“THE DEAD WITNESS,” a Story of D bp Interest, by Mrs. M. V. Victor, Begins Next Week. — Entered Accordina to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1886. by Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conoress. Washinaton. D. C. Anvwerea at the Post Otfice New York. as Second Olass Mutter. Office Vol. 41. LOVE, HONOR, AND OBEY. BY J. L. M. Love all on earth that’s worthy love, The beautiful, the good ; Love God in heaven, for His works, The earth and briny flood ; Love honest hearts, wherever found, In hut or palace hall ; Love those who love thee, those who hate, Love every one, love all. Honor the man who, rich in gold, Gives largely of his store ; Honor the poor who envy not The rieh their glittering ore ; Honor the silver jocks of age And help them on their way ; Honor the forms that gave thee birth, Living, or in the clay. Obey the first of Heaven’s commands To love thy fellow-man ; Obey the best of nature's laws, To help him if you can: Obey the still small voice within That bids thee guilt abhor ; Obey the voice that trembling cries, ‘Arise, and sin no more.” a {THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.! FOR ANOTHER’S SIN. By BERTHA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OF “A Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The World Between Them,” “Beyond Pardon,” Etc. (“For ANOTHER’s SIN,” was commenced in No. 17. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXI. A LETTER FROM INDIA. The breakfast-room at Brooklands was one of the most beautiful rooms in the mansion, and breakfast was always a sociable meal. The table was a study—fruit and fowers mixed with shining silver, the elegant china. and rich damask. Round it were seated what one would have imagined to be the happiest group in the world. Lady Adelaide, looking more beautiful and fair than the morning itself, was at the head; no time of the day suited her young loveliness as did the morning. Cap- tain Randolph called her the ‘‘morning star.” Alice Carr looked very dainty and fairin her simple morning costuine. Lady Di, who never did exactly as others do, declared that the morning was a mistake—people were always so ‘fearfully energetic.” Lady Carew seldom made her appearance until.a much later hourin the day. On this particular morn- ing Lady Carew, in all the grandeur of her stately ma tronhood, was there. Lady Adelaide, with the sweet winning grace and tact habitual to her, had begged her to take her old place ne ae head of the table, but Lady Carew had de- “T should not fillitso well as you do, my dear,” she said, gently. ‘‘Where is Allan? Heislate this morn- ing.” it was not often that Lord Carew failed in being first. When he did enter, with a laughing apology, how keenly his mother noticed the different greetings he gave. To herself a most loving kiss, with kindly inqui- ries and affectionate words; he kissed Lady Di’s white hand, while she languidly commended him for being late; he had some pretty compliments ready for Alice Carr ; to his wife—whose eyes were never once raised— to his wife he made the coolest and most formal of bows, so formal that in another man it would have seemed awkward. Hedid not speak to her, but took his seat. ‘Have the letters come yet ?” he inquired. “No,” answered Captain Randolph. ‘I offen puzzle myself by wondering what we should do in a country house if if were not for the letters.” ‘TI certainly consider the arrival of the post-bag the most interesting moment of the day,” said Alice. “T suppose, to the young and the beautiful,” said the captain, “it isa mere record of wounded and slain. ate Carr, I wish I were a letter, that you might care or me.” The pretty, dainty face flushed. “You might contain bad news,” she said; ‘‘then I should tear you in pieces and throw you away.” ‘“Whatatfate! You would be more merciful, Lady Adelaide ; you would read me, and preserve me.” 2 never read any one in all my life,” was the calm reply. She alone had never evinced the slightest interest or anxiety in the arrival of the letters. Captain Randolph had frequently observed it. ‘“}) have often wondered why it is, Lady Adelaide, that the arrival of the mail never appears to interest you.” She looked up at him quite calmly. “Ido not think,” she said, ‘‘thatI ever received a really interesting letter in all my life.” There was a general murmur of wonder. She had spoken so quietly, without even thinking of making a sensation. ‘‘Not even a love-letter ?” cried Captain Randolph. Then her fair face grew crimson. seen in what a difficulty she was placing herself. Lady Di came quickly to the rescue. Adelaide had no need for love-letters ; she had what was better still—the constant presence of her lover.” Lord Carew spoke no word, and an uncomfortable silence fell over them. Lady Di hastened to break it. ‘“‘No reasonable person would ever call love-letters | pleasant,” she said. “I have received a great many during my brief career; they are seldom grammatical, to begin with.” “Now, Guy, that is not fair,” cried Lord Carew. ‘I do not believe you ever wrote an ungrammatical sentence in your life.” “Sir Guy Vereton is not the only person from whom I have received love-letters,” said his wife, with a smile at her husband. Lady Adelaide listened with envy. How happy the husband and wife, who could jest, laugh at, and Leake each other. How wide the difference between the warm affection and the cold, formal terms on which she lived with her husband. She sighed deeply, and Cap- tain Randolph, always alive to every change in her beautiful face, heard the sigh. . “T used to like Carew,” thought the young soldier, “but I begin to dislike him. How can he treat his wife so coolly? 1 never see him take the least notice of her ; he does not seem tocare about her, and she is by far the grandest woman lever saw. What can cause such coldness and distance between them ?” To do the young soldier justice, he was heartily leved by it. In his butterfly fashion he had admired zady Adelaide more than any one he had ever met, but Such admiration had deepened into a far nobler feeling ; her purity, her sweetness, her patient endurance of her husband’s coldness, made him think her a heroine, and as such he revered her. The least touch of the heroic did wonders with Captain Randolph. Just as he had arrived at that. point of his reverie the P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. She had not fore- | a | the kind. «You forget, Captain Randolph,” she said, ‘‘that Lady | 31 Rose St. door opened, and the footman brought in the letters. Lord Carew gave them out. There were several for Captain Randolph, and the master of Brooklands smiled as he noticed that most of them were directed in a delicate running hand, and were highly scented. There were one or two for Miss Carr, who blushed and looked very pretty as she received them, devoutly hoping the while that Captain Randolph had observed they were all written by gentlemen. And there was one for my Lady Carew—a foreign let- ter. Herson gave it to her. «From India, mother. Who is your correspondent ?” No one was observing Lady Carew, or they would | have seen that as she read the letter her face grew | ghastly pale. She tried to hide it by raising a cup to her lips, but her hand trembled so that she could hardly | hold it. Then, when she had quite finished her letter, | she put it quietly away. | She did not immediately resume her share in the con- | oT She looked like one who had received a shock. | at Carew did not notice it for some time; then he Said: “Mother, how ili youlook. This room is close; come | out into the fresh air.” | She would not hear of leaving her place until break- fast was over; then she rose and walked steadily from the room. : a anything the matter, mother?” he asked, anx- | ously. “No, Allan. As you said, the room was warm, and I do not feel very well this morning. Give me your arm. The air is very sweet and fresh; let us go out into the | grounds.” They walked along, talking on different subjects, un- til Allan said : “From whom was your Indian letter, mother ?” “‘My letter ?” she repeated, vaguely, a pained expres- sion crossing her face. ‘It was from Gerald Clavering, your father’s dearest friend.” “From Gerald Clavering ? been in India, mother ?” “He has been twenty years away from England. I should imagine that fifteen of them, at least, have been | spent in India.” } “And what does he say?” asked Lord Carew, evi- dently expecting that his mother would at once show | him the letter; but she made no offer to do anything of Why, how long has he “He speaks of coming to England, and says that one of | | the first visits he pays, will be to the widow and chil- | | dren of his dear old friend. He read of your marriage, | and is delighted over it.” ‘Why should he be delighted?” asked Lord Carew, quickly ; ‘he does not know Adelaide.” | He might have seen how confused and embarrassed his mother looked. “He knew your father’s wishes on the subject, [should | imagine, and is glad to find them carried out.” «When is he coming ?” asked Lord Carew. | “He says something about being here for Christmas ; and if not, then he will be in London in May.” “Let him come when he may, he shall have a royal welcome. Now, mother, sit here and try to recover yourself. I do not like tosee you with that pale face. I must go round to the stables. Bonnie Blink is lame; | I must see what is wrong with her. | shall not be | long.” | Lightly humming some favorite operatic air, Lord | Carew walked away. | Lady Carew sat in silence for some minutes ; then the | tears gathered slowly in her eyes. ‘It seems too hard,” she said, ‘‘that the whole weight | of the secret should have fallen on two innocent, help- less women. What shall I do if he comes? Oh, Heaven! | what shall I do ?” | CHAPTER XXII. “THE DIAMONDS WILL NEVER BE MINE.” it was a calm, still September evening; the last glo- | ries of summer still lingered ; the trees wore their rich- | est dress of redand gold. Brooklands was enjoying a | Sete. Lady Carew had told her son that it was expected of him to offer some hospitalities to the county on the oc- easion of his marriage. Ue had not seemed willing at first, but she remonstrated with him. **THAT YOUNG RANDOLPH IS IN LOVE WITH LADY ADELAIDE, AS SURE | he had not done his duty to the county. New York, April 3, 1886. SSS o> TIN Z s LOE -- Y GRAS Sa SN AUSSOSSSS ~~ «You have had the house full of guests for some time,’ she said; ‘‘and though they have doubtless enjoyed themselves, still the visit should terminate with an en- tertainment worthy of Brooklands.” “We will have as many festivities as you like, mother,” he said, good-naturedly; ‘but do not call them wedding-parties. We were married in June—it is September now.” “It is late enough, in all conscience,” she said; ‘‘and I do not like urging you to do anything that seems against your will; but, Allan, it shows a want of respect for Adelaide that makes my heart ache.” ‘| never thought of it in that light,” he. said. ‘It shall be just as you say, mother; we will have a grand ball on the eighteenth. I—I hope Adelaide has not no- ticed it; perhaps she has thought of it quite as little as I have done.” “You must send invitations to Kilborough Castle. The Duke and Duchess of Granton are both at home.” “You had better arrange all with Adelaide, mother. Ishall be delighted with the ball, but I have no head for details. Perhaps that is what you have been 1o00k- ing so anxious over lately. Why did you not mention it before ?” For a change, that no one could help noticing, had fallen over Lady Carew. She had never been the same since the receipt of the letter from India; the very spirit of unrest seemed to haunt her. Her manner, which had been the perfection of high-bred ease and elegance, was quite changed. She spoke harshly when | there was no need of it; she was irritable over trifles; she gave one the impression of a woman over whom on hangs a secret that she is afraid of having discov- ered. Lord Carew thought he had found a solution of the difficulty when she owned to having felt anxious that She seemed to be infatuated with her daughter-in-law ; she had always been warmly attached to Lady Adelaide, but now her attention and devotion seemed almost idolatry. She in- sisted on having the greatest possible respect paid to her ; she pardoned no neglect when Lady Adelaide was the subject. i, The: courtly, high-bred lady seemed to grow almost fierce over her daughter. Some laughed at it, but others | thought it added to the mystery that seemed to be gain- ing ground at Brooklands. Immediately after obtaining her son’s permission, she went to Lady Adelaide, and may, perhaps, be pardoned | for her slight variation of the truth. ‘‘Adelaide,” she said, ‘‘Allan insists upon giving a grand ball in honor of your marriage.” The girl looked up at the elder lady; the slightest tinge of sarcasm lay in her smile. “In honor of our marriage, Lady Carew! He is very kind. Neither the words nor the smile quite pleased my lady, Who was never weary of seeking by some great effort to bring the husband and wife more together. “It is very gallant ofhim. Isuppose he wants to show his beautiful wife to all the county.” Adelaide raised her lovely eyes, with their clear, frank gaze, to the lady’s face. «There is no need for this kind of society talk, Lady Carew, between us.” Then, seeing the sudden she continued, more gently : ‘Tam interrupting you very rudely. propose doing ?” Lady Carew sighed deeply. Adelaide,” she said, ‘‘do not talk to me as though Allan and you were indifferent to each other. It dis- tresses me so that I can hardly live.” “T will not,” replied the girl. “I will throw all my heart and soul into preparations for the ball.” She began to understand that Lady Carew was really sufferinjzz—that any allusion to the terms on which she stood with Allan seemed to drive her into a paroxysm ot despair. She forgot herself and her own wants suf- ficiently to feel deeply grieved for the unhappy lady. So she kept her promise, and gave her whole time and attention to sending out invitations and preparations for the ball. “7 am so glad,” said Captain Randolph. ‘I wanted to see you, Lady Adelaide, queen of the county before lI went away.” “And lam glad,” said Lady Di. alarm in her friend’s face, What does Allan «We shall all dance ourselves into good humor, and thatis just what we want.” The preparations were all complete for the ball. The evening before it took place Lord Carew sought his wife. It happenedé that she was alone in her own room, one that had been refurnished as a boudoir for her. She looked up in surprise, too great for words, when he entered ; it was the first time he had ever sought her, the first time that he had ever entered her room. He had some jewel-cases in his hand. He looked almost as confused and surprised as his wite. “How nice your flowers look,” he said, looking round the little room in admiration. ‘‘How is it, Adelaide, you always contrive to surround yourself with flowers ?” “Because 1 love them, and it is natural to like the company of what one loves. They are like real friends to me.” Then her face flushed deepest crimson. She would have given the world to have left such words unsaid. He did not seem to observe it. «Brooklands has the finest flowers in the county,” he said; ‘‘and I am quite sure that it is greatly due to your efforts. Our gardeners have never been so much on the alert before.” She was sitting in her favorite chair, near a large stand of purple heliotrope. She did not rise, and he crossed the little room to goto her. Her face flushed, her heart beat. What did he want her for? What had he come to say ? Perhaps, despite her many disappoint- ments, some faint hope lingered that she might win him after all. “Adelaide,” he said, in that grave, quiet tone that she remembered so well, ‘‘l have noticed that you never wear any jewels.” ‘“T have some very fine pearls and rubies that Lady Carew gave me,” she replied. “To-morrow all the elite of the county people who have known the Carews for so many years will be here, and I cannot think of your being seen without jewels.” “| can wear my pearls,” she said, quietly. ‘‘They are very handsome ones.” He looked slightly embarrassed. «When my mother took up her abode at the Dower House, she, as a matter of course, left all the family jewels behind her; they are always the property of the reigning mistress of Brooklands.” *T have no desire to wear them,” she replied, gently. ‘You mistake me,” he said, eagerly, ‘I do not mean that. On the contrary, I beg of you to wear them. I hope you will accept them; d have brought them pur- 20Sely.” ' He laid the cases down, and threw back the lids. The magnificent diamonds shone like flame on their velvet beds. ‘They are very beautiful,” she said, calmly; ‘‘but it is quite useless for me to accept them. I will wear them to-morrow evening, if you like.” He wondered to himself how many women would have turned from such jewels with that calm, unrufiled face. “Why is it useless for you to accept them ?” he asked. She raised her eyes to his, and the frank, clear gaze went to his heart. “You forget,” she said, ‘that my stay here will be but a temporary one. The diamonds will never be mine.” For the first time in his life he felt an impulse to clasp her in his arms and kiss her, to beg of her to stay always and never leave him; but the old bitter thought came back and stung him—she had married him against his will. «Wear them to-morrow night, if you please,” he said. As he turned away, he felt that he should not like to lose her calm, fair, sweet presence ; that home, after all, would be a blank without her. CHAPTER XXIII. THE DUKE’S SUSPICIONS. “Brooklands ought to change its name to-day,” said Lady Di; ‘it is fairy-land. Adelaide, I think you have more genius than any one I have ever known.” “Why?” asked Lady Adelaide. “Because you can form the most exquisite combina- tions of color, light, and flowers I ever sai. I have been to some of the grandest entertainments in London and (Continued on Second Page.) Three.Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. NELLY VAUGHAN, BY C. C, Sweet is the gentle flower that grows Beside the rippling rill, And sweet the fragrant breeze which blows From off the neighboring hid ; Sweet may be the lark’s gay song In praise of morning’s dawn, But fairer graces e’en belong To blue-eyed Nelly Vaughan. Her lovely locks of auburn hair, Like tendrils of the vine, A-down her swan-like neck so fair In graceful ringlets twine. This charming sylph, so fair and gay, I met upon the lawn, But could not for my life e’en say “IT love thee, Nelly Vaughan.” Years have flown since first we met, Friends have passed away ; But can I that blest time forget, Which seems but yesterday ? Dearer to me than life, Cheerful as the dawn, Is my kind, loving, generous wife, My blue-eyed Nelly Vaughan. i (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] | | | } } | | | | } | THE GRAND PARK SENSATION: OR, THE SKILL OF HYJAH THE HINDOO. By DONALD /. McKENZIE, | Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,’ “THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY,” etc. [“THE GRAND PARK SENSATION” was commenced LAST WEEE. ] CHAPTER VY. A SHREWD TRICK. The disclosure of the crusty guest’s real identity was wholly a surprise to Chris Tobin, for until this moment he had no idea that he had ever seen the person before. For the man standing face to face with the Hindoo de- tective was Robert Kingsley ! ‘Holy powers!” Chris exclaimed, unable to restrain his astonishment. Kingsley’s cheek still presented a swollen appearance, while his complexion was stained to a shade much | darker than was natural. | Realizing that he was discovered beyond a possibility ;} of further dissimulation, the young man removed from his mouth the piece of sponge with which he had dis- tended his cheek. At the same time he exclaimed in his natural tones, which trembled slightly with appre- hension : «J have committed a stupid blunder, and no mistake!” “If you can explain this business, you need have no fear,” Hyjah returned, in a reassuring tone. Chris drew nearer, wondering what would happen next. «You would not credit any explanation 1 might make,” Kingsley said. “T shall credit nothing too absurd in the way of a yarn, but just narrate something like a consistent story, and I will make all due allowances. I’m not so particular as 1 may appear to.be.” «I suppose you are a detective ?” Kingsley questioned. Hyjah, without replying, said: “It appears that you were not in quite so much ofa hurry to catch that train after you got out of the house this morning.” “J was too late for the train, and so I returned.” “Why did you disguise yourself ?” “To prevent recognition, of course.” “Why did you not go to another hotel, where you were notso well known ? “TJ thought they would be on the lookout. for me af other places, while here they would have no thought of my coming directly back, and so would be off their guard.” “That was a rather shrewd idea, though you erred in carrying it out. Still, l fancy you had a strange reason for returning hither.” Kingsley frowned, and glanced nervously at Chris. «Perhaps I did,” he admitted. «Do you mind telling that motive ?” «I suppose it can do no harn.” “Out with it, then.” A faint flush tinged the cheeks of the young man as he answered : “J wished to see and speak with Blanche Gerber, the Jewess.” “Ts she a friend of yours ?” “She proved herself so this morning, although I never saw her before.” «She helped you to escape, did she ?” 7] suppose that is a well-known fact. from everybody’s lips since I returned.” “Of course, then, you are aware of the suspicion under which you rest ?” Kingsley’s face, in spite of the stain, grew deathly pale, and for a moment he trembled like an aspen, his lips tightly compressed. Then, quickly raising his eyes to those of the detec- tive, he exclaimed, in a low, intense voice : “Do Ilook like a murderer? A doubie-dyed villain who would smite the heart of a beautiful, innocent girl who trusted me, and aided me to escape from my ene- mies? You have sharp eyes, or you would never have penetrated my disguise. And you have an intelligent face. I hear you spoken of as a detective who makes few mistakes. Now lookat me. Read my heart in my eyes, my voice, my countenance. Could I do the deed with which I am charged? If you believe me guilty take me into custody, and without doubt circumstances will convict me, and I shall be hung. But first, look at me well!” The passionate appeal of the young man touched the heart of even Chrjs Tobin, and the impulsive youth ex- claimed : «J hope you are innocent, mister. There isn’t a mean- looking hair about you, though you did handle me pretty roughly this morning !” But Hyjah, the Hindoo, was not impulsive. His impassive face gave no sign of the workings of his clear brain. He had seen innocent faces that had guilty hearts. Not that a life of crime can fail to leave its impress upon the countenance of any man, or woman. A year of crime will write itself in plain lines upon the fairest face. sut there is pulse. A man with a pure and kind heart may yet possess an impetuous nature. He may suffer a foul wrong at the hands of an enemy. He may be goaded to momen- tary madness, and under temptation commit an act which will brand him forever as a/criminal. Upon the faces of such persons no evidence of cruelty is perceptible. Kingsley had already proven that he possessed an im- petuous nature. In his eagerness to escape from the hotel he had I’ve heard it another kind of guilt—the guilt of im- \ of fun. THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 VOL. 41—No. 22, ! fiercely struck Chris Tobin with his cane. And-later he | had drawn a revolver, and threatened to use it. Hyjah had informed himself upon all these points, and | his logical mind did not fail to weigh all evidence, how- | ever trivial it might appear, which by any means could | aid him in forming a correct estimate of the young | man’s character. | Kingsley was not cruel; but he was impetuous. If he | was the murderer of Gerber, the Jew, then there must | have been a powerful incentive tothe crime. > Such was the reasoning of the detective, hence the eloquent appeal of the suspected man made no deep: impression. With asense of deep wrong in his heart, Kingsley might indeed feel in a measure innocent of crime, though he had taken the Jew’s life. Hyjah never undertook the solution of a crime of this sort without first placing himself in, imagination in the *place of the culprit. Hence, in working out the case, his mind was in a sense in sympathy with the malefactor, and with a sort of clairvoyance which only those with vivid imaginations can-attain, he read the very thoughts, fears, impulses of those with whom he came in contact. “Do I look like a murderer, and an ingrate?” the young man repeated, in his impassioned tones, as the detective made no response. Hyjah, in his usual calm tones, quietly replied: «This is not a stage-tragedy, my man. I. understand you much better than you think I do.” : «And you believe me guilty? Iwas told—or, rather, heard a man say that you thought I was innocent!” “JT have told no man what I think. -Butif you are in- _nocent, you can prove the fact, to my satisfaction, in a few moments.” “How ?” «You have said that you never saw the fair Jewess until this morning ?” .“That is the truth, sir, in which she will bear me out.” “But you cannot say that you never saw her father ?” The young man recolled visibly under the sharp asser- tion and the searching glance which accompanied it. “You may never have so much as heard the name of Blanche Gerber until to-day,” the detective continued, in tones of calm conviction. ‘But her father you have seen, known, and hated !” A moment of breathless silence ensued. Chris Tobin, influenced by conflicting appearances, now mentally ex- claimed : : \ «The chap squirms under that charge. By cracky! 1 believe that smart detective will get him to own up the whole racket before he gets through.” cr By an apparent effort Kingsley controlled his agita- tion, and said: “IT admit that I knew Gerber, the Jew.” “How long have you known him ?” “T saw him first two years ago. I have met him since several times.” ‘Did you know he was an inmate of this house ?” “Not until I met his daughter to-day.” “Did you tell her that you knew her father ?” “T did not.” ‘How does it happen that you did not mention the fact when she told you that you could escape through his room ?” “TI did not care to explain.” “You told her that you could manage him, didn’t you “I believe I used some such words.” «‘Were you and Gerber tfrieads or enemies ?” “We were not friends.” «‘What was the cause of your enmity ?” “T cannot tell you.” The young man betrayed increasing uneasiness each moment, and a marked reluctance to answering the de- tective’s questions. Hyjah had released him from the grasp by which he had prevented his entering his room. And now, with unexpected agility, Kingsley sprang away from the detective, passed Chris with swift, tying leaps, gained the staircase, and there disappeared. Chris did not attempt to pursue him. The youth in- stantly decided that if the Hindoo could not manage the case, no one could. : Hyjah seemed to hesitate an instant, as though un- certain whether to pursue the fugitive or not. Then, with long, rapid strides, he reached the staircase again, paused and then descended. lt seemed to Chris that the Hindoo did nos try very hard to overtake the fugitive, else the latter was the more nimble of the two. The truth was, the detective did not try to stop Kings- ley. The latter's attempt to escape was unlooked for; _ but the fact that he wished to flee led Hyjah to the strat- agem of allowing him freedom. The wisdom of this was to be shown directly. | The season was Winter, and the evening was an un-; usually cold one. Kingsley had escaped the house without so muchas a hat or overcoat, and Hyjah knew that he could not run through the streets in this plight without being stopped by the police. The detective reached the sidewaik, saw Kingsley dart around an adjacent corner, and disappear. The Hindoo reached the corner, and there halted. Beyond was a quiet alley. Close to a building two men | were standing, half concealed by deep shadows. One of these men was Kingsley, the other a stranger. The detective watched them furtively. They ap- peared to be going through some strange, incomprehen- sible maneuvers. The distance and darkness rendered it impossible to distinguish the purport of their eccentric actions. He could only see that one was without a hat, which, of course, indicated that he-was the one of whom Hyjah was in pursuit. The detective looked at them for a moment, and then bounded toward them. They instantly separated, one crossing the alley, the other darting in another direction. The detective was obliged to run very fast to keep the hatless fugitive in sight, the other he lost sight of altogether. The chase continued for a full minute. Then it was terminated in an unexpected manner, The fugitive abruptly halted and faced his pursuer, under the full glare of a street lamp. , To the amazement of the detective, the hatless indi- vidual was not Robert Kingsley, but a total stranger. CHAPTER VI. A RACE IN A SLEIGH. Hyjah, the Hindoo, was not often outwitted, but he had not anticipated anything like shrewd strategy on the part of Kingsley. The man confronting him was a good-looking fellow, with a mischievous countenance. “Tm tired of running—ain’t you?” he exclaimed, with a low, musical laugh. 4 «Where is your hat ?” Hyjah demanded. * Haven’t got any.” ‘What have you done with it ?” “Sold it.” «And your overcoat ?” “Soid that, too.” ’ “To the man you were talking with a moment ago ?” «You've guessed the racket, mister.” “Was he afriend of yours ?” “Not exactly. Never saw him before. But he pro- osed a bargain, and, as I was financially embarrassed, snapped it up.” “He bought your hatand coat, and told you to lead | me a fool's chase.” «You've guessed the programme. you understand.” “How much did he pay you ?” None of my racket, | every time.” | wild-goose chase after “Twenty dollars. Coat and hat wa’n’t worth five. Offered to throw in my shoes, but he seemed to think they’d fit him rather too early. Sorry to disappoint | you, mister, but I'm always ready for a trade and a bit Never expected to set up as a ready-made | clothing house, but you can’t tell where a fellow wii | fetch up in these days.” The young man turned away as he spoke, But Hyjah drew him back, saying: “Vm not through with you.” “What'll you have? Sell you my shoes, if you want | ’em, at a small advance on the cost.” ; “Drop your chatter and pay attention. You have aid- | ed a dangerous criminal to escape, and it is my duty to | arrest you! “All right. Anything for a change. rested in my life, but I don’t mind.” “1 did not say I would arrest you. But I want you to tell me where the one who bargained with you went ?” “| don’t know.” ‘Describe the hat and coat, then.” “Can't do that.” “Why not?” ‘ «They ain’t mine, and it isn’t my business to describe the tailoring of other fellows.” The young man shrewdly closed one eye as he said this, adding : ‘ “lm ready for a square trade, but I ain’t mean. It isn’t for me to furnish wits for the detectives.” ' That it was useless to “pump” this eccentric fellow was evident. Probably he could give no information of importance, even if he were inclined todoso. So the Hindoo turned and hastened in another direction. He did not wish then to arrest Kingsley. He merely desired to shadow him to his hiding-place, if he had one, and to keep an eye upon his movements until he could fully fathom his character‘and intentions. An hour's investigation gained a clew to the direction of Kingley’s flight. Within two hours the Hindoo was - on less populous section of New York above Harlem ridge. He made his way to a livery-stable, and said to the man in charge: , “TI suppose there is good sleighing north of here, my man ?” “Never better, sir. Like to take a drive ?” “I hardly know. There was a fellow I expected to meet here an hour or more ago, but I was detained, and Iguess he has gone on without me. If I only knew which road he took, I could follow him. He spoke of driving to Pelham village, but 1 think he'll find it too cold to drive so far.” - The off-hand tone and speech of the detective de- ceived the livery-man, who, of course, was ready to ac- commodate a patron. ‘What sort of appearing fellow was the one you ex- pected to find here ?” he asked. “A young man—good-looking.” “Brown mustache, blue eyes, anda rather abrupt way of speaking ?” “Yes. That is a team, did he ?” J “Yes, and one of the best [havein my stable. Took a light cutter and bay horse.” Never was ar- my friend, without a doubt. He hired ‘‘Where did he say he was going ?” “Toward Pelham village.” ‘ ‘When did he say he would return ?” ‘He was going to send the team back in the morning by a man who lives here.” “Give me asleigh, and the best horse you have. I want something that will take me there before my ears are frozen.” «You shall have what you want, sir. Topsy will do it, The man gave the order to a negro youth who acted as hostler, and, addressing the detective, added : «You'll have to keep a steady rein on the girl, sir. The Sleigh-belis make her crazy.” + “J don’t care if she has Spasms every five minutes. I never allow a horse to beat me.” ° ‘*¥ou look as though you might handle her, sir.” In afew moments the team was ready, and Hyjah was seated behind the restive animal. A word, and Topsy bounded forth upon the drive, sendiag the sharp tinkle of the bells out upon the still air. “Hold on! Give me your name!” the livery-keeper shouted after his patron. The latter heard the demand, but he pretended not to do so. Another word to Topsy, and her owner might have shouted himself hoarse in vain. : Off on the road sped horse and sleigh, the air resonant with the musical jingle. ‘Now for a race!” the Hindoo muttered, as the lights from cottages and handsome residences flitted by with contused rapidity. For nearly an hour he sped onward, reaching thé. sparsely settled country road, where the snow which had fallen the previous night lay deep and only partially trodden. At this point Hyjah became aware that a sleigh was following him—that, in truth, it was close in his rear. How it had drawn so near without his hearing the bells, puzzled him, and he glanced over his shoulder with some curiosity. The mystery was speedily solved—the stranger was without ue The slei following had a single occupant. The horse was a large bay, with a free, sweeping gait, and it was surely gaining upon the detective. : The curiosity of the latter. was instantly excited. At this point a narrow road branched off to the left, and as an experiment Hyjal turned out upon this road to give. the other a chance to pass. ; To his surprise, the other came to a halt when he did, and ‘as the Hindoo started up, the stranger followed. . Hyjab compressed his lips with sudden resolve, and, obedient to the rein, Topsy backed quickly round and trotted briskly toward the unknown. The latter imstantly followed suit, returning to the main road, and speeding swiftly, silently onward toward Pelham village. But in the start which he had gained, the detective got sufficiently close to the other sleigh to discern a gil- ded monogram on the back of it. This was a thrilling discovery, for the design was the same as that upon his own sleigh showing that the other came from the same livery-stable. The unknown, upon reaching the main road, took out his whip and struck his horse a sharp blow. The animal shot forward at a pace that speedily. widened the distance between the two teams. The detective quietly grasped his whip and gently touched the mare. ; 1 Topsy stopped, danced, and then leaped forward at her best pace—and her speed was marvelous. The impassive face of Hyjah was set resolutely toward the one he was pursuing, his gaze intent upon the oth- er’s speed and the space between them. It was an exciting race,and both animals were doing their best. The sleighing was so fine that they could searcely feel the sleighs behind them. In the keen, win- ter air they would rather go than not—and they did go, at a pace seldom witnessed upon a quiet country road. Faster and faster went Topsy as she warmed to the race, She seemed to divine the intention of her driver. Possibly she had heard the relative merits of the bay and herself discussed at her stable, and was ambitious of proving her superiority then and there. But the race was not to be terminated by a test of speed alone, although the mare had begun to show that she was more than a match for the one she was follow- ing, when the latter suddenly came to a halt. It was at a lonely point upon the road, each side be- ing lined with large trees, that sent their somber shad- ows across the intervening space. * The stranger had quickly leaped from his sleigh as his ursuer Came up, and stood at the head of his steaming 1orse. a As he stood thus, Hyjah was amazed to see that the other was aremarkably tall man, with broad shoulders and aslight stoop, which indicated a greater stature had he stood erect. : This was a surprise to the detective, who felt cer- tain that the one he had been pursuing was Robert Kingsley. 4 ; Had he again been led upon a ‘“‘wild-goose chase” by the shrewd young man? The Hindoo ieaned forward and asked : «What is the trouble ?” > was the reply, uttered in a “TJ have broken my bridl2,’ deep tone. “Can I assist you ?” “Yes, if you will.” “How 2?” : “By driving back to the city as fast as your horse will et you. : «That is a rather cool request, my friend.” “It is'a cool evening, and Il amacool man. The whole business is cool, in tact. So just wheel your team and scoot back lively?” ‘What did the Stranger mean ?. Was he a madman ? His behavior was inexplicable on any other ground. And yet there was.a suspicious method in his madness that convinced the ons ee that his had not been a Hyjah leaped from thesleigh and advanced toward the stranger, demanding : “What do you mean, man ?” The other snatched the whip from its socket and quickly advanced to meet the detective, saying, in his deep tones: «| mean to give you a horsewhipping !” The Hindoo instantly seized his own whip and coolly retorted : “This is just the time and placefor you to carry out your intentions.” ’ A Even as the detective spoke the whip of the stranger whizzed through the still air, CHAPTER VIL. A NOVEL COMBAT. As the stranger’s whip descended Hyjah leaped nim- bly to one side, at the same time striking a sharp side blow at the face of his assailant. The detective’s hat was knocked off by the other's whip, while the unknown giant received a keen cut across the shoulders that caused him to recoil. Both whips were raised again, and again descended.. This time the Hindoo was the sufferer, the other's whip striking him fairly across his left hand, which he had flung upward to ward off the blow. The stranger again stepped back, while blood started from the hand of his antagonist. The detective realized that his unknown foe was a Man of great physical power, and with as large a fund of cool- ness and courage as himself. Both whips again hissed through the air; this time meeting and intertwining between the combatants. Hyjah then attempted, by a hasty, strong pull to | wrench the whip from his assailant’s grasp. The maneuver was unlooked for, and therefore suc- ceeded. And the Hindoo promptly followed up the ad- vantage thus gained by giving his foe a furious cut | across the head and shoulders. Such a blow must have inflicted intense pain. Yet the | unknown giant did not so much as utter an exclama- | tion or recoil from his foe. Instead, he quickly seized the whip of the detective, and with the quickness of a fiash the latter was dis- | armed. The stranger’s weapon lay buried in the light snow where it had tallen; but Hyjah’s was in the hand.of his foe, thus giving the unknown giant the advantage. Again the Hindoo displayed his superior nimbleness by springing upon his enemy and seizing the whip be- fore the latter could use it. The novel weapon was instantly snapped in twain in the struggle for its possession. Hyjah then leaped backward, and the two giants once more stood face to face, regarding each other with quiet menace. “Who got the worst of the whip-practice ?” the Hindoo quietly questioned. m ‘It looks as though neither of us could crow very loud,” was the complacent retort. “J suppose that cut accross your face felt good ?” «About the same as the one I gave your hand.” “ would like to know what this attack means, and who it is who makes it.” “TJ am known by those who know me at all as Grote, the giant, and I attacked you simply to see if you were a match for me.” ‘ The speaker, as he said this, glanced furtively up and down the lonely road. “Well, what do you think of me ?”” Hyjab returned. “] think in a square fight I should be too many for you.” «Wasn't our whip-combat a fair one ?” ‘Not at all. Ifthe whip I took away from you hadn't oken I could have given you such a lacing that you wouldn’t have forgotten it in a hurry.” “We might try a tussel hand to hand, if you are not satisfied.” “Not if I know myself.” “Why not ?” ‘7 haven't time.” «That is fortunate for you.” And the Hindoo detective, who had already divined the purpose of Grote, the giant, sternly continued : “But you may make up your mind to one thing: If you ever try agame of this kind with me again, you won't get off so easily. And another ern you have started a picnic which will make you trouble as long as you live!” The other recoiled. a pace, laying one hand upon the back of his sleigh. That he meditated treachery of some sort Hyjah felt sure. ‘In truth, the Hindoo was convinced that this brutal giant had been employed by the murderer of Gerber, the Jew, to balk him in his investigation of the crime. Could it be possible that Robert Kingsley, with his handsome face and frank blue eyes, could be so despe- rate a character as this ? which, without a doubt, were hired at the livery-stable by Kingsley ? Hyjah determined to solve the mystery. The young man should either be cleared or convicted of the heart- less crime. toward the front of the sleigh. tention to escape. ; But the detective was not yet ready to have him go. A sudden leap brought him to the side of the giant; at the same time a revolver gleamed in the Hindoo’s hand. ‘Stir hand or foot, andl dropyou in your tracks! was threatened by Hyjah, in low, measured tones. _ Grote stood erect and motionless as astatue. He showed no sign of fear; he merely yielded to the inevi- table until he could turn the tables. «You had better net shoot me,” the giant exclaimed. «Then tell me where you got this horse and sleigh ?” “T got it of the chap who hired it.” ‘Where did you leave him ?” ~.“At a house back on this road.” «Did he let you have the team ?” «Yes, agd told me to take it home!” This seemed plausible, for the livery-keeper had said Jt was his evident in- back by another man. Yet Hyjah was not convinced. “You were not going back when I saw you first, my man,” * thought I would try a little race with you.” ‘Why did you take off your bells ?” “Su you couldn’t hear me.” “Do you know the name of the man who hired the team ?” “He called himself Kingsley.” Re you at the house where he stopped ?” Yes. «Who lives there ?” ; “An old man and his daughter.” “Friends of yours ?” ‘fo be sure they are.” ; Hyjah clutched the man’s arm with fierce vehemence, exclaiming: «Every word you have uttered is false. You are play- ing a deep game, but there is a way to end it!” gerous gleam coming into his eyes. , “Tm going to take you back to the city with me.” «What for ?” «You will find out after we get there.” The detective adroitly produced a pair of handcuffs as level with the man’s face. Grote, in seeming submission held up his hands, say- g: “If thatis your game I’ll make you no trouble.” the same time hurling himself upon the detective. powerful man, that Hyjah, for the time, was at a disad- vantage. . ; : His revolver was discharged, the sharp report reverbe- rating through the forest; but no injury to the giant was inflicted, as the shot was involuntarily fired, and at too close quarters to be effective. : The conflict lasted only a moment. Grote displayed the greatest degree of muscular power of any one with whom the Hindoo had ever coped. In the brief combat it would have been hard to decide which was the stronger or more agile of the two, so closely were they matched. But it speedily became evident that the stranger did not wish then to makea final contest for superiority. For he only compelied his antagonist to drop his weapon and manacles, and then, by an unexpected maneuver released himself from the Hindoo’s embrace and sprang away from him. In the struggle Grote had gained a position nearest the reins, uttered a sharp command to the horse. The animal rendered uneasy by the cold, and startled by the pistol-shot, darted forward like a rocket. Until this momeni Topsy had stood with great docility. But the starting of the other team was a signal for her to follow, and she leaped lightly in pursuit of the bay. ~ The Hindoo could not stop his enemy had he attempt- ed todo so. But he had noidea of being left by his own horse, and compelled to go on foot. back of it, and in another moment was upon the seat and gathering up the reins. ‘ But Grote had gained. a good start and was already disappearing around a curve of the road. AS Hyjah allowed his horse to speed in pursuit of his eccentric foe, it occurred to -him that in following the latter he was running great personal risk, with no as- surance of gaining a clew to the mystery he was at- tempting to solve. Accordingly he turned about, and drove rapidly back over the track which he had just traversed. - Within half an hour he came to a small cottage, which he would have passed without giving it a second glance, had he not noticed recent sleigh-tracks leading up to the door. pt The detective, without a moment's hesitation. turned into those tracks, drew up before the dwelling, and, alighting, knocked loudly upon'the door. There was a light shining from a window, and his summons was speedily answered by a tall, gray-bearded man, who opened the door. The man bore a strong resemblance to Grote, the ruf- fianly giant, a fact which the Hindoo marked at once. in a deep, gruff voice, demanding : “What do. you want at this time of night?” glanced downward. Hyjah saw a peculiar expression cross the old man’s face, and followed his glance. - ; He saw “a the wooden step, at his feet, a folded slip of paper. It was this which the old man had seen, and he stooped to pick it up. But the Hindoo quietly placed one foot upon the paper, saying: “T’ll take care of that.” The old man fiercely retorted : “jt is mine! you!” He strove to push the detective from the step as he said this: But Hyjah seized the man’s arm and pulled him forth from the door-way so forcibly as to send him headlong into a heap-of snow beside the path. While he was picking himself. up the Hindoo secured the slip of paper, glanced at it, and then coolly sprang into his sleigh and drove away like the wind. , CHAPTER VIIL. THE FUGITIVE AND HIS PURSUERS. During the three days that followed the Hindoo detec- tive accomplished much quiet, methodical investigation of the Grand Park Sensation. In the meantime the remains of Gerber, the murder- ed Jew, were consigned to their last resting place; and the daily papers made the most of the sensation black head-lines and lengthy editorial comments. After the funeral, Blanche, the beautiful Jewess, re- | turned to the Grand Park Hotel. | declared her intention to remain there for the present ; but she did not tell him that her decision was made in response to a request from the Hindoo detective. Early in the evening of the day following the burial of the Jew, the beautiful daughter sat before a glowing of apartments which she had engaged. | in his calm, confident way said to her: | be solved, never fear. | talizing mystery, it shall all be brought to light. In the | meantime trust me fully. Whatever happens, trust me! I shall succeed.” The beautiful Jewess was thinking of the detective's words as she sat there gazing dreamily into the blazing coals. ‘The firelight played upon her lovely face, en- | hancing its exquisite beauty. |intheroom. She was acourageous girl, and the memory | of the dreadful crime did not make her nervous. As she sat thinking and gazing, she grew drowsy, and her pretty head drogped until her chin rested upon her bosom. At that moment the fire snapped, sending up tiny | sparks, and Blanche roused with a start. Had she been asleep? She glanced about the room as she asked herself the question. As she did so, her gaze was held by an object reflected in the mirror opposite. At first she thought it was her own face mirrored there. stir responsively. And yet—with a thrill of sudden, intense wonder she realized it—it was a human face which. she saw upon the snvooth surface of the glass! The girl's first impulse was to utter a scream for help. But something restrained her from doing so. Instead, her hand stole to her bosom; when she with- drew it a tiny silver-mounted revolver glimmered in the red glow from the fire. At that moment the face in the mirror moved; there was a stealthy rustle of curtains; and then a distinct, yet cautious whisper exclaimed : “Have no fear!” Instantly the Jewess sprang erect and faced about. Half concealed by the curtains of a deep window stood aman. His face, thrust forward so that it caught the the girl’s gaze rested upon it she exclaimed : “Robert Kingsley !” ‘ He stepped silently toward her, saying : “Yes, in spite of the danger, I resolved to see you !” And, as she stood silent and trembling, the young man, in his low, musical tones, continued : “J hope I did not frighten you ?” ‘No,’ she replied. “Do you know why 1 came?’ he asked, looking ear- nestly into her face. “Indeed I do not.” ; “J wished to learnif you believed me guilty of that crime ?” s “J do not know what to believe.”’ “Then you doubt my innocence ?” : Her eyes fell, and the color deepened upon her cheeks. For amoment she was silent. Then she looked up, stepped toward him, and laid one fair hand upon his arm. -«Tell me,” she exclaimed, in low, earnest accents, ‘‘do Ii not, how did it happen that the giant was encoun- | tered by the detective in his pursuit of the young man ? | And how came the stranger by the bay horse and sleigh | Grote, eying the Hindoo furtively, edged his way | that Kingsley promised to send the horse and sleigh | “What are you going to do?” Grote demanded, a dan- | he said this, at the same time holding arevolver ona | But even as he spoke he suddenly ducked his head, at | The attack was so sudden, and Grote was such a} his own sleigh. And now that he was free he quickly | leaped into the vehicle, and, without waiting to pick up ; Therefore, as his sleigh darted past, he grasped the- He had deep-set, piercing eyes, shaggy brows, and spoke | | ing down upon him. The man held a lamp in one hand; and as he spoke he | Give it up, or it will be the worse for | To Chris Tobin she | grate fire in the cozy sitting-room belonging to the suite Only an hour before she had seen the Hindoo, who had | “The crime of which your father was the victim will | Though enshrouded in most tan- | Without your confidence 1 may failin my task; with it, | There was no other light | But on moving her head, the reflection did not | red glow from the tire, was distinctly revealed, and as. you know who killed my father? Tell me the truth, | looking me in the face, and if you say you are innocent I will believe you. And if you are guilty, I—I will let you go without betraying you. For you have trusted me, and | could not basely betray even a wretch stained with crime !” ; The young man quickly, yet earnestly answered: | “Tam innocent—innocent as you are. ~And I have | risked capture’ by the police and detectives guarding this hotel to assure you of this.” ‘“T believe you, sir!” she deliberately answered. | ‘Thank you. Now, whatever happens, I shall not feel | that the one who so brayely shielded me from my ene- mies believes me capable of cruel ingratitude. The | thought of your gentle face has been before me constant- | ly since that fateful morning. Knowing that you have | faith in me will nerve me to greater efforts to clear my | name from the stain which rests upon it. Now I must | 80.5) |. The young man took her hand in both his own, and | held it for a moment, gazing into her eyes. Then he | raised it to his lips, and turned away. | She watched him as he returned to the window by | which he had entered, and noiselessly raised the sash. Then she saw him recoil. as a bright gleam of light flashed into the room from beyond the open window. The light, which seemed to be projected thither by a powerful refiector, had rested full upon his face for an | instant; and simultaneously a loud, triumphant shout sounded on the air. Kingsley closed the sash and sprang to the side of the trembling Jewess. ‘JT have been shadowed, and now I am discovered !” he exclaimed. ‘Oan you not escape by the window ?” she returned, her face paling. “Flight is cut off in that direction.” “Then what can you do ?” “T can give myself up. I am tired of being a fugitive.” «You must not do that.” ‘Perhaps I can pass out through the hotel unob- served. But the chance is small.” “Come—you must escape ! The girl seized his arm and drew him toward the door of an adjoining room. At the same moment a shout sounded from the street. There was a score of detec- | tives and policemen, who were convinced that Kingsley was the murderer of the Jew,on the lookout for the ; young man. | The rumor that he was in the hotel flew like wild-fire. Chris Tobin,passing along one of the lower halls, en- | countered an excited, officer, who exclaimed : “Quick, and the reward is ours! Our man is in one of the rooms up stairs—aroom on the west side. Show me the way, and it will be.money in your pocket!” : a on any bargain of that sort, my friend,” Chris re- sorted. He had been fooled too many times by false alarms to get very excited. The eagerness of the officers had caused great annoyance to several guests who had been momentarily mistaken for Robert Kingsley. Hence sb had warned Chris to protoct the interests of the | house. “You blockhead!—show me the way!” cried the officer—who, by the way, was the Same pompous Officer who had been so coolly snubbed by the Hindoo upon the day of the crime. ° The officer rushed toward the stair-way, uttering im- precations as he ran. But Chris bounded ahead of him, blocking his way. «Just wait and cool off,” said the youth. “Out of my way, unless you want me to arrest you!” “You may arrest me if you like, but you can’t arrest any of our guests, You tried that game last night, and the man went off ina huff. We'll run our own hotel for awhile yet.” ‘But that Kingsley is in the house how. We shadow- ed him here, and just saw him at an open window on the next floor.” “Who is ‘we?” ; “My mate—the man who has gone in with me to seek the solution of this murder mystery.” “You've no business to meddle with this affair now. Nt given the whole case over to that Hindoo detec- ive.” “But there’s a reward offered; and anybody has a right to win that.” : “The reward is none of our affair. You can go out- side and do all the arresting you please, but you must not take away any of our guests till you trot out a war- rant. So toddle along out of here.” j ‘Do you refuse to let me arrest a man on these prem- ses ?” “That's about the whole of it.” “You're a blustering young ninny !” “That's all right, only don’t say it again. Vl hunt up that. Hindoo, and tell him you called himaninny. I wonder how long it would take for him to chew you up 2”? “Blast the Hindoo! He thinks he owns all New York, and a few blocks of Brooklyn.” “I wouldn’t talk that way, if Iwas a regular blowed- up brag like you are,” retorted Chris, rather enjoying the opportunity to tell the boastful officer exactly what he thought ef him. : Leck—for that was the policeman’s name—knew that he had no authority to search the hotel if forbidden to do so. Hence he was filled with rage toward the more privileged Hyjah, who managed somehow to gain every- body’s confidence, and to go where and when he pleased. : “Between youand me, young man,” Leck continued, “that Hindoo is the biggest kind of a humbug. Mark my words, and See it it don’t come out that way before this case is cleared up.” The officer would have said more, had he not felt a heavy band upon his shoulder at that instant. And turning, he beheld the dark face of Hyjah look- The policeman, as Chris Tobin would have expressed it, “‘wilted” under the stern gaze of the Hindoo. fs er you think Lam a humbug?’ Hyjah mildly ques- oned. «You have let that Kingsley slip through your fingers two or, three times, if all accounts are true,” Leck retorted. “‘Well, he will never slip through your fingers. You won’t get your fingers on him, in the first place. So don’t trouble yourself.” All this transpired near the foot of the stairs. Several persons passed up and down while the wordy conflict was going on, and among others who descended was a tall woman, With avail over her face and rather short skirts. A very handsome shawl draped her shoulders, while she wore a coquettish bonnet. She opened the outer door and passed from view. cab. Signaling one, she wason the point of entering it when two policemen stepped up, saying : “We've got you, Kingsley—the female dodge is too ola |” j (f0 BE CONTINUED.) FOR ANOTHER'S SIN. (Continued from First Page.) Paris, .yet I never saw anything half so beautitul as Brooklands to-day.” | And Lady Di rendered this testimony more willingly | because Lord Carew was listening. There had been some slight discussion when the ball was first spoken otf. Lord Carew had unthinkingly said to his cousin : «Di, you understand all such things so well; will you just look round to see what is the best arrangement you | can make ;” and Lady Di, understanding the flush on the young wife’s face, answered quickly: “My taste, highly as you rate it, Allan, pales into in- | significance beside that of Adelaide. She is an jartist | by nature; 1 am but a feeble imitator.” | Then Lord Carew turned to his wife with a most awk- | ward bow. “Of course, I merely thought of asking Di to assist you,” he said, with an attempt at apology. pride, was turned haughtily to him. “It is quite immaterial to me,” she replied ; and then Lord Carew saw how very remiss he had been. Perhaps it was to show him what she could do, that his young wife took such pains with the arrangements. There was always upon her a sense of bitterness and wrong. Sbe never forgot now the trouble that seemed | to make her old in her youth. At first, there had been | times when she forgot it, and sang, laughed, and felt light-hearted ; now, it was never for one moment absent from her mind. The finding of that portrait had deep- ened the bitterness; it had caused feelings of distress, of envy, of something like jealousy, quite foreign to that gentle, sensitive nature. Now, as he listened to Lady Di’s warmly expressed admiration, Lord Carew was compelled to own that she was right; that noone had the same exquisite grace and tact. Then he began to reflect that every day showed him some fresh charm, some new and attractive quality in her. Lady Adelaide was surprised, when she looked up, to find her husband's eyes fixed upon her with an expression of greater kindness than she had ever seen in them. The evening of the ball came, and the ladies were en- gaged in the delightful occupation of dressing. Lady Di went into her cousin’s room, The far-famed Carew diamonds lay on the toilet-table, and she cried out in admiration : “You will look like a queen, Adelaide. There are no gems in England to be compared with these.” Then she wondered that the fair young'face did not brighten ; it is so natural for the young and the beauti- ful to like admiration. “7 do not know that I care much about looking like a queen,” said Lady Adelaide. ‘I never remember read- ing of a queen who was a happy woman, do you ?” “No, not perhaps entirely happy.. I do not know that women of avery exalted station are ever very happy. Rank has heavy burdens. 1 often fancy, Adelaide, that you have found it to be so.” But my Lady Adelaide did not respond to the con- fidential tone. No one should ever know of her troubles trom her own lips. Yet, despite her indifference, when she was fully attired in her gorgeous costume, she could not refrain from feeling some little delight in her own beauty. She had never looked so lovely. The girlish, gracetul figure was developing into magnificent woman- hood; the fair, sweet face was a marvel of color. The coronet of diamonds sat well on the golden head, dia- ‘monds shone like points of flame on the white neck and the rounded arm; her dress of rich white satin was Reaching the sidewalk, she seemed to be looking for a | Her fair, calm face, with its coldest expression of trimmed with water-lilies, and in each lily lay diamond dew-drops. Her maid looked at her, half hoping that she would utter some little expression of satisfaction; but as Lady Adelaide looked in her mirror, the smile on her lips died away and gave place to a sigh. “It is not natural,” thought Jane Hinton, indignantly. «Why need my lady sigh, as she looks at herself? There will be no one else in the ball-room one-half so fair.” Lady Adelaide went down stairs alone. There were times when she felt her loneliness more keenly than words can describe. There was no proud, fond hus- band to tell her how fair she looked, to take her hand in his arm and lead her into the drawing-room ; she must enter alone. Another deep sigh came from her lips; then she tried to rally. ‘This will never do,” she said to herself. “a § ¥ va ; a ; 4 he 2% -_ o %, i yn [a oi . shi! oe a \ ‘ , Oe 2 i 7 5 ie ‘ mane, eves THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. e~ warrior she stood her ground, and softly hummed a tune as she pilfered the stems of their red jewels and covertly watched the advancing equestrians. She never turned her head as they drove up to the gate and dismounted. Lower the sunbonnet was bent over the bushes, weighed down with the acidulous fruit, and the currants fell thick and fast in the earthen vessel. The count’s observant eye espied the slim figure with the outlandish head-piece, whose cape flapped restlessly against her shoulders like the wings of a frightened bird, and as Hope came down the walk to meet them, and Vane accosted her, he edged up to the garden-fence, and sung out: wine milkmaid!” a comical smile hovering on S lips. Martha never stirred her head. Theslim, brown fin- gers deftly despoiled the bushes of their ruby fruit; the sunbonnet concealed the pretty dimples in her chin. “Milkmaid! milkmaid!” he shouted in a stentorian voice ; and he leaned over the picket-fence and lifted the’ bonnet-cape, which conveyed to him the idea of per- petual motion, with the jeweled butt of his riding-whip. Then she pushed back her bonnet and disclosed a laugh- ing face, dun-brown locks straying over it. “How do you do, count? You mistake. [I am not a milkmaid this morning; I am a currant-picker.” “Oh, you are,” he ejaculated. ‘I wondered what the duse you were doing with that ugly thing on your head, and your body bent half-way over to the ground like a decrepit old woman. So that’s how you pick currants? You have a novel way—I might say, a strikingly original way—ot doing everything. Aren’t you going to shake hands with me ?” She held up her hand, her red lips curled in a quaint little expression of disgust. It was a remarkably pretty, symmetrical hand, the palm dyed a rich red. «7’m afraid you would be angry with me if I complied with your request. Besides, who ever saw two persons shake hands over a high picket-fence? AVho’s original now, I beg leaye to inquire? What made you come so early—so unfashionably early ? You, who represent the highest grade of society, ought to have known better’. Or did you think, because we vegetate ina low-browed farm-house among the hills—so far away from all signs of civilization as to give one the impression that we are sentenced to perpetual ostracism—that we are ignorant as to what is considered proper by the fashionable world? Iexpressly forbade you to put in an appearance before ten. lt serves you right to find everything upside | down and no one to entertain you. How do you fancy looked eagerly in his face. He knew that she was look- ing for another kind word, such as had already brought sunshine in her face, and he could not help speaking it. 7: have enjoyed that dance very much indeed,” he said. “I am ‘so ¢gtad,” she replied, tremulously. “I never cared much whether I danced well or not; now I shall take great pains.” He smiled at the child-like simplicity of the remark. “How well those diamonds suit you, Adelaide,” he Said, after a short pause. “Do you think so? I’m pleased that you are pleased.” And then a sudden impulse came to him to say some- thing very kind to her, to hold that little white hand in his own, to gladden her heart by some gentle words that she should not forget. Her fair face was turned half from him. He saw the dainty flush rising onit, and then, as he was about to speak, like a black, horrible specter rising between them, came the thought: i “She married me against my wish; she took advan- tage of an unjust will; she sacrificed my happiness that she might be Lady Carew.” A thought that froze all the kindness in his heart as a ehill northern wind nips the fair, tender blossoms—a thought that made him turn from her and hate himself. She saw the change; she was quick to note it, and her heart sank. “I see the duchess is alone,” he said, in a constrained voice ; ‘I must go to her.” She spoke no word as he turned away; a kind of dull despair came over her. «It will always be the same,” she said to herself; ‘he will never love me. It is useless, hopeless. I shall never win him, try as I will, do as I will.” While, as he crossed the ball-room, with the memory of this fair face haunting him, Lord Carew thought to himself: “I might Kave learned to care for her—I might have learned to love her—but that she has married me against my will.” “Tam not quite satisfied with the state of affairs at Brooklands,” said the Duke of Granton to his amiable wife. ‘I do not think Lord Carew loves his wife, beauti- ful as she is.” *] have never met any one more graceful or refined,” said the duchess, “I do not understand why he does not love her.” “Nor dol; but [feel sure thatI am right. Heis not only perfectly indifferent to her, but—I really fancy he does not like her.” | my attire ?” + ¥ The duchess sighed. She was not one of the most| ‘You look as if you were rigged out, regardless of happy of wives herself, but the duke loved her in his | taste, fora masquerade. Your costume is downright-— way. He loved no one better, and she knew it. Yet} Bah! 1am ata loss for the right word to express my- her heart was full of sympathy for the lady whose hus- | self. I prithee, what character did you intend to repre- band so evidently did not care for her. As they drove | sent?” Bi home she made to herself some very kindly resolves ; ‘That of Noah’s wife,” demurely. ‘‘I have an idea that she would often visit Brooklands, she would do all in | she was similarly arrayed when she stepped into the her power to bring husband and wife together, little | ark, and that 1 make a right passable Mrs. Noah. What one that others had made the same resolve and | is your opinion ?” ailed. after a short meditation. The duchess smiled .in her amiability. ‘ “He is a great flirt,” she said; “but every one knows it, and he does no harm.” ~ ‘He is not flirting now. I always prophesied that, some day or other, Captain Randolph would meet his fate. He has met it in the shape of Lady Carew.” “He may as well spend his time in trying to grow roses On arock. Lama good judge of atace, and hers is a true one.” . «Yes, but her busband neglects her, and she is very young. Iam afraid something none of us will like must happen some day at Brooklands.” [TQ BE CONTINUED.] > o~ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] Married at Midnight: OR, Trt BRIDES FATE: By JOHN A. PETERS. made in modern times, It is——” “What ?” as he paused abruptly. “J was simply going to add that I shouldn’t advise any pretty girl to wear one like it.” “No? You evidently consider me a fright, then. Surely it is a unique pattern?” - “Bah! You know whatI mean. Are you never com- ing out of the garden ?” “Not till my bowl is overflowing with currants. I told you [ should not be ‘at home’ till ten. Go and talk with Miss Huntley.” «And be told that ‘two is company, and three a crowd’? No, thank you. My friend is monopolizing Miss Huntley’s conversation.” \ “Well, then, fo your horse in the ‘Stable, if you pur- pose staying. e keep no hostler, and you will have to wait upon yourself. Remember, I warned you.” “Allright,” and he bit his lip. ‘You areas courteous, Martha Cross, as—a savage !” “Lwas brought up in the wilderness,” and she exe- cuted a mock little courtesy. “Humph! What have you been eating this morning ? —caper-sauce ? J was in hopes your tongue would prove less ener morning, inasmuch as you granted me permission fo visit you.” “Oh, I consented, to please Miss Huntley. I compas- sionated her loneliness, for it is extremely dull at the farm-house. If you would not palaver, but go and do as I bid you, my job would soon be finished.” “Allright!” with the utmost sang sroid conceivable; “the queen’s subject will obey. Pray don’t be so touchy when I return. See! Miss Huntley doesn’t drive her cavalier away.” - F “Oh, she’s a sweet-tempered lady, is Miss Huntley,’ imitating his air of nonchalance. “J acknowledge the justice of your observation,” he said, with a low bow, and leading Queenie in the direc- tion of the barn, calling to Vane to ‘‘Come on,” as he went. ‘Vane did so, and when the animals were housed, and they returned, the currant picker was nowhere Visible, and Hope had gone into the house. , Neither of the girls was to be seen when they stepped up to the open door. Lucy sat there alone, apparently awaiting their appearance. She welcomed them warm- ly, but said: “You were not expected at so early an hour.” “Oh, don’t be so uncharitable as to remind us of that, dear Mrs. Northrup,” laughed the count, as he threw himself into a chair, and fanned his rather rubicund visage with his broad-rimmed hat. ‘Miss Cross has al- ready chided me severely tor being so early. Vane, did Miss Huntley read you a downright scolding upon being so punctual ?” ; ‘Indeed, no,” smiled the gentleman, who was inspect- ing the old-fashioned posies in the vases on the mantel- piece, the fragrance of which greeted his olfactories de- lightfully; «I forestalled her by attributing the fault to you. You know you were determined to start before the heat grew intolerable.” “Ah, that’s en like you!” retorted the count—<‘con- stantly shouldering others with your burden when it becomes too cumbersome for you to bear. Did you hear what he said, Miss Huntley ?” as Hope entered the room, cool and fair to look at in her thin muslin dress, a rose— “Joy’s own flower,” as Felicia Hemans has somewhere beautifully called it—in her hair. “T heard, but Ido not take for granted all he says. (‘MARRIED aT MIDNIGHT” was commenced in No. 14. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXIII. ‘ COUNT TREVLYN AND VANE VISIT THE FARM. The girls were up betimes, busily making prepara- tions for the company they expected that day. Hope ran out in the door-yard first to inhale the perfume of the roses nodding their pretty heads on the bushes, a drop of dew in the heart of each. Listless and sleepy the yard lay—the trees dripping with dew, the green grass steeped init. Hope swept upa handful of the glittering drops in her hand and washed her face with them. «This is the cosmetic for the complexion,” she laughed, as she ran into the house to put the dishes on the table. “J shall have to get up a tempting dinner, Hope,” said Martha, who was turning over a piece of meat in the spider, ‘‘for the gentlemen are Connoisseurs, and I am not sure but the count is something of an epicure. He looks as if he lived on the fat of the land.” “He will not disparage the cooking, but deem each in- RNB A SEPM Mee Y™ GLOGS. DS.Une. GOK,” Where one is so anxious to be proven guiltless, he is apt laughed Hope. “Martha, captivate him, and be a tar- | t> pe the most culpable of all the participants, I find. get for the disappointed fortune-hunters to aim their | Isn’t itso, Martha?’ as her shape darkened the door- pointed javelins at.” “You undervalue the count, ma chere,” peeing the fire to cause it to throw out an additional heat, “if you imagine he wouid litt a poor country girl to the exalted position he occupies. I serve to amuse him, because where others resort to toadyism, I am positively rude and uncivil. He is bored to death with too much sweetness. Enough acidity centers in my expressions to nettle him and not let him suffer of ennui. No, no, Hope, he would not have me, and I have no contidence in man. One man’s perfidy altered my views of man- kind, and routed all the sentimentality in my composi- tion. Have you finished setting the table? The meat is properly done, the johnnycake is a delicious brown, the coffee is steaming away, and—Hope, won’t you just stick a fork into one of the potatoes in the oven and see if they are fit to eat? If so, ll summon the folks to breakfast. Mrs. Northrup wants to come to the table this morning, and Father and Mother Graft have been up for some time.” Hope opened the big oven-door, stuck into one of the hot, brown-jacketed potatoes the fork, as Martha had bidden her, and pronounced it ‘‘done ;” so, shortly after, all drew up to the table, and when a blessing had been asked upon the food by the old man in his simple, ear- nest way, they began to eat. Mrs. Northrup was in the best of spirits. She was now able to stand on her foot, and even to walk a little with the aid of .a crutch or some one's arm.. She had taken a great liking to the old couple, and promised to drive over and see them often when she had again taken up her quarters at the pavilion. As the meal pro- gressed, she turned to Martha and said : { “Can’t you recommend a seamstress to me, Miss Cross? I have a quantity of plain sewing on hand, that has been accumulating tor some time, and it is difficult to secure the services-of an efficient needle-woman. I want her at the.cottage, so.as te be right under my supervision. I have three weeks’ steady work.” “How would I suit you, Mrs. Northrup ?” ‘ “¥ou.!”.exclaimed Luey, in astonishment ; ‘are you in earnest?” “Certainly,” replied Martha; ‘I can sew nicely, if my calling be that of a teacher. If you want to confirm my word, ask Mrs. Graft.” : “Oh, I was not about to raise objections on that score. But you—— No, Martha, Ido not want you for a seam- stress. Jl tell you what Ido want, though. You have been so exceedingly kind to me during my imposed sojourn here, and I have grown to like you so much, that 1 would like to carry you off to the cottage for a few days.” | “No,” objected the girl, who was pouring out the second cuptul of coffee for Mrs. Graft, ‘‘the only way I can go to the cottage is. in the capacity of seamstress. I am not joking. I do not return to Troy till late in September, and I should like to earn some money very much. I ap- preciate your kindness, believe me, but—well, I am a greedy thing.” The end of the matter was that Martha was engaged as Mrs. Northrup’s seamstress, a proceeding that gave Hope much pleasure, “IT can easily ‘be spared,” explained Martha, ‘for Father Gratt’s niece arrives to-day to remain till after hop-picking, and she is a thorough housekeeper and can do double the work.-of -an erdinary woman.” It was nine o'clock, and Hope wasarranging some old- fashioned posies for the vases on the mantel-piece in the Sitting-room, and Martha was stripping off the currants that grew on the bushes bordering the garden-fence, when two equestrians were seen galloping over the brow of the hill. - “Goodness !” ejaculated Martha, letting a handful of the luscious red fruit drop‘to the ground instead of in the big-mouthed bowl she held in her hand ; ‘here they come already, andi particularly gave them to under- stand that they would not be welcome till ten. Such ninnies! as though we had nothing to do but conjure up something for their diversion. Well, [shall not discon- tinue my work on their account,” and she went on with the stripping process. A big, disfiguring sunbonnet, with sheltering cape, which had lost all of its stiffening in a thunder-shower, hid her face and disheveled hair, which she had not tound time this morning to arrange. A long, frayed-out emis ee. protected her dress from the rich juice of the fruit. ~ | Being a woman her ouwtre costume worried her, but she had too much pride to run away; so, like some grim old « ) way. ‘ Martha had discarded the contemned head-piece, but had not divested herself as yet of the mammoth apron which covered the whole front of her dress. “Tt was of no use,” she argued, for her work was not half done; ‘‘and to Cast it off simply to look better in the eyes of my guests, is a piece of vanity of which I will not be guilty.” So she kept on her apron, much to the surprise of Vane, the amusement of Hope and Lucy, and the chagrin of the count, who decided that it gave her the air of a Sservant-girl, and resented it accordingly; though why he should do so he was at a loss to explain, her partin a conversation with titled ladies, arriving quickly at the conclusion that she would not exhibit any embarrassment, and would be as cool and self-contained as though she had grown up among them. “Come and join the conclave, Miss Cross,” and Vane politely rose and tendered her a chair. But Martha did not takeit. Pointing to her apron, she said : “You perceive that Iam rigged out for work. I have been boasting of my culinary skill to Miss Huntley, and to fail now in getting up an eatable dinner would be a mortification I could not well bear up under. The count, rm sure, has all a bon vivant's relish for a nicely cooked meal.’ “Then as long as you succeed in appeasing the appe- tite of the count, you do not care if you fail to satisty his friends ?” ruefully asked Vane. “Oh,” laughingly replied Martha, ‘‘the rest. of you will not take it to heart. Now,” smoothing out an ugly wrinkle in the apron, more.to attract Count Trevlyns attention to it than anything else, ‘‘as a penance for coming at such an unseasonable hour, you will have to dispense with my society till I get my work well under way.” “Let me help you, Martha,” begged Hope. “And me, too,” put in the count, starting up with alacrity from his chair.. ‘‘Bear in mind, Miss Cross, that ‘many hands make light work.’” “You torget. That trite aphorism has reference to veterans, not beginners, sir,” and Martha’s dainty nose went upin the air a trifle higher than nature ever in- tended it togo. ‘However, ’ll give youa trial. Mon- sieur, let me test your skill. Father Graft is inordinate- ly fond of a beverage I make, and which we country people call switchel. Nothing else assuages his thirst as quickly in the hay-field. He is there now witha couple of hired men, and 1 promised him faithfully that I would have his favorite drink there precisel) at ten. Can you make it, count ?” “Switchel! switchel!” iterated and reiterated the puz- zled man, as if in doubt whether he had heard the word aright. “In the name of Peter and all the apostles, what’s that? What's switchel? It has a right horrid taste in one’s mouth, such as I trust it does not leave after one has swallowed some of it. Is it an intoxicat- ing drink ?” ; “I knew you would be of no help, but a hindrance,” was all the answer Martha vouchsafed him, as she wheeled about to enter the Inferno, as the discomfited man likened the kitchen unto. “I never remain in ignorance when I have an oppor- tunity to become enlightened,” he vwillfully remarked, as he walked up to where she was standing, her hand on the door-knob. ‘1 shall see how that wonderful beverage is made.” And I'll carry it out to the men,” said Hope; “I long for the scent of new-mown hay. I shall play Iam Maud Muller, and rake the hay.” “You'll have to: take off your shoes and stockings, then,” put in the irrepressible count. ‘I don’t imagine Vane will have any serious objections to enacting the part of the judge.” Hope’s face grew the color of the crimson rose in her hair, and, to draw attention from it, Martha said : “Jf he has, you certainly won’t;”’ whereupon all laughed, and the roses died out of Hope’s cheeks as quickly as they sprang into life, and all went into the kitchen save Lucy, who picked up a book to read. aeons ‘CHAPTER XXIV. HOPE DISCOURAGES VANE. «Now, Miss Cross,” began the count, as they all gath- ered eagerly about the girl, “to work! Weare anxious “That you are correct, as usual’ That bonnet—if it | “Ido not like that young Randoiph,” said the duke, | be a bonnet,”.and he eyed it unfavorably, ‘‘was never | or why he revolved over and over in his mind the ques- ; tion as to how she would look and act while sustaining ; to learn how to make switchel. If it be drinkable—as Ym afraid I sha’n’t pronounce it—I shall instruct the bartender at the Pavilion how to get it up for my especial delectation.” ‘Don't bother me. Do keep still, count, if you can, while I get together the ingredients necessary to pre- pare it. uite a process has to be gone through. It not only has the power to quench thirst, but it isa stimu- lating drink.” ‘“Tndeed ?” his tone full of mock interest. ‘You whet my curiosity shamefully. How slow you are!” A merry time ensued as Martha stirred the drink, which the count inwardly declared ‘‘did not look fit for the pigs.” ; It was composed of cider and water, sweetened strongly with molasses, flavored highly with winter- green, and keenly alive with ginger. All took a taste of it, and made wry faces over it, but kept silent as to how they liked it—all with the exception of Count Trevlyn, who, in the act of quaffing it from a tin cup, stopped short, and emptied the contents out of the window. el did you do that for?’ queried Martha, inno- cently. The count was rinsing out his mouth with some fresh water, to get rid of the stinging sensation produced by the plentiful supply of ginger. He was not slow to reply: “It is a disgustingly heathenish drink, not fit for Christians to swallow.” “You don’t like it?” her tone savoring of incredulity, as though it were a fact that she could not credit. ‘Father Graft insists that it is the most relishable drink in the world. You are not one bit kind, Count Trevlyn ; you should have courteously ayerred ‘‘that it was an ambrosial drink, nectar fit for the®gods.” ‘Such a highly seasoned drink they never partook of, much less dreamed was ever made,” he cried, quaffing more water to keep himself from strangling. ‘All I could taste was ginger, ginger, which has the effect of making my mouth and throat feelas if seared with a red-hot iron.” “Why,” hastily inserted Hope, “I experienced no such | trouble. AllI could taste was the molasses.” “Ginger is one of its indispensable’ concomitants ;” | and then Martha’s gravity gave way, and she laughed | immoderately. | tablespoonful of ginger ere handing it him. The count began to have suspicions of foul play, and | reaching over he took up the tin cup and inspected the | sediment therein minutely. A tiny heap of ginger lay She had slyly put into the count’s cup a | } | in the bottom; so, rinsing out the cup. he dipped into | the pail again and took another swallow. | Cup was an improvement on the first, and his suspicions | were verified, but he was wise enough to maintain | Sitence, assuring Martha, witha glance as innocent as | her own, “that the more he drank of the stuff the more | he liked it.” | Hope got her sunbonnet and announced her intention | of taking the switchel, which Martha had poured into a | jug, to the hay-field; whereupon Vane insisted ‘‘that it | was too heavy for so frail a Hebe to carry, and that he would accompany her on her errand.” So down the lane they went, Vane deiighted at the | prospect of a stroll with her; but Hope, somewhat given to curiosity, and frequently laying harmless pit- | falls for her conscience, felt her heart throb within her | guiltily. Wasshe not tacitly encouraging his attentions | —allowing him to think that the love she was certain he | felt for her was reciprocated? And wasit not? She | shuddered, but did not dare to analyze the feeling that was rising, swelling within her, as the bud when burst- ing into blossom. A mute prayer went up to her Makerfor help. If she dared tell him that she was a wife—the wife of a bad, bad man, of whom she was afraid—not a maiden to woo and win, as he believed. But she dared not confess. Sbe could only pray that they both might have strength to strangle the love, which was a sin for her to foster and keep alive, and would be a sin tor him also when he discovered that she was married to Gordon Graham. She was strangely quiet as she tripped along at his | Side, he carrying the jug Martha had put into his hand with injunctions ‘to set it, after the men had drank, in the stream running at the foot of the meadow, for the purpose of keeping it cool.” The morning was lovely, as summer mornings in the country almost always are—warm, without being sultry; the air was. lusclously spiced with odors from the sur- Founding woods, and the far-away hills were bathed in misty, golden sunshine. 4 Breaking the embarrassing silence, Vanersaid, as he broke the stem of a flower-cup that bore a wistful face, as if it realized it were about to be plucked and was praying to be'let alone: : “How preferable the country is to the city on 4a Siiii- mer day. It is a delight even to breathe on such a worning as this—a morning so perfect that it must have met and embraced its sister in the tropics. The sun warms up the earth gloriously, and the air is so pure and beading that one feels better and purer while in- aling it, “Yes,” assented Hope; “but I should not care to spend my days in the dilettanteism of leisurely country life. We were not placed heré on earth for that purpose. A rivulet meandering through the dead green plush of fer- tile meadows is a pleasant spectacle, but it fails to give one the ambition, the inspiration to do great deeds and noble actions that a magnificent, leaping fall of water ; does, of the rushing river, or the mighty ocean. Het'e among these tree-clad hills—in this isolated, out-of-the- way spot in which Mr. Graft'’s home is situated—one might, like a useless lotus-éater, dream his life away. Jn the city, where allis life and bustle—where one is ever striving to mount a step higher in his profession— to go beyond his fellow-brothers—one does not care so much to sleep and dream ; but rather has he an uncon- trollable longing to be busy, to get rid of some of his surplus energy, to-——” She ceased, a burning red suffusing her face as she encountered his ocean-tinted. eyes fastened earnestly upon her. As she did not proceed, he spoke : “What you say is but partially true,’ Miss Huntley. Poor men, those who out ‘of sheer necessity are com- pelled to earn their living by the sweat of their brow, if | tainted at all with the Upas tree of ambition, in seeing others enjoying the luxuries they would tain surround themselves and families with, may haye nore of an in- centive to use their hands and brains im the city than in the country, where one is never; or hardly ever, im dan- ger of starving; but how is it with the mass of those - who are rich in this world’s goods—with myself, for in- stance? I’m atrald you'll despise me’ when’ I tell you of how little use I have been in the world: My besetting | Sin is laziness. Can there be a worse'one’? I have aile- viated the wants of the poor, of those’ in distress, when a case came under my personal supervision; but [never went out out of the way to seek one. I don’t know why itis, but since you’ve entered my life I’m ashamed of my inactivity, my living only for self. When I get back to the city there shall be achange. My wealth shall be ,no excuse for idleness. Were you aware. that: lam'a lawyer, Hope ?” a It was the first time he had omitted the “‘Miss,” and so softly the ‘‘Hope” dropped from his lips, that he ae to repeat the question ere she was calm enough to . reply: “No, I was not.” ; .“ am, however,” he continued. “I was admitted to ; the bar a year ago or more, and f have tried, and suc- | cessfully, afew cases. But the spirit to be a great law- , yer was wanting ; now——” : The sentence was never concluded. Terribly afraid of | what he was going to add, trembling like an aspen leaf, ; but still, in spite of her perturbation, experiencing a ' secret feeling of content creeping over her, she cried out , irrelevantly, much to Vane’s surprise and disappoint- | ment; } “There are the men, Mr. Hunter. What brawny- , armed creatures they are! How they stride along, mowing down at each stride with their sharp scythes a great heap of long grass. Cast your eyes over the meadow. Does it not resemble the great deep when its waves are troubled? It rises, and falls, and rustles with every passing breeze. lt is indeed a beautiful sight.’ “A beautiful sight!” he echoed, the enthusiasm gone from his voice. ‘It the subject had not been a distaste- ful one to her, why had she abruptly changed it? If she did not return the love which had crept into his heart when he first heard the music of her voice, when he first gazed upon her face, would not the desire to do xyood in the world Jeave him? Would not all be dark efore him—such darkness as no light could chase away? Oh! he could not lose her, this bright, beauti- ful, bewitching girl, who had won_ his heart—who had installed herself in its most sacred recesses—who was | dearer to him than life itself. No such contretemps had ever occurred to him as the probability of his losing her, and at her adroit turning of the conversation, which in- timated her intention to check the warm words that lay on his lips, which were growing into passionate ones, his strength—and he had the muscle and sinew of a Hercules—deserted him, and involuntarily he set down the jug and leaned against the fence, a shadow of pain on his handsome face. Hope understood it all, and for the mement, as often before, she wished she were free; but she had married Gordon Graham, not loving him—prompted as she then believed by a sense of duty—and there was no altering her lot in life. As she had sown so must she reap. The soft dark eyes welled with tears ; she bent over an ant hill and watched the busy creatures at work, hurry- ing to and fro with their supplies for the winter, which was hae afar off, so that her companion might not see the bright drops that threatened to roll down her cheeks. He did see them though, drawing therefrom the in- ference that she pitied him. That he did not want—her pity. «Pity is akin to love,” they say; but he wanted er love or nothing, and the hope that had buoyed him up for days past grew so faint within him that not an iota of it was left when, to his question of: ‘‘Will you sit here while I give.Mr. Graft the jug, or will you go along in the field and make hay, Maud Muller fashion ?” she shook her head, no smile playing about her lips or flash= ing as usual from her eyes, and replied : “Tl sit here, please.. I—L guess I’m tired.” ‘Very well;” and he leaped over the fence, talked a few minutes to old Mr. Graft, then returned, and they slowly, and quite silently, wended their way back to the farm-house, where Martha and the count were having an animated time. CHAPTER XXV. THE COUNT DIGS POTATOES. Martha stood quietly by the wincow in the low-ceiled kitchen after Vane and Hope had started for the mea- dow, taking no notice of the count, who was drumming restlessly with his strong dark fingers on the door, and wondering how long she would stand there without ut- tering a word. His impatience would not permit him i This second | to see how long, and picking up the stove-poker he beat a wild reveille on the stove-pipe with it, laughing heart- ily as the girl veered about, and, with her fingers in her ear, demanded ‘‘what was the matter ?” ‘Have you lost your reason, count? or do you relish a noise? Such adin as you make would awaken from their long sleep the seven noble youths of Ephesus. Positively you have given me the headache.” “Have I really? Isupposed it was only fine ladies who indulged in the luxury of a headache. Martha Cross, you are telling mea fib! Your head doesn’t ache one tiny bit, and if you don’t avow as much, I shall create such aracket with this very same poker about your ears that you will go distracted. Confess! Con- tess, Martha Cross!” and he raised the poker threaten- ingly and held it poised in mid-air. “Confess? NotI,” awaiting with Spartan indifference an onset on the stove-pipe. Recommence your tattoo, Se fll clear out and leave you to enjoy the music alone.” “Oh, well,” and he deposited the poker carefully in its place, I desist then. I was creating a hubbub solely for your delectation. I haven’t discovered all your likes and dislikes yet. Iam glad you haven’t any partiality for noises ; 1 haven’t myself, either.” “T can’t see what difference it makes to you whether I like a noise or not,” snapped Martha, opening the stove- door to replenish the fire. “Can’t you? Very likely not. Still, it does make a difference. One fact is patent: if you don’t fancy noise, you do heat. Itis as hot as a furnace in here.” «There’s no need of immuring yourself in the kitchen, count,” coolly said Martha. ‘You can repairto the front room, where Mrs. Northrup is sitting, and where the temperature isa few degrees cooler; or you can swing under the trees in the hammock that 1 brought from Troy—just as you please.” ‘Not a bad ideaif I cared to stretch out my limbs and go tosleep. Isn’t there some cool, lovely little nook, in- habited by mermaids, where the waters sing, and over which the tall trees wave, that we might go to and rest? You could take some light fancy work, such as women affect, and which, like Penelope’s web, grows neither | larger nor smaller, and while you sit on a mossy rock, and the water casts upits spray, and the leaves rustle over your head, I'll read to you some engaging romance, or a poem from one of your favorites.” “Thanks; you areso kind that I am sorry to be under the necessity of declining your offer. What! Run | away from my guests and play Juliet to your Romeo ? Nonsense, man! I’ve any amount of work todo; the | dinner to get; and—ah! that reminds me that Father Graft forgot to dig the potatoes, so, perforce, that dis- agreeable duty devolves upon me.” “Not necessarily. Wl obviate the difficulty if yowll go and show me the potato hills. Vl root out the potatoes ina jiffy. Its easily enough done. You use some sort of a Sharp inplement to do the work, don’t you ?” ‘“T should say you did,” laughed Martha, ‘and that sharp implement is laid down in the dictionary as ‘a hoe.’ Come on, then. Ill not refuse your services. A raw recruit is better than none. Here, count, you take ee hoe, and Vill make myself useful by carrying the ail. r , With the hoe flung over his shoulder the count stepped swiftly after Martha’s retreating figure, and they found themselves in the garden among the rows of potato- hills, the sun glaring fiercely down on their heads. “Now, count,” urged Martha, ‘“‘be as expeditious as possible. Haul out the potates, andIll pick them up.” The count began operations. He lifted the hoe and let it descend with all his might into an overgrown hill, chopping the luxuriant green vine trailing over it in two at the first stroke. As it wasin the act of descending the second time with renewed violence, Martha caught hold of the uplifted arm and turned it hastily aside. «Oh, count,” she cried, ‘that’s not the way! Mow can you be so stupid? Can’t you comprehend? That vine is meant to be taken hold of by the hands and pull- ed out, like this! See, what beautiful potatoes adhere to it. Now observe the use of, the implement you sway so frantically in your hand. You brandish itin much the same manner that a painted savage might his war~ club. Give it to me, please, and take notice.” “No, llinot. Iam not so obtuse as you egsay to make out. I forgot to pull out the vine, to be sure, but I think I can bring out the potatoes as well as you or anybody eisé, “Go on then,” said Martha, resigning herself-to the inevitable ; ‘go on, and hack to pieces every precious potato in the hill.” cee "i Shall be guilty of no such misdemeanor, tormentor. I shall remove the earth as carefully as an agriculturist could do, and exhibit the potatoes in the hill as whole and tinhacked as if no such thing as a hoe had disturb- ed them.” ‘“Humph!” was Martha’s sole comment, which had the power of stinging the count to immediate action. The hoe tlew up and down as fast as the gentleman could make his hands move, and Martha remained im- movabie, the picture of surprise. Could any one who wore coat and pantaloons be so dumb as the titled man before her? “13 stupidity a prerogative of the nobility »” she cried, unable to keep her mouth closed any longer. ‘Desist from your labor, count, I entreat. DBolower your hoe! You wield it as though it were your intention to muti- late, to destroy. Do look at those potatoes! Dear! dear‘! it’s too bad—entirely too bad! Every one hacked into half a dozen pieces! And such perfect beauties, are worse at digging potatoes than you are at chasing cows. What cam you do, count ?” “Precious little to your way of reasoning. I wonder what sort of a countess you would make, Miss Martha ?” Cross. ‘‘Not that [ should care to be presented at court, though,” she added, smilingly, as she relieved him of the hoe, so worthless a tool in his hand, and set about digging another hill of potatoes, with the cutting re- mark ‘‘that those already dug could be thrown away.” She dug a couple more hills, and the count obediently got down on his knees and filled the pail, after which they adjourned to the house, where they found Hope and Vane. gate already ?” queried Martha. ‘You made a short stay. There was no answer, and Martha, sharp at discern- ing things below the surface, read in the faces of both that something had transpired to cause them to feel despondent. -What was it? It was not till dinner had been partaken of—a veritable success, by the way—and they were all grouped togeth- er in the font yard, under a wide-spreading maple, that she learned what gave that air of despondency to Vane’s countenance. He had drawn near to the warm-hearted girl; mutely Bbeseeching sympathy, much to the disgust of Count Trevlyn, who would have had ner direct her remarks solely to himself. An overgrown rose-bush near, trailing its unpruned limbs over the ground in rank luxuriance, starred with cloud of fragrance, elicited from Vane an exclamation of pleasure. «What a beautiful bush!” he cried. ‘Far more beau- tiful in its uncultured state to me than it would be had it undergone a pruning process, and been clipped and trimmed into a more symmetrical shape by some one rich in flower lore. Miss Cross, you must have one of these red rosebuds for your hair.” He stepped up to the bush, and lifting one of the prickly, trailing arms, inspected it closely to discover its most perfect blossom; while Martha, who had play- fully followed him, rallied him for being so difficult to suit. Finally his choice was made. A half-opened bud, gleaming like a heart of fire inits nest of glossy green leaves, attracted his attention. 3 “**T will gather thee,’ he cried Rosebud brightly glowing ! And he handed the plucked bud to Martha, witha bow, who archly went on with the unfinished verse : **Then Fil sting thee,’ it replied; ‘And you'll quickly start aside With the prickle glowing.’” But, ah! he had stepped aside from’ the bush unstung, and she had run one of the sharp thorns which closed round the bud into her finger. It brought forth a drop ot blood, and drew from her a little cry of pain. “What is it?” Vane anxiousiy aSked. ‘Have you re- ceived the sting you would willingly have inflicted upon me ?” ‘That's just it, sir. The bud concealed a thorn, which penetrated my flesh and brought one ominous spot of blood. You must gather no more roses forme. I hope you are more careful in your selections for Miss Huntley.” His countenance underwent a change. «She would not care for roses, however sweet, were I to pluck them,” he said, simply. His tone was so doleful that Martha considered it a Christian act to cheer him up a trifle. «Allow me to cast in a disclaimer, sir. read her own sex infinitely better than a man can hope to do, and I do not errin averring that she would care very much indeed. Pardon me, but I am a plain-spoken old maid. Having plainly read you feelings toward that sweet girl, and knowing that you are an honorable man, and that your passion is reciprocated, 1 cannot shut my eyes, and keep my tongue between my teeth, when by dropping a few judicious words I can. make one sore heart well and free trom pain. .You accompanied Hope to the meadow with a heart as buoyant as a boy’s; you returned, ill at ease, tortured with misgivings, out of patience with yourself and the rest of creation. Hope, too, has a woeful look in her eyes sad to see. I premise, therefore, that some misunderstanding has arisen be- tween you; that you—men are always to blame, I think —have misinterpreted some word, or glance, or act of hers. Do I shock: you with my candor ?” ‘Not in the least. so gullible as to drink in for truth all. you assert. ty Huntley’s feelings toward me. indiscreet as to have told her so at this rather early day, had she not checked the confession hot on my lips.” “You were not sufficiently wary, sir. You wooed her too hastily, and if she checked you in your ayowal, it was not, believe me, that she does not bear for you a feeling warmer and sweeter than friendship, but because you were too impetuous; or some impediment, that ap- pears immovable to her, stands in the way of a union. But no more. The count is bearing down upon us in haste. Monsieur,” to the gentleman who drew near, ‘‘will you have a rose for your button-hole ?” “JT don’t care if I do—a half open bud, crimson to its very heart. How disturbed you look. Has my friend Vane been deluging you with compliments ?” “Nonsense! The heat is productive of languor, and J too—the Early Rose—and Father Graft’s favorite. You! “A passable one, l’ve no doubt,’ coolly returned Miss | rich, crimson-hearted blossoms, which sent upward a | A woman can | It is refreshing; and I wish I were | But | I’m afraid that you have not correctly translated Miss | As you surmise, I love | Hope—love her passionately—and I might have been so | am tired. You must not be so observant. If my face is red, or white, or brown—if I am pensive or gay, what is itto you? There! do stand still and let me attach this too lovely rose to your coat.” He complacently obeyed, and kept quiet as a mouse ras she fastened the rose, which he chose to term ‘‘a. fragrant gage @. amour,” to his lapel, but his_.gratifica- tion was short-lived; it vanished as she stepped back and bade him admire the effect. An ugly, deformed little bud, whose petais had not yet begun to unclose, and literally hedged in by thorns, | met his eye. He jerked it from his coat, tossed, it to the ground and | Stamped it under his foot. “What a tease you are!” he said, a trifie annoyed ; ‘and for plaguing me thus, I shall possess myself of the rose tendered you by Mr. Hunter;” and ere she could provide against the contingency,;:.he had taken the flushed rose from her unresisting hand and given it the place of the discarded one, but not without being pricked by one of its numerous thorns. ‘Ha! ha!” laughed Martha, ‘‘there’s no rose without its thorns.” “And no woman who does not like to torment man,” he returned, keeping persistently at her side. ‘What's the matter with Vane and Miss Huntley ?” ‘Nothing serious, I guess. Don’t be inquisitive. Try to cheer Hope a bit, while I go and pack the things needed for a few days’ stay at the cottage with Mrs. Northrup.” “What! are you going to Sharon with her?’ in a pleased tone. “I am delighted. I hope I shall have much of your society.” “It is hardly probable,” replied Martha, quietly, ‘‘as I go as her seamstress, and will be kept too busy stitching to indulge in frivolous talk or fashionable amusements. You are not conservative in your views, count, if you are a scion of nobility.” “Why do you go as seamstress ?” he inquired, petu- lantly, not heeding the latter clause. ‘There is no ne- cessity for it.” “Indeed there is,” snapped Martha. “I needa new frock and a new bonnet ere I return to my pupils in Troy. Ishall earn them by wielding the needle in Mrs. Northrup’s interest. If I prove as inefficient a needle- woman as you did a potato-digger,” she added, ma- liciously, ‘‘she will soon dispense with my services.” «‘As she ought to do,” irascibly retorted the count. ‘It is slavish work to sew, and a woman who can sing like a Patti has no business to use a needle, accept to attach the missing buttons to her husband’s shirts.” “Bah!” sneered Martha, ‘that’s the most ridiculous saying that ever dropped from a woman-hater’s. lips. But the appendage you mention, thank Heaven, I am not troubled with. By the way, count,” as she was about to slip past into the house,” wouldn’t you fancy another rosebud ?” “No, I shouldn’t. Beggars mustn’t be choosers, you will give me to understand if I emulate Oliver Twist and cry for ‘more.’ This exquisite bud wants no company.” He clasped his hands behind him, Napoleon-wise, and mockingly regarded her. Quick as lightning Martha’s nimble fingers seized and tore from his coat the halt- blown bud, and with the remark, “If but take what is my own, as I did not present it to you,” courtesied deep- ly and darted into the house, leaving the discomfited Son teeyn staring after her, his face dark as a thunder- cloud. Late in the afternoon Father Graft’s niece arrived—a robust, ruddy-faced woman, who assured Martha that the old couple should be well cared for during her ab- sence. When the carriage drew up at the gate, and the time had come to say good-by, Mrs. Graft took Martha aside, and dropping her voice to a whisper, said: ‘Martha, you know who the man calling himself Wal- ter Blake really is ?” “Yes,” the girl answered, promptly, “I know, It is Jerome, your son, the man to whom I plighted my trotkh, You recognized him, then ?” ; “At. once, Martha, and [ thought my heart would break when he showed So plainly that he meant to dis- own his parentage if we claimed him as our son. Could any transformation, however great, deceive the eyes of a doting mother? He is ashamed of the little red place in which he first saw light, and which, but for your kindness, Martha, in paying up the mortgage, would have? passed out; of our hands long ago; he is | ashamed of his ohy fathér and mother, who have grown , Weak And decrepit since he ranaway. My bright, once | affectionate boy! Oh, how he has changed! But I love him still; I long for him to all me ‘mother,’ as he used todo. Martha, if an opportunity presents itself, tell him so, and beg him to come and see me and his father. He need only stay a short time, and I will never trouble him more; T will not let the world know, if he wills it 80, that he is my son—the boy of whom I was once sQ proud. Beg him to come!” i “There is no danger, deat Mis: Graft; but I shali do so. 1 shall urge it upon him asa duty he cannot, dare not shirk, if he does not repent and come willingly, from a pure and loving motive; as I trust he will. He cannot {be all bad, The motliet who eared for tim in his child- hood, who nursed himi in his sickness; who ininistered letters—must still be dear to him ; the affection may be dormant, but it is there, and it will spring into life and sting him so sharply that he will gladly come ofjhis own accord and beg pardon of his parents for his undutiful and unnatural conduct. Dear Mrs. Graft, good-by.” She fervently kissed the old lady and followed the rest of the party down the walk; the three ladies entered the carriage ; the count and Vane galloped on ahead ; and the little red house was left behind. The aged couple remained on the vine-wreathed porch with hu- mid eyes and sad, sad hearts, till | | “Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, } Blossomed the loyely stars, the forget-me-nots of the | angels,” | when they repaired to the homely kitchen, where. after ; reading a chapter in the Bible, they knelt down and | Offered up a touching prayer in behalf of their erring son. ‘ | {TO BE CONTINUED.] tl Bi A ae | A SPORTING COSTUME. | | A most remarkable costume was worn by Miss Win-. | ter, daughter of an Australian editor, at a ball in Mel- | bourne, not long ago. She was dressed as ‘Sport, the | spirit of the Times.” She worea pink satin bodice, | gold cap and sash, the colors of the trotter Grace Dar- | ling. On the front and back of the waist were pictures | of other horses. One sleeve was decorated with a paint- ing of a foot-baller, the other with a lacrosse player. Portraits of various bicyclers, quoit, and billiard-play- ers, and of winning horses adorned the back and front of the skirt. On one side of the skirt were painted the Puritan and the Genesta ; on the other there was a slip- per with two gray-hounds in leash. Her fan wasa | light lawn-tennis racquet, covered with geranium satin, on which a painted scene showed ladies playing tennis and croquet. ->@—~< USING THEIR FRIENDS. Visitors take strange freaks occasionally. oq —————_———_——_ HURRAH FOR THE LIFE-BOAT ! BY BANBURY CROSS. The tempest lowers darkly around us, The red lightnings flash through the sky, Revealing the rocks that surround us, And rear their black summits on high. Huge, foam-crested breakers dash o’er us, Loud thunder-peals crash thro’ the air, But, hark! ’mid the storm-spirit’s chorus A cheer comes to check our despair. Hurrah! ’tis the life-boat! Defying The dangers of surt, wind, and wave, Her brave crew are fearlessly plying Their stout oars to succor and save ! Now poised on a billow appearing— Now lost in the trough of the sea, Yet onward—still onward careering, Our ark of salvation is she! Fling arope! See! ’tis grasped—keep her steady! God grant that each storm-beaten crew, May find in their need hands as ready, And stanch hearts as gallant and true! Hurrah for the life-boat! God guide her f Still safely thro’ whirlwind and wave! Long, long may His blessing betide her, While steering to succor and save! > ee MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. BY E. T. TAGGARD. “Oh, Missus Kennicke !” It was the chamber-maid who spoke. She had hastily entered the dining-room, broom in hand, her face as pale as that of a corpse, and, in a trembling voice, had given utterance to the above exclamation. “Gracious goodness, Bridget, what is the matter ?” in- quired Mrs. Kennicke, when she had partially recovered from the shock which Bridget’s unexpected and un- toward appearance had caused. “The third story back room, ma’am.” “Is it afire, Bridget ?” “Worse than that, ma’am.” “You don’t mean to say that burglars have——” “Oh, worse than that, ma’am.” , “You haven’t seen a ghost, Bridget, have you ?” “Worse than that. They are murderers in that room!” exclaimed Bridget, wringing her hands and casting anxious glances toward the door that led into the hall- way. ‘ “My lodgers, Mr. Clinton and wife! you are beside yourself.” “Perhaps I am, Missus Kennicke ; but just you place yourself beside me and go up stairs and listen. I was sweeping out the third story front when I heard their voices. I didn’t listen, because that would be improper, you know, ma’am; but they didn’t know I was there, and they talked loud. They’ve been doing murder, ma’am, and the police ought to be notified.” “So they shall be if I find it as you say, Bridget; but let us go up Stairs quietly and listen. What will become of my business if this should prove to be true? I won't be able to retain a lodger in the house.” Up the leng stair-way they climbed until they reached the third story, and, as noiselessly as cats intenton a foray, they entered the front room with palpitating hearts and prepared to listen. There was a door con- necting the front and back rooms, but as these rooms were then occupied by different persons, strangers to each other, it was then locked, but through it came the sound of voices from the room in the rear. “Listen, ma’am. They're still at it. Oh, if they knew we were here, perhaps they’d murder us !” “Hush, Bridget! Calm yourself.” . “Calm myself, ma’am! Indeed I will. Ill not stop an- other hour in this house, and I give you a month’s warn- ng, that effect immejetly.” rs. Kennicke could not suppress a spaile at the bull which Bridget had unconsciously perpetrated, but, nevertheless, she clung to the well-developed and mus- Why, Bridget, cular form of the chamber-maid tenaciously. “Did you hear that, ma’am? Oh, if the police were only here now !” The voices of the inmates of the back room were dis- tinctly heard, and the maid and the mistress listened to their terrible words with blanched cheeks and trem- bling limbs. “Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d And ’tis not done! The attempt, and not the deed, Confounds us. Hark!” . “Oh, let’s fly; Bridget! They said s‘Hark!’ Surely they have a suspicion that we are about, and we will be slaughtered.” “T have the broom here, and I’ll die at my post!” said Bridget, who, finding her limbs weakened as the danger increased, clung to the bed-post for support. “It's too late to fly, Bridget. They are talking again. We shall be forced to remain here. Oh, why did I come!” “T laid their daggers— He could not miss them. Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done’t. My husband! “That’s Mrs. Clinton’s voice,” whispered Mrs. Ken- nicke, in a piping voice. “T have done the deed! Didst thou not hear a noise ?” “That’s Mister Clinton !” exclaimed Bridget, while the bedstead which she clutched fairly trembled as she heard the ominous words: “Hark! who lies i’ the second chamber ?” “Ol, Bridget, what shall we do?—we’re discovered.” “Let’s jump out—out of tne winder,” suggested Brid- get. The idea, however, did not meet the approval of Mrs. Kennicke, who was never inclined to be flighty. On tiptoe they stole from the room, but not before they heard the voice of Mrs. Clinton exclaiming : “Go, get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place ? They must be there. Go, carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.” Bridget was tempted to scream from fright, and the yell was in its incipiency stified in her throat only by the vigorous tugging of her mistress, who was hurrying her on toward the stair-way. Once reached, their down- ward pace was accelerated when they heard the same voice exclaiming : : “Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures ; ’tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, Ti gild the faces of the groems withal, For it must seem their guilt.” When the dining-room was reached the two ladies threw themselves upon sofas, utterly exhausted from the dangers they had passed and the frightful discovery they had made. “It wikl ruin my business,” exclaimed Mrs. Kennicke, “to give this publicity; but my duty to my country de- mands some sacrifice at my hands.” y “And they are going to smear the grooms’ faces with blood,” exclaimed Bridget, indignantly, as she thought of the stableman over the way, who had been paying her considerable attention of late. “Go for the police, Bridget.” “Vl go for nothing of the kind, ma’am. I gave you a month’s notice that I was going to leave up Stairs, and Tm awoman of my word and l’m going.” _ “Surely, Bridget, you wouldn’t leave me alone in the house with murderers ?” pleaded Mrs. Kennicke. Thus appealed to, Bridget relented and consented to go for the police. “I never did like those Clintons, ma’am,” exclaimed Bridget, as she stood before the mirror hastily arrang- ing her hat upon her head. ‘People who stay out night after night until the wee small hours of the morn- ing never come to anything but a bad end.” ; Having thus expressed her opinion in regard to the lodgers on the third floor back, Bridget started for the station-house. It was -but two blocks distant, yet she contrived while going that distance to convey the ter- rible information with which her mind was burdened to several of her craft, whoin turn hastily conveyed it to their friends, so that when she returned with an escort of four policemen she found at least half a hundred people assembled in front of Mrs. Kennicke’s house, The presence of this concourse acted as an incentive to the officers, who thereupon drew their clubs and hur- ried into the basement of the house, except one, who remained outside to prevent any attempt at an escape. “T’m so glad you’ve come!” exclaimed Mrs. Kennicke. “TI thought I would be slaughtered before you got here. We've murderers in the house.” “Lodgers in the third story back,” said Bridget. “There’s two on ’em—a murderer and murderesses.” ‘I heard her say that she had fixed the daggers for ‘him, and then he said he had done the deed,” said Mrs. Kennicke. “And then she told him to wash the blood from his hands,” said Bridget. “Then she asked for the daggers, and I think she has hidden them under the mattress or up the chimney,” said Mrs. Kennicke. ‘And they’re goin’ to try to put it off on a poor stable- man,” said Bridget. The eyes of the officers of the law began to sparkle. They asked to be shown to the rooms occupied by the individuals in question, and thither Mrs. Kennicke and Bridget led the way, closely but noiselessly followed by the policemen. They gathered around the door and iistened intently. The voice of Mr. Clinton could be plainly heard as he exclaimed : : % Yet P’ll not shed her blood : Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, or else she'll betray more men.” “Do you hear that. He’s going to kill his wife now,” said Mrs. Kennicke. ‘Oh, gentlemen, save her!” Again he exclaimed : “One more, one more. Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee And love thee after——” ‘He's a-kissin’ of her,” said Bridget. -‘He’s afraid she might inform the police of the murder, and he’s going to kill her, And to kiss her and then kill her? Oh, the hypocrite! I give you another month’s warning, Mrs. Kennicke. J’ll leave this country in the mornin’. “Be pe will you?” said a policeman, who had ap- plied his eye to the keyhole, and was quietly taking a view of the interior of the room. “What is he doing ?” inquired his companion. “She’s laying Ancep upon the bed, and he’s got a pil- low in his hand. What in thunder is he going todo with that! Now he’s approaching the bed. Eh! he’s speaking.” ; ; “IT would not kill thy unprepared spirit ; No—Heaven forfend !—I would not kill thy soul.” “Burst the door, men!” cried the officer who had been looking through the keyhole. ‘He’s a-smotherin’ her with the pillow. Tothe rescue! Tothe rescue!” “Save her! save ee screamed Mrs. Kennicke, in a shrill key, to which dget added her stentorian lung- power. -The crowd upon the sidewalk heard its ap- palling tones, and swayed with excitement, while the officer on duty there clutched his club with a firmer grasp, and waited for a head to appear at the front door. The united power of the policemen wrenched the door from its hinges, and they rushed into the room. Mr. Clinton was roughly seized, thrown to the floor, and a pair of handcuffs slipped upon his wrists. Mrs. Clinton ran screaming to the further end of the room. ‘“‘We have saved you, Mrs. Clinton,” said Mrs. Ken- nicke, as she threw herself, hysterically, into that lady's arms. ‘‘He would have killed you.” “I would have killed her?” exclaimed Mr. Clinton, who had been permitted to get upon his feet, but who was firmly held by two stalwart officers. “It’s no use playing innocent with us,” repeated an officer. ‘‘We know all about that murder.” ‘Murder? What murder?” exclaimed Mr. Clinton. “@h, you know. About those daggers and swearing the blood on the face of a poor stableman. You better give us the whole story. It wild be better for you. in the end.’ heard me rehearsing the play of Macbeth.” “That's too thin,” replied another officer, ‘Didn’t I hear you with my own ears say you were a-goin’ to kill that lady there, and didn’t I see you with my own eyes try to smother her with a pillow ?” ‘We were rehearsing the last act of Othello, gentle- men. My wife is toact the part of Desdemona. The tact is that my benefit takes place to-night, and we were rehearsing the principal scenes of these two tragedies which are to be performed. Iam Mr. Clinton, the great tragedian, and the lady here is Mrs. Clinton, the great tragedienne. “so they are. I saw them perform last night. Let's get out of here,” said one of the officers. That night there was a lodger wanted for the third floor back. “Bridget,” exclaimed Mrs. Kennicke, when they de- scended to the \dining-room, ‘1 give you a month's no- tice. You must leave this house to-morrow morning.” — CONCERNING COMPENSATION. BY REV. H. M. GALLAHER. With what fairness nature distributes her gifts! Na- ture is merely God's method of working—the law which declares “The loud roaring loom of time I ply, ; And weave the garment God shows himself by.” Trees like the locust and ailanthus grow rapidly, but they do not live half the age of the oak or elm; for long- lived trees make their roots first. Tropical birds wear a brilliant plumage; the tints of the rainbow and the colors of the sunset are theirs ; but the voice of song belongs not to them. The tulip is a superb flower, but it is scentless as water. This is how things are made even. The soil of southern lands is so kindly that men have but to ‘tickle it with a hoe and it laughs with a har- vest.” The natives ‘toil not, nor do they spin;” the bread tree gives them food; the palm ferments its wine for them while they sleep ; they seem to have a large advantage. Not so. The ‘north is cold, but it invigorates; it is barren, but it develops plan and purpose, and it breeds no fevers or tigers. How delightful the feathers of the peacock, and how frightful the scream of the same bird. How charming the costume of the Scotch Highlanders, and how melan- choly the music of their bag-pipes. One cannot have everything; if a lady be beautiful, very beautiful, we never expect her to be very sensible. Queen Elizabeth had red hair and a hooked nose, but she was a shrewd woman; her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, was lovely as the dawn, but she was a foolish creature. = The brilliant women are the plain-faced ones. Madame De Stael, Miss Martineau, Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot—the last the homeliest, perhaps, of her sex. No wonder she shrank from sitting tor any likeness, and no wonder, again, her books exhibit little charity for mere- ly pretty women. And how many of the famous men carried vulgar or ill-formed faces; A’sop, Socrates, Dante, Michael Ange- lo, Pope, Johnson, Goldsmith, Lincoln. When Provi- dence presents us with brains, she does not think it fair to give us also a fine face and a noble form. If we abound in one direction we lack in another ; for every gain there is a loss. Nothing is given without some thing being withheld from us. Our inventions pay their toll to thislaw. Every improvement carries with it aset-back. The horse-cars carry us four or five miles for aS many cents, but we lose the needed bodily exercise. Our babies are pushed along in charming. lit- tle carriages, but the infants are notas strong, and do not learn to walk as early, aS was once the case. Cannon, revolvers, repeating rifles are invented, and rsonal prowess is eliminated. No more shall any ichard of the Lion’s Heart strike with his own hand for the right. General Moltke wears no sword. When the Boston people requested Sherman to loan them the sword he wore in his famous March to the Sea, he confessed that he had carried no such weapon; but they might have his saddle. Horatius shall no more defend the bridge, and Henry of Navarre no longer shout, “Charge where you see my white plume wave.” If you would have the hen lay, you must put up with her cackling. The best gifts of Providence are dangerous things ; and hence we speak of the fatal gift of beauty. Mig cy nature makes a genius she cuts out heavy work or him. A visitor at an insane asylum asked Robert Hall what brought him there. «What will never bring you here, sir—too much brain.” Never will there be an Abraham, with his mighty faith, without an Isaac to test it; never a Moses without an Exodus; never a Samson without Gates of Gaza and Philistine towers to destroy ; never a Job without dis- aster to try his patience ; and never a Washington with- out a revolution. Regal honors have regal cares. Nobility obliges; if you are a great man you must do great things. Men of popularity pay t¢o much of a price for their fame; the. e is not worth thie candle. Their lives are watched, their words weigh their faults magnified; a fierce light beats upon the “Hard is his lot on whom the public gaze i Is fixed forever, to detract or praise.” Nay, more; it would seem that a genius, like Prince Leopold of England, has no epidermis—is thin-skinned, as we call it. “The mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain.” The finer the nerve, the quicker and the deeper does it feel. “Doctor,” complained a lady, ‘whenever I raise my hand to my head, it pains me.” «You are a fool then to raise it.” But the genius will continue to raise it. After the mournful battle of Chancellorsville, grave people complained to Mr. Lincoin that he joked, told funny stories. “Gentlemen,” answered the much enduring man, “what would you have? [ tell them to keep trom going mad _ If there be a soul in hell that suffers more than I do, I pity it.” , Nor do rich men, who move along in a smooth-rolling prosperity, have it all their own way. For them there are new responsibilities and fresh cares. If riches in- crease, they are increased that use them. He ownsa fine house, and now the house owns him; he must furnish it and show it to me for nothing. Where there is much coin there ‘will be much care, and where there ismuch meat there will be many maladies. The old time curse, ‘‘In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,” turns out, like so many other curses, to be a blessing in disguise. All at men assure us that hard work—work with thought, and pain, and trouble in it—made them great. They went at it d ; they worked till the glow came; they “kept pegging away,” as Grant did. “Raleigh is a genius,” said Coke. ‘‘He can toil terri- bly.” And Carlyle asserts that genius is only an im- mense capacity tor taking pains. Nor must we too much complain if our life have anx- iety or even calamity in it, for itisin misfortune that men do their best. ‘Prosperity tries a man, adversity makes him.” History is filled with instances of this: In the dejection of Valley Forge Washington finds out how to succeed; in the prison-house of the Turk Kos- suth learns the lang of England, to witch us with his word-flow ; in his blindness and neglect Milton pro-. duces ‘‘Paradise Lost,” and in Bedford jail Bunyan has “Gentlemen,” said Mr. Clinton, “I see it all. You] { visions of Beulah and the Delectable Mountains, ‘‘They learned in suffering what they taught in song,” and made true the words of Goethe : “Who never ate his bread in sorrow, Who never passed the darksome hours, Waiting and watching for the morrow, He knows ye not, ye heavenly powers.” We know not what is good until we have endured evil, and cannot enjoy the sweet till we have first tasted the sour. ‘I, myself, had been happy if I had been un- fortunate in time.” Earth isa mother to weeds and a step-mother to flowers. Let-us be thankful for it; to be forced to uproot the weeds and foster the flowers is to make us men. This is the meaning of a beautiful old saying: ‘He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing recious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoic- g, bringing his sheaves with him.” >e~+ Josh Billings’ Philosophy. whit EC i JOSH'S ETTERS 1 THE GREATIST ( A 4 rgky ATER ” i y =S We or The man who iz alwus anxious tew assume a re- ee. iz either a phoolor a knave, I don’t kno which. If yu want to klime a tree, yu hav got to begin at the bottom. Az spunky people az I hav ever known hav been az ar- rant kowards. . I had mutch rather alwuss look forward tew the time when [am going to ride in a carriage, than to look bak once to the e when I used to do it. A certain amount of cerimony seems tew be necessary to run the soshul masheen with, but when pholks git so mutch cerimony on hand that they hav tew be formally introduced evéry time they meet at an evening meeting, l think that they hav wore the flesh all oph from ceri- mony. \ When I cum acrost people who are perfektly krazy for ventilashun, I say to miself, ‘that kritter was brought up in a windmill.” The majority ov the world are like rats—they live upon plunder and forsake a sinking ship. Punktuality iz one grate element ov suckcess. A watch that don’t keep korrekt time iz wuss than no watch at all. Grate powers are useful only az they are made ser- viceable—the value ova hoss depends upon hiz being well broke. Too mutch branes iz rather a hindrance than a help to a simply bizzness man. A praktikal joke iz like a fall on the ice—thare may be phun in it, but the one that falls kant alwus see it. The soundest wisdum cums from experience, but thare iz a nearer road to it almost az sure—reading and re- tiekshun. , He who reads and don’t refiekt iz like the one who eats and don’t.exercise. The best reformers the world haz ever seen are thoze who commense on themselfs. He who simply repents ov a sin pays only 80 cents on a dollar, while he who forsakes it pays one hundred. The more a person hunts for the mote in hiz brother’s eye the plainer he will diskover—it he iz a man of sense —the beam in hiz own. | le are more apt tew make a shield ov their reli- gion than they are a pruning-hook. Religion iz too often kut az the clothes are, ackording to the prevailing fashun. : “It iz eazier tew be virtewous than it iz to appear so and it pays better. ; Wicked men should pay homage tew virtew, for though they do not honor her she iz their gratest safeguard. The man who hain’t got enny religion tew defend won't defend ennything. Whi iz it that we despize the man who puts himself in our power, and are quite az apt to respekt him just in proporshun az he iz out ov our reach. >-@e@ UNCLE MEDD LE’S LETTERS. NO, 9. To Benjamin Meddle, Interested in Stocks. DEAR BROTHER BEN: You came to the right shop for information when you wrote me askin’ on what stocks to risk the money that the old farm made over an’ above expenses last year. An’ you war quite level-headed in sayin’ you wrote me ‘cause you knew I'd done somethin’ in that line my- self. Most folks that want to go into the stock market don’t take no advice except from folks that don’t know nothin’ about it—I mean, they take only their own ad- vice. Ef it-wasn’t for such fools, every broker in Wall street would be in the poor-house, or in jail, in less than six months. How doI know? Because I was one of ’em myself— one of the fools. I mean. I studied the market, as they call it, with all the brains I had, an’ I don’t mind sayin’ that I wouldn’t swap brains with*any twin man. But other feHers was studyin’ it too; they began fore 1 did, an’ they war on the ground all the time, while I war three hundred miles away. been just as bad for me. You’re sure of what property you’ve got on the farm only so long as you keep your eye on it. Even then things go wrong sometimes. , You don’t feel sure of what’s in the house unless you go round at night an’ do the lockin’ up yourself. In spite of that, you sometimes miss things. Ef you can’t be dead sure of what’s under your eye an’ under your thumb, what's the sense of reskin’ anythin’ as far away as Wall street ? Yes; I’ve had stocks, an’ I’ve got rid of °em. But I got rid of most of my money first. My brokers war as good as anybody’s. That ain’t Say- in’ much, but it’s more than most fellers can say that’s sent money to Wall street. "Twas a matter of principle with ’em, they said, not to give advice... "T'was a matter of interest too, for if they’d advised their customers ’cordin’ to what they knew, they would have hed to go out of bizness. , The «no advice” dodge is all that keeps brokers’ heads above water; the trouble about it is that it’s put everybody else’s head so far under the water that no- body comes to the top again. Ef my brokers hed given advice accordin’ to their knowledge of how things were gotn’ an’ always do go, they’d hev told me never to buy another security that I couldn’t afford to lay away an’ wait for dividends. That kind of advice would clean out Wall street in a month, so broker’s don’t give it, for brokers is all there is to Wall street. What they don’t make isn’t made by any body, an’ what they do make some else loses. Ef my brokers hed given advice accordin’ to their light, they would hev said ‘cast thy bread upon the waters and after many days thou shalt find it again,” but cast thy money in Wall street an’ some other feller will pick it up; the longer you look for it the less you'll find. They’d hev said ‘‘where the treasurer is, there will the heart be also,” therefore keep your treasure out of Wall street, or you'll find your heart in bad company. They'd have said ‘ef riches increase, set not your heart upon them,” for ef you make a pile ‘on a stock flier, you’re sure to lose it on the next turn of the mar- ket. They'd hev said ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread,” an’ nobody ever saw an angel in Wall street. ‘They'd hev said ‘‘the proof of the puddin’ is in the eatin,” but any one who waits for puddin’ in Wall street will starve to death. There’s only two kinds of fellers ever took any money out of Wall street—brokers and sharpers. You ain’t got the right style to be a broker; ef you want tobe a sharper you can find more business nearer home. I know there’s adyertisements and circulars, like you write are about, n’ what chances—‘‘puts,” an’ “calls’—can be ht for mighty little money. An’ I know if half they say is true, there wouldn’t be any need to advertise, for the brokers themselves would buy ’em an’ make the money. 4 Brokers ain’t all they ought to be, but they ain’t fools either; where there is any money to be made, they make it, an’ ef they do it with their customer's money instead of their own, they think that’s the customer’s fault—he shouldn’t hev been such a fool ez to leave his money in such.a ‘place. ; Ef you’ve got some spare cash, Ben, old boy, lend it to the poor, hopin’ to receive nothin’ again. Then you'll pmand - gone for sure, an’ you won’t have to worry about it. But if you send it to Wall street you'll be expectin’ it back. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but that’s all that happens to hope in Wall street. Ef your neighbors are too poor to borrow with a Straight face, give ’em your ‘money ; then when you get bv the kingdom of heaven you'll told what it ne. But ef after you die you want to know what good has come of any money that’s been put in Wall street, you'll have to go to a place where you'll need to carry a fan, an’ be sure it’s made of sheet-iron. Ef you can’t find any poor folks, send your money to the missionary society. Mebbe it wouldn’t make many heathen better, but it couldn’t make some civilized folks worse—I mean the brokers and you. Ef you can’t bring your mind to that, squander your spare cash in buyin’ silk dresses an’ seal-skin sacks fur your wife and darters. ‘ I know sech clothes are considered extravagant in some part of the country, but they’re what the brokers’ women folks wear. Ef you’ve got to pay for ’em, you might as well keep ’em in the family. An’ ef you can’t think of anything better, put your extra money into government bonds an’ burn ’em up. Better decrease the national debt than increase your own, which is what you're dead sure to do if you begin, no matter how small, in Wall street. ' Your loving BROTHER MEDDLE. —_—_—_—__>-9-<______ 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 fully and fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared tu render the answers to questions absolutely reliable.]} Florence E. S.—ist. March, April, May, and June, according tothe latitude in which one lives, are the months in which large additions are made to collections of plants by propa- gating new varieties, both by seeds and cuttings. Gerani- ums do not require a warm tem ture, and should be k cool at night, and ought not to be crowtled as they coats | free circulation of air through the branches and leaves; but oraueiie of air will injure them. summer, when the weather is close and hot, they require water twice a day, as the foliage will wilt and me injured if the roots get dry. They do not need the noonday sun; they are better if shaded Ef I'd been only three hundred rod away, ’twould hev from it. A book entitled “Every Woman Her Own Gardener” can _be furnished for 50 cents. If you desire it, write direct to the NEw YORK WEEELY Purchasing Agency. 2d. Tobacco smoke will generally rid you of the green fly. H. D. N., Burlington, Iowa.—The candidates for President and Vice-President in 1860 were Lincoln and Hamlin (Rep.), Breckinridge and Lane (Dem.), Bell and Everett (Conservative Union), and Douglas and Johnson (Independent Dem.) In 1864, Lincoln and.Johnson (Rep.) and McClellan and Pendle- tou Rem In 1% ene ane Omtex Vip) and et an m. rant an son . Greeley and Brown (Dem. and Liberal.) In 1876, Hage and Dem.) beley Wheeler (Rep.) and Tilden and Hendricks ( Garfield and Arthur (Rep.) and Hancock and English (Dem.) In 1884, Cleveland and Hendricks (Dem.) and Blaine and Logan (Rep.)_ The Prohibition candidates were St. John and Daniel ; the Greenback, Butler and West. Geo. C. Jr., Woods Run, Pa.—To make good black printing ink, boil one and a half gallons of clear linseed oil to the con- sistence of a thick varnish. While hot, add to it, during con- stant stirring, first six pounds of powdered resin, and next two pounds of dry brown soap shavings. Then mix in it two and a half ounces of indigo blue, two and a half ounces of Paris blue, and ¢five pounds of the best lampblack. After standing for a week it should be ground. Unless you wish fo 7 a considerable quantity, it will cost you less to uy it. 2 G. L. V., Chicago.—ist. Castor oil and brandy will generally darken the hair in time. 2d. No remedy. 3d. A weak solution — of borax and water will cleanse the scalp. 4th. A fine remedy for a sprain or bruise is wormwood boiled in vinegar, and a plied hot, with enough cloths wrapped round to keep the sprain moist. Another remedy is arnica.. Saturate a firm bandage with it, which will i ey art. Arnica liniment is for allinjuries. To make this, add to one pint of sweet oil, two tablespoonfuls of the tincture of arnica. W. H. G., Lewiston.—ist. It is always best to obtain the parents’ sanction to an engagement of marriage. 2d. The engagement-ring is generally worn on the forefinger of the left hand; the wedding-ring on the third finger. 3d. Of course it is only a superstition which associates with each month in the year its characteristic gem; but according to the belief of Eastern nations, to February belones the ame. thyst, and one born in that month should wear this stone as a preservative against various passions and vices. English Violet.—1st. We advise you to let the superfluous hair alone. It cannot be removed without injury to the skin: Besides, if removed, it will grow again, and be thicker and coarser than before. 2d. The command of Joshua, “Sun, stand thou still,” etc., was used in accommodation to the astronomical opinions that then prevailed. 3d. We have never seen any enumeration of them. 4th. A relative pro- noun indicates or expresses relation, or refers to an antece- dent. 5th. See any 1 geography. Chas. T. N., Memphis, Mo.—Dynamite is finely pulverized silex, or silicious ashes, or infusorial earth (most frequently the last) saturated with about three times its weight of nitro- lycerine, and constituting amass resembling damp Graham flour. An iopresenens on dynamite has been p it is a compound containing 8& instead of 75 per cent. of ni’ Sse instead of infusorial earth : chemically ran pared substance, gre: absorbi ¥ a capable of camiplate Comnbnatt combustion. Sarr ar New Jerseyman.—Governer’s Island, which is situated in the upper bay of New York Harbor, is the headquarters of the Military Department of the Atlantic. It contains nearly six- ty-five acres, has a circumference of about a mile, and in general contour is somewhat , itis reached by a small steamer hourly from the f Rizie, Lynn, Mass.—ist. Hat bands with monograms worked on them are the most popular. 2d. Spirits of am- monia will remove grease ts from any fabric. Use the Spo’ ammonia nearly pure, and then lay white blottin the spot and iron it lightly. € paper over ' Hannah, Victoria, Texas.—ist. Castor oil and brandy will prevent the hair from falling out, if anything will. 2d. No immediate remedy for generat redness of the face. Trust to time to rid your complexion of its bloom, the loss of which you will then deplore. i Sincere Admirer, Bay Shore.—‘‘Marco Polo’s Travels” will cost 75 cents. Send the price named to the New YoRK WEEK- Ly Purchasing Agency, which was established for the benefit of our subscribers, and it will be promptly forwarded to you. J. G., Benson.—Iist. Our advice to your two young friends is to stay where they are for the present. They will not bet- ter their condition by wandering over strange lands. 2d. Apply in person or by letter to some one in the trade. Y. L. C., Springfield, Mass.—The number of electoral votes Grant received for President in 1868 was 214. In 1872 the — was 286. In 1868 Grant carried 2% States; in 1872, 31 E. F. H., Atlanta, Ga.—A book entitled “The Painter, Gilder, and Varibnen’s Campanson” t ibly suit you. It treats of polishing, waxing, etc. ‘ice $1.50. Charlie.—A good watch of the kind described can be fur- nished for $5._If you desire one, write direct to the NEw YORE WEEKLY Agency. J. M. C., Philadelphia.—“Brownie’s Triumph” and “The Forsaken Bride,” by Georgie Sheldon, are both in book- form. Price $1.50 each. E. M. G., New Orleans.—ist. “Smith’s Dlustrated Astrono- my” will cost $1.50. 2d. Saturn, if we understand your ques- tion aright. C. J. F., Boston.—An advertisement in one of the daily papers of this city would perhaps elicit the desired infor- mation. ‘ G., Guadaloupe, Cal_—We can find no copper coin given which corresponds with the one you des- Square, one of the noted of this city, has an area of Souk awe anit eae Henry F. of the date cribe. B. C., Boston, Mass.—Union lic parks acres, Ivan Orlof.—The inauguration of the railroad between St. Petersburg and Moscow, in Russia, took place on Sept. 1, 1851. L. M. J. O., Sherman, Ohio.—To prevent pi by small- pox, paint the face once or twice sauy with Set Laura Albrig. Quitm. Mo.—No reci that. we can recommend to moe superfluous hair. ‘Let it alone. O.'M. B., Atlanta, Ga., and A Constant Reader, Brantford.— Business addresses are not given in this department. > Grit, Mantanzas, N. Y.—Aname may be changed by act of the Legislature, for good and sufficient reasons. ~ i Tonawanda., Buffalo.—The would depend ability. Seek a situation in wren vicinity. een Sizxty-Siz.—President Polk vetoed the French Spoliation Indemnity bill on Aug. 8, 1846. F. A, W., Orange, N. J.—A wig of the kind described can be furnished for $1.50. Nemo, No One.—We know nothing of the preparation to which you refer. A., Brooklyn, N. Y.—We are unable. to give the address re- quested. T. Y. B., Wilkes Barre.—There are no public schools for the purpose. sag W. J., Grenola, Kans.—The papers will cost twelve cents. A : Vulean, Chelsea, Mass.—No personal knowledge of it. L. S. T.—March 14, 1823, fell on Friday. R. G. 8. C., Boston.—No. Stabe wie “ VOL. 41—No, 22. ———_—_—_—__——S__. THANKFUL FOR ALL. BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH. When spring comes forth with sunny face And sets the brooklets free, And in their joy sweet songsters grace Again each budding tree, Flora’s handmaids everywhere Their od’rous tributes fling, And health comes to us in the air, I thank God for the spring. When summer comes with brow aglow And breathes upon the scene, And all the hills and vales below Are dressed in living green, And countless heaps of golden grain Are smiling o’er the sod, And herds unnumbered tread the plain, For summer I thank God. When autumn comes with chilling breath And touches all around, And bright fiowers wither and taste ot death, And scorched leaves seek the ground, And birds depart, and ‘“‘Harvest Home” Rings.out from 1} and small, And bright fires blaze and revels come, I God for the fall. When winter comes with angry look, And from the frozen‘north Summons her clans to seal each brook And drive each comfort forth, And in her chariot of snow Rides fiercely o'er the sod, Speaking the while of wreck and woe, For winter I thank God. So with life's seasons as they roll, Whatever hap may come To sadden or refresh my soul, I take the total sum. Whate’er my daily walk attends, My motto still shall be, Yhe guerdon which the Father sends Is good enough for me. ‘ J thank my loving, gracious God For everything He sends— For boun eous gifts and chastening rod, For enemies and friends. In health or sickness. storm or calm— Whatever may befall— The sure outcome is healing balm, And [ bless God for all. [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] . Princess Alexandra; THE KEY OF IRON. By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE, AUTHOR OF “A LOST LIFE,” “THE BROTHER’S SECRET,” “RAMON THE OUTLAW,” Etc. (“Tue PRINCESS ALEXANDRA” was commenced in No. 20. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER VIL THE LOVE-LETTER, : Time wore on, and Beltikoff plumed himself on the success of his strategy. He visited the princess almost daily, and was received by her in such a way that he doubted. not that he was making rapid progress in her affections, an error in which he was confirmed by the assurances of the wily Bohemian. The Russian officer had passed his life in camps and on the battle-field, and being quite unfamiliar with re- fined female society, readily mistook the false coin of courtesy for the sterling metal of sincerity. He did not see that the princess was acting a part when she listened smilingly to his tedious campaign stories, when she seemed to take such an interest in all the details of his daily life, when she expressed such admiration for his favorite charger, and patted its neck and stroked its un- 1t cost the princess cruel anguish to act this part to- ward her aged admirer. She was by nature frank and fearless, accustomed to give instant expression to her thoughts, even in defiance of the usages of society. Hitherto her tongue had been an arrow inflicting mor- tal wounds. But it was this well-known trait—this frankness in her character which deceived Beltikoff. If the princess always spoke her mind, her present unusual ntleness tow: him was positive proof that she was Sis to accept his suit. it is hardly necessary to add that the unworthy part now assumed by the princess was adopted solely in the interest of Ivan, who was, to all intents and purposes, this man’s slave, and to keep the master in good humor was to assure treatment for the unfortunate sol- dier. Hence the proud beauty stooped to use the arts of the uette. Beltikoff seemed in no hurry to propose for her hand, n and the princess thought that by good management she could maintain their present relations for an indefinite period, adjourning to a far future day the positive de- Claration of his sentiments. When this declaration came she would affect astonishment at discovering that the colonel’s sentiments were warmer than those of friendship, and refuse his hand, civilly, but decidedly. - $She did not know that every time Beltikoff came to see her he had made up his mind beforehand to declare love. But at every visit his courage failed him. man, who had ridden over the French guns at Bo- ~ yodino as coolly as it he was leaping a pile of logs ina forest path, felt his heart sink before the calm blue eye of a girl young enough to be his daughter. Meanwhile he had dismissed all fear of the rivalry of Ivan. The princess was so gay that it was clear she had no sorrow of the heart. As for the young soldier, he had assed into the torpid state of resignation to the inev- ‘itable; and it was evident—at least, so thought the astute colonel—that he.was forgetting his former state, and the hopes and associations connected with it. Hence, instead of treating him with severity, he relaxed the reins of discipline in his behalf. He even made some advances toward securing his friendship. He used to send for him to his tent, and though he addressed him any and coldly in the presence of his orderly, yet when they were alone he would offer him a seat, ress him to drink wine, to accept a cigar, and to make mself at home. «What the duse is the use of being cast down, my boy ?” he would say. ‘‘The wheel of fortune is always turning. Who knows what the next revolution may bring about for you? Here at my table you can forget your troubles for awhile, and fancy yourself once more an officer of cadets.” “That was long a said Ivan, gloomily; ‘‘and I have forgotten all about it.” “And about that other affair ?” asked the colonel, cun- ningly. hat other affair ?” inquired Ivan, coldly. “The affair of the heart—your romantic attachment for the Princess Alexandra ? This allusion: was like the application of a red-hot iron to a bleeding wound; but Ivan never winced. “What is the Princess Alexandra to me now?” he asked, coldly. ‘I tell you, colonel, all those people I knew in the days of my prosperity are like phantoms to me now; I hear their names, but they revive no images in my Se ee are the shadowy beings of another world. “Decidedly,” thought the colonel, ‘‘this fellow is a stock—a stone; he isn’ta man. But so much the better. You are not going ?” he asked aloud. “with your permission, colonel; 1 am out of place ere.” - “Always welcome, my good fellow. But your wine is untasted. Perhaps you have got to prefer vodki ?” “My drink is water,” said the soldier, and giving the colonel the military salute, he retired to the barracks. He never broke bread, tasted salt, or pledged the colonel in his wine-cup at his quarters._ “He shall never have it to say, when the day of reck- oning comes,” thought the soldier, “that I partook of his hospitality, and then raised my hand against him.” Hitherto a severe and almost Spartan simplicity had characterized the colonel’s quarters. He had as few luxuries about him as he would have carried into a cam- peep. But now there was a change, and though his urniture was not replaced throughout he-ordered ar- ticles that he never dreamed of in his youth—a full- length mirror and -case With all the modern ea e laid aside his dog-skin gauntlets, and forced his hands into gloves supplied by Bertin, of Paris. His French boots tortured him, but he endured the anguish as a martyr does the rack. He even made preparations for changing his grizzled locks and thick mustache to an intense black, or rather that imperial purple which the venders of cosmetics swear is black, muttering to himself with humor—Dulce et decorum est pro patri mori—‘it is sweet and fitting to dye for one’s “country.” Fortunately his sober second thought, which represented to his mind the ridicule that would be visited on him if he retired one night with the gray head he had night black locks, prevented his committing this colossal erro r. : He had follies enough to answer for without that. For instance, he spent an hour before his glass practicing the graces, before he made a visit to the princess. Once his orderly detected him in practicing a waltz step. He was a little thick-headed, this good colonel, so he used to write out fine speeches and compliments, learn them by heart, and repeat them to the princess. Un- luckily none of them were original, but stolen bodily from nch romances, so that Alexandra could not fail to detect the theft. As French is the only language used in polite society in Russia, the colonel spoke it fluently enough, but he had picked it up in the camp, not the court, so his French was very inelegant, even coarse. Now, after repeatedly trying to screw up his courage sufficiently to make a verbal declaration, and finding it impossible, Colonel Beltikoff decided to commit the im- portant secret to paper. But here arose an enormous difficulty. He could not write a grammatical and eloquent love-letter in French to save his soul. It was absolutely necessary to employ amamanuensis and a confidant. Whom sheuld he employ? Whom but Ivan Orloff? He had y, in making out his military reports, frequently availed himself of the skillful pen of Orloff. He now decided to employ it in this most delicate of all compositions. He See, sent for the soldier to his quarters, shook hands with him when they were alone, and made him take a seat. “Tvan,” said he, ‘‘you will admit that I have not treated yon Sees since you have been assigned to my com- m: ” aoe have shown me not only forbearance, but favor, colonel.” “IT have only been inflexible on one point—that is, keeping ay within the limits of the camp—but that was for your best good. You might have sought to renew relations with certain persons, the sight of whom would. nere retarded your mental cure—you understand me, van.” “Perfectly.” “You remember the Princess Alexandra ?” “TJ remember that Prince Menzikoff has a daughter who is named Alexandra,” replied Ivan, with perfect calmness. we joked you recently about your supposed attachment er.’ ‘ “That was a dream of the past,” replied Ivan. ‘It is gone—with other illusions.” “Verv good,” said the colonel. “Now, Ivan, my friend, Ihave a secret to tell you, and a favor to ask of you. Forget, for the time being, that Iam your commander, remember only that I am a man like yourself, a com- rade, if you will.” “T await your commands, colonel,” replied Ivan, cold- “T am,” said the colonel, shyly, ‘in love with the Princess Alexandra.” : Tvan bowed his head. “Since you have been in camp,” continued the colonel, “T have seen her almost daily.” Ivan sat silent. “And,” pursued the colonel, ‘‘the warmth with which she has welcomed me has convinced me that—in short— that I am not indifferent to-her.” *«‘Why should you be ?” asked Ivan. “Why, my dear fellow, there are reasons why I should not find favor in the eyes of a beautiful young lady. In the first place, my years are against me, and then, he- tween you and me, I never was an Adonis, and this ugly scar added to my wrinkles has not increased my stock of attractions.” “What of that?” said Ivan. ‘‘Do we not see every day young and beautiful women marrying men as old and ugly as you are? For one woman who gives her- self away there are twenty who sell themselves—some for gold and diamonds—others for rank and title—others n for political influence. Talk of the slave ba- zaar at eee cae hue and cry against it is the sheerest hypocrisy! Society is one vast slave mart, Only here the women sell themselves.” «You are bitter. ‘You seem to intimate that I am pur- chasing the hand of the princess, and that she will mar- ry me, not for love but for some ulterior purpose.” “You.-are the friend of the czar, and on the high round to fortune. The princess is ambitious, and her father out of favor. Imerely make this suggestion. She may love you, there is no accounting for a woman’s taste.” /. BEFORE SHE MADE AN EFFORT TO RESTORE HER MISTRESS, F ZAYDA READ EVERY WORD OF THE LETTER. Bitterly unpalatable as were some of the innuendoes and suggestions thrown out by the soidier now his tongue has loosened and he had yielded to momentary excite- ment, the colonel swallowed them all, without anger and without retort. “Tvan,” he said, after a pause. ‘I have confided to you my secret, because I require your aid. You area man of honor and ability—a nobleman and gentleman. Help me in my need, and s make me your friend for life. There is nothing 1 will not do for you.” “And what is the great help you seek at my hands, colonel ?” ; “Simply to write a letter in French, at my dictation, addressed to the princess.” ; “A love-letter to the Princess Menzikoff ?” answered Ivan. ‘Is that all? why not ?” : Beltikoff had anticipated hesitation or remonstrance; but Ivan had received the proposition as a matter of course. So much the better. The soldier and the colonel seated themselves at the table, and the former took up his pen. Not a nerve in his body trembled, yet what a tumult of internal agita- tion shook his soul. The colonel dictated in Russian, Ivan rendered his sentiments into elegant French. When he had com- pleted his task he read the letter to his superior, who, though he could not have composed it himself, knew that it was well done. “Thanks, Ivan,” said he. ‘Now copy it off in your best hand,” he added, ‘‘on this blank sheet of paper to which I have already affixed my signature, then put it in an envelope and addressit, I will leave you by your- self to work undisturbed.” He retired from the room. He had thrown temptation in the path of Orloff and the young soldier yielded to it. Hitherto Ivan had no means of addressing the prin- cess; now the ee was in his hands. It was aera! but in love asin war, all stratagems are al- owable, He faithfully copied, over the signature of Beltikoff, every word of the rough draft he had prepared; but he added a few lines in his own name. Then he folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, addressed it, and affixed the colonel’s seal. He had just completed his work when Beltikoff returned, and Ivan handed him the letter ready for delivery. “Why, you have sealed it!” said the colonel. ‘‘I wanted to see how it looked fairly copied out.” . - “Well, sir,” said the soldier, ‘it is only breaking the seal and preparing another envelope.” Dee the colonel’s answer with trembling anxiety. “No, no,” said Beltikoff; “I don’t want a moment's delay in this affair. Besides, the impression of the seal is so beautiful it would be a pity to destroy it.” He summoned his orderly, and commanded him to deliver the letter without a moment’s delay. Ivan breathed freer. When the messenger was gone, the colonel approached Orloff and offered him his hand. “If the answer is favorable,” he said, ‘you have made me your friend for life.” - ‘Reserve your thanks, colonel,” replied the soldier, without accepting the colonel’s hand, ‘‘till you receive the answer.” $ He saluted gravely, and withdrew to his quarters. CHAPTER VIII. THE MEETING. The Princess Alexandra sat in her boudoir, with the colonel’ letter open in her. hand. It had come, then, the dreaded declaration, and she was compélied to meet it. Shedid not at first notice Ivan’s postscript, but she had sooner read that than the color faded from her lips, and, uttering a low moan, she fell back on her divan insénsible. Zayda was present, but before she made an effort to restore her mistress to consciousness, she took up the letter which had dropped from the princess’ hand on the floor and read every word of it. Then she let the paper fall again, and applied the usual restoratives em- are in a case of fainting. 4 yhen the princess came to herself, her first thoughts reverted to the fatal letter. She caught it up and hid it in the corsage of her dress. “Thanks, Zayda,” she said to her handmaiden. ‘I am quite well now; you can leave me.” worn for twenty years emerge the next day with | The Bohemian was craving to go, and eagerly obeyed the order. : : z - «