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FOR ANOTHER’S SIN; or, THE BRIDE'S CONQUEST,”

by Bertha M. Clay, on the Sixth Page.

 

 

Wntered According to Act of Conoaress. in the Year 1886. bu Street & Smith. in

the Office of the Librarian or _ Conaress. Washinaton. D.

 

C ———#nterea at the Post Office New York. as Second Olass Matter

 

 

 

Office 31
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

Rose St.

- New York, April 24, 1886,

‘ Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

s <e T

 

 

 

HAWKSHAW HAD APPROACHED ROBERT BRIERLY

THE TICKET-OF-LEAVE MAN,

WRITTEN FROM TOM TAYLOR’S FAMOUS PLAY.

By LEANDER P. RICHARDSON,
AUTHOR OF

‘No Slouch,” ‘Wild Bill Stories,” ‘*The Road Agents,” ‘*Captain Kate, ‘* Sycamore
Dan,” **Frontier Sketches,” Ete.

CHAPTER I.
THE BELLEVUE GARDENS.

Near the outskirts of the great city of London there
may be seen to this day a building whose worn and
faded front is ornamented by sundry gas-lamps of the
variety ordinarily employed in lighting the entrance to
places of amusement. Such, indeed, itis. The place is
called the Bellevue Gardens, and is still-the nightly re-
sort of large numbers of the lower classes.

But the day of its glory has passed. Years ago the
spaces between its surrounding walls were always
densely packed from the hour darkness came on until
the first faint streaks of dawn announced the coming of
anew day. The people whofrequented it were, to a great
extent, flashy young men and their equally flashy female
acquaintances, all kinds of ‘‘shoddy” persons, gamblers,
strangers seeing the sights of the city, and here and
there a burglar or other adventurer, ready for almost

anything which promised to bringin money without a
corresponding amount of honest work.

The “gardens” contain, besides an open and roofless
space where tables are placed among the trees, a num-
ber of private supper-rooms, a large apartment where
some kind of so-called entertainment is always in pro-
gress, and a bar-room. Busy waiters supply liquors and
cigars to all who wish them, in any part of the building.

In this resort, one early summer evening, eight or
nine years ago, two men were sitting at a table in the
open air, engaged in low conversation. They were very
ordinary looking eae and would have passed readily
for well-to-do mechanics oust on a lark. Butif you were to
Stand back in the shade and watch them closely, you

 

could scarcely fail to note that their business in the |

Bellevue Gardens included something besides merely

ae hats, seemed to take in every movement about
em.
stranger came in without falling under that absorbing
watchfulness of theirs, which almost seemed to read the
thoughts of men.

Business was lively in the gardens. The waiters
rushed here and there filling orders; the proprietor
danced about from one table to the other seeing th

 

guests were well cared for, and everything was bustle
and confusion. But the two watehful men with broad
hats talked, looked on, and waited.

Presently a third person sauntered carelessly in. He
was a tall man, clad in a tweed suit, and as he walked
puffed lazily at acigar. Upon his hand flashed a dia-
mond; in his shirt-front another. He switched the
ground pny with alight cane which he carried
in his hand. Apparently he was a stranger in the place,
for no one came forward to meet him. But as he strolled
unconcernedly by the table at which the two men sat,
he uttered, ina low tone, without. seeming to observe
them, the single word :

“Report.”

Neither of the two betrayed the slightest knowledge
of his presence. But one, as if talking to his companion,
said, in the same suppressed voice :

‘All goes well. The game has not yet arrived.”

The stranger had stopped, and now stood lookin
into the trees. apparently lost in thought.
ones his attitude he observed :

“Old Moss is just coming in.
door. Keep an eye on him.”

Saying which, he walked slowly away, not showing by
the slightest glance or sign of recognition his acquaint-
ance with the others. As he passed out toward the bar-
room, a little old man with a bowed figure came in and
seated himself at a table near the one occupied by the
men we have already described.

He was an exceedingly dried-up-looking little man,
and he had an excessively large red nose. The few gray
hairs which straggled from beneath his. square-crowned
hat curled like rusty corkscrews, and the little bead-like
eyes which peered from their deeply sunken sockets
glittered like brightly burnished steel. His figure was
clad in a threadbare brown overcoat which reached to
the kneés. Beneath that garment there appeared a
shabby pair of pantaloons which had once been black,
and a pair of shoes where patches took up more space
than the original leather. Plainly, he was a Jew of the

up
Without

I passed him at the

| lowest type.
seeking for pleasure. Their active and keen eyes, glanc- |
ing from side to side beneath the shadows of their broad-

No guest passed by their table unnoticed; no |

“Ah, Chames!” he said to the waiter, with an accent
that betrayed his lineage. ‘Good efening, Chames.
Pring me a leetle prandy, if you please.”

Then, as ‘‘Chames” started away on his errand, the
little old man looked cautiously about him, as though
expecting to catch sight of somebody he knew. The two
watchful men still sat at their table, to all appearance
lost in conversation, and the little old man took no no-
tice of them. Not seeing the face he was hunting for,

1at his he uttered a slight exclamation of impatience.

 

AND PLACED A HAND HEAVILY UPON HIS SHOULDER.

_

“Pah! Tiger not-here yet! Heis getting lazy, dat
Tiger is.”

The brandy made its appearance at this juncture, and
the little old man began to sip it slowly.

“Ah!” he said, softly, as if thinking aloud, ‘‘warm and
comfortable is dat prandy.} But where is Tiger? He
ought to be here before dis

Then, taking up the spoon with which he had stirred
his liquor, he continued, musingly :

‘Uncommon neat article, dis. It might dake in a
= ioe people, but it don’t sell me. It's plated—
plated.”

As he fingered the implement nervously he failed to
notice the approach of still another stranger. But just
as the last sentence fell from his lips he was attracted
by the words of this person close beside his ear.

“So,” said the stranger, coolly,‘it ain’t worth pocket-
ing, eh, old man ?”

CHAPTER II.
A PRECIOUS PAIR,

Melter Moss started as if he had received a blow, and
turned so as to face the stranger.

“Bh ?” he exclaimed, uneasily.
me, sir ?” }

“Yes, I spoke to you,” replied the new-comer, with an
adroit imitation of the old man’s whining tones. “So
you don’t twig me? Then I must be well gotten up, or

couldn’t have baffled those spy eyes of yours, Melter,
my boy. Doyou know me Ww ?”

“As L live, it’s Tiger!”

“Stow that, you old fool
Do you want to get me nab#e

This was said in an authoritative undertone, the
meaning of which could not be mistaken. The speaker
continued, aloud:

“My name’s Downey—John Downey, from Rotherham.
Dealer in general merchanGiSe.”

“Vy, Mister Downey, how do you do?
knew de face.”

The two shook hands earnestly, asif they had been
old acquaintances meeting for the first time atter a pro-
longed separation. Indeed, so cunningly did they sim-
ulate reality that the wary and keen-sighted watchers
at another table, who had been regarding them sus-
piciously, rose and walked away, conversing in low
tones.

“Here, waiter!” called Downey, as soon as the others
had passed out of ear-shot. “My good friend Mr.
Moss, here, insists upon celebrating our meeting by
treating to a bottle of sherry.” ;

“A bottle of sherry !” cried the old Jew, aghast at the
thought. “Oh. no. Dere vas a mistake.”

“What! You will make it champagne? Oh, well, if
you insist, why it’s all one to me. like it dry, mind
you,” he continued, turaing to the waiter. ‘And I
don’t Want any of your home-made stuff. When I’m in
need of rhubarb-juice, I buy it at a grocery store.”

The attendant moved away to execute the order, and
Moss groaned aloud. The thought of spending money
in that reckless and frivolous manner was galling to his
avaricious soul.

“Come, Ti—I mean Mr. Downey,” he whined. “A
joke vas a joke. But a potile of real champagne at ten-
and-six——”

“That's serious, eh?” interrupted the other, with a
shrug of his broad shoulders. Well, I’ve taken a se-
rious turn. I always do when its low tide in my
pockets.”

“Did you speak to

  
 
  

There’s no ‘Tigers’ here.
qo”

I thought I

“Kh? So you're in badJluck ?”
“Yes,[ am. The peelers are getting to know too
much, Then there's the Nailer—he’s been after me.”

“What, Hawkshaw ?
de force.”

“T know it; and he’s sworn to be even with me fur
smashing his partner’s skull. This is a tidy swizzle,”
pce Mr. Downey, tossing off-his champagne at a
sup.

V¥he’s de cutest detective on

 

ry SX =

ane

=

A

Ss AS
(Zh

Pete ¥
eS NOT In use VOU Eaa

\\ fe iN
YIN
\ RAN we
\ \ \ ‘ 9)

eae A : ”
“WHAT! WOULD YOU HARM A WOMAN!

“And so you’re keeping dark?” put in Moss, witha
wry face at the thought that he should have to pay for
the «‘tidy swizzle.” Then he continued: ‘But nobody

| would suspect you. Vy, I didn’t know you myself.”

The man to whom he was talking might easily have
passed for a respectable country merchant. He was
clothed in eomfortable garments, and carried himself
with a certain air which seemed to say, ‘‘Look at me. I
am well-to-do.” His face was expressionless and rather
repellent, and his eyes were cold and decidedly lacking
| in everything that could inspire trust. His square, de-
, termined-looking jaws were wont to come together with
|; an Ominous snap that was suggestive of a powerful
| will. And his figure was evidently as powertul as his!will.
| Although outwardly he appeared as we have described,
| he was in reality a far different sort of person from what
| his looks indicated. Stripped of his disguise and clothed
| in his ordinary habiliments, this respectable country
|

 

merchant was known all over Great Britain. The police

hated him; bankers feared his approach ; and all man-
| ner of criminals looked upon him with a kind of rever-
| ential awe. Although Jem Dalton (for ‘Jdvuhn Downey,
from Rotherham, dealer in general merchandise,” and
| Jem Dalton were one and the same person) had partici-
yated in a score of the most daring robberies on record,
| he had never yet been convicted, or even arrested. The
British government had offered a large standing reward

for his capture, but even this additional incentive failed
to make the police more successful in their search.
Several attempts to effect his capture came near achiev-
ing success; but upon each of these occasions he showed
that he was not only daring but dangerous, and numer-
ous members of the police force ‘received trom him
marks they would carry to their graves. One brave offi-
|cer he had killed outright, and it was for this crime
Hawkshaw, the greatest detective in England, bad
sworn to hunt him down.

But let us return at once to the table in Bellevue Gar-
dens, where Dalton and Melter Moss are talking over
their business.
ie “And so, Ti—1 mean Mister Downey—you are keeping

ark ?”

“Yes; rambling about on the sly, doing what I can in
the way of business whenever I get the chance. But
Hawkshaw is too hard on me. He follows me up too
close, although I’ve never seen him yet, to know him.
Why, it’s getting impossible to pick up a decent liveli-
hood, and, hang me, if 1 haven’t often thought of turn-
ing respectable !”

The old man rolled up his eyes with an expression of
horror, and then leaning forward, while his glance
moved cautiously about the place, he whispered ;

“No, no; it ain’t.so pad as dat yet. My poy, I’ve got
de peautifulest lot of Bank of England ‘flimsies’ dat ever
came out of Birmingham. It’s de prettiest counterfeit,
paper you ever saw, and I]’ll let you have it cheap—so
cheap what never was. Andl’ll give you credit for it
till you’ve planted it,” he added, by way of a clincher.

“But,” objected Dalton, coolly, “how about the risk ?
If I’m nailed, it’s transportation for life.”

“Vy, pless you, my tear poy, I vouldn’t have you
chance it yourself. But in de high society you keep,
you could surely pick up a flat to put off de paper.”

Dalton thought a moment in silence. Then, bringing
his hand down heavily upon the table, he exclaimed :

“T've the very man. And as luck will have it, 1 made
an appointment with him to meet me here this even-
ing.”

“Did you though. Vell now look at dat. How nicely
things do come about. Who is he ?”

«4 Lancashire lad; an only son, he tells me. The old
tolks spoiled him while they lived, left him a few hun-
dred pounds when they died, and now he’s got his legs
over the shafts, kicking about in high fashion. He’s
seeing life for the first time—and life in London is not to
be seen without paying for the privilege, you know.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” croakei the old wretch, rubbing his
hands together softly. ‘‘Andso you’re showing him de
sights ?”

 

 

 

**T ARREST YOU IN THE QUEEN’S NAME.”

“Oh, fm putting him up to a thing or two,” replied
Dalton; carelessly. But he added in a less reckless
tone: ‘Yes, I’m showing him the shortest road to ruin
and the bottom of his purse.”

“Peautiful! Peautiful. I say, why not work him in
partnership, eh ?”

“Thank you, Melter. I know what your partnerships
mean—all the kicks for me, and all the profits for you!
Oh, no, Melter Moss, I’m not as green as that.
can work him to plant a lot of these flimsies of yours, I
don’t mind. S-sh! I hear him coming. Get away from
here before he sees you.”

And Jem Dalton, alias John Downey, settled himself
carelessly back in his chair, just as a strong voice, a
trifle tinged with provincial dialect, was heard outside.

 

CHAPTER III.
ROBERT BRIERLY.

The voice to which Jem Dalton alluded was indeed
that of Robert Brierly, the Lancashire lad. The outlaw
had scarcely time to assume a position which indicated
an interest in the paper he was pretending to read,
when the young man entered, closely followed by a
waiter bearing a tray upon which were a bottle of wine
and a bunch of cigars.

“Robert Brierly was rather a tall young fellow, well
but flashily dressed, and good looking. But at present
his cheek was colorless, hiseyes dull, and his general
appearance rather haggard. Every feature about him
showed the effects of a prolonged debauch, Liquor, late
hours, and every kind of dissipation had begun to tell
upon his naturally robust frame. The insidious foe was
leaving its marks upon him beyond all mistake. This
was the first result of ‘‘seeing life’—that terrible evil
which leads so many men to destruction and death, who
otherwise might be the brightest ornaments of society.

When the young man had approached within a few
feet of the table at which Jem Dalton was sitting, that
worthy looked up with a well assumed start of pleased
surprise, and ejaculated, cordially :

“Ah, Bob, it’s you! Up to time, as usual, I see.”

Brierly’s face lighted up for an instant, and then re-
laxed into its former listless expression.

“Ay,” he replied, with a faint attempt at his accus-
tomed dashing manner. ‘‘Nobody shall say Bob Brierly
broke faith—not while he can keep it going. Ah!” he
continued, as he drained off a glass of foaming wine,
“that’s the stuff. It puts new life into a man. Why,
I’ve lived on it for the past two weeks.”

‘Take care Bob, or we shall have you in the doctor’s
hands,” replied his companion, with a warning glance.

“Nay,” ejaculated Bob, heartily, “I’m as game as a
buck, and as stanch as an oak,”

But his words were belied by evidence that could not
be refuted; for as he poured the dangerous poison from
the bottle into his false friend's glass, his hand trembled
painfully.

“Come, come!” cried Dalton, ‘“‘you’re getting shaky,
Master Bob. This won’t do!”

Robert Brierly sank feebly back in his chair, and al-
most sobbed aloud, This terrible enervation, so new to
him, was alarming.

“It’s all from waking out of every sleep,” he mur-
mured, ina voice that was broken and husky. ‘If I
could only sleep—if I could only sleep! Oh, man, can’t
you help a lad to get a good night's rest? I used to
sleep like a top, down at my country home. But in this
great city, since I’ve been enjoying myself seeing life,”—
he passed his hand vaguely across his forehead—‘‘I don’t
know—I can't tell how it is, but 1 get norest. Orif Ido,
it’s worse than none, for throughit all, I see great black
things crawling all about me, on every side.”

He paused a moment, and thea, looking at Dalton with
a world of earnestness, he asked :

“Do you know how a chap feels when he’s going
mad ?”

The man whose guiding hand had wrought this terri-
ble ruin smiled complacently.

But if 1.

 

 

 
     

 

 

 

«<<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

  

- VOL. 41—No, 25,

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

“Well, no, Bob—can’t say
symptoms of det. trem,, jim-jams, or whatever you call
‘em, pretty well. Now, then, my lad, ’l be your doctor.
And first and foremost, I’ll prescribe a hot biscuit, with
butter and cayenne pepper. Here! waiter!” he added,
“take this order.” Then, after a moment, turning to
Bob, he asked, carelessly, ‘‘How are you off for cash ?”

“Oleaned out. I’ve written to the lawyer chap that’s
got all my property to manage, for more brass.” :

“Never mind, my lad. You must bank with me till
the money gets here. Why,Id be delighted to lend
you a sovereign—five—ten—as many as you want.”

“Would you, though ?” That’s right friendly of you.
Here’s luck, then, and sink the expense !”

“Ha!” the robber was thinking to himself. ‘If I had
a few of that old Jew’s ‘flimsies’ now, here’s a chance to
plant ’erm,” ,

He noticed that Brierly’s head had fallen upon his
hand, and that the dejected young fellow had dropped
into a fit of abstraction. Looking cautiously around the
garden, his watchful eye soon fell upon the bent figure
of old Moss, slinking about in the shrubbery. Dalton at
once signaled him to approach, and in a few seconds
the Jew was by his side.

A few hurried words passed in an undertone, without
arousing Bob from his lethargy, and then the old man
withdrew after passing his companion a thick roll of
bills.

The action had not been observed by Brierly, who was
wrapped in the unpleasant reflections which usually sur-
round young men who at their first draught of dissi-
pation have drank long anddeeply. Butalthough it had
escaped his notice, it had been seen by other eyes that
were more keenly watchtul.

A tall man in a tweed suit, and upon whose bosom a
diamond sparkled, was standing under the shadow of a
tree some distance off, watching the group with a sus-
picious stare. Moss had scarcely passed out, of the gar-
‘den before this person sauntered up to the back of the
table, and placing his hand upon the paper which Dalton
had dropped, said, in a rich bass voice: .

. ‘beg pardon, gentlemen, but if this paper’s not in
use, 1d like to borrow it.”

His eye was fturtively watching Daiton’s movements.
And his quick observation showed him that gentleman

> -in--he act of hurriedly placing a roll of bills in his
“pocket.

“«Bh ?” ejaculated the outlaw, turning suddenly.

But if he had been startled by the stranger’s first
words, he quickly reassured himself, as’ that person be-
came seated in the coolest manner possible, and began
to read, merely saying, carelessly :

“The papers are very dull of late, sir.
think so?” -

“T never trouble ’em much,” responded Dalton, in a
surly tone, ‘‘except for the Smithfield Market list, and
that only in the way of business.” ;

«Ah, yes,” rejoined the stranger. ‘Much my own

Don’t you

case. They puta fellow up to the dodges of the town,
though. For instance, here’s an article about a case of

counterfeit notes offered at the bank lately.”

This last sentence was uttered without any apparent
significance, but out of the corners of his eyes—those
eyes which seemed to observe everything—the stranger

“Oh, sir, hif you talks that way, hall right, sir.
price is seven and Six, sir.”
“Very well,” exclaimed Robert, thrusting his hand into

his pocket, and discovering that he hadn’t a penny. ‘‘Eh
—oh, chalk it down.”
“Chalk hit down! Well, you hare a cool un! We

don’t do that here—not to strangers.”

“Well then, you’d better begin now,” rejoined Bob,
coolly. ‘‘My name’s Robert Brierly.”

“Your name may be Robert Brierly, sir, hor Robert
Hanybody, sir! But that ’ere game won’t work. When
people take wine in this hestablishment, sir—hespecial-
ly somebody helse’s wine, they pays torit! And has for
you,” continued the august proprietor, turning toward
poor May Edwards, in a perfect frenzy of rage—‘‘has for
you, his this the way you habuse my horspitality ?
When I lets you come in ’ere to Sing, his this the way
yourepay me? Get hout hot ’ere, you jade, hand never
dare to show your face hinside my door hagain.”

The brutal owner of the Bellevue Gardens would have
laid hands upon poor May, but Brierly stepped between,
and stood with tolded arms and flashing eyes, obstruct-
ing the way.

“What!” he exclaimed, angrily.
woman ?”

‘Would I? Look ’ere, my young joker!
stand out of my way, or ’U——”

‘Don’t you move another step, or it will be worse for
you.”

The words were spoken with terrible earnestness, but
were not heeded.

The rough bully rushed forward as if to brush Bob
from his path like a fly. But in Jess than a second of
time, the brown, compact fist of the Lancashire lad shot
straight from the shoulder, and the. proprietor of the
Bellevue Gardens sprawled senseless upon the floor.

At that instant the tall man in a tweed suit appeared
upon the scene.

“Halloa!” he exclaimed. ‘What does this mean ?”

CHAPTER IV.
‘*PLANTING” THE ‘‘FLIMSIES.”

“Tt means,” replied Robert, hotly, ‘that the old
scoundrel lying there has insulted this poor girl. I
would have assisted her, and he accused me of attempt-
ing to swindle him.”

The tall stranger turned his glance to where the
burly owner of the gardens was just beginning to show
signs of returning consciousness. In a moment, with
the assistance of two or three of the waiters, he had re-
gained an upright position. The stunning blow he had
received upon the neck had removed all the pugnacity
from his nature, but he mustered up courage to say,
sullenly :

«Well then, young man, why don’t you pay me ?”

Robert was ata loss how toreply. He was in a very
embarrassing position. But fortune had not forsaken
him; for at that very moment his friend Downey elbowed
his way through the crowd and inquired the cause of
the disturbance. It was quickly explained, and he
volunteered to be responsible for the sum. The pro-
eh murmured something about ‘‘any friend of Mr.
Moss” being ‘‘all right,” and withdrew, at the same time

“Would you harm a

You just

The

May’s blood was aroused in an instant. Poor and for-
saken though she was, her woman’s nature rebelled at
Maltby’s coarse insinuation,

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” she cried.
‘Tt is cruel in you to insult a helpless and friendless girl
like me.” a)

The thought had not apparently struck
way before, and it seemed to amuse him,
into a loud guffaw.

 

him in that
for he burst

“Hinsult! Ha, ha! Ho™so! Ha-a-a! ’Ere’s a lark!
Ho, ho! A ’arf-starved street-singer hinsulted! Cheek-

ing me hin my hown hestablishment! Look’ere, young
woman, I hort to show you the door, I’ad. But I’m not
so mean has most folks take me for, hand I’ll hoverlook
wot’s gone by. But don’t talk to me habout hinsultin’
you hany more. Ho, ho! Ha, ha, haw! Hinsulted!
Ho, ho, haw !”

And Maltby moved away, almost choked with his own
merriment. May sauk down at.one of the tables, nearly
overcome by the combined infuences of hunger and hu-
miliation.

“Pm foolish to let my anger appear,” she moaned.
“My bread depends on such as he Oh, if I could only
get away from this weary work! If some kind lady
would only take mein! Wn quick with my needle; but
who'd take me, a poor vagzbond, without a friend to
speak forme? I’m all afone in the world now. It is
strange how people’s lives are all laid outfor them. I
see so many girls nicely @ressed, well off, and with
woking to love and care forthem. Oh, Heaven, I can’t

ear it sometimes to look at them and then think of my
own hard lot and what’s before me! But, there!” she
continued, a the tears that were fast rising to
her eyes; ‘I'll think of it nolonger. It’s all because I’m
Still so weak from the fever. "There’s nothing like keep-
ing a good heart, and I'll try to doit. How kind that
Mr. Brierly was to me; andit was all through me that
he got into this trouble. Ah, he is nocommop man,
but a good, honest friend to one in trouble. Well, I
mustn’t think of him, for I shall probably never look
upon his face again.” 7

The words, and the little sigh that escaped with them,
bad scarcely left her lips, when the very man of whom
she was reflecting, came 4yto the inclosure. He was
looking for Dalton, whose ioe he had received change
for. May sprang to her feet as sight of him, and stepped
forward, intending to thank him for his kindness to her.

“Oh, sir,” she said, in an €mbarrassed way, ‘I’m so
sorry for what happened——~’*f *: ?

“Never mind that, lass, be
you seen my friend ?” ;

‘No, sir.” ;

“And where’s the langi#\i? Here’s that will puta
civil tongue in his ead,” he conciaded, showing the
money he had received for DaltCn’s bill.

Oh, what alot of money!” The poor girl had: not
seen twenty pounds, for maiy a day. °

“Ho! Landlord! Landiord, I say! Where are you ?”

‘Coming, sir! Coming!” replied Maltby, who speedily
appeared.

«There’s half a sovereign * cried Brierly, tossing the
coin as he spoke. ‘Seven and six of itis for the wine,
and the other half crown is for the thrashing I owe you.”

“Take care, young man,” vyeplied Maltby, picking up

   
  
 

ed, \hastily. ‘Have

rate his occupancy of the renovated palace by a great
housewarming and a splendid bali to which the elite of
Paris was invited.

When he went back to his rooms, he found a pile of
letters awaiting him. {[t was the amusement for a
leisure hour to run over these epistles, though he found
little interesting in the mass. One large square note,
addressed in.a hand he did not recognize, piqued his
curiosity. He opened it. and found it was.an invitation
to attend the Beltikoff ball.

“My reputation as a man of.fashion has secured this
attention,” he said, “but it is welcome. I was about to
move heaven and earth to procure an invitation.”

He found the Beltikoff palace crowded—in fact it was
a crush. He made his way to the lady of the house to
whom he was specially introduced by a countess of his
yo ee ,

ext Beaumont sought out her husband. With bim
he got along better than with the wife. Beltikoff
seemed Mie to be amused, and listened eagerly to
the fashionable gossip with which his guest entertained
him. In the course of the evening they advanced to in-
timacy, and made one or two appointments for excur-
sions together. Betore Beaumont took leave hereceived
a cordial invitation to call without ceremony whenever
he felt inclined. ,

Once, when his host was in a convivial frame, Beau-
mont made a playful allusion to the famous keys which
figured everywhere in the ornaments of the palace, but
the colonel’s brow grew dark as night, and his voice fal-
tered as he answered:

“A whim of mine, that Ido not care to explain, if, in-
deed, there is any explanation to be given.”

«Umph!” thought Beaumont; *‘‘ with all his external
polish the colonel has something of the tiger in him.
‘Scrape a Rubsian and you'll find a Tartar underneath,’
as the proverb says.”

He had hoped for the honor of the princess’ hand, but
she did not dance; and so, after propitiating a few
dowagers by giving their dowdy and neglected daughters
atew turns on the floor, he drove home, well pleased
at having won a foothold in the mysterious citadel occu-
pied by the enigmatical Russian beauty.

CHAPTER XVII.
WHAT BEAUMONT DISCOVERED.

Beaumont availed himself of the Russian colonel’s cor-
diality to cultivate an intimacy with that gentleman,
and became, in a short time, a daily visitor at his resi-
dence ; but, although he embraced every occasion to pay
his respects to the princess, he made no progress in her
confidence.

He could not complain that she received him with

-marked coldness; her manner was the same to all her

visitors—polite, frigid, expressionless. What that pas-
sionless exterior vailed no one could say. Not a trace of
sorrow, of anger or of passion manifested itself on- her
marble features. Beaumont, thanks to his espionage,
knew more than the rest.

He knew that she had a se- | nearly as severe as his own.

turned pale, or rather her colorless complexion assumed
the hue of death. Surprise and disappointment were
depicted in her usually impassive face, but this emotion
was rapidly followed by a flush of anger.

“Is it you, Mousieur Beaumont?” she asked, in
haughty and indignant tone.

You expected some one else ?” replied Beaumont.

“By what right, sir, dare you intrude upon my pri-
vacy ?” i

“Not as an enemy, but as a friend,” replied the subtle
Parisian. ei

“Asa triend ?” returned the princess, with an accent
of bitter scorn. ar

“A friend who'¢an become an enemy if his amiable
acts are received in a hostile spirit.”

“Explain yourself!” replied the princess, haughtily.

“Youcannot deny that you visit this retreat in dis-
guise and in secret,” said Beaumont, with all the bold-
ness that his knowledge of her mystery gave him.

“Go on, sir.” ¢

“Nor that you are here closeted almost daily with a
man who is not your husband.”

“How, sir!” cried the princess, with flashing eyes.
“Dare you insinuate-——” + eles

‘Not insinuate, fair lady,” replied Beaumont, with un-
paralleled, audacity, considering the rank and position
& the lady he addressed ; “but I assert that you have a

over.”

«Begone, sir!” cried the princess. ‘After that word I
will not hear another, You are no gentleman, but a spy
and acoward. Begone! andif you ever dare to present
yourself at my house, my lackeys shall thrust you into
the street. Do yeu hearme, sir? Begone!”

And with an imperial gesture of command, she pointed
to the door.

‘Your word is law, lady,” replied Beaumont, yet mak>
ing no Offer to stir. ‘But whither, think you, I shall
betake myselt if you drive me from your presence ?”

“J neither know nor care,” replied the princess, dis-
dainfully.

“To your husband, madame, to report what [ have dis-
covered,” said Beaumont, deliberately.

Well did the dark schemer know the effect that
threat would produce. ‘The color faded trom the prin-
cess’ cheek; she recoiled, staggered and would have

s
a

fallen to the floor, had not Beaumont caught her in his
arms and aided her to sink into an arm-chair:
It was then he kneeled at her feet and grasped the
aw. + 3

hand she was too powerless to withdr

“Oh! forgive me, beautiful prin
tones no longer harsh and mena
and insinuating. ‘““My.seeming |]
s audacity, were but the effects o
suming my heart.” ;

 

‘Leave me,” said the princess, repulsing — Foe
must not hear you, 1am awedded. woman.”

“That did not prevent your favoring my rival,” said
Beaumont, sternly, ashe rose to hisfeet. = Dee

“You wrong me, sir,” replied the princess, in a tone
“Although you have de-

cret sorrow, as attested by her nightly wearing of sables | tected appearances that are strongly against me, yet

and her nightly vigils in the funereal boudoir; but what
that secret sorrow was he could not even conjecture.
“She is wearing a mask and playing a part,” he

know that the Princess Alexandra, not even in a mo-
mentary thought, is false'to her plighted vow, however
cruel and joyless may be her existence.” . ;

 

Salient

 ———

nebon Niners

 

git cl

 
 
 
 
 
   
 

 

A flush. of triumph reddened the brow :
cutor. .- : 4
«You do not love a rival, then, and you are unhappy

in your marital relations ?” Berek

the money. “Pll teach you to hinsult a respectable
licensed victualler. And you, too,” turning to May, ‘‘you
tramp! [ll have you locked up for annoying my cus-
tomers.”

saw Jem Dalton start atrifle. Just the faintest shadow
of a Smile flitted around the new-comer’s lips. His shot
x had struck home.

announcing that the concert was going on in another
apartment.
The greater part of the knot of people who had been

thought. ‘‘but two can play at that game. My dissimu-
lation shall equal hers, and it will be hard if my wit
cannot outgeneral her strategy. She shall not suspect

of her perse-

{never took abad note in my life,” exclaimed the
ruffian, recovering himself.

“You've been lucky, then. In-business, too, I think
you said. In the jobbing way, may I ask ?”

“Sometimes-—always ready to turn a nimble shilling.”

“My own rule.”

“May I ask your business ?”

“Certainly. I’m in the fancy iron trade,” and the fin-
gers of the communicative stranger slipped into his
pocket. ‘‘My principle is to get as much of my stock on
other people's hands as possible.”

Could Jem Dalton have known that as he uttered
those seemingly harmless words, the ‘‘iron-dealer” was
softly toyiag With a pair of silver-mounted handcuffs,
his peace of mind would have been greatly disturbed.
But the stranger did not allow the conversation to flag.

attracted by the scuffle accompanied him, and left
Dalton, Brierly, and poor, frightened May Edwards
alone together.

A curious part of the matter was that the tall stranger
in a tweed suit had disappeared almost instantly upon
the approach of Dalton. but in the excitement of the
moment that fact was overlooked. Robert turned his
attention to the unwilling cause of all the trouble. She
was trembling and in tears.

‘Don’t cry, lass,” he said, soothingly.
fault. And if ever I Gan assist you es

“Oh, come, Bob,” exclaimed Dalton, close at his side.
“Don’t be afool! Come out and walk about a bit till

It’s not your

 

| you’re cooled off,” and the ruffian might have added,

‘till I can plant some of the ‘flimsies’ on you.”
«‘Well,” replied Brierly, ‘I don’t know but [ am a little

«You cur!” exclaimed Brierly, making a stride for-
ward as if to utterly demolish the proprietor of Bellevue.
But that gentleman had already felt the weight of his
fist once, and having no desire to test his prowess any
further, made a rapid and masterly retreat.

When Robert turned again toward May, she whs try-
ing vainly to conceal her téars,.--*~"\ -~- \

“Well, what is it now, lass #* he asked, kindly. \

“I cannot bear that yous id trouble for me, indeed
sir, I cannot,” she sobbed. ~

“Nay, never heed that coivardly Scemp. Come, | lass,
dry your eyes. You’re too tentler for this sort of life.”

“Tt’s all from the fever I had, sir,” she replied, apolo-
getically. ‘I usen’tto mind unkind words and looks,
before that.” Ms

that I am watching her.”

Therefore, to her, if she chose to pay any attention to
him, and to the rest of the world with whom he was a
marked personage, Beaumont appeared to be only a
careless and rather dissipated man of fashion. He kept
late hours, played high and drank deeply In the fast
society he frequented the colonel was his constant com-
panion, and led as gay a life as if his head was not
whitened by the snows of more than three-score
winters. 4

Beaumont, who watched him narrowly, suspected
that he, too, like the Princess Alexandra, had some
secret Sorrow, which drove him to seek excitement in
wine, cards, and fast company. Yet never, in the most
unguarded moments of a revel, did the wily Russian
drop a word ora hint that could afford a clew to his

 

“This language must cease,” said the princess, severe- _
ly, ‘orl will brave the consequences of spurning you —
ignominiously. Sir,” she added, ‘“‘you were born a gen-
tleman, and move in elevated rank. You have con--
trived to grasp at a chain of circumstances involving me
in suspicion. I will explain them, and leave it to your
honor as a French gent to make no unworthy use
of what I tell you. I always had a taste for painting,
but a most unhappy circumstanuce—the tragedy of my —
life-time—tfostered a burning desire to develop my talent
for one special, sacred Bere That purpose I could
not explain to my husband. I engaged this room that 1

| might test, under the direction of an artist, the question

whether, what I took for inspiration, was really such, or
only an illusion born of a delirious imagination. The

 

 

answer was Satisfactory. Ihad the ability to execute the . _

“Youre from the country, I-think ?” he interrogated. ha
work for which my soul craved, and ] have been able to

“Yes; Yorkshire.”

secret.

heated. But don’t you mind, lass. I'll be back in a few
Now that Beaumont had reappeared in society, Paul

moments, and I want to say a word or two you then.

 

Robert was touched by her plaintive manner.
“Here,” he said, forcingystiie>money into her hand.
tat

 

  

 

 

“Possible? I'm a Durham man myself. And this|So don’t go far off. And if that rascal insults you | ‘‘Take this, and stay rome, till you have quite | Marsan renewed his intimacy with him, following him Ome ne, on canvas the features of a dear friend hur- | 4
young chap ?” indicating Brierly. again——” The remainder of his sentence consisted of a | recovered.” , about like his shadow, and the former could not shake | ried out of existence by the cruelest of deaths. The pic- —

Robert turned his sodden eyes quickly toward the | threatening shake of the brown Lancashire fist which | ‘“‘T'wo sovereigns! Oh, sir!” | off his admirer without offering him a downright insult, | ture, which a few touches will complete, and which I _ {
stranger’s face. had been so effective. i She could hardly believe her eyes. for which no pretext was afforded. hoped to finish this day with the aid of my instructor, Ls

“What's that to you?” he asked, sullenly, not relish- In another moment Robert and his false friend, Dal- “Nay, don’t be astonished. You'll makea better use Seeing he could not get rid of him, Beaumont resolved | Whom I was expecting when your visit surprised me, ;
ing the stranger’s questions. ton, had passed out through the@rees, and May Edwards | of the money than I. What! Crying again? Come, | to make him useful, and for that purpose made a con- | hangs benéath the curtain on yonder easel.” et

But his answer did not in the least disconcert the | was alone. come, lass. Never heed that old brute. Hard words | fidant of him, knowing that he could rely on his spaniel-| “The work cannot but be beautiful since it is yours,”
tweed-suited man. Buried in reflections over what had passed, she did not | break no bones, you know.” _ like fidelity. : ' - | said Beaumont. ‘Iam aconnoisseur, Permit me——? _

“Ah, yes!. From Lancashire, I perceive. Why, we're | see a tweed-clad figure emerge from the shrubbery and “It’s not his hard words rm crying for now, sir.” He imparted to the dandy the secret that he was} And he approached the picture, as if to lift the curtain. — :
quite neighbors when we're at home—and neighbors | pass stealthily out of the garden, close upon the track of | ‘“‘Whatthen?” _ et ss watching the princess, but he declared that the motive | The princess almost shrieked aloud : Pin x Seo) ;
ought to be neighborly in this great city, so I hope you'll | the two men who haa gone before. “Your kind ones! They’re harder to bear, for they | was purely curiosity, and he easily induced Marsan to} ‘No! no! that is something sacred. No eye but mine | {
allow me t@ stand treat.” Once outside, Dalton dropped the arm of his com- | Sound so strange tome.” ~ ; be help him to the extent of his power. Marsan, accord- | must look on it. Not yours.” : Semen eA i

“Thank you,” exclaimed Dalton, roughly. ‘I never} panion, and said, with a forced smile: «Poor child!” said Robert, with a sympathetic quaver | ingly; was deputed to watch closely the actions of the “Excuse me,” said Beaument. ‘And will you permi
drink with strangers.” j “That was a clean blow you gave yonder fellow, Bob. | in his voice. ‘Heaven help you !—you remind me Of a} princess at times when Beaumont was otherwise en- | me, madame, to remark, that I cannot. perceive the ne ~ 4

«And where I come from,” added Brierly, ‘‘they’ve a} Tell me how it all came about.” | Sister I lost.” His manly eyes filled at the recollection. | gaged, and this was generally in the forenoon. . cessity of your disguising yourself, and pursuing this in- | ;
saying that when you want a welcome, wait till you're} Brierly related every circumstance he could recall. | ‘‘She had eyes like yours, and hair, and much the samre|~ Marsan had not long been engaged in this honorable | nocent occupation in secret. Why nof make a contl-
axed’. ' : When he had finished, Dalton was silent a moment, as | voice. I'd be glad to have a comely lass like you to talk | employment, when he announced to his principal that | dant of your husband. and do openly what you have —

Still the tall stranger was unruffled and serene. if hesitating, but finally spoke. to sometimes.” yo atte _ | he had made a discovery, and it was this: SS done with such dangerous stealth ?” ee se?

“Quite right,” he observed, biandly, «to be cautious You were right. my lad—perfectly right. But I think “But where I live, sir, its avery poor place, and I’m Every morning a woman, plainly dressed and vailed, “Because,” replied the princess, “he whose image-[ . j
about the company you keep, young man. Perhaps 1 | you said you were out of cash 2” : alone there ope r having the air of a seamstress, but the height and | have called up from the dead by the magic aid of art, |

“Yes. Cleaned out.”

“‘Well, I promised to be your banker. Here’sa twenty-
pound note. Takeit and getit changed, and allow me
to loan you five pounds: The remainder you may bring
me, where we have just come from.” wi J
‘“Phat’s good ot you,” returned Robert, gladly accept- |

 

 

“JT understand. You're right, lass. I couldn't come
there, but I’m loth to lose sight of you.” /
At this moment Dalton entered hastily, exclaiming :
“Brierly !” i : : 2
“Yes,” returned Kobeyt, ‘I’m here, and here’s the
change I’ve brought fom you. I borrowed fire pounds

could give you a bit of good advice .

“Tm not taking ‘good advice,’” snapped Robert, who
was out of patience.

“Well, then, don’t take bad,” replied the stranger,
earnestly. “‘And my word for it, you wont tind a worse
adviser than your thieving companion here.”

bearing of the princess, came out-of the rear of the
Beltikoff mansion by a private door opening on’a nar-
ow street, traversed the city on foot in an easterly di-
rection; and went into a certain house in the Rue du
Faubourg St. Martin. ~ a

There she remained ‘er two or three hours, at the ex-
iar > <

was hated by my husband, and,” she added in ashud- |
dering voice, ‘‘died by his hand\” 7 ‘ ao
After Beaumont had recovered trom the surprise oc-
casioned by this incautious avowal, he said: ee :
«And the colonel has no suspicion of this innocent
mystery ?” a i ~

  
    
   
      

 

 

 

| oe

 

 

   
  
  
  

 
    
        
 
  
 

    
 

   

   
   
      

    

    

     
       

  

 

 

  

    
  
  

     
    
 

 
 

hia With an oath, Dalton was on his feet in a second. | ing the seeming courtesy. ‘ | out of the twenty.” n of which time she reappeared, and retraced her oné whatever. He is too deeply engaged in —
. ab 5 0, had.touched raw f be A “Don’t mention it-myv dear box, Vm delighted to pe <*All rig ” teplied Mi) ip. th o-} . Hap ac Og>Ob. £NG RELA ACL ae Sx Depicts oad a} Qiagen as
, CRIN HE SEI eT oie Sah Cerne "OP Ser 5 GTi did Seu tHe Coane 1 ‘3 OF aSsirron. oN PCS OO au OUTSICE. ” Mee. fee : ‘ , ~ Tiat is false, woman ! KOT mselt, 2
Ss to the bottle with his cane; «not you. bubiiis+ betk and Order a bit of supper.” ; in a minute,” said Br ie en turning to May, he | e light of this information. | suddenly burst into the room and confronted the terri-_
 } 4°. gentleman. He robs people of their brains, thei diges-| And so they parted, Dalton toreturn to the garden, | added, ‘Good-by, lass, ang-remember, if you want a be tbe priacess; at the very hours indi- | fied-wife and her companion. .

cated he had seen the princess receiving visitors in her All the latent ferocity of the Russian’s nature was de~
salon ; it must be one of her women, etc. ; yet he was | veloped, and his first impulse was to strike the deka
careful to inquire the number of the house in the Rue | less woman to his feet, but he turned his. fury on t e.
du Faubourg St. Martin which the vailead woman visited. | man who now advanced to protecther. ke
It was No. 324. “T will settle with yow first,” he said, savagely. ‘I | :
Marsan, who was rather disappointed at the manner | Shali have plenty of time to deal with her—and she ye
'in which his triend had received the intelligence, asked | knows that I am unsparing.” : a
«Colonel Beltikoff,” said Beaumont, with perfect com-
pend “Tam utterly at a loss to account for your singu-
ar excitement.” Meo: ; \
“Why are you here ?” asked the colonel. bts; ¥R
i offered my services to accompany the princess,” re- “A

friend, write to Bob Brier}

Air street.” I
“Vil set it down,” res

tally, ‘in my heart.” “ok
“Come!” cried Dalton. ‘Hurry up
aoe not forget?” added Robert, still to May Edwards.
‘Never!’
“Oh, confound your billing and cooing—come on, or | him if he could be of further use to him, because he said

we shall be too late!” It was too late already. ! he was very anxious to visit some friends at Compiegne,
For at that very: instant gack Hawkshaw, the detec- | and was rather wishing that he could start that day.

tive, backed by his two assistants, appeared in the other; “Go by all means—don’t let me detain you,” said

end of the little open space among the trees. ' Beaumont, who was delighted to get rid of him just

     
   

sion, thew conscience, and their money. But since you , at the. Lancashire Arms,
won't allow me to stand anything, why, Pll wish yqu a
very good-evening.” /

Having thus delivered himself, the tall man sauntéred
carelessly away. And not until he was safely out of
hearing,.did he mutter :

«There’s something crooked going on, there.
good care to watch.”

“Bah,” thought Dalton, as soon as he was left alone
with his companion. ‘I don’t half like the actions of
that fellow, There’s something about his eye, too—a
kind of—I don’t know what. i wonder if Moss knows

chuckling over his suecess, while Robert, never suspect-
ing his danger, went on his way. r ,

In a little shop where tobacco and snuff were sold, he
found an elderly woman, who, after a little haggling,
changed the note into smaller cash, removing, in order
to do so, as he could plainly see, all the money there was
in the little stone jar which served her asatill. His
twenty-pound note was almost equal to all the money
the old woman possessed.

Having received his change, Robert purchased half a
dozen cigars, by way of acknowledging the favor, and
passed into the dimly lighted street.

 
   
   
 
   
  
    
    
     

 

ponfied May, and continued, men-

”

Til take

,

\

 

 

him. Bob,” he continued, aloud, “will you excuse me |. He-had not been gone three minutes, and the woman | “Let no one stir,” commanded the detective. ‘You then. : ed Beaumont, who, like most gallants, could im-
for a few minutes ?” was still examining the note, when the stranger clad in | are wanted by the queen’s pdiice !” : | The next day a young man wearing a slouched hat) provise afalsehood and utter it with perfect coolness,
“Yes. But don’t be long, for I can’t bear my own | the tweed suit, entered. “The ——?” exclaimed Dalton, angrily. ‘It’s the and a blouse (it was Beaumont completely disguised) | ‘‘to examine a work of art which she thought of pur-
company.” : «Give me the best cigar you have in the place.” crushers! Run, Bob, tor your life!” was making particular inquiries atter a fictitious per- sarees . Ras
The thoughts that racked the young man’s brain were She complied with his request. But Robert did not stir. He was.dazed by the strange-| sonage, who he pretended lived at No. 324 Rue du Fau- And he pointed to the easel. ‘ a:

The colonel controlled his fury, and sought to imitate
the coolness of his interlocutor. : :

‘And wasit necessary, madame,” he said,turning to the
princess, *‘to hide your face, and to disguise yeurself as
a servant-girl to do the simple errand which this gentile-_
man describes ?”

The princess was silent.

«Let me see the work of art which it required such ex-
traordinary precautions to visit,” continued the csolonel,
and he advanced toward the easel with the design>sof
rending away the curtain. so Pats

Beaumont remembered that the princess had declared
that she would on no account have her husband see that
pieture, and he interposed.

“Stand back, sir,” said he. ‘That picture cannot be
seen except with the permission of the lady.”

This insult was too much. The colonel pushed Beau-
mont back so rucely that he almost threw him off his
feet, and the Frenchman, stung to madness, resented
the injury by a furious blow which drew biood trom the-

ness of these events. bourg St. Martin, of the porter of the house. ‘
Dalton, however, lost no time. Lifting one of the; The porter assured him that no such person lived in
small oaken tables from the floor, he hurled it with tre-| the house. Beaumont, however, got into conversation
mendous force at the nearest officer, and in the con-/| with the porter, a garrulous old fellow, and proposed a
tusion which followed sprang into the shrubbery. bottle of wine, whereupon he was invited into the lodge,
By this time Hawkshaw had approached Robert} and soon made himself at home. ¢
Brierly, and placed a hand heavily upon his shoulder. Precisely at the hour of eleven a female. plainly
“JT arrest you in the queen’s name !” , dressed in woolen garments and closely vailed, appeared
“For what ?” “Nile Sd | at the porter’s lodge and asked for the key of No. 47.
“For passing the most @imgerous counterfeit note The porter took it down from the hook and handed it
ever issued in Great Britain, You are a member of the | to her.
notorious Birmingham gang!” : : Beaumont could not see her face-or her figure, but in
[TO BE CONTENUED.] | the incomparable hand that was extended to receive the
, ’ key he recognized that of the Princess Alexandra.
| There could be no mistake about it.
ee IN BOOK-FORM.] | «“She-pays me a high rent for No. 47,” said the porter.

“I think I saw you looking at a bank-note as I came
in, just now,” he said, eying her fixedly. ;

“Yes, sir, and what of it?” was the shop-keeper's tart
reply.

«Please to let me see it.” d

The woman was astounded at his extraordinary re-
quest, so bluntly made.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” he added, noticing the
effect of his words; ‘‘{ sha’n’t stealit. 1’m not a thief,
but a thief-taker. I am a detective from Scotland Yard.
and my name is Hawkshaw.”

“What! are you Mister Hawkshaw, which he is the |
greatest detective in London? Oh, certainly, sir, I'll |
show you the note, which it’s glad I am to serve so great
aman.” nt

And she handed the paper to him across the counter.

|
}

indeed hard to endure. Every time he found himself
alone, the poor lad was haunted by visions of the past.
Jt was the voice of conscience, calling up one by one the
ghosts of his departed and better life, to haunt him in
the paths of vice which were fast closing about him.

“Jf 1 could only sleep without dreaming,” he muttered.
“J never close my eyes but I’m back in my old home,
with my mother tenderly watching me as she used to
when I was a child, and my father patting me on the
head, and calling me a bonny boy No, no! I must

* not think of them. Not here, or I shall go mad!”

Robert Brierly sat there with his tace buried in his |
hands, and half oblivious of what was going on about |
him. He had a vague consciousness that several people |
had entered the place, and then that there was some
music. But he paid no attention to the matter, and prob-
ably would have remained absorbed in his reverie until
the return of his companion, had not a soft and pleading
feminine voice fallen upon his ear.

. “If you please}.sir——” it said.

“Be off, lass,” responded Robert, curtly, yet not with |
harshness. ‘I’m in no mood for music.”

Then he heard a partly repressed sob, which brought
him to his senses at once. He turned and beheld a slight,
girlish “figure, clad in garments that were old and
threadbare. The face was wan and pinched, but filled
with a gentle, winning, pathetic beauty which went
straight to poor heart-hungry Bob’s soul.

“Come, come, lass,” he cried, kindly.
crying about ?”

   
 
 

 

 

 

.

 

denen > & 4 $$ $$
ree ee ee | “Never haggled about the price when she engaged the
room a fortnight ago, and yet she only occupies it for
| two or three hours a day. I wish all my tenants paid
me in advance like Mile. Euphrasia.”
‘What is her business ?” asked Beaumont. smitten temple of the Russian. ig e
“That I can’t tell you. There isan easel standing in| Both, however, desisted from a strife they felt to be
her room and a large oaken chest, which she never | unworthy of their position as gentlemen. The wrath
leaves unlocked.” : | that had provoked them glided into a colder, deadlier
“Possibly,” thought Beaumont, ‘it is the key of that | phase—that of relentless, mortal hate. Beaumont apol-
chest she always wears; but that would be only intensi- | ogized to the countess for his unseemly act, and then,
fying the mystery ;” adding, aloud: «‘She never receives | turning to the colonel, said, sternly : ‘
| visitors, I suppose ?” : “You know where to find me. | shaliremain at my
blow, and I am sorry for her.” } Be is one man who comes to see her often, but not | eo Sears ace iene es a és vai at
Then he placed his hand in his pocket and drew out} 4. poece Apex supPpay was cc mea ’ oe ay ay.” } ‘You will no ve long wait,” was the ssian
“Oh, sir,” replied she, tremulously, ‘I've eaten nothing | five gold sovereigns. it ceunteen ton be ORs aero NO Me ar lover?” _ |reply.
to-day, and I am not strong.” ; “'Pake these to begin over again with, as a present | CLE EE 5 eee cs Gas pe | “It may be. How should 1 know? But no one else} The princess looked from one to the other without
Robert observed that the thin and nerveless fingers | from Jack Hawkshaw. You'll need ’em, old lady, for | | ever visits her.. This man knocks three times, thus”— | seeming to take in the sense of what was passing, yet
were clutching hard at the guitar she held, and that | this note is a counterfeit.” \ | and the porter illustrated his meaning by rapping on } she had a vague impression that she stood on the verge
there was a dark circle about the girl's lips, which boded | The woman staggered back | the table, with a certain interval between the strokes— | of a crisisin her destiny. The man who had tyrannized
a coming faint. In an instant his sympathy was aroused. | as a ghost. | “and then she opens the door.” | over her to the full extent permitted by the Russian law,

He took it between his fingers, held it up to the light,
and examined it carefully.
“Hal”? he muttered, ‘‘as I suspected. Very danger-
ous paper, too. Itcomes trom the Birmingham gang.” |
Then turning to the shop-woman, he asked: :
«Was this lett here by the young man who just went |

vs Princess Alexandra.

 

THE

    

“Yes, sir, it was, sir; which I hopes the bill is-all |
right, sir, because it’s nearly every Shilling I’ve got in |
the world.” '

The detective was silent an instant, irresolute.

“Shall I tell her?” he thought. <‘1t will be a hard

 

By FRANCIS A. DURIV1GE.

“What are you

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI.
against the wall. as pale | E .
: j THE PRINCESS APPEARS IN PUBLIC.

 

  
  
 
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       
  

 

 

 

 

He sprang torward and seated her in a chair beside the | Poor Bob Brierly! The seeds of fast life were ripen-| av we have j desoribed was repe: in all |. “By the way,” said Beaumont, who seemed to_pay | who had changed her indifference for him into hatred, eo]
table. ‘ ‘ing for the habreatel: and that harvester was Hawk. Ps ane day Wi pave Jus} 3 sped Se repenieg A = | little attention to what the porter was saying, ‘1 see | by a deed almost unparalleled in the records of atrocity,
“Poor thing!” he cried, heartily ashamed of having | shaw, the detective. its incidents, for a couple of weeks. The vailed lady} you have an apartment on the second story to let.” | & man who, in spite of her resignation to her fate and =
rebuifed. her at first. ‘Why, you look almost starved! é | went daily, followed by Beaumont, to the Russian| “Yes! and for eight hundred francs—quite a bar- | Seer nad DHHMaBnA, Net far if SIR ieae ime Vea a 2
Try and eat a bit.” ‘ TER | 4 site > ae aes A tee ane | eee . 5 | nocenc S e the vilest ee
td he pushed toward her the biscuit Dalton had or- CHART RPy Ss Cut. SMebG Acer’ ee Pray = alone a we | “I think I know a tenant for you,” replied Beaumont. | the fallen, was now involved in a mortal quarrel with
dered for him. The girl tried to eat, but could not swai- IN CUSTODY, | black-draped boudoir, wateagd by her opposite neigh- | «yj see him to-night, if possible, and bring him round | another man who had made himself a spy on her ac- . 4
zi low the morsel, and teebly asked for a glass of water. For a moment after Dalton and Brierly left the Belle- ; bor, who feasted on momentagy glimpses of her faultless | to you.” : | tions, and had insulted her by addresses which she ~ 1.
lites As chance would have it, a waiter was passing at that | vue Gardens, May Edwards, the poor singer-girl, re- | snq fascinatine face Night and day the workmen were } “Aha! my fair princess,” thought he, as he took leave | loathed and spurned. She could not affect even a tear ™
= A morsent with a tray which held a bottle of wine. | mained irresolute. What should she do? Doubtless the |~— Some. fo Ae | ot the porter. “I have the clew to your. secret in my | for either of the lives thus imperiled.
} | Brierly snatched thé bottle, and before the startled} keeper of the place would feel very indignant toward | DuSy, and finally their task was achieved. | hands, and you will soon be in my power. My marble} The colonel offered her his arm, and she took it, He
re Aa menial could recover trom his astonishment, had poured | her for bringing him into such a scrape, even though | Then the whole quarter was startled by a revelation. | divinity has a heart, then? She can love in secret. As|led her out-of the room without a word, nor did | he
a good part of its contents down the unlucky street- | her share in the matter had been an unwilling one. He | The vail of mystery that shrouded ali the move- | for my rival, he shall not stand longinmy path. Iam | speak to her during their ride home to the Champs
singer’ throat. might drive her out of his place into the streets; and | ments of the Russian fam#fy Was removed, and it was | not master of all weapons for nothing. What accom- | Elysees. :
«Ere, sir!” exclaimed the servant, as soon as he could | that would be severe punishment, because she was en- | made known that Colovel Stanislas Beltikoff, a million- plished hypocrites these women are. But the fair Rus-| He never told her how his jealousy had been awakened
speak. ‘‘That wine was for number vun.” | abled in the gardens to earn a few pence every evening, | aire, with his beautiful wife, the Princess Alexandra, | Sian never deceived me—I know the false, bewitching | and how his confidential valet, a Greek, named Alexis,
“Oh, number one be blowed !” exclaimed Robert, more | and meager though the income might be, it was vastly | was the lessee of the splendid palace on the Champs Sex too well.” , had watched her, tracked her to 324 in the Rue au i
inteht upon his new charge than anything else. preferable to begging in the streets. Yes, that would | Elysees. The great carriage-gates were thrown open, | - Faubourg St. Martin, and betrayed her to her employer. ay ee
“Eh? W’ats that? I—Ill report you to the pro-| be her only alternative, if she was once driven out of | and all who chose could go into the drive-way and gaze CHAPTER XVII. When the colonel and the princess had gone Beat- x
prietor; that I will.” the Bellevue. To that strait was this poor maidenre-| at the external splendors of the renovated building ee 0. & mont took a look at the picture,
And he ran off to execute his task, just in time to| duced. Bitter indeed had been her struggle with pov- | which had been unoceupied since it was the hotel of the VERT SEALERS: Ty SRA BO. - Pee “A devilish handsome face!” said he: ‘but not so
escape an empty bottle which Brierly hurled at his | erty during the ten years since the death of her parents, | Spanish embassy. ‘ , The next day Beaumont, no longer disguised, but | distingue as mine. Too juvenile and undeveloped.
head. *| who, though well-to-do people, had lived fully up to! A crowd of servants in brand-new liveries swarmed | wearing his customary walking-suit, made his appear- | Well, ’'ve made up my mind what todo. Iwill kill the |
“Now, lass,” exclaimed Robert, as soon as she had | their income, and had left no provision for her future. | about the premises. Frenchmen and Frenchwomen | ance at 324 Rue de Faubourg St. Martin. He had waited colonel and marry the widow. She can’t but accept DAY :
swallowed the wine, ‘‘do you feel any better ?” Yet notwithstanding her trials, to her an honorable | now swelled the ranks of the Russian menials. It was | in the street until be had seen the lady he supposed to | hand in yratitude for disposing of her tyrant.” ¢ “ j
“Oh, yes, sir! And I thank you very much. You are | livelihood, however deeply beset with the thorns of dis- | noticed with surprise that each of the lackeys wore un | be the duchess enter the house and until she had time He locked the door, went quietly down stairs, left the _ =
so kind to me, sir, that I shall never forget you.” appointment, hunger, and cold. was the only path | his coat-sleeve a key embroidered in silver. There was | to reach her room. : key in the porter’s lodge, called a cab, and drove home, uh
‘Never mind that, lass. What’s your name ?” through life. Hers was the virtue that is bornin the | a key carved over the gate-way. There was a key on He then followed her up the staircase. The porter of | There he changed his coat for a dressing-gown, put on & es
The girl's artlessness and distress had quite won the | heart, not drilled into it through long years of careful | the panel of every carriage. The Russian servants did | a French-furnished house is not apt to challenge a well- | Greek smoking-cap, sent a couple of notes to two mill
sympathies of tender-hearted Bob. | training. ' not know what the device signified. It was not borne | dressed person who passes his: lodge, each lodger’s | tary friends of his, begging they would call at his lodg-
“My name is May Edwards.” | May Edwards sat for some moments by the table | in the arms of the Menzikoffs or Beltikoffs, and their | apartment being always securely locked when the ten- | ings immediately, then cut the leaves of a novel recently
“Do you do nothing but play and sing in places like } where Robert Brierly had left her.. She was thinking of master had only adopted the esfiblem since his arrival | ant is in, and the key, when he is absent, being always | issued, lighted his Turkish pipe, and threw himself on rn
this ?” | the future, which, in truth, looked dark and dreary to | in Paris. deposited with the porter. Visitors, however, usually | the sofa to read, smoke or doze, for George Beaumont
“IT used to do needle-work,” she replied; “but I be-| her. She was sitting thus, when the proprietor, having | When those of higher rank questioned the colonel | stop to inquire whether the person they seek is in, as it | was a cool hand, and nothing ever shook his nerves.
came: ill, and when I recovered, my patrons had for-| bandaged his damaged neck, entered the clear space | about the device, he returned cold and evasive answers. | is breathless work to ascend and descend the tiresome | ~ {£0 BE CONTINUED. } , :
gotten me. This was the only means leit by whichI | again. He had not any desire to do any more fighting | So that here was an enigma—a rebus for the curious to | stairs of a lofty lodging-house. ; f
could earn an honest penny.” | that night, for the pugnacity had been all *‘punched” out ' puzzle their brains over: | Beaumont, therefore. passed up unquestioned, and So Pee teed tee ee ae Ca eee
The tears had come up into her eyes now, and the | of him. But he was in no gentle mood, and when he | With the occupation and opening of the Beltikoff pal-| the porter glanced at him without suspecting thathe| -,,.;qer—«<1m tired of eating cakes three times a day.”
wari blood, restored to circulation by the wine, had | saw the girl sitting pale and thoughtful beneath the | ace the vailed lady disappeared—that is to say, the | was the workingman of the day before who had treated | 7 .ngiady—«<I should think you would be. No one can
mounted to her forehead. The large blue eyes, heavy | trees, it brought the memory of his discomfiture to his | Princess Alexandria no longer hid her face, but also | him to a bottle of wine, carry all the load you do without being tired.”
chestnut hair, thin, straight nose, and sensitive mouth | mind with unpleasant distinctness. , dressed in colors and in the height of fashion. | Halting before the door of No. 47, he gave the three a : : , 8 Pies
were very expressive, and Bob could not help thinking! ,‘That precious row was all along of you. Edwards,” | When she first rode out in a landeau, drawn by four | peculiar raps which he had learned of the porter, and Flipkins was passing along the street and Saw & ur unic “ta
that May Edwards was extremely attractive, spite of | he snapped, striding up toher. “Aven’t you learned } magnificent Russian horses, black as night, and har-| hearing the key turned in the lock. and an invitation | outside the door of a dealer, bearing the legend : ‘This ara gs
her threadbare garments. better than to sit down for to drink with promiscus par- | nessed a Ja Daumont—that is, with no coachman, but | to come in, he stepped over the threshold, closing | size for $10." «So do I,” said Flipkins. fet ;
How much further he would have questioned Her it is | ties afore this time ?” ; With postilions riding the horses—her beauty dazzled the door behind him, and confronting the inmate of the Proper costume for an elopement—A cutaway jacket, eae Ce :
impossible to say, had not the waiter returned at that | ‘Oh,sir,” exclaimed May, drawing back inveluntarily, | all beholders. | room. y . a ee ee 2 eee ;
moment, bringing with him the angry proprietor. | it wasn't that. Iwas fainting, and he assisted me.-| Beaumont was on horseback during this drive through} It was the Princess Alexandra. She had thrown : 3
“Look ’ere, young man,” exclaimed the latter, in a I'm so sorry, Mr. Maltby. He never thought—it was only | the wood. He kept watch ontpe princess’ carriage, | aside her hat and vail, and stood revealed in all her Horsford’s Acid Phosphate. y ; “4
toweripg rage. ‘‘W’athever dO you mean by kappro- | his kindness.” ; | now riding on a parallel line-zfow spurring ahead, and | peerless beauty. One fair hand held the corner of a In Constipation. % Ses. fp
priatin’ the wine has his hordered by my guests? That; “Kindness!” exclaimed Maltby, with a very perceptible | then wheeling back to mes it, yet taking care that his’ green curtain, which vailed a large canvas resting on Dr. J. N. Ropryson, Medi O., says: ‘In : |
bottle you took belonged to number one.” - | sneer. “Much kindness he'd ‘ave showed you hit you’d | Maneuvers should seeny accidental, and never staring ) an artist’s easel. The lid ofalarge oaken chest was| VI. J. N. LOBINSON, Medina, U., a ; , .-
“That's all right ; let him order another bottle, andI’ll | been hold hand hugly. You hought to be hashamed hot | directly at the object ofthis pursuit. * _, thrown back, disclosing a set of artist’s materials. cases of indigestion, constipation, anc nervous -
4 pay for it.” yourself, you ‘ad.” ; os He soon learned thet Colonel Beltikoff wastoinaugu-' The moment the princess recognized her visitor she ' prostration, its results are happy. ef ae

 

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“THE TRIED AND TRUE.

BY MRS. LINN-ZUS BANKS.

 

l pass unregarded the selfish and vain,
Who proffer a favor and make it a debt ;
For service so rendered comes loaded with pain, |
But true-hearted kindness I never forget.

From the butterfly friends who, when summer was

b
Fluttered round me with offers I did not require,

I turn to the few who in winter’s dark night

ig
Were true and devoted—gold tried in the fire.

Or when prostrate in sickness, disabled by pain,
Surrounded by hirelings, unheeded I lay ;

From paraded assistance I turn with disdain,
But the true-hearted kind ones I ne’er Can repay.

To these, and these only, will memory cling

. For sympathy shown in look, action, or word ;

And the waters of gratitude ever upspring

In the heart’s brimming fount, though they sparkle

_. unheard. 6h
The hand of the Spoiler hath often been laid

’ On the dear ones whose loss I must ever regret ;
‘But the true friends I tried in those seasons of shade,
weAre embalmed in a heart which can never forget.

 

-e~

~

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

Married at Midnight:

_THE BRIDE'S FATE.

i a poe

 

A. PETERS.

 

D AY MipyiGHT” was commenced in No. 14. Back
obtained of all News Agents. }

 

 

 

-«-% »- CHAPTER XXX.
_ WHAT HAPPENED IN HOWE'S CAVE.

That night, so big with fate to Hope, a party was got-
ten up topay a visit to Howe's Cave, one of the greatest
natural curiosities in Schoharie County, and situated
several miles from Sharon. rh

The prime movers were Vane and a brilliant, erudite

C dy, -Flora Suydam, well versed in all the

yho, purely out of delight, and for no didac-
: Whatever, would-talk for hours on the

  
  

‘ch about the oolitic and the cretaceous system. |
Geology with her was a mania. Assoon as she had | over them.
heard of this marvelous cave in the very heart of the t

She was on her knees; feeling Wa the crevices for the
lost locket, and did not reply. She had not heard him.

“What are you searching for?” he asked. ‘Have you
lost anything ?”

“T—I have found it,” she said, starting up from her
knees, the red locket in her hand.

His light had fallen upon it where it shonein its
cranny like a heart of fire.

“Wave you? Then Ican be oi no help in finding it,
but I may prove of service in leading you to the residue
of the party, who must have gone on some distance, as
Isee no lights gleaming ahead, and hear no echo of
their voices.”

‘Let us join them without delay.”

She started hastily forward, but ere she had got out
of the ghost’s cell, her hand, which inclosed the pre-
cious locket, struck with force against a rough pillar of
rock, and, the fingers unclasping, the coral treasure
again dropped to the ground. ;

Graham heard it as it struck, and, as with a cry she
swooped forward to regain it, he interposed his hand
and picked it up. ;

That coral appendage of exquisite workmanship car-
ried his thoughts far into the past, and a phantasma-
goria of scenes glided somber and mournful, as the
mourners in a funeral procession, before him. One by
one gloomily they drifted back to their graves; then the
one visiting him first—his bridal scene—was _ resuscitat-
ed, and he knew when and where he had seen that
coral locket which the girl dear to him as life itself was
asking him for. It had glowed on the breast of his un-
loved bride; and she, he felt—despite the girl buried
with the birth-mark on her arm, the card in her pocket
on which was traced Rizpah’s name, and the gold ring—
was before him now. He could not hide his joy.

“Rizpah !” ;

He breathed her name with savage delight.

Paler than a ghost, for hers was the pallor of a living
horror,.she sank down on a bowlder, the hand which she
had grazed against a rock when the locket escaped wet
with blood. He knew her at last. If she wanted to, she
had no power of concealing her identity.

She held out her hand.

“Give me my locket.” she pleaded, avoiding his glance
as she would a basilisk.

‘Not yet; shortly, when I have’ seen the face it
hides.” ;

He opened it, and a youth’s blue eyes fearlessly met
his own.

An anathema escaped him. That frank face. with its
fair hair, its smiling mouth, belonged to Vane Hunter.
He recognized it, taken as it had been years ago. That
child-bride of his had loved him even then. .

He handed it to her, and, as she thrust it in her
pocket, said : :

“That locket has been a revelationtome. You can
deceive me no longer. You are Rizpah—my wife!”

She did not contradict him; he had spoken the words
with a conviction she could not shake ; and husband and
wife faced each other mute as the rocks around them.

It was the strangest scene one could conceive. Shut
in thatgloomy cavern which stretched ahead like a tun-
nel, narrow, irregular, its ceiling rolling away dimly like
a cloud; a delicate, most beautiful woman, wrapped in
a black cloak, leaned against a gigantic, crystalline
bowlder, her face white as monumental marble, her un-
confined hair flowing below her waist, her hand red with
blood. Over her bent ore of the handsomest men of the
day, a mocking smile parting his lips as he gloated with
satisfaction on the terror his words had raised. Stygian
darkness reigned everywhere, saye where the light of
the torch could reach, which was not far. Not a sound
broke the stillness; an awful, deathly quiet hovered

 

 

Oh, that death would come and release her! Oh, that
his rocky hole might be her sepulcher! .How faint she

hills, she proceeded to-organize a party to explore it. | jwas—how miserable.

she ju
ested Vane in her project, aware that his countenancing |
it would insure its success. Forming a copartnership.

the result wag that two score or more agreeable people |

enlisted into service. es, 28
A long day with Hope in a subterranean cavern, where

it would be obligatory on him to constantly offer his
hand to help her safely over a heap of sharp-toothed
rocks, or, mayhap, to take her in his arms and lift her
across some of the dangerous holes that strew the place!
It opened a vista of delight to Vane which he could not
resist, and his face was aglow with the joy he felt when
he mentioned the affair to Hope, who, instead of favor-
ing, was averse to it. :

“To be hours underground in a sepulchral cavern, shut
out from the glorious light of day, to carry torches and
wave them to and fro, and convert the stalactites into
glittering icicles, would please me more than I can ex-
plain.” she said; ‘‘but you must know, Mr. Hunter, it is
impossible forme to go. Your sister is weak, and can

not walk much unsupported by my arm, and she needs |

me to amuse her. What right have I, he
panion, to leave ber? Thanks for your
you see I must decline to go.”

" «J see that you must go,” he returned, decisively.
“You may pene ee pha to explore this |
x: ” with the count, ‘ds it her.

ee a

hired com- |
indness, but |

is “sparring” with
— an .
) y, Sir; and there is no loop-hole for her
to trawl out. She need have no misgivings to leave
Mrs. Northrup. 1 have a fondness equal to Sairey
_ Gamp’s for dling the sick and ministering to their
wants, and [shall persuade your sister to reject any of-
ter of hers if she decides to stay at home.”

Vane’s countenance brightened, but the count looked
glum. He taken it for granted that Martha was to
accompany the party, but she was firm in her resolve
not to go, and silenced with an avalanche of excuses her
eloquent pleader. Hope was persuaded against her will
to go. She dared not disclose her true reason for not
wishing to form one of the party till she had entered into
a fuller Cay ane with Richard Frost. ‘

“J will drink deep of the waters of Lethe,” she said,

 
  

  

      
   
 

‘‘and have one long day of peace; then let the scaudal- |

ous expose take place. I 4m ready.
Gordon Graham shall never claim me as bis
hold the secret. Ah me! I had forgotten ; the box con-
taining itis gone—spiritedaway. But what matters if ?
He cannot force me to live with him.”
The dew was on the grass, the sun was not an hour
when the party bound for Howe's Cave set out in a
four-horse load, bright and jolly, and effervescing with
merriment. The count was not oneof the number. At
the last moment a matter of business occurred to him
that would deprive him of the pleasure of going. Vane
winked knowingly as he accepted the lame excuse, but
was too mans to gibe him for backing out. Sibyl and
the sculptor helped to comprise the load, also Gordon
Graham, but the lawyer, to the great satisfaction of
Hope, did not join the excursion.
A long brisk ride brought them to their destination.
Fresh and gay, their exuberant spirits in no wise de-

pressed by their trip, the party alighted, took a view of |

the picturesque surroundings and entered the pretty,
“substantial stone hotei to array themselves for a jour-
ney inthe cave. They re-appeared, looking not like the
baw worm when it emerges from its cbrysalid

~ state into a gorgeous-winged creature of the air, but the

reverse. Some of the gentler sex were in blouse and
bloomers, with astonishing head-gears, and shoes whose

dimensions were prodigious. The men were almost |

unrecognizable, with their fine, neatly fitting suits
covered with loosely hanging garments, whose cutting
and fitting had never been superintended by any recog-
nized tailor. Hope, instructed by Martha, who had gone
through the cave, wore a plain dark dress, and had
‘ st with her a long waterproof, resembling a friar’s
cloak, whose capuchin, or hood, covered her head.

They went. through the opening—black and silent as
the cave of Delphos, though. it give vent to oracular
warnings—two by. two, Hope leaning half timidly on
Vane’s muscular arm, a nameless sensation stealing over
her and telling her that life would never be the same
aiter she had passed its portals. Formerly this cave
had several names. G. F. Yates—an antiquarian and
natu and one of its earliest visitors—termed it the
Great ery Cave, but its most unique title was Ots-
gargee Cavern. Now it is known chiefly by the name of
the pérson, Lester Howe, who discovered it in May,
1842. This subterranean recess is illuminated at differ-
ent pe, ygas so as fo give the most powerful effect
to the ever-varying perspective within. No reptiles in-
fest it, and the’air, it is stated, is so pure that no decom-
position or putrefaction of bodies could ever take place.

The temperature is between 55 and 60 degrees. Light-
ed torches were supplied the gentlemen, but the road,
walled in by rocks, was so narrow at places, that the
couples fell apart. and each lady dropped behind her
torch-bearer.

They passed the Bridal Chamber, where a daughter of
Mrs. Howe was married; the Chapel, strewed with colos-

‘sal bowlders—fragments of petrified history over which
a geologist would have raved. At the upper end of this
place of worship is a stalactite weighing hundreds of
pounds, and beneath it is one of ek dimen-
sions. They Came to the Poolof Siloam, the Tower of
Babel; they heard whispering rivulets which, Arethusa-
like, burst forth suddenly, after long and weary wan-
derings, their route; they reached the Haunted
Castle, and here Vane lost sight of Hope. Supposing

she had gone on with the rest, he moved on, and Hope

was alone in the Ghost’s Cell, which she had stopped to

-examiiie. ‘
Something with black wings flifted past. Was it a
bat? She clutched at her cloak to draw it more Closely
about her throat and face, and, in so doing, awkwardly
flexible gold chain the
Sicilian coral locket containing Vane’s pictured face. It
fell to the rocky fioor below. She was groping for it on
her knees. the twinkling gas-light ahead too dim to
drive away the blackness of darkness pervading the
place and show her where it lay. Suddenly the mid-
night was illumined by a torchlight.

head, ay Vane had missed her ahd returned. It
was not he. Instead. it was her husband.
he would pass on. Not he.

She kept mute, Ne
That crouching figure, with its pale face, its changeable
eyes gleaming like a Cat’s in the dark, caught and held
his glance. Was it Hope whom, as soon as he had
missed her, he bad turr back to find?’ Haunted he
certainly was; for, shrinking farther back, as though
striving to conceal herself in the dancing shadows and
elude ‘observation, he beheld his dead wile. The
torch trembled in his grasp, but this time his courage
did not desert him, and he strode forward and contront-
éd the inmate of the ghost’s cell.

i let fall a word now and then; she inter- |.

 

She raised her |:

“Lower, lower the man bent his head. He was de-
vouring her with hiseyes, wich had in them such a mes-
meric power that she could not cry out—could not get
away. His countenance was lighted up with triumph.

“My wife! my wife!” he cried, like one deprived of his
| senses. ‘I have found you at last! You are not dead!
| My sweet, sweet wile!”
| She could not have prevented him had she tried, but
|} she was not aware of.his intention. His arms encir-
| cled her, he was breathing tenderest names in her ear,
he was kissing her lips, her brow, her waving tresses of
| hair. .
| Those swift falling kisses! how-hot they were; how
| much of passion wasinfusedin them. Fire itself could
| not have scorched her flesh more than his detestable

| lips as they met hers. she thought.

She repulsed him with her hands; she cried out, |

|

| fiercely : ;
| “Getaway from me, Gordon Graham! I do not ac-
| knowledge your right to insult me. I am not your
wife; 1 repudiate the assertion. Stand back! Your
very touch is pollution, and if you dare to kiss me
again I will throw myself into the lake when we get to
it. All the water in it could not wash me clean after
receiving those execrable kisses, but its destroying
waves would hide me from your sight. I hate youso,
Gordon Graham, that I would be willing to go through
hades to be rid of you! You oughw to be ashamed to,
call me wife! You would have consigned me to par-
dition years ago had you the power: Go, leave me!”

    
  
  

| ;eSsness to wear when 4 priest united us, come and get
jyou? Girl, supercilious girl, bear in mind that I am
| your master, and henceforth I shall take care of you—
fuard you so rigidly that nota lover of yours shall dare
to breathe a syllable of love in your dainty ear. If Vane
Hunter dares to show you any attention after this, I'll
|,shoot him down as I would adog. How do you recon-
pe your passion for him with the commands of the
Bi e whose doctrines you profess to indorse ? Answer
ime, my little Puritan!”
| Jn the flickering light he could not see the flush of
| shame that incarnadined and made hot her cheeks ; the
| anger he had aroused, and which raged and boiled with-
| in, and blazed in her eyes; but her voice proclaimed it,
} as she said : :
«J would I were a man, and then those words of yours

|

Ay, lam re | would be the last insulting ones you ever offered to me.
wife. I|

Vane Hunter has never spoken of love tome. I would
| not permit him or any man to do so, fettered as I am
| with chains I cannot break, and whose pressure ofttimes
goads me almost to desperation. Why should I love you,
| pray? Did you not blazon your love for another shortly
after I sacrificed my earthly happiness for your father’s
sake? I would have been a g wife to you—I might
even have loved you—had you not shown me the,de-
tormity of your soul. You gloried in my supposed death.
Dastard, I saw your evil, exultant smile when the dead
| girl’s sleeve was raised and the scarlet birth-mark on
| ber arm exposed. Yes, incredulous as it sounds, I was
| in the midst of that jostling crowd, in reach of your
hand, when you pronounced the dead to be Rizpah Hope.
I have found out who she was, and I meant to divulge
my history to-day, but circumstances arose that caused
me to defer it. So sure as you claim me—exert your
authority to force me to live with you—just so sure will I
turn upon you with the ferocity of a lioness when
robbed of her young, and make public the dead man’s
secret.” ko

Wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement, he
thundered : oi *

«Exhume the secret then, confound you! Seatter it
to the four winds of Heaven! Let a greedy public feed
| upon it with the avidity of cormorants! Icare not. By
| acting thus imprudently, you'll not shut my mouth. In
| the tace of all, because I love you, love you, girl! I
claim you as my own. You have my ultimatum. Be
|}amenable. Listen to_Y , Rizpah, and don’t take
| things so tragically. PHI e you the best, the most
loving of husbands.”
| Ob, hush! hush! My faith in youis dead. Will you
| not believe me when I swear thatI would rather have
| these walls crash in and pory me in their ruins, than
| live with youas your wife ?
| fall again. I am capable protecting myself. Hist!”
as a voice rang through the corridors of the cave, “we
are missed ; some one is ¢ WZ us.”

One light—two lights into the darkness ahead ;
| several voices were shouting, “Halloo| halloo!” and as
| Rizpah returned the call, Graham hissed, with his gripe
| On her arm :

“To-day and to-morrow for certain reasons you are at
| liberty to pass as Hope Huntley. After that Hope Hunt-

 

  
 
  
 

 

her debut in society. Now,” releasing her arm, ‘we'll
join the advancing party. Besure you behave properly
in Vane Hunter’s presence. Conduct yourself as a
married woman should.”

The two were besieged with questions. .

“Were they lost?’ “Had they purposely remained
behind ?” etc., ete. ;

Hope calmly explained that ‘she had stopped to view
more closely the Ghost’s Cell, and so got separated
from the rest, and Mr. Graham bad returned to hunt
her up.” ,

«You've put us to no end of trouble, anyway,” grum-
bled Ethel Granger, who had not relished the prospect
of turning back. ‘We were nearly to the lake when
your absence was observed. It is too bad we did not go
on,” addressing Mr. Hunter, ‘as Mr. Graham would
have liberated Miss Huntley from the Ghost’s Cell, and
piloted her safely to us. Wouldn’t you, sir ?”

“J should have been only too glad, Miss Granger, to
render the lady a service. My geographical instinct
assures me that I could have regained the spot where I
left you and followed on without difficulty.”

Vane pressed close to Hope’s side. 4

«J must keep a strict watch on you, in order that you
do not get spirited away into some of the secret open-
ingsin this black cave. Were you ever in acave be-
fore ?”

“Once—years ago; but so smallin extent that it was
nothing but a hole compared to this,” Hope replied, as
she sprang lightly over a water-hole, adroitly avoiding
Vane’s outstretched hand.

“My case precisely. Five years ago, in the neighbor-
hood of Warwick, in company with a lass of fifteen

cave, where dwelt a certain Mother Death, an Indian
witch. Poor girl!” dropping his voice td a lower key as
he spoke of Rizzie, “that very night she was wheedled
into marrying Gordon Graham. You read of her un-
timely death.” § ;

The mocking voice of Graham, who had been in ear-
shot of their conversation, broke the silence which fol-
owed Vane's words.

“The gentleman is in error. I am sorry to spoila
pretty romance, but Mrs. Graham still lives. I heard
from her to-day. The woman buried as my wife turns

The long cloak fell about her; she pushed the hood j:out to be some one else.”

back nervously frem her face. the action unloosening
her superabundant hair, which coiled over her shou
ders. The illusion was dispelled.
“Miss Huntley!” he exclaimed.

-

- At this astounding announcement all were struck

dumb ; not a single comment was made ; and all picked
heir way silently to the lake, whose foot was brilliantly

illuminated with gas-jets. ,

 

“And let Vane Hunter, your lover, whose likeness you :

nto your hands I donot!

ley dies to the world, and Mrs. Gordon Graham makes |

years—you’ve heard mé speak of her—I visited a small ;

Into the old boat stranded there the party stepped,
bearing torches in their hands, their hearts full of awe,
to make the passage of this Styx of the nether world,
ferried over by a grim old Charon, who was as surly as
if the indispensable fee he -exacted of the passengers
had been denied him. 5

The oars splashed into the waves, the boat moved, the
lights glittered and made radiant ee ole embroid-
eries wrought by the dripping wa on theroof and
sides of the wall, which one could almost touch as he
rowed along, and Crystal Ta © Was soon crossed and
the opposite shore gained. Here the cave grew wider,
loftier, and a network of paths branched off in the
darkness, but our party eluded not to explore the
mysteries lying beyond. a

Some time was consumed in’ retracing their steps, for
the lake was a full mile from the mouth of the cave, and
they were desperately tired and hungry when they
emerged from darkness into the glorious sunlight, en-
tirely satisfied with their underground trip.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE BOX CONTAINING THE SECRET FOUND. .

The first flush of light tifging the eastern sky found
Walter Blake still awake and uureireshed. He had not
rested any; not once throu the night. had he closed
his eyes in slumber. Often he started up from the bed,
whereon he had thrown himself without undressing,
and paced the floor, his templés throbbing with pain,
wicked, demoniacal thoughts sere through his brain.
Would the night never pass? Would morning never

 
    

 

   
   

come ?- i

it was ushered in at last, roseate, beautiful, gay with
the songs of birds, but to the tortured man it brought
no peace.

tormented him; the pain in his head did not abate. No
matter; light was better than darkness, and he would
drown his thoughts and quel ©
work. He flung open the bl ‘
ing air. Its touch was delici and after bathing his
throbbing temples in cool water, he hunted up writing
materials, and wrote a letter to Gordon Graham. The
object of this letter was to induce Graham to claim the
m-her mother’s sight
vem <ndangered. It did not
take him a great while to pose it, but its phraseol-
ogy when finished did not sug: aim; but if it served the
purpose intended, that wa: that was needed. It
opened abruptly : - y “

The fiendish ee raged within and

ain in his head with
let in-the soft morn-

  
   

  
  
 
  
    
    
   

HorTeEL, August 15th. 13—.

_ “Mr. GRanAM—Sir: Do you “who Hope Huntley really
is? I write on the assumption you do not. My tidings
will bring to you a joy too x ‘utterance, if I have not

interpreted your feelings for b
in the dark as to who she is. Prepa
your wife, who, to get rid of living with you, ran away and
en; herself as companion to Mrs. Northrup, _Exercise
your authority, and compel her to live with you, and remove
her from Sharon immediately—by stealth, if necessary—or it
will be forever too late to do so, as I have ascertained beyond
a shade of doubt that her mother is at the Pavilion, and has
already met and talked with her; in fact, was so overcome by
her appearance that she for the ghost of a daugh-
ter recently deceased, and daway. I 1 enter into
no particulars, only assu | that when a confidenti

interview takes place, the will recognize her -chil

and being awoman of in ill, she will defy you

7 wrongly, and you are still
pare to be startled. Sheis

    
  
 
   

and co! 1 you to surrender Ot iv wife to her care. No mat-
ter how learned this—it is so, vs eel her; dare her to say
otherwise: ‘and, in order to be’ lly convinced, look at the

birth-mark on her arm, and send for Madame Langtry, at
whose school she was educated, to identify her. -

In this matter I do not actginselfishly, or purely from a
motive to help you. Iam stn g my Own interests. e
mother will in all human probi ity make me her heir if her
daughter’s existence is uns: , and the few thousands
your wife would eventual gapcrit would neyer fall into
your hards, and you wot your wife altogether if she
claimed her daughter. on :

“Another fact to consider: Your wife is in love with Vane
Hunter. Of that I havei le proof. So you see there is
no time to lose. Haste in this Giise is most desirable.”

Wo name was signed, : lines were traced ina
crabbed, disguised hand, 4itho8gh the writer of the
anonymous letter would not have cared much if his in-
strumentality in the matter were detected, and his hand-

ad been lighted, and the ex-
. Gtraham had the unfortun-
and would not stop to rea-
9 work to remove his wife
“That Mrs. Thornton had

bequeathing to him wit
ughter’s death was proved,
yreason to believe. Rachel's
held from her no longer ;
‘in her own, for remorse
rt-strings, and she mourned
or the child whom she had
e for a reconciliation to be
tement on her part might

   
  

ate temper of an Oriente
son, but would fiercely s

  
     
   
  
  
  
   
  
   
   
      
      
    

caused a will to be drawn @
out reserve, in case her!
all her property he had ¢
untimely death must be
the information might
| gnawed so Sharply at hei
| so bitterly and unceasing
not forgiven until too I
effected, that any undue
tend to prove fatal. 1€
and the glitter in his blaek eyes was ominous: . :

Bm shall be rich—rich! and Martha Cross shall be my
wife. ae a

While he exulted and p
to Howe’s Cave, where
his wife through anot)
anonymous letter.

ed, Rizpah was on her way
am was to learn that she was
r channel than that ot the

i

  

     

 

‘gramme if I hadn’t met you.

—hard he drew his breath, |

‘How long have you been concealed in this passage ?”

«Since morning.”

«And have you had nothing to eat in that time ?”

*‘Nary morsel.”

«You must be hungry.”

“Not very. Used toit. Eat enough to last two days
oe I get a chance, then go without when I’m keepin’
shady,”

“Were you going to stay here until morning ?”

‘Not if I know myself.”

‘Where were you going ?”

“Twas going to make a break by and by.
tell yer what!”

"Go on,” Kingsley eagerly enjoined, wondering what
his strange outlaw friend was going to propose.

“We might as well ship in the same craft. I was
wishing I could strike a pal somewheres, but I couldn't
think of one that I could trust. I can trust you, if you’ve
only got plenty of grit.”

“J am becoming hardened to anything. I fancy I
have given the police all they could attend to, trying to
catch me.”

‘Had a close shave, did ye ?”

‘Very—or rather, several of them.”

Tell me ’bout it, so that lll know what sort of stuff
you're made of.”.

Kingsley complied, detailing the thrilling story of his
flight, and the pursuit of the officers.

“Good! You're solid, you are. Pity you're honest—
though I s’pose there’s some things that a smart chap can
find to do that the cops won’t interfere with. _ You're
just the chap for me, anyhow. NowTI’ll tellye what J
was going todo. Listen, ’cause I don’t care to have the
cops in ahead of us.”

Blue Buckley rapidly detailed a shrewd plan for es-
cape, which would take them clear from the city, even
from the country if Chey so desired.

The plan was brilfiant enough, and promised success.
But it entailed a proceeding which would make Kings-
ley a guilty, instead of an innocent, fugitive trom the
police. ;

“I—] don’t fancy thé idea of doing anything of that
kind. 1 like to keep my name clean, so that if Iam ever
cleared of this false charge I may once more take my
place among respectable people,” said the young man.

*“That’s ail right—and this won’t be your racket at
all,” said Buckley. “I was goin’ to carry out the: pro-
So you ain’t responsible.
i was merely going to give you a chance to git out of the
way ofthe cops. Nobody’li ever blame ye. And as for
me, ’m a hard customer anyhow. No worse than what
you’ve done already. Didn’t yer light out with that cab
without anybody’s leave? If you're too squeamish,
youngster, you might as well go and give yourself up.
They'll catch ye sure as yer stay in the city.”

Kingsley reflected amoment. Why should he refuse
the proffered aid of the only man who believed in his in-
nocence and sympathized with his wrongs ?

The temptation was strong, and the young man was
already becoming hardened by experience. It is easy
for even an honest man to find an excuse for dishonesty
when he is under suspicion of wrong.

“J will go with you, Buckley, and share with you the
co uences, whatever they may be,” Kingsley de-
clared, in a sudden burst of desperation.

And the decision once taken he entered into the enter-
prise with a zest exceeding that of his\outlawed friend.

The wearily aWey'go the two fugitives

And I'll

   
 

in tha P secluded passage. last comparative
quiet reigned in the vicinity, and distant clocks chimed
the hour’ oktwo.ys yo) as

Then two.figures emerged from the passage. One
was straight and -Jithe, althou

x ag he Owner's hand-
some face was nearly hidden by the’ slouch hat that he
wore. x ™ * .

A et ©
His companion was short “and stout, with a rugged
face, and keen, piercing eyes.. Yet there were sotter
lines upon the countenance of Blue Buckley—lines that

| bespoke a kindly, sympathetic. nature, warped by a

reer of lawlessness, and.a long separation from the
refining influences of love and triends..,

“Come on, afore the cops spot us,” Buckley exclaimed,
in a scarcely audible whisper. yas

There were several pedestrians in, sight, but they
were going about their business, and took no notice of
the fugitives. “tt Suns

They sighted a policeman at a distance, but they gave
him a wide’ berth, and a little later they were groping
their way toward the North River piers. ‘

. Buckley knew exactly a@yhere to go and what to do.
They came to one of the” mumerous sheds along the
water-front. To enter it snot difficult, and within
five minuteSsBuckley em d with a small; light row-
boat, poised up Y .

«Put it there myself, s new where to find it,” he
declared. y

 
 
  
 
    
  
  
  
 
 
 

 

Mi the piers in the vicinity,

all oyster boat of its oars; and
then the fugitives jumped into the lighter craft and
pushed off. Sy

They made their way cautiously up the river, in and
out among piers and numerous craft along the water-
front of the city.

In an hour they had reached amore quiet locality ;
and a little later Buckley pointed toward the graceful
proportions of-a small sailing-yacht, exclaiming : ‘
\ “isn’t she a beauty? ‘And can’t you and-J get out ot

 

 

 

[THIS STORY WIL IN BOOK-FORM.]

  

Grand Park Sensation

THE SKILL OF HYJAH THE HINDOO,

By DONALD J. McKENZIE, ..

Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,’
“THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY,” ete.

 

Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]

CHAPTER XV.
A CITY OUTLAW.

Robert Kingsley had at first been much startled at
finding himself in the power of an unknown ruffian, who
was evidently a desperate ¢haracter. The stranger’s
fierce clutch, his gruff voice#Mis air of incredulity when
the young man had first declared his innocence of any
crime, had impressed Kingsley unfavorably, as was
natural.

But his feelings now underwent a change.

The stranger’s gruffness of speech had suddeniy be-
come tempered by something like kindly sympathy; and
this time he unmistakably credited Kingsley’s protesta-
tion of innocence concerning the Grand Park tragedy.

The young man could not see the face, nor even the
outline of the figure of the stranger; but he reached out
his hand, and as though brought together by some
mysterious magnetism, it mef and grasped the hand
of the unknown.

‘JT can’t see yer face, mister,” said the ruffian, in his
deliberate way, “put I kno’ by the feelin’ of yer hand
that you’re young and high-toned. You never did rough

work for a livin’, same as I hayg;and you never had
any pals of my sort, nthe We're different breeds of
chickens, that’s sure enougi# But there’s somethin’ in
yer voice that i like. I’m gdir to stick by ye, ‘less yer
say yer don’t want no part of me—eh 2”

“You are the first man who lias expressed confidence
in my innocence, and whoever and whatever you may
be, I shall be glad to count you as a friend.”

Kingsley’s voice trembled. slightly as he spoke. His
nerves had been severely tified ; he was weary in brain
and body ; he felt an almost childish joy in thus sealing
a friendly compact with soviie one.

«J ain’t no great shucks om morals, young man.”

‘You at least have a manly heart.”

«J dunno—maybe I have. But that don’t count with
the cops. They’d never count on my having a heart
onless they took a notion to shoot at it. The cops and
me don’t get on very friendly, somehow. When we
meet most ginerally fire flies ” ‘

There was a brief interval of silence between the two
so strangely met.

Sounds from the street eame plainly to their ears.
Once an officer paused at the entrance of the passage,
and swept a swift ray of tight from his bull’s-eye into
the dark place. But the two men stood so motionless
that the policeman’s hasty glance did not detect their
presence.

“Them chaps better MAuZib too sassy,” the stranger
exclaimed when the patrolinan had disappeared.

“Are they looking for you?” Robert asked. He felt a
strange, intense interest in the gruff-voiced man at his
side. 4

‘Yes, they’re always logkim’ for me!”

a suppose you are a pickpocket, or something like
that ?” eo 4

“Like enough I’m as bad as a pickpocket, if I ain’t
one. I don’t set up to be an angel.” é

‘Have you been in hiding long ?”

“Twenty or thirty year, most of the time—that’s all!
Off and on, yer know. Spent some time on the Island
and at other summer re But I’ve mostly escaped
long sentences. Never i that sort of vacation. i
s’pose you was never up? \

«Arrested, do you mean 2?”

“Yes—pulled. Ever, was ye”

“Never.” »

“And never ought to be, Vi warrant. What’s your
name? Or did you tell me ence ?”
“Robert KingMey. And you are——”

“Blue Buckley, they callme. I dunno why, onless it’s
*cause I make the cops blue when they tasten onto me.
J hate the cops. You'll hate em when they’ve chased ye
all yer life-time.”

 

4

(“The Grand Park Sensation” was commenced in No. 21. ,

 

 

The speaker seized Creston by the arm as he said this,
and gave him a vigorous push aside.

Then he sprang past him, and hastened rapidly in the
direction taken by the Jewess.

He had ‘not gone a dozen. steps, however, ‘before a
hand grasped him from behind and pulled him violently
backward.

Twisting himself free, Chris again found himself con-
fronted by the short, dark man, whose face was smiling
and triumphant. 4

You didn’t do it, did you ?” Creston. asked, a little out
of breath.

Chris realized that there was little use in trying to get
sightof the Jewessagain. She had either taken another
conveyance, or reached her destination ere now. But it
was not too late to seek satisfaction from this coolly in-
solent stranger.

The youth’s eyes blazed with anger.
him was aroused.

“Will you tell me why you are doing this?”
manded, a menacing ring in his tones...

“Yes, Pll tell you,” Creston answered. “Because you
are a Sneaking young rascal, and | know all about you.
I've seen you following young ladies béfore. and it is
time somebody told you to quit. I am of the sort that
never shirk a disagreeable duty. Solm going to put a
Stop to your game before it goes any farther.”

“Youre a pretty knowing fellow, aren’t you” Chris
exclaimed.

“I know a sneak-thief when I see one.”

«You cail me a sneak-thief, do you 2?”

«Perhaps that’s too mild a name—I can’t say.”

“Do you know who I am 2”

*] fancy I do.”

“Well, what is my name ?”

“Chris Tobin is*what you call yourself. But there are
other names that you have as good a right to use as that
one.”

Mingled with his anger, Chris felt intensely curious as
to this man’s purpose. The youth tried to reeall meet-
ing him before some time in the dim past. Had he not,
on some occasion, given the dark stranger e#ase of ens
mity ? : . 4

The lion within

he de-

he was confident that he had met this man before—but
the time and circumstances of the meeting eluded his
memory. ef

7. ou have the advantage of me, anyhow,” the youth
said.

‘My name is Creston,” the other promptly declared.
Indeed, the dark stranger did not appear like a cowardly
fellow, although there*was an expression of decided
cunning in his eyes...

«Were you ever at the Grand Park ?” Chris continued.

“The hotel of that name?” ~ ~

“Of course—l didn’t mean a bank or post-office.”

“IT have passed the place.”

«“Never stopped ?”

“Not to my recollection.”

«Then it must be that Isaw you when the cops took
you to Blackwell’s Island one of those times.”

Creston smiled. He seemed proofagainst insult.

«Possibly, if you were a passenger at the time,” he
coolly answered. ’ ‘

Chris was irritated beyond control. The’ stranger in-
sulted him, and persistently blocked his way. And all
the time he kept perfectly cool. ; '

This was more than the youth could bear. .

“Get out of my way!” he cried, again attempting to
advance, :

Creston only smiled, standing immovable as a statue.

Jnstantly the youth’s clenched hand shot out. It was
a fierce, powerful blow, and it came witha suddenness
which was unexpected to the object.

The latter dodgéd, but not quickly enough. He was
sent sprawling upon the sidewalk, amid a chorus of cries
trom passing pedestrians.

He was upon his feet again in an instant, facing his
assailant with flashing eyes.

The bystanders expected to see him retaliate with a
return blow.
exclaimed in a husky voice : .

«You will regret that, young fellow.”

Even as he spoke a policeman came up and de-
manded : :

«What's this—a row ?”

“Take him—he’s the one. He knocked the other fel-
low down !” exclaimed several voices in chorus.

With his fiushed face and the passionate vehemence
of his onslaught, Chris was believed by all to be intoxi-
cated. And, of course, they cared not about the
merits of the case, if they only saw someb: arrested.

“Come with me, youngster—I guess we can get along
without g,” the policeman said, grasping Chris by
the arm,

This brought the youth to his senses.- He caught a
look of intense exultation upon the countenance of
Creston, and realized that this was exactly what the
latter had been working for from the first. Only he
had not intended to get quite so sharpa rap in the
bargain.

“Take him, too!” the youth exclaimed. pointing at
Creston.

“Just as these gentlemen may say,” the dark stranger
returned, with a wave of his hand toward two or three
of the passers who had witnessed the assault.

“No, no,” they all hastened to ery. ae tc got the

t eet iti

 

ear er as two peas, in tl yS when i was
square and had people’s confidence. I guess I haven’t
torgotten how to play skipper.” y j

Kingsley viewed the graceful craft with admiring
eyes. At the same- time he glanced backward appre-
hensively.

“| thought I heard the splash of oars behind us,” he
nervously said, ; 7 .

“Likely enough you did.”

«We may be pursued.”

“So we may. But once aboard of her, and sails up for
the breeze, and We'll give ’em some fun.”

«But you said the owner had a guard on board ?”

«So he has—a darkey that would turn as white as you
are at sight of a pistol. You'll see him heiping us to git
under way in ten minutes. Don’t git squeamish.”

They were now under the bow of the yacht. In an-
other moment they were on board, and confronted by
a colored youth, who looked frightened and sleepy.

“Wha—what you want, boss?” he stammered, as
Buckley bent a fierce look into his face.

“Want yer toshut yer mouth, and not open it agin
‘less yer would like ter. be chucked overboard. Hey ?”

Buckley’s look and speech, full of exaggerated ferocity, |-

set the youth into a paroxysm of terror.

But he dared not open his lips. He merely stared at
the two intruders, trembling and silent.

At this moment, however, a new actor appeared upon
the scene. A tall, pompous individual, who sprang for-
ward and laid a heavy hand upon the shoulder of Robert
Kingsley. “i

“Got you now, my fine bird!” exclaimed Leck, the
police detective, thrusting a revolver close to the young
man’s face.

At that instant the officer felt a crushing grip upon
his arm. Turning, he met the fierce, menacing gaze of
Buckley, the city outlaw.

 

CHAPTER XVI.
CHRIS TOBIN’S NOVEL ADVENTURE.

Chris Tobin, as we have before intimated, was a wide-
awake young fellow. Although he cherished an im-
mense Opinion of the Hindoo detective’s ability, he at
the same time had considerable confidence in his own

irewdness.

Therefore, from the day upon which the tragedy at
the Grand Park was enacted, the youth was keenly alert
for any new developments in the case.

When Blanche, the Jewess, went forth from the hotel
to fulfill the request of the unknown decoy, Chris Tobin
chanced to be standing upon the steps.

He knew that she had received a message irom some
Que, and suspected that it was trom Kingsley.

For a reason that will duly appear, Chris was abnor-
mally interested in the relations between the beautiful
Jewess and Robert Kingsley. -

“Bet he’s hid somewhere, and sent for her to come
and see him!” the youth exclaimed, half aloud, as the
girl hastened down the street.

“Too bad if that chap really is a shark,” he reflected,
thrusting his hands deep into his pockets; and then,
after a moment, just as the Jewess passed from view,
he added: ‘“‘What’s the harm of my knowing where she
goes? And if 1 find Kingsley by these means, it may
be money in my pocket some time. Not:that I would
give him away to the cops so long as the Hindoo says
there is a chance of his being innocent. But it will be
handy to know where he is, in case he should be want-
ed. Heisa handsome young man, and blazing smart,
but he isn’t going to shut this chicken’s eye.”

The last part of this observation was made as the
youth ran down the steps and hastened along In pur-
suit of the girl.

He followed her until she alighted from a Second
avenue car. Then he alighted from his car, and was
about to pass into East Tenth street, when he came
face to face with a short, dark-complexioned young
man.

The reader will recognize this individual as Ferd
Creston ; but Chris did not recognize him, although he
felt a strong impression that they had met before.

Chris attempted to pass on, but when he stepped
aside the dark stranger did the same, blocking his way.
They repeated this maneuver several times.

Then Chris lost his temper.

“Is this whole thoroughfare your property, mister ?”
the youth demanded.

“T have an interest in it,” was the curt retort.

«Well, so have I.”

Creston made no response, but stood obstinately in
the path. - 5

Chris tried again to pass, and again the short, dark
man interposed.

The youth, had already lost sight of the Jewess, and
he feared losing traek of her altogether.

«“Oue of the way !” he exclaimed.:

“I guess not, my fine youngster.”

“Why not ?” :

“Call a policeman, and I'll tell him.”

“I didn’t ask you to tell any policeman. I want you to
get out of my way. That’s what I want, and what ’m
going to have!”

The young man smiled in cool defiance, and replied :

«You're not going to tollow that lady another block, if
1 can help it.”

“Oh! that’s the racket !”

Chris looked piercingly at the dark stranger.

eee had he seen the latter before?” he asked him-
self. We.

«J guess you’re not that girl's guardian, mister,” the
youth continued; ‘‘and if you are, you ain’t mine. So
step aside !” ;

 

 

righy one: We saw the whole of, i he y
SW a facie evidence — st Chris Tobin,
and thes realized that there was no rebuttal—at

least, not then. ;

He was conducted along the street toward the nearest
police-station. All the while he was so boiling over with
rage that he dared not trust himself to speak.

Tbe policeman broke the silence.

«You don’t look like a very hard ticket,” he observed.

They had reached Fifth street, and were within a
single square of the precinct station. ‘The officer halted
as he spoke, and looked. squarely into the face of his
prisoner.

“Better take me right along, before I murder some-
body. And after you have locked me up and chained
me down so I can’t break loose,run upto the Grand
Park and tell’em where Iam. Oh, I am a desperate
Villain, 1am!”

Chris began in an indignant tone. But he closed with
his most good-humored laugh.

“Didn’t you knock the short fellow down?” the officer
asked.

“Yes, T:aiai”

«And did he strike you first ?”

“No, he didn’t.” :

“Then what are you laughing at ?”

“Because you're so precious green.”

“No bluff, youngster. If you have aplea to make, out
with it.”

“Little good willit do now. That chap stopped me in
the street and did his level best to get me mad. IJ didn’t
smell a mice till it was too late. What he wanted was
to get me to do something foolish and have me arrested.
And he sueceeded. But I'll bet he didn’t intend to get
such a sore head as I’ve given him !” :

“What is this you are telling me?”
officer demanded.

The latter had had misgivings about arresting. Chris
from the first.

The youth briefly explained the cireumstances of the
whole affair. The policeman was sharp enough to see
that the young fellow was straightforward, and that he
had committed a blunder.

“You may go, of course,” he said. And he added:

the good-natured

“And if lrun across that short, dark chap again, I ek ;

take him under my wing and send you word. He is:
suspicious character, and possibly you will have a
chance to get even with him.” ,

Chris thanked the officer, and made his way back to
Tenth street..

AS he reached that point, he was electrified by a most
startling spectacle.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

> e@«

OLDER THAN HIS FATHER.

In all the translations of the Hebrew Bible occurs the
common oversight or blunder of stating in the Second
Chronicles that King Ahaziah was forty and two years
old on his accession to the throne of Judea at the death
ot his father, who died at the age of forty, thus making
King Ahaziah two years older than his tather. See
Second Chronicles, xxi., 20, and xxfi., 1. See, also, Sec-
ond Kings, viii., 26, where his age is correctly stated.

It is certainly a literary curiosity that with all the
comparison, collation, study, and controversy about read-
ings and meanings of the text, greater in regard to the
Bible than in regard to any other book, all its learned
scholars, commentators, and controversialists should
have in common overlooked an absurd blunder such as
this. Although in the original manuscript, and a mani-
fest blunder, it should not have been allowed to pass
without correction.

 

a
A MISSING TREASURE.

 

Seth W. Walker, an old farmer of West Herriek, Sus-
quehanna County, Pa., had no faith in savings-banks,
and kept his money secreted about his house. Among
other sums, he had nearly $1,000 stored in an old stock-
ing, which he kept. hanging on a nail from a beain.in a
dark corner of his cellar. One day Waiker hired two
tramps who came along looking tor something to do.
Two days later the tramps disappeared. Walker at
once suspected that they had discovered the hiding-
place of some of his money. He found all his treasure
safe except the stocking with the $1,000 in it. That was
gone. No trace of the tramps has been found.

> @-~<4—___ _____—___

A PRAIRIE DQG TRAP.

A prairie dog trap is ingenious. Place a headless bar-
rel over the prairie dog’s hole and halt fill it with fine

sand ‘The little burrower will soon scratch his way to
the top ofthe same. But the fine sand falls into the
hole and fills it up, andit cannot dig another through
the half-fluid particles, neither can he climb up the sides
of the barrel.

A

Long ago, says the VY. ¥. Commercial Advertiser, Baron Lie-
big made himself famous for discovering beef extract, and
now the Liebig Company is again successful in its combina-
tion of beef, coca, rare old sherry and iron, forming Liebig
Co.’s Coca Beef Tonic, a valuable remedy for those debilitated
or afflicted with indigestion, liver complaints, asthma, shat-
tered constitutions, or biliousness.

In vain Chris strove to recall the connecting link. Yet. | 7

But they were disappointed, for he only -

 

 

4

 

 

 

™

©

 

 

 

 
Snaeannieen “
- \

 

 

 

NEW °

 

YORK.

  

VOL. 41—No, 25,

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, APRIL 24, 1886.

GI POPES SUS i” SERENE Oe eo eae
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FREE.)

 

~~

 

3 months. . 75¢ | 2 copies . .>% $5.00
4 months -.. $1.00|4 copies . - . 10.00
1 Year 3.00 | 8 copies . 20.00

Remit by expfess money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis-
tered letter.
We employ no traveling agents.
letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,

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

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

“Tf you do right you will prosper.”

“Give me a higher motive, please.”

I made the firstremark. The young fellow with whom
Iwas conversing startled me with the second remark.
I thought a moment, as I stared blankly into his fine
face. if my chin dropped, his was firmly enough set.
He was desperately in earnest.

I had been proceeding to lecture to him, in this con-
ventional way, urging an upright and temperate, an in-
dustrious and an honorable life, because thereby he
would ‘‘get on” best in life. I believed such a life was
the road to personal ‘“‘success.” It is a proper thing for
us to love ourselves, to love health, the esteem of good
citizens, and the blessing of Heaven. Self-love is not
selfishness any more than fire in the grate on a cold day
is destruction of the dwelling.

But this youth was of fine fiber. He wanted a higher
motive. So I rubbed my older brows a few moments,
and then turned to him once more.

Be yourself a pure man, that you may help others to
live purely. Save your own character, that you may
save others. How does that strike you? You are to be
a physician, suppose. Very well. Cultivate character
in yourself so that you may be sent to patients, one-half
of whom are so poor they will never pay you a cent; so
that you may cure leprosy, and contract it yourself in
the curing, and suck up into your own veins the plagues
which you healin others. You shall die of tse plague
which you cure in others. Is that highenough? If you
knew that that would be the result, would you be a
good man for such wages ?

Or, you are to be a manufacturer? Be good and true,
in order that you may neglect your office half the time
while you ‘‘bother” with your operatives’ social needs,
building a library, a church, a school. By being a very
good man, by cultivating very exalted character, it
might be impossible for you to be deaf to working-men's
problems, impossible for you to push your business be-
yond twenty thousand dollars a year, since so much of
the good heart’s energies will be drawn off in other di-
rections ; impossible for you to die possessed of more
than half a million, whereas if you were less of a good
character you might have died essed of a round
million. {is this high enough? If you thought such
would be the result of a very noble manhood, would you
seek it ?

Or, cultivate high character, so that, as you own a
yacht, you may not have the use of the fair craft once a
week all the coming”’summer, because it is in such con-
stant employ serving the ‘Fresh Air Fund” filled with
tenement-house babies.

If you will be a very good man, perhaps you may be
compelled by your heart to go to help found the Congo
State, and redeem a race; you may be impelled so that
you cannot resist to go suffer sun-strokes, fever, delirium,
and to fill alone grave in that dark continent. The
civilization of this race is the newest problem before the
world. Only very good men will attempt it. It is one
of the risks you run in being ambitious to be a very
noble man that such nobility may land you in the dlack
heart of Africa. Now, be sure of yourself. Do you
think. you dare be a,very

 
     

 

ty

 

 

A woman leading a lap-dog, in company or on the
street, is always an inspiriting and refreshing spectacle.
We have seen one too feeble to lift her baby pass half a
day in the dry-goods store, pulling a wretched pug
around among the lower limbs of multitudes of shop-
pers, and rescuing him from “destruction among dogs,
and street cars, and frantic cabs, with the courage and
addréss of a Diana.

A woman who can handle a dog skillfully on a crowd-
ed city street is mistress of strategy. If she can keep
him from sniffing at the fur-lined circulars of the ladies
and the seal coats of the gentlemen, as if he scented
muskrats, she understands the science.

If she can keep him from growling and scratching
when he discovers a package of beefsteak in the pocket
of some thrifty working-man who is taking home his
supper in its crude state, she has proved herself an
efficient trainer.

There may be some people who dislike dogs carried
round in company, but they have to bear it. There is no
law against it. If a woman wants to tie herself and a
lap-dog together, who's to hinder? If she wants to
wipe his dear, little, sweet, cunning nose on her em
broidered handkerchief, and scent him with ottar of
roses, and blanket him with silk and velvet, and put
gold collars around his neck, and wear crape when he
dies, and bury him with honors in the family tomb—let
her do it! We are not going to lose any sleep on ac-
count of it. It is one of the privileges of a free country.

UNCLE MEDDLE'S LETTERS.

NO. 12.

 

To Saul Meddle, Who Thinks of Going West.

 

DEAR NEPHEW: You’ve come to thé right shop for ad-
vice about pullin’ up an’ goin’ out West, to grow up with
the country. For your old uncle hez ben West hisself.

Ef you’d gone to somebody who hadn’t never ben fur-
ther West than New York, he could talk stronger on one
or t’other side. for the man who knows least is alluz the
one whose tongue runs freest—he ain’t got nuthin’ to
hold it back. ; ;

Yes; I’ve ben West. I went there to grow up with
the country. An’ it took me five years, after I got back
East, to be wuth as much as when I started.

That wuzn't the West’s fault, so I reckon it must hev
ben mine. :

The West went on growin’ an’ spreadin’, like a mornin’
glory vine on 3a back kitchen wall, but I wuz stunted
from the fust. An’ the longerI staid the stunteder I
got.

That wuzn’t what I went fur, so I knew somethin’
wuz wrong. Then 1 felt that somebody or somethin’
wuz to blame.

So I. blamed the country, but that didn’t make things
any better. Then I blamed the climate, ezif that wuz
any meaner to me than other folks.

Then I grumbled a spell about the people, though
they hadn’t been anyways different from people else-
wheres.

But one day when I wuz too down-hearted to be
mulish, I wuz honest to myself for jest a minute, an’
owned up that I, Seth Meddle, wuz the only bein’ or
thing to blame.

The whole reason I hadn’t growed along with the
country wuz that I hadn't planted myself right.

Just stow that away in your memory, my boy, for I
want to come back to it after a while.

The West is like human nature, my boy; it’s simply
an’ tremenjusly glorious—in spots. Onlike human na-
ture, the glorious spots are big.

An’ its bad spots are big, in which respect it’s human
nature's twin. brother.

It’s called a land flowin’ with milk an’ honey. I don’t
know where milk an’ honey’ flow slower, or where
there’s less of ’em to flow; but when you come to hog.
an hominy, it beats the world.

You can’t starve there, unless you're too lazy to eat.
Av I s’pose fe know that to keep from starvin’ is the
hardest job t nearly ev'ry Eastern man you meet hez-
got on his hands.

It’s a land where you needn’t be worried about your
nabors, for, by pickin’ your country, you needn't have
no nabors of any kind.  —

Itsaland where a young feller can buy a hoss ez
cheap ezasuit of clothes, an’ the feed of the critter
ain’t ez costly ez a passion for rum, like it is here.

You can go there an’ git a half-mile square of good
land for nothin’, if you want to stick to farmin’, while
here you couldn’t earn the price of that much ground in
a life-time. -

You can live in a house out there no bigger nor bet-
ter’n yer uncle’s woodshed, an’ not be thought any the
wuss of, ef you're a square man.

‘SATISFACTION.

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Just after some unselfish deed
We do, some honest action,

An angel tarries at the door
And brings us Satistaction.

She fills complete the niche prepared
Beforehand to receive her,

And seems too placid and too calm
For anything to grieve her.

She sweetens with her own fair hands
Our mingled griets and blisses,

And when we do our duty well
She comforts us with kisses.

Of all the guests we entertain,
Through duty_orattraction,

There’s none that gives us so much joy
As gentle Satisfaction.

Because no mortal here below
This sweet companion gaineth,
If he by sin and evil ways
His daily record staineth.

She makes the heart beat light and free,

' She makes the tongue sing praises,

She leads us with a strong, sure hand
Through life’s intricate mazes.

Keep us, fair Heaven, from evil ways—
From lives of sad inaction ;

That we may keep, while here below,
Our guest, sweet palisfaction.

A TALE OF HOUSE-HUNTING.

BY HELEN FGRRES] URAVES.

“T won't allow myself victimized in this outrage-
ous manner another daf¥!” said Mr. Ebenezer Prime, in
slow, deliberate accents—the accents of a man who has
fully made up his mind, and who is not tobe diverted
from his decision by bayonets, cannon balls, or even a
lawsuit. ‘No, Pll not stand it!”

The scene was a bright, cheery little private parlor in
a boarding-house, where the window was full of blossom-
ing plants ranged one aboye another, forming a sort of
bower for three plump little canary birds, who were ad-
justing their plumage in the amber torrent of April sun-
shine that fairly deluged them with its balmy warmth
and brightness. There was a green carpet on the floor,
dotted all over with white rosebuds, and cozy, green-
covered furniture, and a blazing fire of Liverpool coal in
the wide, low grate, and, altogether, things looked ex-
cessively comfortable. F ;

Mr. Ebenezer Prime was @-pliilosophic old bachelor,
and he liked comfort. <—* :

“Sambo,” said Mr. Prime, to the black servant who
“<< respectfully by the door.

SSir 2”

   
   

‘You may tell your mistress I'll see her hanged before
Ill pay tive dollars a week more for board.’

“Yes, sir,” quoth the obedient menial, turning toward
the door. — ,

«‘No—stop, Sambo,” ‘. Prime, ‘you needn’t put
it in those exact words. ll her I shall leave this es-
tablishment on the first day of May precisely—with my
compliments. Be very particular about the compli-

| ments, Sambo.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sambo, bowing himself out of the
room, while Mr. Prime jumped up and gave the fire an
indignant stab with the poker by way of escape valve
for his overcharged feelings.” ;

“T'd just like toknow where these boarding-house
keepers expect to go when they die,” soliloquized Mr.
Prime. ‘‘The idea of charging me thirty-five dollars a
week for my board! Mrs. Jenks must be accumulating
a fortune second only to Rothschild. By the way,
there’s an idea for the payment of the national debt. If
the government kept a boarding-house, there’d be no
kind of difficulty in the thing. Ill write to the Secre-
tary of the Treasury about it this very atternoon—that
is, | would write if I hadnt made up my mind to go out
and engage a house, so that I can commence house-
keeping on my own account the first of May. A man’s
own business first and the government second—that’s
my motto. Where’s the newspaper ?”

And Mr. Ebenezer Prime plunged into the advertise-
ment columns with an energy that astonished ‘even
himself; but then, to be sure, the emergency was
reat.

 

 

 

   

 

  

 

 

ne

   
   

ey take all a man’s time N, : uss g
all his money often. Often very, very good men go
begging from door to door to get money for their philan-
thropic schemes, after they have spent the last of their
own dollars. Such men have been stoned, been laughed
at—which is worse than stoning—been killed outright.
Come, now, young Garibaldi, are you equal te that?
They who fly high do not want wax wings for the sun
to melt.

You are a shop-girl. Be very ambitious to excel in
character. The result will be that all in the shop wiil
come to cast their burdens on your taithful shoulders.
If any one is sick, to you will she send asking that you
do her work, with your own, for the day. You will be
like some beautiful wax taper, lighted at both ends and
burning out fast—a blessed martyr! Is the motive high
enough? itis the highest that is known to man. It is
the Christ motive. We are told that celestial beings re-

ard it as Godlike, and hold crowns everlasting for such
Eeroes and heroines. I think the stock of crowns is by
no moans exhausted. ;

Or, you are a mechanic. Aim high in character, that
you may never be anything else but a mechanic; that
you may repair the drunkard’s roof with money that
would have painted your own cottage a new, bright
coat; that, to reclaim the outcast, you may spend the
savings which you had put aside to buy your own chil-
dren a new piano—and so wait for harps on high; that
you may slave it for scores of people who would not
wipe their feet on you twenty years hence. . But twenty
years hence you may be among a company who have no
soiled feet, from treading pavements of burnished gold.

There are not lacking high motives if you are high
enough to reach them. You often object to a virtue
which is inspired by a ‘‘fear of hell” or a ‘‘selfish hope of
heaven”’—my young iriend’s words, a moment before.
Very well. If you Will do, and dare, and suffer to quench
hell on earth and light up a heaven here, I guess you
can find work. Are you ready ?

My friend even objected to ‘‘being good for the sake of
being good,” as a relatively low motive. I do not agree
with him. But he can go higher, if he will. Be good to
help others to be the same; to rescue the vicious, the
evil, the pain-smitten, those who are gnashing their
teeth with remorse. I do not think you need fear their
recompensing you again. They generally forget. A
man will remember to repay a dollar, but most bene-
ficiaries forget to repay, even by thanks, a moral benefit.
It is all clean, clear, exalted, unpaid virtue. Are you
ready? Then go in to win—ruined lives!

 

——_—_—- +- @-~

LAP-DOGS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

The dog is a noble, intelligent, and faithful animal.

So natural history assures us, and we have been
taught from our youth up, along with the Ten Com-
mandments and the catechism, that there is no species
of creation quite so intelligent as the dog, unless we
may except man. So, of course, it must be so. We
hayen’t a word to say against the dog. He is here. He
has come to stay. He is taxable property, and the rey-
enue he yields goes to pay for the sheep he kills and to
help swell the school fund.

It is true that there are some little disagreeable things
attending the keeping of dogs sometimes. They will
test the calves of strangers; they will bring all the
bones and old shoes in the neighborhood up on your
front lawn ; they will race cats over your flower-beds ;
they will run mad and bite; but hydrophobia is not
their fault; it is their misfortune. We don’t suppose
there is a dog living who especially hankers after hydro-
phobia.

Dogs are handy to have around. They are supposed
to keep off tramps who prowl for cold victuals. They
absorb the surplus heat from the kitchen stove, and
teach the cook to control her temper when she has to
step over one at least forty times a day, and guard
against stepping on his tail, or take the consequences.
They will eat up all the refuse meat and bones, and
sigh, like Oliver Twist, for more. <A dog is nice for the
children—“‘healthy for ’em,” we have heard old folks
say. You want a dog to pull stray boys out of the pond
when they fallin. You want one to hunt up babies left
in baskets out in the snow. You want one to puton
the track of your husband when he gees out evenings
to attend to a little business matter and brings up at
the corner grocery. You want one to help the other
dogs in the neighborhood do the barking at night. You
want one for thousands of purposes; but, most of all, a
dog is useful as.a lap ornament.

He must be tied to a string, and you must hold one
end. In order to do this properly, you must be a wo-
man. When a man attempts it, observers never can
tell which puppy is doing the leading.

an show you lots of placesin the West where a |
man of decent face an’ ways can borry ev'ry cent of |
money there is in a town, ef he wantsit, on his bare
promise to pay it back agin.

Et he tried that in the East he’d hev to give his note |
ev'ry time, and most of the lenders would want a good
indorser besides.

lt’s a glorious country; but ef you think the ground
‘ll grow crops without bein’ worked just stay East till
you learn better.

Ef you think ’cause hosses is cheap it’s a good country
for buggy-ridin’, carry a big stock oe canal with you,
an’ a few decent but strong cuss words, fur there’s long
times when you might ez well be on a desert islan
without a boat ez on a Western farm in the muddy
seasen.

Mebbe you b’leave the good farms—an’ they are good
that Uncle Sam gives away—are near towns, an’ rail-
roads, an’ schools, an’ churches, an’ other conveniences
so common in the East that we don’t begin to ’preciate
‘em. But ef you don’t ‘enter a quarter section,” as they
Say out there, till you find one with all these things
i the West will never git yow for one of its stand-

ys.

Praps you think, ’cause the people there are hearty
an’ open handed you can beat ’em in tradin’, or in poli-
tics. ;

That's what I thought, but though 1 went out there
with a pooty,good outtit ov everythin’, includin’ a good
hoss and a couple of hundred dollars in cash, I come |
home with nothin’ but the clothes I had on, an’ ther
wuz nothin’ in the pockets of ’em. Nobody hadn’t
cheated me, nuther.

I wuz goin’ to learn ’em some sense in politics; of
course I was goin’ to the legislatur, an’ congress, an’
mebbe be guy’nor.

The only office Lever stood a livin’ chance of gettin’
wuz constable, an’ they only picked me out fur that
*cause one of the natives said it needed a slow, ploddin’ 4
feller to be a good constable.

Saul, my boy, ef you want to grow up with a country
you've got to be planted right, from the start.

Men are like trees; you’ve got to pick soil to suit, or
you might ez well kill the tree ez plant it. ;

Go West, ef you like, an’ look at the country an’folks,
but don’t drop into a place that don’t suit, thinkin’ youll
suit i¢ after a while.

‘The country where a man ort to grow best is the
country where he wuz brought up.

The country where a young feller can do best is
where there’s most chances to pick from.

Ther'’s ten times as much money bein’ made in the lit-
tle crowded East ez ther is in the great big West.

An’ don’t you forget ther’s lots of big men bein’ made
nt too, out of boys thet started on nothin’ but

rains. © -

Ef growin’ with the country is what’s lyin’ heaviest
on your mind, stay wherever you be, keep your eyes
an’ ears open, do your best with every chance you git,
an’ you'll grow till you’re outside any body else in the
Meddile family, though ther ain’t nothin’ small ’bout any
of us. Your affectionate

UNCLE MEDDLE.

>

About Going West.

The expectation of readily finding a fortune in the
West, or of getting in the way of rapidly making one,
has compelled many a young man to pack his grip-sack,
and turn his face toward the setting sun. Some sound
advice on this theme is given in another column, by
UNCLE MEDDLE, who knows just what he is talking
about. It will be of service to all who meditate a change
of base, no matter in what direction they think of
traveling.

 

 

——_——_—_—_—_—_ > 9 <+—_____—_.
HOW THE JAPANESE ADVERTISE.

The art of writing advertisements ina succinct and
expressive manner is not confined to the Americans.
Here is the way a bookseller in Tokio, Japan, advertises
his busimess in the local papers : 3

“The advantages of our establishment—1, prices cheap
as a lottery ; 2, books elegant as a singing girl; 3, print
clear as crystal; 4, paper tough as elephant’s hide; 5, cus-
tomers treated as politely as by the rival steamship com-
panies ; 6, articles as plentiful as in a library; 7, goods
dispatched as expeditiously as a cannon ball; 8, parcels
done up with as much care as that bestowed on her hus-
band by a leving wife; 9, all defects, such as dissipation
and idleness, will be cured in young people paying us
frequent visits, and they will become solid men; 10, the
other advantages we offer are too many for language to
express.’

 

—_> @~<

THE strong character is the well-balanced character
—not the one in which an exceptional virtue or a single
good impulse runs to seed at the expense of all the
rest, but rather one in which all the faculties are trained
in harmony with each other, and all good qualities com-
bine to form a happy aliance. ;

- Out there you can find lots of places where you can go | &
to church in yer workin’ clothes an ’ nobody’! think t e | i

He was a brisk, bust
head slightly ba. » the Frown, anda

the beak of an eagle—amwild bachelor who wore huge
gold spectacles, and took Snuff to an appalling amount,
and laid down the law *@everybody without the least
tolerance for anything t, # bore the shape of contradic-

tion. : f

People were wont maliiously to say that Mr. Eben-
ezer Prime never got married because he never could
agree with any one ladyylonger than three days ata
time, but no doubt this was an atrocious libel.

Mr. Prime kept a TOL, a die, a Brazilian mon-
key, a pair of white rabbifs, and three canaries, by way
of companionship for his lonely hours; and of all the
array the monkey and parrot were his chief favorites,
probably because, as Mrs. Jenks said, ‘‘they were too
ugly for a Christian to endure, with their tricks and
their malice, and their heathenish ways.”

Perhaps, all things considered, thirty-five dollars a
week was not too exorbitant a charge for the board of
Mr. Ebenezer Prime and his family. :

Mr. Prime thought differentiy, however, as he brushed
his hat and eee cologne over his pocket-hander-
chiet, and tied his blue silk cravat in an elaborate but-
terfily-bow, preparatory to sallying forth on the great
business gf house-hunting.

“There are plenty of houses to let,” soliloquized Eben-
ezer, pulling on his gloves, and thoughtfully eying the
list he had hurriedly written down in his memorandum-
book. ‘If I can’t suit my among all these ‘desirable
residences,’ as the papers ®all’em, why, it isn’t likely I
shall be able to suit myself at all.”

AS he walked along the streets, bright with the
shadowy gold of the fleeting April sunbeams whose
slender wands of enchantment seemed to transform
even New York curbstones to something that breathed
of spring, he pondered in most sanguine style on the
future that was opening beigre him.

“A home of my own—servants of my own—a house-
keeper who'll pay some attention to what I say to her—
coffee always hot—toast browned just right—steaks
broiled to a turn—no piano everlastingly jingling over
your head, and no teething babies making night hideous
in the next room. Why did I never think of this de-
lighttul plan before? Halloa! here’s house Number
One !

Mr. Ebenezer Prime ran up the steps and pulled the
bell. Nobody came. He pulled it a second time, rather
more emphatically. Still no one responded. The third
time he aided the bell-wires with a brisk application of
his knuckles on the door. Apparently this method of
signifying his presence was successful, for a tall, bony
old woman came out with a suddenness that reminded

ing, little old bachelor _some-

     
 
     

times bought for his little nephews and nieces. ;
«This house is to let, 1 suppose?” said Mr. Prime, in-
quiringly.
The old woman made nreply, but came out on the
steps, and critically examined the panels of the door
through her spectacles.

 
  
  
  
  

“Oh! I’m glad toe y're all safe. I supposed
you’d stove ’em in,” s' arked, satirically. ‘Now,
then, what’s wantin’ ? y’s dead or dyin’, I hope ?”

“Not that I know of,”

“T should ha’ thought ©
a desperate hurry.”

“7 want to look at this house,” said Mr. Prime, a little
shortly.

“Folks can’t always have just what they want,” re-
turned the venerable dame. bringing her silver spec-
tacles detiantly to bear on Mr. Prime’s. gold spectacles.
“Nobody don’t see this house without a permit from the

ent.”

“‘Where does the agent live ?”

«Down in Pearl street, somewhere.”

“But, my good woman, I can’t go all the way down to
Pearl street.”

“That's your own lookout,” said the old lady, com-
posedly cleaning her nails with a crooked pin. “AI
know is, yeu can’t come in without a permit.”

And this was the ultimatum, as far as Mr. Prime was
concerned, for the old woman turned and went into the
house, deaf to his arguments and entreaties.

“The old Witch of Endor! The cross-grained tabby-
cat!” thought Ebenezer, vindictively, as he went off. “I
wouldn’t hire that house if f could get it for five cents a
year and the water taxes threwnin! If the people at
the next place aren’t more olite, I shall begin to think

‘é was, by your bein’ in such

2

that human nature is a h “

The “next place” was a handsome brown-stone house,
whose plate-glass windows, draperied with rich lace
and purple silk curtains, just revealed baskets of hot-
house flowers on tiny gilded stands. Our old bachelor,
duly shown into the parlors to await the appearance of
a cicerone, threw himself upon a sofa of purple broca-
telle, dragging—after the fashion of men—the delicate
lace tidy down under him as he did so.

“You wished to see the house, sir?’ languidly in-
quired an elegantly dressed matron, entering just as he
was estimating the probable cost of the superb alabas-
ter statuette of Cupid and Psyche on the mantel.

““Y-yes, ma’am,” stammer Mr. Prime, hurriedly
feeling for his pocket-handke¥chief and making a dive
at a tidy instead, whigh-he instantaneously pock-
eted. .

“I wit show it to you,”Aaid the lady, calmly.

And, as she passed info the hall, she whispered a word
or two into the ear ofa servant.

“A nice house—aVery nice house,” said Mr. Prime,
delightedly, when he had viewed all the rooms. ‘I think
it will suit me. What is the rent ?”

 

 

 

 

No grander thing can a man do than to give a helping
hand to a young Man who has become discouraged. -

“Three thousand dollars a year,” said the lady, con-
templating an amethyst ring on her finger.

en

 

Roman nose like

“Oh!” ejaculated Mr. Prime, his lower jaw involun-
tarily falling, ‘‘I—I don’t think it will exactly suit me,
after all; for——”

“You are my prisoner, sir!” said a gigantic policeman,

| touching him on the shoulder.

‘1? What for, I'd like to know ?” exclaimed Mr. Ebe-
nezer, in unmitigated astonishment. ¥

“Well, you're a pretty one for such an old one!” said
the gilt-buttoned official, with a jovial air. ‘‘To ask

out of your pocket this very minute!’

Ebenezer stared helplessly down at the mute witness
against him. ‘There it was, however, crammed into his
eOat-pocket, as plain as the sunshine on the floor.

Why, how on earth did that come there ?”

“To be sure—that's the very question,” said the police-
man. “And now we're on the subject of askin' ques-
tions, p’raps you'll be good enough to tell us what you’ve
done with them hats and overcoats you stole from this
’ere hall, come Tuesday was a week.

“IT stole !”

“Yes. you! Come, we know very well your’e an old
hand at the business—there’s no use goin’ the injured
innocence dodge. Shall I walk him off, ma’am ?”

“I give him in charge, policeman,” said the lady, with
a dignified air:

“There’s some confounded mistake here, my good
man,” said Prime, with a perturbed countenance, ‘I am
Mr. Ebenezer Prime, of No. — Wall street.

“I dare say,” quoth the policeman, ironically. ‘P’rps
abe kindly leave your Visitin’ card at the station-

ouse !’

And the guardian of the public peace was about to
conduct Mr. Prime, nolens volens,\to that sanctum of
law, when the Gordian knot of misapprehension was cut
by the sudden appearance of a young man whose place
= patent on Wall street happened to adjoin Mr.

rime’s. ;
“Hallo! Why, what’s the matter, Prime? Sue, what’s
Sue explained the circumstances, with true feminine
discursiveness as to detail, and her brother burst into a
merry peal of laughter, which infected Ebenezer Prime
also, indignant though he was.

“Clear out, policeman !” exclaimed Walter May. ‘‘This

u

‘| isn’t the hall-thief you're on the lookout for. Sue, I don’t

see how you ever suspected Mr. Prime of wanting to
steal your tidy!” P

Mrs. Brainard overwhelmed our luckless hero with
apologies, which, however, quite failed to soothe the
wounded pride of Mr. Prime. He departed in high
dudgeon, muttering uncomplimentary remarks relative
to the discrimination of those ladies who didn’t know
m6 Eee, between a hall-thief and a Wall street

roker.

“Human nature’s at a very low ebb indeed—very !”
said Mr. Ebenezer, taking snuff, pensively, and dubi-
ously surveying the house that occupied the third post
on his list.

A sharp-faced little old man was standing in the door-
way, and him Mr. Prime accosted.

“Sir, is this house to let ?”

“No, sir, it isn’t!” retorted the old man, snapping his
words out, as if his mouth were a steel trap with a re-
markably strong spring on the door.

“Isn’t there a billon the side of the door, sir?” de-
manded Mr. Prime, tartly.

“Yes, there is, sir,” retorted the old man, looking
Ebenezer full in the face,

“Why don't you take it down, sir ?”

“Because I didn’t put it up, sir,”

“Who did, sir ?” :
_ “The landlord, I sup) a &.

“And why the—mischief doesn’t he take it down ?”

“It’s no business of mine why he doesn’t.”

“Sir, you are very et eae Eee

“Sir, ’m sorry my manners don’t suit you.”

And Mr. Prime departed, fairly conquered in tne
wordy battle that had just been waged.

At the next house, hearing incidentally that he could
not see the second-floor front room, because ‘‘Charlie”
was just recovering from a venomous attack of small-
pox, he retreated precipitately. The next mansion
smiled at him from between two six-story tenement-
houses, and the next was adjoining a flourishing colony
of omnibus stables. _f

Mr. Prime tore his list in two, whirled round on his
heel, and set his teeth resolutely together. .

“There is a limit to human patience, and a limit to
human sole-leather,” he muttered. “Ill go home.”

And Mr. Ebenezer Prime, returning from hls house-
hunting travels, a sadder and a wiser man, sent to sum-
mon Mrs. Jenks to his presence.

“Mrs. Jenks !”

« ‘Sir 7 : x

“I have changed my mind since this morning. I have
concluded, on mature deliberation, to retain my posi-
tion as a member of—ahem—your very select and agree-
able family for at least another year.”

“Thank you, sir; I’m sure I’m very much obliged to
you,” said Mrs. Jenks, courtesying, and inwardly mar-
veling at her boarder’s unusual politeness.

But she never knew what peculiar combination of cir-
cumstances had wrought the ‘‘change of mind” so casu-
ally mentioned by Mr. Ebenezer Prime. He never told
mortal soul his aayentures while engaged in the mo-
mentous business of house-hunting.

—— > @ ~~

 

   
 

 

BY CLEW GARNET,

 

Frank Henderson was considered a great ‘catch” by
anxious mammas in the village of Gossiptown,,
many a trap was laid toinveigle him into the net of
matrimony by those who had marriageable daughters;
for Frank had a little money, was in business, drove
fast horses, and was looked upon as one of the sharpest
men in his line.

But Frank had a most tantalizing way of dividing his

 

him comically of the “surprise-boxes” he had some- |

attentions around, and no one could fairly fix him in the
trap she had set for him. One day he would drive out
with one fair expectant, the next another would be
seated in his buggy, on the third a remorseless young
widow in her ‘‘half mourning” would smile as she sped
along at a three-minute gait over the road, listening to
a dissertation on horses, for Frank Henderson was an
enthusiastic lover of equines, if of nothing else, except
his own very dear self.

There was one couple in Gossiptown who were bent
on-capturing Frank. One wanted to be his mother-in-
law; the other wanted to be his wife. The first used

such a question as that when the lady's tidy is sticking,

;
|
q

i “Louise La V

a‘ Queen's

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.
t2~ 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 to render
the answers to questions absolutely reliable. ]

 

Winnie Thorndyke.—The height of Mt. Katahdin, Maine, is
5,385 feet : Mt. Mitchell, North Carolina, 6,760; Mt. Mansfield,
Vermont, 4,275; Mt. Holyoke, Mass., 830; Mt. Wachuset, Mass.,
2,018 ; Mt. Marcy, New York, 5,467; Mt. Hood, Oregon, 11,235;
Mt. Tom, Mass., 1,214; Mt. St. Elias, Alaska—voleanie, 17,900;
Mt. Ranier, Washington Teritory, 14,444; Mt. Madison, New
Hamphshire, 5,415; Pilot Knob, Missouri, 444; Mt. Shasta,
California—volcanic, 14,442; Iron Mountain, Missouri, 1,500;
Mt. Jefferson, New Hampshire, 5,657 ; Mt. Whitney, Cal., 14,887;
Mt. Fairweather, Alaska, 14,796 ; Gray’s Peak, Col., 14,450; Mt.
Harvard, Col., 14,384 ; Rosa’s Peak, Col, 14,340; Pike’s Peak
Col.: 14,336 ; Torrey’s Peak, Col., 14,336 ; Evan’s Peak, Col., 14,-
330: Long’s Peak, Col, 14,272; Y: Col., 14,150; Prince-
ton, Col., 14,199;’ Mt. Lincoln, ale 14,100;  Fremont’s ~
Peak, W POUR, 13,570 ; Arpeasine Pass, Col., 13,000; Breckin-
ridge Pass., Col, 11,000: Mt. St. Helen, Washington Territory,
9,750 ; Middle Park, Col., 8,800; Mt. Washington, N. H. 6.298 ;
Peaks of Otter, Va., 4,260; ’ Round Top, Catskill, ‘NY.
3,800 ; Brown Mountain, highest of the Rocky untains,
16,000; Mt. St. Bernardino, Cal. 11,600: Mt. Tyn: Cal. 14,-
386; Mt. Brewer, Cal., 13,886 ; Mt. Dana Cal., 13,277; Mt. Olym-
pur. Washington Territory, 8,138 ; Mt. Baker, Washington

ferritory, 11,100; Mt. Adams, W ton Territory, 9,570. In
lieu of several peaks or mountains, the exact height of which
is not on record, we have given the names of others not men-
tioned in the query. ‘

Rupert.—ist. The East River, at the Fulton ferry, is
yards wide. 2d. The first savings-bank in the world
founded at Hamburg in 1778; the first one chartered in_
York was incorporated in 1819. 3d. It is estimated that about
one-fourth of the inhabitants of this State have saving-bank

accounts. 4th. The star-route trials took place in Washing-
ton in 1882-83. The star-routes are those ever a
oot Xa

-

  

 

 

mailsware carried by other conveyance than tha ‘oads
They are so called ause in the records of nae
. The
trials grew out of the discovery that certain ie
nected with the general post-office were belie
at a greatly increased expense to the govern: ;
B., Helena, Ark.—ist. Yes. It comes under the same rule as |
was at McVicker’s Theater, in Chicago, on Sept. 29, 1884. He
died on Nov. 8, 1885. He first showed signs of serious illness
some time, hoping to resist the encroachments of the |
Bice _ which had agtecked him. Fancying himself fe to
what better he reappeared on the says. and March 3, sem
New York. was ie
engagement in city. On June 29, he i for
many, where he remained a short time, to
4th. Any short-hand system may be employed. Pitman’s sys-
| tem of photography can be furnished for $1.50, :
Albany for New York at 6 o’clock, P. M., on Monday, April 7,"
1845, and about two hours later, during a severe snow
son, and in the Athens passage. Immediately after striking,
her oil lamps in the cabin upset, setting the boat on fire. —
alive, jum into the water, but two other steamboats
ing to the rescue, only fourteen lives were lost. . The’
The enlargement was in 1 and comple
3d. No date to aid you, except in peanut to the Seneca River
pleted in the spring of 1857. ae.
C. £. ¥., Windsor, Ill.—1st. The office of Secretary of State
Congress, there being no office of the kind. 2d. Fe or a long
time the two great political anizations of #

partment they are marked with an as
the contracts for carrying the mails to t own profit, an
ment,
“It is he.” 2d. The last appearance of McCullough, the actor,
in the spring of 1883, and he retired to Quincy, IL, where he.
played at the Star Theater,
this
a

this country by way of England. 3d. Norecord of ei

A. C.Q. M., White Plains.—ist. The steamer Swallow left
ran upon Rock Island, one of a ledge of rocks opposite Hi
Many of the passengers, preferring drowning to being b
Canal (original) » commenced in 1817, and ope
Aqueduct, which was commen in January, 1849,
was created by a law passed at the first session of the first

 
 
   

were known as the Democratic and Whig p: :
1854, it is said, Horace Greeley wrote a letter to a
legany County, N. Y., giving to the latter party
Republican ; and in several State conventions held |
that time the name was formally accepted, John C. Free
mont in 1856 being the first Republican candidate for the
Presidency. sf ’
L. L.—vThe ill-fated steamship Oregon was the only ship of
the Cunard Company that was not specially built for the use
of that line. She ranin the Guion Line ‘until May, 1884,
when she was Papchaced by the Cunard Company, and —

transferred to that line. In arc: 1885, she_was e)
R

 

      

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

  
   
 
 
 
 
 

 

eke, a

 

 

 

Court of Monte-Cristo,” “Edmond Dantes,” ‘The Countess

of Monte-Cristo,” “The Three Guardsmen,” “Twenty Years.
After,” “Bragelonne ; the Son of Altros,” * Tron Mask,”

alliere,” “The Memoirs of a Physician,” “The
Necklace,” “Six Years Later,” “Countess of Charny,”
‘Andre de Traverney,” “The Chevalier.”

David P., Jersey City.—Ist. On her first trip from Queens-
town to New York the steamship Oregon consumed three
hundred and five tons of coal every twenty-four hours. . 2d.

The Oregon’s fastest trip was made in August, rae she
steamed from Queenstown to the bar off Sandy Hook in six
days nine hours twenty-two minu The Etruria’s time—
ooh best on record—was six days five hours forty-four min-

 

SE

A
Al. C. McB., Flushing, Long Island.—The Cunard line of

steamships has lost three vessels, but no lives. The Colom-

bia, one of Cunard’s first steamships, went ashore ‘bet:

Halifax and Boston, and could not be got off ; and ipoli

went ashore near ‘Tuskar, off the coast of Ireland, and was

oa up. The Oregon, therefore, makes the third Cunarder
OB :

\

Titus, Karns City, Pa.—The steam Fire-engine Co. No. 33, of
this city, with automatically fastening harness—men out-

side of their quarters and horses ore the engine w
the gong was sounded—hitched up (May 31, 1884) in one

 

ute five-eighth seconds. The same time was made by
Co. No. 7 of this city (same conditions), on Nov. 7, 1885.

P. S. B., Westchester County.—1st. The Aldermen in this

every wile that an experienced matrimonial angler | city are paid $2,000 per annum; the president of the board

understands. | She made frequent parties, to which | ¢3,000. 2d. The salary of a member of the i

he was ever invited. She threw out innumerable hints

as to the loneliness of single life; and she sounded the | days.

praises of her industrious, her frugal, her sweet-tem-

; the Legislature of this
State is now $1,500 for the regular session, whether it be lo ;
or short. Until 1874 the salary was: dred ;

a day for one hun
After that period the pay meen enuirely,

R.C. M., Meriden, Conn.—Schuyler Colfax, who was elected

pered daughter in his ears evermore. It ever there was | yice-President on the Republican ticket with Gen. Grant in

a perfect angel on earth, it was her Amanda Jane.

And Amanda Jane was ‘gotten up”, in dresses, jew-
elry, &c., in a way calculated to show him he wouldn’t
have much to buy for Mrs. Henderson, shovid Amanda
Jane become Mrs. H,, for years to come. And this was
an object, for Frank was economical in everything but
horseflesh. titbee ° tein

As to Amanda Jane, she studied to please. If he but
hinted that he liked blue dresses, she was blue every
time he turned up at her mother’s house. He smoked
an old brier-wood pipe.
him she said:

«The aroma of tobacco is delightful, especially when
smoked in a sweet brier-wood pipe!”

Frank began to succumb to the double onslaught of
mother and daughter. He drove out with the latter
three evenings in succession. He prolonged his last
ride to midnight on a moonlight night. The mother
was in ecstasy—the daughter just entering the seventh
heaven. Frank had hinted that a bachelor’s life was too
solitary for him. He must try and find some one to pity
his fate. Amanda Jane said she pitied it already.

And they parted—with a kiss!

Two days later Frank was walking down the street,
saw the door open where Mrs. Slipshod lived, and
thought he would drop in and surprise Mrs. S. and
Amanda Jane. He got as far as the threshold, and was
about to knock, when he heard sharp and angry voices
near at hand, and heard his own name mentioned.

Mrs. Slipshod was ‘‘going over’? Amanda Jane with

terrible ferocity. She said:
. “You young fool! It is leap-year, and if he doesn’t
ask you to have him, ask him to have you! I’ve spent
every cent I’ve got in dressing you up and in giving
parties, and the only way I can ever get even is when
you are, aS you must be, Mrs. Frank Henderson.”

Then came the answer:

“Ma, l’ll do the best I can. His rank old pipe almost
kills me, and he is as soft as green che se, but [’ll do all
Ican to make him propose the next time we ride out

ether. He has money, and we want it.”

rank did not go in that time. Neither did he go in at
any other time. Amanda Jane did not get another in-
vitation to ride out with him, and now she regrets that
she had no witness to that kiss, for if she had, she and
her mother would sue for ‘‘a breach of promise.”

> e~<+—

THE HUMAN EYE.

   

 

 

The language of the eye is very hard to counterfeit.
You can read in the eyes of your companion, while you
talk, whether your argument hits him, though his
tongue will not confessit. There is a look by which a
man shows he is going to say a good thing, and a look
when he has said it. Vain and forgotten are all the fine
Offices of hospitality, if there be no holiday in the eye.
How many furtive invitations are avowed by the eye
though dissembied by the lips! A man comes away
from a company; he hag heard no important remark ;
but if in sympathy with the society, he is cognizant of
such a stream of life as has been flowing to him through
the eye. There are eyes which give no more admission
into them than blackberries ; otNers are liquid and deep
wells that men might fallinto, and others are one -
sive and devouring, and take too much notice. ss
are asking eyes, and asserting eyes, and prowling e
and eyes full of faith—some ‘of good and some of s

 

 

ter omen, :

 

 

Tobacco made her sick, but to |

 
 
 
 

‘| the dead who will never die. ass.

1868, waS a candidate for the same office in 1872, but was de-
feated by Henry Wilson. The Credit Mobilier scandal,

which he was implicated, occurred in 1873.

M., Hamilton, Ohio.—‘“‘The Forsaken Bride” and “Brownie’s
Triumph,” by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, are in book-form, and
will cost $1.50 each, ‘Amber, the Adopted,” by Mrs. Harriet
_ Lewis, is also in book-form. Price $1.50.

R. R. R., Allentown, Pa.—We can supply you with “Apple
ton’s Dictionary of New York and Vicinity,” with m for
thirty cents. If you desire it, write direct to the New YorE
WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.

McL.—Augustus H. Garland, the present U: S. Attorney-.
General, was born on June ll, 1832, at Covington, Tenn. A
year later his parents removed to Arkansas, and that State
as since been his home. ‘

Constant Reader, Cheshire, Mass.—The Continental bill to’
which your refer might be disposed of, as a curiosity, to the
New York Historical Society, 170 Second avenue, corner of
E. Eleventh street. f {sR

The Hindoo Detective, Campbell County, Va —1st No. 2d.
See No. 16 of Vol. 40. 3d. Glycerine diluted with a little eres 3
or water will often prove of service for the removal of

worms. Be

W. LD. P., Philadelphia, Pa. —The Lincoln Monument in
Oak Ridge Cemetery, two miles north of Springfield, DL, cost
$206,550. It was dedicated on Oct. 15, 1874. 4

J. A., Brooklyn. and Georgie Dorn, Jersey Gity.—We can —
suggest nothing that will “remove wrinkles,” or ‘make the
hair grow low on the forehead.”

F. McH., Chicago, I11.—Pitman’s System of Phonography
ba cost $1.50. If you desire it, write direct to the New YorRK

WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. y

Mrs. A. S., Camanch
Prophecy Fulfilled,” by

E Huntley, Albany, N. Y.—The date of the earthquake
whic. oboe in this city and vicinity in 1884 was August 10.

S. E. P., East Albany.—The once famous English =
ship Great Eastern has recently been in use as a coal hu

Fifteen Years’ Subscriter, Atlanta, Ga—Manuscripts are
not in request by us. ie

Nanon.—If not engaged, neither party can hold the other
to strict account.

Allie F.—An invitation to a church wedding is not ac-
knowledged. ‘ ;

Iowa.—“Twice an ees or, The
ucy Randall Comfort, will cost $1.02.

ee ee ee : .
CONSEQUENCES OF CRIME.—The evident consequences
of crime long survive its commission, and, like the ghost
of the murdered, forever haunt the steps of the male- ©
factor, while the paths of virtue, though seldom those
of worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness

and peace.
—> e~<

 

In spending money the young man should always ask
himself, ‘Do I need this?” He should not ask, ‘Do I
want this?” Wants are too often the children of chil-
dren. There is nothing manly in giving way to desires’
and being governed by them. To do so is to become the
Slave of morbid appetite. :

pity:
Fille

“THERE is this difference betwen. hatred and

ity is a thing often avowed though seldom felt;
aatred isa thing often felt though seldom avowed.

A LipRARY is a precious catacomb, wherein are em-

 

and preserved, im ably, the great minds of

 

 

 

  

 

 

 
 
  

 

Sprmeaiks

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reiw-=

 

 

 

 

   
      
    
   
     
     
    
     
     
    
   
     
       
        
   
     
      
   
     
      
   
     
     
      
    
     
   
    
       
     
   
   
     
   

 

 

 

 

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SIAR ee

 

 

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Seas TORTI he 6

 

 

rs In clusterin

 

 

ey we Sete t

 

 

| private business—by the Lord Harry, I will!

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ VOL. 41—No, 25.

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

 

MY DEAR WIFE.

 

BY DUGAUNE.

 

I sit beside my gentle one:
: Her hand is laid in mine; |
: And thus we watch the parting sun
In golden haze decline.
Across the fields the shadows creep,
And up the misty hill;
And we our twilight = keep
At our own cottage sill.

x _ The distant brooklet’s murmurs come,

Like bell-notes the leaves ;
And many an insect’s hum
e Its dreamy music weaves.
The dove’s last note, in rippling beats,
Jpon the air departs ;

The breath of all our garden sweets
Is creeping to our hearts.

The russet woodbine round our porch

ringlets twines ;

The honeysuckle’s crimson torch
Gleams through the dusky vines ;

The sunset rays are trembling now
Amid the trellis-bars—

They paint upon my darling’s brow
A glory like the stars.

Her cheek is nestling on my breast,

Her eyes are bright with tears;
A er, half-breathed and half-repressed,

listening spirit hears.
sd be the changeless love

That glorifies my life!
All doubt, all fear, i above—

My own true-hearted wife.

 

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

 

FOUND DEAD;

‘of the Charles River,

 

 

 

By HARRIET T. LISCOMB,

Author of “His First Wife,” “Iinte’s Conquest,”
“Mated at Last.”
—

(‘Founp DEAD” was comnactisidl in Ne. 18, Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XXII.

; AN UNEXPECTED HONOR, pan
_ Steerforth pursued his ‘way to Omaha in pursuit of
_ What he expected to discover he could hardly have
fold. Naomi’s description ef what she had seen while
in a trance state implicated Gerard in no way, and
‘Steerforth had such unlimited confidence in her strange
vift of second sight, that he was in doubt as te whether
circumstances were or were not misleading him.
_ He reached Omaha in the morning, and after making
the round of the principal hotels, he found that again
‘the man he wanted had goneon.

Another disappointment. Some reckless spirit of ad-
venture seemed to possess Alston Gerard, for now he
had joined a company of hunters, and was off to the
plains of Kansas. He was evidently full of a strange

 
 

eS

unrest for a man about to be married, and as Steerforth
arned the matter over in his mind, he recalled the pas-

sage in the mutilated letter found in No, 52—“Iam bh
‘assed by something which you could not understand.

. Did § . und it? He was not quite sure,
‘put he decided to see Gerard before he took any step
toward giving publicity to his suspicions. ,

As far as the railroad ran he traveled by the cars; after

that he had cor to inquire for Halliday’s party, and al-
t any LI

hunting party had taken.

was a New Yorker of means, with a taste for

, and a love of the wild, free life of-the Western

s, and his companions _after
Pie) OI ra

Carried DK LOZ

DUACKEU at HU On Che OPer pra 5 al a

_ the two or three Indiafi guides they had hired at Topeka

ew the lay of the land, and where they stodd the best
chance of finding game.

-Steerforth purchased a mustang, and en d a halt-

breed guide. He represented himseif as an Eastern capi-

g the country with a view to settling, and

days he and his copper-skinned friend

 

 
 

ed by ranchmen and cow boysinasty le
‘those tree-and-easy inhabitants of the

h day they rode on, and still they had not
: of Halliday’s party, although they were
assured that the party in question had just

erforth began to think that there was a fatality
ing him back from meeting Alston Gerard.

What if he were, indeed, on the wrong scent? Had

ot Naomi warned him that he had better turn back

om the way on which she saw him going? And when

had ever her instincts proved wrong? He could not re-

call the time. She had always seen things as they

were. :

The detective began to lose confidence in his own wis-

dom. He began to feel himself unable to cope with the
_ fate which was working against him.

“Tf T am on a wild-goose chase,” he said to himself, ‘it

shall be never known to the force. I'll swear I c+ oy a
ll te

anstone and the fellows in Boston that I have been on
a pleasure trip, recuperating my liver, etc., and getting
up an tite for the astounding developments they
are dying to make to me. And in spite of the doubts
and uncertainties of the thing, I shall go on. I will
follow the fellow to the Pacific shores, if his uneasy
state of mind should lead him thither.”

Toward night of a hot summer day, during which
Steerforth and his guide had made full fifty miles _to-
ward oe preparations were made for the night’s
halt 0 ranch was anywhere in sight, nor had they
encountered any human being for twenty miles. They

_ had passed through a wilderness. The Indian guide
-had little knowledge of this part of the country, though
Steerforth was assured, from the information he had ob-
tained at the last settlement, that Halliday’s party were
but slightly in advance on the same road.

Steerforth had unstrapped his pony’s saddle and pick-
eted the animal so that it could crop the grass; the
forth had kindled a fire to boil some coffee, and Steer-

  

rth took out his note-book to make an entry, when a ;
faint sound in the distance caused both the men to look ;

‘up and scan the dim blue horizon to the westward.

the quick eye

mist where the sun had gone down, and.
of fae discerned a party of horsemen
ng.

he Indian
rapidly approachi
rforth had no doubt but that it was Halliday’s
company, and quietly awaited the approach. Not so the
Indian. He was restless and alarmed, and in his broken

     
   
 
   

language he tried to. make Steerforth understand that
the approaching party was not composed of friends.

_ “NO white man ride like that,” he said, pointing to
‘the black biurr on the plain, which momentarily be-
came larger; ‘nobody but Injun can do so. Me sees no
eo 0 Me had rather be further. No good. All
Fe J) Scalp and kill. Injuns steal ponies. All

had leceived him, and a party of a dozen redskins
das and surrounded Steerforth and his guide.

- wild-looking fellows, half naked, riding
super horses, and talking all together in a jargon

" le for Steerforth to understand sufficiently to
be able to catch the drift of their conversation.

But Tony understood them.* His face expressed his
abject fear, and while they were at their loudest, ges-
ticulating and disputing, the cowardly little wretch
crept out of the ring and fied into the darkness, leaving
Steerforth to the mercy of the gang. i
_ One of the leaders could speak some English, and
Steerforth learned that they proposed to take him pris-
oner. Of course, resistance was useless. This the de-
tective realized from the first. If he gained any advan-

‘ over them, it must be by strategy. He was well
armed, but he saw at once how futile it would be for
- one man to attempt to conquer thirteen brawny say-
, and he surrendered himself without resistance.

he savages took his watch and the ring he wore,
_ which had been Naomi’s frst present to him. They took
his money and his return railway ticket, but his note-
book did not seem to possess any value for them. They
turned over its hastily written pages and scanned them
closely, holding the book mainly upside down ; they felt
critically of the paper, touched their tongues to the
sheep-bound covers, uttered a guttural ‘Ugh !” and gave

, him back the book.
“No good! No good!” the English-speaking Indian

. ly guarded, Steerforth slept that night in the
midst of his captors, and with the break of day he was
ordered into the saddle to follow the leader, whither he
knew not. ’

All the hot, breathless day the Indians rode on. They
formed a sort of hollow square around Steerforth, and
all our ill-fated friend eould do was to submit to fate
with as good a grace as possible. .
What was to be done with him he could not conjec-
ture. He nour et is they would hold him for
ransom, and he sounded the interpreter to ascertain,
but got only the enigmatical “Ugh!” which means so
much, or so little, with an Indian.

) _ At night they reached a small Indian village, consist-

an would be able to point out the | .

his own

 

ing of a half-dezen smaljl huts, around ee of
which were clustered squaws and their c ren, a few
old men, and a small army of snappish dogs.

Steerforth was greeted by the squaws as an object of
curiosity. They clustered around him, and examined
his clothes, took hold of his hands, peered into his tace,
and manifested-in a score of ways the lively interest he
inspired in them. 5

He was very well treated; he was given a square
meal of corn bread and venison, and afterward a bed
of skins on which to rest, for he did not sleep.

All night he lay waiting, watching for an opportunity
to escape. He hoped that the men would be tired by
their long ride, and that while sleep held them he might
be able to steal away unobserved, but he had reckoned
without his host. He never lifted his Bead to look
around by the light of the camp-fire, which had burned
low, without meeting a pair of eyes noting his move-
ments; and by and by he began to realize the hopeless-
ness of trying to escape, unless fate should favor him
with some propitious opportunity.

For three days he was kept in suspense as to what
was to be his fate, and these three days were anything
but an agreeable summer vacation to Steerforth.

He noticed that, although all the squaws seemed to
find it a sort of pastime to come and stare at him, and
poke at him with sticks, and throw mud-balls at him,
one of their number always lingered longer than the
rest, and leered at him out of her little beady black
eyes with still greater interest than any of the others.

She was forty years old at least, if an Indian squaw |

ever attains that age; her nose was hooked like the bill
of some bird of prey; her front teeth had been scattered
by the onslaughts of time, and her wiry black hair
showed threads of gray.

Steerforth vainly conjectured the cause of her interest

\in himself, and he never fora moment dreamed of the

horror which was in store for him.

Princess Red Wing was the daughter of the chief.
She had lost her brave in battle some years before, and
83 as they were on the point of being married. She

ad never loved again, and she was now a single woman
of uncertain age—in short, an old maid.

Steerforth was approached by the interpreter with
these facts, and, before our detective friend could ex-
plain to himself why it was thought necessary to inform
him that Red Wing had no brave of her own, the inter-
preter astounded him by proposing the Indian princess
for his wife.

“White man marry Injun ten, twenty times before,”
said the interpreter, whose name was Blue Horse.

Steerforth explained that he already had a wife.

“Wife no good!” said Blue Horse, conte! yusly ;
“too tar off! In the land of the rising sun.
never go there again. Stay here—make bi
buffalo. Have many pappoose. Chase deer. Be big
chief. Goto Washington to see ‘aaa white father
— drives out bad pale-faces. to Injun. Stay

ere.”

Steerforth exerted all his eloquence to convince Blue
Horse how impossible it was for him to accept the invi-
tation, and to assure him how sensible he was of the
honor thus conferred upon him by the offer of a princess
for his wife. But he had no hankering to enter the royal
family as a son-in-law,

Blue Horse strove to show the matter in an attractive
light, and when he found that the promise of beads, and
bows and arrows, and Indian ponies, had no power to
charm the captive, his brow grew dark, and he present-
ed the other side of the picture.

“Then the white man must die! There is only one
way tosave him. The chiet hasswornit. Red Wing has
pined many moons for a pale-face brave. The father’s
heart is soft. He willing to give her what she ask for.
But white man scorn her. He talk about pale-faced
squaw away off by the big waters. Maybe he talk true,
maybe not. Only the Great Spirit knows. He can take
his own way. Red Wing and the great brave’s friend-
a or fire and the tomahawk! Blue Horse has
spoken.”

After that he subsided into silence, pulled his blanket

around him, squatted on his haunches, and sat stolid
nee glum under all the tirade which Steerforth poured
out. :
Nothing moved him. He had given the captive his
ultimatum, and had nothing further to propose. To
him the conditions on which Steerfurth might be al-
lowed his liberty looked exceedingly to be desired, but
to Steerforth death seemed vastly preferable.

He had, as most of us have, a very vague idea as to
what the business of an Indian princess’ husband would
be, and he had no desire for a better undefstanding.

        
   
   
   
    
   
 

 
 
 
 

wee Y\ Ws = 7\ WY (63

    

 
 

‘Must think Injun b
“No tell about things like this to white men. White.
men punish Injun for everything. white chief send
men With feathersin their hats, and swords in their
hands, and kill all the poor Injuns! No, no, white
squaw get another brave over there by the big waters.”

The night dragged along, and though Steerforth was
alert and watchful, no opportunity was given him to
catch the savages off their guard. The morning broke
in the east red and hot. The air simmered with heat as
itrose trom the parched earth, and not astray breeze
stirred the tall grass on the knoll where the sacrifice
was to be made.

Steerforth had a scant breakfast of dried beef and
corn bread. Evidently the savages thought that as he
had so short a time to live, it was useless to waste many
provisions on him. i

 

TNA
| VAN tag!

WITH A SHRILL CRY, RED WING FIRED THE PILE.
They removed the Gomes safe distance from the

fagot pile, called off ir , ranged themselves, with
their bows and arrows, and the few shot-guns belonging
to the tribe, around the knoll, giving the squaws back
seats, behind the braves, for aS everybody knows, the
romantic Lo is a Bluebeard, and while his squaw does
all the hard work, he helps himself to all the pleasant
and desirable privileges.

Steerforth was led out by a couple of brawny
savages, and for the first time since his captivity he as-
serted himself. He knocked one savage down the mo-
ment his hands were untied, and before the outsiders
could spring to the help of their comrade, the other In-
dian had bitten the dust,

A dozen bows were dra¥z.on Steerforth, but the chief
bade them desist. :

The prisoner was to be burned, not shot. Shooting
was too good for him. The squaws wanted some fun.
They had worked hard for it. They were going to have

t.

And when Blue Horse had kindly explained the speech
to Steerforth, our detective friend could not help
acknowledging to hi ‘gat the poor squaws really did
deserve the show. Y
Three Indians had seizéd him, and though he fought

 

—"

|

against such odds, and in a few mom nts he was bound
hand and foot, and tied to the fatal stake.

Red Wing, clad in fantastic garments of skins and
feathers, her hideous face made still more hideous by
Streaks of blue paint, alternated with yellow, came
rushing out from the crowd of squaws, with a lighted
torch in her hand. : :

The savages set up a wild whoop at sight of her, and
commenced to sing, or chant, a death song.

Steerforth looked abroad at the green grass, the blue,
hot sky, the distant mountain peaks, his last look.
When he next saw the light, he thought to himself, it
would be in the country where so many of those he loved
had gone before him. |
’ With a shrill cry Red Wing fired the pile, the smoke
rose up black.and stifling, there was a roar in the vic-
tim’s ears like the break of the high tide on a rock-
bound coast, then the sharp clatter of horses’ hoofs, and
the deafening crack of half a score of rifles, followed

@ bysieud cries of despair and agony.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
    
 
  
  

   
 
   

   
 

/, : a!
BGid
np

“WHITE MAN MARRY INJUN,” SAID THE INTERPRETER.

But he made up his mind that when night came he
would watch his opportunity and cut his way through
to liberty, or die in the attempt. He chafed sorely un-
roigl captivity, and he resolved to make a bold push to
end it.

But when night fell he was pinioned to a big, brawny
brave, and compelled to lie down beside him under the
same blanket, and when at last the long night wore
away, Steerforth found that there was no relaxation of
vigilance.

The great chief, the father of Red Wing, came out
from his mud-plastered palace, attended by a long ret-

 
 

inue of mangy dogs and dirty squaws, and surveyed the

rebellious captive.

Again the services of Blue Horse were called in requi-
sition. The old chief was ready to do a great deal to in-
dulge the whim of his daughter, He offered Steerforth
all the dogs in the procession, twenty promising pap-
pooses already raised, the right to hunt buffaloes on his
reservation, and the fair hand of Red Wing.

Steerforth declined, with thanks.

Then the great chief got angry, and raising his right
arm, he delivered himself of a terrible anathema, though
as it was couched in his native language, Steerforth did
not comprehend its import.

When the chief had drawn his fountain of profanity

 

dry, Blue Horse explained to Steerforth that if he still
persisted in refusing to rescue Miss Red Wing from
spinsterhood he was to die the next morning at sun-

| rise.
A cloud of dust was rising through the luminous red j;

Steerforth inquired what the method of death was to
be, and was told that he would be burned alive, and
that Red Wing would have the honor of firing his
funeral pile. Her love, or her fancy for him, had turned
to hatred.

Up to this time Steerforth had not regarded his cap-
tivity in any other than a somewhat ludicrous light. It
was provoking to be detained, but he had never doubted
but that afteratime he should be released. He had
heard so much about the friendliness of the Western In-
dians fer the whites that he had never contemplated the
possibility of their torturing captives as they had done
in the earlier history of the West.

But now, he confessed to himself that things looked a
little dubious. The Indians conversed together apart in
low voices; Red Wing came out and danced a wild war-
dance around him with red and blue paint on her chees
and an quills in her hair; all the other squaws
squatted around and looked on in ominous silence, and
the great chief gloomed in the distance, and waved his
tomahawk above his head.

When the wild dance was over, the squaws, headed by
Red Wing, began bringing fagots to a little hill-top near
the village, where were driven down stakes to which
ponies were tethered. They all brought in their bundles,
and deposited them in a heap around one stake, and
Steerforth, with a sort of indifference for which he could
not account, realized that they were preparing his
funeral pyre. He sat and watched them, with the same
sort of curiosity he had often felt when he had seen car-
penters erecting a gallows on which some wretch whose
conviction he had assisted at, was to. pay the penalty of
his crimes with his life.

He thought what hard work it was for the women, and
how they grunted over it, and he wondered if, when the
whole thing was accomplished, and they saw the flames
mounting redly around him, they would think “the
game worth the candle.”

He thought of his pretty little Naomi—ah! how sad
she would be as the days dragged into weeks, and the
weeks resolved themselves into months, and he did not
come, and no word of his fate reached her. Would her
wonderful power of seeing things invisible to other eyes
give her the distress of witnessing his fate? Would the
subtle divination of her art, enable her to know how he
perished ? SA ;

He looked at her photograph—the sweet, serious eyes
seemed to smile at him, he could almost fancy that the
mouth spoke to him from the senseless pasteboard.

At last, everything was ready. The savages pro-
claimed the fact with a shrill whoop—the squaws
squatted down, and smoked their pipes, and the braves
joined hands, and danced, and hooted round the pile of
fagots.

‘And still Steerforth did not_seem to realize, as a man
near death should realize, that all the preparations were
made to send him out of time into ign

He asked, through the interpreter, to be allowed to

 

write, and send, a letter to his wife, but his request was
sternly refused.

os

 

 

 
 
   
   
 
   
 
    
 
   
 
     
 
  
 
 
 
  

DI" uy CS UEP
teenie partner, Thomas! bt
the man was haunted, and although his brute courage
was remarkable, and he would not have quailed before
half a score of living men, t! tant espionage of a
dead man was more than hé ¢ endure.

Thomas bought out the claim with much grumbling,
and had already secured a comrade to help him herd
the cattle, and Bailey and the indian girl, Wanita, were
ons of departing for Chicago.

iley had wasted away to the, merest shadow. He
neither ate n lept—he was af. to go to sleep. For
the apparition” of Ralph Cutler was ever the first thing
to greet him when he opened his eyes. For almost five
weeks the ghost of the man he thought he had left dead
in the Black Horse Inn, to be consumed in the raging
fiames the hand of his murderer had kindled—the ghost
of this man had appeared nightly to Red Jaques, alias
Ned Bailey, and made life a horror to him.

In vain Bailey said to himself that when the dreaded
specter should again appear he would throttle it, and
crush out the horrid likeness it bore to his victim. in
vain he called himself a fool, and a coward, and a pol-
troon, to be frightened by a shadow ; all the same, when
the shadow came, it found him weak, shivering, cower-
ing in abject terror, powerless to lift hand or foot,
powerless to do aught else but stare with wild eyes at
the ghastly face of this gidsight specter.

   

    

Who shall say that eve ugh the hand of law and
justice seize him not, the ma who has done the crime
of murder does not suffer ? ©

But though he was weak, Bailey was not weak enough
to make a confidant of any one, not even the poor In-
dian woman who loved him with the fidelity of a dog,
and was happy if he smiled on her, and patient if he
swore at her. Zé

When he proposed to lea#@ the ranch, she begged to
be allowed to go with him.- She would work for him,
wait on him, die for him, and he consented to her
wishes.

Once away from the place haunted by the dead man,
he fancied he should be unmolested. He looked for
peace, at least, in some other locality.

And so it came about, that he packed his few traps,
and peopel by Wanita, he made a new home in
the somewhat sparsely settled regions around the Cats-
kill mountains. Here the phantom came not to trouble
him ; he could eat and sleep, and after a little while his
old daring seemed to come back to him, and he was as
ready for dark deeds as of old.

One cold, stormy night, after Bailey had retired, there
was w knock at the door of his cabin.

 

 

STOOD

BRADY DREW HIS OWN WEAPON, AND THE TWO
FACING EACH OTHER,

Bailey opened the door, and thrust his head out into
the night.

“Who's there ?” he demanded, gruffly.

“Friends,” answered a voice, which had in its tones a
semblance of something strangely familiar, but where
he had heard it he could. not just then determine.

«What do you want a/ this time of night ?”

“We want to come in and get dry, and snatch an hour’s
sleep between this and daybreak.”

Bailey lighted the lamp, and opened the door. There
were two men outside, both middle-aged, both roughly
clad, and the elder of the two carried a canvas bag
swung over his shoulder, the Contents of which rattled
as he put it down.

Bailey kindled a little fire on the rough stone hearth,
and the strange guests sat down before it. The elder of
the two lifted his battered hat, and tossed back his long,

izzled hair, and as he did so his eyes met those of h

fool!” said the wily Blue Horse.

with the strength of desperation, he was powerless |

fact of the case was, |}

“Red Jaques! by all that’s wonderful!” he cried, in
amazement.

‘Jim Brady!” responded Bailey, shrinking back, and
laying his hand on his revolver.

Brady drew his own weapon, and the two stood facing
each other, either one ready to blaze away at the slight-
est aggressive movement on the part of the other.
“Bailey’s weapon dropped to his side after a moment.
«Tt is a nasty way to receive an old friend,” he said, in
a conciliatory tone. “Sit down, Jim, and let us be
friends.” ;

Brady sat down, Bailey produced a bottle of whisky,
and some glasses, and the three men drank together.

‘Now, fora talk of old times,” said Brady, drawing
near to his host. ‘It’s a long while since you and I met,
and then I swore that when next I crossed your path
your blood should settle the difficulty between us. But
Iam an old man, and my nerves tremble at the slight-
est excitement, and my heart beats fit to choke me.
Jaques, the merry host of the Black Horse Inn is a
wreck. A miserable old broken down wreck.”

He buried his face in his trembling, bony hands, and
crouched over the fire, in abject helplessness.

The man who had come-in with him, struck him on
the shoulder.

‘Don’t go into the doldrums, old friend,” he said,
jovially, ‘‘think of the swag in the sack. It’s been a
good night’s work. Enough to keep you and me through
the winter, with plenty of whisky to drive the frost out
of our bones. Brace up, my man! Don’t have a spell!”

“It’s no use, Sam,” returned Brady, despondently,
“there's times When the very old boy himselt gits hold
of me!’

“He has spells,” said Sam, confidentially, to Bailey—
“spells that kinder seem to come over him in a minnit.
He’ll be as merry as a parson with a fat salary, and then
he’ll be sunk in the dumps so that nothing can raise
him. It’s my opinion he’s touched here,” and Sam
tapped his forehead knowingly.

After a little Brady pulled himself together and drew
Bailey aside.

‘Tt’s no use for me and you to quarrel, Jaques,” he
said, weakly. ‘We know too much about each other. I
could hang you. Youcouldhangme. We’ve been con-
cerned together in many a black crime. You remember
how we killed Dennison, the tax collector? He stopped
at the inn, and | held the light while you-—”

“Stop ¥’ said Bailey, hoarsely, with his hand at the
ye man’s throat; ‘don’t you see your pard is listen-

g?

“Tet him listen. He Knows the whole story. He’s
one of our stripe. He’s honest. Honor among thieves,
you know. Then, there was the old woman that had
the diamonds; you remember how we tapped her till,
and she screamed and roused the dog and the servants,
and just a blow quieted her——”

“If you don’t stop your infernal gab, I'll stop your
wind!” roared Bailey, goaded to desperation by the old
man’s reminiscences.

«Then there was the drover; he was a fine young fel-
low, and he loved Lizzie. Ah, Lizzie was a pretty girl,
and a spirited one, Ill never forget the time when she
stood between me and her mother when the old woman
and I had a bout, and I. had been drinking, and swore
I'a.cut Molly’s throat. That gal stood between us and
dared me to touch her mother; and she wasn’t my own
darter either—only my wife’s child by her first husband,
but she always went by my name. Poor Lizzie! And
you loved her, and you—you killed her!”

“Heaven help me, I killed her!” cried Bailey, in an-
guish, while his strong frame shook with emotion; ‘‘and
I did love her! I would have died for her any time.
But my infernal temper got the better of me.”

“There was blood on her face—I saw it,” pursued
Brady; “blood on her soft hair, and on her white neck

“Not another word, orI shall kill you!” cried Bailey.
“Old man, you cannot understand that it tears my
heart with mental anguish to think of—her! I have
suffered enough. I will not be tortured more, even by

7 1?

big Brady subsided and indulged in no more reminis-

r the whisky had passed around a few times more,
the men grew confidential, and Bailey learned that his
old friend Brady and his companion belonged to a gang
of housebreakers, who were doing an extensive business

up and down the Hudson, among the country residences
ot wealthy people.

“We have done a good thing to-night,”said Sam. «I
pac mind telling you, seeing as you and Brady are old
Dé

We took ten thousand dollars’ worth. Got it

  
  
 
   
  
 
    
 
      

“Don’tcry out; if you do you are a dead woman!” said
Sam, covering her with arevolver. ‘‘We mean you no
harm. We want your diamonds and what ready money
you have about you.”
“And if L refuse your modest request ?”
“We shall take them.”
«I do not think you will,” she said, coolly; ‘‘at least,
not until you see them,” and she turned to the toilet-
table and took up a jewel-case. ‘‘They are fine stones,
and I should dislike to lose them.”
She opened the box. Both men, thrown off their
guard, rapidly advanced to see the contents of the case,
and Miss St. Armand, snatching out the pistol it con-
tained, put a ball through Jim Brady’s brain before he
could defend himself.
A second shot, fired in the same rapid way, disabled
Sam’s right arm, and as the confusion in the house
warned him that the servants were aroused, he fled down
the stairs and escaped.
Red Jaques was not so fortunate. At the first sound
of the noise above he had attempted to make his way
out of the front door, but in the darkness he had hit his
foot against some obstacle and stumbled, and. before he
could recover himself, the great watch-dog, which had
aca jenn by one of the servants, had him by the
roat.
In amoment more the place swarmed with the men
servants and the guests, and Red Jaques was bound,
tumbled into a cart, and hurried off to the nearest mag-
istrate’s office.
Jim Brady was dead. Miss St. Armand’s aim had
been accurate, and, with all his sins upon his head, the _
old man had gone to hear his sentence.
Sam Mooney escaped and fied at once to Bailey’s hut
in the mountains. In that out-of-the-way solitude jus-
tice would not be likely to find him, and from thenee,
after the excitement .had blown over, he might make
his way to New York city...
He found Wanita worried and anxious, and though he
strove to parry her questions, helosf his patience at her
importunity, and told her the truth. \— 2
The Indian girl’s distress at hearing
fortune was pitiful tosee. She wrung he
rocked herself to and fro, and paid no attent » Sam's -
demands for something to eat, but, dressing herself ~
hastily in her cloak and bonnet, she left the hut.
Sam did not trouble himself to question or watch her
movements. He helped himself to the food the hut eon-
tained, slept until nightfall, and then started out on his
tramp to the city. After all, he said to-himself, a great
city was the place for business. ’
Wanita made her weary way to L , the village *
nearest Cliffwood, and in answer to her persistent in-
quiries, she learned that Bailey was lying in jail await-
ing his trial for house-breaking.
It would be State prison for a term of years, she was
told, and her informant volunteered the information
that hanging was too good for such a scoundrel.
Poor Wanita said, nothing, butin the depths of her
simple, loving heart she resolved to save him.
She made her way to the jail and urged the keeper to
let her see the prisoner.
She seemed so distressed and so simple that the man
granted her request.
She remained twenty minutes in the jail, and when
she came out her face was buried in her handkerchief,
and her frame was skaken with emotion. ;
The jailer’s wife let her out, spoke a kind word or two
to her, and watched her with sympathizing eyes until
she was out of sight.
Two hours later, when the jailer went to carry Bailey’s
supper, a lively surprise awaited him.

There sat the Indian a Wanita, dressed in the
clothes previously worn by Bailey; but Bailey was
nowhere to be seen. ee

The two had exchanged clothes, and under cover of
female apparel Bailey had made his escape. i

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
> o<—__+_—_
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.}

The Dead Witness:

OR,

THE LADY OF LISBON PLACE.

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,

Author of ‘The Phantom Wife,” “Who Owned the
Jewels,’ Etc.

 

 

 

(“Tur DEAD WITNESS” was commenced in No. 23. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER V.

maa Ks OG Mare map SOUGHT.

 

 

 
 

MISS ST. ARMAND PUT A BALL THROUGH JIM BRADY’S
BRAIN BEFORE HE COULD DEFEND HIMSELF,

from a cussed mean old party, too, that lets his own
daughter starve, while he buys organs for churches and
donates chandeliers. We cracked his crib as hand-
somely as ever such a job was done, and the old party
slept the sleep of the just through itall. Won't there
be swearing when he wakes up in the morning ?”

“You had better join us, Jaques,” said Jim Brady;
“you are just rusting out here. A little practice is all
you need to bring back your old skill. We have a neat
job planned fot next week. Say, Sam, shall we trust
him ?”

«You knows him better than Ido,” saidSam. ‘I’ve a
mind to take him in, if he’ll come. No danger of his
blowing when he’s one of us.”

Bailey reached over and took Sam’s hand.

“ll jine, if you like,” said he; ‘‘anything to break
this cursed monotony. And the man that dares tell me
to my face that I’d blow on a comrade doesn’t live! Now
develop.”

“Its a woman as we propose to make contribute to
our funded capital,” said Sam—‘‘a young woman, too.
A Miss St. Armand. She belongs in Massachusetts,
near Boston, where all the women wear specks, and
mangle Webster’s Dictionary every day trying to manu-
facture some new words. She’s arich snob. She prob-
ably wouldn’t accept the hand and heart of yours re-
specttully if it was offered to her. She owns a house on
the Hudson, and is there now. She expected to be mar-
ried before now, but the man—he’s one of the nabobs,
too—went back on her, and shipped for the West.
got diamonds by the bushel, and she scorns safes and
bank vaults, and keeps them in her sleeping-room.
Next week we are going to ascertain if the gems are of
the first water. There’s a good deal of cheat in dia-
monds nowadays. She'll be glad to know hers are genu-
ine, and she'll be satisfied of that fact if we take ’em.”

There was a good deal more talk between these
precious rascals, and before they turned in for a little
sleep, it was decided to burglarize Miss St. Armand’s
house on the night of the following Tuesday.

The guests of Bailey took their departure next morn-
ing; but after that Bailey’s hut bedame a sort of ren-
dezvous for the gang. and Bailey himself, in the com-
pany of three kindred spirits, seemed to recover the
energy and pluck he had lost, and when Tuesday ar-
rived he was as eager for the daring exploit contem-
plated as any of the gang.

Bailey’s hut was about fifteen or twenty miles from
Cliffwood, Miss St. Armand’s house, and the gang were
in the vicinity of the house for two days before the in-
tended raid.

Tuesday night was damp and foggy. There was no
moon, and in the vicinity of Cliffwood the tall trees and
ornamental shrubs made the grounds very dark.

There were guests at Cliffwood, and it was late before
the lights went out. It was a large establishment, and
there were a great many servants, and a couple of dogs
in the kennel outside the stable door. But_ these burg-
lars were old hands at their business, and they knew
just how to get around without making a disturbance,
and conseqently they found little difficulty in gaining
access to the house.

“You remain here,” said Sam to Red Jaques, ‘and
keep an eye and ear open to any sounds of a row among
the servants. Brady and I will go up stairs and pay our
court to the fair lady of the mansion.” — ,!

It was dark as Erebus in the great hall where they
left Jaques, and by the faint light of matches struck at
intervals, the graceless housebreakers found their way
up the stairs, and selected, from among the many doors
opening out of the upper corridor, the door of Miss St.
Armand’s chamber.

lt was only locked on the inside, and Brady turned the
key noiselessly with an instrument he carried for the
purpose, and softly unclosed the door.

A blaze of light streamed out, so bright it dazzled the
men for a moment, for they had expected to find the
chamber in darkness.

Four gas-burners were lighted, and standing by the
toilet-table, fully dressed, was Miss St. Armand. She
was looking at a photograph which she held in her
hand; her face was sad ; her eyes were wet with tears.

The sound of opening the door, slight though it was,
reached her, and she turned quickly and confronted the
intruders.

She was a brave woman, and she never turned pale or

 

 

ost fixed eagerly upon him.
He sprang to his feet.

faltered, as she faced them and demanded, haughtily :
«Who are you, and what do you want?”

She's !

The Averills were a wealthy and somewhat noted fam-
Pity, of which several branches flourished in the city of
New York and its vicinity.

Oscar Averill— who, as John Harris betrayed to
us, was, at the opening of our story, a California ad-
venturer going under an assumed name—had been, not
one year before, one of the most brilliant society men in
the city of his birth. His father, John Averill, had in-
herited wealth and position, and had wedded, when
quite a young man, a lady in every respect a suitable
match for him, except, it might be, in years. She was
a little older than he—a widow, with a little son three
years of age—but rich, refined, witty, beautiful, and
fascinating—one of those women born to shine and to
please. Her husband never repented of his choice; she
was a good and affectionate wife, at the same time that
her success in society made him very proud of her. She
bore him four children, of whom Oscar was the eldest;
after him came two girls, and, some years later, another

son.

Her son, Vance, by her first husband, was brought up
in the family with the other children, and no difference
was apparent in his step-father’s affection for him and
his own. However, at the request of the Stuyvesanté
family, who also were vain of their old Knickerbocker
origin, he retained his father’s name, remaining Vance
Stuyvesant.

He never was a tractable child, and as he grew up, he
made the only trouble in the happy household. It may
be that his mother over-indulged him. Mother-love is
jealous. Despite her husband’s unvarying kindness to
the child, Mrs. Averill may have detected a difference
in the quality of his love as manifested toward the little
group. He may have been generous to Vance and ten-
der tohisown. She may have considered that Vance
was fatherless. At all events, she lavished upon him an
idolatry really sinful in its fatal effects upon his charac-
ter. He needed a firm, just, considerate, and at times
severe, rule over him. Instead of that, he was not goy-
erned at all. Mr. Averill saw the whole matter in its
true light. He would have managed the boy, and have
made a good man of him, perhaps, for Vance had some
splendid qualities mingled with his bad ones. But his
hands were tied. Any interference of his would have
been looked upon as unwarrantable—the mother would
have resented it. Thus, while his own eldest son was
trained to strict obedience, his wife’s darling was al-
| lowed to do things which shocked the other children’s

sense of propriety.

This annoyed Mr. Averill the more that he was afraid
of Vance’s influence over Oscar, who looked up to the
older boy as toa superior being. To Oscar, his hand-
some, dashing, imperious brother was always a hero.
No matter what cruelty he practiced on the weaker
party, what sarcastic things he said, what falsehoods
were proven on him, what unjust action he took,
Oscar always continued to admire him. When shocked
or when grieved he still admired.

He had a brave, warm, faithful nature, this child, and
he lavished the riches of it on his ungrateful elder
brother, who took his homage asa matter of course—
sometimes with princely condescension, sometimes with
haughty contempt. y

As Vance grew toward manhood the pernicious effects
of his mother’s indulgence became more apparent. She
had money of her own, which she never withheld from
him when he asked it. It would almost seem as if she
were proud of her boy’s spendthrift tastes. When her
at ventured to remonstrate with her, she would
reply :

“It's his splendid spirits, John. You can’t keep a boy
like that down; he must have some freedom. His
friends know he is generous, and they take advantage
of it. He has to pay for the frolics of all the rest. Let
him alone. I'm willing he should have the money.
Everybody pets and flatters him because he is so hand-
some and so high-spirited. It is notstrange that he is a
little spoiled; but he'll come out all right in a year or
two.” ;

And Mr. Averill would end his expostulations with a
sigh.
ite felt the less hope of the boy’s ‘‘coming out all right”
because he plainly detected a want of moral principle.
It was not Vance’s extravagance, oreven dissipation,
which troubled him the most, though these were bad
enough; it was his want of truth, his jealousy, revenge-
fulness, and lack of a fine sense of honor,

Mr. Averill was a gentleman of the old school. He
would have died sooner than have broken his word, or
in any manner dishonored himself. He had lived and
flourished and doubled the fine estate which he inher-
ited without ever cheating a human being. The pres-
ent business code was unknown to him: he would
never have lowered his standerd of integrity to prac-
tice it.

Imagine, then, with what disfavor he regarded the
bad qualities of his step-son, and how afraid he must
have been lest his own son should not escape contam-
ination.

But Oscar’s was a nature impossible to corrupt. He
kept on admiring Vance and doing homage to him, with-
out imitating him. The noble principles inculeated by
his father flourished in him, promising a splendid man-
hood. He wasason to make a parent's heart warm to

 

the very core.

  

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
  
 
   
  
  
   
 
  
  
  
    
      
     
   
   
  
   
   
 
 
   
   
   
  
     
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
  
      
    
   
   
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
   
  
 
  
   
     
 
 
   
 
 
 
   
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
  
  
   
   
  
     
      
      
 

 

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keep the favor of his step-father, he had
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6

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«ot THE NEW. YORK

 

Both boys were extremely handsome, each in his way.

Vance had straight. black hair, fine and glossy, a rich,
dark complexion, fascinating, dark-gray eyes, red lips,
curved like a girl’s, and a haughty carriage. graceful,
but sometimes too supercilious.

Oscar had waving brown curls, a noble forehead, clear,
bright, honest eyes, and a form which, as he gained
manhood, was nearly perfect in its symmetry—rather
above the inedium height, slender, but exceedingly
well knit. Vance was two inches less in stature and
broader in the shoulders; but Oscar was the more
sinewy, so that they were about equally matched in
strength—both magnificent specimens of cultured and

. polished youth, so that when they walked abroad, ele-

gantly dressed and mannered, many an eye lingered on
the pair in kindly admiration.

Pity that the conduct of one had not been as faultless
as his looks!

Their sisters, Maude and Lillie, were lovely young
girls, while little Ben was the pet of the household.

When Vance was about of age his mother died, leav-
ing her entire property (valued at not less than two
hundred thousand dollars) to him, saving her jewelry
and a small sum for pocket-money to her two daugh-
ters. This fortune she left to her wild, extravagant boy,
without any restriction upon its use.

Mr. Averill realized the imprudence of such a will, but
said not a word against it. Scarcely had the first agony
of bereavement passed from the family than Vance be-
gan to “enjoy his substance,” as he called it. His career
was such that his step-father was compelled to remon-
strate. Then, quick-tempered, imperious, brooking no
opposition, and secretly pleased with the excuse which
the quarrel offered, Vance Stuyvesant left the kind
home in which he had been reared, taking a suite of
rooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and speedily becom-
ing one of the most distinguished young swells in the
city.

‘Three or four years rolled away, at the end of which
time Oscar Averf Jett college, and also began to go

society. {U6 sisters were now also out of school—at
leas® re elder was—and it was his pride to wait upon
thems ister of Mr. Averill’s conducted the house
and chaperoned the young ladies, who were dainty,
pretty, pure-minded girls, innately refined and high-
bred, with that unconscious simplicity of manners
which no vulgar person can affect.

Their father allowed them every pleasure of opera,
concert, reception, under his or their brother's protec-
tion, but was most exclusive in the circle of acquaint-
ance which he admitted to the house.

Vance had many a friend, male and female, who
would not have presumed upon an acquaintance with
the Averills.

At eighteen Maud Averill was married to a gentleman
approved by herfriends. They went to Europe on their
bridal tour, accompanied by Oscar and Tillie. When
they had been abroad about three months, enjoying the
grand tour as only young, romantic creatures full of
health and lite and with plenty of money can enjoy it,
they received a telegram announcing Mr. Averill's se-
rious mess, He died before they reached New York.

When his will was read it wastound to be as just and
considerate as all his other acts had striven to be. His
estate was estimated to be worth about one million dol-
lars. After some liberal charities, he left this estate to
his four children. The sister who presided over his
house had money of her own, quite enough for her de-
sires. He therefore left Oscar four hundred thousand
dollars as being the one to represent the family, and re-
Qguiring the largest capital immediately. To Maude,
who had married wealthily, he left one hundred thou-
sand, ind to Lillie three hundred thousand, with the
proviso that, should she marry equally well, balf of that
was to berestored to Maude. ‘To little Ben he left the
remainder, Knowing that if it were well managed it
weuld equal Oscar’s share before the child should come
of age. f

This division gave satisfaction to all the children.
Maude had been given her mother’s diamonds and a
handsome sum of pin-money at the time of her marriage.
Mr. Herbert, her husband, was contented with her por-
tion. ¢

The only human being seriously displeased by the will
was Vance Stuyvesant. He went into a furious passion
and made some very bad speeches, the moment he got
out of the house, after hearing it read. It seems that,
although he had received all his mother’s fortune, had

ie. quarreled with Mr. Averill, and left his house, he still
” expected to share equally with his step-brothers and

sisters.
Mr. Averill had not considered him entitled to any-
thing beyond an expression of good-will and a hand-
some present; and, moreover, had felt that an increase
ot fortune would be to him a positive misfortune.. Yet
so kind-hearted had been the deceased gentleman that,
had he guessed how much of Vance’s riches had already
taken flight, he doubtless would have given him a share,
in despite of his own better judgment.

The fact stood that Vance, recklessly extravagant, led
on by the desire to keep at the head of the gay young
fellows of his club, had already spent two-thirds of his
patrimony. The interest of his money had been to him
but as ‘“‘a drop in a bucket.” And, as he was in-no busi- |
ness, it can be inferred that he would sometime come to |
the end of his resources. - Without the least reason for
so expecting, without even having taken the trouble to

    

 

looked forward

2, nde

 

 

 

   

_ wood furniture upholstered with blue silk brocade, was

 

 

. Averill’s fortune, ~~“ F

He raved .and ‘‘took on” dreadfully when he found |
himself disappointed. Oscar heard of the savage man@
ner in which he received the will, and sent for him to
come and talk the matter over. He still loved Vance
with all his heart, and admired him immensely, even
while he had to condemn.

Vance came to the interview, sullen as a bear, and
haughty as the:autocrat of all the Russias. He was
dressed superbly, and had grown handsomer with every
year. In his brilliant presence Oscar, so much younger
and more modest, immediately took up the second posi-
tion. :

‘1 know father had no idea that you expected any-
thing. He felt kindly toward you, as you may know by
what he said; but he thought you had plenty.”

‘To expect something tangible in a man’s will, and
then to receive his blessing, is most satisfactory,” re-
marked Vance, sarcastically.

“But you didn’t need anything, Brother Vance.”

«De not ‘brother’ me unless you can act like a brother,
Oscar! I tell you 1 do need it—far worse than you.
With your simple habits, and living at home as you do,
you can get along on a quarter of what I do. I always
had expensive tastes. I cawt live without plenty of
money.

‘But I may marry, some day, Vance, and require an!
establishment, and money to keep my position in the}
world. You certainly have enough.”

“Il have not. Vve been enjoying myself, as a young
naan of spirit ought to. A man cannot keep a yacht, and
rule his club, and be known and envied for his magnifi-
cent style, without spending a good deal of money. I
confess to you, Oscar, that i have not fifty thousand dol-
jars leit. There! what do you think of that ?—for a man
of my pride and habits.”

His step-brother stared at him in astonishment.

“What have you done with it ?”

“Spent it, I tell you.”

“Not in—gambling ?”

‘Not a dollar of it. Thank you, Oscar, I’m nota black-
leg, lost as you think me.”

“| beg your pardon, Vance! But I could not under-
stand where so much money had gone.”

‘In living. I like to live well. I cannot endure to be
squelched. I was born to rule. I have kept up with
young B—— this past Summer. My yacht at Newport
was as great a favorite as his. Perhaps I have been a
little extravagant.”

This admission was very touching to Oscar, com-
ing from his imperial brother, it melted him into making
a proposition, which he did with hesitancy, fearing that
his offer would be received with contempt :

     

 

“Jt is plain that you must retrench, Vance. I can sug-
gest but one way at present. Come back home. Give
up your expensive suite of rooms at the hotel. Sell

your yacht.”

“Oh, confound it! it won’t bring half-price at this sea-
son of the year.”

“Wait until Summer then. But come home. Aunt
Averill is willing to continue her superintendence of the
house. I shall keep it open entirely at my own expense,
unless Lillie insists on paying her share. Little Ben’s
money shall not be touched—not even the interest. I
am his sole guardian. You can have any rooms in the
house you choose, and your board. You will then be at
no expense save for your clothes, and club, etc. You are
come to my carriages, horses, wines, house, and
°, aS lam myself. And it will put me to small ad-
Gitional expense, simee I must keep up the establish-

t for myself and sister. Now, Vance, do say that
you will come!” »

Vance Stuyvesant reflected, a few moments, before
swering. The offer was a tempting one in some res-

3. It would be a blow to his pride to give up ‘“‘splur-
ig” at the Fifth Avenue. Yet he could cover his re-
treat very creditably by affected grief for his step-
father’s death; and, aware of Oscar’s generosity, he had
hopes of influencing him to share his patrimony with
him.

Then, too, it was absolutely necessary that he should,
as Oscar said, retrench; and since he must “take in
Sail” there was no pleasanter way of doing it.

“Oscar, accept your proposition. Mind! partly on
your account, 1 know, you must be dused lonely nowa-
days.”

“We are lonely, brother. Lillie feels father’s loss even
more than I, Your company in the house will cheer up
the poor child. She always admired and defended you,
Vance.” ;

«Lillie’s a dear sister!
now, I shall be glad to.
over ?”

“To-morrow, if, you will. I will speak to Aunt Averill
to have your rooms in readiness by afternoon. Which
Suite do you prefer of the two on the second floor,
Vance ?—the right or left as you go up ?”

“Ob, I don’t know. The left are the sunniest rooms I
believe. I hope they are well-furnished. I shall want
to invite a chum up there occasionally.”

“Supposing we go up, and take a look at them. Ii you
are not suited with the furniture, you can stop in at
’s, and order a set to your own taste. I will pay

 

 
  

 

  

 
   
 

If Ican do anything for her,
When shalll order my things

 

eG.
for it.

The two young men ascended to the chambers.

Vance wanted the rooms to the left; but their satin-

too ‘‘womanish” for him. So, on his way to his hotel, he
did stop at G—— s, and order a superb set of ebony-and-
gold, with crimson silk-velvet coverings—(satin was
Only fit for ladies)—a carpet to match, a couple of, mir-
rors, extra; and every conceivable article for which he

horse as

   

| the dazzling vision of a moment.

 

could invent an excuse for wanting it.

The next day the servants flew about to change the
furniture; Aunt Averilliordered a sumptuous dinner—the
fatted calf was killed—the prodigal welcomed home—
who came with a royal air, as of one conferring a great
favor.

And this was the demeanor which Vance Stuyvesant
preserved in the family. And so prone is human nature
to take us at our own valuation, that he was accorded
the position he assumed.

Lillie thought it very good of him to leave his hotel
to give her the benefit of his company; while Oscar
considered it a privilege to entertain him as if he were
a prince.

As the family neither entertained nor went out, being
in deep mourning, the long winter passed very quietly.
Vance was out a good deal among the men and at his
club; but even he remained away from the balls where
he was wont to be conspicuous.

When spring came he made no effort to dispose of his
yacht; on the contrary, he took more pride in his Un-
dine than ever, and was off, at the beginning of the
season, to Newport and other points where the young
bloods of the city congregated, maneuvering his grace-
ful little vessel, giving sumptuous dinners and suppers
on board of ker, appropriating the best rooms at the
hotels, and flourishing in more than his pristine
splendor.

The Averills had a cunning little cottage at Newport,
and went there as usual, but quite late in the summer
and in the most quiet way. Of course their friends
found them out, and called on them; but beyond an oc
casional sail with a small company, or drive in a retired
road, they joined in none of the gayeties of the place.
They knew of Vance’s lavish expenditures, but only
Oscar was aware of his imprudence in continuing them.

Lillie, a lovely and loving little creature, unsuspicious
of evil as a child, was extremely proud of both her
brother and step-brother. Vance’s magnificent doings
gave her no uneasiness. She knew that her mamma left
‘him a great deal of money, that all the Averills and all
the Stuyvesants were rich, and if Vance had built an
opera-house, engaged Patti, and Nilsson, and Lucca, and
given a complimentary entertainment to his friends six
nights of the week, she would not have thought but that
he was able to doit if he wished. ;

lt was the first week in September. The hotels of
Newport were half empty, but the villas and cottages
were nearly all still open, their inmates enjoying the
cool, delicious weather more than at any other part of
the season.

The Averills remained in their cottage. There was
nothing to call them to the city, and Aunt Averill be-
lieved that the air from the ocean was doing her good.
One sunny afternoon, when the ocean lay like a dazzling
plain of blue and gold, when the Virginia creeper on the
ancient Round-Tower was beginning to turn scarlet,
when the rich-colored geraniums, the gorgeous bigonias
and sweet tuberoses were at their best, glowing in their
beds and borders on the velvet lawns of Newport’s aris-
tocratic villas, Lillie, looking wistfully from her cottage
windows, concluded that she would take a ride.

“The Drive is not very crowded, auntie, and I don’t
believe I shall be noticed. I feel just like riding.”

“Then go, by all means, child. Parker can attend
you.” :
“No, Aunt Averill,” spoke up Osear; ‘I will ride with
Lillie. It will do us both good.”

“What are you talking about?’ asked Vance Stuy-
vesant, who happened in at the moment. ‘I’ve been on
the water. It’s glorious!”

“Tm going put on horseback, Vance.”

“Good! Who’s going with you—the groom ?”

“No: Oscar.”

“And I, too. The spirit moves me.
saddle-horses, Oscar ?”

“I think Prince can be ridden, though he does not
like the feel of the saddle. I will ask Parker.”

Have you three

While car went tosee the groom Lillie ran up to
don her riding-habit, and Vance drummed on the
piano.

“How stunning she looks,” remarked the latter, as his
step-sister came down in an olive-green habit, which

| fitted her trim figure to perfection, and with her long,

glossy, light-brown hair braided in two rich braids down
her back.

“Do I really look well, brother Vance ?”

‘You are perfection in miniature, my dear.”

“Ah, that’s it! I’m too.small to appear to advantage
on horseback.”

“You area fairy, Lillie, dear.
who gets you will be lucky.
Small women.”

“Is Miss Harrington small?” shyly.

“*No-0; but she’s rich.” °

‘But you have no excuse for marrying for money,
Vance.”

The horses were brought round. Vance lifted Lillie
to her saddle.

‘Which animal do you ride, Oscar ?”

«You had better take the chestnut, Vance. Prince is
unusually restless te-day ; the cool weather has put him
in fine spirits.”

“Aren’t you afraid of him ?”

“Tam atraid of nothing in the shape of a horse, Vance.
tee one thing 1 can do better than you, and that’s
ride.’

Which was true. Oscar was as skillful in managing.a

ance was in managing a yaeht.
s party trotted out on the avenue. —
iretted under the saddle, trying at first to throw his

Be content. The man
For my part, I admire

     

          
  

rider; but finding his master, he cooled down a trifle, |

and went quite respectably, though requiring constant
attention. ss

Though not so crowded as at the height of the season,
the Drive was still brilliant with elegant equipages,

whose costly appointments and liveried attendants at- |

tested the wealth of their owners. There were a good
many riding as well as driving; children and young
ladies attended by their English-looking grooms.

“Oscar, keep your eyes about you! Look ahead!”

spoke Vance, quickly, in a low voice, as the three trot-
ted quickly along, Oscar’s animal permitting no leisurely
pace. .
Averill obeyed the direction, and saw. coming toward
them, a beautiful woman on a beautiful horse, He had
but a moment’s chance for observation, the restive
creature he bestrede trying his best to throw him.

A young lady not over eighteen, rather tall and of
splendid figure, riding with consummate ease and grace
a magnificent black horse, and whose riding-hat shad-
owed the fairest, proudest, and yet sweetest face he had
ever beheld.

A short distance behind rode a servant.

The lady looked
straight ahead, Newport fashion, but the gentleman
stared, until a sudden curvet of Prince’s demanded his
master’s attention.

Oscar had met lovely girls riding on the avenue hun-
dreds of time before this, but he had never met the oné
until now.

«Who is she, Vance ?”

“J only wish I knew.”

CHAPTER VI.
CAUGHT IN THE ENCHANTED WEB.

Vance Stuyvesant inquired of some of his gentlemen
friends, but did not succeed in ascertaining the name of
the beautiful eaquestrienne, and soon forgot all about her.
Not so Oscar.  Ofien, in his day dreams, came back that
glorious vision, always with added grace, until it be-
came a habit of his to muse upon the fair stranger, and
to invest her with those fancies so sweet to pure-minded
youth. :

“J hardly believed a real woman could exist who was
so perfectly my beau ideal,” he often said to himself.

In a week or two after this little adventure the
Averills returned to the city. Vance came with them.
He had not sold his yacht; and from his low spirits,
alternating with fits of ill-temper, Oscar feared that he
was in monetary trouble. :

Late in that autumn, the first year of their mourning
being past, the Averills began to go out rather more,
though still avoiding anything like gayety. The young
people attended several dinner parties and small recep-
tions.

Their sister, Mrs. Herbert, was established in a hand-
some house
higher up the avenue than their own. Another branch
of the Averills (cousins of these, the young folks were—
Job Averill’s family) also resided on one of the side
streets leading into the avenue; and there was a Stuy-
vesant, uncle to Vance, living near, so that in their own
circle of relatives Lillie and Oscar found considerable
scope for visiting.

Oscar did not have a very agreeable time with his
step-brother the early part of the winter. Irritable, ex-
acting, and discontented, whenever the two were alone
together, Vance talked about his ‘‘debts” and grumbled
at Oscar’s enviable good fortune, who bore his moods as
patiently as possible, finally presenting him with a
check for $10,000, which Vance said would ‘make him all
right” again.

After that Vance condescended to be pleasant at home.
No one could be more witty, amusing, and fascinating
than he, when he was inclined to take the trouble. Still.
when the two young men. were together, although
many people were dazzled at first by Vance's dark, im-
perious beauty and brilliant spirits, the enduring re-
a and admiration were certain to be conceded to

scar.

Some time in February, a lady friend of the family (a
widowed matron, living in the best style—a Mrs. Wood-
croft) sent a note to Lillie Averill, which said :

«TJ have a.young friend on from Boston, whom I am
anxious should receive a favorable impression of our
city, for I wish her to make me a long visit. You know

how lonely my house is, except when 1 can persuade .

some young person to brighten it up forme. Miss Del-
zemar is about your age, though she appears rather
older, perhaps because you are such-a tiny little sprite.
I am absolutely certain that you will like her; and I de-
sire you to become friends. She isa girl to whom your
dear parents, were they living, could make no objection.
However, all the friendship is in the future. The pres-
ent matter on band is—will you bring your brothers and
come to my house this evening, to meet Miss Delzemar ?
I shall invite a few others, but shall depend chiefly on
your trio, and cannot take no for an answer. 1t will not
be a dress affair, nor a dancing affair—just a little mu-
sic, conversation, and supper, to introduce my- friend
to my particular friends,” etc., ete.

Lillie could not think of retusing this pressing invita-

tion, and immediately dispatched an acceptance by the

servant who awaited her answer. When the young gen-

tlemen came home to dinner, she told them that they

were engaged for the evening. ;
«What sort of an affair is it anyhow ?” drawled Vance.

one answered by reading Mrs. Woodcrott’s note to
em.

     

Both were.

nce; worry
| brother of

| the amende honorable to my respected friend, Mrs.
|

It was but ‘ car, and kept him on a Chair of nettles. while Vance de-

of her husband’s, about a dozen blocks }

 

 

ladies. I shall not go.”

“Ah, Vance! Not to please me ?”

“Not even to please you, my pretty. The fact is, 1
have ordered a game supper. 4t the club, and I can’t get
off. You will have to excuse ie to Mrs. Woodcroft.”

So the two were obliged to go without him, which Lillie
regretted, for she was vain of ber brothers, but which
Oscar did not. Wis

They went early, as they knew their hostess desired
it, and were the first to arrive. Mrs. Woodcroft received
them warmly. :

“Lillie, go up and take off your wraps. Mr. Averill,
you need not wait for your sister; we are not on ceremo-
ny to-night, and there is no one¢ in the parlors but Miss
Delzemar. Come and be intvoduced, before there are
other arrivals.” Y

He went into the parlors with her. A young lady,
dressed in blue silk, was standing by the piano, looking
over some music.

“Grace, allow me to present to you one of my particu-
lar friends, Mr. Averill. Miss Delzemar, Mr. Averill.”

She turned gracefully to acknowledge the introduc-
tion—it was his beauty of the Newport Drive!

His face Aushed with delight; a radiant smile illumi-
nated it, He bowed low to the queen of his heart.

‘Really, he seems as pleasant as he is handsome,”
thought the lady. :

How could she know that she was as familiar to his
| dreams as rosy clouds are to sunrise ?

“Excuse me for two minutes,” said Mrs. Woodcroft.
“TJ have something to say to your sister, Mr. Averil—a
secret,” she added, laughingly, and withdrew, leaving
the two strangers alone together.

“Miss Delzemar, I have seen you before.”

Ah! is thatso? Where?’

At Newport, last September, riding on the Drive,
about half-past fourin the afternoon.” ‘

“Really, Mr. Avera], you have a good memory.”

‘T have always reniewbpked that, Miss Delzemar.
noticed you particularly ;“you rode a black horse. You
did not see mé, of course; but Ihave never forgotten
your face.”

‘How do you know thatj did not see you 2” smiling.

«You did not look at me.”

“Ladies, in Newport, /
eyes. 1 did look at you. 3
bay, that came near throj
so good a rider, pol

«Then you, ope govd memory.”

Both smiled, looking mto each other's eyes.

Why uy to dissect this profound secret of Nature—
this magnetism which draws two young hearts and
souls into kinship with a sweet force, a surprising
rapidity, as much of a puzzle to them as tous? It must
have been for: this that Oscar Averill had been kept
fancy-tfree to the age of twenty-iour. He felt very happy,
he scarcely knew-why. It was partly the exquisite flat-
tery of her having remembered him which so exaited
him. But it was not that aione.

And she? Well, her pleasure and interest in the
evening were secured. Other very pleasant people might
come, to whom she would give their due share of atten-
tion; but the reception, ia .her mind, was alreddy a
success. . :

Mrs. Woodcroft came down in five minutes with Lillie
on her arm. ‘Those five minutes had woven their spells
of enchantment; a work had been done which time
could not undo. ‘’he sharp old lady perceived that her
two favorites were impressed with each other. She was
not sorry that Vance had remained away. Not guessing
the extent of his rash prggigality, regarding him, as
others did, as a most taicated and agreeable, though
rather extravagant, young yentleman, she still cherished
a decided preference tor Oscar, who was the pink of pro-
priety to her, admirable for birth, position, moral qual-
| ities. and grace ot person. She was not a match-maker;
| yet. if these two chanced to fancy one another, she
| would approve it heartily. .

The little social party mi trata Miss Delzemar’s

a

  
    
  
 

see..without turning their
#2 rode a splendid animal, a
ne you, only that you were

 

| acquaintance was wore aking. All the guests, as
| they departed, whispered thei thanks to their hostess
| for the privilege.

| The old lady was immensely pleased. She had not
: hinted a word about her visitor’s fortune. Grace Delze-
|; mar was owner, in her own right, of whole blocks of
Boston houses; but Mrs. Woodcroft had determined
that she should please by her charming manners and
beauty before it was known that she was an heiress.

Oscar Averill walked on air all the way home.

“J like her so nwweh,” whispered Lillie, as she kissed
him good-night.

“So do I—more than you think,” he replied. '

Vance Stuyvesant was not down to breakfast, although
it was not served until nine o'clock. His club-supper
had-lasted into the “wee sma’ hours.” Consequently it
was not until they gathered about the five o clock dinner
table that he heard about Miss Delzemar. p

“By Diana! If fd known it was that girl I would
have given up my club, sent ’em word 1 had sprained my
ancle. Is she aS handsome as we took her to be, old
fellow ?”

“I think so,” replied his brother, affecting great inter-»|
est in his roast partridge. He did not like to speak of
| her to Vance.
| Has she any money ?”
| ‘I really don’t know.”
_ Vance saw that Osca

b

 

   

   
 

 

   
  

  
   

 

EEKLY.

 

“I detest ‘conversation,’ and I abhor Boston young

 

    

S “moralstrey 3 stied, purs @)
his, for in his jealous anger, Vance gave his
generous and delicately unassuming ‘friend-in-need’
these qualities. He would tease Oscar until he was as
miserable as he deser to be. ‘

“No matter. You know Ll am independent in such
matters. When do you propose to call?”

“This evening.” ;

“J shall accompany you, my good brother, and make

| Woodcroft.” S. ;

“Very well, Vance, Pshall be glad of your company.”
| That came pretty near being a polite fib of Oscar's.
| He was ashamed to betray the uneasiness which he felt.
| For once he dreaded his half-brother’s beauty, and his
| Sparkling gift of saying bright trifles to please the
| ladies. This time he was in earnest. If Vance inter-
| fered there would be trouble between them. At least he
| should never abandon his own attempts to please until
| the lady decided against them, 5.
| They made their call. Several others who had been
| at the house the previous evening, were aiso mak-
jing their party calls. Miss Harrington, a dashing
| belle whom Vance had pretended to affect, cornered Os-

 

| liberately, almost too markedly, devoted himself to Miss
| Delzemar.

She could not but admire hin; she was inclined to |
like him, too, on the gr ot his being Mr. Averill’s |

relative ; she thought hinYoue of the most delightful ot |
young gentlemen ; yet thers was something in the light |
of his dark eyes which repelled her—she had that in- |
stinctive repulsion toward a character like his, which |
is sometimes manifested by pure women, evén when in-
nocent almost of the name or Knowledge of its errors. |

Once she allowed her glance to stray toward Mr. |
Averill. ban |

Vance detected it, and said instantly : |

“My brother, as usual, is very devoted to Miss Har- |
rington. Gossip has associated their names together; |
but I doubt if there’s anything in it.”

“She seems handsome and agreeable,” replied Miss |
Delzemar, with difficulty subduing the blusb which |
threatened to flame in her cheeks. |
| But a shadow had fallen over the cowleur de rose ot |
‘ the evening. She felt iike a stranger, where, the previ- |
ous moment, she had been thoroughly at home; and
when, presently, Mr. Averill succeeded in getting into
her vicinity, her manner was restrained. -The conse-
quences were that Oscar walked home in a dull mood.
| All this was fun for Vance. He knew that Oscar thought
i Miss Delzemar had changed her manner because of her
! liking for him, while he was conscious that it was owing
' to his naughty hint about Miss Harrington.
| He's dead in love, sure enough, this time,” he
thought, maliciously pleased with the dull spirits of his
brother. .

For the ensuing few weeks there were constant repe-
titions of this conduct. Oscar, deeply, painfully in
| earnest, did_his very best to secure the interest of Miss
Delzemar. When by som appy chance, they were
; alone together, her distant#manner would soften; and
he would sometimes surpgse a look in her beautiful
eyes that thrilled him with Qe hope that she loved him
as he did her. But he could come to no understanding
with her. Vance was always in the way. And when
Vance was about it would seem as if she thought more
highly of him.

A hundred times Oscar.svas forced to think Miss Del
zemar a coquette. And yet her character, like her
beauty, was of too refined a type to be marred by such a
a fault.

In the course of time if became known to all concerned
that the young lady was one of Boston’s richest
heiresses. .

This information decided Vance Stuyvesant to change
his play into earnest. It was no longer to annoy Oscar
that he laid himself out tofascinate Miss Delzemar.

“No one, not even his halt-brother, knéw the total
wreck of his:‘handsome fortune. If it were not repaired
soon and effectually, he might as well, he said to himself,
blow his brains out. ;

“J will marry Grace Delzemar,” he soliloquized, walk-
ing one night about his room like a caged tiger.
“Heaven or shall not preventit! I will kill two
birds with one stone by that. I will mend my tattered
fortune, and I'll have revenge on that exceedingly good
brother of mine! He’s eaten only the sunny side of the
peaches thus far. Ill give him a taste of the bitter. I
never saw a man so woefully in love as heis. Ha, ha!
Oscar, I can strike you there, I think!” ;

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
><¢—<-

A REMARKABLE MAN.

 

  

 

 

N. Y., is in many respects a remarkable person. He is
88 years old, and has just opened a barber shop in that
town. For forty years Levi .was a slave, and by working
overtime and on Sundays he saved $2,000, and bought
himself from his master. While working in Washing-
ton he bought his nine sons at $400 apiece, and in view
of his perseverance his mé@Ster threw in the tenth son.
The old man and the nine Boys all fought in the war for
the Union. Childs is living with his fifth wife, and is the
father of eighteen children.

 

a Oo

Children starving to death on account of their ina-
bility to digest food will find a most marvelous food and

 

Levi Childs, a colored man, who resides in Rondout, |

 

REMEMBRANCE.

BY U.

 

N.

 

Oh, sing to me that song again,
’Tis one my mother used to sing,
When I, a blithesome boy at home,
My arms around her neck would fling,
And say, my mother dear, I know
Thy love on me thou dost bestow.

But many, many years have fied,

And many changes since that time ;
I would that I might be where then

I was, in home’s bright, happy clime,
Basking in a fond mother’s smile,
And sporting gayly all the while.

Not then by dark and bitter strife
My heart was steeled to woe and pain;
Not then a beggar sought the door
Who ever sought relief in vain ;
For one dear hand was always there
To answer to the beggar’s prayer.

Oh, sing to me that song again,
To calm my withered, broken heart;
Those thrilling words were my delight—
Oh, sing it once before we part ;
And I will pray to God above, ;
Thou e’er mayst know a mother’s love.
-> e+

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK: FORM.)

For Another's Sin;

OR,

 

THE BRIDE’S CONQUEST

sete

By BERTHA M. CLAF,
‘ 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 XXXTil.
“‘0 SLEEPLESS AND DEADLY DOLORES!”

«Who would have thought that you could have been
so touched with the music!” cried the duchess, in her
prettiest little foreign idiom.

«And are you not touched by it? I think I heard one
of your humerous admirers tell you once that you had
song in your face.”

“Not this song of England. Oh, you should hear the
ballads of Spain! Those pour fire into your veins; these

poor, cold things are milk of roses.”

They had reached the table where the photographs
lay, and were turning them over. They were views:
but as Lord Carew lifted two, a third, a smaller picture,
mounted on thinner paper, fell from between them—the
portrait of a dark, brilliant, fiery woman, in the full
flush of her early charms. As it fell, it lay so that the
top of the picture, the brow, was toward them—a posi-

tion in which artists examine a sketch to catch a like-
ness in it, or get its character.

«You ?” questioned Lord Carew.

The duchess hastily turned the photograph.

“No; I never Saw it, or the original. Itis beautiful. I
so thank you for your compliments, my lord !”

She swept him a courtesy, her splendid, flashing eyes
raised to his, an arch smile on the full, red lips.

“It is no compliment,” said Lord Carew. “The pic-
ture is like you; and yet—I see now —it is older than you
are, and—pardon me—less beautiful.”

“Why pardon? Do you English all ask pardon ata
compliment? In my ownJand, men do not ask to for-
give them if they say one is beautiful.”

Phe duke drew near, with Lady St. Clair on his arm.

“You are admiring the photographs?. They came
yesterday.”

“We had really only looked at this one,” said Lord
Carew,” and he held out the portrait. .

«There were only views On the list,” said the duke,
and he took the picture in his hand, “is it possible?

name ?” and the duke stood with bent brows: Then his
face cleared. ‘‘Treimember. It is Isabeau Pierre. Lady
Clair, did you hear of her, some thirty years ago, per-
haps? She is a reminiscence of my Paris life—an ac-
tress, who took Paris by storm. I think it she had fol-
lowed her profession, She would have eclipsed the later
fame of Rachel. She starred it on the continent a while,
and disappeared. If you admire it, Lord Carew, it isa

      

   
  

 

 

 

old familiar name. ‘Your wife?—does she never say
what she thinks ?” ‘

“Always the same imperious, spoiled child,” said Lord
Carew, looking with wistful admiration at the entranc-

ing face. ;
“And the wife, Lady Carew, she is not the spoiled
child! No; she will always be sweet and reposeful.

We Spanish women—our life is not like that.”

But as the passionate fire of those dark eyes met i
and the rash words fell from the ripe red lips, Lo
Carew felt a sudden thankful reverence for the gracious
purity of his wife, whose falr face did not keep its best
glances for othermen. And he remembered the words -
of an old book—‘‘The heart of her husband doth safely
trust in her.” But Lady Adelaide, also, had noted the
burning glances of the Southern beauty. She knew, —
alas, that her husband, though armed by honor, was not
doubly armed by love; and, fair as a guardian angel, to —
shield him from himself, she crossed the room. Calm
and welcome as the dawning after a fierce night of
tropic storm, she stood before them. ‘

For ive lirst time, Lord Carew welcomed his wife’s ap-
proach.

“We sang two kinds of music,” said the duchess ; ‘‘you
ot tg your husband to heaven; I brought him back to
earth.”

“The true home of music is in heaven,” said Lady
Adelaide. at.’

“But Lord Carew and I are the children of this world,”
said the duchess. a
No one had seen Lady St. Clair stooping for the

duchess’ jeweled fan that had slidden from her lap, take
up the picture of Isabean Pierre, and concealing itin —
the shimmering folds of her drapery, seat herself in a
window, where, screened by the swaying masses of the
silken curtain, she tore the picture in tiniest fragments,
and reaching her arm from the window, sowed them on.
the dew-heavy air of night.

Her extended arm was seized in a steel-like clasp; a
dark face—a face where fires of former passions seemed
to smolder, as dying embers in the wreck of a former
beauty—was thrust close to that of Lady St. Clair.

“T have found you, my enemy!” _

Your enemy! Your only triend,” said Lady St. Clair,
calling up all her resolution, and speaking soitly. Y

“Come now ; I've got you, and the police. shall lock —
you up.” 7 oa ao Lae

This was the footman, swinging himself over the light. 1 __
balcony by the intruder, and seizing her rot ss

“James,” said Lady St. Clair, ‘she only came because *
she saw mytace. She is an old pensioner of mine,

 

 

 

 

harmless but partly crazy. Pray let her go. Go, Isa; I
will see you to-morrow.” - ;
“To-morrow ! Your people will drive me away.” _
“No. I will give orders to admit you. I am ready to
help you. Gonow. You know this is notright.” —
“Right.. He! he! Who is that gorgeous beauty lean-
ing back in that chair?” and the dark face pressed
nearer the window. ~
““Go—tor Heaven’s sake, go! Anything, if
01” ;
“Yes, I go. Heavens! how handsome
-was I, with Paris at my feet!”

you’ will
she is! Such

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A WOMAN WITHOUT A FRIEND. —

“Until with accent of regret
She touched upon the past onee more, —
As if she dared him to forget
His dream of yore.”

“Dear Lady Adelaide,” said the Duke of Ormond, as
he took leave of his guests, ‘‘I once had pleasant polit-
ical relations with your late father-in-law. I de t to
renew the old ties, now, in a private friendship of our
families. I entreat for my dear young duchess the

i

friendship of Lady Carew and yourself. wife is not
quite accustomed to English ways.” Pie
At that very instant Lady Adelaide saw the usly

liveried little page of the duchess slipping a small note
into Lord Carew’s hand. She saw, also, Lord Carew for
the first time in his life embarrassed. He could not re-
ject the note. but he had lived in the light of day, like
and honest man, and to take this furtive message from

a friend’s wife, under the very eyes of that triend, and
of his own wife—this was a hu g position, in
which it enraged. him to be placed. '

_ Lady Adelaide thanked Heaven for that burning blush
on her lord’s face. There was no room for jealousy in
her clear soul, for he had ‘never professed to love her,
and her heart overflowed in a divine compassion for him,
in that he bad not only found his lost idol taken from
him for another shrine, but might see that idol broken
into atoms at his feet and know it clay, This would be
agony indeed. What should she feel if she found zim,
aroane love of her puresoul, talse. to his honest man-
a He looked at her to see if she had noticed the inci-

ent.

She laid her hand on his arm to go to the carriage,
and her soft voice breathed music in his ear, while over
her gentle face lay not the lightest shadow of a cloud.
Lord Carew was reassured. Rags T, 3

In her magnificent drawing-room the Duchess of Or-
mond stood alone. The light of a glittering chandelier
poured over her. She was leaning against the black
jade pedestal, upon which stood a mocking, laug

Wacactus covered with. crimson bloom ; in the liv-

   

in

ing flame of the open blossoms quivered the cream-white |

floss-like Stamens, as the duchess hastily waved to and
fro the jeweled fan to cool cheeks heated by anger to as
vivid a flame as the cactus-bloom. — ; ges

“I hate his wife!” she panted to herself: ‘Cold, and
calm, and pale as moonbeams upon snow! What do men
see in those snow-drop beauties to love? But no, he

hereditary, or rather collateral, trait. Your cousin, or | does not love her—he never loved her; and yet he dared
great-uncle, or some 6ther Carew, was one of her ad- | leave me for her! And he shall leave her tor me! He

mirers, Iremember hearing. But he came to England,
and she disappeared in some foreign match. So that all
ended as many things end.”

«J was noticing it because, at first, it seemed to me so
like the duchess,” said Lord Carew.

“Eh? Isitso? 1 must look again.” |

The duke adjusted his eye-glasses and turned for the

large, placid lady, distinguished for aplomb, why should
she drop the photograph so that the edge struck sharp-
ly on the table in falling to the floor ?

She grew deadly pale, and caught a gasping breath.
Lord Carew wheeled up a chair. .

“Lady St. Clair, you are faint; the room is too warm.
Allow me.” :

He took the duchess’ fan and waved it gently. Lady
St. Clair exerted all her self-control.

“It is nothing; alittle fatigue. J took along drive in
the park this afternoon.” rf

«Will you have some wine or iced sherbet, madam ?”-
asked the duchess, dutifully.

“No, my dear. Iam quite well now. Letus havea
little more music. Lady Carew has obliged us; let us
hear one of your songs.”

é “It is so long since I have heard you sing,” said the
uke.

«With pleasure,” said the duchess, and laid her little
hand on Lord Carew’s quickly offered arm.

“Now see if my music does move you,” she said,
sweetly.

“Shall I find your music ?” j

“No; my songs are in my head.” she replied; and
then the dainty fingers dropped on the keys. <I shall
sing of my own name,” she cried, with a little soft
laugh—*Juanita. It is a lovely name, I think, and re-
mainds me of the suns, and pomegranates, and falling
fountains of my Spain. You do not think me dispraising
England ?” and she swept an ingenuous look around the
circle. It was a ravishing glance, that would disarm
all criticism; but the glance ended with Lord Carew,
and lingered longest on him. What said the softened
sunbeams of these southern orbs ?

“Softly o’er the fountain
Gleams the southern moon -
Brightly o’er the mountain
Breaks the day too soon.
In thy dark eyes splendor,
Where the moonlight loves to dwell,
_ Weary looks, yet tender,
Speak thy fond—farewell.
Nita, Juanita, is it well that we should part ?
Nita, Juanita, lean thou on my heart!”

The warm, fragrant air of the splendid room quivered
with the harmony. There seemed a spell in the words.
Soft love scenes in southern bowers rose as at an in-
cantation. Over the gentle heart of Lady Adelaide the
words rang as with an undertone of doom.

picture ; but Lady St. Clair had taken it suddenly. ‘|
|

“Wilt thou not, relenting,
For thine absent lover sigh ?
In thy heart repenting
For an hour gone by.”

Who could withstand such notes of seductive sweet-
ness, sung straight into his soul, while the soft, dark
splendor of the Spaniard’s eyes fell full into his? Could
Lord Carew?

“Fair duchess,” said the incorrigible Beauty Ran-
dolph, ‘‘one might almost, believe it a reminiscence.”

“Of Spain? No! ILileft my Spain when I was twelve;
before then I had only my prayer-book and my duenna.”

Then she turned from the instrument and took Lord
Carew’s arm. The eyes of the duke followed her with
gratified love and pride. She only sought the eyes of
Lord Carew.

best, your wife or I ?” she asked, willfully.

“J never heard my wife sing before,” he replied, un-
guardedly.

“So? Then she does not love you,” she said, calmly.

“Is that you test of love? And to whom do you
sing 9.) +

“To-night, toyow!” she said, with a soft sigh. ‘Do I
not know, in art,in music, and pictures, you are the
man of true taste in all England ?”

“You flatter me, duchess,” said Lord’ Carew, with a
pleased flush.

“Duchess! Always duchess!”

“And who could wear a title more enchantingly ?
What else should | call your grace ?”

“You shall speak tome as you used to do. I hate
change! I do not change. But you Englishmen are
like your climate—one never knows what to depend on.
At morning, fair; at noon, storm.”

‘One at least is to you unchangeable,” said Lord
Carew, looking toward the duke. ‘His admiration for
you shines ever the same.”

«So are his moors up in Scotland always the same ; but
itis an always the Same of cold and mist. Lady St.
Clair was with me there last autumn ina party. It did
seem ] should die! I hate Scotland !”

“Nita!” cried Lord Carew, reprovingly, astonished.

“Now what is wrong ?” demanded the beautiful young

 

 

remedy in Secott’s Emulsion of Pure Cod Liver Oil
with Hy pophosphites. Very palatable and easily digested.

duchess, in childish petulance, and vast delight at the

“Have you heard us both enough to tell which sings |

shall come back, and all the world shall see him come.
He shall kneel at my feet. ,She shall pine a et
and I will look into her face and smile. Did 1 not see it
in her eyes to-night? She tried tolook me through.
Those violet eyes, tit only to look love on girls or little
children, they looked intg my eyes, and said: ‘You. try
to take him away. You cannot! He is mine by law!
Law !—what dol care for law? He is mine by love!”
Then, swift as lightning flashes and is gone, her fury
died away as she heard the duke’s step, and, lifting her-

| self on tiptoe, she kissed a scarlet bloom as if it were a

sacrament, and looked across the flowers at him with
laughing eyes. : asi

«Be careful, Juanita!” cried the duke. “Those flowers
are lovely, but they are dangerous with their little tufts
ot subtle prickles. I wonder they are here—they are
unfit for a drawing-room decoration; treacherous and
scentless——” : }

“But beautiful, Gervase.
ery,{”

“Heaven forbid!
speech.”

She moved into fuller light, away from the flowers.

“See, Ihave broken my fan. J] dreamed it was an en-
emy I had in my grasp, and I crushed it, so.”

“Anenemy? You have none. And who would have
thought this little hand so strong ?” said the duke, kiss-
ing it. ‘‘Never mind thefan. I will choose you the finest
fan in London, fit for the most beautiful woman.”

“Fans are easily found,” she laughed, <I may break
another, dreaming it an enemy. Do you know I could
not live without anenemy. They lend flavor to an in-
sipid life.”

“Nothing is insipid to you, love—such an embodi-

ey ot youth, and life, and happiness as you are,” he
sa Ls ‘ :
«Do you not fancy life now may be insipid 2” she Ge-
manded. “Think whenI wasachild our castle was
always full of the excitement of conspiracy, of traitors
coming and going. One never knew when all the men
of the family would be taken away to have their heads
off; and’ under our window at night, plumed men in
cloaks sang love songs to a guitar.” .

The duke drew her fondly to his heart. ;

«What a life for you, my little dove! There, go to
your rest, and dream not of traitors and enemies, but of
your gentle conquest of all hearts that love you.”

She slid from his clasp, kissed her finger-tips to him,
and was gone, a bright vision fleeing up the great stair
trom the old man’s doating eyes. ‘

The Duchess of Ormond dismissed her maid, and, too
excited to sleep, sank in the luxurious depths of a viol
velvet chair. She lifted her eyes. She was opposite
great gold-framed mirror. She faced herself in all bh
tatal beauty. : :

In her burning, passionate Southern home she had
passed early from motherless childhood to premature
womanhood. Coming orphaned to England, with only
beauty for her dower, she had fallen into the care of her.
tar-off relative, Lady St. Clair, who daily and deey
impressed upon her that rank, and wealth, and aT
good things in their train alone made life worth living. ~
She estimated all admirers who came about her by
their titles and their incomes, and would at any hour .
have dismissed the most favored suitor for one who in
fortune or rank surpassed him. When a dukedom was
laid at her feet, she had reached the acme of her ambi-
tion, as she could not expectto marry a royal prince.
Had not the softly languishing eyes turned upd i,
the tender listening to his every word, half with love,
halt with reverence, first suggested to the old duke that
it might be possible for him to gain this exquisite young
bride and taste again the joys of family, long withered
under the touch of death? In Scotland, in that visit of
which she now spoke so petulantly, had she not avowed
that she loved the cold, the strong, the calm, the
ere 4 ? Had she not said she loved the snows and the
mists ? ‘

Then, with the slipping of that magic golden circle on
her little, soft hand, and the securing of that ardently
desired coronet, a change had come. The fascinating
bride grew calm, dignified, reticent, shy, proud—yes,
cold—and the duke thought this fitted well her rank
and her new matronly dignity. But very soon it seemed
to the Duchess of Ormond that the strawberry leaves

were less desirable, and that rank and wealth were
things that had always been hers, and were old tales.

Lord Carew, in the days ot their early love-making,
had been admired for his noble presence, desired for his”
wealth; he would have been dismissed in favor of the
duke had he remained at her feet till the duke ap-
peared. , >

In those days he was but one of many, if the first of ~
all. Now that this serene wife claimed him, Lord Ca-
rew and his love became to the artiul duchess the one
desirable good. Had Lord Carew elected Juanita and
poverty, Juanita herself would have cried impossible !
No man with poverty as his dower would have been en-

I like beauty and treac
You do yourself injustice with th

durable. But now Lord Carew poss d one of the first.
fortunes in England, and forbidden fruit and this daugh-
ter of Eve held outher hand tohim. She wearied of

 

 

this role of an old man’s darling. She would chain a
young manin his pride and prime to the triumphal

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wheels of lier chariot, and he must be carried captive
from the lawful empress Of his heart.

Thus, as across London peeled the bells of St. Paul's,
telling that the night was growing from the midnight
toward the early summer dawn, lay this fatal, glowing
beauty, unwearied in the velvet cushions of her chair,
and planned to entrap and dominate this proud and
honest. heart, too honest to contend fairly with wiles
like hers. staan

And Allan, Lord Carew, tossed wrathfully on a sleep-
less pillow; and one moment told himself all would have
been well but for his father’s unjust will, and again, exe-
erated the rash and lovely Spaniard for her recklessness;
and then with a gush of admiration forgave her for her
bea! lan’s dressing-table lay atoms of what

 
  

Life has grown dark and cold tome, though
; You, I know, can pity and help me. I am a
stranger in a strange land; but once you cared for me, and
J—— Meet me to-morrow at the studio of Mons. Leon. Do
notfail. You shall adviseme how to haye my picture taken,
also what to do. : Nira.”
While Allan Carew tossed and cursed his fate, his re-
jected wife was kneeling in a tiny white boudoir, her
Own, most secret room, snowy, and sweet, and still as
the heart of a white rose.
“Oh, Heaven!” she prayed, ‘give me a patience long
as life. To suffer wrong is better than to sin, and in
ing to shield him from shame and sorrow, forbid that

I seem ¢

iy ave betrayed him into evil!”

And out of that steadfast spirit all resentment died,
and in a new courage she resolved to do her work to the
end and save her husband’s imperiled soul.

And far away from Belgravia, in a lodging on the
ced up and down the dark woman

who had ealled Lady St. Clair her enemy.

“Such once was I, so dazzling in beauty, so assured in
_my pride. Oh, life that 1 have wrecked and wasted! Oh,
that have followed years of sin! Now
i without a friend!”

  
   
 

CHAPTER XXXV.
“NAY, THEN, FORBID IT HEAVEN!” HE SAID. ,
‘d Carew, after a troubled night, was early waking.
The note at once occupied his mind.

“How could she!” he cried. «“‘Why not speak openl
tome! lloved her once. Heaven forbid that I should
love her now, when she is married to another, and I too
am bound, by fetters none the less to be respected,
Dees she think I am not a man
of lreaor? Does she think me so base as not to respect
the sanctuary rights of that noble old man’s home?

 

life been motherless, she needs afriend. She means no
harm, the duke is old for her, I may help her to under-
stand him better. -{ cannotinsult her by not going, my
refusal may put evil thoughts into her little head.
cannot degrade her, to herself. Beautiful Nita!” he
‘cried, passionately, as the glorious face rose in vision
~pefore him. ‘What would! not do to help you.”
~ He went down to breakfast, his heart in a tumuit.
There he found.help-in his trouble. Lady Carew was
there in her ‘nifled gracious motherhood, to soothe
the pefturbed seul of her son.. And presently Lady
A e caine in, looking simply angelic. No fair lily
e poplar and sweeter than that pure, tender
face. She bent to receive Lady Carew’s warm kiss, and
then her violet eyes turned on her husband; tender,
, Serene, unre i
light on all his troubled way. He spoke hastily.
“Mother. you asked me for Adelaide’s portrait. Iam
reminded of it now, as the duchess told me she is to
have hers painted by Monsieur Leon, the new star in
trait painting, who paints, only the most beautiful.
Fee Rover paints where it would be possible to improve
on nature, or to flatter.” a
“Phen he will delight in painting Adelaide,” said Lady

Carew.
Her daughter-in-law blushed.

 
 

was @

    

- And the duchess is to be at Monsieur Leon’s studio
this morning to arrange for her picture. She would be
delighted if ve would meet her there. Will you both
GOR ole. Ser
“Ts it,” said Lady Carew.

_ “With p ure, if you wish it,” said Lady Adelaide.

- Lord Carew looked earnestly at her. Did she know of
that note the previous evening? Not for worlds would

he stand guilty, before those innocent eyes, of carrying
on an intrigue, or forgetting the respect demanded b.
her presence under his root. Soin fhese months, since

his. forced marriage, had this unwelcome wife’s character .

grown upon him, that in all the world, hers was the bar
where he should most dread to be condemned, and she
unwittingly was the umpire of his most secret thoughts.

Mons Leon was a painter sprung newly into dazzling
fame. A man of about thirty, whose pictures had taken
by storm the visitors of the Paris Salon, and the galleries
of Italy. He had been persuaded by ardent admirers to
come to London, and his studio was thronged with those
who came as sitters or purchasers, and with many more,
whom owing to their lack of beauty he would not be
persuaded to paint.

“Only beauty,” said Mons. Leon, calmly, full of faith
in his destiny, “should be immortalized.”

And yet to immortalize true beauty by his brush on
canvas was his joy, and the artist’s soul was lifted to a
rare delight, when that morning the two most beautiful
women in England, and of types so different, stood in

    

Diss ‘— : ee ee the anteroom opened. | over now—that no-one but Peterkin had accused him—,-ior it... Taking a card tp s pocket, he wrote upon it: |
Tet a TY XS aircaly Lainie Cir tire ere 7 R ATAUDE 1 Bway “week

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

turned with a fillsh of triumph. He had obeyed her
call! Her face darkened—like archangel fallen, when
she saw with him—his mother and his’ wife. But she
was too much mistress of herselt.to betray her chagrin.
She stepped torward with her brilliant smile, gave her
hand t¢ dy Carew, and her most fascinating greeting
_to Lady Adelaide.. To poor Lord Carew, with her
haughty head turned a little over her shoulder, she gave
a cool, almost disdainful nod, with her brow lifted, and
a level glance of restrained rage.

“T have offended her,” said Carew, and his heart sank,
his happy scheme of bringing his ladies, looked less
happy each instant.

“the artist had received the party in his drawing-room.
ae | studio was sacred to two or three at most—a chat-
tering crowd never would be allowed to desecrate that
shrine of art.

Beauty Randolph, and one or two others, were in the
drawing-room. No doubt the infatuated Beauty would
have incontinently deserted to the standard of Lady
Adelaide, but the duchess, who had been ignoring him,
suddenly changed her tactics, and cried:

“Captain Randolph, itison you I. depend to teli me
how my picture shall be painted! Shallit be in fancy
costume or not ?”

“You do me too much honor,” cried Beauty, ‘‘the
question is important.”

“Tt is indeed,” said Leon, ‘‘for this must be a work of
supreme art.” : :

“} leave it to you and Captain Randolph,” said the
duchess. ‘I had asked a triend, on whose taste I relied,
to meet me here.. He has failed me. Ishall look to
him no more.”

She spoke so easily that not even Lady Adelaide de-
tected her hidden intention. Lord Carew felt all the
sting of her words. :

«Be painted as Cleopatra, your grace, queen beauty of
the Orient world,” said Captain Randolph.
son has it: : é
“*On a flowery rise,

One sitting on a crimson scarf unrolled.’
Truly you will seem such as— x

**The Nilus would have risen before his time,
And flooded at your nod.’”

Yes,” said Monsieur Leon; ‘‘or, with a mantle: of
purple velvet and ermine, and feeding a white fawn
with white roses.”

“May I speak a suggestion ?” asked Lord Carew.

“[ think not. Too many suggestions weary one,” said
the duchess, coldly. ‘But, Lady Adelaide, what do you
think ?”

«Dear duchess,” said Lady Adelaide, utterly devoid ot
envy of another's’ beauty, “I feel as if you really would
look most beautiful painted exactly as yourself—with
your pomegranate blossoms and lace mantilla, the true
crowning type of Spanish loveliness.”

«Decide, now, Monsieur Leon—decide among all these

opinions,” said the duchess, speaking in French, to the |

artist.

The Goor of an inner room hastily opened, and a little

old man. in a velvet cap and brocaded dressing-gown,
looked forth eagerly.

«That voice! that voice! Who spoke, mon jis ?”

“The Duchess of Ormond, father,” said the artist, in a
low tone, going with great respect toward the intruder.

He did not seem to hear the answer; eagerly through
his glasses he was peering at the aristocratic group, and
his anxious, trembiing tones cried still :

“Mon jils, mon fils, who is that lady ?—the dark, beau-
tifui——”

“Mon pere!” said the artist, remonstrant, pressing
him gently back. But Lady Adelaide stepped forward,
with her peculiar. tender grace.

‘Monsieur Leon, may I speak to your father? I recog-
nize him, and I owe him so much! My dear old master!
do you not remember me ?—lithle Adelaide Carlton I was
when youtaught me Freneh and Italian, and you re-
member I made you so much trouble, because even my
English was mixed with Hindostanee? It was you who
first made study pleasant or possible to me, and with-

out you I should have grown up asad dunce.”

She looked toward Lady Carew brightly, who also
recognized her young ward’s preceptor, and with true
good-breeding, turned to speak to him.

The perturbation of the old Frenchman quieted under
the gracious influence.

“1 remember,” he said, with a low bow. “Madame
was my gracious patroness, who helped a poor exile into
competence. In those days I was toiling that my son’s
great genius might be properly cultivated. Now I am

‘ compensated, and proud that he is an artist second to
none,

Then his eyes lingered on the wonderful loveliness of
Lady Adelaide, and he said, tenderly :

“The little fair maid who was the sweetest and best of
all my pupils, has grown into the loveliest lady in the
land. Mon jils, if this lady is to be painted, it should be
as one of the ministering angels who walk God’s earth,
and make flowers spring up beneath their feet.”

‘IT should say,” replied the artist, somewhat embar-
assed at his father’s interposition, ‘as Lady Carew was
pleased to say about her grace, she will be most beauti-
ful painted as herself.” ‘

The little old Frenchman, with a bow full of courtesy
of the old French school, withdrew, and softly closed the
door that shut him into bis little library.

“My father has a trouble that makes him nervous and
forgetful,” said the artist, half-apologetically.

y “twas,”,and Peterkin shook from his head to his feet—

But no, she isso young, she is Spanish, she has all her

achful, they seemed to shed a sudden

“As Tenny- |

“I was glad to see him, and speak to him,” said Lady
Adelaide, gently.

At that instant her eyes fell On the Duchess of Or-
mond and Monsieur Leon, whose heaas happened to be
brought into range, aS two heads cut upon the same
eameo. She fairly caught her breath at the amazing
ee ee dark, foreign, and supremely beau-
tiful.

‘“‘May I look at the triptych ?” asked Beauty Randolph,
pausing before a small carved and inclosed frame, on
the wall. . *

“Pardon me,” said Leon; ‘it is no work of art. Itisa
portrait painted from memory by my father, who, with
singular artistic taste, had no art training. The case is
always locked.”

The gay party went away, the duchess still freezing
Lord Carew with a wronged, indignant scorn; and all
unconscious that the trembling little old French exile
er unwittingly the thread of all their lives in his
hands.

 

 

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)
_>-@~<~——

TRACY PARK.

By MRS. MARY /. HOLMES.

 

(“TRacy Park” was commenced in No.1. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents. }

ie CHAPTER XLII.— (CONTINUED.) :

“Thunder, and lightning, and guns!” old Peterkin
exclaimed, while the spittle flew from his mouth like
the spray from Niagara. ‘JZ assault and batter Jer-
rie Crawford!—a gal! What do you take me for,
young man? T’ma gentleman, I be, if I ain’t a Tracy;
and I never salted nor battered nobody, and she'll tell
you so*herself. Heavens and earth! this is the way

 

 

for, like most men who clamor so loudly for the law, he
| had a mortal terror of it for himself, and Tom’s threat-
eni ks and words made him afraid. «This is how
found her.in the Tramp-House, and I was all-
at her about somethin’—I shan’t tell what, for
1d kill me; but I pitched in to her right and left;
and, by gum, she pitched into me, so that for a spell it
was nip-and-tuck betwixt us; and, by George, if she
| didn’t order me out of the Tramp-House, and said it was

    
   
    

 

 

{| bern; and I'll be dumbed.it I don’t believe she’d of put

| me out, too, body and bones, if I hadn’t gone. She was
| just like a tiger; and, I swan, I was kinder feared on
her, and backed out with a kind of flourish of my fist on
that darned old rotten table, which went all to smash;
| and that’s alli know. You don’t call that ’sault and
| batter, do you 2” .

Tom could not say that he did, but he replied :

«That's your version of it. Jerrie may have another,
| and her friends ain’t going to have her abused by a chap
| like you; and my advice is that you hold your tongue,
| both about her and Harold. It will be better for you.
| Do you understand ?” t
. You bet !” Peterkin said, with a meaning nod, breath-
| ing a little more freely as he caught sight of the highest
| tower of Lubbvertoo, and more treely still when he ar-
| rivi at the station, where he was met by his coat-of-
| arms carriage, instead of a writ, and was suffered to go
peaceably home, a disappointed, if not a better man.

 

CHAPTER XLIII.
HAROLD AND JERRIE.

The news which so electrified all Shannondale was slow
in reaching Mrs. Crawford, but it did reach her at last,
crushing and overwhelming her with a sense of shame
and anguish, until as the day wore on, Grace Atherton,
and Mrs. St. Claire, and Nina, and many others, came to
reassure her, and to say that it was all a mistake, which
would soon be Cleared up.

Thus comforted and consoled, she tried to be calm,
and wait patiently for the train. But there was a great
pity for her boy in her heart as she sat by Jerrie’s bed-
side and watched her in all her varying moods, now per-
fectly quiet, while her wide-open eyes staring up at the
ceiling as if she were seeing something there, now talk-
ing of Peterkin, and the Tramp House, and the table,
and the blow, and again of the baz, which she said was
lost, and which her grandmother must find.

Thinking she meant the carpet-bag, Mrs. Crawford
brought that to her; but she tossed it aside impatiently

ae no; the other one, which tells it all. Where is it!
J must have lost it. Find it, find it. To be so near, and
yet sotar. Whatdid it say? Why camtI think? Am
I like Mr. Arthur—crazy, like him 2”

Mrs. Crawtord thought her crazier than Arthur, and
waited still more impatiently for Harold, until she heard

his step outside, and knew that he had come.
| “Harold !” sora
“Grandma !” was all they said for a moment, while the
| poor old lady was sobbing on his neck, and then he com-
forted her as best he could, telling her that it.was all

 

 

a little ne could explain every thing.

“And now I must see Jerrie,” he continued, starting |

; for the stairs, and glad that his grandmother did not at-
| tempt to follow him. ; ;

Jerrie had heard his voice, and had raised herself in
bed, and as he came in, met him with the question :

- “Have you brought them? Has. any one seen them ?”

The strange lightdn her eyes should have told Harold
how utterly incapable she was of giving any rational
answers to his questions, but he did not think of that,
and instead of trying to quiet her, he plunged at once in-
to the subject she had broached : '

“Do you mean. the diamonds ?” he ask

“Yes,” she replied, ‘“‘the diamonds!
Where are they ?” %

“Mrs. Tracy has them by this time,” Harold replied.

‘Mrs. Tracy’!” Jerrie exclaimed. “What has she to
do with them. They are not hers. They are mine—
they are mine! Bring them to me—bring them to me.”
_ She was terribly excited, and fora time Harold bent
all his energies to soothe her, and at last when from sheer
exhaustion she became quiet he said to her:

“Jerrie, where did you tind the diamonds ?”

She looked at him curiously, but made no reply, and
he continued : er

«You must tell me where you found them: it is neces-
sary I should know.” ‘

Still she did not reply, but stared at him, as if not fully
comprehending-what he meant.

«Jerrie,” he said again, ‘‘do you love me ?”

Quickly her eyes filled with tears, and she replied :.

ed.
the diamonds!

of ; more than you love me.”

risen to a sitting posture, and pillowing her head upon.
his breast, he said :

“No, darling, that is impossible, for ] love you better
| than my life,” and his lips pressed hers passionately.

He felt ‘that this was their betrothal, forhe did not
take into consideration the state of her mind; but she
undeceived him quickly, for although she kissed him
back, she said, with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice:

*‘Aren’t you afraid they will see you ?”

«Who are they ?” he asked, and she replied .

«The Pak and the Harvard boys, and Maude.”

He did not know at all what she meant, but at the
| mention of Maude he groaned involuntarily, as the white
| face came up before him again and the eyes looked into
his, fuller tar of love.and tenderness than those con-
fronting him so steadily, with no consciousness of his
real meaning in them.

“Those diamonds have caused me a great deal of
trouble,” he began again, ‘‘and will cause me more un-
less you tell me where youfound them. Try and think.
Was it in the Tramp House ?”

That started her at onee, and she began to rave of the
Trainp House, and the rat-hole, and the table, and
Peterkin, who dealt the blow. The bruise on her head
had not proved so serious as was at first feared, and
with her tangled hair falling over her tace. Harold had
not noticed it. But he looked at it now and questioned
her of it, asking if Peterkin struck her there.

“No,” she said, and again the senseless babbling of
rat-holes, and table-legs, and bags, and diamonds, until
Harold became alarmed and went for his grandmother.

 

 

present condition, and so Harold started for the Tramp
House to see what that woutd tell him. The table was
still upon the floor, with the three legs piled upon it,
while the fourth one was missing. But Harold found it
at last, for, remembering what Jerrie had said of the
rat-hole, he investigated that spot, and from its enlarged
appearance drew his own conclusion. Jerrie had found
the diamonds there ; he had no doubt of it, and he told
Tom Tracy so; for, as if there were a fascination about
the place for him, Tom appeared in the door-way just as
Harold was leaving it. Sitting down upon the bench
where Jerrie had sat that day when Peterkin attacked
her, the two young men, who had been enemies all
their lives, but who were now drawn together by a com-
mon sympathy and love for the same girl, talked the
matter over again, each arriving at the same theory as
the most probable one they could accept.

«Arthur, in a crazy fit, had secreted the diamonds, and
Jerrie knew it, though possibly not where he had put
them. This accounted for her strange sickness when a
child, while her finding them later on, added to other
causes, would account for her sickness now. Peterkin
owns that he was blowing her up for something, and
that he knocked the table down with his fist, but he
swears he didn’t touch her,” Tom said, repeating in sub-

shaking with fear of a writ.

Jerrie ?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” Harold replied. ‘‘Her name must not be men-
tioned in connection with the diamonds. ‘I can’t have
be slightest breath of suspicion touching Jerrie, my
sister.”

“Sister be hanged!” Tom began, savagely, then checked
himself, and added, with a sneering laugh: ‘Don’t try
to deceive me, Hal, with your sister business. You
love Jerrie, and she loves you, and that is one reason
why I hate you, or shall, when this miserable business
is cleared up. Just now we must together and find
out where she found the diamon who put them
there. To write to Uncle Arth vould do no good,
though seeing him might; the last we heard he was
thinking of taking the coast voyage from San Francisco

   
 

 

to Tacoma,”

‘Love you, Harold! Yes, more than you ever dreamed |

Instantly Harold had his arms around her, for she had |

There was nothing to be learned from Jerrie in her |

stance all Peterkin had said to him in the train when |
“And do you still mean to keep silent with regard to |

“Tom,” Harold exclaimed, with great energy, as he
sprang to his feet, ‘that decides me ;” and then he told
of the offer Billy had made him on thecar. ‘“WhenI
saw how sick Jerrie was, [made up my mind .not to
accept it. although I need the money badly. But now,
if Jerrie gets no worse, [ shall start for Tacoma in a few

found.” bese

It was growing dark when the two young men finally
emerged trom the house and stood for a moment out-
side, while Harold inquired for Maude.

“She is not very well, that’s a fact,” Tom said, gloom-
ily ; ‘and no wonder, when mother keeps her cooped
up in one room, withcut enough fresh air, and let’s
nobody see her excepti the tamily and the doctor, for
fear they will excite her. She knows nothing about the
diamonds, nor that Jerrie is sick. I did tell her, though,
that youhad come homes; and, by Jove! I pretty near
forgot it. She wants to see you bad; but, Lord! mother
won’t let youin. Nousetotry. She’s like ashe wolt
guarding its cub. Good-night.”

And Tom walked away, while Harold went. back to the
cottage, where he found Jerrie sleeping very quietly,
with alook on her face so like that it had worn in her
babyhood, when he calleéa*her-iis little girl, that he in-
voluntarily stooped down and kissed it as one. would
kiss a beautiful: baby. : :

The next morning Jerrie was very restless, and talked
wildly of the Tramp Housé and the diamonds, insisting
that they were hers and mts be brought to her.

“Why did you tell her about them ?’ Mrs. Crawford
asked, reproachtully. 4

But Harold did not re his mind was so torn with
distracting doubts as to whether he ought to take the
Western trip or not. 4

If he went, he must go at@nce, and -to leave Jerrie in
her present state seemed impossible. He would consult
the physician first, and Ju St. Claire next. The doc-
tor gave it as his opinion thab Jerrie was in no danger, it
she were only kept quiet. She had taken a severe cold
and overtaxed her strength, while most likely she had
inherited from some one a tendency to be flighty when
anything was the matter; a thought Harold might
venture to leave her. a :

“Yes, ’'d go if I were you,* he added, looking intently
at the young man; for, like Billy, he too thought'it
| might be pleasanter for him £0 be out of the way for a
} time, although he did notsayso.
| And this was the view
'a few moments’ conversa

been : ‘ yu

‘Well, my boy, can you té

| to you ?” nes eae
| «No, I can’t,” was Harold's reply; and then, acting
| upon a sudden impulse, he burst out impetuously: ‘Yes,
| 1 will tell you, for I can trugt you. and I want your ad-
| vice so badly.”
So he repeated rapidly ali he knew, and his theory
| with regard to Arthur, whom he wished.so much to find,
| and of Billy’s proposition that he should go on his busi-
| ness to Tacoma, : a
| Fora few moments the jug@ge seemed perplexed and
undecided, for he was balaméing in his mind the pros
| and .cons for going from ml people, or staying to face

 

  
 
  
 
  

judge took of it, after
His first question had

"Se nDow.wilo~ gave them

them. If he staid he ht haye some unpleasant
things to bear and hear, fortkere were those who would
talk/in spite of their protestations of the young man’s
innocence ; while to go migW: look like running away
from the storm, with the ster unexplained. On the
whole, however, he decided that it was better to go. —
‘“<Jerrie’s interests are saféavith me.” he said, ‘‘and by
the time you return everything will be explained; but
find Mr. Tracy as soon as possible. i am inclined to
think your theory with regagtd to him correct.”
So it was decided that Haw should go, and the next
night was appointed for himto start. Had he known
that Peterkin, and even Mrs. fracy, were each in his or
her own way insinuating he was running from
public opinion, nothing coul@fave induced him to leave.
But he did not know it, and) #nt about his preparations
with as brave a heart as h@eouid command under the
circumstances. Jerrie wagfssore quiet now, though
every effort on his part tor anything from her con-
cerning the diamonds brought oh a fit of raving, when
she would insist that the jewels were hers, and must be
brought to her‘at once. Ne ae
“But you tola me they were Mrs. Tracy’s, “he said to
her once. Sa ae meer l. fe
With a cunning gleam in her eyes, she replied > ‘
“So they are, or were; bh, how little you know !”
And this was all he co t from, her.
He told her he was going alway, but that did not seem
to affect her, and she only began to talk of Maude, who,
| She said, must not be harmed, — ”
| “Have you seen her? have you seen her? she kept

| Saying. : ;
i “Not yet,” he replied, “but I am going to say good-
departure he went to the

| by ;” and on the day 0!
| Park House and asked ij a see Maude.
Tracy’s prompt reply, when

| «Of course not,” was
| the request was taken .. ‘‘NO One. sees her, and I
certainly shali not allow to enter her rogm.’’
| nok Dolly,” Frank eer protestingly, but was cut
| short by the lady, who Said ; r
“You needn’t ‘Dolly’ me, or try to take his part. either.
|} I have my opinion, and always shali. He cannot see
| Maude, and you may tell him so,” turning now to the
servant who had brought Harold’s message, and who
sottened it as much as :
Harold had half expec

  

 
  
 
   
      
      
 
 

ae

  

 
 

    
  
  

aoe

 

 

 

 
     
 
   
  
 

refusal, and was prepared

  
  

0 : see you; but your
| mother knows Dest, of course. and 1 must not do any-
| thing to make you worse. be ull think of you very
| often, and hope to find you much better ee 1 return.

pert ke : ou “HAROLD.”
“Will you give this to her?” he said to the girl, who
answered that she would, and who, of course, read
every word before She took it to her young mistress, late
} in the afternoon, while the farhily were at dinner, and

she was left in charge of the invalid.

“Mr. Hastings sent you this,” she said, handing the
| card to Maude, into whose face the bright color rushed,
| but left it instantly as she read the few hurried lines.
“Going away! Gone! and I didn’t see him?” she ex-
| claimed, regardless of consequences. ‘And other did
| it. I know she did. I will talk till I spit blood; then
see what she'll say!” she continued, as the frightened
| girl tried to stop her, and as she could not, ran for Mrs.
Tracy, who came in much alarm, asking what was the
matter.

“You sent Harold away.
and he is——’
Maude gasped, but couid get no farther, for the par-

CU SUS
nat” ye

| and .am. very. sorry

 

 

You didn’t let him see me,

hemorrhage which made her so weak that they thought
her dying all night, she lay so white, and still, and In-
sensible, save at times when her lips moved, and her
mother, bending over her, te ‘her whisper :

«Send for Harold.” i try

But it was too late now; the train had comé and
gone, and taken Harold with it, away from the. girl he
loved and from the girls who loved him so devotedly,
and both of whom, for a few days after his departure,
| went down very near to the gates of death, and whose
first inquiry, when they at last came back to lite and
consciousness, was for Haroldjand why he staid away.

CHAPTER XLIV.
JERRIE CLEARS HARG@LD.

The next day two items of news went like wildfire
through the little town of Shannondaie—the first, set
afloat by Peterkin and helped on by Mrs. Tracy, that
| Harold had run away from public opinion, which was
| fast turning against him sitge he could not explain
| where he found the diamonds; and the second, that
| both Maude Tracy and Jerrie Crawtord were at the point
| of death, which made Harold's sudden departure all the
| more heinous in the eyes of his enemies; tor what but

conscious guilt could have prompted him to leave his
| sister, who, it was said, was calling for him with every
| breath, and charging him with having. faken the dia-

monds? Now, this was false; for although Jerrie’s
| fever had increased rapidly during the night, and her
babbling was something teriible. to hear, there was in
it no accusation of Harold, although she was constantly
Lene to him, and asking tor the diamonds and the
ag. , ;
“Itis apity he ever told her
said, as twice each day, morn} nist, for four sue-
cessive days, he came airylooked upor her fever-
stained cheeks, and countedjher rapid pulse, and took
| her temperature, and listened@te her strange talk; and
then, with a shake of his heatf,drove over to Tracy Park
and stood by poor little Maude’s*couch, and looked into
her death-white face, and counted her faint heart-beats,
and tried in vain to find some word of encouragement
for the ‘stricken man, who looked about as much like
death as the young girl swdcarto him. And every
morning, on his way trom the cottage to Tracy Park,
the doctor saw under the pines two young men, Tom
and Dick, seated upon the iron bench each ve
bit of pine, which one was unconsciously fashioning
into a cross and the other into a grave-stone.

Tom had found Dick there working at his cross, and,
after a simple good-morning, had sat down beside a
and whittled in silence upoh another bit of wood unti
the doctor appeared on his way to Tracy Park.
the whittling ceased, and both young men arose, and,
going forward, asked how Jerrie was.

“Pretty bad. Hal oughth’t to have gone, though I told
him there was no danger. We must telegraph if she
gets worse,” was the reply, as the doctor rode on.

Tom and Dick separated, and saw no more of each
other until the next morning. when they went again,
and whittled in silence under the pines until the doctor
came in sight, when the sana, questions were asked and
answered as on the previous Gay.

Billy never joined them, but sat under the butternut
tree where Jerrie had refused him, for hours and fiours
watching the sluggish river, and wondering what the
world would be to him if Jerrie were notein it. Had
Billy been with Tom and Dick, he could not have whit-
tled as they did, for all the »erve power had left his
hands, which lay helplessly ia his lap, and when he
walked he looked more like a withered old man than a
young one of twenty-seven.

Maude was the first to raily—her first question for
Harold, her second for Jerrie--and her father, who was
with her, answered truthfully that Harold had not re-
turned, and that Jerrie was sick and could not come to
her. He did not say how sick, and Maude felt no alarm,
but waited patiently until ferrie should appear. For
Maude, on her brass bedstead with its silken hangings,
and every possible luxury aretihd her, there were hired
nurses and a mother’s care, vit®, many kind inquiries,
| while it would seem as if etery hand in town was
| stretched out to Jerrie, who was a general favorite.
| Flowers and fruit and delicacies of every kind were sent
‘to the cottage, carriage afte) carriage stopped before

 

hem,” the doctor

 
 
    

 

 

K WEEKLY. —

days and shall find your Uncle Arthur, if he is to be’

oxysm of coughing which came. on, together with a-

the mystery Fy, the strange things she had said in her

    
 

 

the door, offer after offer of assistance was made to |
Mrs: Crawford, while Nina and Marian Raymond were |
'
|

there constantly; and Billy went to Springfield for a |
chair in which to wheel his sister to the cottage, for she |
could not yet mount into the dog-cart: and Tom and
Dick whittled on until the cross and the grave-stone
were finished, and, with a sickly smile, Tom said to
Dick :

«Would you cut Jerrie’s name upon it ?”

“No; oh, no!” Dick answered, with a gasp.
may be better to-morrow.”

When, after a few days, the crisis was past, and Jer-
rie’s strong constitution triumphed over the disease
which had grappled with it; the whole town wore a hol-
iday air as the people said to each other gladly: ‘‘Jerrie
is better ; Jerrie will live )”

Her recovery was rapid, and within a week atter the
fever left her and she awoke to pertect consciousness,
she was able to sit up a part of every day, and had
waiked across the floor and read a letter from Harold to
his grandmother, full of solicitude for herself and enthu-
siasm for his trip over the wild mountains and across
the vast plains to the lovely little city of Tacoma, built
upon a cliff and looking seaward over the sound.

“Dear Harold,” Jerrie whispered. ‘I shall be so glad
when he comes home. Nothing can be done till then,
and I am so bewildered when I try to think.”

In her weak state, everything seemed unreal to Jerrie,
except the fact that she had found her mother—and such
a mother!—and many times each day she thanked her
God who had brought her this unspeakable joy, and
asked that she might do right when the time came to act,
She knew the bag was safe, for she had climbed to the
top shelf and found it just where she had put it. But
where were the diamonds? Had Harold taken them
with him? Had he told any one? Did his grand-
mother know anything about them? she wondered.
She tried in many ways to draw. Mrs. Crawford out, but
was unsuccessful, for there were now too much pain
and bitterness connected with the diamonds for Mrs.
Crawford to pens to her of them. The poisonous breath
of gossip had been at work ever since Harold went away,

“She

 

 

quietly aided and abetted by Mrs. Tracy, who never
failed to roll her eyes and shrug her shoulders when |
Harold's hame was mentioned, and openly pushed on by |
Peterkin, until Tom Tracy went to him one day and |
threatened to have him tarred and feathered and ridden '
on a rail, if he ever breathed Harold’s name again in
eonnection with the diamonds.

“Wall, Iswow!” was all Peterkin said, as he put an
enormous quid of tobacco in his mouth, and walked
away, thinking to himself, ‘“‘’Twould take an all-fired
while to scrape them tar and feathers. off of me, 'mso
big, and I b’lieve the feller meantit. Them high bucks
wouldn’t like no better fun than to make a spetacle of
me; so [ guess J’ll dry up a spell.”

But the trouble did not stop with Peterkin’s talk, for
a neighboring Sunday paper, which fed its readers with
all the choicest bits of gossip, came out with an article
headed ‘The Tracy Diamonds,” and after narrating the
story in the most garbled and sensational manner, went
on tocomment upon the,young man’s having run away,
rather than face public opinion, and to comment upop
the law which could not touch him because the offense
was committed so long ago.

One after another, and without either knowing that
the other had done so, Tom, and Dick, and Billy, waited
upon the editor of the Sunday News, threatening to sue
him for libel if he did not retract every word of the of-
fensive article in his next issue, which he did. But the
mischief was done, and the paper found its way at last
to Jerrie, sent unwittingly by Ann Eliza, who covered it
over a basket of fruit and flowers which was carried one
afternoon to the cottage.

Jerrie had been down stairs several times, but was in
her room when the basket was brought to her. Raising
the paper, she was about to throw it on the floor, when
her eye caught the words, «“The Tracy Diamonds,’ and
with bloodless lips and wildly beating heart sheread the
article through. understanding the situation perfectly,
and resolving at once how to act. It seemed to her that
she was lifted above and out of herself, she felt so strong,
and light, and well, as she threw on her bonnet and
shawl, and taking the leather bag in her hand, hurried
down stairs in quest of Mrs. Crawford.

“Grandma!” she exclaimed ,‘‘why haven’t you told me
about Harold, and the suspicion resting on him, and
why did fou let him go until I was better, and what are
the people saying ? ‘Tell me every thing.”

Jerrie would not be put off, and Mrs..Crawford told her
every thing she knew, and that she herself had added to

 

een about the diamonds, which she insisted were
ers.

«And they are mine!’ Jerrie said, while Mrs. Crawford
looked at her in alarm, for her madness had returned.

“Where are you going ?” she gasped, as Jerrie turned
toward the door. -

“To Tracy Park, to claim my own and clear Harold!”
was the reply. “When Icome back [| will tell you all,
but now J cannot wait.” i

“But, Jerrie, you are not strong enough t *here,
and besides they have company this afté
kind of a new-fangled card purty, and you yfOD. N. Y.,

vr ee said.

“J have the strength of twenty horses,’ y,

‘and if they have ancy, so yah 95 soiing

there will be more to hear my story. ‘Goody complained
She was off like an arrow, and went at excessively.

tun through the leaty woods until the hou! her husband

ad. and then she stopped a moment to tay@t a bandage

st below the

   

 

   
 

ye

TOUK avuoOUT HUT. . ¥ fo a peaaurt aS,
home of the Tracys. and Jerrie’s heart beat so hard that
she felt for a moment asif she were choking to death as
she sat under a maple tree and tried to think it all over,
to ‘make sure there was nomistake. Opening the box,
she took out two documents, and read them againas
she had the night she was taken sick. One was a cer-
tifieate of marriage, the other of a birth and baptism ;
there was no mistake.

Holding the papers in one hand and the bag in the |
other, she went on to the house, from which shouts of |
laughter were issuing, Nina’s voice, and Marian’s, and |
Tom’s, and Dick’s, and Mrs. Tracy’s. Jerrieshuddered a
little when she heard that, for it brought back to her
mind all the slights she had received from that woman
who was so cruel to Harold, and the pity which had |
been springing up in her heart ever since she looked. up |
at-the windows of Maude’s room and thought of the |
white-faced girl lying there, died out, and it was more a |
Nemesis than a, gentle, forgiving woman who walked |
boldly into the ball and entered unbidden at the draw- |
ing-room door.

Mrs. Tracy was having a progressive euchre party |
that afternoon. A friend in Boston had written her |
about it, and, proud to be the first to introduce it in |
Shannondale, she stood, flushed and triumphant, with |
the restored diamouds in her ears and at her throat, |
laughing merrily with the others at Judge St. Claire, who |
had won the booby prize—a little drum, as something

 

 

‘he could beat—and who, with a perplexed look in his |

|
;

 

| face, was Staring at the thing asif he did not quite see

detias, etc. If you

the joke.

Apart from, the rest, Frank Tracy sat looking on, |
though with nO apparent interestin the matter. He}
had joined inthe game because his wife told him he!
must, and had borne meekly her sarcastic remarks |
when he trumped her ace and ordered up on nothing. |
His thoughts were not with the cards, but up stairs with |
Maude, who seemed to be much better, and tor whom
there was constantly a prayer in his heart.

ae her, and I will make reparation ; I will tell the
truth,”

He was trying to-bribe the Lord to hear him, and there
was some such thought in his mind faite he saw Jerrie |
in the door—tall, thin, and white fromher recent sick- |
ness, with eyes which rolled, and shone, and flashed as |
Arthur’s did sometimes, and falling at last upon Mrs.
Tracy. where they rested with an-intensity which must
have drawn that lady’s notice to her, if Frank had not |
exclaimed, as he rose to his feet:

“Jerrie! How did you get here 2”

Then all turned and looked at her, and»crowded
around ber with exclamations of surprise and inquiries
as to how she got there.

[TO BE CONTINUED. ]

aden tn obi id Sper

ACTIVE ATTENTION.—We should carefully cultivate the
habit of active attention, on which all the higher quali-
ties of mind depend: the difference of the intellect in
man depends more upon the early cultivation of this
habit of attention than upon any great disparity be-
tween the powers of one individual and another,

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. W. GO

 

poe)
a

iLL, Box 6, Dwight P. O., Mass.

 

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NEW SCRAP PICTURES and 48 New Chromo |
and Gold Scrap Cards sent Postpaid for 10 cts. |
CENTERBROOK CARD CO., Centert rook, ( yonn. |

 

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|

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‘
| D
}

| 17 East loth St. N. Y.,wil

AGENTS

SUPERFLUOUS HAI

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A Toilet Luxury

In every I

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It also prevents the hair from falling,
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For the radical cure of Pimples, Boils,
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Sold by.all Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $d,
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THOUSANDS OF ACRES OF GOVERNJIENT
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For maps, pamphlets, etc., ad
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HE ACME contains 114 American.
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| CANVASSERS, ETC, Our in-

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oston, Mass.

i tin emer
Toute

 

 

A EE

EET

 

 

ET re ae

 

 

ft

 
 

 

 

 
 

  
 
 

  
  
    
  
 

 

 
 
  
  
 

    
  
     

 

 

 

 

 

A STARTLING REVELATION.

BY BANBURY CROSS.

 

I courted once as nice a girl
AS any man need sigh for,
With pouting lips and teeth of pear.
That I went well-nigh mad for.
Her charms, in fact, entranced each sense,
I couldn’t live without her ;
For bank-stock in the Six per Cents
Shed golden rays about her.

Stern relatives all stubbornly
Rejected Sarah’s lover ;

Yet oftentimes upon the sly
We met, ’neath twilight’s cover.

And there, within that darkened room,
I swore by love and thunder,

That nothing. save the crack of doom,
Should rend our vows asunder.

One moonless evening, fully bent
To press my suit yet warmer,
O'er the back garden wall I went
To seek my precious charmer.
The casement stood ajar; within
The room | dimly spied her,
Amid the gloom, like harlequin,

I bounded in beside her.

Then, dropping on my knees, a rush
Of words, each wish expressing,
(Tis tolly beating round the bush
When time and duns are pressing),
Pour'd trom my lips—‘‘Ah, dearest maid,”
I said, ‘than. angels fairer!
The boon for which so oft I’ve pray’d,
Grant me this night, sweet Sarah!

’ “Your mother scolds, your father growls,

Your brother swears he’ll flay me;

But I despise their threats and scowls—
Your frown alone could slay me.

Oh, let me hear thee say, ‘I’m thine!’
In whispering tones of honey ;

I only crave your love divine
(Thought added, ‘and your money ?’)

 

«Come, fly with me! and never mind

The old folks’ cruel snarling ;

They’lt soon come round when once they find
The knot’s been tied, my darling !”

dust then the door flew open wide,
And in walked pa and brother ;

While lights they bore revealed that Td
Been courting Sarah’s mother !

—>-e~<

A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES.

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

 

 

 

The following remarkable story is the narration of a
gentleman now past seventy years of age:

When quite a young man, I sailed from Boston to New
Orleans, where I went to dispose of a patent.

The New Orleans of that day was not the New Orleans
of this, and there were parts of the city where it was
said to be unsafe for an honest man to venture.

I was young then, in good health and spirits, and
more disposed to be careless about what I heard, and
reckless in risking my life, than I would be to-day; and,
therefore, though a stranger in the city, ILroved about
wherever my fancy led me.

One evening, as I was walking along through a quiet,

- fairly lighted street, smoking a cigar and thinking of
Something far away, I was suddenly startled by seeing
the shadow of an arm raised above my head.

Instinctively I jumped aside and turned quickly, ex-
pecting to encounter a ruffian.

To my surprise, I found myself face to face witha
well-dressed gentleman, who was not only smiling be-
nignly, but was just in the act of politely lifting his hat.

“I beg your pardon, sir, if I have startled you,” he
blandly said, holding up a cigar; “but I was about to
ask you if you would favor me with a light?’

«Certainly, sir,” 1 replied, politely tipping my hat with

pee uae. and extending to him the lighted cigar with
e other.
Could I have been mistaken in seeing the shade”
- an ced ek . menacing.” ‘tal :
glan 28a rocky tal :
whee oe bac cy table.
that b« DO} you
head aqt.”

   

Al “Yes, Ican see it now. But, father—”
. ona mow child ask 2” 0

that of a person walking behind him, will unders :
what I mean. 3
Yes, I was certain the man’s hand had been raised,
and, perhaps, to strike an assassin’s blow, but, under
the circumstances, I thought it best to appear as if I
had not noticed anything unusual.

While the man was lighting his cigarI eyed him
pi and so impressed his features upon my mem-
or. I could recall them at any time.

e@eseemed about thirty years of age, was tall and
well formed, had long, black hair, was well-dressed,
and in so much, had ev ery appearance of being a gen-
tleman ; but his face I did not like; the eyes—as well as
Icould judge, tor the light was none of the brightest—
being a hard, cold gray, the nose slightly aquiline, and
the curve of the lips decidedly sinister.

With his personal appearance, however, whether good
or bad, 1 had eae. to do, but only with his acts; and
so, when he handed back my cigar, with another bland
smile, a ‘‘thank you, sir,” and another tip of his hat
and bow, I thought it best to imitate his politeness in

every particular.

As he was going the same way as myself, I was
also polite enough to allow him to precede me; and as
he moved off with a brisk step, and I walked leisurely,
we were soon separated by a considerable space; and
when he turned the corner at the next street I lost sight
of him altogether.

4
{ did not permit the incident of the shadowy arm to

frighten me from my evening stroll, though I confess I
kept a sharp lookout against any one approaching too
elose kehind me; and, as every one went armed in
those days and that section, 1 took the precaution to
see that my weapons were so placed that they could be
used at a moment’s notice.

It might have been a half hour after this, that, as I
turned the corner of another quiet street, I saw before
me two persons, near the end of the block, the foremost
just passing a street iamp.

There would have been nothing in this simple fact to
attract my attention, only that the one in the rear, and
nearest to me, seemed to be advancing in a stealthy
manner; and as I l6vked sharply, I fancied the figure
greatly resembled the polite gentleman whom I had so
recently favored with a light.

Was I right? and was he stealing up behind the other
man, as he had done behind me, to get another light ?

It might not be the same person, and there might be
nothing in it beyond “ay fancy; but at all events my
curiosity was aroused, 4nd I was determined to watch

When I first observed the two men, the foremost ap-
peared to be some thirty or forty feet in advance of the
other; but when the rear.man reached the lamp-post,
he came to a halt, and waited there for some little time.

During this time I saw only one other person moving
in the street, and he was on the opposite pavement, and
going in an opposite direction.

Suddenly my man shot away from the lamp-post and
disappeared around the corner of the street.

If I had been a timid, or a cautious man, I should cer-
tainly have gone the other way, and gotclear of that
locality as soon as possible ; but asI was neither, at that
age, I at once set forw ard on a light run, to see what

would be the outcome of such suspicious movements.
_ I caught no further glimpse of my man till I reached
he corner of the block, and then in the distance I dimly
perceived a dark shadow, as of a human figure stooping
over some object on the ground.

That the rear man had overtaken and struck dewn
the foremost, was now my strongest impression ; and in
the hope of being able to seize the murderer ahd rob-

ber; if such he should prové to be, I at once darted for-
ward with a celerity that few men could equal, at the
Same time bringing down my feet so lightly as scarcely
to make a sound.

But the assassin was on the watch, and, seeing that I
was discovered, I exerted myself to the utmost, and
shouted murder several times.

Presently he fled, and when I reached the other street
cerner he was not in sight, and the other cross street
was apparently deserte

As it seemed useless for me, a stranger in the city, to
further follow the escaped assassin, I humanely turned
back to the man on the ground, to see if I could be of
any assistance to him, not dreaming of any serious con-
Sequences to myself from this act.

My cries of murder had by this time brought several
rian to the windows of their dw ellings, and some

Ww upon the street; and ba as I had reached and bent
- Over the prostrate man,
ning up and seized me.

“So,” he said, gruffly, “I’ve caught you in the act,
have 1?”

Astonished at this turn of affairs, 1 told him he was
mistaken, that I was not the guilty party, and proceed-
ed to give a brief statement of what I had seen and
done, several persons coming up while I was speaking.

«Jt's a very nice cock and bull story,” rejoined the
man in authority, ‘‘but I don’t believe a word of it, and
I’m a going to hold you. Noman could have got out of
sight since the cries of murder were heard.’

“But I was the man who cried murder,” said I.

«That’s all very well for you to say,” was the reply,
oo for all that you'll have to have a taste of the cala-

a night-watchman came run-

‘AS “the few citizens who had by this time arrived upon
the scene all sided with the officer, I saw there was
eee left for me but to submit with what grace I
coul

An examination of the victim showed that he was
- dead, having been struck with a pointed knife between

XN

 

«BUC els space

lot see the convént ?™It sangeet that ‘aa ;

«aid THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

 

the shoulders, directly throu, h ena ver anne which ‘had

been severed, paralyzing and killing him at once.

The knife was found near the murdered man, where
it had been dropped by the murderer in his haste to
escape.

I was taken away, amid the jeers and groans of the
spectators, and locked up for the night.

The coroner’s inquest was beld the next day, anda
peculiar coincidence seemed to confirm my guilt.

I had given my name as William Henry Barford, when
the coroner at.once called the jury’s attention to the
fact of the initials ‘‘W. H. B.” being marked on the blade
ot the murderous knife, thus completely convincing
them, if there had been any previous doubt, that the in-
strument of death belonged to me,

I was dumfounded, and began to despair, at the
thought that the false chain of evidence might yet drag
me down to my death.

I was a stranger in a strange land, and could not even
have the satisfaction of proving previous goocl character.

Besides, there had recently been several murders of
the same character, and people were anxious to have
somebody suffer for these dastardly crimes.

I had been.caught, I was believed to be guilty, the
vengeful feeling of an outraged community was centered
upon me, and I felt that, without some prove aid,
[ might end my life on the ignominious scaffold.

The verdict. of the coroner’s jury was against me, of
course, and [ was committed to a vile prison, to await
the action of the grand jury, who in due time returned
a true bill.

Fortunately I had sufficient means to employ able
counsel to defend me, and I soon had the satisfaction of
knowing I had at least convinced him of my innocence.

When my case came on for trial, 1 was nearly over-
whelmed with astonishment at seeing, in the person of
the clerk of the court, the very man who had procured a’
light of me that fatal night, and the very man I had
all along believed to be guilty of the damning crime for
which.1 was arraigned.

As to the latter, | might be mistaken, of course; but
he was certainly the man whose arm had been raised be-
hind me, and this I would have sworn to before the Holy
Throne itself.

In the course of his duties he more than once looked
straight in my face, but never showed the least sign of
recognition, though I could fancy a fiendish smile lurk-
ing in his heart that another was being tried in his
place.

Well, my case opened to a crowded court-room, a jury
was soon empaneled, and the prosecution had matters
all its own way, to the evident satisfactior of the spec-
tators, who all believed me guilty and hoped to see me
condemned.

What was to be my defense ?

Nothing, so far as I know, except that my counsel
would say what he could in my favor.

When he did speak, however, no One was more sur-
prised than myself to hear him declare, among other
things, that‘he was going to prove me innocent.

«George Parkhurst, take the stand!” he said, when he
had finished his opening address:

A pale, feeble-looking man, using a cane, responded
to the call, and was sworn.

After a few preliminary questions :

“Now, Mr. Parkhurst,” said my lawyer, ‘‘where were
ke ou, at 100 ‘clock, on the night of the 27th of last Decem-

fs rat home, in my own room, in the second story of my
dwelling.”

“Where is your dwelling ?”

“No. 94 Casson street.”

«‘What happened at that time ?”

«JT heard the cry of murder repeated several times.”

“Well, what then? Goon and tell the court and jury,
in your own way, exactly what followed.”

«Well, these cries of murder attracted me to the win-
dow; and, on looking out, I saw, almost in front of my
dwelling, a man lying on the pavement and another
bending over him. The cry of murder, however, did not
proceed from either of these two parties, but from a
man who was running down the street toward them.
Almost immediately after I looked, one of the men near
me ran away, and the other remained, without motion,
on the spot where he sy fallen, The man who was
crying murder ran a ae. house a few steps, as if in
pursuit of the fugitiv then turned back to the
murdered man and bent over him, and, while doing
this, he was seized by a watchman and accused of the
crime. At this I hastily put on my coat and started
down to the street, but fell and struck my head, and
knew nothing more for two or three weeks. I have
since been informed that a brain fever was the result
of my tall, andI have only got about within the last
few days.”

«Would you know the man you saw run away from his
victim, Mr. Parkhurst ?”

“T might not be able to identify him.”

«Would you know the man who cried murder, and
whom you saw in chase of the murderer ?”

«JT shor7rCl,
“Ther fail him lately ?”
99 ,

    
  
   
 
     
 
   
 
   
   
 
 
    

done.
| Ina

 
    

nt him out to the court and jury?

souer now being tried for a crime he did
of this?” the witness, polnsina: le me...

i) :

    
 

yhich he is accused ?”
“T do, sir, most solemnly.”
This evidence produced a great sensation in
and I was so overcome with joyful emotions that I burst
into tears.
Well, 1 scarcely need add that I was speedily acquit-

so lately believed me guilty.

Once more at liberty myself, 1 could not get rid of the

impression that the clerk of the court was the guilty

man—that he was, in fact, a regular cold-blooded assas-

on who made a business of killing strangers to rob
em.

And so it subsequently turned out; for he was one
night caught in the act, and afterward ‘tried, convicted,
a hanged, first making a full confession of his many
crimes.

1 will only add that his name was Walter Horace
tl and therefore his initials were the same as
mine.

 

PETE BELLIS.

PLOW oF Ee Ot FA aS BL

 

BY NED BUNTLINE,

 

Lately, moving through the streets of beautiful
Easton, Pennsylvania, leaning on the arm of his loving
grandson, I saw an old man whom I knew well when he
was in the full prime and joy of manhood, and I bask-
ing in the sunshine of youth and gayety.

His name is Peter Beilis, and he used to keep the old
Washington Hotel, in Easton, in a style that made him
and his famous among all travelers.

In the summer time the old Washington was always
crowded with city boarders from Philadelphia and New
York, and never did one have cause for discontent as to
fare and treatment, or as to washing or lodging. Mrs.
Bellis, like her husband, knew how to do her share in
keeping a hotel, and the old Washington was a home to
all who went there.

But in those days once in awhile a ‘‘dead beat” got
inside of its cheerful walls, and Peter had trouble to
collect his bills from that breed of cattle.

This sketch describes one of them, and how Peter got

his bill.

To see Sylvester Augustus Skipworth, when he came
in the stage from New York, covered with a long brown
blouse to keep off the dust, was a sight ever to remem-
ber. He had an auburn mustache, delicate side whis-
kers of the same hue, and hair red enough to have light-
ed him over the covered bridge of the Delaware on a
dark night. When his duster came off,. roadcloth
coat, Satin vest, and doeskin pants on Met slender legs
became visible. In short, he was a d of the most
exquisite ae up.” His tailor and b r. had done
the er ee . His face lacked intelligence, but what
of that? Dress but too often makes up in Tashi onable
circles for every other missing quality.

Augustus Sylvester, on entering the office and
room, for both were in one apartment in old times,
tered his name, asked to be shown to a front Uiwiber

ade, very sweet and colored with claret, sent after nim.
He wanted the best room in the house, regardless of ex-
pense; and, judging from his dress that he must be a

| young man of means, Peter gave him his best room.
The waiters brought him the nicest, dishes on the table, |

and the dandy, feeling himself considerably admired, ap-
pe rabi content, even happy. He managed to become
pee pera 8 with some of the gentler sex around town,
soon every day Peter’s best horse and buggy were
i for by Sylvester Augustus to take some fair favor-
ite out riding.

Two weeks went by, and Peter began to feel a desire
to see the color of Sylvester’s money, for he had not as

yet paid for anything—not even his lemonades, colored
v ith claret.

Peter was gentle and kind-hearted, but business was
business, and on the second Saturday he told his ex-
quisite boarder that weekly settiements were in order.

Sylvester turned slightly pale, said his “pa” wasa
millionaire in New York, and he would write and have
a draft for a thousand dollars sent on immediately.

Peter waited another week, and during that week in-
cidentally learned that Sylvester Augustus had made
love to one of the chambermaids, and had borrowed ten
dollars of her hard earnings, for some purpose or other,
and Peter rather thought it was for the purpose of de-
camping—stealing away in the night.

He examined the weight of Sylvester’s rather large
valise and imagined it did not contain the value of two
or three weeks’ board, even if left behind.

So Peter held a council of war with Mrs. Bellis, and a plan
of operations was decided upon. When Sylvester retired
that er there was something the matter with the
‘lock of his door. He couldn’t fasten it as he had been
in the habit of doing. But there was no danger ina
country town like that, so the youn retired to dream of

 

his conquests.

    

 
 

a and was warmly congratulated by dozens who had |

with plenty of air and light, and to have an iced lemon- |

 

He awoke next day, as usual, at a late breakfast
hour, rose and sought to dress

His valise was missing, $0 were his pants. His
coat and vest sti remained; but of nether-garments
there was no sign. There were no bells in the rooms
of country hotels in those days, so he shouted loudly,
and Pete in person went up.

“Somebody has stolen my ‘Valise and my pants, with
a large sum of money in the pocket ! !” cried Sylvester.

“Ten dollars borrowed trom Susy Lidecker, you mean.
Susy has got her money, and your pants and valise will
be found when your ‘rich pa’ sendS the mouey for your
board and horse hire,” said Peter, calmly.

Sylvester first raved, swore; and stormed, and when
he found he didn’t scare Peter in the least, wept
and begged. He wanted his pants—he had an engage-
ment out.

“The mail leaves for New York in just one hour,” said
Peter. ‘There are writing materials on your table. If
you have a pa, or anybody else that will send you money
to pay your board and livery bill, write. If not, when
the time for a return mail is up, I will kick you into the
street just as you are, tor any ne who puts on such airs
as you have, and borrows-m@uey from a poor chamber-
maid to run away with, ought to be kicked from Easton
to Halifax !”

Sylvester saw no way out of that wilderness. He rose,
wrapped the coverlid about his nether limbs, and wrote.
The letter was directed to some chum in New York, per-
haps one of a similar kidney. Peter took the letter to
the post-office, and sent Sylvester's breakfast up to nis
room by the porter. His dinner, supper, and next break-
fast went the same way, for. though Sylvester panted to
leave his room, he had no pavits to put on.

The return mail came, and with it came a letter, not
to Sylvester, but to Peter himself, from an uncle of Syl-
vester.

The letter contained the amount Sylvester had sent
for, and the uncle told Peter to ship his graceless, worth-
less nephew back to New York by the first stage, and
he would put him”aboard of a whaler and see if he
couldn’t be made to ear ving there. He had been
a nuisance ever since he w fold enough to waddle.

Peter obeyed orders stcletly, and Sylvester, under
charge of the stage driver, left Easton a sadder and it
is to be hoped a wiser mal

   
 
 
   

Mi opinyun o Eta? iz, that the dear
creatures will do jist “DOU, az they hav a mind to,
whether it iz right or not. .*

Just now the dear creatures are anxious tew git hold
ov the rudder ov affairs an run the masheen, but they
will soon see the pholly and impossibility ov this, and
fall bak into the ranks whare they belong. Divine
Providence made man the capting, and tho he often may
be a poor one, no one but the power that appointed him
can supersede.

But this iza delikate subjekt for me to talk about, for
Thay bin marrid now over 40 years and haint received
my commission yet. Mi mife sez 1 make a fust rate
lutenant, andshe knows. |

I would like tew be kapting ov our tug for twenty-four
hours, ‘just tew see how it did make a pheller pheal.

MUSIC.

I hav no ear for musik, but 1 lov it, bekauze i kant
help it.

IT luv tu arrive at sum kunggy hotel, tired and sleepy,
and hav the musician ov the house start incontinently
and mount thestool at once, and commense tew maul
the keys ov some old boney pianner.

The artist ov the occashun iz sumtimes the landlord's
son—useless for ennything else—a semi-tyrant in the
family, lazy, jast bekauze he knows how tew abuze an
old, worn-out mahogany ent, that kKlatters az
tuneless az a pedlar’s ware, running away,
with a blind hoss. ;

Sumtimes the artist iz th auter of the hous, just
hum from her fust and last quarter at sum nabring fe-
mail akademy, and then we hav opera musik, accompa-
nied bi her bewitchtul voice, which reminds one ov a
plaintive wild kat wooing sum other kussid kat in the
top ov a gum tree.

I do luv this kind ov musik; it fires up misoul, it
lights up mi spirit, it thaws off mi ears, like the liquid
sweetness Ov a kracked dinner gong or the tender effu-
shuns ov a wood sawyer filing up hiz saw.

Ilav bin told bi good judges it t would kultivate mi
ear I would learn how to luv this pertikular kind ov
musik; and I serpose, also, if I would kultivate mi pal-
ate, I would learn how to appreshiate biled krow.

Hut I presume | shall be just as happy if I den’t never
kno how biled kro duz handle for vitiles.

—+e@~«

Pleasant Paragraphs.

  
  
 

 

 

{Most of our ‘ibaileies are undoub capable of contrib-
uting toward m this column an attractive ie of the
New YorkK WEEKLY, and they will 2S salary od of niticient for
ublication ony nie whieh a may be deemed of s mend in-

; sary thal the arti-

Jong, as the: are

And tell Amy
would not h
But now um tom
Our little affair, of course,
Thi say: “Think of me as a brother,
_ And we will continue good friends.”

Of course. when she hears of my wedding,
There'll be an exhibit of woe.
The certt ious tears she'll be shedding
ring on hysterics, I know.
Aue then there’ll be sobbing and sighing,
Perhaps till my tender heart melts;
With vows of affection undying,
And vows to wed nobody else.

* * * * * * *

Now, Amy, my dear, do not tremble,
And heed what I'm going to say;
ah re emotion ee
calm, now, precious, I pray.
To tell you the A tarried ;

secret l’y: ;
And oh! Ihave hatgd to try ; ,
But, Amy, ’ms © be married—”
“Don’t worry, old béy, so am 1!”

A Society Man.

«John, 1 would like to invite in my friend, Mrs.
Smalley, this evening. Will you be able to be in ?”

“No, my dear; I must attend the meeting of the An-
cient Order of Foresters to-night.”

«Well, to-morrow evening?

“7 have the Ancient Orderot United Workmen, and

ou know-——
* “What about Wednesday evening ?”

“Oh! the Odd Fellows meet that night, and on Thurs-
day I have a meeting of the Knights of Labér to attend;
on Friday the Royal Templars of Temperance ; on Satur-
day there’s a special meeting of the Masonic Lodge, and |
I couldn’t miss that, and then eA night—let me see
—what is there on Sunday night, my dear ?”

 
 

“The Grand and Ancient Order of Christian Fellow- |,

bee"
nae Z had forgotten. Am Ia member of that—let
me

winds 90 you have forgotten another society, John, of
which you were once a member.”

*What’s that ?”

«Your witfe’s.”

Taking Him at His Word.

A Irishman who had ofily six cents in his pocket,
stepped into a saloon where the waiter was boasting to
some customers of his bein “Pat

red a drink, bat 1metbemms content with one glass,
© he began to think how he
could get a drink outer a aiter. At last he found a
plan. :
Approaching to where | customers were speaking,
he said tothe former: .

“Tll bet you a cent, waiter, you won't say three
matches to three questions [ask you ?”

After some hesitation the waiter bet him a cent.

‘‘How’s your mother ?”-saia Pat.

_ “Three matches,” said the waiter.

    
   
 

   
 

“How much do you think you're worth ?” said Pat.
“Three matches,” @ waiter.
“What will you take f quart ?” said Pat.

“Three matches,” said 1

“Give me. a quart,” id Pat, ‘laying down three
matches and the cent he nt by the bet.

The w aiter, being a man of his word, had to give Pat

@ quart.
A Long Run.”

“Wall,” said the granger, ‘‘what be that ticker worth?”
Sperone to an ornate and intricate wages of time-record-

ng mechanism on the shelf,

“That, sir,” said the clerk, ‘‘is a wonderful time-piece.
It is worth two hundred dollars, and will run three
years without winding.”

“Great Scott!” gasped the granger. ‘Three years
without winding! «Say, ae how long would the
thing run if she was wound

Doing as He Pleased.

A husband who had incurred the eee of his wife, a
terrible virago, seeks refuge under the

“Come out of that, you. brigand, you rascal, you as-
sassin !” screamed his gentle com)

“No, madam;” he replied, cai
1 am going to show you that I
own house!”

peed wii come out.
I do as 1 please in my

Expressing His Thanks.
A well-known author in a street-car gave his seat to a
stout woman, who did not aeknow! ze the civility.
ate eee, ous. eat he
“For what, sir?” she as. sig sg
“For taking my seat.”
Hilarity among the othep-passengers. —

A Lesson jr Grammar.

* “Miss Sinnico, please: parse the sentence; ‘Adolphus
Matron Garoline,’” said the teacher.

most serious havoc tc ¢ mind and body.
Pe gman ie Pint:

| at last, the husband entered, and, with his frame con-
| vulsed with anguish, threw himself into a chair, and,

Adolphus and Caroline, and ‘Caroline’ is a verb, ’cause it
governs the noun,” was the reply.

Mirthful Morsels. '
“And now, my dear brethren, what shall I say more ?”
thundered the long-winded minister. ‘‘Amen!” came in
sepulchral tones from the absent-minded deacon in the
back of church.

Money sth trouble are something alike. People will
borrow: rather than not have them.

“Phat’s that?” said Pat to the glassware dealer.
«That's a set of opaque glass.” ‘Powers! Sure Oi lived
the most of me loif near the O’Pakes, and never a glass
had they, but a pewter pot.”

When he was married he promised to cleave to her to
the end, And the first time they visited the theater he
clove at the end of each act.

A somewhat weather-beaten tramp being asked what
was the matter with his coat, replied: ‘Insomnia ; it
hasn’t had a nap in ten years.”

‘Red satin rain umbrellas” have been introduced into
Paris. They would be of no use here, for we have no
rain of, that kind in this country.

“What are the last teeth that come ?” asked a Lynn
teacher of her class in physiology. ‘‘False teeth, mum,”
replied a boy who has just waked up on the back seat.

‘Are you @ marrying man ?” was asked of a somber-
looking gentleman at a recent up-town reception. ‘Yes,
sir,” was the prompt reply. ‘1 am a.clergyman.”

‘T’ve come to ask a favor of you,” said Mrs. Porcine to
the minister. ‘Sally is very restless and | can’t get her
to sleep. Would you lend me one of your sermons to
beg to her? That will fix her, I know.”

A Nevada hunter spent three months looking for a
grizzly bear, and the man’s relatives have spent three
months looking for him. They think he must have
found the bear.

2
‘A HOPELESS MINORITY.

Henry Ward Beecher tells the following quaint story
of a New York drummer who was detained at a small
town in Western New York a while ago where a revival
meeting was in progress. He had met a party of con-
vivial friends during his stay there, and had what is
popularly known as “a load on.” Nevertheless he
drifted into the revival meeting and took a seat well up
in front. It was rather close in the church, and the

warm air was conducive to sleep. The drummer yielded
to the drowsy god, and after nodding a little sank into a
profound slumber and slept through the minister’s
rather long and dry discourse. The audience sang a
hymn and the drummer slepton. Then the evangelist
began his address, and wound up his fervid appeal with
this request :
se all of you who want to go to heaven please
r
Every one in the church except the sleepy drummer
arose. When the evangelist asked them fo be seated,
one of the brothers in the same pew as the sleeping
drummer accidentally brushed against him as he sat
down. The drummer rubbed his eyes, and, partially
awake, heard the last portion of the evangelist’s request,
which was:
«Now I want all of you who want to go to the place of
eternal torture to stand u
The drummer struggled a little, leaned forward un-
steadily, and rose from his seat in a dazed sort of way.
A sort of suppressed laugh he heard from some of the
younger people, and an expression of horror he noticed
on the faces of some ot the older ones. Steadying him-
Self against the ae she looked at the evangelist an in-
stant, and then said
“Well, parson, I don’t know just exactly what we're
See on, but you and I seem to be in a hopeless mi-
nori ty.”
> @ ~~

INCREASE OF TH" MORPHINE HABIT.

 

 

The deplorable habit ot using morphine, not to relieve
pain, but for the pleasurable sensations the narcotic
produces, seems to be spreading in France, in spite of
the warning note uttered by medical men, and the ter-
rible consequences that must follow upon the use, or

rather abuse, of the drug. During the hearing or a case
at Macon recently, the facts that transpi corrobo-
rated the assertion made me doctors as to the alarming
tendency which prevails. A chemist residing in that
town was prosecuted for selling morphine without
medical authority. Several pluysiclans came forward to
attest that the pernicious habit of morphine injections
was spreading greatly item eps among women, to the
destruction of their moral and physical health. One of
these witnesses, attached to a large hospital at Macon,
affirmed that more than a dozen of the day nurses were
regularly addicted to the use of morphine, in one shape
or another, and habit. with them had become a second
nature. It is, however, in Paris—and especially in the
fashionable world of Paris—that morphine causes the

   
 
   
      
 

7"

AN ECONOMICAL WIFE.
Long and wearily had his anxious wife waited, when,

bu: rying his face in his hands, groaned ;
e are ruined. To-morrow’s sun will see ay proud

VOL. 41—No, 25,

—————

dark Pine, seal of eal we) black are the die Yo the colors, mhie
cord, correspon ae

prand Pewee n for trimming te moe a

“Mrs, Florence.”—Quaint little frocks for ae have
yokes reaching half-way down to the waist-line. The skirtis
gathered full, and a round collar and round cuffs finish the
yoke. ‘Corduroy skirts with Jersey bodices, and corduroy —
coats with woolen skirts are worn by childr on

“Mrs. Dora L.,” New Orleans, La—Ribbed underwear is
now so perfectly made that it fits the figure without a wrin-

kle, and may be had in a variety of sh To wear with
evenan bing dressce, it is aiade sleeveless, and cut quite low in

“Three Years’ Reader.”—Young girls’ ‘costumes of diag-

 

nae

 

 

onally stri eed ain materials are. y on jack-
ets and 8 f the plain fabete. Ya ee and
apron drapel hike of the striped good

“Minnie G.”—Gloves for evening wear ie longer than ever

and should reach almost to the shoulders. Economical per-—

sous can lenatiear those that reach only to the elbow with

“Mamie D.,” Weston, Ga.—Handsome black silk caitltbiine,
trimmed with jet, are not worn on the street as much as for-
merly. but are exceedingly fashionable for evening wear r

“Bertie B.”—The use of ribbon for trimming is becoming
more and more general, and, ing from present appear-.
ances, will be very popular di s the Stata months,

“Greenhorn,” Southport, Conn.—Scarcely any light-colored
stockings will be used during the season, and black heshey:
will be worn by grown persons as well as by children.

“Constant Reader,” Madison, Wis.—Tan-colored kid gloves;

pies heavy stitching on the back, are worn with walking cox-

umes
s L. P.,” Springfield, Mass.—vVi

camel’s hair or cashmere are worn

“Ella W.”—Jerseys have the edges seolloped pointed, and
are trimmed with broad braid. ” -

“Lady Adelaide. "—Vailing and etamine | used com-
bination for spring dresses. are i,

‘So pric. ”—The short rubber gloves cost $1.50, ke
due cone gs $ vend the ops

Ollie . Hoboken, N. J.—Watteau plaits are
able for skirts. a *

of cream-colore _

AN UNUSUAL CAUSE OF DEATH.

 

 

After an illness of only two weeks, Mrs. John Greene,
aged twenty, died recently in Troy, N. Y. The physi-
cians believed that death had been caused by a tumor;

weighing one and one-half pounds, of small pieces of
silk thread which haa formed into a hard substance and
shut off all communication with the intestines. Further
inquiry disclosed the fact that she had been engaged
upon work in a mill, that frequently called upon her to
cut off the ends of silk thread used in stitching. Inse
arating these with her teeth, as was her custom, it
presumed she swallowed them.

SOAP LILE odio. cash

A LION SUCKLED BY A DOG.

 

Two lion cubs were born, about three months ago, in
a Liverpool menagerie. Three weeks afterward, for
some reason, the mother forsook them—probably her
milk failed. One was found dead, and the other nearly

male dog to suckle, and has succeeded in rearing it 2
its present age. The strange fact is that it refuses its
natural food—raw flesh—but pertakes
cooked food, especially vegetables of
actually takes tea with relish. It has
tached to the keeper’s wife, and follows hher like & dog

O46 See

; ~ -Ttems of Interest.

A fatal lawsuit seems to be ‘knocking out” the law-
yers in Cedar County, Iowa. The suit originally arose ona
disputed account of $6,but now involves costs to the amount of
$150. Alawyer named Coats brought the suit and died; it was
defended by Lawyer Ingham, who died; Coats was succeeded
by Lawyer Yates, who died; and now w Lawyer Cloud takes In-
gham’s place.

 

 

Jacob Birty, who weighed 470 pounds, died recently in
Mount Carmel, Pa. His body was so large that the hearse —

could not contain his coffin, which had to be carried by ©

twelve men. During the services a relative of the deceased _
Mrs. Kate Hodge, was prostrated with heart disease, and
dropped dead on the coffin.

Two men of Eastport, Me., lately discovered a larg
drove of seals on Cheeney’s Ledges. They had pen a driven

them with clubs the nowed ‘and drove the men
their boats. They returned soon with guns, and shot thirty-
five of the largest seals.

Being apprehensive of burglars, Charles Reising, of
Louisville, Ky., bought a lively bulldog to watch his prem-
ises. The family all went out the other night,and upon re
turning the bulldog watched so well that none of them could

 

name of Jenkins among the list of bankrupts.
Then out spoke the noble wife :
“Say not so, my dear Peter; allis not lost. We have
gone without ice for the last three months, and here is
the money you gave me for the ice-man.”

And she placed $50,000 on the table.

The worn, weary face of the husband lighted up with
joy as he exclaimed :

“Maria, you are a daisy! If we had gone without gas
for the same time I would have retired from business.”

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

 

“Mrs. Eloise M.,”. Boston, Mass.—ist. Spring wraps are
made of every imaginable fabric,from the ‘richest beaded
silk and lace to the plain but serviceable woolen materials.
Newmarkets, raglans, and jackets are shown in great variety.
Mantles are tight-fitting or loose. The short backs continue

enter the house. It took a pound of fresh beat, to paye a way
to the front door. _

“Father, what is adeadlock ?” asked Johnny, whdtint:

been reading the Washington dispatches. Johnny's father |

believes in answering promptly all questions pi
from his offspring, and he answered immediately: “A dead-
lock, my son, is what your mother’s back hair is made of.”

Gold has been discovered_in paying quantities in the
‘Kasan district of Russia. The peasants used to notice that
the crops of their geese were filled with glittering particles
of gold, but they didn’t know what it was. Now that they |

| have found out, they are calling themselves geese.

An old lady who died recently in London bequeathed
to the doctor who had attended her for the last thirty-five
years a huge box containing all the bottles of medicine he
had ever sent her, unopened: The doctor cannot eee
for the life of him, what caused her death,

Large numbers of small fish are constantly sine up

 

in favor, while the fronts are scarf-shaped or pointed.
Silk grenadine, Sicilienne, silk frieze, velvet, plush, canvas
cloth, perani hair, tricot, boucle cloth, and corduroy are
used for outer garments. Metal, glass, and w
are used in profusion, while chanitis lace, or Datars finish
tae more dressy small s spring g wraps, which are shown trimmed
oe) y wide lace, and is an ancient fashion ee as only
-s have been used for this of late years.
Plush \eeeete oe no trimming, save the large ornamental
buttons used for peakoting Dace Colo: cloth jackets
have plush revers corres) iE in color. Plush visites with
stripes are bordered with chenille fringe. 2d. Walk-
ing ee, are somewhat longer than formerly, just clearing
the ground, while the skirts of house-dresses touch the floor.

“Hope Huntley.”—A unique and beautiful evening dress was
worn at a german recently. The material was pure white
faille francaise, the richest and most lustrous of gros-grain
silks. The dress was cut in princess form, with very full,
straight back draperies, a low V-shaped neck, and no sleeves.

ai te outlines were finished with a fine silver cord, and a
silver chatelaine hung from the waist. Beneath the low cor-
sage was a white tulle guimpe, with short puffed sleeves
which came up high in the throat to meet ad So of
Rhine stones set in silver. White silk ed above
the elbows, and the white satin pe were trimmed with
silver cord to harmonize with the costume.

“Trene C.”—A pretty tea-gown of pale tea-green plush fits
the figure snugly, and below the waist-line falls in full
folds. The drapery on the right side is of embroidered net,
covered with tiny tassels of pearl and gold beads. A straight
fold of the plush is arranged on the left side. and the sleeves
are of the net. Atea-gown of delicate brocade has an under-
dress of embroidered net. The net falls full from the neck

over a bodice of white satin. The brocade bodice opens over
this, and_has short sleeves, beneath which the lace
sleeves fal fall. The train of brocade is caught back from the
net front.

“Mrs. Bertha H.”—ist. Beige and ecru are the leading neu-
tral tints in spring millinery and dress goods. 2d. Cord
garnitures of all kinds ornament jackets in the greatest pro-
fusion. 3d. Sleeves are not worn as tight as they were last

season, and for outdoor garments ae flare nade old oo
wrist. 4th. An effective nten costume is m ,
gray diagonal cloth, of tailor cut and finish, with all
of the jacket outlined with oxidized silver
instructions for giving a dinner party will be found in
the eo Masa of the Best Soeiety,” the price of which is fifty
cen

mitts reac

“Leah,” Stamford, N. Y.—A pretty costume for a young girl
is of light mixed woolen material. The bodice is laced down
the front over a garnet velvet vest. The back and front
draperies are laced at the side with garnet cord, thus form-
ing a panel. Another’ dress, of dove-gray velvet, has lon:
drigecion of soft cashmere of pee same tint. “ane boas a
opens over a vest of rose-colo: silk, and is oe pects
buttons of old silver. The mantle is of the c re, edged

with a band of chinchilla and lined with the Tose pani silk,
The bonnet is of velvet, with aigrettes of silver grasses. -

“Daisy B.”—1st. Progressive euchre parties are very fash
ionable, and new devices for them are constantly being in-
vented. Among suggestive ‘ booby” prizes are a shoemaker’s

last, gilded, furnished with hooks, and decorated with rib-
bon, ng: a small drum, with the words “Something you can
beat” inscribed on top; and a pack of cards, the atter prize
conveying a polite int that -practice in the ue is neces-
s Ve can furnish a k entitl ‘ive
Euchre” on receipt of fifteen cents,

_ “Maggie G.,” Boston, Mass.—The- new trimmings for the
throat and wrists of dresses, which have taken the place of

  

| Yruching, are in the form oy folds or puffs, and are quite as

 

ular in pale blue or yellow as in white or cream
color. whey, are ma F orp, surah » Or canvas
goods, and most s ed-with a row of colored
pearls of exactly the same d ahade-ondh the folds.

“Miss A. H.,” Independence, Oregon.—Riding-habits are

 

    

thing ; ‘married’ 1C| use i Sap

a vel ‘Adolphus’ is a1 a nun, because it is the name ot |

made just long enough to clear the ground. Dark green,

by the artesian well at Aberdeen, Dakota. They are perfect.

fish, with good eyes, and do not differ from those found in |

open water. Itis a satisfaction to know that the fish have
good eyes, and do not wear spectacles.

A passenger ata railroad inn near Macon, Ga., was

served with a tough steak, and he murmured his complaint. -

The waiter remarked: “You are the fourth man that has

kicked against that piece of steak, and we won’t stand a?

The passenger left it for the fifth man. ;

Twenty or thirty years ago Canadian farmers used
black walnut timber for fence rails. Such of these rails as
are now in existence are eagerly sought by lumber dealers, as
their long seasoning has made them valuable for the manu-
facture of small articles of furniture. P

A Fresno, Cal, nurseryman offers trees enough for a
small orchard to any old maid over fifty-five. In this way he
gets a big advertisement for nothing; for not a woman in the
State would have an orchard on these conditions.

A Springfield (Ill.) Jewess, engaged to marry a young
man of her race at an early date, astounded the relatives by -
eloping with a Portuguese zronaut. She wanted a a.
accustomed to moving in the highest circles. et

Among the things that ‘never would be missed, 4
merated by an exchange, is “the high hat feminine |
theater parquet.” Weare afraid it never will. It wou
folly to indulge in such a hope,

The individual who called tight boots comf

his position by saying that they made a man forget all
other miseries. :

An old bachelor suggests the following topic for ais:
‘cussion at the annual convention of a Young Ladies’ Protec-
tive Association: “Resolved, that a wife’s wardrobe is dearer —
than herself.”

have been severely poisoned by eating pie in a railway res-

stated.
A lady who once asked Washington Irving for anos

thing necessary to teach them was to be easily pleased. —

A bright schoolboy in Newburg was asked to write a
sentence containing the word “dozen.” He wrote: ie dozen
know my lesson.”

While eating his Wines David Strong, of Medway.
Ohio, was choked to death by his upper set of false teeth fall-
ing into his throat.

Canned meat caused the illness of thirteen persons _
who attended a party in North Rochester, Minn. One of
them died.

The oldest Episcopal church in the country is in Wil-
liamsburg, Va. It contains the font in which Pocahontas
was baptized.

Several men in the wild West are afraid that Mr. Pas-—
teur will discover a better remedy for snake bite than whisky

of Pittsfield, N. H., who is in her ninety-fifth year.

} i
Fifteen thousand persons are annually injured in i
United States while coupling cars.

 

act croen-o cae.

but after death they discovered in the stomach a ball, -

wy
ae

Five members of atrain crew on an Ohio vale

taurant. Their motive for os attempt at suicide isnot —

 

 

 

 

  
    
 

so. The head keeper removed it, and put it with a fe- - a

wasn’t such an idiot as he looked, after all, for he defended

as to how to educate her daughters, was told that the only a

       
    

 
  

 
    

 
 

 
    

  
     
   
    
   
 
   

  
  
  
   

 
 

    
  
  
  
  

  

 
  
 

  
  

 

 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 

  
   
    
  
  
   

 

  

 
   
     
     
  

     

    
    
  

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

  
 
   
    
  
   
 
 
  
  

The hooping-cough has just attacked Mrs. Paul True, | _