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“WIR. GRAVEN'S STEP-SON,” a New ot

  

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#nterea at the Post Office New York.

 

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fintered According to Act of Conaress.

Office 3! Rose St.
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

 

Vol. 41.

in the Year 1885. by Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librari@n of Conaress. Washinaton. D. C
‘Se ee oe

 

 

York, December 19, 1885.

Three Dollars

 

WHAT A LITTLE BIRD DID.

 

BY EMMA S. THOMAS.

 

A little bird, with weary wings,
As it came from a Southern land,
Staid its flight by the old town clock,
And perched on the minute hand.

Pushed downward by its added weight,
The hand moved on its way ;

And to this weary working world
Ten minutes were lost that day.

Ah! little bird, as you winged your way
From that sunny and distant.clime,

Why did you stop at the old church tower,
And hasten the flight of time?

Did you bring a dream of spring-time
In your daintily sweet refrain ?
Did you sing of bright May flowers,
That should follow the April rain ?
Did you grow weary of waiting,
For the tardy coming of spring?
And seek to hasten the flight of time,
While resting a weary wing?
— > @ <4 -

{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

CARMELINE; | |

OR

THE CONVICT’S BRIDE

 

A Romance of England and Australia,
Founded on Fact.

By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE,
AUTHOR OF

‘The Brother's Secret,” ‘*“‘A Lost Life,” ‘‘Fontel-
roy,” etc.

 

CHAPTER I.
QUITE A ROMANCE.
A splendid bay hunter, gracefully ridden by a hand-

soba) ae

 

¥
oe tag ate

SOMS Tian lento ies rll pho spiag

 

Ae

by-road im pleasant Warwickshire. Horse and rider
seemed on, and they understood each ofver.

The equestrian was in the highest spirits. He had!
just completed his academical career at Oxford, not}
without honor, for though he loved horses, dogs, foxing,
and boating better than books, his father had provided |
him with an excellent private tutor, whose patient |
coaching had carried him through with flying colors.

Thus he wasSure of a welcome home from his proud |
father—his mother would have greeted him as fondly if
he had returned in disgrace. He had journeyed partly |
by rail, but within a few miles of home had left the cars |
and mounted a favorite horse sent to the Crown Inn by
previous arrangement. }

In pérfect health, never knowing what it was to want |
money, a member of a distinguished family, a favorite
with all who knew him, the world seemed a fairy-land |
to him, aad doubly bright on this particular morning. |

Leaving the public road by leaping a hedge, the |
young man was soon cantering over the velvet turf of a |
narrow bridle-path that wound among the magnificent |
old oaks and chestnuts of a nobleman’s estate. |

Suddenly the cry of hounds was herd—the sweetest
music in the world to a keen sportsman—and such was |
our young Oxonian. Horse and rider instantly pricked
up their ears, and the hunter, without a hint from the | Se sigs
spur, dashed intoa gallop. Even if he wished, the Ox-| ya, no time for interchange of greetings, for there
ford man could not check him. As welltry toreina were stiff fences to take, and streams to leap, and
locomotive with a pack-thread. ee eee ee ee h, and plenty of work in

The daring rider. was well content to let his horse | “tne young Coflewith was almost the solitary witness
have his way. The lower branches of the trees had

of that culmination of what rural gentlemen call ‘sport
been lopped away to permit riding in all directions, and

 

 

 

 

divine.”
there were no obstaclesin the path. Away they went,

eurving to the right and left, the cry of the hounds grow-
iag louder as they advanced. :

Suddenly, at a turn of the path, the horseman beheld
asight that froze his blood with anguish. A young
woman directly in the way; Tocheck his horse was
impossible—to turn aside, equally so, for just here there
were rocks piled up like walls on either hand.

He could only shout :

“Stoop, or you are killed!”

The poor young creature crouched down at the mo-
ment the rider struck his horse with the steel gaffs and
lifted him with the rein. What his feelings were as he
made the flying leap may be imagined.

As for the girl, she neither fainted nor closed her eyes.
A black shadow passed over her—she saw the glimmer
of steel shoes, and then she stood erect again.

ened up, but he said:

The rider had closed his eyes; every vein in his body .

was swelled to bursting—he expected to hear a crash as
the flerece feet of his hunter dashed the life out of his
victim—but none came. The horse alighted on the vel-

vet turf, andin afew seconds the rider had mastered |

and wheeled him back.

A vote Brorey, black-eyed young girl stood smiling
before him, she was plainly, not to say shabbily,
dressed.

‘You are not hurt, miss ?” inquired the young man,
anxiously.

“My father isn’t out to-day ?” he said to the huntsman,
Will Wimble, as he reined up at the close of the run.

“Bless your ’art, my lad!” replied that functionary,
after he had grinned, ducked, and pulled off his hat;
‘che can’t set his foot in the stirrups. Gout, young mas-
ter.”

“Ah! IT hadn’t heard.”

So he rode leisurely toward the fine old hall, which
showed its battlements over the forest trees in the dis-
tance.

Old and young among the servants welcomed him.
And, this was the greeting of Lord Herbert Knightly,
the son of the Earl of Elwood-—the heir of a great
name and a great estate.

The countess, still a handsome woman, welcomed him
with all a mother’s warmth. The face of the earl] bright-

The din-
and get
You

“Don’t take my hand—I can’t bear a touch.
ner-bell will soon ring—go to your room
ready. You'll meet a dozen very pleasant people.
had a famous run this morning, I hear.”

“Splendid, sir.”

At this moment, for the first time, Lord Herbert was
aware of the presence of a stranger in his mother’s
boudoir—a young woman, seated sewing by the win-
dow. As he glanced at her he recognized the heroine
of the morning's adventure, but she touched her finger

| to her lips, telegraphing her desire that he should say
| nothing about the occurrence, and then rising, tripped

**] HAVE HEARD TOO MUCH.

 

 

   

 

 

demurely out of the room.

«Not a bit, sir,” she replied, and there was not the |
| «Who was that person?” asked Lord Herbert, care-

slightest tremor in her voice.

“You must forgive me for the alarm I gave you.” | lessly.

“I wasn’t frightened at all, sir,” she replied, quietly.| Oh!” replied the countess, ‘that is Jeannette Wilson,
“J saw at a glance that you were well mounted, and I | an acquisition I have made since your last vacation.”
knew a hunter like that would make nothing of clearing |
a little body like me.”

“By Jove! youre a plucky one!” said the Oxonian, | the remark aloud.

Dluntly. ‘‘Most young ladies would have seized the op- As he went to his room he met her in the hall.
portunity to make a dead faint of it.” “JT say, Miss Wilson,” he began.

“But I am not a young lady—only a lady’s maid.” ' She dropped him a low courtesy.

Only a lady’s-maid! Yet she was pretty enough for a 6 ‘Excuse me, my lord,” she said; “I hear the countess’

F | bell.”

“Might I ask, my dear, the name and address of the—| ‘Oniy a waiting-maid!” thought the young fellow, as
the person I came 80 near knocking out of time ?” | he tied his cravat before the glass. ‘But, by Jove! she

You see the classical scholar often used the language | is pretty and plucky. Oh! you'r here at last.”
of the prize-ring. The familiarity of his address did not | This remark was addressed to a prim lackey who had
particularily please the young woman, and she replied, | entered silently, and was handing the young nobleman
coldly: | his dress-coat.

“There's no occasion, sir.” | “J infer from your lordship’s remark that your lord-

He mumbled out something about calling on her, but | ship considers that I’ave been unnécessarily dilatory in
she had turned away and was moving off, even while he , reporting myself to your lordship. But I was delayed
was speaking.

‘A very pretty girl,” thought the horseman, as he | luggage from the Crown Inn, and my horders was pre-
gathered his reins, wheeled his horse again and touched | cise. The moment the van arriv I driv hover at the
him With the spur. ‘‘What style, and what pluck! If} hutmost speed of the ’osses.”
she were a young lady 1 think I should get spooney;| The fact is he had sat an hour drinking beer with the
about her.” landlord in the bar.

He soon joined the hounds. They had just found the “Graves, you are an ass!” was the young man’s reply.
fox and were away after him, followed by a bevy of ‘Yes, my lord,” replied the lackey.
horsemen in scarlet coats and white corduroy breeches. Herbert descended to the dinner-table, and two hours
Many of them nodded to the young Oxonian, but there | passed rapidly away.

“A rather pretty girl,” thought the Oxonian, not for |
the first time; but he was wise enough not to hazard

| in waiting for the van to fetch hover your lordship’s |

 

‘\ NY) A ° >S
iia WN SXtiQQXQt{tttt IN

 

NEVER DARE TO SPEAK TO ME AGAIN.”

i
\

Two Copies Five Dollars.

Per Year,

forgetting to take down from the rack a heavy rawhide.

Whiffles was waiting for her in the paddock with the
dangerous mare—a beautiful brute, coal-black, clean-
limbed, with arching neck, and so small a muzzle that
she could have drunk out of a goblet. She was standing
quietly enough now, for she was a little bit afraid of
Whiffies, but there was a vicious look in the white eye-
balls, and something ominous in the nervous switching
of the tail.

‘Now, miss, be steady. Your-foot in the holler of my
’and—there you are! Don’t touch the curb—she’s ten-
der-mouthed—but keep a good grip of the snaffle. Pl
lead her a bit.”

Whiffies walked the horse quietly round the paddock,
then trotted her. When Jeannette became accustomed
to that motion, the master of the horse cantered her,
running beside her.

“By George!’ he said, admiringly, ‘I should think
you'd been born in the saddle. And [ never knew Wild
Kate to go kinder than she does this morning. I begin
to think the last lesson I guv her conquered her.”

‘Not so fast, Mr. Whifties.”

The black mare wheeled away from him, threw out
her heels at him, and then reared.

Jeannette was prepared for this. She bent forward,
and then swayed backward again as the creature’s fore-
feet touched the ground. She was not even shaken in
her seat. Down came her whip on the mare’s flank,
with a determined, stinging cut.

Whiffles was as white as a sheet.

‘Don’t, miss, for the lord’s sake, you'll drive her
crazy.”

Jeannette did not answer. Her whole soul was bent
on achieving her aim—to learn to ride in one lesson and
to conquer the wild beast under her. It was a terrible
combat, the mare plunging; kicking, rearing, bounding
sideways, the woman firm, seli-possessed, dextrous.
Whip and rein came into play. For a moment the black
mare stood like a statue, panting, flecked with foam,
her scarlet nostrils distended, her eyes glaring, and
then, with a sort of scream of rage, like a wild zebra,
she made for the fence, and cleared it in a flying leap.

Whiffles—man as he was—nearly fainted at the sight.
But he saw Jeannette gather the reins as the horse
rose, bending forward over the creature’s neck, then
beheld her lean well back in the saddle, and slacken
them as Kate was coming down, and lastly feel the bit
firmly, when the enraged brute struck the turf.

But Jeannette might as well have pulled on a steam en-
gine ; she was carried along the road like a whirlwind.

“A mad mare and a mad woman!” groaned Whiffles.
“Both on ’em will. come togrief. I don’t much care for
the ill-grained brute, but to think of that plucky little
woman losing her life.”

Away—away—tew steed and rider. The trees and
fences dashed by dizzily. It was terrific, but the road

 

 

|

 

‘

 

 

CHAPTER IL |
WILD KATE.

Among the guests at Elwood Hall were a certain Lady |
Fanny Westover and her toady, Miss Grimm.
Fanny was pretty as a picture—was rich— was accom- |
plished. She did all sorts of things—from Berlin wors-
ted-work to oil paintings—played the piano like Gotts-
chalk, sang like Malibran, came out strong at archery

meetings, rode her horse af the stiffest timber, and |
pulled an oar like Grace Darling. But she was no Amazon. |

 

In the drawing-room she was simply a dear little pink-
and-white angel—all but the wings—never loud, nothing
“fast” about her. She was an orphan, and her guardian
was old General Balderdash, who had acquired no end

of rupees and the liver complaint in the East Indies. |

She was the sweetest-tempered being in the world, ex-
cept to her toady. on whom she vented all the gusts of
passion she dared not exhibit im public—till she had
caught a victim in the matrimonial noose.

The earl and countess had privately settled that Her-
bert should marry this fascinating creature; indeed, the
young lady and her toady had been invited to meet and
saptivate the son. But the countess was wily enough
to conceal all her plans. She knew the perversity of the
wretched half of the community whose privilege it is to
wear pantaloons.

is visibly dangled beforexhim, however tempting the
bait. He must see the built, but not the noose. She
and the earl resolved to say nothing in praise of the girl,
but to let her make her own market. So Lady Fanny
had been invited to the hall weeks before, that there
might be no suspicion of an express purpose of bringing
the young people together.

There was certainly no love at first sight on his part;

words passed between them. Lord Herbert was nota

| plishments.

Lady | to the door, Mr. Graves being ordered to act as groom.

«4 little,” replied the young lady, demurely.
She never boasted; she preferred to prove her accom-

So a ride was arranged, and the horses were brought
To ride after his master was purgatory to Graves; for

he was a timid horseman, and the young lord a réckless
rider. How many leaps Graves had dodged, Creeping

| and cowed, her spirit broken, and she slack

She knew that, nine times out of ten, |
a young man refuses to put his neck into a noose which |

through gaps in hedges! How often had he loitered be-
hind, dismonnted, and led his horse over fences! But
on this occasion he was comparatively tranquil, because
a lady was to be of the party, and the prospect of a quiet
canter relieved the tension of his nerves.

Unhappy Graves! They had ridden buta short dis-
tance from the hall, when Lady Fanny said:

“This humdrum road is altogether too stupid. There's
acharming bridle-path here to the left—a favorite of
mine. This way !”

She turned her horse toa high thorn hedge on the
| left and topped it flying.

“Plucky, by Jove!” thought Lord Herbert, as he fol-
lowed her. He adored pluck in man, woman, and child.

Turning in the saddle, he saw Graves’ hat on the
other .side of the hedge, surmounting a pallid coun-
tenance.

“Come on, sir!” shouted Lord Herbert. ‘‘What the
duse are you loitering for ?”

“My lord,” said Graves, ‘‘hi’m afraid this hanimal is
not hup to such an ‘igh jump.”

“Try him!” thundered Lord Herbert. ‘‘Ram the spurs
into him and lift his head, you chicken-hearted ninny !”
| Graves obeyed and landed_ safely, though in his terror

he had not slackened his reins sufficiently, and came
| near going over the horse's head when he alighted.
Away went the riders careering over the green turf.
An unseen witness of the scene was Jeannette Wilson.

lady's man; he had no small talk, and was not particu- |

larly fond of society, though sufficiently well-bred.

\

{

and though they sat beside each other at table, few |
|

|

|

'

The gentlemen lingered over their wine, and were late |
in joining the ladies in the drawing-room; and it must}
be confessed that Lord Nerbert did not shine particularly |

in that-atmosphere and on thatoccasion. He had ridden
hard and dined heavily, and ! am afraid he even closed
his eyes when Lady Fanny was playing and singing.

When Miss Grimm was alone in the heiress’ dressing-
room, after the company had retired, she found her pa-
troness imexceedingly bad humor.

“Are you unwell, my lady ?”

‘“Headache—bored to death.”

“Talked at too much by the young heir ?”’

“He! He never said a dozen words to me. He's a
boor! No talent for conversation; no ear for music.”

“J remarked that your ladyship’s sweet voice lulled
him to sleep. Did you notice that ?”

“Yes; I believe he thinks snoring is an appropriate ac-
companiment toa song. What dosuch creatures exist
for? There—you can go!”

From all which it may be inferred that Lord Herbert
Knightly had occupied a good deal of the petted
beauty’s thoughts. Feminine nature is illogical. ‘When
we fly, they pursue.”

They met again at the breakfast-table next morning.
and Lord Herbert, who wes fresher and brighter than
the evening before, was more complimentary. Lady
Fanny was very sweet and very talkative.

“Do you ride ?” asked:Lord Herbert.

 

was clear, that was one good thing. . Strange to say, the

| girls spirits rose with the maddening velocity of her

| career. She was intoxicated by the excitement.
; “Ab yon ro *Ul ce tiie wort c2.ttin 3 2! oho mttores.
| between her set teeth. “Very well, you shall have

enough Of it.

And she plied the cruel whip.

A two-mile run at a pace that would have won the
Derby brought the mare to her senses. She was jaded
speed to a canter. it
“Not so fast, Miss Kate, your punishment isiaaiy
plete, ; gh

Jeannette plied her whip for anotier mile@
ip Pla jaar > MP Tare wa»rd, ’

Ws she rece tuto the stabie-yard, iusied an
she saw Lord Herbert standing beside Whites gas

Betore the latter could advance, Lord Herbemig
forward and lifted her from the saddle witht i
courtesy as he would have shown the proudest lady in
the land.

“You are a wonderful creature !” he whispered.

When Jeannette returned to the hall she met Lady
Fanny and Miss Grimm on the piazza.

Dropping a low courtesy, she said :

“please, your ladyship, you needn’t be afraid to ride
Wild Kate now. 1 have broken her for you.”

Miss Grimm held up’both hands in holy horror at the
idea of this creature daring to address her ladyship.

Lady Fanny was equally mute, but she raised her
glass to her eye and surveyed the waiting-maid with a
haughty stare, from the topmost curl of her raven hair
to the buckles of her tiny shoe.

Jeannette dropped another low courtesy and retired,
as if perfectly unconscious of having given offense.

CHAPTER IL.
& GREAT DEAL OF LOVE-MAKING.

‘What's up now ?” asked Lord Herbert, of hisservant,
one morning several days after the ride, as he noticed
an unusual agitation in the countenance of his valet.

‘Me lud,” replied Graves, with a profound sigh, ‘“‘me
’eart is breaking.”

“Then get it mended,” replied his master. ‘Hang me
if 1 allow any fractured hearts in my vicinity.”

They say no man is a hero to his valet, certainly no
valet is a hero to his master. The idea of a flunkey with
a heart seemed periectly ridiculous.

“Tell me all about it,” pursued the young lord, willing
to be amused while he finished dressing.

Graves heaved another deep sigh.

“You may have noticed, me lud,” he said, “a young
lady who ’as the honor to wait upon your ludship’s
mother.”

“Well—what of her ?” demanded Lord Herbert, be-
ginning to be interested.

“She’s hall my fancy painted ’er,” replied the valet,
endeavoring to be sentimental; ‘‘she’s lovely, she’s
divine, with hevery perfection hunder ’eaven, except
that she has no ’eart. My respectful ’omage ‘asn’t
touched her, and my bright visions of leading ’er to the
‘ymeneal halter, withdrawing ’er from. service, retiring
myself, and setting up a public ’ouse with a good run of
custom, ’as been dissipated by her peremptory rejection
of my ’eart and ’and.”

“It’s lucky the girl had no big brother to cudgel you
soundly for daring to insult his sister!”

“I bed pardon, my lud. [am not certain that I hap-
prehend your ludship’s meaning.”

‘J mean that girl is as far above you, as—as 1am
above her. A beauty like her, with refinement above
her station—marry you! and help you keep a pothouse !
Pshaw !”

“Per'aps your ludship is right,” said Graves.
your ludship any further commands for me ?”

“No—only to take yourself out of my presence. I
am sick of the sight of you.”

Mr. Graves retired.

“J came dused near betraying myself,” thought the
young heir. ‘So! Il amin danger of losing my heart to
a girl so low born as to have my valet for asuitor! I am
on the brink of ruin. This can’t goonso. I must go up
to London and forget her face in a round of dissipation.
Two women are beneath this roof—one rich, high-born,
accomplished, beautiful—every way a suitable match,
and undoubtedly in love with me—and the other a

“Has

 

“She knows the way to win him,” was her thought.
“The way to such a man’s heart is over a six-foot hedge
or afive-barred gate. Yet I showed as much pluck as

| this high-born heiress yesterday.”

She wended her way to the stables.

“Mr. Whiffies,” she said to the master-of-horse, ‘‘I have
an hour’s leisure this morning. You have often promised
you would teach me to ride, and Iam in the humor to
take a lesson this morning: my lady is willing. I have

the theory of horsemanship at my fongue’s end? Is |

there any great mystery in the practice ?”

“Only one secret, miss—pluck,” answered Mr. Whiffles.
, The girl smiled.

“Tam mistress of the secret,” she said, with a quiet
smile. ‘Please saddle me a horse.”

“That I will, with all my ’eart. miss. I’ve got a nice
easy-going, easy-bitted cob ’ere, as safe as a clothes-
*orse.”

“That won't do for me, Mr. Whiffles.
black mare.”

“What! Wild Kate? No, no, miss;
gerous. No woman thinks of riding her. Even Lady
Fanny is afraid of her.”

“Lady Fanny’s neck is worth fifty thousand pounds a
year ; mine—— Wild Kate or nothing, Mr. Whiffies.”

Was there ever a horseman without a dash of malice
in his nature? Whiffles knew that the girl would come
to grief if he indulged her whim, but he thought a

I must have the

tumble on the soft grass of the paddock would be a just

punishment for her audacity. While he went to put a
saddle on the mare, Jeannette went to the wardrobe
and equipped herself with a riding-skirt and hat, not

she’s too dan- |}

| menial; yet my heart recoils from the aristocratic
| beauty, and beats like a trip-hammer whenever I look
| upon her lowly rival. But I never will look on her siren
| face again—never—I swear it.”

| At that moment he glanced from the window, and saw
| Jeannette, plainly and tidily decked, entering an alley +
| of the park. He thought she cast a furtive glance in his
| direction, and recognized him ; but it might be fancy.
Away went his resolutions to the wind! He hastily
| completed his toilet, sallied out of the house by a private
| door, made a circuit, and then overtook the object of his
fancy.

| It wasin a retired part of the park, and she was seated
|}on a rustic bench, in a musing attitude. Her native
| grace was worth all the studied poses of artificial soci-
ety. So, thought the heir of Elwood, as he stood before
| the humble beauty, and bade her good-morning.

| She replied to his salutation without litting her eyes.

|

“You didn't expect to see me here.” said his lordship.
“Certainly not, my lord,” the girl answered, lifting her
beautiful eyes to his face with a look of surprise.
| «And are rather sorry to meet me ?”
| ‘The beautifuleyes were cast down, and the color on the
| girl's cheek deepened.
| Well,” said Lord Herbert, sitting down beside her,
| and endeavoring to take the little hand, which she coyly
withdrew, ‘now I am here, you must hear what I have
tosay. Jeannette, I love you to distraction !”
“Love!|—me!” she exclaimed, in real or well-feigned
surprise. ‘Alas, I never dreamed of such—a calamity.”
“A calamity, Jeannette !”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
  
  
  

 

 

 

 

 
  

   
  
    
     
    
  
     
    
  

 

   
    
    
    
    
    
  
       
    
 
      
  
  
   
  
     
    

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ciation hisses ripest

 

 

 

“certainly was no

 

 

,

 

 

‘“Yes—is it not a calamity for a poor girl in humble life
to attract the attention of one so far above her station ?
Is it not a calamity to be forced to leave a home where I
am rurtured, and fed. and liberally paid? Where shall
I find another place ?”

“Don’t talk of finding a place! It grates on my feel-
ings. Beauty like yours was never created to fade away
ina menial station. I have command of money—I can
surround you with luxury. Youshall have servants to
wait on you—all—all I ask in return is a little love.” _

yI have heard too much!” said Jeannette, blushing
deeply as she rose. “‘Never dare to speak to me again.
You are the heir of Elwood, and I am ‘only a servant—
but you have insulted. me—our relative positions are al
tered, and it is 7 who have a right to give orders to you,
nobleman as you are, arid menial as | am.”

She swept away With the-air of a duchess.
bert dared not follow her, ‘

At first he felt abashed and humiliated, then pride
and wrath came to his rescue.

‘‘Flung over by my mother’s waiting-maid!”. he
thought. Then he laughed bitterly. ‘Poor -Grayes!
he and I are brothers in misfortune. [laughed at his
broken heart this morning, and now, if this artful minx
doesn’t keep the seeret, vy broken heart will be laugh-
ed at inthe servants’ hall. The little hypocrite! she
only;held aloof to make me bid higher: But she shall
see that my passion was only a passing fancy. Tl pro-
pose to Lady Fanny this very morning.”

* * * * * * * *

“Oh, my lady, you can’t think what I’ve found out!”
cried Miss Grimm, bursting into. Lady Fanny’s room
without announcement for the first time in her life.”

“I only know you startled me out of my wits!” was
the sharp, fibbing reply of Lady Fanny, whose nerves
were steel. “What is it?’ she added, with a woman’s
curiosity.

Miss Grimm sat down by the toilet-table.

'«Such goings on! A disgrace!” said Miss Grimm. ‘To
think of that hussy, and of him, too! Well, Inever!”

“Of whom are you talking,’ Miss Grimm? You are
strangely incoherent this morning.”

“Ot Lord Herbert and the countess’ w

Lady Fanny’s color came and went.

 

Lord Her-

aiting-maid.”

“I saw ’em with my own eyes,” said Miss Grimm, whose |

tongue ran glibly enough now.
spying,“but [I couldn’t help seeing and hearing. Would
you believe it? He’s over head and ears in love with
her. When she told him she was jealous of you, my
lady, he said that you wasn’t fit to wipe the dust from
her shoes. Them was his very words.”

When Miss Grimm was excited she forgot her grammar.
When Miss Grimm was interested she forgot her morali-
ty. It was her interest to keep her ladyship from matrimo-
ny as long as possible, tor she knew perfectly well that
no husband would tolerate herin his house—rather a
mother-in-law than a toady! Now, while serving her
own interest in marring a match, she was enjoying a
toady’s highest delight—that of inflicting anguish on
her feeder. Miss Grimm was now tale-bearing, lying, and
inflicting pain. What more coulda toady’s heart de-
sire ?

Lady Fanny suffered martyrdom, but only the expe-
rienced eyes of her familiar could detect the signs of
anguish in the twitching eyelids and muscles of the
mouth. “ :

“Is that all ?” asked Lady Fanny, calmly.

“In the park—I wasn’t

°

The indifferent question did not deceive the acute do- |

mestic vulture. ,

“IT should think it was enough,” replied Miss Grimm.

“Tam going to practice my music,” said her ladyship,
rising. ‘It is unnecessary for you to accompany me.”

She descended the grand staircase with a firm step.
The music-room was deserted. She sat down tothe
piano and rattled. away one of Strauss’ maddening
waltzes, for she could not trust herself to sing.

“Bravo!” said Lord Herbert, as he threw away his
cigar and stepped into the room through the glass door
that opened on the garden.

“I was not aware you were fond of music,” said Lady
Fanny, turning round on the piano-stool.

“IT am not, except when you are the musician,” was
the reply.

“You are getting courtly.”

‘Don’t laugh, Lady Fanny, for I am very serious, and
have something serious to say to you.” &

Lady Fanny cast down her eyes—not to conceal her
embarrassment, but her flashing indignation. This
man came from the feet of a servant-girl to offer her
his homage! ;

“Dear Lady Fanny,” said the young heir, drawing a
chair to her side, ‘‘can you not guess why I have sought
you? I am a rude’fellow—more at home in the saddle
than the drawing-room—but I have a heart, believe me.
What I wish to say is this—to see you is to love you; and
I have seen so much of you that—that—in short, I have
lost my heart. Will—you—will you—be mine—my own
sweet wite?””

Lady Fanny raised her eyes calmly to the speaker's
face. ‘There was no blush on hers.

“My lord,” she said, ‘‘while I feel deeply honored by
your proposal, I must respectfully decline your offer.”

‘Decline !” echoed Lord Herbert. ‘‘Do I hear aright ?
Why,jI thought—I flattered: myself that my attentions
were hot eee eras |

£ ite at, SS_ tO. 1: TS z - lor

Treaty Was 10¢ aware that you wore Sopeaaliy wren:
tive to me. IfI had been, I should have declined those
attentions long since.” .
ae aken you by surprise ; you wil on

0

   
 

BBs

‘On the whole, Lord’ Herbert Ww:
been rejected by this stately beauty. He never hada
particle of love for her.’ Then his thoughts reverted to
Jeannette, and the love that might have been a passing
fancy, if unopposed, kindled to a devouring flame, and
it was the fiercer for the necessity of its concealment.

  

 

CHAPTER TY.
BANISHED,

Lord Herbert went up to London and passed some
weeks. Rumors reached Elwood Hall of rather wild
doings on the part of the young man—of late suppers,
aeeeree of evenings at Crocktord’s, a famous gambling-

ouse,

; Heicame back, pale and jaded, and had a private in-
terview with his father of long. duration. Mr. Graves
reported in the servants’ hall that the earl had given the
young heir ‘“‘a regular wigging.” Graves had never for-
given the contemptuous manner in which his lordship
had treated his love affair.

Some days after Lord Herbert’s return, Jeannette Wil-
Son was alone with the countess. She was a great
favorite with the lady from the propriety and refine-
ment of her manner and the choice language in which
she expressed herself.

“My lady,” said Jeannete, “I come to beg you will
‘Waive the usual notice, and permit me to leave Elwood
Hall at once.”

“You surprise me!” said the countess.
happened ?. Any ill news from home ?”

“J have no home worthy of being called such,” replied
Jeannette. ‘I shall not go to my brother, my only rela-
tive, but I shall doubtless get another place before my
ap stock of money runs out.”

What has

“sit down, Jeannette,” said the countess; “I wish to
talk with you.’ Have you any reason to be dissatisfied
with your present place ?”

“None whatever, my lady. You have treated me with
the utmost kindness, and [ have no complaint to make
of my fellow-servants. But I must leave your service,”
she added, firmly.

 
 
 
   

«24 THE NEW

 

 

 

 

 

that affects me as the fact that some of these are gam-
| bling debts. You are aware that, as you are of age, I
| am not responsible tor them.” i
‘T am aware of that, sir.”
“And yet you incurred these liabilities! A nobleman
| contracting debts of honor, knowing he had no means
of liquidating the claims against him! Such a trans-
| action among the lower orders is styled swindling. But
| perhaps you were discounting the future—calculating on
| the chances, of my demise—in which ease it was not
| SWindling, but speculation.”
| Sir, I entreat you to believe anything but that I made
| any such horrible caleulation. I acted thoughtlessly,
not criminally. Iam deeply penitent, and ] entreat your
forgiveness.”

“Herbert,” said the earl, more kindly,
to believe you.
creditors, but on one condition—that you solemnly for-
Swear gambling.”

|
|

“Tam willing

“Very good. One other thing. ;
gin your travels. A young man must see the world be-
fore he settles down for life. I have opened an-account
tor you at a banker’s in Paris. I have just received a
passport from the Secretary of State. If your ward-
robe needs replenishing, Paris is the place for an out-
fit.”

‘And when would you wish me to start, sir?”

«To-morrow morning. You will take the early train
for London, and will reach the city in time for the tidal
train tor Folkestone. Day after to-morrow morning you
will find yourself in Paris. I advise you to put up at
Meurice’s, where they know me.”

Under other circumstances, Lord Herbert might have
proved restive under such peremptory orders; but now,
guity of recent follies, his debts paid, his indiscretions
forgicen, he could only yield implicit obedience.g

But on one thing he was determined—he must and
would see Jeannette alone before he parted. Chance
favored his wishes, and he encountered her in the park
at the twilight hour as she’was rcturning from an er-
rand in the neighboring village. ;

He contronted her and forced her to stop.

‘ Jeannette,” he said, ‘sone word with you.”

“It must be almost literally one word, my lord,” she
answered,

“Jeannette, Iam going away to-morrow, to be gone a
long time.”

“Indeed !” she said, with visible emotion.

Yes,” he continued ; ‘‘I shall not see that fair face for
many a long day.”

“If you are detaining me to repeat compliments, I
must leave you,” she said.

“Mine is no commonplace gallantry,” he answered,
“though you have chosen to treat it as such. I love you
With the whole force of my soul.”

“Yet report says, my lord, that you led a wild life in
London.”

‘<7 did.
you.”

“And you are going away to try the same remedy
again ?”

“Not so, by Heaven! My love for you has purified my
nature. I will neveragain do anything that you would
Parents for I love you—love you as much as you
late me.”

I plunged into dissipation to try to forget

 

tiful eyes to heaven as she spoke, “How can you be so
| cruel? Alas! What have I said ?” we :
“Do I hear aright?” cried Lord Herbert, seizing her.
hand. ‘Is it possible that you do not spurn me—that
you give me hope ?”
Jeannette withdrew her hand. “ae
“I give you no hope,” she said. “I only ask you to let
me go—to pity me. Farewell! farewell forever! If you
have any regard for me, you will grant me one boon
Jorget me.” / x <
“Forget you!’ he echoed, and was procaeaing to de-
clare the impossibility of obeying her, but. shé was gone,
speeding toward the hall at.a rate that gorbade pursuit,
even had he attempted to follow her flying footsteps.
The next day he was on his way to London with
Graves, thence to Folkestone, and midnight tound them
tossing on the channel, in company with fifty other
traveling victims. ’ *e,
“Me lud,” said Graves, in an interval of pause from

’orrors as this, I should have presumed to hadvise going
to the Continent by land.” > = aes
is sb oe Graves’ geographical Knowledge was extremely
mited. : Eye
They arrived in Paris at a critical moment. Louis
Philippe in his dotage had defied the pO ieion: and a
political volcano was on the eve of explésion.. Lord
Herbert read the ns of the coming convulsion, but
Graves, happily ignorant of French, waS unaware that
the atmosphere was electrical. ~ a "
He was waiting orders in his master's

 

rior one-even-

 

   
 

ing. Traveling in company, the formal intercourse of

master and man had yielded to. something like the famil-

iarity tolerated on the Continent. = = te
“Me lud,” said Graves, ‘there: seems to be some kind

of a row in the streets.” = =. 2 sis
“Yes; a very uncommon kind of a row.” *

   

“A large number of people are a singing

otiier.”. ws
— “De i Brae AY, et A et
\ “<ATIG PR ieies continued Graves
winger. “a number of persons with’ tore
a cart in which there are bodies.

do M

       
  
  
 
 
 

 

 
 

dent—an

“Cannon. Load my pistols. W
| Street and take a hand in this row.” | shee Se oe

‘Me lud! me lud!” cried the terrified: flunkey; <‘if
| you'd honly hexcuse my services on this hoccasion.”
|' “Load the pistols, blockhead !” cried Lord Herbert.
|| Twenty minutes atterward, ‘“Milord Anglais,” warmly
welcomed by the reyolutionists, was cee on a barri-
| cade—tor just then he was a prof beral—and
| Graves, more dead than alive, loading his cavalry pistols

as fast as his trembling hands would permit him.
“By Jove!” said Lord Herbert, as he brought. down a

royal cuirassier from’ his saddle, «this is what I call
‘Lite in Paris! ” F ove

    

 

{TO BE CONTINUED.]
> e<
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

BACK TO LIFE;

An Unequal Match.

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,

 

 

AUTHOR OF
“A Father's Sin,” “Who Q@wned the Jewels,”
“The Phantom Wife,”-etc.

(“Back TO LIFE” was commenced in No. 3.
bers can he obtained of all News Agents.}

Back num-

 

CHAPTER XIV.
THE WEDDING GUESTS.

 

“4A sensible girl like you cannot be governed by mere
pos hg You must have some grave reason for this

ep.

“T have, my lady.” |

“Then I think I have a right to ask your motives.”

“IT do not wish to give your ladyship pain.”

“You have piqued my curiosity, Jeannette.” |
" Jeannette clasped her hands tightly together, and her
beautiful countenance expressed pain and distress,

“My lady,” she said, ‘I can refuse you nothing.
perhaps itis my duty to tell you all.
service on account of Lord Herbert.”

“You do not mean to tell me, girl, that you have been
So foolish—so insane—as—as—to fall in love with him 2” |

“My lady,” replied Jeannette, ‘I am neither so insane
nor so wicked. - But-your son professes to have fallen in
love with me.” i
ie nd you haye listened to him—have encouraged |

m ?” |

‘Never! From the first moment of his advances I
have repelled him.* But he persecutés me—waylays me
fortes me to listen to him. Oh, my lady! I'am very |
unhappy ; let me go, I beseech you.” :

“Not so, Jeannette; you shall not be a sufferer from |
Lord Herbert's folly. Of course, you know this pretend- |
ed love can only be the passing fancy of a very foolish
young man.”

“I know that too well, my lady.”

“Very well, but it is he, and not you who shall leave
Elwood Hall.”

‘Do not let me be the means of banishing him.”

‘Tush, ‘girl! “He ought to travel to complete his edu-
cation. It was arranged that he should do so long ago.
A year on the Continent will cure him of his fancy tor
your face—pretty as it is, and innocent as pretty. TI will
speak to the earl at once.” ;

“But youjwill not betray my secret ?”

“I dare not tell my husband that,” replied the count-
ess. ‘Now leave me, for I hear the earl’s step. I must
speak to him atonce, You have raised yourself in my
estimation by your frank confidence.” F

The earl and his lady hada long conference, the result
of which was that the former sent for his son into the
library.

“Herbert,” said the earl, when the door was closed, “I
ask you, as a gentleman, if this schedule,” and he push-
ed a paper toward him, ‘‘contains a complete inventory
of your London debts ?”

Lord Herbert's hand shook, and his cheeks crimsonea
as he held up the formidable document before his eyes
and ran over the items. fi

“This list contains all my debts, I assure your lord-
Ship,” he replied. «I regret deeply that the amount is
so large.”

“Four thousand pounds debt incurred in three weeks’
time is rather a high figure, even for an earl’s son,” said
his grace of Elwood. “But it is not so much the amount

And
1 must leave your |

 

&
¥

| life was beginning and that old things must be put

| pure, lovely, and noble.

| tle from under that dark cloud, he studied medicine to

The sun had risen on the wedding morning of Doctor
Emil Gerome, anda glorious sun it was, as it shone
down on a lovely world. Doctor Gerome was up with it,
busily at-work finishing his memoranda, putting away
letters, etc.; for, although not expecting to leave Belle-
fontaine for a single day, it seemed to him that a new

away.

How far away already looked the morning of his life,
although he was now. but. thirty-three. His thoughts
ran back to that other wedding morning when, in the
glory of twenty-two, full of hope, full of enthusiasm, in
the most select circle of the old nobility, scorning the
parvenu Emperor and Empress of their beloved France,
he had married the very fairest flower that-bloomed on
that ancient tree, a countess in her own right, a gir]

He recalled the bitterness of that time when she and
her babe, which never drew a breath of this rude air-of
ours, perished together, and left him half-mad and
wholly desolate. He thought how when he came a lit-

satisfy himself whether or not his wife might have been
saved; how tired he was of everything, how utterly he
gave up aspiration, finding his best company in books;
and how, when the war broke out in America, he had
gladly found it a pretext for leaving his own country;
how he had joined: the Northern ranks as an humble
surgeon, done. what good he could, and when the war
was over, had settled down in this retired home, deter-
mined never again toreturnto the world. But now”
that this sweet stranger had come to call his withered
heart again into blossom, to revive all that was dead in
his nature, it was in his mind to return with her, per-
haps this very autumn, to his own country, and there
assume his rank and place among men.

And so, with a glow on his pale face, a new light in
his fine eyes, he completed his work of arrangement,
and proceeded to dress himself for the ceremony, which
was to take place at ten o’clock that morning.

Mrs. Griddly was in a fine state of excitement that
morning. She had arisen at four o’clock. and been fly-
ing about like ‘‘a hen with its head cut off” ever since ;
for the whele wedding breakfast was on her heart and
hands, and although there were to be but three guests,
ee affair Was as important to her asif there had been
ifty.

Dr. Gerome had asked young Artichoke and his sister
to be at his house at ten o’clock. He had given this int

I will clear your honor—I will pay your |

“Upon my honor, sir, I will not tempt fortune again.” ‘4
it is high time you be-

“Hate you—you /” she cried, and she raised her beau-’

the agonies of sea-sickness, “had I anticipated such |

#

that Mignon might feel
own sex was present. ‘
As he did not state to the

vitation, they were both of them puzzled and delighted.

him the high hopes that danced in her fluttering bosom
and hardly allowed her te sleep that night. So they,
too, were dressing for their visit to. the mysteries at
splendors of Bellefontaine omthat sunny,autumn morn-
ing. "ak aan e ‘
Mignon was the last 0 oat he household to awaken.
When she did at last unclose those lovely dark eyes, she
t, her with a contused ex-
to one of long contem-
lea, ¢ vned like a
ike one who
recall. the
eled in that
he relegated
she slipped
ly about the

    
   
    
   
  
 

premelony gradually giving
plation. She sighed, and
child; placed her hand t
half-remembers somet
rest. Whatever mer
brain of hers, it was s0 y
it to the world of dreams; and, after a)
her pretty feet out of bed. and went
serious business of making her toilet. .
She put on all the bridal finery in which her dear
doctor had told her to dress herself for the little cere-
mony of getting married. The satin boots, the lovely,
snowy dress, the soft v e fan, the diamonds, lay
ready to her hand. Mignon had that instinct of taste
by which lovely women make themselves. still more
beautiful. She put up the magnificent mass of her

  
    
  
 

the sheeny white dress as if it had been the merest
every-day robe ; then she put on the jewels, and twisted
the long tulle vail. about her graceful head so that it
softly shadowed the delicate rose of her cheeks, fasten-
ing it with a single white rose and amond pin. No
dressing-maid could have added a ¢ n to her appear-
ance: and when Mrs. Griddly ran up to offer the cold
charity of her services, they were not required.

“But you.must wear tliis with your new silk, Mrs.
Griddly, . I asked my dear dgetor to get it for me to give
you;” and the glorious -~yolng creature,

housekeeper a chain to

gold watch. th
**She’s improvin’,”

she went back to her’kitel

this! She ain’t so much

   
 

} that person to herself, as
“to think of her givin’ me
£001, arter all—that’s so!”

When Mignon was. dressed she sat down by’ the
window to look out at the burning-tree of maple that
stood not far away. She was not much agitated; Mrs.
Griddly, in her rude bute-Malistic way, had tried, as a
duty, several times to put into the head of the ‘* little
fool” what her responsibilities as a married woman
would be, but Mignon had only looked at her. with won-
dering, wide-open eyes, while the remarks had rolled off
her consciousness like dew-drops off the feathers of a
bird-of-paradise. She was verytond of her good doctor
—willing to do anything old her to do—and as ‘this
arrangement to make her wite seemed to please him
so, why, she was pleased foo.
lovely as any lovely angel L re
‘With the curtain tassel, and smiling out at the red j
golden maple tree, it was’ not of the doctor she was
thinking, but of that young person who had twice stolen

   
   
  

  
 
 

; Artichoke. Presently some one tapped at the door and
as she arose to open it th was the doctor, who held
out to hera bridal bougtet of white roses an dwhite
violets : ; : :

« How are you in hea ;
ling ?”

** Oh, doctor, Iam just as
his face. e

‘Mignon, my own s\
happy ?” he asked, his voi¢,

    

   
   
 
 
 

added—‘‘ Have you had yo
atiently a little while
twill be less than half a

 
   
 

I must go down to see it.

_. clergyman every m
ovely you Took, this 10 x
this. dress is to. you, my
forever and forever bless
Mignon was touched ar

   
 

 
  
  
 

How

May" God

  
    

 

Se

   
 

felt certaim he was to m
said one word tothe |
Becreke * 2 * 3
~ Chaudia was loopking 1

     
   

a very encouraging swee
dropped what he was. sayi
little shade of embarrassment coming over his fine face,
‘began anew :

    
    
     
    
    
    
  
  
    
   
    
      
     
    
     
   
  
 
    
 
  
   
   
    
  
  
      
     
  
  
  
   
    
   
    
 
    
    
      
  
  
   
   
     
    
  
   
  
   
  
    
   
   
     
  

your brother—tor your kindness in coming this morning
this place—your family
have held any social relatior 12
being kindly willing to aid me in this. -

being.the only one with which I

ceremony. I have lived very. retired at Bellefontaine,
be more or Jess public—do not you, Miss Artichoke 2”
He waited some little time for his answer. He was so

the change which had n. takin
face since the instant when he had pronounced the
words, “to be present at niy marriage.”

She had turned pale, and then red, and pale again,

cused as her way of showing surprise.

“T really have not yet. fofmed an opinion on the sub-
ject, Dr. Gerome. 3
and she looked helplessly.at her brother, who had
started as if struck at the same words which had felled
his sister’s hopes, and whdé was now walking up and
down the drawing-room in his excitement.

“It’s a dused go!—dused bad go!” he was saying to
himself. ‘I might have known it.
by George, she did! I sawit in her.eye. What right
has that old mummy to such an exquisite ‘young crea-
ture as that?” and here, Barron’s eyes falling on his
host, he was forced to own to himself that Dr. Gerome
Was neither old nor a mummy, and that he had better
looks than himself, in some¢respects, and better man-
ners, Certainly; and the young fellow’s heart, vain and
selfish as he was, sank very low, and he felt. as he had
never before in his life felt.

CHAPTER XV.
BETWEEN BRIDEGROOM AND BRIDE.

Presently the clergyman arrived. Emil Gerome had
been reared a Catholic, but he was not prejudiced—the
rector of the Episcopal church of Babylon satistied him:

Then the doctor sent for his faithful servitors, who
came in, awkward, stiff an@ self-conscious—American

his philosophic wife in the brown silk, made doubly gor-
geous by the new watch and chain.

Claudia and Barron did not look at each other while
Emil Gerome went to bring itis bride; each was too full
of disappointment; each was looking too eagerly for the
advent of the young lady whom their host had honored
by his choice.

Presently Dr. Gerome, looking radiant and indescrib-
ably dignified, happy, and. high-bred, stepped into the
tee through an upper door, and stood in his place with
Mignon. ‘

The first sight of her glorious beauty was like a flash
of lightning in the room, blinding and confusing.

It thrust a sharp pang into the bosom of Self-admiring
and selt-contented Claudia Artichoke. :

Barron stood like a statue, gazing at her with still
eyes. She was not embarrassed, looking around into
the faces of the “little company with a modest, lovely
look ; and when she met the fixed, despairing glance ot
Barron, starting slightly, smiling, and then uddenly
growing very grave. :
To say that the small company was surprised at sigh
of the bride would be a faint word to use, Overpower-
ing astonishment and admiration, followed by burning
curiosity, took the place of the first shock of surprise.

Where had this beautiful. young, self-possessed, re-
fined girl arisen from? Nota hint of her visit to Belle-
fontaine had reached Babylon, She looked like a young
French lady of high rank in her elegant dress: and
jewels and her sweet, self-possession ; and the conclu-
sion of the rector and the two Artiehokes was that Dr.
Gerome bad sent to his noble friends abroad for a wife.
The rector had arisen and, standing before the couple,
pronounced the first words of the marriage service,
When aloud knock on the drawing-room door near at
hand made every one start and look in that direction.
The knock was immediately followed by the opening

 

vitation the atternoonybefore, on the impulse of a sud-

den thought, upon meeting them in the street. He did
not care tor their coming, but it had occurred to him
more contented if one of her

air the reason of this in-
Barron said nothing to Claudia of the more-than-angel

she would meet there, secretly resolving to. make the
most of his opportunities; and she did not confide to

golden hair in the most becoming fashion, and donned |

robed in her |
bridal attire, threw softly about the skinny neck of the |
iit was attache La handsome |

‘Still, as she sat there—
ae worlgsol dugseal, toying

into her little world, dawning upon her, a yision unex-.
pected and yet at once faiiiliar and welcome—of Barron

     
 
  
 
  

to what was beitg said and done, had his heart and eyes.| inte
on the alert for that extraordinary young lady whom he | dep

but about whom he had not | the
er who had also her own ‘pet, hig

Ll i) at the doctor, all her new |
hopes shining: in her eyes, and smiling in his face with |

“7 must thank you again, Miss Artichoke—you and |

}
j

—that I thought of you as | to

The lady whom | Shi
lam to marry would feel more at her ease, I am sure, if | Gerome.

some one of her own sex was present to witness the | yet—yet!”

1 ; “Is this all true, m

but the marriage ceremony I regard as one which should | very tenderly, ot the trembling girl.

She took her hands trom her head. |

i : : ‘No, no, no! .Oh, dearest friend, believe me!

absorbed in his own subject that he had scareely noticed | not say that you are willing to give me up to these men! |

place in Claudia’s | Doctor, you kno /

;
}

several times, and now sh¢/was staring-at him with a)
cold, almost impertinent Jeok, which he inwardly ex- |

admit, and

me ?”
France.

ing again.

ment, as
here——”

Regis.

 

you there.”

before him.

sion.

tohim by
Re, n

 
 
  
   
 

was Provence. it h
former friends should
“And I say it .
stranger, smiling all aro
that suave smile, underneath which glitter
“J leave it to the company. :
of my wife, Virginia St. Regis, and I learn that she is
living in your house, under an assumed name, and 1
find her in the very act of marrying:another. man.
Call that opportune ; I save my wife trom doing a wrong
aha ve you the mortification of wedding an-
other man’s wife,” and he smiled and bowed all around,
ad been uttering a pleasant
ein search of my con

 
  
  
 
 
 

purpose.

 
 
 
 
 
 

  
  
 
 

thing,

   

sey

   
 
    
  
 

“Is-u

    
 

trothed when sh
_| my eleventh year, by our

our un

 

we

     
 
 
 
 
  
  

   
  
   
  
  

       
  

|

;

  

said

Gerome’s.
he laid a ha

| ** Doctor!” cried the poor girl, with a thrilling sob in
| her voice, and she broke from St Regis and threw her-
Oh, yes: I should say so, of course,” |

sufticiently trom’

“What is

4 ‘Sa
as it he had

   

  
 
  

» W. a

en playfellows ani

erred) aid:
y Wit

standin

.

aris, an

The instant the dwarf-spoke tl
agony clutched at Emil Gerome’s ©
white, and it took all his reserved
‘keep from falling to the floor. ,
who gets-his death-wound. Mignon was not going to be |
( oing to lose her out of his |
his new hopes and prospects |

his—not his wife; he w
lite—utterly, entirel;
withered as if a fire had passed over the
“Lost, lost! Everything is lost! L
principal thought. ‘‘Mignon a wife !—anot
‘He turned :

 
  
  
  
   
    
   
 

his

‘this
poor little Virgime, th:

silent. |

There was time for all present to mark well his sin-
gular figure, his costly dress, the denion-beauty of his
brow and eye, as he stood, perfectly at ease, cool, polite,
and smiling, before them, ere Dr. Gerome had recovered

his astonishment to speak to him.

The rector stepped to one side while the master of
the house advanced a pace or two.
in this strange yet courteous intruder’s manner, he ad-
dressed him pleasantly :
your name, sir?. Have you business with

  
 
 
 
  

 
 
  

¢ cousin and

   
  
 

to

my

aived

     

   

‘he, mentally.

nd on her arm.

iD ‘St. Regis and. th
. By whatever name sh Is
at this is Virginie St. Regis, wife of this

curiosity were turned upo

«“Inopportune ?” continued the hunchba
tioning tone.

Never in all of his strange, subtle, incomprehensible |
life—in which doing evil gave him» the same pleasure
that doing good gives others—had St. Regis been so ex-
quisitely happy as at that moment, conscious as hé-was
In eyery. tingling nerve of the
strike down with one word the

some olactinne fret, kn
recal

  
 
 

 
      
    
 
  

  
   
   
    
  

 

  

nized* eyes

    

  
     
 
      
   

‘mental condition
princely but dv

( bad! . Forgotten
( Spend se Regis ?
1d others, I must show

    
 
  
 
   

at is.

Very well. Monsieur le docteur
1 will | you ihe marriage certificate, and my statements will
“all be’ corrobo bd

1 ‘OW, roborated by my
1 | Finesse, who. being utterly devo
fair, how rch,

  
     
     

     
 
  
   
    
     
 
   
 
 
 
 
 

the pu

| suc as it was. Was wrung by the scene.

‘;Married! This is an end of all,” he though
—Io } } t | fin’rers clenched. and his foot
to be present at my marriage." I haye-so few friends in | kiéx the intruders out of t

xe those words a

>

  

  
 
 

ned his address.

 

  
  

 

jest.

tund of

m.

 

to tha

ie)

  
 
 
 

   
  
  

 

esteemed

en able. to sheiter. her from

beneath.

  

 

head.

w all that.I know about
“Come, Madame St Regis,’
| back, approaching her, “you are making a comedy of
this. but my time is precious and so_is, I presume,. Dr. |
I have a Carriage at the door,—come!” and |

; myselt!”
interrapeed the hunch-

self into her kind friend’s arms.

| _‘:Come! Must I send for an officer ?” again spoke the
| Gwart, and his voice filled even the stout heart of Mrs.

| Griddly with a nameless dread.

|

But she liked me— |

 

besides, he was a bachelor, and so had no wife to bring. |

|
}

hetp to the backbone—Griddiy in a brand-new suit, and |

}

 

 

of the door, and the gentleman-hunchback -who had
stopped at the lodge over night came in, followed by his

Migyon raised her head trom the doctor’s breast—
«Whoever you are, I will never go with you—never!” |

««Come.”

‘« Sir,” said the doctor, keeping one arm around the |
shivering girl, ‘‘ have the patience to listen tome a few |
I will tell you something about this youn
lady which 1 have never before told her, and which
will make it plain to our friends that neither she nor Lis |
responsible tor the position in which we are
This child is as pure as heaven, and 1am above evén the
imputation that I could wrong her purposely.
necessary for you too, sir, if you are her husband and:
future protector’—here his brave voice trembled—‘“to |

minutes:

hear this story in order to understand the actions of her |

whom you claim as your wife.

stranger manner.

went on qui

‘«She was brought tou me on a dark and stormy night
by two persons unknown—as wretched a pair of vul-
tures as ever disfigured the face of the. earth—and of-
fered to meas a corpse for my dissecting table—ot-
I paid the price and received my sub-
ject—partly to’ get the corpse out of such repulsive
hands, and partly because I needed a small piece of the
brain for dissection, I being then engaged in writing an

fered for a p)

te steadily.

rice.

article for the press.”

‘1 visited my subject that same night, where she was
laid out on the table, fair and helpless. Before I could
make up my mine to thrust a knife into so marvelously

: piece of God’s handiwork, she gave signs of
life, and 1 and my faithful servants here did all in our
power for her—she revived, got well, and became what

perfect

you see her now.”

‘« The most singular, thing of this singular experience,
was, that the young stranger’s memory was completely
obliterated. While her mind was, and is the same as
before, she could recoliect nothing of her past life—not
her name, her home, nor even the language she had
I was deeply interested in this novel case—I
could not return her to her friends for I had not the least
clew to them; so I took her into my family,as a loved
and honored member—clothed her out.of the wardrobe
ot my dear dead wifey taught her all J could from day to
day, and treated her ever and always with all the _re-
Spect and consideration due to ler helplessness. That
I grew to love her is not strange ; I was lonely and aim-
less,—she gave new interest to my life: and when I
found that she was as fond of me as Lof her, Ita
to be my wife. Ido not knoW that any one can blame
me for that,” casting a glance of mingled love and an-
guish at his lost_bride, Who was! weeping, now, on his

spoken.

shoulder.

“I do not blame you,” spoke St Regis,
—she is a pretty bit of womanhood. I
know that her mind and not her hear

an Cie a ae noe began
one night in June, over three mon ago. Iwill venture | cw : j ; j
to say that an acquaintance was never formed ina | the hunchback, while Mignon flew like the wind around
This young lady came to me sense-
less—helpless—seemingly dead, wrapped in a soiled
sheet—and brought to me for what pur
“Here he noticed that Mignon was shuddering, and |
that her great expanding eyes were fixed on his face,
but he had to tell all in order to-exculpate both, and he

9”

  

t

ing twice or thrice with courtier-like elegance, finally |
straightening himself aserect as his deformity would. | ligiously brought up. :

| ‘ Ve; no ;. [never taught amore ready and brilliant
| pupil,—it was-only that her memory was obliterated by

Seeing no enmit

“My name, Dr. Gerome, is Regis, of St. Regis, Provence,
I have some business with you of an important
nature ;.so you must excuse this abrupt entrance,” bow-

“Certainly, St. Regis, lexcuse you, and shall give you
due opportunity to disclose your affairs, whatever they 4
may be. But you have intruded at an inopportune mo-
you may see; so if you and your triend

“Father Finesse of our house, doctor,” put in St.
% will retire to my study a few moments; I will see

ck, in a ques-

pores, he possessed to
oity and noble nature

«Yes, inopportune ; you must be aware of it,” answer-
ed the bridegroom, beginning to be greatly annoyed.

Despite of his utter ignorance of the past lifé of the
girl he was marrying, and his haunting fears through
the summer that something might take her away from
him, now, in this crisis of deepest danger his mind
didn’t touch at all upon the real meaning of this intru-
When the stranger had spoken ‘the names of St.
Regis and France, he had only quickly wondered if this
man had once been an ac

quaintance of his, or if he
wanted to make lis. :

n referred
WwW Several St.
that their native place
him that any of his |

 
  

pportune,” repeated the
dupon the little wou with
d his steely

Icome in search

-@ spasm of
heart; he turned
a. energy to
He felt as’ a man feels

was his
> .

; ago ‘that fair face,
shadowed: by its wedding vail. Mignon was gazing
eee at the hunchback with amazed, incredulous,
scorntul eyes. — ss swat 4

this man ‘ Mignon 2” he asked, |
‘that unteigned look of :

er Saw him be- |
that those not
began to
Warted in-

           

friend, Mr.
ted to his. duties to the
church, would not deceive you one shade in this or any |
natter. My cousin Virginie, here, and myself
when she was in her seventh and | in
consent and the’ approval of
wards we were. We have always |
d good friends, and a.year ago we
ne happily a ot months, when |
ent away, say g hat

Tr aunt in Pa: 3

 
 
     
     
  

e desired
isit to is; and, to be brie,
lave heard nothing from her, except that |

, i se, I found here and
-brought'me to this place and |
: Show this party the

proniptly took irom his |

he held. under: the doctor’s eyes, |
; names’ and: dates, and then
: lady in the bonds |
e now calis- her-

yet dark
Je read |
shuddered for his | Pao:

hild shrank from such a mar-

And this Was the comment of the others present—ot
| Baryon in particular, whose own poor, selfish heart,
t, but his |
pout ae with a desire to | eyes a masterly blow that staggerered and half blinded ~
Not so with Claudia. _A mean joy, a sudden triumph
find that her rival was another's wife, filled her soul.
e could not even pity the evident a

5 guish’ or. Dr.
All she thought of was: ‘I

«He shall be mine
y poor child ” the doctor asked,

placed.

Iasked he

«for loving her |
am relieved to |
t was affected hold a parley with Mignon through the keyhole,

 

she | ¢
o tear her away from him—tfrom | a
nant, dwarfish creature, who,-beautiful and
as. his face pronounced him, had
subtlety and cruelty lyin
through and. through, and s
3 darling—his gentle, joyous, loving Mignon. His | qarted through the door nearest
own terrible se
her which now
“No wonder the poor’¢
ess, When. he suddenly | riage,”
g, and with a little, a very |

 

confidant, and smiling his peculiar, fiendish smile, bow- | when she thought herself at liberty to marry you,—for
| Vinginia is a lady of high birth very carefully and re-

fouched in her mind, eb.”

| sone great shock.” :
“A very convenient memory,” observed St. Regis. .
The sneer nearly maddened tl
cited doctor. geen, PS
“You are no gentleman, sir, to e such a remark.”
“Tm a gentleman, doctor, and [ don’t choose to quar-
rel with you. I see you are a Fyenchman like myself.

  

My wife may have a very poor memory, but. I have some
servants in the hall who help ce it.”
Here he threw open the door, revealing to the gaze of

all the two hideous creatures who had brought the sup-
posed corpse to the house, ee ot
Mignon, like the rest, turned to look at them.

 

 

CHA PTER XVI. ;
A BATTLE AT BELLE FONTAINE.
Mignon stared at these~two people, shrank, looked
| again, asif fascinated. The doctor, vas anxiously
| watching her, saw the dawning of si arful memory
'in the swift changes that passed er pale face.
Suddenly she pressed her hands ov er eyes and gave
shriek after shriek, sharp with agonized terror, turned,
| threw herself into her protector’s arm, still screaming
and shuddering. ‘
|  ‘*No, no, no, no!” she cried, “they shall not, they shal!
{not doit! Oh, save me! Oh, Father of Mercy, saye ms
| trom them! Go away from me, thou monster! [ will
; not—I will not! No power on .earth shall make me.
| Ah, where is tay cousin? “Even he is an angel of light
| to this creature. Marry him! Mr. Finesse, have
|; merey on the poor girl who sat on thy knee when a
| child.
| her head dropped on the doctor’s breast and she seemed
| actually to be dying.
Gerome spoke to lk

  
 
  
   
   
   

 

“Is it thou ?” she murmured.

  
 

| pulsive faces arising out of her past life. “Oh,

| true, save me, good nd. dear friend!
| of their eyes! Oh, take me away.”

| tire your kind friends here,

take her out of Dr. Gerome’s arms, adding :
“My carriage is at the door.

| not quite sane—which accounts for everything. Indeed,
| insanity is hereditary in her mother’s family.’

| the slight fi hite robes, which he had been
a freak of inherited

| sheltering. as this true? ny

| insanity explain this young lady’s flight trom her hus-
| band, to a strange country, and there involve her in
| such complications ?

now ?

Had these strange-looking people been her jailers in
|; Some private asylum, and was that the reason she
| feared them so ? ,
| A cold, sickening fear that this | it be so forced
| open his arms from about the clin ri—not that he

loved her less, not that he pitied her less, for never be-
| fore had he so loved and pitied her as at that moment—
but it made him feel how little right he had to detain
her, to protect her against friends, who, probably, had
done their best tor her. ous Beet
| With a breaking heart he whispered in her ear:
| ‘Farewell forever. Mignon, dear Mignon! Be quiet,
| and go with “A te friends.” » rw
| Then the beautiful girl stood erect and proud, flash-
| ing about upon every one in the room fire of her
| great, dark eyes, and their blazing repro: 4 ‘scorched

ee doctor’s conscience, as at last, looking at him, she
«You, too, my friend.”
“Can I do anything for you, Mignon? Heaven knows

| I would give my neck for you tos that would
| serve you.” , eS 7 2 8 be ls
“No, you can do nothing for pag jbeen
friend, and I shall not forget ” WwW, no!
| can do nothing for me, since you willingly desert me to
the power of this cousin of mine, this man to whom,
indeed, our uncle saw me betrothed, little knowing ot
the kind of man he would make in f' years, Iha
done all, everything, to escape from his tor ig
| love, he calls it—which always takes pleasure in makin
' mae miserable. I,tell you, Doctor Gerome, I am ot his
wife. J escaped from the Chateau St. and from
France, to avoid that deadly possibility ; but his minion
here, this miserable.tool who does his will for plenty ef
gold anda fat living, was on my track, and thr
pee the power of those creatures who stand
there,“and from whomva seeming death alone freed me.

rr,

 

 

  
 

 
 

  
 
       
 

  

He d that marriage certificate. But, since you
prefer to give me up—since you believe my cousin |
| here”’—wit! superb gesture of. scorn—‘“rather than _

| me, I will _.Tne Virgin Mother, who has thrown

| me.”

   

are not his wife? Then, Mignon,
Will fight your cause. You shall

   

come Ww.
0

  

iO AsV O A
<6 to hey in a low voice.
6 would no move. ;
‘By Jove! we have remained here parle long.
me, Madame St. Regis, on the instant!” Still quietly,
but betraying the intense excitement within. «7

    
 

    

_quié
{ wished

| to enjoy the disappointment of your lover, but. the:
ger thant,

  

| Sweet morsel has detained me rather lon:
Come!”

And, catching Mignon in his long, strong arms, he

| him and the three gentlemen in the room. ~

j

| Claudia and Barron had sat quietly through the ng
| Scene; she wonder-struck, curious, and exulting; he
| fascinated, troubled, indignant, miserable ; but now all
| the heroism there wasin his nature came to the sur-
face. He made a dash’ through: another door, met'the °
hunchback on the portico, struck him full between “the

| St. Regis, dragged Mignon out of the long arms, whis-
| pered quickly in her ear: Baas

| “Itis I alone, of them all, that love you, remembe

/ faced the hunchback, who was wip :
| his eyes, where Barron’s diamond ring had eut into the
| flesh ot his forehead, and who, the next instant, went at
| his antagonist. with a skill and strength one eould not

| have anticipated in that dwarfish person, which, added ~
Oh, a0 to a vicious anger, made him soon the victor. -

The tfoppish. young aristocrat so@n measured his

| and for that he has credit.

| his favorite parishioner, Miss Artichoke.

| took no part in the battle. The Gorgles and Mr. Finesse

| were preventing Doctor’ Gerome from leaving the room. °
| The three were too powerful for him, though he did -

| pick up Mr. Finesse and throw him bodily out of an open
| window. However, the two Gorgles were too mucl for

| him, the, woman being stronger and more agile than’

| theman. She got her two arms about the doctor's neck
| from behind, and was shaking him. .- ;
Mrs. Griddly had _ backed into a corner, where she re-

might» get injured in the conflict. Meantime Jabez,

& | overlooked by the Gorgles, slipped out of a window, and

| came round to the assistance of young A Oke? It
| WaS just as he fell, and before St. Regis had t

to seize his cousin.

yelled Jabez to the pale girl, who, with bridal yail -in
shreds and her glory of golden: hair streaming down,
| was looking this way and that.
| cam’t hold him over three-quarters of a minute !”

| Jabez, with the momentary vigor of a giant, caught

| to the side of the house, darted up a private staircase,
| locked her door, shut her window, and sank down trem-
. eg but not fainting, resolute to defend herself. to the

a-small knife for trimming the nz

, both. of which she
hid in her bosom.

Regis attempted to follow Mignon,-missed her, and rush-
last three minutes had been lively; the hunchback—
usual, and had allowed so much explanation between

ance, and meant, in his passion, to have revenge for his
disappointment. Drawing a revolver trom his pocket,
‘he would
terposed :

“That will not do, St. Regis. We must not offend the
law. We are strangers here and at a disadvantage.
Since my lady denies that she is your wife, let us go to
the city officials with our proof, and demand her at the
hands of this gentleman, who illegally detains her. Ih
can’ be done in an hour.”

“You are right, father; I will do that,” and St. Recis-
returned the weapon to his breast. ‘But you and these
must keep guard over these grounds. No one must
leave the house. Gorgle, you and wife bind the wrists
and ankles of this gentleman first; he. shall not stir’
from this chair until my return. Mr. Finesse, you watch

When you see the officers and myself approaching. cut
his bonds.”

- Now Mr. Finesse knew the house and grounds per-
fectly, for he had watched them constantly for three

months—knew where the young lady’s sleeping-chamber
every inch of the gardeus and grounds of Bellefun-
“My wife is at present in her room up stairs,” said St,

 

Regis, as he went off, to Mr. Finesse. “Take eare that
she does not leave it until my return.”

Setting the male Gorgle to watch the windows from
the outside, Mr. Finesse went up into the hall to

 

already deeply ex-

 
 

Do not compel me—ah !” and with a long shiver

, called her aloud, soothed, ca}m-

,ed her, brought her Wack te her senses. ,She looked up .
| into his face with a faint smile. ;

| “Ah, this iS safety! 1
| thought I Was again in the power of—of—” and glancing
| timidly toward the door, and seeing again fhowe, re-
] ar friend! I shall die the
| moment their hands toueh me! I cannot bear the sight

“Come, Virginia,” said the hunchback, tenderly. «You
Come with me, sweet wife.
| I will protect you—-those ogres shall not come near you.
| Come, sweet one, return with me to our beautiful- home
| in la belle France, and I will torgive everything, and you
| Shall be to me the affectionate, joyous wife of old,” and
| approaching with a tiger-like softness, he attempted to

| I] will place her in it, and
| Soothe her at my leisure. It is my opinion that sheis

Halt ore Gerome’s arms unch from
re, in its w

Was this long-quiet madness coming back upon her

>

e

| her mantel around me so many times, will still protect

   

sent : hand, while the
mse Of loss Was nothing to the feeling for | minister and the two,Gorgles took up position between
agitated him. é US

| that, whatever lhappens,”. threw her behind him, and ,
the blood’ from *

| length.on the portico floor and lay there stunned. But.,
| Barron had done what he could in defense ef the lady,

-In the drawing-room the clergyman stood in front ot ;
Otherwise he-.

| mained muttering divers prayers and exclamations, and * _

holding back her new brown silk as if she were’afraid it’:

e agai
“cco : s £ ye ’ 7 3 : 7 :

It will be : Git eout, cut up stairs, an’ lock yerself in yer room

“Be quick, gal, fur I‘

ast.
Aiter a half-moment’s rest- she ran to her dressing- '
case, and took forth a pair of. sharp-pointed scissors and ~

| Jabez soon lay beside the young aristocrat, ‘While St.
éd back to the drawing-room. The whole scene for the
who, for once, had not laid his plans so completeiy as *

parties—was in a foam of rage at the girl’s disappear- *

have shot the doctor had not his confidant in- *

my cousin. Mrs. Gorgle, I leave the prisoner im your care. /

was, and where the staircases were situated, aS well as °

    

 

    
     
 
 
 

 

  
 
 

 

 

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ong

 

 

 

 

’ said the hunch

‘ ae piles of widening the

 

 

 

-But Jabez. who had now quite recovered himself and
was rushing back into the melee with a black eye, knew
a trick worth two of that.

In an hour the hunchback came with a constable and
posse to demand his wife. The little ey eyes of the
village officer were’ twinkling with curiosity. Claudia,
who felt faint after so much excitement, had gone into
the *breakfast-room and helped herself to a plate of
salad. Mrs. Griddly was putting warm water on Bar-
ron’s head to take the swelling down, muttering to her-
self, over and over :

“*T always said it—that little fool would make trouble
in the house.”

Gorgle, the female, had released the master of Belle-
fontaine from his bonds, who was able to stand erect as
the constable came into his presence and eared the
a of Virginie St. Regis to be given over to her hus-

an ;

Dr. Gerome smiled at his valiant manner as he an-
swered him. that the lady denied being the wife of the
gentieman who claimed her as such; but that he had

nothing whatever to do with her detention; it was the
lad oO had refused to go; that his house was open to
their search ; he made no objection.

-At this St. Regis’ olive cheek grew pale. He surmised
at once that, somehow, they had succeeded in helping
bis cousin to escape.

And so it proved. ss :

Dr. Gerome could not produce the person of Virginia
St. Regis, since the lady was not there to be produced.

-*‘By all the imps of darkness, you shall pay for this!”

, coming to the doctor after a two-
hours’ search within the house and grounds, which in-
eluded attic and cellar, stable and dens.
-. “Tf you are a St. Regis of St. Heals, you should use
sweeter words,” returned the doctor, smi gly. “T once
knew several members of that family, and they were all
gentlemen.”

“You would add insult to injury, sir! I go away from
this place to-night—not, however, to abandon the search
lor my wife. It will be at your peril that you shelter
her here. You have believ
half-crazed girl, instead of the word of a gentleman.
Do not act upon that belief; such.a course will be dan-
gerous. She is my wife, and, as such, I shall watch over
and > t her. Your intentions once were, no doubt,
innocent: they can remain so no longer, now that you
now she is a married woman.”

“The doctor made no reply. He began to doubt Mignon’s
S knew not what to think, or do, orsay. He

Mignon’s truth,. but only her apprehen-
sion of the truth. Might it not be that there was some-
thing wrong, after all, with that sweet child’s brain?
During his three months of acquaintance with her she

 
   
 

had s et sone fas mtal peculiarity, except that
some shock had blotted | ‘1 memory.
Now, he began to ask himself, would any shock have

produced such a result had she been of sound mind be-
fore it?
“Of course it would,” his own common sense answered

Atter a time, he said :
“Wel, St. S, you have been pretty. rude to-day.
sRemove these | >, if you please. from my house and
grounds® I shail glad to have my house to myself
again.” — ae
The hunchback bowed and retired, and in a few mo-
ents no traces remained of the,extraordinary disturb-
anee of theday.
The doctor, fighting hard to regain his tranquillity
and. not to betray how this blow had pierced to the
very innermost of his heart, led Claudia out to the din-

i

ner which had taken the place of the uneaten wedding- |

breakfast.

The young people had thought best not to leave the
place while the search was going on; after that their
a had insisted, with gentle perseverance, upou their
da ee him

' , acted as waiter, a part she was not ac-
customed to;

but all her blunders were set down to

_ excitement. Jabez did not make his appearance once. *

Dr. Gerome thought it no more than the circumstances
called for to give guests a more thorough account of
his acquaintance with the strange young lady whom he

eo Mignon than he had given in his brief sketch
to St. Re:

To say that Claudia Artichoke admired him a thou-
Sand times more than ever while he was making his
oo. statement would hardly be exaggeration, for in

story his own purity of mind and purpose, his gentle-
ness, his tenderness to the other sex, courtesy and
goodness, were betrayed all unconsciously; while the
misty softening of his dark, piercing eyes, the sensi-
bility which trembled in his low tones, made almost
wild with jealousy at that fairer woman who had had
him all to herself this whole long summer. What would
not she give og forsuchachance! |

However, rival, thank Heaven, had proved to be a
wife—to that belief her mind clung pertinaciously+-and
another man’s wife could no longer be in her way. ~

Claudia believed now that shesaw her way clear. She
behaved with the most charming modesty, and evinced
the deepest sympathy. The doctor felt grateful to her
tor her kindness and attention; he liked her better than
before, thin that he saw in her a gentle, sympathetic
nature. So that the proud beauty’s acting had its

ect.
‘All the time she was turning over in her mind faint
reach between him and
Strange lady-love of his, should it prove to be neces-

in the future.
“Do you know where she is?” she asked, as they were
leav the table.
4, not know until I see Jabez, my man.”

time Barron preserved a thoughtful silence,
ing with deepest interest to the story of his host’s
acd tance with the beautiful French girl, seeing con-
antly before his mind’s eye her eloquent face as he saw
irst.and convinced beyond sugetion in his ow
ing, Changing, SWeecest mace, ;
ut a maiden.
n exquisite, shy, admiring glance she had given

   
   
 

  

   
  
  
 

give all my father’s cotton-mills to win such
1 he thought.
{TO BE CONTINUED.]
Oe
TORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

DRRD'S SECRET PODS

By ROBERT J. BANGS, Detective,

OM RED'S SECRET FoEs” was commenced in No. 46. Back
can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] .

CHAPTER XXXIII.
4g AN UNEXPECTED WITNESS.

The attorneys who were conducting James Ware-
ford’s defense felt that if they could satisfactorily ac-
punt for their client’s flight on the night of the murder,
Biles pisin his conductin secreting himself from the
Officers of the iaw, they might secure his acquittal.
_ But here was the dark, inscrutable mystery that
foiled them, and which was the one factor of the prob-
lem which they could not eliminate.
On the second day of the proceedings: the defense
rested, and presently, to the surprise or all, the prosecu-

 

_ tion called a new witness.

“Jonn Hurdic,” called the district-attorney.
A middle-aged man of massive frame, and who pos-

' sessed a stern but honest-looking face, strode to the

witness-box.

Atthe sight of this man James Wareford reeled back-
ward in the prisoner’s box, and while his face assumed
the pallor of ‘death and his eyes dilated with terror, a

_ ery of despair escaped his lips.

Instinctively Mildred comprehended that the strange

- witness was about to doom her father, and for a moment
_ everything swam before her eyes. But with a mighty

effort of will she subjugated the weakness which threat-
ened to overcome her, and listened in feverish agitation
for the words of the strange witness.

Kenshaw experienced a similar premonition to that
which had come to Mildred with such enervating, crush-

. ing power. He felt that James Wareford knew that the

presence of John Hurdic sealed his doom. But the mys-
tery and weird elements of interest that surrounded the
affair enthralled the detective.

He was a breathless, agitated listener now, and the
pause that ensued while the witness took the oath
seemed an age to him.

At last John Hurdic spoke.

The district attorney asked the question :

«Mr. Hurdic, will you please state to the court who and
what you are ?”

“My name you have heard, and I
of Salina, Boulder county, Colorado.

“Do you know the prisoner at the bar ?”

“Yes, sir. His name—his real name is James Heath,
and he was convicted of murder in the first degree by
the Criminal Court of Boulder county, Colorado. Before
the date set for his execution he escaped, however. I
have his photograph, taken at Salina, and I positively

am a deputy sheriff
”

. Jdentifty the prisoner as the escaped murderer.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, Kenshaw could
not have been more surprised.

As John Hurdic paused after uttering this fearful de-
nunciation the prisoner sprang to his feet.

In an awful voice which echoed through the thronged
court-room like a knell of doom, he cried :

*, am ‘lost! though innocent, but I will save my
child !”

ut Mildred heard him not.

enshaw was seated by her side, and as she heard
John Hurdic’s terrible arraignment ef her father, she
uttered an agonized and despairing ery, and fell back
insensible in his arms.

Norman Radburne, who had been ever at the side of
his affianced during: the progress of the trial,had for a mo-
ment absentéd himself, but at this moment he returned.

; by Kenshaw, he was about to carry Mildred
from the room.

But it was not to be.

Tn an instant she opened her -eyes, and comprehend-
ing their purpose, she said :

‘No, no, Imust remain. I can bear‘itallmow. Fate

the fanciful story of a poor ;

——$ ieee

has done its worst.” Then after an instant’s pause, she

added. ‘But I do not believe my rather is a—a——” She

ae and then pronounced the fearful word, ‘‘m2z-
rer.”

‘In the name of justice I demand the privilege the law
gives me to testify in my own behalf, and that of my in-
nocent child, whom a band of secret foes who are human
wolves, thirsting for her blood and mine, have sought to
doom. I will explain all, and relate the story of my
Strange experiences on the night of the murder of my
employer, Mathew Ennis, for by so ore 1 shall cor-
roborate the statement made under oath | yy my daugh-
ter, and thus aid in proving her innocence.”

Thus spoke James Waretord. ee

ble addressed himself to the judge on the bench.

«The right to testify in his own be s never denied
the accused. Proceed,” answered the judge.

The prisoner was sworn, and then made his state-
ment,

‘““My real name is James Heath, and as John Hurdic
has testified, I was convicted of murder by the Court of
Boulder county, Colorado. The crime of which I was
convicted was the killing of my own brother-in-law, Ed-
ward Walcroft.” eaets

As the prisoner pronounced the name ‘‘Walcroft,”
Kenshaw started as though he had received a galvanic
shock.

His face assumed an expression of intense satisfaction,
and he muttered under his breath : :

«I think I comprehend the whole mystery of the great
plot of which Mathew Ennis’ murder was a part.”

It seemed that the revelation of the name, Edward
Walcroft, had given the detective.a great clew. He be-
lieved that he understood now why Mildred’s foes feared
her identification of the men she had seen in the yault.

«The infernal scoundrels! th herous assassins !”
muttered Kenshaw; ‘Ill foil th ,
which Mathew Ennis died possessed shall go-
rightful heir!” — Eee ORe Sse Manse Ar ee NE 09

Meanwhile James Wareford continued, while the as-
sembled multitude listened with intense interest: .

“1 was innocent of Walcroft’s murder, but that did not
help me, for the circumstances were against me. When
I escaped I came to New York city, and under the name
of James Wareford 1 secured employment as a )
watchman at.the Office of Mathew Ennis. On. the day

   

man from 1 *County, Colorado, who at once recog-
nized me. His name was Margrave.

“I was terrified, for I knew that if he denounced me I
would be dragged back to Colorado, there to meet
my terrible doom—death on the gallows. I implored
Margrave to keep my secret, and he stated that he would
| do so provided I would do him a favor. He added, more-
over, ‘For weeks [ have known where you were, and I
could have denounced you at any time, but I

   
  

 

so because I mean to have your assi >. Mathew
Ennis holds some valuable documents of Which I wish
to gain possession. Absent yourself from his office to-

| night after the hour of ten o’clock, and I swear never to
betray you.’ Weak, cowardly wretch that { was, I con-
sented, and after ten o’clock that night I repaired to my

| room in a distant part’of the city. That morning—the
| day following the night of the crime—I overslept, and
| when I awoke I knew that Pethrick, or some one else
| who first Came to the office, would discover my absence.
| While I was reflecting on this point Margrave entered
| my He was excited, and he said, hurriedly,

: you. Fly with me, or you are Jost!’ In my
| terror 1 accompanied him te a hiding-place, where I re-
| mained secreted until, from a conversation between
Ma ve and a confederate of his by the name of Wey-
cliff, Tlearned that my own daughter was suspected of
| complicity in the crime of Mathew Ennis’ murder, and
; that the wretches were plotting to murder or abduct
| her. LIresolved at all hazards to save my child, and I
| followed Weycliff when he left the place. 1 rescued my
| child, but the villain, Weycliff, and his confederate, pur-

sued and shot me. I gained a shelter, and I thought
| that I was dying. .While I wasin a half-fainting condi-
| tion I was lifted by a man’s arms and carried away. I
recognized the man as one Mark Tyrell, the son of the
| Old detective who was instrumental in securing my con-
| viction of the murder of Edward Walcroft. I gave my-
self up for lost, naturally presuming he meant to take
me back to Colorado to answer for the crime of which I
had been unjustly convicted. But Iwas happily mistak-
en on this point. ; .
“When we had reached a place of safety, and a sur-
| geon had dressed my wounds and assured me that they
| were not very serious, Mark Tyrell told me that since my
| escape his father had discovered certain clews which
| had served to convince him that I was innocent of Ed-
| ward Walcroft’s murder. He was seized will
| at the thought that he had been instrumental in secur-
ing the conviction of an innocent man, and when, soon
after this, he found elf on his death-bed, he made
his son Mark promise that he would devote himself to
the work of finding the real assassin of Edward Wal-
croft, and thus proving my innocence.
“By Mark Tyrell’s advice I remained in hiding while
he pursued Pethrick, for the clews his father had discov-

 

assassin. He was in Colorado at the time of the mur-
der, and in the very hamlet where the tragedy was
enacted. Pethrick and I had been acquainted there,
once saved his life. When I arrived in New

and I had
York he met me and secured me employment at
Mathew Ennis’, and he had vowed never to reveal my

secret.
“Such is my story, and if Mark Tyrell succeeds in
belnene Pethrick to justice, my innocence of the mur-
der of Walcroft will be proven. hawker ene story,
you must acquit my daughter M 2d. of complicity
in the murder of Ennis.”
Thus James Wareford concluded.
| a last the mystery with which he had been surround-
Ww Q. ; ie i

ai ti Y
sertion of his family. His living un
name and all that he had done was thus made clear.
His motive had been the most powerful one known to
man. His conduct had been prompted by a desire to
save his life.
Under similar circumstances Kenshaw felt that he
could not say that he would not have pursued the same

 

  

  

HOU

course.

The detective put himself in James Wareford’s place,
and he could not judge him harshly.

Kenshaw studied the faces of the jury, but he could
scarcely determine from their expressions whether they
credited James Wareford’s story or discredited it.

The detective knew that the reflection that Wareford
had previously been convicted of murder would make
an impression on the minds of the jury not unfavorable
to the accused.

The defense made a grand closing plea.

The celebrated criminal lawyer who had undertaken
Wareiord’s case did not neglect a single point that
could be produced in his favor.

In his closing address to the jury the district-attorney
did not fail to dwell at length upon the fact that the
prisoner at the bar was already a convicted murderer,
and he said:

 

convict this man; for since he could once stain his hand
with human blood, we may infer that in the case of
Mathew Ennis he is also guilty. The weight of evidence
is against him. It has, I think, been shown that he is
the guilty one, unless you are inclined to credit his

statement, which he has invented to account for his ab- |

sence from the office of Mathew Ennis on the night of
the murder. This I am confident you will not believe.
His story is on its face improbable as well as absurd. It
bears the impression of falsehood, and it had its incep-
tion in the brain of a desperate man, who sought for a
loop-hole through which to escape the fearful .conse-
quences of a dreadful crime.

‘He tells us of a man called Mark Tyrell, who is seek-
ing to save him, and his story sounds like the invention
of fiction, as all must admit. But suppose it to be true,
would this man Tyrell desert James Wareford in his
present extremity? I think not. On the contrary, I
presume he would be here to testify in his behalf. No,
gentlemen.of the jury, you arenot warranted in believ-
ing James Wareford’s story, for if it were true Mark
Tyrell would be here.” ’

The attorney paused, and as he did so there was a
commotion at the door.

A man came hurrying into the court-room, and as he
had heard the prosecuting attorney’s last words, he
shouted :

“Mark Tyrell is here !”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
HOW THE TRIAL ENDED.

The opportune arrival of Mark Tyrell caused a sensa-
tion in the court-room, and as one man the assembled
audience arose tocatch a glimpse of the person with
whom it rested to substantiate or disprove the state-
ment of James Wareford.

Mark Tyrell gained the interior of the space set apart
for the attorneys, before the judge.

In an instant Dave Kenshaw was at his side, and ina
few words he acquainted Tyrell with the situation as it
now stood with reference to James Wareford.

Then while Mildred, with her hands tightly clenched
upon her heart, as though she sought to stay its tumult-
uous beating, watched Mark Tyrell asif she presumed
her father’s fate depended .upon him, Kenshaw and
Tyrell whispered to the attorneys for the defense.

While they were thus engaged, Mildred’s eyes pres-
ently sought her father’s face.

She noted with supreme joy that an expression of re-
lief had ee cn upon his haggard features.

A hope dawned in Mildred’s heart.

Finally the whispered conversation between the law-
yers and the detectives terminated. ~

Then the defense called Mark Tyrell to the stand, the
court ruling that his testimony should be admitted as
newly discovered evidence.

Tyrell, being duly sworn, said ;

“I know the accused, James Wareford.”

He continued, and substantiated to the letter the
other’s story ot the discovery of new clews that led his
father to think Wareford was innocent of the murder
of Walcroft, but he stated that he had failed to capture
the real assassin of Walcroft.

In conclusion, Tyrell said :

«James Wareford is the victim of circumstances in the
Waicroft case, and he is the victim of a band of plotting
assassins in the Ennis case.”

After this the trial was swiftly drawn toa close, and
that evening the case was submitted to the jury.

The judge made a fair and impartial charge, and the
jury retired. ;

That night was a long one tothe accused and his
friends.

James Wareford never closed his eyes.

All night long until the gray light of the dawn fell

 

r once,
preceding the night of the murder, I met on the street a

‘| but he had never been
did not do.

apartment.
| Mathew Ennis was killed last night, and suspicion.
| poin

th remorse.

ered seemed to designate Pethrick as Edward Walcroft’s |

umed |

“Gentlemen of the jury, you cannot, I am sure, fail to |

_ through the gratedy
~down the narrow chamber.
With feverish impatience, unable to taste food or to
rest, Mildred awaited the time to come when she might
proceed to the court-house.

Norman Radburne called for Mildred shortly before
nine o’clock, and they walked to the court-room.

A short distance behind them followed a powerfully
built man, whose bright eyes were constantly flashing
about in every direction.

Though they were not aware of the fact, the man in
question was a detective, and he was employed by Dave
Kenshaw to constantly follow Mildred Heath and al-
Ways be at hand to protect her trom her foes if they
made any a t to molest her.

While Dave Kenshaw had been in constant attend-
ance at the trial of James Waretord his agents had not
been idle.

Directed by their p: pal, they were engaged in the
attempt to locate Pethrick. .

Bradley, Kenshaw’s i le and devoted auxil-
lary, was at — head of the | engaged in the cam-

actively. Yeeee

Every day the veteran i the report of his as-
sistant, and on the eve “ last day of the trial
he had received a communication from Bradley by tel-
egraph. ot

The message was dated Buffalo, New York, and it ran
as follows: f

“We have found the trail, we believe, and
Canada. More to-morrow. —

The receipt of this me
‘satistaction to Kenshaw,

It certainly held out a
last be run down and sec

Since it appeared thai
in the case of Edwa
led to presume, despite tl
tending to show that Pe

ell, he paced up and

it leads to
BRADLEY.”

 
 
 
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
 

that Pethrick would at

evidence he had acquired

thrick was captured he

\

claim of inndcence. “s
As he refiected upon thi
case, Kenshaw admitted
ably complicated and inti
His years of service on
ried. experience in all

 

| there were So many ele
| prising mystery. It was:
| that constantly served to euchain the detective’s inter-

Sof complication and sur-

| est, aside from the other chivalrous and noble motives |

| by which he was actuated.
While Mildred Heath and Norman Radburne were ap-

Wareford to an ignominious death or proclaim his inno-
cence of Mathew Ennis’ murder was to be rendered,
Kenshaw and Mark Tyrell were also on their way to the
same place in company. ‘

Mark Tyrell acquainted
which he founded his suspicion that Pethrick was guilty
of the Walcroft murder.

“As to his connection Ww the Ennis murder, I can
say nothing. You are the One to decide that point to
your own satisfaction. All of my efforts have been
directed to substantiate my father’s clews relating to
Pethrick’s connection with the Walcroft case.”

It seemed, from what k Tyrell said, that there
was little, if any, doubt of Pethrick’s guilt of the mur-
der of Waicroft. ag *

Moreover, from Tyrell’s statement, Kenshaw compre-
| hended how it came about that the California detective.
| Mark Tyrell’s father, had been completely misled, and
| fastened the crime on James Wareford instead of upon

Pethrick. Py ditt

When Kenshaw and T: rrived at the court-house
they encountered Mildred ard Norman Radburne, who
were just about to enter the court-room. i

Drawing Kenshaw aside, Norman Radburne, whose
features plainly betrayed the agony of suspense and ap-
prehension which he suffered, whispered in the detec-
tive’s ear: 3

“What do you think the verdict willbe? Wareford’s
conviction means Mildred’sdoom. To think that the
one woman who is more thaf life to me is menaced by a
horrible doom is agony, and | shall go mad if she is lost
to me.”

“We will save her,”
minedly. -

The way in which Mildred’s salvation was to be ac-
complished was not clear to the detective, perhaps, but

words carried conviction to the heart of the dis-
cted lover, as he meant they should.

At the usual hour the court was called to order.

AS on every preceding day of the great trial, a large
audience was in attendance, and when at last twelve
solemn-faced men entered in single file the silence be-
came so complete that the faintest sound became a
noise. Z

James Wareford’s face was.ashy pale, but his lips were
compressed into a rigid line, ynd it was evident that he
was Making a strong and determined efigrt to stifie his

emotions. : ,

«Gentlemen of the jury,” Said the clerk of the court,
“Jook upon the prisone! mer l@ok upon the jury.
a of the jury, a upon a ver-

ct a ae
Mildred Heath clute
though to brace herse

An instant, and thi

 

answered Kenshaw, deter-
;

 
  

      
   
 

”

 
 
 
 
 

 
  
 
  

S

   

    
 
  
  
  
   
   
  
     
   

front of her as
aired, solemn-

“That means his€

whispered Kenshaw it
breath of relief, and™
what followed next.

re increased,”
‘she drew a deep
d, eager to hear

'Satisfied that this
no matter how long
the toreman, address-

jury can never agree on a verdict,
they may be retained,” continued
ing the judge.

The latter had been about to order the jury to retire
for further deliberation, but he now changed his mind,
and directed that the jury be discharged.

James Wareford was remanded to prison.

In the ordinary course of proceedings a new jury musi
be impaneled, and the accused would have a new trial.
A at respite was gained.

ames Wareford’s ee and his friends had good
reason to congratulate themselves. Ae

The fact that one jury had failed to find him guilty
would be used in his favor by his counsel when he was
brought to trial again, if such an eyent ever occured.

During the trial Margrave, Weycliff, and their con-
federates, who were known to the detectives, did not
appear, but they had spies present, who duly reported
the proceedings to them.

The result was a surprise to the plotters.
| ‘They had fully Mog ea James Wareford’s convic-
| tion, and bitter was their disappointment when they
| heard that the jury had failed to agree.

The night after the close of the trial the secret foes of
| Mildred Heath were assembled in a secluded house in
| Jersey City. ‘
Weycliff, Margrave, and their confederates, Girty and
| Barker, were present.

The quartet of villains were discussing the situa-
| tion which their plot had assumed, when suddenly the
| door of the apartment in ‘which they were assemblec
was dashed open. é

The men all sprang to their feet.

Their hands involuntarily sought their weapons.

The next instant Mrs. ae nd rushed into the room.
She was in a state of ipteuse excitement.

(TO BE CONTINUED.) -
Pe Oe
Scotts Emulsion of Pure Cod Liver Oil with
| Hypophosphites.—In General. Debility and EHmaciation.—
| Is a most valuable food and medicine. It tends to create an
| appetite for food. It strengthens the nervous system, and
| builds up the body.

 

 

{
|

>o~<

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

A PAIR MYSTERY,

THE STORY OF A COQUETTE.

By BERTHA MM. CLAF,
AUTHOR OF

“PUT ASUNDER,” “THROWN ON THE WORLD,”
“LADY DAMER’S SECRET,” etc,

 

 

(‘A Fark Mystery” was commenced in No. 38. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER LXII,
LORD VIVIANNE PERPLEXED.

It was no wonder that when she reached Hyde House
again Lady Studleigh should look fll and exhausted ; she
had passed througit 4 severe ordeal, and no one but her-
self knew what it Rad cost her.

«One more such Yictory,”She said to herself, ‘and I
should be ampgt ©

She lay back in one of the lounging-chairs, while Earle
hastened to pour out some wine for her.

*“xou_ I@ok . §@ tired, my darling.” he murmured—‘‘so
tired. ‘I wish we were away from this great London, out
in the fresh, fair country again, Doris. Why, sweet,
there are tears in your eyes!” ;

She looked so wistfully, so longingly at him—tears in
the eyes he had always seen so proud and bright. She
bent her beautiful head on his breast, longing with all
her heart to tell him her terrible secret, her dreadful
trouble, yet not daring the least hint.

“They are tears of fatigue,” she said—‘‘real fatigue,
Earle.” *

 

ye was the source of much |

Walcroft, the detective was |

electrician, he might he |
sion that would serve to |

event developments of the |
at it was the most remark- |
eforce had given himava |
arieties of criminal cases, |
ed in any affair in which }

entire novelty of the case |

proaching the court-house where the fateful and mo- |
mentous decision which would either condemn James |

Kenshaw with the facts upon |

WEEKLY. #32=>

“TJ wish I were Earl of Linleigh for ten minutes,” he
said; ‘I would forbid you to go out again, though you
are queen of the season and belle of St. James’.”

‘‘] should obey you,” She replied; and then she bade
him zood-night, not daring to say more, lest she should
say too much.

She wanted to be alone, to collect her thoughts, to
look her danger in the face, to gather her forces to-
gether, and prepare to give the enemy brave battle. It
was a wondertul relief to her to find herself alone.

The worst had happened—she had seen him, he had
seen her ; he had looked in her face, he had watched her
intently, yet she felt quite sure he was not certain of her
identity—he fancied that he knew her, yet could not for
certain tell; so that the worst, she believed, was over.
It might be that he would talk to her, that he would try
every little ruse and every possible maneuver, but what
would that matter? She would defeat him again with
her calm and her nonchalance, just as she had done
this time. Then he would assuredly give it up, and say
no more about it—make up his mind that he had been
mistaken. ,

So she comforted herself with vague ideas, never
dreaming that each hour brought the somber face of
apes nearer to her.

The next day was the Duchess of Eastham’s ball, one
of the best of the season—one to which she had looked
forward as a crowning triumph. A night’s rest, a natu-
ral facility for shaking off disagreeable thoughts, a fixed
reliance on her own Kindly fate, all contributed to make
her throw off the dark cloud that oppressed her.

When she joined the earl and countess the following
morning, her face had regained its lost color and bright-
| ness, her eyes shone like stars, her lips were wreathed
with smiles.

“We shall have a large gathering to-night,” said Lady
| Linleigh. “I hear the Eastham ball is considered the
best of the season ; all the elite of London will be there.”

“Then Lord Vivianne is sure to be there,” she thought.
| Her spirits rose with the emergency. ‘I will look my
| best,” she said to herself; “I will dazzle him so com-
| pletely in my splendor and magnificence that he shall
| not dare even in thought to associate me with the Doris
he knew.” ‘

She spent some hours of the bright, sunny morning in
the park, smiling to herself as she thought what an old-
fashioned receipe was fresh air and exercise for keeping a
| brilliant bloom. She rested after lunch, and spent some

 

to form a marvelous effect. ‘To her maid she said:
«Kugenie, I want to be the belle of the belles to-night ;

| you must exert all-your skill.”

The pretty Parisian stood with her head on one side,
studying the face and figure she had to adorn.

“What kind of style does my lady wish ?
gay, brilliant ?”

“Magnificent!” said Lady Studleigh, laughing.
| wish to be magnificent as a queen—an empress !”

ae will not be difficult, my lady,” was the smiling
reply.

Nor did there appear to be any difficulty when she
was dressed for the ball.
She wore a superb dress of white brocade, embroidered

“]

geous in the extreme.

creamy clouds. The firm white throat was clasped with
a diamond necklace, the Duke of Downsbury’s gift;

cross of diamonds and sapphires gleamed on her_white
breast, the fair arms were bound with diamonds, and
she wore a circlet of diamonds in her hair. Even her
flowers matched. her costume. They were fragrant
white blossoms of a rare plant, with tiny golden bells.
Eugenie wondered why the beautiful lady stood looking
so long and earnestly in the mirror. She was not ad-
| miring herseli—no light of gratified vanity came into
| her eyes, no flush of delight colored her cheeks. She

ing to estimate in her own mind the exact impression
that she would produce on ofhers. Her thoughts were
evidently favorable to herself. No one looking at the

eauty of that patrician face would dare to recognize
her as anything less lofty than she seemed tobe. As for
believing what Lord Vivianne might say of her, who
would do it? ;

Just as she had foreseen, she was the belle of the ball.
The Duke of Eastham selected her for the opening of it,
| and the evening was one ovation and triumph for
| her, Yet, though flattery and homage were all round
her, She never for one moment forgot her chief object,
which was looking for Lord Vivianne. She knew by in-
stinct when he entered the room; she saw him look
round, and knew, as well as though he had told her,
that he was looking for her.

Now was the time!
liness ; her eyes grew radiant. t
feet to-night. Let him come and do his worst ; she could
dety him. ;

She saw him go up to the Duchess of Eastham, who
listened to him with a smile, then they both looked in
her direction, and in a few minutes were standing by
her.

She never betrayed the least sign of fear. He looked
curiously at her. The light flashed in her jewels, but
the diamonds lay quite still on the white breast; the
golden bells of the flowers never trembled.

In a few smiling words the duchess introduced Lord
Vivianne to Lady Studleigh. She bent her graceful head
and smiled. He begged to know ii she had yet one dance
to spare, and she answered “Yes.” He listened atten-
tively to the voice ; it was certainly like that of Doris,
but he fancied the accent was more silvery, more re-
hned.

“It is very warm,” she said, looking straight‘in his
face ; ‘I should like an ice.”

“Quite a happy inspiration,” he replied, and they went
away together.
If she felt the least tremor of fear she did not show it ;

   

ple innoce oF a ;
while his eyes looked deep down into hers, as though he
would read every thought of hersoul. Ifshe had shrunk
from him—if she had shown the least fear—it she had
avoided his glance, refused to dance with him, he would
have had more reason to suspect her; as it was, he was
fairly bewildered, and more than once he called himself
a simpleton for his suspicions. ‘he bright, fearless
lance, the child-like smile, the frank gayety, would
ave puzzled a wiser man than Lord Vivianne.

“J will try her,” he thought. ‘It she be the girl who
went to Italy with me, 1 shall find it out.”

He offered her his arm, so that he could feel her hand
tremble, if tremble it did. Hebegan by admiring her
bouquet.

“You have some very rare flowers there, Lady Stud-
leigh,” he said—‘white blossoms with golden bells; it is
an exotic. Is it Indian or Italian ?”

She looked at him with a frank smile.

“IT am very ignorant,” she said. ‘I love flowers very
dearly, but I never made them a study. Long Latin
names frighten me.”

“Yet it is a beautiful_study,” he said.

She laughed again. "

“J believe, honestly,” she said, “that if I knew, for in-
stance, the Latin and Greek name of this lovely flower,
with its whole history, I should not enjoy it half as much
asIdonow. That is a mystery to me.”

‘Do you like mysteries ?” he asked, quickly.

«TI can hardly tell; I think I should if I had one.”

He looked into the very depths of her eyes—they were
as clear and open as the day.

‘You are too frank to care for mystery,” he said.

failings.”

“Why is it a failing ?” he asked.

“Because I carry it to excess. Ihave an unfortunate
habit of saying whom I like, whom I dislike, what I care
for, and what [ do not care for.”

| had known.

are likely to like me ?”

‘JT will tell you when I know more of you,” was the
reply.
am quite sure is a little outre.’

‘Have you ever been in Italy?” he asked, watching
her intently as he spoke.

If there had been the least change of color, if her eyes
had drooped in the least from his, he would have said:
| ‘Doris, I have found you !”
| Asit was, the only expression on her face was one of
| innocent surprise.

«In ltaly ?” she repeated.

| ucation there !”

| He made noreply, but began to think to himself that
| he must indeed have been mistaken. Then he talked to
| her about many things.. Her answers gave him the im-
| pression that she was very quick, very clever, but inno-
cent, almost with a child-like simplicity.

He had but one resource, one more question to ask,
and if he were bafiled in that, he shouid be at a loss what
to think. He gazed earnestly into the beautiful face.

“Lady Studleigh,” he said, ‘I cannot help fancying
that Ihave seen you before—that we have met before,
and have been good friends. Is it so?”

There was no trace of emotion in her face—nothing
but girlish surprise.

“Met before ?. I do not remember it, Lord Vivianne. I
have been introduced to so many strangers, it is possible
I may have forgotten some. Still, I think I should have
remembered your name.”

‘It was not in London we met,” he said.
memory back to last year—only last year.
place for me in it ?”

‘“No,” she replied, ‘I have not. Last year I spent at
Linleigh Court. Have I really seen you before, Lord Viv-
ianne? Indeed, I apologize most sincerely for not re-
membering you.”

‘It may be only a fancy,” he said.

‘But if you knew me, and knew that I ought to recog-
nize you, why did you ask for an introduction to me ?”
she asked, wonderingly.

«Because I was not sure,” he replied, gloomily.
not sure now—I am bewildered.”

Then, when he saw the surprise on her face deepen
into annoyance, he said: :

“I beg your pardon. I did know some one once who
was like you—oh, so like you !—some one who made me
yery unhappy. That is our dance. Lady Studleigh,
smile, that I may know you have forgiven me.”

She smiled, and they went asvay to the ball-room to-
gether.

 

“Oh, yes, I finished my ed-

“Carry your
Have you no

“Tam

 

CHAPTER LXIy.
A TERRIBLE TRIAL.
‘ ‘Harle,” said Lady Doris, “it seems so long since you
eft me.”
She was standing in the bali-room with the countess.
Her late partner, Lord Vivianne, had gone to fulfill his
engagement elsewhere.

 

time in the evening combining jewels and flowers, so as |

Shall it be |

She looked every inch a queen. |

with small golden flowers, the effect of which was gor- |
> Sometimes, and in certain lights, |
she looked like a mass of gold; in others, like white |

large diamond ear-rings. hung from the pretty ears, a |

was examining herself gravely, critically, severely, try- |

Her face flushed into rarest love-
She had the world at her

with the
ing even in tne emet

«Yes, frankness is what Lord Linleigh calls one of my

That frank abandon was not much like the Doris he

| «That is very nice,” he said; “I wish I dare ask if you

“T have a fashion of showing my liking, which I |

 

«Tt seems so long,” she repeated.

And Earle, who knew every tone of her voice, detected
something unusually sad in it. His face grew bright
with happiness that she had missed him.

“IT saw you dancing with the gentleman who admired
you so greatly the other evening,” he replied. “You
seemed so interested in his conversation that I never
dreamed you would miss me.”

‘He has tried me so, Earle,” she said, gently. ‘Before
I can enjoy: myself again, 1 must go somewhere and rest
for afew minutes. Where shall we go?”

Earle silently placed the little white hand on his arm,
and.led the way to a brilliantly-lighted conservatory,
where the rippling of the fountain mingled with the
songs of tamed birds. There was no one else in that
spacious fragrant place. He drew a chair to one of the
fountains and placed her init. She drew a deep breath
of unutterable relief, as one who had passed through
mortal perii and escaped it. Looking at her, Earle saw.
that her beautiful face was ghastly white; the eyes she
raised to him were dim and shadowed with horror.

“Earle,” she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, ‘I
do not look much like the belle of the ball now, do I?”

He was full of- concern. , .

“Not much,” he replied. ‘‘What is the matter, dar-
ling ?—what has made you ill? I have thought so often
lately that you looked ill and unlike yourself.”

She tried to smile, but the expression on her face be-
lied the smile.

“T never did faint in my life,” she said—‘it is an
achievement quite beyond me—but I feel much inclined
to do the deed now. Earle, fetch some brandy for me.”

“Brandy !” he repeated. ‘‘Wine would be better, my
darling ; brandy is very strong.”

«Wine tastes like water,’ she said. “I want some-
thing thats ail fire—all fire! to make me strong. Be
quick, Earle—be quick! I have to dance with Prince
Poermal before supper. I would not be seen looking
like this for all the wide world!”

«JT do not like leaving you alone,”

said Earle.

is the Elisir d’Amor waltz—no one will miss us.
quickly, Earle.” :

He bent down and kissed the pale face, then’ he
went quickly to the buffet, poured some brandy in a
small glass and carried'it to her. She sat just as he had
lett her—the white arms had fallen listlessly by her side,
the white blossoms with the golden bells lay at ber feet.
Earle thought she looked like somé one whose whole
| Strength had been expended in a dire struggle.

“Doris,” he said, gently, ‘drink this, dear.”

She raised her head and drank the brandy as though
it had been so much water. He looked at her in won-
| der. Then the color slowly returned to her face.
| “I understand, Earle,” she said, ‘now, for the first
| time, why people take to drinking.”
| There was something so strange in her manner that
| Earle felt almost frightened. F
| ‘Do not talk in that: fashion, my darling,” he said! ‘tf
| cannot endure to hear you. Sweet lips like yours should
| not utter such words.”
| She laughed; her lips were quite red now, and there
| was color in her face.

“T can understand it,”

 

she repeated, laughingly.
| “When you brought that tome 1 was almost dead—it
| seemed to me that all strength had deft me, all the life
| in mewas freezing; now I am warm, living, and well.
| The next time I feel ill 1 shall take brandy.”

| He did not know whether she were laughing or not,
whether she meant the words seriously or not, but they
impressed him most disagreeably.

“Doris.” he said, gravely, ‘never do that. You are
only jesting, I know, dear, and this unhealthy style of
iife will soon be over for you. You exhaust your strength
by over-doses of gayety and excitement. Do not fly to
stimulants to restore if ; you could not do anything more
fatal.”

She laughed.

“Of course Iam jesting. This is a rest tosit here with
you. Lord Vivianne tired me ‘so dreadfully.” She shud-
dered as with cold, and laid her head back on the chair.
‘How is it, Earle, that some people are so disagreeable
and others so nice ?”

Earle laughed, so happy to think that she called him
nice.

“Which is Lord Vivianne ?” he asked.

‘Oh, disagreeable, you may be sure of that.
| he has tired me.”
| ‘But the world in general considers him a very agree-
able man,” said Earle.

“Ido not: We will not talk of him. Say something
very loving and very pleasant to me, Earle, that will
send all tiresome thoughts out of my mind.”

«You have no right with tiresome thotglts. What
arethey? Tell me them,” he said.

She laughed, but the laugh was a sigh.

“What tiresome thoughts can I have, Earle, except
that I regret youth and pleasure are not. immortal?. |
can have no other. Say something loving to me, Earle.”

He bent over her and whispered words that brought a
sweet, bright flush to her face; then she stood up.

‘Now give me my flowers, Earle.”

He did so, shaking the little golden bells.

“Do llook bright and brilliant again?’ she asked—
‘like the belle ot the ball ?”

“Yes, bright as the morning star.”

‘‘Now for Prince Poermal and some sugared German.’
compliments,” she said.

And they returned to the ball-room.

The prince, all smiles, all gallantry, all devotion, came
up to claim her hand. Earle watched her as she danced
with him; she was all smiles, all brightness, all light.
She talked gayly, she laughed, and the prince appeared
to be charmed with her.

Earle wondered more and more. Was it possible this
brilliant, beautiful girl was the one he had seen so short

atime before, white, cold. and silent, as though some

ble trouble lay over her. He saw what universal

2 ‘ation she excited ; how many admiring glances fol-
: at a

W that in that peitiant

See how

 

 

“No one will come here,” she said, impatiently. “That, 52
Go-

 

was no one to compare with her, and he wondéred at his
own good fortune in winning so peerlessa creature. Yet
he felt that there was something strange about her,
| something that he could not understand. Her spirits
| Were strangely unequal ; one minute she was all fire, an-
| imation, and excitement, the next dull and absent. He
| tried to account for it all by saying to himself the life
| Was new to her—new and very strange—and it was only
| natural that she should feel strange in it.
| Later on in the evening, when the brilliant ball was
| almost over, Lord Vivianne sought Lady Studleigh
| again.
| “Iam going to ask a great favor,” he said; ‘it is that
| Imay be permitted to call. Ihave had the pleasure of
an introduction to the Earl of Linleigh.”
| ‘I shall be much pleased,” she replied, indifferently—
| SO indifferently that he could not possibly tell whether
she were pleased or otherwise.
“Shall youremain much longer in town?” he asked,

determined to keepfup a conversation with her.

“] hope so,” she replied. ‘I think London is incom-
| parable; I cannot imagine any other life half so delight-

 

 

ful.

“You should see Paris,” he said, looking earnestly at
| her.
| Yes, Ishould like to see court life in Paris. I was
| there as a child, but, as a matter of course, I have no
| knowledge of French society. I was too young to know
| much about it.”

| You must try tospend some time there; there isa
| brilliancy about French society that we do not find in
| England.”

She looked as politely indifferent as possible, not suffi-
ciently so to offend him, but enough to show bim that
| She felt no great interest in the conversation. He could
| not find any excuse for delaying any longer, but he left
| her with the determination to see her again as soon as
| possible.

“The ball has been a brilliant success,” said the earl.
| “Have you enjoyed it, Doris ?”

| Yes,” she replied, ‘I liked Prince Poermal, and I
| liked the Duke of Eastham, but I did not like all my
| partners.”

| Lord Linleigh laughed.

«That is hardly to be supposed,” he said. ‘If it be not
arude question, which of them did your ladyship dis-
like ?”

“Dislike is too strong a word, papa. I did not care
about Lord Vivianne ; he tired me very much. How can
| people admire him ?” :

«You do not like him,” said the earl. “I suppose it
does not mucii matter, but lamrathersorry. He seemed
to take a great fancy to me, and pressed me to try shoot-
ing with him. If you do not like him, I shall not.”

She laughed.

«There is no need for that, papa; it does not quite fol-
low that because he is not to my taste, he is not to yours,
does it ?” ‘

“No; but he spoke of calling on us, and did his best to
make me understand that he wished to be on- visiting
terms with us.”

“Why not ?” she asked, indolently.

“If you do not like him, Doris, 1 should never care to
see him inside our doors.” }

“7 do not like him as a partner, papa; perhaps as a
visitor to the house I might like bim very well indeed.
He tired me with his incessant questions and compli-
ments.”

«Perhaps he was very much charmed with you,” said
the earl, laughingly. ‘I must say, no one ever showed a
greater desire to be on intimate terms with me than he
did. Lasked him to dine on Thursday—the Bishop of
Lingham is coming—and we shall see if he improves
upon acquaintance.”

‘‘He seemed to me very politeZand pleasing,” said the
countess, quietly.

And then they spoke no more of Lord Vivianne, but
Lady Studleigh thought of him incessantly. She had
made the greatest effort, which was talking“to him, par-
rying his questions, assuming a part, and carrying it on
forsometime. She had said to herself that the danger
was averted, that she had no more to fear, but she found
that she was wrong. In his eyes she read a fixed deter-
mination to know ber—a doubt that all her skill had not
been able to solve, all her talent had not prevented.
She felt this; she understood that although ge had
seemed to acquiesce in all she said, in his own mad sus-
picion still lingered.

|
|
|
|
|

TO BE CONTINUED. ]
a

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
In Seasickness.

Prof. ADOLPH OTT, New York, says: “I used
it for seasickness, during an ocean passage. In
most of the cases, the violent symptoms which
characterize that disease yielded, and gave way
to a healthful action of the functions impaired.”

 

 

 

 

  

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, DECEMBER 19, 1885.

 

 

 

meer

Terms to Mail Subscribers:

3 months (postage free) 5c | 2 copies (postage free) $5.00
4months- ..... $100;/4 copies .-.... 10,00
A FORTS ee SS ee 3.00} 8 copies... -, , «6 « B00

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

 

 

A New Story by Horatio Alger.

A rare treat for the young folks will be placed before
them next week, when we will begin the publication of
a clever story entitled,

MR, CRAVEN’S STRP-SON;

OR,

FRANK HUNTER’S

eee

By HORATIO ALGER, /Jr.,
AUTHOR OF

‘The Western Boy,” **Tony, The Tramp,” ‘The
Train Boy,” **Frank and Fearless,” Etc.

 

PERIL.

 

This is one of ALGER’s most vivid productions. It por-
trays, in simple and forcible language, the adventures
of a bright and spirited lad, who has

A SECRET HOEK

plotting for his downfall. This unscrupulous enemy,
acting under the. guise of friendship, induces the un-
suspecting boy to undertake a pleasure tour in the Old
World, Boy-like, FRANK leaps at the opportunity, never
dreaming that he is not expected to return to his home
again, and that the voyage is intended to be his last.
His adventures and perils during an

EVENTFUL TOUR IN EUROPE.
are graphically described, and will interest both old and
young.
The opening installment of this captivating story
will appear next week.

Po @ te

T [ALKS
OORT Ve

{All proper inquiries addressed to this department will be
answered as promptly as possible.}

 

 

NUMBER 8.

 

“At what age should a boy go toa trade?” asks Wil-
bur F., of Jackson, Mich.

If circumstances are such that he can attend school
until he is eighteen, itis better for him to doso. The
average trade is learned in three years. This will make

_him a journeyman by the time he attains his majority,

and by the time heis ready to marry. One who has
termined to learn a trade must reason that if he be-
s-teo svon he will fose all opportunities tor educa-

tion. The average boy will learn more from fifteen to

ighteen than in all previous years combined. He may
say to himself that there is no need for a blacksmith to
be educated. There is need for every craftsman to be
fairly well educated. - Every blacksmith, carpenter,
machinist, harness-maker, tinsmith, and house-painter
is expected to be able to read and write, and do busi-
ness ina business way. He must be posted on cur-
rent events, have a good understanding of politics, be
‘up” in the history of his country for the last hundred
years, and the better his grammar and orthography,
and the more correct his mathematics, the better for
him. The world forgives a poor man, but not an ignor-
ant one. No matter how poor the boy, he should make

every effort to secure a fair education before he enters
upon a life which will afford no after opportunities.

«J. J.” writes from Church Hill, Mississippi :

“Having read your ‘‘Talks with Boys” in the last New
YorK WEEKLY, and needing some advice as to what
trade to choose, I concluded to address you. I am
eighteen years old, and have a pretty fair education. I
clerked in a store three years, and gave my employer
perfect satisfaction. Ialsoam an expert telegraph op-
-erator. I know something about book-keeping, and I
fancy it and telegraphy very much. Now what do you
think I ought to do ?—that is, which profession do you
think I ought to choose ?”

«J. J.” can flatter himself that he is pretty well pro-
vided for. He can make his way in the world at either
profession he names, but it would probably be wise in
him to drop one and give his full time and attention to
the other. Circumstances must guide him in making
his choice.

“KE, C. R.,” of our own city of New York, writes as fol-
lows:

“J would like to avail myself of the information so
kindiy furnished in your columns. A few years ago,
while attending college, I was able to draw very nicely ;
in fact, the instructors thought I had a decided ability
for designing wall papers, carpets, &c, Having no occa-
sion to employ my talent, I have grown rusty. Could
you inform me what books to buy, in short, what.course
to pursue in order to become. an expert draughtsman.
Having become such, could I earn money by drawing?
I have been suddenly thrown upon my own resources,
and am obliged to avail myself of every possible means
to earn money in order to support my mother and sister.
I am at present teaching school, which, besides being
distasteful, does not enable me to earn sufficient.

«Forgive this long letter, and if you could recommend
anything to me by which | could increase my income, I
would be deeply grateful. Another question—could I
earn money by scroll-sawing? Ican do that well, but
do not know where to find a market for my wares.”

A visit to any leading bookstore in the city will put
you on track of the books you desire. As an expert
draughtsman you could earn a fair salary, providing you
were tortunate enough to secure a place. If you were a
good designer, there should be little trouble in securing
and holding a place at a good salary.

Your best way, if circumstances will permit, would be
to take lessons from some artist. You would receive
more benefit that way in a month than you could get
from any book in a year.

‘Sam W.,” of Atlanta, Ga., writes that he is too old to
be classed with the ‘‘Boys,” but nevertheless wants
some advice. He ‘thas learned half a dozen trades, trav-
eled all over the world, and at the age of 35 hasn’t $20 to
his name, nor can’t say where his next day’s work is com-
ing from.” He wants advice as to how to make a new
beginning. |

Out of the “half-dozen trades ‘‘Sam W.” boasts of, it is
doubtful if he is perfect in one, while his lack of appre-
ciation is shown in the statement of his knocking
around, He has come out just as; might have been ex-
pected, and just as other boys will who follow his ex-
ample. One trade is enough ; that should be stuck to.
A youn’ man must not be discouraged by a little mis-
fortuneg _He must make up his mind to “stick.” Noth-
ing is n&ve truthful than that ‘a rolling stone gathers
no moss.” The employer who finds that he has a sober,
industrious workman in his shop—one who means to
stay by him through thick and thin—will advance him
as rapidly as possible, and such a man will have work
when others are idle.

At the age of thirty-five it is hard to begin life anew.
Our advice to ‘‘Sam W.” is to take up one of his trades,
to the exclusion of all the others, find a place to work at
it, and settle down to stay. No one wants a journey-
man who is here to-day and gone to-morrow, nor can
such a journeyman better his prospects by wandering
over the world.

The following letter is from Pekin, Illinois:

“T am a widow, with a son sixteen years old. Heisa
good boy, and has a strong leaning toward the trade of

oe

 

 

 

 

cast THE NEW R.

a machinist, but just now has got the idea of going to
Florida to become an Orange grower. I wish you would
give him some fatherly advice on the subject. By so
doing you will win the everlasting gratitude of

“A Wipow.”

Three or four years ago certain speculative land-
owners in Florida succeeded in setting a good many
people crazy about orange growing. Tens of thousands
of acres of Florida land were sold for orange groves,
and hundreds of Northern people went down there to
become millionaires. Itis likely that a few made money,
but the great majority were sadly taken in.

To start an orange grove one must have money
enough to buy his land and the young trees, and get his
land in shape. In addition he must have the means to
carry him along for three or four years. Some one
must remain there and see to the work, and there isa
constant expense and no income. Even when the grove
begins to bear, the owner must take his chances with
the season, the commission houses, and the state of the
market. Where one grower has made money, five have
lost. One can go to Florida to-day and find 2,000 aban-
doned orange grove sites which are either for sale very
cheap, or have been sold by the state for taxes,

“A widow’s” boy, or any other boy, for that matter,
could not do a more foolish thing than to start for Flori-
da to engage in any such business. Even a man of ex-
perience would almost certainly fail unless he had from
$3,000 to $5,000 ready cash to back him. If the boy has a
leaning toward any particular trade, and decided not to
go to school any longer, the sooner he puts on his over-
alls the better. Steady work will settle him down and
scatter these nonsensical ideas,

-e~

Change of Publication Day.

 

Hereafter the NEw YORK WEEKLY will be issued, all
over the United States, on SATURDAY MORNING, in-
stead of Monday, as heretofore.

The change of day is deemed advisable, as it will

enable the reader, after the week’s toil, to spend Satur-.

day evening in the perusal of his favorite story and
sketch paper.
-®

NEW NEIGHBORS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

There is always a sort of pleasant excitement about
new neighbors. Stolid indeed must be the woman who.
when somebody is moving into the house opposite, will
not let her dishes ‘‘set” and her floor go unswept while
she peeps through the blinds to see what the new-
comers have got, and where they are putting it.

Our neighbors, to some extent, help make up our
lives. They are the scenery in our social landscape. A
great deal of our happiness and well being depends on
our neighbors. :

The first question we want to ask is, do they keep
hens? A hen-keeping neighbor is a blight on any
neighborhood. A dozen rugged, sharp-toed hens in
good condition and attending strictiy to business will
make more misery and discontent in a neighborhood
than anything we can think of. A howling dog and two
tom-cats, with a long-standing vendetta between their
families, are not to be compared to hens.

Will they use the front door? That is an important
question, Neighbors who have a habit of slipping in
and out of the side door have the advantage of other
folks. They might be able to carry home a turkey, or a
goose, or a new hat, or a chromo from the ninety-nine-
cent store without its being known Dy their neighbors.
Their hired girl might have a beau call and nobody be
the wiser. Side doors ought never to have been in-
vented.

It is strange how many things one finds interesting
about new neighbors! Where do they pour their slops ?
Is it possible they make coffee three times a day, or is
that smell possibly something else ?

Why do they keep the shades down? Are their cur-
tains hand or machine embroidered ? What does make
them have so many sheets in the wash, and only five in
the family? Ten shirts on the line, and only one man
and a boy to wear them!

Cats! three cats and a kitten! What can they pos-
sibly want with three cats and a kitten ?

Is it false hair that the oldest daughter wears piled up
on her head, orisit herown? Isit powder that makes

her so white? Does the hired girl do all the work wash-
ing days?

What does make the man of the house so late every
Wednesday night? Twelve o'clock strikes before he
thinks of trying to find his latch-key, and then he al-
ways says something emphatic to himself. Is it pos-
sible he swears? How can his wife run out and kiss
ne a he oueeae pe 7

That was_in the box -expressman left there. AY.
day? Big aicugh tor saeco What ee tney want
with an organ, where they have a piano already ?

Is it true that sre has been married betore, and di-
vorced? How dreadtul!

What can they do with all the butcher’s meat that
goes there? Is that a marble or only a Parian group on
the table by the window ? Is that a croquet set in that
box on the lawn ?

Another hammock going up! Well, of all things! and
two lawn settees! Do they mean to live outdoors ?

Will they go to owr meeting? Will they be likely to
pay much to the minister? How will they feel on the
subject of foreign missions ? Will they want to send any
moth-eaten petticoats and old beavers to the heathen
when the yearly ‘‘barrels” are packed ?

Will they borrow things?

Will they want to lend ?

Will they play on the piano nights, after decent people
are in bed ? ;

Are they rich ?

Did they ever have any grandmothers ?

Did they ever do any mean thing, and if so, shall we
find it out?

Who are they, any way ? :

And we might go on for a couple of columns and still
not ask all the questions that will be asked about new
neighbors, but we forbear. We all know just how it is.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
DROSS.

 

 

After 40 years ov studdy, I find that 99 people out ov
every hundred are phools, and that I am one ov the
ninety and nine.

The principal difference between a necessary and a
luxury iz the price.

The faith ov the ignorant iz more than a match for the
reazon or the learned.

The improvident kant be helped; it iz like trieing to
lift up a bob tailed rooster bi the tale.

Natur luvs the phools. She has taken more pains in
their konstrukshion than enny other ov her works.

Mankind are a superstishus race; they had mutch
rather guess thare iz a snake in the hole than to kno
thare ain’t one.

Flirtashuns are risky adventures; a woman should
not forgit that in all enterprizes ov this kind, however
well managed, she iz sure to cum off seckond best.

Natur never makes two things just alike; but when
she makes two phools, she cums the nearest to it.

Mi friend, think just. az mutch az yu kan ov yureself,
but don’t brag mutch on the subjekt; thare ain’t noth-
ing that will tire others out so quick az to hear yu talk
about yureself.

The man who grows virtewous and liberal az he
grows ritch, iz a gem the rarest, and ov the purest
water.

Men ov genius do their work eazily ; it don’t tire an
eagle to fly, but it duz a goose.

The man who kan bait hiz hook so as to ketch a saint
or a Sinner on the same bait, iz a good angler.

I hav lived long enuff to find out that most ov the nu
things are a fraud, and that it won’t do to bet on but fu
oy the old ones.

The man who iz striktly honest haz got the best pos-
sible foundashun to bild a karakter on, and he iz a
phool to put enny thing into the superstrukture to mar
the buty ov the edifice.

Thare are but fu, if enny, more profitable people to
the world than thoze who kan amuze themselfs; they
are the kind who are allwuss willing to help amuze
others.

Sumthing to do, and a determinashun to do it, iz the
grate panacea. Indolence, enuff ov it, will eat up an
angel, in time.

Bigotry, if possible, iz wuss than heathenism, or even
infidelity.

The realy learned don’t travel around the kuntry with
. ae under their arm; they carry the book in their
ed.

Thoze people who hav the most propriety need it the
most; one thing done improperly would unhorse them.

Enny phool kan look bak and see whare he made hiz
last blunder. >

When the sun shines brightly in mi path, enny boddy
may help me who haz a mind to; but when I get intoa
tite spot, I will thank all people to stand one side and
see me git out ov it miself—if I kan.

— > © <+______

He who can take advice is sometimes superior to him
who can give it,

 

BILL

WEEKLY.

 

= SSS

 

 

NYE.

 

 

BILL NYE.

EpGarR WILSON NYE, alias BILL NYE, whose picture is
given above, is the youngest humorous writer on the
list, coth in years and in the length of time thus far
devoted to writing. He is but thirty-five years of age,
and six years would cover the time actually spent in
the field of journalism. ,

He was born in Shirley, Piscataquis County, Maine,
Aug. 25, 1850, but at the ag

 

*OOI two years, according to
his own story, took his parents by the hand, and tell-
ing them that Maine was no place for them, he started
West with them.

He received an academical education at River Falls,
Wis., and in 1876 went to Wyoming Territory, where he
was admitted to the bar, and, as he says, practiced law
in a quiet kind of a way, though frequently warned by
the authorities not to do so. He had a great deal of
leisure time, as he tells it. Sometimes several years
would elapse between his cases, and he naturally
yearned for some kind of relaxation besides poker. So
he got to writing a Sunday letter to the Cheyenne daily
Sun at $1 per column. He says that “this sum, which
aggregated aS much as $60 per year, so completely
dwarfed the returns from my law practice, that I at
once abandoned the latter, giving my revised statutes |
to a new notary public at Last Chance, who had just
made his debut, and my Bouvier’s Law Dictionary to a
personal friend. Having thus disposed of my law.
library, I nailed my tin sign on the door of the pest-
house and abandoned the profession to its fate.

“Contrary to my expectations, however, it rallied.
When Daniel Webster die@, every one said that we
would never ha¥é another lawyer to take his place, and
therefore we might as well quit; but we came out all
right at last. It was so whemJjabandoned the profes-
sion of law. A man wag to take my place.”

From the Cheyenne! rifted to the Denver
Tribune, tor whig ly, as well as tor the
Salt Lake Tribui pa

  
  
  
    
   
    

Ww where it would

 

 

strike. a” ee

At the time Bill Nye @dited the Boomerang, it was
published in the second story of a brick livery stable in
Laramie City, Wyoming. Nye’s cards read thus:

 

PORTO OHO EIINOIIRE
x THE BOOMERANG,
Published Daily and Weekly,

Corner of Third and South C Street,
(Up Stairs.) LARAMIE CITY.
Enter stair-way from C street, or pass through the
Livery Stable, twist the tail of the iron-gray Mule, and
“ take the Elevator. .
i Now is the time to Subseribe.

BILL NYE, Editor.
ERO ILE OK

itself, because it was so unconsciously absurd, taking it
for granted that Bill Nye wasa wild and wooly half horse
and half alligator, who didn t know any better.

Bill Nye soon realized that the post-office at Laramie
City was not the United States Mint; and as there was
little danger of his becoming round-shouldered carrying
the government funds from the drawer to the safe, in-

Correspondence, ,

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBULORS,

t=" 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.)

 

G. W. N., Happy Hollow, Ohio.—ist. We commend to your
attention ‘“‘Wentworth’s Arithmetical Problems.” It Is de-
signed to be used with, and supplementary to, any arithmetic
in use. It enables any one to perform original and miscella-
neous examples. The teacher’s edition, with answers, can be
furnished for 50 cents. If you wish it, write direct to the
New YoRK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. 2d. Canals are
carried over rivers whose waters are at a lower level, or across
valleys in other natural low places, on great bridges called
aqueducts. They require very skillful engineering. The
aqueducts at Schenectady and at Cohoes, by which the Erie
Canal crosses the Mohawk River, are among the finest pieces
of engineering architecture in the country. The aqueduct
by which the Chesapeake and Ohio Canalis carried over the
Potomac River is 1,446 feet long and 36 feet high. The conduit
has a nine foot vent and discharges 68,000,000 gallons of water
in twenty-four hours. It is supported by eight piers of
granite, which are imbedded seventeen feet in the river bot-
tom. It was constructed at acostof about eres? e
aqueduct at Slateford carries the Edinburgh and G Se
Union Canal across the valley of the Water of Leith. e
arches and also the water channel are made of cast iron, the
latter being built in with masonry. On some canals boats
are carried from one level to ano on rail rE
through locks ; and on others they are raised and lowered by
»owerful machinery. 3d. The air is heaviest in dry weather.

n wet weather the dampness renders the air ee Savenpine
to health, and it appears heavier then, though it is, in fact,
much lighter. Why it is so is because of the extreme tenuity
of watery vapors, the density of which is less than that of
atmospheric air. 4th. See any school grammar. 5th. Longi-
tude, in geography, is an are of the equator included between
the meridian of a place and the meridan whence the degrees
are counted, which is patelly called the first meridian. The
ancient geographers drew the first meridian through Ferr
the westernmost of the ee. Islands, and are sti
followed by the geographers of Germany and Eastern Europe
(who draw it. however, a little east of island). The Eng-
lish call the first meridian that which passes thro

ich ; f Paris; the Sreaionis, that

: ner

Greenwich, though the longitude from Washington A also
used. 6th. In the standard silver dollar there are 37134 grains
of pure silver; in the trade dollar 378grains. The latter was

 

intended for trade ee in China, and not for general
circulation in the United States, not being a 1 nder.
ith. The name of the ship in which Balboa, the Spanish
American discoverer, came to this country is not 1.

“

 

Because the earth is packed tightly around arson
not thrown lightly into the excavation. Hence more earth
required to fill it up.

Cc. W. B.—\st. The cabinet officers under the first adminis-
tration of the United States (Washington’s) were Secretary of
State, Secretary of the Treasury, Secretary of War, Postmas-
ter-General, and Attorney-General. The Navy Department
was established in 1798. On May 3, 1798, George Cabot, of Mas-
sachusetts, was appointed Secretary of the Navy under the
second administration (also Washington’s), but he declined
the appointment, and Benjamin Stoddart, of Maryland, was
appointed in his place on May 21, 1798. The new Department
(Secretary of the Interior) was created by act of Congress in
1849 (Taylor’s administration). The first appointee was
Thomas Ewing, of Ohio (March 8, 1849). 2d. The name of the
vessel in which Balboa, the Spanish American discoverer,
came to this country is not recorded. One account says:
“Little is known of his life until the year 1501, when he was

B.

 

 

activity began to dull the luster of his keen eye. » be-
came depressed by the cares of office—and such an office!
where there was not much todo beyond catching flies,
and thus keeping them out of the mucilage bottle. Under
these discouraging circumstances it is not strange that
one day he paralyzed the President and his cabinet
by unexpectedly dispatching to Washington the ap-
pended unique letter of resignation :

BILL NYE’S RESIGN.

Post-OFFICE DIVAN, LARAMIE City, W. T.,
October 1, 1883.

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES ?

Sir: I beg leave at this time to officially tender my
resignation as postmaster at this place, andin due form
to deliver the great seal and the key to the front door of
the office. The safe combination is set on the numbers
33, 66, and 99, though I do not remember at this moment
which comes first, or how many times you revolve the
knob, or which direction you should turn it at first in
order to make it operate. :

There issome mining stock in my private drawer in
the safe, which I have not yet removed.
may have, if you desire it. Itis a luxury, but you may
have it. I have decided to keep a horse instead of this
mining stock. The horse may not be so pretty, but it
wiil cost less to keep him.

You will find the postal cards that have not been
used under the distributing-table, and the coal down in
the cellar. It the stove draws too hard, close the
eee in the pipe and shut the general delivery win-

ow. . ,

Looking over my stormy and eventful administration as
postmaster here, I find abundant cause ior thanksgiv-
ing. At the time I entered upon the duties of my office
the department was not yet ona paying basis. It was
not even self-sustaining. Since that time, with the ac-
tive co-operation of the chief executive and the heads of
the department, I have been able to make our postal
system a paying one, and on top of that lam now able
to reduce the tariff on average-sized letters from three
cents to two. Imight add that this is rather too too,
but 1 will not say anything that might seem undignified
a = Official resignation which is to become a matter of

story.

Through all the vicissitudes of a ternpestuous term of

This stock you |

one of the company of adventurers who followed Roderigo
| de Bastidas in his voyage of discovery to the western seas.
He appearsto have settled in Hispaniola, when he took to
cultivating land in the neighborhood of Salvati but with
no great success, as his debts became oppressive. Tn 1509
famous Ojeda sailed from San Domingo with an expedi

and founded the settlement of San Sebastian. He had
orders with i

 

) Enciso, an adventurous lawyer of the town, to
fit out two ships and convey provisions to the new settle-
ment. Enciso set sail in 1510, and Bal whose debts had
made the town unpleasant to him, managed to accompa:
him by concealing himself ina cask, which was conveyé
from his farm to the ship as if containing proyisions.” 3d.
The names of the’ points to which you refer, if we under-
stand your question aright, are as follows: Comma, semi-
colon, colon, period, dash, nterrogation, exclamation, paren-
thesis, brackets or crotchets, apostrophe, hen, acute ac-

nt, grave accent, circumflex accent, circumflex, or tilde,
the jong, or macron, the short, or breve, dizresis, cedilla,
caret, quotation marks, brace, ellipsis, asterick, dagger, or ob-
elisk, double dagger, section, parallels, paragraph, index, as-
terism. The cedilla was originally the same as the letter z,
and was written, in Spanish and French, between the letter
c and a (OuOrnee 0, or u, to preserve the c in its soft
sound. Afterward it was placed under the c, and acquired
the character of a mere diacritical point. 4th. Columbus re-
turned to Spain after his first voyage in the Nina. During
the voyage a storm threatened the Nina with destruction.
Columbus, fearful lest the knowledge of his discovery should
perish, prepared a written statement of it, and, heading it
up in acask, committed it to the deep 5th. Any school gram-
mar will settle the point in dispute.

Constant Reader, Beverly, Ohio.—ist. The origin of arith-

 

office I have safely passed. I am able to turn over the

=| SRSEIA GR cAMP is DS aL PDO a?

cessor.

Acting under the advice of Gen. Hatton, a year ago, 1
removed the feather bed with which my predecessor,
Deacon Hayford, had bolstered up his administration by
stuffing the window, and substituted glass. Finding
nothing in the book of instructions to postmasters
which made the feather bed a part of my official duties,
I filed it away in an obscure place and burned it in
effigy, also in the gloaming. This act maddened my
predecessor to such a degree, that.he then and there
became a candidate for justice of the peace on the Dem-
ocratic ticket. The Democratic ee was able, however,
with what aid it secured from the Republicans, to plow
the old man under to a great degree.

It was not long after I had taken my official oath be-
fore an era of unexampled prosperity opened for the
American people. The price of beef rose to a remark-
able altitude, and other vegetables commanded a good
figure and a ready market. We then began to make
active preparations for the introduction of the straw-
berry-roan two-cent stamps, and the black-and-tan
postal note. One reform has crowded upon the heels of
another, until the country is to-day upon the foam-
crested wave of a permanent prosperity.

Mr. President, I cannot close this letter without thank-

 

 

The Boomerang was immediately quoted all over;
America and abroad. Though not a financial success, |
owing largely to the fact thatit was a daily, and pub- !
lished in a town of less than 3,000 people, while two}
rival papers were running in the same place, the ex- |
penses of the daily swalloweti up the profits of the |
weekly, yet Bill Nye made a reputation at that time |
which has been worth many thousands of dollars to |
him since.
who run across him in daily life. His writings and his '
behavior are two entirely separate and distinct matters
withjhim. He says that he is sometimes invited ‘‘to go
along and be the life of the party, but;” he adds, ‘‘peo-
ple never do it the second time.”

When he was seventeen he was six feet high, and his '
clothes hadn’t grown fast enough to keep up with him. |

Wearing his father’s shoes and a look of sadness, he |
went to see the circus connected with the exhibition of |
rare wild beasts and facetious serpents. There was a
common skin-game lottery which had been doing a}
large business, but the business had fallen off because |
there had been such a wealth of brass lockets drawn, |
while the valuable prizes remained in the show-case.

A genial capper, Seeing the forlorn and low-spirited '
William at a distance, selected him as a good subject,
and going to him, said:

“Look here, my son, I want to draw in that lottery
over yonder, but the proprietor knows me and won’t let
me draw, I wish you'd take this here dollar and go over
there and draw for me, will you? Then bring me what-
ever you get.”

William was always willing to oblige a friend, so he
went to the lottery and paid im a dollarfor a chance.
He drew a $20 greenback and a silver cup worth five
more, to which the crowd responded with a wild yell
and began to gathér around thelucky winner.

‘‘Now,” said the tall and tow-headed William, draw-
ing himself up to his full height and taking another
dollar from the same pocket, ‘‘ 1 desire to take a chance
for a friend of mine.”

This time he drew a brass locket, which he handed to
the urbane capper with the ré@mark that he thought

‘we were having rather a back’vard spring” and went |:

away.

In a moment he came sadly back. and putting his
handjon the velvet sleeve of the Dunko man, he said:

‘“Stranger if I were you, I would abandon this pre-
carious life that you now lead and try to do better. Do
not squander your money on games of chance, but use
it judiciously. I hate tosee a man of your age tritter-
ing away his hard earned money on brass lockets. 1
would willingly divide my $25 with you, but I want to
teach you a valuable lesson. lt wiil be worth far more
to you than money. Then wringing the hand of the
dumfounded capper, William went away to play with
the baby elephant.

Bill Nye was married in 1877 to Miss Fanny Smith of
Chicago, and two little girls romp through his sunny
home at Hudson, the handsomest town in the north-
west, on the banks of the St Croix,a few miles below
the famous Dalles of the St Croix, an hour’s ride from
Minnehaha Falls, near the best trout fishing of the
west, and as he writes to the Prince of Wales’ son, ‘‘ the
hot-bed of the common prairie chicken.”

Though Mr. Nye has lectured very little, his hearers
say that the effect of his odd and original remarks is‘
much heightened by his peculiar manner. We might!
add that the famous letter accepting the post-office at
Laramie City, which was copied even in an African pa-
per, was an actual and bona jide document, as Bill was
appointed to the Laramie post-office by President Arthur,
and the letter referred to was written and sent to
Washington from which point it got into the press at |
once. |

The editorial of the London News at that time, in ref- !
erence to this letter, was almost as funny as the letter

 

‘tomahawk which you will find near the Etruscan water-

ing yourself and the heads of departments at Washing-
ton tor your active, cheery, and prompt co-operation in
these matters. You can do as you see fit, of course,
about incorporating this idea into your Thanksgiving
proclamation, but rest assured it would not be ill-timed
or inopportune. It is not alone a credit to myself.
refiects credit upon the administration also.

Ineed not say that Il herewith transmit my resigna-
tion with great sorrow and genuine regret. We have

 

Ce. | tolled on together month after month, asking for no
Bill Nye’s appearance is entirely misleading to those ; reward except the innate consciousness of rectitude and |

the salary as fixed by law.. Now we are to separate.

and the cabinet must leave each other at this point.

: better turn the cat out at night when you close the!

office. If she does not go readily, you can make it |
clearer to her mind by throwing the canceling stamp |
at her.

If Deacon Hayford does not pay up his box-rent, you |

when Bob Head gets drunk and insists on a letter from |
one of his wives every day in the week, you Can Salute |
him through the box delivery with an old Queen Anne |
pail. This will not in any manner surprise either of |
these parties. |

Tears are unavailing. Ionce more become a private |
citizen, clothed only with the right to read such postal |
cards aS may be addressed to me personally, and to |
curse the inefficiency of the Post-office Department. I
believe the voting class to be divided into two parties,
viz.: Those whc are in the postal service, and those
who are mad because they cannot receive a registered
er every fifteen minutes of each day, including Sun-

ay.

Mr. President, as an Official of this government I now
retire. My term of office would not expire until 1886. I

must therefore beg pardon for my eccentricity in re- |

signing. It will be best, perhaps, to keep the heart-
breaking news from the ears of European powers until
the dangers of a financial panic are fully past. Then
hurl it broadcast with a sickening thud.

Very respectfully yours, BILL NYE.

This letter, like the one accepting the place, was
widely published and eagerly read. What action the
cabinet took upon it is still kept a state secret, but it is
suspected that something stronger than a bottle of ink
was opened and carefully administered to the shocked
statesmen, to inspire them with Dutch courage.

Bill Nye writes rapidly, doing his day’s work between
8 and 10 A. M,, after which he forgets the whole thing
by taking his horse and carriage and driving about, for
most of the day. ,

His lecture is an oddity for it has no subject. When
asked by a lecture committee what he is going to talk
aoe he telegraphs back that ‘‘he will talk about an

our.

 

oo

For Lonely Hours.

The thoughtful husband, whose business takes him
frequently from home, is well aware of the lonely hours
his wife has to pass in his absence. He therefore wisely
provides an entertaining companion, by having the
NEw YORK WEEKLY sent to her for one year. Give your
wife the best Christmas present within your means,
and then add $3 more, to pay for the NEw York
WEEKLY, which will serve to keep herin good spirits
for a whole year.

At} dent at 2:15 A. M.,

metic is extremely obscure. According to some writers it

that Abraham, during his stay in Egypt, taught the in-
habitants the use of numbers. The precise epoch in which
numerical signs and the first methods of computation were
discovered, is enveloped in equal mystery; but there can be
little doubt that the decimal system, or method of calcula-
tion by tens, originated from the custom of children reckon-
ing by the fingers. The oldest text-book on arithmetic em-
ploying the Arabian or Indian figures, and the decimal sys-
tem, is undoubtedly that of Avicenna, the Arabian physician,
who lived in Bokhara about A, D. 1000. It was found in
manuscript in the library at Cairo, Egypt, and contains, be-
sides the rules for addition, substraction, multiplication, and

division, many peculiar properties of numbers. It was not
until the beginning of the thirteenth century that the science
of arithmetic began used in Europe, and not until
the seventeenth century that it began to be a regular branch
of common education. Yes. On the day_appointed for
the execution of John Brown at Charlestown, Va., on Dec. 2,
1859, as he left the jail, he paused, it is stated, for a moment
of the door to kiss a negro child held up to him by its mother.

. Columbus, with the aid of Perez, and the brothers Pinzon,
contributed an eighth of the expense incurred in fitting out
the three ships, Santa Maria, Pinta,and Nina. 4th. Yes. John
C. Calhoun resigned the office of Vice-President on Dec. 28,
1832. 5th. It seems to us that a proper comprehension of a
concrete as distinguished from an abstract num! make
any explanation unnecessary. 6th. President Garfield was
shot by Charles J. Guiteau, in Washington, at9.20A. M., July 2,
1881. He died at_Elberon, N. J., at 10:35 P.M., Sep. 19, 1881. At the
| suggestion of the cabinet, who deemed it necessary, Vice-
| President Arthur, who was in this city, took the oath as Presi-
September 20, 1881, before Judge Brady.
| The oath was retaken in Washington, before the Chief-Justice
| of the Supreme Court, Sep. 22, at 12 o’clock M. 7th. We are
| not aware of any near relationship between the Presidents of
| the United States, excepting John Adams and his son John
| Quincy. 8th. The name Virginia was given by Queen Eliza-
| beth by persons sent out by Raleigh. 9th. The tomb of Gen.
| Harrison, Ninth President of the United States. is at North

| Here the roads seem to fork, as it were, and you and I | Bend, Ohio, a féw rods from — bank of the river. No mon-

| ument has yet been erec' the memory of Gen. Grant.

|. You will find the key under the door-mat, and you had | His remains lie in the tomb at Riverside Park, this city.

C. E. D., Charlotte, N. C.—ist. Most of the writers named
have written for the NEw YORK WEEELY. 2d. The total area
of British Columbia is 341,305 square miles ; population 49,459,
Manitoba has an area of 123,200 square miles, and a popula-

‘ might as well put his mail in the general delivery, and | tion of about 125,000. 3d. “Indian Traits,” by B. B. Thatcher,

will cost $1.50. It is in two volumes, and contains sketches

| of the manners, customs, and character of the North Amer-

ican natives. A biography of distinguished Indians, by the
same author, will also cost $1.50. 4th. The original range of
the bison, commonly and erroneously called buffalo, ars
to have been the whole of the North American continent,
west of Lake Champlain and the Hudson River, with the ex-
ception of some intervals on the Atlantic sea- , and
south of the Ottawa and Columbia Rivers, no: d of

| which its place is gee by the musk ox, as is that of the

elk and moose by the reindeer. For ear eee the bison
has ceased to exist to the eastward of the Mississippi River.
Numerous tribes of Indians are almost entirely dependent
on the bison for their food, clothing, and dwellings. The
dressed hides with the hair on form ¢ robes ; and de-
nuded of the hair they make excellent covers for tents. The
bison looks menacing and ferocious, but of all the OE
it is the most pacific toward man. It is distinguished by its
| ae hump over the shoulders. Its eye is and
rilliant.

T. K. D.. Brooklyn, N. Y.—As a composer Beethoven ap-
peared before the public of the Austrian capital in 1795. In
that year his three trios for piano-forte and strings were pub-
lish He called this work his opus (composition) 1, and
thus seemed to disown his former a as juvenile
attempts unworthy of remembrance. He was at that time
twenty-five years of age.

M. A. B.—The revenue flag of the United States is made up
of sixteen stripes, eight red and eight white. running up and
down, and a white union in the corner with the national
arms in blue on it. Theyacht flag used by all yacht clubs in
the United States is just like the national , only the union
has in it, instead of a star for each State, afoul anchor in a
circle of thirteen stars.

Butts, Brooklyn, N. Y.—1st. Your handwriting is very good.
2d. Glycerine and water acidulated with a little fresh lemon
juice will help to render your hands soft and white.

Schoolgirl, Filley, Mo.—ist. The plural of Jones is Joneses.
2d. We think your teacher, if you report her correctly, is in
error. Refer her to ““Webster’s Dictionary.”

R. C. L.—Crocodiles and alligators lay twenty to sixty eggs,
tortoises and turtles twenty to twenty-five, serpents ten to
fifty, and lizards eight to twelve.

Geo. W. B., North Attleborough, Mass.—“The Duke’s Se-
cret” is notin book-form. Wecan send you the papers con-
taining it for $1.44.

Boy, McComb, Miss.—Advertise the result of your labor in
some aly paperin this city. It is the only,suggestion we
can make.

 

not give business addresses in this d ment.

hair might number 178,560 hairs.

Mrs. F. D., Fort Branch, Ind.—See reply to “Artist” in ‘‘The
Ladies’ Work-Box.”

 

 

 

 

 

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ag betraced toDgypt. On tie otlerland, Joseprus@irois ~

Amateur Taxidermist, Cleveland.—ist. Sate 2a. We do >

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FOOTSTEPS OF THE DEAD.

BY EBEN E. REXFORD.

 

In the hush that comes about us,
When the busy day is done,

And the twilight chants its vespers
Like a gray and solemm nuh,

In the memory-haunted chambers

Of my soul I sit alone,

Listening for the olden footsteps
On the silent threshold stone.

Tn those still and quiet moments,

When oe Owe ron ceed near,
ps of the dear

Tell me that the dead are here.

Ican hear them coming, going,
_A8 I sit there all alone,

Footsteps from the years that vanished,
Echoing on the threshold-stone.

Oh, it is not idle fancy
Of a weak or weary brain ;
Even now I hear the footsteps
In the patter of the rain.
Hush, l pray! One moment listen!
Heard you not a child's swift tread ?
Ah! my heart has not deceived me,
Tis the footsteps of the dead!

There are little pattering footfalls
Like the rain upon the trees,

And I hear his footsteps with them
In the lulling of the breeze.

Yes, I hear them on the threshold,
Through the rain-drops’ stormy din,

And my haunted heart is waiting
For the footsteps to come in.

 

*

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

all Street Wonder;

 

| Arama, Tre ions Derecrwve
| SHE ROMANCE OF A GREAT MYSTERY.

By DONALD J. McKENZIE,
Author ot “Miriam Blair.”

 

{The Wall Street Wonder” was commenced in No. 5. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER IX.
KIT MORRILL AND TOMMY.

- Tommy, the shrewd youngster, with a sense of tre-

nendous importance in consciousness of the fact that
he is actually engaged upon detective work, hastens
to the vicinity of Elsie Harper’s boarding-place.

He does not intend to be seen by the young lady in
question, but, to his consternation, he meets her face to
face soon after entering the street.

‘She is walking slowly, and, as they meet, exclaims:

“J was looking for you.”

> for me ?” repeats the lad, not knowing what

  

“Don’t you recognize me ?” she questions, with a sweet

“You ain’t the old woman that I carried messages for,
be you?” _
Tommy pretends not to be quite sure of this fact, so
that she may not suspect him of playing a part,
“Hush! Not so loud.”
“I guess you're her, all the samc.”
“You're a very shrewd boy; and that is why I like to
employ you. I’ve another message for you to deliver.”
“Where to?”
“Tl give you the address. Will you carry it for me ?”
Tommy hesitates.
The detective told him to watch the house. And yet
it appears as though he has a chance to be more useful
in smother way.

_ He deciées to run the risk and deliver the message for

 

 

 

om

 

Tommy
* «Thinks

 

“Ease
thi

brilliant for his employer, the detective.
rry it for yer,” he declares, adding: “I
s’pose yer'll
“You shail be libe!

Ly me well.”
rally paid. Here is the message and
some money. Let me whisper to you the address, for if
it, was written you might lose it, and then it would fall
into hands of some one else.”
She bends her beautiful face close to that of the
ngster, her lips almost touching his ear, and whispers
e name and number of a street. ;
“You understand ?” she asks, aloud.
“Yes'm.”
“And you will be prompt 2”
“In course, I will.’
The boy winks with sly significance and continues :
“Oh, I see through yer racket, miss, The young chap
has tospark ye on the Sly, cause the stern parient
don’t take kindly tohim. But yer needn’t be afraid of
givin’ yer away.”
}Harper blushes beautifully and laughs, making
bewitching dimples in her soft, fair cheeks.
“Hush!” she says, shaking her head in pretended

  

touches his ragged cap and darts away.

Ym precious green, don’t she?” he solilo-
quizes, a8 he trudges along the street. “I guess this
racket is somethin’ rather more than love on the sly.
T’ve seen that sort before, and I don’t let a pretty girl
fool me too easy—not much. Thinks I’m areal innocent
little chap, don’t she? Ho, ho!”

After proceeding the distance of a few squares, and

turtively about him to see that he is not ob-
served, Tommy dodges into an alley.

With his back to the street, he takes out the letter.

It is unsealed, and consists of a half-sheet of note-
paper, upon which are written the following words:

“Kate—big—obta—tub—thingto—jib—to—dip—ixs—hat—orf
—cap—dignih—pit—lapce.”

Tommy can read writing, especially when it is so
plain as that which the letter contains.

But an expression of puzzled disappointment settles
upon his astute face as he scans the seemingly mean-

words.

“Wonder what that heathenish lingo means!” he ex-
claims, half audibly. “Td give a silver dime if I could
make it out. Whoin thunder is Kate? And what in
the dickens is a ‘thingto?’ Some kind of a sailin’ craft,

, cause there § a ‘jib’ next, and a ‘tub’ before it.
Howling nice craft a ‘tub thingto’ with a jib, by cracky !
Guess this pretty girl is a bit loony on the subject of
sailors’ lingo. Wonder if it ain't some kind of a nice
boat that she’s going with her pe man to Coney
Island in! One t about if, the big detective has
got to translate this blessed mess into somethin’ that
Somebody can read. I'll copy it, and then deliver the
one the gal give me, and carry the copy to the Hindoo

”

e boy produces a dirty scrap of paper and the stub
of a lead-pencil, and proceeds laboriously to copy the

mnessage.

“Now we're all right—one mess of on for Mr. Rip-
ley, and another one jest as good as his’n for the detec-
tive. Guess I’ll make a detective ‘fore I get to be as tall
as the big Hindoo.”

Searcely has the lad returned the message and his
copy of it to his pocket, before he is startled by a slight
sound in his rear.

He turns quickly, and his heart sinks within him. For,
80 close to him that they can touch each other with out-

- stretched hands, stands Kit Morrill, the detective /”

“] guess [’ll see that message, my smart lad!” Kit de-
clares, with an exultant smile.

There is no escape from the alley, except by passing
the burly form of the detective. So Tommy braces his

_ back against the wall of one of the adjacent buildings,
- and coolly retorts :

“T guess not, mister!”

*Do you think I can’t catch you ?”

“T 9’ yer can.”

“And do you expect that a strong man like myself
can’t take a letter from a little chap like you ?”

“Yer canif yer are mean enough !”

“Don’t try to bluff me, youngster. I’ve caught you
fairly this time, and I’m going to have the prize if you’ve

i rommy's wits are at work as lively as he can make
m.

He is sensible enough to see that resistance is use-
less, for he will surely be overpowered by the detective.
Nor can he keep the message from falling into the hands
of Kit Morrill.

But there is one thing which it is possible he can suc-
ceed in accomplishing.

He can give Pi the message written by Elsie Harper
to Morrill, and thus satisfy the latter, And then, when
the detective has left him, he can take his copy of it. to
Hyjah, and thus the Hindoo detective will not be be-
hind ow rival in the possession of clews.

He to act yn, this plan.

omen mister, Pll tell you what Pll do,” Tommy
exc. 8.

“Well, go ahead.”

«ll let yer see the letter I’ve got, if yer agree to give
it back.”

“Why do you want me to give it hack ?”
‘‘So’t I can deliver it, and git my pay.”
“Pretty sharp, aren’t you ?”

“T likes to get my pay when I earn it.”
“So I see. Let me see the letter, then.”
ae ill yer give it back ?”

uy es.’ '

to appear too willing to give up the letter, for fear Mor-
rill will suspect him of having a copy.

He produces the missive, and places it in the hand of
the ee who eagerly scans the oddly composed
wo

“I guess I'll freeze to this for the present,” Morrill de-
clares, coolly pocketing the letter.

“That's mean, Tommy cries, with ge@ine indigna-
tion, although he does not care for the loss of the mes-

e hand of Kit Morrill falls heavily upon the boy's
shoulder, and he scowls darkly.
“7T’m going to give you a lesson that may teach you to
be more civil.” he declares.
“Don’t thrash me, doen't!” Tommy implores, in real

alarm.
“You led me a hard chase yesterday, and then let
that Hindoo have the clew.”
“I didn’t let him have it.”
“How did he get it eee a
e et

‘He took it from my poc
“Expect me to believe that yarn ?”
“Tt is true.”

“Tm going to give you aJesson in politeness, any how.
Isaw you and the Hindoo together this morn-
ing, and you were civil enough to I fancy: youre
at work for him, and to outwit me. If that’s your game
J‘ll soon teach you that there are easier men for you to
get the best of than Kit Morrill. I have the reputation
of never giving in to any rival, and it will take more
than a big heathen and a boy to break that record for
me. ”»

There is a determined gleam in the small, piercing

eee vi the speaker, and Tommy realizes that he is ina
place. ‘

“If the Hindoo was only here now !” the lad mentally

exclaims.
The detective’s clutch tightens wpon the boy’s
shoulder, and he gives him a painful shake which causes

his teeth to shatter.

‘How do you like that ?”

«Please don’t mister !”

“Do you think I can make you dance ?”

“T know yer can.”

“There’s just one way, my lad, for you to escape the
soundest thrashing you ever had in your life. Do you
want me to tell you what itis?”

“Yes.”

“Answering my questions.” :

“Go ahead, then. And don’t pinch my shoulder so!”

a mg who gave you this message ?”

e YT Ry 7

«‘And is her name Elsie Harper ?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

‘Never mind ; 1 can see by your face that I am right.
And where were you going to carry it ?”

“T’ve no right to say.”

“Do you mean to refuse ?”

“I can’t be mean. I won’t give anybody away that
puts confidence in me.”

“You can’t, eh!”

‘Nary time, mister.” 2

“Then I'll limber up your tongue for you.”

Kit Morrill shakes the boy roughly, thumping his
shoulders against the brick wall of the building.

Tommy screams for help.

The detective does not fancy having the police called
to the spot, for he is aware that he has a reputation of
handling boys and others with unwarranted roughness
to elicit information.

drawback to his popularity as an officer, for he is really
very skillful.

He instantly releases the lad, exclaimin

“Stop your howling or 1’ll shoot you.”

But Tommy does not wait to be shot. He bounds with

 

 

‘Same time he resdives tO GO some- |

 

 

Tommy makes this condition because he does not wish.

Kit Morrill has a bad temper, and this fact is the only |.

“Do you expect me to submit to such an insult with-
out resenting it ?”

“I do not exactly see how you can help yourself.”

“Suppose summon my clerks and have you thrown
out upon the street? I declare ll do it unless you get
out ot here.”

The Hindoo smiles.

“T think I would not do just that,” he calmly returns.
“Tn the first place, | have made no charges. When I do,
T shall not palaver or waste time. I make it a point
never to arrest innocent men. fIfIever take you into
custody, you. may make up your mind that indisputable
evidence of your guilt exists, and that all your railroad
stock will not buy me off. But until I am Satisfied that
you are guilty I shall not arrest you; and, what is more,

 

THE DETECTIVE’S CLUTCH TIGHTENS UPON THE BOY’S
SHOULDER.

I shall protect you from unjust Pe I will not
0

 

even let Mr. Shelby shoot you. a Will find me rather
valuable as afriend. If you are an innocent man, you
will learn to like me; but if you are guilty, you will wish
that I had been devoured by a Bengal tiger before I ever
struck American soil. So you had better reconsider your
resolution to have me thrown into the street. Besides,
you might have to get a newforce of clerks after we
had got through with each other. I have a powerful
te ig against being tossed out into the street by
clerks.”

The quiet tones and half- humorous yet unmistakably
determined speech of the detective once more quells the
anger of the broker.

He has never seen Hyjah before to know him. And
for a stranger to look into the homely, yet expressive
countenance of the wonderful Hindoo, and hear him
speak, and meet the magnetic glance of his eyes, is to be
impressed by the man’s latent power.

is speech, although confident, is not boastful.

One is convinced that he can and will do precisely
what he promises or threatens.

He makes no vain show of strength to intimidate the
weak, and yet he is as strong as two ordinary men.

He pretends to possess no occult powers, and yet his
power of discernment oftentimes resembles clairvoy-
ance.

Hyjah never makes a useless exhibition of cleverness
or skill, notwithstanding his equal in skill seldom, if
ever, has been known to exist.

Shelby has put up his revolver and ste back.

The detective goes up to him and says, in a low tone:

‘You have done a foolish thing in coming here in this
way, Mr. Shelby.” K

“IT suppose I have,” the other admits.

e eee Kit Morrill told you that he suspected Des-
mond’s confidential clerk ?” :

“He did.”

‘And that set you on fire against your old enemy?”

“JT have reason, I think.”

“Possibly. But this ol uarrel is a despicable thing
for two men like you to indulge in: A quarrel will never
become settled so long as you keep stirring itup. Let it
alone and it will settie itself.”

The detective pauses a moment, and then continues:

“J wish you to make me a promise.”:

“What is it ?”

“Not to interfere with Kit Morrill or myself in this
case again.” :

“T promise.”

“And now I desire you to leavé Desmond and me
alone, Siay—how is your daughter)”

“ne suffers great pain.” :

- “And is there no hope of her sight being restored ?”
| The physicians give none.”

“It is a dreadful crime, and you may be sure that the
guilty shall be brought to justice. Now go.”

Shelby obeys, an ; OL.Ce- 0G atron bert
Desmond. i. :

  

 

 

SHE BENDS} HER BEAUTIFUL FACE CLOSE TO THAT OF THE
YOUNGSTER, AND WHISPERS,

lightning-like quickness to the exit from the alley, dart-
ing under the detective’s outstretched arm.

nh another moment the lad is in the open street, and
os no cannot lay hands on him again without a lively
chase.

CHAPTER X.;
HYJAH SHOWS HIS POWER.

The Hindoo detective has never had a more thrilling
experience than the present one, as he stands unob-
served in the broker’s sumptuous office, a witness of the
climax of the rich men’s life-long feud.

Shelby stands with leveled revolver; Desmond con-
ae him with folded arms and eyes flashing de-

ance. :

“That is a pretty charge to make against a man in my
position !” the broker exclaims, breaking the oppressive
silence which follows the bold utterance of the banker,

“That is not a denial,” is the crisp retort.

‘J shall make no denial.”

“Then you admit your guilt ?”

“T admit nothing of the kind.”

an you neither admit nor deny the charge ?”

sex &

‘You shali do one or the other.”

‘Shall I?”

“Yes, and before I leave this office. I know your
capacity for villainy better than any one else in the
world, and to me you shall not tr€at this charge with
contempt. Did you not say that you wished my daugh-
ter had been struck blind before she ever set eyes upon
your son ?”

«IT spoke words to that effect.”

“Then you acknowledge them ?”

“Yes, because I meant whatI said. I could repeat
the wish now with equal sincerity. It is a-misfortune
that her blindness did not come three months ago.”

“Dare you say that to me?”

“T dare anything, Shelby, There is no use in mincing
matters. If the misfortune had come upon my son, you
would have rejoiced init. I am sorry for the girl—she
is not to blame for having sucha father. But lam not
sorry for you.”

Shelby draws a pace nearer. The muzzle of his weap-
on almost touches the temple of his enemy.

‘“‘Wretch !” he huskily cries, ‘‘tell me what you know
about this crime, or I will shoot you, as I have threat-
ened. Speak, Robert Desmond—speak !”

The Hindoo detective dares not wait for matters to
proceed further.

Two or three strides bring him to the side of the bel-
ligerents.

“This will not do, gentlemen,” he declares, in his
quiet tones.

He places a hand upon the shoulder of each as he

 

aks.

Shelby lowers his revolver; the broker stares in be-
wilderment.

«There would be murder done, if you were allowed to
let your passions run,” Hyjah continues.

Something in his tone and touch seems to quell the
raging fire of hatred in the breasts of the two men.

“Who are you ?”? Desmond questions.

‘JT am a detective, employed to solve the mystery of
the crime with which Mr. Shelby has been charging
you.’

“Ah! By whom are you employed ?”

“By your son.”

“Sidney ?”

“The same.”

“By what right does he hire detectives upon this

e t sad

ae is of age, and Miss Shelby was his betrothed
wife.

“That’s it,eh? And so he spends my money to find
the one who injures the daughter of my sworn enemy ?”

‘He has spent no money upon the case as yet—at
least, he has paid me nothing.”

“He had betterfnot, Oe Tae scape-grace !”

“Keep cool, Mr. Desmond. It will look better for you
to have a care what you say upon this subject. There
is some ugly evidence against you in the case, and even
a*rich broker cannot defy the law with impunity.”

ware face flushes again, and he angrily ex-
claims : :

“So you, too, charge me with this crime? I begin to
see my situation. Iam the victim of a conspiracy. You
are determined to fasten this crime upon me, to gratify
the hatred of my enemy.”

‘Do not flare up again, my man,” Hyjah continues.

His hand still rests upon the shoulder of the broker,
and his tones are as calm as though there were no cause
for agitation.

pare APOC OE ,

‘weary and dejectet
“This warfare is *terriolem™ ne’

gaze ot the detective.

‘And useless,” the latter adds.

“Tt cannot be helped.”

“That remains to be seen, and we will talk about it at
another time. I came here to see you, Mr. Desmond,
and finding you absent seated myself to wait. I came
to question you concerning the shocking crime of which
Shelby’s daughter is the victim.”

«Then you really suspect me ?” *

are s a trace of alarm in the broker’s tone and

ook.

“JT have’not said that I suspect you. I told you a few
moments since, however, that there was evidence
against you.”

«Such evidence is unreliable.”
“*{ trust it will prove so.”
‘You doubt my declaration ?”

“JT doubt everybody and everything until I have
tested them.”

“You have no right to suspect a man with such a
record for integrity as I possess.”

‘Records do not amount to much after they’re
broken.”

**You say mine is broken ?” Recta)

“JT say nothing of the kind.” we

“Then state plainly what you are driving at. And
bear in mind that I am upon my own premises.”

"TJ don’t see as it makes any difference about the
premises youare on. I came here te investigate certain
circumstances, and I shall investigate them, it matters
not how many times you may orderme to go or how
many clerks you call in to turn me out. I have no re-
spect for wealth or social position. You’re simply a
man, and you have proved that you possess a pretty
bad temper. Now attend to my questions.”

Desmond quails slightly under the steady, searching
scrutiny ot the detective.

“J will answer whatever you may ask,” he says, in an
altered tone. 3 ;

‘Have you ever seen Ida Shelby, the daughter of your
enemy ?’» the detective abruptly asks,

“F Dave.”

‘When did you see her last ?”

‘Nearly a month ago.”

“Ts she not very beautiful ?”

“T suppose she is.”

Yi

Ti

7. |

 

 

 

 

 

 

SHELBY STANDS WITH LEVELED REVOLYER; DESMOND CON-
FRONTS HIM WITH EYES FLASHING DEFIANCE,

nme know anything against her character as a
y ?
“Only that she is ee ee is
‘Your son is a good-looking fellow, is he not ?”

“He is called so.”

“And a good fellow ?”

“J hope so.” ad

“Then why should rot he and Miss Shelby love and
marry each other ?”

“Because it is against my wishes.”

‘Your wishes are unreasonable.”

“That is my affair.”

“Not altogether yours, man,

It is partly mine,
You have an obstinate disposition.”

 

 

‘What if I have ?”

“And you would take a very decisive step before
allowing your wishes to be opposed ?” °

“Certainly J weuld.”

“And itis merely a question of provocation, or the
state of your own temper, ow far you would go in the
execution of your commands or threats!”

“ANY

Desmond grows ashy pale, and rises to his feet as he
utters this exclamation.

“You are making me admit that I am unscrupulous!”
he cries.

“T am drawing you out, that is all. You have not
compromised yourself as-yet: You are to answer one or
two questions more, however, and then I shall know
whether it is worth while to investigate your character
further, or otherwise.”

‘TI shall not be cross-questioned further, Mr. Detec-
tive!” Desmond firmly retorts.

 

CHAPTER XI.
MYSTERY.

The hand of the Hindoo detective falls heavily upon
the broker’s shoulder.

At the same time he speaks in a voice which is more
stern than he has before used :

“Tt is folly for you to refuse to answer my questions—
a folly of which you will repent. Think well of it.”

‘ ‘Tm not going to be led into a trap,” Desmond re-
urns.

“I have set no trap. If you have left one of your own
arounddloose and are afraid of falling into it, then that
is not My lookout. What I want is the truth, and lam
determined to have it. You may give it to me or not, as
you choose.”

“Go ahead. I will listen, and perhaps reply.”

«Your confidential clerk, Marcus Ripley, is away, is
he not ?”

“He is.”

“Do you know where he has gone ?”

“T do not.”

‘Did he go with or without your permission ?”

“With it.”

‘‘How long is he to be absent ?”

“T do not know.”

“Did he go on business of his own or yours ?”

“His own.”

i as he ever gone away in a similar manner before ?”

‘NO.’

‘Would you allow him to leave his post for an indefinite
period under ordinary circumstances ?”

“T should not.”

‘Have you no suspicion why he has gone ?”

“7 have.”

man you state that suspicion ?”

“e 0.”

«Do you think he is in the city ?”
“T do not know.”
‘‘What about Elsie Harper ?”
“T never saw the lady.”
eee have heard her name before ?”
ce res. '* *
“In connection with Ripley ?”
“He received letters from her.”
‘Written in cipher ?”
“1 believe so.”
“Do you know their contents ?”
The Hindoo detective produces a card from his pock-
et. It is something which he found the day before, and
though unimportant in itself, the place in which it is

prove valuable.

It bears simply a written name and street number.

The name is Robert Desmond. The street and number
that of the broker’s office.

‘Did you ever see this before ?” the detective asks.

Desmond glances at it with a look of slight apprehen-
sion.

“It is mine, of course,” he replies.

“To whom did you give it ?”

“JT do not remember.” _

“Have you any idea how your card came in the pos-
session of Elsie Harper ?”

“Did she give it to you ?” Desmond demands.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
     
  
 
 
 
       
   
 
 
  

THE SHARP REPORT OF A PISTOL SOUNDS UPON THE AIR.
THE VIAL IS SHIVERED TO ATOMS,

“No.”

“Then do not try to hoodwink™me. Tell me where
you found it ?”

“Elsie Harper lost it, yesterday—or last night, rather.
It dropped from her pocket, I think. Can you account
for her possessing it ?”

“Ripley might have given it to her.”

“T think not. The handwriting is yours, and the ink
is a blue fluid which, in a couple of days at least, will be-
come black. This writing is stilla dark blue, and must
have been written yesterday.”

Hyjah speaks with quiet confidence, and after a mo-
mentary pause continues :

“Tt is useless for you to deny this simple act.”

«What do you mean ?”

“You remember all about this card. You gave it to
Elsie Harper, and she was in this office when you did so,
for it was written with the writing fluid which you use,
and in evident haste. Now admit the truth.”

Desmond’s pallor has deepened. He raises one hand
to his head with a wavering motion.

“T shall not deny it,” he says, huskily.

“Then why did you say you had never seen Elsie Har-

r?

«Because I did not care to tell you all my business.”

“How many falsehoods have you given me for truths
in this interview ?” ;

«JT shall not tell you.”

Desmond clenches his hands and adds:

“Leave me, at once! 1 shall not answer another ques-
tion, if you put me upon a rack, and break every bone in
my bod.” ‘

«Just as you choose.”

The Hindoo detective does not prolong the interview a
moment,

«“Desmont has a secret, and yetT do not believe he is
guilty of the crime in which he seems to be implicated,”
is Hyjah’s mental comment as he hastens along the busy
street.

As he is turning from Wall ,to William street he en-
counters Tommy, face to face.

The lad is excited and out of breath.

‘T’ve had another chase with Kit Morrill!” the boy ex
claims. ee

‘Where is he now ?”

“Y’ve thrown him off the track, I guess. Here’s some-
thing that Elsie Harper gave me to deliver to Mr. Rip-
ley.”
The lad hastily explains how he copied the message,
and Morrill secured the original.

The detective scans it carefully for a moment, and then
exclaims :

“7 have made it out.”

“Have yer? You're a keen un, ain’t yer ?”

“It is rather clever, but not very difficult,” the Hindoo
returns, and he hastily shows the buy how to read it.
The message. which the reader may have forgotten, is
written as follows :

“Kate—big—obta—tub—thingto—jib—ta—dip—ixs—hat—orf
—cap—dignih—pit—lapce.”

“Every alternate word, commencing with the first and
ending with the last are transposed words, making the
message as follows: ‘Take boat to-night at six for hid-
ing place.’ The other words, ‘big, tub, jib, dip, hat, cap,
and pit,’ mean just nothing at all.”

The boy listens to the detective’s explanation with
wondering eagerness.

an continues :

As the message is not delivered it will amount to
nothing, except to show that the girl was going with
Ripley to a hiding-place, and that they were going
by boat. Morrill will know as much about it asI do, and
no more. ButI think I can strike a few more points be-
fore six o’clock. Youhave done a shrewd thing, Tommy,
and you may now go back and watch for the girl, as I
told you to do. If Morrill molests you again I will molest
him. You may tell himsofrom me. I think he will un-
derstand.”

pny hastens away, elated by the great detective’s

raise.
: The Hindoo next makes his way to the obscure court,
in en vicinity of which he knows Marcus Ripley to be
hiding.

He boldly rings at the door of a dingy brick dwelling.
A negress answers his summons and shrilly demands :

“What yer want, sah ?”

*“T wish to come in, auntie,” the Hindoo returns,

‘What for ?”

“To see a friend.”

“Oh, yer tryin’ to fool dis nigger. Go’way, now !”

“No nonsense! 1 wish to see Marcus Ripley, and
must show meto his room, Be quick about it,

fore | I put the darbies on those black wrists of
yours.

 

found impresses him with the certainty that it may}

The negress shows a broad ring of white in both eyes,
and hastily steps back.

; “Come right in, sah, ob course.
| yer, fo’ suah.”

| She leads the way up arickety flight of stairs, and
| points at a door close at hand.

| ‘He's in dar!” she declares, in a low whisper.

The detective approaches the door noiselessly and
pauses to listen.

The negress descends the stairs, and soon her foot-
steps become inaudible.

The corridor is narrow and enshrouded in almost total
darkness. :

s The Hindoo can hear nothing from beyond the closed
oor.

But, as he stands listening, he is impressed by a
Sener vague consciousness that sone one is looking
at him.

He glances up at the ceiling, and at the walls of the
corridor. Butin the gloom he can see nothing, either
suspicious or otherwise.

Yet he feels absolutely sure that a pair of human eyes
are fixed upon him, with an uncomfortably persistent
gaze.

The sensatiion is far from an agreeable one. The de-
tective, like all successful officers, possesses bitter en-
emies, and there is nota doubt that many of them
would rejoice if he could be so disposed of that they
could never be molested by him more.

The Hindoo stands several moments listening and
watching. Then he grasps the door-knob, turns it, and
attempts to enter. -

But in this he fails. It is locked upon the inner side.
At the same time he hears some one moving within, and
a voice demands:

‘What is wanted ?”

“An interview,” is the terse response.

‘Who is it ?”

“A friend.”

“How do I know you are ?”

You must take my word for it until you seeme. f
a once saved you from arrest. I guarantee you no

arm.

The key is turnedin the lock, and the door swings
open.

Hyjah enters, the door is closed and locked after him,
and he stands face to face with Marcus Ripley.

The latter shows signs of trepidation. ._His handsome
face wears a care-worn expression, as though he were
the victim of haunting fears.

“What do you want of me, sir?’ Marcus Ripley ques-
a as the detective quietly drops into a rocking-
chair.

“[ have come to gain from your own lips the truth
which is to exonerate you from orimplicate you and
your employer in the dreadful crime of which you are
suspected. Icome asafriend. I know all the evidence
against you. If you are guilty, I shall soon discover the
fact toacertainty. It is only a matter of afew days’ in-
vestigation, more or less. Confession will secure to you
a measure of mercy. False denial will insure the full
penalty for the crime. There is no escape.”

Hyjah speaks quietly, his eyes fixed earnestly upon
the young man’s countenance.

Ripley, in a low yet firm tone, quickly responds :

“TJ am innocent.”

“Do you believe it possible to deceive me in this mat-
ter?” the Hindoo asks.

“T do not.”

«You think it isin my power to discover whether you
speak the truth or not ?”

“JT think you can convince yourself without stirring
from the chair in which you are sitting.”

The detective produces the vial which contained the
; deadly cause of Ida Shelby’s blinduess.

“Was this yours ?”

mast examines the vial, and deliberately answers :

“ee (es.”

“What did it contain ?”

«Vitriol.”

“Did you procure it?”

“T did.”

“For what purpose ?”

The young man’S face grows deathly pale, and he
passes the bottle to Hyjah, huskily saying :

“Take it!”

As the detective reaches out to comply, the sharp re-
port of a pistol, mingled with the jingle of glass, sounds
upon the air.

The vial is shivered to atoms!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

I was jess jokin’ wid

 

- @<a

Make Your Sister Glad.

Christmas is almost here, and you who are fortunate
in having a sister want to make her an entertain-
ing present. Among the other good things you in-
tend to give her, it would be well for you to have the
NEw YORK WEEKLY sent to her for one year. If you
haven’t a sister, perhaps you know a girl whom you ad-
mire as much as asister. Then delight her heart by in-
vesting three dollars in the NEw YORK WEEKLY, which
will make her think kindly of you for a whole year—
perhaps for life. é

 

———_—_—__ > o-+¢

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM,

TRACY PA

 

By MRS. MARV 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.
can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XTII.—(CONTINUED.)

Arthur was very calm, and collected, and stern, as he
followed to the office where the body lay, covered now
| from view, but showing terribly distinct through the
| linen sheet folded over it.
‘Remove the covering,” he said, in the tone of a mas-
ter to his slave, and Frank obeyed. ;

Then, bending close to the stiffened form, Arthur ex-
| amined the face minutely, while Frank looked on alter-
nately between hope and dread, the former of which
triumphed as his brother said, quietly :

“Yes, she is French ; but Ido not know her. 1] never
saw her before. Had she nothing with her to tell who
she was ?”

His mood had passed, and Frank did not fear him
now.

«She had a trunk,” he replied. ‘Here.it is, with her
clothes, and the child’s, and—a Bible.”

He said the last slowly, and, taking up the book,
opened it as far as possible from the writing on the
magin, which might or might not be dangerous.

“It is a German Bible,” he continued, and then Arthur
took it quickly from him as if it had been a long-los¢
friend, turning the worn pages rapidly, but failing to
discover the marked passage and the message tor some

Back numbers

one.

The lock of baby hair and the faded flowers caught
his attention, and his breath came hard and pantingly, .
as for a moment he held the little golden tress which
seemed almost to twine itself lovingly around his
fingers.

«That must be her child’s hair. You know I told you
there was a little girl found with her. Would you like
to see her ?” Frank said.

“No, no!” Arthur answered, hastily. ‘‘Let her stay
where she is, I don’t like children, asarule. You
know I can’t abide the noise yours sometimes make.”

He was leaving the room with the Bible in his hand,
but Frank could not suffer that, and he said:

“I suppose all these things must stay here till the
coroner sees them; sol will put the Bible wherel
found it.” ;

Arthur gave it up readily enough, and then, as he
reached the door, looked back, and said :

“Tf forty coroners and undertakers come on this busi-
ness, don’t bother me any more. My head buzzes like a
bee-hive. See that everything is done decently for the
poor woman, and don’t let the town bury her. Do it
yourself, and send the bill tome. There is room enough
on the Tracy lot; put her in a corner.”

“Yes,” Frank answered, standing in the open door
and watching him as he went slowly down the long
hall and until he heard him going up stairs. ‘

Then locking the door, which shut him in with the
dead, he took the photograph from his pocket and ex-
amined it minutely, feeling no shadow of doubt in his
heart that it was Gretchen—if the picture in the win-
dow was like her. [t was the same face, the same sweet
mouth and sunny blue eyes, with curls of reddish-
golden hair shading the low brow. The dress was dif-
ferent and more in accordayce with that of a girl who
belonged to the middle clas#but this counted for noth-
ing, and Frank felt himself a thief, and a liar, and a
murderer as he stood looking at the lovely face and de-
bating what he should do.

Turning it over he saw on the back a word traced, in
English letters, in a very uncertain, scrawling hand, as
if it were the writer's first attempt at English. Speil-
ing it letter by letter he made out what he called ‘‘Wies-
baden,” and knew it was some German town. Did
Gretchen live there, he wondered, and how could he
find out, and what should he do? He had not yet seen
the child at the cottage, but from some things Harold
said, he knew she was more like this picture than like
the dead woman found with her, and in his heart he
felt almost sure who she was, and that his course of
duty was plain. He ought toshow Arthur the photo-
graph, and tell him his suspicions, and take every pos-
sible step to ascertain who the woman was and where
she came from,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

6

Krank was not a bad man, nor a hard-hearted man,
but he was ambitious and weak. He had enjoyéd money,
and ease, and position long enough to make him un-
Willing to part with them now, while for his children he
was more ambitious than for himself. ‘T’o see Tom mas-

 

ter of Tracy Park was the great desire of his life, and |”

this could not be, if what he feared.were proved true.
Tf Arthur had no wife, no child, no will adverse to him,
why then his interest was safe, for no will his brother
could now make would be held as valid, and when he
died everything would naturally go to him. Of all this
Frank thought during the few minutes he staid in the
silent room. Then he said, to himself :

“IT will see the child first.. After all, I know nothing
for certain—can hever know anything for certain, and |
should be a fool to give up all my children’s interests for
a fancy, an idea, which may have no foundation. Arthur
does not know half the time what he is saying, and
might not tell the truth about Gretchen. She may not
have been his wife. On the whole, I do not believe she
was. He would never have left her if she had been, and
if so, this child, if she is Gretchen’s, has no right to
come between me and mine. No, I shall wait a little
While and think, though in the end I mean to do right.”

With these specious arguments Frank tried to quiet
his conscience, but he could not help feeling that Satan
had possession of him, and as he hurried through the
hall he said aloud, as if apeaking to something seen :

“GO away—go away! Ishall do right, if I only know
what right is.”

He did not see his brother again that day, or go to the
cottage either, but as he was dressing himself next
morning he said to his wite:

«That little girl ought to see her mother before she is
buried. Ishall send for. her to-day. The coroner will
be here, too. Did I tell you [ had a telegram last night?
He is coming on the early train.”

Mrs. Tracy passed the allusion to the coroner in
silence, but of the little girl she said :

“IT suppose the child must come to the funeral, but
you surely do not mean to keep her?. We are not bound
te de that because her mother froze to death on our
premises.”

“Would you let her go to the poor-house ?” Frank
asked, but Dolly did not reply.

As the breaktast-bell just then rang, no more was said
of the little waif until the-sleigh was brought to the
door, and Frank announced his intention of stopping |
tor the child on his way back from the station, where
be was going to meet the coroner.

 

 

OHAPTER XIV.
LITTLE JERRY.

It was nearly noon when Harold leit Tracy Park the
previous day and started for home, eager and anxious
With regard to the child whom he claimed as his own.
He had found her. .She was his, and he should keep her,
he said to himself, and then he wondered how his grand- |
mother had managed with her, and if she had cried for
him or for her mother, and as he reached the house he
stood still a moment to listen. But the sounds which
met his ear were peals of laughter, mingled-with mild,
and, as it would seem, unavailing expostulations from
his grandmother. ®

Opening the door suddenly he found the child seated
at the table in the high chair he used to occupy, and
which Mrs. Crawford had brought trom the attic, where |
it was stored. Standing before the child was a dish of |
bread and milk, of which she had evidently eaten |
enough, for she was playing with it now, and amusing |
herself by striking the spoon into the milk, which was |
splashed over the table, while three or four drops of it
were standing on the forehead and nose of the distress- |
ed woman, Who was vainly trying to take the spoon |
from the little hand clenching it so firmly.

Mrs. Crawford had had a busy and exciting day with
her charge, who, active, and restless, and playful, kept
her on the alert and made her forget in part how lame |
she was. As she could not put her. foot to the floor |
without great pain, and as she must move about, she |
adopted the expedient of placing her knee on a chair to |
the back of which she held, while she hobbled around |
the room, followed by the child, who, delighted with this |
novel method of locomotion, put her knee in a low}
chair, and, holding to Mrs. Crawford’s skirts, limped after |
her, imitating her perfectly, even to the groans she |
sometimes uttered when a twinge sharper than usual |
ran up her swollen limb. It was fun for the child, but |
almost death to the woman, who, when she could en-
dure it no longer, sank into a chair, and tried, by speak- |
ing sharply, to make the little girl understand that she |
must keep quiet. But when she scolded, baby scolded |
back, ina language wholly unintelligible, shaking her
curly head, and sometimes stamping her foot by way of |
emphasizing her words.

When Mrs. Crawtord laughed the child laughed, and |
when once a pang severer than usual wrung the tears |
from her eyes, baby looked at her compassionately a |
moment, while her little face puckered itself into
wrinkles as if she too were going to ery ; then, putting |
up her soft hand she wiped the tears from Mrs. Craw- |
ford’s cheeks, and, climbing into her lap, became as
quiet as a kitten. But atouch sufficed to start her up, |
tor she was full of fun and frolic, and her laughing blue
eyes, which were of that wide-open kind which see
every thing, were brimming over with mischief. Once
or twice she called out ‘‘Mah-nee,” and, going to the |
window, stood on tip-toe, looking out to see if she Were
coming. But on tbe whole she seemed happy and con-
tent, exploring every nook and corner of the kitchen,
and examining curiously every article of furniture as if |
it were quite new to her.

Once when Mrs. Crawford was talking earnestly to
ber. ing. to make her understand, she stood for a mo- |

¢ and imitating the motion of the lady’s |

ression of her face; then going up to her, |

nune her mouth wad her teeth, as if she

) ) t manner of machinery it was which
oduced SO S so new and strange toher. She cer-
tainly was a remarkable child for her age, though Mrs.
Crawford was puzzled to know just how old she was.
was. She was very small, and, judging from her size,
one would have sald she was hardly three; but the ex- |
pression of her face was so mature, and she saw things |
so quickly and understood so readily, that she must |
have been older. She was certainly very precocious, |
with a most inquiring turn of mind, and Mrs. Crawford |
felt herself greatly interested in her as she watched her |
active movements and listened to the musical prattle |
she could not understand.

She had examined the carpet-bag, in’which were |
found the articles necessary for an ocean voyage, and |
litle else. Most of these were soiled from use, but there |
was among them a little clean, white apron. and this |
Mrs. Crawtord put upon the child, after having washed |
her face and hands and brushed her wavy hair, which |
had a trick of coiling itself into soft, fluffy curls all over |
her head.

The bread and milk had been given her about twelve
o'clock, and the laugh she gave when she saw it showed |
her appreciation of it quite as much as the eagerness |
with which she ate it. Her appetite appeased, however,
she began to play withit and throw the milk over the
table and into Mrs. Crawford’s face, just as Harold came
in, full of what he had seen at the park, and anxious to |
see his baby, as he called her. |

Taking her on his lap and kissing her rosy cheeks, he |
began to narrate to his grandmother all that had been |
done, and told her that Mr. St. Claire had given it as his }
opinion that the woman was French. |

“And if so,” he continued, ‘‘baby must be French, too, |
though she does not look a bit like her mother, who is }
very dark and not—well, not at all like you or Mrs. St. |
Claire.” |

Then he told of the trunk which the baggage-master |
had taken to the park, and of what it contained. |

“The woman’s clothes were marked ‘N. B.’” he said, |
“and some of the baby’s—such afunny name. Mr. St. |
Claire said it was French, and pronounced ‘Jerreen,’ |
though it is spelled ‘Jerrine.’ ” i

“That is the name on the child’s things in the bag,” |
Mrs. Crawford said.

 

|
|
|
{

“Of course it is baby’s, then,” Harold replied ; ‘but | the large upper room, which was used as both nursery | Peterkin’s vile insinuations with regard to her are false.
I shall call her Jerry for short, even if it is a boy’s name, | and school-room, for Mrs Tracy could not allow her two ; My brother says he never saw her in life, and he speaks |
and so, my little lady, I christen..you Jerry; and kiss- | sons, Tom and Jack, to comein contact with the boys at | the truth, She may have been on Peterkin’s boat, but I |
ing the forehead, the eyes, the nose, and the chin, he | school; so she kept a governess, a middle-aged spinster, | doubt it.

| longed sound on the ‘‘s.”

;
| While she cried, ‘‘’Ess, ’ess, ’eSs,” with her face all in
|

aa oe.

 

His own knowledge of German was very limited, but
he could speak it a little, and turning again to the child,
he managed to say:

‘‘What is your name ?” ) .

«‘Der-ree,” was the reply, and Harold exclaimed :

“That's it; she means Jerry; that’s short for the
name on her clothes, which you said was pronounced
Jerreen. I have christened her Jerry, and she .is my
little girl, ain’t you, Jerry ?”

‘‘Yah—oui—ess,” was the answer, and there was a
gleam of triumph in the blue eyes which flashed up to
Harold for. approbation.

She had not, of course, understood a word he said,
except, indeed, her name, but the tone of his voice was
interrogatory and seemed to expect an affirmative an-..
swer, which she gave in three languages, emphasizing
the ‘’ess’ with a nod of her head, as it greatly pleased
with herself.

“Bravo !” Harold shouted. . “She can say yes. I taught
her, and 1 shall have her talking English in a few days
as Well as I do, sha’n’t I, Jerry ?”

“Yah—’ess.” was the reply.

Then Mr. St. Claire tried to question her further with
regard to herself and her home, but his phraseology was
probably at tault, for no satisfactory result was reached
beyond the tact that her mother was dead, that her
name was Jerry, or Derree, as she called it, and that
she had been on a ship with Mah-nee, who did so—and
she imitated perfectly the motions and contortions of
one who was deathly sea-sick. E

“f suppose she means her mother by Mah-nee,” Mr.
St. Claire said; and when he asked her if it were not so,
she ,answered ‘‘yah,” and ‘‘’ess,”.as she did to every-
thing, adopting finally the latter word altogether be-
cause she saw it pleased Harold.

No matter what was the question put to her, her reply -
was ‘‘’ess,” Which she repeated quickly, with a pro- |

When at last Mr. St. Claire took his leave, it was with
a strange feeling of interest for the child, whose ante-
cedents must always be shrouded in mystery, and whose
future he could not predict. y

It seemed impossible for Mrs. Crawford to keep her,
poor as she was, and as he had no idea that the Tracys
would take her, there was no alternative but the poor-
house, unless he took her himself and brought her up
with his own little five-year-old Nina. He would wait
until after the funeral and see, he decided, as he went
back to his home at Brier Hill, where his children, Dick
and Nina, were eager to hear all he had to tell them
of the poor little girl whose mother had been frozen to
death. :

The next morning the sleigh from Tracy Park stopped
before the cottage door, and Frank, who had been to
meet the coroner, alighted from it. He was pale and
haggard as he entered the room where Jerry was play-
ing on the floor with Harold’s Maltese kitten. As he |
came in she looked up at him, and, lifting her hand, |
swept the hair back from her forehead just as she had
done the day before when Mr. St. Claire was there. The
peculiar motion bad struck the latter as something
familiar, though he could not define it; but Frank did,
or in his nervous condition he thought he did, and his
knees shook so he could hardly stand as he talked with
Mrs. Crawford and told her he had come for the child,
who ought to be where her mother was until after the |
funeral.

«Then she will come back again. You will not keep
her. She is mine, ain’t you, Jerry ?’ Harold exclaimed,
eagerly ; while Jerry, who, with a child’s instinct, scent- |

 

ed danger from Harold’s manner and associated that | hands went up to eyes unused to tears, for the sight was

danger with the strange man looking so curiously at
her, sprang to her feet, which she stamped vigorously,

 

wrinkles, and her blue eyes anything but soft and
sunny, as they usually were.

In this mood she was not much like Gretchen in the | imitating the gesturegs@f the men around her.

picture, but she was like some one else whom Frank |

| frozen to death, and she had no friends to complain that

| they made way for her as, catching sight of the white |
| body, patted the cold cheeks, while’ she kept calling |
| all, but full of pathos and love, and child-like coaxing for

| the inanimate form to rouse itself, and speak to her
| again.

| intoa chair, kept by her, as with her arm around his neck |

 

‘You take care of her!” Tom sneered, with that super-
cilious air he always assumed toward those he consid-
ered his inferiors. ‘‘Why, youand your grandmother
can’t take care of yourselves, or you couldn’t if it wasn’t
for Uncle Arthur. Mother says so. You wouldn’t have
any house to live in if he hadn't give it to you.”

Harold’s arms were unfolded now and the doubled

fists were in his pockets, clenching themselves tighter
ana tighter as he advanced to Tom, who, remembering
his black eye, began to back toward the nurse for
safetys.... ..-
. {10s a lie, Tom Tracy,” Harold said. ‘Mr. Arthur
does not take care of us. We do it ourselves, and have
for ever so long. He did give us the house, butit ain’t
for you to twit. me of that.. Whose house is this, I’d like
to know? It isn’t yours, hor your father’s, and there
isn’t. a thing in it yours. It is all Mr. Arthur’s.”

“Wall, we are to be his hares—Jack, and Maude, and
me. Mother says so,” ToW stammered out, while Jerry,
who had been looking intently, first at one boy, and then
at the other, called out in her own language :

“Nein, nein, nein,” and struck her hand toward Tom.

“What does she mean by her ‘Nine, nine, nine,’ he
asked of Miss Howard, who replied that she thought it
was the German for ‘No, no, no,’ and that the child
probably did not approve of him. .

Tom knew she did nof, and though she was only a
baby, he felt chagrined and irritable. Had he dared, he
would have struck Harold, who asked him what he
meant by being his uncle’s Zare. But he was afraid of
Miss Howard, and remembering it must be time for the
inquest, he slipped from the room, whispering fiercely
to Harold as he passed him :

«Darn you, Hal Hastings, I'll thrash you yet.”

“Let me know when you are ready, and also
when you get to be your uncle’s hare,” was Harold’s
ae reply, as the door closed upon the discomfited

‘om.

* * * * * * * *

The inquest was a mere matter of form, for there was
no doubt in any one’s mind that the woman had been

due attention had not been paid her. So aftera few ques-
tions put to Mr. Tracy, and more to Harold, who was
summoned trom the nursery to tell what he knew, anda
look at the cold, rigid face, a verdict was rendered of
«Frozen to death.” : }

Then came the queghion of burial, as to when, and |
where, and at whose elfpense. oa anumber of peo- |
ple had Assembled, and the little room was full. Con-
spicuous among them was Peterkin, who, having been
elected to an office, which necessitated a care for the ex-
penditures of the village, was swelling with importance,
and dying for a chance to be heard.

When Harold came into the room Jerry was with him.
She had refused to let him leave her, and he led her by
the hand into the midst of the men, who grew as silent
and respectful the moment she appeared as if she had
been a woman instead of a little child, who could speak
no word of their language, or understand what was
said to her, It was her mother lying there dead, and

face, she uttered a cry of joy, and running up to the}

Mah-nee, Mah-nee,” and saying words unintelligible to

‘Poor little thing,” was said by more than one, and

a touching one—that lovely child bending over the dead
face, and imprinting kisses upon it.

-

 

only intent upon the dead woman, whose. presence in
the house made him so nervous and restless.

‘TI shall be glad when she is buried. I have been so
cold and shaky ever since they brought her here,” he
said to Charles, as, with a shiver, he drew his chair
nearer to the fire and leaning back wearily in it fixed
his eyes upon Gretchen’s picture smiling at him from
the window. ‘Dear little Gretchen,” he said in a whis-

er, ‘you seem so near to me now that I can almost

ear your feet at: the door, and your voice asking to
come in. Hush!” and he started suddenly, as Jerry’s
kicks made themselves heard even to the room where
he sat. ‘Hush! Charles, who is that banging at the
door? Surely not Maude? They would not let her come
up here. Go and see, and send her away.” .

He had forgotten that he was listening for Gretchen,
and when Charles, who had opened the door cautiously
and descried the intruder, said to him, ‘It is that
woman’s child. ShallI let herin? She is a pretty little
thing,” he rep , *Let her in? No; why should you?
and why is she allowed to prowl around the house ? Tell
her to go away,”

So Jerry was sent away with a troubled, disappointed
look in her little face, and as the chill March night
came on and the dark shades crept into the room and
Gretchen’s picture gradually faded trom sight in the
gathering gloom until it seemed only a confused mix-
ture of lead and glass, Arthur felt colder, and drearier,
and more wretched than he had ever felt before. 1t was
agenuine case of homesickness, if one can be home-
sick who is in his own house, surrounded by every pos-
sible comfort and luxury. He was tired, and sick, and
disappointed, and his head was aching terribly, while
thoughts of the past were crowding his brain where the
light of reason seemed struggling to reinstate itself. He
was thinking of Gretchen, and longing for her so in-
ee, that once he groaned aloud and whispered to

mselt :

«Poor Gretchen! I am so sorry for itall. I can see it
clearer now, how I left her and did not write, and I
don’t know where she is, or if she will ever come; and
yet, I feel as if she had come, or tidings of her. Perhaps
my letter reached her. Perhaps she is on her way.
oe grant it, and forgive me for all I have made her
suffer.”

Tt was very still in the room where Arthur sat, for
Charles had gone out, and only the occasional crackling
of the coal in the grate and the ticking of the clock
broke the silence which reigned around him; and at

on his door he heard again the thud of baby feet, while
Gretchen’s voice was calling to him to let the baby in.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

ALDREY'S RECOMPENSE

By MRS, GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “THE
FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “STELLA ROSE-
VELT,” “THE LILY OF MOR-
DAUNT,” etc.

 

 

 

(“AUDREY S RECOMPENSE” was commenced in No. 48. Back

 

Harold took her away irom the body, and lifting her
she stood listening to, and watching, and sometimes |
|

It was Peterkin Who spoke first; standing back so |

numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

|
CHAPTER XXYVIII.—( CONTINUED.)

«Do you need anything ?” Grace asked, turning to Mrs

last, soothed into quiet, he fell asleep and dreamed that |

door firmly in his hand, and remained planted in the
opening without inviting his strange guest to enter. ;

“Sho! you don’t say so!” observed Mr. Starkey, with
eyebrows uplifted in innocent astonishment. ‘‘Who to?”

“Miss Campbellis at breakfast just at present, and
cannot be disturbed,” pompously returned the serving-
man, his face plainly expressing contempt for the un-
sophisticated individual who knew no better than to
make a friendly visit in polite society at the unheard of
hour of nine o’clock in the morning. ;

“Oh, yes, yeS; I understand; I didn’t quite, though,
at first,” blandly returned Mr. Starkey, looking enlight-
ened. ‘You see, when they talk about a girl’s being en-
gaged down in Maine, they mean she’s going to get
spliced. But I s’pose herein New York manners and
customs are a little different; should think so, if they
don’t eat breakfast tilit’s most dinner-tlme. It’s all
right, thongh,” he continued, witha good-natured con-
descension that made the waiter glare at him; I can
wait; you jest tell her I'm here, but She needn’t hurry,”
and our acquaintance from Maine, without waiting for
an invitation, pushed himself by the rigid figure in the
door-way, and entering the elegant hall, planted him-
Self in a luxurious chair and gazed about him with a
smile of infinite satisfaction.

'“What name shall I take in to Miss Campbell ?” de-
manded the servant, pompeuae: f

“Oh, I forgot—Starkey ; George Washington Starkey,
at your service,” returned that individual, blandly.

With aface which plainly expressed annoyance and
disgust, the waiter assumed all the’ ty of which he
was master, and marched into the iing-room and an-
nounced to Grace that a ‘‘person”*by the name of
one had inquired for her and was waiting to see

er.

Grace looked up eagerly.

“Ts it a gentleman or a lady ?” she asked.

“It is a—a man—a person,” returned the servant, with
an accent of extreme contempt.

Miss Campbell looked up with a frown.

“Mr. Starkey is a gentleman: and a friend of ours
Robert, and you will treat him accordingly. Show him
into the reception-parlor, and say that I will be there
instantly.”

The man’s face changed at once.

“Now, mamma,” Grace observed as he left, ‘where do
you suppose Miss Starkey is? I shall be disappointed if
she could not come. You know, during our long visit to
Maine I urgently requested them to visit us.”

Mrs. Campbell laughed. She had been greatly amused
by this whimof her daughter's to. show the Starkeys
the ‘‘lions” of New York, and had also feared that the
realization of that pleasure (?) might not be equal to the
anticipation. But she welcomed with delight anything
which could bring that old look of animation to her face.

Grace hastily concluded her breaktast, and then went
to greet her old acquaintance.

She met him very cordially, and set him at his ease at
once; for, in spite of his blandness and assurance, the
reception which he had met from the supercilious waiter
had been like a dash of cold water, and made him fear
that his long-anticipated visit to New York might not
be so enjoyable as he had hoped.

He had been somewhat reassured, however, by the
decided change in the servant’s manner when re-
turned and conducted him into the parlor; but he wait-
ed with something of impatience and anxiety to see
how Grace would receive him.

 

“T am so glad to see you, she said, with a heartiness

| Which there was no mistaking as she gave him her hand,
; “but where is Miss Starkey ?
| her- behind.”

Ihope you have not left

“No; Marthy Ann is up to the tavern.”

“Which one! you know there are a good many in

New York, Mr. Starkey,” Grace said, and she could not

quite keep a twinkle of amusement out of her eyes.
“Stewart's, they call it, and I should say it was a

crack place, too.”

| there is a doubt, however small, it would be preposter-

had seen in excited moods, and’ he grew faint and sick | straight that his immense Stomach, with the heavy gold |
as he watched her, and saw the varying expression of | watch-chain hanging across it, seemed t6 fill the room, |
her face and eyes. The way she shook her head at him | he gave his opinion before any one else had a chance to |
and flourished her hands was a way he had seen many | express theirs. \
times and remembered so well, and he felt as if his| It was the first time he had been in the house since
heart would leap from his throat as he tried to speak to | the morning after the party, when Arthur had turned
her. A turn of the head, a gesture of the hands, a curve | him from the door. He had vowed vengeance against
of the eyelashes, a tone in the voice, seemed slight ac- | the Tracys then, and kept this vow by spending two
tions on which to base a certainty; but Frank did feel | thousand dollars in order to defeat Frank as member of
certain, and his brain reeled for an instant as his | Congress and to get himself elected as one of the village
thoughts leaped forward years and years until he was | trustees, and now he had come, partly out of curiosity |
an old man, and he wondered if he could bear it and | to see the woman and partly to oppose her being buried |
make no sign. | by the town, it such a thing were suggested. |
Then, just as he had decided that he could not, the “Let them Tracys bury their own dead,” he said to his
tempter suggested to him a plan which seemed so/} wife before he left home, and he said it again in sub-
feasible and fair that the future, with a secret to guard, stance now, aS with a tremendous ‘‘ahem!” he com-
did not look so formidable, and to himself he said : |menced his speech, standing close to little Jerry, who
“It is not likely I can ever be positive; and so long as | never took her eyes from him, but watched him with a |
| face which varied in its expression with every variation |
| in his voice and manner, and reached its climax when |

ous to give up what otherwise must come to my chil-
dren, it not to me; but 1 will not wrong her more than [
can help.”

“But why did you not come right here? I thought
you were going to visit ws while you remained in the
city,” Grace said, ‘cordially.

“Well, we thought we might as well go to a tavern
first,” Mr. Starkey observed, sweeping her face with a
shrewd glance. ‘‘’Iwas kinder late when we got here
last night, and we didn’t exactly like to come poking in
on you without any notice; besides, we didn’t know
but you’d have other company, or something.”

That “or something” betrayed more than he had in-
tended it should, and Grace instantly understood that
they had felt somewhat doubtful and sensitive as to
their reception. So she said, kindly:

“No, we have no other company, and the lateness of
the hour would not have made any difference, tor we

never retire early.” . .
already seen, Miss Starkey

Jones, then blushed a vivid scarlet at her question—
“particularly, I mean,” she added, hastily ; «tell me of
something that I can do for you.”

“Oh, my greatest need now seems to be some one to
assist me,” the poor woman said, looking helplessly
around upon her four children, and then glancing sor-
rowfully at the figure upon the bed. ‘My husband has
been ill for six weeks, and I am wearied out.”

«J should think so,” Grace said, sympathetically.
you know of any one whom you could get 2?”

«Yes, there are plenty, if I could pay them.”

“That shall be no obstacle; get some one and f will The fact was, as we have
attend to the expense. Is there anything else ?” | Was a pretty keen observer of human nature, and while

“No, thank you; you have been very kind, and I am | the Campbells had’ been very gracious and triendly
grateful,” the woman replied, tears springing into her during their visit to them the previous summer, and

“Do

 

| might go, too; and when Jerry saw him with his coat

“Come, little girl, go with me,” he said, in his kindest
tones, aS he advanced toward her, while Harold went |
for her cloak and hood.

Jerry knew then that she was expected to go with the
stranger, and without Harold, and resisted with all her
might. Standing behind him, as if safe there, and |
clinging to his coat, she sobbed piteously, intermingling
her sobs with ‘Ess, ‘ess, ‘ess,” the only English word
she knew, and which she seemed to think
in every emergency.

And it did help her now, for Harold pleaded that he

would avail |

and hat, and understood that he was to be her escort,

Park.

 

- ; CHAPTER XV,
JERRY AT THE PARK.
«And so this is the poor little girl. We'll take her |

right to the kitchen, where she can get warm.” Mrs. | don’t Say}
Tracy said, as she met her husband in the hall, with | sent to

Harold, and the mite of a creature wrapped in the for- |
eign looking cloak and hood. |

“No, Dolly !” and Frank spoke very decidedly, as Har- | where she got that the lord only knows; ’tain’t: her’s,”
“She | pointing to the corpse; ‘nor ’tain’t his’n,” pointing in
is going to the nursery, with the other children, and | the direction of Arthur’s rooms; ‘as for her, I’m op-
when they have their dinner she will have hers with | posed to sendin’ to the podr-house another pauper.”

old was turning in the direction of the kitchen.

them.”

* {

«Ess, ’ess, ’ess!’ Jerry said, as if she comprehended | house either,” Harold exclaimed, wh
that there was a difference of opinion between the man | with her nein, nein, nein,” which made the bystanders
'laugh, as Peterkin went on, addressing himself to
| Harold :

and woman, and that she was on the affirmative side.

“Take her to the nursery! Oh, Frank! she may have
something about her which the chiidren will catch,”
Mrs. Tracy said, blocking the way as she spoke.

sight of the pretty sitting-room, with its warm carpet |

and curtains, and cheerful fire, shook her head defiantly | never!” and the hot tears sprang to his eyes at this un-
at the lady, and brushing past her, went boldly into the | manly assault.

room whose brightness had attracted her. |

Marching up to the fire, she stood upon the rug and | against him, was swelling with rage, and seizing Harold |
looked about her with evident satisfaction; then, glan- | by the collar, roared out:

cing at the three who were watching her, she nodded |

complacently, and said, ‘‘ Ess, ’ess, ’ess,” while she held | belongs to manners!” and he would have struck the
| her little cold hands to the fire.
«Acts asif she belonged here, doesn’t{she ?” Frank said | watches a mouse, and who, raisin

| nod of her head with each ‘‘’ess”, and a flourish of her |
| hand more threatening than approving toward the |
| Speaker, who glanced at her and went on:

| looks like. Ido! and so can you with half an eye. She
| looks like Arthur Tr

| opening her eyes flas
| they rested by acc
| faint, and terrified, was leaning against the
| tryi

| She ceased to sob, and allowing herself to be made | Conataded as follows :
| ready, was soon in the sleigh, and on her way to Tracy |

| of her. Mighty fine, I’m sure, but hadn’t you better fetch |
But Jerry, who through the half-open door had caught | back May Jane’s pin that you took at the party.”

    

betrayed it, and
wie eiare taking tae she went t k to the little girl
‘ore taki ve she went to speak to the e girl.

«Are you comfortable now ?” Grace gently asked.
“Yes’m,” the child returned.

Grace slipped a folded paper into her well hand.

«Give that to mamma after I am Sone Saas “and
tell her that it is to help pay forthe woman who is
coming to take care of you and assist her. I shall com
to see you again to-morrow. and I shouldn’t wonder if I

could ind pee ' g nice to bring you.” a
The child's face lighted, then grew wistful.

a tender sympathy for the

  
 
 
  
    
  
   
 
     
   

“Don’t you see, gentlemen of the jury, who this cub
ay 1?

Just then Jerry swept back her golden hair, and,
da them around the room until
ent upon Frank, who, e, and
oor-Wway
toseem only amused at the tirade which was

“Yes, Arthur Tracy! Not her skin,

 
    
  

 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 

 

perhaps, nor hair,
rybut something I t ¢
other, you say is | to papa instead, I would rather go without.’ ‘
her afore, or ’'m Grace was touched by her unselfishness. |
be a a - Lon. ; he would tike ?” she |
as far as | asked.
shipper’as yc lease with her. 1|  ‘‘Someoranges—I heard him wish for them yesterday.”
y noth ior iD rate nothin’, but I won’t con-
have the town pay what belongs to the Tracys. |
Let ’em run their own canoes and funerals, too, I say ;
and as for this young one with the yaller hair—though |

 

    
  

   

‘He shall have them, dear; and now I must go.” |

regarding her very earnestly.
She flushed as she met. his eye, for she knew that he |

child.
«JT must give praise where it is merited,” he said, with
a luminous smile,.‘‘and if this is your first experience in |
surgery, you have certainly done more than well.” |
“Thank you. Itis my first experience of anything of |
this kind,” she returned, with a sweeping glance around
upon the poverty about her.
“Then you cannot have lived in the city long.”
“All my life,” and a blush of shame mantled her |
eer as she confessed it. |
6é SED

«She is not a pauper, and she is not going to the ae
e Jerry came in

«You are her champion, hey, and intend to take care

|

There wasmuch of grave reproof in that single ejacu- |
lation.

“TI do not mean that it shall be my last, however,” |
Grace added, tears springing into her eyes, and then |
turning quickly away. |

Going to Mrs. Jones she asked her a few questions ina |
low tone, then promising to come again on the morrow,
she took her leave, bowing slightly to Mr. Hamilton as |}
she passed out of the room. : |

“It is false,” Harold cried. ‘I never saw the pin,

By this time Peterkin, who felt that everybody was

“To you tell me Ilie! You rascal! I'll teach you what

boy but for Jerry, who had been watching him as a cat
her war-cry of ‘‘nein, |

of,” she observed, in her energetic way.
and live in grand style, and I know that some folks
would make fun of such greenhorns as we are,

they seemed all right last summer. a
hotel first; then we'll give them a call, and if every-
thing ail right, we'll make them the visit we talked of
when

| tertained with mamma, while I go and ge

As she arose from her stooping postore, she found her- | bring her home with us. You know you pr
seli face to face with Mr. Hamilton, whoseemed to be | come and spend a fortnight with us, and I am not going
| to let you off, at least without a vigorous protest.”

jhe said: ‘I don’t. b'lieve in saddlin’ the town with a) had urged a return of hospitalities, she knew that two

| debt we don’t orto pay. Let the Tracys bury their own | eyes. simple people like herself and brother would not be a

| dead, I say !” She was a delicate-looking woman, and had evidently | to Shine in New York society, even it they were not su
‘Rss, ’ess, ’ess,” Jerry chimed in, with an emphatic been well educated, for. her language and manner jeeted to rudeness and neglect.

“Tm not going to those Campbells tobe made a fool
“They’re rich

We'll go to

y came to see us.’
So, on the morning after their arrival, George Ay
eep |

ington was sent forth, with the injunction to k
eyes and ears 0

n, to reconnoiter and then report. —
Mrs. Campbell came in while Grace was respondin
to her visitor's last remark, and she greeted him as

“Please,” she said, hesitatingly, «if you would bring it | ciously as if he had been one of her high-toned acquain

ances, making him feel welcome and perfectly at home
at once.
“Now

    

_ Mr. Starkey.” Grace. said.
ance oF ae “Pam goin:

GO

ly to
Starkey and

e VOL
& re
back to the ‘hotel with you, to see
to

She was soon ready tor her expedition, and having or-

must have heard what had passed between her and the dered the carriage, they drove directly to Stewart’s,

where they found Miss Starkey, sitting at one of the
windows of the public parlor, busily knitting upon the
old time stocking, while she watched the hurry and bus-
tle in the street below, and apparently unconscious of
the merriment which both her occupation and appear-
ance were creating among a group of gay people on the
opposite side of the room.

here was a decided hush in that quarter, however,
when the elegant Miss Campbell entered, and going di-
rectly up to the spinster, greeted her as co: Hy and
affably as if she were the lady of the White House, and
clad in the costhest of velvet and satin, instead of the

| Very plain, but really nice gray cashmere traveling

dress she wore.

Grace, utterly unmindful of the numerous eyes upon
her, sat down beside her eccentric friend, and was as
charming and sociable as if she were entertaining fash-
ionable callers in her own parlor at home. :

At last. she said, in her cheery, irresistible way.:

“Now, Miss Starkey, I came in the double carriage,

| to his wife, who did not reply, so intent was she upon | nein, nein,” Sprang at him like a little tiger, and by the

watching the strange child, who deliberately took off | fierceness of her gestures and the volubility of her Ger-
her cloak and hood, and tossing them upon the floor, | man jargon actually compelled him to retreat step by
drew a small, low chair to the fire, and climbing into it; | step until she had Him outside the door, which she
sat down as composedly as if she were mistress there | barred with her diminutive person. Noone could help
instead of an intruder. | laughing at the discomfited giant and the mite ofa
Once she swept the hair back from her forehead with | child facing him so bravely, while she scolded at the top |
the motion Frank knew so well, and then the lump | of her voice. °
came into his throat again, and he steadied himself; Peterkin saw that he was beaten and left the house,

 

against the mantel, while he looked curiously at the | vowing vengeance aginst both Harold anda Jerry, if he | p

little girl making herself so much at home and seeming | should ever have it in his power to harm them. }

so well pleased with her surroundings, When he was gone, Frank, who had recovered -his |
“Take her to the nursery now. I must see to that cor-| composure during the ludicrous scene, said to those |

oner,” he said to his wife, adding: ‘‘Harold must go, | present: R

too, or there will be the Old Harry to pay.” | ‘J would not explain to that brute, but it is not my
«Rss, ’ess,” came very decidedly from the child, who | intention to trouble the town. I have no more idea

went willingly with Harold, and was soon ushered into |} who this woman is than you have, and I'll swear that

But when she reached her carriage he was at her side. | and I am going to case the jn your going directly home
«Allow me,” he said, courteously, and assisted her to | with me, for that promi: visit.”
enter it. “Well,” said Miss Starkey, ‘I confess we’ve been
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said; impulsively, when she was | counting on having a good time here in New York, and
seated, «I could not offer that woman money for her | staying awhile with you, according to your invitation
needs; but. will you be my almoner? it is evident you | last summer; but we wanted to be pretiy sure it would
know much about them.” | be convenient before we took our traps to your house.
He drew back slightly—Miss Campbell thought with | How is it about this kind of work in those fine parlors
even something of hauteur as she tendered him his: =a yonNs: ?” and she shook her stocking significantly as
urse. | She spoke.
“They will not suffer from hunger,” he said. «‘They| ‘You shall knit to your heart’s content,’ Grace re-
haye all they need to gat. But,” unbending somewhat | plied, smiling: ‘‘and dear Miss Starkey,” lowering her
as he looked into her beautiful, earnest face, «they do | voice to a confidential tone, “1 want to talk with you
need clothing sadly, and perhaps your judgment would about making some smaller stockings for some little
be better, upon that point than mine.” | folks whom I wish to fit out for the winter.”
Her eyes lighted. | «That's the talk—just the kind I like to hear,” re-
“Thank you,” she said, simply, but heartily, then told | turned the spinster, with a satisfied nod, while, having

marked the shape of the cross upon the face upturned | who, glad of a home and the rather liberal compensa-

her coachman she was ready to go.

Mr. Hamilton lifted his hat, bowed, then turned and |
re-entered that humble abode, while Miss Campbell |
drove away in a thoughtful mood. |

She has every appearance of a foreigner, and |

her chila”—here Frank’s tongue felt a little thick, but |

“Tom, if you tell anybody where we have been to-day, |

reached the middle of her seam needle, she folded her
work, wound her yarn, and stuck the ball upon the ends
of her needles.

“Now, George Washington,” she continued, turning
to her brother, ‘‘you go and settle the bill, while I get

 

 

 

 

to his, and named his baby “Jerry.”

Later, when he knew more of the world, he would |
change the ‘‘y” into “ie,” but now she was simply Jerry, |
and when he called her that she laughed and nodded as
if the sound were not new toher. She was a beautiful |
child, with complexion as pure as wax, and eyes which |
might have borrowed their color from the blue lakes of |
italy, or from the skies of England when they are at |
their brightest.

“I wish she could talk to me. I suppose she must
speak French,” he said, as he was trying in vain to
make her understand him. ‘Don’t you know a word I
say ?” he asked her, and her reply was what sounded to
him like ‘‘We, we.”

e ‘That's English,” he cried, delighted with her prog-
ress, but when he spoke to her again, her answer was |

“Yah, yah,” which-seemed to him so nonsensical that | caught his arm and held him back, as she said, sharply: |

after a few attempts to make her say ‘‘yes,” and to
teach her what it meant, he gave up his lesson for the |
remainder of the day and talked to her by signs and
gestures, which she seemed to uliderstand.

Whatever he did she did, and he saw her more than
once imitating his grandmother’s motions as well as his
own, to the life. ‘

Late in the afternoon Mr. St. Claire canie to the cot
tage, curious to see the child, who, at sight of him, re-
treated behind Harold, and then peered shyly up at him,
with a look in her great blue eyes which puzzled him on
the instant, as one is frequently puzzled with a likeness
to something or somebody he tries in vain to recall. In
this instance it was hardly the eyes themselves, but
rather the way they looked at him, and the sweep of the
long lashes, together with a firm shutting together of
the lips, which struck Mr. St. Claire as tamiliar, and
when, with a swift movement of her little hand, she
swept the mass of golden h back from her forehead,
he would have sworn that ie had seen that trick a
thousand times, and yet he could not place it. That she
was the child of the dead woman he believed, and as
the mother was French, so also was she. He had once
passed two years in France, and was master of the lan-
guage; so he spoke to the child in French, but though
she seemed to understand him she made no reply, until
he said to her:

«Where is your mother, little one 2”

Then she answered, promptly, ‘‘Dead,” but the lan-
guage was German, not French.

‘“Ho-ho! You are a little Dutchman,” Mr. St. Claire
said, with some surprise in his voice.

Then, aS he noted the purity of her complexion, her
fair hair and blue eyes, he said to himself:

tion, Sat all day in the nursery and bore patiently with | he cleared his throat and went on—‘‘her child speaks a |
Tom’s freaks and Jack’s dullness, to say nothing of the | foreign language—German, they tell me. This poor wo- |
trouble it was to have the three-year-old Maude toddling ;} man died on my—or rather my brother’s premises. I}
about and interfering with everything. | have consulted with him, and he thinks as I do, that |

‘Halio!” Tom cried, as his mother came in, followed | she should be cared for atourexpense. He says, fur- |
by Harold and Jerry. ‘‘Hallo, what’s up?’ And throw- | ther, that as there is room on the Tracy lot, she is to be |
ing aside the slate on which he had been trying to mas- | buried there. I shall attend to it at once, and the fu- |
ter the difficulties of a sum _in long division, he went | neral will take place to-morrow morning at ten o'clock |
toward them, ana said: ‘Has the coroner come, and | from this house. What disposition will be made of the |

it 1 behaved, and I do, don’t I, Miss Howard ?” | poor-house.”
Just then he caught sight of Jerry, and stopping; ‘Oh, Mr. Tracy,” Harold burst out, ‘“‘she is mine. She
short, exclaimed: ; is to live with grandma and me. You will not take her
“By Jingo! ain’t she pretty? I mean to kiss her.” | from me—say you will not ?”
And he made a movement toward the little face, | «Vill not,” Jerry reiterated, imitating as well as she
which looked up so shyly at him. But his mother | could Harold’s last words.
For a moment Mr. Tracy looked fixedly at the boy,
‘Don’t touch her, there is no telling what you may | pleading for a burden which would necessitate toil, and

can’t 1 go andsee the inquest? You said maybe I could | child I have not yet decided, but she will not go to the |

Tlli—Tll have you discharged,” she said, to her driver, as my things on, then we'll be ready to go.”
he opened the carriage-door for her to alight, when she | ‘‘About your trunks, Miss Starkey,” Grace began, but
reached home. ; the woman interrupted her with:
She spoke half-jestingly, but the man saw thather| ‘La! child, I never bother with my trunks when I
eyes were full of tears. | travel; give me a Strong, good-sized grip-sack. and ill
«Then mum's the word, miss,” he returned, in a mean- | hold all the clothes I need—is much easier to get about
ing tone. | With, and saves a deal of hack hire.” -
“And, Tom, Ishouldn’t wonder if I wantedtogo there | ‘‘Yes,” interrupted Mr. Starkey, bestowing an admir-
a good many times after this.” | ing look upon his sister, ‘‘and I tell you Marthy Ann can
“All right, miss; it's my duty to obey orders,” he re- | stow away more things in a grip-sack than some people
| plied, respectfully touching his hat. | would put into a trunk, and they don’t come out all
| Grace said nothing of her adventure to any one, but | wrinkles, neither.” 3
| the next day she countermanded an order which she | Butit wasa little trying to even Miss Campbell’s in-
| had given for a new set of jewelry, and then drove di- | dependence, when they were ready to start, to have
| rectly to a children’s furnishing store and used the | Mr. Starkey ignore the officious porter’s ffered as-
| amount she was to have paid.for it in purchasing acom- | sistance, and insist upon carrying both his own and his
| plete outfit for four little girls of different ages, which | sister’s traveling-bags, although they were exceedingly
| she ordered sent to that miserable home which she had | respectable ones, out to the carriage, where he stowed
| them under the driver’s box.

catch.

be brought here. I hope, Miss Howard, you will see
that she does not go near the children.’:

“Yes, madam,” Miss Howard replied; ‘‘but I am sure
there can be no danger. She looks as clean and sweet
as a rose.”

Miss Howard was fond of children, and she held out
her hand to the little girl, who seemed to have a most
wonderful faculty for discriminating between friends
and enemies, and who went to her readily: and leaning
against her arm, looked curiously at the group of chil-
dren—at Tom, and Jack, and Mgude—the latter ot
whom wished to go to her, but was restrained by the
nurse. The moment the door closed upon Mrs. Tracy,
Tom walked up to the child, and said:

‘J shall kiss her now, anyhow.”

But Jerry hid her face, and could not be induced fo
look up until he had moved away from her.

“Catty as well as pretty,” Tom said. ‘‘I wonder who
she is anyway, and how she will like the poor-house ?”

«Who said she was going to the poor-house ?” Harold
exclaimed, indignantly.

‘‘Mother said: so.” Tom replied. “I heard her talking
to the cook. Where would she go if she did not goto
the poor-house ? Who would take care of her?”

“I!” Harold answered. And to Miss Howard he
seemed to grow old a dozen years, as he stood there
with his arms folded and the light of a brave manhood
in his brown eyes. ‘I Shall take care of her. She will
live with grandmother and me. I found her, and she
is mine.”

‘* Hiss, ‘ess, ’ess,” came from Jerry, as she Swung one
little foot back and forth and looked confidingly at her

 

“Her father was a German, and probably they lived in
Germany, but the mother was certainly French.”

 

champion,

I wanted her to goto the kitchen, the proper | self-denial, and patie
place for her, but your father insisted that she should | had he despised himeselfymore than he did then, when, |

eof no ordinary kind, and never | visited the previous day. _

She went there many times after that, carrying com- |

believing what he did believe, he said at last : | forts, and dainties, and strengthening things, until the |
«J will talk with your grandmother, and see what ar- | sick ones began to get slowly better, and something like

rangements we can make. Irather think you have the | cheerfulness began to be apparent in the family.

best right to her. But she must stay here to-night and| But she never met Mr. Hamilton there again, though |

until after the funeral, when she can go with you, if you | she often heard his name spoken with grateful remem- |

like.” | brance, and knew that he was still ministering to |
To this Harold did not object, and, as Jerry seemed | them. moe

very happy and content, he left her, while she was ex-| So, little by little,.a stranger began ministering to her |

ploring the long drawing-room, and examining curiously | also; its name was ‘‘Peace,” for she had “‘laid down her |

the different articles of furniture. As she did not seem | arms,” she was trying to “‘trust” and ‘‘wait”, and, in do-

disposed to touch anything she was allowed to gowhere | ing for others, found a healing balm for her own

she liked, although Mrs. Frank remonstrated against | wounds.

her roaming all over the house as if she belonged there, |

and suggested again that she~be sent to the kitchen. |

But Frark said ‘no,” decidedly, and Jerry was lett to | 6 : B

herself, excépt as the nurse-girl and Charles looked atf- | MISS STARKEY BECOMES MYSTERIOUS.

ter her a little. | It was early in November when George Washington
And so it came about that toward evening she found | Starkey and his worthy sister came to New York for a

herself in the upper hall, and after making the tour of | month's visit.

the rooms, whose doors were open, she came toone| The first intimation that the Campbells had of their

whose door was shut—nor could she turn the knob, al-| arrival was a call from that gentleman himself.

though she tried with all her might. Doubling her tiny; He came one morning about nine o’clock; ringing

fist, She knocked upon the door, and then, as noone | their bell a vigorous peal, while the family were at

came, kicked against if with her foot, but still with no breakfast.

result. — ‘Is Miss Campbell ter hum ?” he questioned of.the man
Inside the room, with Gretchen’s picture, Arthur sat | who answered his call, and in his original vernacular.

in his dressing-gown, very nervous and a little inclined

to be irritable and captious. He knew there had been | distant air and scornfully dilating nostrils.

an inquest, and that many people had come and gone «No, sir, I mean Miss Campbell—Grace they call her—

that day, for he had seen them from his window, and | and rightly named she is too, if I’m any jedge o’ human

had seen, too, the sleigh, with Frank, and the coroner, | natur.”

 

CHAPTER XXIX.

 

and Harold, and .a, blue hood, drive into the yard. But| ‘Yes, Miss Campbell is at home; but she is ongar a.
to the blue hood he meyer gave a thought, as he was was the dignified response, while the waiter held the

“Mrs. Campbell do you mean ?” asked the man, with a |

But she bore it heroically, bestowing a withering look
upon an idle dandy who stood upon the steps pairing
his dainty finger-nails, and who undertook to be funny
at the honest man’s expense. lt was a relief, however,
when they were well on their way up town and out of
the danger of having her friend’s feelings wounded.

Miss Starkey was given a pleasant apartment over-
looking the avenue, while the one adjoining was allotted
to her brother.

The Campbells had determined to give these two
good people an enjoyable time, and they would not do
it by halves—they would have the best the-house afford-
ed while they were their guests.

«Come, Annie,” Grace said, just before the lunch-bell
rang, as she looked into the sewing-room. <I want you
to come and be introduced to my friends; you know
they are Mr. Waldemar’s friends, also.”

Miss Starkey gave a great start when the coe girl
was presented to her. while she took off her g and
peered keenly into her face.

*‘Noble—Noble, did you.say?” she asked, while she
tried to take up some Stitches that she had dropped.

‘Yes; she is the daughter of a former friend and
partner of papa’s, and she makes her home with us
now,” Grace explained.

“Tell the whole truth, please, Grace,” Annie inter-
oust smiling; then she added, turning herself to Miss
Starkey : - :

“After papa died, it was found that he had been
unfortunate, and there was nothing leff to take care
ot Pra and I oi — to a Sue living since ; 80 -
am here to sew for Mrs, Campbell, though everybody
so kind to me that itis almost like being in my own

 

home.”

 

 

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. “Can you make dresses, child ?” Miss Starkey asked,
luntly.
“Yes; [havemade a good many during the last two

 
 

Tm going to ask your advice, and get you to
ye how much ‘twill take fora black silk, for _ [Pm
to have a new one, and perhaps you could tell me
a little about the making up.” |
«Miss arkey, you Shall have it made right here in
the house,” Grace’ said, exchanging a meaning look
with App. Which she afterward interpreted to her in
this : “We will fix her up between us, so that
those primitive Starkey villains will not know her when
me.”

goes home.
Annie readily promised to lend all the assistance in
her er, and the spinster, after being assured that it

     

would not interfere with any-necessary family work, |

consented to accept Miss Campbell's offer.

She went out the very next day to purchase the mate-
rial, and allowed Grace to select what she chose for her,
and did not demur at the price of avery nice black
satin; which she told her would be more suitable for her,
and much handsomer than the black silk which she had
contemplated buying. ‘

Then it was given into the dressmaker’s and Annie's
hand, ind in three days was completed to the satisfac-
tion l rties.

Meantime Miss Starkey was in and out of the sewing-
room at all hours, supervising the work, but adroitly
ma to draw Annie out, until there was little in
history that she did not. know; while Annie
gre eply interested in the quaint old lady, feelin:
that underneath her rough exterior there was a kin
heart and a noble nature.

“How nice you do look, Miss Starkey!’ she said,
when the new black satin was completed, and she put
it on to see it everything was right, and it almost made
a genteel, high-bred-looking old lady of her.

“Yes, I think I do, myself,” she admitted, candidly,
as she surveyed herself complacently in a full-length

 

if you’d just let me tell. you what you need to
Oo with it to make it complete——” pursued Annie,

 
 
 
  

n with your advice,” was the blunt reply.
If there was just a little real thread lace for the
neck and sleeves——”

“Bless me, child! [ve got lots of it,” interrupted the
old maid, with a flush of pleasure. “I used to like such
things when I was a girl, and I never could abide cheap

 
 
   

lace. dit up and brought it along, thinking per-
haps it m come handy. IJ’ll bring it, and you can
do what you haye a mind to with it.”

She went to get it, and, sure enough, there were sev- |
eral yards of beautifully fine lace of a delicate pattern, |
fit for the most fashionable or exacting lady.

3 is lovely—just the thing!” cried Annie, delight-
ed; “and ¢ ou would Jet me make you a dainty
cap of what is , it would put the finishing touch to
yo

: Starkey’s prim lips relaxed into a smile, and her
genial blue eyes rested almost fondly on the sweet face,
which was lighted with such genuine interest for her.

“QOould you make it?” she asked.

“Yes; may 1?» Would you wear it?” the young girl
questioned, eagerly. ~

u May make itif you like—there’s lace enough;
but Ill not bind myself to wear anything until I see how
it. me. I’mnot going to make a fool of myself at
my time of life, with gewgaws and fol-de-rols. I like
dress : , if tis made right up in style; and it
the cap should please me as well, I reckon the two will
go together quite comfortably,” was the characteristic
reply.

m Annie’s deft fingers fashioned a pretty cap of the
rich lace, and when she took it into the old lady’s room
that afternoon before dinner and arranged it carefully

over her gray hair, it really did give her an ‘‘air.”
The spinster face wore a look of supreme satisfac-
tion as viewed the effect in the glass, while she ac-

tu blushed to see herself looking so well.

“i Ann Starkey,” she said, addressing her re-
flected figure severely, ‘‘don’t you go to being a fool at
your age; ‘fine feathers don’t make fine birds,’ and if
you have come to Vanity Fair, you needn’t be spoiled by
ite

‘Dear Miss Starkey, I do not believe that fine things
do anyone any harm, when they cover a really kind
heart ; and it is so much pleasanter to see a pretty thing
rather than an ugly one. And [ think, too, it isso much

better to make up one’s clothes in a becoming, graceful |
ways than to spoil them by making them awkward and |

ill-fitti

,”’ Annie said, earnestly, yet inwardly amused,

and tou | too, by the struggle that was evidently go- |
ing on in Miss Starkey’s mind. -
SE you’re about right,” the woman returned,

gravely, “though I used to think it was a sign of vanity
to see anybody rigged out with pretty things. I sup-
pose it doesn’t take any longer to make one’s clothes
pretty than it does to throw them together anyhow,
and I’ve changed my mind about some things lately.”
She was th ng that moment of Grace, who, with

all her elegance, her jewels, and feathers, and laces, her |

face and faultless form, was a whoile-hearted,
ee and was charming her more and more
every day.

She knew as well as any one else that there were very
few people in the world who would welcome such prim-
itive people as she and her brother were—and Miss
Starkey had always been as conscious of her eccentrici-
ties as others were, and, if the truth were known, glo-
ried in them, too—

and clerks, as Grace had done.

aE RSMGS Met tiiese ht the Jones hay ea iad eee | Banta

listed the services of her nimble fingers to help provide
the little ones with warm stockings for the winter, and
psd felt a growing respect and admiration for her -every

“Yes, the more I think of it, the more I’m inclined to
think you're right,” she repeated. ‘The Lord made the
world just as beautiful as He could, with
and foliage, the green grass and blue sky; and I guess
He meant that human beings should put their best foot
forward, too, and make the most of their natural gifts,
provided they don’t waste too much time overit. But,”
suddenly coming down to the practical, ‘one want
brings another—what am I going to do for a bunnit to

O With this rig? Itstands to reason that my old leg-
aa aw Tve had done over these dozen years, won't
oO _

“Don’t you think a nice black velvet, with a handsome,
real feather, would be the most suitable of anything ?”
queried Annie.

‘on, child; ‘twon’t do any harm, even if 1 don't |

and show them every attention, un- |
heeding glances of amusement, shrugs of fashionable |
friends, and even the jest and winks of shop-Keepers |

A STEP OR TWO.

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

 

Only astep or two to fame—
To wealth and golden treasure;
Only a step or two to joy—
A step or two to pleasure.
And then upon the other hand,
We find ’tis, on the morrow,
Only a step or two to want—
A step or two to sorrow.

 

Only a step or two to sin—
Toenvy, hate, and malice ;
Only a step or two to drink,
From out the tempter’s chalice.
Only a step or two to aid
A lost and fallen brother ;
Only a step or two to give
Our pleasure, for another.

Only a step or two to wrong

A bosom friend or neighbor ;
Only a step or two to bring

Sweet peace by honest: labor.
Only a step or two to bind

The broken hearts, sore-riven ;
Only a step or two to God—

A step or two to heaven.

> © <____—__

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

BERTHA,

 

TEx

Sewing-Machine Girl:

 

 

.
|

‘DEATH AT THE WHEEL.

R,

By FRANCIS §. SMITH,

| Author of “Eveleen Wilson,” ‘Little Sunshine,”

| “Maggie, the Charity Child,” “Galenus,

f the Gladiator,” etc., etc.

| (“BertHa, THE SEWING-MACHINE GIRL,” was commenced

| in No. 49. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. |
CHAPTER XXXII.

BERTHA QUESTIONS HER FATHER.

It was a fortnight ere Bertha Bascomb again made

 

| her appearance in the shop, and when she did so, she ;

| was the mere shadow of her former self. Her face was
| very pale, her eyes had lost their luster, her neryous
| system was terribly shattered, and she pursued her
| daily avocations mechanically. She never spoke except
| when obliged to, and then with an effort and a sigh
which seemed to rend her very heart. She was in the
pres without being of it. Nothing could arouse her
from the lethargy in which grief had plunged her, and
/ even the hardened Miss Pinch could not help feeling for
her a little commiseration, although she- allowed no
such compunction to interfere in the slightest degree
with her discipline.
| In the meantime Joe Curson was untiring in his at-
| tention to the poor girl. He lost no opportunity which
| offered to do her a favor, and yet he was especially
; careful to avoid everything which looked like obtrusive-
ness. He treated her with a delicate and refined con-
| sideration, which won her gratitude in spite of every-

 

| thing which had passed, for she was naturally sweet-

tempered and forgiving, and po: ed a larger degree
| of charity than is commonly met’with in this coid and
censorious world.

His first object was to win her esteem and set her
| fears regarding him entirely at rest, and to do this his
| first movement was to join the church of which Bertha
| was a member, and to conduct himself with all the cir-
| cumspection of the most rigid member. He succeeded
| in his design entirely. Unsuspicious herself, she looked
upon the hypocrite’s professions as sincere, and when,
with much apparent hesitation, he took occasion to
' assure her that she was the cause of his reformation—
that her beautiful example, her patience and resigna-
tion under suffering, her sublime forgiveness of injuries
inflicted, and her nobility of character generally, had
led him to reflect upon his own imperfections and the
| wickedness of his course of life, and had aroused in his
heart an aspiration tor better things and a determina-

a void in his heart which she—and she only—could fill,
and that with her forever near him he would be triple-
| armed against temptation, come it in whatever form it

 
   
  

 

ch ideas ;

| pleased to think that she had been in any way instru-
| mentalin awakening within him better thoughts—that
| she was grateful for all his kindness, but that she could
| never love him—that her heart was irrevocably anoth-
i er’s, and aS that other had rejected it, she would try to
| be contented with her lot, but that while Philip Hamil-

t flowers | ton lived she did not feel that she had the right, even if |

| She had the inclination, to marry.

| ‘There was one person, however, who was not at all
deceived by Joe Curson’s professions of religion and
| morality, and that person was Conrad Bascomb. Havy-
‘ing had considerable experience .in» lite, and being
| withal a pretty good judge of character, he was satis-
| fied from the start that young Curson’s
| were professions only—he did not believe in his miracu-
| lous conversion—on the contrary, he believed that he
| was a worse man now than he had ever been, and that
| he was working only to gain possession of his daughter.
| Feeling that Bertha had better be dead than the wife of

tion to amend his ways: and when he hinted there was |

Se ee 0 E

rofessions |

a sadly troubled countenance. 3
; ae has gone wrong, Conrad ?”.asked his wife, anx-
ously. ek ae :

“Everything goes wrong lately!” was his reply, given
half impatiently. “I’m sure }den't know-where it is all
going to end.” ;

Bertha, who had got home before him, looked quietly
up from a book which she was reading at this unexpect-
ed reply, and said, with great solicitude :

“Why, father, what has happened to disturb you so?”

“IT have got to leave you, girl,” he answered. ‘I have
got to leave you both and go away.”

“You speak in riddles, ee, his wife ventured to
say. ‘Pray explain yourself. Why must you goaway,
| and where must you go ?” .

“A friend of mine,” returned Bascomb, with a bitter
emphasis on the word friend, which caused them both to
start, ‘has prooured for me a situation in Philadelphia
which he insists upon my taking.”

“But surely you are not obliged to accept a situation
whether you like it or not!” exclaimed his wife, in a tone
of wonder. ‘Why do you go when you would rather re-
main here ?”

“Because I have no choice in the matter,” he replied—
‘J mustgo. Therefore ask me no further questions. Do
you hear, Rachel ? no further questions !”

Rachael Bascomb was a mild, timid little woman, who
never dreamed of setting her will up in opposition to
| that of her husband, who, however, was invariably kind
| and affectionate, and seldom raised his tone of voice
| When addressing her. He was often moody and silent,
but she had never seen him in such a humor as seemed

 

| to possess him now, and without replying to him she }

| arose and passed from the room to attend to some do-
nee duty, leaving her husband and Bertha alone to-
| gether.

| For a moment neither spoke, and then Bertha arose
| from her chair, and approaching her father, seated her-
| self upon his knee, and throwing: her arms around his
neck, said, persuasively :

“Oh, father, for a long time past Ihave noticed that
you are not yourself. Some terrible trouble is preying
; upon your mind. You never smile, and you seldom
| Speak; and when you do speak,*it is in monosyllables
| only. This is worrying mother greatly, and it is worry-
| ing me, too. Oh, father, if you, had some one to share
| your trouble, you could bear it gyith greater fortitude.
Mother is not fit for the task, she is weak and nerv-
ous. But lam strong—very strong, my father. After
what I have suffered, no trouble can kill... Therefore let
| me share the fearful secret which is weighing you down.
; Whatever your revelation may be, I can bear it, and
your mind will be the lighter when it is unburdened.

Tell me, father! Won’t. you tell Bertha?” And she
kissed his rough cheek affectionately.
«You know not what youwask, my daughter. ShouldI

lay my heart bare before you, you would regard me as a
monster too horrible to live! Mild, and gentle, and for-
giving, as you are, you would curse me in your heart,
and wish that I might fall dead before you. Should I
make you acquainted with the treuble which is weighing
me down—should I show you the phantom which is pur-
suing me night and day, and slowly, but surely sapping
my life, it would be a revelation too monstrous for be-
lief. Never allude to the matter again, my daughter!
Never! never! never!’ And the unhappy man wrung
his hands in agony.

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Bertha, in a tone of mingled
terror and sadness; “do not say such dreadful things of
yourself! You are weak and nervous; the enervation
caused by the sickness through which you have passed
still hangs about you; and you are magnifying some
trifling error of judgment into a dreadful crime. But if
you were really the guilty wretch you would have me to
believe you are, I still should not®iate, much Jess curse
you. You have always been so kind, and gentle, and
loving, and indulgent tome! You who have reared me
from infancy, and trom whose lips I have never yet
heard an unkind word! Oh, father, how can you
say it?” :

“I tell you it is true!” replied #ascomb, vehemently.
“But I will not pursue that subject any further; I will
speak of something else—something that concerns you,
my daughter. You ae in danger, and must be careful.”

‘How in danger, father ?” queried the girl, in a tone-
of wonderment. ‘In what kind of danger ?”
| “I know not,” was the reply; ‘I only know that you
| are in danger of some kind—danger that will manitest
peri after Iam gone, Therefore, I say again, be’ care-
| ful! ,

Bertha was about to respond, when her mother

re-entered the room, and the girl, catching a warning
| sign from her father, who evidently did not desire that
| Mrs. Bascomb should be a party to their conference,
| forbore to Speak, and the conversation was discon-

| tinued.

   
   
   
  

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.
CONRAD BASCOMB MAKES A RESOLVE. —

| Save that he was ee of the society of the dear
| ones at home, Conrad Bascomb had no reason to re

| that he had given up his situation in New York for one

| in Philadelphia. On the contrary,the latter was much
| more desirable on more accounts $han one. In the first

| place his salary was a trifle greater, and in the next |
| place—which was of more importajce to him—he liked |
| his employer much: better. He “Was prompt. reliable,
| and a splendid workman—qualities. which the proprie-

| tor of the establishment was not slow to recognize and
appreciate,and which led him to treat his new employee
| with a consideration and kindness of which Caleb Cur-

 

co

      
     
  
  

    

 
  

 

    

| son was by nature incapable. Added to this, the board-

| ing-house which had ) m Was an ex-

cellent one, 2 d he @ nore Co}
Tititotsea: I) 0 +s n

 

*

| home. > i weet a ee

| In all probability Conrad Bascomb would haye been
| satisfied to have remained where he was for an indefinite
| period, sending his wages home to his wife regularly in
| the meantime, had it not been for an incident which
occurred about two months after he first located in
sa and which incident led him to fly to New
York instantly, let the result be what it might.

It was at the close of a cold day in January, and Bas-
comb, having finished his supper, retired to his room to
write a letter to his daughter.

He groped his way up in the dark, entered his own
room as he supposed, struck a match, and was just
about to light the gas, when he observed that he had
; made a mistake, and instead of entering his own room

had entered that of David Carter, whose apartment was
| on the same corridor and situated only a short distance

He entered his home that night with a sore heart and

walk through flame and blood! For it I would peril my
soul’s salvation! Love! Bah! It is an ignis fatwus,
| Which leads its deluded follower into a labyrinth of
troubles and lands him or her into the slough of despond
| atlast! Itisacheat and atraud! You can neither eat
| it, drink it, nor wear it! But money! oh, darling, dar-
| ling money! With it what can you not purchase? Love
itself may be bought with money, let love-sick poetasters
and sentimental romance writers say what they may!
Withit you can buy respect, esteem, and troops of friends!
With it, mankind are your slaves! Oh, what can you
| not do with money ? and what can you do without it?
| I could not be poor and live! 1 would kill myself if I
| were penniless! What! drag out a miserable existence
} aS a child of poverty, amid toil, and suffering, and con-
; tumely, and abuse !—be content to labor unceasingly
| from early morn till dewy eve, while the rich and gay
ride by and regard me as the mere dirt beneath their
feet! Rather than this, I would stain my hands elbow-
deep in crime! Rather than this, I would sell my soul
to Satan!” And the girl’s bosom heaved with the inten-
| sity of her feelings, while her black eyes snapped with

} passion.
|

“I know you would!” rejoined David Carter, approy-
| ingly—‘‘I always knew you would! [ have never mis-
| judged you! If Thad not known you so well I would
never have let you into my secret. And. when two such
players as you and J enter earnestly into a game, how
can we fail to carry our points ?”

«We cannot fail!” exclaimed Lilian Carter, with great
energy ; ‘‘and I will never again allow a single doubt to
assailme. To entertain the thought of failure even for
a moment is distraction.”

“Good, my girl! Good!” exclaimed David Carter, ap-
provingly. ‘‘Keep in that frame of mind and all must go
well. And now, as I have along letter of instructions
to write to Lisette Graham, I will accompany you home
and then return to accomplish my task.. By the way,”
he continued, throwing a significant glance at his com-
panion, you should have an escort, Lilian. ‘How is it
that Harry Holman has not been with you lately ?”

‘7 do not know, nor do I care,” replied Lilian, with a
contemptuous curl of the lip. ‘‘For some reason he has
thought proper to absent himself lately, but the matter
has given me very little concern. I care no: more for
him than for the dirt beneath my feet. I was not born
to love, and if I were, he would not be my choice. He is
a selfish, soulless libertine. and has only courted my
favor in the hope of securing my wealth. The fool! To
suppose that 1 could not read him as plainly as though
his character were written in flaming characters upon
his forehead! J have encouraged him because he was
useful to me. It is handy to have a cavalier always
ready at one’s beck and call, but I would no sooner
marry him than I would a Chinese coolie, unless he
were rich and I were poor. In such a case I would
marry Satan himself. But to tell the truth, Holman has
called upon me very seldom since young Hamilton,
Bertha’s lover, visited us, and he has ceased to speak of
marriage entirely.. I know not how to*account for it,
unless he has fallen in with some one whom he sup-
poses to be richer thanI am. Or, may it. not be,” she
continued, in a frightened tone,:‘‘that he has become
possessed in some way of yow? secret.2” She paused a
moment, and then added, fiercely, while a savage light
eomet in hereyes. ‘If I thought sol would poison

m!” '

«Nonsense !” exclaimed David Carter, in a tone of im-
patience. ‘No one living, except ourselves and Conrad
Bascomb, has the secret, and Bascomb would as soon

‘cut his throat as revealit! It was but a moment ago
that you wisely resolved never again to entertain a
doubt, and now you are allowing a shadow—nay, less
than a Shadow—to frighten. you! It may be that Hol-
man has fallen in with some brainless heiress who suits
him better than you do, but the idea that he should
nee gained possession of our secret is simply ridic-
ous.”

“T think—nay, I know—that you are right!” returned
Tilian, now entirely reassured. ‘Forgive me, and f will
not offend again. The stake for which we are playing
is $0 great—so very great—that I am foolishly nervous at
times. With me the issue is life or death, and life is
sweet—that is, when wealth attends it. But come, I will
avail myself ot your offer to accompany me home, and in
forty-eight hours from this time, or less, perhaps—I will
accompany my dear father to New York to witness the
nuptials of our sweet young friends. It will be the hap-
piest wedding I ever attended, provided it ends as it
should.”

-‘And of that there can be no shawow of doubt,” re-
joined David Carter, confidently; as he arose, and in an-
other moment they had left the room and were on their
way to Jasper Carter’s residence,

As the street door closed behind them, Conrad Bas-
comb ventured to creep forth from his place of conceal-
ment, and as a look of desperate resolve settled upon his
features, he exclaimed :

“JT will save you, Bertha! I will save you, my injured
lamb, though the gallows be my portion. and perdition
seize my shrinking soul afterward! You said truly,
David Carter, that I am a desperate man, and that it
would not. be. so easy to use me a second time! Iam
tired of this constant torture—this sleeping and waking
dread—ihis unendurable nightmare! I am tired of this
peevish existence, and leng for rest! I will save thee,
Bertha! I will save thee!”

And the wretched man passed hurriedly from the room
and sought his own apartment.

 

CHAPTER. XXXIV,
MRS. MILLER.

It was indeed as.David Carter had said. During the
absence of Conrad Bascomb, Joseph Curson had pushed
his suit with Bertha unceasingly, and aided by Lisette
Graham, who had’ entirely won the ¢onfidence of the

ectiug Vi, hetad mage Fail theo " .

He still continued. his hypocriti protessions ef re-
ligion, and was more and. more constant In his delicate
attentions. He left no means, fair or unfair, untried to
win her over. He had succeeded in winning her mother
over on his side, though not till Lisette Graham had
again indulged in her favorite pastime of forgery, and
produced a letter purporting to come from Conrad Bas-
comb, and approving the marriage.

Not even then, however, could he gain Bertha’'s con-
sent to his peoagest: So.long as she supposed Philip
Hamilton to be alive, she would not entertain the idea
of marriage ; but when she was informed that her lover
had died in London, and when this report was confirmed
by his employers, she began to waver under the con-
stant appeals made to her, and-at length she consented
to become the wife of Joseph Curson, provided his father

 

trom his own. |
| He was about to retreat, when his ear caught the |

was perfectly willing that.the marriage should take
place.
She was very candid with her suitor, however. She as-

_ Ac bby this motive and a desire to relieve human suffer-

such a man, he lost no opportunity to caution his
daughter against putting too much faith in anything
which her admirer might say, and, unsuspicious as she

“A real feather!
all f ers real ?”

What do you mean by that? Ain't |
«They are called ‘real’ because they have a whole |

stem, ‘and are much nicer and more durable than those | Was by nature, still these constant cautionings were not |

feathers that are made up out of 7 r | without their effect, and Curson would undoubtedly
explained. : emayes pieces; wus yous 1 have made more headway could he have. silenced Bas-
“Yes; if ’mto have anything, let it be real—I don’t | comb’s tongue. The old man made no secret of his dis-
want any make-believes about me. But where shall I go | like for young Curson. On the. contrary, he had more
to get it?” | than once told him to his face “that he had no faith in
‘Would you let me buy the material and make the.| his professions, and that he should never, with his con-
bonnet for you!” Annie asked, with a smile. | sent, marry his daughter. ~

 

“What! Can you make bunnits, too ?” | ‘This opposition, however, Was soon to cease ina man-

ae yes.” 3 van : | ner which Conrad Bascomb little dreamed of.

“who tatight you ?” é | A ert ar tee from Coo eon Pare had

es her Neces ” ; 7 1. ow an interview with Lisette Graham, at which it was
sain ee Tene | agreed between them that the latter should keep the

| former advised of. all that might happen, and that
| meanwhile Lisette should study out some plan by which
| Bertha iid be disposed of.

“Hem! a very good mother sometimes, and a bad one
= nee: a, laconically observed the erat then,
S 4s » Vi Ww . ran j
7 Ob, Saat? See rsksed amivor a cok wets white | When Joe Curson reported to Lisette the interference
chin, and quickly springing tears in the blue eyes. j of Bertha’s father in his suit; that young lady wrote a
“What was her name ?” ; | letter to David Carter detailing the whole matter, and
“Annie—I was named for her—and her maiden name | finished by stating that it they could bring about the
was Annie Hunting.” ‘ | marriage of Bertha and Joe Curson, the former would
“Um! child, l’ve half a mind to—— No, I wont, | be irretrievably ruined, and would in all probability die
either. Yes, you may fix me up something—anything under the mental torture which would unquestionably
you like—for’a bunnit. I guess I can trust to your judg- | follow such a consummation. She stated that she was
ment, after all the rest that you have done.” © not at liberty to say why such a result would follow—
Miss Starkey seemed to be laboring under a state. of | She could only assure him that it would follow, and that,
embarrassment and incoherence, and, as she concluded, | t00, within a short time after the marriage should take
turned abruptly and walked out of the room to show | Place. She added, however, that she did not believe the
Grace her new cap, while Annie went back to her sew- | thing could ever be brought about so long as Conrad
ing, in deep thought. a | Bascomb was present to interfere with their plans.
“She had half a mind to do something,” mused Annie, |, Both Lisette and young Curson were greatly puzzled
«Now what did she mean ?” to know what could actuate David Carter in his enmity
‘A tasteful black velvet bonnet was made of rich ma-_| tO Bertha, and they had often talked over the matter be-
terial and newest style, and proved to be very becoming; | tween themselves. In fact, Lisette had sounded Carter
and when, one day, Miss Starksy, arrayed for an after- | Concerning the matter more than once, but.as she found
noon concert, presented herself beforé her brother in | that he was determined to give her no satisfaction with
her new black satin; a handsome cloak, and her new | regard to the affair, she ceased to importune him.
head-gear, he exclaimed, with evident delight : | ‘You want revenge,” he said, on the last occasion on
“J declare, Marthy Ann, you ae a stunner! and I which the subject was alluded to, ‘and I have purposes
reckon li have to furbish up-a little myself, or they'll | Of my own to serve. I do not stop to inquire inte your
never-take tis for brother and sister.” motives, and you must not inquire into mine. It is
“T guess you'd better,” she gravely assented, running enough that we play into each other’s hands while each
her keen eye over ‘his antiquated attire, and ‘realizing | bas a different object in view, and hereafter you. will
more than ever before how far behind the times they had | 0Plige me much by sticking closely to the work in hand,
been. “You'd better get the street and number of Mr, | Without reference as to what: my purpose may be. In
Campbell's tailor, and go and be measured for a suit this | bore RR insist upon this, so please keep it in mind
very afternoon; and, don’t you have anythin eap ) Pas as : .
pene? she concluded, coinplacently senoothing vie | About a week after Lisette had written to David Car-
glossy folds of. her own dress, | ter concerning Bascomb, that unfortunate man received
Which advice George Washington obediently followed; | the following letter trom Philadelphia :
or, rather, he found a nice suit ready made, which fitted “CONRAD BascomB—Si7: I haye secured. for you, in this
him exactly, and when next Miss Campbell appeared | city, a situation in every way preferable to the one which you
in public with her friends from Maine, she had no fear | at present occupy. The wages are at least equal to what you
of their feelings being wounded on account of their ap- | receive at present, the labor not near as great.

2 . ve cr * ; “T have secured for you a room in the same house in which

pearance, tor they were above criticism in that respect. Tam Tae and pean upon the receipt 2 hee you
JONTINUED. | will make your preparations to leave your present place an

re WM CONTINUED.) come here, I wish itto be distinctly understood that you

——$- @ ~<— —______—. are to leave your wife and daughter behind and come on

alone. It is uncertain how long I shall want you to remain,
but yor will, of course, stay till I give you permission to
depart.

You need not ask why Iissue this order, for you will get
no satisfaction. Itis for me to command and you to obey
and you know what a refusal to obey will subject _you to. if
you are not here within a week after you receive this letter, I
will visit you in New York, and J will not come alone.” 5

“Telegraph me on the morning when you start, and I will
meet you at the depot. “DAVID CARTER.”

lil at ease was Conrad Bascomb when he read this let-
ter. He did not know, of couse, why his tormentor de-
sired him to leave his family, but he naturally concluded
that some plot against his daughter was on foot, and his
absence was deemed necessary to its completgn.

«Curse him!” he muttered, as he resumed his work,
after reading the missive. ‘‘Am I never to be rid of his
infernal tyranny ? Must I always standin awe of him,
and go and come like a whipped cur at his beck and call ?
Have a care, David Carter! have a care! It is danger-
out to trifie with adesperate man, and you may push
me too far some day! I dare not disobey you, it is true,
but the time may come when it would be better for your
health if I were a hundred miles distant !”

Etiquette is a studied style of behavior for particular
oceasions. Good manners stay by aman all the time,
and are more important.

Nurture your mind with great thoughts; to believe in
the heroic makes heroes. :

Civility is the lowest price we pay for things, and re-
pentance the highest.

 

 

—>-9—~1—

: CONSUMPTION CURED.

An old physician, retired from practice, having had placed
in his hands by. an East India missionary_the formula of a
simple vegetable pero ae the speedy and permanent cure
of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, Asthma, and all Throat
and Lung Affections, also a positive and radical cure for
Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints, after having
teen tina: curative wes thousands of cases,
hae t his duty to make it known to ae suffering fellows.

 

ing, I will send free of charge this recipe, in German, French,

& an wie ante reo, ae preparing ah, using.

n m : ressing, with stamp, naming this paper,
N 7 NovyEs, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, ¥ ¥

 

*

| sound of approaching footsteps, and at the same time } sured him that her heart was in the grave of her dead
| he heard the voices of David Carter and his niece Lilian | love, although he bad. discarded her while living—that |

in earnest conversation.
| A longing desire to learn the purport of this conversa-
| tion at once seized him. He knew not why he should
experience this feeling. It was produced by one of
those unaccountable premonitions which will some-
| times take possession of the human mind, and he could
;no more resist it than he could avoid the operation of
| thought itself, and almost mechanically he hid himself

under the bed just as the parties alluded to entered the |

; room. .

| Are you certain there can be no mistake about it 2”
| asked Lilian Carter, when her uncle had lighted the gas,
|} and they had seated themselves. ‘Are you very cer-
| tain ?” ;

| ‘As certain as lam that this is my right hand,” re-
| plied David Carter, as he elevated his arm and opened
| and shut the member alluded to. ‘The thing is all fixed
| beyond the power of fate to prevent it. Bertha Bas-
| comb and Joseph Curson are to be united in the bonds
| of holy wedlock on Thursday #vening next, at the
| house of the bridegroom’s father. Ha! ha! That will
| be a glorious day for us, my Lilian! A glorious day, in-
| deed! Ha! ha!”

| And he rubbed his hands gleefully.

| ‘On Thursday evening next! ” repeated Lilian, in
| rapt ecstasy: ‘‘and this is Tuesday evening! Only two
| days more—only forty-eight hours of torture and sus-
| pense—and then the clouds will be swept from our sky
| and all will be brilliant and glorious! Oh, that the time
| were already come! I have a foolish something within
| me which, in spite of all that I can do, whispers of dis-
| aster and death! Oh, that the time were come!”

| ‘Foolish girl!” replied David Carter, hopefully ; ‘* give
| not away to doubts and fears, when everthing looks so
| hopeful. 1 tell you failure is impossible! 1 tell you the
| marriage will take place—the happy couple will go
| abroad—a revelation will be made—and the bride will
| never hold up her head again! She wiil die, Lilian!
| She will die! And then, my Lilian! oh, then!” and
| David Carter’s eyes fairly blaized with the ecstasy of
| joy.

| ’ « You are very hopeful, and I am glad of it!” returned

|

| Lilian Carter, sighing even as she spoke; ‘if you were

| not near me I think I should die of misgiving.

| strange that neither Bertha nor her mother wrote to old

Bascomb concerning the matter? They wrote to my

-iather, as you are aware, and he,ds-to attend the wed-
dain: ”»

. > ‘
«Of course we are all to attend the wedding!” re-

joined David Carter—‘‘all but Bascomb—he must not
attend the wedding, but he may be present at the re-

ception, and after that he may stay in New York or go
| to Tophet for what Icare. But you were asking why
| Bertha did not write to Bascomb? She did write, my
| darling! Ha! ha! She did write, but her letter mvis-
carried! Don’t yousee? Ha, ha! Her letter miscar-
ried. I took care of that! Do you suppose I am such
a fool as not to have thought of that? No, no, my
girl! I brought him here to get him out of the way,

and it isn’t at all likely that I would let. him know what
is going on during his atk I have got a strong
hold on him, Lilian! a strong hold! But he is a desper-
ate man, and might fly to her reScue even. at the risk of
his life. I managed him before, but there is no certainty
that I could dosoagain. Atleast I will not risk it if I
| can help it!”

«That is right!” exclaimed Lilian, approvingly ; ‘‘risk
nothing. Play sure and win! But tell me, do you know
the nature of the revelation which awaits Bertha Bas-
comb after her marriage?”

“TJ do not,” was the reply, ‘nor do I wish to. I only
know that it will certainly prove fatal to her. [have been
assured of this by one who is aS much interested in the
matter as we are—I mean Lisette Graham. She is Ber-
tha’s rival, my Lilian, and whaf stronger incentive. can

| less, jealous, and in love,
| passions than these in the bosom of a beautiful woman?”

have and to hold wealth! iat have I to do with love,

 

Is it not |

she have for doing mischief? She is passionate, reck- |
Are there any more powerful | istered in coffee, tea, or any article of food, even in liquor

“Yes; one more!” replied Lilian Carter, with a vehe-
ménce which made her companion start—‘‘the desire to

or passion, or jealousy, when my heart is adamant?
Wealth, wealth, wealth is my darling! For it I would’ Golden Spec

| She never could love another, and that she consented |
only in deference to. the wishes of-her father and |
| mother, and to please him, and because she thought |
| she might be more useful as his wife than she could be

| Single. ; ;

The greatest obstacle in the way was the opposition

| of old Caleb Curson, who. at firsé flew into a towering

| passion and refused to listen, even for a moment, to the

proposition. :

Young Curson, however, could. always find a way to
manage his father, who had but a single weakness in
life, and this was his fondness for his only son. {He swore,
and coaxed, and threatened by turns, and at last, one
day, pulled forth a six-shooter, and took a solemn oath
that if his obdurate parent did not give his consent then
and there to the nuptials, he would blow his brains out
in his presence. This frightened the old man into terms,
and he grumblingly gave his consent.

Young Curson was very careful to keep/all this from
the knowledge of. Bertha, who would never have con-
sented had she known. the true facts of the case. She
had been informed. that the old man was not only will-
ing but anxious that the marriage should take place,
and, under this impression, she had allowed Curson to
fix the day, and at once, though sick at heart, com-
menced her preparations for the wedding, which was to
take place at the elder Curson’s residence. . °

The dressmaker whom Bertha had called in to assist
her was a young widow—a Mrs. Miller..She was scarcely |
older than Bertha herself, and, judging from the sad ex-
| pression of her countenance, she: had passed through
| many trials and troubles. She was very beautitul, and
| there was a world of love and suffering in her large,
| mournful blue eyes that won the beholder at once.

There seemed to be a bond of sympathy between this |
| young person and Bertha, and although they had been |
| but a short time acquainted, they seemed like sisters to
| each other, and it was agreed between them that Mrs.
| Miller should not only dress Bertha on the day of the
| wedding, but act as one of her bride-maids as well.

| And now; leaving them to finish their preparations,
| let us go back a little in our story and notice. some of
| our characters who have. for some time been neglected.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

> @ 4

AN EXPERIMENT WITH BUBBLES.
|
A, who holds a large reed or pipe, blows a soap bub-
| ple, gay five or six inches in diameter. B, who has a
smaller pipe, and is smoking a cigar, blows a bubble
one-third or half as large as A’s, filling it with smoke.

Before the bubbles are shaken off they are pressed to-
| gether until slightly flattened at the point of contact.
| In a second or two the smoke from the smaller will
| spring into the large bubble and remain. The smaller
| bubble will disappear. There is no change in the size of
| the surviving bubble. What drives the smoke into the
large bubble, how is the place through which it passes
| healed, and why does not the bubble increase in size ?

—_—_>-9<____

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naturally kind, patient, cheerful, hopeful, and who has
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Eigin watch, $5.00;

WATCHES elegant illustrated hi ELRY
eatalogue 2 cents.

WILLIAM WILLIAMS, 122 Halsted Street, Chicago.

ANT A_ Few Special Salesmen. BEST
OUTFIT for framing pictures in the
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Address H. B. WARDWELL, Auburn, Me.

 

 

 

gums All Hidden‘Name Cards, aneclegant 48 page fioral
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sar A full set of ornamental Hidden-name Cards, and
Agents’ Sample Book of Novelties, Jewelry, etc., 5c.

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~ Hidden Name Cards, Agt’s Sample Book and Pocket
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FREE! CATALOGUES of 10c. MUSIC. F. BREHM, Erie, Pa.

 

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’ The “onpardonable sin” is fora man not to be able or

 willin
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_ idee of the railroad company.

og RO AE cee ED ANON Al. US Was null tos

 

 

 

 

 

 

w Y¥¢

 

 

 

OLD GLORY’S EMBLEM STILL,

BY THEO. D. C. MILLER, M. D.

Our banner bright, the dear old flag
That waved o’er Bunker Hill,
With Stars and Stripes more pure and falr,
Is glory’s emblem still!
Soft breezes fan its silken folds,
And freedom’s sunbeams shine ;
Our eagle soars above the staff
In light almost divine.

Our starry flag, the shrine of all
That liberty can give,
In beauty waved o’er Gettysburg,
Where sturdy yeomen live.
The zephyrs kissed its dusty folds,
And flecked with gold each star,
While sunbeams bathed with glowing light
The stripes that gleam afar.

Our banner fair, the flag that won
Our glory and our might,

It waved above the Ship of State,
Each fold for truth and right!

It caught the light of freedom’s sun,
And triumphed o’er the foe;

And far above the eagle's nest
Its triple colors glow.

Old glory dear, the flag that smiles
O’er yeomen free and brave,
Where freedom's songs are sweetly sung
Thy starry folds still wave!
No foeman’s blood can dim our star,
Each stripe shall brighter shine,
As floating o'er the eagle’s nest
You seem almost divine.

oe

MULLEN LEAVES—No. 30.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

 

He put his handkercher over his face for a moment,
and then he blowed his nose, and recovered hisself.

There is considerble to Pilkins after all.

“Can't we telegraft to somewhere to stop ’em ?” sez I.

“All the way they could stop ’em would be to run ’em

While I was a looking over the ruins, Tom Pilkins
come sauntering in with his hat sot back, a whistling.
and helped himself to a doughnut, and right behind
him was-Bub. Stebbins, and ‘both of ’em as cool as
coucumbers.

‘Land of Goshen !” sezI, ‘I thought you’d gone off on
that freight train. How come you here ?”

oe
’

JACK’S DUPE.

BY D. J. FINLAY,

“Father, I wish you would take me to Saratoga and
Lake George this summer,” said Miss Coldpepper to her
indulgent parent.

“Tf you wish it, of course, my dear Cella,” said he, ‘‘but
I think most of our friends are going to Catskill. Why
can we not go there instead of going to Saratoga? For
my part, I hate Saratoga, and we have been there so
often I should think you would be tired of it also.”

“Oh, no,” said Cella,” pouting slightly at the bare idea
of being baffled. “I never tire of Saratoga, there is so
much to see, and so many chances of making acquaint-
ances among the higher ranks of society. There are
lots of folks going from New York this season that I
know, which will make it all the more pleasant for me.
Miss Rochester told me she would go; and I know the
Clares are going, too. Then Cousin Frank is going, and
you know he is a sort of beau of mine, soI need not be
depending upon strangers altogether for company.”

Of course the arguments of the daughter prevailed,
and it was settled that rooms should be engaged at
once, in order that Miss Coldpepper might not be dis-
appointed.

The Coldpeppers were a family who ranked among the
shoddy aristocracy. They had made money in some
way, but few persons knew just how it came. At all
events, they were determined to let their neighbors
know they could afford to live in good style and go to
fashionable summer resorts as well as other people. Miss
Coldpepper especially was desirous of making the family
appear as aristocratic as possible, no matter what the
cost might be to her father.

It was a part of the programme of the family that
Celia should marry riches, and in no wise degrade the
dignity of her relations by marrying beneath her sta-
tion. Her own ambition was unbounded in this respect,
and she had already thrown away several good chances
because the aspirants were not aristocratic enough for
her ideas.

Early in Juné the Culpepper family were flourishing
around Saratoga. They had engaged elegant rooms at
the Grand Union Hotel. Horses were ordered ‘for horse-
back exercise, and a magnificent equipage also secured
for special-occasions. Nothing was lett undone that
money could secure to advance claiins to notice.

A week passed, and Celia was beginning to flatter
herself that she had made several'conquests among the
notables at the hotel. Cousin Frank was put aside
whenever higher game claimed her attention: and as
this youth had a good, manly disposition to contest his
rights, it was the cause of some stormy scenes as an
aiter-piece,

“JT will not stand it any longer,” said he to Celia, one
evening, after being snubbed, so that Lord Everard
Mountjoy should have a fair opportunity of enjoying the
society of the beautiful young heiress.

«What presumption!” exclaimed Celia, whose temper
was Slightly ruffled by her cousin’s attack upon her. “I
am sure thatjif Lord Mountjoy sees fit to honor me with
his attention, it is no affair of yours.”

“Yes, itis my affair,” said he, in return. ‘You know
that we are looked upon as being engaged. But you do
not seem to mind it, and you go on making a fool of me
by flirting with that English coxcomb who calls himself
alord. Healord! I don’t believe a word of it. He is |
an impertinent upstant! That's what I think about
Goat and I intend to tell him so, too, one of these

ays.” ‘

This was more than Celia could bear, and the Cold-
pepper blood suffused her handsome face as she an-
swered, indignantly :

“How dare you presume to insult my friends? I have
never given you the right to exercise any supervision

 

off the track,” sez he.

Jest then Mrs. Pilkins came in with a new novel, and |
when she heard about it she was calm as a clock that’s
run down. +, |

«Don't excite yourself,-Pilkins,” sez she ; ‘‘it’s bad for |
your bile. The boys are only having a little fun. Let |
’em enjoy theirselves while they are young, Pilkins.”

We went over to the depot to see about it, and we
found the train men swearing, ranting mad. They was
pritty nigh ready to gullytine all Crow Hill. Of course,
you know that anybody that breaks a railroad law is a
good deal worse off than if he'd murdered Cleaveland,
and his cabinet, and Queen Victory, and her children,
and all the grandchildren she’s ever a-going to have.

to pay his railroad fare twice if the conductor

 

your hatr. : °
“Took here!” sez i. I wouldn’t lay myself out quite

{so hard if I was you—you might bust a blood vessel, or | Union it was w

have a spell of hemmorhedge at the lungs, and your |
wife would get inl life insurance, and marry another |
man onthe profits. I'd go kinder slowif Iwas you,
seeing as you can’t help how things is.”

«“You cussed, infernal, old——”

“There! there! sonny!” sezJ, ‘you'd better come to:
the Crow Hill Sunday-school, a quarter, for it’s pritty
evident to me that your murrills need seeing to!”

“lts a, State prison offense!” sez he, stamping
round, and squirting the terbacker juice without regar
to sarcumstances—“ It'll give ’em a home for life!”

«Kind sir!” sez Miss Billings, “will you auscultate |
to me for the space of sixty seconds ?”

“ Go to the duse! sez he. :

‘Look not upon mé. with the visual organ of a basi-
liscus mitratus!” sez she—‘‘ it congeals the corpuseles
of life giving blood in my veins——”

«The dickens!” sez he.

«Only hear this!” shouted the ticket master, which |
was a tending the telegraft machine, as he come rush- |
ing out flourishing a scrap of paper, ‘‘tellegram from |
Bluntville—freight train just passed here; running like |
Satan! Nobody in the engine!”

« They ll all go to eternal smash!” sez the conductor |
of the. freight train, as mad as he could be, to think his |
train had gone on without him, “and they’ll probably |
dash into the ixpress!” |

«What is that ?” sez the telegraft man, as three short |
sharp whistles bust out on the air, and round the curve |
weseed a tfain coming, tail first, as though the old
Harry was after it!”

“Jt's my train!” sez the conductor—* she was loaded
with Kerrysene ile! Isee the blue car! I don’t under-
stand it! She. must have got stopped somehow!”

Andon the train come, and never slacked a mite,
though the railroad, as it comes into Crow Hill depot, is
crooked as a ram’s horn, and'‘trains has to run slow, or
run off the track. — :

“Good heavensj!” cried the conductor, “the man
that’s running her must be crazy! Hello, there! hello!”
sez he—straining hisself clear up on his tiptoes, and
screeehing till he was purple in the face—l say hello!
Slow her! Stop her! Yowll break apart! Shut off
steam, I say! ;

And still she come tearing on.

Mr. Pilkins had lost off his hat,a running to the de-
pot, but he didn’t seem to miss it, and a yeller-tailed
wasp that was a traveling over the bald place on his
head didn’t appear tO bother him a mite. His eye-
glasses Was busted, and hung useless, and he looked to
me like a man that is a going.to havea fit. |

Mrs. McDingle had -just arriv, and one of her maids
come with her to bring the poodle.

“Ts it Barnum’s or Forepaugh’s ?” sez she. ‘The boys
told us the circus train was about to go by !”

“Circus !" roared the conductor. ‘A dused fine cir-
cus, I should say !”

And as he spoke the train rushed alongside, and when |
it got to the sharpest part of thecurve it broke apart, |
and five cars went slam-bang down over the bank as
much as forty feet, rite onto old Widder Jenness’ house,
that stands under the railroad bank, and out rushed
the -widder with a broom in her hand, a thinking the
day of judgment was come.

“Thunderation !” sez the conductor, jumping up to git
rid of the dust the train kicked up, and digging the soot
and gravel out of his eyes with both hands.

And when the smoke had cleared away, we looked for
the engine which had held onto one car, and, law sake!
she had gone righton, lickety cut, and I seed a red and
yeller handkerchief waving from a stick, stuck out of
the winder in the cab.

It was Bub Stebbins’ handkercher, beyond a doubt.

The cars that had run off was piled up one top of
tother and the ile catched fire, jest asit allers does when
it gits upsot, and it burnt like fury.

Widder Jenness throwed two or three lard pails full
of water onto the fire, and then she sot down and cried
for fear her house would burn down, but it didn’t,
though it got all fummergated against whatever pesti-
lence may come round.

I left Pilkins and all the rest of ’em to the depot. to
wait to see what. happened, and I went home to see to
my squinch sass, which 1 found had biled over onto the
stove, and the ile-cloth, and the dog’s back. and into my
rubber shoes that sot om the floor, and what there was
left in the kittle had burnt fast onto the bottom, and the
kittle had split in two, and Granther Hayes had come
out and sot down inacheer into which the sass had

 

| and was doing all she could to captivate his lordship,
| filling inthe spare time with Captain Belmont and other

| by accident or design we leave to the reader’s imagina-

over my actions, and henceforth you may consider your-
self under no obligation to watch my movements or to
criticise my friends.”

Thus saying, Cella walked away from her devoted
Cousin Frank with an air of wounded dignity that would
have done justice to a duchess.

“Foo! that Iam!” said he tohimself, as he paced the
piazza in restless anger; ‘“‘why do liove this girl? She
is a consummate flirt, and is just angling to catch that
young ape who calls himself Lord Mountjoy. But of one
thing I am certain—she will not have me at her beck
any longer.” .

Meanwhile the fair Celia had regained her composure,

admirers who thought the fashionable heiress worth
angling for.

It is but justice to Miss Coldpepper to say that her
father and mother were greatly to blame for the foolish
ideas which controlled her movements. They were both
delighted to hear that “their darling child” had a fair
prospect of winning the handsome young Englishman
who was to
wile,
Sec

Before

and they enc ed Celia tq.use
a ; ~

e7
the es were a month at the Grand
red amo the guesis that Celia_
had made a conquest of his lordship, and that they were
engaged to be married. Madam Rumor was a little
ahead of time, as usual, but the indications were that it
would come all right in the énd. ;
One evening, when most of the guests were at supper,
Celia was sitting in a quiet corner of the piazza reading
a favorite novel. Whether she had chosen this solitude

tion to determine. One thing, however, was very cer-
tain—she expected. a visitor and was not disappointed.
She was scarcely there five minutes before she was
joined by Lord Mountjoy, who took a seat beside her |
with the air of a bighly privileged character.

“My dear Miss Coldpepper,” said he; “I am delighted
to find you alone. You look charming this evening, as
indeed you always do.”

The fair Celia blushed all over her handsome face as
she answered :

“Compliments from you seem very natural, but I don't
think you mean half of them. Now confess, is it not
because you think I have a weakness for flattery that
re so much of it upon my poor, defenseless

ead ?”

| at the top with blue chenille, pies bewitching costume

bestaw a title of nobility upon his future | ¢

ed, and demanded an explanation of his strange con-
duct, he made some blundering excuses about his busi-
ness affairs, and said all would be right in a few days.

But next morning, when Celia awoke, there was a
terrible surprise in for her. Her jewelry case con-
taining her watch and diamonds, together with other
articles of value which she were all gone. On
the table she found a letter whica her husband had left
for her, and with trembling hands she tore it open and
devoured its contents, which were as follows :

“MY BELOVED WIFE: Be patient while I make confession.
Lord Mountjoy is dead! In ea. he never existed except in
the fertile brain of the man whom you called your ‘husband.’
The title was all borrowed for temporary use. You were de-
ceived, basely deceived, my dear—yowsee, I am very candid
now. But I must be off, as time presses. Do not seek for me
in England. I have made due arrangements for a trip around
the world so you may get a divorce as soon as convenient,
from your loving “JACK.”

After hearing Celia’s story, her father set the police
on the track of the infamous scoundrel who had be-
trayed his daughter. Weeks of searching only discov-
ered the fact that the man’s real name was John Hills-
borough, and that he had been a gentleman’s servant
in London for a number of years. He had left England,
but the detectives never discovered where he found a
resting-place.

Poor Celia! her life was wrecked in a vain attempt to
become aristocratic. Her experience was asad one, and
to the end of her days she regretted that she had not
been content to marry Cousin Frank.

> @-<

The Best Present.

Do you want to gladden your boy’s heart? If so,
send his name and address to this office, with $3, and
he will receive the NEw YORK WEEKLY for One year. A
more entertaining Christmas present Gould not be sug-
gested.

: —
The Ladies’ Work-Box.
Edited by ways - Helen Wood.

“Artist,” Boston, Mass.—Kensington painting is a process
of applying paint to the surface of fabrics in such manner
as to somewhat resemble the stitches of Kensington em-
broidery. It is very simple, and easily done, as it requires
no previous knowledge of painting. The pattern to be paint-
ed should be stamped on the’ material, the same as for em-
broidery. After the pattern is stamped, the material should
be stretched in an roi frame, or it may be tacked on
atable or board. e painti is done with tube paints
which are applied as they come from the tubes, without
being reduced with either oil or spirits. Itis applied with
a stiff bank pen, instead of a brush, thoes any coarse pen
will do. id the pen bott the point w
hollow, shovel-fashion, wipé
pen with a piece of cotton ¢
en, with the back to th he outlines,
urning the pen slightly as you draw it, in order to make the
outside of the outline clear and sharp. Next fill your pen
again, and apply the paint to = the inside of the petal or
leaf, drawing the pen toward center, as the stitches are
taken in embroidery, A lesson or two from some teacher of
painting would be of great benefit in learning to mixj the
colors. Wecan send you fifteen perforated patterns for this
work, including a book of instructions, for $1.25.

“Charlotte T.”—A pretty evening costume for a young lady
is made of pale robin’s blue silk and black velvet ribbon.
The skirt has a long, sq : overdress, looped high on one
side, with a panel of black yelvet ribbon sewed on at inter-
vals, about an inch cpart. The back is arranged in long,
graceful folds, with ala hh bow of blue silk; also stripe
with black velvet ribbon The waist, b penhg | Dee and f. ee
is laced 3 the back, and ie -shaped neck has a rolling col-
lar stri with velvet. ie short sleeves. correspond with
the collar. Narrow black yelvet is worn around the throat,
and the long, undressed gloves are of pale gray, dotted

in the

is a princess dress of fine white w lace, embroide in
gold, mounted over white’katin. The Turkish overdress is of
copper-colored plush, ornamented with fom embroidery.
The overdress has short sleeves of plush, the princess dress
beneath having long close sleeves. The front opens widely
over a gold-embroidered lace plastron, fastened at the waist
only by afancy gold hook;

“Irene C."—1st. Sashes are worn upon everything. Some
are tied in front, others form the side drapery, while others
nearly cover the back of the dress skirt. Moire is the most
fashionable material, but surah, velvet, plain silk, and even
wool fabrics are employed. Roman sashes, so long discard-
ed, are again revived, and they. form a pretty garniture for a
black or quiet-toned dress, and are also used for vests, side

anels, and back SraeeN A width of silk is often used in

wo loops and two long, hanging ends at the back, these
ends being made to fall opem-and quite separate, so as to
show that they are meant to re) ent asash. 2d. Vests are
going out of style, and reyers of yelyet, or of the same ma-
rial as ing their place. 3d. The latest
craze in col plomb, or adark lead shade, and
r etoastone color. Yellowis the

“Miss Genie L.,” okay n, N. ¥.—The most dressy wraps
for winter wear are shor Mimnantles of seal-skin or otter. These
are made in short, close shapes, that outline the shoulders
gracefully, and do not conceal the skirts of handsome cos-
tumes. Single, double-breasted, and diagonal ulsters are
seen in brown, black, green, and dark red. This season they
only button toa short distance w the waist, and are slit

.. They are st weather. eee
A S fab Tar tr se t
animals. 5 Or es
“Olga."—Ist. Mousquetaire gloves for evening wear are
shown with the figure of a snake painted on them. The snake
curls around the arm, and its head restson the hand. 2d.
Suede es are still erred for gentlemen. They have
two buttons, and are Rs of heavier kid than eo eines
The best colors are tan shades and browns. 3d. The ion
for gentlemen not to wear gloves has disappeared, and they
are Worn now on every occasion.

“Mrs. May G.”—For misses’ wear, a closely fitting basque,
oddly trimmed with lengthwise rows of inch-wide braid,
coding in a loop and ends on the lower edge, is very service-

able. This is worn over a kilt or box-plaited skirt, and is use-
ful for school wear.

“Lottie,” Rahway. N. J.—Postilion basques of velvet or
cloth are worn with plain, brocaded, or contrasting skirts.
The cloth ones are worn with a leather belt, and finished with
ne while those of yelyet or velveteen are perfectly
plain.

“Ella. W.”—Bead collars are exceedingly fashionable, and

are made in straight bands, edged with silk or d braid.
The Medici collar is very po; r, and may be e starting
from the shoulders or front of the waist.

 

‘No; believe me, my dear Celia, I am always in earn-
est when I praise you; it comes from my heart’”—here
his lordship placed his delicate hand over the spot |
where his heart ought to be—‘‘and I was never more

truly in earnest than lam at this moment. Pardon the

abruptness, but you must have known for some time

that‘you are more to me than all the rest of the world;

your image is constantly before me, sleeping and wak-

ing, and [love you too well foridle flattery to find a

place in my thoughts.”

Poor Celia! this was a trying moment for her; she

trembled visibly with emotion as he proceeded with the

story of his love. But it is not our purpose to detail the

questions and answers by which his lordship gained the

true state of her feelings toward him; suffice it to say

that the interview was entirely satisfactory to both,

and ere they parted, it was arranged by his lordship

that en to be Lady Mountjoy in less than a

month. 2
The news of the engagement spread like wild-fire.
Mountjoy interviewed the happy parents and obtained
their full consent.to the union. There was, therefore,
no need of waiting, and the arrangements were soon
completed, and the settlements drawn up in due form—
a matter which his lordship did not seem disposed to
overlook.

 

Mr. Coldpepper was very magnanimous. He con-
verted a large portion of Cella’s fortune into available
funds, so that the bridal pair might start for England as
soon as the ceremony was over. ,

The happy day at length came round, the marriage
was performed, and the affair was considered a grand
success.

When the reception was over, the newly married pair
left Saratoga en route for New York, where they were
to take the first steamer for England.

For some time after the departure of the —— pair
the ladies: who had ‘lost their chances of obtaining a
title were a little envious of Celia’s good fortune, and
some even hinted that his lordship was caught by unfair
means.

The Coldpeppers soon tired of Saratoga. Now that
Celia was gone, it was thought both advisable and
economical to return to New York,

Three weeks passed pleasantly, during which time
they were truly happy, and entertained their numerous
friends at the Coldpepper mansion. And, of course,
they received the hearty congratulations of their guests,
some few of whom now looked up to them with a hu-
miliation which was truly remarkable.

But, alas for the uncertainty of human affairs! the
Coldpeppers were soon in astate of terrible excite-
ment. A telegram arrived, one morning, and read
thus:

“Father, come to Liverpool at once. Iam in
tress.

No words can fully do justice to the scene at the Cold-
pepper residence when this message wasread. Mrs.
Coldpepper went into a violent fit of hysterics. and her
husband was also in a terrible state of excitement. It
was hard to gather trom Celia’s short message what her
trouble was; butof one thing they were very certain—
she would not trighten her father and mother in this
way unless for a sufficient cause.

Mr. Coldpepper went to Liverpool just as fast as the

great dis-
CELIA.”

 

 

biled, and he had stuck fast.

“Hanner,” sez he, ‘‘this is a hot seat. It’s lucky come
out and moved it or it would have ketched fire. It is the
hottest cheer I ever got into.”

I told Granther to take hold of the pump handle and
hold on, and 1 grabbed holt of the chair and yanked, and
I made out to sepperate ’em, but it'll take me halt a day
to git them trousers of Granther’s fit to wear. Its a ter-
ribie trial to. raise an old man so’s he can live to sule-

steamer could convey him there. He found his daugh-
| tera mere shadow of what She was when she left New
| York. A few weeks of suffering had made her pale and
| care-worn. The meeting: between'father and child un-

unnerved Mr. Coldpepper.

but in a week after they arrivedin Liverpool her hus-

 

brate his hundredth birthday. You wouldn’t believe it
was such a trial unless you’d undertook it.

band was completely changed. He had left her on
various pretenses, and when at last she became alarm-

 

“Mollie T.”—Long seal-skin cloaks, covering the wearer !
from head to foot, are stillin vogue, and are now made tight- |
fitting about the waist, and are left open behind. |

: }
“Dorothy.”—The ol1-fashioned way of having the skirt |
trimmed with velvet ribbon, wide at the bottom and growing |
narrower toward the waist, 1s again stylish. i
“Six Years’ Reader.”—Dark wool, cashmere, or cloth |
dresses, made with a kil¢skirt and short Eton jacket, with
vests, are worn by little beys.

“E. D. F.’,—“Put Asundar,” by Bertha M. Clay, is in book-
form, and will be mailed to you on receipt of the price, $1.50.

“Stella,” Providence; R, 1,—Large buttons of every descrip-
tion have taken the place of the small ones of last year.

“Rebecca D.”—The newest Jerseys are pointed in front and
very short over the hips, with a French postilion back.

“Miss E. L.”—We can send you a good etiquette book for
fifty cents.

THE LOVER'S MISTAKE.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

a

——

 

Jessie Morrell twisted the fern leaves round and round
her fingers; but did not look’up.
“We have had a pleasant summer together, Jessie.”

“Very pleasant, Frank.”

He leaned over and took one of her
hands in his.

“T shall be very sorry to leave you, Jessie, particularly
as—as this summer is one of the leaves of life’s book
that must be closed forever. It has been very delight-
ful, Jessie, but we must forget it.”

“Forget it, Frank ?”

He colored and cast down his glance uneasily, as she
looked him fullin the face with those great, melting
eyes of hers, and her crimson lips half apart.

“You are taking matters too seriously, Jessie,” he
said, with a forced laugh. ‘‘We have had a pleasant
flirtation together—nothing more—and now we must go
our different ways in life, and fulfill our destinies.

“And your destiny is——”

“How closely you follow one up, Jessie,” he said, im-
patiently. ‘Mine is—at least according to my uncle’s
Seg gg marry an heiress, live at the old Corwyn
Manor House and play gentleman of leisure. I am
fitted for no. other life—I wish I were. I wish I
had been brought up a fisherman with a little cottage,
and a boat, and you to sit beside me and mend my nets,
tairy queen.”

He spoke in a wild, regretful sort of way, looking out
into the distance. Jessie watched him intently.

“Is it too late now, Frank ?”

“Too late—an age too late! I must have wealth, and
ene ad and ease. I could never endure hardship and
0. =e

“‘Not even for me, Frank ?”

“My dear girl, what nonsense all this is! We are
dreaming, and it’s high time we woke up. Just listen to
what my uncle says.”

He unfolded a letter which had been thrust carelessly
into his breast pocket, and read aloud the following
sentences.

“1 shall expect you home immediately. Society is be-
ginning to gather round its old vantage points again,
and you must report yourself. Miss Edenhall, the great
Canadian heiress will be at her aunt’s, Mrs. Voorhies, in
the course of a week or two, and if you play your cards.
well there is no earthly reason why you should not be-
come the keeper of her treasures.”

He refolded the missive and put it back in his pocket.

“Then, you see,-I am to be»led like alamb to the

tiny, sun-browned

“Yes, major; I’m puzzled. to know what to do. The
merchant with whom I have been dealing has dun-

ning me every day for the past week. I believe step

around and shoot him.” -
“Don't do that, colonel. You might have to

fine. Keep on trading with him, and if he don’t

to death, he will kill himself.”

What He Gave the Society. J
“We are about to hold a meeting to organize a soup
society this winter,” said ‘eee

“An excellent project — excellent,” responded Bol-
gertop. “ee _

“IT thought you would be in favor of it. I am canvass-
ing in aid of the society. I know you will give some-

thing.”
“With the greatest of pleasure. You may put
down for a speech at the nesting” ne poe
She Wasn't Asleep.
S to sleep so nice n
I sing to her. Isn’t that so, Mamie?”
mother.

“Yes, that’s so, ma.”

The mother leaves the room for a moment, and Mamie
says to the visitor : Sao sa ed

‘Don’t tell ma; but 1 only make out I aslee
to get her to stop singing; she sings soatie pad.” ,

Might Have been Worse.

Young Mr. Featherly is conversing with Miss Cl
a little dog fell from a third-story window Cartes

“My little girl ht when

a tond

“Ah—er—it’s very sad, of course, Miss Clara; but you
should console yourself with the thought that—er—it
might have been much worse, you know.”
“How c-could it h-have been w-worset?”
«‘Er—well—ah—he might have fallen from a fourth-
story window, you know.”

Mirthful Morse)s.
“I am glad this coffee doesn’t owe me anything,” said

a boarder, at the breaktast-table. ‘I don’t e it
would ever settle.” } ’

Pronouncing matches have taken the place of ‘ling
bees of a few years ago. The smallest Welsh’ n news-
aper would be sufficient to put down both sides of the
argest American pronouncing Class in the country. For

example: Pronounce Wgnlilbrunilyg.

 

slaughter. It’s too bad, Jéssie; it is, indeed. 1 love you
better than a score of Miss Edenhalls, but a fellow must
study his own interest, you: know, and you'll marry
some of them sailor fellows and forget mein a month.

‘I dare say I shall,” laughed Jessie, flinging off the
look of abstraction that had momentarily overshadowed
her face, and springing toher feet. «See, the sun is
down already, and the tide is creeping up along the
shore. Let us go home.” ’

Frank bit his lip. He had dreaded this explanation,
but now that it was over he was a little annoyed at
Jessie’s calmness. He would have been better satisfied
ifshe had gone into hysterics, or reproached him with
his falsity, or cried her pretty eyes out.

«You never can tell how a woman is going to behave,”
he thought, sullenly. “ , perhaps: everything is for
the best. The little -eyed beauty, why couldn’t she
—_ been ee rT ae : eee r

Frank Corwyn went, 2: ing and dissatisfied,
back to New York, ant tried to forget the coast of Maine
and the dark-eyed sea-nymph whose voice had mingled
with the music of its waves.

“Frank, Miss Edenhall:is.at the other end of the
picture-gallery!” cried his uncle, bustling up to him, one
day, as he stood with his opera-glass, scrutinizing the
mare, ot a picture. “Come quick, and be introduced

oO her!”

‘Hang Miss Edenhall!” muttered the undutiful nephew,
as he slowly followed the hasty footsteps of the elder
gentleman, :

‘‘Miss Edenhall, allow me to present to your acquaint-
ance my nephew, Mr. Corwyn.’ i

Then, and not until then, Frank looked up, and met—
Jessie Morrell’s dark, laughing eyes.

“

The cup that doesn’t cheer or inebriate, but sometimes
rouses suspicion—the hie-cup.

Auctioneers have a nod way of receiving bids.

Paragoric is the newest handkerchief me Old
maids like it. It is so suggestive of extreme youth.

All the great forces in nature are silent forces, but you >
couldn’t make a henpecked husband believe it. ae

A robust blacksmith is needed to shoe a horse? but it”
requires the careful and tender hand of a woman to
“shoo” a hen. ee

The man who sits down to wait for
shoes will need a cushion on his chair.

Speaking of hunting, Binks says the
is a fashionable aiineegen

‘Sqmebody's old
abode of the dear
PE RES a Sa

The musquito now begins to sym }
office-seeker who is left out in the cold. *

A suitable wife for an athlete would be a dumb.

At one of the up-town schools, the principal in a ge!
eral exercise wrote the word “dozen”on the Binehonera.

/ ed the pupils to each write a sentence contain-
ing word. He was somewhat taken aback to

ey

on one of the papers the following unique $
dozen know my lesson.” oAbriats gate

—+—r-0~<

What the Ladies Admire.

You have a lady friend to whom you wish to make an

 

“Jessie !’”
“Frank !”
“What does this mean? Where is Miss Edenhall ?”

appropriate present during the holidays. You are puz-
zled, and know not what to choose. Take our advice,
and send her the New York WEEKLY for one year.. A

 

 

«I am Miss Edenhall, sir,” answered the beauty, with
provoking composure.
«But you are Pilot Morrell’s niece !”

“Solam. My mother was a pilot’s sister, and 1 am
by no means ashamed of the relationship. I went to
Maine to re-cruit health and spirits; and, to avoid being
followed by a fortune-hunting swarm, I dropped my
oe —_— retaining only the appellation of Jessie
Morrell.”

Frank Corwyn grew alternately red and white.

«But, Jessie, you will still consider me as a friend——”

“As a friend—yes, certainly—as a lover, no! I had a
day ; once, about winning a noble heart as the
pilot’s simple niece, with no other dowry than sea-shells
and a sunburned brow. You waked me from it, with no
| gentle hand, Frank Corwyn, and I shall dream no more !
Au revoir! Isee my party is waiting for me! The
next time that you make love toa. pretty. girl on the
coast of Maine, just to amuse yourself, just try to be
certain wio she is! °
And Miss Edenhall, with eyes full of saucy mirth, in-
Cen graceful little figure and vanished, leaving
her ndam lover in silent consternation.

Frank Corwyn , Miss Edenhall was
“engaged” to a young man a full head shorter than he
was, and not half so good looking, and he had lost the
heriess of the season !
‘Sall owing to that confounded flirtation off the
oo ¢ Maine tc oaneeaes oa Sk
eople_are so slow to recognize harvests of the
own selfishness and nt

 

 

 

(Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting making this column an attractive feature of the
NEw York Y, and they will oblige us - ene for
yablication a ing which may be deemed of s ent in-

— aod i rer = It is oh necesas that mrs
cles scholarly style; so long as y
pithy i likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be
re’

—_—_

A Young Lady’s Hint.

4

 

It was sunset on the coast of Maine—a sunset in early
October, that turned the edges of the waves to diamond
fringes, and lay like a trembling rivulet of gold athwart
the glassy surface of the great deep. J€ssie Morrell had
seen the same great rniracle of nature a thousand times
before, and yet she could not but think how beautiful it
was, as she sat there tapping her little foot against the
sparkling sand, in the shadow of a great overhanging
rock. : :

Jessie was very pretty—a glowing, glittering brunette,
with great Spanish eyes, whose fire melted and grew
soft under long curled-taghes; bright black hair coiled
round her exquisitely shaped head; and lips as red and
rosy as the ripest cherries that ever swung in June sun-
shine. Her dress of buff calico, with its simple linen
collar, and a late autumn rose at the belt, was exquis-
itely becoming; and the straw hat in her lap, with fresh
fern leaves twisted round the brim, completed an un-
consciously artistic toilet. ;

Jessie was waiting for nk Corwyn to make his ap-
pearance round the gold-shining cliffs; and when at
length a footstep sounded on the sands, the deep crim-
son stole up to her cheek, brighter than the reddest-
hearted shell on Pilot ] ‘ll’s parlor mantel-shelf.

Not that there had ‘any regular appointment be-
| tween Mr. Corwyn and Jessie Morrell, only they had
| talked and flirted all summer long in the shadow of that
| self-same rock, and somehow there was an unspoken
| areas on the subject.

“Jessie !”

 

der.such painful circumstances was heart-rending, for |
the story which Celia told of her sufferings completely |

Celia was very happy during the voyage to England,

he threw himself on the sparkling reach of sand at her
\feet. As if she had not heard his footsteps full three
| minutes ago. i

| Dear me, Frank! is it possible that is you—and so
early, too ?”

| you 2?”
“Indeed ?”
She arched her black eyebrows

/ with a sort of indiffer-
| ent curiosity.

“7] must leave Seabrook to-morrow morning—my un-

| cle’s letter of summons came this mail.”

j

The little coquette! how she affected to start when |

“Myself and none other, Jessie, I have bad news for |

 

“« Pray call me a pretty name,” said he,
One aan to his d: ' Tie,
The girl he had courted that she
Thought he never pea eetry.
Up from his bosom she ra er head,
And her cheeks grew red as roses,
“ 7 think J will call you ‘man,’ ” she said,
«For they say that ‘man proposes.’ ”

Having a Time.

“You, John Henry,” said a Forty-seventh street wo-
man to her belated spouse, ‘“‘where have you been, and |
what have you been doing ?” |

«Been havin’ time.” ;

“Been having a time! Didn’t you know that 1 was |
here alone? What’s to prevent burglars from break-
ing into the house and carrying off everything we've |
got, and not a man on the premises? Been having a
lime, eh] Youll have another time right here, if you
don't take to getting home earlier. Now you go around
and see if the house is properly locked up, and don’t |
be all night——- Where are you going, John Henry ?”

«“Goin’ to lock up housh up, m' dear.”

‘Don’t you leave this room, John Henry. How do I
know but there’s a burglar under this bed right now ?
If you wouldn’t be carousing around at all hours of the
night and coming home drunk, you might have these
matters attended to before now. What are you stand-
ing there for? Why don’t you go and see if the house
is locked up ?”

“TJ can’t be in two aig at onsh, m’ dear. If
theresh burglar under , ho ushe to lock housh.
If housh locked, no ushe fur burglar under bed. Shee ?”

“That's just like a drunken idiot! Look under the
bed first, and then attend to the rest of the house.”

John Henry crawled under the bed and found a cat,
which he caught by the posterior elongation, or words
to that effect. To this the cat set up a demurrer, and
D to show cause why the same should be sus-
tained, which so frightened Mrs..John Henry that she
sprang out of bed just as John Henry backed out from
under it, and in his effort to rise, he threw her against
the washstand, upsetting it and pecenoede | the pitcher.
She screamed, he swore, and the cat squailed; and now

| jail neighbors say that John Henry ~— to be put in

jail for the manner in which he abuses wife, and her

| a timid little thing, too.

His Partner Would Understand.

Messenger Boy: ‘‘Is this Mrs. Bouncer ?”

Mrs. Bouncer: ‘It is.”

M. B. “Mr. Bouncer’s partner sent me up to see why
he isn’t at the office.” ”

Mrs. B.: *‘He can’t go out to-day, He is sick in bed.”

M. B.: “What is the matter with him, please? His
partner will want to know.”

Mrs. B.: ‘Say that Mrs. Bouncer found a letter in her

expressions as ‘my ducky,’ and ‘my darling.’ and Mr.
Bouncer is too ill to leave the house to-day. His part-
ner is a married man, and will understand perfectly.”

What a Little Mischief Did.

Rich widower, in the parlor visiting poor widow witn
matrimonial views. Enter Master Freddie.

Mamma : “Good-night, darling; don’t forget to say
your prayers.”

Rich widower: ‘‘Well, Master Freddie, what are you
going to do with that pretty little tumbler? Take a
drink ?”

Little Freddie: ‘‘No. l’se doin’ to play put my toofs
in ’fore I do’s to seep, jes’ like mamma,”

The rich widower never called again.

They Wanted It.

This story is told of a party taking a latesupper. For
| dessert they had oranges, and there were just thirteen
| for twelve persons. The dish was passed around, and
| each party took an orange, leaving one on the plate.
| When the plate with the remaining orange was passed,
| everybody looked at it covetously, but simply said:
| “No, I thank you.” ;
| A sudden gust of wind blew out the lamp, and in the
| darkness six gentlemen and six ladies shook hands right
| on the coveted orange.

An Easier Way Out.
| “You seem to be serious this morning, colonel,”
| one Missouri gentleman to another.

 

said

husband’s pocket from a young lady, filled with such |

more acceptable present for a lady could not be sug-
gested, as the ladies all admire the New York WEEELY,
-_-—-——-_ > O—- -

Items of Interest,

The Crown Prince of Germany, while his an- ~
nual tour of inspection through the garrisons in Baden, ar-
rived, in the strictest incognito, during a torrent of‘ rain, in
front of the hostelry of asmall place called Wolfach. The
youngest hotel boy was sent out to his carriage with an um- —
brella, but in vain the youngster strove to reach the head of
the giant prince, who, not wishing to leave the stripling to
the inclemency of the weather, took both boy and umbrella —
under his arm and coolly walked into the hotel. : be

To meet the requirements of a classic figure a lady
should be 5 feet 4 3-4 inches tall, 32 inches bust measure, 24
inches waist, 9 inches from armpit to‘waist, long arms and
neck. .A queenly woman, however, shoul#be 5 feet 5 inches
tall, 36inches about the bust, 26 1-2inches about the waist, 3
over the hips, 11 1-2 inches around the ball of the arm, and
61-2round the wrist. Her hands and feet should not be too

 

 

thought, “it is impossible to play cricket on a hearth; evi-
dently it should be ‘heath.’ ‘Cricket on: the. heath’ means _

something.” He made. the eme and another gray | _
hair was added to the editor’s whitening head. es eee

Careful experiment has disclosed the fact that asin.
gle square foot of leaf surface in the Gase of soft, thin. —
leafed plants will, during fair weather, exhale aqueous vapot
at the rate of one and a quarter ounces daily. At nightthe —
rate is only about one-fifth as rapid as during the day, and _
during rainy weather there is absolutely no evaporation.

A well known business house’ astonished its patron
by displaying the following notice on its door: “The hou
of attendance in this office are: To canvyassers for churel
subscriptions, 10 to 2: book and insurance agents, 2to4:
commercial travelers, beggars, and advertising men, all da
We attend to our own business at night.”

A little girl in Rochester was seriously il with
theria, and her physician said she would die. She
for a drink of lager beer, and the doctor said to give it to
as it could make no difference—she would die anyway. She
drank two bottles of the beverage, and the next morning was
entirely well. ‘i

Just before the cholera broke out in Toulon the swal-

lows suddenly disappeared from the locality. An cheat
the Bengal Cavalry states that during a cholera epidemic im
India, though many of the dead remained unburied, all of
the carrion eating birds had disappeared. .

Two thousand horned toads have been sentfrom Ham- | _
ilton, Cal., to China, where they are converted into various | _
kinds of high-priced medicines. A horned toad placedina |
flask of whisky makes a tonie much admired by Chinamen.
They even like it without the toad. Me

A Nebraska man has discovered how prairie dogs ob-
tain the water they drink. He says they dig their own wells, _
each village having’one with a concealed opening. He knows: ‘
of one such well 200 feet deep, having a circular stairease
leading down to the water. ay

To facilitate speedy marriages, there Is an esiablish-
ment in Paris before which is a sign with these words:
“Ladies’ and gentlemen’s outfits on hire for balls and mar-
riages. Black dress coats and pumps, Brides-maids always —
ready for engagements.”

A little girlin Richmond, Ind., five years old, made
this quaint remark a few days ago: “Mother, I believe God
thinks I’m dead.” ‘“‘Why?”’ asked the mother, somewhat as-
tonished at the remark. ‘’’CauseI hayen’t said my prayers
for a week.”

An Italian astronomer declares that the planet Mars
is peopled by intelligent beings, who are trying to attract at-
tention from dwellers on this planet. Heis now engaged in
making experiments with a view to discover what the mes-
sages mean. :

When they have a funeral in Leadville they end it
|} with a dance, and when they haveadance they kill two or
| 4hree men, and, of course, the remains demand funerals; so
it’s hard to see why an undertaker shouldh’t prosper in
Leadville.

 

Little Freddie: ‘Dood night, mamma; I’se doin’ to- |
a.”

A Montreal physician, who had vigorously opposed:
| vaccination, was about to leave the city. Like all other pas-
| sengers on the train, he was forced to show his arm. “It was
| discovered that he had recently vaccinated himself in two
| places. n

A single pound of steel, worth about fifty cents, will

| make 100,000 watch screws worth $11. Some of these ma-

chine-made screws are so small that an unedneated eye re-

| quires the aid of 2 magnifying glass to see what they really
are, 7

} —~_ > @e@~< oo

: WHAT COMES FROM COTTON,

It will amaze many people to learn of the numerous —
useful preducts made from the cotton plant, besides
cotton fabrics. The husks are used for fuel. After the
seed is ground, cooked, and pressed, the Oil being ex-
tracted, the refuse forms an oil cake, which is shipped in

| large quantities to Great Britain for food for cattle. The |
| oil goes to Chicago to make butter and lard ; toCincinnati,
where an illuminating oil is made from it, and to.

Eastern city to be made aa olive oil for salads. It.
is already taking the place o: 5

lard in cookery, oe 4
| the advantag ‘everybody. Inferior g1 o serve ‘as.
| tite bande tor the Gens Bema Brad ) ee 3

 

 

Ses Sore + 6