ensationa ev agile, Hnterea at the Post Office New York. as Second Olass Matter. Entered@ According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1885, bv Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian ar Conoress. Washinaton. D. C. Vol. 41. Office 3i P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. Rose St. TELL ME, LOVE, I AM NOT DREAMING. BY SYLVESTER CLARENCE. Tell me, love, I am not dreaming, Am not cruel fancy’s sport ; Tell me this is more than seeming, Bliss by no delusion wrought. Do I see thee now before me? Do I clasp this hand in mine? Or has some potent spirit o’er me Cast a spell almost divine ? Tell me, love, I am not dreaming. Years have fled since words were spoken, Sundering hearts that loved so true ; Links of love, by passion broken, Take long years to forge anew. Hope’s bright sun, now shining o’er us From a sky so late o’ercast, Shows a vision spread before us, Seeming all too bright to last. Tell me, love, { am not dreaming. All the bitter past has brought us Drowned beneath time’s flowing wave ; All the ills that foes have wrought us Buried in one common grave ; Leave our future all unclouded, Brighter for the perils past ; Long by.grief and sorrow clouded, Love dissolves the spell at last. Tell me, love, 1am not dreaming. > 9 <—______ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK- FORM. |! FOR ANOTHER’S SIN. By BERTHA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OF “4 Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The World Between Them,” “Beyond Pardon,” Etc. CHAPTER I. ‘“‘aT THE CHURCH DOOR WE PART.” It was the strangest marriage ever proposed. The man, a nobleman born and bred, looked upon the en- gagement with aversion, while the lady—well, what her feelings tured. He would have sacrificed everything, save honor, to have the engagement \broken, buy so long as the lady insisted upoli the Inarriage, he would accede. Still there was achance that her pride would rebel against marrying a mau who could notlove her. There- tore Lord.Carew made a last attempt to reason with the woman who seemed so anxious to become his wife. “The question I wish to ask you is very simple, Miss and motives were, could only be conjec- | Ti Ta ere He New York, Febragry 27, 1886. 7 i \\ YW \\ 4 G fj G, WY, Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. | cruel mockery it seemed! | strength might not fail her, and that pride might not | tise in hot rebellion against the man she was about | tuous boudoir. | gorgeous of coloring ; her face of the true Spanish type ; | lng, ang suAple : the eyes dail Re mole twrdt pio beari’s-ci | their wgudrous depths; a mouth like No. 17. “Do not say one word to Allan of what I told you— leave me to dO my best with him. I have an idea that any interference will simply make matters worse.” Lady. Carew, only too pleased to avoid a dangerous task, gladly obeyed her. So the preparations went on gay. The papers went into raptures about the jewels, the carriages, the horses purchased for Miss Cariton, the beautiful bride-elect of Lord Carew. They told how the auspicious day was decided upon, and that the wed- ding was to take place at St. George’s, Hanover Square, on the fourteenth of June, after which the happy pair were to spend their,honeyemoon at Brooklands, the mag- nificent rural retreat of my Lord Carew. - Milliners were in a state of agitation; the superb ene must be completed, and there was so little ime. The bride alone took little or no interest in the bridal preparations. She spent as much of her time as pos- sible in her own reom. She said but little: when any questions. were asked about her dresses, she replied so indifferently as to excite wonder in the minds of her attendants. They brought her white silks to choose her wedding- dress from ; she looked at them carelessly. “You had better consult Lady Carew,” she said; «she understands that kind of thing better than I do,” Madame Lance looked up with a smile. “It is your own wedding-dress, Miss Carlton. Who can choose for you? I strongly advise this.” She displayed a rich, glistening watered silk that any woman would have admired. Miss Carlton’s eyes fell languidly on it. ‘That will.do as well as any other,” she said, indiffer- ; ently ; and from that moment Madame Lance, the chief dressmaker, suspected something wrong. “Ir is not natural for any girl to feel so indifferent over her wedding-dress. 1 believe that if I had shown Miss Carlton a black crepe, she would have said, ‘That | will do.” “Better,” the young girl had thought to herself—‘far better have been married.in deepest black.” So she turned shuddering trom the wreath of orange blossoms that Lady Carew brought in toshow her. What To crown an unloved bride with orange flowers! She had vainly prayed Lady Carew that the wedding should be a quiet one, and she had replied: “J would do anything to please you, Adelaide: but what would the world say? Alan's rank and position forbid all notion of a quiet wedding.” So she lived through the dreary agony of those days, passively submitting to all that was done or said—never repenting her sacrifice, but praying Heayen that her to wed. CHAPTER IIL. HOW HE PASSED HIS WEDDING EVE. Juanita, Countess of Silvara, sat alone in her sump- The rose silk hangings are drawn, and the rich light that steals through them falls on a woman who looks like a picture by Titian that has just stepped out ofitsframe. Magnificently beautiful, with the most the features perfect ; the hair dark as night, soft, shin- ri fn prningus, PS-5 is Witt oo icndaeht in arose; impbrially beautiful lips, peerless in shape and color, with the love- liest of dimples. A woman so royally beautiful, that men’s hearts beat as they looked upon her. She was sitting in the very heart of the roseate glow. Her dress of rich black velvet trimmed with costly lace was Cut so as to show the fair rounded throat and ‘neck ; | a rich red rose shone in the coils of dark hair, and an- SF | Other lay against the’white breast. Just so would Titian have immortalized her—the gor- | geous coloring, the picturesque dress, the face so fatally Carlton: Js it your wish that this engagement should be fuljilled—that this marriage should take place ?” | beautiful. we “Jt is my wish,” she replied, in a clear, low, melodious voice. “The option of-it rests entirely with you. Ifit should please you to cancel the engagement, it is all at an end. If you choose to fulfill it, you must be willing to run the risk of those who marry without love.” ‘I do not desire to cancel it,’ she replied; fulfill.” “That is to say, you will marry me, knowing as you do that my heart is not concerned in the matter. That J—pray, pardon the abrupt language—that I do not love you ?”’ Her fair face flushed hotly, and passionate words rose to the quivering lips; but she repressed them, and spoke “T will no word until she had trampled the proud impulses | underfoot. “I will try to win your liking,” she replied. “It is a man’s place to win,” he interrupted, proudly ; ‘woman should be won.” «You are right,” she said, humbly. my words badly,” Then she raised her head with a haughty gesture, and continued, in a low voice: “{ prefer to fulfill the engagement, Lord Carew, that has been made for us.” ‘Tcannot thank you. Do not think 1 speak harshly. Ihave always disliked—nay, let me speak honestly—Z have always hated this forced marriage ; and 1 have always hoped that your own gvod sense and feminine instincts would lead you to refuse your consent to it.” She made no reply, but one watching her would have seen the proud fiush rising to the white brow, while the small jewelea hand.was so tightly clenched that the rings made great dentsin the slender fingers. Once she seemed about to interrupt him, then suddenly re- membering herself, she remained silent. “IT have never yet been uncourteous to a lady,” con- tinued Lord Carew, ‘‘and I have the highest possible reverence for all womanhood, and I can hardly believe that you—delicate, refined, sensitive, as I know you to be—would marry me against my will.” “You speak harshly,” she said, in her low, clear voice ; «T trust it is not quite so bad as that.” “[t is worse—chivalry, honor, knighthood, the rever- ence all true men have for women forbids me to say more. Itell you plainly, Miss Carlton, the bare notion of this marriage is displeasing to me. Now, will you persist in your consent ?” Again the tight Clenching of the white hand, the hot flushing of the fair young face. “[cannot withdraw it,” she replied, after a short pause. ‘You will think better of it in time, Lord Carew.” ‘Never! Pardonme. Lam surprised, almost indig- nant at your persistency. Ihad relied upon your refusal when you should know my sentiments.” «You will not always be amazed at what you call my persistency. I am content to wait until you understand me better.” ‘“T understand you well enough, Miss Carlton. You resolve to fulfill a contract that is odious to me. It can but. be from one motive.” She looked somewhat wistfully at him. ‘What do you suppose that motive to be »” she asked. “IT should say love of title and wealth. You wish to be Lady Carew, of Brooklands. Your desire shall be granted. You shall have the name and rank to gain which you are content to darken my lite. But there our contract ends. Love such as a husband should give his wife you will never have from me. shall be fulfilled. I will go tothe altar with you— in name you shall be my wife. You shall share such pal- try advantages Of Tank as belong to me; but—no more, We will part, at thé church door—that is my rosolve: Now, will you persist in your consent ?” She had grown white even to the very lips: the light died from her eyes; her whole figure seemed to shrink eo as a flower from before a burning blast of wind. “You are unjust to me,” she said, faintly. capable of caring for rank or title.” He laughed, and the slight inflection of scorn in that noe once more sent the hot, indignant flush to her ace. “Pray pardon me.” he said, iightly. “I am not so vain as to imagine that you are acting from any strong feeling of liking for my most unworthy self. I give you credit for being more womanly than that. Why should you care forme? I have never sought your good opin- ion. Do me justice, Miss Carlton. Since I heard the terms of that most unjust will, have I not, in plain Eng- lish, carefully avoided you ?” “Thave chosen “T am in- The contract | “HAVE PITY UPON ME, BECAUSE I AM “T cannot deny it,” she replied; and the fair brow con- tracted suddenly, as with pain. “You acknowledge, then, that I have not sought to win your regard? Pray answer me, Miss Carlton.” “T acknowledge it,” she said, speaking as though the | words were wrung from her. “Then there can be no question of love, and you marry me, as I said before, for the paltry advantage of wealth and rank.” “You shall think so, if you will; someday you will know better.” He repressed some angry words that had risen to his ips. “T will not say what | think, Miss Carlton; I leave you to imagine it. Itshall be as you have decided. . You shall share my name; you shall be Lady Carew, of Brooklands ; but at the church door we part. You will have all you desire.” “How cruelly you misjudge me,” she said, slowly. “Answer me one question, Miss Carlton. If it were not for my fortune, should you persist in keeping the contract you know to be paintul to me ?” She looked at him as though she were driven at bay. «You do not answer me,” he said, haughtily. _ “J cannot,” she replied, and her words sounded like ! the wail of a lost hope. “Tt isas { thought. You will not sully your lips with an untruth; yet you cannot deny that my fortune influ- ences you ?” Years afterward, when the truth was known, he re- membered the almost sublime look that came over her tace. Then there fell upon them a silence that neither cared to break. They stood alone in the magnificent drawing-room of Lady Carew’s London mansion. The May sun was shin- ing, the air was fragrant with the perfume of migno- nette, the birds were singing in the trees, the world was full of fair, spring-like beauty; the sunlight cameina warm, mellow flood through the rich, rose silk hang- ings. The beautiful glow of color fell on the exquisite pictures, tae rare and elegant furniture, the carpet of velvet pile, the stands of rare and costly exotics, on the rare works of art that Lady Carew had delighted in gathering. “In the midst of the roseate glow, standing where the sunbeams fell like a glory around her, was Adelaide Carlton. Lord Carew stood at some little distance trom her, leaning one arm on thé back of a pretty flower- stand and standing erect, when the passion ot his own words moved him. «Pardon me,” he said, suddenly ; “1 did not perceive that you were standing.” With the chivalry natural to him, he placed a chair | for her, and she sat down. It was well he had done so, for her strength was rap- idly failing. A sudden sense of incongruity struck her and brought a faint, wistful smile to her lips. $e could | think of her possible fatigue, and try to save her from it, while he was_ piercing her heart with the sharpest sword of man’s disdain. ‘Then, I presume,” he said, after a time, original programme is to be carried out? I shall be twenty-four in three weeks’ time, and, as the marriage istotake place before my twenty-fourth birthday, it will be, I presume, as, Lady Carew has suggested—three weeks from to-day, on the fourteenth of June. Per- haps, when you have arranged the details with Lady Carew, she will inform me of them. I shall go to Paris, but I will return in time for the ceremony, which ought never to take place.” t She bowed, but did not trust herself to speak. ‘You have deliberately chosen for yourself,” he said. “At the church door we part; yougo your way,I go} mine. You shall have your heart's desire.” Nor did his heart soften as he looked at her, though she was so fair and so young. The greatest attraction of her beauty was its rarity ; not once in a century does a face like Adelaide Carlton’s bring sunshine and bright- ness with it. She resembled an old Florentine picture more than anything else. Her features were perfect— the brow low and broad, the dark brows straight and clear, the face perfectly oval, the chin round, dimpled, the upper lip straight, the mouth like a Cupid’s, the lips | red, rich, and ripe. on the inner leaf ot a blush rose; her eyes of a rich, ‘that the | A WOMAN—BECAUSE I AM YOUNG, AND DISGRACE WILL KILL ME!” assionate violet, the white lids fulland fringed; the ong, fair hair was wreathed in innumerable plaits, and formed a coronet round the queenly head. How he could look at her, and so coldly ignore her wondertul beauty, was best known to himself. She was dressedinasimple costume that added to her loveliness. Adelaide Carlton liked the pictureque ; her dress was square, after the fashion of a Venetian picture, with deep hanging sleeves; a broad gold band was crossed round one white arm, and the little hands were studded with costly rings. She was the fairest picture of youth and loveliness, yet he looked coldly and distastefully on her. Lerd Carew drew a white hyacinth from the stand, looKed at it, then threw it away. “IT do not know,” he said, ‘‘thatI need remain. The interview cannot be pleasant to yor} ortome. We un- derstand,each other. Yow choose té tulfill the contract, I choose that it shall be fulfilled after my own fashion. When we part every arrargement shail be made for the due maintenance of your dignity as Lady Carew. - I will bid you farewell. I start for Paris this evening.” She drew one step nearer to him. “We part, you say, at the church door ?” “Yes,” he replied. ‘But that will not matter; the contract is for hands not hearts. It will be fulfilled.” With a low bow, Lord Allan Carew quitted the room. When he was gone, she seized the flower he had thrown away and kissed it with passionate fervor. ‘T shall win you yet, my love,” she. whispered. shall win you for my own.” CHAPTER II. ‘I TREAD HIS TITLE UNDER FOOT—I SCORN HIS RICHES.” For one-half minute she held the flower, then, with a passionate cry, she flung it from her. his scornful words returned to her; the beautiful face grew hot with a burning blush; she clasped her white hands. “Oh, hard—oh, most bitter fate! that J should have to stoop to woo—should lower myself to insist—when Heaven knows I would rend the wretched contract into shreds and trample onit. YetIlovye him. Was eyer love so wronged? Was ever pride so humbled ? he will never know,” She paced restlessly up and down that splendid room, pausing at times to stand where he had stood, raising her fair, proud face, as though indignantly appealing against injustice; then vailing it with her hand, as though to hide its blushes. “Dearly as Llove him, Tt would net have promised had ITknown. Dear Heaven! shall I ever forget his scorn— his disdain? He will marry me; [shall have his name, his title, I shall be Lady Carew, and he will leave me at the church door—he will live with no unloved wife. I trample on his wealth; I tread his title under foot; I scorn his riches. I would spurn them all—throw all to the winds; but ZI must save him.” The passionate anger suddenly died away. “JT must save you, my love,” she repeated, with out- stretched hands. ‘I must save you, even should you hate me forit. You willnever know. Ah, Heaven! was it just that the whole of the burden of others’ wrongs “y | Should fall thus on me ?” She knelt by the flower-stand, where the tall, white hyacinths were allin bloom, and wept as women weep but once in life. Wounded love, outraged pride. the sense of keen and bitter humiliation, and yet of dread necessity, were agitating her; and there was no comfort | in those tears. “Was ever love so wronged ?” she moaned. have won him in time, but now he will hate me. He thinks me forward, unmaidenly, mercenary—I, who would die for him—die to give him content, if he but smiled and thanked me. Was ever fate so hard as mine ?” The long, fair hair had fallen from its fastening; she pushed it back impatiently. “Nothing I could say would touch him,” she ex- claimed ; ‘‘his heart is cold as stone, hard as rock; his eyes never softened when they looked at me. He will “T might -hever love me; and I—oh, Heaven! how shall T live un- | der the shadow of his disdain ?” The coloring was even more exquisite than the face. | She was fair as the fairest lily, with a bloom like that said. The door opened, and a tall, stately lady entered. “Adelaide, my dear child, are you still here?” she “1 saw Allan follow you, and my heart beat so. I The memory of And dared not speak to him when he left. Oh, my darling, how isit? Tell me; I cannot bear suspense.” ‘You have nothing to fear, Lady Carew,” she replied, in her low, clear tones. ‘‘The marriage will take place, as you suggested, on the fourteenth of June,” “Thank Heaven! Iwas so fearful, and I have suf- fered somuch; Ihave been so unhappy. All will be well now.” “Not so well,” replied MisS Carlton. ‘Oh, Lady Carew, I have gone through such bitter humiliation, such unmerited shame! Your son will marry me, but he has told me we are to part at the church door; he will obey the letter of the contract, butno more. How Shall 1 bear the shame, the disgrace ?” Lady Carew grew pale, her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears. : “My dear Adelaide, my poor child! Does he say so ?” ‘ “Yes. Inever thought I could have lived and borne what I have endured this morning. If it had not been for my promise to you, Lady Carew, I would have left the house and never looked on him again. Why did you wring that promise from me ?” She stood before the mistress of that magnificent house, her slender, girlish igure drawn to its full height, her eyes flashing bright, her fair face all proud and glowing. How terrible! “Why did you wring that promise from me? He told melIwas unwomanly. Cant! forget such words? He told me I wanted to marry him for his money—his title. Why did you force me to promise? J am a motherless girl. Yow should have had pity on me.” Lady Carew rose from her seat and clasped the girl in her arms. “Do not say that, Adelaide; you will never be moth- erless while I live. Poor child, how you have been weeping! those sweet eyes are all swollen with tears. How shall i thank you, child? I appreciate your sacri- fice ; I know the value of that which you are bearing so patiently for my sake. Idothank you. I call Heaven to bless you. You are noble, true, loyal; you are a her- vine, and my son will love you. He must love you, and in time all will be well.” “No, he will never love me,” said the girl, sadly. ‘I have given you. my promise, and I will keep it at any cost to myself. But Allan will never love me. He marry me; but he will leave me after that to be a sub- ject of laughter to the world. People will point at me | the dusky-browed queen will | and say, ‘That is the bride whose husband left her on | her wedding-day.’. They will laugh and scoff; they will say I married him for his money, and that now I have that secured, he cares nothing forme. How can I live through it? They will say I have his title, and can dis- pense with his love!” Lady Carew gently touched the proud, tear-stained face. «You can bear that, Adelaide—you are strong, brave, courageous—you love my son with a love as tar above the ordinary affection of women as heaven is from earth; you can bear it for his sake; you can be loyal and self-sacriticing for his sake; you can suffer and be silent—suffer and be strong, for the truest of love en- nobles you. Have 1 judged you rightly, or have 1 over- rated your grandeur of soul ?” She raised herself from the encircling arms, and a light, halt divine, came into her beautiful face. “I can bear it,” she replied, calmly. ‘‘It is for his sake. My. love is stronger than death; it can endure even dislike; have no more fear for me; I will bear it all.” Murmured words of loving tenderness thanked her. “IT am happier now than I] have been for months,” said Lady Carew. ‘Oh, Adelaide, you have saved me— you have saved my son! Heaven bless you a thousand times. You will not repent ?” she added, seeing a sud- den look of pain come over the young face. “No. I have put my hand to the plow, and‘I wili not turn ‘back. Have no fear forme, Lady Carew.” «Yet, when the door had closed, and Lady Carew had gone to give orders for the immediate preparations for the wedding, a look of the deepest despondency came over her face. “Some women,” she said to herself, ‘‘give only love. I have given love, pride, life itself, and in return I have gained contempt.” Only once again did she mention the subject to Lady Carew ; then it was with averted face. She might have been painted as Cleopatra, who conquered the con queror; and she might have been that imperial Helen for whom men fought and died. Who could resist the charm of that grand, matchless beauty ?. From the folds of her dress came the faintest breath of perfume— so sweet, So Subtle, that breathing it was intoxicating, like a draught of rarest wine. A fan, made from the plumage of some bright tropical bird, lay near her; a vase of fragrant exotics stood on the little table ; a leafin a book of poems, richly bound in crimson and gold, was turned down, as though she had been reading it ; a smile luminous and tenderplayed round her lips; her white jeweled hands held a note, and she read aloud : “T shall be passing through London, on my way to Paris, and will callon you to-morrow. Will you receive me, Nita, about noon ? “A. C2" “Ah! Allan Carew, I will receive you,” said the beau- tiful woman. ‘‘What are. you coming totellme? Are you free from the cold, pale English girl who holds you so tightly bound? Are you coming to ask me to be Lady Carew ? You must make haste; there are twenty men as eligible as you at my feet.” She was a woman capable of inspiring love. To win a smile from those lips, a welcome from those radiant eyes, men would have suffered tortures; but she was not capable of loving deeply herself. She never intended to do so. “T wish to preserve my beauty,” she said to herself, ‘and nothing wastes it so fatally as giving way to emo- tion, to sentiment, to love. I will none of it.” She had made up her mind to enjoy life most thor- oughly ; to marry the richest man who made her an offer ; not to trouble herself about love, hatred, or feel- ings of any kind; but to enjoy existence as the butter- flies did—in the sun. Among those who that season had hovered round the beautiful countess, like moths round a candle, was Lord Carew. He had not made to love to her, but his bright eyes told well enough how much he admired her, and she lured him on, for of all her admirers she liked him the best. Until one day, finding himself in danger from the beauty that was so fatal in its power, Lord Carew told her the history of his engagement. His father began life as Desmond Carew; he was emi- nent for his service to the State; no keener or more brilliant politician lived in England; and government, appreciating his powers, created him Baron Carew, of Brooklands. The family itself was old almost as the hills that surrounded them, but Desmond was the first who consented to receive a title. He had but one son, Allan, who succeeded him. The estates in the Carew family were not entailed, though the eldest son always suc- ceeded his father. When Desmond Carew’s will was read it was'‘found to be a strange one. The whole of his fortune and estate was left to his only and beloved son Allan—on condition that he married Adelaide Carlton, the testator’s ward. If he refused to fulfill this contract, the fortune all went to Miss Carlton, to be hers during life, and to will at her pleasure. Should Allan Carew persist in his refusal, he was cut off with a shilling. Should Miss Carlton be the one to refuse, she forfeited five thousand pounds, which in that case were to be given to Allan. It was of this contract Lord Carew had told the beau- tiful countess. She had exclaimed loudly against what she called the tyranny of his father. ‘Nay, countess, you must not say that. My father was one of the most upright and loyal men under heaven. He had a perfect right to please himself.” «Ts she pretty ?” asked the lady. “Tt is difficult for me to say. She was my father’s ward, but she has been abroad at school. I know little of her. However, my mother has made her acquainted with this contract, and she expects me to fulfillit. I thought it more honorable to tell you, Nita.” “Because you thought I was beginning to like you,” she replied, with asmile. ‘What are you going to do ?” “J shall ask Miss Carlton to release me,” he said, gravely. «And if she reiuses ?” «J will obey the letter of the law ; I will marry.” This conversation had taken place some days before, and now Lord Carew called to tell her the result. Knowing that he would call about noon, the countess had made her most bewitching toilet, and was ready for him. The little clock had chimed twelve when he entered. One glance at his face told her all. “She will not release you ?” said the countess, holding out her jeweled hand to him, and throwing an expres- sion of deep regret into her beautiful eyes. ‘ | j | ra cotor, formed a brilliant: group. 5 La a a ttle ‘‘No,” he replied, quietly; ‘‘and. therefore, Nita, 1 have come to say good-by to you,” “Why—why must you do that ?” “Can you ask me? Do you not see that I hold my love asin aleash? JI dare not give way to it—I restrain it—l hold it back. And do you not know that if I were free | should ask you to be my wite? For that reason I must say tarewell to you.” “It does not follow,” she said. “It follows, as a matter of necessity,” he said. ‘I may not love the lady who is to be my wife, .but we Carews are scrupulous in our honor. I shall be true to her in thought, in word. and in deed.” “Yet you do not love her ?” “No; therefore you see the very temptation, Nita.” She drew nearer to him and laid one jeweled hand on his arm. “What if you break it yourself ?” She whispered. “No, no. J must carry out my tather’s wishes—I must fulfill the promise made for me. Even could I free my- self, I should be a poor man, and you—bright, beautiful Nita—could not marry a poor man.” “No,” she replied, with a shudder, «J could not do that; iff had money of my own 1 would give it all to you, and marry you; but 1 depend on my aunt, and she would never consent.” “It only remains, then, for me to bid you farewell,” he said, sadly. ‘I tell you honestly, Nita, I could not see you without loving you; I must leave you.” Perhaps she cared for him, or it might be that she was disappointed that this splendid prize should be lost toher. The tears dimmed her radiant eyes. “Good-by,” she said, with quivering lips. ‘Oh, Allan, itis very hard!’ He took her hand in his, and she bent her beautiful face near to him. “No,” he said, turning from the temptation; “I may not kiss your face, Nita. Good-by. years we may meet again—and be friends.” He went away with the saddest, dullest pain in his heart that man could feel. How beautitul she was! How loving! How could he leave her? It was like quit- ting the Garden of Paradise for the coldness and dark- ness of night. Only Heaven knew the regret and suffer- ing in that honest heart. she turned to her glass when he was gone, to see if that one‘tear had made her eyes red. It would not do to let Sir Austin Chandos see her with her eyes red, for he was the second on the list, now that Lord Carew had gone. She should fall back upon him and rest content with being Lady Chandos. The white eyelids looked none the worse for the tear; nevertheless, she bathed them in rose-water, and posed herself again to receive Sir Austin. Then Lord Carew, haunted by the memory of that im- perial form and beauty, went on his way to Parls: He remained there until the twelfth of June. He took no part in the preparations made. If Lady Carew wrote to ask him anything, he answered that in all respects she was to do as she would—to do as she liked. He returned to London on the thirteenth, and went at once to Brook House. Lady Carew welcomed him warmly. “My dearest Allan, 1 am so glad you have arrived safely. lam anxious when I know that you are travel- ing. Everything is ready for the morrow.” “You have not made more fuss than was necessary, mother, I hope ?” he said, wearily. “Now, Allan, thatis hardly a gallant speech. Ade- laide was your dear father’s ward, and her marriage cannot be slurred over as a matterof no moment. We have only six bride-maids; that is really not: many, and pepApS about fifty guests invited for the wedding reaktast, just the creme de lacreme. I think you will be pleased, Allan.” “Nay, mother, there need be no shadow of pretense between you and me; nothing will either please or dis- piggse, me ; you know that we need not pretend to each other.’ “Oh? Allan! if you could but think differently ; if you knew Adelaide as she really is—the noblest of women, the truest, the most loyal heart in all the world—you would love her, my dearest boy. I thought to be so happy on your wedding-day.” She knelt down by his side and took his hands in hers. She covered them with kisses and tears. “Do try to love her, for my sake, Allan.” He smiled, surely the saddest and most melancholy smile ever seen on man’s face. “My dear mother,” he replied, ‘‘if I cannot love her for her own sake, I cannot for yours.” He sat silent for some minutes; then he looked wist- fully at her. : ‘‘Mother,” he said, ‘“‘have you no idea what Gaused my father to make that will ?” - Her face flushed, and her eyes fell before his. - “He thought the marriage would be a happy one for you, I suppose, Alljan.” Then Lorg Carew returned to his hotel, and instead y going to sleep, he watched the stars until morning awn. That was how he passed his wedding eve. CHAPTER IV. THE BRIDEGROOM'S CONCESSION. Such an odor of orange blossoms, such fluttering of white dresses and rustling of silken robes, such sweet silvery laughter and pleasant voices, such an atmosphere of fragrance, warmth, and gayety, tor it was Adelaide Cariten's wedding-day, and she was beloved by all. The six pretty. bride-maids were there in robes of gos- samer white. Lady Carew, magnificently gttired in sil- very gray satin, the wedding guests in every variety of ; » Maree 5 i Red oS bride .Did..itesgrite tga of the aresenDe-eiven sn val. BHY. che as Dolpk eeince thee ig among them there was hothing trem the britégroom ?*- \f ‘fhe marriage was to/take place at eleven’ The hour was very near at hand, and one soul in that gay, bril-’ liant assemblage was faint even unto death. Those who attired her wondered at the bride’s white face. Even the sight of that magnificent wedding-dress brought no smile to it. .When the vail was thrown, over her head, and the orange blossoms placed on her brow, she shud- dered as though they had been robing her in a shroud. Lady Carew looked very anxious; her wistful eyes fol- lowed the bride everywhere. When the wedding toilet was completed there was one general cry of admiration; never had so fair a bride been seen. The beautiful golden hair gleamed under the bridal vail, the sweet, flower-like face was pale as that of a marble statue, yet its loveliness was but changed, not lessened. No word had passed her pale lips since they began to | dress her. Ordinarily a bride is difficult to please. She is so anxious to look her very best in the eyes of the one whois all the world to her; but Adelaide Carlton sat pale and silent; no glad words, no bright smiles, no pretty blushes. She rose when they bade her rise; she did ‘as she was told without comment. Presently it began to dawn upon those round her what strange man- ner of bride she was. | There was a chill about her that communicated itself | to others. When loving young lips uttered words of congratulation, she had no answer; and very soon they began to whisper to each other : “She is so unlike a bride.” Lady Carew went to her with a glass of wine. “Drink this, my dear,” she said; then added, in a ter- fied whisper: ‘‘You promised you would bear it, Ade- laide. Do not give way.” The young girl seemed to nerve herself by a violent etfort. “{ shall not fail, Lady Carew ; but I wish it were over. He will leave me at the church door, and that will be hard to bear.” “JT pray Heaven to bring us through this tribulation,” said the poor lady. : Then there was a cry for ‘‘The bride! the bride!” she was to be greatly honored. The prime minister, who had been a great friend of Lord Desmond Carew, had asked permission to give her away. He wonders a little at her flower-like marvelous beauty, and he won- ders again why she is so pale and silent. They enter the last of those gorgeous carriages, and drive off to- ether. . The hour of her doom is rapidly approaching, she thinks, It will not be very long before people will scoff and mock her as the bride deserted on her wedding morn; as the woman who married for title, and whose husband gave it to her with scorn; not long before that brilliant as- sembly will break up in disorder. Suddenly she finds the prime minister is talking to her, and she tries to collect her scattered senses and listen, She cannot understand, the whir)] of her thoughts is sogreat. The darkening horror is mastering her. She hears something about ‘‘happiness,” and ‘for his dear triend’s sake,” but'the words have no. meaning for her. She looks at him, and the vague, frightened expression surprises him. «You miss your mother this morning,” he said to her. A great tearless sob rose to her white lips. “T wish,” she said, ‘‘that [ were lying by my mother’s side.” “Nervous,” was the minister's comment, ‘nervous and low-spirited. Poor child, how beautiful sheis!” A few minutes more, and she is the center of a mag- nificent group. The Lord Bishop of B- assistants presented an imposing array. The pretty pride-maids grouped themselves effectively. Seaton officiated as best man. the magnificent dresses, the shining jewels, the fair women and brave men, made that wedding an event to | be remembered. 3 Me She raised her eyes once to the bridegroom’s face. ingly administers justice. There was no relenting in those proud eyes, no softening of the haughty lips. Many women have knelt upon the scaffold, and have suffered less with the bright knite suspended over their heads than she endured in that hour. , The music ceased, the solemn, beautiful words of the marriage service commenced : “f, Allan, take thee, Adelaide, to be my lawful wedded '} wife—’ His voice was cold, hard, and unmusical. have eried aloud as the cruel mockery struck her. touched her hand, and felt trembled, and then he placed the ring upon her finger. She was Lady Carew! It was all a bewildered dream to her after that. The triumphant music pealed through the lofty aisles, and the magnificent bridal procession | passed on to the vestry, where the books awaited their signature. Some one addressed her as ‘‘Lady Carew,” and a faint shudder passed over her—she remembered the bitter tones of his voice when he had used that title. A few minutes—only so few—and then her disgrace | a few more minutes, and they would ve | laughing at her; some few, perhaps, indignant, but the | woulda come; Perhaps in after 2 has been | especially invited to perform the ceremony, and with his | Colonel | The variety of costumes, He | looked very handsome, but stern as a judge who unwill- ; She could | He | how cold it was, how it | greater part delighting in so piquant ascandal. A few more minutes, and she would have looked her last upon him! How could she bear it? She would make one appeal to him—one wild, passionate appeal—and then let come what would. While the pretty bride-maids were writing their names with many blushes, much trembling, and many jests, she turned to him. «Let me speak to you,” she said, faintly, only for one minute.” He led her apart, and again,.the pretty bride-maids smiled, thinking it was to pay her some Jover-like com- pliment. He looked at her for the first time that day, and a gleam of something like pity crossed him as he noted the woe and anguish on that young face. She clasped her hands—he saw the wedding-ring shine—and she raised her hands as though she were praying. _ “Because [ am so young,” she said, ‘‘will you, for Heaven's sake, Spare me ?” The piteous prayer touched him. ‘Will I spare you what ?” he asked, not unkindly. “The shame and disgrace that must be mineif you leave me, a8 you have said you will, at the church door. Oh, Lord Carew, spare me, because Iam a woman, and sensitive to shame; spare me, because Iam your wife. I entreat you by that tie which should be so sacred, spare me r The pitiful prayer died on the white lips; he saw that she could really say no more. “T will be your slave,” she whispered, after a painful ene “I will live and die for you, if you will spare me this.” He made no answer. She raised her eyes to his, and the intensity of sorrow in them touched him again. “Think,” she said, ‘‘what a wedding morning is to others, and what it is to me!—think of the love and ten- derness that wait for those happy, smiling girls, and remember what lies in store forme! Have pity upon me, because I am a woman—because I am young, and dis- grace will kill me. It will kill me,” she repeated, with dry, burning lips—‘‘before you had driven quite away I should fall dead. For Heaven’s sake, spare me this !” “That’s as you wish,” he said. He was but human, this stern, proud man, and her anguish touched him. “Do not leave me,” she replied. ‘‘I will never intrude on you. I will never presume even ever so little on your kindness ; only tolerate my presence near you to save me from disgrace.” : ‘You wish me to go to Brooklands to-day? I consent. We can arrange our future plans when we reach there. What is the matter ?—are you ill ?” For this sudden relief was harder to bear even than the anticipation of the dire disgrace. “T thank you,” she said, faintly ; ‘syou have saved me from much. By to-morrow morning my name and story would have been read in every English home—the papers would have made a rare harvest of me—men and women would have scoffed at me. That you have saved me from this, I thank you.” «T had not thought of it,” he said, frankly; ‘‘I only re- membered myself, and what Ifelt. You are right—we will keep up appearances, at least for a day or two, be- fore people ; we Can arrange for our future.” While the gorgeous procession walked down the aisle, the music pealing, the gay bells ringing, she was thank- ing Heaven. Once she looked at him, and a soft, sweet smile came to her lips. “T shall win you yet, my love‘” she repeated. -0~ [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] By DONALD J. McKENZIE, Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,” “MIRIAM BLAIR,” etc. “THE MuRRAY Hit. Mysrery” was commenced in No. 12. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.) CHAPTER XVII. A DISASTROUS BLUNDER. ade “Then I will be more ‘plain. You are trying to have innocent persons implicated in the crime of which you know the one really guilty \” Helena’s beautiful face grew deathly pale; she tot- tered, as though about to fall in aswoon. But she was supported by the strong arm of the detective, who, in a calm, reassuring tore, said: ‘Have no fears, my poor girl. It is not too late, I hape, for you to set everything right.” She covered her face with her hands. 7 He could see ti she was overcome by intensity of emotion. Mingied with the feelings of pity which her beauty and signs of unmistakable suffering inspired, the detective felt a hope that the confession which he sought was forthcoming. He bent nearer, and, in the same tone of kind per- suasion, continued : _ “Unburden your secret to me, and rejoice in a clear conscience once more. For I shall know the whole truth eventually, and ififind it out in other ways it may be too late for you to escape the consequences which are impending. Tell me, Helena Evans, all you know concerning this crime.” She liftea her face; there were tears in her lustrous eyes, but her lips were resolutely compressed. *‘] cannot,” she answered. “You cannot confess ?” - “YT must not betray my knowledge, if I possess any.” “Then you admit that you know at whose instigation your cousins, have been abducted ?” “No; Ido not admit it.” “Do you absolutely refuse to give me a clew ?” “IT must refuse, “Do you think I shall fail in my quest ?” “I—T hope not.” «You reallyswish your cousins to be restored ?” “Yes, of course.” «Yet you will notaid in their restoration ?” “T said I could not.” “You deny all knowledge of the crime ?” ST dG," “Even while you know that I am aware that you are speaking falsely > “You do not knoy it.” “You thinkT a erely making wild conjectures ?” “Tf you kney e real culprit, you would arrest him.” «You are mistaken. I was face to face with the active accomplice to-day, and did not arrest him.” A startled expression crossed the girl’s face, and she eagerly asked : Add did he cotitess?” ‘Tt T should tell you, you would know.” Helena laughed“ a nervous, unnatural way, and ex- claimed : ; ‘ “And I _know-egespite of you. If he had confessed, you would not be thus questioning me. ButI hope you will succeed. I think you will, in the end. But even if I.could, I should not tell you anything more. Please let me go,” She treed her : and started toward the house. At the steps she paused, glanced back, and seemed to hesitate. ; But only for her resolution — mstant. Then, as though afraid, that ht _torsake her, she ran up the steps and disapp within. The de mot tarry a moment after she had disappearél swift strides he made his way to an elevated ra station vas busy with various preparations at hin the city. Then he | for a few hours’ sleep, and was out upon the sire rain at an early hour. He went & Place where he had appointed to meet Tommy : * the time set for the meeting, yet re to be seen. Hyjah waited impatiently for a quarter of an hour. Then his novice 7 attracted by aragged urchin who seemed to be’ ng him from an adjacent corner. The detective mtered around the block, made a short cut thre h alley, and there came face to face with the strang@ urchin, who was plainly looking for him. I The boy 9run, but the hand of the detective held him baek, eee so fast, ongster.” “Lemme gol” > “Not jus ae “Tl call Murder !” Hyjah litted urchin by the collarof his jacket and re him a vigorous shake, with his short legs dangling n mid-air, “Why, it would be sport to me to shake you into fringe,” threatened the detective. _ The boy ceased struggling, thoroughly frightened. The Hindoo set him upon his feet again and said : “Now own up, or Pili take you to the station-hguse.” “Own up what?” , “Why wereyou watching me?” “Feller told me to.” «What sort of a fellow ?” “Big whiskers, face like a pavement.” ‘‘Pock-marked ?” “Yes.” : “When did you see him ?” ‘Half an hour ago.” “Where ?” «You wanted to stay here till morning, did you?” ‘‘] wished to wait until Mr. Faulkner came for us.” “Why can’t you go right on to the city now ?” “That is what I wish to do.” “GO ahead, then. Itisn’t far, and you can walk there easy.” Gipsy turned to Grace, and said : “We will leave this place and seek a place of safety.” They started toward the door, but Yankee George in- terposed his burly furm, saying : «Not so fast.” “You said we might go.” “T said you could; but the other one must stay.” “I shall not leave her behind.” ‘“‘Won’t you ?” “No.” «Sure of it ?” “T ampretty sure.” “We'll See aboutit. You are pretty pat with your tongue, but I think we can manage you. Ursula!” The woman stepped forward, her face glowing with malignant exultation. “Take the Emory girl and shove her into other room !” ordered Yankee George. She advanced to obey, but recoiled with a low cry of terror. Ursula found herself confronted by the shining barrel of a revolver, held in the smail, firm hand of Gipsy Clayton. At the same time the latter sharply cried : “If you so much as lay a finger upon her I will shoot you in your tracks!” Yankee George uttered an angry imprecation, and strode toward the desperate girl. But before he could reach her she had transferred her aim to him. At, the same time she retreated to the wall, and with her back thus protected from a rear attack, she seemed able to defend herself for a while, at least. The brutal face of the man expressed his admiration for her courage. «You're plucky, and no mistake !” he exclaimed, paus- ing, and gazing at the bright, pretty face of Gipsy. “Why don’t you do what you Set out to?” Ursula cried, apparently pleased that Yankee George had as much respect as she had for a loaded revolver. a told you to take care of t’other one,” the man re- plied: ;,.> ‘And risk being shot by that vixen ?” “Tl see to her.” : ‘ Well, see toher, then. When you’ve taken the pis- tol away from her, then I will do as you say.” George advanced another pace, Click! from Gipsy’s weapon. ‘Back !” she warned, ‘Going to drive me about in my own house ?” “Is this your house ?” Yes,” “Then my companion and I must escape from it with- out delay. Stand aside and let us pass.” He hesitated a moment, and then seemed ready to comply. He stepped to one side, saying : “Go, then, both of you!” Gipsy advanced toward the door, saying to Grace: “Come, we Will escape while we can. Go ahead and open the door, and I will see that they do not molest you.” Grace, in that docile manner which she had displayed all along, went to the outer door and timidly opened it. Scarvely had she done so when Ursula sprang toward her; and simultaneously Yankee George leaped for- ae and seized Gipsy’s shoulder with one powerful and. She whirled instantiy, exerting all her strength to break away fromhim. A second later the sharp report of her revolver rang out, a harsh cry of pain broke from the lips of her assailent ; and the latter staggered back and fell to the floor. Z The intrepid girl did not stop to see whether she had killed her foe or not. Instead, she bounded to the re- lief of her tair friend, who was struggling in the clutches of the woman. The latter, upon hearing the pistol-report and the fall of Yankee George, instantly released the girl. This gave Gipsy the opportunity which she sought, and in. another moment she had darted forth from the house, with Grace Emory at her side. The girls did not pause to look back nor take breath until they had left the cottage, with its dully gleaming lights, a good distance in their rear. At last, panting and exhausted by their exercise and terror, they came to a halt. It had ceased raining. But a fittul wind was blowing, making a moaning sound through the tree-tops, and black, jagged clouds sailed with angry haste across the dark sky. In the excitement of her escape and conflict with the ruffian, Gipsy had forgotten the injury which her arm had sustained. But now she was reminded ot it bya return of the excruciating pain which had tortured her almost constantly since the mishap. : Fer several minutes she was obliged to lean against a tree for support, the sense of faintness which she had before experienced returning. j . Grace Emory drew close to her new friend, breathless with her exercise. Gipsy soon recovered from her faintness, and going “Yonder, at the corner.” “Where did he go 2” “Couldn 7. S Larkin ¢his morning ?” ‘Ido. Boy about your size.” bY) ig?” out to the middle of the road, looked back to see if they were pursued comes. - os ” ¥ bere you ¥ = pe ic the nex! pee 2 ain’t. If yer find yin’ y pay cut My head off next time yer see me, mister.” It’s Mean ter lie !” Notwithstanding the youngster’s strong protestations, the Hindoo detective was Satisfied that at least one-half his statements were fabrications. Before he could question him further, howeyer, the boy pointed across the street, exclaiming: “Took there, mister!” : Hyjah looked. The street was narrow and dingy. Op- posite the spot where they. were standing was a low brick building, and at an upper window of this building. stood fommny Larkin! ; The window was closed, but the boy’s face and figure were ‘plainly visible. This was not all. He evidently |} Hyjah, the Hindoo, upon hearing those startling | sounds in his rear. turned quickly, and beheld a thrill- | ing sight. | Upon the porch of the mansion stood Helena Evans, in | an attitude of horror, while afew paces distant were | the forms of two men, desperately struggling. At the first glance the detective supposed them to be Hayne and Jordan. But at the same moment he saw | Philip Hayne advancing toward the combatants, with the evident purpose of separating them. The Hindoo was at the side of the adversaries in an instant. He was not a moment too soon, for Louis Jor- dan had his assailant by the throat, and was forcing him backward against the building. Once more Hyjah’s strong right hand clutched the arm of the young man, and, with a deftness which tes- tified to his strength and presence of mind, he separated the combatants. The one whom Jordan had by the throat was Amos Evans, and the latter, panting and trembling with ex- haustion, struggled tofree himself and renew the con- flict. “The young hound! gasped. Helena Evans had descended the steps and stood at the old man’s side, her beautiful face deathly pale. “Be calm, uncie!” she was saying, over and over again. ; ‘What is the meaning of this?” the detective ques- tioned, addressing Helena. ‘“My uncle dislikes Mr. Jordan, and he isin an unrea- sonable mood to-night,” she replied. “J forbade the dog to show his face here again !” inter- rupted the eccentric millionaire. “He had no right to come; it is against my wishes also!” Helena declared, sending a swift glance of re- sentment toward the offender. The face of the latter flushed, and to the surprise of Hyjah, Jordan returned, in a voice which trembled with an emotion which was not anger: Pi “If you knew why I came you would not be so angry with me, Helena!” And he added, speaking to the detective : «Release me, and I will give them no more trouble !” The Hindoo complied. and the young man moved Slowly away. At the same time Philip Hayne came up, and easily in- duced the eccentric old man to re-enter the house. This left Hyjah alone with Helena. The latter would have entered also, but he detained | her, saying: | “Is Louis Jordan your enemy ?” ‘‘T have reason to believe so,” she replied. i «Ror what reason ?” “TI rejected his love.” “Is he of a revengetul disposition ?” “Very.” “Do you think he sent you the message which you re- ceived this morning ?” “It was signed by his initials.” “Then you think he is concerned in the abduction of | your cousins ?” The girl’s eyes fell, and she trembled violently. “Answer me!’ the detective persisted, in his deep, musical tones. ‘TI—] do not wish to accuse him!” she faltered. “Why not ?” ‘He may be innocent.” ‘Have you good reasons for believieg him innocent ?” “No. Iam almost crazed, sir.” “T should think you would be. You are in a most per- | plexing situation, and itis a wonder that you do not lose | your senses entirely.” The girl flashed a quick, searching ‘look into the face | of the detective. | But she saw expressed there only a sincere compas- ; Sion—a strange expression for that usually impassive | | face to Wear. “What do you mean, sir 2” she asked, in alow voice. | “That you have undertaken more than you Can Carry | through.” ‘You speak in riddles,” Let me get at him!” the old man «be! perceived the detective, and was making rapid signals tor him to enter the building. For once the cool-nerved Hindoo so far forgot his usual caution as to act upon the natural impulse of the | moment. Releasing the urchin, he strode across the street, opened the door of the building, and entered. Only the fact that his faithful young assistant had | signaled induced him to thus act without consideration. This was to prove the most disastrous mistake of his | life! , CHAPTER XVIII. GRACE EMORY’S DEFENDER. Grace Emory’s apathy of deportment vanished #e in- stant her gaze fell upon the countenance of th® man who entered. That she recégnized him instantly as her heartless abductor was eviient, for she shrank close to the wall, her beautiful face the picture of horror. Murphy, or Yankee George, as we may more properly call him, bent his great, shaggy head toward the girl’s with a gaze of sugprise. ‘Ho, ho!” he exclaimed, turning his eyes back to the face of the womah who had admitted him, and, in his gruff tones. he continued : **What is the meaning of this, Ursula ?” “They came here, and wanted shelter—that’s ali I know about ’em,” the woman replied. “Came together, did they 2?” “Yes, and a young man with them.” “A young man, eh ?” glancing questioningly about the room, and adding: ‘“‘Where is he now ?” “Gone to the City.” The man advanced a pace nearer the terrified girls. “By the powers!” he exclaimed, again tacing the wo- man whom he had called Ursula; ‘‘that farther one, with the scared look, ig Grace Emory, the one I disposed of last night. So she has escaped, has she? Like euough, the young man found her. But the other girl—where did she rain frem ?” “Better ask her. She is a regular vixen, and ought to be tamed,” said the woman, maliciously. “So they’ve tumbled right into my hands, neat as can Lucky, I deciare !” “» The man adyaneed still another pace, bringing his Shaggy head quite close to the slender, defiant girl who stood between the ruffian and Grace. “Who are you, girl 2” he demanded, with the evident intention of subduing Gipsy by his fierceness of aspect. “My name is Gipsy Clayton, it that is what you wish to know,” she retorted, in a low, defiant tone. “How came yewand the other girl together ?” “We met upomthe road.” “Who was the young man with you ?” “He was a newspaper reporter.” “Ah! I gtiess | Know him—a young tiger, named Frank Faulkner. So he has been here!” The man frowned fiercely, and after a moment’s hesi- tation, continued: “Why do you Stand there and stare at me in that way ?” ‘So that you won’t have to do all the staring,” retorted. “You're a spicy one, aren’t you ?” “) am not terrified because you frown at me.” «Maybe I shall do more than frown, pretty soon.” The man turned to Ursula, and said : «‘We. must take care of these girls without delay.” “What will you do with them ?” “Take them to the place that the Emory girl escaped from, 1 think.” “And leave me here to face the young man when he comes to call for them ?” , ‘“Why_not ?” “That is too thin. George. I don’t propose to be roped in on any of your games.” “The young chap won’t hold you responsible, if you tell him the right sort of yarn.” . «What shall I tell him ?” “That two or three stout ruffians came and took the girls by force, threatening to shoot you if you made a fuss.” “He won’t swallow the story.” “He can’t do any better. He doesn’t know anything about you. fit wa’n’t for this Emory girl I would let the other one go. {| guess I will, anyhow.” Again facing Gipsy, Yankee George said: Gipsy er infin jef, there were no signs of pursuit. nour g late, and there was little chance of unte either vehicles or pedes' S upon the lone road, ‘ _ “Where Gipsy asked, for the first time on king oO her companion. , j a . st pee BY AERO pS emer PS ek Le «Do you Femiemiber where you ive” ie more than you deserve, for you have followed me 4S mercilessly as a blood-hound. But my own safety is to be considered, and I couldn’t shoot you now without some risks. SoI prefer to be cautious. But if you offer to move hand or foot until I tell you to, I’ll take all the risks of the penalty and shoot you through the heart.” 5 =P conld do no less than obey—tor the time, at east. ‘ He stood with-his back against the door. motioniess as a Statue. ‘How long must I stand here ?” he asked, after a mo- ment of silence. “AS long as you like.” «Then I am ready to go at once.” “That is odd. I supposed you were pleased with your position. Ihave seen you leaning in that way against pillars, and lamp-posts, and the corners of buildings, at all times Of day and night, ever Since the first time I ever set eyes On you.” “Jt is a favorite posture of mine, I admit.” “Then make the most of your present chance to stand so.” Why ?. bass “Because you will never have the chance again.” “Going to make an end of me,, are you ?” “I haven’t quite made up my mind.” “While you are thinking of the matter, do you mind re it Tommy Darkin is in the room yonder 2” '. “He isn’t.” “What have you done with him ?” ‘He is safe.” “Is this not a pretty cool proceeding ? Why, it is broad day, and I have a score of friends ready to avenge me if 1 fall into the toils.” Yankee George made no response. The detective understood the ruffian’s object in thus allowing the idle talk to go on. He was waiting for something to happen—or, possibly, for an accomplice to arrive. Hyjah was soon to find out the exact purpose of his enemy. A taint, sweetish odor became perceptible to the de- tective’s nostrils. It was the odor of a powerful anses- thetic, and with a perception of its scent came an alarm- ing sense of its deadly power, stealing over him with swift, potent strength. The Hindoo, upon realizing his terrible peril, did not hesitate to incur a less Certain hazard. With all his strength, which, under the influence of the poisonous fumes, was rapidly forsaking him, he pushed against the door. . Again it creaked and swayed. crash ! It had given way, and he was thrown headlong by the momentum of his own effort. Simultaneously there was a slight, muffled report, as of an air-gun, and he was conscious of a painful twinge in his right ear. This was not all. Weakened by the deadly fumes which he had inhaled, he was not prepared for the as- Sault which followed. A powerful man seized him as he plunged through the door, and ere he could throw him off, another clasped him from behind, and he received a terrible, crushing blow upon the head. From that instant the great detective was as helpless as a babe. Strength, thought, action were all taken from him with the shock of insensibility, and day be- came to him a starless, dreamless night. How long the state of unconsciousness continued Hy- jah could only conjecture, as the power of thought re- Another effort, and— “But if I did kill you without warning, it would be no turned to his brain. He found himself lying upon a floor, bound hand and foot, and gagged. He was blindfolded also—indeed, every precaution had been taken by his captors to ren- der him totally helpless. All this he comprehended with the dawning of con- sciousness; and, a moment after, he realized another fact. He was upon a boat of Some sort, and the cratt was in motion. The detective’s insensibility had been prolonged, doubtless, by the severe blow he had received. But bis senses returned with perfect clearness, and as soon as he could collect his thoughts, he began the effort to tree his hands. Doubtless his captors had taken great pains in secur- ing him with cords which no giant could break. And they had tied them into knots which they thought no one could untie. Yet the Hindoo occupied less than a minute of time in freeing his wrists, casting off the tangle of knots which had secured them. The remainder of his task was yet more simple, for he now had two deft hands to work with. : ‘ Hyjah was a clever magician, and possessed great Skill in all those tricks of sleight-of-hand for which many of his race are famous. Hence neither knotted cords nor iron bracelets of ordinary construction could confine his hands. Comparatively few were aware of his powers in this line, for he never used them except aS a last resort ; for had it been known that he could escape ordinary$means of confinement, greater precautions would have been taken by his enemies. a He removed all his bonds with silent swiftness, and then untied the bandages covering his eyes and mouth. This done, he was able to see his surroundings. He was in what appeared tobe the cuddy ot a small Sail-boat. sige was abunk at one side, alsoa@chair and lighi- Ss 5 There were three or four narrow steps, or rather rungs, leading up to a small hatchway—the latter, probably, opening upon the deck of the craft. The detective rose to his feet, stretched his limbs; at the same time bec scious of an intense sore- Bese ae or one whith had tien hit by the shot. _ = ; oe a e . A glance into a mirror hanging near showed him a disagreeable fact. One-half adding a dis- the ear had been shot a figurement to the detective’s features which were nene too regular before. The discovery caused the Hindoo to compress his lips, while a sudden, vengeful flash ilumed for an instant his piercing eyes. “One more score to pay against that wretch! But l can be patient!” the detective muttered. At that moment he heard the sound of footsteps ap- proaching the hatchway. Instantly he strode forward and crouched beneath the entrance to the cuddy. He heard the hinges of the hatch creak, and saw a fiood of light, which partially lighted the cuddy. Then he heard a voice saying : “{ will go down and see if he has recovered his senses.” It was a familiar voice, yet Hyjah did not upon the in- stant recognize it. Another speaker, who was no other than Yankee George, replied : “Don't go down yet.” “Why not ?” «Because I tell ye not to.” ‘-What are you afraid of ?” «Want me to tell ye 2” seg.” . “Tm afraid you'll weaken. You're not used to this business. Besides, I'm captain of this craft, and ’m go- ing to run it till we reach port.” “The boat is mine.” “$'posin’ it is ?” “T have a right to do as J] please on board of her.” There was the sound of quick, heavy footsteps, and Yankee George hoarsely cried : cma away from that haich or Wl throw ye over- ard !” . The Hindoo, looking upward, could see a man’s boot and the lower half of a leg thrust downward. The foot was planted upon one of the rungs. At the same time the owner of the foot and leg was apparently seized from above, for they were slowly rawn upward. . Hyjah’s long right arm shot out at this moment, and his hand clutched the foot of the person who was strug- gling to descend, and while Yankee George pulled the Inan upward with fierce determination, the Hindoo de- ren drew downward with steady, resistless orce. [TO BE CONTINUED.} —__—___+ e~ THE AGE OF FISH. Fish never die of old age. Professor Baird says that there is authentic evidence to show that carp have at- tained an age of two hundred years. He also declares that there is a tradition that within fifty years a pike was living in Russia whose age dated back to the fit- teenth century. ‘There is nothing,” he says, ‘‘to pre- vent a fish from living almost indefinitely, as it has no period of maturity, but grows witb each year of life.” A Russian professor asserts that in the Imperial aquari- ums in St. Petersburg there are fish to-day that have been known by the records to have been in them one hundred and forty years. Some of them are over five times as large as they were when first captured, while others have not grown an inch in length. An attache ot the Chinese Légation in London corroborates this Statement. He Says there are sacred fish kept in some of the palaces in China that are even older than any of those in Russia, — > @~ TIDINESS IN WOMEN, An old bachelor says that breakfast is the time of day to prove the health of women. As a general rule, if she looks well then, she is in good healtk ; if she dresses neatly, she is tidy ; if she is full Of projects for the morn- | ing’s work and executes a reasonable quantity, she pos- Ssesses mental activity and bodily energy. Beware of the young woman who complains of being cold in the morning, who looks sickly, who eats little, Who comes down late, who appears to have dressed hastily, who languishes a whole forenoon over a couple of letters to an absent sister or schoolfellow. No matter how bright and animated she may appear later On, avoid her. She will not make a#good wiite. = >o—— Horsford’s Acid Phosphate, Valuable Medicine. Dr. W. H. PARMELER, Toledo, O., says: ‘“‘I have prescribed the ‘acid’ in a large variety of diseases,and have been amply satistied that itis a valuable addition to our list of medical agents.” Aut can fe ek ae ie tee ie. al ee i rk Oe oak a3 ee 1S or 10 e- 3 n- ot of Le PARD Om,’ me PORn mere / uh iP — — LAE nonin ' disturb him, for he knew that Arthur woul “Thust seek work where I cath "6 Harold (oug f - MAKING PIES. BY MAUD MILLER. Pretty Mollie in the kitchen— Sweet blue eyes! . Standing in her snowy apron, Making pies ; Rolling out the flaky pie-crust Smooth and white— Surely, ’tis to hungry mortal Pieasant sight. : Apple, pumpkin, mince, and custard In arow; ‘ And the cheeks of pretty Mollie How they glow, As she takes pies from the oven Smoking hot! : Ab! to share a pie with Mollie— Happy lot! Fat young turk y ‘neath the window Hating corn; attest turkey In the door-way stands yopng Harry, Looking in ; He thinks to kiss your rosy cheek Would be no sin! - Fat young turkey on the table, Nice and brown— Aunts and coasins, grandma, gran. a, Ceme from town. Pretty Mollie at the sideboard Cutting pies, Which for luscious taste and richness _ Take the prize. Memory takes us also backward, Years ago ; When dear mother stood in apron Whiteassnow, - _ Peeling apples, lining pie-plates Large in size— Nothing ever tasted quite Like mothe7’s pies. PRACY PARK. By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, Author of “Bessie’s Fortune.” ‘““Homestead on the Hillside,” “Darkness and Daylight,” “Edith Lyle’s Secret,” “Queenie Hetherton,”’ etc. —__ (“Tracy Park” was commenced in No.1. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.) , CHAPTER XXIX. WHY HAROLD DID NOT GO TO VASSAR. The cottage in the lane, as its name implied, was not very pretentious, and ali its rooms were small and low, and mostly upon the ground floor, except the one which Jerrie had occupied since she had grown too large for tne crib by Mrs. Crawford's bed. In this room, in which there was but one window, and where the roof slanted down on both sides, Jerrie kept all her possessions—her playthings and her books, and the trunk and earpet- bag which had been found when she was found. Here she had cut off her hair- and slept on the floor, to see how it would seem, and here she had enacted many a play, in which the scenes and characters were all of the past. For the cold in winter she did not care at all, and when in summer the nights were close and hot, she Grew her little bed to the open window and fell asleep while thinking how warm she was. That she ought to bave a better room had never occurred to her, and never had she found a word of fault or repined at her bumble surroundings, so different from those of her girl friends. Only, as she grew taller, she had some- times laughingly said that if she kept on she should not much longer be able to stand upright in her den, as she called it. “J hit my head now everywhere except in the middle,” she once said. ‘I wonder if we can’t some time manage to raise the roof.” The words were spoken thoughtlessly, and almost im- mediately forgotten by Jerrie; but Harold treasured them up, and at once to devise ways and means to raise the roof and give Jerrie a room more worthy of her. This was just after he had left college, and there was hanging over him his debt to Arthur and the oo port of his grandmother. The first did not ee y wait any length of time, while the latter seemed but a trifle taa strong, robust young man. Mrs. Crawford was natu- rally very economical, and could make one dollar go farther than most le could two; so that very little sufficed for their dé wants when Jerrie was meet a , ‘an Ir tt ts trom Peterkin.” So, swallowing his pride, he went to Peterkin’s office and asked for work. Once before, when a boy of eighteen, and sorely pressed, he had done the same thing, and met with a rebuff from the foreman, who said to him, gruffly : j “No, sir; we don’t want no more boys; leastwise, gentlemen boys. We've had enough of ’em.- Try tother furnace. Mr. Warner is allus takin’ all kinds of trash, out of pity, and if he says ‘No,’ go to his wife; she’ll get you in.” But the Warner factory. where Harold had once worked, was full of boys, whom the kind-hearted em- ployer, or his wife, or both, had taken in, and there was | no place for Harold. So he waited awhile until Jerrie needed a new dress and his grandmother a bonnet, and then he tried Peterkin again, and this time with success. “Yes, take him,” Peterkin said to his foreman; ‘take him, and put him to the emery wheel; that’s the place for such upstarts; that ‘ll take the starch out of him double quick. He's a bad egg, he is, and proud as Lu- cifer. I don’t suppose be’d touch my Bill or my Ann Lizy with a ten-foot pole. Put him to the wheel. Badegg! bad egg !” For some most unaccountable reason, old Peterkin had a bitter prejudice against the boy, on whose ac- count he had once been turned from the Tracy house; ~ and-though he had forgiven the Tracys, and would now have voted for Frank for Congressman if he had the chance, he still cherished his animosity against Harold, designating him as an upstart and a bad egg. who was to be put to the wheel. So Harold was ‘put to the wheel” until he got a bit of steel in his eye, and his hands were cut and blistered. But he did not mind the latter so much, because Jerrie cried over them at night and kissed them in the morning, and bathed them in cosmoline, and called Peterkin a mean old thing, and offered to go herself to the wheel. But ft Harold only laughed. He could Stand it, he said, and a dollar a day was not to be sneezed at. He could wear gloves and save his hands. But the appearance of gloves was the signal for a general hooting and jeering from the boys of his own age, who were employed there, and who had from the first looked askance at Harold because they knew how greatly he was their superior, and fancied an affront in everything he did and every word he said, it was spoken sO differently trom their own dialect. “I can’t stand it,” Harold said to Jerrie, after a week’s trial with the gloves. “I’d rather sweep the streets than be jeercd at asIam. Idon’t mind the work. I am get- ting used toit, but the boys are awful. Why, they call me ‘sissy,’ and ‘Miss Hastings,’ and all that.” So. larold left the employ of Peterkin, greatly to the n of that functionary, who had found him the most faithful boy he had ever had. But this was years ago, and matters had changed somewhat since then. - Harold was a man now—a graduate from Harvard, with anair and dignity about him which commanded respect even from Peterkin, who was sitting upon his high stool when Harold came in with his application. Billy, wars Yarold’s fast friend, was now in the business vith ie father, and ashe chanced to be present, the thing-was soon arranged, and Harold received into the office at a salary of twelve dollars per week, which was soon increased to fifteen and twenty, and at last, as the autumn advanced and Harold began to talk of taking the same school in town which be had once before taught, he was offered $1,500 a year, if he would remain, as foreman of the office, where his services were invalu- able. But Harold had chosen the law for his protes- sion, and as teaching school was more congenial to him than or Tae in the office, and would give him more time for ing law, he declined the salary and took the school, which he kept for two successive winters, going between times into the office whenever his ser- vices were needed, which was very often, as they knew his worth, and Billy was always glad to have him there. In this way he managed to lay aside quite a little sum of money, besides paying his interest to Arthur, and when Maude came home from Europe in March he felt himself warranted in beginning to raise the roof, He Was naturally a mechanic, and would have made a iplendid carpenter; he was also something of an archi- , and sketched upon paper the changes he proposed Making. The roof was to be raised over Jerrie’s room; here was to be a pretty bay-window at the south, com manding a view of the Collingwood grofnds and the river. There was to be another window on a side, but whether to the east or the west he could not quite de- cide. There was to be a dressing-room and large closet, - While the main room was to be carried up in the center, after the fashion of a church, and to be ceiled with nar- row strips of wood painted alternately with a pale blue and gray. He showed the sketch to his grandmother, who approved it, just as she approved everything he did, but suggested that he submit it to Maude Tracy, who, she heard, had become an artist and had a studio ; so he took the plan to Maude, aS it to her, and saying it was to be a surprise to Jerrie, when she came home for good in the summer. Maude was interested and enthusiastic at once, and entered heart and soul <4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #> ‘) v | into the matter, making some suggestions which Harold ' adopted, and deciding for him where the extra window was to be placed. 2 «Put it to the east,” she said, ‘‘for Jerrie is always looking toward the rising sun, because, she says, her old*home is that way. And, besides, she can see the Tramp House she is so fond of. For my part, I think it a poky place, and never like to pass it after dark, lest I should see the dark woman standing in the door, with the candle in her hand, crying for help. Where was Jerry then, I wonder! In the carpet-bag, asleep, per- haps. Wouldn’t that make a very effective picture ? The storm, the open door, the frantic woman in it, with the candle held high over her head, and Jerrie clutching her dress behind, with her great blue eyes staring out in the darkness. That is the way I have always seen it since you told me about it, and the light yousaw. I mean to paint the picture, and hangitin the new room as another surprise to Jerrie.” “Ob, don’t!” Harold said, with a shudder. o< (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] A FAIR MYSTERY, By BERTHA M. CLAY. (“A Farr Mysrery” was commenced in No. 38. Back num- bers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER LXXXVI. HAUNTED BY A DEAD FACE. Two years after the birth of his son, the earl and countess went to London for the season. It so happened that the desire for a picture he had seen led him to the studio of Gregory ie. The artist was engaged for the moment, and asked Lord Linleigh to wait. While so waiting, he occupied himself in looking round at the pictures on the wall. He stopped before one as though spell-bound. If ever he had seen the face of his daugh- ter at all, it was shining there on the canvas, beautiful as the radiant dawn of the morning, with the sunlight on her hair, and in her eyes a light that seemed to be from heaven. She was standing in the midst of flowers, painted taces smiled—he saw the same sight—a white face looking up, still and coid in death. It by chance he were left alone, or inthe dark, his cries were awful. His servants talked about him, but they never thought crime or remorse was busy with him; they fancied he had drank himself into a fit of de- lirium. They could have told, and did tell after his | death, of awful nights when he raved like a madman— | when he was pursued by a dead woman, always holding a knife in her hand: they told of frantic fits of anguish when he lay groaning on the floor, biting his lips until they bled, so that one’s heart ached to hear him. Let no man say that he can sin with impunity ; let no man say sin remains unpunished. The time came when he said to himself, deliberately, and with full purpose, that he would not live. What was this tortured, blighted life to him? Less than nothing. Once, and once only, he asked himself if it were pos- sible to repent—repent of his sins, his unbridled pas- sions, his selfish loves? Repent? He laughed aloud in scornful glee. It would, indeed, be a fine thing, a grand idea for him, a man of the world ; he who had been com- plimented on being the Don Juan of the day. He—to repent? Nonsense! As he had lived he would die. What mad folly had possessed him? He gnashed his teeth with rage when he thought of what he had done. Then something brought to his mind the remembrance of that picture, and his heart filled with hope. Perhaps if he could buy it—could have thetpictured face in its liv- ing, radiant beauty, always before him, it might lay the spec.er that haunted him; it might turn the current. He had forgotten almost what the lovely, living face was like ; he only remembered it cold and dead. He purchased the picture, but it only worked him deeper woe—deeper, darker woe. He fancied the eyes tollowed him and mocked him; he had a terrible dread that sometime or other the lips would open and de- neunce him. Then, when he could bear it no longer, he determined to kill himself. He would have no more of it.. nd his own face grew pale as he looked at the radiant | of hersix. —— “Doris,” he said to himselt; here ?” : He saw the white hands that he remembered last as folded in death; he saw the white, graceful breast that had been disfigured by that terrible wound. ‘My darling Doris,” he said ; ‘show came you here ?” He was Standing there, with tears in his eyes, when Mr. Leslie entered the room. “J should like to ask a few questions about that pic- ture, Mr. Leslie,” he said, courteously. “I can hardly say; I have had a very large bid for it. It was purchased some time since by one of our mer- chant princes, who has since failed, and I bought the picture at his sale; since then I have been offered a large sum for it.” “It is my daughter's portrait,” said the earl, calmly. «TI cannot see how it came into your possession.” “T painted it,” said Mr. Leslie. «You did! Where did you see my daughter ?” Then the artist told him the whole story of his going to Brackenside, and the earl told him the story of Lady Doris Studleigh’s childhood. «J never believed that she was Mark Brace’s daugh- ter,” said Gregory Leslie; ‘‘she was so daintily beauti- ful—her grace was so complete, so high-bred, I could not fancy that she belonged tothem. Was the mystery of her journey to Florence ever explained ?” “What mystery ?” asked the earl, quickly ; so quickly that Mr. Leslie thought that he had been wrong in nam- ing it at all. “There was some little confusion,” he said. ‘Her face is very beautiful; it attracted great attention, and one of my fellow artists assured me that he had seen her in Florence, and that she was married.” «Nothing of the kind!” said the earl. Then an uncomfortable conviction seized upon him. Could there be any truth in this? Could there be any truth in the idea—the suspicion that his wife entertained that all had not been well with Doris. Could there have been a mystery in that young life, so soon,-oh, so soon ended ? The earl sighed deeply. It would be better, perhaps, to letit alone. If there had been anything wrong, it was too late to right it now. Let the dead past bury its dead. She was a Studleigh, and there were many of that race whose lives would not bear looking into, He dismissed the subject from his mind, and said to himself he would think of it no more. «Who wants this picture ?” he asked, abruptly. sure that Lady Linleigh wouid like it.” “It is a strange coincidence that you should call this morning,” said Mr. Leslie; ‘the gentleman who wishes so strongly for it appointed to meet me at two—it wants but ten minutes of the time. Will you wait and see him ? Perhaps, under the circumstances, he might be willing tor you to have the original, which I might copy.” Lord Linleigh was perfectly willing. He was rather surprised, howeyer, When the door opened, to see—in the expected visitor—Lord Vivianne! Lord Vivianne— but so changed, so unlike himself, that it was with diffi- culty he recognized him. His hair was white as snow, his face furrowed with deep lines, haggard, care-worn and miserable. He looked like a man bowed down with care, wretched beyond words. When he saw Lord Linleigh he grew even more ghast- ly pale, and all sound died away on his lips. The earl eagerly extended his hand. “Lord Vivianne!” he cried, ‘“‘what a stranger you are! 1am heartily glad to meet you again.” He did not understand why that great, gasping sigh of relief came from the wretched lips. “J have thought of you,” continued the earl. ‘Of course you heard the story of my terrible trouble ?” More ghastly still grew the white face. “Yes, I heard of it; who did not?” «Poor child!” sighed the earl; “it was a terrible blow tous; the very night before her wedding-day, too.” Ah! the night before the wedding-day! He was not likely to forget that. He saw it all again—the beautiful, defiant face; the wedding costume;: the long, sharp knife; the bare, white breast. Ab! merciful God, was he never to forget! He groaned aloud. then saw the earl looking at him in wonder. “You did not know, Lord Linleigh,”,he said, ‘‘that I loved your daughter. If I had gone to Linleigh again in August, it would have been to ask her to be mywife.” The earl held out his hand in silent sympathy. “It was a terrible blow,” he said. Then he thought to himself that it was because he had loved his daughter that Lord Vivianne wished for the icture. 7 “I fancied, once or twice,” he said, ‘that you admired her. I did not know you loved her.” “T did. If any one had told me it was in my power to love any woman, or to mourn for any woman as I have done for her, 1 should have laughed at the notion. My life is blighted.” They sat then in silence for some time ; then the earl “Tam 9 id: ; “J am glad I have met you. Laay Linleigh andI have “Is it for sale ?” | All London was horrified to hear that Lord Vivianne URI ew “comes” she (hac been found se ; he had shot himself. Even the yu journals that, as a , avoided Getailg, told how he | died with his face turned to a picture—tie picture of a | beautiful girl with a fair tace, tender eyes and sweet, | proud lips—a picture called “Innocence.” | If any one dare to believe that he can sin with impu- | nity, let him stand for one minute while a sin-stained | Suicide is laid in his lonely grave. | CHAPTER LXXXVIL. SILENT LOVE REWARDED. | Five years had passed since the occurrence of the events recorded in the preceding chapter. Lord Viv- j}iamne’s place was filled, his name forgotten; flowers bloomed fair and fragrant on the grave of Lady Doris ; | the earl and countess,had drawn themselves more from | public life, and found their happiness in the midst of | their children. The duchess seemed to have renewed her youth in those same children, and was never so | happy as when she could calry one or two of them off | With her to Downsbury Castle. One autumn day Mattie Brace stood at the little gate | that led from the garden to the meadow. ‘The sun was | Shining, and the red-brown leaves were falling trom the | trees. She was thinking of Earle; Low prosperous, how | fortunate he had been during these last few years, when | he had workéd with ail his heart to drown his sorrow. | How he had worked! And now he reaped the reward | of all industry—success. The critics and the public | hailed him as the greatest poet of the day. In the | House of Commons he was considered a brilliant leader, a brilliant speaker. He had speculated, too, and all his speculations turned out well; he had sent his last poem to Mattie, and told her he should come to hear her opin- ion from her own lips. It was not a great surprise to her, on that bright au- |tumn day, to see him crossing the meadows. How many years had she waited for him there! She thought him altered. They had written to each other constant- ly, but they had not met since the tragedy. He was older, his tace had more strength and power, with less brightness. She thought him handsomer, though so much of the light of youth had died away from him. He held out his hand to her in loving greeting, then he bent down and kissed her face. “Such a kind, sweet face, Mattie,” he said; ‘‘and it is sweeter than ever now.” He spoke truly. Mattie Brace had never been a pret- ty girl, but she was not far from being a beautiful wo- man. The rich brown hair was smooth and shining as satin; the kindly face had an expression of noble re- solve that made it beautiful; the brown eyes were clear and luminous; the lips were sensitive and sweet. Earle | looked at her with critical eyes. ; ; ‘You please me very much, Mattie,” he said. “Do you | know what I have come all the way from London to ask you ?” “No,” she replied, in all simplicity, ‘that I do not.” “J want you to be my wife, dear. I know all that lies between us. If I cannot offer you the enthusiastic wor- | Ship of a first love, I can and do offer you the truest and deepest affection that aman can give. I always liked you, but of late I have begun to think that you are the only woman in the world to me.” ‘Can I make you happy, Earle ?” she asked, gently. ‘*Yes, I am sure of it.” «But I am not beautiful,” she said, sadly. An expression of pain caine over his face. “Beauty! Ob, Mattie, what is it? Besides, you are beautiful in my eyes. Be my wife, Mattie; I will make you very happy.” It was net likely that she would refuse, seeing that she had loved him tor years. They were married, much to the delight of Lord and Lady Linleigh. Now Earle has a beautiful house of his own; his name is honored in the land; his wife is the sweetest and kindest of women; his children are fair and wise. He has one golden-haired girl whom they call Doris; and if Earle loves one of the little band better than another, it isshe. He has a spacious and well-adorned room open- ing on a flowery lawn; it is called astudy. And here, sometimes, at sunset, his children gather round him, and they stand before a picture—a picture on which the sunbeams fall, shining on a radiant face, with bright, proud eyes, and sweet, smiling lips—a picture known. to them by the name of ‘‘Innocence.” (THE END.] [Another powerful omotional story, in BerrHa M. CLAY’s most captivating style, and teeming with dram- atic interest, is begun this week on the first page, under the title of ‘‘FoR ANOTHER’S SIN.”] > @ 2 Scott’s Emulsion of Pure Cod Liver Oil with Hypophosphites. in Acute Pulmonary Troubles. Dn. F. B. STRICKLAND, New York, says: ‘I find your Emulsion very bee, after all acute pulmonary attacks in adults, and in c. D, i . the changetul residence of a New Yorker. NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 27, 1886. Oe OOOO Terms to Mail Subscribers: € months (postage free) 75c | 2. copies (postage free) $5.00 4months- .... . $1.00}/4 copies .-.... 10.00 1 Year 3.00 | 8 copies. 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. A STORY OF EXCITING INTEREST By a New Contributor. eer A story certain to arouse deep interest, and elicit the warmest commendation of all good judges of fiction, will be begun next week, under the caption of FOUND DEAD; OR, THE Mystery of the Charles River. By HARRIET T. LISCOMB, Author of “His First Wife,” ‘“‘Hate’s Conquest,” , **Mated at Last.” The incidents in this sterling story are bold and life- like, novel and picturesque. Indeed, many of them are 80 effectively worked up, and with such DRAMATIC EFFECT. that the reader unconsciously pauses, spell-bound with admiration and excitement, as the mind pictures them. The action takes a wide range, and opens with A SENSATIONAL DEED, the outcome of cupidity and cowardice. The startling event so spiritedly outlined in the first chapter serves to display man’s inhumanity and A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN’S HEROISM. While this graphic story is filled with sensational scenes, it is so carefully and artistically constructed that it is both ROMANTIC AND NATURAL. “Founp DEAD; OR, THE MYSTERY OF THE CHARLES RIvER,” will be placed before our readers next week. ———__>-_ 9 ____—__ OUR CITY. BY HARKLEY HARKER. It does my heart good to hear ‘‘our city” drop from the mouth of a public-spirited man. He speaksit with a civic pride that is indescribable. His bosom swells; his chin is lifted; his two honest feet brace themselves firm- ly on the earth; he feels himself the citizen of no mean city. But you never hear it after the above proud manner from the lips of a New Yorker. A dweller in that vast city never speaks of his town with pride; perhaps be- cause he thinks she is big enough to speak for herself, The inhabitant 6f.a very large city'does not, however, and cannot, in the nature of things, feel the same at- tachment for it that warms the breast of dwellers in small towns. The New Yorker is himself a stranger even at home. The city is too big for one heart to infold it. Its streets are tull of strange faces, and one may walk miles therein without meeting a friend. One’s neighbors are almost always unknown to him. The mayor he has perhaps never seen. If its ‘chief citi- zens” were elected to chief offices, in their personality the average voter has no pride, tor he knows; them not. One cannot very passionately love a million people. And really the distances are vast—streets ten and twelve miles long. In one sense General Grant was a neighbor of mine, living on the same street; but removed from my door by many miles was his door. of little account in the citizenship when you are one of amillion. You get in the habit of indifference. There are too many other interests beside your own. I know scores of New Yorkers who do. not care, liter- ally, a snap of their fingers for their-native city. They are swallowed up by trade when down town, and shut into their own social set when up town. They are men without a city, with very little interest in their State. Only a great national question serves to rouse their pa- triotism. One fact usually lost sight of by onlookers is His home is in one street only for a brief period; the mutations of values, business centers, and ‘‘desirability” are con- Stantly compelling him to move. The injustice of goy- ernment, huge, unwieldy, and outgrowing the principle | of taxation with representation, tempts him to a seltish care for self; hell sell his house in a twinkling for reasons. But in a city of less than a hundred thousand you get it—real civic pride, public spirit that interests itself even in a new curb-stone or a fresh-laid cross-walk. Proud of the new post-office, proud of the new block of stores, proud of the water-works, the pretty little park, the cemetery! Everybody knows everybody. Men own their own houses and stores. The office of chief magistrate is a supreme honor, with no other pay. What mayor but has spent a round year’s income to be mayor-like in hos- pitality, in charity, in munificent citizenship ? A thieving alderman? Shades of the dead defend us! Such a man could never hold his head up again in that community. Why, the city fathers are the law-makers; the very best of men legislate the mighty questions of an added street-lamp and a new sewer-grating. Indeed, nothing is too small to escape their attention, if it really concerns the public welfare. Itis really delightful, though it be amusing, to read the local paper’s account of the new hose carriage that has just come to TorRENT NoI.; or the description of Squire Blank’s fresh addition to his residence. The grading of a sidewak, the breakage of a pave- ment, the birth of twins to the master machinist of the largest manufactory—pride of the city—all are faith- fully noted. We may smile as we will; but thereby hangs a meaning, rich in neighborly interest and love of the city, did we but know it. No man’s wrongs go slighted in the little city. No man's sorrows are treated with contempt. No man, who has lived a decent life, can sink into his grave un- wept; his departure from the street is noted ; his face is missed, threugh his long illness, on the corners where exchanges are made; his funeral is an honest scene of manifold regrets. As stones cast into a summer lake are deaths in the little city; as sinking ships in mid- ocean in the great town. How beautifully familiar are the cemeteries of small cit- ies, where every grave is known; where such as having deserved well of their fellows sleep at last, often visited by the living, and children slowly cipher out their hon- ored names. How desolate is vast Greenwood! Greeley is there, but though I own a lot there, I know not where this great publicist lies. The merchant of stupendous wealth, the political leader, the soldier, I have seen carried out there and lost to human note or knowledge. -Greenwood is the loneliest spot on earth for a grave, a its square feet ‘are covered with value of dollar Ss How thrifty and influential are the lodges of various fraternities in the small city! But in the great town they are relatively unknown. The favorite charity, an asylum or an old ladies’ home, is a circle of aristocracy in a small town; the foremost ladies are proud to be its patrons, and fuss over its small disbursements; its “tairs” are high days. In the great city all these things go begging. Unless a religious denomination take them in hand, they would perish. In the small city the churches are a power, the pas- tors autocratic for good, their social influence almost But there is no use disguising the fact that the measureless mass of indifferent populace, in a metropolis, hangs with strangling, smothering weight irresistible. Your one voice is | about the neck of the church. Congregations grow smaller as the city grows larger. A great city is nota great religious power ; it never was in the history of the world; I doubt ifit ever can be. Great cities are com- mercial, or financial, or political, or social centers. . Icannot forbear congratulating any reader who lives within the genial atmosphere of neighborly interest of asmall city. Happy he who can honestly say, ‘‘I love my city.” It must be a pleasure to feel one’s pride arise at mention of his city ; a pleasure to kindle with resent- ment if she be disparaged. Happy he who walks her streets and delights to see them grow; is pleased to note the erection of new buildings and the signs of thrift and happiness. No New Yorker ever has such feelings. To him the growth of his town is never worthy of a moment’s thought, unless he be a real estate specu- lator; to him a fine new’mansion brings only feelings ot envy or discontent, if he notices the new house at all. Happy ye who walk with your children past the Soldiers’ Monument and know half the names carved thereon. New York hasn’t such a thing, that I know of. Happy ye who know, in your hearts, that a great national need would fill the little square, like rich blood congesting at the heart, and neighbor would stir the very soul ot neighbor by whispering, ‘‘For the honor of our city, let us arm!” But the surging, undistinguishable mob that chokes the chief squares of a metropolis is a pack of strangers, utterly indifferent till the peril touch their pocket. Think twice, sir, yeu who have an honorable name and station in asmall city, where you keep the stand that your father kept before you—think twice before you lose yourself, a drop in the sea of a cold, hard metropolis. ST. VALENTINE. BY KATE THORN. St. Valentine’s Day has a peculiar charm for the young people. But the old folks have pretty nearly forgotten how they used to feel when the day came round. A woman who has grown toothless, and bald-headed, and scrawhy-necked, and has rheumatism in her finger joints, and bunions on her toes, has not much reason to expect that the mail on. the fourteenth of February will be likely to bring her any gilt-bordered envelopes, with florid Cupids on the seal, and a motto on the flap, inclosing seven dollars’ worth of painted hearts, stuck through with arrows, and some pathetic verses inform- ing her that— “The sun may fade, the stars grow pale— My love for thee will never fail !” The old man who goes with a Cane, and sleeps every night donewup in flannels, with a soapstone at his feet, is not so romantic as he was once, and “‘his girl” is the faded out old lady who darns his stockings, and mixes his mustard poultices, with her spectacles on her nase, and her scanty locks, so brave and bonny once, tucked under her cap. The old man does not think of sending any valentines. He used to be up to such folly, but that was a good while ago. He is wiser now. He laughs in his cracked voice when his pretty granddaughter brings him the lace paper, and the gilded pictures, and the dainty poetry which comprise the beautiful valen- tine her Jamie has sent her, and he says, ‘Jim had bet- ter save his money to buy beef and taters with arter they git to housekeeping.” As if any young couple in love ever considered ‘‘beef and taters” as of any earthly consequence in their scheme of happiness! : The old people have got over the valentine stage, and when the Saint’s day approaches they fall to predicting the weather. If it be stormy, it portends a fruitful year; it fair, great heat and drought. The birds are supposed to choose their mates on this day. Winter is getting well along; the days are longer; the sun runs higher. Spring goods appear in the windows of the great stores. All the people of moderate means buy their winter over- coats, and the furs they could not afford the first of the season. The post-office clerks are busy and cross. The mail- bags are crammed, and are redolent of sweet odors. The blue-coated postman who carries the sweet missives smells like a perfumery shop on two legs. The pretty girls are expectant. The homely girls have some hopes. The old maidi sure to receive three or four comic pic- tures, with a cat or two as the main feature—as if all the irr who prize.cats must of necessity be old maids. The mean man, and the man who has enemies, and the man who has been appointed to an office craved by somebody else, receive comigs without number, and though he will laugh at them, of course, he is mad—al- ways mad. It is sillyin him to let his angry passions rise for such a trifle, but everybody invariably is mad when a comic valentine puts in an appearance. But the girl who gets one of the sweét-smelling mis- sives of undying love from her favorite beau is happy. She goes to bed in a state of beatitude, and lies awake half the night thinking how nice it was of him to send it, and wondering what it cost. And she will show it to Mary, and Jennie, and Hattie, and all the other girls, and they will say ‘‘How pretty it is!” and all the time be just as envious as they can be; and when they get alone together, they will pick that girl and her valentine all to pieces, and wonder how it is that some folks can beso blind to thet f some f . But St. Valk ; young heart; never what in yé to croak, for no } wisdom which | ‘ UNCLE TO TIM MEDDLE, CROSSED IN LOVE. DEAR Tim: I reckon your last letter is the solemnest piece of paper the Meddle family has seed sence the big note your Uncle Ebenezur endorsed to oblige a friend and then had to pay it himself. . Next time we need vinegar I guess I'll drop your let- ter in a bucket of water, an’ save a trip to the store. You say that woman is faithless, an’ love is a lie, an’ life’s a humbug, an’ you wish you was out of it. I reckon the family wishes so, too, ef you talk as you write. An’ it pears to be all because Mattie don’t agree with you ’bout everything. that you—or anybody else—is just right about every- | thing, just you let me know, an’ I'll find out what’s the | best asylum to send ’em to. j | Ther never wuz but one person that wuz safe to tie to | in all respects, an’ his name wusn’t Meddle—he wuz | crucified nigh onto nineteen hundred year ago. You say you’ve found out that Mattie is cold and cal- | kilatin’—that when you settle down fur an’ evenin’ to have a real lovin’ time with her, she keeps pokin’ in questions bout what the two of you’s goin’ to live on ef she marries you. nf S’pose you wuz goin’ in partnership, fur a year, say, with some one that would have the handlin’ of all the money ; wouldn’t you want to ask lots of questions ? Ef you wouldn’t, the bizness streak of the Meddle stock has petered out in you. Well, marriage is that sort of partnership for a woman, an’ lasts for life; if she don’t come to a clear ear before she gits into it, she'll never git it at all. An’ that ain’t all. The quicker she gives the mitten to a feller that ain’t willin’ an’ anxious to give her all the chance she asks, the quicker that feller will be saved from makin’ a hog of himself. An’ we don’t want any two-legged hogs in the Meddle family ; it costs lots to keep ’em, an’ it’s agin the law to kill ’em. You say you’ve promised her you’d ’tend to all that when the time come, an’ she ort to be satisfied with that. Any gal-struck loafer would promise the same thing, ef he didn’t have to gointo putticklars. It’s as easy as lyin’, an’ a good deal like lyin’ in other ways. You say Mattie’s all of a sudden got touchy bout little things. They ain't little, @f she sets any store by ‘em, an’ ef you can’t take ’em at her measure, you’ve no biz- ness to try to take her. The smallest thing that a gal’s in earnest about is big enough for her to measure a feller by, ef he’s the feller that wants to marry her. You complain that she keeps breakin’ in all the while with solemn an’ matter-of-fact talk, an’ you don’t like it. Well, the quicker you learn to, the quicker you'llebe hap- py right along. You can’t put the fancy touches on a house till you’ve got the foundation laid an’ the frame up. You can buy cornices, an’ scrawl sawins, an’ cupilow stuff by the cart load, but you can’t put ’em no where to Stay till there’s somethin’ to fasten ’em to. Ef Mattie’s dead bent on havin’ a solid foundation for her love, just you either thank Heaven that you’ve found a gal with more sense than yow’ve got, or else back out and give some better feller a chance. You say you don’t ask nothin’ of her but love, an’ you think she ortn’t to ask any more than that from you. That sounds very pretty now—jest as ef it come out of a book, as like enough it did, but you dassent say it that way after you’re married. You'll be askin—or expectin’, which mounts to the same thing— askin’ three meals a day, an’ clean shirts, an’ stockins without holes in ’em, an’ ev'ry thing else you’ve been gittin’ fur twenty years in your mother’s house as a matter of course, never thinkin’ or carin’ how much woman’s work it took to pervide ’em. There’s lots of magic in a good woman’s love, an’ its sometimes powerful ’nough to bring good out of the heart of a bad man, but nobody ever heard of it bringin’ vittles out of an empty cubberd. Ther once wuz a Woman whose meal bar’l never giv’ out, but that wuz the Lord’s doin’; besides, she wuz a widder, an’ hadn’t any man to cook fur; ef she’d had a husband that didn’t like her to ask matter o’ fact ques- tions, I don’t b’leeve the merricle would hey worke wuth a cent. : Tim, my boy, when you find anybody that duz think | scieleccinee-athetde-omeiorebeenardde-ttet a ee Apt Ror oer eine You say you’re so broke up by it all, an’ feel like doin’ somethin’ startlin’—drownin’ yourself, or goin’ to sea, or turnin’ tramp, mebbe. Don’t drown yourself; it’s awful onhealthy, an’ a drownded man never looks interestin’ in a coffin. Besides, a sudden change from too much water to the place where ther ain’t a drop of it might kinder fail to meet yer views. - An’ don’t go to sea,.for ther ain’t nothin’ startlin’ bout doin’ that; ev’ry lazy boy in the country has gone to sea if he could, but he didn’t startle nobody but him- Self. ; As to bein’ a tramp, you couldn’t do anythin’ better to show your gal that you’re wrong an’ she’s right ’bout soundin’ you with p’inted questions on how the pot’s to be kept b’ilin’. Ef you want to do somet#in’ really startlin’, jest go up to. her house as soon aS you git this letter, an’ tell her that you’ve come to own up that you’ve been lovin’ your- self more’n her, an’ that ef she'll furgive you, you’ll make a fresh start an’ think of her fust, last, an’ all the time. Ef you can’t do this, you’d better pick out a diffrent kind of gal. Ther is women who are satisfied to be men’s slaves, but ef you marry one of ’em you'll be the fust Meddle that ever got down to such stock. * Brace up, my boy; brace up an’ listen to your Uncle Meddle. Ef you want married happiness that’ll be al- ways a yard wide, weight sixteen ounces to the pound, an’ last twenty-four hours a day as long as you live, just put your whole mind on what you're goin’ to give, an’ trust Mattie for what you're to git. ° An’ ef you don’t bleeve I'm right ’bout love, jest get out your Bible an’ hunt up the thirteenth chapter of Fust Corinthians; the words ain’t exactly like mine, but you can’t git away from the meanin’. Heaven bless you, my boy—you need it. Your affectionate : UNCLE MEDDLE. >e~< Josh Billings’ Philosophy. THE MOTHER-IN LAW. The best abused woman oy the age iz the average mother-in-law. , $i They are charged with kilging up a continual muss in the family, and making it sumboddy all the time. I don’t think this sum will add up and prove every time. I hav epper lukewarm or hot for got a mother-in-law miself—she iz mi wife—and her two sons-in-law luv her, gnd say she iz nobby. All the other mother-in-lawS may be a failure, and not pay mutch on the investment: but I hav got one who iz an honor tew her sex and bizzness. Iam anxlous tew fite it out on this line, if it takes 10 years. lt iz true that mothers-in-law want tew kno what’s going on, and who don’t ? 1t iz true they don’t want their darter-in-law tew out style them in a bonnet, and who duz? Theze things ain’t failures; they are only natral kalam- itys that sumbow will happen. THE WILD-KAT. ' The wild-kat iz about the size ov the average dog, and haga gray color. ; They hav a short tale, but whether it grows short, or haz bin abridged by acksident or kalkulashun I kno not. I never yet saw a Wild-kat with a tale more than 3 inches in length. ‘ : Theyare unfriendly kusses, and won’t pay enny man tew foster. They are crosser and more snappish than a step- father. "a The e a good kind ova kage animile, and will * He looks out ov hiz eyes like a philanthropist, and when he sets down, he sets down az Square az a newly elekted alderman. of He haz a sollum voice, and dont sing but one tune well. ; He iz kuzzin tew the tud, but he never ackted tew me az tho he waz proud ov the job. Bull frogs are more plenty in the summer than in the winter, and they tell me that their hind legs dressed, and well peppered, and salted, kan tickle the ribs’ov a gridiron most beautifully. Bt Nature’s Beverage. A popular actress, who is noted for her clear com- plexion, rosy bloom, and sparkling eyes, attrfoutes these natural charms, to a great extent, to the liberal use of milk as a beverage. At each meal she drinks onelér two glasses of pure milk, avoids alcohol and ale at all times, rarely uses coffee, but at supper takes a small cup of mild black tea, which must be of the best quality. Her medical adviser claims that milk is a tonic, makes good blood, tends to keep the kidneys in good condi- tion, and is nature’s beverage’ to counteract nervous exhaustion. e+ A STORY TELLER’S REWARD. There is a tale told of a sea captain, who, in a distant corner of the southern seas, visited an undiscovered or unexplored group of beautiful islands. After landing and trading with the gentile natives, he was astonished by the visit ef a white man, evidently a person of means and consequence, who, after making himself very agree- able, implored the captain to give him a story-book, if he had such a thing in his possession. The captain had, and, deeply touched by the pigs and cocoa-nuts. which the white exile had given him, bestowed on him a copy of the ‘‘Arabian Nights’ Entertainment.” Overcome by the present, the exile burst into tears, and cried: “You have saved my life, and given me rank and wealth.” On explanation, hesaid: ‘I should long ago have been eaten, but while they were fattening me I learned enough of their a Re to tell a child the story of ‘Little Red Ridinghood.’ The child repeated it, and the whole population were mad with joy. They had never heard a story before. From.that day 1 becamea great and honored man. When they had a national festival I sat on top of a hill, and thousands wept (while some elderly native was being cooked for a feast) at the cruel death of the grandmother as caused by the wicked wolf. I had with me avolume of ‘Fairy Tales,’ and I soon began to set a price on my performances. ‘Red Ridinghood’ is rather worn; I only.get a hundred cocea- nuts for her now; but ‘Cinderela’ is still good for four pigs and a turtle, and ‘Beauty and the Beast’ b six or seven, according to the quality. But with the ‘Ara- bian Nights’ I shall be able to goon accumulating pork to the end of my days. ; HAIR AND CHARACTER. The man with coarse hair is rooted to his prejudices. Coarse hair denotes obstinacy, It is not good business policy to oppose a man whose hair is coarse. The ec- centric man has always fine hair, and you never yet saw aman of erratic tendencies who at the same time had a sound mind, that was not refined in his tastes. Fine hair indicates refinement. You may have noticed that men engaged in intellectual, or eres in #&s- thetic pursuits, where delicacy is required, have invari- ably fine, luxuriant hair and beard. The same men, as a class, particularly painters, are always remarkable for their personal peculiarities. The brilliant, sprightly fellow, who, by the way, is al- most always superficial, has generally a curly beard. If not, his hair iscurly. It’s easy to bring a smile to the face of a man whose hair is curly. He laughs where colder natures see nothing to laugh at. But that’s be- cause his mind is buoyant and not deep enough to pene- trate to the bottom of thiags. , f ee ante cats THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32 BY J. H. WILLIAMS. The editor of the Greenville Opinion was sitting at his desk writing a powerful and convincing editorial on the silver problem—a subject, by the way, of which he knew as little as the average Congressman—when he was interrupted by the entrance of a middle-aged man wearing a bulging brow and an air of rural simplicity. “Are you the editor of this paper?” asked the in- truder, producing a copy of the Opinion from an inside coat-pocket. ; “Er-yes,” answered the editor, hesitatingly,, eying the stranger suspiciously, and suddenly trying to recall if his last issue contained any libelous articles. “What can I do for you ?” “Oh, nothing particularly,” responded the visitor. ‘J merely wish to have a brief symposium on the subject of the elastic and elusive quality of the facts contained in some of the news items you print. President Cleve- land struck you editors a pretty severe rap contiguous to an inflamed spot when he fulminated his letter on the untruthfulness of the press—eh ?” “The Opinion tries to adhere to facts,” said the editor, a pink tint suffusing his cheeks, ‘‘Perhaps so,” said the stranger, dubiously; ‘but it doesn’t always succeed. My name is William Boskins. I have been one of your subscribers for twenty-two years, and now and then I encounter an article in your paper which might have been garnished with a little more of the valuable commodity called ‘Truth, without spoiling its symmetry. Here, tor instance, is a local item which doesn’t adhere to facts worth a nickel. Listen :” And Mr. Boskins read the following from the local columns of the Opinion: Loss or Stock.—James Weeden, a farmer of Oakville, was so unfortunate, a few days ago, as to lose a very valuable horse, the animal being fatally kicked by a mule in the stable “Well, what’s wrong with that ?” demanded the editor, with some’ warmth. f “There's too much distortion of facts in it. Jim Wee- den is my neighbor, and he recently lost a horse, but it wasn’t very valuable. It had the heaves the worst way, was blind in the off eye, and crippled with string-halt, and Jim said he was glad it was dead, for it wasn’t worth seven dollars and a half anyhow. The most worthless old plug in-the country becomes a ‘very valuable’ animal when its obituary appears in the newspapers.” The editor jabbed his pen in the inkasif to resume writing, and his subscriber continued : “And here’s another news item of the same breed which has become quite numerous of late years, and for which some remedy should be provided.” And he read: *“ELOPEMENT :—Miss Sadie Oates, the young, beautiful, and highly educated daughter of Jabez Oates, a wealthy farmer of Elmdale, eloped on Sunday last with her father’s hired man, astupid and homely person, old enough to be her paternal parent.” “Isn’t that true?” asked the editor, looking wistfully at his half-finished editorial. “My dear sir,” said Mr. Boskins.. ‘‘truth and that par- agraph never had an introduction ; and yet it is quite as true as ninety-nine per cent. of such paragraphs going the rounds of the press. The young and beautiful daughter of wealthy parents always elopes with an ignorant clod- hopper, according to the newspapers, if she elopes at all. Idetermined personally to investigate this case reported in the Opinion. Elmdale isin the township in which I reside, and, business calling me to the village the day after reading about the elopement, I concluded to call upon the girl's father. In a lane, about a hun- dred yards from a farm-house, I met a robust young woman. She was not a professional beauty. Her fairy- like form and attractive face were not fairy-like and attractive enough to cause a young mans heart to throb and palpitate with tumultuous throbbingness and im- pulsive palpitativeness. Ata picnic hé would not sin- gle her out to lavish ice-cream upon, and stroll through lonely dells and unfrequented paths, conversing about the Balkan difficulty and other light and meaningless topics. She was a freckled-faced, carroty-haired dam- sel of about twenty-seven summers, had a hare-lip, and wore No. 7 shoes. ac Pe Mr. Oates reside in yonder house?’ I ques- oned. «He do,’ replied the freckle-faced girl: ‘but he aren’t home just now.’ ee Uns erend that his beautiful and accomplished but’wayward young danghter Sadie has brought dis- grace upon her parents by eloping with her father’s rough and uncultured hired man, and I wished to get a correct version of the affair, and tender my sympathies to the heart-broken parents. Are you one of the ser- vants ?” ««sMister,’ said the buxom lass, snappishly, ‘you needn’t worry yourself about that there elopement. WM. BOSKINS VISITS AN EDITOR. | Comrespondence. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. .. %#~ Communications addressed to this department will not 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.] Rosie L., Cal.—ist. To make lemon sause or catsup, take four fresh ripe lemons, cut them into quarters, and remove all the seeds. Put the pieces of lemon, with all the juice, in- to astone jar. Next, have ready a sufficient quantity of good vinegar to cover the lemons well; the vinegar to be boiled with a clove of garlic, some blades of mace, a broken-up nut- meg, Some white pepper, some cayenne pepper, and a yer little salt. The proportion of these ingredients, as well as the vinegar, may be according to one’s , but the seasoning should be high, but not so high as to overpower the lemon flavor. Having boiled the vinegar, with all the articles men- tioned, about ten minutes, pour the whole oiling hot nm the lemon in the jar, and immediately covér it Gloaely. faa the jar stand three weeks near the fire, stirring it frequently, and setting it occasionally in the bake-oven. Then roll a shee’ of blotting paper into a cone, pinning up the side, and folding the cone so as to close up the pointed end. Then, have ready some small clean black bottles. Set the paper cone into the corks. This catsup or sause will keep for years. 2d. See ‘Th Ladies’ Work-Box.” . ? - Winifred L., Fort Scott, Kans.—The first translation of the Bible into our language was made by John Wickliffe, pre- vious to the year 1384. The first volume printed by Guten- berg (1450—55) was the Latin Bible. The first printed trans- lation was that of William Tyndale, who, “finding no place to do it in all England,” went to the Continent, and there, at Worms, in 1525, printed his version of the N Testament from the original Greek. In 1532 he and his associates pone the whole Bible. Miles Coverdale, one of his fellow- aborers, finished his translation of the Old Testament in 1535, and on the death of Tyndale, Coverdale and John Rogers revised the second edition of the Bible which Tyn- dale was preparing, and added a translation of pha. It was dedicated to Henry VIII.. in 1537, and ed at Hamburg, under the borrowed name of, whence it was ed Matthews’ Bible. Cranme) Ww the first printed by authority in England. It was Tyndalé’s version, revised by Coverdale and examined by Cranmer, who added a preface to it, whence it was called Cranmer’ Bible. It was printed in 1539. Mrs. L. C. T., Warren, Pa.—The eider-duck is a species of sea-duck. It is the bird from which eider-down is obtained. , ’ 8 Each nest is lined with down, which the bird tears from its _ breast, and in which it buries its eggs. This keeps them warm when the mother leaves the nest for food. The owners of the locality take the down out of the nests, getting about a hatful from each. The mother again strips the down from her breast, and when she is again robbed, the mail bird pulls the down from his own breast. After this suffered to hatch her eggs in twice as 1 male is very peace. The eider-duck is nearly e as the common duck. The plumage of the andsome. antl is bluish I’m Jabez Oates’ daughter—they call me Sal, not Sadie— and I’m the girl what eloped. Some folks might call me young, beautiful, and accomplished, as you say, and some mighten’t. And dad don’t need any of your sym- a nd, 1pa- itor ater man imivelligent oliege. Why, Biess you! in a great ma- jority of cases it is Hobson’s choice with the girl who doesn’t prefer to die an old a.” ‘ “It is impossible to exclude everything of the nature you inveigh against,” pleaded the editor. ‘TI haven’t time to personally investigate the truth or falsity of every itemé] print.” «T suppose not,” admitted Mr. Boskins, ‘as the follow- ing incongruous local item truly testifies.” And the subscriber again read from the Opinion : : A Parr oF ’EM.—Jonas Sadley, of Birchville, this county, was made the happy father of twins on Monday last. He is so proud now that he willnot speak toa man any lower in the social scale than amember of the President’s cabinet. Mother and children are doing as well as could be expected. «Now, I had often read about this proud and happy father of twins, and I concluded to interview him, to ascertain about how much pride and felicity a man -under such circumstances could hold without explod- ing. Next day I visited Birchville, and was directed to the residence. of Mr. Sadley. About a block from the house I met a man who appeared to be thoroughly sat- urated with gloom. His melancholy filled the atmos- phere with tangible sorrow. Every lineament of his face bespoke deep and corroding trouble. Wishing to ascertain the cause of his dejection, I asked if he could show me the home of Jonas Sadley. «*Yes,’ was his response, in a ghastly tone, accom- panied with a sigh as deep as an artesian well. ««sAre you the editor of a London comic weekly ? I queried. f «« No,’ he drawled. « ‘Then you are surely ill—been overtaken by som awful calamity ? ; « ‘No—yes—that is, I feela little down-hearted and under the weather.’ «Lost ten thousand dollars in wheat speculation, perhaps ?’ «On, no. Would that it were no worse,’ he moaned. «- o-+ - MEN who complain most loudly about the inequalities of the human lot are generally a little blind to those great stores of wealth and blessings that no class can monopolize and no wealth can buy. | _ TE too frequent use of authority impairs it. If thun- der were continual it would excite no more sensation than the noise of a mill. * oe So” as ininy oi t is called buhl-work, black and white, the neck pale green and white, the breast buff, the back white, and the lower parts black. The plumage of the female is generaBy brown barred with black. These birds live chiefly in cold countries, especially in the most northern parts of America, and in Norway and Iceland. R. T. C., Baltimore, Md.—In reference ta the discoveries made in the antarctic regions by Com. Wilkes, it may be said, in brief, that on Jan. 16. 1842, he discovered land from the mast-head in latitude 61, south. His expedition followed the indications of land to the westward for several days, and afterward for several weeks sailed along an immense ice field, which Com. Wilkes thought to be a continuous barrier lying along the coast of an antarctic continent. Ashé saw land only at a few widely separated points, his infere . that there existed a continuous coast line, is one is thought to greatly need confirmation. As reported, islands lay about his course a little farther to the north, and they may easily have been the only interruptions to the selid ice floe found to the south. In short, the existence of a at antarctic continent is yet to be proved, for there have Seen no important discoveries, since 1842, in the antarctic seas. W. D. P.—ist. That part of the Hudson River washing the western shore of New York city and separating it from Jer- sey City, Hoboken, and other smaller suburbs.in New Jersey, is known as the North River. Its course is almost due north. 2d. The strait that forms the eastern boundary of New York, connecting Long Island Sound with Now Vouk Harbor, is called the East River. 3d. The uncertainty that has existed as to where the East River ends and Long Island Ea ee, — ea been Sosmed by the U.S. i Survey, which places the dividing efrom Throgy’s to Willett’s Point, about twenty miles from New York, this being the point where the tide which flowsin from New York Bay encounters the tide which enters the Sound at its southern extremity. Sibyl, Springfield, Mass.—1st. The oil of mace is made by pressing nutmegs. and not mace, as is generally supposed. © 2d. The word nutmeg is made from the Latin words nuz, nut, and muscus, musk: meaning musk nut. It is stated that in England,in old times, it was quite fashionable to. use nutmegs as a perfume, and that it was no uncommon sight to see one set in silver and ornamented with pearls and precious stones, hanging from alady’s belt, like a modern scent-bottle. 3d. The nutmeg tree oe in the East Indies, the West India Islands, and in South America. Vv. T. C., Augusta, Ga.—Though veneers (thin layers of wood glued upon cheaper kinds of wood to give them a finish) are generally made of rosewood, ebony, mahogany, etc., they are sometimes made of ivory, malachite, an other thi When veneers of di ent _ co 3 from a French cabinet maker named Buhl, who lived in the time of Louis XIV. Buhl-work is also made of thin brass and tortoise shell. _Major Andre, Boon’s Path, Va.—ist. The scientific results of the Greely expedition are regarded as important because the party reached a higher latitude than any other Arctic ex- lorers. 2d. We commend to your notice “Parry’s Voyages.” it gives the details of three voyages for the discoyery of a north-west passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific, with a narrative of an attempt to reach the north pole. Price of the book (2 vols.) $1.50. No details of the process. ia or © mouth of the bottle, and through it filter the liquid. Sealthe — oe she is generally _ Wm. C.P. , Norwalk, Conn.—Pistole was the name former- ~ ly applied in several countries of Europe to gold coins of various values. It was equivalent in Spain to a quarter doubloon ($3.90). In Germany it was sometimes applied to coins bearing the name of the state or soverign who coined them, and worth about $3.70. The old Italian pistole or dop- pia was worth from $3.09 to $7.02. Harry;C., Rushville, Ind.—ist. Pitman’s system of phonog- raphy will cost $1.50. The time it will take to master it will depend upon the assiduity with which you apply yourself. 2d. The telegrapher’s (student’s) outfit will cost $4.50. With the outfit are included chemicals and wire for setting up and operating the instruments, for practicing or communicati purposes. N. E. O.—A society for the establishment of rooms for the exhibition and sale of women’s work, the diffusion of a knowledge of decorative art among women, and their train- ing in istic industries, was institu in this city on Feb. 24,1877. A letter addressed to the rooms of the society, No. | 28, E. Twenty-first street, will receive attention. places named Henry in the United States. The States they are in are Alabama, Dlinois, Kansas, Kentucky, ; Tennessee, and Virginia. 2d. State before the next census is taken. Rover.—A ketch is a vessel with two masts, a main and mizzen-mast, and is usually from one hundred to two hun- dred and fifty tons burden. Ketches are generally used as a or as bomb-vessels. The latter are ,called bomb- ‘etches. 9 Geo. M. D., Des Moines, Iowa.—ist. You can get the books you require at ang public library. 2d. Your handwriting and spaing are both good. 3d. You will need an instructor = er er capacity. 4th. If you have a taste for painting, ry it. Richards L., Mott Haven.—The morgue is in the Bellevue Hospital grounds, foot of Twenty-Sixth street, East River. Adjoini the morgue are the coroners’ and inquest rooms, the dead-house, and hosipital museum. Diana L.—1st. The papers containing ‘‘The Duke’s Secret” will'cost $1.44. 2d. Notin book-form. 3d, The color of the hair inclosed is a very pretty chestnut. 4th. You are under no obligation to return the gift. ; W., Fossil, Oregon.—‘‘Ewbank’s Brazil” willbe sent to you for $3.50. As regards Brazil it is literally a cyclopedia; treating of everything of interest in the fullest manner. Dimple-Cheek, Portland, Oregon.—Ist. Castor oil and 2d. Too young yet. 3d. Your penmanship is quite good. _ Will C., East Saginaw, Mich—‘‘The Practical Kennel Guide” will cost $1.50. It tells how to rear and breed dogs for pleasure, show, and profit. It is illustrated. B. C. J., Warrenton, Va.—‘‘A Dark Marriage Morn” will be sent to you for $1.14. It was commenced in No. 25, Vol. 37, and ended in No. 43 of the sanre volume. A. G. Jr., Milford, Ia.—Graham’s system of phonography will a x If you wish it, write direct to the New York WEEKLY asing ney. 7. I. L.—Every owner of a dog within the city limits must take oe a Hecaies forit. The eons bureau is in the base- ment of the City Hall. L. S. C., Montreal.—The ‘Mullen Leaves” will probably not be published in book-form.: The thirty-six numbers (com- plete) will cost $2.16. . ¥ ‘ i H. P. W., Memphis, Mo.—A letter will reach the person named through the general post-office in this city. Rockland Lake, New Orleans.—To make linen glossy, put a little spermaceti in the starch while it is boiling. : Cc. W. M:, Ogdensburg, N. Y., and, W. W., Newark, N. J.— Learn short-hand, telegraphy, or type-writing. ‘ C. F. H.,, Hudson, Mass.—MacKay is papers as if spelled ma-ka, the accent on the last syllable. Mrs. R. A. W. Late tHe —We do not give business ad- dresses in this departmen ‘ i C. S. W., Monville, N. ¥.—The calendar named will be sent to you for 75 cents. ‘ S. P. S., Rawlinsville, Pa.—The stories named are out of print. ; » Mrs. G. W. U., Thomson, Ga.—Unable to oblige you. Geo. W. G., Neillsville, Wis.—No. To Contrisutors.—The _ foll MSS. are accepted: “Sunderland’s Gift,” “A Wise Wiree “Why He Relented,” “Abby Mason’s Way,” “A H are res ‘ully declined : “Opinions—A Controversy,” “The Dud Story,” “Visions of. the » “Fare “Lov Crime,” “Nil Jealousy, and Thy Vineyard.” “Ode to Oneida Lake.” Marshall S., Henry, Dakota.—ist. There are ‘seyen other - brandy will gradually darken hair that is naturally light. . Dakota will doubtless bea | 2 5's . - weatia# THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 o OLD TIMES IN NEW ENGLAND. - BY NATHAN UPHAM. Ah, well I remember those red-letter days, When the village was bright with our handsome sleighs; Sleighs red and yellow, and purple and brown, Gathered from many a farm in town; And every sleigh was cozily laden With a youth and his chosen red-cheeked maiden. Over the hills and the meadows below, Like a bridal robe, lay the glittering snow ; While elm tree and birch, with their limbs a-curl, Bent with the wealth of their radiant pearl ; And, afar and near, earth's dazzling whiteness Mirrored the sun in his morning brightness. Two score of sleighs, in continuous line, Filed swiftly away, as the clock struck nine; And many a lad thought vis well-fed steed, Wearing silver bells, just the one to lead; But some will lead, and will is the measure That marks one’s place, in business or pleasure. Toward a neighboring town, ten miles away— Happy as kings, on that joyous day— Sped the forty lads, with their lasses fair, And sweet as the breath of the morning air ; While every window threw its shutters wide, To feast on the joy of the gay sleigh ride. The moments flew fast, and at half-past ten, i ‘Mine host” gave us welcome, and welcomed again ! It was worth the journey of ten full miles To look on his face, running over with smiles. But oft, as years pass, in life’s varied meetings, We find the innkeeper’s the warmest of greetings. Anon, came the dinner, the feast of the year, The long table groaning with goodliest cheer ; While the savor that rose from the trve king of birds, (Turkey, well ), was too good for words. We finished the birds, whether broiled, baked, or roasted, And after the feast, the Jadiés we toasted. And next came the ga with their forfeiting zest, And the dance, till the sun hung red in the west ; ard returned, and at the home door, eet load—a load nevermore ; t promised, with joy overladen, yield the sweet name of maiden ? Married at Midnight; THE BRIDE'S FATE By JOHN A. PETERS. (“MARRIED AT MrpNiGHT” was commenced in No. 14. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER X. & THE RED CROSS, Thus it came to pass that when, two days later. Gor- don Graham sought his wife at Madame Langtry’s. she was gone, and the lady could give him no intelligence as to her whereabouts. All she could do was to hand him the sealed envelope left in her room, directed to him. He opened it coolly, and leisurely proceeded to scan the written sheet therein. His coolness vanished when he gathered in the words—a mere note, short and | | unsatisfactory, reading thus: “GORDON GRAHAM: The secret is mine! That explains why I leave Madame Langtry’s so mysteriously to find a home for myself somewhere in the wide world, resolved never to live with you as your wife, never to cross your path if I can avoid it. It will be useless to seek me. Iam lost to you as com- pletely asif the earth had opened and swallowed me up. “RIZPAH. ” The, man’s face was a study as he read the note. Pale he always was; now he turned so ghastly white that never, even in death, wrapped in a winding-sheet, could he look more like a dead person than when he had gath- ered in the last word. The secret was hers. His father _ had bequeathed it to her ere his eyes closed in death. Strong, unfeeling man though he was, for the moment he was afraid he was going toswoon. All his strength deserted him, and he felt weak as a little child. He kept quiet so long that Madame Langtry became frightened. “Mr. Graham,” she began, npprye 4 back her dark + Does it throw any light upon the subject? Does it tell you where she went, and why she left in such a strange and unexpected way ?” He roused himself to reply, his cold, blue eyes emitting flames that lighted up his face until it was the face of a demon. «The news is of the most startling kind. Madame, you ‘are aware that my marriage was not a love-match—that it was only by the imperative command of my father—a tunate I married Rizpah at my father’s death-bed! He was an old fool, after preserving the secret for years, to disclose it at last, simply because his guilty conscience tormented him and allowed him norest. Bah! I’ve no atience with him. ButJllfind her. Yes, I’ll find her, I have to search the whole world’ over; and she shall suffer, never fear! The little virago! If she were beau- tiful as an houri, I could view her in no partial light. To me she will always be repugnant. One thing, I don’t apprehend much danger from her,” his head bent down to the pavement, upon which the sunlight lay warm and golden; ‘‘she is too anxious to avoid me. The awful secret known to her, with her high spirit and her puri- tanically rigid notions of right and wrong, she would runa er in her heart and consider the suicidal act a justifiable one, ere she would live with me as my wife. But does she know the worst ?” As he proceeded on his errand—that of putting the case of ferreting out his wife’s place of concealment in the hands of a detective—he was brought to an abrupt stop. An excitable crowd was blocking up the walk. “What is the matter?” he questioned, impatiently, striving to force his way through the excited populace that intercepted his passage. ‘ “A young girl knocked down and run over. She is quite dead.” Breathlessly he red into the bruised face of the girl, lying a dead burden in the man’s arms, who was threading his way slowly and with difficulty through the crowd that parted reluctantly at his approach. The face reminded him startlingly of his wife’s, as described by Madame Langtry—very fair and sweet, with long blue-black hair straying over it and around her shoul- ders. “Stay !” he commanded, imperiously, and placing his hand upon the shoulder of the man with the burden in his arms; ‘‘that face is a familiar one to me. Iam not sure,” as the man halted and the multitude curiously awaited the result, “but.I think it is she whom I once knew as Rizpah Hope. Carry her here. The crowd please stand back. Young woman,” to a shabbily dressed person who, taking a ghoulish interest in the ghastly sight, drew near, “examine her clothing and see if there be any name upon it.” None was discovered, but a purse was found in her pocket, which, upon opening, showed a few silver coins, and a card upon which was traced the name of ‘‘Rizpah Hope ;” also a gold ring, bearing the initials ‘‘R. H.,” which had been purchased for her one day by Gordon’s father. ‘Tt is the same,” he said. “She was my father’s protegee—my sister—lost sight of for five years. Itis Rizpah Hope. Woman,” remembering an infallible sign to establish her identity, which had slipped his memory in Madame Langtry’s presence, ‘‘bare her arm. Make assurance doubly sure by seeing whether a bright red slanting cross gleams above her elbow. If so, my sus- picion is confirmed, and no doubt can exist, for no other woman in the universe can be similarly marked.” The ragged female, still swayed by that morbid feel- ing which some people experience in cases involving a mystery, and wishing to prolong the extraordinary scene, deliberately pushed up the girl’s sleeve, and closely scrutinized the rounded arm, soft and white as any baby’s. ; Gordon, half incredulous, hoping that she might prove to be his wife, yet fearing otherwise, looked on with his Mephistophelean smile while the arm was being ex- posed to view. : Above the dimpled elbow a birth-mark resembling the sign of multiplication—an. oblique cross—was plainly visible. 1t was vividly crimson. He staggered back, dropping his eyes lest the exult- ant light in them be detected, and reiterated the words: ‘It is she; itis Rizpah Hope!” At this, a slender girl, plainly attired, with the thick, impenetrable folds of a vail shielding her features from observation, pressed forward and gazed into the face of the dead, who had been called by the name that be- longed to her. It was Rizpah herself returning from making a few necessary purchases in a clothing store a block or two away. She too could trace a sort of real or imaginary resemblance in the dead to herself as she bent over the livid face, adown which ran a tiny streak of red caused by a slight incision above the temple, keeping as far away from the man she recognized as her husband as ssible. : ; bio came her purse in the dead girl’s ket? Had she dropped it on the pavement, and had it been picked up by her? Good Heaven! what did it mean, that this att mo I aikacenos ohSteee ee 14 aN TPF Il St | 1) As Xe gas | = PSR Sas not of a calamitous nature. | a a BH %* Aa ~ i =z rp ity pee “=| 4E AD) h tee a “WH, 3.6 yl f command I dared not disobey—that I‘wedded her. She, | n1s COLD BLUE EYES EMITTED FLAMES THAT LIGHTED UP on her part, did not love me. On the contrary, she dis- liked me, if possible, more intensely than I disliked her. It was for my father’s sake, to make more comfortable | | HIS FACE UNTIL IT WAS THE FACE OF A DEMON. dead girl should be marked with a cross, whose counter- his dying moments, and because she regarded it in the | Part was imprinted on her own arm, and in the self- light of a sacred duty, that she became my wife. But all this I hinted when I brought her to your excellent school to be educated. I was to claim her to-day—to y her back to The Shadows, to reign as mistress. I come; I find her gone, and a note informning me that she will never live with me as my wife—never cross my path if she can helpit. Have you no idea where she went? Has she never dropped a hint of her repugnance toward me—of her determination to live a life in which I should take no part ?” “Never. Your name, to my knowledge, has been a stranger to her lips while under this roof; her inten- tions, so far as you are concerned, are a sealed book to me. Rizpah Hope. Not one of her schoolmates ever mis- trusted she was married. She was the best, the most disereet of pupils. Gordon Graham, your wife is a wo- man out of ten thousand—a woman to satisty the heart of any man who isso fortunate as to win her love.” “No doubt, no doubt,” he hastily interpolated, «but I am not that lucky man, andIcan’tsay thatI care to win her affection. I intend to treat her with the respect that is due my wife, but love is out of the question. Is she intelligent?” _ ‘Strikingly so. She is highly accomplished. She sings like another Jenny Lind, plays as a feminine Liszt might play, an is the most pertect reader I ewer heard off the stage.” “Humph! And looks——” ‘Like no other woman under the sun I ween—fair, sweet, dainty, and proud. Her ways are indescribably charming. Ah! Mr. Graham, you should bea happy man. May I—will you permit me to see the note?” which had fluttered uneasily from his grasp, and lay twisted up on the floor. ; He swooped down, clutching it with nervous haste. “Excuse me, but there is nothing in it to enlighten es as to her possible whereabouts. I would rather not lave you see it.” ; *‘As you choose,” her tone a bit aggressive, her manner somewhat nettled. “Tellme what you purpose doing. What steps shall you take ?” ‘Put the case immediately inthe hands of an expert detective. He will ferret out her hiding-place without much trouble. Did she take away all her luggage ?” «The greater part of. How she managed it so neatly isar to me. She is so unused to looking out and caring for herself, and so thoroughly unacquainted with the city. She was notin the habit of going out alone. Not a servant in the establishment—the pupils have all gone to their respective homes to spend the vacation— saw her leave, nor knows how she got the luggage out of the building. I am more sorry tor what has happened than I can express. I love heras a daughter.” Madame’s handkerchief was here brought into play, and she wasrubbing the moisture from her eyes when a knock sounded without, and a girl thrust her head in the door to say that ‘‘the carriage was in readiness to con- vey her mistress to the depot, and if she wanted to catch the train she must make no delay.” «Ah, I forgot. 1am obliged to go away again for afew days on business. This wretched affair quite drove it from my head. If I could k it, I would not stir a Step. You'll excuse me ?” “Certainly,” rising to depart, and feeling relieved that the unsatisfactory interview Was over. “But stay—is there no Seomhage ke of Rizpah in your possession ?” “Alas, no! She was so averse to sitting for her pic- ture that I could never taken.” : “J understand,” he hissed through his compressed lips; “she was providing against such a contingency. She was afraid | might take itinto my head to claim her, if she proved passably good-looking. Give me a brief summary of her looks, and I'll bother you no longer. The detective corps must be brought into requisition at once. There is no chance of her secreting herself man days—a young girl ignorant ofsthe ways of the world. Never fear ; we'll unearth her place of concealment soon. Good ce madame,” when she had hurriedly given him a description of his wife’s appearance. «fw an HE SWOOPED DOWN, CLUTCHING IT WITH NERVOUS HASTE. soon found themselves being jolted over a rough road en route for Sharon. e: This party consisted ef Vane Hunter. Mrs. Northrup, and her companion; Ethel Granger, a beauty end a belle ; and Walter Blake, a rather handsome, very dark- featured man of two-and-thirty, a rising lawyer and a friend of Vane’s. At the depot Rizpah—or Hope, as we must now call her—had experienced quite a shock. As she alighted from the car, out from the depot, swarming with people who had been anxiously awaiting the train, stepped a roguish-looking young lady in navy-blue traveling-suit, a shaggy poodle in her arms... : : Hope and she met face to face; a mutual recognition took place; and the stranger almost let the pink-eyed, silky-haired creature drop to the ground in her surprise at seeing there one who, like herselfhad been a pupil of Madame Langtry, and who was so bent upon getting away from her friend and quondam schoolmate ere she plied her with numerous unanswerable questions, and endangered her incognito, that her greeting was con- strained and not in the least cordial. = “Why, Miss Hope, where are you bound?” and, with a little ecstatic spring, the mé@rry elf, who was of eater stature, had one arm around the traveler’s neck. A pause, evidently filled up by an ulatory moye- ment, ensued ; but as Hope exericated_ herself from the clinging arms and said, ‘Olivia, 1 must go; I am de- taining the party I am with,” a torrent of questions es- caped her lips, and her hand was on her friend’s arm, detaining her, while Vane, an amused spectator, lin- gered near, and’ Miss Granger's nose took an upward turn that nature had never intended as she walked a x ren, what do you careif you do detain them ?” de- manded Olivia. ‘I say, where are you going a ; “To Sharon. Do—do let me go, Olivia! am delay- ing the party unnecessarily. They'll be displeased.” “Yes, yes,” never releasing her hold on her friend’s arm, ‘‘in a second. So you intend summering in Sharon ? Ive just come from there, called away by—— Dear, dear! what’s the matter?” as an elderly gentleman caught hold of her and pulled her not any too gently along, shouting lustily in her ear: “Olivia, you heedless pula: do you want me to rae autte train and stop in this stifling hole all day ong ? a “No, no, papa, for then I’d have to stay, too. Don’t get exasperated. I—I met a very dear, dear friend,” she stammered, almost out of breath. / “Your friend is quite a gushing young lady,” led Vane, as he assisted Hope into the vehicle; ‘odd she pretixed ‘miss’ to your Christian name in addressing you, when you seem to be on such familiar terms.” Hope returned some evasive reply, realizing she had made a narrow escape. If Olivia had Called her Rizzie, as she was in the habit of ¢ Pavieto” ‘her incognito? Wou t the name have sent Vane Hunter’s thoughts drifting in the rose- hued past? Would not that subterranean cell, in whicn the old hag dwelt with her dog, and tomes, and Would he not see in her the sunburned girl who partook with him of his luncheon, and to whom, as a reminder of that happy day, he presented a locket with his bright face and mis- chievous blue eyes, that smiled at her whenever she opened it,and whose lips were parted asif toply her with questions? She blessed her stars that she had se- lected Hope as her surname, and that the rattle-pated girl for once had been so polite and formal as to attach miss to her patronymic. f On and on the omnibus rattled, each revolution of the time-worn wheel jolting them anew until even gentle Mrs. Northrup declared that ‘it this were going to Sharon, she never wanted to go again;” Vane fanned himself with his broad-rimmed sombrero, and passed his handkerchief over his warm face; Miss Granger ‘‘oh, me”-ed and ‘oh, dear”’-ed at a greatrate; the lawyer unconcernedly viewed the ragged landscape on either side, or cast surreptitious glances at the ladies; while Hope, with unruffied temper, sat still, her eyes bent westward, where a long, irregular chain of hills was dimly outlined against the blue horizon. Vane watched her covertly from under the rim of his Panama. How fatally fair she was! Did the world hold a sweeter, lovelier girl ? ‘Miss Huntley,” he said, in his lazy, gausical voice, ‘you look as cool and undisturbed as if you were experi- encing no discomfort from the heat which Old Sol pours down. Confess! Are you not a trifle toowarm? Don’t you feel a bit uncomfortable ?” She smiled, and tossed back the cobwebby square of lace that was slipping over her face. t “The heat is truly intense. Everything the eye rests upon radiates with warmth.” “Except you,” corrected he. ‘You are as cool as if ingulfed in a snow-drift. See! Lucy's lily face is flushed a deep pink, and even Miss Granger, who can dance all the evening unintermittingly without feeling fatigued or caring to sway‘her fan for the purpose of creating a zephyr, looks as if overpowered by the heat, while your Geek oe < NW 1 ~- See BREATHLESSLY HE PEERED INTO THE BRUISED FACE OF THE GIRL. ; cheek is not robbed of its pallor by the merest suspicion of color. And you don't look a bit bored. Howcan you be so unmoved—so indifferent to the heat ?” “I am not averse to it,” she said, carelessly. bear it like a salamander.” «Well, tastes differ, that’s all I have to say,” and he relapsed into silence. Ethel Granger bit her full red lip under the vail she slowly dropped over her face till a drop of blood came. What did the fastidious Vane Hunter, whom she was endeavoring to enslave, see in that pale, quiet giel, who was his sister’s paid companion, to make him watch her thus and study her slightest whim? ‘True, she had an aristocratic look, a sweet, refined voice, and she was beautiful as a sculptor’s dream. But was not she her- self lovely and fascinating, a popular belle, and the daughter of a man who wasa millionaire? Who was she, anyway ? And where did Mrs. Northrup pick her up? “She bears herself like a princess,” she mused, ‘‘and “T can her eyes are as innocent as a child’s in their expression ; but I would not be afraid to make oath that there is a secret in her life she would not care to have told. How absent-minded she seems! What a far-away look there is on her face now! She is miles and miles away from us, and she is living over a,scene that contains no pleas- ure for her. Ah! she starts. “She has recovered herself, and is on her guard. My fair lady, ll worm out your secret if it lies within my power, and scatter it to the four winds of heaven if you stand in the way of my success.” ‘ And the unscrupulous plotter checked her cogitations and made some laughing remark to Blake, who, too, had been pondering on the abstraction of Mrs. Nor- thrup’s companion. . ‘Who is it she reminds me of?” he thought. ‘Her features are strangely familiar ; even her smile, so soft and lingering, is not new to me. Ah! I have it!” his dark, rather evil-looking eyes riveted to her face; ‘it is Rachel—Rachel Frost, she puts me in mind of.” An uneasy sensation stole over him as he arrived at this conclusion. Was this fatal resemblance one of chance, or were they connected in some way ? And as he revolved the perplexing question in his mind, the jaded beasts trudged on and on, their speed never increasing in the least, much as the driver yelled “Git up!” and switched them with his whip. The sun, a fiery ball of splendor, showered down upon them his rays; the musquitoes bit them, the flies lighted on their faces and tantalized them, and would not be scared away, but buzzed, buzzed_with hilarious freedom, until Blake lost his air of coolness and tapped his foot ex- citedly against the rolling car, whose wheels revolved as slowly as the much-to-be-feared ones of the Jugger- naut, and muttered an imprecation in an ugly, half- audible voice, and then repeated it more energetically as he noted the astonished look in Hope Huntley’s yes. “Yes, it is enough to make a fellow swear—begging your pardon, Miss Huntley—but the day is so confound- edly hot that even a parson would forget himself and give expression to his feelings ; and this old vehicle jogs along at a pace a‘snail could keep up with. The road is execrable, the horses are drones, and the driver is a beast—positively a beast, Miss Huntley, for granting‘his animals liberty to travel thus. I say, driver!” he hal- looed to the man on the seat in front. “Wa-al, sir,” drawled the man; ‘‘what’ll you have ?” “Can’t you hurry up your team a little ? Let the horses spin.” “TImpossible, sir. They be clean gone—jest fit to drop.” ‘‘Ask him, Mr. Blake, how far we are from our destin- ation,” here put in Mrs. Northrup. The lawyer did so. “Jest half way. This’ere house,” pointing to a one- horse tavern-stand, ‘is the half-way mark.” “Oh, dear! and we’ve nearly five miles still to go!” sighed Lucy. ‘‘Aren’t you tired, Ethie, dear? Doesn’t your head ache? Mine aches as if a crooked red-hot iron were being driven through the fissures of the brain. You needn’t smile, Vane; I do not exaggerate. You know I never could endure pain with even a pre- tense of resignation. How can you keep your temper, Miss Huntley ?” f “‘By simply determining not to lose it, Mrs. Northrup. And, upen my word, Iam nota bit uncomfortable. To be sure this old hack is not the easiest going conveyance Iever rode in and it is drawn by the fossilized remains of two animals *that might once have been termed horses, but 1 can put up with the jolting, being compen- sated for all inquietude by the wildly rural views about us. What great. hills we are passing! What jagged ravines! Miss Granger, if you have an eye for the ludi- crous, look to the right. Those bossies frolicking in the long green grass yonder, medallioned, with buttercups, are too comical for anything with their queer antics and awkward efforts to play.” “Tndeed,” a barely perceptible sneer curving her volup- tuous aos ‘but Iam not partial to bovine creatures, no matter how awkward they may prove to be. My tastes are in nowise rustic, but inclined to the esthetic. What is it that causes that harsh, discordant noise I hear, Mr. Hunter ?” «An army of crows lodged in that decayed hemlock, with its top over half gone. Hear them ‘caw-caw’ with their-hoarse voices.” On and on, through valleys productive of grain and rich with fruit, till they came toa ravine, from which uprose cliffs of slate-stone, studded with trees whose VANE LINGERED NEAR, AND MISS GRANGER’S NOSE TOOK AN UPWARD TURN AS SHE WALKED AWAY. trunks were aged and hoary, and whose limbs were bowed down until they well-nigh toppled over the chasm. A purling stream worried below, and a percep- tible breeze set the leaves in motion. Somewhat refreshed Mrs. Northrup was profuse in her exclamations of delight at the rural scenery. Miss Granger tossed back the impenetrable folds of her vail, revealing a lovely face in which roses and lilies blended, and condescended to glance about her. Vane Hunter detected a slight change in Hope as they entered the ravine. A look of awe swept over her face ; she shuddered as if with cold. “What is it, Miss Huntley ?’ he asked. and you are pale to the lips.” «Am I?” and the soft, lingering smile he loved so well came very readily to her lips. ‘Still, lam not ill, and I am not cold, but——” ‘Well ?” he interrogated, as she hesitated, as though not caring to proceed. “But,” going on as if there had been no interruption, «T cannot account for it; I feel an indefinable sensation of awe creep chillingly over me, and I feel—to use an ex- pression d have heard somewhere—as if somebody were walking over my grave. I have feltit ever since we pean into this weird-looking ravine. Ido not think I ave the gift of second sight. I am not sure that I was born at midnight of All-Hallow’s night, so that the old legend that a person born them can see events awaiting them in the future ought not to have any terrors for me. Something concerning me materially—that is to have a bearing on my lite, and change the whole course of my destiny—will take place here. I know it, I feel it, and Conscious of the wonderment depicted on the counten- ances of those around her, she halted, appalled. What was she going to disclose—she, the most reticent of women ? Vane threaded his fingers through his tawny hair, and hastened to put her at ease. «You are nervous, Miss Huntley. Don’t be fanciful, pray, for we are an exceedingly matter-of-fact set. ._Noth- ing is likely to happen to you in this gruesome spot. It is those shadows hanging over that beetling cliff that causes you such vague uneasiness. See! the sunlightis dispelling them; we are entering tke Village.” Yes, Sharon was reached at last—‘‘a valley ona hill”— a basin scooped out from the bowels of the earth—a quaintly pretty place, with its enchanting views, its big, well-kept hotels, its cottages and its artistically laid out park, in the center of which rises a temple, where visi- tors congregate morning, noon, and night, and every other hour of the day, to quaff the clear, bitter-tasting mineral water gushing out from the earth and flowing through lion’s mouths carved from stone—the sparkling magnesia water of whose fame you all have heard; its sulphur springs below of. various kinds—white, red, and blue; its four commodious bathing-houses, and the covered tents where the Indians weave and sell their basket-ware, cut out their canes, and Whittle and stipe their bows and arrows; up another hill winding itself through flowery horse-chestnuts and maples of nearly half a century’s growth, and the Pavilion was gained—a building to which, from the day it was erected, many patches have been added, here a wing and there a wing, in order to supply the wants of the people, who grew more clamorous for rooms as the fame of the medicinal waters spread farther and farther, till now there is bare- ly a ete of the known globe but is there repre- sented. A great, rambling building of ugly architecture, run- ning over some considerable extent of ground, in the midst of a grove, where a delicious breeze is always sigh- ing, free from the dust which infests the houses on the flat, and situated on an eminence of ground sloping gently downward on every side. Its mammoth piazza, which has but few compeers in the United States, is the pride and delight of all the guests; indeed, the marked success of the proprietors is owing to that, I ween—an immense thing, from which stretch hills, and dales, and wooded glens, beautiful alike when immersed in liquid sunshine or silvered over by the rays ofthe moon. Be- sides the main building, there are a Bachelor’s Hall at- tached for the accommodation of those who either can’t or won’t be bothered with a wite; and well-built cot- tages, with more suitable, richly furnished. rooms fur families having the purse of Fortunatus, and who want «You shiver, to be more retired and comfortable than those who are. stowed awayin some of the close, stifling pens (mis- called rooms) of the Pavilion, and who pay the penalt; of sojourning in a watering-place by being afflicted wit headache, heart-ache, and—other aches. * The rumbling vehicle stopped. Vane stretched out his cramped limbs and alighted, breathing freer as he stepped once more on terrajirma, The proprietor, por- ter, and hall-boys came flying out. ‘How is it about the cottage,” he asked the proprietor —all right ?” “Allright, and in perfect order.. 1t was vacated yes- terday to give room to your party. ’ “You_are having a great rush this year, I understand, sir ?” “A big season—a stupendous rush. Every room is filled, every cottage occupied, and we are obliged to turn away people every day for the want of room,” the gentlemanly pure sighed, regretfully. “Indeed ! was in hopes you had a vacant cottage. Mr. La Grange, of Boston, petitioned me to secure him one.” “Impossible—altogether out of the question. The last one was engaged a couple of weeks ago by a Mrs. Mur- ray, of New York, who arrived last night with her daughter. We are having an unprecedented run this season, I tell you. Andrew, you go ahead to the cot- tage, and render all the aid necessary; and you, Jim, conduct Mr. Blake to room No. 87—the room next to the suite belonging to Lord Castlemaine’s party. Mr. Hun- ter, if you will be so kind, step into the office and regis- ter the names.” CHAPTER XII. RIZPAH’S SHOCK. The orders obeyed, the ladies found themselves di- rectly installed in their respective apartments. Mrs. Northrup, hardly taking time to lay aside her bonnet, flung herself on an inviting-looking couch torest a few moments, arguing her inability to divest herself of her superfluous wraps, or have Hope remove them, till she had closed her eyes in'sleep. Miss Granger, in an adjoining room, opened the half- closed blind to admit the sunlight, and inspected her face closely in the mirror to see whether her exquisitely fair complexion had been burned and reddened by Old Sol’s ardent glances, although she had kept it effectu- ally shielded by two or three thicknesses of lace. She imagined she detected a little too much red in her cheeks. “It is vulgar to have too much color in one’s face,” she sighed. “Rustic, romping girls invariably have peony- hued cheeks. The most excellent remedy for tan and redness is buttermilk, I have heard say—far better than any of the high-priced cosmetics one can use. I shall send Norinne after a pitcherful, if she ever gets here, and deluge my face withit. And the baggage—I hope to goodness it won’t be delayed on the road. I can’t step out in th’s dusty traveling-attire. Hark! Norinne has arrived now, or the baggage,” as wheels crunched on the gravel below. She peered through the blind she had closed, and be- held not only her maid, but a baggage-wagon, in which were deposited her trunks. “Thank goodness! You’ve got here at last,” she said to the dark, sprightly girl who entered, her arms loaded down with boxes, bundles, and books. ‘Have the por- ter fetch the luggage right in, and then, Norinne— Norinne, do you hear ?” as the maid busied herself about the room putting away the things she had brought in— “IT want you to find out where you ean get some tresh buttermilk. Go to some farm-house—there’s a red- brick building under the hill—and pay any price rather than return without it. Never mind the things. There’s no hurry, and the buttermilk I must have. See the color in my face. It is absolutely vulgar. Run, run, Norinne!” ‘“But—but, Miss Ethel,” stammered the poor girl, whose head achéd piteously after her long ride in the broiling sun, ‘‘the rednessis purely imaginary on your part, and I don’t really know where to go. kK in the glass. There is no more color than usual in your face.” “Don’t tell me that!” excitedly cried her mistress ; “don’t dare to contradict me! .I am no imaginative thing like that sickly looking creature in the employ of Mrs. Northrup. My cheeks are undeniably red, and it was that tiresome ride in the sun that has made them so, for there is never but the merest tinge of pink there, like that which nestles in the heart of a sea-shell,” and this superlatively vain young lady stepped up in front of the mirror to take another inspection. ‘Take a pitcher, Norinne, and go. ‘Where shall yougo? Go anywhere. Idon’t care, as long as you get the needed cosmetic. Hurry, do, there’s a good girl, and you shall have a new pink ribbon for your hair.” “Very well,” hopelessly replied Norinne, aware that she was at the mercy of her exacting and captious mis- tress. Far from home, friendless, without money, she must submit to her every whim. Not unkind exactly, but heedless, and with no more feeling for one working fora living than a stone. Hope was delighted with her view from the window— the green fields stretching into illimitable space, a Rem- brandtesque looking wood, where ascore of banditti might hide, but a stone’s throw to the east, and rugged hills palisading the village on all sides. After going. through her ablutions and changing her dusty garments for @ light, cool wrapper, she helped Mrs. Northrup’s maid to unpack and put away her dresses in the wardrobe. She sang blithely scraps of song as she did so, feeling happy to have escaped the thralldom that would have been hers as Gordon Graham’s acknowledged wife. A sharp pang assailed her as the the image of Vane Hunter flitted before her vision. Heaven help to keep her from loving him—of thinking of him too frequently! How kind he was toher! How eycet his glance when it rested upon her! Alas, she must steel her heart against him and treat him with the coolest indifference. She was irrevocably bound to an- other hy the indissoluble band of matrimony whieh nothing but death could sever; and she must go through the world alone, never listening to a word of love, however sweet or refreshing it might prove to her weary soul, but keeping the image of her unloved hus- band ever before her, and walking straightly in the ath mapped out for her. It was hard, cruelly hard. he future stretched before her a grim Sahara, its colors all dim and gray; no fertile oasis, no ray of brightness to relieve the dreary scene. A burst of song from a knot of somber-coated birds in the mountain ash that swung its green branches across the window roused her trom her unpleasant réfiection ; the day was so brightly beautiful that, as her services were not required, she thought she would venture out on the green. Inno manner vain, she did not pause to obtain a glimpse of herselt ere she went out. She was unconscious what a lovely, dainty picture she made in her neutraktinted dress, with a Cluster of lilies-oé-the- valley clinging like living things to her white throat, Her hair Was worn in a sumptuous coil at the back of her head, a branchlet' of green, which she wrenched from the mountain ash as she hurried out, carelessly placed therein. AS she stepped on the piazza, Vane, who had been lounging in an easy-Cchair, his feet resting on the rail- ing, jumped up and greeted her. flinging into the lush grass below the fragrant post-prandial cigar at which he had been puffing. “You have ventured out finally,” he said, his voice taking on atouchof tenderness, as it always did when addressing her, ‘Were you tagged out with your jour- ney thet you rendered yourself invisible for such an end- less time ?” . “Indeed, no,” she laughed; ‘I feel as fresh as that Sweet-throated songster in the tree. A journey never tires me. I was born and bred in the country. Iama rustic in full, and a half-day’s tramp upthe mountains or a ride of ten miles on horseback would not hurt me.” : “J am delighted with your remark. I have no pa- tience with those superlatively helpless ladies who are eternally entering complaints and cannot wait on them- selves. How do you think you will like Sharon ?” “Oh, very much. A more desirable location for a ho- tel than the Pavilion possesses could scarcely be select- ed. The views are fine, the air is Salubrieus and life- giving, and there are romantic nooks and crannies in its neighborhood which I intend to explore at my earli- est convenience. I have a curiosity to quaff a glass of the mineral water Sharon is so celebrated tor.” “You have? Well, get something to shield your head from the sunlight, and we’ll wend our way ih the direc- tion of the springs. That is,” he added, “if you care to «Of course I care.” She disappeared in the house returning directly with a parasol, and unturling it, they started on their way. it was all down hill, the walk well shaded by stately maples. The park was alive with people, and under the covering of the Sulphur Springs quite a crowd was gath- ered, each one waiting impatiently his turn to taste the crystal clear water the boy was dipping up. Inthe fan- tastic pagoda under the circle of drooping elms, the band was playing the sad, passionate music of Verdi’s “‘Miserere.” The omnibuses were returning with their freight of diseased humanity— those grievously afflicted with rheumatism, erysipelas,: and the like, who had been indulging in a bath; and’under the spout, whose waters rushed out of a rock-bedded hill, an aged man was ducking his bald pate, and rubbing it vigorously, as ifit were his settled belief that by so doing he would bring back the luxuriant crop of hair that originally graced his cranium. Two or three timid ladies stood by, catching a handful of the sparkling drops occasionally, as the old man stepped back to take breath, and dash- ing them in their weak, purblind eyes. “kn passant, it reminds one of the Pool of Bethesda and the River Jordon, Miss Huntley,” Vane remarked, as he handed her a glass of sulphur water. ‘Are those people gullible enough to give credence to the tales told them by their medical advisers? Unheard of curative properties must lurk in that spring at which the mis- erable male is bobbing his hairless pate, and those tim- orous females are bathing their dim-sighted eyes, judg- ing by the avidity with which they seize the glittering drops. I don’t wonder Sharon has such a reputation, if the ‘halt, and lame, and blind’ are cured by the copious use of the waters. The lame, who come here with crutches, not able to take astep alone, waik away with- out them; those who wear wigs throw them to one side, or burn them up, and delight in a crop of hair of nature’s own bestowing; and the blind have their sight restored. Don’t you relish the water, Miss Huntley ?” as she made a wry grimace in gulping it down. “Not at all,” she laughed; ‘it is bitter-tasting, and smells disagreeably. 1 do not fancy it.” “Humph !” commented he, swallowing his glassful in a succession of dyspeptic-breeding gulps, ‘‘I rather like it. Another glass, boy,” dropping him a silver coin. “Come, Miss Huntley,” after he had drained the second glass to the last drop, ‘‘let’s stroll up in the shade and near the band play. Stay! what unique basket-ware that comely Indian displays. I must step in his tent and purchase a cane to help me up the steep hills envi- roning Sharon. What an array of baskets and fans! Lucy will be delighted; they are exceedingly pretty.” ‘ - founded chattering, like magpies; but you—you are as | ' stream; it darts at falls ten or twelve feet high, leaps ‘the high and safe waters, that in some localities nets are «<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. He selected a cane, some baskets and fans, and they wandered nearer the pagoda, in which the band was discoursing a lively air. A vacant seat under an elm at- tracted Vane’s attention. “We mightas well-sit while drinking in the music,” he laughed. ‘“‘Miss Huntley, which is the prettiest fan in my hand?” and he held out three. She criticised them with the eye of a connoisseur. “This suits me the best,” she said, finally, pointing to a bizarre thing with a queer admixture of colors. ‘Phen allow me to present it to you,” with a slight bow; “it was evidently designed for a lady from the Orient. Nay,” as she drew back, ‘‘don’t repulse me: it is Only a trivial gift, and I want to see it in your hands.” she accepted it without demur, merely observing : “It is remarkably pretty, but I would be satisfied with either of the others. Mrs. Northrup might prefer this.” “No, it would look out of place in Lucy’s hands. This yhite one, with the pale blue splints running through, ore suitable for her; while this delicate pink and thing will show off to advantage in Miss Gran- ; white hand. By the way, Miss Huntley, my sis- ; Ttriend is one of New York’s most popular belles. J men rave about her pink and white prettiness, her yellow hair, her graceful ways. she is very lovely,” admitted Hope, as she wielded her fan with the coquettish grace of a Spanishlady. © <—_____—_ (WHIS SLORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] OR, 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 VIII. A NARROW ESCAPE. “Come to my cabin, every Officer, at once!” was the |_ next order given by Scar-Brow. The schooner was now heading toward the frigate, which was but little more than a long gun-shot to windward. Ten minutes later the boy buccaneer and each of his officers appeared on deck in the gay and glittering uni- | forms used by the French naval officers of that day. The crew were ordered to take from a slop-chest glazed caps, and blue shirts trimmed with white, to make them look uniform also. down ‘toward the schooner, and the latter, with a man-of. war pennant flying, all her huge sails barely filling as | she lay close-hauled to the wind, moved sluggishly up to meet the frigate, her officers and crew seeming to be idling about her deck, though really every gun was | double-shotted, every man prepared for action at a’sec- ond’s notice. And rash though the odds were, there was not an officer or man who was not ready to die at his | post rather than surrender to meet a buccaneer’s uni- versal doom. Leaving the brigs far alee, the swift schooner crept up | to the frigate, which with all sail set stood down square before the, wind. ’ As they neared the great vessel, with its black guns | peering out from over sixty port holes, an officer, with a | great brazen speaking-trumpet in his hand, hailed’ trom | the upper deck of the frigate. | “Schooner ahoy! Where are you from, and whither bound ?” . “Je ne parlez Anglais!” replied Sear-Brow, with a good Freneh twang through his trumpet, «What in thunder do you say ?”” shouted the English- man. ; . “Je ne vous convprenez!”’ shrieked Scar-Brow at the top of his voice, as his schooner, now astern of the frigate, dashed on with a freshening breeze. “Heave to, we'll send a boat on board!” yelled the no answer, telling his helmsman to 3 i IS and give the craft | His vards Blt BO & now fulla Still she w : the trigate 0 ( ie Ale oe ee A shotted gun fired from the frigate threw up the spray just to windward of him. ' It was asignal no nation could. misunderstand, and said as plainly as words could” speak : ; Pr Hleave to, or I'll fire into you!” | At that instant Captain Francis shouted : “Drop peaks, let go all sheets and halliards! Haul | down and roll up sails! Work for your lives, men—for | your lives, I say!” : As the crew sprang to obey his orders, he pointed to a | small cloud, blacker than night, sweeping down upon | them with fearful celerity. “That squall will save us,” he said, as the canvas | came down as quick as thought, and was strapped to | the spars by ready hands. | The captain of the frigate seemed to think he had ter- | rified the supposed Frenchman into obedience to his | summons, and he did not fire again. But soon as the “white-squall,” so termed, came sweeping down, lash- a | | schooner waited for it under bare spars, and began in all haste to take in his own Canvas. He was too late. While the squall left the almost in- visible schooner unharmed, it struck him with his can- rible was the result. His huge hull seemed to careen till the lee guns were all under water, while sails and spars were torn away before the blast, and the bright copper of her bottom shone like gold in the flashes of lightning which broke through the ebon cloud. “Great Heaven! The frigate is on her beam-ends— she will fill and founder !” eried Scar-Brow as he saw the reeling wreck go over more and more. One more enemy out of the way: She would have had no mercy on us, if once her broadside had opened on us!” said Captain Francis, quietly, as their schooner, even under bare spars, drove swiftly toward the helpless ship. t would not rejoice to see even an enemy—her offi- cers ana crew of brave men—perish in that way!’ said Scar-Brow, atinge of sadness in histone. ‘Ah! there she goes !” : It was true. All her ports open for action, and most likely her hatches open as well, the ship seemed to fill, for with one sullen plunge forward she went down so quickly that scarcely a minute passed ere she was out of sight. “The worst of the squall isover. We must get on canvas enough to hold our own or we'll be down upon the brigs of war who took in sail and are safe !” said Francis. ; “You are right, good captain! Your quick foresight has saved our noble craft to-day!” cried Scar-Brow, speaking so that the crew could all hear his words of raise. P Soon a close-reefed mainsail and fore staysail were | hoisted on the schoofer, and with this aid she came up | to the wind and made some headway, while the young | chief looked with his glass at the other vessels in the | British fleet. | The seventy-four gun ship, or three decker, had been | | partially dismasted and seemed to be in a bad condition, | still driving before the wind. ‘The brigs had seen the coming squal in time and were under bare spars when it reached them. They seemed to have lost some light upper spars, but began to make sail soon after the schooner had canvas aloft. “They'd scrape a closer acquaintance, if they could, with us!” said Captain, Francis, as he saw the brigs } making all the sail they dared to carry, and hauling | up a-wind. : “The gale lessens; put on more canvas, There is! nothing to be made out of them!” said Scar-Brow. Soon the schooner, under a press of Sail, began to} draw ahead swiftly, and the brigs were left so far astern | in a little while that they headed for the three-decker, | and left the War-Eagle the freedom of the sea. | French uniforms, and once more were like themselves. | The French flag was hauled down, and as no vessel was | near, no other flag took its place. | Again, under all the sail she could carry, the War- Eagle bore away on the course laid out by her young commander. Thus, for the present, we leave her. | CHAPTER IX. | CAPTAIN RAOUL’S PLAN. Losing his first and second officers, both splendid sea- men and good navigators, placed Captain Raoul of the Vulture in aquandary. He had good seamen among the desperate men left in his crew, but none, who under- standing navigation, could fill the places of the assas- sins who had fallen before the iron will and steady hand | of Scar-Brow. .ed to go to sea with him, he was too much pleased to! think for a moment of there being any sinister object in | the offer. He knew they were good navigators and | He who gives himself airs of importance exhibits the credentials of impoteuce. brave men; therefore he at once made them his first | and second officers. | Slowly the great frigate bore | | by | Then ask what thou wilt, and I will answer.” | throw a fortune in your hands, and to ask your aid to Scar-Brow, his officers, and crew now put away their 0 Thus, without his knowledge, there were two men true to Scar-Brow and the general band, who would keep an eye on all his actions and be ready to expose his treason, should he enter upon it. Grimshaw had sent them and had told them how to act. Between him and them there were signals understood to be used night or day to ex- pose intended treachery. When the buccaneer fleet had got outside their harbor on the open sea on the morning when Scar-Brow led the way, each captain opened a sealed letter in which was written the route he was to take in the coming cruise. When, in the presence of his two officers, Captain Raoul opened and readphis orders, he was told to cruise along the main or the northern coast of the Spanish possessions south of Los Roques and entering some small, unfrequented harbor as near the rich city of Caraccas as he could get, to see in person, or by some very trusty agent, what was its strength and means of defense, and if its nearest harbor, Laguyra, could be en- tered easily by the united fleet should a descent be meditated. Every castle, every battery in and about the city and seaport was to be examined, the strength and garrison noted, and all necessary information gained. This done, the Vulture was to resume her cruise, take all the prizes she could, and meet the fleet at the time named for a general rendezvous at their stronghold of Los Roques. The keen eyes of the old villain flashed as he read these orders. A plan to make his own fortune by betraying the hated boy buccaneer instantly presented itself in his depraved and wicked mind. He knew that the governor-general of that part of Spanish America had his headquarters in a grand palace at Caraccas, where he held. almost regal sway. Also, that at Laguyra, the nearest seaport four leagues away, Spanish armed ships were always anchored, the nucleus of their fleet being in the Carib- bean sea. | If he could make a bargain which would assure his | own safety and treasure enough to glut his ravenous rapacity, he would betray Los Roques and its defenders, so that Scar-Brow and the rest on returning would slip into a trap from which they could not escape. Of this he dared net say anything to another. so dangerous he kne@-wvere best kept at home. So he bore away toward the southern coast, simply acting as if he would closely follow his instructions. Knowing of a narrow and well hidden lagoon some leagues north of Laguyra, in which his sloop could lay concealed for weeks if he so chose, because if was bor- dered on either side by dense and impenetrable wood- ed swamps, he steered tor it, and on his fifth day out made the landmarksiiy which he knew where to find it. Entering this he told his crew that on no account must any of them show themselves outside until he had re- turned. He was goiig onan expedition of espial, which was for their benefit, and after he came back he would make times as lively as they could desire. Then ‘dressing like acommon seaman, he took the small yawl of the sloop, which had a sail to it, put in water and provisions, and started alone down the coast. He intended to play the part of a shipwrecked saifor, who had lost his comrades, until he got into the pres- ence of the governor-general—then to test his plans of treachery. In his yawl, a mere tub of a boat, he could not make | very rapid progress,$0 it was nearly night on the second | day after he left his sloop when he ran into the little | port of Laguyra. Many small fishing boats were run- | ning in at the same time. so he passed the guarda costas, | or armed revenue vessels, without notice, and landing, | found a place under an old pier to hide his boat. Having a belt welllined with doubloons under his | coarse woolen shirt, he took out the money needed for | his immediate expa@mses, and then sought the nearest inn to find supper and lodgings, and opportunity to lay | out his future field of action. Speaking Spanish well, he entered the inn, and ‘throwing down a .piece of money, ordered food and | liquor. a | Eating and drinking like one half-famished, he at- | tracted the notice of the landlord, who, seeing. an unfa- | miliar face, asked him who he was and whence he | came. | He told the lamdlord he had been a seaman on a | trading sloop, which had been wrecked up the coast, |} and barely escaping with his life, he had reached La- | guyra after niany hardships. What todo now he knew { not, but if he could see the governor-general, he had a | secret which he could unfold to no one else, that would | be of great benefit te him and the Spanish people. | The landlord listened doubtingly.. He could not see | what secret a ragged, half-starved sailor could have that | would interest or benefit so great a man as the govern- or-general, much less the Spanish people thereabout. © But he thought he would ‘‘pump him” a little on his own account, so he brought a fresh bottle of Spanish brandy to the tabje, and urged the sailor to assist him | to empty it. Ma eat : | Old Raoul was like his sloop, as stiff asarockina ale, and could bold his own with any man over the ttle, and the landlord knew just as much when the bottle was empty as he did when the first cup was filled. All that Raoul would say was that his secret must first reach the ear of the governor-general, and then he cared not who knew it. So the landlord, seeing no other way, offered for a con- sideration to interest the captain of the port in the mat- ter, and thus gain Raoul’s desire. The consideration, a Goubloon, was handed over Secrets “That is sophistry. But to business. If thou art sin- cere in this offer, go to thy sloop and bring her into our port of Laguyra. I will give thee a safeguard which the captain of the port will respect. And there 1 will meet thee, and with my admiral we will complete the plans. Thy terms are fair, and as revengeis thy main incentive, I feel I can trust thee. Man will do more for hatred than he ever will for love. Rémain the guest of my major-domo in the palace here to-night, In the morn- ing I will put gold in thy pocket, and send thee on thy way to any point thou mayst name,” “T have gold enough of my own, excellenza. And I only ask transport to the port where Ihave a boat which wili speedily take me to my sloop. Within four days she shall be at anchor in thy waters.” “Tt is good. Ho, without there!” An officer appeared in a second, as the door flew open, showing how close the guards were. “Conduct my triend, El Senor Capitan Raoul to my major-domo, and tell him to lodge and feast him in his noblest style.” The officer bowed low as the governor-general gave this order, and Raoul accompanied him from the recep- tion room. ; CHAPTER XI. THE SIGNALS TO GRIMSHAW. When Captain Raoul came back to the Vulture, he looked and acted like another. man from what he was when he went up the coast in the yawl. His black, gloomy, hateful expression had passed away. He seemed strangely elated. Cauldwell and Haskins, his new first and second mates, knew that some treachery had been planned, and that he was going to put it in execution if he was not thwarted. He did not tell where he had been, or reveal what he had seen, done, or expected to do.. But as soon as he boarded the sloop he had his yaw! hoisted to the stern dayits, and the sloop pushed out from her hiding-place in the lagoon to the open sea. Then he had sail hoisted and headed up the coast to- ward Laguyra. As he was going boldly into an enemy’s port, having at that moment his letter of safeguard in his pocket in the handwriting of tthe viceroy himself, he knew he must make some explanation to his officers and crew, or the latter would suspect that he had sold them out. So be- fore they were in sight of the port, but rapidly nearing it, he said: / ‘ZT have been at Laguyra, and even in Caraccas, and passing myself as captain of an honest trader, have got ermission to anchor there unmolested, to remain as ong asI choose. We will thus have a chance to take note of all their defenses, and learn the channel by which our fleet can enter when the admiral is ready.” This specious tale sounded. doubtfully in the ears of Bob Grimshaw’s faithful men, Cauldwell and Haskins, and as soon as both got a chance for a secret conference, they decided to keep a constant eye, night and day, on Captain Raoul’s movements. They were surprised as well as astonished when, with- out hoisting any*flag, Raoul boldly ran his sloop into the harbor at Laguyra, and actually anchored her with- in a cable’s length of the main battery, and even closer yet to the armed Guarda Costa, which bore the pennant of the captain of the port. \ When the latter came on board the sloop he was re- ceived by Raoul in person, and escorted to his cabin, where wine was served, while Raoul showed him his let- ter of safeguard. Haskins, concealed in his berth, listened to all that passed. ‘His excellency, the governor-general sent me a mes- sage which led me to expect you,” said the captain. “Ay,” Said Raoul. ‘His excellency and | have a bit of a bargain to conclude. We had agreed on terms, but he wanted it drawn up in black and white, signed and seal- | ed all ship-Shape and Bristol fashion. So he is to bring the papers here and we’re to sign, seal, and deliver.” of the port. ‘‘He may arrive at any moment and I must Should I neglect that, my position would be lost right speedily.” - When Raoul went on deck to escort his official visitor to-his barge, Haskins slipped trom his place of conceal- ment unnoticed and joined Cauldwell on deck. To his mate, the former quickly revealed what he had heard, and now they knew some vile treason to Scar-Brow and the band was being hatched out. To learn its actual ex- tent was now their care and duty. Not more than an hour passed after the captain of the port left the Vulture, before the sound of trumpets, beat ot drums, and a sulute trom heavy guns, told that the governor-general was being received with all the honors on shore. ~ Knowing through Raoul that he was to come on board the Vulture, Cauldwell this time took to his close-cur- tained berth in a dark niche in the cabin, where, un- seen, he could discover what was going on between Raoul and his visitor. : He had not long to wait. The mercenary governor had scarcely ate, drank, or slept since this vision of ac- cumulation had fallen upon him. For Raoul had told him that millions on millions of dollars in silver and gold lay in the buccaneers’ treasure vault. Escorted to the cabin of the Vulture by Raoul, the governor-general took a seat by a table in the extreme stern of the sloop where the light of the stern windows came in clear and sharp. by Raoul, and soon after the landlord introduced g amon Sanches to the shipwrecked sailor, and the oy or governor-general alone, and that he had a most important and precious secret to reveal, Raoul found it hard to attain object. The Spanish ruler was very pompous, and also suspi- cious. He never went abroad without an armed and mounted escort, and in his, palace was always attended guards, officers, and servants. - But his whole soul was engrossed in a love for gola— his whole thought upon amassing a regal fortune, while he could, so that in the event ot his recall to Spain, when some other favorite gained enough favor with the king to supplant him, he would be rich enough to need no favor from king or noble. ~ So when Raoul bribed one of his officers to tell the viceroy that in his secret there was untold wealth to be gained, the greedy ruler forgot suspicion and threw aside his fears so far as only to station guards within call, Oatside his reception-room, when Raoul was ad- mitted. : In Caraccas Raoul hadimproved his dress by visiting a Hebrew who sold rich garments, and when he stood be- fore the viceroy in well-fitted clothes suited to his age and vocation, he looked what he was, a veteran mariner, who had lived a life of adventure on the ocean. Don Luis Ruy de Gomez was small in stature, lean in figure, with a dried-up tace, but his keen, avaricious eyes shone witli a sharp and hungry look that fairly pierced the man he looked upon. : “Who and what art thou?’ he asked, as he scanned the huge form and weather-beaten face of Raoul. “Speak low; $ir Governor. If thou wouldst hold un- told wealth at thy command, let no ears but thine hear my words.” “Weare alone. My guards outside dare not listen. I ask again who and what art thou ?” j “] am known’ by the name of Captain Raoul. Iam an English buccaneer—one of the band of famed Los Roques.” “Thou? And here? Why, how darest thou pollute my presence !” “Sit easy, good governor. yellow gold—in thy hands.” - “Ah! Be sure thou meanest no treachery. One word from my lips, and thy carcass would be riddled with | bullets.” “That word need not be spoken. Dismiss all doubts, and hear me.” , ; «Well, speak on. But, remember, the truth—no ro- mancing.” : ‘I'm not given to telling idle tales or wasting breath in falsehood,” said Raoul, grimly. ‘‘Ten days gone by, I was the first captain under the great admiral of the English buccaneers—lron-Hand. Wounded to death in capturing the treasure galleon, Sancta Maria——” “What! Is she taken ?” «Yes, Senor Governor, and now lays a prize in the strong harbor of Los Roques. But let me tell my story. I came to put gold—tons of “Go on ; I listen.” : ‘ «“Heilived but a day after-our fleet got in port. Dying, his office should have been given to me, his oldest cap- tain. Instead, with his last words, he gave the com- mand to a favorite of his, a beardless boy of eighteen years, and, by our rules, I could not alter his will. The boy rules, and Iam here—/fere, for revenge on him, to sweep from tHe face of the ocean the buccaneers who uphold my upstart enemy !” Raoul spoke with a fierce energy which told the crafty Spaniard he was in real earnes «How wilt thou throw this fortune in my hands?” asked the governor. ‘| will explain, Sir Governor. Scar-Brow, the young chief, is away, and so are all the fleet. Every vessel is ff on a cruise. Mine own sloop is secreted on your coast. The garrison which holds the batteries and de- fends the stronghold at Los Roques is small. I can re- turn, and, with mine own crew, who are mine, body and soul, capture and destroy them without losing a man. Then, with thine own fleet, thou canst sail into the har- bor under my pilotage, seize the vast treasure already there, and, it thou dost so desire, entrap this boy chief and his fleet on their return and destroy them, thus clearing the seas of your worst enemies. The galleon Sancta Maria and her treasure will then again be in thy hands. These deeds, besides enriching thee, will make thy name famous beyond all others at the court of Spain.” “So! The scheme looks tairon its face. What is to be thy reward, Captain Raoul, for all thou hast promised ig, on his arrival at Caraccas, that he must see »to be delivered and n—the governor r was a duplicate. food by Raoul, each Drawing two papers from his pocket, embracing all i eee be on shore prepared to receive him with all the honors. 7 | near if those two men wear red scarfs about their necks, | If they do—they have discovered intended rascality and I shall be doubly on my guard.” AS the sloop came up rapidly before a fresh southerly breeze she was off the harbor while there was yet light enough to distinguish the men on her deck. “They make the danger signal. Twomen, only, wear crimson s¢aris,” said Elisabetta, whose keen eyes, aided by a good spy-glass, were quicker than those of the old veteran. ‘‘Well—we will hear more soon. Oneor the other of them will report at my headquarters as soon as he can get ashore.” “Let us hasten thither then. For if Raoul lands, he must find me at his cottage or he will suspect something wrong,” said Elisabetta, They had but just reached the snug barrack inside of one of the batteries in which Bob Grimshaw lived, when Haskins, dripping with salt water, reached it. lie had dropped silently over the side of the sloop and reached the shore by Swimming. For Raoul had given orders that no boat should leave the sloop that night. He expected Grimshaw would come off in his barge to learn Why the sloop had come in so early, and the were to seize and secure him and his bodat’s c moment they touched the sloop’s deck, and to tie gag ee Lope «The infernal villain,” growled old Bob. “What does 3 he intend to do ?” ; ta «Read that paper, which he believes.to be safely hidden & in his cabin,” was the answer. ‘Cauldwell made up a package to look like it and thus we have ¢jis in our hands.” i “Read it, Bright-Eyes—read it. Old Bobis rather short handed on the larning tack,” said the veteran. His eyes dilated and his face darkened with anger when the foul plot was thus revealed. He and his brave garrison were to be Sacrificed—the treasure to be yielded | to the Spaniard, all but the share which Raoul was to receive as the price of his treason. Old Bob almost choked in his first, terrible burst of anger. ; “Vl open on him where he lays, with every gun 1 have and sink him to perdition,” he cried. ‘ * board, and our faith and keen lookout have made his plans plain to your eyes,” said Haskins. ‘listen to me, and hear my plan.” » : ; ‘“Ay—hear him, He has risked everything to give you timely warning,” said Elisabetta. : “IT will, Bright-Eyes, I will. Heave ahead my lad. Let’s hear what you advise.” : j “Itis this, captain. I and Cauldwell h lied ourselves with strong sleeping powders. officers and men will be drugged in their morning but us two, who will know how to avoid it. Ra lways, has his coffee brought to him before he turns out in the morning. Thus stupefied, you can remove Raoul and every traitor of his crew tothe dark dungeons in the rocks on shore, where Iron-Hand used to hold prisoners forransom. There they can remain until Scar-Brow and their treachery.” “Good. The plan is excellent. 1 accept itandas soon as you make signal for me will send of m. ane to bring the wretches on shore. After that we'll entice the Spaniards in and sink them with our batteries when they come. You'll go back to the sloop now ”” Yes, captain, noiselessly as I came, for Cauldwell is on watch waiting for me.” | { “All right, my brave man. I'll see that all of Raoul’s share in our treasure-vault goes to you and your mate, when he swings, as he will, for his treachery.” Haskins now left. The paper he delivered to Grim- shaw was concealed within the doublet of the latter, to_ be exhibited to Scar Brow on his return. ; And then, sending Elisabetta home to rest, the ola capsain went the rounds of all his batteries, putting the caro on watch, and bidding them to be ready for work. ; After this he examined the dark and gloomy dungeons é V to si __ | in the rock, and had the locks Oiled; so the bolts could “His excellency is full of punctilio,” said the captain | work readily when he closed them on the prisoners he expected to make. He was thus occupied until near morning, and then | he called the crew of his barge, revealed to them the in- tended treachery of Raoul and his crew, and bade them look well to their arms, while they got ready to take care of the traitors. ‘ E AS soon as day dawned he saw the smoke in the cook’s | galley on the sloop, and knew that the crew were astir. so Grimshaw bustied around, and had his barge manned as if he intended to go off to the sloop—the very thing | which Raoul desired, so that he could seize and disable the man that he knew would be most vigilant to oppose his treachery if he got the least inkling of it. ~ On board, when his own coffee was brought to him in his cabin as usual, Raoul ordered cotfee and breakfast served to the crew in all haste, for, as he said, they had plenty of work before them. So they got their coffee, and so speedily did it begin to do its work that the greater part of the crew drop sound asleep with food in their hands, their breakfast half eaten. The plan worked splendidly, and soon Cauldwell and Haskins made the signal, and the barge came off, réady to bear the traitors to their fate. . Raoul, helpless and perfectly stupid, was first put in double irons and then the boat was loaded down with men in like condition. These were taken On Shore, and cast down on the rocky floors of the dungeons, Raoul being placed alone where he could have no converse with any of his gang when he recovered from his stupor. The double doors of strong iron bars were quietly locked upon him, and within an hour every man of his adherents was made as secure as he. 2 Meantime Cauldwell and Haskins, by order of Grim- spers. Then each ‘Swore to carry out, When this was done, duced a flask of old wine and two silver tankards and the governor-general drank with him to “‘success,” “J will now goon shore and Arrange to have every vessel in our southern fleet follow thee, so as to be off Los Roques on the day atter thy arrival there, when thy shaw, hoisted the signal at the sloop’s mast-head which was to inform the Spaniard, Wien he arrive om vie sia- tion with his fleet. that Raoul had conquered the garri- son, and that the Spaniard could safely enter. Cauldwell was to go off in a shallop to act asa pilot ~ sent by Raoul, whom he was to report as too badly wounded in the seizure to come out in person. When he got the Spanish governor in the channel un- der Grimshaw’s batteries, he was to slip. down into his signal will tell us the stronghold is thine and ready to be turned over to us,” said the governor. “Allright, excellency. [ will sail at once and put my share of the work through,” replied Raoul, and rising he placed his copy of the agreement in a small locker in the transom, hardly visible to any who did not know otf its existence. Then he escorted the governor to his barge, giving Cauldwell a chance to leave his place of concealment and to rejoin Haskins to whom he untolded the villainous plans of Raoul. with men of his crew whom he knew were entire slaves to his will—he was to secure or kill thé captain, Bob | Grimshaw, and his garrison of true men. Then he was to pilot the Spanish fleet into the harbor so that they could garrison the stronghold, man its batteries, and atter seizing the treasure to lay a trap for Scar-Brow and the rest of his band whom they were to surprise and destroy as fast as they made port. The two men were utterly astonished at the boldness and black-hearted wickedness of the plot. To foil it, | and give brave old Bob Grimshaw timely warning otf | his danger was to be their study and duty now. For- tunately they had signals appointed, which -they could ut him on the alert. to protect himself and his station. ‘hey knew very well that almost all, if not all of Raoul’s crew would obey im, no matter what he ordered, and believe whatever tale he told them. So upon those true men, the two chosen through the sagacious forethought of Elisabetta depended the safety of Los Roques and the lives of its little garrison. Fortunately for them, Raoul had been so blinded by his anxiety to conclude his bargain with the Spaniard, that he had not dreamed of discovery or any one getting a knowledge of his plot before such time as he chose to set tor its revealment. Early next day he set sail and left the port, into which many Spanish men-of-war had very suddenly gathered, concentrated by signal and messengers suddenly dis- patched to near-by ports where they had been stationed. Heading back for Los Roques, making no cruise in search of prizes, Captain Raoul was openly disobeying his instructions trom the chief. Two days later, when he was near Los Roques, which he calculated to reach by or before sunset, he ordered all hands aft. The time had come for him to explain in his own way some of his late mysterious movements. “Comrades,” he said, standing on the high quarter- deck of his sloop, where all had a chance to see and hear him. ‘You have known me long and well. I never asked one of you to go where I did not lead.” ‘Never! Never!” was the response. «You know that in all 1 do I will work for your inter- ests as much as for my own!” “Ay! “Ay! Wetrust you!” was the answer. «That is allI ask. And now when we get into port, or soon after, say by sunrise in the morning, I shall is- sue some new and they may seem to you Strange orders. All I ask is obedieuce, and before to-morrow’s sun sets every man of you will be rich beyond his highest hopes! Will you so obey me—no matter what I bid ye do?” “Ay, ay, we trust in Raoul, the bravest of the brave !” was the universal response. ; “Good! You will never regret it!” he said, and now, boldly, he being the best pilot in the vessel, and in fact there was no better in the fleet, ran his vessel in through the winding channel to her old anchorage inside. He did not notice that his first and second officers had dressed as if for a holiday and had bright red searfs around their necks. Bob Grimshaw had seen > ' them, however. CHAPTER XII. THE FOUL PLOT. Captain Bob Grimshaw sighted the Vulture and knew her when she was near three leagues away. Elisabetta stood by his side in a battery of heavy guns that were so trained that they could sink any craft in the harbor as well as cut off the approach of any enemy who tried to come up the tortuous channel. ‘Raoul returns early—tirst of all! He either made a big haul at sea, or he scorns the orders he sailed under and acts the traitor or mutineer !” Said Grimshaw, as he to do? ; “One-tenth of the treasure Lplace in thy power,” said Raoul; ‘‘and that to be paid only after complete success days as a Christian man.” “A Christian man, when thy life has been spent in plundering «nd bloody strife!” “Ay, excellenza! to mend.” But we are told it is never too late saw the sloop alone heading for port. | ‘eis a traitor. He can be nothing else! Keep every | battery manned, my captain, and trust him not. He Therefore, when two old seamen, who had long done | is yours. Then I shall leave these southern seas forever, | will smile while he stabs you to the heart!” cried Elisa- duty on shore under brave old Bob Grimshaw, volunteer- | and go back to England, where I was born, to énd my | betta. “1 know his treacherous ways, Bright-Eyes. I shall be on my guard. Before he enters the harbor I shall know it he means mischief. No truer, better men than | Cauldwell and Haskins sail in our fleet and they will \ signal if he is bent on mischief. See when,they draw The latter had agreed to return to Los Roques, and | he might be also the first to wake from its exhibit night and day, to warn Grimshaw of danger and | shallop and escape to the shore, while Grimshaw cut the Spanish fleet to pieces with his heavy guns. _ So close had the mercenary Spanish viceroy followed upon the track of the traitor, that Grimshaw had but fairly got everything in trim to receive him when the fleet, a dozen sloops, schooners, and the flag-ship, a huge | double-decked galloon, were in sight. ’ | As they came slowly sweeping on, Captain Grimshaw | paid a brief visit to the dungeon door of Raoul, think- | ing as he was the first to partakeof the dr coffee, ects. - He was right. Raoul, just waking, was sitting ‘ht on the stone floor of his cell, looking in stupee Li ment upon his ironed hands and feet in the. dim light which came through the openings in the iron bars. [TO BE CONTINUED.] ca —e<—__ PUISONOUS SPICES. Most of the pungent bodies which man employs as spices or condiments are the seeds of plants; but in some cases they are also procured from the roots, the bark, and even the flower-buds. Ginger, for example, is the root of a tropical plant. Such articles are usually employed in sparing quai to add flavor or piquancy to that which would be im:itself tasteless or insipid. A very large dose of mustard, for instance, would proye certainly dangerous, and perhaps fatal; a far smaller” quantity of cayenne pepper would produce death in ~ great agony; and a single drop of the essential oil of red known irritant poisons. Hence it is clear that oursense | of pungency still stands us in good stead as a guardian or porter at the front gateway of our digestive system, warning us against undue indulgence in these very dangerous and deleterious substances. Whenever any- thing natural produces on the tongue a burning sensa- tion, it may be taken for ted at once that to eat it in large quantities would be at least undesirable, and- probably fatal. So far as the plant is concerned indeed, the pungent essence is there as a protection against the attacks of animals; but, so far as we are concerned, the sense of pungency is there as a protection against the poisonous properties of objectionable plants. Nature is be said that hardly a poisonous principle exists in the organic world against which, in its raw state, we are terness, or its disgusting taste. It is only when arti- ficially prepared or otherwise disguised that native poi- sons become for the most part insipid or agreeable. >-o< A SAND RIVER. Thirty miles from Point of Rocks station, on the Union Pacitic Railroad, in South-eastern Wyoming, runs the waste strip known locally as ‘‘The Sands.” It is an actual sand river, with a veritable current. Ever shift ing, it passes in a stream averaging a mile and a half in width, from the far westefm mountains, and runs a course of fully two hundred miles, only pausing on the banks of the swift and deep North Platte. At the depth of two feet is a broad, hard bottom, and over this the mighty sand river rolls steadily onward. The motion is as perpetual as the passage of sand from the hour-glass. The surface of the stream is constantly changing. ‘To- day are heaped up huge billows of sand where yesterday marked ‘a deep arroyo: and to-morrow the arroyo will give place to a level, crawling plain. Inthe early days of the mining excitement of the Atlantic, Miners’ Delight, and South Pass districts,.a stage route around, and run mines. Over this shifting surface of the sand river the coaches passed in ghostly fashion, noiseless and with- out trace. The creeping sand filled up the tracks as fast as the wheels made them, and no two coaches ever crossed the rolling mass in the same place. ——__—__ > o~ Professor C. A. BRYCE, M, D., LL.D.. Editor Medical Clinic Richmond, Va., says: “Liebig Co.’s Coca Beef Tonic is a won- derful reconstructive and supplying lost nervous energy. In all wasting and broken down. constitutions it is the agent.” Al: male complaints, shattered nerves, dyspepsia and biliousness. “Nay, nay—remember my mate, Cauldwell, is on peppers is one of the most powerful and terrible of all _ not immediately set on our guard by its acridity, its bit- — by one Larrimer, connected the Point of Rocks with the _ agent, building up the general system ~ ar ae a. Also in fe- & the rest of the fleet come in, to try and punish them for . °° i ‘ Coes > ; 7. of ri j ‘ ' : ete | re a + a { : as 4 ise * | Pci oe eae > Bs full of such checks and counter-checks. It may safely a : \ 4 } a ¥ ay 3 § 3 aN 4 . Seen % A & j i ie, ft +f r ie t ? om - iss pa : 3 } : = + : } qj : ; ‘ . +4 . } % i 4 \ 5 > 4 t q : 7 ‘ 1 } t At *~ ‘ ‘ , *, prs Se PG a 4 é fa > i , oe. : s ~ +. bi tame. ee 2 enti . THERE'S A VALLEY I COULD NAME. BY T. HARNEY. There’s a valley I could name, Not so very far away, Where young lovers often go, Wandering softly to and fro, Nursing love’s tic flame, At the closing of the day. Billing, cooing, Kissing, wooing, With the fondest emotion ; ‘ - Young hearts swelling 8 At the telling Of a life-long devotion. There’s a rustic bench I know In that valley’s deepest shade, And the branches, as they twined, Formed a seat to lover's mind, Whiie the streamlet’s limpid iow The serenest music made, . To the cooing. And the wooing, Of the maiden and the swain - To the binding, : x _ And the finding . = a Of a time to meet again. There’s a pair that I know well Used to wander by the streams, Used to tell their happy tale While the suinmer-scented gale ‘Wafted sweetly through the dell, Lending music to their dreams. . Softly cooing, Kindly wooing, r Former promises renewed ; New ones sealing For the healing “You are a demon,” asserted Elfine, still staring, with strange, shining, wild eyes, into his mocking face. “You flatter me.” “Did you ever have a mother ?” she asked. St. Regis winced ; but he answered lightly: “J presume not. Idon’t remember her.” His confederate, Finesse, here entered. “How goes the night ?” asked St. Regis. “Allis well, I think. The watch* upon the Gorgles’ house has been given up, | should say. Mary is certain that the detective has deserted the ground.” “Good! Weshall have a grand orgie to-night. No need to spare the wine, for we shall leave behind all that remains. At midnight I propose to begin the journey home. “But it is raining cats and dogs, monsieur.” “Neither cats nor dogs interfere with my plans.” Here Pierre knocked to announce that supper was on the table. ‘ “Lead in the lady, Finesse,” said St. Regis. “I am | going to bring down my cousin. Pierre, you can escort the gorilla.” “7 don’t want supper,” pleaded Elfine. “Will you not do me the courtesy to sit at my farewell pa ?” asked St. Regis. ‘‘You will meet my cousin ere.” Elfine went on, in to the dining room; in her poor half-crazed brain lived still the spark of jealousy. Presently her husband entered bearing on his arm, Mignon, pale, haughty, cold, dazzlingly beautiful, still wearing the crumpled amber-colored satin dress, and the diamonds which she wore to dinner the night before last. He placed her at his right hand. The pretended clergyman sat opposite, with Elfine. Gregory. Gorgle had a seat at the table, too.” Perhaps Mignon felt the wing of death which hovered over her at that strange feast. Despair possessed her soul, giving her a cold tranquillity. Elfine did nothing but look at her and sigh. Occasionally Mignon glanced into the wild, wasted face of her sister-sufferer with a soft glance of wonder and pity; once only Elfine spoke, | looking aeross at her husband : : | fam his wife,” she said, distinctly. ‘This clergyman, Of some yet remembered feud. “| here, married us.” How those promises were kept It beseems me not to tell ; But her finger bears a ring, And I often hear her sing “Merry, merry was the day When I heard the wedding-bell ; : Heard it telling, __ Deeply swelling, Of the happiness in store. A true heart's love l asked—he gave— And I never wished for more.” —_—__—_~_ > @~<—_-___—_- [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] BACK TO LIFE. : By MRS. M. V. VICTOR. _[“Back To Lire” was commenced in No. 3. Back oum- bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] i CHAPTER XXXV. ‘THE POISON DRAUGHT. y Mignon, faint and feverish, tormented with the sounds made by Gregory Gorgle, roaming about his room like an imprisoned gorilla, chuckling and singing; so sad with the loss of her faith in her lover that she imagined she had no further interest in life; so weary with oppos- ing her cousin that she felt she should submit to what- ever new torture he had in store for her—kept her bed all day, while the French maid remained close at ha_ i, silent and vigilant. Mignon started with surprise. | of relief passed over her face. Was thisso? Was she, | then, free from her cousin? These questions rushed to } her mind. But as long as Gregory sat there, mumbling, | and snatching at his food, like a wild animal, ~Mignon j could not shake off the deathly despair which op- ij pressed her. | $t; Regis had only brought the ‘gorilly” into the house | to terrify his cousin. He had another pian for complet- | ing his revenge that night. It was not his purpose to | leave the country and leave his cousin alive in it. { It was for her benefit he had pored over musty and ' curious old books, where were recorded the dangerous | Secrets which had been wrung from the bosom of Na- | ture. If he could not have her, no other man should. | Yes, the dark-hovering wing of the Death-angel | brooded over that house. While the rain beat and wind roared without, within went on a mockery of feasting. | Finesse, the fool, and the dwarf ate and drank, and | made merry. No food passed the lips of their two lady |}. companions. : “Eat, eat, eat!” cried St. Regis to them. ‘‘Do you fear the dishes? There is no poison. no opiate in them, we ; assure you, for do we not partake of them ourselves ?” | Elfine never heard him; her unhinged brain was all | on fire with jealousy of that other more beautiful, more Something like a smile queenly woman, who sat there, sick at heart, helpless, | cold, under the shadow of her impending doom. Would the long, i“ trial never come to an end ? Pierre placed the dessert upon the table. Moving ; about with all the silence and watchfulness of a well- | trained servant, he, on this evening most particularly, kept a Sharp eye upon all that passed. He had been the slave of an exacting master. But to-day St. Regis, in a fit of impatience while packing his | books, had struck him full in the face and then spit in it. Pierre had been none the less obedient since then; he had taken the insult very quietly. He appeared devoted to his master during the banquet. | ‘Pierre, One bottle more of wine—some of the old | Sherry of the vintage of 1750. The ladies must drink my ‘health and von voyage. Positively, ladies, I shall in- | Sist upon your doing that much. Politeness will not | allow you to refuse. You have done poor honor to our | feast. Now pledge me in this precious wine before I bid | you farewell.” As for St. Regis, he was very busy all that day, pre- | . Mignon, as if impelled by some clairvoyant sense of anger, kept her eyes upon the bottle of wine.. It must paring for a speedy departure from the country ; his | pe like all the rest, for Pierre unsealed and uncorked it. faithful Pierre assisted in boxing the books and other | Some delicate, small, costly glasses were sitting before valuables which belonged to his master; and late in the | tHe lord of the feast. afternoon the packages were taken down to the express office at the station, addressed to a pier in the city, “Here, Pierre, give me the bottle,” cried St. Regis. When he took it, Mignon’s eyes followed his every |; movement. He filled all the glasses equally, and Pierre whence the sailing-master had been ordered to take | set them around. them to the vessel. _As the day wore on, and his goods were out of the way A —even his trunks having gone with the other things— | and no interruption came from any source, the spirits of the dwarf rose to the highest pitch. see - He had planned out a drama for the evening which would give him exquisite pleasure in the acting—such a drama—nay, such a tragedy, let us say at once, as: his s , abnormal nature delighted in. He had taken every precaution, if perchance inter- rupted by the officers of the law, to secure his own antes a fieet horse stood harnessed to a light sleigh in the stable; his money and jewels were all secured about his person; he knew aroad which would take him to Newark Bay without his touching the city, and fon there he could hire a boat or tug to take him to : ‘OWii voosci. ~ "ats a na He had given orders Ss prepare a banquet to be served at ten o’clock™that ht. At this feas ee 0 : pepo ee bring his cousin and Elfine together. ‘eé the Scene more painful to them, he intended giv- ing Gregory aseat at the table. Elfine he should tell that he made this a farewell feast—that he started tor Provence that night, and she was at liberty to return to her father when she pleased. - To Mignon he would say something still more hateful. _As the time drew near for him to expect Finesse with Elfine, he paced the library in a fevér of expectation.” Occasionally he would take from his breast the little vial of crystal poison, hold it up to the light—in which 1t sparkled like a fluid made of melted diamonds—and smile, and murmur to himselt : ; «This will secure her from the arms of that handsome lover of hers, or the embrace of that devoted friend. 1 cannot take her with me; I will not leave her behind. She shall pledge a parting glass with me, and pledging me, shall die.” : The day, after the heavy storm, had been warm and cloudy, evidence that the weather was not yet settled. About eight o'clock it began to rain furiously, while the wind whistled about the solitary house, rising almost into a tempest. - This will make floods, undermine railway bridges, drown people, cause accidents,” raved the huncliback, laughing in glee at the prospect. “If I should have to run to-night, I could not reach my vessel; but this wind will be down by morning, and I shall not want to buard the bark before that, evenifIam pursued. They would watch for me in the city, not’ where I shall go. Oh, what a comfort itis to have thee about me!” he said, roieite pos the little vial. Thou wert made ” said the gentleman from Samaria; ‘‘oh, Vm St. Paul.” The inebriate steadied himself by a final effort, and looked dreamily at his departing friend. “J shay!’ said he; “St. Paul! Did you ever get any ansher to that long letter you wrote to the Ephesians ?” ‘ The Mean Thitg. The dairymaid pensively milked the goat, And pouting,,she paused to mutter : “IT wish, you brute, you would turn to milk!” But he only turned to butt-her. A Schoolmaster’s Addition. When a village schoolmaster entered his temple of learning one morning, he read on the blackboard the touching legend: ‘‘Our teacher is adonkey.” The pupils expected there would be a combined cyclone and earth- quake; but the philosophic pedagogue contented him- self with adding the word ‘driver’ to the legend, and opened the school as usual. One Cent Invested in a postal card_on which to send your address to Hallett & Co., Portland, Maine, will, by return mail, bring you, free, full particulars about work that both sexes, of all ages, can do, and live at home, earning thereby from $5 to $25 per day, Capital not required ; you are started free. | | | and Sy Eare Some have earned over $50 in a single day. | Ir you really want to be liked, keep your egotism in the background. You can think as much of yourself as you like, and be just aS vain as you please, but do not allow the fact to peep out. If you are really anything or anybody, people will find it outin time. Sounding your own praises will scarcely help you much. Never Put Off Till to-morrow, to-day’s duty. If you have a Cold, Cough, Bronchitis, or any form of Throat or Lung disease, do not neglect it. Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral, if promptly taken, will speedily: relieve and cure all ailments of this character. Two years ago I took a severe Cold, which, being neglected, was followed by a terrible Cough. I lost flesh rapidly, had night sweats, and was soon confined to my bed.