ie oF nt d \ aks t¢ t ts he he ab i¢ th ip! nf li} vi 103 Ws LTi¢ LOY t, @ cok We was’ wart whe uid & ace ns ‘io mE | th? ei m m cey 107 it lor ca ar me k { Li Bu ici TI an? Lb “ ry gly ker ike say ron oo ne ig nev ha, | in The ver rin{ 8 Oj ex es ve | Al g~ Great Story of the Wild West Nex Week | “BUFFALO BILL'S BEST SHOT,” by Ned Bunt Office Vol. 41. ° s am * 6 P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 31 Rose St. OUS DI ne”: 2 — | ai a qT WAS MISTAKEN. | N ew York, Septem THOUGHT _Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1886, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Coxrgress, Washington, D. OC. ‘er 18, 1886. + 5 = ~~ < THIS ENVELOPE HAD BEEN TAMFERED WITH.” Entered at ‘the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Maiter. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. No. AG, ; 7 ‘ 3 r f= a {i Pe Za 7 E _ Ft oF DETECTIVE AND His Pu WAS SH THE OLD DETECTIVE'S PUPIL; OR, THE MYSTERIOUS CRIME OF MADISON SQUARE. By the Author of ‘‘The American Marquis; Or, A Detective for Vengeance.” CHAPTER I. BRING BACK MY CHILD. “Gentleman wants to see you, sir,” The police sergeant handed Inspector Byrnes a card. “Gerald Livingston !” exclaimed the Inspector, as he glanced at the card; ‘what does he want? Show him in, Tom.” A moment later a noble-looking man was ushered into the private office of Inspector Byrnes, at Police Head- quarters, in Mulberry street. “Sit down, sir.” The gentleman sat down mechanically, saying, with repressed excitement as he did so: «You are Inspector Byrnes, the chief of the detective force ?” «JT am, sir.” “I need your help,” Mr. Livingston spoke rapidly, “I am rich ; I can pay well.” Inspector Byrnes waved his hand in a way to indicate that he knew his visitor and needed no such assurance. “JJ,” Mr. Livingston stopped and started nervously from his chair. ‘What I say to you is confidential?” he abruptly de- manded, aS he gazed anxiously at the Inspector. “Certainly, sir; within the line of my professional duty.” «That’s all I ask, that’s all I ask.” He took a turn up and down the room, and with a sort of despairing anguish, asked : “You know me?” ‘“‘"The banker. Live on Madison square.” “Yes, yes. My only family are my wife and daughter. My daughter!” He buried his face in his hands and groaned. ‘She has gone—gone. Oh, my little Mabel! Find her for me, sir, find her, bring back my child and you may name your own reward. I have millions.” Inspector Byrnes, accustomed as he was to scenes of misery and sorrow, was deeply moved by the terrible grief of the strong man before him. He gently ques- tioned him. “Did she leave any sort of clew to where she was going ?” “None. Nota word, not aline. She left home early in the afternoon. She did not come back. We foolishly waited until after dinner, thinking she had gone to a friend’s. Then we sent to every place we could think of. Nobody had seen her.” “Had she any reason for leaving home ?” ‘How could she? We worsbired her, she us. Never was a happier home.” “But—excuse the question. Had she any love affair? Any———” “Oh, I know what you would say. Had we.opposed her? No, no. She was betrothed to the man of her choice. A man poor indeed, but whom we loved as a | son. They had no quarrel, sir. It was no such thing as that.” “Have you, then, no suspicion as to the cause of her leaving you ?” «None whatever.” The Inspector did not notice the banker’s sudden start at his question. “Do you suspect foul play ?” «Foul—foul play,” stammered the banker. what do you mean ?” ‘Do you think she has been abducted ? any object in haying her away ?” “J don’t know. I don’t know. What object could any- body have ?” ‘Have you any enemies ?” “T know of none.” ‘Nor she? Has she any disappointed lovers ?” “TJ am sure she has not.” ‘‘Had she any money in her own right?” Again the banker started, and a sudden pallor over- spread his countenance. If the Inspector noticed anything he laid it to the father’s agony, and waited patiently for the faltering answer. “She had no money of her own. But she was my only child, and would have my whole fortune. Millions! But what are they without my child? Ob, Mabel, Mabel, how could you do it ?” Inspector Byrnes was puzzled. He was half inclined to look upon it as the sudden freak of a foolish young wo- man. He intimated as much to the banker. “Oh, no, no. You would not believe that if you knew her. She was far above such follies. No, it was not that. Itissome deep mystery. But you will find her ?” he exclaimed, with sudden eagerness. ‘‘You can do so much.” The Inspector pondered a moment. «You will give areward ? A thousand dollars, say ?” “A thousand! Five, ten, twenty thousand! Anything, anything to have her ence more at home.” «You have her photograph ?” ‘Here. I had thought of that.” “Good! We will have it copied and sent. all through the country with printed slips offering the reward.” “No, no, no,” exclaimed the banker, in a tone of hor- ror. “The papers would learn of it, and my Mabel would be the sensation of the day; her name would be tossed from mouth to mouth, and her picture printed in the illustrated papers. Oh, no, no. It must be all done quietly, so that no shame may attach to my darling’s name.” «You are right,” said the Inspector, compassionately, ‘but what can Ido? You would like me to have my force secretly instructed and sent in search of your daughter. Icannot do that. I must handle my men as the law directs.” “Then you will not help me ?” cried the banker, in an agony of despair. “Ah!” suddenly exclaimed the Inspector, ‘“‘why did I not think ? I cannot help you, but I will send you to one who can. If your daughter is to be found old Sim Car- ter is the man to doit.” «-Who is he ?” “That is more than I can tell*you. But this I know. I always employ him when failure seems certain. He never fails.” ‘«Will you send for him, then ?” ‘Send forhim! As well send for the President of the Has anybody “What— | United States. You must go to him. Say Inspector Byrnes sent you. Tell him everything. He may not ake the case, but if he does, you may rely upon see- ing your daughter.” “Why should he refuse ?” “[ don’t know. Heis odd. The case may seem too easy to him, or he may refuse without areason. But see him, anyhow. If he refuses come to me again. Here | is his address.” i “Thank you. I will goat once.” “Oh, another thing. = You must trust him absolutely. You are safe to do so. And don’t be surprised at any- thing you see. Sim may seem to be on his death-bed, but that will mean nothing. If he wil undertake the case you need give yourself no further concern.” | CHAPTER IL THE DETECTIVE’S PUPIL. New York’s aristocracy took up its abode first at the | Battery. From there it was pushed by degrees up and } up untilit has now left miles behind it, marking its rogress by patches here and there of quiet, old-fash- | oned houses. Wherever there is a spot inthe great city where bus- | iness has not intruded, there may be seen a sleepy block of dwelling-houses—boarding-houses for the most part. | In such houses nobody knows his neighbor, nor cares to. | In one of these houses on Tenth street, near Second | avenue, lived old Sim Carter, the detective. He owned the house and admitted only such tenants | as he saw fit into the first and second floors, while he | kept for himself the third and fourth floors. He wanted seclusion, and had it. While the rich banker and the Police Inspector were | consulting together, old Sim sat in a cozy room toasting | his feet by an open fire. : An open book was in his hand, but he was not read- ng. His eyes, keen in spite of the age that had silvered his hair, were looking through an open door and were rest- ing with a gleam of delight on a young manin an ad- joining room. Once he stepped to and stood in the door- way, a deeply interested spectator of the scene beyond. And well might any lover of physicil manhood rejoice at the sight before old Sim’s eyes. Stripped to the waist, his nether limbs cased in tights, stood a perfect athlete. Small boxing gloves were on his hands, and he was, with scientific poise and force, putting in blow on blow on a swinging Sand-bag. The easy swing of the arms, the gently elastic move- ment of the lower limbs, and the aiert, graceful car- riage of the head told a story of complete development to the expert judge in such matters. And the physical training of young Nick Carter was complete. No muscle was over-developed. Every muscle was in harmonious working with its fellows, and in conse- quence the graceful, handsome, inoffensive-looking young man was without a peer. Giants were like children in his grasp. He could fell an ox with one blow of his small, compact fist. Old Sim Carter had made the physical development of his son one of the studies of his life. Only one of the studies, however, Young Nick’s mind was stored with knowledge—knowledge of a peculiar sort. His gray eye, had, like an Indian’s, been trained to take in minutest details, while his memory was trained to keep such details fresh for use. His rich, full voice could run the gamut of sounds, from an old woman’s broken, querulous squeak to the deep, hoarse notes of a burly ruffian. Andzhis handsome face could, in an instant, be dis- torted into any one ofa hundred types of unrecognizable ugliness. He was a master of the art of disguise, and could so transform himself that even old Sim could not recognize him. And his intellect, naturally keen as a razor blade, had been incredibly sharpened by the judicious cultivation of the astute old nan. Why ? The reason may be readily guessed, and will be made plain ere the father and son have had many words to- gether. Nick had taken off the gloves and was pacing the room slowly while he practiced the muscles of his wrists with a pair of light wooden dumb-bells. The old man had commenced reading his book. | |! and ina few moments a hurried knock was heard on | He had shut the door leading to his son’s room. Suddenly the quick ring of a telephone bell called the old man to a small closet-like room opening off the room he sat in. ‘Hello!’ he shouted. Then followed an interval. “Yes. Well. What does he want? I can’t take a case like that. Please you? Nonsense. Well, I’ll see him. Good-morning.” “What was it, father ?” “The Inspector wants me to take acase. For a mo- ment 1 thought your time had come; but it was only a rich man’s daughter run away from home. Gerald Liv- ingston’s the man.” “Madison square ?” +e Os.” And the two men indifferently resumed their occupa- pations. About ten minutes later a carriage could be heard stopping in the street below. ~Then the door-bell rang, the door. «You are Mr. Sim Carter ?” inquired the visitor, as the old man opened the door. “Tam, and you are Mr. Gerald Livingston,” was the answer. ‘Come in, please.” “You know me then ?” in some surprise. ‘‘Do you also know why I come here ?” «“Partiy, but please tell me yourself.” The banker looked anxiously around. «We are alone,” said old Sim, interpreting the glance. “The Inspector sent me to you. failed. Can you help me?” «TT never have failed because I have never taken a case unless I knew I would succeed. You have not told me | what your case is. When I know I will tell youit 1 wil} take it. But I warn you beforehand I am not likely to take it.” For a reason he could not explain to himself the bank- er began to feel the same confidence in the old man that the Inspector had expressed, and in spite of the coolness with which he was treated he determined to try his ut- most to engage the detective’s services. He told his story much as he had told it to the Inspec- tor, and the detective questioned him to the same ef- He said you never fect. Old Sim thought silently for several seconds. It was a case in which much money could be earned, but he did not need money. The banker's distress affected him ; but could not fifty other detectives do the work as well as he ? For, as it seemed to him, the task was an easy one. Had it been a hard one he might be anxious to under- take it. But no, it was too easy. He would not take it. He lifted his head to speak. Suddenly the shrill notes of a canary broke out in the next room, and as suddenly stopped. “Excuse me,’ exclaimed the old man, hastily rising. “Something is the matter with my bird. [ll return ina moment.” He went into his son’s room, shutting the door behind im. “Well, Nick, what’s up now ?” Nick, it is hardly necessary to say, was the oanary. «You were going to refuse, father ?” “Yeu “7 think it’s my chance.” “Why ?” “JT don’t think you saw his face as I did.” “Well ?” “May | go in and talk with him ?” The old man smiled good-naturedly. “What, Nick, going to teach your own daddy ?” “No, father,” said Nick, with deep feeling, “I’m going to profit by your teaching.” “Oh, ’'m not jealous, lad.” The old man laughed si- lently, and cast a look full of loving pride at the young man’s eager face. “‘Goin and talk while 1 do the 1ook- | ing on.” “Wait a moment,” said Nick. And with a lightning-like rapidity he began to work before the glass. \ In five minutes he stood before his father another old Sim Carter. | «Will you trust your reputation in my hands?” he | asked, with a smile. «Good, good !” cried the old man in delight, “T'll trust you. If there’s anything in it you'll get it out. And now to see what those sharp eyes of yours saw that mine | did not.” | When young Nick sat down with the banker a mo- | 1 ment later, that gentleman had no suspicion that the person before him was not the same man with whom he had been talking. CHAPTER II. TELL THE WHOLE TRUTH. «T cannot take your case, sir,” was young Nick's abrupt remark, as he took the seat previously occupied by his father. “Why ?? demanded the banker, flushing at the rude tone of the detective. «Because you do not trust me.” ‘“How—wha—what do you mean?” banker. “JT mean that to get any help from me you must tell me the whole truth. I donot ask your confidence. It is yours to give or withhold. Only do not insult me by any partial statement.” Instead of resenting the detective’s sharp words, the banker only wrung his hands and groaned. “Oh, my Mabel! My child.” Then, leaning eagerly toward the detective, he cried: “Tell me, sir, what do you suspect—what do you 9)? stammered the “JT know nothing, and until you give me your confi- dence, I shall suspect nothing.” “Sir, sir,” moaned the banker, in alow voice, ‘‘have pity on a heart-broken father.” “J do pity you, sir; pity you from my heart; but help you I cannot unless you confide in me.” «But you will judge her kindly ?” The banker, with all the might and power his millions gave him, yet pleaded like a child with the detective. “Tt is not my place to judge her at all, sir,” he said, gently. ‘Tell me everything and I-will find her. That I can promise you.” And he spoke with such conviction that the banker eagerly caught his hand, and cried : “You shall know all. She is innocent—before Heaven she is innocent—in intention at least. Oh, my Mabel, my darling! Why can I ‘not fathom this mys- tery, and say you are innocent in fact. “Listen. It was not until early this morning that I discovered that the safe in my library had been opened and robbed!” “Ah! How much!” «One hundred thousand dollars,” “Bonds ?” “Bills. One hundred one thousand dollar bills.” «You have the numbers of the bills ?” “No,” “Well, never mind. “Properly. By the combination. lence used.” “You had not left it open ?” “Tam positive I did not, morning when I went to it.’ ‘Did anybody know the combination besides your- self ?” “My—my daughter.” In ascarcely audible voice. The detective looked sorrowfully at the banker. “Did your daughter know the money was there ?” “Yes,” in the same low whisper of agony. Anybody else ?” “No.” ‘Not even your wife ?” “NGS How was the safe opened ?” There was no -vio- Besides it was closed this “It was an unusual thing to have so much money in cash in your safe, was it not ?” “Yes:" «Why did you have it there last night ?” “Sir, sir!” The banker sprang from his chair, and with ghastly face, panted hoarsely : ‘Have you no mercy? Will you tear my heart from my breast? Do you not see your questions are killing me? Why did I put it there ?” he cried wildly. “I put it there—I put it—because——” He suddenly stopped, and then holding his hands out piteously, went on mournfully : “Tf you had known her, sir. tle, good, pure.” Then, with a sudden return of vehemence, he cried : “She was innocent of intention, I tell you. I care not for the money. Let it go. Itis my daughter, my Mabel, 1 want.” “And you shall have her, sir,” said the detective, soothingly. “But, don’t you see, if your daughter is what you say——” «She is, she is.” “Then somebody has only made use of her. She was an angel—gen- Let me as know all about the money. It is not to recover the money, but to find your daughter through it that ] wish. Tell me why you put the money in the safe ?” “Mabel knew I was to have a payment of a hundred thousand dollars yesterday morning, and was curious to know how such a large sum would be transferred. She was totally ignorant of business forms. When I told her *. it would be by check, she jestingly pretended to be great- ly disappointed, and said she had hoped it would be in a big bank-note, because she had never seen any big bills. She asked me if I couldn’t have it paid in big bills so she could see them. She might have had my eyes if she had asked for them. I went down town myself and got the bills, and showed them to her. It was when I put them in the safe that I told her the combination.” ‘Your daughter left home yesterday afternoon, and you discovered your loss of money this morning ?” “Ves. ” ‘You are quite sure nobody but yourself and daughter 1 knew the combination ?” Positive.” “But she might have told somebody ?” “So she might.” The banker spoke with eager hope. ‘But who? Was she fond of this young man to whom she was betrothed !” “Oh, he is guiltless. You shall see him.” «You know him well, then ?” ‘He is my cashier, and has been with me since boy- hood. I would trust him with millions. «He knew, I suppose, that you had this sum of money at your house ?” “Yes; but I assure you——” “Oh, Ido not suspect him. Iam only getting knowl- edge. Youare sure that unless he learned the combi- nation from your daughter he was ignorant of it ?” Positive.” “Suppose you had died suddenly, who could have opened your safe if you had not, by chance, told your daughter ?” “7 had provided for that.” ‘How ?” “My wife has a small safe of her own in her dressing- room. In that safe was always kept a sealed envelope in which——” “Excuse me. bination ?” «Because she had no need to goto the safe, and would very likely have forgotten it. So I wrote it out and put it in a sealed envelope, and to make assurance doubly sure, I wrote it in a cipher which we had used in a spir- it of romance before we were married. Besides this, I have the combination written out and keptin my box at the Safe Deposit. Nobody knows of that, and it would be found only after my death, by my executor.” ‘Have you looked to see if your wite’s safe or the en- velope in it has been tampered with ?” “NO ” Why did you not tell your wife the com- «Let nothing be disturbed there until I have been to your house.” “You take the case, then ?” “Yes” «And you are sure you can find my daughter ?” ‘Perfectly sure. “Oh, sir, I thank you for the hope you give me. I shall not speak of the payment for your services. You may make your own charges and I will not dispnte theni. When will you commence your search 2” «“Atonce. I will be at your house within half an hour. 1 shall want to talk with your wife and with your cash- ier. What is his name?’ «Ralph Moreland.” = «Now give me your daughter’s photograph. go home at once ?” *Yes.” _ “And if your wife’s safe has not yet been opened, do 106 llow it to be touched. One thing more. Trust no - One—not a soul—not your wife, not Ralph Moreland, not even, until you have grasped me by the hand so, ‘his sign isimportant, for when we meet again you may not know me. Again I say, trust noone. Ten minutes _ from now if such a one as I should stand before you do - not believe it is I until 1] have pressed your hand thus. ertheless, if a rag-picker, a woman, or any person yatever should press your hand so, you may be sure it You will #9 «But, sir,” exclaimed the astonished banker, ‘‘my wife is aS anxious as I about my daughter, and so is Ralph. Both are almost prostrated with grief.” “I do not doubt it, but my experience has taught me that when more than two know a thing, itis no longer a secret. Say to them that you have engaged a detective, but do not repeat our conversation. Now, good-day, for we must lose no time.” is CHAPTER IV. A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY. No sooner had the door closed on the banker than Nick sprang into the next room, with the eager query : “Well, father ?” “Beautifully done, lad—beautifully done. My word for it. You have scented a case worthy to make your debutin. There is arare mystery in this, or I am mis- taken. What's your theory ?” “None yet, except that the solution lies in the house.” ‘7 believe you are right. Will you change your dis- guise ?” “No, I guess I will borrow your identity for a while and let you stay in the house.” «You young rascal!” The old man laughingly shook his fist at him. ‘I see what you are after. You want to manage your first case without any of my help. Well, I don’t blame you, and J’'1 not \afraidfor you. Your whole life has been devoteu to this pne ebject, and Idlare to say that, no detective ever stariga out so thoroughly fit for his profession. There, lad, Success to you. J do believe ’m more nervous than you\are. Now get ready and go.” Nick pressed his father’s hand affectionately. “Tf I don’t succeed,” he said, ‘‘it will be because I have not profited by the teaching of the best detective this country ever Saw. But I shail succeed. Do not fear.” With the remarkable rapidity which he seemed able to take up at will, Nick at once provided himself with all those necessaries for disguise and protection, with- out which no good detective ever goes abroad, and at once left the house. - Hastening to Broadway, he found a hack and was quickly whirled up to Madison square. On the way he seized the opportunity to study care- fully the photograph given to him by the banker. He could not but admit that he had never looked upon a sweeter or more beautiful face. Tn her picture Mabel Livingston seemed all that her father had declared her to be—gentle, good, and pure— and if anything could be judged from a photograph, she was incapable of a wrong act. But Nick knew very well that a photograph, however good a likeness, is never a safe guide as to character. He returned the picture to his pocket, after having in- delibly fixed in his memory the sweet face with its rogu- ish smile. . When the hack stopped before the stately mansion in Madison square Nick felt that the battle was now about to commence in real earnest. Like a good soldier, he had his plan of battle prepared, but was ready to adopt any new plan that seemed bet- ter. When he stepped from the hack he glanced carelessly up at the house, and without seeming to do so, yet fixed in his mind every detail of its exterior. He had made it arule with himself never to go inside of a place without first becoming acquainted with its outside. From that one quick glance he could have drawn the front of the banker’s mansion. He was led at once to the library, and on his way his eyes and ears were constantly on the alert for every sight and sound. ¢ Having shaken hands with the banker, he began in a quick, decisive way. «This is the safe ?” “Yes.” «Tell me the combination.” «Begin at 0, then two complete turns to the left; then to the right to 10, back to 0, then to the left to 9, back again to 0, then to the right anywhere. Turn the ban- dle and open.” ’ “A very complicated combination.” «Yes, I had to write it down and study it carefully at first.” “Now may I see Mrs. Livingston ?” “Yes; will you see her here ?” “J would rather see her in her room where her safe is. Has her safe been opened ?” N a? “As quickly as possible, please. I cannot stay here long.” The banker led the way to his wife’s boudoir. A glance at Mrs. Livingston told Nick that she was suffering terribly. Her eyes were swollen and red, dark bands encircled them, and the pallid cheeks were streaked with lines of agony. Nick never forgot his assumed character, but bowed with the old-fashioned grace of his father as he said, compassionately : «Pardon this intrusion, madam. It seemed necessary, for often a mother knows matters of which a father is ignorant.” Mrs. Livingston shook her head sadly. “Not in this case. We iived all for each other. .There were no—no secrets. Oh, my precious darling, why did you leave us ?” : The detective’s quick ear caught a quickly stifled gasp as the lady spoke, and his keenest attention was aroused. He could not doubt the genuineness of the mother’s grief, but he was certain that she did not tell the whole truth when she said there were no secrets. He was more than ever sure that he must seek the mystery in the house. “JT am sorry,” he said. “I had hoped you could tell me something more. It is hardly worth while, now, to look at the safe.” He spoke very slowly, and glanced Sstealthily at Mrs. Livingston. He fancied he saw on her face a quick gleam of relief. Then he continued, as if arguing with himself : «And yet I suppose I ought to.” He was positive the lady’s white hands closed convul- ~ sively. “Where is the safe?” he asked. “Here,” answered Mr. Livingston, lifting a piece of decorated plush and disclosing the safe. “Ah!” exclaimed Nick, as he stooped down, ‘‘opens by a combination. Who knows it?” “Only my wife. Is it not so, dear ?” . Thus appealed to, Mrs. Livingston, who had sunk into a chair, nodded her head in assent. There was something pitiful in her eyes, Nick thought, and he instinctively likened her to a doe driven to bay. «Will you open it for me please, madam,” he asked, Without hesitating, she went to the safe, and though her hands trembled, Nick noticed that she made no mis- take. “Will you be good enough to see if anything has been disturbed,” he asked. She looked for several moments, but it seemed to Nick that she was only collecting her strength. Presently she said : F “TI think nothing has been disturbed, but I am not very orderly, and I could not be sure.” “Very cautious,” thought Nick. Then aloud: i hh you give me the envelope with the combination n it?” She drew asmall goiden key from her watch-chain, and with it opened a small drawer in the safe. In the drawer was an*®envelope, which she handed to Nick. He took it to the window and stood in such a way that his own face could be seen only indistinctly, while he could watch Mrs, Livingston’s without difficulty. A panes ot his keen eye told him that the envelope had been opened! He had practiced at opening and clos- ing sealed envelopes too often not to know. It can hardly be said that he was surprised, for he was prepared for such a discovery. “What is this ?” he suddenly exclaimed, as if startled by an unexpected discovery. A spasin, as of pain, convulsed Mrs. Livingston’s fea- tures, “T was mistaken,” said Nick, in a deeply disappointed tone, after he had noted the effect of his exclamation. ‘I thought this envelope had been tampered with; but it has not.” Mrs. Livingston pressed her hand to her bosom like a person relieved from great agony. “You see,” said Nick, despondently, ‘‘] had hoped ever since you told me of this envelope that I should find it opened. find it difficult to believe she would take the money.” “Oh, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Livingston, wringing her hands convulsively, ‘‘she would not do it, she would not. She is innocent—she must be innocent.” “Well,” said Nick, with a sigh, ‘I can learn nothing here. Let us, if you please, Mr. Livingston, have another look at your safe. Pardon me tor intruding on your grief, madam.” When they stood once more in the library Nick turned | abruptly to the banker. “Your wife seems to have been greatly attached to Miss Mabel ?” «Their devotion to each other was a positive passion. Indeed nobody could know Mabel and not love her. It is as if’—his voice tremblead—‘‘asif an angel from Heaven had been accused. There is a mystery init. My Mabel is as pure and innocent as an unborn child.” “Had Miss Mabel a good memory ?” The banker stared in astonishment. . see unusual,” he answered. ‘Neither good nor ad.” : ‘Had she any special attendant in the house ?” “Her maid, Kitty.” “What sort of a girl is Kitty ?” “A kind-hearted, affectionate creature, devoted to Mabel.’ “Bright ?” “Very.” . «*Will you let me see her here alone ? “Certainly. I will send her to you.” ae T open your safe while she is here ?” SV eee” . Kitty, a pretty, quick-witted Irish girl, came wonder- ingly into the parlor. Her eyes were red from weeping, but it was evident she was of superior intelligence. “Kitty,” said Nick, kindly, ‘did Mr. Livingston tell you who I am?” ‘‘No, sir.” “T am a detective.” “Oh!” she started back in terror. Nick, however, smiled reassuringly, for he saw that the fear she showed was merely at the idea of being confronted with a detective. “JT have been employed,” he said, ‘‘to find Miss Mabel. I thought you might help me.” “IT wish | could,’ she answered, tearfully. «“T’m sure you do, so] want you to remember exactly all that Miss Mabel did yesterday. Have you a good mem- ory 9” “YS, Sp,” “T suppose you had to have, didn’t you? Miss Mabel was rather forgetful, eh ?” “Not so very, but she hadn’t the memory I have. I always had to tell her what things cost.” “Yes, yes. She couldn t remember figures, I suppose. Some folks are that way. “Yosser.” “But now, Kitty, about your memory. You see, J want to be sure that you will be correct in your;answers, because I may find Miss Mabel from something you tell me. “Tm afraid not, sir; but ’li do my best.” “S’pose I test your memory first ? What do you say ?” “Very well, sir.” ; Kitty by this time was astonished out of her tearful- ness. a “Now watch me open this safe. Watch close now,” Nick opened the safe very slowly, Kitty following every movement. ; “Now I will tell you how I did it, and then you must try. In that way I can tell how good your memory is.” Put upon her mettle, Kitty listened carefully while Nick repeated the combination, atthe same time show- ing her how to work it. “Now you open the safe.” Kitty went to work with a will, § Again and again she tried, but each time yee sucegss. She’ was tetribly mortified. \ ‘ “That will do,” said Nick, at last, “you needn’t be ashamed. You've done better than ninety-nine out of a hundred would do.” “Truly ?” asked Kitty, suspiciously. : “Yes, indeed. You came near it half a dozen times. I'll trust your memory. Now tell me when Miss Mabel lett home.” «About three o'clock. Indeed, it was just that.’ «What did she do in the morning ?” a “She was in her room, reading, except for “a while when Mr. Livingston called her down here.” “How long was she here ?” “About half an hour.” “And then ?” i “She came back to her room and read until lunch me.” **You are sure ?” “Yes, sir. I was doing some sewing for her, and was with her all the time.” “Did she go to her room right away after lunch ?” sSVOu-Rit,” «And staid until she went out ?” “No, sir. About two o’clock she left her room and staid about half an hour.” «“Where did she go ?” “JT don’t know, sir.” “And when she came back what did she do 2?” “She sent me out to get some embroidery silk for her, and when I came back she was gone. The footman said she had only just gone, and Iremember looking at the clock and noticing it was a few minutes past three.” “And you have no suspicion where she went to ?” “N—n—no, sir,” and Kitty suddenly burst into tears, “but ’m afraid she met with an accident—and—she was so—so good.” “Never fear, Kitty, said Nick, confidently; <‘she isn’t dead. Now ask Mr. Livingston to come here.” When that gentleman came, Nick asked : «What did you do yesterday afternoon ?” “I went to the office right after lunch, and got back about five o’clock ; after that——” “That was all | wanted to know. I would like to ask your wite if Miss Mabel was with her at all yesterday. “T can answer that; for my wife has said that Mabel was not with her a moment yesterday.” : «Thank you. Can I find your cashier at the bank ?” ‘Until four o’clock. He will be here after dinner, no doubt.” -‘Where does he live ?” “He has rooms at 21 East 15th street.” “Thank you. Good-day.” “Have you learned anything ?” “Not much. I will tell you whenl have anything positive. Not until then. You must trust me entirely.” As the detective passed down the stoop he said to himself: “T believe that Mrs. Livingston knows how the safe was robbed !” “To the Seventeenth National Bank,” said Nick to the driver, aS he sprang into his hack. “Now then,” he muttered to himself as he leaned back, ‘‘whathave I learned? First, I'm satisfied that Mabel never opened the safe with the information she got from the old gentleman. If she opened it at all it was from reading what’s in that envelope, and that she couldn’t do without her mother’s help. And this is cer- tain—Mrs. Livingston knew of and aided in the opening ot it. ‘But this is certain, too; Mrs, Livingston is a heart- broken woman. I don’t believe she knows where Mabel is, and yet she must either have helped her to get the money, or perhaps have discovered that the envelope had been tampered with. No; that won’t do; Mrs. Livingston knows where the money is, but not where the daughter is. “‘And then, again, Mrs. Livingston is not only sorrow- ing for the loss of her daughter. There is something else on her mind. and as sure as ’m Nick Carter Vl find it out, and find the daughter, too, though that won’t be so easy, for evidently I've more than an innocent girl to deal with. I thought I’'d come on a high-toned mystery, but this is better than I expected.” And young Nick chuckled with grim delight as the difficulties of the case became greater. When the carriage stopped he got out and went into the bank. It was the bank where he and his father kept deposits, and consequently useful for his present purpose. He asked to see the cashier, and was taken into the private office. “Detective business ?” asked the cashier, with a smile. He had been of use to old Sim before. “Yes. Some one thousand dollar bills have been stolen, and I thought I could telephone through you to the different banks and find outif any of them had changed one or more. It’s only a chance, but I thought Vda try it. Why, what’s the——” The cashier had suddenly darted from the room. In less than a minute he returned, holding a one thou- sand dollar bill in his hand. “Changed that less than half an hourago. Do you know the numbers ?” “No, unfortunately. Who brought it? Did you see ?” “No. Vl) bring the paying teller.” He went to the door and called Mr. Sharp. “Mr. Sharp,” he said, when the teller came, ‘‘can you remember who brought this ?” That would have cleared your daughter, I} Yes, sir. It was such a big billI took a good look at her, and at him, too.” vo of’em, eh? Can you describe ht have been eighteen or twen- eight; golden hair; large biue pouth ; red lips; very pretty face ly sweet and innocent-looking. acque anda brown camel's hair ent on Nick was almost startled cable memory,” he said, smiling iWardly a prey to amazement. pa -teller, like a good hotel clerk, never forgets wee said Mr. Sharp, pleased at the detective’s com- pliment. «And you would know the face again ?” ‘Without any doubt.” “Look at that.” Nick drew out the photograph of Mabel Livingston. “It was she,” declared the paying-teller, without a mo- ment’s hesitation. Nick was thunderstruck. _ (TO BE CONTINUED.) —.e~ [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] FE AND WIDOW; i OR, of the Alps, {1NDALL COMFORT, n Heiress.” ‘“*The Widowed Bride,’ etc. * [“ Wife and Widow” was commenced in No. 42, Back num- bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER XIII. Niws FROM THE JUNGFRAU. Cerita Elmsley was up before the morrow’s dawn—in fact, she slept hut little all night—and from the tiny lat- ticed panes of Wer one casement she listened to the preparations for early departure ; old Carlotta clinking and clattering among the dishes, her father coming out to speed his guest upon his mountain way, Bonato Segredo slouching about, with his wide-brimmed hat set jauntily upey the side of his head. Captain Stuart, from the sounds she could gather, was in the wildest of spirits, laughing, talking, flinging his money about as if it were pe LOneS. . “I shall k, landlord,” said he. “Mind and promised, with many ie two travelers set forth, with a cigarin his mouth, oaces behind, with Captain ing-case balanced on the end yp of the hill, beyond which a would completely hide them i and waved his hand, with a fer that no one but Cerita ob- e withdrew and closed the » could shut out the shadow lain whose name was a by- in heights. ied to busy herself with the ipations of her life, she could “ic figure, the bright, uncon- er-husband, going forth to redo sauntered slowly be- » past,” she told herself; “I ehold the future.” iful season of inaction and he could only wait. ne result ?” she asked herself, “How soon shall I « wae he, I believe, was of Swiss birth; but I understood she had been dead for many years.” , yi Jicia,” said Mrs. Stuart, turning, with glowing Alicia’s eyes kindled with sympathetic earnestness. ‘ «Dearest mamma, you are right!” she cried, through “Had you not better allow me to go in your ste «‘We must’ go ourselves,” she said. @~<- i THERE is nO Way of repressing feeling so effectually as. to deny its expression. ; tones of our voice as to express less anger tha ger than onefeels _ will of itself allay the aurer and bring abouta milder | mood. The brave struggle to endure necessary suffer- ing without inflicting cries and lamentation upon friends will enhance one’s power of endurance. He who resolutely changes a whining and fretful tone for to fret about, + e+ re MEN who complain most loudly about the j cheerful one will soon find much le of the human lot are generally a little blind to those — can great stores of wealth and blessings that no e¢ monopolize, and no wealth can buy. eS Horsford’s Acid Phosphate, _ Beware ot Imitations. = Imitations and counterfeits have aga peared. Be sure that the word ‘Ho ord “HORSFORD’s” is on the wrapper. None are genuine without it. ma ‘ Perhaps he can tell us when Leo will be ~ preciate the honor he bestowed = | possible !—utterly impossible!” cried Athelhurst. “No foot, save that of an athlete like Leo, or an experi- enced mountain near which he met his death.” e waste time. Ifit was Miss Leo died. I must pray beside the awful chasm where = 2 he fell to rise no more. I——” ; wee whoread { — do these thingsat =| _ ~% aoe you have — i The very effort tosocalm the | | in ap- oe And two hours later he had purchased a cheap suit of clothes, got himself shaved and washed, and was on board the train speeding away for New York. -_ A DINNER AND A KISS. “T have brought your dinner, father,” The blacksmith’s daughter said, As she took from her arms a kettle, And lifted its shining lia. ‘ «There's not any pie or pudding, So I will give you this ;” And upon his toil-worn forehead She left a childish kiss. The blacksmith tore off his apron, - And dined in a happy mood, - Wondering much at the savor Hid in his humble food ; While all about were visions - Full of prophetic bliss, But he never thought of the magic Jn his little daughter's kiss. CHAPTER LI. ON BOARD THE ROYAL MARY. The day after Arthur Woodbury.and his wife shipped as passengers on board the Royal Mary was fair and calm. A favoring breeze blew, the sun shone brightly on the crest of the blue waves, and everybody prophe- sied a prosperous voyage. Lena, still very weak and feeble, lay on the couch in her state-room. Her memory, at first half paralyzed, was coming back ; she was full of curiosity, and had be- gun to ask questions. «Tell her everything,” had been Dr. Steinman’s part- ing advice to Mr. Woodbury ; ‘‘it will trouble her less to know than to be tortured by vain imagining. Sheisa sensible woman, and she will accept her fate, and help =“ to keep the secret which you 7vust keep now to the end.” Mr. Woodbury sat beside her, holding her hand in his, while her dark, earnest eyes were fixed on his face. “Tam not yet quite clear here,” she said, touching her forehead. ‘What was it thatI passed through. Every- thing was so dark, and I groped so blindly after the light. Tell me the whole story.” So Mr. Woodbury very gently and calmly told her all that the reader knows. “And Dr. Steinman caused my sickness and made me sink into a state that resembled death, in order that I might escape from prison, and then he restored me to life again ?” Yes, dear.” “And thus he freed me from the law? Arthur, if I had been guilty this would have been wrong; but I am innocent, and itis right. And now, I want to ask you, how came you to be near the Wishing Well that night— that night of the murder ?” ‘““My dearest! Then you saw me? I fancied you had not. Why did you not speak of it at the trial 2” “Because [ feared it might tell against you.” While she with her kettle swinging, heen een Rete : Si at the sight of a squirrel, ee roning some wild bird’s lay. And I thought how many a shadow Of life and fate we would miss, If always our frugal dinners ‘Were seasoned with a kiss. > @<—___—_ {THIS STORY WILI. NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] OR LIVING WAGES: Re, “And you preferred to suffer rather than say anything which might, tend in ever so slight a degree to cast sus- | then ?” - | “When did I not love you?” she cried, pressing the Wee: 3a : | time. You were so kind, so good to me, how could I an A STORY OF THE GREAT STRIKE. help it? But you have not told me why you were at e SE: “IT went there, Lena, simply because you went. I was near your house when you started off. I kept near you | | picion on me? Lena, you must indeed have loved me hand she held to her lips. ‘I cannot remember the | the well 2?” a By CLINT. CARPENTER. all the time. I feared you might be the victim of some ry me plot; but at the moment the fatal shot was fired I = ; could not see you because of an intervening tree branch, | and afterward I saw you fleeing from the spot with that | pistol in your hand. Why did you pick it up ” “TI do not know. Ihad no time to think or reason. ; But you did not tell them that you saw me there ?” " [For Livine WaGEs” was commenced in No. 28. Back pumbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] * } | Then af- “Do father and Henry know | | } | | ! } 1 CHAPTER L. ant ave agp it would only have Pe to con- oe vict you. cnew that you were innocent. snow that eS EGAIM FOTLED. everything occurred justas you have told me, but I Jim Conroy took in the desperate nature of his situa- | sanncs prove it. ete — Then we might go a oe ; -. warn | back to our own land and home—to your sorrowing _ tion ata glance, and knew that his chances of life were | rather and brother—and live our lives as Heaven de- small. ? | Signed we should, in peace and happiness.” - But it was hard to die and not be able to take the con- | my darioet a poetic cast oe Oe RO inn Solation with him that he had punished Jack Belford for | ., they thought, and your death set you free from the wrong done poor Carrie. | prison—the sentence of the law could not be executed, He looked around him, searching foralast chance. | aie you are ear aa not seed ee ee would Er hire : Bo | still arrest you, and hold you amenable to the law ?” le saw the shallow creek, now almost dry from the | “4 ghastly pallor overspread her face, she uttered a ery g¢ drought, but it might be deeper in some places. | of alarm, and crept into the shelter of her husband's | le piunged into the foul mud, sinking to his arm-pits, | 27S. : , : er. : c _ , “Oh, Arthur! you would not let them! You would and allowed the slime and ooze tocover him. A cold, | Kill me first, ‘wouldn’t you, dear? It would be | - ereeping water snake wriggled out of the mud and lay |. to die here on eee breast, with your dear eyes | > a 2 i rogs croak . rats | looking into my face, but to go out on a terrible i ; ay — Ren _ ee ee Sees pvesnaed ee |. “Do not think anything more about it, Lena,” said her _ disturbed their rest, but he did not heed them. ' husband, hastily ; “i cannot bear to hear you! Youare _ The dull roar of the flames grew louder, the air waxed | —_ i = a rio while the ocean will roll between us See 6 red, _and the land where your misfortune came to you, and hotter and hotter, araat Conroy pees ar SORE, aug | the chances are that, once in Australia, we shall never _ then the fire rushed over him. It was but an instant’s meet any person who has ever seen you. Of course, we ~ tiery blast, but it shriveled everything it touched. Con- | must always be on the watch—we must always, to a cer- ~ roy’s hair was burned to a crisp, his skin smarted, his | tain extent, feel an uncertainty hanging over us, but we brain whirled, but in a moment the fire had swept past, | together.” and he was still alive. | Yes, we shall be happy,” she said, simply. He lay still a little while, gathering his strength, and | Gat ae ee ere then he crept out and shook the filth from his garments. | “No. It could not be told to any one, not even‘to them, _ Adark pall ot smoke hung over the place still, but the | They think you are lying, cold and dead, in the tomb of fire had rushed on toward the east, and the night-sky | the Woodburys.” ‘ — was lurid with its crimson light. | ‘And, henceforth, only you and I must know the se- | - Conroy experienced a thrill of triumph as he remem- | cret? And keep it!” bered that he was yet alive and able to go on tothe | “Yes, it must be kept to the end.” } end: and after that, what mattered it?) He never| Lena closed her eyes; her lips moved, but her husband | thought of what was to come after he had shed Jack heard no sound, and very soon she slept, while he, after | Belford’s blood; he never thought of the punishment | locking the door that she might not be disturbed, went which might overtake fim; he was reckless and re- | upon deck for a breath of fresh air. | gardiess of all that. ; | The oy was bowling merrily along under the impetus | _ _He lay down and Slept untildawn, Then he rose, and | of a stiff breeze, the sailors were singing some hilarious | | said to himself, as he bathed his cracked and blistered | songs as they scrubbed the deck to greater whiteness, | | skin in the brackish waters of the creek, that before | and at the extreme end of the quarter-deck a solitary sunset he should have settled the long score. Patiently | passenger walked slowly back and forth, puffing a cigar. | he plodded on; he reached the town; he made in- | Woodbury went aimlessly toward him, expecting to | He was not prepared for the result. He had | see an utter stranger, and what was his surprise when | ever doubted but that he should find the man he | the man, flinging away his cigar, rushed toward him, | ight there. ‘ .. | grasped his hand, and exclaimed : elford, the clerk at the principal hotel told him, | “Why, my dear Woodbury! is it possible! You are | tite day before for the East. He had trans- | the very last man 1 expected to see. Thought the old iness in the town, and evidently expect- factory had absorbed you, soul and body. How happens } > for some time, but he had received a | jit you ‘are here 2?” f~ a fil, hed Changed his plans, for | ‘thos wwas i en up his room, packed Ins iugsase; para WIS, bury’s old ege mates, and a very warm friend. ; BB fie: out for the East. | Fora morfent Woodbury heartily wished Mr. Merriam | Pa onroy red under the blow which the unex- | at the bottom of the sea, but he soon recovered himself. | pected intelligence gave him. But the dogged nature | He must expect and be prepared for such rencontres. | of the man rallied after a little, and he asked the clerk | He had entered upon a life in which he must always play | if he knew the nature of the telegram Belford had re- | a part. He might as well begin now. ceived “You don’t seem a bit pleased to see a fellow!” said. . ‘Phat functionary looked surprised. |} “Jam an old chum of Mr. Belford’s,” said Conroy, | ‘and 1 naturally feel an interest in him. And I am eatly disappointed at not meeting him here. Our ; eae are closely connected. I hope—I hope no one is -, dead.” ; «Some one is to be married, I believe,” said the clerk. «4 Miss Trowbridge—a particular friend of his, I think he said.” “Ah, yes—to be sure!” said Conroy. ‘No wonder he wanted togo back. Ican understand it now. Thank you!” And the tramp slouched out of the house. He unders it all. He had known that Jack Bel- ford had hoped to win Eleanor Trowbridge; he had known of her engagement to Vance Harley. Doubtless | gome friend of belford’s had sent him the telegram, and e = was going back to put a stop to the marriage, if pos- Mr. Merriam, ‘‘and you look a trifle fagged. Been work- ing too hard, haven't you?” “Of course Iam glad to see you, Gus, but you quite | took my breath away with surprise! How is it that you are here ?” “Going out to Sydney on business for the firm. Dused laugh, Arthur, because I have just met the woman | Who could make me happy !” | “How many of her have you met in t life ?” asked Woodbury. “Spare your sarcasm, my boy! I knowl have had a great many love affairs, but this is a genuine case of true regard. She is young, and lovely as a dream, and, tell it softly, her father has the collateral in liberal | quantities, and is agreeable. But my governor has just | taken it into his head that nobedy but your humble ser- / vant can attend to matters over yonder, and I had to | break the fair Julia’s heart, and tear my own soul out of | my breast, by parting from her. And ten to one, before ! Lreturn she will be married to the other fellow. There’s | gmail ring set with two diamonds. He looked at it long | no trusting women, unless you're on the spot to look af- | and tenderly, tears dimming his bleared and blood-shot | ter them.” - eyes, and his brawny hands trembling as-he turned it «Ah, 1 see that you are the same suspicious soul as of “es c old 9”? he course of your e, . roy went outside the town, and took from around his neek a slender silken cord, attached to which was a over. - “36 was hers—poor girl,” he said to himself, “it was the only nice trinket she had, and she might have had so many things if she had not thrown herself away ona r wretch like me. 1 never ought to have looked at Ror. She was as far above me as the stars are above the earth. But I loved her—devotedly loved her. And this ring was her mother’s. When she died she gave if {| to me, and says she, ‘Jimmie,’ she always called me | Jimmie, poor lass, ‘I have got to leave you. | father to the little girl, Jimmie, and when she is married | When he had embarked on board the Royal May, he ‘| tean honest man that loves her, give her this ring. It / and his wife had been registered as Arthur Woodbury | Was my mother’s and my mother was alady. And bea / and niece, and Lena had passed as his niece with the good father to the child,’ says she; and then ber hand . officers of the ship. grew cold in mine, and her eyes closed and—oh, Heaven! | «A lady!” cried Gus, ‘and that reminds me that I what shall 1 say to my wife when I meet her at the time | saw a great deal in the papers about you and the pretty the accounts are settled and she asks me how I have | factory girl who was accused of killing Trowbridge. A dealt by Carrie ?” | Scamp he was, too! She served him right! So she did ; The tramp sunk down on the ground and buried his | and, by Jove! I had forgotten it—but they said that you face in the while great drops of agony stood on | married her.” is f . “IT did!” said Woodbury, quietly. “Heaven knows I meant to do right by her,” he said, | long time. She was innocent, and I married her.” as if in feeble excuse for himself, but lama goes ignor- | «Well, it is like a romance. But I should have done ant fellow, and fate never did much for me. I have been | the same thing myself by Julia. But it’s dused hard on educated in a hard school, and the temptations ot my | you. And you don’t wear any weeds, either,” glancing life have been too much and too many for me. But [ | at Woodbury’s hat. - must fulfill the mission of my life. It is aliIl have tolive | ‘No, I wear no weeds, and look here, Merriam. Please fornow. And the ring must go. Not to save me from do not talk about it ever again. I cannot bear it. You | starvation—not to save me from death even, would I | may well imagine that it isa painful subject for me.” | | part with it, but to help me on the way to avenge ker | Merriam grasped his friend’s hand warmly. — wrongs.” ‘Tllnever mention it again, and I beg your pardon fe returned the ring to the place in which he had | for my thoughtlessness now. And I don’t blame you always kept it. and went back to the town. ‘The for losing your head with her, for she was as pretty as _ stores were lighted now—the flaring of five great gas _ a picture.” : _ jets in a large window, showed him the gleam of precious | _A cold chill ran through Woodbury’s veins. Stones, and the glitter of watches, and told him that ‘Have youever seen Lena Dudley ?” he asked. _ there Messrs Bell & Hill dealt in diamonds, gold dust, ; ‘Seen her? Why, bless you, yes. A good many and jewelry of all descriptions. | times. Don’t you remember I was a book-keeper in - He felt no doubt about being able to dispose of the | Trowbridge’s mills when she worked there? We all trinket. At the East, where the average range of honesty | knew her by sight; she was.too pretty to escape obser- was supposed to be higher, there might be some | vation.” / ‘questions asked if a suspicious looking, ill-clad stranger Here was a new difficulty. Merriam must not see came into a fashionable establishment to sell a diamond | Lena; if he did, he would recognize her, and the secret ring, but here, on the verge of civilization, the trades- | would be out. And what would follow, Woodbury did men were used to seeing all sorts of characters. |} not dare to conjecture. Merriam was a jovial good- He entered the store with confidence, and stated his | hearted fellow, but he never could be trusted to keep business. any secret—and such a secret as this. And Woodbury _ He had seen better days. He was from the East. He | hoped that when Lena had recovered trom her feeble- was dead broke and must have some money. And he | ness she would be able to go upon deck, and let the sea = wanted to sell the ring. Mr. Bell looked at the jewel | breezes make her well and strong once more. | -eritically, . . “Are you not going to ask me to go down and see “Rather fine stones. Worth more, perhaps, than I can | your niece 2” asked Merriam. ¥, afford to give you. Shall we say two hundred for it ?” “She is an invalid, and sees no company,” said Wood- ~. “Say a hundred and fifoy and let me keep the ring. | bury. “It is for her health she is taking the voyage. The stones are worth that,” said the tramp, in a voice | Andshe has not been out of her birth since she came on .. Which trembled, in spite of himself, and the ring was— | board the ship. I have hired one of the stewardesses to attend toher. She should have taken a nurse.” ‘was my wife's.” “Bless your soul,” said Mr, Bell, sympathetically. ‘the “Yes I should say so. Well, it must be rather hard ‘sett is of no earthly account to us beyond the two or | lines on you, old fellow, to be dancing attendance ona ree dollars’ worth of old gold it may weigh. Of course, | sick woman’s whims. " “Not at all. I am not confined to her,” said Wood- ve shall reset the stones. Keep the ring, and welcome.” bury, assuming a lightness he did not by any means feel. . He took a small pair of nippers—removed the stones— gave the ring back into the tramp’s hand, and counted A little more ee oe conversation ensued, and then Merriam went below. He did not feel very well about out two bundred dollars in crisp notes. - “Tt will pay your way home,” he said, with a kindly | the head, he said, and Woodbury devoutly hoped that smile, for Something in Conroy’s deeply lined face had | the feeling would continue. - awaken: ol@ man’s interest, “‘andI wish you suc- The next day Merriam was down with seasickness, and indeed for many a long day thereafter, and he cess after you get there.” _ “Thank you,” said Conroy, ‘You don’t know what | cursed the sea, and ship, and the “governor,” and ouw're wishing for, but I thank you all the same. Good- | everything else which came within the scope of his at- ye Dy.” a ; tention or imagination. He pulled clumsily at his tattered hat, and left the Woodbury had told Lena of his encounter with Mer- ee Shores op eaey va riam, and of the necessity of her keeping below, and | have been deceived! The dear creatures have been de- | ceiving me ever since I was out of petticoats. ButI will spare you the harrowing details. And now, how ; comes it that you are here ?” {| «T am going out on private business, and I have a | lady with me,” said Mr. Woodbury, feeling that it was Be a good | once. ok Y = | ment, Eleanor found | her marriage took place. | long time, he had had some unexpected successes in a | She had ever been in the gloont , Y | Shall hope for the best, and I know we shall be happy | DES Cero, Ww r. Augustus Merriani, one of Wood- | ‘inconvenient just now, because—wwell; you needn’t | “Suspicious! Well, look at the number of times 1 | best to make the explanation he intended to make at “I had loved her a | the girl accepted it as a part of the difficult life upon which she had entered. She had known there would be many trials, but she had hardly looked for them to be- gin so soon. But, when compared with her life in that dreary prison, any fate was welcome and sweet. She would stay below; it would not be so very long, and Arthur would see her every day—she would have that to look forward to. : “By and by, dearest, I shall be with you all the time,” he said, kissing her fondly. ‘We will go back into the mountains, and lead the lives of hermits, if necessary, and it is likely that Merriam will be the last man we shall ever see belonging to the old life. Does it make you sad to think that you are cut off from the dear old life forever ?” ; “If it were not for father and H*yry I should not grieve,” she said, tears gathering in “wer eyes; ‘but when I think that father must die, and Hariy grow up to manhood, and I never to hear their voices or feel their loving presence near me, ol, Arthur, it is hard— it is very, very hard!” . “T know it, dear love,” he cried, drawing her to his breast; “but I have never given up the hope that some- time your innocence may be proved. ‘Sometime the facts in the case will come to light, and the world will know, as I know, that you are guiltless.” “JT dare not hope for it; but if it couid only be, I should be too happy to live!” Merriam’s indisposition continued, and Lena, availing herself of the opportunity thus offered, walked on the deck at twilight, sometimes accompanied by her hus- band, but oftener alone, as it was thought best that Mr. Woodbury should not seem too attentive to his niece. The ship had been four weeks at sea when a fearful storm arose and threatened to inguli the Royal May. It raged three days, and Merriam managed to crawl on deck as the wind lulled a little, and ensconced himself in a sheltered nook behind the wheel. The storm had spent its fury; the sun had gone down in a glory of gold and crimson; the wind blew in fitful outs. and the sea was settling down to its normal con- ition. ee The sailors had taken advantage of the change and turned in for a brief rest; only twoor three seamen were wm gent. and they were attending to their legitimate uties. Merriam felt quite easy to-night; the storm had ex- cited him to do his utmost, and he felt, to use his own expression, like an empty sardine box. He fell asleep as he lay there, and it was darie*ffea he awoke sud- denly, to see standing at a little distance from him, and just where the moonlight struggling through the clouds fell on her face, the figure of a Woman whom he believed dead and buried. “Great Heaven!” -he cried, springing to his feet, and steadying himself by a friendly rope; ‘lt is Lena Dudley pr The moon was obscured by a passing cloud ; darkness and dizziness came over Merriam, ani when the shadow = oe away, he was alone—the vision had van- ished! 3 CHAPTER LIL.” LOST. After the supposed death of Lexa Dudley, Eleanor Trowbridge gave way to sadness ali mourning; but it is not natural for the young to always grieve, and after } a little time the girl began to see that it was better for her friend to die quietly in her bed than to live out a few more dreary weeks, and then perish miserably on the scaffold. ; And in these dark days of her sorfow over the young girl for whom she had conceived so strong an attach- great comfort in the presence of her lover, Vance Harley. She was domiciled with Miss Vanvelt at the stately house of the heiress, and there she would remain until Vance began to get importunat He had waiteda business way, and his circumstances now warranted him in taking a wife. True, he might not be able to maintain her in the princely way to which she had been accustomed while at Clitheroe, but he had an income sufficient for all reasonable wants, and Eleanor knew | that she should be much happier in acottage than | nd ghost-haunted | So it happened that at last the wedding-day was | fixed, and a pretty little cottage on the outskirts of | | Marlboro was being got ready for the reception of Vance | Harley’s bride. i It was a night in spring when the young couple | alked out to the Lindens, as their intended little home was christened, and beneath the light of a full moon | they explored the grounds, and ratmbled through the | neat and pretty rooms, and sat on ered piazza, and looked out across of the Jand-locked bay. ; Everything wasin order for the coming of the mis- tress. There was a comely mai@ygervant for general | work, a cook who knew the secr¥ts of many a dish which was fit for the palate.of @ king; there was a e broad, vine-cov- | he distant expanse | watch-dog in the kennel, a pair of gandsome ponies in the little stable, and a groom to attend to them. kitten dozing on been unmindful | to be prosperous | the window-ledge, for Vance had % of the old saying that a young co iple, in life, must never set up housekeeging without a cat. The dainty J view to comfort, and their friend articles of luxury as tokens of theiy Eleanor’s fortune would haye j much more pretentious style Harley was proud, and he had n@® yet arrived at the | PU wasw= ER ey ev ~ Pens >a aaa anything from a woman except herfiove, and he re to allow Eleanor to contribute anybhing in a pecuniary | way toward the establishment they Were tocall home. | H# With taste anda) » had sent in many | anted them in at ving, but Vance i “Keep your money, dear,” he hadganswered her when | she had proposed. giving him a check for all that was | needed. ‘I Should feel like a sneag to be spending the | fortune that is yours. Lam a m@ enough to earha living anda li love.” To-night they sat a long time en the piazza and talked those silly nothings which ali lovers have talked, | trom Adam and Eve downward, énd found it pleasant | employment. ; : The mists came up from the river and whitened the | | meadows, thie ce soft breath of the spring-time blew | down from the distant hills, and the whip-poor-will sang | his pladntive song in the marshes. | ‘Bleanor,” said Vance Harley, hdlding her hand in | his, “life looks very sweet and fairto us. I wonder if | we shall always see it thus? I wonder, dear, if you will | ever cease to love me ?” | “And whatif Idid?” asked Eleanor, jestingly, look- | ing into his face with her soul in her eyes. | “J should go mad,” he cried, fiereely, ‘or should die, I | do not know which.” | “Oh, no, you would not, Vance, But such a thing as | that can never happen. I shall hever change. I may | die and go back to dust, but I shall love you still.” | He folded her silently to his heart, and as they stood | there together, was it a fancy, or did they really hear | the soft echo of a mocking laugh trom the depths of the | shrubbery ? <3} Eleanor started and listened with a blanched cheek. | “What wasthat? Did you not hear something, there | in the lilac bushes by the fountain,” , and lam strong | he for the woman lt ' | } | “Don’t go to getting nervous, Eleanor. You lived so long | ; at that ghostly old Clitheroe, that you fancy phantoms are everywhere. There must be fo ghosts at the Lin- | dens to frighten the wits out of my little wife.” “But I certainly heard somethisg——” | “] will go and investigate. If any poaching tramp is | invading our princely domains, he shall pay dearly for | and I heard that carriage. | clew. | the Nest, but it is not far across a continent for a man | Of him.” | spare no pains or expense to discover this young lady. | Meanwhile, my whole time will be devoted to helping | ary | uting toward “Tt is the servants in the kitchgn, dear,” said Vance. ; “THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #0 The whole thing is a vile conspiracy. But where—oh, where is my darling ?” He rode over to Miss Vanvelt’s house in hot haste, and conferred anxiously with its mistress. Augusta was pale and distraught. Her story was very simple, and not calculated to throw much light on the matter of her triend’s strange disappearance. She had not gone to bed when Eleanor returned on the previous night. Their chambers adjoined each other, with a door between. Eleanor had come into Augusta’s room, and talked while unbraiding her hair and preparing for the night. She had spoken of the Lindens, of the happiness she anticipated there, and had told, in a frightened way, of the mysterious laugh she had fancied she heard in the lilac bushes. «There, there,” Miss Vanvelt had said, ‘pray do not go to fancying that the Lindens is a haunted house, as you fancied Clitheroe was. It will destroy your comfort there if you get any such idea into your head.” “But Clitheroe was haunted,” Eleanor had replied. “Oniy by a gang of outlaws, and by a poor, unfortu- nate woman who was no more a ghost than you or I, dear. Eleanor, you must positively see a doctor and get his opinion; you are nervous and out of tone.” And Eleanor had laughed, and kissed her, and gone to her own room, and Augusta had seen her no more. Her bed had not been siept in; her snowy night-dress lay on the pillows just as she had laid it out for the night, and the sealed letter which had been sent to Vane Harley was on the dressing-table, placed conspicuously, so as to attract immediate attention. And further than that Miss Vanvelt knew nothing. | The servants were questioned, but they could give no | information. ‘They had heard nothing unusual through the night. Only one of them had been awake at any time during the dark hours, and that one was old Peggy, the deaf laundry-woman, and nobody believed her when | she asserted that she had heard a carriage drive rapidly | over the bridge about midnight. Theold woman stoutly | maintained her assertion, but the others laughed at it, tor it was well known that, aside from the “rhumatiz,” | old Peggy's worst complaint was ‘‘a kind of a rumbling | sound in her head all the time.” ; But when Michael, the gardener, came in, and, with indignation swelling his breast, told how he had found | the trusty watch-dog with his throat cut, clear across, | and that there were fresh tracks of carriage wheels on | the gravel at the east side of the house, it began to | dawn on the minds of the listeners that perhaps, after | all, old Peggy’s rumbling of a carriage over the bridge | had not been altogether a matter of her imagination. Under Vance Harley’s directions, the house and | grounds were strictly searched, but nothing new was | discovered, except thaf beneath Eleanor’s window the climbing rose-bush had been torn from the trellis, and Vance at once surmised that by the means of the trellis some one had obtained access to her room. “Tt is Jack Belford’s work,” he said to Augusta, when | the search was over. ‘I have always expected he would give us trouble, but I never dreamed of anything like this. He had set his heart on winning Eleanor, and he had her brother’s sanction. I am wrong to say anything to wound your feelings, Miss Vanvelt, but these two | were a precious pair of scoundrels.” “Let the dead rest!” said Augusta, haughtily; ‘it is only with the living we have to do. I have been told that this Belford had gone to the far West, and that it | was not likely he would dare show his head in Marlboro | after that sad affair of poor Carrie Conroy.” ‘Dare! He would dare anything to carry a point !— and you know he threatened Eleanor ?” «Yes; but I took it all as the idle bravado of a disap- pointed lover. In this nineteenth century men do not Seize and carry off women for their wives against their | will. May there not be some other reason? May it not | be, aS Eleanor says in her letter, that she has gone with | some other suitor——” «Stop! You are saying what is unworthy of you, and what it is cowardly in me to listen to. Eleanor was pure as the snow. She never had an evil thought. And she | loved me. I am assure of her as 1 am of myself. What- ever has happened to her, she has been the victim of some atrocious plot. Good heavens! and I am sitting here prating, while, perhaps, She may be suffering— | dying even, tor the help I am powerless to give her !” } Harley started up, seized his hat, and rushed out. He | went first to the police office and stated the circum- stances. Tom Sharkey was there, and listened with in- terest. ° : “A carriage driving across the bridge just after mid- | night ?” he said, reflectively. Yes, your old woman was right--a carriage did drive across the bridge just after midnight. I heard it myself. 1 was out taking a couple of fellows in custody who were drunk and disorderly, It was just before the clocks | struck one. It took the Pearl Hill road. It may be a I will note it down.” He made an entry in his memorandum-book. Then Vance Harley mentioned the suspicions he had of Jack Belford. The policeman pricked up his ears. “Belford is a rare bird. He is wanted on several counts, but we have never got evidence enough to ar- rest him. There never was a keener, shrewder villain | on the footstool than he is. We heard of him last at | | | | like him. I am inclined to pay heed to your suspicions “T think you may,” said Harley, ‘‘and I want you to | you. You may not, perhaps, think much of what 1 can ' do, but 1 shall work with a will” Then Vance Harley departed and began his tireless quest. How long-and how dreary it was to be he did not dare to conjecture, but he said to hiniself that until Eleanor Trowbritige was found he would give himself | teoxursvx The cottage at the Lindens was Kept Just as iv wes | when it was made ready for the reception of its mis- | tress; the servants staid on in the kitchen, the horses | waited in the stable, the flowers blossomed in the gar- den, and the master wandered back and forth over the country on his quest; but still there came no tid- ings of the lost girl. : The good people avout the vicinity shook their heads sagely, and Said that an‘evil eye was on the Trowbridge | family. The curse of the father’s sin had fallen on the children ; the son had perished by the hand of violence, and now the daughter had disappeared; and it was | more than likely that she, too, had met with some ter- rible fate. 3 And the police worked, and put detectives on differ- ent clews, and still nothing more was ever heard of the mysterious carriage which had rumbled across the bridge just after midnight of that fatal night which Yance Harley so well remembered. (TO BE CONTINUED. | —_——___>-+_____ Pleasant Paragraphs. | | Jost of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib- making this column an attractive feature of the New YorK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for yublication anything which may be deemed of sufficient in- rest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the arti- cles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be remedied. } (. Love at First Sight. She was young and fair, with yellow hair, So rich in all womanly charms, And she flashed like a star through the dusty car, With a snub-nosed pup in her arms. With ’wildering smile and voice of guile, *Rose a drummer, dapper and neat; | it,” said Harley, playfully, attempting to reassure her, | for she was trembling violently. ' «No, no, you shall not go! youshall not leave me. | must have been mistaken. I am very nervous. It is ; late, too—let us go home.” | “Home? This is home, Eleanor.” | ‘I know it is tobe, but Augusta will be wondering. | Hark! the clocks are striking ten.” | Vance wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and | they went down the graveled walk to the gate. He | turned and looked back at the quaint little house, every | window of which was now ablaze from the reflection of | the bright moonlight on the glass. | “Ttisa pretty house—a pleasant location, Eleanor ; and in one little week, please God, it will be my home | and my wife’s home. Do you realize it, darling ?” | She nestled closer to his side, and he took his answer | from her lips. | He left her at the door of Miss Vanvelt’s stately house, and went whistling away toward the town. He was happy—thoroughly and intensely happy, as it is perhaps only given once in a life-time fora man to be—he had prospered, he had won the woman he loved—his life spread out before him fair and “sunny, unbroken by a single threatening cloud. : But that night his dreams were troubled. He started up continually, fancying that he heard the voice of Eleanor Gall his name, but only the low whisper of the wind in the trees outside his window, and the monot- onous plaint of the whip poor-will greeted him, when he had roused himself to wakefulness. “T am getting as nervous as any old woman,” he said, impatiently. ‘I shall be dozing with scull cap and valerian soon. Of course, Eleanor is safe. Why do 1] dream that she is not ?” And so he tossed about till morning, and awoke unre- freshed to find a boy who had ridden over from Miss Van- velt’s, waiting for him. Harley took the note the boy gave him, with a cold, strange misgiving at his heart. It was in Augusta's handwriting, and ran thus: “Mr. HARLEY :—1 do not wish to alarm you, but some- thing very strange has occurred. Eleanor Trowbridge 1s missing. Inclosed you will find a note addressed to your- self, which was left on her dressing-table. Come over at once and see if you can help me solve this painful mys- tery. “A. VANVELT.” Harley tore open the envelope which Miss Vanvelt had inclosed, and read what the note contained. He read it twice before he clearly comprehended its contents. “MR. VANCE HARLEY :—I write tosay that our engage- ment is at an end. L[ask your pardon for having played with you so long, but Marlboro is adull town, and one must have some excitement. I have gone with the lover of my life-time, and I shall be happy, as I trust you, also, will be. *Good-by, ELEANOR TROWBRIDGE.” Vance Hariey crushed the letter in his hand witha smothered oath. “It is false—utterly false,” he said, hoarsely. ‘‘Eleanor Trowbridge never wrote that letter. It is like her hand- a Beguiling the fair—he begged her to share, To her journey's end, his seat. | Then touching the weather, they both wondered 1 whether We most needed frost or rain ; With this as a start, they next discussed art In a cool, philosophical strain. True love came next; with this as a text Their voices were lowered a key. He spoke with delight of love at first sight ; She murmured, ‘I think it might be.” was put to him. “Why,” said he, ‘anybody ought to know T-h 0-u-g-h, ‘tho, ;’ S-t-0-u-g-h, ‘sto,’ of course.” _ When another man came in, he was asked for an opin- ion. “J should call it ‘stoff,’” said he; ‘‘c-o-u-g-h spells ‘coff,’ and 1 don’t see how s-t-0-u-g-h can spell anything but ‘stoff.’ ” At this a gray-haired man, with a light plug-hat, and the air of a capitalist, turned around in his seat, and with the intrepidity of one who speaks from absolute knowledge, said : «It is pronounced with the sound of ‘ow’—'stow.’ ” ‘ “Well,” said one ofthe parties to the controversy, ‘‘what confounded fool yave such an infernal name to a town, anyway ?’ “It was named after me,” said the gray-haired man. “T laid out the town; my name is Stough.” For several minutes the clickety-click of the car-wheels was the only sound that broke the embarrassing still- ness. that. Cress- Examination. The case in which a stubborn witness figuredin a New York court last week has been eclipsed only by the following incident ina famous trial, which very many will not remember : Mr. Millard to Mr. Bright (showing witness a paper)— “Who wrote that editorial 2” ‘What editorial ?” “That one my finger is on.’ Agra finger? ‘This finger on this editorial ?” ¥es,” «What about it ?” “Who wrote it ?” “The finger ?” “No ; the editorial.” “What editorial ?” «This editorial in this newspaper, which I hold up be- fore you, which is headed ‘Columbine and Harlequin,’ on which I now place my thumb.” ‘You want to know who wrote it: ?” 'sVOSse “Why ?” “It is of interest in this case.” “What case ?” ‘The Talmage case.” “What Talmage ?” Do you know who wrote this editorial ?” “What editorial ?” “The one I just showed you.” “That one in that paper 2?” VOR.” “The one you put your finger on first, and then put your thumb on it ?” “Yes.” «You want to know who wrote it ?” “Yess? “T don’t know.” A Little Girl’s Composition. A schoolma’am in a Maine town has the following juvenile composition among her school-house manu- scripts : “A codfish is the only Annumal that ain’t got no neck. There ain’t but one kind of a fish in the World that lives ; On the land and Flys round in the air, and thatis a fish-hawk. A codfish has a large mouth, and my Sun- day-school Teacher has a large mouth too. Two kids got fiteing in the vestry one day and one of ’em pulled quite a lot of Hare out of the other kid’s Head and the | Superingtending pounded one of his Eers with a book and so they quit. A fish would look funny if they had | legs and could run.” Knew His Father. “Now, Johnnie,” said the teacher, “if your father bor- rows ten dollars and promises to pay one dollar a week, | how much will he owe in seven weeks ?” “Ten dollars,” said Johnnie. “Tm afraid you don’t know your lesson very well,” re- | marked the teacher. “TJ may not know my lesson very well.” Johnnie frank- | ly acknowledged, ‘‘out I know my father. Economy. “Smith, you are the laziest man I ever savy.” “Correct.” “They say you sleep fifteen hours out of every twenty- , four.” “Correct.” “What do you do it for ?” “In order to economize. You see it costs nothing to sleep, but the moment you wake up expenses begin.” Making Love in Docter’s Lingo. A young doctor said to a girl: “Do you know, my dear, [have a heart atfection for you ?” “Have you had it lung ?” she coyly inquired. “Oh, yes; I feel that I will liver troubled life without you,” he fervently responded. «Then you better asthma,” she softly murmured, Mirthful Morsels. There is a gentleman in this city who almost wholly lives on strawberries in theirseason. The rest of the year | he lives on his mother-in-law. ‘“My dear,” said a sentimental wife ‘‘home, you know, is the dearest spot on earth.” ‘Well, yes,” said the prac- tical husband, ‘it does cost about twice as much as any other spot.” “How is your husband this afternoon, Mrs. Squiggs ?” «Why, the doctor says how as if he lives till the morn- ing he shall have some hopes of him ; but if he don’t, he must give him up.” | ocChemlaster form of a man on his hands and knees has that when the ealamity overtook the city the man was on his hands and knees looking for a collar-button under the dressing-table. Home rule—Cold dinners on wash-days. A chasm that often separates triends—sarcasm. Some one wants to know where the idea of rowing originated. Why, from the fishes, of course. Haven't | you seen a Shad roe ? An ode to a goat may be called a nanny-versary poem. When does a man impose upon himself? 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As a blood purifier, and as a tonic, J am convinced that this wonderful preparation has no equal. * Charles C. Dame, Pastor Congre- He muttered ‘‘a mash,” and stroked his mustache ; “Could you,” he whispered anear, «Ever love at first sight?” Her eyes growing bright— “Ah! me; but I have, sir, I fear.” “An! who? and oh! where ?” the gay debonaire Young drummer slid into the trap. She glanced up and blushed, then guilelessly gushed— “With the puppy I hold in my lap.” Johnny Was Posted on Miracles, Little Johnny Jordan was a passenger on a suburban train. Beside him sat a tall, solemn-looking man, with side whiskers. 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BUFFALO BILL, eae GREAT AMERICAN SCOUT, AT HOME IN THE VV aay WN Hes DO. weer 3 months . $5.00 A story of deep and thrilling interest, founded on actual events, introducing Living Personages, and illus- trating Real Life on the Plains, will be commenced next week, under the title of ‘ulfalo Bills Best Shot OR, THE HEART OF SPOTTED TAIL, By NED BUNTLINE, AUTHOR OF “RED DICK,” “ROVER WILD,” “NAVIGATOR NED,” etc. In the form of an exciting romance, NED BUNTLINE, the friend and comrade of the FAMOUS AMERICAN SCOUT, DESCRIBES THE ADVENTURES and EXPLOITS OF Buffalo Bill and His Mates. Among the noted characters who figure in this fas- ~ uma SUOry OF Irontier lite, with BurraéLo Brit, are his two mates, Dave EstEs and Texas Jack, both of whom are familiar to soldiers in the Far West, as DARING AND WILY SCOUTS ALMOST Equal in Skill to Buffalo Bill. Besides the two worthies just named, the story intro- duces such celebrities as GENERAL PHIL SHERIDAN, @ENERAL CUSTER, and CAPTAIN BOYD. From the very beginning the story is a series of excit- ing scenes and perilous adventures, in which the NOTED WESTERN SCOUTS are seen at their best, in DEEDS OF HEROISM, CUNNING STRATAGEMS, RARE EXPLOITS. “BUFFALO BILL’s BEST SHor” will be commenced next week. A brisk demand for this graphic story of the Wild West is anticipated. News agents should be prepared to supply the paper promptly. HIS FISHING, BY KATE THORN. About this time of year the young man of sporting pro- Cclivities starts out for a fishing tour. He has read the daily papers, and his soul has fairly glowed at the accounts of the big fish caught by ama- teur sportsmen. A fish story is never good for anything unless the fish weighs five or six pounds, and having passed by all stories of small size, and having unbounded ability in his own skill, he expects to capture a ten- pounder at the first throw. It is important to decide on the route he shall take. This involves a great deal. He talks it over with all his friends who have been fishing. He reads the sporting papers, and the guide books, and consults the different railroad advertisements of popular resorts, on their lines of road, and he finally comes to the conclusion that when there are so many fish to be caught everywhere, one place is just as good as another. And he is very near the truth, as he will find, after he has fished awhile. His outfit is a matter requiring grave deliberation. The bridal trousseau of a duchess in prospective does not require more study. He puts out fifty dollars in patent flies, and rods, and bait boxes, and broad-brimmed hats, and waterproof shoes, and considers it money well in- vested. When he hauls in those ten, and fifteen, and twenty pound trout and pickerel, what will he care for that paltry fifty dollars. He strikes the fishing-grounds in high hope, and un- packs his apparatus in fine spirits. He ison the eve of victory. Already he hears, in imagination, the ad- miring applause from the hotel piazza, as he strolls home from to-morrow’s expedition, tired and hot, but triumphant, staggering under the weight of the spoils he has secured. He starts out for his day’s fishing erect and self-con- fident. He teels sure that victory will perch upon his banner. What an item his day’s exploits will make in his local paper. How his incredulous wite, who tried so hard to discourage him about coming, will stare when she reads it. It’ll be a proud day for her to realize that she has such a man for a husband. “Only a short walk to splendid fishing,” the landlord tells him, and he tramps on, carrying his rod, and his bait, and his flies, and his basket for the fish, and every- thing else that he thinks he needs, including his lunch, and a bottle of—well, say coffee; and the short walk stretches into miles, and at last he reaches the stream. He fishes. He still fishes! He fishes more! The sun burns his neck, the musquitoes bore into his face and hands, and turn inquisitive eyes at the small patch of red stockings which shows above his water- proof shoes. The black flies and gnats investigate the extent of his Peete and skirmish round the cor- ners of his eyes, and sit refiectively on the end of his nose, and gaze at the landscape. And still he fishes! Then he eats his lunch, and wishes there was more of it. Then he samples the contentsof his bottle. Then he fishes some more. Then he concludes he has not gone to just the right place, so he packs his traps and moves on. And he fishes! He keeps this up until the usual thunder-shower steps in, and he scuds under the bushes and gets wet to the skin. When the rain is over it is almost dark, and he concludes that he will go back and say to his friends at the hotel that he met an old acquaintance, and they talked so long that he didn’t have any time left for fish- ing. He repeats his expedition the next day with varia- tions, but the ten-pound trout does not put in an ap- pearance, he, too, has gone off on his summer vacation, asi business is a little slack with the finny tribe gen- erally. And our friend spends five dollars for fish caught by some gawky countryman with a gray birch pole, and a ten-cent line and hook, baited with salt pork, and goes home to astonish his friends with nis luck, and to tell buncombe yarns about what he might have done if his business had not called him back so soon. > @4 WHICH MAN? BY P. B. ROSEDALE, M.D. Sophia Hollis, aged twenty, beautiful, proud, poor, and yet rich in her uncle’s love ; for her uncle had taken her to his own home on her father’s death, and provided for her as sumptuously as he did for his own. The young lady stood before the familiar engraving which, you remember, represents a lady with two pho- tographs in hand, and two letters on the table, two loy- ers before her mind’s eye, while she is attempting to de- cide between the two absent suitors. “It is my case, exactly,” sighed Sophia, studying the picture. ‘Which, or neither? And yet it must be one or the other. Uncle is kind, but I know he wants to marry me off out of the way of my cousins.” Which was not true of the generous uncle. The truth was, he simply made money to spend like water on those that he loved; he was only improvident of the future ; for to-day he provided munificently, and his fair niece did him a wrong. It was her own proud sensibility that was daily goading her to escape from being dependent. “If 1 could only see down the vista of the future fifty years,” she said; and with that she spread out her silk robes on the sofa, tucking one foot under her, like a schoolgirl, and dropping her shapely forehead into her hand, tell to dreaming out prophecy. She took the two men into view as regards their per- sonal appearance first. She saw them gray haired, one fat, one lean; one short, one tall; one with spectacles made fine looking, the other not advantaged by the spectacles, as she concluded. She saw them both walk- ing with a cane, bothrather feeble. But she did not see herself grown old. Oh, no, that never occurred to her. Then she compared them as regards their calling in life. One a merchant, the other a physician. But she did not consider her own duties at all in connection therewith. = She thought of the two families, the fathers and mothers, the various relations; wondering which she would like best. It did not seem to be worth her while to ask how they might like her. ‘lndeed, all through this peering into the future the spoiled child only thought selfishly. Of course, there- fore, she was bound to make a mistake—unless a good Providence should prevent. True it is that Providence is kinder to us, always, than we are to ourselves. : Loyd Schoffer and Harvey Monroe were both wealthy. It cannot be helped, reader—the story must conform to facts. No doubt it would be more romantic if one was rich and mean—while the other was Moor and noble. But, as [ knew them both, for the life of me I could not decide between them on any such grouinds. Both were good-looking, both were of fine family, Hoth were honor- able fellows ;_ either Was capabie of) makine: ota “J don’t know which I love,” Sophia ruminated, turn-’ ing the two photographs thoughttully in her pretty, soft hands. “And what can decide such a question but love ?” . True: what can? And how does love decide? Who can answer that ? “1 have read, in stories,” she resumed aloud to her- Self, “that after a lady has prolonged her acquaintance sufficiently with a gentleman, she feels some nameless impulse, some tender sentiment in here,” striking her breast, ‘‘that answers and says, ‘That is the man! But Ihave not. Oh, perhaps, 1 do not yet love either. Now let me see. Suppose I were to hear that Loyd Schoffer were dead. Could I cry?” She could, as she concluded, “But so I could if I heard the same dread news of poor Harvey !” And the charming creature was ready to prove it then and there, even at the thought. “No; not dead, but going to Europe. Or better still that Harvey now were to offer himself to Maud Parrish or some other girl. The naughty boy! Let him dare, if he dare! He cannot, after such a letter as this to me.” She reached for the letter. enough in an instant. ‘But, then,” and she smiled demurely to herself, “it aes just as wicked, would seem just as cruel in oyd. ; Then she took up the other letter and rolled them both into one. “Dear, dear! Perhaps I love them both!” She got up and swept across the room aturn or two on that conclusion, then paused by the window. “And perhaps T love neither. Perhaps it is a strange man who, like a knight full-armed, shall ride to me out of the evening clouds down in yonder golden west. “I will not decide it at all,” she concluded. But then, on second thought, that would not do. ‘For Mr. Schof- fer comes to-morrow all the way from Albany. And on Thursday Harvey Monroe comes all the way from New Haven. And it has been so for these three months. Was there ever anything so vexatious? All you girls that lack suitors, perhaps you think it would be glorious fun just to bein my place. But try it and see. These two men want a wife. A wife! Just think of that, Miss Hollis. How would you like to be a wife? It is all very pleasant to sport about, going to drive, to opera, and where not. But how decidedly earnest the two men talk. It is dreadful to have to be so sober and meet such grave language from these two hearty gentlemen. Tu—Irli—Il let them both go. I'll not be pursued so vigorously. But——” And she fell off dreaming again. She had given them both a right to expect some attachment from her. “And what ifI let these two go? The knight out of the west may never ride to me.” At length, weary with her own arguing, Sophia Hollis resolved upon an expedient that she had often half de- termined to venture. She decided to draw lots fora choice. Think of that, ye two trustful swains—one in Albany this day pleading a cause before a high court, one in New Haven sitting at the head of a directors’ meeting. You are being thumbed in a pretty girl’s fine fever of indecision, your names on two Slips of paper, your hearts on the turn of luck, your hopes, happiness, and maybe your very livesin the vendue of chance. Men of skill are ye both, who leave nothing to chance. Men of reasons and exact affairs ye are both. But the most precious fate of all life’s tates, for good or ill, is to be settled by this hazard, as you come from the bottom of a perfumed little glove-box. Sophia shut her eyes and peeped several times. She drew out both slips several times. Finally shutting down the eyelids till the long lashes lay like a fringe on the fair cheek, with a desperate effort she snatched one slip from the glove-box. Even then she dare not read the name, but rolled it all into alittle tight scroll be- tween her lovely fingers and then set up the scroll on end to look at. “I wonder which you are ?” But the scroll made no response to her apostrophe ; and so, after many a resolve, with a mighty struggle, she grasped the paper to read LoypD SCHOFFER. “Now instantly—oh, the perversity of the woman,” she cried out. ‘I didn’t want you. It was poor Harvey. You dear, dear Harvey!” she cried, catching up his photograph and addressing it, at the same time letting the lucky (or luckless) Loyd slip down to the floor where her tiny slipper unconsciously tapped it. “Did you think I would do such a wicked thing as to break your noble heart? I do believe I love you, Harvey Monroe. I willbe your wife. I will. I wilt!” Then, will you believe it? This most just and judi- cial creature went again at the glove-box business, try- ing six times in succession, till at last she drew out Har- vey Monroe’s name. With every adverse lot she thought she grew more certainly and resolutely in love with the name that she could not draw. All of which shows, could the young fellows have known it, that difficulty would have won either suit at that juncture. They should have «played offish,” as the children say. When @ woman will, she will; when she cannot, she surely will. Some people say so. Her fine eyes were dry Was such a creature really worth the having ? Two honest and manly fellows seeking an affectionate and loyal wife, shall we begin to think of you with pity, and hope that you will escape an infatuation that may land the successful wooer in a life-long misery? Shall we Sincerely hope that you will both of you play this lovely minx a trick that will properly punish her? Shall we desire to see her stranded, her beauty fading at five-aa- ee her old maidhood a settled thing at five-and- thirty ? Wait a bit. Not one woman in ten thousand so beauti- ful to look upon as Sophia Hollis. And has she, really, a poverty-stricken heart? Bless you, no. Can you not see that she is made to love and be loved? Every line of that face reheat of affection. Her very plenitude of an affectionate ature is what has involved her in this dilemma. She@nds luxuriated in the polite addresses of both these honorable gentlemen. It is her misfortune to have met twowvery nearly equal prizes. She is, I pre- sume, doing just what most girls, who are much sought after, do with all the desirable young fellows they meet in society. She is making her choice. Remember that all this isin the early stages of affairs. She is not en- gaged to either. And can she help it if love has not yet come to ordain its final choice? Who can command love? It comes, who can say whence or how? This lot business had not decided anything; and Sophia Hollis knew that it had not. What she really did was, now that she had used her best judgment, to wait, likea sensible girl, as one would think, till love came. It cer- tainly is wicked to marry without love. It is folly to marry without judgment. Loyd Schoffer caine. He said: “Of course, Miss Hollis, you received my letter.” “Yes, Mr. Schoffer. And I tell you frankly that Iam not prepared to answer it to-day.’ He flushed instantly; but outwardly smiling, he re- sumed: «You have no doubt of my love ?” “No; it is doubt of my own love, rather.” se Now that was honest, too honest for a proud Schoffer. It touched home. He had not been able to inspire love ? The idea! It had never occurred to him. He, the re- spectable, the upright, the pure! Her eyes were searching him, meanwhile. If he had only bowed to her desire for delay, for the present. But he did not. It was impossible for the wounded vanity to recover. He was toa much of a man to permit you to call it conceit. It was a high self-respect; it was, possibly, vanity. He knew7trewn worth ; he thought she ought to have known the same. The man forgot that once in her life every woman is a queen and all men are but subjects; that is when she is deciding whe shall rule over her heart. After Schoffer was gone the girl had her cry over it ; and grew regretful and tender toward him, so much so that when the other lover came, she could not have been said to be decided in the latter’s tavor. Indeed, for that matter, Miss Hollis was exceedingly brilliant and erter- taining to Schoffer the remnant of his visit that day, striving to obliterate his unhappy feelings; she even expected him again. As Harvey Monree came on the train, this was the kind of thought that was running through his head : “Really, now, itis no small favor that a young woman with a happy home does a fellow when she agrees to take the chances of tife’s ups and down with him. Now, lam going to ask titis pretty girl to leave the triends of a life-time for me, tlie friend of a year. I know Iam no bad hearted chap. But how does she know? She has nothing but a lite superficial inquiry and her own shrewd wits to depend on. I might turn out badly to- morrow. A young jan of five-and-twenty is not abso- lutely settled in Character; not absolutely. Yet I feel sure that I could continue to be a decent sort of fellow for the next fifty years, with heras my good angel. Pray Heaven she loves me, I don’t want a woman to marry me without love. Andyet, how can she have yet seen very much that is lovable in me? Bouquets, operas, and drives ; there isn’t miuch character to be exhibited in such trifles. Botherit! How does a woman decide to love a man, anywa, It is an intuition, a revelation, a mystery, I Q their part the same as on ours— after we } st judgment.” ahd more anxious as the en have no anxiety on en, ye fair judges in the S Hollis, if 1 ask about the letter whi it not to-day, I really hope to She cas : “What wh mind ?” ve no doubt of mine ?” doubt, rather, of my own ou can see in me that is ve up my life to serve 10w till you prove it. It you don’t know how e flash of faith in him, mn. It thrilled her soul. Challenge to believe. It It is a lie that a true _ after you by doubt, by is the love of despera- , alter marriage, when and she must cling to »a creature of faith. to Harvey Monroe's, and respect c¢ It filled h woman's trial of i NIOUS MAN. can be found wherever —people who can’t be impecunious man. r, or a thief, but he is ng than all these three No. There human avoided -this is what makes him he works harder than any one els ems to do his pocket any good. ; His earnings don’t affect his condition in the least ; perhaps he is a lawyez, with fees amounting to as much as the President’s salary; perhaps he is a mechanic at two dollars a day; hut in either case he is always “short,” and he comes down on his friends to make up the deficiency. x Ihave known one of these fellows to inherit twenty thousand dollars one week and have to borrow a car- fare the next. He hadn’t gambled, nor been robbed, nor swindled, either. "He could explain just how it happened, and tell so Straight a story that everybody gy listened felt sorry for him, lent him money, and got it back. Ihave known bachelors, without bad habits, who fre- quently had to borrow money of family men earning no more than they, to keep their heads above water, or, to put it more plainly, to keep from going to bed hungry. The impecunious bachelor is a pitiable object, but the married man who always has an empty pocket, except for the unpaid bills in it, isathousand times worse. He is the more frequently met, too. * Some people pronounce the impecunious man a mys- tery, but if any one will catch him and study him closely it will be found that there is no more mystery about him than a cheap puzzle. — es He is always a man who can’t say ‘‘No;” only this and nothing more. ; It does not matter who asks, the result is always the Same. If there is nobody else toask for more than he can afford to give, he will do the asking himself, and he can do it to any extent. | He is the man who, if his friends’ wives think plain merino good enough fof Sunday dresses, clothes his wife in silk. : His family rides in cafriages, while his friends think twice before they are sure they can take their wives and children on a trip by horse-car. He smokes cigars, while men of his- income content themselves with pipes. _ He has the best pew ip church, while his neighbors sit near the walls and doors: But they pay their pew rent —he doesn’t pay his. Aid sometimes he doesn’t go to church because his clothes aren’t good enough. He hires a better house than any of his equals, and = spends a great deal of time in dodging the land- ord. ‘ : He is generosity itself-on pay-day, or when he has suuceeded in borrowing any money—but his creditors find it harder than drawing teeth to get their bills paid. He means so well that no one can doubt his word—the first time he gives it to them, and the longer they know him the more they suspect open-spoken men in general. Every little while he loses a friend ; any one whocares to ask him why will find that he has borrowed money and failed to pay it. By the time he reaches middle age he will be suspect- ed of being a fugitive criminal, he has such a hunted look, and starts so violently when youcome up behind him, and clap your hand 6n his shoulder, but it is only because he knows that scores of people deserve more of him than he cun give. He is just as lavish of his wits as of his money ; he will promise to do anything for you, and mean it, too; but as heis always promising. more than any six men can perform, he disappoints oftener than a village shoemak- er, or a politician running for office. He insures his life hancgsomely for the benefit of his family and his creditors ; but when he dies it is discov- ered that his policies are all waste paper, for he has neg- lected to pay the premiums. - i And all the while he is the most hopeful fellow alive. Desperate cases require desperate remedies; so he plans an enormous quantity of work, which he just misses do- "Bomé impecunious men have been candidates for the Presidency ; others have run for village constable, but all of them fail to be elected; nobody can intrust his ————— ae business to a man who is not capable of taking care of his own. One single fault is at the bottom of the impecunious man’s troubles—he never counts the cost. . There are admirable animals and- insects who ‘‘live from hand to mouth” in the summer, but they generally starve to death when cold weather comes; it must have been from these that the impecunious man descended, if the Darwinian theory is true. Not unfrequently the impecunious man becomes des- perate. snatches something that belongs to another man, and finds himself in jail. Then every body is surprised and shocked, for as already implied, the impecunious man is generally a very good fellow. His triends help him out, if they can, and he goes somewhere else to live down the disgrace, but he seldom succeeds. Oftener he turns out a tramp; and his wife, with her children, goes back to her father’s home and spends the rest of her life in warning her daughters never to marry a good fellow. Sometimes he reforms, but itis harder to make him over than if he was a common thief or drunkard, for he always braces himself with the thought that he never meant harm to any body. The impecunious man should be suppressed, but the only way to do it will be for society to act on the princi- ple that the man who does not shape his life to fit his in- come is either a fool or a rogue, and should be either in a jail or a lunatic asylum. ‘WON BY A KISS, BY GENEVA MARCH. We at home always make it a practice to celebrate the birthdays of the several members of our family with a fete; but this year, when it lacked but two weeks of my sister’s eighteenth birthday, our mother died. We mourn her loss deeply; but Kate, for her oath’s sake, given in the shape of enameled invitation cards, will not give up her usual party. “Oh, Kate,” | plead, ‘please don’t have it!” She pushes me from her. “You don’t know what you are saying, child. J can- not retract after the invitations are issued, and father | C thinks it is best we should have it.” And so it ended. The party is in progress to-night. 1, up to the last, have declared 1 would not appear in the drawing-room ; neither dol. But sit alone on the bal- cony in front of mother’s room, watching the forms flit to and fro in the brilliant drawing-room. I see my sister, stateliest and handsomest ; my father, with his gray beard and haughty mien, and wonder if they had loved mother as I had. : Iam crying bitterly, when a firm step sounds beside me, and looking up, I meet the gaze of James Thornton, my sister Kate’s most ardent admirer. “Why do you not join the company, Miss Wilson ?” He bends forward and looks in my face. “What! in tears, little one ?” At this I cry harder than ever. 2 “‘Won’t you tell me what grieves you ?” and his firm, white hand rests caressingly on my bowed head. At this I tell him all. How it seers to me sacrilegious to treat my mother’s memory so. He says nothing, orly smooths my hair tenderly till I cease weeping. When I at last look at him through my tears, he says: “Little one, I am going away to-morrow; going to Europe. Will you kiss me good-by?” * Iraise my head and kiss him. “Thank you, little one. And whenI return will you give me a kiss of welcome? I haye nomother, no sis- ter, no one to welcome me back. Will you?” “Yes, sir,” I sob. “Thank you,” he says again, then leaves me. * * x * * * * 2 “Birdie, you little brown thing, what are you doing ? Dreaming, I declare! Did you know, child, that you have just fifteen minutes’to dress in before the dinner- bell rings ?” : And, Katie, my stately sister, sweeps from the room, the train of her emerald silk Sweeping across my feet, as I lay curled up by the window. : She had donned her prettiest costume and brightest smiles in honor of the new arrival, James Thornton. How my beautiful sister would have laughed had she known that this same new arrival was the hero of my dreams. -For five long years lL heard nothing from him; and now he had returned and taken rooms at the pleas- ant little hotel at which we are stopping—we, meaning father, sister Kate, and myself. E 2 All the morning I have been thinking of the night he kissed me good by, and the promise I had given him when only fifteen years old. But the dinner-bell rouses Mme from my reverie, and hastily donning my prettiest blue muslin, blushing at my own thoughts, and wonder- ing what he will say to plain little me, I hurry F9 the dining-room. ; E As l enter my father presents Mr. Thornton. “My little daughter, Bertha.” “«“J think we are already acquainted,” he said, and took my hand for a moment in his frm, white one, then passed on. et For two whole weeks every young lady at the house mers -juyseli — —_ Z ge? reps you} know—tried their Noatin»was 2 § af _ : ee aViat a pi yd Fio Avener ichlaoty ako Up-vorre | mistress.” Be mansion has no But her sighs are in vain. pee wok chatting gayly, turned upon: The last morning of Mr. we are all sitting on the broad piazza when the subject of the conversation kissing. Mr. Thornton did not join in the heya Finally pretty Flo demanded his opinion, g: say “Now, really, Mr. Thornton, don’t you like to attend forfeit parties ?” : “No, Miss Archer, I do not. I think a kiss obtained by com sage yore very insipid.” “Fie! We shall get up a party on purpose to test you. We believe you would assiee” ne . “T certainly should not.” ee Mr. Thornton! You shall do penance for that speech.’ “I am a willing sacrifice, Miss Leyton. What shall the penance be ?”" “You are to tell what lady you kissed last.” “That would not do, as the lady is present and would be the sufferer, rather than myself.” en then, you are to tell how long it is since you er.” ; ‘Will you promise not to doubt my word ?” “Oh, certainly.” “Then, Miss Leyton, I have kissed no lady for the space of five long years.” ‘Oh, Jim is probably faithful to some fair lady who fa- vored him then,” suggested Ned Archer. ‘Exactly so, Ned,” and he passed to the other end of son piazza to meet his valet, who was refurning with let- rs My cheeks are burning; I rise and hurry to my room. ‘Birdie, you little simpleton, what are you blushing for? He does not mean you,” I say to myself, but some- how I doubt my own words. . Here Kate burst in upon me. “Here you are, Puss. Ihave been hunting for you. We have made up a party to ride over to the Shaker Settlement, and take dinner and return by moonlight. Won’t it be fun, and don’t you want to go?” & “Ni . : Z think I'd rather stay at home and have a quiet lay of it.” “What a little old maid it is! Well, it needn’t go un- less it wants to!” and she runs away, laughing. { watch them drive off, and a merry party they are. Then I take my sewing and seat myself in the bay-win- dow of the quiet, cool parlor. : Scarcely do I seat myself, when some one enters the room, repeating these lines of Leigh Hunt’s little ballad: “Say ’m weary—say I’m sad; Say that health and wealth have missed me; — ’m growing old, but add— 5 ennie kissed me!’ My heart gives a Peay bound, for I recognize James Thornton's voice, and not Knowing I am there, he comes to the very window where I am sitting. . He drew back the curtain and looked in upon me. “Why, Birdie! You here? I thought you were out with the ridinyg-party. How cozy you look. May I sit here beside you ?” “Yes, sir,” I answer, frankly. My cheeks are reddening to think of his calling me ee His dark eyes search my face a moment; then ie Says : “J am going away ay little one. Will you re- deem your promise before [ go? I have carried the kiss you gave me last through all my travels, darling, and have brought it back to you as pure as you gave it. I have kissed no woman all the five years. For, do you know, Birdie, you made a conquest of me that night when you kissed me.-: I have loved you ever since. And now, darling, if you give me = kiss of welcome, you must give yourself with it. Shall it be so, dearest? Will you be my little wife ?” - I know now what he has been to me all these years, so I act my simple self, and kiss him, DEATH OF A HEROINE. Judge Armstrong, of Upper Sun River, Montana, at- tempted to ford the river in a carriage, with his wife, son, daughter, and sister. The horses became unman- ageable, and madly plunged into deep water, upsetting the carriage. Miss Jane McArthur saw the accident from the bank, and being a good swimmer, lea into the stream, and successively rescued and brought to the shore, the boy, his sister, and Mrs. Armstrong. AlI- though much exhausted, she then, for the fourth time, dashed into deep water, and attempted to save the judge’s sister. Miss Armstrong was a heavy woman, and clutched the heroine so frantically that both sank and were drowned. The judge, who could not swim, clung to the horses, and was saved. - > e<—_____—__ : Ir ridicule were employed to laugh men out of vice and folly, it might be of some use; but it is made use of to laugh men out of virtue and good sense, by attacking everything solemn and serious. ce: VOL. 41—N 0. 46. s “Correspondence, GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. et ene acne eet siiaeiemeeenraee t27~ Communications addressed to this department will not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers. [We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart- ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal, Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared to render’ the answers to questions absolutely reliable] Young Housekeeper.—To make elderberry wine, strip the _ berries clean from the stalks, and put them into a tub; pour boiling water on them, in the proportion of two gallons to — three of the berries, press them down into the liquor, and _ cover them closely. Let them remain in this state until the | following day, when the juice must be strained from the a fruit ; then squeeze from the berries the juice remaining in them, and mix it with what was po ied at first. To every gallon of this mixture of juices, add three pounds of sugar, one ounce of cloves, and one ounce of ginger; boil twenty minutes, keeping it thoroughly skimmed. While still hot, ~ put it into a cask, or large stone bottles ; fillentirely, and set — the wine immediately, with a large spc mfr new yeast put — Sl the Sune-hole, and Sore Rep i . To Vipecn ? is Wine of superior quali e OU. ‘atnel on a dry day, and used fresh. ae : N. ¥.—The property of Stephen Girard at the time of his death in Philadelphia on Dec, 26, 1831, amoun unted to about $9,000,000. Con. paratively little of it was bequeathed to his relatives. To the Pennsylvania Hospital he willed $30,000 ; to the Philadelphia Deaf and Dumb Institution $20,000 ; to the Philadelphia Orphan Asylum 10,000; to the city of: Phi delphia, for the distribution of fuel to the ( $10, ; to the Soclety for the Relief of Dis’ ressed | hips, $10,000; to the city of New Orleans a large real estate ; po bee cee Philadelphia, for improvement of its streets, buildings, etc., $500,000; for the ‘roprersenets of canal navigation in Poona rae. 000. His principal be- quest was $2,000,000 and a plot of ground for the erection and support of a college for orphans, now known as Girard College, cent. Ae Lilly, Hartford, Conn.—To make food for singing birds, knead together three pounds of split peas, ground or beaten to flour, one and a half pounds of fine crumbs of bread, the same quantity of coarse sugar, the raw yolks of six eggs, and six ounces of fresh butter. Put about a third of the mixture at a timein a frying-pan over a gentle fire, and stir it until a little browned, but not burned. When the other two parts are done, and all cold, add to the whole six ounces of maw seed and six hee of bruised hemp , Separated from the husks. Mix together, and it will be found excellent food for thrushes, robins, larks, linnets, canaries, finches, and oe other singing birds, preserving them in dab song and eather. i 2 Geo. H. H., Texas.—ist. To remove marking ink from linen, cotton, etc , dip the cloth or garment into a solution of one ounce of cyanide of potassium in. four ounces of water. After a few hours the stain or mark will be obliter- ated. This recipe is very effectual, but the snittare nixture is highly poisonous, and should be carefully rem: > ad, £O remove a corn, bind a piece of cut lemon around the toe at see when retiring, and re} the operation until the corn be- comes so soft as to readily removed with a pair of scis- sors. 3d. Not strictly onanese: but Eton caer e among in- timate acquaintances. 4th. No record of it. Address a letter to John L. Crawford, Secretary of State, Tallahassee, Fla. Lilly and Letitia, Springfield, Mass. 1st. The city in Portu- gal that is surrounded by a wall, is Evora. Itis the séat of an archbishop, and has a splendid Gothic cathedral, a number of convents, hospitals, a house of charity, a museum, and some manufactures of hardware and leather. Am’ the many monuments of antiquity are a rural temple of na, and an aqueduct by which the city is still supplied. 2d. Farne, Fearne, or Ferne Islands are several mabe islands and rocks in the No: sea, from two to five miles from the Kne¢lish coast, and nearly opposite Bamborough. Two light-houses have been erected on the targest. The passage between the isles is in rough weather very dangerous. _ A Militiaman, Buffalo, N. ¥.—The American soldier selected from Gen. Lee’s regiment, by request of Washington, to re- pair to New York asa deserter and spy, and if possible to seize and bring off the traitor Arnold, in time to save the life of Andre, was John Champe, a native of Virginia. He failedin _ the enterprise because old the day bef re the one chosen to capture him had changed his quarters. Champe rejoined | the American army, but Washington discharged him from further service, lest, falling into the hands of the enemy, PAN should be hanged. When subsequently Washington — for him to reward him for his perilous learned of his death in Kentucky. aa eae R. L. R.—As before stated, in answer to another correspond” _ ent, Scotland was never conquered. Thomas Campbell wrote : ° Pegi Faerie “Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled, = Dear Sees wild! On Freedom’s hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world, And Roman Eagles found unconquered foes.” eee The Union between Scotland and England, as “Kingdom — of Great Britain”—though the fae of Bede ok u es s were united by the accession of James I. (VI. of Scotlan march 24, 1603—took place in 1707. ee ; M. C. B., Petersburgh, Va.—Ist. The famous stone moun- tain isin De Kalb County, Georgia. 1t is a huge mass of _ granite rising almost perpendicularly to | height « am feet; Itisseven miles in ¢ircuit, 2d, Arma or rusk 3 ew Tall ‘Foce and ‘Towaligo ‘Pails, : Nickolsck Cove ex Raccoon Mountains, near the north-western ex State, for several miles, with a 160 feet wide ; the th, through which fiows a stream, up which bo N pass fod Chivas unlion tow catareee a sae tg M. M. M., Providence, R. I—Thomas Jefferson, of Virginia, the third President of the United States, married on Jan. 1, 1772, Martha Skelton, widow of Bathurst Skelton, and daugh- ter of John Wales. Mrs. Jefferson was then 23 years rs of age, eff and remarkable for the beauty of her person and of her manners. She brought her Tenand Sone fortune, nee of land and slaves. Jefierson’s “Domes- tic Life,” compiled from f sources, by his granddaugh ter, Sarah N. Randolph, was published in this city in 1871. Nestorian, Cornwall.—Affections of the ear are so various that it is difficult to treat them understandingly withou giving the ear a personal examination. If,:as you say, local practitioners have failed to discover the cause of your hard. ; ness of hearing, we scarcely know what to s if the—- } deafness arises from a chronic inflammation of the tym- —_ panic membrane, ab ind the ear will prove to be of — service, as well as close attention to ~ general heats. a. Bathing and active exercise be of benefit. A Fifteen Years Reader, Winois—ist. A bloodstone is a variety of quartz, of a dark green {color, having little red. spots of jasper sprinkled through its When cut and lished ihe red spots appear like little dro ood. inc somewhat prized aa gem. ad Write to P iis a ot bl a gem, 8. Cornell, Su- perintendent of Public Instruction, Denver, Colorado, Ne W. W. W. Jones, Lincoln, Neb: a. 3d. London, Packet. Rebecca M.—To make “the queen’s own perfume,” take of essences of cloves and bergamot, of each three quarters of a dram ; neroli, a dram ; essence of musk, half an ounce; rose water, spirit of tuberose, and the strongest spirits of win each halt a pint; spirits of jasmine and cass oF cea ane pint; dissolve the essences in the spirits of wine; then add the other spirits, and, when well mixed, add the rose water. _ F. R. M., Portland, Oregon.—To clean silver or gold lace, lay the lace smooth on a woolen carpet or piece of woolen : cloth, and brush it from alum and powder it fine, and sieve ;— then rub it over the a will restore the lace to not too much worn on re J. J. H.—To get rid of bedbugs, take the bedstead down and cleanse the slats, etc., thoroughly with hot soap-suds. Then sprinkle freely over and in every part of it genuine > Persian insect powder. Use it frealy’ Before ale ing the mattresses, see that they also are entirely free from the ver- =e if any appear, clean’ them off with soap and hot water. - Juanita, Auburn.—Mary Anderson, the actress, was born. in Sacramento, Cal., in 1859. She made her first appearance _ on the stage on Nov. 27, 1875, in Louisville, Ky., as Julie her fret nen ee on Sept. Be = the Jstcoum Theater, on, as Parthenia in ‘Ingomar. : ste daughter of Dr. HamiltonGrifin, = F. Troop, Third Cavairy, Fort Davis, Texas.—ist. July3, | 1868, fell on Friday ; September 1, 1870, on Thursday.«2d. | The population of New York city in 1880, according to ¢ last t's. census, was 1,206,299. "Tica neon ole — since, but its population in 188 was estimated at Margaret Houghton.—1st. There is nothing that will ree | move surperfiuous hair without injury tothe skin. Letit | }alone. Besides, if removed, it will thicker than before. 2d. Give him up. ing is good. ; A. J. W., Detroit, Mich.—“White’s. Massacre of St. Bar- | tholomew” will cost $1.75. It is preceded by a history of th Sos religious wars in the reign of Charles IX. "The massacre of Paris is of course the chief feature of the work. : of a N. M. S., Denver, Colorado.—‘Holden’s New Book on Birds” contains all the information uested, isc ‘ee If you desire it, write direct _ ood Your Handwaite price-list, etc. Price 50 cents. to the NEw YoRK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, Wm. M., Sharon, Pa.—Incipient catarrh can be generally cured by snuffing up the nose occasionally a little table-salt, or by gargling the throat with a solution of salt and water. If chronic, consult a regular physician. Ree wi Ben B., Boston, Mass.—The new French steamer to which. you refer was undoubtedly the La Bourgogne, which made | the passage from Havre to this port in Sune inst, in 7 days 15— hours and 21 minutes. ety : ile 0, M.—Mount Katahdin is the highest mountain in Maine». Its height is 5,385 feet abo th T \ is oa ents pt elise tala ‘he een is com Grateful, Albany, N, Y.—The United State Minister to Rus- sia, George H. Pendleton, may be able to direct aright. ry eho Potersbunc ret = : a The Mercer Estate.—Unable to enlighten you. To ConTRIBUTORS.—The following M - are accepted : Mother's Gift,” “The Erring Son, abe at oe Adrift.” The following deelined - H. Daisy’s Prophecy,” “'To—,” by 6. H.C. H.. “The Tei : Rage for Oddities, d s,” “When Winter Comes,” “Born - could not be deceived ; and aa J] VOL. 41—No., 46. MYOSOTIS. BY W. L. SQUIRE. The si of these blossoms blue Has oft by other pens been told; How through the fragrant shaded lanes Two lovers walked in days of old. And how these tiny azure flowers _ Bloomed by a swiftly running stream, And shone with a celestial hue, : Far lovelier than the sapphire’s gleam. The maiden saw, and longed to hold Within her hand the fiowerets fair ; But deep the stream and swift the tide ; Who for a prize so small, would dare? Ah, love the answer quickly found : What matter though the prize be small ? She needs them—is not that enough ? The youth would risk his life—his all. So to the spot he climbed ; but scarce To cull the fiowers was time allowed, Ere the swift torrent drew him in And wrapped him as an icy shroud. But as he sank, no more to rise, _ . Toward his love he looked and sighed ; Cast at her eet the costly flower, 4 ured, ‘Forget me not!” and died. His dying words, by love Inspired, Were ca t and treasured by the maid ; - And by those words she named the flowers That ne’er his memory might fade. © And thus, to-day, for you and me, _ _ By every little laughing rill, In every lane throughout our Jand, Forget-me-nots are blooming still. And still we love in modern days AS lovers did in ages gone, And I would fain my message send To her I love—my only one. For should my love my life require, Yd yield it up without a sigh, ; Cast at her feet my flowers of love, And ery, ‘Forget me not,” and die. Qh, may my image ever be r love upon her heart impressed, That I, if death should call me hence, May live forever in her breast! _ (THIS STORY WILL NoT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] A Heart's Bitterness THA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OF ti eke So By BER him, or husband for you, to invalidate this morning’s vow, then only a ious, and terrible, a disgraceful divorce suit, Violet, can break the tie you have volun- tarily assumed.” 5 “Oh, why did I not take your advice ? Why cannot I die? Oh, I wish—I wish,” burst out Violet, wildly—— “Hush, my child. I only advised a little waiting. I know nothing against Lord Leigh. I believe he will be a husband to you-—” “He shall not be my husband,” shrieked Violet. «I | Will not have him. My uncle shall keep me from him— my friends shall protect me.” ‘My darling, you are his wife, nothing can undo that. Only the highest court can divide you two, and that only for such cause as I know cannot be shown. Violet, what ever has changed your wish and hope, trample it under your feet, and be true to your wifely vow.” ‘Lady Burton,” said Violet, «I have heard you were not happy in your first marriage.” “I married, as you have, very young, and I was very, very unhappy.” . “And how long did it last ?” “For seven years God enabled me to bear my sor rows, in quiet and in faithfulness, till He sent release.” “And my mother, too, was an unhappy wife ?” “She was; but a dutifuland honorable wife, for twelve ears.” * “And women endure such things—such horrible heart bitterness, for so long, so long. Oh, it is cruel!” «Violet, when all is lost except honor and doing duty, then the woman lives for duty and honor.” “Lady Burton—IJ hate him!” «Violet. cease such rash, wicked words.” “And I shall go on detesting him, forever !” “Violet, in your mother’s name, I command you to act as becomes an honorable woman. Whatever new light may have fallen on your marriage, or on Lord Leigh, re- member you freely accepted him; in a public manner you have pledged your faith ; the credit of the Ainslies, the Montressors, and the Leighs isin your keeping—hard or not, as your fate inay be, all that remains for you is to meet it as a loyal, self-respecting woman. Banish such thoughts, bury such words as you have spoken to me. Do not give the public reason to call you mad. If you make a display of these singular feelings a blight will rest forever on your womanly name.” «There is a blight on my heart,” sobbed Violet. “Then bear it bravely in secret. I tell you, when all is lost except honor, one can and must live for honor,” Violet lay back exhausted. Dark circles were under her eyes ; her lips were blanched ; such a haggard look f woe and despair had fallen over the sweet girlish face that Lady Burton’s heart ached for her. She bent forward to bathe the girl’s brow with fragrant waters, and as she did so a locket slipped from her bos- om and fell against Violet’s hand, opening as it fell. Violet started suddenly and cried: z “‘Lady Burton, who is this ?” ‘It is my son—Lord Kenneth Keith. It was taken sey- eral years ago.” Ba our son ?” said Violet, ‘‘and what i§8 he like? Is he g ?”? “Yes, I believe he is,” said her corsage the picture of a nous. “Like his father, your first husband ?” queried Violet. “God forbid.” said Lady Burton. “TI can tell you what he is like,” said Violet, fiercely ; “false, false as Satan—like the rest of men.” Lady Burton, returning to youth handsome as Anti- CHAPTER V. *"YOU MUST TAKE THE CONSEQUENCES.” After this outburst Violet was quiet, while Lady Bur- ton stood in pained silence. Then once again the lady ~ _ “or Another’s Sin,” “A Fair Mystery,” etc. (“A Heart’s BIrrerNEss” was commenced last weck.] CHAPTER. IV. THE TERRIBLE TRUTH. What had smitten hope, courage, happiness out of the | bride of an hour? What had stopped the bounding pulses of her sweet young life, and laid her cold, silent, prostrate, as one dead ? : These are not Borgia or De Medici times, when one sends poison in a bouquet. It was not her bridal flow- ers, not even Lady Clare Montressor’s tuberose that had sealed her fate. No. Upon her untried, innocent, un- suspecting ear had fallen the unaccustomed voice of truth; and oh, how chilling, how cruel, how terrible, how fatal truth can sometimes be! The naked truth is sometimes as deadly and unsparing as a naked sword. When Mrs. Ainslie, full of pride, joy, benevolence to all the world, threw open the door of her boudoir to her new and titled nephew, to put him face to face with the charming, white-vailed, innocent creature, whose life had just been indissolubly bound to his own, and in- stead of blushing cheeks and smiling eyes, saw prostra- tion, rigidity, pallor, unconsciousness, she gaye a wild cry : “She is dead! she is dead !” Lord Leigh, with a look of terror, bent over his fallen bride. The treasure he had won with a swift good for- took courage to speak. “Violet, the years of your free, happy girlhood lie be- hind you. Your womanhood has begun. It has opened, I know not how, in tempest and misery. You have been the idol of your family, always indulged, petted. You have many virtues; but also, your life has made you something willful and jealous. Now, will you allow these traits to master you, to make you wretched and grave, until they perhaps make you criminal; or will you rise up nobly to do your duty, to trample temptations and your faults under foot, and be a true, brave, noble, long-suffering woman? Remember though we cannot always be happy, by God’s help we can always be good.” Slowly Violet's contracted brow relaxed. ‘She drew a Hi tune that surpriged himself, was i¢ to be lost as soon ak won? Then he: felt life still fluttering In the tender frame, and recalled that the house was full of guests. He was one who lived in careful regard of public opin- ion, concealing all that might arouse remark. “It is a fainting attack,” he said. ‘Give me your vin- agrette. Call Sir Roger Parker, please; he is below: and bring a maid, Mrs. Ainslie; but do not seem alarmed.” His composed manner had neither the ardor nor anx- iety of a devoted young lover trembling tor his idol; but its calm practicality restored Mrs. Ainslie’s courage. Left alone for an instant with his insensible bride, Lord Leigh, while endeavoring to restore her, had his eyes fixed rather on the room than on Violet. He scan- ned every corner. It was a room without any conceal- ments—no closets, no heavy draperies. “If that demon has done this,” he said between his set teeth, his usually indifferent, grave face con tracting in a look of rage, ‘I would feel equal to something des- perate. Butno! She cannot have been here.” “What is this!” cried a voice at his side. “Oh, 1 knew something would happen.” It was Burton. Mrs. Ainslie’s cry had reached an ear alert for sounds of woe. All that’ brilliant wed- ding-day Lady Burton had been haunted by anxiety, and when that one scream came to her, as she stood with some of the lady’s maids in Violet's boudoir wait- ing to see the bride dressed in her traveling costume, she felt the shrill cry a confirmation of her fears, and hastened to the room where was the new-made Count- ess of Leigh. | . “ This is not an ordinary fainting fit,” said Lady Bur- ton, as Sir Roger Parker bent over the still form, and Mr. and Mrs. Ainslie anxiously awaited his verdict, ‘It looks like asevere and sudden nervous shock,” said the court physician ; ‘yet that is oS impossible.” “Certainly it is impossible,” said Lor Leigh. “She is all health and happiness, and has not been alone five minutes ¢ = - She had been alone fifteen—a fatal fifteen. “She is reviving,” said Mrs. Ainslie, presently, and stole away to still any rumors that might arise among her guests. Shortly life came back in tremulous thrills to that pros- trate form; the delicate color stole into the round cheeks ; the pearly throat began to flutter with return- ing respiration, and then the sweet brown eyes opened de. Sir Roger naturally thought that the face of the yoeee husband would be the most comfortin sight for house lovely eyes, and sepped back to give place to his lordship, who bent over his bride with a look of assured agate Violet met that look with a gaze of horror and intense aversion, Then-the dainty form shook from head to foot, entire consciousness had come with a weight of woe ; her hand, that soft little hand, whereon shoné the diamond half-circle of their engagement-ring, and the plain thick circle given that morning at the sacred altar, _ Was laid upon her bridegroom’s breast, as with all her little strength she pushed him from her, Then she turned, threw her arm about Lady Burton’s k, hid her face on her bosom, and burst into tears. we will do well to leave your countess alone til Lady Burton,” said Sir Roger, calmly. me wi “What do you think of her? What does this mean ?” aon hanes Leigh, as he left the room with the phy: n. ; “Simply terror, excitement, a sudden vague alarm,” said Sir Roger, ny: “The feelings Of oliee ris have very s developments. I am surp at nothing. In a little time she will recover herself.” Lord Leigh looked at him narrowly. He had seen, and had he not comprehended the look in Violets eyes, the action of her hand? Evidently not. They meant much to Lord Ah ee he could not reach their cause. Left alone with Violet, Lad her hair, seeking to soothe her by silence and tenderness, but full of grievous apprehension. There had been some terrible nervous shock, some heart shock. Lady Burton anxiety about the effect on oddies athe cae Mo ' rs, rather than fo i este realized it gS ‘ vain dy “My sweet, are you r ?” said Lady Burton. - “No, no, I shall never be better, Take me rndcivod Said you would take me away. Take me to the other Side of the world. Take me as if I were your child.” “My darling, if you were my own child I could not take you away now, for you are in another's keeping. Do Mea: forget—you are to start with your husband for “T will not take the train for Dover!” cried Violet, “My, love! It is necessary—all arrangements are “J will not go with that man!” “Violet, what words are these ? “Tell me,” said the r young creature, gatherin: herself up, in all her pajlor and her wedding splendors, “Have those few words bound me to him forever ?” f al have, indeed, made you fully his wife, till dea ‘ s already, [ know that I have made “Even though now, & great and horrible mistake—been cruelly deceived ?” cried Violet again. He is your husband.” Burton gently stroked | f; “It that mistake does net include a living wife for “THIS IS NOT AN ORDINARY FAINTING FIT,” SAID LADY BURTON, AS THE PHYSICIAN BENT OVER THE STILL FORM. deep breath. She looked at her friend; her beautiful eyes were full of tears. “TI can, I will be good,” she said. “God bless you,” murmured Lady Burton, clasping the unhappy girlin her arms. “I know you will.” “I will tell you my trouble,” said Violet, with a sob, ‘and I will be guided by you. You know I have always had a fear, a terrible fear of marrying a fortune hunter, of being married for my money, not for love. I accept- ed Lord Leigh, because I believed that he could not have any base motive in asking for my hand. Lady Burton, within this last hour I have found that I have married not only aman who takes me solely for my money, but he is doubly false in that he forsakes, for my money, one whom he loves.” ‘Violet !” ‘1 assure youit is true.” “Some cruel, officious, jealous scandal-monger has told you a falsehood. Ido not believe this is true.” “Suppose it were true—what should I do then ?” “The _ thing left you to do, my poor child, would be to act the part of a good wife—to try and win the love of your husband, and make him love and esteem you for the lovely qualities that he sees daily in you. You are still his wife, whether he married you for a good motive or a bad one; whether he loves another or yourself. Neither God nor man, for either plea, would release you from your marriage vow.” “It is done,” said Violet, rising to her feet. “My heart is broken—my life is death—joy has passed into bitterness. I might have known that no one could love me for myself! Itis not my fate. The only man who pretended to love me, not knowing I was an heiress, abandoned me without regret or explanation.” “Violet, what is this ? You, child, so young, so guard- ed, had you ever a lover ?” “I thought I had,’ said Violet, forlornly ; “but he amused himself with making love to me, and left me without a word! Since that was in him, I am glad he went, for 1 loved him, Lady Burton—and I think it would be harder to feel yourself deceived into marriage by one you love yet who does not. love you. I have only pro- fessed tor Lord Leigh a liking that I hoped would grow to love under a good, disinterested man’s affection. I am denied that; and now I must live as well as [ can, with a wronged, lonely heart.” “Poor Violet, poor little girl!” cried Lady Burton, her heart overwhelmed with sorrow, as she kissed the pale, cold bride, whose life had grown so sad and dark. ** ‘ake courage,” She whispered; “things will be easier and better than they seem.” , “Never!” said Violet; “for this man, who does not love me—who has lied to me at the altar—I must leave the friends and relatives who in their way really love me ; I must leave my hopes, my dreams that I have had, like other girls, and I must go even away from England alone with him. Oh, Lady Burton, can anything be more forlorn ?” , “My dear child, corisider that whatever you have heard—and I cannot conceive how you heard any such stories—may be untrue. Lord Leigh may be a good man, sadly misrepresented. Do not stee your heart os him who now your protector, your nearest end.” : They heard Mrs. Ainslie’s voice in the hall. “There is my aunt coming to hurry me away,” said Violet. “Oh, Lady Burton, is there a girl in England more desolate ?” She gathered all her strength of body and mind, and rose to go to her dressing-room. But afew steps made she returned and flung herself into Lady Burton’s arms, “Save me from my fate !” “Believe me, your fate will be less hard than you eae You exaggerate this, Violet. Courage, Cc ! She moved again slowly ; then stood still. Lady Burton, with a sinking heart, seized her hand, and firmly led her to the dressing-room. She stood there, speechless, pale, in despair rather than resignation—as Iphigenia pre aring for sacrifice. “You are lovelier than ever, arling,” cried Grace Fanshaw, as she buttoned the last button of her pearl- gray’ gloves, and Violet stood in her Tay traveling- ress, her little gray velvet cape knott, together with rose satin ribbons, the matched hat with its long curled plume, looped up at one side, and a cluster of pink roses resting on the chestnut hair, and lending color to the dimpled cheek. One last hope of reprieve seemed to rise in the mind ofthe new Lady Leigh. She beckoned her aunt and Lady Burton into the next room, and closed the door, Then she laid her hand on Mrs. Ainslie’s arm, Saying: —~ “Aunt, it seems to a ( Lord Leigh. fs it impossibl t “Indeed it is, child, quite mpossible. “Or to go with you to the St. James? Or with Kate to any of my own houses? Or away with Lady Burton 2” “Oh, Violet, it is all impossible! What do you mean by behaving in this way ?” cried poor Mrs. Ainslie, burst- ing into tears. ‘Your Montressor relations will say it is all because the Ainslies brought youup. It will bea reproach On me, and will be remembered against your two cousins next year, when the poor darlings come out. Oh, why do you treat me so, Violet, when I have tried to be a mother to you ?” At Mrs. Ainslie’s words and weeping, Violet seemed roused to some compunction. Sh ung her head. “It is true,” she said; “I have norivat to trouble other people with my misery.” ‘You are leaving your husband quite out of the ques- tion, whereas he is the chief one tO be consulted, Lady Leigh,” said Lady Burton, firmly. é At the new name Violet started. “My husband! And I belong to him ?” ‘Most certainly.” “And he is to dispose of me 2” “Yes, Violet; that is truly the case.” “I should like to speak to Lord Leigh.” NH LEE yg Jed | \ 4 yo) ee be, i\ ~%\ J | i if = pset\ 1 & 7 : aS AA YS Ck nl he Fe r Mrs. Ainslie, glad to be relieved of responsibility, called Lord Leigh, and at last bride and bridegroom were alone. a Lord Leigh seemed as One on his guard. “‘My lord,” said Violet, ‘2 have niade a terrible mis- take. The day may come when I shall be stronger to bear it; now I ask your mercy, your forbearance—and I have aright to ask it. In your heart you know what that right is.” : “What is it you wish, Lady Leigh? Speak clearly.” “Lord Leigh,” said Violet, with a tremulous lip, ‘“‘can- not I possibly remain in 1 —cannot 1 go to one of my homes, with my maid, an th there quite alone, away from every one? It is | -f am your wife, but cannot we part, now and fo , quietly ?” “What do you mean ?” cried Lord Leigh, with a flash of fierceness. ‘Do you wish to make me the laughing- stock of all England 2” a “Better that than utterly miserable,” said Violet, gloomily. . “That would make me miserable; May I ask, Lady Leigh, what causes these singular requests ?” ‘Do you not know? Consider yourself, and your feel- ings to me, and to others, and know my reasons.” “Tf any one has been talking to you, tell me the slanders that have changed your feelings toward me, and I will disprove them, Violet. But meanwhile cease this insane dan : ag et | Se an —< conduct, that will make us the theme of gossip through- out England. Do not allow yourself to feel this f to me, from any cause. I assure yor Ls reason to find fault with my @ox Violet stood, her hands bent slightly forward, he apprehension, entreaty in he Lord Leigh was not a b always clouded with c half- terest and kindness. His grew really gentle and tende “Come, Lady Leigh—come, for either of us to change our | mine. You will think bettei hear them announcing our A moment for final adi the city ina closed coach, dream Violet was shut up reserved carriage and whi Dover, ~ { CTT oe res Ls “YOU SAID yew LOY Sir Tom Churchill, “the best 1 have as long as possible the light bright eyes. Bane “Tell me truly,” said Grace to hi make Violet happy? He wi / months—is hea goodman?” “He is not a bad man,” Sir of course, Mr. Ainslie has look | “I fancy,” said Grace, “th very closely into the wa; Is he good-tempered? He dour way. Is he generous “Come,” said wy neighbors. Leigh is rath tle—that’s the worst I know of hi “Plunges? That means bets, races, gambles some ?” Churchill nodded. } “Why did you not tell Violet, or Mr. Ainslie? I con- sider it very wicked of you to keep quiet,” cried Grace. “Why, I could not do anything; only consider, what could I do ?” : “a Fre have saved Violet at any cost,” said Grace, angrily, ‘But she is not lost nor injured. They will get on as well as most couples,” said Sir Tom. ~ - * * # = * : * Certainly wedded life was not opening for this couple as for others. Lord Leigh, having paid every possible attention to his bride, and finding al} unnoticed, with- drew into his own corner of the railway coach and opened a book. His courtship and marriage had pro- ceeded with a fortunate smoothness far beyond his hopes. - ; The guardians of the great heiress had been most reasonable and most liberal in the arrangements con- cerning her fortune, and he had turned from the altar of St. George’s drawing great breaths of relief as a man AWN | (el : } = WS rail] ZB 4 rata rly ALLE SSS “I CONSIDER IT VERY WICKED OF YOU TO KEEP QUIET. I WOULD HAVE SAVED VIOLET AT ANY COST.” finally in easy circumstances and freed of burdens intol- erable. But what was this hostility, this mystery that assailed the first hours of his new life ? He looked narrowly at Violet, who pretended to sleep. But she did not sleep. Her weary brain relived one fatal hour of her wedding-day. Next to the charming boudoir where Mrs, Ainslie had taken Violet to wait for her bridegroom, was a room with a balcony curtained with honeysuckle and pas- sion-flowers closely interwoven. This room had been made over for the day to the gentlemen of the guests, and some of them had taken possession of the balcony. Seated there, in a closely woven bower of green and blossom, they could not see at all thata window was open just beside the balcony. But so there was, and in that window stood the waiting bride. The only excuse for the careless talk of the men in the balcony was that they were very young, and as thoughtless as they were innocent of evil intention. Just as Lady Leigh placed herself at the window to wait her bridegroom, these words fell on her ear: “So rank, beauty, and money have run their race, and money has won the cup.” In her happiness it never occurred to Violet that the - words referred to her. She stood unprepared for what was to come. Captain Gore had spoken. Sir Hugh Hunter took up the theme : “First there was Lady Clare Montressor; then the vicar’s beautiful daughter, Miss Ambrose; and then— the Ainslie millions.” “Why, man, you don’t mean our bride is not most lovely ?” “Certainly she is lovely—extremely lovely, charming. Sweet; but Miss Ambrose is one of those beings beyond all praise. The most heavenly creature eye ever rested on. To see her once is to have her face photographed on your heart forever.” “Pooh, Hunter! you are romantic.” “SO, SO, perhaps. But I tell you it is impossible that a man who has loved Miss Ambrose can love another.” “No doubt Leigh did not love her then.” “Not? You may believe he did.” “Then, why, in the name of sense, did he give her up ? Did she jilt him 2” “No; she loved him.” “Zounds! is the man so fickle ?” said a third 2” “Must be fickle. He was quite enamored of Lady Clare once.” “Attentive, not enamored. Lady Clare is rather cold style, you know.” “So is Leigh. Has he been enthusiastic to-day, or the last month ?” “But that is just what I tell you; Miss Ambrose’s image is in the background.” “That is all nonsense. If he wanted Miss Ambrose, and she loved him, it would have been a mateh. What vicar’s daughter is going to refuse a lord of Leigh ?” “I explained at first; beauty cannot hold its own with such a stunning lot of money.- Two million pounds!” “I admit it is a heavy it. He of all men need Feh.” “Yes,” said Captain Gore’s voice, “but he’s dusedly hard up just now. 1 happen to know that he has a short loan of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds out, falling due immediately.” There was a general exclamation. Then, looking into the room, Captain Gore saw Sir Tom Churchill enter, and called him. “Churchill, isn’t it true that our handsome bride- groom has been rather crowded for cash of late 2” “What do I know about it ?” said Churchill, angrily. “How can you, Gore, be talking about the man’s pri- vate affairs, with dozens of people within hearing ?” “Pon my-soul, I didn’t think ot that,” said Captain Gore, good-naturedly. ‘However, only our own little clique is here. I see the stories are so, Churchill—you don’t deny he is hard up.” ‘Was, you mean,” interrupted the third speaker ; “now he is easy enough—two millions of pounds is a nice pot of reserve cash, by Jove! I wish I'd fallen into it.” > A rush of lively young men discussing “Derby Day” interrupted this conversation. Meanwhile, open to every terrible word, the sweet young bride had stood by that flower-curtained win- dow ; she stood powerless to move or to cry out, as one in a catalepsy—rigid, frozen. Her hands and feet had become ice, a strange pressure was upon her heart ; wheels of fire whirled in her brain; all her senses were gone but that one sense of hearing. Life seemed to re- main in her, only to pour upon her brain, through her to Pewee hideous, shametul, agonizing, crushing ruths. He who had said he loved her preferred others to her, sum, but Leigh did not need not marry for money. He is and had sought her only for her fortune. He who had seemed above reproach and suspicion was the embodi- ment of all that she most dreaded. He, to whom she had fied for refuge, from fortune-hunting, was the ver- iest fortune hunter of them all. She had given her in- nocent heart, her quivering, sensitive soul, irrevocably a who married her that he might pay an ehormous ill. It was then, when the chorus of cries about the Derby Day relaxed the tension of. her spirit, that Violet feil senseless to the floor. She heard those miserable truths —then she knew nothing until sight and knowledge re- turned, and bending nearest her, a look of ownership in his eyes, was the man that had so cruelly deceived her. She placed her hand against his breast to drive him from her, but, oh, how little way could she drive him, when that fateful golden shackle bound them together. r? Ww ho ung fl ‘tnt : te 533 er “I HEARD THAT YOU WERE A FORTUNE-HUNTER—THAT YOU LOVED ANOTHER, BUT FORSOOK HER FOR MY MILLIONS.” ‘This scene, these thoughts, were still wretchedly re- peating themselves when the train arrived at Derby, where, ae were too late for the boat, Lord Leigh had telegraphed for apartments, and found himself in possession of a magnificent suite of rooms, that had been used more than once by royalty. The splendor of the apartments, the richness of the dress in which Kate had arrayed her, the choice supper ts before her, could not distract the excited mind of iolet. When she was left alone in the drawing-room with Lord Leigh she could not remain seated. In these hours of thought her anger had been rising. She moved un- easily * and down the room, and then stood by the hearth, her elbow resting on the low jade mantel and her head bent on her pink palm, as she looked at the dancing fire. . “Lady Leigh,” said the bridegroom, suddenly, having gazed for some minutes at the lovely sad face, ‘will you kindly tell me how you became so wise to-day as to change all your feelings toward me ?” Violet fixed her eyes on him and said, slowly : “I heard—that you married me for my money ; I heard that you married me because you were deeply in debt ; I heard that you were what TI heartily detest, a fortune-hunter ; I heard that you really loved—as much o you can love—another, but forsook her for my mil- lions.” “And, Lady Leigh, on your marriage day, you have al- lowed a scandal-monger to pour these stories of your husband into your ears? You have lofty notions of a wife’s duties.” “Those things were said by your own friends, in a bal- cony next where I waited for you, and I could not help hearing them, as I am not deaf. Are they so ?” By an immense effort Violet had forced herself to enough calmness for this explanation, for this heavy charge. Now she had reached high excitement, her cheeks flamed, her eyes glowed. But a look of relief came into Lord Leigh’s face. He id: “Even if all this were true, and itis not, I cannot see any great wrong to you init, or anything that hinders me from being a good husband, and you a good and con- tented wife.” “Tt is a great and horrible wrong to marry a woman without loving her,” sobbed Violet. “I am not romantic, but I do love you, if you permit me to, and do not repulse me as you have to-day. Suppose that your fortune was a factor in my consideration, and that, since 1 am thirty years old, I have admired other women? That does not injure you. No doubt you have fancied others, and had other considerations in mar- riage than especial love for me.” Violet flung herself on a sofa, and burst into an agony of weeping. “Violet,” inquired Lord Leigh, earnestly, ‘did you see any one; did any one tell you anything else ?” “What so terrible was left to be told me ?” cried Vio- let. (TO BE CONTINUED. ] >< TESTIMONY OF THE SENSES, There is a woeful deficiency in the majority of people with respect to seeing and hearing. Not having been trained to observe with care and scrutiny, they see only a small part of what they look at, and, as soon as their eyes are removed, much of even that part fades from their memory. They visit lake, mountain, and forest, and return with only a confused and faint recollection of the treasures of nature upon which they have looked. They pass through picture-galleries, gaze-on fine ed- ifices, and witness interesting scenes without taking in their meaning or being able to describe them to others. So in hearing; they only half listen. Witha pre-occu- pied mind, they gain only an inadequate or garbled idea of what is said, and a few repetitions from one to another are sufficient to change the whole meaning of the original utterance. Few persons really know how to listen to a lecture so as to carry away with them any well-arranged ideas of its plar and substance. Few can even report a conversation’ accurately. When we consider how needful to allthe departments of human effort the accuracy of the testimony of the senses is, we cannot too earnestly claim their culture. |SWEET LOVE! THOSE IDLE FEARS ARE VAIN. BY. Ped. One evening, as the sun went down, Two lovers met beneath a tree; And while the shades around were thrown, They plighted vows of constancy. The maid was fair as dawning day, And fondly to the youth she clung, AS if to some dark fear a prey, Which, to dispel, he softly sung— “Sweet love! those idle fears are vain: My bark o’er every sea will glide, And when she bears me home again, Believe me, thou shalt be my bride.” She stood alone upon the strand, When broke the bright next morning’s rays, And watched his bark’s white sails expand, To waft him from her straining gaze ; And as she waved a last adieu, And wiped away a glistening tear, Although his form was lost to view, His gentle voice seemed whispering near— “Sweet love! those idle fears are vain ; My bark o’er every sea will glide, And when she bears me home again, Believe me, thou shalt. be my bride.” Since then, full many a storm has raged, Full many a hope has died away ; She wanders now, her grief assuaged, Unconscious of each passing day; Or sits beneath some shady tree, While heedless falls her snow-white hair, Her eyes lit up with fancied glee, As if Some voice were whispering there— “Sweet love! those idle fears are vain ; My bark o’er every sea will glide, And when she bears me home again, Believe me, thou shalt be my bride.” —_—_——_> @~<___ -__—_ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM, } Y FRANCIS S. SMITH. Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,” “Maggie, the Charity Child,” ‘Alice Blake,” “Eveleen Wilson,” etc. (“LirrTLE SUNSHINE” was commenced in No. 44. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. } CHAPTER VI. TELLING FORTUNES. “Girls,” said Lilly, addressing her companions when they had reached the work-shop. “I hope you will all patronize this poor woman as liberally as you can, for she has been very kind to me: and by way of example I will buy halfa dozen apples my- self.” The girls needed no further indorsement, and it was not long before the old woman’s basket was well- nigh empty. ri “And now,” said Lilly, ‘who will have her fortune told? Mrs. Sutton is a fortune-teller, girls, and her charges are moderate.” A number of the girls decided to peer into the realms of the unknown, and Mrs. Sutton, who pro- fessed to understand palmistry, read their fortunes by the lines upon their hands, prophesying an ex- cellent future for each, and declining to take any pay whatever. When she had satisfied all who were curious as to their fate, she turned to Lilly and said: “And now, my child, I should like to study your hand for a few monients.” “With all my heart,” responded Lilly, with a merry laugh ; “but I hardly think you will see much that isremarkable on my palm. Mine has been but a hum-drum existence, ad is likely to continue so to the end, I imagine.” : “Not so,” replied the old woman, in a tone of the deepest sadness, “your life thus far, it is true, has not been remarkable tor incident, but-your future is full of import. He whom you remember as your father was anything but perfect, and heretofore you have had to struggle with poverty, but you have earned your bread honestly, and have been compar- atively happy. Little of heart sorrow have you known, for your nature isa sunny one, and would that your future could be as peaceful as your past has been, although that was bad enough, Heaven knows. Buthat is impossible. The fates have de- creed that y@u should go through a sad experience— that you should suffer contumely and abuse as well as privation—that you should loye as only a young. warm, and susceptible heart can love, and that you should one day feel the ‘grief of hearts forsaken.’ ” “You draw a gloomy picture of my future, mother,” said Lilly, with a smile. “IT wish I could make the coloring brighter, my child,” returned the old woman, with a deep sigh, “but ITcannot. Ido not make your future—l only tell you what the fates have written.” “Well, I am not at all obliged to the fates,” an- swered Lilly, merrily. “I don’t know that I have ever done anything to awaken their enmity, and I think they might have used me better. However, if my future is inevitable I cannot alter it by w orrying about it, and I may as well laugh as ery. So I shall still continue to sing, “ “Begone, dull care, I prithee begone from me— Begone, dull eare, you and I never can agree.’ ” “You have a merry heart, my daughter, and a stought one,” returned Mrs. Sutton, still sadly ; “and itis well for you that itis so, for, believe me, you will need all your courage to carry you safely through. You are skeptical as to the old woman’s power to foretell what is to come, but I can at least convince you that I know something of your past: You know but little of your birth or parentage ; your infancy was spent among strangers— you grew up in a tenement-house, and your only friends have ever been the poor and needy. Your father neglected you, and you began to earn your living ata time when most children are considered babies, and you have continued to earn it, though constantly beset by temptations which might have been dangerous had you been less firmly fixed in virtue. You are a brave, good girl, and happy will be that man who will call you wife.” Lilly was greatly surprised at the correctness of the outline of her early life given by the old woman, and it was not without emotion that she replied: “T was never inclined to believe much in fortune- telling, Mrs. Sutton, but I must say that you are a most te et guesser, for you have sketched my early life as wellas though you had known me from infancy. Whether you are correct as to my fu- ture remains to be proved; but you have said one thing which is consolatory, at all events, and that is that Iam to be married. I have heard it said that it is betterto be an old maid than a bad man’s wife, and perhaps it is; but it almost seems to me that I would rather have a bad husband—if he were not too bad—than none at all. Because, don’t you see, I might succeed in making him better.” “There’ll be no trouble about your getting a hus- band, Sunshine, if you want one,” broke in Tony Tucker, who had been an interested listener to the conversation just detailed, ‘‘and there’s no need o’ your takin’ a slouch or a snoozer at that. You—why, I'd like to see the fellow that would turn up his nose at you! You're too good for the best of’em, you are! There ain’t another gal atop o’ the round earth that’s fit to walk on the same side o’ the way with you, except one,” Here he cast a look of in- tense admiration at Jennie Brown, and heaving a deep sigh, continued, in a whisper, “Oh, Brownie } Brownie! Ain’t you ahummer! Ain’t you one of ’em! And don’t Illove you! Oh! “May old Flint tan me every day, If ever I cease to love!” Then turning to the old apple-woman, he continued: “Say, auntie, don’t you remember me? Don’t you remember how I guy a loto’ roosters gilhooley when they was a tryin’ to rob you the other day? Well, I don’t mention it because I want to brag, but I want you to tell my fortune and I ain’t got no stamps, and so [ thought you might examine my flipper as a sort of offset, don’t you see ?”” “T remember you well,” was thereply. “You’re a rough diamond—unpolished, but good-hearted and generous. I will read your palm for nothing with great pleasure,” “Well, there it is, auntie!” exclaimed Tony, as he held forth forth a huge, toil-worn hand, exceedingly dirt-begrimed and very muscular. “It ain’t as pooty, perhaps, a8 another rooster’s that’s tryin’ to shasay around Brownie, but without wishin’ to flatter my- self, I b ‘lieve it’s more honest. He’s pin. he is! One o’ these ’ere sardines that travels on his shape and puts on French airs—and say, auntie, interruptin’ youfor a minit, I wish you’d jest look very sharp onto that flipper and seeif there ain’t a line there somewhere which says that this fellar what I’m SX AUS BRE ERIE gu TT 6 x VOL. 41—No. 46, talkin’ about will get his jaw warmed some day by a rooster about my size and weight. I don’t want to | interfere with your business, but if you can find any such line as that you can bet your brains it’ll come | true. Now, crack your whip and let’s hear what you've gotto say. And auntie, give me as good a send-off as you can, won’t you?” ‘An excellent hand,’ replied the old woman, as she gazed fixedly at the huge palm; ‘you will never | be vory rich, but you will always be happy, and hap- | piness is what riches cannot buy. You will marry | the girl of your choice; live along and useful life, surrounded by a large family of children, and die at | last surrounded by your kindred.” | The old woman had hardly finished, when Tony | Tucker flapped his arms against his sides, imitated | the crowing of a. cock, and exclaimed : “Thunder and lightnin’, gals, only listen to that! I’m a-goin’ to marry the gal of my choice! Oh, Brownie, Brownie, how is that for high ?’ “TF don’t see what I’ve got to do with your fortune, Master Tony,” returned Jénnie Brown, with a toss of her pretty head. “Why do youappeal to me? I’ve got as much as I can do to attend to my own fortune, The old woman told me that I would marry the man of my choice, too, but I don’t see that you have any- thing to do with that.” “Don’t talk that way, Brewnie !” exclaimed Tony, in alugubrious tone, for I can’t standit. I can bear almost anything but that. If you will take that ’ere poker lyin’ there and sock me over the head with it a few times, as hard as you can let drive, I’d consid- er it a luxury alongside of what you just said. Ain’t | 2ot nothin’ to do with it, eh?” Td like to know who has, if I haven’t? Didn't you say I was a good egg ?”’ “Well, suppose I did,” returned Jennie, pertly. ‘I suppose IT can think well of a young fellow without intending to marry him, can't I?” “T know what’s the matter!” suddenly exclaimed Tony, with fierce determination; ‘it’s that pin you’re thinking about. Oh, woun’t I polish him the first time L eateh him loafiw’ around your house? Oh, oh, oh! Old Flint’s punishment was chocolate caramels comipared with what he’ll get! Oh, I must practice lettin’ out, [must!”’ And as Tony turned to leave the room he struck out right and left at an imag- inary head. Just at this time Mrs. Flint entered the work- shop, whereupon the apple-woman departed and the | girls resumed their work, | CHAPTER VIL. MRS. MORELAND HAS A VISITOR. When the old apple-woman left. the establishment | of Mr. Flint she turned her steps in the direction of | Broadway, but had not walked far when she stopped | to reflect. She communed with and at length muttered: “Timay as well go there at once. The sooner the better, perhaps. How surprised the heartless, proud creature will be, and how I will humble her? Ha! ha! She little dreams what sudden trouble is in store for here! Ha! ha! ha! ha!” And thus chuck- ling to herself she again walked onward. She took a stage when she reached Broadway, and rode till she arrived at Fifth avenue, when she got | out and walked rapidly along for some distance, | She stopped at length ata grand mansion, mounted | the steps and rang the door-bell. In afew moments the door was opened by an exquisitely dressed negro. He was a bullet-headed, stupid-looking little fellow, about thiry years of age, and as he looked at the herself for some moments, shot through the For the first time a great fear heart of the haughty lady, and she cowered beneath | the gaze fixed so earnestly upon her. Recovering herself almost immediately, however, she said, with all the nonchalance which she could muster: “Your sublime ladyship is disposed to be myste- rious. Now mystery is very well in a romance, but decidedly out of place ina parlor; so speak freely what you have to say, and believe me, I shall not faint at any secret which you may reveal.” “Not even if it relates to a little matter which oc- cured in England a score of years ago?” asked the | old woman, in a cold, keen tone, and at the same time riveting her eyes upon the person whom she questioned. Mrs. Moreland was no longer indifferent now. Her heart gave a great bound, a deadly paleness settled upon her features, which became rigid with fear, and her nerves trembled violently. It was some moments ere she could control herself sufficiently to speak, and when she did,if was in a weak and tremulous tone, though she still endeay- ored to seem indifferent. “I suppose 1 may as well humor her Jadyship, she said, addressing the young people; ‘the eccen- tricities of the great must be humored, you know. This way, your ladyship—this way; I will grant you a private interview, but you must not detain me long!” A look of malicious satisfaction gleamed in the eyes of the old woman as she followed the grand lady from the room and up the flight of richly car- peted stairs; and when they had reached Mrs. More- land’s private apartment and entered, Mrs. Sutton coolly locked the door, threw herself carelessly into an easy-chair, and, with a look of cool assurance, fixed her gray eyes full upon the face of the haughty daine, who, stunned and bewildered, stood trem- bling before her. ” CHAPTER VIII. MICHAEL DONOVAN. Lilly Davis was on her way home from work one evening about a month subsequent to the opening of our story. The pleasant smile habitual with her ir- radiated her bright face, and she walked with a brisk, elastic step. Ever since she had forced old Flint into doing justice to her shopmates, things had gone smoothly enough, and there had been noth- ing to complain of. Lilly was consequently very happy. She had a sound constitution, excellent health, and plenty of werk. The wages which she earned was scant enough, to be sure, and she was obliged to practice the strictest economy in order to meet her expenses. But she had a glad, buoyant nature, an unwavering trust in Providence, and a hopeful spirit. Besides, she was the affianeed wife | of aman whom she dearly loved—a worthy, honest, intelligent and hard-working clerk named Ernest Hartley—and she was far happier than many of her more fortunate sisters who rolled about in their car- riages, dressed in their costly fabrics. But the reader must not imagine that her splenetie and remorseless employer had forgotton the grudge he owed her for interfering with his dishonest pdlauns. He was not aman to forget when his anger was aroused, and although his countenance always wore a hypocritical smile when he greeted Lilly, there was not a day that he did not spend hours iin studying out some diabolical plot by which he might entrap her, Gabriel Flint was never more dangerous than when he smiled, and simpered, and spoke softly, and | “You need have no fear of getting a place, | Michael,” returned Lilly, cheerfully ; ‘any man who !is healthy, and strong, and willing to labor, can get | work here, I have a friend who.is clerk in a whole- | sale store down town, and it was only last night I heard him saying that they wauted a porter. Ihave no doubt that he can seeure the situation for you, and then you can go to work at once. So come along, and don’t be down-hearted.” “May I never see glory if I don’t belave you’re an angel out an’ ont!’ exelaimed Michael Donovan, with much feeling. “Sure, if they was all like yersilf in this country, I'd be continted to sthay in it forever. May the howly virgin shower blissin’s on yer swate head mornin’, hogg an’ night, and may ye niver die tillthe white of your beautiful eye turns black.” Lilly could not help smiling at the extravagance of the [rishman’s speech, but she made no reply to it, and they walked onward in company till they reached the house in which she boarded, although the attention which her companion excited, as they journeyed along. was anything butagreeable to her, Great was the joy of Mary Donovan when thestal- wart brother, from whom she had been so many years separated, confronted her. “Och, Mike, Mike!” she exclaimed, after they had embraced each other again and again, ‘it is the hap- py mortal Tam this day! But why didn’t ye sind me word ye were comin’ the way. I might have met ye at Castle Garden ?’ “Sure, I did,” returned Mike; “f£ got Father Clan- cey to write a lettlier for me three months before I sailed.” “Well, thin, I never got it,’ replied Mary, “but niver mind, ye’re liere now, any way, safe and sound, | glory be to God!” | “Amin! returned Mike, fervently ; “but J mightn’t | been here only tor the angel that acted as me pi- lot.’ And he cast a glance of admiration upon Lilly Davis. “And wasu’t 1t fortunate that ye met her?’ ex- claimed Mary Donovan, gratefully, and then she i added, while a blush of confusion covered her rosy, round cheeks, “but sure, Mike, ye didn’t walk by the side of her through the crowded sthreet ?”’ “Troth T did,” returned Mike. “Sure I had to or run away from her, and [ wudn’t be an Irishman and run away frowmrbeautiful colleen like her!” “An’ you lookii’ as green as you do!” exclaimed Mary, bolding up ‘her hands with an expression of horror, “wid yer breeches, an’ yer brogues, an’ yer gray coat, aw all! Oech, whirra! whirra! How could ye walk by the side of him, Miss Davis, an’ all the paple laughin’ at hin?” i “Their laughing’ didn’t hurt us,,’ returned Lilly, | With asmlle; “but if isn’t worth grieving about, now that it’s all over, @ven if it was a little disagreea- “Well, Mike, ye’ not_go out o’ this house wid thim clothes on,” said Mary. ‘Mr, Sloan is about your size, and I think he has an onld suit o’ clothes that’lL tit you. But if he hasn’t I have money enough to buy ye a suit that'll do ye, thank God! Holt on till I see,” and away ran Mary to consult her mistress. 1p a very short timeshe returned with the pleasant intelligence that not only had she procured a suit of clothes for him, bat that Mrs. Sloan had consented that he might stay with her till he could procure work and suit-himself elsewhere. at the suit which his sister held upon her arm, and | ; then at the clothes which adorned his body, “I’m | | thankful to the misthress for her ginerosity and kind | ness to me. but Py) thinkin’ it'll take me a long time WHAT IS THAT TO ME. BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER, What is that to me ?— Am I my brother’s keeper? If he will sow the seeds of ill He then should be the reaper. I cannot turn aside, I will not halt, or tarry, To aid him; he has sought the cross His burden let him carry. What is that to me— My triend’s great tribulation ? I have as much as I can do To bear my situation. I cannot take his hand, I will not heed his trouble— Am [80 strong that I should make My cares and sorrows double ? What if the Lord should say Of you, oh! heartless mortal, The same, when you shall dare to knock At heaven’s blessed portal ? This glorious God hath said, ~ Hen to us all, my brother, When tarrying on the earth below, Children, love one another. Sa a e~< a (THIS S'ORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.} UNDER lS THUMB: OR, THE RIVAL DETECTIVES’ CLEWS. BY THE AUTHOR OF “The Wall Street Wonder,” ** The Grand Park Sensation,’ etc. (“UNDER His THUMB” was commenced in No. 38. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXYIL. THE HINDOO GAINS A POINT. Stella Brandon, startled by the expression of horror upon the face of George Dyer, turned quickly to see what he beheld to agitate him so intensely. Her own dismay was scarcely less than his when she } the door-way of the hut. She would have fled if there had been a possibility of | lawless in the city, saw a manrunning as though for his life. father !” Stella gasped. Stella quickly lifted her face, and impulsively ex- claimed : : A “Yes, we will go with you. Take us back to the city — and advise us what to do.” “You shall not regret your decision,” Hyjah quietly declared, and he led the way forth from the hut, in which they had so strangely met, leading his prisoner by the arm. : They returned to the village railway station and were in time for an early train back to the city. Stella and Katie proceeded first to the home of the latter. Hyjah took Dyer to a hiding-place where he could keep him in safety until such time as his testimony would be required. ; ‘There were many officers on the young man’s track, and Dyer was glad to be under the protection of the Hin- doo, at whose hands he would receive more lenient treatment than he would otherwise have done. Hence he remained almost voluntarily in the place of refuge provided for him by the detective; and it was in this place that Hyjah showed him to Croly, greatly to the latter’s amazement. The Hindoo detective promised to return to Stella in the evening, and, if possible, inform her of the present whereabouts of her father. But evening came, and Hyjah did not appear. . : As the hour grew late and the detective did not fulfill his promise, Stella became more and more alarmed. “He has either fallen into difficulty or has _proved treacherous,” the poor girl said to her faithful friend.* “I don’t believe he would break his word if he could help it,” was the warm response, for Katie’s confidence in the Hindoo was as strong as it Was sudden. “Then I fear my father is in trouble. I cannot bear the suspense longer. I must go to the places which he frequents, asi have done many times before, and do wa I can for bis safety. Are you afraid togo with me, Katie ?” : oe — “Sure, and ’m not afraid where you dare go.” “Then let us hasten.” bi Sky : _The twain went out upon the stréet, and in a short time reached the vicinity of a saloon which Carl Bran- don, while under the influence of liquor, often visited. The place itself was of a better class than most of those in that locality. The proprietor was a sallow-faced man, who, for a wonder, was perfectly temperate him- self, and possessed many kindly characteri arte There was aside entrance to the place with whieh Stella was familiar, and the brave girl made her way direc toit. As it chanced, she met the proprietor face to just within this door. ae “My father, Mr. Ridley—is he here ?” she questioned. “He has just gone,” was the reply. And in response to the mute appeal of her countenance, he kindly added: ‘He was not very badly off, though not quite sober. But J think he can take care of himself, He said he was go-— ing to Blankly’s. I wouldn’t fret about him, Stella.” ‘ She did not wait to hear his last remark. “Come, we must find him,” she said to her companion, and they hastened along the dingy streets, coming at last to a locality which they knew to be one of the most As they neared a certain point, they heard a shout from the opposite side of the oar? and — “It is my CHAPTER XXVIII. : ’ SURROUNDED. Down came the telephone pole with a crash in the ob- “Well, Mary,” said the Ishman, as he looked first | saw the tall figure of the Hindoo detective standing in | scure court—a crask that awakened momentary curios- | ity in the few who heard it, perhaps, but not sufficient — | to impel them to investigate. 4 The two ruffians, one of whom held the ax with which. ’ . doing so. But there was not. Hyjah blocked the only | he had chopped down the pole, rushed toward the other — tried to look bland. Like a panther ready for a spring his claws were sheathed in their velvety covering, but always ready for instant use when the oppor- tunity offerred. He was watcbing—ever watching—planning, con- triving and conniving—to strike a deadly blow at the poor girl, and even now, when she felt so seeure and happy, he had a plot formed, well caleulated to “Gway, Woman! what you want,eh? Don't you! crush her if carried successfully out. know we «on’t ‘low beggars to come to de front do’?! As Lilly walked rapidly onward, humming to her- G'way! g’way wid yer! It’s s’prisin’ dar should be! Self a lively tune, suddenly she saw, just ahead of so inuch imperdence “nong de poor trash!” her, an unfortunate Irishman, surrounded by a “Go and tell your mistress [ wish to see her” re- ; crowd of boys, who were amusing themselves at his plied the woman, quietly. | expense, “Yah! yah!” laughed the negro; “go and tellmy | He was an athletic, fresh-looking young fellow, mistress you wants to see her,eh? Well if dat ain’t | but had evidently not been many days in America, de best joke I've heard for some time! Dat’s good— | for his entire costume had apparently been manu- woman he muttered to himself: “Ole Mommy Dix- on, the dreamer, says au beggar on de front stoop means a gig. I'll play a gig to-morrow, sure! and if T dowt make a hit [ll charge it to Mommy Dix- on.” Then suddenly assuning all the importance of a grand duke when he looked at the garb and general bearing of the applicant for admission, he contin- ued : } | awhile, Michael,’’ said jis sister, soothingly. | to feel at home iit thita things, Howiver, I s’pose it’s me duty to wear ’em, and I'll do it if it kills me. But, d’ye mind? [wudun’t part wid the ones I have on for the weight,of ’em in goold. I brought thim from the ould sod@and they are all t have left of Ire- | land. Til rowl thim up ina bundle an’ put thim | away, an’ often whin I’m alone be mesilf, wid no eye he the pba Geds grok, “ me, tf get thim out, | smile curling his firm lips. dhress mesilf up in them, sit down and shut meeyes, |} graye wac firs ; *oice to res an’ drame mesilf back agin to the ould sphot, the | LEN WES Dee FS SRG LOCA PONS. way I'll see the ould cabin, an’ the grane fields—such a@ grane as there’s nowhere ilse but in Treland--an’ | hear the birds singin’, an’ catch the smell o’ the new- mown hay, an’ think mesilf a gossoon agin.” “You'll be betther continted afther you're here | “Sure, | whin [ first kem ere I was gravin’ an’ frettin’ the . means of egress from the hut, and to elude him was out | | of the question. | | He took a step forward, and spoke in a kindly tone: “You look at me as though | were some monster that There was no | great detective’s face and speech reassured her rather | | than increased her apprehensions. “What do you wish, sir ?” she asked, in a firm tone. eee! wish to do you no harm. I would protect you if | you would accept my protection,” was the reply. | the scene. | and a fragment of wire. | body ; | youexpected would devour you!” he remarked, a slight | sving or dead. - | with the ax. use of attempting to escape; and something in the) way,” said the other, in a subdued tone. : is But a thorough search of the place met with the same _ | result aes end of it, expecting to find the man who had climbed to its summit mangled and dead on the flagstones. One of them flashed a ray of light trom a lantern upon There lay the reg with broken insulators ut this was all. No mangled no sign of the one they sought to destroy, either “We have missed him after all,” whispered the man- ‘Tt can’t be. He must be here, somewhere. Come this” Croly, the detective, whom they had sought to kill liad escaped. ; Let us see how it happened. The instant that he felt sure the telephone. pole was 5 5 1 . datis!° Yah! yah! Oh,my!’ Then suddenly re- | factured in “the ould dart.” He straining his mirth, he continued, with mock gravity: | “Oh, I begs yer pardon, madam! Mrs. More- land was expectin’ de Countess ob Comedown here and I ’spect you must be de lady. Aint you got a} keard? Whar'’s yer keard? Yah! yah! Oh my!’ | and the negro again laughed immoderately. “You are very merry now,’ replied the woman, ealily, “but your mirth may be turned into mourn- | ing presently, anless you do asI bid you. Go tell } your mistress a lady wishes to speak with her. Nev- | er mind about my name, She will learn that quickly | enough.” | “Don’t you tink dis ting am about played out now, | ole woman ?” said the negro at last, assumiug a se- | rious tone, “if you don’t, | do—so move—clar out— | or else I'll chuck you off de stoop!” And as he spoke he advanced toward her as if to put his threat into | execution. e Just at this time, however, Mrs. Moreland, whose curiosity had been excited by the loud talking, and who had steod looking over the claimed: “Don't touch her, Sani—let the ereature come in! I don't know what on earth she can want with me, but [um not over busy at present, and she may af- ford me a few moments’ amusement. Iam dying with ennei, and any pastime is better than moping. | Let her cone in!” “Just as you say, missus,” said Sam, “but you'd | better watch her pooty close or she’ll get away wid | somefing, sure! Come in, ole woman!” And he| stood aside to let her pass. | | { | | | | } | ! | baluster above, ex- ' “Will you see me in the parlor or will you take me to a private apartment?” asked Mrs. Sutton, looking up at the lady as she stepped irto the hall. “Well, so distinguished a visitor as yourself ought eertainly to be entertained in the parlor,’ replied Mrs. Moreland—‘iny guests ought to have the full benefit of your society, Show her into the parlor, Sam—ther’s nobody there except Lord Littleton and Luth—and I’m sure they would be delighted to see her! [shall be dewn in an instant.” Thus ordered, Sam, with a broad grin on his coun- tenance, preceded Mrs. Sutton to the parlor door, threw it open and said aloud: “Ladies and gemmen, dis ain de Countess ob Come- dowu—‘no cards,’ as dey say in de marriage notices.” A loud laugh greeted this announcement from the two occupants of the room, Miss Ruth Moreland, the daughter of the lady of the house, a proud and vain young creature, and her suitor, Lord. Lawrence Lit- tleton, a receut importation from~London, who had | made the acquaintance of the Morelands at a grand | german given by one of their set, and who had laid | violeut siege to the heart of the capricious and rather heartless heiress. 1 “Aw, happy to make the acquaintance of your | ladyship,” drawled Lord Littleton, with a low bow— | “when did your ladyship arrive in America? Did | your ladyship have an agreeable passage? I hope | the sea-voyage agreed with your ladyship! Will | your ladyship be seated?” And with mock polite- ness the fop drew an easy-chair forward and offered it for the acceptance of Mrs. Sutton, who, with quiet | dignity, seated herself without saying a word, and | gazed carelessly around the apartment as if ignoring | the presence of the occupants of the room. “Her ladyship is inclined to be reticent, Miss Moreland,” the fop went on, in the same facetious | tone which he had at first assumed ; ‘but I suppose, aw. that we must lay it, aw, to the eceentricity of | greatness. Or perhaps her ladyship is fatigued, and | does not care to converse. Aw, Sain, a glass of wine for her ladyship !” | “Oh, do cease your folly, my lord,” exclaimed Miss | Moreland, pettishly. “I don’t see how you can bear | to amuse yourself, even, with sueh a horrid erea- ture. Formy part, lam thoroughly disgusted, and I don’t see Why amma allowed the beggar to enter the parlor. . Who knows but that the disgusting creature may have some contagious disease about | her? Butitis justlike mamma. She is always do- ing something extravagant. Oh, dear, I do wish she would go!’ and Miss Moreland shuddered with dis- gust as she gazed at the unwelcome guest. “T am truly sorry that you find my presence here so disagreeable,” said Mrs. Sutton at last, as she fixed her large gray eyes full upon the dainty beauty; “because, if I mistake not, you will be obliged to en- dure it for some time tocome. But perhaps I shall be less objectionable to you after your mother has furnished me with a presentable wardrobe, and in- stalled me here as housekeeper, with power to do as TI please.” As she finished speaking Mrs. Moreland, rnddy with rouge and blazing with diamonds, entered the reom with a pleasant smile, as who should say: “Now [shall amuse inyself awhile at the expense of this poor devil, and then let Sam escort her in state te.the kitchen door and discharge her,” “Manna,” exclaimed Ruth, in atone of mingled expostulation and disgust, ‘why have you allowed this demented beggar to enter here? [I declare, she has shocked my nerves terribly. I shan’t get over it for some hours. For Heaven's sakedo let Sam show her to the street door!’ “Allin good time, my love,’ returned Mrs. More- land, blandly. “She may be some distinguished per- sonage in disguise. As the poet says, we may be en- tertaining an angel unawares. Sam suggested that she might bea countess, and perhaps she is—who knows?” Then turning to Mrs. Sutton, she von- tinued: “Has your most sublime ladyship anything of importance to communicate?” “Yes, madam,” returned the old woman; ‘ I have something of very great importance to communicate, put the communication should be made to your ears only. JT should prefer to see you alone.” “Thatis hardly necessary,” returned Mrs. More- land, carelessly ; “I have no secrets from my daugh- ter and Lord Littleton. So proceed, and if your sublime ladyship would have the kindness to make your story as brief as possible, you will do me a very great kit dness.” /aregiment of yez wouldn’t be able for me. breeches, buckled around the knee, woolen stoek- ings, a gray coat, a vest of the same material, a red neckerchief, and a felt hat. He was about thirty years of age, and although evidently wide-awake under ordinary circumstances, he seemed dazed and bewildered -by the questions hurled at him volubly by rounded him. “How are ye, Pat?’ shouted a dirty-faced urchin. ‘How long are ye over?” “Me name is not Pat,’ responded the Irishmrn. “Me name is Michael—Michael Donoyan—aw’ it’s a | betther name nor iver yer own father had, ye dirty | butthermilk beggar! How long am I over, is it ?- tm over three days, big bad luck to the hour I med up me mind to lave the ould sod, God be good to it!” “Oh, your ‘name’s Michael, is it?” responded the urchin, jecringly, and then he sang, with an attempt at brogue: \ “Arrah, Mickey, ry, and it’s Mikey, Mickey, Arrah, Mick, Mikey, Mickey Mick, I would die for you !” “Would ye?” answered the Ljshman. ‘Thin be me sow! it well becomes a beggar to die for a gintle- man ! “Will ye niver go home, Mick?” shouted another urehin. “Och, whirra! whirra!”’ moaned the Irishman, in tone of real sorrow, “it’s mesilf that wishes I could! May the divil fly away wid me if I wouldn’t swim home if I could! Och, why did I lave Ireland at all!” “Look out somebody don’t take and put a head onto you, Mickey ?” cautioned another urchin, with agrin. “T’ve as nate a bead on me as the Lord iver set be- tune a pair of shoulders,” replied Michael Donovan, indignantly, ‘and that’s more nor you can say. Look out, me tight lad, that some wan don’t take a head off 0’ you!” and as he spoke he twirled the short stick he carried threateningly. “Walk off on yer ear, Mickey,” shouted another of the party. “Troth I wudn’t wondher if yersilf could do that,” returned the Irishman, *‘for yer ears are long enough to make fegs of.” “Say, Johnny,” exclaimed the first speaker, ad- |... : cis ‘i eit dressing a companion, “let’s poultice him once, and | dispensable to our healthful support, and those things then he’li know how it is himself.” And as he spoke he made a sudden rush at the Irishman and attempted to trip him. But Michael | Donovan was quicker than his assailant, and gave him a blow with the flat of his hand whieh sent him spinning like atop. Then twirlidg his stick with a readiness which showed that he was a perfect master of that weapon, he cried, while his face blazed with anger: “Come on, ye dirty-nosed spulpeens, and see if I don’t give each of yez such a sore bag o’ bones that yez’li need poultices from this till the ind o’ Lent. Och, hone! och, hone! Why did I lave Ireland at all to fall in wid a lot of unmanneryly haythens that wud abuse a poor bye for the fun o’ the thing. Ye | shouid be givin’ me the hand o’ friendship besides botherin® me entirely, ye devils. There’s not one 0’ ye fit to sthand before me, avy course, but yez may } all come at wance and bring your fathers wid ye, and if I don’t bate yez all into one pile o’ bones and set the divil to pickin’ the bones clane me name’s not Michael Donovan. Will yez come, pow? But sure Away outo’ hat, ye dirty clots! G’wan, now!” And rushing toward his tormentors the Irishman | scattered them like chaff before the wind, just as Lilly Davis arrived on the spot. “What is the matter, my good man, asked Lilly, in a tone of sympathy. Every symptom of anger vanished from the face of Michael Donovan as he met the earnest, sympa- thizing gaze of the working-girl, and while a look of deiight shone in his honest, light-blue eyes, he re- ied: : “May the blessin’s o’ the holy virgin rest on ye, me purty colleen! Sure, yours is a face that kem fresh from: Heaven, God be good to ye! Divil a much is the matter wid me, miss, only I’m a stranger in a strange land, and am bothered and puzzled entirely wid the spalpeens yonder, bad cess to them! Could ye tell me, now, where [ll find the place that’s on that paper? Divil a wan 0’ me can read, an’ I forget what's on it. And as he spoke he handed to- Lilly a crumpled and | dirty piece of paper. The shop-girl opened the serap, aud a look of pleas- ure irradiated her face as she read: “Mrs. Sloan, No. — Thirteenth street.” - “Why, she exclaimed, delightedly, ‘““Mrs, Sloan is my landlady—I board with her.” “Well. well, well! That I mayn’t sin!’ exclaimed Donovan, “but that’s a wondher. I’m out o’ purga- tory into heaven atajump! The divil’s imps have left me and an angel takes their place to be me guide. Isn’t that dhroli, now? Well. perhaps, miss, if you live wid Mrs. Sloan, you know Mary Don- ovan ?”’ “Indeed I do,” replied Lilly; *‘she is one of Mrs. Sloan’s hired girls, and she is as good a gil, too, as ever drew breath—warm-hearted, honest, and truth- ful.” “Ye must excuse me, miss,” said the Irishman, in a tremulous voice, as he drew his huge hand across his eyes, into which the bright tears had gathered ; “T can stand any pain o’ the body good enough, but when anything touches me heart the tears will come, whether I like it or not. Mary Donovan is me sister— me only sister, too—and it’s only nathral that me heart should run out 0’ my eyes for joy to hear her praised by a colleen like yersilf. We are orphans, miss, Mary and mesilf. Our father and mother—soft be their bed in heaven this day—died from the throu- ble and the hunger in Ireland years ago. Mary got a chance to come to this country some years afther, and only a few months since she sent me money to pay my passage here. But what’ll Ido at all now I am here, I don’t know. I can’t be a burden on poor “Have you no secret that you would rather should be confined to your own bosom?” asked the old wo- man, with deep emphasis; ‘not one 2” ‘ i Mary, d’ye see, and who'll be afther givin’ a blun- derin’ blatherskite like mesilf a place?” And Michael Donovan sighed heavily. wore corduroy | | bed. So | the mischievous youngsters who sur- | life out o’ me intirely, but afther a while, whin I | found the people 0 good to me, an’ me wages a-com- | ;in’inivery month, I grew aisier in my mind and | didn’t find itso hardto go to shlape whin IT wint to , but it’s the grate counthry, this | ve liberty here, and wan man’s as | 3 long as he is honest and willin’ to | Och, Micha¢ } America. Ye’lll good as another ¢ work. An’if hejsayves his mone) | place tor himsel | light and say, ‘thag ily,’ an’ there is | if the him !"’ “Och, Mary, daflint,’ exclaimed Michael Donovan, with much feeling, “I knew it’s thrue what you say, for everybody dope tellin’ the same story. America isa great connt¥y, an’ may God biess it! \ lashins an’ laving here for all, an’ none can stharve who is willin’ tageork. And Ireland is a poor, down- trodden land w poor tenant—w4 afther day frou | the soil is richef§ Stenligut shines from the lap of fenty—but, afther all, sister darlint, it’s Jreland—i''s}Jreland—it’s Treland!—and whin I forget her, [ll fae red and that thejheart in me bosom is flesh !” “And so will I,*Michael,” returned his sister, “but sure it’s idle to bé lamentii’ for what can’t be helped. So come away, af put on your new clothes.” Mary Donovan ¢onducted her brother to the bedroom which had been took her way to her own apartment. {TO BE CONTINUED.] —_—_—__> @~+— FAMOUS SPENDTHRIFTS, an’ buys a little is me own, for I earned if honest- craps fail of the black misfortune falls upon re the cry of distress goes up day many a wretched cabin, although pan any other upgn which God’s Prodigals have been confined to no land or age. long as the wealth of the world continues to be un- equally distributed, so long, probably, shall we have spendthrifts. Old Adam Smith tells us that the «‘neces- | sities of life” incinde only those commodities that are i the lack of which, among creditable people of even the | jower class, Is rendered indecent by the custom of the community. All %ther things he declares to be lux- uries. of us could easily be convicted of needless extravagance. A glance at the career of afew of the monumental prodigals of the world will be found interesting. tory of the spendthrifts of ancient Rome fill a volume of | Apicius, Crassus, Probus, | good size and unique charm. Claudius, Nero, Vafellius, and Caligula all squandered vast sums on the most trifling objects. Apicius spent four million dollars on his palate, cast up his accounts, and, discovering that he had only 400,000 dollars left, immediately hanged himself to avoid the privations of threatening poverty. Elagabalus regaled the attend- ants of his palase on the brains of pheasants, the tongues of thrushes, and eggs of partridges. At his own meals the peas were eaten with grains of gold, | pearls were scattered in the dishes of rice, and the cost- | liest amber was used to render palatable a dish of , beans. Crassus" made a great feast for the populace ' during his candidacy for the office of consul, at which | 10,00 tables were heaped with luxuries. Even this was | surpassed by Ceesar, who, at the funeral feast.on the | oecasion of his daughter's death, spread 22.000 tables, | accommodating three guests at each. Tiberius, like | Cleopatra, guiped down precious stones mixed (after | being crushed) in wine, and he heaped the plates of favorite guests with gold and jewels, which they car- ried away. It was Tiberius who caused to be built and large enough to admit of their being turned into floating gardens, in which were planted flowers, vines, and fruit trees. Butitis to Nero, of whom it has been said that ‘there was not a vice to which he was not given, nor a crime which he did not commit,” that the costume twice. When ona progress through his do- ism, and a deluge of barbarism overflowed Italian civil- ization. Thenceferward, for along time, the extrayva- gant expenditure of the great fortunes was confined to the Eastern empire, whose capital was the city of Con- stantine. : —_>-_ @~< GAINING AND ACHIEVING. There are two purposes influencing and shaping the life of every healthy and active man and woman—the purpose of gaining something and the purpose of doing something. Both are neediui for the weltare of the individual and the best interests of society ; but the emphasis which is laid on one or the other marks an important dis- tinction in character and result. Though blended to- gether, ohe generally comes to be the ruling purpose of life, the other exiSts to do it service. All that some men do is done for the purpose of gain ; others gain for the purpose of doing. All our great men—all whom history cherishes and posterity honors— have belonged to the latter class. They have not spent their lives in acquiring, accumulating, enjoying ; they have achieved something ; and thus their names live in remembrance. 4 >e~< “Liebig Co’s Coca Beef Tonic is far superior to the fashionable and illusive preparations of beef, wine, and iron.” says Prof. F. W. Hunt, M. D., Honora- ry Member Imperial Mediéal Society of St. Pétersburgh, Russia, etc:, etc. Cures debility, piles, dyspepsia, biliousness, | falling, he Nung himself forward with all the power and “We do not need protection, sir.” “You did need it a short time ago.” ' agility he possessed. ; He was barely able to seize the edge of the jutting © he can look at God’s bright sun- | ePcruel landlord to dhrive him away | There’s | gre the rich landlord oppresses the | Where Starvation Zrius at a mau } get that the blood in me veins is | And | assigned to him, while Lilly Davis | AS | If such a definition as that were accepted, most |. A his- | boats of cedar, covered with gold and precious stones, | is 5 roof; and to this he clung, while the pole fell with a “I do not understand. clatter to the ground. : “When you were coming up from the railway station,| Fora minute he hung suspended, his body swinging and that ruffian attacked you.” like a pendulum over the abyss. He could hear the “Then it was you who came to our assistance ?” “Tchanced to be at hand, and I gave the fellow a | light from the lantern flashing upon the dingy buildings, no more serious trouble.” of the ruffians. . “Did you allow the ruffian to go ?” | He paused to see no more. There was no time to be | “Yes, after chastising him. It suited my purpose bet- | lost if he hoped to succeed in his purpose. He realized iter todoso. Now I findI am in time tosave you from ; that his enemies were combining forces against him, | further annoyance and imposition.” : The dark eyes of Hyjah rested upon the face of George | to overcome them. Dyer as he said this, and the young man’s.glance fell,| Anagile spring, and he was upon the jutting roof, while he shrank away from the detective as though in | and beyond any possible ray from his enemies’s lantern. | mortal terror. | And without stopping to see what they would do nex The Hindoo detective continued : : | he found his way to a skylight, which was open. He | «This brave young man loves you so well, Miss Bran- | not hesitate to drop down through the opening. _ | don, that he is willing to inflict the deepest anguish! The room in which he found himself was small upon you ia the hope of winning your affection in re- | dark, save for a dim light that came in) through a turn.” A yery brave young man!\ Shall I allowW him to/ som. ; roceed Wit the Infamous «ratschpad which he had just | (Passing out into a barrow passace. he was bre | begun pouring into your ears? Or shall I treat him as} a halt by the sound of iootsteps. : | he deserves ?” | George Dyer trembled violently as he listened to the | door and prepared to listen, when the knob turned with | sharp denunciation of the detective. But his face! ajerk and the door was opened so suddenly that it flushed a anger and hestepped threateningly toward | struck against the detective’s arm before he could with- | the Hindoo. : | - | “Have acare What you Say, sir!” he exclaimed, his | yoice husky with rage. ; and confronted Croly—the figure of the shrewd, mali- Hyiah did not stir. But he quietly retorted : | Clous being known as Spider. “Jf would be well, young man, if you were a little; The latter uttered a startled cry, recoiled, and at- | more cautious. It may be to your advantage not to be | tempted to close the door again. But a firmly planted | too crusty with me. I charge you with falsehood and | foot prevented, and a strong hand seized the door, and | cowardice. Do you deny the justice of the charge 2” | flung it back with a force that hurled Spider almost into “JT certainly deny it.” | the detective’s arms. . “Were you telling this young lady the truth just| Before the terrified dwarf could recover himself he now ?” yas held firmly by the throat—so firmly that he seemed «JT should have done so had you not interrupted.” | threatened with instant strangulation. ee” | «No, you would not. You had begun withalie,and: ‘Don't killme! Mercy!” gasped the wretch. | others were on your lips. So don’t repeat them tome,! Even as the words passed _ his lips Spider found him- | forI shall not submit. You know that Carl Brandon | self hurled to the floor, while a pair of handcuffs were | did not shoot Mr. Waldron, or instigate the crime, or | snapped upon his wrists. . 'even have any knowledge of it beyond that which he | |} may suspect. You know who committed the crime. | time the detective spoke. : | You are willfully concealing it, and are therefore, inthe ‘This time I am going to make sure of you, and I will sight of the law. a partner in guilt. Therefore 1 am | not lose any time about it, either. I will give you just | going to take you in charge.” | one minute in which to produce the articles which you | “No, no! Mercy!” gasped the young foreman, recoil- | took from my room to-day. At the end of that | ing in dismay. “Oh, yes. Although] am not going to arrest you, I | must take you in charge—place you where you can be | for murder. That's what | will do,” found when you are needed. I don’t expect youtocon-| Spider trembled like an aspen, his face growing pale fess to me at present, for you lave a powerful motive | as ashes. ; for concealing the crime, else you would not have fled.| <‘I—I ain't But you must yield to my control. I will take good care | sharply interrupted with : of you—won’t even let the other detectives get hold of; ‘Time! One minute, remember.” } you. What do you say ?” | . And Croly produced his watch, and fixed his gaze upon } ! | } | | j we “J shall not yield.” | its face. > “Ts that your decision ?” | «Wait, wait—I can’t get them so quick,” chattered the “It is.” | dwart. “Let us see.” «Yes, you can, jor they're right in this Hyjah strode forward with outstretched hands. The} know. Start your boots—I mean business. 7 young man whipped out a revolver and quickly raised | Spider dared not put the detective off with further | it. | pretext. | But, quick as was the movement, he was too late. | ¥ So he hastily entered the room from which he had just | The weapon was sent spinning trom his hands: he! emerged, closely followed by Croly. He | received a Sharp rap upon the cheek that caused him to | drawer in an old-fashioned bureau—the | stagger. against the side of the hut: and almost at the | locked, and he managed it in spite of the manacies upon | same instant he was caught by the shoulder, whirled | his wrists—and took therefrom a square paste-board | violently around, thrown upon his back, and his wrists | bo. ‘ were confined with handcuffs. Thus within the period of twenty seconds he was re- | duced from a condition of bold defiance to one of help- | | less captivity. | “J never endure anything of that sort from so younga | ;}mau.” Hyjah quietly declared, standing over his con- | quered adversary. He turned to Stella and her warm-hearted companion | and continued : - | “You had lost your way, it appears ?” | “It was my blunder, to be sure,” said Katie Byrnes, | ready to take the blame. ; “You were going to the house of afriend up in the deciared, as Croly took the box from his hands. The detective glanced into the box, saw inner pocket. of terrible sternness : “Sy “Now you must tell me all you know about the der of Hiram Waldron. Ail, remember.” “I know nothing about it, sir.” “Perhaps not. these clews from me.” “The man was disguised, so] didn’t know | and that he must be doubly alert and resolute if he was W. 3 It was a dwarfish figure that crossed the threshold — 3 a drawer was not. that every- | thing was as he had left it, and then thrust it into an — | whispered exclamations of his enemies; he saw the | sound lesson. Then J came on to see that you fell into | and reflected for an instant from the ax carried by one — e i They came from a room near at hand. He went tothe {| Then he was jerked to his feet again, and for the first © | Bley. | unless you place the things in my hand, Tlltrot you | around to the police headquarters, and have you held _— murdered nobody,” he began, but was. : room, as you | Xx. ‘a “Here's the things, mister, just as I found them,” he | Then he turned to the dwarf and sald, in a voice full — mur- But you know who hired you to steal — prize of senseless prodigality must be awarded. In the | simple recreation of fishing he used lines of purple silk | and hooks of gold, His tiara was estimated to be worth | half a million of Rioney, and he never wore the same | | minions, 500 assef followed in his train to supply milk | she believed to be hiding not far away. And she |for the daily bath of himself and his wife, Poppeza. | thought, too, of the warnings which she had received | Christianity gradually displaced the fashion of heathen- | village ?” the detective pursued. **Yes, sir.” “Allow me to show you the way. Itis not safe for you to remain: here unprotected.” Stella hesitated. She thought of her father, whom not to trust the detectives. Yet she could not wholly distrust this kind, strong man; and at the same time her mind reverted to an- other detective who had befriended her once, and prom- ised to stand by her atall times. Could it be that Croly, that handsome, brave, kind-vyoiced man would prove treacherous ? Hyjah, watching her countenance, seemed to read her thoughts: for, before she could respond to his inquiry, he said: | “Ii you have fled from the city for your father’s pro- | tection, you have made a mistake. The best thing you } can do is to return at once. Carl Brandon has gone back to his old haunts. and is in as great danger as ever.” “Has he returned? Do not deceive me, sir!” Stella exclaimed, ail her solicitude for her father’s safety aroused. “J would not deceive you, my poor girl. Itis my imis- sion in life to aid, notinflict pain upon the unfortunate.” “J believe you, sir. I will not distrust you. And I wish you would tell me, if Mr. Croly, that cool, hand- some detective is also trustworthy ?” “Mr. Croly is a gentleman, and, although we are rivals upon this case, I can speak of him only in the highest terms. He would stand by you as faithfully as a brother could do.” The vagabond’s daughter covered her face with her hands and for several moments did not speak or move. As she stood thus a soft hand touched her cheek, and the sweet voice of Katie Byrnes said, close to her ear: “T believe we made a big mistake in running away from Mr. Croly and the Hindoo detective. They both seem to be kind men. Let’s trust them, and if they’re mean enough to betray us to our enemies, I believe they will be punished some day as they deserve.” was.” ; «Was he short or tall ?” ‘Rather tall.” “How much did he pay you?” “A heap of money.” “How much ?” : Md «Twenty-five dollars.” : «What did he say he wished you to steal from me ?” “The thumb-prints that you had—one in blood two others in wax.” ‘How did he know I had them ?” al Now, + “Somebody saw them and told him.” : “You told him, didn’t you? You were the spy. own up.” “] was, mister. Oh, I’m pretty sharp.” ss “Did he tell you to decoy me to the house where I was attacked by that overgrown coward ?” 4 Ee “He did.” iS = “Can you tell me anything more about this affair ?” “T.can't sir.” : «Then I'll leave you, for I have plenty todo. But first I will make sure that you do not Spy upon me any more for an hour or two.” : The detective proceeded, in spite of the dwarfs ap- ee and peals tor merey. to gag him, and bind his anklesto- | gether, and then lock him into the smallroom. _ : Without further ado, Croly made his way cautiously from the building. 2 Reaching the dark court where he had come so near meeting his death, he paused to listen intently before — going further. The space seemed wholly deserted. Then he bethought himself of the intoxicated stran-_ ger whom he had taken so much pains to place in a safe retreat. He groped his way to the spot, and in another mo- hae found the unfortunate wretch just as he had eft him. Bae ee To arouse the stranger from his stupor was no-easy matter, but he at length succeeded in doing so, and the man, sitting erect, exclaimed, in his drawling ac- cents. = Sagi *‘How—how are ye? ae to get up, eh?” . my . _ wi ae shah “3A dam a A lan Sc cc, wi aia Ueaad an TL et a ek Bae ae ‘ etd a ag + amos ef ctl RM Ok de o4 ore ese. 2 ee er ee. eee ee eee & By ul rst re ar ED OS TEER RD ® abaea 8 gem ean snes Totoro or Serene nano mR | EIEN As he spoke he produced his tiny pocket-lantern and glasses and plenty of money. of the verted the - quads throwed in,” was the lad’s announcement, and -Mnidst of the tray. His temerity was rewarded by a blow time of the thumb upon Bill Leary’s right hand, | instant. The prisoner was Carl Bran 1 ae Stella: and her companion, Katie Byrnes, _. easily prove. should he be needed. And in the real culprit.” statement. eat clews; but _ his word. Se ee eae ee gaa ae = ae : os : “Tt is time for you toreform, my man,” Croly returned, gz: “Let me have a look at you.” turned its rays upon the face and figure of the in- ebriate. A low ejaculation of amazement broke from his lips. _ ‘The man before him was young and handsome. There was refinement impressed upon the delicate lines of his face. But his clothes were coarse and in tatters, to rod nothing of the filth which had accumulated upon em. - “Clarence Blain—and in rags!” Croly exclaimed. The tone and words of the detective seemed to par- tially arouse the young man from his befogged condi- on. _ At the same time he recognized Croly ; and with a glance at his own ragged attire he staggered to his feet. “By Jupiter!” he exclaimed. Then, after a bewildered pause, ‘‘Where am I?” “In Kepley’s Court, near Corlear’s Hook.” “TJ should say 1 was. Where’s my clothes? I didn’t have these rags on when—when—but I don’t know when. What time is it ?” “Eleven o'clock.” “Why bave you hold of me? You're Croly, the detec- tive.” at “| found you lying in the filth of this alley, and I am trying to take care of you. Did you have on better clothes earlier to-day? These are pretty coarse, aside trom the tatters. : «Course I had on better ones. Guess I’d give my tailor a picnic if he rigged me up in this style, by Jupiter.” Clarence passed his hand over his eyes, and then, in a graver tone, continued : “I must have been pretty badly off. They have not ead me Of my money and watch, but they even exchanged clothes with me. Heavens, who had these things on last? What shall I do?” “Ge home and clean up. Butforme you might have been killed. Stay ; what do you recollect last before you lost consciousness ? Where were you ?” “In Colville’s wine shop, I believe.” “Who was with you ?” “A young chap I picked up—a jolly fellow with eye- | He got me drunk, and— | good heaven! “Did I dream it? Or did he ask me some | questions about—about——” ‘The Waldron murder, eh?” Croly questioned, con- cealing his eagerness. It seems as though he did. I didn't mean to get full —I didn’t dare to. Buthe was a mighty persuasive chap. Dia he question me, or did I dream it all 2” «Probably he questioned you, as you fear. That jolly fellow with eye-glasses was a detective—one of the score at work upon this case. The best thing that you can do is to tell me all that you think you told him. You cannot cover a crime forever. Be a man. and tell all.” “No, no.” The young man glanced nervously about him, and rapidly added: ‘‘Take me out of this place— set me right again. Iwill pay you well for this favor. You are a gentieman, Mr. Croly—I’ll say that for you.” ‘The detective realized that, in his weak state, Clarence Blain could doubtless be compelled to disclose the mes- sage which George Dyer bad given him to take to his lather. But Croly, with ali his zeal, preferred not to re- sort to such means. To torce an intoxicated man to criminate another looked too much like treachery, and Croly was the soul ot honor. Bens : “Come, and | will take you home,” the detective said, so kindly that the young man, in his weakness, seized his arm and clung to it in child-like confidence. - ke me home.” he repeated, in tremulous tones. And. arm in arm, they started to leave the place. But they had not taken three steps before they heard VOL. 41—No. 46. eSGaRo=p | Waldron.” - “It you will be responsible we'll take our chances, that is all. We have orders to give in to the detectives every time, so I suppose we have got to do so,” said the policeman. After some parleying the officers released Brandon and walked away. «This is no time for thanks,” said Croly, as both the vagabond and his daughter seized his hands and began to pour out their gratitude. And the detective added, in his gentlest tones: ‘I owe this man more than he owes me, for he saved my life. He would not be con- victed had he been tried for the crime with which he is suspected, because he is innocent, and we detectives do not allow innocent men to suffer for the guilt of others. Another time we will talk the matter over. But to-night I wish you all to go to your homes and await to-morrow’'s developments.” For a few moments they lingered, eagerly discussing the exciting events of the past hour. For it was thus that the incidents culminated with which Stella, her companion, and Steve Lawton were concerned when we left them at the close of chapters twenty-six and seven. Then they separated, Stella to think and dream of the cool, handsome detective, and Croly to make a final test of his clew—that strange clew in which no one but him- self possessed any confidence. The test was made; and one of the impressions in Wax was identical in every line with the thumb-print in blood. The others differed. The test was careful and elaborate. Now ali that remained was to prove that the clew implicated the guilty man. ; It was a little after nine o’clock of the next morning that Croly sauntered up to the elegant residence of Mr. Blain. The latter had gone to the counting-room, and Croly, in no apparent haste, followed him thither. He was in his private office, and, pushing the office-boy aside, Croly nade his way to that room which he had visited several times before. He flung open the door; was contronted by Julian Blain, and the latter, with a show of anger, demanded : *‘Did the office-boy tell you I was here ?” ‘No; I] discovered your presence in another way,” was the calm reply. The detective closed the door, and quietly placed his back against it. Then he continued : “I bring important news, and I thought you would Waive formalities in your natural interest’” ee news ?” Blain asked, sinking back upon his chair. “I have solved the mystery of the printing-house mur- der. I know who shot your partner. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt,” The other sprang to his feet, his face deathly white, his limbs trembling under his weight. “You—you are not sure ?” he huskily asked. «Perfectly sure.” “Ts it—is it—Brandon ?” “No, it is not Brandon.” “Dyer, then—the foreman ?” ‘Nor Dyer, the foreman. The one who fired the shot is safely lodged by the police. But he is not the one who is alone responsible. He is a mere tool, like the weapon that he used. His name is Bill Leary, and he is known as ‘the tough.’ Iwent down to see him this morning, and showed him how I had got his case down fine, and he told me the rest—just what I suspected before. Oh, I wouldn’t Graw any pistols, it I were in your place. Bet- ter wait and hire somebody else to do the shooting. But you must go with me, all the same, and answer to the charge of causing the murder of your partner, Hiram Croly sprang forward as he ceased speaking, and caught the upraised weapon in time to prevent its being discharged. At the same time the door again opened, and two po- licemen entered, followed almost immediately by Hyjah, the Hindoo detective. the rapid tramp of heavy feet in their rear, and Croly, on the alert for danger, turned quickly, and found that they were literally surrounded by ruffians. : Clubs and knives were brandished on all sides; and a | hoarse voice exclaimed : “Drop him! make sure of him! Now is your time!” The agile detective, for once in his life, found himself | in a situation from which his ‘own agility, strength, or wit could not extricate him. He struck out right and left. But the next instant his | arms were clutched from behind, and furious blows | rained upon his head and shoulders. i : i | bezzled. | peration he gave Bill Leary a large sum of money to | commit the crime. CHAPTER XXIX. ‘UNDER HIS THUMB.” | throwing the window open and jumping out. The assas- Croly was not to be easily overpowered even by fear | ful odds. Two of his assailants went down under his vigorous blows, before their attack had begun to tell upon him. But when he was seized by a half-dozen strong hands, he could onlj writhe and kick under the fierce blows rained upon him. In that moment he felt that fate was against him— | confession to me. that with all his skill and prowess he was now to be | overpowered and killed by a pack of brutal ruffians hired | to do the work. | Clarence Blain, although making a feeble show of de- : fending the detective, was quickly thrust aside, and Croly was alone with his foes. | A struggle like this could not long be maintained. | The detective grew dizzy and faint under the attack ; | It that he was faliing—that he could resist no | that moment he heard a shout from some per- | r. At the same time the hands which held him ad he realized that he once more lad the power lis Simselt: — : A ping his teet, he saw another figure in the midst | fray—a man who seemed to recklessly attack the ! entire crowd of ruffians, heedlcss of their blows in | return. A light flared from a near window at the moment, and caused the scene to appear with startling distinct- | ness. And in this light the face of Croly’s defender was : reyealed—and it was the face of Carl Brandon, the vaga- | bond. In that moment Croly realized that he owed his life to this man; for only the outcast’s fierce onslaught di- | : \ attaek of the ruffians from the detective to | nimself. r But the combat was not yet ended. Thecourt seemed literally to swarm with men. And the respite given Croly was only of brief duration. He was again assailed upon all sides. In the semi- | darkness he dared not use a revolver for fear of hitting | Brandon or Clarence Blain. He once more found himself being overpowered, when | he was again electrified by a shout. | This time the cry wasin a boy’s voice, and a tamiliar one at that. This was not all; he understood the young- ster’s words, shouted at the top of his voice. “Here we come, nonpariel double-leaded wid a box of with all the heedlessness of youth he rushed into the that sent him to the ground half-stunned, and tempor- arily silenced. But there were others with him whe did not go down so easily. A half dozen pelicemen, whom Steve had se- cured at the nearest station, dashed in among the “toughs” with their clubs; and within aless period than is required by us to chronicle the fact, the combat was ended, with three ruffians lying bruised and bleeding upon the flagstones, and tive more sullen and helpless with manacied wrists. Among the latter was a tall, slouching ruffian with small, bleary eyes, and a scar on | his left cheek, long hair and black, bristling beard. Bill | Leary, the “tough.” «What shall we do with them, Mr. Croly ?” asked one of the policemen, when the detective had recovered sut- ficiently to give an account of the affray. - “Lock them up on a charge of assault with intent to kill,” was the grim reply. —__ At the same time the detective stepped up to Bill Leary and sternly said: “Hola out your hand !” ‘What for?” the man growled. *Betause I tell you to.” «T guess I won't.” But bis refusal was without avail. Croly seized the ruftian’s right hand, held it tightly fora moment, and ased it. ‘The policemen looked on in astonish- then rele ment. Leary was as bewildered as they. Nor did Croly vouchsafe an explanation to any of them at that time. Steve Lawton had recovered trom the blow which he had received, and stood beside the detective. His keen hae had seen what the latter had done, and understood his purpose. Croly had another wax impression, this The policemen hastened away with their prisoners, leaving only Croly, Steve, and Clarence Blain in the court. Carl Brandon, the vagabond, had disappeared. “I wish he had staid, for I would like to show him that I appreciate his efforts in my behalf. A strange man, surely. Once I thought he tried to kill me; now he has saved my lite, at risk of his own.” Croly said this as they went from the court. For Steve he had words of warmest praise also—praise that caused the boy’s heart to swell with pride. “T like to be talked to that way better’n bein’ knocked ‘round and cuffed as I used to be on the street,” was the youngster’s mental comment. At the street corner they separated, Clarence Blain be- ing now sufficiently sober to make his way home alone. Croly instructed Steve to come to his private apartments in season the next morning; then the boy-detec- tive went to his own lodgings. Croly had scarcely lett his boy-assistant out of sight, when he was once more startled by cries and the sound of hurrying feet from a point near at hand. Hastening to the spot, he saw two policemen clinging to a prisoner, while near them stood two girls, one of whoin threatened the officers with a leveled revolver. He recognized each member of the oe upon the on; the one de- the faithful Irish girl. _ Croly stepped into their midst and sternly demanded: “What is the meaning of this ?” “We have got the murderer of Hiram Waldron, that is all. Ahead of you scientific detectives, you see,” re- plied one of the policemen. “He is innocent! You shall not take him away!” cried Stella, her dark eyes Hashing with resolute zeal. Croly turned to the officer, and in a low, quiet tone said: ; “Release this man, he just saved my life, as I can He is no more a murderer than I am. Let him go, and I will be responsible for his appearance. nd to-morrow I will let you pull Croly too well to doubt his thought he might be misled by wild- were aware t he was @ manof The policemen knew The ; tered the next building, in which a window was also | Open, as you remember. | could be. | changed his habits—has become, in fact, a staid, honor- | Her The latter stepped up to Croly and said, in a low, ear- nest tone: «You have won, and I congratulate you I was on my way hither upon the same errand that brought you when J] saw you enter, and foresaw your purpose. We both solved the mystery, but you were afew minutes ahead of me. J probed the business affairs of Julian Blain, and found that he had been swamping the firm through private speculations, and that Mr. Waldron, upon the night before the tragedy, had discovered the condition of affairs. Blain has cheated, lied, and em- ‘Threatened with exposure, in a whiri of des- Blain wasin the front part of the counting-room when the shot was fired, and escaped by ; Sin immediately followed—and I presume it was his ; thumb, wet with his victim's blood, that left the clew ; Which you have so successfully worked out. Leary en- George Dyer was an unseen witness of the crime. and this morning he made a full It was he who shouted, ‘Waldron has NOT PERFECTION. era BY W. She’s not perfection, let's be sure ; No angel wings has she; Her girlish heart is but as pure AS girlish hearts can be. H. But is our human love the less, If nature faintly stains The marble of all loveliness With some imperfect veins ? The stars are beautiful and cold, But dear the frailer flowers, Whose dewy hearts of humbler mold . May speak as ’twere to ours. Then not celestial must she be, Her sweetness and her worth But crown a frail humanity, AS roses do the earth. — > ©—<—________ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] TWO KEYS; OR, MARGARET HOUGHTON’S HEROISM, By MRS. GEORGIE*SHELDON, ; Author ot * Brownie’s Triump#,” “ The Forsaken Bride,” “‘Audrey’s Recompense,” etc. a (“Ewo Krys” was commenced in No. 30. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]} CHAPTER XLVIL—(CONTINUED.) A thrili of pride and affection shot through Louis’ heart as their eyes met, and involuntarily he extended his hand. Mr. Forest grasped it eagerly. “It there is anything in the wide world that would for so many years the knowledge that you are my son will do much toward it. Heaven bless you, my boy !” that little paper that contained a curl-of Silken, nut- brown hair. bin “Tt is a lock that I cut’ from*your mother’s hair the evening before I sailed, and her gown fingers coiled it and tied it with its knot of blue ribbon for me; that other paper contains a little scrap of the dress that she was married in—they, with the picture, are the most sa- cred treasures I possess.” Louis handled them tenderly—they were sacred to him also ; while he was so grateful for that picture, so whom his heart had always yearned, had looked. How lovely she was, and how sad the stery ot her brief life. “J wonder, Louis,” Mr. Forest sai. breaking in upon this_sad reverie, ‘‘uow you have ever attained to such a noble manhood with ali the world against you, as I know it was, at the outset.” Louis’ eyes turned involuntarily toward his betrothed. “She has had much to do with whatever good there is in me,” he said, a fond smile wreathing his lips. Margaret colored crimson at this tribute. “Do not let him make you believe suc she returned, trying to = onsense,” killed himself.’ He did so upon an impulse to shield his employer. And later, he dared not ot being implicated as an accomplice ail through. Dyer | ee by a secret passage under the printing-house ; and I discovered this passage, and drove him to seek refuge elsewhere.” Hyjah made these statements rapidly and in a low tone, while the officers and a physician resuscitated Blain, who had fallen, apparently, in a fit upon realizing that there was no escape. -~ * * * * aoe ae ; * = Another great Ni be York criminal mystery solved, ard | the culprit brought to justice. For Julian Blain, despite | the vigilance of his guards, succeeded in putting an end to his own life before tae case came to trial. Of Bill Leary's fate we will not speak, because it is our province to entertain, not to shock, the reader. “Spider” was not caught, and he is still at large, al- though the little wretch deserves severe punishment if any one ever did. George Dyer had no specitic charge made against him, and so got off by merely being branded as a coward. Hyjah, the Hindoo, had been beaten, in time if notin skill. The rivalry had been warm, the result strangely | close. But more friendly or generous rivals than were | these two great detectives never lived. It isnot impossi- | ble that they may appear again. Both were brave, skill- | ful, and honorable; yet they were as unlike in their methods as two members of the same great calling well Clarence Blain, sobered by the terrible tragedy which made him the son of a murderer and suicide, has able gentleman. He took up the wreck of his father’s business and worked it up to prosperity again ; and two or three years Jater he took Carl Brandon into partner- ship. The vagabond was a vagabond no longer, he hav- | ing promptly reformed after the revelation of the mys- tery regarding the terrible crime in which he came so near being implicated. His beautiful daughter’s in- fluence; and, perhaps, more than these influences the sustaining friendship and watchfulmess of Croly, the detective, brought him up from the abyss, and he is in a measure fulfilling the promise of his younger manhood. As manager of the printing house none could be more skiliful than he. ‘Brandon & Blain” is the title by which the firm is now styled. Carl Brandon, a year later, made his home with his daughter and her husband; for—queer that we have not hinted it before—Stella, the brave, beautiful child of the dissipated outcast, became what she was just fitted to be—the wite of the detective. Mrs. Croly is her name. admiration for his skill and bravery had resulted as such things usually do. Steve Lawton came in for a share of glory in the solu- tion of the case, for, in the interview between Leary and the disguised person, which he overheard, as stated in chapter twenty-six, he had recognized the voice of the unknown as that of Julian Blain. Thus, although he would not have known. how to work out the case | alone, he really solved the mystery to his own satisfac- | tion unaided. z The boy returned to work in the printing-house, and thoroughly learned the trade like a sensible lad. But he was aiterward frequently called upon to assist Croly upon difficult cases, and always sustained the reputa- tion which he had gained so early in his career. Only one point remains unexplained, and that was brought out in the trial of Bill Leary. Stella Brandon’s pistol, which was the weapon used in the crime, was stolen from a police-station by Spider. | It will be remembered thata policeman took it from Carl Brandon previous to the tragedy, and that he had | not seen it afterward. Spider had long beenin the employ of Julian Blain, | and bis peculiar skill enabled the latter to secure this | weapon, which would throw suspicion upon the vaga- bond. (THE END.] {Another exciting detective story, by a new author, is begun this week, on the first page. Itis spirited and dramatic, and the reader will be deeply interested in the career of ‘‘THE OLD DETECTIVE’S PUPIL.”] pth gy ag ee THE STAGE KISs. A well-known actress has been interviewed on the subject of stage kissing. It is a debatable point whether actors are influenced by this kind of delicate salutation, and the interviewer put the question straight to the lady when he said: ‘Do actresses experience any emotion in kissing or being kissed by men On the stage ?” The answer ts interesting. “At first they do. They are embarrassed, and shrink | from the necessity of it, But that wears off in course of time, and we become so indifferent to it that it is like kissing so much wood. I have reached that point that I can look upon the man I have to embrace on the | stage as part of the furniture, a mere lay figure.” a Ot Busy Foiks.—People who get through an immense | amount of work are always those who know that idling | must not be allowed to put forth a covetous hand and | steal five minutes here and half an hour there. They can obtain a succession of successful results of applica- tion, as a good farmer can obtain the most from his land | by a proper rotation of crops. It is often found that the busiest folks are those who can find time to do a kind act for a friend or neighbor, for they know how to fit in one thing with another, till they are actually | said to be able to “make” time when wanted. j reveal what he |; ee : : knew because, being a confidant of Blain’s fraudulent | baw orton Hod oe ae speculations, he had accepted bribes, and was in danger | 2’ound him years ago ; | him, and his heart went from her cheeks. She by-the sorrowiul story that Mr You may be sure,” ve often told him—that the good only to cultivate it to make it b “7 feel assured of tha earnest- | ly regarding the manly lam not | thrown | a proud to say, will grace his fu Tate you | both, my children, and I to give me a little ¢ home.” Tears sprang into Louis” 50 hungrily for the love w > Willing Pent ig denied ui thrill of love and venefation. : _He had admired bim ing. and now that it was each other, i¢ seemed aii hour of his life. Father! His childish ! give utterance to the wol often rebelled at being so makes the life of little chil Henceforth it would be 4 most unconsciously he 100 face and spoke it aloud. The strong man nea while he reached forth and almost convulsively. p 4 Mr. Houghton turned é } his emo- tion, while Margaret and her mother were forced to use their handkerchiefs anew. ; But Mr. Forest soon regained command of himself. “Time is passing,” he said, with a glance at Arthur, “and as he has decided to leave Paris to-night on the midnight express tor Havre, he must be on the move. But 1 feel, Louis, that some acknowledgment is do you in his presence for the noble part you took toward ob- taining his release.” | sere Louis flushed, but he answered, quietly : “I bear him no malice ; of courséJ feel the wrong, but I have no desire to take any revenge for it, and [am greatly relieved that we succeeded in staying proceed- ings against him. 1 know that he always disliked me as a boy; why, I cannot conceive ; but I suppose his en- mity of late has been occasioned by my being tiie cause of a deep disappointment to him,” and again his gaze wandered to Margaret. “Not wholly,” Arthur answered, raising his head, and meeting his eye for the first tinie since entering the room, ‘though I confess I did deeply hate you for sup- planting me in Margie’s affections, But I may as well ig _meet- puged to art had all that , and al- panion’s 1eard it, nd again out with the whole. I have always been jealous of you; | when I first met you I recognized in you-a strong char- acter—I recognized your superiority, and it galled and | angered me; that alone is the secret of my early dis- like of you. Since coming to Paris I discovered, as my uncle hasesurmised, that you were his son, and I knew well enough that your mutual admiration would eventually lead you to make the discovery also. In that case, instead of my inheriting his handsome fortune, you, whom | had always hated, would get all his money. I reasoned that if you could only be got out of the way, I might succeed in winning all that 1 desired,” with a glance at Margaret. “I meant to keep you locked up, as I said before, until you would consent to leave the country, and that tailing I should put you in some private mad-house where you would be safely out of my way forever.” ; “What a wretch!” murmured Margaret, with white lips. «You are even worse than I believed,” said Mr. Forest, sternly. “T make this confession, not because I am reckless or defiant,” Arthur pursued, humbly, “but that you may know just where I have stood; it is a part of my punishment. {[ know that I have been willful and selfish all my life; if adversity has server! to make Louis Dun. bar a strong, true man, prosperity and unlimited in- duigence have been my ruin. I can see it now when it is too late. 1am not, however, ungrateful for what you have done to-day to save me from a felon’s doom, al- though any such expressions might seem forced and hypocritical in connection wit the confessions that I have just made; but if I should fever see any of you again I would like you to remember that I was not so hardened that I could not be grateful or would not say that 1 am sorry.” He looked up appealingly to Louis as he said this. Louis bowed with a troubled face, then all at once he turned his frank gaze upon Arthur. “JT regret the past more than ever now,” he said; <‘since this recent discovery makes us relatives. I wish that we could have been friends; then our future relations might have been so pleasant.” “That sounds very kind,” Arthur retorted, bitterly, “but I can hardly believe that the son and heir of the wealthy Albert Forest would be willing to share his good fortune with a penniless relative ; surely you and I have exchanged places very strangely.” “You wrong me if you think that I would grudge you any good which my tather might choose to bestow upon you,” Louis replied, earnestly, ‘‘and—and—pardon me,’ turning with an embarrassed air to his father, «how will he be provided for in the future ?” Arthur started from his chair, muttering something inaudible, and hastily quitted the room. Mr. Forest thought a moment before replying to Louis’ question. “Before my suspicions regarding you were proved to be correct,” he at length said, ‘I had hoped to induce him, upon returning to America with me, to enter upon some regular business or profession, and if he showed himself worthy, I should undoubtedly bave made him my heir upon my death. Of course, all that will be changed now, and to-day, when I discovered the extent of his crimes, I felt that no penalty, however severe, would be too bad for him. But he is the son of Gertrude, my favorite sister. I know he has nothing; that he is deeply in debt here in Paris, andI am afraid he is not likely to do much for himself in the way of earning a living. Icannot bear that he should suffer. What do you advise me to do for him ?” _ “I do not feel that I am competent to advise,” Louis returned more embarrassed than before. ‘Of course, I / help to heal the wound that has rankled in my heart | ‘What is this »” Louis asked, taking up and unfolding | glad that he could know just how the young mother, for the tears j nd your | prandest | owed to | know nothing regarding your resources, and it would be very presumptious in me to tell you what to do.” Mr. Forest smiled. “You may Call me a millionaire : you will not rate me too high then,” he said, adding, «Now, I will fill Arthur out a check for whatever amount you say.” “JT would rather not, sir,” objected Louis, with height- ened color. ‘‘My son, all that I have is yours from this time forth,” said Mr. Forest, and drawing trom his pocket a check- book upon the Bank of England, together with a stylo- graphic pen, he laid them both in Louis’ hands. “Now what would yo do if you were worth that sum and in my place ?” he asked. ‘Write the amount upon one of those slips and let me see it.” Louis saw that he was in earnest, and he could not re- fuse to comply with his request. He took the book, wrote something upon one of the checks, and then passed it back to his father, saying : “That will give him a fair start in life if he is disposed to use it rightly ; if not, you certainly need not be trou- per with remorse for not having done your duty toward lim.” Mr. Forest read the amount—it was for ten thousand dollars—and smiled a pleased assent. Then tearing the cheek from the book, he signe it, after which he excused himself, and followed his nephew from the room. 4 CHAPTER XLVI. LET THE FUTURE REDEEM THE PAST. *‘What are your plans, Arthur?” Mr. Forest questioned as he entered his room and found the young man stand- ing thoughtfully beside his portmanteau, whieh he had just finished packing. “T have none beyond getting out of this country as soon as possible,” he answered moodily. | Do not let your mistake make you reckless, my boy,” said Mr. Forest, kindly, “it is never too late to begin to do right while we have life and health.” ‘Alas! my life has been nothing but a mistake from beginnirg to end.” ‘Well, half the battle is fought when we become con- scious of our sin—the other half must be fought to con- quer it,” said his uncle. “I cannot forget,” he resumed with some emotion, ‘‘that you are my sister’s son, and Ishall always feel aninterestin you. I hope you will try to do well trom this time on, but if you get sick or in trouble at any time, I wan't you to let me know.” «Do you suppose ve will countenance your interest in one who has done him nothing but injury 2” Arthur curtly asked, with a motion of his head toward the room where Louis was. “You wrong him, Arthur,” Mr. Forest returned, quickly. ‘He told you himself that he should grudge you. nothing that I might choose to do for you. And see—I can prove it. I asked him to name some sum to you with his own hands.” Mr. Forest handed it to him as he spoke. Arthur took it and stood silently regarding it fora ; moment. He was very pale, his face was overcast, there wasadeep furrow between his brows, and his | lips twitched nervously. “Uncle Albert, I cannot take it!” he burst. out, at length. “Why not ?” | ‘It is too much; it burns me like a red-hot Goal;:” and ; the paper fluttered from his nerveless fingers to the floor. : | Mr. Forest’s face brightened. ; It was an indication of better things, he thought, to | have him show this feeling of unworthiness. He stood in deep thought for a moment. " “How much shall I give you, then ?” he asked. “Just enough to get me home. I would not ask that | if i had a dollar of my ojyvn; and—and,” he stammered, |ahot flush mounting to his brow, “those debts—I am | ashamed of them—the bills are in this drawer.” | He pulled out one of the drawers of the little table | that Margaret had admired, and reveaved a pile of pa- | pers within. | ‘Very well; I will attend to them,” his uncle said, | quietly. ‘And now,” he added, stooping to pick up the | fallen check, “I think it will be best for you to take | this; if you like, when you get home, you can start in some business, and this will be a great help to you. ; You need not take it as a gift unless you choose; take | it asa loan, and if you are ever able to replace it you | can do so.” ; The young man hesitated a moment; then he took | the paper, folded it carefully, and put it in his wallet. | ‘{ will say good-by to you here, Uncle Albert; I can- | Not meet them again,” with another nod toward the ad- | joining room. ‘You have been very good to me,” he | added, speaking with difficuly, “and though J have j acted the part of a knave and a fool, J believe 1 have | come to my senses sufficiently to appreciate your gen- | erous conduct.” He held out his hand as he concluded. | Itshook like aleafin the wind, and his lips were set | in a white straight line of pain. _- | Mr. Forest took it and wrung it ; it was a most painful | parting for him, and he would gladly have kept the | young man with him until his own return if he could | have done so. | *Good-by, Arthur,” he said, sadly ; ‘let me hear from | you; my addresgwill be here for the present ; and, I beg | of you, let the Juture, as far as may be, redeem the | past.” 4 His nephew made no response, but, turning suddenly , bway, took up Ii¥ hat and left the room. A servant soon ‘came for his bagage, and in an hour } from that time Arthur Aspinwall had left Paris forever. Mr. Forest returned to his friends and informed them | of the young man’s departure. |. The whole party were saddened by the event. They | had known him ever since boyhood, and could not help | feeling deep regret that one who had had so many ad- | vantages, and everything to contribute toward a life of | usefulness and success, should have so misused his op- ortunities. | ‘It is very unwise to rear children in luxury and idle- ness,” Mr. Forest remarked ; ‘‘they should be taught to | act and think for themselves, and be made to feel that | they have duties and responsibilities in lite.” | He glanced with an air of pride at Louis as he spoke. | It was wonderful, he thought, considering the untavor- ; able influences by which he had been surrounded dur- | ing the early years of his life, that he should have de- veloped into the noble, cultivated gentleman that he | Was. | Of course the young man’s prospects were all changed | upon learning his identity. ; He-was now the heir to a large fortune, and he could ; return to his own country whenever he wished, and | live as he chose. : His father argued this matter with him one day. ‘But, father, Ican never consent to live in idleness,” he objected; ‘if 1 knew I should inherit five times as ; much, I should. be very restless and unhappy not to | have some regular occupation.” “Of course I know that,.and I do not ask you to sit | down and fold your hands. But at the same time I do not teel like spending; my life here with these chatter- jing Frenchmen; I long for my native land and the | scenes of my youth; but I cannot be separated from you; now thatl have found my son I want to enjoy his | society. Indeed, Louis,” Mr. Forest concluded, ‘you once told me that you would not like to make this a per- manent home.” “No; I am too thorough an American not to prefer my own country,” Louis responded, “but my position here is an excellent one, and ji naturally feel a pride in making the most of it.” “True; but it will be a good opening for some other worthy young man, and we will go home and establish some business that will be both agreeable to us and helpful to others. I believe we can do more good there, too; we understand the ways of Americans better than | those of any other people, andI long to do something | for poor boys there who are struggling upward as you | struggled. I shall never see astreet gamin after this | without thinking of your sad childhood. Will you go, Louis ?” “Yes; I believe that duty, as well as inclination, points that way,” Louis thoughttully replied. Other influences also combined to draw him home- ward. “Mr. and Mrs. Houghton would shortly return, and they could not endure the thought of being separated from their only child, and of course they seconded Mr. Forest's proposals and arguinents most heartily. Margaret also longed to go home, although she did not say very much about it, and would have remained with him without a murmur; yet she drooped when- ever the subject was entertained, and her happiness was more to Louis than any other consideration. So he gave his notice that he would resign his posi- tion at the end of the year, and it was arranged that they should all return together. The time passed very quickly, and one bright morn- ing about a month before the date fixed for sailing there was a brilliant wedding in Mr. Houghton’s ele- gant mansion. For more than two months previous, Worth had been busily engaged upon the trousseau of the lovely bride- elect, and it was whispered in many 4 boudoir that it was seldom that a richer or more complete outfit was sent forth from his noted establishment. The wedding itself was one long to be remembered, and was attend- ed by many of the elite of the Frinch capital. Mr. Houghton gave away the bride, while Mr. Forest and Mrs. Houghton stood. beside the handsome couple, each feeling that a new joy was about to be added to their own life in this crowning happiness of their children. Louis had been strongly urged by his company to stay with them, and-was offered as an inducement a large advance upon his previous salary. “No,” he had said, although gratified by this evidence of their appreciation of his services, his duty to his tather pointed in another direction and he could not re- consider his decision. Among the elegant gifts presented to Mr. and Mrs, Louis Dunbar Forest, there was a service ot solid silver, lined with gold, and accompanying it a letter asking their avceptance of it as a slight testimonial of the company’s high esteem for him as a man of honor and integrity. and also of their gratitude for the signal ser- vice that he had so recently rendered them. Count Lorrain, who had so betriended Margaret on the night of her first visit to Louis had never availed him- self of her permission to call upon her. He had learned, before the week was out, why she had been abroad unprotected, and in learning that, had re- alized at once that there was no hope of his ever winning the lovely American for his wife, as he had hoped to do. Margaret had wondered why he did not call—she wanted to thank him again for his kindness to her; but ‘THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. e== give you a start with, and he filled out this check for:| ¢ she understood it all, when, after sending him cards for her wedding, she received a costly and beautiful tiara of diamonds, accompanied by the following note: { “Will Mademoiselle Houghton accept an offering from one who cannot trust himselt in her presence—from one who has dared to hope he might aspire to be to her something more than friend? Forgive the presumption. May your life be rich in-blessings,-and may he who has won you guard and cherish the treasure that is to crown his life. Adieu, PHILLIPE, Count of Lorrain.” Margaret could not help shedding tears over this pathetic little note; and in return she sent the young nobleman a kind reply, thanking him for his gift, which, she told him, she should prize as one of her greatest treasures, as it would always remind her of his nobility and kindness to her when she was in deep trouble. Another touching incident had occurred only the even- ing before her marriage. A young girl called and begged to see her, but was told that Miss Houghton could receive no one that day. She instantly produced a card, wrote something upon it, and sent it up to Margaret, saying she would wait for a reply, The card contained less than a dozen words, but they proved effective. A brilliant flush suffused Margaret's face as she read, “Aimee Perrine beseeches a moment with Mademoiselle Houghton,” and she instantly dispatched Annetta to asix the maiden it she would waive ceremony and come to her in her boudoir. She was indeed ‘‘beautiful as an angel,” as her brother had said. She was very youthful in appearance, and yet there was a certain dignity about her that showed depth of character and high breeding. She was slight, fair, and delicate, with great dark eyes that thrilled one through and through. There was a fiush on_ her round cheek, while her chest rose and fell with emotion as she approached the young bride-elect. “Mademoiselle,” she said, in low, sweet tones, dropping upon oLe knee upon the hassock before Margaret, while she looked appealingly into her face, ‘Auguste has told me all—he repents—he has been in despair. Again he sues for mademoiselle’s pardon, and begs, as an assur- ance, her acceptance of a trifle to grace her gift table.” The young girl laid a beautiful mother-of-pearl casket upon Margaret's lap as she spoke, touched the spring, litted the cover, and revealed a cross of pearls and dia- monds fit for a queen. The setting was of exquisite workmanship; a row of whole pearls nearly as large as_peas extended down the center and across the arms, and on each side of these there was a row of diamonds halt the-size of the pearls, while a curious and beautiful chain was attached to the top. “Ah! mademoiselle, itt will not refuse,” pleaded the lovely stranger. ‘‘With his lips pressed to the eross Au- guste swore he would never wrong any one again. You | have made him a good man—you have sayed my brother, mademoiselle. I thank you. I love you, and may your life be full of joy.” [t is impossible to describe the earnestness and grace with which this was uttered, and Margaret’s heart, in- stantly went out to the girl with a gush of tenderness. She leaned forward and impulsively kissed her fair white forehead, saying : “Mademoiselle Perrine, how glad I am that you did not go away without seeing.me, and how kind of you to come yourself to bring me this beautiful gift. I shall keep it, and I shall prize it more than I can tell you, and I shall always remember ¥ou with so mueh pleas- ure.” ' ane Auguste, my brother?” pleaded Aimee, wist- ully. Margaret flushed. She could not recall that night even now without a thrill of herror. “Present him my thanks for this lovely cross, and say to him that all was forgiven when he gavé me his pledge that he would henceforth respect my sex with | out regard to position. Present my compliments also to the Marquis De Perrine, and say I consider bima fortunate man to possess the love of such a sister,” Mar- garet responded, with her charming smile. | Her lovely visitor seized her hands and kissed them in | a transport of gratitude. “Thanks, thanks! Mademoiselle is delightful »’ she | Said, in a tremulous tone. | She then arose to go, and Margaret accompanied her | to the door, where she kissed her once more—upon the | lips this time—and remarked that she hoped they should | Meet again; and sweet Aimee Perrine went away won- dering if all American girls were such angels and as beautiful as Mademoiselle Houghton. Two weeks of festivity and excitement followed the wedding of our young iriends, during which they were Jeted in every imaginable manner, and then they de- home. (TO BE CONTINUED.) a NIGHT THE HARVEST-TIME OF SIN. One night often destroys a whole life. ‘The leakage of the night keeps the day forever empty. Night is sit’s harvest-time. More sin and crime are committed fn one night than in all the days of the week. Thistis more emphatically true: in the city than in the country. The city under the gaslight is not the same as under God’s sunlight... Night life in our cities-is.., dark prdob- lem whose depths and abysses and whirlpovis make ts start back with horror. Young men, tell me low and where you spend your evenings, and J will write your chart of your character and final destiny, with blanks to insert your names, , 1. seems to me an appropriate text would be: “Watchman, what of the night ?” thy beat, what of the night? What are the young mén of the city doing at night? Who are their associates ? What are their habits ? Where do they goin, and what time do they,come out? Policeman, would the nigh’ life of young men commend them to the confidence of their employers? Would it be to their credit? Make‘a record of the nights of one week. Put in the morning papers the names of all young men, their habits ‘and haunts, that are on the streets for sinful pleasure. Would there not be a shame and confusion? Some would not dare to go to their places of business ; some would. not dave to come home at night; some would leave the city ; some would commit suicide. Remember, young men, that in the retina of the All-Seeing Eye there is nothing hid but shall be revealed on the /ast day. Policeman, pacing TRAINING -o~ OF THE MIND. There is probably no human faculty that is more in need of faithful and patient cultivation than the judg- ment, for there is none that has more complications to deal with, or more difficulties to overcome. Neverthe3 less, there is, perhaps, none which receives less sympa- thetic discipline, or upon which people generally are Mss willing to expend their labor and thought. : They train their children’s memory, exercise their powers of expression, school them in the habits of indus- ury, endurance, patience, and self-control; but seldom discipline their judgment or teach them .how to draw just conclusions. ‘ That, they suppose, is something which time and ex- perience will do for them; yet, when they see what hasty opinions and ill advised judgments are continual ly tormed by older people, they might infer that some definite education in this respect was necessary for both old and young. All, from the humblest to the highest, need to cultivate a careful and accurate method of thought in all things. The cause of things and their true relation to each other do not lie on the surface, waiting to be picked up, but are often tar down out of sight, and must be dug for to be discovered. ————— > @ <4 INSTANTANEOUS HAIR-CUTTING. A remarkable incident occurred near the French town of Auvergne, during a violent thunder-storm. A young woman was hastening homeward, sheltering herself be- neath an umbrella from the drenching rain. Suddenly she experienced a strange and alarming sensation, the shock being simultaneous with a very vivid flash of lightning. Nevertheless, she proceeded on her way, and it was only on reaching her residence that she discovered what a narrow escape she had had. On removing her bonnet she found that her hair had been literally cut off, her head presenting, as the hair fell, the same appé€arance as though it had been shaved with a razor. The effect upon the girl’s mind of the discovery was so great that she has been confined to her bed ever since the day of the storm. It is not the loss of her hair that affects her, but the recollection of the narrow escape she had has so entirely upset her nervous system that the medical men attending her express the opinion that it will be some weeks before she recovers from the shoek, ———-_+- 9-4 DUST-LADEN ATR. The air in houses is almost always laden with more or less dust. During the winter, when the ventilation is imperfect, this is especially the case. The stove is a common cause, as its heat dries up the dirt in the room, and it is wafted about by currents of air, and stirred up by the skirts of females. Women probably do not know how much dust their skirts sene into the air whenever they sweep the carpet It is in- visible to the eye, except when the light of the sun shines on it. ; All this is breathed, and injures our lungs. Is there any help forit? Atleast one ; and that is ventilation. Frequent and thorough ventilation, especially when the rooms are swept and dusted, while it does not remedy the evil, makes it less. ~o~<—____- Mucu of the world is prejudiced against facts, be- cause facts stick to the text and don’t go out of the way to concoct a palatable medium for the world’s own gen- teel taste and wise opinions. parted to spend a fortnight in London before sailing for YOUTH AND AGE, YOUTH. When I am old, these hills that bound My life within their narrow round, Will be the threshold of the door That leads to freédom and to fame, And the wide world beyond no more An idle dream, an empty name ; But I, from cares and troubles free, Its glories and its joys shall see. The summer isles of southern seas ; Great battles, glorious victories ; The boundless prairies of the West, Where red men hunt the buffalo ; Whatever fairest gifts and best The gods have given to men below— These, heart of mine, these shall we see In the brave days that are to be. AGE. When I was young this narrow round Of hills a glorious world did bound ; Here, on the quiet valley floor, I dreamed of freedom and of fame, Ere yet I learnee they were no more Than a vain dream, an empty hame ; In that glad careless long ago, The happy hours seemed all too slow. J have been wrecked in stormy seas ; Not mine life’s glorious victories ; Gone the bright spell on boyhood cast ; No more along the primrose way I wander, for my paths have passed To this sad world of everyday. Ah, heart of mine, no more we know The days and dreams of long ago! —__——~> @~-— ALMOST LOST. BURKE COLLINS. “Tom, she’s coming. She will be here on the six o'clock train this evening. You'll drive down to the station when the train comes in, won’t you, dear ?” And little Mrs. Moreland folded the letter which she held in her hand, while her liege-lord, Thomas More- land, Esq., helped himself to an@ther roll, breakfast be- ing in progress. “All right, Katie, my dear,” he returned, buttering the hot roll vigorously as he spoke. “I'll sacrifice my own comfort, and make a martyr of myself to the lady’s cause if need be. Another cup of coffee, please. But, remember, with all your rhapsodies, you have not in- formed me yet whom you are expecting.” “Well, I declare !”—and Katie's pretty face was con- vulsed with laughter—‘‘what a memory you are acquir- ing, Tom. Didn’t I tell you yesterday that my old school friend, Veronica aLeigh, is coming to pay us a visit? Iwknow I told~ you, but you were so occupied with your horrid “hewspaper that you did not heed me. Yes, she is coming, and to-day.” «What in the world will we do with Bert while she is here ?” queried Mr. Moreland, suddenly. “You know he detests women in general, and gushing, sentimental schoolgiris in particular. And since he makes his home with us, I don’t like to spoil his pleasure. Pity she couldn't defer her visit until Bert goes to Baton Rouge.” “But she cannot! It is. quite impossible!” pouted Katie. ‘She has not been here—to New Orleans for a long time, and I would not be the occasion of her disap- pointment. You know she lives in the beautiful Teche country—on a large plantation. Poor Vere! Her parents both died during the yellow fever epidemic of seventy-eight, leaving her alone ‘‘on the old plantation,” which was afterward ruined by the great crevasse, and she is reduced to earn her Own living as a governess in the family of a sugar planter. There is something very strange about Veronica. She will not marry, though she has had scores of offers. Even since she lost her money she has had more than one proposal of marriage, but she turns from them all so scornfully. Tom, I begin to believe that. something must have oceurred to alter her, and make a recluse of her, during her trip to Europe, two years ago. One thing is certain; she went abroad a gay, laughing girl like all of us who graduated from Madame Dupont’s at the same time, and she came back a cold, haughty, unapproachable woman. Tom, I’ve . been thinking, wouldn’t it be perfectly splendid if she ~ and your brother, Bert, the woman hater, would fall in love with each other.” “Mr. Moreland’s handsome face clouded. “Don’t jest,” he returned; ‘it’s a serious subject to me. For I tell you, Katie, that Bert is changed—so changed that I would scarcel; recognize him since his trip to Europe. Curious coincidence, isn"t it 2” Katie looked thoughtful, but at that mement the door opened and Bert Moreland appeared. A pale, handsome man, with a blase expression, he looked as though he considered life a bore. He listened quietly while Katie poured forth a glowing account of her expected friend’s grace and beauty, but strange to say, she quite forgot to. mention the lady's name. BY MRS. E. yer), and Katie began to bustle about the house, making preparations for her guest’s arrival. a At exaétly six o’clock the train steamed in, and Tom Moreland, faultlessly attired, was waiting with the pret- ty pony ‘carriage. A tall, stylishly dressed lady soon appeared, and, for the first time, Mr. Moreland stood in the presence of his wife’s dearest friend, Veronica Leigh. The name suited her well. There was dignity in the name, and she was dignity personified. Such a lovely, placid tace—the complexion marbie-white, and such lus- trous dark eyes, full of thoughtful sadness; the sweet red lips were curved a little gravely, and perhaps bitter- ly; and waves of sunny golden hair were drawn away from the broad, low brow, so white and serious. She looked pure and fair as a lily as she sat at Tom’s side and was driven rapidly through the long streets to the home of the Morelands on one of the up-towwn avenues. Katie greeted her friend rapturousiy, and led her off up stairs, where, after a few moments’ chat, the little hostess flitted away and left her guest to make her toilet for dinner. She floated into the dining-room an hour later in a gauzy white dress, with forget-me-nots at her throat and in her hair; and hardly was she seated at the table when Bert Moreland appeared. He started back, with. a low cry, quickly suppressed, as his glance fell upon the lady. Veronica's face was ashen white as the presentation was made, and a strange constraint seemed to gather over them all. During the evening which followed, Bert Moreland seemed to shun Miss Leigh, and when they chanced to be near each other, the only words exchanged were cold and half-scornful. Katie began to see that these two would never be friends. A few days passed in the same fashion. The two young people seemed to’grow colder and more distant, shunning each other as much as possible; and when a week had* gone by, Bert one evening at dinner an- | nounced his intention of departing for Baton Rouge on the morrow. Expostulations availed not. Katie soon discovered, and she turned in despair to her guest. “Vere,” she cried, beseechingly, ‘can’t you prevail on Bert to remain ?” What a strange look swept over the girl’s white face! Then a haughty frown followed as she answered coldly : “Mr, Moreland consults his own wishes. Of course, I have no power or influence to change his plans, and I decline to interfere.” They all left the table shortly after, and the gentle- men went into the garden to smoke. “Vere,” said Katie Moreland, ‘“‘come into the bay-win- dow and sit with me. I want to ask you a question.” In a few moments the two friends were comfortably ensconced upon the crimson couch which stood in the bay-window, the moonlight streaming over them like a silvery vail. Katie laid her hand on her friend’s golden head. “Veronica,” she said, softly, “I want you to tell me what is the matter? Why do you and Bert hate each other so cordially?” Veronica's face paled. ‘ “JT will teli you, Katie,” she said, suddenly, ‘for I owe it to you really, and perhaps you may be able to advise me; for, dear friend, lam so unhappy that I must go to some place where I need never meet him. You see, Katie, I never dreamed that he—Bert—was here when I accepted your invitation. We were betrothed once— Bert Moreland and I1—before I went to Europe.” «Veronica !” “Jt is true, Katie. I was rich then, and he loved me for my money, I suppose ; for after I had lost all, and went to be governess in Mr. Landry’s family, I received a cold, crue! note from him breaking the engagement, saying that we were unsuited to each other. That is all, Katie darling; but, somehow, it has wrecked my faith in man.” “Veronica !” It was Bert Moreland’s voice that broke the silence, as he sprang in at the window and faced the girl, pale and trembling. ~«Listen to me,” he said, his voice quivering with excite- ment. ‘JZ received a letter from you, telling me that you had changed your mind, and asking a release from the engagement, and adding, that as silence gives con- sent, if1 granted your freedom need notreply. Here is the letter.” And he took a worn it in her hand. P ‘J never wrote it,” she faltered. His eyes blazed. “And I never wrote that false, traitorous letter to you!” he panted. ‘Oh, Veronica, some enemy has done this to separate us; and had we only trusted each other aud sought an explanation, all would have been well. For I love you, Veronica !” Katie slipped away just then, and an hour passed be- fore the lovers missed her. And these two hearts, envelope from his pocket and laid : { cad THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. eoo= “_ VOL. 41—No. 46, | earth again. Butit was terrible to realize how nearly , asked him for his bill, he laughingly replied: their happiness had been lost. PS rae a private matter with Miss Maude. She is to settle that,” ae ee ee ee My father looked amazed, but I could appreciate the A H APPY MIST AKE / payment Dr. Melrose would accept, and imagined their : surprise when he demanded it at their hands. Yes, I was certain that Maude was the prize which Dr. BY L. W.T Melrose had in his mind. One day, while -~ father See ; was seated in a corner of the sofa, and I at his side, I : ; Was about to speak to him of my suspicions; but I Day by day I had seen the lines of care deepen round | eee — the subject might disturb him, so I wisely Sa ae ; BS 5 : i _ | deferred it. my father’s mouth and forehead, and watched my moth- | The summer was rapidly approaching—the time for er’s pale and anxious gaze rest upon him. Maude’s coming home was at hand. Night after night did Maude and I lie side by side, and| | With glad, happy heart, I decorated our room with spend th: hours—when sleep, they tell us, lends us ' the roses she so loved; hung the fresh muslin curtains i from the windows; looped them back with sprays of beauty—in wondering what trouble was hovering over : flowers, all the while singing aloud in my joy. us. . I had roe i happy, e's nae ee Ne to P ab Of ; Le : ome over which hung no shadow of debt. The mort- But the knowledge came all too soon. My father had | gage had been paid. What she had saved should go lent money which he supposed he could call in at any | toward her trousseau when she needed one, for father time. The time arrived, but the money was not forth- | nO ee ere Bae dias aisa % Bs e R , aa ER 8 ae coming. His health was rapidly failing him, a fact his | p¢arer they came. I sprang down stairs to meet her, business anxieties in no way helped, and we soon knew-| caught sight of the carriage coming rapidly up the he must mortgage heavily the tarm, and thatif his ; drive, and Saw her sniile of welcome, and saw that she heaith continued to fail he might soon be unable even to | was not alone. pay the interest. “T bring you a surprise,” she had written, and by her Then Maude and I began to hold our whispered con- | side sat Dr. Melrose. ‘ versations to better purpose—to decide that we were I knew it all. Was it not as I pictured, fancied, strong, and young, and healthy, and that such gifts were | hoped? I only know that an impulse which sprang given to us to be made use of. And so it ended in our | from some corner of my being caused me to.turn hastily severed so long, were reunited, never to separate on health and vigor were at last restored; but when he oa The wager was duly paid, amidst a certain amount of chaff; but the five pounds did not change hands, as the badger released his hold on reaching the open, and the mongrel made what was admitted on all hands to be about the quickest time.on record from the scene of ac- tion to the barrack gate. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. Don't phool with spiritulism, it iz like bein a moderate drinker, sure to beat yu at last. ; Don’t hav enny rules for long life that yu won’t break, be prepared to-day to die to-morrow, iz the best kreed for jong life I kno ov. - : Don’t diskount enny thing; the best time to kount yure chickens iz after they are hatched, and hav got to be about six vveeks old. " Keep yure he@ cool and yure feet dri, and breathe thru yure noze as mutch as yu kan. Don’t be a clown if yu can help it; people don’t res- pekt enny thing mutch that they can only laff at. «“Bxercise Never giv up enny thing untill the game is played| «Go slow and go easy. : klean out ; i hav seen the turkey won when everyboddy | «Maybe there are other things that ro especial case at but, of children born annually is abott forty-three millions ; daily, one hundred and seventeen thousand eight hun- dred and eight; per minute, eighty. The number of deaths annually is about thirty-nine millions; daily, one hundred and six thousand eight hundred and forty- nine; per minute, seventy-four. On an average one hundred and six boys are born to one hundred girls, yet at the end of the first year boys and girls are almost equal in number. : . > o~ LINCOLN’S ADVICE, An autograph letter, to which the name of “A. Lin- coln” is boldly signed, contains the following sage ad- vice : 3 : “Do not worry. iy “Eat three square meals a day. é: “Say your prayers. ; gh “Think of your wife. 2 «Be courteous to your creditors. “Keep your digestion good. “Steer clear of the biliousness. had giv him up for lost. requires to make you ha friend, these, I Alwuss keep one eye, at least, wide open—watch the | reckon, will give you a good lift, f darkey’s fingers while he plays upon the strings. be at aoa Expekt but little, and if yu dont git nothing yu wont 5 : ee a ese y g sy THE LATEST FISH YARN. Don’t brag on yure relashuns, try to be worthy ov sending off a mysterious letter to the old}school-teacher, | and waiting and watching days for a regiy, which came | at Jast to tell Us She had succeeded ingfinding a situ- } ation as governess, at a competency whéech to us seemed wealth. | mendation, and either of us, she felt assured, would fill The young man promised to join them at dinner, | and then went down town to his office (he was a law- | | did not wonder the eyes of a Stranger in the church wan- The lady was willing to take any one on her recom- the role. So she left it for us to decide—one must go and one must stay. > At last Maude said it must be she who would go. She was older than I, and she thought she would be happier away working than at home sitting with folded hands, She was so pretty, so loving, and lovable, that it seem- ed as though we could not let her go among strangers. At first father and mother would not listen to it, but we overruled all objection, and Mande wrote and ap- pointed a day for her coming. Se The intervening time passed rapidly away in busy preparation, and at last the one Sunday left us dawned bright and clear. Maude looked so lovely that morning in her pretty hat, with its long, drooping feather, that 1 dered persistently to our pew. He was a tall, handsome man, sitting with the Leon- ards—a name which, in our village, represented its aris- tocracy and wealth. There were gentlemen from the city visiting there con- stantly, but their gaze did not often wander from the stylish, elegant Leonards to seek any other attractions. Isaw them glance around once or twice, as if to dis- cover what else in the church could possibly distract at- tention from themselves, and I fear I felt more pride in Maude’s beauty than was quite consistent with the sacred place in which we were. But after she had gone, and at nightI went for the first time to my room alone, I felt that she had chosen the better part—that it was easier even to go forth among strangers to labor, than to sit down quietly on the vacant hearthstone. However, I soon found plenty for heart and hands. My tather grew rapidly worse instead cf better, and it was hard work so to word my letters to Maude that she should not know of the skeleton in our home—the shadow of coming death. Her letters were bright and cheery, like herself; and when at last I told her father grew no better, she an- swered she had met Dr. Melrose, who was a relative of the lady whose children she taught, and asked him to go down and see father, and that she would defray the necessary éxpenses. I almost gasped when I read the name, Dr. Melrose. His fame had reached even our ears. I wondered how she could have appoached him with such a request; but I said nothing to father of her desire, and one morning, about a week later, his card was put into my hands. With quick, trembling limbs, | hastened down to meet him, and opened the parlor door to find myself face to face with the stranger who, weeks before, had sat in the Leonards’ pew. My tace grew red and pale as I recognized him, but he came forward very quietly, and, taking my hands, said : “Come, we will have a little talk first, and then you shall take me to see your father.” 1 quickly obeyed him, and sat down beside him, as he directed, while he. not seeming to observe my agitation, told me of my sister—of her happiness in her new home, how already she had won her way into their hearts, and how glad he was that business at this time called him to this spot and enabled him to, perhaps, be of some as- sistance. : Then I found words, and when he left me to visit my father, I found myself awaiting his return with a-calm assurance that, could mortal aid avail him, he would. find it in Dr. Melrose’s healing touch. A half hour passed before his return, and when he entered the room I knew I might hope. “It is not so bad as I feared,” he said. ‘Time and careful nursing will soon restore him. The latter I shall intrust to you.” Then he gave me his directions so clearly that I could not misunderstand them, and when he bade me good- by, holding both my hands for a moment in his own, and said, ‘‘You must take care of yourself as well, and net give me two patients instead of ond,” he smiled so kindly that I felt my heart leap as I thought: “It is for Maude’s sake he has done this thing. He loves her.” It did not seem strange that she should have won the heart of a man as high in the world’s favor as Ernest Melrose stood. It would not have seemed strange to me had she won the best man in the world; in my eyes she might have graced a throne. So I wrote her of his visit, and of its wonderful re- sults; how father improved day by day, and how, with health, came hope and courage, so that soon the clouds would scatter, and we should have her home again. But she answered, begging me never to think of her except as happy—that in Mrs. Marvin she had found a second mother, and in her work only pleasure. ; She rarely mentioned Dr. Melrose’s name, but I could well understand why she was silent. So the winter passed. Two or three times the doctor came to relieve its monotony. My parents grew to wel- come him as a friend, and I, in my heart, as a brother, for I felt sureLhad guessed the secret of his love for Maude. He talked of her so constantly, telling me how bravely she did her duty, and how her oeauty of character ex- ceeded even the charm of of face and form. We looked to him almost as our deliverer, for father's s8UT I DEFERRED IT, Fa rn in SR neta ny, up the ‘stairs, and, aloud. § a “Tente} darling, W girlish voice; and 2 mentary weakness, ff warm, loving embra She had come bach guess what had deep radiance in her eye. I smoothed my disé her merry talk, th whose deep, manly / Cie he Sat talking. e “Look your best,” | «your very,.very best) “And, taking me by: into the room where Dr. Melrose instan S.are you?” questidned a sweet, sprang up, ashamed of my mo- ind myself clasped in my sister's lovelier than ever. Ah, I could med the flush upon her cheek, the dered hair, listening the while to pot a word did she say of him s I could hear, now and then, as e said, with a roguish twinkle— ‘here—I am Satisfied.” he hand, she ran rapidly down y all sat. dy arose, and came forward with his old smile of w e, and made a movement as though he would al give me a brother’s kiss, eat FEE in tithe that his secret was not yet dis- closed. : The evening passeti rapidly in pleasant laugh and jest. Occasionally I intercepted a glance between Maud and her guest, fullof meaning, but no one else seemed to notice it. Atlast he rose to bid us good- night, and as he held my hand a moment in his own, he whispered : «You have always been most indefatigable in press- ing my small claim wpon you. To-morrow I will pre- sent it to you for payment, May I see you fora few moments in the mornig 2” “Certainly,” I answered; but my voice trembled, and I think, had he staida moment longer, I should have burst into tears. ¢ ; All through that long nightI watched my sister, sleep- ing so peacefully by my side, waging my little war with. self. low xatural thf he should love her, so young, so lovely. But, ah, why had my heart gone forth, unasked, to meet his? At least the secret was all my own—none should suspect it. IT had not known it myself until I had seen them side by side. With, perhaps a shade less color, a little quiv- ering of the lids, but nothing more, I entered the parlor —— morning to gree: Dr. Melrose, who stood waiting ‘or me. : “I have come, as yOuknow, to Claim my payment, El- lie. Can you not guess it ?” Z A ot struggle with myself, then I answered, ravely : i «Yes, I know it all. You have my consent, Dr. Mel- rose, although you take our dearest possession.” He looked bewildereil, but suddenly seemed to under- stand, as he said, gravely : “Then you know, Elile? Since the day I first saw you in chureh I have loved:you, have cherished as my fond- est dream the hope ot ‘making you my wife. Darling, you are sure I have your consent ?” “But Maude ?” I almost gasped. “Maude is only too happy in the hope that I may win you. She is engaged te a cousin whom she met at Mrs arvin’s, and who is soon coming to claim her. Heis a splendid fellow, and well worthy of her; but I, my dar- ling, can accept no other payment than yourself.” And ina wild burst of passionate joy, ot marvelous unbelief, I gave it to him, as he sealed it with the first kiss of our betrothal. —— DRAWING THE BADGER. Some years ago, when badger-drawing was more com- monly induiged in than at present, some officers ina garrison town in Dorsetshire, England, possessed an ex- ceedingly fine badger, which passed his time alternately in dozing away in his barrel and resenting attempts at being ‘‘drawn.” Being an exceedingly tough customer, any one in the district Who had a good hard terrier for Sale invariably brought him to the barracks for a turn at old Joe, it being pretty generally understood that for an animal that acquitted himself creditably a fair offer from one or other of the sporting set of officers would be speedily forthcoming. A great many dogs had been tried and found wanting, and Joe was having a pretty easy time of it. One day a countryman presented himself with the veriest mongrel that ever trod, and expressed a desire that his ‘‘dorg” and Jve should try conclusions. From appearances, the chances were just about a hundred to one on Joe, and a sporting doctor of the regiment crip ingly offered a small wager that the dog would not - lodge the badger in an hour, supposing even he could be induced to go for him at all. The owner immediately cried, “Done!” to the evident surprise of the layer, wno added that, if the feat was ac- i gag he would 6e willing to pay a five pound for the dog. A move was forthwifh made to Joe’s barrel, and the dog-owner, having asked the looKers-on to stand back a little so as to give fair play, took up his cur, (a good-sized one, by-the-way) and threw him in the barrel tail first. There was immediately a lively rumpus, quickly suc- ceeded by the reappearance of the mongrel with the badger closely fixed to his tail. As a matter of fact, what he lacked in pluck he more than made up in Strength, and it could be claimed fairly enough that he had “drawn” his badger. ; ; bing my head in my pillow, sob | KEG | dressy purposes it is, canecially them, and at the same time hope and pray that they wont do enny thing to disgrace the family. Don’t be sertain ov enny thing untill yu hav got it, set on it, and nourished it, az the hen doth the egg. Never beleave more than haff that enny man tells ae and dont even beleave that if he offers to sware to If yu kant git a haff a loaf, take a whole one; a whole loaf iz better than no bread. Dont miss enny phun, not if yu have to go 10 miles out Ov yure way to find it. i Take kare ov yureself fust, and just az soon az yu kan after that, take kare ov someboddy else. Ifi.yu feel as tho a glass ov toddy would do yu good, take it; dont feel az tho yu waz obliged to hav the stum- muk ake three or four times a day, just for the sake Ov taking a drink, If yu hav done wrong, own it; it iz better to bak out ov enny thing than to lie yur way thrue it. Dont keep but one dog; thare iz no man but a pauper able to keep three. The Ladies’ Work-Box, Edited by Mrs. Helen Woed. FASHION NOTES. Moonstones mounted in silver make stylish lace pins to wear at this season of the year. Studs and collar-buttons for ladies are made of white en- amel on silver, dotted with blue or scarlet, and are worn. with the chemisettes now so fashionable.~ Bonnets made of pique, Marseilles, or linen, are very quaint and becoming for children. A variety of harmonious colors are introduced in the bows on hats and bonnets, and considerable ingenuity is required in their arrangement. Many short jackets are now completed by. a hood, which is lined with satin or surah, and extends nearly to the waist- line. Chemisettes, made of white pique or duck, are worn with tailor suits, while for dressy use they are made of plaited crape, lisse, or mull. Chamois is a popular color, and various tints of green are also admired, but the standard shades of blue, red, or pink are likewise fashionable. White canvas and cream-colored scrim dresses are often finished with embroidery, done in colored silk; the feather- stitch being the favorite. Parasols of black satin, or plain or watered silk, can be used with nearly all costumes, while those to match washable toi- lets can be made to order. Bonnet strings may be used at option during the warm weather, and any of the pretty varieties of ribbons preferred may be selected for them. For sea-side and mountain wear, white camel’s-hair, with colored stripes, is very stylish, and costumes made of this goods haye velvet for the accessories. Fr White guimpes are universally worn, and combinations are much used in little girl’s costumes. Flat bands or wreaths of natural flowers are worn in short, Trout are plentiful in the mountain streams of the Catskills. Frank E. Miller says a party of ravenous New Yorkers, while wading up astream after trout, drove the fish before them much as a farmer drives fowls,-until all the ‘speckled beauties” ran into a hollow log to escape from their pursuers. The fishermen hired a convenient and faa areca wood-chopper to make large-sized kindling wood of the log, and as a result of his labors the party “caught” just sixty quarts of trout, pangine in size from four inches te almost a foot in Mr. Miller shows some chips from the hollow log wit much pride and an Ananias nue Be dns >-e~—____—___ ¢ A BOY WHO BOTHERED THE LAWYERS. — A boy twelve years old was the important witness in . a lawsuit. One of the lawyers, after cross questioning him severely, said : ae “Your father has been talking to you and telling you — how to testify, hasn’t he ?” ae eo es ie gue the boy. eS “Now,” said the lawyer, ‘just tell us how r | “a told you to testify.” ; Tr ee aH “Well,” said the boy, modestly, ‘father told me that | the lawyers would try and tangle me in my testimony; _ but if I would just be careful and tell the truth, Icould tell the same thing every time.” é a -2 + _____ THREE KISSES.—There are three kisses in a world miscellaneous kisses which may be counted e- kiss the mother lightly lays upon her baby’s dewy the kiss the mother gives her boy as he goes forth the world, and the kiss we press upon the still, pal of the dead. All the rest are like the strawberries bottom of the basket—to be taken with suspicion. —re-~< AN ARABIC PROVERB.—Men are four. (1) He who knows not, and knows not he knows not. He is = shunhim. (2) He who knows not,-and knows he knows — not. Heis simple; teach him. (3) He who knows, and. knows not he knows. He is asleep;-wake him. (4) He sg knows, and knows he knows. He is wise yw —_—_——_>-_ 9 ~<_____+ Items of Interest, Se ae t. curly coiffures, and also bands of diamonds, chased gold, or a mixture of precious stones, Revers of embroidery, lace, or velvet are added to most of the late designs, and nearly all basques have pointed fronts and postilion backs. bape Black beaded grenadine continues in favor, and for very lly tashionsble, while lace may | be used abundansly in combination witiiit for garnitures. A stylish round hat is af ecru opeawos fancy straw, with a gathered facing and lining of crape of the same shade. 4 wide scarf of the crape is twisted around the crown, finished with a bunch of blue cor flowers. Yhe newest chemisettes are made wider than they were ear- | ly in the es and areso long that they almosi take the : lace of vests. f ‘5 : . A pretty tennis dress is made of pink and white striped flan- nel, the akin rt plain, with fishwife drapery, and a blouse waist, with pink silk sailor collar and cuffs. Among new woolen goods for fall there is a variety of Scotch cheviots in checks, stripes, bars, and plaids, as well as shaded cheyiots, a mixture of several colors in irregular dashes. eo, A novelty in bathing suits is the use of jersey wool web- bing for the entire suit, which is in one piece, with a full skirt of the material buttoned on around the waist. This suit usually has short sleeves, and is very pretty made of blue webbing, with a white vest set in the waist, and a high stand- ing white collar. | 3 Slippers embroidered with garnet beads are the latest nov- elty, and they look very dainty. Neat shoes of ruby, dark green, blue, brown, or black velvet, with paste buckles, are also worn, with silk hose Prarie in color. They have yelyet heels, and are cut very low on the instep, which is quite becoming. Any ordinary dress can be decorated with bretelles, dog- collar, cutis, and belt of velvet ribbon. If extra trouble is not an item, they can be outlined with jet, colored pearl, or rosary , and the ends of the tied belt tipped with tassels of the same. i “Wishes to Know,” Indian Orchard, Mass.—1st. Stripes are more fashionable than plaids, and will probably continue so for some time. 2d. Long draperies are in favor. 3d. A suit- able and pretty costume fora blonde to wear at a masque- rade ball is the design of Music. The short, white satin skirt is embroidered or painted with the musical notes in black, of some well-known air, and a similar garniture is placed across the front of the close-fitting white satin bodice, which is trimmed, besides, with a broad band of black A Hartford bank received, not long ago, on deposit, a check for $3 on a bank in Dakota. It was forwarded for col- lection, and came back protested, with $3.06 fees. It was afterward ascertained that the man who drew the cheek was also the notary public of i#ie Dakota bank on whiG™.t was drawn, and so pocketed $3.06 fees for pruésting his own three-dollar check! Some of our Eastern financiers could be taught tricks by the denizens of the Wild West. _ Some stones from the clouds, or the realms of space beyond them, were reported to have fallen near Greens- borough, Ala. A local editor, wishing to observe a repetition of the curious phenomenon, visited the place, but no stones fell while he was there. One of the heavenly stones, on ex- amination, proved to be a brickbat, which goes to prove that — the moon and stars are inhabited, and that the people live in brick houses. 5 A gray-haired stranger approached Edward Lacey, of Lewiston, Me., and said, “My name is John Lacey. I'm a stranger here, but I’ve got a brother living here whom I hayven’t seen in thirty years. His name is Edward Lacey. — Can you tell me where he lives?” Mr. Lacey said he’d show the stranger where Edward Lacey lived, and he led him to — his own house and then made himself known to his long-lost — brother. Stee The Egyptian lotus has been naturalized near Borden- - town, N. J., where was sown the seed some years ago. The lilies now cover half an acre of lake surface, with leaves two feet in diameter, above which the flower stalks rise fully six feet. The blooms themselves are six inches across, of a bright peachblow pink and deliciously fragrant. : Swarms of bees hee long inhabited a church at Corn- wall, Ill. They finally became so plentiful that they drove pastor and congregation out of the church. Some days ago | a party of men ripped open the side of the church and found that the bees had piled up honey in the wall to the height of velvet. A drapery of tulle, with gilt 7 characters of the bass and treble clefs, flats, sharps, and accidentals stuck on, is fastened at one side undera large ornament, cut out of pasteboard and covered with black velvet, to represent the character of the treble clef. A gilt triangle ornaments the blonde hair, and the necklace is silver embroidery of notes on" a white silk ribbon. White silk stockings and black satin slippers finish the costume, while a mandolin, tied with blue ribbons, is carried in the hand. ‘Allie W., Cornwall, Conn.—ist. Shirred corsages of thin wool dresses are often completed by a high fichu, terminat ing half way down the front, and fastened under a star- shaped bow. Sometimes a scarf is worn in place of a fichu, | edged with lace. One end is plaited and fastened at the throat, and is caught up lightly at the waist, giving a pretty and youthful finish tothe costume. 2d. Beaded grenadin is shown in eee Pon ae and is much in favor for short mantles. Imported manties are covered with steel, bronze, or wooden beads. 3d. The price of “Queenie Hetherton,” in book-form, is $1.50, on receipt of which we will mail it to you. “A Reader.”—To crochet a Tam O’Shanter cap, cast on six stitches, and crochet around these stitches a flat piece, widen- ing at intervals to insure this, and until this head piece is as large as you may desire it, when crochet one round without increasing. Crochet the succeeding rows, diminishing in the same proportion as you increased, and work the head band without either ae or decreasing, taking the stitches through both edges of the loop. Nine or ten rows will be sufficient for this band, and it should be crocheted tighter than the other part of the cap. a a i ete PHOTOGRAPHED BY LIGHTNING. Mrs. Fannie W. Paul, a resident of Plainfield, N. J., has in her possession a lacquered metal Japanese tray, on which is a profile likeness of her daughter, that she Says was put there by a streak or lightning. The tray has been examined by several electricians as present- ‘ing aremarkable phenomenon. Mrs. Paul says that during the prevalence of a terrible thunder-storm her daughter sat up later than the rest of the family to await the arrival of the servant-girl. She feared that the metal tray, which rested near an n window, would attract the lightning, and stepped to lift it toa more secluded spot. Asshe was-about to take it up she was startled by a wonderfully vivid flash of light- ning, and drew back hurriedly. The light seemed to have found a focus on the tray, and she was timid about approaching again, and threw arug overit. The next morning, when the tray was examined, it was found that her profile, in perfect outhne, had been burned into the metal.- >eo~< THE POPULATION OF THE WORLD. The population of the world is estimated at one thou- sand four hundred and fifty-five millions nine hundred and twenty-three thousand. Less than one-third of this population profess Christianity. One half of this third are Catholics. Among the languages of civilized nations English is the most widely spread, being the mother tongue of one hundred millions of people. The number 16 feet. The honey was confiscated. F Divers in thirty feet of water at Holyoke dam, near Hartford, communicate with the men at the pumps by means of telephones. The wire runs down and through the helmet to a small telephone, so that the diver can direct the work of the hoisting engines more directly than by the old system of — signals by jerking a life-line. “ , Some one has discovered that one side of the body tends to outwalk the other; with the eyes shut a person in- variably walks to the right. If this be true it might be a good thing for bank cashiers to always keep their eyes shut. But it is always well for the directors to keep their eyes open. _ S A wild cat attacked a party of ladies who, were pick- ing whortleberries near Fort Wayne, Ind., recently. The dear girls indulged in a few brain-racking shrieks and scared _ the animal so thoroughly that he turned tail and never stop- ped running until he was out of sight. Mr. Graves, the Chief of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington, was asked what design would be selected for the new government oleomargarine stamps. “A stuffed goat—a bogus ‘butter,’ as it were—would be about the right thing,” he answered. - S fa as Young De Jones was riding with his elder sisterat {- Newport, and thought he could take advantage igh “Have you any objections to my smoking, Mabel ?” he asked. — “No,” she replied. “If you desire to smoke, the coachman _ will help you to alight.” : Ro Deer are so numerous in the vicinity of Nicatous Lake, _ Me., that James West and wife, of Camp Nicatous, saw ~ twelve of them there in one afternoon. A gentleman from Lowell, M. J. Darling, saw eighteen in the same neighborhood in one day. é = : 3 Senator Gorman, of Maryland, always wears a nutmeg hung by a cord about his neck to ward off neuralgia. An old lady friend prescribed the amulet, and he wore it to oblige her, and found that he suffered less than before from neu- ralgia. : Se A sheep owner in Thomaston, Me., whose flock has suffered from dogs, has sent in a bill of damages which in- elude $50 for chasing dogs and $25 for “worriment.” The whole bill was over $400. | a Something more than a look of surprise passed over the face of Mr. Church, of Otoc County, Neb., when digging acellar under his house he unearthed eleven skeletonsof _ human beings. : Glass floors are coming into use in Paris, to save ex- pense for artificial light in illuminating the floors below. The screws which fasten the jewels in a watch are so fine that it takes 150,000 of them toweighapound. Next February the astrologers in China will choose a wife for the young emperor. iim; So ee : Six hundred American girls are studying music in: ms 4