Seas:

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‘ Harol

 

 

 

 

A New and Exciting Detective Story,

 

pail
eo

“THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY,” Week After Next.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

Office

Vol. 41.

JENNIE MALCOLW’S PRAYER.

 

 

 

BY MRS. JANE KAVANAGH.

“+

 

*T was Christmas Eve, and fast the snow $
Fell softly, thickly down,
O’erspreading with its purity
A quaint oid Scottish town.
In soft, white manile, all alike,
The homes of high and low,
Looked fair and pleasing to the sight
Beneath the falling snow.

So thought a tired wanderer
Who trudged the way along,
With eager glance in each new face
He met amid the throng
That jostled by him, each intent
On home and Christmas fare.
“Ah, well,” he sighed, ‘I know Ill find
My welcome waiting there !”

Young Jennie Malcolm stirred the fire
That flickered on the hearth.

And looked abroa@ to watch the snow
That fast enwrapped the earth;

Then turning from the window-ledge,
Again she stirs the flame,

While low she murmurs: ‘‘“Mamma, dear,
*Tis time ye were at hame!”

For Jennie’s mother toils abroad
Throughout the winter day,

And Jennie minds the home-place
While mamma is away.

’Tis Christmas Eve, and Jennie knows
Of other homes to-night

There light, and warmth, and goodly cheer
Make life serene and bright;

And at the thought, the musing child,
With gaze bent on the flame,

Said, «So did we keep Christmas Day
When father was at hame.”

Then some sweet thought within her heart
Lights up her pretty eyes,
That in their guileless azure depths,
Bear semblance to the skies.
Low on her knees, with folded hands,
And sweet, uplifted face,
She makes a picture scarce surpassed
For tender, childish grace.

With grave, quaint, childish reverence,
She prays, in accents clear,
he Babe of Bethlehem

9 60 Sta Ber fetter acy

‘To bide at home, and no more roam
Across the distant sea;

For, oh ! she longs so earnestly
To sit on father’s knee.

Now Robert Malcolm cannot bide
To listen longer there,

So makes his presence known; and thus
Is answered Jennie’s prayer;

And when the weary mother comes,
She starts in joy to see

Her happy little girlie there
Upon her father’s knee.

With fortune won by honest toil,
The sailor’s trips are o’er ;

From wife and child, and native land,
He'll sail away no more;

And Jennie, hearkening to his tale,
Lifts gaze serene and fair :

“Oh, bonnie Babe of Bethlehem,
Ye answered weel my prayer !”

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

3! Rose St.

 

lg

is

 

ni Gmcsterenncts

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

ERAGY PARK,

By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,

 

 

Author of “Bessie’s Fortune.” ‘“‘Homestead on the
Hillside,’ ‘“‘Darkness and Daylight,” ‘““Edith
Lyle’s Secret,” “Queenie Hetherton,”’ etc.

 

(““TRacy Park” was commenced in No. 1. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XVIII.—(CONTINUED.)

Ascending the steps, Jerry nodded and smiled at the
lady, whose expression was not very inviting, and who,
to the child’s remark, “I’ve comed again,” answered,
icily :

«| see you have. Seems to me you come pretty often.”

Turning to Charles, Mrs. Tracy continued :

“Why is she here again so soon? What does she
want ?”

Quick to detect and interpret the meaning of the tones
of a voice, and hearing disapprobation in Mrs. Tracy’s,
Jerry’s face was shadowed at. once, and she looked up
entreatingly at Charles, who said :

“Mr. Tracy sent me for her. She was with him yester-
day, and he will have her again to-day.”

Then Jerry’s face brightened, and she chimed in:

“Iss, ’m visiting. I’m invited, and I’m going to stay
to eat.”

Mrs. Tracy dared not interfere with Arthur, even if he
took Jerry to live there altogether, and, with a bend of

her head, she signified to Charles that the conference
was ended.

“Come, Jerry,” Charles said; but Jerry held back a
moment, and asked :

«‘Where’s Maude ?”

“}f Mrs. Tracy heard, she did not reply, and Jerry fol-
lowed on after Charles through the hall and up the
broad staircase to the darkened room where Arthur lay,
suffering intense pain in his head, and moaning occa-
sionally. But he heard the patter of the little feet, for
he was listening for it, and when Jerry entered his room
he raised himself upon his elbow, and reaching the
Other hand toward her, said :

“So you have come again, little Jerry; or, perhaps I
should call you little Cherry, considering how you first
came to me. Would you like that name ?”

“Iss,” was Jerry’s reply, in the quick, half-lisping way
Which made the monosyllable so attractive.

“Well, then, Cherry,” Arthur continued, ‘‘take off that
bonnet, and open the blind behind me so I can see your
face. Then bring that stool and sit where I can look at
you while you rub my head with your hands. It aches
enough to split, and I believe the bumble-bees are
swarming ; but they can’t get out, and if they could,
they are the white-faced kind, which never sting.”

Je knew all about white-faced bumble-bees, for
had caught them for her, and with this fear re-
moved, she did as Arthur bade her, and was soon seated
at his side, rubbing his forehead, where the blue veins
were Standing out full and round, and smoothing his
hair caressingly with her fingers, which seemed to have
in thema healing power, for the pain and heat grew
less under their touch, and, after awhile, Arthur fell
into a quiet sleep.

When he awoke, after half an hour or so, it was with
a delicious sense of rest and freedom from pain. Jerry
had ora the shades to shut out the sunlight, and
was walking on tiptoe round the room, arranging the
furniture and talking to herself in whispers, as she
usually did when playing alone.

«Jerry,” Arthur said to her, and she was at his side in
a moment, “you are an enchantress. The ache is all
gone from my head, charmed away by your hands.

 

New York, J anuary 9, 1886.

“<1 CANT GO WITHOUT HAROLD. IF I GET LEARNING, HE MUST GET LEARNING.”

 

Now, come and sit by me again, and tell me all you
know of yourself before Harold found you. Where did
you live? What was your mother’s name ?
call all you can.”

Jerry, however, could tell him very little besides the | the voices of them all, and when some one bade her kiss | expression of her face brought Gretchen to Arthur’s | she exclaimed.
Tramp House, and the carpet-bag, and Harold letting | her mother she stooped and kissed Arthur’s forehead,
she | and said:

her fallin the snow. Of the cold and the sufferin
could recall nothing, or of the journey from New York
in the cars. She did remember. something about the
ship, and her mother’s seasickness, but where she lived
before she went to the ship she could not tell. It wasa

|

Try and re- | Arthur had watched from

which followed was an imitation of the one which had
left the Park House three years before, and which
his window. Frank was

 

| there, and his wife, and Peterkin. and Jerry imitated

!
}
|

big town, she thought, and there was music there, and |

a garden, and somebody sick. That was all. Every-

thing else was gone entirely, except now and _ then |

when vague glimpses of something in the past bewil-
dered and perplexed her. Her pantomime of the dying
woman and the child had not been repeated for more
than a year, for now her acting always took the form of
the tragedy in the Tramp Llouse, with herself in the
carpet-bag and a lay figure dead beside her. But grad-
ually, as Arthur questioned her, the old memories began

to come back and shape themselves in her mind, and |

she said at last :

“It was like this—playin’ you was a sick lady and I
was your nurse. I can’t think of her name. I guess I'll
call her Manny.
only I can't think of my name.”

what she meant.

have a big handkerchief put over his head for a cap, to
hold on his arm the baby she improvised from a sofa-

adress an expensive table-spread, tied with the rich
cord and tassel of his dressing-gown.

“You must cry a great deal,” she said, ‘‘and pray a
great deal, and kiss’ the baby a
scold you some for crying so much, and shake the baby
some in the kitchen for making a noise, because, you
know, the baby can walk and talk, and is me, only I
can’t be both at a time.”

She was not very clear in her explanations, but Ar-
thur began to have adim perception of her meaning,
and did what she bade him do, and rather enjoyed hay-
ing his face and hands washed with a wet rag, and his

 

| hair brushed and turled, as she called it, even though |
| the fingers which ¢tw7led it sometimes made suspicious |

journeyings to her mouth. He cried when she told him
to cry; he coughed when she told him to cough; he
kissed the baby when she told him to kiss it; he took

juice left there, and did not have to make believe that it
sickened him, as she said he must, for that was a real-
ity. But when she told him he must die, but pray first,
he demurred, and asked what he should say. Jerry hesi-
tated a little. She knew that her prayers were, ‘‘Our
Father,” and ‘‘Now I lay me,” but it seemed to her that
aperson dying should say something else, and at last
she replied :

“T can’t think what she did say, only a lot about him.
There was a hime somewhere, and I guess he was
naughty, so pray for him, and the baby—that’s me—and
tell Manny she must take me to Mecky.”

“To whom 2?” Arthur asked, and she replied :

“To Mecky, where he was, don’t you know ?”

Arthur did not know, but he prayed for Aim, saying
What she bade him say—a mixture half English, half
German.

“There, now, you are dead,” she said, at last, as she
closed his eyes and folded his hands upon his chest.
«You are dead, and mustn’t stir nor breathe, no matter
how awful we cry, Man-nee and I.”

Kneeling down. beside him, she began acry so like
that of two persons that if Arthur had not known to the
contrary, he would have sworn there were two beside
him, a Woman and a child, the voice of the one shrill,
and clear, and young, and frightened, the other older,
and harsher, and stronger, and both blending together
in a most astonishing manner.

‘With a little practice she would make a wonderful
ventriloquist,” Arthur thought, as he watched her flit-
ting about the ‘room, talking to unseen people and giv-
ing orders with regard to himself.

Once Frank had witnessed a pantomime very similar
to this, only then the play had ended with the death,
while now there was the burial, and when Arthur moved
a little and asked if he might get up, she laid her hand
quickly on his mouth, with a peremptory, ‘Hush! you
are dead, and we must bury you.”

But here Jerry’s memory failed her, and the funeral

 

 

 

cushion of costly plush, around which she arranged as |

reat deal, and I must |

t

And there must be a baby; that’s me,

“Call it Jerry, then,” Arthur suggested, both inter- |
ested and amused, though he did not quite understand |

But he was passive in her hands, and submitted to

“Good-by, mamma;” then, throwing a thin tidy over
his face, she continued, ‘‘“NowI am going to shut the |
coffin ;” and as she worked at the corners, asif driving |
down the screws, Arthur felt as if he were actually being
shut out from life, and light, and the worid.

To one of his superstitious tendencies the whole was
terribly real, and when at last she told him he was
buried, and the folks had come back, and he could get
up, the sweat was standing upon his face and hands in
great drops, and he felt that he had in very truth been
present at the obsequies of some one whose death had
made an impression so strong upon Jerry’s mind that
time had not erasedit. There was in his heart no
thought of Gretchen, as there had been in Frank’s
when he was a spectator at the play. He had no cause |
for suspicion, and thought only of the child whose rest- |
lessness and activity were something appalling to him.

‘Now, what shall we play next?” she asked, as he'sat
white and trembling in his chair.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” he groaned.
any more now.”

“Well, then, you sit still and I’ll clean house ; it needs
it badly. Such mud as that boy brings in I never saw,
and I’m so lame, too!” Jerry responded, and Arthur now

 

 

“T cannot stand

; recognized Mrs. Crawford, whose tidiness and cleanli- |

|

 

,

medicine from the tin pailin the form of the cherry |

|
|

 

| tism, sweeping, dusting, and scolc

ness were proverbial, and for the next half-hour he |
watched the little actress as she limped around the
room exactly as Mrs. Crawford ea with her rheuma-
ing a little, both to
Harold and Jerry, the latter of whom once retorted:

“TI would not be so cross as that if { had forty rheuma-
tisses in my laigs, would you, Harold ?”

But Harold only answered, softly :

“Hush, Jerry! You should not speak so to grandma,
and she so good to us both, when we haven’t any
mother.”

Arthur would have laughed, so perfect was the imita-
tion of voice and gesture, but at the mention of Harold’s
mother there came into his mind a vision of sweet Amy |
Crawford, who had been his first love, and for whose
son he had really done so little.

“Jerry,” he said, ‘I guess you have cleaned house
long enough. Wash your hands and come to me.”

She obeyed him, and, looking into his face, said :

“Now, what? Can you play cat’s cradle, or casino?” |

‘No; Lwant totalk to youof Harold. You love him |
very much ?”

‘Oh, a hundred bushels—him and grandma, too.”

‘‘And he is very kind to you ?”

“Yes, I guess heis. He never talks back, and I am |
awful sometimes, and oncel spit at him, and struck |
him; but 1 was so sorry, and cried all night, and offered |
to give him my best doll ’cause it was the plaything I |
loved most, and I went without my piece of pie so he |}
could have two pieces if he wanted,” Jerry said, her
voice trembling as she made this confession, which gave |
Arthur a better insight into her real character than he |
had had before. |

Hasty. impulsive, repentant, generous, and very affec- |
tionate, he felt sure she was, and he continued : |

“Does Harold go to school ?”

“Yes; and I too—to the district ; but I hate it!” Jerry |
replied.

‘Why hate it?” Arthur asked. ‘‘Whatis the matter |
with the district school ?’

“Oh, it smells awful there sometimes when it is hot,” |
Jerry replied, with an upward turn to her nose. ‘And |
the boys are so mean, some of them. Bill Peterkin
goes there, and I can’t bear him, he plagues me so.
Wants to kiss me. A-a-h, and says I am to be his wife,
and he’s got warts on his thumb !”

Jerry’s face was sufficiently indicative of the disgust |
she felt for Bill Peterkin with his warts, and, leaning
back in his chair, Arthur laughed heartily, as he said :

“And so you do not like Bill Peterkin? Well, what
boys do you like ?”

“Harold and Dick St. Claire,” was the prompt re-
sponse, and Arthur continued :

«What would you have in place of the district school?”

“A governess,” was Jerry’s answer. ‘‘Nina St. Claire
has one, and Ann Eliza Peterkin has one, and Maude
Tracy has one.”

Here Jerry stopped suddenly, as if struck with a new
idea.

 

; look.

| at once.

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

No. 10.

he did not feel half as desolate as when alone,
with only his morbid fancies for company.
And he must have her there, at least a portion
of the time. His mind was made up on that
point, and when about four o’clock, Jerry
said to him:

“JT want to gonow. Grandma said I was to
be home by five,” he replied :

“Yes, lam going with you. I wish to see
your grandmother. I am going to drive you
in the phaeton. How would you like that ?”

Her dancing eyes told him how she would
like it, and Charles was sent to the stable
with an order to have the little pony phaeton
brought round as soon as possible as he was
going for a drive.

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.
ARTHUR’S PLAN.

“Why, the madam is going to drive, too,
and I’ve come to harness; there'll be a row
somewhere,” Jonn said.

“Can’t help it,” Charles replied. ‘Mr. Ar-
thur wants the phaeton, and will have it for
all of madam.”

«Yes, I s’p’o’ so. Wall, I'll go and tell her,”
was John’s rejoinder, as he started for the
house, where Mrs. Tracy was just drawing
on her long driving gloves, and admiring her
new hat and feather before the glass.

Dolly looked almost as young, and far
prettier, than when she came to the park,
eleven years before. A life of luxury suited
her. She had learned to take things easily,
and the old woman with the basket might
now come every day to her kitchen door
without her knowing it. She aped Mrs.
Atherton, of Brier Hill, in everything, and
had the satisfaction of knowing that she was
on all occasions quite as stylish-looking and
well-dressed as that aristocratic lady whom
she called her intimate friend. She had also
grown very proud and very exclusive in her
ideas, and when poor Mrs. Peterkin, who was
growing, too, with her million, ventured to
call at the park, the call was returned with
a card which Dolly’s coachman left at the
door. Since the night of her party, and the
election which followed, when Frank was de-
feated, she had ignored the Peterkins, and
laughed at what she called their vulgar imi-
tation of people above them, and when she
heard that Mary Jane had hired a governess
for her two children, Bill and Ann Eliza, she
scoffed at the airs assumed by come-up peo-
ple, and wondered if Mrs. Peterkin had for-
gotten that she was one of Grace Atherton’s
hired girls. Dolly had certainly forgotten the
Langley life, and was to allintents and pur-
poses the great lady of. the park, who held
herself aloof from the common herd, and
taught her children to do the same.

She had seen Jerry enter the house that
morning with a feeling of disapprobation,
which had not diminished as the day wore
on and still the child staid, and what was
worse, Maude was not sent for to join her.

‘Not that I would have allowed it, if she
had been,” she said to herself, for she did
not wish her daughter intimate with one of
whose antecedents nothing was known, but
Arthur might at least have invited her. He
had never noticed her children much, and
this she deeply resented. Maude, who knew
of Jerry’s presence in the house had cried to
goin and play with her, but Mrs. Tracy had
refused, and promised as an equivalent a
drive in the phaeton around the town. And
it was for this drive Dolly was preparing her-
self, when John came with the message that

 

she could not have the phaeton, as Mr. Ar-

 

“Why, Maude, is your little girl, isn’t she? You are |
her rich uncle, and she is to have all your money when
you die. I wish I was your little girl.” :

She spoke the last very sadly, and something in the |

mind, and his voice was choked, as he said to her: |

“Td-give half my fortune if you were my little girl.”

Then, laying his hand on her bright hair. he ques- |
tioned her adroitly of her life at the cottage, finding |
that it was a very happy one, and that she had never |
known want, although Mrs. Crawford was unable to !
work as she once had done, and was largely dependent
upon the price for Jerry’s board, which Frank paid reg-
ularly. .Of this, however Jerry did not speak. She only
said ; |

‘Harold works in the furnace, and in folks’ gardens, |
and does lots of things for everybody, and once Bill |
Peterkin twitted him because he goes to Mrs. Baker’s
sometimes after stuff for the pig, and Harold cried, and |
I got up early the next morning and went after it my-
self, and drew the cart home. After that grandma
wouldn’t let Harold go for any more, and sol s’pose the
pig will not weigh as much: I’m sorry; for I like sau- |
Sage, don’t you ?”

Arthur hated it, but he did not tell her so, and she
went on :

“Marold studies awful hard, and wants to go to col-
lege. Heistrying to learn Latin, and recites to Dick
St. Claire; but grandma says it’s up-hill business. Oh,

| if ’s only rich Pd give it all to Harold, and he should get

learning like Dick. Maybe 1can work some time and ;
earn some money. I wish 1 could.”

Arthur did not speak for a long time, but sat looking ,
at the child whose face now wore an old and troubled |
In his mind he was revolving a plan which, with |
his usual precipitancy, he resolved to carry into effect
But he said nothing of it to Jerry, whose at-
tention was diverted by the entrance of Charles and the
preparations for luncheon, which, on the little girl’s ac- |
count, was served with more care than usual.

Jerry, who hada great liking for everything luxu- |
rious, had taken tea once or twice at Grassy Spring |
with Nina St. Claire, and had been greatly impressed |

| with the appointments of the table, prizing them more |
| even

dainties for her toeat. But what she
seemed as nothing compared to this

than the
had seen there

| round Swiss table, with its colored glass and rare china,

no two pieces of which were alike.

«Oh, itis just like a dream!” she cried, as she watch-
ed Charles’ movement and saw that there were two
places laid. ‘“AmItosit down with you ?” she said, in |
an awe-struck voice, ‘‘and in that lovely chair? J am |
og I wore my best gown. It won’t dirty the chair a |

t.”

But she took her pocket-handkerchief and covered it
over the satin cushion before she dared seat herself
in the chair, which had once been brought out for
Gretchen, andin which she now sat down, dropping
her head and shutting her eyesa moment. Then, as
she heard no sound, she looked up wonderingly, and
asked :

i‘ ‘‘Ain’t you going to say ‘for Christ’s sake,’ grandma
oes ?”

Arthur’s face was a study with its mixed expression of
surprise, amusement and self-reproach. He never
prayed, except it were in some ejaculatory sentences
wrung from him in his sore need, and the thought of
asking a blessing on his food had never occurred to him.
But Jerry was persistent.

“You must say ‘for Christ’s sake,’” she continued, and
with his weak brain all in a muddle, Arthur began
what he meant to be a brief thanksgiving, but which
stretched itself into a lengthy prayer, full of the past
and of Gretchen, whom he seemed to be addressing
rather than his Maker.

For a while Jerry listened reverently ; then she look-
ed up and moved uneasily in the chair, and at last when
the prayer had continued for at least five minutes she
burst out impulsively :

“Oh, dear, do say ‘amen’. Iam so hungry!”

That broke the spell, and with a start Arthur came to
himself, and said:

“Thank you, Jerry. Praying is a new business for
me, and I do believe I should have gone on forever if you
had not te ed me. Now what will you have 2”

He helped her to whatever she liked best, but could
eat scarcely anything himself. It was sufficient for
him to watch Jerry sitting there in Gretchen’s chair
and using Gretchen’s plate, which every day for so

| drive all day, and [am ready, with my things on.

 

many years had been laid for her. Gretchen had not
come. She would never come, he feared, but with Jerry

thur was going to take Jerry home in it.

Usually Arthur’s slightest wish was a law in the
household, for that was Frank’s order ; but on this occa-
sion Dolly felt herself justified in rebelling.

“Not have the phaeton! That’s smart, I must say,”
“Can’t that child walk home, I’d like to
know? Tell Mr. Tracy Maude has had the promise of a
Ask
him to take the Victoria ; he never drives.”

All this in substance was repeated to Arthur, who an-
swered, quietly :

“Let Mrs. Tracy take the Victoria. I prefer the phae-
ton myself.”

That settled it, and in a few moments Jerry was
seated at Arthur’s side, and skimming along through
the park, and out upon the highway which skirted the

' river for miles.

“This is not going home, and grandma will scold,”
Jerry said.

“Never mind the grandma—lI will make it right with
her. Iam going to show you the country,” Arthur re-

| plied, as he chirruped to the fleet pony who seemed to

tiy along the smooth road.
No one who saw the tall, elegant-looking man, who

; Sat so erect, and handled the reins so skillfully, would

ever have suspected him of insanity, and more than one
stopped to gaze after him and the little girl whose face,
with the golden hair blowing about it, looked out from
the white sun bonnet with so joyous an expression. On
the homeward route they met the Victoria, with John
upon the box, and Mrs. Tracy and Maude inside.

“There’s Maude! Hallo, Maude—see me! I'm rid-
ing!” Jerry called out, cheerily, while Maud answered
back :

“Hallo, Jerry !”

But Mrs. Tracy gave no sign of recognition, and only
rebuked her daughter for her vulgarity in saying ‘Hal-
lo,” which was second class and low.

“Then Nina St. Claire is second class and low, for she
says ‘Hallo,’” was Maude’s reply, to which her mother
had no answer.

Meanwhile the phaeton was going swiftly on toward
the cottage, which it reached afew minutes after the
furnace whistle blew for six, and Harold, who had been
working there, came up the lane. There were soiled
spots on his hands and on his face, and his clothes
showed marks of toil, all of which Arthur noted, while
he was explaining to Mrs. Crawford that he had taken
Jerry for a drive, and kept her beyond the prescribed
hour. Then, turning to Harold, he said:

“And so you work in the furnace ?”

“Yes, sir, during vacation, when I can get a job there,”
Harold answered, and Mr. Tracy continued :

“How much do you get a day ?”

“Fifty cents in dull times,” was the reply, and Arthur
went on:

‘FRifty cents from seven in the morning to six at night,
and board yourself. A magnificent sum, truly. Pray,
how do you manage to spend so much? You must be
getting rich.”

The words were sarcastic, but the tone belied the
words, and Harold was about to speak, when his grand-
mother interrupted him, and said:

«‘What he does not spend for us he puts aside. He is
trying to save enough to go to the High School, but it’s
slow work. I can do but little myself, and it all falls
upon Harold.”

“But I like it, grandma, I like to work for you and
Jerry, and I have almost twenty dollars saved,” Harold
said, ‘‘and in a year or two I can go away to school, and
work somewhere for my board. Lots of boys do that.”

Arthur was hitching his pony to the fence, while a
new idea was dawning in his mind.

“Fifty cents a day,” he said to himself, ‘‘and he has
twenty dollars saved, and thinks himself rich. Why,
I’ve spent more than that on one bottle of wine, and here
is this boy, Amy’s son, wanting an education, and work-
ing to support his grandmother like a common laborer.
I believe I am crazy.”

He was in the cottage by this time—in the clean, cool
kitchen where the supper table was laid with its plain
fare, most unlike the costly viands which daily loaded
his board.

«Don’t wait for me, Harold must be hungry,” he said,
adding quickly: ‘Or stay, if you will permit me, I will
take a cup of tea with you. The drive has given me an
appetite, and your tea smells very inviting.”

It was a great honor to have Arthur Tracy at her
table, and Mrs. Crawford felt it as such, and was very
sorry, too, that she had nothing better to offer him than
bread and butter and radishes, with milk, and a dish of
cold beans, and chopped beets, and a piece of apple pie

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

pom

 

 

 

 

 

<<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

 

 

 

saved for Harold from dinner. But she made himjwel
come, and Jerry, delighted to return the hospitality she
had received, brought him a clean plate and cup and
saucer, and asked if she might get the best sugar-bowl
and the white sugar. Then, remembering the beautiful
flowers which had adorned the table at Tracy Park, she
ran out, and gathering a bunch of June pinks, put them
tn a little glass by his plate.

When all was ready and they had taken their seats
at the table, Mrs. Crawford closed her eyes reverently
and asked the accustomed blessing which in that house
preceded every meal. Jerry’s amen was a good deal
louder and more emphatic than usual, while she nodded
her head to Arthur, with an expression which he under-
stood to mean, “Yeu know now what you ought to say,
instead of that long prayer,” and he nodded back that
he did so understand it.

Arthur enjoyed the supper immensely, or pretended
that he did. He’ ate three slices of bread and butter :
he drank three cups of tea ; he even tried the beans and
the beets, but declined the radishes, which, he said,
would give him a nightmare.

When supper was over and the table cleared away, he
still showed no signs of going, bué asking Mrs. Craw-
ford to take a seat near him, he pinned at once into
the business which had brought him there, and which,
since he had seen Harold in his working-dress and
heard what he was trying to do, had grown to be of a
two-fold nature. He was very lonely, he said, and all
the elegance and luxuriousness of his handsome house
failed to give him pleasure or to make him forget the
past. He wanted some one to love who would love him
in return, and the little taste he had had of Jerry’s so-
ciety had made him wish for more, and he must have
her with him a part at least of every day.

“In short,” he said, “I should like to undertake her
education myself until she is older, when I will see that
she has the proper finishing. She telis me she hates the
district school, with Bill Peterkin and his warts-——”

«Trying to kiss me,” Jerry interrupted, as, open-eyed
and open-mouthed, she stood, with her hand on his
shoulder, listening to him,

“Yes, trying to kiss you, though I do not blame him
much for that,” Arthur said, with a smile, and then con-
tinued: ‘Sheis ambitious enough to want a governess
like Ann Eliza Peterkin and my brother’s daughter, but
lam better than a dozen governesses. I can teach her
all the rudiments of an English education, with French
and German, and Latin, too, if she likes; and my plan
is, that she come to me every day except Saturdays and
Sundays—come at ten in the morning, get her lessons
and her lunch with me, and return home at four in the
afternoon. Would you like it, Cherry ?”

‘“‘Oh-h-oh !” was all the answer Jerry could make for a
moment, but her cheeks were. scarlet, and tears of joy
stood in her eyes, until she glanced at Harold; then all
the brightness faded trom her face, for how could she
oan pt this great good and leave him to drudge and toil

ne ? ¢

“What is it, Cherry ?” Mr. Tracy asked; and, with a
half sob, she replied :

“I can’t go without Harold. If I get learning, he must
get learning, too,” and leaving Arthur, she crossed over
to the boy, and putting her arm around him, looked up
at him with a look which in after years he would have
given half his life to win.

She was alittle girl now and did not care if he did
know how much she loved him, and that for him she
would sacrifice everything. But in this case the sacri-
fice was not required, for Arthur hastened to say:

“TI shall not forget Harold. I have something better
in store for him than reciting his lessons tome. When
the High School opens in September, he is going there,
and if he does well he shall go to Andover in time, and
perhaps to Harvard. It will all depend upon himself,
and how he improves his opportunities. What! crying?
Don’t you like it?” Arthur asked, as he saw the great
_— gathering in’ Harold’s eyes and rolling down his

eeks.

«Yes, oh, yes; but it don’t seem real, and—and—I
guess it makes me kind of sick,” Harold gasped, as,
freeing himself from Jerry’s encircling arm, he hurried
from the room, to think over this great and unexpected

joy which had come so suddenly to him,

With his naturally refined tastes and instincts the
dirty furnace work had not been pleasant to him, and
he had shrunk with inexpressible loathing from the
swill cart and the other menial duties he had been
obliged to perform for the sake of those he loved. How
to get an education was the problem he was earnestly
trying to solve, and lo! it was now solved for him. For.
a@moment the suddenness of the thing overcame him,
and he sat down upon a table in the yard, faint and
bewildered, while Arthur made his plan clear to Mrs.
Crawford, saying that what he meant to do was partly
for Jerry’s sake and partly for the sake of the young
girl who had been his early love.

«T always intended to take care of you,” he said; ‘but
things go from my mind, and I forget the past as com-
pletely as if it had never been. But this will stay by
me, for I shall have Cherry as a reminder, andif I amin
danger of forgetting she will jog my memory.” 1

For a moment Mrs. Crawford could not speak, so great
was her surprise and joy that the good she had thought
unattainable was to be Harold’s at last. And yet some-
thing in her proud, sensitive nature rebelled against
receiving so much from astranger; even if that stranger
were Arthur Tracy. It seemed like charity, she sald,
when at last she spoke at all. But Arthur overruled her
with that persuasive way he had of converting people
to his views; and when at last he left the cottage it was
with the understanding that Jerry should commence
her lessons with him the first week in September, and
that Harold should enter the High School in Shannon-
dale when it opened in the autumn.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
~
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM,]

CARMELLNE .
THE CONVICTS BRIDE.

A Romance of England and Australia.
Founded on Fact.

By FRANCIS A, DURIVAGE,
AUTHOR OF

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

 

{“CARMELINE” was commenced in No. 7. Back numbers
ean be obtained of all Newsdealers.1

 

CHAPTER XI.
AUSTRALIA—IN THE BUSH.

Carmeline woke from a troubled sleep unrefreshed,
and with her awakening came a sense of her utter deso-
lation, more poignant than the agony she felt when the
stunning blow of the fatal news first came to her on
shipboard.

For days she moved as in a dream—torpid, listless,
despairing. At last came a letter from the gold dig-
gings at Ballarat. The Joneses were trying their for-
tunes there, and they needed help in their housekeep-
ing. They offered Garmeline bed, board, and wages for
her domestic services. ‘

She feit that she must go to work, not only to sup-
port herself, for her money was fast ebbing away, but
that she needed employment as a diversion from brood-
ing over her bereavement. She answered the letter,
aecepting the offer, and announcing that she would go
through with the first train that left Melbourne under

escort, for evil characters loitered about the track of
emigrants, and more than one family had’ been plun-
dered by bushrangers, so that it was not safe to venture
on the track without the protection of the armed and
mounted police.

In a few days the opportunity occurred, and she
secured a place in a wagon belonging to one Mike Mul-
ligan, who, with his wife and two children, were bound
for the gold district. When she had paid her fare and
settled with her landlady, she found that she had left
the sum of thirty pounds sterling, equivalent to $150.
This was none too much for a reserve fund in a country
where a few days’ illness would absorb even a larger
amount.

Carmeline was very ill when she took leave of Mrs.
Muraockson, her kind-hearted landlady, who urged her
to postpone her journey, but her feverish impatience to
secure something like a home in astrange land urged
her forward.

The distance to be traversed was about eighty miles,
but as there were bullock-teams inthe train, the prog-
ress of the caravan was necessarily slow ; moreover, the
road in some places was deep and difficult, and the
emigrants could only hope to reach their destination in
four or five days.

it was a motley procession of mounted men, tilt-carts,
and heavy baggage wagons, some of them piled with
household furniture. The escort consisted of a dozen
well-mounted and well-armed policemen, with revolvers
in their belts, repeating carbines slung at their backs,
and helmets on their heads. When they reached a
suitable spot at night, they encamped and bivouacked
in the open air.

It was no pleasure-trip. At frequent intervals the
emigrants had to traverse Swamps of sticky mud that
clung to the wheels of the wagons like glue.’ They
passed through forests savage and dense. Sometimes
they saw traces of.-great bush-fires that had swept the
country with devouring flames, leaving here and there

great tracts of dead. scorched trees, that loomed up in

the night against the starry sky like ghastly skeletons.

Sometimes a huge fallen tree barred the road, and it
was necessary either to hew it to pieces and remove it
or to fiank it bv turning into miry fields by the road-

side.

In crossing a tributary of the Yarra River Michael
Mulligan met with a misfortune. His wagon broke
down, and his:jaded horses refused to move a step far-
ther. He vainly sought to procure other animals to
enable him to keep pace with the train. Every horse
and ox in the caravan had as much as they could do al-
ready: many of the draught animals had broken
down, and all the spare ones had been torced into
harness.

The utmost that could be done for the unfortunate
family was to take them on in one of the baggage
wagons. But Mike and his wife would not abandon
theircart. It contained their little ally Nor would
Carmeline leave them in their distress. She had con-
ceived an affection for these poor honest people, and
though they did not urge her, she knew that they would
be rejoiced to have her stay with them. After all, what
was one night passed oufof doors under a beneficent
Australian sky ?

Some of the emigrants went to workand got Mike’s
wagon out ot the bed Of the stream and drewit to a dry

lace by the road-side. The horses did not need to be

obbled ; they were too worn-out to stray.

By the time this job was finished the rear of the
column had disappeared Over the brow of an adjoining
hill. The good-natured e ants who had Hngered be-
hind shook hands with Mike and started to regain it.

while Carmeline played with the children, and Mike
lighted his pipe.

After this solace the man went to work, and succeeded
in a few hours in‘ repairing his wagon. But the horses
were still unfit for work, and night was coming on.

Mike thought they could manage to sleep comfortably
enough Under the canvas cover of the cart, but he ex-
pressed.a childish fear of “lions, tigers, zebras, alli-
gators, and all thim haythen animals that go roarin’
round seekin’ somebody to devour.”

Carmeline, who was not so ignorant of the zoology of
Australia, assured him that he had nothing to fear on
that account, for such dangerous creatures were un-
known.

«Sure, thin, it’s a blissid counthry, miss,” was his re-
ply “St. Pathrick must have taken It in his way when.

ecame to dhrive thim varmints out of ould Ireland
into the say.”

Carmeline took him aside.

‘‘Mike,” she said, ‘‘there are those who are more dan-
gerous than wild beasts and reptiles.” 4
“Ghosts and banshees, miss ?”

“No, no, Mike; but bad men—thieves, bushrangers.
You will have to watch to-night, Are you armed ?”
“Ab, thin, miss, I have as good an American six-
shooter as money could buy,”
‘T hope you will have no occasion to: useit. But I
would make no fire. We can dispense with tea and
coffee.”
Following Carmeline’s advice, the little party made a
meal on cold meat and bread, and then crept under the
cover of the cart and arranged themselves as well as
they could for the night—an anxious one, which passed,
however, without incident.
At dawn of day the harsh screams of a hundred cock-
atoos, making a music like the rasping of a thousand
giant saws, awoke them. Other birds joined in—mag-
pies, leatherheads, and laughing jackasses. Green, red,
and blue parrots few from branch to branch of the
forest. Tall cranes stalked along the banks of the river,
or stood motionless beside it.
Mike had not passed a sleepless night. Poor fellow !
he was tired out, and he had taken more than one nap,
grasping his revolver, however. With the opening day
his toil recommenced. The horses, refreshed by a
night’s rest, and by eating their fill of a short, sweet
grass, were in good condition. The cart would hold
together, provided there were no more bad places to
cross.
So they made a hasty meal, harnessed the team, and
resumed their march.
After a short distance the road became bordered by
beautiful flowers, and Carmeline alighted to pluck some,
telling the Mulligans’ to keep on and she would soon
overtake them. There were yellow evyerlastings, butter-
cups, larkspurs; lobelias, orchisses, and a beautiful
fiower like the star of Bethlehem which she had never
seen before. Passionately fond of flowers—those most
delicate gifts of Heaven—the young widow was lured
from spot to spot by their fascination.
She lett the beaten track and struck into the woods,
attracted by some crimson or snowy beauty peeping
from the grass. ‘She did not.zo far, however. hen
she had gathered an armful of flowers,;-enough to oc-
cupy the children for hours in making bouquets and
coronals, she hurried back toward the as she
thought.
But it is easy to lose one’s self in the Australian bush,
and lost she soon discoyered that she was. She cried
aloud, straining her lungs to the utmost :
“Mike! Mike!”
Alas! only the discordant cries of cockatoos and par-
roquets answered her.
‘“‘Mike! Mike!” she cried again and again, and then
stopped and listened.
There was a rustling and crackling in the bushes, and
then two savage-looking men, with shaved heads and
tattered clothes, looking indeed like wild beasts, made
ett appa Each of them carried a stout stick in
and. ; ;
‘Can wedo anything to serve you, mum?” asked one
of them, ducking his head with mock civility.
She controlled her terror, and answered :
*[ have. lost my way, sir. If you guide me to the road,
you will earn thanks.” 4
“When one gets lost in the bush,” said the spokesman
of the two, ‘it?s a matter of life and death. Thanks is
we enough, but it’s worth nvoney to find the trail
again.
“Pll pay you liberally, gentlemen,” said Carmeline, in-
cautiously.
“She’s got money,” said the first ruffilan to his com-
panion. The other winked.
“Well, mum, I’m agreeable to act as guide,” said the
man. *‘Follow us, my charmer. We know the bush,
This way.”

undergrowth. But they led her such a distance that
she became alarmed; she knew the road could not be
so far off, and when they had reached a beaten track
she halted.

‘Does not this path lead to the main road?” she
asked.

“Yes’'um. Turn to the right and you will soon strike
it,” answered the man she had addressed. ‘We'd go
with you, but me and my pal has retired from public
life and never shows ourselves to our contemporaries.”
ae will now pay you for your services,” said Carme-
line.,

“Yes'um. The regular fee for guidin’ a hindividual
out ot the bush is two pound.”
“Two pounds !”

“Two pound, mum, regular.
case, we deducks half on it.
mum, if you please.”
Unfortunately alli Carmeline’s money was together,
and she had to produce her little roll of notes.

“Seeing is having!” shouted the foremost rufflan, and
he snatched the treasure out of her hand.

Not heeding her piteous cry, the two villains sprang
into the bush.

To turn to the right and to fly along the path with the
speed of a fawn was Carmeline’s instant action. But to
her horror, at a turn of the path the ruffians again con-
fronted her.

“Halt!” cried the man who had done all the talking,
brandishing his club. ‘You are our lawful prize.”
Carmeline shrieked aloud for heip, though well aware
of the hopelessness of human aid.

“Give her a rap over the knowledge-box !” said the
second ruffian.

“All right,” replied his comrade, and a terrible blow
laid her senseless on the ground.

“I swear,” said the assailant, as he stooped to lift her,
“I. believe I’ve killed her !”

“Hark, cried his comrade, lifting a warning finger.
“The gallop of a horse! We're lost!”

The other villain dropped the lifeless girl, and, follow-

ing the lead of his accomplice. plunged into the thorny
thickets, through which they writhed their way like
serpents.
It was no false alarm. The busbrangers made their
escape just before a stout man, well mounted, with a
repeating rifle slung at his babk, came thundering up
the forest path.

At sight of the stunned and bleeding woman he threw
his horse on his haunches by a pull at the powerful curb
and flung himself from the saddle. The trained animal
stood like a statue.

**More of these villains’ bloody work !” said the horse-
man, as he bent over Carmeline. ‘Thank Heaven, they
left it unfinished. Her life may yet be saved.”

He ran to a brook, dipped up some water in the crown
of his soft hat, hastened back, and bathed the face of
the unfortunate woman. She muttered some incoherent
words, opened and shut her eyes.

When he raised her from the ground she struggled
with him & moment, and then her muscles relaxed
again. -

Carefully raising her, he mounted, holding her in his
arms as tenderly as if she had been a sleeping infant,
while at a word his horse struck into a gentile canter.

Two or three miles of riding on the velvet turf brought
them to aclearing, and then passing through a gate in
a stockade fence, up a gentle slope, along an avenue of
acacias to a rude but comfortable farm-house, with out-
lying buildings scattered round. There was an air of
freshness about everything, the house and’ fencings,
which showed that it belonged to a recent settler.

A hearty old lady came to the door to welcome him,
but turned pale and held up her hands when she beheld
his strange burden—a young woman, apparently life-
less, her face bathed in blood.

“Mother,” said the-horseman, solemnly, ‘behold your
charge !”’

«‘Who has done this cruel thing ?” asked the old lady,
as she received Carmeline into her arms.

“Who but the bushrangers? But these vermin shall
be hunted from the face of the earth !”

But when a lady’s in the
Hand hover one pound,

 

CHAPTER XII.
TWO HEARTS.

When Carmeline once more opened her eyes to the
light of day and of reason, she found herself lying in a
comfortable bed, round which musquito curtains were
carefully drawn, in a plainly furnished room.

The sun was up. She had overslept herself. It was
high time to rise. But, to her surprise, she found her-
self unable to get out of bed. Then she glanced at her
arms; they were all wasted away. She passed her
hands feebly over her face; that, too, was thin and
hollow.

 

 

 

Mike’s wife sat down on arock and had a good cry; '

‘that she was a temporary

They broke a way for Carmeline through the dense

“What has happened tome? Where am I ?” she cried
aloud, in terror.

«You are safe, among friends,” said a kindly voice, as
an elderly matron came forward and seated herself by
her bedside.

Carmeline passed her hand over her forehead.

‘TY remember,” she muttered, Deer ane terrible. I
remember being attacked by bushrangers in the forest.
Who brought me here? How long have I been here? Is
this place Ballarat _
~ My dear child, you must keep quiet. Ballarat? No,
indeed ; that’s only a settlement. of shanties and tents,
You are in a farm-house. Myson found you, stunned
and bleeding, and brought you here. ‘This is his house,

hame is . Carter.”

“But how long have I been here ?”

“Three weeks to-day.”

«And T have known nothing all that time!”

“You have been very ill; and out of your head. But
last night was the crisis of your ness. The doctor said
that if you passed a quiet night and awoke rational, he
would guarantee your recovery.”

“My dear madam, i owe you my life.”

«You owe it to One who heard our cry for help and
directed my son to ae rescue,” replied Mrs. Carter,
Solemnly, ‘But of we will speak hereafter—not
now. e this.”

The good woman held a cup to the, pale lips of the
sufferer, who drank the contents. Then, sinking back
on her pillow, she closed her eyes in a slumber as sweet
and peaceful as an infant's.

Dr. Beverley had judged the lient’s case rightly.
From this day she began to mend rapidly, and ina week
ace was able to. leave the room and go about the

ouse.

The woman who had taken such motherly care
of her was repaid for all her*watching and nursing
when she saw her charge seated in an arm-chair at the
window of the little parlor on the first floor, with a clear
light in her beautiful eyes, a faint smile on her lips, and
a faint tinge of rose-color on her velvet cheeks.

“My son will soon be here to pay his respects to you,”
said she. ‘‘There is his step; I should know it among
a thousand.”

The door opened; a manly form entered.

“Carmeline !”

“Mr. Meredith !”

Such were their mutual exclamations. Yes, Carmeline
was, beneath the, roof of her old. loyer....He,.whom,she
had rejected for a Worthless rival, had saved her life in
the forest; his mother had saved her life in the farm-
hoyse. Meredith had not recognized her when he res-
cued her, because her face was then bathed with blood
from her wound, and hé had not seen her from the mo-
ment he had given her into his mother’s charge till now.
The old lady was a second time a widow, hence her
neene Carter, had prevented the invalid guessing at the

ruth.

‘Both were greatly agitated, and it was some time be-
fore they could speak calmly.

Meredith noticed the black ribbons on Carmeline’s
dress—she had not had an ey of providing a
full suit of mourning—and sai

‘You have lost a.friend ?”

‘“‘My husband,” she said, averting her face.

“Poor thing! So young to‘ be a widow!” said Mrs.
Carter.

Carmeline glanced up at Meredith.
ing look, and he understood it. She did not wish to re-
veal her painful story. He gave her to understand by a
rapid gesture that he comprehended her and would re-
spect her wishes.

‘How eee, that you should have known Mrs.—I
mean this y,” said “T beg your pardon,

It was an appeal-

: { Mr. Carter.
but you know I never asked your name, my dear.

“Vernon,” said Carmeline, casting down her eyes.

‘Yes, I was acquainted with Mrs. Vernon in England,”
said Meredith; “and I am very happy to have been, of
service to her. But now you must excuse me, madam,”
he added, addressing Carmeline. ‘I lead a very busy
life, and I have a thousand matters to attend to.”

Had he remained another moment in the room, he
would have betrayed. himself. He had need of being
alone to commune with his own thoughts. Carmeline
beneath his roof, and: a widow !

Rapture at last! Reunion of two hearts formed to
beat together—two lives destined to flow in the same
channel, -

CHAPTER XIII.
FLIGHT.

“IT say, my good fellow! Aw! beg pardon; perhaps
I’m addressing the proprietor.”

And off went the glossy English beaver from the head
of an elegant horseman, who reined oP his steed at
the gate,of Meredith’s Hope, and salu the owner of
the estate. , :

The lifted hat disclosed a profusion of: black curled
locks, The gentleman’s face was a furnished
with hair—beard, whiskers, and mustache of luxuriant
growth—and he wore a most. fashionable riding-suit.
His horse was a blooded bay. Here was a dandy who
ought to be prancing in Rotten Row, curveting the
wilds of Australia.

‘What can Ido for you, sir?” asked Mark Meredith.

“‘Aw—you see, my dear fellow, I’m in a peculiarly per-
ploxing predicament. My horse has cast a shoe, and he

too abit of blood to spoil by riding him over
these blawsted roads in that condition. Now, can you
our me by changing horses with me? Here’s my
¢ ; ’'m perfectly msible—almost a neighbor of
yours ; that is, I live only thirty miles off.”

Meredith smiled and glanced at the card, whereon was
engraved in dainty Gothic characters:

‘RUPERT STANLEY, Acacia Lodge.”

“Mr. Stanley,” said Meredith, “I have a man who will
shoe your horse. In the meantfmeI shall be proud of
your company to.supper.”

“You are very ky-ind,” I’m*sure,” said the dandy. ‘‘I
accept. your polite invitation on condition that you will
give me a Call at Acacia Lodge, only thirty miles off.”

He dismounted, and Meredith gave his horse to a farm
hand, with the necessary directions. The farmer and
the gentleman walked into the house, where Mr. Stan-
ley was presented to the ladies and sat down to supper.

After the meal Meredith said:

“I wish I coul@ persuade you to pass the night with
us. Thirty miles is a long ride.”

“Oh! mydear fellow, I make nothing of it. I promised
my wife I would be at home to-night. I have relays in
horses on the road. It’s a fine moon.”

“But the bushrangers ?” on

“IT am perfectly armed,” answered Mr. Stanley, with a
smile. ‘Pluck, a pair of revolvers, a good nag, and
sharp spurs, carry a man through any danger.”

Meredith was pleased to find that if his guest was
a dandy, he was a plucky aoe

The horse was brought round at sunset, and Mr. Stan-
ley mounted, after shaking hands with Meredith and his
mother, and leaving his adieus for Mrs. Vernon, who
was not then cert

As Mr. Stanley was passing out of the avenue, he met
Carmeline taking a walk.

“My dear madam,” he said, reining up his horse and
taking off his hat, ‘‘I am glad of the opportunity to bid
you adieu in person.”

He bent from his saddle to shake hands with her. The
motion raised his sleeve a little and exposed his wrist.
on which was tattoed a peculiar mark—a star within a
coiled serpent.

Carmeline uttered a wild cry that shaped itself with
the word:

“Luke !”

“Silence !” said the horseman, grasping her hand as in
an tron vise. ‘‘Silence—or death !”

Terrified, agonized, the wretched woman gazed up in-
to the scowling face that bent over her. Now she knew
why the first sight of this man had been as an icebolt
to her heart. Now she eee the features, though
the disguise was so perfect. Luke Vernon—-Luke, the con-
vict—her husband, alive! She trembled so that he had
to keep her from falling. rei]

- “Bool!” he said. “Who are you afraid of? Keep my
secret, and I will never trouble you. Betray me, and I
will kill you.”

‘4 ‘Kill me now, and end a wretched life!” said Carme-
ne. oy

“That sounds as if you no longer loved me,” said the

 

Mrs. Carter was untiring in the praise of her son.
The good lady had now secured a listener, and she ran
on for an hour on her favorite theme. She told how suc-
cessful Mark had been, how lucky he had been at the
gold aigEtngs: how fortunate in hisland speculations,
how ' eattle had turned out. He was always a
good son, she said, and an honest, steady man, and
Providence had blessed him beyond his wildest hopes.

Carméline listened with mingled pleasure and pain.
She rejoiced at Meredith’s success, but she regretted
inmate of his‘house. Had it
been a stranger’s, she would have been glad to remain
in his employ contented with retirement and hard work.
But her former relations with the master forbade her
continuing in his family. She resolved, so soon as she
had gained a little strength, to leave Meredith’s Hope,
so he had prettily named. his settlement, and to seek
other shelter. =

In the meantime she communicated with the Joneses,
announcing her safety and her intention of joining
them at Ballarat as soon as possible, requesting them to

vance her a S$ of money—torzshe was now

pniless--t4 Pal ¥ "The letter
mained unanswered, » ’ ve

During the delay she made herself useful about the
house, and so endeared herself to Mrs. Carter, by her
resignation, industry: and dexterity, that the old lady
came to love her like a child. Of course Carmeline was
thrown continually into the society of Mark, who was
always courteous, but grave and unimpassioned. It
was evident that the old love had died out: as for her-
self, her own heart, as she thought, was dead within her.

At last the long-expected letter from the Joneses
reached her, with an inclosure of money. They were
pleased at the prospect of her joining them. She com-
municated the intelligence to Mrs. Carter, and. an-
nounced -her purpose of leaving Meredith’s Hope for
Ballarat at once.

Mrs. Carter was thunderstruck.

“Why, my dear, I neyeér dreamed of your leaving us!”

convict—‘“‘as if you were rather sorry that the bullets of
the guard at Norfolk Island did not reach my Hfe—
though they made their mark, and I came well-nigh
drowning with my comrade.” t

“I do not love you, Luke,” said Carmeline.

“Perhaps the hospitable gentleman who
per and a horse-shoe to-night has found
eyes.”

“Do not ask me.” ,

“Why, you fool, do a think me blind? Well, don’t
let my existence trouble you. I care no more for you
than you doforme. I would rather see you marti
this spooney—in fact I insist upon it. Luke Vernon is
dead—do you mark that? And you certaifly never mar-
ried Rupert Stanley. Follow my example. I’ve got
another wife—get another husband. Farewell, but re-
member! Night and day I, or one of my people, shall
watch you; and if you blab, you die—that’s all.”

He pricked his horse with his spurs and was e.
| His wretched wife found her way home in the twilight,
and complaining ofillness, retired to her room.

The next morning she did not answer when she-was
called to breakfast. Fearing that she might be still un-
well, Mrs. Carter went up stairs and knocked at the
chamber door.

There was no reply, and so the old lady opened the
door and walked in. ;

Carmeline was gone, Her bed had not been disturbed.

Gazing around her in alarm, she noticed a letter on the
dressing-table addressed to her son. With this she has-
tened down’ stairs as rapidly as possible. Mark Meredith
tore it open.and read : :

“DEAR MARK: When you read thisI shall be faraway. May
Heaven bless you, and your dear mother, and the house that
sheltered the unhappiest of women! But I can never—
should never be yours. Too late have I i the gulf
that separates us, and fly to avoid worse than death. Beloved
one, farewell forever, CARMELINE.”

Meredith and his motber gazé@at each other in agony.
“poor child!” said. Mrs...Carter. “‘That -blow..on. the

ve me sup-
yor in your

 

ry.
she said, and the old lady began to cry.
“T am tired of eating the bread of idleness,” said Car-

meline.

“TIdleness! Don’t talk such stuff as that.
couldn’t pay for the help you’ve been tome. And then,
I thought you’a begun to like me a little.”

“Like you a little! You have been a mother to me.
From the first moment I opened my eyes on your dear
face, my heart went out to you. Dear, dear Mrs. Car-
ter, [loved you,” and poor Carmeline burst into tears,

“Then why won’t you stay and comfort the old lady ?
What are these Joneses te you? Are they relatives ?”

“They were very kind to me on the voyage.”

“And haven’t I been? But this wil! be news to my
son; I must tell him of it.”

ane then, dear madam, that my resolution is irrev-
ocable.”

The old lady bustied out of the room and did not re-
turn to it. In a few moments the door opened and
Mark Meredith stood beside her. He waseven graver
than usual.

“My mother tells me, Mrs. Vernon, that you have de-
cided to leave us, and is almost heart-broken about it. I
had hoped that you would remain as her companion,
and that we had succeeded in making you comfortable
here.”

“Mr. Meredith,” answered Carmeline, trying to imi-
tate a calmness, ‘‘the most tranquil and comfortable
days of my life have been passed beneath your hospita-
ble roof. I owe you more than shelter, l owe you my
life, and when I am far away from here, night and
morning will I pray on bended knees that the choicest
blessings of heaven may descend in unstinted bounty
on Meredith’s Hope.”

“Meredith’s Hope! Meredith’s Desolation, rather,
when you have left us!” cried Mark. All his stoicism
yanished. ‘Carmeline! Carmeline! you are the cruelest
of women. Do you think a man who once loves can
ever forget? Do you think I can forget the poor little
barefooted girl who tended sheep on Overton Common ?
Do you think I can forget the beautiful woman who
touched my heart as no woman ever did before or ever
can again? You could not love me then, but I did
think that the bitter experience of life had changed
your heart. Was it not Providence that reunited us
after a long separatign. {f still adoring, you once more
free to listen to me? Carmeline, while you were an-
other’s I could still the beatings of my heart, could find
in toil an anodyne to agony, but now! now! there is
nothing bids me be silent, nothing bids me refrain from
declaring my undying love. Carmeline! Carmeline!
Again I ask you to be my wife.”

“J am penniless, and you are rich.”

“Had I all the gold in Australia, I should be poor
without your love; with it, in poverty I should be
wealthy.”

Carmeéline pressed her hand to her heart, and leaned
against the window frame for support.

Meredith sprang to her side; he took her hand; he
drew her to him: her head drooped on his shoulder.
Hiding her face, she faltered out :

“Oh, Mark, I love you! How TI love you!”

Then, by a sudden transition, she pushed him away
from her, raised her head, dried her streaming eyes, and
then said :

‘Yes, Mark, I love you—love you dearly—so dearly
that I can never be your wife.”

Mark Meredith fell from rapture to despair.

«“Why—why ?” he asked, in a tone of the bitterest
agony.

«Because Iam a convict’s widow.”

“Will you permit your misfortune to stand in the way
of my happiness ?” asked Meredith.

‘Hear me, Mark,” said Carmeline, and she now spoke
quite calmly; ‘I have asked you to conceal my story
from your mother, and you have done so. Now go to
her and tell her all.”

«Do not ask me to do that.”

«You see that I was right. Butif you do not tell her,
1 will: Mark, listen to your mother; she will tell you
that I knew my duty ; she will console you when we are
parted forever.”

She sank into a Chair, exhausted by emotion, as Mere-
dith left the room. She sat there along, long time, and
then the door was opened, and Mrs. Carter hastening up
to her, threw her arms about her.

“Darling,” said the old lady, “I know all now. You
are a noble creature. Now listen to me; it is the re-
quest of one who loves you like a mother. My son saved
your life : 1 ask you to save his. Marry him!”

“Mother !” cried Carmeline, and she wept on the old
lady’s neck. :

At that instant Mark returned to the room.

«Here !” cried the old lady. ‘Take this girl; comfort
her—cherish her; for she is a jewel; she consents to be

}

Money | she has worn—one of her shoes.

 

 

 

my daughter.”

head in the forest must have affected her brain. The
letter is perfectly incoherent. What is to be done?”
“To track her!” cried Meredith. ‘Bring me something
Thank Heaven! 1
| have a brace of blood-hounds. They will find her trail.
| 1 know what is tobe done. If she is alive Gf! whata
horrible thought)! she cannot escape my search !”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

AUDREVS RECOMPENSE,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “BROWNIE'’S TRIUMPH,” “THE
FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “STELLA ROSE-
VELT,” **THE LILY OF MOR-
DAUNT,” etc.

 

 

(“AUDREY 8 RECOMPENSE” was commenced in No. 48 Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]}

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.~-(CONTINUED.)

The Starkeys had taken a handsome suite of rooms in

a street not far from where Miss Waldemar resided,
where they were to have their meals served in a little
private room, instead of going to the public table, so it
would not seem like boarding, but as if they had a sep-
arate home of their own.
| ‘]’m/afraid it will cost a great deal,” Annie had ob-
| jected, when Miss Starkey stoutly affirmed she would
| not go to any public table, and proposed this plan.
“Of course it will, child ; these New Yorkers know how
| to make you pay a smart price for every thing you have,
but I guess there’s money enough, and if we are going
| to stay here this winter, we're going to have things in

shape, and a good time, too, if we can,” returned the
| spinster, resolutely, and Annie offered no further oppo-
| sition.
| They were to remain until April, then they were going
to Lynnell to spend the summer, where Miss Waldemar,
| Rich, and the Campbells would join them for a month.

Then early in the fall there was to be a quiet wedding
in the old homestead where Annie’s mother had been
married, :

It was the young girl’s wish to stand upon the very
spot where her father and ‘mother had plighted their
vows, when she gave herself for life to Rich.

After the wedding and a short’ tour, the young couple
would return to New York to occupy a charming little
residence which Uncle George and Rich were planning
between them, which was to be built just a little way out
of the city, and where the Starkeys were to spend
their winters, and then, if Rich’s business would permit,
the whole family would go back for the hot summer to
the old homestead at Lynnell.

Mr. Starkey, with the Jones family, left for Maine the
middle of December, and they who had no love for city
life bade farewell to New York, where they had suffered
so much, without a regret.

Mr. Jones was now far on the road to health ; the hope
of being able once more to provide comfortably for his
family had done much toward his restoration ; for cour-
age and hope are by far the most successful physicians
the world has ever known.

His gratitude toward Miss Starkey and the other good
oo who had done so much toward effecting this

appy change for him, was unbounded.

He considered Miss Campbell «‘an angel of goodness,”
while toward Roger Hamilton he manifested an affec-
tion and reverence that was almost pathetic.

Grace, Annie, and Miss Starkey all rode to the station,
on the morning the party were to take their departure,
“to see them off;” and there they met Mr. Hamilton,
who had come upon a similar errand.

‘‘What a grand man he is!” Annie remarked to Grace,
who, after exchanging greetings with him, had present-
ed him to her young friend ; ‘‘the very glance of his eye,
to say nothing of his genial smile, inspires one with con-
fidence and esteem instantly.”

 

 

 

 

 

Grace made no reply to these enthusiastic remarks;
but her gaze followed his noble torm, as he went to help
Mr. Jones attend to his baggage, with an expression
that betokened something more than mere friendly in-
terest, while the bloom on her cheek increased to a
dgeper hue than usual.

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. STARKEY TAKES AN INTEREST IN AROHITECTURE.

The winter passed quickly and delightfully, at least to
retty Annie Noble. qrife, for her, had resumed
ts brightest. aspect. Mr, Cam bell bases and tried

wapet something for her from the f lawyer who

settled her father’s estate. He felt sure that as good

a business man as Adrien Noble had been would never
have left his child so utterly destitute as Annie had been
left. But the man had so thorou covered his tracks,
and so cunniie accounted I r, Noble's insolvency,
that he could d nothing ie to work upon, and
had at length to give up the as hopeless.

But, notwithstanding this disappointment, the winter
slipped away with very much of enjoyment init. The
Starkeys, Waldemars, and Mapbells were much to-
gether ; indeed scarcely a day, passed that they did not
meet, or plan to visit some p: ot interest in company
with each other. Os

Meantime, Mr. Starkey had returned from Maine,
where he had left the Jones family happy and contented
in their new home, Mr. Jones having improved so rap-
idly after leaving the city that he was able to attend to
many duties before Mr. Starkey left.

Rich made a seeare in his business at the beginning
of the new year, as Mr. Remington had advised him to
do, and formed a partnership with Mr. Mason,

Having already. acquired something of a reputation,
orders soon began to pourin upon them, and there
seemed to be atair prospect that wealth and fame
awaited the new firm of Mason & Waldemar.

Mr. Starkey all at once became deeply interested in
architecture; especially so in a certain set of plans
which Rich was engaged — for a house that was to
be built a few miles out of
“Uncle George” had himself bought and paid for.

The discussions upon these plans were frequent and
long. Rich was desirous that the house should be con-
venient, and everything about it built with a view to
comfort and thoroughness; but he aimed, at the same
time,.to. make the cost reasonble:

Mr. Starkey, however, trequently startled him, and
deranged his ae by proposing strangely extravagant
additions, atleast for a man who had been brought up
as simply as he had been. we

“Why don’t you put in someof these new-fangied
fixings over the fire-place ?” he asked, one day, when
they were discussing the finish of certain rooms.

“Those ornamental mantels, do you mean?” Rich

ked.

“I guess that’s what they call ’em ; at any rate, they're
all whittled out in fine shape.”

“They are very expensive—anything in carving always
is,” objected Rich. ™ : .

«I shouldn’t wonder ; but I like ’em first-rate.”

 

‘Have you any idea what they cost ?” Rich asked.

“Well, yes, something; ’ve been ‘round a little ask-
ing the prices of some things, and I guess, if you’re
Seon s we'll put one in the parlor and another in the
library. ThenIreckon you might as well have the
rooms finished in hard woods to match ’em. I heard
the child payee thought the natural wood was prettier
than any g else.”

“Yes; I like that kind of finish best myself,” the
ae architect admitted, but looking a trifie per-
plexed.

“Then I’ve an idea,” pursued Mr. Starkey, blandly,
“that she’d like a little glass-house, built on the south-
side, to keep posies in.”

“What? Do you mean a conservatory thrown out to
the.south ?” exclaimed Rich, aghast at these unexpected
and expensive ea

«Yes; I reckon that’s the upper-tendom name for ’em.”

‘Tam you do not realize what you are talking
about, Mr. Starkey,” Rich said, gravely, for he could
not see his way clearly yet toward. maintaining a style
of furnishing and living to correspond with these ex-
pensive suggestions.

“I guess I do, if you’ll excuse my contradicting you,”
answered Mr. Starkey, serenely. ‘‘According to my
way of thinking, there ain’t anything too good for that
gir of our’n, and so she’s going to have the best there

. I know she loves flowers better’n anything else that
grows; and Iwant her to have alot of ’em, and a nice
place to keep ’emin; and—well, to make a long story
short, you just take this and use it as if you knew there
was plenty more where it came from—for there is—and
a build that house just as it ought to be built—in ship-

pe,

He pulled a folded paper from his breast-pocket as he
spoke, and laid it down before Rich.

The young man unfolded it, and found it to be a check
for an amount that astonished him.

He flushed and appeared considerably embarrassed,
Mr. Starkey, noticing it, resumed, in an explanatory way :

**You see, if I'd been like most other men, I suppose I
should have got married long ago, and maybe had chil-
dren of my own, but 1 didn’t, and so there’s only Mar-
thy Ann and me in the family, and the Lord only knows
who'd gobble up our money after we’re gone, if we didn’t
do something with it beforehand. Well, we’ve settled
it between us that that child is going to have the most
ot it; but I’ve a notion that Pd like to see a little of it
— by somebody who knows how to make things
. €;solwant this house to be—a—well, a regular
stunner—such a one as you'd make itif you was worth,
say a hundred and fifty thousand—perhaps moré—and
you thought there wasn’t anything too good for your
bride that is to be.”

Rich was astounded.

 

 

He had had no thought of building in any such elabo-
rate Way as this: a modest, convenient, comfortable
little house was all he had aspired to, and all that he
deemed his means would allow,

Mr. Starkey had given the land, and he had supposed
that would the extent of his contribution toward
Annie’s wedding outfit.

But.this..check, and the hint as to almost unlimited
meéans, and the suggestions regarding finish and orna-
mentation, convinced him that Annie’s guardians would
not be satisfied with anything so simple as he had con-
templated.

“Very well,” he said, after considering the matter
awhile, ‘‘I will do as you desire, Mr. Starkey; but I shall
insist, upon the completion of the house, that the prop-
erty be made over unconditionally to Annie.”

Mr. Starkey chuckled amusedly.

“Well, Lsha’n’t object to that,” he said; ‘‘you can do
as you please, though I guess it won’t make no great
sight of difference whichever name it standsin. Al! ’m

articular about is that there sha’nt be any outs about

t, for Pm bound to show Marthy Ann that Ican do the
handsome thing as well as she, and I don’t want her to
know, neither, till it’s done, that ’twas my idea.”

So the lovely house grew, and Rich put his whole heart
into it, until it came to be the ‘dearest spot on earth” to
ae around it clustered the most sacred hopes of

e.

Mr. Hamilton had become a frequent visitor at the
Campbells’ during these months, and many a ‘‘Samari-
tan” errand was planned by him and Grace, and Miss
Campbell seemed to be greatly changed in some re-
spects. The look of sadness and pain had almost dis-
appeared from her eyes; the old color had returned to
her face, and she seemed once more like the beautiful
girl whom Rich had so admired that evening when he
had first been invited to her home.

Spring succeeded winter, and when April came the
Starkeys were preparing to flit to their country home.

Rich grew rather sober as the time of separation drew
nigh, and on the evening before Annie’s departure he
was almost tempted to say that he could not let her go.

She bantered him upon it with a forced gayety, which,
however, did not deceive him in the least, for her eyes
were dewy, and her lips quivered with almost every
other sentence. 7

“Tf I do not run away from you I shall never be ready
to occupy that lovely house with you next fall,” she said,
with a charming blush. «Just think,” She added, severe-
ly, ‘“‘what idle hands these have been all these winter
months, and such piles of sewing to be done!”

Rich gathered those same ‘idle hands” into his, and
kissed them tenderly.

“IT call them very busy hands when I think of all that
they have done ix the past,” he said, fondly ; ‘and I
want to exact a promise that they shall not do more
than is good for their owner while she is where I cannot
look after her.”

“Oh, Aunt Martha has taken care to provide for that
already, and—isn’t it just lovely of her, Rich ?—has en-
gaged Mary Forsyth to go to Maine with us to spend the
summer and help do the sewing. It will not only give
the poor girl ee but help to build her up. The
country air and living are just what she needs.”

‘Are you sure that ‘Aunt Martha’ deserves all the
credit for the arrangement?” asked Rich, with a sig-
nificant smile.

“Oh, well, of course, when I knew that we must have
some one to help, I suggested Mary,” Annie admitted,
flushing consciously.

«J thought so,” Rich remarked, quietly. ‘Aunt Mar-
tha is a dear old soul and a true sister of charity ; but
she isn’t the only whole-hearted woman in the universe,
by any means.”

CHAPTER XXXV.
AN OLD-FASHIONED PICNIC.

So the middle of April found the Starkeys back in
their old home—a large, well-preserved, old fashioned
mansion, having great square rooms, with wide, old
fire-places all over the house, and a great hall running
through the middle of it.

It was furnished with rich, substantial furniture, as
ancient as itself—heir-looms of three generations ;
and every nook and corner of the place was homelike.

The buildings outside were as spotless as a coat of
white paint, administered every other year, could make
them, and the wide sweeping lawn, dotted here and
there with magnificent elms, whose graceful branches
almost swept the green turf, was a perfect delight to the

eye.

“What a lovely place! and this was my mother’s
home ?” Annie exclaimed, as she alighted before the:
open an and glanced about her with immistakable

elight. j

“Yes, always, after her father and mother died, until
she was married,” answered Miss Starkey, well pleased
with her appreciation. ‘‘Annie Hunting played day af-
ter day under these old trees ; she roamed over the hills
yonder picking berries in the summer, and nuts in the
fall; she loved those meadow down there, where you
see that little running brook, and where she used to
fiind and bring home violets, strawbells, and cowslips

 

 

 

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by the apronful; your mother was as fond of flowers
as you are, Annie,” concluded the spinster, quietly
wiping a tear from her cheek.

“Yes, and I've got the last ones she ever brought
home,” softly murmured her brother, as if talking to
bimselt.

- “George Washington! what do you mean?”
questioned Miss Starkey; for something unusual in
manner stal her.

He looked up surprised, and as if her words had sud-
denly br t him to his senses ; rubbed his hard hand
once or tw across his forchead, while a dusky red
flushed his whole face.

a a an on wallet from one of

pockets an w from it a r.
Jarefully opening it, he showed to Ge ostenished sis-
ter and Annie a few faded flowers—violets, strawbells,

s lost its ru
‘AW. nt toge’ ; there was a look of wistful sad-

ess in his eyes, while the hand that held the paper
trembied visibly.

Annie, half-blinded by tender tears, bent close to look
at flowers that had n by her mother’s
‘fingers, and did not appear to heed the old man’s un-
usual emotion; but eye! oe 88 ef manatee:
regarding him with e eyes, a perplexed and aston-
_ ished look on her face.

Presently the youn turned away and wandered

   
 
   

ruddy hue ; his lips were

   
 
  

_ thoughtfully about the Ra She was deeply moved to

find herself there in the very place where her mother
had lived ; to tread the same sod that her feet had press-
ed; to breathe the same air, and to be overshadowed by

- the same lofty trees.

Miss Starkey waited until she was beyond hearing,
then she lifted one hand and laid it gently on her
brother’s shoulder.

He turned and looked into her face, and he knew that
she had read the secret that he had guarded so sacredly
for long, long years. —

*‘} took ’em from the vase in the parlor, after she went
away with him, that day ;” he said, apologetically, but

~ in an wu voice, and his eyes went fondly back to
those faded ms. ‘I saw her put ’em there with
her own hands, and I’ve kept’emeversince. When I

die, M Ann, you put ’em here,” and having rever-
ently the paper again. he laid it over his heart.

‘ Washin ! that’s. why you set so much’
by 1” ejaculated his sister, with a nod, and a glance

toward Annie; but her hand still rested with a tender
touch on his shoulder, and her chin quivered with re-

coe I though I’m fond of her f
“It’s one reason, I suspect); ’m fond of her for
her own sake, too,” he said.

He put his flowers carefully back into the old wallet
and returned it to its former hiding-place; then he
added, with a humility and a sort of shamefacedness
that was most pathetic :

“I never meant any one should know—but, somehow,
I couldn't help it—I reckon I forgot myself, for her sweet
voice,-her blue eyes, and ene are so like her
pre that I half thought,

W: again. .-

q Marthy Ann,” he-continued, with Slane.
drawn sigh, after a brief silence, ‘‘we won’t ever
ae pe any more, for though ’tis so long ago, it kind
of hurts yet.”*

He straightened himself, as if thus to throw off his
momentary weakness ; turned abruptly and went into
the house, while his sister stood sadly after him.

“Well, it's rather queer, I must say,” she murmured

 atiast. <1 Gought’twas strange for a man ot George
Washington’s make-up to get so soft over a girl; but
this accounts for it. It’s an odd world, though, where
things as so mixed up, and go by contraries, but per-
haps it'll all be straightened out up yonder,” she con-
cluded, with a dreamy look off over the distant hills,
where the earth and sky seemed to meet.
ae June slipped almost magically away; but
busy hands were at work in the great farm-house, and
much was accomplished during that time. Mary For-
Syth, with new health and strength animating her, and
with uude in her heart for the kindness that had
brought her there to enjoy allthat beauty and comfort,
worked with all her might over the bridal outtig; and
piles of household linen and wearing apparel—garments
of dainty shape and delicate texture—grew into form,
and were pas away in trunks for their. final
destination in that now nearly. completed house in the
suburbs of New York. ;

With the first warm days of July Miss Waldemar
came to Lynnell; Rich emphatically opposed her stay-
ing in that melting city atmosphere another week, for
he saw that she was wilting visibly in it, and it would
be out of the question for him to get away before the
first of August, since he intended to be. absent into Sep-
eters the wedding being set for the tenth of that
month. :

“Tm glad we've got the heft of the se done,” Miss
Starkey remarked, when she saw Miss Waldemar’s pale
taee and noted her listless manner; ‘‘there’s nothing but
knickknacks and finery to attend to now, and that'll be
nothing but play ; so there'll be plenty of time for roam-
ing aboutin the pine woods, and you and Annie both
pexigetieh she’s been working too steady in spite of all I
could do.” |

After that there were long, lovely days, when Miss
Starkey, assisted by Mary Forsyth and a couple of far-

_ Iners’ girls, was ‘‘up to her eyes” in the business of wed-
_ ding-cake, and in pickling and preserving for the young
housekeeper elect, for she stou affirmed that
“boughten sauces weren’t fit to eat.” Miss Waldemar
and Annie wandered away by themselves, and almost
lived out of doors. ‘

They would take a few handkerchiefs to hem, or some
other light work—just to “make believe they were in-
dustrious,” Annie mischi asserted—and into

where, sit ‘a mammoth | tree,
through ‘whose dark eaves a delightful breeze
always they 7

rusiled, they ) over the surroundin

country for miles and miles, and breathe in health and

Mrs. Campbell and Grace came the last week in July ;

_ the first of August brought Rich, and then the party
com

seemed ; é
~. Mrs. Campbell had her own horses and carriage—or,
rather, a dsome, comfortable turnout hired from the
nearest city—and they took long drives all about the
country.
Grace pronouncea Maine the ‘loveliest State in the
- Union.” She had been almost everywhere, but nowhere
was there such beautiful scenery, such delightful lakes
and drives as in that region which they explored during
those never-to- tten weeks.
Toward the last of August there was to be an old-
~ fashioned country picnic—those rustic people always
had one every year, when the entire neighborhood
turned out went fora whole day’s merry-making
2 OF korder of acharming lake some five miles dis-
t.

The visitors at the farm decided to join the party upon
this occasion, and, growing enthusiastic over it, nothing
else was talked of for a week beforehand. ;

Allsave Miss Waldemar; she did not seem strong,
and was still far from well; soshe decided to remain

: ey, at home and run no risk of getting ill before the
w ng.

Annie and Grace never appeared more charming than

when, on the eventful morning, they stood together for

' @moment or two on the broad, flat door-step while

ae for the carriage to be brought around to the
or.

O . __

Miss Campbell wore a brown linen suit, plain and
simple, but fitting her so faultlessly, and set off by her
tasteful hat with clusters of scarlet poppies, that there
was really an air of elegance oan it.

Annie’s dress was ot dark-blue cambric, dotted with
tiny sprigs of white, very modestly made, and confined
at the waist with a leathern belt, having a huge, quaint
steel clasp which she had fastened at the back.

_ Her hat, of cream-colored chip, had a simple scarf of
white mull bound about it, with a cluster of forget-me-
nots on one side, and she had ‘‘never fooked so pretty

‘world before,” Uncle George told her, when she
came tripping down stairs and joined Grace on the

door-step.
ae ‘shes the ee oan of all,’ costae ane
Campbell, in-her clear, rich soprano, as she wound one
arm about her waist and requried her admiringly.
Her hand came in contact with that heavy clasp as
she did $0, and she said : ;
‘‘Why do you wear your belt fastened behind, Annie ?
It isn’t the ion nowadays.”
_. ‘I know it; but. who cares for fashion in this delight-
ly unfashionable place ?” Annie retorted, with danc-
eyes; then she added: ‘‘My belt is a convenience,
; the clasp is a nuisance—it has sharp corners, and is
‘always Ca y gloves and sleeves; so I put it
around there to get it out of the way. I'm going fora
good time to-day, and do not mean to have my pleasure
_ Inarred by any annoyances, however ht.”
But before the day was over they all had reason to
_ bless those very sharp corners, which heretofore had
proved so annoying as to cause this disposition of the
stout clasp.
The mo was perfect.
It had rained just enough during the night to lay the
_ dust, cool the air, wash the faces of the leaves and flow-
_ ers, making them look bright and fresh; and it was a
Se Bay party otfifty or more that met at the “old red school-
house on the corner,” about a mile from Mr. Starkey’s,
_ the point from which
- talked of excursion.
_. The day passed much as all such daysdo. It was a
Teal, good, old-fashioned time, full of simple, honest en-
_jJoyment for the bed honest people who participated
it, while everybody was kind and obliging.
__The dinner was most appetizing, and the hungry crowd
that gathered around the rude table, partook of the
bountful supply of good things with a zest which spoke
volumes, not only for its excellence, but for the capacity
of the merry-makers aiso.
The afternoon was spent much as the morning had
en—in rowing upon the lake, or wandering upon its
shores; while some engaged in croquet | other
games, which had been provided for the lovers of such
amusements.
Our triends from New York joined in every
a heartiness which betrayed real enjoyment,
for them the good will of everybody.  ~
“They ain’t a bit stuck up, like most of the city folks
Pve seen,” was.the comment of one buxom damsel who
had been playing croda in the same set with Grace
and Annie, after which she had gone to “help the folks
clear up,” preparatory to going home.
“Stuck up,” sniffed Miss Starkey, who had overheard
ther k. “What should they be stuck up about I

onan to know ?”

“‘Well,” replied the girl, coloring at having been over-

» “you know, yourself, they ain’t like us country
; they’re nicer, somehow, in their ways and dress

 
 
  
 

they were to start on their long

with
won

  
 

 

 
 

 

 

—anybody could pick them out of the crowd and tell
where they belong, pretty quick; but they’re just as
kind and social, and seem to enjoy everything just as if
they considered us as good as anybody else. I tell you,
Miss Starkey, everybody is over head and ears in love
with that pretty niece of yours.”

“TI guess you’re about right there; and they’ve
reason, too, for there ain’t many like her in this world,”
returned the gratified spinster, who was as busy as any
one among the care-takers, in helpi to pack up the
dishes and ‘gather up the fragments.

She cast a fond look, as she spoke, over at Annie, who
was standing beside Rich, but waschatting merrily with
a tall, awkward tarmer-boy, who, with his hands in his
pockets, and a broad, delighted smile on his sun.
browned face, was gazing at her with his whole heart in
his eyes.

At thelr ht, and at some little distance beyond them
there was a knoll, covered with a dense growth of alder
bu

Rich was the nearest to this, Annie on his left, while
the youth stood facing them both, buta little apart from
them, his bashfulness not allo him to come too near
so fair a divinity, as he seemed to believe Annie to be.

It was a group which those two women never forgot,
and the wild scene that followed soon after, haunted
their dreams for years; it made their flesh creep with

 

a minute, that she-

horror whenever the memory of it returned to them.

“What a handsome man Mr. Waldemar is, too,” pur-
sued the voluble maiden. :

“Yes, he is, and that ain’t the best of it either—he is
as good as gold,” replied Miss Starkey, heartily.

“Taint often you see such good looking ones to-
gether,” said the girl. ‘‘I don't believe there was ever so
handsome a couple married in Lynnell as they will
make.”

“You don’t remember her father and mother then—no,
of course you don’t, you were only a baby when they
were married,” said Miss Starkey, her mind going back
to that morning when beautiful Annie Hunting went
out from the old homestead leaning upon the arm of her
noble husband. f

“How nice it must be to have such a handsome beau,
and all the nice things that Ihear Miss Noble's got—to
have a grand wedding, and then go to the city to live,’,
sighed the country lass, half enviously.

“Yes, their prospects are quite inviting I’m free to
own,” replied Miss Starkey, gravely, ‘‘but, child, be-
lieve me, in nine cases out of ten, our simple country
life is the purest and best. Merciful Heaven! what was
that ?” ;

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

a |

THE OLD YEAR.

 

BY E. W. P.

 

Tis twilight—and another day

Of Winter's reign has passed away;
The sun has sunk in calmness down,
"Mid clouds that darkly on him frown.

The hollow wind without we hear,
That tells us of the dying year;

Masses of snow the ground conceal,
The trees their naked forms reveal.

But eve comes on—replenish quick

 

 

 

 

The ample fire with many a stick,
And gather round the lights anew,
While loved ones’ faces come to view.

Or we will chat, rehearsing o’er

Some extracts drawn from memory’s store,
And many a merry laugh shall sound,

As each one takes his turn around.

Much has been sung in every age,
By simple bard and saintly sage,

Of Winter's drear'and hoary mien—
A hungry fellow, rough and lean.

But though he takes seme joys away
From the dying year so cold and gray,
He oo us many a pleasure, too,
And many a gem to friendship true.

Then blessings on his frosty pate,

And mirth upon his path await,

Until the New Year, young and bright,
Shines on us with his welcome light.

+g gg

 

 

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

 

A PAIR MYSTERY,

THE STORY OF A COQUETTE.

By BERTHA If. CLAF,
AUTHOR OF
“PUT ASUNDER,” “THROWN ON THE WORLD,”
“LADY DAMER’S SECRET,” etc.

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

' CHAPTER LXIX.
LORD VIVIANNE PROPOSES A LITTLE DISCUSSION.

“If I may take the liberty,” said Lord Vivianne, turn-
ing with his most amiable smile to Mrs. Brace, “I should
So much like to ask tor a cup of tea. I was anxious to
see your daughter, so did not wait to take any retfresh-
ments at the hotel. It is a great disappointment to me.’

 

 

“Yes,” said Mark, quietly, “it is wonderful how many
disappointments we have to bear.”

The tea was prepared, and Mrs. Brace’s heart was won
‘by praise of the excellant tea, the thick cream, the tresh
golden butter, and ripe fruit. _Woman-like, her heart
secretly inclined to the handsome stranger whom Mark

| kept so sternly at bay, but where could he have possibly

seen Doris? Mark saw symptoms of relenting in his |
wife’s eyes ; under pretext of speaking to her about the
milking atid cheese, he drew her into the larder.

 

 

«Now look here, Patty,” he said, ‘‘my word is passed,
and I do not mean to break it. I told the earl that no
matter who came, who asked, or what was wanted. |

Doris’ name and history should never be told, and it}

never shall.” |
“TI am sure, Mark,” said his obedient wife, «this is a |

gentleman ; there can be no mistake about him.”

«“Gentleman—oh! There now, my dear, do not look
so" htened! I never swore in my life, not even
in the hottest of weather. I am not going tobegin now.
He may be a gentleman—he is, 1 do not deny that; but
it has nothing to do with the matter. Why does he
come here to talk about Doris? What has it to do with
him? It means mischief. He shall go away from here
as wise as he came—no wiser.”

“You are right, Mark,” said his wife.

“That is a sensible woman. Yet,” added Mark, with
shrewd irony, ‘‘the sight of his handsome face and the
smoothness of his tongue may cause you to betray a
secret you have prom to keep, so you had better
keep out of the room.”

“T will,” said Mrs. Brace. ‘I have no more wish to
talk than you have, Mark. Still he looks so wistful, I
will stay away.”

“That is the best woman in England,” said Mark to
himself as Mrs. Brace closed the door after her. Then
he returned to his guest. He apologized for his wife’s
absence, but Lord Vivianne knew just as well as though
Mark had told him, that she was gone lest she should be
tempted to talk to him. Mattie wisely imitated her
eee example, leaving her father alone with his
guest.

“What a grand old farm this is of yours,” said his
lordship. ‘I never saw grounds in such fine condition.”

Mark had made up his mind to be urbane and polite,
but it was with some little difficulty he refrained from
showing his contempt. What did this lord know of
hep: Above all, why did he want to flatter Mark

ace.

“Tam rather pleased,” said the visitor, drawing his
chair nearer to the farmer, ‘that I have a chance of talk-
ing quietly to you, without the ladies being present. I
wanted that opportunity.”

“You have it,” said Mark, briefly.

“Yes, I have it, and will try to avail myself of it. I
met, as I told you, Miss Doris Brace some time since, and
I was deeply impressed by her—most deeply.”

“Were you ?”

“Yes; and 1 resolved, if possible, to see her again.”

Mark sat silent.

“I quite believed at the time that she was your daugh-
ter, but I have heard a strange romance since—terribly
strange. May I ask, Mr. Brace, if it be true ?”

“No, my lord, you may not ask me—at least, I do not
mean that—you may ask what you will, but you must
excuse me if 1 do not reply. The fact is this—if you ask
as to the state of my farm, my balance at the bank, my
hopes of a crop, I will tell you; but when it comes to the
ladies of my family, you must really excuse me if I dis-
tinctly and plainly refuse to answer one question con-
OE ia ae Iam sorry to seem rude, my lord.”

But, like every one else who saw him, Lord Vivianne
admired Mark Brace. He held out his white, slim hand
to touch the farmer’s sunburnt one.

“There is no offense, Mr. Brace,” he said. ‘You are
an honest man, and I shall think better of all other men
for having seen you. If you decline any conversation on
the matter, it is, of course, useless forme to offer any
explanations.”

a useless, my lord ; a waste of time.”

“Then, thanking you ao arn I may as
well go,” said his lordship, with a smile.

To which remark the farmer, not knowing what polite-
ness required him to answer, made no answer at all.

Although he was bafiled, Lord Vivianne could not feel

 

angry.
“It would be a straightforward world,” he said to him-

self, laughingly, ‘‘if all the men in it were like Mark
Brace. Still he felt that he had in some measure wona
victory—he had found out that. in connection with Doris,
there was something to conceal.

He went to Quainton and took up his abode for the
night in the ‘Castle Hotel.” There he fancied he should
be sure to hear something or other. Nor was he mis-
taken. In the billiard-room the conversation turned
upon Earle Moray—they were very proud of him, they
said that Lindenholm had given to England one of her
finest poets—they boasted to each other of having known
him, of having spoken to him ; they talked of his election
for Anderly; there, had been no bribery—all had been
open as the day. Yes, he had been returned almost
without opposition. They spoke of Lord Linleigh’s in-
terest in him, and then one or two of the wisest among
them told how he was to marry Lord Linleigh’s daughter,
the beautiful girl, who, for some reason or other, had
been brought up at Brackenside. It was impossible to
keep such a secret quiet; some few in Quainton knew,
and others guessed it.

Lord Vivianne listened without a comment, the veins
in his forehed swelled, his face fiushed a hot crimson
flush, his hands trembled. It was a victory he had
hardly expected to win.

Then he muttered to himself something that sounded
like a fierce oath :

“She shall pay for it,” he said to himself. ‘Madly as I
love her, 1 will not spare ber. When I have humbled
her pride, I will worship her and marry her; not until
then. So it was she, all the time; she looked into my
eyes without recognition; she dared me, braved me,
laughed at me. She shall suffer. She is the most mag-
nificert and dauntless creature I ever beheld; she is

d enough for a Charlotte Corday, a Joan of Arc.

y fHeaven! how ma girls would have come to me
crying, praying that I would keep their secret; she
laughs at me, defies me. I will repay her!”

His whole soul was torn between passionate love and
passionate anger; at one time he felt.inclined to weep
at her feet, to pray and beseech her to love him, to be
his wife ; at another time to feel that he must upbraid
her with her perfidy, her falsity, her deceit. Which
spirit would master him when he stood in her presence
he hardly knew: it would depend upon herself. If she
were defiant. so should he be; if she were gentle, he
would be the same. Of one thing he was quite deter- |
mined—do, say what she might, she should be his wife.
It would be a most dishonorable thing to threaten
to hold her secret over her; but, if she compelled him,
he would doit. No thought of pity came into his mind,
but he wondered much. That news—the news of her
father’s succession to the earldom, and his return home
—must have reached her while she was in Florence with
him. No one even knew where he was; how, then,
could she learn it.

It struck him that was the reason she had left him;
he had not thought of that before; it was because this
news came to her, and she would not be found with him.
But who could have told her ?—that was the puzzle.
Some one must have gone straight from England to
Florence. The more he thought of it the more he was
puzzled.

He felt quite certain thaton the morning he left her
to secure her opera box, and to purchase flowers for her,
she knew nothing of it. He had left her by the river-
side ; when he returned she was gone. that in-
terval, short as it was, some one must have found her,
have told her, and brought her to England. Who could
that some one be ?

Not Earle, surely not Earle, her lover—surely not he!
“He would have been more likely to kill her than to

 

 

bring her home if he had found her with me,” he said to
himself.

He was keen enough, but it never occurred to him that |
she had the skill to deceive Earle as well.

' | do no justice to your own fascination ; a thousand times
He returned by the early train to London; he should | no!

be in time then, he said, te give her a morning call. He |

smiled to himself as he thought of her confusion. He
reached Hyde House when the earl and countess had
just driven toa fashionable dejeuner, and Lady Doris
was left alone ; she desired it should be so; she wanted
time to arrange her thoughts, to recover herself; and
they, believing in her plea of fatigue, had been quite
willing to leave her. She had made a her mind, no
matter what it cost her, not to see Lord Vivianne again.
It would be easy to manage it; she would decline all in-
vitations on the plea of ill health, and she would refuse
to receive visitors at home. Strict orders had been given
to that effect—the servants understood that their young
lady was tired, and would see no one, except, as a matter
of course, Mr. Moray.

She believed herself quite safe; that morning Earle
had promised to spend with her, and they would arrange
aon their wedding and the honeymoon that was never
to end.

She had dressed herself so prettily for Earle—she went
to the conservatory intending, there, to spend the morn-
ing with him. She walked among the fiowers, singing
in a soft, low voice to herself; it would all soon be over,
she should so soon be away from London, where her
terrible secret seemed to have taken bodily shape. She
should so soon be safe in her own home in Linleigh ;
above all, she should soon be Earle’s wife.

“Earle’s wife—how he loves me!” thought the girl,
“how true and good and noble he is, my Earle!”

Then a shadow fell over the brightness of the flowers.
She raised her eyes, believing it was he, and they fell on
the smiling face of Lord Vivianne. ;

For one instant she looked at him spell-bound, fasci-
nated, as one sees a fluttering bird charmed by a snake.
Her heart gave one at bound.

“He knows me!” she thought, ‘‘and he is come to tell
me so! .

How he gained admittance matters not; how he
bribed a servant, who afterward lost his place for taking
the bribe, matters not.

He was there, and in the contemptuous insolence of
his smile, in the expression of his face, she read that no
evasion would be of service toher. Still she did not lose
her eo in i ll

“How did you optain ,moy lord ?” she asked,
imperiously.

“Oh, Dora! Dora! I have found you. Did you really
think you would deceive me for long? I have found
you; and now, if you please, we will discuss matters in
a proper business-like form.”

CHAPTER LXX.
THE PRICE OF A SECRET.

He went one step nearer to her and looked at her with
an evil smile; his heart was full of passion—half intense
love, half furious anger. |

“You thought to deceive me,” he said, and the breath |
came like hot flame from his lips. ‘You thought to
blind and dupe me, but 1 know you now—I have known
you all along, though I could not believe the evidence of
eee senses,”

e never aes the regal grace with which she drew
her slight frame toits utmost height, the anger, the
haughty pride that fiashed from her eyes.

“I do not understand you,” she replied ; ‘‘and I repeat
my question ; when I gave orders that I should be denied
to all visitors, how dare you enter here ?”

“Tt is late, Lady Doris,” he said, *too late for that kind
of thing now. lrepeat that I know you—to the rest of
the world you may be Lady Doris Studleigh, to me you
are simply the girl who lived with me and ran away
trom me.”

She looked at him ; if a glance from those proud eyes
could have slain him, he would have lain that instant
dead at her feet. He continued:

“You may deny it, you may continue to carry on the
Same concealment, the same deceit, but it will be all in
vain; I know you, and I know you for what you are.
You can say anything you please, if you think it advis-
able to waste words; I repeat that it will be in vain.”
She grew white, even to the lips, as she listened to the
insolent words. ‘I felt sure—convinced of your identity
from the very moment I saw you at the opera,” he con-
tinued. “I watched you then; I have watched you ever
since.

Her white lips opened, but all sound died away from
them—he heard nothing.

“T have admired your talent for acting,” he continued;
‘itis a grand one. It is ten thousand pities that you are
not upon the stage: you would be its ‘brightests orna-
ment. I was not wholly, but half deceived, by your
superb nonchalame ; then I determined to find out the
truth for myself. I have done so.”

He waited to see if she would utter one word of denial,
one word of explanation. She stood before him—pale,
beautiful, silent. as a marble statue.

«7 have tracked you,” he said, triumphantly. ‘I can
tell you the whole story of your life; how you lived asa
child at Brackenside ; how you carried on a pretty little
love affair with your poet and gentleman, until 1 saw
you; how you went to Florence with me, in total ignor-
ance of your true origin; how, on the morning I left you
by the river-side, some one came trom England, told you
the true story of your birth, and brought you back here.
T have been to Brackenside; I am not speaking without

roof.” ;

If she could have spoken, she would have told him that
no one at Brackeuside would ever betray her; she would
have liked to cast his words back in his teeth, but the
strength to speak was no longer hers.

‘You thought then of being very clever. If you had
never heard the true story of your birth, you would have
been content to abide with me all the days of your life—
you would have thought your leta brilliant one. But
you were too clever, Doris ; you thought to hoi and
to live as ae ae had never heard of me. It could
not be done. Did you speak ?”

He might as well ask the question, for a sound that
resembled no ordinary, no human sound, came from her
lips. He went on:

‘Why were you not frank and honest with me, Doris ?
—why did you not await my return, and tell me ?—why
did you not trust me? Do you know what I should have
done if you had so trusted*me? I should have said that
my proposition to you had been made under a great mis-
take, not knowing your true name; and I should have
released you then and there from all ties that bound you
to me.”

She saw her mistake then; saw what short-sighted,
miserable policy hers had been; but it was all too late.

“Surely,” he continued, ‘‘you had lived with me long
enough to know that I had some semblance of a gentle-
man, Some faint notions of honor. There is no need to
sneer, my lady; men do not reckon honor when they
deal with what you were then.”

“IT know it,” she cried, with sudden bitterness, in a
voice that had no resemblance to her own.

“Why did you not trust me? I cannot—I shall never
forgive you for the way in which you deserted me. Had
you left me one line—only one tine—telling me your true
eeceee had claimed you, Doris, it would have saved all
this.”

“T had not time.”

4, elegant comparison, but it is perfectly true; you are in

 

| you must try to overcome.”

 

 

 

‘Because you did not wish to make it. Even suppose

that, to avoid detection, you had hurried from Florence,
you might surely have sent mealine from England;
even if you could not trust me with your name and ad-
dress, you might have done that.”

“IT see it now. lmight, nay, I should have doneit. Will
that admission satisiy you ?”

“There is nothing in it to satisfy me,” he said, angrily;
‘you had no right to desert me as you did, to treat me
as you did—none in the world. Do you know what you
cost.me ? Do you know that I went mad over losing you? |
that I searched for you day after day, month after |
month, hating my life itself because you no longer form- |
ed part of it ? Do you know that the loss of you changed
mine from a good-tempered man into a fiend ?—can you |
realize that, Lady Doris Studleigh ?” |

“No,” she replied, ‘‘I cannot.”

“Itis true. Fair, bright, frivolous women like you |
cannot realize a man’s love—they cannot even esti- |
mate it! And strange—oh! strange to say—women like |
you win strong, passionate love, for which the pure and |
noble of your sex seek in vain. |

Alas! that she had given him the right to speak thus |
to her—that she had placed herself in the power of such
aman! Oh! fatal, foolish, and wicked sin! Yet true to
herself, true to her own light, frivolous nature, was
not the bitter sin she repented so much as its discovery.

He drew nearer to her, and placed one hand on her
arm.

“Do you know, Doris,” he said, ‘‘that when you left |
me I had begun, even then, to love you with such a pas-
pi love that every pulse of my heart was wrapped
up t.

She shook his hand from her as though there were
contamination in his touch.

“I did not know it. Ido not believe it. You never
loved me*-you have loved nothing on earth one half so
dearly as you have loved yourselt !”

His face grew dark with anger.

‘Remembering how entirely vou are in my power,” he
said, ‘I ask you, is it wise to angerme?””

“You never loved me,” she repeated: Earle loved me,
and would have died any day to save my fair name! You
never loved me, you loved yourself !”

“i repeat it, I loved you with a passion so terrible, so
fierce, So violent, it frightened me! I loved you so, that
1 would have lost wealth, fortune, position—ah! life it-
self—for you !”

Her white lips smiled scornfully; that caim, proud,
scorn drove him beside himself.

“You have been some time in discovering it,” she said.

“That is your mistake,” he replied; “do you know,
Doris, I swear what 1am saying is true. Do you know
why I was 80 gay, so happy, 80 light of heart on the day
you left me? It was because my love had beaten down
my pride, and on that very evening I had resolved upon
asking you to be my wife.”

“1 do not believe it.” she cried.

“It is true ; 1 swear it on the faith and honor of a gen-
tleman. I swear it on the word of a man.”

“T should need a stronger oath than that,” she said.

“I swear it then by your own falseness, and by your
own deceit; can any oath be stronger than that? On
that very evening I had resolved upon asking you to be
my wife. 1 was determined to make our union legal. I
loved you so that I could not live without you.”

She made no reply for one minute, but looked steadily
at him; then she said :

“1 do thank Heaven that I have been spared the degra-
dation of becoming your wife.”

“Yet you were content to be my companion,” he said.

Her face flushed hotly at the words.

“I have lost you, how long, Dora, how many months ?
Do you think my love has grown less in that time? Do
you think it has faded or grown cold It youimagine so,
you do no justice to your own marvelous beauty; you

it is a burning torrent now that carries all before
it; it is a tempest that will know no abatement—Dora,
you had lost your usual shrewdness when you thought
that absence would cure such love as mine.”

“My name is Lady Studleigh, not Dora,” she said,
proudly. ‘‘Once for all, Lord Vivianne, your love does
not in the least interest me.”

“You will have to take an interest in it,” he replied;
“I swear, for the future, you shall know no other love.”

“I will never know yours,” she replied.

He laughed contemptuously.

“It is no use, Dora,” he said; ‘you must really excuse
me; 1 cannot help enjoying my triumph; I would not
laugh if I could help it, but, my dear Dora, I cannot help
it. Did you evsr see a fly in a spider’s web? Did you
ever watch it struggle and fight and strive to escape,
while the spider, one could fancy, was shaking his filmy
sides with laughter? Have you ever seen that terrible
phenomenon in natural history? You, my poor Dora,
are the helpless little fy, Iam the spider. Itis not an

 

 

my power completely, thoroughly, and nothing can take
you from me.”

She looked at him quite calmly, her courage was
rising, now that the first de shock had passed away.

“Perhaps,” she said, ‘‘you will tell me what you want.
Spare me any further conversation with you; it does not
interest me. Tell me, briefly as you can, what you
want.”

*‘What do I want ?” he repeated.

“Yes, just that—neither more nor less—what do you
want? Iown you have me in your power, I own that
you hold a secret of mine. Whatisto beits price? I
cannot buy your silence with money. You are a gentle-
man, amanof honor, having my fair namein your
power—what shall you charge me for keeping it? [am
anxious to know the price men exact for such secréts as
those. You wooed me and won me, after your own hon-
orable fashion—what are you going to exact now as the

rice of your love and my mad folly? I was yain, fool-

, untruthful; but, after all, I was an innocent girl

when you knew me first. What shall be the price of my

innocence? Oh, noble descendant of noble men—oh,
noble heritor of a noble race. Speak—let me hear !”

Her taunts stung him almost to fury; his face grew
livid with rage; yet, the more insolent she, the more
deeply he loved her; the more scornful’she; the deeper
and wilder grew his worship of her.

“I will tell you the price,” he said; “I will make you
my wife. Consent to marry me, and I will swear to you,
by heaven itself, that I will keep your secret faithfully,
loyally, until I die.”

“I cannot marry you,” she replied ; ‘I do not love you.
Icannot help it, if you are angry. I donot even like
you. I should be most wretched and miserable with
you, for I loathe you. I will never be your wife.”

‘All those,” he replied, slowly, ‘are objections that

‘‘What if I tell you I love some one else ?” she said.

“I should pity him, really pity him, from the depths of

my heart ; but, all the same, Il should say you must be
my wife!”

She longed to tell him that she loved and meant to
marry Earle, but she was afraid even to mention his
name.

“TJ shall conquer all your objections in time,” he said.
“It is nothing to me that you say you dislike me; it is
even less that you say you like another.

But he never even thought that she really iked Earle.
Had she not run away from him ?

‘[TO BE CONTINUED.] °

 

->@~<

Learn in childhood, if you can, that happiness is not
outside, but inside. A good heart and a clear con-
science bring happiness, which no riches and no circum-
stances alone ever do.

There was once a good old man who, when he heard
of any one who had committed some notorious offense,
was wont to say within himself, ‘He fell to-day, so may
I to-morrow.”

An idle man always thinks he has a right to be affront-
ed if a busy man does not devote to him just as much of
his time as he himself has leisure to waste.

Men often climb half way up the ladder and stay
there; but it is seldom they tall half way down and stop
short of the bottom.

A sneer is often the weak subterfuge of impudent
ignorance.

The heart of a statesman should be in his head.

sales, big money and steady work for
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$1 samples free. Smart men and wo-
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papers. P. B.

 

 

 

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Sealed particula

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or Ye

AN TED LADI“N AND GENTLEMEN who
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Address
with stamp, Orown Mfg. Oo,, 294 Vine St., Cin’ti, Ov

 

 

are Perfectly Sate
and always Effectual,

 

Eigin watch, $5.00;
elegant illustrated ELRY
catalogue 2 cents.
WILLIAM WILLIAMS, 122 Halsted Street, Chicago.

A Casket of Silver Ware Free

To any person who will show it to their neighbors, act as our agent
and send orders. Give your nearest express and Post Office address.
Address OONN, MANFG, 00., HARTFORD, CONN,

ae

 

 

 

A full set of ornamental Hidden-name Cards, and
Agents’ Sample Book of Noyelties, Jewelry, etc., 5c.
n, Conn.

Star Publishing Co., Shel

FOR ALL! $5 to $8 per day easily made.

WOR Costly outfit FREE. adiitees ¥:
P. O. VICKERY, Augusta, Maine.

) Gold Fringe Chromo Cards (something new, imita-

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ADA Sample book and full outfit and Lovely Xmas

‘——. mae ard for 2c. stamp. Card Works, Northford, Ct.

 

 

 

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may be relied upon for relief in all dis-
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speedy cure of severe Colds or Coughs, it
has no equal. E. J. Downes, Bonneau’s,
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before the first bottle was used, and I
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Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral,

PREPARED BY
Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass,
For sale by all Druggists.

 

 

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COSMETIC GLYCERING.

PREPARED ONLY BY

The Royal British Company
Chemists and Perfumers,

AND AS SUPPLIED TO

THE ROYAL FAMILY,
Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales,

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The Marchioness of Tweedale, The Marchioness of
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THE LIEBIG COMPANY, N. Y. Depot, 38 Murray
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gt Also, of druggists, fancy goods dealers, &c. 23

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MANUFACTORY AND RETAIL DEPARTMENT :—Cor. of Seventh
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BRANGH SToRE :—Fifth Ave. and Thirtieth St., New York.

MEN OF SMALL MEANS are invited to investigate
the new business of
“HOME PHOTOGRAPHY,”

By the receut great discovery of substituting a Dry Getatine
film for WET Collodion, the entire material is now prepared
in large Photo. Factories, and sOLD READY FOR USE, similar
to Cartridges for a Gun; Enabling Men or Women with
no experience, to Motince superior Photos to what form-
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man with complete apparatus, appearing at the door ready to
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secures profitable orders in nine out of ten homes; Affords
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To EARNEST applicants (one copy) of Process itustrated,
FREE, Sample. tos. 1@ cents. FRANKLIN PUTNAM,
Mfr & Dealer iPhoto. Apparatus,483, 485 Canal St. N.Y.

CU RE tz: DHA F

THE

Peck’s Patent Improved Cushioned Far Drums
PERFECTLY RESTORE THE HEARING, and
perform the work of the Natural Drum. Always in posi-
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wear. All Conversation and even whispers heard distinetly.
We refer to those using them. Send for illustrated hook wi
testimonials, free. Address F. HISCOX, 853 Broad-
way, N. Y. Mention this paper.

to send their celebrated Elec-

YOUNG ME N tro Voltaic Belt and other

 

 

 

 

 

The Voltaic Belt Company
of Marshall, Michigan, offer

 

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LADIES! ‘CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH,”
Pre On cy Genuine. NEVER Fait. Safe andalways Reliable,
articulars in letter by return Mail 4c. (stamps.) NAME PAPER.
Chichester Chemical Co., 2518 Madison Sq., Philad’a, Pa
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Send six cents for postage and receive
free, a_costly box of goods which will
Be? all, of either sex, to more money
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GIVEN AWAY. 2i2%%
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ATLANTIC TEA CO., Fitchburg,Mass

 

An active Man or Woman in ey@Ty
county to sell our goods. SalaTy

ANTE
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STANDARD SILVER-WARE CO., Boston, Mass.

 

BIG oO F FE R To introduce them we will
, =f\s GIVE AWAY 1,000 Self-
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THE NATIONAL CO., 2 Dey street, N. Y.

CUNS GHEAPER THAN EVER, Side lever Breech Loader
18. The Pamous #15 Shot Gun NOW 82.

Every Gun warranted. Rifles, @S, $4, 5, 86. Roller Skates

Watches. Knives, etc. Send stamp for illustrated catalogue 1885

P. POWELL & SON, 180 Main St., CINCINNATI 0.

MATRIMONIAL PAPER i.ftt=*-o,

Established 1881. Each number contains over 100 advertisements
of ladies and gents wanting (orrespondents. Sample copy 10c.,

 

 

6 CENTS *":ssix Gann WORKS, Wworvion Count
200

 

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New ecrgo Pictures and A

Samples for 10c. Steam Ca
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FREE! TERBROOK CARD CO., Centerbrook, Conn.

stiver. Address HEART & HAND, Chicago, [1]. Name this paper.
well on smallinvestment, Magic Lanterns
Stereopticons, and Views of all grades and
prices, for public Exhibition and Home
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free. McALLISTER, M’f’g Optician, 49 Nassan St., New York.

 

FIRE these cold
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é YOU DON’T WANT TO KINDLE A
Ic F

E KINDLER CO., Bucyrus, Ohio.

 

 

 

    

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

   

} ere
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e

«xs THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

  

 

 

 

NEW YORK, JANUARY 9, 1886.

 

eee

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY

FOR 18sc.

 

SL eee ese

 

In the course of the coming year many fresh and at-
tractive features, the productions of noted authors, will
appear in the NEw YORK WEEKLY.

While all the established faverites will continue to
give our readers stories of deep dramatic interest, bright
and entertaining sketches, inspiring essays, thoughtful
poems, etc., new and eminent writers will from time to
time unite their efforts with these of our old contribu-
tors; and in this way we hope to maintain the brilliant
variety of choice literature and useful information for
which the NEw YORK WEEKLY is so justly renowned.

As in the past, we shall do our best to give the public
A PURE, BRIGHT, AND FASCINATING paper, each number
teeming with entertaining and instructive matter, and
every line of which may be read aloud in the family
circle.

 

NOW IS THE TIME TO SUBSCRIBE.
Terms to Mail Subscribers:

3 months (postage free) 5c | 2 copies (postage free) Te
Baa AgEt n Sie ret S .00

4 months - . $1.00| 4 copies .

SOME es ee ts 3.00 | 8 copies.
All letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,
P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

 

~ Happy New Year.

 

At this time, on the verge of the new year, it is proper
to hint to our readers that several engagements with
prominent contributors have lately been effected ; and
their productions, combined with those.of our estab-
lished favorites, will be placed before the public at an
early day.

Glancing over the files of the past year, we discover con-
spicuous evidence that the promises made to our patrons
at the beginning of 1884 have all been faithfully kept.
We have enhanced the attractions of the NEw Yorx
WEEKLY in various ways; we have endeavored to give
the public a clean, bright, and entertaining paper, every
line of which may be read aloud in the family circle.
The result is felt in a vastly increased circulation, which
demonstrates, in the most gratifying manner, that the
public are prompt to appreciate genuine merit.

Several novelties, from new and old contributors, are
scheduled for publication early during the coming year ;
and the public are assured that, as in the past, every
effort will be made to keep the New YORK WEEKLY in
the front rank, that it may long continue to be appre-
ciated.as the brightest and best of its kind.

And now, dear readers—you who have stood by the
NEw YORK WEEKLY SO long, as well as those who are
its more recent patrons—to one and all we express the
sincere wish that health, happiness, and prosperity may
attend you, and give you A Happy NEw YEAR!
o~<

T [ALKS
OORT ys

{Al proper inquiries addressed to this departm:nt will be
answered as promptly as possible.) ,

 

 

 

NUMBER 10.

 

“W, B.,” of East Sixteenth street, New York, writes:

«Please inform a constant reader of your paper re-
i ing the salary of a furrier; how long it takes to
earn the trade, etc.” ;

There is no such thing known to the trade as a fur-
rier’s apprentice. A boy is taken into a shop to run
errands, help pack and unpack goods, and to assist the
cutters. If he is a bright, handy boy, he is made what
is termed a ‘‘nailer out.” All skins, after being cut and
trimmed, must be stretched on boards and nailed there
to give them the shape desired. This is the work of a
‘nailer out.” Few boys will be paid less than $5 per
week to start on, and as soon as they understand ‘nail-
ing their wages will be increased to $7 or $8. In some
of the largest shops ‘nailing out” is ‘a trade, and the
wages run from $10 to $12 per week. In the smaller
shops a boy passes from nailing to cutting after two or
three years. He will first try his hand on cheap furs,
and if he proves a careful hand he will be advanced
until the finest goods are placed in his hands. In the
large cities the cutters are graded, and certain ones cvt
cheap furs exclusively and never go beyond them. For
this reason it is better for a boy to enter a shop in a city
like Buffalo, Cleveland, or Detroit. In these smaller

shops there is no bar to his advancement.

The wages of a cutter of cheap furs run from $12 to $18
per week. Those employed on costly goods average
about $21 per week- While the work is easy and the
pay fairly good, it is a trade subject to dull times and
“lay offs,” and many of the men will not be able to work
over nine or ten months in the year.

«HH. G.,” of Berryville, Arkansas, writes as follows:

“T am a boy of 20 years of age, and have worked in a
blacksmith shop one year. I wish to obtain a position as
apprentice in a machine shop, where I can learn the
trade, and at the same time make enough to pay my ex-
penses while Iam atit. If you will give me the address
of a firm where I might obtain sucha position, or will
give me any information or advice concerning the mat-
ter, I will be very thankful.” ;

Your best and only way to secure a place with a ma-
chinist is to enlist your friends in your behalf. If there
is no opening at home you must extend your inquiries to
other towns. You would notrun much risk, consider-
ing the work you have already done, in making a trip to
St. Louis or Chicago, and hunting fora job yourself. If
you are naturally handy with tools, and will enter a shop
determined to master the trade, and do what is right by
your employer, there is no fear but that you will come
out all right.

An “Ohio Farmer,” who reads “Short Talks,” and
likes them, says he has a son eighteen years of age, who
is giving him much trouble. The boy seems to have no
interest in the farm, and almost daily threatens to run
away. The father has set his heart on his son becoming
a farmer, and can’t bear to give up the idea. ‘‘I wish,”
he says, ‘‘You would talk to him in your paper.”

So we will, but to the father first. To begin with, you
have no right to plan that your son shall follow in your
footsteps and become a farmer. If he likes farm-life,
and takes to farming naturally, itis right to encourage
him all you can, but if he detests the life, you have no
legal or moral right to force him to live that way. A boy
of eighteen is old enough to begin life on his own ac-
count. Let him select his own vocation. By it he must
support himself and family and make his standing in
the world. lf he can earn two dollars as an engineer to
one as a farmer, and do it with much less hard work,
you have no right to step in and insist that he take the
harder work and poorer pay.

And how have you encouraged the boy? Hasn’t it
been the programme, ever since he was old enough to
work, to rout him out of bed at daybreak and keep him
“pegging away” until sundown? Haven't his holidays
been few and far between? Haven’t you kept him in
cheap, ready-made clothes, and pinched him to-the
limit on spending-money ? What has he to-day to show
for the work he has putin? The chances are that for
every day of district-schooling he has had you have
made him shell corn or pare apples all the evening.
Have you promised him any share of the crops to en-
courage him? Does he own a horse, cow, hog, or sheep ?
The chances are that he doesn’t, and yet you wonder
why he has no interest in the farm!

To the son we would say: If you have no interest in
the farm—if you are certain that you cannot become a
successful farmer, seek some other vocation at once.
You should not run away. When the matteris talked
over earnestly and seriously, your father cannot fail to
see all the oe in their true light, and, like a sensible
man, he will assist you in carrying out your plans.

‘us, it must be confessed, who are very popular.

 

 

 

‘‘ William L.,” of Selma, Alabama, asks:
would be your advice to a boy of fifteen about going
West and taking up government land to make a begin-
ning in life ?”

You are too young by several years, even if you are a
very sharp boy. It takes money to get hold of govern-
ment land, and it requires years of hard work to make
it worth buying again, and considerable wit to prevent
sharpers from robbing you. Asa matter of fact, which
you and all other boys should plainly urMerstand, the
West offers no more inducement to the average boy than
the East. It is more in the boy than in the geographi-
cal location.

“C, W.” of Le Mars, Iowa, writes: ‘I have heard
that you answer questions for the boys. I should like
to ask you some about West Point. At what age can
boys enter? What kind of an education must they
have ? and please say what studies must they be up in ?
Does the government support them when at West
Point? Who examines them, and where ?”

A boy must be from 17 to 22 years of age to enter West
Point. In order to pass an examination he must have
at least a good public school education, and if he has
graduated in a high school or an academy it will be all
the better for him. A candidate will be examined in
geography, orthography, history, mathematics, writing,
composition, grammar, etc. AS soon as he passes ex-
amination he belougs to the government, and all his
expenses are paid by Uncle Sam. The primary exami-
nation is conducted by the Congressman of your dis-
trict. Each State is permitted so any cadets, and each
Congressional District can name one candidate. In for-
mer days the Congréssman named his candidate off-
hand, but of late years it is the rule to permit every one
who desires to be a candidate to compete at the exami-
nation, and to give the prize to those passing the best
examination. This examination is simply competitive,
and for the purpose of selecting a candidate. At West
Point the candidate must submit to a physical and an
academic examination. There have been so many in-
quiries on this subject that the matter will be referred
to again soon, and fuller information given.

The life of a West Point cadet is full of hard study and
rigorous, exacting routine. Many boys break down
physically after a year or two, and those who graduate
and become army officers have nothing cheering in the
life before them.

“J. K.,” of Indianapolis, says: ‘‘Our school-teacher
told us the other day that all our white sugars come
from England, and that all our brown sugars are made
ie Cuba, I don’t believe she is right, and | want you to

ecide it.”

Your teacher made a bad blunder. Our white sugars
are made right here at home, and the brown sugars, ex-
cept a very voarse grade, for use on plantations, are also
the products of the sugar refineries in New Orleans,
Baltimore, New York, and other cities. Sugars are, of
course, received from Cuba, Jamaica, and other foreign
ports, but simply to supply the deficiency in the home
product.

When the cane is cut on a plantation, it is taken to a
rude mill and crushed, and the sirup is boiled until a
heavy, black sugar is the result. This stuff is then bar-
reled and sent to arefinery, and from it all grades of
white and brown sugars are made. Most of the re-
fineries are ten stories high, and it requires from ten to
twenty distinct operations to make the best grades. A
sugar refinery is a place of rare interest to one who
visits it for the first time, but the rules regarding vis-
itors are so strict that few outsiders except newspaper
men ever get beyond the office.

HOW TO BE POPULAR.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

‘He is the most popular fellow in town.”

“He will prove a popular candidate. He takes with
the masses.”

‘He is a universal favorite. He can get the club to do
anything he sets out to accomplish.”

We are all familiar with this sort of expression as we
hear it applied to some one in the circle of our acquaint-
ance. What does itmean? What is the secret of such
enviable popularity? Is it a gift by nature to some
men, and utterly attainable by others? There are few
of us but would like to be “popular.” There are few ot
Not
more than one in a thousand, take men as they run.
Yet in every trade, on the floor of every exchange, in
every workshop, in all the professions, there is to be
found here and there a Inan who is a universal favor-
ite. Let us study him, as we can each depict him to
ourself. ;

The popular man is ‘‘smart,” he is no fool. Yet he
must not be too smart, away head and shoulders above
the rest; for in that case he excites enmity. But he is
capable. If he attempts a thing he succeeds. Hence
men rely on him; his promises are as good as gold; he
attaches weaker mento himself because he can help
them. If you would be popular, offer to help men. But
never agree to do what you cannot do. Indeed, small
services are more popular than large ones, If you puta
man under too great obligations, the chances are that

he will grow restive under the debt, and turn to dislik-
ing you as the easiest way of paying it. Do lots of

** What |

small favors, if you would be popular. Go-an errand, |

take a little trouble, expend steps, put yourself to small
inconveniences. These are far better than money.

He is pleasing in personal appearance ; not necessa-
rily handsome, but pleasing rather. He is not offen-
sively dressed in either extreme. Neither a dandy nor
sloven can be popular. The popular fellow strikes the
golden mean of his set. He must have an agreeable way

of speaking and accosting you; not too familiar, not |
too stiff, not always joking, not always as grave asa
His air must be bright, sunny, hopeful; yet he

udge.
ee not impress you as a buffoon. He must be able to
talk sense when that is your mood, as well as nonsense
when that is the direction of your wind. Perhaps there
is no secret of his popularity more obvious than his
quick and unfailing penetration as to which mood you
are in. A popular fellow never gets you off a joke the
morning after your child’s funeral. In a word, he is
just the man whom you are always glad to meet.

One must be truthful to be popular. A liar is execra-
ble. One must not ‘talk bunkum.” A boaster is dis-
liked. One must deal justly and generously. . Generos-
ity is an immense power for popularity. And by that I
do not mean spending handfuls of money for ‘‘treats”
necessarily. Thousands do this, and only get laughed
at behind their backs for their pains. But a generous
word about a neighbor spoken where it will do hima

good turn; agenerous charity for a man’s faults and |

frequent attempts to cover those faults; a generous
spirit in trade, not seeking all the advantage on your
side, but willing that the other man should have some
chance to make a living out of the bargain—how quickly
a man makes a good or bad name in this respect.

Generous appreciation of a rival’s abilities is true wis-
dom. It will do you no good to disparage a competitor.
Nobody believes you, because you are a competitor;
everybody laughs at you for what you say to decry him.
It is silly; in is sure to make you unpopular. Whereas,
on the other hand, all the good things you can truthfully
say of your rival may do him but a paltry service at best,
but it makes you popular. Men like you the better
for it.

A popular man remembers your name. I don’t call it
a trick; but if a trick were to be used, there are few that
are more efficient. No; itis no trick, I suppose; for we
have all a right to be called by our names—and by our
right names, too. My popular friend never calls me
Harper; it is the other fool who always makes that mis-
take’with Harker. I would like to kick him! We have
been four several times introduced, yet he always blun-
ders. Not so the popular fellow. On the first introduc-
tion he got me right, and has kept on these five years.

Politeness is popular, especially with ladies and old
men. A chivalric politeness is popular with all ladies,
especially with the elderly and ill-favored, who are too
often disregarded more or less by shallow dandies. Itis
the small rudenesses that count against a man; the
slight and comparatively unimportant evidences of a
selfish spirit. People notice these marks of indifference
to others’ comfort even more than they do large faults.
Hence it often happens that a mighty sinner is im-
mensely popular because his small kindnesses are pro-
verbial: the fellow crammed all his evil into one. act, as
it were, but he spattered his good like drops of small
rain.

The tongue has much to do with one’s popularity. A
few hateful speeches will make a man so unpopular as
to neutralize a thousand good deeds. Mean e flings

of the lip are not soon forgotten.
lar, look out for the tongue.

An even temper is invaluable. You must never be
caught off guard and cross. I doubtif a high-fiyer is
very popular—a man who is intensely excitable, a man
of moods and flights of fancy. It is bad to be obliged to
“take back” and apologize too often.

On the whole, is it not the gist of the matter to say
that your popular man is simply a downright good fel-
low? Is it not true that it is the least of his concerns
as to how or why he is popular? He has a good nature,
and acts it out naturally. You cannot make a silk purse
from a sow’s ear. Many men not only cannot be popu-
lar, but’ they would not be if they could. Except on
rare occasions, when popularity would serve their self-
ish ends, for instance, they do not miss the grace which
they never can possess. They simply are contemptuous
of the rest of us. But there are others who grieve be-
cause they are not more welcome to the popular heart.
With professional men, especially: public men, popu-
larity is capital. It is all in all. Without it they fail.
To such men I know of no line of endeavor that prom-
ises better results than the cultivation of genuine good-
ness of heart, real manliness, and high-minded virtue.
Verily such a light will soon shine for the blindest eyes
to recognize.

If you would be popu-

—_———- > @ +

A good man is the best friend, and therefore is first to
be chosen, longest to be retained, and- indeed never to
be parted with, unless he ceases to be that for which he
was chosen.

The fox carries the bad news, while the turtle crawls
with the good.

4

Josh Billings Fhilosophy

 

 

he $ez,=

The wealth oy a person should be estimated, not bi
the amount he haz, but bi the use he makes ov it.

Phools, like phishes, alwus run in skools.

What chastity iz tew a woman, credit iz tew a man.

It iz a wize man that watches himself, and a phoolish
one that watches hiz nabors.

Vanity iz often mistaken for wit, but it iz no more like
it than gravity iz like wisdum.

Thare iz this difference between a cunning man and a
wize one—the eunning one looks thru a mikriskope, the
wize one thru a teleskope.

Bizzy boddys are like pissmires, alwus in a grate hurry
about nothing.

One grate reazon whi every boddy likes the falls ov
rere so mutch iz bekauze no one kan make one like

a iz sum hope ov aman who iz wicked, but not
weak.

Debt iz like enny other kind ov atrap, eazy enuff tew
git into, but hard enuff tew git out ov.

Thare is no kind oy flattery so powerful,;so subtle, and
at the same time so agreeable az deference.

Bare necessitys will support life no doubt, so will the
works support a watch; but they both want greasing
once in a while, jist a leetle.

Philosophy iz a very good kind ov a teacher, and yu
may be able tew liv by it, but yu kan’t liv onit. Hash
will tell.

Lazyness weighs eighteen ounces to the pound.

The way tew Fame iz like klimbinga greased pole;
thare ain’t but phew Kan do it, and even them it don’t
pay.

It iz dredful eazy tew mistake what we think for what
we know ; this iz the way that most ov the lies git born
that are traveling around loose.

Ambishun iz like a tred wheel ; it knows no limits. Yu
no sooner git tew the end ov it than yu begin agin.

We are never in more danger ov being laft at than
when we are laffing at others.

Free living leads tew free thinking, free thinking leads
tew free loveing, and free loveing leads to perdition.

It iz az hard work tew make a weak man upright az it
iz an empty bag.

Good breeding seems tew be the art ov being superior
tew most people, and equal tew all, without letting
them kno it.

Children are like vines; they will klimb the pole yu
set up for them, be it krooked or strate.

Happiness iz not only the choicest posseshun, but the
cheapest ; it kosts nothing, if yu-only think so.

Idleness, like industry, iz ketching.

The devil iz the father ov lies, but he failed tew git
out a pattent for hiz invenshun, and his bizzness iz now
suffering trom competishun.

THE NEW YEAR.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

By the time the new year arrives everybody has
bought an almanac and a diary.
And we hope that everybody has paid his subscription

 

 

 

 

to his newspaper. If he has not, let him hasten to do it,
for no one can properly start out on the new year who
owes the printer. Is : st

The insurance comp ve got out. their calendars,
and are ready to distribute them. among their patrons,
and it is surprising how many patrons they have about
this time. The dry-goods dealers are getting ready for
the annual mark-down, when they announce themselves
as ready to walk straight on to ruin, by selling cloaks
which cost fifty dollars each for twenty dollars! And
everybody who does not roll in money waits until the
propitious time arrives, before purchasing.

Good resolutions are in order. It is the proper time
to leave off smoking. It is an eminently suitable epoch
in which to drop the use of profane language. It will be
a convenient time to give up dram-drinking, and devote
the proceeds to the purchase of a new silk dress for your
wife, and some warm hats for your children; and in the
long run you will find that such a course will pay. The
redness will leave your éyes; your nose will go out of
blossom, and your raging morning headaches will be-
come visions of the past.

The new year should see every business man square
with the world. Debts ought to be paid, and obligations
liquidated. Enemies should be reconciled to each other.
All the rival singers in town should meet, and sing “Auld
Lang Syne,” and shake hands, and be ready to begin the
old wrangling on a fresh basis.

The widows and maiden ladies, who have designs on

the wifeless minister, should compare notes, and unani-
mously resolve to give up tothe one having the inside
track, and thus be able to devote themselves to the work
of conquering the next widower whom death throws
into the market.

The dreadfully long nights begin to shorten. Imper-
ceptibly, perhaps, but still we know that there is a little
less darkness, and soon we shall be able to perceive it.

“As the days begin to lenghten
So the cold begins to strenghten.”

So runs the old couplet, and there is truth in it, but
one can better bear the cold when the sun shines, and
the daylight prevails over the darkness.

The woman who has her sunny windows filled with
plants, is now looking for blossoms. She lives in per-
petual twilight to accommodate these plants, and she
feels amply repaid for her sacrifice of light and cheer-
fulness if, ‘‘after the sun gets stronger,” she can show a
couple more sickly geranium blossoms than her next
door neighbor.

In large cities, the young men make calls, and sample
the wine and cake of their young lady friends, and prac-
tice the fine art of holding their hats and canes, and
bowing gracefully, and uttering polite nothings, while
their heads are whirling round like an old-fashioned
spinning wheel, and the floor seems rising up gradually,
and taking them along withit! Ah! wine and hospital-
ity! for what are ye not answerable !

And the years come and go, and bring changes many
and varied. The old men and women enter on the year
which shall be perpetually new; the children grow up and
take their places in the arena of life; generations are
born and buried, and still the world wags on!

re
WITH A KNIFE IN HIS STOMACH.

 

John Eckley, aged nineteen, who resides near Vallejo,
Cal., was showing some young ladies how readily he
could conceal an open knife in his mouth. The handle
was near his throat, the blade between his teeth. A sud-
den involuntary movement of the muscles caused him
to swallow the knife. He was hurried off to San Fran-

cisco, and there placed under the treatment of an emi-
nent physician.

«When he came to me,” said the doctor, ‘‘and declared
that he had swallowed an open jackknife 1 could hardly
credit the statement. I asked him what he had done to
remove it, He replied some had advised taking sweet
oil, others castor oil, salts, &c. I said, ‘Well, 1 suppose
you took all of them?’ ‘No, I did not,’ he replied; ‘I
have taken nothing.’ ‘All right, I replied; ‘you have
saved your life by doing so.’ Well, sir, I put him ona
buckwheat diet. That was alli let him eat or drink—
buckwheat cakes and buckwheat gruel. Buckwheat is
not easily digested, and I knew that it would form a ball
around the knife, and thus allow it to pass along its cir-
cuitous route without doing injury, the blade and rough
edges being completely cove with a thick and smooth
coating of buckwheat. It acted just as I expected. The
blade came first, and although Johnny has lost a few
days’ time. he did not lose his knife, but will take it
home with him to-morrow,”

NEW YEAR. ,

 

BY A, A.

 

Up into the sunshine, soul of mine!

brook no darkness here;

The sun is shining on the hills
In the first day of the year!

The glittering snow is on the pines;
Like trosted cones they rise,

And the earth below and the sky above,
Are clad in happy guise!

Up, up, my soul! no longer sit,
With folded hands, alone:

The Future opes her arms to thee,
The Past is dead and gone;

The Future, with her luring voice,
Cries, **Hither, hither, sweet!”

The Past, a shadow of the lost,
Is tracking at my feet.

Up, up, my soul! nor glance behind;
Turn not one wistful look; %
Leave all the past to Him who gave,
To Him,,again, who took!
Press on, amie on! the year of life
Cannot be always May;
Yet the snow-birds sing on the leafless tree,
And why not thou as they ?

Up, up, my soul! no longer sit
nert with fear and dread,
Since Nature’s calm is all around,
And the sky shines overhead !
Up, Up. and climb the mountain path
ith strong, unfettered will!
And let thy motto ever be
“Onward and upward” still!

TOM'S MOTHER.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL,

 

 

 

Two things had never been known to fail Tom’s
mother—dignity and good health. She was the very
personification of dignity in its most imposing aspect,
and so impressed was she with the value of dignity that
she could not tolerate giddiness, under which head she
included all expressions of happiness or light-hearted-
ness. As for poor health, she simply had no patience
with it, believing, like most persons who are blessed
with good health, that it only required an effort of the
will to throw off any form of illness.

Now, Tom’s wife was as nearly as possible the oppo-
site of Tom’s mother. Not but that she had plenty of
dignity of a sweet, womanly sort: but, bless you, she
was anything but stately. And she was not only light-
hearted and happy, but she took no pains to hide the
fact, letting song, and dimple, and dancing eye betray
it to the whole world.

But worse than her giddiness was her lack of strength.
Not that she was sickly either. She had rosy cheeks,
and bright eyes, and a plump figure; but still her back
would give out sometimes, and then she would have to
lie down and rest.

How Tom. ever came to fall in love with her—for he

certainly did love her—would be hard to tell; for Tom
was naturally somewhat like his mother, not only dig-
nified and strong, but firmly. convinced that his digni
was something to be proud of, and that his good healt
was due entirely to himself and quite within his own
control.

Still Tom was a good fellow, and Susie admired him
immensely, and loved him quite as much as—more,
probably—than he loved her; for it is useless to dodge
the fact that a woman’s love fora man is deeper and
truer than a man’s for a woman,

To Tom’s mother, Tom’s wife was a very painful fact
and a constant surprise. Such a lack of dignity was not
only unbecoming; it was shocking. She bewailed it
to Tom, one day; but Tom had replied, with a dignity
equal to her own: g tee

««T would not have her different, mother.”

Think ot it! Brought up to realize the nce of
dignity, endowed with it himself, and with his mother’s

d example constantly before him, he yet could pre-

er a giddy, frivolous as his wife. So be it. rs.
Atkinson thereafter became et nified, and all
fell lifeless before

Susie’s gentle pleasantries fruze an
they could reach Tom’s stately mother.

Susie’s other crime of not being strong was yet to be
dealt with, however. When they were first married,
her oceasional lapses from good health had not troubled
Tom, though bis mother had regarded them with high-
minded indignation. But after a while, when Susie
foolishly allowed her back to give her trouble more tre-
quently; it was .andther thing—then Tom was worried.

You see Tom was notrich; still; as he was dignified,
it was necessary to have the appearance of at least mod-
erate wealth. Anything else would have been undigni-
fied, of course.

To keep up this appearance Susie must work hard and
yet appear to have plenty of leisure. It had not been

 

 

‘ what was now communicated to her.

 

 

 

Susie’s way, but if Tom thought it was best, why that
was enough, and so she kept up appearances to such an
extent that, until her back refused to hold her up any
longer, she never even told Tom how tired she was.

Finally she gave out one day right before Tom, and
for the first time in his life that dignified gentleman
saw his wife in tears and heard her declare that she
«just could not Keep it up any longer.” ;

If Tom had only been sick himself once or twice he
might have understood, and Susie would have had the
dearest medicine a wife can have—sympathy. As it
was, he was only surprised and pained—pained to see
his wife so childish.

«There, there!” he said, in his lofty, mannish way,
“vou mustn’t give way. Keep yourself busy, and it will
pass away.” And he kissed her and was gone.

But he was not to sweep Susie’s back out of existence
by any such dignified waving of his hand. Again and
again, in spite of herself, poor Susie offended by fool-
ishly breaking down, until at last Tom was annoyed and
concluded to consult his mother, thinking, very wisely,
that as she was a woman she could know just what to
do

There is no gainsaying that Tom’s mother was a wo-
man, and she was quite sure that she knew what to do,
though she received her son’s confidences at first with
an icy reserve that said the matter was no concern of
hers, and with a slight raising of the eyebrows that
said equally plainly that she had long been aware of
However,she un-
bent at last.

“JT will see Susie, if you wish me to, Tom,” she said.

“J wish you would, mother; you can help her more
than Ican. You don’t really think, then, she is sick ?”

“Not at all, Tom. A little exertion of her will and
she will be quite right again.” :

“J thought so myself,” said Tom; ‘“‘but I wasn’t sure.
You'll see her, then ?”

“Tll go to-day, Tom.”

And so great was her anxiety to help poor Susie to
overcome her silly weakness that she went at once to see
her—went, indeed, with an eagerness that very nearly
marred that repose of manner which made her chief
claim to dignity.

lf the truth be told, Susie was not glad to see her, for,
an enough, what Susie admired in Tom she de-
sp’ in Tom’s mother. A fact of which that stately
lady was quite well aware, but which, nevertheless, did
not destroy the pleasure she felt in doing good to Tom’s
hee wife.

«Tom asked me to come and see you this morning,
Susie.”

“JT did not know he was going your way,” said Susie.
“Take off your things. Ofcourse you will stay to din-
ner ?”

«Thank you; I cannot to-day.”

Tom’s mother was never more stately; Tom’s wife
never nearer to breaking down without doing it.

“Tom is very much worried about you, Susie.”

Susie could have kissed her for saying that; for she
had only just been thinking, with some bitterness, that
Tom did not seem to care.

“And he asked me,” went on Tom’s mother, ‘‘to come
and talk with you about it.”

“You are very kind,” murmured Susie, gratefully
enough, though she would have liked it better if Tom
had talked with her about it himselt.

‘I have no wish to be harsh,” began Tom’s mother,
assuming one of her most commanding attitudes. ‘I
know you really believe yourself sick.”

Susie’s placid look was suddenly gone. She was dig-
nified now. Her lips closed and her brown eyes flashed.
She began to understand.

Tom’s mother continued : ‘

“You should endeavor to control yourself. A little
self-control——” ‘

“Do I understand you,” broke in Susie, in a low voice,
“that Tom asked you to tell me this ?”

“This or the substance of it,” answered Tom's mother;
“and it is only right—just to yourself and just to Tom
that you should overcome these fancies. Exert your
will: “Look at-me, look at Tom—we-are never sick.”

Susie looked at her and believed her. No, she had
never been sick, that wascertain. But Tom! Had Tom
asked her to say this to his wife?

But this wasonly the beginning. Tom’s mother had
much more to say, and she said it withacalm dignity
that proved she had only Susie’s good in view, and it
may not be amiss to say that she really had hopes of
Susie, for throughout it all Susie was not once frivolous ;
she did not even interrupt. Tom’s mother went home
full of a peaceful calmness her dignity had not known
for some time. -

—— Tom came home that evening Susie said to

m:

“‘Your mother was here to-day, Tom.”

«Yes; she said she would come.”

«She spoke to me”—Susie’s voice was very low—
“about the necessity of exerting a control over my—
over my—my foolish weakness.”

“Yes—yes, that was right. You can doitif you will,
Susie. Your will has never been developed, Susho. Look
at me—I never was Sick.”

Susie looked at him. She would rather have hidden
her face and cried ; she would rather have lain down to

 

rest: her aching back; but no—she would beg 1 de
velop-her will; she would'try to smile; she did Smile. _
Tom had no more reason af miplain ot

her will and keep down’any foolish desire for sympathy.
She did not succeed very well at that, but when she
foolishly fancied she was in agony from her back,
did not betray the fact.

 

when she wanted to cry. Oh, yes, she would succeed
some day.
Tom often congratulated her on her success, but then
he did not know how little real success she was having.
Stili she did not tell him how she was failing in the im- —
sain a of pain; she just kept steadily on develop-
g her will, #4,
And at last she had herreward, She succeeded in so _
developing her will that at last she had g left her

 

She could not get up one morning.

Tom and ‘l’om’s mother told the doctor
down stairs that all Susie needed was to.
The doctor looked at them and listened an¢
had happened. £5

“Exert her will,” he exclaimed, angrily, “make her
will you mean. Will! That poor child has more will
than dozens like you two. For months she has been dy-
ing in agony under your eyes, and ’ll stake soul she
has not murmured. Will, indeed! Man!” ie doctor
took Tom bythe arm. ‘Your wife is dying. Don’t de-
ceive yourself. She is dying.”

And so she did die, leaving Tom, a hear-tbroken, re-
morseful man. Leaving him withasmile and a loving

whisper:
“I did try, Tom, dear; but indeed I did suffer so.”
o<+ ——_—_

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

{2 Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed upless 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. ]

n he came —
her will. |

ot

    
 
 
   

 

 

 

Texas, Miss., Maine.—ist. See ‘The Ladies’ Work-Box.” 2d
Among the special uses for which particular woods are pecu-
liarly adapted, there is none more striking than that of box-
wood for engravings, for which, it is said, no substitute ap-
proaching it in all requisites has been found—it allowing of ©
the cutting of lines so delicate that they can only be seen by
a strong magnifier. The elm is preferred for wagon hubs:

the locust for gate and fence , as well as treenails; the
asp for oars, and the walnut for gun-stocks; in ship-build-
ing, the general preference is for cedar, pine, elm, locust,
, ete.; for machinery and millwork, ash,
etc.; and for furniture, fine ebony, cherry, m
rosew Wi walnut,

 

 

 

a a etc.; and for common fur-
niture, . pine, whitew:

alawyer. 4th. Act apn your own judgment.

is a Hollander—a native or inhabitant of Holland—a Duen-
man; the other is a German—a native or inhabitant of

many. 6th. It is not necessary to have your house
because it is insured, The insurance company takes all the
risks provided for in the policy. 7th. Gertrude in German is

spelled Gertraud, and is pronounced ger-trowt. 4

Buck, Green’s Bridge, N. J.—1st. At the Presidential elec-
tion in 1876, there were received from Florida two sets of
certificates ; from Louisiana, three; from Oregon, two; and
from South Carolina, two. They were referred to an Elec-
toral Commission, formed under the provisions of the Com-
ill, approved Jan. 29, 1877. The Commission de- |

counting the Electoral Votes of the States

es, which elec im over Tilden by one
prize-fight for the championship of America
L. Sullivan and Patrick Ryan, took
ppi City, Miss., on Feb. 7, 1882. yah won.

dnd $5,000, between J
an . tween JO
en at Missi i Ci

unds 9; time

N. B. C., Springfield, Mass.—ist. The “Lake Poets” were Wil-
liam Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Robert
Southey. The name originated in this way: After Words-
worth married he settled among his favorite lakes, first at
Grassmere, and afterward at Rydal Mount. Southey subse-

 

uen to the same picturesque coun W. Cole-
aie fh uently visited his teatherpune a y_ were
erroneo’ thought to have united_on some settled theory

or pcipeinics _ angen ane vies, But while they a
as ef representatives of this schoo!
Lab, Loyd, and Wilson were also included under the same
‘on. :

Ajax, Vandalia, 1.—David Colbreth Broderick, who was
killed in a duelin San Francisco, on Sept. 21, 1859, by David
S. Terry, a judge of the California courts, was born in Wash-
ington, D. C., in 1818. In early life he worked as a stone
mason in this city, and was connected with the Fire Depart-
ment, of wat he ‘became ne ee arotaatee unsuc-
cessf: ‘or Congress in remo ornia,
anes 1856 he’was elected to the U.S. Senate. He was
me enged by Judge Terry on account cf some words used in

Tezas Daisy.—tst. You will find a good 600k book of great
service. We can send you one for .30 cents. C

Without a Master” will cost 25 cents. 3d. Co

 

on the subject in the several States. 4th. ‘“Book-k With-

 

 

 

se Ser oa ate eee a

r

ou can of r handiwork wi ta :

Tih, Soo The Tedies” Work Bor eae Gane ire ens
various colors.

Trixy G., Albany, N. Y.—The lines you quote occur in “Not
Yet,” a poem of four stanzas, by Mrs. Caroline Atherton
Mason. We give the last stanza, asfollows: ;
ge yet—before the crown, the cross ;

e ere the prize ;
Before the the fearful loss,
And death ere Paradise.”

Lelia, Long Island.—The poem entitled “My Mind to Me a
Kingdom Is” was written by Sir Edward Dyer, who was born
in England in the reign of Henry VIII. He lived until some

ears after King James’ accession to the English His
y , With some additions, is credited i

Byrd, an eminent composer of sacred music. A col-
lection of Dyer’s writings was printed as late as 1872.

LL. M.—Mica is usually found in little shining scales in
granite and some other rocks. It is commonly called isin-
glass, and used in the doors of stoves. When foundin large

ieces it is split upinto thin plates, which are so transparen'

at they can used instead of ae in windows and lan-
terns. Mica in sheets has n found in Siberia and ©
Sweden and in the United States.

Hunter, Muscatine.—1st. Paper tubes are made to fit over
shots, and are called concentrators, Eley’s green wire car-
tridges are made for the same p' The cost is about
75 centsa dozen. 2d. We would recommend thirty-eight inch
eae me oe ¥ ae rifle. re setter ds the best

; ook for breaking and teaching the setter _
for the field will cost 50 cents. sth

Mrs. E. S. B., Hanover, Conn.—The United States mails are
“run,” as you term it, on Sundays. During the office hours
to all -
sons who call and happen to have matter in the ofioe ad.
dressed to them. may also sell eters 60 Ser aa ae
ing for them ; but he is not permitted to issue money orders
or register letters. :

James, Ishpeming, Mich.—There are two books that will
probably answer your purpose, namely, “O’Flanagan’s Mun-
ster Circuit,” and “‘O’Flanagan’s Irish Bar.” The first named

contains tales, trials, and traditions; the second anecdo
bon-mots, and bi ical sketches of the bench and bar o
Ireland. Price of in paper cover, 25 cents. ;

Thomas H., Chicago, Il.—ist. “Electro-Metallurgy Prac-
tically Treated,” by Alex Watt, will be sent to youfor $l. It
is the sixth edition, with considerable additions, and the
least expensive book wecan recommend. 2d. ‘‘Dodd’s Dic-
tionary of Manufactures, Mining, Machinery, and the In-
dustrial Arts,” will cost $1.50, ; :

J. O. U.—If you wish an indelible ink to be used with type
or stencil, the following is highly recommended. Tak
dram of salt of steel (obtained at any chemist’s), two
of nitrate of silver in crystals, and half an ounce
vermilion. Mix very fine in linseed oil to the
W. A. L.—ist. We do not think you have any cause for
alarm on account of either your weight or stature. Both
will probably be added to before you become of In the
interim stop smoking. You are too young to use acco in
any form. 2d. May 16, 1866, fell on Wednesday.

Miss Florette, San Francisco.—Castor oil and brandy for
the hair should be used in the following ions: Oil,

ounces ; brandy, one ounce.

C. E: H., East Madison, Me.—ist. No ium, to our
knowledge, on the coin referred to. 2d. Wa do not give busi-
ness addresses in this department. a.

Subscriber, Wellesley Hills, Mass—‘“When These Old
Clothes Were New,” by F. Perry, will cost 30cents. The song
contains the verse you quote.

Frank D,, Evart, Mich.—A family knit
cost from $35 to $60, according to the size an
needles.

 
  

machine will
fineness of the

F. R. C., Laramie City, Wyoming.—We do not give business
addresses in this department.

L. P.. H., Nebraska,—The writer whose nom de plume you
give, died a short time since.

J. J. B., San Francisco, Cal.—We do not advertise business
names in this department.

John A. H.—The “Civil Engineer’s Pocket-Book,” by Traut-

: :

wine, will cost $5.

Her will was not yet sufficiently deloped to control —
her pain, but it was something that she could epee

 
   

i

 

 

 

but will, and then she found that will alone would not do. |

new what —

    
 

22

 

   
  

 

} Y
lj
;

018 Geto om

    
    
 

 

M. E: B.,
York WEEKLY.

\W. H. H., Lowell, Mass.—The “Instructgr for the Tuba”
will cost $2. ‘ a

¥F. N. B,, Anaconda, Montana Territory.—No.

To CoNnTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. | accepted:

‘Loyal and Fearless,” ‘‘In the Sunlight,” ‘“Nelly’s Wish,” "A
Strange Whim,” “How It ” “Anchored.” following

MSS. are . ye oe - ‘3

n ve, e :

acob Schnex and His Ponies,” “A Dark Story of Flo a

ane eens Quilts,” “Who Knows” “The Flick-

are to Do t.

 

oo

 

 

Columbus, Ohio.—See No. 16, Vol. 40,of the New |

 

 

 

  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

    
    
    

 

 

     

 

  
   

 

 
 

 

 

  

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wate « THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

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_ LET THE NEW YEAR BE OUR BEST.

te

;

 

BY GROSVENOR.

 

In pene for the future,
And thinking of the
We feel how frail and ile
Is the mold in which we're cast.
Our youthful days were cloudless,
And hope beat strong and high,
And now, alas! a darkness
forever hovering nigh;
Yet still let hope be fervent,
And honor be our crest;
Then all may join in chorus—
Let the New Year be our best!

Let | ills be forgotten,
te malice lose its sway,
And foes unite in friendship,
On this our New Year’s s
- Let heart to heart be kni'
To work one glorious end,
The world’s w tching welfare,
_ While love and truth extend!
Then let our hopes be fervent,
And honor be our crest,
And all shall join in chorus—
_ Let the New Year be our best!

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

BACK TO LIFE;

Ce

 

An Unequal Match.

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,

: AUTHOR OF :
“A Father’s Sin,” “Who Owned the Jewels,”
“The Phantom Wife,” etc.

{Back To Lire” was commenced in No. 3. Back oum-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

*

 

CHAPTER XXI.
SETTING THE SPRING OF DEATH.
The third morning after his little adventure with his

“neighbor’s daughter, Reginald St. Regis went to town.
He lounged in at one or two of the leading bookstores,

where he was already known as a buyer of out-of-the-

way books, dropped into a paint-shop and an art gallery,

lunched at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and afterward called
a cab and was driven far down toward the Battery and

over on the west side, where he finally left the cab and
proceeded on foot toward one of those little three-cor-
nered patches of green around which stand brick houses
—once the abode of the beauty and fashion of the city,
now falling to decay and swarming with all the curious
breeds of tenement life.

St. Regis went up the steps of one of these houses,
which appeared more respectable than its neighbors,
and rang the bell.

He was admitted by a slatternly child, a girl of twelve,
and, without noticing her, immediately proceeded up
two flights of stairs, pausing and giving four taps on the
door of a room on the third floor. The door was opened

by the old woman called Gorgle.

He ste into her apartments.

The old woman looked more hideous than ever in her
own haunts. She had a short, black pipe between her
loose, large, flabby lips, but it was not the odor of to-
bacco which came from it and mingled with the other
vile odors of the room, or rooms, for the door was open
between that and the front one.

“Open the windows!” were the first words spoken by | ,

St. Regis. ‘Dust a chair!” were the next.

The woman obeyed, just one spark flashing ot of her
opaque a be as she heard his peremptory orders.

“Sm g opium again, I see.”

“Yes, my lord. I’s just begun. I was going to lie

Till wait now youre gone. I was up all night, an’I
feels the need o’ rest.”
“All night, eh? Where?”

“On the river and round about. You know where.”

“That’s good! I see the opium doesn’t keep you from
your duties. You went to Bellefontaine, of course ?”

“In course. I’ve no other business up the river.”

“‘How’s your daughter ?”

“My darter is well, only lonesome.”

“T shall not keep her there much longer. The crisis
will come in a few days now. A pretty girl that of
yours, Gorgle, strange to say.”

“Folks says so.”

“How were they getting along at the house? Do they

barricade, and

 
 
 
  

still does the housekeeper still sleep in
ae Secs cece amps
x ad wi her OF late she h Gr veen

4 bod ak ten a (aye: oomged part o’ the grounds, alone ; and

ut there by that ner et
tackled | you that any. e’s dead love-sick for her.”
i ae one hunchback’s eyes blazed. ‘Does she an-

“She if os :

me ‘ ‘eas ae on with her—I Pent —
when him—but not that cursed dandy ot him.
We Thee apse our arrangements ; the comedy is about

ed out. Heavens! they would not > in their

if they knew the shadow that lurks—that pursues—

that sees and hears—and only waits for the amusement

ee oe longer dalliance with fate. Have they
passage for Havre yet ?”

“Yes ; they sail one week from to-morrow.”

“What a nice sense of honor our Dr. Gerome has,”
sneered the dwarf, more to himself than his listener.
‘“He’s going to take my cousin to. Paris, restore her to
her relatives, e her an opportunity to see the world,
and then if it is proved she is not married, if she sees
no one she likes better, them he will again become an
humble suitor for her hand. Oh, ho, ho, ho! Such
delicacy is e ary. I cannot appreciate it—I can-
not, indeed. Nor can that village dandy, that country
Apollo. He, it seems, is trying to draw my cousin into
a clandestine mdence. He will not be troubled
with scruples. We had better double the watch, now
that the enemy takes this shape. Gorgle!”

‘*My lord.” ,

“You must run up to Bellefontaine again to-night.
No, hold! I will send Finesse. It is time he was on
the und again. I will warn him to be on guard

against an elo ent. Only eight days more, and our
watching will be at an end.”
‘‘Will you be on board the ship with ‘em ?” asked the

woman.

“On board the ship with them! Not for a million
francs! Not forall the thrones of the earth! Noteven
for the chance of peerening my crooked back. On
the ship with them! Ha, ha, ha! NotI! There will
be a hundred or twoof fools on board that vessel, but
“not I among them!”

-“Suthin’s up now, sartain,” remarked the old woman
to herself, glancing sidelong out of her fishy eyes at the
- gleaming countenance of her visitor.

“I’m going to meet Finesse now, and I’ll send him up
to keep your girl company,” continued St. Regis, ina
calmer tone. ‘‘Asl Bay, the watch must be doubled for
‘the next eight days. I dare say you will not object to
-gome money, Gorgle,” and he laid a number of gold
.pieces on the table, at the sight of which the dull

Sp: e kindied in the opaque eyes. ‘‘You are quite
sure about the passage to Havre being secured ?”

‘Quite, my lord. Bu ci. better look for yerself.”

all do that. By way, where’s Gorgle, your
partner ?”
e’s gone fishin’ ?”
up with Finesse; he may be needed,
country Adonis trying to get off
m, will you?”

    
 

Us all, then, at present,” and the hunchback
walked out and down the stairs, out into the street,
and off in quest of Mr. Finesse, who had the whole
en floor of the house of a widow in Fourteenth
street.
anne distinguished visitor remained some time here,
n

friend and companion in iniquity did Reginala St. Regis
reveal the terrible plot hatching in his breast. No, not
one hint of it did he dare to breathe to human creature,
for it wasapurpose so black, so pitiless, so horrible
ee not even his wicked mouth dared frame it or give
t shape.

Nevertheless it was just as relentlessly matured and
carried out.

When he parted from his confidant, St. Regis went

about to two or three different stores of supply, procur-
ing different chemicals, which he had sent out to his

present residence. He had commissioned his friend to

examine the register of the French steamer, which
ant in eight days, for the names he expected to find

ere. ce

Having finally arranged matters to his satisfaction,
and procured certain
Regis took a late train back to his home.

‘or the next few days he was extremely busy, scarcely
issuing from the room in which he worked, and in which
he passed the nights, as well as the days, except when
bet id Pierre to come to the dining-room and partake

On the Wednesday before the steamer sailed—its day
of departure was Saturday—his labors ceased, and the
result stood on a table in the laboratory in the shape
of an oblong wooden box, three feet by two, and two in
depth—an innocent-looking box, neatly directed to
“Victor Margeaux et Fils, Paris,” and marked ‘‘cabinet
specimens of American ores.”

It would seem that there was something unusually
heavy in the box, as Pierre and another man could barely
manage to lift it from the table and carry it down to the

wagon which was to convey it to the railroad station,
the master standing by constantly urging care in the
handling, and telling them that to drop it would be to
ruin its contents.

On Thursday Pierre was deputed to see the ‘box on
and off the cars, to get a cart and a careful man in New
York, and not to leave the package one moment until
he had seen it safely placed and stowed on the steamer.

All these directions were carried out to the letter, the
confidential servant returning the same evening with
word that he had seen the box with his own eyes stowed
in the hold in a good place and in good condition.

‘You never did me better service, Pierre,” said his
master, cordially; ‘‘and, now that the box is off my
mind, I believe that my appetite has returned. I won-
der what Monsieur Cook has for dinner?”

“7 will see,” returned Pierre, and presently St. Regis
sat down to a sumptuous, solitary meal, after which he
retired to his one living room, the library, where he
took up his violin and played the remainder of the even-
ing, heavenly music—music which breathed of spiritual
haeeati . love and the higher passions and inspirations

e soul.

Satan himself, listening to such music, would not
have credited the fact that the player had just accom-
plished a purpose so diabolical as to make the very de-
mons turn pale and shudder.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
“BON VOYAGE!”

Mignon sat in the window of her room looking out on
the brown December landscape. Im her hand was an
open letter—a letter she had read and re-read many
times—a letter she kept always safe in her bosom when
she was not brooding over its words. Jabez had brought
it to her privately nearly a week before, and she had
known by the expression of his honest face what he
ee oe Barron Artichoke for attempting to influence

r secretly.

“Heres a note as the young gentleman handed me
in Fury’s store. I was against taking it unbeknown of
the doctor, which surely, Miss Mignon, ain’t right, as
[Aci must see for yourself: but he promised never to do

agin, and he’ sov-hard—— Well,-here ’tis, an’ 1
en he’ll keep his word not to send no more.”

nd the girl, blushing with a mingled feeling of guilt
and hid the missive in her pocket: until she

§° to her room, where she read it over and over.
The letter had run thus:

“My own Mequot iy Catiing, you must forgive me for
my boldness in writing to you; but Iam so wretched, so lone-
iy, so completely miserable, that indeed, my sweet, | cannot
Ve so any longer. I don't know what todo with myself I
cannot ‘e any interest in anything. laughs at me
because I eee so. And, do you know, she has found out my
secret and told my father and mother. ney are ravi
cause I want to marry you. They say that I do not know
what or who you are, and that it isa great scandal about oor
cousin coming for you as his ranerey, wife, and all t.
You see our folks are so proud, they hold themselves above

their betters. And then, my parents have never seen you.
They do not know what a perfect lady, what a real dess
and refined, and so handsome! y are

t,

Father is around the house now, and he is so
cross to me, all about I tell you what itis, I will not
stand it! I would give up the whole world for you, my dar-
ling. Willnot you do as much for me? What I pro i
this—and if you love me you will consent to it—to arrange for
your ht from Bellefontaine with me. It is no worse for

ou to desert the doctor than for me to leave my parents. I
have told rather that I want to go abroad, and he favors the
idea, thinking that it will remove me from your influence!

 

down with my pipe and have a good snooze arter it; but | %,
oO’

 

lunch with his confidant; but not even to this”

materials which he desired, St

He has given us the money—Claudy and me—to make the for-
eign tour. We are to start the first week in January. Now,
darling, all you have to do is to let me slip you through the
back gates of Bellefontaine a day or two before we start, take
you down to New York, and marry you. Then I will place

) My parents will
it for some time. Consider this plan, my own dear
Mignon, and I am sure you will yield to my persuasions, The
idea of your being-in constant danger of abduction by that
cousin of yours, keeps me in a state of constant anxiety. I
am very unhappy. But you can cha all that into bliss by
Showing your confidence in me and giving yourself tome to
be or. Limplore you to answer this soon.

note in the knot-hole of the old apple tree which han,
the wall by the stream, and I will getit. You ma find
something there for your dear self. Your devo B. A.”

This was the letter Mignon had read so often, and to
which as yet She had returned no answer. Her heart

ve your
over

Wh
a

  
  
   

\
ye

|

. iy\h
Mu“
(y-

)

MO cepa

 

SHE THREW HER ARMS ABOUT HIS NECK,
TWICE OR THRICE.

KISSING HIM

drew her to reply ‘‘yes” to his plea, but her sense of
oe would not permit her to do anything clandes-
tinely.

Doctor Gerome had been so sad and grave lately. He
had never reproached her by word er look. He was
kinder, if possible, than ever. And, oh, he was such a
perfect gentleman!—such a noble, patient, faithful
friend !—so delicate, so forbearing !”

The girl, madly as she thought she loved Barron, per-
ceived that his character lay depths below that of the
doctor. She appreciated all the Se 9 qualities of her
benefactor. She admired, she ado him as a superior
being. But the silly, selfish, handsome youth had won
her fancy.

“Barron will never be so great and good a man as my
friend Emil,” she said to herself. ‘But he is good
enough forme. ‘Oh, how I pity the poor boy! He is
counting the minutes until I give him my answer. Yet
I cannot write him my consent. 1 will marry him in
some future time, if I may, but I will not be a traitor to
Emil now.”

So she had let the days slip by, unable to make up her
mind, while Barron had covertly examined the apple
tree fifty times.

This day the struggle in her mind had been most se-
vere. She could imagine her lover’s blue eyes drowned
in tears, his lips bitterly reproaching her, and she near-
ly yielded to the persuasion of her own wishes. Finally
she folded up the letter, returning 1t to her bosom, with
the words :

on must bide his time. I will do nothing so basely
selfish.”

The light of her resolve still shone on her fair forehead
as she left the window to descend to the library.

Dr. Gerome was sitting at his writing-table there, ap-

arently absorbed in working out some calculations, but
his eyes often left the figures and fell broodingly on the
fioor. His face was very pale and worn, but his glance,
when he raised it at the sound of her light footstep, was
gentle and kind, as it rested on the lovely face of his
young friend.

«You find these chill winter days dull and tedious, I
know, Mignon. The child of sunny Provence must
blanch a little under our wintry skies. My child, you

remember I intended, directly after—after you came to

the memory of who you were—to take you back to your
own country, and place you in the care of your relatives.
Not—not that it will not leave my life a desert to give
you up, but because I feel it a solemn duty under the
circumstances.”

“Oh, Emil, I shall be afraid when I am not with you.
My relatives are strange tome. They may side with
ag Ses Do not desert me, dearest friend, do not!”

he doctor’s lips trembled.

“I shall not desert you, M n. Never, so long as
you need my watchtul care. shall remain in Paris,
perhaps for two hree years; and I will be there to
protect, assist, , Serve you in any way you may re-

    
 
  

quire. } :
“Emil, hog noble, so good-——”
Suddenly her’ faltered, and she took the letter

from her bosom and thrust it in his hand. ~

“There, read that! Ihave not answered it. I should
be a very wicked, ungrateful girl to keep anything from

ou.”

Gerome’s dark, fiery eye ran over the lover’s epistle.
A smile, almost of scorn, gathered about his mouth.

“He is an ardent lover, at least, Mignon; and as rash
as he is ardent. But why should he think it necessary
that you should steal away trom my protection? Does
he not think that I would do what is best for you? When
you are ready to leave me, child, come openly and say
adieu. Nay, Mignon, I am willing to sacrifice myself to

our happiness. There shall be no obstacles ¢* my plac-
om the way of es making the better he ge ER of
this young gentleman. Would you not e to have
some knowledge of him before marriage? Are youin
favor of this haste ?”

Mignon blushed scarlet as her guardian put these
questions.

«Emil, I have had the proposal six days and have not
answered it.”

“I thought my little lady was not destitute of a
womanly sense of the proprieties. Iam glad you have
not carried on a clandestine correspondance, Mignon.
Now, I will make a proposition. Let Mr. and Miss Arti-
choke take on the same steamer with ourselves.
This will give you the opportunity to cultivate each
other’s acquaintance. Then, when you are under the

 

protection of your relatives, and have assumed your true
titles and position, let him renew his suit, if so minded,

and let. your.marriage be arranged and conducted with
pa ceremony. You willlose nothing by it—certain-

not your self-respect. Perhaps this parvenue cotton-
miller wHl not have so many objections to an alliance
with Mademoiselle St. Regis of St. Regis as he has now!”
and he laughed sarcastically.

Mignon blushed again and was silent.

“Do you think this a discreet plan, Mignon ?”

«Emil, you are always right—always wise.”

“Then you consent ?”

“You know that I take pleasure in obeying you, doc-
tor. I am overjoyed that you are to take me home. AS
for the rest, that can wait. Doctor, I know I shall never,
never marry in this world.”

‘You are not expected to in the next. Well, if the ar-
rangement pleases you, I will, myself, see young Arti-

i fu Koos i
| He

SACS

ey)

        

  
    

4h
‘&

TIS ;
a
ws

 

 

CHAPTER XXIV.—‘‘DO YOU HEAR THAT THUNDER ?
YOU FEEL THAT TREMENDOUS SHOCK ?

DO

choke this afternoon, and have a talk with him. Here
are some roses that blossomed in a jardiniere in my
window, dearest. Place them in your hair and wear
them until my return. I shall be home in an hour or
two. Donot go out of doors. I shall call Jabez to keep
guard over you until my return.”

“That will be tiresome to Jabez and tome, too. I shall
be glad when we are gone from here, and this constant
mental strain is ended, wont you, Emil ?”

“Yes, my child,” he answered, with a weary sigh; and
then he called Jabez to remain in the hall, where his
gun stood always ready, and went out on his errand.

He found Barron where he expected to, in Fury’s
store, his usual haunt. Florette, with whom he had
been talking, blushed and ran away when she saw the
doctor, who took Barron by the arm and walked out on
the street with him.

Barron was amazed and conscience-stricken, looking
flushed. and embarrassed; but his companion opened
the subject in a frank, matter-of-fact way, which pres-
ently restored him to his self-complacency. He was at
first a little disappointed, since he had fixed his thoughts
on an early marriage, but soon yielded, not only grace-
fully, but willingly, himself seeing the advantages of
the arrangement.

It was made up between them that Barron was to go
to the city and purchase the tickets and engage the
state-rooms, and that he was to be very quiet about it.

The doctor did not wish to be seen moving, for fear
that spies would discover his plans.

All this was afterward carried out, with due caution,
but the innocent-faced spy at the lodge learned every-
thing, and devulged it to her mother and her confeder-
ates,

 

While the two couples in Babylon were quietly com-
pleting their preparations, the unnatural heart of the
dwart was brooding over and executing a purpose al-
most too hideous to put into words.

But of this its intended victim had no warning; and
on the Friday evening preceding the Sec of the
steamer, the doctor and Mignon went stealthily out of
the gates of Bellefontaine, watched over by their treach-
erous keeper, and joined their companions on board the
city-bound express.

m Saturday, at noon, the splendid steamship which
bore them steamed out into the bay, and passed the
forts, while the spirits of Gerome and his sweet com-
panion rose, believing that now they had successfully
avoided the strange detectives her cousin had set about
them.

Silence and a sense of desolation settled over Belle-
fontaine. Ugly as Mrs. Griddly had often been to the
lovely intruder who “‘had come into the house feet first”
one rosy, tempestuous night’in June, she missed the
sweet face and the silver voice far more than she would
like to acknowledge ; while Jabez mournedopenly.

On Monday, according to orders, Griddly dismissed
the meek-faced lodge-keeper with a month’s advance
pay, locked the gates himself, made everything snug,
and prepared to live in small quarters until his employ-
er’s return. it

While this was going on the steamer was driving on
her course, The skies. veux ar, the pcean
calm, and the passengers hoped for & tranquil voyage,
although it was begun in midwinter.

What should any of them, officers, crew, or passen-
gers, a ot the box which the dwarf had shipped in
the hold ?

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
AN INNOCENT FLIRTATION.

“This seems a bitterly cold day for you to be out roam-
ing the woods, Miss Harland,” expostulated her govern-
ess, one afternoon, early in January.

“But I never feel the cold, madame, in my seal-skin

and jacket. 1am tired of thisdull house. Papa al-
ways lets me go, if I take my protector, Cerberus, with
me; and the woods are full of scarlet wintergreen ber-
ries. You know yourself, madame, that it is always a
great deal warmer in the deep forest than on the open
grounds, and I adore the piny fragrance of the air there.
Come along, Cerb, old fellow! Tell madame you'll take
excellent care of nie, and that she may finish reading
her story in peace this afternoon, for we shall be out of
her way.”

She spoke very gayly, her cheeks glowed, her eyes
shone. Madame thought she had never seen her way-
ward pupil look so very, very pretty and piquant, her
long hair curling asit broke from under her coquettish
cap, her face sparkling, a cunning little basket in her
gloved hand in which to bring back mosses and berries.

Somehow Elfine had blossomed out all of a sudden
into rich beauty. A change had come over her which
all her family felt, but could not account for.

How could they, when they had not the key to the
problem ?

With Cerberus trotting sedately behind her, she passed
through the withered fiower-garden, the field which lay
beyond it, and entered the spicy, shadowy wood, whose
pines and hemlocks made more somber its wandering

aths.

m Heaven knows what thoughts were in Elfine’s mind
to give that glowing fire to her eyes and cheeks. They

were thoughts, doubtless, which would have astonished

 

 

 

 

eee

Fis

   

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER YXIV,—SHE FELT HERSELF LIFTED IN HIS ARMS,
AND CARRIED INTO THE ADJOINING ROOM.

and alarmed the father who regarded her still as a child.
But to her they did not seem wrong. They were to be
hidden, of course, out of maiden modesty, but were to
be cherished all the more fondly because she could
breathe them to no one.

She was out to meet St. Regis in the woods. It was
the third time since that accidental visit to his house;
yet she had gone away from that house fully resolved to
avoid its master henceforth and forever—gone away
mortified and humiliated.

But the mischief was done.

She never could be the 1 she had been before she
awoke in that library to feel the strange power of the
man who had there treated her so cavalierly.

When she went away she was ashamed, and believed
that she would be only too glad to avoid him. But the
poison that

“Doth work like madness in the brain,”

 

Sals—an
which I have modeled in clay.
come ?”

 

 

had. been infused into her being, and she was doomed.

Not for one moment had St. Regis been out of her
mind since that parting—awake or asleep she dreamed
of him. He had fascinated her. Even that picture of
horror, his Mig he the hound, had its share in the
charm, as the bird feels the terrible beauty of the ser-
pent. It was a dark background of fear, against which
all the glory and grace of his other qualities stood out
more conspicuously.

She would rather belong to him, like that hound, and
take an occasional beating, than not to be his at all.

The wayward girl, who had never yielded to any
authority, was his slave—at his feet.

This was her mental attitude toward him. But she
was pure and modest still. Her love appeared to her
holy and sublime. She had not the faintest idea of
wrong, except that conscience whispered that she
roe to tell her father of the acquaintance she had
made.

But she must not allow St. Regis to see how much she
liked him. He thought she came to the woods only for
berries—had she not told him thatit was her habit to
roam, summer or winter? He would not guess that she
ho to meet him.

oolish, silly child, but innocent.

‘I know that he likes to meet me—he betrays it,” she
murmured to herself, as she stooped for a tiny clump of
exquisite moss.

As she placed itin her basket and arose to her feet
the man of whom she was thinking was by her side.

“It is like the miniature forests of the Arctic region,”
he said, examining the moss. ‘Itis so cold to-day 1
hardly thought you would come out, Elfine.”

«I do not feel the cold in these pine woods—do you ?”

There was a deeper red on her cheeks, and her voice
thrilled with the thrill of her palpitating heart ; and he,
by her side, saw the fluttering of her breast, caught the
tremble in her tones, and the deepening blushes, while
she remained unconscious that she had betrayed her in-
ward delight and agitation.

There was a smile of triumph in the eyes which read
her face as easily as the page oi a ‘

They strolled along, she nearly silent, he making
ere comments on every tree, and stone, and de-
serted bird’s-nest, betraying his varied knowledge with
careless prodigality.

“Here we are’ on my.grounds—I know by this. cozy
seat in this little circle of evergreens. It will not do for
me to be inhospitable, Elfine, so I invite you to a seat in
this fairy bower—fairy evenin January. By the way,
here is a book, which I must have left on my last visit.
Sit down, Elfine, and I will read to you some of the me-
lodious philosophy of that dreaming spirit of fire and
snow, Shelley.”

Elfine sat down at once, her basket, overflowing with
green, and brown, and scarlet, in her lap, and at her
feet her triend Cerberus, who was also under the spell
of the wizard, completely subdued to the willof St.
Regis since the first time he had given him an order.

There for an hour, wrapped in her furs, Elfine sat en-
tranced, drinking in the low music of the suppressed
and passionate voice reading tu her from “The Revolt
of Islam.”

It was wonderful how St. Regis read the wonderful

poem.

The red-gold of the winter sun flushed his noble fore-
head; now and then, when he lifted his eyes, they seem-
ed dusky and soft with emotion, and their shadowy
glance shot straight to the soul of the listening girl.
Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her luminous
brown eyes were fixed on his face, her basket had rolled
to her feet, and Cerberus was fast asleep.

«You like Shelley as well asI do ?”

“] don’t know ; I like to hear you read his poems.”

“Elfine, will you walk on to my house and have some
tea before you go home? I wish you would.”

“Oh, 1 cannot,” she answered, blushing vividly at the
remembrance of her one experience in that house. ‘It
is time thatl was home this moment. Papa will be
there soon, and he does not like me to be out so late.”

“Supposing you come earlier to-morrow, then, and 1
will meet you and take you in to lunch with me. I
have a thousand curiosities I want you to see while I
have the opportunity of showing them to you; carved,
antique sine. cameos, some quaint old illuminated mis-

some shabby work of my own, busts, etc.,
Do you promise to

“Will it be proper, Mr. St. Regis?”

 

CHAPTER XXIV.—“ELFINE. THIS IS THE RING WITH WHICH
I THEE SHALL WED.”

oa I invite a lady to my home if it were other
wise ?”

«But I wish papa knew about it, nay I tell him ?”

«] thought I had explained to you, Elfine, why I wish:
ed our acquaintance and friendship to remain a secret.
I enjoy your society immensely. But the world at
large is a great bore tome. I avoid people, forI am
not like others, as you see, and I am sensitive about it.”

Elfine’s delicate lips quivered; she could net endure
to hear him refer in such terms to his deformity.

“J am sure,” she said, hastily, ‘‘that you are very,
very beautiful, Mr. St. Regis,” and there she paused, and
blushed.

He smiled.

“You are a dear little girl, Elfine, and I’m glad if you
find me tolerable. But I am obstinate—you know that
—and cross; and you must humor me in this, it you
really like me. Do not even tell your father of our
friendship; to me it is a hundred times sweeter and

| dearer for being kept to ourselves. Now, answer me,

will you pay me a visit to-morrow, sub rosa, and look at
my bric-a-brac and gems, and have lunch with me?
You will give poor lonely me a happy day, and no one
will be the wiser. Will you come, Elfine ?”

“Tf I can, Mr. St. Regis. I am my own mistress now,
out from under the thumb of madame, the governess,
and I think—yes, I will come, it it will be a pleasure to
you, as you say, Mr. St. Regis.”

“Thank you, my little friend.”

“And now I must say good-by, andrun home. Wake
up, Cerberus. Ob, dear! look at my mosses! I have
not time to gather them up to-night. Good-by again.”

“Good-by, Elfine.” ;

She ran away, her light figure glimmering among the
-vergreens, Cerberus galloping after her her, while St.
Regis stood watching her, with an infernal smile on his
face. ;

At dinner that evening Elfine Harland scarcely tasted
food, for her heart was beating so fast, her mind was in
such a state of exaltation, as to destroy appetite.

“What is the matter, Elfine ?”” asked her father, ‘‘are

0 ?
4 “J don’t think she looks very ill!” cried one of her
sisters, ‘‘such a face as that!”

Such a face as that, indeed! The fond father’s eye
lingered on it admiringly—the cheeks like carnations,
the eyes like gems, and a heavenly, happy light playing
over the features.

The excuse St. Regis had given her for keeping this
friendship a secret had satisfied her conscience, and
made her feel a pity and tenderness for him most dan-
gerous; and she could meet the loving look of her
father without a feeling of guilt, while looking forward
to that morrow which, she was sure, was to be the hap-
piest day of her life.

It was a great honor to be_the confidential friend of
St. Regis. She was certain that if her papa knew it he
would be pleased; however, she should not tell him so
long as St. Regis requested her to keep silence. Never,

erhaps, was @ young girl so utterly innocent in doing a
ad thing.

“What dress are you going to wear to the party to-
night, Elf?” queried the younger sister, as the dessert
came on the table.

“What party ?”

“What party! I think if I had an invitation J should
not forget it. Harry would feel flattered it he knew of
your indifference, I am sure.”

“Oh! Harry Fenwick’s coming-of-age party! Really,
I had forgotton all aboutit. I suppose I mast go,” dis-
contentedly.

Her father looked at Elfine again with some covert
surprise. Harry’s father was his own intimate friend; and
the two had looked forward to their children to cement
the friendship by marriage some day; and Harry and
Elfine had always been fond of each other; yet to-nizht
the young man was to hold high festival in honor of his
attaining his twenty-first year, and Elfine—whose pres-
ence was most of all anticipated—had actually forgotten
the important affair, and when reminded of it, appeared
indifferent. This did not seem natural, causing Mr.
Harland to bend a searching glance on his daughter.

“I believe the little witch is only affecting it to hide
her real feelings,” he thought, and smiled.

«Your dress came by express just after you started for
the woods,” her sister informed Elfine.

“TI did not know that I was to have a new dress,” said
Elfine, glancing at her father.

“Certainly, sprite. I ordered it myself. If Harry is to
enter the ranks of manhood to-night, you, too, are to
enter the dignified sphere of womanhood. You will not

 

be my little girl henceforth, but Miss-Harland, with all
the responsibilities as wellas the pleasures of young
ladyship.” :

“Oh, papa, how dreadful! I don’t like itone bit. I
know I never can be anything but what 1 am—your
wild, spoiled little girl, as irresponsible as the winds.”

“At least, have curiosity enough to come up and see

our dress,” suggested the sister, and Elfine followed

er up to her own elegant chamber, where, on the
blue silken counterpane of the bed, was spread out the
loveliest, lightest, most ethereal white robe, with sprays
of lilies-of-the-valley half hidden in the fluffy puffings,
and a coronet of the same flowers for her young head,
and, on a pillow, the case of pearls which had been her
mother’s, but which Elfine had never before been per-
mitted to wear.

She would not have been a girl had she not been en-
chanted ; but all her thoughts, while dressing, were of
the strange man she was to meet again on the morrow ;
not one for the galiant young fellow whose heart was
beating at the anticipation of welcoming her to his fes-
tival, and finding opportunity during the evening of
saying to her the words burning to be said.

Elfine went to the party with her father, looking beau-
tiful as Undine’s self. Harry’s frank blue eyes spoke his
admiration; but the declaration he had arranged in his
mind was not made; Elfine’s lovely looks somehow
kept him at a new distanee from her. Though she
shone like a star, yet her brightness was repellent. He
felt, instinctively, that if he spoke to her then he should
be refused.

“Iam glad Harry did not say what he}wanted to,” mur-
mured Elfine, as she nestled down ee pillows at
two o’clock that night. ‘He never shall speak to me
about that,’ and she did her best to falkasleep, but
her heart was still throbbing a hundred beats to the
minute, and her excited brain refused to yield to drowsy
influences.

The next morning she came down to breakfast with
her father, but she was pale and weary looking, so that
he chided her for rising before she was rested.

“Indeed, papa, 1 was only too glad to get out of bed.
Idid not know I was pale. So you have to go to town
again to-day ?”

“Yes, sprite; 1 am going down to attend a sale of pic-
tures. Give me another cup of coffee quickly, for I must
be off in five minutes.”

Elfine drooped her head on her hand and watched her
father until he arose to go, when she threw her arms
about his neck, kissing him twice or thrice with more
than her usual fondness.

‘Take care of yourself, papa, dear. I wish you were
not going away this morning.”

“Take care of yourself, darling, and good-by.”

As she saw his tall, fine figure disappear in the closed
carriage which conveyed him to the station, Elfine sud-
denly felt a sharp pang at her heart, anda wish that
she had told him where she was going that day.

But this momentary regret passed away; the wild-
rose color came back into her cheek, a dazzling light
shone in her brown eyes, and she went into the con-
servatory to gather its choicest blooms to take with her
on her visit. ,

After the governess had taken the ye children
into the school-room Elfine went up to her room to
dress for this visit. As she was arranging her hair, all
at once a vivid memory of her first meeting with St.
Regis and the diabolical exhibition of his temper came
over her, and she trembled so that her nerveless fingers
let fall the mass of soft, shining curls. A fear of she
knew not what blanched her lips.

But she smiled after a minute, patted her foot reso-
lutely, and took up her hair again, whispering :

‘“‘He needs me ; he suffers and is lonely ; I am notsuch
a coward as to break my promise.”

She attired herself in a handsome dark-blue silk and
the precious pearls, which she wore without any regard
to propriety of dress, but with the hope that they
might please the eyes of her host and make her look
prettier.

About eleven o’clock she set out—unnoticed by any
of the servants, and without mentioning to the gov-
erness that she was going out—taking Cerberus with
her, as usual.

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

MR, CRAVEN'S STEP-SON :

FRANK HUNTER’S PERIL.

By HORATIO ALGER, /Jr.,

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 IX.
A STRANGER APPEARS ON THE SCENE.

“How do you like your step-father, Frank ?” asked Ben
Cameron, as the two boys were walking home from _
school together. ee

‘You mean Mr. Craven ?”

“Of course. He is your step-father, isn’t he ?”

“I suppose he is, but I don’t like to think of him in
that way.”

“Is he disagreeable, then ?”

‘He treats me well enough,” said Frank, slowly; ‘‘but,
for all that, I dislike him. His appearance, his manners,
his soft voice and stealthy ways, are all disagreeable to
me. AS he is my mother’s husband, I wish I could like
him, but I can’t.”

“7 don’t wonder at it, Frank. I don’t fancy him my-
self.”

“Somehow everything seems changed since he came. -
He seems to separate my mother from me.”

“Well, Frank, I suppose you must make the best of it.
If he doesn’t interfere with you, that is one good thing.

Some step-fathers would, you know.”

“He hasn’t, so far; but sometimes I fear that he will
in the future.”

“Have you any reason for thinking so 2”

*““A day or two since he called me, just as I was leav-
ing the house to come and see you, and asked if I were
willing to have him joined with my mother as my
guardian.”

“What did you say ?”

“That I didn’t want any change. He said the respon-
sibility was too great for a woman.”

«What answer did you make ?”

“That my mother could get as much help and advice
as she needed, even if she were sole guardian.”

“Did he seem angry ?”

“Not at all. He turned it off very pleasantly, and said
he would not detain me any longer.”

“Then why should you feel uneasy ?”

“] think there’s something underhand about him. He
seems to me like a cat that purrs and rubs herself
against you, but has claws concealed, and is ready to
scratch when she gets ready.”

Ben laughed.

“The comparison does you credit, Frank,” said he.
«There’s something in it, too, Mr. Craven is like a cat—
ar is, in his ways; but I hope he won’t show his
claws.

“When he does I shall be ready for him,” said Frank,
stoutly. ‘Iam not afraid of him, but I don’t like the
idea of having such a person in the family.”

They had arrived at this point in the conversation
when they were met by a tall man, of dark complexion,
who was evidently a stranger in the village. In a small
town of two thousand inhabitants, where every person
is known to every other, a strange face attracts atten-
tion, and the two boys regarded this man with curiosity.
He paused as they neared him, and, looking from one to
the other, inquired :

“Can you dircct me to Mr. Craven’s Office ?”

The two boys exchanged glances.

Frank answered :

«Tt is that small building on the left-hand side of the
street. but I am not sure whether he is there yet.”

Curious to know how the boy came to know so much
of Mr. Craven’s movements, the stranger said :

‘Do you know him ?”

“Yes, sir; he is my step-father.”

it was the first time he had ever made the statement,
and, true as he knew it to be, he made it with rising
color and a strange reluctance.

“Oh, indeed!” returned the stranger,
much surprised. ‘‘He is your step-father ?

“Yes; he married my mother,” said Frank, hurriedly.

ae you think he may not have come to the office
yet?

“There he is, just opening the door,” said Ben, point
ing to Mr. Craven, who, unaware of the interest his ap
or excited, was just opening the door of the office,

n which he was really beginning to do a little business.

His marriage to a woman of property, and the reports
which had leaked out that he had a competence of his
own, had inspired a degree of confidence in him which
before had not existed.

“Thank you,” said the stranger. ‘As he is in, I will
call upon him,”

Jooking very

 

CHAPTER X.
A CONSPIRACY AGAINST FRANK.

“So he’s married again, the sly villain!” muttered the
stranger, as, after leaving the boys, he proceeded on his
way to Mr. Craven’s Office. ‘That will be good news for
my sister, won’t it? And so that’s his step-son? A nice-
looking, well-dressed boy. Likely Craven has feathered
his nest, and married a fortune. If so, all the better. I
may get a few feathers for my own nest, if I work my
cards right.”

 

     

 

 

 

She S tela ~- eae sng ee

 

 

ran 7
Sat Ni

 

 

 
   

 
 
 
   

 

 

 

 

ete i mes

  

 

 

~<<0i¢ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

Meanwhile Mr. Craven had seated himselt at an office
table, and was looking over a paper of instructions,
having been commissioned to write a will for one of the
town’s people. He had drawn out a printed form, and
had just dipped his pen in the ink, When a knock was
heard at the outer door that opened upon the street.

“IT suppose iv s Mr. Negley, come for the will. He'll
have to wait,” thought C raven, and as the thought
passed through his mind, he said: ‘Come in!”

The door opened.

He mechanically raised his eyes, and his glance rested
upon the man whom we have intr oduced in the last
chapter.

Aremarkable change came over Mr. Craven's face.
First surprise, then palpable dismay, drove the color
trom his cheeks, and he stood up, in silent consterna-
tion.

The other appeared to enjoy the sensation caused by
his arrival, and laughed. ,

“Why, man, you look as ifI were a ghost. No such
thing. lm alive and well, and delighted to see you
again,” he added, significantly. ‘By Jove, I’ve had
hard work finding you, but here Iam, you see.”

‘‘How—did—you—tind—ime ?” asked Craven, huskily.

“How did I tind you? Well, I got upon your tracks in
New York. Never mind how, as long as I have found
you. Well, have you no welcome for me ?”

“What do you want of me?” asked Mr. Craven, sul-
lenly.

“What do Il want of you?” echoed the other, with a
laugh. ‘Why, considering the relationship between
us——” |

Mr. Craven’s pallor increased, and he shifted his posi-
tion uneasily.

“Considering the relationship between us, it is only
naturalthat I should want to see you.” |

He paused, but Mr. Craven did not offer any reply: |

“By the way, your wife is very uneasy at your long |
absence,” continued the new-comer, tixing his eyes |
Ste adily upon the shrinking Craven.

‘For Heaven’s sake stop, or speak lower!” exclaimed
Craven, exhibiting the greatest alarm.

“Come, now, Craven, ‘is any allusion to your wife so
disagreeable ? Considering that she is my sister, it
strikes me that I shall have something to say on that
sub, ject.”

«Don’t allude to her. Sharpley,” said the other, dog-
gedly. ‘I shall never see her again. We—we didn't
live-happily, and are better apart.”

“You may think so, but do you think Iam going to
have my sister treated in this way—deserted and
scorned ?”

*‘T can’t help it,” was the dogged reply.

“You can’t? Why not ?”

And the man addressed as Sharply fixed his eyes upon
his brother-in-law.

“Why do you come here to torment me ?” said Craven, |
fiercely, brought to bay. ‘“‘Why can’t you leave me |
alone? Your sister is better off without me. I never | }
was a model husband.” |

“That is where you are right, Craven; but, hark |
you !” he added, bending torw ard, “do you think we are
going to Stand by and do nothing while you are in the |
enjoyment of wealth and the good things of lite ?” |

“Wealth? What do you mean ?”’ stammered Craven.

The other laughed slightly.

“Po you’ take me for a mole?
ywouldn’t discover that you are married again, and that
your marriage has brought you money ?

“So you have found it out?” said Mr. Craven, whose |
worst apprehensions were now confirmed.

“Tmet your step-son 4 few minutes ago, and he di-
rected me here.”

“Did you tell him ?” asked Craven, in dismay.

«Tell him? No, not yet. 1 wanted to'see you first.”

“Pm glad you didn’t. He doesn’t like me. It would |
be all up with me if you had.”

“Don’t be frightened, Craven. It may not be so bad
as you think. We may be able to make some triendly
arrangement. Tell me all about it, and then we'll con- |
sult together. Only don’t leave anything untold. Sit- |
uated as we are, I demand your entire confidence.”

Here the door opened, and Mr. Negley appeared. |

“Have you finished that ‘ere dokkyment, Mr. Cra- |
ven?” asked the old-fashioned farmer, to whom the |
name belonged.

“No, Mr. Negley, ” said Mr. Craven, with his Seite d
ary suavity, ‘‘not yet, 1am sorry to say. I’ve hada}
great deal to do, and 1am even now consulting with a |
client on an important matter. Could you wait till to-
morrow ?” |

“Sartain, Mr. Craven. Jain’t in no hurry. Only asI

was passing I thought I’a just inquire. Good-mornin’, |
squire. .

“Good-morning, Mr. Negley. a

“So you are in the lawyer’s line again, Craven ?” said

Sharpley. “You are tur ning to good account that eight |
months you spent in a law- office | in the old country ?” }

“Yes, I do a little in that line.” |

“Now, tell me all about this affair of yours. I don’t |
want toruinyou. Maybe we can make an arrangement
that will be mutually satisfactory.”

Thus adjured, and incited trom time to time by ques-
tions from his visitor, Mr. Craven unfolded the particu-
lars of his situation.

“Well, the upshot of it is, Craven, that you've feather- |
ed your nest, and made yourself comfortable. That's |
all very well, but it seems to me that your English wite |
has some rightsin the matter.’

«You need not tell her,” said Craven, hastily.
good will it do »”

“It won’t do you any good, but it may benefit her and |
me.”

“How can it benefit either of you if Tam found out,
and obliged to flee trom this place into penury ?”

“Why, not exactly in that way. In fact, I may feel

 

 

}

 

Did you suppose I |

«What | |

disposed to let you alone, if you'll come down hand-
somely. The tact is, Craven, my circumstances are not
over prosperous, and of course I don’t forget that.I have |
a rich brother-in-law.”
uu came rich. You are mistaken. I get a living, |
money is my wife’s.” :

 *4f it is hers, you can easily get possession of it.
~ “Only one-third of it belongs to-her.
long to that boy you met—my step-son.”

Two-thirds be- |

“Suppose he dies.” 5 !
“Jt goes to my wife.”
“Then you have some chance of it.”

“Not much. Heis a stout, healthy boy.” I

*Look here, Craven, you must make up your mind to |
something for me. Give me a thousand dollars |

own.”

“7 couldn’t without ry wife finding out.
would be coming back for more.”

«Well, perhaps I might,” said the other, coolly.
“You would ruin me!” exclaimed Craven, sullenly.
“Do you think Iam made of money ?

“J know this, that it will be bacidk for you to share jt
your prosperity with me, and so insure not being dis- |
turbed. Half a loaf is better than no bread.’

Mr. Craven fixed his eyes upon the table, seriously dis- |
tarbed.

‘How much is the boy worth ?” asked Sharpley, atter |
a pause.

«Forty thousand dollars.” |

“Forty thousand dollars!” exclaimed Sharpley, his. |
eyes sparkling with greed. <‘That’s splendid.”

‘For him, yes. It ‘doesn’t do us any good.”

“Didn’t you say that in the event of his death the
meg would go to your wife ?” |

YG

Besides, you |

ane: may die.”

“So may we. That’s more likely. He's a stout boy, |
as you must have observed, since you have met him.”

“Life is uncertain. Suppose he should have a fever,
or meet with an accident.”

“Suppose he shouldn’t.

“My dear Craven,” said Sharpley, drawing his chair |
nearer that of his brother-in-law, “it strikes me that |
you are slightly obtuse, and you a lawyer, too. Fie
upon you! My meaning is plain enough, it strikes me.”

“What do you mean ’” inquired Craven, coloring, and |
shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘You wouldn’t have me
murder him, would you ?”

“Don’t name such a thing. Ionly mean, that if we | |
got a good opportunity to expose him to some sickness.
and he happened to die of it, it would be money in our |
pockets.” |

Craven looked startled, and his sallow face betrayed |
by its pallor his inw ard disturbance. |

“That is absurd,” he said. ‘There is no chance of
that here. If the boy should die I shouldn’t mourn |
much, but he may live to eighty. There’s not much |
chance of any pestilence reaching this town.” |

«Perhaps so,” Said the other, shrugging his shoulders,
“put then this little village isn’t the whole world.”

“You seem to have some plan to propose,” said Mr.
Craven, eagerly.

“J propose,” said Sharpley, that you send the boy to |
Europe with me.”

“To Europe ?”

“Yes, on a traveling tour, for his education, improve- |
ment, anything. Only send him under my paternal |
care, and—possibly he might never come back.”

Mr. Craven was not a scrupulous man, and this pro-
posal didn’t shock him as it should have done, but he
was a timid man, and he could not suppress a tremor ot
alarm.

“But isn’t there danger in it ?” he faltered.

“Notif itis rightly managed,” said Sharpley.

“And how do you mean to manage it ?”

“Can't tell yet,” answered the other, carelessly. ‘Fhe
thought has just occurred to me, and I have had no
time to think it over.

But that needn’ t trouble you.
all that to me.

Mr. Craven Jeaned his head on his hand and refiected.
Here was a way out of two embarrassments. ‘This plan
offered him present safety. and a continuance of his
good fortune, with the chance of soon obtaining control
of Frank’s fortune.

“Well, what do you say ? asked Spee

“—f should like it well gh, but I don’t know what |
my wite and the boy will say.”

‘‘Has Mrs. Craven—the second—a will of her own?”

«No, she is very yielding.”

“Doesn’t trouble you, eh? By the way, what did she
seé in you, Craven, or my sister either, for that matter,
to attract her? There’s no accounting for tastes, sure-
ly.”

|

|

}

You can safely leave

y.
«That is not to the point,” said Craven, impatiently.
“Youare right. Thatis not to the point. Suppose we

come to the point, then. If your wife is not strong-

minded she can be brought over, and the boy, if he is
like most boys, will be eager to embrace the chance of

visiting Europe, say for three months. It will be best, I

suppose, that the offer should come from me. I'll tell |

you what you must do. Invite me to supper to-nignt,
and offer me a bed, and Ill lay the train. -Shall it be

80: gy

Agreed,” said Craven, and thus the iniquitous com-
guide was made.

  

| entertained for his step-father.
| about the world, ana being naturally intelligent and ob-
| serving,

| to ascend Mont Blanc, but had not endurance enough.”

| of life.
| mnyself ?”

‘What is it?”

 

<=

CHAPTER XI.
TRAPPED.

‘‘Mrs. Craven, I have pleasure in introducing to. gu
one of my oldest frionds, Colonel Sharpley. :

As this was the first friend of her husband who ad
come in her way, his wite regarded the stranger
some curiosity, which, however, was vailed by her q
manner. :

“Tam glad to meet a friend of yours, Mr. Craven,”
said, offering her hand.

“I have invited the colonel to supper, and pass the
night with us, Mary.”

“Tam glad you did so.
got ready.”

Atter she had left: the room Sharpley looked about
him approvingly.

“On my life, Craven, you are well provided for. This
house is decidedly comfortable.”

~ is the best in the village,” said Craven, compla-
cently.

“Kvidently your predecessor had taste as well as
money. It is a pity that there is a little legal impedi-
ment in the way of your permanent enjoyment of all
this luxury.’

‘Hush, hush, Sharpley !” said Mr. Craven, nervously.

“You might be heard.’

“So 1 might, and as that would interfere with my
plans as well as yours, | will be careful. By the way,
that’s a good idea; making me acolonel. It sounds well
—Colonel Sharpley, eh ? Let me see. I'll call myself an
officer in the English service—served for a while in the
East Indies, and for a short period in Canada.”

“Whatever you like, But here’s my step-son com-
ing in.”

“The young man I’ m to take charge of.
tiate myself with him.”

Here Frank entered the room.
Saw the stranger,

“Frank,” said Mr. Craven. ‘‘this. is my friend, Colonel
Sharpley. I believe you have already made his ac-
quaintance.”

“Yes, sir, I saw him this morning.”

“I didn’t suspect when I first spoke to you that you
were related to my old friend, Craven,” said Sharpley,
smiling.

Mr. Sharpley was a man not overburdened—in. fact,
not burdened at all—with principle, but he could make
himself personally, more agreeable than Mr. Craven, nor
did Frank feel for him the instinctive aversion which he
‘The stranger had drifted

  
 

3

I will see that a chamber is

I must ingra-

He paused when he

he Lad accumulated a fund of information
which enabled him to make himself agreeable to those
who were unacquainted with his real character. He
laid himselt out now to entertain Frank.

“Ah, my young triend,” he said, ‘‘how I envy you your
| youth and hope. I am an old, battered man of the
world, who has been everywhere, seen a great deal,
| and yet in all the wide world, 1 am without a home.”

‘Have you traveled much, sir?” asked Frank.

‘7 have been in Europe, Asia, Atrica, America, and
Australia,” answered Sharpley.

“Yes, Botany Bay,” thought Craven, but it was not his
cue to insinuate suspicions ¢ ot his triend.

“Row much you must have seen!” said Frank, in-
| terested.

“You're right; I have seen a great deal.”
“Have you ever been in Switzerland ?”
“Yes, L have clambered about among the Alps. 1 tried

 

Frank was interested. He had read books of travels, |
| and he had dreamed of visiting foreign lands. He had
thought more than once how much he should enjoy |
roaming about in countries beyond the sea, but he had
never, in his quiet country home, even met one who had |
| made this journey, and he eagerly listened to what |
| Colonel Sharpley had to tell him about these distant |
lands.

Here supper was announced, and the four sat down.

“Do you take your tea strong, Colonel Sharpley ?”
| asked Mrs. Craven.

“As strong as you can make it. Tea isa favorite
drink of mine. Ihave drank it in its native land—in
tact, everywhere.”

‘Have you been in China, Colonel Sharpley ?”

“Yes, madam. I spent three months there—learned
| to talk broken China a little,” he added, with a laugh. |
| “Yes, Mrs. Craven, I have been a rover.”

“He has been telling me about Switzerland, mother,” |
said Frank, eagerly.
travel there.”

‘Iam going back to Europe in three or four weeks,” |
| said Sharpley, ready now to spring his trap. “Were |
1
.

“How splendia it must be to |

you ever there, Mrs. Craven ?”
‘No, sir; | am timid about traveling.”

“T was going to ask why you and my friend Craven
didn’t pull up stakes and go abroad fora time ?”

“Tam afraid | am getting too old to trayel, Colonel i
Sharpley.”

“Old! my dear madam? Why, you are in the prime !
It you are getting old, what shall I say about | F

“I suppose I am not quite venerable,” said Mrs.

| Craven, smiling, ‘‘but I should shrink from the yoyage.”
“T may persuade her to go some time,” said Mr. |
| Craven, with a glance at his wife. ‘Just-now it would |
| be a lirtle inconvenient for me to leave my business. P |
“IT fancy this young man would like to. go,” said |
shore turning to Frank.
Indeed I should,” said Frank, eagerly. “There is |
| nothing in the world I should like better.” |
“Come. I have an idea to propose,” said Sharpley, as |,
if it had just struck him. ‘If yowll let him go with me, [e
} | will look after him, and at the end of three months, or |
any other period you may name, I will put him on board |
a steamer bound for New York. It will do him an im- |
mense deal of good.” |
os spear was startled by the suddenness of the |

vAbitt a could he come home alone ?” she 5
“He couldn’t leave the steamer till it oa New
York, and | am sure he could find his way | home trom
there, or you could meet him at the steamer.
“Oh, mother, let me go!” said Frank, all on fire with |
the idea. |
“It would seem lonely without you, Frank.”
“— would write twice—three times a week, and I |
should have ever so much to tell you after I got. home.”
“What do you think, Mr. Craven?” asked his wife, |
| hesitatingly. |
“| think it a very good plan, Mary, but, as you know, |
|I don’t wish to interfere with your management ve
| Frank. If you say yes, [ have no sort of objection.”
Just at that moment Frank felt more kindly toward |

 

| Mr. Craven than he had ever done berore. He ‘could |

| not, of course, penetrate the treachery which he medi- |
tated.

“] hardly know what to say. Do you think there

would be no danger ?”

*} have great confidence in my friend, Colonel Sharp- |
| ley. He is an experienced traveler—has been every- |
where, aS he has told you. I really wish I could go |
| Inyself in the party.”

This Frank did not wish, though he would prefer to go |
| With Mr. Craven rather than stay at home. i

“Would it not interrupt his studies?’ asked his |
mother, as a final objection. |

“Summer is near at hand, and he would have a vaca- |
tion at any rate.. He will probably study all the better |
aiter he returns.” :

“That I will,” said Frank.

«Then if you really think it best, I will consent,” said
| Mrs. Craven.

Frank was so overjoyed that he jumped from his chair |
and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. <A flush |
| Of pleasure came to her cheek, and she felt repaid for |
| the sacrifice she must make of Frank’s society. She |
knew beforehand that her husband’s company would |
not go far toward compensating for that.

“I congratulate you, my young friend,” said Colonel |
| Sharpley (for we may as well address him by his rs }
| ttle) ‘upon the pleasure before you.”

“Tam very much obliged to you, sir, for being wiling | |
| to take so much trouble on my account.”

«No need of thanks’on that score. The fact is, I shall |
enjoy the trip all the more in watching your enjoyment.

JT am rather blase myself, but it will be a treat to me to |
see what impressions foreign scenes make upon you.”

‘How soon do you go, sir?” asked FY: ank, eagerly. |

“Let me see ; this: is the fifth. I will engage passage
for the nineteenth—that is, if you can get ready at such |
short notice.” :

“No tear of that,” said Frank, confidently.

‘He'll be on hand promptly, you may be sure,” said |
| Mr. Craven, smiling. ‘‘Really, Frank, we shall miss you | f
very much.”

«Thank you, sir,’

|

| write home regularly.”

| During the evening Frank kept Sharpley busy telling |

him about for eign parts. Mr. Craven listened, with a
| crafty smile, w atching him as a spider does an entan-
| gled fly.

«“He’s trapped !” he said to himself.
Poor Frank! How little ‘could he read of the future!

CHAPTER XII.
TWO BOY-FRIENDS

“Going to Europe, Frank!” repeated: his friend, Ben |
; Cameron, in unbounded astonishment. “T can hardly
believe it.”
“TI can hardly believe it myself; but it’s true.”
“How did it come about ?”
“Colonel Sharpley, Mr. Craven’s friend, is going, and
offered to take me.”
-‘Didn’t Mr. Craven object ?”
“No. Why should he? He thought it was a good
plan.”
«And your mother ?” 2
“She was a little afraid at first that something might
happen to me; but, as Colonel Sharpley and Mr. “Craven
| were in tavor of it, she yielded.”
“Well, Frank, all I can say, is that Iw ish I were in
your shoes.”
«T wish you were going with me, Ben. Wouldn’t it be
| jolly 2”
, °*‘Unfortunately, Frank, I wasn’t born with a silver
spoon in my mouth like you. You are the son of rich
arents, W hile my father is a poor, carpenter, working
y the day.”
“I like you as much as if you were worth half a mil-
| lion, Ben.
“T know you do, Frank; but thag
| half million. I must tpone go’
| earned money enough with my ow
‘Don’t be too sure of that, Ben.
«What do you mean, Frank ?’
“I mean this, that wlien I am twenty- one I come into

 

 

  
  
  

esn't give me the
Europe till I have

| ot your

iO raven,

| Shall have two hundred dollars for the purchase of tick- |
| ets, and a bill of exchange for a thousand.”

nantly.

Pinay the he agement was mac was

| Author

> said Frank, feeling almost cordial | }*
| to his step-fatner; “but it won’t be long, and I phall |

with me and Sakeit 5 a year there. If the fathieet isn’t
enough to pay our ex enses, I will take a tew hundred
dollars of the principal.”

“That's a generous offer, Frank.” said Ben; ‘but you
aon’t consider that at that time I shall be a journeyman
carpenter very likely, while you will be a young gentle-
man, just graduated from college. You may not want
such company then.”

“My dear Ben,” said Frank, laying his hand affection-
ately on the other's shoulder, ‘if you think I’m a snob,
or likely to become one, say so at once; butl hope you
think better of me than to believe that I will ever be
ashamed of my dearest friend, even if he is a journey-
man carpenter. I should despise myself if I thought
such a thing possible.”

“Then I won't think so, Frank.”

“That’s right, Ben. We'll be friends for life, or, if we
are not, it Shall be your fault, not mine. But there’s one
tavor I am going’ to ask of you.”

‘What is it ?”

“That while Iam gone you will call round often and
see mother. She will miss mea great deal, for [ have
always been with her, and it will be a pleasure to her to
see you, Whom she knows to be my dearest friend, and
talk with you about me. Will you go?”

‘Certainly I will, Prank, it he think she would like
to have me.”

“] know she would. You see, Frank, though Mr. Cra-
veo and my mother get along well enough, | am sure
she doesn’t lovehim. He may be a fair sort of man, and
lam bound to say that J have no fault to find with him,
but I don’t think she finds a great deal of pleasure in his
society. Of course, Ben, you won't repeat this ?”

“Certainly not.”

“And you will call often ?”

“Yes, Frank.”

“I will tell mother so. Then I shall leave home with
a light heart. Just think of it, Ben—it’s now the sixth
of the month, and on the nineteenth I sail. I wish it
were to-morrow.”

“Tt will soon be here, Frank.”

“Yes, I know it. Iam afraid I can’t fix my mind on
my studies much for the next week or so. I shall be
thinking of Europe all the time.”

Meanwhile Mr. Craven and Col. Sharpley, in the office
of the former, were discussing the same subject.

“So we have succeeded, Craven,” said Sharpley, tak-
ing out a cigar, and beginning to smoke.

“Yes, you managed it quite cleverly.”

“Neither Mrs. Craven nor the boy will suspect that
you are particularly interested in getting him out of the
country.”

“No,” said Craven, complacently ; “I believe I scored
a point in my favor with the boy by favoring the project.
Had I opposed it his mother would not have consented,
and he knows it.”

“Yes, that is well. It will avert suspicion hereafter.
Now there is an important point to be considered. What
es are you going to place in my hands to start
Ww ?

‘‘How much shall you need ?”

“Well, you must supply me with money at once to pa;
tor tickets—say two hundred and fifty dollars, and a b
ot exchange for a thousand dollars, to begin with. More
ean be sent atterward.”

“T hope you won’t be too extravagant, Sharpley,” said
Mr. Craven, a little uneasily.

“Extravagant! Why, zounds, man, two persous can’t
travel for nothing. Besides, the money doesn’t come out
rse; it comes out of the boy’s fortune.”

“It L draw too much, bis mother, who is his guardian,
will be startled.”

‘Phen draw part from her funds. You have the con-
trol ot those.” i
“T don’t know as I have a right to.” |

“Pooh, man, get over your ridiculous scruples. I |
know your real reason. You look upon her money as |
yours, and don'tlike to part with any of it. But just |
consider, if things turn out as we expect, you will shortly |
get possession of the boy’s forty thousand
can then pay yourself. Don’t you see it?”

“Perhaps the boy may return in as: sa omemeered |
‘In that case our plans are all dish

‘Don’t be afraid of that,” said Sharpley, with wicked |
Significance. <‘‘/ will take care of that,
“It shall be as you say, then,” said Craven.

 

“You |

“You may aS well say three hundred, Craven, as there |

| Will be some extra, preliminary expenses, and you had |

better give me the money now, as I am ee up to the |
| city this morning to procure tickets.”

“Very well, three hundred let it be.”

“And there’s another point to be settled, a very ‘im-

portant one, and we may as well settle it now.’

“What is it?”
oe much am I to receive in case our plans work |
WwW 7 }

‘How much ?’ repeated Craven, hesitatingly.

“Yes, how much ?” }
“Well, say two thousand dollars. ’
“Two thousand devils!” exclaimed Sharpley, indig- |

“Why, Craven, eae must take me for a fool.”
Mr. Craven hastily disclaimed this impu n.

“You @ t me todo your dirty work for any such
pedizy sum as that! ‘No! I don’t sell myself so cheap.”
wo thousand is a good deal of money.” !

Not for such services as that, especially as it leaves |
you nineteen times as much. Craven, it won’t do!”
“Say five thousand dollars, then!” said Craven, |

} juctan

ys
oven 3 a little more like the figure, but it isn’t

“What will satisty you, then 2” |
“Ten thousand.”
«Ten thousand !” repeated Craven, in dismay.”
Yes, ten thousand,” said Sharpley, firmly. ‘Not a}

cent less.”
ate his CTDOS CANOE ines |

Mr. Craven expostulated,
allin vain. His EE a elt that he had him in his
to abate his-

“Shall it be
jJocosel, y-
“No, no,”
“J didn’t know but you might want tobind me. When
| does the train leave tor New York ?”
“In an hour.”

«Then I'll trouble you to look up three hundred dol-
| lars for me, and I'll take it.” :
By the ten o'clock train Col. Sharpley was a passenger.
Mr. Craven saw him off, and then returned thoughtrully

to his office.
‘It’s a bold plan,” thus he soliloquized, ‘but I. think
If if does, I shall no lon, er Pree

it will succeed.
ent upon the will or ere of my wite.
own master, and ed of an abundant Marnie

“Tf only Sharpley raat the boy could die together, it
would be a great relief. While that man lives, I shall
| not feel wholly safe. However, one atatime. Let the

y be got out of the way, and 1 will see what can be

\aoire tor the other. The cards are in my favor, and if I
| play a cratty game, I shall win in the end.”

(YO BE CONTINUED.)

: in writing, Craven?” asked Sharpley,

ig oe

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

_BERTHA,

er: en,

 

|

}

Sewing- Machine Girl ie

ATH AT Tue WHEEL.

By FRANCIS. S. SMITH,

of “Eveleen Wilson,” “Little Sunshine,”
“Vagegie, the Charity Child,” “Galenus,
the Gladiator,” etc., etc. ‘
(“BERTHA, THE SEWING-MACHINE GIRL,” was_ commenced
in No. 49. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

 

CHAPTER XLII.—(ConTINUvED.).
“A single movement or a word above your breath and |

| I will send your coward soul unprepared into the next | about it.

world before you can wink!” he exclaimed, ina whisper. |

“My sister is sleeping sweetly, and I don’t wish to dis | | ship and her acts

turb her slumber, or I think I should slaughter you |!

where you stand! . You’re’a noble specimen of human- | times strikin’ me, *

| that.”

i “Oh, no,” *iained Rivers, ‘“‘and I don’t want to. I
think I can do better by remaining with you.”

“IT can’t imagine what you can possibly say which
will change my purpose,” said Ryerson ; ‘‘but go on and
I will listen to you trom curiosity.”

“Well, then, not to be prosy,” answered Rivers, ‘I
will begin by saying that I overheard every word of the
conversation which took place between your sister and
yourself previous to your retiring.”

“And how does that help your case ?” asked Ryerson,
with a look of surprise

“Don’t interrupt me,” answered Rivers, “but keep
quietand you will learn. In the course of your colloquy
you mentioned certain persons with whom I am slightly
acquainted—I allude to Conrad Bascomb and his daugh-
ter Bertha. 1 heard you say that you would lay down
your life to serve either Bertha b or her lover.
Now I happen to know how you Can serve them both

materially.’ ;

Ryerson was interested immediately, but feeling sus-
picious that Rivers might be concocting a lie to hood-
wink him, he said: ,

“How do I know but that you are inventing some
story for the pu of deceiving me? I give you
warning beforehand that if such is your purpose, you
eo as well save your breath, for it will avail you noth-
ng.”

“T can convince you to the contrary,” replied Rivers,
quietly. ‘Just before i left New York, Bertha Bas-
comb was tried for a crime of which she was not guilty,
but she was convicted and sentenced to the State
prison, nevertheless.”

“Yes, but she never went there, thank Heaven!” ex-
claimed Ryerson, ‘‘for her friends secured her on.”

“I know nothing about that,” replied Rivers; “but I
do know that I could have cleared her had I chosen to
take the stand in her defense.”

‘And you didn’t do it!” exclaimed Ryerson, with deep
indignation. ‘Well, you are a more oe scoun-
drel than I took you for, and you ought to be hung for
that crimeif you had never committed any other! But
tell me—what devilish malice actuated you to let an in-
nocent girl receive a felon’s doom for a crime of which
you knew her to be g uiltless ?”

“No malice at all,” replied Rivers, coolly. ‘‘I was paid
to keep away from ‘the trial by the man who plotted her
destruction, and who, having failed in that instance,
will certainly try again, for he has sworn to ruin her.”

“What is his name?” asked Ryerson, with Haring
eyes. ‘“‘His name! Quick! Give me his name!

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rivers, with a cunning twinkle of
the eye, ‘‘that is my secret, and Iam not quitesuch a
fool as to divulge it tilll am assured that no punish-
ment shall follow my attempt at robbery.”

“I promise you, on the word and honor of a man, that
this offense shall be overlooked,” returned Ryerson,
eagerly, ‘if you will give me this man’s name and help
me to bring him to justice.”

“Good enough !” rejoined Rivers, in a tone of satisfac-
tion. “I don’t want any better security, for I know you
are just fool enough to keep your word when you
have pledged it. The man’s name is Carter—David

Carter.

 

 

“The merchant's brother, as I'm a sinner!” ex-

Claimed Ryerson, with unfeigned surprise ; and then he
ant. «‘What can he have against the poor girl, I
wonder ?”

“Ah! now you put a question which I am not able to
answer,” replied Rivers. ‘I tried to worm the secret
out of him, but without avail. All I could get out of |
him was that she was in his way, and he would ruin her. |
And he will ruin her, too, if he is allowed to work un-
molested ; for, if necessary, he will call in the co-opera. |
tion of the girl’s own father.”

“What! Conrad Bascomb ?” exclaimed Ryerson, in ut- |
ter amazement.

“Yes, Conrad Bascomb,” replied Rivers. ‘You will be |
still more surprised when I tell you that Bascomb |
was made aware of the plot against his daughter by |

ars, and | | Carter himself, and did not dare to put her on her |

ar’
al do indeed amaze me,” replied Ryerson; ‘I

| would not have believed it possible that there could be before the ceremony is over.

a man On the face of the earth depraved enough to allow |

his innocent child—and such a child !—to go.to the State |

prison.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” replied Rivers: “for, to }
| has the fool entirely in his od a at epeeeRt but I can |
break that power whenever do so.” |

“Then you will choose to Motte. so a soon as possible |
| after we arrive in New York,” said Ryerson, decisively; |

| “and we will return to New York as fast as steam will |

carry us.”

“AS you please,” rejoined Rivers, carelessly; “it mat: |
ters little to me in what direction I travel, so long as |
my expenses are paid, and I suppose you will attend to |

«I shall never pay anything more willingly,” answered | |
| Ryerson; ‘but can I trust you
“I think you can,” answered Rivers, “and Till tell ou | |

why. Iam satisfied it will pay me better to go to New |
| York under the circumstances, than it will be to travel |
in any other direction.”

“Well, then, to bed with you,” ordered egos “and | |
| get all the sleep you can, for we shall be g early.”

Thus they parted, and the next day the wake party |
were on the way to New York.

CHAPTER XLII. :
ALL ABOUT A LETTER.
It, was Conrad Bascomb's intention, after he everheard i

 
 
  

| the conversation between David Carter and his niece, | The

| to start at once for New York, tothe end that he might | |
have time to frustrate the designs of the conspirators |

| against his daughter's happiness. But <‘man prop
and God "and it seemed to have been
that he should not de ee ahead of eg
While himself for-the journey, he was
on an upper § in his Sect for a razor-si

he had there, when he accidentally dra
down a bowl filled with fine dust, which fell dir

which a former occupant of the room had
killing rats, and the pain which it prod
tense. He found it impossible to o
and groping his way to the door cal Hed Toudly- for |

assistance.

The landlady soon responded to his call, and a phy-
sician was instantly sent for, who did what he could to
relieve the suffering man, but so great was his agony
that he was ob to take to his bed. ba

The next day eyes were dreadfully inflamed, and
he -was almost totally ‘plind. It was impossible for him |
to travel, and agony of mind was added to his physica! |
torture, for it was impossible for him to delegate to an- |
other the work which he had to do in New York.

The oo fixed ues the marriage of Bertha Bas-
comb and Joseph n broke gloomily enough for Con- |
rad Bascomb. but his eyes were considerably better, and |
he determined to go on to New York let what would be
the consequence of his doing so.

The marriage was to take place at four o'clock in the | |
afternoon, and the young couple had arran to
on their wedding tour immediately afterw

Accordingly, Bascomb waited till he was informed by |
his landlady that David Carter had left town, and then |
he surprised the good woman by announcing that he |
also intended to visit New York on that day. In vain | 8°
she expostulated, and urged that running from the doc- |
tor’s care at so critical a Pertoal might cost him his eye- |
| sight for a considerable length of time, if it did not lead |
to total blindness.

He replied to all her arguments that if he were certain |
he would lose his eyesight forever he would still go; and |
the landlady, declaring him to be the most stubborn |
at she ever saw in her life, proceeded at once, nm

e good nature characteristic of her, to assist him in |
corer ready for his tees |

Conrad Bascomb was two trains behind David and Jas- |
per Carter and the latter's daughter, and it was hallf- | )

ast three o'clock when he reached his residence.

Greatly to his ithe wee he found the house |
closed. He had forgotten that his wife would, of course, |
be present at the wedding: and now, fearful that he |
might be too late to prevent the sacrifice, he was about |

  

hurrying off in the direction of Curson’s residence, when |

he was suddenly accosted by Curson's office-boy, Tom,
who came running up to him in breathless haste, hold- |
ing a letter tightly grasped in his hand.

“Oh, Mr. Bascomb,” he exclaimed, ‘‘’m so glad I’ve
found you! I’ve got a letter here tor Miss Bertha, and I |
think it must be of great importance.”

«What makes you think 80, Tom ?” asked Bascomb, as |
he oer took the letter from the boy’s outstretched
| han

en » replied the boy, ‘‘Lisette Graham was so |
anxious to a hold of it. You see, sir, [ll tell you all
Miss Graham has been ‘playin’ sweet with
| Miss Bertha a er since that affair of the.stolen fifty dol-
| lars, but I’ve alwa: a been of the opinion that her friend-
kindness were put on. I never liked

was always a snubbin’ and some-
Tve always liked Miss Bascomb.
been kind and gentle tome. But

| Miss Graham, for
because she’s always

ity, are you not? said Ryerson; and as he spoke he | | to ee a long story short, sir, ahout half an hour ago,

shook the villain. till his teeth chattered, while his eyes |
| seemed starting from their sockets. :
-T’m just such a specimen of humanity as I told youl}
was.” said Rivers, when he could get breath to speak, |
“but you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Well, that is so, at all eyents,” returned Ryerson ; |
‘but your candor don’t make you any the less danger- |

shall hand you over to the tender mercies of the author-
ities in the morning. From all I have heard, they have
asummary way of dealing with such customers as you |
in this locality.
of justice—no long trials and special pleadings—the tes-
timony is taken, the case is judged, and a stout cord and |
a convenient tree ends the business. My opinion is that |
you'll be out of harm’s way by
to make sure of it, I think Tll tie you hard and fast.
Hold your hands above your head and walk to that chest |
in the corner.
the business.”
«Before you proceed to extremities,” replied Dick Riv- |
ers, in a perfectly self-possessed tone. ‘‘perhaps it will |
be as well to listen a moment to what I have to say.

voking candor, ‘‘but I won’t get any punishment.”

 

possession of about forty thousand dollars. Now the
interest on that is $2,400. Tl invite you to go naret

 

“You don’t imagine that you can escape, I hope!”
said Ryerson, fixing upon him a stern look.

There isn’t much law here, but plenty | about the affair, and she turned as white as

is time to-morrow, and, | Tommy ?’she asked.

I have a piece of rope there which will do | the house is locked up.
‘around to Bertha.’

 

 
   
   
  
 

as I was——” :
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed co
{ gianoed at the superscription of th
bears the “an postmark, an

nd Bascomb, as he
nissive; ‘‘this letter
' I am not greatly

| mistaken, Philip Hamilton’s hi ndwriting, and he
| must be living. It is indeed a letter 6f importance. But |
| goon, Tom. Finish your story, but we as few words as

ble, or T shall be too late.”

«Well, sir,” resumed the boy, ‘‘as I was saying, I was

ous. You are too great a villain to be at large, and I about going out of an errand When I saw the postman

come in with a letter and put it on a ledge over the door.
1 always was kind o’ cunious, So I got a box, climbed up

on it, And took the letter down, and saw it was directed |

Miss Bascomb. So I put it in my pocket, and went on

d. When I came back [ told Miss Grahan
per, and
| began to tremble like a leaf, although I could see easy
| enowu
calm-

| Bascomb’s house,’ said I. ‘Nonsense,’ said she; ‘there'll
be no use in that, for Mrs. Bascomb’s at the weddin’ and
Give it tome and I’ll take it
My suspicions were excited, and I
determined not to let her have it. I told her so, and |
| then she fell to coaxing and pleading as though she was |
on trial for her life; and when she found that wouldn’t

“What can you say?” asked Ryerson. . ‘‘Didn’t I | do, she tried bribery, and offered to give me an order on |
catch you in the very act of robbingme? And don’t | the boss for her week’s wages it I'd give her the letter.
you richly deserve Whatever punishment may follow ?” | "This only made me more determined to hang onto it:

flew at me like a wild-cat and tried to take it trom me
by force, declaring all the time she would have my
heart’s blood if I didn’t give it up. I was too quick for

her, though. I jerked away enh her, rushed into

eA * was in- |
his e lees all,
G

| that she was trying hard to seem careless and
- ‘What are you going to do with the letter, |
‘Tm going to take it around to Mr. |

 

  

street, and ran every step of the way here. She fi
after me down the ainiva and chased me about the d
tance of @ block, with her hair flying, and scream
‘Stop thief! at the top of her lungs: but when ghe fou
that she couldn’t overtake me she went back to th
shop, and I came straight — And now, sir, you’ve-

got the whoie story.” }
‘And a very important s rit is,” returned Conrad
) Me that some desperate

 

  

Bascomb. “It is very evident
villainy has been practiced ever Mine Hamilton’s depart-
ure, and now I must hasten to see if I cannot expose the
whole affair before it is too late.” And forgetting his
physical suffering in the desire to unmask villainy. he ~
started off on a brisk walk in the direction of Caleb Cur-
son’s residence, where, with the 8 permission, we
will precede him, and see what is g on.

   

   
 

    
  

  
  
   
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
 

     

 

  
 

 

 

CHAPTER XLIV.
JOE CURSON’S GAME IS UP.

The guests had assembled, Bertha was dressed for
the ceremony, and the minister was in Waiting to per-
form the marriage rites.

Pleasurable expectation was visible on all the eee
ances present save th the bride and bridegroo
and the father of the lai » Whose face wore its usually
sour and morose look. a”:

  

tace was almost corpse-llk
blue eyes had a weary, lust
had long been a ieee L

meanor was marked by a listless dpnthy, which }
have been painful to withess at any time, but wh
doubly paintul to 1 On such an occasion.

“They ave re Miss Baseomb,” said Mrs. *, Who
had arranged her for the bridal, and who was her chie
bride-maid; ‘‘and your intended husband w here

almost immediately to lead you forth.” — -

Bertha was alone, and buried in profound er bitter
thought when this greeting reached her ear, and 1o00k-
ing up at her friend, she exclaimed, as her eyes tilled
with tears :

«Qh, Mrs. Miller, I feel as h I were going to my
grave instead of my wendtie tis wicked for me to
feel so, perhaps, but 1 wish—oh, how 1 wish !—that this
were indeed my funeral instead of my wedding !”

“If such is the state ot your mind, I pity you trom
the bottom of my heart,” was the response of Mrs. Mil-
ler, who threw her arms around Bertha’s neck and

kissed her affectionately. *‘But, dear Miss Bascomb, try
to calm Fac and take a more cheerful view of tae

surroundings. It will never do to pe ye
minister with tears in your eyes, or wih Vine signs 0

weeping apparent. You will be closely o| ,» my
dear, and your appearance will be commented upon ;
and how would it sound should the report go abroad
that you were led into the room weeping or with the

traces of tears upon your face? Calm yourself, I be-
seech you!”

“] will try to, Mrs. Miller,” replied Bertha; “but 1

wish, oh, how devoutly ! that I had never consented to

this marri ! Oh, that there were some way t avoid

it! You will think me insane, perhaps, for ma’ the

admission, but | tell you, Mrs. Miller, that I can
restrain myself from tearing off this finery and rushing

| trom the house. I havea singular presentiment that

something dreadful is about to happen—something ten

| thousand times worse than death!

She was interrupted. by the entrance of her intended
husband. He also was very pale, and a nervous twitch-
| ing about the lips, and a.look of deep anxiety, showed
that he was ill at ease.

“Come, Bertha—come, my darling !” he said, as he ap-
p Bropahed her; ‘‘all things.are ready, and our friends are
Waiting.’

He attempted to kiss her as he spoke, but she involnn-
tarily shrank from him, and asked, in a despairing,
Weary way: ;

‘Has my father come yet ?”

“No, darling,” was the reply; ‘‘but he may be here
{am informed by Mr.
David Carter that your father met. with an accident a

day or two since—nothing ot moment, but erough to —

| detain him,

perha
“[ wish he pendheieend qr

returned Bertha. “I

should
| Say the truth, he couldn’t very well help himselt. Carter | tee) easier in my mind if he were present at the cere-

| mony.”

“| wish he were present, Iam sure,” replied coe
Curson, with apparent earnestness; ‘‘but since he
| my darling, it will hardly do to Keep all our triends wait-

| Ang. Besides, the minister. is. in.a oo hurry to are
way. He has to peo. a.tuneral this afternoon, and
fearful ot being la’

“In that case, 1 suigalil. I must submit,” rejoined Ber-

tha, sighing deeply.
ghe-allowed Ginoe, to take her hand, and, followed by

Mrs. Miller and the bride-maids and Pea who —

awaited her outside the door, the bridal party took their
way to the parlor and. arranged. themselves in front of
the minister.

The impressive service of the. ean Sates Me F

| gone through, old Curson, with as BOO Fae
could command, giving the bride away. ahem
| couple were reeengen man and wife, the last prayer:
was said, 8p the newly married pair received.the con-
ee a” he their. friends. tein

‘And now, darling,” young
concealed impatience, “I.don’t wish to buEey you. eee.
but I tear we shall miss the train if we delay. .
preval upon you, therefore, to get on your iraveling-

ess aS quickly as possible, and let us

shall not remain absent a day longer, bern are destre.
moment You €Xpress a. wish to turn. it shall be

L
eee eine bee ey replied, Bertha, wearily ; “and. 1
ot ungrate but I t leave home tll. Liaye
ue tll, We comes, &

ag

  

5 Sorel? Will. hoe dune vo
3 ive in the-tace of, my earnest

) $0,” was the reply ;. y

  

@ is my child? Where is Bertha? weaid i

“Wher
nee ort:
ere, father Here!” almost screamed Bertha Bas-
domib. & a8 she darted torward.and. met. her father on the

 
 

stairway.
pee was deathly. pale-and. trembling violently, as
“Is the ceremony over, my child? Has. the marriage
‘take lace ?”
“It i hae. father,” she: returned, as. an unaccountable
| dread seized her. . (rg Sean "
ner me! Ah, me! Too.late! Zoo late/” moaned

e old man,in a a iring tone. “You have been
tke. my daughter! Cruelly tricked! Philip Hamil-
pee is yet alive! See! is a letter from him ad-

dressed to you!” And he held forth the missive which
he had receiyed trom. Tom. the office-boy.

Joseph Curson. ste forward and made ax effort. to
seize the letter, but | rtha was. too quick tor him. With

| eyes. starting from their sockets and a tace as white as _
paper, she reached forth her hand and seized the epistle, —

and then, without looking either to the right or to the
left, she proceeded, almost
| wherein she had been arrayed for the bridal ceremony,
followed by the cen young widow, between whom and
herself there se ed So: strong a bond of sym

With a stony k of r and horror she tore open
the letter, ant while her nd stood sd.and halt full of
the deepest Sey ae for. the horrified and half-crazed
| bride, the latter read aloud as follows :

«‘Lonpon, March 15th, 18—.
“MY OWN DARLING BERTHA—for, in spite Of all that has
, 1 must call so—I am constrained, I know

not why, to write to you once more—something whis- _

| pers me that I may this time be able to elicit from youa
reply, even though that reply should be to ne te &
| death-warrant.

“Oh, imy darling, I love you. so dearly that it seems
‘ten thousand times worse than death to give you up.
| When I first came here, and before I received ae
cruel letter; how rosy-hued and sunny

thing tome! Icame here to work for you, may dang
| I had no other thought—no pce ambition than to
prove myself worthy of you. and to make for youa fu-
| ture which should be all sunshine. You reje me,
| and the world seemed to crumble at my feet. .

| not been for a sense of duty ‘ig bat wi tere
with this terrible
I still

  

should have sunk under the
nightmare of rejection haun é
till 1 accomplished t 2 mission ‘upon which I was pent,
and I am now about returning to. New York again. I
shall be there perhaps as soon as this letter reaches you,
and my object in writing to you now is to beg that you
will reply to this on my return, or grant me a personal
interview if it be only for one moment. Oh, my
ling, for the sake of the precious long ago, g din m
this favor and Heaven will bless you! I cannot have
been so much deceived! I feel—I know—that you loved
me once—oh, then, for the sake of that buried love, let
me hear ed doom from your own lips, and I will bless
you, even when dying.

“I haye poured out my soul in the following lines, my
darling. Read them, and Heaven grant that they may

  

in i
, “THE LONG AGO.” ¥
aan red montents of he Tong
scl D every air broweht Joy, ye me,
y soul w with thom ore Ww

  

hat
yet the mem of the blissful past

eines tome like a aim mo I'm ae
And though my reveries end in pain at last,

Tis sweet to think that peace was once my own.

“Sweet peace—born of the pacers that I Piesiorea—
ved

 

| ine oy. Sones that ma 2 Ce more
{ Has anc ess
4 That human ccruaece are not what
“But though my day-star has gone down in ada
Our blissful aT perce oan f
I cannot. tear thine image from my
Queen of my soul, I love thee yet!”
“J hope that Heaven will touch your heart with
and lead you to grant my request, but whether I am. er

“] suppose I do,” answered Rivers. with the most pro- | and then when she found nothing else would do, she | to gaze on your sweet face ayain or not, | am still, my

darling, w hile my beart feels a pulsation,
| Your aoving but heart erushed 4
sere eres

 

 

Curson, with tll:

seidiibebi tiv:
en eee Tee

y, t the room

 

a PNR

   
   
    
  
 
  
  
  
       
  
 
 
 
 
     
 
  
 

old familiar chord that thrilled to my earnest ~4_ ft

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

laa” iat) nade tag

 
 

th Coca tek le es

 

Sd Off Bb @MOaeryeoneowmoe

     
  
 
 
  

    

     
   
  
   
  
 

-

 

 
 
    

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

$$$ OO SS
Bertha read this letter through without faltering—
. Without.a: ¢ —— the voice, in ea a
human. seemed to have possessed and sustain
her, but as the last words died away on her lips she was
aroused by aiknock at the door, followed by the voice of

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

by ak
her newly made husband.
“Come, Mrs. !” he exclaimed, aloud, ‘‘the car-
, and we must d at once. I have

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
 

 

‘plete ch
Men aed

riage is wail

dene with entreaty.and argument now and see fit to as-
sume that tone.of command which is a husband’s right.
You must be ready to depart from here in five minutes!

Do you , Madam ?” —
of Bertha Bascomb underwent a com-
almost in the twinkling of an eye. Her
the sweetness of expres-
dangerous, rate

    

 

 

 

 

ts young, she backed up

 

 

  

 

 

 

a dressing-ease Immediately behind her, opened
wer thereof unperceiv: er friend, Mrs. Mil-
ase ation was attrac toward the.door, took
rawer a Small, silver-mounted revolver
ere, concealed it in the folds of her

 

 

   
 

 

 

 

  

 

ble calmness, exclaimed :
Curson. Come in!”
are ready now, are you ?” he said, ironically,
the deor and confronted her. “Well, I am
you have come to your senses—and now let us

  

. were you not?’

this treachery
she held Hamilton’s

 

 

letter up to the
gaze of
“What

sursen.
treachery ?” he asked, with apparent

careless.
ness, although be knew full well te what the deeply in-

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

spies Saninlisidaiteckcnteee

 

= +

Pwr em

yee a

ty,
ver
my

 

ase SelTes hen aH Sone Tone eee

ia

_—~retnoe ntaenee eter trcteereene ee

ee

————

 

 

 

    

 

 
 
    
  

 

  
  
  
   

 

 

    
    
    

  

 

 

‘Wall Street Wonder;

 

ter. Bertha,” he replied, with coolness ;
fair in love as in war, you know, and there is no use
having a seene about the matter now. I

retty strong
Fon are my Wife now, and so you had better submit
quietly and come along. It will be better for you.”

!” sereamed suddenly, as she drew the
piste ate er oltie of WE Go “you shall never live
triumph And as

to overme! You shail die!” as
thought she fired three shots in rapid succession at the
miscreant, have emptied the whole six bar-
rels had she not saa Pesee reds Preiithycar ig Pag >
who exerting strength, wrenched weapon
from her grasp, and threw her forcibly upon a lounge,
wildly in her vengeance.

startled, but not hurt. Bertha’s
aim was but true; the balls had fiewn wide
of the save a ht fiesh wound on the

mark, a slig'
cheek, from which the blood siowly trickled, he was un-

“Great Heaven!” he exclaimed. in a tone of alarm, as
he gazed upon the shrieking girl, “I believe I have
married a wild-cat instead of a woman, ‘but I will tame
her ere she is much older, or my name is not Joe

D
“For Heaven's sake !” exclaimed Mrs. Miller, in a tone
jon, “leave this room if you are a man!
you see that your presence enrages her to frenzy ?
»! and send me some assistance.
ded Curson, significantly, ‘‘as soon as
her- shouting is over I will bring assistance in the shape
of a couple.of stout men, who will carry her to the car-
riage if she refuses to walk, for sick or well she shall
leave here within ten minutes.”

“You are a brute!’ exclaimed Mrs. Miller, indig-
nantly, ‘‘and are no more wor of her than you are

Ww of a place in heaven. ne, sir! or I shall
feel tompted finish the work whicli the poor girl
48 ke she grasped the pistol which she
ed trom Bertha, Porysrnien | it full at Curson’s

HPS

“Ah, a of you, [ see!” responded Curson,
appifing his handkorchic to his cheek the while; «but
I tame both presently.”
He left ahd was met in the hall-way by a
nt man and lady below, Mr. Curson,
you.
) w,” returned Curson, impatient-
“s they. send their names ?”
No, sir,” was. the reply, ‘‘they said it wasn’t. neces-
iyok but [ heard old Mr. Carter call the gentleman Mr.
erson.”
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Curson, in un d

terror, and then he added, with what calmness he could
ater e “Tell the gen I will be down immediate-

  

“I can. see 1

2 The servant an. and when he was out of hear-

ing Curson continued :

“if Jack Ryerson and my wife have arrived, this is no
place forme. My game is up to acertainty. and I will
vacate the te at once by the rear!”

Sa; which he rushed down the back stair-way

, through an alley-way to the

{TO BE CONTINUED.]

—>e-<

. ulsion of Pure Cod Liver Oil
Byes i, as a Remedy for Consumption. Dr.
4 . M isconsin, says: “After a the h test
e a two years, 1 yoluntarily recommend Scott’s Emulsion

ose afflicted with consumption.”
a a

(fHIS SLORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

 

/

Hy

 

Tre Hivooo Dereerive

THE ROMANCE OF A GREAT MYSTERY.

By DONALD J. McKENZIE,
Author ot ‘‘Miriam Blair.”

{“The Wall Street Wonder” was commenced in No. 5. Back

numbers can be obtained of all News Ageiits.]
CHAPTER XVII.
TOMMY IN THE TOILS.

We left Tommy, at the close of the fifteenth chapter,
as & powerful hand clutched him from behind.

He squirms and kicks desperately to free himself, at

 

; the same time uttering a gurgling cry for help.

In the dim light he is able to obtain a glimpse of his

captor, and, to his dismay, he sees that the man wears

the uniform of a policeman. —

This fact causes him to cease his struggles, for he
knows it is useless to attract the attention of passers-by
if he is in the hands of an officer; for, of course, every-
body will suppose that the latter is simply attending to
his duty, and consequently no one will interfere.

The lad is nearly insensible from suffocation, however,
before the er ae his hold. ,

«Got you this tim little covey !” the big officer
exclaims, looking down into the boy’s almost purple
face.

The latter knows the
the burly 0

sight. Heis Bart-
e Hindoo detective

liceman. b:;
whom

i ate!
has dy encountered upon several occasions.

His coarse, brutal face wears an expression of va ee
as he beholds the evidence of suffering upon the lad’s
countenance.

It is several moments before Tommy can recover his
speech. When he does so, he demands:

“What d’yer do thatfer? I hain’t done nothin’, and
you know it.”

Roper laughs, and returns : ;

«You're a very innocent youngster, I dare say.”

And before the lad can speak again, the policeman
continues : ‘
«Youre such a guileless chicken that it isn’t safe for
you to go about the streets unprotected, and so I’m
going to see that you are taken better care of. Your
ents seem to have neglected your training. Doubt-
ess the extensive business interests of your father pre-
vent his giving proper attention to sucha promising
youngster as youare. But Iam going to give you my
protection. [am immense on protecting friendless street
Arabs.”

“You stop chewin’ on that sort of gush!” Tommy im-
patiently exclaims, the instant he has a chance to put
in a word. , 4

“Better not let that saucy tongue of yours be too glib,”
Roper cautions. :

“J guess I ain’t sold out the right ter talk, not yet.
Yer can choke me ter death, if yer want to; but yer
can’t scare me. J
forgit t Pr

Tommy has now recovered his breath, He has not
lost his courage at all. The rough e he has re-
ceived has only stirred up the lion that isin his young
soul He has knocked about the streets of the great
city all his life; he has been arrested and appeared in
the police-court for petty crimes which he never com-
mitted; hehas been bullied by big boys, and has made
a plucky fight in defense of .lads smaller than himself ;
he has been cuffed, kicked, jostled, and abused by every-
body; and na stead of the rough usage b: g his
spirit, if haS developed within a degree of plucky
self-reliance which few of his age possess.

Life has been a severe school for Tommy thus far, but
he has p by its lessons. :

Bartley still holds the boy by the arm, in a way
which shows that he does not intend to let him go if he

- can helpit. —— A Pie
what t of you, youngster,” the

“Til tell y ]
policeman declares, ‘“ you give me no trouble, 17

 
     
  
 
  

#*

played a.
and, like most bold players, I won.

chalk that right down ‘fore yer | He

*be easy with you. But you must have a care what you

, and to mind what 7 say. I am tase. a
c , and I have reason to believe that somebody that
is mixed up in itis using you forapal. I have got

the |

that you are to deliver a message trom a girl to |
a young man. Give me the message, and [ll let you |
skip off with a whole hide. But see that you don’t give |
me any trouble.”

Tommy makes no response. He stands with his
hands thrust to the very bottom of his pockets, his
li ; Fre i a ashrewd expression upon his small,

ace.
ane shell out the letter!” Roper orders, giving him
ce

“Hain’t got none,” is the laconic response.

‘‘Haven’t any letter, eh ?”
“Nixie. I ain’t the SOPRA Stee earnea Tae this deal.”

“‘Didn’t I see a pretty girl give you a letter a few min- |

a

“TJ dunno what you see. I ain’t ’esponusible ‘cause yer
can’t see t. Better stop drinkin’ so much
water, and yer'll be a better cop.”

“Shut up, or I'll choke off your wind again. And now
own up the truth. Where’s the letter ?”

“The best way for yer to dois ter searchme. Yer
needn’t trouble ter git a search-warrant. Jest glide yer
hands through the pockets of my evenin’ dress-up suit,
and take éverythin’ yer find ’ceptin’ the money an’
checks aS may be stowed away in’em. Yer may have
the checks, in fact, if yer'll leave the specie. Jest wade
in *thout ceremony !”

Roper acts upon this Serer AON

But all he are a piece of twine, a stick of chew-
eeu. and a few pennies.

A re isn’t a letter, that’s sure,” Roper decides.

“Butte “ge tla you something. 1 saw nor whi

a told you . Isaw her w
pering to you.”

se

“Tt is mine, too.”
ee go in and get her to confide in ye. I ain’t goin'

“Do you think J can’t make you tell?”
“Il know yer can’t. Oh, yer needn’t try to scare me by
scowlin’! Ive been scowled at and knocked around too
Many times to mind a little of the same treatment,
more or less. Better choke me, or yer might kick my
ribs, or do some sich brave thing, jest ter show that a

little chap like you ean lick a big duffer like me !”
seems angry enough to take the cow y ad-

 

 

1

| blood eet ad cheek ; she is white, breathless, moan-
pain.

matter down pretty fine, in fact. [happen to know |

{ stands staring at the unfortunate girl in silent amaze-
| ment.

utes ago, and tell you where to carry it?” { wv
| speak. There is not a moment tolose. You must re-

 

vantage which the boy suggests He gives the lad a
violent shake, and a cuff which causes ears to tingle.

But before g turther a different plan seems
to occur to the man.

He hails a passing cab, forees Tommy to enter the
; Same, and follows himself, taking a seat the boy.
| The latter does not hear the order given the driver ; |
| but they are driven with considerable rapidity toward |
| another section of the city.
|. As they move swiltly along the street, Roper, atter an
| interval of silence, says :
|; “Lam not pane palaver with you, my boy. You are
| altogether too rp for your size, and I'll see if there’
| isn’t a way to duil your wits a little.”
| Tommy makes no.reply at once. c
But a little later he exclaims : gece
“7 don’t jest like the looks of this racket, mister.”
| “Very likely you don’t,” is the response. or ta
| “I want yer to tell where yer are taking me?”
«You'll find out soon enough.” ‘
“Yer ain’t taking me to a station-house ?”
“Not exactly.” ¥
| ‘Then yer no business ter hang onto me in this ws
|] haint done nothin’, and I ain't n arrested, ‘SO
| you've got no mere right to lug me off in this style than
| anybody that isn’t a cop has.”

Roper makes no wep: The boy presses his face close |
to the glass side-light of the carriage and tries to can |
- idea ema t the part of the city through which

ey are going.

But he can see only the confused glimmer of lights as

 

 

 

 

ote

 
     

| into the other’s path
| abruptly, and bends
1 aptly

| eyes of the detective.

 

| they flit past them.
; The lad makes up his mind to escape, or, at least, to |
| attempt to do so. |
He suspects that this action of the burly policeman is
| ofa rn <ed character, and that all he has to dois to
repo
‘himself the protection of the latter. Yet he realizes
| that there is small chance of ‘his finding a policeman
; who will give his story credence. For, of course, a
ragged urchin’s word is not of so much account as that
| of a treacherous and unfaithful guardian of the public
| peace.
| Tommy leans back in the carriage and begins to |
| whistle a lively tune. Roper no particular atten- |
| tion to him, except to doodiboneally' gates at his small, |

| astute face.

| The lad whistles a few moments, and then sings, in a

ee tone, and finally relapses into silence, closing
S eyes.

Presently his head sways loosely with the motion of

 

| the carriage. His hat falls off, and his long, tangled | ‘‘How can I tell yees that?. Shure. and it was all done
| curls fall negiganth over his fair brow. But he seems | before ye could have time to say St. Pathrick ? And I was
| unconscious of the fact. He breathes heavily, now and | that frightened, be eo 2at I equiduyt ’a’ towld——”
en with a ht snore, and his lips, cheeks, and hands The detective interupts = ano} ris
twitch, as is often the case when a tired boy falls asleep | ‘‘Did one of the men fall?”
in aa ee “ Be OEE ei . ok
r watches him furtively at first, as sus-| ‘' a2” ae
pede TacdtCneRian, ays soon tanto con- “T belave not. But it Iwas under oath I wouldn’t dare
| vinced that there is no deception about the slumber of | to say.” vt
the youngster. “Did they have seconds ee
“A cool one, from the word go,” the man mut-| ‘‘What do ye mane ?” ;
ters, admiring the unconcern of the boy. ‘‘And a dan- «Were there two men besides those who fired the pis-
gerous one to work against,” he continues. ‘Elsie is 7

| playing a double game—of that I am sure—and this
| keen-witted lad is her ally. They must be cept apart;
| and that isn’t all. She must not see that Ripley again,
| if 1 can helpit. The whole business is working a t
}me, What she has to do with that Shelby affair is
; more than I can make out. She’s mixed up in it some-
| how, as Kit Morrill thinks; and so is Ripley. The ques-
; tion is, who is at the bottom of the ? Itvsa p
| puzzle. But whatever Elsie may know about it, she

must not give it away to the detectives, My cake is all

the matter to an honorable officer to secure for |

 

 

dough if she does that. There’s evidence enough |
against Ripley to implicate him, and he might as well |
suffer for it, innocent or not. Elsie knows he is inno-
cent, and she is just fool enough to risk her own neck to
save his. Likely enough she has taken a fancy to his
handsome face.”

| At this juncture the speed of the vehicle slackens, and
| Roper bends forward and glances out upon the street.

| The latter, which is not. very fully built up, is at this
| point imperfectly lighted. But Roper can indistinctly
| discern a large, dismal-looking house, At the same in-
stant the carriage comes to a halt, the driver alights and
opens the door, saying :

“J think this is the place, sir.”

Roper thrusts his head out of the carriage and surveys
the premises to make sure.

“Yes, this is all right,” he declares.

He faces about to arouse his captive. As he does so,
however, the door upon the other side of the carriage
closes with a bang, and he obtains a fleeting glimpse of
the lad as the latter darts away from the vehicle.

CHAPTER XIX,
ANOTHER MYSTERY.

The usually immobile countenance of the Hindoo de-
tective assumes a startling intensity of expression as he
orders the driver of the vehicle to follow the other, which
is moving toward the embankment.

It is look upon Hyjah’s face, even more than the
thrilling strangeness of the situation, which causes the

ulses of Sidney Desmond to throb with a sudden, name-

ess fear.

What does the strange action of the driver of the
other carriage mean ? 7

Is he a madman ? or is he intoxicated and blind to the
danger to himself and his team ?

Desmond asks himself another question of a yet more
momentous character.

the strange carriage contain a passenger, and, if
So, whom ?

There is no time to ask the opinion of the detective.
He is standing erect, directing driver, and his every
sense is keenly alert.

In the meanwhile the leading carriage dashes on di-
rectly toward the embankment. As it approaches the
latter, the horses seem to increase rather than to slacken
their speed. ‘

On and on over the new-made road, the carriage sway-
ing to and fro, momentarily threatening to upset.

uddenly the voice of the Hindoo detective rings out
in a crisp command

“Halt! We must

The vehicle comes to a stop so suddenly that Sidney is
thrown violently forward. t the same instant there is
a shout from the driver, followed: by the sound of a dull
crash and a scream of terror and pain from the horses of
the leading team.

There is no mistaking the cause of these sounds. The
leading team, carriage and all, have dashed over the
brink of the embankment, down a sheer descent of
Oe < re ald ight the detec-

efore Sidney can gain an upright posture, the de
tive has lea trom the vehicle and is running with
long strides toward the scene of the catastrophe.

The Hindoo half slides down the descent, and in an-
other moment is standing beside the demolished car-

riage.

The horses lie entangled in their harnesses. One is
motionless, and a glance shows that it has broken its
neck. The other is vainly striving to extricate itself
from the meshes of straps and carriage debris with
which it is pinioned.

But the Hindoo gives only a glance to the animals.

pr to tear away the fragments of the vehicle,
which are piled in a shapeless mass. Hes dis-
covers that there are no mangled remains of the driver.
The latter leaves his post before the catastrophe takes
lace. What has become of him there is no time to con-
lecture ; for from the midst of the ruins comes a human
moan.

The moan is uttered in the voice of a woman—a voice
which, full of distress though it is, is recognized by the
Hindoo detective.

The strong hands‘of the latter make short work of
Logie a3 away the portions of the vehicle which are in

is way.

Ane lying in a cramped position, is revealed the
graceful form of a young lady. The latter half rises to
a sitting posture, brushing away the wealth of disheveled
hair which has fallen over her face.

The face thus revealed is marked by that_rare, sweet
beauty which is sometimes possessed by even the poor-
est of working-girls. It is the face-of beautiful, mys-

erious Elsie Harper. :

go no farther !” he crtes.

 

 

 

There are bruises upon her small hands; there is

ing wit!

e detective bends over her and gently lifts her to an
easter position. e is so strong that he can move her as
easily as though she were a doll. He places her so that
her head may rest upon one of the carriage cushions.
Then he moistens her ips with brandy from a flask
which he carries, for the poor girl, overcome by pain and
terror, has nearly fainted.

In the meantime Sidney arrives upon the scene, and

Sen goes up to him and lightly touches his arm.
“We must not leave her here alone,” he exclaims,
speaking more rapidly than is his wont.

“But the duel—you have forgotten that ?” Sidney re-
re recalling the object which has brought them

ther.

‘Wot at all; and it is of that which I was about to

main here and guard this lady, while I goon and pre-
vent, if possible, the impending tragedy. No remon-
strances,” as Sidney is about to object. ‘‘My plans are
all laid. Guard the lady; I will soon return and report |
the result.” ‘

The detective is off in a moment.

The distance to the spot apperpind for the duel is not
great, and by a short cut the detective makes his way

 

ee it, having directed the hackman to await his
return.

The section, as we have before stated, is one of new |
streets and vacant lots. The hour is yet early, and la- |
borers are just arriving upon the scene and preparing |
for the work of the day.

As Hyjah nears the appointed rendezvous of the du-
elists he is startled by the sharp, simultaneous reports
of two pistols. The sounds proceed trom the point
toward which the detective is going.

Is he too late after all? and the duel taken place ?

The Hindoo quickens his pace to a swift run. With
long, light leaps, like those of the leopard of his native
clime, the pene covers the intervening distance, dash-
ing Ae a small aerane of trees which intervenes.

e es a small inclosure—the spot where the du-
elists were to meet. He is in time tosee a fleeting figure
as it disappears in the direction of an adjacent street.

A swift glance reveals the fact that neither parti-
cipants nor seconds are upon the ground. Yet the odor
oft burnt powder lingers upon the morning air, and the |
observant glance of the detective notices something else
—something which is full of horrible si cance.

A lean gray cat has entered the inclosure, and is
eagerly sniffing the earth ata point near the center of |

    
  
   
 

the space.

The detective’s eyes follow her movements with fixed
intensity. Hesees the 1 stop and lick the earth
with ravenoustongue! = |

Hyjah bounds t he brute; the latter scampers
away to a short ce, and then crouches down and
watches him with yellow, hungry eyes.

The detective bends and scans the earth. Yes, there
is no mistaking it! There is blood upon the hard, clayey
‘surface—blood in and in one spot a larger, deeper

stain, which indicates that a small pool of the crimson
fluid has soaked into. the clay,

Ags the Hindoo straightens his tall figure, his alert
gaze encounters the slouching figure of a laborer who is
crossing the open space.

“Stay a moment, my man!” exclaims Hyjah, stepping

The laborer, who is evidently an Irishman, pauses
his stalwart form so as to lean upon

e.
“Phat d’yees want ?” he demands, meeting the keen
11 me what has been going on here ?” is the firmly
spoken reply.

“Shure, an’ 1 knows nothin’ about it. Phy do ye
ask ?”

“Answer my question. You know what I mean—you
know all that has happened upon this spot within the
last ten minutes. You were ee among yonder trees.
Don’t take the trouble to deny it, I shall give you a
lesson in speaking the truth. Out with it!”

The Irishman’s face flushes; his gaze falters; he
shifts his feet uneasily.

“Ye same to know all about it yerself, bedad. Phat is
the nade of yer axin’ me what ye know beforehand—

rd othing—I only suspect, and desire you to
tell ‘Whether my suspicions are correct or other-
wise.”

“Well, phat are ye afther suspectin’ ?”

“That there has been a duel.”

“Ye must be a prophet, misther !”

«Am I correct ?”

“That ye are.”

“You saw it all ?”

“| did thatsame. But it isn’t the loikes of me to harker
afther testifyin’ in the coorts. Ye don’t look like a polace-
man, not a bit !”

“Was either of the duelists killed?” the Hindoo pur-
sues, without heeding the implied ry of the laborer.

“I belave there were.”

“What did they do after one of the men fell ?”

‘Skedaddled, to be sure, as if the imps of darkness
were at their heels.”

“They picked up the one who fell ?”

Yis, ilse the dead man jumped ne and lit out wid the
rest. I couldn’t tell for me loife which.”

“Which way did they go?”

‘Toward the street.”

“That will do—now go to your work. Keep a still
tongue in your head if you wish to escape being called
to testify in court.”

The Irishman, glad to escape further questioning,
slouches away, swinging his spade, and glancing curi-
ously over his shoulder at the tall Hindoo as the latter
strides swiftly from the spot.

The detective gains the street, questions a police-
man whom he encounters near the spot, and within five
minutes has discovered the number of a carriage, which
has lately driven away at a rapid rate, and which three
men, and a fourth, assisted by the others, have been
seen to enter. Hyjah also instructs the policeman who
gives him the information to trace the vehicle in ques-
tion, and report to him at a certain time and place.

Within half an hour from the time that he left Sidney |
Desmond to guard Elsie, the Hindoo returns to the scene ,
of the demolished vehicle.

To his amazement, he sees the young man sitting upon
the ground with his face buried in his hands.

Hyjah touches his arm; he raises his head; his face,
thus revealed, is oe ee:

At the same time he thrusts one hand quickly into his
pocket, and springs to his feet, as though startled by the
sudden appearance of the detective.

 

CHAPTER XX.
ANOTHER DAMAGING CLEW.

As Sidney Desmond, betraying such violent agitation,
springs to his feet and confronts the detective the latter
in a quiet tone demands :

‘‘What has happened here in my absence ?”

‘“Nothing—nothing—only——”

The young man falters end hesitates in his confusion.

“Only what!’ pursues the Hindoo, his keen, steady
gaze seeming to penetrate the very brain of young Des-
mond.

“She has fainted, 1think. She seems tobe severely
Tne. ,poall I go for assistance 2”

WW t ,

Hyjah seizes the young man’s arm and detains him by
a firm, yet gentle grasp, and continues:
“You are keeping a secret from me, Sidney Des-
mond!”
“No, no.”
“What have you concealed in your pocket ?”
Desmonda’s eyes fall, and he stands silent and trem-
bling.
“Give me the slip
view as I came up.”
“It belongs to me, sir!” the young man retorts, with
a show of resistance.
“Tell me what it is 2”,
‘It is a private matter.”
“Give me the paper—I conmmand you !”
The detective’s voice is stern.
“You have no right, sir!”
‘Haye you not employed me to discover the miscreant
who destroyed the eyes of your betrothed wife ?”
“Yes, sir.”,
“Do you not
“Of course.”
“And have I not pledged my honor as an Officer to act
upon the case in good faith ?”
“You have.”
The Hindoo detective, bending nearer his companion,
continues :
«And when I undertake a caseI goin to win. If you
tone were the guilty party I should find you out and
ring you to justice. It you wished to buy me off to-
day—pay mea fortune to abandon the case, your prof-
fers would be no temptation. It is my business to detect
crime and criminals. I am now attending to my duties.
Justice never spares individuals, nor respects persons.
Once more I request you to give me the clew which you
have found and are endeavoring to conceal from my
”

of paper, which you thrust from

wish me to succeed in my quest ?”

!

Desmond’s face is pale as death, and his hand trembles
as he slowly produces a card from his pocket and gives
it to the detective.

The card bears the following words, written in a
scrawling business hand :

“Enter the carriage which will call for you at five o’clock
to-morrow morning. Do not fail. Important.
: “ROBERT DESMOND.”

Hyjah reads the card at a glance, and quietly places
it with other notes which he has upon his person.

Sidney watches his face with an intensely eager gaze.

“You found that here?” he asks, in the same quiet
tone.

“7 did.” ,

ane it was evidently dropped by Elsie Harper ?”

ae es,”

 

+ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #=-

“Then it looks emphatically as though’ your father
was the prime author of the young lady’s misfortune !”

“Tt is the driver’s fault that the horses ran over this
embankment.”

“Doubtless it was. It was evidently his intention to
allow his nger to be killed. But the driver had a
motive; he was instructed what to do, in fact; and
what is more likely than that he was instructed by his
employer, who sent the carriage for Miss Harper ?”

“Would you accuse my father, sir, of plotting the
death of this fair girl ?” Sidney huskily cries.

“J suspeet that you had thought it all out on this line,
my young friend. Else why did you attempt to hide
this evidence from me ?”

The young man covers his face with his hands. The
accumulating horrors of his position make him almost
beside himself.

“It cannot be—it cannot be!” he exclaims, in tones of

‘ony.
6 hand of the detective upon his arm glides upward
to his shoulder, with a gentle, reassuring touch.

“You accuse your father more strongly than I do,”
Hyjah declares.

A you do not think it was his intention to do
9”

“J jump at no conclusions. But this wears the ap-
pearance of being a ‘blind clew’ very cleverly conceived
to mislead me. I don’t believe your father, a successful
operator in Wall street, is quite a fool.”

“What do you mean ?”

“That he would be worse then an idiot if he wished to
murder this girl, and furnished us with such a straight
clew to his detection as a card and message like this,
with his signature attached. Why, it would be worse
than idiocy !”

“Thank you for this assurance. It lifts a load from
roy heart.”

“Don't unload too easy. I sup’ any other officer
in the city would say I was a fool if I did not arrest
Desmond upon such a piece of evidence as this.”

“Surely my father could have no motive for sucha
crime as this.”

‘*There’s the crooked part of this business.”

“T do not understand.”

‘{ have reason to. believe that Elsie Harper can fur-
nish evidence which will lead tothe discovery of Ida
Shelby’s assailant. And if it should turn out that your
father had anything te do with that crime, then it is
~— pape why he might wish to cause the death of

«But you do not suspect my father ?”

“Why not ?”

“You have given me to understand that you thought
him incapable.”

“T have never decided that he was innocent. Every
clew I have found implicates him. This is the most
damaging of all.”

Before Sidney can respond, the detective is bending
over the unconscious girl.

He discovers a contusion upon her temple, which is
hidden by her wealth of tresses.

it is this which explains the sort of stupor into which
she seems to be sinking.

“She will die unless she receives attention—and she
must not die!” Hyjah exclaims.

He lifts her gently in his strong arms and hastens to
the carriage which is still in waiting for them.

A laborer in the vicinity is informed of the catas-
trophe, and he runs to notify the authorities.

In the meanwhile the detective, Sidney, and their un-
conscious’ companion are driven toa private hospital,
with the physician of which the Hindoo is acquainted.

D the time occupied by the short, rapid drive
Hyjah telis Sidney of all that he has discovered concern-
ing the duel.

he physician of the hospital ig a very skillful man.
After examining the injuries of Elsie Harper, he says :
-“T think she'll live.”

He and the detective are alone together in the room
with the beautiful, unconscious patient.

The Hindoo briefly confides the prime circumstances
of the case to the doctor, and then adds:

“It is important that she be brought to a state of con-
sciousness at once. I wish her to tell me all that she
knows about her own mishap.”

“Tt is rather important, to be sure.” 4

The doctor proceeds to apply the most powerful
restoratives at his command.

It is some time before there are any signs of his efforts
being successful.

But at last the unhappy girl stirs, and utters low
moans of pain.

The. detective eagerly watches her face. He has the
best of reasons for believing that Elsie can furnish him
with a true key to the great mystery which is hourly
becoming more intricate.

If she has had motives hitherto for keeping her knowl-
edge of the case secret, then all her obligations are
po eg absolyed by this cowardly attempt upon her
own life. é

The Hindoo feels sure that the one who plotted to
have this girl’s death compassed by a seeming accident,
‘ a same who committed the remarkable crime he:is
piping.

Tne two crimes are alike heartless and ingenious in
 apeeebateks iba f 1 ingenuit

“he perpe’ ris aman of great menta enuity,
adel MoeUbItely ne epee sn oe .

He must likewise be actuated
for great crimes, deliberately
must spring from highly organized brains, and for pur-
poses of a more powerful order than those which usually
prompt the stabbing affrays which occur in the slums

by powertul motives ;
lanned and executed,

of a great city.

The style and class of a crime is an unmistakable in-
dex to the style of man and class of motives impell-
ing it.

ith these fundamental principles as a guide for ac-
oe Hyjah, the wonderful Hindoo, is thoroughly fa-
ar

There is a fineness of perception and skill required
for the highest success of a detective which few possess
to an adequate degree; and the measure of a detec-
tive’s success is an exact indication of his aptitude for
the work

Too many. so-called detectives are equipped only
with an abundance of brute strength and a degree of
low cunning.

The strength and cunning are well enough so far as
they go, but for this great profession the greatest of all
essentials is brain power-—the power of grouping and
classifying points and circumstances, and of weighing
them in a balance of delicate exactitude.

And it is with this power, to a remarkable degree, that
the Hindoo is gifted.

Nothing terrifies him; he never gives way to anger ;
he is never blinded by prejudice ; he never forgets any-
thing; he is always cool, always prepared for the great-
est of emergencies.

The physician closely watches the symptoms of his
patient. As she opens her eyes and fixes them upon his
face, the Hindoo sees that a.slight frown contracts the
doctor’s brows.

Elsie gazes at him a moment and then closes her eyes
again, with another low moan.

The detective steps nearer, eager to get a coherent
word from the girl’s lips. He bends over her and speaks
in a low, soothing tone.

«Elsie !” he says.

She opens her eyes wearily.

““You see me ?” he asks.

“Yes,” she murmurs, scarcely above a whisper.

“Whoaml?”? .

“T don’t know.”

The Hindoo hesitates an instant, almost breathless in
his eagerness.

Then he speaks again.

“Are you in pain ?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what happened to you ?”

The girl lies. motionless for. several moments. and at
last makes response.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

——_—_—_ > e+______

A NEWSPAPER HOAXED.

 

A Dublin paper has been made the victim of a hoax.
It published the following letter from a correspendent :

“I inclose a copy of an inscription in mediseval Latin
from ua stone discovered during the excavations now
proceeding at Cork Hill, near which stood a church dedi-
cated to a saint and missionary known to the chronic-
lers by the name of Uncatus Ambulans. Perhaps a
copy might be suitable for your extensively read paper,
and some of your antiquarian readers might be able to
supply a translation. The inscription is as follows:

‘«T ‘SABILLI : HGSRES’ AGO
‘FORTIBUS’ BS IN . ARO"

NOSCES ‘MARI ‘THEBE ‘TRUX

‘VOTIS ‘INNEM * * * * PES ‘AN ‘DUX.’”

A rival journal the next day gave the following trans-

lation :
“ T say, Billy, here’s a go,
Forty busses in a row.’
‘No,’ says Mary, ‘they be trucks.’
‘What isin’em? ‘Peas and ducks.’”
Cd

A NEAT LITTLE FISH STORY.

 

Among the numerous robust yarns which have added
to the wealth of piscatorial literature this season, the
following, by some traveling liar, is worthy of a shin-
ing place at the head of the galaxy :

“My rod creaked and bent double,” a stout, red-faced
gentleman was saying, ‘‘and the birch spun like a tee-

totum. I tell you, if Pierre Chaveau hadn’t the pres-
ence of mind to grip the most convenient part of my
trousers with the boat-hook, I should have been dragged
into the lake in two seconds or less. Well, sir. we fought
sixty-nine minutes by actual. time-taking, and when I
had him in and got him safe, he tipped the scale, the
speckled beauty did, at thirty-seven pounds and eleven-
sixteenths, whether you believe it or not.”

“Nonsense!” said a quiet little gentleman, who sat
opposite. ‘That is impossible,” .

The first speaker looked flattered at this, and colored
with pleasure.

“Nevertheless,” he retorted, “it is a fact, on my honor
as a sportsman. Why do you say it is impossible ?”

“Because,” said the other, calmly, ‘‘it is an ascertained
scientific fact, as every true fisherman knows perfectly
well, that there are no trout in Mooselucmeguntic
weighing under half a hundred.”

“Certainly not,” put in a third speaker,

' had strength

“The bottom of the lake is a sieve—a sort of schistose
sieve formation—and all the fish smaller that the fifty-
pounders fall through.”

“Why doesn’t the water drop through, too?” asked
the steut party, in a triumphant tone.

“It used to,” replied the quiet gentleman, gravely,
eee Maine Legislature passed an act prevent-

g

g it.

> @~<

Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

(Most of our readers are epee ee. capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
New YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for
pavliessiog anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-

srest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be prued in scholarly style: so long as they are
pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be
remedied.]

 

A Sweetheart’s Suggestion.
Pat Reilly was taking a ride
On an elegant summer morning,
And Kathleen sat close by his side,
Bright smiles her tace adorning.

And she looked so tidy neat,

Her figure so plump an ;

No girl half so pretty and sweet
Had ever appeared to him.

Said Pat: ‘Yer eyes are so blue,
And yer lips so temptingly red,

They’re the purtiest I ever knew,
And belong to the colleen I’a wed.

“Ah, darlin’, if it wasn’t this baste
That’s pullin’ me poor arms apart,
They would tinderly stheal round yer waist,
And yerself be pressed to me heart!

“For me love's that powerful, indade,
Widout ye I cannot survive !”
Then Kathleen blushed rosy. and said,
“Mr. Reilly, perhaps I could drive !”
Making Him Jealous.

There is a woman living in this vicinity who reads the
newspapers. She read ina newspaper the other day
that a Boston woman cured her husband of running
out nights by making him jealous. The idea was a
good ’un. She let her sister into the plot, and the sis-
ter’s husband might have been seen sneaking into and
out of the house ata late evening hour. Some of the
oon got hold of it, and some one wrote to the hus-

nd:

“Beware! As afriend, I would advise you to watch
your wife !”

His wife saw the bud of suspicion in his eye, and was
hugely pleased. She told her sister, and there was great
cackling. Sister told her husband, and he slapped his
leg and exclaimed : .

“Ha! ha! ha! We’ve got him on the run!”

The other night the husband went out as usual. The
brother-in-law disguised himself and went over to the
house, taking care to be seen. He was just mounting
the steps when a horsewhip began to play over and
round him, and ashe started to run ‘he was knocked
down, and popes on, and walked over until he scarcely

eft to climb out.of the yard infront of a
No. 9 boot. The injured husband then entered the
house and broke up $500 worth of furniture, and. de-
stroyed jewelry and dresses costing as much more. His
wife had to explain the plot in order to save her life,
but that didn’t restore the goods nor heal the brother-
in-law’s bruises. Itis very quiet down there now. The
husband goes out o’nights as usual, and the Boston idea
has been coated with tar and buried in the back yard
until wanted.

Like His Father.

The other evening there were several visitors at Col.
Gradson’s house. The colonel takes great delight in
“showing off” his little son, and when the boy appeared
at the parlor door, the colonel said :

“Come in, Henry. Speak to the ladies and gentlemen.
Ah, that’s a man,”

“He is a fine little fellow.” said Mrs. Graftney, one of
the visitors. ‘‘Come here, my little man.”

The boy approached her and permitted her to lift him
onto her lap.

“Why. you are heavy. How old are you?”

“Six years, goin’ on seven.”

“Yes, and you'll soon be aman. What are you going
to do when you become a man ?”

“Do like pa does.”

“How does he do ?”

“Oh, sometimes when he comes home at night he

‘falls over a chair——”

“Henry !” exclaimed the colonel.

‘Falls over a chair, and when maw gets mad he says
it’s a pretty way for a woman to go on just because a
man takes two beers, and——”

The colonel had seized him.

She teok the Hint.

At home stations the private soldiers’ washing is us-
ually done. by. the Tapeied Soldiers’ wives, who are ex-
pected to sew on missing buttons and do repairs for
which asmall sum is deducted from the private’s pa,
Pat McGinnis had a good deal of trouble with his laun
dress. Sunday aiter Sunday had his shirt come back
with the neck button off or else hanging by a thread.
He had spoken to her on the subject, and she had prom-
ised to see to it, but still the button was not on properly.
He got out of patience one Sunday when the missing
button had made him late for parade, and exclaimed :

‘Bother the woman. Ill see it I can’t give her a hint
this time anyhow.”

He then took the lid of a tin blacking box about three
inches in diameter, drilled two holes init with a fork
and sewed it on the neck of the shirt that was next to
be washed. When his washing came back he found she
had taken the hint, She had made a button-hole to fit it.

Helping the Blind.

“Please help a_ blind man,” said a fellow with green
goggles, as he held a tin cup toward the line of people
issuing from the Grand Central Depot the other evening.

“J always help the blind,” said one of two young men
who were passing, and he stopped and took out a five-
dollar bill. ‘Can you get a quarter out of this ?”

“I guess so,” said the blind man, fishing out a hand-
ful of change and counting out four dollars and seventy-
five cents.

‘Well, John,” said the benevolent young man’s com-
panion, as they walked on, ‘‘you’re a bigger tool than I
took you to be.”

Am 1?” said John.

‘Yes, you are; that fellow’s no more blind than l am.
How could he tell that was a five-dollar bill ?”

“Blamed if I know,” said John, innocently; “but he
must be mighty near-sighted not to see that it wasa
counterfeit.”

What They Were Doing.

A gentleman stepped into a restaurant where colored
waiters are employed and ordered, among other things,
acup of coffee. After the waiter had filled the order
and walked away, the guest noticed something floating
in his coffee. A second look convinced him they were
Small feathers.

‘Here, waiter!” he called. ‘‘What are those feathers
doing in my coffee ?” ‘

“Dunno, boss,” replied the waiter, as a smile elon-
gated his mouth. ‘Guess dey mus’ be floatin’.”

A Big Supper.

A disciple of Blackstone at Albany, Ga., was met carry-
ing home a’possum. He was asked:

‘Hello, J., what is that ?”

*«’Possum |”

“What are you going to do with him ?”

“Tm going to have a big possum supper.”

*‘How many will be there ?”

“Two; me and the ‘possum !”

A Great Event. E
“Now, children,” said a Sunday-school teacher, “we
emust bear in mind that between our last week’s lesson
and this quite a period of time is represented as having
elapsed. During this time a very important event has
taken place. Annie, you may tell us what it is.”
‘We've all got our winter hats,” responded Annie.

Cutting Criticism.
«Well, professor, how do you like my new tragedy ?”
«Very much indeed. Especially the robbers—they are
first-rate. In fact they are the best thieves J ever heard
of; even the words they speak are stolen from other
books.”

Mirthful Morsels.
‘Was Rome founded by Romeo ?” inquired a pupil of
the teacher. ‘‘No, my son,” replied the wise man; ‘‘it
was Juliet who was found dead by Romeo.”

Dr. Tanner says that, wipe unaided eye, only about
5,000 stars can be seen. . Tanner has evidently never
been on skates.

It is all well enough to preach ‘peace on earth and
ood-will to men,” but no man can feel that way with a
oil on his nose.

Bogus butter—A goat without horns. *

“Time will tell,” is an old saying. So will a woman.

“Johnny, if you want to become a big man you must
eat more strong food. Johnny—‘‘All right; pass the
butter,”

A philosopher who had married an ignorant girl used
to call her ‘brown sugar,” because, he said, she was
sweet, but unrefined.

“Our month-old baby has cut his ist 2th,” wrote a
happy young father to his bachelor brother. ‘‘That’s
tooth in,” wrote back the bachelor. ;

What is the difference between truth and eggs? Truth
crushed to earth will rise again. Eggs won’t.

There are occasions when a brave man may, without
shame, act the coward.

—--— > ©

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate,
Admirable Results in Fevers.

Dr. J. J. RYAN, St. Louis, Mo., says: “TI inva-
riably prescribe it in fevers; alsoin convales-
cence from wasting and debilitating diseases,
with admirable results. I also find it a tonic to

 

an enfeebled condition of the genital organs.”

 

 

 

   
 
   
   
  
  

 

 

 

 
 

 

* the kitchen floor.

 

 

 

ae

eet THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.  €isese-

 

 

A CHRISTMAS MEMORY,

BY SUSANNA J.

Do you, my lost friend. remember,
Even now, that first December
When we met ?
Or, I wonder, do you ever
Vainly, like myself, endeavor
To forget ?

Do you, when the dusk is falling,
Ever find yourself recalling
The glad chime
Of the bells that rung together
Through the snowy winter weather
In old time ?

They were tones of joyous greeting;
And we heard them still repeating
Songs that rise—
All the sacred Christmas story
In its tenderness and glory—
To the skies.

And we, too, in youth-time goldem
Had gone through the story olden—
ld, yet new-
Of such love as ms only
Once in all a life-time mney: oo
land you!

We were brave and ee dine ek
Not a shade of joys departed
Ever rolls
O’er the ardent protestations
And the glowing aspirations
Of young souls.

But I know not—oh, I know not

(There are deeps to which words flow not,
Nor our tears,

Whence the vail is never lifted)

Why our lives apart have driftea
All these years !

But the Christmas bells are ringing,
And my errant thoughts are winging
Far away.
Do you, oh, my friend, remember
That departed bright December
On this day ?

MULLEN LEAVES—No. 33.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

A GOOD DEAL OF SMOKE.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why Bub!” says I, ‘‘what upon airth did you let it
boil over for ?”

“T only stopped to scratch a musketer bite on my leg!”
sez he. ‘I had to scratch it, and while I was a scratch-
ing she give a fizz, and over she come.”

Fhat kitchen was in an Awful pickle! Everything
was allstuck up. The cat and the dog was growling,
~and growling, because that hot merlasses had singed
their hair, the premises was full of smoke, and all the
boarders come rushing out, hilter skilter, ixpecting the
whole airth was on fire from pole to pole.

‘It’s the work of an oncendenary,” sez Lawyer Pil
kins, brandishing his eye-glasses aloft, and twirling ’em
by the string, ‘‘T’ll git out a writ of habis corpses on the
spot. No jury would give him less than a year!” and he
give them glasses another twirl, and hit old maid Simp-
son square in the eye, and knocked all her eyesight back
into her braizs.

“Lordy massy!” sez she, digging her fist into that
bunged-up eye, ‘I’m ruinated for life! My eye is put
out! li have damidges! I'll call the perlice! Ill bust
up something! I wishI had staid at home! Oh. lordy

massy !” and she throwed up her hands, and jumped
back, rite into Simon Pendergast’s arms, and for a min-
nit I thought Simon would have swooned. He turned
pale, and Tost his breath, for you see; it’s nigh onto five

can oar totale of! The little paaat I got in my figath bere:
ed me like a live coal, and I had to run to the sink, and
wash out my mouth and hold water in it, and I hawked,
and sneezed, and hiccupped, and lost my breath, and
nigh about discombobberated myself.

“She is poisoned!” cried Miss Billings. ‘I know the
sy mptoms. The ‘Medico-Electric Therapeutic Materia
Medica,’ says that whites of eggsis an antidote for all
kinds of poison. Albumen is the great absorbent, and
anti-irrRant, and——”

“Pump her out!” sez Mr. Pilkens, ‘nothing ekal toa
stomack pump. Got one, myself, when Tom swallowed
the corrosive sublimate that we had mixed for bed-bugs.
Get it here in a moment,” and away he rushed, and come
back in a minnit, with a box which he tore open, and out
come one of those steel spring bustles, as big asa half
bushel baskit !”

«Jupiter and Mars!” sez Mr. Pilkins, dropping the
thing as if it was red not; ‘I’ve got the wrong box!”

“Sidney Aram,” sez Mrs. Pilkins, “I do wish you
wouldn’t keep meddling with my things. How did you
ery you was a going to pump anybody out with that

ustle ?”

>-e~—__

“LITTLE HELLO,”
A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR OLD CALIFORNIANS.

BY DAN DE QUILLE.

CHAPTER I.
THE LITTLE GIRL’S HAUNTS AND PRANKS.

‘Little Hello” was the pet and prodigy of Barton’s
Bar. Almost daily, after she was old enough to run
about the camp, something was heard of her pranks.
Barefoot, bare-headed, and with her yellow hair flying
on the breeze, she came and went as she pleased. In
her streaming golden hair she darted hither and thither
a living ray ef sunshine. It was currently reported,
and firmly believed, in the little California mining camp,
which was the child’s home, that the first intelligible
word she ever uttered was “hello!” From that time on
she said “hello” to everybody, and everybody said
‘‘hello” to her.

Her favorite place of resort, as soon aS she was old
enough to be out of the house, was a rustic bench that
stood under an oak beside the trail that led down the
Stanislaus River, in front ot her father’s cottage. Seated
there, with her rag doll in her arms, she cried out ‘‘hello”
to every person that passed. The miners turned, laugh-
ed, and said:

“Hello, little one.”

Soon the child was known to them allas ‘Little Hello,”

Indeed her wide wondering Ag seemed to say ‘‘hello”
before her lips uttered the word

There were several older children in the family of
John Dale, the father of Little Hello, and these, with
her many household duties, demanded such a large
share ot the mother’s attention that little Ellen, the
“wild child,” was allowed to run about pretty much at
will. She early displayed such independence of char-
acter, and such ability to take care of herself, that her
disposition to ramble about the camp and the neighbor-
ing hills gave very little uneasiness at her home.

When about eight years of age, she was sometimes to
be seen dancing on the top of a greatrock witha garland
of flowers on her head, and at others astonished the
passing miners by calling out her ‘‘hello!” from the
top of some spreading oak. It excited no surprise when
with a “hello!” she made her appearance, with candle
in hand, in the mine where her father and his partners
were Wielding their picks far out under the bar. She
was a great favorite with her father, and whenever it
came into her head to pay him a visit, she would go to
the mouth of the tunnel, light a candle and march into
the mine as fearlessly as did the miners themselves,

In warm weather a favorite resort of the child was a
high plateau, far above the river and far back from the
trail along which the occupants of the scattered cabins
forming the outskirts of the camp were wont to pass.
Although this plateau was composed principally of solid
rock, yet there was in many places a covering of soil
which produced a great variety of plants and flowers.
She made the flowers, plants, and butterflies her com-
panions, and was seldom seen at play with other cor
dren. Her pranks were all her oWn and performed alon
They seemed to be indulged in as something ne
after hours of solitary musing and crooning.

CHAPTER II. —
A STRANGE MEETING.

One day early in Spring, Little Hello was up on her
favorite rocky perch andin a secluded spot was seated
on the sunny side of a huge granite bowlder, leaning her
back against.a large spreading cedar tree, the k or
which, old and gnarled, grew close nst the roek
as though it were a of it. Her wealth of golden
hair strayed down upon her neck and shoulders in many
an accidental wisp and curl, while rings of it rolled over
her forehead and about hereyes. She had collected a
lapful of flowers which she was engaged in weaving into
a wreath, meanwhile humming’ a little songin a low
tone. Birds were singing in the branches of the old
cedar and fluttering about the top of the rock over her
head, quite heedless of her presence. Although nearly
half a mile from the row of houses along the river, the
child felt as much at home as if she had been in the little
sitting-room of her father’s cottage.

AS she was thus seated, an old man suddenly ap-
peared before her. He was a man that she remembered
to have seen a few times at a distance, but to whom
she had never spoken. Not in the least surprised, she
calmly raised her eyes from her work and said :

“Hello!”

The old man seemed not to have observed the child
before she thus greeted him, so closely was she tucked
in against the rock beside the trunk of the cedar. He
instantly halted and stared at the child, his face expres-

sive of mingled surprise and displeasure.

The oid man was one who was mining in the camp
when Little Hello was born, but this was the first time
she had ever called out her ‘‘hello!” to him, and until

 

 

years sense: he buried his wife, and he's kinder lost the
run of the ways of women folks.

«Brace up, Simon!” sez I, cheerfully. ‘‘Tllrub her in
camfire, and hold some burnt feathers to her nose!”
and I did so, and she came two. And when she seed
Simon a holding of her, she hid her face into his shirt
bosom, and sez she, ‘‘Oh, Simon! what will folks
think ?”

And sez Simon, ‘‘Darned if I keer what anybody
thinks, so’s ’t I get out of it!”’

Simon is pritty shy of the women, because he’s afeerd
they’re after his money, and he thinks more of that than
he does of his soul!

Sarah Bunker and Mary Tucker, they took holt and
scraped the merlassez off from the stove, and washed it
off, and [ kept on a stirring what was left.

Mrs. McDingle called her poodles together, and shut
them up in her chamber, for fear the smoke would giv
them the broncreetuz, and Mrs. Pilkinz told the boys to
have a good time, if they could, digging their toes into
the little puddles of merlassez that waz all round over

Berry he started out on the tune of ‘‘ Money Musk,” on
the fiddle, and the oldest Pilkinz gal begun to dance,
and Bob and I took turns a Stirring.

The merlassez smelt terrible kinder queer, but I
thought it must be because it had burnt onto the stove,
and so I didn’t pay much attention to it.

Pritty soon it seemed to be done enuff,.and we poured
it out into tin panz, and sot it off to cool.

The young folks got to playing games, and Old Maid
Simpson kissed Joe Sullivan in a game of forfits, and
Simon Pendergast got to chasing Helen Mills to kiss her,
and she run rite into the room where Granther waz
asleep, and they fell over the Granther’s wash- stand,
and smashed the crockery all into kindlings, and the
racket roused Granther, and springing out of bed he
grabbed the tongs and rushed out into the setting room,
laying round him right and left, and, like Time in the
es’ cutting down all, both great and small.

Billings she was just going to cross the room as

her made his appearance, and at sight of his red

flannel night gownd. she put her hands over her face,
and squawked out:

“Merciful heavens! I shall expire! Itis a male in-
dividual in a state of semi-dishabille! I ain’t accus-
tomed to it!” and she made for a shady corner of the
room, still with her hands over her eyes.

Granther flourished the tongs, and down come the
fire-screen with a yeller peacock on it, that my niece,
Ann Maria Stiles, gave me last Christmas; and the next
lick fetched down the air-tight stove, which was halt
full of hard dry wood, all afire, then, with a whoop,
Granther give an extra swing of those tongs, and over
went Miss Billings, and Clarence Tucker, and lawyer
Pilkins, allin a pile!

1 handed the stirring spoon to Bub, and, sez I:

«You run out and try the merlasses, Bubby, and see
if it is gitting hard, and don’t put your fingers into it.
Thats a good boy. I’m afraid your hands hain’t clean.”

“Clean! of course they’re clean!” sez Bub, indignant-
ly. ‘‘I washed ’em last night the last thing afore supper,
in the pail that I fed the hogs out of.”

Boys are dreadful untiay.

I went in, and got holt of Granthcr, and coaxed him
off to bed. He’s too old a man to be out to candy pulls.
lI give him alittle perrygorick, and told him to lay stiil,
and he should have two pieces of mince pie for break-
fast. Granther is terrible fond of mince pie.

Miss Billings had broke her eye-glass specks, and Mr.
Mudge was a faning of her, and repeating poetry to her,
to comiort her up, and Mr. Tucker, and Joe Sullivan,
and the rest of the men folks, they took holt, and
shoveled up the ashes into the stove, and sot it onto its
legs agin.

that moment he was probably ignorant of the existence
of such a child.

Old Ben Huber—‘*Ben Surly,” as he was called by the
miners of the camp—had been working on the bar al-
most from the time of its discovery. He was aman
without ‘chick or child,” lived alone, and was very un-
communicative and unsociable. He had a tunnel that
was run under the flat back of where his cabin stood.
and in this he always worked alone. While some said
that old Ben Surly might have a ‘good thing” in his
drift claim, the general opinion was that he was poor;
as he seldom sold any ‘‘dust,” wore only the roughest
and cheapest of clothes, and his cabin door—like most
of those on the bar in the early days—half the time
stood ajar, and occasionally might have been seen wide
open. Nobody in thecamp gave more thana passing
thought to Old Man Huber, or “‘Uber,” as they generally
pronounced his name, when they gave him any other
than that of ‘Ben Surly,” and he seemed as much as
possible to shun the society of his kind.

After mutely and amazedly staring at the wild-look-
ing little creature before him for some moments, as if
wondering where she came from, the old man turned
about to depart. He had hardly done so, however, be-
fore another little ‘‘Hel-l-o!” was called after him in
such a half-abused, half-coaxing tone that his steps
were arrested. Halting, facing about and smiling in a
more kindly way than any one on the bar had ever be-
fore seen him smile, he said:

«‘Well, then, little one, hello!”

The child looked up at him, and steadily regarding
him with her great earnest eyes, demurely said

«You did say ‘hello!’ to me atter all, didn’ t you? ”

“Yes, child—certainly I did,” said the old man, quite
puzzled as to the meaning of the child’s words.

“But you wasn’t going to say ‘hello!’ at first, and you
didn’t say it till I asked you to.”

‘Pill you asked me? I didn’t hear you ask me!”

“Oh, yes, you did—and you turned round and said
‘hello!’ to me, and then I was glad that you didn’t go
away cross with me.”

“What is your name, little one ?” asked the old man,
beginning to regard the child with some degree of in-
terest.

“My mother calls me ‘Tomboy,’ but all the other folks
call me ‘Hello.’”

“Well, Hello, where do you live?” asked the old man,
smiling.

‘Up the river, at the next bend, in the little house by
the spring.

“Ah, yes. Then I know your father—John Dale,” and
he muttered half to himself, «An honest man—an honest
man, I believe. Well, child; here is something for you,”
and Ben Surly threw at the little girl’s feet a bright halt-
dollar, then walked away.

“Oh, oh! I didn’t say ‘thank you, sir!” cried the
child, regretfully, after she had picked up and exam-
ined the coin.

Then she ran round the corner of the great bowlder,
and, tossing back her hair, looked wistfully after the old
man.

As “Surly Ben” Huber passed slowly down over the
plateau toward the river Little Hello ran dodging from
rock to rock above, and watched till she had seen him
enter his cabin. Then she seated herself under a bush
and began arranging anew the Mowers she carried in
her apron, glancing from time to time toward the old
man’s cabin until she had seen him -leave it and enter
his tunnel.

CHAPTER II.
“SURLY BEN” AND THE FLOWERS.

That evening, when old Ben entered his cabin to pre-
pare his supper, he saw on his table, in an old fruit can,

 

The smoke was thicker than it was in the Chicago fire,
and we couldn’t git our breaths without all the doors
and winders up!

It was an overcoming time !

When the smoke had cleared away a little, we brought

the merlasses in, and each one took a mess of it and be- |

gun to pull it.

It smelt funnier than ever. and I thought I’d taste of
it, and see what ailedit! But, gracious -airth ! one taste
was enuff! It was like fire, and gunpowder, and kian
pepper, and hartshorn lineament, and anything else you

a neatly arranged bouquet of wild flowers.

“Hello!” cried he, in astonishment, as with widely
opened eyes he gazed at the unwonted sight. “What is
the meaning of this ?”

Old Ben stood gazing at the flowers for a time in great
perplexity, then he said:

«That child must have done this—the little one that
calls herself ‘Hello’—it must have been her.”

The old man took up the flowers, inhaled their fra-
grance, replaced them, sighed deeply, then glanced sus-
piciously on all sides of the cabin, looked up toward the

}

loft, ‘and even peeped under his bed, as if suspecting
that some hidden joker might have been watching his
movements. Satisfied that no one was secreted ‘about
the lace, he said :

es, it must have been the little girl.”

Serra! times, while preparing his frugal meal, old
Ben glanced at the ee earns “ai that had ever been
seen in his cabin—and finally sa.

«Well, well! and she calls herself ‘Hello! ”

When ready to place his supper on the table, Old Ben
tenderly took up the flowers and placed them in the only
window his cabin boasted, muttering as he did so:

“Well, well! and ‘Hello!’ was what I said as soon as
I saw them!” and the old fellow actually chuckled at his
little joke.

Several times while seated at his supper the old man

lanced at the flowers in the window, and once, after a
ong-drawn sigh, said:

“She has the same eyes.”

 

CHAPTER IV.
THE CHRISTMAS BOX.

After that evening—so often during the summer that
it ceased to be a matter of surprise, and became, indeed,
a thing that he looked for and expected—Old Ben Huber
found on his table fresh bouquets, though he never saw
the little ‘‘wild girl,” as he called her, about his cabin.
After the first evening he found the flowers in a neat lit-
tle vase, and again cried :

“Hello!”

Though he never saw the child about his place, he
sometimes met her on the trail that led along up the
river to the two or three stores and other places of busi-
ness that the camp contained, and he never failed to say,
with the best smile he could command :

‘Hello, little one! how are you to-day ?”

On one such occasion she said :

“They call me ‘Little Hello.’ what do they call you ?”

“Well,” said the old man, they call me—well, suppose
you call me Uncle Ben ?”

«Uncle Ben,” said the child. “Oh, 1 shall remember
that!” and thenceforward the man known to others as

‘Ben Surly,” and ‘“‘Surly Ben,” was to her ‘‘Uncle Ben,”

When, however, Uncle Ben asked about the flowers,
the child archly said :

“Why it must be some good fairy, Uncle Ben ?”

“I believe so, indeed!” said Uncle Ben.

When Christmas came that year a large and beautiful
doll, in bridal array, with very many other pretty and

packed in a handsome box, addressed :
in some strange manner found its

useful things, all
“For Little Hello,”
way to the cottage of John Dale.

Both the father and the mother wondered where it
came from, as some of the articles were very costly, but
the child at once cried out :

“Oh, I know! It’s from my good Uncle Ben !”

“Her good Uncle Ben!” exclaimed the mother. ‘‘Who
is this Uncle Ben? I do declare, gone the child knows
all kinds of people. Sheis ge eal inele too old to run
soe es she does! Who do you Un Ben, you great

mm

ow ne he isthe old man that lives away down the
river and works in a tunnel back of his little house,”
said the child. ‘All the men call him ‘Surly Ben’—I’ve
heard them do it—but he’s not one bit cross !”

«What strange notions the child gets into her head !”
said Mrs. Dale to her husband. “Old Ben Uber would
be the last man on the bar to make her or any one else
such a present. I guess he has enough to do to keep
himself in bacon and beans.”

“Poor enough, [ believe,” said John Dale, ‘but not a
bad old fellow, exeept that he leads a sort of hermit life,
and seems to be a good deal soured against the whole
human race. He may have met with some great disap-
pointment in his younger days.”

<a] supper you mean to say that he may have been
crossed in love,” said Mrs. Dale, ‘‘but [ don’t believe the
man was ever in love with any one but himself!”

CHAPTER V.

A MYSTERIOUS CALL.

That winter old Ben seldom saw Little ae but
once, soon after Christmas, he found a 1 ce of
nice cake on his table, and again cried ‘‘Hello!” rea the
spring, however, the bouquets again began to appear,
much to the old man’s delight. He peghe ts to believe that
after all he was really fond of flowers.

One day the child was stealing out of the old 4
cabin atter having deposited a fresh bouquet, w
heard some one Call out:

“Hello!”

“That’s me!” said she, and she stood still and lis-
tened. Again she heard a faint and seemingly far-away
cry of

“Hello! y

She looked up and down the river, and up on the hill
above the cabin, but could see noone. While she was
running about and wondering where the voice came
from, it again reached her ears.

‘Why, it must be Uncle Ben, and he’s in his tunnel!”
said she, and she flew to the mouth of the tunnel, but a
few yards distant, and listened.

«Helle !” came a faint ery, ina voice which she knew
to be that of Uncle Ben. —

“Yes, here lam! I’m a comin ied she, “Wait till
I get a cangie,” amt e cab ran for a candle
and matches.

tunnel, she swiftly el, ate into the long, dark drift.
She had not proceeded far, however, before the well-
known voice of PUnele Ben was heard, as he cried out, in
surprise : ,

“Hello, my child! Why, is that you ?”

«TItisme. Oh, Uncle Ben, you're lying on the ground!
What is the matter ?”

“Don’t be alarmed, child; it is nothing. Ihurt my
leg so that I could not walk. I crawled out this far,
and, getting tired, Iset upa cry to bring some one to
help me to my cabin. But how came you here, child? I
thought my voice might reach some one passing thy calle
the trail, but never dreamed of your hearing
Where were you, little one ?”

«Well, Uncle Ben, you see I’d just been into your house

and left the flowers——”
“Ah! Then at last you acknowledge that you are the
good fairy that brings the flowers? But I knew it,
cbild—I knew it all the time. And now you come to find
and help Uncle Ben vee can no longer help himself.
You are indeed my aa tairy !”

«“But— oh, Uncle what can I do to help you ?
Can I carry you ? Can: ' ou walk if you lean on me ?”
“No, child, no. -Goand tell your father where I am,
and thatIam afraid my legis broken. But don’t let
that frighten you, child; and don’t run too fast. A
broken leg is nothing. It will be well in. a.week.”

Little Hello darted out of the tunnel and fiew, rather
than ran, along the trail up the river. She called to
every one she met orsaw togo to the assistance of
“Uncle Ben.”

“Who?” asked von every person. ,
«Surly Ben,’ you him,” cried she, she ran.
ee he is good, a eis hurt in his tunnel Run to

Lighting a cane dashed into her iether mine,
and soon he and ‘his partners were out and hastening
down the river. :

The miners who hurried to his assistance soon had
the old man out of the tunnel and laid upon the cot in
his cabin, when one was sent for the nearest doctor.
Inafew words the injured man explained to the
miners about him—all now full of sympathy and kind-
ness—that a blast which he had placed in a large
bowlder had exploded poemeryrek hurling a large,
jagged fragment against ht thigh and hip. Fora
time he had lain stunned and unconscious, but on re-
covering his senses, he had crawled out along the tun-
nel as far as he had strength to move, for pain and loss
of blood had made him very weak.

The physician found the old man’s thigh and hip so
badly shattered and lacerated that he at once pro-

 

 

be worse than useless to subject the injured man to the
paim and shock that would be attendant upon the am-
putation of the shattered limb. {[n a manner as consid-
erate as possible the doctor told the old man that he
could live but four or five days at most, and that he
1 hep do well to arrange his worldly affairs without

elay
That evening Little Hello ae ‘epi father visited the
old man, for he had said to Mr. D

“JT want to see her here in my cane cabin at least once
before I die.”

The face of the sufferer brightened, and he seemed to
forget his pein as soonasthechild appeared before

him

At first the little girl wept for her old friend, but he
soon succeeded in comforting and reassuring her. He
was not content till she was seated ona chair beside
his cot, where he could hold her hand in his while he
talked. He then joked with her about the way in which
she had played fairy by stealing into his cabin with
her floral offerings, and became as merry as though he
had been unhurt and in the best of health. When vis-
ited by a pang so severe that he was unable to control
his Soatiacee, he turned his face aside from the child till
it had passed.

The next day Little Hello appeared early at Uncle
Ben's cabin with a fresh bouquet, and remained prat-
tling. at his bedside for several hours. The old miner
who was in attendance in the capacity of nurse con-
siderately remained out in front of the cabin much of
the time, marching up and down the trail, and occa-
sionally taking his pipe out of his mouth to mutter :

‘‘Never see’d the beat on’t!
heart into him arter all. He couldn’t think more QO that
gallopin’ young un it he was her mether !”

CHAPTER YI.
“SURLY BEN” MAKES A WILL.

The following day a lawyer who had been sent for by
the old man to draw up his will arrived from Sonora, the
nearest large town. John Dale and two or three of bis
neighbors were present by request as witnesses. Little
Hello was at the bedside of the old man when the lawyer
arrived, for she had come early with a bouquet gathered
while the dew was still on the flowers.

When is was noised about Barton’s Bar that old “Ben
Surly” had sent to Sonora for a lawy er and was ‘going
to make a regular out-and-out will,” the tongues of the
men and women of that place found occupation.

«‘What has the old fellow to willaway, anyhow ?” said
one.

«“Nothing,” answered another, ‘nothing but his mine,
and I guess that’ll never make any body very rich.”

“It may be,” said some, ‘that the old man has a little
sack of dust stuck away in some crack of his cabin, or

 

nounced the case hopeless, He declared that it would J.

Old Ben Surly’s got a |,

pr opresned in his work of ning ou out the will, he pres-
asked for the names of the legatees.

‘There is but one name to be mentioned,” said the
old man. ‘That is Ellen Dale, daughter of John Dale,
uals present, and known to all in this place as ‘Little

ello.

On hearing these words, John Dale and his neighbors
looked at each other in surprise.

When the lawyer asked about the property to be dis-
posed of, Old Ben said :

«Well, as to the mine, that is already arranged. I have
made a bill of sale of itto John Dale, but you may put
down that to Ellen Dale, his daughter, I give $20,000.

“What!” cried the lawyer, dropping his pen, turning
about in his seat, and facing the old man. ‘‘T'wenty
thousand dollars, did you say ?”

“That was what I'said,” calmly replied the old man.
Then aa atolded paper from under his pillow he
gave it to Little Hello, saying: ‘Here, child, hand that
to the gentleman. You see there posted up,” said he,
addressing the lawyer, ‘just even 1,250 ounces of gold;
which, at $16 an ounce, makes exactly $20,000; but, as
our Barton Bar dust generally a little overruns $16, I
aes, you had better set down to her 1,250 ounces of
gol

The lawyer complied—then said :

‘But, my friend, where is this gold? Where are we
to find it?”

a. wee child knows where it is,” said old Ben, ‘She'll
n Rud

This announcement created a profound sensation
among those in the cabin, as may be imagined, and no
one was more astonished than John Dale.

“Do you know where all this gold is ?” said the lawyer,
turning to Little Hello.

“Yes, sir; 1 can find it,” said the child, oe

“Are you sure you can find it ?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes, sir,” answered the child.

“She will find it at the proper time,” said old Ben.
«There will be no trouble about that, for she knows as
well as 1 do myself where it is.”

CHAPTER VII.
JOHN DALE SURPRISED.

After the name of John Dale, as sole executor, had
been written in by the lawyer, with the usual legal and
technical flourishes, the will was signed by the old man.

‘“‘What!” cried John Dale, when the will was read over
at the request of one of the witnesses. “What is that?
Benjamin Huber Herbert ?”

‘It is the name given me by the man himself,” said
the lawyer.

“It is my name in full, and my true name,” said the
old man. ‘Of course Lve sod by shorter names, and by
nicknames, here on the ific coast, but that Sooan't
matter now.”

‘Are you Benjamin Huber Herbert, formerly of Quincy,
Illinois ?” cried John Dale, excitedly.

“T once lived there,” calmly answered the old man.

“And you married Ellen Tracy, who was killed by Jack
Pratt, a discarded lover, on the day of your marriage,”
cried John Dale, arising, and moving toward the cot,
“and you fled after killing-——”

“Hush, John Dale!” cried the old man.
you to know that one dark spot in my life ?”
“How came I to know it?) Why, my wife is the young-
est sister of that unfortunate Ellen Tracy; and the child

by, our side bears her name !”

«This is wonderful !—wonderful!” cried the old man.
“And I living here all these years in ignorance of what
oy a have given worlds to have known! ‘Ah! Ell

“How came

en,
d, after all, lam really your Uncle Ben!

Child, tite eyes of yours always haunted me!”

‘Then partly rising on his couch and turning to the

father, the old man said ;

“Ag for that other matter, John Dale, it was in fair
fight! He did not deserve it, but on my death-bed I say
he was given a chance, and it was in fair fight—though
ee pore no witnesses toit. Let no more now be said
of that.”

«Although I never saw you there, and was not then
a member of the family, 1 believe you, Ben Herbert,”
said John Dale, ‘‘and at a proper time I will explain all
to those now present who should know about it. Ido

 

ae
“Miss Ella W.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—The style of shoe most to
be commended is that known as the English walking-shoe,
and for general wear and ee! vA . probably the best
shoe in the market. The N re the —
popular low shoes. Fine Fren kid 1 is dae ne, material

iealtinc.ehoen be they either low c
but there inalas a revival of Bey cine her. ce i =

actly acco: te the vonene d
Re iy gocrea ae taste, and may be either high x

“Marthy Ann.”—A pretty walking costume is made of croca- _
dile cloth, the color of the reptile, making a good contrast to |
the brown plush panel and skirt, over which it is made. In
front it is dra with long stri of 1 in
points, being laid on at inte ral the ~ radio a ‘leptin

° ae sash £ behind, So
shoulders in such a as to, reve
front of the basque Bene made with ete tal bet

“Leah B.”—A handsome bride-maid’s costume can a made
of cream satin merveilleux, with panels en pevokidexo® with
a The waist to have a plastron to m .

eee aaet be being plaited satin. The full |

Bien a bow and pearl embroidery. *
hat, with ostrich feathers and pearl orname
high point in front, anda e bouquet of
carried in the hand, complete . toilet.

“Miss Carrie 8.”—‘‘The Young Magdalen, and Other Poems,”
by Francis 8. Smith, would make a handsome and very appro-
priate Christmas mesent to a young gentleman. The

of the book, w hich is andeomnely aed in Haat aul
3, and in Tull elt, #4. Wowie on . of the

“L. F. D.”—For a bay-window, some prefer a jardiniere and
hanging basket, either of natural or artificial flowers, while

others choose y acenter table, and still others an the
recess with fancy chairs. Portieres should be hung at the
alcove, and lace curtains at the Somaiee

“Annie Smith.”—Slippers for gentlemen are of patent

leather, or plain or fancy morocco, and many of the regular

ellow alligator, while some of the more expensive are
made of Sati , silk, or velret and elaborately embroidered
or f

“Mrs. W. W. D.”—I1st. The NEw YorK WEEKLY Purchas-

ing Agency will send you the one tfit of “Perforated
Patterns” on receipt of the money. Agood etiquette book
will cost fifty cents.

“Texas Daisy.”—1st. Gold bracelets om be sent oe

the mail with comparative safety. Arete ered
such as you describe would cost from ‘is to aScoraln ney
weight and quality.

“Mamie C.”—Ladies’ cloth, of f Ane,
pular material for riding-hab:
ark blue are the favorite colors.

“May Belle.”— iece
ahaa ce

worn over rich warm
this winter.

“William B.”—The ushers should not weer evening dress
when the bridegroom wears a traveling sul

“Fifteen Years’ pubereiber, ”—The price of the “Society Let-
ter Wi Write” is $1.25.

ht is
Sree

eee both black
f sutin, are very angoram,

HIS WIFE’S QUEER LITTLE LAUGH.

A Lewiston business man’s wife has been away on a
visit to the old home in another city. He has lived, du- —
ring her absence, ostensibly at home, but really has
been living on porter-house steaks at the hotel, and had
just been elected president of a new whist clubin which
he had a young, red-cheeked girl for a partner, and
while, of course, he deeply regretted the enforced ab-
sence of his own dear wife, he was managing to get
along without pining away very rapidly. The o}
night he and his roseate partner had just
board. They had had a thirteen-trick Lan Sai
rest of the table was nowhere. -

 

 

not blame you, Ben Herbert—I should have done the
same!

‘John Dale, it was done in the heat of passion. I have
keenly suffered for it—suffer still—but I was right! I did
not fly through fear of the law, but from a sudden halt-
mad feeling of abhorrence of all my kind, and to be alone
with my great sorrow. What then was the world to
me? For Heaven's sake, let no more now be said!
Ellen, my child, run out and see a high the sun is—
no, stay! Never mind the sun, my dear.

CHAPTER VILL.
LITTLE HELLO LEADS THE WAY TO HER LEGACY.

That evening Ben Herbert was carried on a stretcher
to the cottage of John Dale, where two days later he
breathed his last. His last hours were made comfort-
able, and he died clasping the hand of the child he had
loved so well; and whom, during the last day of his life,
he constantly called ‘‘Nellie.”

avers the Juneral, Mrs. Dale spoke to the child about

“ee. Could she remember where it was ?”

“It is not yet three days,” said the sobbing little one—

“he told me to go there three days after—after he was

Lighting her candle just within the mouth of the buried.”

Atthe end of three days Little Hello said she was
ready to show the wi bf to the gold, but not a word
would she say in regard to its whereabouts

“7 am to go to it, and my father is to go With me,” is
all she would say.

As she led the way, her father and the two friends that

 

were with him with pick shovel and sacks, were sur-
prised to see her suddenly leave the river trail and strike
up to the high plateau above. They had expected to
see her keep down the trail toward the old man’s cabin.
Straight across the plateau she went, keeping some
yards in advance of her father and his companions. So
tar she led them from the direction in which they wish-
ed to see her go that the faces of the two assistants _ be-
gan to look very. blank; bht the countenance of John
e remained serene.

‘acetone the child disappeared behind agreat granite

wider

When her father and his friends rounded the rock they
found the child seated on the ground—tucked in against
the bowlder beside the trunk of an old cedar.

The Lewiston man went home at 10:30. "Things looked
just the same. He composed himself to write his cus-
tomary letter, beginning, “It is now half-past 8 o'clock.
Ihave just come in from my,work on the books. {am
awfully tired, dear, and miss youso much. I don’t want

to hurry you home, and I want ae to stay as long as
ou feel like it, this time, for I shall not want to let you
leave me again, etc., etc.”

He finished the letter, and stamped and directed it,
and then took a look at the star#ght evening, and think-
ing he would finish his cigar—he never used to smoke
in the house—walked out tothe corner. When he
back ne heard a rustle in the dining-room, and ‘
in. The light had been moved. There was a
bending over the light. His wife's smiling face looked ie
up out of the radiance beneath the shade and eee l
him. She was reading the letter. His heart ped
down his trousers’ leg. He felt like death.

“Tm reading a “Te sounds like from you,” said she.
“So kind of you! It sounds like those you used to write
before we were married

The lady read it through, and then read it aloud.

“Jf she’d only a got mad I’d been all right,” said the
Lewiston man, Tuesday; “but she didn’t ; ab: ae ene
Every one of my yarns twisted her up, and one
until it made me sick I never got such a roast,
worst of it is I’ve lost all of my reputation for. "veraelty.
If I say I’m going to the lodge, she lets out one of them
laughs, and I stayat home. IfI say Ihave eo und ae
up a trial balance at the office, and it kept me late,
draws that laugh on me, andI wilt. It’s terrible! I
feel meaner every day. If it kee a I'll have to fix it
with a seal-skin cloak. It’s my last resort, but if this
thing keeps on, and worst comes to worst, rll have to-
ante on the seal-skin.”

 

e+

Items of Interest.

A good old deacon, living near Rutland, Vt., was re-
‘cently taken to task for “hoss-racin’” on Sunday. His de-
fense was: “I don’t approve of hoss-racin’, but when another
member of the church becomes so godless as to try to pass

 

‘Well, is this the place ?” said the father.

Arising, the girl said:

«Dig just where you saw me sitting.”

The men set to work at the spot pointed out by the
child. Ata depth of about two feet they came upon a

neatly squared slab of slate.

“Here we have it!” cried the man who was wielding
the shovel.

Sure enough, there it was, stowed away ix several tin
cans of various sizes, as was seen on lifting the slab.
A square hole had been cut in the firm rock which lay
a foot or so beneath the soil and in this had been depos-.
ited the cans of gold dust.
“No mistake about these, John Dale,” said one of the
men, as he began opening the cans and handing them
out. ‘All filled with clean, Barton’s Bar dust!”

“They are; eed!” said John Dale, looking not at
the dust, but’ gazing with glistening eyes upon the
bright face of his little daughter. ‘‘They are, indeed!”

cian did you know the place, child ?” said one of the

a ittle Hello answered, in her own way:
-‘It was there the first time I ever spoke to Uncle Ben.
I was sitting over it—just as you saw me a bit ago—and
was et my flowers, when Uncle Ben came round
the rock, and I looked up at him, and said, ‘Hello!’”

o~

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Old Subscriber,” Boston, Mass.—The mousquetaire glove
retains its place as the favorite, and it still remains long,
while it isa little larger at the top than last season. But-
toned gloves are in general demand for full-dress with ladies
who have plump, pretty arms, while for ladies with thin arms
the mousquetaire is by far the most desirable, and will be
even more satisfactory if the glove is very long, and permit-
ted to wrinkle, instead of being drawn smoothly over the
arm. There are some gauntlet gloves worn for shopping,
driving, and with tailor-made suits, in which case they are
pulled up over the sleeves of the dress. The most fashion-
able to wear with evening dress is the Suede glove, which
come in all the delicate evening shades. gloves are worn

very long, nouns less than a six-button length being con-
sidered at desirable. Tan Fae) several wood_shades, with
alight brown, are preferred for street wear, while in addi-
tion to the lar evening shades, there is a fan

light tint of gray known as putty color. These, wi

lavender, some white, and an occasional Nile green, will be.
the shades for erernne has use. orn of a medium cream shade
look well with any co

“Trene C.,” Rustburg, Va.—Red velvet bonnets, trimmed
with jet, are quite popular to wear with black costumes. They
have a coronet front, covered with jet beads, an ornament of
the same in the center of the crown, and the sides are of red
ed et. Loops of red velvet ribbon, and leaves and wings of

et beads, are used for trimming. With cloth costumes,

lose English poranctes of cloth or felt are worn, and

ap Se aenen with loops of plush or velvet ribbon, and small

Ne et ribbons, however, should not be used

for s strings, as they do not tie well ; satin or re) ribbon, or

wate ribbons, from two to three inches wide, being much
better for this purpose.

“Lottie H.,” Edwardsville, D1.—It can scarcely be said that
there is any favorite color or set of colors for millinery pur-
poses. Bluein all medium ‘shades is seldom seen, and the
shades akin to strawberry are not fashionable. But navy-
blue, brown in all shades, from the darkest seal to ecru and

cream, all shades of green, even the clearest emerald in small
quantities and moss-greens and olives, are u in pro-
fusion. There is a new red, a clear ruby, that is in favor in
Paris, but will not be much worn here, as it is not near as
becoming as Ca: Dashes of yellow are also seen, but
generally for lighting up and as relieving colors.

“Dollie B.,’ Garden City, N. ¥.—A stylish way to make a
house dress of bronze Henrietta cloth is as follows: The
lower skirt plain, arranged in double box-plaits at intervals.
The overskirt pointed in front, and trimmed with length-

wise rows of woolen lace, the back being trimmed in the
same manner, and Madina eereaeet, with ‘plaits falling out-
side below the basque, whi inted in front, and

 

 

 

some chink in his tunnel.”
As the lawyer, seated at the one table of the cabin,

has a full plastron, with revers trimmed with lace, and’ fas-
tens with a silver clasp at the waist. ~>

me on the road comin’ home from meetin’, I feel it my duty
to the church to let out a leetle on the reins, just to keep him
from puttin’ his trust in earthly things.”

Something akin to a mirage may often be seen at Lake
Griffin, Fla. If one looks north across the lake from the
south, as arain-storm is approaching from either north or
south, he will see the timber and other objects at the north
end stand out in bold relief as if they were in the middle of
the lake and half the distance they really are away. The
change is striking and unaccountable.

Druggists in Germany who fill prescriptions are not
allowed to sell miscellaneous articles. There are drug stores
where goods other than medicines are sold, but the com-
pounding of prescriptions is prohibited in them. It is con-
tended that the sale of miscellaneous articles in a drug store
is apt to divert the clerk’s mind from the delicate duty of
putting up medicines, ,

Funds are raised at a church fair in Dayton, Ga., in this
way : Several ladies are disguised with vails and long water-
proof cloaks. Each lady carries a lunch-basket, and is sold
to the highest bidder. The lucky fellow thus secures not
only the company of the lady for the rest of the evening, but
with her enjoys the contents of her lunch-basket.

A horse was sent from a tarm toa blacksmith shop
in Carlisle, Pa., to be shod. Having a number of ready-made
shoes on hand, the job, in the absence of the boss, was given
toan apprentice. After an interval. ‘ollowing note was
sent to the owner of the animal: “This horse don’t fit none
of our shoes.”

A certain clergyman in St. Paul, Minn., is exceedingly
popular with the young ladies of the church because of the
spirit in which he enters into all their schemes. Ata quilt-
ing party recently he surprised them all by doing as much
work on the quilt, and doing it as well, as any of the ladies
present.

The longest freight train ever drawn by a single
locomotive recently passed over the Mississippi Valley Rail-
road, from Wilson, Miss., and entered New Orleans. It com-
prised 150 loaded freight cars, 2 calabooses, and 1 locomotive.
The length of the train was 1 mile and 9 feet.

A pretty, healthful, and economical finish for comtiigied
and walls is made of pulverized soapstone. It can be readily
washed, takes a high polish, is pearl-gray in tint, presents the
best possible surface for painting, either in oil or water-
color, and will neither crack nor chip.

Clarence Whistler, the American athlete, who died
recently in Australia, at the age of 29, could lie with the back —
of his head on one chair and his heels on another, and in this
position sustain a ton weight on his breast.

If a national debt is a national blessing, Canada must
be extremely happy. Although its population is compara-
tively small, it has a big debt of $300,000,000.

A Glasgow firm is building a torpedo boat for the
Spanish government. It is expected ‘that bi will attain a
speed of twenty-six miles an hour.

A wall-paper impervious to dampness, oa which can
be washed with soap and water without injury, has been for
a short time in use in England.

At all the Russian railroad stations there are ‘‘griey-
ance books,” in which passengers may record complaints
against railway employees.

A father in Jeannerette, La., had two sick children
The medicine prescribed for one he gave to the other. Both
children died.

A sixteen-pound wildcat was recently xillea by dogs,
near Norwich, Conn.{#Wildcat BuREPS: i a common sport
thereabouts.

The new postmistress in a town m Indiana writes her

 

official name, “Mrs. J. Smith, P. Mrs.” Ve