¥

 

 

 

 

An Affecting Love Story, “MARRIED AT MIDNIGHT,” by John A. Peters, Next Week,

 

 

 

 

Fintere@ According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1885

 

 

Enterea at the Post Office New York. as Second Olass Matter.

 

. bu Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conoress. Washinaton. D. C

 

Office

Vol. 41.

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

New York, J anuary 30, 1886,

 

» Three

 

Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

 

 

RMN

uy

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Pe

 

 

HE BEHELD A BRILLIANTLY HANDSOME YOUNG WOMAN LEANING AGAINST THE BALUSTRADE.

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COUNTENANCE WAS THE PICTURE OF DISMAY AND HORROR.

 

 

 

THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY ;

OR,

THE. HINDOO: DETECTIVES, (PLEDGE,

 

BY DONALD

Author of “The Wall

J. McKENZIE,

Street Wonder,” “Mir=

jam Blair,” Etc.

 

CHAPTER Y.
AN ECCENTRIC OLD MAN,

As the Hindoo detective sprang toward the carriage,
Murphy glanced backward, perceived Hyjah and the
boy, and with a sharp command to the driver of the
vehicle, leaped into it.

The detective’s outstretched hand barely missed the
rear wheel of the carriage, when it rapidly sped beyond
his reach.

He glanced swiftly about for a public conveyance, with
the intention of giving pursuit. But in this he was dis-
appointed. There were no means at hand for following
the man and child.

“Euchred this time, boss!” Tommy declared, halting
by the side of his employer, his hands thrust deep into
his ragged pockets.

“The loss of a trick will not necessarily cost me the
whole game,” Hyjah replied. Yet a slight frown darkened
his usually passive face.

“‘Ain’t yer goin’ to try and chase ’em!” the boy ques-
tioned.

“Might as well pursue a comet!
now.”

“Did you see the face of the kid »”

yes.”

«‘Ain’t she a beauty, though? And don’t yer believe I
was right when I said the handsome woman wasn’t her
mother ?”

“{ think you were right in your conjectures, Tommy.

1 think you are a shrewd lad, every day in the week. But
don’t try to take this case out of my hands just yet. I’m
afraid it is rather more than you can manage alone.
Now listen tomy directions.”

“All right, mister.”

“7 suppose you are acquainted with several street
beys—bootblacks, newsboys, and such ?”

“I knows ’bout a thousan’ of ’em, of all sizes. shapes
and colors. Get yer an assortment and have ’em shipped,
to your office.”

“Save your breath—this is no time for jesttng. Did
you take particular note of the carriage and horses,
with which Murphy and the child were carried away 2”

“J should know ’em anywhere, and the driver, too.”

“Can you describe them ?”’

“To a figure.”

«Then do so.”

The boy complied, giving a minute description of the
driver and his team. It was plain that nothing ever es-
caped the keen eyes of the detective’s young assistant.

“Good, my boy!
sters of your acquaintance—the more of them the better
—and set them on the lookout for this very vehicle and

They are out of sight

Now skip around among the young- | call

| driver. Give each of them twenty-five cents as are-

, tainer, and tell them there’s a five dollar bill waiting for

| the one who sets us on the right track. And tell them,
too, that any attempt at humbug will get them into
trouble. You understand what I’m after ?”

“~— see through the business. You’re going to have
sharp eyes all over the city watching for your game.”

«Exactly.. Now off with you !”

He gave the boy a handful of coin, and in a moment
Tommy Larkin had disappeared.

«There will be fifty pairs of eyes on the lookout for the
carriage and driver within an hour, and it will takea
sly one to escape them all,” the detective muttered, as
he hastened toward the avenue which he had just left.

He scanned the handsome residence critically as he
slowly sauntered past. Reaching the next cross-town
street he turned and leisurely retraced his steps.

At one of the finest houses he at last stopped, and
rang a sharp summons.

The door was almost instantly Sung open—so prompt-
ly, in fact, that Hyjah stepped back in surprise.

“How d’ye do, sir?” was the equally unexpected greet- |

ing from the person who had opened the door.

The Hindoo detective saw before him a portly gentle-
man, whose white hair and mustache indicated his age
to be seventy years, at least.

He leaned a trifle unsteadily upon a stout cane, and
his aged, yet decidedly handsome face, was thrust
forward, his round, bright eyes fixed upon the tall figure
upon the step.

‘Don’t stand out there in the wet,” the old gentle-
man exclaimed, with an unsteady wave of his left hand.
“Might as well come right in. Don’t stop for ceremony
—we don’t make no ’count of them things here. Come
right—right in ?”

The detective instantly perceived the cause of the old
gentleman’s singular demeanor. He was the worse for
liquor. The odor of brandy was very marked about his
person.

‘| wish to see Mr. Amos Evans,” Hyjah declared,
without appearing to notice the condition of the gentle-
man.

«Well, here he is!” the latter burst out, with a genial
smile. ‘Come right in and look at me. And Ill call
Helena, and you may look at her. She’ll tell you that
I’m a little—a little mixed up in my head, but don’t you
believe her. I’m all right. Helena doesn’t like to have me
entertain strangers, but she can’t help herself, long’s I
own the house 1 live in.”

The detective complied with the novel invitation, fol-
lowing the old gentleman as the latter conducted him
to a spacious, luxuriously furnished apartment.

“Don’t quite recall your name, sir, but you look like an
Dip ey Mr. Evans exclaimed, sinking heavily upon a
chair.

Hyjah had come to this house for an express purpose.
He knew Amos Evans to be a reputed millionaire ; and
more than this, he was the uncle of beautiful Grace
Emory.
| ae did not lose any time in coming to the object of his

 

“J came to ask you a few questions, Mr. Evans,” Hyjah
‘ declared.

«Go ahead, then. If you’re a reporter, and want to
know how I piled up a little fortune, ’'ll give you all the
points. I’m not one of the crusty sort—not a bit of it.’

“J wish to know about your niece, Grace Emory.”

A radiant smile came over the countenance of the ec-
centric old gentleman.

‘She’s just an angel, and no mistake!” he earnestly
declared.

_ ‘‘Has she always been an inmate of your home ?”

“Not at all, sir. She came here only about a year
ago.

«She has no parents, I believe ?”

Only me. I’m the same as a father to her, she says,”

‘‘And has she a brother or sister ?”

“Yes, a sister. A little sweet violet, I cail her.
is her name.”

“Then Helena, of whom you spoke, is not her sister ?”

“Not at all.”

**Who is she, then ?”

‘“‘Why, don’t you know who Helena is ?”

*T asked you to tell me. When you have answered
this question I will tell you something which will be of
interest to you. Now give your attention. I may be
able to save you from a serious danger |”

The detective had drawn quite close to the old gentle-
ne and his remark was uttered in a deeply earnest

ne.

Mr. Evans started, stared at his visitor, the vague,
silly smile vanishing from his face.

The words, glance, and tones of the detective over-
came, for the time, the clouded condition of his brain.

‘«‘Who—who are you?” he demanded, as though sud-
denly awakened from a dream.

‘That doesn’t matter, as yet.
and then I will explain.”

«You want to know who Helena is ?”

“TI wish to know how she is related to you.”

“Why, she’s my niece, of course.”

“A cousin of Grace Emory ?”

"¥es.”

“And is her name Emory ?”

. “No, it is Evans, She was the only child of my only
rother.”

Ermie

Answer my question,

 

 

«Are her parents living ?”
“They died when she was an infant.”
; ‘And she has lived with you ever since ?”

“She has.”

“Is She to be your heiress ?”

The old man looked half suspiciously at the face of the
detective.

“T have a. few wits left yet, so don’t try to pump me
| too dry !” Amos Evans retorted.

And he quickly added :

““Now tell me why you are asking all these questions
' about my private affairs? Now the more I look at you,
| the more 1 think you area perfect stranger. I never
saw you before. Perhaps I have taken a little too much
brandy this morning, but 1 am not quite an idiot !”

‘ Hyjah bent his tall form forward and asked, in a low

one:

“Are we alone ?”

“Yes, quite alone.”

«Then listen.”

And, in the same cautious tone, the Hindoo con-
tinued :

“Tam a detective, and Iam attempting to unravel
what I believe to be a conspiracy against the life or hap-
piness of your niece, Grace Emory. I suspect, also, that
the plot involves your safety as well. I desire you to
aid me, as far-as it lies in your power, to probe this
affair to the bottom.”

Re old man sprang to his feet, a flush mantling his
cheeks.

All signs of inebriation had vanished.

“You don’t mean it?” he cried, his tones husky, his
eyes blazing.

ethan had straightened, and assumed a careless atti-
tude.

“Do you know where Grace Emory is at this moment?”
he quietly asked.

“TJ know where she went last night.”

«Well, where did she go ?”,

“To Brooklyn.”

“To see friends ?”

«To see some poor people who are ill and in great dis-
tress. J] gave her some money to buy for_them such
things as they need. Grace is an angel, sir!”

“What if I should tell you that Miss Emory was de-
coyed to-a place of great peril ?”

‘ ‘No, no!” cried the old man, his face the picture of
norror.

 

“Hush!” returned the detective. For, at that mo-

 

ment, he caught the sound of quick footsteps in the
main hall of the mansion.

At the same instant there was the sound of an open-
ing door, a heavy tread, followed by a piercing scream
that rang with startling shrillness through the house!

 

CHAPTER VI.
A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

Frank Faulkner, the young reporter, after leaving the
scene of his singular adventure, went about his regular
duties as reporter for the Daily Bee.

But all the while his brain was haunted by the un-
fathomed mystery with which he had come in contact.

The mysterious house, with the legend hanging over
it like a curse; the flitting lights at the windows; the
high, arched door, gloomy as the entrance to a tomb;
Grace Emory, the beautiful girl who had been basely

the young .reporter’s thoughts and imagination preter-
naturally active.

he became in his decision to investigate the mystery
for himself.

everything !” he repeated.

Faulkner,-as we have before hinted, possessed indomi-
table courage and resolution.

Therefore, toward the close of the next day he drove
rapidly along the lonely road leading to the mysterious
house.

He had left Brooklyn far in his rear, when he was sur-
prised to see another horse and buggy a short distance
ahead.

The vehicle was stationary, and a man stood at the
horse’s head, while a lady occupied the seat.

As Faulkner drew nearer he noticed that the lady was
trying to start her horse, while the man clung to the

shoot you just the same. Now let me go. I shall not
repeat my threat.”

The young man laughed, hesitated a moment, fum-
bling about the bridle withone hand.

Then he stepped back, saying :

“Go, if you wish to. But bear in mind that in future
I am your enemy instead of your friend.”

“All I ask of you is to get out of my way, and never
to molest me again.”

As the girl said this she struck the horse a sharp blow
with her whip.

The animal had become nerved up by the encounter,
and bounded forward with a snort of terror.

At the same instant a cry of dismay burst from the
lips of the girl.

Instead of going straight ahead, the horse darted off

ito the right, bounding swiftly toward the low embank-
; Ment which bordered that side of the road.
decoyed to this fateful dwelling; all these things kept |

Instantly Frank Faulkner, who had some time before
stepped out of his vehicle, bounded forward, and at-

| tempted to intercept the horse.
The more he pondered the matter, the more resolute |

But he was too late. The animal was maddened by

| the whip; and besides this something seemed to be
| drawing his head to one side.
“That detective may be very keen, and yet not know |

The horse sprang over the low rail, which was all the
fence there was at that point, and simultaneously there
was a dull crash, as the buggy struck the rail.

The vehicle was demolished in a second, and the
horse was cleared. At the moment of the catastrophe,
however, Faulkner saw Gipsy Clayton leap over the

| wheel, and fall prostrate in the road.

animal’s bridle as though determined to prevent them |

from passing.

- % |
“Let go the bit, or you will regret your coriduct!” the

lady cried, in a sharp, commanding tone.

By this time Faulkner was nearly alongside the other
vehicle, and he reined up his horse.

The lady was young, with a dark, gipsyish face, and
bright, flashing eyes.

A mere girlin years, she seemed ; yet there was a de-
fiant, almost reckless bravado expressed in her face,
voice, and gestures which brought a glance of admira-
tion from the eyes of the. young reporter.

She held the reins firmly in one small, ungloyed hand;
in the other she grasped a whip.

Her cheeks were deeply flushed ; her lips were quiver-
ing with anger; her dark eyes flashed with passionate
resolve.

The man at the horse’s head was a young fellow, with
a handsome yet unprepossessing face. A single glance
at him was sufficient to give Faulkner a true estimate
of his character.
living were only too plain upon the young man’s fea-
tures.

“Don’t be so crusty to a fellow, Gipsy Clayton!” the | for this trick.

The young reporter did not stop to see what had be-
come of the horse. In a moment he was bending over
the motionless form of the girl, and brushing the dark,
curling tresses away from her pallid face.

To his surprise he saw that she was conscious; and
still more surprising—she rose to a sitting posture.
She was pale, trembling, yet her dark, lustrous eyes
still retained an expression of fearless defiance.

“The wretch ?” she cried, breathlessly.

‘Was it, then, his fault ?” Faulkner asked.

‘Fe loosed one rein from the bridle, the villain!” she

| returned.

“And you must be injured ?
your face.”

“I’m only—only frightened, and I shall soon get over
that. But where is Louis Jordan? Don’t stop to help
me, sir, but see that he doesn’t escape. He Shall pay
dearly for this, if he is arich man’sson. There he is—
going off with yourteam! Quick! stop him!”

The discovery came too late. Jordan had taken pos-
session of the horse and buggy which Faulkner had so
suddenly abandoned, and was even now speeding swift-
ly toward the city.

“Never mind, let him go,” the reporter uttered, seeing

You fell almost upon

| that nothing conld be done to stop the treacherous Jor-

|

The marks of dissipation and fast |

dan.
“Here, take my revolver and fire after him !” exclaim-
ed the impetuous girl, again producing her weapon.
“That would do only harm to us, and probably none
to him. I shall see him again, and get even with him
But I am afraid you are injured more

young man exclaimed, as Faulknercameup. ‘Weused than you think. Your faceis very pale. Let me assist
to be good friends, and there is no reason why you | you to rise.”

should treat me inthismanner. You're driving straight
to the city, and you must let me ride with you. [ll keep
you here till to-morrow morning if you persist in re-
fusing !”

“You shall not keep me here!” the girl promptly re-
torted.

As she spoke she struck her horse a sharp blow with
the whip.

The animal plunged forward, nearly throwing the
young man to the ground. But he recovered himself,
and with a remarkable display of strength brought the
horse to a stand.

The flush upon the girl’s cheeks deepened. She drop-
ped her whip, and the next moment a small revolver
was clutched in her slim, fair hand.

“Release my horse, Louis Jordan, or I will shoot you!”
she cried.

The young man recoiled, his cheeks paling.

“You wouldn’t do that, Gipsy!” he exclaimed.

“Release my horse or I will fire !”

Upto this moment neither the girl nor her persecutor
had appeared ‘to be conscious of the presence of a third
party.

But now Louis Jordan, as she had called the young
man, turned to the reporter, and said :

nae you to witness that she has threatened my
life !”

“TJ don’t care if you call a dozen men to witness, I’ll

|
|

 

The strange girl made a quick attempt to get upon
her feet independent of his proffered aid. But she sank
down again with a moan of pain.

“J am hurt—I fear my arm is broken!” she faintly
cried.

He quickly examined the injured arm.

‘TJ think it is only sprained,” he declared a moment
later.

“Tt pains me dreadfully when I stir.”

“You must let me assist you.”

“7 don’t like to seem such a baby !”

“I think you have displayed more fortitude than I
could have done. ‘Tell me where you live and I will try
to get you home in some way.”

“T live a long way from bere—more than twenty
miles.”

«Then where will you go ?”

She closed her eyes for a. moment, and then, opening
them, looked searchingly into thé young man’s face.

Faulkner was thrilled by her brilliant loveliness. She
was leaning against his shoulder, her,face very near his
own.

«Are you honest ?” she abruptly asked.

“J try to be,” he replied.

“What is your name ?”

«Frank Faulkner.”

‘Where do you live ?”

“Anywhere and everywhere. I am a reporter.”

 

 

 
 

 

 

Riemer

 

 

 

 

which nobody else knows.”

“Ah! What is it 2”

‘J was running away from the place which I have call-
ed my home.”

“Why were you doing that ?”

*‘Because I wished to strike out for myself. Iwasa
drudge there, and nobody cared whether I lived or
died. I was going to the city to make my own way in
the world. Now you won’t send me back? If you do |
I will never forgive you!” : ’

Here was aromance, indeed, and Frank Faulkner was
smitten by a vague hope that in some way he might be-
come the hero if this fearless, pretty hoiden were to be
the heroine.

‘I shall not send you back until I know more about
the case,” he said. ‘Have you no friends near here ?”

“None.”

“Yet I must take you Somewhere. See—it is growing
dark, and beginning to rain. We must find shelter at
once, See if you can Walk, with my assistance.”

He helped her to her feet, and although she com-
pressed her lips with pain, she bravely said :

“ITcan walk. Let us hasten, for it will soon be very
dark. I passed a house a little distance from here, and
Uf piare ng I can secure accommodation there for the
night.”

‘they had not noticed until now how threatening the
clouds were becoming, nor the rapid approach of dark-
ness.

As they walked slowly along, the gloom of night
and storm settled around them so densely that they
could scarcely see their way.

They kept on for half an hour or more, when Gipsy
Clayton suddenly exclaimed ¢

«Yonder is a light!”

They hastened toward the beacon, although trees
presently hid the latter from view. They reached a nar-
row, steep path, folowed it for a shert distance, and at
last saw before them the light.

But at the same time Frank Faulkner, with a thrill of
nameless horror, realized a startling fact.

Betore them was the gloomy house, with its narrow
windows and high, arched door, which the Hindgo de-
tective had warned him not to enter—the house of
mystery !

 

CHAPTER VII.
A THRILLING SITUATION.

The Hindoo detective was never more mystified in his
life than when, in the mansion of the millionaire, that
shrill scream came to his ears. ‘

He sprang out into the hall, and there beheld a bril-
liantly handsome young woman leaning against the bal-
ustrade of the grand staircase.

Her countenance was the picture of dismay and
horror.

In her white, jeweled fingers she held what appeared
to be a telegram.

Upon the message her eyes were fixed with intense
excitement expressed in their dusky depths.

The messenger who had brought the telegram was in
the act of passing out upon the street.

Quick as thought, Hyjah sprang to the door and seized
the messenger by the arm.

‘Don’t he in such a hurry, my man!” he exclaimed.

The man was young, smooth-faced, and honest look-

ing.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

«That is what I want to find out, and perhaps you can
aid me. Come in, and let us see what sort of message
this is which you have delivered.”

The young fellow reluctantly obeyed.

‘J have other messages to deliver, and cannot delay,”
he neryously declared. ; 4

‘You can wait if you are obliged to, 1 imagine. In
fact, 1.don’t see how you can help yourself. Now do not
attempt to escape, for I am not in a playful mood this
morning.”

The young man grew a trifle pale.. Evidently the
searching gaze and quiet, resolute tones of the Hindoo
impressed him with a sense of helplessness in the hands
of one who could make him do, or confess, what he
pleased.

Amos Evans had by this time come to the assistance
of Helena: for the beautiful woman who had uttered the
scream was his niece.

“What has happened, my girl? Tell me!” the old
man tremulously asked.

The detective advanced and unceremoniously took the
telegram from the lady’s hand.

A glance at the paper was sufficient—and the detec-
tive was hardly less startled than Helena Evans appeared

The message was as follows:

“Revenge is sweet! Your idolized cousin, Grace Emory, is
in my power, and little Ermie is where you will ss see her
again. '. ‘

This was written, in a scrawlimg hand, upon one of the
Western Union Telegraph Company’s message sheets,
and in due form, with charges marked as paid.

Yet the Hindoo detective’s piercing eyes turned from
the dispatch to the face of the messenger, while he de-
liberately, sternly exclaimed :

“That message is spurious, as you well know, my fine
fellow. Don’t waste breath in denying it.”

 

The messenger turned pale, and cried :
“How can that be? Ilreceived it at the telegraph of- |
fice with others.” |
“That is false! You did not receive this message at |
the same time you did the others.” : }

“What reason have you for saying that, sir ?”

“Your face, if nothing else, nails the falsehood.”

“J tell you I know nothing about the dispatch.”

“That may be true, but you know where you got it.”

“7 told you.”

The hand of the detective fell upon the young man’s
shoulder with startling weight.

“Speak the truth, or I will teach you to fear the pen-
alty of falsehood!” the Hindoo warned, in a low, men-
acing tone.

The look which accompanied the threat caused the
young man’s eyes to fall. .

«What—what shall I say ?” the messenger faltered.

«Who gave you that dispatch ?”

“I do not know.”

«A man or woman ?”

«A man.”

«And you do not know his name ?”

“No.”

“How much did he pay you for delivering it as gen-
uine ?”

 

«Five dollars.”

“That is a small sum for one to sell his integrity for.”
“J was in urgent need of the money.”

“When did he give you the message ?” |
“Last night.” |
«And did he tell you to deliver it this morning ?”
“Sips.

“What did he say ?”

“Simply, that he wished the message to be delivered
the same as genuine dispatches. He said it was all
straight—merely a joke.”

“Can you describe the man ?”

«T cannot.” |

“Why not?”

«We met in a dark street, and he was so muffled up
that I could scarcely observe his features.”

«Was he short or tall ?”

“Of medium height.”

“Did he disguise his voice ?”

“How could I tell you that, sir, if Inever heard him
speak before?” |
‘Never inind. Did he tell you to deliver the message

at this house ?”

<“VOs, sir.”

“To any particular person ?”

“No, sir.”

“In what locality did you meet the one who gave you
the message ?” .

The messenger named a street in the vicinity of Chat-
ham square.

“That willdo. Only let me warn you never to accept
a bribe for any dishonest purpose. You are young, and
you look innocent, butit is these small beginnings in
deceptions which bring people to the prison bars. Bet-
ter starve with your integrity than to sell it for a for-
tune. Now you may go.”

The young messenger’s voice trembled slightly as he
answered :

“I thank you, sir. I know what you say is true, and 1
hope J have done no serious harm.”

As the door closed after him, the detective turned to
Helena and her uncle.

The former was sobbing hysterically, and the old man
was trying to soothe her.

“Do not be alarmed, lady,” said Hyjah.

Apparently she now, for the first time, noticed the
presence of the tall Hindoo.

“Who are you, sir?’ she questioned, a trace of alarm
in her sweet tones.

“lam a detective, madam,” he quietly answered.

She shot a single, apprehensive glance into his face.
Then she covered her face with her hands.

The Hindoo quietly continued:

“You need not be startled by that telegram, Miss
Evans.”

Again she looked at him.

«How can Lhelp it? Such dreadful, dreadful tidings!”
she exclaimed.

“The message is spurious. It was never sent by tele-
graph. It was written to trighten you.”

“How do you know ?” *

«Because the messenger just admitted it to me.”

«He adinitted it ?”

‘Certainly. A fraud has been perpetrated. For what
purpose I know not, but I shall expect you to explain
it to me.”

“Then you think Grace and little Ermie are safe,
after all ?”

“T hope so. Do you not know where they are ?”

“| supposed Grace was in Brooklyn, whither she went
last night.”

«And little Ermie ?”

“She was in the house only a short time ago. I sup-
posed she was with the governess, until the latter just
told me that she was not in the house.”

“Then you did not know she had gone from the
house ?”

“N ae
; “Was not little Ermie out upon the street last even-

ng ?’

“With whom ?”

“With you ?”

“She ran out without permission.”

* «And came near being run over ?”

“How did you know that ?”

“No matter, if it is true.”

 

“Jt is true, of course.”

«And a street boy saved her, did he not ?”

“You.”

“And when you came to him for the child, you said
that you were its mother ?”

Helena’s fair face flushed slightly, and herlustrous
eyes fell under the searching gaze of the detective.

‘T said that because I could in no other way induce
him to give the child up to me. He was a stubborn
little wretch, and I think he intended to trighten me
into paying him a large sum of money for his action.”

“That was no reason why you should tell him a false-
hood. That boy knew what he was about. He did per-
fectly right.”

Helena seemed somewhat abashed by the words and
fixed gaze of the Hindoo detective. ; :
“7 thought no harm of it,” she faltered. > 7

“I merely said this to warn you that there is danger
in even the least show of double-dealing or falsehood. I

just read a similar lecture to the messenger who brought.

you this spurious telegram. Do you wish me to tell you
why I consider straightforwardness of action essential
to your safety ?”

“Of course—tell me. Your words and tones frighten
me; and you say you are a detective !” :

“J am a detective, Miss Helena, and it is my business
to detect crime, whether it exists in high places or
among the hovels of the degraded and lowly. Your
cousin, Grace Emory, was decoyed to a place of danger
last night. This morning little Ermie has also fallen
into the toils. Now, who can have a motive for these
crimes ?” :

“Then it is true—they are in peril? Oh, Heaven!”

The detective’s hand lightly touched her arm, and,
like the spell of magic, it caused the paroxysm of emo-
tion to subside.

“Be calm, and answer my question,” Hyjah said, in
the same calm, even tones.

«JT do not know.”

“Have you no enemy ?”

‘None, unless 4

“Goon. Who has a motive ?”

The detective held up the mock telegram and pointed
at the signature, adding:

“Who is L. J. ?”

“T know of only one with whose name those initials
correspond.”

“His name ?”

“Louis Jordan.”

“Ts he an enemy of your cousin ”

«He was once a friend of mine. He is arejected lover,
in fact.” 4

She blushed as she said this.

«And so he is of a revengeful disposition ?”

*T think he would do nothing criminal. I thought he
was a gentleman.”

At this .moment a sharp, peculiar whistle sounded in
the street.

Without stopping for excuses, the detective sprang to

 

the door, flung it open, and in another moment was face.

to face with Tommy Larkin. :
The latter fairly trembled with suppressed excitement.

CHAPTER VII.
: IN THE FACE OF DANGER.

“T’ve got em, boss!” the shrewd youngster breathless-
ly exclaimed.  , ; ;

“Murphy. and the little girl?” Hyjah questioned, his
impassive face betraying no more of the interest which
he ns really have felt than as though it had beeh a
mask,

“Yes, sir. That idea of your’n, having all the lads on
the lookout, was a good one. “T'wasn’t half an hour be-
fore thrée of ’°em come to me and said-they could show
me the team, driver and all.”

«And you took their word for it ?” i

“Nixey! Idon’t shut my eyes when-] eat fish. I jest
told ’em to show me the team and I would cash their
check for a V. I expected they’d skin out then, but they
didn’t. They was as honest as preachers.”

“And did they take you to the place where the team
and occupants were ?”

“Yes, and they was genuine. I seen ’em plain as I see

7 ”

«The child and her abductor ?”

Yes, sir. He was carrying the kid into a house.”

“Then take me to the place as quickly as you can.”

“We'll take the elevated—that’s the quickest from
here. Come on!”

In a brief space of time they were landed at the
Bowery and Grand street station, and Tommy led the
Way a distance of several squares, halting at last before
a tall, quiet building.

“That's the place,” he declared.

“The vehicle has gone.”

“LT expected it would be. But Ill bet the kid is inside,
and maybe her captor.”

“You go about your business, Tommy, and I will find
out if the child is here.”

a you going into that crib alone, boss ?”

“ee es. ?

“Do you know it has a hard name ?”

“TJ know more about it than you do, I fancy.”

‘“Hadn’t yer better get one or two cops to back yer?
There’s been two or three chaps laid out in that place,
so they say, and they’ve never got anybody in limbo
tor it, either.”

«Go about your business, Tommy !”

This was spoken with a decisiveness which the lad

| knew admitted of no further argument.

 

mitting his hand to rest on his shoulder, to guard against
treachery.

He was conducted up adark flight of stairs, along a
dark corridor, through a dark room to another dark
corridor.

Here a single gas-jet flickered with sickly radiance, as
though discouraged with the task of illuminating un-
aided so large a space.

“I guess the kid was fetched up. here somewhere, I
don’t know which room. ‘There’s one or two families
live up here, but I don’t know nothin’ about them,” said
the man, halting.

“Does the man who brought the child here live in
these rooms ?” the detective asked.

“J guess not.” -

«You said his name was not Murphy.”

' -“T648 not.”

“What is bis name ?”

«He is called Yankee George.” ;

At this moment there came to the ears of the detec-
tive, faintly yet with sufficient distinctness to obviate
mistake, the cry of a child. :

‘The hand upon the doorkeeper’s shoulder tightened.

“Come with me in search of the one who uttered that
cry,” Was the low, imperative command of the detec-
tive.

«Don’t haul me into the racket,” the other implored.

«You are simply to obey my orders. Come.”

iyjah half forced the man to accompany him to-
ward a door at the most distant extremity of the cor-
ridor. ;

His object in doing so is easily explained. Although
he did not require the man’s further assistance, he knew
it would be the height of imprudence to release him.

Without doubt he would fetch a dozen of the brutal

| denizens of the place to overpower the Hindoo as quickly
| as he could call them together. :

There is only one safe way in which to deal with ruf-

| fians of a certain stamp, and that is to give them no op-

 

portunity for doing you injury.

This was a wise precaution which the Hindoo detective
and all others of his profession have to learn by expe-
rience. '

As they advanced Hyjah heard a door open, and.saw
a man come forth into the corridor.

The. man hada long, narrow box in his arms, and
oer with it directly toward the detective and his com-
panion. ;

Hyjah attempted to conce?! himself in a shadowy
corner before the other Cculd see him. In this he
would have succeeded hitt for the presence of the door-
keeper, who made somuch noise with his boots that
they were betrayed.

The man with %ne box halted, uttered an ejaculation,
of alarm, and darted through a half-open door-way.

As he did so, the light from the gas-jet fell full upon
his face.

The tace was that of Yankee George—otherwise Mur-
phy—the abductor of little Ermie.

Hyjah, the Hindoo, released the doorkeeper, and bis
ne powerful form cleared the intervening space to the

oor. ;

He bounded across the threshold. Beyond all was
darkness, but he could hear the retreating footsteps of
the abductor, and sprang in pursuit.

In the center of the apartment his foot struck some
obstacle, and he was thrown headlong to the fioor.

[T0 BE CONTINUED.]
> © 4
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

MR. ORAVEN'S STEP-SON;

FRANK HUNTER’S PERIL.

 

By HORATIO ALGER, /r.,
AUTHOR OF

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

 

(‘‘Mr. CRAVEN’S STEP-SON” was commenced in No, 8. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XXI.
THE HOTEL DU GLACIER.

High up among the Bernese Alps stands the Hotel du
Glacier. It is a small hotel, of limited accommodations,
but during the Season it is enerally full ot visitors. The
advantage is, that a comparatively short walk carries

; one toa point where he has a fine view of that moun-

He ran off, whistling, joining the noisy, jostling mass |

of humanity upon the street.

The Hindoo detective knew this to be, in the night-
time, a Somewhat dangerous locality. But in broad day-
light there was no good cause for apprehension for one

used to the ways of the denizens of such quarters of a |

great city.

The detective lounged about near the building in
question for half an hour, in the hope of seeing Murphy
come forth or enter. ce

But in this he was disappointed, and he decided to
settle the question of Ermie Emory’s presence in the
building at once. '

He went up to the front entrance and opened the door.

Entering, he found himself in a small, dark hall.

A tall, shadowy figure came toward him from some
niche, and a strong, nasal voice questioned :

‘Were, you looking for anybody, mister ?”

“Suppose that 1 am—what then?” the Hindoo coolly
retorted,

‘Nothin’, only 1 could tell you where to find most any-

body in this block.”

‘Tell me where to find Murphy, then.”

«What Murphy ?”

“Any Murphy will do.”

“There ain’t anybody of that name on the premises.”

‘Are you sure ?”

«Course I am.”

«Who was the man who came here a short time ago ?”

«“There’s been a dozen here within an hour.”

“This one came with a child.”

“Any é ;

There was a strong, unmistakable emphasis upon the
exclamation, and a moment of silence ensued.

Then the man said:

«So it’s him you want to see.”

“It is.”

‘Well, he’s gone again. And that ain't all.”

“Well, what else ?”

“His name ain't Murphy.”

“Tm not particular about the name.
am after.”

“Didn't I tell you he was gone ?”

“You did; butl didn’t agree to believe your state-
ment.”

“Do you tell meT lie 2?”

‘Not till lam sure you do.
you so as not.”

«Come in here to fight, did you? Wantarow? You
come to jest the right place if that is what you're after.
There’s three of the champion pugilists of the country
in a room yonder. They’re having a friendly set-to with
gloves, but they would take the gloves off to accommo-
date you, 1 guess.”

The exultant menace of the man’s speech and tones
made no impression upon the quiet, resolute detective.

“fam not a prize-fighter, bearin mind. I came here
to see the man whom I have called Murphy,” declared
te not the slightest trace of emotion in his deep

mes.

He stood in a slightly stooping posture, and hence, in
the gloom of the hall, the othér could not observe his
powertul proportions.

“The chap you're looking for is not here, so you may
as well toddle rigkt along. You ain’t a member of this
club. We are rather exclusive, you understand.”

«Where is the little girl recently brought here ?”

“She’s gone, too.” 4

“Who told you to say that ?”

‘T said it cause it was true. And now I’m going to
say something else.”

“What is it ?”

“If you don’t skip inside of three seconds I’ll have to
chuck you out.”

“Shall you? I declare!”

Tho detective drew himself to his full height as he
said this, and at the same time his long right arm shot
outward and his strong right hand clutched the shoul-
der of the man with a force that caused him to utter a
cry of pain.

“Let go, you Sardine!” cried the ruffian, writhing to
tree himself.

“Keep your tongue quiet, or I will hurt you!” Hyjah
threatened.

His voice and the still more effecti¥e testimony of his
power given by his hand checked the bravado of the
stranger.

“T'was only fooling ; I didn’t know you was one of the
champions. Are you Big Charlie, or Tom Green, or——”

‘Neither of those worthies, my man. Just keep still,
and let me ask the questions. Tell me where the child
for whom I am looking is hidden ?”

“I don’t know—true as I live, I don’t!”,

“You saw her brought in ?”

Yes.” ‘

“And she has not been taken away ?” ‘

“JT haven’t been here all the time since, and I’don’t
know. If you're a fly cop, don’t pull mein. I know
nothing about the kid or the feller that fetched her
here. I’m merely doorkeeper for the prize-fighting
rooms on this floor, That is all I know anything about.
So let me go.”

In due time, my friend. But
whither the child was taken.”

‘7 don’t know, I tell you.”

“You know whether it was up stairs or down ?”

“Tt was up.”

“Then show me the way.” °

“Allright, only don’t hold me quite so tight. I be-
lieve you’ve broken my shoulder. Are you a giant ?”

The man started toward a door, the detective still per-

It is the man I

you will show me first

1
1
}

 

tain scenery which is the glory of Switzerland, and draws
thither thousands of pilgrims annually.

In rustic chairs just outside sat at eight o’clock in the

morning our young hero, Frank Hunter, and his tem-
porary guardian, Col. Sharpley. In front a beautiful

‘| prospect spread out before the two travelers. Snowy

peaks, their rough surface softened by distance, abound-
ing in beetling cliffs and fearful gorges, but overlooking
smiling valleys, were plainly visible.

“Isn't it magnificent ?” exclaimed Frank, with the
enthusiasm of youth.

“Yes, I dare say.” said Sharpley, yawning, ‘‘but I’m:
not romantic. I’ve outlived all that.”

«J don’t believe I shall ever outlive my admiration for

| Such scenery as this,” thought Frank.

Don’t you enjoy it?” he asked.
“Oh, soso; but the fact is, I came here chiefly be-
cause I thought you would like it. I’ve been the regular

| Swiss tour more than once.”

“You are very kind to take so much trouble on my ac-
count,” said Frank.

“Oh; I might as well be here as anywhere,” said Sharp-
ley. ‘Just at present there is nothing in particular to
take up my attention. Did you order breakfast ?”

£*Yes, Col. Sharpley.”

“Go and ask if it isn’t ready, will you ?”

Frank entered the inn, and soon returned with the in-

formation that breakfast was ready. ‘lhey entered a
small dining-room, where they found the simple meal
aWaiting them.

The regular Swiss breakfast consists of coffee, bread
and butter, and honey, and costs, let me add for the
gratification of my readers’ curiosity, thirty cents in
gold. Dinner comprises soup, three courses of meat,
and a pudding or fruit, and costs from sixty cents to a
dollar, according to the pretensions of the hotel. In fact,
so far as hotel expenses go, two dollars a day in gold will
be quite sufficient in the majority of cases. If meat is
required for breakfast, that is additional.

“How good the coffee is,” said Frank. ‘I never tasted

“They know how to make it here, but why didn't you
order breakfast ?”

“7 thought they would supply meat without an order.”

“J always want meat. 1 have got beyond my bread
and butter days,” said Sharpley, with a dash of sarcasm.

«7 have not,” said Frank, “especially when both are
so good. What are your plans for the day, Col. Sharp-
ley ?”

“J think we'll take a climb after breakfast,” said
Sharpley. ‘‘Whatdo you Say ?”

“1 should like nothing better,” said Frank, eagerly.
“But,” he added, ‘I am afraid you are going entirely on
my account.”

“How well the boy has guessed it,” thought Sharpley.
“It is on his account I am going, but he must not know
that.

«Oh, no,” he said. ‘I feel like taking a ramble among
the hills,. It would be stupid staying at the inn.” -

“Then,” said Frank, with satisfaction, ‘‘I shall be glad
to go. Shall we take a guide ?”

“Not this morning,” said Sharpley. ‘Let us have the
pleasure of exploring independently. ‘To-morrow we
will arrange a long excursion with guides.”

“I suppose it is quite safe ?” j

“Oh, yes, if we don’t wander too far.
ready in about half an hour.”

“J will be ready,” said Frank.

«And Pll smoke a cigar.”

Just then a gentleman came up, whose acquaintance
they had made the day previous. It was a Mr. Aber-
crombie, an American gentleman, from Chicago, who
was accompanied by his son Henry, a boy about Frank’s

| it as good in America.”
Then I would as soon tell |

I shall be

age.
«What are your plans for to-day, Mr. Sharpley ?” he
asked

“TI hope he isn’t going to thrust himself upon us,”
thought Sharpley, savagely, for he was impatient of
anything that was likely to interfere with his wicked de-
sign.

“| have none in particular,” he answered, evasively.

“You are not going toremain at the inn, are you ?
That would be dull.”

«Confound the man’s curiosity!” muttered Sharpley,
to himself.

«| may wander about a little, but I shall make no ex-
cursion worth speaking of till to-morrow.”

“Why can’t we join company ?” said Mr. Abercrombie,
in a friendly manner. ‘Our youpg people are well ac-
quainted, and we can keep each other company. En-
_e your plan a little, and take a guide.”

“I wish the man was back in America,” thought
Sharpley. ‘‘Why won’t he see that he’s a bore ?”

“Really,” he said, stiffly, ““you must excuse me. I
don’t feel equal to any sort of an excursion to-day.”

“Then,” said the other, still in a friendly way, ‘et
your boy come with us. I will look after him, and my

| Son will like his company.”

/ Frank heafd this application, andas he had taken a
fancy te Henry and his father, he hoped that Sharpley
would reply favorably. He felt that he should enjoy
their company better than his guardian’s.

Sharpley was greatly irritated, but obliged to keep
within the bounds of politeness to avoid suspicion,
when something had happened, as he meant something
should happen before the sun set.

 

“JT hope you won’t think me impolite,” he said, “but I
mean, by and by, to walk a little, and would like
Frank’s company. To-morrowI shall be very happy to
join you.”

Nothing more could be said, of course, but Henry Ab-
ercrombie whispered to Frank : ,

“T’m sorry we're not going to be together to-day.”

“So am J,” answered Frank; “but we'll have a bully
time to-morrow. Isuppose I ought to stay with Colonel
Sharpley.”

‘He isn’t any relation of yours, is he ?”

“Oh, no; J am only traveling in his company.”

“So I thought. You don’t look much alike.”

“No; I suppose not.”

e Half an hour passed, but the Abercrombies were |still
nere.

“Shall we go?” asked Frank.

“Not yet,” said Sharpley, shortly.

He did not mean to start till the other travelers were
gone, lest he should be followed. For he had screwed
his courage to the sticking point, and made up his mind
that he would that day do the deed which he had covy-
enanted with Mr. Craven todo. The sooner the better,
he thought, for it would bring him nearer the large sum
of money which he expected to realize as the price of
our hero’s murder.

Twenty minutes afterward the A bercrombies, equipped
for a mountain walk, swinging their alpenstocks, started
off, accompanied by a guide.

«‘Won’t you reconsider your determination and go?
asked the father.

Sharpley shook his head.

“J don’t feel equal to the exertion,” he answered.

“Thope you'll have a pleasant excursion, Henry,” said
Frank, looking wistfully after his young friend.

; ‘It would be pleasanter if you were going along,” said
jenry.

“Thank you.”

Frank said no more, but waited till Sharpley had
smoked another cigar. By this time twenty minutes
had elapsed.

‘J think we'll go now, Frank,” said Sharpley.

At the welcome intimation Frank jumped up briskly.

ehae l order some lunch to be packed for us?” he
asked.

“No; we sha’n’t need it,” said Sharpley,

Frank ype

“I think I’ll get some for myself,” said Frank, laugh-
ing as he added: “I’ve got a healthy appetite, Colonel
Sharpley, and I am sure the exertion of climbing these
hills will make me fearfully hungry.”

«7 don’t want to be delayed,” said Sharpley, frowning.
«We sha’n’t be gone long enough to need lunch.”

- won’t take me a minute,” said Frahk, running into
the inn.

“It is strange he isso much in a hurry all at once,”
thought our young hero, ‘‘when he has been lounging
about for an hour without appearing in the least haste.”

However, he did not spend much thought on Sharp-
ley’s Wayward humor, which he was beginning to see
was regulated by no rules. i

Less than five minutes afterward he appeared, pro-
vided with a tourist’s luneh-box.

“)’ve got enough for you, Colonel Sharpley,” he said,
“in case we Stay out longer than we anticipate.”

The landlord closely followed him, and addressed him-
self to Sharpley :

«Will not monsieur have a guide ?” he asked.

“No,” said Sharpley.

“My son, Baptiste, is an experienced de, and can

show monsieur and his young friend the finest pros- |

pects.” ay fe

“TJ shall need no guide,? said Sharpley, impatiently.
“Frank, come along.” :

“Tt will only be six francs,” persisted the landlord,
“and Baptiste——’ —

“I don’t want Baptiste,” said Sharpley, gruffly.
«Plague take the man!” he muttered to himself. . ‘He is
making himself a regular nuisance.” :

“T wish he would take a guide,” thought Frank, no
suspicion of the importance to himself of having one en-
tering his mind.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
OVER THE BRINK.

They started on their walk, provided with alpen-
stocks, for just above them was the snow line, and they
could not go tar without encountering ice also. The
Hotel du Glacier stood thousands of feet above the sea-
level, and was a favorite resort with those who enjoyed
the sublimity of mountain scenery.

Though Sharpley was by no means the companion he
would have best liked, Frank was in high spirits, as he
realized that he was really four thousand miles from
home, surrounded by the famous mountains of which he
had so often read.

‘Have you ever been up this mountain before, Colonel
Sharpley ?” asked Frank.

“Not up this mountain. I have ascended others, how-
ever. I once crossed over Mount Cenis to Italy.”

“How? Did you walk ?”

“No. I went in a diligence.” :

“It must have been fine. Shall we go into Italy ?”

‘*Perhaps so.” i.

“J should like it very much. I have read so much
about Italy.”

“How I wish Ben Cameron were here!” said Frank,
after a pause. :

He did not so much mean to say this to Sharpley, but
the thought entered his mind, and he unconsciously ut-

| tered it aloud. :

«Who is Ben Cameron ?”

He is a friend of mine at home. We were a great deal
together.”

“Was he the boy that was with you when first met
you ”

“Yes, sir.”

‘#{umph! I have no desire for his company,” thought
Sharpley. :

a a you a glass with you, Colonel Sharpley ?” asked
rank.

“Yes. Would you like to use it ?”

“If you please.”

It was a Small spy-glass, not powerful, but service-
able. Frank adjusted it to his eye, and looked earnestly
in a certain direction.

«“‘What do you see ?” asked his companion.

“Wait a minute. lam notcertain. Yes, it is they.”

“Who?” demanded Sharpley, impatiently.

“The Abercrombies. They are higher up than we,
over there, but not very much out of our way. Shall
we join them ?” asked Frank, hopefully.

‘«‘Where are they? Let me see,” said Sharpley, seiz-
ing the glass.

He thought Frank might be mistaken, but a glance
through the glass satisfied him that he was right.
There was Mr. Abercrombie toiling up a steep ascent,
with his son following, the latter assisted by the guide.

“Do you see them ?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think we can overtake them ?”

“Perhaps we might, but 1 for one don’t intend to try.”

Frank looked at him inquiringly.

“Why not ?”

“JT thought you heard me decline to join them at the
hotel. I have no fancy for company to-day.”

“Excuse me,” said Frank, politely.
membered it.”

“You can join them to-morrow if you feel like it,” said
Sharpley, emphasizing the last clause.

Frank noticed the emphasis, and wondered at it a lit-
tle. It seemed to imply that he might not choose to do
it, and that did not seem very likely. However, possi-
bly the emphasis was unconscious, and his,mind did not
dwell upon it.

They were now walking along a ledge scarcely more
than six feet wide, terminating in a sheer precipice.

- “JT wonder if accidents often happen here ?” suggested
rank.

“Such as what ?” sharply interrogated his companion.

“T mean, such as slipping over these cliffs.

“Not often, I presume,” said Sharpley. ‘‘No one who
exercises common prudence need fear slipping.”

His heart began to beat quicker, for he saw that the
moment was approaching in which his fearful work was
to be done.

“The dangers of the Alps are very greatly exagger-
ated,” he said, indifferently.

“Tt looks dangerous,” said Frank.

“Yes, I presume so. Suppose-we approach the edge,
cautiously, and look down.”

There is a tatal fascination about danger. Just as the
moth hovers persistently about the flame to which in
the end he falls a victim, so we are disposed to draw
near dangers at which we shudder.
ae and shuddering to say: ‘Suppose I should
fall in.” :

Our young hero was of a daring disposition. He had
never been timid or nervous, inheriting his father’s phy-
sical traits, not his mother’s. So Sharpley’s proposal
struck him favorably, being an appeal to his courage.

«J should like to look over,” he said.

As he spoke he drew near the fatal brink, not observ-
ing that his companion was not at his side, but just be-
hind him-

“Now for it!” thought Sharpley, his breath coming
thick and fast.

One push trom behind, and Frank was over the ledge;
falling—talling—tfalling.

There was one scream of terror, and Sharpley found
himself alone upon the cliff.

CHAPTER XXIII.
GIVING THE ALARM.

There are not many men who can commit a crime of
violence without an inward shudder and a thrill of hor-
ror. Sharpley was not a professional murderer. He
had never before taken life. His offenses against law
had been many, but none had stained his soul with
blood till now.

He felt faint as he saw the disappearance of his
young ward, sped by his own hand, to a death so fear-

“T might have re-

 

“Jt is done, and can’t be undone,” he muttered. “He
will never know what hurt him. lam glad it’s over.
it was a dirty job, but I had to doit. Craven forced me
to this. He must pay well for it.”

«Shall I look over the cliff ?” he asked himself.

He advanced a step, but drew back with a shudder.

“No, I can’t do it,” he said to himself. ‘It will make
me dizzy. I shall run the risk of falling over myself.”

He retraced his steps fora few rods, and then sat
down to think. It was necessary that he should con-
coct some plausible account of the accident, in order to
avoid suspicion, though that was not likely to fall upon
him. Who could dream of any motive that would im-
pel him to such a deed? Yet there was such a
motive, as he well knew, but the only one who shared
the knowledge was in America, and he was criminally
connected with the crime.

We like to see it

 

 

 

Sharpley soon determined upon his course and his ex-
planation. The latter would necessitate a search for
the boy, and this made him pause.

“But, pshaw!” he said. ‘‘the boy is dead. He must
have been killed at once; and the dead tell no tales. I
must get back to the hotel and give the alarm.”

An hour later Sharpley approached the inn. He had
walked quietly till then, but now he had a part to play.

He rushed into the inn in breathless haste, nearly
knocking over the portly landlord whom he encountered
in the passage. i

«What is the matter, monsieur ?” asked the landlord,
with eyes distended.

“The boy ?” gasped Sharpley.

“What of the boy, monsieur ?”

“He has fallen over a precipice,” he exclaimed.

“Oh, ciel !” exclaimed the landlord. ‘How did it hap-
pen?

_ “We were walking on a narrow ledge,” explaine
Sharpley.. ‘On one side there was a steep descent.
don’t know how many hundreds of feet deep. The boy
approached the edge. I warned him to be careful, but
he was very rash. He did not obey me. He leaned too
far, lost his balance, and—fell over. IJ sprang forward
to save him, but it was tee late.”

“Itis horrible!’ said the landlord.
son?”

“No, but he was the son of a dear friend. Oh, how
shall I break the sad tidings to his father and mother »
Js there no hope of his life being saved ?”

“T fear not,” said the landlord, gravely. ‘‘You should
have taken Baptiste with you, as I advised.”

“Oh, my triend, I wish I had!” said the hypocrite,
fervently. ‘‘Whereis Baptiste? Let us go and see if
we Can find the poor boy ?”

“Here | am at your service, monsieur,” said Baptiste.
“T will take a comrade with me. We will save him if
we can, but I fear there is no hope.”

Ten minutes later, Sharpley, accompanied by two
guides, and some of the guests of the hotel, who had
been struck with horror on hearing the news, were
poner’ their way up the mountain in quest of our
1ero.

“Was he your

CHAPTER XXIV.
SHARPLEY DISSEMBLES.

There was some delay about starting, but at length
the party got under way. Very little conversation took
place, and that little related only to the accident. The
spelloft the awful tragedy was upon them, and their
faces were grave, and their spirits depressed.

And what shall we say of the guilty man who alone
could unlock the mystery? who alone could acoount for
the boy’s tragic end? His mind was in a tumult of con-
tradictory emotions. He was glad that it was all over—
that the fearful task which in America he had agreed to
execute, Which had haunted him for these many days
and nights, was no longer before him to do, that it was
already done. He saw before him, mercenary wretch
that he was, the promised reward, ina sum of money
which would be to him a competence, and which, care-
fully husbanded, would relieve all his money anxieties
forthe future. But, on the other hand, there came the
shuddering thought that he had wrought the death of
an unoffending boy, who had looked up to him asa
amide and protector, but whom he had only lured to his
ruin.

«Are accidents frequent among the mountains ?” asked
one of the guests, addressing Baptiste, the guide.

“No, monsieur ; not in this part. When travelers are
hurt or killed, it is because they are careless or go with-
out guides.”

“As I did,” said Sharpley, who felt it would be politic
to take upon himself this blame, and so skillfully evade
suspicion of a graver fault. ‘You are right, and Lam
much to blame; but I did not expect»to go so far, nor
did I think Frank would be so imprudent. ‘ But it is not
for me to blame the poor boy, who has been so fearfully
punished for his boldness. You would not have let him
go so near the edge of the cliff?”

“No, monsieur ; or, if he went, I would have held him
while he looked down.”

‘“Itis what [should have done. Oh, how horrible it
was to see him fall over the cliff!” :

And Sharpley shuddered, ,a genuine shudder; for,
aubty as "a was, the picture was one to appall him.

“Oh, shall I teli_his poor mother ?” he continued,
acting wondertully well.
atte ae silent, respecting what they thought to

grief.

They had perhaps, half achieved the ascent, when.
they fell in with the Abercrombies, who were just re
turning from their excursion. They regardedithe ascend.
ing py with surprise.

“What !? said Mr. Abererombie: to Sharpley ;: ‘are you.
just going up the mountain? You are very late.”

«Where is Frank ?” asked Henry Abererembie, looking
in vain among the party tor eur hero, to whom, as al-
ready said, he had taken a fancy.

’ ‘Phere was silenee at finst, each ef those in’ the secret
regarding the rest. But it was to Sharpley that Mr.
Abercrombie looked for a reply. The delay surprised.

him.

‘What is the matter?” he asked, at length. “Has any-
thing happened ?” ;

“Somebody tell him,” said Sharpley, in pretended.
emotion.

Baptiste was.the one to respond:

“Monsieur,” he said, gravely, a terrible

pened. The poo: iid

thing
x boy has tallen into a ravine.”
“What!” exclaimed father and son, tm horror:
“Frank fallen? Why, Lsaw him only this morning..

I asked him to go with us. Is this true 2’ said Henry.
sia is only too true, my boy,” said Shanpley, covering

And he repeated his version. of the accident with well-
counterfeited emotion.

‘Is there no hope ?” asked Henry, with.pale face:

Baptiste shook his head. :

“I am afraid not,” he said ; “‘but L can tell better when
I see the place.” A

“How can there be any hope?” asked. Mr. Aber-
erombie.

“He might have fallen on.the @eep snow, or on some
intermediate ledge, and so saved his life.

“Good Heaven!” thought Sharpley, in dismay.
pose it should. be so. Suppose he is alive, and should
expose me. Kshould be ruined. But no!.it cannot be.
There is not ene chance in.ahundred.. Yet that one
chance disturbs.me, I must find out as-soen as possible,
in order that my mind.may be at ease.”

“Come on!” he said, aloud. ‘While we are lingering
here the boy may die: Let us make haste.”

“I will go with you.” said: Mr.. Abercrombie,

‘And I,” said Henry..

 

CHAPTER. XXY¥.
A USELESS SEARGH..
«Ts.this-the: place 2?” asked Baptiste, as, half an hour
later, they stood en. the fatal cliff.
“This is the place.” said Sharpley..
apy me look ever,” said. Henry, advancing to the
edge..
“Are you: madi?” exclaimed: his. father, drawing him
back hastily.
“T will leek,. gentlemen,” said: the guide:. «It will be

| Safest for me,’

He threw himself flat upon. his stomach. and thus in
safety peeped into-the chasm

“Do you see anything 2” asked. Shanpley,. agitated:

«Wait till I look through my glass,” said the guide.

He looked earnestly, and after a breathiess- pause; an-

| swered, slowly :

“No, Lsee nothing; but the cliff is not so steep or so
high asI thought. There are some bushes growing in
parts.. He might be stopped by these.”

“You can’t see any traces of him, can you?”

Another pause.

“No. The snow seems disturbed in one place; but if
he had fallen there, he would be there stil.”

“Might he not have tallen there and roHed to the
bottom ?”

“Perhaps so. i cannot tell.”

«Let me look,” said Sharpley.

The suggestion of the possibility that Frank mig...
have escaped was fraught to him with danger. All his
hopes of safety and success depended upon the boy’s
death. He wanted to see for himself.

The guide rose, and Sharpley, imitating his posture,
threw himself on the ground and looked over, borrow-
ing the glass. But such a sense of horror, brought on
by his own criminality, overcame him as he lay there,
that his vision was blurred, and he came near dropping
the glass. He rose trembling.

“I can see nothing of him,” he said. He is certainly
dead. Poor boy! He could not possibly have escaped.”

«Let me look,” said Abercrombie.

But he also could see no trace of the body.

“] think,” he said, rising, ‘‘that our best course will be
to descend, and explore at the bottom of the cliff.”

“It will be of no use,” said Sharpley.

‘We can at least find the body, and give it decent
burial. Baptiste, is there no way of descending 2?”

“Yes,” said Baptiste, ‘but we shall need to go a long
distance around.”

“How long will it take ?”

“Ap hour; perhaps more.”

“IT am ready to go, for one,” said Mr. Abercrombie.
“Will you go, Mr. Sharpley *”

saa do not feel equal to the exertion. I am too agi-

Glances of pity were directed toward him.

“Baptiste,” said Abercrombie. ‘It you will guide me;.
and any one else who chooses fo join the expedition, lL
Will pay you double price.”

‘‘Monsieur,” said Baptiste, who had feelings, though:
not indifferent to money. “I will guide you. fon nothing,
out of regard for the peor boy.”

“You are an honest fellow,” said Mr. Abercrombie,
grasping his hand warmly. ‘You shall not lose by it.”

“May I go, father ?” asked Henry. :

“No, my son. The exertion will be too great for you.
Go home with the rest of the party.” i

In silence the party returned to the Hotel du Glacier.
Most were appalled by the sad fate of Frank Hunter,
but Sharpley was moved by another feeling. There was

not much chance of Frank’s being found alive, or ina

condition to expose his murderous attempt, but of
course there was a slight possibility. While that ex-
isted, he felt ill at ease. He would gladly have left the
place at once, but this he could not do without exciting
suspicion. He must wait till the return of the party.

It was not till nighttall that the party were seen re-
b ariomrn Sharpley waited tor their report in great sus-

“Have you found him?” he demanded, pale with ex-
citement.

Baptiste shook his head.

He gave a sigh of quiet relief, which was interpreted

 

 

 

 

 

“Sup- -

 

Pare

 

 

  
 
 

* pena TIT GI tie e
»

ar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thought you would not,” he

 

 

to be a sigh of sorrow.
said. z

The next day he left the hotel.

“I must go to America,” he said, ‘to tell Frank's
mother the terribletruth. I cannot trust it to a letter.”

*‘But suppose the body is found,” said Baptiste.

“Bury itdecently, and write instantly to me, and I
will transmit the necessary sum. Or hold, here area
hundred and fifty francs. If he is notfound, keep them
yourself.”

An hour later he was on his way to Paris.

 

CHAPTER XXYVI.
MR. TARBOX ON THE TRAIL.

“So this is the Hotel de Bugs,” said Jonathan Tarbox,
as, carpet-bag in hand, he approached, with long strides,
the well-known Hotel des Bergues, in Geneva. ‘It looks
like a nice sort of a hotel. I wonder if Frank and that
rascally humbug are stoppin’ here. I’d give twenty-
five cents to see that boy’s face. Strange what a fancy
Tve took to him. He’s a reg’far gentleman; as quick
and sharp as a steel-trap.”

Mr. Tarbox had walked from the railway station. He
was naturally. economical, and having all his life been
accustomed to walk, thought it a waste and ex-
travagance to take a carriage. He had inquired his
way by simply pronouncing the name of the hotel, as
above. The similarity in sound was sufficient to insure
a correction.

He entered the hotel, and found the landlord.

“I say, captain, I want to put up here to-night.”

“Will monsieur have a room?” asked the host,
politely.

“If you mean me, that’s what I want, but Iain’ta
monseer at all. I’m a Yankee.”

tere Yang-kee ?” said the landlord, a little puz-
zl

“Look here, captain, I ain't a monseer—I don’t eat
frogs. Do I look like it? No, I’m a straight down,
arr Yankee, from Squashboro’, State 0’

aine.”

-*Will you have a room ?” asked the landlord, avoiding
the word monsieur, which he perceived the other dis-
claimed, for some reason which he could not very well
comprehend.

“Yes, L will, if I can get one cheap. I don’t want
none of your big apartments that cost like blazes. I
want a little room, with a bed in it, and a chair.”

«We have petits appartements—very small price.”

“Give me one, then. Oh, hold on, is there a boy
named Frank Hunter stoppin’ here, with a man named
Sharpley ?”

«Non, monsieur. He has been here, but he is gone.”

“Gone? When did he go?”

«Three days ago.”

“Three days!” repeated Mr. Tarbox,
«He didn’t stay long, then ?”

“Only one night.”

«Seems to me he was in a hurry.
worth seenin’ round here ?”

“Oh, yes, monsieur,” said the landlord, with anima-
tion. ‘Geneve ig a very interesting city. Would you
not like to see how they make the watches, and the
boxes of musique? There are many places here that
strangers do visit. There is the cathedral and the
Musee. Monsieur should stay here one—two weeks.” |

anu up at your tavern ?”

ee 1 ?

«And stop at your hote: ?”

«“Certainement, monsieur.”

«That's what I thought. Anyhow Ill stay here till
to-morrow. But about this old rascal——”

«“Monsieur ?”

“IT mean this Sharpley, and the boy—where did they

0?”
oe know not, monsieur. They went to see the moun-

ains.”

«Well, captain, as mountains in this neighborhood are
about as thick as huckelberry bushes in a pastur’, I ain’t
nore the wiser for that. Couldn’t you tell me a little
plainer ?”

But this the landlord, or captain, as Mr. Tarbox insist-
ed upon calling him, was unable to do.

As there was nothing else to be done, our Yankee
friend selected a room on the top floor, which by reason.
e its elevation he was enabled to get for two francs a

ay.

In European hotels the rooms become cheaper the
higher up they are, and thus various prices are paid at
the same hotel. It is not necessarily expensive, there-
fore, sojourning at a first-class hotel abroad, and indeed
it is better than to take lower rooms in an inferior inn,
supposing the traveler’s means to be limited.

“Well,” said Mr. Tarbox, looking about him, when he
was fairly installed in his room, ‘‘my journey ain't goin’
to cost me so much, after all. I come third class to Ge-
neva for less’n ten dollars, and I can live here pretty
cheap. But that ain’t the question. Whereabouts
among these hills is Frank? That’s what Id like to
know. I wonder what that step-father of his meant by |
his talk about accidents ? If anything happens to Frank, |
and { find it out, ’ll stir’em up, as sure as my name’s |
Jonathan Tarbox. But I’m gettin’ hungry; Ill go down |
and see what kind of fodder they can give me. I guess |
I’d better clean up fust, for I’m as dirty as ef I'd been out |
in the field plowin’.” |

Mr. Tarbox made a satisfactory supper at moderate |
expense. He didn't go to the table Whote, for, as he said,
“They bring you a mouthful of this, and a mouthful or |
that, and when you're through ten or eleven courses, |
you have to pay a dollar, more or less, and are as hungry |
as when you began. Id rather order something a la
carte, as they call it, though what it has to do witha |
cart is more than [ can tell, and then I can get enough, |
and don’t have so much to pay neither.” ‘|

Mr. Tarbox made further inquiries the next day, but
could not ascertain definitely in what direction the trav- |
elers had gone. There were several possible routes, and |
they were as likely to have gone by one as by another. |
Under the circumstances, it seemed to him that it was |
better to remain where he was. There was a chance of |
the two returning by way of Geneva, and they would be |
likely to come to the same hotel: while it he started off |
in one direction, it would very probably turn out that |
they had gone by another. One circumstance certainly |
favored his decision—it was cheaper remaining in
Geneva than journeying off at random in search of |
Frank, and Mr. Tarbox, therefore, decided to patronize
the Hotel des Bergues for a short time, at least, |
trying, meanwhile, to get some clew to the where- |
abouts of the travelers. He improved the time)
by visiting the objects of interest in Geneva, be-
wildering the natives by his singular remarks, |
and amusing strangers with whom he came in contact. |
Some were disposed to regard him as a specimen of the |
average American. Indeed, he bore a striking resem-
blance to the typical American introduced by our English
friends in their books of travel, and in their dramatic
productions.

He did indeed possess some national character-
istics. He was independent, fearless, self-reliant, hating |
injustice and oppression, but he was without the polish,
or culture, orrefinement, which are to be found in the |
traveling Americans quite as commonly as in the travel-
ing Englishman or German. He is presented here asa
type of a class which does exist, but not as an average
American.

It struck Mr. Tarbox, that he might obtain some in-
formation of those whom he sought, by inquiring of the
travelers who came daily to the hotel, whether they had
met with such a party. No diffidence held him back
from questioning closely all who came.

Some treated him with hauteur, and tried to abash
him by impressing him with the unwarrantable liberty
he was taking in intruding himself upon their notice.
In general, however, these were snobs, of some wealth,
but doubtful social position, who felt it necessary to as-
sert themselves upon all occasions.

But Mr. Tarbox was not one to be daunted by cold-
ness, or abashed by a repellent manner. He persisted
in his questions until he learned what he wanted. But
his questions were without a satisfactory answer until
one day he saw a gentleman and his son, whom by their
appearance he took to be fellow-countrymen. They
were, in fact, Henry Abercombie and his father, fresh
from the scene of the accident.

Mr. Tarbox introduced himself and propounded his
question.

Father and son exchanged a look of sadness.

‘He means poor Frank, father,” said Coe

«Poor Frank!” repeated Mr. Tarbox, eagerly. ‘What
makes you say that ?”

“Were you a triend of the boy?” asked Mr. Aber-
combie.

“Yes, andIam still. He’s a tip-top fellow, Frank is.”

“lam sorry. then, to be the bearer of sad tidings.”

“What do you mean?’ asked Jonathan, quickly.
“Don't say anything has happened to the boy.”

“But there has. He fell over a cliff, and though his
eae ae not been found, he was probably killed in-
stantly.”

“Who was with him when he fell?” asked Mr. Tarbox,
excited.

“His guardian, Mr. Sharpley. The two had wan-
dered off by themselves, without a guide. Frank ap-
ea too hear the edge of the cliff, lost his balance,
and fell.

“That confounded skunk pushed him over!” exclaimed
Mr. Tarbox, in high excitement.

“You don’t mean Col. Sharpley?” exclaimed Mr. Aber-
crombie, in surprise.

“Yes, Ido. I followed them from Paris, because I was
afraid of it.”

“But it is incredible. I assure you Col. Sharpley
showed great sorrow for the accident.”

“Then he’s a hypocrite! If you want proof of what
I say, just read that letter.” ¥

(TO BE CONTINUED.]
ah Tin CR di

A PROUD LITTLE GIRL.

thoughfully.

Isn’t there nothin’

 

 

 

 

Fannie is a little girl who has a big wax doll as a com-
panion. Afew days ago a new sister came to her house
and after a few days she went over to a neignbor’s.

«Well, Fannie,” said the lady, ‘‘where’s your wax
doll 2”

“Oh,” she answered, turning up her nose, “I don’t
have nothin’ to do with wax babies any more. We've

got a meat baby at our house now, and that takes
up all my time.”

-e-~

Scott's Emulsion of Pure Cod Liver Oil with Hy-
pophosphites.—For Rickets, Marasmus, and all wasting dis-
orders of children, is very remarkable in its results. The
rapidity with which children gain flesh and strength upon it
is very wonderful.

 

me atraid to speak; but, silence or not, it is high time

| you have kept—his eyes on Heaven; then, some day,

A WRONGED MAN’S HEART. ;

 

BY A. WERNER.

 

Ah! your eyes look strained, as they fain would weep !

Say, what should make you sicken and start ?
What is it comes between you and your sleep ?

Is it the ghost of a wronged man’s heart ?
You !—yes, you with the solemn brow,

Grand and calm as a white moonrise—
And the scarlet lips—I can see them now !—

And the sweeping glance of your great dark eyes.
No—you ‘didn’t mean”’—and you wouldn't have done ;

_But was there no thought of triumph there—
Of joy for the spoil of a man’s heart won,

Under the crown of your braided hair?
Was there no touch ofa cruel pride 4

In the midst of your frank and fearless giee ?
Had you struck a dagger into his side,

You had been kinder to him and me!
Yes !—he will conquer !—it would not be he,

If his great heart could not live down that pain:~~
But the man who is all my life to me

Will never more be the same again.
And maybe, I think, the touch of pain—

The jarring note in your life’s sweet song—
Will never, never leave you again : ;

God's justice is sure, though it tarry long.

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

A FAIR MYSTERY.

THE STORY OF A COQUETTE.

By BERTHA MM. CLAY,

AUTHOR OF

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

 

 

(“A Farr MysTERY” was commenced in No. 38. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER LXXYI.
‘“‘] SHALL WAKE UP AND FIND IT A DREAM.”

The eighth of August! When had any day so beautiful
shone before. It was as though the birds had woke
earlier to sing. How the sun was shining and the flow-
ers blooming! Lady Doris opened her eyes to the fairest
and loveliest day that had ever dawned.

‘Earle is coming to-day !” was her first thought.

«Karle is coming !” sang the birds.”

“Earle is coming!” whispered the wind as it stirred
the sweet green leaves. She had rested well; for it
seemed to her now that her troubles were nearly ended.
In two more days she would be his wife; then, who
could touch her, what evil could come to her ?

Earle was to be at Linleigh by noon. The hours would
roll so swiftly, so sweetly by untilthen. Only two days!
She sang to herself sweet little snatches of love songs.
While she was dressing she looked at herself in won-
der; could it be the same Doris who once thought noth-
ing on earth of any value except money and grandeur?
Could she have so mingled her love and life: into an-
other’s as almost to have lost her own identity, and to
think of nothing except Earle?

“TI never thought that I should be so much in love,”
she said to herself. ‘‘How strange it seems.”

She did not quite understand herself. It was not that
she loved Earle so passionately ; the capability of great
love was not hers. It was not that; it was that Earle,
the master-mind, kad, by the force and nobility of his
own character, completely influenced her, and had wona
complete ascendency over her. She had not much power
of loving ; what she had was his. But Earle represented
peace, happiness, and prosperity to her—Earle was her
sure haven otf rest, her shield against all evil, her refuge
against her direst enemy and bitter foe, Lord Vivianne.

So, welcome, bright, sunny day!—welcome golden
sun and sweet flowers!

The post brought her her daily love-letter; but it was
brief. It said simply:

“T cannot write much tomy darling. I shall see her
to-day, and, in two days more, she will be mine until
death parts us.”

He thought of the words when he saw them again.

It seemed to Doris that the sun shone more golden,
the wind seemed to whisper more sweetly, when she
heard the sound of footsteps and the voice she loved so
well. The next moment strong loving arms were Clasp-
aa her, passionate kisses fell on her tace, lips, and
lands.

“My darling !” cried Earle.
my wife.” f

It was one happy half-hour, stolen almost from Para-
dise, for he loved her so dearly; he found heaven in her
face; and she was at rest, at peace with him.

Then Lord Linleigh and Mattie came. The earl with
happy smiles and merry jests ; he was so glad in her joy.

“Love is very delightful,” he said, ‘‘but, Doris, we
must offer something substantial to a traveler ; suppose
we substitute cold chicken and Madeira. Then Lady
Linleigh desired me to say that a most wonderful box
ae arrived from Paris, and she wanted you to unpack

ae bent down and kissed the fair face so dear to
em all.

“I can hardly believe that we are to lose you in two
days, my darling,” he said. ;

‘Nor can I believe that I shall win her,” said Earle.
*T often have the impression that I shall wake up and
find ita dream, and that Earle Moray will be in the
cornfields at home.” -

«You are a poet,” laughed the earl, ‘“‘and poets are not
accountable tor anything.”

Then they went together to lunch. Mattie knew that
it was by Lady Linleigh’s orders that the table was so
gracetully ornamented with flowers and fruit; the
pretty thought was like her. They spent perhaps one
of the happiest hours of their lives together. Then Lady
Linleigh said : i

«Now for the Parisian box. Earle, you must be banish-
ed while that is unpacked.”

The ladies went together up to Lady Linleigh’s room.

«We will have no curious ladies’ maids or servants,”
she said.; ‘‘we will unpack this ourselves. The key came
to me this morning by registered letter. Doris, my dear,
98 box and its contents are yours—you shall unpack
them.” . ;

Lady Studleigh took the key and opened it. There
were layers of tine white wadding and tissue paper. One
by one Lady Doris raised the costly packets in her hands
and laid them down. There was a bride-maid’s costume
all complete, a marvel of pink and white silk, with
everything to match; white silk shoes, with little pink
rosettes; a white bonnet, that looked as though a puff
of wind would blow it away, and acostly pink plume;
gloves, fan, jewels, all matched exactly, and Mattie’s
face grew radiant.

“All this forme! Oh, Lady Linleigh, how am I to
thank you ?”

“By looking your prettiest in them,” laughed the
countess, as she placed the fairy-like bonnet on the
brown, shining hair. ‘I thought pink would suit you,
Mattie ; so it does. See how nice she looks, Doris.”

Lady Studleigh kissed her foster sister’s face.

‘Mattie always look nice,” she said, ‘‘just as she al-
ways looks, happy and good.”

Then came the bride’s costume.

“You would not allow the earl and myseif to show that
we felt your wedding to be the happiest event of our
lives,” said Lady Linleigh ; ‘but you could not prevent
my intention of seeing you dressed as a bride.”

Such a wedding-dress !—one of Worth’s most marvel-
ous combinations of white satin and white lace—a dress
fit for a queen; and it was trimmed so beautifully with
wreaths of orange blossoms. There, in a pretty scented
box, lay the bridal vail—such a wonder of lace, so ex-
quisitely worked; large enough to cover a bride, yet so
fine and delicate that it could be drawn through a wed-
ding-ring. Then came the wreath of orange blossoms.

Lady Studleigh was accustomed by this time to splen-
dor—there was little in the way of dress that could ever
give her the agreeable sensation of surprise; but she
uttered a little cry of admiration as she saw the elegant
costly presents the countess had arranged for her.
Everything was complete and beautiful, even to the
little bouquet-holder, made of pure white pearls. She
took Lady Linleigh’s hands and kissed them.

‘Are you pleased, my darling ?” she asked, gently.

“Oh, Lady Linleigh, you have left me without words—
quite without words! I cannot thank you.”

The countess bent her head.

ane your own mother have pleased you more’?” she
asked.

«“No—a thousand times no!’ was the sincere reply.

Then Mattie said: ‘‘Lady Linleigh. let us dress Doris
in her bridal robes, so that Earle may see her.”

And the countess laughed as she gave consent.

*‘My wife, so soon to be

 

CHAPTER LXXVIL.
TRYING ON THE WEDDING DRESS.

«‘What does she look like ?” cried Mattie, in a passion
of admiration, as they placed the bridal vail on the
golden head.

“It would require a poet to tell us,” said the countess ;
and as we have one close at hand, we will ask him.
Mattie go and bring Earle here. Close the door after
you. Ishould not like every one to know what we have
been doing.” :

And presently, Earle stood before a figure that seem-
ed to him too beautiful to be real—a tall, graccful figure
that seemed to rise from the waves of white satin and
lace—as a graceful flower from its stem. Through the

 

Every face wore its brightest look at the breakfast-
table that day. The earl and countess were happy in |
their beautiful daughter’s happiness; Mattie, because |
she entered so easily into the joy of others.

“Doris,” said Mattie, ‘‘will you come out ?
have just time fora stroll in the woods before Earle
comes.”

Lady Doris laughed.

“T really cannot, Mattie. The spirit of unrest is on
me; I cannot go anywhere or do anything until I have
seen Earle.”

“Have you decided yet about your wedding-dress ?”
asked Mattie. ‘This strange caprice of silence makes

We shall |

|

that it was seen about.”

Lady Doris laughed.

‘‘] am so amused at myself, Mattie,” shesaid. ‘If any
one had ever told me, some years, even some months
since, that I should be quite indifferent over my wed-
ding-dress, 1 would not have believed it.”

“But why are you indifferent?’ asked Mattie. ‘I can-
not understand. Is it because you are not marrying a

bridal vail he caught the sheen of the golden hair—the

dainty color of the face—the deep color of the violet

= haa The sweet odor of orange blossoms floated to
im. :

‘Poris,” he said, in alow voice; ‘my beautiful love,
let me see your face.”

It was Lady Linleigh who threw back the vail, so that
he might see the lovely, blushing face. Tears stood .in
the young lover’s eyes, although he tried to control his
emotion.

“Ts it possible, Lady Linleigh ?” he asked, ‘that this is
my wife—that—well, I had better not say too much ; you
do not think I shall wake up and find it all a dream ?”

“No, it is real enough.”

Then he drew nearer to her.

«You will let me give you one kiss, Doris—Lady Lin-
leigh will not be horrified. You will be Lady Moray soon.
What is my poor hame worth, that it should be so highly
honored ?”

He kissed her sweet lips.

“J must be careful,” he said. “You look like a fairy.
Perhaps you would vanish if a mere mortal touched you.

 

nobleman—is it because you are marrying Earle ?”
“No,” was the reply. ‘‘You can believe me or not, Mat- |
tie, just as you please, but Lassure you 1 am more proud |
in marrying Earle than if I were marrying a king.”
“So [should imagine. Earle is a king; then why this |
strange desire for secrecy ?”
The beautiful eyes were raised wistfully to her face.
“f may tell you, perhaps, some day, Mattie, but not
now dear—not now. You will marry some good, kindly
man, Mattie—some one like yourself, who never knew
the fiery heat of temptation; who has always kept—as

dear, when you are sitting with your little children
around you, I shall come to you—world-worn and weary,
perhaps, who knows!—longing to lay my‘head in the
clover grass, and then I may tell you all—but not now.”

“Then there is a secret ?” said Mattie, gently.

“Yes,” was the wary reply, ‘‘there is a secret,”

The words seemed half forced from her.

“Does Earle know it ?” asked Mattie.

“No, and never wili. Do not talk to me, dear; you
have been my sister many years, and I love you very
much; if everI seek a confidante it willbe you. You
need not be anxious over my wedding-dress, Mattie.
Lady Linleigh has presented me with my trousseau, and
she tells me that no royal princess ever had a more
sumptuous one ; She told me also that a box would come
from Paris to-day, for you and for me; rely upon it,
that will contain my wedding-dress.”

“How kind Lady Linleigh is to you,” said Mattie. “I
do not think your own mother could love you better.”

“J do not think she would love me half so much,” .was
the laughing reply. Then, in the warm, sunlit air, they
heard the sharp clang of the clock—eleven. ‘He will
be here in an hour,” said Doris.

“Shall you not go and change your dress ?” asked the
simple little foster-sister. ‘I thought great ladies al-

Now, let me look at you, darling! at your dress, your
vail, and your wreath! The pictureis perfect. I wish
that 1 could put it into werds.”

He did, aftterward—into words, over which all England
wept. Then, forafew minutes, the three—Lady Lin-
leigh, Mattie, and Earle—stood looking at her in silence,
they hardly knew why. Then Earle said:

«When I see that pretty vail again, it will be on the
head of my beloved wife.”

Then they all three looked at the vail. Heaven help
him! he little dreamed how and when he should see it
again. If they could have had the faintest foreknowi-
edge of that, the tragedy might have been averted.
Then Earle went away, and the bridal robes were taken
to Lady Linleigh’s boudoir.

«They will not be seen there,” said the countess. ‘‘I
will lock the door and keep the key ; to-morrow it will
not matter.”

And Mattie helped her—poor, hapless child !—place
them over a chair so that the shining robes might
not be injured.

It was Earle who proposed a ramble to the woods;
dinner was to be later than usual.

“Let us all three go,” he said. ‘Mattie with us, Doris;
it a be years before we meet all together so happy
again.’

So it was settled, and they spent the remainder of that
sunny, happy day together. They were sitting in a
green, sunny dell, with the fall grass and wild flowers
springing luxuriantly around them, the tall trees spread-
ing overhead, the little birds filing the wood with song.
Lady Doris had never been so happy; she had almost
forgotten the dark background of sorrow and care. Mat-
tie was happy, for it was impossible to see them so young,
so loving, with their graceful caresses and love, without
rejoicing with them. :

“This is like Brackenside,” said Earle. ‘How often we

 

ways dressed very grandly to receive their lovers.”

“My dear Mattie,” was the coquettish reply, ‘‘cowld |
LI look better ?” |

No; she could not. A white dress of inaian muslin
showed every curve and line ot that beautiful figure. It |
was ope at the throat, and a lovely rose nestled against |
the white breast ; it was relieved by dashes of blue, and |
the long, waving, golden hair was fastened by a single |
blue ribbon. No jewels, no court attire, no magnificence |
ot dress ever became her as did this; she looked young, |
fresh, and fair as the dawn of a bright spring morning.
No one looking at her could have guessed that the foul |
canker of sin had entered that young heart and soul.

‘TJ am very happy here,” she continued, languidly.
‘J am watching the butterflies and the flowers. Look
at that one, Mattie, with the gorgeous purple wings;
see now he hovers round that tall, white lily, then he
goes away to the clove carnations; he does not know
Which to choose. Ob, happy’ butterfly, to have such a
choice! [ wonder what itis like, Mattie, to feel quite
free from care ?”

They were seated under a group of white acacia trees
on the lawn, and with every breath of wind the fragrant
blossoms fell in a sweet shower over them; the sun
shone on the rippling fountains, on the fair flowers, and
on the faces of the two girls. —

“Free from care!” repeated Mattie, with something
like surprise. ‘‘Why, my darling, if you are not free
from care, who Is ?”

“I was not speaking or even thinking of myself; I
was merely thinking how happy all kinds of birds, and
butterflies, and flowers must be to enjoy the dew, and
the sunshine, and the sweet winds.”

“Happy ; but they have no soul, Doris.”

She iaughed a low, bitter laugh that pierced Mattie
like the point of a sword.

“A soul!” she repeated. ‘I am not sure that a soul
brings happiness; those who have souls have the re-
sponsibility of saving them.”

“Doris, you do not deserve to be happy, for you are
not good,” cried Mattie; and three days afterward she
remembered the words with the keenest pain.

But Lady Doris was unusually gentle ; she bent down
and kissed the kindly face.

“JT am not good, but I am going to try to be better,
dear; it seems to be part of my nature tosay bad things.
I am not quite sure if I always mean them. Hark, Mat-
tie , I hear the sound of carriage wheels. Earle is com-
ing!

ie beautiful face grew quite white in its intensity of
feeling.

Mattie rose from her seat.

‘He will like best,” she said, ‘to meet you alone. I
will tell him you are here.”

 

have sat together in the woods there! And Mrs. Brace
used to wonder how the farms would advance if they
were left to us.”

“And well she might wonder,” said Mattie; ‘even
when I believed Doris to be my own sister, I thought her
the most beautiful, but the most useless of human
beings !”

“Thank you,” laughed Lady Studleigh.

“It is altogether like a fairy tale,” said Earle; ‘‘ifI had
read such a story, 1 should say it was untrue; I should
callsuch a story exaggerated; yet, here we are, the
living, breathing actors in the drama.”

“It is not such a very wonderful history, Earle,” said
Lady Studleigh; ‘‘there are many private marriages,
many children brought up in ignorance of their real
name and station; many a man like you—a gentleman
and genius by birth—rises by the simple force of his own
merit to be one of the magnates of the land.”

* Then she sighed to herself. and her brightness was for
one moment overcast as she remembered that hers was
the only part of the story that was improbable or extra-
ordinary ; no one would believe that she had been guilty
as she had been.

How often, in after years, they went back to that
bright, long day. Earle never saw a wild flower, or a
green fern, that he did not turn fromit with a sick, ach-
ing heart. ,

They dined together; the earl would not have any
visitors ; it was the last day but one of their darling, and
they would have it all to themselves. There they sat in
the gloaming, and Doris sang to them. _Who knew the
pain, the aching in one lonely heart? who knew the
quite heroism of the girl with the brown, kindly face
and shining hair? .

The lamps were lighted, and, Lord Linleigh, laughing
to think how they had all been engrossed, drew a large
parcel toward himself.

“This shows,” he said, ‘‘that we have something un-
usual going on. This packet of periodicals has been in
the library for several days, and no one has thought of
opening it. Itis the first time such a thing has hap-

ened.”

He unfastened the string, and looked through them
casually. One, however, seemed to attract his attention;
it a beautifully illustrated, and he laid it down witha
smile.

«Read that, Doris,” he said; ‘it contains a warning
for you.”

“What is the warning, papa? I would rather take it
from you than from print.”

*T have not read it. Look at the engraving. It is evi-
dently the story of a bride who, on her wedding-eve,
dresses herself in her bridal robes—girlish vanity, I sup-
pose—just to see how she looks. The wedding-dress

 

catches fire, and she is burned to death. Moral; young
eee should never try on their wedding-dresses before-
hand.”

“What a tragical story !” said the countess.

“T can never see the use of such stories,” said Mattie ;
“they make every one sad who reads them.”

“Burned to death on her wedding-eve,” said Earle,
‘and all because she wanted to see if she should be
charming enough in the eyes of her lover! There is no
poetic justice in that.”

**What was the heroine's name, papa ?” asked Doris.

“Miriam Dale. I always notice that if a heroineis to
come to any pathetic énd, she is called Miriam.”

“Did she love her lover very much ?” asked Doris.

‘‘Read the story, my dear,” said the earl, indolently ;
‘itis not much in my line. The engraving caught: my
attention—a beautiful, frantic girl, dressed in bridal
robes, and wreathed in flames. There is something ter-
rible about it.”

Doris rose from her seat and opened the book; then
after looking at the pictures she laid it down with a long,
shuddering sigh.

“Stories often fail in poetic justice,” she said. ‘If that
girl is young and innocent, if she had done no wrong,
why should she have been killed on her wedding-eve ?”

«Stories are, after all, but sketches taken from life,”
said the earl, ‘‘and life often seems to us, short-seeing
mortals, to fail in poetic justice, although, no doubt
everything is right and just in the sight of Heaven.
Doris is growing serious over it.”

“We tried her wedding-dress on this morning, but
there was no fire near it, and no harm came of it.”

“Tam no believer in those stupid superstitions, al-
though, I have heard it is unlucky to try ona wedding-
dress ; still I do not believe it will make one iota of dif-
ference.”

“How Can it ?” said Earle, ealmly; and they all remem-
bered that conversation a few hours afterward.

The ninth of August came and Lord Linleigh, as they
sat at breakfast, said laughingly :

“Now for a sensation! What will be said and thought
by, the different members of this establishment, when it
is known that there is to be a wedding to-morrow? It
passes my comprehension. I promised to be patient but
it was almost cruel of you Doris to place me in such a
prodicament. I suppose I must call the principal ser-
vants together and tell them that Lady Studleigh is to
be married to-morrow, without form or ceremony of any
kind. There will be what the papers call a startling
surprise !”

«We have plenty to do,” said the countess ; ‘‘there will
be no time for rambles in the wood. Ulric, when you
have made your announcement, will you go the vicar-
age? You have arrangements to make there, and you
must take Earle with you. Icannotspare Doris to him
this morning.” .

So the gentlemen went away.

“It is a strange whim of Doris’, this desire for secrecy,”
sald the earl, as they rode along. ‘I must confess I do
not understand it, do you ?”

‘Not in the least,” replied Earle, ‘‘she seemed very in-
tent upon it. I think, Lord Linleigh,” he added, witha
laugh, ‘‘that I shall learn one thing as I grow older.”

“What will that be ?” asked the earl.

“Not to try to fathom the caprice of ladies, but to
yield gracefully to it.”

“You are a wise man,” said Lord Linleigh, with a look
of sincere admiration ; ‘‘thatis the true secret of wedded
content.”

“While Lord Linleigh and Earle were busy at the
vicarage, where it required some time and some persua-
sion to induce the rector to believe what they had to say,
the ladies were wonderfully busy. The news ‘spread,
and as Lord Linleigh had foreseen, had caused a great
sensation.

Lady Studleigh to be married to-morrow !—and such a
marriage—no ceremony, no gayeties, nothing at all!

Lady Linleigh had, however, considerabiy changed the
state of affairs, by saying that the arrangements for the
wedding had been hurried so as to permit of Lady Doris
going abroad in August, and, before going, she intended
making a handsome present to each member of the
household. Their opinion was, in consequence, consider-
ably changed. f

When the earl and his household met at dinner there
were much laughter and amusement—much to tell; the
rector’s amazement, the astonishment of every one who
heard the news. The earl was in high spirits, laughing
and jesting all the more that he saw his witfe’s gentle
face growing sad and sorrowful.

“You will be gone this time to-morrow,” she said. ‘I
shall fancy I hear your voice and see your face all day,
and for many long days.”

“Yes,” said Doris, softly, ‘I shall be gone this time to-
morrow.”

«But you will not be so very far away,” said Mattie.

“No farther than London,” said Earle. “I like cross-
ing the Channel; do you, Doris ?”

“No; Iam nota good sailor,” she replied.

‘‘Ladies seldom are,” said the earl. ‘Estelle, I have
resolved Doris’ last evening with us shall be the happiest
she ey spent at Linleigh. We will not have one sad
word.’

 

CHAPTER LXXYVIII.
A MIDNIGHT VISITOR.

The evening was over at last, and to Doris it had been
the happiest day, perhaps, of her life. Lord Linleigh
had sent to his cellars for some of his choicest wines—
wines that only saw daylight when the daughters of the
house were married or its heirs christened—wine that
was like the nectar of the gods, golden of hue, fragrant

of perfume, and exhilarating as the water of life old tra- |

ditions sing of. He had ordered the dessert to be placed
outside in the rose-garden.

“We will imitate the ancients,” he said; “we will
drink our wine to the odor of sweet flowers.”

on they sat and watched the golden sun set in the
west.

rious majesty before. The sky was crimson, and gold,

and purple, then pale violet, and pearly gleams shone |

out; asoft vail seemed to shroud the western skies, and
then the sun had set.

Lady Doris had sat for some time watching the sun set
in silence. Suddenly she said:

“J shall never forget my last sunset.”

“Your last sunset ?” repeated Earle.
that you will never see it set again ?”

“No; I mean my last sunset at Linleigh. Earle, if all
those strange stories of heaven are true, it must be a
beautiful place; and this fair sky, with its gleaming
colors, is only the wrong side after all.”

«Do you mean

The faint light died in the west, the flowers closed |
their tired eyes, the lovely twilight reigned soft and |

fragrant, the air grew almost faint with perfume from

lily, from rose, from carnation ; then some bird, evident- |
| ly of erratic habits, began a beautiful whisper hymn, |
| and they sat as though spell-bound. :

“A night never to be forgotten,” said the earl, ‘Doris,
that little bird is singing your wedding-song.”

If they could but have heard what the little bird was |

telling—a warning and a requiem both in one.

Doris arose and went to the tree in whose branches
the bird was hidden; she raised her face to see if she
could see it in’the thick green leaves. AS she stood
there, in the light of the dying day, the earl said:

«You will have a beautiful wife, Earle.”

They all looked at her as she stood there in a beautiful

dress of shining white silk, with a set of opals for orna- |

ments; her fair white arms and white neck were halt
shrouded in lace, her golden hair was fastened negli-
gently with a diamond arrow, and hung in shining rip-

ples over her shoulders ; the faint light showed her face, |

tair and beautiful as a bright star.
; ie Will have a beautitul wife,” he repeated, thought.
ully. °

And as they all saw her then, they saw her until mem-
ory reproduced no more pictures for them.

‘We have a fine moonlight night,” said Earle. ‘Doris,
this time to-morrow evening we shall be leaning over

the steamboat side, watching the light in the water, |
and the track of the huge wheels; then you will be my |

wite.”

Lady Linleigh rose and drew her shawl round her
shapely shoulders.

“We must not forget to-morrow in the happiness of
to-night,” she said; ‘it will not do to have a pale bride.
Lam going in.”

But first she went up to the tree where Doris was |

standing. :

“It is rather a hopeless task, Doris, to look for a bird
in the growing darkness,” she said; ‘“‘and, my darling,
I have come to wish you good-night.”

Doris turned to her, and bending her graceful head,
laid iton her mother's shoulder.

“Itis not only good-night, but good-by,” she said; ‘I
shall hardly see you to-morrow.”

mg clasped her warm, sott arms round the countess’
neck.

“Good-by, dearest Lady Linleigh,” she said; ‘‘you
have been very good to me; you have made home very
happy forme; you bave been like the dearest mother to
me. Good-night; may [leaven bless you!”

Such unusual, such solemn words for ber to use!’ The
two fair faces touched each other. There was a warm,
close embrace, then Lady Linleigh went away. When
did she forget that parting, or the last look on that
face?

“Tam jealous,” said Lord Linleigh, parting the
branches and looking at his daughter. ‘I wanted the
kindest good-night. What has my daughter to say to
me? It is my farewell, also. To-morrow you will be
Lady Moray, and I shall be forgotten.”

Her heart was strangely touched and softened.

“Not forgotten by me, papa,” she said; ‘‘next to Earle,
I shall always léve you better than any one in the
world.”

“Next to Earle. Well, I must be content. That is
enough. Good-night my dear and only child; may
Heaven send you a happy life.”

He, too, took away with him the memory of the sweet-
est face and tender eyes; a memory never to die. He
nodded to Earle.

“I must be lenient,” he said, ‘‘and give you young lovers
ten minutes Ionger. I shall be in the library, Earle.
Come and smoke a cigar with me. I have something to
say to you.”

Mattie had gone to her room; Doris had promised to
meet her there. The little bird, startled by the voices

perhaps, had ceased to sing; and the lovers stood under |

the spreading tree alone.

“Ten minutes out here with you, my darling,” said
Earle ; ‘‘it is like two years in Paradise. How kind they
are to us, Doris; how happy we-shall be !”

But he had not many words. He laid the golden head
on his breast, where he could see and kiss the fair face ;
he held the white hands in his; he could only say, over
and over again, how happy they should be to-morrow,
His wife to-morrow! Surely the moon had never shone
upon a fairer picture or a lighter heart. The ten min-
utes were soon over.

It seemed to them it had never set in such glo- |

 

O

*“Good-by to the moonlight,” said Earle, ‘‘to the tired
flowers and shining stars, and the fair, sleeping world!”

He parted with her at the foot of the broad staircase ;
she was going to her room.

“Good-night,” said Earle, kissing the red lips; ‘good-
night, and sweet dreams.”

But when he had gone about two steps away, she
called him back again. She raised her arms and clasp-
ed them round his neck; she raised her face that he
might kiss it again.

“My darling Earle, my love Earle, my lover, my hus-
band!” she said, With a passion of love in her face,
“good-night.”

He was half-startled. He watched her as she went up
the broad staircase, the white, shining silk, the gleam-
ing opals, the golden hair, the fair, sweet face—watch-
ed her until she was out of sight ; then, despite his hap-
piness, he turned away with a sigh.

“She will be my own to-morrow, and I shall not need
to feel anxious over her,” he said to himself; and then
he went in to smoke his cigar with the earl.

Doris called in Mattie’s room and said:

“Good-night. Have you any nice book laying about
here, Mattie ?” she asked. “I know quite well that I
shall not sleep ; I do not feel the least tired.”

She chose one of the volumes Mattie brought to her.

“T should like to read that story papa was telling us
of,” she said; ‘“‘but it isin the library, and he is smok-
ing there with Earle.”

“I would not read it; a gloomy, melancholy story like
that is not fit for your wedding-eve.”

Doris stood with the waxen taper in her hand.

“Eyen,” she said, ‘ifa girl has not been quite good,
even if she has been what good people call wicked, it
oe be cruel to kill her onher wedding-eve, would it
not ?”

“What astrange idea, Deris!—and how strange you
look! Put that book away and go to sleap, so that
Earle may see bright eyes to-morrow.”

They parted, and Doris passed into her own room.
According to her usual custom, she locked the door and
took out the key.

The first room was her sleeping-room. She did not
wait there ; it wasempty. She had told Eugenie, her
maid, not to wait for her on that evening, as she might
be late. Then came the bath and dressing-room; they
also were empty, although both were brilliantly lighted.
She reached the boudoir, fitted for her with such taste
and luxury. The lamps were lighted, and there, on the
chair where Mattie and she had so carefully placed it,
lay the beautiful wedding costume. There could be no
mistaking it; the vail was thrown over the dress, and
the wreath of orange blossoms lay on the vail. She
looked at them for some minutes in silence, thinking of
the Miriam who was burned on the night of her wed-
ding-day.

Then she opened the book and began to read. How
useless it was—the letters swam before her eyes. It
was her wedding-day to-morrow; after to-morrow all
her cares and troubles would be over; after to-morrow
all would be peace.

She lay down upon the little couch, with a long, low
sigh. 1t was wonderful how tired and wearied she felt.
She had suffered such a fever, such atorture of sus-
pense, that the reaction of feeling that she wasin per-
fect safety at last was too much for her. There came a
fever of unrest upon her, her heart beat with terrible
rapidity, her hands were like fire, her eyes and lips
seemed to burn as though they had been touched by
flame; she had not known until now how much she
had suffered. Then she pictured Lord Vivianne coming
on the twentieth and finding her married—married
and gone far out of his reach! How he would rage! It
would serve him right. He mighttell his story then.
Who would believe him? They would‘all think it the
bitter exaggeration of a disappointed man.

Then the room seemed to grow warm, the perfume of
the flowers overpowering.

“I wish,” she thought, ‘‘that I had notlet Eugenie go;
I feel nervous and lonely to-night.”

She half-debated within herself Whether she should
go back to Mattie or not. The sense of being thought
cowardly deterred her.

There lay the moonlight, so calm, so still, so bright,
streaming through the open window.

“{ will go down into the grounds,” she said to herself ;
“a walk there will refresh me, and I shall be able to

| rest.” e
| She took out her watch and looked at it; it was nearly
midnight.

«There will be a pale bride to-morrow,” she said, ‘‘if I
am not to sleep all night.”

She unfastened the door that divided the room from
the spiral staircase leading to the grounds. The stair-
case itself, was almost hidden by dense green foliage
and flowers; because it was so nearly hidden no one
thought it dangerous ; nostranger would have observed
it. She went down to the grounds; it was so cool, so
bright, still, and beautiful; the dew was shining on the
| grass; the moon and stars were shining in the sky;
| there was a rich odor of rare flowers; the night-wind
seemed to cool her heated brain; her lips grew pale
coy cool; the burning heat left her hands; it refreshed

er.

“I will walk here for half an hour,” shg said, ‘‘then I
shall be sleepy enough.”

It struck her that she would go round to the library
window, where Earle was with her father. She hoped
they would not see her; but if they did, she should tell
them she could not rest. Then she remembered that
| the earl had cautioned her never to use the spiral stair-
| case at night lest it should be dangerous. She walked
round to the side of the house. Ah! there was the light
| from the library window ; they were still there.
| Then—her heart almost stood still—she saw the figure
| Of aman advancing across the carriage drive toward the
great hall-door.

At midnight! Who could it be ?

The moon shone full upon him ; and as he drew near-
er, She saw the face of her mortal enemy, her hated
ftoe—Lord Vivianne!

(TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by

Mrs. Helen Wood.

 

“Lidy K.’—Canvas ribbons, worked in silk, gold, silver,
and steel threads, are used for all lingerie purposes. Woolen
lace of a very fine quality is employed for fan-shaped bows,
plastrons, collars, and cuffs, only the cream-colored being
selected. Folds of beaded, dotted, and embroidered canvas,
gauze, and muslin are yet worn in preference to lace or crepe
| lisse ruches. It is also fashionable and quite convenient to
| have fancy plaitings for the neck and sleeves sewed to a two-
inch band of velvet, which may be fastened with a bow of
the velvet, or clasped. Many of the bands are beaded, edged
with res or covered with passementerie figures. By pre-
| paring black, blue, ecru, red, and pink bands, you will be
ready with a becoming eollar for any dress.

“Mollie S.,” Philadelphia, Pa.—ist. Pink remains the favor-
ite color for ball costumes, the most popular shades of which
are pale and deep rose tints, eglantine, pale wild-rose shade,
and brownish pink, which combines beautifully with brown.
Pale peach and tea-rose are favorite tints for evening wear,
while a new fabric for young ladies’ dinner and dance
dresses is cream Arab gauze. The only trimming is a sash
of silk or ribbon, tied in a bow at the back, several rows of
| inch-wide ribbon run on the lower skirt, and a round, sur-
| plice waist, finished with Valenciennes lace. 2d. Velvet dog-
| collars are worn with all toilets. :

| “Martha,” St. Louis, Mo.—ist. Astrakhan is as popular as
ever. Entire jackets of astrakhan are made in hussar style,
| and there are shown dressy little wraps of the same material.
The woolen astrakhan is used for bordering cloth suits and
jackets, and for children’s garments, white astrakhan cloth
is used for coats for the smallest children, and that imitating
gray krimmer is quite the rage for those a little older. Gray
astrakhan is found useful for lengthening and trimming the
plush and velvet coats of last season. 2.d Cloth walking
| jackets are more stylish to wear with street suits than fancy
wraps of plush or velvet.

 

“Fannie W.”—A handsome’street costume for a young lady
is of fawn-colored cloth, of rather heavy texture. The skirt
is kilt plaited in front, and has a plain panel on the right
side, edged toward the back with a narrow border of seal-
skin. Large seal-skin buttons ornament the other side of
the panel, finished with loops, as if the skirt was in two
pieces, buttoned together. The jaunty little jacket has a
|} narrow vest, high -collar, and wide cuffs of the seal-skin.
There is also a fawn-colored cloth hat, bound with seal-skin
and trimmed with pale fawn-colored feathers.

“Mamie C.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—ist. Jersey waists are exten-
| sively used for home toilets. They are made in jacket shapes,
and are usually embroidered or trimmed with braid. Point-
ed basques, and bodices with crenelated edges are in great
favor to wear under Russian jackets. The tabs are decorated
with bead-work or beaded ornaments. 2d. The brandebourgs
and military trimmings, that are so popular for the fronts of
jackets, can be made_ at home, of tubular silk cord, for half
the price of ready-made ones, and look equally as well.

“Susie B.”—Ist. Ruching to match that worn around the
throat is used in the sleeves of handsome dresses, but plain
| linen cuffs invariably accompany*high collars, 2d. Coquettish
| closely-fitttmg jackets for Pee are made of fine black
| Persian lamib-skin. They are short, and single-breasted, and
haye a standing collar and close sleeves without cuffs.

“Hattie H.,” Oyster Bay, N. ¥.—Long ulsters are popular
again this season. The latest are of rough boucle cloth, in
nayy-blue, brown, dark green, or garnet, buttoned upon the
left side with metal plaques about the size of a silver dollar.
Cloth walking jackets are more stylish to wear with street
suits than fancy wraps of plush or velvet.

‘Miss Nellie T.”—Bright red felt hats, bound with black
astrakhan and trimmed with black feathers and aigrettes,
are comingin vogue. Yellow is a very Poyiae color for mil-
linery purposes, and is also much used in combination with
black or brown velvet for elegant dinner toilets.

 

“Clara B.”—Wecan send you a bunch of very nice paper
flowers, from fifty cents to one dollar a bunch, according to
the size of the bouquet.

| “Mary.”’—Black lace sleeves for evening-dresses are lined
with fine white net, which gives the arm the proper shade of
whiteness.

~o-~<

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate

| As a Brain Food.

| Dr: 8. F. NEWCOMER, Greenfield, O., says:
| “In cases of general debility, and torpor of mind
‘and body, it does exceedingly well.”

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

 
 

NEW YORK, JANUARY 30, 1886.

 

LLL eeeaaeeEeeeeeeem"

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
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Bier CO ee ea” a tae a ioe ts SS ge

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

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

A BRILLIANT LOVE STORY.

BY

A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

 

 

 

 

In accordance with our promise made a few weeks
since, that the works of several new contributors, in
combination with the productions of the established
favorites of the NEw YorK WEEKLY, would appear dur-
ing the present year, we this week announce

A Powerful aud Captivating Love Story,

UNDER THE TITLE OF e

Married at Midnight:
The Bride's Fate.

By JOHN A. PETERS.

 

We can truthfully say that the author’s first story for
the New YoRK WEEKLY is one of the most spirited,
romantic, and affecting we have ever read. It opens

with
A HASTY MARRIAGE

under strange and mysterious circumstances, the alli-
ance being between a youthful couple of dissimilar
tastes, habits, and character. The motive for this
peculiar marriage remains a tantalizing mystery, the
bride alone controling the

DEAD MAN'S SECRET.

The characters in this vigorous romance are deline-
ated with rare skill and delicacy. Among them are the
rising young lawyer who is anxious to forget his humble
origin, and spurns his doting parents ; the noble girl who
trusted him, and found him faithless; the manly young
hero who, scorning all deception, achieved happiness,
and won a peerless wife, by right of love alone; the
repentant man who at last divulges

A STARTLING CRIME;
the recreant husband who, believing himself free from
matrimonial ties, unwittingly
MAHES LOVE TO HIS OWN WIFE.

To even epitomize the masterly and ingenious plot of
this touching story would be unjust to the author. We
can assure our patrons that it combines all the elements
of A GRAND LOVE STORY.

“MARRIED AT MIDNIGHT’ Will be commeneed next

week.
> oe~«

MY STRANGE DREAM.

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

 

“Did you swear off New Year’s Day ?”

“No. I concluded that I had perjured myself about
enough with New Year’s pledges broken by February.
Here it is, the New Year, a lusty lad of some days, and
I am the same slave of habit as last year. Haven’t
made an effort, not one. But I’m no liar this time.
Having taken no pledges, I’ve broken none.”

This was my answer.

Iam sure I was awake. I was sitting in my office
about 7.30 P. M., after shutting-up time. Our business
has been driving us in a very happy way for weeks now.
Ihave made more money since September than in two
years before. I had worked very hard that day. I just
dropped into the chair, as the grate was glowing so
bright that it seemed too bad to lose all the heat, and
thought to get thoroughly warm and a bit rested before
taking the cold horse-car over to my happy home: By
the way, my home is happier six months past. My in-
valid wife is well again; our twelve-months’-old baby
has got sight in the eye we thought was born blind;
her uncle left her $20,000 in December. Everything is at
high tide—except, curse it! I can’t seem to master this
brandy taste of mine.

Well, as I sat there in the chair, I distinctly saw a
curious creature spring up from the blue flame that
flickered and .danced on the coals. A funny sort ofa
chap he was, for he seemed to be gnawing a red-hot coal
that he held in his left hand, and then alternately suck-
ing a lump of ice that he held in his right hand. He
wore a queue like a fresh-landed Chinaman, and the
end of it burned like a lamp-wick without consuming
the hair. His face was slashed in clown’s colors, like
Humpty Dumpty, which I had been to see the night
before. .l observed that the pockets on his breast were
full of crisp $500 bills and checks of my own written to
enormous amounts. I read one check, made out toa
club for $1,000, another to a tavern-keeper for $10,000.
And the peculiar thing about it all was, that while the
bank-bills took fire and slowly burned, my checks did
not burn. I wished it had been the other way.

Now this was the chap who cocked himself on the
round top of the brass andiron, and asked me the open-
ing question. It was to him I made the reply above re-
corded.

And, will you believe it? with that he threw away his
lump ofice and glowing coal and stepped out on the
floor beside my chair, saying:

‘“‘Wouldn’t you like to be made over new ?”

Before I could answer he had my tongue out—clean
out! Iwasdumb, It seemec dreadful never to be able
to speak again. But quick as a flash he gave me an en-
tirely new tongue, saying, ‘‘This tongue never profaned
God’s name.. It doesn’t know how. It has no habit of
ee See to it that you do not teach it these vile
ricks.”

Of course I was astonished beyond measure. Just to
prove to myself that 1 was wide awake and not dream-
ing [ tried toswear, in my old way. But that new
tongue could no more utter an oath than a baby could!
Believe me or not I was powerless to explode with. my
customary emphasis at the expense of Deity. At first I
was disposed to regard that aS an inconvenience ; but
on second thought ! was right glad of the new tongue.
The more I sat there and thought of it the more tickled
I grew with this new toy—a clean, pure tongue! It was
strange, but that tongue would not speak a nasty word;
no, nor a scolding; no, nor anything impure! I won-
Gered where the imp got it; for, though you can buy
almost anything in New York city, Idon’t know where
money will buy another tongue like that.

Imp? I looked again. The figure was radiantly
beautiful, fair featured, brilliant white, with finger tips
as soft as velvet on my face. He then proceeded to fit in
a new palate, new nerves of taste, etc. The new appa-
ratus was absolutely insensibie to brandy! I reached
for my glass of brandy and water on the table. It had
no taste whatever! It was like tipping up a glass of
air. 1 was frightened and sprang to the water pitcher.
Ah, how sweet, how refreshing that goblet of simple
water tasted! Shall I ever forget it? I drank and
drank again. I vowed never again to forego that
sweet, that delicious thrill of the nerves. I threw the
brandy into the fire—and it actually put out the fire!
Black as night were the coals. AsI didn’t want to go
home just yet I threw a glass of water into the dead
coals—and the dear, genial hearthstone flame came
again as before! Wasn’t that strange? Brandy put
out a good fire and left a poor wretch to shiver. Pure
water lighted the glowing grate again and warmed a
poor fellow’s legs. But I suspect that is nothing new, as
many a drunkard reforming knows.

Well, well! To make a long story short, that kind
angel, or ,whoever it was, took me ail to pieces, from

head to foot, and made me over new. I had new ideas
about my proper gratitude to God, my duties to my fel-
lows, my obligations as a citizen, husband, and father.
I saw things with new eyes. I heard with new ears.
And such a pile of old stuff as that being took out of
me, Casting it into the fire. It was easy for me to think
good thoughts. I began to love all good people and to
loathe evil people. I never could sing before, but I be-
gan to sing right there in the office till the janitor came
and rapped at my door.

I could have kicked the fellow. It was all a dream.
There I was, and my glass of brandy was at my side. I
was just about to curse the janitor when 1 stopped. I
remembered something I had read, in my boyhood,
about a ‘new heart” being the gift of that kind heaven
who sent the first one throbbing in our breasts. I shut
again the door. I fellon my knees before my Maker. I
asked him if this was indeed all adream. If it only
were true that, not by straining at a hard New Year’s
vow, but by loving that which was pure, good, and beau-
bey aman might find it easy, natural, and a joy to live
right!

‘T think the prayer has helped me. I am offering it
daily now—and trying as I pray.

>oe~<

THIS WINTER'S FASHIONS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

We are not going to tell anybody how to make a
basque, or a polonaise, or an overskirt, or anything of
the kind; we are simply going to remark on how the
fashions of the season, as presented on the streeis,
affect us.

As usual, everybody is in a rush, Business, we are
told, is dull, and there are a hundred applicants for
every vacant place. It is a pity there could not be more
places. The world owes everybody a living, but it isa
“mighty” poor one that some unfortunates get.

More women than men are on the streets.
an over-production of women, statistics tellus. What
are we going to do aboutit? There is nobody to blame
so faras we can see. We are not born to order. We
are sent into the world, male or female, as the case may
be, and we can’t appeal toa higher court. We can’t
have a new trial. So the fair sex content themselves
with being as fair as possible.

They rack their brains for ideas to suggest bewitching
toilets to their dressmakers, and they set their jaunty,
aspiring, no-brimmed hats over their coquettish curls

in a way to make every susceptible man reconciled to
the fact that in Massachusetts there are at least two
women for every one man.

The hats are tall, there is a good deal of them, they
have gone up behind, and they have more yellow
feathers on them, and more birds’ heads, and more
standing-up trimming generally, than ever we have
seen. Everything about them has a wide-awake look.
A sort of you-don’t-catch-me-napping expression.

Everything in fashion has run to fur and feathers. If
the thing continues two years longer, there will not be
a solitary cat left to chant her vesper songs on the back-
yard fence, and the laws for protecting birds can be
expunged from the statute books, for there will be no
birds to protect.

Bright colors rage. Black is no longer monarch, but
divides the kingdom with numerous shades of blues,
and browns, and greens, and grays. Every lady owns
one homespun suit, trimmed with braid. Everything
ix the shape of trimming is buttoned on. The man
who makes button molds will soon be a second Vander-
bilt. Wraps are long, and trimmed with fur. Little
jewelry is visible. Bustles are enormous; indeed, it is
difficult to tell, sometimes, which is woman, and which
is bustle. No disrespect to bustles. Not at all. They
never did us any hurt. We owe them no ill-will.

Bags made of silk, and embroidered or painted, with
golden rod, form part of every lady’s toilet. Golden rod
has had alongrun. It has been painted, and embroi-
dered, and reproduced in a thousand different ways,
and still nobody has got tired of it. Let it wave.

Everything is high-shouldered, even to the cream-
jugs and tea-pots in the crockery man’s window. What
would once have been considered a deformity is now a
grace, because fashion so declares it.

All the young girls are, of course, lovely. All the
old ladies are beautiful. We beg their pardon—there
are no old ladies now. They crimp and puff their sil-
vered locks so that the hair of a woman of eighty is as
becoming as the golden tresses of sixteen, and the in-
ventions of fashion have so tar advanced that our grand-
mothers are as trim and genteel as their grandchildren.
and nobody thinks of finding fault with the fact.

The weather is cold; the cheeks and noses of the
promenaders are tipped with pink; the feathers nod;
the furs stand out, every hair erect; the bright ribbons
flash, the merry eyes sparkle, and the world moves on
to the music of the New Year, which was ushered in a
little while ago—the year of 1886.

There is

>-e<—__

“NEWSPAPER HORRORS.

BY HELENA DIXON.

 

We are not an editor, therefore we have no fears of
being set down as claiming any sort of pre-eminence in
taste or judgment over our fellows if we shall venture
to find a little fault with the almost universal roll-it-as-
a-sweet-morsel kind of way in which every species of
erime is shown up by the newspaper press.

Why is it that our favorite dailies come to us reeking
always, as it-were, with the warm blood of the inno-
cents ?—that every conceivable atrocity must be given
us in detail? Ifa murder is the theme, why is it neces-
sary to hold up to us for the nine-hundredth time the
stereotyped ‘‘bloody dagger.” ‘‘the lock of gory hair,”
torn by the murderer from the head of his shrieking
victim ?

To some, no doubt, these chapters of horrors area
continuai feast. We know of a man who would not
miss one of the ghastly dishes spread before him in his

morning paper any more than he would forego the
champagne over which he devours them with an appe-
tite that even the most sanguinary morsel cannot
satiate. He has become so accustomed to these re-
citals, given in the ubiquitous reporter's high style of
coloring, that should they by any chance be crowded
out—as by politics, for all things else are counted little
worth sometimes—he flings aside his paper very much
as does the hungry schoolboy his plate when the rem-
nants of his last meal are tendered him in place of the
dumpling for which his mouth is watering.

But because this one man’s appetite has become mor-
bid, must all of us who make up the sum of newspaper
readers be forced to swallow what can be food only to
him ?

Surely we are not all so depraved in taste as to relish
what he craves, and if not, what has given every editor,
who has from a thousand readers upward to two-
hundred thousand to please, the notion that we do
relish it.

The multitudinous editor aims, no doubt, to please the
majority, and he must know whether those who make
up that majority ave pleased with his high art style of
picturing crime or not.

That he does try to please is shown by the way in
which he scrambles—yes, literally scrambles—over oth-
ers in his efforts to be first in the field with such choice
tidbits for his readers as the following, each one of which
he presents with manifold headings:

“Murder to hide Murder!” “A Hideous Gallows
Scene!” ‘An Experienced Young Criminal!” ‘A Pitts-
burgh Woman nearly Decapitated!” ‘A Mysterious Af-

fair!” “Torturing Criminals!” <‘Iniquities of a Hotel
Clerk!" “A Japanese Execution!” ‘Canada’s Latest
Crime!” ‘The Quinn Tragedy—Recent Developments !”

“A Waif Foundin Chancellor Square! The Latest Mys-
tery !” all of which we literally copy for our readers from
a Single edition of the We are not going to give
the name, for the man above-mentioned, and his proto-
types might feel that we were inviting them to a feast,
and we cannot conscientiously give the paper notoriety
by mentioning it by name. We can only look at the
vexatious sheet with feelings of disgust, and yet in all
respects save this, that it gleams and embellishes with
many capitals the records of the vilest, most revolting
crimes, and this with evident relish, it is well enough as
newspapers go.

“But,” I fancy one asking, ‘“‘what would you have in
this respect—utter silence ?”

No, not that exactly. We have become too accus-
tomed to know what is going on around us, the bad as
well as the good, to lose our chances altogether, though
it is a question whether the non-publication of the
records of criminal acts would not in a measure tend to
their suppression. What we want is simply that the in-
telligence of these acts be not given us in a manner the
most revolting to the fine feelings of our humanity.
That is all. Will newspaper editors take heed ?

A New Feature.

 

 

 

 

An eminent contributor, who for the present chooses
to write under a nom de plume, will next week begin
aseries of bright and entertaining papers under the
title of

UNCLE MEDDLE’S LETTERS.

Various interesting topics will be quaintly discussed
in these papers, and they are certain to be appreciated
as the productions of a shrewd and witty observer of
men and methods—a writer who hasa clear and curt
bay of expressing incisive thoughts, and teaching
homely wisdom by unique illustration.

 

 

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

=

<< i

y

I
SK

i

 

It-iz diffikult tew tell how mutch or how little fortune
haz tew do with the suckcess ov enny one.

All the unlucky people in the world that I kno hay
been improvident ones.

A regular, old fashioned, thorobred lie don’t do mutch
hurt—it iz the haff breeds that do the mischief.

Silence iz safe. The man who hasn’t spoke alwus has
the advantage ov him who haz.

Thare iz a grate deal more tallent amung mankind
than thare iz luv or affeckshun.

The more we know ov human natur the more we will
hate it.

Thare never waz aman yet so grate or so powerfull,
but what, when he waz overtaken with poverty and mis-
fortunes, he could count hiz friends on hiz fingers.

The lazy ones are generally good-natured, and that iz
what makes their acquaintance and example so per-
nishus.

Those who hay least followed it are those most fond
ov giving good advise tew others.

In.a square fite, the heart is alwuss tew mutch for the
head, and I am glad ov it.

What we hay the least ov ourselfs, we generally
charge others with having less oy.

Pride iz cheap and common, you kan find it all the way
down from the monark on hiz throne tew the rooster on
hiz dunghil. : :

Thare are excepshuns tew all rules no doubt, but the
excepshuns don’t win often enuff tew make them pay.

The same time spent in learning tew phiddle a pass-
able tune on one string wud enable a man tew bekom
an elegant shumaker.

Man iz the only thing kreated with reazon, and still he
iz the most unreazonable thing kreated;

Hapiness konsists in having what we want, and want-
ing what we hav. 4

Whenever I see a dog led around the streets bi a fash
ionable femail, I alwuss pitty—the dog. ,

I kant tell now which I do luy the least, a coquet or a
prude. :

Thare iz lots ov eddikated people in the world who, if
it want for their learning, wouldn't kno ennything.

JIM SPARKS, “OF PLUMAS”

PLUMAS BEARS, AND PLUMAS WEATHER.

 

BY DAN DE QUILLE,

 

‘Bears !” cried Jim Sparks, lowering his beer mug and
wiping his mouth on his coat-sleeve, ‘‘bedrs—did I ever
have any adventures with bears? Well I would insinu-
ate! Up in Plumas county, in California, where I used
to live, whole fiocks of bears sometimes chased me
home, then all joined hands and danced round my cabin.
Otten they’d get on my cabin, yell down the chimney at
me, and dare me to come out. Bears, well afew!

AN ADVENTURE WITH THREE BEARS.

“The last adventure I had with bears, up in old
Plumas, was rather funny than otherwise, as I now look
back to it. I was out on the side of the mountain about
a mile above my cabin one bright day in August, and in
passing round the root of an old failen tree ran upon an
old she bear with two half-grown cubs. The old one
made for me, and I made for a tree.

“J was not up my tree so far when the bear arrived
but that she reached after me with one of her paws and
extracted a very important part of my pantaloons.
But this did not cause me to alter my mind about going
up that tree. On the contrary, I think that I went up
about six feet at the next reach I made.

«Well, I soon got up to the-first limb, and seated my-
self astride it to look down at the bear. She had seated
herself, and was observing my motions at her leisure.

«After I had seen that the bear was regularly camped
on my trail, [ began to look about a little; particularly

as about this time something struck me in the forehead,
square between the eyes, and seemed to cut to the very
bone. At first I thought it was a spent bullet from a
Winchester rifle. However, hearing no report follow
the sting [ was at a loss what to make of it, for a
moment. Only for a moment, however, then I was
struck again alongside my nose, just under my left eye.
This hit was attended by the familiar whiz of——”

“An arrow !” cried old Johnny Scalper, who was Jim’s
companion at the beer table. ‘‘O, ho! Indiansafter you
—firing arrows !”

“Not a bit of it!” said Jim. ‘Nota bit of it! You’d
not guess what it was ina whole month. It was hornets!
Out on the end of the limb astride of which I was seated
was a nest of bald-headed hornets as big as a flour
barrel. Every hornet in that nest was as big as a spar-
row and had a Sting as long as a darning-needle.

«I took in the situation, and two or three stings, in
about half a minute. Then I whipped my hatchet out of
my belt, and at about six strokes chopped off the limb.
Down it went, hornets and all. The old she bear made
a dash at the nest and put one of her paws through it.
The next moment she had rolled herself up in a ball and
was bellowing till you might have heard her a mile.

«Down rushed the two cubs from the root of the tree,
where they had been seated to watch the result of the
foot-race between me and their mamma. In about five
seconds they had also rolled themselves up in balls and
were bawling as vigorously as their dam.

«Well, once in awhile the old she one would get so
mad that she’d fly at the nest and rend it with mouth
and paws, After a dash of this kind times would be
very lively with her, and she'd again coil up and take to
bawling and rolling about. Evidently in all her experi-
ence she had never before encountered such a thing as
a hornet’s nest. Perhaps she thought it was me that
had come to the ground in that shape.

“JT thought it great fun to see the three bears rolling
and tumbling about, slapping their sides and scratching
their noses, and laughed till my sides ached. But soon
my merriment suddenly ceased. [ got another shot be-
tween the eyes that nearly knocked me off the remains
of my limb. The hornets were coming up from the
ground. As soon as they found all was vacant over
where their nest had been they came for me.

“I was obliged to take to climbing again. But the
pestiferous insects followed. When about half way to
the top of the tree, I was obliged to take off my fox-skin
cap and hang it on a dead limb to keep the bald-headed
villains back. They all halted at the cap, whenI went
on to the very topmost branch of the tree—about two
hundred and fifty feet from the ground.

«Well, pretty soon I heard a tremendous uproar and
howling down at the foot of the tree. The bears had all
become blind and were fighting one another. I could
see that it was a death struggle. In about ten minutes
the old one had killed ‘both cubs. Searching about for
more enemies to conquer, she got to asteep part of the
raountain and went rolling and bounding downit like a
ball on a ten-pin alley. All of a sudden she disappeared
from my sight. She had rolledinto an old shaft, about
twenty feet deep, that some prospectors had sunk on
the slope the year before.”

“So you had all three bears safe,” said old Johnny
Scalper—‘‘a good clean job !”

“Not so good and clean as you may think,” said Jim,
“for I had both my ears frozen stiff, sitting up there in
the top of that tree without my cap, and my pantaloons
rent in many places.” ,

«So cold as that only 250 feet above the surface of the
earth? You must have been mistaken in the height of
that tree. It must have been at least a mile high.”

“Just 250 feet to an inch—I measured it as I came
down—but you see, a sudden snow-storm had come up
—such as wethave in Plumas—and in all my life I never
experienced a worse one,”

“What! a snow storm in August ?”

“Did Isay it was in August ?” :

“Certainly you did; and a bright day. Then the hor-
nets all alive and active !”

“Ah, yes! IT remember now; but you see the top of
that tree was so far above the ground that I had almost
forgotten about the bears and hornets. Anywhere else
but up in Plumas you’d have me in a pretty tight place,

 

«cate THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

Johnny, but up there such sudden changes in the

weather are quite common.”
PLUMAS WEATHER.

«Such extreme changes as that ?”

“As that! Why, that is a mere nothing. A bitofa
snow-storm in August is nothing—up in Plumas. Up
there we have the most changeable weather that is to
be found on the whole Pacitic coast. Why, one day, I
was on the mountain above my cabin, and went to a
little lake to get a drink. I had got down on my knees,
and was about to lower my head to the water, when
along came one of those hot whirlwinds that we have
up in Plumas. My hat was taken off in an instant, and
my eyes were filled with dust. In half a minute the
blast had passed. I rubbed the dust out of my eyes and
again turned to drink, but no lake was there. It was
gone, to the last drop.”

“Gone! Why, what became of it ?”

“Well, I soon found out. It had evaporated. Looking
upward, I saw the whole lake in the shape of a big black
cloud. It was floating off eastward, half a mile above
the trees.” :

“So away your lake went—away east to irrigate the
plains of Montana.”

“No, it didn’t. As Iwas squatted there on my knees,
watching the, cloud, it circled about and came back.
When it was just overhead, a cold blast from the north
struck it, instantly condensed it, and it all fell back into
the basin of the lake, and with i, came some chunks of
ice as big as a horse’s head. Sollay down to the lake
and drank very heartily ; for just by being patient and
waiting there a minute, I had nice cold ice-water.”
«And this was up in Plumas ?” said Uncle Johnny.
«Yes, of course; just three miles south of the Lassen
County line. Where else could it be? You have no idea
of the weather in Plumas. Why, the last winter 1 was
up there I had a man at work at cutting ice on that
same lake, and hauling it down over the snow to my ice-
house, on a sled. One day there came one of ‘those hot
blasts, such as we have up there, an in less than a min-
ute all the snow had disappeared from the side of the
mountain— north side, too.

“Looking up, I saw my man coming down the slope of
the mountain on a full gallop. Clouds of steam were
streaming up from the sled and rising,as high as the
trees. His load of ice was being instantly turned to
steam. Before he got down to the cabin the friction of
the runners on the dry ground had set the sled on fire,
and we had to cut the harness loose to save their lives.”

‘Indeed !”

«True as gospel! One sultry July day I was up at
that same little lake that 1 have once or twice incident-
ally mentioned, when | saw a trout jump out of the
water after a fly. That trout never got back into the
water again!”

“Why? What became of it? An eagle must have
snatched it up: for surely it could not evaporate ?”

“Evaporate your granny! No; it @id not evaporate—
quite the contrary. Before that trout had time to get
down again, ice had formed under him six inches thick,
and I slid out to where he lay, hard as a-railroad spike,
and picked him up.”

“Good-by, Jim!” cried Uncle Johnny Scalper, bound-
ing tohis feet ard making toward the door of the
saloon.

“What! Why, surely, Uncle Johnny, you're not off!”
exclaimed Jim Sparks, regretfully.

“Off? Yes, ’moff. It is plain tosee that a man has
no show here unless he’s from the North Pole, Plumas,
or Hades.”

«Nonsense, Uncle John! Now, just hold on a minute.
Let me tell you about~eur volcano up in Plumas. How
a cold snap froze.an eruption perfectly stiff when it was
spouting lava and rock five hundred feet high——Pshaw!
he’s gone !” :

“It’s curious now,” said-Jim, musingly—‘‘curious how
folks will believe all about the California lions, bears,
and bad Injuns of old Plumas, but won’t hear a word
about Plumas weather.”

°

 

e

THE ACTOR’S DAUGHTER.

BY A. R.

 

 

 

She was only sixteen years old when my boy brought
her to the country home where I lived in solitude, save
for his occasional visits from the metropolis, where he
was studying medicine—a dark-skinned, velvet-eyed
girl, with a light step like that of some beautiful wild
creature, so fullof grace and freedom was it. I was
seated by myself, reading my Bible, when Hugh opened
the door and said to me, after the first filial greeting:

«Mother, dear, here is a daughter for you !”

“A daughter!’ 1 echoed, dropping my spectacles to
the ground, where they shivered into a score of spark-
ling pieces. For this was the first I had heard of my
son’s marriage. ‘Hugh, what do you mean ?”

“Didn’t you get my letter, mother ?” said he.

I had received no letter, and I told him so.

“That is unfortunate,” said Hugh, gravely. “ButI can
tell you now what I wrote you last week—that Iam
married to Margaret Sinclair. Have you no welcoming
kiss for my wife ?”

Mechanically | kissed her, but there was no heart in
the action.

«Come into the parlor, my dear,” said I, “and take off

your hat and shawl. I suppose you are very tired with
your journey, and would like a cup of tea.”

Margaret did not answer, only looked at me with her

dark, solemn eyes.

«For mercy’s sake, who is she?” Iasked Hugh when I
rejoined him, after leaving her in the one spare room of
my cottage. ‘‘Where did you meet her? And how did
you come to marry her in this unexpected way ?’

“She is the daughter of a broken-down actor, who
boarded in the same house where I did, and died sud-
denly from an overdose of morphia. She was left utter-
ly alone and unprovided for, and I became interested in
her before I knew it.”

«“Humph !” was my comment. ‘

«You will try to love her, mother, for my sake ?”
urged Hugh, laying his hand carressingly on my shoul-
der. I could feel the sudden tears brimming into my
eyes.

“Hugh,” cried I, “I would try to love a beggar girl, if
you brought her home here and asked me to love her.
But it may not be such an easy task.” :

Mrs. Dudley, an acquaintance of ours, came to tea
the next day, and I told her ali about it.

«She seems a pretty girl enough,” said Mrs. Dudley.

«But she’s such a mere child,” said 1; ‘‘and as inani-
mate as a block of wood. And an actor’s daughter,
too! Hugh has married her merely out of pity, and I
hope he won’t live to repent his rash quixotism, that’s
all ”

“Do you really mean it ?”

‘He as good as tola me so himself,” said I.

Margaret must have overkeard this conversation, al-
though I had no suspicion of it at the time.

When the tea-bell rang, Margaret was nowhere to be
found.

“IT suppose she has gone out to meet her husband,”
saidI. “These young married people are so silly. We
won’t wait tea for them, Mrs. Dudley.”

The meal, however, was but half over, when Hugh
came in, very pale, and with aset look about the mus-
cles of his mouth which I had never before seen there.

“Mother,” cried he, passionately; ‘what is’ this
thing that you have done?”

“12” echoed I, in amazement.

«You have driven my wife away from me!”

«Hugh ” :

«Yes, with your cruel words!” he went on, vehement-
ly. ‘This note which she has left, tells me that she has
gone forever, poor girl; but she knows no home but tke
one I have brougnt her from. Get me my things, mother.
I will follow her at once.”

But when he reached the metropolis, and called at
the house where he had first met his wife, Margaret
had not been there; and no trace could he find of -her
anywhere.

He came back looking full ten years older.

*“Mother,” said he, hoarsely, ‘‘this is your work.”

“Oh, Hugh!” was all that I could say, as Il wrung my
hands in mute despair. ‘I didn’t mean any harm! I
didn’t indeed !”

‘You have blighted my life!” he said, bitterly. «And
poor, poor little Madge!) Heaven only knows what has
become of her !”

Ican hardly remember how that autumn and winter
passed away. Butit was the next spring, when Hugh
fell ill of typhoid fever; and in his delirium he kept
calling day and night for “Madge! Madge!” He never
mentioned his mother’s name; he never looked up into
my face with eyes of tender recognition ; but he fancied
himself looking for a lost child, and the name of
that child. repeated ever and anon, like a.sad refrain,
was ‘‘Madge!”

«Who is Madge?” the doctor we had called in sud-
denly asked. ‘‘Whoever she is, let her come to him. It
may be his salvation.”

And then I was forced to tell him all.

«Put an advertisement in the paper,” said the doctor.

“Do you think it will do any g' ?” L asked, piteously;
and he answered :

“It is worth the trial, at all events.” :

Iwas sitting at the kitchen table that very evening
studying out the form of an advertisement—I chose the
kitchen so that the light of the lamp should not annoy
my poor boy—when the curious magnetic thrills which
sometimes announce to us the presence of another
humanity than our own in the room crept through my
veins, and, looking up with a start, I saw Margaret.

Standing on the threshold, dark-skinned and velvet-
eyed, just as she had stood that radiant September
afternoon when first I saw her.

“Js it true,” she asked me, with a wild vehemence of
manner, of which I had scarcely believed her capable,
“that he is sick, dying, and I not by his side ?”

J ran to her, holding out both my arms.

“Stand back!” she cried, passionately. -‘I have
neither pity nor favor to ask of you. ButI loved him!
Oh, I loved him, even though he did not care for me !”

‘‘Margaret,” cried I, ‘listen !”

And from the sick-room came the pitiful reiteration of
the one word :

“Madge ! ”

She threw herself upon my bosom, with a burst of
sobs and tears, which seemed to relieve her poor over-
charged heart.

“Yell me,” she faltered, ‘that my ears are not de-
ceiving me. Tell me, does he want me ?”

 

‘He is breaking his heart for you,” I answered. ‘He
loves you better than his own life.”

“May I go to him ?”

“Go!’

I stood listening while she hurried into the darkened
room—listening, with one hand pressed over my heart.
And still came forth the pleading cry :

“Madge! Madge!”

Until all of a sudden it paused, and I heard my poor
boy say, with an utterance of ineffable relief :

“She has come back to me, my Madge, and nowI can
die in peace.’

But he did not die, my only son. He lived, thanks to
the tireless nursing and tender devotion of the dark-
i genes wife, who had come like a healing angel to

1is side.

“Madge,” I said to her, the day that he first sat up in
aotervend chair, ‘it is you that we have to thank for

Te
“And do you think you can love me now ?” said she,
imploringly.

“My darling! my darling!” was all that I could say,
as 1 clasped the slight, small figure close. to my heart.

And from that day to this there has never been the
slightest shadow of doubt or dissension between me
and my son’s wife.

 

®

Correspondence.

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.
t~ Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers.

 

[We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart-
ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal.
Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and
fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive
at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared to render
the answers to questions absolutely reliable. ]

Linda F. McM,, Houston Fla.—It would be difficult to give
any satisfactory reasons for the adoption of the Christian
and surnames most commonly met with among ourselves.
The use of surnames in France began, it is said, about the

year 987, when the barons adopted the practice of designating
hemselves by the names of their estates. Among the com-
monalty of England surnames are said not to have been gen-
eral before the reign of Edward Il. Examination is said to
show that a great number of names originated in the old
custom of adding to the son’s Christian name that of the
father by way of distinction ; many more from the names of
particular trades ; and many more from accidental distinc-
tions. Sometimes striking external peculiarities or mental
qualities have given origin to names, which have descended
to the posterity of those on whom they were bestowed.

M. A. P., Philadelphia, Pa.—There are so many attractive
localities in the West thatitis hard to say which would be
the most desirable place of residence. We advise you to act
upon your own judgment in the matter referred to. Wash-
ington Territory is highly spoken of by travelers generally,
and you might meet with all the success you desire in some
parts of it; but the contrary might be the result, and hence
there would follow great disappointment 3 SO We again advise
you_to take counsel of those most deeply interested in your
welfare.

Wm. B. S., Albany, N. Y.—Nitric acid is much used in the
arts. to act on metals, earths. liquids, and other things.
Etching on copper is done with it, tin for making mordants
for dyes is dissolved in it, and it is of great importance i
getting metals from ores. When mixed” with iiutiatic acid
it forms aqua regia, the only thing which will dissolve gold.
Itissometimes given in weak doses asa medicine, and is
also used as a caustic.

T. B. Q., Buffalo.—ist. A letter will probably reach the per-
son named through the general post-office at Virginia City,
Nevada. 2d. London has a population of 3,832,441; Paris,
2,269,023; New York city (according to the census of 1880
1,206,577 ; Dublin, 249,486. 3d. Guelph is the name of the mae
ent royal family of England. 4th. See the daily papers. 5th.
The distance from New York to San Francisco, by rail, is
3,273 miles. ;

Lillian, Long Island.—Tennyson is the author of ‘The
Song of the Brook,” the last stanza of which we quote, as fol-
lows:

 

“ And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,

For men may. come and men may go,
But I go on forever.”

H. B., Virginia City, Nev.—ist. Some of the Comstock silver
mines in Nevada are 1,600 feet deep. Coal is successfully
mined at 2,418 feet in the Rosebridge pit at Wigan, Eng. This

is perhaps the deepest pit in the world of any ki
the old Kuttenbe in Bohemia, which was abantisiaed ke
.778 feet on account of the temperature. Dec.
on Tuesday ; Jan. 9, 1820, on etedea, eee ere

Mc W., Rochester, N. Y.—The erection of the first elevated

railroad in this city was begun in 1866. The company com-

| menced operations on it in 1872, running from the Batte
along Greenwich street and Ninth avenue to Thirtieth stree.
The original plan of operating it by stationary engines and
endless wire ropes was abandoned for dummy engines.

N. T., Caspar, Cal.—The first King of Sweden, according to
one authority, was Regnard Lobrock; but Sweden’s early
history is so confused and mythical that itis hard to get -at

or: ee cqnecring all od pes, bobs anes to your
al ion chton’s Scandinavia,” which i i
Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. Price $1.50. ahs sprtice tay
McDonald, Rome, Ga.—The “Albany Agency” was a name
given toacertain number of Democratic politicians who
had their headquarters at Albany, N.Y. They exerted a con-
trolling influence in Democratic circles for many yous.

dating from their attempt to elect Wm. H.
Presidency instead of John Quincy Adams. Wee

E. L. A., Navasota, Texas.—“Browne’s Building and Es-
timate Book” contains a great deal of information of prac-
tical value to lumber men, including the me t
lumber, ete. The author is a practica mechanic. "Price $1.00,

If you wish it, write direct to the New YorK WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency.

B. A. R., Bordentown, N. J.—The “Silver Grays” comprised
that portion of the Whig party, in the State of N York,
who, on the dissolution of that preven, took Deere:

tive ground on the slavery question. They were mostly
e had ailvered: hence their

 

elderly men, whose locks
designation.

McArthur, Long Island City.—The “Oliver Hibernian Free
Schools” for boys and girls in Baltimore were founded in
ee ee bequest of John Oliver. ann yy been
condue prosperously ever since under the di i
Hibernian Society of Baltimore. wane

N. V., Staten Island.—It is stated that the large number of
new admissions to the Military Academy at West Point this
year has brought the corps of cadets up to the full standard ;
something almost without precedent. There are, therefore
no vacancies at present.

Constant Reader, Newcastle, Pa.—Haswell’s “Engineers’
Pocket-Book” treats at length of steam and the steam en-
gine, horse power, etc. Price $3. It contains, in addition,
the orthography of technical words and terms, and miscel-
laneous illustrations.

M. L. C. M.—The Minie rifle got its name from its inventor,
M. Minie. It was first adopted by the French, and subsequent-
ly, with various modifications, by the British Army ; but it
has since been superseded by more improved fire-arms.

Jet, Dlinois.—ist. We do not give business addresses in this
department. 2d. Your designs can be protected by the copy-

| right law of the United States. A letter to the “Librarian of

Congress, W ington, D. C., will receive attention.

Mrs. Van, Baron Hill, N. Y.—It is not necessary for the gen”
Besyadt * £2 to the other side fad Pong Pog «2h to 2p the lady
out; an ere is no impropriety in assing
retake his seat after she ae rosatnell hers. ene

L. C. B.—The height of the Washington Monument, in
Washington, D. C., is 555 feet. It weighs 81,120 tons, and cost
$1,187,710, toward which Congress appropriated $887,710.

A. E. C. A., Estillville, Va.—A letter addressed to “Hon. H.
E. Cohen, Minister of Justice, Sydney, Australia,” will prob-
ably elicit the desired information.

The following MSS are respectfully declined: “A Reverie
at the Window ;” “The Ghost of Glen Alden ;” ‘‘A Tribute to
the Empire State.”

J. R. McP., Hudson, N. Y.—In 1870 the ice-boat Ella, of
Poughkeepsie, made a run of 24 miles on the Hudson River
in 23 min. 10 sec.

Martha, Petersburg, Va.—Frederick Ferdinand Adolf von
Fite. ee composer of “Martha,” and other operas, died on

an 24, L

W. H. W., Spencerville, Ohio.—The papers containing ‘The
World Between Them” will cost gia a

Subscriber, Sandusky, Ohio.—We have always said that the
man goes round the squirrel.

J. W., Kansas City, Mo.—Nothing authentic in regard to the
nickname. :

Dr. Conway, Placerville.—We cannot supply them.
Carmeline, Ind.—Unable to trace it.
Lizzie R., Jefferson, Ohio.—No.
a
THE HEADS OF GREAT MEN.

 

It is usually supposed that men of great intellectual
powers have large and massive heads, but this theory is
not borne out by facts. An examination of busts, pic-
tures, medallions, intaglios, etc., of the world’s celebri-

ties gives evidence of variance with the popular belief.
In the earlier paintings, it is true, men are distinguished
by their large heads, but this is attributable to the
painters, who agreed with the general opinion, and
wished to fiatter their sitters. A receding forehead is
mostly condemned. Nevertheless, this feature is found
in Alexander the Great, and, to a lesser degree, in Julius
Cesar. The head of Frederick the Great, as will be
seen from one of the portraits in Carlyle’s work, receded
dreadfully. Other great men have positively small
heads. Lord Byron’s was remarkably small, as were
those of Lord Bacon and General Mitchel, the eminent
American astronomer. Men of genius of ancient times
have only what may be called an ordinary or every-day
forehead, and Herodotus, Alcibiades, Plato, Aristotle,
and Epicurus, among many others, are mentioned as in-
stances. It is certain that the popular notion on the
matter is erroneous, and that there may be great men
without big heads—in other words, a Waltham or an
Elgin watch is capable of keeping as good time as an
eight-day clock.

 

 

 

  

 

ernie

 

 
cnamcemnenrmnacestcenect Re

:
i
if

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

eos THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &es=>

o

 

 

A HAPPY, HAPPY HEART.

 

BY EBEN E. REXFORD.

 

Oh, there never was a summer that was half so glad as
this is,
And there never was a maiden that was half so glad

as I
For last — my lover told me that my lips were made
sses

for k .
Oh, he told me that he loved me, and he’ll wed me by
and by!

It was down there by the roses that I wandered in the
gloaming,
ores heart was just as happy as the heart of any

ird.
Though I can’t tell how I knew it, yet I knew that he
was coming,
And + Ege was all a-fiutter when his eager step I
heard.

Tl not tell you what he told me when there was no one
to listen

Save the birds among the branches and the moon
above the hill;
But he kissed me for my answer, andI saw his brave
eyes glisten
When a little bird in dreaming called his mate, and
- then was still.

When [I woke this happy morning all the robins were
a-singing, ‘
And the lark was making merry by his nest among
the wheat, ,
And it seemed as if the summer all its sweetest things
were bringing,
Just to make me wild with gladness. Ah! but life and
love are sweet!

AndI could not help but answer to the carol of the
robin,
For the gladness in my bosom overflowed my lips in
song.
And the mention of my lover sets my foolish heart to
turobbing ;
Oh, if life could be asummer just one happy summer
long!

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

TRACY PARK.

By MRS. MARY /. HOLMES,

 

 

Author of “Bessie’s Fortune.” ‘‘Homestead on the
Hillside,” “Darkness and Daylight,” ‘Edith
Lyle’s Secret,” “Queenie Hetherton,” etc.

 

(“Tracy Park” was commenced in No.1. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

CHAPTER XXII.—(CONTINUED.)

The next morning when Mrs. Tracy went to her room
after breakfast she was astonished to find upon her
dressing bureau a velvet box with Tiffany’s name upon
it, and inside an exquisite set of diamonds; not as fine
as those she had lost, or quite as large, but white, and
clear, and sparkling as she took them in her hand with
acry of delight, and ran with them to her husband.
Both knew from whence they came, and both went at
once to Arthur, who, to his sister-in-law’s profuse expres-
sions of gratitude, replied indifferently :

“Don’t Bother me with thanks; it worries me. I
bought them to please the little girl, who talks about
them all the time. She will get well now. I am going
to tell her.”

He found Jerry better, and perfectly sane. She was
very glad to see him, though she seemed somewhat con-
strained, and shrank from him a little, when, he sat
down beside her. Her first rational question Dad been
for him, and her second for the diamonds; were they
found, and if not, were they still looking for them.

“No, they have not found them,” Harold had said,

‘cand the officers are still hunting for the thief, while the
papers are full of the reward offered to any one who will
return them. Five hundred dollars now, for Mr. Arthur
has added two hundred to the firstsum. He has quite
waked up to the matter. You know he seemed very in-
different at first.”

“Mr. Arthur offered two hundred more!” Jerry ex-
claimed. ‘Well, that beats me!”

This was Mrs. Crawford's favorite expression, which
Jerry had caught, as she did most of the pecularities in
speech and manner of those about her.

“Two hundred dollars! He must be crazy.”

“Of course he is. He don’t know what he does or says
half the time, and especially since you have been sick,”
Harold said.

“Sick !” Jerry repeated, quickly. ‘‘Have I been sick,
and is that why 1 am in bed so late? I thought you had
come in to wake me up, and [ was glad, forI have had
horrid dreams.”

Harold told her she had been in bed. since the day of
the investigation, when she came trom the park house
with a dreadtul headache.

«And you’ve been crazy, too, as a loon,” he continued,
“and talked the queerest things about State prison, and
hard boards, and bread and water, and accessories, and
substitutes, andsoon. Seemed as if you thought you
were a felon, and a body would have supposed that you
had either taken the diamonds yourself or else knew
who did, the way you went On by spells.”

“Oh, Harold!” Jerry gasped, while her face grew
spotted and the perspiration came out upon her fore-
head. ‘Did I speak anybody’s name ?”

“No,” Harold replied. ‘1 could not make you do that.
I asked you ever sO many times if you knew who took
the diamonds, and you said ‘Yes,’ but when I asked who
it was, you always answered, ‘Don’t you wish you
knew ?? and that was allI could get out of you. Mr.
Arthur was here every day, and sometimes twice a day,
but you spoke German to him. Still I knew it was about
the diamonds, for I understood that word. He was not
here yesterday at all. There, hark! I do believe he is
coming now. Don’t you know who is said to be near
when you are talking about him ?”

And, with a laugh, Harold left the room just as Arthur
entered it.

«Well, Cherry,” he said to her, as he drew a chair to
her bedside, ‘‘Mrs. Crawford tells me the bees are out of
your head this morning, and Jam glad. Ihave some
good news for you. Mrs. Tracy has some diamonds, and
is the happiest woman in town.”

Jerry had not noticed his exact words, and only un-
derstood that Mrs. Tracy had found her diamonds.

“Oh, Mr. Arthur, I am so glad!” she cried ; and spring-
ing up in bed, she threw both arms around his neck and
held him fast, while she sobbed hystericaily.

«There, there, child! Cherry, let go. You throttle me.
You are pulling my neck-tie all askew, and my head
spins like a top,” Arthur said, as he unclasped the cling-
ing arms and put the little girl back upon her pillow,
where she lay for a moment, pale and exhausted, with
the light of a great joy shining in her eyes.

«Did she know where they came from ?
manage it?
asked.

“{ put them on her dressing-bureau while she was at
breakfast,” he replied, ‘‘and when she came up there
they were—large solitaire ear-rings and a bar with five
stones, not quite as large or as fine as the ones she lost,
but the best I could tind at Tiffany’s. Why, Jerry, what
is the matter? You do not look glada bit. I thought
you wanted me to give them to her surreptitiously, and
I did,” he continued, as the expression of Jerry’s face
changed to one of blank dismay and disappointment,
and the tears gathered in her eyes.

“T did—I do.” she said; “but I meant, not new ones,
but her very own—the ones you gave her.”

For a moment Arthur sat looking at her with a per-
plexed and troubled expression, as if wondering what
She could mean, and why he had so utterly failed to
please her ; then he said, slowly : ‘

“The ones I gave her? You make my head swim try-
ing to remember, and the bumble-bees are black-faced,
instead of white, and stinging me dreadfully. I wish
you would say nothing more of the diamonds. -It worries
me, and makes me feel as if I were in a nightmare, and
I know nothing of them.”

Raising herself on her elbow and pointing her finger
toward him ina half beseeching, halt threatening way,
Jerry said :

“As true as you live and breathe, and hope not to be
hung and choked to death, don’t you know where they
are ?”

This was the oath which Jerry’s companions were in
the habit of administering to each other in matters of
doubt, and she now put it to Arthur as the strongest
she knew.

“Of course not,” he answered, with a little irritation
in his tone. ‘What ails you, Cherry? Are you crazy,
like myself? Struggle against it. Don’t let the bees
get into your brain and swarm and buzz until you forget
everything. You ought to remember; you do things
you ought not todo. It is terrible to be crazy and half
consci@us of it all the time—conscious that no one be-
—. what you say or holds you responsible for what
you do.’

“Don’t they ?” Jerry asked, eagerly, for she knew the
meaning of the word “responsible.” “If a crazy man or
woman took the diamonds, and then forgot, and did not
tell, and it was ever found out, wouldn’t they be pun-
ished ?” :

“Certainly not.” was the reassuring reply. ‘‘Don’tyou
know how many murders are committed and the mur-
derer is not hung, because they say he is crazy ?”

In a moment the cloud lifted from Jerry’s fuce, which
grew so bright that Arthur noticed the change, and
said to her:

«You are better now, I see, and I must go before I un-
do it all. Good-by, and never say diamonds to me

How did you
Are you sure she did not suspect ?” she

 

 

 

 

again; it gets me allin a—in a—well, a French pickle
—mixed, you know.”

He kissed her tenderly, and, promising to take her
for a drive as soon as she was able, went out and left
her alone, wondering why it was that his having given
the diamonds to his sister-in-law had failed in its effect
upon her, and upon himself, too.

Fora long time after he was gone Jerry lay thinking
with her eyes closed, so that if Harold or her grand-
mother came in they would think her asleep. Mr.
Arthur was certainly crazy at times—verycrazy. She
could swear to that, and so could many others. And if
a crazy man was not responsible for his acts, then he
was not, and the law would not touch him; but with re-
gard to the accessory, she was not sure. If that indi-
vidual were not crazy, why, then he or she might be
punished ; and as the taste she had had of bread and
water, and hard boards, in the shape of the floor, was
not very satisfactory, and as Mrs. Tracy had other dia-
monds in the place of the lost ones, she finally deter-
mined to keep her own counsel and never tell what
she had heard Arthur say that morning when the theft
was discovered and he had talked so fast in German to
her and to himself. If she had known where the dia-
monds were she might have managed to return them
to theirowner. Butshe did not know, and her better
course was to keep quiet, hoping that in time Mr.
Arthur himself would remember and make restitution ;
for that he had forgotten and was sircere in saying that
he knew nothing of them she was certain, and her
faith in him, which for a little time had been shaken,
was restored.

With this load lifted from her mind Jerry’s recovery
was rapid, and when the autumnal suns were just be-
ginning to tinge the woodbine on the Tramp House and
the maples in the park woods with searlet she took her
accustomed seat in Arthur’s room andcommenced her
lessons again with Maude, whohad missed her sadly
and who would have gone to see her every day during
her sickness, if hepmother had permitted it.

 

CHAPTER XXIil.
ARTHUR’S LETTER.

Two weeks had passed since Jerry’s return to her
lessons, and people had ceased to talk of the missing
diamonds, although the offered reward of $500 was still
in the weekly papers, and a detective still had the mat-
ter in charge, without, however, achieving the slightest
success. Ne one had ever been suspected, and the
thief, whoever he was, must have been an expert, and
managed the affair with the most consummate skill.
Now that she had another set, Mrs. Tracy was content,
and peace and quiet reigned in the household, except so
far as Arthur was concerned. He was restless and
nervous, and given to fits of abstraction, which some-
times made him forget the two little girls, one of whom
watched him narrowly; and once, when they were
alone and he seemed unusually absorbed in thought,
she asked him if he were trying to think of something.

“Yes,” he said, looking up quickly and eagerly ; ‘‘that
is it. 1 am trying to remember something which, it
seems to me, I ought to remember; but I cannot, and
the more I try, the farther it gets from me. .Do you
know what it is ?” ;

Jerry hesitated a moment, and then she asked:

“Ts it the diamonds ?”

“Diamonds! No. What diamonds? Didn’t I tell you
never to say diamonds to me again? lam tired of it,”
he said ; and in his eyes there was a gleam which Jerry
had never seen there before when they rested upon her.
It made her afraid, and she answered, meekly :

«Then I cannot help you to remember.”

“Of course not. No one can,” Arthur repiied, in a
softened tone. ‘It is something long ago, and has to do
with Gretchen.”

Then. suddenly brightening, as if that name had been
the key to unlock his misty brain, he added :

“T have it; I know; it has come to me at last!
Gretchen always sets me right. I wrote her a letter
long ago—a year, it seems to me—and it has never been
posted. Strange thatI should forget that; but some-
ing came up—I can’t tell what—and drove it from my
mind.

As he talked he was opening and looking in the drawer
which'Jerry had never seen but once before, and that
‘vhen he took from it the letter in German, a paragraph
of which he had bidden her read.

‘Here it is!” he said, joyfully, as he took out a sealed

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HE TOOK OUT A SEALED ENVELOPE. ‘‘THIS IS THE LETTER

WHICH YOU MUST POST TO-DAY.”

envelope and held it up to Jerry. ‘This is the letter
which you must post to-day. I can trust it to you.”

He gave her the letter, which she took with a beating
heart and a sense of Shame and regret as she remem-
bered her pledge to Mr. Frank Tracy. She had prom.
ised to take him any letter which Mr. Arthur might in-
trust to her care, and if she took this one from Arthur
she must keep her word.

“Oh, I can’t do it—I can’t! It would be mean to Mr.
Arthur,” she thought; and returning him the letter, she
said: ‘Please post it yourself; then you will be sure,
and I might lose it, or forget. I am careless sometimes.
Don’t ask me to take it.”

She was pleading with all her might; but Arthur paid
no heed, and only laughed at her fears.

«7 know you will not forget, and Il’d rather trust you
than Charles. Surely, you will not refuse to do so small
a favor for me ?”

“No,” she said, at last, as she put the letter in her
pocket, with the thought that, after all, there might be
no harm in showing it to Mr. Frank, who, of course, |
merely wished to see it, and would not think of keep- |
ing it. |

But she did not know Frank Tracy or guess how great |
was his anxiety lest any message should ever reach a |
friend of Gretchen, if friend there were living. She found |
himin the room he called his office, where the dead |
woman had lain in her coffin, and where he often sat |
alone thinking of the day when the inquest was held, and |
when he took his first step in the downward road, which |
had led him so far that now it seemed impossible to |
turn back, even had he wished to do so, as he sometimes |
did.

“If I had never secreted the photograph, or the book
with the handwriting, if [had shown them to Arthur,
everything would have been so different, and 1 should
have been free,” he was thinking, when Jerry knocked
timidly at the door, rousing him from his reverie, and
making him start with a nameless fear which was
always haunting him.

“Oh, Jerry, it is you,” he said, as the little girl crossed
the threshold, and shutting the door, stood with her
back against it,and her hands behind her. ‘What is
it ?” he asked, as he saw her hesitating.

With a quick, jerky movement of the head, which set
in motion the little rings of hair, now growing so fast,
and brought his brother to his mind, Jerry replied :

‘7 came to tell you that Mr. Arthur has written the
letter.”

“What letter ?” Frank asked, for the moment forget-
ting the conversation he had held with the child in the
Tramp House.

“The one I promised to bring you to show you—the
one to Germany,” was Jerry’s answer.

And then Frank remembered at once what, in the ex-
rt of the diamond theft, had passed from his
mind.

“Yes, yes, I know; give it to me,” he said, a /vancing
rapidly toward her, and putting out his had. ‘When
did he write it ? Give it to me, please.”

«But not to keep,” Jerry said, struck by something in
his face and manner which, it seemed to her, meant
danger to the letter.

«Let me see it,” he continued.

And rather reluctantly Jerry handed him a bulky let-
ter, the direction of which covered nearly the whole of
one side of the envelope.

Very nervously Frank scanned the address, which
might as well have been in the Fiji language for any
idea it conveyed to him.

“To whom is it directed ?
said.

“J don’t know,” Jerry replied.
it, and would rather not.”

“Why, what a little prude you are;” and Frank
ook uneasily. ‘‘What possible harm is there in
reading an address ? The postmaster has to do it, and
ee who took it to the office would do it if he
could.” ,

This sounded reasonable enough, and standing beside
him, while he held the letter a little way from her, Jerry
read the address in German first, then, as he said to
her: ‘1 don’t understand that lingo, put it into Eng-
lish,” she read again :

«To Marguerite Heinrich, if living, and if dead to any
of her friends ; or, to the Postmaster at Wiesbaden, Ger-
many. If not delivered within two months, return to
Arthur Tracy, Tracy Park, Shannondale, Mass., U. 8. A.”

‘“Marguerite—Marguerite Heinrich !” Frank repeated.
“That is not Gretchen. The letter is not to her.”

I cannot read German,” he

“JT have not looked at

“Yes,” Frank returned, with a sigh, as this-little
crumb of-hepe was swept away, while to himself .he
added: ‘Atallevents it is not Marguerite Tracy, and
that makes me‘less a scoundrel than I should otherwise
be. If he had written a little more it would have run
over to the other side of the envelope. Any one would
know he was crazy,” he continued, with a sickly attempt
at a smile, while Jerry stood waiting to take the letter
from him.

He knew she was waiting, and said to her, as he put it

in his pocket :
“Thank you for bringing this tome. It is probably

some nonsense which ought not to go, even if the send-
ing it would do no harm, as it certainly would.”

Until then Jerry had not realized that he did not mean
the letter to go at all. She had remembered her promise

 

 

 

“HELLO, TRACY! LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO MR. BIJAH
JONES, FROM PENNSYLVANY !”

to take it to him, and forgotten that he had said it must
not be sent lest it should do harm to Maude. But it all
came back to her now, and her tears fell like rain as she
stood for a moment irresolute. But loyalty to Arthur
conquered every other feeling. Surely he would not
suffer any wrong to come to his own brother and niece.
The letter was harmless, and must go.

“Give it to me, please. You do not mean to keep it ?”
she said, at last, in a tone and manner she might have
borrowed from Arthur himself, it was so like him when
on his dignity.

And Frank felt it, and knew that he had more than a
child to deal with, and must use duplicity if he would
succeed. So he said to her quietly and naturally:

“Why, how excited you are! Do you think I intend
to keep the letter? It is as safe with me as with you.
It is true that when 1 talked with you in the Tramp
House I thought that it must not be sent, but I have
changed my mind since then, and do not care. I am-go-
ing to the office, and will take it myself. Johnis sad-
dling my horse now, and if I hurry I shall be in time for
the Western mail. Good-by, and do not look:so worried.
Do you take me for a villain ?”

He was leaving the room as he talked, and before he
had finished he was in the hall and near the outer door,
leaving Jerry stupefied, and perplexed, and only -half
reassured. :

“Tf I had not sold myseif to Satan before, I haye now,
for sure; and still I did not actually tell her that I would
post it, though it amounted to that,” Frank thought, as
he galloped through the park toward the highway which
led to the town.

Once he took the letter from his pocket and examined
it again, wishing so much that he knew its contents.

“If I coula read German, I believe I am bad enough
now to open it; but 1 can’t, and I dare not take it to any
one who can,” he said, as put it again in his pocket, haltf-
resolving to post it and take the chances of its ever
reaching Gretchen’s friends, or any one who had known
her. <‘‘Vll see how I feel when I get inside,” he thought,
as he dismounted from his horse before the door of the
post-office. ‘

The mail was justin, and the little room was full of
people waiting for it to be distributed; and Frank waited
with them, leaning against the wall, with his head bent
down, and beating his boot with his riding-whip.

“I must decide soon,” he thought, when a voice not
far from him caught his ear, and glancing from under
his hat, he saw Peterkin coming in, portly and pompous,
and with him a dapper little man, who, in the days of
the ’Liza Ann, had been a driver for the boat, but who
now, like his former employer, was a millionaire, and
wore a thousand-dollar diamond ring. To him Peterkin
was saying:

“There, that’s him—that’s Frank Tracy, the biggest
swell in town—lives in that handsome place I was telling
you about.”

Strange that words like these from a man like old
Peterkin should have inflated Frank’s pride; but he
was weak in many points, and though he detested
Peterkin, it gratified him to be pointed out to strangers
as aswell who lived in a fine house, and with the puff
of vanity came the refiection that, as Frank Tracy of
some other place than Tracy Park, with all its ap-
pliances of wealth, he would not be a swell whom
Strangers cared to see, and Jerry’s chance was lost
again.

There is your mail, Mr. Tracy,” the postmistress said ;
and stepping forward, Frank took his letters from her,
just as Peterkin slapped him on the shoulder, and, with
a familiarity which made Frank want to knock him
down, called out:

“Hallo, Tracy! Just the feller I wanted tosee. Let
me introduce you to Mr. Bijah Jones, from Pennsylvany;
use to drive hosses for mein the days I ain’t ashanied of,
by a long shot. He’s bought him a place out from
Philadelphy, and wants to lay it out a lJa—a la—dumbed
if I know the word, but like them old chaps’ gardens in
Europe, and I told him of Tracy Park, which beats every-
thing holler in this part of the country. Will you let us
go over it and take a survey *”

“Certainly; go where you like,” Frank said, struggling
to reach the door; but Peterkin button-holed him and
held him fast, while he continued :

“] say, Tracy, heard anything from them diamonds ?”

“Nothing,” was the reply.

“Didn’t hunt in the right quarter,” Peterkin con-
tinued ; “leastwise didn’t foller it up, or you’d a found
’em without so much advertisin’.”

“What do you mean ?” Frank asked.

“Oh, nothin’,” Peterkin replied ; ‘‘only them diamonds
never went off without hands, and them hands ain’ta
thousand miles from the park.”

“Perhaps not,” Frank answered, mechanically, more
intent upon getting away than upon what Peterkin was
saying.

He longed to be in the open air, and as he mounted
his horse, he said, as if speaking to some one near him:

“Well, old fellow, ’ve done it again, and sunk myself
still lower. You are bound to get me now some day,
unless I have a death-bed repentance and confess every-
thing. The thief was forgiven at the last hour, why
not I?”

The black shadow, which Frank felt sure was beside
him, did not answer, though he could have sworn that
he heard a chuckle as _ he rode on, fast and far, until his
horse was tired and he was tired, too. Then he began
to retrace his steps, so slowly that it was dark when he

 

        

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St Pe AG i
“WHY, JERRY, HOW YOU FRIGHTENED ME!” FRANK SAID,

AS HE REINED HIS HORSE CLOSE UP TO HER,

reached the village, and took the road which led by the
gate through which the woman had passed to her death

on the night of the storm. It was the shortest route to
the park, and he intended to take it.

As he drew near to the gate, it seemed to him that
there was something on the wide post nearest the fence
which had not been there in the afternoon when he
rode by—something dark, and large, and peculiar in
shape, and motionless as astone. He was not by na-
ture a coward, and once he had no belief in ghosts or
supernatural appearances, but now he did not know
what he believed, and this object, whose outline, seen
against the western sky, where a little dim light was
lingering, seemed almost like that of a human form,
made his heart beat faster than its wont, and he in-

 

“J guess it is,” Jerry replied. ‘He told me once that
Gretchen was a pet name for Marguerite.”

voluntarily checked his horse, just as a clear, shrill voice
called out:

 

 

“Mr. Tracy, is that you? 1 have waited so long, and
I’m so cold sitting here. Did you post the letter ?”

It was Jerry who, after he had left her in his office,
had been seized with an indefinable terror lest he might
not post the letter afterall. It seemed wrong to doubt
him, and she did not really think that she did doubt
him ; still she would feel happier if she knew, and after
supper was over she started along the grassy road until
she reached the gate. Here she waited a long time,
and .then, as Mr. Tracy did not appear, she walked up
and down the lane until the sun was down and the
ground began to feelso damp and cold that she finally
climbed up to the top of the gate-post, which was very
broad, and where, on her way to town, she had fre-
quently sat for a while. It was very cold and tiresome
waiting there, and she was beginning to get impatient
and to wonder if it could be possible that he had gone
home by some other road, when she heard the sound of
horse’s hoofs and felt sure he was coming.

“Why, Jerry, how you frightened me!” Frank said,
as he reined his horse close uptoher. “Jump down
and get up behind me. I will take you home,”

She obeyed, and, with the agility of a little cat, got
down from the gate-post and on to the horse’s back,
putting both arms around Frank’s waist to keep herself
steady, for the big horse took long steps, and she felt a
little afraid.

“Did you post the letter?” she asked again, as they
left the gate behind them and struck into the lane.

To lie now was easy enough, and Frank answered,
without hesitation :

“Of course. Did you think I would forget it ?”

“No,” Jerry answered. ‘“I knew you would not. I
only wanted to be sure, because he trusted it to me,
and not to have sentit would have been mean, anda
sneak, and a lie, and asteal. Don’t you think so?

She emphasized the “steal,” and the “lie,” and the
“sneak,” and the “mean,” with a kick which made the
horse jump a little and quicken his steps.

“Yes,” Frank assented; it would be all she affirmed,
and more, too, and the man who could do such a thing
was wholly unworthy the respect of any one, and ought
to be punished to the full extent of the law.

“That's so,” Jerry said, with another emphatic kick
andaslight tightening of her arms around the con-
science-stricken man, who wondered if he should ever
reach the cottage and be free from the clasp of those
arms, which seemed to him like bands of fire burning
to his soul. ‘“I’d never speak to him again,” Jerry con-
tinued, ‘‘and Mr. Arthur wouldn’t either. He is so
right-up, and hates a trick. I don’t believe, either, that
any harm will come to Maude from that letter, as you
said. If there does, and Mr. Arthur can fix it, he will, I
know, for I shall ask him, and he once told me he
would do anything for me, because I look as he thinks
oe must have looked when she was alittle girl

e me.”

They had reached the cottage by this time, where
they found Harold in the yard looking up and down the
lane for Jerry, whose protracted absence at that hour
had caused them some anxiety, even though they were
accustomed to her long rambles by herself and frequent
absences from home. It was not an unusual thing for
her to linger in the Tramp House even after dark. talk
ing to herself, and Gretchen, and Mah-nee, and her
mother, and a sick woman, whose face was far back
in the past. She was there now, Harold supposed, and
this belief was confirmed when Mr. Tracy said to him :

“You see, I have picked up your little girl and
brought her home. Jump down, Jerry, and good-night
to you.”

She was on the ground in an instant, and he was soon
galloping toward home, saying to himself:

“T don't believe I can even have a death-bed repent-
ance now. I have told too many lies for that, and worse
than all, must go on lying to the end. I have sold my
soul, for a life of luxury, which after all is very pleas-
ant,” he continued, as he drew near the house, which
was brilliantly lighted up, while through the long win-
dows of the drawing-room he could see the table, with
its silver and glass and fiowers, and the cheerful blaze
upon the hearth of the fire-place, which dolly had per-
suaded Arthur to have built. There was every kind ot
bric-a-brac on the tall mantel, and Frank saw it as he
passed, and saw the colored man moving slowly about
the room after the manner of a well-trained servant
who understands his business. There was company
staying in the house, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond from Ken-
tucky, father and mother to Fred; and Mr. and Mrs,

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Sa,
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‘“MARGUERITE HEINRICH!” DOLLY REPEATED. ‘‘WHO IN
THE WORLD IS SHE? AND WHERE DID YOU KNOW HER ?”

St. Claire, and Grace Atherton, and Squire Harrington
had been invited to dinner and were already in the
dining-room when Frank entered it after a hasty toilet.

He had been out in the country and ridden further
than he had intended, he said by way of apology,.as he
greeted his guests, and then took Mrs. Raymond in to
dinner, which, with the exception of the soup and fish,
was served from side tables. This was Dolly’s last new
kink, as Frank called it, and Dolly was very fine, in
claret velvet, with her new diamonds, which were great-
ly admired, Grace Atherton declaring that she liked
them quite as well as the stolen ones, whose setting
was rather passee.

“That is just why I liked them so, because they were
old-fashioned ; it made them look like heir-looms, and
showed that one had always had a family,” Dolly said.

just a little, and thought of the first call she ever made
upon Dolly, when she entered through the kitchen and
the lady entertained her in her working-apron.

Dolly did not look now as if she had ever seen a work-
ing-apron, and was very bright and talkative, and en-
| tertaining, and ali the more so because of he husband’s
| silence.
| vated his wife to desperation when he left all the con-
| versation to her.

“Do talk,” she would say to him when they were
alone. ‘Do talk to people and not sit so glum, with that
great wrinkle between your eyes as if you were mad at
something; and do laugh, too, when any body tells
any thing worth laughing at, and not leave it all to me.
Why, I actually giggle at times until I feel like a fool,
while you never smile or act as if you heard a word.
Look at me occasionally, and when I elevate my eye-
brows—so—brace up and say something, if it isn’t so
cunning.”

This elevating of the eyebrows and bracing up were
matters of frequent occurrence, as Frank grew more
and more silent and abstracted, and now, after he had
sat through a very funny story told by Mr. St. Claire
and had not even smiled, or given any sign that he
heard it. he suddenly caught Dolly’s eye and saw that
both eyebrows, and nose, and chin were up as marks
of unusual disapprobation, for how could she guess of
what he was thinking as he sat with his head bent
down, and his eyes seemingly half shut. But they
came open wide enough, and his head was high enough
when he saw Dolly’s frown; and turning to Mrs. Ray-
mind he began to talk rapidly and at random. She had
just returned from Germany where she had left her
daughter, Marion, in school, and Frank asked her of the
country and if she had visited Wiesbaden, and had
there met or heard of any one by the name of Margue-
rite Heinrich.

Mrs. Raymond had spent some months in Wiesbaden,
for it was there her daughter was at school, and she
was very enthusiastic in her praises of the beautiful
town. But she had never seen or heard of Marguerite
Heinrich, or of any one by the name of Heinrich. :

“Marguerite Heinrich ?” Dolly repeated. ‘‘Who in the
world is she—and where did you know her ?”

“T never did know her. I have only heard of her,”
Frank replied, again lapsing into a silence from which
he did not rouse again.

He was thinking of the letter hidden away with the
photograph and the book—of the lies he had told since
his deception began, and how sure it was that he had
sinned beyond forgiveness. When he was a boy he had
oftened listened, with the blood curdling in his veins, to
a story his grandmother told with sundry embellish-
ments, for he was not well versed in German literature,
of a man—Foster it seemed to him was the name—who
sold his soul to the devil in consideration that for a cer-
tain number of years he was to have every pleasure the
world could give. It had been very pleasant listening
to the recital of the fine things the man enjoyed, for
Satan kept his promise well; but the boy’s hair had stood
on end as the story neared its close, and he heard how,
when the probation was ended, the devil came for his
victim down the wide-mouthed chimney, scattering
bricks and fire-brands over the floor, as he carried the
trembling soul out in the blackness of the stormy night.

Strangely enough this story came back to him now,
and notwithstanding the horror of the thing he laughed
aloud as he glanced up at the tall oak fire-place, wonder-
ing if it would be that way he would one day go with his
master, and seeing in fancy Dolly’s dismay when the tea
cups, and saucers, and vases, and plaques, came tum-
bling to the floor as-he disappeared from sight in a blue
flame, which smelled of brimstone.

It was a loud, unnatural laugh, but fortunately for
him itcame just as Grace Atherton had set the guests

 

 

Grace Atherton shrugged her still plump shoulders’

He was given to moods, and sometimes aggra- |

 

 

in a roar with what she was saying of the Peterkin’s
final struggle to enter society, and so it passed unno-
ticed by most of them. But that nightin the privacy of
his room, where Dolly delivered most of her lectures,
she again upbraided him with his taciturnity, telling
him that he never laughed but once, and then it sounded
more like a groan than a laugh.

“You have hit the nail on the head this time, for it
was a groan,” Frank said, as he plunged into bed; and
Dolly, as she undressed herself deliberately, and this
time put her diamonds carefully away, little dreamed
what was passing in the mind of the man, wiio, all
through the long hours of the night, lay awake, seldom
stirring lest he should disturb her, but repeating over
and over to himself the words :

“Lost now forever and ever, but if Maude is happy
I can bear it.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
["HIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

BACK TO LIFE;

OR,

An Unequal Match.

 

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,
AUTHOR OF

“A Father’s Sin,” “Who Owned the Jewels,”
“The Phantom Wife,” etc.

 

(“Back To LiFrE” was commenced in No. 3. Back oum-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE QUEER SIDE OF THINGS.

The detective saw and recognized the slim figure
standing in the window of achamber of St. Regis’ house,
before it was drawn away and the curtain dropped. He
went very cautiously to the little hotel, and sought his
bed with the laudable intention of being up, bright and
early, to bag his game.

Meantime, all was not quiet in the house which he
had left to take care of itself for the night.

Reginald St. Regis was always on the alert. It was
not quite ten o’clock when the Officer left the place.
Precisely at ten, St. Regis stepped out on the front
veranda of his villa, and began to call, in a soft voice:

“Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!”

Tiger did not respond, as was his custom. Conse-
quently his master called for Pierre and a lantern, and
went on a search, through the snowy, gusty night, for
his dog; nor was he long in finding the dead animal,
half buried in a cold white winding-sheet, with a bullet
through his head.

“Has Finesse returned, Pierre? were the first words
spoken by St. Regis at this revelation.

“IT sent his brandy and water up a few minutes ago,
my lord.”

“Go to his door and tell him that I request him to
make ready for a journey to New York; there isa train
at eleven P. M., I believe, Pierre?”

«There is, my lord.”

“Tell Finesse that I will speak with him in the library
as soon aS he comes down. To the house, Pierre.”

The servant, carrying the lantern, lighted his master
back to the villa; reaching the hall, Pierre went to do
his duty while St. Regis took his way to the apartments
of his young wife.

Eltine stood before a long mirror, clad in her white
night-dress, combing out her beautiful, thick hair of pale
rippling gold. She had sent away the woman who
attended her, wishing to be aione with her thoughts.

St. Regis sank into a chair near at hand, stretched out
along arm, and drew her into his lap.

“It is a wild night, my sweet,” he began, caressing the
lovely locks that hung over her shoulder, ‘‘but you must
put up this pretty hair again, assume your warmest
dress, and go down to the city to-night in care of my
friend Finesse.”

“What do you mean, Reginald?”

He smiled into the surprised blue eyes.

“Somebody has shot Tiger on the carriage-drive. I
infer that spies are on our house. They will want to
take you away from me—and I do not want to lose you,
sweet. They shall not be allowed to interfere with our
happiness, shall they, my jewel?”

She looked gravely into the eyes which were smiling
upon her with their most fascinating expression.

“Tf papa only knew, Reginald!”

“Well, sweet, he shall know; yes, in one brief fort-
night you shall go to him and tell him all. I will place
no bar between you and this good papa of yours alter
two short weeks, I have reasons for asking this delay.
if you love me, fairy Elfine, you will do as I request and
ask noquestions. Finesse will take you to asafe and
comfortable house, in which he has rooms, where ‘you
will be taken good care of until I can come down to

= | claim you, which will bein three or four days at the
| utmost. Now, I must remain here to meet the intruders

who will doubtless besiege my castle in the morning.
Come, my child,” placing her on her feet, ‘‘you have but
twenty minutesin which to make ready. I will go order
the—sleigh, is it, they call it?—to take you to the sta-
tion,” and he went out.

Elfine felt like some unearthly creature in some
unearthly dream; but she had learned the lesson of
obedience to her fearful lord. Once or twice while
dressing herself she sat down, resolved to refuse to take
this midnight trip, and to remain and see her father if it
proved to be true that the villa was again to be searched
fur her.

But each time love and dread got the better of her
resolution. In what seemed to her a very short time St.
Regis returned bringing with him a man’s long black
cloak and hood, with a rosary, and with these articles
he completed her toilet.

“You make a charming nun, my pretty wife,” he
laughed, kissing her again and again. ‘‘Farewelltor a
day or two; do as I have told you and all will be well.”

He led her down the stairs and out to the sleigh which
stood waiting: Finesse was already in his seat; she
took hers; St. Regis himself assumed the reins, and
they glided slowly and noiselessly though the starless
darkness, while poor Elfine, cold and shivering, seemed
to oe to be slipping out of real life into some unreal
world.

St. Regis trusted to the instinct of the horse to make
his tedious way along the road, for no lantern could be
permitted. The whistle of the approaching train was
heard as they came up to the platform of the station.
The sleepy station-master took no note of the two who
entered the last car of the train, which was on its way
to the city again in one minute, its faint scream through
the snowy night sounding drowsily in the ear of the
half awake detective in the little tavern near at hand,
who turned over in his warm bed, dreaming of his to-
morrow’s triumph.

St. Regis went back to his house, the horse was put
out, the servants went to their rest. All night the large,
moist flakes of snow fell and fell, and when morning
dimly dawned every track of sleigh or horse was ob-
literated, while only a little white mound betrayed the
spot where Tiger lay.

A little after one o’clock of that snowy morning, hours
before that gray dawn which crept over the silent
country, the bell of that house which fronted on the
dingy little three-cornered park on the east. side of the
city of which we have before spoken, called Mary Gorgle
from her slumbers, who threw a blanket over her shoul-
ders and descended, shiveringly, to the hall.
is io it you, father?” she whispered through the key-

ole.

“Yes, daughter, and I have a lady with me.
has sent his wife here for safe-keeping.

‘All right,” responded Mary, unbolting the door and
admitting the two.

The young woman who confronted the travelers as
they entered, holding a lighted lamp up by her own
head, thus illuminating her own frowsy hair, pink
cheeks, and blue eyes, was the same who had so
treacherously kept the keys of the gate at Bellefontaine,
and who had been dismissed only a few weeks before,
when Dr. Gerome had concluded to. shut up the place
and go abroad.

The bold blue eyes stared hardly at the delicate face
almost hidden in the nun’s hood,

“Give her my room for to-night, Mary,” said Finesse,
quickly. ‘St. Regis expects that you will wait upon
her and see that she lacks no comfort until he comes

St. Regis

down. Is there a fire in here?” pointing to the door of
his room.
“Yes. You gave orders to have it kept up, you re-

member, as you might be home at any hour.”

Finesse drew a key trom one of his pockets and opened
the door to a very respectable—indeed, rather luxurious
—room, for he was not a man to deny himself any in-
dulgence of good ne,

«Rest you here for the present, Madame St. Regis,” he
said, with an air of deep respect. ‘‘The place is mine,
and you are most welcome to it. I would it were better,
for your sake. Wiil you have something to eat before
you retire? Mary can give us something, I know.”

‘Nothing at all,” responded Elfine, faintly, “I will ‘go
directly to bed.”

“Very well. If you feel the need of it you will find
some excellent sherry and biscuits in the little glass
cupboard, Good-night and pleasant dreams, madame.”

flfine locked her door, glanced about her room, and
threw herself into an arm-chair before the grate fire,
when she burst into a passion of tears, and wept and
sobbed herself to sleep. She felt most acutely the pecu-
liarity of her position—her rashness in visiting and
marrying St. Regis—the horror ot knowing what her
father suffered; yet she loved her strange husband, and
it was half for him she was crying, when she fell asleep
va the last tear on her cheek glittering in the fire-

ght.
Finesse, meantime, had gone up to the sitting-room

   

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

on the second fioor, where Mary—after exchanging her
blanket for a dress and shawi—hurried about, brighten-
ing the fire in the stove and putting a plate of raw
oysters, some cold mutton, bread and beer, ona small
table which she rolled up in front of her visitor.

“Sit down, Mary, my dear,” he said, «‘Sit down and sup
with me. Is there any news?—l don’t have the chance
of picking up much news nowadays.”

He, saw, by her expression, that there 2#as something
to tell; and, as he seasoned the oysters placed before
him, he went on, dropping his eyes :

‘“‘Now that the affair in whieh we were engaged so
long is out of our reach, at present, we must find some-
thing new to interest us—eh, Mary ?”

“P’raps that ‘affair’ ain’t come to an end after all,” re-
marked Mary, with affected carelessness.

His heart gave asudden throb, but he went on eating
and drinking, knowing the peculiarities of the young
woman’s disposition, and that he should gain her news
all the sooner by affecting indifference.

‘What news cowld there be about those people?” he
asked himself.

Villainous tool of a villainous master ‘as this false
clergyman was, his mind was not great enough in crime
to suspect that awful deed which St. Regis had com-
mitted. That deadly secret of the infernal machine was
the sole property of its diabolical inventor. Finesse was
at the same loss as others to account for the non-ar-
rival at her port of the missing steamer; but that she
was lost he took for granted; consequently that Mad-
emoiselle St. Regis and Dr. Gerome were lost forever out
ot the chain of events and would trouble the lord of St.
Regis no more.

The liberal pay of the young lord had bound this man
to serve him, even in his wickedness; yet a pang of hor-
ror and regret had wrenched his heart at every thought
of the ill-fated ship, for he had watched Virginia St.
Regis from the cradle, bud and bloom, and her supposed
terrible fate could not but awaken remorse and sorrow.

“What are you talking about, Mary ?” he asked, after
afew moments’ silence.

“What would you give to know ?”

“This,” responded Finesse, tossing a gold piece to her.

“My news is worth more than that.”

“Then you will give it to me for nothing, Mary.”

“I was down on the docks yesterday, selling oranges.”

‘What were you doing that for? Don’tI give you
enough to live on without your turning your pretty self
into an orange-girl? I must look after you more closely
—I see that.”

“I was down on the docks to sell oranges to the pas-
sengers of a steamer just in, as they came off the ship.
Il want you to guess who I saw coming off that vessel.”

“How can I[ ‘guess,’ as yousay? You don’t mean—
you can’t mean that, Mary !”

“Well, I did, then! As sure as you sit there, I saw
her and him, an’ them other two!”

“Incredible !”

“I tell your saw’em. They didn’t see me, though;
an’ I follered’em. They took a close carriage, an’ so did
I. My! I thought that coachee would a’ bust a laughin’
at me an’ my basket a taking a ride to the depot; but 1
paid him all the same; an’ I heard that doctor buy four
tickets for Babylon, sure enough !”

“Youre a good girl, Mary, and a wise one,” said
Finesse, looking at her admiringly. Then he heaved a
sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad the young lady is alive and on
land. I wonder what St. Regis will say to this! I’ve
half a mind not to tellhim at all; but allow him to re-
turn to France when he gets ready, and so leave his
cousin in peace.
her.

“Oh, you are on fer side, are you?’ blazed up the
young woman. ‘Well, lam not. Iii tell him—see ir I
don’t. You’d like nothing better than to go back to
France and leave me behind. I know the tricks 0’ you
men.

‘“Tlltake you along, never fear, Mary, when I do go.
But, as you know, St. Regis is really married now to
that pretty young lady down stairs. He cannot marry
his cousin if he wishes it ever so much. He thinks this
marriage is only a mock one—I have told him so”—
winking at his companion as he said it—‘‘but I deceived
him there. The laws.of this State make it valid enough.
I’m glad of it, too, for she’s an innocent, confiding, help-
less little lady, whom I pity, after all is said and done.
i must use my influence to make St. Regis kinder to
her. I should dislike to see her killed by his outrageous
freakishness. Make her as comfortable as you can
while she is here, Mary. and don’t let her see too much
of the queer side of things, please.”

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
MARY GORGLE.

The village of Babylon buzzed like a hive of disturbed
bees when the news got abroad not only that the sup-
posed lost from that vicinity had been saved by a lucky
accident, but that allfour would return tothe village
the following day.

it was resolved and carried, that evening, in Fury’s
store, that the party should be received at the station
by a deputation to greet them; and the prospects
were that the population would turn out en masse when
the hour for their arrival came.

Doctor Allsopp was active in getting up the demon-
stration, though at heart very sore to think young Arti-
choke was to be in Babylon again. He wanted to marry
Florette Fury; and Barron had stood in his way. All-
sopp was a widower, who looked for some one young
and pretty, and with money, for his second wife. Bar-
ron Artichoke had been his successful rival; but Barron
had not prized his conquest, and had deserted her for a
Still fairer lady, so that the doctor had of late cherished
the hope that he might yet attain his wish when Flor-
ette had got over mourning for her faithless lover.

“Y shall stand all the better with her, when she real-
izes how wild and unreliable these younger fellows are.
I shall have the prettiest wife in Babylon—with all of her
tather’s fortune to come in the future.”

Allsopp was cunning enough, however, to hide his an-
ticipations for the present. He talked more loudly than
any about his feelings on this occasion; and when the
morrow came, bringing on the noon train the returned
travelers, he behaved very nicely indeed and was the
most eloquent of the villagers in welcoming these
friends.

Florette Fury was not at the station to appreciate this
eloquence, although every other young lady of the place
was there.

Dr. Gerome seemed grateful for the warm interest ex-
pressed by the Babylonians, thoughly secretly vexed at
it; Mrs. Artichoke was sobbing, with her arms about
her’son and daughter—altogether, the occasion was an
exciting one, as afterward duly described in the weekly
paper of the village.

Jabez rescued his two passengers from the crowd as
soon as possible and got them into the sleigh; for he
knew that his wife would scold if the dinner stood too
jong. The crowd gave three rousing cheers as the
horses dashed off in the direction of: Bellefontaine.
Mignon waved her handkerchief in return, afterward
drying her tears withit. Barronand Claudia, with their
parents, were escorted all the way home; nobody but
Dr. Allsopp missed the little figure of Florette Fury out
ot the animated scene.

Mrs. Griddly was very red in the face, from much
cooking and more fuming and fretting, when she came
to the door to welcome her master. She had been in
one of her semi-religious, semi-scolding moods ever since
yesterday ; but she cleared up a little when the doctor
presented her with a shawl, while the dinner was cer-
tainly faultless which awaited the tired travelers.

The shades of night closed rapidly down after those
brief winter days: it was dusk when Emil Gerome and
his lovely guest deserted the table and went into the
library, on whose wide hearth a fragrant wood fire was
burning.

“How pleasant this is!” said Mignon, as she drew her
chair in front of the fire. “We are home again, dear
Emil.”

“Yes, it is pleasant here,” he answered, with a
smothered sigh. ‘But it would have been better for all
ot us, perhaps, if our plans had not been frustrated.
You cannot remain with me long, Mignon, as we are
now situated. Not even the guardian wing of Mrs.
Griddly can shelter you from the comments of the un-
charitabie. You and Barron must make up your minds
to a Speedy marriage. Ishould have preferred that your
relatives in Paris should have seen him and approved
the marriage—but my plans were changed without fault
of mine—and now we must do the best we canrunder the
circumstances.”

Mignon looked up at her friend wistfully from under
the long curved fringes of pathetic eyes. Now that she
knew what love was, she felt more keenly what must be
in the mind of this man who so loved her without hope.

“It is cruel to think I must be forced to leave you by
the voice of gossip,” she said. ‘I do not wish to marry
for years and years.”

‘But you love Barron? And your position is fraught
with danger until you are somebody’s wife who can pro-
tect you—have the right to protect you.”

Danger! ugly word, which drove the rising color from
the young cheeks of the girl. Ay, she knew the full
meaning of the word. Recollections of the past made
her shiver, here where all seemed secure—here where
the playful flames cast bright flashes over the peaceful
room. ;

What was there to fear tow ?

Did not that wicked cousin of hers believe her dead ?

Did not the loss of that fated ship secure her poor
safety ?

Was she not now free from him forever ?

As these thoughts ran through her mind a vision sud-
denly outlined itself in black upon her memory. It was
like that secret writing which makes nosign until held
to the heat. This picture was the face of a woman bent
over a basket of oranges, on the pier, as she landed from
the steamer two days ago. She had taken no heed of
this face then, in the hurry and excitement of the land-
ing. Now it came back to her, every line and every
feature vivid—a face that had haunted—that would
haunt her for life—a face which once, during one scene
ot horror in her brief history, had smiled upon her with
that evil and triumphant smile which only a lost woman
can wear when she sees an innocent one in danger.

Yes, it was that face! She was certain of it. Butshe
was not certain that the woman had seen her. At the
moment when her eyes had tallen carelessly upon her
Mary Gorgle had been rubbing a specked orange. Their
eyes had not met, or she would have recognized the
creature instantly.

“Oh!” she cried, as the picture took life in her memory.
She was thinking that if the woman had seen her, her
cousin St.. Regis would quickly be informed of her
return.

“What is it, Mignon ?” asked her companion, anxious-
ly

* She looked at him almost wildly, clasping her hands.
‘What is it ?’ repeated Dr. Gerome.

He has made trouble enough with /

 

ess bhsilee hora ada ieee heehee

‘1 don’t know, Emil; but I’m afraid I was recognized
by one of those—those terrible people.”

“How could that have been? What do you mean, my
child ?”

Mignon was obliged to tell whom she had’ seen on the
pier.

‘T hope the woman did not notice us,” said Gerome,
cheerfully; but his companion noticed that a new look
of care crept over his face and remained there.

The doctor had as yet no idea that the mild-faced wo-
man he had employed to tend the gate was this traitress,
Mary Gorgle; neither had Mignon an idea that the lodge-
keeper was this dangerous woman, for Mary had always
contrived to keep out of sight of the young lady while
she kept her place at the lodge.

The doctor, unutterably annoyed and alarmed to
think that their return had already, perhaps, : been
marked, did his best to conceal this feeling from Mignon;
but she was growing wise and observant, and her own
spirits sank as she noticed his inward care.

About eight o’clock Barron came to spend .an hour or
two. The doctor took the opportunity to go to the
dining-room and have a business chat with Jabez.

Poor Jabez was not in his usually clear state of mind;
he stumbled in his words, and made mistakes in his ac-
counts; for he was thinking of other matters than those
pertaining to the kitchen and stable. The pale, wan
tace of Florette Fury floated before his mind’s eye; her
threat to appear before the young lady of Bellefontaine
rang in his ears. Jabez was sorry for Miss Fury; but he
was glad, too, that things were as they were; for he saw
the way, by this, to prevent the marriage ef Barron Ar-
tichoke with his young mademoiselle, and thus, of
course, of ultimately making his master happy by giving
him back the love and the hand of his protegee in time.
But so many conflicting ideas and imaginings were con-
fusing to the slow mind of the man.

i hes must be sleepy to-night, Jabez,” said the doctor,
at last.

“I was kept awake a good ’eal last night, that’s a fact,”
was the humble reply. ‘‘Me an’ Miss Griddly, we got
disputin’ on religion arter we went to bed.”

“Well, we'll finish our business to-morrow, Jabez.
And do not lose good sleep in foolish argument, Griddly,”

cai THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32

 

“My genius might have developed in the atmosphere of} ‘He may, or he may be kept—there’s no tellin’. You] happy. Those beautiful lines of the poet Moo:e seem

acourt like that, where everybody was in everybody
else’s way, and where it was more than your life was
worth to sup or drink with a friend.”

Here his gentle reverie was interruptéd by the ringing
of the bell, followed by four raps, given in a manner sug-
gestive of a preconcerted signal. -

«Finesse here !—back again! I wonder what. brings
him back here without orders. Did I not tell him to
keep an eye on that pretty wife of mine until I came
down ? Oh, my dear friend, why do I see you here, when
I supposed you were doing your duty in other quarters ?”

Ay, my son, you know that I have only your interests
at heart. I have used my own judgment in this affair,
which appeared to me of‘sufficient importance to war-
rant my coming here to-night. Something incredible
has occurred.”

‘Have you allowed the bird to escape the cage ?”

“Tt is not that, at all. Madame St. Regis awaits
patiently your visit. It is something which Mary Gorgle
told me the night I went down—that was night before
last, but I waited to confirm her news before bringing it
to you.”

“Welly”

‘“‘Mary was on the pier the day before selling oranges.
Some people came off a steamer—from Halifax, or which
had called at that port—and she observed at once that
they were persons she had met before—persons in whom
my lord, St. Regis, was interested.”

: ‘What do you mean ?” roared Reginald, rising to his
eet.

“IT mean that your cousin Virginia and her: three
pi yd came off the steamer and went to Bellefon-
taine.”

“It cannot be!” murmured St. Regis.

“It can be, andisafact! I assured myself of it be-
fore |came.here. Last, night I made a trip to that vil-
lage. I saw each and every one of the four before I left.
Knowing that you would be rejoiced to hear of the
safety of your dear cousin, I hastened to assure you
of it.”

There wasasharp glance anda cunning leer from
Finesse as he finished his sentence, but they were lost
on his companion, who leaned against the back of his

 

and smiling rather sadly, the master dismissed the man,
and continued to pace slowly up and down the dining-
room, unwilling to disturb the courtship of the two
young people in the library by the presence of a third
person. 4 |

When he heard Barron rise togo he wentin. It was |
a habit of his, by this time, to repress the jealous pang |
which would try to wring his heart at sight of their joy- |
ous faces. :

Barron turned to him as he entered, saying, gayly, |
while his blue eyes sparkled :

«TI have been telling Mignon that we ought to marry |
before long. I see no reason for delay—do you, sir ?”

‘No, Barron. I have been thinking that my little girl
here would be safer as a wife, both from persecution
and from scandal.”

“There!” exclaimed the young man, turning trium- |
phantly to the young lady. ‘‘Yousay, yourself, that the
doctor is the wisest of men.”

“I will talk of these matters in the spring,” said Mig- |
non, Willfully, nestling on the doctor’s arm and looking |
at her lover with a charming smile.

Then Barron said good-night, Jabez let him out, and |
walked down to the gate to lock it after him, and the |
young aristocrat of Babylon was soon walking briskly
along the road to the village.

The moon was within a half-hour of its setting; its |
light glittered on the smooth tracks of the snowy road; |
the fences wore little caps of snow on every picket; the
leafless branches which hungover shone with an icy
coating, and rattled and cracked when a wintry breath |
moved them. He had gone but alittle way when out of |
the shadow of the fence, and of an oak which hung
above it, some one advanced and stood in his path. |
There was enough light lett for him to recognize at once |
the little figure, the white face. }

«Florette! out here ?” he exclaimed, startled. }

«You did not come to see me this first evening, so I |
came to meet you. I knew where I should find you.” |

“Or course. All the world knows, or soon will know, |
that [ am engaged to Miss St. Regis ;” the traitor tried |
to speak boldly, and to meet squarely the eyes that
looked at him, shining like gems out of the wan little
face. |

“But you promised to marry me, Barron. All summer |
you talked of marrying me. You know that was the |
understanding.” |

“Well, I really meant it then, my pretty Florette. [
did, indeed—blast me, if didn’t! J thought everything
in the world of you. But I hadn’t seen Miss St. Regis,
then. I did not know my own mind. When 1 met her, |
I knew that I had only felt friendship for you, Florette.
You ought to realize that, and not be too hard upon a |
fellow for a natural mistake. Florette, if you'll forgive |
and forget—say nothing about this affair with yourself—
and it can’t alter matters, you knéw, no matter how |
much fuss you make aboutit, it will only bring trouble |
on yourself—I will always think kindly of you and never
betray your secret. You musn’t act in this wild manner, |
coming to meet me on the road, you know.” |

“tis not the first time Ihave met you, and at your |
own request, Barron. It is too late for me to promise to |
keep our secret. I might drown myself in your father’s
mill pond, but even then, I could not keep your secret |
for you. I wish that I were dead sindin my grave, Bar- |
ron. 1 have wished it a thousand times this winter. I |
am not fit to die, I know, and the thought holds me |
back. And so I come to you once more to ask you |
solemnly, before the God who looks down at us from |
this heaven, will you keep your word with me ?”

“No, if you will have it. I made a fool of myself |
when IJ promised that. I am sorry for you, asI say; |
but I will not sacrifice all my life to a heedless promise. |
Miss St. Regis is dead in love with me. It would break |
her heart it [left her now. Ican’t doit. I won’t doit. |
Florette, |: want you to keep out of my way. I will |
marry Miss St. Regis soon and take her away to some.
other country. Keep still, until then. Or, if you are |
bound to marry, take Doctor Allsopp, he’s ready any |
day, regularly mashed on you, I know. He'll make you |
a good husband.  Florette,” almost crying, ‘if you real- |
ly do care for me, you'll consult my happiness in this.”

She looked up into the handsome tace of this man |

|

whom she had loved better than father, mother, or i

God—looked up at him wonderingly, in stupid despair : |
“Whatis to become of me?” she asked.
“J don’t know. I’m sorry we ever got into this con- |

founded scrape. Perhaps you had better confide every- |

thing to Dr. Allsopp—he is in love with you and will |
overlook everything.”

«You are Willing [ should marry him ?” |

“Certainly.”

«Oh, Barron, Barron !” the cry of a broken heart, thril-
ling a moment on the icy air of the night.

“7 hear bells. Some one is coming. We ought not to
be seen together, Florette. Good-by. I must hurry
on.”

He wrung her hands away from his arm and stalked

}
}

on.

Florette leaned against the fence; amomentary swoon |
came over her, but she did not sink. Merry bells and
merry voices went clashing and laughing by. Last win-
ter she was the belle of all these merry-makings—the
gayest, the prettiest, the most sought-after of all.

“Never mind,” she thought, as her brain steadied it-
self after that dizzy whirl, ‘‘she shall know all. itis
my duty to tell her.” |

 

® CHAPTER XXX.
WHAT COULD THIS MEAN ?

St. Regis sat before the fire in the library of his house,
looking at the flaming coals with eyes almost as bright !
and flaming. He had been reading a book on poisons— i
an old, old book, printed in Italian, worm-eaten and |
yellow. Now the book lay on his knee while he stared |
into the fire, his beautiful brow knit by some thought !
which was taking shape in his brain. A strange smile |
gathered about his thin, delicately curved lips. {

It is not strange that in the days of mingled faith and |
superstition the people believed that certain persons had }
“sold themselves to the devil.” Men sell themselves to |
the devil every day, even in this enlightened time.
How do they do it? By committing the. jirst crime. |
The president of a world-celebrated exhibition, the |
treasurer of an insurance company, the cashier of a |
savings bank, goes to perdition that moment when he
first yields to temptation. The appetite for crime grows |
in him who first.tastes the forbidden fruit.

In the case of Reginald St. Regis there had been a pre-
disposition to wickedness. He was born with a mental |
deformity, like that of his body. His natural craving
for all that was hidden, sly, obscure, monstrous, grew
with his reading of books on dark subjects, and with |
the long reveries in which he indulged himselt.

His cousin had been the first and principal victim of |
his vicious tastes, because she had been placed com
pletely in his power at her uncle’s death. With his
persecution of her his tyrannical and cruel nature de-
veloped.

His whole course toward Elfine Harland had been dic-
tated by an impish desire to be revenged upon her for
her look ot dislike and terror when she saw him whip-
ping his taithful hound. His marriage with her—mock-
marriage he intended it should prove when he got ready
to leave his winter residence—had been simply to amuse
himself, torment her, and torture her relativés ; also, to
drive outoft his mind, as much as possible, that haunt-
ing horror which had taken possession of him from the
hour that the steamer had left port with the infernal
machine which he had contrived and set for that ter-
rible stroke which had hurled her to uncounted atoms,
with all and everything on board.

He bad made the machine and had. it conveyed on
board in cold blood. He had taken a savage pleasure in
the dreadful deed. But he suffered, as the demons
suffer, after all. There could never more be a moment’s
peace for him. The relief he sought was in contemplat-
ing other crimes; though nowhere in history, in any
book or record, could he hear of a greater villain than
himself. i

He had been studying up the works on poisons lately.
To-night he had read in a curious book which told some
hideous secrets, facts mixed with a large proportion of
lies and mysteries. Now, he was thinking over these
facts, and over the events of the last two or three days.
He smiled at the memory of the acute detective who
had come to his door, shortly after daybreak, with the
sheriff of the township and half adozen men—how
politely he had received them, allowed them full search
of his premises, and sent them away crest-fallen, after
compelling them, by his overpowering courtesy, to set
down to an elegant breakfast before taking leave.

Perhaps he had no especial object in studying up the
question of poisons just then; but the subject was a
pleasant one to him.

| bottle of sherry, er some brandy and water ?

| away the musty book in which he hac
| There were things he hid even from the eye of his con-

| sorrow [have caused him.

| St. Regis took her up

as those only in nightmare.

 

“By Jove! [I wish I had lived in those days!” he mur-
mured, as he smiled back the smile of the :fiaming tire.

arm-chair, pale and trembling.

Did Reginald feel glad that his cousin and her lovers
had escaped the sare prepared for them ?

It is hard to understand the emotions of that dark

| heart.

“Then the steamer was not blown up after all ?” he
managed to say, after a pausc.

“Oh, yes; that ship has not been heard from. It must
be that our party left it at Halifax. Lucky for them.
But what makes you think the missing steamer was

| blown up, my lord ?”

“What makes me think ?—blown up ?—or burned, per-
haps. Nobody knows what happened to her, of course.

| In all probability she got on fire and burned. Yes, lam
| glad Virginia escaped a fate. like that.
| Others—those two men—I should not have cared what

As to the

happened to them,” talking rapidly and uneasily, under
the cool eye of his companion. ‘‘So they are back in
that village, are they? Well, we Shall have our trouble
allover again. Sit down—sit down. Weshall have to
consider this matter at our leisure. Will you havea
Pil ring
tor Pierre.” ;

He rang, and then, before resuming his chair, put
been reading.

tidant.
The two talked untibafter midnight, Finesse drinking

|and smoking hard, while St. Regis took but a single
; glass of sherry.

The next morning the two went to the city.

Young Fenwick the lover of the lost Eltine, was on the
train, a band of crape around his hat, for her family had
put on mourning; but there was ever a feeling in his
breast that Elfine was not dead; and as these two
passed his seat on their way to find one for themselves,
a red spot flamed out in his pale cheeks; he bit his lips
till they bled, cursing these men in his soul, although he
had no proof that they were concerned in his loss.

Harry Fenwick had played the detective before, as we
have explained; being the only person who really sus-

pected the hunchbacked French gentleman of abduct- |

ing Elfine,

He resolved this morning that he would follow the
two wherever they went: and he did.
time of it, for St. Regis waS too wary ever to seek his
headquarters at once; and he had to exercise wonder-
ful skill and caution to escape the keen eyes of the

hunted one; but he was rewarded, tate in the day, by |

seeing the dwarf go into the old brick house facing the
little triangular park. P

This was enough for that day, and Fenwick, slowly
passing the house in a closed carriage, felt that he had

now at least a chance to watch for the confirmation or |

dispelling of his wretched suspicions.

He did not see the slender figure which came flying

out of the ‘first floor tfront,’and wound its fair arms
about the neck of the new-comer, in the hall.

“Why, fairy, you are really glad to see me!” said St.
Regis, pushing back the bright falling hair from the

white forehead of his wife, which he touched with cold danger, to the joyful news which awaited her.

And [ don’t like |
this place. Take me back to our own home, will you, |

lips,
“Oh, Ihave been lonely enough!

dear Reginald ?”
“Yes, fairy, to owr own home, in truth and verity—to |

that sunny old chateau on the shores of the blue Medi- |
re will et aall tar P : or | during her delirium, and only awaited her permission to |
Ne Cee Seen ee ee ee | renew his visits—a permission which the reader will be-.

lieve she was not long in granting—and then came the |

terranean which I have pictured to you with my poor
words.
little Elf. How do you like the prospect ?”

By this time they were in the room which’ Finesse had
resigned to the lady. Elfine closed the door and seized
her husband by the hand:

“You will let me go and tell papa first, will you not,
dear Reginald? Ishall*be sO happy then; quite ready
to go with you as soon as papa knows.”

He looked down into the fair face, so very young and

so very pretty, with its little look of trouble and be- | L
| Then came the meeting between parent and child, and
You shall go back to your |
| strength.

seeching.
“Oh, yes, certainly, Elfine.
father before we sail.”
“Thank you, Reginald,” she said, kissing his hand.

eyes.
‘Not to-morrow, but soon. Ihave some business in
the city which will keep me here afew days. Then I

must return to the villa to pack up my goods there. |
You may visit your father the day before we are off. I}
wonder if they can give us anything to eat in this | N
| a dearly beloved child, and in spite of the great wrong
| which they had done her she still entertained for them
Excuse me while I |
| run up to Gorgle’s rooms a few minutes.” |
| “How handsome he is, and how courtly!” thought |
| Elfine, as he closed the door behind him.
| notices his form, he is so graceful.
| With joy at thought of seeing my father!
| quite happy when I have explained all to him.” :
She trembled, indeed, as if a cold wind were blowing |

place ?”
“Oh, yes; I have fared very well.”
“J will order our dinner, then.

Oh, how I tremble
I shall be

on her. A shiver passed over her, as if, as the super-

stition is, some One was walking over her future grave.
“Reginald is so strange,” she murmured. “I know

that I fear him more than I love him. He has such a

weird power over me, or I never would have married !

him as I did, without papa’s knowing. Thisis a queer,

| disagreeable place Iam in here—such strange people!

1 wonder what papa would say if he knew! I hope he

will not scold me very severely for all the anxiety and |
Indeed, [ could not help it. :

Reginald had everything his own way. Of course papa

| will be angry with him for a while, but he will have to
! forgive him for my sake; and Reginald is a gentleman, |
All will be right in |

educated, rich, of high birth.
time,” sighed the young wile, trying not to feel so down-
cast.

In a short time St. Regis returned to her, and a passa-
ble dinner was served in theirroom, and waited upon
by Mary Gorgle, who had been outwardly very kind to
the lady, but to whom Elfine had taken a secret, strong
dislike.

In the four days she had been in the house, Elfine had
not had a glimpse of Mary’s parents. But after dinner

company for her, while he went out on an errand,” he

| Said.

Poor Elfine thought she must haye seen such faces
She was frightened, in
spite of the fact that her husband had left her with
them, and wished that she were in her own room by

| herself. :

Mrs. Gorgle’s pale eyes were glassy with opium; her

| face, hands, and dress were dirty ; she mumbled in her |
‘speech, and was odiously familiar, ‘‘my-dearing” and |;

“my-loving” the halt frightened girl until she wished

| anxiously, with fast-beating heart, for Reginald to come

and take her down stairs to their own room.

But St. Regis did not return. Two or three hours
passed away. The hideous male Gorgle was lying back
in his chair, his mouth open, fast asleep.

Elfine was getting very pale and cold. It seemed to
her as if She must rush out of that house into the street
and cry out for Reginald.

About eleven o’clock, howeyer, Mary Gorgle came in |
with a note, which proved to be from St. Regis, saying |
that he had been unexpectedly detained, could not re- |
turn that night, and bidding his wife retire to bed, as |

there would be no use in her sitting up for him.

Now, this note had been written before St. Regis left
the house, and left with Mary to be delivered at the
proper time. ;

Elfine ¢ried herself to sleep that night.

The next morning her head ached, but not so badly
as her heart, poor child! She longed to leave the house
and fly to her father, for she began to distrust her hus-
band and fear her surroundings; but, with all her
dreaminess, and imagination, and impracticability,
which had made her a quaint, lawless child always,
Elfine was proud—too proud to desert the man‘she had
linked her fate to, and creep home, complaining, to her
father.

‘Poor papa thinks me dead. It will be better so. I
never will go home to him in trouble or disgrace,” she
said to herself, over and over, that. day—that long,
gloomy, lonely day, during which the snow melted toa
drizzling rain, and St. Regis did not return.

In the afternoon of that miserable day Mary Gorgle
came to her with a request that she would exchange the
room she occupied for one on the third floor.

“You know the room was only lent you for a day or |

two, until your husband came to attend to the matter.
Mr. Finesse will return this evening and want his own
room. Monsieur St. Regis has engaged the upper floor
for you and himself, so you may as well go to it now.”

‘Very well,” answered the young wife, wearily.

“T willshow you, the way now. No; you shall have
your dinner first.”

“So you think Monsieur St. Regis will not be here to
dine with me ?”

He had a tedious |

“May 1 go to-morrow?” she added, with sparkling |

“Onescarcely |

stairs to their sitting-room, “for |

| shall have dinner at five o’clock, leastwise.”

“T do not care for dinner, Mary.”

“Tut, tut! Yes, you do. I’ve got a briled quail, a
tart, an’ a cup 0’ strong coffee for you, my lady.”

When these delicacies were served, Elfine just tasted
the eatables, but she was feverish: and thirsty, so she
drank the whole of her large cup.of coffee.

She felt dizzy and strange when she followed Mary up
two flights of narrow, dirty stairs to the new room as
signed her.

She did not like the room at all, for it was carpetless,
cold, and half-furnished; but Mary set the lamp on the
wooden mantel-piece, and went out immediately, before
she had time to complain.

Timid as she was, Eltine would not lock her door, for
she still hoped that Reginald would return that evening.

It was not bedtime, but she had ‘no books, or papers,
or fancy-work with which to beguile the time; and then
her head felt light, there was a murmur in her ears like
the sound of the surf on the shore, and her limbs felt
numb; so she concluded that she would throw herself on
i es and try to sleep while she waited for her hus-

and.

She did, indeed, fall asleep almost immediately.

When she awoke she lay for some time before she
could summon the energy to raise her head from the pil-
low and look about her. 1t seemed to her that she had
been sleeping. a long, long time; yet it could not be
morning, for the lamp still burned brightly, and not a
gleam of daylight came through the windows.

She lay there an hour longer waiting and looking for
the dawn. Then she looked at her watch, which she
had placed under her pillow, after carefully winding it,
before she went to sleep. It was not going. She thought
it must have stopped through some accident; she never
thought that it might have run down!

The hands pointed to five o’clock.

She sprang out of bed, urged by some sudden thought,
and put aside the calico curtain which hung before the
nearest of the two windows. She c8uld not see a star—
how dark it must be! Perhaps the shutters were closed.
She raised the sash, and her hand came in contact with
rough boards. The windows—both of them— were
boarded up.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

BERTHA,

Sewing-Machine Girl;

DEATH AT THE WHEEL.

By FRANCIS S. SMITH,

| Author of “‘Eveleen Wilson,” “Little Sunshine,”
“Maggie, the Charity Child,” “‘Galenns,
the Gladiator,” etc., etc.

 

 

| (“BertrHa, THE SEWING-MACHINE GIRL,” was commenced
in No. 49. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XLIX.
SICKNESS AND RECOVERY.
| <A long fitof illness followed Bertha Bascomb's last sad
| experience. Brain fever of a severe type set in, and for
| some months she hovered between lite and death. For
| the first three weeks of her illmess she hardly knew a

 

| rational moment; but loving friends surrounded her, al-
| though she knew them not, and loving hands adminis-
tered unto her.

Both Jasper Carter and Philip Hamilton were in al-
most constant attendance, and were alternately buoyed
up by hope or crushed by despair, as the physician made
his daily reports.

At length the light of reason returned to the poor girl, nanttion
and her disease assumed a more favorable aspect, and | young ifay, and my grandfather, who was a proud, am- -

now it became necessary that the friends whom she had |

| as vetr j remain abs P S t
not as yet recognized should remain absent from her side | grand title for his daughter would suit him. Unfortu-

till she had gained sufficient strength to listen, without

|

|
|
|
|
j
|
|

exactly applicable to my present state of feeling :

“**Tll seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the shady dells,
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my

spells!

Then I wot play the enchanter’s part in spreading bliss

around,

ong DOs tear or aching heart should in the world be
ound.’

‘You are a darling!” exclaimed Philip, with ecstasy,
‘and deserve to be queen of the world. But I have not
told you of my good fortune. Since my return home I
have been taken into partnership by my employers, and
the firm is now Goodwin, Knapp & Co. So, you see, lam
in a fair way to become rich myself, and you can do with
your fortune just as you please.”

“Well, let us talk no more of money just at present,”
replied Bertha, ‘‘for I think we can find a theme which
will suit us both better. And, very opportunely, there
is the carriage rolling up to the door, so let us go and
take a ride.”

And in another moment they were rolling over the
paved city toward the suburbs.

 

CHAPTER L.
THE WEDDING AND THE BRIDAL TOUR.

The wedding day came, and with it came ‘troops of
friends” to greet the Wappy bride and bridegroom.

The ceremony took place in church, and passed off
without a single unpleasant incident.

An elaborate description of the bridal trousseau would,
peer. interest our lady readers, but as we have very
ittle knowledge of such matters, we will merely state
that Bertha was dressed richly and becomingly in white
satin trimmed with point lace, and carried a bouquet of
white roses and lilies of the valley.

It was the general_verdict that a finer-looking couple
never stood before the altar, and the ladies all envied
Bertha, while the gentlemen thought Philip Hamilton
the luckiest fellow in the world.

A grand reception at the residence of the bride’s
fathér followed the wedding, and, that over, the happy
couple, accompanied by Aunt Hannah Bussing ana the
bride’s newly-found father—whose passages had been
some time previously secured—embarked for England,
having decided to make the tour of Europe.

It was a beautiful afternoon in August, when they
had been some three days at sea, when Philip Tamil-
ton, his fair bride, and old Aunt Hannah formed a little
group on the steamer’s deck, admiring the beauties of
old ocean and speculating as tothe future. The pass-
age thus farhad been very calm, and no incident of in-
terest had happened, and now as they looked out upon
the vast ocean notaripple marred its surface, which
Was as smooth as a mill-pond. -

‘Jtis about thirty years since J left Liverpool,” said
Aunt Hannah; “and though I have never had a desire
to return till now, memories of my childhood begin to
come over me, and I am-curious to know what changes
have taken place since I turned runaway.”

“Yes,” interjected Philip, addressing Bertha, ‘you
never knew that Aunt Hannah was a runaway from her
native place, did you, darling? Nor did I till an old
gentleman in Liverpool informed me of the fact; and
since then Aunt Hannah has made a full confession.”

“You surprise me!” exclaimed Bertha. ‘What could
one so perfect as dear Aunt Hannah have run away

 

for ?”

‘Forgive me, love,” returned Philip, ‘‘for having con-
cealed trom you till now mattersof great importance
with which I became acquainted while absent from you.
You will be astonished to learn that while you in New
York found a rich father, I, while in Liverpvol, learned
of the death of arich grandfather—my mother’s father
and the brother of Aunt Hannah—who died leaving
Aunt Hannah and myself a large fortune. It is mainly
due to this fact that I suggested a trip to England as a
bridal tour.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Bertha, with real sur-
prise; ‘‘and you did not inform me of your good for-
tune ?”

“T would have told you immediately upon my return,”
replied Philip, apologetically, ‘‘but Aunt Hannah willed
it otherwise; and as she was a party immediately
concerned, I yielded to her judgment and remained
silent till now.” f

«And now, you naughty boy, tell me all about it!” ex-
claimed Bertha, in a tone of the deepest integest. “Why
did Aunt Hannah run away from home, and why has she
remained silent all these years concerning her life his-
tory ?”

“Well, this is the story in brief,” rejoined Philip, while
Aunt Hannah's face wore an amused expression, as she
regarded Bertha with a smile. ‘My grandfather, Mr.
Richard Bussing, was a wealthy man, whose wife died
about a year after their marriage, leaving behind her a
baby daughter, which baby daughter was afterward my
The baby grew to be a beautiful and brilliant

itious man, hoped to see her wear a coronet; he had a
great admiration for crests, and nothing less than a

| nately for him, however, but very fortunately for me,
| the daughter made the acquaintance of a dashing young

Jack Ryerson and his sister were allowed to visit her |
first—then Charley Mason (now entirely recovered) and |

| aunt—her father’s sister—who was old-fashioned enough
| to believe that the young couple were right, and she

his wife—then the news was carefully broken to her that
Philip Hamilton had been with her almost constantly

hardest and most dangerous task of all—that of inform-
ing her of the relationship existing between herself and
| Jasper Carter.

This was successfully accomplished, though, by Rachel
Bascomb, who, little by little, revealed to the injured
girl the whole story just as her husband had related it in
his confession on the day of the unhappy marriage.

then the worst was over, and Bertha rapidly gained

Time passed by with healing on his wings, and when
the June roses came Bertha was convalescent, and her
father decided to remove her to his residence in Phila-

| Gelphia.

The parting between Bertha and the old couple whom
she had so long regarded as her father and mother was
a sad one. She had always entertained for them a
daughter’s affection, and they had always treated her as

great warmth of affection.

Philip Hamilton would much have preferred to have
Bertha remain in the city where he could see her daily,
but of course he would not set his will up against that
of his darling’s father, and so he submitted with as good
grace as possible.

They were to be married in September, and in the
meantime Philip visited her in Philadelphia once a week
regularly, and wrote to her every day, and there was
nobody now to intercept their letters.

The rosy bloom of health had returned to Bertha’s
cheek and the sparkle to her eye, and one day as she
and Philip sat hand and hand in the parlor of the Carter
mansion, the girl regarded her lover with a 100k of in-
effable joy, as she said :

“Oh, Philip, my love, I am so happy! Oh, so very,
very happy! God has been so good tome! He has not
only restored you tome, but he has given to me my
father—and oh, such a father! So kind, so generous, so
noble! When I look back and think over it all, it seems
so very strange! It is like a dream.”

«So it is to me, dear,” replied Philip, kissing her as he
spoke. ‘‘A dream frightful enough in the beginning,
but with a sweet ending. This moment of joy is worth
all the pain we have suffered, my darling.”

“Yes, Philip, dear,” was the reply, ‘itisso. There is
but one thing that troubles me now,” she continued,
looking archly at her lover, ‘‘and that is that you could
ever have believed me capable of writing that hateful
letter.”

“I did not believe it at first,” replied Philip. <I felt
almost certain that it was the work of an enemy. But
the handwriting was a fac simile of your own, and
after I had written to you again and again, and month
after month sped by without bringing me an answer,
then I began to despair, and the belief took possession
of me that you had indeed ceased to love me. But, dar-
ling, while you are blaming me in your mind for a lack
of faith, you must not forget that you also were guilty
of the same fault, if fault it may be called, for did you
not think that the letter which you received was genu-
ine ?”

“J will not deny it, Philip,” answered Bertha, can-

didly. ‘And now, dear, let us resolve never to think of
the past again, but to live in the present and think only
of the future. The past has been so dark—so very dark
| some of it, while the present is so sweet, and the fu-
| ture is so bright.”
} We will, my darling, we will,” returned Hamilton,
| joyfully. ‘My cup of happiness is full to overflowing,
and the past shall never awaken a sigh of regret from
me. There is but one pleasure now denied me, but I
ee allow even that thought to worry me.”

‘‘What one pleasure can that be, Philip ?” asked Ber-
tha, wonderingly.

“Tf you were the same poor sewing-girl that you were
when we were first engaged, I could have the exquisite
pleasure of working to surround you with luxuries, but
now that you are an heiress that happiness is denied
me,” returned Philip, almost sadly.

“Oh, then, you regret my good fortune!” exclaimed
Bertha, with a merry look. ‘‘For shame, Philip! For
shame! That is not like you. But, jesting aside,” she
continued, ‘‘my wealth shall not stand in the way of
your happiness. On the contrary, it shall contribute to
it; forI know your generous nature, and I am certain
it will please you to know that I have determined to
distribute a large portion of my means among my late
shopmates. Oh, Philip, you have but little idea of what
the sewing-girls of this great city suffer. Overworked
and poorly paid, some of them have sick parents to sup-
port, some of them have little brothers and sisters to
look after, some of them are orphans, lett to struggle
alone in this sinful world, to battle against its miseries
and temptations, and all of them are poor, and, because
poor, looked down upon by the uncharitable and unfeel-
ing. Noone can pity them like one who has been of
them, and who knows their trials, their struggles, and
their temptations. I shall see to it that those whom I
personally Know shall suffer no more. John Ryerson
shall go into business, if he pleases, and so shall his sis-
ter Maggie; and father has already taken Tommy, the
oftice-boy, into his employment, with a view of giving
him an interest in his business when he reaches man-
hood if he shall prove worthy. Mr. and Mrs. Bascomb
shall also be taken good care of. Oh, Philip, Iam so
happy myself that I wish I could make the whole world

 

 

|

|
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|
j
!
}
}

|
|

Ss

 

officer of the British army, fell in love with him, and in
spite of all her ambitious father eould do, married him,
and went with him tothe United States. She had an

championed their cause with her brother till in his in-
sane fury he turned her out of his house, and she fled

| with the young people, to Share their good or evil for-
| tune.

In course of time the young wife had a boy-baby
(myself) and they were all very happy for a season. But
ill-luck seemed to attend them. The father, who had
adopted letters as a profession, lived only a few years,
and left his wife and child depending entirely upon the
exertions of good Aunt Hannah, who had married a man
named Bussing—her maiden name, singularly enough—
and her husband having also died, she adopted her
nephew and reared him to manhood with all a mother’s
care and tenderness—God bless her!” and he imprinted
a fervent kiss on the cheek of the old lady, whose eyes
were filled with tears at the recollection of the dreary
ast.

“In the meantime,” resumed Philip, ‘‘no compunction
touched the conscience of the flinty-hearted old man till
long years afterward, when sickness laid him ona bed
of suffering, and then he relented and made a will be-
queathing his vast estate to his only two surviving rela-
tives, his sister and his grandson. Fortune took me to
Liverpool, where these facts came to my knowledge, and
seeking out the deceased man’s lawyer, everything was
confirmed, and all that remains to do now is to appear
and claim our inheritance—and there you have the whole
story in a few words.” .

«And avery remarkable story it is!” exclaimed Bertha.

“Yes, almost as remarkable as your own, darling!”
returned Philip ; ‘‘but ‘all’s well that ends well,’ and I
think we may now, after all the trouble through which
we have passed, count on a bright and prosperous
future.”

“Let us hope so, at least,” rejoined Bertha, with a
smile. ‘Of course, we cannot tell what the future has
in store for us, but it is our duty to take whatever the
good Father may send, without question, and in perfect
trust.”

“Spoken like a true Christian, my child,” interjected
Aunt Hannah, with fervor. ‘I have tried that plan all
through my lite, and have found it to work perfectly.”

CHAPTER LI.
PHILIP VISITS HIS OLD FRIENDS.

In afew days the steamer arrived safely in port, and
after the usual annoyances which follow disembarcation,
our party found themselves comfortably situated in a
commodious hotel in Liverpool.

“] must leave you alone with Aunt Hannah for an
hour or two to-day, my love,” said Philip, on the
morning following their arrival. ‘‘I have some business
to attend to which will not at all interest you, but to-
morrow I will take you to see my friends at the house of
Mrs. Hale, trom whom I received so much kindness on
my late sojourn there.”

“Yes, [ remember your telling me all about Miss
Fanny Hale,” said Bertha, archly. ‘1 don’t wonder that
you wish to see her; you were much interested in each
other, if 1 remember rightly.”

“Silly Bertha!” exclaimed Philip, with a smile, ‘i

hope you are not jealousof that noble girl. You speak
of our having been interested in each other! What,in-

terest she may have had in meI. do not know, for ‘she
never told me, but I was interested in her beyond a
doubt—so much so that I felt for her a brother's love
and told her so.
and told the story of my deep, undying love for a dear
little working girl far away, and when that cruel letter
came, and I felt heart-crushed, and desolate, and alone
in the world, I showed it to her, and she lifted a big
weight off my heart by expressing her firm belief that
you never wrote it.”

“JT recoliect you told meso at our first meeting after
your return,” replied Bertha, earnestly, ‘‘and already I
love her as a sister although I have never seen her. Ah,
Philip, my husband, after all that has passed I never
could be jealous of you. If I could entertain such a
feeling, even for a moment, Ishould want to die at once,
for it would seem to me like doubting divinity itself.
My earnest prayer to Heaven is that the dear girl of
‘whom we are talking will secure for a husband a man
that is entirely worthy of her, and whom she will love
as dearly as Ilove you, my own darling !”

“If she secures James Madison,” replied Philip Hamil-
ton, returning his young wife’s embrace, “she will
secure one who is worthy of any woman living!” And
kissing her, he departed and took his way to the estab-
lishment of Messrs. Hale & Nixon.

The old merchants received the young man very cor-
dially, and after some conversation on general affairs,
Mr. Hale said:

“Let me congratulate you, Mr. Hamilton, on your
happy marriage. My daughter has told me all about
your troubles during courtship, but ‘all’s well that ends
well, and I trust that the rest of your life’s horizgn will
not have a single cloud to mar its brightness.”

“Tcan hardly hope for that,” rejoined Philip, ‘for
such a lot comes to none of human mold. But I shall at
least have as much happiness as falls to the lot of
mortals generally, and more than falls to the lot of
most, for I have the sweetest wite that ever blessed a
man with a true woman's love, and more of this world’s
goods than I ever expected to. possess.”

«And now,” rejoined the old merchant, ‘I have a sur-
prise in store for you. My daughter Fanny was married
last week.”

“That is indeed a surprise,” exclaimed Philip, who
hardly dared ask the bridegroom’s name, for fear that it
might be some other than Madison, for he knew how
fatal such a result would be to the happiness of his

 

I laid my whole heart bare- before her, ~

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Ss
a

——

}

 

 

“with an amused smile.

 

 

a

 

friend. He was not long kept in suspense, however, for
the old merchant continued, in a tone of the greatest
satisfaction :

“Yes, she was married to my head-clerk, Mr. James
Madison, a young man for whom I have always enter-
tained the highest regard, and who now has an interest
in my business.”

“You could not have told me anything that would
have gratified me more,” exclaimed Philip, in a tone of
exultation, “for during my stay with you 1 conceived
for James the warmest friendship, and your daughter
to me was little less than a sister, I knew that James
loved ‘her devotedly, for he made me his confidant.
They are a noble couple, and my sincere prayer is that
sgn may have a long and happy life. But where are
they ?’

‘Away on their bridal trip,” returned the merchant,
“but they will be back shortly, for we are pressed with
business, and I hardly know how to get along without
James, who is a perfect martinet‘in the office, and will
allow nothing to interfere with his business.”

“} know that,” returned Philip. ‘I observed as much
while I was here.”

And having made an engagement to visit Mr. Hale
with his bride the next day, Philip took his departure,
and wended his way homeward.

 

CHAPTER LI.
PHILIP AND HIS WIFE MEET MR. COURTRIGHT.

On the day following the incidents narrated in the |

last chapter, Philip and his wife, accompanied by Aunt
Hannah and Mr. Jasper Carter, the bride’s father—
which latter two had been included in the invitation—
set out on a visit to the Hale mansion.

Mr. Jasper Carter had many years previously been in-
timate with Messrs. Hale & Nixon in a business way,
and he was pleased gt the idea of meeting the senior
member of the firm, though so long a time had inter-
yened since they had met.

They were all heartily welcomed by the old merchant
and his hospitable wife, who could not do too much for
their comfort.

“So this is the little girl for whom you grieved so
much, while you were with us?” exclaimed old Mrs. Hale,
when Philip presented his wife. ‘1 don’t wonder you
were troubled about her, Philip, for one look at her pure,
sweet face is enough to show that she is a dear, good
girl, and well worth sth

And the old lady kissed Bertha on both cheeks as she
helped her disrobe, while the old merchant looked on
admiringly.

Bertha blushed like a child at the compliments show-
ered upon her, while Philip smiled pleasantly as he lis-
tened to them, and exclaimed : Ae

“She is all that you say and more, too, Mrs. Hale, and
when you come to know her better you wili agree with
me, I am sure.”

Soon everybody was completely at ease, and the con-
versation became general.

The two old merchants had much to talk of concern-
ing the past, the present, and the future of business,
Philip and his young wife sat in a corner making love as.
fervently as before marriage, old Mrs. Haie was dilating
to Aunt Hannah on Philip’s excellence while with them,
and the latter old lady was gratified beyond measure to
hear such encomiums lavished on her pet boy, as she
called him.

“By the way, Philip!” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Hale,
“we Shall have an old triend of yours here presently.”
“Who can that be?” inquired pe with some sur-

“T made very few triends outside of your family

Mr. Courtright, our attorney. I told him of your mar-
riage, and your arrival, and invited him to join us, an
invitation which he readily accepted, and indulged in
many kindly expressions of regard concerning you.”

‘1 arn surprised to hear that,” returned Philip, in a
tone of wonder, ‘‘for at the only interview 1 ever had
with him he was anything but amiable, and I did not
take away with me any very agreeable opinion of him.”

“That does not surprise me in the least,” rejoined the
old merchant, with ahearty laugh. ‘Mr. Courtright is
a@ very eccentric character, and there are few who
know him thoroughly. Iam one of that fortunate few,
however, and I tell you that away down deep in his
nature there isan amount of sterling worth that you
will not often find in a man of his vast experience. He
has two natures—the one a blunt, outspoken, careless
disposition, amounting to absolute, rudeness, the other a
deeply sensitive, remorseful nature which leads him to
the opposite extreme. He will absolutely insult a man
by giving expression to his radical opinions, and an hour
later be will feel that he has indulged in a breach of
etiquette demanding the severest punishment. Of
course I do not know what passed between you at the
interview of which you speak, but 1 will venture to say

Dn if he forgot himself and was Offensive, the very

thing he will do on meeting you will be to makea
most abject apology in some extravagant manner. His
ruling trait, however, is thorough, uncompromising
honesty. He has been our attorney, now, for more than

. thirty years, and day by day he has impressed me as a

man who would not knowingly doa dishonorable thing
to save his life !”

“Then I don’t care what his eccentricities are!” ex-
claimed Philip, in a tone of deepest admiration. ‘Such
a quality as that blots them ail out, and I shall never
think ill of him again whatever he may do or say.”

“By Jove! here he is!” exclaimed the merchant, as a
cab rolled up to the door of the house, and the subject
of their conversation alighted.

“You are very welcome, Mr. Courtright!” exclaimed
the merchant, as the old lawyer entered, and he shook
him warmly by the band; “pray, be seated and make
yourself quite at home.”

“Not I have made myself right with one of your
guests,” returned the old lawyer, gravely, and ap-
proaching Philip Hamilton, he continued, in a tone of
the deepest humiliation: ‘Sir, will you please do me
the very great favor to pull my nose? Don't hesitate,”
he coutinued, as Phillip backed a little way from him
“Don’t hesitate, sir—it is a big
nose, and I wish you would grasp it firmly and tia
arr, I deserve it if everaman deserved it. Mr.
Hale,” he continued, turning toward the merchant, ‘do
you know I treated this young man like a brute, and all
for what? Because he had the manliness to speak
warmly of the institutions among which he was reared.
lama miserable old vagabond, and if you have the slight-
est candor you will say so and make me happy.”

“Mr. Hamilton is not aman to harbor ill-will under
any circumstances,” interposed the merchant; “so let
as be by-gones, and say no more about it.”

“But I ought to be punished,” insisted the old eccen-
tric; “this is not the first nor the thousandth time that I
have been guilty of the same offense, and F suppose I
shall go on repeating it to the last, for nobody has ever
punished me. Immunity from punishment always leads
to a repetition of offense. Therefore it is his duty to
punish me. He is bound by every consideration of law,
morals, good government, and social etiquette to do it.”

«Please throw yourself upon the mercy of the court in
this instance,” pleaded Phillip, laughing immoderately.
‘Believe me, sir, I have no desire to punish you, and I
would not pull your nose for a kingdom.”

“That's how it always ends!” exclaimed the old law-
yer, his stern features relaxing into a smiles ‘‘Dut I sup-
pose I shall have to submit.
go upwhipt of justice.”

They shook hands cordially, and then Philip, with a
look of pride, presented his wife.

«You are very pretty, my dear,” said the old lawyer,
taking her small hand in his and looking upon her ad-
meres js “and lll wager you are as good as you are
pr: utIam almost ashamed to look at you after

aving so grossly insulted your husband.”

Just then his eyes encountered those of Aunt Hannah,
and he recognized her instantly.

‘Well, well!” he exclaimed, ‘‘my old time sweetheart,
how are you?” And he gallantly raised her hand to his
lips and kissed it. ‘Itisa matter of thirty years,” he
continued, ‘‘since [saw you last, but you are looking
surprisingly well. And you are a widow, I understand.
Well, Iam still a bachelor, and I think I shall remain
one now. The fact is, I have never had time to get mar-
ried, and,I regret it somewhat, for it I had had a woman
to give mea good round scolding every time I misbe-
oat myself, it might have altered my character ma-

erially,

And then they sat nown beside each other and had a
good long talk about old times,

And so the evening passed pleasantly away, and as
Philip and his fair bride were preparing to depart, Mr.
Hale said to them :

“You have made us very happy by your presence
here, my children, and now I have one favor to ask
which I hope you will grant.”

“Name it,” exclaimed Philip, ‘‘and I promise in ad-
vance to acquiesce.”

“It is that you and your sweet little partner here, and
your aunt, leave your hotel and take up your residence
with us while you remain in Liverpool. We have a great
house here and nobody to occupy it. We can make you
much more comfortable here than you can possibly be
in any hotel, and atthe same time you will render us
very happy.”

Yes, and it will be such an agreeable surprise to
Fanny and her husband on their return,” exclaimed
Mrs. Hale. ‘Do come, will you not?” this in a pleading
tone to the young people.

“I shall be very much pleased to accept your kind
offer,” returned Philip, in a tone of gratitude. “What
says my darling wife and my good old aunt?” and he
looked kindly at them as he spoke.

“Dear Philip,” rejoined Bertha, looking lovingly up at
him, “I will answer you in the language of the Blessed
Book, ‘Where thou goest I will go, thy people shall be
my people, and thy God shall be my God.’”

Aunt Hannah made no objection, and so it was ar-
ranged that they should all come on the morrow,

CHAPTER LIL.
NEW EVENTS.

A year has passed away since the events narrated in
the chapter just closed took place. Philip and his wife,
accompanied by old Aunt Hannah and their two triends,
James Madison and his wite, have made the tour of
Europe in company and have become greatly attached ;
the legal business attending the estate of Philip’s grand-
father has been satisfactorily settled, and the heirs have
returned to the United States to settle permanently; and
now it is time that we should allude to some of the other
characters in our story.

David Carter was not prosecuted to conviction by his
generous brother, as he richly deserved to be. On the
contrary, his acquittal was secured, the affair hushed
up, and the brother whom he had 80 grieviously injured
furnished him with means to begin life anew. True to
his instincts, however, he could not be honest. No com-

 

So shake hands and let me |

} punction touched his callous heart. Hating the whole
| world except his daughter Lilian, for whose sake he
| would have been Willing to have sold himself to the
Evil One, and she would have been as willing that he
should, he determined to return to Philadelphia, and by
whatever means his rascality might devise, Garve out
for himself a position.

3 AY: he at once took his daughter into his con-

ence. :

“Lil,” he said one day as they sat in their cozy littie
hotel parlor, ‘Jasper has furnished me with money
enough to make a start in life, as he terms it, which
means that Iam to go into business, work hard, live
sparingly, dress youin cheap goods, and grub along as
best I can, while he and his baby-faced daughter and
her husband revel in wealth and live on the fat of the
land. How does that meet your views, my Lilian?” And
he looked at her significantly.

“Not at all, papa,” replied the beauty, bitterly. “I
had rather die than mope my existence away in a second-
rate position in life. What were beauty and talent
given me for ?—forI am both beautiful and talented—
and heretofore [ have been surrounded by the luxuries
of life. Iam, besides, by nature a sybarite—ease and
plenty are indispensable to my existence, and I will have
them at whatever cost. Do you hear me, papa 2”

“I do,” replied David Carter, approvingly, ‘‘and your
ideas square with mine exactly. I have.come to the
same determination.”

“It is easy to come to a determination, papa,” rejoined
‘Lilian, “but it is sometimes difficult to carry it through.
; What do you propose ?”

“IT have thought of many things, Lilly,” returned: her
father gravely, ‘‘but only of one that seems feasible and
safe. You must marry, my daughter, and marry rich.”

“About the most difficult of all things under ordinary

circumstances,” replied Lilian, with a pout, ‘‘who on
earth am I te marry ?”
_ ‘There is no difficulty at all in the matter, Lilly,” re-
joined David Carter, confidently. ‘You are to marry
your old lover, Harry Holman. Since his father’s death
he has co into possession of about half-a-million
dollars. He is throwing it away lavishly and you must
help him spend it.”

“You have a poor memory, papa,” returned Lilian,
with bitterness, ‘‘do you forget that very recently we
have both been disgraced? That you have been proved
an impostor and I have been declared to be your
daughter ?” r :

#1 have forgotten nothing, my pretty, precious one,”
responded David Carter, confidently, ‘‘and I have given
the matter full consideration. My honorable brother
Jasper is a very proud man, and among his other accom-
plishments is a good diplomat. He would not have had
; the facts in the disagreeable case to which you have al-
luded made public for all the world, so he succeeded by
a lavish expenditure of money in surpressing them.
Young Holman is entirely ignorant of what has happen-
ed. He still supposes you to be the daughter of one of
the wealthiest merchants in Philadelphia, and myself to
be your honorable and respected uncle, and he is likely
to continue in this belief unless you enlighten him, which
I imagine is not likely to happen.” :

“But I have never listened to this man’s 4ddresses
with anything but utter contempt,” said Lilian, with a
look of disgust, ‘‘I have snubbed him frequently and on
several occasions I have grossly insulted him. Ido not
like him! Ihate him! Heis nota gentleman! In his
jy maudlin despondency he has dared to come into my
presence drunk! Yes, papa, drunk /”

Mr. David Carter indulged in an immoderate fit of
laughter and then he said, flippantly:

**Well, my child, that all happened when you were sup-
posed to be, prospectively. as rich as he was, but things
have altered since then—things have altered !”

You are right, papa,” assented Lilian, after a long fit
of musing, ‘things have altered, and in my future oper-
ations I must strive to keep that fact in view. I know I
can bring this fool to my feet at any moment, and, al-
though I detest him, I will marry him.” And she set her
lips firmly.

“and the sooner the sacrifice is made, the better, for he
is getting rid of his fortune as rapidly as possible.”

In a week from that interview David Carter and his
daughter (but his supposed niece) were located in a
fashionable residence in Philadelphia.

(10 BE CONTINUED.)
. >e~<-
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.}

AUDREY'S RECOMPENSE,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON.

 

 

(“AUDREY's RECOMPENSE” was commenced in No. 48. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XL,
THE UNION OF HEARTS.

Miss Waldemar, Rich, and his father returned to Lyn-
nell the third day after their arrival in New York, and
-they received a most cordial welcome from every mem-
ber of the family.

All were glad to have the suspense ended, for they
had experienced no small amount of curiosity concern-
ing the important and mysterious business which had
called Audrey so suddenly to New York.

Her story, when she related it, created considerable
excitement and surprise, while Rich was heartily con-
gratulated upon the happiness which Margaret Fox’s
revelation had brought to him, and also upon his future
brilliant prospects.

“7 have felt from the first that there was good blood in
his veins. It has always seemed to me that he could not
have sprung from any ordinary source,” Mrs. Campbell
remarked, when talking these things over quietly with
Audrey afterward.

“That has been my own feeling, too,’ returned Miss
Waldemar, ‘‘but it seems very wonderful to me that Ar-
thur’s boy, of all others, should have been committed to
my care.” :

“The whole affair, from beginning to end, is the most
romantic story I ever heard of in real life; and,” with an
arch glance at Audrey, ‘I never saw such a change in
any-one as there has been in Mr. Halstead, since our first
| meeting.”
| Audrey blushed. She knew there had been a change

 

 

|
|

in her also. Something of the beauty and hope of her |

 

“Now you talk sensibly,” said her father, approvingly, |

 

early life had returned to her, as well as to him, and had |
| Shed a very different light upon their future, thus leav- |

| ing its impress upon their faces.
| Arthur Iialstead was no longer the sad, self-repressed
man which he had been tor twenty years and more. The

out of his countenance, leaving it genial and beaming as
in the days of his early hopes; while there had come an
energy and buoyancy into his manner that had long
been foreign to if.

Audrey’s lassitude and paleness all fled before the
dawn of this new day, and she seemed to grow young
with a beauty at which her friends all marveled. The
score or more of years that had elapsed since her separa-
tion from her lover had touched her very lightly, despite
the sorrow ef which she had been ever conscious, and
now, at forty-two, with the future still holding so much
of hope for her, she did not seem a day over thirty.

“Mamma, I am not sure but that Miss Waldemar will
make a lovelier bride than Annie,” Grace Campbell re-
marked only a day or two before the wedding.

It had been decided that there should be two weddings
instead of one. .

Audrey had told Arthur Halstead that she would be-
come his wife whenever he pleased, and he was unwil-
ling to. waitfor the fulfillment of his happiness a day
longer than was necessary; so it had been arranged
that after Rich and Annie should have plighted the vows
which would make them one, Mr. Halstead and Miss
Waldemar should also be married, without any show or
ostentation.

There was no reason why they should delay ; it would
save the labor and excitement of preparing for another
wedding.

Rich and Annie were to take a trip to the White
Mountains and thence to Saratoga, where they intended
to spend a couple of weeks; so it would be a month _be-
fore their return. Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Halstead
senior would repair directly to New York to await the
home-coming of the young couple.

The evening of the 9th arrived, and everything was in
readiness for the all important event of the morrow.
Miss Starkey was tired, but happy, for all things had
moved along as smoothly as any one could have any
right to expect, and the old homestead was in perfect
order—swept ahd garnished trom attic to cellar, no
pains or expense haying been spared to ‘‘have things
done up in shape.”

“Audrey, my own,” Arthur Halstead said, as he parted
from the beautiful womaa, who was to be his wife on the
morrow, for the last time. ‘I can hardly realize this
great happiness, but it almost makes me forget all those
lost years of my life.”

She lifted her lovely face to him, and it seemed as if it
shone with almost holy beauty.

“Do not let us call them ‘lost years,’ Arthur,” she said,
“for Ido not believe they have been, even though they
have held so much of pain for both of us. You have
faithfully fulfilled the duties which seemed to be laid
upon you in such an unaccountable way, and no one can
do that without having both heart and character en-
nobled and purified. While surely 7 cannot feel that the
years were ‘lost,’ which have brought so much of com-
fort to me, in watching and helping to forward the de-
velopment of such a boy as Rich has been.”

“No, indeed ; the influence of your work noone can
estimate,” returned Arthur, almost reverently.

«And the knowledge, ’ continued Audrey, with a ten-
der smile, ‘‘when it came to me, that Rich was you son
—that, though we had been so strangely separated, I had
been working for you all these years, was ny crowning
joy—my recompense—as I told you the other day. Oh, no,
they have not been ‘lost years,’ Arthur; they have only
been a sort of sowing and growing time, and now we are
about to reap a beautiful harvest, and shall, I believe,
realize and appreciate our happiness far more than we

 

shoujd have done if we had had everything our own way
in those old days.”

“Perhaps you are right, Audrey,’ Mr. Halstead said,
gravely, yet the pain of the past had been so great that
he could not look back upon it even now without regret.

She glanced up at him wistfully.

“T have gradually grown to feel sure,” she said, in a
low, reverent tone, “that God’s ways are always best.
Some one has said that life is something like a carpet.

Gazing upon the wrong side of it, it looks very much |

mixed ; there is apparently no pattern, or plan, or har-
monious blending of color. But the other side is per-
fect: and so when we are permitted to gaze upon our
lives, fron the other side, We shall see and understand
just how the pattern has been growing into beauty of
design, and according to the plan of One who never
makes a mistake. Arthur,” she continued, gravely, ‘I

am not going to look backward any more; all the past |

has been for a purpose, which will be revealed to us by
and by, and we have no longer anything to do with it.
Our cup has been filled to the brim now—let us keep it
full = we go along and not embitter its contents by vain
regrets.

Arthur Halstead bent and touched her upturned brow
with reverent lips, feeling almost as if She stood upon a
higher plane than he, but believing.that if perfect hap-
piness Could be attained in this world, he should experi-
ence it with Audrey Waldemar as his wife.

* * * * * *

The tenth dawned a perfect September day.

The weddings were to occur at twoin the afternoon,
in season for the bridal party to have plenty of time to
catch the five o’clock express going squthward.

Mr. Hamilton and Mrs. Allen, tog@ther with a few

other friends, had come on from New York the previous |
day, to do honor to the occasion, while Mr. Hamilton had |

been chosen to perfurm the ceremonies.

Annie Noble made one of the loveliest brides that <e’er
the sun shone on.” —

Miss Waldemar and Grace Campbell had planned *her
dress to suit themselves, after receiving a hint from Miss
Starkey regarding the matter.

“I want things done right up to the mark,” she had

said, when the question of material and make had been |

under discussion. ‘‘’Tain’t likely that George Washing-
ton and I will ever marry off any body again, and I don’t
want any half-way work about this wedding. We love

 

“TI think it is lovely of you, Aunt Martha,” Annie re-
sponded heartily, ‘‘and 1 know she will think so, too.
How beautiful it must be to have such a long life as you
have had, and to do so much good as youshave done!”

“Well, I’ve only been the Lord’s steward ; 1 don’t sup-
pose I’ve done as well as I might: butI have tried to do
some good for Him in the world. There was a time,”
continued the woman, a shadow falling over her face,
“when I felt as if I was rather badly used; but,” with a
fond glance at Annie, ‘‘He’s making it up to me now.”

Annie went over to her and laid the paper in her lap,
bending to kiss her affectionately as she did so.

“You don’t begrudge that ten thousand, then ?” Miss
Starkey said, bestowing a searching glance upon the
sweet, fiushed face. ‘

“No, indeed, auntie, and should not if it was double
| the amount.”

“Um—Il thought you wouldn’t; but concluded I'd bet-
ter be sure about it, rather than to have any feeling about
it after I’m gone ; besides, Iimagire George Washington
is going todo the handsome thing by you, and there
won’t be any danger of your ever coming to want ; while
pt pg feel sure you'll do your share for the Lord’s poor
out of it.”
| ‘When He comes to make up His jewels, what a
| precious one you will be, Aunt Martha,” murmured
| Annie, softly. ,

‘“Humph !” rather a rough kind of jewel, Ireckon. If
you'd said that to Miss Waldemar—no, Mrs. Halstead—
it would have sounded all right; but,” with a wistful
look in her mild gray eyes, ‘perhaps the Lord'll polish
me Off a trifle. andI sha’n’t seem quite so outlandish
| there as I’ve been here all my life; anyhow, I can leave
| it with Him.”

* *

 

* * * * * *

_ And thus we leave our friends. happy after their morn-
| ing of gloom and clouds, in an afternoon and evening of
| Calm content and beauty.
| Audrey Waldemar believed she had already received
| her recompense for her early trials; but by and by, in
| the eternal future, when, ‘‘on the other side,” she is able
to see and realize how the influence of her patient wait-
| ing, of sorrows meekly borne, of duties well performed,
and of the life which she had guided into such nobility
; and honor, was to widen, and touch, and elevate the
| life and character of others, think you she will not feel
| that she had not reaped Ja tithe—though at present ‘it

the child with all our hearts, and she’s going to have the | Seemed so rich a harvest—ot what was waiting and ac-

best there is, as long as we can give ittoher. Soyou fix |
her up as pretty as you can, and don’t count the cost.” |

But Annie’s wedding-dress was comparatively simple |
after all, for they decided that delicate white tulle over |
white silk would be the most effective for her style of |
beauty ; and the result proved that. they were right, for |
when she stood arrayed in it, on her bridal day, she was
simply perfect from the crown of her golden head to the
tip of her white satin boots.

The dress was made en train, and. the masses of fieecy
tulle, floating out behind her, seemed like a cloud of
frost-work; while her really elegant vail added character
and richness to the whole.

Her corsage was.made high at the throat, while her
only ornaments were a simple cluster of real orange
blossoms fastening her vail, and another upon her breast.
But her beautiful hair shone like purest gold through
the mist-like vail, and her eyes vied with heaven’s own
blue. The most delicate bloom was on her cheek, and
her lips were like a thread of coral.

Every one forgot her dress when they looked into that
lovely girlish face with tender love shining through it,
and the perfect happiness resting upon it. |

There were gifts of every description, however, which
told that all this simplicity was from choice and not from |
lack of ornaments. Almost everything in the way of }
sliver and jewels had been showered upon the gentle |
girl, whom all had grown to love, and there were two or |
three tables loaded with testimonftals. of friendship and
good-will. |

Miss Waldemar, the other bride, was elegant in a deli- |
cate mauve colored satin, trimmed with point lace; a set
ot diamonds fit for a queen, and which emitted flashes |
of light with her every motion. In her hands she |
carried a small bouquet of feathery clematis, and, with
that subdued glory of happiness on her face, really made
as lovely, if not a lovelier bride than sweet Annie Noble;
as Grace Campbell had predicted.

Grace herself also demands a word of notice, for she
had never looked so handsome, although her dress or
heavy, cream-colored silk.was made perfectly plain;
a Only ornament amass of cardinal flowers in her |

elt. |

Mr. Hamilton’s eyes followed her every movement.
There was something about her which seemed to inspire
him with a feeling almost of reverence.

“She is more than beautiful; if ever a face could take
on the loveliness of a purified soul, hers has done so du-
ring this last year,” he said to himself, as he watched
her, so forgetful of self, so thoroughly in sympathy with |
the happiness of her friends.

She was surprised at herself, for there was not a thrill
of her old passion for Rich left to cause her a pang on
this, his wedding-day.

It had been but a delusion, and her untutored heart
had rebelled like a child, simply because it could not
have what it had craved. Still her suffering, for the
time, had been deep and real, and had thus served to
purity and ennoble her nature.

“TI can see now that it would not have been best,” she |
thought, as she looked upon the young couple while |
they plighted their vows. ‘Annie will make him a de-
voted wife, and make his home the dearest spot on
earth ; but’—and a wistful look came into her brilliant
eyes, ‘‘I believe I have grown to crave something more
than the simple routine of a quiet home life. 1 think I
am capable of performing all necessary duties and of
reaching out after others—of bringing happiness to
other hearts and homes also.”

The words were spoken which made Annie Noble and
Richmond Waldemar Halstead husband and wife ; and |
then his father led Audrey quietly forward to their |
side, where afew simply spoken sentences united the |
oe which for long years had been so true to each |
other.

Then there followed the usual congratulations and |
good wishes, after which there came the wedding |
least, Which, prepared under the supervision of Miss
Starkey, would have done honor to a New York caterer |
himself. {

Just before
upon their trip, ‘‘Uncle George” drew Annie and her
husband aside and put a folded paper into the young |
bride’s hands.

“This fine-looking, high-headed chap of yours,” he
began. with a sly wink at Rich, ‘‘would make me do it; |
so I guess I’ve fixed it all square, and the whole thing is |
yours to do what you’ve a mind to with.” ;

“Well, but what is it, Uncle George ?” Annie asked, as
she unfolded the legal-looking document, and was ap-
palled at its length and technicalities.

“It’s nothing but a deed of that house in New York;
and I only hope you’ll enjoy living in it as much as I’ve
enjoyed helping tix it up tor you,” returned Mr. Starkey,
regarding the fair little wife with a fond expression.

“How good you and Aunt Martha have been to me,”

 

 

e newly wedded couples were to start |

; Annie said, tears springing to her eyes, while she |
Slipped her small white hand affectionately over his |

arms.
“Well, I guess we’ve taken about as'much comfort |

| Out of it as anybody, and,” nudging Rich, ‘I reckon
| you don’t feel sorry, now that we fixed that place up |

shadows of disappointment and grief had all been swept |

ship-shape, do you #’
«No, indeed, Mr. Starkey, although at the time 1 feared |

| you were propesing a more extravagant style than I

 

could afford to support,” Rich replied, heartily ; and it |

may be stated here that he too had received documents !

that morning from his father, investing him with his |

ia fortune to the amount of seventy-tive thousand
ollars.

After this there came the farewells, and Rich and his |
bride departed on their tour, accompanied by Arthur |
Halstead and his wife as far as Bangor, where they
separated ; the young couple to go to the White Moun-
tains, while the latter returned directly to New York.

|
|

* * *

|
|
* * * * *

Three months later found our friends all back and |
nicely settled in New York, Annie and Rich in their |
beautiful home, which had been handsomely and ele- |
gantly furnished while they were away; even to the |
little ‘glass house,’ which had been filled with the |
nee flowers which Uncle George could find in the |
city.

He and Miss Starkey had come to spend the winter
with their niece and seemed to enjoy the prospect of
another season of city excitement and privileges, min-
gled with suburban quiet. ;

AS soon as they went back Mr. Starkey had consulted
with Mr. Mason, and before Rich returned a fine stable

was in process of completion; Mr. Remington himselt |
having planned the structure in order that it might cor- |

respond with the house. And now there were a span of
fine horses housed within it, and in the carriage-house
adjoining a handsome coupe, the gift of Mr. Halstead
senior.

That gentleman and his wife were occupying hand-
some apartments on Fifth avenue, not far from the |

Campbells, preferring to board for the winter, as they
were contemplating a trip abroad the following sum-
mer.

Meantime Mrs. Campbell was herself absorbed in the
excitement of wedding preparations ; for Roger Hamil-
ton had persuaded Grace that she alone could make him
happy for life; and she, feeling that no greater honor
or joy could be hers than to be the wife of sucha man,
and that as such the broader field of action which she
craved would be opened to her, had not demurred when
an early day was named for their marriage.

One morning, about Christmas time, Miss Starkey
came into Annie’s private sitting-room aud handed her
a paper.

at d like to have you read that as carefully as you've
a mind to, and then tell me what you think of it,” she
said, briefly; then drawing out her knitting, sat down
to wait until she had complied with her request.

The document proved to be Miss Starkey’s last will
and testament, in which she bequeathed the bulk of her

roperty to her. ‘‘beloved niece, Annie Halstead,” and a

egacy of ten thousand dollars to Grace Campbell, ‘‘to |

be used as her heart and judgment should dictate.”

Annie was ae. moved upon reading this, and sat
quietly wiping the tears trom her cheeks, unable to
speak for some moments.

“It’s wellto be prepared for emergencies, though 1
intend to hold on to life just as long as the good Lord’ll
let me stay,” remarked Miss Starkey, as Annie refolded
the paper, ‘‘and sol thought V’d’tend to this matter
while I telt pretty well. Of course, it it doesn’t suit you,
child, it can be changed; and I know, too, that Grace’ll
have enough of her own by and by; but I thought
*twould sort of show my appreciation of her kindness to
me last year, if I gave her a little something to use es-
pecially on her errands of mercy.”

| tributor, will be commenced next week.

cumulating for her in the beautiful beyond ?
_ (THE END.)
[A'brilliant and fascinating love story, by a new con-
It is entitled,
‘MARRIED AT MIDNIGHT; Or, THE BRIDE’S FATE.”]

-e~

Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

(Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
NEw YorK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for
eer anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-

erest for genekal perusal. It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be ee scholarly style; so long as they are
pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be
remedied.

 

The Story of the Rain.
You can accurately tell the man who’s married,
it you'll notice how he acts some rainy day,
And observe how o’er his lady friend is carried
The umbrella that should Keep the rain away.

=* If you find the lady his strong arm gripping,
And is walking very closely by his side,
While the water is upon his shoulder dripping,
You may know she is a maiden or a bride.

If the drippings fall, however, on her bonnet,
And he walks about a foot or so ahead,

Then she’s nothing but his wife, depend upon it,
And they’ve been for half a score of winters wed.

Wife and Man.

A Pittsburg paper reports the following conclusion to
an interview between a real estate dealer and a couple
who were contracting: to rent a flat:

“Well,” says the woman, finally, “I will give you $25
for the flat; won’t we, John 2?”

“Yes’m,” replied the man.

fot Pil pay my rent promptly, too; won’t we, John?”

<Y eS. .

«And [ll take care of the house; won’t I, John ?”

“Yes'm.”

“But,” L inquired, as is usual in such cases, ‘‘are you
man and wife ?”

‘Man and wife!” exclaimed the woman, sharply. ‘‘In-
deed we are not; are we, John ?”

‘‘No’m.”

“What!” says 1; ‘not man and wife!”

“Not much. Id have you know that in this family we
are wife and man; ain’t we, John ?”

“Yes’m.”

A Rough Road to Travel.

Some of the railways in Georgia are still alittle shaky.
The ole Jerkwater line is especially loose in the joints.
A commercial traveler who came in yesterday relates a
little experience while bounding over the road.

“We were whooping along,” he said, ‘‘at the rate of
about seven miles an hour, and the old train was heav-
ing terribly. Passengers were rolling from one end of
the car to the other. I held on like grim death to the
arms of my seat. Presently we settled down to quiet
running—at least I could keep my hat on and my teeth

| didn’t chatter. The conductor was in haillng distance.

I looked up with a ghastly smile, wishing to look cheer-
tul, and said:

“We are going a little smoother, I see.”

“Yes,” said the conductor, ‘‘we’re off the track now.”

A Pledge of Affection.

“You say you love me,” she whispers.

ae en tte I would wed you—my own.”

“é ye ”

“But fate has decreed that I cannot afford to marry.
But suppose——”

«“Suppose—suppose—we—you go as far as fate will
permit—we will wait. Give me a diamond ring asa
pledge of your affection, dearest, and 1 will wait pa-
tiently—so patiently !—until another fellow comes with
a bigger diamond.”

Observing the Proprieties.
Undertaker—‘‘In selecting a coffin, we are often guided
| by the cause of death. Your friend died of-————”
| Aplicted Friend—‘‘There was no particularcause. He
| died of old age.”
| Undertaker—‘In that case, I should recommend solid
| mahogany, with solid silver handles, and all the rest in
| keeping. Most people of taste are very strict in obsery-
| ing all the necessary proprieties on so solemn and sad
| an occasion.”

A Protected Rogue.

| Jim Webster being once more before the court, his
| honor asked :

‘‘Haven’t you been in jail for stealing chickens once
before ?”

“No, sah; no, indeed I hain’t. Praise de Lawd foah
His infernite goodness and mussy, nobody hain’t cotched
me yit. Hit seems as ef I was pertected by de higher
powers.”

A Feminine Peculiarity.

“Why, do you suppose, the feminine is used in speak-
ing of the moon ?” asked Mr. Murphy of Miss Esmeralda

ong. i

“Because she is so beautiful, I suppose,” replied Es-
meralda, who is on the shady side of thirty-five.

“No; it’s because there is no finding out how old she
is,” replied the other.

What Would Happen.

A teacher was illustrating the process of evaporation to
a class of young scholars :

“Suppose I should set a basin of water out in the
school-yard in the morning and let it remain all day,
what would happen ?”

“It would get upset,” was the practical reply.

An Advocate of Home Rule.
| “Mrs. McCorkle, are you in favor of home rule ?” asked
| an Irish lady of her neighbor.
| Indeed Iam,” replied Mrs. McCorkle ; ‘I think every
woman should rule her own home,
since I was married.”
The Quickest Way.

The other day, an excited individual accosted a street
urchin with the question :

“Say, bub, which is the quickest way for me to get to
| the railroad depot ?”
| ‘Run,” was the response.

Mirthtul Morsels.
| Young Mr. Lemon Peale was heard to remark at the
| Philadelphia Chrysanthemum Exhibition : ‘‘Ah, Miss de
| Bisque, the chrysanthemum is just like yourself—it
|; comes so late.” ‘Indeed! and like yourself also, Mr.
Peale—it has no scents to speak of.”

“So, you’ve been out to the Pacific coast, eh? Did you
see the great gorge of the Colorado?” ‘I think so. At
| least, out at Cheyenne I saw a buck Indian eat six
| pounds of bologna sausage, half a box of crackers and
| nineteen herring without a grunt. How is that for
gorge ?”

A Sunday-school teacher once asked: ‘‘What bird is
large enough to carry off a man?” Nobody knew; but
one little girl suggested ‘‘a lark,” And then she ex-
Jained, “Mamma said papa wouldn’t be home till
Monday, because he had gone off on a lark.”

All doctors agree that to enjoy good health the mind
must be kept in a cheerful condition. But no doctor can
| give a man points that will make him joyous when his
| collar don’t fit.
| «Tom Hood was a witty poet, was he not?”
but we have one that’s Whittier.”
| 4)There is one point in this world on which we never felt
| fully at ease. And‘thatlis the point of a pin.

| A popular_air with the ladies—Sweet Buy and Buy.”

I’ve ruled mine ever

“Yes,

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

>

| from death.

bs

 

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Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass.
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8 «ote THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #330

 

 

 

 

UNDER AND OVER THE SNOW.

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

 

Under the snow the blessed rest,
Safe in their quiet beds ;

Never a trial, and never a care
Enters their peaceful heads.

Over the snow the weary creep,
Hungry, and cold, and sad ;

Seldom a pleasure, and seldom a joy
Cometh to make them glad.

Under the snow the rich and great
Quietly lay them down ;

Gone is the cankering moth and rust,
Gone is the thorny crown.

Over the snow the rich and great

Varry their loads of care ;
Pleasure to them is an empty sound,
Joy is a blessing rare.

Under the snow, “the beautiful snow,”
Sleepeth the happy dead ;

Over the snow, the shrouded snow,
Sorrow and joy are wed.

AN INNOCENT THIEF.

BY M. T. CALDOR.

‘‘Heaven be praised! there is a cloud yonder!” said
Raynor Thaxter, lifting one shapely hand to thrust back
the drooping masses of moist hair from his forehead, and
glancing out wearily to the burning Summer sky, which
had been pouring down a steady glare of heat all the
morning. ‘Let us hope there is a shower coming.”

The words were spoken more to himself than to his
companion, a boy of fourteen, who was sorting out a pile
of legal documents at the other table, and tyIng them up
with the genuine and innocent article for which bar, and
bench, and court, have been so often anathematized.

But Joe Marston looked up cheerily, and answered
promptly.

“Yes, sir. Ihopeso. It's awful—hot.” -

The lawyer did not seem to be aware that any one had
spoken.

He returned to his papers with renewed interest, paus-
ing every now and then te pencil a memoranda upon the
sheet containing his notes for the plea of the most im-
portant case he had yet undertaken.

The firmly griped lips, the keen look in the flashing
eyes bespoke the earnestness of his interest in his occu-
pation. Joe watched him furtively, with the admiring
awe which a boy always gives to his first hero. The
state did not hold such another great man, in Joe Mar-
ston’s estimation. It meant the cream of the beatitudes

for him when Raynor Thaxter said, cheerily :

“That was well done, Joe, I have great hopes of you.”

And the sky darkened, and the world. was a dismal
place, and lite a burden, when his master frowned. To
be sure, One was as rare as the other, but the occasions,
numerically the Same, would by no means weigh the
scales alike. :

He rose in a moment, and went out to the anteroom,
and returned presently with a glass mug in which the
globules of ice were clinking musically,.and set it down
at Thaxter’s right hand.

“Ah, thank you, Joe, that is well thought of,” spoke
the latter with a gentleman’s courtesy to a dependent.

But though he raised the refreshing draught to his
lips, it was with an absent air, and Joe understood that
his thoughts were diving into the intricacies of the great
case, as he stabbed his pen furiously into the sponge-
glass, and then drummed a little tattoo upon the carved
owl which supplied him with sand.

Presently he rose abruptly and went to the safe, and
unlocking it, brought out a small box of papers, which
he set before him on the table, spreading them out until
he found the one he wanted, a yellow, crumpled docu-
ment, which he read through twice. a beaming satisfac-
tion brightening all his face as he did so.

“Aha! this is where we have them! The key-stone of
our structure is this important little document. Without
that 1 wouldn’t give a straw for the case, and with it we
ao to bear any pressure,” he muttered, triumph-
antly.

And then he rose and began pacing to and fro between
the desk and the windows.

“Now he’s planned the case, and he’s come to the
plea,” thought admiring Joe. “Oh, my! won’t it be
stunning, and take their breath away !”

Perhaps the surmise was true, for his eye flashed with
excitement, and a warm glow stole over his face as the
walker paused again, and rubbing his- hands together
softly, sank back into his seat.

All this time the cloud had been marching sullenly up
from the horizon till it had spread its leaden banner
across the flaring blue. When it reached the sky against
the top of the window, a sudden gust of angry wind, the
first breath of the tempest, leaped downward, and took
instantaneous possession of affairs.

A column of white dust went edging upward from the
street. A score of blinds and carelessly swinging doors
banged all around the block in which the lawyer’s office
was Situated. His opposite windows, wide open to catch
the faintest breath of air, invited the intruder’s en-
trance, and he came unceremoniously enough, whisking
off the hats hung upon the rack by the door, flapping a
newspaper most irreverently against-the lawyer’s cheek,
and then, as it to complete the mischief of his frolic,
seizing upon the pile of documents as if they had been
as light of consequence as weight, it sent them fluttering
in all directions.

Joe started up and rushed to the window, showing
himself to be the ready, quick-witted helper he always
meant to be. Your ordinary office-lad sits quietly to en-”
joy the fun, and waits to be ordered to close the window.
To be sure, a good deal of mischief may be accomplished,
but “it isn’t his affair, you know.”

Joe had both windows closed, and was gathering up
the scattered papers betore Thaxter spoke.

‘Whew! we are going to be cooled off in short order.
The wind has gone around bang east. That briny odor
isreviving. That’s right, Joe; here, put them in this
box, and—”

But here there came an interruption. Saunders from
across the entry looked in to say, hastily :

“Look here, Thaxter, could you run down stairs to
the street? They say a horse has run away, and I'm
afraid it is Miss Amsden’s. She was here amomentago,
and has only just gone down. I've got these confounded
witnesses giving their depositions, and can’t leave.”

Saunders was justice of the peace, and in that thriving
eountry Village generally had his hands full.

'Thaxter flushed as the July heat had not compelled
him.

‘“‘Miss Amsden !” he repeated, doubtfully.

«Yes, my cousin Maude, you know,” began the other,
testily, and then stopped short as a sudden remem-
brance came to him, and the sentence was continued
mentally in this tashion: ‘‘By George, now I’ve put my
foot in it! Wouldn’t Maude wither me up with one of
her searching glances if she knew I'd forgotten all about
that old affair, and gone and asked Ray Thaxter to look
after her runaway.”

But aloud he supplemented :

«Oh, well, never mind. Ill find Morse, if you are busy.
And | dare say itis all a hoax.”

“J am never too busy to attend to the needs of a lady,”
answered Thaxter, stiffly. ‘I will attend to the matter,
certainlh , and see that she has an opportunity to ride
home, if her horse has really gone.”

And giving his legal neighbor no chance for reply, he
turned hastily for his hat, saying :

«“‘Put all the papers carefully in the safe, Joe, and lock
it up,” and was down to the sidewalk in two minutes
more.

A crowd of men and boys were down in the street,
although the rain was now falling smartly, witb every
now and then a vivid glare of lightning, whose accom-
panying crash of thunder came unpleasantly close upon
the flash. :

Raynor Thaxter pushed his way across the street
valiantly, unmindful of the lightning or the rain.

“What's the trouble?” he asked, sharply, of the boy,
who most unnaturally hung by a gate there deliberating
which way to turn.

«A horse run when the wind started so sudden, and
the lady didn’t have no reins, they say.”

“Good heavens! was the lady in the carriage? I
thought it had left her in the lurch,” ejaculated Thax-
ter. ;

And he ran furiously down the street to the group
of watching men who were stationed at the fork of the
roads.

His face was white, and the lips were more grimly set
together than when he was annihilating his legal oppo-
mshi claims in his imaginary combat a short time

ack. é

“Maude Amsden in danger !—Maude Amsden’s life in
danger !” he was saying over to himself, with a strange
sinking of the heart.

“The horse must come around this corner, ’cause
there’s no other turn,” one man was saying, positively.

«Uniess he turns around sharp, as like as not he’ll do
that,” quoth another, sagely.

“Then its all day with the lady,” declared another,
with a grimace that roused such wrath in Thaxter’s
breast that he longed to throttle the speaker.

“Or more like somebody will stop him,” suggested a
mild-eyed man, hopefully.

‘Hark !” sharply commanded the lawyer, for his eager
ear had suddenly caught the sound of spanking feet
coming madly on the road.

«“Them's no wheels,” said the leader of the group;
‘‘he’s broke loose somehow.”

And the next instant the frightened horse, with the
flying harness driving him into madder frenzy, came
plunging into view.

«He has overturned the carriage!” muttered Thaxter,
in low, hoarse tones. ‘Catch the horse, if any of you
oa os will run down to see what has. become of the

ady.

The rain was still deluging everything, and the sharp
peals of thunder made fit accompaniment for the tragedy

of his fears as he ran wildly down the by-stree,t which
was: more like a lane; being only used as a short cut
from ‘the: two principal thoroughfares of the village.

The horse dashed past him unheeded, and Ray Thax-
ter never turned nis head to see if the shouts of the
men behind him or their clumsy efforts turned his
course.

Panting for breath, and inwardly shaken by a name-
less horror, he stumbled on his way, noting the stray
signs of wreck—here a buckle and strap, there a rein—
scattered in his track.

House there was not upon the road until it joined the
highway again, and he came in sight of that, nearly
spent of strength and breath, before he had a glimpse of
what he longed and yet dreaded to see.

There was the overturned carriage on one side, the
disengaged fore-wheels and broken shafts on the other.
And the lady ?

His blurred eyes for a moment refused all vision, and
then he saw the tall, shapely figure, not lacking all
grace or dignity, even in its drenched, disordered con-
dition. Help had already reached her. She was sur-
rounded by half a dozen men and boys, and a woman
was just rushing toward her, camphor bottle in hand.

«Are you hurt? Maude! Maude! are you hurt?” cried
out Thaxter, tearing up to the group with the last effort
of his spent strength.

Miss Amsden had seen his furious coming, but, in his
drenched, collapsed condition, had not recognized his
identity. At sound of his voice, she opened those wide
gray eyes, and just the faintest flush of color stole over
her pallid face.

While she lifted one hand and tried to push back the
dripping locks that straggled down her forehead—an in-
stinctive feminine effort, the first that had yet stirred
her intense excitement—she answered him, in low, even
tones that went to his heart. so well remembered—and,
oh, so precious once—ay, and so dear still—that he shook
with agitation while he listened.

“No; [am not hurt atall. Thank you very much for
your interest. Iam not in the least hurt, only a little
frightened, and a good deal—wet.”

She tried to laugh as she concluded, but the effort died
unsuccessfully.

‘“TJ—am—so thankful!” ejaculated the lawyer, and
staggered as he spoke.

And, as another flash of lightning lit up the group,
his pallid face took on such a deathly look, she ex-
claimed anxiously, in return:

into her Sunday-school class, Maude Amsden’s quick eye
so00n discovered something amiss with her tavorite
scholar.

“Why, Joseph Marston. you’ve answered quite astray;
you are not yourself at all. My dear Joe, is there any-
thing troubling you ?” she said to him, in a low aside.

“Ob, indeed, Miss Amsden, my heart is almost brok-
en. I’m in the worst trouble that could be!” blurted out
the lad between his sobbing breath.

“Can I do anything to help you, Joe?” she asked, in
her sincere voice of gentle sympathy.

“Indeed, I’ve been wondering all through the lesson
if you couldn’t,” whispered Joe, eagerly. ‘‘Mr. Thaxter
would believe you if you told him I was a good and hon-
est boy; he couldn’t help it, could he ?”

“Mr. Thaxter! Has it anything to do with him ?”

“It’s all with him. It seem as if I couldn't bear that
he should doubt me.”

“Come to see me to-night, and tell me the whole story,
Joe. It’s no place here for such a talk.”

“Thank you, Miss Amsden. Oh, if you could only
pare it right! I'll be sure to come,” returned the grate-

ul boy.

And promptly with the evening shadows he presented
himself at the Amsdens’ beautitul home, which was lo-
cated a little outside the pepnions portion of the town.

The fair heiress was at the piano, but turned about
promptly with a welcoming smile when the lad ap-
peared, and led him to a tete-a-tete beneath the heavy
drapery of a curtained recess, from which they could
look out into the cheerful room, with its luxurious fur-
nishings and tasteful works of art.

Aunt Amsden occupied an easy-chair by the table,
and, after responding to the introduction, considered
evidently that hemaduty as chaperon was done, when
ret sat there, hymn-book in hand, within hearing dis-

ance. ‘

If the words were—

“Zion, awake, thy strength renew,”

her conscience could not have been a very sensitive one,
for the leaf was never turned, though every now and
then she started up, adjusted her glasses, and attacked
the page with fierce energy. But invariably the hand
would sink slowly, the eyelids wink desperately, and
then softly succumb, while book and glasses would both
fall unheeded into her lap.

Maude caught Joe’s eye twinkling a moment over the
pantomime, but she smiled indulgently, and said:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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‘‘But you—you have over-exerted yourself. I am sure
you are ill.”

He turned away, and sat down in the rain and the
mud. How fearfully absurd it all looked to him that
night when he was tossing on his restless pillow ; but,
at the time, nothing seemed incongruous to the strange
situation.

“Seems to me we'd all hands better get under a roof;
though, the Lord knows, there ain’t many dry threads
about any o’ us,” spoke out the sturdy old farmer, who
had been gathering the debris into one heap. ‘‘You’ve
had a mighty lucky escape, Miss Amsden, for all this ere
buggy isn’t fit for much but kindling-wood. ’Tain’t very
often a woman jumps froma carriage as you did and
comes Off without broken boves.”

“T understand. Indeed, I am grateful for Heaven’s
mercy this day,” said Maude Amsden’s low, sweet voice.

“Come, now; you'll be getting your death o’ cold, and
that won’t be a mercy. Come right over to our house,
and father’ll take you home when this pesky rain stops,”
urged the farmer’s wife, staring with a vague sort of
awe toward the sitting figure of him known in town as
that ‘‘odd, proud Lawyer Thaxter.”

But Miss Amsden was looking that way also, and she
was reluctant to go while he remained so strangely still
and stiff. She approached him timidly.

“We are going to the farm-house, Mr. Thaxter. Do
you feel able to walk with us ?”

He turned his head slowly, and the color came surging
into his cheeks, though his lips were still blue, and they
trembled a little when he spoke.

“It is absurd enough in me, but my strength all went
out of me from—the exertion.”

“A good bit of a run, if you came after the horse when
he first started,” quoth the farmer. ‘It would take the
wind of the best of us.”

Thaxter laughed, and rose rather stiffly to his feet.

‘IT must go to my gymnastics again,” he said, apolo-
getically. ‘I wasn’t aware I was losing muscle in this
fashion.”

“Twarn’t all that, I dare say,” put in the farmer's
wife. ‘You was afeard for the lady, and fear takes
away strength more'n anything.”

“T was very much alarmed, certainly,” answered he,
walking with them now and keeping pace.

“Now tell me your story, Joe. You see that you
needn’t be troubled by auntie’s listening. I can’t think
what you have done to displease Mr. Thaxter.”

“Oh, Miss Maude, I don’t presume to blame him, be-
cause it looks so black; yet it cuts meto the heart to
have him doubt me. There’s a paper lost, Miss Maude—
a paper that belongs to the great case coming off next
week. You’ve heard about it. Everybody is talking
about it. And, oh, Mr. Thaxter was sure to triumph—
to make such a grand success of that case !”

“Yes, I've heard some talk, of course. Well, and why
won’t he triumph now, Joe ?”

Oh, he will. 1 hope he will. 1 know he will almost—

‘‘You don’t think the other side have got hold of tt ?”
she asked, with a little gasp of breath.

e wee and pray not; but indeed I don’t know any-
thing about it. I only know that Mr. Thaxter says that
if it is called for in court he is ruined as a lawyer; no
one will ever trust him again.”

“Could it have fallen into the carriage ?”’ questioned
Miss Maude, in a low, eager voice. ‘“‘Why can’t I follow
it further? I see it ae above my head as I shut my
parasol, and then the horse started, and he—ran all the
ne ‘me,” she added in a lower voice still, ‘‘indeed

1e x)

‘“‘Would you speak to Mr. Thaxter and ask him not to
doubt my honesty ?” asked Joe again, not quite under-
standing her new mood, and considering it very foreign
to his needs.

“I will think about it, Joe. And I'll do everything I
can to help you. I'll inquire about your sister’s being
at Murdock’s and tell him that. Come again to-morrow
and I’ll tell you if I have discovered anything.”

“The case comes on day after to-morrow,” said Joe,
dismally. ‘There isn’t much time to make a search of
any sort.”

“A great deal may be done in a day,” returned Miss
Maude, hopefully, with which trite and true saying she
dismissed him, and shortly afterward retired to her
chamber, only, however, to toss restlessly upon the
couch, falling into broken snatches of slumber in which
she again renewed the scene so indelibly impressed
upon her memory.

parasol upon the steps of her carriage, with a gust of
dust and chaff and that one fluttering paper eddying
about her.

At an unprecedented hour in the early morning she
was at the shop of the carriage painter who had taken
the wrecked vehicle in charge.

“Has anything been done with the carriage yet ?” she
asked, anxiously.

«“‘Haven’t had a chance to touch it, Miss Amsden,” re-
plied the man.

- which the young lady beamed upon him a radiant
smile. ‘

Would he allow her to gotoit? She suspécted some-
thing was left under the cushions or carpet. Something
she should be very sorry to have lost.

Certainly he would, and he promptly led the way.
Alas! with a gloomy face and a strangely sinking heart
she came away from the search.

«Poor Joe!” she murmured, and added something very
like, ‘‘Dear, dear Ray !”

At all events, she blushed after it, as rosily as if her
thoughts could be read by every one she met.

She saw Joe in the afternoon. His gloom had a tragic
element in it.

“I can only pray that the paper won’t be called for,”
he said, in a strange, hoarse voice. ‘1 heard him tell
his client that he should proceed as if he could put his
hand upon it, but that if it was demanded they were
both ruined.”

Miss Amsden turned pale.

“Shall you go to the trial, Joe? Won't it be too much
for you ?”

“T shall go if I die forit. Andif they docall for it, I
shall step forward and take the blame on myself. T shall
say that it was my carelessness in not finding it when
the papers were scattered, Oh, to think how I’ve looked
forward to hearing Mr. Thaxter’'s plea!”

“I should like to go myself,” said Maude Amsden,
slowly; ‘‘only I am not sure if I could keep composed
and calm. I don’t know if it would be wise.”

The same query occupied her the next day. She was
so nervous and restless that even her obtuse, good-na-
tured aunt said, reprovingly :

«What ails you, Maude? I never saw you so trying,”
she said.

“I’m going to the village, | think. I will take the open
phaeton and the old horse. Where is the large-parasol ?”

‘Do let John drive you, child. I was in hopes your
last drive had taught youalesson. 1 don’t know about
the parasol; but there’s the pongee one you had that
day. They brought it home from the carriage, you
know. It’s a wonder it wasn’t broken to smash; but
those frames are always strong.”

Maude left her murmuring some indistinguishable
comments on the merits of the different parasol makers,
and went languidly to give her orders for the phaeton.
Then she attended to her dress; and lastly she went to
the stand and took out the parasol.

A queer thrill shot up her arm to her heart as she took
hold of it.

“How many times lately ’ve dreamed of you!” she
thought—‘‘dreamed of closing you in that maelstrom of
flying dust and shreds !”

And then she slowly unclosed it. The action required
some effort.. The wires had been bent a little, probably
by her hasty foot as she leaped from the carriage; but
at length it unfurled its dusty yellow concave above her.
Something was caught between the ribs, and came flut-
tering across her hand.

She grew deadly pale, gasped for breath a second or
two, and then flew like a mad creature to the door.

John was leading the horse .to the steps. His young
mistress sprang into the vehicle, seized the reins in one
hand and the whip with the other, and went dashing
down the avenue. after a fashion that astonished and
rather grieved the faithful serving-man.

“I'm afeard she’s losing her head—I’m afeard of it
i naga muttered he, as he turned again toward the
stable.

Whether he was referring to the young lady or the old
mare does not transpire.

Meanwhile at the court-house, for this was the shire-
town of the county, the trial was already in progress.
The plaintiffs attorney had made his appeal, and it was
Raynor Thaxter’s time for commencing his plea.

Those who knew him best saw that he was restrain-
ing some powerful emotion. To the careless glance he
seemed simply a resolute, impassive machine as he rose
and came a little nearer the bench. His face was very-

only, last night, I heard him say he believed it was} grave, and still, and pale.

-| doubtful, all because they may ask for that paper to be

shown in court; and he can’t bring it, you know. He
feels dreadfully about it, because it was trusted to him,
and it was of so much importance. The whole testi-
mony hinged upon it. But, most of all, he feels it a stain
upon his lawyer’s honor, because the paper was trusted
to him, and it is lost.” , 5

«But how came he to lose it, Joe ?”

“Oh, dear, dear he thinks I have done PaMiss Maude.
He thinks I have taken it, and given it to Murdock for
pay,” cried the boy, shaking from head to foot, with one
great sob that fellowed the words.

“My poor Joe, my poor Joe,” said Maude’s soft, sooth-
ing voice, and she took the rough hand of. the boy, and
held it in her warm clasp, ‘‘what reason could he
have for anything so dreadful as that ?”

“He saw me talking with Mr. Murdock at the foot of
the stairs that day, that dreadful day,” wailed the boy.

«What day, Joe, I don’t understand you ?”

“The day of the shower, the day you were run away
with, Miss Maude.”

The lady gave a little start, but did not speak, only
motioned for him to go on.

“He had the papers on the table that day. This pa-
per waswiththem. And the shower came, and scatter-
ed them all about the room. And before I had picked
them up the news about you came, and Mr. Thaxter
cought up his hat, and told me to take care of the
papers and lock them in the safe: and he rushed off, and
I never saw him again till most dark. And when he
came in then he saw me at the foot of the stairs talking

 

Maude Amsden stole a glance at him through those
long eyelashes.

“Tam sorry to make suchastir. I was just getting
into the carriage and the reins were pulled out of my
hand by the sudden jump the horse gave when that
fearful gust of wind came. We were covered with dust
and flying fragments. I don’t wonder she was fright-
ened. Had the reins been in my hands I should have |
managed to check her, but every step increased her
panic. When she took this road and was turning the
sharp curve at such a gallop I knew the carriage must
go over, and I jumped.”

She heard the sharp-drawn breath beside her. She |
saw the pale face wince, and a sudden warm glow broke |
over her fair face, and now she was able to laugh. The |
silver echoes sounded sweetly through the low mutter-
ings of the retreating thunder. —,

‘After all, it is something to havercreated a sensation
in this dull town, and since all’s well that ends well I
sha’n’t waste time in lamentations. But I hope you will
be no worse for your run, Mr. Thaxter.”

“Thank you, of course I sha'‘n’t. The better rather
since I am warned how fearfully out of practice I’m get-
ting. I am not so old that I should be excused for
weakness of muscle. But perhaps Mrs. Gray here is
right—it was the anxiety more than the exertion.”

Again the gray eyes sought his face, and a soft smile
curved the sweet lips.
hee was very good of you to be anxious, I am sure.

—

She broke off abruptly, for a carriage came dashing
toward them, and asit was checked Saunders leaped to
the ground. ;

‘“‘My dear Maude, my poor child! were you very much
frightened? Thank Heaven, you are safe and sound! I
heard that you were in the carriage, and started in pur-
suit. Oh, Thaxter, are you here? I didn’t know what
a wild-goose chase I was sending you on.”

“You were sending him on!” repeated the young lady,
seizing upon that portion of his speech promptly. ‘Did
you send him!”

“Why, yes, of course. I’m sure I’m much obliged,
Thaxter. It was very kind in you. But come, Maude,
don’t be completely drowned... Get into the carriage
and I will take you: home at once.”

And before either could remonstrate, if there had
been such intention, he had lifted her to his carriage,
and left the lawyer standing in the road.

“Gray will carry you home, if you are too spent to
walk, Thaxter. I must get her home to her aunt as
speedily as possible, you know,” he called out, as he
gathered up the reins.

Raynor Thaxter nodded, and trudged on through the
rain, back to his lodging-house and dry apparel.

Maude Amsden sat silently ruminating while her
cousin rattled on about his fright at hearing of her dan-
ger, and his putting off the witnesses in his office, and
then broke in suddenly :

“Did you say that you asked Raynor Thaxter to come
to my assistance ?”

“Why, yes. You know what a stupid owl Iam. I—
never—thought—how you disliked him—nor how he
used to—— Pshaw! Maude, don’t be absurd! .No man
could refuse to help any lady in such an emergency.”

“No; 1 suppose not. I see,” answered Miss Maude, in
a tone of asperity, ‘‘you’ve said quite’: enough about the
whole affair, Cousin Tom—do talk about something

with Mr. Murdock. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what good

| does it do for me to tell him J was only asking about my

sister getting the place with his daughter? The paper
is gone, and it was worth thousands of dollars to Mur-
dock. Oh, how terrible he looked when he turned upon
me the next day and asked what I had done with that
paper !”

The boy seemed to shrink and cringe even at the re-
membrance, and Miss Amsden stroked his head again
tenderly. Did he not have hersympathy? Could she
not guess how terrible a thing it must be to bear Ray-
nor Thaxter'’s wrath ?

“But you explained to him, Joe. He ought to know
by this time how stanch and true you are, my little
man. If he doesn’t know, I can tell him.”

“Tf you would. Oh! Miss Maude, no one else can
have your influence,” implored the boy.

“Dear Joe, I am afraid my words would count for
nothing.”

«Indeed they. wouldn’t, Miss Maude. Didn’t I see his
face when he heard of your danger? Didn’t I under-
stand that evening when hecame into the office and I
asked if you were safe, what it meant when he said:
‘Yes, thank Heaven!’ And he went to the table and
took off his hat when he said it the second: time so
solemn like that I felt the thrill running down my back.
Oh! Miss Maude, he thinks everything of you.”

The girl's cheek was like the soft flush of the rose in
the vase before her, and her eyes;drooped beneath a ten-
der gleam that irradiated the soft-gray pupil; but she
said, humbly, meekly :

“Oh, Joe, he has been angry with me—angry and cold
for many years now. I am afraid I could dono good.
But can’t we search and find the paper? If money can
help it——”

‘‘Wouldn’t I find it if it were there? I've searched
night after night, and he helped me at first. We took
out every drawer, we looked in every box, we undid
every paper, and I—I’ve been outside the window in the
morning early, thinking it might have gone out with
the wind’s taking it, you know, and lodged somewhere
on the sills of the windows or doors, but it isn’t there—
ne, it isn’t there anywhere. And he’s gone back to)
thinking I'm a villain and a thief who has betrayed the
master I’d ha’ died to save. I know I would die for him,
I’ve thought’so much of him, Miss Maudet And heis a
grand man; I never knew it better than now, and it
kills me to think I can’t stay with him.”

And as Joe went on he fairly blubbered over the soft
white hands that held his. Fastidious Maude only
pea dainty handkerchief. across them and kept
her hold.

“Joe,” said she, ‘‘I believe the wind must have carried
the paper away. Was it at the beginning of the shower
—why——” -

She stopped abruptly. Memory flashed the scene again
upon her. How she stood—why directly under that
front of the building; and she saw—how plainly she
saw now the whirlwind of dust and sticks, and—a long
paper with writing on it that enveloped her just as she
was lowering her sun-umbrella and mounting the car-
riage-step.

“Joe,” said she, energetically, “‘we must sweep that
neighborhood. I believe I saw that paper. I know I
saw it whirling along above my head.”

Joe sighed dismally.

“I’ve peered into every cranny within sight of the

 

else.” ‘
* *

 

* * * * * *
Two weeks passed by, and on Sunday, when she went

building. 1 hired three boys to help me. No, Miss
' ae if it flew out, somebody has got it and carried
t off. eotered

He had not spoken a single word, only unclosed his
pps when there was a sudden stir in the crowd behind
im.

The next moment some one pushed through and
touched his arm.

It was Joe, with eyes so brimming over with tears
that no one could tell if his message was for good or

ill.

“Please, sir, just one moment, step back to the door.
Not outside, but just this side.”

And with a + soo gesture to the bar, Thaxter obeyed.

Maude Amsden was standing within the court-room,
as Joe said, just one side the crowd.

She smiled upon him with all her glad, grateful,
jubilant face.

“Ah! Iam so happy—so happy to bring it to you. I
have found the lost paper,” she whispered, softly. ‘I
carried it off in my parasol, innocent thief that I was.
And now, Ray, you must take back poor Joe to your
trust and affection.”

“Joe!” stammered Thaxter, only thinking how lovely
she was, and that she had called him ‘‘Ray” once more.
“Yes, Joe; he has told his troubies to me. And I
have found the missing paper. There itis. Now go,
and make your plea. Iam going to stay and listen to
it, and be rewarded by hearing for myself how eloquent
you can be.”
Now came the eagle glint into his eye, and a proud,
glad light shone over his whole face.
“Jf ever man had reason to do his best, now have I,”
he whispered, low and eagerly, as he bent over the hand
from which he took the paper.
“All good things speed you!” returned she, under her
tremulous breath.
And as all the town pronounced, when the crowd
buzzed away out of the court-house three hours after-
ward, that Raynor Thaxter had fairly outdone himself,
which is a creditable thing, you all know, for any man
to do, it is evident that he fulfilled his promise. He won
his case. But the honor and applause were nothing ;
mere emptiness and vanity beside something else he
that day won. 3
“Ah, Ray, I was wrong, and proud, and headstrong in
the old days,” murmured Miss Amsden, with her blush-
ing face Shaded as much as was possible by close con-
tact with the pongee parasol, when he rode home in the
phaeton with her; ‘‘butif aad dreamed that you really
cared for me——”
And here there was an eloquent pause. during which
the reins had little attention, which made it fortunate
that it was not the colt in the shafts, but a steady old
creature who kept faithfully upon the track.
“Darling, did you think any one could forget who had
once loved you? It was an odious falsehood that alien-
ated us, and a wicked, stubborn pride that kept us so
long sundered,” returned the lawyer, eagerly. ‘‘Blessed,
forever blessed the loss of the paper! We might have
gone to our graves sorrowing and apart but for chis
blessed accident.” ;
“And bless Joe, too—Joe, who came to me with his
story—Joe, who adores you, Ray, as much——”
“Yes,” responded he, jubilantly, ‘‘bless Joe and the
paper, but most of all—the innocent thief.”

—_—____>e~

HOW HE FOOLED THEM.

 

A certain charitable society in Boston has some well-
paid agents, who have little to do, and plenty of time to
doit. A few years ago one of this class was regarded as
almost useless, and there was talk of discharging him.
He had kept on because he was known to have some
money, and talked of remembering the society in his

will. One day about this time he appeared at the
oftice of the society, and gave the chief officer
thereof his will to be kept in the society’s safe. He,
however, allowed the official to read the document,
which was carefully drawn, and gave the society the
handsome sum of $10,000 outright, and the remainder of
his estate atthe death of two relatives, who were to
have the income thereof.

This, he explained, was not less than $90,000. There was
no more talk of cutting off his salary. Since that time
—no matter how long ago—the man, still an agent of
the society, died. Then it was discovered that he had
made asecond will the day after the first one which
was so ostentatiously handed to the society, and in it
he gave all his property—not quite $20,000—to his wife.
In fact, it was one of those cases of man’s dealings with
man that “make angels weep,”

— Oe
A dissolution of partnership was lately announced in a
Minnesota journal. The advertisement stated that the dis-

solution was by mutual consent, and the reason given was
that one of the partners was “too lazy to continue the busi-

 

 

ness.”

All night long she seemed to be standing folding her | |

MULLEN LEAVES—No. 36,

BY CLARA AUGUSTA,

 

SR

\ AN

 

“We shall all’ be ondone!” sez Mrs. McDingle. «1
allers was noted for my fine complexion, but now, alas!
alas! I wish I had never come to this awful Crow Hill.”

“My love,” sez Mr. Mudge, getting Miss Billings round
the waist, ‘‘we will be vaccinated together—from the
same cow.”

Mr. Pilkins looked around on his numerous family,
and I could see that he was reckoning up how much it
would cost to vaccinate the whole tribe, and I didn’t
wonder he looked pale.

“Don’t be scared,” sez I, cheerfully. “I'll go in and see
if David is in there.”

“If he is, don come back!” yelled Mrs. McDingle.
“Jest hang a cloth out of the winder, and we'll all go.
We'll take the next train. Oh, heavings! what if the
dogs should have it!”

I went into the kitchen, but there was nobody there
but Sarah Bunker, a-seeing to things, and she wanted
to’ know why they didn’t come into supper.

I told her the reason, and she laffed, and sezshe:

“That’s a story of Bub’s. David Lang went to Floridy

last week, and he was never in a pest-house in his life.
If I had the manidgement of that boy, I'd send him to
the reform school.”

When matters was ixplained, all the boarders came
flocking in, and they eat a supper that Ought to have
done ’em good. ,

We retired to rest about eleven o'clock. I'd jest got
my hair rolled up on leads, and had rubbed some glisten-
ing into the end of my nose, which iz pestered with a
cold sore, and put some intment on my left bunyan, and
got into bed, when I heard something stirring. Ther’s
so many burglaries and arsons. all round the country
now days, that I'm kinder skittish nights, and riz up
and pushed back my night-cap to listen.

I heerd something that sounded like a groan, and it
seemed as it it waz tside the house. Then I heerd
something like the posing of glass! It must be bur-
glars! I’ve got a revolver, but I'm a little afeard of it,

and I keep it locked up in the lower buro draw. ’Tain’t
loaded, but it’s a dangerouz thing, and nobody knows
when it'll go off! They go off mostly, and 1 folks,

when they hain’t loaded! I onlocked the drawer and
took a look at it, but I didn’t meddle with it.

ing groan, and I gotinto my petticoat, and took down
my crimp, for a woman wants to look welleven to a Lur
glar, and I went out and rapped on Ned’s door. Ned
called up Mr. Pilkins, and then we knocked on Mudge’s
door, but got no answer.

“Do let ’em alone!” sez Mrs. Pilkins, who was about

half awake. ‘Theyre having a gud time! Come back
to bed Sidney Aram! ‘You'll git cold in your diaph-
ragm !”

But Mr. Pilkins was brave and ready to take the risk.
We all crept down stairs—the hired man leading off with
the fire'shovel. Mr. Pilkins got an ax, Ned seized the
sausage chopper,,and Mrs. McDingle and I brung up
the rear with each of us a stick of stove wood.

Ned opened the door, and we all peeped out,

Yes; there was somebody under the setting room
winder—we could see his dark shape distinctly—and
with a wild whoop Ned dashed out after him! The
burglar up and run like a fox, and we all arter him. He
rushed round the house, and in atween the carriage
shed and the hen-house, and we arter him! And then
he doubled on his track and run back again, and we
tollered ! :

eran or die !” yelled Ned, flourishing the sausage
chopper. .
“You'll git fifty year at hard labor!” puffed Pilkins, az
he come pounding down on the home-stretch. -

“Go it! Root hog or die!” screeched Bob Stebbins,
jumping out from behind the wood-shed and jining in
the chase. :
We got so nigh the burglar that he changed his tack-
ticks, and streaked it down the road straight to the vil-
lage, which hain’t not a little ways from our house.

i never thought anything about my kinder scanty
style of dress, and I guess the rest of ’em didn’t, neither,
and we follered on after him as hard as we could go!
Pilkins had lost off his galluses, and was a holding up his
trouses with one hand, while he flourished the ax’ with
the other! Mrs, McDingle is a fleshy woman, and she
had collapsed at the first of it, and we left her puffing
like a porposs, holding on by the fence round Jones’
tater patch.
Jest as we Struck into the village, the Salvation Army,
which is holding a meeting in the Town Hall, come
pouring out, and when they seed us. they took us for
new recruits, and the captain yelled out:
“Behold, they come! From the highways and the
byways! Sing, brethren, sing!

“The Gospel train is moving o:

Git on boand{ Git on board
And they all begun to sing at the tops of their voices,
and they grabbed our burglar and asked him to tell his
experience, and—my soul and body !—come to git a good
view of him, it was Mr. Mudge!
«For the land sake!” sez I; “how come you outdoor
under the setting-room winder, groaning so? Was it
the b’iled cider sass ?”
“Groaning !” sez he, indignantly—‘I was touching my
light guitar under my lady-love’s winder! I was serry-
nading Miss Billings, the adorable idol of my heart, and
the pole-star of my existence !”
We marched back to Crow Hill, sadder and wiser, and
jest as we turned into the door-yard, out rushed Gran-
ther Hayes, with the old gun in his hand.
His long hair streamed in the wind; his red fiannel
night-shirt dangled round his spindle legs; he riz the
gun, and sez he: ‘
‘Liberty or death! No more shall the rule of Britain
oppress us! On to victory !”
There was an ixplosion like the busting of a thunder-
clap; the air was full of smoke; one of Mrs. McDingle’s
poodles leaped high in air and fell to rise no more. We
picked Granther out of the rain-water barril,jwith his
patriotism a good deal drownded out—and so the night’s
adventures ended. .
To-day the boarders is all departed, and I sit alone, as
lonesome as a broke-up setting-hen! Surely man was
not made to be alone—nor woman neither! Ah, I never
missed Moses Mullens, my late pardner, as I do now,
when Crow Hill is deserted. The place is as dull as a
tomb, and there is nothing more to record in the MuL-
LEN LEAVES.
[THE END.]

[A new series of papers, sparkling and pungent, com-
bining wit and wisdom with homely argument and
quaint sayings, will be commenced next week, under
the title of ‘‘UNCLE MEDDLE’s LETTERS.”)}

rp e-~«

Items of Interest.

A Boston plumber thought himself very precise in his
language when he returned the following unique bill for
removing a dead rat from the wall: “To hunting up an odor,
and repairing it, $4.00.

Six ‘fat statues,” to adorn her drawing-room, have
been ordered by a Chicago lady now in Rome. She com-
plained that the statues she saw there were not stout enough
to please her tuste.

The feelings of a murderer were so much respected by
a Liverpool sheriff, that the unfortunate man, the weather
being very eold, was allowed to put on his overcoat just be-
fore he was hung.

Piano playing is considered such a nuisance in Weimar,
Germany, by the city fathers, that an ordinance compels
players to perform only when their doors and windows are
closed.

All the under clothing of the Mikado of Japan is made
of a peculiar soft white silk. He never wears a garment
twice nor one that has been washed.

High license has decreased the number of saloons in
Chicago from 13,000 to 9,000, and added nearly $1,300,000 to the
revenues of the city.

 

 

 

 

I heerd a kind of arumbling, and then another squeak- _

 

 

Lbiee
aft

I cate.