eather ch but- le. ibdued a trav- dding- * yes are tirely a }if you e ring. id. and! ep as a wers is e bride ised for rlof six h a full, feather aist has red vel- ru is the e partic rarment - basque lly made n with i lered de ering fo rk shoulk htly ovel y Agency Patterns in bog will mi 3 a chap y cents. ose, from emarkabl he plains coln, Neb was som n stoppec e scene ¢ nd the li f alam 1ese boxes th a whol nh a pigeor cafico, th ‘he lamb y to fallf by a col d such r ons turn n favor ' hey gathe eacher ou e Poore, boys and bout a fol s—two be d died; ti ‘pected. urvey For 1 the chix rilding, to hich a bal n the hous red to di 1e keel of med her Fi sel was fing di twelve se . of hono corporatio oyees a ha! o include t op on Sat sburg Wwol - years int ision was U iouse is nt rhtest sign ttractions or astronor observatio ton thesu 932 miles fri yn, Ga., te d cut off fr« one day at urit caugh dit.” are found ttom is fou » Atlantic | here plumi panions wé¢ wing the s of the bell height. B 30n 2 coun} lo discontij * Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1886, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O. Entered at the Post Office, New York, be Commenced Wee Vol. 41. Office 31 P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. Rose St. New York, Jul¥ 10, 1886. Three Dollars Per Year, as Second Class Maiter. = No. 36. THE OLD PATH. BY C. A. I have waikea to-day in the leaf-stfewn path Where I ran in childhood’s hours, Gathering rich blossoms all the way, Pure, pale arbutus flowers. The path is just as it was of old, Though trodden a trifle less; And the sunbeams gloss the river’s flow With as rich a loveliness. And near the top of the breezy hill I found the gnarled old pine, In stinted grandeur frowning there, As in the dear old time. The ivy-plums are crimson now, "Neath their glossy, shining leaves, And over all the warm sunlight lts golden tracing weaves. 1 looked far down to the meadow lands, } And saw the chestnut tree Hanging its moss-grown branches out? O’er the river’s melody ; And I thought of the time so long ago, When I played in the shadows cool, And fished with a stick for the chesnut burrs Which swam in the azure pool. The wildw®irds sang in the woods to-day, And the squirrels ran on the wall; The breezy winds, with their scented breath, Were in the elm trees tall. The whole bright sky was blue and fair, And the air was harmony ; Isat me down with a saddened heart, For the change was but in me. > o<______- (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] MARRIED IN JEST; OR The Heiress of Fernley, By MRS. HELEN CORWIN PIERCE, HAGAR,” “THE UNLOVED WIFE,” ETC. CHAPTER I. THE LITTLE SOMNAMBULIST. By the bluff road which leads to Macedon Center, a lonely little town in one of the Western States, came, one late autumn day, a woman, plainly attired, yet with a certain picturesque arrangement of garb, and leading by the hand a child whese singular beauty and supe- rior air not even the dust and fatigue of travel could wholly obscure. She was tall for her years, which could not have been more than seven or eight, and she moved beside her companion with a sort of haughty grace strange to see in so small a creature. The people they met stared at the pair openly. The woman stared back with a pair of bold black eyes. The child saw no one, and her countenance wore a frowning expression that would have been named sullenness on a plainer face. The woman paused before the first house they ap- proached of any pretension, and opened the white lat- ticed gate. The child drew back. “Are you going to ask for work ?” she demanded, in a voice sweet as a bell, but haughty as a young princess. Her companion shrugged her shoulders. “Not I,” she answered, in tones rich, but broken with an accent foreign to that of the little girl’s language. «Then I shall not go in,” was the response. ‘I have told you i will work, but I will not beg.” «You need not, pretty one, I will only ask for a bit of bread and a bowl of milk; and we are both hungry,” was the coaxing response. The child had not tasted food since morning, when a farmer's wife had humored her by letting her gather ap- ples to earn her breakfast. The little creature was hungry. The thought of a bowlof fresh milk, with the sweet fresh bread floating about in it, was almost too much for her resolution. But with great firmness she turned her back upon the house, and neither coaxing nor anger could move her. As they waited thus, a young man came from the house and down the walk toward them. He was a Stalwart, well-built young fellow, rather above the average height, with a frank, handsome face, browned by the sun, and a pair of smiling hazel eyes that regarded the pair at the gate curiously as he said, with Western cordiaiity : “Will you walk in?” The child turned at the sound of his voice. Such an intensely mournful glance as she lifted to his the young man thought he had never met before. He smiled, pleasantly, and held out his hand. She came forward at once and put her slender fingers in his, still watch- ing him with those great solemn eyes. The woman laughed. «lve been trying this long time to coax her in to rest, but she won’t come,” she said. «T reckon she will now,” and the young man’s hand closed reassuringly on the little fingers. The child made no reply, but to look at him in that in- tent way asshe let him lead her up the walk to the ae while the woman followed, chuckling under her breath. They crossed a wide, low porch, and entered a hall, a large and bright apartment, which seemed. to be a din- ing-room. A table was being spread in the center, and a young girl sat by the window sewing. The young man gave each a chair, but the child, in- stead of taking hers, clung to his hand. Strangely won and touched, he sat down himself, and drew her to him. With a wild cryshe suddenly flung her arms up and about him. “Take me back to mamma. Oh, do, do!” she im- plored, in frantic accents. She burst into hysteric screams as the woman rose hurriedly and approached her, and clinging to him with one arm, beat the air with the other in the woman’s di- rection. ae woman smiled, insinuatingly, as she said to her- self: “T thought she’d got over that ;” and aloud: ‘‘She’s had the fever, por thing, and it affected her here,” tap- ping her own head, significantly, and casting an appeal- ing glance at the other members of the family whom the child’s screams brought into the room. ‘Come, Ina —sweet one,” inacoaxing tone, taking her by the arm. “I will never go with you again,” the little girl said, in azhard, unnatural voice.‘‘If you make me go, V’ll beat my head on a stone till ’m dead.” “There, there,” said her stalwart protector, soothing- ly, patting her face, ‘that is all right now,” and he winked at the woman, adding to the latter: “You won’t think of going any farther to-night, I hope; you had better stop with us. Supper is almost ready.” . + ¢ AUTHOR OF “ae : EE . OF a “NAMELESS | ce. ex ein eng meen HH i The woman resumed her good humor. She seemed to hesitate. Perhaps she refiected that whatever harm could be done by the child’s talk was already done, and the odor of supper ascended invitingly. She bowed herthanks, and by her willingness to re- main, half disarmed her host of the suspicion$S which had assailed him as he compared her with the child, and listened to the frantic appeals of the latter. No one else had spoken, and being summoned now to the table, all sat down. The little girl, by a quiet ma- neuver of her new-found friend, whom the rest called Pen, was placed next to him, her traveling companion farther down on the same side, so that the twain could not see each other. The woman bore herself with an air of smiling content and unconcern, and ate freely. The child, though so hungry, scarcely tasted the food Pen piled on her plate, ‘sTAKE ME BACK TO MAMMA! but sat with one little hand holding to the breast of his coat during the whole meal. Pen glanced at her occa- sionally, to find those strange unchild-like eyes watch- | ing him intently, or else gravely studying the other kind faces about her. «You are a stranger in this part of the country ?” ques- tioned Mrs. Payson, Pen’s mother, addressing her, guest. «‘All the way from New York, ma’am,” was the wo- man’s answer. ‘Ina’s mother was my sister. She was sick at the same time Ina was, and she died. I’ve tried | to be a mother to the child.” ‘Are you going far ?” «To my brother out in Iowa.,” } Ina, as the woman called her, made several attempts | to interrupt her, displaying great excitement. But Pen shook his head at her, and bent now-and then a won- derfully reassuring glance on the sweet young face, while with a few seemingly careless questions he sifted the woman’s account to his satisfaction. A fire was lighted on the broad hearth as it grew | dark, for the evenings were chilly ; and Pen, coming in | from the performance of his outdoor duties, found them | all gathered before it. Mag, as the strange woman called herself, still having knotted-about her head the gay handkerchief she wore in place of a bonnet. An air of some expectancy was visible as Pen drew a chair forward and took Ina upon his knee, to her evi- dent and intense satisfaction. “TI like you,” she whispered, shyly. ‘If you'll let me stay and be your girl, I'll be as good as | can be.” Pen laughed. «Does she look like her mother ?’ he asked Mag, as he |} passed his hand slowly over the child’s luxuriant curl- ing hair. Mag nodded. «They were as like as they could be.” Ina turned her head on Pen’s shoulder. «T am not like her a bit,” she said, eagerly. ‘Mamma | is pretty as she can be, and she lives in a house ten | times bigger than this one. She don’t walk when she goes out, like us. She rides in a beautiful carriage, and | she has rings. I had some rings, too, and a little | watch. Mag sold them— didn’t you, Mag ?” Mag’s dark face whitened perceptibly, and her eyes | flashed with malignance. She only compressed her lips, however. She knew by experience that it was small | profit denying what Ina said in her presence. “It’s like touching fire to gunpowder to contradict | her,” she grumbled to the others. Mag and little Ina spent the night where they were; | at least Ina did, for she was there in the morning, cud- dled awayin the arms of one of Pen’s sisters, with whom she had slept. Mag had vanished nobody knew where, but she had gone. “She got a bad scare,” Pen privately remarked to his mother. ‘I was satisfied the child was no kin of hers, and I told herso. Ias good as told hershe had stolen her, too. She flared up indignantly, but you see she has fled. I reckon that’s the last of her.” “You'll never see her any more—eh, Ina?” as he caught a glimpse of the child’s black curls through the door-way. Ina’s face was quivering with unmistakable delight, * she sprang forward and held it up for a good-morning ciss. “Fie, childie! you’re not glad auntie’s gone, are you ?” he demanded, jestingly. ‘Is that the way you forget, old friends ?” | of this fright and agony that he reéiinquished it. alto- | tion on Ina’s. part, as she disappeart WWW \\ HAUL { ) Nil ten thousand times more!” she cried, with a passionate rush of tears. «‘What are you crying about then ?” But his own eyes moistened as he sat down and drew her upon his knee. | ‘Now then,” as he soothed her, “you said mamma was pretty, and wore rings; what was papa ?” | The little creature seemed to fygeze with sudden terror. v “Papa,” she said, in a frightened whisper, her eyes dilating, ‘‘papa was in @ coffin, and—and there was blood on his face in the woods, and the dreadful men with knives, and the guns——” She hid her face on his shoulder, and such a spasm of | shuddering seized her that Pen would question her no more, and forbade the others to do so, He made the at- tempt after a time once more, but with such repetition “She ain’t my auntie, and I hate her, and I love you | | } gether. “What will you do about her, Pen?’ asked Mrs. Pay- son. “Advertise.” was his brief response. He carried out his resolution, some time afterward, by advertising this pretty darling, for whom he doubted not some mother’s heart was aching, in half a dozen promi- nent newspapers of the country. “Are we to keep her, Penryhn ?” Mrs. Payson asked at the end of a month, when the advertisements remained | unanswered. The young man looked up wistfully from the wash-tub whose loosened hoops he was tightening. «Would you mind, mother? She has nobody but us; | and we all like her.” “Then she must have some clothes directly. She’s worn Jennys long enough,” said Mrs. Payson, energeti- cally, so that was settled. » A pair of solemn dark eyes were just then raised above the window seat. Pen caught their scrutiny, and | smiled brightly. “Did she mean me ?” whispered Ina. Pen nodded. ‘And do you like me, truly ?” Another nod, followed by aa sigh of intense satisfac- | behind the win- dow seat again, where she was doling out crumbs of moistened meal to a brood of young, chickens, the cun- ningest tiny pets the child had ever seen. * * - * * x * 2 One night, as Pen sat reading late after the rest had | retired, his sister Marion came to the door. “J wish you would come up Stairs, Pen,” she said, “something ails Ina, and [ don’t want to wake mother.” Pen followed her above, but Mrs. Payson was there | first. Ina’s room was over hers, andshe had heard the noise. Ina was out in the passage, sitting upon the floor in her night dress, her eyes raining tears, and repeating in a soft, tender little voice : «Don’t cry, mamma; darling mamma, don’t cry.” The other children, roused from sleep, stood about, sobbing from sheer sympathy. “She has been going on that way more than half an hour,” said Marion, as her brother stooped beside the child. ‘I’ve coaxed her, and scolded her, and shaken her, but she only says, ‘“Don’t cry, mamma,” in that heart- | aching way. I declare, it’s too bad,” and she furtively wiped her eyes. ‘I don’t believe she’s more than half | awake now.” “She is a good deal more than half asleep,” said Pen, as he lifted back the child’s curls, and showed how | tightly her wet eyelashes clung to her cheeks. “How | did she come here ?” “Jenny sald she got up herself.” «Don’t wake her, Pen. Itis dangerous to wake peo- | ple who get up in their sleep,” said Mts. Payson. ‘‘Dangerous ?—how ?” he asked, incredulously. | “J heard of one girl who never spoke @ word anybody | could understand again,” Mrs. Paysom. whispered, ‘‘for mercy’s Sake come away.” ? | Pen drew back, and stood looking tenderly at the child | crying, and repeating her sorrowful chant. | “Hang it all,” he broke forth, a tremor in his voice. ‘If that woman did steal her from her mother, she ought to be hung.” OH, DO, DO!’ SHE IMPLORED. | her bosom, ‘‘and I cried and cried | bad dresses, too, that rubbed me and hurt so, and she’s | got all my rings with the shiny stones in them. | fied by the thousand brilliant or tragic conjectures to | state in which she | strung organization had come through hardships and | privations which, as revealed by her childish talk, Pen | ous attempts which had been made to break a natur- i ally sensitive | cially after periods of unusual excitement, she was | times crying and moaning to herself, sometimes talking |in a sweet, dreamy fashion, always, however, seem- |P | } } 1 | | Nod “There,” exclaimed Mrs. Payson, ‘‘she is going back to her bed,” as Ina rose to her feet. But instead of that the little creature stood, slowly turning her curly head from side te side and smiling. “It’s nice to be home,” she murmured, in a voice of delicious content, “how nice it is after the long, dusty, dreadful roads. How soft the carpet is. J had forgotten all about that; and how pretty and big everything is. Oh, the silk curtains, the dear pictures, how their eyes follow me just as they used. It’s all just as it was, only mamma. Why doesn’t she ao to me ?” She began to cry again softly. ‘“Maybe she thinks I went away because I was naughty. Mamma, darling, I couldn’t help it. Mag said every day when I asked her, she would bring me back, but she never did, and I ached so here,” putting a little hand to She made me wear Oh, mamma, speak to me—do, do, mamma. Oh, she’s gone, she’s gone.” Shivering and sobbing woefully the child crept back to bed again, where her sobs were gradually lost in natural sweet slumber.” Pen bent over her a moment and kissed her gently. ‘You poor lost darling,,” he whispered, ‘‘my heart aches for you. If mamma is anywhere in this wide world [ll find her for you.” New advertisements were sent in every direction forthwith, and the child’s romantic story was caught up by one news reporter and another, enlarged and ampli- which her own vague but thrilling account of herself had given rise. But nothing came of it. Pen gathered from these fragmentary reminiscences, patiently extracted and composed from time to time, that between his darling, as he called her, and that mysterious home from which she had been torn must be a gap of perhaps years, one or two certainly, probably more. Shecould not recall any name save Ina, and her recollection of home, though conveying the im- pression of grandeur and magnificence, was too misty and incomplete to afford any real clew to the mystery. Pen had forbidden any reference being made in Ina’s presence in regard to her sleep-walking and talking. He judged it best, in the highly excited and nervous seemed. Her delicate but finely only wondered she had outlived. Grief and the numer- but imperions temper had seriously harmed her nervous system. A scene like the one just narrated did not occur again for some time. Pen, whose special pet and property the child seemed to be, and for whom she evinced a passionate affec- tion that was almost idolatry, took such measures for the complete restoration of her health as promised to prevent the repetition of somnambulism which he be- lieved attributable alone to nervous excitement. . But still, from time to time, as she grew older, espe- liable to leave her bed and go wandering about, some- ing to imagine herself in that mysterious and beau- tiful home from which she had been so cruelly torn, and always entreating mamma to speak to her in those iteous accents which it wrung every heart to hear. She was silent and sad always the nextday, and when Pen with great care and tenderness questioned her—she would permit no one else to do so—she an- swered him reluctantly, and with more or less tears. He found that she remembered with remarkable dis- tinctness the occurrences of these dreams, if dreams they were, and he was puzzied by her manner of allud- ing to these occurrences as real events. One morning, when Ina was fourteen, she stood be- side Pen on the low porch, her head leaned wearily against his strong shoulder, his hand lifting and letting fall admiringly the long, blue-black curls which hung in heavy clusters below her slender waist. Her sweet face was pale, her eyes heavy. . “You shall Have it your way, Pen, and I will have it | «No: because these fancies make you unhappy. I believe if you would not grieve so over them you would >.op having these unpleasant dreams.” “How can [ help grieving when Isee mamma so un- | appy, so changed ?” asked Ina, her lips quivering, and then, as Pen repressed a smile, ‘‘I tell you, Pen, it is not a dream, at least, not what you mean by adream. Is there nosuch thing as the spirit being in one place while the body is in another ?” “Not in this life,” said Pen, dryly. pre morbidness. as he called it was very distateful to him. She stood with thoughtful eye a moment. “You don’t know that, Pen, dear. Something in me sees the grand and beautiful old home as it is now—not as it was when I left it, and mamma is not always there ; she is Sometimes in a house that I never saw, | and she is changed, too. I remember her all roses and dancing motion, She is pale, and nearly always lying ;down now. I am sure she is very ill. Oh, Pen, if I | ore find her. soon I shall die. Is there nothing we can | do ?” | ‘Heaven knows I would do anything,” said Pen. with | deep feeling. ‘You know that well enough. I would | almost give my life to see you in your mother’s arms.” | “I know it, you darling Pen, I know it,” she said, , eagerly. ‘I’m an ungrateful girl, after all you’ve done, to keep pining so! But,” with a burst of sobs, ‘I want | Mamma to-day as much as I did the day you led me | through the gate, and I clung to you and begged you to | take me toher. The loss of me is killing her, Pen—I know it is.” | “Ina,” said Pen, gravely, stopping a moment to steady } his voice, ‘‘you have only the authority of a dream for these notions you have taken up about your mother being so changed. She is as likely to be well and happy as you. J am sorry to see so sensible a girl so governed by her imagination.” Ina forced a pitiful little smile, “Let us stop talking about the subject,” she-said. “Still I have a hope that, sooner or later you will admit that my dreams are based on reality.” | CHAPTER II. MARRIED IN JEST. Ina Payson, aS everybody called her, was seventeen, and she had more than realized the promise of the child’s exceeding loveliness. It was a face dreamy and sweet as a song, haughty and reserved as a young em- press. The girl herself was full of as strange contradic- tions as her face was. She was, one of those women, Unapproachable when they choose, who yet bewitch men with a glance ora smile, as other women, however lovely, do not with ex- tended coquetries. “She need only crook her litle finger,” Mrs. Payson said, ‘‘and half the young men in the country would jump.” Penryhn Payson looked on with keen but covert dis- pleasure. The heart of the eager, impulsive young farmer, had never held but one woman’s face, and that nd ee at rhoOn With then hh eal Dee bts were Lr Gv POOR W Died BY ine BAe Ep - hand mm his and clung to him, his worship haa begun, and had never wavered. She was something purely and peculiarly his own, and a ‘his heart thrilled painfully at the thought of others sharing her innocent smiies, or striving for a place in the heart he believed he had filled entirely until now. The only son in a large family, Penrhyn Payson had been accustomed from an early age, by the death of his father, to look upon himself as the head of the family, to have his wishes regarded, his word the law; and this had fostered a habit of self-assertion which only his gen- erous and upright nature kept from being offensive to his associates. One evening, at a merry gathering of the young peo- | ple of the locality, some foolish fun-lover proposed that they should have a sham wedding, and that Ina Payson should be the bride. Pen, who sat beside her, moved uneasily in his chair at the suggestion, and his hazel. eyes emitted an odd flash, aS he swiftly possessed himself of her hand, and declared, with an emphasis that it was evident would brook no opposition, laughingly as it was given, that if Ina was to be married it must be to him. Ina, her face vivid with half-angry blushes, objected at first, and then, catching a glimpse of Pen’s hand- some white face, yielded the point. She had noticed that though his lips smiled his eyes did not, and she said to herself: “He'll say it was because it was he, if I refuse.” Pen was certainly in a queer mood. He watched the door through which Ina vanished to be prepared for the bridal by her laughing companions, with a half-defiant, set expression that puzzled the other young men ex- ceedingly. e “Never saw Pen Payson look that way but once be- fore,” muttered one. ‘That was just before he flogged the schoolmaster for calling Miss Ina an impertinent huzzy. He gave her particular Jesse for being saucy in the first place, and then he told Pap Higgins if he didn’t apologize for calling her names, he’d give him particu- lar something else ; and didn’t he though ?” «He did indeed, with a vengeance,” said another, in the same low voice. ‘I was there, and bad as I hated pap, I was sorry for him. Whew! wasn’t Pen mad that day? I believe he would have flogged the poor old schoolmaster till now, if Miss Ina hadn’t almost torn his coat off him trying to get him away.” This had been one of Pen’s escapades in Ina’s behalf, and one he was heartily ashamed of afterward. The matter went to law, and Pen made handsome acknowl- edgments and paid a heavy fine, besides giving Pap Higgins a bonus which was ample enough to abundantly salve the forgiving old man’s injuries. That was the way with Pen Payson—quick as a flash, and never stoppjng to consider when he was angry ; but just as ready to acknowledge his error if he was wrong, and doing that so freely, with such engaging frankness, that notwithstanding his numerous quarrels he had not an enemy in the county. While the other young men of the party were discuss- ing Pen Payson’s odd looks and behavior, his friend Phil Dawson stood apart talking to Pen. 1t was impos- sible to guess what he was saying, but whatever it was, Pen did not seem to like it. He shook the other’s hand off his shoulder with a haughty gesture, and those who were near enough heard him say: “You gave me your word tosee the thing through, Phil, but if you want to back out, say the word. It won’t either make or mend matters much; J sha’n’t give it up, if Iam balked the first time.’’ And just then Pen was summoned to lead forth his bride. “J wish you wouldn’t look so solemn over it, Pen,” whispered Ina, half angrily ; ‘‘anybody would think we were being married in sober earnest.” Pen smiled grimly, and held her hand like a vise. ‘How ridiculously he acts!” thought Ina. ‘If it wasn’t for making him gloomy the rest of the evening, I'd show him if I was going to be hectored in this way into what I don’t like.” It was a solemn-looking wedding, considering the pair were only being married in jest, ; Pen did not pretend to laugh, but stood with that de- fiant glance now on his friend who was “playing min- ister,” and was “playing” it with a much more anxious countenance than the occasion seemed to warrant. There was some tittering around the room and among the bride-maids. But Ina, Pen, and Phil, to use the ex- pressive language of one of the lookers-on, ‘never cracked a smile.” Pen and Ina went home in a sleigh with Pen’s sisters, and though the rest made the night ring with songs and laughter, neither of these two spoke all the way. When the rest went into the house, Ina stopped be- hind, and followed Pen through the snow to the stable where he was putting up-the horses. Pen pretended not to see her, till she stood quite in the door-way. Now that his ‘‘frolie” was over, as he was in habit of terming these performances, he was ready to receive the scold- ing he knew he deserved with becoming humility. But he knew something of Ina’s scolding abilities, and that, or something else, made him wince inwardly at the an- ticipation. Ina stopped in the door-way and the stars gave light enouzh to show him that her eyes were shining like those other orbs in the heavens. “Well, Pen ?” she began, in that voice that was sweet even in anger. “T’m sure I’m very thankfulif you call it well,” Pen said, rather dolefully, ‘I was afraid you might call it mine,” she said, faintly smiling. ‘‘Will that do?” something else.” K Alter Next. - we 2p & scowl & or 2 served me as you did to-night, he should never hear the last of it.” “Shouldn't he? Well, I don’t want to hear the last of it. I hope I never shall hear the last of it,” Pen said, as he came out and led the way to the house. “Tt was outrageous,” Ina repeated, hali crying. «1 know it,” responded Pen, humbly. “J don’t know what you meant by it, or how I shall ever face those folks again.” “Pd like to see one of them so much as look anything you couldn’t face,” Pen remarked, rather dryly. “To be sure, SO Should I; but you know what J mean.” “TI know I’ve acted the fool rather more than common this evening. You may scold till ’m blue, and I won’t saya word. You'll forgive me afterward; you always do, you know,” Pen said, stopping on the porch a moment. Ina came beside him, crossed her gloved hands on his shoulder. and lifted her lovely saucy face toward him. It was not so dark but that he could see it and thrill at it. “The dear old Pen,” she said, “I couldn’t be cross with him, could I? Won’t he ever do so again ?” “Never just that way,” laughed Pen; and then the two went in and warmed themselves by the fire, which thoughtful Mrs. Payson had left for them. Pen’s sisters were still lingering there, and Ina dropped into their merry chat. But Pen sat silent, watching her with a look that she caught now and then, with an odd,.but mysteriously happy heart throb. CHAPTER II. LADY SIBYL TREHERNE. In anelegantly furnished room in a London mansion sat Lady Sibyl Treherne, trying in vain to still the agi- tation which would make her lips tremble, her voice unsteady. A tall, rather distinguished-looking, but somewhat sinister-featured man stood looking down at her anx- iously. Y “Tam sorry you should take it so hardly, Sibyl,” he said; ‘‘I am indeed.” “Don’t mind me,” the lady said, with*an impatient movement of her graceful person ; ‘‘go on with what you were saying, please. You think you have the clew to this missing heiress, and you mean to follow itup. I presume you are aware, Felix, that you are not the first one who has been tempted to undertake this interest- ing task. Do you propose to marry the heiress when you find her ?” She had spoken without looking at him, but now she lifted the angry light of her handsome eyes to his face. “What nonsense, Sibyl! Marry her, indeed, when I love you, my queen ?” ‘ge y Sibyl regarded him doubtiully, but her look softened. : ; «When do you go ?” «To-morrow.” She started, and her face grew white. “Oh, Felix !” “My dear love, I shall feel it as keenly as you.” “Oh, no, no! You would not go.” “Tf 1 consulted my own inclinations,” he said, with an air of great sincerity, ‘“‘I should never leave off entreat- ing Lady Sibyl till she consented to sacrifice wealth and luxury for my sake, to dare the terrors of poverty as my beloved wite.” “Oh, Felix, Felix !” extending her jeweled hands, while her beautiful face grew radiant with happy light, “oladly, gladly would give up all for you. Don’t go, don’t leave me.” “My dear,” exclaimed Felix Haversham, with an in- voluntary accent of dismay, ‘ 6 4 , LOSS OF MEMORY IN THE AGED. The loss of memory in the aged is accounted for by a deterioration of the brain elements and a diminution of blood supplied to them. One of the worst features of such cases is the fact that for along time after decay has begun an old person is not aware of it. The aged should all look to this danger in their lives, and resolve to combat it from the very first. By so doing they will make their declining years more enjoyable and give greater pleasure to their triends. Un- ceasing self-culture, éspecially in preserving the memory and intellectual faculties, should constitute a considera- ble part of the life of every aged person, even more than of the young. Only by it can this period of life be ren- dered pleasant and profitable. eee i Ba Horsford’s Acid Phosphate Produces Sweet and Natural Sleep. Dr. C. R. Dak®, Belleville, Ill., says: ‘I have found it, and it alone. to produce sweet and natural sleep in cases of wakefulness caused by overwork of the brain, which often occurs with active professional and business men,” “Don’t pe pevedes tiie Pen : it Senge pli naa | : THE DYING MOTHER TO HER CHILD. _ BY JENNIE STOVIN. Hush, my babe, when mother’s left thee, Who can soothe thy infant woe ? Let me hold thy hand and bless thee, Ere God's fiat bids me go. Who will guide thy early footsteps O’er the thorny path of lite ? Who will lead thy heart’s affections In the whirl of busy strife ? Oh, my babe, no one Can love thee With the love that mine would be, Grieving ut thy girlish sorrows, Sharing in thy childish glee. | Hush those tears, my baby darling, Lying sobbing on my breast; Let thy mother hold thee near her, Ere they bear me to my rest. Though thy father thinks he loves us, When I’m taken up above, He may seek another helpmate— Man is lonely without love. Then his wife may not have patience With my babe so frail and weak ; She may not with joy infold thee Showering kisses on thy cheek. All thy childish ways and fancies May seem foolish to her heart ; Oh, my babe, such thoughts are bitter, And ‘tis doubly hard to part. Hush, sweet darling ; cease thy sobbing ; I will lull thee off to rest ; Would that death would come and take me With my infant.on my breast. Would that we could go together Heart to heart and hand in hand, Drifting in a dream of silence To another, better land. —> e+ —___—_- (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] The Dead Witness: OR; THE LADY OF LISBON PLAGE. By MRS. M. V. VICTOR, Author of *’fhe Phantom Wife,” ‘‘Who Owned the Jewels,” Etc. (“Tae DEAD WITNESS” was commenced in No, 23. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXVII. AT BAY. But this woman was not one to give up. In a moment she raised her head. Poor Bella, in uncomprehending alarm, laid hold of her mother’s arm and tried to assist her. “Do not touch her !” cried the senor, sternly. At that Mrs. Jardine struggled to her feet, unassisted, » and with a smile upon her face which looked much as if a corpse should try to look pleased, she crossed the room, holding out her hand. : “7 am so glad,” she said, ‘‘so astonished! I nearly fainted with the surprise, for I had heard that you were dead, Glora, years ago. It is good of you to come so far to see your mistress once more. You were always a faithful creature, my good Glora. Are you married ? How are things at Lisbon Place? Oh, I have,so man questions to ask you.” ; : “Do not speakito me, Mrs. Henderson.” The lady looked inquiringly at Sebastian. “My poor Glora,” she said, compassionately. The mulatto woman deigned no reply.» “J partly understand,” went on uy to the can cie “Mrs. Henderson was, I believe, the name of my companion who was killed in Cuba. Oh, yes, that was her name. I suppose the fright and ter- ror of that night must have affected poor Glora’s mind, and jumbled up names and persons. Glora, my girl, don’t you know your own mistress, whose b braided, in whose room y slept nial j > TISAb, ODsY € ; I suppose she has grown worse. You would feel foolish to find that you had been impressed by the insane fancies of an ignorant slave! For my part, I don’t think her safe, and will retire.” She spoke with such assumed coolness that Sebastian once more doubted. _ “You must not leave the room,” hesaid. ‘Stay, and let. us have an explanation. Bella, dear, will you go away and leaye us? I have business on hand unfit for you to hear.” The girl had been gazing at the mulatto woman very earnestly. ‘Little birdie-bird!”’ said the slave, with a bright smile, as She met the look, speaking as she would to a young child, ‘‘doesn’t she know her old nurse ?” ‘Yes,’ answered Bella, dreamily; ‘‘you are my Glora.” $ “That’s so, birdie-bird, your own Glora. And who is that ?” pointing suddenly to the woman, whom she had accused——. “That ?” echoed Bella, gazing into the face of the one whom she had called mother tor so many years; ‘that 1S Many changes swept over her countenance—ripples of light and shade, as you have seen clouds drifting | shadows over a lake; it was evident that memory was | struggling through the twilight which had crept over her childhood ; the sight of her old nurse and playmate, by the mere magical power of association, was restor- | ing those early years to the vividness of life. We know that often in fever, and in drowning, every | incident of our past lives will arise before us, as dis- | tinct aS in the hour it happened, although we rhay not | have dreamed that the impression was still photo- | graphed on one of the countless pages of our brain. Such a crisis now arose with Bella, from the sudden vision of Glora smiling upon her, and calling her by the pet name of her infancy. was as if it were not—she was transported into the past; and staring earnestly into the averted face which | could not bear her look, She stammered : “That is Mrs. Henderson. Oh, where’s my mamma ?” Then confused, bewildered, looking from one to an- other of the agitated group, she ran toward Mrs. Jar- dine, and bursting into tears, cried out : “Mother, what is the trouble ?” The unhappy woman opened her arms; Glora sprang like a tiger and clutched away the young creature, who would have rushed into them. ‘““Murderess, touch her not!” she exclaimed, for the first time losing a portion of the calm which had hither- to upheld her. «Bella, come to me—come to your mother. [ will have her !” ; The two women struggled over Bella, who fainted dead away. The senor, meantime, had rung his bell; his body servant answered it. «Bring Anita to take Miss Jardine to her room.” Bursting with curiosity to know what was going on, Carlos found the maid, who, not daring to ask a ques- tion, lifted her young mistress in her stout arms and bore her off to her bedroom. “Remain by the door,” the, master then ordered the man, ‘‘in the hall.” Carlos took up his station as near to the keyhole as possible. “Mrs. Henderson, I am convinced of the truth of this woman’s statement.” She burst into a scornful laugh. **AS you please, Sebastian. But I think it will be very difficult—in fact, impossible—for either of you to prove it. You are welcome to your opinions. Only take care that you do not spread them. There is such a thing as suit tor defamation of character. Do not meddle with my good name, nor interfere with my property rights— that is all. You can retire from the relationship. I am willing. There is no earthly manner of proving what this creature has said—an ignorant, insane slave. You can calculate the worth of her testimony in a court of law. Let me alone. I defy you to meddle with my affairs.” Sebastian was staggered. What would not a woman like this do to maintain possession of money and prop- erty gained by such infernal means? Suppose she con- tested her right to Bellaas herown child? He keenly felt that this bold and unprincipled adventuress still possessed a power of which he knew not how to deprive her. She saw that he was thinking of this, and a por- tion of her arrogance returned to her. ; “At least.” she thought to herself, while hope revived in her terrified mind, ‘“‘he will allow me to get away. He will not venture to arrest me.” Her eye sparkled with the diamond-flashes of a ser- pent’s about to strike, as she turned it on Glora, while she said : “JT shall go, and shall take my daughter with me.” «Never !” breathed Glora. Mrs. Jardine laughed. ‘Master, I command you to arrest this woman for murder. If you are afraid to do it, let your fears depart. I have the proots, and they will stand the law.” dine, turning | For a moment the present | As she spoke she drew from her bosom a little book and held it before the eyes of its former owner. «All L ask is for you to hold Mrs. Henderson under ar- rest until you have warmed the pages of this book and read what she’s wrote in it.” When its writer saw the book and had time to remem- ber what it was, she made one spring past Sebastian, dashed open the French window, leaped out upon the grounds, arfd ran, Af Ae ’ Glora went after her like a blood-hound, caught her midway of the garden, threw her arms about her from behind, and held her firmly until the senor and his men arrived upon the spot. ‘ «Bring a rope, Carlos.” «Don’t bind me,” said the prisoner, sullenly. ‘‘L will return with you.” , She walked back with them; but Sebastian kept his eye on her. a ae. When they reached the hall he seated her and bound her in a chair. ae ; «Carlos, I give you. and Juan the watch. If you let this woman escape I shall hold you responsible.” “Heavens !” his own blood relation !” muttered Carlos, naturally mystified By such proceedings. ma. lora, one thing more. ‘If you wish “Master,” said Glor ! to learn the fate of your own boy study another little book like this which you will find in her pocket.” — Sebastian’s brain whirled ; he put his hand to his fore- an broke from his lips. i her head against the back of her ary, Similar in appearance to the cket of her dress, scream ugh the hall. Sen ession of her rage and despair was oO do. a His prisoner lean chair, and as a sma other, was taken f1' after scream rang This impotent ex | all that remained t Mer «Thad not even thgught of my boy in connection with the other story,” murmured Sebastian, as he went back into the library with Glora. ‘Why, girl, this book is a blank. There is notiting here.” . «Hold it to the heat o’ the lamp, master.” He held the firstpage to the lamp, and presently it came out full of wring; but the date was years back, and he could not wap to read it in his present trame of |mind. He turned #h,the latter part of the apparently ‘blank diary, se “alrother page, and heated it. - “{ hope to come™into. communication with the Co- manches; but I cannot manage it; they might help me to get rid of him,” were the first words which appeared, sharp and clear, before his anxious eyes. He drew a chair to the table, pulled the lamp close to him, and went on ; kg jorgot the waiting slave, the won- dering and weept 1 up stairs, the woman bound in the hall; to read, to jearn the fate of his boy, if it should prove that these pages could betray it, was the sole, en- grossing idea. Hal ; Glora, determined that Mrs. Henderson should not bribe the two men-servants to permit her escape, took up her station in the hall. Sebastian, alone in his study, went on With his reading : 1 : “How pleasant itisin camp to-night. This is a pic- turesque place, this little valley, high up in the moun- tains. Bella and Anatole are admiring the effects ot the firelight dancing through the darkness. I wish that -spooney captain would keep his eyes off Bella’s face for one minute out of sixty. I don’t love him any too well. If it had not been jgr him I should have finished my pusiness in San Fr Oo. He suspected me. I thought all was up with me when he told me about my buying the poison; however, he let if pass. Poor Elee ! he had to suffer for my misdeeds. Served him right. He, too, was one of the proWling kind; I am certain he was watching me. Yes} removed the arsenic from my bag to prevent my ugng.it. I suppose he dared not ac- cuse me—a poor ‘heatpen Chinee.’ fe “It was a bold strdke on my part, to arrest the sus- picions of these genemen by offering to travel home in theircompany. Like most bold deeds, if you are only cool enough, it had tg desired effect. I think all ‘their bad impressions havggyorn off. i ne * * af * = * * * «The opportunity does not seem to arise. In two days more we Shall be at Mame., Then I shall have all to do { overagain. I must do something this very night. * * * * * * * * . “J have done it. Qelieve it will prove a success. If they should come On his body they will not suspect me. It was very easily accomplished, aiter all. I gave him sufficient opium in his coffee to induce a profound and od on toward morning, back along our route had ed aS we came in, where there was a grove of stunted pines, and wiiere the pine-needles and soft soil underneath could easily be pushed aside to make room for a human ae The little fellow was even lighter than I thought; his San Francisco diet has not agreed with him. ah “The moon was about to rise as IT reached the place; gave light enough for my purpose. I found a rried him in my arms two miles cunn the roots of an ol e. I should say it had been some- times used as the lair of a wild animal. Anatole fitted nie iE this little gaive. I meant to have opened a vein Ilaid him in; but the fact is, I hadn’t the heart to doit. Somehow, I was more nervous than I had on 5 bad = 4 , P z= 3 & «JT have been shaking in my shoes. search would be so thorough. I have not dared to draw a long breath until we were long away from the valley. Now we are at the mines. If the meeting with the boy’s father was over, { should begin to take some com- fort.” ' Sebastian did not wait toread more. He arose and went out and stood before the traitress whom he had sheltered and befriended. ‘ She put her hands before her eyes to shut out the sight for the blasting words shee ted to hear, he turned and went away. Not to rest, however. He sent out his orders over the place for his best men, not wait till morning. him. «Where are you going to take me?’ inquired his prisoner, as he returned after an hour, and ordered the two servants to place her, with her hands tied, on a horse waiting at the door. ‘*To the nearest village, where Summary justice shall | be. done you.” \ “Can I say good-by td Bella 2” «No. ? «T loved her,” said e adventuress, dreamily, to her- Self. She was lifted to the saddle, and surrounded by an | armed escort, headed by Sebastian, she rode away, at midnight, from the place she had schemed to make her own. On—on—on—tramped the silent cavalcade, with the fair moon looking down in placid wonder on the strange | procession. 4 With drooping headswand freshly aching heart rode | Sebastian. His suffering was greater than when he first learned | the loss of his son. They had gone out of the lovely, open valley, the were passing through a portion of the way bordered on one side by a hill and on the other by a forest-—a road so dark with shade that the moonlight made little im- pression—when suddeuly a troop of marauding bandits dashed out in front of them and fired. These fellows had trobably heard of the treasures spy on the place—perhaps one of his own peons—to give notice when the next cortege set forth. Learning that he had started in the night, with twenty muies and horses, they naturally crew the inference that this was the guard to another load of gold dust. In the darkness their aim was uncertain. The spy who had communicated the news was among the senor’s own men, and had known for hours that there was no treasure—that Sebastian was taking a woman to prison. He now dashed forward with a shout, saying some- thing which gave the robbers to understand that there was no plunder. ‘ Swearing at him, ami at their luck, they retreated into the forest. Meantime, in the midst of the shouting, firing, and general confusion, the woman of many aliases bent to- ward the peon who maintained his place at her bridle- rein. The horses of both were frightened, leaping and curveting in a manner Which threatened the prisoner, at least, withafall. | ‘| “Do you see three diamond rings on my fingers ?” “T have seen them ali the night, signora.” “Strip them off and cut the rope, will you, Roberto ?” What Mexican peon could ever resist a bribe? The rascal looked about, saw his master’s attention diverted toward the flying bandits, drew off the rings, which he hid for the presentin his mouth, and, with a dextrous movement of his knife, severed the cords which bound her wrists. Inasecond the reins were in her own hands ; she struck her plunging horse a fierce blow with her heel. “Farewell, Sebastian !” When the senor heard the mocking cry and looked in the direction from which it came, he beheld his prisoner in the midst of the retreating banditti, the whole band of which now dashed into the forest down a stragghng Baye leading probably to one of their strong- olds, It was a dangerous track to follow, where death might send his darts from bebind any tree or bush; the black shadows shut out the moonlight utterly; only those familiar with the way could keep it. Still Sebastian, de- termined to retake his prisoner, did not hesitate to fol- low, calling his men to support him. A few obeyed, but the more cowardly remained hud- died in the main road. A few scattering shots were fired. The senor narrow- ly missed a bullet which came hissing past his ear from behind a dense mass @f bushes; one of his best ‘men was wounded, while the robbers, making much the best speed, were presently cut of sight and hearing, so that eke was nothing leit for him.to do but to wait for day- ight. : I did not think: the lasting sleep. When the camp was entirely quiet, well | 0 a little sheltered place which I | hollow, a sort of crevice in the earth, between | «ad THE NEW YORK WEEKLY, #8 > mans Returning to the road he ordered his men to rest on the grass until the approaching morning broke. He bound up the wounds o1 the injured ones and sent them home, but resolved to continue the pursuit aS soon as daylight permitted. ; He was a man of unflinching nérve, and he felt that he could not permit the escape of the murderess ; but he found himself baffled completely. After riding for near- ly half a day he was convinced that he had been misled —as in fact he had by the treacherous peon who was in leagpe with the banditti—his men weary and famished, and he was compelled to give up-—at least for the pres- ent—all idea of bringing Mrs. Henderson to justice. _ What fate betell that bold and terrible adventuress he could not tell. Whether the banditti received her kind- ly as a fitting member of their murderous league, or whether she, in turn, became a victim. That sharp, mocking, ringing cry, as she plunged among the wild men to whom she must have a kindred spirit, was the last of her, | ; “Farewell, Sebastian.” CHAPTER XXVIII. THE WRECK OF THE UNDINE. What had become of the Undine’ ‘ As the thunder-clap broke overhead Lillie gave a lit- tle shriek, woman-fashion; Grace looked straight on before her at the magnificent, dark, wild panorama of sea, earth, and sky. She-had made her petition, and was too proud to make it twice. She believed that Mr. Stuyvesant was running this risk toannoyher. She felt very angry, as well as alarmed—very indignant for Lil- lie’s sake—but she pressed her lips together and said nothing. Now the truth was that Vance had not calculated upon the storm—of course he could not have done so— and it was as great a disappointment to him as it wasa terror to the ladies. His plot had been to sail for the Isles of Shoals, or some other port which would keep the two girls out on the sea for several days, and with this in view he had provisioned his vessel for a fort- night, and had also provided cloaks for the ladies’ wear. His object was not entirely clear to himself. Reckless and thwarted he wanted some sort of revenge ; but how light or how deep that revenge would finally prove, he had not fully made up his mind. He intended to give Maude a thorough fright, and so to compromise Miss Delzemar that the world would take it for granted that they were engaged. He now went down into the cabin and brought up two waterproof cloaks, which he threw over the girls’ shoul- ders, who were shivering in their light muslin dresses. By this they were making directly out to sea. The rapidly rising black clouds now covered more than half the heavens, while the breeze stiffened with that steady strength which always presages, to a sailor, very heavy weather. The yacht bounded forward, both main- sail and foresail full set. : Estas “You'll have to keep her closer to the wind, Mr. Stuy- sail sailing straining | vesant,” his sai master, eying the sails closely. “This breeze is coming down like a reg’ler Bahama blanket, and we may have to run be- fore it.” ; #3 “Not a bit of it.” said the yacht owner, with decided emphasis ; ‘the Undine will never turn tail toa wind like this.” The old sailor shook his head, and walked forward where the men were all on duty. «All taut, lads ?” he asked. : “Snug asa biscuit, bo’s’n; but we'll have the duds wasbed on us if the boss keeps out much longer,” an- swered one of the men. “Yis; this squall will give us plenty to drink,” and as he spoke the bows, striking squarely one of the fast- forming ones sent the spray fiying over the deck to the main. f The ladies, unaccustomed to the rough sea, showed iner Signs of trepidation; even Grace’s dignity ‘an to | Aken. , $s , Will you not turn about soon ?” asked Lillie. «What, white in the cheeks already, pet ?” he laughed. “Youll never do tor a sailor’s wife. Wait until it does a : This breeze will only show you what the Undine can do. Easing her off a point or two, Vance let the wind give | the swelling canvas itsfull force. The yacht, halt ris- ing at her bows, rd over to the pressure until the waters on the lee rushed over to the fscuppers, and the 1s, in fright, caught at the cabin combing for sup- “Steady there!” cried Vance; “are you ladies going overboard ?” “Oh, Mr. Stuyvesant,” Grace now wert to plead, “do not go tarther out to sea! I know it is going to blow harder. See there! that cloud is fairly swooping down! and see! there comes the scud!” she cried, ris- ing and pointing seaward to the visible line of mist which always hovers over the waters in advance of a pressing wind. Vance did see, for he drew the yacht’s head closer to | the wind, as Thompson came aft. | co of his face. He tried to speak; but while she waited | to the number of twenty, to arm and mount; he could | It was a moonlight night, and in | his restless and unutterable misery, he telt that he must | be doing something to prevent his senses forsaking | whole extent of which was owned by the senor, and | which Sebastian had been exporting, and had had their, “We'll have to reef, Mr. Stuyvesant; the storm’s ‘down for a bigger blow, and the spars are not Be stiff enough for all this sail.” ance looked QU SUL UUCK Lic yacht. “ The Undine, lifted high for a moment, trembled to her keel; then she lay over until the decks were nearly erect, and the men clung to the bulwarks and pins to ira from going overboard. Lillie and Grace being fortu- nately on the windward side, were caught by the cabin. Then came a crack, Sharp a as rifle-shot. The foremast had given way, snapping off almost | short with the deck; with a sickening swish, over went | the great sail and the jibs into the sea. | Vance, at last fully aroused from his dreain of revenge to a sense not only of his own peril but that of the seven others on board, shouted : “Away with the wreck!” but not sooner than Thomp- son was at the work. Seizing the ever-ready axes, the men: lunged away at ratlin and halyard, but the light craft bobbed on the now seething waters like a wounded duck. The forward rigging dragged her head down, and over the deck poured each successive wave. There was imminent danger of her swamping. Only one thing could save the yacht—the mainmast, too, must go over. “Over with it!” howled Vance—‘‘quick, men!” Thompson’s strong arms did the work for the mast; a half dozen impetuous strokes, and over into the boiling sea went Sail, mast, and rigging. “Go below, girls—below with you !” commanded Vance, in sharp, stern tones; aud seizing the fluttering gar- ments of Grace, he jerked her toward him, then giving her a Shove, sent her down the companion-way. ‘After her, Lillie, quick !” and the terrified girl sprang into the half-open area just as a great wave swept the deck and fora moment buried the Undine in its flood. Vance, seeing it coming, with wonderful quickness drew the companion-hatch and shut the little door, else the cabin would have been flooded. Allhands held on. until the water's rush was over, when the work of clearing the wreck was renewed. Stuyvesant, seeing that the helm was helpless, left the tiller and worked with the others to cut away‘ the rig- ging. This was effected in a few moments, the head- drag keeping the bows up to the wind, and when the fore-ratling went by the board the beautiful Undine was a bird without wings. three miles out at sea. with a gale increasing in force every moment to drive her help- lessly down upon a pitiless shore. Cooped up in the cabin, the two frightened, half-par- alyzed girls awaited their fate. They realized that death was very near. Grace, pale, but resolute, wrapped her arms about poor Lillie, who clung to her like a child, continually sobbing out: ; a “Ob, that I had not brought you down to the beach, race! “You were not to blame for that, Lillie. Hush, Lillie! Say your prayers.” j “But Iwas to blame--Iwas to blame!” shrieked the other; <‘thisis my punishment. Vance made me prom- ise to get you to walk there.” , “Did he?’ asked Grace. She scarcely heeded this revelation in the presence of the awful danger which now beset them. ‘Don’t fret about that now, darling. Say your prayers. At least we can die together.” ‘ “Oh, I don’t want to die, Grace—nor to have you ie!” “Life is sweet to both of us, darling; but if we must go, let us go calmly. All I would ask is not to be drowned in this cabin. I don’t like being shut here = , dying in a cage. I want to see the sky—to be ee I” The Undine was now drifting before the terrific wind. Tossed like a cork upon the waves, she appeared every moment in danger of rolling completely over; but the tempest in its force fairly pressed her down into the sea, and her stanch bearings kept her from foundering. The men, in utter helplessness tofavert their apparent doom, silently awaited the moment when they would have to struggle in a sea which no swimmer could stem orride. Vance alone, of all, was not unnerved. In that crisis the reckless bravery which had ever made one of his most admired and tascinating qualities, stood the test. It was the genuine thing. Unprincipled dare- devil as he was, he had true courage when it came to the last. He knew that he only was responsible for this dire disaster. He had insisted against the petition of his own sister and the warning of his sailing-master in pushing out to sea in the face of the squall. He had imperiled the life of the woman he loved. In that hour he repented of bis ill-feeling toward her whom he had wronged by deceiving her with regard to Oscar, but who had done him no injury. “Too late! too late!” he muttered; ‘‘we shall die to- gether.” “7 will save her!” he said, between his shut teeth, a moment later. : = But that was not for him to say. “Thompson,” he said to his companion, who had taken his station at the tiller to do what little might be done to keep her headed for shore, ‘if we beach, I want you to save one of the young ladies; you take Miss Lillie—I will take Miss Grace. If we shoal far from shore, noth- ing Can save us; but if we can strike the beach in rapid soundings, we may all be saved.” ' “Yl] do all man can do, Mr. Stuyvesant,” answered the brave sailér, and not another word was spoken. As the wreck neared the shore a number of persons were seen watching the sea, over which were flying a halt-dozen vessels running before the storm to make a port up the sound. The wreck attracted most atten- tion. On she came—not slowly, but swiftly—driven by the tremendous wind, which roared in its relentless energy; and the great waves went. trooping upon the shore, breaking with the booming sound of guns upon . the wild, tumultuous beach. What thing human could pass such a surt alive? The death-doom of all on that little craft seemed spoken, On, on, into that seething caldron of mad waters the Undine rushed. ; “Where will she strike ?” was now the only thought of every watcher. : a, “Now she is but five hundred feet away—four hun- dred—three hundred—now—ah! there, she staggers, and sheis aground—two hundred feet away and the waves breaking over her.” en. ae Dragging the almost senseless girls up the companion- way, Vance and Thompson each grappled his charge just as an in-rushing ridge of water, breaking into foam, rolled over the stranded vessel. i The watery avalanche passed, leaving not a living soul on board. alt The excited people on the beach caught sight of hu- man forms struggling in the wild waters. Now in sight, now overwhelmed, but nearing the shore with each suc- cessive wave, but little hope was there that they could come in alive. The bravest of the men on shore. grappling hands and forming a line, ventured as far as possible to seize the forms as they were tossed along, and thus prevent the undertow from carrying them away forever. It was a timely act, for soon a body floated in. It was one of the yacht’s men—a stalwart fellow and good swimmer, yet sO spent in his strength that, had it not been for those helping hands, he must have been overwhelmed at the very threshold of safety. : lt he were barely saved what would become of those freighted with the weight of two helpless Women ? One by one came the four sailors, and were dragged in, stunned and strangled, but not wholly drowned. Then, closely together, Game two others, each cloaping: in his left arm a woman’s form, while he battled to main himself with the right. With awful struggles they fought the sucking waves, endeavoring to keep on the surface to avoid the fatal undertow beneath them. It was a struggle with the odds too great. Yet one at length came near enough’'to be caught by the venture- some relief line, andman and woman were passed ashore, both apparently dead. i f The second man, with an energy born of despair, hait lifting his burden from the sea ashe neared the line, out: ‘save her !” and cast her insensible form on — ped fhe crest of the in-coming wave, which bore it far to- ward the men; then it stopped, asif caught by the re- turn waters,.and would have been washed back again | had not the brave fellow at the terminus of the line caught it by throwing himself forward. His form was in from man to man till it reached the also hand i beach. : And the man—where was he? That last effort used up the remnant of strength which might, perhaps, have saved his own life. He gave it to save another’s. As the woman’s form slipped from his hold he settled from sight, and was Swept backward into the sea. Vance Stuyvesant redeemed much of the evil of* his life when he gave it to save that of the girl whom he had so recklessly imperiled. #3 : There were several houses near at hand, back on the ridge of highland which skirted the beach. These were thrown open to the sufferers. All were at first stunned and unconscious... The efforts of others, with fires and warm drinks, soo revived the men. But the ladies were more nearly. not entirely, exhausted. Medical aid was sent for; but as no one, at the first, recognized the ladies, or knew to what friends to send tidings, their fate wag, for several hours, unknown to the Herberts. yg Ochi tt It was more than half an hour before ing-master came to his senses, enough what had occurred. te *‘Where’s the girl?” was his first question. q “In bed, in the next room.” i hha “Alive ?” “We hope so. The doctor thinks she will revive.” “Ar Vother ?” “She’s better. She’s spoken, and taken some brandy.” «An’ my captain—where’s he ?” No one responded to this question. He looked from face to face; then he struggled out of his blankets. — “Give me my duds,” he cried. . ie pu Expostulation was in vain. He swallowed the hot whisky given him, hurried into his wet garments, and made his way back to the beach. ' {t was now long after night, but a fire had been kin- dled, and as he came down on the sand, some persons were Carrying a body to its light, which the cruel waves in mockery had at last tossed upon the shore—too late. Life was utterly extinct, and there was a bad bruise on the temple, as if he had been dashed against the rocks. aptain,” murmured Thompson, water from his own eyes, “hand- ie aS everye see. A little rash ! He’s proved that with his life ; h every grain of his body. I can’t g like that!” looking mornfully in- face, smiling in : ead black wif pea 5 friends.” “ to report the los§ of, ladies belong,” answered one. pass that at about two o’clock, A. M., Mr. Hierbe ed the information which he had been for hours anxiously a Neither of the young ladies could be moved that night, however: nor was it safe, for two or three days after she reached home, to tell Lillie that in the darkened room below lay the dead body of the gay brother she had so admired and idolized. It was a terrible blow to her when it finally fell; and as she was never told by Maude or Grace of Vance’s evil doings, he remained in her memory a faultless and bril- liant hero, whose little teazing faults only enhanced his bright wit and splendid beauty. (TO BE CONTINUED.] -~¢~+—____. (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] TWO KEYS; OR, MARGARET HOUGHTON’S HEROISM, oe By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author ot ** Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘“‘ The Forsaken Bride,” *“‘Audrey’s Recompense,” etc. (“Iwo Krys” was comménced in No. 30. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] f er CHAPTER XVII. A PORTRAIT WITH A HISTORY. Mr. Forest's business detained him at Havre for sev- eral days, during which time Arthur occupied his time much as usual in seeking his own pleasure. But he did not appear to be in as good spirits as usual; something seemed to worry and depress him,'although he strove to conceal it from his iriends, and at times assumed a gayety which, even to them, seemed forced and un- natural. One day, shortly after the return of Mr. Forest, Mrs.. Houghton arranged for a trip to Versailles. Mr. Forest. and Arthur were invited to join the party, also Louis and some young friends of Mrs. Parker, and Ada, and the merry company started forth one bright morning, all’ eager to visit that wonderful palace, around which there clusters SO much of thrilling romance and tragedy. The day was perfect, and the ten miles drive over the lovely roads was one never to be forgotten. They reached the royal palace about noon, having stopped on the way hither to view the ruins of Saint Cloud, once ‘the magnifi- cent and favorite residence of Napoleon Third; and here they roamed at pleasure through its marble hails, its vast apartments, and galleries which contained such rare collections of paintings, statuary, and curiosities of every description. Thence to Le Grand Trianon, where Napoleon resided with Josephine, and where he conceived the infamous plan of sacrificing that lovely woman to his inordinate ambition. 2 ; From there they went to Le Petit Trianon, the charm- ing residence of the ill-fated Queen Marie Antoinette, then to the royal stables, where, in empty and silent state, stand the elegant though pondrous vehicles once used for the pleasure of the imperial household. Then came a stroll through the beautiful park, adorn- ed with magnificent statuary, sparkling with fountains, its walks winding through romantic grottoes, beneath the shadows of moss grown rocks and along the mar- gins of rippling streams, or the shores of quiet and beautiful lakes, and through groves of orange, and myrtle, and pine. To our young lovers, Louis and Margaret, this was a day of unalloyed delight; but to Margaret the beauties of the park were less interesting than the curiosities within the palace, and finally telling Mrs. Houghton that they were going back to the picture gallery in Le Petit Trianon, they slipped away unobserved by the rest of the party, found a guide to whom they made known their desire, and were soon deep in the study of those rare and beautiful pictures that adorn the walls of that lovely villa. é During a tour of the main gallery they came upon a picture, evidently the portrait of a remarkably lovely woman, which they had not noticed before. oon Pe cdi A alte a oe Pe Th ted beet et ee Eee a es Pia mM Ue ~_ thee: eee eae ha a per eed SD eM De ott Meet west COU OO Ob oOo SOct wm poh EO et Pheth ep .. e See > os T — = be Q2TER OFfds oe id ag Se st. 1d. 1e re Xe} ed fi- 1d is, a ee be) VOL, 41—No. 36, She was young, scarcely twenty, one would judge, and a vision that once seen could never be forgotten. A beautifully shaped head was set somewhat proudly | upon a pair of graceful shoulders; a wealth of rich brown hair was gathered back from a pure white fore- head, save a tew delicate rings which lay lightly upon | it; the eyes were large, dark, and liquid, and seemed to hold one with an delicate ; the smiling mouth was arch, yet wonderfully sweet and tender. the whole face a pure and perfect oval, the chief charm of which, however, lay in the fascinating eyes. “Where haye I seen such eyes before ?” murmured | Louis, meditatively. ‘There is a glory. and beauty, and tenderness in them that thrill me strangely.” “Margaret glanced up at him as he said this. He had bared his head, and stood gazing at the won- deriul picture with wistful earnestness. Margaret Houghton’s own beautiful face paled a trifle. She started—glanced from him to the picture, from the picture back to her lover again. «“Where ?” she breathed, in a low, startled tone. ‘Louis. go to the glass over yonder and look into your own eyeS; mark the shape of your head, your brows, the contour of your whole face. You will find the counterpart of this picture-in the reflection of your own countenance, only, of course, it is not quite so effeminate.” “Margaret, what are you saying? Surely you cannot mean anything so absurd !” the young man exclaimed. _ “Go look,” she repeated, giving him a gentle push to- ward a lofty pier-glass on the opposite side of the room. He went half smiling, yet with a strange sensation at his heart. There had been something in the portrait that he had recognized, and now he had avague idea that it was something like him. But as he stood before the glass and looked at his re- flection his face became grave, his heart grew quick and heavy in its pulsations. But those glorious eyes opposite—he could see them in the glass behind him, and now they seemed to meet and hold his almost with a look of recognition—might have been painted for his own. That brow, though a trifle more delicate and refined, was the exact outline of hisown; and the head, though not so massive and | strongly developed, was the very counterpart of that reflected in the glass. “It is wondertul!” he said, his betrothed. «You see the resemblance, then ?” the fair girl said. “Of course—I cannot help it.” “T wonder who she was? Perhaps,” Margaret added, more lightly and smiling, ‘‘you will yet find that you belong to the nobility of la belle France.” “Nonsense, dear: it is only one of those circum- stances which people term a ‘remarkable coincidence,’ ” he answered, skeptically. Know what I was noe That is a habit I have always had.” «Then the ring is a pledge ?” he questioned, his frame quivering with suppressed passion. : “Yes, itis a pledge,” she answered, quietly, thinking it better for him to know the truth at once. “You own it, then—you dare own it to me that you are engaged to Louis Dunbar ?” «Why should I not dare to ownitto you?” she said, coldly. “I am proud to acknowledge that 1am’ Mr. Dunbar’s betrothed wife.” “Margaret Houghton, beware!” Arthur Aspinwall hissed, white to his very lips. ‘That low-born churl, that ignoble upstart, who cannot name his father, will bring grief upon you yet, mark my words; you’ll find that beneath his prepossessing exterior there is a na- ture capable of depths of evil such as yOu have never dreamed of, and if you marry him I swear you shall live to curse your wedding-day !” “Arthur Aspinwall,” she said, with calm dignity, “you have noright to use such language in my pres- ence, and a repetition of such unmanly conduct will be promptly followed by the request to discontinue your visits here.” She turned abruptly from him as she ceased speaking and walked proudly from the room. . She did did not hear him go out, but when, fifteen minutes later, she was informed that Mr. Dunbar was below, and went down to meet him, Louis sat there alone and in the very chair that Arthur had occupied. He arose to meet her and folded her close in his arms. avail himself of my present prosperous circumstances, “My darling,” he said, tenderly “it seems as if I ,have you but very little to myself. I am so busy during the day, and there are sO many claimants tor your society when evening comes. I am fortunate for once, however.” «We have a great many demands upon our time, and, to tell the truth, Louis, I am becoming very weary of it,” Margaret answered, gravely. «Then I wonder if you would consider me very’selfish or presuming to ask you to name an early day for our marriage, so that I may claim you all my own ?” “Oh, Louis, I have been so happy In the present that I have not planned for that at allas yet.” Margaret said, looking a trifle startled by his proposition, but witha brilliant color suffusing her face. “T learned to-day,” pursued Louis, ‘that Mr. Hough- ton is contemplating a return to America before many months.” «Yes, papa will be ready to go home in the spring.” “My white lily, will yow be ready to go home in the spring ?” , Margaret Houghton lifted her pure face to her lover, a beautiful tenderness upon it. “How can I go without you ?” she murmured. “Can you stay, and let them—your father and mother —go without you ?” Tears sprang suddenly to the blue eyes upraised to his, for ‘‘father and mother” were very, very dear to the young girl. Then a vivid flush dyed all her face, while a tremulous smile of love and trust wreathed her lips, and Louis Dunbar knew that she would stay with him and be con. tent—that she would leave all else and cleave only to him. “You will stay as my wife, love?” he breathed, and she answered: “T will stay.” “Bless you, my darling! then I shall speak to Mr. Houghton at once. I believe lam the happiest man in all France to-night.” Margaret never forgot him as he looked at that mo- ment. They had seated themselves upon a small velvet tete- a-tete which spanned a corner of the room between a very wide arch leading into the next apartment and a window, There were heavy, elegant draperies suspend- ed from both arch and window, and these were looped back with heavy cords and tassels, forming a mass of brilliant and artistic folds in the corner behind them, and making a lovely background for the happy couple seated there. Margaret thought she had never looked upon any- thing more attractive than Louis’ grand head and hand- some, glowing face, outlined as they were against the |- rich scarlet and gold of those draperies: and yet she never recalled that picture afterward without a shudder and a sickening sensation at her heart. They sat there for more than an hour, talking over their plans and arranging for the beautiful life which they believed was before them. «There is one thing dearest, about which I must talk with you,” Louis said, very gravely, a little while before he leit. «Well, dear, is it anything very dreadful ?” Margaret said. archly. “No, but Margie, I cannot help knowing that some people will accuse me of being a fortune-hunter; for every one who knows you knows also that you possess a large sum of money in your own right.” «Yes, a wealthy relative left me quite a handsome legacy; but really, dear, I do not consider that a mis- fortune,” said the young girl, with a light laugh. “No, darling, but 1 am going to prove to the world that Thad no thought of that when I won you. I am going to have it so arranged that you alone can have the dis- posal of it.” “Oh, Louis, I am afraid that you are very proud,” Mar- garet interrupted, reproachfully. ‘I not only gladly give myself, but all that I have, to you.” ~ “And I only want yourself,” Louis replied, fondly. “Yes, Iam proud, my darling,” he added, ‘‘too proud to be willing to have it said that I, a comparatively poor man, married my wife for her money. And now that that is off my mind, tell me, dear, just how you would like to live.” : «Let us live like real American people,” Margaret re- plied, eagerly. ‘‘This French life may be very well for people brought up to it, but I so long for a cozy, sensi- ble home. Let us take a house, not a large one either, furnish it in true Yankee style—by that, I mean, let us be practical and comfortable; we will not keep more than one or two servants; we will have our three regu- lar meals a day, and live for ourselves instead of the world. I have had so much excitement during the last year that I shall be glad to live quietly for awhile.” “You could not have planned anything that would have suited me better,” Louisfsaid, his face radiant over this charming home picture.” “Louis,” Margaret said, with a sweet seriousness that made her very lovely, ‘oe<+ THE FEET OF A BEE. Naturalists say that the feet of the common working bee exhibit the combination of a basket, a brush, and a pair of pincers. The brush, the hairs of which are arranged in symmetrical rows, is only to be seen with the microscope. With this brush of fairy delicacy the. bee brushes its velvet robes to remove the pollen dust with whichit becomes loaded while sucking up the nectar. Another article, hollowed like a spoon, receives all the gleanings which the insect carries to the hive. 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Packages, are Perfectly Safe Sane @ HANDSOME EYES, BY HARKLEY HARKER. “T say black.” “And I vote for pale blue.” ; So the expressions ran round the circle, each one of a dozen young folks naming his and her favorite color. I was surprised to find that eyes had so many colors, for more than the seven of the rainbow were mentioned by these young enthusiasts. One, for instance, spoke very warmly in favor of ‘‘a blue that was gray and yet per- haps you would call it a gray that: was blue,” etc. etc. But I was not thinking of the hue as a necessary con- |. stituent of handsome eyes. Indeed, the beauty that I had in mind is quite indifferent tocolor. Any shade may wear it. I confess that it needs contour, size, healthy lids and lashes, and a good setting in the head. But given these conditions, I have seen the marvelous beauty of which I am to speak—somewhat rare, to be sure—in each of all the usual shades of color. To my mind a handsome eye must first of all be an honesteye. Now, of course, a cross-eyed man may be the soul of honesty, but his eye isinjured. A sty on an eye does not necessarily reflect a bad soul; a martyr or hero might have that annoying affliction; but we should have to rule his eye out of the list of handsome. Health and symmetry then being granted, the hand- some eye is the honest eye. Can1 describeit? No, nor can you; but youcan recognize it. You know I am speaking of a reality. Not by any means a staring eye. There isa bold eye, a brazen eye, an impudent eye, a cruel and cold eye; all of which look you full enough in the face, for that matter, and are wide enough open. But this is not the honest eye of which I am now sound- ing praises. The ox has it. Some horses have it; but the horse also presents us types of the ugliest eye that sees. Indeed it is my observation, from a good deal of study, that the most terrible. glance you ever saw may be found in the great eyes of some horses when roused with a bad passion. The really honest eye is only to be found in the face of a really honest man or woman. In- telligence must be made rich with conscious virtue. It is the eye that dares to meet you, yet is in no bold haste to confront you. It-4s the eye that.is as calm when it gazes into the depths of your own as when it turns across fields or to pick out a flower. Itis a restful eye; yet it can show deep emotion. I might write about it all day and not describe it intelligibly to one who never saw it; but, thank God, we have all seen it. I only re- mind you of that element of beauty in an eye, honesty. “Feeling” is another element. An eye quick to inter- pret your meanings, and to show that its possessor un- derstands you, is always beautiful, if honest. Life is so full of misunderstandings; we are so often misinter- preted, misquoted, and wrongfully reported ; the heart so often is weary trying to make the tongue tell its meanings, or the ear of another hear aright, that I think there is nothing more beautiful than the beaming of an eye which sees what you want to express. . An eye which sees when you are weary, or sad, or in trouble, no matter what your tongue may say; an eye which flashes back recognitions of generous sympathy, of tender consolation, of lofty cheer. An eye that shows you that it has divined your secret, and will honor the confidence. Ah, who of us has not thanked Heaven for such eyes in hours when many may have looked ai us, stared on us, but these two saw into us. Honest tears are necessary for the eyes’ beauty. Itis so much the modern fashion to be stoical, to weep at nothing—except the loss of money or diamonds—that the dear old eyes which can ‘‘weep with those that weep” are quite rare. Tears of brotherly sorrow; tears of high enthusiasm at sight of grand sunsets or moun- tains; tears of emotion under moving music, poetry, or oratory ; tears varnishing the eyes till they shine like stars in the darkness of a selfish world at sight of some heroic deed, well done; all these tears are beauty- lotions which no liars, no pretenders of the gay world can buy for all her gold. Worship, admiration, adoration, reverence for what is reverend, these are constituents of the beautiful eye. There are saucy eyes—let them praise them who like them, There are giggling eyes that blink and dance about a sanctuary, or an art gallery, or a noble social re- ception, vapid and meaningless as they peep over thé tops of fans—let them praise them who like them. Ah, but those eyes which I have seen in the house of God which seemed to have the far-off look of faith to the very Throne! Those lovely upturned glances as an old man spoke, as a venerable sage, a reverend mother ap- peared! Those eyes of fair youth which paused with unutterable admiration as a hero entered the room! That is beauty. It betokens beauty of the soul. It tells you of a garden in the soul where the paths are not all beaten hard, and the flowers nearly all plucked by many hands. If there is anything hateful to my mind it is the eye of youth that seems to tell you that ithas seen everything, tasted everything, handled everything, and been han- died by everybody. The ‘smart” eye; the ‘‘city” eye; the eye that has ‘“‘been abroad, you know.” Anything but that in a young girl's face, at all events. The eye is an endless study. It is a window into the very soul. And yetitis capable of more curtains and blinds than any other feature of our physiognomy. Everybody professes to be able toread an eye. Every- body has been badly tricked by an eye and sighed out the confession that ‘‘you can’t always tell, to be sure.” No doubt the study of eyes as they pass is a help, but better is a study of the eyes whose possessors’ characters you fully know from long acquaintance. Best of allisa study of your own. Not thatI am sending you to the mirror for long gratifications of your vanity ; your sup- posed purpose is commendable—a study of the eye. Try your own. I am mistaken if you are not often BS eo wounded in vanity rather than cultivated in conceit. There are many ‘‘iooks” about your eye which you will not like. Rush to the mirror when you are angry; see how ugly your eyeis. Glancein the mirror when you are envious, or jealous, or piqued. Take yourself by surprise in your dull, selfish moments. And so on with the varying phases of your soul-weather. You will both grow wiser and better by the study. And quite likely you will conclude that a beautiful spirit above assures a beautiful eye. THE LEGENDS OF CHILDHOOD. BY KATE THORN. How the relentless march of Time is sweeping away, one after another, the legends of our childhood. The stories that we used to hear, and delight in, and wonder about, and thoroughly believe—true stories, the older people assured us, and consequently, safe for one’s morals—ah! how these coldly scientific, statistical, philosophical researchers of to-day, insist on proving them all fallacies. Now, there was the story of William Tell and his son, andthe apple. What acharming thing that was. How far ahead of the modern romancer's best attempts. How bravely the boy used to stand up, as we can remember him in the engraving in the old school reader, while his father drew the terrible bow back to speed the arrow on its way. And how glad we were that the arrow clove the apple in twain instead of lodging in the boy’s head, as the cruel tyrant, who bade the father do it, expected it would. Now, philosophical and historical research has fully demonstrated the fact that there never was any such a man as Tell, and if there was, he never had a boy, his family were all girls—and there was never any Gessler, and there was never any apple nor anything else which figures in the story. There are people mean enough to try to prevent us from having any Christopher Columbus. Such individ- uals are too despicable to live. They would steal the cents from the eyes of their dead mothers-in-law. We can’t even be allowed to have the story of Wash- ington and the cherry tree without trouble. Some cold- blooded historian rises up to tell us that pa Washington had not a cherry tree on his place, and that hatchets, as playthings for boys, were unknown at thattime. There being no cherry tree, and no hatchet, of course the sad tragedy we have heard so often could not have been enacted—and it is probable that when the story is re- hearsed to the next generation, some enterprising icon- oclast will rise up to remark that there never was any Washington. Napoleon did not cross the Alps—he went round them. There was no sueh a place as the Bridge of Sighs, over which condemned prisoners were led on their way to execution. Queen Bess was not beautiful, as we have been taught to believe; and Queen Mary, the Queen fof Scotts, had a beard! Leander never swam the Hellespont—he took a boat across, and didn’t wet his feet at all. Probably he wore patent leathers. The legend of Lady Godiva originated only in the brain of some enterprising dime-novel writer of ye olden days. When she took that famous ride she wore buck- skin breeches and a waterproof cloak, or apparel equiva- lent thereto. Now a doctor somewhere down South comes out with the astonishing declaration that there is no such thing as hydrophobia. He thinks that Pasteur has lived in vain. Dogs need not be muzzled. What has been so long known as hydrophobia is simply a disease of the imagination. So put the muzzle on the people of diseased imaginations. Let the canines go free—‘‘man’s most faithful friend.” When you see him in droves, when you see him of all colors and denominations—long-tailed, bob-tailed, shaggy-tailed—flea-bitten, mangy, going on three legs, stealing your steak, chasing your cat, digging up your fiower beds to bury his stolen bones in, just remember that the worst stigma on his character is removed—he’ll never have hydrophobia, and he’ll never bite you so that you will have it. We must submit to the march of improvement. We must see our most dearly cherished images fade away. We must get along without any Robinson Crusoe. We must learn to exist without any belief in the Flying Dutchman. This is a practical age, and everything is practical. And if our philosophers and learned men conclude to do away with Moses in the bulrushes, and Daniel in the lion’s den, we shall try and live through it, UNCLE MEDDLE’S LETTERS. NO. 23. To Mizpah Meddle, who is having lots of offers. My DaRLinG NIECE: I alluz did argy that your father an’ mother wuz the strongest team of brains in the family, an’ now I know I’m right, for here you are a- writin’ to your ota ticle on a subject taat’ rhost gals think other gals is the best advisers about. Had seven offers of marriage in six months, eh, an’ you only sixteen year old? Well, I don’t wonder the fellers go dait over your merry face an’ bright tongue. An’ you don’t know which of the fellers to take? Well, that’s a sure sign you ortn’t to take any of ’em. An’ you don’t feel that you ort to git married ez yit ? Well, that’s a dead sure sign that you ortn’t to. An’ married women make a dead set at you to marry Jim Stack, ’cause he’s a lovable man, an’ you're sure you hate lovable men? Well, don't marry anybody while you’re in that frame of mind, an’ you won’t hey anythin’ to be ateard of. An’ folks keep tellin’ you that you ort to heva hus- band to manage the little property yer parents left you? Well, don’t you mind’em. Ef you need ‘a business agent, hire one—don’t git one by marryin’ him, for hirin’s the cheapest way, an’ you kin make a change ef he don’t suit. But you can’t ever change husbands— not while you’re a genuine Meddle. Dear little gal, just settle the hull matter by tellin’ all the fellers, an’ all the women that’s a-motherin’ you, that you’re only a gal, an’ you don’t intend to think about marryin’ ontil you’re a woman. Never mind ef some of the old women tell you that this or that feller is too good a chance to lose. ’Cause he’s exactly to their taste ain’t any sign that he would be to yourn. Jest ask’em who’s to do this marryin’ they’re talkin’ about—they or you ? a An’ don’t let your heart soften to any feller ’cause he tells you that he can’t live without you. Ef he’s wuth havin’, he’ll be man enough to wait no end of time, in the hope you'll feel the same way about him; ef he ain’t, the quicker he stops livin’ the better. The mean- est gal alive deserves a better fate than to marry a feller with so little grit thet he can’t live without her. T’ve knowed lots of such fellers, an’ their wives alluz hev Rg support ‘em, even ef they hev to do it by takin’ in washin’. Am be equally keerful not to marry the feller that you like best, ef you’re drawed to him by the color of his eyes an’ the style of his hair. That’s the kind of feller a sixteen year-old gal is generally fondest of, an’ it’s the kind of feller, too, thet don’t stop changin’ gals till he stops livin’. Warm brown eyes an’ curly black hair are indeed beautiful to look at, but youcan git both by buyin’ a Newfoundland dog, an’ you can shoot him ef he even gits troublesome, but husband-shootin’ kinder goes agin the grain, besides bein’ contrary to law, an’ therefore expensive. Don’t mind ef you’ve read lots of stories of very young gals marryin’ very young Apollos an’ ev’rything turnin’ out lovely. Stories are most generally writ to show how folks would like things to be—not how things reelly be. In short, don’t you begin to think of marryin’ till you feel very sure you needa husband. Ef you keep your heart sweet an’ clean, you'll be ez good-lookin’ then ez you be now, an’ men wuth your havin’ will think you’re a good deal more so. ike enough between now an’ then a hundred young fellers will think they're dead in love with you, but don’t trouble your head about ’em—it’s their fault—not yours. Ef they’re in earnest, theyll go to make ’emselves worthy of you, an’ you'll find out in time which of ’em hez succeeded; ef they don’t, it'll mean only thet they waz dead in love with themselves instid, an’ only want- ed you ezthey want a fine hoss ora swell necktie—for their,own,sakes. Don’t let yourself be frightened when the old women p’int out a lot of homely old maids thet once wuz pooty gals, but waited too long. ¥ The gal whose beauty don’t last is the gal whose beauty wuz only skin deep. The Meddle beauty ain’t been that kind heretofore, an’ you must take keer to keep it up to standard. The mere mention of the family name, dear gal, makes my old heart bounce about twice ez lively ez usual, an’ makes me want to say more than I know how to put on paper, but the p’int of it all ain’t fur from this: Gettin’ big enough to wear long dresses don’t turn a gal into a woman. Bein’ pretty enough to knock men dumb ain’t no sign that a gal is fit to git married. The gal that marries before she’s got a woman’s head, ez well ez a womanly heart, is goin’ to be her husband’s slave ez long ez she lives, onless she is lucky enough to be his perpetual plaything. Ruthur than be either of these, any gal of the Meddle family ort to die. Onless your're fit to alluz stand beside yer husband, youll hey to put up with standin’ behind him. Thats no place for a true woman. An’ if you can’t understand all the p’ints of this long lecture, keep ’em before you, an’ keep single ontil you can. An’ don’t think this letteris a bundle of man’s notions. Yer aunt, who's the best-lookin’ woman in this township, though she’s migkty nigh ez old ez I be, hez read ev’ry word of it, an’ sez it’s true ez gospel. An’ yer aunt wuz once a gal herself. Your affectionate UNCLE MEDDLE. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. THE MUGGINS’ FAMILY. Silvester Muggins haz gone tew Yewrupp. He left in the Kunard line. The recent rize in cheese so inflated him and hiz pocket-book, thatit wuz wuss than madness for him tew stay on this side ov the atlantick oshun enny longer. He took all his live traps with him, which konsisted ov one wife, two dauters, hiz only son Reuben, and a lap dog bought for the ockashun. * They took a fust-class passage; one hundred dollars in gold each, the dog throne in. He will make the tower of Yewrupp, meandering through Skotland, Ingland, and Ireland; then krossing into France he wilk pennetrate thru that kingdum, bi the aid of gide books; from thence he will investigate into Jermany and Switzerland, and will see Naples if it kills him and the rest ov the family. Silvester Muggins and troupe hav never bin from home before, the cheeze faktory haz absorbed their time and genius till now, and they expekt tew cum bak. eddi- kated and hily polished. The two dauters will hav a French anj Jerman nurse at once, and they are tew be teached how tew do and say things ov a forrin natur, if it kosts 2 thousand dol- lars tew do it. Silvester Muggins sed this before he set sail. Mrs. Muggins iz@ leetle too old and tuff to shine up mutch, but thes will dress her and not let. her talk mutch, so it iz repirted. ; Old Muggins liwiself doesn’t expekt to polish—he iz Loe Seer ; he will pay the bills, and sample forrin curds, Reuben Muggins will enter sum Jerman skool, and will be:put thru for 3 years, to the tune of ‘‘root hog or die,” for Silvester, hiz father sed so, just before he sailed. Silvester Muggins iz soleninly determined that his sprout Reuben kno learning, and.be forever abuv the cheeze bizzness. The 2 dauters will cum bak in 8 years trom now, and haye thirteen nu silk dresses each to sho, also a kam- mill’s hare shawl, and fourteen boxes ov gluvs, and tork sum Jerman and French at the table when they want sum more hash, or want the pertataze passed. The lap dorg, I don’t kno what will bekum ov him; it may not be the phashion over thare to tote lap dorgs; if it ain’t, the dear confiding purp will be dropt. Silvester Muggins haz stuk tew cheeze for 34 years kluss. and don’t kno enny thing about hiz natiff land. He kan’t tell which way the Mississippi River runs, poe font kno which State the Falis ov Niagara are situ- ated in. : If enny boddy ovér in old imperial Rome should ask Silvester Muggins if Keokuk waz lokated on the Tom- aaa River, he would hav tew say yes, or admit he had orgot. He knoze a grate deal more about the uplands in Switzerland than he duz about the rizing ground in Nu Hamshire, bekauz€ he and the whole family hav bin are in forrin gide books for the last 6 months, nite and ay. If enny boddy oyer in Paris should pass the Mug- ginses enny cheeze at the table yu would hear them all say “horrid!” except Silvester, and he would ask the lackey on the sli if it was skim or nu milk. The family kan" Oar the smel ov cheeze now. When the Muggin8 family cum bak three years from now, they will pretty mutch hav forgot their natiff tung, all except the old n and the oid woman. The whole family will forgit their. nabors, and won’t be able tew enjoy enny thing nor talk enny thing but Yewrupp. Silvester, and the old woman, will probably go at cheeze agin, but the rest ov the troupe will be too pol- ished, and polite, for the skim cheeze bizzness. Silvester iz not a bad man at all, when he iz around the cheeze faktory. He hain’t got mutch branes it iz trew, but the late rize in cheeze dislokated him, and the family ketched the Sudden Yewrupp disorder, and giv it tew him, and it haz made the whole ov them ridikilus. ‘ The 2 dauters, when they cum bak, will simply be sil- y. Reuben wont kno enny thing; but this waz alwuss natral tew him. ~ The old woman will make hash ov things aufully, she will tell her nabors all about the leaning tower of Copen- hagen, and the Pantheon ov Paris, and the Bridge ov Sighs at Dublin, and every now and then will risk a iar or German phraze, which will be decidedly cheezy. , The Mugginses never ought tew hav gone abroad at all; they were industrious here, and tharefore kom- paratively respektable ; they are ritch and unkultivated now, and are in Yewrupp. They are being laffed at bi the refined, and cheated bi the unskrupulus. Thare are thousands of the Muggins Amerikans now on ip Spies side ov pe. sap pr pes ond thou- sands more £0, for ji cener' understood mee iZgilis Class thal P hain ain tow vewrdpp. u ain’t mutch. The well bred find no diffrence, tew speak on, between the well bred at hum, but the snobs do. Snobs vary ackordin tew latitude and longitude, and ours go abroad tew inkrease their average. —_—-_++* A SNAKE STORY. BY D. BELLE BARNARD. “Oh, my!” exclaimed Myra Randall, starting back from the currant bush where she had been gathering the scarlet fruit, upsetting the pan, and nearly tumbling into the asparagus bed. ‘I saw a snake!” She had seen one, sure enough, and might continue to see him, if she liked, for there he lay sluggishly curled over the top of the currant Bush, basking in the June sun—a lithe little creature, eight or ten inches in length, graceful as a ribbon, and green as an emerald—a hand- some object, if one only thought so. Myra recovered her equilibrium and her composure in a moment, and smiled at her fright. The snake was perfectly harmless, she knew, and as all her life thus far had been passed on these prairies, stretching away as far as her sight c@yld reach, snakes were no novelty. “How foolish I am!” she said, half to herself. ‘As bad as the boy who was brought up in the woods to be scared at anowl. But Iam 5o nervous and wrought up about Tom,” she thought, apologetically, as she picked up the pan and moved off to a distant bush, ‘that it seems as if I should fly to pieces.” : A few bunches of currants were gathered to replace the spilled ones, but. fer heart was not interested in jelly, and after working listlessly a few moments, she sat down on the grass, her hands folded over the pan in her lap, and her eyes on the ground, lost in troubled thought. ; ; She made a pretty picture—the June sunshine sifting its gold-dust through the thick foliage of an apple tree down upon her—the pensive droop of the head, and the pretty girlish face and figure, with a touch of dignity about them; for Tom, the great, good-natured fellow, who never could say *‘no” to any one, and who was his own worst enemy, had been her husband a year. Tom, who had stumbled home at an early hour this morning from the town, a new railway station a halt- mile away, and waiting only to rid himself of his boots, had tumbled into bed, where he lay now, sleeping off his tipsiness, while, in all the glory of June weather, the bours crept toward noon. He drank too much, Myra’s friends had warned her when she first knew him, but she was willing to try the very uncertain experiment of reforming him, and for awhile after their marriage it seemed as if she would be successful; but the new railroad, with its evil associa- tions, drew him from her influence, and for months he had been going from bad to worse, until she was well nigh discouraged. _ A drifting leat froftthe apple tree fell on her hands, rousing her from thestudy into which she had fallen, and starting up sli turned to go into the house, when the little green snakeshe had seen before slipped across the path into the grass. A sudden thought struck her, an inspiration, as a woman’s best thoughts always are. She hesitated a moment and then threw the pan cur rants and all at the snake stunning it slightly, and then with a little qualm of aversion gathered it in her apron and ran into the h . A moment later she was shak- ing Tom and calling to him to get up. “Come, come, it is nearly noon, and you have had no breakfast. I should think you would be hungry by this time. Come 1 have made a currant pie; you know how well you like that,” . t Tom roused himself and sat up on the side of the bed, stretching and Yawning and rubbing his blood-shot eyes. He was not abashed to meet Myra’s reproachful glances. After the first of these sprees he had been, but he was getting hardened now. «Put on your boots and come out of this close room. See what a beautiful day it is,” and she flung open the cone and the low cottage windows that opened on the arden. * After a few more stretches Tom picked up one of his boots and inserted his foot into it, when he encountered something strange, and drawing it quickly off again, turned it upside down to empty it, when a snake slipped out and disappeared under the bed. ‘““My goodness! Myra did you see that ?” he asked. “See what ”” said Myra, looking vacantly at the car- pet, and then inquiringly at her husband. «Why, that snake.” «A snake !” she repeated blankly, looking at him with astonishment. ‘‘What snake ?” “Why, that snake that came out of my boot—a little green snake.” “Oh, Tom!” she cried, in consternation, ‘‘you don’t really think you saw a snake, doyou? You are just try- ing to frighten me.” “Nonsense, Myra; don’t be a fool,” he said, irritably. “Think I saw one. I know I did. It dropped right out of my boot here, and sneaked away under the bed, where it is now, ll be bound,” and he made preparations to look. “On, dont, Tom!” she cried. ‘Don’t you know it’s your imagination? Don’t excite yourself, please; that will only make it worse. Oh, dear! what shall I do for him ? Lie down, that’s a dear,” soothingly, ‘‘right where you are, and let me bring you acup of coffee that will settle your nerves. Oh, itis all that horrible stuff you drink,” she said, sobbing, shedding real tears of ner- vousness and apprehension that wet her ruffled apron and made her little nose as red and shining as a cherry. “Why, what on earthis the matter? Is the woman crazy ?” exclaimed the bewildered Tom. “IT knew it would come to this,” she cried, ‘‘but f didn’t think it would be quite sosoon. The doctor said you would go on until you saw snakes and all sorts of ter- rible things, and went crazy, and raved around; but I was hoping it would never happen, But it has—it has— and oh, dear! what shall I do?” Having got a good start, the tears came without effort, and she threw herself on Tom’s broad breast in an aban- donment of griet. ' “Hush, Myra,” he said, touched by her tears, as he smoothed the shining hair; “it is you that are crazy, child, if either of us be. I did not imagine anything; I saw a snake as plain asI see you, and felt him besides with my foot, the mushy little wretch. He must have crept into the house some way and got into my boot.” “He couldn’t, Tom,” she said, with solemn conviction, as though she wished to believe him but reason would not Jet her. ‘He couldn’t, for J closed all the doors and windows, so the flies wouldn’t trouble you. It was an optical illusion, the result of an -overwrought brain. That’s what the doctor said,” heaving a long sigh and settling in a hopeless way upon her husband’s shoulder. Tom paled at the suggestion of the words. She was so sure, and he had such faith in her; besides his mind hadn’t seemed as clear as usual lately. His eyes were blurred, and things that used to be plain were somehow muddled to his understanding now. But a man does not readily doubt the testimony of his own eyes, and he laid Myra down and began a thorough search of the room. «You won’t find it, dear,” she said, in a pitying voice, looking at him with compassionate eyes. ‘I wouldn’t think anything more about it if I were you. Come out and get something to eat—your nerves are all unstrung. After that we will forget all about the snake.” And he did not find it, though he extended his search to the door-yard and flower-beds. During the parley it had made its escape, and neither he nor Myra ever saw it again. Butit set him to thinking. He began to rie that he had been going to destruction at a very ‘ast pace. «Although this was a little grass snake,” he cogitated, “and I know it was a real live snake,” he argued with himself in a way that proved he wasn’t certain by any means, “the next I see may be a fiery one. And the doctor has been expecting all these things,” he mused. ‘He said something about it to me once, but I wouldn’t listen, and it has worried Myra nearly to death, I sup- pose. I did not think I had gone sofar. Somehow one slips into bad ways before he knowsit. There is one thing 1 do know—I have not gone so far yet but thatI can go back again.” And he then and there made a resolution to break off from his carousing associates, tolet drink alone, and to go to work on his neglected farm. This was a turni point in his life, and with a determined heart he too. the first steps in the right direction. Years later the railway water-tank and signal-station had become a great thriving town. Like seeds dropped on that rich prairie soil, they had produced a growth almost beyond belief. The farm had long since been cut up into building lots, and Mr. Thomas Randall was spoken of in the newspapers of the place as ‘‘one of our wealthiest and most influential citizens.” He often told as aword of warning toyoung men given to dissipation, and as an encouragement for them to reform, that he had once gone so far as to see.snakes in his boots, and had yet been able tobreak off and give up drink forever. Myra never smiled when she heard him say this. She remembered too well all the troubles of those early days of her married life ; and besides, she had heard him tell ae? so often she had almost come to believe it e - Qi Pies UNAPPRECIATED. BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. Every day we meet people who claim to be or believe that they are unappreciated and misunderstood. Indeed, if one were to count up the cases of this kind which have come under his personal knowledge, he would be inclined to the belief that the greater part of the world was composed of ‘‘unappreciated people.” That there is a foundation for some of these claims, we will confess. We all know of children who are possessed of certain talents, or gifts, which seem to be unappre- ciated by their families, who vainly strive to turn their thoughts into other channels. And yet, if we have not been unappreciated. They have been by some, indeed ; but the greatest of earth must expect that. There is no such thing as truth, beauty, genius, good- ness, or worth of any kind going unappreciated in this world. Nothing good can exist that some eye will not see it, some lip comment upon it, some heart rejoice over it. It wiil not always, or indeed often, be those who should see it soonest, and be most appreciative; the little space of blue about the star does not value it half so much as we upon whom its light falls from afar. Yet maybe the star complains, because the atmosphere about it does not say, ‘How bright you are!” and per- haps it goes whining to the smaller stars that it is “un- appreciated.” Still we do not think it does, or its bril- liancy would be clouded by afrown. For people who complain so much about being unappreciated rarely amount to much in the end. It is those who are wrap- ped in their ambitions, so full of hope and energy that they have no time to watch and see whether they are appreciated or not, who shine brightest. Artists. poets, musicians, and people of like tempera- ments, are given to moods of despondency when they feel themselves unappreciated in their truest aims. Yet they invariably rise to newer heights of hope and great- er zeal than before. Genius does not allow its subject time for such repining. True worth goes steadily about its legitimate business, and is too much engaged in its favorite pursuits to take note of the unappreciative pub- lic. And whoever goes earnestly and steadily upon any right course is never unappreciated. Those who seek for much praise for little effort, to be sure, may fail to receive praise for the little they have done; for, some way, much as public opinion is abused for its favorit- ism, it usually gets at the motives underneath actions pretty correctly in the main. The world sees through Shams readily, and while it often lauds a good one, it usually hisses a poor attempt atit. It may praise the man who has done a poor thing well, but it will not praise you for half doing anything. When I hear people complaining that they are unap- preciated, I know.that there is something wrong .about them. I know they care more about praise and notoriety than they do for any pursuit or aim, and that they pos- sess more self love and conceit than talent or genius of any description. You never hear the worthy man, the man of genius, moaning that he is unappreciated; for when the dark moodis upon him, that comes to usall at times; he shuts himself away from his kind with his own heart. For he feels the utter inability of mankind to comfort him or help him. When the highest aim ofan aspiring soul is misunderstood or unseen by the world, the soul makes no complaint, for how could those give comfort who could not give understanding ? a a AN INTERESTING PUZZLE. Perhaps some of our young readers are not familiar with the following puzzle: A young man asked an old man for his daughter in marriage. The answer was, «Go into the orchard and bring in a number of apples. Give me one-half of the whole number, and the mother one-half of the balance and half an apple over, and the daughter one-half of the remainder and half an apple over, and have one left for yourself, without cutting the apple; and then, if she is willing, you can have her.” He solved the question, and how many did he bring? Fourteen, as you can easily prove. The old man was to have one-half of the apples, which would be seven. The mother was to have one-half of the balance, which would be three and a half, and half an apple over,which would make four apples for her. There would be three apples left, of which the daughter was to have one-half and half an apple over, which would give her two, and leave the lover his one, ‘‘without cutting the apple.” + a SAWDUST BRICKS. Sawdust is converted into bricks in this manner: Water is added, up to a degree of plasticity; the mix- ture of one to three parts of resinous sawdust and one part of washed kaolin is ground and pressed by means ofa press. The-lumps thus obtained are dried in the air, then placed in a stove, and, lastly vitrified in the ovens under white-red temperature. These blocks can be sawed, planed, and polished:in the shape of incom- bustible bricks, which are used for building houses, have seen and known such cases, their talents and gitts | si Correspondence, GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. 037- Communications addressed to this department will not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers. (We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart- ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal, Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared to render the answers to questions absolutely reliable. ] V. C., Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—The President’s room in the capitol at Washington is rarely used except on'the last days ot the session of Congress, when the President, with his sec- retaries and cabinet ministers, repairs there to expedite the business of legislation. The walls and ceilings of the room, in which there are three large mirrors, are ,richly decorated, and the floors are beautifully tiled. On the south wall isa portrait of Washington, with areclining female figure on either side; that on the right representing Victory, who holds a shield bearing the inscription, Boston, Trenton, Princeton, Monmouth, and Yorktown. The figure on the left represents Peace, with a laurel wreath. On the four walls are medallion rtraits of Washington’s first cabinet. On the south wall, homas Jefferson, Secretary_of State; east, Henry Knox, Secretary of War, and Alexander {E amilton, Secretary of the Treasury ; west, Edmund Randolph, Attorney-General; and S. Osgood, Postmaster-General.. Under the cornices are a number of small copper-colored_ medallions, representin the coat of arms of the States. The medallion from whic the elegant chandelier is suspended is enriched with infant figures, supporting an American flag. id Gipsy, Bloomfield, N. J.—Fruit sauce, which is served with meats, is made of apples, peaches and apples mixed, and of cranberries. The apples are either stewed or baked, and then mashed through a colander. First pare them, and remove the seeds. To one pint, add one tablespoonful of butter, and half a pound of sugar. Acid apples are the best. If made of dried apples and peaches, take equal quantities of each ; soak them for six hours, and then stew them ; sweeten to taste, and add a little lemon to give them an acid taste. T- ries are first washed and picked, and then put on to stew, with enough water tocover them. Let them ew until the skins crack, and they in to thicken ; sweeten them to taste, and let them get cold. ey are better if made into a jelly, you can make them jelly if you put the berries to stew enough water to cover them. When the skins erack, strain them ; and to pint of juice, put one pound of brown sugar; let it cook until it jellies; then put it into china molds to cool. P. O., Chautauqua, N. Y.—1st. The carbuncle is a beautiful stone of a deep-red color, with a mixture of scarlet, called by the Greeks anthrax. Itis found in the East Indies. Itis usually discovered pure of an angular figure. Its ordinary size is one-fourth to two-thirds of aninch. When held up to the sun, it loses its deep tinge, and becomes exactly of the color of a burning coal. 2d. The heliotrope is a variety of cReipediery Gere in Asia Minor) of a pap ected color, . ol egated with blood-red or yellowish spots. 3d. The jacinth, or hyacinth, is ared variety of zircon, sometimes used as a gem. It is found chiefly in Ceylon. 4th. The iris is only seen in antique jewels. Itis,a very limpid and very transpa- rent quartz, Itis crys , a fact which i y dis tinguishes it from the ©; It was found by the Sea. 5th. The chryolite is of a yellowish or greenish color. 6th. The oculus-bell is a pellucid stone; a variety of agate. 7th. We.cannot enlighten you. 8th. A license is necessary. P. M., Schenectady, N. Y.—Precious stones in their natural state are generally rough and shapeless, and have to be cut and polished to show their real beauty. They are then more appropriately called gems, .The most valuable of all the precious stones are the ruby, the sapphire, the diamond, and the emerald. The garnet, and some other things, such as coral, conch shell, amber, malachite, turquois, and lapis- lazuli, though used in making jewe rane’ wae Rigeaviy precious stones, which may be divided into three classes, ac- the materials of which they are made: the car- The md is the o: cor nee ene and by aaa pei fo I a includes the opal and the agates, amo are — nelian, chalcedony, onyx, sardonyx, aud blood stone. West Virginian.—_The Southern Hotel, in the city of St. Louis, was destroyed by fire on the morning of the lth of . April, 1877, and a number of the guests lost their lives, while many more were injured. The establishment was one of the largest and most expensive in the country. An inquest was held on eleven bodies, occupying ten days, and involving an inquiry into the cause of the fire, and the means pre- venting such disasters. Among thes ebtetiet the coroner’s jury were that in all hotels gongs or bells of sufticient power should be p! in such position as, when sounded, to be heard in every room in the ho’ and, on the first notice of fire, to be continuo’ used ‘until every guest and employee’s safety be assured; that ir-w. and elevators should be placed as far apart as possible, and that a sufficient number of watchmen should be employed to detect a fire in its incipient stage, and be drilled in the use of the means for extinguishing it. Corillyon, Annapolis, Md.—ist. Astronomers divide stars into classes according to their brightness; the brightest be- ing of the first magnitude. Those of the sixth magnitude give so faint a light that it is difficult to see them without a tele- scope. 2d. Of stars visible to the naked eye only the brightest show rec izable color. Some are ruddy, some yellow, and riliantly white. With the aid of a Saletitaer tines marked instances occur, some stars being blood-red, garne’ colored, rich orange, and golden yellow. A few starsshow such color as blue, green, violet, and indigo. 3d. i way, so called, is made up of countless numbers of sm s Dale de Dentin iii . r to be , 80 elose that they pre sent the a rance of a mass of light instead of separ: stars. 4th. "The astronomical telescope is,made up chiefly ote lens, or round glass, called an object glass, which forms an image of the distant object, and of an eye-glass which mag- nifies or enlarges image. Arthur Lee, Fremont, Ohio.—The Washington Navy Yard is situated,on the Anacostia River, three-quarters of a mile south-east of the capitol, 8th street E. terminating at the en- trance. The yard, though purchased in 1779, was not formal- ly established until 1804. Among the famous vessels bui there in the early days of the country were the Wasp, oo Viper, Essex, rk, ae , St. Louis, Columbia, Poto- mac, and Brandywine. Of late years the yard has lost its prominence for naval {construction, owing to the facilities presented by more recently established stations, and the filling up of the channel of the river. It is, how- . ever, one of the most important yards for the manufacture of naval supplies. ; R. B. W.—The rooms of the New York Board of Education are at No. 146 Grand street. The whole number of schools under the control of the Board is 301, in which, during the year 1884, 298,293 children were taught by 3,748 teachers, at a cost to the city of $3,850,116. The salaries paid teachers vary between $3,000 an per annum. The usual studies *in English are supplemented in the grammar schools by the teaching of v music and the study of French and Ger- ae ee Jangurges aos —- by Lp Segre cnd and are confin 0 pupils 0: e er es in the gramm, school. Ali other studies are obligatory. 9 P. T., Jersey City.—“‘Flying? squirrels,” so called, are pro- vided with a lateral membrane attached to the body and the wrists, which they spread when they wish to make a leap. This they can do to the distance of ten or twelve yards. Strictly speaking, they do not fly. It is seldom seen in the day-time, but usually come out at sunset and leaps from tree to tree far into the night. It iseight or ten inches long, and is yellowish brown above and white below. It lives chiefi on nuts, grains, and seeds, but eats also young birds an eggs. Itis easily tamed. It is found all ugh the East- ern United States. J. M. W., Altus, Ark.—1st. To make blackberry wine, first preserve the berries, and let them stand until the next day; strain them, and add to each gallon of juice one quart of water and three pounds of brown sugar; put the mixture in- to a tight vessel, and let it stand until socinue. Then bottle for use. Be careful not to stir it hd as you draw it off to bottle. 2d. To make grape wine, take the small wild ‘black grapes, and press them to extract the juice. To one gallon of juice add two pounds of white nee ; put intoacask until spring, when it will be ready to bottle. Mrs. Edgecombe.—A good institution is the Infants’ Hospi- tal, Randall’s Island. Accessible by steamboats at 10:30 A. M. from foot of 26th street, East River, or from foot of 122d street, at all hours. This institution is under the care and direction of the Commissioners of Public Charities and Correction. The office of the Board is at No. 66 Third avenue, where ap- plication for admission to the hospital must be made. Kate A.—We can furnish a good cook book, in paper cover, for 30 cents. If you desire it, write direct to the New YORE y- WEEKLY Purchasing Agence: Frank Edson, Pennington, Ill—Ist. A good French diction-— ary will cost $1. 2d. We can furnish books of the kind you desire from 50 cents to $1. D. M. S.—Inquiries in respect to facts concerning Bertha M. Clay will i found answered in No. 16, Vol. 40. es Bertha, Denver, Colorado.—We advise you to take legal ad- vice. It will prevent all trouble in the future. Annie L., Pittston, Pa.—Write to B. M. Baker, Superintend- ent of Public Instruction, Austin, Texas. Frank M.—The story named will not be isssued in book- orm. f Di Vereton.—The ‘“‘Guide to Authorship” will cost 50 cents. Marie Allan.—_Write to the address given in your letter. Mrs. H. J. W.—The book named is out of print. _——___ > 8-4 AN UNSATISFACTORY RECOMMENDATION." A man about to start a lumber-yard in an Ohio town gave a jobber the name of his former employer for ref- erence, and left his order. The report received by the jobber, although slightly ambiguous, was not of a na- ture to induce him to bustle very much in the execution of the shipment. Here itis: «Mr. —— has worked for me 12 or 13 years, and has al- ways been a faithful man, and I respect him as a true friend; but if I was a stranger to him, and knew his failings, I would not want to trust him.” : —____—__ > @ << _____—_ TO HAVE whet we want is riches, but to be able to do without is power. —— ae st De. ou teliee. eis itt iii ii Pea Se ere oe ae an a Ol ithe me eet Oo. ee ee « aLahee ‘Gis Gon id te rT — te . ia TR twit 4 4 le PA a ~ A omute t VOL, 41—No. 36, oa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. E ) BEAUTIFUL SUMMER. BY JOHN ORTON. Beautiful summer, with deep, ardent dyes, Tinting the forests and flushing the skies! Flashing with glory from morning till eve, Till the bright stars their light canopy weave. Beautiful summer, enrobed in sweet bloom, Smiles of pure pleasure, and breath of perfume, Beautiful summer—the broad heavens ring Songs from glad minstrels on rapturous wing, Soaring in sunlight, bright emblems of joy, Thrilled with thy blisses that never can cloy. Beautiful summer—how swiftly it flies !— Charm of the seasons,.and earth’s golden prize. Beautiful summer! Oh, where can we trace Aught with thy splendor, thy glory, and grace ? Vain are all riches; they form but a part— Priceless and peerless, thou’rt dear to each heart. Beautiful summer—exquisitely grand— Nature’s high festival throughout the land. _——— [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] FOR LIVING WAGES: OR; LENA DUDLEY’S PERIL. A STORY OF THE GREAT STRIKE. By CLINT. CARPENTER. (“For Lrvinc WaGEs” was commenced in No, 2 Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXII. THE WISHING WELL On the day previous to that appointed for Albert Trowbridge’s wedding, Lena Dudley received a letter. At the time she had been employed by Mrs. Montroy ~ ghe had a friend named Angie West, an operative in the mill, a young girl of good family, but in reduced cir- cumstances, and the girls were quite intimate. Since leaving the mill Lena had lost sight of Angie, and con- cluded that she must have returned to her home in Maine. The letter which Lena received ran thus: ‘DEAREST LENA—I want sO much to see you, and consult with you about an important step lam thinking of taking. Will you meet me to-morrow night by the Wishing Well, on the borders of Clitheroe? I will be there at nine g’clock. Do not be afraid. The evenings are so short that it will still be quite light at nine o'clock. I shall keep you but afew minutes. Do not fail me. ANGIE WEST.” Lena read the letter over twice. She had never seen Angie’s handwriting, but it never entered her mind that the letter was anything but genuine. She felt a little timid about venturing out alone by night, but there was no one of whom she had any fear except Mr. Trowbridge, and as he was to be married to- oe of course he would be in attendance on his be- trothed. Once, when Mr. Woodbury came into the office and stones to speak to her, as he always didin his kind and friendly way, ske felt prompted to show him the letter and ask his advice, but the thought struck her that she had no right to intrude her private affairs on his sympathy, simply because he had been kind to her, - and she resisted the impulse. When her work was over that night she went home, and, after tea, telling Harry and her father that she had an errand out, she nes on her wraps, and set forth. Ah! if she could have foreseen the vital consequences He turned toward her, fury in his face, and put his hand on her other shoulder. «You have sealed your fate !” he said, hoarsely; ‘‘I—” The sharp report of a pistol-shot rang outon the aN a bullet cut the air close to Lena’s ear, and lodged in the brain of her companion. He uttered a smothered cry, made a convulsive at- tempt to stand upright, then sank forward, a dead weight, and the limpid waters of the Wishing Well hid him from her sizht, Paralyzed with terror, Lena stood still, gazing down into the blackness which had swallowed him up, dimly wondering whatit all meant, and hearing the roar of the wind through the trees and the intermittent patter of the rain on the turf, like one in a troubled dream. His blood, still warm and faint with the odor of life, was on her hands, her face, her clothing ; she shuddered and turned sick at the ghastly contact. No thought of what she ought to do entered her mind. Her only idea was to get away from that terrible place. She did not remember that somewhere there was lurk- ing a guilty criminal whom the law ought to punish ; she did not think that, perhaps, upon her immediate action depended that murderer’s apprehension. She was frozen with horror, and all she wanted was to get away somewhere where there was light—and water—water to wash away that awful, sticky stain from her hands. Iler limbs secmed totally benumbed; it seemed to her that she moved at asnail’s pace, and a few rods from the well she stumbled over something and fell. Mechanically she reached out her hand and touched the object. It was the root of a tree, and lying across it something cold and of metallic smvothness. She picked it up and held it between her eyes and the clouded moon. It was a pistol, and the strong smell of gun- powder yet hung about it. She turned it over curiously, her mind still in a daze, and as she lay there she heard footsteps. Some im- pulse led her to creep into the bushes and lie still. She could not yet bear the thought of seeing any one and talking about the dreadful sight she had witnessed. She must have time to recover herself. She lay there breathless, and the man passed by her, so close that she could almost have touched him. He came from the direction of the Wishing Well, and walked rapidly, like one in a great hurry. When he was just opposite her hiding-place he paused, lifted his hat, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. The moon looked out through arift in the cloud and dropped a beam of light on his uncovered brow. Lena saw his face plainly, and her heart stood still. «Great Heaven !” she cried, ‘‘I shall go mad !” She had recognized Arthur Woodbury. He paused but a moment, looked neither to the right nor the left of him, and strode on. CHAPTER XXIll. THE RAILWAY STRIKE, Vance Harley came out unscathed from the hazard- ous leap he had made to save the woman from the grinding wheels of the locomotive, and laid his helpless burden down on the grass among her friends. “Bring water,” he exclaimed; ‘‘she has fainted.” “Ah! and she may be thankful that it’s nothing worse than fainted she has!” cried a woman, rushing up to chafe the blonde’s cold hands and forehead. ‘She’s only got out of it by the skin of her teeth; and it’s dead she’d be intirely if it wasn’t for Misther. Harley—the saints bless him!” “And who is it that’s fainted?” cried a stout man, pushing aside the crowd, and edging a the prostrate figure. ‘Why, but it’s Carrie Conroy herself! Ah, the poor girl! And her father almost killed when the mills blowed up, and he the best weaver in town! And he'll never work again, the doctor says, because the muscles of one of his arms are contracted.” The women had brought Carrie round by this time, and she was the center of an animated group, all talk- ing together. hey had for the moment forgotten that the train, manned by new men, had been allowed to start, and was at this moment miles on its westward way. “Curse the woman!” said a voice at the rear of the crowd. ‘The train has gone, and that’s where they've got the best of us. Why didn’t some of ye who have got pert and brag about ’em so much, shoot the engineer? would have done it in a minute.” ee GPa Q é. 5 | { ROE Se us the yards, warning back all outsiders as they did so. To their credit be it said, they made no display of fire- arms, and gave utterance to no threats to influence the indignant people. ba Harley took off his hat and addressed the crowd. “7 beg of you all, as men and brothers,” he said, ‘‘not to do anything which is unlawful orriotous. It is no way to obtain your rights. The moment you overstep the limits which the laws of the land have laid upon all good citizens, that moment you lose the sympathy of the public. All right-minded men and women will be glad to see us paid a fair price for our labor. The world is looking at us, and judging our cause by our actions. If we show ourselves as temperate, thoughtful men, de- manding of our employers only that which is right and just, we shall win the approval of those who have the power to help us, and the community at large will begin to realize the fact that upon the jntegrity of the labor- ing man the welfare of society depends. i ae wv ; <= Te SST A BULLET CUT THE AIR CLOSE TO LENA’S EAR, AND LODGED IN THE BRAIN OF HER COMPANION! “We have our privileges, and 1ét us be careful that we do not exceed them. Wehave aright tostrike. We have a right to refuse to work for wages which we con- sider too small. And we have the right to continue so to refuse until our employers shall be compelled to give us reasonable compensation. The relations between labor and capital should be friendly, for each depends upon the other. What we want is honest pay for honest labor, and we mean to haveit. Notin a spirit of vio- lence, not by eee men against each other, not by in- cendiary language, but by moderation and perseverance, and by sticking to our resolve not to work until we are paid living wages.” Vance Harley stepped back, and his remarks were loudly cheered. A few sullen spirits indulged in hisses, but they did not voice the great crowd. It is well known that every great and popular organiza- tion like the Knights of Labor must, necessarily, con- tain elements not always to be restrained by judicious motives—not always exercising the calmness and moder- ation which we believe actuate*all good members of this new and flourishing order. And when deeds of vio- lence are enacted, a discriminating public should re- member that they are not countenanced by the laws of the order, and that profound regret exists among the brotherhood that such things should be. . A-dangerous element existed in Marlboro. There were among the population the eee percentage of ill- doers—men who were perpetual faw-breakers, and who made the strikes of honest men striving for honest pay an excuse to cover their own iniquities. The freight train was ready at last, and a couple of policemen warned everybody off the track. Slight heed was paid to the warning. The officials consulted together. The police force was ere increased by this time, and the crowd was driven ack. The engine gave a puff, the train evidently was about to start when Mills, before alluded to, who scorned the idea of being under the restrictions of the labor organi- er and had never become a niember, burst from the crowd. “Blood! The moss, just here, is wet with it. There has been foul play. I expected it.” ‘There is nothing else but foul play nowadays,” said one of the officers, examining the grass, ‘‘but this may not be the right scent after all. It may mean some other deviltry that has been cut up.” ‘IT think not. There are no signs of any struggle. There are no foot-prints. There is no moss trampled down. We must search the well.” “You don’t think he is in there ?” “JT think there is somethingin there. Stand aside and give me all the light. I am going down.” «But wait for a ladder. I will fetch one from the tool- house yonder.” The man ran off for the ladder, but Sharkey did not wait. He threw off his coat and boots, and by fixing his toes in the crevices of the rocks which formed the sides of the well, he was able to descend with ease. The well was about twelve feet deep, and contained four feet of water. Before he had reached the bottom Sharkey saw what he had expected to see. The body of a man, doubled upon itself by the fall, one white, ghastly hand lifted out of the water, one side of the dead face showing distinctly by the faint ray of light which came from above. “Tt is here,” Sharkey called to his comrades. you bring a rope, and be ready to draw it up.” The rope was brought, Sharkey dextrously attached the body toit, and soon the gaastly Thing lay on the moss at the brink of the well. E “It is Albert Trowbridge, sure enough,” said one of the men. ‘It’s no wonder he didn’t come to his wed- ding. He went to a different kind of merry-making.” “Hush, Jenkins!” said Sharkey, solemnly, *‘the man isdead. Don’t make light of it. And there has been murder done!” The cursory examination made by the officers showed them the bullet-hole in the side of the head by which death had come to the unfortunate man. “It's a case for the coroner,” said Sharkey. ‘‘T'wo of you remain here; Jones, go and notify Mr. McLeod, and —and—somebody must be found to break the news to the women up at the house,” and he nodded in the direc- tion of the mansion. Just then Jack Belford came along. He had been up to Clitheroe to inquire if the master had returned, and had sauntered through the grounds, and hearing voices in the vicinity of the Wishing Well, had come that way. He surveyed the scene with evident surprise. “Well,” he said, removing his cigar from his mouth, and addressing Sharkey. ‘It seems that your search is ended. Whatashocking thing. In the well?” interro- gatively. «In the well. Shot before being put in there, too.’ “Any clew ? any trace of any assassin ?” “None,” returned Sharkey. ‘That is, none as yet. There may be, later. The grounds hereabouts have not yet been thoroughly overhauled.” «Sent for the coroner ?” “Yes, man just gone. Say, Mr. Belford, somebody has got to tell the women up yonder. I’ve been in a good deal of this kind of thing, but I hate to break such news to women. They’re nervous, and they’re liable to cry, and then, why, hang me! I feel as if ’d ought to be shot for hurting ’em so. You know the sister, don’t you, Mr. Belford ?” “Yes, I know Miss Trowbridge.” “Would you mind going up and telling her how things are ? «Well, there are duties I should prefer,” said Belford, slowly, “but one cannot always choose. Yes, I will go u bl «One of ‘We found him in the well. Been dead allinight. Shot and fell in, or was thrown in. Thatisall. Do the best you can with the facts, and if ever I can do you a turn, I shall be happy.” The policeman turned oe vastly relieved to be rid of the responsibility he dreaded, and Belford retraced his steps. He went slowly, with the air of one who rather shrank from what he had todo, and yet it was nothing ot that kind which agitated him, and led him to take time for thought. No man knew better than Jack Belford the awkward complications which were liable to arise from Albert Trowbridge’s death—no one, but himself, knew that this unforeseen event mightcut him off from the revenue he now enjoyed, and cast him penniless en the world. He roe the bell at the great door with an unsteady hand, and asked to see Miss Trowbridge. The footman came back directly to say that Miss Trowbridge was en- NEUEN) ih ose yt yd Eli tytl penne The coroner’s inquest was long and tedious. The ses- sions covered the space of over two days, and scores of witnesses were examined. The shooting had been done with a 32-caliber pistol ; the ball had penetrated the brain and remained imbed- ded there. Death had been instantaneous. But the most rigid inquiry failed to cast any light on the vexed question as to who was the murderer; and it was evident that here was a case which would tax the science of the detectives to its utmost. It was the opinion of people generally that the deed had been done by one of the disaffected workmen, yet it was only a mere supposition, for there were no facts in the case, so far as discovered, to point to any such conclusion. Albert Trowbridge was placed in the costly tomb at Mount Royal, where the Howard family slept, and which belonged to the estate of Clitheroe, and the mat- ter of discovering and punishing his murderers was left in the hands of the proper authorities. The will of Clitheroe’s master was produced by Judge Belding, his legal adviser, and read in the drawing-room immediately after the funeral of the testator. It was, in many respects, a peculiar and unsatisfac- tory instrument. Judge Belding announced before reading it that although he had, at the dictation of the testator, drawn the will up, he did not clearly under- stand the meaning of some of the clauses, and he hoped that the sister, or other friends of the deceased, might be able to throw some light upon the matter. First, the will gave to Eleanor Trowbridge, the well- beloved half-sister of the testator, the estate of Clithe- roe, With all its revenues, which were very large. It also bequeathed to her the sum of fifty thousand dollars in railway stocks. It gave her the contents of a certain drawer marked A, in the private desk of the testator, and the custody of a package. vontained in an ebony box, said package to be held subject to the directions given in a sealed letter addressed to the legatee, and deposited with Judge Belding. Here the judge produced the letter mentioned and gave itinto the hand of Eleanor. He then proceeded with his reading. The will gave to Jack Belford, his old friend and com- panion, the sum of fifty thousand dollars. It gave to Peter Lecroix, an old servant, and a man who was very thoroughly in his master’s confidence, the sum of fifty thousand dollars, to be appropriated to the support of the person regarding whom Peter knew the mind of the testator. It gave to Miss Vanvelt several valuable paintings and other keepsakes, and there were a good many minor legacies to servants and others. Eleanor did not open the letter the judge had handed her. She put it away in asecret compartment of her escritoire, there to await her leisure. She had a pre-: sentiment that the letter might contain something against which she must fortify herself. She could think of but one thing that her brother would speak about to her out of his grave, and that was her attachment for Vance Harley. And perbaps he had taken this occa- sion to infiuence her in favor of Belford, whom she cordially detested, and for whom her brother seemed to ee amost singular and inexplicable attach- ment. The next day after the funeral of Mr. Trowbridge a boy of sixteen or seventeen, a son of one the gardeners, presented himself at Sharkey’s office, and asked to see Mr. Sharkey. : The fellow was evidently laboring under *embarrass- ment and terror, and it required all the policeman’s powers of persuasion to induce him to deliver himself of his errand. “You want to tell me something ?” said Sharkey, ‘‘and you don’t know as you ought to. What can you mean ? Have you been stealing something—or whatisit? I don’t suppose a booby like you has killed anybody.” “Lord save us, sir! I hain’t, sir.. But somebody has.” «That is true,” said Sharkey, his mind at once revert- ing to the case of Trowbridge ; ‘‘but what do you know about it ?”" “What'll they do to ’em—to them as did it?” asked the boy, with an air of doubt and uncertainty, hesi- tating evidently about committing himself on the in- formation he might possess. Sharkey saw and under- stood the fellow’s hesitation, and humored it. “Oh, well, I don’t know exactly. He might get a few years in prison.” ‘. spt could they do aught with him that told about “Indeed not, unless he had something to do with it. Speak out, Ike, and tell us what you mean ?” “Well, then, it was——. You promise that they sha’n’t touch me ?” ‘‘Not unless you helped it on.” “Which I never did, sir. May Satan fly away with me ifI did! Well, then, I can tell you who killed Mister Trowbridge.” ‘““Who was he ?” Wr were no he, sir. It were a sie.” ‘se 10!” ‘It’s the truth as I hope to reach heaven when I die !” “Give me her name.” whicn hung on that simple proceeding. Well might she 7 have hesitated and drawn back in shivering horror. But she realized only the fact that she was going to ; meet her friend, and she was wondering all the way as to what the important step could be which Angie was on the point of taking. Perhaps she was going to be married; and Lena ran over in her mind all the youn men she had ever noticed as showing partiality towa’ Angie, and concluded that if marriage was the “im- portant step” alluded to, Angie must have a new lover. She reached the path which led to the Wishing Well, which was a t resort for the young men and maidens in the vicinity. It was the old legend related of the “Don’t do anything you'll be sorry for, Mills!” said one of the Knights, attempting to detain him. ‘We work- ing men ain’t roughs, nor rowdies! We only want our rights, and in a right way !” “Git out of my way!” roared Mills. Ike Marden hesitated for a moment, glanced nervously over his shoulder, leaned forward, and whispered two words in the policeman’s ear. (TO BE CONTINUED.) > o&<+__—_- (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] ‘“T hain’t a goody goody | I mean business!” and rushing past the half sc of men who would have held him back, he leaped on the foot board of the locomotive, thrust the acting engineer down tothe ground, dragged the fireman away from the furnace, and pitched him headlong on the track, and uncoupling the engine from the tender, he turned on the steam, and sprung back to the ground. The iron monster dashed forward, the sparks poured wei oat ae ~< at Been 7 a arent o : i t taunts fom eden vee wg pedro abe: Nits lace, that the maiden who looked in the well and saw er face reflected there would have the wish of her heart ted, if she threw three stones into the water and wished before the noise of their splash had died away. The well was surrounded by a dense growth of hem- andthe -trodden path Jeading thereto was dark even at day. 1t was positively gloomy and frightful now to the timid girl; but she expected to find Sane there, arid the thought gave her courage. She stepped lightly along, and just as she reached the first of the flat stones which paved the ground around the well the big drops of rain began to patter down. “Angie,” she called, ‘‘Angie, are you there ?” There was no reply, and Lena began to realize how very foolish she had been to come. Why could not Angie West have set some other time, and some other place as well? But Angie was avery romantic girl, and it was quite in keeping with her disposition. A step sounded near, and Lena hurried forward—so glad that her friend was coming, so relieved that there hon something human in that dismal place beside her- se. “Angie. Docome away from here. Iam so fright- ened,” she cried, rushing to the side of the figure which advanced from out of the shadows, and then recoilin with a smothered exclamation, for the arm she gras Was a man’s arm, and the voice which addressed her Was a man’s voice, and she knew the tones only too well. ; She realized, with a shudder of mortal terror, that once more, she was in the power of Albert Trowbridge! He put his arm around her and held her fast. “Do not struggle. It only exhausts your strength for nothing. Listen to me, Lena, and know that you are listening to a desperate man. I love you. You know that Ido. Ihave tried to rid myself of the passion that sses me, butin vain. A man is not always able to master of himself. I don’t pretend to explain why it is that I want yow—and only you.” «But you are to be married to-morrow to Miss Van- oa Oh, Mr. Trowbridge, where is your sense of onor ?” “Gone to the dogs long ago,” cried Trowbridge, pas- sionately. ‘Lena, hear whatI have tosay. A month ago, Ishould have scorned myself if I had thought I should ever have lived to sayit. I have promised to marry Augusta Vanvelt. Sheisalady. She is an heir- ess. Every drop of blood in her veins is of the very bluest. And Icare no more for her than I do for the merest scullion in my kitchen. Now, hear me. I love ou. You area woman that would grace any position. ask you to be my wife. I will marry you betore the world, and I will swear to you that you shall never have cause to regret it.” “J scorn you and your offer,” cried Lena, with proud indignation. ‘Go back to this noble and beautiful wo- man, whom you have wronged, and tell her how vile you are, and ask her forgiveness, and if she can marry you, be thankful, and be to her the true and loyal husband she deserves. I am ashamed of you.” “Perhaps you are,” he said, grimly. “I should not wonder. But I did not decoy you here to-night to listen to your opinion of me. I used the name of your old friend in my letter, simply because I knew I could not conveniently get to see you without stratagem.” © “You are beneath my scorn.” “J shall not dispute it. I have made you an honorable offer. You have refused it. Now, hear whatI will do. “Mine you shall be. Upon that I am resolved.” “Never. I would die first.” “Perhaps you would, but one cannot always die at pleasure. Now, Lena Dudley, if you come with me peaceably 1 will treat you with consideration, but if you resist me, I do not mind telling you that I would not hesitate at anything. Come.” «Where 2?” «To the house of Mrs. Main, on the outskirts of my estate. Mrs. Main is a good soul. She understands matters of this kind.” “Oh, Heaven,” cried Lena. ‘You will not do this ter- rible thing. Let me go. Mrs. Main is a—a fiend in hu- man shape. What will you do with me there ?” “I will teach you tolove me. 1 will——” “Oh, I beg of you for my father’s sake, if not for my own, let me go. Did you ever have a mother? think of her! You say that you love me, and A you would wrong me thus? Oh, Mr. Trowbridge, what an idea you must have of love.” His face softened ; for a moment she thought he would allow her to go. “Lena, think again. Take your time. Be my wife, |. and no woman ever had husband so devoted as you shall have. Whatever there is in my life that you do not like shall be reformed. We will go away; we will make our home inany clime under the sun which you may select. I will cast ambition to the winds, and live only for love and you. My darling, my darling! shallitnot beso?” — He clasped her to his breast and_ kissed off the hot, scornful words that trembled on her lips. She burst sway from his arm, and stood, panting and white with anger, beneath the iron grip he still kept on her shoulder. “If | had the means I would kill you!” we cried through her shut teeth. ‘You deserve to die RNs eS d a \ i 6 4 “] WILL MARRY YOU BEFORE THE WORLD, AND I SWEAR TO YOU THAT YOU SHALL NEVER HAVE CAUSE TO RE- GRET IT!” ‘“Howld yer jaw, Mike!” said a ruddy-faced striker; “youre not one of us; ye never worked in yer life. What is it to you? We don’t believe in doing things any other way than’s dacint.” ; “Oh, how pious we be!” said a burly bully, who was known all over town as a braggart loafer, and had never struck because he had hardly ever done a day’s work in his life. ‘As for me, I’m for getting square, no matter who dies. There shan’t another engine manned by scabs start out of here! Who'll stand by me to the death ?” Not one of the strikers moved; but one of them said uietly : a “Wo don't intend to get our rights by bloodshed; but we will starve before we work for anthing but living wages.” Harley went up to Carry Conway, who, fully recovered, was standing, pale and silent, a little way from the other woman. ‘What made you do it ?” he asked. ‘Did you not know that it was almost certain death ?” «Yes, I knew it; and J don’t know as I thank you for saving me fromit. I know that I ought to, but I don’t.” Her sad, pale face touched him. He took her unre- sisting hand in his own. «You have some trouble ? tell me what it is 2” “No; I can tell so one. I have been a fool: I must bear the results of my folly,” she returned, speaking in a hard, cold voice. “She has lost her young man—that's what ails her,” said one of the women. ‘And if it was me, I should call it a good riddance ot bad rubbish—that’s what I should. He thinks he’s a deal above us poor folks, because his hands is white and soft, and he wears a ‘all hat, and scents his handkerchief. Oh, he’s a daisy—that’s what he is.” Carrie looked at her with scornful eyes. «You don’t know what you're talking about, Maggie Shea,” she said, coldly. ‘You’re a gossiping thing, anyway.” “TI know the talk that’s going,” said Mag; ‘‘and I know that the old man has forbid Mr. Belford the house. And the old man is sensible, or I miss my guess.” “Mr. Jack Belford is a man with plenty of money,” said one of the other women, “but few knows where he tsit. And they do say thatit’s not likely he comes y it honestly. Poor as I am,I would rather starve than handle money that has blood on it.” “You had better go home,” said Carrie Conroy ; ‘‘and it’s the best place for all of us, 1’m thinking.” “Ye see, Mr. Harley,” pursued Maggie Shea, ‘it’s the story now that Mr. Belford is going to marry Miss Eleanor Trowbridge, and I’d rather see her pretty face be the coffin, and she’s one of the saints upon earth, she S. Vance Harley’s face grew dark with anger. “Never dare to couple her name with that of that in- fernal rascal!” he cried, hoarsely. ‘Eleanor Trow- bridge will never marry any but an honest man.” «He told it himself,” said Maggie, sulkily. ‘My tan wheard him talking about it with Mr. Trow- bridge. AE is a mistake,” said Vance, getting himself under control; and then to Carrie he said: ‘‘l would put him out of my mind, Miss Carrie; he is not worthy of you. He isa man of whom nobody knows anything. He is without a record. He is a mystery, and he is not of the working class. Let him go. ‘There are other men far better than he is who would be glad to take the heart he slights. Let him go.” She turned her sad eyes on him, and looked at him quietly ; then she said, and what a world of mourntul meaning was in her voice : “Tcannot! It is too late!” ao is never too late toturn back from the wrong ath.” . «J thank you for your interest. But you do not know. Sometime you will understand. Good-day.” She drew her shawl round her, and walked rapidly away. Meanwhile the railway company were preparing to start another train. It was a freight train this time, and there were mutterings loud and deep among the crowd against the railway officials. “It is taking the food out of the mouths of our wives and children,” said the braggart who had spoken be- fore, and whose name was Mills, ‘‘and I ain’t a going to stand by idle and see it done.” The police appeared and stationed their men about CanIhelp you? Will you. out of her smoke-stack in a dense cloud, the steam thundered through her ponderous machinery, as, de- prived of her guiding hand, let loose, she was left to run wild and uncontrolled, on to her fate. “Guess your train won’t move to-day!” said Mills, coolly, addressing the railway official who had given the. shaolin ta ae aie erder to start. . “Arrest that man! and put him in irons!” roared the Official, and instantly twenty policemen rt upon Mills, who drew a knife and slashed right and le unmindful of consequences. He was a large and power- ful man, and the fight was exciting and desperate. The policemen used their clubs—Mills was knocked down, and while in this condition he was secured. The Knights helped to quell the tumult which ensued, and aiter a while quiet was restored. CHAPTER XXIV. WHAT WAS IN THE WELL. When half the afternoon had passed and still no tid- ings of the missing bridegroom, the matter looked too serious to be longer neglected. The bishop, disappointed of a fat fee in prospective, notified the authorities, who at once set to work to discover traces of the missing man. Jack Belford appeared, and told of his interview with Mr. Trowbridge on the previous night. It was just five minutes of nine, he said, when they parted, for Trowbridge had consulted his watch, and they were then at the park. Trowbridge had gone in the direction of Chitheroe. : Eleanor was not so uneasy as she would have been had it not been that her brother had, to a certain extent, the habit of unexplained disappearances from home, but she could not understand how he would be absent at such a time as this. Augusta said nothing. She kept hercold and calm demeanor, and it was difficult to determine whether she felt anxiety or not. The hours woreon. One of th¢men employed in the search came upona woman’s shoe stuck fast in the moist soil near the Wishing Well. It was avery small shoe, and had never been worn by any of the maid servants at Clitheroe, who were all very buxom and well develop- ed young women. “WHAT IS IT? IS—IS ALBERT DEAD ?” But then the mere finding of a shoe was nothing, when the fact was taken into consideration that a great many young women visited the well to try the charm ; yet it was a little remarkable that any one of them should have been in such a hurry to leave it, as to lose her shoe and not pick it up. The shoe was passed around to the policemen—a well- formed No. 2, of ordinary French kid, trodden into the shape of a perfect, high-arched foot, but there was no mark on it by which it could be identified. It might have been bought at any shoe store. The little dog belonging to Eleanor had come down to the well with the police, and he commenced sniffing ana whining in a peculiar manner, and he evinced a strange sort of terror when brought near the brink of the well. Tom Sharkey, who led the searching party, noticed the singular actions of the dog. He got down on his knees, and examined the grass and moss. “Ha !” he exclaimed, drawing back suddenly, and lift- ing his hand to the light; ‘‘this means something.” “What is it ?” cried the others, crowding around, ft, all’ “{ GAN TELL YOU WHO KILLED MISTER TROWBRIDGE !” gaged. A dark flush rose to Belford’s cheek. He knew. well enough that Eleanor was engaged, because she would not see him. “Tell Miss Trowbridge,” he said, ‘‘that I must speak to her. I have news of her brother.” Very soon the man returned, and said Mr. Belford, was to step into the blue drawing-room. Belford did not sit down, but stood, hat in hand, awaiting Eleanor’s coming. He heard the soft rustle of her dress, and knew that she was in the room before he saw her. “Carl tells me you have news of my brother,” she said, abruptly, and not regarding the hand he extended to her. ‘I shall be very glad to hearof him. And I shall scold him soundly for giving us this dreadful scare.” ‘No, 1do not think you will do that,” said Belford, slowly. ‘‘No, certainly not.” Something in the expression of his face evidently struck her. She looked at him a moment, and the color receded from her cheek. She laid her hand on the back of a chair, and faced the truth. “Whatisit? Is—is Albert dead ?” “He is dead.” She uttered no exclamation. In times of great trial Eleanor Trowbridge was always brave and courageous, and though her face grew white, and the world seemed whirling around her, she only said: «Tell me about it.” “Sit down, dear Miss Eleanor,” said Belford, with solicitude, and he placed a chair, and gently tried to force her into it. She waved him back. “J am not going to faint, Mr. Belford. Tell me what you know.” He obeyed. Eleanor listened with dilating eyes and quickened breath. «And that is all ?” she asked, when he paused. «All that I know, at present.” “But they will find out more. ‘Somebody is guilty. Somebody has done this dreadful thing. Oh, Albert! oh, my brother !” She bowed her head in her hands, and her slight frame shook with emotion. Belford made some futile attempts at consolation, but Eleanor shrank from his touch. Her manner was any- thing but flattering to the man who wanted to stand in the position of a lover toward her. “Do you think it was the outcome of the strike ?” she asked atlength. ‘Albert made a great many enemies, I suppose. But this was such a cowardly thing to do! Shot down in cold blood !” “It was a cowardly thing! There were ‘no evidences of astruggle. Nothing but a little pool of blood at the brink of the well—and—and—yes, I remember, Sharkey told me that they founda woman’s shoe. But then that was nothing, I suppose, since so many girls went to the Wishing Well to tr) their fortunes.” “Yes, there were a great many of them there. It an- noyed Albert. He often spoke of having the well filled up, but I always objected. It was so cool and rustic there, and the legend about it was pretty, and a part of Clitheroe.” “You will break the sad news to Miss Vanvelt ?” asked Belford, eager to get away and see if anything new was being developed. : “Yes, I will speak to her.” They both turned toward the door. As they did so they saw that it was not necessary to speak to Miss Vanvelt. A dozen men were coming up the broad drive, fol- lowing with slow tread four other men who bore on the door of an out-house the still—oh, so awfully still !— body of the master of Clitheroe. His white, set face was turned toward the setting sun, the light of expiring day streamed over him, and the sightless eyes met the full splendor without change or motion; the fixed lips were set like iron beneath the heavy mustache; one powerless hand hung down to his side, the fingers clenched, as if the mortal agony which had seized upon and frozen them was felt even now. And half way down the marble steps, her costly silken dress trailing behind her, her hand yet grasping the white lilies she had been placing ina.vase when the mournful cortege had first attracted her attention, stood Augusta Vanvelt. She saw and understood the scene at a glance; and, frozen tostone, she stood silent, upright, and motionless, and saw her missing bride- groom come back. They bore him into the great hall and laid his lifeless form on the table. Augusta never asked a question; she waited a mo- ment while they covered his face, and then she went silently up to her chamber and locked herselfin. And not even to Eleanor would she open the door. For Another's Sin; OR, THE BRIDE’S CONQUEST By BERTHA M. CLAF, AUTHOR OF “A Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The World Between Them,” “Beyond Pardon,” Etc. (“For ANOTHER’s SIN,” was commenced in No. 17. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER LXVI. “I FORBID YOU TO DIE.” Jealous rage against Adelaide, mad rebellion against her own marriage bonds, angry assurance that Lord Carew was not likely to ruin himself at her order, had culminated in an hour of frenzy, and just such hideous revenge as Lord Carew himself had fancied as he rode, melancholy, toward Bede’s Abbey. If she could not se- cure Allan Carew for herself, she could end a life bitter without him, and shoot, in her flight to another world, an arrow that would bring misery and ruin on the peace- ful home of Brooklands. Brooding over her troubles until she was in a frenzy in which she was perhaps hardly responsible for her act, the duchess early dismissed Eloise, not to the ante- room where she had slept since the accident, but to the room in the servants’ gallery. “But my lady is alone, madame will need me,” re- monstrated Eloise. “J cannot have you so near me!” cried her lady, angrily. Iwanta night of peace. You snore.” “Mon Dieu,” said the indignant Eloise, below her breath, and as she gained the hall. ‘Mon Dieu, I snore !” And not long after, by that same balcony down which, she had gone like a spirit-fallen but not lost to all its original brightness, to tempt Allan Carew, fled her grace, the envied, admired, flattered Duchess of Ormond, to find rest in the black waters of the Lone Ponds. On through the woods, in the stillness broken only by the fitful to- whit of an owl, or the bay of a dog at the kennels, with that swift, easy, wholly graceful motion that distinguis- ed her, went her grace of Ormond, till from a path, open to the full flood of moonlight, met her, suddenly, a figure, taller, darker, just as graceful, slenderer than her own. The duchess, unused to lone night rambles, gave a cry. Strange how these two confronted each other, the dark woman the ghost of the duchess’ future, the duchess the ghost of the dark one’s past. “You! you! Juanita of Silvara, alone at night!” cried the woman. The duchess shuddered. This check in her mad rush to death sent a shiver through her, and all her purpose faltered. The woman seized her hands. “Are you asleep—walking in your sleep? Has your fall jarred your brain, so you do not know what you do, are you too mad? What! out here in the night to blot out all your fortune and your future ? Come back !” With a strange authority, which somehow the duchess could not resist, she turned her about, and led her by the hand back, back tothe iron staircase. They did not speak, but hand in hand, pulse beating to pulse, they went. «Where is your maid ?” the woman asked, when they arrived. “Safe, in the attic,” replied the duchess. She suffered herself to be led like a little child into her ownapartments. Then her rescuer became her maid, her slave. She took down the glossy volume of Juanita’s hair, and brushed it with gentle lovingness. She took the nun’s vailing dressing-gown off and put in its place the cambric night+robe, with rosy knot tied under the chin, with slow caressing touch, as a mother dresses a pet child. She went on her knees and rubbed the little chilled feet warm. She made her drink a cor- dial. She made the subdued, wondering, overwhelmed duchess lie down in her bed, and snugly tucked her in ; she bent over her pillow and comforted her. “Sleep, angel of loveliness, rest! To-morrow all shall be well. Long life shall be yours, love to cherish you, and cleave to you forever, all that the world has to offer I promise you.” Then she wrung her hands and stood apart, and the duchess, overpowered by the day’s fierce soul conflict, the night’s adventure, and the skillfully mixed cordial, heard as in a dream : . «For the first time, oh, me! oh, me! for the last time, angel of my life, soul of my soul !” Then the woma carefully brushed out the dressing- robe, and spread it over a divan that it might tell no tales. But on the floor lay a pair of little satin slippers, and two silk stockings moist with dew, and soiled with gathered dust from the wood path. She wrapped these in a kerchief of the duchess taken trom the toilet- table. “They would tell tales. I take them away,” she said. Then she slipped from her finger a ring with a single ruby, and put it on the hand of the duchess. : «Wear it for me forever,” she murmured, and covered the hand with kisses, and so went from the room and away; but not until the dawn was lit with daffodil and rose did she cease her watch on the staircase. Then, sure that Juanita was asleep and safe, she went her way, and, shut in her own room at Mrs. Dingley’s, hugged the shoes to her breast, and hid them away as her choicest treasure. When the duchess a\woke the next morning she re- called her last night’s emotion and fight as a hideous dream, at which she shuddered. How could she, so warm with vivid life, tingling even to her soft finger- tips, contemplate oblivion under those black, cold, crawling waters ? What was this woman who brought her back, controlled her, seemed to love her? She kissed the little ruby ring, and swore to wear it forever for that woman’s sake, Then she slipped trom her bed, took a letter she had left.displayed on her toilet, lit a taper, and burned it, telt the soothing of the open- ing day, the morning dew and perfume, the song of birds, and like the naughty child that has had its freaks out, and turning proclaims ‘‘l am good,” Juanita of Or- mond took a cheerier view of herself and her fate, went back to her pillow, and slept again—warm, tranquil, dreamless, dimpled slumber, like a child at peace with all the world. Lady Adelaide had just reached the breakfast-room, the next morning, when she heard the sweep of a rich dress, and the duchess entered elate and smiling. With the fleeing of the night shadows the brief despair and rash intention of that .stormy soul had fled away. With the rising of the morning sun had risen again her hopes of conquest. She ignored her absolute rude- ness of the day before to Lady Adelaide, and met her warmly. “How charmingly you are looking this morning! You fair women always look cool, serene, and restful, and I suppose it is true that your temperament is different from that of us dark ones. dejected, never cross, as | was yesterday.” “Invalids must be allowed their little fits of boredom and petulance,” said Lady Adelaide. ‘I think wise nurses hail these as signs of swift recovery.” “But 1 do not wish to be called an invalid. I think I was never illin my life. I suppose that is because as a child I lived in the open air. Mytfather’s castle had large grounds; my mother was dead; my nurse obeyed my Willin all things. She {loved herself to be out ‘of doors, and you know in southern Spain the open air is pleasant almost all the year round. That is why I like Brooklands so much, you have such beautiful parks and gardens, and I enjoy walking about in them. It is my ideal way of spending an evening.” “With my husband,” thought Lady Adelaide, as the small party took their places at table; ‘‘but you shall You are never hasty, never | not do it, if I can prevent it.” “And what is to be the order of the day 2” asked | Alice Carr. “Something very peaceable, I have no doubt,” said the duchess, half contemptuously. ‘You are so quiet without the gentlemen. But then women always are. What would be a world without men in it 2” “Your ideal, then, would not be that of Tennyson’s princes, who ‘loved to live alone among her women,’” said Lady Di. “Not I. Women left to themselves become dreadful | bores—after two days, of course, that is,” said the duchess. “I certainly would not prefer such an Amazonian world that my Guy had to be left out of it,” said Lady Di; ‘but I can survive a few days without masculine at- tention, whether I devote myself to learning as the prin- cess did, or to embroidering a ‘quaint macaw,’ as Lady Flora, in the Sleeping Beauty.” Evening came. The party from St. Bede’s were home. The heart of Lord Carew had risen lightly, as hour after hour of the excursion had gone by without evil news. Then, by a revulsion of feeling, he felt wrathful indigna- tion with her who had so played with his fears and wan- tonly embittered his days. He meant to treat her with coldness which should severely reprove her coquetry. The gentlemen were a little late coming down from dressing, after their ride. The wily duchess had taken care to see the duke in his room and make all due inqui- ries and congratulations, so she should not be bound to | him below. : Lady Adelaide had met Allan in the hall, but as she | had never entered his suite of rooms, she had only been | able to exchange a brief greeting. AS he dressed, he | meant to join his wife in the drawing-room, and tell her | about the excursion, carefully copying the wayS of Sir Guy.» He came to the drawing-room. Lady Adelaide was talking to the duke and Captain Randolph, but they were all standing, and she gave him an eager, longing | jook. He was just coming to her side, when the clear, | imperious voice of her grace of Ormond spoke to him: “Lord Carew! Come and tell me all about St. Bedes !” } He was host, and she was guest. What could he do? | He turned to the voice. The duchess was lolling in a tete-a-tete; there was just room for two. Her dazzling | eyes flashed welcome at him; her breath stirred the { black ostrich feathers of her fan; her dress seemed as a} fountain of jet poured over crimson satin, flashing, glit- tering, Sparkling, at every motion. As one drawn by a lure, as some strong falcon might stoop to the gleam of a basilisk’s eye, charmed to destruction, so he yielded, and went to her side. CHAPTER. LXVI. THE RUBY RING. When Lord Carew sat down by the duchess, Lady Ad- elaide grew pale, and a dim shadow seemed to fall over the radiance of her.beauty. Her lips quivered a little in | spite of all her. efforts at seli-control. This deeply | touched Beauty Randolphb’s heart. He had just been | thinking her the most exquisite creature he had ever seen, in her robe of blue crape and pearls. He followed the swift glance of her eye, and saw at once the cause of her uneasiness. Alice Carr had just entered the room; he went to meet her, then turned and boldly led the | way near the tete a-tete : “Lord Carew, are you giving the annals of our jaunt? | May Miss Carr hear them? Then she will not ask me. | 1 dread to be called on for a description. Like Pat, Iam | lame in my tongue.” | Now, of course, no one could suppose that Lord Carew | and the duchess had need for private conversation; they | were not, like young lovers, left with a significant space about them. Captain Randolph's conduet was sweetly | legitimate, whide it drove the duchess frantic, but caused | Lord Carew to bless him in his heart. “Tam not asking for chronicles; I hate them,” said | the duchess. ‘I doubt if even Lord Carew’s fluency could make them attractive.” Then, with the caressing | voice that knew so well how tosay nothings meaningly : | ‘Tam so glad, Lord Carew, that you have had two such happy days. In this world happy days are so rare.’ | ‘Phe excursion has been very pleasant, but whether | really happy,” said Lord Carew—thinking of his late | mental exercises on behalf of this adorable creature—‘‘I | cannot say. Happiness is a term of the vaguest, and | real happiness a shadow which men pursue but never | overtake.” “They are talking philosophy,” cried the uninitiated Alice. ‘In an instant I shall be drowned in a sea of | incomprehensible words. You must tell me the adven- ventures yourself, Captain Randolph.” Beauty resigned himself to be not absolutely a party to the conversation in the ¢tete-a-tete, but he judiciously | wheeled chairs into a reasonable distance from the duchess—a distance that would preclude any such con- fidence as she would properly be supposed no¢ to desire. ‘IT am sorry you find so little joy in life,” said the duchess. : Lord Carew’s face flushed. “I did not speak of myselfin particular, but gave a theory of life in general. I am ashappy as the majority, “no doubt.” «But [ hoped you were much happier.” The glittering jet over her bosom rose and fell, her eyes had a soft, tender light. i ke should I claim more than my fellows ?” he said, ightly. ‘Because you are sO much better, so much more kind, generous, chivalrous. The world is full of men, but among them all none like you.” The last words were very low. Now it is very possible that it Lord Carew had set himself ardently to woo the duchess, she would have thought of her social life, of her power, place, name, her endangered coronet; and after amusing herself for a while with adoration, and his wife’s pain, she would have coldly trowned him away before going too far for her good reputation. But to wo- men like the duchess the unattainable becomes the pas- sionately desired, and Lord Carew, by his reticence, had become instantly the object of her intensest wishes. To her ardent praise Lord Carew said, quietly : ‘‘Kind duchess and honored friend, it is a mistake if you place me above other men at my age and in my in- experience. If, whenl reach his age, I am as useful, honored, and as exemplary as the duke, I shall deserve your praise.” ‘ “You deserve it now,” she whispered, with a thrilling voice. ‘I would die, I would sacrifice anything, to make you, my ideal, the happiest of men.” This was again going too far. Allan Carew looked sadly at her. “You are far too kind to me, Nita;” and then came a diversion for which he had to thank his wife. The Duke and Duchess of Grafton had been invited to come for dinner and the night. They entered the room. Adelaide rightly reasoned that her husband would be bound by etiquette to take her grace of Grafton to din- ner, and pay her his especial court during her brief stay. She knew that the butterfly fancy of the pleasant: Duke of Gratton lightly revolved about the splendid Juanita, and that he would endeavor to absorb all her attention. Thus for the twenty-four hours of their stay the move- ments of the Duchess of Ormond would be checkmated. As she had foreseen, Lord Carew came ationce forward to greet his guests. He respected and warmly liked her grace of Grafton. Her grace, on her part, disapproved of Juanita’s coquetry and Lord’Carew’s attentions to her, while she much admired Adelaide. While she was of the party she would quietly compel Lady Adelaide al- | the one I wear on my little finger ? ; al ways to be a third in their company. Another day lost Juanita could have cried out fiercely in her jealous rage. Instead. she must admit the Duke of Grafton to the seat | Carew, and she had told her hideous tale to the duchess, just vacated by Lord Carew. And the Duke of Grafton was small, plain, jesting, and at heart believed his wife the wisest and best hearted woman in all the world. The new arrivals broke up the grouping of the party and re-arranged it, except Beauty and Alice, whom all consented to leave together. “Is it finally settled between them ?” asked her grace, looking at them through her eye-glasses. ‘Not entirely, yet, I think,” said Lady Adelaide, ‘but I hope it soon will be—they seem made for each other.” And then, she faltered, blushed, and looked at Allan. He had spoken somewhat sharply in London, when she expressed a similar sentiment. “What is the matter?” demanded the duchess,’ ‘‘that is very good sentiment, why hesitate as if wrong.” ‘Lord Carew, I believe, thinks us ladies are too given to matchmaking,” said Adelaide. “Only that I thinkit safest te Jet matches alone, to make themselves,” said Lord: Carew, entirely by way of explanation, and without the least thought or his match. But Lady Adelaide thought; her poor loving heart was very sensitive on such subjects. The duchess of Grafton went on in her own hearty, explicit style. I don't agree with you at all, Lord Carew. I think when young people are evidently made for each other, that it is righteous and charitable work to help a match on. From lowest to highest, the land is built on loyal and happy bomes. young wite,.like yours, to be giving her little innocent help in the matrimonial matters of her friends. It speaks volumes tor her own wedded happiness.” By this time it had flashed upon Lord Carew, that he might have spoken a dagger to his gentle wife, and he hastened to heal the wound by saying warmly : “T assure your grace, there is nota lady in England more deserving of all happiness than Adelaide Carew.” “That is as it should be. You are a young couple to do one’s heart good,” said her grace, earnestly, and as she took Lord Carew’s arm to go to dinner, Lady Ade- laide accepted the escort of the Duke of Ormond, and went to her place at the table greatly comforted. The Duchess. of Ormond was nothing if not daring. She resolved on a great coup @ etat to secure Allan to herself. When the party had all re-gathered in the drawing room, she went leisurely to where Lord Carew was talk- ing with the Duchess of Grafton and his wife, and said coolly ; ‘‘My triend, you seem to have forgotten that I promised to walk in the park with you! See how much better my memory is than yours. I have just most reluctantly re- fused to walk with the Duke of Grafton, on your behalf.” This might have done admirably, but not three minutes before, Lord Carew had asked the Duchess of Gratton to go wiih him and hear the famous Brooklands nightingales, so the words of the duchess were as a poorly hung sword of Damocles dropped in their midst. Lady Adelaide, with her ready tact, recovered the situa- tion. «We must forgive the host of so many admired ladies, for making more than one engagement,” she said, sweet- ly. ‘Let us all walk in the gardens. The Duke of Or- mond is about to play whist with Lady Carew, and the Veretons, and all the rest of the party, will enjoy seeing the crepe myrtles, and the beds of tubroses, and hearing the nightingales.” She spoke so tranquilly that no one but Juanita deemed how much was at stake. The party fell into pairs. The Gutchess of Gratton said, readily: “T will resign your arm, Lord Carew, to the fairer | wearer of a coronet, and Prince Gadstein shall be my knight, but I shall claim your company near enougl? to be told all that is new or interesting of Brooklands.” The Duchess of Ormond whispered in Adelaide’s ear : ‘Lady, you should haye kept the gardens of Hes- perides.” + They were strolling in the grounds. Carew said : eet where in the world did you get. that ruby ring ?” CHAPTER LXVIII. “THERE IS FATE-IN IT.” The party in the gardens were keeping together, and yet a little apart. They could not break up and scat- | ter, Since Lady Adelaide, Beauty Randolph, and her To me it looks very charming in a4 Suddenly Lord grace of Grafton—who was always suspicious of Juanita | —were resolved that the party should be one. And yet | they were not so close that any one could hear that sud- | den startled inquiry of Lord Carew, ‘Nita, where did | you get that ruby ring ?” Till that minute Juanita had forgotten the ring of her preserver of the previous night. She had in the morn- ing made one of her hasty, warm-hearted vows to wear it out of gratitude—then all day it had faded from her | mind. Now she looked down atit. She could not tell the truth. She replied: P “That ring? Why, I have so many jewels, I never can tell just when and where I got such a simple one as that. I should need to ask Eloise !” ‘But, don’t you see, Nita, it is the mate to my ring, You see, it isa peculiar ring, because the ruby is large, and has that Arabic character inlaid on the upper face.” He held his finger beside hers, and the rings were eC. «Did Lady Adelaide give you that ?” asked the duchess, jealously. «She never gave me any ring,” he replied. «Where did yours come from then ?” she asked. “From my uncle. You know, my father was a second son. When he was nearly thirty his elder brother died a widower, childless, and my father inherited. My uncle wore this ring of mine. My grandmother had | this ring and its mate made for her twosons; but my father lost his, and I wear my uncle’s. Now, that ring you wear is the ring my father lost. It must be.” “Yes? Well, shall I give it back to you, Allan ?” “Why, no! Only, 1am sure you see that two such odd | rings must be the two mates, and. that no others were like them; and it is curious that you have One, and I the other.” “There is fate in it,” said the duchess, solemnly. “Where the ring came from I cannot tell. But here is your father’s ring on my hand. I was early told these Arab gems were talismen, and that fatality attended them. Allan, these two rings on our two hands have a deep, mysterious meaning—do they link us two for- | one by one in silence. ever 2” What could he say, now his feet had reached that gult of black dishonor, whither he would not go down ? But an angel waited to stay him on the brink. The | duchess, with art, had delayed their steps, but Lady Adelaide, on the arm of Beauty. deliberately waited for them, “Duchess, you told me this morning roses were your favorite Hower. ; full splendor, just where the fountains are playing. You will enjoy seeing them.” haughtily, drawing up her lovely neck. Lady Adelaide laughed with silvery sweetness. | Cial, slowly, at length, ‘‘is because of information con- | | Author of and it only remained for the duchess to tell it to Allan, and tor all the honor, and pride, and hope of the Carews to sink iuto black ruin together. vent that fatal, that death-bearing interview? She stood, her haud laid lightly on Lord Carew’s shoulder, She tried to stay her failing soul with faith and a strong cry of prayer. To give way would be but to precipitate disaster. Prince Gadstein came to ask her hand for a dance, and she was soon with the rest, yet casting backward looks of tear and dread lest even as she floated, seem- ingly care-free, about the room the terrible mine should be sprung, and ruin fall. It seemed asift every one in the room conspired to aid Adelaide. The duke, joyous in his return, and Juanita’s improve- ment, appeared resolved to monopolize his lovely wife. | The Duchess of Graften was wonderfully gracious to Allan Carew. Beauty Randolph flashing about like a comet, carrying d@truction of staid proprieties in his train, filled up every pause, and hung near his host with surprising acumen. ‘You surpass yourself, captain,” said Lady Adelaide, unable to forbear laughing at one of his sallies. He responded in a whisper : “fam keeping my courage up, to tace Lady Carr in the morning, and ask her to bestow—a mother-in-law on me? Will she be very dreadful to ask, do you think? She looks ‘a most reasonable sweet lady to-night.’ ” “Oh,” said Adelaide, her face lighting up. ‘May I congratulate ?” : ‘Not to-night, for anything,” said Beauty. ‘Alice and I don’t wish to seem happy lovers to-night. We are even pretending to have a quarrel, to avert suspicion.” ‘*You don’t look nuch like a quarrel,” said Lady Ade- laide, ‘‘you are radient, and Alice looks simply charm- ing.” “Does she not! Lady Adelaide, secretly tell me, what is the least time I, aS a reasonable man, should be ex- pected to wait for that affair called, ‘preparing a trous- seau,’” “A little-waiting will be good for your soul,” said Lady Adelaide, moving off among her guests. Had Lady Ade- laide been one whit less noble, pure, reticent, simple, had she had a tithe of the duchess’ coquettish art, both Beauty Randolph, Prince Gadstein, and the Duke of Grafton might have*come to grief by her, as dazzled and bewildered by her singular beauty, they had hung about the throne of the neglected, unloved wife. But she only sought one conquest—that one, her lawful prize, her husband's heart. Instead of seeing in her a wayward coquette, these three men beheld her as the noblest and most angelic of women. By her they grew better and not worse. Oh, how—how to pre- | tangible gas they were. ! ; r | had imbibed freely on their way hither. At all events, | he felt uncomfortable, and wished that he had staid im- The evening had Fern on, the gay party were separa- | ting. eyes fixed on the face of Lady Adelaide, held out her hand to touch Lord Carew with a good-night greeting. And in that single touch the clever duchess leit a tiny note in his hand! What was that fatal note ? (T0 BE CONTINUED.) eet BEAUTY’S GRAVE. BY H. J. B. Yon mound so narrow, capped with velvet turf, Covers a form of Beauty’s rarest birth ; A lovely form, made lovelier by the light That pale Refinement, like the orb of night, Shed o’er the features where the virtues meet, And lent a charm as subtle as ’twas sweet ; A gentile dignity, a quiet grace, That gave the expression of an angel's face ; So like, indeed, that, laid upon the bier, We scarcely deemed her frame would linger here, But gazed, and thought that Heaven would lend it wings, rite To escape the dogm of meaner, grosser things. ——_—_>- @- (THIS STORY WILL NOP BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] STRANGE REVENGE: OR, THE UNDERTAKER’S SECRET. By JOHN F. COWAN, “O'CONNOR’S CHILD,” “PRETTY POLL,” “NORAH GLENN,” etc. (“A STRANGE REVENGE” was commenced in No. 31. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] * CHAPTER XV. * THE LAW IS MOVED BY THE PROMPTINGS OF REVENGE. Dan Banks faced the coroner with calm dignity, and said in a quiet, firm voice: “T am ready to listen to what you have to say, Mr. McFinn, but I should be extremely obliged if you would The duchess leaning on her husband’s arm, her | | } | first inform me what the matter is, and to what I am in- / debted for the honor of this visit. {know of no casualty | Sweeny, making in this neighberacosemeequnsthatyou should cometo raise this rabble around my door.” a Mrs. Banks gained courage and looked at her hus- band with proud surprise. Mr. Bilks put on his goggles | | bibing and taken Bilks’ cock-and bull stories for the in- So he allowed the lawyer to take him captive, and stated his case with a fluttered meekness very unusual and very unbecoming toa de- scendant of Fingal. “The affidavit of Mr. Bilks shows that on a Certain night, between two and three months ‘ago, a certain young woman, then unknown to the deponent, but whose name has since been ascertained, died under pe- culiarly suspicious circumstances.” “To whom were they suspicious ?” “To the deponent, Mr. Bilks.” ' “Oh, yes,” said the lawyer; ‘suspicion is Mr. Bilks’ business, is it not? He makes his living mostly by be- ing suspicious, doesn’t he ?” Mr. Bilks glared like an angry lion, but did not speak. eephis woman died shortly after the birth of an infant, attended by Mrs. Banks now present, and one Verazzi, a notorious character i. “For whom the law is stretching out its hand,” put in the lawyer. ‘I heard that beautifully figurative ex- pression before. Please hasten to the matter.” “This woman is supposed to have died of improper medical treatment and poison; the first probably—the last certainly.” ‘Who supposed so ?” “Mr. Bilks. ’ “Oh—ah, yes! Goon. What has this to do with my clients, or either of them ?” “Mrs. Banks is suspected of being an accomplice in or accessory to this woman’s murder.” Mrs. Banks jumped from her seat with a gasping cry, and Dan let out the first. syllable of an oath, but at the ae motion of the client-maker they both sub- sided. “Who suspects her ?” asked that gentleman. “Mr. Bilks.” “Oh, yes—of course. Proceed. How about the poi- soning ?” «‘Verazzi is supposed to have administered it.” “Did the same gentleman do the supposing.” oy Os.” “On what grounds ?” “Vials of arsenc and chloroform, obtained in the room.” “Obtained how ?—by whom ?—from whom ?” “By Mr. Bilks trom a nurse.” «Where is she ?” «Not known.” “And what have these vials to do with the notorious person ?” «They were his.” «*Who said so ?” “The nurse. He dropped them accidentally upon the mat.” ‘Have you them now ?” “No; they were destroyed.” «Well, what is his next supposition ?” “That the woman came to her death by the inhalation of chloroform.” «Why chloroform rather than arsenic ?” “Because the odor of the first pervaded the apart- ment, and while there were none of the signs of arsenical | poisoning, the touch of the flesh was warm and moist, and the appearance that of one in a state of trance or under the influence of some drug.” | “Then he did not think her dead ?” «He had his doubts.” «That’s like the gentleman. Well, why does he talk | of murder ?” | «Because She was buried in that state.” Bilks shook his head impudently at Dan, as much as to say: “Now comes your turn. There’s where [ have you.” CHAPTER XVI. THE MYSTERIOUS VOICES—BEATEN AND BOXED. | The undertaker became nervous and uncomfortable, and the cold perspiratfon exuded in beads upon his fore- head, and his knees smote each other when a hollow, guttural voice was heard, seeming to come trom among the coffins or beneath the floor: “Oh, what alie! Oh, what a sell!” . Everybody stared around, and Bilks sprang from the coffin he sat on as if it was red-hot. “It's some one speaking through the keyhole,” said the lawyer, and a chuckle seemed to indorse his idea, Bilks resumed his seat, and the interrogations were about to recommence, when another voice, more feeble and less jocular, murmured from the other side : «Quit your blamed fooling, I say, and let me out.” «Put those boys away from the door,” said McFinn to his clerk. The young man went to the door and opened it, but if thére had been any boys there they had vanished. “Well,” resumed the coroner, ‘‘the charge against Mr. Banks is, that under these suspicious circumstances, having no permit as required by law, he undertook to | bury, and did bury, the body of the said young woman | deceased.” ‘You lie!” said one of the sepulchral voices. “Like thunder !” indorsed the other. “Clerk,” exclaimed the angry coroner, “stand fast | by that door and catch the first ragamuffin that dares | to put a lip to the keyhole !” | Two horrible, mocking laughs sounded vaguely through the room, and the clerk, throwing the door open furious- ly, rushed into the hall with a tremendous sweep of his | — and stood astonished to find himself embracing | nothing. “Well, I hope to be blessed!” he exclaimed, gazing | along the empty passage. . “Youre not quick enough for those barefooted ras- cals, Sweeny,” said McFinn, laughing, as his clerk closed the door. 3 His laugh was, echoed in the same manner, and | other swing and arush, hauled up | with outspread arms against the blank wall on the : other side of the passage. = =——* F They were all puzzled; but the lawyer was a man of | business, and impatiently recalled the official mind to | the matter in hand. “So,” he said, ‘this suppositional gentleman supposes } to stare at him. Mr. McFinn took two or three law that Mr. Banks buried this dead woman illegally ?” papers from his pocket and scanned their indorsements, This was only for effect. “The cause of my coming, Mr. Banks,” said the offi- tained in this affidavit of this gentleman, Mr. Bilks, setting forth that between two and three months ago a | | certain young woman died while under the professional | My Gloire de Dijon roses are now in | C4Fe of your wife assisted by a notorious character on whom the law has laidits eye, and hopes soon to lay | its hand——” *f never enjoy anything in a crowd,” said the duchess, | At this moment a loud, sharp knock sounded on the | gong 9” | | | { | ; | | panel of the side door leading from the room into the | “You cannot help enjoying the Dijon roses, on any | terms, since you are such a lover of flowers; and Lord Carew will gather for you the very best. Besides, duchess, a good shared is a double good.” The soul of the duchess was full of tury. This sweet hall-way—an authoritative knock that seemed to de- mand admission as a right. | and turned the key, opening the door slightly to scruti- | young wife was not such an easily conquered child as | 1 /a stout bustlinz man, with plump florid cheeks, and | | piercing eyes, shoved the clerk aside and stepped brisk- the Spanish beauty had dreamed. She could not be positively rude to Lady Carew in Lord Carew’s presence. She gave a deep sigh, leaned heavily on his arm, and reluctantly turned toward the fountain and the roses; hating Lady Adelaide for her wisdom and her moonlit eat and Beauty Randolph for his rattle of tun and wit. Lord Carew hailed Beauty’s talk as an omen of rescue, and in the relief of his mind laughed aloud at his non- sense. That laughter solaced Lady Adelaide’s soul, band was not very angry then. Did he see how she watched over him and came between him and the duchess? Would he endure it much longer? Would he see that while she was really playing the part ofa thoughtful, graceful, attractive hostess, she was in fact | Would he rebel at that watch | -which the law allowed her but which married love did watching over him? not countersign ? closely sometimes lately. She had seen him looking at her so Was he losing his patience, and accusing her of assumptfon of that wifely place | She blushed hotly and | | appropriation as a client, by aman he never saw, was which she only held in name? her heart sank. She sighed. ‘Now, may Heaven greatly help me! for 1 am in a sad, sore strait!” How restless the duchess was! She wearied of the gardens and proposed returning to the house. Then she managed to get by Alice Carr, and suggested danc- ing. Alice, in her youth, and mirth, and hope, could dance any hour in the twenty-four. ‘But you will not feel like dancing, duchess,” she said. «You are ordered quiet.” “Yes; I shall for once have the privilege of sitting still | and looking on.” So dancing was arranged, and the duchess expected to get some uninterrupted conversation with Allan Carew. She said she was tired—let them find a cqzy corner for a quiet chat. But Allan Carew was full of the ring, or seemed to be. He wheeled a tete-a-tete near the sofa where the Duke of Ormond sat with Lady Carew. / ‘‘Mother, is not this curious ? ring exactly like mine.” Lady Carew, deeply interested, bent to scan the two rings held out on two hands for inspection. «7 never saw that before,” said the duke. ‘Where did it come from, my dear ?” Juanita seemed to control a yawn as she answered, with indifference : «Some relic of Spain and childhood, I suppose. In the debris of my jewel-cases I needed a little, a very little ruby ornament with this crimson and jet, andi tooka sudden fancy for that.” “And so strange that it is precisely like the one my husband lost on.the continent when he was a young man. Adelaide, have you heard about this ring ?” Lady Adelaide, with her hand on the back of her hus- band’s chair, leaned forward to look. ‘But itis impossible for it to be the same, as the duchess has it.” ‘‘Not impossible at all; there is a fate in these things. I got bits of jewelry in all manner of queer ways when I was a child—from wandering Moorish peddlers, from gipsies, from fortune-tellers. They came up to our Ccas- tle, and my duenna bought what 1 demanded. Per- 8 I got this trom some tail, dark, gipsy-like fortune- teller,” sae nes you did,” said Lady Adelaide, with convic- on Her grace has a ruby The idea made her heart sink like a lump of ice. No doubt from fer, that dark, fatal curse of the house of The coroner’s clerk, at a sign from his superfor, arose, nize the Summoner. But the door was pushed open and ly into the room. He was plainly and substantially | dressed, in gray clothes with which his short hair and | shaggy beard matched monotonously. Papers bristled from all the pocket¥ in his coat, and a-large envelope, intended for the reception of legal documents, carried | | brandy to settle my stomach.” |in his hand, gave him the appearance of a country | | again allowed this man—who is known by every one to Her hus- | lawyer overwhelmed with business. _ *“Good-morning, coroner,” he said, with rapid cheeri- ness. ‘*Good-morning, Banks, how goes it? One of | our lads happened to drop into coroner’s office to see what was moving, heard there was some little informal investigation to take place here. Told me just as I was getting ready for @Surt, and here I am. ! am Mr. Banks’ counsel, sir. Proceed, no need of delay on my account, my client and I are en rapport, I am already familiar with the matter in band.” All the persons present stared wonderingly at the vol- uble gentleman, as he proceeded to untie his envelope, and none more wonderingly than Banks. He had never had a lawsuit in his life, and this unceremonious bewildering. Mr. McFinn was puzzled, too. He was usually very arbitrary and abrupt in his treatment of counsel who interfered with the dignity of his office, but this gentle- man had taken him by storm. He did not know him from Adam, but how was he to remember all the multi- tude of metropolitan lawyers. This from his bearing was evidently an important one. McFinn would have givenatrifie toknow exactly who he was and to what firm he belonged, but he was ashamed to own histignorance by seeking to increase his knowledge. He only ventured : “Upon my word, sir,” he said, “I can’t conceive how you could have heard of this at the office, as I did not speak to a soul about it except this gentleman and the officer in the carriage.” “Oh, there’s an officer in the carriage, is there ?” said the legal gentleniam, shuffling his documents like a pack of cards. ‘I cc bobtail; and this is the gentlenan, I believe,” he said, “who is getting up this little benefit for my client.” The arrowy Keenness of his eyes made even those of the impudent Bilks drop, and Mr. McFinn felt uncom-’ tortable every time they fell on him. “Now,” said the iawyer, ‘1 did not say, Mr. Coroner, that J heard of this at your office. 1 said our fellow did. He attends to that sort of thing. ‘Specially adapted to it. First-class detective in embryo. Nothing hidden from him. No necessity for you to tell your plans— think of them and they're his. But linterrupt you. Proceed; you were at ‘a notorious character on whom the law has its eye and hopes to lay its hand.’ No need of recapitulation. I’m with you.” McFinn was astounded and so was Bilks, and Dan Banks gaped in wonder at the man who had adopted him as a client. “This is merely a preliminary inquiry,” said the cor- oner, ‘‘to see what grounds there are calling for action on my part. by counsel.” “You came to ask questions of my client, to betray him into admissions that would strengthen this clever gentleman’s suppositions. Isitnotso? This, Mr. Cor- oner, is not only informal—it is irregnlar. Proceed to the matter. Ask your questions; I will answer them.” McFinn never felé so hot. or muddled before; that might be accounted for by the fact that he and Bilks couldn’t get near itfor the ragtag and | It is informal, as you say, and I think, at | present, at least, that thereisno need of interference | “He believes so.” | «Oh, he believes now. Why 2” | “Because. he saw him there, and saw his men taking | in a coffin, and when we went there it was gone.” | “Oh, Mr. Coroner, were you there, too ?” | “Yes. Mr. Bilks came for me to investigate the mat- | ter, and I went.” | «And what did you see ?” ‘“Nothing,” cried McFinn, impatiently, for he was sick | of this unusual catechising. | Generally he asked all the questions. but now he was being twisted like a ribbon, without the power to help himself, “What! no corpse ?—no poisons ?—no notorious per- | «Bad luck to the one but Bilks himself!” said McFinn, | | in facetious desperation, for he felt that he either was or was about to be made very ridiculous. Bilks looked at his official friend with an expression | | of injury on his noble countenance, which fiushed to pe the redness of anger when the same mysterious laugh- | ter chuckled around the room. He jumped up and | wayed his stick suggestively. | “The tact is,” continued McFinn, ludicrously, «I was disgusted at myself for being inveigled out of bed by such a cock-a-hoop story, and it took three-quarters of an hour and the same fractional part of a bottle of “I am much astonished, then,” said Dan’s self-con- stituted defender, ‘‘that you, an acute Officer, have be an impudent nuisance to society, an unprincipled | inventor of bugaboo stories, a greedy carrion crow of sensationalism to drag you into ridicule once more.” Bilks, during the utterance of this string of compli- ments, struck and maintained an attitude of petrified astonishment that would have been a study for a sculptor. At the close the spell broke and he sprang up furiously. «You insolent person.” he began. “Sit down or leave,” cried the other, with angry con- temptuous vehemence that squelched the Bohemian completely, even upsetting his usual immovable cool- ness. “This fellow,” continued the pleader, in a quiet scath- ing tone, ‘follows as an occupation the getting up of sensations where none exist, in order to impose on pub- lishers or blackmail citizens. This is an instance. He goes before you and swears a suspicion of malpractice against this lady though at the time he knew the child was living and that he had been paid to gain possession ofit. He talks of poisoning because some woman whom he does not know gave him two bottles which he can’t produce. He asserts that some notorious man com- mitted murder, and yet he says the patient was not dead, because he found the hands were warm when he was pilfering jewels from the fingers.” ‘Liar !” roared Bilks, springing up furiously with his cane raised and at the same time involuntarily clapping his left hand to his vest pocket. «You needn’t feel your vest, it is not there,” said the stranger, not heeding the threatening poise of Bilks’ stick. ‘I told our fellow at the office—the clever one 1 spoke of—that 1 needed this, and he relieved you of it. Here it is.” As he spoke he took a pill box from his vest pocket and opening it held up the self same ring Bilks had dis- played the night before in Thomas Murray’s room. It was seldom in Bilks’ life that he had permitted anything to astonish him, but the surprise caused by this stroke of effect caused his eyes to grow as big as the glasses of his goggles. Dan and his wife were equally astonished, and gazed at their strange defender in bewilderment. “Now,” said that personage, addressing the coroner and holding .out the ring toward him, ‘‘what do you think of him who robs the dead, while pretending to act unselfishly for public good? Are you not sorry to let him make a tool of you to give weightiness to his sensa- tions, and drag your name into his Villainous con- coctions ? Shall the word of a fellow such as he weigh’ a straw’s weight against a man of station and respect- ability ? What proof has he given you that there was anything of what he says. except in his own fuddled, penny-a-lining brain ?” Mr. Bilks had sat writhing during the latter part of this uncomplimentary tirade, but by a mighty effort he succeeded in subduing his rage and putting on the old calm, impudent exterior, and sat still as he gazed at McFinn’s face to read the effect upon him. That official, true to his nature, went out of the case as unrefiectingly as he had gone into it, «Pack up your traps, Sweeny,” he said, in his careless way; ‘1 wash my hands of the confounded affair. The case is bottomless, and I’m blessed if I'm going to dive forever in search of what isn’t there. Tell Collins he may destroy the warrant, Good-day, Mr. Banks. Good- day, madam. Iam sorry to have taken up your time, or annoyea you, but I have lost my own time as well as’ wasted yours. Bilks, you can keep the few coins you had of me, as a fee to keep away and never let me'see your face again with any of your fool jobs, for fear I hold an inquest on you and let myself off on a verdict of jus- tifiable homicide.” ‘‘AS you please, McFinn,” said Bilks, as coolly as could be. “I can do without you. I will take it before a mag- istrate. They don’t deny that there was a dead body, and chloroform, and arsenic, and that the body’s unac- counted for, and that the workmen that buried it are hid away by theiremployer. Oh, ho! avery pretty case ot neglect of dutyin a coroner, I will manage it; I will find where these boys are hid; I'll open the mystery of the coffin.” He stretched out his boots to tap them with his stick, when a voice beneath him bellowed out : “Ricketts !” ‘ And a voice beneath the coroner's seat answered, se- pulchrally : “Bullfrog !” “Let drive, and show him where we're hid !” Both the official and the Bohemian were springing up in surprise and tear, when the lids of the two boxes on which they sat were suddenly tipped up, spilling them in as Ricketts and Bullfrog sprang out. They didn’t meddle any further with MeFinn, but both rushing on the obnoxious Bilks, they pitched him rudely in, lengthwise, and clapped the lid on, leaving it down a little at the top, as a convenience for air and conversa- tion. By this astonishing double appearance the secret of the mysterious laughing and voices was explained, and Sweeny and McFinn laughed loudly at the remembrance of their endeavors to catch the authors of the fugitive sounds. The laughter was very much increased when. the an- gry scolding of Bilks sounded trom his hollow prison- house like beLowings of a bull, and all of them became distractingly hilarious when from furious threats and kicks the prisoner changed his tactics and pleaded for dear liberty in dove-like tones. ; “That will do, boys; let him out,” said Dan Banks,” wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeve. «‘He has had enough ofit; let him go in peace.” ; “Not just yet awhile, sir,” said Bullfrog, squatting above the prisoner’s breast like the animal after which he was nicknamed. “Ricketts and me wont let him have no peace till he has a piece of our mind first.” During this the lawyer plucked Dan by the sleeve, and he and his wife followed that mysterious friend out into the store. “Now look here, Bilky,” said Bullfrog, shaking his head over the aperture at the rueful countenance be- neath. ‘As you're so desperate fond of findin’ out how other folks are buried, Ricketts and me has a devil- ish good mind to nail youin where you lie, and let: you’ try how it goes on yourown hook. On'y we're afraid you'd be interviewin’ respectable folks that might he buried near you, and makin’ their lives miserable even in their graves.” : “That's so,” indorsed Ricketts. ‘Now I'd rather let you roam round as usual until you git your desarts by somebody knockin’ you in the head. But we do want to tell you one thing, and that’s a se- cret. There ain’t no earthly use 0’ you botherin any more about this affair. Theon’y sensible thing you said was that the lady wasn’t dead, and neither she was, and neither she is, and she isn’t buried, and isn’t like to be, as we know of, and that’s all you. want to know; and now up sticks and scoot it before Dan comes back, or as like as not-he’ll break every bone in your carcass.” With this they threw aside the lid of the box, and Mr. Bilks, bouncing up like a jack-in-the-box, seized his hat, flourished his stick, and with vows of vengeance desper- ate, deep, and dire, bolted through thejside door, along the hall-way, andj away, to drown his troubles in the nectar that gives forgetfulness of pain, mental or phys- ical, in the excitement of pot-valiancy. But what of Dan’s unknown defender ? CHAPTER XVI. A NEW REVEALMENT—AT DAGGERS’ POINTS. “Now !” said that bewildering personage, as the door of the shop closed behind him and the undertaker and his wife. “Quick! where is the child ?” Both Dan and his wife started with a strange thrill of excitement, for the man’s voice was changed from the heavy, oratorical tone to a sharp, incisive utterance that struck familiarly upon their ears. Dan looked at his wife, and she stared back at him in bewilderment. «Who are you, sir,” Said Dan, in a confused, doubtful manner, ‘‘who seem to know so much of our affairs, and have befriended us so much ?” The man laughed impatiently. ; « @<___———_- HINTS TO HUSBANDS. also won a Slave. Don’t think that the woman you ‘have promised to love, cherish, and protect, becomes your servant as her part of the contract. Don’t think that your wife has less feeling than your sweetheart. Her relationship only is changed, not her nature. Don’t think you can dispense with all the little civil- ities of life toward her on marrying. She appreciates those quite as much as other women. Don’t be gruff and rude at home. Had you been that sort of fellow before marriage, the probabilities are that you would be sewing on your own buttons Styl. n’t make your wife feel that she is an incumbrance on you by giving grudgingly. What she needs give cheerfully, as if it were a pleasure to doso. She will feel Better, and so will you. Don’t meddle in the affairs of the house under her charge. You have no more right to be poking your nose into the kitchen than she has to walk into your Don’t find fault with her extravagance until you have renounced cigars, tobacco, and whisky. Don’t leave your wife at home to nurse the children ‘on the score of economy, while you go off alone to the theater, or spend a dollar or two playing billiards. evenings away from your wife. Before marriage you couldn’t spend evenings enough with her. Don’t think that board and clothes are a sufficient re- % turn for all that a wife does for you. Don’t expect your wife to love and honor you, if you prove a brute, unworthy of love or honor. Don’t caress your wife in public, and snarl and growl at her in private. This proves you both a hypocrite and a dog. Dont wonder that your wife is not as cheerful as she used to be, when she labors from early morn till late at night to er to the comfort of a selfish being who has not soul enough to appreciate her. —_—_—_——_> @ ~<—_____——_—- A HANGED MAN’S SENSATIONS, An interesting account is given in a medical journal of : aman who allowed himself to be hanged for the amuse- } ment of an audience.. The man’s real name was John Harnshaw, but he performed throughout England un- der the high-sounding professional title of Monsieur Goffe. He was an athlete, and among other feats it was customary With him to exhibit the process of hang- ing. In this performance he relied for security on the muscles of the neck and throat. He had aro fixed knot which could not slip, and passed both ends of the loop up behind oneear. The whole act was man- aged so adroitly that he prevented any pressure of the rope on the windpipe or jugular vein, and could even sustain a weight ot 150 pounds in addition to that of his own body. On three separate occasions Harnshaw mis- managed the rope, and became unconscious, but was luckily rescued each time. Dr. Chowne, who writes the account, says, very truly : “It cannot be doubted that, as far as sensation and consciousness are concerned, Harnshaw passed through the whole ordealof dying; and, had he been permitted toremain hanging until dead, he would have passed ’ out of existence without further consciousness. , “Now, this man stated, not with particular reference to either accident, but as common to all, the instant the rope got in the wrong place he felt as if he could not get his breath—as if some great weight were at his feet; : he could not move only to draw himself up; he felt as if ’ he wanted to loosen himself, buf did not think of his ; hands.” Andheadded: ‘You cannot move your arms j or legs to save yourself.” ' | He did not see sparks of light, but had in his ears a t rattling sound. —> @<—____—__ CHILDREN’S SHOES. Too much cannot be said against the cruelty of forcing children’s feet into short and narrow-toed shoes. Many children before they are ten years old have incipient corns and bunions caused by the foolish pride or care- lessness on the part of mothers. Many do not know thet if a child’s foot is allowed to develop naturally, wien fully developed it can wear with ease a much smaller shoe than when crushed back and forced out of “nape while growing so fast. The foot is part of the pody that completes its growth early. The size of the feet of a growing boy is sometimes noticeably large ; when the rest of his body has finished its growth, the feet are proportionate. Ifa growing foot is pressed into short shoes, the toes are pushed back and become thick at the ends. They are pressed up against the top of the shoe, and corns are made. They are enlarged at the great and little toe-joints, causing bunions, which are more painful than corns, es SUCCESSFUL SHOPPING. eres eee * Half the vexation of shopping comes from going forth with no clear idea of what is wanted, no business-like adaptation of means to ends, and no knowledge where togo. The wise shopper makes outa list; she limits the cost of each article by the number to be bought, and the totalsum to be expended, and she arranges her route so as not to retrace her steps and go over the same ground a dozen times, She always tells the at- tendant, in a few words, and pleasantly, what she wants, and decides, with reasonable quickness, whether what is offered will suit. Dawdling is fatal to success in shopping. fe —_—_——_—— ConceIT and boasting are poor elements in trade; airs put on as soon asa little money is made usually fortune, and wonderful success to every listener shows a lack of good sense and sound judgment, ; | experience a chill. Boasting of big profits, and a speedy urchase on the heart of Osborne has disap- | A murmuring, sobbing sound came from the inner | Don’t think when you have wona wife that you have | Don’t bolt your supper and hurry off to spend your | with a} ' } | : } | | \ +-~—jylace oF DUSMIESS and give directions to your’employees. | | i SHE IS A WOMAN, REMEMBER, BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER. At a popular up-town store they have been selling the bank- rupt stock of a down-town store. There has been a great rush for bargains. Going in with the crowd, and edging my way to the counter,I inquired for the goods I wanted. I was struck with the stony gaze of the saleslady. A half dozen customers were clamoring for attention. She seemed trans- fixed! All at once she threw up her arms, uttered acry, and sank to the floor. A fioor walker took her up, laid her on the sofa at the end of the store, and left her to the care of her companions in labor. ‘There is not.a week passes,” said one, “but more or less of the girls faint away. This one lives in Jersey City. comes early and goes home late, stands like the rest of us, though delicate, from morning till night; in fact we are all overworked.” Of such we would say to those in authority : She is a woman, remember, Deal with her kindly, Study and measure her strength, Judge her not blindly. Give her the rights of her sex ; Do not delay it— Show yourself just and humane, She will repay it. She is a woman, remember, So is your daughter, So is your wife and your mother ; Past years have taught her Not to come meekly to you, Of all in the city, Not to come humbly to you, Asking for pity. She is a woman, remember, Gentle and tender, Think of her standing all-day, Pale and so slender. Think of the pittance she gets All for her drudging ; Add to her comfort and pay, Man, without grudging. She is a woman. remember, When you advise her, Say a kind word, and thereby You may surprise her. > @~< [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] THE pand Park Sensation: OR, THE SKILL OF HYJAH THE HINDOO, By DONA LD J. McKENZIE. Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,’ “THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY,” etc. i“The Grand Park Sensation” was commenced in No. 21. Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER XLY. A LIVELY CONFLICT. |. The moment that the four ruffians entered the apart-- ment Creston sprang to his feet, exclaiming : d “Make sure of him, boys! He will have every one of us in limbo if you do not, for he is the most dangerous man in the city.” The appeal was not made in vain. These men be- lieved that Hyjah was an officer who had come there to arrest all the lawless inmates of the place. It was self- defense with them, and they dared do anything to save themselves from arrest and an overhauling of their record in court. ‘Down with him! in chorus. The four ruffians made a simultaneous rush toward the detective. Creston, knowing too well the wonderful prowess of the Hindoo, prudently kept in the rear. He recovered his revolver, however, and advanced to the attack behind the others. Hyjah was in close quarters. His assailants were all powerful men, and they were armed with clubs, the most dangerous of hand to hand weapons. Had he desired to retreat he could not have done so. Still he betrayed no sign of fear; he even seemed as unconeerned as though he were confronted by only a single foe, and that one unarmed. But as the foremost of his foes drew near, Hyjah drew himself to his tull height, raised the wine-bottle as a club, and sternly said : «What would you do, men ?” «Down with him, he is a spy, a detective!” cried Cres- ton trom the rear. The men had halted irresolutely. But the words of Creston spurred them on. «A blow will disable him asit will other men. Strike the blow! Be prompt and you are sure!” utterea Cres- ton. And to set them an example the young man rushed to the front, as though determined to lead the attack. This was not really his intention, however. He in- tended to tall back the instant the others advanced, and let them come between him and the Hindoo. The ruffians responded to his show of gallantry. But he was not quick enough in the endeavor to fall behind them. As he started to do so, one of the Hindoo’s long arms reached outward, and that terrible hand, whose grasp he had felt more than once before, fastened itself upon his shoulder. In another instant, so quickly that he could not make the slightest show of resistance, he was caught up by his powerful foe, and swung aloft as though he were a wooden club. Again the foes halted, with ejaculations of dismay. “He is a giant!” cried one. “He will kill the young fellow,” said another. «And serve us in the same fashion,” uttered a third. The fourth ruffian, who was a powerful, dark-browed man, grufily added : “If one man can lick us four, we oughter be shot. Pitch in, boys.” As the words passed his lips he leaped toward the Hindoo detective with upraised club. The other three followed suit, their faces aglow with desperate determination. The compartment, or stall, was midway between the front and rearof the building, and therefore had no direct communication by window or otherwise with the street. Hence any sound which was likely to be madeina combat would not attract attention outside, even though a dozen policemen were at hand. As the four ruffians once more sprang toward the de- tective, the latter, who held Creston with both arms, quickly swung the young man through the air. And, with terrific force, he was hurled straight at the ad- vancing ruffians. The foremost was knocked down by the novel missile, and the others scattered to the right and left. In the confusion Hyjah dashed in among them, striking out with his clenched hands. His foes, however, were spurred to a desperate resist; ance by the certainty of capture if they should fail in overpowering the detective. They were all powerful fellows, and their clubs teil upon the arms, and shoul- ders, and head of the Hindoo at a rate that he could not long withstand. He knocked two of them down and made a dash for the others. But at that moment Creston and the first who had been floored regained their feet and sprang to the assistance of their friends. A terrific blow fromaclub struck Hyjah upon the arm, almost paralyzing it from hand to shoulder; and another upon his head overcame him with momentary dizziness. He realized that the odds were terribly against him, unless he should resort to the use of his revolver. And, great as the necessity seemed to be, he did not wish to do that, for when shooting began there was no telling where it would end. Hence he ceased acting on the offensive and quickly whirling about to elude another blow, raised one hand to his lips. Simultaneously a shrill, ear-splitting whistle sounded above the sounds of the conflict. It was followed by a shout of dismay from the ruffians, for they knew it was a signal that the police would be sure to hear and obey. “Run for it, boys!” shouted one, starting to follow his own advice. “No: we must not let him escape. We have risked too much already to give up now. Down with him!” It was Creston who uttered this command. He was desperate at the prospect of allowing the dangerous Hindoo to again escape him. For, while Hyjah was at liberty, there could be no sense of security for him. Two of the men did not stop to hear the command, but fled precipitately. Two, besides Creston, remained, and once more advanced upon the detective. But the latter was not to be made to yield. He was now near one of the doors, and could easily have made his escape. He did not avail himself of the chance, however, for he had not yet accomplished his mission. Instead of retreating he paused with his back against the wall and leveled a revolver at the foremost of his ad- Make sure of the spy !” they cried vancing foes, | Park Hotel ?” “You have come near enough !” low, stern tones. The men paused, exchanged glances, and as sounds of ee footsteps came to their ears one of them | said : | “It is no use—we must skip.” | They darted toward the other door, leaving only Cres- ton behind, and he started to follow the instant he saw | them going. : ’ | But he was too late. Hyjah bounded toward the door, cutting off his retreat. “Stay where you are if you care to live!” the detective exclaimed, transferring his aim to the young man. Creston saw that further resistance was useless, for even at that moment two policemen entered, breath- -lessly demanding: “Who signaled ?” : Hyjah made a hasty sign that the officers understood. er of them seized Creston’s arm, but the detective Said : “T will take care of thisone. Make haste and inter- cept the others before they escape from the building. They would have killed me.” The officers hastened to act upon the detective’s sug- Sar pa At the same time Hyjah drew up a chair, and Sald : “Sit down, and have no fears. f wish ¢0 talk with you. If you are truthful I will once more let you go free, and if youreform your method of living you may yet become an honest man. You told me the truth the other day in one particular, at least, though I have found that your story was partly fictitious. This time, if you wish to save your own life, do not deviate from the truth in a single point. Are you listening ?” Creston sank upon the chair proffered, his face very pale, his lips quivering with intenseexcitement. Hyjah drew up another chair, and coolly seated himself facing the young man. He rested one hand lightly on the latter’s knee; his piercing eyes, now undisguised by spectacles, looked at the culprit with unfaltering intensity. «What shall I—1 tell you ?” Creston asked. «Tell me who murdered ee ame at the Grand he declared, in his “I—I do not know.” Hyjah raised his hand and brought it heavily down upon Creston's knee, simultaneously saying : ‘Don’t you dare repeat that lie. You know who killed Gerber, the Jew !” ‘“‘Why do you think so ?” the young man asked, in a | low, trembling voice. | “No matter why. Answer my qué&tion by ‘1 swear that I had nothing to do with it.” ‘“‘Who has accused you? J hayen’t. But we’ll come to that by and by. I’ve been easy with you until now, be- cause | could gain more facts in that way than in any other. But the case is now ripe, and I shall dally with you no longer. You must tell the truth, and the whole of it. Now begin.” “T did not witness the crime.” “Perhaps not. But you were in the hotel, and the room next to that in which the tragedy took place.” «Who told you——” “No matter, since I know. You have admitted that you were the one who paid Gerber the money the night before. Now admit that you kiow who killed the Jew.” | “TI will admit it—I khow.” «And you fled as though you were guilty ?” «Yes, for the best of reasons.” | ‘ “T shall require you to explain thase reasons present- ly. But first tell me the name of thg murderer. Do not hesitate—and speak the truth.” Creston’s face was beaded with perspiration. He looked as though he would sink to the floor. : “J—I will tell you!” he huskily declared. CHAPTER XLVix THE CRISIS. 4 Robert Kingsley was not wholly inexperienced asa locomotive engineer. When amere boy he made friends with the engineer of a constructidn train on a road which was being built, and took frequent rides in the engine cab. Boy-fashion, he took much interest in run- ning the locomotive, and soonfbecame quite proficient. The young man was likewise gifted with great pres- ence of mind. This he has manifested more than once in the progress of our story. Shrewd, alert, fearless, this young man had. already ore himself equal to the officers who were in pursuit of him. ; ‘ As ‘he reversed the lever, as noted at the close of chapter forty-two, a cry of dismay burst from the lips of Buckley. For ahead of them were several freight cars, standing upon what appeared to be a side track. They were only a few yards distant, anda collision seemed inevitable. But as there were no cars behind the locomotive to push it forward by their momentum, its speed was quickly checked. _A Switch had been left open—whether by accident or | design Kingsley did not then know. But he had dis- | covered the danger in time to partially avert the catas- | trophe. ’ : | aati must run for it again!” Robert Kingsley | cried. K He did not wait for the assent of his friend, but sprang ‘from the moving engine. Buckley tollowed, and with scarce a second’s interval | arr them Leck ae ge to the ground. crash gam e an inst ter. Lhe omotive | e to nd-still, Spree chatted ead night and | spluttering steam. coe ty The damage was slight, but Kingsley and his com- panion did not stop totake note of the fact.; for on the side ot the track opposite that upon which they jumped | off were half a dozen men. i From these men proceeded shouts of triumph, and | they rushed toward the fugitives. | Then the latter understood the cause of the accident. | A telegram from the other station to intercept the fu- | itives had been sent to this one, and the sWitch had | een purposely opened to throw the runaways upon the | side track, and thus insure their capture. Kingsley saw his new foes dashing toward them, and | realized that they were once more in a very tight place. | Their pursuers were coarsely clad men, and not one | of them apparently possessed official authority. Doubt- | less they were loafers around the village station, enlist | ed in the pe by the station-master who had re- | ceived the dispatch. | Leck, perceiving the sittiation, waited for the men to |* come up with him. One, a brawny, raw-boned young | fellow, seized the police detective by the arm and threw | him to the ground before the latter could explain that he was not one of the fugitives. ; This blunder caused a momentary delay, and our friends made the most of it. They ran swiftly across the main track, struck out | upon the level. open plain that lay beyond, making | directly toward a strip of woods. | “After them! Don’t let them again escape!” they | heard Leck shouting a minute later. And a backward glance showed them fully a dozen men and boys in full pursuit, Wailing like so many savages. Buckley and his companion ran side by side. They were weary with the hardships of the past two days, and to outstrip a dozen pursuers. all of whom were fresh for the chase, would not be an easy thing for them do. ‘7 tell ye what!” Buckley-exclaimed, as they strug- gled on. 4 “What is it ?” Kingsley found brea#t to ask. ‘‘How long can ye keep up at this rate ?” “TI don’t know.” “Ain’t ye about played out ?” “Yes.” “Then let’s quit.” «And surrender ?” ‘Not much !” ‘What then ?” “Right 1? There was a brief interval of silence. They were now" nearing the woods. In three minutes they would gain their sheltering shadows. “What d’ye say ?” the city outlaw demanded. “What can we do?” Kingsley returned. “Some shootin’ !” “We have no right to kill our pursuers. They think they are doing their duty.” “Then we've got to give up, that’s all.” “Can you run no farther ?” r “What's the use?” “We may elude them in the woods,” “Pretty poor show, I think.” “we can do no better.” “We can fire a few-shots at ’em, can’t we? We ain't obleeged to drop any of ’em, but we can ‘give ’em a hint to keep their distance—eh ?” ~~ They were now just entering the shadows. There was but little undergrowth in the woods, and it would not be difficult to continue their flight through them so far as the traveling was concerned. “Come, let’s play Injun and hide behind trees. tired of this sort of thing,” Buckley exclaimed. Without waiting for the assent of his companion, he halted and dodged behind a large oak that grew at the very edge of the forest. Even as he did so the sharp report of a revolver rang | on the air, and a bullet was heard to strike the trunk of the oak, | Kingsley, who was in the act of taking refuge behind another tree, saw who fired the shot. It was Leck, the police detective. The officer had been foiled and outwitted so many times that he was spurred on to more desperate action than the authority vested in him would really permit. The police of New York or any other American city are not as a rule, prone to the exercise of brutality. Their office brings them into contact with the most brutaf and lawless classes, and many faithful officers lose their lives because of lenience toward those they at- tempt to arrest. Yet there are unreasonable men in all positions of life, and policemen as well as others. Leck was, aS has been shown, a brave, energetic of | ficer. He possessed many of the most worthy qualities. | At the same time, however, he was pompous, merciless, | and fond of the full use of his authority. He knew that Blue Buckley was a jawless character. | He believed Kingsley to be a murderer, and as dangerous | and desperate a man as ever evaded justice. Under these mistaken impressions, Leck had resolved | to cover himself with glory by capturing the fugitive | rm criminals who had eluded all the othér officers in pur- | suit of them. He was several yards in advance of those whom he had | enlisted in pursuit. Next to him came the lank youth before alluded to, and close behind the others, several of whom had armed themselves with clubs. | Kingsley felt that the crisis was at hand. The time | had come when he must either surrender or wantonly | Shoot down his foes. So long as the latter believed they word she instinctively comprehended that her been discovered—that she was known. secret had | smooth tones becoming harsh with anger ; and he con- | manager of this hotel!” | were doing their duty the young man could not bear the thought of shedding blood. ‘To be falsely accused of a dreadful crime was bad enough, without being forced to commit murder in reality in defense of his liberty. The trees behind which the fugitives had sought refuge grew side by side. The moment Kingsley disappeared, Leck came to a halt, exclaiming : “Look out, gentlemen! the scoundrels may fire upon us. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot us down as they would wolves, at close quarters !” This warning brought the other pursuers to a stand- still. They held a low, hasty consultation which was inaudible to the fugitives. “What dye say, youngster ?” Buckley demanded, in a low, gruff tone. 7 His rugged countenance had assumed a hard, defiant expression; he had drawn his revolver, and his finger toyed with the trigger as though he only waited for Kingsley’s assent to fire ruthlessly upon their foes. “What do you advise ?” Robert returned. His brain was in a whirl, and he could not in that moment decide how to act. «You're boss,” was the laconic answer. «“T have no right to control your decision.” “‘T’m willin’ to do jest as you Say.” “yen if I advise surrendering ?” The city outlaw hesitated, but firmly answered: “Yes, if yer Say So.” “But you are really guilty of crimes, are you not?” “IT s’pose I am.” : “And if you were alone, you would not give up ?” “Not till 1 had used up my cartridges.” «You would have been allright had I not drawn this pursuit upon you.” “Like enough [ should.” ‘Then 1 shall be responsible for whatever penalty you may be called upon to suffer.” “No yer won't. If I’d been square all my life I s’pose I'd be allright; but ’ve been a hard customer—about as bad as they make ’em. Mebbe the cops have been a littte hard on me, but I guess I’ve been pretty rough with some of them when I had a chance. If yer wants ter give up, after leading ’em sich a plucky chase, go ahead. You’re square, and you wouldn’t hurt a kitten if yer could help it. What you say is right is pretty nigh the figger, I guess, and I’m willin to hold to it.” While Buckley was speaking, Kingsley had drawn his revolver, and now held it ready tor use. Leck and his companions were again advancing. ‘“We will do nothing desperate, except in self-defense,” said Robert, in a low tone, to his companion. And then, in clear, crisp accents, he cried : ‘Halt, gentlemen, or we fire!” CHAPTER XLVII. A ROW AT THE GRAND PARE. Chris Tobin was in an awful situation. He had ledged his word to the Hindoo detective not to alow Blanche Gerber to leave the hotel under any circum- stances, nor to betray her presence. And now Trip Martin, like animp of evil, had given away the whole affair, and Dudley, the clerk, was ready to vent his wrath on Tobin. ‘Did you see them come, Chris Tobin?” Dudley re- peated, as the youth maintained a guilty silence. “Look at him!” Trip broke in, with malicious tri- umph. ‘See if he doesn’t look asif he’d been stealin’ sheep. Cracky! yer could light a match on his cheeks!” “TI suppose it is no use to lie out of it,” said Chris, rais- ing his eyes boldly to the face of the clerk. “That girland the detective are here, and without my knowledge,” Dudley exclaimed, his tones full of sup- pressed wrath. ‘ ae girl is here—the detective is not,” was the reply. Chris realized that he was in for a row, and. braced himself for the shock. «When did they arrive ?” “Night before last.” «And the detective has gone, you say ?” ‘He has.” “When did he go?” “Last night.” “They came in disguise, this boy says ?” “That, also, is true.” «Under what names did they register ?” “Foster. The lady as Miss Bernice, daughter of the old gentieman.” “That fussy old maid, eh? And she is the Jewess, and here, after my orders tostay away? That Hindoo’s doings,-I suppose. But you knew about it, Chris? You were in the conspiracy to hoodwink the proprietors of the Grand Park, who employ you, and to humbug me” “No harm has been done thatIcansee. If noone | knows the lady is here it will not affect our business. That was the reason of your objection to——” “No matter why I objected,” Dudley interrupted, his tinued, glaring fiercely upon the youth: ‘You had no business to hoodwink me.” “JT am not to blame, sir.” «Who is, I'd like to know ?” “The Hindoo detective told me what to do, andI obeyed.” ; She shrank back with a low cry of dismay. Dudley seized her wrist with discourteous force, and drew her forth into the corridor. “7 know you, Miss Gerber,” he declared, the harshness of his tones somewhat moditied, and in a tone of firm resolve he continued: ‘I suppose you are not wholly to blame for this attempt to impose upon the proprietors ot the Grand Park. But you knew that you were not wanted here, that you would not be allowed to remain, in fact, if detected, and you must take the consequences of having lent your aid to the deception. I will call a carriage at once, and you will prepare yourself to go away immediately. There can be no delay, madam.” — At this juncture Chris Tobin, pale and determined, ar- rived upon the scene. Blanche, terrified into silence, turned to obey the clerk’s mandate. But the youth exclaimed : “Stay, Miss Gerber!” She paused, irresolute and trembling. «What shall I do!” she moaned, in quivering accents. “Do as I say,” said_ the clerk. _**¥You will remain, Miss Gerber, aS the Hindoo detec- tive instructed,” said Chris, with quiet decision. “That boy has no right to ask you to Stay. longer in the employ of this hotel. must go, and at once.” ‘You Shall not go, Miss Gerber. I hold myself re- sponsible for consequences. You had better go into your room and lock your door against intruders. Then we'll see how this smart clerk will go to work to entorce his commands. J guess he will have a fine little job on his hands if he undertakes it. Don’t be frightened, miss. Ti stick by you, and you know me!” Trip Martin had crept close to the jewess, and as the latter turned to enter her room, in compliance with Chris Tobin’s advice. the boy slipped a note into her hand. Chris saw the act, and remembered that Trip had said his message was not written—which showed that the boy did not hesitate to lie upon the slightest pretext. Blanche did not stop to glance atthe note, nor did she betray any consciousness of having received it. She turned quickly, and entered her room. Dudley attempted to prevent her closing the door, but she was too quick for him. The door shut with a bang, and the click of the bolt told him plainly enough that the girl, as well as Chris Tobin, was not atraid to dety his authority. Dudley could withstand no more. He turned savagely upon the youth, exclaiming “Take that!” A swift blow emphasized the words, (TO BE CONTINUED) IN A HURRICANE. BY He is no Miss Gerber, you CLEW GARNET, Captain, how soon will we reach Havana? It seems to me I scent the orange groves of Cuba now.” «Please Heaven, if this weather holds, we'll pass the Morro Castle in four hours, and I willland you in an hour thereafter,” said bluff Captain Booth to his wealthy passenger, Ernest De Witt, who, with his fair daughter Ernestine on his arm, stood on the quarter-deck of the steamer Glide, then standing over across the Guif from Key West. where she had touched to land passengers and freight. “Excuse me, captain, but will you come aft a minute ; J think the transom needs some varnish,” said the first officer, an old salt who had sailed those southern seas for over thirty years. Captain Booth saw ata glance that there was some- thing in the wind besides varnish for the transom, for his mate’s face wore an unusually anxious look. So he said to Mr. De Witt. “Jt is lunch hour in the cabin. presently.” : “What's the matter, Frank ?” he added, as soon as he was alone with the mate. “The barometer is down low and falling fast, sir. And—can’t you feel by this hot, stifling air what is up? There is a hurricane close aboard, sir.” “By Jupiter, you’re right,” said the startled captain. ‘Tt is rising in that bank to the southward. Have all hands up to house spars, secure boats, and make all snug. I'll goto the cabin a minute for appearance sake, but will rejoin you presently. ; : The crew, startled by the shrill call of ‘‘all hands on deck,” were soon at work securing ship. None too soon, for by the time the light spars were housed and every- thing made snug, the sky was of inky blackness all away to the southward. The captain sent tor his chief engineer. “Keep a full head of steam on, sir, and do not leave your engines a minute,” he said. ‘We shall have to keep bows on the hurricane, or we'll go under.” “All right, sir, ’'ll give her all she can carry,’*said the officer, and he hurried back to his station. And now far away, but growing louder each second in I will join you there yed. e «That's it You let that J Indoo wind, you ar his | the dead calm which hung over the steamer, could be fingers. “He doesn’t run ae otel. as ho rig t to heard a sound like tne rush of @ thousand steel-shod give orders to its employees.” | horses on a hollow road. “You must settle that with him.” “«T shall settle it with you and the girl. First, she “On, on it came—the hurricane—a wall of foam upon the sea as it lifted the waves in its black arms. must get away from here.” : Now came the tug of war for Chris. He had promised | that Blanche should not be turned away. How should | he manage it, not only to conciliate the clerk, but pre- | vail upon the latter to allow the young lady to re- main. There was no time toform plans. He must act, and chiefly as the circumstances of the moment should dic- tate. Dudley started to ascend the stairs, his countenance pale with intense anger. “The girl goes trom under this roof inside of ten min- utes !” he declared, fiercely. But the hand of Chris Tobin fell upon his arm with an energy of clutch that caused the clerk to face about in mute astonishment. “f advise you not tosend that lady away, Mr. Dud- ey!” Chris exclaimed, in a voice full of suppressed de- termination. “You advise me not, eh ?” : “Yes, sir, Ido. As a guest she has a right to remain | while she pays her bills and conducts herself as a lady.” “Do you propose to stand out in opposition to my will?” “J shall stand up for the rights of Miss Gerber.” «You will, eh? and openly defy me, head clerk and “Take your daughter back to the cabin, sir. This is no place for ladies in a storm,” said the captain, sternly, as he saw Miss De Witt clinging to her father’s arm close by his side. The roar of the tempest, now full upon them, drown- ed all reply, but the lady and her father, clinging toa | stanchion near the companion-way, remained jon deck, and the captain, with his officers, had now the ship to look after, and heeded them no further. The hurricane, blowing right athwart the current of the Guif Stream, almost instantly raised a terrific sea, and the steamer, stanch as she was, reeled and trembled under the fearful plunging shocks she re- ceived. At times plunging under the great waves it seemed as if the sharp hull never would rise ; and when she did, the wind, with fearful force, would hurl her from her course, and with all her steam and four stout seamen at her double wheel, it seemed as if she would fall off and founder in the boiling surges. “Try the wells. Ifshe begins to leak this can’t last long,” shouted Booth in his first mate’s ear. It was done. She was leaking, and the donkey engine started the pumps. Mr. De Witt saw that the face of the captain was very pale, but he suowed nothing more of fear or anxiety. Yet that millionaire would have given half his fortune could he have then been set Safely on the shore with his only child. The wind was now lulling slightly, but the sea was * you: needn’t bluster, Mr. Dudley. I don’t scare worth a cent when I get started. I suppose I shall lose my position here, and [I might as well die for an old sheep as a lamb. I’m sorry to have any trouble with you or anybody. make the biggest kind of a row in this hotel rather | than have that innocent Jewess turned out of doors. | We might as well begin the circus now as to wait for any preliminaries. So pitch in!” Chris stood with clenched hands, flashing eyes, and | flushed cheeks. Trip Martin looked on with an expression of intense enjoyment upon his small, astute face. “Won't there be a racket, though ?” he exclaimed, in undisguised delight. “Do you deny my authority?” Dudley huskily de- manded. “Call it what you please,” was the cool retort. “What do you expect me to do, you young upstart ?” “TI expeet you to say pretty things like that to me, and like enough you'll pitch in and try to flog me for my impudence, but you won't find it all fun, let me tell you that!” Tobin’s “blood was up” now, and he dared to say any- thing, regardless of probable consequences. Dudley was a larger man than himself, and probably a stronger one. Butif it should come to a tussle, Chris was confident that the sleek clerk would not have it all his own way. : : The youth had dreaded an open rupture, and would have resorted to any honorable means for avoiding one. But now the worst bad come, he was not one to shrink from the consequences. Dudley turned fiercely upon the youth, clenching his own white hands. He seemed about to strike his de- fiant adversary, and the latter assumed an attitude of defense. ‘Have a care, sir!” Chris warningly uttered. ‘Pye a mind to brain you.” “Better change your mind, then.” «Do you persist in defying me ?” ‘7 haven’t defied you. I: am merely defending a friendiess girl from a pompous and heartless hotel clerk.” “you say that to me! Why, Pll throw you into the street as I would a piece of rubbish. I'll shake. you till you're glad to beg for mercy! Tll——” “Better save your breath if you're going to undertake all that,” Chris advised. He grew cool as the other became more heated. And it is usually the case that the coolest adversary wins the battle, whether with words or more substantial weapons, Dudley had lost all control over his ordinarily placid temper. When a man of the placid stamp does give way to passion, he is the most wildly unreasonable of all men. The clerk’s voice had risen to an excited pitch, and of course there were those to hear it and be attracted to the scene of strife. Two other clerks put in an appearance, and looked on with open-eyed wonder. Two or three guests appeared at the head of the stairs and prepared themselves to en- joy a novel encounter. Since the murder of the Jew, nor for years before, had such an exciting scene occur- red within the walls of the Grand Park Hotel. Dudley did not strike the youth—at least, not then. There was an expression in Chris Tobin's eyes which re- strained that extreme or violence. But the latter was seized by the shoulder and pushed violently backward. And before he could recover himself Dudley ran up the stairs, and strode directly to the door of Blanche Ger- ber’s apartments. As it chanced, the young lady at that moment opened the door to come forth, and therefore found herself face to face with the clerk. She was still disguised in the clever manner devised by the Hindoo detective. But before Dudiey had uttered a But now it has come to that, I'll | yet feartully high. ‘Do go below; it is very dangerous here!” almost shrieked Captain Booth in Mr. De Witt’s ear. «She will not! She seems fascinated by the grandeur of the storm,” shouted back the man of wealth. Even as he spoke a terrific sea swept the bows of the | steamer trom her course; another tollowed, literaily | flooding her decks. Captain Booth saw Mr. De Witt swept from his hold | on the stanchion. His daughter, with a wild shriek on | her lips, clung to her father, and the captain, desperate- | ly resolved to save both or die trying, sprang forward | on the same surge that bore them clear of the vessel. The mate, the coolest head of all on board, cut loose a life-raft that hung over the stern, and then seeing it drop close to the struggling form of his brave captain, sprang to the bridge to take charge of the steamer. “Slow up, let her back if she will,” he shouted to the engineer, through the speaking-tube. Then, through his trumpet, he shouted: “Drop a hawser astern, with a carbuoy at itsend! Bear a hand !” a strong swimmer, and the hand of Providence com- bined, saved Mr. De Witt and his daughter, for the cap- tain soon had them on the raft. Then the hawser astern reached them from the the steamer, willing hands housed itin, and before the gale had abated the three were once more on board the Glide, To-day she is owned, as well as sailed, by Captain Booth. She was presented to him by Mr. De Witt, who bought her as soon as he came back in safety on her from his trip to Cuba. ; > @-4 HINDOO MARRIAGES. Among the Hindoos marriage is managed entirely by the parents. Courtship is literally unknown in India, and the persons who are united in wedlock remain per- |fect strangers to each other till their nuptial day. Everything is settled to suit the fancies or caprices of the parents. To the parties chiefly concerned marriage is a pure lottery; but fortunately Hindoo connubial life is not generally a miserable lot, as the wife is unsur- passed in faithfulness and devotion to her husband. The bridegroom is in his teens and the bride has Lardly geen ten summer's when they are united for life. The boy inmate of a Hindoo house finds himself betrothed by his father’s or grandfather’s command to some girl— perhaps an infant of six or seven years old—whom he nas not seen; nor does he see her till at the age of fifteen or thereabout. While he is yet at school, he is sent out to fetch her home to his mother’s or grandmother’s. There the child-wife takes the lowest place, and becomes at once the toy and slave of allthe women. She has to learn her domestic duties under the strict eye of her mother-in-law. and drudges on—unless, indeed (as is enerally the Case) there is a widow in the family to have all the work heaped upon her; for a Hindoo widow is the cursed of gods and men. However, even if this be the ease, the child-wife must learn to do her work, and absolutely obey her mother-in-law. —__--—_ > @~<+—_ “Liebig Co’s Coca Beef Tonic gives more tone than anything I have ever used or pre- scribed,” says Professor H. GOULLON, M. D., Physician to the Grand Duke of Saxony; Knight of the Iron Cross, ete. “The effect of the Coca borders upon the marvelous, and if not clearly authenticated by scientists of undoubted veracity would be altogether beyond belief,” says Dr.WM. S. SEARLE. Invaluable in head affections, weakened memory, dizziness, determination of blood to the head, sick and _ nervous head- ache. Also highly beneficial in palpitation of the heart and other forms of heart disease. The life-raft, the heroism of Captain Booth, who was HER ANSWER. BY E. N. G. Oh, sweet beyond expression, the maiden’s fond con- . fession, When Cupid looks upon her, and whispers in her ear, She sighs, and pales, and blushes; sweeter than songs of thrushes Are the first words of passion the maiden loves to hear. So dear, and true, and tender, her eyes take on new splendor, And timidly look downward ; her cheeks are allaglow. She tries to hide each feeling, for fear of its revealing The truth that is within her, because she loves him so. It is the old, old fashion—the sweet and tender passion That Adam in the gardep first whispered unto Eve, Grown stronger yet, and dearer, and every willing hearer, No matter how it cometh, must listen and believe. At first we may deny it, or else, perhaps, decry it As being false and fickle—a thing which soon must But at ce lad *twill capture, and hold within its rap- If wwilutiee ah unwilling, the stricken man or maid. Oh, love! I see the blushes with which your sweet face Task ae the uestion, your answer I can guess. Oh, tenderest of blisses! I seal it with my kisses, For, as I fondly listen, your dear lips murmer ‘‘Yes!” THE WIGWAG PAPERS.--No. 6. BY CLARA AUGUSTA. HOME, SWEET HOMIE. . ee: 1 But I resolved to bear it like a Christian. I braced myself up and determined not to show no temper. ; Says I, when the smel of gunpowder had simmered down so that I could git my breath without having the tizzick, which is in my family, and which my grandma, on my mother’s side, had eighty-four years, and died at last from being blowed up ona steamboat going to see her great-grandchild, says I: “Peleg Wigwag, I’m dumfounded !” The couple whispered together. “Oh, you needn’t try to plaster itover!" saysl. “I sha’n’t never overlook it! Never! Til take twenty thousand a year allymony and gita bill. And as for that red-headed hussy-——” “Hussy ?” sez she. “Hussy, indeed!” says he, and I heerd him slam out of bed, and keys, and jackknife, and buckles a rattling, and I knowed by the sound that he was getting into his trouserloons, and in a minnit there was a light struck, and I seed, standing in the middle of the room, a man as tall agin as Peleg, with his trouserloons on hind part afore, and he atugging away at the galluses to make ’em hitch on right. “Gracious airth !” says I, ‘‘who be you ?” Si vd the conundrum I was about to propose to you,” says he. «Who is she?” says I, hardly knowing whether I was sane or whether I had suddintly lost my brains. «Who are you ?” says the red-headed female. «Darn the things!” says the man, yanking away at them suspenders. “Wall,” says I, “if I hain’t beat, then I never was. What a place Washington City is!” ‘(What are you here for?” says the man. yourself, or lll hand you over to the police. Quick!” says he. “Oh, there ain’t no hurry!” saysI. ‘I should die of old age afore you’d find one of them to hand me over to.” “Explain “But I want to know what business you have in my house,” says he. “In your house,” saySI. ‘Good gracious!” “In our house,” says the woman. ‘James, what are you thinking of to call it your house ?” «Yes, sure enuff,” says I. ‘For if this hain’t Peleg Wigwag’s house, whose isit ?” «Tt is mine,” says the man. “Qurn,” Says the woman, who had got into some of the red petticoats I had seed laying round on the cheers, and stepped out of bed. “Now, look here,” says I, ‘‘what 1 want to understand is, how came you two folks here in my room, and in my bed——” “Your bed?” says the woman. bought that bed and paid for it.” «Wall, I never!” says I. -‘Wall, J never!” says the woman. «Where do you think you are ?” says the man. “Tm to home,” says I; and by this time, my eyes hav- ing got used to the light, I seed a cradle, and a baby in it “Great heavens! J — «Good land of Goshen!” says I, ‘‘am I awake or dream- ing? Am I Rhody Pettigrew that was, or am I some- body that warn’t? Who am I? What amI? Where ami? WhichamI? HowamI:” «“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out,” says the man. “I will makea statement that you may under- stand whoI am. My name is John James Mills, this is my wife, this is my house, I am a Democrat, a Methodist, a Son of Temperance. and by trade a carpenter.” «Well, Inever!” says I. ‘Whereis Peleg ?” «Peleg be—blowed:” says he. ‘How should I know anything about Peleg ?” As [looked round me it kinder began to steal over me that I had got into the wrong house, and the more I looked the more sartin I was, and the flatter I felt. And our front door key fitted theirfront door keyhole. Well of all things! It was beginning to git daylight now, and things looked different. I ixplained matters to Mr. Mills. They was nice folks, and they invited me to stay to breakfast. But I knowed how anxious Peleg would feel, and I sed no! If Mr. Mills would only help me find my home, sweet home, I’d be to him forever grateful, and Peleg would pay for the broken glass. So Mr. Mills retired to another room, and turned his trouserloons round right side afore, and hailed a cab, the driver of which ought to be the next President. He was a man of intellex. He knowed right where our house was, and in fifteen minutes, for seventy-five cents, he took me there. Peleg was in the liberry writing advertisements to put in all the daily papers, and which read thus: FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD! Lost, Strayed, or Stolen.—My wife, Rhody, aged forty- two, or thereabouts, rather fieshy, short waisted, mole on her chin, puffs when she talks,- false upper set of teeth, sound and kind except the rheumatiz in damp weather in her right le—limb. Whoever returns her, dead or alive, to the subscriber, shall receive the above reward. PELEG WIGWAG. I am glad I got there in time to stop that from going into the papers. If it had gone in all creation would have found out how old 1 am—I mean to say how old Peleg thinks I am, for, of course, Iam much younger than he set me down. And don’t you think that when I took off my ball- dress—and ruinated intirely and completely it was, too— out dropped my diamonts that had got hitched in some of the pleatings—and I'd had all that fuss for nothing. But let it pass. Accidents will happen, even to Con- gressers’ wives. Yesterday afternoon our door-bell rung, and I jumped up before I thought and run to the door. Ican’tseem to git into the habit of setting still and fanning myself when the bellrings; I want to hopright up, and run, and see who’s there. it was an awful distinguished looking man, with a uniform on, and gold lace all over his sleeves. He come in his carriage, and I thought likely he was some big army officer. I shook hands with him real cordial, and told him to come rite in and make himself at home. I told him we was Strangers and hadn’t never met, but I trusted we should be friends. I asked him how his folks was, and he thanked me 7. said they was all well. Then he handed mea card. It was ainvitation to a dinner at Senator Popem’s on the next Thursday. Popem is a big gun, I’d heerd Wig- wag say. “We shall be deelighted to come!” says I. ‘Tell the Senator we’ll be there, rain or shine! Be you the Sena- tor’s son ?” says I, thinking, if he was, what a match he would be for Marie. “No, ma’am,” says he, kinder hesitating and twirling his hat. “Oh! Ah! some other relative—perhaps——” “Well—er—not exactly. That is to say—I am in the Senator’s family. I am—er—his favorite footman, ma’am.” Good Jand! when shall I ever learn to tell a waiter from a major-ginral? I must get Fitz to give me some lessons. THE DETECTIVE SHADOWS. BY B. M. W. The scene was among the fastnesses of the Alleghany Mountains, in an interior county of Pennsylvania; the time, midsummer, in the year 1868. Two sportsmen, George Bretz and John Steckley, after having passed the day among the hills, were returning from a rather bootless hunt along the bottom of a deep mountain gorge, or pass, that debouched into an open valley be- yond. : The former was a resident of the county, son of a wealthy mine owner, and the latter a young lawyer from Philadelphia, an intimate friend and former class- mate at college. It was near the close of an extremely sultry day, andthe gentlemen, as they passed along, deeply absorbed in conversation, had not observed that a heavy thunder-cloud was massing over the mountains in their rear. A flash of lightning, followed by a loud and not distant peal of thunder, awoke them from their preoccupation. “That calls for a change of subject, John,” said Bretz, looking around and observing the signs of the approach- ing tempest. ‘“‘We must find shelter. Here are a few drops of rain already.” «Pray Heaven, then, that shelter is more easily found than game among these hills!” replied his companion. “Oh, we shall have no great difficulty in finding a roof. But we will have to take lodgings at the ‘Devil's Inn.’” : “The ‘Devil's Inn! And, pray, what sort of a hotel may that be for two Christian gentlemen ?” “It's an old rookery just beyond the line of yonder rocks. This was formerly a traveled highway, before the turnpike road down the valley was opened, and a hostelry stood just at the entrance to the pass. But it is deserted and in ruins now. It is called the ‘Devil’s Inn’ because there is a superstition abroad that it is haunted. I don’t believe much in goblins, myself, but it seems to be established on good evidence that lights have been seen there at midnight. Something having the semblance of men, too, whether in or out of the flesh I cannot say, have been observed in the vicinity, at very uncanny hours. Possibly they were ghosts; but, ghosts or horse-thieves, such objects are not compan- ionable.’ “T should say not, indeed. But what kind of an ad- venture are you preparing for me, George? A thunder- storm in our rear, a haunted house or a robbers’ roost in front, and night descending like the mantle of Pluto —if he wore one—on every hand. I'll out of the wet, though, and into the fire. Give me only a shelter, and this trusty rifle for my bed-fellow, and I will never ask the name of the landlord.” «We may have more need for our rifles than for your classics, John,” said Bretz. ‘Here is the place.” A low, one story and a half, and very long structure, stood before the two gentlemen as they emerged from the pass. Partially surrounded by a dilapidated veran- da, half hidden behind long-unpruned trees, and re- lieved against the ( us and rocky mountain side, the place wore a very idding aspect, — The gentlemen paused mechanically as they came in front of the building—the one to give his companion a iene for observation, and the other to gratity his cu- riosity. “Itis an uncanny place, indeed,” said Steckley. ‘‘I don’t wonder that it has gained a bad character.” But the delay of the sportsmen was of short duration. A blinding flash of iene followed by a heavy peal of thunder and the descending rain, put a hasty end to their inspection. “Come, let’s in out of this!” exclaimed Bretz, as he moved toward the entrance. “Tvs an infernal way they have of driving in their guests, though. [don’t wonder at the title of sucha hostelry,” replied Steckley, as by a rapid movement, side by side with his companion, he found the door-way, and disappeared in the already dark and gloomy pas- es. Once within the building, the two friends found their en with. of parlor. There, in the absence of furniture, they seated themselves within the windows, from which the sash bad disappeared, and looked out upon the storm. It had burst now in allitsfury. The lightning was in- cessant; the thunder pounded heavily across the sky, and the rain fell in torrents. Night, too, came prema- turely on, and darkness soon covered the mountains. The gentlemen sat silently for a time, and watched the spectacle with a keen sense of its sublimity. Suddenly, as a flash of lightning more repeated and prolonged than usual lighted the surrounding scenery, Bretz started to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. “Have you seen one of your ancestors, George ?” in- quired Steckley, who had observed the movement indis- tinctly through the darkness. “Not with the certainty of identification,” replied the other ; ‘‘but the ghosts are early at their rendezvous to- night. We are not alone here.” “Nonsense, boy,” said Steckley, without turning his head. ‘You have a lively fancy when it thunders.” «Sure as I-live, John, { saw aman pass around the end of the building.” “Ah! that, indeed. Very likely a man. I thought that you were trying toraise the—the host. Other men besides ourselves may be looking for shelter.” “But they would not take that direction. The latch- string of the front door is out, you know.” “True; but I am not curious. If the old rookery is tenanted, we shall know of it in good time. I would like well enough to see the specter of a good supper.” «You are more likely to see that of your grandmother here,” replied Bretz, laughing. Again the parties relapsed into silence. The thunder continued its revelry in the sky, and the lightning, if it had become less brilliant, was still sufficiently a spec- tacle to be interesting. But as the minutes passed away, the storm showed signs of abating, and the desire for conversation returned. «You were telling me, John,” said Bretz, ‘‘at the time we were interrupted by the storm, of the mysterious absence of Miss Vaughn. It is astrange freak on the part of the lady. It looks like romance.” “Tt looks to me more like tragedy,” replied Steckley. “The act is very unlike Emily. Even her mother knows nothing of her place of seclusion. She is a teacher, as I told you, and the day after the commencement of her vacation she disappeared. She left a note, it is true, telling her mother of her necessity for a week or ten days of unexplained absence, and cautioning her against any feeling of uneasiness. But more than a month has now passed, and we are aS muchin the dark as ever. To confess the truth, after exhausting all my detective resources, I came up here more to distract my niind than either to visit or to find game.” “Well, that is not complimentary to me; but it is pardonable. Miss Vaughn, you say, is an only child ?” “She is an only daughter. She had a brother, older than she, a wild youth, who disappeared some years ago, previous to the failure and death of the father. The mother believes him dead, thoughI think that Emily hardly shares-her opinion. But, if living, it can hardly be hoped that he will come to any good. His pranks were never innocent, even in boyhood, and he always found very doubtful company. But his reported irregularities make no difference in my estimate of the sister. She is in every respect a very estimable lady, refined and elevated in character.” “That is quite possible. You show your good sense by estimating the lady at her real value. Itis to be hoped that all will end well. A lover never yet hada very clear head on any subject involving his mistress.” The conversation was interrupted at this point by a strange mystery. The thunder-storm had disappeared behind the second mountain, and the elements were at rest; but sounds, not unlike voices in altercation, were heard coming from the most remote parts of the build- ing. Both gentlemen paused and listened. A dim, almost imperceptible light, too, which had not been ob- served until now, seemed to pervade the room in which they were sitting. “This is strange,” said Brentz, in asuppressed tone. ‘If mysteries begin thus early in the night what might not befall us in the way of adventure before morning ?” As he said this he rose, and, followed by his compan- ion, crossed to arear window looking out upon the al- most perpendicular mountain-side. not more than fifty feet distant. Here they were startled by a very strange spectacle. What was their surprise, on reaching the new points of observation, at beholding a large illumin- ated space On the surface of the rocks, in the center of which appeared the gigantic butindistinct outlines of three human figures. Two of the shadows were repre- sentations of men, and the third that of a woman. They moved, and seemed to be agitated with life and anima- tion. Exclamations of astonishment broke from the lips of both gentlemen at the same instant. ‘The devil is just as black, then, as he is painted, if that’s a family picture,” said Steckley, in a voice that was meant to be playful and facetious, but which trem- bled perceptibly. But Bretz made no reply. He hada resolute heart for any danger that he could comprehend; but this ex- hibition was mystical and undefined, and the levity of his companion found no echo in his own spirit. In their hearts, indeed, both gentlemen were obliged to confess that they were at length mastered by the instinctive human dread of the supernatural; and they watched the spectacle with a dazed, bewildered feeling, very nearly akin to alarm. To intensify their interest the THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3= VOL. 41—No. 36. sounds, as of angry altercation, were becoming more and more distinct, and the figures were correspondingly agitated. “This is strange, very strange,” said Bretz. ‘Heaven rn us from the practice of much more such diaboli- cal art! But a crisis in the exhibition seemed to be ng obrtagen ing. The agitation of the two male specters became more violent, and their movements were threatening. Menacing action corresponded with menacing sounds, and a conflict among Titans appeared imminent. Sud- denly, as the spectators gazed, the right arm of the larger of the figures, armed with something that re- sembled a weapon, rose, in dumb show in the air, and fell with a violent blow on the breast of its antagonist. The latter sank, disappearing from sight, and at the same instant a piercing female shriek rang through the entire building. Horror for a moment froze the blood of both gentlemen as they listened, and their feet seemed riveted to the floor. Suddenly Bretz started. He had recovered his self-possession; and he seized, convul- sively, the arm of his companion. “By Heaven !” he exclaimed, ‘I comprehend this mys- tery. Those shadows are thrown from the old bar-room at the further end of the ruin. There is deadly work here. Follow me, John, and look well to your rifle!” At these wards, and with his companion pressing closely at his heels, he led the way through a long pas- sage that ran just within the rear wall of the old rookery toa door at the further extremity. As the two men groped their way through the darkness the sounds of a struggle issued fromthe room at the endof the pas- sage. Female shrieks, cries, and supplications, mingled with the most brutal oaths, were clearly audible. The way seemed interminable to the two adventurers; but they pushed forward, and the end was finally reached. Bretz was not a manto hesitate. The muzzle of his rifle was dashed against the door the moment it barred his progress, and= that obstacle flew back upon its hinges. Within the spectacle was startling. In the center of the room a delicate woman, gifted with the strength that is born of statu: and on in the arms of a man da of almost giant statup@; and on the floor, weltering in blood, was stretche: e figure ofa youth, vainly en- deavoring to raise himself upright. As the two men ap- peared at the door-way, the giant released his hold upon the woman, who fell fainting and lifiess upon the floor. Ata glance Bretz saw the full significance of the spectacle on the rocks. “What is the meaning of this ?” he inquired, aiken An oath, uttered w all the bitterness of a baffled purpose, was the only response. With the eyes ofa tiger the man met the glances of his adversaries. “Surrender yourself !” demanded Bretz, making a step in advance into the room. A “The lark that comes here comes at his own risk,” doggedly responded the ruffian. “It’s your blood or mine!’ As he spoke a revolver gleamed, almost instantly, in his hand, and he leveled it directly at the head of his antagonist. There were two reports, the one follow- ing the other in quick succession; but the shot from the revolver flew harmlessly over the head of its object. The bullet from the rifle had pierced the heart of the outlaw, and, throwing up his hands in the act of discharging his weapon, he fell forward upon the floor, a corpse. i + Advancing into the room the gentlemen then gave their first attention to the woman. Steckley knelt down, and raising her, head, looked anxiously into the face. As he did so deathly pallor overspread his countenance. and he himself seemed almost upon the point of swooning. “Great Heaven, George!” he ejaculated, hoarsely, while the words were almost suffocated in his throat; “it is Emily Vaughn !” Bretz responded with an exclamation of astonishment; but turning instantly, {ye hastened to the brook that ran just in the rear of the-bwilding, and filled his flask with water. Returning, he found his friend chafing the hands and temples of the patient, and callingupon her name with the most tender solicitude. She already began to show signs of returning consciousness, and the water soon completed the work of restoration. The unhappy lady opened her eyes. She saw and recognized her iover with an expression of tenderness; but as recollection slowly returned, a look of horror overspread her face, and she closed her eyes again as if to shut out some hor- rible vision. Bretz, in the meantime, gave his attention to the wounded man who lay groaning upon the floor, and kneeling down, he prepared to make an examination of his wounds. “It’s of no use, sir,” groaned the man, inagony. ‘I’ve won the stake I played for; my has finished me!” “But who are you, then ?” red Bretz, rising, and speaking in a voice where distrust and sympathy were strangely mingled. “An outlaw, sir, as you suspect. You're right; there’s no occasion for waste of kindness here. I deserve the fate that has overtaken me.” «And this house ?” pursued Bretz, inquiringly. “Its a den of thieves, and, for the lady’s sake, burs not too long. Their rendezvous is here. They’re . abroad now, but they may return.” «And the lady—how came she here ?” bless her for the good she meant todo! She is mys ter, sir. She came here totry and draw me from my evil course, and I only suffered her to remain an object for the infamy of our leader. Thank Heaven that has met: . hee last, but this cut he gaye me was my recompense.” . As these words were spoken the man was taken with a greater difficulty in breathing. He seemed to wish to Say more, and struggled to raise himself on his elbow. But he only opened the wound through which life was escaping, and, gasping for breath, he fell back- ward and expired. : By this time Miss Vaughn had quite recovered con- sciousness; but she was in acondition of stupor that unfitted her for exertion. Her reopened eyes rested on the face of her lover; but delirium and fever had com- bined to take possession of her intellect and frame. Steckley assisted her gently toa broken bench that | stood against the wall, and supported her with his sg | erest for cles shoul pithy, and remedied.) in search of lows in the “Indeed !’ OW patiently. wag’s reply. they did, Finally wh z me “ Kill him - ‘The a cam you go with “Yes. rms. “What is to be done, George?” he faintly moaned. “This blow has unmanned me, I confess it, and I must depend upon you.” “First,” replied Bretz, as he finished recharging his rifle and picked up the revolver of the outlaw that lay upon the floor, ‘“‘we must secure what weapons are to be found in this room. Iam not sure but it would be best to play the incendiary and destroy the old rookery, while we waitin some secure place in the darkness and watch who comes. The rain has ceased, the night is sultry, and the lady will not suffer from the open. air.” ; At this moment the neighing of a horse was heard in close proximity to the house. Bretz started with a new expression of uneasiness. Pes “Wait here!” he ex¢laimed, dropping ‘his voice until it was scarcely louder than a whisper, ‘‘wait till I re- connoiter.” \ Saying this, he extinguished the light and proceeded to grope his way through the long passage to the place of exit.. 1t was a moment of terrible suspense to John Steckley ; and he was almost{thankful for the condition of semi-consciousness to which his companion had been reduced. But in a few moments Bretz returned. “It isa special Providence!” he exclaimed, as he re- entered the room. ‘The man whom I saw pass around the house, and who, daubtiess, lies here, was mounted, it appears, and he left his horse tethered to a tree. The animal is at our service, and we must lose no time.” It was a special Providence, indeed. It took but a tew moments to carry Miss Vaughn to the veranda, and when the horse was led up Steckley mounted and took the lady in his arms. The party then started down the road in the direction’ of the nearest settlement. Ina few hours the shelter of a public house was secured, but before morning the tever had made such progress with Miss Vaughn that it was necessary to call medical aid, and for weeks the lady lay with life and death trembling in the balance. Her mother was summoned to her bedside ; but in ac- cordance with the judgment of both Steckley and his friend, the old lady was kept in ignorance of the cause of the misfortune. The people of the house and neighbor- hood, too, were mystified; for during the night of the tragedy an event occurred which rendered it not worth while to make any rewort. The ‘Devil's Inn” was des- troyed by fire. Lightning was at first supposed to be the cause, but two charred bodies, found in the ruins some days later, suggested tramps; and on that idea the subject was dismissed. But to Bretz and Steckley the mystery | had more significance. They saw in the incident the hand of the gang whead made the house their rendez- vous, and who now feds. that in its destruetion and their own flight they could tind their only security. The ends of justice could not, therefore, be served by exposing a secret that could be only distressing to Mrs. Vaughn. After a long period of illness Miss Emily Vaughn, be- came convalescent. The presence and constant devo- tion of her lover aided in her recovery, and she was en- abled to return to Philadelphia not very long after the expiration of her summer vacation. But, years after, when she became the wife of John Steckley, she had no friend to whom she was so devotedly attached as to the intelligent and resolute George Bretz. > o~+—__—___—_. HOW TO GET STRONG. One of the secrets of muscular recuperation is in stopping when fatigue begins from exercise. He or she who is not the fresher in body and mind for the exercise taken has had an overdose of what in proper measure would have proved a benefit. The gain in strength is shown and felt in the increasing ability to do more and more without exhaustion. The measure of success is not in the greatness of the feat accomplished, but in the ease with which the exercise is indulged in and in the absence of exhaustion after it. >—-e<—__- —_ SoME men are as ready with their opinions as a hun- gry man for dinner; all that is required is the oppor- tunity to air them. Others are so voluble that they tell all they know about their own business and their neigh- (Most of our readers are undoubtedl uting toward making this column an @ NEw YORK WEEKLY, and they , f ublication anything which may be deemed of suflicient in- It is not necessary that the arti- xenned in scholarly style; so long as they are y to afford amusement, minor defects will be eneral perus: be be | To Mother- After he was One, two, Pleasant Paragraphs. will oblige us b y, capable of contrib- tr: active feature of the sending for Ancient Nursery Rhymes Corrected. Come buckle my shoe! Three, four, Shut the door! Of rude imperatives beware : Please to close the portiere. Five, six, Pick up sticks ! Seven, eight, Lay them straight. Nine, ten, A good fat hen. Eleven, twelve, Dig and delve. Thirteen, fourteen, Earth devote your sp: Here Health and Wealth their keystone laid. Some gentler phrase the times would suit, As ‘Button, if you please, my boot.” Next gather wood, since we desire Fuel to light the winter fire. The load arboreous, oak and pine, Now place in geometric line. Our gallinaceous fowl will prove Such biped plump as gourmands love. ade : Boys. were courting. On matrimonial quest intent, The village lads a-wooing went. Fifteen, sixteen, Girls are fixing. Behind the lattice maidens fair Their daintiest toilets now prepare. Seventeen, eighteen, Boys are waiting. Nineteen, twenty, Girls are plenty. The census tells its story sad ; Not every lass can have a lad. Without the door, on either hand, The restless: youths impatient stand. She Couldn't Do It. “something fast.” Northern Gazette : cried his companion. into one corner. , Plunk,” said he. ‘‘who told you you could sing ?” y—er—my—er—my chum, Cholmondely Plug, told was a pretty fair singer.” | ‘Well, you want to lay for him and kill him as soon as you can, that’s all.” “Ah, that’s the hurt that cuts me to the soul. Heaven } ! what for ?” Uncle Pete R., who flourished a few years ago among the mountains of Vermont as an inveterate horse dealer, was one day called upon by an amateur of the ‘‘equine” The result is told as fol- “There,” said Uncle P., pointing to an animal below the house ; ‘‘there, sir, is a mare yonder who would trot her mile in two minutes and seven seconds, were it not for one thing.” ’ “Yes,” continued Uncle Peter, ‘‘she is four years old this spring. is in good condition, looks well, and is a first-rate mare, and she could goa mile in 2:07 were it not for one thing.” , What is it?” was the query. “That mare,” resumed the jockey, ‘isin every res a good piece of property. She has a heavy mane, a switch- tail, trots fair and square, and yet there is one thing why she cannot go a mile in 2:07.” «What the mischief is it then ?” cried the amateur, im- t “The distance is too great for the time,” was the old The Worst Enemy He Ever Had. 2 There was a litttle party in Harlem the other night, and at one time during the occasion there was a sort of pause. Nobody could think of anything to say, and if they wouldn’t. some one proposed that a song be sung, but this seemed to fall flat too. After another long pause young Erastus Plunkett got up and said that he knew a song, and would sing it. He did so, and Svat EORY who heard him seemed to be affected with a d to 60 out as quick as possible. there was a sigh of relief, and pr Woggles, a friend of his, took the blushing Plun- .“He’ s the worst enemy you ever had.” He Stood the Test. hor.” me ?” “Ot course.” “And will you—you also have a tooth pulled ?” , ‘Certainly “Two of ’em ?” ” «Before I do.” “Yes, darling.” Then she flung the handkerchief from her face, brushed the tears from her eyes, and gave him a long, lingering, ProceneaAAene kiss on the left jaw. She had simp er evening, as Fitznoodles called on his girl, her with tears in her eyes and her face tied up. «“JTt’s the awful, awful toothache!” she sobbed, as he asked for an explanation. “But the dentist says I must have two of ’em out! Will een testing his love and devotion. They will go to Niagara F on their bridal tour. A Desperate Move. “John,” she said tothe young man who had been courting her for five long years, ‘John, I sat for my photograph to-day. I suppose you want one ?” “Oh, yes, indeed.” “By the way, John, Ihad them taken especially for some friends in California, and they want my on the cards. autograph Now, John, I don’t know whether to sign my maiden name or wait a few months until after I am married. Isuppose you do intend to get married in a few months, don’t you, John ?” It was a desperate move, but she won, and in two months both will be made one. A Prominent Citizen. “Yes, gentlemen,” he said, “I’m a well-known man. Im a New Yorker, and my name is a familiar one to the American people.” «Were you a general in the war, stranger ?” I fit in the war, but not as a general.” «Congressman, perhaps, or Governor of some State ?” “No, sir; ’'m nota politician nora statesman. Iam “No, sir. a private citizen and proud to say it.” “Well, if you are notagreat soldier or statesman, what is it that has made your name a familiar one throughout the country ? “T’m John Smith.” It Wouldn’t Work. both ways. What do you mean ?” Who are you 2” “Why, Freddie, how did you get those black and blue welts on your arm ?” asked his teacher. : «“Them’s your fault, teacher,” replied Freddie. “My fault ? “Why, you told me it was a poor rule that didn’t work So, when I went home I took pa’s new two- Oh, a girl may yawn, and a girl may dreath, And a girl may sleep all day ; f But she Can’t pass a store with the sign, ‘‘Ice-Cream,” For she never was built that way! ' CasEY Tap, ek The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood. “Augusta,” Colorado.—ist. The parents or guardians pro- vide the refreshments, 2d. The invitations should be writ- ten or engraved, and on one sheet of paper, which must be of creamy tint, and shaped so as to fold once, while the quality and tint of the invitation and envelope should be the same. 3d. If you wear evening toilet, white or cream-col- ored gloves would be most appropriate, but if your dress be of a dark shade, the gloves should match the costume in hue. 4th. The bride and groom should stand at the head of the room facing the company, 5th. There would be no impro- priety in wearing the watch and chain, asitisa gift from the groom, provided it be not worn conspicuously. 6th. In the absence of parents, your brother, as the nearest relative, should give away the bride, and he could not. therefore, act as groomsman. 7th. For a plain supper, 13 addition to the wedding-cakes, you might have a few oysters, some cold chicken, a plain salad, ice-cream, and a dish of fruit. 8th. As you disapprove of the use of wine, by no means have it on the table. 9th. Anote of thanks would be sufficient. 10th. When wedding presents are given, they are generally sent to the bride some days before the marriage, and are acknowl- edged as soon as possible after that event by a note written with the reer own hand. bi. pony an no eee why e wedding-cake you choose todoso, 12th. Wedding-cake is sometimes pnt a> in small boxes and given to the guests to take home, and is also sent in this shape to distant friends. 13th. If the wedded pair commence life in a house of their own, it is usual to send out “At Home” cards for a few evenings soon after their returh home. 14th. You may call on yo ‘ither alone or with your hushed be you role wee ; iateat style of visiting card is almost square, and printed or engraved, “Henry,” Unionville, Conn.—ist. Prince Albert and four- button cutaway frock coats, made from narrow corkscrew, wide-wale, and whip-cord diagonals of medium length, bound with braid, are the favorites. The four prevailing styles, which have been in vogue for many years, will probably re- main for some time. They are the sack, the frock, the four- button cutaway, and the dress-coat, and they all be to the fashionable world or not. 2d. Dress trousers, others, are made a little wider, with a slight spring over the instep. 3d. Suits for business and traveling are cut in sack or cutaway styles, and closed with three or four buttons, as taste or fitness may suggest. coats are made sn and symmetrical, even the cutaways. 4th. Checked and co ored shirtings, with shield fronts, are fashionable, as well as white lin, th. Colored hosiery and low-cut patent leather shoes will be as fashionable as ever for summer, h but- re style. toned gaiters for general wear remain the favorite “Jennie,” Pittsburgh.—1st. Brown, gray, or any subdued color, made in tailor-fashion, would be appropriate for a tray- eling suit, and could be made handsome for a wedding- dress by trimming it with lace or velvet. 2d. Gloyes are generally worn on such an occasion, though it is entirely a foot rule, that doubles up on a hinge, and bent it back till it worked both ways; and then pa said I’d broken the joints, and he went and got his razor-strop. I think it was a mean trick to play on a feller, and I’ll never for- give you.” there being said. their lives.” ployer. «Because the echo. bors’ aS well. Generaliy one can take the measure of an inveterate talker, asitis little more than wind and froth. On the other hand, the man who holds his tongue is not easily fathomed. ‘Still water runs deep,” with but little noise and friction, while the shallows : house, ‘‘Pennsylvania,” because it is foam and fret wiih constant tumult. enough for testimony in a lawsuit. you have the vacant lot.” A Cold Day. no ice-cream for dessert. Young Featherly was.a guest.at Sunday dinner, and was somewhat amused because Bobby complained of “The weather is rather cold for ice-cream, Bobby,” he «“JTce-cream is only nice when the weather is hot.” «You like it in cold weather,” grunted Bobby. “Oh, no, I don’t.” Well,” said Bobby, as if dismissing the subject, ‘all I know is that sister Clara says it’s a cold day when you buy any. Ma, can’t I have another piece of pie ?” Cause For Alarm. A clerk, who is dismissed by his employer, says to No Eves Now. ,” quickly retorted the been no husbands worth listening to. Short Stops. anybody.” him, when he is taking his final leave: “Well, sir, this dismissal will cost a good many people “Do you mean to threaten me?” demanded his em- “Not at all. It simply means that I am going to be- come a doctor. ; «According to Milton, ‘Eve kept.silence in Eden to hear her husband talk.’” said a gentleman to a lady friend, and then added in a melancholy tone. there have been no Eves since.” “Alas! lady, “there have A gentleman much given to gestures was giving his “There,” said he, pointing be- fore him, ‘is Mr. Robinson’s barn, and there,” waving his hand inadvertently toward the jury-box, ‘‘there The speaker was cheered to A glittering falsehood—aA bottle of bogus maple sirup. A young man who was evicted from the house of his lady-love by her irate pa, is going to bring an action against the old gentleman for contempt ef court. “Pa, wot'’s a ‘high-tea?” “A ‘high-tea,’ my son, Is when you pay forty cents for three doughnuts and a tablespoonful of hollow-mockery coffee. That’s high Jones has christened his lamp at the boarding- j center. such a noted oil- matter of taste, and you may be m: ed without them refer, 3d. When the minister were f he bride then removes the glove from gives it to the bride-maid to goodomen. 4th. A handsome fan or a basket of is preferred to {a bouquet for the bride-maids, but the bride usually carries agbouquet. 5th. W A cook-book, containing the information you desire, for conte. ot ennie June’s Cook Book,” bound in cloth, will one dolar. : “Mabel ”—Dressy fabrics, such as canvas, vailing, cash- mere, and grenadine,’are being made up with kilt skirts, which is a very light and comfortable fashion for hot weather, They are bordered with several rows of inch-wide ribbon, sewed on to the fabric before the plaits, which are very fine, are laid. When draperies are used, ribbons only show in front, and high up on one side. Two or three diagonal straps of the ribbon trim the front of the dress waists, and small closely tied bows of the same are used for garnitures. “Mrs. Clara W.”—Ist. A pretty dress for a little girl of six years is shown in wine colored pongee silk, made with a full, round, tucked skirt, each tuck finished with a row of feather stitching, done in red silk. The short peasant waist has pongee revers, stitched to match, and three bands of red yel- vet cross the tucked front instead of lacings. . Ecru is the popular color for little children’s vanes, and they are partic- ularly stylish, with accessories of dark green velvet. “Mrs. Annie R.”—A “doctor’s coat” isan English garment, which has just been introduced here. It is a long basque, with ends behind, and large side kets. It is usually made of black watered silk, corded WEE white, and is worn with a white chemisette. . “Miss Edith L.”—Madras muslin, with an embroidered de- sign in pink and yellow, makes an excellent covering for satin furniture that has lost its freshness. The work aoa. be ney done, and the muslin must be drawn tightly over e satin. ‘ 9% “Susie L.”—The NEw York WEEKLY Purchasin 9 will forward you the one dolar outfit of Perforated Pa terns on receipt of the price. “Birdie,” Boston, Mass.—“Bessie’s Fortune” is in book- aos and the price is $1.50, on receipt of which we will mail it to you. “Henrietta W.”—The “‘Painter’s Manual” contains a ch: ter on kalsomining, and the price of the book is fifty cents.” Items of Interest. —_— Mrs. Girlemann, who has just arrived in San Jose, from Hamburg, with her three children, narrated a remarkable incident which occurred on her route across the plains. When the train had gone some miles west of Lincoln, Neb., one of her little ones fell from a car window. It was some time before the conductor was found and the train stopped, but when parties returned with the mother to the scene of the accident, instead of a mangled child they found the lit- tle fellow playing with pebbles alongside the track. A great dish at Egyptian feasts is that of a lamb roasted whole. After the manner of a nest of Chinese boxes, each smaller than the other, the lamb is stuffed with a whole turkey, the turkey with a chicken, the chicken with a pigeon, the pigeon with a quail, and the quail with a becafico, the smallest bird known except the humming-bird. The lamb is roasted over a slow fire until it is almost ready to fall to pieces. The discussion of the temperance question, by a con- gregation of colored folks, in Oconee, Ga., caused such re- sentment that the parson had three of his deacons turned out of the church on account of ‘their being in fayor of whisky. This enraged the deacons so much that they gather- ed their friends, entered the church, turned the preacher out, and locked the door. A little more than a year ago Mrs. George Poore, of West Newbury, Mass., gave birth to triplets—two boys and a girl. The girl died, but the boys are thriving. About a fort- night ago, Mrs. Poore again gave birth to triplets—two boys and a girl. The girl breathed a short time and died; the- boys are as strong as infants at that age can be expected. A thunderbolt struck the house of Mrs. Harvey Ford, ney, did lots of damage to the interior of the building, tore the foot and head board from a bedstead on which a baby was sleeping, and yet did not awaken a person in the house not even the baby. 2 Captain Barnstable, of Cape Cod, endeavored to dis- prove that Friday is an unlucky day. He laid the keel of a ship on Friday, he launched her on Friday, named her Fri- day, and always went to sea on Friday. The vessel was final- ly lost on Friday, and the captain, two mates, and twelve sea- men were drowned. Philadelphia women are circulating a “roll of honor” which includes the names of all Philadelphia corporations and firms which have agreed to give their employees a half- holiday. Now let them make out another roll, to include the names of women who are determined not to shop on Satur- day afternoons. An old woman has just died in a St. Petersburg work- house at the age of 122, who had passed seventy years in the institution. Up to the day of her death her vision was un- impaired. Another woman in the same work-house is now 110 years of age and does not exhibit the slightest sign of senile weakness. A tower 984 feet high is to be one of the attractions at the next Paris Exposition. It is to be utilized for astronomi- cal, terrestial, meteorological, and military observations. On a clear night, itis judged, the electric light on the sum- mit will be visible at Dijon,a distance of 192 miles from Paris. The proprietor of a hotel in Washington, Ga., tells this remarkable story: “I saw a turtle’s head cut off from the body and thrown down in the back yard one day at 10 o'clock, and the next day at about the same hourit caught a chicken by the foot and held it until we released it.” The greatest depths of the Pacific Ocean are found to the south and east of Japan, where the bottom is found about five miles below the surface. In the Atlantic the greatest depth is north of the Virgin Islands, where plummet strikes earth over four miles from thesurface. Miss Eppa Stewart and some female companions were on the fire-bell tower, at Aspen, Colorado, viewing the sur- rounding scenery, when the sudden ringing of the bell so terrified her that she leaped from the dizzy height. Both legs, her left arm, and five ribs were broken. «Time expired; man ditto,” was the reason a country postmaster gave for notifying a publisher lo discontinue sending his paper to a certain address. the outfit of almost every gentleman, whether he ming in : e sy on Fall Mountain, Conn., knocked a hole through the chim-— mtn he