“h, “THE DEAD WITNESS,” a Story of Deep nterest, by Mrs, M. V. Victor, Begins Week After. Next, & & aie I : os U Vol. 41. Office 31 Rose St. P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. SEFU Yntere@ Accordina to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1886. bv Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washinaton. D. C New York, March 27, 1886. _ i FLOOR fe i: S AMES. “eae, Hnterea at the Post Office New York. as Second Olass Matter. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. No. 21. es evuewvaov® er oe ae Se A woe At “ANSWER NO MORE OF THIS MAN’S QUESTIONS!” aN UICH nn i May rth “ ct om LT i fi i we| “il oy i THE GRAND PARK SENSATION; OR, THE SKILL OF HYJAH THE HINDOO: By DONALD J. McKENZIE, AUTHOR OF "The Wall Street Wonder,” “The Murray Hill Mystery,” Etc. CHAPTER I. A SENSATION AT THE GRAND PARK HOTEL. the way of a gentleman in this fashion ?” ‘I don’t want to part with you too suddenly, that is all. We become attached to the guests of our hotel, and we like to be friendly with them. The Grand Park is high-toned, and all that, but its people are friendly.” And the second speaker, who was a tall, agile young | his | pockets, and stood doggedly in the center of the hotel | man of eighteen, coolly thrust both hands in corridor. The gentleman who was attempting to pass was like- wise young, with a strikingly handsome face. He was faultlessly attired, and carried in one hand a ‘‘grip-sack” of the kind usually carried by commercial travelers. This gentleman was registered at the Grand Park as | Robert S. Kingsley, of Albany, N. Y., and for several days he had occupied room No. 104 in the great hotel. The cool-mannered youth who disputed Mr. Kings- ley’s passage was Chris Tobin, who had risen from the Office of bell-boy in the Grand Park to a position of con- Siderable importance. The exact character of his posi- tion will be sufficiently explained as we proceed. Mr. Kingsley’s face was flushed with anger, and there was a decidedly menacing flash in his clear blue eyes as he stepped back and surveyed Chris from head to foot. “Do you know what I’m inclined to do, my smart fel- low ?” he exclaimed, raising a stout cane as he spoke. Chris took his hands from his pockets, at the same time casting a swift glance up and down the corridor. There was no onein sight; and the youth heartily wished a porter, or even a stalwart guest, might put in an appearance at this juncture. “TI don’t care what you do, if you'll only tarry with us & little longer,” Chris declared, without stirring from his tracks. “Suppose I lay this cane over you?’ Kingsley de- manded. “1 wouldn’t try it, if I were you.’ Robert Kingsley raised his cane and took a determined step toward Chris. The latter did not stir. his dark eyes. “Step aside and let me pass,” exclaimed Kingsley, ‘‘or I will certainly strike you !” “You must not leave this hotel.” “Why not ?” ‘T have orders to stop you—that’s all.” “Who gave you the orders ?” “J don’t know as that makes any difference to you, so long as you can’t go.” “You must not delay me,” said Kingsley, a strange pale passing over his face. ‘Stand aside !” “NO. » “Then take that !” But a deflant gleam shot from Down came the cane with great force. of the blow. In a flash Tobin advanced, seized the weapon and | cription down to a hair.” | snatched it from the grasp of his assailant. In the brief, and tierce strugle the cane was broken, and both Tobin Kingsley received rough usage. The guest was an athletic fellow, with a determined will; while Chris, although several years younger, pos- sessed muscles hardened by lifting heavy trunks, and various arduous duties incident to his calling. The conflict was fierce enough for several moments, but was terminated by mutual consent. The combatants stepped back and surveyed each | other, with flushed faces, flashing eyes, and ard, rapid breathing. Neither had conquered. cisely the same situation as at the beginning of the con- flict, except that Kingsley’s cane was broken. “This is fine usage for a gentleman to receive ata first-class city hotel!” the guest breathlessly exclaimed. ‘You had no business to strike me,” Chris retorted. “What right had you to stand in my way ?” ‘TI told you I had orders. When the boss tells me to do a thing, I just do it.” Kingsley again glanced up and down the corridor, in that uneasy way which he had before manifested. Once | It would have } felled Chris Tobin to the marble fioor of the corridor had | | he not sprung backward in time to avoid the full force | ‘Stand aside, sir! What do you mean by blocking Both were in pre- | | pursuit. Q | ridor was now filling with startled guests who had been | attracted to the scene by the noise of the altercation. scene—a robust, sleek-faced man, who was the personi- fication of the typical hotel clerk. This gentleman was coming up the stairs in a leisure- ly fashion when the guest, pistol in hand, started to descend. The clerk’s face did not change its expression in the least. But arevolver also appeared in his hand, and in his customary tones he said : “I guess not, Mr. Kingsley. We wish to speak with you. A later train will answer your purpose as well.” The guest stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and beheld Chris Tobin regarding him exultantly from the head of the stairs. Instantly he put up his weapon, saying: “Do aS you please, and take the consequences. Only I would like an explanation of your strange conduct.” His face had grown deathly pale ; his brows were con- tracted ; an angry-light shone from his clear eyes. “Glad to see you so reasonable,” said Dudley, the clerk, in his mildest tones. ‘There will be.some gentlemen here presently who will tell you all aboutit. Just stand eae you are, and don’t trouble yourself about any- thing.” , : “For whom do you take me ?” the guest demanded. “Never mind, we know you /” Dudley replied. ‘‘You evidently have made a mistake.” «Possibly. But you needn’t make any mistake because we do. It would be a big mistake if you caused us any trouble.” ‘Do you intend to have me arrested ?” «That is about the programme, sir,” “Upon what charge ?” “We were notified, tht is all. We haye your des- ‘Kingsley clenched his hands, exclaiming : “f see itall. Iam the victim of aconspiracy! But I shall not submit. Ill fight for my liberty, and interfere with me if you dare!” Again the weapon flashed in his hand, and he thrust it close to the face of the clerk, crying : “Back !” Mr. Dudley recoiled, realizing that he had a desperate man to deal with. At the same time two men appeared at the foot of the stairs—men in the uniform of the New York police. Kingsley saw them, and realized that his retreat was | cut off in that direction... Instantly he turned and bounded up the stairs, vio- lently pushed Chris Tobin from his path, andran toward the other extremity of the corridor. The officers, followed by the clerk and Chris, started in They dared not fire at the fugitive, for the cor- Kingsley found himself at the end of the passage. There were doors upon either side, and upon the im- mere he turned upon Tobin, at the same time drawing | pulse he tried the one nearest him. a revolver. “I don’t like to go to extremities,” he said, in a quiet tone, toying with the weapon. “I don’t like to have you,” Chris dryly returned. «Then let me pass.” ‘Why can’t you wait till the clerk comes along? He’ll be here in a minute.” . en I wish to catch a train at the Grand Cen- ral.” The guest glanced at avery handsome gold watch, and | added : “And I haven't a moment to lose. So get out of my way, or lll shoot you. as sure as you are an impudent young rascal!” The guest cocked the revolver with a very determined air, and Chris recoiled. This was more than he had bargained for; yet he did not like to yield, after having made such a show of de- | termination. The youth glanced swiftly about him for some means of thwarting the guest. At the same time he heard footsteps at the farther end of the corridor, and dimly saw aman coming toward them. Kingsley heard the tootsteps also, and instantly sprang upon Chris, seizing the latter by the throat and pushing | him backward. With the pistol sfaring him in the face, the youth dared not make the resistance which he would have done had his assailant been unarmed. Hence he was thrown violently to the floor, and be- fore he could regain his feet the guest was running to- ward the stairs. But the plucky youth lost only a moment of time. was up again, and in hot pursuit of Kingsley. It yielded to his touch, and he sprang; across the | | threshold. In another instant he had closed and locked the door | between himself and his pursuers. At the same moment a low, horrified cry came to his | ears; and turning, he found himself face to face with a | Slender, beautiful girl. CHAPTER II, THE BEAUTIFUL JEWESS. Instantly Robert Kingsley thrust the revolver out of | Sight, and, in a reassuring tone, said : “Have no fear, lady.” The girl, who was standing neara window, came a pace nearer, staring at the young man with her dark, lustrous eyes. “Who are you ?” she demanded, in the sweetest tones | the young man had ever heard. “Tl am a guest of this house.” And the young man continued, as he heard the rapidly approaching foot- steps of his pursuers, ‘and I wish to escape from my enemies. You are fair and gentle; I know, and will aid me, will you not 2” ‘Who are your enemies ?”’ she asked. “T do not know, only that they have formed some con- spiracy to prevent my leaving the city. And almost my very life depends upon my going. Believe me, lady, I |} am honest, whatever charges they may bring against ” me. He met the searching gaze of the girlso frankly that | She quickly said : He At the same time a third actor appeared upon the | *T believe you, sir.” ‘And will you assist me ?” ‘How can I ?” “Ts there no egress from this room, except the door by which I entered ?” ‘““Yes—through an adjoining room.” “Ts that door locked ?” “T think not. But my father is in that room, sir, and he may refuse to allow you to pass out that way’ ‘Does his room open into the same corridor as this ?” “No, sir. Ithink you could escape that way if my father would let you.” “Show me the door, lady, and I will take the risk.” “J will go with you and speak to him. He may not re- fuse if [ ask him, although he is a very stern man.” «Thank you—you are as kind as you are beautiful. And before I go, please give me your name. Sometime we may meet again.” “My name is Blanche Gerber—my father is a Jew. I said, he is a stern man and——” She was interrupted by the increasing clamor in the corridor. Kingsley’s pursuers, fortunately for him, had not seen him enter the room of the beautiful Jewess. Hence they were uncertain as to which door he had chosen by which to escape. Of course they had no thought of his receiving protection from any of their guests, for the latter were usually shy enough of a sus- picious character. So they had tried all the doors at that end of the pass- age, one of the policemen passing on toward the eleva- tor, while Chris and the clerk knocked in turn at the doors of the several rooms. But now, having failed in other directions, they came to the door of the Jewess’ apartm nt, Knocking loudly. Blanche Gerber’s countenance grew pale with sudden fear. “They will find you here—let us hasten,” she breath- lessly exclaimed. “Stay—I will go alone. I can manage your father without difficulty, while you remain and delay my pur- suers. You can pretend to be so frightened and con- fused that you can explain nothing. I will trust to you. Farewell, my gentle friend.” The girl saw the handsome stranger pass out at the door communicating with her father’s apartments. And, with wildly beating heart she ran to the other door, upon which the policeman and Mr. Dudley were impor- tunately knocking. “What is wanted ?” the Jewess questioned. She did not have to feign the tremulous fear in her sweet tones. “The man who just passed into your rdom. He is a robber—a hard character. Quick !” cried the policeman, «There is no man here!” the girl replied. “There must be—we have looked everywhere else,” said the smooth tones of Mrs. Dudley. ‘I should have seen him had he come this way.” *Can’t you let us in ?” “Not just yet. I—I—” «Jump into bed, if you’re not dressed for callers. We can’t let the rascal escape us this time!” exclaimed the blunt officer. The girl was in a terrible dilemma. To persist in refusing admittance to the officers would surely excite suspicion. At the same time it dawned upon her that, after all, she might have been deceived by the gentle tones and open countenance of the young man whom she was aid- ing to escape. Whatif he werea criminal, after all? What if she had, unwittingly, aided a dangerous scoundrel to elude the justice which he merited ? With terrible force the query presented itself to the whirling brain of the girl. Yet, as she recalled the straightforward manner ot the young man, his frank speech, and the unfaltering glance of his clear blue eyes, the fair Jewess was again con- vinced that she had acted wisely. She was a bright, clear-headed girl, with keen intui- tions by which she had never been deceived. It was possible that Robert Kingsley’s manly beauty had dulled her acuteness of perception. But of this pos- sibility Blanche Gerber did not think. She was convinced of his honesty, and determined to do all in her power to balk his pursuers. With this pur- pose in mind she said ; «Wait a moment and I will admit you. the one you seek is not here.” “For goodness’ sake, hurry up!” cried the policeman. “Yes—yes—in just a moment !” She bustled about the room, as though making hasty preparations to admit them. Rumpling her dark, beautiful hair, and disarranging her attire, she at last flung a shawl over her shoulders and went tremblingly to the door. By this time she thought the fugitive must have made AS But 1 am sure ' of it.” good his escape from the house. So she unlocked the door, at the same time saying : “Tam ready.” The policeman—one had gone in another direction, it will be remembered—with the clerk and Chris Tobin rushed into the room. There were three doors to the apartment besides the one communicating with the corridor. One led to the adjoining room occupied by Gerber, the Jew; one to a small dressing-room, and the third to the bath. The latter two were investigated first. They came to the door of the Jew’s apartment last. ‘Locked /” announced the policeman. “That is the room of this lady’s father,” declared the clerk. “Ts he not in ?” the latter asked of Blanche. “1 think he is.” She was surprised that the door should be locked, but concluded that the fugitive, after passing into the other room, had secured it, to still further delay his pursuers, te policeman knocked, and receiving no reply, gruffly Sald : “These folks seem determined to let that scoundrel escape. Can’t the.girl open this door ?” «The key is on the other side,” Blanche replied. “Then why don’t the man answer our knocks ?” “He may be asleep.” “Call to him, then, and see if you can’t arouse him.” ‘We can go round to the other corridor and get in that way,” suggested Chris. “Go around, then, and not stand there and tell what we can do!” But Chris Tobin was not in the least frightened by the officer’s impatience. The keen eyes of the youth had been very busy since entering the room of the Jewess. He noticed an open book near a window, which looked as though Blanche had been recently reading it. He Saw, too, that the bed was not rumpled. Ifthe girl had not been lying down, how came her hair in such disorder ? For he distintinctly recalled meeting Miss Gerber in the cor- ridor less than an hour since, and then her luxuriant tresses were. becomingly dressed. Chris had sharp eyes and keen wits. It was his busi- ness to notice everything, for among other duties he acted aS a sort of private detective in the great hotel. iz These points excited his suspicions, and le Closesy aes hem watched the expressions of the girl’s face. Was mistaken, or did she avoid his glance? And ws: there not an anxious tremulousness about her sweee™ lips ? This was worth looking into, and a minute later, when the policeman and the clerk gave up pounding at the door, and shouting for admittance, Chris went over to where the Jewess was standing. “TI would like to ask you something, Miss Gerber,” Tobin declared, in a low, respectful tone, as the other two men went from the room. Her dark eyes fell under his keen gaze, and she falter- ingly returned : “What is it, sir?” ‘Was that Kingsley a friend of yours ?” **NO, sir.” ‘““And you never saw him ?” «Never until——” She interrupted herself, her cheeks growing crimson.” “Until a few minutes ago, you were going to say !” And Curis, elated at his successin ‘‘cornering” the girl, continued : “You might as well own up. escape. Now, didn’t you ?” “Whatif Idid?” she flashed back, with sudden de- fiance. ‘You did a dangerous thing, that is all.” “What can they do with me ?” “Nothing, that I know of—if you're not his pal.” “What isa ‘pal’ ?” ‘An accomplice.” “J never saw him until to-day—I swear it!” “That's all right. Only you may have trouble making the cops swallow the yarn. They are not gullible, like I am. -But if youare not his friend, tell me where he went ?” “Into the next room.” ‘«‘Where your father is ?” ‘eT Os.. ‘‘He wouldn’t let the chap escape, if he was there. He is a suspicious old salamander—begging your pardon, miss. But I must go an@ tell the cops. [t may not be too late to catch the rascal, though there’s slim chance You helped that chap to _ Soon be secured, it he has not been already, _ asked, as Dudley was about to leave her. ‘ A LOW u > - eait » blunt imstru ut. Everything went to indicate a murder hastily committed. ~ seemed to indicate that he had not been aslee And Chris darted from the room, leaving the pretty Jewess in a tremor of apprehension. “1 cannot believe that kind young gentleman was a criminal—a fugitive from justice !” she kept repeating to herself as she locked the corridor door, and then stole softly to the entrance of her father’s apartinent to listen. She could hear shouts and loud knocking beyond, in the other corridor. “Where is my father ? Why does he refuse to answer ?” she asked herself. At the same time a sensation of vague horror vame over her, and she listened with bated breath for sounds from beyond. She heard the door burst open at last, and heavy foot- falisin her father’s room, ‘There was an interval of breathless silence. Then—hoarse, rapid exclamations of horror and alarm. What did it mean ? CHAPTER III. THE SENSATION AT THE ‘‘GRAND PARK” CULMINATES. The beautiful Jewess, in her suspense 4nd fear, strained her ear to catch the meaning of those horrified utterances in the adjoining room. But there was so much confusion that she could dis- tinguish nothing detinite. And lister as she might, she could not hear the gruff tones of her father. A moment later she heard twoor three of those who had entered Gerber’s apartment rush out into the corri- dor beyond. And speedily the whole house seemed to be in an uproar—shouts here, commands there, hurrying footsteps and slamming doors everywhere. Blanche realized that some dreadful tLing had oc- cwred, and her face grew deathly white as she listened. Moments passed. The girl could withstand the terri- ble uncertainty nolonger. She timidly opened the door leading to the corridor. She could see guests and porters, chamber-girls and boys rushing past. “Killed! murdered!” she heard some one cry. And then a loud but reassuring tone which could come from no one but Dudley, the head clerk: “Be calm, ladies and gentlemen !” this voice enjoined. “There is no danger to any one. The miscreant will The house Your lives and property are Well guarded: by police. Be @safe as though you were in your own homes. im, ladies—quiet, gentlemen !” Bianche caught a glimpse of Chris Tobin hastening Jast her door, and stepping to his side, laid one hand pon his.arm. “What has happened ?” she breathlessly asked. He looked at her, while a trace of pity:showed upon his frank, handsome face. “JT wish you would ask somebody else,” he returned. “Tell me—is some one—murdered ?” ‘‘T suppose there is.” “Who is it ?” “A man—a guest.” “Whom 2?” At this moment the clerk came up, and said, kindly : “Better go into your room, Miss Gerber, for there are, So many people rushing past here you may get hurt.” Chris seized the opportunity to shirk the painful duty, slipping away and joining the excited throng. “Why don’t you tell me what has happened? Where is my father ?” cried the Jewess, clasping her hands and looking appealingly into the tace of the clerk. ‘ The latter drew ier into her apartment, closing the oor. “There has been a crime—a murder,” Dudley began. Blanche, as we have said, was a clear-headed girl, and courageous as well. The evasive responses to her eager questioning, with the reluctant manner of Dudley and Chris, sent a suspi- cion of the truth to her brain; and now, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, she asked : “Is my father the victim? Ah! your face tells me so!” She covered her face with her hands, and stood for a moment motionless and in silence. To the surprise of the clerk, however, she neither Swooned nor gave up to a paroxysm of grief. The truth was, Mr. Gerber had been a stern, harsh man, and his beautiful daughter had never felt for him the tender affection which she was capable of bestowing upon a worthy object. He had been avaricious—a veritable miser—although possessed of great wealth. “Tam now alone in the world—I have no friends !” the Jewess exclaimed, in tremulous tones. For a minute she was overcome by the sense of her loneliness. Then the crime by which she had been de- prived of a parent flashed upon her mind, and at the Same time she recalled all the attending circumstances. Her father murdered ! and Robert Kingsley, the hand- some young man whom she had aided to escape from the house, had just passed through the room where the crime had been committed. As she comprerended the circumstances of the crime, her face became flushed with excitement. . “Have they caught the perpetrator?” she eagerly “They will, if they have not already.” “Then they know who he is ?” “There cannot be much doubt. The circumstances point to Kingsley, who, according to information, is a desperate character, and it appears that he. p through these rooms in attempting to escape. M ber had nae dead five minutes when we disco’ rime, / or- ease ROP 7b 0 Ds the 5 re a = i €SS, ‘Ing Was taken Bal | = y the ‘Several emp + ‘4 “hkhd b ‘ n the'temple, The fact that the old man’s hands were clenched when at- “tacked, but that he had attempted to defend himself as the fatal blow descended. Among those present was a police detective, who was making a great show of investigating the crime. He accosted Blanche gruffly, saying : “You are the daughter of the untortunate man ?” “Yes,” She answered, meeting the officer’s searching aze. ” “And your room adjoins this one ?” “Tt does.” “They tell me a suspicious character passed through your room into this just before the crime was dis- covered ?” “A young gentleman, pursued by enemies, escaped through these rooms, sir.” «And you knew it ?” “I did, sir. JI believed him to be honorable, and could not resist his appeal for aid.” «Don’t annoy the lady with questioning now, so long as itis such a Clear case. She has enough to bear,” in- terposed the clerk, who realized how painful the ordeal must be to the unhappy girl. «The case must be investigated,” the officer z2ruffly re- plied, ‘‘and we can’t stop for sentiment at such a time.” Chris, standing near, frowned savagely. At the same time he cast acurious glance toward a tall, dark man who stood half-concealed by the curtains of a window. This man no one had seen enter. He was not a guest of the house, nor a doctor, nor a policeman. Chris had been the first to become aware of his pres- ence, and the youth had been impressed by the Stran- ger’s wondertul, penetrating eyes, for they seemed to note each face and every object, and mark all the ges- tures and movements of other inmates of the room. ‘‘Who was he, and why was he here?” Chris mental- ly asked. The youth was tempted to accost the tall stranger. But something in the expression of the man’s dark, impassive countenance seemed to forbid anything like familiar approach. AS Chris glanced at him the stranger’s gaze rested steadily upon the tace of the beautiful Jewess. He ap- peared to be intent upon hearing her answers to the police detective’s questions. The officer, addressing the girl, continued : “Of course, lady, you wish the murderer of your father to be identified and punished ?” “7 do, sir.” ‘ " “Kyvyen if this handsome young man should prove to be the culprit ?” The Jewess compressed her lips, hesitating. When she spoke it was in a clear, firm tone. “1 do not believe, sir, that the man whom you suspect is guilty.._.No; he could never have been so base, so cruel. J know it!” The earnest conviction of the girl’s tone caused the listeners to exchange glances of curious surprise. At least all save the quiet stranger who stood in the win- dow reecss. His wonderful gaze still dwelt, with piercing intensity, upon the lovely face of the Jewess. “is this young man a friend of yours?” the police detective pursued. “He is not,” was the low reply. “And you never met him until to-day »” “Never.” “How long have you and Mr. Gerber been guests of this house ?” ‘‘Nearly a week.” ‘‘When did you last speak to your father ?” “At breakfast this morning.” “An hour or two ago ?” “Two hours, | think.” «Have you any acquaintances in this hotel ?” ‘None, sir.” «Where is your home ?” “Tt is in eo “How does it happen that you are stopping here; if you have a house so near ?” «The house was undergoing repairs, So.we came here to remain til they were completed.” ‘‘Have you no other relatives ?” «Only an uncle, who lives in Germany.” «TJ understand that your father was a Jew.” “He was, sir.” ‘Are you of the same faith ?” “TJ am—at least, I am of no other.” “Mr. Gerber was a wealthy man ?” “He has never told me that he was, and we lived humbly enough.” “Very likely, But he loaned money to private indi- viduals at high rates of interest, did he not?” “I know nothing about it, sir.” ‘Did the young man whom you aided to escape tell you why he was fleeing »” “He said there was a conspiracy against him.” “He was a good-looking fellow, I suppose?” «Yes, sir.” £ “And you fell in love with him at first sight 2” But the persistent officer was not satisfied, In a less offensive tone he asked: “Did your father have a large sum of money with him ?” «1 think he did, sir.” “Do you know how much ?” “Several thousand dollars.” ‘Why did he have so much money in his possession ?” ‘Because it was paid to him last night, and he had not time to deposit it in a bank.”, “In what shape was the money?” ‘In bills of large denomination, I think.” “You saw it ?” “Yes, when it was paid to him.” «Who else saw the money ?” ‘‘No one, sir, except the gentleman who gave it to ‘‘Who paid him the money ?” ‘1 do not know his name. I never saw him before.” ‘He was not an inmate of this hotel ?” ‘No, sir—not thatI know of.” ae transaction take place in this room ?” “ce (4 a y “Do you know where this money is now 2” Before Blanche Gerber could answer, a deep, musical voice exclaimed : ‘‘Answer no more of this man’s questions!” The speaker was the tall, dark man who stood half con- cealed by the window draperies. CHAPTER IV. A HINDOO DETECTIVE’S SKILL. As the myserious stranger uttered the remark quoted at the close of the preceding chapter, he stepped forth from his semi-concealment, and advanced until he reached the side of Blanche, the Jewess. There he paused. This brought him face to face with the police detectiye, whom he regarded with a slight trown. The Jewess glanced up into the face of the stranger in surprise. His tones impressed her with a sense of con- fidence, and his face strengthened this impression. “Who are you, sir?” the officer demanded, in an angry tone. “My name is Hyjah,” was the quiet reply. ‘Not a very handsome name, I must say.” The other did not appear to hear the officer's impu- dent comment, for he bent his head and said something to Blanche in so low a voice that no one else understood his words. The result of his communication was magical. The Jewess turned and went quietly into her own apartment adjoining, locking the door between them. Then Hyjah turned to the officer, and said : “Tam a Hindoo, and a detective. You, evidently, are an American, and an upstart.” Without waiting to hear the angry reply of the officer, the Hindoo detective stepped up to Dudley, the clerk, and spoke to him in a low voice. bi next moment Dudley spoke up in a tone of com- mand. «All except this gentleman, the doctor, and Chris To- bin are requested to leave the room. No delay.” All save the police detective obeyed. He did not stir from his tracks. «I included you in the order, sir,” the clerk declared. ,It is my duty and privilege to remain,” was the pompous retort. ‘Not when you have been requested to go.” ‘JT have not completed my investigations.” At this junture Hyjah, with an impatient waive of the hand, exclaimed : “TJ have been engaged to investigate this affair, and you are relieved from all responsibility.” “T shall stay and investigate, all the same,” the other returned. ‘ Hyjah glanced at the clerk ; the latter nodded ; and to the intense delight of Crist Tobin, the giant Hindoo ben‘ suddenly forward, picked up the pompous Officer as though he were a boy, and unceremoniously set him down in the corrridor. Before the man could recover from his consternation, Fe yjah had reentered the room, locking the door between 1em. Then, with the utmost composure of manner; he said: ‘What reasons have you, Mr. Dudley, for suspecting the young: man Kingsley of being the murderer of this unfortunate man ?” Dudley rapidly narrated the incidents of the young man’s resistance and escape, as they are already known to the reader, adding: “This, in addition to the man’s bad reputation, is evi- dence enough, to my mind.” «What is his reputation ?” Hyjah asked. 3 ‘We were warned by atelegram from a hotel in Albany to be on the lookout for Hank Talbot; a well- known hotel thief. And besides, we have his description down fine. This fellow came here four days ago, with- out baggage, and payingin advance. Chris, here, has been watching him closely, and he has seen enough to convince us both that he is Hank Talbot. So we at- tempted to make sure of him.” “You are mistaken,” the Hindoo declared, decisively. ‘How is that?” Chris demanded. : “I saw Hank Talbot myself, not four hours ago.” e'? station number fourteen, where I left to d A ee = at us ae ; flushe ¢ took considerdbl in) ed his 10 ks, anyhow,” « ¥. Now for the next question: If this ei ss ted the Jew, what could have been his mo-. “Gerber might have attempted to prevent his escape.” re there would have been a struggle, wouldn’t there ?” & *sProbably.” sf (ic jid yet the Jew was struck while lying upon the e » “So it appears.” ‘Hence it was a cold-blooded piece of work.” “That is so. But the young man might have had another motive for striking the Jew. You will remem- ber that his daughter says that he had a large sum of money upon his person.” “Yes.” “Kingsley probably took the money.” “No, he didn’t. Here is the Jew’s pocket-book, and I don’t think there is a dollar missing.” As he said this, Hijah took from his own pocket a capacious wallet, which was well filled with bank-notes of large denomination. And in explanation the detec- tive continued : ‘‘When I first entered I sav this wallet upon the floor, where it had apparently fallen from underneath Ger- ber’s pillow. I thought I would pick it up before some- body else did. So another cause of suspicion against Kingsley is exploded. What is the next?” Dudley and Chris exchanged glances in a rather du- bious way. : . «Begins to look as though you and I were a pair cf chattering idiots, don’t it ?” the latter exclaimed, With a grimace. “The case against our guest isn’t quite so clear as it seemed to be, that is a fact,” Dudley admitted. ‘But it looks bad for the young man that he should pass through this room at just about the time Gerber must have beeu killed.” “That is the strongest evidence.there is against him,” Hyjah replied. , Addressing the doctor, he added ; «Perhaps you Can give us a little light upon this point.” ‘How, sir ?” “How long had life been extinct when you arrived ?” «Only a short time.” ; “Can you say just how long ?” ‘No, sir. Death being instantaneous, it was not pre- ceded by a gradual cooling of the extremities, as is the case when dissolution terminates an exhausting illness. Deceased was a full-blooded man, with a vigorous circu- lation. The body is yet quite warm, sir—even the feet and hands.” “Is it not possible that the fatal blow was struck a full hour before your arrival ?” “Hardly so long as that.? ‘Half an hour, then ?” Possibly.” “Then there is a possibility that the crime was com- mitted ten or fifteen minutes before the suspected party passed through this apartment, is there not ?” ‘A possibility, yes. But unless I had special reasons for believing this Kingsley innocent, I should never fig- ure the matter down so fine, sir.” ‘Because itis the young man’s misfortune to be im- plicated by a single circumstance is no reason why he should not have the benefit of every doubt regarding his guilt. He may or may not be guilty. If guilty, his mo- tive is enshrouded in mystery; and besides, he proved himself the most ungrateful wretch living, after being aided to escape by the beautiful daughter of the victim.” a detective turned to Dudley and Chris, and contin- ued: “Nothing more can be gained by staying here. I have promised Miss Gerber to solve this mystery and bring her father’s murderer to justice. Do I have your per- mission to come and go at pleasure while my investiga- tions call me tothis hotel ?” “Certainly, sir. And the proprietor of the Grand Park will doubtless pay a handsome reward to the solver of the mystery. The reputation of our hotel must be main- tained, you understand !” declared the clerk. Hyjah unlocked the door, left the room, and passed out upon the street. Of this Chris Tobin was certain, for the wonderful de- tective and his movements were a source of intense interest to the keen-witted youth. ‘He has a long head—a very long head,” Chris kept saying to himself, as he went about his duties. When evening came quite a number of new guests arrived at the Grand Park. : . Among them Chris noticed a young man with gray hair, who was muffled about the neck and face. This man registered as Horace Craig, and he incident- ally mentioned to the clerk that he was suffering from a toothache, as an explanation of his muffied appearance. His cheek certainly appeared red and swollen, and he looked as though he were in an exceedingly ugly mood. He growled at the clerk, swore at the porter who brought up his trunk, and frowned fiercely at Chris when the latter ventured to speak to him. About an hour after the arrival of this guest, as Chris was passing along the corridor upon which Craig’s room was situated, he was surprised to see that individual in the act of knocking at the door of Blanche Gerber’s The girl’s pallor gave place to a vivid flush of indigna- tion, and she turned away without answering. apartment. The youth’s curiosity was instantly raised to an in- FOUND DEAD; | | gets rather mor otonous. 7 tense pitch, and he attempted to conceal himself near at | hand, to watch the stranger. | Stepping backward suddenly, Chris found himself | backing against a tall, motionless figure, whose pres- | ence until this moment he had not noticed. | He was so startled that he uttered an involuntary | ejaculation. Craig heard it, glanced quickly in his direction, and then turned from the door and fled rapidly down the corridor. Chris bounded in pursuit, and at the same time the tall, silent figure with which he had come unexpectedly in contact, sprang forward and passed him with the speed of a cyclone. This pursuer, as Chris ipstantly divined, was Hyjah, the Hindoo detective. And as Craig reached the en- trance to hisown room, and was in the act of open- ing the door, the hand of the Hindoo fell upon his shoulder and drew him back. “Not so fast!” said Hyjah, as Craig vainly struggled to free himself. “Let me go!” growled the guest. ‘Not so fast, I say !” Chris stood near them, an eager, curious witness of that which followed. ‘What do you want of me?” demianded Craig, in his harshest tones. «Tell me why you were knocking at the door yonder ?” “That is my business.” “Ts it, really?” “Youll find that it is, if you don’t let me go!” Hyjah bent his tace quite close to that of the stranger, and said : “You have committed a stupid blunder, my man.” «What do you mean ?” “JT mean simply this!” With lightning quickness the detective’s right hand swept over the head of the mysterious guest, A gray wig and silken muffler dropped to the floor! And in spite of the partial disguise that still remained, Chris Tobin's keen eyes recognized .the face thus dis- closed. (TO BE CONTINUED,) at el [THIS SLORY WKDCOSAY YuBkisnED IN BOOK-FORM.] OR, THE Mystery of the Charles River, By HARRIET T. LISCOMB, Author of “His First Wife,” ‘“‘Hate’s Conquest,” “Mated at Last.” {“FounpD DEAD” was commenced in No. 18. Back numbers can be obtained of alliNews Agents.) “6BARTER Xi. | MR. STEERFORTH MAKES A CALL. Rose Gilbert was, in the main, happy as the wife of the man she loved. . True, he was subject to moods and fits of irritability, which no art of hers could subdue. There were times when he would fling.her off rudely, and rush out of the house like a madman, and never come back all night. Rose always sat up for him, and kept the house pleasant and cheerful, and she never scolded him on his return, for he was too wretched for her loving heart to torment. He had always been drinking hard when be came back from such wild freaks, and his blood-shot eyes, and pale face, appealed somehow to the love poor Rose had al- ways felt for him, and she only petted and soothed him, when most women would have upbraided. She had never got to the depth of his nature—he had secrets she could never expect» to penetrate, she knew | that well; and she was sensible enough not to attempt so to do. . i Whenever she. ventured to say anything to him of Set eo fant hoe. WET hat noewanted you, I sure- ly should not have taken you. A man eee let him- Self out to , d. Be content with me, as 1 am, Rose, it omiortable.” a oD mn some “ ; wife d love her h ; 4 bi fever heat all oin S own wife d mever be monotonous to me, Hugh.” «Well, yeu and I are different, and all women are fools! No offense to you, my dear, for I do think, Rose, you are a little more sensible than the majority of them.” ; She laid her cheek against his arm, but he gave back no answering caress. 2 5 ; «You-moan soin your sleep, Hugh! and shiver, and cry out as if something frightened you. .Are you not happy, dear? Does anything trouble you?” she asked, tenderly. -Pshaw!” he cried, impatiently. “I have the night- mare, I suppose. It has always troubled me, and per- haps my liver, or something, may be out of gear.” “Can you not see a doctor? Ue might—yes, lam sure, he could help you! Please do!” Hugh laughed long and loud, and there was something frightful in the sound. ° | “Yes, I ought to seea disciple of Galen. You are right, Rose. Pills, and powders, and boluses are just what 1! need. Lord! only fancyit. He would look wise, and | feel my pulse, and look at my tongue, and get out his | stethoscope, and punch me in the ribs, and assure me | that I was on the brink of the grave, and only he could save me, and he'd pocket his five dollar bill and give me | three cents’ worth of baking soda, and a couple of dough pills, and promise to see me to-morrow. Doctors, Rose, | are afraud. The whole race ought to have been hung long ago. None of them for me, thank you.” With the dark secrets of her husband's past lite Rose was not conversant. She had given little heed to the | many vile stories which had from time to time been | afioat concerning him, and now that she had married | him she would not have listened to anything to his dis- credit. She was a true and loyal wife, in the full letter and spirit, and as much as his warped and evil nature could appreciate her unselfish devotion, Hugh Gilbert appreciated his wife. But the dreadful memories which he could not drive out of his soul, made life a torment to him, and even now, whenever the night shut down, he saw ever before him the pale face of a drowned woman, and nothing could dispel the illusion. One sunny day, while Rose sat sewing, there was a modest ring at the door. Rose peeped through the blinds, and saw that the caller was of the masculine gender. She rearranged the pink bow at her throat, pulled down the rings of hair a little more over her fore- head—for she had not forgotten how to be coquettish— and waited while the little servant-girl showed the call- er in. “A man, ma’am, as is canvassing for a newspaper,” said the little Sarah, and into the room stepped a well- dressed, thin-featured man, who wore glasses, and car- ried his well-brushed beaver in his hand, “Ah! good-afternoon, madam!” said the stranger, courteously, helping himself to a seat. -A fine day! Mrs. Gilbert, I presume? Saw the name Gilbert on the door. Quite a familiar name to me. Had a brother whose wife was a Gilbert. Might have been of the same family, eh ?” : “T think not,” answ ROSE. near relatives that | know of.” ‘‘Ah? Merely a coincidence, then. Remarkably pleas- ant place you have here, ma’am. Sunnyexposure. Now, to my mind, there is nothing in the house that will com- pare with the sunshine. Cheerful, and wholesome, and conducive to good spirits,” And the man rubbed his hands as if already he felt happier for having come in. “T called, ma’am, to see if Icould not take your name, or that of your husband-—— Husband is out, is he ?” ‘He is out of town on business for the firm with which he is connected,” replied Rose, thinking to herself what an extremely social and pleasant man this was. “J regret it exceedingly. I am sure I should have taken his name. He was mentioned to me as a gentile. man who would be sure to be interested in such a publi- cation. Scientific. madam, purely scientific—with the exception of a corner devoted to the ladies—fashions, cooking, fancy-work, directions for crazy patch-work, il- lustrated by diagrams,” and he held up the sheet, which was embellished with numerous squares, and triangles, and figures of no particular shape. ‘‘Of course you are interested in fancy-work? I need not inquire—I see so many graceful evidences of your taste all around me,” and he looked admiringly at the crocheted tidies on the chairs, and the embroidered sofa-pillow, and the prints tastefully framed in colored splints. Rose blushed, and confessed to a liking for such things as he spoke of. “Hugh doesn’t care much for them, though,” she said. “Well, that isn’t to be expected,” returned the other, cheerfully. ‘Mr. Gilbert, Iam told, is a man of many cares, an overseer in a large concern—Mr. Gerard's mills, if I am correct.” ‘No; he is not in Mr. Gerard’s at present. He is in the Lancaster mills.” : “Ts it possible ? Why, I surely thought I was told he was Mr. Gerard’s head man. How could I have made such a mistake ?” and the man looked as if he was ready to sacrifice himself on the spot because of his mistake, and Rose hastened to soothe his wounded feelings by saying: ‘He was with Mr. Gerard several years, but is not now.” “Oh, that accounts for it. And, by the way, what a sad thing that was about the young lady who worked in *“My husband has no 4 § ‘ VOL. 41-No. oi e dreadful man with the scar of crescent form on his 7 en ane ze m ——————eEeo: ar ere eres ——————— eee 3% neck; and his face is whiter than the woman’s who is MY OLD COAT. She turned the portrait; on the back of it was written | _ “I wish I were dead!” sobbed the esaritiorin PRs Fa See eww m= struggling so far from help! I see her wildly lift her Fae Ream ee then. underneath, in her husband’s | wife. ; ved young | er ee — been selfish, Adelaide. I had no right * ae aid which does not come! I hear her BY AARON SMITH. “Lost! Fiske POLabieais ” ae ay weet 7 hy oy to win your husband | man. 1 aa area cares What did it ene > ’ f ; 2 is ack é se,” Said Lady Di. ; SER gabe ae a s e Naomi’s voice ceased, and without a sigh she fell bac The picture fell from her hands, and a low cry of un- Lady Adelai : ; ; It was done for the best,” she said, quietly: ‘and r. in her husband's erake in & Gand aeink 5 u kK lll wear thee yet awhile, old coat, See pone in ee lips. Then she raised it | hers. » de went upto her and laid one hand on pues pers eek alee as hard upon Allan as upon r, “Great Heaven. [ have killed her!” cried Steer Tll wear thee yet awhile ; : again. The brilliant beauty startled | ‘You are right,” aks ad [RDNA ee i: as n an unhappy business altogether.” kissing the cold, still face in an agony of nh Thou bring’st to memory times remote, ae pale lovely eyes mocked her. , remedy for ns anos ae death % ere leno | But the worst for you,” sighed Lady Carew—<‘a wilte, 0 a et : And wearest an old smile. ; ni por a fea aaey they seemed to say. “Heloved| Lord Carew looked at her; she did ak teers en heed : eee ess of the house, yet without any po- 0 e seized a bottle of smelling salts and held it to her Thou’st graved my form in happier years, Ea n the Four teenth of June, the day on | either him or Lady Di. nad loving, yet unloved. Ob, Adelaide, what a e nose, chafing her cold limbs, and calling on her to When hearts, now false, seemed true ; iil? e married you, i have his heart; that is why he| “To ask for bread,” she said, passionately, “and t DOM DOVE pene Shey OC) e : awake and speak to him. But still she remained in These eyes had wept few bitter tears was opp you. Look at me—I have his heart!” get a stone, to pour out your inna, ke Se : am ve te a = bear it,” she replied, more cheerfully. ‘I can - net ea ee m : When they beheld thee new. nad ss a ees ane the proud scarlet lips had on a giv your whole heart, your whole soul Bea oe oe better than he could have borne the sorrow and | ; > ad been Naomi’ . with dislik retur “en knows the bitter-| Lady © , her chiidnood, oem ee te to a Lp m ae Pll wear thee yet awhile, old coat, grnen wen a sudden, desperate hope that it might not | ness. Guheresa Sens aie inns te an eee Be : : eee Carew’s only answer was to bend down and kiss ‘0 eame John Steerforth’s wife, came in answer to her And prize thee, even yet; ee Se ee in the pocket-book—it might not-be | but J know the best thing that can happen to an un- rien ates PR ANE, pT ee : 0 master's hurried call. When she looked at her mistress _ For many a lesson thou hast taught, usband’s, after all. A hope that died soon as it | loved, neglected, despised wife, who loves her husband, | know ish,” she said, “that he knew you as wellas I her face expressed stern displeasure. My heart shall ne’er forget. Pe, agi ie There was his name—envelopes directed | is to die.” , S » Sei you i he Ww ould love you better than all the world NA - ears been at it again !” she cried, with indigna- When thou wert in thy prime, old coat, Ee m ; bills. letters. Ah! there was no doubt it was| With those passionate words still clinging to her | ask Gaiscticas Sraniat Sane ahs “qumnolaniay th ais ips oe warned you of this. Where has your common ‘The friends smiled (oh, so sweet)! She took th te : lips, she left the cottage without looking around, and | silence ; but BUR Oe e SeveEeay eee 24S sense fled to? My darling, they have killed you ?” Who, at this very time, old coat, h 0 Pe the portrait in her hands and carried it to | Lord Carew turned a face of blank surprise and wonder him?” — ut tell me, have you done your best to win r- She gathered Naomi up in her arms, and fondled her _ Would shun me in the street. yl ent By the light of the stars, the wind waving | to Lady Di. : «My very bes : as she used to do when she was a baby in the stately old ° erich carnations at her feet, she stood looking long chin My very best. I have left nothing undone that I 1? home from which John Steerforth had taken her rll wear thee yet awhile, old coat and earnestly at the beautiful face. thought would please, interest, or amuse him. It is all It was a long time before their united efforts brought ‘As when the winds blew warm: AS she looked, all hope died out of her heart. The im- SARE en ne Ce Reln,,” 1 Bay JUSG 98 well Covey eh eens. - Shs Pea e- the young wife to consciousness, and then she was weak And now when wintry storms come on, ea beauty was the woman her husband loved. He “SOME ONE MUST SUFFER FOR EVERY SIN.” eats eee continued, firmly, “I must ask you one st as an infant. Thow lt shelter me from harm. it ho love to give her who bore the name of his wife; | After a few words, spoken to comfort the old lady Soy ta ae do not talk to me on this subject any : Steerforth’s tender contrition knew no bounds, and, The world may join in scoffs and jeers, a t been laid at the feet of this grand young queen. Lady Di and Lord Cutest tollowed Lali A delald oe J ? pe lo S o not like it; I cannot bear it. I can suffer in he kneeling by her bedside, he told her that never again Taunt thee, or him who wears— lik —, June Fourteenth.” These simple words read | the cottage. See ae malate es aetna ey Sufferings nor the cause of then ge aa me tax her strength in that way—never again. Thou coverest as brave a heart, foes .. ee rant : Na. BP. for those lovely dark | \ Whatever emotions she had felt had all passed; she | guests Sen ee wet leave you now; my stopped him. A conscience pure as theirs. a itn as . No need for the scarlet | stood pro 3 SA Hide HER OR TRL Hone Loe : cera ; . ‘ol “My dear husband, do not make any rash promises,” P lips to curlin scorn. She made no resistance. She had | aes Hor ae Ks yopne gage ed riding habit throw n}| She went away, leaving Lady Carew alone, she sald. with a smile; “it might be hard to keep them ——_+ ~~ ae ney 9 bent her sweet face over the picture and | Di had no trace of passion in it which she greeted Lady tieateaen om y and by I shall be better able to bear things of this| (THIS STORY WILL Nor BE PUBLI ; 1 ; ; “My dear Adelaide,” said — St a AE HAPTER XX. av kind. And why should I not be willing to help you it I Ce tae It seemed too cruel—too cruel. Only one half-hour wind’ you. are ; er te pee De 2 Wah a whirls “{ OFTEN THINK ABOUT THAT STRANGE WILL.” can? Your interest is mine, dear.” alae she had been so happy, rejoicing in the first gleam | breathless.” y me by storm; you left me) aay Carew made no effort to ft ee aaa ~aQ cS . zr 20 ‘ SHAT ss Ba ae | cae Tt gs F a ve ad tur a c lat Pe oe ne eee iaiiemlale f , Cees: hata ‘scone ae ~~ ce Oe a, ee aah : 2 Gane ae some subjects on which I feel eee a Lage very unhappy, pest Malone 89, , é g T ‘ ; = ae ’ eens Sly ; ; i an she had ever ; it possible to be, w a on, an hour to reach the train and send a dispatch. Good- he had loved and lost on the Fourteenth of June ? | ‘But when Lady Adelaide looked at her husband's fz great object of her hes one ph paces be Spee ie r., by, sees ! I leave you in good hands. Margaret, I B Farce she knew that she had done wrong. She Bid deve been achieved. a eS ee ne trust , Ee 4 CHAPTER XVIII. | seen him look so angry before. He did not speak to her: Adelaide was changed; she coul feing i ds amen eee Oe and. he hag thrown on his over- pase iaric Gee SS reid keh: | he made some remark to the groom about the horses ; | #24 mourning over it; she had Tost that deilehtful sen: by ai this was ‘the ¥ the railway station. TArd \Garow tad peighMeMNs cucsta® i | he addressed Lady Di laughingly: but he never even | Sibility; the warm, loving, affectionate nature seemed | res e dispatch which he delivered to the By BERTHA M. - WASay townnd his ej guests, feeling more | looked at his wife. to have grown chilled and cold; the graceful, gentle for | . telegraph clerk for transmission over the wires : yy A M. CLA} & indly toward his wife than he had ever felt before.| Then she repented having spok ; 1 » | half-caressing Sth i; the graceful, gentle, koe a op > How crateful. she was . ~ z pente aving spoken on the impulse of | Dali-caressing manner that Lady Carew had thought so “To Ros : i “Boston, Apr. 27. AUTHOR OF | Was pleased With hinseit ONeTTTE how: se Dive}. Hie | Lie moon i. | beautiful had almost left her. af 7 | wai, pa ag not a Wir ‘ . ; | shown her, and pleased with aig oenten aane alt ao | “Or what use my forbearance, patience, and endur- | “She is very unhappy; I can see it more plainly than sath if any change takes place el sents oe tie ‘A Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The | keenly. After all, she was very Saetahit theese arate Bee Tam to break down in that way,” she said to | she thinks, for the time may come when she will be~ in regard to whom my letter of yesterday instructed oh ied World Between Them,” “Beyond _| and sweet. . hie a i 1 oar coats aS | Willing to bear patiently no longer. If it should be so, I et ace Pardon,” Etc | He found himself wondering, as he had wondered a | pived over the Weis ool Bean et enc tee Sores ? Who De nO See | eee eee eee t CHAPTER XIV. | gracetal, oo sweet, so inpdesk, 80 faulticss, so tree from | a few minutes by He oe scone she had witnessed. was re- | suis and neglect? Well, Lam not strong, and if ae a tO 5 (“Ror ANOTHER’s SIN.” was commenced in No. 17 Fs aubtennts i, SO OF » SO faultless, so. fr m | afew minutes by her husband’s side. | fails me, it will kill me.” ; rt » all ONLY A BROKEN RAIL. — Tithhelas dak be obteined of all News Maeute? 7. Back . Haeahpeuotinpi ahr aanke: . gstearl W ae it that she | “Allan,” she ‘said, “I am sorry I spoke so vehemently | So the beautiful and stately lady who had once been a PA iegbe sey eames . oni Re aoe to | Wo Gani not’ mudernetaie tena — _ Ct ee a just now, I did not stop to think, or 1 should not have | Sire rt all this magnificence-herself, sat and mused ‘ nigh: ba sip icansates cee tucie | unlike her. § at he knew 7 jamong the ferns. Every now and then the wind clear state of the intellect CHAPTER XVII. unlike her. She seemed, now that he knew her better,| “It is quite immaterial to me,” he replied, “If you | brought a faint refr t i . “ eae ont | f »” he . “If you | 8 nt refrain of music from the drawing- to He got into an ordinary car, drew his hat over his eyes, - # : he : one of the last in the world to do such a thing. He won- | choose to publish to the whole world th t r hich | Loom, but she looked more sé Janious Gs WwO- and devoted himself to thought. . yes, LOST !—JUNE FOURTEENTH.” ae yy o oe en nageretand “er in this one par- | we were married, and the terms on Shion wee yon | ment. more sad, more serious, each mo- | oor, z not of all, he had implicit faith in his wifes powers| Lord Carew was more deeply moved than he would | dreaming #hat, with anid oan ae HL sghawe: a | are at perfect liberty to do so.” Y _“T see no way out ofit,” she said, at last: “it is almost : ed her accuracy, ; ye . 7 Ful s Patt Sete : } “UNO; 1b 1S & ndifference tome. Y: re, of | buat all this suffering, this wearyi xiety | and but the experience of this evening had been by no ee, fending him—even when he had humiliated her. How ek See ve to cae this one little act of | course, quite right in expressing Gone waicice ‘t i | come from one great Woe ing anxiety, should | ee ae ee, yaa ee him- | Many women would have been bitter, sarcastic ?—would | happy He caer eer ee meee ea oe eee coe and how they are ex- oe Started when a hand was laid upon her shoulder Per? Tack, hat h the old house | hav i i Se in ane oF ner iy ‘ pa ag tig r ressed. I must ask you to excuse me now; I promised | 1er son’s voice said : : ni, & among the hills to do with the murder of Edith Welford SONS SRL Ae eee en cuenta | her "Volew Pe Sian benevolent schemes again. How | to show the road through Gaston Copse.” ee | ‘Mother, what an unusual thing to find’ you sitting 1p!” on the banks of the Charles River ? then was the other motive that she had not explained. | seemed to canine are ¢ , m D a at ¥ a his condemnati ny ar, which might yet be | their silver spray far into the sunlit air. Lady Adelaide oe eed the room without even looking at him, | Almost tusensibly ‘his ‘wife's "awectness aa began a Yes,” he interrupted ; “I want no more than I trial te Steerforth found himselt involuntarily looking at every was seated where the whispering breeze played with Siraioniy ee ae a res did not listen | win upon him, not that he loved her, but that her many have.” | man who entered the car, but none of them’ bore the her wealth of shining hair. She looked very beautiful— | she looked at him; she ¢ se 8 a ten L been wont to do ;| good qualities began to tell upon him. He had begun “Your position is second to none; the Carews of deli- teli-tale mark. she wore an evening dress of some blue material, shot | compliments 3 answered him ; she smiled at his | to admire her, and to enjoy the admiration of others. | Brooklands are kings in their way.” riully | 4 There were bluff and hearty heads of families loaded with pale gold—a dress that Lady Di declared looked | Beauty with all his affected nonchals i _| He was above all pretense and affectation, but he had ‘I could not wish it better,” he said, gently. thrill own wv ith the shawls and reticules of their womenkinda ; | like moonbeams—her fair, flower-lixe face and white | than Theat De OpiD : hel aaa " ance, was sharper | learned to pay great deferense to her before strangers, “You have perfect health,” she continued—“‘health, P pmere were young men who sported canes and eye-giasses | Neck rose from“it as the cup of a lily frem its green | sustained ae ks pe on D 0 fe / was the effort that | hardly conscious of the respect he was paying her. It strength, high spirits. You haveZintellect, talent,even | sid to and diamond studs; there were dark-faced, evil-eyed leaves. : iM mil ; “Sat ow the sweet lips quivered | would have pained him to know that strangers com- genius. You are beloved and esteemed. Where is the tic Lo | men who prowled through the car. and brushed their Beauty was looking very intently at her, wondering ia boon rae eer 5a to anne pe Sed Eee meee’ | toonted. on the vorins bay lve por, _ | crumpled rose-leaf, Allan ?” she asked, looking anxiously e | coat tails against the heads of all the passengers on the | Why the fair face was So sad; and Alice Carr, with|trucit was. mself, little knowing how | Now that was all at anend. She had openly thrown | !9 his handsome, high-bred face. fs right _ outside of the seats; there were men of all ages and sta- | ¢very moment that passed, grew more jealous. Atlast| Then Lord Carew came upto them; but she never down the gantlet, as it were, by speaking before Lady | a ye ee eee eae ey oe eh ot the ands, _ tions, but none of them wore the brand of the crescent. the young soldier went over to Lady Adelaide, and} looked at him—neve ite ed em; but she never | Di, so that all who heard her could not fail to under- myself to myself,” he replied, trying to laugh off the — | chair ____How absurd I am!” thought Steerforth, rousing him- leaned on the back of her chair. ness of his. presence a eh ee OE ee rae : ne in spelt, as if I really expected fate to throw the fellow in «TI am trying to guess a riddle,” he said. “Lady Se oinide ® ie Gee dat will y 5 Let if be so; he could not help it; he should make no His mother laid her hand on the handsome head. id ex- ; my way. The ageof miraclesis past. Iamatfraidthere | She did not turn her face to him. - , at last, ‘will you sing for | effort now. She had stipulated that they should re- |. “8 there anything in the world, Allan, that you would h had | Xz good deal of hard work yet before you, my boy, be- “What is it?” she asked. ‘Perhaps 1 can help you.” to.” she epnidd: - sak we at : main together for a certain time, then separate under | 20 tell me?” “m es- | fore you lay your hands on'the three thousand dollars “Why is it that you, the fairest and brightest of iuniaining wnere T hae y Pian me, I prefer ; plea of incompatibility of temperament, or something of He looked in her face. _ Teward offered for the discovery of Edith Welford’s mur- women, always look sad ?” dolph.” » an ng to Captain Ran-| that kind. She could please herself whenever she “Is there anything in the world, mother,” he asked ut we 7 derer! Her face flushed. | She smiled at Beauty; bath chose to give the least intimation that the time for | “tt you would not tell me 2” : Y isan The night wore on. Steerforth slept a little, and|_ “I deny it,” she replied ; “I am not aware that lever | ment lingered on Sah ta ? a. never for one mo- | separation had come. A sudden burning flush rose even to her brow. She Sy jreamed Of Naomi dead and in her coffin, and woke up | 100k sad.” Dene othar Waitin HOlett al gps He asked her| So much the better, and then for the thousandth time | %Urned aside; her eyes fell before the clear, laughing beiore th a start, consoling himself with the reflection that “Your brightest smiles have something sad in them, | the same Pserreneee a rc ons. S. a answered them in | since he had been married Lord Carew began to specu- glance of her son. ; * ‘aan dreams always go by contraries. just as your sweetest songs and gayest words have,” he | «Why does she speak er, never looking at him. late how it was that his wife, the sweetest and most | ,,. 4», dear mother, you have your secrets,” he retorted; dful 0 ~~; “This seat e ?” asked a tall, raw boned West- | Said. “why a she speak to me so coldly?” he thought. | gentle of women, the most retiring, the most modest “then allow me to keep mine.” : : a hor’ Ot the rack overhead Mitatwes. Sue weil FAS A IeDe, i oe of tp ‘foatures.” aha santind—-o+ 14 wy re aah ayold looking at me? t,this the same | should have married him against his will. *| “You talk absurdly,” said Lady Carew. ‘What secrets oe: te “No, sir,” quietly responded Steerforth. “You should Dicer arch OO toe {hese eh “Ttequld, not have been. because she loved me,” he | Svould I have? . Has not my life been an open book, the «, RTS, ; ine,” continued the stranger, taking a ginning to—~" thought she hac never. ™ip- too wm | pages of Which every one could read ?”. wei 1 Tae ‘Coolish morn - con a ae it oR sat. athnit She never knew what he was going to say; for as she } Lady Di was charmed with her; . e |) It was at this ti ae “wrote to say Hadiaaes ory jestiig, mother ; put suai begin vw =e Az a ' ae prom bis ot and Pe gah turned to him with a frightened expression on her lovely | jealous than ever; but to pim—to her musband—Lady ; quite convenient, . y had not ee ertieie ae (a... ves cage sbinathing i Go Te cor ieaee a ' Gk on the low ee! » replied Steerforth, wishin face, she saw her husband coming toher. He looked so } Adelaide Carew appeared absolutely indifferent. He | Brooklands, she should ‘like to spe! : any secre TAL you could “keep. from me, or that you cent : : ae ite cool for the season,” replied Sveke: . atertai gs kind, so interested, So pleased, that she wondered. He} was piqued; he had not known now much he valued | there. . Sie would.” ’ fm ; ; eh ia llow would stop his polite attempt at entertaln’| <5 + down by her side. her little graceful attentions and acts of Kindness until} «You have Some great favorites of mine staying with | “90.” 1.44 peen looking at his mother, he would have bw the Ment and leave him to his thoughts. __ rd vasn’t | ‘1 have brought you good news,” he said. “Tt pained | now that her indifferent gaze seemed to pass beyond | you,” she wrote to her son; ‘‘andI know nothing that | cen the same strange, D érvous confusion of the lips, the little “igi ueer about that Charles River ‘oe ¥ mec ot me very much this morning to refuse your kind request; | him as though he were not there. t would please me SO much as seeing them again. game strange, eager restraint on the face. She began ~ eriy.! vere said the Westerner, reading from the paper: °° | nut Ihave been thinking ot it ever since, andIhavedone| When they both separated for the night, he did what | With a cold, courteous “bow, Lord Carew ees the | to speak haif nervously, hardly knowing how to intro- | 1" lew yet to the guilty party or parties concerned in = that which 1 hope will please you.” was not usual with him; he held out bis hand to say | letter to his wife. He did not understand why her face | Guce the subject. = ‘ - | Miinder of Eaith Welford. The police are eto wie t. He never forgot the sudden joy that made her beauti- | good-night to his wife, but she made him the most pro- | flushed and her sweet lips quivered. _ . | *fdo not think Adelaide is looking very well, Allan,” t relax i Bay mgerested in under a naa ee, ful face half divine. found bow and never even looked | a ers oe | ooapg a - e nee a 4 she said ; | J 5 . ‘ . ‘ cy 1? $e] = be ro, | «why @ 9”? > rry with ' * a e ae _ “How do you, how does any one, know that it was peiiant eerie ett where laughter, mases: and song pabeiy her, gave place toa hard, cold, polished man- | He knew perfectly well that she was alluding to the ban mother, ‘if I thought you Ww ould not be angry Wit | TASE ” 3 ‘ ; y ry +h as| want of union between his, wife and himself, but he | baa at j i : ” ade ho ass like moments; she wanted to be | ner that puzzled every one, but none so much as | wa iS. | ee ee > Aaa e- es “The evidence points in that direction. nd, is a very made ty think over this newly found happiness. | Lady Di. F | would not allow her to think he suspected her mean- Fe scetne tas trae i Shinbone PR ee aids Na : _ “Perhaps it does. But ree _ a hey oO J He—her husband whom she loved so deeply—had | It happened that the morning after this little scene | ing. _ : e ama “She wants her husband’s love, ‘Alian, and I fear—I as again “unreliable thing, when it is purely circums et al. Cases | }.4n thinking of her all day—all day he had been sorry | the whole party agreed to ride over to Farnham Chase. | “We are all giddy young people,” he said, and shall | s.,* so much she has not found it.” | Of mistaken identity are numerous. L ~~ ta . aaa that he had refused her petition, and thinking what he | Lady Di, who was becoming most warmly attached to | be the better for an overlooker.” sd | «Hassbhe been complaining to you, mother ?” he asked, | oo Saas mistaken for a member of Congress. _ Good a ! oa. could do to make amends, She had never been So | the beautiful young mistress of Brooklands, would ride “J wish some of us were more giddy and less sedate, | very quietly. d | Every: feltso mean before! I didn’t ngs llbarnaen whe rie ait happy since the day on which she had first heard that | by her side, and Lord Carew considered himself the es- | said Lady Di. ‘ es Ty aside complain?’ Ob, how little you know her! | A great reputable looking. Well, a man er in ‘s ae 5 been she must bear the burden of another’s sin. For the pecial cavalier of Lady Di. Lord Carew bent down and kissed her hand. : _|now little you understand and appreciate her! Allan, | house OR} stil live. Idid. Butas I was saying, nobody has been | 1 appiness of her heart she blessed the poor woman who |> As he rode by the ladies he could not help looking at | «My dearest Di- my dear cousin,” he said, “preachers |3\2ren to me. ‘I, your mother, tell you seriously, andin — | ip to the | found who could positively swear that the y eee wren had brought so much joy to her. | nis wife, and thinking how very beautiful she was. The | may preach, wise people lecture, but every heart KnowW- | 31; ‘honor, that the whole world does not ontade amore found in the river was. Harnell’s missing actory hye : He had thought of her all day—and this was the man | fresh air had brought the fairest bloom to her faultless | eth its own bitterness. : noble, amore generous, a grander woman than Ade- > woman About the same size, they tell us. W ell, L Sait seat who had told her, in plain words, that he disliked her. | face, the proud, clear eyes were calm and bright; a Lady Di said no more. There was something in the laide, your wife.” i are ten thousand women living “2 i. in woth iin Ah! thank Heaven, thank Heaven, that her patience, | pretty hat and drooping plume sat like a crown on the | earnest manner, the sad voice, which told its own story. “J do not deny it,” said he, calmly. There ” ofasize. Dark hair and nae ae a 7 th tat b g her forbearance, her self-sacrifice had won him thus far! | queenly head. She looked simply perfect, as he could | This was no story of temper, ot ill-avoided taste, ot W ant “Then, when you acknowledge that she is $0 worthy ee more common than dark hair and os Wh k oe ie What might not the future bring her ? not help owning t# himself. Then he wondered to find | of sympathy; there was something deeper—more terri- of all love, why not love her ?” asked Lady Carew. took his breast the likeness of a young Bene oY 0 er hig * 14 She went down the broad corridor, where.a long win- | that for two whole days his thoughts had been inces- | ble—than these. She might never know the myster vy; “We will not enter on What must prove in the end a fed them that young man was? Is it iol a : WO g th ane d | dow opened on to a balcony that was filled with rich | santly occupied with his wile. put there was one; and these two, who had youth, | metaphysical argument,” he replied. - room together and sleep together for ng Steg ma ane crimson carnations and purple passion flowers. She | As they passed through the pretty little village of | beauty, genius, wealth, and every other good gift of the | "Tre Was quite silent for some few minutes, then he ex- ae gne of them wear a lovers WKenE NS et ae oer them, | Went, out there, and raised her beautiful face to the | Lexington, Lady Di suddenly stopped her horse. great God, were most wretched and miserable. =| aimed: arily ; i discover it? They are all ee oe very a o em, “quiet of the skies.” It might come to her, this great “Allan,” she said, ‘I have a poor protegee here whom I | Lady Carew came, not W ithout some trepidation ; she “Mother, Loften think about that strange will of my rhead. | and that is nothing to their disadvantage. and | 2nd precious gift of her husband’s love. Tears of grati- | faithfully promised to visit to-day. She was my moth- | felt almost afraid to see how matters really stood. Her | gather the longer I live, and the more I think of it, the nee ‘mother was an excellent woman in my opinion, and | 4. ‘ied her sweet eyes. Ah! ifit should! If in time | ers nurse.” first impulse was to look long and earnestly in the beau: | stronger it seems to me. It would have, been a most ory 7 | Adam wasa sneak. But to Bes Hage YO: ie ce he learned to love her! She was startled in the midst | ‘Old Mrs. Dingley,” he said. ‘I often go to see her | tiful, listless face of her son's wife. 5 hat did she read cruel and unjust thing to have disinherited me, his only oe |< Allee Horvon, this unfortunate girl's roommate, bac | o° har meditations by the sound of a footstep passing. | for your sake, Di. She lives in one of those smail cot-| there? Not happiness or content? Alas, no !—and | Son. How, in common honor and honesty, could he from bigs 4 Bove A aM the locket about which we have all heard so “who is there ?” asked Lord Carew. | tages there by the roadside.” Lady Carew turned away with a deep-drawn, bitter | pave done ib” e on Fee She came out of the balcony with something of the | He pointed to a.row of. little. houses that were half | sigh. ae Lady Carew’s face grew white, even to the lips. had been | “$0 she gave evidence.” starlight and the flowers on her face. hidden by the thick, drooping foliage of large lime Outwardly everything seemed well. Lord Carew was | uy rt acusunt Trev ie BAthern BCtiOn DF re Te: und jet her “Neither had anybody else seen it, so far as heard “Ig it you, Adelaide 2” he asked. “I thought I missed | trees. an accomplished and hospitable host ; he understood plied. “He knew i ior ines many noble qualities, wha | trom. There are scores of girls nsain 8. The attend- you.” “How picturesque !” cried Lady Di. «Adelaide, will | the art of entertaining to perfection ; but Lady Carew he thought, most probably, she would make you an ex- a troubled | ants at every public morgue could i a me ee: It was the first time since their unhappy wedding-day | you go with me? I want you to know my poor old lady, | had not been. long in the house before she saw that | nollent wits.” v J hitshed | parents and brothers wW a4 ae zs oa ; p oe ve : aa: that he had called her “Adelaide,” and the sound of her | and kind to her when I am not here.” 2 | coldness and distance, even like death itself, existed be- “No,” said Lord Carew, thoughtfully, “it was not that, eit eee | an seeking daughters mire the pate sir Would name thrilled her heart like sweetest music. Lord Carew assisted his wife and cousin. to dismount ; | tween husband and wile. — ; 2 veg | 1 am. sure ;. my father would not disinherit me because I dane we are at Buffalo. Sorry to part company, Sr tentiv Tame out fora few minutes’ rest and silence,” she-| the groom took care of the horses. | “phe first evening that she spent there she contrived | coyig not see the same qualities in a person that aa like to pursue our conversation. You seem an attentive | ia. «1am going back,” and as she spoke she took his Leaving the rest of the party to ride on slowly, the | to have an interview with Lady Adelaide, w ho evi- | or that would be too absurd.” 4 listener. Ta, ta!” and his loquacious fellow -traveler hand and kissed it. He did not withdraw it quickly, as | three made their way to the cottage. But, alas! it the dently shunned it. Lady Carew complained of the heat. “-[ cannot explain it,” said Lady Carew. ce a snake, was gone. _.. |he would once have done. He laid the other hand on | scene was picturesque, the sounds that came from the “Will you come to the fernery with me, Adelaide ? He did not see how tightly her hands were clenched ranches of Steerforth stepped into the telegraph office, and was her bowed head. open door of the little house were anything but that. | she asked. “fam anxious to see how the ferns are | joc¢ she should lose all command of herself. akask handed a dispatch. ¢ “Gentle heart,” he said. ‘Gentle, pitying heart.” Just as they drew near, a young man with an angry looking. : : ee 4 “No, of couse you cannot, mother ; it is foolish of me wn yous It read thus : “gr. P. i1 28 Then he passed on, leaving her dazed and blinded | face hurried out, hot rage flaming in his eyes and curses, ne ferneries at Brooklands are famous all over Eng- | to tease you. Of one thing I am quite certain—whether “Party sti Leavel caiman Musx., April 26. | with the great rush of joy. He had spoken so kindly to | loud und deep, falling trom his lips. Entering, they | land; there is no kind of ferns that cannot be found | (MOS Focrstand my father’s motive or not, it was an hand delay. ~ + .aggammees . ee “Vanstone.” | her; his hand had ling red caressingly on her head. found an old lady weeping bitterly, and a young woman there. They groay in the rocks by the water in tufts, iN | }onorable one—of that I am convinced—he was incapa- ting nd, lat » paid, Reson i tly. “I “J shall win him in time,” she gaid. ‘Dear Heaven|1| standing with pale, scared face. huge masses, in sprays. The ferneries were cool, beau- ple of anything that was not noble. Respect for him, and then ae t so far, 3 Whee Th ore rat my | Shall win him yet.” A few words of welcome and greeting, then the old | tiful, and pleasant; the water was always falling from and for his wishes, makes me patient wiien I feel in- ok Se . 5 aor there at 6 es : Good Hemwoet it’ 1 have eral She stood for afew minutes like one entranced ; then, | nurse told her troubled tale. e the rocks and dimpling the clear pools. Cozy seats clined to break out in hot rebellion. My father was & rnished the } i Will be decided. d! B " ind. I with a deep sigh of unutterable content and relief, she “J ghall never be happy again, my Lady Vereton— | were placed at intervals so that one could rest and ad- noble man. 1 feel that if I were to lose my faith in him, ance. This eee aes errand! But never mind. “| turned to retrace her steps. never, never again. That was my son—my handsome mire the falling water and the green, ‘plants. There | Tnould lose it in Heaven.” ; ; j . 4 Something was lying on the ground; something she | son—who went out cursing and swearing until my | Lady Jarew, trembling w 1 anxiety, ¥ i Lady Carew made no answer. She kissed his hand. ee Sn Gader way en 06 ee a enag the could just Muncarm in’ the moonlight; small and dark. bo runs cold to hear him; and this—this is his pane Sen ats ere I want to talk to “you are my dear son,” she said. ‘‘Now, let us go to * ee 7A9) ’ | She stooped to raise it, then saw it was a pocket-book, | wife.” you. > , uA At Re our guests.” siteran A: a the cars, a. pase ean ST cin has fastened with a narrow band of elastic. The young woman with the white, frightened face | | ‘I do not complain,” she Yeplied, turning her beauti- [10 BE CONTINUED.) oa me oe wy te itt a trouble dream of home and} She smiled to_ herself. made a very respectful bow; and Lady Di, taking the | ful, proud face away ; and I shall never complain, wv Ome. Cour himself in a trowatie from the locomotive | -‘Have I found a fortune 2” she said. ihered old hands inher own, asked what was the | Lady Carew, have no fear. M . —__—_—_>- 6+ —_—___— Naomi, when an a She took the book up to the lamp and turned it round, | trouble. ‘Tt is not that, Adelaide. Iam not so selfish. I know AN ORIGINAL OPINION OF DIGNITY a. ropeee oi. rayi f the t and fro, a | first of all to see if any name was upon it. The fasten- vith tears and sighs, the old lady told her story : you will not complain—you are too generous ; but Iam : Se tinacl aren 4 tollo ee oby te ‘pashing: Pe enkers, aud the | ing was so insecure, that as she did so, it fell openin| ‘There were twoof them that my son liked—Annie | so anxious, so grieved about you. | I quite thought, : waves hide on ate i eh ‘i y steam ; a terrible wail from the | her hands, and a photograph fell to the ground. here, whom he met first when he was quite young, and | hoped, and believed that your sweetness, io pa- The Rev. Sam Jones says: “It is mighty hard to be wa Ht raen Iss of escap 7 * ‘horrible sense of bein y hurled She raised.it and looked at it. It was the portrait of a | he promised to marry her. I don’t say one word against tience, your beauty W ould have completely won Allan’s | siive and dignified both at once. Lam criticised fre. eee Ue ue passengers ; S most beautiful woman, a face that would haunt aman | Annie; she is a good girl, but she was not wise—not | heart. é iba ns Rie : . she plunges through infinite space ; and then, silence | th h life: dark, glowing, brilliant; a face such as| wise. There came another young girl to the village—| ‘It nas not done So, said the girl, bitterly. “You can | quently about my dignity. I have told the dignified 1 oaiaggaes| And the moon came up and looked down on the Same |r akes th di ; nters of sunny Spain fairest among the | Amabel Davis—so pretty, your ladyship, that looking at | see that.” brethren as soon as I die I will be as dignified as any of md spray. 1 —on the dead and on the dying; and the next morn ing’s | Vomer ; Tiand 8 neeniy nad with Tiieaalve Gusts her dazzled one’s eyes Then my son—mind, T'don’t de- “Yes,” replied Lady Carew, ‘I can see that, andit | you. A dead man is the most dignified fellow you ever 1 aying 1" papers contained an account of the accitents coce wr plack tht sig Bat ; a head that would have graced a | fend him; it was not right, but he could not help it— | makes me very unhappy, Adelaide.” & saw. He is straight as an Indian. But, God helping brpast, and carried desolation into many homes, and the long-sut’ | © m6) id ‘al brow, beautiful as the brow of a Grecian my son he fell in love with Amabel until he almost wore | “There is no help for it,” said tbe girl, impatiently ; | me, I will never be dignified until I do die. Talk about fering public were consoled with the statement that no goades: Vi ron t tl ¢ dark, vailed splendor, full of pas- his life away with loving her; and then he went to | “and therefore, I imagine, it is useless to tall of it.” dignity! It is the starch of the shroud, and it doesn’t pam ta her blame could attach to the conmpiny Bods eyes vetry 1 eyes that seemed to look ot pas-| his life away ot told her, He asked her to let him go| ‘Do not be proud with me, Adelaide, | pleadea Lady | amount to anything. Let us be natural.” PLACE neers Tet Which had caused the ac- | Sion, offre, Ate Hovners; lips imperially beautiful, with | free; but she would not—she eld bim to his Proti: Carew. ‘Isuffer even more than you do.” ERS NAA RS q wee ONTINUED.) laughter, scorn, persuasion, and command all hanging | ise ~~ “Tam not proud,” she replied, drearily.. “I do nol | ... Jautes Paget, President British Medical Associatio ; (T0 BE © : on them; a lovely dimpled chin; a face that with its “J loved him!” sobbed the pale-taced girl. think that lhave much to@be proud of. I begin to see | ii" that 70 Oy ea thin. natant Rite aciee mertotl ‘ds. Se Se ae or ndrous beauty, its laughing, haughty grace, bewil-) “She would not let him go free, and Amabel heard | that some one must suffer for every sin; the burden of SOS eee i and that there ia tid mone marek ul, ante ef- eer I Scott’s Een of. Pure Cod Liyer Oil with | dered one. . about it. Then she was angry, and would not speak to that sin has fallen upon me. I am quite willing to bear | roctual nerve tonic than Liebig Co.'s Coca Béef Tonic, is evi- ates the ra Hypophosphites heals the inflammation of the throat and Lady Adelaide looked at it in silence ; she had never | my son. So he kept his promise, and married poor An-|it. I make no complaint, no raurmur ; but why should | genced by the emphatic testimony of the most eminent phy- Se eeen aed strength—makes blood, tones up the nervous | ..¢n anything half so loyely. Who was she? How did | nie here; but they cannot agree, and there will never | we talk about it ? sicians, For malaria, debility, sick headache, dyspepsia, pon See AY ae and will absolutely cure Consumption in its a it come there ? be another day’s peace in the old home.” “Why ?” asked Lady Carew, desperately. “Because Ll ' monthly suffering and biliousness, it is incomparable , = 4 Y ; > - sie a i hal, ive hidsity n= oe a i ; a, ~ Byery man- tor himself, Se THE N EW YORK WEEKLY. Cv, ae Wi NEW YORK, MARCH 27, 1886. OOP OOO OO aaeeeeeseeY Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 3 months . . _ 75c| 2 copies . ; $5.00 4 months - $1.00 | 4 copies . - 10.00 1 Year % 3.00 | 8 copies . 4 - . 20.00 Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis- ter. tered let We employ no traveling agents. All letters should be addressed to STREET & SMITH, P.O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y. - WHAT NOBODY WANTS. BY KATE THORN. We have heard it frequently said that Mrs. A., or Mrs. B., or Mr. C. wants everything. It is a mistake. There are things that nobody wants. A good many such things, too. Nobody wants stray cats. We have known one poor, forlorn, singed-haired, stub-tailed, me-yeowing itinerant cat to break up the peace of a good, moral family for a fortnight, and the dignified head of the house, who could pray a ‘‘miserable sinner” into an atmosphere of brimstone in five minutes, and who would have thought he merited eternal destruction if he had allowed his boys and girls to look into a Sunday newspaper, has been known to bombard that unfortunate feline with stove-wood and old boots, for no other reason than be- cause it sat on his back-yard fence and sang its morn- ing psalm to the best of its ability. Moderation, good friend, moderation is what you need. Be moderate in all things, even stray cats. Nobody wants any more rain when the water is five feet deep in his cellar, and his potatoes and cabbages are floating out to plow the raging deep. Nobody wants neuralgia. Nor toothache. Nor protested notes. or two. Nor colicky babies. Nor frozen pipes. Nor balky horses. Nor servant girls with followers. - Nor mothers-in-law. Nebody wants wives who scold; but it is a notorious fact that not one man in a thousand ever tries to stop his wife from scolding. If she starts out, he opposes her, and she brings eut all her reserve ammunition, and there is generally a time of it. Don’t do it, good man. Just agree with her, and she will havetostop. There is no woman yet created ingenious enough to manage to have arow all alone. She must have somebody to help her. Nobody wants warts. Nor corns. Nor gray hairs. And not many people pray for twins. The werld in general does not envy folks who are in the habit of having them. They are two things not to be very ar- dently desired—that is to say, right along. Nobody wants poor relations. Nor comic valentines. Nor smoking chimneys. ' Nor circulars telling you ‘“‘where to get a good dinner for 25 cents.” Nor tax bills. Nor rats in the cellar. Nor neighbors’ hens in the garden. Nobody wauts to be hung. That is, there does not seem to be much hankering after that distinction by the com- munity at large. And nobody will read this article without thinking that he could have done much better at it than we have done, Well, sail in, brother; we are nota bit jealous. Do your best--nobody wants to hinder you. ~_—~—-— 2 0X oa BY HARKLEY HARKER. Everything gets published, as from the house top, sooner or later. There is no simple bit of wisdom which will do a young life ‘more service than that line, always remembered, thoroughly believed and acted on. The hope of secrecy is the one universal lie. Nothing is secret. Nothing is hid. There is nothing that takes place but tends to come into publicity just as gravity works always and everywhere. I defy you to think of any possible act of your neighbor which you could not find out all about, if you wished. Some one is always able to tell, can be brought to tell, or provoked to tell, or it becomes his interest to tell. State secrets are not kept. Financial secrets all get out. The secrets of crime come to the light in time. Social secrets get blabbed. All that is worth knowing can be learned from those who are well paid for finding out. : In New York city alone, probably there are six millions of dollars, easy, which are piled up in skillful control, _ “Just to find out all that could be called news. I refer to the great newspaper capital of that city. The news is to-day the one most eagerly sought commodity. It is pursued into every corner of the earth. The telegraph and the power of steam are devoted more to unearthing Secrets, finding the news about you, and me, and other people, than to any other object whatever. There never was such a rage tor news since the world began. The cover is lifted off trom everything. I repeat that and of course it is only such things that kept secret. | If a young person would only act, therefore, as if it was fully expected that all his acquaintances would event- ually know ot his doings, what a pure habit of life would be the result. For, while many of us might be willing to do a mean thing, no one likes to be thought capable of meanness by his fellows. Alas, reputation is, with’ 0st of us, of more account than character. Perhaps that is too severe to say. Perhaps we all trust the general judgment of public opinion more than our Single judg- ment. Perhaps the fear of man is next to the fear of God. The respect of our fellows is more necessary to our life than bread for our bodies. Who could live uni- versally disliked, mistrusted by all and hated ? The hunted man is the most terrible creature in fiction. But have you ever admitted to yourself that your own thoughts were subject to this same law ? Every man's mind is sure to be turned inside out, Who will do it? Nothing is more certain than that a man will tell his secret thoughts, if you wait long enough and listen aright. Deny it, if you can—you have nothing in your mind that you have not spoken of to Some one. If itis a guilty secret, that may take longer time; but it will come out of your own mouth or kill you. All ordinary thoughts get spoken, sooner or later. A thought that was unspeakable would drive its possessor mad. I mean a serious, thoroughly en- tertained idea. You may wish to patent it and so get the benefit of it, when you do speak it; but it will come out. I would not give a_finger- Snap to know what is in my neighbor’s~mina. If there is anything there worth my knowing, any idea that is new to the world and that I do not possess in my Own mind, why, let me wait and watéh. I Shall hear him speak it and ask meas a favor to listen. It is a favor to listen. He who listens kindly is extremely kind. A man who has access to no listening ear talks to himself : that is, to the empty air, to the four walls. Not to be heard is to vow that men shall hear you; you will force a hearing. 1 doubt if you, gentle reader, have a single thing within your thought alone, or within your knowl- edge alone. It you have, it is because it is a recent affair, and has not yet had time to ferment within you. But you will yet tell it, or it will burst you. We talk about secrets. Please imagine one. Why, my friend, all that human nature is capable of doing or being is fully known. You may not know the precise move that the stock-jobber is now contemplating, but you can guess pretty nearly by observing him carefully for a week. You know all that can be done; and when you see him acting thus and thus, you jump at the con- clusion very quickly, as you are in that line yourself. Who committed the murder ? you say. ‘True, at police headquarters the mere name of the felon is a secret which they cannot find. But we all know what murder the struggle. Who can tell the world anythin that th world has not long known about the fact on amuriior ? There will come a day when even the name of this par- ticular murderer will be known, as from the house-top of a judgment day. If youcould find us a man with three arms he might tell us a secret as to what he does sometimes with his third arm. If you could find usa man with a new appetite, a seventh sense, an original passion, he might have secrets to impart as to the sensa- tions and uses of these to us Strange powers. But as it Nor friends who want to borrow five dollars for a day lyr T 240) you cannot keep anything secret that is worth knowing, | are tried to be | has been in constant use for forty-one years.” This is not an isolated case, by any manner of means. We have seen umbrellas that looked as if they had been in con- stant use forty-one hundred years; deceitful, and carried more than two hundred and fifty years. the existence of the Boston umbrella, 1t 1s sate that it has had more than a hundred different owners, made application for a pardon, and expected to be re- leased inside of two weeks, expressed a determination to serve out the remaining two years of his senten when he learned that some of his p a: tuanaa tae ate S political friends in had promised his is, what the possible motives are, what the horror and | Jail, and he meant to stick to it, now is, all that man can do, or be, or suffer, or enjoy, is fully known to man. There is no secret possible. Why should we not live openly, and as if the light was shining all about us? To be sure, I will cut my nails and pick my teeth in the privacy of my room. A man will wish to change his linen in privacy. But with the exception of physical oftices of this character, is it not nature, is it not manhood’s right, to act free as the air and open as the day? I would court. my girl and let all the world know it; I would win her openly or not at all. I would not conduct a business where I had to creep, and crawl, and make talse pretense. It must be a hideous business career that is prosecuted from year to year by dodging, by throwing dust in other people’s eyes, by seeming todo one thing and really doing an- other. JI would have no ‘‘private marks” of prices. It seems to me that a detective must often compare him- self to a dog, who, with nose to the ground, goes smell- ing up and down the sunlit earth. The most that you can say for the detective is that he is a useful, honest, necessary meddler, who works in the dark.. An open business, with open-heartedgmen, for you andme. The house-top, not the cellar. o~ MARCH MADNESS. . BY J. H. WILLIAMS, “A CutnesE Drama generally requires from twenty to two hundred nights for its production, one act’ sometimes occupying two weeks.” When a Chinese author finishes a new play, he puts his MS. on a two- horse dray, has it hauled up in front of a theater, and employs half a dozen able-bodied porters to carry it into the manager. The manager looks at the immense pack- age critically, tests its weight by trying to move it with his foot, promises to read the production, and tells the ion. The dramatist is on hand at the appointed time, if he has not starved to death in the interval, and is bland- ly informed by the manager that his play possesses con- siderable merit, but it is altogether too long, and thinks it would be greatly improved if it were condensed about thirty nights. The author then carts his manuscript home, and with a little hatchet chops out a few yards can be crowded into ninety-eight nights and seventeen matinees. Then the manager devotes another year or two to reading it, and finally puts it on the stage, and the author’s profits the first six months are sufficient to pay for the paper on which the play was written. SoME RASH PERSONS have embarked in the manu- facture of Limberger cheese in this country. The first specimen turned out was not an overwhelming success. It lacked that pecufiar and robust flavor which paralyzes the nostrils of sensitive persons, and sends a notifica- tion to the Board of Health that a cholera-breeding nui- sance exists somewhere in the vicinity. The manufac- turers of the dainty stuff then sent to Germany for a cargo of original odor to infuse into their cheese, but the loud-smelling commodity was so demonstrative and impulsive in its fragrant vitality that it wrecked the vessel in mid-ocean. The parties are now investigating the scent lingering about a bone-boiling factory, and are encouraged in the belief that, by incorporating it with the aroma of burnt hair and leather, they can pro- duce an article of Limberger cheese that wiH=deceive even Prince Bismarck himself. “My pear,” said Foggins, coming home late from the lodge, ‘“‘my (hic) dear, where’s the Care?” “Care? Whatin the world do you mean by care?” asked his puzzled wife. ‘‘Why, the bootjack, of course,” he replied. ‘But why do you call it care?” demanded his still mystified better-half. ‘Why, don’t you (hic) re- member it killed a cat last night?” Mrs. Foggins faint- ed at the reappearance of the hoary joke in a new wardrobe. A FASHIONABLE YOUNG LaDy saturated her pet dog with coal oil to kill fleas, as suggested by a recipe in a newspaper, and then placed him near the fire to fifty dollars for her dog. About twenty minutes after the drying process she would have sold him for ten cents. It is strange how purification by fire deterio- rates the value of a dog. ; ‘“WATERPROOF COFFINS’ are advertised: but if you wish to be on the safe side, don’t join the ‘silent pee until the fireproof coffin is introduced. © y nineteen _we learn from author to call around in two or three years for his decis- | here and a dozen yards there, until the whole production | dry. Before testing the recipe she would not have taken | lurking in his path, but there is an irresistible impulse that plunges him headlong into the maelstrom of matri- mony, notwithstanding the frightful examples aH about im. “Ou, my!” exclaimed old Mrs. Mildley, when she read that “Congressmen Blank, who is a sugar planter, is worth a million dollars ;” ‘‘oh, my! I didn’t suppose planting sugar was such a profitable business. And I don’t believe they'd make so much money at it if they’d sift the sand out of the sugar when it’s dug up.” ‘How woup you like to have a nice book for a birthday present ?” asked Laura of her young man. ‘‘Oh, I’ve read all the books out,” be languidly replied. ‘Yes, but Ill send you an interesting volume that you have never read.”. And she kept her word. She sent him a Bible. But he has his opinion of her now. A coTemMporarRy says: ‘‘The editorial page must go. The newspaper of the future will contain no editorials.” Thisis absurd. How could the various de- partments of our government be run, or the next war be properly conducted, if our daily papers didn’t print editorials explaining the duties of our officials and in- forming our generals how to win a battle ? A STRANGER entered an editor’s office the other day. He said he was a well-borer. He ‘‘bored” the edi- tor so long that the well-borer was not a well borer when’ he went out. Joaquin Minuer has written a novel entitled “The Destruction of New York.” As Miller no longer lives in that city, New Yorkers can’t understand why it should be destroyed ae ‘ ‘AN OHIO WOMAN has invented a, window and applied for a patent. Its advantages over other win- dows are not stated, but it is suspected that by the aid of the Ohio woman’s invention a beauless damsel can see, without sitting up twoor three hours after mid- night, when the young man who visits the “hateful Miss Dash” living opposite, kisses her good-night at the front door. That would be some women’s idea of an improved window, ‘ Way is ir that the pockets in a boy’s trous- ers are four times larger than the pockets in a man’s pantaloons? ‘They are not,” you say? Then why does keys, and a silver half-dollar in his pockets cannot lean back in a chair and elevate his feet on the mantel-piece without some of these articles rolling out, while a boy with a sling-shot, two tops, a toy pistol, a no-bladed knife, a wrecked padlock, a tangled fish-line, a polished clam-shell, a box of dried fish-worms, and seven pieces of slate-pencil in his pockéts may stand on his head and turn filp-flaps without spilling a single article? The only plausible explanation is, that the boy’s pockets are about three feet deeper than a man’s. Two women recently entered into a contest to determine which could talk the fastest in a two hours’ inning. At the expiration of one hour and fifty minutes one of the contestants was 175,000 words behind the other, when just at that moment the latter saw her husband engaged in a handkerchief flirtation with a pretty girl. She immediately made a spurtand won the match, with 378,642 words to spare. & Don’r scoLp or curse the man who enters your office and exasperatingly hums, ‘I’ve Got Him on the List.” Harsh words were never known to effect areform. Draw your snicker-snee and split him wide open from the sole of his head to the crown of his feet. A WELL KNOWN SCIENTIST says that the feeling of one while standing on a high mountain or on the edge of.a deep abyssis to fly. This must be the feeling | of the American bank official when standing on the edge of the abyss of ruin for he generally flies—to Canada. ->oe-~< The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood. — * > dahvas sbufis -ch-2o3-7~ as. kc ee - sachmer homespuns in _ “Betsey'An (> Dees e SOE aos 7 ig hta barrel f toms She svanu a ave A ket-woman who can’t tell alive baby from a head of cabbage is not a safe person to en liberty and the pursuit of wealth. Next thing ot know, she will boil a live baby in mistak cabbage. y e for a head of epee ya IU. A GooD LITTLE Boy in Camdenport told his big brother that if he would lay his finger on the chair he would cut it off. His big brother laughingly complied, and the little fellow deliberately chopped off the finger — * ne a little boy couldn’t tell a fie, ne will pro y have his head put on | Stamps a century hence. ” wryree | | A WESTERN CONFECTIONER, for the consideration of twenty-five cents, offered a small boy all the sweet- meats he could eat. The lad thought he had what, in | the classics, they call a <‘snoft snap;” but he cried “enough” before he had consumed twenty cents worth | of the confections. Then a schoolgirl of sweet fifteen, a | fragile, delicate looking mortal, entered the Store, and | the contectioner repeated the offer. In less than half | 2n hour the girl had consumed ten.cents’ worth of choco- late caramels, ten cents’ worth of taffy, ten cents’ worth | of cream almonds, six cents’ worth of “‘sour-balis,” five cents worth of walnut candy, and afterward made the | Storekeeper's eyes bulge out by innocently asking if a eae plate of ice-cream was not included in the bar- ain. —_ | Iris sam that quite as much gas is consumed plain groun ide diugenals, and stripes, and a great variety of striped and bordered stufts for street suits: Plain, figured, and striped mohairs in blue, ecru, and silver-gray shades will also be worn again. Ottoman silks continue in favor, as they are especially adapted to the styles of making now in vogue, and in conjunction with plush or velvet y are much used for handsome costumes. “ATaom nena eine dress goods are silks woyen in boucle and astrakhan effects. These are manufactured in a single color and also striped in two colors and are used for making skirts, for vests and panels, and for small wraps. The leading idea in skirts for spring dresses is one dress over another, an upper one = las- ing Se oe sa in front or on one side. rons, with wide velvet revers are popular, with a high mili- tary collar to match. : ‘ mae “Daisy,” Whitestone, N. Y.—White chrysanthemums, hya- cinths, and lilacs are the most popular flowers for table deco- ration. A gilded orsilvered basket, with tall crossed han- dles, is often used, filled with one of these kinds of flowers. Sometimes a red or yellow satin bow is tied at the junctj the handles, with a white dove perched upon. it: Noe? large horseshoes, filled with flowers, are often Jplaced on a Se re . the ae ornament. frac are of zinc, but are en by maiden-hair ferns, and f with small ornaments put between. pees “Aunt Dollie.”—One of the most popular masquerade cos- tumes at present is called “Fan-cy.” The skirt is composed of intermingled gray, red, and gold tulle, profusely trimmed with miniature Japanese fans. The waist is composed of tw larger fans, alovenle arranged, and fastening nadier one eon and the sleeves are made of smaller ones, bent to rest on the vie die Natali eal nest, where the handlés sho . andsome Japa: bent into a becoming shape, is worn on the head ee “Mrs. Lulu W.”—Low-necked dresses are not regarded with | as universal approbation in this country as they are in | when the gas is turned down low, as when the whole | force is turned on. This may be true, but it will be utterly impossible to make a young man who is engaged in the courting business believe it. He will continue to make a show of economy by turning the gas as low a possible without extinguishing the flame, when he calls on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings to see his best girl and read her selections from Huxle y, Carlyle, Ruski other light and frivolous writers. fhe een A WESTERN MAGAZINE announces that it has now ready for publication over 200 poems. The editor deserves to be commended for his thoughtfulness. Hi subscribers have ample time to discontinue their sab. Scriptions before the poems appear, Mrs. Lorrm Lemmins of Morgansville was nominated for school director, and when it was suggest- ed to her by a member of her own Sex that the rallyin cry of her supporters would be «Go in, Lemmins, if fon do get squeezed,” she declined to run. A younc man who thrust his attentions upon & muscular young lady who didn’t tackle to him kindly, Was Seized by the fairy-like being the other evening and lifted violently over a picket fence. He hastily pick himself up, brushed the soil from his garinente, an went home, foolishly thinking she was mad about some- thing. Some young men in love can’t take a joke. “A MAN in Boston carries an umbrella which but appearances are it is quite probable‘that they had not been During to say A HORSE THIEF in a Texan jail, who had for the State Legislature. mother to reform when he came out of A wRITER says: “No sensible young man will walk into danger with his eyes wide open.” Such igno- outhit of “Bortoraved Patvemia” oe enieand rance is lamentable! Does the writer aforesaid sup- pose that when a young man goes to see his girl several nights a week, he walks closed ? to her home with his eyes average young man, too. He is aware of the danger Not much. And he is about as sensible as the pronounced por-te-air.- 2d. Cream-colored gloves would be et appropriate to wear with a black silk dress at to an evening party, and if he does, th light tan-color, stitched with black. 3 ie indy Wet her escort generally follows suit. made of black satin, embroidered in gilt, and mounted on gilt t rames. one long point in front and three ends at the back, the center one pointed, and the others narrow and "The enti bodice is bordered with a row of large Ct oer striped stuff will be used for suits of silk and velvet are made up with i the velvet to match the skirt-panels “soomieia Tke idea is carried out in all suits made of fronts. It has no trimming round-cut jet beads, which outlines all the ‘ will be an excellent model for a spring garment. both wear Japanese costumes, and solos, duets, an He said he | Mary Ag your address on receipt of the price, $1.50. black cloth or French dressy shoes for children. ual” is fifty cents. WR a Mh can furnish a good book on etiquette for fifty Europe, but, as they are fashionable, are of course much worn. Chemisettes are worn with them, of silk tulle i | crape, or embroidered gauze, simply athered tes hares | close around the throat, and there fastened to a necklet, | made of a piece of the dress materi | trimmed with beads. erial, or of velvet, edged and : sy): 7” ° “Tillie V."—A most attractive skating dress is made of | dark-green cloth trimmed with black Persian lamb-skin, has a plain, full underskirt, with a side- anel of the overdréSs fails in wide plaits to the edge of the skirt, Sadie on one side to show the panel. The close-fitting jacket. has revers, straight collar and cuffs of the lambskin, while the cloth toque is bordered with it and looped with cord. “Bessie,” Camden, N. J.—Ist. Diagonal fronts continue in favor for basques, jackets, and polonaises. 2d. Rich-looking street costumes are made entirely of dark- vi no trimming save cut steel buttons. New “ah vinodeee hie ornamented with devices by stamping out the cloth itself and placing another color underneath. The e S are outlined with a narrow cord, either in black, gold, or silver. “Stella,” Chicago, Il.—ist. Cuirass corsages, made entirely of pearl, garnet, gold. jeter copper beads. are made in open- work designs for dancing toilets, to be - waists of the dress material. 2d. White vals are ‘a thptant een aoe oe Th is eee resemble net, and s called Mikado v . They are po 7 giv a delicate tint to the anid. orn becwane they give Beulah,” Fishkill on the -Hudson, N. 'Y.—1st. Portiere is &@ wedding. tis a matter of taste whether the Wears gloves gentleman If the lady wears gloves, “Fannie B.,” Long Island.—Ist. Handsome fire-screens are 2d. An attractive style of evening corsage has “Jennie W,,” Paterson, N. J. .—Combinations of a plain and spring costumes. Handsome _and accessories. This worn with a wrap or mantle. “Miss L. A.,” Salem, Mass.—A new and stylish wrap is plain black velvet, in’ pelerine shape, with long gS Save a single row of large. edges. his wrap “Dollie S.”.—At Mikado parties the ladies and ntlemen rom the opera are interspersed between the ieee “Ko Toy Mrs. ’ Boston, N. ¥.—‘‘The Actress’ re) poe b mailed to nes Fleming, isin book-form, and wi “Mrs. Max.” — Patent-leather foxed buttoned i kid tops, are the ate itt most serviceable and ‘ a a one-dollar e money. “Maud,” Stamford, Conn.—The price of the “‘Baker’s Man- “Perforated Patterns” on receipt of “Sophy W.”—The “Baker’s Manual” will cost fifty cents. it happen that a man who has only a knife, a bunch of- hiding the handles, or | other virtues that your gravestone ez the Washington Monument to hold ’em all, but if you're not cram full, pressed down, patience, you'd better give the pulpit and try gi pulpit a rest for awhile, hours a day aimed Peg ‘ a a pe eueide of the he it, but nobody but a preacher e ‘What lots of folks there are that if don't bbe can ever be done for. shipwrecked sailor—the m a 7 ra e€ minute he stops hopin’ he’s don’t take a church makin’ blunderers, a from tother is the wust, except the minister , know one weman from vother that don’t getting tired, even when you know they b on themselves ? H Geil Toke Coe when you get achurch. It isn’t the Ween inane pet gO 7s dar minister—it’s the weak, , nd, that don’t seem w an’ yet ort to be saved. an eee an’ live all your life for other people Cause if you don’t, you'll make trouble in any church you gointo. There’s no place for a shepherd that ever cares for himself instead of his sheep. eae oar git right up earn about ’em. But you won’ theological books, 5 Bit bor we to buy for you. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. FASHION, Fashion is a goddess. She iz ov the maskuline, feminine, and nuter gender. Men worship her in her maskuline form—wimmin ‘in her feminine form, and the excentricks in her nuter gen- der. She rules the world with a straw, and makes all her suppliants. She enslaves the poor az well az the rich; she kneels in sanktuarys, swells around in cabins, and leers at the street korners. : She fits man’s foot with a pinching boot, throttles him with a stubborn collar, and dies his mustash with dark- ness. She trails the rich silks ov wimmin along the filthy sidewalks, leads sore-eyed lap-dogs with a string, and banishes helpless children to murky nurserys, in the kare ov faithless hirelings. She cheats the excentric with the clap-trap of fredom, and makes him serve her in the habiliments ov the har- lequin. FUN. Fun is the soul’s vent. . Fun iz whare the kruditys eskape, where she kiks up her eels, and runs snorting around the lot, unhaltered, and az eager az an eskaped konvikt. Fun iz a safety-valvé that lets the steam preshure oph from the biler, and keeps things from bussting. in the sunlite, and see what’s going on. Fun iz az Karliss az a kolt, az happy az a bridegroom, and az silly az a luv-sik skool-girl. pholly, and everyboddy’s puppet. we kan least spare. FRET. Fret iz a kanker. a gangreene, a blister, a bile, salt on a sore place, and a sliver every whare. : Fret iz frickshun, a dull lancet, a gimblet. old man ackt like a yung one. tew do hiz own turning. ; Fret haz burnt more holes thru a man’s koppers than all the other hot things, it haz killed az often as the dok- tors hav, and iz az lawless and senseless az a goose. Fret makes the husband a tyrant, the wife a plague, the child a nuisance, an old maid terrible, and a bache- lor disgusting. Fret makes home a prizon, and puts teeth into the gums oy all life’s misfortunes. LETTERS, > @~< UNCLE MEDDLE’S NO. 8. ToLuke Meddle, who Wants to be a Minister. ‘by: up to now. " But I felt easier when I got into the letter, for instead of wantin’ to borry money to go be a cow boy, you only want me to send you,some theological books, ’cause you feel you've got a divine call to preach. Thope you're right about the call, my dear boy, for lots of likely young fellers have been mistaken on that point. Ef some men that I’ve heerd preach was divinely called, then the Lord is given to jokin, which, of course, ain’t to be thought of. 1 knew one solemn young man that studied theology three years before he found out that twasn’t grace, but biliousness, that made him so seriously inclined. As | Soon as he got cured he went into the nigger minstrel | business, an’ he’s ben there ever sence. I know’d another that preached a matter of twelve year, an’ knocked all the speretual life out of two con- ora he ake bag alin Peon an’ found out that | Whe O preach was only ‘ | re pus in folks. : ra Nae | 1en there was your Granduncle Timothy ; he took preachin’ because he had a big round Voice, an’ Gavethe | because he liked to talk he had somethin’ to Say. He fooled himself, but he never fooled any congregation | into callin’ him. The Lord mercifully spared His people, an’ turned Timothy into an auctioneer, in which bizness his voice was where it could do most good. : I don’t say you're like any of these, but I want to beg a an keerful. The bigger the cause, the wuss the An’ the biggest blunder about preachin’ is the young- man idee that to preach is the biggest part of is- ter’s work. | It’s the least. ere ree The only ‘men that git tight. hold of a preachin’ is them that know more than any of their on a piece, no aoe you ain’t one of that kind yel, my dear boy, and you can’t make yourse ; ee half a life-time. * . pees ain’t now as it was in our forefathers’ da: 8, When books were scarce and high, an’ folks couldnt chin about religion except only what preachers told ’em. Bibles are almost as thick as blessin’s in nearly ev’ry house, theological books are easy to buy, an’ the easiest kind of books to borry, church papers are as plenty as mowin’ machine circulars, an’ evry body knows how congregation by Fun iz the dansing particles, which fii oph from the surface ov unbottled cider, it iz the senseless frolik ov the spring lam in the clover, it iz the merry twinkle that kreeps down tew the korner ov the parson’s eye, to stand Fun iz the holy day wisdum ov the sage, the phool’s Next tew the virtew in this world, the fun in it iz what Fret iz a grind stun, whare he holds his nose on, haz My Dear LUKE: There’s been such queer goin’s on among the young Meddles of late, each wantin’ to do ESE SC Ut bh ABE WE SBR HAGE ON EBS But ple. ar - ——~Swepy oF Side, I wondered what awful thing some of the boys war are the fust four books of the New Testament, but the pore you read ’em the less you'll feel yourseif up to the mark. The longer you try to take in the whole size of the con- tract you're layin’ out for yourself, the less ready you'll feel to begin at sinner-savin’ from the pulpit. Well, dear boy, you can practice on sinners as you go along, takin’ ’em one at a time, a8 you happen to find ‘em—there’s plenty of ’em layin’ around. Ef you have trouble in savin’ One, or two or three, jest thank God rae you havn’t gota hull meetin’ house full on your ands. An’ if you keep on tryin’ an’ doin’ it in dead earnest, you'll end up some day by findin’ out you’re doing more dt than whoever is managin’ the chureh for the time n’. But you'll never end up that wayef you begin by thinkin that preachin’ is the biggest part of the work of savin’ sinners and makin’ good men better. Your affectionate UNCLE MEDDLE. — —__-——_——_ > @-~< Correspondence, GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. t=" Communications addressed to this department will not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers. {We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart- ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal. Every questien 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.] A Querist, Mineral Point.“1st. Scotland Yard is said to de- rive its name from the fact of its being the site of a palace in which the kings of Scotland weré received when they visited England. It remained in their possession from 959 (the time (reign of Henry II). Milton, Inigo Jones (the great archi- tect), Sir John Denham, and Sir Christopher Wren lived in Scotland Yard. No one could be arrested for debt within its limits. 2d. Scotland Yard, now so widely known as the head- uarters of the London police, is near the Banqueting Hou: Whitehall. 3d. “Lalla Rookh,” in all probability, woul never haye been written if the author’s necessities had not compelled him to work. But before commencing it, he made himself so familiar with Eastern scenery, customs, and man- ners, that when the fiction, with a thread of fact, was finish- ed, there were few who could be made to believe that Moore had never traveled in the East. 4th. No record of the lines as quoted. 5th. Queen Victoria has had issue _as follows: Victoria Adelaide M Louisa; Albert Edward (Prince of Wales) ; Alice Maud Mary’ Alfred Ernest Elbert (Duke of Edinburgh); Helena Augusta Victoria: Louise Caroline Al- berta; Arthur (Duke of Connaught); Leopold George Dun- can Albert; Beatrice Mary Victoria Feodora. 6th. “The Lover’s Tale,” by Alfred Tennyson, can_be furnished, in cloth, for 35 cents. If you wish it, write direct to the New York WEEKLY Purchasing PERCY ith. Plane tree is the name of the tree commonly called the buttonball or button- wood in the United States, and sometimes sycamore. It grows almost er ae. east of the Rocky Mountains. It makes an [excellent shade tree, growing to a height of more than one hundred feet. Seebe Regulus, Cincinnati.—1st. The oldest coin extant is con- sidered by high authority to be’a specimen of the gold slates of the Ionian city Miletus, now in the British Museum, of about 800 B.C. It has a lion’s*head on the obverse, and a rude indented punch mark on the reverse. But Herodotus says that the Lydians were the first to coin gold, and by some authorities the gold coins found in the ruins of Sardis are believed to antedate the Ionian specimen. 2d. Many pieces of ancient coin were struck for prizes in the games, or in com- memoration of notable events, and are more correctly to be considered as medals. The Roman series of medals or me- daiiions is very extensive in gold and silver, and brass and copper. 3d. Many counterfeit coins and medals exist, of both ancient and modern manufacture. The Greek forgers were Fret makes a young man ackt like an old one, and an ; : very skillful, and their coins have commanded high prices as curiosities. American colonial coins have been very skill- fully made in New York, and raré dates are often’ found altered from common years. ‘ Rambler, Covington, Ky,—ist. West Point is a village in the town of Cornwall, Orange County; N. Y., on the west -bank of the Hudson River, at its passage through the High- lands, fifty miles above New York city. Itis the seat of the United States Military Academy. The point itself, includ- ing atract of mountain land adjoining it on the west and north-west, amounting altogethsr to 1,795 acres, was pur- chased by the United States from Stephen Moore in 1790. An additional tract on the sonth was bought of Oliver Grid- ley in 1824. The entire domain contains 2,105 acres, 2d. The idea of establishing a military academy at West Point is said to have been first suggested by Col. Pickering, of the U. 8. Army. L. C. M., South Bend, Ind.—The three cent pieces first ap- -| peared in 1851, and were discontinued in 1873. For three years they were alloyed with twenty-five per cent. of copper. In and after 1854 their fineness was raised to that of the silver of larger denominations, The device is a letter ‘C” inclos- |; ing three eae surrounded by thi stars. R verse: A star a send, a a = 1a PEF Points. aud there is an reverse of an olive branch above and a bundle of arrows be- lg numerals. No other was made after this change Cc. T. G., Long Island.—The Wilderness, where several Severe engagements were fought during the war, between the forces under Gens. Grant and Lee, is a wild tract along the south bank of the Rapid i d Spottsylvani ers. fe pits deneth fra ‘Supe ta cai Pattens miles, and its breadth ab ¢ i in eo eaten toe out ten miles. It js plateau slopin on every sid shrub oak, dwarf pines and bramtties > » * covers nearly the dame with here and there a patch of woods or a small Duchess.—At Vassar College, near Poughkeepsie, N. Y. there isa preparatory course of study of about two years, and a collegiate course of four years, Special collegiate courses are also provided for advanced st ve : years of age. In all cases sdmiecion Tae ded examination. The price of board and tuition dent is $400 for the college year of forty weeks, J. T., Hanover, Conn.—The liability of persons who take ae periodicals, magazines, etc., coming to their ad- ress, out of a it-office, for the a ipti thereto, is not @etertnined by any postal "lew oe ee : It is entirely a matter of common law, between publishers rs, which differs in the several States. Inucius J.—The Bonapartes are Said ‘to have adopted the name of Napoleon from Napoleon des Ursins, a distinguished | Character in Italian story, with one of w ‘ | they became connected by marriage ; and te aay “the | family to whom it was given was a brother of Joseph Bona- parte, the grandfather of the great N apoleon. Marietta M. B., Austin, Texas —The Seven Champions of ee are St. George, the patron saint of England ; St. Denis, of France; St. James, of Spain - 1 r, of Italy; St. Andrew, of Scotland ; St. Patrick. ‘of Teng ree sw rere, of Wales. They are often alluded to by old nty receded by or each stu- Clara.—ist. We can furnish a book on the subject of deco- rating china for $1. 2d. No recipe of practical v. FOr nanan ; ad co DUrposes Tyr fete aS ng ) gum-ara three isti vinegar with one ounce of whitesuaen nee E. M., Wooster, Ohio.—Simple courtesy demanded that you, as the lady’s escort, should off, i would doub ree rant ay conte erm, which sho stand on etiquette when walking on icy sidewalks. : Ww cee Arizona.—Tattoo marks may be removed, it is said, by blistering the part, and kee ing the bliste ; for a few days. When the wo als in will to found free from the B the wdund heals, the wae ee to read. A preacher has got to give his peo - Sides talk. Just you ; pega nd oan’ wn side: ; set down an’ find out what you've got to give ’em. If youcan’t do it you'd better make up your mind that there’s some mistake—mebbe a hr ee other feller’s call. - er ts one thing that avery young preacher some- times can show in better shape than h } thas poten: pe is flock can, and : you’re sure you've gota heavy load of that, go ahead aiieeier cre If wee ot don’t make a mtetake in c ‘re goin’ t it by re ; i names g £ y readin’ books with big ke enough you wonder how you're goin’ to find ou Well, practice on the family. Ef you A behave Ben: self so’s your brothers an’ sisters foller arter you an’ try to learn of you, don’t go to fancyin’ you can lead a badly esd lot of grown up sinners, just by havin’ a license to How are you off for patience? You may have so many will hev to be as high an’ runnin’ over with teachin’ school, where the strain lasts ; instead of twenty-four. ee Look into your stock of hope, too. Human natur is Meddle family seem anythin’ A minister is a good deal like a Are you a pretty good judge ofhuman natur’?- If not, until you be, for of all mischief- minister that don’t know one man Can you listen all day to other folks’ troubles without ‘Cause that’s what you'll have to do Do you think you know how to forget yourself entirely that you know? Now that I’ve told you ’bout some of these things, I on your family nerve an’ want your nor from any of the lot you want me and, if necessary, repeat the of Lands, Nashville, Tenn: f in this degantoagett addresses are not given ‘ 23, 1849, on Friday. future,’ H Greencastle, Ind.—Possibly some time in the sible. solid, square, well. ur A. McC., Kingsburg, Texas. —At Monterey, Cal., Oct. 14, tures. As the “horns” played too loudly, edly to play more softly, time. At the fourth repetition, with a knowing wink at each other, they put their instruments to their lips, but did not _ blow at all. Th ving The only books that.I know of to help you in this ined indeed,” said a. "Now, one acc Uke = George W. L., Aledo, Texas.—1st. The will cost will soon pling “Druggist’s Manual” 00, 2d. A new story, by Mrs. Georgie s appear in the NEw York Wiens spss ogee igume Cora Dean, Doagiac, Mich.—ist. The story named is not in ren. 2d. A new sto y be commenced in the New York M. M., Liberty, Pa.—We do not know k around, and determine for yo Maogie.—Ask for the prompt return of yourpicture. Asthe i: sending hisin return, he | gentleman violated his word in not has no right to retain it. A. W. S., Applegate, Oregon.—‘Wentworth’s Arith i Problems” eer cents. C. D.—Silesia, a kind of thin, co i was originally made in Silesia, a province in rae ‘idan : W. H, H., Newton Falls, Ohio—1st. Yo formed. 34. Yea Bd. Unotn to intinpee C. B. C. R. R., Memphis. —A practicing pliysici per person to interrogate on the subject. cian is the Pro= William B., Boston, Mass.—Paint the bunion with iodi oe with iodine Constant Reader. Mich.—Write to W. S. Winbourn, Register F. A. A., H. J., Ansonia, Conn.—Jan. 23, 1845, fell on Thursday ; Noy. a T. E., Cleveland.—Your question is incomprehen- Freddie W.—How to Draw” will cost 50 cents. G. W. M., Petersburg, Ind.—We cannot explain it, G. G. H. C., Orange, N. J.—New York. | —_—— > —____. ¥ : A German composer was conducting one of his over | & , by Lucy Randall Comf. i & y ag 3 ort, will short- tte i what to suggest, not 2 knowing what you have the most taste or inclination for | urself. 4 will probably answer your purpose. Price 50 _ sin= _ of King Edgar) until the rebellion of William of Scot)4nd~™ i accepted. It was notimeto |. N. he told them repeat- — and more softly they played each “Very good, | one shade softer, and you'll have it.” 4 aa? % a it— who did not < enco: ea) to Harold? Spoken to he when they re @ moment ¢ chance, if he “I do not be turning her fs Sorry you hay —in that way. a friend, a brc wife I cann diene a ene and ther faces. the man’s and as the rain dro Then Dick Ss] unnatural and “If I waita. three—do you 1 little ? I will nc So for you that “No; Dick ; n l answer no. love you, and a: you when you | is was whe until he knew g were breaking. “T shall never hope that you here he started which streams , Jerrie’s back, dr the bed of fine n in the morning y “unless there is whom you love, believe I could b Lameeretntaramagennnarae nse? heed &. - — a ——— ek a i pe ei, F voninn oct THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ~ me A MEMORY OF GEORGIA. BY FRANCIS S. SMITH. ‘Twas autumn in the Southland— The leaves were turning fast, And a tinge of meflow beauty Was o’er the landscape cast. The gum trees, and the maples, And the sumac seemed to vie With the gorgeous tints that painted The glorious sunset sky. The oak trees and the hickories Their branches far did spread, And seemed to glory in their wealth Of orange hue and red. The grapes in purple clusters hung, Luxuriant and free, And luscious fruit of golden hue Decked the persimmon tree. The cotton fields were snowy white, And where the corn, full grained, Had hung upon the yielding stalks The slip-shucks still remained. And o’er a heap of golden corn The gleesome shuckers sung, And merriment was in each eye And mirth on every tongue. Ah, dear to me were scenes like this In young love's joyous day ; But she who made these scenes so dear, Has gone from me for aye. My Inez, dear, the dark-eyed girl, To whom my soul did cling— I found her in the autumn, And she perished in the spring. TRACY PARK. By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, Author of “Bessie’s Fortune.” ‘“‘Homestead on the Hillside,” “Darkness and Daylight,” ‘“‘“Edith Lyle’s Secret,” “Queenie Hetherton,” etc. ("Tracy PARK” was commenced in No.1. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXXVIL UNDER THE PINES WITH DICK. Jerrie was scaked through, but she did not sprain her anklé as Ann Eliza had done. And yet, had she been given her choice, rather than inflict the pain she did in- flict upon poor Dick, she would have chosen the former unhesitatingly, and felt herself happy in doing it. Like Tom and Ann Eliza, she and Dick had run when they saw how fast the storm was coming, but it was of no use, for by the time they entered the park, the shortest route to the cottage, the rain came down in torrents, and drenched them to the skin in a few moments. Jerrie’s hat was wrenched off, as Ann Eliza’s had been, by the wind, which tossed her long golden hair about in a most fantastic fashion. But Dick put his hat upon her head, and would have given her his coat had she allowed it. ‘No, Dick,” she said, laughingly, as she saw him about to divest himself of it. ‘Keep your coat. Iam wet enough without that. But what an awful storm, and how dark it grows. We Shall break our necks stumbling along at this rate.” Just then a broad glare of lightning illuminated the darkness, and showed Dick the four pines close at hand. He knew the place well, for, with the Tracy children, he had often played there when a boy, and knew that the thick bushes would afford them some protection from the storm. «“‘By Jove, we are in luck!” he said. <‘‘Here’s the pine room, as we used to Call it when you played you were Marie Antoinette and had your head cut off. I can remember just how I felt when your white sun-bonnet, with Mrs. Crawford’s false hair pinned in it, d:opped into the basket, and how awiul it seemed when you played dead so long that we almost thought you were; and when you came to life, the way you imitated the cries of a French mob, I weuld have sworn there were a hun- dred voices instead of one, yelling, ‘Down with the no- bility You were a wonderful actress, Jerrie, and it is & marvel you have not gone upon the stage.” “While he talked he was groping for the bench under po arasol which Jerrie had left there that morn- img after her interview with Tom. “Hallo! what’s this?” he said, drawing the parasol trom under him. ‘An umbrella, as Llive! We are in juck. What good fairy do you suppose left it here for us?” / Jerrie could not tell him that she had left it there, and she said nothing; while he opened and held it so that every drop of rain which slipped trom it fell upon ,her neck and trickled down her back. “Great Cesar! that was a roarer!” Dick said, as the al of thunder which had so frightened Ann Eliza urst over their heads, and, echoing through the woods, went bellowing off in the direction of the river. ‘‘That’s a stunner! but I rather like it, and like being here, too, with you, if you don’t mind it. I’ve wanted a chance to speak to you alone, ever since—well, ever since this morning, when I saw you in thaf bewildering costume that showed your feet and your arms so—you know, with that thing like a napkin pinned up in front, and that — on your head. andgthe red stockings—and —an ee. Dick was getting bewildered and did not quite know what he was saying, so he stopped and waited for Jerrie to _.. But Jerrie did not speak, because of the sud- den m which possessed her. She could not see Dick’s face, but in his voice she hadrecognized a tonc heard in Tom’s that morning when she Sat with him un- der the pines as she was sitting now with Dick and he had asked her to be his wife. Something told her that Dick was feeling for her hands, which she resolutely put behind her out of his way, and as he could not find them, he wound his arm around her and held her fast, while he told her how much he loved her and wanted her for his wife. “J believe I have loved you,” he said, ‘ever since the day Iffirst saw you at the inquest, and you flew so like a a little cat at Peterkin when he attacked Harold. I used to be awfully jealous of Hal, for fear he would find in ou more than a sister, but that was before he and aude got so thick together. I guess-that’s a sure thing, and it makes me bold to tell you what I have. Why are you so silent, Jerrie? Don’t you love me a little ? That is all 1 ask at first, for I know I can make you love me a great dealin time. I will beso kind and true to you, Jerrie, and father, and mother, and Nina will be so glad. Speak to me, Jerrie, and say you will try to love me, if youdo not now.” As he talked he had drawn the girl closer to him, where she sat rigid as a stone, wholly unmindful of the little puddles of water—and they were puddles now— running down her back, for Dick had tilted the parasol in such a manner that one of the points rested upon the nape of her neck. But she did not know it, or think of any thing except the pain she must inflict upon tie young man wooing her so differently from what Tom racy had done. No hint had Dick given of the honor he was conferring upon her, or of his own and his family’s superiorty to her family and herself. All the honor and favor to.be conferred were on her side; all the love and humility on his, and for one brief moment the wild wish flashed upon her : ‘Oh, if I could love him as a wife ought, I might be so -~~hrapps, for he is all that is noble and good and true.” But this was while she was smarting under the few words be had said of Harold and Maude. He, too, be- lieved it a settled thing between the two—every body believed it—and why should she waste her love upon one who did not care for her as she did for him? Why not encourage a love for Dick, who stood next in her heart to Harold? Questioning herself thus until there flashed upon herthe recollection of Harold’s voice as it had spoken to her that morning and the look in his eyes when they rested upon her, as he said good-by, lingering a moment as if loth to leave her, and then Dick’s chance, if he had ever had any, was gone! “I do not believe it,” she said to herself, and then, turning her face to Dick she cried, “Oh, Dick, Iam so sorry you have said this to me; sorry that you love me —in that way—for I can’t—I can’t——. Idolove you as a friend, a brother, next to Harold, but I cannot be your wife I cannot.” For a moment there was perfect silence in the dark- ness, and then a lurid flame of lightning showed the two faces—that of the man, pale as ashes, with a look of bit- ter pain uponit, and that of the woman, whiter than the man’s and bathed in tears, which fell almost as fast as the rain drops were falling upon the pines. Then Dick yee but his voice sounded strange and unnatural and a great ways off : “If I wait a long, long time—say a year, or two, or three—do you think yot could learn to love me just a little ? I will not ask for much ; only, Jerrie, I do hunger so for you that without you'life would seem a blank.” “No, Dick ; notif you waited twenty years. I must still answer no. I cannot love you as your wife should love you, and as some good, sweet girl will one day love you when you have forgotten me.” This was what Jerrie said to him, with much more, until he knew she was in earnest and felt as if his heart were breaking. “T shall never forget you, Jerrie,” he said, ‘or cease to hope that you will change your mind, unless—” and here he started so suddenly that. the wet parasol. down which streams of water were still coursing their way to Jerrie’s back, ae from his hand and rolled off upon the bed of fine n es at his feet, just where it had been inthe morning when Tom was there instead of himself— “unless there is some one between us, some other man whom you love. I will not ask you the question, but 1 believe I could bear it better if 1 knew it was because your love was already given to another, and not because of anything in me.” : For a moment Jerrie was silent ; then. suddenly facing Dick, she laid her hand on his and said: “J can trust you, 1 am sure of that; there is some one between us—some one whom! love. If I had never seen him, Dick, never known that he lived—and if 1 had known you just as I do, I might not have answered just asIhave. 1 am very sorry.” Dick did not ask her who his rival was. nor did Harold come to his mind, so sure was he that an engagement existed between him and Maude. Probably it was some one whom she had met while away at school; and if so, Nina would know, and he would sound her cautious- ly, but never let her know, if he could help it, of the heart-wound he had received. Poor Dick! every nerve was quivering with pain and disappointment when at tast, as the rain began to cease, he rose at Jerrie’s suggestion, and offering her his arm, walked silently and sadly with her to the door of the cottage. Here for a moment they stood side by side and hand in hand, until Jerrie said: ‘Dick, your friendship has been very dear tome. Ido not want to lose it.” “Nor shall you,” he answered; and winding his arms around her, he kissed her lips, saying, as he did so: “That is the seal of our eternal friendship. The man you love would not grudge me that one kiss, but perhaps you'd better tell him. Good-by, and God bless you. When I see you again I shall try to be the same Dick you have always known.” For a few moments Jerrie stood listening to the sound of his footsteps as he went splashing through the wet grass and puddles of water; then, kissing her hands to him, she whispered : “Poor Dick! It would not. be difficult to love you ifI had never known Harold.” Opening the door softly, she found, as she had ex- pected, that both her grandmother and Harold had re- tired ; and taking the lamp from the table where it had been left for her, she stole quietly up to her room and crept shivering into bed, more wretched than she had ever been before in her life. CHAPTER XXXVIII. AT LE BATEAU. Harold got his own breakfast the next morning, and was off for his work just as the sun looked into the win- dows of the room where Jerrie lay in a deep slumber. She had been awake a long time the previous night, thinking over the incidents of a day which had been the most eventful one of her life, but had fallen asleep at last, and dreamed that she had found the low room far away in Wiesbaden, with the wall adorned with the pic- ture of a young girl knitting in thesunshine, and the stranger watching her from a distance. It was late when she awoke, and Peterkin’s clock was striking eight when she went down to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Crawford sewing, and a most dainty breakfast waiting for her on a little round table near an open window shaded with the hop-vines. There was a fresh egg for her, with English buns, and straw- berries and cream, and chocolate served in a pretty cup which she had never seen before, while near her plate was lying a bunch of roses, and on them a strip of paper on which Harold had written : “The top of the mornin’ to ye, Jerrie. I’d like tostay and see you, but if I work very hard to-day, I hope to finish the job on Monday and get my fifteen dollars. That’s a pile of money to earn in three days, isn’t it? Ihope you enjoyed the garden-party. If Ihad not been so awfully tired I should have gone for you. Grandma will tell you that I went to bed and tosleep before that shower came up, so I knew nothing of it. I wonder how you got home ; but of course Dick came with you, or Billy, or possibly Tom. I hear you entertained all three of them at the washtub! Pretty good for the first day home! Good-by till to-night. I only live till then, as they say in novels. HAROLD.” This note, every line of which was full of affection and thoughtfulness for her, was worth more to Jerrie than the chocolate, or the bun, or the pretty cup and saucer which Harold had bought for her the night be- | fore, going to the village, a mile out of his way, on pur- pose to get them and surprise her. This Mrs. Crawford told her, as she sat eating her breakfast, which she ha‘ to force down because of the lump in her throat and the | tears which came so fast as she listened. | “You see,” Mrs. Crawford began, “Mr. Allen paid Harold two or three dollars, and so he came home | through the village, and bought the eggs, and the buns, and the chocolate, which he knew you liked, and the | cup and saucer at Grady’s. He has had it on his mind a | long tane to get it for you, but there were so many other | things to pay for. Don't you think it is pretty ?” | ‘Yes, lovely!” Jerrie replied, taking up the delicate | bit of china, through which the light shone so clearly. “It is very pretty: but I wish he had not bought it for me,” and Jerrie wiped the hot tears from beth her eyes, as Mrs. Crawford continued : “Oh, he wanted to. He is never happier than when doing something which he thinks will please you or mc. Harold is the most unselfish boy I ever knew; and I never saw him give way, or heard him complain that his lot was hard but once, and that was this summer, when | he was building the room, and had to dismiss the man | because he had no money to pay him. That left it all for | him to do, and he was already so tired and overworked; }and then Tom Tracy was always making fun of the | addition, and saying it made the cottage look like a pig- .« the pines, where they sat down, Dick seating himself | sty with a steeple to it, and that you would think so, too; | and if it were his he'd tear the old hut down and start j anew. Peterkin, too, made remarks about its being out of proportion to the rest of the house, and wondered | \where Harold got the money, and why he didn’t do this | and that, but supposed he couldn’t afford it, adding that | ‘beggars couldn’t be choosers.’ When Harold heard all | that, he was tired, and nervous, and sick, and discour- | aged, and his hands were blistered and bruised with | hard work. His head was aching, and he just put it on | that table, where you are sitting, and cried like a baby. | When I tried to comfort him, he said, ‘It isn’t the hard | work, grandmother; I don’t mind that in the least; | neither do 1 care for what they say, or should not, if there was not some truth in it; things are out of propor- tion, andthe new room makes the rest of the cottage look lower than ever, and I’d like so much to have everything right for Jerrie, who would not shame the queen’s pal- ace. I wish, for her sake, that ] had money, and’ could make her home what it ought to be. I do not want her she comes back to us.’ ” Jerrie was crying outright now: but Mrs. Crawford, who was a little deaf and did not hear her, went on: «Tf you were a hundred times his sister he could not love you more than he does, or wish to make you hap- pier. He would have gone for you last night, only he was so tired, and I persuaded him to goto bed. I knew somebody would come home with you. Dick, wasn’t it? I thought I heard his voice.” «Yes, it was Dick,” Jerrie answered, very low, return- ing again to her breakfast, while her grandmother rambled on: “Harold slept so soundly that he never heard the storm, or knew there was one till this morning. Lucky you didn’t start home tillit was over. You'd have been wet to the skin.” Jerrie made no answer, for she could not tell of that interview under the pines, or that she had been wet to the skin, and felt chilly even now from the effects of it. It seemed that Mrs. Crawford would never tire of talk- ing of Harold, for she continued : “He was up this morning about daylight, I do believe, and had his own breakfast eaten and that table laid for you when I came down. He wanted tosee you before he went, and know if you were pleased; but I toid him you were probably asleep, as it was late when you came in, and so he wrote something for you, and went whist- ling off as merrily as if he had been in his carriage, in- stead of on foot in his working-dress.” «“‘And he shall have his carriage. too, some day, and a pair of the finest horses the country affords, and you shall ride beside him, in a satin gown and India shawl. You'll see!” Jerrie said, impetuously, as she arose from the table and began to clear away the dishes. The spell was upon her strongly now, and as her grandmother talked. the objects around her gradually faded away; the cottage, so out of proportion and so humble in all its surroundings, was gone, and in its place a house, fair to look upon, fair as Tracy Park and much like it, and Harold was the master, looking a very prince, instead of the tired, shabbily dressed man he was now. ‘And I shall be there, too,” Jerrie whispered, or rather nodded to herself. ‘I know I shall, and I do not believe one word of the Maude affair, and never will until he tells me himself, or she; and then—well, then, I will be glad for them, until I come to be really glad myself.” She was moving rapidly around the kitchen, for there was a great deal to be done—the Saturday’s work and all the clothes to be ironed, and then she meant to get up some little surprise for Harold to show him that she appreciated his thoughtfulness for her. About half-past ten a servant from Le Bateau brought her a note from Ann Eliza, who wrote as follows: “DEAR JERRY :—Have pity on a poor cripple, and come as soon as you can and see her. I sprained my ankle last night in that awful storm, and Tom had to bring me home inthis arms. Think of it, and what my feelings must have been. I am hardly over it yet—the queer feelings, I mean—for, of course, my ankle is dreadful, and sé swollen, and pains me so that I cannot step, but must stay in my room all day. So come as soon as possible, You have never seen the inside of our house, or my rooms. Come to lunch, please. We wi have it up here. Good-by. : “From your loving friend, “ANN ELIZA. “Pp. 8.—I wonder if Tom will call to inquire for me ?” ‘Tell her I will be there by lunch-time,” Jerrie said to the man, while to her grandmother she continued: “The baking and cleaning are all done, and I can finish the ironing when I get back ; it will be cooler then, and I do want to sée the inside of that show-house which Harold says cost a hundred thousand dollars. Pity somebody besides the Peterkins did not live there.” And so, about twelve o'clock Jerrie walked up to the grand house of gray stone, which, with its turrets, and towers, and immense arch over the carriage drive in front of a side door, looked like some old fuedal castle, and flaunted upon its walls the money it had cost. Even the loud bell which echoed through the hall like a town clock told of wealth and show, as did the colored man who answered the summons, and bowing low to Jerrie, held out a silver tray for her card. «Nonsense, Leo!” Jerrie said, laughingly, for she had known the negro all her life and played with him, too, at times, when they both went to the district school. ‘I have no card with me. Miss Ann Eliza has invited me to lunch, and I have come. Tell her I am here.” With another profound bow, Leo waved Jerrie into the ,reception-room, and then started to deliver her message, Seated upon one of the carved chairs, Jerrie looked about her curiously, with a feeling that the half had not been told her, everything was so much more gorgeous and magnificent than she had supposed. But what im- pressed and at the same time oppressed her most was the height of the walls from the richly inlaid fioor to the gayly decorated ceiling overhead. It made her neck ache staring up fourteen feet anda half to the costly center ornament from which the heavy chandelier de- pended. All the rooms of the eld house had been low, and when Peterkin built the new one, he made ample amends. «T mean to lick the crowd,” he said; and a man was sent to Collingwood, and Grassy Spring, and Brier Hill, and lastly to Tracy Park. to take the height of the lower rooms. Those at Tracy Park were found to be the high- est, and measured just twelve feet, so Peterkin’s orders were to “‘run ’em up—run ’em up—run ’em up fourteen feet, for I swan I’ll get ahead of ’em.” So they were run up fourteen feet, and by some mis- a HR i TOA commie A> x \ went the more willingly; aud, sending up his card, stood near the open door, ready to leave the moment fea came down with the message he had received from oris. “JT shall be cheek by jowl with these Peterkins, if I don’t look out,” he thought, as he ascended the stairs to the hall, where Doris stood waiting to show him her mistress’ room. “What, Jerry! You here?” he exclaimed, his face clearing, and the whole aspect of matters changing at once, as she arose to meet him. With Jerrie there the place seemed different, and he did not feel as if he were lowering himself, as he sat in the luxuriously furnished room, and joined in the dain- ty lunch which was brought up and served from Dres- den china, and linen and cut glass, and was as delicate and dainty in its way as anything he had ever found at the Brunswick or Delmonico’s. Mrs. Peterkin prided herself upon her cuisine, which she always superintend- ed, and as Peterkin was something of an epicure and A WRONG TURNING.—‘“‘I'LL NOT LET YOU GET LOST!” THE YOUNG MAN INDIGNANTLY EXCLAIMED, AS HE LEANED OVER THE FENCE AND PLACED HIS HAND UPON HER ARM. to feel homesick, or long for something better, when | ' take, half a foot higher, looking when ‘finiShed so eold | and cheerless and bare that the ambitiouS man ran- sacked New York and Boston and even sent to London | for adornments for his walls. Books were bought by the | Square yard, pictures by the wholesale, mirrors by the dozen, with bronzes and brackets and sconces and tapes- | try and banners and screens and clocks and cabinets and statuary, with every kind of furniture imaginable, from the cositiiest rugs and carpets to the most exquisite inlaid tables to be found in» Florence or Venice. For eyed sent there for them by a gentleman to whom e said: “Git the best there is if it costs a fortune. I’m bound to lick the crowd.” This was his favorite expression ; and when his house was done, and he s , his broad, white shirt-front | Studded with diamonds and his coat thrown back to show them, surveying his possessions, he felt that he | ‘had licked the crowd.” Jerrie felt so, too, as she foilowed the elegant Leo up | the stairs and through the upper hall—handsomer, if | | possible, than the lower one—to the pretty room where | Ann Eliza lay, or rather reclined, with her lame foot on a cushion and her well one incased ina white embroi- dered silk stocking and blue satin slipper. She was | dressed in a delicate blue satin wrapper, trimmed with swan’s-down, and there were diamonds in her ears and on the little white hands which she stretched toward Jerrie as she came in. “Oh, Jerrie,” she said, “I am so glad to see you, for it | is awfully lonesome here ; and if one ean be homesick at | |home, Iam. 1 miss the girls and the lessons and the | rules at Vassar; much as I hated them when I was! | there ; and just before you came inI wanted to cry. I | guess my rooms are too big and have too much in them ; ing, and every thing is strange and new. Ido believe I and the little mirror with the peacock feathers orna- menting the top, and that painted plaster image of Samuel on the mantel. It is very ungrateful in me, I know, when father has done it mostly to please me. name; and what Il am ever to do with her, or she with me, I am sure 1 don’t know, De you ?” Jerrie did not know either, but suggested that she might read to*her while she was confined to her room. “Yes, she might, perhaps, do that, if she can read,” Ann Eliza said. “She certainly has pretension enough about her to have written several treatises on scientific subjects. She was a year with Lady Augusta Hardy, in Ireland. Don’t you remember the grand wedding father and ,mother attended in Allington two or three years ago, when Augusta Browne was married to an Irish lord, who had been bought by her money ?—for of | course he did not care much for her. Well, Doris went | out with her as maid, and acts as if she, too, had mar- | ried a peer. She came last night, and mamma and I are already as afraid of her as we can be, she is so fine and airy. She insisted upon dressing me this morning, and I felt all the while as if she were thinking how red and ugly my hair is, or counting the freckles on my face, and contrasting me with ‘my Lady Augusta,’ as she calls her. I wonder if she_ever my lady’s mother, Mrs. Rossiter-Browhe, who told’ me once that I ‘had a very petty jigger, but she presumed it would envelope as any way, I have the feeling ali the time that I am visit- | liked the old room better, with its matting on the floor | Do |} you believe—he has hunted me up a maid; Doris is her | | gourmand, the table was always supplied with every pos- , Sible delicacy. Tom enjoyed it all, and praised the chocolate, and_the | broiled chicken, and the jellies, and thought Ann Eliza | not so very bad-looking in her blue satin wrapper, with | the swan’s-down trimmings, and made himself general- | ly agreeable. Maude was better, he said, and could talk } @ little, and he asked Jerrie to go home with him and | See her. But Jerrie deelined. “J have a great deal of work to do yet.” she said. ‘I must iron all those clothes you saw upon the line yester- | day, and so I must be going.” | Tom irowned at the mention of the clothes which | Jerrie had washed: while Ann Eliza insisted that she | should stay until the dog-cart, which had been sent to | the station tor Billy, came back, when Lewis would take |}her home, as it was too warm to walk. Jerrie did |not mind the heat or the walk, but she felt mor- | ally sure that Tom meant to accompany her, and greatly i preferred the dog-cart and Lewis to another tete-a-tete with him, for he did not act at all like a discarded lover, | but rather as one who still hoped he had achance. So | she signified her intention to wait ior the dog-cart, which soon came, with Billy in it, anxious when he heard of his sister’s accident, delighted when he found Jerrie there, and persistent in saying that he and not Lewis wouid take her home. “Well, if you will, you will,” she said, laughingly ; and bidding Ann Eliza good-by, and telling Tom to give her love to Maude and say to her that she did notbelieve she should be at the park that day, she had so much to do, she was soon in the dog-cart with Billy, whose face was radiant as he gathered up the reins and started down the turnpike, driving at What Jerrie thought a very slow pace, aS She was anxious to get home. Something of Billy’s thoughts must have communi- cated itself to Jerrie, for she became nervous and ill at ease and talked rapidly of things in which she had not | the slightest interest. | “What of the lawsuit’?” she asked. | to settle it ?” “N-no,” Billy answered, hurriedly. ‘It will h-have to co-come into co-court in a f-few days, and I am aw-awful sorry. I wa-wanted father to p-pay what they de- manded, but he won’t. Hal is subpcenaed on the other side, as he was in our Office, and is supposed to know something about it; b-but I ho-hope he won’t da-damage us m-much, as father would n-never forgive him if he went against us.” ' “But he must tell the truth, no matter who is dam- aged.” Jerrie said. “Ye-yes,” Billy replied, ‘‘of co-course he must, b-but he needn’t volunteer information.” Jerry began to think that Billy had insisted upon com- | ing with her for the sake of persuading her to caution Harold against saying too much when he was called to testify in the great lawsuit between Peterkin & Co., manufacturers in Shannondale, and Wilson & Co., man- ufacturers in Truesdale, an adjoining town ; but she was undeceived when her companion turned suddenly off upon the river road, which would take them atleast two miles out of their way. ‘Why are you coming here?” Jerrie said, in real dis- tress. ‘itis ever so much farther, and I must get home. I have piles of work to do.” “«Co-confound the work,” Billy replied, very energeti- “Are you likely I grew older.’ But then people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” and Ann Elizacolored a little | as she made this reference to her own father and | mother, whose language was not much more correct | than Mrs. Rossiter-Browne’s, For one brought up as she had been Ann Eliza was a rather sensible girl, and although she attached a great deal of importance to money, she knew it was not everything, and that with her father’s millions there was still a wide difference between him and the men to whose society he aspired ; and Knew, too, that although Jerrie had not a penny in the world, she was greatly her superior, and so considered by the world at large. She was very fond of Jerrie, who had often helped her with her lessons, and stood between her and the ridi- cule of her companions, and was never happier than when in hersociety. So now she made her bring an ottoman close beside her, and held her hand while she narrated in detail the events of the previous. night, dwelling at length upon the fact that Tom had carried her in his arms, and wondering if he would call to in- quire after her. Jerrie thought he would; and, as if in answer to the thought, Doris almost immediately ap- peared with his card. She was very fine and very smart, and Jerrie herself felt awed by her dignity and manner as she delivered her message. “The gentleman sends his compliments, and; would like to know how you are this morning.” “Oh, Jerrie, i?s Tom! he has come!” Ann Eliza said, with joyin her voice. ‘Surely I can receive him here, for this is my parlor.” Jerrie thought she might, but the toss of the fine maid’s head showed that she thought differently, as she left the room with her mistress’ message. “Thunderation! I didn’t want to see her. It’s enough to have to call,” was Tom’s mental comment, when Doris told him he was to walk up stairs. Indeed, he would not have come at all if Maude, to whom he related his adventure, had not insisted that ' he must. «You needn’t see her, of course; but you must'go and inquire how she is. According to your own statement you are to blame for her mishap; you dragged her along 80 fast. : cally for him, and reining his horse up under a wide spreading butternut tree, which grew upon the river bank, he sprang out and pretended to be busy with some part of the harness, while he astonished Jerrie by burst- ing out, without the least stammer, he was so earnest and so excited. ‘I’ve something to say to you, Jerrie, and I may as well say it now as any time, and know the worst, or the best. I can’t bear the suspense any longer, and I got out of the cart so as to stand where I could look you square in the face while I say it.” And he was looking her square in the face, while she grew hot and cold and experienced a sensation quite different from what she had when Tom and Dick made love to her. She had felt no fear of them, but she was afraid of this little man, who stood up so resolutely, with his tongue loosened, and asked her to be his wife, for that was what he did, making his wishes known in a very few words, and then waiting for her answer wita his eyes fixed upon her face and a firm, set look about his mouth which puzzled and troubled her and made her uncertain as to how she was to deal with this third aspirant for her hand within twenty#four hours. (TO BE CONTINUED.) a a a MUTUAL LOVE OF DOG AND MASTER. On board of the steamer Mary Garroft, on a recent trip from Stockton to San Francisco, was a German traveler named Vosguards. The traveler had a small- dog of which he seemed to be very fond. At Black Slough landing the dog jumped ashore and the boat left him. He leaped into the water and followed in her wake, but was gradually left far behind. Vosguards went into tears and begged the captain to stop or let him ashore, but the boat kept on her way. A man who happened to be standing on the levee four miles below | Black Slough caught sight of the dog, which was stead- ily swimming on after the steamer-—although the latter was out of the dog’s sight—catled the canine ashore and took him to a landing. The persistent doggie was Tom knew there was some truth in this, and so he brought to Stockton the next day by the incoming steamer, and a telegram was wired to Vosguards. THE MOTHER’S VIGIL BY HUGH CONWAY. A wakeful night with stealthy tread O’er weary day had crept, AS near her dying infant’s bed A mother watched and wept. She saw the dews of death ¢’erspread That brow so white and fair, And bowing down her aching head, She breathed a fervent prayer. “Oh, Thou,” she cried, ‘‘a mother’s love Hast known—a mother’s grief— Bend down from starry heights above, And send my heart relief. Sweet lips that smiled are drawn in pain, Yet rest his life may keep, And give him to my arms again— Oh, let my baby sleep !” When sickly dawn a gleam had cast Of light on night’s black -pall, Through gates of heaven in mercy passed An answer to her call. On somber wings, through gloomy skies, Death’s angel darkly swept— He softly kissed those troubled eyes, And lo! the infant slept. —-+e~ A WRONG TURNING, BY A. ARMITT. CHAPTER I. “IS NOT MY BROTHER HERE ?” The scene was a valley on the southern slopes of the Himalayas; the time was evening. The dusk was made darker by the shadow of the great cedars which covered the hill-side. The path was cut, terrace-wise, along the steep slope, curving with the curve of the hill. Far below in the darkness of the narrow ravine ran the great river, bearing its message from the distant moun- tains to the burning plains. Beyond the nearer peaks, the distant jagged line of the snow-mountains, whence it came, could be seen fretting the sky. The pathway led on toward the line, in a profound solitude, without sign of any habitation. ‘Are you sure we are going right ?” asked an anxious voice—the voice of a young English girl. The men who were carrying her stood still and broke into a torrent of discourse, but they did not speak ina language she understood, which added to her anxiety and perplexity. After a consultation together, the leader of them, who could speak a little English, answered her that they were quite right, and going straight to the bungalow of the Sahib Nicholls. Then they went forward. The party was tolerably large, consisting of the men who carried Maggie Nicholis in her sedan, and the men who followed with her bag- 2. = seemed to Maggie, who had lived a quiet life in an English village and gone about there without any at- tendants, that she was traveling with an immense escort, all strangers, all foreigners ; men of whose lan- guage she was ignorant, whose manners were different from those of her own race, and who were the followers of a barbarous religiou. She did not like it at all. The dusk deepened to darkness; the vast masses of the cedars inclosed. the pathway and increased the gloom of the place. The little party seemed to be pene- trating into a deep and unpeopled forest, which only opened before them foot by foot, and closed behind them with a density of blackness painful to contemplate. Maggie would have liked to ask why the men had not brought lights with them, but she did not wish to cause a second delay, and the strange, clamorous consulta- tions made her nervous; so she kept silence on the subject. ; It was getting so dark that the bearers of the sedan in which she sat could hardly see the ground beneath them; they stumbled over stones and tree-roots in the path. She was afraid that at any moment they might walk over the edge of it, and all roll down the steep slope together toward that rushing water whose voice seemed to gather volume in the growing gloom. No bungalow appeared, nor any place where’a bunga- low could be. Human beings had certainly made the path, and used a good deal of engineering skill in the making of it; but, after it was finished, they seemed to have abandoned it, on discovering that it led to no- where; or, perhaps, they had never returned, but were going on still, cutting it deeper and deeper into the forest, in the hope that at last it would land them ulti- mately—somewhere or other. Foolish thoughts of this sort went through Maggie’s mind, mingled with longings for the end, and *or the sight of a reassuring face. Her brother had never very kind to her when she was a little girl, but the face ot any brother must be a very refreshing sight to a timid maiden after a journey of this sort. Suddenly it happened—not exactly what she had ex- pected, but something very like it. One of the men stumbled over a stone and fell; another of them, checked. unexpectedly by his comrade’s accident, was jerked sideways, and slipped over the edge of the path. Maggie was brought to the ground with a violent jolt. Then was the darkness made hideous by a babel of voices. The men assembled in a group,.and abandoning the idea of proceeding, peered over the steep hill-side into the darkness, and discussed everything. What they said Maggie could not tell, but they seemed to blame each other. and to excuse themselves, and to appeal to her. She could not even understand whether any one was badly hurt, or if it had become impossible to pro- ceed. Perhaps it was the leader who had rolled down the khad, for no ene seemed able to explain to her what had happened. She sat waiting the issue, when:all at once the whole body of men disappeared rapidly down the hill-side or back along the path, leaving her abso- lutely alone. For some moments she sat waiting for them to return, then she resolved to push on a little further by herself. They had assured her that she was very near her brother’s bungalow, and they could not have intended simply to lose her in the forest. Extreme terror, the un- reasoning terror of.a girl unused to practical difficulties, and accustomed to let others think for her, gave her courage to proceed, and she went forward in the dark- ness as quickly as she could. Fortune is said to favor the brave, and Maggie seemed likely to be rewarded for her determination to help her- self when she found that no one came to help her. Five minutes of breathless hurrying along in the darkness brought her to a turnin the path, and she saw before her a lighted bungalow, buidt on a little platform of ground, which appeared to have been cleared and level- ed for the purpose. Her troubles were over; or soshe thought. She ran as fast as she could, stumbled over a servant who seemed to be sleeping on the veranda of the bungalow, and walked in. The place was very much what she might have ex- pected to find it, being, as it was, a bachelor’s: unpre- tentious residence in a lonely part of the country. The room which she entered, and which occupied great part of the bungalow, was breakfast-room, dining-room and drawing-room combined. There were some easy chairs and a few books, also one or two pipes and other indica- tions of a smoker, but hardly any ornaments at all. A young man rose when she entered. He had been sitting smoking a cigar, with an attendant waiting upon him, and drawing his beer. Ifshe had come upon him ten minutes before, she would have found him alone, with a letter in his hand, looking exceedingly forlorn and solitary. Perhaps he would have preferred to be found in this attitude ; but the letter was crammed into his pocket, and his attention was given to the refresh- ment before him, and to the necessity of finding fault with his highly respectable attendant. When Maggie entered the room he jumped up—‘‘as if finding the situation beyond words, simply stared. She was less surprised than he was; for a young man was precisely what she had expected to see ; but after a moment’s pause and hesitation, the embarrassment visible on his countenance was transferred to hers, and slowly, painfully, the flush mounted from her cheeks to her forehead. It was a long time since she had seen her brother; but this could not be he—this must be somebody else. ‘Mr. Nicholson!” she faltered, completely arrested in her eager advance. “Maggie |” The tush became deeper; she looked round the room uneasily, inquiringly. The furniture of the place was uncomfortably suggestive of one inhabitant only. “Ts not my brother here ?” she asked, entreatingly, as if he could create the fact by his answer. “Your brother? No,” said the young man, beginning to awaken from his stupor of surprise, of absolute in- credulity. ‘Did you expect him to come?” ~ “T thought he lived here,” she answered plaintively, and somewhat reproachfully, as if she fancied that the young man had turned him out. “Did you, really? I’m awfully sorry he doesn’t, if it would be any convenience to you. But the fact is——” here he paused, and turning toward his attendant, or- dered him to make himself scarce, which order was promptly obeyed, but had been given merely to afford an excuse for looking away from his visitor, and break- ing off an embarrassing explanation. “But if he doesn’t live here,” asked Maggie in distress; “who—why—wihere is this place ?” “Well, you know,” said the young man apologetically, and as if he felt his own superfiuousness, and uncertain right to live anywhere, ‘‘the fact is, J live here.” “Oh, you live here!” she repeated, and looked round the room, as if trying to understand how it could belong to him when she had expected it to belong to her brother; then, turning to him with a new hope—‘‘And anybody else ?” she asked. ‘Nobody else.” Her eyes fell. She remembered how this young man, two years, only two years before, had written to ask her to come out to India and be his wife, and how she had answered, ‘‘No.” This must be the very place to which she had been invited ; this would have been her home if } ; ‘ he had been shot,” he would have said ->imselfi—and ym. / , ait on you, and—and—we'll make you as comfortable “With the baggage and their explanations, had been & she had consented ; and now it must seem almost as if she had changed her mind and come. What a terrible thought! No wondershe felt embar- rassed beyond the power of speech; no wonder thata vague idea of running back into the darkness and look- ing for her lost escort flashed through her mind. No- oody else! This was an overpowering discovery. Mag- sie had never been distinguished for presence of mind, or a perception of the right thing to do at an awkward moment, and pow all dignity, all power of explanation even, seemed to have forsaken her. But Arthur Nicholson had had time to recover from bis first amazement, and to understand a little of the actual circumstances. Here was no vague vision, no phantom of the brain conjured up by the smoke of his cigar, and the influence of the old lefter he had been reading. It was Maggie Nicholls herself, come here by some strange mistake to look for her brother. “T’m awtully sorry, Miss Nicholls,” he repeated, care- ful now to speak within the limits of his privilege ; ‘“‘won’t you sit down? Here’sachair. It’s a very good chair, though the lining’s torn. Of course, if ?d known you were coming: 4) Here he paused, and began to pull footstools and cushions about with the zeal of a man who wants to be hospitable and does not know how. Maggie took the chair and smiled faintly. “You haven’t come alone, have you?” asked the young man. A Jot of men brought me. I don’t know where they are. [don’t know whether one of them rolled down the precipice, or whether some of the luggage did, but they | all went to look, I think. I got tired of waiting, and | came.on here. I thought’—here her voice became | plaintive again—‘‘I thought it was Nea’s place. ’ «What tremendously stupid fellows to leave you like that! And how did you come to be—— But you'llhave | something to eat first. You must be awfully tired. [ll | havesome tea made for you—ladies like tea—or you | could have coffee, or some wine.” At this point he rushed to a cupboard, and began to haul out decanters. “Thank you; I should like tea best—itf it’s not too much trouble.” “Not in the least. Vm awfully glad you've come; at jéast, 1 mean, you know, [in awfully sorry, of course.” | He blushed as vividly as she had done at the perception | of his own blundering, ‘1 mean that it’s so very nice | to.see you, and—and—all that.” “Somebody directed me wrongly,” she said, with dis- tress,in her voice; ‘‘there has been a mistake some- where. My brother did not expect meso soon, or he would have met me. You know that I had to come out to him, because my father is dead, and—and—I couldn't stay any longer with friends in England.” He murmured some incoherent sympathy, proving that he remained, as She had always remembered him to be, more warm in heart than fluent in expression. | “J didn’t want to come to India,” she went on, with | some petulance, “but I couldn’t help it. 1 don’t like | India.” | He muttered something about ‘‘beastly country,” and | . looked ashamed of belonging to it. | «The friends who were to bring me suddenly decided | to come three months earlier, and there was no time to | let Ned know. The Peters—my friends, I mean—put me in the train all right. But when | got to Ned’s he wasn’t | there; he had been moved on somewhere else, further | up the country, they said. And the gentleman in his place arranged it all for me to be brought straight on to him, and got the men who were to bring me, and told | roe there would be nothing for me to do, and I should get there before night; but I was sure it was wrong, | and that we had not to come'so far into the forest as | this. The men made a great fuss and quarreled rather | —but 1 never know what they are saying—wwhen we came to a great division of the roads about the middle of the day; it was just as we left the plain, and I feel | sure that they went wrong there. They spoke to some | men who were cutting down trees, and I heard them ; say, ‘Sahib Nicholls,’ many times over, and the men } pointed up here, and there was a great deal of gesticu- | lating—and—and that sort of thing; then we came on nerve,” “Pll tell you what it is,” said Arthur, as a bright idea struck him. ‘It’s the similarity of name, you know— Nicholson and Nicholls; your brother’s new to the dis- trict, and people don’t know him yet. When the men were uncertain and made inquiries at that division of roads—which they had no business to do, for they ought to have known their way before they started— they got sent on to me.” «What am I to do then ? brother’s ?” Arthur’s face grew longer. “Tm afraid not. It was hours agothat you started up the wrong road; and there would be the other road to go up after you got back to that spot.” ‘But couldn’t we go over the hill or something—some shorter way ?” ; “You don’t know what a time it took to make that way or you wouldn’t think that there could be another. No, ’m afraid that you’ll have to make up your mind to stay here Until to-morrow, when [ll send a man to let your brother know where you are, and he’ll come to fetch you.” ‘But is there room for me ?” “Oh, lots of room.” The young man spoke as if he had whole suites of apartments at his disposal. ‘You § have some supper first, and Pll get a woman in to Can I get taken back to my as we can.” Maggie had no choice but to accept with gratitude and agood grace. Ina very short time a good supper was spread before her. Her host was full of apologies for the food, and anxious that she should eat more of it. He seemed to feel it his duty to efface himself entirely on her behalf, to put the whole bungalow at her dis- posal, and to apologize for the insufficinncy of every- thing he had to offer her. Afterward she was shown in- to a neat bedroom, where a smiling ayah was in at- tendanee, full of anxiety to assist in unpacking her be- longings, but utterly. unable to communicate with her by a single word. The men who brought her had meanwhile arrived soundly rated by the Sahib Nicholson in a language which they all understood, and had disposed of them- selves in the easy manner of Hindog servants, to re-ap- pear when again wanted in the morning. This was to have been Maggie’s first night at home in India. It was strange to find herself in this forest bun- galow, to which long ago she had refused to come, and where she had,now no right to be. She sighed a little as she thought that here she had received a warmer welcome than might have met her in her rightful home. Her brother could express his feel- ings better, a great deal better, than Arthur Nicholson, but would he? She felt sure he wouldn't be “awfully glad” to see her. CHAPTER Il. ‘HOW VERY AWKWARD!” When Maggie appeared in the dining-room the next morning, Arthur Nicholson had breakfast long before, | and ought to have been far away in the forest at his’ work. But he had neglected his work, and was waiting about to talk to his guest, and to see if he could be of any use to her. «JT hope you’ll speak if you want anything,” he remark- ed, with anxiety, as he rushed from the sideboard to the table and back again, reversing all the breaktast ar- rangements in his zeal to be of service. ‘I’m awfully afraid you arn’t comfortable here; but it won’t be for long. I’ve sent a man off hours agofor your brother. He'll be here before evening, I expect.” «“Hadn’t I better go myself as soon as I have had breakfast ?” Maggie asked. ‘‘The same men could take me, I suppose.” “Oh, yeS; they’re here all right. But it won’t do for you to go wandering over the country again like that. Suppose your brother should be away in camp when you got there? He does go into camp, I styppose ?” ‘Yes, for weeks at a time,” said Maggie, despondently; “and he doesn’t expect me yet. I never thought of that. How very awkward!” “Oh, itll be allright; itssure to be. He’s certain to turn up here before long, now he knows you’ve come. The man won’t turn back till he finds him. [ld justlike him to come back here without, that’s all.” «You are very good,” murmured Maggie, over her cur- ried egg; ‘but the men doseem so very stupid !” “Td go myself in a minute if you wished it,” said Ar- thur, eageriy. “But I thought perhaps”—here he blush- ed to the roots of his hair, as if ashamed of the appar- ent conceit of the idea—‘‘that you'd rather not.” «Oh, don’t go,” cried Maggie, earnestly, putting down the cracked cup which she was raising to her lips. It caught Arthur’s eye, and he muttered, apologetically : “Pm awfully sorry they’ve given you that cracked thing; but they are so stupid, they break everything.” ‘Don’t go,” said Maggie, ignoring the damaged crockery; “i shouldn’t like it. I couldn’t bear to be left with these people. I never can tell what they are say- ing.’ “That's allright, then,” said her host, in evident relief; ‘4¢ would have been horrid to go and leave you here; but, of course, if you wished it, I would go. I would,” he blushed again at this point, ‘do anything you wished.” «You are so very good,” Maggie murmured, thought- fully, as she stirrea her coffee. She was considering how very shy. he seemed to be for a young man who ordered other men about so easily, and whom she had heard ad- dressing very vigorous and decided language to her véarers the night before. Evidently he was still as defic- ient in the matter of conversation as she had always re- membered him to be; so deficient, in fact, as to inyite the good-natured snubbing and friendly contempt of a mere country girllike herself. She began to think now that perhaps talking did not matter so much after all. Arthur managed to express all that he really wanted to do, and the whole of that was kind, and pleasant to know. She knew some people much more fluent, whose fluency only made her feel uncomfortable ; it was always used to prove her in the wrong. She gave one or two shy, observant glances at her host, and decided that he was much nicer than she had thought, and that even his habit of blushing—so inconsistent with his age and posi- tion—was not altogether unpleasant. Possibly he might not be so shy and embarrassed with every one; her own presence might have something to do with it. At this idea she blushed a little herself, and gave her attention to her knife and fork. After breakfast was over there was nothing particular to be done; and it was necessary to wait for her brother. Arthur seemed to think it his duty to:find some amuse- ment for her in the interval; and, as’she began to feel a little more at ease, and to show curiosity about her sur- | on his countenance. dining-room, the bedroom she had occupied, a couple of dressing-rooms, and an Office, where Mr. Nicholson worked. Of course, everything required apologizing for, and it was explained that each individual item of furniture would have been altered if it had been known that she was coming. Maggie had already learned to accept this abject depreciation of her host’s property as simply her due; she therefore took no notice of it, and, indeed, was beginning to be devoured by a special curi- osity which occupied her whole attention. At last she had seen everything—had observed that there could not be any more rooms which she had nof gone into, and was impelled to ask: “Where did vow sleep last night, Mr. Nicholson ?” “1? Oh, 1 sleptin the veranda,” he answered in an off- hand manner, as if the bungalow existed for anything but the convenience of its proprietor. ‘‘I very often do.” “T am afraid I turned you out of your room,” Maggie said, gravely. ® «Oh, dear me, no. Notatall. By nomeans. It’s im- mensely jolly sleeping in the veranda at this time of the year.” They took a stroll in the forest together, examined the spot where the break-down had occurred the night be- tore, and began to feel much more friendly and less em- barrassed in each other’s presence. When they returned to the bungalow for the midday meal they found even more servants about the place than they had left; and the dining-room was occupied by visiters who had taken possession in their absence. Throughgthe open door could be seen a lady—a_ pretty- looking young woman—and her baby and nurse. “Good gracious !” said Arthur, stopping in dismay. “If it isn’t Mrs. Frere! What the-—— I mean, what in the world Gan she be doing here? The most tremenJous talker! A pretty mess she'll make of it!” He looked at Maggie with contrition, as if ithad been all his fault. “It can’t be helped,” he said; ‘‘we must make the best of it. Say as little as youcan. [ll do the talk.” Maggie was mystified, but said nothing; and they went in together. “Vm so glad you've come in, Mr. Nicholson. I was afraid you. were off for the day. You see [I’ve taken possession. My husband is going on with his hunting farther up the country, but Pm sick of it, and on my way back to Simla. I thought I would rest. here a few hours.” Arthur Nicholson murmured something about ‘‘aw- | fully pleased,” and then turned to introduce Maggie. “Mr. Nicholls’ sister; just out from England, you know.” “Thad heard you were coming, not come,” said the lady, smiling sweetly on Maggie; ‘“‘and where is your brother ?” «He'll not be in yet for afew hours,” Arthur answered, brazenly, before she had time to reply; ‘‘perhaps he’ll turn. up before you go.” «And you have not gone out with him?’ said Mrs. | Frere, turning to her host with a wicked sort of glance. “No; ’d something to do, and couldn’t go out,” the young man answered, without the trace of a blush “Ym awfully hard-worked, you know.” -Awtully, I should think,” replied the lady, mischiey- ously. ‘‘And how do you like India, Miss Nicholls ?” “I have seen so little of it yet,” the girl answered, shyly, feeling that she was somehow on delicate ground. «You mast be tremendously tired, Mrs. Frere,” Arthur remarked ; and Maggie wondered to see that ingenuous and simple-minded young man show such a hypocrit- ical amount of Sympathy. ‘‘Have they got you anything to eat ?” F The blissful occupation of feeding filled up some of the time which followed before the departure of Mrs. Frere; and Arthur talked ‘‘tremendously” all the time, as he would have said himself. He scarcely left any room for Maggie to take a part in the conversation. “I thought you never had visitors, Mr. Nicholls,” Mrs. Frere remarked ; ‘‘that you were quite a hermit in your : way—that people had to make you take them in, in fact, before you could be induced to do it.” Arthur grinned somewhat uncomfortably as his char- acter was thus explained. “And I didn’t know that you had room for ladies,” his guest continued, ‘‘orI might have been very glad to come myself, and have a shorter day’s journey. Isup- pose you gentlemen sleep on the veranda ?” ‘Yes; its awfully jolly on the veranda,” her host -re- plied, smiling stillrather asif he were under torture. So, in fact, he always was when he had the privilege of entertaining Mrs. Frere. At last she went, shaking hands cordially with Mag- gie, and regretting that she had missed her «What a blessing that's over!” Arthur remarked, as the whole cavalcate of lady, baby, and servants disap- peared among the trees. ‘She hasa most awful tongue, | little sideways she rested against his shoulder, and they | bare of furniture. There were three or four chairs, and | both of them felt a despairing comfort in this situation, | that woman. to tell about she’d have been as pleased as Punch. was on pins and needles all the time.” “There is notning that matters being told about, is there ?” Maggie asked, uncomfortably. “No, of course not. Not in the least. But she’s such a dreadful woman; she might have made some- thing up.” Maggie understood perfectiy that he had not wanted Mrs. Frere to gossip about the misadventure which had thrown her under his protection instead of her brother’s. “Your brother’s so immensely particulsr, don’t. you know. He’d have been awfully vexed if she’d been able to make anything up.” ss / Thus lucidly did Arthur-complete his explanation. If she only could have found something Lj CHAPTER III. “IT’S AWFULLY GOOD OF YOU.” Evening did not bring Maggie’s brother. On the con- trary, it brought the return of the messenger, with the informatron that the Sahib Nieholis was away in camp, but the letter had been sent after him at once. Now, Arthur had promised Maggie that the messen- ger should be treated with wrath and contumely if he dared to appear without her brother; but the promise was not kept. He explained that it was better for the man to have come back to tell them what-to expect than to have gone On with the letter himself. «You'd have been fretting all to-night, and wondering what had become of your brother, you know.” ‘How long do you think it will be before he comes ?” “Oh, a very short time. 1 dare say he’ll turn up first thing to-morrow.” “It’s very disappointing,” said Maggie, slowly. Mr. Nicholson had the grace to say that he was awfully sorry; but he didn’t look it. That evening was pleasanter than the one before had been. Maggie felt more at home, and her host more at his ease. He had been inviting criticism so persistently throughout the day, that now she began to give it, and to ask what wasthe use of sucha thing, and why he had adopted that particular arrangement of furniture. He showed the utmost zeal in alteration, and said it was awfully good of her to show him how things ought to be. “Tf Tcould only have put them right before you came,” he said, apologetically. “Well,” said Maggie, beginning to feel absolutely mis- chievous—for it is surprising to observe how a snubbed intelligence can blossom into brightness under the sun- shine of appreciation, and here was more than apprecia- tion, here was abject submission offered at'her feet—‘‘I might have sent for plans of your room beforehand, and writteno tell you where it was wrong. There’s that chair, for instance; as soon’ as everI got here you al- most said that you would have had it mended ifI had let you know in time.” “It’s a disgraceful chair,” her host replied, standing in an attitude of disgusted contemplation before the of- fending piece of furniture. “IT believe I could mend it myself. and strong thread,” said Maggie. Mr. Nicholson was horrified, and uttered violent pro- tests. He was torn in pieces between conflicting reluc- tances. He could not endure to refuse her anything, and he could not bear to let her work for him. Her im- periousness carried the day, however, and the imple- ments were brought; then he watched the operation in a rapture of admiration and an ecstasy of regret im- possible to describe. Afterward Maggie made him bring a hammer and nails, and do sundry other repairs under her direction. He gazed at the result with intense approbation. ‘How you do think of things !” he remarked. Well,” said Maggie, contemplatively, ‘I. really be- lieve we—I mean you—could make this place very nice.” « @<—____—_—_ LONG AGO. BY NORA GWYNNE. Two withered leaves from a laurel tree, Lightly given, but carefully kept, Shriveled and shrunk, but dear to me For the sake of one who for years hath slept ; Two leaves are all I have left below Of a dear, dear friend of Long Ago. A silken tress of glittering gold, I have not the heart to move it now, Though hers who gave it has grown as cold As the flashing jewels that wreathed her brow ; Tis all I have left me new to show Of the love she gave me long ago, Faded writing, and paper brown With the fees that have passed since the words were traced ; But there are loving thoughts written down By hands that have long been on cold hearts placed. A letter is all I have left to show Of many a friend of Long Ago. >-o-~+ [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM,} Murray Hill Mystery: OR, THE | effusively grateful to his host, but he was vigorous in his arrangements for departure. Poor Maggie, in the solitude of making final prepara- | | tions, shed a tear, and wished herself back in the village | | ab home. | Her brother had brought a pony for her to ride back | | upon. When she was mounted, her host came and stood | mournfully beside her. Every body else was busy with | Something or another, and Ned’s voice could be heard | using decisive language to his servants round a corner. | Arthur fingered the reins to see that they were right; | | then his hand touched Maggie’s and he clasped it; so | | they remained holding each other's fingers with a des- | | perate clasp asif the world was bent on dragging them | apart. And we know that it wasn’t. | < ‘It will be miserable without you,” Arthur said, som- | | berly. | Maggie’s head drooped, and the tears rose in her eyes again. He stood so near to her that when she leaned a | At least Mag- | though each pretended not to know of it. |. gie pretended to herself that she did not know, and Ar- | thur hoped to himself that she would not find out. “It’s a beastly hole!” he declared, wretchedly. wonder how I could ever,have asked you to come to it. No wonder you wouldn’t !” ~ “TI wish you wouldn’t say that, It’sa nice place; I like it; and you have been so good tome. I shall not be so happy again in Indla, I know.” Her voice trembled, and her head drooped lower. He had the courage to lean a little closer, a little nearer to her; he pretended to be busy with the bridle, and they looked aigit together Wathour yenturing to meet each other's eyes; thus his chéek touched hers, and he-felt-a tear on it, which was quite too much for any man’s com- posure ; he turned a little, and kissed her. It was a very._wrong thing to do, and when Maggie thought of it atterward she remembered that it was her fault as much as his. It must have been her fault, be- cause, if it hadn't, thie kiss would have been on her cheek only, and she felt the touch of it on her lips instead. Could she have helped him to doit? What adreadfully improper girl she was, and no wonder her brother was ashamed of her! i | Nevertheless, she felé unaccountably comforted by | this regrettable incident, although immediately after- | ward she was involved in the tumult of the actual de- | parture, and there was no time to say another word to | Arthur Nicholson. Perhaps she was glad there wasn’t, | for she had no courage to meet his eyes, while he gazed at her with a pale, eager face, and wrung her hand des- perately at parting. ‘Maggie! Maggie!” she heard him say, under his breath, and nothing else. ; They were gone. She was crying quietly, and hoping her brother didn’t see. He was full of business and vex- ation and talk. “Tt was extremely inconvenient, your turning up at this time, Mag,” he said; ‘“‘I suppose you couldn’t help | it, but I call it downright inconsiderate of those people to alter their plans without consulting you. ou’ve el } for me. I never heard of such a thing. Did anybody come 2?” ‘ «A Mrs. Frere came yesterday—to lunch, or breakfast, or tiffin, whatever you call it.” “Mrs. Frere! You don’tsay so! talker! It will be known everywhere now. noying thing to happen.” “J don’t think she knew,” murmured Maggie; ‘Mr. | Nicholson didn’t tell her that you hadn’t come yet. I fancy she thought I was staying there with you.” Ned looked at her sharply, but she had turned away her head. ‘Mind what you're doing, Mag ; your pony wants care- ful handling on a path like this. Nicholson seems a very good-natured fellow ; 1 used to think he was fond of you once in England. Pity he wasn’t. Now, Mag, you don’t mean to say that you're crying! What the dickens is the matter now ?” . «It's because you didn’t seem glad to see me,” Maggie murmured, with a feeble sob, ‘‘and it’s so lonely here. I didn’t want to leave England, but I couldn’t help it.” «Well, well, don’t make a fuss, whatever happens. It’s awfully bad form to cryin public. You’ve done quite enough to set people talking already. I don’t pretend that I'm glad to see you; but I mean to be kind to you, and make you comfortable, and all that. Only don’t make us both ridiculous in the eyes of everybody. That was always your way, I remember.” It was not wondertul that Maggie felt lonely and ill at ease in her new home when at last she reached it. She longed for England, she longed for her old friends, she longed for kindness and love. When, a month afterward, Arthur Nicholson rode up to her brother’s bungalow, and presented himself in rather a Shamefaced manner, saying, ‘I hope it wasn’t very cool of mé to come here ?” she gave him both her hands, and looked into his face with eyes which seemed to have grown larger in her loneliness. ‘Tm awfully glad to see you,” she replied, using the phraseology to which she had grown accustomed. You look ill, Maggie. Aren’t you well?” he asked, anxiously. ; *T’m only lonely,” she.answered, trying to smile; ‘‘no- vody wants me; nobody cares”’—here sbe broke down completely. ( “J want you, Maggie, immensely; I always did, you know,” he said, eagerly. ‘Don’t you think, Maggie—it is a horrid place, I know—but don’t you think you could come again ?” «It isn’t horrid, in the least,” she asserted, ‘‘it’s the nicest place I’ve been to in this country.” “Its so good of you to say so. Of course, I could alter things, and make them better, if you would show me how. It’s very dull, too. You'd see nobody.” “Except Mrs. Frere,” suggested Maggie. “Thank goodness, she’s not likely to turn up again for a long time,” he replied, fervently. ‘It does seem a hole to ask you to,” he went on, despondently ; ‘‘but still, if you could make up your mind.” «There’s one thing that you haven’t mentioned,” said Maggie, demurely, ‘‘which wouid be there, I suppose.” “J can’t remember anything you would be likely to care for,” he answered, doubtfully, ‘‘but if there is, ’m sure ’'m awtully glad.” ‘‘Wouldn’t,” asked Maggie, grown suddenly shy, and oe with a ring on her finger, ‘‘wouldn’t you be ere ?” “IT! Oh, Maggie, you don’t mean that you like me ?” ‘Tf 1 don’t, how can you think I shall come ?—what should I come jor 2” she asked in a low voice. “Because you are so good—so awfully nice and kind. There is nobody in the least like you.” He had got his arms round her by this time, and had taken possession of the ring and finger and all. «Do you think it was because I was so good and kind that I let you do that before ?” “JT suppose it was, Maggie. It couldn’t be because you liked me. There is nothing about me to like. Hadn’t you told me so in that old letter 1 was reading just be- fore you came in ?” «And would you like me to be as good and kind to other people ?” murmured a voice in his ear. “Oh, Maggie; now you're langhing at me !” The most inveterate A most an- HINDOO DETECTIVE’S PLEDGE. By DONALD J. McKENZIE. Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,” “MIRIAM BLAIR,” etc. “THe Murray Hint Mystery” was commenced in No. 12. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XYI. CONCLUSION. The apartment in which the reporter and his com- panion found themselves was a spacious one, and nearly a large, square box, the latter serving asa stand fora light. The room contained eight persons, besides the new- comers. At the further end was a huddled group, con- sisting of three ladies and a child. by should turn out that your cousins were both dead, then you'd get all the old man’s millions, wouldn’t you ? AU, in spite of his whim to make Grace Emory his heir in a new. will, and destroy the old one that gives every- thing to you. And then, again, that lover of yours, who thinks more of your missing cousin—you’d like to win him back—eh? That is, if she didn’t turn up again. ' You’d be better off, you see, if she and the little kid were never to be found, wouldn’t you 2” ‘But J did not wish violence to be done to them.” «That’s what you say. Buthow would you go to work to prove it—eh? We've talked this all over before. You made your mistake when you made a crooked bar-- gain with a desperate chap likeme. That compromised you, don’t you see? And whatever happens to those fou have abducted, you'll be held responsible for. That’s ow it all stands. Ten thousand will restore them to you, and keep me silent. Butif you refuse to give me this, Pll jest skip. and leave evidence behind me that will put you behind prison bars for the rest of your life. It’s an ugly scrape for you, but money will get you out of it. You've got just ten minutes to make up your mind. Think tast.” All this made the whole case Clear to the keen brain of the Hindoo detective. : Helena Evans was passionate, impulsive, headstrong. Her eccentric, inebriated uncle had idolized her, made her his heiress in a will, and a life of promise had opened before her. She had loved Philip Hayne, and they were betrothed. In the midst of this dream of bliss, Grace Emory and her little sister had come upon the scene. Grace, with her beauty and goodness, and the child, with her win- some loveliness, had won the fickle regard of old Amos Evans, and, in obedience to a whim, he had made a new will, making the Emorys his heirs. Of this Grace had been in ignorance, else she would have protested against the injustice to her cousin. All this Helena might have borne had she not become aware that the affections of Philip Hayne were likewise transferred to her more gentle cousin. This had almost maddened her at first. In the mad whirl of jealousy, disappointment, and heart-anguish, Helena Evans had entered into a Compact with this ruffian to temporarily abduct her cousins, and make it eee that they had run away with their on free will. ; ° What she expected to gain by this desperate attion, she herself could not have explained. She regretted the mad deed the instant it was accomplished, and had im- plored Yankee George to undo the work. But the villain was elated by the opportunity to extort money from the young woman. He determined tomake a big haul by the transaction, and, but for the inter- ference of the patient Hindoo detective, who was not to be led upon a false scent, he would have succeeded. What followed this interview can be briefly described; as we hasten to the closing scene. Helena, under the stress of the ruffian’s threats, had er to his demands, pledging him the sum he had Then, with the other ruffian, they had been on th point of departing, when Tommy Larkin arrived. / _He had followed Helena’s carriage, determined to dis- tinguish himself. Yankee George and his companion, as Helena was about to leave the lonely house, saw Hy- jah and his boy assistant springing toward them. They retreated to the room where the prisoners were confined, leaving Helena face to face with the detective. In a few words he told her that he knew all. And with that gentleness of which the stern man was capa- ble, he had quickly said: : You have suffered enough, my pvor girl. Confess your wrong to Grace Emory—she will forgive you!” In silence she had followed him, as he hurried on to make sure ot the ruffians. Reaching the room where the latter were at bay, a brief, terrible struggle ensued. A pistolshot, a hand-to- hand conflict, and both were overpowered. It was at this point that Frank Faulkner ’and Louis Jordan arrived upon the scene. . The details which immediately followed it is need- less to give. > * * * * * Nearly a week later two persons entered the hand- some private office of the Hindoo detective. t The latter was seated at his desk, and by his side was a handsome, shrewd-faced boy, whom he was patiently initiating into the mysteries of his profession. Ps Helena Evans and Louis Jordan greeted the detective warmly, and the latter, eying them keenly, said: - ‘Friends, are you ?” Helena, with flushing cheeks, replied : “How could I be ungrateful to one who would have forfeited his life, honor, everything to shield me from the consequences of my wrong-doing ?” “It would have been a shabby trick to bear ill-will oe man who would do that. But what brings you ere ?: A 4 Jordan, in answer, placed acheck, filled out for a large sum, upon the detective’s desk. . “Accept that as a slight token of the value which I place upon your services in solving the Murray Hill mys- GraceEmory, pale, beautiful, with clasped hands and | tery,” he said trembling form, stood in the background. Gipsy Clay- ton, also pale, but with lips resolutely compressed, clung to the arm of Grace with one hand, while her other arm was thrown protectingly around the child. ; The latter, with her bright, beautiful curls, lovely fea- tures and petite form was instantly recognized by Faulk- ner as little Ermie! The fourth person in this group was ‘Helena Evans, whose face was averted, and who trem- bled with the violence of her agitation. In the middle of the apartment was another group, of which the tall figure of the Hindoo detective was the most prominent. In one hand he held a smoking pistol ; with the other he ciutched the shoulder of the ruffian, Yankee George. Behind him lay the form of another ruffian, blood ooz- ing from a wound; and at the detective’s side stood Tommy Larkin, his young assistant. Tommy had a pistol also, and as Jordan entered, the boy covered the latter with it, exclaiming : ‘None 0’ yer smartness here, ‘less yer wants to be dropped. This yer ain’t-a street picnic—not much !” Jordan recoiled, but Faulkner advanced, saying : “Jf not too late, I would like a hand in this game.” Hyjah, in his accusiomed tones, replied : «You are not too late. Just tie this man’s arms while I hold him in position. He is an ugly customer, and would willingly exchange his life for mine. I don’t want to kill him. There's a rope in my pocket. lhad to leave my handcuffs when I engaged in a swimming match awhile ago. Be lively about it. George knows that Ill actually been at Nicholson’s place two nights waiting | blow his brains out if he kicks. Faulkner quickly complied with the detective’s direc- tions. The ruffian was speedily reduced to a state of helplessness. Then, to the reporter's surprise, Hyjah crossed the room and lightly touched the arm of Helena Evans, saying : “It is all over, Miss Evans—at least, the worst of the ordeal is past. Those whom you have attempted to wrong are here, and, unless I mistake the character of Grace Emory, your confession will bring forgiveness and pity from her gentle heart rather than reproaches. Confess—unburden your conscience, and be a free wo- man again!” A moment of breathless silence ensued. It was broken by Helena, who, with white, penitent face, went over to her cousin and cried, in a tremulous voice: «Forgive! forgive! though you spurn me for the wicked, crime-stained creature I am!” To briefly acquaint the reader with a solution of the Murray Hill mystery, which Hyjah, the Hindoo, had already obtained, we will go back to the point at which chapter twenty-four of our story closed. The great detective, in his disguise. had shadowed Yankee George to the house of mystery. The ruffian had scarcely entered the lonely house be- fore Hyjah entered also, silent, unobserved, yet close at 4 the Villain’s heels. The man unlocked and entered a room upon the sec- ond floor. The Hindoo concealed himself near at hand, peering into the room through a crevice. There, to his intense amazement, he saw Grace Emory, Gipsy Clayton, and little Ermie. All—even the beautiful child—had their wrists bound and their feet fettered. George only remained in this room long enough to see that his captives were still secure. Then he repaired to another room, where he was presently joined by a ruffian whom the detective recognized as one of the most reck- less outlaws in New York. The detective saw at once that they were waiting for some one else; and, with his accustomed patience, he also waited. Within half an hour a lady, shabbily dressed, and with her face concealed by a thick vail, arrived, and was greeted familiarly by Yankee George. In spite of her disguise, Hyjah recognized Helena Evans. ‘The lady,” with all her beauty and grace, confronted Yankee George with clasped hands and white, horrified countenance. The Hindoo detective, from his place of concealment, ae every word of the brief conversation which fol- owed. : “J have come—and now I demand that you tell me what you have done with—with my cousins?” were Helena’s first words. Yankee George, who appeared nervous and ill at ease, as though he apprehended an interruption, replied: “So you have come to make demands of me? 1 thought it would be the other way.” And the ruffian, in a harsh, inexorable tone, con- tinued : ‘‘Have you brought the money I told you to bring »” “T owe you nothing.” “Don’t you? I rather think you do.” “JT paid you all I agreed to pay.” «So you did. ButI didn’t agree to be satisfied with the amount. Just ten thousand dollars will make us square, my fine lady. Refuse to pay it, and you’ll an- swer to the crimes of abduction and murder’!” Helena recoiled, and huskily exclaimed : ‘ «You have not killed them? I told you to do them no njury !” : “T have forgotten any such injunctions. Il remember your making a bargain with me to get your pretty cousin out of the way for a short time, and make it ap- pear that she had run away with some low lover of her less prosperous days. You told me to do that, didn’t you ?” : “Yes. In my mad frenzy I did that, though I would to Heaven [ had not!" ‘Never mind regrets. You hired me to do a crooked job. P’raps you told me not to hurt the girl—I won’t “But Amos Evans has paid me for that already—hand- somely, too.” “Never mind ; take this.” i “Upon one condition.” \ _ alone = that ?” . : : y. rew his pen through his own th check and rapidly wrote the name of Tommy Parkin ; its place. e t ey on rom e Teese stand thus,” he said. “Certainly. e lad deserves it, although he has been pretty saucy to both Helena and Tayself.” ‘ ‘ Tommy glanced at the check, distended his eyes, put- fed Pa ans whistled. “By Jiminy!” he burst out; “ain’é I rich? [m bloated Salamander, I be. Won't make a spread! Won't the Wall street sharpers stare when I go down there wid a white hat on! Won’t railroad and telephone stock go up when I go on the market asa bull! I—I’m goin’ to start a Sub-Treasury, lam. By Jiminy!” - Tommy was happy, and he deserved to be. But pros- perity did not spoil him. He is still a mere youth, but there is not in the country a more promising Senet de- tective than Tommy Larkin, and with these bright pros- pects we will take our leave of him. * * * * * * * = Gipsy Clayton, at the solicitation of Grace Emory, be- came an inmate of the Evans’ mansion, where ans re- mained until Frank Faulkner, the young reporter, took her to his cozy home over in Jersey City. Of course she could not refuse to do this, after he had saved her from the horrible consequences of borrowing a horse and buggy, and running away from home. Grace Emory and Philip were married in due time: but not until Helena had announced to them that she wished them to do so, and that, if they were willing, she and Louis Jordan would make it a double wedding. Grace Emory’s aberration of mind was only tempor- ary, it being caused by the hour of lonely horror which she had passed in the house of mystery. Of this mystery, which for some time had been no mystery to the Hindoo detective, an explanation is due i it he has not already solved it in his own The house was a rendezvous for Yankee George an ao ot eae vue he was the leader. init ection S were stored; and more than o: i — been ee there. Te eee was with a knowledge of these perils which lu within its gloomy walls that Hyjab ‘had not pacitieeee Frank Faulkner to enter. The inmates, by every means, strove to inspire people with superstitious aversion to the place, and in this way they succeeded. Hyjah him- self had once passed a night in the house, and only by the excercise of his powerful will did he withstand the Satie, phenomena invoked by the crafty denizens of the Now, with the arrest and imprisonment of Yankee George and several of his the gang was broken up. The mysterious box, which the ruffian had appeared so anxious to dispose of, was found to contain worthless rade = er a contrived as a device for mis- ng detectives, and more deeply Helena Evans. eS ee ur story is told. We might prolong it by dwellin; upon the happiness of the fortunate hitoes in ae aramne or the miseries of the criminal. But this does not come iF na province. : yjah, the Hindoo had redeemed his ge, an brought to justice the ae > vast and little Ermie. € has made similar pledges since, and always fulfilled’ eth te Sey. fails. cant never boasts. Hee Rvacn arless, merciful to the J > toward eae deserving, inexorable A model detective, a conscientious, brave, noble- hearted man—as such he will linger in our memory as one whom we have known and honored. (THE END.] {Another brisk and exciting detective story, by the author of “THE Murray HILL Mystery,” is begun this week on the first page.” ———_—_——__>-@9~<—_______ A FEARLESS YOUNG AMERICAN. There was a Sunday-school teacher, and her class was composed of a goodly number of average small boys. The other Sunday the lesson was upon the Babylonian captivity, and the teacher had done her best in prepar- the lesson so as to attract and hold their attention. This is not always an easy matter in some of the Old Testa ment historical lessons, and so the teacher’s energies were directed toward making the story life-like and realistic to her young pupils. : “Now just suppose, boys,” she began, ‘‘that some great army was to come here and take fathers, and mothers, and you yourselves prisoners, and carry you off to astrange land and make you work as slaves, and try to page you believe in their religion instead of your own,” &c. , : AS her vivid imagination enl: she was pleased to notice that the ed; but her satisfaction quickly ended as one patriotic urchin, amid the smiles of his comrades, exclaimed : . “Yessum, ’twould be kinder rough; but there ain’t a nation on the earth that’s big enough to do it.” fei aa Horsford’s Acid Phosphate, x Beware of Imitations. ¢ Imitations and counterfeits haye again ap- peared. Be sure that the word ‘‘Horsrorp’s” upon the picture say whether you did or not. But you made a bargain with me, and I’m known as a hard customer. If it is on the wrapper. None are genuine without it, heartless abductors or Grace yS looked interest- . fat anes tc - sm ey I th ae DS ee ee ee ee aN eetle “aie oils athe i te ee age ee eh i eT oak tee geraie ” A etd ee a a LA FS be PP et OA oe ee ke A ~~) — CO OAT heh TH ot om Oe | CU TH A Se Seto wD Ae oe ee See ee owo we — Ww mercenaria pecan ~~ dagrpgememnemnmrers ~Tr een . mere: RE RE RRR amt og The spot kind friends may dwell in— Yet dearer e’en than all beside, To me is charming Ellen. See at [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] Married at Midnight: OR, |) “TTTE BRIDE'S FATE - By JOHN A. PETERS. (“MARRIED AT MIDNIGHT” was commenced in No. 14. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXI.—(CONTINUED.) But the count stood his ground. He was no coward, but a brave and strong man, and he backed a little far- ther out of reach of those threatening horns, assumed his most belligerent, attitude, raised his stick again, and down fell another shower of blows; and so quick they came, and so stinging they were, that, unprepared, the beast veered about, kicked up her heels, and rushed as if afraid ofher life through the bushes down the hill. «Let her go,” cried Martha. ‘You'll never succeed in bringing her tome. She is obstinacy personified.” «J shall do no such thing,” retorted the count, his anger fully aroused. ‘Ill pommel her, beat her within an inch of her life if she tries any capers, and will not mind. A pretty time to cry ‘stop,’ after urging me on so persistently. You are a woman!” asif that were the most objectionable thing he could call her, and rushing pell-mell after the retreating cow. Round and round the lot, up hill and down hill, he chased her, drops of perspiration rolling off his face, his hands bleeding with the briers that attacked him in his fruitless pursuit, and his clothes covered with what old Mr. Graft termed, ‘‘them pesky tory-weeds.” He dropped to the ground at last, exhausted, as the cow shot by him straight as an arrow from its bow, switching her tail in his face. Gerald Trevlyn was a most exemplary man. never giv- ing vent to profane language when seriously tried, so | the words muttered below his breath now, and which sounded very much like oaths, could not have been any- thing amy 9 than the interjections we make use of . when something occurs to roil us. One expression, how- ever, was distinctly audible, and it was ‘hissed through ’ set teeth. “Twas this: «Go to the devil, unruly cow! I would not continue my mad chase if you had your flibbertigibbet of a mis- tress on your back, carrying her off to perdition.” Such a low, soft, incredulous laugh as fell upon his ear. He lifted his head, and there stood the mistress, with the two long locks he admired creeping under her net eee oe down her back like sentient things. ‘Who's hard-hearted, now ?” she cried. ‘Ha! hat ha! 0 plack’s back, riding to perdition.’ Have you the least idea what I call that cow ?” ; “There’s not a name in the English language that would do her justice. Vixen is appropriate for that bovine thing that kicked over the milk and sent you sprawling to the ground, but this one—Bah! she’s the devil!” “No, begging your pardon, she isn’t either: she is sim- ply a follower of Belial. Her name is not inappropriate, and I did not consult Webster’s Unabridged when I gave it her. I named her after a cross old maid, Cross by name, and cross by nature; the crossest girl in fact I ever knew. She was christened Martha Cross.” “Ah!” alight breaking upon him, and suddenly re- calling to mind his errand; ‘‘that reminds me of whom I came outin quest. If the reports were not so contra- dictory and conflicting, I should say that it was Miss Cross—one of the two ladies I’m seeking—who stands be- fore me; but having heard her styled ‘that amiable Miss Cross’ by Mr. Hunter, and ‘that cross Miss Cross’ by yourself, and knowing from experience that amiability is not an attribute possessed by mademoiselle, but that she is copio blessed with what is vulgarly termed spunk, I don’t know what to think.” ‘Don’t think at all, then,” said Martha; ‘it is too hot weather to ye on your thinking-cap. Let me enlighten you. I am Martha Cross, and much chagrined that, in giving you an insight to my true character, that eupho- ~ ious cay wo prefixed to my name by Mr. Hunter will erased. have to Inform me, please, whom I have the pleasure of ing.” , “Oh, I flourish under the high-sounding patronymic of Trevlyn. I am Gerald Trevlyn, at your service,” laughingly replied the count, carefully suppressing his title. . Why he suppressed it he could not have told. It may be that he thought the woman who attracted him would freeze into conventionality and grow uncommu- nicative if she were aware that sbe was in the presence of atitled man. Martha was not that sort of a woman, though. She was one that would act out her natural self, no matter in what company she found herself. “You are from the Pavilion, and a triend of Miss Huntley” she interrogated. “I comprehend now the reason you strayed off to this solitary spot. Not finding the lady at the house, you came out in search of her, and I haye been so mean as to keep you at work all the while. Itistoo bad! You see that green wood yonder? She is on the outskirts, hunting ferns. I accompanied her there, but was obliged to make my stay short on ac- count of having these. amiable (how I do like that word)! cows to milk. Go and join her.” ‘NotI. I am not fond of gathering ferns for young ladies to stow away in their herbariums, and there is enough diablerie about me to want to stay and see you milk that cow. How will you manage it ?” “But I donot want you tostay, sir. Dogo and play the agreeable to Miss Huntley. She must be lonely and afraid in that dark wood.” . “Nonsense! The dryads—beneficent spirits of the wood—will watch over her, keep the hobgoblins away, and let no harm befall her. Look at my garb, Miss Mar- tha Srass! AmI presentable? Does this crushed thing on my he&ibear any resemblance to a hat? See the tears running criss-cross in my coat, and the blackberry stains on myimmaculate shirt-bosom. Call the cow, if you can, and milk her, and we'll wend our way to the farm-house.” “To hear is toobey. Notice how obedient my name- sake is to her mistress’ call. Martha Cross! Martha Cross!” elevating her voice a trifle, “come here!” at the same time slyly taking from her-pocket a handful of salt and holding it out, To the unmitigated surprise of the count, black Mar- tha was obedient tothe summons, and walked as sub- missively as a lamb to the girl’s side, lapped the salt out of her hand, and offered not the slightest resistance when being milked. A witch in verytruth,” he muttered; “even that demoniac brute acknowledges her power and obeys her call. Miss Cross,” he said, aloud, ‘‘you have attached to the black the only name under the sun fit forher. Are you ready to go? Let me take your pail.” ‘ Let down the bars for me first, if you will beso kind. No, that’s not the way. Shove the boards along to the right. There, you have it at last. How do you fancy farm-work, Mr. 'Trevlyn ?” “7 am ignorant of whatit consists. If what I’ve been doing constitutes a part of it, 1 have decidedly no taste for it. Labhor it !” «Why, what you’ve been doing is nothing but woman’s work. Man’s work is infinitely harder. Oh, how I should enjoy seeing you attempting it!” «you'll never have that pleasure,” he irascibly replied,’ admiring the trim ankle and arched foot of the girl, who Let gh along lightly at his side, swinging the empty pail in her hand. As they emerged from the pasture-lot into the broad lane leading to the orchard Count Trevlyn involuntarily paused and swept with his glance the diversified lana- scape. Afar off in the west, where the sun was sinking slowly to rest, a gorgeous pile of opaline-tinted clouds was sailing. Silence sweet and unutterably deep fell around them, enveloping them like the atmosphere. The man and woman dropped their air of jocoseness and grew serious; no more banteriug words passed be- tween them; instead, their talk assumed a graver tone more in keeping with their age and dignity. As they pursued their way, forgetting they were leav- ing Hope behind, she came hurrying toward them, her hands loaded down with graceful, feathery ferns. ’ “Martha,” she called, ‘‘you served me a really mean trick. You promised to return to the woods ere going to the house, so I ensconced ‘myself in an enchanting little nook, and waited patiently till I was afraid the night would overtake me and you would not come; then I made up my mind tostart. Ah! can I credit my senses? Is it really you, Count Trevlyn ?” as he turned toward her smilingly and courteously raised his bat- tered hat. “It really is, mademoiselle, and I suppose I am the cause of your perturbation and Miss Cross’ delinquency. Such a time as we’ve had! Did you ever chase a cow, Miss Huntley ?” ; ‘Never, save in my dreams,” laughed Hope. ‘‘Why do you ask ?” " “Only to make clear the reason of my being in such a deplorable state—to account for the gaps in my clothes and the scratches on my face and hands. It all came through chasing a cow—and such a cow !” ‘Ts it Vixen or Martha Cross you have reference to ?” asked Hope. ‘I accompanied Miss Cross this morning when she went to milk, and I was atraid of my life. One kicked at me when I tried to milk her, and the other ran after me, and if I hadn’t dodged behind a clump of prickly bushes, I don’t know what might have happened. There’s not much choice between them.” «You are in ignorance of their true dispositions as yet. Martha Cross is eee, the worse of the two. Vixen is not all bad.. She simply upset her mis- tress and a pail of milk, whereas Martha Cross—shall I oer the unforgivable acts she was guilty of, milk- maid ?’ But the milkmaid did not hear. That one word count had stricken her dumb—speechless. That she should have ordered a nobleman, as coolly as she would have ordered a farm-hand, to bring up the cow, and gloried in his non-success and the difficultiesshe encountered, vexed her more than she was willing to own. The gentleman mistrusted the cause of her distress, and winked slyly at Hope, as he said: — “Miss Huntley, are milkmaids who sing Italian com- mon in this neighborhood ? Iran upon one, and was so silly as to believe her some treacherous siren, luring people to destruction by the sweetness of her voice.” «Miss Huntley,” put in Martha, who had regained the equanimity never long deserting her, and no longer sorry for the trouble she had occasioned, ‘‘are counts, who frighten women, tear down fences, and battle with cows, very plentiful at the Pavilion? One strayed off here, in this outlandish part of the world, and as he differed in no degree in appearance from the ordinary mortals who inhabit this mundane spliere, I failed to him like other men.” ‘J don’t understand your sparring and the innuendoes you hurl at each other over my shoulders,” said Hope. “Tf it be your purpose to mystify me and torment each other, ask some more questions. I sha’n’t try to pene- trate your meaning. Martha, aren’t the ferns lovely?” “Did you converse with the departed spirit of any wood-nymph 2?” irrelevantly asked Martha. ‘‘Your friend, assuring me that the wood-nymphs would let no evil thing approach you.” “I was not molested, neither saw I any dryads peer- ing at me from sheltering boughs, nor heard their voices calling, unless they blénded with the rustling of the leaves, whose weird music ’m unable to translate. What is the news at the Pavilion, Count Trevlyn ?” “You act as though I were a collector of on dits. I was upon the point of observing that there was no hews of an agreeable nature, but there is. Weare to have a Jete champetre in a grove on the palisade road, and we are getting up a straw-ride to Cherry Valley.” “Cherry Valley,” iterated Hope. ‘I was there one day with Mr. Hunter. A peaceful Village, where one of the most horrible massacres recorded in history took place. The Tories and Indians slaughtered or took captive the entire population in—what year was it, Martha? I never can remember dates.” . “Tam not aw fait in that direction either. If I were | to compile a history, it would be rejected on account of } anachronisms ; but as Otsego County adjoins ours, I am pretty well acquainted with its towns, and can tell the year, if not the month and day, when any event of im- portance occurred. lt was in 1778.” c “Ah, yes; I can’t forget it again—two years after the Declaration of Independence. Here we are at the*house. count. Bid him welcome, Martha.” “T will relieve him of that pail of milk, first. Walk into the house and rest. You must stay and take tea | with us, count.” Later, a pleasant company gathered around the table set in the homely kitchen. The room was low, and tra- | versed by misshapen rafters, and there was no carpet on | the yellow-painted floor, but not a speck of dust marred its purity. The cloth covering the table was a spotless white; the old-fashioned white dishes, banded with gilt, were odd and pretty: the biscuits were light and snowy; the butter was golden; preserves gleamed redly through the glass walls of the tall dish, traced o’er with berry- leaves and vines; limpid honey oozed from a fump of comb; there was an abundance of fruit; and, altogether, | the partakers of the repast voted it as nice and dainty a | neal as they ever sat down to. o " | The green-eyed monster released his clutch on Vane, as the count devoted a good share of bis time and atten- tion to Martha, who presided at the table, the very queen of self-possession, and prettier than usual with the flush of excitement on her cheeks. Her rounded figure rose | out of a cloud-like environment of some thin, black ma- | terial, in which there-was no stiffness, and a few gera- | nium-leaves nestled in the neatly snooded,. hair, and | } | diffused their fragrance at the white throat, where they clung like living things. > Few would call her handsome, but nearly all wouid unite in thinking her attractive. The beauty she owned | was due more to “the reflex action upon her face and |}manner of her native goodness than to any external, form of feature.” Mrs. Northrup rallied the count on his rusty attire, as | asking him ‘“‘With whom he had been battling?” and puzzled not a little at bis laconic reply, ‘‘A cow.” | Explanations ensued, after which a graphic descrip- tion was given by the count, which was greeted by peal after peal of laughter, so long and loud that it startled | the old couple on the back stoop, causing them to won- | der what could be the matter. The moon, a silver crescent, rode high in the violet sky ere the count and Vane tore themselves away. “How soon can we come again?” Vane asked of the two girls, who accompanied them to the gate to see them mount their steeds, still tethered to the butter- nuts, It was Hope who answered : “Day after to-morrow—not before. Mrs. Northrup thinks she will be able to take up her old quarters at the cottage then.” «You might graciously permit us to put in an appear- ance at an early hour!” eagerly petitioned the count. ‘- never spent an entire day at a farm-house in my e ” Martha readily granted permission, only stipulating that they should not arrive befere ten o’clock, and that they should come prepared to work, to which. they un- hesitatingly agreed. Then, with a ‘Good-night and pleasant dreams!” the equestrians galloped away at a fast rate, and the two girls went within. CHAPTER XXII. MRS. THORNTON ARRIVES. After his visit to the old place where he first opened his eyes to the light, the time dragged slowly away to Walter. He could not settle himself to anything. Fig- uratively speaking, he felt as if the traditional sword swung above his head. If the accident had occurred anywhere else upon the broad face of the earth than at his parents’ home, he would have felt like singing a ju- bilate, inasmuch as it was the means of keeping the girl he dreaded—who he was afraid might work him harm— out of his,sight, and out of the sight of the woman who had done so much for him. That very night he expected Mrs. Thornton, and with the fatal likeness to the daughter, of whose existence she began to entertain hopes, what would be the result of her meeting Hope? Could he be mistaken? Was that resemblance purely accidental ? means of finding out: In a fever of impatience he passed the day. Once he had an opportunity to speak alone to Ethel. She sat on the portico of the cottage, engaged in the mysteries of that science which ladies paradoxically term plain needlework. Her fingers were not moving at all swiftly —her working, aS was apt to prove the case, being a mere pretense. if Walter was under a cloud, the shadow of it was touching her too. The summer she had anticipated with so much delight—which was to be one long pean of triumph to her, which was to bring Vane Hunter to her feet—was not proving a success. Into the woof of the net she was weaving she could discern more black threads than golden ones, and the material out of which they were spun was not as strong and durable as could be desired, butinclined to brittleness, and would, with a few strenuous pulls, fall apart and liberate her victim. What there was about Hope Huntley to make men go mad and act like fools she had failed to discover. The loveliness they expatiated upon was not so great that she should be passed by and utterly ignored! And in her indignation she stabbed her finger with the sharp aa she was wielding and brought forth a drop of looa. It was at this unpropitious moment that Walter as- cended the cottage steps. She tendered him a cool little nod of recognition, but did not deign to ask him to be seated. The act.of courtesy omitted did not trouble him. If her help was not needed he would never have obtruded himself into her presence, but steered clear of her, so insignificant an object was she in his sight. As it was, she might prove of use. So he drew a chair near to her, and aware of her inordinate love of:flattery, which never could be sated, he enacted the part of a parasite, and said : ‘How do you manage it, Miss Granger? After last night's dissipation, which has imparted to the counte- nance of the ladies I’ve met this morni a weary, almost haggard look, you are as fresh and charming as a delicately tinted June rose. Where is the fountain hidden at which you drink, whose waters contain prop- erties to make you ever radiant ?” This modicum of praise had the desired effect. Im- perceptibly she thawed. She no longer tried to chill him, but, with a smile dawning on her lips, made him welcome. Taking hiscompliment as a matter of course, she did not enlighten him as to where the fountain lay, but touched upon the plans being organized for their amusement. Was there no “Jt is absurd to put off the straw-ride till Miss Huntley can form one of the party. Iam sure she is not such an recognize his superiority, and was so silly as to treat | the count, quieted my fears concerning your safety by | his fastidiousness in dress was proverbial, laughingly | acquisition that it should be postponed solely on her ac- count: but when [ hinted as much to Messrs. Graham and Hunter, they were obstinate, as men sometimes can be, and determined to wait. Itis too bad!” “| echo your opinion, ‘Itis too bad.’ As if her pleasure alone were to be consulted! It is not complimentary to the other ladies, this eternally giving the preference to her. Iseem to be the one man in the hotel whom she cannot bring to her feet with one of her slow, Circean smiles.” ‘ ; ‘And you are an exception because she does not bring into play the artillery ot her fascination upon you. She supremely abhors you !? “You are right,” he returned, indifferently, ‘‘and the feeling is reciprocated. I don’t care to be classed among her favorites. Isshe a witch? Three of the most dis- tinguished gentlemen at the Pavilion are dead in love with her. First, Hunter, whom report gave to you: next, that woman-hater, the count; and then Graham, who once worshiped the ground Sibyl Murray walked upon. “He is a fool, then. is Gordon Graham!” burst out Ethel, in no very lady-like tone. ‘To turn from Sibyl Murray, his would-be fiancee, a woman made pur- posely to love, and transfer his affection to a girl who has no more style than a nun,is the act of a dotard! You must be mistaken.” ‘No, lam not,” contradicted he. ‘He is enraptured wlth her, and it will be no more his fault than Vane Hunter’s if she doesn’t become his wife. By the way. when does Mrs. Northrup return to the cottage ?” ee night, Deo volente, and the weather favor- able. . “80 soon as that? Miss Muntley comes with her, of course ?” . “What a question! Of course. How could she sur- vive without her dear, precious Hope? It absolutely sickens me to see how she is imposed upon by that de- ceitful jade. Where is the shrewdness of which you boast ? If you possess a tithe of what is accorded you by your clients; use it in getting rid of her.” “If it were in my power to make miles stretch between us, Hope Huntley should not be seen at the Pavilion again this season.” His lips were compressed firmly as he said this, and his eyes eyes emitted cruel gleams that glowed like phos- phorus in the dark. Ce ~ «Why do you hate her thus?” asked Ethel. “What has she ever done to you ?” “That’s my secret. Did you ever hear these lines : “ T know I hate Be. Dr. Fell, The reason why, I cannot tell.’ | Perhaps it is upon this principle.” ‘Tam not a fool,” energetically snapped Ethel, using | her needle as if in every leaflet and blossom growing un- | der her fingers she was sewing her wicked hopes, just as | long ago, in time of war, Parisian women knitted their | revenge in socks or stitched them in the garments they | manufactured. | lence.” ‘ | -o+ BOWING TO THE SPIRITS. A curious superstition influences a well-known lady of Macon, Ga. Upon entering a room for the first time, she stands in the center and bows to each corner. She declares that this exhibition of politeness is intended to propitiate the spirits. According to her belief, each room in every house has a collection of spirits peculiarly its own. There are several gentlemen—and they are not confined to Macon, either—who bow to the spirits, but they do so in such rooms as have bar attachments for keeping the spirits in their proper places. —_____—_ > @—<_—_—_ BREAKING THE RECORD. “Professor” Dale, of Binghamton, N. Y., recently “broke the world’s record” by swinging Indian clubs four hours and fitty minutes. A young man in the town swung Indian clubs in his mother’s parlor, a few days ago, and’ although he didn’t break the world’s record, he broke nearly everything else in the room, including the chandelier, mantel ornaments, two plaques, a statu- ette of Minerva, his own head, and one of the command- ments. If the world’s record had been within reach of his clubs, he could have broken that, too. > e+ TRAINING DOGS AS SENTINELS. The German Minister of War has given orders for a number of dogs to be trained with a view of testing the value of the services they might render to sentinels en- gaged in keeping guard during the night. It is fully be- lieved that by the help of these sagacious animals out- posts would be far less liable to surprise, and that the dogs would always give notice of the approach of the enemy much earlier than it could be detected by the sentinel without such assistance. © 4 A PROMPT APOLOGY. — A passenger on a Connecticut railroad remarked that the car in which he occupied a seat was not fit for hogs. The conductor beard him and took him roundly to task for such assertion. The passenger politely said, ‘I beg our pardon, conductor, I did not know you were within hearin . I take it all back. This car is fit for hogs, but I'll be dashed if it is fit for anything else. i Gold Mines i daha La are very uncertain property; for every paying mine a hun- dred oad that do not pay. But if you write to Hallett & Co., Portland, Maine, you will receive, free, full particulars about their new business, and learn how some have made over $50 in a single day at it. You can live at home, and earn from s to $25 and a per day. Both sexes; all ages. Capi- al not required ; you are started free. Send along your ad- dress, and ali will be proved to you. It is an uncommon name,” he said; ‘one | The thickness of solid armor plates has | ( FUR-COVERED CHILDREN. Two children, whose backs are completely covered with short, soft fur, are now on exhibition in London. and are the subjects of scientific curiosity. Other por- tions of the body have here and there circular patches of fur, some very small, but varying in size to the breadth of a man’s hand. e s & Ss Take it in Time. 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A clergyman, after years of suffering from that loathsome disease, Catarrh, and vainly trying every remedy, at last found a prescription which completely cured and sayed him from death. Any sufferer from this dreadful disease send- ing a self addressed stamped envelope to Dr. J. Flynn & Co., 117 East 15th St., N. Y.,will receive the recipe free of charge. right away than anything else in this A P A | i f ‘world. Fortunes await the workers ab- solutely sure. Terms mailed free. TRUE & Co., Augusta,Maine suffering from Nervous 0 W AK N Debility. Loss of Vital- ity. Weakness of Body and Mind, etc. I will send youa valuable treatise, containing full particulars for certain restoration to health and vigor, free of charge. Address PROF. F. FOWLER, Moodus, Conn. Send six cents for gee age and receive free, a costly box of goods which will help all, of either sex, to more money Pilla Solvene Su PERFLU | permanently dis- FREESE NT EB IGS RN (REID ECO, EY solves Superfiu- ous Hair in 5 minutes, without injury. Particulars (sealed) 6c. WELCOX SPECIFIC MED. CO., Philadela, Pa. l CANVASSERS, ETC. Our in- ducements to Agents to_take orders & for Copying and Enlarging Photos. are unequaled. Send for catalogue and see. Ss. C. TALLMAN & CO., Auburn, N. Y. * FACE, HANDS, FEET, alltheir imperfections,ineluding Facial development,superfitous Hair, Birth Marks, Moles,Warts, Moth, Freckles, Red Nose, Acne, BVk Heads, Scars, Pitting. and their treatment. DR. JoHN Woop. fl BURY. 37 N. Pearl, ALBANY, N. Y., Est’b 1870. Send 10c. for book. if oT An active Man or Woman in every county to sell our goods. Salary $75 per month and Expenses. Canvassing outfit and Particulars FREE. 2 STANDARD SILVER-WARE CO., Boston, Mass. PILE Instant relief. Final cure in 10 days, and e neverreturns. No purge, no salve, no sup- pository. Sufferers will learn of a pean, remedy. free, by addressing C. J. MASON, 78 Nassau st., N. Y. W ANTED-—Ladies and gentlemen to work for us attheir homes. We furnish all materials, carriage prepaid. No canvassing. AddressPuRITY MANFACT. Co., 12 Howard street, Bostou, Mass. ewmm All Hidden Name Cards, aneclegant 48 page floral Autograph Album, 3 French Dolls with wardrobe of 32 pieces, and 200 New Scrap Pictures, all for mmm 25 Cents. SNOW & CO., Meriden, Conn. FOR ALL. $30 a week and expenses paid. Outfit worth $5 and particulars free. P. O. VICKERY, Augusta, Maine. Fancy Hidden Name, Chromo and Motto Cards 10c, 50 Embroidery Patterns, and 10 New Parlor Games free with each order. Bradley & Co., North Haven, Conn, 200 Scrap Pictures, 1 Pocket Memo. Book & Sarople Book of Cards 10c. Stevens Bros., Northford, Ct. 10 is. 8. LOVELY PHOTOS {cists Poy caaiz: 0: Mew Scrap Pictures and Agent’s Samples for 1836, 5 cents. S. M. FOOTE, Northford, Conn. New Scrap Pictures and50 Fancy Cards (new) mailed for 10ce. ESSEX CARD WORKS, Ivoryton, Conn. Chromo, Gold Scrap, Loop Fringe, &c. Cards sent post- paid for Ge. Conn. Steam Card Works, Hartford, Conn. {2 NEW SCRAP PICTURES and 48 New Chromo nea and Gold 8 » Cards sent Postpaid for 10 cts. OMAN WANTED-Salary $35 to $50 for our business cray CENTERBROOK CARD CO., Centerbrook, Conn. in her locality. Responsible house. References ex- changed. GAY BROS., 14 Barcuay Sr., N. Y. «<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #~ ak * VOL. 41—No, 21. MY PET THAT WAS. BY W. W. Slow stealing through the twilight haze, A cloud of slumber droppeth o’er me ; I dream to-night of other days, AS many a fool has done before me. And from the crowd of phantoms there, One sweet, pale face looks out above m@— Alas, the flower I used to wear! Alas, the heart that used to love me! Your eyes were gray when last we met— I wonder if they’re any grayer! I used to pray to them, my pet, But now I’m nothing of a prayer. Your voice, I think, was very sweet— ’T would sound to-night a great deal sweeter ! And ah, the hours were very fleet, Told gently off by love’s repeater. ~ Your heart was hardly true, my pet— I cannot say that mine was truer ; For 1, who used to woo, forget Sometimes that e’er I’ve been a wooer. But you forgot your vow, my pet, H’en in that moment when you gave it! So it were idle to regret The sorry chance that did not save it. I think I never saw you sad— They tell me that you still are merry ; With eyes that sparkle, gay and glad, And lips that have the tint of cherry ; That all your pretty, winning ways, So arch and wayward, wild and willful, Remain as in the golden days— Except that you have grown more skillful. Fade, gentle vision, from my sight! I dd not trust—I do not doubt you; But I am happier far to-night, My darling little pet, without you! I warrant me you have no lack Of lovers now to tease and worry ; So could I call the old days back, I wouldn’t do it in a hurry. >-eo~+ [@HIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] @ THE Princess Alexandra: OR, - THE KEY OF IRON. By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE, AUTHOR OF “A LOST LIFE,” “THE BROTHER'S SECRET,” “RAMON THE OUTLAW,” Etc. nee {The Princess Alexandra” was commenced LAST WEEK.] CHAPTER III.—(CONTINUED.) In that awful crisis the shout of a human voice was heard, followed by the ring of the hoofs of a horse ridden atfull gallop over the ice. Amoment more and the rider was among the wolves. Two reports, two flashes of fire right and left, signaled the death of two of the mad. dened brutes. The flashing of a saber, distinguished even in the twilight of the forest, showed that the rescuer was making bloody work with the pack. His mad- dened horse bounded in the midst of the wolves, kicking and trampling the life out of them, as they snapped at his legs and flanks. While the dauntless stranger was making this diver- sion, the forest aisles were suddenly lit by the blaze of ‘kindled pine knots waving in the hands of a score of ‘sturdy Russian peasants, armed with axes and pistols, and suddenly appearing on the scene. _ A volley poured into the thickest of the pack strewed the snow with death-stricken brutes, and put the yelp- ing ‘sarvivors to flight, Then came a three horse sled, filled with furs, into ‘which the prince and princess sprang, while Alexis climbed info the driver's seat. j Rescuec! but by whom ?- The blaze oz the torches feli full upon the handsome and fiushed face of Ivan Or- loff, as he sat on his panting horse, wiping his blood- dripping saber on the flowing mane. Admiration, gratitude, love, beamed from the face of the Princess Alexandra, while the thanks of the prince. were audibly expressed. i Yielding to the entreaties of both, he consented to ac- cept their hospitalities, and they rapidly drove to the _ Chateau Bellevue. At the supper table, in a hall warm as summer, and blazing with light, Ivan explained how he’ came to be present in the hour of peril. He owned a small property in the neighborhood, and had come down to effect the sale of a portion of his land ‘ to raise money to supply the increased claims upon his purse occasioned by his new rank. Learning that the prince and princess were expected at Chauteau Bellevue, he hag called to pay his respects, and was surprised to find that they had not yet arrived. Dreading some accident, after enjoining on the stew- ard to instantly send out a strong party to meet the travelers, he had remounted his horse and ridden full speed in the direction of Moscow. The result has been described. Certainly the young officer passed a pleasant evening, yet when he retired for the night, his satisfaction was not unalloyed, for as the night wore on, the princess had seemed to resume the cold dignity, which she had laid aside in the first surprise of their meeting. ‘Nothing I can do,” said the young officer, ‘‘will touch her heart. Twice haveI saved her life, yet so far from advancing to intimacy, she studiedly restricts herself to the forms of cold politeness. If she has guessed the secret of my heart, she means that I shall understand that between me and her there lies-a gulf as impassable as that which severs Paradise and Perdition. Be it so— I accept the lesson. I will flee her dangerous presence, and in the excitement of a military career, try to forget this wild and maddening dream.” CHAPTER IY. ‘THES PAIR: DELL. Four months had passed away, and in placeof the icy desolation of a northern winter, summer days as bright and soit as those of Italy had brought into leaf and bloom the torests and gardens of Chateau Bellevue. The prince and princess were passing a few weeks there. in almost complete seclusion. Their only occa- sional visitors were Captain Vladimir and Colonel Belti- koff, whose regiment was quartered in the vicinity. But there was another daily guest admitted on a foot- ing of yet greater intimacy, Lieutenant Orloff, who, during a brief respite from military duty, occupied a Kittle shooting-box in the neighborhood which he had not yet parted with. ~ When no other guests were present, the Princess Alexandra was all graciousness to the young officer, and her kindly manner atoned for her coolness and re- ~ serve on occasions when her demeanor was subject to cold serutiny. There were times when Ivan almost persuaded him- self that she loved him, but the belief was only transi- tory, he could not be so blessed! The disparity of rank and fortune could not be ignored by her, he thought, and he was wasting his life in a ruinous dream. Every time he left her side he vowed that he would never return; but each succeeding day found him in her presence. One morning the pleasure he was enjoying in her so- oe was suddenly checked by the entrance of Captain mir. Of late the officer had treated the lieutenant with marked haughtiness, and Ivan chafed under his airs of insojent superiority. On this occasion the captain made but a brief visit. When he rose to leave, he said: “Lieutenant Orloff, I am intrusted with orders for you, sir, and if you will ride a mile or-two with me, I will Ton them on the road, for I have no time to waste.” Orloff bowed stiffly, took leave of the princess, and followed the equery to the court-yard. Something in the glances exchanged by the two young men filled Alexandra’s heart with anxiety and alarm. She ran to her room, hastily put on her riding-dress, and ordered her horse saddled. When she was mount- ed, her father, to her surprise, rode out of. the stable on one of his hunters, and told her he was ready to accom- pany her. She had hoped, for reasons of her own, to get away alone, but making the best of it, she accepted his escort. Meanwhile Lieutenant Orloff and Captain Vladimir were riding through the prince’s park, side by side, without exchanging a word. At last they reached an open glade which was a favorite resort of the princess. Here were planted some little patches of bright flowers, and there were rustic seats under the trees. She had named it the ‘‘Fairy Dell,” and this name was inscribed on a Shield of cast iron affixed to one of the oak trees about six feet from the ground. Here Ivan reined in his horse, and Captain Vladimir followed his example. “Captain,” said the lieutenant. ‘You said that you had a communication for me relating to the service. am ready to hear it, for 1do not care to ride farther with you.” ‘“‘AsT was in a lady’s presence, sir,” replied the equery, “lsaid that my communication was Official, but it is really private and personal.” ‘And what is it ?” “Just this,” said the captain. ‘Your frequent visits to the chateau are displeasing to me.” «In-deed !” said Ivan, scornfully. “You presume on the services you have rendered to intrude yourself into society far above yourrank. The prince doubtless feels delicate about hinting that you are overstepping the limits of decorum, and the princess is in the same position, and it is my duty, as their friend, to inform you that it is time your visits ceased. “And you are commissioned by the prince and prin- cess to make this communication to me ?” ‘No, it is a spontaneous interference on my part.” “Then you are an insolent coxcomb!” said the lieu- tenant, all the blood in his body rushing to his face. ‘Do you wish to provoke me to chastise you—to lash you like a hound ?” said the captain, raising his riding- whip. “Put down that whip!” said Ivan, sternly, ‘‘or it will be the last motion that you make in life !” “That means that you will assassinate me!” said the equery. “No, villain! But it means that the time has arrived for me to extort satisfaction from you for the series of insults which I have received from you. What! because you are a step above me in rank, are employed near the emperor’s person, and enjoy wealth as well as distinc- tion, am I to bear contumely and insult ? No, by heaven! If less fortunate, I am as nobly born as you, and you have not now to learn for the first time that an Orloff never brooked dishonor. Dismount, then, instantly. Our swords shall setéie our quarrel.” ‘Mine will rest in its scabbard, while I am sitting quietly in my saddle,” replied the equery, ‘‘No, my fine fellow, a duel between his majesty’s captain of horse and a sub lieutenant of cadets is absolutely impossible—mili- itary etiquette forbids it.” ‘Ah! you shelter yourself behind that plea. a coward, then ?” Viadimir smiled disdainfully. “TI was promoted on the field of battle,” he said, ‘for cutting my way into a square of cavalry and capturing the standard of a Turkish pasha. In what sham-fight have you distinguished yourself ?” Ivan rushed at him, grasped him by the collar, hurled him from his saddle, and then sprang to the ground him- self. ‘Now will you fight me 2” he cried, hoarsely. “No!” said the captain. ‘‘But I will have you arrested and court-martialed. Perhaps when the knout cuts the flesh fro fi our back you will repent this outrage.” “You are ‘Will you fight me ?” repeated Ivan, hoarse with pas- sion, and tapping him on the breast with the hand which held his sword. “No !” replied the captain. And to put myself beyond temptation—tor 1 am strongly tempted to run you through the body—I will disarm.” And drawing his sword he flung it away into the un- derbrush, as far as he could hurl it. “Ah!” cried Ivan, ‘‘you will not escape me by that trick. Here are other weapons!” and drawing a pair of pistols from his bosom, he offered the choice to his enemy. Vladimir snatched one of the pistols, discharged it into the air, and then flung it on the ground. «This man will drive me to murder!” cried Ivan, in agony. ‘‘I, too, must put temptation beyond my reach.” And leveling his pistol at the iron plate on the oak- tree, he pulled the trigger. To his astonishment and. horror, Vladimir, uttering a deep groan, fell to the ground before him. The bullet had recoiled from the iron plate and rebounding at an angle struck the captain in the head, inflicting a death- wound, Ivan knelt over him. «You are not mortally hurt ?” he cried. “You have murdered me!” said the captain, closing his eyes. At that moment the branches parted and the Princess Alexandra, wild with terror, dashed into the circle. She was quickly followed by her father, who dismounted and bent over the dying man, who opened his eyes and rec- ognized Menjikoff. ‘Put your ear close to my lips,” said Vladimir. ‘Hear me, andremember my word—J die—assassinated by Ivan Orloff \”’ \ i, s US; ee Bae UE re T. Bec Zorn an 1 . ‘WILL YOU FIGHT ME?” REPEATED JVAN, HOARSE WITH -PASSION. He rolled his eyes in the direction of the young officer, — there was a fiendish glare of triumph in the glazing orbs. Ivan was affected at this intensity of hate and malig- nity. ; “For Heaven’s sake !” he cried, bending over Vladimir ; “retract that dreadful charge before it be too late! You know that I am innocent!” “Stand back—murderer !” said the dying man. ‘Prin- cess, let me speak one word with you—alone.” The princess had dismounted, and now approached the fallen officer. Menzikoff and Orloff withdrew to a distance. “Your hana!” said Viadimir. «Thanks !” he added, as he felt the light pressure of her delicate fingers. ‘I loved you. I can tell you so now, for I am dying for you. Yes—that beardless boy killed me because I loved you!” The utterance of this last falsehood cost him his life; with it his failing breath left his body. k The princess uttered a shriek as she tore her hand away from the vise-like clutch of his stiffening fingers. “IT need not tell you, Ivan,” said Prince Menzikoff, ‘that I disbelieve the charge. Do not commit yourself in any way; answer no interrogation; let them prove a murder if they can. Whatever the mystery, the cireum- stances prove a duel. Two shots were fired. Let the pistols lie where they are. And now, ride back with me and my daughter to the chateau. The body must lie here ae Colonel Beltikoff is informed of, what has hap- ned. Colonel Beltikoff heard it soon enough. While the prince, his daughter, and Ivan, plunged in the deepest distress, were riding back to the chateau, Zayda, the Bohemian, who had secretly followed her mistress on toot, and reached the fatal scene just after her, sped through the forest to the colonel’s encampment and ap- prised him that Captain Vladimir had fallen in an en- counter with Lieutenant Orloff in the Fairy Dell. «Poor Vladimir !” said the colonel. ‘He was a brave fellow. Ideplore his fate.” But, in spite of his words, a smile wreathed his lips as he spoke. “You do not look broken-hearted,” said the Bohemian. “You know my secrets, girl,” said the colonel, ‘‘and I won’t deny that you have brought me good news. Here!” and he gave her a handful of roubles. <‘‘Two trouble- some persons put out of the way at once—Vladimir dead, and Orloff——” ‘Will be shot for killing a man in a duel 2” “No; but he will be reduced to the ranks, and deprived of all chance of promotion. Of course. the princess will —P speak to him again. .Where do you say the body es ?’ “In the Fairy Dell.” “Ay. Thank you. And now begone, forI have work before me.” The Bohemian left the encampment with a light heart and bounding footstep. “Yes, yes,” she thought; ‘the princess is lost to him forever; but his degradation brings him nearer to me. Unless the stars and cards have played me false, he will yet be mine.” CHAPTER Y. GUILTY OR INNOCENT ? It was on the information of Zayda, the Bohemian, that Lieutenant Orloff was arrested and committed to prison. He surrendered peaceably to the guard, but positively declined to say a word as to the circumstan- ces of the encounter which resulted so tragically. Thus he threw upon the government the task of proving a murder, relying upon circumstantial evidence to sustain the theory of a duel. The accident which caused the death of Vladimir was so extraordinary, so impossible to prove, that, had he sought to shield himself by uttering the actual truth, his defense, unsupported by evidence, would only prejudice the court against him and insure his condemnation. perfectly aware. Shouid the malignant dying falsehood of Vladimir be reproduced in the evidence of the prince and princess, then, indeed, his fate was sealed. -The favorite equery of the czar had fallen by his hand, and the prisoner knew too well what a Russian military tribunal was to hope for justice at their hands. Strange to say he hardly wished for an acquittal. He had satisfied himself that his passion was hopeless, and he gloomily thought that instant death by the bullet was preferable to a lingering, wasting life of disappoint- | brought a sharp file with me. That he stood in the extremest peril of his life he was’ ment and agony ending at thesame goal. Therefore it was in a state of dull torpidity that he awaited the issue of the trial. He was not kept long in suspense. A very few days after the death of Vladimir he found himself arraigned and confronted with his judges. To his advocate he had of course detailed all the circumstances of the tragic event, but the line of defense adopted by his counsel was the theory of a duel. The principal witness was Zayda, the Bohemian. She was sworn upon the cross, having declared her faith in the Greek church, in which she had indeed been bap- tized, though those who knew her best doubted her be- lief in anything. As she rose to testify she threw one fiery glance at the pale, handsome eee: but its expression was so enigmatical that he could not define its meaning. She gave her evidence in a clear, firm voice. She said that she was walking in the forest when the sound of angry voices drew her toward the Fairy Dell. She soon came in sight of the prisoner and of Captain REE Panty ll Aig Se wv a Laer laa \ yan 1 LS THE PRINCESS UTTERED A SHRIEK AS SHE TORE HER HAND AWAY FROM HIS STIFFENING FINGERS. Viadimir, and, concealing herself, witnessed all that passed between them. After some words, the import of which she could not catch, Vladimir drew his sword, his example was followed by the prisoner, and they engaged in combat. Lieutenant Ivan disarmed his antagonist, whose sword was thrown from his hand into the underbrush. The prisoner then demanded an apology from Vladi- mir, who refused to make it. He then produced a pair of pistols, and handed one to the captain. They retired a few paces, then halted, and Vladimir fired and oh ine The lieutenant returned the shot, and Vladi- mir fell. . ~~ , This. testimony was corroborated by the officers who ‘were sent to take possession of the captain’s body. They liad found a pistol, discharged recently, lying at his feet, and his saber among the bushes, a short dis- tance from the place of combat. The evidence, false but plausible, astounded the pris- oner, who had expected his death-warrant from the lips of the Bohemian. ' Were there any other witnesses ? Yes. Zayda stated that the Prince and Princess Men- zikoff arrived in the dell just as she was stealing away from the scene of the tragedy. Pon she discover herself to them ? 0. Why ? Because she had absented herself trom the chateau without leave and feared a reprimand. The prince and princess were summoned. Their ex- amination was very brief and purely formal, only a few questions being asked them. ‘They came tothe dell, and found Vladimir dying—noticed the pistol at his feet, and that the scabbard of his sword was empty. After a brief deliberation, the verdict was that the prisoner was not guilty of murder, Vladimir baving fallen in a duel, and Ivan was remanded to his dun- geon to await the action of the czar on the report of the judge advocate. “T am doomed to life, then,” was Ivan’s thought, as he Sat that evening in his solitary cell. He well knew that severe punishment awaited him for having killed a superior officer in a duel fought with- out witnesses; that degradation to the ranks was the lightest sentence he could hope for; that the gulf sep- arating him from the princess, whieh his ambition and daring might have bridged before this unhappy event, was So deepened s0 widened’ now as to have become impassable. — f P “Why did I not confess that I murdered him,” thought the unhappy young man, ‘‘and appeal to the prince and | princess to declare, on the sanctity of their oaths, the last words of the dying man, and so end my misery ?” He was startled trom his reverie by the opening of his dungeon door,. which was closed again immediately. after giving entrance to a female figure shrouded in a hood and cloak which he recognized as belonging to the princess. He sprang to his feet with a joyous ery. The lady advanced, threw back her head, and he re- ak from her, for he then recognized Zayda, the Bo- emian. Her eyes shone bright as diamonds, a crimson flush glowed on her dusky eheek. and her bosom heaved with emotion. — “Ivan!” she said, in a tremulous voice. He was silent. «Young girl, wilt thou tarry in my dwelling? I will give thee diamonds and pearls, a couch of purple and a royal-palace.” ‘ ““My pearls are my white teeth, my diamonds are my black eyes, which shine like lightning in the shade, my resting-place the velvet grass, and my palace the wide world. Free is the eagle in the air, free the golden carp in the river, free the wild deer in the forest, but freer yet the zingarilla.” For a tew moments the young soldier was under the spell of the melody.and magnetism of the singer. Have these Bohemians really brought from the far east the secret of fascination claimed still as the heritage of the dusky children of the orient? It is certain that a kind of drowsy content, like that of the lotos or hasheesh- eater, took possession of him, and he looked not without pleasure on a face perfect in its contour and rich in glowing tints set off by waves of jet-black hair, and on aform of matchless grace and symmetry. But he shook off the spell as alion shakes the dew- drop from his mane. The image of the Princess Alex- andra—the sainted image shrined in his soul—rose in its perfect loveliness before his imagination, and the glow- ing reality beside him faded to a phantom. Though no word of love had ever been exchanged be- tween the princess and her adorer, yet his life was con- secrated to her, and the idea of forsaking her for a Bo- hemian bride did not involve a momentary thought. ary me!” he said, abruptly. ‘I reject your propo- sition.” The zingarilla rose. ; ‘You are in love with slavery then !” she said, scorn- fully. ‘Be it so. Cling to the czar, the chain, and the knout, I know the wild dream you cherish in your heart. I know the pale waxen face that came between your love and mine. But mark my words. the princess never will be yours—never! More than that, 1—Zayda the zingarilla—who looked on you to love you will one day be your bride. When you accepted the token—flower that I gave you—you accepted my love. True, you soon crushed it beneath your heel, and it was asif you had trodden on my heart, but you could not, you cannot break the spell. The hour will come when you will kneel at my feet, when your life will hang upon my an- swer to your wooing; woe to you, then, if my heart be changed, andif Ispurn you then as you spurn ne now. Adieu! We part now, but we meet again in sorrow or in gladness—in weal or in woe. Do you know that! can read the stars and the cards ?” az ae pretense and jugglery!” said the prisoner, dis- ainfully. “Your stubborn heart shall yet acknowledge that I am noimpostor. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!” Beltikoff told her that it was enough for him to re- | Strict the soldier to the limits of the camp. Y 4 Zayda told him that he knew nothing of Lipeston of: 4 love. No military prohibitions, no bars and bolts ever — kept a true lover from the side of his mistress. Noth- ing would restrain him—nothing would avert the dan- ger that threatened Beltikoffs hopes with ruin, but a positive message from the princess to the soldier, declar-- ing that she would not receive him if he presented him- }. self, and this order Beltikeff must procure if he ever — hoped for Alexandra's hand. . The old colonel pondered long over Zayda’s words. — Finally he made up his mind to speak to Prince Menzi- — koff on the subject nearest his heart, “Prince,” he said, one day, as they were sitting alone after dinner, “I wish to. say a word to you on a very delicate subject, but I must premise that nothing in- duces me to do so but my respect for you and your daughter, and I think you have known me long eno to be assured of my friendship and high considera The gravity of the colonel’s manner made a deep pression on the nobleman. He hasterfed to assure his guest of the confidence he reposed in his friendship and een I ly “Well, then,” said the colonel, “I must speak plain about this [van Orloff.” , re ‘‘What of the fellow 2” asked the prince. «He has given you no tronble,.I hope, since he been in your command.” The colonel smiled grimly. , “I am too rigid a disciplinarian, prince,” he answered, “to allow a private to make trouble in my camp.” ‘ i After a pause the colonel continued with some hesita- — on: S “Twice under very peculiar circumstances this Orloff _ came in contact with the princess.” . : “True—I have not forgotten what we owe this young man.” Se aid “You canceled the obligation, prince, by recei . him on terms of equality.” ; pe ae ‘Not of equality, colonel. As one who had PEs good service, as one of the inferior nobility, we ved | him, but we never forgot the distance that separated us.” i “He might have forgotten it, prince.” : Menzikoff raised his eyebrows inquiringly. ; on; “This young fellow, to speak plainly,? = lon: ; “presuming on his services and on Your courtesy Dae" y- the temerity to fall in love with the princess.” “He!” cried the prince, scornfully. ‘This is news to me.” ie «But not to society,” replied the colonel. “His insane passion has been matter of comment.” ; She shrouded herself again in the hood and cloak she had borrowed from the princess’ wardrobe, tapped on z the wicket and was let out by the jailer. On the threshold she turned once more and gazed on |- Ivan with a strange expression compounded of love, scorn, and malignity. 7 CHAPTER VI. THE PERFIDIOUS BOHEMIAN. ‘The doom of Ivan Orloff was just what he had antici- ated, and was worse than death. He was sentenced to i stripped of his arms and epaulets in front of his regiment, to be degraded to perpetual service in the ranks, and to be incorporated in the regiment of Colonel Stanislas Beltikoff. The original sentence was severer yet, for that in- cluded the horrible punishment of “running the gant- let.”—that is, forcing the culprit, stripped to the waist, to pass through two lines of bis comrades facing each other, each man being armed with a rod and dealing him a cruel blow on the bare shoulders as he marched slowly past him. This portion of the sentence was remitted at the ear- nest interception of Col. Beltikoff who was an especial favorite of the czar. But this intercession was not spor- taneous, for the colonel, not cruel by nature, upheld the military code in its extremest rigor. It was the Princess Alexandra who prompted him to plead for the wretched Ivan, to save him from a cruel indignity which would have crushed out the last spark of manhood in his heart. it was a hard task for her to solicit a favor of the man who persecuted her with his addresses, for it was yield- ing something to him, and putting herself to a certain extent in his power. Moreover, in presenting her peti- “ SH SS Zi ‘Gs 1 HIT DSTA SINS “IVAN ORLOFF IS IN LOVE WITH YOU!” “Ivan, my beloved !” she repeated, extending her shapely hands. ‘All the world turns from you, but I have not | forsaken you. Isaved-your life by perjury ; but had they placed me on the raek I would have persisted in the lie that saved that fair neck from the headsman’s ax. If your priests tell the truth, I shall writhe hereafter in eternal flames for saving you, but one word of love from your lips, one kiss, will baffle the malignity of fiends and console me in the midst of endless torture.” “For shame!” said Ivan, sternly. ‘Il owe you no thanks—I wished to die, and you have saved me for a lite of torture.” “Hush !” she said, “I have not half performed my work. Take this dress—you can pass the guard unchal- lenged. Once beyond those limits, fly to the free forest and leave chains and servitude behind you.” ‘And leave you behind, to languish in my place! I am no such coward, Zayda.” “I will join you,” said she, hurriedly. «This place is ill guarded, and the skirt of the forest is near at hand. When you are gone I will saw the window-bars—I have It is but six feet to drop. Go to the stone shrine at the crossroads in the forest. I will be there ere midnight.” Ivan shook his head. “No, no,” he said, «I cannot accept freedom at your hands. Enough that you have forced lifeon me—that burden I will bear to the bitter end.” Zayda sat down beside him, and gazing on him said: “Do you despise the gift of freedom because it is -military law, the vassal of his colonel’s will, .a machine, THE LADY ADVANCED—THREW BACK HER HOOD—AND HE RECOGNIZED ZAYDA THE BOHEMIAN. offered by me? Do you know what freedom is? I, enthralled from early girlhood, can yet remember, and can tell you what it isto roam the world masterless, Owning no thrallidom save the sweet slavery of love. Lis- ten! I have not forgotten the wild Hungarian romanzas that were my cradle lullabies among the green foliage of Danube’s banks.” Then, in a low, sweet, modulated voice, she chanted in his ear some stanzas still sung by the wild children eo forest, and which may be rendered somewhat as ollows: “The wind breathes over the hedge ; the moon dances on the waves; the zingara lights his fire at the foot of the greenwood tree. Free is the eagle in the air, free is the golden carp in the river, free is the stag in the for- est, but freer yet is the zingarilla.” “Young girl, will you tarry in my dwelling? I will give you robes of silk and collars of ducats.” ; “The untamed steed leaves not his green prairie for a glittering bridle; the eagle leaves not his eyrie fora gilded c ; and the zingarilla forsakes not freedom for robes of and necklaces of ducats.” tion she had to do violence to her true feelings and ap- pear indifferent about the object of her solicitude while pleading in his behalf. “The man,” she Said, “shad twice saved her from mor- tal peril. It would ill become a Russian princess to lay herself open to the charge of ingratitude. Let him re- turn to the ranks, but let the degradation of'a noble suffice. To subject him to the lash in addition would be an insult to the nobility of which the culprit was a mem- ber, however humble.” " ~ | The czar was at first inflexible, and only finally yielded to the argument that the offender was nobly born, and | that his disgrace would recoil on the upper Classes, | whose susceptibilities even a Russian autocrat teels | bound to respect. j Ivan bore the execution of his sentence as a hopeless | man endures whatever is heaped upon his shoulders. | He looked, while standing in front of his regiment and | having his epaulets removed from his shoulders and his | commission torn up before his face, more like a galvan- ized corpse than a living man. Nothing was left of his former lofty bearing. Some of his old comrades sympathized with him, but the majority, whose natures had been perverted by military tyranny, the most odious of all.despotisms, were delighted to see a man who had been singled out for promotion reduced below their own level, and ren- dered forever incapable of again becoming a rival. When his splendid uniform had been replaced by the coarse tunic and trousers of acommon soldier, he was sent to the barracks of Beltikoff’s regiment, to herd with coarse and ignorant men, just a few steps above the level of brutes. ck But the nature of the Russian is gentle and kindly. His new comrades dfd not insult his misfortune, but treated him with forbearance and a certain degree of respect. Here, then, he was.a slave for life; no longer a man, but a dog, who could be lashed or shot for infraction of in the elements of which brains went for nothing—were asuperfinity. He might be sent against the Circassian or the Turk. He might fall in an-obscure engagement and be buried in a hole like adead cur, or his flesh might feed the mountain vultures. and there would be none to mourn his fate. He might capture a hostile | flag, spike a hostile gun, but his name would never ap- pear in a bulletin, his valor never replace him in the rank from which he had fallen. All this had been brought upon him by his love, and thelady of his leve would never waste a thought on him. His only hope—his only thirst, was for active and dan- gerous service. Oh, for a campaign in the Caucasus! Oh, for a swift bullet or death-dealing saber-stroke ! Life was more thar a burden, passed almost within sight of the house that enshrined the princess, but which he must never approach. It was acute torture to exist under these circumstances. ; In that house the name of Ivan Orloff was never open-: iy spoken. Between father and daughter it was tacitly ropped. But the princess must speak of Ivan sometimes and to some one; She could not consume her heart in silence. Unfortunately, she had a confidante—unjfortunately, for that confidante was Zayda. the zingarilla. Little did the princess dream when she poured into the ear of the Bohemian the confession that she loved lIvan, and loved him the more for his misfortunes, that she was betraying her secret to a rival, and confirming that rival in hatred to herself and in schemes for ven- geance—that she was giving her heart and heart’s treas- ure into the hands of a deadly enemy. Little did she suspect the intimate and confidential relations that existed between her trusted handmaiden and Colonel Beltikoff, and that the girl imparted to her employer a knowledge of the princess’ most sacred and secret thoughts and feelings. Beltikoff was determined to ss the beautiful princess, at any hazard or byany means. Ever since he had procured the mitigation of Ivan’s sentence, at her urgent entreaty, be had assumed more confidence in his intercourse with her; and ever since Ivan had been sub- — to his absolute control and authority, the princess ad forced herself to treat her aged suitor very politely if not very kindly. Now Zayda was quite guarded in- what she told Beltikoff. She apprised him of Ivan’s love for the princess, but she withheld the fact that it was recipro- cated by the beautiful and high-born Russian. Only she intimated that in view of the ardent nature of Ivan, his beauty, his eloquence, the prestige given him by his mis- ae a scandal will die out of itself,” answered the prince. ‘Not if he ventures to show himself here again.” : “He! a common soldier!” cried the prince, ‘de to the ranks for nearly the most heinous offense known to the military code! I will forbid his coming.” «Pardon me, prince, but that will not be enough. He iscapable of any audacity—of any crime; it needs the prohibition of the princess to secure your house from scandal.” “Excuse me one moment, colonel,” said the prince, rising. ‘‘t will return to you directly.” a Menzikoff went at once to his daughter’s boudoir an entered it abruptly. e “Alexandra,” said he, flinging himself on the divan, “I have just learned a very unpleasant piece of news.” «What is it, dear father?” she asked, anxiously. “That Ivan Orloff is in love with you.” Trained in the artificial school of the world, the princess was able to suppress her emotion and assume an expres- sion of indignant surprise, for she did net dare to trust her voice. «You never suspected it, my child 2” “1!” she exclaimed, indignantly. ‘Should I have ae him to continue his visits if I had suspected t?” “You do not know the audacity of this maniac,” said thé prince. “He is capable, I am told, of seeking an’in- terview with you.” ‘She will never dare,” said the princess, to whom dis- simulation now appeared a necessity in the interest of poor Ivan himself. “Now,” said the prince, “I propose to prevent this scandal by forbidding him the house. Iwill write hima peremptory line to that effect.” He sat down to his daughter’s writing-desk, and scrawled the following : “To IVAN ORLOFF: “Sir: After the disgrace that has befallen you, it becomes my duty toinform you that Icannot in the future receive any visits from you, and that our relations must cease. It pains me to say this, for] donot forget what I oweyou. I beg to renew my Offer of compensation for your services. 3 “MENZIKOFY.” ‘Now add your prohibition,” said the prince, handing his daughter the pen. r Alexandra, commanding her agitation, sat down and wrote as follows ; ~ “Sir; Lregret to add thatin view of our present circum- stances, I must decline to receive a visit from you. Regret- ting the misfortune that has befallen one to whom Iam so deeply indebted, : “I have the honor to be your well-wisher, “ALEXANDRA.” __ “Rather too courtly phrased,” said the prince, as he read the addition. a pan : “Orloff is a gentleman, sir,” said. the princess, ‘a should be addressed. with some consideration.” sa): Menzikoff showed the letter tothe colonel, Who. . pressed his satisfaction with it. Then he inclosed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it, and sent off a ser- Vant to the camp with it. : The moment her father was gone the princess sent for Zayda, told her what a cruel message to Orloff her father had exacted from her, and ordered her to go to the camp and secretly place in Ivan’s hands a billet she was about to write, explanatory of what she had done. This billet said : “The Toe to my father’s letter, which you will have received before this, was written at his dictation. Believe me ~ that I am neither so harsh nor so un, dressed you so peremptorily of m you to;respect the injunction. If you had any purpose calling on us, forego it. An interview under the present cir- cumstances would only subject me te ree and you to harsh treatment. Bear with your present trials, and remem- ber, if it be any consolation, that you are not forgotten, but are pitied and prayed for by one whois guiltless of the sin of - ingratitude. * - ALEXANDRA.” Tf Orloff had received the letter it would have fallen on his soul like a sunbeam from heaven; it would have raised him out of the depths into which the joint note of the prince and princess flung him. But he never received the mitigating message. Zayda, indeed, obtained access to him, but she did not deliver the billet with which the princess had intrusted her. She said that her mistress had sent her to charge hina not to disobey her injunction. “It is enough,” said the unfortunate young man.