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A Brilliant Love Story,

“MARRIED AT MIDNIGHT,” “by .a

ew Contributor,

eek After Next.

 

Fintered According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1885, bu Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washinaton. D. C

 

 

Hnteread at thet Post Office New York. as Second Class Maller.

 

 

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

New Yo

erreUE TRO ETAEEL Let
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rk, January 23, 1886.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE YOUNG WOMAN SPRANG TOWARD HIM, AND AGAIN SEIZED HIS ARM.

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

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Se ‘i

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i:

 

THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY ;

OR,

THE HINDOO DETECTIVES PLEDGE.

BY DONALD J. McKENZIE,

Author of “The Wall Street Wonder,” “Mir=
iam Blair,’’ Etc.

 

CHAPTER I.
THE MYSTERY OPENS.

“Save the child—quick! Save the child!

By whom this thrilling cry was uttered no one paused
to notice. But the voice was that of a woman, and it
was full of agonized entreaty.

There was a confused rush of feet toward the center
of the avenue, which was thronged with handsomely
dressed people and fashionable equipages. A child, in
attempting to dart across the street, had beenseen to
fall almost under the wheels of a passing carriage.

The first to reach the imperiled little one was a boy
who seemed to be scarcely twelve years of age. His
agility carried him through the dense throng; he
caught the childin his arms, and with exclamations of
admiration ringing in his ears he gained the sidewalk.

By this time he discovered that his burden lay a dead
weight upon his arm, and he looked down into - the
child’s face.

Boy though he was, the loveliness of that face caused
him t0forget, for a moment, the novel situation. A lit-
tle girlof not more than seven years, with softly round-
ed cheeks, teeth of pearl, and a wealth of bright cufls

| seer mother of this kid all the same!” was the cool re-
r

The lad did not say this until his sharp eyes had sur-
| veyed the lady critically from head to foot.

Tommy spoke deliberately, clinging to his charge
with one arm, and with the other hand stroking the
child’s beautiful curls.

The lady again seized his shoulder, her fair face white
with emotion, her brilliant eyes blazing.

“You little wretch!” she exclaimed, with a degree of
fierceness the boy had never seen a lovely woman dis-
play before.

“Rather a sweet way to thank a feller for savin’ the
kid's life,” Tommy retorted.

“You have no right to keep my little Ermie from me.
Give her up, I say!”

“Not ter Joseph. You ain’t her mother no mor’n yer
are my auntie. Yer needn't take me for a flat, ’cause I
ain’t one. Ill take care of ‘little Ermie’, as yer calls her,
and you needn’t lose any sleep over the business. And
I wouldn’t draw a crowd if I wasin your place. All the
fine folks round here will think you're tryin’ to ’dopt
mey

Tommy, in his attempt to elude the woman, had re-
treated to the steps of a handsome, brown-stone man-
sion. The lady had followed. And now the latter ab-
ruptly changed her tone and manner.

She produced adainty, jeweled purse, took from with-
inacrisp bank note and thrust it eagerly toward the as-
tonished boy. At the same time she said:

; aed me, - ees ! 1 was so frightened that
e ; i Stl hy PL J 1ardly knew what I said or did, and I actually ge

like spun gold. Her eyes were closed, and at first the | that but for your prompt and courageous con leg oa
boy thought she was dead. But aslight tremor of her | ling would have been killed. And I forgot, too, that
parted lips convinced him that she was only unconscious | you deserve areward. Take this, and if you will come
trom fright. or possibly stunned by her fall. | and see me to-morrow I will give you more. This is all

Before thelad, who hada countenance expressive of | the money I have at hand. Then let me take Ermie in
courage and shrewdness, had time to think what to do | my arms, that I may feel sure that she is safe. Quick—
next, a hand fe& upon his arm almost fiercely, and a | that is a good boy !”
feminine voice peremptorily cried : | But again she was foiled. Tommy sprang away from

“Give mé the child! Why do you stand there like a her, and retorted in a tone which showed that he was in
little idiot ” | dead earnest :

The boy, Whose name was Tommy, and whom the |
readers of aformer story Will not fail to recognize, look- | chicken, not if I knows myself.
ed quickly up into the face of the speaker, At the same | next boy yersee.”
time he indignantly exclaimed ; | Even as he spoke, the lad looked for a chance to es-

’ ‘A little idiot, am I! | cape from the locaiity, fearing that a third party might

Phe woman, who was young and brilliantly handsome | step in and take the part of the woman.
in face, sharply reiterated : | ‘The young woman, with a sharp, fierce cry, sprang

“Give me the child! Don’t you see she is dying ?” | toward him, and betere he could elude her, she again

She pen to take the little girl rrom Tommy’s | seized his arm.
arms agshe spoke, This time she clung to him tenaciously, e

The boy half-relinguished his burden, but abruptly | time shrilly efeamn ini: 7 roe
changed his purpose and drew back. «Help—help!”

‘NO yer dou’t—not this trip!” he declared, easily Tommy struggled desperately to free himself.
eluding the woman in her effort to take the child. He wasa muscular lad for hisage, and spry as a kit-

‘“‘Wollld you refuse to give up the little sufferer to her | ten, but he was at a decided disadvantage.
mother? Don't you see that I’m nearly distracted ” | The child was heavy, and about all he could manage
the lady cried. ; | With one arm: and of course the woman, desperately

She Clasped her hands imploringly; and Tommy inearnest as she was, was more than a match for him
noticed that they were white, shapely, and sparkling in a one-handed struggle.
with Giamonds. | This was not all,

“You're distracted enough, it’s likely, but yer ain't such aresponse as she could not have gained were she a

Keep yer taffy for the

“I tell yer, ma’am, yer don’t git yer hands onto this |

plainly dressed working girl. Her beauty and the rich-
ness of her attire securedior her prompt aid.

A young man it was who sprang to her side, and de-
manded :

‘What is the matter? Shall I detain this boy ?”

Tommy looked up into the face of the speaker, and
met the glance of very. bright, restless eyes, and saw
that the man was handsome, alert, wonderfully wide-
awake.

“Yes, yes!” cried the woman, in appealing’ tones.
‘‘Make him give up my little Ermie! He is trying to
steal her from me.”

“That's a blue lie, an“@ofeyer furgit it!” Tommy in-
dignantly retorted.

“It is true—believe me, sir!” returned the woman,
turning her eyes upon th@ face of the alert stranger.

. The boy was homely and ragged; the lady beautiful
and richly clad. It was natural that the young man
should decide promptly against the former.

Besides, the scene was attracting the attention of
passers-by, and the popular voice could but be in favor
of wealth and beauty.

“Call a policeman !”

«Have the little Arab locked up.”

“Let me get my hands upon him and I will teach him
a lesson!”

Such were the cries called forth from bystanders,
some of whom were fashionably dressed young men
who were eager to champion the elegant lady.

No policeman appeared. They are often difficult to
find at such times.

“Give the child to me} my lad!” the young man com-
manded.

“JT tell yer she’s pullin’ wool over yer eyes,” Tommy
returned, clinging doggedly to his charge.

“JT tell you to give the child ‘to me, not ‘to her. And
don’t try to be too smart. I’ve been known to eat a
youngster of your size and complexion. No fooling—
mind that!”

There was an odd commingling of sternness and good-
nature in the speech and countenance of the stranger.
As he spoke he grasped the unconscious child, and in
spite of the boy’s resistance, tore her trom his grasp.

And in another monte had placed the little girl in
the arms of the lady. The latter uttered her thanks,
and glided gracefully from the spot.
| She was out of sight in an instant, and the knot of

spectators joined the throng of passers.
| The young man attempted to move on like the rest,

but Tommy clung to his arm with angry resoluteness.
The lad was almost erying with chagrin and disap-
| pointment.

“Smart chap, ain’t yer, to bully a feller of my size!” he
exclaimed.

The man looked at himagain, more keenly than be-
fore. Something in the small, shrewd face of the boy
| restrained the hand which he raised to push him aside.
~ “A pretty girl can make @ fool of anybody that can
raise a mustache, can’t she? And she come it over you
as easy as slippin’on an orange peel. You're not as
sharp as you 100k, young man.”

The stranger's curiosity, instead of resentment, was
excited by the boy’s passionate speech.

“See here, youngster, I want you to talk sense if you're
going to be so glib with your tongue,” the man said.

“What's the use? You couldn’t take it in it I did talk
sense,” was the retort.

‘Perhaps not; but you’d better try me and see.
was that lady?
child ?”

“IT wanted to keep the little kid out of her clutches.
She is a blazin’ fraud!”

“How do you know ?”

«Cause she said she wag the kid’s mother.”

‘How do you know but se spoke the truth ?”

“Didn’ I pull the child ous from under the wheels of a
cab, and didn’t the woman grab me by the shoulder and
| look at me as though she wanted to eat me when I got
| to the sidewalk? You ougiiter seen them eyes of her’n!
| Mothers don’t look that way when they’ve seen their ba-
| bies saved from bein’ killed. I’ve been through the mill

afore. Real mothers is grateful, and wants ter hug even

a little gorilla like me, if he saves the life of a pretty kid
like that one. She didn’t want terhug me. Called me
| a little idiot, to start'on. Betcher my shoulder’s black
| an’ blue where she grabbed me.”
| The boy’s earnestness impressed the stranger.
| “That's a queer notion of yours. anyhow,” he re-
| marked, half musingly, and he abruptly added. “Who

 

Who
And what did you want with the

 

Her cries brought quick response— | are you, boy ?”

“Name's Tommy Larkin.”

 

 

“You're rather sharp, aren’t you? I’ve an idea you
don’t peddle papers nor black boots for a living ?”

“J don't sponge my hash out of you newspaper chaps,
anyhow !”

“So you think I’m a newspaper chap?” the stranger
exclaimed, in evident surprise.

“I knows yer be,” was the reply.

“How do you know ?”

“Same way I found out you was a blazin’ fool—’cause
yer poked yer nose inter somebody else’s business and
made a mess of it.”

The young reporter—for such was in truth the profes-
sion of the keen-witted stranger—was more and more
deeply impressed by the remarkable insight of Tommy
Larkin. As he was about to speak again, however,
his observant eyes noted a somewhat startling fact.
A shadow lying athwart the small, open space in which
they stood, and which he had supposed to be the

shadow of a marble column in his rear, was seen to |

bend, start forward, and noiselessly disappear.

The reporter and the boy both faced about. But there |

was no stone pillar in the spot where.they had been im-
pressed by the presence of one. A

At this moment a policeman came up, and gruffly ex-
claimed :

‘Move along! move along!
loafing !”

This is*no place for

 

CHAPTER Il.

A BASE DECEPTION.

Frank Faulkner,
obeyed the policeman’s gruff command, of course. AS
they joined the throng upon the sidewalk, Tommy lost
no time in giving his companion the slip.

The reporter, supposing the boy to be walking at his
side, asked :

“Did you see anybody standing behind us as we stood
there talking ?”

Receiving no response, the young man turned, and
discovered that the shrewd lad was nowhere to be
seen.

“Tm getting dull, to let them fool me in this way !” he
impatiently exclaimed, turning to retrace his steps.
«For, now I think of it,” he continued, musingly, ‘I be-
lieve that girl did deceive me, as the boy declares; and
somebody stood behind us and overheard all we said.
This business is worth looking into. Who knows but
I’ve hit upon @ sensation that will make all the other re-
porters envious when I've worked it up for the Daily
Bee,”

The reporter had now reached the residence in front |

of which the struggle between the boy and the lady
took place

He paused, glanced at the house critically, and was

at the same moment startled to see the door open and a
young lady come hastily forth.

The lady was not the same whom he had already en-
countered under such novel circumstances.
was, if possible, more beautiful in face, and certainly
her bearing and expression were more pleasing and
gentle.

As she hastened down the street, he found himself
following her, half-involuntarily.

But a moment later he saw her enter a public vehicle
which stopped for her, and from which a short, coarsely-
clad man had alighted.

«Sure an’ it’s an angel ye are. Miss Grace!” uttered
with a broad brogue, came to the ears of the young re-
porter, as the door of the hack shut the lady and her
coarse companion from view.

The carriage rattled away, leaving the reporter to pur-
sue his investigations as best he could.

“1 couldn’t refuse such an appeal from a poor, suffer-
ing woman,” the young lady replied to the remark of her
companion.

Her voice, exquisitely low and sweet, was full of com-
passionate gentleness.

It was unfortunate that she could not see the expres-
sion which came over the countenance of the man. f

“Thin ye got the old lady’s message, sayin’ that the
old man and the childer were all sick wid the fever?”
the man asked.

«Yes; and you may be sure I did not hesitate to re-
spond. Do you suppose I could be so ungrateful toward
one who risked so much to save my life ?”

There was a slight tremor of emotion in the sweet
tones of the girl as she said this.

Concealed by the gloom within the carriage, the man |

indulged in a triumphant leer.

the young reporter, and the boy |!

This one}

| But his speech betrayed no sign of the evil exultation
which he felt.

| «It isn’t ivery foine lady that would remember the

|good deeds of the Hkes of Hannah Flynn, to be sure.
It’s an angel ye are, as I said before, Miss Grace—a beg-
gin’ yer parding for callin’ ye that, for sure an’ Hannah
niver towld me yer other name, bad ’cess to her man-
ners !”

The girl laughed softly, as she replied :

“She was forgetful, that’s a fact. But no harm is
done. My name is Grace Emory; and I suppose you
ee Mr. Murphy, who, she said, would take me to her
ouse ?”

“Tam that same. I’ve lived in the nixt house to the
Flynns for a year, and it’s good and ginerous folks they
are. Sure and I pity them in their throuble wid me
whole heart. But [ma poor man meself, and it’s little
I have to spare from me wages, wid siven childer of me
own.”

In the meanwhile the carriage made rapid progress.

They reached an East River ferry, alighted from the
vehicle, and went on board the boat.

New, for the first time, Grace Emory obtained a fair
view of her companion’s face.

The latter was decidedly repulsive, being pock-
marked, and with a shock of red hair and whiskers.
| Still, although the beautiful, innocent girl shrank from
the man’s touch as he conducted her to the ferry-boat,
| no suspicion of his real designs crossed her mind.

She thought only of the cheer which she bore to those
in poverty and distress; only of the tears and thanks
with which she expected to be rewarded.

Yet Grace Emory, gentle, beautiful, the child of wealth,
was being decoyed to the strangest fate ever plotted
against a human being.

Upon the other side of the river the man called Mur-
phy procured another carriage, and they were driven
rapidly to the outskirts of Brooklyn.

They reached a sparsely settled section, where small
and somewhat dingy cottages took the place of finer
residences.

The street merged itself into what resembled a crooked
country road. The houses were separated by increas-
ingly long intervals ; trees, rocks, open flelds, sand quar-
ries were passed in turn, untila number of miles had
been traversed.

“J did not know that Mrs. Flynn lived so far out from
the city,” Grace Emory exclaimed, glancing out upon
the gloom-sbrouded landscape.

‘It is only a bit furder, miss,” her companion re-
turned.

“You say the children have been ill for more than a
week?” the girl questioned, her solicitude for the suf-
ferers giving no place for personal fears in her gentle
heart.

“Yis ; and the old man was taken down yisterday.”

“It is strange that they should all be taken ill at the
same time. It is not a contagious fever, is it ?”

“Not at all, miss: But, you see, it is a damp piace
where they live, and some of thim are sick all the time.
If the faver was ketchin’, I wouldn’t be afther conveyin’
a good soul like yerself there.”

“Of course not, Mr. Murphy. Nor would Mrs. Flynn
have sent for me. She would cut off her right hand
rather than draw me into danger.”

“So she would, miss, Heaven bless ye !”

At this juncture the carriage stopped.

“Ig this the place ?” Grace asked, peering forth from
the window.

“We'll have to walk a wee bit. The house sets back
from the street. Come wid me, miss, and we'll soon see
Mary Flynn and the childer.”

They alighted trom the carriage, and the latter was
driven rapidly away.

Grace found herself beside the narrow, lonely road.

Wot a house was in sight.

The night-wind whispered in the tree-tops in a dis-
mal. lonely fashion; black clouds were fleeting over-
head, like winged monsters; an. oppressive stillness
reigned.
| The carriage quickly disappeared, and then not a liv-

ing object was discernible upen the road.

«What a lonely spot!” Grace exclaimed, shivering.
| A vague sense ot terror stole over her, and she looked
| alertly at her companion.
| ‘Jt is a thrifie rural, to be sure,” Murphy returned.
with a laugh.

He stood, stalwart and uncouth, in the middle of the
road

‘Where is the house ?” the girl asked, with sudden im-
patience.

 

 

No, 13.

 

ae

 

 

 
  

2

THE NEW

ray yg base’

a
7

 

 

 

 

“Over yonder a bit.”

“Then why do you not show me the way ?”

“Ts it in a hurry that ye are ?”

«Of course I’m in haste. Why do you act so strangely?
What do you mean ?”

“Don’t be afther gettin’ in a fret, miss. Sure an’ ye’ll
have as much time as ye want to stay wid the sick folks,
Tm thinking.”

The man pointed to a narrow, steep footpath leading
from the road, and continued :

“That is the way for us to.go. I will lade the way;
keep close at me heels, or ye'll be afther gettin’ lost.”

 

 

He started up the path, but before he had gone a
dozen paces, something impelled him to pause.

It was very still all around the lonely spot.

The wind made a wailing sound among the trees;
something scampered across the path and rustled in
among the dead leaves upon the ground.

As the young reporter, impressed by a sense of dan-
| ger, hesitated and listened, a faint cry came to his ears,

It was a human cry, and the voiee that of a woman.
Faint though it was, Faulkner was sure that the word
“Help!” was uttered.

Instantly his irresolution vanished. That ery con-

It was with intense reluctance that the young re-
porter turned his steps down the steep path leading to
the road.

Once he paused and glanced back at the narrow win-
dows and arched door of the mysterious house. And
again he saw, or imagined he saw, that bluish light
flitting trom window to window,

He shrugged his shoulders and turned his back upon
the tantalizing mystery, muttering as he did so:

‘7 would give a new silk hatif I knew why that de-
tective shrinks from enteri the house of mystery!
But I know it would be useless for me to ask him what

was compelled to be the silent witness of the growing
fondness of his protegee for the selfish young fellow, who
made them all as much trouble as he could, but who
was irresistibly beautiful and interesting as a conva-
lescent. His fresh color just paled enough to excite the
pity of sister and lady-love.

Of course Claudia had at once written home to her
parents that they were stopping at Halifax, and the
particulars of the accident. How thankful father and
mother were for the painful detention at which they
fretted so much in the beginning! fey could read the
daily announcement ‘‘No news of the missing steam-

Florette leaned over the counter and looked at Jabez,
with a singular expression on her small, pale face,

“Mr. Griddly,” said she, I have a mind to tell you
something.”

“Well, Miss Florette, I shall feel mighty flattered, I'm
sure,” answered Jabez, slightly embarrassed.

“Iam sorry that Barron Artichoke is not at the bot-
tom of the sea. Your news is not adea news to me.” A
flash of fire came from the heavy eyes as she said this,
looking straight at her compani eis

“I wouldn’t mind it much if he was there myself, Miss
Florette,” replied Jabez, solemnly; “such chaps as he

     
  

Without waiting for her assent, the man started at a ) firmed his worst fears—the beautiful girl, whom he had | his experience there has been, Yet he has had an ex-| ship” with that selfish com ency which reflected that | are no good. He’s made trouble in our house. But I
rapid pace up the steep path. seen go away with the coarse-looking stranger was_ ee and that of a startling sort, for he would never | ¢/et7 darlings were not on board that fateful vessel. thought you used to faucy him once, miss ;” this because
The latter was hedged with shrubbery and over- | among foes. She had been deceived—decoyed ! e frightened by his own shadow.” , Mr. and Mrs. Barron wrote begging their son and | he perceived that she wanted to te n something.

shadowed by the branches of tall trees.

Murphy walked so rapidly that it was with extreme
difficulty that Grace Emory could keep pace with him.

“Wait! wait! Icannot go so fast!” she panted, as,
at.an angle of the path, she lost sight of her companion.

But he did not pause nor slacken his speed. She could
hear his rapid, heavy ‘“‘tramp, tramp” beyond the inter-
vening trees, and, with loudly beating heart, she re-
doubled her efforts to overtake him.

“What means the man’s eccentric behavior?” she
asked herself.

A score of vague fears crowded her brain. She half
decided to turn backeand stay by the road-side until he

The reporter bounded up the path, his vigorous young
limbs making nothing of the steep ascent.

Up, up, his only thought and wish to succor the inno-
cent victim, whatever her peril might be.

He reached the summit of the slope, and saw before
him the silent, gloomy house,

Not a sound came from within, and the high, arched
door-way frowned down upon him, inspiring him with a
sense of repulsion.

Faulkner halted, surveyed the house, listened.

There was no sign of life about the’ place. Huge
maples, with their dense, dark foliage, grew near the
house, and the wind sighed and whispered through their

Faulkner mounted his impatient horse, and galloped
swiftly toward Brooklyn. :

In the meantime, what befell the Hindoo detective, in
his attempt to rescue Grace Emory from the mysterious
house in which she had been imprisoned ?

Of this venture and the results we shall speak in a
future chapter, which will also detail the experiences of
beautiful Grace Emory in the fateful dwelling.

* * * * * *

*

In the afternoon of the following Ay the Hindoo de-
tective made his way to the fashionable quarter of New
York known as Murray Hill.

As he approached the Emory residence, he was sur-

daughter to return to New York and delay their visit
abroad until June weather. A

This letter being read to the doctor made him more
thoughtful even than usual. :

“Would it not be better, he thought, for him to return
with Mignon to Babylon, also? At least, for the present ?
The loss of the steamer in which they had sailed would
surely become known to Reginald St. Regis as soon as
to any one. He would believe them lost.

Doubtless he would return immediately to France, on
being convinced of his cousin’s death. Were they in
that country the fact would soon be discovered by him;
and he might make them more trouble. On the con-

 
    

“Raney him! Jloved him be
Better thay 28 the world—be
come! He me bound to him b eling that was
wickedly like worship ; I thought him pe fect. And this
glorious creature, so beautiful, so perfect, loved me in
return—so he said, He came to see me every day; he
swore that he loved me; he asked me to engage myself
tohim; he gave mearing, It was said and understood
that we were to be married this winter. But he begged
me not to tell my parents of it just yet, and I did just as
he told me. I did not believe that he could do wrong. I
was his slave. ;

“By some chance he met the young lady at your

my own soul!
the world to

should come back for her. branches, adding to the weirdness of the surroundings. rised to see Tommy Larkin running toward him trary, by “doubling on their course,” like the artful} house. All his feelings for me changed. He had n
if Mrs. Flynn would only come out to meet her, or| The reporter had never before been deterred from in- P “Its a queer oa boss !” “the iS preathlessly ex- aborigines, they might successtully thwart the venge- | mistaken. He staid away from me more and mor At
even one of the children—but the latter, she suddenly | vestigating a mystery by feelings akin to superstitious | ejaimed, ance of the malicious dwarf, and remain for years un- | first I did not know the cause, butd learned it. He went

recalled, were sick.

‘Tramp, tramp, tramp!” sounded the heavy boots of
Murphy. But the path was so crooked and the gloom
so dense, that she could not catch even a glimpse of his
burly figure, strive as she might.

“Wait! wait!” Grace again cried.

Her fears now amounted to positive terror. Wild,
dreadful suspicions tortured her almost to frenzy.

What if Murphy was an impostor, and was leading her
into the power of enemies!

But how could this be, when she had no enemies?
Neyer in all her life had she injured, by word or deed,
any human being.

Instead, she had,been a ministering angel,to many an

 

__w&happy being among the unfortunate thousands in the

great city.

More than one of the poor people had cause to thank This reflection, uttered aloud, had* the effect of spur- to her. He felt what it was that she wanted, yet his | done, and you are the one to do it. But forgive me. ie
Grace Emory for comforts and mercies’ at her hands. | ring-up his waning courage. the boy. voice seemed cold and chilling, even to himself, when he | dear Miss ‘Florette, for speaking so, but, if 1 was you.
And more than one, did she need a defender, woulad| He gssured himself that his revolver was in its accus- | wen they reached the cortier, however, there was no | rned.to her : pris. : cee _| Ed not break my heart for that puppy. He ain’t worth t %
gladly fight for her as for their own lives. . | tomed place, and then sprang impetuously toward the | sien of the child or man : ‘ “Will you return to ae! It is necessary that | it. “Tnere’s as good fis! fs AS Cau
Grace came toa point where the path was steeper | arched door-way, as though he feared that his resolution | }yyjan gianced up and down the street. you decide to-night, as a steamer leaves here in the | Just cheer up an’ ketch a better WLS: s i
than at any other which she had passed. would fail him if he did not act promptly. AS he did so an exclamation broke trom the lips of the morning. ; ‘ ‘em pinin’ for you, Miss” lorette
The man was still out of sight, although she could At the instant, however, he was caught from behind 1 ‘Do you think my brother well enough to travel ?” have any one outer a dozen.”
hear his rapid, heavy tread. and thrown to the ground. And before he could arise | “““pnere they are, by jiminy !” he cried. “Yes, If he is careful about his arm, he is well enough | «You don’t know what you are
She was a resolute girl,-as well as a gentle one, when | he was seized by the shoulder and pulled to his feet| ye pointed toward two figures in the act of entering a otherwise. ‘ is s almost screamed, and a great shudder wi :
occasion required, and she came to a halt, and called | again. ; cA i ed handsome privave carriage. a ee advice do you pe eee, : : “No, no, no, I don’t want another lover. ; P
out: ee ere He tried in vain to break away trom the hand which |" ‘The first was the beautifal child, Ermie; the other, 4 have none ae give, te choke. That is, you | to see that other girl and die. en do you expect
I shall go no farther unless you wait for me. detaine@him. It was a hand like iron, and he was 4s | who lifted her in the vehicle, was a tall, brawny man. a best whether y ou wish to defer your European | them, Jabez?" she asked, more calmly. oa ee
called backs nn ene ane | NRvait wait, iny friend!” exelaimed a low, strangely |p /Ré latter ad bushy red whiskers, and) bis 4aee was | "Ives qootor, ut it seems trining’ to tum back now | to New Work 4s dulok se auelr torters, c
ack: ‘ . Jait, wait, my) ” exclé j y ‘k-marked. . 3 : 2 } r ick as ters, whic "
_“The house is ight here, miss, and I’m waiting for | melodious yoice—the voice of his captor. POS aig enough, the ruffian was dressed “in the | that_we arg Unis far on our way We Shall have the | the same boat, Timake no doubt. erney ve s ald over n
. iw eee Faulkner was released at the same time, and he con- | peight of fashion, completely transtorming his appear- ane gt — wee over ewe ” des—hesides, you the city a day, 1 reckon. I'll get a postal this arter :
tie alstant clatter of galloping horse upon the hard | “He beheld # eh figure standing mong the suadows— |" rundoo ARM are AS nad ae ara of |i
é é g , 4g 1 F 7 ; 1 re , ron | $ — m. ? -o her-
road. i a veritable giant in stature. The man wore a slouch- apeeaice i eilte of the clanee oc celeees Siaiice with Mignon; and—oh, forgive me, Doctor Gerome! but | self. eT ee ar ;
She did not hesitate longer, She reached the summit | hat: his face was somewhat thin, and far from being | circumstances. how hard it will be for me—to part There! ;

of the ascent, and there found herself almost at the door
of a large, gloomy dwelling. :

The house was quaint iu architecture, with high, nar-
row windows and an arched entrance. From an upper
window a.dull light gleamed, and this was the only
sign of life about the dwelling.

As Grace Emory gazed upon the house, a sense of
wild yet undefinable fear swept over her. That Mrs.
Flynn, the kind woman she came to assist did not live
here she felt sure. And, without another moment's
hesitation, she started to flee from the spot.

But She was too late. She was seized by the~

- arms of Murphy and dragged to the high, arched door,

With one hand he muffied her screams, with the other
he thrust her forcibly into the house. : He instantly
closed the door after her, and ran away from the spot as
though in mortal terror.

At the same time the light in the upper window flared

HYJAH, THE HINDOO.

fear. A more clear-headed, practical man than Frank
Faulkner it would be hard to find.

Yet, upon this occasion, he found himself oppressed by
those indescribabie sensations which mysteries of a
certain order always inspire in the most courageous.

That Grace Emory was inside this gloomy dwelling he
did not doubt, nor that she was confined there against
her will. That it was his duty to release her he was
oe convinced, and the sooner he went about it the

etter.

Still he hesitated, gazing, listening, struggling against
the feelings which restrained him.

“Bah!” he exclaimed. ‘The idea of my hesitating

| when I have the promise of a brand-new sensation for

my paper, and the glory of rescuing a lovely girl in the
bargain !”

handsome; yet, even in the gloom, the young reporter
felt the quiet power of the stranger's eyes, bent upon
him with searching keenness.

The stranger assumed a careless attitude, folding his
arms and leaning against a tree.

«Who, in the name of wonder, are you ?” Faulkner de-
manded.

There was no trace of fearin his tones. It was plain
that he was not to be easily intimidated.

‘TI happen to be your guardian angel upon this occa-
sion !” was the strange reply.

tT “What do you mean?”

rae you not going to enter yonder house ?”
se yes.’ t

ae, you ever here before ?”

“No.

“And you know nothing concerning that dwelling,
and the reputation which it bears ?”

ing about one of the upper windows ?

 

“What now, Tommy ?”

“Yer know what I told ye last night ?”

«About the little girl, Ermie ?”

“es.”

“TJ remember.’

«Well, I'll show yer the kid if yer’ll come along.”

‘Where ?”

“Out by, the next corner.”

“What is she doing ?”

‘Walkin’ along wid a man.”

«And the handsome Jady who called herself her mother
isn’t with her ?”

“No.” po

“Lead the way—I must sf this child. It may have

| something to d@ withthe ener, tery, Anyhow, the
location is the same.” ,
“The detective said this half to himself, as he followed

 

The man putting little Ermie into the carriage was
Murphy, the man who, the night.before, had decoyed
innocent Grace Emory tothe house of mystery.

— leaped toward the Villain with outstretched
and.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
—————- > ~<
[fHIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

—

   

BACK

ORs

 

‘LIFE; ;

 

discovered. For the doctor was too shrewd aman not
to be convinced that St. Regis had.kept them under his
eye until the day of his sailing. Indeed he would not
have been surprised, while on the steamer, if the dwarf
had appeared suddenly from some unexpected box or
sofa, as the wonderful Ravel brothers used to at Niblo’s.

As he still remained at the window, endeavoring to
settle the question with himself, some one appeared and
stood silently by his side.

He knew by the rustle of her thick violet silk that it
was Claudia.

She had arisen from her place by the fire, and gone |

slowly toward him, as if drawn by the magnetism of his
will—yet he had been thinking little of her.

She stood very near him, a glorious woman, palpitat-
ing with love, yearning for him to speak one tender word

ee

she exclaimed in a low, emotion-fraught whisper, ‘I had
no right to say 1t—I did not mean to say it—but itis
said. Kill me with a look, doctor, if you will. I know
you do not care for me, and I would rather be dead than
alive, unless—unless——” :

‘“‘“My dear lady,” interrupted Emil Gerome, taking one
of her beautiful hands, white and cold as marble, look-
ing more softly at her than he had ever before done,
and speaking more gently, ‘‘1am sorry, grieved. You
know that my feelings were engaged re I saw you.
Icannot change so suddenly. But I thank you. No
man is ever really worthy of the best love of a pure
womdn. Sometime, mademoiselle, when you have for-
m how we two stood here by this low in
ax, I will try and find you a younger and better
r 2 or Pa ee more oa you. more
worthy of the flattering regard of one 0: most beau-
ie. 1 have—” aie

 
 
   

Yr ] ]
it and hastened to break up the scene by assisting the

ee
ere ‘was a knock at the door, arid a waiter en- *

abroad, or started to go,in her company. He never
came to bid me good-by. He trod me under his foot.”
Tiere she pressed her hands to her temples for a mo-
ment and shut her eyes, then, looking wildly up at the
Se na man, who#listened so pityingly to her, she
aaded : ,
“Sometimes I think I am going insane.
I shall be mad before long. When you hear of it, Mr.
Griddly, you will know the cause. But I hope to keep
my senses, now that they are coming back until I ean
see her. Tt is my duty to tell her the truth. I shall‘see
her—I shall tell her—then, if she wants him she shall
have him. As for me, allI want is to die when she has
been told. I want to make her despise him as he de-
Spisesme. That will be my revenge. Do you see ?”
“Yes, miss; and I do not blame you. ‘It should be

I know that

     

     
    
 
 
  
 
  
 
   

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

 

WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.)

A FAIR

meats

(THIS STORY

 

 
 

 

=

         

it i

by DERTHA mM CLAY,

“LADY DAMER’S SECRET,” ete.

out brightly for an instant, and then disappeared. whan ae, Hee a bc Pe -_— OM hh ae ¥ a aaa ie ates eo chs pate re F ; AUTHOR OF mY
HE , row windows of the silent dwelling before replying. A Uv: an 1] M h to la dle tor the four guests, and the doctor, |. « D » “THROWN ON :
CERES en he imagine it? Or was there a bluish, fitful light hover- n ne aX Ua ate e ‘Claudia’s hand respectfully to his lips, dropped al ASUNDER: WN ON THE WQBLD,”
}

Grace Emory was not decieved in the character of the
sounds which she heard as she paused in the path—the
sounds of a galloping horse. :

Yet the sounds were more distinct than they seemed,
for the air was still, and they were brought distinctly
to her ears, although the horse was more than a mile
distant.

The rider was Frank Faulkner, the young reporter of
the Bee, and the horse which he bestrode was the best
he could obtain in a Brooklyn livery stable.

By the exercise of a wonderful degree of persistence
and skill he had succeeded in following Murphy and the
beautiful victim of his plot to Brooklyn, and even to the
lonely road where they were left by the carriage.

That Faulkner was an accomplished horseman was
easy to see from the ease with which he sat the saddle.
In truth, the young reporter was one of those keen, res-
olute tellows who often drift into his arduous profession.

suit of news.

Swiftly over the hard road gajlloped the horse, leaving | | “You, the Hind

ba tears of the city far behind

f that girl is the victim of @ plot, her enemies won't

exclaimed, ¢ forward threugh the gloom. ‘‘And,”

“J know nothing about the house nor its inmates,”
| he answered, shrugging his shoulders. And he added:
“But Ido know that a young and beautiful girl has

} been brought here to-night, and I know, too, that Iam
| going to rescue her. if the building is full of ruffians
| trom cellar to garret.’.

“You will attempt nothing of the kind, my friend,”
the stranger returned.

A defiant light leaped into the young man’s eyes, and
he fiercely clutched the other by the arm.

| Are you in this plot ?” he demanded.

The other quietly answered :
“Not exactly. JZ an Hyjah, the Hindoo detective”

 

CHAPTER IV.
THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY.

| The young reporter had heard that name before, al-
No obstatle could check, no peyil daunt him in the pur- | though he had neyer, until this moment, stood face to

| “YES
have it all their own way, if I can help it,” the reporter | Emory. ButIf

| face with the wonderful Hindoo. :
detéctive !” Faulkner echged,; his
is sides. x ft
e you, | came here to succor Grace
I am too late.”

| arms droppin
nae

“Why too late + You do not think she has bgen-naur- |

he continued, ‘if [mon a wiid/goose chase nobody will | dered ?”

be the wiser for it.

But it strikes me that there’s some- |

‘ ‘No.” a

By MRS. M..V. VICTOR,
ee
“A Father's Sin,” “Whe Owned the Jewels,”
“ The Phantom Wife,” etc.

(“Back TO Lire” was comujenced in No. 3. Back oum-
bers can be obtained of all N gents. ]
-_

BR XXVI.

SANG MISTAKE.
Yes! the joyous, powe#fal steamship, palpitating
| with life, rusliing onward eagerly toward the end of her
journey, had}
her career,

.

CHAPT
A WOMAR

 
    
  
   

  
 
  

 

yolden-haired , children,
md usefulness—but the

5
®
ed

pictur

servant to roll the table in front of the fire. ‘

While the dinner was being laid, Claudia remained b:
the now dark window, pale, angry, mortified, grieved,
but not in despair. She regretted that her feelings had
carried her so far; yet she gathered some comfort in the
midst of her dire embarrassment from the kindness with
which the doctor had dismissed her.

; oe I shall win him yet,” she whispered, between
set teeth. 8

ee

CHAPTER XXVII. -
IN THE VILLAGE STORE.

“Law suz! the idear! Cumin’ back here ? In Halifax!
Town up Tm dumfounded for oncest. Halifax, eh ?”

«Yes, wife, Hal—i—tax. You’ve been tellin’ me twenty
times a day for twenty years ‘to go to Halifax ’ an
now it ’pears our doctor’s up an’ heen an’ gone there !”

‘An’ they'll be here to-morrer night ?7

“*So the letter says.” ‘

“1 du wonder what on airth has happened!
tor never used to change his mind in this sty
that little minx’s doiy’s. Not that she gin’t.
an’ purty, for she is; ‘but that don’t -
unlucky; an’ I told you, Jabez
she come in this house

The doe-
le. It's

    
   
 

  

(“A Farr Mystery” was: commenced in No. 38. Back aum-

 

 

bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER LXXIV.
A LAST VAIN APPEAL,

“The night isso fine,” said the earl, “you young peo-
ple would enjoy a short time on the lawn. Look at
- those lilies asleep in the moonlight—go and wake them.
Then we will have the card-tables. That is as it should
be—cards for the old, moonlight for the young.”

That was-the very chance Lord Vivianne had been
longing for; he did not think he could bear suspense

 

|
}
{
|

}
|

her being | =
Gridaly, the first night | ber Keen, untiting
that she’d bring trouble. Don’t |.and speak a few words to herin a low voice. At first

| conversation ; it would
Itsall

much longer. Now he was sure ofa tete-a-tete. Mere,
in these rooms, half-filed with people, it had been an
easy matter to avoid him, or to make others join in the
t bé as easy out there in the

—~ $e 23

    

rt = :
y Linleigh, who had\never for one moment relaxed
ntifing watch, saw him go up to Lady Doris,

7 : f.. We [be

YORK WEEKLY. #3>

  

Ee
ee

 

4

 

 

 

 

 

Suffice it soul on that ill-fated ship
was lost. The destruction Was all-comprehending—the
steamship ae ; ae

thing crooked about this business. Ill soon know, any- |

The Hindoo hesitated, looking fixedly at the reporter.
how. That—— Ah! here comes a team.

It’s the one | Aftera moment he added:

Iam after, returning to thecity. Imust interview the | “Yonder house rests under a curse, it is said. No one

driver.” | has ever been within its walls and come forth again*in
The carriage was coming rapidly, and it was only by | their right mind! By others it is reputed that the dwell-

reining his horse across the narrow road that Faulkner | ing is inhabited by fiends and departed spirits. There

brought it-to a halt. | are scores of wild stories about the place, most of them
“Out of the way!” ordered the hack-driver, snapping | too absurd, in this practical age, to be credited. Yet,

his whip and causing his horses to dance and paw the that the interior of the house is pervaded by a mys-

   
   
 

you mind how it thundered an’ lightened? Ay, the
very house shook! An’ the way she came!—it allers
turns me cold to my toes to think on it. An’ now she’s
; ; . goin’ to make a wrack an’ruin 0’ the ‘man that ever
But let us g@ack to the figs¢bwo or three days of her | lived. it's change, change, change, till a body don’t | sypmission most unusual in her
voyage, after she left her dogiin New York. know if she’s standing on her head or her feet. Come}, ‘Then fa'a witbbery 1? eh dean h ae
A feeling -of deep -Rati@eacHin, of peacddha. retier | Deck! humph, jist as I’ve got settled down to my winter | € 1s a mystery !” she to herself; ‘there is
f ng : p ant : , knittin’. Wall, it’s no new socks you'll get ‘His winter, something between him and my darling !”
took possession of Mignon’s mind when the vessel had | Jabez Griddly. Why don’t you s: /

the beautiful face flushed hotly, and the bright eyes
seemed to flash out a proud defiance. Then there was
an expression of half-startled fear, followed by one of

 

 

 

 

 

earth.
«Don’t be in fret, my son,” Faulkner coolly returned,
holding his own horse with a firm hand.

“Tl drive over you if you don’t turn out of the road!” |

angrily cried the driver.

terious influence which acts powerfully upon all who are

| bold enough to cross the threshold is a fact to which I
| can testify.”

The young reporter was inclined to laugh at the

Hindoo’s seriousness. But, absurd as his statement

“Better think twice before you do that thing,” was | seemed, Faulkner himself had felt too powerfully im-

the retort, uttered in a clear, firm tone. And he con-
tinued, with an air of cool determination which im-
pressed the hack-driver :
such fellows as you are in the habit of riding over. I
don’t scare worth a cent.” ‘

The driver bent forward, shrugging his shoulders un-
easily.

«What do you want ?” he demanded.

“J want you to tell me where you left your fare.”

“Got him inside now; and he’s in a duse of a hurry,
too. Get out of the road!”

Again the whip snapped, sounding on the still air like
the report of a pistol.

“Not so fast. I’m after facts, not lies;
mind in your future answers.
the;man and woman you drove out of the city with ?”

“T told you-—”

“Do not lie to me!” the reporter interrupted.

bear that in

“Tm not the kind of chap that |

|
|

| pressed and repelled by the appearance of the house to
| treat the detective’s declaration lightly.

“This is a queer business, anyhow,” he exclaimed,
| half musingly, adding, as he felt his companion’s gaze
fixed sharply upon him:

“J hope you don’t believe in the ghost and haunted-
house stories that ignorant people keep afloat ?”

“Not at all. I left my superstitions behind when I
came from my native land,” was the quiet reply.

«And yet you do not dare go in and rescue that girl!
Why, you have the name of being a fearless officer. I
wonder how you gained such a reputation !”

“Perhaps: don’t deserve it.” |

“Then you admit that you are afraid to enter the house

Tell me where you left | yonder ?”

“T admit it.”
Frank Faulkner, young, impetuous, and the hero of

“T told | many a reckless exploit, Stared at the powerful, calm-

you I wanted facts, and you won’t get back to the city | voiced detective in amazement.

till you are bald-headed unless you give them.”
«Youre pretty cool, 1 declare.”

‘Tam always cool, even when I go about shooting |

Something like a smile of contempt; curled his hand-
some lips as he retorted :
“Then I'l) give you a lession in boldness, and prove what

people. So, tellime the truth concerning the lady in | a senseless mess of stories you've allowed to haunt your

whom I am interested, and her companion.
hurry.”

‘What is their business to you ?”

«J want to know what they are about, that is all.”

“Find out, then.”

«Do you refuse to tell me ?”

“I do.”

«Because you are promised to secrecy, I suppose ?”

“J didn’t say that.”

«“T see through the affair all the same.
tell me—I can putitin the paper asI guessitout. P’m
a reporter, you understand. I have your number, and
can get your name within an hour; andif you are not
out out of a job and pulled in by the cops before to-mor-
row night, then it will be because I don’t know how
to bring it about.
behind prison bars. So, good-night, my son.”

end the matter without further parleying.

- But his last remark had a salutary effect upon the |

you're after,” he exclaimed, leaning forward and reach-
ing out to detain the young man, as the latter rode along-
side the vehicle.

The reporter halted and carelessly replied :

“You needn’t trouble yourself, for] have enough to
make up a report on.”

“Wait, wait! I don’t want to be reported. I’m square,
mister !” cried the driver, in evident alarm.

“Blaze away, then. Where did you leave your passen-

ers ?”
r *Down the road a piece.”

“At what house ?”

«There wasn’t any house there.”

“Left them at the road-side, eh ?”

“Exactly. Them was my orders.”

“Who gave the orders ?”

«The man.”

«Where did they go after you left them ?”

“J didn’t stop to see.”

«You left them standing there, did you ?”

“Yes. It was none of my affair. Like enough it’sa
“lopement.” é

“Like enough itis. That big, burly fellow, with the
forbidding face, is just the sort of daisy a modest, pretty
ns like his companion would pick out to elope with.

ou’re a Shrewd one, you are. Pity for you to waste
i ,genius on a driver’s box. You ought to go into my

ne.’ ,

Faulkner laughed contemptuously, as he said this.
The uext moment his horse was started into a gallop,
and the hackman was left to go his way in peace.

The young reporter estimated the distance by the
probable space of time taken by the driver in returning
from his stopping-place.

His calculation was so close that he reined up his
horse almost beside the path which lead to the lonely
house to which Grace Emory had been decoyed.

Dismounting, the young reporter found that here the
carriage turned around, leaving a plain track in the
road. He discovered the tracks of Grace and her cOm-

panion also, and traced them to the narrow, rocky path. |
This was not the only discovery which he made. There |

were other tracks—those of a man with a long, slim
boot. and these also led toward the path.

“Two of them, besides the girl!” the young man ejacu-
lated, in surprise. "

|
|

|
|
}
}
|

Ihave facts enough to place you |

I’m in a! brain and feed on your courage. Iam determined to en-

| ter yonder house, and rescue’the fair girl who has been
| imprisoned there. Why, she may perish with terror.”

Again the Young man started toward the house, his
lips compressed with determination. And again the
strong hand of the Hindoo drew him back.

«You will do nothing of the kind!” he exclaimed, al-
most sternly, f

“Do you intend to stand between me and duty ?”

You needn't | Faulkner demanded.

“Certainly not.”

«Then let me rescue Grace Emory.”

“Ts she a friend of yours ?”

“) am a friend of hers, asl am of any one who is the
innocent victim of inhuman foes.” :

«Well said, young man. You have excellent material

jin you. But you area trifle crude yet—you need. refin-
Faulkner pulled his horse about as though he meant |

|
|
|

ing. It does-not pay to be fool-hardy.”
**And it does not pay to be a coward.”

“Leave this affair to me,” said the detective. ‘It

driver. > : - | comes directly within my line of business.”
. “Hold on—I haven't refused to give any information |

“It comes under the line of news-gathering, too, I
fancy—and that is my business.”

«J suppose you intend to write up this whole affair,
and print it in the Daily Bee to-morrow morning ?”

“J had not decided what to do about that.”

«Then now is the time to decide.”

“why ?” a

“Because I want to know how to dispose of you.”

ant 2 case I report the affair as suggested—what

then ?

“If that is your intention I shall be obliged to shut you
up in a police station.”

«What do mean ?”

‘Not a word of this affair must go into print, until I
give you liberty to make it public.”

‘Why not ?”

«Because it would place this girl’s enemies on their
guard, and make my work all the more difficult.”

And the detective, speaking rapidly, continued :

“Grace Emory is the object of a foul conspiracy,
and the incident of to-night is only a single phase of the
affair. The mystery involves the names of people
standing high in the social circles of New York. [ have
had an inkling of the affair for some time, but until now
have not been able to discover anything tangible to work
upon. The mystery was given me to solve, and I am ex-
pected to prevent or right all the wrongs plotted against
this girl and one other. I have pledged myself to do
this, and if you know anything about me you know that
Iam not. one who is easily turned from a purpose.
J say all this to you in the utmost confidence, you un-
derstand. You may be headstrong, but you would never
betray confidence, I am sure of that. Now, all I ask of
you is, that you leave me to clear up this matter in my
own way. I dislike to be exposed to the blunders of
another.”

_Faulkner was impressed by a sense of the detective’s

power and ability to Carry out his undertaking.

“Tt shall be as you say,” the reporter declared.

“Thank you. And now gratify me by going back to
the city.”

«7 would rather remain and share your peril.”

“Youcan be of no assistance to me—not now, at least,
| Yet 1 may have occasion to call upon you for aid at some
| future time.” aes
| TI shall be at your service.”

‘Now go—I have wasted too much time already.”

 

actually passed the Narrows, nd her departure had not
been obstructed by the wiles of her cousin. -

Emii Gerome, too. was cons¥ious of a weight having
been removed from his mind, '

But he was far from happy, At no time of his lite—
save in the first months of his young wife’s loss—had he
been less content than now. ; ; i

He had lost his second loye, Perhaps a man’s second
| affection, formed ata time of his life when he is at his
| best, is deeper, stronger than any other. The circum-
| stances of his acquaintance with Mignon had drawn
| forth all the tenderness and all the passion of a soul
| long used to do without love. _ :
| He had brought her back toVife;: he had named her,
| taught her; she had sat at his board; he had cared for
| her as it she were his own; and he had hoped and be-
we ag that she would be all. his own—his little girl—his
| Wife.

Now he had to look  em#@-ker infatuation with a
younger and handsomer man—a man who wore the
glamour of youth over his Saxon beauty—a man whom
the keen eyes of the doctor @istrusted. Not that he dis-
trusted the reality of Barron’s love for his beautifpl
protegee ; but that he did anxiously mistrust the probity
and worth of his rival’s character,

To him, young Artichoke appeared selfish, egotistical,
en incapable of alasting devotion to one object.
He could not forget either that he had heard from good
authority that Barron had been engaged to that pretty,
foolish daughter of Fury, the merchant.

But his cue was silence. Any interference on his part
might be misconstrued, even by the angelic nature of
Mignon. He would be accused of slandering a rival for
his own benefit.

Another trouble the doctor had, besides that which
was exclusively his own. The fair, tall sister of the pre-
ferred suitor—she of the same sunny, Saxon hair and
complexion—allowed him small chance to doubt that
she was ready to throw herself at his feet.

Claudia was very smiling, very gracious, very con-
tented, now that she. knew that her French count could
not have Mignon. It could not be long, surely, before
he would offer his rejected affections where they would
be more warmly received. Visions of a jeweled coronet
haunted Claudia’s dreams—visions of a palace in Paris,
and a chateau in some sunny proyence ; and of herself,
regal, silk-clad, gem-browed, walking’ arm-in-arm with
this patrician gentleman. Even if Emil Gerome had
possessed no remains of his once, princely fortune, she
would have sighed for him af ime, and been deter-
mined to endow him-anew With all her share of her
father’s almost royal wealth.

The first day out was bright and almost warm; the
second rose gray and brooding. By night the wind was
blowing great guns, and during-.the hours of darkness
the stanch steamer proceeded more cautiously, fighting
her way, struggling to keep off the coast, which she was
ea near, aS she was bound ,to stop at Halifax

or coal.

And then that night occurred one of those events
which many would call Providential—a little thing, but
fraught with large consequences.

Barron, after the ladies had retired, had foolishly gone
on deck to see what could be seen of the storm. Here
he found it impossible to keep his feet very long, and
was finally hurled down the gangway when he at-
tempted to descend. and dashed violently against some
obstacle in the vicinity, receiving severe bruises and
having an arm broken in two places.

The ship’s surgeon and Doctor Gerome attended to
his injuries as wellas ble, but what with the pitch-
ing and plunging of the steamer, poor Barron was so
uncomtortable—and not used to bearing pain, thought
his injuries more serious than they were—that he in-
sisted upon being removed to dry land when the vessel
finally made the port of Halifax, and laying off ina
comfortable hotel for a couple of weeks, until he was
more fit to complete the journey.

He begged so hard, and was so earnestly seconded by
his sister that the other two were persuaded to stop
with him. He was quite certain he should die if de-
serted in this emergency by his friendly physician.

Thus it chanced that when the devilish plot hatched
in the brain of the dwarf came to its terrible consum-
mation, the four persons on whom his revenge was to
fall, and for the consummation of whose death three
hundred lives were sacrificed, were safely housed in
wintry Halifax. ,

There in the best bedroom in the best hotel Barron
lay for three or four weeks, suffering considerably at
first, but having the benefit of Doctor Gerome’s skill
and the delight of Mignon’s exquisite sympathy.

The doctor was very impatient of this delay on ac-
count of his own and Mignon’s business affairs: every
day and hour were a torture to him which it required

all his fortitude to bear, since every day and hour he

 

 

|

 

 

sun’thing ?”
an sod Give mr - i ee ea

“On one leg, of course. J’ll, ik for you....Go you
and catch an’ kill one o’ them young turkeys, and bring |
itsto the kitchen. Then do you hitch the gray hoss to |
the sled and go into Babylon and get what [ want from |
the store—white sugar, spice, Jemon-peel, citron, a nice
— _ cence tats: tur oxaet pies, a :

ess there’s a barrel f ” plenty

o’ salary, an’ a ages Sahat o form Yd city.
Them French can’t exist without their salad. Jabez
Griddly, I thought you'd got that turkey killed by this
time, an’ there you stand, like a sterk !”

tongue, a ham.
ll o’ eggs,

“‘T was waitin’ for you to finish the list,” said the |

brow-beaten Jabez, meekly, and slipped out, glad to
escape into the cooler air of the barn-yard.

 

yout. Who could resist the moon and the flowers ?”

The mother’s first impulse was to screen her, to help

her, Lady Linleigh crossed the room and went to her.
’ “{*oris,” she said, in a clear, distinct voice. that all
ey hear, ‘Doris, do not go if you prefer remaining
1ere.”
The girl raised her eyes to the calm, gentle face, and
Lady Linleigh was shocked to see tears in them.
“Thank you,” she said, calmly; ‘I shall enjoy going
«Then do not remainlong. You look tired, and we
must remember you are not strong.”
Lord Vivianne joined them. :
“Lady Studleigh has graciously promised to show me
| the fountains by moonlight. I will watch her faithfully,
| and at the first symptom of fatigue 1 promise you she

Here he obeyed orders -to the letter, and was soon | Shall return.”

gliding into the long, snowy street of the village, behind |

the gray horse, and in an old-fashioned cutter.
After visiting the butcher’s, he
before which he tied his horse.
The little

proceeded to Fury’s,

Then the countess could say no more. She saw Lord
Vivianne carefully draw the black lace shaw! over the
white neck and arms. ' k

“Not that you €an be cold,” he said, in reply to some

merehant was behind the counter ready to | Objection, -‘but, as Lady Linleigh says, we must be care-

wait on his customer with alacrity, yet hardly so jovial | ful of you.”

as was his wont.

And he smiled down”on her with an air of protection

“Tt’s an awful thing about that steamer being so long | 2nd of appropriation for which she in her rage could

missing,” began the merchant, as he tied up vari®us
packages. ‘I should think you two at Bellefoutaine
would be dreadful uneasy.”

“Why, I ain’t been to town since doctor left, and
hain’t heard a word,” exclaimed Jabez. .

«Possible ? Why, Griddly, don’t you know that the
steamer that your folks and the Artichokes went on
has never been heard from ?—that it’s given up for
lost? Mrs. Artichoke is nigh on to crazy, they say”—
their letter having come to them only that morning, as
Jabez’s had to him, the news had not yet spread through
the village—‘‘and Artichoke’s afraid of another attack,
his mind isin sucha state. It’s enough to make us all
feel rather blue, that’s a fact.”

Before the good-hearted merchant had ceased, Jabez,
aaa earnestly at him, was conscious of a door open-
ing behind him, and of Florette appearing, who cast a
glance about the store, and, seeing there were no idlers,
glided up behind her father and stood looking at him.

Was it Fiorette ?

Jabez gazed at her in utter astonishment. If she had
been suffering from along and dangerous illness, she
could not have been more changed. Yet he did not re-
member to have heard that she had been ill.

After the first shock of the surprise, Jabez recalled
how fond Florette used to be of Barron Artichoke, and
how it had even been said that they were engaged, and
he cursed Barron inthe silent depths of his honest
heart because he had stolen Miss Mignon from Doctor
Gerome, and had ‘given pretty Florette Fury the mit-

n.

“She is good enough for him, and too good,” thought
Jabez. ‘‘Kverything goes wrong. I almost wish that
he had broke his head instead of his arm.”

Gathering his parcels together, he at last answered
the merchant’s remarks:

“Wall, ’m powerful glad I staid tohome and didn’t
hear nothing; ‘case I’d a fretted about nothin’. It don't
pay anyway to fret too much in this world,” added the

hilosophic Griddly, with a kind. glance at the girl look-

hg at him from behind her father. «There ain’t nothin’
in this world much worth a buddy’s breakin’ their heart
about. J allers takes it easy. owsomever, as I said,
I’m glad I didn’t know nothin’, fur whatever has hap-
pened to the ship, none o’ them is hurt. I got a letter
this mornin’.”

“Got a letter? From whom? Griddly, what are you
talking about?” almost shouted the little merchant,
jumping over the counter in his excitement.

Jabez had looked at Florette when he made his an-
nouncement, and had seen her start violently; but she
did not seem to brighten uy any at his news; she listen-
ed to the rest with an air of indifference. :

“Pm saying that I got a letter from Dr. Gerome, dated
and posted at Halifax, Nova Scotia, on the seventh of
February, in which he writ that his party was there, all
right ; that they left the steamer at Halifax on account
o’ that sassy young snob, Barron Artichoke a getting
blowed down the gangway an’ breakin’ his arm in two
places. An’ they’ve been laid up thar ever sence, a
waitin’ fur him to get able to travel——” ‘

Fury gave one glance at the articles Jabez had pur-
chased, and said:

“They’re coming back. I know it.”

“Yes-s,” answered Jabez, slowly.
about it. Comin’ back till June.”

“I must go up to Artichoke’s,” gasped the little man,
Seizing his hat.

“I guess they got a letter,” said Jabez; but the news
was too exciting, and Fury rushed out of his store to
convey it to others, provided the Artichokes had not got
it, forgetful that his pale-eyed clerk had been-sent out to
deliver parcels. ,

“TI reckon that’s

}

 

have struck him dead, and which made Lady Linleigh
wonder exceedingly.

“It is ten thousand pities,” she thought, ‘that he does
not know she is engaged to Earle.

. Then a new suspicion came to her, which made her
even more uncomfortable. Was it possible that her
daughter's passionate desire for secrecy had anything
to do with Lord Vivianne? Was her daughter afraid
of letting him know that she was going to be married ?
The very torment of the suspicion, faint as it was, filled
her with dread. Then she saw the happy little group of
guests on the lawn, she caught one glimpse of the white
water-lilies and green dress as Lady Studleigh disap-
peared with her cavalier. .

“What has come over me?’ said the countess. “I
have a presentiment, heavy as death! What can be
wrong? 1 shall begin to thinkIlam growing old and
fanciful. What danger can be near my darling ?”

She set herself resolutely to play at whist, but every
now and then her partner saw her turn pale and shud-

| der, as though she were cold.

Doris and Lord Vivianne were out in the moonlight to-
gether, and alone at last. At first they maintained
complete and perfect silence. Lord Vivianne placed the
white jeweled hand on his arm. She did not make the

| least objection ; it was all useless, she was in his p
| and she knew it; she would not even ask the
| that trembled on her lips, and filled her with desp
wonder—what had brought him there? She walked by
his side, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.

“My darling,” he said, at last, «does not this evening
cree you of Florence, and the moonlight on the
river ?

“If I am.to talk to you, Lord Vivianne, and it seemsI
am compelled to do so, I must ask you to refrain from
using such expressions as ‘darling.’ I wili not answer
you if you do; they are utterly hateful to me.”

“Yet 1 remember the time when they pleased you
passing well. Do you remember, Dora, when I gave
you a diamond ring? You have diamonds now on your

k and arms, in your ears, and your hair. They shine

e fire-rivers over your beautiful figure; you are so
accustomed to them that they have ceased to haye any
particular value for you. But do you remember your
delight in the first?” se

‘Women remember their first diamonds, as they do
their first long dress or their first lover,” she ‘

“T suppose so. Oh, Dora, be a little kindtome! We
are here in this sweet moonlight together, yet you do
not give me one word, one smile. You were not always
so hard or so cruel. In Florence, you used towalk with
both these beautiful white hands clasped over my arm.
Do you remember it ?”

Then she raised to his a face that, in its pride and
anger, he never forgot.

“TJ will not permit you to mention those days to me,”
she cried. ‘They are hateful; the very memory of them
brands me as with ared-hot iron. {will not bear it. I

would sooner—listen to me—I know the words are un-
womanly—I would sooner pase through the internal
fires than go to Florence with you again.” :

He laughed. a

“T like to see you in a passion, Dora: it suits you; you
would have made a grand tragedy queen. I do not wish
to vex you or to tease you, because, as you know, IJ wish
tamake you my wife.
what has brought me here ?”

‘a “No. You have broken our compact in coming, I know
iat!’

Still it was the question over which she had pondered,
by day and by night, ever since she had heard he was
coming. It made her heart beat fast, but she would not

  
    

 

give way; there was not the least sign of emotion.

 

ring

 

Do you know, can you guess,

 

 

 

 
  
 
   
   
 
 
  
  

 

 

 

 
           

   

    
       
     
      
    
     
     
       
     
    
      
     
    
     
      
     
     
     
          
   

 

  
      
       
    
      
    
    
    
    
      
     
   
   
      
     
     
       
      
    
      
       
          
      
     
   
        
           
       
    
   
   
   
   
    
    
 
  
   
  
 
  
   
   
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
   
  
   
  
  
  
 
  
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

2

 

“Do you not wonder what has brought me here, | And then they saw Lady Linleigh walking across the
| lawn to them.

Dora ?” he repeated.
“Tam very indifferent.” she said; “no one could be |

more so.”

* \“T will tell you.

faith with me, if there was any rumor of a lover, any

rumor of an engagement. 1 came purposely for that.”
«And if there had been?” she said.

“If there had been, why, you see, Dora, matters | the matter 2”

would have turned out very awkwardly for both of us.”
«You are satisfied that there is not ?”

“Yes, tolerably so. There is no lover here ; I hear of | quickly, fearing that he would speak. “I was resting
And you are not engaged to | against the gate there, and I thought something was on
| my hand; a snake crawled over it—a horrible, slimy
| snake—and, in my hurry, I bruised it against the gate—
| that is all.” F

none in the neighborhood.
be married—that 1 do know!” |

“How do you know ?”
«‘Beeause I have made inquiries in the proper direc-
tion. Iam, I may say, quite satisfied.”

He could not tell the sensationof intense relief that
came over her—the wild throbbing of her heart. She |
was Safe, then, so far, and could marry Earle. Half of |

the «read and fear she had felt faded away trom her.” |

| ter, darling ?
Icame to see if you were keeping | your dress—and your hand!

!
| was with you.”

«J own,” continued Lord Vivianne, ‘‘that I have sus- |

pected you unjustly.
fancied that you intended to deceive me again; you
eluded me once, you will not elude me again.”

You thought I was going to do so?”

“J thought your manner strange, your leaving Lon-
don in the height of your triumph strange, your coming
to this quiet, though beautiful country home, strange.”

a told you that I wanted time for reflection,” she
Said.

“Yes; and even that, when I came to think of it, was
strange. Of course I shall keep my word now that [
have given it. But why should you, how can you; need
time for refiection? The idea is utterly absurd. You
cann . for a moment, hesitate between my threat and

y Offer.”

“But I do hesitate,” she said, “incredible as it may
seem to you.”

He looked in her face, so fair and calm in the moon-
light, and so proud!

“T wish you would tell me why you hesitate 2” he said.

“ZT will. I dislike yousomuch. The idea of having to

You deceived me once, and I | nothing the matter, she had flung her hand so violently

 

spend my life with you is so utterly abhorrent to me,
tI hesitate between that and the total ruin that
would follow my refusal.” ‘
“You must indeed dislike me,” he said, ‘if you prefer
ae and disgrace to me.”
“I do.”
“Will you tell me why ?” he asked.

“I should have thought both answer and question | nit

useless. Why, to begin with, you tempted me to sin
and shame, by Hens me and my pride-—”

ere did not really require much temptation, Lady

udleigh.” , :

_ ‘Thank you—you are as generous as you are gentle-
manly. Granted thatidid not require much tempta-
tion, you p 'what little [did want before me. Do
you not see,” she cried, with sudden passion, “that you
have spoiled my life? It would be bright, hopeful, full
of charm, but for yov—you have marred and blighted
it. 1 donot like you—I never did. The very way in

which you won me was hateful to me; your love was all |

self. i never liked you. And now, when I could be
happy—ah, Heaven, so unutterably happy—you come
like a black shadow and rob my life of every bit of hap-
piness that it contains. No wonder that I loathe you!”
*No,” he said, gently, ‘‘it is not.”
“Then why do you not be kind to me, and let me be
ete free?” she asked, emboldened by the softening of

“You have gusssed the reason,” he replied. ‘You
have said—it is because I am selfish to my heart’s core.
I sacrificed you once to my selfish love ; is it likely that
1 should hesitate a second time ?”

“You might well hesitate, because I suffered so keen-
ly over the first.”

The red flush deepened on his ‘face, a strange light
came inte kis eyes.

«J will not let you go free, neither will I cease from my

e to mgt te my wife ; and the reason is be-
cause I love you. , proud, fair, lovely woman! I love
you with the very ess of love, with the desperation

of the fiercest on, with a love that is my doom and

|

| was relieved when he had gone; without knowing what
| to suspect, she suspected something; she felt like some

“My dear Doris,” her ladyship cried, «‘what is the mat-
See! you have a great stain of blood on
What has happened ?”

She took the white hand, with its purple, bleeding

bruise, into her own.
«What is the matter, Doris? Lord Vivianne, what is
She saw that he looked dreadfuily distressed.
“Dear Lady Linleigh, it is nothing,” said Lady Doris,

“But,” said the countess, perplexedly, ‘‘Lord Vivianne

“Oh, yes, he was there !”

«J was there, Lady Linleigh, and I am terribly dis-
tressed over the accident; but Lady Studleigh was too
quick for me; before I could assure her that there was

that I thought she had broken it. There was no snake.”

“There could not be,” said the countess; ‘I have never
heard of any snakes at Linleigh. Give me your hand,
child. What a terrible bruise!” .

The countess took her injured hand and gently bound
it, little dreaming how it had been hurt.

Atter that Lord Vivianne had been very much sub-
dued. Such an excess of hatred startled him; he could
not realize it; he was half alarmed at the violence of the
passion he had evoked; still noidea of yielding came to
him. As he watched her, day after day, her beauty, her
grace, grew more and more enchanting to him. It was
not so much love as madness that possessed him; he
would not have relinquished his hold or have given her
up to have saved his life.

During the remainder of his stay the countess kept
keen, unwavering watch over him, but he had learned
his lesson after what he had seen. How little she recked
of physical pain, how careless she was of herself. He
dared not venture to tease her; he felt that she was
quite capable of committing murder if he drove her too
far; he contented himself by saying to her when he was
going: :

“It is understood between us, then, Lady Studleigh,
that L return on the twentieth of August for your de-
cision.” :

«Jt is quite understood,” she replied, with calm dig-

y.
«J hope it will be a favorable one to me, and [hope my
reception will be kinder next time than it has been this.”

«You will always be welcomed according to your de-
serts,” she replied.

«JT hope. above all, the poor, bruised hand will be bet-
ter when I come again,” he said, with a meaning smile,
“and that you will not find any more snakes in those
beautiful moonlit grounds.”

a will be as well for the snakes to keep away,”
said.

When he went, the little current of gayety that had
come with him died away all together. Lady Linleigh

 

she

one walking on the brink of a volcano; but when he was
gone, and a few days had passed without anything hap-
pening, she felt relieved. She had not forgotten the in-
cident of the bruised hand; although everything else
might be fancy, that was not. When Lord Vivianne
bade the earl good-by, he said :

“T have enjoyed ay visit very much, Lord Linleigh; so
much that if I should return by the same route about
the end of August, I shall beg permission to repeat it.”

The earl most cordially assured him that he would be
welcome.

And so the bright summer days had worn away. To
Lady Doris each one brought a fresh sensation of relief.
The tenth was drawing near. Lord Vivianne was still
in utter and profound ignorance of all that was trans-
pining: _She would be married and away when he came

ack; how she enjoyed the thought of his discomfiture.
She laughed aloud as she thought of his impotent anger,

 

 

“He may do as he likes then,” she said; ‘I shall be

ours. You have heard of men made desperate through | Karle’s wife. My fortune will be settled on me, and I

ove; lookat me, you will see it.

I will kill you if you | shall dety him; if he tells his story then, he will not find

attempt to leave me—if you attempt to give the love | many to believe him; Earle will not believe anything

that ought to be mine to another man!”
«Thank you for the threat,” she said.

ainst his wife, lam sure. I must bribe some respect-
able family to say that I lived with them as governess in

“You drive me to threats, you give me no other re-| Florence. I shall conquer the difficulty when I am once

course.

feet, only begging of you to take it.
do to prove how dearly I love you.”

“It is all self# We
ee If there be any manh
shamed. 0

ood in you, it shall be

1 would fain be all that is kind and good to you; | married to Earle.”
I would worship you; I would lay all that I have at your |
What would I not harbor from all storms; the end which she so

will have the plainest possible un- |

. her rock, her safe>
ardently

esired to gain; the one great object in life that barged
posed for herself ; it seemed to her all must be well then.
| She had written to Mattie, asking her to come to Lin-

That was her one haven of refu

u shall have itin plain words. You quite | leigh on the first of August; but so desirous was she of

understand that if ever I should marry you, it would be | keeping her secret, that she had not told her what for,
because by threats you had compelled me to doso; that | and she did not tell her until they were driving in the

I should
more than I hate and detest you now. As the days pass-
ed on, my loa’ would become greater, so that no
friendly word would ever pass between us, and I should
consider you simply as a tyrant who bound mein chains.
You understand all this ?”
' «Jwill risk it,” he replied.
re tin your love in time.”
. The face she turned to him was pallid in its despair.
“You never would regain it,” she said, calmiy. ‘Yet
there is one way in which even now you might gain my
ing, my esteem, my sincere friendship.”
His face kindled at the w 3 3 ;
“How, Dora? Tell me how!” he cried, eagerly:
“By saying to me: ‘You are free. I too yantage

of your youth and innocence ; Lamsorry forit. You are ; plans.
tree! Forgive me the wrong that has been done, and |

let us be friends.’ If you would do that, Lord Vivianne,
even now I should like you with a warm, true liking.”

He was silent for a few minutes; her appeal had
touched him greatly. Looking at him, she saw that his
face had softened. Impulsively she laid a warm, soft
hand on his:

“JT never thonght to use words of persuasion to you,”
she said, “I never thought to plead or to pray to you,
but Ido so now; be kind to me, and let me go free.”

He was tempted for one minute; but that warm, soft
hand crept like fire through his veins, his pulses thrili-
ed, his heart beat.

Give her up !—this fair woman whose beauty mad-
dened him! No! never, never—come what might!

«~— would not release you, Dora, I would not give you
up, if every angel, and every fiend combined, tried to
take you from me!” ‘

A CHAPTER LXXV.
z ‘““WEAVEN SAVE. EARLE!”

«August at last,” said Lady Linleigh; «‘it is the first to-
day. Ngt long now, Doris, until the tenth.” Me

- “No; not long,” was the reply. ee

«“Rverything is ready and waiting at Hyde House,” con-
tinued the countess; ‘‘the whole of your trousseau is
7, and a more magnificent one was never designed.”

«Tam more than satisfied with it,” said the young
beauty.
Linleigh ¢”

«About noon. I shall.send the carriage to the station.”

 

«J will drive my pretty ponies,” said

and detest you if I became your wife even | pretty pony carriage
|

|
“J should not despair of |

j

|
{
:

 

| very
happiest girl in all the world.”
| ‘The countess was more than kind to

own mind she was always thinking how to payback to |

back to the court; then she was so
eager to tell her story, that she did not,
the brown face had grown, or how the da

full of unshed tears. : ‘ee :

“So you have sent fori me, Doris, to be your bride-
maid,” said Mattie ; “you, who might have some of the
noblest and highest ladies in the | me

«There would be none that I love you, Mattie. We
were sisters for years, you know.” me

Then Mattie was silent for alittle time. She said to

  

done anything, have suffe anything than seen Earle
eeriod, Theni she reproached ereelt for being selfish,
; and tried to thrbw all her heart and soul into her sister’s

 
  
  
   
  
  

Lady Doris wondered why Mattie
| face, and said: 2
| ‘Heaven bless you, my darli
happy. I should think, Do

, that ‘you are the

“Yes,” said Doris, ‘I think I am ;”
herself, bitterly. ,‘‘Would to Heavy

. Mattie; in her

| Mark Brace’s daughter the kindness they had shown to

Doris. When the two young girls stood together in Lady
Doris’ dressing-room, she drew off her driving-gloves

| and laid them on the table ; then for the first time Mat-
| tie saw the terrible bruise on the white hand; she bent
| down to look at it.

«What time will Mattie Brace be here, Lady |

| «What have you done to your pretty hand, Doris ?” she
‘asked. ‘What a frightiul bruise!”

| f knocked it against something,” was the vague
But Mattie saw the burning flush on her sister’s
| face. ,
“What a pity. Now you will be married with a black,
| dreadful looking bruise on yourhand. That will not get
| well in ten days.”

| “Sometimes I think it will never get well at all, Mat-
| tie,” said Lady Doris, ‘it has been done some weeks al-
| ready ; I forget how long.”

| Mattie kissed the dark skin, and Lady Doris shuddered
| as she remembered whose lips had rested on that hand
| before.

| «When is Earle coming ?” she asked; and Lady Doris
| answered:

| «On the eighth; he cannot leave London before; you

eagerly. “I! have no idea what a famous man he is becoming

have only used them once since papa gave them to me. | Mattie.”

She will be so pleased if I meet her.”

“It is well thought of, my dear,” said Lady Estelle. rose to her lips.

«Doris, do you know what Lhave done ?”

‘No; something kind and nice, like yourself; I know
by the sound of your voice.”

«— have ordered a very nice little trousseau for Mattie
—dresses that will not be unsuited to her at home,
-yet will do for her to wear here. I shall be so lonely
‘when you are gone that I thought of asking her to re-
‘main here. I shall miss you so much, Doris.”

She was glad to hear it; yet the old familiar prayer
Without knowing why, she said to her-
| Self: “‘Heaven save Harle !”

| (TO BE CONTINUED.)

SRM LS OP ND cite

A DEGRADED LORD.

There is a romantic story which does not end as satis-

her ?
i cot course | will. Heaven bless you, my own dear |

  
   

 

 

 

 

“And I shall miss you, dear Lady Linleigh. I never ‘ i c 2

thought, when you Game home to my father’s house, | factorily as such stories usually do, especially when they

that I should learn to love you so dearly.” | originate in the fanciful brain of the novelist. But this
ady Linleigh clasped her arms round the girl's neck. | story is actually true, and the scene of it is Venice.

one thing. 6he seid, caressingly: “do you Among the regular customers of the tobacco divan of

   
   

think [have been as kind to you as your own mother |

would haye been ?” | Signor Alberti, a few months ago, was a shapely and

ey a not think, dear Lady Linleigh; I am quite sure,” | handsome young Englishman, who called every day,
er |

“Tt iP an bae tancy of mine,” said the countess, with a | bought expensive cigars, and gave tasteful presents
erecta 7 , but I vee meth ea 80 ee, ot oe | to the beautiful female attendant. His knowledge of
ren. I have such a longing to hear a child call her | jtalian was limited; yet he used his words to such ad-
mother. Doris—you will have left me in ten days. Will) vantage, with the aid of expressive gestures, that he
you kiss me, and say, ‘Heaven Bless you, my OWN | soon won her heart. Then he gave her his card, bearing

I an a es et i eee at
t ’ Gran 1, and’ occupie e entire first floor. He
other: you have been one tome. You have helped me |- > p y
inevery' little trouble and perplexity; you have been | asked her to be his wife, but wished that the marriage
kind to me, without ceasing. Why, Linleigh, your |
face is wet with tears!” :
_ «Js it, darling? Ifeel your going away somuch. But |
‘we must not remain talking here. If you wish to drive |
to the station, it is high time the ponies were brought |
round; and I myself wish to see that everything is as she
Will like it in Mattie’s room.”
_ The warmer days Of the golden summer had passed
away rapidly; it was the first of August, and the mar-
was to be on thetenth. So great and entire had
been the secrecy preserved, that no creature in that vast
establish ment knew anything at all about it; the ser-

>

he feared thiat if his aristocratic kinsfolk in England
gained any knowledge of his intentions they would
move heaven and earth to hinder the union.

The yo lady told the story to her employer, and
Signor Alberti prudently enough went to the Grand
Hotel, made inquiries, and found that all the servants
spoke of the generosity and wealth of the English noble-
man. He advised her to accept the splendid offer, and
a day was fixed for the marriage. As the young lord
did not appear at the appointed time, Signor Alberti and
the lady went to the hotel to find him. They found him
in a white cravat cleaning his master’s boots.

 

vants and every one be that Mattie was ply
coming for her yearly visit; but that the wedding of their ee
young lady was on the (apis, no one for a mom sus A FRENCH DUEL.

 

pected.
Vivianne had not made avery long stay at Lin-
leigh Court; matters were not very pleasant for him

The ular belief that French dueling is only dan-
there. Lady ‘am seemed suddenly to have grown ted . .

gerous to onlookers proved true the other day. Two
Parisians, MM. Chesneau and Champigneulle, were

settling a quarrel with swords, when an excited stranger
rushed between them, crying :

“For Heaven’s sake stop this murderous work !”

He explained that his father, an emotional octogen-

very observant, he found but few opportunities of
speaking to Doris.® Atter his impassioned, violent words
on that evening, she had made no answer; the rapture
and tenderness had all died from her face—a hard, fixed
kK Came in her eyes,

etthe worst come now,” she said; “it will serve
t.”

 
   

right. arian, had seen the duel from a distance, and had such
She pleaded and prayed no more; and it was well for | a shock that he burst a blood-vessel. Not wishing to
hin? that he could not read the ‘hts that were in | kill the old man, the adversaries tossed their swords

i ind. He poured out such a torrent of passionate
words she heard none ofthem. After a time she said:
ink wehave been.out quite long enough, Lord
Vivianne; we will return, if you please.”

When they reached the lawn again, where the ladies,
with their attendant Cavaliers, were enjoying the fair,
sweet night, hesuddenly took her right hand, and kissed

it.
«J shall hope to make any one day,” he said.

aside and shook hands, when the stranger rushed back,
exclaiming :
«Continue, gentlemen ; my father is better.”
They declined. ;
—_—__————__ > @-<—_____—__——-

A Canadian minister, having taught his little girl the
Lord’s Prayer, was surprised to hear her repeat it with the
following variation: ‘Give us this day our daily bread, or
biscuit and honey, if you please.”

- @<—-—

Scott's Emulsion of Pure Cod Liver Oil with Hy-

ophosphites, in Consumption and Wasting Diseases. Dr.

f R" BARRINGER, Pittsburg, Pa., says: “Ithink your Emul-
sion of Cod Liver Oil is very useful in consumption and
wasting diseases. P 2

She snatched it from him with sudden violence, and it
struck the trunk of a tree }such terrible force that
he thought she had broken it.

«J willent my hand off,” she said, ‘if you touch it

 

ain.”

He wasstartled by her vehemence.

“You doindeed hate me, Dora,” he said, sadly,
“I do, indeed,” was the reply.

 

 

idenly kissed her”

|

herself at first, that if she had known why WwW. Pp
| her, she would not have gone, she would rather here

you will be }.tled tone—‘‘then

 

should be performed secretly and immediately, because |

LOVE IS BEST OF ALL.

BY Ss. L.

 

 

How sweetly the flowers all bloom to-day!
How gladly the gay birds sing!
Is the whole world brighter because I wear
Dear John’s betrothal ring ?
We walked last night on the pebbly beach,
And he begged I wauld name the day .
When my heart and nity hand should be all his own;
And how could I say him nay ?
Then he told me alli—ef the bright, bright home,
Prepared for his ‘* bonnie bride,”
Of the grand old trees that arched the dome,
And the flowers on every side ;
Where first the sun peeped over the hills,
Where, at eve, it Sank to rest,
And where the robin loved in spring
To fashion her cozy nest.

And I dreamed last night such a beautiful dream—
They had dressed me all in white,
And crowned with a wreath of orange-fiowers
{ walked those pathways bright ;
I heard the robin sing to mate,
I strayed through the open door,
To where the golden sunbeams danced
O’er the polished oaken floor.

I wandered through the warm, bright rooms,
And lo, his thoughtful care

Had culled from every clime some gift
To make my home more fair.

The very paintings that graced the walls
Were those most dear to me;

And the birds in the arbor seemed to trill:
«We've a welcome, sweet, for thee.”

And I waked with sucli rapturous joy in my heart,
That if John were but here, I know

I should give the kiss that but yester eve
I slyly refused to bestow.

But not for the house, s@ grand and fair,
Nor the treasures thet game at hig call ;

But justter ¥ wealth oriiis heart, ~
And the love that is best of all!

-

 

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

BERTHA,

TEE

 

Sewing-Machine Girl;

OR,
DEATH AT THE WHEEL.
By FRANCIS S. SMITH,

Author of “Eveleen Wilson,” ‘‘Little Sunshine,”
“Maggie, the Charity Child,” “Galenus,
the Gladiator,” etc., etc.
CHINE GIRL,” was commenced

{“BERTHA, THE SEWING- ( is
yi obtained of all News Agents. ]

in No. 49. Back numbers can!

 
 
  
 
 

CHAPTER St

Joe Curson hurried rapidly along, looking neither to
the right nor to the left, did he pause till he reach-
d depot.

Buying a ticket he entefed one of the cars in.a train
about starting, and seated himself in the only vacant
seat beside a man who was gazing from the window.

Presently the man turne@ and their eyes met.

«Hello, Mr. Curson !” was the greeting, ‘‘what are you
doing here? I thought this was your wedding-day !”

“Why, Tom Doyle!” was the rejoinder, ‘‘I’m glad to
meet you! My wedding slay ! Ah, yes, so it is, but
pressing business calls me out of town!”

-*¥es, and you've concluded not to goon your bridal
trip just yet!” respondeé. Pom Doyle, significantly—
“geome, old fellow, thereno use trying to pull the wool
over my eyes! I Sitreyadly suspect that your little game
has miscarried, and you Ie running away from trouble
—isn't that so?” e

“Well, to be candid with
have guessed rightly

on a charge of bigan
asses, and I ard gel
ry me. And now a
and why are you g¢
«Well, I will be
with me,” replied
_ you a piece,
as returned to #
“You don’t te

<CONTINUED.)

  
   
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
    
   
     
    
 

you,” returned Curson, ‘‘you
phall be wanted by the police
ee another tweyity-four hours
as fast as steam will car-
i. Where#@re you. going,

h you as yyt have been
to commenfge with I will
ur rival, . Hamilton,

laimed Curson, in a star-
have not left the city any
too quick !” ,
“J believe you, my
ported himself yesterda
conversation hetween h
detailed to them all
business, and then he
1 never heard a fellow
his sweetheart,
firm conviction that |
where, and he took 2
covered who, it was that
ness, he would
see you have hag
for that mat

   
   
    
   
    
 
   
 
   
 
    
    
  
   
  

* was the rejoinder—‘he re-
fternoon, and I overheard a
and the two bosses. First he
» he had done in the way ot
to talk of his own affairs.

He expressed his
had been at work some-

lotted against his happi-
e was revenged. So you
w escape, and so have f,

y from his vengeance on account
of interc is his letters, but from the anger of old
Goodwin & Knapp, who when they come to overhaul my
accounts will want me as badly as the police will want
rou.” mot *
; “Well, we are fellow-companions in misfortune,” said
Curson; “and the best thing we can do is to stick to
each other. If they will let us get a day’Sstart we can
snap our fingers at them: Have you fixed upon any
plan in your flight?» “) ~.

«None whatever,” answered Doyle ; ‘I left in too great
a hurry to think of anything but getting away.”

“Well, I have a pro sion to make,” said Curson ;
«and this is it. Letus e the train in Buffalo and dis-
guise ourselves as laborers” By the way, though, in the
first place, how much money have you ?”

er ni
lyf

«About two hundred déllars in good money, and as

many thousands in bogus,*‘vas the reply.
“Then we shall do very well,” said Curson.

Let us disguise ourselyes as common laborers in Buffalo,

and then buy a second class passage through to California. |
Once there we will find plenty to do. If a couple of

‘you and me, who know the
vise ways and means of living in so live a
locality aS the Golden State, we deserve to starve— |

bright young fellows like’
ropes, can’t de

that’s all!”

“J agree with you,” returned Tom Doyle, in a confi-

dent tone ; we can become millionaires there, and if we
do, what is to prevent us from returning to New York if
we please? <A fellow with unlimited means at his com-
mand is safe enough there, no matter what crime he may
have committed.” : x J

“That's so!” rejoined Curson, hopefully. ‘The idea of
returning hadn’t occurred to me, but it is a good one.
Who knows but what I may, yet enjoy the society of the
beautiful Bertha in safety ?” :

«And who knows but what I may yet get even with

withdrew the cork, rais
draught, and passing it oyer to Curson, continued :

‘Here, t a swig, and drink confusion to our ene-
mies andsuccess to our neble selves.”

“With all my heart!” replied Curson, as he raised the
flask to his lips, but the fiery dratight was never swal-
lowed, for that instant a frightful crash took place, and
a moment later the car in which they were seated was a
mass of ruins, and shrieks and frightful groans of agony
rent the atk, A broken rail had sent the train from the
track while it was rushing onward at forty miles an hour,
and while every passenger in the car occupied by Curson
and Doyle were more or jess injured, those two com-

anions in iniauity were killed outright—sent to their
ear even while exulting in their premeditated
villainy. j

 

CHAPTER XLVI.
BERTHA IS: TAKEN HOME.

When Bertha Bascomb recovered from the fit into
which she had been thrown after the scene between
herself and Curson, she found the old merchant, her
triend, Mrs. Miller, and Conrad Bascomb and his wife
bending over her, with looks of the liveliest sympathy
depicted on their countenances. ;

The physician who had been summoned strongly ad-
vised that she should not at once be informed either of
the true relationship which she bore to Jasper Carter or
of the arrival of her friends.

“The news must be broken to her gradually,” the doc-
tor had said, ‘or the shock on her nervous system will
be too great in her exhausted condition.”

The old merchant, therefore, while he longed to clasp
her to his bosom and coyer ber with parental kisses,
was obliged to restrain himself, and to treat her only as
the poor girl whom he had befriended.

“How do you feel now, my poor, suffering. child?” he
asked, with great emotion, as she opened her large blue
eyes and looked beseechingly up at him. -

«Better, sir, I think,” she answered, feebly—‘‘much
better. But {have had such a horrid dream! Oh, Mr.

‘arter, I dreamed that I was married to Mr. Curson,
and that Philip had returned! Oh, father! oh, mother!”
she continued, looking at Bascomb and his wife with an
expression of terror; ‘‘can you imagine a. more hideous
nightmare than that ?”

A shudder ran through her frame, and she moved un-

 

easily upon the couch whereon she had thrown herself.
As she did so, the rustling of paper beneath her arm

he did when he spoke Of |

‘TJ have |
about five hundred dollars with me, and it may not be |
necessary to use the counterfeit at all. My plan is this: |

caught her ear, and mechanically she passed her hand
over, grasped the object which had attracted her atten-
tion, and held it up. It proved to be Hamilton’s letter,
which in the excitement of the moment had been impru-
dently overlooked by her attendants. Instantly her eyes
dilated with horror, as she exclaimed :

- “Oh! no, no.no! It was nodream! I remember it
all, now! The marriage—the letter—the pistol! Oh, no
dream! no dream! no dream!” And pressing her white
hands over her eyes, She moaned in an agony of soul.

«Calm yourself, my child,” said Jasper Carter, tenderly.
“It is true that you were married; but, after all, things
are not as bad as they might have been.”

“Not as bad as they might have been!” exclaimed
Bertha, in a tone of frenzy. ‘Great Heaven! Could any-
thing be worse than marriage with that villain, when
my love, my life, my own precious darling, was living
and true tome? Tell me,” she added suddenly, as her
eyes glared fiercely—‘‘is he—is my husband”—the words
seemed almost to choke her—‘“still here? If he is, let
him not come near me !—oh, let him not come near me!
I would not be a murderess, but, by the heaven above
me; weak woman as I am, I will kill him if he so much
as places a fingeron me! [I will! I will! I will!” And
she set her teeth hard, while the veins on her white
orehead swelled almost to bursting.

“Calm yourself, my child—calm yourself. I beseech
you!” exclaimed Rachel Bascomb, as she _ tenderly
brushed the fair hair back from the beautiful face.
“Joseph Curson is not here, and never will be here
again. He has fled, my darling—fied to escape the offi-
cers of justice, and your marriage with him is null and
void. He never can trouble you again, my pet. Heisa
fugitive from justice; he isa bigamist! Positive proof
has been furnished that he was married before, and that
his wife is still living.” :

“do not think you would deceive me, mother,” said
the girl, with forced calmness, although it was plain to
perceive that she was laboring under terrible excite-
ment. ‘Do not—oh, do not deceive me! The awakening
would be ten thousand times worse than death !”

“As I hope for mercy at the last day, my darling, I
speak truly !” exclaimed Mrs. Bascomb, as she tenderly
kissed the pale cheek of the girl.

“Thank God—oh, thank God !” ejaculated Bertha, with
asigh of relief. ‘Things might indeed have been worse |
since this is so. Oh, what a terrible fate I have escaped !”
and she closed her eyes with a shudder. «

«And now, my child, let me beg of you to compose
yourself,” said Jasper Carter, persuasively. ‘You are
in the hands of friends now who will see to it that |
harm does not again come near you. You shall be!
removed to your home at once, and, in the course of a
very few days, 1 hope to see you entirely restored to |
health.” |

‘You are very kind,” exclaimed Bertha, with deep |
gratitude. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you, ex-
cept it be by my prayers. It is a very short time since I |
first saw you, sir; and yet, it seems to me, that I must
have known you always. If I had not a father already,
sir, I should wish you were my father.”

It was all Jasper Carter could do to keep from catching |
her to his heart and showering upon her every tender |
epithet. He restrained himself with an effort, however,
and simply said : A

«We shall be better acquainted some day, my child, |
than we are now. In the meantime, if you really wish
to please me, get well as fast as possible. And now I
must leave you, for I have business of importance to at- |
tend to. I will send a carriage to convey you home,” he |
continued, as he reached the door. |

«Thank you, sir,” replied Bertha; and then, as a scar-
let flush mounted to her cheek, she added: ‘‘Andif you
see Philip, will you tell him how terribly wronged we
both were, and ask him to forgive me ?”

“J will explain everything should I meet him, depend
upon it,” replied the old merchant, and in another mo-
ment he was gone.

In the course of half an hour a carriage rolled up to
the door, and Bertha, accompanied by her friends—all
except the young widow, Mrs. Miller—took her departure
for Conrad Bascomb’s residence.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE DOCTOR TELLS A STORY.
We must now go back to the scene of the shooting.

highwayman, a murderer, even, I should have felt some
sympathy for him; but the man who deliberately plots
the ruin of a trusting, confiding young girl, or who en-
ters a friend’s house and partakes of that triend’s hos-
pitality, and then plots to destroy the happiness of that
tamily by debauching his friend’s wife, is a monster too
vile for existence, and should be destroyed the same as
any other venomous reptile. Ihave had some sad ex-
periences in my time, and I wish to relate one of them.

“Thad afriend once who married a young girl as
bright and beautiful as a spring morning. She was as
innocent, too, as she was beautiful, but she was suscep-
tible to flattery, and somewhat weak in character. Her
husband, however, thought her perfection, and could
see no fault in her.

‘‘In the course of business, this friend of mine made
the acquaintance of aman named Delancey. He was a
dashing, splendid-looking young fellow—a good conver-
sationalist and brilliantly edueated—just the man, in
tact, to turn the head of a giddy girl, but my friend in-
troduced him into his family without the slightest hesi-
tation. He would aS soon have looked for impurity of
thought in an angel tresh from the portals of Heaven as
in his wife. :

“He entertained his guest right nobly, nothing was
too good for him, and he became a constant visitor. It
is useless to dwell upon the theme—the guest proved
himself a Villain of the blackest dye, and the young wife
tell a victim to his insidious wiles. i

«The guilty couple fied to Europe, and the heart-crush-
ed husband mourned in solitude. He was too proud to
make any exhibition of his grief before the world, and
assumed a carelessness of demeanor which he was far
from feeling. The blow had struck home, for he had
loved his child-bride with such a love as man seldom
bestows on woman. He took to drinking at last to
drown thought. He did not get drunk, to be sure, but
became a habitual drinker, which is far worse than a
periodical drunkard. It is your steady drinker that
kills. The man who indulges to excess, and then ab-
stains for months, gives his system a chance to recuper-
ate, but he who drinks continually wears out his stom-
ach past all cure.

“Well, he never saw the wretch who had so foully
wronged him again, nor did he ever see his wife again
till yesterday, when he was called into a tenement-

house to attend a woman laboring under delirium trenis Lom

ens—tor, like myself, he was a physician.

“He did not recognize her when he first looked at her,
but there was a something familiar in her countenance,
and upon studying it intently—feature by feature—he
discovered, under all her bloat, and dirt, and wretched-
ness, his guilty wite.

“She did not know him, of course, and he did his pest
to save her—but it was the third attack-—-so the people
who surrounded her said—and his skill was unavailing.
She died before his eyes, her foul and bloated lips utter-
ing the most frightful blasphemy..

“My wretched friend turned from the spot sick at
heart, and sought solace in the cup, and when his
nerves were sufficiently braced, he called upon an un-
dertaker and gave orders that the miserable woman
should be decently buried in Greenwood cemetery. Her
husband followed her tothe grave, and was her only
mourner. The villain who ruined her deserted her as
soon as her beauty fled, and is now a gamblerin Phila-
delphia.

“You will not wonder why I feet so deeply on this
subject when I tell, you that 7 was that physician, and
that wretched woman was my wive. And now I willcon-
clude by saying that I will nottake charge of this mis-
erable wretch. Let him die! He deserves to die, for he
is ten thousand times worse than ajmurderer !”

He took his hat and was about to depart when the
widow, with a wild scream, rushed between him and
the. door, and falling on her knees before him, exclaim-
ed, imploringly :

“Oh, no, no, no, doctor! Donot desert this poor man
in his need! Heis penitent now and sorry for the past,
and surely the Saviour of men has promised forgiveness
to the most guilty who repent! Stay by him, doctor,
and do what you can for him, and Heaven will bless
you! Oh, do, do, do!” And she grasped the doctor’s
hand in both her own, and clung to it convulsively.

«Whose voice is that?” asked the wounded man, ex-
citedly, as he turned with a groan upon his pillow.
“Stand out of the way, doctor, and let me see who

 

As soon as Jasper Carter and the rest had left the room
to attend the sick-bed of Bertha, Jack Ryerson called in
an officer and had both David Carter and the wounded
policeman, Charley Mason, conveyed to the nearest sta-
tion-house. Here the officer made a charge against
Carter, who was committed, and as Lilian Carter re-
fused to leave him, she alsO was furnished with tem-
porary lodgings. Mason’s wounds were then dressed,
and he was conveyed to the hospital, after which Ryer-
son, accompanied by his sister, started fora hotel.

As they reached the street, Ryerson was suddenly
accosted by a lady deeply vailed, who requested. a few
moments’ conversation with him.

«With pleasure, madam,” he assented. ‘Go on—that
is if you do not object to my sister hearing your com-
munication.”

“Not at all,” she replied. ‘J am a friend to Miss Ber-
tha Bascomb. My name is Mrs. Miller. When I en-
tered the room where the recent shooting took place to |
call assistance for Miss Bascomb, I recognized the officer
who was wounded. I am deeply interested in him, and
desire to know if he is dangerously wounded.”

“It is a bad wound,” replied Ryerson, ‘‘but the sur-
geon thinks that with skillful treatment and good nurs-
ing he will pull through all right.” 7

“Ah, yes; that is it.’said Mrs. Miller, in a tone of
anxiety ; ‘* careful nursing—that is eae after all.
Don’t you think, sir, that I would be ailowed to nurse
him if I should give my services gratis ?”

«Not a doubt of it,” replied ‘Ryerson; “Iam going to

may go with me if you wish it.”

tude; “it is the very favor [ would have asked.”

Ryerson called a carriage, and the ladies and himself
were driven to a hotel, and having seen his sister com-
fortably settled, Ryerson and the widow were next
driven to the hospital to which Charley Mason had been
| conveyed.

“You will please not say anything to the wounded
man concerning me,” requested Mrs. Miller; ‘‘let him
suppose me to be one of the regular hospital nurses.”

“As you please, madam,” was the reply. ‘Your re-
quest shall be complied with.”

visit him, after I see my sister safely bestowed, and you |

“Thank you,” returned the widow, with real grati- |

that is!”

He spoke in a tone so stern and commanding that the
doctor involuntarily stepped aside, and then the wound-
ed man looked full into the face of the woman who was
still kneeling. L eae

‘If you are not one of the spirits who sare constantly
mocking me,” the sick man continued, ‘tome here and
let me look at you!” :

She arose to her feet, approached his bedside, and
smoothed the damp hair back trom his pallid brow.

‘Let me hear you speak again!” moaned the wounded
policeman, huskily.

“Charley! My Charley!” she exclaimed, as she bent
her face down and kissed him again and again.

“Ha, ha, ha! Lhave her!” exclaimed the sick man, as
he seized one of her white hands and devoured it with
kisses. ‘She is no spirit, but real flesh and blood, I am
grasping her hand. Ihave felt her warm kisses on my
lips. Sheis no spirit! Nospirit! Ha, ha, ha! Doctor,
you may go now. Ishali not die, for Carrie is here, and
she has come to forgive me. There is no other medicine
like that for me in ali, the world. You may go! You
may go! Ha, ha, ha!”* : ;

His laughter ended in a deep groan, and suddenly he
swooned dead away.

“Oh, pitying Heaven !” exclaimed Carrie Montgomery
—for she it was; ‘‘he is dead, and I have killed him !’,

The doctor approached, put his fingers on the wound-
ed man’s wrist, and said, calmly :

«He is not dead, nor is he going to die. He has fainted
—that is all!”

“Oh, thank Heaven! Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Car-
rie Montgomery. ‘You will attend him now, will you
not; doctor? You will—I know you will—for did you not
attend me when I was sick, and when you knew I could
not pay you ?”

“Oh, that is a very different affair,” replied the doctor.
“J shouldn’t need. any coaxing to attend to you at any

| time ; but before I promise to cure this man I must ques-

tion him a bit.”
The doctor applied a restorative as he spoke, and pres-
ong Charley Mason opened his eyes and looked about
m.
The physician waited till the sufferer had completely

 

Ryerson, by representing the widow to be a near
friend of the wounded man, easily obtained permission
for her to nurse him, and a moment later they were in
the sick-room.

“Well, Charley, how do you feel by this time?” asked
Ryerson, cheerily. .

“My wound does not pain me much,” was the reply,
“but my thoughts are not of the most agreeable kind.
I’ve been thinking ever since I lay here what an infernal
scoundrel I have been. There’s nothing like sickness to
set a man reflecting. I’d give all the world, if it were
mine, to have my life to live over again. I ain’t a mer-
vous man, Jack—you know I’m no coward—but I feel—
| in my very soul I feel—that if 1 should die of this wound
—and such a thing is possible—I should go headlong to

 

{

| the infernal regions.
| Jack, Spite of all that ministers say, ] know there
would be no help for me.”

And a frightful shudder convulsed the invalid.

“You must get rid of such thoughts as those, Charley,”
returned Ryerson; ‘giving away to the blues isn’t the
way to get well.”

The wounded officer made no response for some mo-
|ments, but lay as though deeply cogitating some
| weighty matter.’ Looking up suddenly at last, he said :
| «You recollect that little girl I treated so badly, Jack?
| She whose expenses you paid while she was sick ?”
| «You mean Carrie Montgomery ?” returned Jack.

There would be no help for me, |

come to himself, and then, addressing him, he asked,
sternly:

«Are you Willing to marry this poor girl now ?”

«Am I willing ?” exclaimed Charley Mason, significant-
ly—‘‘am I willing to marry her? Oh, if she would only
marry me! If she only would! But I can’t hope for
| that! That would be too much happiness!”
| Don’t give.yourself any uneasiness about that,” said
| the doctor, ironically. ‘“Yllanswerforher. She’ll marry
you fast enough, for she is a true woman, and would
stick to you if you were plastered all over with crime.
She is one of the sort that will bear abuse and vilifica-
tion, and even blows, and I notice that such women sel-
| dom get a husband good for much. You will marry him,
| of course, Carrie ?”
| The girl bowed her head affirmatively.
| «[ knew it,” continued the doctor; ‘‘and now | must
| see the knot tied before I will consent to take this case
|in band. I suppose I am a little uncharitable, but, to
| Save my soul, I can’t have full confidence in this man.
| There is an old distich which runs:

“When the devil was sick, the devil a saint would be—
When the devil got well, the devil a saint was he,”
| and the words may find an application in this case if
caution is not used. Jack, while I examine and dress
this man’s wound, do you run and fetch a minister, will

,

you?’
Jack needed no second bidding. He was off like a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    
     
       

  
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
   
  
  

that contemptible sneak, Phil Hamilton ?” rejoined Tom |
Doyle, maliciously, and taking a flask from his pocket. he |
it to his lips, took a long |

| «Vy a . € r 5 t fi n S # ae ;
eabsta Coke Wee: tour bxaammen:orcr dnone UpUD; i. | flash, and by the time the physician had made his pa-
i she was a workin girl 1 don’t wonder you fee] | ent comfortable, Ryerson had returned with a clergy-
saheand of that atfoie Charley It was a rascally er a Sats performed the marriage ceremony and
| eri aie as : aan i ’ | took his departure.
Wroateaiie business. But you had better not think |... Now,” said the doctor, addressing the wounded man,
| : : ¥ : “you have a wife to nurse you—and such a wife, I am
| ow can I help it’?” asked the wounded man, ner-| >< ne Fae (YOU-B0G SUCHG ‘Wale, fel
| yously ; “isn’t she Mth me always, sleeping and waking, | Certain, as is not to be found every day. See to tt that
|r ne ry 3 ~.©2’? | when she nurses you back to health and strength, you
with her large, pleading, blue eyes looking into my very “and cherish her ; rartiners it ¥ “ae
soul? Don’t 1 see her, as I lie here, looking down at me lov ss eat feted: “a re Sone WyOn tibeenea Te: te
trom the walls and ceiling whichever way I turn my | wht Sorin cae Rinaih..cind of VOR Wick aatian Henpe ala:
eyes, asking me to restore her good name, and give her | aIpped Abia Ce Pakee hacky pred ate rT
pack the peace of mind she possessed before she knew cerely hope ee ee next bullet fired at you may go
me? Jack, 1 went to look for her when [ began to re- iano saoioine a tilsatailinaaie’ Gaianemie
Se a sera an tie tins Vonerceiain ee ‘Heaven forbid !” ejaculated the sick man’s wife, with
he . P > use at which she had a look of horror. E z 2

ieee Line’ alet Mot fe soul coud. he me the slight-| _,“"But, doctor,” continued the sick man, looking fixedly
est information concerning her, I have searched all | @t the physician, - iv i os = & cross. 100k, to
over the city for her ever since that time, but without | S8Y ae of a tatent bus na thee he nor 8
getting the slightest clew to her whereabouts, and | | loving, tr me +e ao ae pated cain 7 at oe eae
| have scrutinized the features of every dead body which | Sritce: fdisehcadtas - Sant nibat tikes Gow ene Mak Toeddl
has been taken to the morgue. Oh, Jack, if I could only | PM: ege Ol 0 hg You: next UmMe: You wre Sick, | Bald
see her once more and ask her to forgive me, I should | the doctor, significantly . Iw on’t make any chal ge for
be willing to die.” And the sick man groaned bitterly. |my services, I assure you. But I must get along,” he

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance | ey consulting his watch. ‘Jack, are you going
of the physician in attendance, and as soon as Ryerson | sey ortion of the distance,” returne See
aw . , 7 is he é } a j pd Ryerson.
Se tae Euaned, VOWS Py Caen ee An oo leave of the newly married pair, the two
xcle : i

PAV hy . " . as ron 9” sallied forth in company.

fe ei Mh oe Rd Kean rune y Ou, feat, daok » | The doctor seemed buriedin deep thought, and but
replied the physician, “and you are looking much better | little conversation passed between ‘them till they reach-
than you did then. I guess you have kept your temper- | yarn by de ah Suk eoahon re iia
ance oath, have you not ?” | jo0d-by, doctor,” said Jack Ryerson, giving the doc-

a ; ; ” <9 rts | tor’s hand a hearty shake. ‘I know now why you have
ne Renae doctor,” was the reply, “‘and mean to | always seemed so melancholy and down-hearted. I pity
“hats right. Jack! ‘gs right!” exclaimed the | YOu from the bottom of my heart.” |
shraiaha Een a ‘soa tines ae longer tor it, be- “Tf am grateful for your sympathy, ' replied the doctor,
‘ond a doubt. I can’t let the stuff alone myself, but I | with a sigh; ‘‘but I should never have told the story ex-
onor the man who can. And now for my patient | cept under the peculiar circumstances. Ihave not long,
Let’s see how he is etting on. Ishe a friend of yours, however, to carry around this lump of lead,” he con-
Jack 2” ge ’ oe ’ | tinued, striking his ris eae 5 eh oot a my time ie

“He % . ebb ’ | coming fast—every day Iam admonished of the fact by
be He ibe or AN eae Seance aieheneee t | some symptom, and on every such occasion I mentalky
don’t believe you ever saw him. His name is Charley | exclaim : ‘The sooner the better. Good-night, Jack,
Mason, and he used to be known as ‘Nippy, the Cop.’” | 2nd pleasant dreams to you.

«Oh, T remember!” exclaimed the doctor, whose brow | And thus they parted. Parted never to meet again in
w dark as a thunder-cloud. “That is the fellow who | this world, for the doctor was found dead on the floor of
grew © , ; } | his office the nextmorning, he haying died of apoplexy

treated poor Carrie Montgomery so shabbily. Heought | some time during the night.

 

}

ened

 

to die. Such a fellow as he is has no right to live. They |
will have to get some other physician to attend him. 1 (TO BE CONTINUED.) ¥
———_>- eo

A moan of agony broke from the widow, whose face
was turned toward the window, and at the same mo- |
ment the sick man said, feebly :

“The doctor is‘ right. I have no business crawling

|
|
will have nothing to do with him !” |

The petrified skeleton of a whale, over thirty feet
| long, has been discovered by an officer of the Coast Survey

along the earth likeafelonaslam. Let me die! Let |on a range of mountains in Monterey County, Cal., over
me die!” / | 3,300 feet above sea level.

ot ” r, Ty | _ * s
“You see,” Said Ryerson, touched to the heart by the | 4 notel in Grand Rapids gives its guests solid reading
sick man’s misery, “the poor fellow is truly repentant, |. — rte 5 Sh dais nehlaktnasa shoe: hada
and you ought to have for him all the charity you can.” by chaining Bibles alongside the washstanc s in each room.
“So T have,” answered the doctor, testily ; ‘‘and that | This is probably on the principle that cleanliness is next to
is just none at all. Had he been a thief, a burglar, a godliness.

 

 

 

    
   
  
   
  
  
    
  
 
    
   
 
 
 
    
  
   
   
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
   
   
     
  
  
  
 
 
   
   
    
  

 

 
 

 

 

 

ae

 

 

<<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. >

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, JANUARY 23. 1886.

 

 

LOLOL OOOO Oem

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
8 months (postave_ free) 75c | 2 copies (vostage free) $5.00
4months- .... . $1.00\;4 copies . -.... £10.00
1 Year ae 3.00 | 8 copies. 20.00

Remit by express, money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis-
tered letter.
All letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,

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

 

SHORT TALKS WITH THE BOYS.
[All proper inquiries addressed to this department will be
answered as promptly as possible.}

 

 

NUMBER 12.

 

“Tam seventeen years old,” writes ‘‘Z. P.,” of Madi-
son, Wisconsin, ‘have a fair common school education,
and my father desires me to enter his store as a book-
keeper. In place of that I want to goto college. Don’t
you think this latter course will be the best for me ?”
~ Weare quite ready to give ‘‘Z. P.” and all other boys
our decided opinion on this ‘‘going to college” question.
It is essential that young men who have fully decided
to become astronomers, doctors, lawyers, mathema-
ticians, teachers, etc., should graduate at college. The
young man who expects to is{ an ordinary position in
business life will simply waste three or four years’ time,
and a great many hundred dollars, in passing beyond a
high school education. His but natural that parents
should want to see their childrene weli educated, but it
is a matter in which very few of them exercise good
business sense. For instance, not one out of ten col-
lege graduates ever succeeds to a position for which his
education fits him. Nine of them become clerks, store-
keepers, Manufacturers, etc., where one becomes a pro-
fessional man. The ranks of the professions are as
overcrowded as the ranks of the trades. A young mah,
after spending from three to five years at college, at an
expense of from $1,000 to $5,000, graduates to discover
that he must ‘‘hunt for a job.” Not one out of five of
the lawyers or doctors turned out ever make a decent
living, let alone wealth and fame. One outof ten of
those receiving a classical education may secure a posi-
tion befitting his education. The others have lost the
opportunity to learn trades, and must seek a living on
the middie-ground between a trade and a profession.

If it followed that every college graduate would win
money and fame, it would be a safe thing to advise
every boy to go to college. It not only does not follow,
but if you start twelve boys into trades at eighteen years
of age, and start twelve boys into college at the same
time, the twelve mechanics will have more money
among them at any subsequent period you may name
than the twelve graduates. While the apprentices will
each earn an average of $700 in the first three years, the
students will have paid out an average of $2,000. The
student will start out $2,700 behind. If he jumpsat once
into a salary of $25 per week against the mechanic’s $12,
it will take him inore than three years to wipe out debt
and interest. When that has been accomplished he
must take his chances of holding his position and of
protit and loss the same as the mechanic.

We say to “‘Z. P.” and all others that, unless fully de-
termined on some particular profession, and fully be-
lieving that you have it in you to make a success of such
profession, give this ‘‘going to college” matter a serious
consideration before taking any decided step.

“Brainard H. Parker,” of Gloucester, Massachusetts,
writes:

«What would you advise me to do? I would like to be-
come a book-keeper, but have not the means to learn the
trade. My father wishes me to learn the carpenter's
trade, but I do not like it. Would you learn the trade,
or what ?”

In answer to you we will make a statement of fact.
Let any business house in New York, Brooklyn, Boston,
Philadelphia, or Chicago, advertise tor a book-keeper at
a salary of $7 per week, and from fifty to three hundred
applications will be made for the place inside of three
days. Now let some firm in one of those cities adver-
tise lor a competent carpenter at less than $12 per week,
and the chances are that not three men wiil present
themselves. If you will go at it and learn the carpen-
ter’s trade, with a determination to master it in all its
details, you will have a much better thing than book-
keeping. Don’t stop when you can do what is called car-
penter work. Makea joiner of yourself. Learn to make
fine doors, nice counters, and shelving, put down in-
laid floors, dratt and design. You can doit if you will,
and when those who start with you are still carpenters,
you, as contractor and builder, will employ them. When
you have become a book-keeper that settles it. You are
worth so much, and no more, There is no opportunity
for advancement. When you have become a good car-
penter, your wages are not only equal to that of the
average bouk-keeper, but you are in a position to advance
yourself almost without limit.

“George M ,” of Brooklyn, writes:

‘Would you please to inform me whether you think it
advisable tor a boy fourteen years old, who is anxious to
learn the jewelry trade, to go to night school. and learn
drawing, so as to become a designer at the same time.
You may think it queer that I should ask about becom-
ing a jeweler and designer at the same time, but as they
both have something to do with each other, and es-
pecially because you said that a first-class jeweler only
gets $25 a week, whereupon I am positive a designer gets
much more. Please tell me what you think about the
matter, and also tell ne what the wages of a first-class
designer are. By so doing you will greatly oblige me.”

We answer that we do think it advisable, provid-
ing you can do so without making a sacritice. You are
rather young yet to begin a trade, but if circumstances
renaer jt necessary, and you have selected that of jew-
eler, by all means learn to design. Many establish-
ments employ men who do nothing but design. In the
smaller cities, as Bulfalo, Cleveland, Detroit, and To-
ledo, the practical workinan who can also design is an
invaluable man. Manufacturing jewelers are continu-
ally searching for men designers in silverware, jewelry,
badges, and ornaments, and they must have designers.
A mechanic has his rule or square or compass at hand
to assist his eye in measurements. The working jew-
eler must, in most cases, depend upon eye and hand
alone. <A course in drawing and designing must there-
fore be of great assistance.

¥rom Fort Douglas, in the far West, comes this letter
from a soldier :

Fort DouGLAS, WASH. TERRITORY.

Epitork SHORT TALKS WITH Boys—DEAR SIk:—In this
week's paper (No. 5) I see that you give the American
army a rather hard name. Now I have been in the army
nearly five years (the term of enlistment), and 1 will tell
you some of my experience. To begin with, you get
sworn in ior five years. You get $13 per month for the
first two years, then it is increased at the rate of $1 per
month for the other three, but the increase is kept till
you are discharged, which makes $72 back pay. You
are allowed a certain sum every year for clothing, and
What you do not draw is kept till you are discharged.

“Some men save over $100 in ciothing-money, besides a
good amount of their pay, and go out of the army with
between $5v0 and $1,00u. Then there are men with
trades, such as carpenters, painters, blacksmiths, and
bakers, who get lifty cents per day extra, while team-
sters get thirty-five. Some of the men are married, and
their wives do washing for the soldiers. I have known
some of the last to go out with over $4,000. A good,
sober man stands a chance of promotion to higher rank
and pay. A soldier has good quarters, good food, and
can attend school if he wishes. I say, for one, that it a
young man, Say under twenty, wants a start in life, let

im come in the army for five years, and be a little sav-
ing, and he can go out with more money in five years
than he could save in the outside world in ten, besides
getting an education if he did not already have one, or
ithe had, he could purchase books and study for any-
thing he desired ; then when he went out he would have
money and an education. Fora laboring man the army
has more inducements than anything the outside world
could offer: Hoping this finds your approval, I remain
your constant reader,

“V. G. GOULDING,
Band Sixth Infantry.”

While we are pleased to see a soldier stand by his
colors, we doubt it a private soldier would have put such
a good face on the matter. Members of a military band
have better pay, better quarters, better rations, and are
not subject to guard-duty drill or camp work. If there
is nothing wrong with army life, itis singular that the
desertions each year run up into the thousands, and
that scores of men who can’t desert commit suicide.
While no one doubts that there are plenty of good men
in the army, and while it is possible fora man to save
up afew hundred dollars, it is a life calculated to upset
and unlit a young man for a quiet and industrious exist-
ence. He must crush down all spirit of independence
and become a machine. He lives entirely in the society
of men, and some of them of dissolute habits. The near-
est building to a fort is invariably a saloon. Soldiers
have no society but theirown. Few realize the need of
economy or further education.

We therefore repeat—and we do so looking back over
a long experience in army life—that the army is the last
place we should advise a boy to seek as a means of get-
ting along in the world.

 

 

|

 

NEMESIS.

 

BY G. CLIFTON BINGHAM.

 

When he and she were ten and eight,
His little wife was she ;

And both were quite content to wait
Till he a man should be.

They played together as they grew ;
A tyrant lord was he—

They'd quarrel when the clock was two,
And make it up at three!

At fifteen he on girlish toys
Looks down with scornful mien ;
And she disdains to play with boys
At feminine thirteen.
His matrimonial views are cool,
At love he gayly mocks ;
She boasts a dearest friend at school,
And daily lengthening frocks !

When twenty sees him quite a man,
Its bliss has one alloy:

She laughs at him behind her fan,
And calls him such a boy.

For she has levers now galore,
Who smiles and favor crave ;

And he who tyrannized of yore,
Is now her humblest slave!

They now are middle-aged; ’tissaid ~«
His chin a beard now covers ;

And strange to say, she’s not yet wed,
In spite of all her lovers!

But vain for her to sigh for him,
For so the story telis—

Grown weary of caprice and whim,
He’s married some one else!

Be Ot

My Night With the Paris Commune.

BY ALEXANDER C. THOMPSON.

 

 

«There is to be some fun down town to night. Would
you like to see it ?”

The speaker was a young United States Consul, with
whom I had been more or less in company ever since we
left the ship at Liverpool. He was returning to his con-
sulate at , and I was traveling for pleasure. AS
Mr. Post, so let me disguise him, ‘‘ knew all the ropes,”
I had found him a delightful companion about Paris; a
cool, wise, upright gentleman, and about my own age.

“A row, you mean,” I answered. ‘I see by the pa-
pers that the mob has been smashing the kiosks where
the government newspapers are sold.”

“Yes; and the emperoris going toclean the rascals
out to-night. You see how Napoleon subdues the city
and keeps the Commune under.. Lots of splendid troops
will be out. Better godown. I’m going.”

«But, Post, you perhaps don’t mind getting shot. 1
do, however. I want to return to America, one of these
days.”

Post laughed at me,

‘“‘Of course there may be a stray bullet or two. But
that’s the spice of it. Come on.”

‘‘ Never!” shouted the alarmhed voice of my young

wife. ‘Are you both crazy ?”

The lady had just caught the last few words of the
conversation, as she entered the room; and she nearly
put the whole excursion out of my reach by her affec-
tionate protests. Mr. Post hastened to retract all that
he had said about dangers from fusillades, though I
am afraid not speaking very honestly. After we had
finally got out of doors on our way, the venturesome fel-
low, with a slap on my-shoulder, nearly dissuaded me
without intending it, as he exclaimed:

“Weare far more in danger of arrest and a night in
prison than ot being killed.”

However, we were now in for it, whatever the result.
We took the usual stage ride dewn the Champs Elysees,
and along the Rue Rivoli till we came within easy walk
of the Boulevard des Italiens. We noticed the unusual
quiet of neighboring great thoroughfares that we
traversed. But you will never see the Boulevard des
Italiens so thronged again. That always brilliant ave-
nue was, this particular June night, in a perfect blaze
of splendor.
throngs, and indifferent as to the perilous cause of the
rush, had put all their window gas to its utmost effort.
Goods, trinkets, costly wares of every conceivable kind,
were displayed under the enhancing light as never be-
fore, to my knowledge. And the cafes, too, were reso-
nant with clink of glasses, strains of nmzusic from count-
less bands, and the excited chatter of many guests
who could hardly sit still long enough to drink, so in-
tense was the nervous strain of anticipation. It seemed
as itall Paris had come to the Boulevard des Italiens,
or What had not arrived were on their way, choking the
Boulevard Montimartre beyond from. curb to curb till
vehicles actually turned aside to other streets.

All motion beifig at once out of the question; Post and
I mounted the steps of the Librarie Nouville and
watched the scene. This avenue is the resort of the
fashionables tor shopping purposes. The lights on the
Grand Opera House usually flash down the Rue de
Peletiere upon as brave ashow of pleasure-seekers,
on foot and in carriages, as perhaps the world has ever
seen.

Yet all eyes were anxiously turned, at intervals, up
toward that far-reaching boulevard that leads to the
Montmartre suburb, the region of turbulence and re-
bellions, the home of the ever-unconquerable mob. We
all knew that from thence the danger or the ‘‘fun” of
the night was to be expected. It was to issue like a
black torrent, the angry tide of the poor and discon-
tented, and roll down here to make a brave show of
itself, if no more. The exciting cause of this particular
outbreak was a bit of legislation of two days before, by
which the emperor had driven a fresh bolt into the iron
legal system which he had been so long fastening on the
people. That is what it amounted to, and I skip all at-
tempt at other explanations. Not a newspaper that
had that day ventured to publish the new legal enact-
ment but had been attacked, the office windows shat-
tered, the selling stands (called kiosks) overturned and
trampled on, and the fragments lay under our feet as
we walked along, I remember.

We waited and watched the ever-flowing and ebbing
throng till midnight. Indeed, we could not have gotten
adozen yards from our perch had we tried. Suddenly,
far off up the darkened Boulevard Montmartre, we heard
the roll of drums. Along that distant thoroughfare the
plotters of the night’s mischief had begun to extinguish
the street-lamps as early as ten o’clock. By midnight
a pall of utter darkness hung over that yawning mouth
whence the threat to the city’s peace was being uttered.

It was exceedingly impressive; the thought of those
burrowing thousands who might crawl out from the
shades of that region; the memory of wild nights and
days which this same old city had seen when up from
St. Antoine the tiger had crept, thirsting for blood and
drinking it, too, as from a river, even in the proud Place
de la Concord where the guillotine stood; the conjured
image of the dull-eyed, relentless emperer sitting just a
few squares back of us in the Tuileries palace, deter-
mined to keep his head on his own shoulders no matter
how many other heads were cut off. All this and more
we speculated about as the roll of the drums came echo-
ing toward us on that summer evening.

The throng at a distance raised the cry: ‘‘The troops!
The troops!” and began to wedge back on the already
packed Boulevard des Italiens.

Then slowly, pressing out of the gloom into the
brilliant light that stiil flooded our street, a tile of soldiers
with drawn bayonets on the sidewalks. In the center
ot thestreet, with ranks four abreast, the most magniti-
cently mounted cavalry Iever saw. The horses were
superb. The trappings were made conspicuous for effect.
The men sat like cavaliers, each with saber drawn and
held at the shoulder. The plumes danced in the light
like a feathery sea except for the gleam of the steel
which they partly shrouded. The noise of the hoofs on
the stones was startling ; the clatter of dangling saber-
sheaths and other trappings was yet more suggestive
and impressive.

An official rode to the front and read an imperial order
for closing the thoroughtare. Then, wheeling back into
the troop, he gave the stern order to advance. Like
some huge besom the force swept the street, slowly yet
surely, for perhaps a hundred feet. Then a halt and the
same things over again. Of course the people retreated.
Where they found the place of exit ] know not; but go
they must and did.

Post and I watched the broom as it neared us, and
wondered whither we would fly. There were shots
now ; and the horrible wail of angry despair which al-
ways goes up when the populace are being killed. Did
youever hearit? It freezes the blood! Did you ever
see the flash of a volley; then the knot of citizens
bending over something dreadful that must be lying
out there in the street ; then a woman's scream of recog:
nition and perhaps a child’s name shouted? Then the
bearing of the dark piles away. :

Post and I waited as long as we dared. The soldiers
were not twenty feet fromus. Like chips afloat ona
Stream, we were simply swept out on the heads and
shoulders of men, and women too! Thank Heaven we
were not on our feet! It would have been a trampling
to death. Wetound ourselves on the right side of the
avenue, in the Marivaux. We stopped to take breath.
The process of clearing out the great boulevard went on
past the entrance of the street in which we were stand-
ing and trying to tie our clothing on again.

By the time we were ready to begin to walk again, the
Boulevard des Italiens was as deserted in front of us as
a grave-yard. We stepped into it; we looked up and
down the grand thoroughfare with amazement. Nota
shop, not a house, not acafe was open! Nota light shone
except the street lamps, and they blinked sleepily far
up and down the desvlate distances, where thousands
had just been massed, like peeping sentinels. Nota
solitary human being was to seen except ourselves!
The echo of our footsteps sounded with an audible echo
across the street and along the facade of slumbering
edifices. It was, where we walked like a city of the
dead. {[t seemed inconceivable that the iron hand of
imperialism could haye so completely prevailed over
these angry masses.

 

That is, the shopkeepers, anticipating the |

 

|

 

|

| forward then, the future Seemed very bright; but, alas

 

“Let's go home,” said Post; ‘‘the fun is over.” And
we crossed the street with that intention.

Halt!”

It was a disagreeable sound that rang out to us so
sharply on the after-midnight air. But it was a more
disagreeable sight that confronted us. A file of soldiers

-| closing up the street of our exif, and so, doubtless, every

street that intersected the boulevard. We saw it all at
aglance. There was no getting out of the boulevard.
We were prisoners. A soldier grasped each of us by the
arm, not tenderly, and was about to march us off to
rison.

P *“Confound you, you idiot!” éxclaimed Post, in disgust
and anger. But he unfortunately spoke in English, as
it is natural in passion to use one’s native tongue.

‘Take your hands off of me!” 1 had the pluck to say,
at the same time attempting to shake myself loose. I
spoke in French, though of course betrayed by my pro-
nunciation.

A fellow lifted his musket to rap me over. ‘Three or
four officers started out of the line to help in the arrest,
when suddenly Post saw the upraised weapon, and
shouted :

‘You scoundrels!, We are Americans!”

1 can hear the echo of that shout in the silent streets
even yet. It pealed forth in good round French words,
fortunately. ‘The weapon dropped.

‘‘Leclaire, they are not of the Commune.
These are from the United States !”

It was a subaltern’s yell to his superior officer.

The ofticer approached, cap off, and said :

“From America? The grand America ?”

“Of course, fellow !” growled Post.

“The Americans will pardon,” he resumed, ‘The
order is most strict All suspects——”

“Come, now,” cried Post, ‘‘do not add insult to injury.
Do we look like suspects ?”

I must confess that we did. Asingle glance at our
disarrayed attire was not very assuring. But the officer
was soon Satisfied that we were not suspects.

When the Frenchman had finished his voluble apolo-
gies Post said, with much show of calm dignity now :

‘My boy, you have narrowly escaped precipitating
the whole United States Army down on your troubled
state. For my part,I am simply aconsul at , a
mere public servant. But. thes. young gentleman here,”
pointing to me, ‘is one of the rulers of his land. Heis
an el+peror, a king, a poteys sAbine you please.
He, with others, elects all the rulers and the law-
makers-—all the judges of his country. Iam his servant.
Understand ?”

“Yes, yes!”

He understood. Yet, of course, he did not; for the
sense in which Post spoke, the truth would have been
as incomprehensible to a captain in the Imperial army
as Greek to a Cherokee Indian.

“Well, now,” Post resumed, “it seems to be an ugly
night to be out alone. Give usa oo and we will go
peaceably back to our hotel, and say no more about
your fine mistake.”

We got the guard instantly, more for the fun of the
thing than actual need, and wagsoon safely returned
to our hotel. And yet the experience cured me of a
desire to see a mob near by. I prefer the reporters to
do my seeing and write it up for my more quiet perusal
in my library.

Approach!

 

>e<——____

THE SfORY OF A HERMIT.

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

 

In one of the north-western, mountainous counties of
Pennsylvania there lived for many years a hermit, of
whom no one had any knowledge.

His abode was a cave, in a wild region; and he never
appeared among his fellow-Hgings except to dispose of
his skins and furs in exchange for powder, lead, and
such other necessaries as his hermit life required.

He would never, while living, reveal his name, nor
place of birth, nor the cause which had led him to se-
clude himself from the world,

One day a couple of hunters, passing through that
region, visited the cave and found the hermit not only
dead, but in a state of decomposition.

As it was too wild a region to expect. a coroner and
jury to sit on the body, they dug a hole and buried it,
and brought away the gun, some garments, and a few
trifles which belonged to the deceased, and which they
deposited at the nearest magistrate’s office, with a full
statement of the facts.

Ina pocket of one of these garments was found a
manuscript, supposed to have been Written by the de-

ceased, and which, as it tes jis own story, we here
transcribe without a word ofegmment.
I was born ina year 1 Shai mot record, in a place I
shall not reveal, and under @ ame 1 shall not disclose.
For many long years | hay been dead to the world,
and my desire now is that @e wayes of oblivion shall
roll over Ine apd leave meas Dad never been.
And yet thefre are soni “my lite which I wish
to set forth.
Why ?
Well, I dou d et
I only know that the Tim
down, perhaya to destroy ge
My youth passed ple
1 had kind, indulgent, all

     
   
    
     

 
    

tif I could why.
t me to write them

pyhen done.

  
 

       
     
    

 

 

 

 

rents, who sought

   
   
 
 

to make my lite a happy OAs

I was sent to school at @mearly age, and kept there
till I had acquired a good Eniiish education.

Then, at my own request, | became an under clerk in
Se large dry-goods establisiijent of a prosperous mer-
chant.

By strict mtegrity and aff
first position. £y

At two-and-twenty [ ha@the confidence of my em-
ployer, and was often imvited tg his dwelling.

At first this made me Ver) lappy; and as I looked

fehee I gradually rose to a

and alas, this was the luning Of a sorrow which will
never end while 1 remain on earéli.

My.employer had a @augiter-a kind, gentle, lovely
being—wkho, to my enraptured vision, seemed an angel
just come down from Paradise, _

From the moment I first beheld her my whole soul
went out to her, and from that time forth I could con-
ceive of no enjoyment in which she had no part.

As I am confessing this to myself, or to a world that
will never know me, I will Say that I loved her to a
degree of worship which made her a something above
and beyond my reach; and though naturally easy and
fluent in conversation, I could not speak to her without
changing color and choking, and appearing more like
an idiot than a man of sense, ‘

This made me avoid meeting her when alone, or
pressing forward to take-s®rchance with those who
were seeking her at every Opportunity, perhaps because
ot a liking for kerself, perhaps because of a liking for the
money she would inherit, ‘

I do not think she ever suspected me of having any
regard for her beyond that of ber being the daugiter of
my employer, whom I wasin duty bound to treat with
respectful deference, and certain Iam that she had no
ConvopnPs of the holy love and worship I secretly gave

er

As I have said, I avoided as much as possible coming
in contact with her—would have gone a mile out of
my way rather than speak to her, and yet her presence,
in any company of which I formed a part, was a glowing
joy. and her absence a depressing void.

Among her numerous suitors was a fellow-clerk, who
held a position of confidence under our employer similar
to my Own, and who, when we were alone together, was
always praising her sweetness and beauty, and pro-
Claiming his own undying love.

“Ob, fancy the golden moment when I shall be able
to clasp her dear little hand in mine, and call her by the
endearing name of wife!’ he would sometimes exclaim,
or use words of similar import: and when 1 would as
often turn aside, to coneedil the feelings that would al-
most overpower me, he would mistake my action fora
dislike of the subject.

“Ah,” he one day said to me,” I perceive my darling
finds no favor in your sight; and she knows you do not
like her; but for my sake, i trust you will not let her
see that you absolutely hate the sigut of her person and
the mention of her name.” .— * »

This to me, whose excess of love for the object in ques-
tion was consuming me liké an inward fire.

“Man,” cried I, turning upon him with the glaring
fury of a wild beast, ‘‘if you loved that being with one
tenth of the passion that is destroying me, you would
cut your wagging tongue from your gaping mouth ere
you would permit so flippant a mention of so sacred a
name.’

He started, and stared at me, while I walked indig-
nantly away.

Did he understand my words ?
them in their breadth and depth ?

Only so far, perhaps, as a shallow brain and a super-
ficial feeling could reach, for he was one entity, and I
another.

From that moment, however, he ceased to speak of
her in my presence ; and I, feeling that she was lost to
me forever, only secretly worshiped her from afar.

So matters drifted on for a time, and I became miser-
able over my solitary brooding ; and while I wished my-
self far enough from the scene of arival’s triumph, I
shrank from the thought of going where I should never
look upon my idol again.

One night, having forgotten something at the’store,
I procured the key froin the porter and entered the
building.

To my surprise, I soon perceived the glimmer of a
light in the counting-room ; and on approaching it cau-
tiously, thinking there might be a burglar at work, I
was still more surprised to see the safe door open and
my rival seated on the tloor, apparently counting a large
roll of bank-notes. _

“Well, this looks like singular night-work !” said T.

With a startled cry, he fairly leaped to his feet, letting
the money fall around him, and turned toward me one
of the most ghastly faces I ever beheld.

After looking straight in my face for a few moments,
during which he shook and trembled and his very lips
quivered, he stammered out:

“Wh-wh-why, is it you?
want ?”

‘Suppose in turn I ask you what you are doing with

Did he comprehend

Wha-wha-what do you

 

that open safe and money at this untimely hour ?”
“Ob, that?” he answered. glancing down at the scat-
tered bank-notes, and evidently recovering himself with

| ourself we are willing for others to be happy ; but when

an effort. ‘Ha, ha!”—he affected to laugh.. ‘‘Do you
know, my dear fellow, I took you for a burglar!”

“Instead of yourself, eh ?”

“The fact is, you see, my dear friend——”

a you leave the ‘dear friend’ off ?” I inter-
rupted.

Weil, then,” he coolly went on, ‘‘the fact is, that,
after going home, the idea came into my head thatI
had madea mistake in my money report; and as the
governor, you know” (meaning our employer) ‘‘is very
particular about trifles, and might discover it before I
should get a chance to make a correction, I thought I
had better attend to it at once.”

«And doubtless you found an error, which you were
about to set right!” I said, with a sneer which he seemed
not to notice, e

‘Oh, yes, I think there was an error; but I am not
quite sure, because of your interruption. I shall have
to go all over the money again. And now that I have
accounted for my presence here, suppose you do the
same,” he added, giving me a searching look.

‘Well, I came into get—” here it occurred to me that
{, an honest man, was being interrogated by one who
was perhaps a thief, and I suddenly broke off and added,
“That is my business.”

**Oho!” he exclaimed, with a peculiar look and leer.

“And Icame in by the porters key!’ I sharply con-
tinued.

“Aha! yes, yes! Just so!”

“And by what key did you come in ?”

‘*] suppose you are not ignorant of the fact that there
is a private key ?” he answered.

‘Which belongs to the governor.”

‘And which his daughter could get for me.”

‘‘ Having every contidence in your integrity.”

“At least she ought to have in her future husband,

you know.”
This allusion to his coming marriage with my wor-
shiped angel nearly drove me wild. °

I controlled myself as well as I could, and merely said:

‘‘) hope you will find your money affair all correct,
and not have to take away or add anything !”

“Thank you! I hope! shall!” he blandly answered.

I turned away abruptly to seek what I came for and
leave the building.

As [was about to depart, in no enviable frame of
mind, he called out :

‘‘T suppose you will report what you have discovered,
and as much to my injury as possible !”

‘‘ Probably you are now judging me by yourself!” I
angrily replied; ‘‘ but I will thank you to understand
that I am too much of a gentleman to be a tale-bearer.”

“All right, then, and good-night !” he said.

Being too angry to respond, | hurried out and locked
the door, without saying another word.

 

Ireturned the key to the porter; but I did not men-
tion to him, nor to any one else, the fact of my having
met my fellow-clerk in the building, under circum-
stances so calculated to excite suspicion of his being |
there for an evil purpose.

In this I am now certain I did wrong; but I was |
young then, without experience in the evil ways of |
mankind, strictly honest and honorable myself, and |
possessed too much pride to demean myself to the low

condition of a tale-bearer.

I reasoned, too, that if my rival had originally de-
signed to rob his employer, he would not do it after
what had occurred, and that I really had no right to in-
jure his reputation merely because he had been chosen
from all the world by the fair being who was all the
world to me.

It was something like a month after this event, that I
was one day fearfully startled and shocked at suddenly
finding myself under arrest for stealing money from my
employer.

Notwithstanding that I knew myself to be entirely in-
nocent, the very fact that [ shuuld be suspected of such |
a nefarious transaction nearly crushed me with shame.

Judge of my unbounded amazement and horror, then,
on being assured that marked money had been found
in my trunk, that the amount of five thousand dollars
had been abstracted within the last few weeks, that my
fellow-clerk and rival had suspected me ever since the
night (so he swore) he had seen me coming out of the
store, and that the porter had already given evidence of
my having borrowed his key to enter the building at an
unseasonable hour.

I comprehended at once that this was a most fiendish
plot of my rival to get me out of the way and shield his
own thievery, for he alone had robbed his employer and
profited by it.

What could I do?

My statement of the fact that I had entered the prem-
ises for another purpose was not beReved; and when I

 

 

added the whole truth of what I had seen there, I was
simply regarded asa cold-blooded rascal, who was try-
ing to involve an innocent young man in my own ruin.

All my previous life of probity went for nothing, or
only stood out, white-robed, to make my later acts ap-
pear more dark and damning.

Well, to be brief, I was tried, and convicted, and sent
to the penitentiary to serve a term of years.

She who was my idol was present when the awful
verdict ‘‘guilty” was pronounced by the jury, and I
Shall never forget the mourntul look of pity with which
she regarded me for the last time as she passed by me
in the felon's dock, leaning on the arm of my wicked
rival and destroyer.

Well, I was, aS I have said, sent to the penitentiary ;
and 1 served .out my time; but before I left that place
ot misery and degradation, I fad the satistaction of sée-
ing my hated rival there, inthe prison garb, justly
brought there by his evildeeds.

After my release I learned that
worshiped love, had died of a broke

That was the end of life for me.

All since then has been only the dull, dreary round of
a mechanical existence, with no hopes, no fears, no
passions, nothing but the tired waiting here till the
Master shall call me hence.

I am as one dead—I am as one buried—and the world
and all that live in the world are dead to me.

Why do I still exist ?

Because it would be very sinful to litt my hand against
the life the Master gave me.

Let Him work His will, how and when He will, and
let me humbly bow before the awful mystery that I can-
not understand.

He, who hath a purpose in all things, placed me here
for a purpose, afflicted me for a purpose, and will work
out a purpose through my sufferings; but what that pur-
pose was, or is, or is to be, is known to Him alone.

lonly wait for the end, and resign myself to say :

“God's will be done on earth’as in Heaven.”

NERVES.

BY KATE THORN.

S angel wife, my |
heart.

 

 

 

 

“Every ache or pain,” says ah eminent modern phy-
sician, ‘‘is the cry of a starving nerve for healthy food !”

What a quantity of nerves there must be in the world
on the verge of starvation! What a benefactor to his
race would that man be who would discover just what
kind of food these same nerves were hankering after!

Every patent medicine dealer and every quack doctor
assures us that he has found it; but we spend our money
and nauseate our stomachs, and ache on! With all the
researches of science, nobody has yet discovered any-
thing to stop the simplest ache in the world—toothache
—no effectual remedy except cold steel.

Once nerves were not very greatly believed in. The
woman who was nervous was called spleeny—which
meant, in effect, that she only fancied hefself sick.

But the time has long since passed when nerves were
of no account, and when they were confined almost ex-
clusively towomen. Once neuralgia was a fashionable
ailment; now any poor man Can have it.

The poor have long complained that they were op-
pressed by the rich, and that none of their privileges
were allowed the son of poverty; but let the poor and
respectable man rejoice—he can have nerves with the

best of them. He has justas good a right to nervous
prostration as the millionaire. He can take three bot-
tles of Jones’ Superlative Elixir of Existence and be
raised from the grave, and get his name in the news-
paper as a living marvel, alongside of Jenkins, who lives

 

inamarble front, and has paralysis from holding his
hand constantly in one position, cutting off coupons
from government bonds.

In view of the suffering to which nerves subject poor
mortality, it seems to be a pity that we could not have
been got up without them. What a train of. distresses
would have been avoided.

Husbands might have come home late at night, and
gone to bed with their boots on, and not made their
wives so nervous they could fly. The baby might have
cried all night, and enjoyed itself in the free exercise of
its privileges, without the risk of setting its father’s
nerves ‘‘allon edge.” Mother-in-law might have come
twice a year with seven trunks and three bandboxes,
and her son-in-law would have been as serene as a Ssum-
mer’s morning under the infliction. Family quarrels
would have been delightfully less frequent, dressmakers’
bills would not have driven the bread winner of the
family furious, and his wife would not have gone into
hysterics when he called on her to sew on buttons, and
turned all the bureau drawers topsy turvy in pursuit of
a pair of stockings with no holes in them. ?

The person with diseased nerves is: an object of sym-
pathy. He needs all the grace and faith and patience
which can be given’ him. Nobody knows what he suffers.
Every moment is an agony. The touch of affection,
even, is often a distress, and the sympathy which his
friends would give him only makes him fidgety and un-
comfortable.

Diseased nerves will change a person entirely. They
will make him all over. Irritability is only diseased
nerves. Bad temper is something wrong with the
nerves. The cheerful, good-natured, Mark Tapley sort
ot a man, is only a man with a reliable stomach and
healthy nerves. The man who succeeds in life, and in
whose hands everything is lucky, is the man who has
sound nerves. ;

The woman who is always agreeable, and who makes
everybody happy, and who always has pound-cake and
jelly in the house, is the woman whose nerves are ina
state of health, and itis no particular credit to her that
she makes home happy. For when we are comfortable

 

every Square inch of our bodies ached, and every faculty

of soul and body is absorbed in realizing how dreadfully,
awtully, distractingly uncomfortable we. feel, what do
we care whether home is pleasant or otherwise? What
heart have we to think of plum-cake or clean sheets or

bright grates, or anything else lovely? Let a sufferer '

answer,

 

Correspondence,

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

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 f ully 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. ]

 

J. Me. C., Jersey City.—Ist. Americans have no need to re-
gard Friday as an unlucky day. A few examples will make
this clear: On Friday Columbus sailed on his great voyage of
discovery. On Friday he first discovered land. On Friday
he sailed on his return to Spain. On Friday he reached
Palos in safety. On Friday he arrived at Hispaniola on his
second voyage to America. On Friday the Mayflower, with
the Pilgrims, made the harbor of Provincetown. On Friday
they made their final landing at Plymouth Rock. On Friday
George Washington was born. On Friday the surrender of
Saratoga was made. On Friday the surrender of Yorktown
occurred. And on Friday the motion in Congress was made

that the United States colonies were, and of right onght to
be, free and independent . 3d, See almost any school history.
3d. Xerxes counted his vast army by inclosing his men in pens.
A square of soldiers, one hundred men deep, was first formed,
and then stakes driven round them. The army, by detail, was
weached in and out of this pen one hundred and eighty

imes,
amounting to one million eight’ hundred’ thousand men.
But, according to Herodotus, the army of Xerxes was much
larger than this. He says it amounted to 1,700,000 foot and
80,000 horse, with Libyan war chariots and Arabian, camels.
Besides these, upon the fleet of 1,207 ships of .war and 3,000
smaller vessels and transports, wasaforce which swelled
the number of combatants to 2,317,000. Making allowance
for some exagyerations in this computation, the army was
very probably the greatest ever assembled. . The reason
that milk frequently turns sour during a thunder-storm, or
when the air issurcharged with electricity, is thus explained:
The air consists of two gases, called oxygen and nitrogen,
mixed toxether, but not chemically combined. Oxygen, comn-
bined with nitrogen produces five deadly poisons; namel :
nitrous oxide, nitric oxide. hyponitrous acid, nitrous aci
and nitric. acid, according to the proportion of each gas
which enters into the combination, The electric fiuid
causes these gases, which, as has been said, are merely mized
in the air, chemically to combine, and form an acid, which
produces the effect in question.

L. E. &., Vallejo, Cal.—ist. Cellulose is one of the sub-
stances constituting the cellular tissue of plants, being the
material which forms the walls or sides of the vegetable
cells, while lignine is that which fills those cells or covers.
their walls. It consists, like starch, of carbon, hydrogen
and oxygen, and is convertible into starch and sugar. 24’
Paper is chiefly made from linen and cotton rags; old paper,
straw, and several kinds of grasses and woods. When made
from straw, the straw is first cut upinto small pieces and
boiled with soda to get out the. resin or gum, and then made

into pulp in the sante way as rags and old paper. Rye Straw
is generally used in the Eastern States, and wheat straw im
the Western States. For making paper pulpfrom wood, pop-
lar and basswood are mostly used, beeause they are very
white and have but little resin in them. The «oud is first

cut up into small chips by machines which ean make forty ~

large cart loads of wood into chips in a day.
boiled with soda, which takes out the resin, and afterward
bleached and made into ar When paper is made of two
or three different materials, they are mixed in the pulp.
Wood and straw pulp have always some cotton pulp put wit
them, and linen pulp is generally mixed with cotton. If the
paper is to be colored the coloring matter is put into the
ulp. White clay is added to it, which makes the paper
eavier, smoother, and thicker. Sizing“is then put in, which
hardens the surface of the paper. In the United States pa-
per is now made entirely ered: 3d. Paper puip is
also made into many other things. such as pasteboabd for
book-binding and for boxes, paper mache, boards to cover
the sides and roofs of houses, etc. 4th. A practical treatise
on the manufacture of paper, in allits branches, can be fur-
nished for $30. It is illustrated with over a hundred wood
engravings, and five large folding plates. Amony other mat-

The chips are

tersit treats of fibers or cellulose. e is in one vol-
ume, bound in cloth, and contains about 400 page f you
wish it, write direct to the NEw YorK WEEKLY hasing

Agency.

Christine Carlo, Ga.—1st. A letter addressed to the gentile-
man named will reach him through the general post-office
this city, and receive attention. 2d. Alfonso XII., King of
Spain, who died on the 25th of November last, was twice
married., His first wife was the Princess Marie-de-las Mer-
cedes, youngest daughter of the Duc de Montpensier, to
whom he was united on Jan. 23,1878. He was left a widower
in the same year. In November 1879, he was married to the
Archduchess Marie Christina, of Austria, in whose arms he
died. 3d. Prince Milan IV.,of Servia, assumed himself the reins
cf government on August 22, 1872. He was born in 1856, and had
been proclaimed. Fuly 2, 186s, Prince of Servia. He was pro-
claimed king on March 6, 1882. He married on Oct. 17, 1875,
Natalie de“Keczko. wbo was born on May 14, 1859. The heir
apparent is Prince Alexander ; born on August I4, 1876. 4th.
“Beulah,” by Augusta J. Evans, will cost $1.75. If you wish
it, write direct to the New YoRK WEEKLY Purchasing Agen-
cy. 5ih. The heir apparent of Russia was born on May 1
1868. 6th. Self-teaching German and Spanish books will ¢
25 cents each. 7th. ‘How to Read Character” can be fur-
nished for $1.25. 8th. Not in book-form. 9th. Guillemeau
was a French surgeon. 10th. To reduce inflammation of the
eyelids, bathe them night and morning in warm water. llth.
Eureka signifies a discovery ; especially a discovery made af-
ter longfand patient, or difficult research. 12th We know
nothing, personally, of the cosmetic named. 13th It is a
nom de plume. 14th. Et cetera means the rest, or others of
the kind; and so on; and so forth. 15th. We presume you
refer to the Latin quotation, Resurgam—“T shall arise again.”
16th. Not known to us.

Ignorant.—\st. Money is usually gold, silver, or copper,
stamped by public authority, and used as the medium of
commerce. It also includes bank-notes or bills of credit is-
sued or putin circulation by authority. The coins of the
United States are made at the mint in Philadelphia, and at
the branch mints in New Orleans, San Fransisc§ Carson
City, and Denver. Those coined in Philadelphicfhave no
mint mark on them ; but those coined in New Orleans have
an O on the reverse below .the eagle. Those coined at San
Francisco have an §, those at Carson City, C. C, and those at
Denver, D. 2d. The rules of the houschold generAlly -
late the calls of visitors. 3d. Refuse him the slightest nofice
until-properly introduced.

A. J.. San Francisco.—ist. Yellow dock root and ‘Sarsa-
parilla will help to purify the blood. You can obtin prepa-
rations of them at any druggist’s. It will also relieve you of
fleshworms. 2d. Perfumes should be used _ very sparingly ;
even those of thé most delicate kind. 3d. Glycerine dilute
with water will sometimes improve the skin. 4th. No per-
sonal knowledge on the subject.

H. L. G., Fort Scott, Kans.—ist. Walter Scott’s poems, “The
Lay of the Last Minstrel,” ‘The Lady of the Lake,” and
“Marmion,” can be furnished, in cloth, for forty cents each.
2d. Kither form is in good taste. 3d. See ‘‘Webster’s Unabridg-
ed Dictionary.” 4th. We notice no particular “character” in
the chirography. 5th. Soon.

/
A. L.. Topeka, Kans.—The coinage of the U. S. Mints du-

ring the fiscal year oe June 30, 1882, was as follows:
Gold coinage, 413,447.50. Silver coinage: Silver dollars,
$27,772,075. Halves, quarters, and dimes, $11,313.75, Minor
coinage—five, three, two, and one cent pieces—$644,757 75.
Total coinage $117,841,594.

J. H. K., Racine, Wis.—Tin-foil is sometimes made by roll-
ing out blocks of pure tin to the right thickness in powerful

machines, and sometimes by making the tin into a roller
and turning it round slowly against a knife which shaves off
a thin sheet all round it. .

L. E. W.—Yes. A divorcegranted under the circumstance
stated leaves both parties at snenty to marry again, unless
the statute granting the divorce otherwise provides; and even
then it is presumed such statute could have no force beyond
the limits of the State.

A. A, B., Grand Rapids, Mich.—The “Painter, Gilder, and

art of glass staining. Price $1.50.
L. W., Owensborogh, Ky.—In regard to acquiring hom

steadsin Texas, write to “W. C. Walsh, Commissioner of
Lands, Austin, ‘Pexas.”

Mattie B. S., Madison, N. C.—The papers containing “The
Golden Heart will cost 78 cents.

Mary Gray, San Francisco._No impropriety in accepting
such a present.

Bessie Lee, Frederick, Md.—Inquire at the Union Depot in
Baltimore.

Varnisher’s Companion” contains everything relating totheys

“i

Maine.—We cannot vouch for their efficacy.
Mrs. Dolly R.—No knowledge of it.
>eo~

A PROFITABLE DUEL.

 

«We had,” said one of the crowd, ‘‘one of the funniest
duels I ever saw at college. It was aput-up job, of
course. The pistols were not loaded with ball, but the
duelists did not know that. They stood up like men,
apparently, but one of them got-so nervous he fired be-
fore the word was given... That placed him at the mercy

of his opponent, who was a poor wretch and rather
shrewd. As soon as the pistol went off the individual
who fired it got utterly scared. The other stood calm
and determined, and proceeded to take leisurely aim.

«« Don’t shoot!’ yelled the victim. ‘Don’t shoot!”

««<J believe it is my turn, isn’t it? he asked, and
turned to the seconds.

«« Of. course it is; go ahead.’ And he again leisurely
covered his man.

«Hold on! Hold on! I'll give you $500 if you won’t
shoot.’

« Taint enough.’

« For Heaven's sake! I'll give you $750.’

«“The man with the pistol sneered, and covered him
once more.

«« How much will you take ?

« «A thousand dollars.’

“Pll give it. Put that cursed thing down.’

« And he paid his little $1,000.”

giving the commander an enumeration of his host .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

so

 

 

 

 
 

  
   
   
  
 

 
  
 
 
  
    
   

 

 

 

 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
      
 
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
   
 

 

 

 

o

eal oes

 

 
 
  
 
 
   
 
 
  

a

  
  
 
  

   

 

*

 

 

 

 

 
 

And

 

 

--

* him he could receive no more from him; that if he h:
own

 

 

 

re amt

WATCHING AND WAITING.

 

BY EBEN. E. REXFORD.

The new moon, the harvest moon, shone softly in the

west,
’ And touched the waves with silver upon the ocean’s

While watching on the gray rocks a maiden thought of

m
Whose bark had borne her heart away beyond the hori-
zon’s rim.

( far moon, the maiden sang, I wonder if you see

Ship that bore my sailor boy so away trom me?
Oh, —_ moon, bonny moon, 1 one swift ray to

; r 7 ‘
A kiss to him, and a caress to linger in his hair.
oh, round moon, oh, red moon, he kissed me under
o ou : a

Go tel him tnat I love him yet, and that my heart is,
And, brave moon, bonny moon, tell him that I wait
And watch for him at twilight time, beside my mother’s

Ob, wan moon, oh, white moon, why have you grown so

ee

ea Ss aes iss 2
Ah, a 1 5 ed answer her, and tell her what
you see : aap He OF
A white face, a dead beyond the harbor’s bar!
Oh, woman, waiting on shore, long will your wait-

ee

ing be!
Oh, sad moon, oh, solemn moon, the tides will come and
7 F

aritting sands and sea-weed hide the dead face on

__ the shore ;

SS sail and come again, in blossom time or snow.
Vhile she will wait and watch for him who will come
back no more.

eee -  —
STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ]

"RACY PARK.

By MRS. MARY 7. HOLMES,

 

 

Author of “Bessie’s Fortune.” ‘“‘Homestead on the
Hillside,” “Darkness and Daylight,” “Edith
Lyle's Secret,” “Queenie Hetherton,” etc.

 

ARK” was commenced in No.1. Back numbers
of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXI—(CONTINUED.)

‘Were you in the park house the morning after the
party ? That would be Wednesday,” Charles asked.

«Yes, I went to see Mr. Arthur Tracy, but could get
no answer to my knock,” Harold promptly replied, while
his face flushed scarlet, and he seemed annoyed at
something.

He could not explain to Charles his motive in going to
see Arthur, as, new that the first burst of indignation
“ne felt half ashamed of it himself. On the
n of the day of the party he had been at Grassy
Spring, helping Mrs. St. Claire with her flowers, and
after his work was done he had gone with Dick into the
billiard-room, where they found Tom Tracy and his
friend, young Raymond. They had come over for a game,
and the four boys were soon busily engaged in the con-
test. Harold, who had often played with Dick and was
something of an expert. proved himself thg most skill-
ful of them all, greatly to the chagrin of Tom, who had
not recognized him even bya nod. Dick, on the con-
trary, had introduced him to Fred Raymond with as
much ceremony as if he had been the Governor’s son,
instead of the boy who sometimes worked in his mo-

ther’s flower garden. And the Kentuckian had taken
him by the hand and greeted him cordially, with a famil

lar:
«How dye, Hastings? Glad to make your acquaint-
ance.”

There was nothing snobbish about Fred nd,

whose every instinct was gentlemanly and kind, and
Harold felt atease with him at once, and all through
the appeared at his best, and quite aS well bred
as either of his companions.
When the play was over Dick excused himself a mo-
nt, as he wished to speak with his father, who was
As he staid away longer than
had intended doing, Tom grew restless and angry,
, that Fred should treat Harold Hastings as an equal,
the two had at once entered into conversation, com-
ng notes with regard to their standing in schoo!
and discussing the merits of Cicero and Virgil, the latter
of which Harold had just commenced.

«We can’t wait here all day for Dick,” Tom said. -‘Let
us go out and look at the pictures.”

So they went down the stairs to a long hall, in which
many pictures were h g—some tamily portraits
and ers copies of the old masters which Mr. St.
Claire had brought from abroad. Near one of the por-
traits Fred lingered a long time, eet ipon its
beauty, and the resemblance he saw in it to little Nina
St. Claire, the daughter of the house, and whose aunt
the original had been. The portrait was not far from
the stair-way which led to the Dilliard-room, and Har-
old, who had remained behind, and was _ listlessly
“pape the balls, could not help hearing all they

“By the way, who is that Hastings? I don’t think 1
have seen him before ; he is a right clever chap,” Fred

oon bee

 

 
  

re ie said.
replied, in that sneering, contemptuous tone

which Harold knew so well, and which always made his
blood boil and bis fingers tingle with a desire to knock
the er down:
“Oh, that’s Hal Hastings, a oot boy, who does chores
for us and the St. Claires. is TN. preset used to
work at the park house, and so Uncle Arthur pays for
his schooling, and Hal allows it, which I think right
smallin him. 1 wouldn’t be a charity student, anyway,
if | never knew anything. Besides that, what’s the use
of education to chaps like him. Better stay as he was
I don’t believe in educating the masses, do

Of himself Tom could never have thought of all this,
ut he had heard it from his mother, who frequently
used the expression ‘‘not to elevate the masses,” forget-
ting that she was once herself a part of the mass which
she would now keep down,

Just what Fred saidinreply Harold did not hear.
There was a ringing in his ears, and he felt as if every
drop of blood in his ody was rushing to his head as he
~~ down, dizzy and bewildered, and aren

er the wound he ha‘ received this time. He h

cruelly
ad more

_ than once been taunted with his poverty and depend-

n Mr. Tracy, but the taunts had never hurt

him so before, and he could have cried outin his pain

as he thought of T'om’s words, and knew that in himself

ere was the making of afar nobler manhood than
m Tracy would ever know. ;7

as poverty. which one could not help, so terrible a
trace, an insuperable barrier to elevation, and was it.

_ Mean and small in him to accept his education from a

on whom he had noclaim? Possibly; and if so,
State of things should not continue. He would go
to Arthur Tracy, thank him for all he had done, and tell

an education, he must get it himself by the work of-bis
ds, and thus be beholden to no one.
of this resolution, he went down the stairs and’
,into the open air, which cooled his hot head.a little,
it was still throbbing terribly as he went
a4 a towai ee. Ce ia
ne he saw Je coming towa him, wit
unet Sagttiee Moran omek 21 ty.
“blowing around her forehead. The moment
saw him she knew something was the matter, and,
ening her steps to run, asked him what had hap-
, and why he looked so white and mad.
old was sure of sympathy from Jerry, and he told
, Which roused her to a high pitch of indig-

miserable, nasty, sneaking Tom!” she said,
short and emphasizing each adjective with a
stamp of her toot, as if she were Te — the
offending Tom. ‘I wish I had heard him. I'd have
scratched his eyes out; talking of you as if you were
dirt! L[hate him, and I told him so the otker day, and
spit at him when he tried to kiss me !”

«Kiss you! ‘Tom Tracy kiss you!” Harold exclaimed,
forgetting his own grief in this insult to Jerry; for it
seemed to him little less than profanity for lips like Tom
Tracy’s to touch his little Jerry.

“No, he didn’t, but he tried, right before that boy from
Kentucky ; but 1 wriggled away4rom him, and bit him,
too, and he called me a cat, and said he guessed I
wouldn't mind if you or Dick St, Claire tried to kiss me,
and [ shouldn't; but I'll fight him and Bill Peterkin
every time. I wonder why all the boys want to kiss me
so much!” _.

“I expect it is because you have just the sweetest
tle in the world,” Harold said, stooping down and
4 ing the lips which seemed made-for that use alone.

‘This little episode had helped somewhat to quiet Har-
‘old's state of mind, but did not change his resolve to
‘Speak to Mr. Tracy, and tell him that he could not re-
ceive any more favors from his hands. He would, how-

, wait until the morrow, as Jerry bade him do.
you will worry him so that he will be crazier than a
mm ata party,” she said, and so Harold waited, but
tarted tor the park the next morning as soon as he
thought Mr. Tracy would see him.

He had rung at the door of the rear hall, but as no
One heard him he ventured in, as he had sometimes
done before, when sent for Jerry if it rained, and as-
cending the stairs to the upper hall, knocked two or
three times at Arthur’s door, first gently, and then louder
as there came no response.

“He cannot be there, and I must come again,” he

ee

exmit THE NEW YORK

a

 

thought, as*he retraced his steps, reaching the door at
the lower end of the hall just as Mrs. Tracy came up the
broad staircase, on her way to her room.

As that day wore on, and the next, and the next, Har-
old n to care less for Tom’s insult, and to think that
possibly he had been hasty in his determination to de-
cline Arthur's assistance, ially as he meant to pay
baek every dollar when he was aman. He would at all
events wait a little, he thought, and so had made no
further effort to see Mr. Tracy, when Charles found him,
and told him he was wanted at the park house.

CHAPTER XXII.
SEARCHING FOR THE DIAMONDS.

They went directly to Mrs. Tracy’s room, where they
found that lady in a much higher fever of excitement than
when she first discovered her loss. All the household
had assembled in the hall and in her room, except Ar-
thur, who sat in his library, occasionally stopping to
listen to the sound of the many voices, and to wonder

vhy there was so much noise.

~ Tom was there with his friend, Fred. Raymond,
anxiously awaiting the arrival of Harold, whose face
wore a look of wonder and Paes which deepened
into utter amazement as Mrs. * sy angrily demanded
of him what his business was in the hall on Wednesday
morning when she saw him sneaking through the door.

«Where had you been, and did you see my diamonds ?
Somebody has stolen them,” she said, while Harold
‘gazed at her in utter astonishment.

“Somebody stolen your diamonds!” he repeated, with-
out the shadow of an idea that she could in any way
connect him with a theft; nor would the idea have come
to him at all, if Tom had not said to him, with a sneer :

“Better own up. Hal, and restore the property. Itis
your easiest way out of it,”

Then he comprehended, and had Tom knocked him
senseless the e could not have been greater. With
lips as white as ashes, and See tightly clenched, he
stood, shaking like a leaf and: ay elplessly, first at
one and then at another, unable te speak until his eyes
fell upon Jerry, whose face was a study. She had
thrown her head forward and on one side, and was look-
ing intently at Tom Tracy, while her blue eyes fiashed
fire, and her whole attitude was like that of a tiger
ready to pounce upon its prey. And when Harold said
faintly, “ask Jerry: she knows,” she did pa@nce upon
Tom, not bodily, but with her tongue, pouring out her
words so rapidly and mingling with them so much Ger-
a that it was almost impossible to understand all she
said.

“You miserable, good for nothing, nasty fellow,” she
began. ‘Do you dare accuse Harold of stealing! Steal-
ing! You, who are not fit to tie hisshoes! And do you
want to know why he was here that morning? I
can tell you; but no, 1 won’t tell you/ IT won’t speak
to you! [ll never speak to you again; and if you try to
kiss me as you did the other day, PHU—T'll scratch out
every single one of your eyes! You twit Harold of be-
ing poor, and call him acharity! What are you buta
charity .yourself, ’d like to know! Is this your house ?
No, sir! Itis Mr. Arthur’s! Everything is Mr. Arthur's,
and if you don’t quit being so mean to Harold [ll tell
him every single nasty thing I know about you! Then
see what he will do!”

As Jerry warmed with her subject, every look, every
gesture, and every tone of her voice was like Ar-
thur’s, and Frank watched her with a fascination which
made him forget everything else, until she turned sud-
denly to him, and in her own peculiar style and lan-
guage told him why Harold had come to the park house
that morning when the,diamonds were missing.

“T advised him to come,” she said, with all the air of a
grown woman, ‘‘and I said ’d stand by him, and I will,
forever and ever, amen!”

The words dropped trom her lips the more maturely,
perhaps, because she had used them once before with
reference to the humiliated boy, to whose pale, set face
there came a smile as he heard them again, and stretch-
ing out his hand he laid it on Jerry’s curly head with a
caressing motion which told plainer than words could
have done of his affection for and trust in her. s

What more Jerry might have said was prevented by
the appearance of a new actor upon the scene in the

 

 

 

 

confusion as long as he could, and then had rung for
Charles to inquire what it meant. But Charles was too

At last,

thought it rang three times sharply and a
uder, and

as no one came, and the bustle outside grew

(

ape

 

Jerry’s voice was distinctly heard, excited and angry,
Arthur started to see for himself what had happened.

“Oh, Mr. Arthur,” Jerry cried, as she caught sight of
him coming down the hall, ‘1 was just going after you,
to come and turn Tom out of doors, and everybody else
who says that Harold took Mrs. Tracy’s diamonds. She
has lost them, and Tom——”

But here she was interrupted by Tom himself, who,
always afraid of his uncle, and now more afraid than
ever because of the fiery gleam in his eyes, stammered
out that he had not accused Harold, nor any one; that
he ouly knew the diamonds were, gone and could not
have gone without heip. ,

«Do you mean those stones your mother flashed in my
eyes that night? Serves her right if she has lost them,”
Arthur said, without manifesting the slightest interest
or concern in the matter.

But when Jerry began her story, which she told rap-
idly in German, he became excited at once, and his
manner was that of a maniac, as he turned fiercely
upon Tom, denouncing him as a coward and a liar, and
threatening to turn him from the house it he dared har-
bor such a suspicion against Harold Hastings.

“T'll turn you all into the street,” he continued, “if
you are not careful, and bring Harold and Jerry here to
live; then see if Ican have peace. Diamonds, indeed!
What has a r man’s wife to do with diamonds?
Gretchen's diamonds, too! If they are lost, search the
house, but never accuse Harold again.”

At this point Arthur wandered off into German, which
noone present could understand except Jerry, who
‘stood; holding fast to his arm, her face flushed and tri-
umphant at Harold’s victory and Tom's deteat; but as
the'tirade in German went on, she started suddenly for-
ward, and with clasped hands and staring eyes stood
confronting Arthur until he ceased speaking, and with a

 

 

 

-jwave of his hand signified that he was through and his

‘audience dismissed. Jerry, however, did not move, but
stood regarding him with a frighteued, questioning ex-
pression on her face, which was lost upon the spec-
tators, who were too much interested.in the all-absorb-

ing topic to notice any one particularly.”
Tom was the first-to go away, and his example was
followed by all the servants except Charles, who suc-
‘in his mas pe ck to his room and quiet-

  

ed: In ge i
ing him some ;
of diamonds, and Paris, and Gretchen, who, he said,
should not be wronged.
‘1 am sorry, Harold, that this thing has happened. I

would as soon suspect my own son,” Frank said
Harold, as he was leaving the house.

With this grain of comfort, the boy went slowly home,
humiliated and cut to the heart with the pees put
upon him; while Jerry waiked silently at his side, never
speaking a word until they were nearly home, when she
said, su eye

“I know where the diamonds are, but I sha’n’t tell

much absorbed in his own thoughts to pay much atten-
tion to the remark, although it recurred to him years
after, when the diamonds came up to confront him

ain.

Tt did not take long for the whole town to know of
Mrs. Tracy’s loss, The papers were full of it. The neigh-
bors talked of it constantly, and two detectives were
employed to work the matter up and discover the thief,
if possible. A thorough search was also made at the
park house. Every servant was examined and cross-
examined, and all their trunks and boxes searched ;
every nook and corner and room was gone through in
the most systematic order, even to{Arthur's apartments.
This last was merely done as a matter of form, and to
let the indignant servants see that no pay was
shown, the polite officers explained to Arthur, who at
first refused to let them in, but who finally opened the
door himself, and bade them go where they liked.

Half hidden among the cushions of the sofa from
which Arthur had risen when he let the officers in, and
to which he returned again, was Jerry, her face pale to
her lips‘and her eyes like the eyes jof some hunted ani-

| mal, when she saw the policemen cross the threshold.

After her return home the previous day she had been
unusually taciturn and had taken no part in the conver-
sation relative to the missing diamonds, but just before
going to bed she said to Harold: ¢

“What will they do with the one who took the dia-
monds, if they find him ?”

“Send him to State prison,” Harold answered.

 

person of Arthur himself. He had burne the noise and.
| ly, and almost pityingly, with
much absorbed with other matters to heed the bell,

ept talking to. himself |

have no idea that you know anything of the eo ge

now while there is such a fuss;” but Harold was too} .

“And what do they do to them in State prison ?” Jerry
continued. ’

“Cut their hair off; make them eat bread and water
and mush, and sleep on a board, and work awtul hard,”
was Harold’s reply, given at random and without the
least suspicion why the question had been asked.

Jerry said no more, but the next morning she started
for the park house, which she knew was to be searched,
and going to Mr Arthur's room looked him wistfully in
the face as she asked in a whisper :

«Are they found ?”

“Found! What found ?” he said, as if all recollection
of the missing jewels had entirely trom his mind.

“The diamonds ; Mrs. Tracy’s diamonds; the ones you
gave her,” was Jerry’s answer. :

For a moment Arthur looked perplexed and bewilder-
ed and confused, and seemed trying to recall something
which would not come at his bidding. *

“I don’t know anything about it,” he said at last. “I
don’t seem to think of anything, my head is so thick

Shey NT RG we
ag Tee NS OR Bay

Bet i

   
    
   
   
   
 
 
       
    
 
  
 
  
  
     
  
 
  
  
  
     
   
  
  
  
   
   

 

“} WONDER WHY ALL THE BOYS WANT TO KISS ME SO
MUCH!”

| with all the noise there was here yesterday and the tus
| mult this morning. Search-warrants, Charles says, and
| two strange men driving upso early. Who are they,
| Jerry ?”

| ‘Police, come to search the house; search everybody
| and everything. Ain’t you afraid?” Jerry said.

| ‘Afraid? Nos why should 1 be afraid? Why, child,
how white you are, and what makes you tremble so?
You didn’t take the diamonds,” was Arthur's reponse, as
he drew the little girl close to him and looked into her
| pallid face.

“Mr. Arthur,” Jerry began, very low, as if afraid of
being heard, ‘if I should give Maude something for her
very OWn, and she should accept and keep it a good
while, and then some day Ishould take it from her, when
she did not know it. and hide it, and not give it up,
would that be stealing ?”

“Certainly. Why do you.ask ?”

Jerry did not say why she asked, but put the same
question to him she had put to Harold :

“If they find the one marota@o the diamonds will they
send him to State prison?” i f

“Undoubtedly. They ought to.”

«And cut off his hair?” Precast

She was threading Arthur’s luxuriant Jocks caressing-

ner fin as she asked
the last question, to which he replied, shortly :

“And make him eat

“Yes ; I believe so.” -.

“And sleep on a pr / :

“Yes, or something as. ”

«And make him work awful hard until his hands are
blistered ?” ;

Now she had in hers Arthur’s hands, soft and white
a woman’s, and seemed to be calculating how much hard
work it would take to blister hands like these.

«Yes, work till his hands drop off,” Arthur said.

With a shudder, she continued :

“T could not bear it; could you ?”

“Bear it? No; Ishould die in a w
does ail you? You are shaking like
you afraid of ?” . ,

d and water and mush »”

ek. Why, what
a Jeaf. What are

~ “J don't know; only State prison s@ems so terrible,
and they are looking everywhere. Wlatif they should
come in here?” — ,

“Come in here?, Im $ they break the
door down,” Arthur rapliéd ; geri y said to him:
“It they do, suppos¢e*jou lie down 4
you with the afghan aicdgguashions*” §

“But I don’t want i a
cushions,” Arthur retur
the excitement
side and held fast to!
him, or expected him
tion went on ide,
servants sub
examined. . a.
At last footsteps w
sound of strange voice,

  

vondering at
close to his
we, guarding
he examina-
d and angry
kxes and trunks

ie Stairs and the
mH that of Frank,
ers rooms being

 
 

ery servant you have if we do not
serve all alike,” was the answer. -
Then Frank knocked at his brothe
admittance.
“We must do it to pacify the ser¥a
Arthur refused, bidding him go abou
After a little further expostulatio
unlocking the door, bade them enter
they pleased and where they pleased.)
It was a mere matter of form, for n@t a drawer or box
was disturbed ; but Jerry’s breath cgme in gasps, aud
her eyes were like saucers, as she watéhed the men mov-
ing from place to place, and then looked timidly at Ar-
thur to see how he was taking it. He took it very
coolly, and when it was over and the men were about
to leave, he bade them come again as often as they
liked; “they would always find him there ready to re-
ceive them, but the diamonds—niz.”

s door and asked

d look as long as

— nin.”

This last he said in a low tone as he turned to Jerry,
who, the moment they were alone &nd he had seated
himself beside her, put her head on his arm and burst
into a hysterical fit of erying. :
«Why, Cherry, what.is Tt-?
he asked, in much concern. ]

“Oh, I don’t know,” she sobbed ; ‘‘anly I was so scared
all the time they were in the room. Whatif they had
found them! What if they should think that—that—J
took them, and should send me fo prison, and cut off
my hair, and make me eat bread and water and mush,
which I hate!” ;

Arthur looked at her a moment, and then, with a view
to comfort her, said, laughingly :

“They would not send you to prison, for I would go in
your stead.”

“Would you? Could you? I mean, could somebody

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HE DREW TRE LITTLE GIRL CLOSE TO HIM, AND LOOKED INTO
HER PALLID FACE.

go for another somebody, if they wanted to ever so
much ?” Jerry asked, eagerly, as she lifted her tear-
stained face to Arthur's. t ;

Without clearly understanding meaning, and with
only a wish to =. her, Arthur angwered, at random:

“Certainly. Have you never heard of le who gave
1ife for another’s? So. why not be a substitute, and go
to prison, if necessary ?” :

“Yes,” Jerry answered, with a long-drawn breath, and
the cloud lifted a little from her fave.

After a moment, however, she asked, abruptly :

“Suppose the one who took the diamonds will not give
them up, and somebody else knows where they, are,
ought that somebody else tell ?”

“Certainly, or be an accessory to the crime,” was Ar-
thur’s reply. :

Jerry did not at all know what an accessory was, but
it had an awful sound to her, and she asked :

“What do they do to an accessory ? Punish her—him,
I mean—just the same ?”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said, scarcely heeding what

 

 

 

“WEEKLY. #32

she was asking him, and never dreaming of the wild
fancy which had taken possesston’of her. ;

‘hat one could go to prison in another’s stead, and
that an accessory would. be punished equally with the
criminal, were the two ideas distinct in her mind when
she at last arose to go, Saying to Arthur, as she stood in
the door:

‘You are sure you are not afraid to have them come
here again, if they take it into their heads to do so ?”

“Not in the least; they can search my rooms every
day and welcome, if they like,” was Arthur’s reply.

“Well, that beats me !” Jerry said aloud to herself, with
a nod tor every word, as she went down the Stairs and
started for home, taking the Tramp House on her way.
“fT guess I'll go in there and think about it,” she said,
and entering the deserted building, she sat down upon
the bench and began to wonder if she could do it, if
worst came to worst, as it might.

“Yes, ] could, for him, and I'll never tell; Ill be that
thing he said, and a substitute, too, if I can,” she
thought, ‘though I guess it would kill me. Oh, I hope
I sha’n’t have to doit! 1 mean to say a prayer about it,
anyway.”

And kneeling down in the damp, dark room, Jerry
prayed, first, that it might never be found out, and sec-
ond, that if it were she might not be called to account
as an accessory, but might have the courage to be the
substitute, and stand by him ‘forever and ever, amen!”

“TI may as well begin to practice, and see it I can bear
it,” she thought, as she walked slowly home, where she
astonished Mrs. Crawford by asking her to make some
lnush tor dinner.

“Mush! Why, child, I thought you hated it,” Mrs.
Crawford exclaimed.

“I did hate it,” Jerry replied, ‘‘but 1 want it now real
put Make it for me, please. Harold likes it, don’t you,

ae

Harold did like it very much; and so the mush was
made, and Jerry forced herself to swallow it in great
gulps, and made up her mind that she could not stand
that any way. She preferred bread and water. So, for
supper she took bread and water and nothing else, and
Went up to bed as unhappy and nervous as a healthy,
growing child well could be.

She had tried the mush, and the bread and water,
and now she meant to try the shorn head, which was
the hardest of all, for she had a pride in her hair, which
so many had told her was beautiful.

Standing before her little glass, with the lamp beside
her, she looked at it admiringly for awhile, turning her
head trom side to side to see the bright ringlets glisten ;
then. with ag. unsteady hand she severed, one by one,
the shining tresses, on which her tears fell like rain as
she gathered them in a paper and put them away, won-
dering if the prison shears would cut closer or shorter,
and wondering if it would make any difference that she
was only a substitute, or at most an accessory.

It was a strange idea which had taken possession of
her, and a senseless one, but it was terribly real to her,
and that little shorn head represented as noble and
complete a sacrifice as was ever made by older and
wiser people. There was no hard board to sleep upon,
and so she took the floor, with a pillow under her head
and a blanket over her, wondering the while if this were
not a more luxurious couch than convicts, who had
stolen diamonds, were accustomed to have.

“Why, Jerry, what have you done?’ and “Oh, Jerry,
how you look!” were the ejaculatory remarks which
greeted her next morning, when she went down to her
— of bread and water, for she would take noth-
ng else.

‘Why did you do it?” Mrs. Crawford asked, a little
angry and a good deal astonished ; but Jerry only an-
swered at first with her tears, as Harold jeered at her
forlorn appearance and called her a picked chicken.

‘‘Maude’s hair is short, and all the girls’, and mine
was always in my eyes and snarled awfully,” she said
at last, and-this was all the excuse she would give for
what she had done; while for her persisting in a bread
and water diet she would give no reason-for three or
four days. Then she said to Harold, suddenly :

“You told me that the one who stole the diamonds
would have to eat bread and water and have his head
shaved, and J am trying to see how it would seem—am
playing that Iam the man, and in prison; but I find it
very hard. I don’t believe I can stand it. Oh. Harold,
do you think they will ever find the diamonds? Iam so
tired and hungry, and the blackberry pie we had for
dinner did look so good !”

“Jerry,” Harold exclaimed, in amazement, and but

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“CHERRY, TRY AND UNDERSTAND ME. DO YOU KNOW WHERE

‘THE DIAMONDS ARE?”

dimly comprehending her real meaning, ‘‘are you crazy,
to be playing you are a convict! Andis that what you
have been doing ?”

“Ye-es,” Jerry sobbed ;
they will not tind him.”

“Him! Who?” Harold asked.

“Tbe one who took the diamonds,” she replied.

“And I hope they will. He ought to be found and pun-
ished. Think what harm he has done to me by letting
them accuse me,” Harold answered, indignantly.

“No, no, Hally,” Jerry replied. ‘No one accused you
but '’om, and_he is meaner than dirt; and if they did
think you took them, and if you had to go, I should not
let you; I should go in your place. 1 could do it for you
and Mr. Arthur, but for no one else. Oh, I hope they
will never find them !”

She put her hands to her head, and looked so white
and faint that Harold was alarmed, and took her at once
to his mother, who; scarcely less frightened than him-
self, made her lie down, and brought her a piece of toast
and a cup of milk, which revived her a little. But the
strain upon her nerves for the last few days, and the
fasting on bread and water proved too much for the
child, who, for a week or more lay up in her little room,
burning with fever, and talking strange things at inter-

“put I can’t bear it, and I hope

vals, of diamonds, and State-prison, and accessories. and |’

substitutes, the last of which she said she was, assuring
some one to whom she seemed ta be talking that she
would never tell, never!

Every day Arthur came and sat for an hour by her
bed, and held her hot hands in his, and listened to her
talk, and marveled at her shorn head, which he did not
like. Whatever he said to her was spoken in German,
and as she answered in the same tongue. no one under-
stood what they said to each other, though Harold, who
understood a few German words, knew that she was
talking of the diamonds, and the prison, and the sub-
stitute.

| shall never tell!” she said to Arthur; ‘‘and I shall
go! 1 can bear it better than you. It is not that which
makes my head ache so. It’s—oh, Mr. Arthur, I thought

ou so good, and I am so sorry about the diamonas—Mrs.
Tracy was so proud of them. Can‘t you contrive to get
them back to her? I could, if you would let me. I am
thinking all the time how to do it, and never let her
know, and the back of my head aches so’ when I think.”

Arthur could not guess what she really meant, except
that the lost diamonds troubled her, and that she wished
Mrs. Tracy to have them. Occasionally his brows would
knit together; and he seemed trying to recall some-
thing which perplexed him, and which her words had
ardently ars to his mind.

“Cherry,” hesaid to her one day when he came as

ound and her tirst eager question was, ‘‘Have they

yund them ?” ‘Jerry,  Spren understand me. Do you
ow where the diamonds are ?”

Instantly into Jerry’s eyes there came a scared look,
but she answered, unhesitatingly :

“Yes, don’t you ?”

“No,” was the prompt rey “though it seems to me
I did know, but there has been so much talk about
them, and you are so sick, that everything has gone
from my head, and the bees are stinging me trightfully.
Where are the diamonds ?”

But by this time Jerry was in the prison, sleeping on a
board and eating bread and mush, and Arthur failed to
get any satisfaction from her. Indeed, they were two
crazy ones talking together, with little or no meaning in
what they said, Only this Arthur gathered—that Jerry
would be happy if Mrs. Tracy had her diamonds again
and did not know how they came to her. When this
dawned upon him he laughed aloud, and kissing her hot
cheek, said to her:

«“P<see; 1 know, and I'll do it. Wait till I come
again.” : ,

ot was ten o’clock in the morning when he left Mrs.
Crawford's house; there was a train which passed the
station at half-past ten, bound for New York, and with-
out returning to the park, Arthur took the train, send-
ing word to his brother not to expect him home until
the next day, and not to be alarmed on his account, as
he was going to New York and would take care of him-

self.

Why he had gone Frank could not guess, and he
waited in much anxiety for his return. It was even-
ing when he came home, seeming perfectly composed
and well, but giving no reason for his sudden journey
to the city. His first inquiry was for Jerry, and his

 

second, it anything had been heard of the diamonds.
On being answered in the: negative, he remarked :

 

 

 

D

“Those raseally detectives are bunglers, and often-
times would rather. let. the culprit. escape than catch
him. I doubt if you ever see the jewels again. But
_ Coa ; it will all come right. ‘Tell your wife not

(TO BE CONTINUED.]
——_ > 6 ~4—- —_—_——_

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

MR. CRAVEN'S STEP-SON;

>

 

FRANK HUNTER’S PERIL.

By HORATIO ALGER, /r.,

AUTHOR OF

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

 

(““Mr. CRAVEN’s STEP-SON” was commenced in No. & Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XVII.
COLONEL SHARPLEY’S RUSE.

Later in the day Mr. Sharpley found his way to Hurst
Court and paused before Number10. Though a selfish
man, he was not without feeling, and the miserable
quarters in which he found his sister excited his pity.
He made inquiry of some of the lower tenants, and soon
stood at his sister’s door. Without waiting to knock, he
opened the door and stepped in.

The sick woman looked up mechanically, supposing
it tobe a neighbor who had been kind to her. But
when she recognized her brother she uttered a feeble
ery of joy.

“Oh, Robert, have you come back ?” she cried.
long it is since I have seen you !”

He was shocked at her wan and wasted appearance.

“Helen,” he said, taking a seat beside the bed, ‘you
look very sick.”

“No, Robert, not very sick.
overwork and scanty food.”

“That is enough. How long have you been sick ?”

“A fortnight. Things looked very dark for me. I
feared my poor children would starve, but this morning
a noble boy, whom Providence must have sent to me in
my extremity, gave me two sovereigns, and they will
last me till I am well. But where have you been,
Robert ?” ,

“‘) have been to America.”

“And did you—did you see anything of my husband ?”
she asked, fixing her eyes anxiously upon him,

“Do you think of him still? He does not deserve it.
He has treated you like a scoundrel.”

«“T know he has not treated me right, Robert, bm he
is the father of my children. Then you did not tind
him ?” ;

“T obtained a clew,” said Sharpley, evasively. «It
may or may not lead to anything. Iam about to leave
London now on a journey connected with that cltw. If
it results in anything, I will let you know.”

“Where are you going ?”

“On the Continent. 1 cannot say precisely where, but
ou will hear from me. But what a hole you are living
n,” and he looked around him in disgust atthe bare

walls and naked condition of the miserable room.

“IT don’t mind it, Robert. I[ feel glad to have the shel-
ter of any roof.”

‘Have you been so poor ?”

“So poor that I could not well be poorer.”

“Come, this must be remedied. I am not rich, but}
can do something for you. ‘’o-morrow morning I will
move youtoabetterroom. Do you think you can bear
to be moved ?”

“Yes, brother. You are very kind,” murmured the
sick woman, not aware that her brother’s motives were
complex, and that his chief reason for the removal was
not dictated by sympathy or pity.

“Then I shall be here to-morrow at ten, with a cab.
You must all of you beready. By the way, do you
know any of the people in the house ?”

“Yes; they are poor, but some of them have been kind

”

“How

It is only the effect of

“Don’t let them know where you are moving to,” sa‘d
Sharpley.

“Not let them know!” repeated Mrs. Craven, in sur-
prise. “Why not?”

“T have a reason, but I don’t want to tell you.”
“J don’t understand #, Robert. What harm can it
do ?”

Sharpley bit his lip. He was annoyed by her per-

-)sisteney, but he was not prepared to give the real

reason. Fortunately, a plausible explanation occurred
to him.

“Listen, sister,’ he said.

“An enemy !”

“Yes, who is trying to find you out. He hasaclew,
and if you remain here he may succeed.”

“But how can I have an enemy, and what harm could

“You have an enemy.”

| he do to me?”

“Suppose he should kidnap one of your children ?”

The suggestion was made on the spur of the moment,
but the etfect was immediate. The poor woman turned
pale—paler even than before—and trembled.

“Say no more, Robert,” she answered. “I will
promise.”

“You promise to let no one of your neighbors know
where you are going ?” ;

“Yes. But, Robert, is it my husband—is it Mr. Craven
who is in search of me ?”

“Ask no more,” said Sharpley. ‘‘You may know some-
time, but 1 have told you aliI wish you at present to
know. But 1 must be going. To-morrow, at ten, re-
member.”

‘I will be ready.”

“Cleverly managed!” said Sharpley to himself. ‘3
must take care that that boy does not meet my sister
again. The name has already struck him. If he sees
her again he may come to suspect the truth, and sus-
picion once roused, he may suspect me.”

He didn’t at once return to the hotel, but going toa
part of London two miles distant, engaged a somewhat
better lodging for his sister. The next morning he went
to Hurst Court, and finding her ready, moved her at
once to her new home.

“How kind you are, Robert!” she said.

“} would do more if | had the means. I may be richer
soon. I have a good prospect before me, but it requires
me to go away tor a time.”

“How long will you be gone ?”

“J cannot tell. It may be a month; it may be twoor
three. [have paid the rentof this lodging for three
months in advance. ‘Chere is the receipt.’

She looked at it mechanically, then handed it back.

“This is not the receipt,” she said. ‘The name is
wrong.”

“How is it wrong ?”

‘It is made out to Mrs. Chipman.”

“Tt is the right paper.”

“But my mame is not Mrs. Chipman.”

“Yes, it is.”

«What do you mean, Robert ?” asked his sister, lifting
her eyes in surprise.

«Just what l say. I want you to be Mrs. Chipman.”

«But why should I give up my name ?”

“Do you remember what I told you yesterday—about
the man who was on your track ?”

“You didn't say it was a man.”

“Well, I Say so now.”

“Well, Robert ?”

“He will find it harder to trace you if you change your
name.’

wide you think it right, Robert, I will be guided by your
advice.”

“I do think it best, for reasons which I cannot fully
explain. You must tell your children also.”

“f will do so.”

‘Have you any of the money that boy gave you ?”

“7 have nearly all.”

“Here are three sovereigns more. With your rent
paid for three months, if you use it economically, you
will not again be reduced to destitution.”

“I shall feel rich with so much money,” said Mrs.
Craven, smiling faintly.

“Take care that you are not robbed.”

«| will be caretul. Butit seems strange tome that I
should have occasion for any such fears.”

“Before the three months are over, I shall probably
be back in London. I will come to you at once, and let
you know if I have heard anything.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

«“Good-by, then, for the present.”

“Good-by. I hope you wili soon be well.”

‘T shall. It was anxiety for my children that was
wearing upon me. Now, thanks to your kindness, I
am easy in mind. But, brother, there is one question
1 forgot to ask. How came you to know that I lived at
Hurst Court ?”

Sharpley was posed for a moment, and knew not
what to say. He could not, of course, tell the truth; but
he was a man fertile in suggestions, and he was silent
tor a moment only.

“| employed a detective,” he answered. ‘‘These Lon-
don detectives are wonderfully sharp. He soon found

you out.”

. “And. you took all this trouble about me,” said Mrs.
Craven, gratefully, not fora moment doubting the ac-
curacy of the story.

“Ig it strange that I should take trouble to find my
only sister? But I cannot delay longer. Good-by,
Helen.”

He stooped and lightly touched her cheek with his
lips, and hurried from the room.

“There,” he said to himself, after reaching the street ;
“T have cut off all possibility of a second meeting be-
tween Frank and my sister during the brief remainder
of our stay in London. When I come back, it will be
alone !”

 

  

  

 

 

 
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Four days afterward they left London for Paris. The
day before, Frank made his way again to Hurst court,
meaning to leave a little more money with Mrs. Craven,
questioning her at the same time about her husband,
whom he could not help connecting in some way’ with
his step-father. But his visit was madein vain. Mrs.
Craven had disappeared, and not one of the tenants
could say where she had gone: but all agreed that she
had been taken away inacab by a tall gentleman. It
seemed mysterious, but ne suspicion as to the identity
of the gentleman entered Frank’s mind.

*T hope she has found a friend able to help her,” he
said io imself, and then dismissed the subject from his
mind.

CHAPTER XVIII.
MR, TARBOX AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION.

“So this is Paris,” said Frank to himself, as he rode
into .the court-yard of the Hotel de Rivoli, situated on
the fine street of the same name.

He had already, from the carriage window, obtained
a good view of the palace of the Tuileries, occupied at
that time by Louis Napoleon in the plenitude of his
power, and of the large garden which it faces. The sun
was Shining brightly, and as he glanced at the signs on
either side of the streets through which he passed, he
realized, even more Clearly than on English soil, that he
was in a foreign country. ;

«What a beautiful city!” he exclaimed, turning to his

©ompanion.

«“SJumph! so so,” said Sharpley, in a tone quite devoid
of enthusiasm.

‘I suppose you have been here before, Col. Sharpley ?”

“Otten.”

«But it is new to me, so I suppose it strikes me more.”

“Itis always enjoyed best the first time. Can you
speak French ?”

“A little. I can read the language pretty well. Shall
we Stay here long ?”

“JT can’t tell yet.” .

The exhibition was open, and the city was full to
They were compelled to take rooms high
up, the most desirable being already occupied. But for
this Frank cared little. He was in Paris; he was going
to see its wonders, and this thought filled him with hap-
piness.

" The next day they went to the exhibition together,
but Col, Sharpley soon tired of it. After an hour, he
turned to Frank, saying:

“Do you want to stay longer ?” ?

Yes; I have scarcely seen anything yet.”

«T,.suppose you can find your way back to the hotel ?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then [ will go out.
of thing.”

So Frank wandered on alone—alone, but surrounded

by acrowd of all nationalities, visitors like himself to
the great exhibition. On all sides he was surrounded
by triumphs of art and skill, gathered from all parts of
the world.
- «| wish I had some friend with me,” he thought. “It’s
a splendid sight, but I should enjoy it better if I had
somebody I liked to talk to. Wouldn’t it be jolly if Ben
Cameron were here! How he would enjoy it! Poor
fellow! he’s got his own way to make in the world—
though I don’t know as that is much of a misfortune
after all. 1 don’t think I would mind it, though of course
it’s pleasant to have money.”

AS these thoughts passed through our hero’s mind, he
suddenly heard his name called in a loud voice, whose
nasal twang could not be mistaken.

Turning in the direction from which it came, his face
lighted up with pleasure as he recognized his fellow-
passenger, Jonathan Tarbox.

The Yankee, looking as countrified as ever in the
midst of the brilliant scene, was standing guard over
his plow, which had been put together, and was occupy-
ing a place assigned it by the Committee of Arrange-
ments. s

“Why, Mr. Tarbox, ’'m glad tosee you!” said Frank,
heartily, hurrying through the crowd and offering his
hand, which was seized in a tight grip. 5

«Three days,” said Jonathan, and I’m eenamost tired
to death, standin’ here, with nobody to talk to.”

«J should think you would be lonely. I have only just
come. Where are you staying ?”

«T put up over to the Latin Quarter,” said Mr. Tarbox;
“though why they call it Latin, when they don’t talk
Latin there, I don’t know. It’s cheap livin’ there, and I
don’t want to spend too much. There was a feller on
the cars took me in when [ jest come. As I heard him
talk English, I asked him if he could recommend a good,
cheap tavern for me to stop at. He told me the best he
knew for a cheap one was the Hotel de Villy. So I hired
a boy to lead me there. It was a big walk, and when I
got there I found the scamp had sent me to the town-
hall of Paris. I'd like to give him a lickin’! But I met
another chap that was more polite, and he directed me
to whereIlam. He lives there himself. He is a poor
artist, and I've took the room jest opposite to his. Where
are you stoppin’ ?” :

‘At the Hotel Rivoli.”

“That's a hotel where big-bugs stop, ain't it—near
Lewis Napoleon’s house ?” .

“Yes, I believe so,” said Frank, smiling; ‘‘but I don’t
claim to be a big-bug.”

“That colonel yow’re travelin’ with sets up for one. Is
he here ?”

“He is in the city. He came to the exhibition with
de he didn’t stop long. How do you like Paris, Mr.
Tarbox ?”

“T really don’t know, Frank. The streets and buildin’s
are pooty handsome, but they do talk the most outland-
ish stuff [ever heerd. They rattle off jest like parrots,
and I can’t understand a word.”

“J suppose you have not studied the French Jan-
guage,” said Frank, smiling. £2

“No, and I don’t want to. I’d be ashamed of myself to
talk like them.
lish ?” asked Jonathan, with an expression of disgust.

“IT suppose they wonder that Americans don’t speak
French.”

“Why, they do say that young ones call their mothers
a mare,” continued Mr. Tarbox. That’s what I call
sassy. Ef I'd called my mother a mare when I was a
youngster, she’d have keeled me over quicker’n a wink.
Then a galis called a jilly. That’s most as bad. And
what do you think I saw on the programme at the resto-
rant where I go to get dinner ?”

«What was it?” asked Frank, amused.

“It was poison, only it wa’n’t spelled right. The ig-
norant critters spelled it with a doubles. L[say they'd
oe to be indicted for keepin’ p’ison among their
vitties.” :

“You've made a little mistake, Mr. Tarbox. The word
you refer to—poisson—is the French word for fish.”

“By gracious!” ejaculated Jonathan; ‘‘you don’t say
so! Thenit’s a mighty queer language, that’s all I’ve
got to Say: But speakin’ of eatin’, I ain’t had a decent
meal of vittles since I came here.”

“Tam surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Tarbox.
The French have a high reputation for their cookery.”

* “JT can’t help that. I haven’t lived so mean since I was
ern.” :

«Perhaps itis because you don’t know the names of

the dishes you want.”

“Wall, there may be somethin’ in that. Why, the first
day, I p’inted to the first thing in the programme. It
was among the pottages. They brought me some thin
watery stuff that would turn a pig sick. Somebody told
me it was meant for soup. When my mother made

T don’t care much for this sort

soup, She put potatoes and meatin it, and carrots and | you must be.”

turnips. Her soup was satisfyin’, and would stay a fel-
ler’s Stummick. It wa’n’t like this thin stuff. It would
take a hogshead of it to keep a baby alive till night.” °

“What else did you get, Mr. Tarbox?’ asked Frank.

«T Jooked all through the programme for baked beans,
and would you believe it, they didn’t have 1t at all.”

“1 believe it is not a French dish.”

«Then the French don’t know what’s good; I can tell
’em that. Folks say they eat frogs, and it stands to
reason if they like frogs, and don’t like baked beans,
they must be an ignorant set. I didn’t understand any
of the darned names, but I come across pommy de terry,
and I thought that might be somethin’ solid, so I told
the gossoon to bring it. What do you think he brought ?”

«Potatoes.”

“Yes; I was so wild I come near flinging ’em in his
face, but I concluded to keep ’em, and happened,to see
some mutton put down on the bill, though they didn’t
spell it right, so I pointed it out to the gossoon, and he
brought it.
can beat all the French cooks that’s goin’.
she was here.”

“We must go together some time, Mr. Tarbox. I know
some French, and I can tell you the names of some
things you like, though I am atraid you will have to do
without baked beans.”

“J wish you would go with me, Frank. Maybe I can
got along better with you.”

“How about your invention, Mr. Tarbox ?
tracting attention ?”

*‘Nobody looks at it,” said Jonathan, a little depressed.
“The ladies turn up their noses, as if it -wa’n’t worth
lookin’ at. One old krenchman come up and began to
ask me about it, but’ couldn’t make head or tail of what
he said. Then he offered me a pinch of snuff. I saw he
meant to be polite, so I took a good dose, and ’most
sneezed my head off. But about the plow; l’ve been
thinkin’ whether Lewis Napoleon would let me plow a
few furrers in his garden jest to let the French see how
it works. Do you think he would 2”

“J hardly think he would.”

«You see folks can't get much idea about it, jest look-
in’ at it here.” :

ait don’t have to stay by it all the time, do you 2”

“No.”

«Then suppose you take a little walk with me round
the buildings.”

Being socially disposed Mr. Tarbox readily accepted
the proposal, and the two sauntered about together,
Frank being continually amused by the unconsciously
droll remarks of his countryman.

Rerbtnems

Is: it at-

CHAPTER XIX.
FRANK ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS. ,

«Who was that you were walking with yesterday,
Frank ?” asked Sharpley. ;

“Mr. Tarbox.” :

«What, that confounded Yankee ®” ejaculated Sharp-
ley, roughly.

«What harm is there in him ?” asked Frank, quietly.

“He is an ignorant barbarian. Mr. Craven wouldn’t
like to have you associate with such a man.”

“T care very little what Mr. Craven wouid like,” said
Frank.

«He is your step-father.”

“If he is, 1 can’t help it. I am only responsible to my
smother for my conduct, and she woule. not object to my
keeping company with a countryman.”

oC

 

Why in thunder don’t they talk Eng- |
!
|

 

 

It was pretty fair, but I tell you my mother |, ‘amg
I jest wish | hibition.

|
i
}

«TJ shouldn't want to own it.” sneered Sharpley.

‘Why not ?”

“This Tarbox, if that is his name, is as green as his
native hills, and an ignorant boor.”

“T don’t agree with you, Colonel Sharpley,” said Frank,
undaunted. ‘‘He is not well educated, but he has brains
enough to have invented a plow of an improved pattern,
which he is exhibiting here. He is young yet, andj it
he succeeds, he will get rid of his awkwardness, and
may in time occupy a prominent position in the com-
munity.”

“I don’t approve of elevating the rabble,” said Sharp-
ley; ‘‘and as you are my ward, I desire you not to asso-
ciate with this Tarbox.”

“If you had any good reason to offer, Colonel ea:
ley, or if Mr. Tarbox were an improper person, I would
obey; but, under the circumstances, [ must decline.”

“What! You dare to defy me!” exclaimed Sharpley,
who was in a worse temper than usual, having lost
money at cards the evening before.

“TI don’t wish to defy you, sir, but I must beg you to be
reasonable.”

“Do you dare insinuate that I am unreasonable ?” said
Sharpley. advancing as if to strike him.

Frank looked calmly in his face and didn’t shrink.
There was something in his eye which prevented the
blow from tailing. Sharpley bethought himself of an-
other way of ‘‘coming up with” his rebellious charge.

“If you are going to act in this way,” he said, ‘I shall
send you home.”

“7 don’t propose to?>go home, Colonel Sharpley,” said
Frank, firmly. ‘‘Now that lam here, I shall stay through
the summer.

$s ‘0 you think you can compel me to keep charge of
you ? oe
“No, sir; but since it is a trouble to you, I will place
myself under the eharge of Mr. Tarbox, though I feel
quite competent to travel alone. if you will place in his
hands what funds you have of mine, this will relieve
you of all trouble.” :

“The duse it will!” thought Sharpley, who knew that
such a course would leave him absolutely helpless and
penniless.

He began to see that he had overshot the mark. He
would risk the utter failure of all his plans if a separa-
tion should take place between them. So, though it
went against his grain, he resolved to make up with
Frank. Forcing a Smile, therefore, he said :

‘Are you really anxious to leave me, Frank ?”

Our hero was bewildered by the unexpected change of
manner. é

«“T thought you were tired of me, sir,” he said. “Iam
afraid I give you trouble and interfere with your plans.”

‘Not at all. Tam sorry ifI have given you such an
impression. The fact is,I am vexed and irritated at
some news I have heard, and that made me disposed to
vent my irritation on you.”

‘Tam sorry, sir, if you have had bad news.
thing serious ?” P :

“Not very serious,” said Sharpley; ‘‘but,” he added,
with ready invention, ‘‘it is vexatious to hear that I have
lost a thousand pounds.”

«Yes; that is a serious loss,” said Frank, with sym-
pathy.

“It was invested, as I thought, safely; but the con-
cern proves to be rotten, and my loss is total.”

“J hope it won't seriously inconvenience you, Colonel
Sharpley ?” >

“Oh, no; itis fortunately but a small part of my for-
tune,” said Sharpley, with barefaced falsehood. ‘‘Stili
itis annoying. But letit pass. To-morrow I shall feel
all right. Meanwhile, if you really care to associate |
with this Tarbox, do so by alk means. I confess he is |
not to my taste.”

‘He is not a countryman of yours, sir. He reminds me
of home.” :

“Just so. By the way, Ihave letters for you from
home.” A

“Ob, give them to me!” said Frank, eagerly.
longing to hear.” ¢ b5 at .

He eagerly opened the letters. One, a long one, |
crossed and recrossed, was from his mother. 1 will only
quote one paragraph : ae

“Ineed hardly tell you, my dear son, how much I miss
you. The house seems very dull and lonely without you.
But Iam glad you are enjoying yourself amid new scenes,
and I look forward with great interest to hear your accounts
of what you have seen. send a great deal of love, and hope
to hear from you often. 3

“Your affectionate mother,
“MARY CRAVEN.

“Pp. S.—Mr. Craven has written a note to you, which will go

  

Is it. any-

 

 

“Tam |

by the same mail with this.

The other letter, written ina masculine hand, Frank
opened with some curiosity. He had not expected to
hear from Mr. Craven, and wondered what he would
have tosay. His letter, being short, will be given entire:

“My DEAR FRANK :—As your mother is writing you, I can-
not resist the ane ation of sending a line, aiso. We both
miss you very much, but are consoled for your absence by
the knowledge that noe are enjoying ahd improving yourself
in the Old World. Had circumstances n favorable, how
pleasant it would have been if year mother and myself
could have accompanied you. Let us hope that some time
such a plan may be carried out. Meanwhile, I feel truly
happy to think that you are under the care of my friend
Cotanel Sharpley, whom I know to be a gentleman every
way qualified for such a responsible trust. We are hoping to
receive letters from you describing your travels. I will not
write more now, but subscribe myself

“Your affectionate step-father, é
“SAMUEL CRAYEN,’

There. was nothing to complain of in this letter It
was kind and cordial, and exhibited a strong and affec-
tionate interest in our hero. Yet Frank read it without |
any special feeling of gratitude ; nor was he drawn by |
it any nearer to the writer. He Plamed himself for his |
eoldness. a ‘ |

“Why can’t I like him2” he said to himself. ‘‘He#
seems very kind, and wants mé to enjoy myself. I sup- |
pose he was partly the means of my coming out on this |
tour. Yet that doesn’t make me like him.” {

Frank could not tell why he felt so, but it was an in- |
stinctive perception of Mr. Craven’s insincerity, and the |
falseness of his character and professions that influ- |
enced him. He folded the letters, first reading his moth- |
er’s asecond time, and went out, Colonel Sharley hav- |
ing already departed. He bent his steps to the exhibi- |
tion building, and made his way to Mr. Tarbox.

«Good-morning, Mr. Tarbox,” he said. “How do you
feel to-day ?”

“Pooty smart. You look asif you'd heerd good news.”

“T have had letters from home.”

“So have I.”

“Any news.”

“Yes,” said Jonathan, ‘the brindle cow's got a calf.” |

‘Frank smiled. 5

“That's my cow,” said Mr. Tarbox, seriously; ‘‘she’s a |
stunner for givin’ milk. She gives a pailful in the morn: |
in’, and two pailtuls at night. I’m goin’ to make money |
out of that cow.” ; |

“And out of that plow, too, I hope.”

«J don’t know,” said Mr. Tarbox, shaking his head.

 

|
|
|
1
about plows. They care more about silks, and laces, and

sich like.” ; |
“Was that all the news you got—about the cow, I

|
|

mean ?

“No,” said Jonathan, chuckling a little, and lowering
his voice. ‘I got a letter from her.”

‘From her ?”

“Yes, trom my gal.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Frank, laughing. ‘How glad

“Yes sir-ee. I feel like a fly in a molasses keg—all over
sweetness.”

“Then she hasn’t forgotten you ?”

“J guess not. How do you think she ended her
letter ?”

“7 can't tell.” :
s ‘Wait a minute, and I'll read you the endin’ off. Here
tis:

““Tf you love me as I love you,
No knife can cut our love in two.’

‘<Arn’t that scrumptious ?”

‘“T should think it was. I hope you'll introduce me
some day, when she’s Mrs. Tarbox.”

“Yes, [ will. You must come up to the farm, and stay
a week in the summer.”

“By that time you'll have made your fortune out of
the plow.”

‘JT hope so. Where are you goin’ ?”

“fam going to visit the French department of the ex-

Wal, I'll go along with you. I want to see if they’ve
got any plow here to compare with mine. I don’t be-
lieve they know enough to make anything useful.”

Mr. Tarbox certainly did the French injustice, but he
was under the sway of prejudice, and was quite dis-
posed to exalt the useful at the expense of the beautiful.

CHAPTER XX.
FRANK LEAVES PARIS.

There was a letter from Mr. Craven to Sharpley which
came by the same mail as those mentioned in the pre-
ceding chapter. It contained the following paragraph :

“T suppose you will travel to Switzerland with Frank. I
suppose so, because in the summer it is very attractive to the
tourist. As accidents are very apt to happen to careless tray-
elers, let me request you to keep a good lookout for him, and
not let him approach too near the edge of ipices, or clefts
in the mountains. He might easily fall over, and I shudder,
not only to think of his fate in that case, but of the grief
which would overwhelm his mother and myself. I beg you
will keep us apprised of his health, and should any accident
happen, write at once.”

Sharpley read over this passage with attention. Then
he folded the letter, and muttered to himself :

«What a consummate hypocrite that villain Craven
is! Any one, to read this letter, would suppose that he
was actuated by the warmest attachment for his step-
son; and all the while he is planning his death, and
coolly suggesting to me an easy way of bringing it
about. Iam bad enough, or I would not lend myself
to carry out his plans, but I’m not such a miserable
hypocrite as he is. However, I’ve seen too much of the
world to be shocked at anybody’s depravity, having a
fair share of wickedness myself. As to the suggestion,
I must confess that it’s a good one, and relieves me from
a good deal of anxious thought. I’ve been considering
how best ! could get rid of the young incumbrance. It
occurred to me that I could lock him up, and set some
charcoal to burning in his room; but, unfortunately, it’s
warm weather, and there is no excuse for heating the
room—it’s too hot already. Then, again, I thought of
poison. But there’s a chance of a post-mortem exam-
ination. That won’t do. But Craven's plan is best. As
far as I can see, it will be effectual, and free from dan-
ger also. As soon as I can decently get away from Paris,

“These ignorant furriners don’t seem to care nothin’ jprnctuaiings Ane Ste Pee ey quoted.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

& os

draw suspicion upon me. When I’m rid of. the boy, I
shall breathe freer. Then for America, and a final reck-
oning with Craven. With ten thousand dollars—and
more, it I can extort it from him—I will set up for re-
spectability, and develop into a substantial citizen.
Good-by, then, to the gaming-table. It has been my
bane, but, with a fair competence, I will try to resist its
fascinations,” ;

Sharpley and our hero met at the table @hote dinner,
and at breakfast. For the remainder of the day Frank
was left to his own devices; but for this he cared little.
Either alone, or in company with Mr. Tarbox, he went
about the city, often as an outside passenger on the
street eee which ply from one end of Paris to the
other, and in this way he came to have a very good idea
of the plan of the brilliant capital.

a the sixth day, while they were at dinner, Sharpley

 

wm
ro}

“Well, Frank, have you seen considerable of Paris ?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I am getting to know my way around
pretty well.”

“fam sorry I have not been able to go about with you
more.”

“That is of no consequence, sir.
well alone.” ;

“Have you written home 2”

**¥es, sir”

“Tam afraid you will be disappointed at what I am
going to say.” ‘

«What is it, sir?”

“1 have arranged for our leaving Paris to-morrow
evening.”

“Not to go back to England ?” asked Frank, hastily.

“No. I propose to go to Switzerland.”

«JT should like that,” said our hero, brightening up. “I
have always wanted to see Switzerland.”

“JT didn’t know but you would be sorry to leave Paris.”

«So I should be, if I thought we were not coming back
ae way. We Shall, sha’n’t we ?”

$Y Gg,” te ,

Sen we Shall have time to stay here a little while

then.” ,

“No doubt.”

«Then I can defer the rest of my sight-seeing till
then. What route shall we take ?”

‘“‘As to that, there is a variety of routes. It doesn’t
matter much to me. I will leave the choice to you.”

‘Will you #’ said Frank, eagerly. ‘Then I will get out

my vane atteg dinner and pick it out.”
“Vere, r fan tel’ me to-morrow morning.”
The next !morning Sharpley put the question to

Frank:

‘Well, have you decided by what route you would
like to travel ?”

“Can't we go east to the Rhine, and go up that river
to Mayence, and thence to Geneva by rail ?”

“Certainly, if you like. It will be quite a pleasant
route.”

“Lalways thought] should like to go up the Rhine, I
have been up the Hudson, which I have often heard
compared to the Rhine.”

«There is no comparison between them,” said Sharp-
ley, Who, not being an American, was not influenced by
a patriotic prejudice in favor of the Hudson. ‘‘The Rhine
has ruined castles and vine-clad hills, and is far more
interesting.”

“Very likely,” said Frank.
see it.”

«We will start to-morrow night, then.
bring us across the frontier.

I have got on very

“At any rate, I want to

Morning will
You will be ready, of

 

 

| course ?”

eyEs, Sir.

The next morning Frank went to the exposition to |
acquaint Mr. Tarbox with his approaching departure. |

“Are you goin’? I’m real sorry, Frank,” said the |

Yankee. ‘I shall kinder hanker arter you, boy. You |

| seem like home. As to them chatterin’, frog-eatin’ furri- |

ners, I can’t understand a word they say, and ef I could |
I wouldn’t want to.”

“Tam afraid you are prejudiced, Mr. Tarbox. I have |
met some very agreeable French people.” -

“JT haven't,” said Mr. Barbex. “They don't suit me.
There ain’t ngthin’ solid or substantial ee em.”

“You may Yet acquainted with some English people.
You can understand them.”

“{ don't like’em,” said Jonathan. “They think they dwarf, who spring simultaneously forward, can interfere,

can’ ore all creation. We gave ’em a lesson, I guess, at
Bunker Hill.”

“Let by-gones be by-gones, Mr. Tarbox; or, as Long-
fellow says,

: “ ‘Let the dead Past bury its dead.’”

He Longfellow write that ?”

Yes.”

“Then he ain’t so smart asI thought he was. How |
can anybody that’s dead bury himself, I’d like to know ? |
Tt’s ridiculous.”

I suppose it’s figurative.”

‘Tt ain't sense. But that ain’t to the point.
abouts in Switzerland are you goin’, Frank ?”

“TI don’t know, except that we go to Geneva.”

“Can't you W me a letter trom there 2”

“Certainly.
glad to hear frp

“All right.
plow better’n
hooks, jest to 1#1

“Tt’s a bargagn, then.”

|
Where-

  
  
  
   
  
 
   
  
   
  
  
     
   
  

L will do so with pleasure, and shalltbe |

you.
ain’t much on scribblin’. I can holda
pen. But I guess I can write a few pot- |
yer know I'm alive an’ kickin’.” |

   
  

a/piece of paper, so I shall |
know where @& te

te. ,
«Allright. 4§ happen to veavhere we are going to
stop there. 4 Sharpley mtioned that we should |
‘stop at the HUgei.des Bergue@ I haven't got acard with |
me, but I'll pugthe address GB.an old envelope
Frank aor his” what he supposed to be
Mr. Craven to him, é n the reverse side wrote :
HUNTER, wee
Hotel desmergues,
; a,
_ Switzerland.

eyed it critically; then-

Wal, that’s a
«IT s’pose that’s

read it as follows :.
«* «Frank -Huater, Hotel dese Bugs.’
queer name. for'a tavern,” he said.
French for bugs?”
“Tt means tL the big bugs stop there,” said Frank, |
jocosely. br ;
“Some of the big bugs are humbugs,” said Jonathan, |
laughing grimly at his own wit. 1
When, atter kaying Mr. Tarbox, Frank happened to |
examine his pagkets, he drew out the two letters he |
had received. This puzzled him. What letter was that
which he had given his Yankee friend, then? He could
not tell. Weare wiser. Sharpley had incautiously left
on the table Craven’s letter to him, and. Frank had put
it into his pocket, supposing it to be his. This it was
which had passed into the possession of Mr. Tarbox.
Three days later Mr. Tarbox discovered the letter, and
curiosity made him unserupulous. He read it through,

“By hokey!’ he muttered. ‘‘That’s queer. ‘Should
any accident happen, write at once.’ He seems to
expect an accident will happen. Ill bet that manis a
snake in the grass. He’s Frank’s guardian, and he’s
got up some plot agin him. I always disliked that
Sharpley. He’s'a skunk. T’H start for Switzerland to-
morrow, and let the old plow go to thunder. I’m bound
to look out for Frank.”

Mr. Tarbox was energetic. He went to his lodgings,
packed his carpet-bag, and early next morning started
in pursuit of Frank and Sharpley.

(TO BE CONTINUED. ]
>e~<~

THE WIDOW’S ARROW.

 

 

A dashing Washington widow, who had received
marked attentions from a very popular and gallant phy-
sician, found herself suddenly deserted. Her Esculapius,
aged fifty-two, was completely enthralled by a beauty of
eighteen, and on Christmas morning the wedding took
place with all due pomp. Wormwood for the widow!
She swallowed it bravely, wore an undaunted front, and

was among the first to offer hurried congratulations to
the happy pair. The conversation turned upon Christ-
mas gifts, and the bride said, laughing gayly : %

«Ail my wedding presents were sent just before Christ-
mas, so on Christmas morning I had not a single gift.”

“Ah, my dear! that is cruel; you had me!” said the
bridegroom, reproachtully.

Betore the pretty bride could answer, the widow’s eyes |
grew dangerous, and, swinging slowly her large fan, |
she murmured : |

“Surely, my dear Mrs. X——, you should be more than |
satistied, for, you know, antiquities are all the rage.” |

In the awful silence following, the widow rose, care- |

 

3 fully arranged her draperies, and bowed her adieu in |

Stately serenity.
Dr. X—— and his bride never returned her call.

+e

WHY THE RELATIVES MOURN.

 

The death of a person in Timor, an islan@ in the In-
dian archipelage, usually impoverishes the relatives,
and therefore their grief is certain to be sincere. Every |
blood relative, before the burial takes place, is expected |
to bestow a gitt on the deceased, and contribute liber-
ally toa grand banquet, which marks the close of the
burial ceremonies. If the deceased isa man of rank
this feast is a matter very often of ruin to his family.
The festivity must be given, and at the same time the
hospitality is expected to be extraordmarily lavish. Con-
sequently it often happens that the day of the funeral
is indefinitely postponed for months, and even for years,
until the family has had time to accumulate sufficient
wealth of cattle and substance. In the meantime the
corpse is inclosed in matting and housed either in a
tree or a hut and left to itself. Then for days there isa
savage banqueting and reveling, and the interment at
last is carried out.. Sometimes it is considered prudent
to secretly engage some disreputable persons to steal
the corpse. Then, of course, the expense of the big
banquet is avoided.

>e<______
Horsford’s Acid Phosphate.
Well Pleased.

Dr. C. RoBerts, Winchester, IIl., says: “I have
used it with entire satisfaction in cases of debili-

 

 

 

 

(ll take the boy to Switzerland. I must stay here a week
at least, especially as the exhibition is open, or it might

| with eager interest.

 

 

IF!

 

 

——— 2 Ate Na mn ——— as

“That hideous dwart the brother of the beautiful Elsie
Harper ?”

«She thinks so.”

ae it is not really so ?”

sep YO.”

“It can’t be that she cares enough for such a brother
as he is to aid him in concealing such a terrible crime.”
**No, she doesn’t, except for a certain good reason.”

«What is her reason ?”

‘Lovell at one time saved her life, and in the act re-
ceived the scar which disfigures his face. ’

“How did it happen ?” ,

“It happened at a railway station in a small town in
the interior of this State. Elsie and Lovell were about
to take a train going east. To do so they were obliged
to cross another track between the plattorm and train.
There were double rails for switching, and Elsie caught
her foot between them and fell. A freight train was just
coming in upon that track, and she could not extricate
her foot. Lovell had crossed, but looking back and see-
ing her danger, he ran. to her assistance.

“The train came on with a rush; Lovell clung to EI-
sie, a perene his own life. He pulled her clear just in
time, leaving her shoe fast between the rails. In the act
he was thrown down, just as the engine rushed past.
Something, I don’t know what, struck him as it passed,
leaving him insensible, and with a terrible gash across
his face. But Elsie wasn’t SO much as scratched. The
injury came near causing the death of Lovell; and it is
no wonder that Elsie sticks by him. She knows that he
is cruel and unscrupulous, but she stands to it that he is
the bravest man living.” ‘

The Hindoo detective listens to this remarkable tale
with eager interest.

It is further evidence of the truth of Mareus Ripley’s
statements concerning the strange dwarf—that he isa
man of extraordinary courage and presence of mind.

Lovell, the dwart, is certainly a remarkable man, and
his attributes are so diverse that it is hard to decide
whether he is mosta villain orahero. f

This revelation accounts for Elsie ers
concerning what she knows of the shoc crime. For
Hyjah has believed all along that she can tell him
something of the affair if she will. Wee

“I wish you to tell me one thing more,” he declares,
atter a momentary pause. “How does it happen that
Elsie Harper ever promised to marry you 2”

“In the first place she took afancy tome. ThatwWas.
when Iwas on duty, and Ps steady. When | asked
her to be my wife she didn’t exactly ee a little
later I was sent by the chief to arrest Lovell for a crime
with which he was charged. Elsie plead with me to let
him escape.” ’

‘And you made conditions, eh ?”

“She made them. She said she would answer yes to
my proposal if I would grant her request. So I yielded.
But somehow as she grew older, she grew to e me,
and would have sent me adrift if Lovell hadn't made her
stick by me. That’s how the matter stands.”

“I see how the affair has gone—it is all very clear now,
Poor girl!”

At this juncture there are sounds of rapid footsteps
outside the door, on the stairs. OS

The door bursts open, and some one dashes precipi-
tately into the room. - vs

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

 

If forever round my way
Bright and thornless flowers should grow,
If no sorrow, pain, or care
I should ever feel below ;
If the sun should always shine—
It all earthly joys weré mine,
Would it be, as seasons roll,
Better tor my soul ?

If my wants were all supplied,
It, in houses, lands, and gold,
Precious stones and merchandise,
I had boundless wealth untold ;
If the birds upon the wing
To my heart should ever sing
With such constant blessings given, .
Should I think of heaven ? »
If pale Death should never pass
Through my door with fearful tread,
. ff the coffin and the grave
Ne’er should cover up my dead ;
If no heavenly cord should bind
My poor soul to angel kind
AS the years and ages roll,
Should I save my soul?

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

 

THE

Wall Street Wonder;

Hyer, The Hinooo Dereerive

By DONALD J. McKENZIE,

Author of “Miriam Blair.”

   
   

 

(“The Wall Street Wonder” was commenced in No. 5. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXIV.
POINTS GAINED.

The Hindoo detective immediately realizes that he
has his hands full, for once in his life. i

The expression upon the face of Morrill shows plain- |
ly enough that he has heard the last words uttered by
Hijah, and that he does not take them very kindly. CHAPTER XXV.

His face is slightly flushed; but it isnot this alone DRAWING THE NET. :
that betrays his passion. His sharp, restless eyesseem| The one who so precipitately enters the room Is
ablaze; they rapidly take in every object in the! Tommy, the shrewd lad. 5 ae
room; they fall at last upon the tall Hindoo, and there | _ He is out of breath from running; his eyes are bright

: a E heeks flushed with ex ent. i
rest with an intensity of hatred which he does not at- Oe lone wid ie dak aimee he exclaims
tempt to disguise. ‘ | naling in front of ne Seleaye. te” alee
ne aEe, ave : | Tommy !—and what do you want ?” Hyjah returns.
Hyjah’s brain is not in the least benumbed by the | {(Zommy ar tall ‘yr, tnbyee mete anaes tank

 

   

  

 

 

 

rapid culmination of startling events. Nor does he for-| Ripiey. Morrill’s after him. There'll be some shoppin’
feit the small advantage which he has gained. | old tun if you only git there in time.” i
With lightning-like rapidity he grasps Bartley Roper | ‘ara come ee as td boy notices Roper, and a “broad
by -the collar, pulls him violentiy forward, trips and | “Hulloa, old man! thought you had me, didn’t you?
throws him to the floor. And before Kit Morrill or the | Can’t I play Poe though, and didn’t I fool yer
| neatly ? I had a fine time dodgin’ the cops yer set ter
| watch for me, after I ran away from yer carriage. I
Hyjah snaps the manacles upon the wrists of the burly | jeft one of ’em under a heap 0’ ashes that I dum
policeman, and quickly springs backward, bracing him- | over him when he was pokin’ ’round in an alley to find
self against the wall | me. But he’s made inter soft soap ‘fore now—ho, ho !”
; The detegtive waits for no further explanation. He
“He is my prisoner, and [ caution both of you that it | does not care how Tommy has learned that Morrill is
will not be well for you to attempt to release him!” Hy- | per Ripley, but he feels sure the information is relia-
| ble.

jah exclaims, a steel-like ringin his tones. | “] think we shall not allow Kit Morrill to arrest Mar-

More} and the dwarf pause, Checked by the belliger- | cus Ripley, if Ican get there on time. You know where
ent attitude and expression of theirenemy. The Hin- | the young man is ?”
doo no longer disguises the fact that he has come here «Over to Astoria, hidin’ in a house in the woods close
prepared for: battle, and that he will not go away until} by. Been there myself this mornin’ an’ saw him.”
there is a settlement. | -**All right ; we will lose no time.”

Kit Morrill is the next to speak. He points at the | Hyjah conducts his prisoner to the street, delivers
prostrate form ot the policeman, and says : | him over to the custody of a policeman whom he can

“Release that man, Mr. Hindoo! He is my assistant, | trust, and accompanies the boy to the Ninety-second
and I am an officer with the authority of the city be- | street ferry. t
hind me.” ce ae | In half an hour they-are being driven rapidly toward

“J don’t care if you have the authority’of a dozen | the outskirts of the beautiful suburb, and in a short
cities behind you. It will not do you any good if you time arrive at a cottage, which is evidently untenanted.
try to use it against mine,” is the cool retort. _|. The house is surrounded by a shadowy grove of

“Do you pretend to say that you can do this sort of handsome trees: the place is pervaded by absolute
thing with impunity ? silence; the moon, which is full, shines radiantly upon

«J have done it.’ : the scene. Tommy and the detective go to the-door,

‘Do you know, Mr. Hindoo, that I think you are a!
precious fraud ?” eee eM

«Glad you stated your estimate. It makes me bold to |
say what I think ef you,”

“Go ahead.” - ; house.

“I think you—make Mio mistake, forI mean the one’ ‘Turning they behold Marcus Ripley running at the
who calls himself Kit Morrill—are ‘a coward anda vil- | top of his speed toward the cottage, and closely fol-

in!” | lowed by two men.

This is spoken with the utmost coolness, yet socrisply | One of the latter Hyjah recognizes as Kii Morrill, the
that every word goes like leaden shot to the’ brain of detective; the other is a New York policeman. The
Morrill. ' | latter is nearest the fugitive, and as the Hindoo springs

‘The flush upon the face of the latter deepens; he | to the assistance of the young man, the pursuer seizes
raises one hand to his head; he takes a convulsive for- | Marcus by the shoulder and pulls him backward.
ward step. : : | Ripley turns and fights for his liberty; but Morrill

«Do you say that tome?” he huskily demands. | speedily arrives to assist the officer.

«Didn't 1 make it plain enough for you ?” | But the Hindoo reaches the scene also, and once

“Do you know that no man ever dared speak such ; more he is face to face with the treacherous detective,
words tome before ?” } and another conflict of authority is impending.

“Then it is time they were spoken. For my part I The hand of Hyjah collars the policeman, and Ripley
don’t perceive any reason for not stating these matters is released. Morrill, with flashing eyes, collars the Hin-
squarely. 1 have not told you anything you did not doo.
previously know. I would not say this toan honest| «Seize the young man again, Derby,” Kit orders, ad-
man. I know that you are just what I have said—a | dressing the policeman. :
coward and a Villain !” |

«There's a way in which this affair can be settled, | in a moment,” Hyjah directs, as coolly as though it were
and only one way !” cries Morrill, hoarsely. not the most.exciting struggle in which he has ever

“Howe! | participated. ;

“I challenge you to——” : | Kit twists the Hindoo’s collar with his powerful hand.

“Nonsense!” Hyjah interrupts, with a deprecating For a moment it looks as though the wonderful detec-
gesture. And hecontinues: ‘I don’t fight duels. And tive could not hold his own. For Morrill is, beyond
it 1 did I should choose for an opponent one who would | question, a man of tremendouS muscular power, and
not be a disgrace to me. This isa square game. I have | a trained athlete at that. Cite
told you what I think of you, and you can say anything But Hyjah turns upon his assailant: his hand also
you please in retaliation. Butif we stood up and killed | grasps a collar. and the collar is Kit Morrill’s. For an

nal agreed upon between the boy and Marcus. j
here i¢ no.xzeply-to the ring, but amoment later they
| hear the sound of rapid footsteps approaching the

each other it would prove nothing. If you are not what | instant both stand thus, their faces growing purple

I say you are, prove yourself a square, upright detec- :
tive, and arrest the man you find tobe aah of des-| Then the tall form of the Hindoo makes a forward
troying the eyes of beautiful Ida Shelby. That’s what! lunge. His left arm encircles the body of antago-
you are hired todo. That's whatI am going todo. If) nist; he is in turn clasped by the latter. They reel to
you arrest an innocent man, and thus prove that you , and fro, then both fall to the ground—the Hindoo un-
never intended to get the guilty one, then what I have | derneath ! 5
said of you will be proven true. If the case is other-| Tommy fairly dances up and down inan ecstasy of
wise, then you will have me on the hip, that’s all. This excitement. He believes that Hyjah is getting the
is the neatest test I know of. I am simply attending to | Worst of the conflict.
my business in arresting this bull-dog of a policeman.! A moment later, however, he is relieved to see Kit
If you want to arrest that dwarf by your side you won’t | Morrill thrown over upon his back, while Hyjah, the
see me make any objection. Wade in!” | giant Hindoo, rises to his feet, scarcely breathing faster
Morrill compresses his lips, and for a momentis silent. | than usual. : ay os)
When he speaks, it is in an altered tone. | “Jhad to choke him harder than I like to!” hee
«There will be no duel,” he declares, speaking slowly. | observes, looking down at his conquered foe. ‘But
“for, aS you have said, we might shoot each other with- | guess he'll come to his Senses as soon as we want him.
out proving anything, unless it were to prove ourselves | I think I will make him secure, while Iam aboutit? I
to be fools. And that we are not. But this doesn’t set- | must arrest him’as a conspirator in this case, as he un-
tle our enmity. I suppose there need be no hurry about | doubtedly is.”

with the pressure upon their windpipes.

settling that.” a: -. | Hestoops and handcuffs the vanquished Morrill, and
“None at all. If itis never settled, it will be just as’ then turns to Ripley, who stands by the side ot the won-
well.” | dering policeman.

Possibly.” |

Hyjah advances, shows his badge, and says: :
Kit Morrill turns to the dwarf and makes a rapid sig- | ie is

«Kit Morrili is a fraud, and is now my prisoner. I

nal, which the Hindoois unable to comprehend. And willlikewise take this young man in custody. You will
the next moment both go from the room. take charge of him, and see that he doesn’t eseape, and I
“This does not end the trouble with those fellows,” is | will take care of our bogus detective, here. soon-

Hyjah’s mental comment. | er we get back to the city the better.” ;
in the meanwhile Roper has remained where he has! The carriage in which Kit and the policeman have —
been thrown by the detective, watching the disputants come hither is brought around and the five are driven
As Kit and Lovell go trom the | ra i the Astoria ferry. .
room, Roper struggles to his feet, an imprecation break- | Kit orrill speedily recovers oonsciousness, but makes —
ing trom his lips. te ‘no effort to escape. In sullen silence he allows himself
“The cowards, to forsake me!” he cries,"as the door | to be conducted to a police station and locked up.
closes behind them. ? ad Ripley is likewise confined, though under no specific
“The best thing you can dois togive them both away,” | charge. ‘The fact that he desires to escape the necessity
the Hindoo declares. F ; Of testifying in the case is sufficient to require his con-
Roper’s eyes quickly scan the face of his captor. | finement until a preliminary examination can be had.
“| would if I dared,” he exclaims, in a low tone. | The Hindoo detective goes fo the private hospital in
“Why not dare?” . | Which he has lett Elsie Hurper. The physician in charge
“It would go harder with me than with them.” | meets him with a cheerful countenance. ,
«Then you are the prime mover in this crime 2” | Itis allright, after all!” the doctor declares, rubbing ~
“No, no!” | his hands. i
«You are only a tool, then ?” | **She will recover her senses, then ?”
“I begin to think [have been merely atool. If I'd| ‘*Yes—she Was recovered them, memory andall. And
been in my right mind I would never have——” | she is very anxious to see you.”
Roper shudders, interrupting himself. | Hyjah tinds Elsie, seemingly more beautiful than ever
«You would never have—what ?” Hyjah questions. | before, reclining upven a lounge. She welcomes him
“’m not going to tell you ?” | with acharming smile, and motions him to aseat by
‘You will admit one thing ?” | her side. ae” et
«What is that ?” |
- **¥ou know who destroyed the sight of Ida Shelby ?”
“Yes, I know.”

| “Tam so anxious to hear concerning Mr. Ripley!” she
| exclaims, a bright blush suffusing her fair cheeks. —
| ‘And what do you wish to hear ?” Hyjah asks.

«And Kit Morrill knows ?” | «Jf he has éscaped ?”

“He does.” ; ‘No, he has not!” A

“And so does Lovell, the dwarf ?” | She clasps her hands, her face paling with sudden
“Yes, he knows.” | fear. Pitying her distress, the detective hastens to con-
“‘And Marcus Ripley—he does not know ?” | tinue: rt 3

«He has no knowledge of the crime.” | «But he is not arrested on the charge of the crime of
“And how about Elsie Harper—does she know 2?” | which he was suspected. He is cleared of that, so have
“She thinks she does.” | no fears, He will merely be held as a witness.”
«“‘Who does she think is the guilty one ?” | “Then he was taken ?”
“Lovell, the dwarf.” ** {took him. Kit Morrill tried toand missed, Now 1
«Then he is not the one ?”
“You've caught me this time, so I might as well clinch Tell me all you know about it.”
the truth. Lovell is not the culprit.” ; Elsie covers her face with her hands, and for a moment
“‘Why does Elsie think so, then ? }is silent. At last she says: ‘
«He has told her that he is the guilty one.” | **Oh! what shall I do?” ,
“Then why, in the name of wonder, hasn’t sheexposed | “Simply tell the truth. First, tell me how you came
the fact ?” ; ; to be in the carriage which was thrown over the em-
“She didn’t dare.” ? | bankment, so nearly causing your death.”
‘She is afraid of Lovell ?” | **T was decoyed to enter it by a letter from a great
ehcas Nae she wouldn’t betray him, even if she did | man—a man who is thought to be upright and honora-
not fear him.” | ble.”

 

ty from age or overwork, and in inebriates and
dyspectics, andam well pleased with its effects.”

‘Will you tell me why ?” | ‘You mean Robert Desmond, the broker ?”
“Yes. In the first place she believes Lovell to be her| < Yes.”
brother.” _ * What is Robert Desmond to you,?”

 

and the former gives three sharp rings at the bella, é

 

‘Ripley, defend yourself, and [ll go to your assistance ~

| Wish you to help me clear up the rest of this mystery!

 

 

 

 

et AE EOE a une

 

  
 
 
  
 
   
  
     
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
  
  
   
  
   
  
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
  
 
  

 

  
  
  
  
   
 

  
  
 
    
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
    
    
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
   
   
  
 
 
    
  
  
 
 
 
  
   
  
    
    
 
 
 
  
 
 
   

 

  
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
 

 

  
   

  
    
      
  
 
  
    
 

 

4‘

pak

 

  
  
 

pam

 

 

 

orem

 
 

 

 
  
  

 

   

 

 

 

renter es vid. dapat. Boa ete:

 

 

 

“Tdo not know, except that he has for some time
shown much interest in me.” {

“Did you suppose him to be your enemy ?”

‘No. He has always seemed very kind.”

«And do you think he intended to have you killed ?”

“It appears so.” (

“How long have you known him ?”

“Only about a month.” iu

“You have met him at his business office ?”

“Once, at his request.”

«And he gave you his card ?” ;

“Yes, sir. But how do you know all this ?”

“J will tell you in due time. But I wish first to give
you a few ate which I have learned concerning you;
after which you will answer a few questiong further.”

The Hindoo proceeds to repeat the facts which he has
gained in the interview with Roper. She listens, with
clasped hands and pale face, without interrupting.
When he ceases erie she exclaims:

«Then Bartley Roper has lied to me all along! And
so has Gerard Lovell!”

«How have they lied to you ?”

“Bartley told me that the dwarf committed the Shelby
crime—that he did it by mistake.”

«Whom did he intend to assault ?”

“Sidney Desmond.”

“Ah! Now we're getting to the points of the case !”

ih springs to his feet in the eagerness of his inter-
est. The gas-light, falling upon his dark face, shows it
to be aglow with the zeal of his profession.

«Tell me, Elsie, why Lovell, the dwarf, wished to de-
stroy the sight of Sidney Desmond ?”

cease of some quarrel between himself and Sid-
ney’s father.”

“What is the quarrel about ?”

«J donot know. But you say that Bartley
the dwarf to be innocent of the crime ?”

«He said he was not the culprit. But the more I sift
this case, the more [am convinced that heis.astrange
factor in the crime. The hour is late, and I must
leave you to get some rest. I have yet a great deal of
work to do.”

The detective leaves the hospital, but his head does
not touch a

declares

pillow this night. He visits the Shelby man-

views the doctor in attendance, and from him

“Pat bw-and important fact, of which mention will
eI in the next chapter.

is still much of the great mystery unsolved.

CHAPTER XXy.
CONCLUSION.

The remainder of our story will be told through the
medium of a fcw brief interviews, held by the Hindoo de-
tective with the principal actors in the strange drama,
in 4 light of the strong clews which he has now ob-

The physician of Ida Shelby says : :

“T have just vered a a t blunder made by me
in my examination of Miss Shelby’s injuries.”

“A plunder! Whatisit? Ifyou have blundered, you
have probably made me blunder also.”

“J hope not, ‘sir. The consulting physician is as much
to blame as I am; and, in fact, any one might make the
same mistake.”

«Well, don’t lose any time.” <4

«The liquid thrown into the face of Ida Shelby was not
vitriol, as [ thought, but a powerful solution of potash.”

“Ah! then you have given me extra trouble, for the
vial which I found near the spot contained vitriol.”

“So you have been following a blind clew ?”

«Yes; and the wrong man was thus implicated. But
never mind, for I never believed him guilty.
the new ae ect the case of your patient ?”

face
afraid there

 
  
   

 

fen oY

e

not be permanently disfigured; but I’m
s no help for her eyes.” e
“Al iter the detective is admitted to the private
apartment of Robert Desmond, the broker.
“7 have come to aero of you an explanation of your
relations with Elsie Harper,” the Hindoo decisively de-
clares, adding: ‘Facts which I have already obtained,
show that you have had dealings with one Gerard
Lovell, a dwarf, supposed to be a brother of Miss Harper.
i your explanation of these dealings depends the
solution of the crime which I am ee Unless
can give me a satisfactory explanation I shall be ob-
iged to arrest you for complicity, for you become a part,
to a crime when you withhold facts concerning it.”

Desmond hesitates, with contracted brows.

«T have been thinking of it all night, and I have made
up my mind to tell the whole business,” the broker ex-
claims, in an impetuous way.

«Don’t make a long story.
tions.”

“Allright. Just as you say.”

«What is Elsie Harper to you ?”

“She is my daughter—that is all!”

Desmond’s face flushes as he says this. To his surprise
the Hindoo replies :

«Just asI suspected, my friend. I have run across
such cases before. Mother pretty, but too humble fora
wife to the rich king of Wali street, eh ?”

The broker springs to his feet unmindful of his wound-
ed ankle.

“You are mistaken—it was a lawful marriage!” he

erigs, .°*».
seals
ay Siecause : Fmaother proved to be an adventuress, and

not want the affair to be made public. Why, noth-
ing would haye pleased Shelby better than to have had

 

  

Simply answer my ques-

r for Elsie, then. But why have you
shady ?” :

_4* ascandal of this kind to pick upon. He would have

reveled in it, the villain!”

«Tell me about Elsie.” :

«The mother ran away with a man of her own ilk,
leaving the child with her brother, the dwarf.”
“Lovell ?”

* «Yes, Gerard Lovell. That was seventeen years ago,
four years after Sidney’s mother died. The woman died
soon after, and only Lovell knew that Elsie was my
child, and as all this happened in a western city he lost
track of me until within afew years. I ought to have
arranged for the support of the child, but I was with-
held from doing so by the fear that the story would leak
out, and Shelby, my enemy, get hold of it. Lately Lovell
came tome and demanded a sum ot money. I was an-
gry and ordered him out of the office. He refused to go,
and I partly forced him out. I never saw such an ugly
face aS the one he turned upon me as he went away
from the door. He swore to be revenged.”

“When did this occur ?”

«4 month since.” :

“And you have since met your daughter, Elsie ?”

and to injure one another in every possible way.”

‘Well, if you were the successtul one to start on, can't
you afford to be generous now ?”

“TI can never humble myself to Robert Desmond.”

“Of course not.

stroying the sight of your daughter.”

“T suppose I can.”

“And you can doone thing more, unless you area
contemptible cur.”

‘What do you mean ?”

“You can thank Robert Desmond for the restoration
of Miss Ida’s vision.”

‘You don’t mean to say that he——” .

“Yes; he heard of the surgeon, and employed him,
under bonds to keep the matter secret, to do his best
for your daughter. You know the result ?”

Shelb;
ed with the broker.

in their demeanor which can only exist between friends
who have been long estranged and at last reconciled.

And, of course, Sydney and Ida share in the joy of the
occasion. And later Elsie, who has been received and
acknowledged by her father, comes in and joins the
happy circle.

exclaims Ida Shelby, looking tearfully into the dark,
smiling face of the Hindoo detective. ;

Marcus Ripley presently enters, for itis an acknowl-
edged fact that he and Elsie—we came near calling her
«“‘Harper’—Desmond are lovers, and that there is to be a
double wedding later on.

The sentences of Morrill, Lovell, and Roper are rather

ness, no complaint is made.
In explanation of the vial of vitriol belonging to Mar-
cus Ripley, the latter admits in confidence to the Hin-

made by hi lf to cover up an error by which he
feared a derable loss to his employer would be en-
tailed.
he could know the resuit of his mistake: but for-
tunately there was no loss, and his error was not dis-

érasin * himselt 13 upon the books of the broker,

pardons him, for in reality the young man exaggerated
a Own short-coming, being naturally strictly honor-
able.

results the labors of Hyjah, the Hindoo detective, in the

been the wonder of Wall street.
It is possible that we may meet the detective and
Tommy, his boy assistant, again.
[THE END.]
>o~

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

AUDREY'S. RECOMPENAE,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

(“AUDREY Ss RECOMPENSE” was commenced in No. 48. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE NURSE’S STORY.

 

 

 

 

started the next morning. ;
| Upon arriving in the metropolis, Mr. Halstead excused
: himself, pleading some business to which he wished to
| give his attention, thus leaving Audrey and Rich to go
| by thiemselves to see their lawyer, though he promised,
upon Audrey’s invitation, to meet them in their own
home at tea time. »
When our friends reached Mr. Hosmer’s‘office, he” ask-
ed to see Miss Waldemar alone, and led her at once into
his private office. r

“There is a woman at the Bellevue hospital who is |
very anxious tosee you;” he toldher, ‘‘she is danger- |

ously ill with rheumatic fever, and it is thought that she
cannotlive long. She sent to your rooms, three days
ago, an urgent? request to see you. The landlady di-
rected the messenger to come to me to ascertain
whether it was;best to send for you. I,myself went to

| the hospital to see the woman, to find out how urgent |
the case really was, as I felt that it was almost too bad

torecall you just at this time.

| ' «The woman insisted that she must see you—said that
| She had an important secret to teveal to you, and gave
| her name as Margaret Fox.” :
| Oh!” exclaimed Audrey, greathy excited. ‘Shall we
| know at last ?”
| You know her, then,” said Mr. Hosmer, exhibiting
some surprise, ‘‘and I have done right in sending for
rou ””
, “Yes, yes! It would have been dreadful if she had
died without telling me whatI am sure she wishes to
reveal.”

«J tried to make her tell me what was on her mind
and I would communicate it to you. I stated that your
nephew was about to be married, and 1 did not like to

|} send for you to come such a distance, since you would
be obliged to return again immediately. But this only
| agitated her the more, and she said she must see you at
| once—vefore this marriage took piace. Then I was
| sure that it was a matter of importance—perhaps some-
| thing connected with your protegee’s parentage.” .
| «You have done quite right, Mr. Hosmer, and I am
glad I did not delay a moment in coming. I will go to
her at once.”

She hastened to the outer office, told Rich where she
| was going, but could not tell just when she should
| return.

Rich procured a carriage for her. saw her safely off,

“J have forgotten. We grew to hate each other worse, | ous trouble in this way, Her mistress had done some-

But you can go and tell him you are |
sorry you ever suspected him of being capable of de- |

It is beyond our power to depict the emotions of Ulric |

ys |
Within an hour he is at the Desmond mansion, closet- |
What passes between them no one |
sees or hears, but when they join Sidney, the detective |
and Ida, who await them in the drawing-room, their |
eyes look suspiciously moist, and there is a gentleness |

“We have that man to thank for every bit of this!” |

lighter than they seem to deserve when the trial comes |
off ; but ‘‘the quality of mercy is not strained,” and so |
that those who were injured are restored to the happi- |

doo detective that he purchased itfor the purpose of |

He had to wait acertain length of time before |

covered. Later he confesses to Desmond, who freely |

Thus closes the strangest case on record; and thus |

settlement of the rich men’s feud, which for years has |

| Itwasa very pleasant trip upon which our friends |

z

«eg, THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32—

 

| thing to displease her, and the circumstance had
aroused all her furious hatred. Sitting in the nursery,
| with the child clasped in her arms, she began to babble
| of her love tor its father and her hatred for its mother.
| She vowed that the little one should yet call her ‘mam-
ma’ in place of the white-faced beauty who had robbed
| her of everything enjoyable in life. She declared that
ssme day the mother would die, and then she would find
| some way to step into her shoes. A slight movement
| attracted her attention when her jealous fury had
reached this pitch, and glancing up she saw her mas-
ter’s wife and sister standing in the door-way, and knew
by the expression of their faces that they had heard
| What she had said.

“An indescaibable scene ensued ; the siste? denounced
the vindictive servant in the severest terms, heaping
contempt upon her, declaring in her scornful anger that
she was not fit to clean her master’s boots, much less as-
| pire to become his equal. Her mistress commanded her
to leave the house, she could not endure the sight of her
after that or trust her with her child. But she assumed
the most abject contrition, and: begged and prayed to he
allowed to remain with the child ‘she so dearly loved.’
She promised never to forget herself again, and pre-
| tended she had not meant half what she had said. Her
| humility deceived them, and recovering somewhat from
| their astonishment and anger they thought they had
| perhaps attached too much importance to her senseless
| babble, and so they concluded to say no more about it,
| and to let her remain on probation. But only a deeper
hatred took possession of her, and an insatiable desire
| to be revenged. r
| ‘Her opportunity came at last. There was to bea
| fair in the town near which they lived, and the servants
| were all allowed to attend it. On the same night the
| master’s sister was to be married, and this would neces-
| sitate his own and his wife's absence until a late hour.
| Only the nurse was left behind with the child; but she
claimed that she had no fear, for the other servants
would return by nine o’clock. AS soon, however, as
every one was gone this strange woman administered a
sleeping potion to her little charge, arrayed it in warm
clothing—for it was midwinter—dressed herself in a
long, dark cloak, with a heavy vail over her face, and
stole out of the house. Depositing the child in a sum-
mer-house, she covered it warmly with ashawl, then
ran back into the mansion, and in vario laces set
fire to the lower part of the houses Aeé Mag this
dreadful purpose, she made her way from the burning
| building, caught up the sleeping child, and walked sev-
eral miles toa town where she was not known, and
where she took a train for New York city. Afterward,
fearing discovery here, she made her way to that little
| manufacturing settlement near my former home. The
house she had left to its sad fate was upon a large
estate, somewhat removed from any other residence, so
that when the fire was discovered the whole structure
was enveloped in flames. When the master and mis-
tress returned their beautiful house had become a mass
| of smoldering ruins, while it was believed that both
| nurse and child had perished in the conflagration.”

“Aunt Audrey!” cried Rich, starting up excitedly,
and ablé to control himself no longer, ‘‘of course I know
you have been telling me my own story, but I cannot
bear any more untill know who were my father and
mother. WhoamI? What was their name ?”

Audrey arose, and, going up to him, laid her tremb-
“ hands upon his shoulders, and looked fondly into

is eyes.

“Rich,” she said, in a low, tremulous voice, ‘you
have no mother; your father is the man whom all my
life [have loved. His nameis Arthur Halstead.’

Then, trembling and exhausted with all the excite-
ment of the day, she sank weakly upon a chair, and,
weeping, buried her face in her handkerchief.

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.
AUDREY’S RECOMPENSE.
During the first part of Audrey’s story habe Halstead

 

sat and listened, much as any one might halve done; in-
terested, indeed, but without suspicion thaf it so nearly
concerned him. But, as she proceeded, its familiarity
| grew upon him, and when she spoke of the fire that had
| consumed his dwelling, and which, as every One believed,
/had destroyed his beautiful boy and his nurse; men-
| tioning how it had occurred, and the diabolical spirit
| that had planned and executed the dr@adiul deed, the
| blood within his veins seemed almost to congeal; his
| body became rigid, and he looked more like a statue than
a living being.
| When Audrey had, in answer to Rich’s inquiry, uttered
| the name of his father, the young man tumed like one
| bereft of sense, and gazed upon him, whom, ever since
| their first meeting, he had remembered with much of
| admiration and esteem. ;
| As Rich turned that look upon his father, it seemed to
| break the spell that had beenupon him. ~~
He staggered to his feet and crossed over
outstretched hands, an expression of intel
on his face. =
Rich arose also, and the two strong men grasped each
other’s hands with feelings which may be far more easily
imagined than described.
“My boy! my boy! can it be true ?” Mr. Halstead cried,
in a voice tremulous with emotion.
This, then, was his father! .
atter all the yearnings of iy
and guidance—yearnings
, dread lest the discovery
| than to remain forev
| cumstances of his birth: ~“@%
| And that sweet, pale-face
| dark eyes, and a certain a
ways haunted him—whom fie
nly time within his memofy, ne
| mont, and who had spoke& so graciously to him, and
| had given him that gold g which still gleamed upon
| his finger—was his mother}
But stranger than all elsé, was the fact ¢
| been so wonderfully thretn into Audrey,
care !—that he, her old-time lover's son sho}
reared with such tenderness and love by hi
* «Audrey,” Arthur Halstead at length sé@id, speaking
in a husky voice, ‘‘you are sure there is nd doubt about
this story ?” . ;
“7 have not the slightest doubt about itt she replied,
| confidently. :
| «Of course,” he continued; “I knew all about that
| dreadful fire—except as to its origin. Thal has always
| been a mystery until this hour. We believed that the
nurse must have fallen asleep when at her Dost, and that
| a Spark from the open grate had snapped gut upon her
| clothing, or some other inflammable substance, and the

him, with
yearning

  
  
 
   
   
   
 

 
 
 
  
   
  
   
   

Paingled with
dain to him
i]

i his having
Waldemar’s
d have been
*y

| flames got beyond her control before she discovered |
| them, when it was too late to save either herself or the |

| child and both had suffocated from the smoke, or perish-

mé ‘day in Ver- |

 

¢

 

“No; I told you that ‘I had no children.’ That was
always my reply when any one questioned me regard-
ing my family. It was easier to say that than to ex-
plain that I had lost my boy, and then have to go over
the dreadful story in detail.”

«Your grandfather Halstead named you Rich,” he
said, turning tothe young man. ‘‘He uid not exactly
like his own, which was Richard, and yet he wanted you
to have something that sounded as near like it as pos-
Bere SO compromised the matter, and called you Rich-
mond.’ .

“It is the nicername, I think,” said Audrey: ‘but,
Arthur, isit not a little singular that you should have
trusted Margaret Fox so fully? She must have been a
strange character.”

«“T do not know,” he returned, thoughtfully. ‘I never
knew anything of her unhappy and remarkable affec-
tion for me until you told it this evening. Probably
Ida thought it too absurd to mention, and she always
conducted herself with the utmost decorum whenever
she wasin my presence. If I had known ot it 1 should
have insisted upon a change of nurses at once. ButI
am too grateful, at this present moment, to cherish any
revengeful feelings toward the poor dying woman, al-
though,” with a tremble in his voice, ‘‘she has deprived
me, for long years, of his love, and of the pleasure of
watching him develop day by day and year by year.”

“It was a dreadful thing,” sighed Audrey, ‘‘and yet
good has grown out of it—atleastto me. This is my
recompense forall the trial and sorrow of the past—
that I can restore your son to you, and a worthy son,
too, of anoble father. Ihave often wondered why our
lives were so divided, why each was doomed to go
a different, and such a difficult way. But there wasa
purpose in it—do you not see ? And is not the reward
a wonderful one ?”

“I suppose we should regard it in that way,” returned
the gentleman, thoughtfully. «However, we will
thankfully accept our present blessings, and not mar
them by vainly regretting the past. But Richis going
to reap some benefit trom this long waiting, as well as
we. How will it suit you, young man, to have the con-
trol of a fine fortune from this time on?’ he concluded,
turning with a look of pride on his son.

‘“A fortune!” Rich repeated, in a surprised tone.

“Yes. Your mother was quite an heiress at the time
of her marriage, and her property has been accumu-
lating ever since, as she was too feeble to enjoy spend-
ing money very much, and never even used the whole of
| her yearly income,” explained Mr. Halstead.
| **A competence is what I have been hoping to achieve
| by close attention to business,” Rich. replied, gravely ;
| “but a fortune, however large, seems of very little mo-
ment tome just now, compared to the fact that I have
found you—my father.”

“Bless you, my son! That last is the sweetest word
that I have heard this many a year,” Said Mr. Halstead,
heartily. ‘God grant that we may live long to enjoy this
renewed relationship.”

“This Margaret Fox,” Audrey said, when, after a time,
they had all become a little more composed, ‘‘seemed to
be quite anxious regarding her nephew. She says he
was not always unkind to her, though he possessed
something of her own passionate, revengeful disposi-
tion. She says he was her only dependence, and that
he suddenly disappeared last winter, and she had heard
nothing from him since, until she saw in a daily paper
an account of his attempt to take your life.”

“Ah! then his disappearance must have occurred
about the time of his attempted abduction of Annie,”
said Rich.

“Yes, I judged so; and she has had a hard time to get
along ever since. A few weeks ago she took a severe
ecld, which resulted in this dreadful fever. She seemed
quite softened and repentant, and requested me to ask
you to forgive her for the great wrong that she has done

u.

‘Which I freely do, and to proveit will commit her to
your tender mercies, Aunt Audrey, together with what-
ever means may be necessary to insure her future com-
| fort,” Rich answered, heartily.

 

 

* * * * * *

«What do you. suppose a certain little blue-eyed lady
will say when she discovers that she cannot. marry
Richmond Waldemar ?” Mr. Halstead questioned, a little

+

Rich’s eyes twinkled.

“Tm sure I cannot say how Annie will feel about it,”
he replied. “What do you think, Aunt Audrey? Will
there be any serious objection to exchanging the name
ot Waldemar for that of Halstead ?”

And Miss Waldemar, thinking only of those two dear
young people, very innocently replied :

“T am sure, Rich, | cannot conceive of any.”

The burst of laughter from both gentlemen which
greeted this admission made her conscious of the jest
perpetrated at her expense, and a beautiful blush suf-
fused her face.

But nothing daunted, she pursued, with a defiant little
Oe ee her shapely head, and ashy glance at Mr. Hal-
ste: '

‘Well, if there is any doubt upon the subject, and she
chooses to wait long enough, perhaps I will prove my
position.”

“I think I shall retain both names,” Rich said, gravely,
after a moment of thought, “I have become deeply at-
tached to your name, Aunt Audrey, and I am very re-

 

. | luctant to drop it altogether: so I mean to be known

henceforth as Richmond Waldemar Halstead.”

“Tam glad you have made that decision Rich,” said his
| father, ‘tor I shall be glad to retain the name of Walde-
| mar én the family,” and Audrey algo appeared gratified

. py this evident love for old assoeiations.

| ‘ But,” said Rich, with a sudden look of interest, «thi
| will necemepee a little change in a certain document
| which I procured of the ¢ity clerk a short time ago!—
how very fortunate that this discovery was made beforé
the tenth !”

“True; it would have made matters a trifle awkward;
I confess,” said Mr. Halstead, with an amused laugh.

The next morning that gentleman himself visited
Bellevue Hospital and had an interview with Margaret
Fox, recognizing her at once; and, questioning her
further regarding her confession, he was fully satisfied
with the truth of it and that he had indeed found his
son.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

 

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“Yes, first by chance. Her beauty attracted me; I
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asa poe re re ce regi Pepe Ait ‘ae | the cottage in the suburbs which he intended for his | was made to discover the bodies we. did not wonder at BI G OF
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Fa ae you seen Lovell since his threat of vengeance?” | after the meal was over and they had repaired to the | dead. I can hardly realize that he lives and stands be- | — ~ Beautiful. Cheap. Never Tarnish.
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. arlor, Audrey said: | fore me!” , } Positively reduce

A Pp » y

As the detective is ready to go he says: “Rich, I have not told you anything about my visit to| He looked up wonderingly and with almost a sense of

“Acknowledge your beautiful daughter, by all means. | that woman to-day, because I wished to tell Mr. Hal- | awe, into Rich’s face as he concluded. | Sakon and hever tar. Partioutare icnleny a che
VILCOX SPECIFIC MED. CO., Philadelphia, Pa.

 

She is worthy of it. It is infamous to keep her out of her | stead at the same time, and thus save atrepetition of the| ‘The woman's story is too plausible to te doubted for
rights.” : | story. Do you remember your old nurse ?” | a moment,” said Audrey. ‘She told me s¢much of your
Early in the day the detective sees, in a saloon, aman | Rich

 

well on smallinvestment. Magic Lanterns,

 

 

———

 
 

 

 

 

 

who has lost the forefinger of his left hand. Heis spend-

ing money very freely, and appears to be enjoying the

proceeds of some sort of a profitable undertaking.

Within five minutes Hyjah has this man in custody,
and from. him gains the fact which he seeks.

He isthe one who attempted to destroy the life of
Elsie Harper, and he was employed to do the act by
a big, burly policeman. To this description no one but
Bartley Roper answers.

And once more the Hindoo is not surprised.

Such a crime can only be committed by a brutal, jeal-
ous lover, when he is sure that the object of his passion
is lost to him.

And Hyjah mentally adds:

“JT have found the brute who can murder or mutilate
ahuman being. Lovellis capable of it, but he. is too
cautious to do such a thing himself. He has had Roper
completely under his mental power. It is he who prompt-
ed the crime by which Ida Shelby suffers. He meant to
have Sidney Desmond the sufferer; but doubtless Ro-
per, whom he compelled to commit the act, was under
the influence of liquor or powertul excitement, and thus
missed his aim in throwing the deadly fluid. Within an

. hour I will know!” .

: 6 ful is word, Within an hour he holds a long
interview with Bartley Roper, and under a promise of

a CO the ruffian confesses the truth.

It is he who committed the crime, but under power-
ful motives, and the deadly, fascinating influence of
Lovell, the dwarf. He was promised that Marcus Rip-
ley, whom he knows Elsie Harper loves, would be im-
plicated in the crime. And this promise is made in the
name of Kit Morrill, the false-hearted detective of whose
co-operation the dwarf is assured. :

* * * * * =

*

The great mystery is solved, and Bartley Roper is in-
dicted for the crime, and Kit Morrill for conspiracy.

Lovell, the dwarf, is overtaken two days later by the
patient, persistent Hindoo, who traces him in his flight
to Detroit, and there takes him in custody.

Before their trial, however, a great foreign physician
undertakes the restoration of Ida Shelby’s sight. The
strangest part of it is, the physician comes unsummoned
by her loving father, and when he goes away, leaving
joy and gratitude behind him, he refuses to accept a
fee, or to tell who sent him.

Beautiful Idas eyes are restored. Her recovery is
slow and painful. Itis long before she can bear the
light of day ; but the restoration is sure, and ultimately
complete, and she isonce more able to answer the loy-
ing — of Sidney Desmond with the old radiant smile.

Of course the Hindoo detective is a great friend of
both the Shelbys and Desmonds after his achievement,
and it is he whosolves this new mystery like every
other with which hecomes in contact.

By careful investigation he learns who summoned and

great physician. One day, with Sidney Des-
mond, he goes to the Shelby mansion, and says to the
banker ;

P ‘‘} have found out the whole business, Sir !”

a the strange doctor ?” Shelby eagerly asks.

ae es.” : :

“Tell me—quick !”

«Not until you tellwhy you and Desmond are en-
emies.” ,

The banker frowns, then laughs.

“Itbegan with a love affair when we were mere

«And which was successful ?”

“Jl was successful; and in consequence he traduced
me in business.”

“And then what did you do?”

 

boys !”

 

 

| tery of his early life about to be explained ?

“J have a faint recollection of a coarse, dark-looking |
woman who was not always very kind to me,” he an- |

swered. |

‘* Well, dear, it was She who sent for me, and whom I |
visited to-day,” continued Miss Waldemar. ‘I found |
her very ill, and she was very much distressed lest she |
should die before she could find me and confess the |
story of her past life, and right, if possible, a great |
wrong. She had lived in New York for many years, and |
has kept track of us all the time. She did not intend, |
she said, ever to confess this secret, but something |
which I once said to her, and kindness which, upon one |
or two occasions, she had received from you, finally sof-_|

tened her.” |
“What!” exclaimed Rich, astonished, while light be- |

gan to break in upon him, ‘‘ kindness from me! When ?”
“Once, when she fell and sprained her ankle, and

again when you spoke kindly to and expressed sympa- | ing pale again at the thought.

thy for her, one evening upon the street: and she is the

looked surprised at this question. Was the mys- | history that I knew it must be true—thb names—the |
| dates, all corresponded exactly with what I myselt |

knew, and her own name she gave as Margaret Fox.”

stead, eagerly, ‘‘and I remember that shehad a swarthy
complexion, with great black eyes and heavy hair, and
a somewhat forbidding countenance ; though when she
was good-natured and happy she might not have been
thought ill-looking.”

“Yes, you have described her exactly,” Audrey replied;
“and she said that before leaving your hbuse she went
to your private desk in the library and took a large roll
of bills from it. This money supported her and her little
charge for along time. But, atter going into the coun-
try, she had a fit of sickness which consumed the most
of what was left, and after that they were very poor.
| Sometimes she was able to work and earn a little, but
| oftener she was obliged to send the child out to beg.”
| «Rich sent out*to beg /” exclaimed Mr. Halstead, turn-

| than plenty, my boy going hungry tor bread, and beg-

aunt of that man who attempted your life this summer.” | ging for her!”

«Yes, Crouch. But go on, please, Aunt Andrey.”

“She told me,” Miss Waldemar resumed, ‘‘that when
she was a young girl she lived with a wealthy gentleman
in this State, who had a son and a daughter. She was with
them for several years, having been taken, when quite
a child, to wait upon the mistress and little girl. She
represented herself as having been a bright, good-look-
ing girl, ambitious and high-spirited, and possessed
with a feeling of rebellion and discontent because she
had been born in such an humble station and was des-
tined to toil for her own living. This envy, and a cer-
tain antagonism against everyone more fortunate than
herself, has been the bane of her life. She studied and
tried to improve her condition. Her greatest mistake
was in allowing herself to become enamored of the son
of her master. He was unconscious of it. or if he did
suspect it, never betrayed it. He was always kind to
her, often making her little presents for services she
rendered him, and this only added fuel to the fame. At
last she became ee with an insane hope that per-
haps she might win his regard, entrap him into marry-
ing her, and thus raise herself from the humble position
of a servant to that of mistress of a handsome home.

‘But all these wild dreams were suddenly brought to

rief upon learning that the young man was about to
be married to a beautiful and wealthy girl. This knowl-
edge drove her to the verge of despair, inspired her with
an intense hatred for and a desire to be revenged upon
one who had robbed her, as she believed, of all future
happiness.

“To accomplish this, she begged, upon their mar-
riage, to be allowed to go as a servant-into their family.
Her request was granted, and then she only waited and
watched for her opportunity. Her love for her young
master increased as time went by, and in proportion to
it grew her hatred for his wife. A year after their mar-
riage a son was born to them, and this girl having
proved herself so trustworthy in all her duties, was de-
puted to officiate as his nurse, rather than give him to
the care of a stranger, while her former place was filled

«That was perhaps a fortunate circumstance after all,
hard as it may seem,” said Audrey; “tor otherwise I
might never have found him.”

Then she proceeded to relate all those events, which
we already know, connected with her adoption of Rich,
and their life since leaving her country fieme.

“Tt is the most wonderful story I ever heard,” Arthur
Halstead said, when she concluded. ‘‘What a wretched,
revengeful creature that woman must have been! And
then to think that my child should have fallen into your
hands to be reared and educated! That is more aston-
ishing than all else!”

Then turning to Rich, he continued, while a fond smile
illumined his fine face :

“Richmond, my boy, are you prepared to acknowledge
your father ?”

Rich could only clasp his hand in reply.

He was moved to his very soul’s depths at the discov-
ery that he was the son of this noble man—that he could
claim an honorable birth—an untarnished name.

Then, as if he felt that he must not appear to renounce
his allegiance to her to whom he owed so much, he put
out his other hand and grasped Audrey’s.

Arthur Halstead’s face lighted at this act.

“Audrey,” he said, earnestly, ‘‘this but serves to
strengthen the bond between us—and how much I owe
you for what you have made my boy !”

“7 owe Rich a great deal for the comfort that he has
been to me,” Miss Waldemar responded, tremulously.
“He has been nothing but a blessing to me from the
first; and when I lost my property, you’ have no idea
how manfully he went to work to take care of me.”

“Ah! but he must have had wise training, or he would
never have been what he is,” Mr. Halstead returned.
«J tremble when I think what.might have been if he had
been reared by that woman; while 1 am,bound to con-
fess that you have done far better by Him than even his
own mother could have done, with her poor health,
though she loved him most tenderly, and his supposed
horrible fate nearly killed her.”

“It must have been very hard for you both,” Rich said,

 

by another servant. The beautiful boy grew and

thrived under her care, and both father and mother wa |

eared to live only for him: the father especially, while
Be spent hours in the nursery watching his interesting
ways, or giving himself up to merry frolics with him.
‘All this time the girl continued to cherish her hope-
less passion, and often when believing herself alone

with her charge, she would talk to him of her love for |

his papa, and give expression to endless nonsense’ of
that kind. One day, however, she got herself into seri-

sadly, and sighing as he remembered that wistful,
yearning expression in his mother’s eyes. ‘‘But,” he
| added, ‘‘Aunt Audrey fas given me the wisest of train-
| ing: she has been a mother indeed to me, and I believe
| it would hardly be possible for me to love any one more
| than [ love her.”

| «But, Arthur, you did not tell me that you had ever
| had ason, when I inquired for your family,” Audrey ob-
' Served.

«‘Yes—yes—that was the girl’s name,” cried Mr. Hal- |

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— sane =

BABY MAY.

BY THEO. D. C. MILLER, M. D.

Little hands, so ‘white and waxen,
Little eyes, so bright and blue,
Little cheeks, where rest the dimples,
Fair as mother-heart e’er knew ;
Little feet, that sometimes falter
When no strong hand leads the way
Little form of matchless beauty,
We all call our baby May.

Little curls, so soft and flaxen,
Little face, so white and fair ;
Little arms, that cling so fondly
To the dear ones every where ;
Little heart, so full of sweetness,
Warmed by love’s unceasing ray ;
Little lips, that softly murmur
The pure thoughts of baby May.

Little acts, so sweet and cunning,
Little smiles we love to see;
Little words by fond lips spoken,
Dear to us aS words may be ;
Little tears, like dew drops nestling
On the flowers of summer’s day ;
Little cares and griefs and trials
Of our blue-eyed baby May.

Pretty dress, so neat and weesome,
Pretty hand, all lined with red ;
Pretty frock, to keep our darling
Warm when summer days have fled ;
Pretty shoes and pretty stockings,
Worn and torn, and put away ;
Pretty blocks and toys and playthings—
. None too good for baby May.

-—___—_—_>-@—<«

MULLEN LEAVES—No., 35,

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

THE HUSKING.

 

Of course, we all of us stopped eating to once, for it
flashed acrost me in a minnit what all that sickness had
meant. That Bub Stebbins and Tom Pilkins, drat ’em!
had pnt some kind of nasty stuff into the kittle of mer-
lasses, and it was that which had discombobberated all
of us.

Them boys will come to the galluses, if something
‘Gon’t happen to bring ’em up short.  _

I’ve often thought that I wished it had pleased Heaven
‘to have let me be the ma of several Mullenses, that I
might have somebody to heir my old clothes, and my
brass kittie, and the merhogany desk that was Grandma
Wiggins’, and to fight over the rest of my property, after
I am gqne, but sense I’ve had to do with Bub, and them
Pilkinses, ’'m glad that I hain’t got no young Mullens to
leave behind me!

We eat our popped corn, and apples. and I throwed

And then you’d ort to 'seen the stampede. hem folks
cleared out of that’ barn asif there was Injuns arter
’em; and’in two ‘minutés I-and the boarders was left
alone in our glory.

a ®:

SUSY’S LOTTERY TICKET,

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“Tt would be so nice !—oh, it would be so nice!”

The newspaper slipped involuntarily from Susy Lee’s
fingers, and she sat looking off toward the blue mid-
summer sky in a sort of dreamy, pleasant reverie.

Susy was a fair, fresh little damsel, with innocent,
blue-gray eyes, brown hair, as smooth and shining as
satin, and a complexion whose natural roses glowed
brightly through the somewhat sun-burned skin. Not
beautitul—but very, very pretty and lovable. And so it
had transpired that at the age of seventeen Susy Lee
was engaged to be married to John Fordyce, the car-
penter’s son at Belleville—not a bad match for the little
girl who earned her living as ‘‘help” in old Dr. Bruce’s
family. ;

But in that primitive spot the “help” was as good as
Mrs. Bruce herself, entitled to every privilege, and oc-
cupying a social position fully equal to that of most of
the village girls, and Susy, far from repining at her lot,
regarded herself as most fortunate in being able to earn
seventy-five cents a week, ‘‘all of her own.”

“Susy, what on earth are you dreaming about ?”

Mrs. Bruce’s sharp voice struck unpleasantly across

the golden-glimmering thread of the girls thoughts.
She sprang guiltily to her feet.

“Are the apples ready to cut, ma’am ?”

“Ready! They were ready five minutes ago, and the
sponge all waiting. I do wish, Susy, you would let the
newspaper alone, days, until you have finished your
work.’ ;

Susy tied on her checked apron, rolled up her sleeves,
and took the pan of glossy, red-cheeked apples into her
lap; but as she worked, her thoughts were still persist-
ently busy with the flaming advertisement she had seen
in the paper—the tempting words, ‘‘A Fortune for Ten
Dollars!” and the plausible list of prizes (one thousand
dollars the very least) to be gained in the ‘Great Excep-
tional Lottery” by the investment of ‘‘only ten dollars.”

Susy’s life had been a secluded one, and it so happened
that these gleams of possible wealth had never before
dazzled the orbit of her mind’s eye—now they dazzled all
the more. If she could afford to buy a ticket !—after
all, they were very cheap, if one only had the money—
and if she should draw a prize, how nice that would be!
How surprised John Fordyce would be when she laid the
money in his hand and told him there was no necessity
for any more months and years of weary waiting! How
his eyes would sparkle !—his cheeks flush up! Oh, if it
were only possible!

Susy took another sly peep at the paper, when Mrs.
Bruce had gone into the pantry to get the spice-boxes
and rolling-pin. The lists were closed on the twelfth ot
July—and this was the seventh. Her heart sank within
her, as if it were weighted with lead.

“T have. but four dollars,” she said, sorrowfully to her-
self. ‘How I wish I had not bought that ugly calico
dress and the straw bonnet.”

The tears sparkled in Susy’s eyes, half regretful, half
angry, she could have cried heartily at her own hopeless
poverty, had it not been for the restraining presence of
kindly old Mrs. Bruce.

What would not our Susy have given for ten dollars
that day ?

The level beams of the declining sun were slanting
pleasantly in through the vine leaves that shaded the
western window. Dr. Bruce was away on his profes-
sional rounds. Mrs. Bruce had gone out to spend the af-
ternoon and evening at a neighbor’s, and Susy and the
old tortoise-shell colored cat had it all to themselves, in
the dreary silence of the sultry afternoon.

Suddenly there came a knock at the door—a blousy-
faced old farmer presented himself, with a cart whip
one hand.

“Dr. Bruce at home, hey ?”

“No, he is gone out.”

«Be home soon ?”

“Not before evening.”

“Well, that’s unlucky. See here, young ’oman, I’m
come to pay bis bill. I can’t very well wait, and it'll be
pretty nigh on to a month afore I’m able to come up this
way again. IT’llleave the money with you, and doctor
can send me a receipt—Obadiah Parker at Cedar Falls—
d’ye think ye can remember ?”

“Oh, yes; 1 shall not forget.”

Honest Obadiah accordingly delivered over a greasy ten
dollar bill, and departed, whistling some old tune as he
jogged along beside his team ot patient oxen, while Susy
returned to her seat, greedily eying the bill she had just
received.

Ten dollars—the exact sum she had so wished and
longed for.

“if it were only mine!” thought Susy. :

But it was not hers; ang she was just about to liy it

 

the candy out on the waste heap. All that good mer-
lasses ‘gone to ruivation! —Buuf te have made teir
batches of gingerbread! It was. enuff to provoke a
aminister in ¢ standing!

Yesterday I sent out invitations for a husking, and last
night we had it. ; x

All the boarders wanted one, and it’ll be something for
7em to remember. We cooked two days for it, for you
know that folks that go to huskings ginerally starve
themseves for two days beforehand, so’s to be able to
eat enuff to pay ‘em for what husking they do, anda
handsome protit over.

Sich is the natur of the human individual, that for
the sake.of getting the advantage of somebody else, he’d
eat hisself until he felt like bustin’, for the sake of feel-
ing that he’d made something out of somebody.

Last night was clear and frosty—jest the kind of a
night for a huskiug. All the stars there is was out, and
everybody that was invited come. I am called the best
Pera maker in Crow Hill, and I flatter myself that

can 46 a good thing in that line when I lay myself out.

All the boarders was in high glee. They’re going away
in a day or two, and they felt that this would be about
the iast circus they sould have at the Hill for the

resent.

Mrs. Pilkins laid away her novel, and took some medi-
cine to fortify her stomach aginst chills, and dressed
herself up warm,,. and went to the barn with the rest
of us.

The barn was lighted up with lanterns, and the corn
was piled into the barn floor, with seats on both sides,
made out of fence boards laid onto soap-boxes.

Mr. Mudge and Miss Billings sot side by side, as cozy
as could be, and the rest of us was seated round, a talk-
ing and laffing, and stripping off the husks from the
corn as fast as ever you see.

Elder Muggins was there from Peach Corner, and the
elder is a man that’s allers improving every occasion to
talk religion. He sot beside Mr. Pilkins, and he was a
hammering away onto him about election, and close
communion, and baptism, and several other isms. Pil-
kins, being a lawyer, of course he couldn’t have any re-
ligion, and Pilkins he called on somebody for a speech.
This was done to get red of Elder Muggins’ talk:

“Give us a bit of a speech, Mrs. Mullens,”. sez Squire
VRatcheldor. ‘Jest to cheer our spirits till the punkin-
pie comes on.”

“A speech! a speech from Mrs, Mullens!” sez the
crowd, and the more I declined the more they insisted.

“Step onto the rostrum,” sez the squire, rolling out a
Hour-barrel, and putting the sides of the wheelbarrer
acrost it for me to staud onto. ‘Step up where the ordi-
nance can see you. Now, gentlemen, three cheers for the
orator of the evening !”

And they cheered enuff to split the roof.

Ya a leetie stiff in the jints, as I guess I have told you
before, and I had to make several attempts before I got
onto the barrel, and after I got there I felt so dizzy-
headed that Sam Smith passed me up the rake-handle to
stiday myself by.

I cleared my throat, sot my specks firmly back onto
my nose, swallered the peanut I had been chawing over
all the evening, and branched forth.

“‘FRIENDS AND FELLER CITIZENS: On this joyous and
festive occasion I am glad to look into so many faces,
and realize the fact that my friends have come to help
me husk my corn, out of pure good-will——”

“Aud to eat the punkin-pie,” cried Bub Stebbins.

“Order in the court,” sez Mr. Pilkins.

“Out of pure good-will and Christian fellership,” con-
tinued I shifting trom one foot. onto Vother, for haying got
a large-sized bunyan on each foot I have to rest first
one and then t’other, like a spavined hoss. “Lam glad
to see sO many of you here, assembled under such fa-
vorable circuimstances, and eager to do your duty to
yourselves, your country, and—- ”

“A rat!” yelled Tom Pilkins, jumping up and scramb-
ling over the corn for the door. “I seen him run rite in
under the Jones girls’ feet. Two of ’em, by hookey!
Three of ’em, aS I'm a sinner!” , ks

Everybody screeched; all the women grabbed their
petticoats tight round ’em, and scooted for the door; I
stepped backards, and over went that barril, and I with
it, and we hit Eider Muggins, who was off his guard,
and the scuttle hole was open into the barn cellar, and
down went the elder and the barril, and the sides of the
wheelbarrer to destruction: and as the elder went, he
made a frantic grab for my overskirt, and stripped it
rite off trom m; waist. and took my bustle along with
it, and would h: e took me, but I seized onto the tail of

in the little stand drawer when an evil, ecstatic possi-
bifity shot. through her niind. Could she no row it
Rion enough to realize one of aureate
visions ? ae :
‘Where would be the harm? Nobody knew of it; Dr.
Bruce could not possibly miss it. Old Obadiah, Parker
had said that he shouid not pass that way again in a
month, and long before that time, she should be able to
replace the loan. Who would know just when it had
been paidin? And of what inestimable good it might
be to her, and John.
The longer she thought of it the more harmless and
practicable the scheme seemed, and finally she sat
down with cheek flushing and paling, and heart guiltily
throbbing, to write the note that was to inclose the ten
dollar bill to the ‘Grand Exceptional Lottery Company.”

She glanced up at the clock. Five—and ten minutes
past—and the city mails went out at six.

It was the infpulse of a moment to throw on her bon-
net and barege shawl, and run across the sunny pasture
— a beneath the shadowdy edge of the woods, into
the road. 3 ¢ ‘

It was only half past five, when she reached the post-
office ard dropped the letter in, with a burning cheek.

The deed was quite irrevocable now—and Susy was al-
most glad of it, as she hastened back, flushed and heat-
ed. The kitchen was quiet and deserted, as she had left
it, and the old cat, purring softly in the sunshine, was
a very reliable confidante!

“We are going to be rich, pussy,” almost sobbed Susy,
as she knelt on the floor, stroking down the black and
yellow fur with eager, feverish fingers, ‘and John can
set up for himself in business, and we needn’t wait five
years after all, if-only——” .

And Susy jumped spasmodically up, to kindle the fire
for tea, knowing very well thatif she did not spend her
energies in household work they would evaporate in a
hysterical fit! : ‘

“There’s no harm in it—I am only borrowing the
money,”Susy kept repeating to herself. But then, why
did she color and feel like a guilty thing when old Dr.
Bruce asked if there had been any calls, and she ans-
wered, *‘No.” Why did she avoid the old lady’s eye, and
shrink up-stairs to her own room as soon as the table
was Cleared ?

Truly, one deceit leads to many, and our Susy was al-
ready on the downward path.

“Are there any letters for me ?”

Yes—there was a letter, postmarked New York. - Susy
caught it eagerly from the hand of the postmaster and
hastened homewards, concealing it in her bosom.

Not until she was safe in the shadow of the woods did
she venture to open it, and then——

Joy of joys—a slender, green slip of pasteboard
dropped out—a ticket, entitling Susan Lee to a chance
in the grand distribution of prizes, to take place one
week from that day.

If Susy had held the thousand-dollar bill in ber hand,
she could scarcely have felt more elated. Poor child, it
seemed as if the golden shower of wealth were already
falling around her!

Honest John Fordyce scarcely knew what to make of
his little sweetheart the next Sunday afternoon when he
came, as usual, to spend it with her. . Capricious, uncer-
tain; hinting mysteriously at some possible change
which might be in store for them, and snubbing him
most decidedly when he ventured to inquire what she
could possibly mean—he never had found Susy Lee such
a difficult personage to deal with.

But when she kissed him at parting, John, saw, that in
her eyes that consoled him for all inequalities of pa

“Youll be sure to come on Wednesday evening,
John ?”

“Why, I’d thought o’ comin’ Friday, Sue; itll be a
more leisure time, and——”

“No, John, let it be on Wednesday, to please me,
Joln.”

«Well, then, to please you little one.”

So John departed, and Susy smiled inwardly to think
what a delightful surprise she should have in store for
him on Wednesday !

The eventful Wednesday came, and Susy was just de-
vising an excuse to go over to the post-office, when Dr.
Bruce entered. with the daily New York paper.

“Has the mail come in?. Was there any letter for me?”
she breathlessly inquired.

“Never thought to ask. Why, who do you expecta
letter from, little gal ?” asked the old doctor.

Susy’s head drooped, the color mounted to her cheek,
but she took up the paper nevertheiess.

 

 

the brindle cow ‘at was tied up ini the stall close by,
and saved myself. The cow kicked a hole through the
boarding of the stall, she was so mad, and she warn’t |
able to switch her tail fora week afterward, it was so
stiff and sore with the wrenchI give it; but I saved |
myself.

In a few minutes order was restored. Everybody
realized how silly they had been, and we got the elder |
out of the cellar, aud rubbed him down in alkyhol, and |
turned to and husked that corn out lively. Jest as we'd |
got the last of it done, |seed Bub Stebbins and Tom }
Pilkins a whispering together, and when the call to sap-
per was made, Bub struck an atiitude, and sez he:

“Don’t any of you dare to goin there, unless you've
been vaxinated. If your scars hain’t fresh, you’d better |

ut for home. David Lang is in there setting by the

itchen stove, and he’s jest got out of the small-pox
pest-house over to Lanesville.”

“For Heaven's sake!” cried Miss Billings.

“And he hain’t been fummygated !” sez Bub.

What was it extorted the instantly repressed cry from
her lips? What was it that sent the roses back from her
face, leaving it deadly pale? Simply an article headed :

“Most Outrageous Swindle of the Age—Expose by the
Police of the Great Exceptional Lottery Company—
Arrest of the Officers—Kscape of the Manager to Europe
—General Indignation ?”

Susy read the particulars with a mechanical eagerness.
She re-read them with a sickening hope that somehow
the evidence of her own senses might be distrusted, but
no, there were the overwhelming proofs before her in
black and white. Her gorgeous castle-in-the-air was a
mass of ruins now. Her bright hopes were blasted. And
the ten dollars—how and when should she be able to re-
pay them now ?

At the same instant she heard a loud, cheery voice at
the door. Surely it could not be—but yes, it was the
voice ot Obadiah Parker.

“Evenin’, doctor; fine growin’ weather this for the
wheat. Did ye credit that ar’ ten dollar bill ?”

 

$$$

Dr. Bruce pushed his
“What ten dollar bill ?
“The one I ‘paid in a week ago last’ Monday. Oh,
there’s the young ’oman I paid it to.’ She said she’d
give it to you all right.”

Obadiah advanced into the room with a counten-
ance of beaming confidence. Dr. Bruce looked at Susy
with some surprise.

‘“How’s this, Susy? What has become of the money
Mr. Parker says he paid into your hands?”

Even Dr. Bruce was astonished and alarmed at the
deadly paleness of Susy’s tace as she hurriedly rose up,
and then sat down again, every limb trembling. She
tried to speak, but words failed her, and Dr. Bruce placed
his hand pityingly on her shoulder.

“Sit down, my girl; do«’t ury totalk until
better. ‘Then—now—drink this glass of water.

Susy drank it, scarcely knowing what she did. It was
as if an earthquake had opened beneath her feet, as if a
thunderbolt had burst above her. Detection, shame,
exposure, all were upon her at once. If the cup had
been poisoned she would gladly have quaffed it only to
escape.

“I took the money,” she gasped. “I never told Dr.
Bruce of it. I thought there would be no harm in
borrowing it for a few days, and I—I thought | could so
soon replace it,”

The stern expression of Dr. Bruce’s face changed to
one of pe as she buwst into a flood of tears, hiding her
face in both her hands. ar

“Poor child! And what did yeu want of it ?”

“TJ—] spent it to buy a lottery ticket, and——”

She could only motion, vaguely, toward the newspa-
per on the floor. ;

“T gee—l see,” said the doctor, nodding his head.
«Well, Parker, I'll credit the money to your account, and
—why, hello, here’s Fordyce !”

For John Fordyce was advancing into the room, with
a puzzled countenance. Alas, poor Susy! what a differ-
ent greeting was this from the one she had so fondly
anticipated. ;

But Susy’s sin, deep-dyed, though it seemed to her,
was comparatively venial in the eyes of those who loved
her. Dr. Bruce smoothed down her disheveled hair with
the kindliest of hands.

“Never. mind, my girl,” he said, ‘we'll make it all
right yet.» iy was ever perfect that 1 know of, and
maybe fll be a godd lesson to you.”

And Mrs. Bruce ran for the camphor bottle, and took
Susy’s cheek on her motherly breast, with whispered
words of consolation, and John Fordyce—well, his com-
fort was most efficacious of all.

“It’s all nonsense about not being able to look me in
the face!” he exclaimed, cheerily. “It wasn't a wise
thing to do, Sue, but, as the doctor says, we're all of us
mortal. AndI, for one, don’t believe in sudden for-
tunes; I’d rather work honestly to earn what I have.
Give me a kiss, and cheer up.”

Thus ended Susy Lee’s bright dreams of wealth; but
she was not happy until she repaid Dr. Bruce the ten-
dolar bil.

«For it was so good of them to trust me just as they
did before,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

eo~

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

pectacles up on his forehead.

you feel

y

rm
happen my happen, and we hav no
surprized at ennyvhing in this life. 4

e virtewous simply for the reputashun

‘people who are willing tew tell yu all
ill tell them all yu kno; but the mizery
ey don’t kno mutch.

© children—i luv them—i believe they
ckcess thus far, and ain’t a going tew
‘, folks last.

Fal for an old phellow tew giv advice az

T find plen
they kno, if

) ®he impulse ov the human harte that iz
and that is sel/-duv, :

s: nt git angry iz a hibrid—he is a pew-

alike in us a

The man
ter man.

The deepe i down into mi own harte the meaner
wus superior tew hiz fortune.
phun tew tear other pholks’ trubble.

Thare iz this difference between a phool and philoso-
pher, and it iz About all the difference there iz: When
a hornet stings a phool he bellows, but when a hornet
stings a philosopher he looks wize and misterious.

Thare iz but very little piety in our churches now
pene Stand the chagrin ov being out-styled in a new
nne

Thare iz this difference between jealousy and envy—
jealousy iz self-luv and envy iz hatred ov others.

Thare haz alwus been more people in this world per-
ech ge eed righteousness sake than thare has for the
e.

Thare are but phew who ever do their best, and when
they do, they alwus surprize themselfs with the result.

“DUMPS.”

A SKETCH FOR BOYS.
BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

If an enterprising boy yearns for more wild and ex-
citing fun tham can be achieved by going West to ex-
terminate the Indians, he should procure a pair of
“dumps” and learn to skate. ‘“‘Dumps” was the sugges-
tive name bestowed Wpdn a peculiar style of skate oc-
casionally seen some thirty or more yearsago. They
were also called “rockers,” from their resemblance in
shape to the rockers on an old-fashioned wooden cradle ;
but the appellation of «‘«dumps” was decidedly more ap-
propriate, because of their malicious propensity to dump
the unsuspecting wearer on his nose or occiput.

If the skater, when gliding along swiftly, essayed to
suddenly check his wild career by elevating his toes and
bearing his weight on his heels, the ice was pretty cer-
tain to fly up and hit him an emphatic thump on the
back of his head.

There was nothing imposing or ostentatious about a
pair of “dumps.” They looked as harmless and as in-
nocent as a Raphael cherub; but they possessed more
latent wickedness than a dynamite bomb; and ip ago
as-you please contest, a pairof “dumps” would win the
championship for treachery over all competitors, with

several laps to spare.

Thirty years ago there was more ice for skating pur-
poses than in these days of progression and weather
prophets. The rivers would freeze over early in Decem-
ber and furnish good skating until nearly the first of
March. To a boy of teen years, an abundance of good
ice and no skates was a bigger cup of misery tnan a cir-
cus and no ticket. ~~

That was the deplorable condition of a certain boy of
those days agone. He was not the fortunate possessor
ot a pair of skates. One day this boy asked an acquaint-
ance, several years his senior, to loan him his skates.
The latter owned a pairof the style then known as
te So Dutchies,” which were the envy of all the boys on

e river.

The acquaintance replied that ore of the straps of his
“High Dutchies” was broken, but said he had a pair of
“dumps” which the boy might have.

The boy had never seen a pair of ‘‘dumps,” but he took
the skates and examined them curiously. The steel run-
ners were shaped like the moon in its first quarter, and

 

«cast THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $=

They were not calculated to inspire a large stock of con-
fidence in the breast of a boy who had not yet mastered
the art of skating. But béing determined to learn, the
boy sought a retired portion of the river where he could
not be observed by the many expert skaters of his own
age who were skimming over the glassy surface.

It was with considerable misgivings that he took a
seat on the shore and strapped on one of the ‘“‘dumps.”
He had a vague feeling of unrest, as if a catastrophe
was impending. Having secured one of the dumps on
his shoe, he thought he would stand on one foot, in or-
der to gradually acquire the ‘‘hang of the thing.”

Then the fun commenced with an overture as violent
as a Wagner composition. The celerity with which the
Skate-burdened foot slid away from the unharnessed
pedal was so startling and unexpected that the boy sat
right down to think. No one urged him to sit down. It
was a sudden whim of his own. His thoughts were not

leasant. That was because he sat down so heavily.

jow to regain his feet soon monopolized his entire
thinking apparatus; but he quickly solved the problem
by crawling to the shore.

Then the boy buckled on the other dump, and, with
his heart beating abnormally, crawled back on the ice,
and cautiously assumed a perpendicular, his body wob-
bling ominously and his arms gyrating awkwardly in
the effort to preserve his equilibrium.

Just how it happened the boy could never clearly ex-
plain, but it happened all the same. In the twinkling of
an eye—or two twinkles at most—both ‘‘dumps” were
pointing skyward, and his head collided with the ice
with so much vigor that it made an imprint of the sun’s
rays diverging in all directions. There were acres of ice
in the vicinity, but the boy solemnly declared that his
head had thoughtlessly selected the hardest and cold-
est spot on the river on which to strike.

The boy’s intense desire te learn to skate, and have
fun with the other skaters, induced him to make another
effort. He remembered that only the day preceding his
schoolmaster had written in his copy-book, ‘If at first
_ don’t succeed, try, try again.” This encouraged

im, and he carefully set about regaining his teet.

He was very, very carefut—probably too careful, for
in straightening up he leaned a little too far forward,
and both his feet shot out behind as if they had got their.
momentum from a catapult. The boy’s nose kissed the
ice with such an impetus that he thought that ‘useful
organ had been driven an inch into his head.

ut the most maryelous feature of the freak of the
“dumps” was the astronomical display he witnessed.
And in broad daylight, too. He didn’t count them—he
didn’t feel in the,humor, and therefore he couldn’t say
whether there were ten millions or only nine millions
nine hundred and fifty stars in the exhibition. But he
thinks there were. And nearly all of them were shoot-
ing stars. They seemed to shoot outof his eyes. Under
different circumstances such a grand exhibition of heav-
enly bodies would have been very interesting, but the
boy didn’t start out to study the wonders of the heavens:
His object was to learn to skate. :

After nursing his nose a few minutes, he again n
a strategic movement to regain his feet. It was only

artially successful. He was no sooner up than one

oot started on a rapid voyage toward the North pole,
while the other was quite as frantic in its efforts to
reach the South pole, aud the boy, who looked like a
pair of compasses wide open, only escaped becoming a
split ticket by sitting down with much abruptr 72

A boy’s legs were not made to travel miles apart, there-
fore this boy was perfectly justifiable in si down to
“sy, ata such an insane undertaking on the part of

egs. ;

Another heroic endeavor, and the boy was up once
more. The wind was blowing a strong gale, and it
struck the young skater amidships, so to speak, and
swept him along with the velocity of an ice-boat on
the Hudson River.

The boy wanted to stop, but was strongly averse to
again sitting down on either his head or his nose, and
while thinking some complimentary things about the
diabolical ‘‘dumps,” he was driven on a thin coating of
ice covering a spot where some ice-cutters had been at
ae the day before, and he went through up to his
waist.

The water was very damp that day, but the ducking
was less painful than another thaumpon_ the back of the
head would have been, and with this philosophical re-
flection the boy groped his way to the shore, about
twenty feet distant, his teeth chattering like castinets.

He had enough skating for one day. Some boys don’t
know when they have enough skating, but this boy did.

When he removed. the ‘dumps” from his feet he was
undecided whether to throw them into the river or return
them to the owner. He finally adopted the latter plan,
and the owner, who must ve had a fiendish dis-

 

.panions wore bruised noses and sore h

position, kept those ‘‘dumps” to loan out, and before the
winter was gone, more thana dozen of this boy’s com-

-e~+

Pleasant Paragraphs.

Most of our readers are undoub capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
NEw York WEEKLY, and they will ob us by sen for
nublication anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-
rest for general perv It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be pemres in scholarly style; so long as they are
pithy. aaa likely to atford amusement, minor defects will be
rem :

The Sad Fite of a Policeman.

An officer stood at the ¢rossing one diy,
Who with eer ae questions was tired,
shen a beautiful maiden ens that way,
The road to the ‘‘depo” inquired.

| coats, with box-p}

 

 

After he nad completed his labors, he said sternly to the
suffering victim:

‘‘Now tell me why I punished you.” Be

“That's it,” sobbed Johnny; «“you nearly pound the
- 4 of me, and now you don’t even know why you

Going to Propose.

“Mother,” remarked a girl, ‘I think Harry must be
going to propose to me.” ;

“Why so, my daughter,” queried the old lady, laying
down her spectacles, while her face beamed like the
moon in its fourteenth night.”

“Well, he asked me this evening if I wasn’t tired of
living with such a menagerie as you and dad ?”

Mirthful Morsels.

That was a cautious old tramp who, upon being asked
whether he would have a drink of whisky as fhe was
Leahey age a job of Sawing wood, or would have it when
he had finished it, answered: “Well, mum, I think Pl
take itnow. There has been a pile of sudden deaths
lately.”

In every department of knowledge noble men and
women are bearing aloft the torch of science to make
light the dark places of earth for the benetit of man, but
it will still be a long while before human wisdom can
make out why a change of weather is bad for corns.

“Isn’t my photograph excellent?” said a somewhat
spunky wife to her husband. ‘Well, my dear,” replied

he, ‘‘I think there’s a little too re a D
ea much pose about tne

“A genuine patriot,” said an election orator recently,
“must at all times be ready to die for his country, even
though it should cost him his life.” ¢fhnundering ap-
plause.)

“What great blessing do we enjoy that the heathen
know nothing about ?” inquired a Sunday-school teacher.
“Soap !” was the answer that came out like the crack of
a pistol trom the small boy at the foot of the class.

The principal reason, my son, why those thin wafers
you got at the church fair are called oyster fritters is be-
cae you fritter away so much time looking for the
oyster. . ;

Grocer — ‘Half a pound of tea? Which wil
black or n?” Servant— , aythur’
for an old woman that’s nea) ind.”

An enterprising reporter, writing of a wreck at sea,
stated that no less than fourteen of the unfortunate
crew and passengers bit the dust,

Butcher—‘‘Porterhouse steak, madam?” New Land-
lady-—‘‘No, boarding- house.” . -
ae = wie went to ae ommete a <
resi ce ” says the waiters most
change, and the indlord the rest. - pi
An exchange ‘says: “Listen to wife.” How can
one help one’s self ? 1 a cas

Edited by Mrs.

elen Wood. «~
“Mamie C.”—1st. Low corsages are more worn this season |
than they have been for years, and not only are they uséd at
evening parties and receptions, but are worn at all the most
fashionable dinner parties. A number of ladies wear them
over a guimpe of lace or tulle, thus avoiding their ob-
jectionable feature. 2d. Dinner dresses : of
plush at prppeah ft, ; material is very fat
purposes, Trimm rin pall]
above alt with lace embroidered in gol
3d. New evening bonnets are made.
felt, faced and trimmed with pink, pale-blue,
vet, with strings, pompons, and aigrettes natch.” =
“Daisy B.,” Saugerties, N. Y.—A great quantity of passe-
menterie and galloon are used. Red, gilt, and copper gal-.
loons are very effective on black and ‘brown'costumes, while
eferved for navy-blue and
dery can now tO SEW. .
lars, ves, aprons, and panels of dress e ‘
“Leah M.”—A stylish street suit of olive green homespun
has a panel on one side of the’skirt, of handsome striped
velvet, garnet on an olive en ground. The jacket, which
is longer in front than behind, ana faeta <n the side, has
d bh collar of dark green vel ornamented

ms
beauty, one at the top

with six immense buttons, of. "
' one on each sleeve, an

and one at the bottom of the
two at the waist line behind. '

“Margaretta L.”—Tan-colored kid gloves are worn for even-
ing dress, but they are of a lighter shade than formerly, and
there is an effort to revive white gloves, and also to introduce >
pearl colors again. Butter-yellow gloves are 2 en with
ellow, and black gloves wi blacie toilets, ’ loves are
ess wrinkled than last season, and are consequently not so
1one- Even with sleeveless dresses, they now extend only
just above the elbow.

“Mrs. Nellie S.,” Painsville, Ky.—Little girls from two to
seven years of age wear velvet and plush coats, made ' itl a
short broad waist, to which a full skirt is g: "€
khan and bDoucle cloths are most used for 1
i backs, which are
cap or bonnet sho: match the coat me a =
“Bertie B.”—A few very novel bonnets have ap-
pearance modeled after London patterns: @ne, en
broidered velvet, has a coronet front covered with -skin,

above which curls a up of short white estrich -
other, made of white Straka , has a brim of staal beat,
a garniture of beaver tails, and beaweneuleradlealede loops.

 

The weary policeman directed her straight
To the street through which she should go,
When an elderly lady, who seemed to be late
For the train, wished to find the “‘depoe.”

Then a man with his arms full of crockeryware—
Cups, saucers, a pitcher and teapot—

Came up and inquired, with an anxious air,

The most Girect route to the depot.”

The officer gave the directions to these,

Though he was annoyed, it was Clear ;

Then a rustic approached him and said, “If you please,
Is it far to the ‘daypo’ from here ?”

A man in pursuit of a runaway pair
Came up, with the speed of a hippo-

Griff winging its flight through the ambient air,
Inquiring the way to the ‘‘dippo.”

The officer silently pointed the way;
His mind was in sad tribulation,
For then came an Englishman, asking, ‘I say,
Can you tell me the way tothe station ?”

* * *

* * * *

The officer’s seen at the crossing no more.
For something’s gone wrong in his brain,

And his family has placed him, his mind to restore,
In a home for the harmless insane. *

To visit him often his old comrades go,
And he seems to find some consolation

In asking them, ‘Say, is it depo, depoe,
Dippo, daypo, depot, or station ?”

She Remembered.

A young lady met a dude on the street the other day
and spoke to him. That night he met her at the house
of a friend.

“‘Ah, Miss Chestah,” he said, “I believe you spoke to
me on the street to-day ?”

“Yes,” she answered. :

“Weally, Miss Chestah, you will excuse nie, but, you
know, I don't remembah of eval meeting you befoah,
don’t you know.” :

- «Ah, indeed! It was at Saratoga, last summer.”

“Weally, Miss Chestah, I beg yoah pahdon. I had
quite fawgotten, don’t you know, and I can’t undah-
stand how you wemembah me so well.”

“Quite easy, Mr. Morgan. You know the simpler any-
thing is the easier we remember it.”

"Twas Everything to Him.

«Well, that beats me,” exclaimed a sour looking pas-
senger to a subdued sort of a man, who sat in the seat
in tront of him; Fh a listen to the jaw of that woman
across the aisle. It] hada wife lil that I would geta
divorce in two weeks.”

“Do you think it would be possible 2”

“Possible ? You bet; I’m a lawyer, and I'd find a way
to do it so quick it would make her head swim.”

«Do you mean it ?” inquired the subdued looking man,
earnestly.

“Of course. But what’s that to you ?”

“To me, stranger? Ah, were it nothing!

wife.”
The Same Old Feather.

It is so natural that it will be done, in spite of the
gesthetics of good breeding. They met on their weekly
shopping tour, and the greetings were most cordial.

«Why, Cicely, dear, how delighted I am to see you.”

“Isn't it delightful, and you have on your last season's
bonnet, too. Why, it looks almost as good as mine,
that I’ve put on for the first time to-day.”

“For the first time? That’s the same feather you had
three winters ago.” ;

A woman’s memory is not to be trified with.

Seeing a Fool.

Mr. Jobbleswizzle came in to supper morose and sul-
len, and when Mrs. J. twitted him on some of his short-
comings, he snapped out : :

“If there’s anything in this world I do like to see it’s a
fool.”

-Ah, love,” she answered, tenderly, ‘do you? My
hand-Slass is right on my dressing-case, and you have
my permission to use it just as you wish. I doso love
to have my husband enjoy himseit.”

Terrible Punishment. :

“Charlie,” said a Spartan mother; ‘‘you have diso-
beyed me twice to-day, and I must punish you.”

“Oh, mamma, please don’t whip me.”

“No, Pll not whip you,” was the calm reply; “T'll pun-
ish you by making you remain in the parlor while your
sister is taking her music lesson.”

At this awful sentence the boy fell insensible to the
floor. The autopsy revealed that death was by

fright. y
Why He Did It.
letop was under the painful necessity of

She is my

Colonel

 

it was difficult to distinguish the stem trom the stern.

 

 

administer: a severe castigation to his son Johnny.

“Henrietta,” New Haven, Conn.—ist. The New ¥orK WEEK-
LY ee ha hae, can turnish a cook k for
thirty cents. e price of “Jennie June’s Cook- ” is
one dollar, upon receipt of which we will mail it to you.

“Alice McD.,” San Francisco, Cal.—Large flat metallic but,
tons, with raised come in beautiful shades of blue,
garngt, gray, and green, nagtch degen and are te
an audition to the costume, if not used too profusely. ”
“Gussie B.”—Ist. We will send you an outfit perf.
tterns designed for Kensing D paints ae a book of

: ng,
instructions, for $1.25. 2d. e piles of the book alone is
twenty-five cents.

“Edith S.”—Gauze fans, with are -
lar with young ladies. The prettiest are not decorated, 1 but
come in Setcals tints, to mewn evening dreanca 2 m

“Genie W.,” Orient, Iowa.—Long seal.
this year to fit the figure, with abundantly
form to the present fashion in drapery.

“Harry.”—The narrowly folded white lawn tie remains in
favor for gentlemen’s full dress, Among this season’s novel-
ties are ties of dotted Swiss muslin.

or Abbie Van W,’—“The Pet Atonement by Bertha
ay, is in -form, an price on recei ;
whi we wil mailto you 50, on receipt o

arl or ivory sticks,

n cloaks are made
ide skirts to con-

e

id ma a :
Items of Interest. |

When a Chicago woman wants to get a seat in astreet
car she wraps up her poodle dog and carries itin her arms as
though it werea baby. But the trick is now becoming known
and doesn’t always work. The other day a lady got into a full
car with what looked like an infant in her arms. A very
fast-looking young man inspected her for a moment, and
then said: “Madam, if that isa kid you can have my seat,
but if it is a pup, you can’t.” “Well, it’s a pup,” snapped the
lady, “but not as big a one as you are.” The fast-looking
young man at once got off. Wiek> gin

A Birmingham medical journal tells of an old High-
lander who was ordered by his doctor not to exceed two
ounces of spirits daily. He asked his son how much liquor
that was. “Sixteen drams” was the reply. “What a guid
doctor!” said the Highlander. “Run and tell Donald McTa-
vish and Big “ohn tae cam doon the nicht.” 3

A little eight-year-old Galveston boy, who had suffer-
ed by the big fire in that city, hearing that he might get re-
lief by applying to the committee, was told to pr ,
claim. He wrote it out as follows: “A biciele, $3; twowt
nie pigs, $2; one prery dog, $1; half pound sh
rifel, $6; car tickets in bank, 65 cents.” ee :

George Andrews, of Marshfield, Wis., aged 16, while
in the forest near his home, wounded a dear. He followed
the animal and found that two Indians had slain it while in
a disabled condition. He demanded his game, whereupon
the Indians advanced threateningly upon him, and he shot
and killed them both.

A number of jolly soldiers in Seattle, Washington Ter-
ritory, were out on leave, having a good time, and became
‘short of funds. They soon “struck a lead” by making a list,
as if for the census, of all the Chinamen in town, charging
each a fee for recording him. They realized $150, and spent
it like princes.

The latest fish story comes from Denmark. The
stomach of athirty seven pound codfish recently sold in the
fish market of Hjoerring, contained another cod fifteen
inches long, and a very large and fat duck, perfectly fresh
and apparently swallowed alive and whole.

A mischievous boy in Franklin County, Pa., wanted
to have some fun, and thought the best way tosecure it was.
by setting fire to the woods in his neighborhood. The fun is
now all over, as he goes to jail for a year, and has to pay a
fine of $100.

A facetious gentleman in Eastman, Ga., suggests
the artesian well be taken up, cut into sections, and so
post holes, in order to reimburse the town for the mone
pended upon it.

A British chemist has applied the electric current to
the refinement of sugar. This system dispenses with boiling
and the use of animal charcoal. i

A little boy named Okey Mitchell, nine years of age,
is the telegraph operator at Eagle Rock, Va., on the Rich”
mond and Allegheny Railroad.

A witness in a court in Lawrence County, Ga., suing
for divorce, was asked to give the maiden name of his wife:

-

 

 

 

He could not tell.