went to you at once, and asked you to be his wife. But
you had overheard a silly conversation—I know it,
Helen, for J saw you in the arbor !—a conversation which
did not refer to you at all, but to an elderly maiden lady
who had been angling for Carroll for months. Arthur
did not dream that you were within hearing, and I de-
termined to use the opportunity for my own advantage,
for I had always loved you, and knowing that you de-
tested me, despaired of Winning you by any fair means.
I succeeded, but I have been very unhappy because of
my treachery, and am not sorry, Helen, that I shall soon
be gone, and you will be free to.,marry Carroll. He was
no fortune-hunter, believe me; he wanted you for his
wife, when he knew your father’s fortune was gone; and
now—no one could say aught—for he has recently been
left a larger fortune than I am able to bequeath you.
Only say that you forgive me, Helen, and I believe I can
die in peace.’

She forgave him willingly, and he was soon after laid
away to rest forever in the old grave-yard. Helen went

“1 must

.| away to a secluded country place, and rematned in strict

retirement for over a year. And when Arthur Carroll
found her there one day, and begged her to forget the
pa t and to become his wife, she could not refuse, for she
had always loved him ; and inthe bright days before her
she learned to look back upon that sad past as a lesson
in trust and faith.

—_————_>- 0 _—__—_—_——_—_
FACTS ABOUT HYDROPHOBIA.,

 

Hydrophobia, says a well known London physician, is
liable to attack dogs of any breed or sex, though statis-
tics show that itis more common among males than

females.

With regard to the early symptoms, an animal that
has the disease invariably loses its appetite; and though
this is common to the majority of complaints, it should
not be ignored, but should act asa warning to owners
to watch for other symptoms, which, in the case of
rabies, speedily develop. The dog’s manner changes;
he shows a disposition to hide himself in corners or un-

der chairs ;. in fact, anywhere, so as to get out of sight.
Then he will never rest in one place for long together,

 

 

stu y hiz vices. e than i do hiz virtews.

   
  

wed hot. :

Those who éxpekt tew keep themselfs pure in this
life must keep their souls bileing all the time like a pot,
and keep ali the time skimming the surface.

It don’t d0 tew trust a man too mutch who iz alwus in
a hurry; he iz like a pissmire, whose heart and bones |
lay in hiz heels. f

Thare iz nothing so delishus tew the soul ov man azan
ockashional moment ov sadness.

The man whose only plezzure in this life iz making
munny, weighs less on the moral skales than an angle-
worm.

Manner iz far more attraktive than matter—monkeys
are watched clusser than eagles are.

Jelous people alwus luv themselfs more than they do
thoze whom they are jelous ov.

Curiosity iz the germ ov all enterprizes—men dig for
woodchucks more for curiosity than they do for wood-
chucks.

e

A LESSON IN FAITH.

BY MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS.

 

 

A lovely Summer morning; the birds singing gayly;
the river S¥Aing by, like a stream of molten silver, past

    

{an vVrriewou, Dav i hakGs Weeey

 

the great, roomy mansion which stood upon its green
banks. Upon the long veranda, vine-wreathed and |
shady, a hammock was swinging slowly to and_ fro, and. |
a slim figure in clouds of white muslin lay idly within,
a book of poems in one jeweled hand.

Helen Audenreid’s dark eyes were not fixed upon the
page before her; they were watching the fleecy white |
clouds, which floated like down upon the blue expanse
of sky above. A yellow rose nestled in her dusky braids,
and its perfume filled the air. She was Judge Auden-
reid’s only daughter, prettyyand fascinating, and heiress
to half a million; yet that perfect June morning her heart

was so disappointed in Arthur Carroll. She had re-
spected and esteemed him until her heart had slipped
from her keeping; and now—now her idol was de-
throned, and she saw that it was of clay.

Arthur Carroll was just finishing his law studies un-

der Judge Audenreid’s supervision, and he was passing
his summer vacation at Helen’s home. She knew little
concerning him save that he was well connected and
poor; but poverty had not seemed such a bugbear in her
eyes until now, when she believed. he had sought her
for mercenary reasons, and that he had intended to
make her his wife, provided he could win her, not be-
cause he loved her, but for his own selfish purposes;
for only the evening before she had overheard a conver-
sation hetween the young man and his bosom friend,
Royal Hurst. Helen had been reading in a tiny rose ar-
bor, anéske two young men had wandered out to enjoy
the fresh Sreeze and their fragrant Havanas.

“So, Carroll!” cried Hurst, banteringly, ‘‘you have
made up your mind to win the heiress ?”

soy ?” 3

 

Arthur Carroll’s voice was full of lazy indifference,
just tinged with contempt.

«You are greatly mistaken, my friend,” he went on,
slowly, ‘if she were the last woman on earth I would
would not give her a tender thought! There is but one
woman in the world for me; my ideal—but—ah, a poor
fellow like myself dare not aspire so much beyond
him.”

‘Ha! ha! modest, are not you?” laughed Hurst. “I
imagined that there was little doubt on the subject.
If, ‘straws show which way the wind blows,’ there is
no danger of arefusal! I should think thata rich wife
would be a perfect godsend !”

Arthur Carroll made no reply; and with an indolent
yawn, changed the subject. But Helen had heard quite
enough. She believed that the man to whom she had
unconsciously given her heart was false and unworthy,
and cared only for her wealth. It seemed to the poor
girl in that hour of bitter humiliation that death would
be aboon. She was very proud—too proud for her own
happiness, perhaps; and she resolved to shun Arthur
Carroll henceforth, and prove to him that he was noth-
ing to her. But he was a great deal to her, and her
heart was very sad at the thought of giving him up.

Swinging to and froin the hammock, Helen’s thoughts
were very bitter. There was no truth or honor in all the
great, wide world then, since he with his earnest face
and grave, thoughtful eyes, which seemed so full of
truth, had proved false and mercenary. True, no words
had ever been spoken which revealed love, but she had
read it in his clear dark eyes, as she had believed in him,
Ah, I think thatis the most bitter sting; to see faith
wrecked and confidence gone. Thereis nothing quite
80 sad in all the world,

All at once, while Bigied in these dreary reflections,
Helen saw Arthur Carroll coming slowly toward her.

 

 

His face was very pale and she could not fail to observe

but is continually changing his position, and appears to \_A race for a wife recently took place in Logansville,

via Nasa, daa

2 en ~> eat ay

mutha wateh His hark tan is altered,
and without provocation he will at times give tongue to
a dismal short howl, or to what would perhaps be bet-
ter described as half a howl and haif a bark. He will
gnaw at anything that comes in his way. If he beina
room he will bite at the chair-legs, or the carpet, or ata
table-cloth ; and if in a kennel he will attack the corners
of it. He willalso attempt to masticate stones, and will
readily consume straw and filth of any kind. Another
early symptom is the disposition to bite other dogs—in
fact, a rabid animal will unhesitatingly attack a dog or
acat with which he may have lived for years on the
most friendly terms.

During the whole time that these symptoms are de-
veloping themselves the dog will still remain under his
master’s or mistress’ control, and will, to a certain ex-
tent, obey orders, although, perhaps, not so cheerfully
as usual. . :

The dumb or paralytic rabies is recognizable by the
lower jaw dropping considerably by the mouth being
continually open. When suffering from this form of the
disease the animal is not quite so ferocious; still his
saliva is as deadly as in the case of the ordinary rabies.

The idea that rabid dogs fear water is altogether fal-
lacious. They have no such fear, but at the commence-
ment of the attack drink large quantities, though they
are not able to do so in the latter stages in consequence
of the throat being so greatly affected.

Rabies is more prevalent inthe spring and autumn,
and not, as iS§ generally supposed, in the summer
months.

In the event of a person being unfortunate enough to
be bitten by a rabid dog, the wound should be imme-
diately washed by allowing a stream of cold water to
runonit. The place should then be—provided the per-
son has no sore on the lips or tongue—well sucked, and
afterward caustic should be applied. Suction should
never be relied upon alone. There is a difference be-

fur, and a small princess bonnet of the gray cloth, worked
upon the crown with lead beads, and bordered with a‘narrow
binding of the fur. The muff is of silver fox, and the
are a new shade of gray, called
one degree removed from black.

“Mrs, C. H. 8.”—Though black silk stockings and black
slippers are still worn with dresses of all colors, there is a
growing popularity for foot gear to match the costume, The

most fashionable ladies have slippers made from a piece of
the material of every handsome evening dress, and with
them they wear silk hosiery of exactly the same shade.
Bronze silk stockings are now made to correspond with the

dainty bronze slippers so much in favor.

“Edna L.”—The latest styles of ribbons are those of as-
trakhan and felt, which come in all the fashionable shades,
and are extensively used for trimming hats and bonnets.

They are not often worn as striags, except in a made-up bow,
as they are too thick, but are liked for trimming street cos-
tumes and muffs. There is also a fine woolen canvas ribbon,
somewhat resembling merino, with a raised plush edge, that
is used for similar purposes.

“Daisy,” St. Louis, Mo.—The rage for Mikado yellow is
dying out, and there is a revival of bright red, not only for
millinery purposés and accessories of the toilet, but for en-

tire dresses. In most cases this brilliant color is toned down
with black, Hats are shown with red crowns and black
brims, red jackets are bordered with black astrakhan, and
red dresses have garnitures of fine black braid.

“Nancy,” Ashland, Ill—There is a decided fancy for all
white opera wraps this season. Handsome opera cloaks of
white satin are brocaded with velvet roses and leaves in the

natural colors, edged with white marabou, showing crystal or
wooden drops. Cream-colored frise plush wraps for evening
wear are Jovely, with white satin lining, white marabou edg-
ing, and clasps of silver or Rhine stones.

loves
“silver antique,” a shade but

“Laura G.,” Hartford, Conn.—_Handsome opera wraps are
made of cream white moire, satin striped, and are lined with
pink, yellow, mauve, or pale blug satin, and bordered with
very wide bands of white marabou feathers. They are made
short in the back, with long panel fronts, which reach quite
to the foot of the dress skirt, the fluffy garniture following
the outlines of the entire garment,

“Etta B.”—The latest fancy is to trim red, brown, and blue
wool.dresses with black watered silk. The silk used is that
with waves, two or three inches wide, or else striped satin
and moire silk are chosen. There are side panels, vest, and
wide sash of the moire, and the rest of the dress is of the
wool goods. - A band of black astrakhan trims the jacket to
wear with this style of dress.

“Mamie,” Waterbury, Conn.—An entire suit of cloth is con-
sidered more stylish for street wear than oné which shows a
mingling of some other fabric. For more dressy use, a
plush or velvet underskirt could be substituted for the cloth

 

one, but even for this purpose many ladies prefer the suit
alike throughout. Such a suit, however, should be faultless
in fit and finish.

“Jessie S."—A very elegant jacket is made of navy-blue
blanket serge. It has on the front a handsome. braiding
in shell pattern, on either side of which is a line of as-
trakhan fur, graduated to suit the figure. This is carried
around the bottom of the jacket, and is used also for the
collar, cuffs, shoulder epaulets, and pocket tabs.

“Birdie,” Cleveland, Ohio.—Natural flowers are not worn as
much as formerly. Sometimes a single large, long-stemmed

| flower, usually a rose, is thrust in front of the corsage, but a

bouquet pinned to the dress is quite out of date. Large
bouquets, tied with ribbon, are. often carried in the hand
with full dress toilets. ,

“Mrs. Julia G.”—For plain dresses of one material, the
panel effect now so popular can be made with a series of
tucks, one just above the other, reaching the entire length of
the skirt. The tucks should be two or three inches wide, and
have no space between them.

‘“Moore,” Passaic, N. J.—ist. There are several places in this
city where feather curling is taught. 2d. We have no knowlg
edge of any book such as you mention. 3d. A button-hole

 

| pocket.

ttachment for the sewing-machine can be purchased for
Sho, $15, and $20 each. ‘
“Belle H.”—Thé old-fashioned’black silk apron isin vogue

again. It is large and square, well covering the dress front,
and has flounces of black lace across the foot, and black lace
pe Bowstxof bright-colored_ satin ribbon are asjgar-
niture.

“Little Ermie,” ;Georgetown, 'Fla.—_Mornitig wrappers are
made in redingote style, with double-breasted fronts and
square sleeves. Large button molds, covered with plain vel-
yet, fasten the front and ornament the pockets.

“Jerrie.”—An outfit of perforated patterns for Kensington

painting, containing sixteen designs and book of instruction,
will cost $1.25. The NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency
will supply it on receipt of the money.

“Bessie Black.’—Princess wrappers for the bedroom are

made of the softest and finest California blankets. The rose-
colored and pale blue borders are used down the fronts, and
for trimmings.

“Dollie,” Texas.—The price of “Earle Wayne’s Nobility, "i
book-form, is $1.50, on receipt of which we will mail it'to

you.
—>@

Items of Interest.

 

 

 

 

tween medical men as to which is the best cautery—
some recommending one kind and others another. The
nitrate of silver, in the form of the pencil, is very effect-
ual for superficial wounds and scratches, but for a deep
puncture the free application of nitric acid is best, as
it is far more penetrating.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by

 

Mrs. Helen Wood.

 

“Trene C.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—There are two distinct styles
for making costumes. In one there is very little fullness on
the hips, the skirts are long and plain,.and the corsages
pointed, while the other style shows fully draped skirts,
which are well steeled to keep them from clinging to the
figure. The first style is preferred for home and evening
dresses, while the latter is liked for street suits. Reception
toilets are usually made open in front, to display aprons or

embroidered breadths of satin or velvet in some light color,
which coutrasts with the dark velvet or brocade, cut in prin-
cess style, which supplies the train. Some dresses, however,
show the embroidered satin in a panel on theside. Dinner
dresses are made with trains, and the lining of the train is of
some rich or delicate color which harmonizes with the cos-
tume. Such dresses are simpler in make than they have
been, and depend for effect on richness of material and
charm of color. Some of them are low-cut in the neck, but
the preference seems to be for those cut in a V shape, or with
a pompadour square. A handsome evening toilet for a ma-
tron is of amber satin, the court train opening over a petti-
coat of violet velvet embroidered_ with a sed and gold pan-
sies. The most fashionable black toilets this winter are of
black moire, trimmed with lace and jet passementerie.

‘Miss Eva K.”—1st. Cheap, serviceable dresses can be made
of corduroy. One much admired shows a fine cord of a love-
ly shade of gray. The underskirt is perfectly plain, and the
long diagonal overskirt is trimmed down one side with aband
of silver-fox fur. A postilion basque, pointed in front, is
buttoned on the left side with smoked pearl buttons. There

is an outside jacket of the same material, cut short behind,
with loose fronts, buttoning ae. and _ bordered with
fur. The hat to match has a tall crown of the corduroy, a
narrow puffed brim, and is trimmed with yellow and gray
feathers, 2d. A very pretty zouave jacket is made of trans-
parent black yak net, lined with scarlet silk, beaded all over
with loops of jet beads, and bordered with a heavy jet fringe.
This jacket is a tasteful addition to a dress of blacksilk or
satin, trimmed with lace and jet, and will transform a plain
suit into a dressy one. ;

“ Bertie,” Bridgeport, Conn.—ist. Corsages of evening
dresses are all somewhat open, and in the most varied:styles,
2d. Trained dresses are generally worn for ceremonial occa-
sions, and many are made of light-colored satin, trimmed

with tulle and lace. The.panels on the skirt are ornamented
with embroidery on plush, with colored beads. 3d. Dog-
collarnecklets are popular, and generally consist of from five
to ten rows of small white or ro pearls, mounted on velvet
and bordered with a row of pendant pearls. Others are
made of gray, jet, garnet, brown, sapphire-blue, and _ golden-
brown beads, and worn with high-necked dresses. Dog-col-
lars are also made of velvet and edged with beads.

“Fannie B.,” Newark, N. J.—A very stylish street suit of
gray ottoman cloth has the skirt panels, vest, collar, and
cuffs covered with an effective embroidery, wrought with

satin luster tubular braid two shades darker than the fabric
itself. It is accompanied by an English coat of the same
goods, also embroidered and edged with bands of silver-fox

Ga. Dr. Reviere won the | 3
‘obtained a marriage license. At the same time his rival,
John Jackson, procured a license, and the doctor’s fears be-
ing excited, he mounted his horse, as did Jackson, and it was
a race for the lady’s house. Reviere reached there five min-
utes ahead, and after the ceremony had been performed, it
was revealed that Miss Octavia had promised both men, and
named the same day and hour.

Thomas Jordan, of South Lewiston, Me., is 84 years
old. Last winter he lost the use of an eye, but did not be-
come aware of his loss until spring. He went into the field
one day in spring-time and noticed that things looked strange,
He clapped his hand to one eye—blank darkness! One eye
was totally blind, and, strangest of all, it had not pained him
and he had not known it before.

A Montreal druggist gave poison, by mistake, to a cus-
tomer, who became sick, and could not work for several
weeks. A suit was brought for damages. It was shown that
the wholesaler had improperly labeled the package before
selling it to the druggist. The court held that the druggist
should have verified the contents of the package, and gaye
judgment for $200 and costs.

Boston is discussing a new plan for purifying its drink-
ing water. It is proposed to build an open conduit, a mile or
more in length, from the outlet of the water system, in which
large, rough bowlders are to be placed. The water, rushing
swiftly over and between these rocks, will be so agitated, it is
thought, as to do away with that impurity which depends up-
on pertial stagnation.

A remedy for sleeplessness successfully applied by Dr.
Von Gallhorn during the past two years, consists in band-
aging one leg up to the knee with several layers of wet calico
and covering these with a sheet of waterproof cloth. This
procedure dilates the vessels of the leg, and by diminishing
the amount of blood in the head, induces sleep.

Bricks formed of a mixture of sawdust and clay are
the latest novelty in the building line. They measure 13 by 6
by 4inches, and having two square holes running through
them lengthwise, they weigh little more than common brick,
although four times as large. They are laid between the
outer and inner courses of a wall.

An engineer, who knew little of his business, but was
engaged for about half the salary given to competent engi-
neers, ignorantly pumped cold water into a hot boiler used
to warm a church in Fort Wayne, Ind. An explosion result-
ed, causing the destruction of the edifice, a loss of $100,000,
and the death of two persons.

A Buffalo clergyman, who was Officiating at the fune-
ral of a young girl, began his discourse with: “Oh, may this
bereaved father find consolation for the death of his only
daughter”’—and then happening to remember there was an-
other daughter, the offspring of a second marriage, he added
hastily—‘‘by his first wife.”

A fatal accident in an iron mill in a town in Ohio,
made a job for a German coroner. Toimpress the jury with
his honesty, the coroner began his address as follows:
“Schentlemen, I hef no bersonal interest in dis case. I hef
been aubrodched neder by der manufactuers nor der de-
ceased.” :

A thoughtful boy in Binghampton asked, ‘Papa, do
they always find gas when they bore for it?’ “Yes, Rob-
ert; you may depend upon it, where there is abore there
is always gas,” replied the father, who, by the way, is also a
newspaper man. |

Glycerine, in its pure state, should not be used for
chapped hands, as it absorbs moisture from the skin, thus

with water, however, glycerine is an excellent application.

A Down-East parson prayed in church against pro-
gressive euchre, and his congregation, who had never heard
of it before, have been busy learning it ever since, just to see
if it was so very bad.° 4

The Shah of Persia is determined to kill the trade in
aniline dyes, and has issued an edict that the hands of any
workman who uses them shall be nailed over his workshop
door. ;

Two young men saved a peddler from drowning in
Derby, Conn. The generous peddler opened his pack, and
gratefully gave each of the rescuers a penny lead-pencil.

An association to help drunkards home at night has
been started in Paris. If the man is too tight to give his ad-
dress, he is cared for umtil he becomes sober.

An island in the North Sea, which was known as ‘‘The
Monk,” has entirely disappeared, and vessels now sail over

 

 

the spot where it stood.

 

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