“Hop Another's Sin: or, The Bride's Gonques

_ Dy Bertha M. clay, cal De read Only in this Paper, See Sth Page,

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Entered According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1886. bu Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress.' Washinaton. D. C -_—~Hnwerea at the Post Office New York. as Second Class Matter.
Office 31 Rose St M 0 2a 8 6 } ri ee Dollars Per Year, | Q
‘ r ree Dollars Per Year, 99
. Ol. 21. P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. New York, aX 4A, 18386, Two Copies Five Dollars. No. 29.
: THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE. ce
. BY JOHN DENNIS.
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He cannot walk, he cannot speak,
Nothing he knows of books and men,
He is the weakest of the weak,
And has not strength to hold a pen ;
He has no pocket, and no purse,
Nor ever yet has owned a penny,
But has more riches than his nurse,
Because he wants not any.

He rules his parents by a cry,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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: And holds them capfive by a smile,
. A despot, strong through infancy,
d A king, from lack of guile.
is He lies upon his back and crows,
is Or looks with grave eyes on his mother.
)- What can he mean? But I suppose
“ They understand each other.
)
Indoors or out, early or late,
S There is no limit to his sway,
nD For, wrapt in baby robes of state, |
He guverns night and day. j
a Kisses he takes as rightful due,
And, Turk-like, has his slaves to dress him.
His subjects bend before him, too.
3 I’m one of them. God bless him!
n
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THE FIRST THAT RAISES A H
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LENA DUDLEY’S PERIL.
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A STORY OF THE GREAT STRIKE.
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7 By CLINT. CARPENTER. .
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,a ® For Liyine WAGES” was commenced last. week. }
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ry CHAPTER IV.
ly Ea AT CLITHEROE
es nn a <a
ly; A finer estate than Clitheroe you might seek without
st finding, for a day's journey.
a It stood on a gentle eminence overlooking a half-
n- dozen busy New England villages. Its grounds were
extensive and well-kept, and beautiful shade trees,
planted by hands long since turned to dust, cast their |
shadows over the emerald turf, and made music when
the winds swept through their branches.
2d The house was a large, rambling old structure, which
e€ had been built at a half-dozen different times,by as many |
|
‘S different proprietors, and the west wing, now closed |
at and given up to the spiders and the mice, was older |
k- | than the Revolution.
e- | Before the broad front door there was a stately portico, % a.
; } é
n- | and when the visitor was admitted into the great hall, : B SSS
i Y
id | he faced a handsome flight of stairs, with mahogany | ‘ ESS
ae : panisters, dark with age, and at their foot an old) § = \e ES
A: | lock, in an ebony case, slowly and deliberately ticked RE oe
i j " > i > y * * 7 ~ wae. ‘ + r r ‘ \Eyar +¥> ’ by]
¥ | away as.ithad been ticking for more than @ century, » | “THE LADY IS RIGHT, AND I WILL PROTECT AND DEFEND HER TILL THE LAST DROP OF BLOOD IN MY BODY HAS BEEN SPILLED!
Leading off from this hall were drawing-rooms of | Rhee iets is Nn ee ee i ee A er A ca a ll ll ee
| stately magnificence, filed with everything which }——————— ; a pee tes ee eer i in hi ind. It
| . | * = r ag > rary 9” ; apy in rou , > pggea > y
wealth could purchase and taste select; there were | and leave a house like Clitheroe for an uncertainty, is; ‘I know ofnone. But T tell you truly, Augusta, that richly deserves the gallows. W ho js he, by the ate RO a oe on aie ee Ae ootny nol Rael they
pictures, and statuary, and bronzes, and carpets into | no reason why you should nurse these nervous terrors. | in the night when the whole house was asleep, I have “His name is Jack Belford. He is somebody 2 vpn a closed--and there would be a very small chance of
which the foot sank and made no sound, there were | Why, if the carpenter who built your new house should , heard doors open and shut in that west wing, and the knew in the West. And—and he—he says he is in love Se anoles essing’ that way “When ‘the mills Were in
| rare flowers in costly vases, and tropical birds with | fall from aninsecure staging and break his neck, you ; sounds of somebody moaning and sobbing— with me. ‘ boanié t oisarahinnt Nis bridge was OF eis thoroughfare, but in
| . plumage like molten Sunbeams—there was everything | would see his ghost when you sat alone, and noteeven | “Eleanor, you positively need some medicine for your ‘Well, commend his taste. But it seems*you ao not ore se eee Ve Wb as deserted as an African jungle. It
| to fascinate the eye and please the senses. ithe smell uf damp plastering and new paint could ex- | nerves! I shall speak to your brother about you. You reciprocate ? : : a it ‘ie wo id i in AHbah t6 wait Peart antil inna one passed
Clitheroe was the home of Bert Trowbridge. lorcise the phantom. Mr. Trowbridge should not leave | alarm me.” “1? T hate him! That is how T reciproca oe : oe aver Tie iiaht, walt till his hands dropped away from
Iie had purchased it four or five years agop when, | youso much alone. You should have friendsof your)  “‘No, no! don’t scy anything, to. Albert. He would be | has red hair, and only think—his eyes are positively | vw, ody before a fellow being would come to his rescue
| through the death of the last of the family in which it | own age.” very angry. Hethinks lam 4 nervous, cowardly little | green! ry, Cl tra had! There was but one way Sha that was desperate and
| had remained for so many years, it fell into tue market, “| wish Lcould! I wish Albert would open the house | thing, and perhapsI am. And I wish I were back with | “Well, my dear, according to history. | ope i ov doubtful. A slender brace of iron connected with the
| and its original sumptuous furnishing had been supple- | to visitors, and have some one staying here all the time, | dear Miss Malcolm.” : , green eyes, and she was noted for her marvelous “fine. and was fastened’ into the planks atthe outside
mented by everything else that a large income could | as other country gentlemen do. 1 am sure he can afford; .The firein the grate had burned low; Eleanor rang beauty. , : sate t asin ee of the bridge. To feel his way along that brace
supply, until now there was not in all Marlboro any- | it. And the servants, and horses, are actually rusting ! for more coals. The wind had risen, and swayed the “And she was a dreadful Ww icked eae age : a jacing his feet acainst the pier throw himself up-
thing which would compare with Clitheroe. | out for want of employment! I hope, dearest Augusta, | tall poplars outside the windows. and soughed down the green eyes are just horrid. A nd when Belforc a S os Wa 9 faith P oaunt fies Sn land hin On the top of tite
In the blue drawing-room sat two ladies, both young | that when you are mistress here, you will make him see | chimneys in the homeless, desolate way we all know so me I feel asif I were being fascinated by a snake—just 5 maa cas . fant rodutring’ TitNURt StroReeY ahd
and fair, but of very different types of loveliness. | things in a different light.” | well. Hleanor drew nearer to her friend. as we read of birds being fasc inated. Hered erclnande | may Ket Albert. Trowbridge had not roughed it for
at Eleanor Trowbridge, the sister of Albert, was petite, A Slight touch of color swept up to Augusta Vanvelt’s “It is strange Albert does does not come. It has just “Hark !” said Augusta. Is not that a horse crossing methine as his strong and well-built frame and his
the fair, golden-liaired, blue-eyed, with scarlet lips, and a | smooth cheek, and then a look of doubt cameinto her struck nine—and J hear rain falling on the gravel out- the bridge. ; : xa sil ortead ee ae “ onaurinoe could tHaey
he tinge of softest rose-color in her cheeks. She was dressed | dark eyes. side. Ever since this terrible trouble with the mill Both women started to their feet and ene ae 8 it is hold it ‘Was déath—he knew that; but he
the in palest blue—her color always—and her bright hair “My dear, you speak atrandom. It is by no means hands, I dread for Albert to go but at night. These poor they heard distinctly the rapid clatter ot hoofs over ® aiH nd Seat a a aki one Benge “<4 aa
- fell in ripples and loose curls below her waist. settled that I am to be the mistress of Clitheroe.” men are desperate, I am told! And itis hard for them bridge which spanned the river at the southe rn ve oe Sé " a 7 aftile him. He drew a deep breath and made
i * Her companion, Augusta Vanyelt, was tall and state- “Oh! but you must be! I am sure Albert expects it, to starve! Why, Anna Price, who sews for me, Says Clitheroe, and rising high abov e the sound Oa y had 7 ee one The distance was ted than he thought,
th, ly. Her eyes were black, and full of spirit; .her hair, | and I shall be so happy. If you were here all the time, that many of them do not have meat, or sugar, or butter tened for, the angry hoots and yells of a clamorous anc oe instead of jandine on the bridge as He had hoped,
ag. wound round her finely shaped head in a classic coil, I should not feel so afraid when I go out into that great in the house for months! Isn't it awful?” — excited multitude. 48 rere hae sgacseard aniter ani, ee the ‘pinnik ,
was dark as midnight, and her pure, clear complexion hall, so full of shadows, and climb that. dismal stair “From your point of view, yes. But I fancy they do Prey ede For “an instant he hung thus suspended in the air
a showed not a vestige of color, save where the perfect | case——” not find it so hard to live in that way as you would. Still, CHAPTER V. forty feet above the black boiling torrent; and then
in. curve of her lips broke into vivid crimson. “Pismal! Why, Eleanor, that staircase is the wonder every man or woman who works should be paid a fail FOR LIFE O& DEATH. SRA aks a NLT jerthiar his fingers closed around
ny She was a woman whose presence would have adorned | of Marlboro, and the pride of Clitheroe! It is ancient price forit. But the market is dull, and orders, perhaps, | a Dee eth fie : Lonel Gantt 46 ani origi bar of iron which supported the railing.
nd athrone, and as she sat there in the soft haze of the | mahogony, every block of which is worth almost its do not come in rapidly.” When Albert Trowbr idge and Dan Selby struc ; at Aye ah ane eeare he trtatie Himabit into safety: And
he firelight as it fell over her from the glowing grate, she | weight in gold, and it was carved in Rome.” “Alpert. has orders for six months ahead! I heard.| water their hola relaxed, and caught in the eee oe Care on the wet planks completely exhausted
a was like one of the priceless pictures of fair women “Jt always gives me the horrors to look at all those ' him tell Mr. Riel so last night. But he 2will not give in | current, both men were borne rapidly on tow au dt ae \ ers Nght ghend tious: who help themselves a he aot
he which graced the walls, only a thousand times more | hideous twists in the banisters, though. And I never tothe hands! He says that if he yields once, he may | falls, above the dam which held back the water which | ein : won a en De at ect tat th that He nad eadaed
beautiful, because a warm, throbbing sense of life sur- | told you—I never told any one put old Lucy—I have , yield again and again, and that there is no security in | furnished the power for the mills. ; Beh id fr Pe jJanger, and owed his satety to no one but him-
rounded her like an atmosphere. | heard strange sounds in that west wing.” making concessions of this kind. I am sure donot); Stunned, halt suffocated, but dimly realizing the new on danger, ¢ S satet) 2 3
$e A coal fell through the polished bars of the grate, and| ‘Nonsense! Of course it waS the mice. Probably | profess to know anything about it; but when @ rode | peril which threatened him, rrowbr idge a Seen N/a | SF A vision of Selby’s white, scowling face swept through
to dropped with a clang on the marble hearth beneath. everything is eaten up with them. You should persuade | down Lawrence street last night, where the mill tene-.| ward beneath the foot-briage which spanned the wee oe | nineties Timhiinaenay arctica et Ug
m- Eleanor started, and looked around her nervously. Mr. ‘Trowbridge to throw it open, and let in the air, and | ments are, it brought tears to my eyes to see how sick, | into the narrow sluice-way leading to the gi eal W xe € 8, 1 ate eae co oe is help An Bod Haniel! ates
ley “What is it 2” asked Augusta, touching the fluttering | sunlight. What possesses him to keep it closed? Has | and wretched, and hungry, some of the poor children | and through the waste-gate, when suddenly aw ake ning i et aS a yn cursing God all their lives, and as
he hand of her companion with a Caressing motion. ‘Did | it always been kept so ?” on. the streets looked! And one man, white and lean, | toasense of the danger ahead if he should be hurle d I ump it het ah Y or aa} ‘teht 5 ACE they call on. Him to
e so slight a thing startie you !?” | “Ever since I came here, two years ago. You know | came toward the carriage and Spoke.to me and said: down the falls, he rallied his strength by a desperate poets ooo ue vet en ea oo ar ae ant it pat
«Tt is foolish, | know, dear,” returned Eleanor; ‘‘but | that I did not come when Albert did. I was at a South-| ‘For the love of Heaven, miss, give me somet hing to | effort, and, seizing a projecting timber of the gate, | seat Vadiave fend an Seba hen of teGeatits. unt :
to lately I am as nervous as any old woman. Itis this great | ern boarding school, with Miss Malcolm. She was such | buy my poor wife bread! She is dying, Mary is, and | swung himself up on the frame Ww ne - me | Satie ‘une ein nee “a oe x crash hee fon wee
He nouse, which has lived through so many generations, | a friend to me, though old enough to be my mother, and | nothing in the house to help the pain of starvation away As he clung there, w aiting for ore ath, Something | a a ante the fair Aucusta, ” P PoREReEIat Resaih
and been the scene of so many tragedies, I do believe. |1 was under her care before papa died. She was the} from her! I could stand it for myself, miss, and I’m | swept past him like lightning—he heard a frenzle vaathy aes He rose stretched his cramped and stiffened limbs
e I don’t like an old house; I shouid like to.live in a brand- | principal of the school, you know. Albert was, I fancy, | just up trom a nasty fever that canre from the bad! “For Heaven's sake help me!”—and knew that Selby ane Wane THe Hest of his way to where his horse had
ae new house, where nobody had ever died, and I shouid | rather wild once. He is not my own brother. Hehadthe | drainage, but it’s hard to see Mary—Mary as I married | was going on to his doom. J ba, 8 1. It | peen Hats Prince oreeted him with a loud and impa-
ore not think when I was going up the stairs that I heard | same father, but his mother was a Castilian lady, and| when she was young and pretty as yourself, and took; He might have reached down a helping han¢ Pe tie t whinny, for whatever this man’s faults and sins to-
the footsteps of dead and gone inhabitants behind me. | died when he was born. My mother was a gentle girl, | from a good home——’ Here the poor fellow broke | would have lessened his chances of Saving Peer ei nis kind he whe wIWwAVS good to his horses. He
And, somehow, when 1 think of those who have lived | of rather inferior station—the daugliter of papa’s land-; down and cried bitterly. 1 gave him five dollars, and | cause it would have drawn so much from his strength ; at his Hale Erin Pe nai wii Pitiee aie ARE Spoke to
led here, and been carried out from these doors, still and | lady, but she was an angel of goodness, and I think | told him to come to me at Clitheroe when that was gone. | but he did not do it. PN ire he eae hi ie any ssing vOICe Ce 7 F :
its white, in their coffins, I feel as if they were angry with | that papa loved her best. 1 was ten years old when she | And we drove on. Albert would be disgusted with me A look of triumph brightened his dark face. The man eat t t + on a jong, cold waiting, my good Prince, but
wd me for being here, enjoying all that they toiled and | died. And then papa placed me with dear Miss Mal-|if he knew of it,;but he isn’t going to knowit. My | who had gone to destruction had attempted his life that 4 ee vn t OEE ante ee RCO OOMMIREE
bei planned for and then were obliged to leave.” colm, and I hardly saw Albert until the day of papa’s | money is my own ; it comes from the settlement of my | night—he would always have been an enemy. It Ww as a ve a ite ae nanny oer eo ace feta
te “My dear Eleanor, what a wretchedly morbid idea! | funeral. He was left my guardian, Albert was, and he | mother, and I can do what I like with it! | better to let him die. It would be one the less trouble- a OF z enemy is out of my track, and he was a
uel Why. what would you care after you were dead who | left me with Miss Malcom until two years ago. when he Miss Vanvelt rose, and, going to the window, put aside | some character in Marlboro. a i or ae aie ler too I wish—yes, I wish 1 could dispose of
livea in the house that was yours ?” brought me here, to preside over Clitheroe. Preside, | the heavy curtain. A Watery moon showed pallid He clung there for the space of five minutes before h¢ ring ois a as easily for if I mistake not, he will give
ia f “Oh, of course, J shouldn’t care. But these Howards, |indeed! I might manage a five-roomed cottage, and | througha break in the sky; afew scattered drops of | trusted his strength far enough to meme ri glee ig Poem a fo aH i than Senrhe nd Fie oh thé oil
—? who lived so many years at Clitheroe, who set out these | one servant girl, but here I am entirely beside myself. | rain beat against the glass. is | self-rescue. Then, cautiously and feartully, oe svar t hi is, but in the suecess of my affair with Lena
per beautiful trees, and planted the liflac hedges, and| But I don’t tell Albert so. He has his gloomy moods, “It is strange what keeps Mr. Trowbridge,” she said, | along the slippery timber, over whic h the water Swi pt ome ind but > success :
of trained the honeysuckles over the porches, and listened | and he does not like to be bothered with my complaints. | thoughtfully. “He took. Prince, too, and he is always | ceaselessly, and reached the slender pier of the oo “ sey Kad the horse's bridle; examined the pirths
at tothe tinkling of these fountains, and drove the horses | He says that there is not another girl in the country | particular about keeping that horse out in storms, I | bridge, which was fastened toa pile driven into the te as aon he athe ae tie cuduie datap
Whose names are painted above the stall doors in these | who would not be wild at the chance of peing mistress | hope nothing has happened to him.” river's bottom. He looked upW ard at the bridge, ee aah tl ¥ E ict t dew, and vaulted lightly into his seat
great stables, yet were a different race of beings from me. | in such a beautiful house as this.” “Of course nothing has happened. Mr. Trowbridge is | safety lay, and downward at the frowning waters oa Lp 1€ , Sori a Bern of clattarl cee n this ae
ici- They were proud and aristocratic, and before manufac- “No doubt heis right. But 1 am interested in this | well able to defend himself against enemies, if he has | neath him, and considered it worth while to try the At F rine farouahy ca Gata ar aie village ahd
ers turing came to Marlboro they were lords of the country, | west wing. Have you never visited it ?” any and I suppose he has.” ( | chance of scaling the pier. If he failed when part W By ge = ac ui 7 ie hs ine ee deuiaaiy enaittenl re
and carried things with a high hand. And the last “No, indeed! {should die of nervousness.” “There is a man in the habit of coming here whom 1 up, it would be certain death; but in desperate str alts hrough = : ie sioraite dailcen Gebronuriliie elinnarhs
en- Howard was found one night in one of the chambers of «Js there no way of getting to it?” detest, and I cannot rid myself of the idea that he is my | men are desperate to act, and Albert T row bridge was either a Lee i - I Pek A Feit ad yest oe with
ead that terrible west wing, where Albert never allows me “Phe door which once-led out of the main hall is | brother's enemy, though he calls himself Th friend. a oor and more than once he had stood face to face ker Lealanniag, gave His , i€ » ¢
to go—found”—her voice sank to a whisper, and she | walled up.” They always shut themselvesin the green drawing- |W th death. j a ot ly. ‘ : at oh wart aier
th- | ; glanced around her furtively, as though expecting the Dainese. when ?” room after dinner and talk till dark. And after he has Inch by inch he drew himself up—the cor ds in his | : [Tam 7 oe I ST ia he le ee eae
aan ghost of > last unt ate wart rerhes * ot. know. Ever since I have been here, per-| been here, Albert is always-different, and never tells wrists strained almost to bursting, his breath coming in | that mill girl. She a, J ried Oud ai tccoes
; ghostof the last unfortunate Howard might overhear I do not Ever € » FE , aC 0 , a ; yee aa | waar: and Tcould not marry her. It would be madness
uO her—-“he was found with his throat cut from ear to ear ; | haps a great deal longer. The servants do not know.” | me when he comes home how pretty I am, or how much labored gasps. every nerve taxed to its utmost. © oan es wren if—even if—well, never mind the #’s. Augusta
re- and the blood stains the floor of that room to this day— “But surely Mr. Trowbridge knows ?” | he likes the blues and pinks I wear, or anything else that a ae ot te 4 _ aS tie ont wha ana Gone a Vanvelt is worth risking something for. She has beauty
so old Lucy says.”’ “Perhaps so. But he does not mention it. He has for- | is nice.” regain what he Had lost; ? Ss 44 Se Fae aay iy Le aa CTY aA ieciin CRY f d money I
3 “AS it naturally would,” returned Augusta, calmly. | bidden the servants to talk of it. Once Lasked him why Augusta laughed. | the work, and he did regain it. At length the top of the | pach Seago pg Buin Gar aver bibs praells euns
ths ‘‘My dear Eleanor, you should not give way to such fan- | it was closed, and he said the floors were rather inse- “And that is acrying sin my dear. The man ought pier was reached—the bridge was just above him, Out it van feebtit had ‘but rast pecun to get something to-
and cies. Because a Howard, disappointed in some ambi-|cure, and the whole thing liable to tumble in-at any | to be ashamed of himself that ae aia aii ‘nee et ses It ae a ieeaiihn er gether wher death stepped in and upset all his plans.
n't tious schemes, with a liver disordered, and an impaired | time.” happiness in telling you how charming youare. And raise himse! out from under it ? > ee aren tee oe ! i Daca! ti: > Eat a
é circulation, vas coward enough to take his owen life, «But is there no way of gaining access to it ?” the friend who produces this effect on Mr. Trowbridge: With the tenacity of despair he clung to the coldand Yes, Miss Vanvelt is worth running risks for. But she
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would be awful if she found out just how things were
when it was too late. Its a dangerous game, but I
have played more exciting ones. And I will not give up
Lena Dudley.. She sneered at me a few days ago, when
I told her how lovely she was, and offered her a cluster
of hot-house flowers to enhance her beauty. She will
sneer to another tune when I have her in my power, as
I will have her yet. All women are fools. And she, 1
venture to say, would prefer a life of grubbing in a cot-
ton mill with a man of her own kind, surrounded by the
atmosphere which good, moral people call virtue, to
such a life as I could offer her abroad, where nobody
makes impertinent inquiries when they are well paid to
hold their curiosity in check, and where, no matter how
much a woman may have strayed off the track, she has
the satisfaction of knowing that the nobility, if not roy-
alty itself, has strayed still further. And Lena Dudley
takes my fancy. I will act on Belford’s suggestion.
Ha! what was that ?”

A wild yell, as of many human voices, excited, de-
flant, and angry, rang out on the air, coming up from
the end of the street down which he was riding where it
was crossed by the turnpike which led to the railway
station.

Trowbridge drew rein and listened.

“Down With them! Drive them into the river! They
shall never take our children’s bread out of their mouths!
At them with a will, boys!”

Cries like these, mingled with fierce oaths, reached
the ears of the mill owner. He was at no loss to
account for the excitement. He knew just what it
meant. Be

Failing to bring the strikers to terms, he and some of
the other manufacturers had combined together and ad-
vertised for workmen, and a large force was expected
from Ridgeway, where, two months before, the burning
of a large manufactory had left many families without
work and without means. And these people, pushed to
the verge of starvation, were willing to work for any
price which would put bread into their mouths. They
were non-unionists, and as such peculiarly obnoxious to
the workmen of Marlboro, who had vowed repeatedly
that if they came to work in the mills there they would
be better pleased to get away than they were to come.
Trowbridge had ordered that a force of police should be
in readiness to protect them, and he was soon satisfied
that they were doing their best, as rushing down. the
street came forty or fifty wretchedly clad men and wo-
men, each one carrying squalid bundles, each one with
looks of terror on his face, and close behind them, hold-
ing, as best they could, the hooting mob at bay, with
drawn revolvers, and threats uttered in the name and
mera of the law, came a squad of fifteen or twenty

licemen, headed by a resolute giant of a fellow well

nown to all the ill-doers cf Marlboro—Tom Sharkey.

Behind the police, crushing each other down, pushing
and surging hither and thither like the waves of a hur-
ricane-tossed sea, came half the working men, and some
of the women of Marlboro.

«Down with the scabs! Destruction tothem! Drive
them out of town! We will see whorules this place.
Capital shall not grind us into our graves. Push for-
ward, boys. Don’t mind the cops. They talk big, but
they don’t mean it. No men from Ridgeway or any
other measly town shall run the mills of Marlboro!”.

And with a wild hurrah they rushed forward, over-
throwing the police, breaking the windows of the build-
ings they passed, and crowding the feebler ones in the
tide to the earth. :

The sound of a pistol shot rang out clear over all the
hubbub, and one of the leaders of the mob fell, covered
with blood.

For an instant the crowd fell back, paralyzed, and
seizing on this moment of comparative calmness, Vance
Harley sprang upon the roof of an impeded omnibus
and addressed the crowd. ;

His young face was flushed, his voice, full and
sonorous, held the fickle crowd silent.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, ‘‘I beg of you to listen
tome. Iam oneof you. [amalaboringman. I have
your interests near my heart. Heaven knows I would
Willingly give my life to right your wrongs. For wrongs
you have, and so have I. ButI have no sympathy with
mob law. No honest man has, who has the good of the
many to consider. You have aright to demand living
wages for your labor. You have a right todictate terms
to your employer as much as he has to dictate terms to

. These poor people who come here are workmen,
e yourselves, They need money to procure food for
themselves and families. When they came here they
knew not that there was any trouble; to drive them
hence by violence would put you in the hands of thejlaw.”,

“We will have no scabs in Marlboro,” yelled a bold
voiced woman in the crowd, brandishing aloft a dingy
banner, on which was inscribed ‘‘No Scabs in Marlboro!”
in letters six inches long.

“But we'll not countenance unlawful deeds. We
will show the community that we merely demand our
rights as workmen. Let us win for the organization to
whith we belong the a of law abiding citizens. lL
entreat you all to stop this indecent excitement and go
home, and leave to the committee of arbitration, which
we have selected, the management of these most un-
happy differences.”

His words were beginning to tell on the crowd, but
just as the reaction was setting in, Jim Leary, the man
who had been shot, and who had been lying quietly on
the ground, leaped frantically to his feet, the blood
spurting from a ghastly wound in his forehead, and,
stretching out his blood dabbled right hand, he cried out:

“) am murdered! Brothers, my curse be upon ye if
ye avenge not my death! Heaven! Iam dying.”

Mi rz, a

   

farses loa}rad. eto Te es
Bante backward into the arms on @ woman who had

 
 
     

pressed up behind him.
- “Ah, Jamie!” cried the poor wife, turned for a moment

into a human creature of prey, “and its dead ye are, |.

and the four children left behind ye, and one a babe,
and may Heaven’s curse light on the man that stands
by and sees no blood spilt to pay for your own!”

And with acry of despair the poor wife sank on the
dead body of her husband, and the mob, driven -
frenzy by the woman’s wailing, rushed forward ir.
the wretched Ridgeway operatives, ; A

Tn vain the police sought to stay them, in vain Vance
Harley shouted and besought them to pause, and con-
sider what they were doing. They gathered clubs from
the trees, they picked up paving stones as they went, and
hurled them into the taces of whatever or whoever op-
posed them.

Fascinated by the sight, and wholly unmindful of the
risk he was running, Albert Trowbridge, erect upon his
horse, sat regarding the strange scene. His hat was
gone, his hair and clothes were dripping with wet,
there was a bleeding contusion on his forehead where it
had come in violent contact with someé of the timbers of
the bridge; but his presence was commanding, and the
mob soon spied him. A hundred voices rose in a shout
of wicked triumph.

“There he is!’ There is the worst man in Marlboro!
He would starve us and freeze us to put money into his
pocket. He eats out of dishés of gold and silver every
day. He drinks wines. He wears diamonds. Curse him!
Tear him off his horse! He has no right to lord it over
us. His blood is no better than ours. His father drove
a butcher’s cart. Swing him up to the nearest tree !”

Turned aside from their original purpose of persecut-
ing the Ridgeway operatives, the mob, eager to seize on
anything which was opposed to their reckless course,
rushed up the narrow street toward the little eminence
where Trowbridge had halted.

The police rallied and closed around the horseman,
for they had recognized him, and knew that in a matter
of this kind their reward would be generous. But the

 

impetuous crowd beat against them and forced them
slowly backward. Sticks and stones fell all around like
hail, maiming friend and foe alike. Women fought like
tigers ;, boys and young men Struck out right and left,
and Pandemonium seemed let loose.

“Fire on the beggarly wretches !” yelled Trowbridge
to the police. ‘‘Why don’t you shoot ’em down like
dogs ?” ;

“We hardly like to do that unless we’s drove to it,”
said one of the policemen, fingering his revolver:

Quick ag thought Trowbridge snatched the weapon
from the man’s hand, cocked it, rose in his stirrups, and
every feature of his grim face set as if carved out of iron,
he shouted:

“Out of the way there, you black rascals! or your
blood be on yourown heads! The first that litts a hand
to stop me is a dead man !”

He touched his horse with the spur, and Prince, to
whom this indignity had never before been. offered,
sprang forward with a wild snort, his iron hoofs crash-
ing through the skull of a daring fellow who attempted
to seize his bridle, and the mob fell back before him, or
went down in his track if they were not fortunate
enougli to get out of the way.

Trowbridge gave no heed to the safety of any human
thing. <A. pale-faced, gaunt woman, who had taken no
part in the demonstration, stood with her babe in a
little group of workmen; they impeded Trowbridge’s
way. Another dig of the merciless rowel into the
flanks of his horse, and Prince dashed down the woman
and the babe, and a shower of stones followed after
Trowbridge. He turned round in his saddle, took de-
liberate aim, and the foremost rioter's right arm drop-
ped helpless at his side.

A wild shout of rage rose on the air, and Albert
Trowbridge well knew what would be his fate should he
fall into the hands of the mob.

“It is for lite, Prince!” he said to his horse, and the
ee animal seemed to understand that it was, indeed,
or life.

With the smoke pouring from his fiery nostrils, every
nerve and muscle taut and hard as steel, he plunged on-
ward, the yells of the angry crowd behind him spurring
him on. Trowbridge passed the bridge which spanned
the river bounding Clitheroe, climbed half the distance
between the bridge and the house, and beneath the
Shadow of a clump of oaks he drew rein.

A sardonic smile of triumph was on his face, as he
glanced back and heard the cries of the: men who
sought his life.

He dismounted, patted his horse on the neck, and
spoke to him in a caressing tone of voice.

“You have done well, my good Prince.
stable now.
you.”

He made his way rapidly through the shadows of lilacs
and syringas toward the house, but he did not seek en-
trance at the great door, where Eleanor, tremblingly
clinging to Augusta Vanvelt, was awaiting him.

No servant admitted the master of Clitheroe to his
house that night, and the wondering hostlers marveled’
at the sweaty condition of Prince, as with drooping head
i a his way to the stable-yard and whinnied to be
et in.

The cries of the rioters grew nearer, and Eleanor Trow-
bridge shrank still closer to her friend for protection.

Go to your
At present I have no further neéd of

 

“What can it mean, Augusta? Where is Albert? It

<4 THE NEW Y

| surely was Prince’s tramp we heard. No other horse

tor miles around can travel like that.”

“Do not be alarmed, Eleanor. Mr. Trowbridge can
take care of himself, I dare say.” But in spite of her as-
sumed coolness she felt far from at ease.

“Hark! they are crossing the bridge!” cried Eleanor;
“T hear their tramping on the planks! What can it
mean? Why are they coming here? Oh, I am so fright-
ened! I have read of such dreadful things being done
by poor men who wanted what they called their rights.
Oh, Augusta, why couldn’t everybody have been born
with enough money to make them comfortable? It
wouldn’t have hurt anybody, and it would have been so
much nicer, and would have saved so much bother.” .

“Tt would have been more convenient,” said Miss Van-
velt; ‘‘but the mysteries of creation are beyond all spec-
ulation.”

“It must be that there has been another riot. Strange
that men will act so! Does it put- any bread into the
mouths of the laboring classes to burn down the mills
where they work ?”

«The people are half-mad. They should submit their
cases to the proper arbitration. They ought to be paid
fair wages; but there is no excuse for them when they
break the laws to obtain their rights, any more than
there would be for any other law-breaking criminal.”

A groom from the stables approached the two girls.

«Master's horse have come home in an awful sweat,”
said the man, ‘‘and master not in the saddle !”

“Oh, Heaven! I knew something dreadful had -hap-
pened !” cried Eleanor, clasping her hands.

Augusta drew her dark brows together, and remained
lost in thought. :

The cries of the approaceing crowd came up from the
lower end of the avenue. Already their dark forms
could be distinguished moving rapidly over the gravel
of the drive-way.

Miss Vanvelt straightened herself, and turned toward
them fearlessly.

“If they are seeking Mr. Trowbridge, as I think they
are, that fact is sufficient evidence that they have not
harmed him, because they have not found him. Take
care of the horse, Peter; and you, Eleanor, go into the
house; you will get your death in this damp night air.
I will speak to these noisy people who are paying us the
honor of such an untimely visit.”

“My dearest Augusta, they will kill you! Oh, please,
dear, tell them I will give them all my money and jew-
els if they will fo away. Don’t say anything to make
them angry. They shall have all I have, if I am obliged
to go out sewing, or governessing, for my board. Only
tell them to go away !”

Augusta led her into the drawing-room, and came out,
closing the door behind her.

She stepped out on the broad porch, and stood there,
tali and queenly, her garnet silk dress falling in glim-
mering sheen around her, her dark eyes oe and fear-
less—the whole picture lighted up by the brilliant gas-
lamps which burned on a dozen marble pillars.

The reckless crowd filled the space in front of the
porch. They trampled over the flower-beds, and trod
choice exotics into the éarth, and the odors of the
crushed mignonetté, and the wasted and despoiled heli-
otrope, came up in rich profusion on the damp air.

The eager faces of half a hundred men, their features
distorted by rage, and begrimed with dirt and blood,
looked up at that one fair woman standing alone on the
piazza of the great house.

A degraded woman in the crowd flung out some base
insinuation directed at Miss Vanvelt, but it fell unheeded.
The woman they saw was as far above anything of the
kind as the marble figure of Truth which st on the
pedestal just behind her. .

A man in workman’s clothes stepped out from the
crowd and doffed his hat. Miss Vanvelt’s attitude com-
manded his respect in spite of his hatred of the higher
clases. : 5

He was a brawny fellow of over six feet, a man who
had worked hard eleven hours out of the twenty-four,
for wages which would hardly give bread to his wife and
children, and it was no wonder that his brow was fierce,
and that his lips were set with iron determination. E

“We have come here after Albert Trowbridge, ma’am,
and as sure as there is a heaven above us, we will have
him, too! We don’t want to bully women, but him we
will have.”

‘He is not here,” returned Miss Vanvelt, calmly. ‘He
has not been here since long before sundown.”

“Is that the truth?” demanded half a dozen eager
voices. f

“7 have told you all that I know,” she replied, ‘except
that his horse came home a little while ago without a
rider !” * ; ;

“He must have been thrown then !” cried one of the mob.
“We heard them cross yon bridge. Didn’t we, boys?”

“Ay, that we did!” returned dozen men together. -

«Then he must be in the grounds. A light there, boy”
—to Peter, who had crept up with his stable lantern, and
was gazing with open-mouthed wonder on the scene.
“We'll ransack every nook and corner, and if we
do not find him, then to the house! For have him we
will.”

They seized the lantern, and by its light searched every
part of the spacious grounds, followed by the hooting
and excited crowd, which had by this time yelled them-
selves ace Ot e hunt mM 0

did
See

    
 

   

a. j
eee him! We
CTOWC. 82/05 “ee ”
hat has he don

“He shot Jim Leary, and he’s trampled down half a
dozen more, one of them a woman.”

_ “Why did he doit? What did you do to him that in-
dueeG yo thus act toward you? Was his action un-
provok

ee ee the crowd was silent, then a brother of

‘the man whose arm had been broken by Trowbridge’s
ae Sprang out and dashed up the broad steps of the
aZZa. .
“Come on, boys!” he yelled, ‘‘he is inside. He must
be. The woman.is.a glib one with her tongue, but
such talk don’t Sov down here. Stand aside, girl, I am
goingin.” . ;

“You are not going in,” she said, looking him steadily
in the eye. ‘You have no authority.”

“How will you prevent me ?” he demanded, threaten-
ingly. «Come on, boys. Don’t let it be said we was
bluffed off by a woman.”

Not a man of them moved. All the more sensible of
them knew that Miss Vanvelt had spoken with reason,
and besides they did not like to assault a woman.

The man who had spoken advanced toward her, and
ar have seized her by the arm, but she waved him

ack,

“Don’t you Jay a finger on me!” she said, with dilat-
ing eyes. ‘Go back to your home, and go about this
work in a proper way, and-——”

He rushed toward her, urged on by the derisive laugh-
ter of his comrades, and such cries as:

“Bill's afraid of a woman !”

‘Stop where you are!” cried a deep voice in the crowd.
‘Bill Summers, you ‘are a coward, and a rascal! Go
back and let the lady alone!”

‘Who in thunder are you ?” asking Bill, gazing around
him in hesitating doubt.

For answer Vance Harley stepped forth, and placed
himself by Miss Vanvelt’s side.

His face was pale and resolute, and the crowd saw the |
glitter of a revolver in his hand.

‘Let no man who values his life attempt to enter this
house!” he said, in tones of determination. “I am a
striker. I am a member of the Knights of Labor, but I
amagentleman. I owe allegiance to the laws of the
land I live in. Noman shall violate them with my per-
mission. We have noright to enter this house, or any
man’s house, without authority. The lady is right, and
I will protect and defend her till the last drop of blood in
my body has been spilled.”

There was a wild ‘‘Hurrah for Harley!” from a part of
the crowd, mingled with hisses from others, but these
demonstrations were hushed, for, riding up the avenue,
over a hundred strong, came the mounted militia which
were quartered at the fort just outside of Marlboro, and
had been called out by the proper authorities to protect
the property of the town.

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)

   
 
 

  
    

>eo~<

A CHEERFUL GAME OF POKER.

 

RK WEEKLY. 3 vor, u_-m, 2

wand

 

THE RISING AND SETTING SUN.

 

BY JENNIE STOVIN.

 

Before the rising sun she stood,
Her hair was tinged with gold;

She read within my anxious eyes
The loye that lay untold.

I took her willing hand in mine,
To say the word farewell ;

The rising sun shone on us both;
Oh, who our love could tell ?

Beneath the setting sun she sleeps,
And palm trees o’er her wave ;
¥y love, the joy spring of my life,
s resting in her grave.
The gentle hands [ve fondly held
Are folded on her breast—
The only one I’ve ever loved ~
Has entered into rest.

Al, rising sun! ab, setting sun!
They're what the poets saith:
The sigus of human joy and grief,
The gates of life and death.
ae rrr
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

FOUND DEAD;

The’ Mystery. of ‘tha Charles River.

By HARRIET T. LISCOMB,,

Author of “His First Wife,” ‘‘Iiate’s Conquest,”
“Mated at Last.” -

 

“FounD DEAD” was commenced in No. 18. Back numbers
coh be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXXII.
LIFE OR DEATH,

At last Edith Welford and Capt. Hardy stood upon dry
land. Who that has been through the terrors of ship-
wreck and starvation will not understand the joy which
thrilled them, as the boat which bore them touched the
sandy shore, and they felt the solid earttrbeneath them ?

They parted from Capt. Gibson and his warm-hearted
crew with deep regret, and when the young captain held
Edith’s hand for the last time, there were tears in his
eyes, and her own were not dry.

In little less week a fishing schooner would sail
for Halifax, ana te: kindly consented totake the
waifs of the wreck on board. ;

Black Fanny-amused herself with singing her favorite
hymn, and Edith roamed around the quaint little town
and watched the fishermen at their work. —

At length the schoonerjsailed, and without accident or
adventure of any KB r friends reached Halifax.

But scarcely had they landed when Capt. Hardy was |

taken ill, and on the next morning he was unable to
leave his bed.
Hardship and exposure had done their work, and the

ve hearted old man was prostrated by a slow fever,
Whion ran his strength down to utter weakness, and
taxed Edith’s skill as a nurse to the utmost.

‘Jt is provoking to have the old hulk water-logged
after weathering many storms!” said the captain.
«And it is not right, or generous, for me to keep you here
when your friends oubtless so anxious. Go home,
my dear, and leave Fanny to nurse me. I shall do very

well with her.” ;
“No, indeed!” ¢ Edith, ‘‘f should be deserving of
shipwreck over it I left you now! Weare going
‘o astonish everybody, and be lions

home together!
in our Saal way! The — says you will be well
wee ”

 

  
    
       
      
  
 
  
  
 
    

“though I hope 3 iSan exception. He is certainly very

kind and though

  

   

 

The da; greer at wearily on, and Capt. Hardy
= idly as could have been hoped

did not
improve so rap O e

    
  
 
 
 

  

  
   

a what a vv LO G07 Ata ana Geath are our ands.
eins a Christian, I suppose ; why do you not pray for
S life ?” :

His voice had a tone of mockery in it, and Edith

quickly responded :* . :

«You are right; I will pray. I have trusted too much
in human skill. The God who did not forsake us on the
stormy and desolate ocean will not forsake us now !”

The doctor was a skeptic, but he listened -reverently
while Edith, in a broken y
the life of her old friend—and black Fanny joined fer-
vently in the Amen. ee 2 ;

“I will doubt no more!” cried Edith, rising from her
knees, her fair int Be ed, her eyes sparkling. “If he
dies, it will be well; if he lives, God has wrought it !”

The next day the came. For hours life hung in
the balance, but the end was not yet. Toward nightfall
the old man fell in ‘quiet sleep, and the watchtul
physician took Edith’s in his own, and his sharp
face grew serious with grave thought as he said:

“‘My child, your prayer has saved him. He will live!”

The next day some one of the kind friends at the hotel
where Edith and the — were Staying, sent in a
box of grapes for the invalid.

“Only see!” said Edith, as she arranged the beautiful
fruit temptingly in a pretty glass dish, ‘only see how
lovely they are. What would we not have given for
them when our bill of faré was limited to sour meal and
a glass of whisky:! Oh, isit not good to think that af-
ter you get well, which, ‘please Heaven, will be very
soon, you and I can eat ourselves into dyspeptics, just
any time we choose ?”

The invalid smiled faintly at her attempts at gayety,
and Edith had begun singing, softly, the refrain of some
old song, when suddenly she stopped, her face blanched,
her hand shook so that the dish, containing the grapes,
fell with a crash to the floor.

 
   
 
 

   

 

 

 

 

The judge, the sheriff, the coroner, and the chief of
police of Red Gulch were engaged in playing poker.
The pot was pretty large, and considerable excitement
was manifested in the outcome. The judge *‘called”
the sheriff, who casually remarked : G

“I hold four aces. What do you hold ?”

“J hold a bowie knife,” promptly returned the judge,
as he perceived a-fifth ace in his own hand.”

“And I hold a six-Shooter!” promptly exclaimed the
chief of police, as he realized that he was not destitute
of aces himself. ®

After an interval of about five minutes the coroner
crawled out from under the table, saying :

“I hold an inquest, and I guess that takes the pot.”

—__ > © + —____--
ELECTRIC INSECTS.

General Davis, of the British army, who was a famous
insect collector, once picked up a wheel-bug in theWest
indian Islands, and received a shock that paralyzed his
arm for some time. As he shook the insect off he no-
ticed where it had stood on his hand six red marks, the
impression of its feet. Kirby and Spencer also refer to
this peculiarity of the insect, and other naturalists have
received shocks from certain of the luminous beetles.
Captain Blakeney took up an unknown eaterpillar, and
immediately received such a shock that his entire right
side became paralyzed, and for a short time he was dan->
gerously ill. :

> o<—

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate,
As an Appetizer.
Dr. Morris Gipss, Howard City, Mich., says:

 

“T am greatly pleased with it. as a tonic; it is
an agreeable and a good appetizer.”

“What is it, my child? Are you ill?”
Hardy in alarm. * : ;

Edith’s eyes were fixed on the torn newspaper which
had been wrapped around the box of grapes, attracted by
rg lettered head lines of the first column on the out-
side.

This is what she read: *

“The Long Expected Trial of Alston Gerard for the
Murder of Edith Welford to begin to-morrow !—Hun-
dreds of Applications for admission to the Court Room
Refused !—Eminent Counsel Employed by the Prisoner!
—Great Credit due to Detective Reade for his efforts in
fixing the crime on the Guilty Man!”

Then followed a long string of comments and specula-
tions, just like what we may read almost any day, in our
daily paper, when there isa murder trial in progress,
but Edith did not stop te read them.

She spoke briefly to Captain Hardy, explaining that
for some reason it had been supposed that she was mur-
dered, and that Alston Gerard was her murderer.

“You must go at once!” said the captain. “By George!
what is the law good for when it can sanction such a
proceeding ? No man’s life is safe if circumstances con-
spire against him. Don’tdelay! You don’t know what
the poor fellow is suffering.
famously.” en

And it- was decided that the next morning Edith
should start for Boston.

CHAPTER XXXII.
TRIED FOR HIS LIFE.

The vast court-room is crowded.

it is strange that when murders are every-day affairs,
and the trials of suspected criminals take place with fre-
quency and regularity every time the criminal courts are
in session, that there should still be found so many peo-
ple who find these scenes a pastime, and would not
miss the horrible pleasure for the world.

Human nature is wonderfully and curiously consti-
tuted, and the best people in the world are not above in-
dulging this craving for the horrible.

Mr. Gerard Sat in the prisoner’s box, pale but calm. His
fearless dark eyes met the gaze of the hundreds of spec-
tators without drooping, and when he stood up to listen
to the accusation, and his steady scrutiny searched the
house for the faces of his friends. and then turned on
the prosecuting attorney, an involuntary murmur ran
around the room.

“He is innecent !”

The charge was long, and elaborately worded.
Stripped of its legal superfiuity of words, it amounted to
this—Alston Gerard stood accused of procuring the death
of Edith Welford on the 26th day of February, 18—, and
he was asked the usual question :

“Guilty, or not guilty?”

And, as he had ar at the preliminary examina-
tion, so he respond now:

“Not guilty.’ ;

Numerous witnesses were examined, the evidence of
allot them going to show that there was something be-
tween Edith and the wealthy mill owner, but nothing
was elicited which would point to any motive on the
part of Gerard in the girl’s death.

The two men who had found the body told their
story; the physicians who had conducted the autopsy
told theirs, with many technical and scientific terms
thrown in. Death had been caused by a blow on the

cried Capt.

 

w everything,” said the captain,

head: the body had been in the water several days—
could’ not say just how many—was badly decomposed
—face hardly recognizable—nothing about the clothing
to show who or what the girl had been. She was from
eighteen to twenty-two years of age, in good health,
well proportioned, and had doubtless been very hand-
some. ‘

Dr. Ban Was here shown a photograph of Edith
Welford.

Yes, this might have been a picture of the girl Found
Dead. There were strong points of resemblance. The
contour of the face was similar; the size of the mouth
and nose corresponded with those of the dead woman ;
the hair was identical. Yes, in his opinion, the picture
was that of the poor victim.» Of course, allowances
must be nade for the ravages of decay and the action
of the water, but the picture was enough like the mur-
dered victim to justify him in saying that it was her
photograph,

In this opinion he was confirmed by Dr, Lourang, his
colleague,

The coroner agreed with the medical gentlemen,

Then the locket and chain were brought forth, and

arties who were present at the time they were taken
irom the dead body testified to their identity.

The man’s likeness was shown, and a dozen people
swore to having recognized it as the picture of the pris-
oner. ‘

They were positive. There could be no mistake. And
the prosecuting attorney turned with a triumphant
smile toward the crowded court-room, and held the
open locket up toward them.

“It is patent to the most casual observer,” said he,
io aed this is the pictured face of the prisoner at the

ar.”

The judge rebuked him for this attempt at creating a
sensation; but Mr. Brown smiled with satisfaction, for
he saw that he had succeeded in his design.

Then John Steerforth was sworn.

The detective gave his testimony with reluctance. He
testified to the various circumstances regarding the af-
fair with which the reader is already conversant, and
finally brought his story down to the time when he sub-
mitted the locket to the workman in the great jewelry
establishment on B. street.

“What was the name of the workman to whom the
locket was submitted ?” asked the examining lawyer.

The detective cousulted his note-book.

«Pierre Laboulage.”

“Tt Pierre Laboulage is present, let him come for-
war.

; A slight young man, with a foreign air, came to the
ront.

“Step up and be sworn.”

The oath was administered, and the locket was shown
the witness. ;

‘Have you ever seen this article before ?”

“J have, sir.”

“When and where ?”

“Several days ago, in the work-room of my employ-
ers.

“Has it a secret spring ?”

- Yes, sir.”

Great excitement and interest in the court-room was
manifest.

“Will you show it to the court ?”

The young man closed his hand over the trinket, and
when he unclosed it the back of the locket was open,
and the inscription was thus made visible to all who
looked at it:

“FroM ALSTON GERARD,
To his Dearly Loved Wife.
Faithful Forever.”

An unmistakable sensation ran through th

e court-
room as the attorney read aloud the inscription, but the

chan ge which passed over Gerard’s face was something
marvelous.

Wonder, doubt, perplexity, surprise struggled for the
mastery. :
One of his lawyers bent over him and whispered :
“Did you know of this ?” .

 
 

  
  

«1 did not.” a
“What does it mean ?”
«T would give h fortune if you would tell me.”
~ The locket was ned by the jury, and by the
judge, and Laboulage was allowed to step down.
Steerforth’s face a study. He had expected a sen-
sation when this Oe a jeweler was given,
but he was h : Ly e storm of na-
tion which prey , and w the sheriff was obliged
to quell by threatening to expel t ers from the
room. Ce ao + ae
“The wretch, to murder his dwn wife! ‘Faithful for-
ever’ indeed! 4 queer kind of fu
He ought to be hung. Death is good f hitet
Gerard looked around calmly on the e multi.
tude, and the ‘in his co led de-

re was some :
meanor that stilled the floklo. crowd. Quiet prevailed,
and the trial proceeded. hn ae She $ f

Hugh Gilbert took the stand with a bold front. It

   

 

   

, implored Heaven to save |

 

Fanny and J shall do |

 

was evident from his manner that he enjoyed the posi

On

  

 
  
 
    
     
   

   
   

ner in company with the prisoner ?
“T have seen them together—yes, sir.”
“How did they appear? Asif
each other stronger than would
an employer and the woman he
Well, sir, it so struck me ?” |
‘Can you mention any particula
would, ane oor mind, go to f
any unusual int
“Well, str, when the mill ~
cut off from all escape, he 1
and saved her at the bo
ntere

  
  
 

they fel

   
    

  
   

  

  

“cs
6s

    
   
 

   
    
  
  
  
     
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 

Ser oer a kind of ys wi ; ¥4
“Did he on that occasion show special tenderness
toward hes—anything that wo ive evidence that he

Was more concerned for her welfare than the relation
of employer and employed would w: 6?” 3

“He kissed heras he brought her out of the mill,
which was dropping into ruins behind him. He thought
himself unseen, but Isaw him; and I call that an evi-
dence that he was a little more interested in her than

 
  

| he would have been in the Marys, and Maggies, and
| Katies with whom the mill was filled.”

A sad smile ahs og over Gerard’s face ; he shaded his
face with his hand, and remained lost in thought.
«Where did he take her on this occasion 2”
“To his own house, where she was nursed by his aunt,
so I am told.”
Judge—‘‘Hearsay evidence is not admissible,”
‘When did you see Edith Welford last ?”
“On the night of the 26th of last February.”
«Where ?”
2 y the banks of the river which runs through Har-
nell.” :
«The same river on which the mills are situated? 1
mean the mills belonging to the prisoner,”
«The same.”
«Why were you down by the river ?”
“There had been heavy rains, and I went with a.
young lady to see the high water.”
‘“*Who was that young lady 2?”
«One of the operatives. She was Rose Hart then. She
is my wife now.”
«‘What time was this ?”
“Somewhere between eight and nine, I think.”
“Was there a moon ?”
«There was, but it was clouded.”
“Yet you could see distinctly 2”
‘ “Quite distinctly enough to recognize people whom I
new.” :
, oe you notice any one in company with Miss Wel-
ord ?”
“Yes, sir. The prisoner was with her.”
“Going to the river, or coming therefrom ?”
“They were going toward the river. We were coming
away.’
«Did you speak to Mr. Gerard ?”
“No, sir!” emphatically.
“Why not ?”
“There was a—a slight unpleasantness between us.” «

} “Ah! Relating to this very girl, was it not ?”

“Yes, sir” ;

“Your wife that is now recognized these persons ?”

“She did.”

sn and she spoke of it as you walked away ?

“Yes.”

“In what way ?”

“I said, ‘It is a plain case of spoons with the boss.’
and my wife said: ‘Goodness! I have known that face
for a long time!” ;

“Very well; you can step down.”

“Stay!” said Mr. Merton, one of Gerard’s counsel. “i
want to ask this man a few questions. You say, sir,
that you did not speak to Mr. Alston Gerard because
there was a slight unpleasantness between you.
brother of the opposite side asked you if this unpleasant-
ness was not connected with Miss Edith Welford. You
admitted that it was. Now, lask you to explain to the
court in what this unpleasantness consisted ?”

Gilbert’s face flushed, he shifted uneasily from one
foot to the other, and seemed loth to answer.

“Let me refresh your memory a little. Did you not
upon one occasion insult Miss Welford, and did not Mr.
Gerard knock you down? Answer the question, pl Ri

‘Are my private affairs to be dragged out before the
public ?” demanded Gilbert, angrily.

“‘A man who swears to tell the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, must have no private affairs,
when the facts regarding them bear upon the case in
elucidation of which he has taken odth. Answer the
question.”

“I did not insult her. I was foolish enough, at that
time, to fancy myself in love with her. I was only offer-
ing her a little attention, what any other young girl
would have felt flattered by ; but she was an exception
to most girls, and she saw fit to resent it.”

“And Mr. Gerard saw you annoying her,
knocked you down ?”

“Yes,” assented the witness, sullenly.

“And you vowed to be revenged on him 2”

“I was very angry—anybody would have been so,”

“Yes,” returned the attorney, “no doubt any
would. And you vowed to be revenged. Yes or no.”

Yes, then.”

‘Consequently, when you heard that Alston Gerard,

and promptly

who had done himself the honor of knocking you down,
was accused of murder, you were glad of it ?”
“Why should I concern myselt about it ?”
* “Sure enough—why should you? You may step
own.” -
Mr. Merton had scored a point in favor of the pris-

mer. be
Rose Gilbert corroborated her husband’s testimony
in every particular.

Alice Horton, under the most searching examination,
refused to state that she had the picture in
the locket as that of Mr. Gerard; ¢ she also stuck to
her original statement that Edith Welford had never
worn a locket in her bosom. She had been for months
her roommate, and there were countless opportunities
for such a trinket to have been ex , had she worn
it constaayy but nothing of the had ever hap-
pened. ; ;

Detective Reade came oP. and told his story. He
showed by the testimony of the tailor that a green coat,
with @ green silk lining, had been made at their estab-
lishment for Mr. Gerard, and that it had been in his pos-
session prior to the disappearance of Miss Welford.

Kendricks, brought unwillingly forward, was obliged
to acknowledge that his master had owned such a coat,
that he had talaen it West with him, that on account of
its having lost.a button, he had given it away to a gen-
teel beggar in Chicago. Moreover, Ken@ricks affirmed
that the coat which been owned by his master had
been stained on the lining of the right sleeve, and that
he could identify the garment if it could be produced.

This ended the presses of the second day, and the
court adjourned till the following Tuesday.

0.

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A NEW BIRTH,

When Dr. Hartley stepped into the chamber where
his patient lay, he saw at once the change which had
occurred,

The wounded man had come back to life and con-
sciousness. ©

‘Well, my friend, you have taken a new lease of ex-
istence. How is your head ?” ’

‘‘My head feels like my head,” returned the man; ‘‘and
I want to get up and dress. I have work—important
work todo.” heat

“There are times when work must wait the conveni-
ence of flesh and blood. You have come to such a time.
To move now would be death.” :

“How long before I can get about ?”

“1 will limit you to a week.”

“A week! Why not say an eternity? Why, man,
there has been murder most foul done, and I must hunt
down the murderers !” ‘

He is going into a tantrum again!” cried Mrs. Ste-
phens, who had come in with a bowl of gruel. ‘He'll be
the death of some of us yet!” stot

‘Don’t be alarmed, my good woman,” said eet:
“The man is perfectly sane, but he is troubled about.
something. Speak out, my man, and if there is any-
thing I can do, I am at your service.” iar x

ps wounded man lay still a moment, and then he
as : Mr eae

“What time is it now ?—I mean, what month is it 2”

“October,” said the surgeon. ares ‘

“October! Great Heaven! October! You beeen
to tell me that I have passed more than seven mo:
in cursed unconsciousness 2”

“Hear him swear!” cried Stephens, in horror. “I told
the missis he was a low one, at first.”

“] beg your n,” said the man, his pale face
ing; ‘I forgot I was in the presence of ladies. But will
sem ged be kind enoug to tell me how long I have been

ere

“Eleven days,” said Miss St. Armand. ;

“Only eleven days! where, then, have 1 passed the
rest of the time ?” : ey

“That 1 cannot tell you,” said the surgeon, ‘‘not haying

had the honor of your acquaintance previous to the

time when I was called to plaster up your broken head, ~

nearly two weeks ago, and I must congratulate you
on being a brave man to risk your life as you did, and
also on ba success in having saved the life ve oar
hostess, Miss St. Armand--whom [ now have oer
of presenting to you—as well as the lives of two other
young ladies who were in the carriage,” and the doctor
wed with the grace of a dancing master. ae

“Itis like a dream,” said the stranger, ‘“‘and yet I re-
member it well. But what isso terrible for me to re-
member lies tar back of that. Ah! the sight maddens
me. I cannot thinkof it. It is—it must be—a dream.”

‘Don’t go near him! he’s going into one of ’em!” cried
pieuee seizing her mistress by the arm dnd drawing

er back. Bia

“Leave the room!” said Miss St. Armand,
“You are a fool.”

And Stephens, who had seen her mistress on her dig-
nity before, retired in a mild huff. —

“Who and what are you?” asked the s' » BYou
have been firing questions at me ever since I came in.
Permit me to return the compliment. I think we shall
get at the truth much more speedilyif we know who
you are.” s

“My name? my name was Ralph Cut and I was mur-
dered at the Black Horse Inn the 20th day of last Feb-
ruary.’ : *

“By Jove!” cried the doctor, ‘‘that’s a stunner. I hope
you don’t expect us to believe it.” ‘

“It is no fault of the villains that 1 was not murdered.

Derore my tyes, 1gr daring to say that she would) expose
D. at she w

their crime. es 1g dari Lizzie ane con Paes
“Well,” said the doctor, contemplatively, pu ‘his

hands in his pockets, ‘‘this beats a sensational novel.” —
“Let me explain. I donot wonder that you think me

demented. Among the hills of usetts there

Was, previous to the 20th of last February, a lonely hos- _

telry known as the Black Horse Inn. ‘Jt was off the
main road, a place of doubttul reputation, a place where,
bY a
ran

| doubtless, dark deeds had

been s0n6 lt was kept ae
man named Brady. And Brady a ee tial
adopted daughter I think she was, n Lizzie.
handsomer girl the sun never shone upon. And th
she had been reared in an sae § re of crime, her
soul was white and clean as that of a saint in heaven,
and I, oh, Heaven! know I loved her.”

Dr. Hartley poured out a glass of cordial, and held it
to his patient's lips.

“Excitement is not good for you, Mr. Cutler. Unless
itis absolutely necessary that something should be at
once done in this matter, you had better not excite
yourself further.”

“What! lie still, and do nothing to avenge iter death,
if she is dead, and, alas! she must be! Not to

unish her murderer! What do you take me for? Am

a senseless stick, or a feelingless stone ?” ;

“Neither. You are, I should judge, a very human

 

 

“J loved her,
theinn, I knew it was a doubtful, even dangerous place,
but what did I care, so that saw her there? She had
other lovers, among them a desperado known as Red
Jaques, but she never gave them a thought. Her heart
was mine. One day, on my return from taking a drove
of western cattle to market, with a large sum of money
about me, I stopped over night at the inn. Several fre-
quenters of the house were present. I ate my suppe.,
and was shown up stairs to a bed. Sometime inthe
night three men came into my room and brutally as-
saulted me. 1 was felled to the floor, and as I fell Liz-
zie appeared upon the scene, and threatened to de-
nounce the murderers. Red Jaques struck her down,
she fell without a cry; oh, I hear, even now, the sound of
aes dreadful fall, and feel the awful stillness which
‘ollowed.’

Cutler covered his head with the bed-clothes, and the
very bed shook with the tremor of his frame. Miss St.
ve drew near and took his cold hand in both of

e

“Tell us what you desire done,” she said, in a voice
deep with emotion, ‘‘and I promise you that I will hunt

dastard down to his death!”

The dark, earnest eyes of the sick man dwelt grate-
fully upon her face. He pressed her hand and went
on:

“T lost consciousness, I vrs ee for the next thing
that { knew I heard all around me the sharp cracklin
of flames seizing upon the dry timbers of the inn.
looked around me, but saw that I was alone. hand
was wet with blood—ner blood—which had trickled to-
ward me trom a dark pool on the floor. :

“I had not lost the instinct of self-preservation. EI
rive nt of bog tate he chiliy and down the totter-
hg stairs, and out into the c ht. Again there is
a period which is blank. My Soe recollection is of a
hut in a pine forest, an old woman named Moll Bond,
and a black cat. For a great many days my life was va-
cant except for the face of the old woman and the round,
yellow eyes of the cat, which were always gazing at me
trom the top of a tall chest of drawers in the’ shadow
corner of the hut. By and by the in my hea
stopped, and 1 could talk and think, but I could not re-
member. The past was entirely obliterated. I had for-
gotten my Own name! The old dame called me Robbie,
after some one who had once been dear to her. She
was very kind to me in her way, She took me to a great
physician, a man learned in diseases of the mind, and
he declared himself powerless to aid me. But he said
that a great shock might possibly resture my lost facul-
ties, and that suddenly—in a moment—I might ‘be able
to remember everything.” ss

“A rare case,” Said the surgeon, with interest, “yet
wos PN as precedent. Two such are recorded in my

‘ ;

man. Goon.”
and love for her led me to stop often at

“I remember now that one feature of my malady was
restlessness. I never felt easy anywhere. 1 wanted to
be out in the woods, listening to the wind in the trees,’
and talking to the wild, free birds, who were so much
more intelligent than I. During storms I was particu-
larly restless, and at such times I used to dream dreams
so frightfully vivid that they were like reality. I was
always, in my troubled sleep, following after a man’ with
a crescent-shaped scar on his neck ; I was always grap-
pling with him in mortal combat, but I never conquered
him! He always managed to elude me, and I would
wake shivering and bathed in an ice-cold sweat from
brow to bosom. Then I did not know who this phantom
represented, now I know that it was Red Jaques, the vil-
lain who murdered my poor love !”

He paused, exhausted, and Miss St. Armand, her face
full of a divine pity which transformed her cold, clearly
cut features, and made her very beautiful among wo-
men, spoke a few cheering words.

Cutler thanked her and proceeded: —

“I left the hut one night, and wandered forth into
the darkness and cold. There was a terrible storm rag-

| ing, but I never heeded it. I ms down and slept, and

then I wandered, and then I slept, and so the time wore
on. Some invisible hand led me—I was always just on
the point of reach the goal, but I never reached it.
Every night, when 1 down and closed my eyes, I saw

angrily.

 

 

   

 

  
 

 

 

 

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VOL. 41-—No, 29.

 

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the man with the red scar on his neck—he was always
in the same place—a lonely hut on a barren alkali plain.
He always wore on his horrible face a look of haunt-
ing terror, but 1 never could grasp him as I longed to
do. My clothes were old and -tattered; the rains and
the wind chilled meto the bone. I had reached Chica-
go; how, I have no recollection, but I was so cold that I
went toa great many houses and asked for clothes. I
was turned away from every door. At last I paused in
front of a large hotel—a gentleman was coming down
the steps. Istopped and gazed at himin amazement.
He was almost the exact counterpart of what I had
been before my trouble. It was like looking at myselt
in a glass. I stood amazed and looked at him. I real-
ized the resemblance fully, but after the first it aid not
strike me as strange. Was he my double? What like-
lier? The vagaries of a mind diseased who shall seek
tofathom? Ispoke to him and asked him if he had a
coat to spare. He was so like me that it seemed like
begging from myself. He regarded me a moment with
a critical eye—he was probably taking in my likeness to
himself, and then he calied to his servant, and said :

‘« ‘Kendricks, bring out the green coat.’”

gore Heaven !” cried Miss St. Armand, ‘Dol hear
aright ?”

“You are agitated, dear lady,” said Ralph Cutler.
“There is something in my strange s'ory which in some
way touches your life ? Is it not so?” ;

“You are right,” she said. “Goon; I will hear the
end before I think what shall be done.”

“The man brought out a coat, and gave it to his mas-
ter. It was a costly garment, of fine make and mate-
rial—hardly fit for the wearing of a tramp like myself.
One button was gone——”

“Yes,” she said, quietly, ‘‘I know it.”

You know it! That is strange—but never mind. The
world is full of mysteries, and every secret is but ont of
a chain—you touch the mystic key, and the shock of so-
lution runs through the entire circuit. I put the coat
on, and it fitted meas if I had been measured for it.
Even in size I and my double were alike.”

«Should you know this man again?’ asked Miss St.
Armand. :

“Should 1? Should I know your sweet face if I should
see it to-morrow? Of course I should know him. But
tocontinue. I left Chicago and rambled on. Some-
times I walked, sometimes 1 got on trains, and nobody
ever put me off. They saw that Iwas not right, and
they left me to doasI chose. Sometimes I worked for
a meal at the road-side cabins, and still I wandered on,
aimless, purposeless, but led by a power stronger than
myself, and which I could not resist. At last I reached
the plains of the far West. The cool breezes of the
Rockies fanned my brow. 1 heard the wild tramp of
the buffalo on his native heath, and saw the dusky
savages sweep over the plains like dark platoors of
avenging demons. And still, every time I slept I was
near the man who had killed my love—the man with
the sear of a crescent on his neck. Atlength my dream
became a reality. One night when the atmosphere was
full of luminous, moonlight I stood before the lonely
ranch I had seen so oftenin my dreams, and I met the
man face to face. ;

“S to say, when I met him and stood in his
presence [ lost all power of harming him. I could only
Stand and look at him, and hold his terrified and guilty
eyes with my own. How the poor wretch trembled and
paled before what I now know that he must have
thought was an apparition from the grave which had
risen up to haunt him!

‘Night after night I went to his abode, and as often
as 1 went he came out to meet me. Some horrible fas-
cination must have drawn him ; some fierce and aveng-
ing spirit must have taken’ possession of his soul and
compelled him to live over again the memory of his
crime, and look with his shrinking eyes into the face of
the man whom his violent hand had doomed to a fiery
death.

«At length one night he failed me, and I knew that a
guilty conscience had been too much for him and he had
fied. I turned back upon my path, led by the same in-
visible power. I did my wanderings all over again ; and
sometime just as the frost had yellowed the maple
leaves oh the hill-sides, I found myself among the
ravines of the Catskills. I knew that here I should find
my man of the scarred neck, and 1 waited patiently for
destiny to show me the way to his hiding-place. The
day before met with this accident I met him on the
hills. I came upon him suddenly and grasped his arm,
and stopped him, and looked into his cowardly, shrink-
ing face once more. Oh, wise men make laws to punish
criminals! Asif God Himself had not taken their pun-
ishment into His own hands. The man looked at mea
moment, uttered a piercing cry, and fled into the forest.
I followed on his track and hunted him to his refuge, a
small hovel perched among the rocks, and an Indian
girl by way of housekeeper. And when my strength

—— there is a long reckoning between us to
settle.

‘4 curious case,” said the doctor, ‘‘a very curious
ease! It ought to be recorded in this month’s Medical
Record.. When you are better 1 shall trouble,you to give
me minute data respecting it. I wish to trace clearly
a and effect. Meanwhile, what do you desire us

oO ?” *

“J want a watch placed on Red Jaques, the man who
murdered my poor love, and would have murdered me,
if I had not been unusually hard to dispose of.”

“Can you describe his hiding-place so that it can be
readily found ?”

‘Half a mile up the road from where. this lady’s car-
riage was wrecked there stands a tall spruce tree.
There are no other trees nearit. At the north of this
tree is a copse of hazel bushes. Between the tree and
the bushes there is a trail. Follow tt up the hill,
through(the ravine on the other side, azid to the farther
side of the next hill. You will come toa large rock
leaning over a spring. Turn to your right, and a rod or
two away you will see the hut.”

“The place shall be watched,” said Miss St. Armand.
“J, too, have seen the man with the crescent-shaped
sear on his neck. He was one of a gang of burglars
who entered my house a few weeks ago. He was
caught and imprisoned, but escaped through the aid of

this Indian = whom you mention. And heis well
known to the New York police as a dangerous and des-
perate character.”

«What a coincidence !” said the doctor, who was noth-
ing if he was not philosophical; “and it proves my
theory, which I*have always held to a nicety. One
crime follows.on another—one offense against the law
suggests another. Aman should never be let off be-
cause it is his first offense. If he is, he will be sure to
try it over again, to see how much better he can do it.”

* * * * * * * *

So it happened that the next morning after the inci-
dents in the trial of Alston Gerard related in our last
chapter that John Steerforth, sitting in his private office
conferring with two of his most trusted confreres re-
garding the matter which occupied his mind to the ex-
clusion of everything else, received a telegram; and this
is what it contained :

“From L. St. Armand, of Grand View, to John Steer-
forth, of Boston :

«Jnformation has been received by me which may
affect the case of State vs. Gerard. Come here at once.
Will meet, with carriage, every train connecting from
3o0ston for the next twenty-four hours.

“L. St. ARMAND.”

Steerforth consulted a time-table and looked at his
wateh. His companions saw that he was strangely ex-
cited, but they knew him too well to ask questions.

«T have just time to catch the train for New York.
Will telegraph further instructions.”

And a little later he was en route for the little village
of Grand View.

Miss St. Armand’s carriage was in waiting, as early in
the gray dawn he stepped out of the train, and he was
driven rapidly to her residence.

During the time since Alston Gerard had been under
arrest, Miss St. Armand and Steerforth had been in con-
stant communication, for though the match between
her and the prisoner was given up, she felt the liveliest
interest in his acquittal.

Steerforth heard the story of Ralph Cutler with in-
tense satisfaction. His theory was correct. The woman
Found Dead was not Edith Welford. There had been
two tr es. There were two green coats with green
silk linings. Alston Gerard was innocent—but what
had become of Edith Welford ? ’

The detective asked himself the question in great per-

lexity of mind—it had bothered him at the first, when
he began to admit to his intelligence the suspicion that
the body. found was not hers—and it had never ceased.
to perplex him.

And still he suspected Hugh Gilbert—though he con-
fessed to himself that he had no grounds for his sus-

icion. :

63 Ralph Cutler was eager and anxious to have Red
Jaques secured before any whisper of warning might
reach him, and a warrant was at once Sworn.out before
a magistrate for his arrest, on the charge of attempting
to murder Ralph Cutler.

Steerforth secured the services of two police officers,
and they proceeded to follow out the trail indicated by
Cutler, and came upon the hut without trouble.

One of the constables went ahead, and looking through
the window saw that his man was there.

He was sitting at the meager supper table; opposite
him was Wanita, the Indian girl, and between them lay
a pair of horse-pistols.

ven then, sitting presumably at his ease, Red Jaques
wore a worried, hunted expression, as if at any moment
he expected the blow from the hand of outraged justice
to fall.

The three men stepped in at the door together, push-
ing aside the slight fastenings as they went.

Jaques sprang up and stood like a wild beast at bay.
His hair and beard were dyed black, but his red skin
glowed lurid as ever, and the scar on his neck was crim-
son as blood. ; ‘

Wanita rose also, and stood looking inquiringly. from
Jaques to the three stalwart intruders.

Steerforth stepped forward and laid his iron grip on
Jaques’ arm.

“T arrest you,” he said, ‘in the name of the Common-
wealth of Massachusetts, for the attempted murder of
Ralph Cutlér, at the Black Horse Inn, on the night of
February 20th.” ;

Jaques broke away from him, and seizing one of the
pistols fired at the nearest officer. He was excited, and
the ball missed its mark. The enraged constable drew
his revolver, and, taking aim at the criminal, fired, just
as Wanita, comprehending the danger her beloved one
was in, with a rapid movement flung herself in front of
him, and received, through her faithful heart, the shot
intended for him.

Great Heaven!” cried the constable. ‘I have killed
the woman !” .

Wanita had fallen in a heap at Jaques’ feet ; she moved
her lips-but no sound came from them, and as the man

 

she had loved so truly stooped and lifted up her face,
she opened her dull eyes, fixed them a moment on his
face, and then the glazing film of death stole over them,
and poor Wanita had joined her fathers in the happy
hunting grounds.

For a moment Red Jaques stood, holding her dead
form against his breast, thep he laid her down gently on
the rude bed, and turned toWard his unwelcome visitors.

“You have run me down at last,” he said, quietly. «I
have had a race for it, but the law has conquered. 1
have done many crimes. I have heard many death
groans. I am beaten. My best—my only friend lies
dead before ne——a prison waits for me.”

He turned like lightning, seized the other pistol from
the table, and, placing the muzzle against his forehead,
pulled the trigger.

«Thus I cheat you, at last!” he cried, faintly, and fell
lifeless to the floor.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

>-o<+____—_

“As a counteractant to debilitating influences, lassitude,
nervous depression, debility, malaria, dyspepsia, liver com-
eres pie Cos Coca Beef Tonic is invaluable,” says Pro-

essor F. W. HUNT, M. D., Honorary Member Imperial Medi-
eal Society of St. Petersburg, Russia, etc. :

TRACY PARK.

By MRS. MARY J. HOLMES.

‘CHAPTER L.,
THE FLOWER FADETH.

It took some days after Arthur’s return for the house-
hold to settle down into any thing like order and quiet,
Arthur was so restless and so happy, and so anxious for
every one to recognize Jerrie as his daughter—Miss
Tracy, as he called her when presenting her to the peo-
ple who had known her all her life—the St. Claires, and
Athertons, and Crosbys, and Warners--who came to
call upon and congratulate him. Even Peterkin came
in his coat-of-arms carriage, with a card as big as the
back of Webster's spelling book, and himself gotten up
in a dress coat, with lavender kids on his burly hands,
which nearly crushed Arthur’s in their grasp as he ex-
pressed himself ‘‘tickleder than he ever was before in
his life.”

«And to think I was the means on’t,” he said, ‘‘for if

I hadn’t of kicked that darned old table into slivers
when I was givin’ on’t to Jerrie, she’d never of knowd
what was in that dumbed rat-hole. I was a leetle too
upstrupulous, I s’spose, but Tl be darned if she didn’t
square up to me like a catamount, till my hair riz right
up, and I concluded the Tramp House was no place for
me. ButI respect her for it; yes, 1 do, and by George,
old chap, I congratulate you with my whole soul, and so
does May Jane, and so does Ann ’Lizy, and so does Bill,
and so does the whole coboodle on us.”

This was Peterkin’s speech, which Arthur received
more graciously than Jerrie, who, remembering Harold,
could not be very polite to the man who had injured him
so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turned

 

“Now. one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain’t one
to go halves in any thing, and I was meaner to him than
pussly ; but you'll see what Pll do. I’ve met with a
change. I swow, I have,” and he laid his lavender kid
on his stomach. ‘He never took them diamonds, nor
May Janue’s pin, nor nothin’, and I’ve blaated it all over
town that he didn’t, and I’ve got a kerridge hired, and
some chaps, and a brass band, and a percession, and
when Hal comes, there’s to be an oblation to the depot,
with the bugle a playin’ ‘Hail to the Chief,’ and them
hired chaps a histen’ him inter the kerridge, with the
star spangled banner a floatin’ over it, and a drawin’
him home without horses! What do you think of that
for high ?” and he chuckled merrily as he represented
the programme he had prepared for Harold’s reception.

Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold’s com-
ing might be at night, and unheralded, so as to save him
from what she knew would fill him with disgust.

That call of Peterkin’s was the last of g congratula-
tory nature made at Tracy Park for weeks, for the
shadow of death had entered the grand old house, the
doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovely
September morning, about a week after Arthur's return.
But there was no Stir or sign of life, except in the upper
hall, near the door, and in the room where Maude Tracy

| was dying. Jerrie had been with her constantly for two

! or three days, and the converse the two had held to-

| gether would never be forgotten. Maude was so peace-

| ful and happy, so sure of the home beyond, where she
was goilig, and so lovely and sweet to those around her,
thinking of everything, and planning everything, even
whose hands were to lower her. into the grave.

‘Pick, and Fred, and Billy, and Harold,” she said to
Jerrie, one day. ‘Something tells me Harold will be
here in time for that; and it he is, I want those four to
™ me in the grave. They can lift me, for I shall not

very heavy,” and, with a smile, she held up her

wasted arms and hands, not as large now as a child’s.
“And, Jerrie,” she went on, ‘‘I want the grave lined with

know-—-end many, many flofvers, for I shudder at the
thought of the cold earth which would chill me in my
coffin. So, heap the grave with flowers, and come often
to it, and think lovingly of mé, lying there alone. Iam
thinking so much of that poem Harold read me long ago
of poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should
hear them as they passed, with their feet above her in
the long and silent grass. Maybe the dead can’t do that,
I don’t know, but if they can, I shall listen for you, and
be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall wait
| on the golden seat by the river. Remember your prom-
ise to tell Harold that it was all a mistake. My mind
| gets clearer toward the end, and I see things differently
from what I did once, and I know how I blundered. You
will tell him ?”
Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart,
not knowing to what it bound her; and as Maude was
becoming tired, she bade her try to rest while she sat
by and watched her.
The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy Sep-
tember air was everywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun
was filling the house with golden light, and the crickets’
chirp was heard in the long grass, and the robins were
singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in
the sick-room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying

daughter’s side, with his face bowed on his hands, while
her fingers played feebly with his white hair as she
spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had told
him she was dying and had asked for him, and with his
nervous horror of everything paintul and exciting, he had
shrunk from the ordeal; but Jerrie’s will prevailed, and
he went with her to the room, where Frank, and his
wife, and Tom were waiting—Tom standing, with folded
arms, at the foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, ary
eyes, into the face on the pillow, where death was set-

enc greens ly Sic cnevhepeer menses

 

| ting his seal; the mother, halt-fainting upon the lounge,

with the nurse beside her; and Frank, oblivious of every-
thing except the fact that Maude was dying.
“Kiss me good-by, Uncle Arthur,” she said, when he
caine in, “and come this side where father is.” Then,
| as he went round and stood by Frank, she reached her
hand for his, and, putting it on her father’s head, said to
him: “Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor
father—the dearest, the best man in the world. It was
for me; say that you forgive him.”

Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant,
although a sudden suspicion darted through Jerrie’s
mind, and, when Arthur looked helplessly at her, she
whispered to him : t

«Never mind what she means—her mind may be wan-
dering; but say that you forgive him, no matter what
it is.”

Thus adjured, Arthur said to the grief-stricken man,
who shook like an aspen :

“I know of nothing to forgive except your old disbelief
in Gretchen, and deceiving me about sending the car-
riage the night Jerrie came; butif there is anything
else, no matter what itis, I do forgive you freely.”

“Thanks,” came faintly from Maude, who whispered :

‘It is a vow, remember, made at my death-bed.”

She had done all she could, this little girl, whose life
had been so short, and who, as she once said, had
been capable of nothing but loving and being loved;
and now, turning her dim eyes upon Jerrie, who was
parting the damp hair upon her brow, she went on:

“Remember the promise, and the Sowers, and the
golden seat where you will find me resting by the flow-
ing river whose shores I am now looking upon, for lam
almost there, almost to the golden seat, and the tree
whose leaves are like emeralds, and where the grass
and fiowers are like the flowers and grass of summer
just after a rain. Lam glad for you, Jerrie. Good-by ;
and you, father dear, good-by.”

That was the last, for Maude was dead; and the serv-
ants, who had been standing about the door, stole
noiselessly back to their work, with wet eyes and a
sense of pain and loss in their hearts, for not one of
them but had loved the gentle girl now gone forever
from their midst.

It was Jerrie who led Frank from the room to his own,
where she left him by himself, knowing it would be bet-
ter so, and it was Arthur who: took Dolly out, for Tom
had disappeared, and noone saw him again until the
next day, when he came down to breakfast, with a
worn, haggard look upon his face, which told that he
dideare, though his mother thought he did not, and
taunted him with his indifference. Poor Tom! He had
gone directly to his room and locked the door, and
smoked and smoked, and thought and thought, and
then, when it was dark, he had stolen out into the park
as far as the four pines, and smoked, and looked up at
the stars and wondered if Maude were there with Jack,
sitting on the golden seat by the river. Then going
back to the house where no one saw him, he. went into
the silent room where Maude was lying, and looked long
and earnestly upon her white, still face, and wondered
in a vague kind of way if she knew he was there, and
why he had never thought before what a nice kind of
girl she was, and why he had not made more of her as
her brother.

“Maude,” he whispered, with a lump in his throat, «if
you can hear me, I’d like to tell you I am sorry that I
was ever mean to you, andI guessi did like you more
than I supposed.”

Then he kissed her pale forehead and went to his
room, where he smoked the night through, and in the
morning felt as if he had lived a hundred years since

 

 

boughs from our old playing-place—the four pines, you /}

the previous night, and- wondered how he should get
through the day. It occurred to him thatit might be
the proper thing to see his mother ; and after his break-
fast he went to her room, and was received by her with
a burst of tears and reproaches for his indifference and
lack of feeling in keeping himself away from everybody,
as if it were nothing to him that Maude was dead, or
that there was nothing for him to do.

«“Thunderation, mother !” Tom exclaimed, ‘‘would you
have me yell and scream, and make a fool of myself? I
sat up all night long, which was more than you did, and
I’ve been meditating in the woods, and have seen Maude
and made it square with her. What more can I do?”

“You can see to things,” Mrs. Tracy replied. ‘Your
father is all broken up and has gone to bed, and itis not
ere in me to be around, Somebody must take the

elm.”

“And somebody has,” Tom answered her.
Arthur is master of cerémonies now.
ranch, and'running it well, too.”

And Tom was right, for Arthur had taken the helm,
and aided and abetted by Jerrie, was quietly attending
to matters and arranging for the funeral, which Dolly
said must be in the house, as she would not go to the
church with a gaping crowd to stare at her. So it was to
take place at the house on Friday afternoon, and Arthur
ordered a costly coffin from New York, with silver
mountings and panels, and almost a car-load of flowers
and floral designs, for Jerrie had explained to him
Maude’s wishes with regard to her grave, which they
lined first with the freshest of the boughs from the four
pines, filing these again with flowers up to the very
top, so that the grave when finished seemed like one
mass of flowers, in which it would not be hard to lie.

Dolly had objected to Billy as one of the pall-bearers.
He was too short and inferior looking, she said, and not
at all in harmony with Diek, and Fred, and Paul Crosby,
the young man who, in Harold’s absence, had been
asked to take his place. But Arthur overruled her with
the words, “It waS Maude’s wish,” and Billy kept his
post.

The day arrived, and the hour, and the people came
in greater crowds than they had done when poor Jack
was buried, or the dark woman, Nannine, with only
Jerrie as chief mourner, and the procession was the
longest ever seen in Shannondale; and Dolly, even
while her heart was aching with bitter pain, felt a thrill
of pride that somany were folloWiig her daughter to
the grave. 4

Arrived at the cemetery, there was a halt for the
mourners to alight and the bearers to take the coffin
from the hearse and carry it to the grave—a halt
longer than necessary, it seemed to Jerrie, who under
the folds of her vail did not see the tall young man
making his way through the ranks of people crowding
the road, straining every nerve to reach the hearse,
which he did just as the four young men were taking
the coffin from it.

With a quick movement he puf Paul Crosby aside,
saying, apologetically : '

‘Excuse me, Paul. I must carry Maude to her grave.
She wished it so.”

Then, taking the young man’s place, he went slowly
on to the open grave near which piles and pile$ of flow-
ers were lying ready to cover the young girl who it was
hard for him to believe was there beneath his hand,
cold and dead, with no word of welcome for him who
had tried so hard to see her, and was only in time for
this, to help lay herin the grave and to listen to the
solemn words ‘‘ashes to ashes,” and hear the dreadful
sound of earth to earth falling upon the box which held
the beautiful coffin and the lovely girl within it.

Even then Jerrie did not see him, but when she took a
step or two forward to look into the grave before it was
filled up, and some one put a hand upon her shoulder
and said, ‘‘Not too near, Jerrie,”~“$8e started suddenly,
with. a suppressed cry, and turning, saw Harold
standing by her, tall, and erect, and self- essed,
as he faced the multitude, some of whom had suspected
him of a crime, but all of whom were ready now to do
him justice and bid him weicome home.

“Oh, Harold,” Jerrie said, as she grasped his arm. “I
am so glad you are here. I wish you had come before.”

Harold could not reply, for they.were now leaving the
spot, and many gathered around ; irst and foremost
Peterkin, who came tramping through the grass, puff-
ing like an engine, and, unmindtul of the time or place,
slapping him upon the shoulder, as he said :

“Well, my boy, glad to see you back, ’pon my soul, I
be; but you've fiustrated all my plans. [ was meanin’
to give you an oblation; got it ali arranged, and you
spiled it by takin’ us onawares, like a thief in the night.
1 beg your pardon,” he continued, as he met a curious
look in Harold’seyes. ‘i’ma blunderin’ cuss, be, I
didn’t mean nothin’. I’ve never meant nothin,’ and if I
hev Tm sorry for it.”

' Harold did not hear the last, for he was handing Jer-
rie into the carriage with her father, who bade him en-

“Uncle
He is running the

 

where he wished to go as soon as possible. There was
no time for much conversation before the cottage was
reached, and Harold alighted at the gate, and no allu-
sion whatever had been made to Jerrie’s changed rela-
tions until Harold stood looking at her as she kept her
seat by her father and made no sign of an intention to
stop. Then he said, as calmly as he could :

«Do you stay at the Park House altogether now ?”

“Oh, no,” she answered, quickly. ‘I have been there
agreat deal with Maude, but am coming home to-night.
I could not leave grandma alone, you know.”

She acknowledged the home and the relationship still,
and Harold’s face flushed with a look of pleasure, which
deepened in intensity when Arthur, with a wave of the
hand habitual to him, said: t

“J must keep her now.that
grandmother; vut williet you, a
up later, if you like, and waik b with her.”
. “T shal most happy to do so,” Harold said, and
then the earriage drove away, while he went in to his
grandmother, who had not attended the funeral, but
cee Knew that he had returned and was waiting for

m. :

 

       

 

-

CHAPTER LI
UNDER THE PINES WITH HAROLD.

It seemed to Harold that it had been a thousand years
since he left Shannondale, so much had come into and
so much had gone out of hislife since he said good-by
to the girl he loved and to the girl who loved him. One
was dead, and he had only come in time to help lay her in
her grave ; while the other, the girl he loved, was, some
might think, farther removed trom him than death
itself could have removed her.

But Harold did not feel so. He had faith in Jerrie—
that she would not change, though there had been a
time during the first homesick weeks in Tacoma when,
knowing from his grandmother of her convalescence,
and still hearing from her no explanation with regard to
the diamonds, which he knew a few still suspected him |

of having taken, in his impatience and humiliation he
had eried out, ‘Jerrie has forgotten. She is not stand-

ing by me, forever and ever, amen, as She once promised
to do.” But this feeling quickly passed, and there came
a day when he read the judge’s letter in the privacy of
his room at the Tacoma, and rejoiced with an exceeding |
great joy for Jerrie, whose home and birthright had:
been so strangely restored. He never doubted the story
for a moment, but felt rather as if he had known it al-
ways, and wondered how any one could have imagined
for a moment that: blue-eyed, golden-haired Jerrie was
the child of the dark, coarse looking woman found dead
beside her. ‘Iam so glad for Jerrie,” he said, without a
thought that her relations to himself would in any way
be changed.

Onee, when she had told hiin of the faneies which
haunted her so often, he had put them from him with a
fear that, were they true, Jerrie would be lost to him
forever. But he had no such misgivings now; and when
Jerrie’s letter eame, urging his return, both for her own
sake and Maude’s, he wrote a few hurried lines to her,
telling her how glad he was for her, and of his intention
to start for the East as soon as possible. ‘“Tfo-morrow,
perhaps,” he wrote, ‘in which case I may be there be-
fore this letter reaches you, for the mails are sometimes
slow, and the judge’s communication was overdue three
or tour days.”

Starting the second day after his letter, Harold tray-
eled day and night, while something seemed beckoning
him on—Maude’s thin, white face, and Jerrie’s, too; and
Gvhen, between St. Paul and Chicago, there came a de-
tention from a freight car off the track, he felt that he
must fly, so sure was he that he was wanted and anx-
iously looked for at Tracy Park, where at that very time
Maude was dying. The next afternoon he left Chicago,
and with no further accident reached Shannondale just
as the long procession was winding its way to the ceme-

 

tery.

He had heard from an acquaintance in Springfield that
Maude was dead, and of her request that he should be
one of the pall-bearers, together with Dick, and Fred,
and Billy. ‘And I will do it yet,” he said, with a throb
of pain, as he thought of the little girl who had died be-
lieving that he loved her. Once or twice he had re-
solved to write and tell her as carefully as possible of her
mistake, but as often had changed his mind, thinking to
wait until she was better; and now she was dead, and
the chance for explanation gone forever; but he would,
if possible, carry out the wish she had expressed with
regard to himself.

Striking into the fields from the station, he reached
the cemetery in time to take his place by Billy and carry
poor little Maude to her last resting-place ; and then he
looked for Jerrie, and felt an indefinable thrill when he
saw her on her father’s arm, and began to realize that
she was Jerrie Tracy. But all that was over now; he
had talked with her face to face, and had found her the
Jerrie he had always known, and he was going to see
her in herown home at Tracy Park—the daughter of
the house, the heiress of Arthur Tracy, and of more |
than two millions, it was said—for, despite Frank’s ex-
travagance, all of which Arthur had met without a pro-
test, his money had accumulated rapidly, so that he was
a much richer man now than when he first came home
from Europe.

all a shabby Harold sitting at Arthur’s table, but a
young man of whom anyone might have been proud.
And Jerrie was proud of him, and of her father, too, as
they talked together; and Harold showed no sign of any
inequality, even if he felt it, which he did not.

“A fine young man, with the best of manners, and
carries himself as if he were the lord high chancellor,”
Arthur said, when, after dinner, Harold left them to pay
his respects to the other inmates of the family, whom
he found just leaving the dining-room.

Dolly bowed to him coldly at first, and was about to
pass on, when, with a burst of tears, she offered him
her hand, and sobbed :

“Oh, Harold, why didn’t you come before?
wanted to see you so badly.”

This was a great deal for Dolly, and Tom stared at her
in amazement, while Harold explained that he had
come as soon as he possibly could, and tried to say
something of Maude, but could not, for the tears which
choked him, Frank was unfeignedly glad to see him,
and told him so.

“Our dear little girl was fond of you, Hal. Iam sure
she was, and I shall always like you for that. Heaven
bless you, my boy,” he said, as he wrung Harold’s hand
and then hurried away after his wife, leaving Harold
alone with Tom, who, awfully afraid he should break
down, said, indifferently :

“Glad to see you, Hal. Wish you had come before
Maude died. She was in a. tearin’ way to see you.
Have acigar? Gotaprime lot inmyroom. Will you
go there ?”

Harold was in no mood for cigars, and, declining
Tom’s offer, sauntered awhile around the grounds,
where he found himself constantly expecting to find the
déad girl sitting under a tree waiting for him with the
light whose meaning he now knew kindling in her
beautiful eyes as she bade him welcome and told him
how glad she was to see him. He was glad now that he
had not written and told her of her mistake, and he
feltin his heart a greater tenderness for the Maude
dead than he ever could have felt for the Maude living.

It was beginning to grow dark when he returned to
the-house, where he found Jerrie in the hall ready to go
home. Arthur was at her side, with his arm thrown
lovingly around her, and as he passed her over to Har-
old, he said :

“Make the most of her to-night, my boy, for to-mor-
row she comes home to stay. Heaven bless you, my
daughter !”

His words sent.a thrill through both Harold and Jer-
rie. who walked on in silence until they reached the
four pines, where Jerrie halted suddenly and said :

‘Let us sit down, Harold. ihave a message from
Maude, which I promised to deliver the first time we
were alone together after you came home.”

Jerrie’s voice trembled a little, and after they were
seated she was silent until Harold said to her:

“You were going to tell me of Maude;” then she
started and replied:

“Yes; she wanted’so much to see you and tell you
herself. I don’t know what she meant, but she said she
had made a mistake, and I must tell you so, and that
you would understandit. She had been thinking and
thinking, she said, and knew it was astupid blunder
of hers; that was what she called it—a stupid blunder ;
-and she was sorry for you that she had made it, and
bade me say so, and tell you no one knew but herself
oh you. Dear little Maude! I wish she had not

ed.

Jerrie was crying now, and perhaps that was the
reason she did not mind when Harold put his arm
around her and drew her closer to him, so close that his
brown hair touched her golden curls, for the night was
warm and she had brought her bonnet in her hand all
the way, while he had. taken off his hat when they sat
down under the pines, which moaned and sighed above
them for a moment, and then grew still, as if listening
tor what Harold would say. ,

“*Yes,” he began slowly, ‘‘[ think I know what Maude
meant by the mistake. Did she say 1 must tell you what
it was?

«She said you would tell me, but perhaps you'd better
not,” Jerrie replied.

«Yes, I must tell you,” he continued, ‘‘as a prelimi-
nary to what I have to say to you afterward, and what
I did not mean to say quite so soon; but this. decides
me,” and Harold drew Jerrie a little closer to: him as he
wenton: ‘Did you ever think that 1 loved poor little
Maude ?”

“Yes, IT have thought so,” was Jerrie’s answer.

«She thought so, too,” Harold continued, ‘‘and it was
all my fault; my blunder, not hers. I loved her as I
would a sister; as I did you in the olden days, Jerrie.
She was so sweet and good, and sointerested in you and
all I wanted to do for you, that I regarded her as a very
dear friend, nothing more. And because I looked upon
her this way, I foolishly went to her once to confess my
love for another ; her dearest and most intimate friend,

Maude

ter, too, saying they ‘would leave him at the cottage | and ask if she thought I had achance for suceess. I

must have bungled strangely, for she mistook my mean-
ing and thought I was speaking of herself, and in a way
she accepted mne; and before I had time to explain, her
mother came in and I have never seen her since; but I
shall never forget the eyes which looked at meso gladly,
smiting me cruelly for the delusion in which I had to
leave her. Thatis what Maude meant. She saw the
mistake, and wished to rectify it by giving me the
chance to te you myself what I wanted to tell you then
and dared not.”

Jerrie trembled violently, but made no answer, and
Harold went on:

“It may seem strange that I, who used to be so much
afraid of Jerrie Crawford that I dared not tell her of my
love, have the courage to doit now that she is Jerrie
Tracy, and I do no} understand it myself. Once, when
you told me your fincies concerning your bi¥th, a great!
fear took possessién of me, lest I should lose’you, if they
were true ; but when I heard that they were true, | felt
so sure of you that 1 could scarcely wait for the time
when I could ask you, as I now do, to be my wife, poor
as Iam, with nothing but love to give you. Will you,
Jerrie ?”

His face was so close to hers now that her hot cheeks
touched his as she bent her head lower and lower, but
she made no reply for a moment, and then she eried :

“Oh, Harold, it seems sv soon, with Maude only buried
to-day. What shalllsay? What ought I to say ?”

«Shall | tell you ?” he answered, taking her hand in
his. ‘Say the first English word you ever spoke, and
which I taught you. Do you remember it ?”

“Jss!? came involuntarily from Jerrie,in the quick,
lisping accent of her babyhood, when that was all the
English she could master; and almost before it had es-
caped her, Harold smothered it with the kisses he
pressed upon her lips as he claimed her for his own.

«But, Harold,” she tried to explain between his kisses,
“T meant that I did remember. You must not—you
must not. kiss meso fast. You take my breath away.
There! I won't stand it any longer. I’m going straight
home to tell grandma how you act!”

“And so am JI,” Harold said, rising as she did, but
keeping his arm around her as they went slowly along
in the soft September night, with the stars, which were
shining for the first time on Maude’s grave, looking
down upon them, and a thought of Maude in their
hearts, and her dear name often upon their lips, as they
talked of the past as lovers will, trying to recall just
when it was that friendship ceased and love began, and
deciding finally that neither knew nor eared when it was,
so great was their present joy and anticipation of the
future.

(TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

 

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Harold tound the family at dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Tracy
and Tom in the dining-room, and Arthur and Jerrie
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“Come in—come in, my boy. You are just in time for
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handsome and grand he was, and felt sure that her
| father thought so, too.

With a part of the first money Billy had paid him, or
rather had told him to drawin Tacoma, Harold had
bought himself the clothes which he needed sadly; and
though it was only a business suit, and had traveled
thousands of.miles, it fitted him well, and it was not at

 

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D EAF N E Ss tt Oe cat  trcnte eich ae

 

 

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Another Charming Story by Ms, Sheldon

 

 

How a young man arose from humble circumstances,
secured an education, and won an enviable position, as
well as solved a perplexing mystery, is naturally and
effectively narrated in the love-story we are to begin
next week, under the title of

TWO KEYS; |

OR

MARGARET HOUGHTON'S HEROISM.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author ot “ Brownie’s Triumph,” “ The -Forsaken
Bride,” *‘Audrey’s Recompense,”’ etc.

 

The gfadual development of characteris one of the
strong points in this graphic and affecting story.
When the youthful heroine is introduced, there is little
indication of the

BRAVERY, DIPLOMACY, AND TACT
she displays in maturer years, when, to convince herself
of the villainy that is suspected, she cleverly conceals
the aversion felt for the man who, it is conjectured, has
been guilty of
AN APPALLING CRIME.

The adroit unraveling of the network of mystery, with
the ingenious overcoming of almost insurmountable ob-
stacles, by the persevering MARGARET, alone and un-
aided, is very vividly portrayed, and will charm all who
read this well-told story.

 

heh itch

“NO GOOD.”

BY BARKLEY

 

HARKER. |

“What are all those things?” I asked of an inventor,
as we were inspecting his new residence and passed an
attic crammed full of curious fragments.

“Those are broken hopes. No good, as the boys say,”
he replied. ‘Ah, me!” And the now prosperous man
paused pensively, with the door-knob in hand, and
gazed tenderly in upon the heaps of stuff. ‘I say, old
fellow, every one of those models” represents such a
world of high hope—broken in the promise. I don’t
count the long hours, the headaches, and foot-aches,
and back-aches. I don’t count the expense in dollars,
though I’m sure that pile of things represents twenty
thousand wasted dollars, to say the ‘least. No.” And
ina dreamy way he sadly paused to gloat regretfully
over the mass. ‘But it is the heart-aches I count.
Why, in every casé I was sure I had a fortune. Such
exultation! Such elegant homes for my babes and all
my wife’s relations! Such churches:and hospitals as I
have builded and purchased—all in air—as I worked
away on each of these failures !” :

But he won fortune atlast. Thank Heaven! I thought,
as I looked at him. Yet that pile of «“No Goods” is in

every human life, Not oneof us but has begun so many
things with high expectation and a sense of surety at
last. Not one of us but has purchased the old farm for
father and paid off the mortgage for brother. Not one |
but has bought his wife a coupe and bays, and such a |
host of generous things, with a hope that was destined |
all the while to go to the pile of ‘‘No Good” in the end.

There is something exceedingly pathetic in the thought
of the attic lumber of each man’s life? To realize that
such experiments lie in a great heap under every man’s
hat. For whois without them? The man who has fal-
len lowest has, indeed, most of them. Scheme on
scheme, plan on plan, tried a while, and failing in the |
end. To realize, too, what amass of thinking goes on |
over each of these plans that are destined to failure. |
The lying awake nights, the reading of borrowed books, |
the going to ask a friend, the keeping a burning thought |
in one’s breast lest the precious secret be stolen; the
prayers—aye, the prayers, for many a man had long for- |
gotten to pray till he got this new hope nearly ready for |
launching. 1 say, to realize what hour on hours of this |
work is in the attic of every soul—in the end no good.
{t makes my heart ache to contemplate it.

Is it wasted? No. Every such broken hope belongs in
our lives. It was destined to be when we were born.
The thing was as ‘‘natural” to us as our ‘‘success.” Not
wasted, because the will-o’-the-wisp amused us for many
a dreary hour, and kept our courage up. Not wasted,
because the discipline is brought of our powers remains.
Not wasted because the lying hope eyen made us happy,
induced us to temperance, kept us, from evil while we
were working atit. Not wasted because those generous
gifts which we never gave, and munificent deeds which
we never could afford, yet showed us a better side of our
own.nature, and showed our friends the same: I am
glad to know that my wife has had a coupe, and bays, |
allin the air. Dear heart, God bless her! It shows me |
how much I love her; and if she ever heard me speak of |
my dream she knows how much I love her. |

Not wasted are our honest experiments that failed at |
last. For out of some of them we get the 7
hint it may be, that leads to final success. Most men

 

 

stumble on fortune. Most men just saw daylight as |
they were about to be eclipsed in hopeless gloom forever. |
Most fortunes are patch-work. A mere scrap of “luck” |
in one thing pieced onto a mere rag. of success in

another thing; and so on till they got the garments of |
gold. .
Then, too, no man can tell what hour he may want to |
It
will come to him, in a moment of brown-study; that he
has ‘‘just the thing up under the eaves” of his brain there,
“just the checker” tucked away up among the cobwebs
ot days gone by. He'll bound up the stairs and seize it,
thankful that the mind can throw nothing away, that
it saves everything. i

Life isa circle. The garments that are out of fashion
this year will come into fashion again if you wait long
enough. The scneme that will not work to-day will
work to-morrow, if you are ready to workit. The fit-
ness of things is the wisdom of success. Keep trying.
Work over the old ‘‘No Goods.”

I tell you, my friend, you had a flash of inspiration.
There is—there must be something in it, or God would
not have created you to dream it out. Turn it over, and
over, and over again. Never lose courage. Never aban-
don your conviction. ‘‘There’s millions in it’for some
man. Don’t sell out yourrights. Of course you must
have bread, so go to digging ditches meanwhile, or by
any other honest labor keep soul and body together.
Don’t go crazy. Your time will come for the despised
“No Good,” it you are true to yourself.

The great trouble with most of usis that we get the
attic too full. We accumulate broken hopes. We have
too many useless patents on hand. Hence we get dis-
heartened at the sight of them. One failure well stuck
to is better than a hundred half noticed and soon for-
gotten. I have a plan in my head over which I have al-
ways failed. i never began to make it go, but I will, if I
live a hundred years or less. I never for a moment aban-
doned it. I have too much of love and labor invested in
it. Theideais good. It I give it up some other man
will yet accomplish it. Imean tobe the man. Thereis
more in the attics of this world than in the parlors. The
greatest things are yet to be. The hopes of man are
more than his histories. One should hesitate long be-
fore he writes over anything for which he has sacrificed
much, ‘‘No Good.”

et

THE ONE-MAN POWER.

BY KATE THORN,

 

 

All societiesiand organizations know what is meant by
the one-man power.

Society in general knows it. We all know it.
likes it, but what are you going to do about it?

There is in every country village some one man who
generally contrives to have his way about how the
streets shall be paved, and where the crossings shall be
built, and who shall teach the high school, and where
the street-lamps and water reservoirs shall .be located,
andina hundred other matters equally important, he
sways public opinion.

In every city there is some Boss.

In every Masonic or Odd‘Fellows’ Lodge there is some
governing spirit. r

In every political organization there is somebody who
is going to say who is to be elected, and who is to get
the fat picking'’s from the public treasury.

And in every church there is the one-man power.
is of this latter power we wish to speak.

The one-man power in church is particularly ob-
noxious. Sometimes it is wielded by some member who
secures it by dint of a large subscription to the minis-
ter’s salary and to the mission cause, and the other
members are afraid that if they do notlet Mr. Brown
have things his way, he won't give as much another
year.

Nobody

It

Mr. Brown’s taste decides the color of the new pulpit |

cushions; and the number of lamps there shall be in
the chandeliers; and the way the outside door of the
vestry shall swing; and the time the prayer meetings
shall begin; and the length of time Deacon Blifkins
shall take up in an exhortation; and the number of

stops which shall be pulled out of the organ in playing”

the doxology ; ‘and whether Captain Jones’ dog shall be

allowed to come to church; and how the church debt

shall be paid, and who shall pay it; and whether the
parsonage shall be painted green or white ; and whether
it is best to indulge in the luxury of oyster suppers or
not ; and whether it is advisable to hold a fair, and put

ts and rocking-chairs into a lottery ; and whether it
would be strictly pious to vote on a cane for Deacon
Burr and Deacon Jenkins.

Mr. Brown also takes it upon himself to labor with
the minister and get him to devote sermons to his par-
ticular way of thinking on political and temperance is-
sues; and ten to one, if the minister aforesaid does not
cast his ballot to please Mr. Brown, he will be receiving
notice from the church wardens that ‘his resignation
will be acccpted.”

Mr. Brown is an autocrat in his way, and the whole
society dislikes him; but what can they do? They must
have his help. They must not do anything to lessen the
amount of his contributions. They must not run the
risk of having him take his money and his influence to
the other church. They must not allow him the shadow
of a chance of going to heaven by the way of the other
minister’s sermonizing. 1t would be such a misfortune
for their church, if he should! '

To be sure, they must keep Brown at all hazards, say
the timid ones; and so Brown remains, and lords it over
better men, and men of better judgment, and rules the
roost generally, and everybody submits, on account of
Brown’s money and influence.

We cannot help tuinking that it is a pity that creation
should have been organized on such a pian that money
should rule everything; and brains, and common sense,
and decency should be at a discount, and men should be
afraid to speak out their honest convictions lest it should
in some way touch a money interest, and bring about
some adverse financial issue.

OVER-ANXIOUS PARENTS,

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

 

 

 

Over-anxious parents, desirous that their chilaren
should appear well, ofttimes make the gravest errors,
and do their children an irreparable wrong, in their very
care and watchfulness. ,

It is not always the plant most tender, and cared for,
shaded, and dug about, tied with strings, and propped
up by twigs, which becomes the most healthy, or yields
the most beautiful flowers; but one which receives water
and light, and is left to grow in its own sweet, natural
way, does quite as well.

So the child whose every act, word, and. motion is by
rule and regulation, and under surveiljance, is no more
likely.to be ect in deportment, grab and pleasing
in appearance, than one who is taught the proprieties of
life, and then allowed to be natural.

It is all very well to teach childrem not to eat with
their fingers or knives, not to pick their faces or yawn
before people, not to swing their arms or protrude their
elbows when moving across the room: and it is right to
reprove them for forgetting thege or other proprieties.

But there are different ways of administering reproofs.

Some parents, and very many older brotheys and sis
ters, employ ridicule to cure children of awkward or
clumsy habits. They mimic their movements and hold
them up tot mous hing scorn of the other children or
members ot ily, hoping to thus prevent a repeti-
tion of their se against propriety.

Nothing ¢ be more unwise or productive of more
painful consequences.

A child who is once ridiculed by a parent or older
child labors under a disadvantage when in the presence
of ‘the ridiculer long after the lesson has been forgotten
by the one who gave it.

We very often see children-—and even young ladies
and young men—who appear well before strangers, but
are ill at ease, awkward, and easily discomposed in the
presence of their parents, or brothers and sisters.

The fear of doing something or saying something
which will be reported at home, or remembered after-
ward and ridiculed, checks every natural, spontaneous
act or word, and renders them affected and ungrateful.

There is never any circumstance which justifies one
member of a family in ridiculing another. It results
only in bitterness of heart and a dread of the presence
of the ridiculer, and a sense of freedom in getting away
from control.

Even when ridicule is not used, great harm is done by
watching and reproving, though ever so kindly, the least
mistake or error in deportment. I have known children
to render themselves ridiculous in their efforts to ap-
pear well, because their mother’s eye was upon them,
and her proud and fond heart desired them to be perfect
in manner, and because they knew when once alone
with her, every word, movement, look, and inflection
would be criticised and corrected.

Though a child may understand and feel grateful for

   
 
 

| the love and care which prompt this watchtulness, it

can but feel it irksome, and wearing after a time; and
it is sure to result in at least a desire to be free from alt
restraint of the kind—to be among people who keep
their criticisms until they are out of hearing. Even

though conscious that it is an evidence of indifference}

which causes the world to be less watchful, the child
will choose the place where it can be natural and free

sometimes, rather than the love which renders its home-
life a military discipline. ae 4
es
UNCLE MEDDLE’S LETTERS.
NO. 16.

 

| To Billy Meddle, Who Asks a Hard Question

 

My DEAR NEPHEW :—Your old uncle hez got about ez
good an opinion of hisself as the law allows, but when
you come suddenly down on him with the question
“What's the very best thing that a human bein’ can
hev ?” you make him feel a good deal ez et you’d dropped
a can of dynamite pooty close to him. ‘

Ther’s something that a man wants to handle mighty
keerful.; dynamite is one an’ a young man’s character's
another.

Ef I say “Religion” in answer to your question, some
folks ‘ll say ther’s lots of religious people thet don’t take
keer of their folks or pay their grocery bills.

Ef I say ‘‘Money,” all the church folks who ain’t rich
will say I’m a hardened infidel, though I am a deacon.

Ef I say ‘‘Wisdom,” all the rich an’ respectable fools
will turn up their noses an’ say I’m a bookworm, al-
though they’d feel sick ef they could see my spellin’ an’
grammer.

Thinkin’ the hull subject over agin, ez I done about a
thousand times ‘fore you wuz born, I feel free to say

that the very best quality a man ken hev is what I call
“Grip.”

Ther’s this good pint about Grip; it don’t turn up its
nose at anythin’ good, but takes tight hold of whatever's
wuth havin’, an’ then works it fur all it’s wuth.

The trouble with pooty much any other thing- is thet
them thet hez it think it’s all they need, when it isn’t.

Praps this sounds irreverent to you, when you think
about religion, but it wont after you read the Bible
awhile, fur that level-headed old book is where I got my
text on Grip, an’ here it is: :

‘Prove all things: hold fast to ‘that which is good.”

Praps, too, it sounds foolish to you when you're envy-

 

SOME by wit get wealth, but none by wealth can pur-
chase wit.

in’ the man that’s got more money than he can spend.
Well, my boy, it’s a comfort not to have to wonder where

the price of yer next suit of clothes an’ next weeks per-

| est, an’ industrious, an’ smart, an’ well meanin’ enough

itis, even ef you ain’t got nothin’ in the world but a yal-

coats THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

VOL. 41—No, 29,

 

visions is to come.from, but. ther’s lots of rich folks that
don’t git nothin’ but their’ béard an’ clothes tur their
money. j ‘ ;

Aw when you come to take a square look at the nest-
egg of knowledge that some learned men has got you're
likely to think that grip looks mighty small alongside ot
wisdom. But I can show you hosts of men of grip who
stand well with everybody, while there’s ten times ez
many that’s gone through college, but never pay fur
their livin.

Grip is the ‘stuff that makes you take hold of every
thing in dead earnest, no matter whether it’s a busi-
ness, or a sentiment, or a principle—whether it’s a dol-
lar, or a friend, or a religion.

x" It’s the stuff that keeps a man goin’ after he gits on
1e track.

It's the quality that makes the hand, an’ the heart, an’
the head stretch accordin’ to what they find that’s wuth
takin’ in. % ‘

It’s the thing that makes a feller stick to his business,
his home, an’ his wite, instid of foolin’ away time in
wishin’ he had somebody else’s.

It's the quickest thing in the world to help a man git
rid of what isn’t good for him, fur ther’s nothin’ like a
tight grip to prove a thing.

‘Ther’s lots of men called ‘‘unfortunate” who are hon-

to be well fixed in evry way, if only they’d hed a good
sock of grip when they started. But they’ve drifted
from one biznes to another, one town to another, one
furm to another, one church to another, ontil nobody
‘knows ‘xactly where to find ’em, an’ they don’t know
a *xactly where to tind anything they ever
lad. i

Some of ’em’s even drifted from one family to another,
till now nobody's mean enough to own’em.

Grip teaches you to think well of your own, whatever

ler dog. The man that thinks well of his-own is always
thought well of, though folks can’t alkuz explain why.

It helps you to make the most of What you've got, an’
that’s the way to git the most good out of it.

It’s the way to make it grow, too—whether it’s crops,
or money, or love, o4yreligion.

*Twas grip that nade George Washington hold fout
seven years agin the strongest nation on earth, an’ be
admired by all the world ever sence.

*Twas grip that made Grant a great general in spite of
havin’ no sort of a start.

Or, goin’ further back, to men ’bout whom you ain't
got any two opinions, twas grip thet made Moses—the
meekest Man that ever lived-—see the Izrulites through,
though it took him forty year. -

An’ ’twas grip that made the few weak, not over
smart, disciples of the dead Jesus stand up agin the
hull Roman empire ontil it turned all the heathen tem-
ples into Christian churches.

Hold onto your grip, my boy, furits what helps you.
hold everything else.

When you tind it slippin’, brace it up ev’ty way you
know how; tur when that goes evrything else ’ll foller
mighty soon. ., ‘

You've often heerd the old sayin’, ‘a rollin’ stone
gathers no moss.” Well, grip is the stuff to keep the
stone from rollin’.

Mebbe you'll think I rate grip too high. Well, before
you make up yer mind for good, just look over ev’ry body
that ’mounts to anythin’ in any way an’ see ef I ain’t
right. ‘The race isn’t to the swift nor the battle to the
strong, sez the Bible—it’s them that runs or fights
longest that wins. Aw’ that’s what grip means,

Your affectionate UNCLE MEDDLE.

 

a Ot

SEEN THROUGH A TELESCOPE,

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

Some of the ae hurled at unscientific readers
by astronomers are Well calculated to undermine a
man’s credulity, and fatally wreck his belief in one thing
and another, as it were. i

The assertion that it would take a telegraph messen-
ger boy 100,000,000,000 years to reach the nearest star, if
he had a me e to deliver there, while he would ac-
complish the distance in one-half the time in case he
was going to a fire on that planet, might be doubted by
some persons, but a glance through a big telescope
quickly corroborates the statement.

The information that the rings of* Saturn are less cor-
rupt than the “rings” of the earth is also easily be-
lieved,. with the assistance of the telescope. __

The theory that meteors are fragments of a-comet
which has been shattered by a Milesian hired girl light-
ing a fire with kerosene in that. erratic body. sounds like
the wildest sort of nonsense, but the wonderful tele-
scope even indorses this hypothesis. 3

The declaration that if a man were to hollow out the
sun, he could place in its center the earth, with space
enough for the moon to travel around it without bump-
ing against the sid@s, and there would still be room

 

 

enough Yor an object.
it retur#s horke at €

champion pennant, he
about it, but a peep through the telescope dis:
doubts. The tact that no man had attempte
out the interior department of the sun and dump the
earth therein seemed to lend an air of bald improbability
to the statement.

The announcement that if all the coal mined in Penn-
sylvania since the world began were to be shot into the
sun at one time, a bashf-young man would not experi-
ence as sudden a rise in the temperature as when he
enters. the business office of his girl’s father to ask for
her hand, and hears the stern and spectacled parent
say: “Well, what can I do for you, young man?” no
doubt sounds incredible, but the telescope also verifies
this assertion.

The observation that the sun has been shrinking at
the rate of 125 feet a year for the past 2,000 years is a
self-evident no-such-thing, you may say. You are will-
ing to make affidavit that the sun is as large to-day as it
was before the war, and yet the astronomers do not
dime-novelize.

All the astronomical observations published by Pro-
fessors Proctor, Parkhurst, Flammarion and other scien-
titic sharps, were regarded by us as the wild speculations
and idle conjectures vf scientific dreamers—before we
gazed through a big telescope. Now we are prepared to
indorse all their theories and discoveries—and more, too.
‘rhe half has not veen told.

Tt is extremely doubtful, however, if the boss astrono-
mers are willing to subscribe to all our scientific exposi-
tions. With the aid of a telescope a man can see more
stars than the theatrical profession ever dreamed of—
and none of them are counting railroad ties from Ursa
Major to the Pleiades, nor seeking divorces in the courts.
They are not that kind of stars. Q

Persons who contemplate going gunning for prize
comets will be pleased to know that there are myriads
of these heavenly objects playing hide and seek in
boundless space. We can’t see them, hence we know
that they are there. The telescope tells us this. The

  
  

 

tails of many of them have not yet commenced to sprout,
which explains their timidity to appearing in public. |
The fact that the prize for the discovery of a no-tailed
comet is just as large as for one having a caudal ap- |
pendage seventeen billion miles in length, should en-
courage young men who are out of employment to |
embark in the comet-hunting business.

The telescope shows that the sun is so far away that |
if a man were to start on a balloon voyage to the fier,
orb, the Grant Monument Fund would all be subscribed |
before he arrived at his destination. This may appear |
like one of the most incredible scientific theories ever |
promulgated, but we can’t go back on the revelations of |

difficult to grasp this vast question in its entirety; but
probabilities are, that we should soon find ourselves
yearning for a foothold on terra firma, where spring
chicken is forty cents a pound, and the daily paper can
be borrowed of our next-door. neighbor. The telescope
shows that we might travel fh space millions and mil-
lions of miles, and find only black, starless chaos! And
imagine a man traveling a million miles in chaos with
no newspapers to inform him how many New York al-
dermen had been arrested for bribery since he started
out on his journey !

Venus, one of the loveliest objects in the heavens, is
almost the size of our earth, but it has no moon. There-
fore, if Venus is inhabited lovers are to be pitied. They
are unable to indulge in moonlight strolls, and it is im-
possible for a young man to “meet her by moonlight
alone.” But what asplendid country to borrow fruit
from an old farmer’s melon-patch. And gas stock must
be more than one hundred r cent. above par—in
towns where the electric light has not been introduced.
Saturn is provided with eight moons; and the fact that
the young menof Venus have not formed a syndicate
and purchased one of Saturn’s lunar orbs for their own
planet, is indisputable evidence that Venus is not in-
habited. The distance of Jupiter from the sun is
482,000,000 miles, and it takes 4,332 days to complete its
yearly revolution. A year 4,332 days long has its advan-
tages. It would be a great boon to the young man who
gets a Salary of seven dollars a week and spends fifty
emg each year fora Christmas present for his best
girl. :

The study of the planets is a beautiful and interesting
science. When gazing through a telescope at the fiery
form of Mars we find ourselves wondering whether its
Rene: if inhabited, are driving out Chinese laborers,

ycotting manufacturers, attending slugging matches,
investing money in lotteries, and engaging in other
civilized and Christian pursuits the same as the people
in our own free and enlightened country. Saturn ap-
pears to have been the model selected when the dude's
head was fashioned. Itis so light that if placedina
huge ocean it would float with a fourth of its bulk above
the level of the water. It must not be regarded asa
non-temperance planet because it can keep its head so
far above ‘water. 7

Neptune, the last planet bagged by the astronomical
hunters, is 2,780,000,000 miJes Irom the sun. ‘The name
of the man who sold the tape-line with which the dis-
tance was measured has slioped Our memory. It is
barely possible that a mistake of three or four miles
was made in the measurement, but 2,780,000,000 is near
enough. The telescope shows that the distance is just
about that many miles. Neptune’s days are nearly 166
of our years in length, and few of its people ever live to
be a day old. We skould dislike to live on a planet
where all the inhabitants are cut down in their youth.

The pole-star is so called because the north pole of
the earth points to that particular star; but the pole of
the earth is gradually changing its direction, andin a
few years the pole-star will be the pole star no longer.
This may cause some confusion to ocean travel, and fill
the hearts of sea captains with consternation ; but they
will rejoice to learn that after 25,000 years have passed
the pole-star will once more be the pole-star. This may
seem like a long time to wait, but until a plan is de-
vised to prevent the pole of the earth from shitting its
position, there is no other course to pursue.

Old and- experienced astronomers tell us that the
nearest star is some 20,000,000,000,000 miles distant, and
we have no reason to doubt them. And, besides, when
we look through the most powerful telescope made, we
see at once that the nearest Star is just about that far
off. And are these far-away worlds inhabited by Ameri-
cans, Englishmen, Indians, Chinamen, comic opera
companies, progressive euchre players, Knights of Labor,
and bogus counts? Let us hope not. When we ap-
proach these great conundrums we are overwhelmed
with our own insignificance. For hundreds of millions
of years asun endures, pouring torth supplies of heat
and light. When.we first heard this theory advanced, we
looked upon it as the fictionest sort of fiction ; but when
we gazed through a telescope, we at once perceived,
with startling vividness, that a sun is built to last just
about that length of time.“ The suns which people
space outweigh several such globes as ourearth. We
have forgotten the name of the man who weighed these
suns, but he is dead now, anyway, and his scales were
sold along with his other personal etfects. Years ago
the earth ejected meteors which now form the extra
population of the earth’s orbit. The oldest inhabitant
ails to recall this incident, but it is a tact, nevertheless.
We see it all around us,

>@

A Reader for Twenty-three Years.

 

 

We have heard from so many old readers since the
publication of Celia A. Johnston's letter, in No. 23, that
it really appears asif the regular perusal of the New
York WEEKLY conduced to health and longevity. Here
is a letter from a gentleman who has been a reader for
twenty-three years :

|

 

 

Monroe, Wis., April 19th, 1886.
Editors New York Weekly. . gi
GENTLEMEN: 1 have just read the communication of
Celia A. Johnston, in which she challenges comparison
ot period of subscription to your paper. I can come very
near her record, having been aconstant reader of the
‘same for twenty-three years. \-Yours truly,
} t Nh. Seielibes Saet bot Cc. E. Keyes.
—_—_———_>ek—___—— ’

‘A PATRIOTIC FRENCH JEWHLER.

 

Of General von Manteuffel, the late German. military
governor of conquered Alsace, who hated all that was
French, it is said that he once at a public dinner en-
gaged in a dispute with a French diplomat who main-
tained the superiority of the French workmen over the
artisans of all other nations. Eidd BEER

«A thing so ugly does not exist that the skill and ge-
nius ofa F ame ge cannot make of it a thing of beau-
ty,” he said.

“Angered by the contradiction, the old soldier pulled a
hair from his bristly gray mustache, and handing it to
the Frenchman, said, curtly :

“Let him make a thing of beauty out of that, then,
and prove your claim !”

The Frenchman took the hair and sent it in a letter to
a well known Parisian jeweler, with a statement of the
case, and an appeal to his patriotic pride, giving him no
limit of expense in executing the order. A week later,
the mail from Paris brought a neat little box for the gen-
eral. In it was a handsome scarf-pin, made. like a Prus-
sian eagle, that held in its talons a stiff gray bristle,
from either end of which dangled a tiny golden ball.
One was inscribed Alsace, the other Lorraine, and on
the eagle’s perch were the words: ‘‘You hold them, but
by a hair.”

 

—_—_->- @ <+—____ ——
A WONDERFUL STORY.

 

A strange story in regard to the birth of a child four |
months after its mother had been dead and buried, is |
told by the Rey. Mr. Lindsey, who formerly resided and |
preached in Richmond County, N.C. He himself was |
that child. ‘ |

It appears that his mother, who resided in Stewart~}
ville township, in Richmond County, fell ill, and, to all

| appearances, died, and was buried in Stewartville ceme- | \oo¢

tery. The night following her interment some soulless
thieves, for the purpose of securing the jewelry that
was buried with the body, unearthed the remains, when

consciousness returned, and she was enabled to return

to her home.

Arriving at her late residence she rapped at the door
and was answered by her husband, who demanded to
know who was there. To his great astonishment the

the telescope—through which we learn that if a comet, |-answer came, ‘It is your wife.” He was not quick in

going through space at the rate of ten million knots an

hour, was to suddenly switch off its orbit and hit a man |
on the occiput, he would not complain of as frightful a |
headache next morning as if he had been at a cham- |
pagne supper the night before. His skull might need |
considerably more repairs, however. . |

And right here an important question arises, viz. :
What would be the result it two hundred and fifty comets
were to appear in the ay at one time—a plausible
supposition. according to Proctor and the telescope—
and the entire number were to swoop down and collide
with the earth? Why, the result would be that each
daily paper in New York, and every other city in this
country, on the day following the catastrophe, would
boast in a half-column, double-leaded editorial that it
was on the street with a full account of the disaster
fifteen minutes before any of its cotemporaries, This
would be attributable not so much to the centrifugal
action of the comets’ passage through the solar corona,
as to the editorial inability to make a claim not founded
on fact. There is something curious about this, but the
telescope can’t lie.

The telescope,also proves that if a man were to get
astride of a comet’s tail, and start off on a voyage
through space at the rate of six billion miles an hour,
and the comet were to bump against the moon without
putting on its air-brakes, the an would immediately
dismount without waiting for some one to urge him to
do so. The great French scientist, M. Flammaroin, en-
tertains the Same opinion, though Proctor is inclined to
be skeptical on this point.

Two hundred years ago, Sir Isaac Newton declared
that ‘if a comet were to fall into the sun it would so
increase the heat of that orb that the earth would be
burned up and no animals in it could live.” This pretty
effectually demolished the belief previously existing
that animals could live in a world after it had been
burned up. . : ;

One of the most surprising things learned by looking
through a telescope at the heavenly bodies, is the fact
that the name of each star and planet is not pasted on
it somewhere. Their cognomens must have been washed
off by the rains of centuries since their discovery by the
ancient astronomers. This makes it rather puzzling for
amateurs to know whether they are gazing at Orion,
Plutarch, Jupiter, or some star that was born without a
name. Professor Knoitall advances the opinion that in
the early days, when astronomy was in its infancy, each
star now known by an appellation had its name on a
sign over the door. We see this same idea to-day in
comic cartoons, each polititian figuring therein having
his name tacked on him somewhere.

If we were to project ourselves eighty millions of miles

 

 

 

into the regions of space, what should we find? It is

opening the door, but finally did so, and was overjoyed
to meet again in life his beloved wife, whom he had
mourned as dead. Four months afterward the Rev. Mr.
Lindsey was born, and the motner survived several
years. This is indeed a strange story, but we are as-
sured that it is literally true.

—_—— O34

A WIFE LIKENED TO GUNPOWDER.

 

 

A Buffalo bachelor had such serious doubts of the
happiness of married life that he deferred popping the
question until late in life. Even after securing the con-
sent of the lady he had chosen, he feared the conse-
quences. His last revolt against the shackles of matri-

mony occurred when he was sent to procure the mar-
riage license, a few days before the ceremony. He
sought the city official who presided over the license
department and asked, bravely :

“Is this where licenses are kept ?”

«Yes, sir,” answered the clerk, politely.
of license do you want ?” ;

«Well, what kind have you got ?” rejoined our friend,
with superhuman gravity.

The clerk had begun to look ya his visitant as a
lunatic, but he obligingly rattled off the list.

“Give you a license to drive a hack, give you a license
to pull teeth or practice medicine, give you a pawn-
broker’s or huckster’s license, give you a license to keep
gunpowder in the house——”

“Stop,” said our friend, quietly. ‘‘That’s what I want.”

oo

A CLERGYMAN’S DRAWING.

When the Rev. S. L. B. Chase was a pastor in Rock-
land, Me., he one day essayed to treat the Sunday-
school to a blackboard exposition of the lesson. So, for
a starter, and in the way of graphically illuminating his

remarks. he took a bit of chalk and slowly and some-
what painfully;sketched on the blackboard a representa-
tion of two human hearts joined together.

“Now, then,” he said, turning to the school, ‘‘who will
tell me what I have drawn ?”

“I know,” called a very little boy on the front seat.

« Well,” the pastor kindly said, ‘‘what is it?” ’
And the very little boy on the front seat shrieked
out ;

«What kind

Correspondence.

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

t#~ Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers,

 

[We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart-
ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal,
Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and
fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive
at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared tu render
the answers to questions absolutely reliable] —

 

M. U. G., New Orleans. —Crystallizing consists in depositing
a coating of fine crystals of pure sugar upon the surface of
the articles selected for the purpose, and it accomplishes two
objects: it protects them from the air, enabling them to re-
tain their moisture for a long period, and makes their ap-
pearance more attractive. The process is as follows: To two
pounds of sugar add half a pint of water, and boil until the
sugar is entirely dissolved and converted into sirup. The
articles to be crystallized are placed on wire frames in a ti
box and completely covered with the sirup, to which, Saat tw
fore pouring into the box, should be added one ounce of pure
alcohol. ‘The whole should be kept ata temperature of about
seventy degrees, and < undisturbed tor twelve hours.
Near the end of this period the articles should be carefully
examined, and if found sufficiently crystallized, the super-
fluous sirup should be drained off. The articles are then
dried by a gentle heat, and are for use. The alcohel
is employed to hasten the work of crystallization, which is
amount of sugar in solution; but if a much larger
proportion of sugar may be introduced and kept in solution
as long as a high temperature is maintained. When the sir-
up pasins to cool, the particles of sugar, which can no longer
be held therein, assume a crystalline form, and are deposited
on the articles ready to receive them. Alcohol is not recom-
mended if very fine crystals are desired: «

Miss Rose S.—ist. ‘The color of the hair is light brown. 24d.
To make starch for linen, cotton, &c.,to one ounce of the
best starch add just enough soft cold waterto make it (by
rubbing and stirring) into a thick paste, carefully breaking
all the lumps and particles. When rubbed perfectly smooth,
add a pint of boiling water (with bluing to suit the f. r),
and boil for at least half an hour, takin ee stir eee
all the time, to prevent its burning. When not: ng, kee
it covered, so as to protect it from dust, ete. oe
covered when remoyed from the fire, to prevent ascum from
rising on it. To make starch for colored articles, such as
ginghams, muslins, and calicoes, dissolve and ad
pint.of starch a small

the colors bright.

Y. C. G.—Ist. The area of Paris proper at different dates is
shown in the following table : Under Julius r, ST acres ;
Philip Augustus, 625; Charles VI., 1,084;
Louis XTII., 1,403; Louis XIV.,°2,728 ; Louis XVI.,
leon IIZ., 18,315, or a little more than 28 1-2 square
area of New York city is 411-2 square miles, or
The mainland portion of the city, formerly
towns of Morrisania, West Farms, and Kingsh
chester County, was annexed by the act of M
which went into effect on Jan. 1, 1874. 2d. Paris v
urbs forms aspecial department, that of the Seine, hay
an area of 184 square miles, 3d. The streets of Pari
paved with asphalt. , ree
S.A. S., Cazenovia, N. Y.—1st. The anti-rent
this State began in 1839. They grew out of exac
to those of feudal times, In 1845 Gov. Wright iss
mation declaring Delaware County in a state of i

| thus explained: Water, when cold, will only retain a certain
i hoated,

  
   

8,108; Napo-
ne

 
  
 
 
  
    

          
  
     
 

 

and the trials and convictions at Delhi, in that county, put
an end to operations by armed bands. After 1847 the excite-
ment died out, and he anti-renters were nt to. contest
in the courts their ts as tenants, successive g

having in the interim passed acts ameliorating tl
tion, 2d. De Witt Clinton was elected Governor of }
in 1816, 1819, and 1826. He was also Lieut-Govern
to 1813. wee : hi S
Rizpah, Lowell, Mass.—An excellent mixture fora cough or
cold is made as follows: Take one teacupful of flaxseed, and
let it soak all night. In the morning put into a kettle two
quarts of water, one handful of licorice root (split up), and a

 

uarter of a pound of raisins (cut in half). Boil them
enti the strength is thoroughly extracted, and then add the
soaked flaxseed.

Let all boil about half an hour more, watch-
ing and stirring, that the mixture may vel eae Then

    
    

 
 

strain and lemon quice and sugar to taste. Take
quantity cold through the day, and, if needed, b
spoonful warm at night.

W. C. P., Columbia, 8. C.—Ist. The rarest U.S. coin is thi
double eagle of 1849, of which there is only one in exist
It belongs to the U.S. Mint cabinet. The next in rarity
the half eagle of 1815, for which, it is said, the z
den, a.comepiete his collection of U. 8S. coins,
this half eagle
exist. 2d. The standard or Bland dollar was adopted
3d. Trade dollars were coined from 1873 to 1882. sth, ‘The first
silver dollar was coined in October, 1794, Bees t
G. W. W., Grinnell, lowa.—The word elixir is supposed to
be of Arabic origin : applied in old pharmacy to certain ex-
tracts obtained in boiling ; as elixir of vitriol, etc. In modern
pharmacy the name is retained for various tinctures made
up of several ingredients. The alchemists applied it to a

   
  

number of solutions which they employed in the transmu
fon of metals, and to the olf playa par whi
en discovered was to endow the person | og it with im-
mortality. PN oo ae a ee ret
Mrs. A. C.. Albany, N. Y.—T! me for the aged and

helpless of both sexes, and of denomination, at 179 E.
Seventieth street. The applicants must be over sixty years
of age, and Wid Sispy lar as There is another at 487 Hudson
street, to which the admission is ; and another in Third
avenue, corner of Eighty-n street. There are other
homes, but they are only for the benefit of ,the conmuni-

nts of certain churches; gece ae
. Kibany, the capital of this
a the original thirteen colo-
place was called by the

  
   
   
  
  
   
   

M. C. M., Poughkeepsi
State, is the oldest settlem
nies except Jamestown, V

 
  
   

  

  

Dutch New Orange, and retained the name’ until the whole
rovince passed into possession of the English in_ 1664, en
New was changed to Albany, in hor e ke of

York and Albany, afterward James iL I came the State

capital in 1797. : ”

Perry L., Hudson, N. Y.—The following recipe is highly
recommended for rheumatisin, sprains, bruises, and lame-
ness: Mix together two ounces of spike, two o i
anum, two ounces of hemlock, two o1
four ounces-of sweet oil, two_ounces of sp
and two ounces of gum camphor. done qua
alcohol. Mix well together and bottle. — z

New Reader, New Providence.—“Log-rolling” is a system of
management by which a member of a deliberative or legis-

  
  
  

it of ammonia,
a 95 per cent,

| lative body attempts to secure the adoption of a favorite

measure, by inducing other members to yote for it in retu
for assistance in carrying their several pet measures. It
originated in the mutual aid of the early settlers in clearing
trees from the land. ,

William C. P.. Medina, Ohio.—Peter Parley was a name as-
sumed by Samuel Griswold, who was born in, Ridgefield,
Conn., on Aug. 19, 1793. He died in this city on May 9, 1860.
His Peter Parley series of juvenile books made mcre than
one hundred volumes. A number of spurious works were
published under his pseudonyme.

Mrs. S., Allendale, I.—The religion of the Philistines re-
sembled that of the Pheenicians, their principal deities being
the goddess Derceto, who was worshiped at Ascalon, and Da-
gon, whose chief temples were at Yaza and As . Derceto
was probably identical with Asherah, we was a
en statueorcolumn. rt eos
Bookmaker, New Orleans.—ist. Neither system a is in legal
existence, 2d. The cork soles worn inside of boots and shoes
are of benefit to those who suffer from cold feet in winter,
and are always in demand. Their useis recommended by
physicians.

_ E. E. W.—A trance state is something resembling{catalepsy,
which is a sudden suspension of the action of the senses and
of volition, the b and limbs preserving the position given
them, while the action of the heart and lungs continues. ~

Fort Spring, W. Va.—ist. There was two — ago a pre-
mium of ten cents on copper cents of the dates given. No
premium on the silver half-dollar. 2d.,We cannot give the
name of any particular dealer in this department. —

Lillian Grey, Brockport, N. ¥.—Though thimbles have been
in use only about two hun years, it is not tively
known who first made them. Some writers thi ey Came
from Holland. : :

P.C. P., Long Island.—It was Frank I. Frayne who acei-

seum Theater, Cincinnati, on Nov. 30, 1882.

ing machine $10. If you desire them, write
YorRK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.

quence of a parade of the Orangemen, 62 persons were killed,
and 117 wounded.

pendicularj fall of_fifty feet and a total descent of seventy-
two feet.

H. C.—The following names may suit the members of #l
club: Calypso, Euterpe, Fortuna, lanthe, Urania. = ¥

Telephone ere Grinnell, lowa.—We can furnish a book
entitled “The Telephone” for 50 cents.

Thirty-Nine, New Orleans.—Some work on anatomy m
inform you. ;

Miss M., Cincinnati.—Addresses are not given in this de-

partment.
To ConTRIBUTORS.—The following respectfully

MSS. are
Exhibition ;”_ “My Love :” “The

“Crippled Jane ;” “daqueline’s Triumph.”
. a

 

By living ourselves simply,
keeping our own standards high, our own principles
firm, and our own hearts sympathetic, we may exercise
a deeper influence for good over those with whom we

actions. He who thus lives will also be able to touch the
secret springs of character, and, through a delicate
though unconscious power, to arouse dormant desires
for good by his words as well as by his example.

MARRIAGE Should be the spontaneous union of hearts
as wellas hands. Then the relation contains the ele-
ments of happiness, but not otherwise. It has no

 

t;
“A termarter !”

promise for those who enter into & solely for cold calcu-
lations of advantage. :

 

piece of alum, which will ee, aes :

of 1815 there are ony five specimens Tee

    

dentally shot and killed Miss Annie Von Behren in the Coli-_

In Dispute.—At Paterson, N. J., the Passaic River has a per-

 
  

declines 'p sa “tise t:” “Hans Has a Hare Stolen
aun ‘ASS ; is Secret ; :
“Home of Our Childhood ;” “A Tragedy of the Heart;”

ahs ont and purely, by”

 

 

*9

troubles in

"7
ne.

Mrs. George M.—A knitting machine will one. : é —-
ed

M. C. L.—At the riot in this city on July 12, 1871, in conse-_

mingle than by any set efforts to alter their outward |

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moms, soo THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #>

 

THE GOLD SEEKER.

 

BY E. T. Ww. -

 

A mother and son to the sea-shore strayed,
_ And watched in the sleet and cold;
Alas! ’twas in vain that they watched and prayed,
For one who so hopeful a voyage made,

When Starting in search of gold.
Wife, w: for thy husband—he’ll ne’er return ;
Son, up and be doing—'tis vain to mourn.

:

Afar, in a strange land beyond the sea,
With bearing So frank and bold,
A youth, with a countenance fair and free,
Is toiling as hard, ay, as hard can be—
He, too, is in search of gold;
And, thinking of one he has left behind.
Come death, or come danger, he gold must find.

But what makes the digger so soon unmanned ?
What specter does he behold ? ne
There, bleached in the sun, ’mid the costly sand,
A skeleton lay, and, ped in his hand,
A locket and bag of gold.
“-My father '” he cries, ‘neath his bated breath,
“We're searching for gold, till we meet with death !”

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

The Dead Witness:

e

 

 

OR;
THE LADY OF LISBON PLACE,

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,

Author of “The Phantom Wife,” “Who Owned the
Jewels,” Etc.

(“THE

 

WIrneEss” was commenced in No. 23. Back

- numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XIil.
LISBON PLACE AGAIN.

 

For eight years this once beautiful place had lain neg-
lected, increasing the ruin which had been brought
upon it by the Spanish soldiery on the night of that ter”
rible raid in the very beginning of the Cuban revolution.
Although so farremoved from the principal city of the
island, it had been early doomed ; and therefore, its re-
moteness was one reason of its lying so long out of mar-
‘ket. In the dreadful condition of war which existed, no
one cared to purchase and revive an estate which might
be re-destroyed by the roving band of guerrillas who
discovered that it was again worth plundering. It lay
in a mountainous district, difficult to protect, whether

_ Owned by acitizenoraninsurgent. ~

Mrs. Jardine, during the first years following her flight
to Mexico, had written urgently, at various times, to her

~ bankers, to dispose of her plantations at almost any sacri--

fice, and forward the money thus obtained to her. But
they could not effect a sale on any terms, and finally
ceased trying. .
At length, after eight years, a gentleman came from
the United States, who wished to go on a plantation for

his health, as Mr. Jardine had once done. Having busi-
ness relations with Ferraro Brothers, he mentioned the
matter to them. |
- They _at once told him of the Widow Jardine’s prop-
erty, which she had abandoned on account of the
danger of residing, unprotected, in that remote district.
2, stated that the land was unequaled for the pro-
‘duction of coffee, but that it had gone utterly wild, while
the villa and out-buildings, having been partially de-
stroyed by fire at the time of the raid, had never been
repaired, but allowed to go to ruin.
ey were ready to offer the whole estate at an ex-
tremely low figure, if the gentleman was willing to a3-
sume the risk of buying. He answered, that be-
ing a citizen of the United States—which govern-
ment had resisted -all the appeals of the insurgents to
recognize them—he should rely upon the Spanish authori-
ties for protection; and that, if he was not protected
in the peaceable possession of his property, he should
a. to his own government to interfere. ,
e was quite willing to undertake to live in Cuba, and
the bankers might write, if they saw proper, to the gen-

 

‘““Where do they live? Where can we find them ?”
“Woll, I declar’! But, then, sure ‘nuff, you’se stran-
gers. Come ‘long, I'll show you dey’se place in no

| time.”

She set her fried chicken off the coals and trudged
across a field toward a little grove of orange trees on tke
other side.

“Dey’s quality niggers,” she explained, as she went
along. ‘Don’ ’sociate wid field-hands, ’less we sick, den
dey mighty good. All de folks-likes Glora. She’s awful
knowin’—knows more’n de priest any day. You see she
was missa’s waitin’-girl ‘fore missa was killed, an’ she
was teached to read, an’ write, an’ sew beautiful. She
was mos’ like a lady herself, Glora was, only mulatters
can’t never be genewine ladies, no matter how clus’
they comes toit. You know she was nigh killed dat
night missa was—shot in der sho’der.”

“No. Who, Glora ?”

“Laws, didn’ you know dat? She wasn’ married den.
‘Twas long, long time ‘fore she discovered from dat
wound, Den she mos’ griebed herself to deaf ‘cause
missa was killed.”

“But the lady was not killed, as 1 understand it,” said
Mr. Sterling, recalling the fact of the bankers having
had power of attorney from the lady herself to sell the
estate.

“Oh, my! yis, she was. Shot right down, an’ her body
consumed in de flames! Oh, dat was a turrible night!
Often an’ often I wake up hollerin’in my sleep. I can’t
get ober it, nebber,” and the fat negress ceased wabbling
a moment to groan and wipe her face.

Mr: Sterling, who had talked considerably with Fer-
raro Brothers about the tragedy which had desolated
Lisbon Place, recalled the death of Mrs. Jardine’s com-
panion, and concluded that the negress had become be-
fogged in her recollection of events. Nothing more was
said at the time, as just then they came in sight of a
tasteful little cabin placed in the center of the orange
grove. Although built of the odds and ends which had
been gathered from the ruins of larger buildings, it was
neatly whitewashed, and completely covered with
flowering vines. A grass-plot surrounded it, and there
was a thriving vegetable garden in the rear. The whole
aspect of the little place was charming, especially when
contrasted with the filthy huts of the field hands.

«“Glora hain’t nebber done no hard work,” continued

the negress, as they drew near the open door. ‘Sam's
awful tender on her. You’se can speak wid her—twon’t
hurt nobody; an’ if you does make aderagement wid
her, ’twill be sootable to both.” Here she turned and
wabbled back, with the remark “‘dat her chicken would
spile.” .

The gentlemen approached the open door and looked
n. “ -

A handsome mulatto woman, about twenty-six or
seven years old, who was sitting on the back ddor-step
embroidering a linen band, arose and courtesied to
them. She wore a pink lawn dress and snow-white
apron, both fresh and well-ironed.

“Is this Glora ?” /

“Yes, sir.” aS

«[T wanted to have alittle talk with you,” said the
elder gentleman. < :

She handed a couple of home-made chairs, and Mr.
Sterling made known his errand. a

‘You seem so comfortable here, I am afraid you won’t
like to come,” he added, looking about the tidy room.

“T wouldn’t like to leave my house, sir,” she answered,
respectiully. ‘‘Sam is very happy here. I try to make
« pleasant, all the more because we have no children,
sir.” -

“You need not leave your house entirely. A few hours
a day will do our cooking, Iam sure. We can find some
stouter woman to do the washing-——” 3 &

“Oh, Sam can do that,” she interrupted, smiling; «he
does ours.” ’

«You must have him well broken in,” laughed Mr.
Sterling.

“I¢ comes of my shoulder hurting me when I use the
wash-board, sir. I-can iron, forI have the tree use of
my right hand; but when I need both, then I don’t git
along right well.”

“Can you cook ?”

“JT cook aS wellas I canfurSam. I wan’t nuthin’ ofa
cook, fur I wos brought up to waitin’ an’ sewin’; but
after—missa was killed,” lowering her voice, while an
expression of deep sorrow clouded her face, ‘‘I found an
ole cook-book trowed away by them soldeise, that use
to be missa’s. So I studied it, fer ’musement like, ‘fore I
was able to work much, an’ I learned a good bit out oO’
that.” : 7 , ey

yen

2, - SEX
LEN

 
     

 

eral in command, of the purchase which had been made,

  

its object, and his expectation of being ‘let alone.” _ .
This was done, and the papers | Which com- | =
pleted the puret . :
Being conne ib the main characters of our story

 

only by an acc important in its results to them,
but only slightly affecting him—it is not necessary to
bring him prominently into the narrative. His name
was Sterling ; he was a widower, who brought with him
a@ grown-up son, leaving behind him two daughters to
be edu in the United States. He was one of those
oe restless men who, having passed a life of in-
tense business excitement, now that his health had
failed, could not think of retiring to his room and givy-
na an invalid. He must have something to occu-
py him. A plantation in ruins was better for him than
a plantation in the highest state of production. When,
af of a day and a half—the latter half-day

 

er a jour:
being aan ta going over eight or ten miles of rough,
road—he and his son arrived at the estates which
he had purchased without even seeing, he jumped from
the vehicl eee, BOUL him in ail directions,
Ww elight.
id!” he exclaimed; «this suits me

oe , }
The “beautiful” he applied to the landscape, the
— to the dilapidated buildings and neglected

“This will be just the kind of work to build me up!
George, I feel that I shall get well here—I am better

   
  

“Glad to hear it, father,” aryly. ‘Plenty to do, cer-
”

- And the two went atit to doit. The young man uni-

to his father’s nervous energy the strength and
health of youth. They managed to inspire even the in-
dolent colored people, who had their little patches of
melons and sweet potatoes here and thereon the land,
with a bit of their activity. Mr. Sterling had brought
wit# him from Havana an overseer highly recommend-
ed by Ferraro Brothers. Gangs of laborers were soon
organized, and order very gradually eliminated from
chaos.

Two or three of the lower rooms of the villa, it was
found, could be made habitable with very little trouble.

“Enough for our purposes for the present,” remarked
Mr. Sterling. ‘Before the girls are out of school we will
reconstruct the whole building. I declare, it seems a

ity to touch it, George! It’s too picturesque a ruin to

2 spotled by being made over.”

In truth, it was lovely with the wild beauty of nature
run riot. Roses and honeysuckles wayed-in and out the
empty windows, from which all trace of glass or sash
had disappeared. Birds fluttered in and out the cham-
bers, the most of which were open to the sky. Grass
struggled with flowers for mastery in the garden-beds—
a wild profusion of both. The unpruned shrubs were

- jJavish of their sweets; the neglected fruit trees still did

their best to bring to perfection their too-abundant sup-

_ plies. f
- The walls of the dwelling being of stone carefully cut
and laid, were but little injured; the front portico,

‘scorched by the flames, and now rotting from the damp-
a of vines which overran it, had escaped destruction,
‘though it stood sadly in need of repairs; the principal

taircase tvas gone, but some one on his plundering er-
shad piaced a ladder where the stairs once stood,
at. it was possible for an agilejman to mount and to
get about through some of the upper rooms. In some
the floors and timbers were completely burnt out.

Notascrap of carpet, matting, or bedding remained,

nor any furniture, aoe’ an unwieldy mahogany book-
case surmounting a still more unwieldy desk, of which
the locks were broken and the drawers scattered. The
books, had been carried off.
The gentlemen had brought with them on their ar-
rivalacouple of carts loaded with furniture and provis-
ions, and, calling in some of the negresses living in huts
about the place, soon had the two be ms cleaned,
some matting laid down, a couple of Déds put up, and
other arrangements made necessary to living in the in-
formal style which they proposed. There was no glass
in the V@hetian windows, but until the rainy season
came on that did not matter. They had curtains of
jasmine and roses quite fine enough for them.

One thing, however, was indispensable—to provide
themselves with a cook. Before sending back to
Havana they made inquiries among the negroes. Tite
most of these were plantation hands, utterly unfit for
house service. Such of the trained servants as had
escaped at the time of the raid had made their way, in
the course of time, to the town, where they could find
employment,

After cooking for themselves a week or two, the gen-
tlemen thought they would make another effort to find
assistance among their own people. Entering a cabin,
from which came forth an appetizing odor of chicken and
hot corn-cake, they found a fat negress, very good-natur-
ed, and perhaps able to do some plain cooking; but the
excess of dirt on her garments and person nullified her
other good qualities.

“Tell you wot ’tis, gemman, dar’s Glora. ’Specs she
wouldn’ come ; but ef you could persuade her, she'd soot
perzactly.” 2%

«-Who’s Glora ?”

“Laws, don’ you know Glora ?” :

«We have by yet made her acquaintance.”

«“Woll, she’s 3s wife.”

«Who's Sam ?”
“Sam? Laws, don’ you know? He’s Glora’s hus-

   
 

     
 

 

band.”

 

AA fs
“BEAUTIFUL! SPLENDID!” HE EXCLAIMED. “THIS SUITS
ME TO A T.”

“J daresay, quite enough to satisfy us. Jf you will

come to us, you can go home every day, after two o’clock
dinner, by setting something cold on the table for sup-
per before you leave. I think we shall get along nicely,
and I will give you liberal wages.”

The pay which he offered was a great temptation; also
Glora considered that their cabin was built on the gen-
tleman’s land, and that he had the power to take every-
thing away from them if they offended him. She there-
fore promised to go to the villa the next morning and
commence her duties, provided her husband was
willing.

This arrangement was consummated. Sam was al-
most as nice looking as his wife. He, too, had been one
of the house-servants at the time of the raid, and had
remained on the place out of the deep interest he took
in Glora’s case, while she was slowly recovering from her
nearly tatal wound. ‘

An old stone kitchen in the rear of the main dwelling

was cleared out and furnished with the necessary stores. }

When the first dinner had been served, in what was
once the library—a delicious little meal, daintily cooked
by Glora, and tidily waited upon by Sam—Mr. Sterling
was perfect ly delighted,

“We are fixed, George, to my complete satisfaction,”
said he. His vernacular was Yankee, and not. always
polished. ‘Jewels, both of ’em! When we get the place
in order, and the girls come to visit us, they'll be sur-
prised at our trained servants. Everything was tip-
top!”

So the gentlemen, well satisfied with their housekeep-
ing, turned their attention to more weighty matters
out-of-doors.

The two servants were likewise pleased; they had all
the latter part of the day to themselves, doing the laun-
dry work in their own cabin, and they received liberal
pay and some welcome presents of calico, thread, hand-

erchiets, and shoes.

“That Glora is a very interesting woman,” George re-
marked to his father. ‘She has more mind than most
of her race. ‘There is an expression of profound sadness
underlying all the brighter emotions which pass over her
face. She thinks and feels profoundly. I don't wonder
Sam’s so proud of her.”

“‘She’s smart as a steel trap,” assented ,the more mat-
ter-of-fact parent.

But it was not "her smartness which so interested
George. He felt that she had a secret, and a sorrowful
one; and sometimes, when he had nothing else to do, he
wondered what it was.

One listless afternoon, while his father was indulging
in his after-dinner siesta, George took a fancy to ex-
plore the upper regions of their half-destroyed ay.
Exchanging his boots for slippers, he climbed the lad-
der and crept through a large hole in the wall intoa
chamber, a portion of whose floor was still lying, while
the other half had tumbled into the chaos beneath.
The broken timbers shook beneath him, so that he was
in constant danger of bringing the remainder of the
floor down; but he felt his way forward cautiously,
looking about for means toenter some of the other
apartments,

Other explorers had been here before him. He found
nothing interest except a great stain upon the

boards, aS of blood, and—yes, farther on, between the |-

boards and plastered ceiling underneath, a thin little

book, sgmething like an ordinary account-book.
He stooped and drew it forth from its long conceal-
ment. It did not seem to have been placed there, but

to have been dropped in the hurry of flight, and to
have fallen there when other portions of the floor gave
way.

“Diary” was stamped in guilt letters on the flexible
leather cover.

«A reminiscence of the lady who was driven out, or,
perhaps, of her more unfortunate companion, who was
killed. If it belongs to this Mrs.—Mrs. Jardine, I be-
lieve the name is—I will forward it to her bankers.”

He was quite disappointed, upon turning the leaves,
to finda blank. Nota word written in it from begin-
ing to end.

Nevertheless he took it down with him when he re-
turned from his explorations. for he felt a sort of rever-
ence for every relic of the tragic time which had deso-
lated Lisbon Place. He thought he would preserve it
as a memento to show his sisters when he saw them.

«Here, Sam,” said, as that person came in the
library to arrange the cold supper before leaving; ‘is
there any fire onthe kitchen hearth yet? If there is,

=

tell Glora to dry these leaves for me; and let her take
care not to scorch them.” — é

The little book was damp almost to moldiness.
oe sir; I'll see, sir.” And Sam went off with the

ary.

George was reading a book of arctic voyages in order
to cool himself, at least in imagination, and had forgot-
ten all about the duty which he had required ot Glora,
when the sound of a footstep in his room caused him to
look up, and the sight of Glora’s face caused him to lay
his own book aside.

She held the little diary in her hana@; as she stepped
midway in the apartment she trembled from head to
foot, and her face, usually a rich brown, with a red tint
showing through in the cheeks, was gray and scared-
looking, her eyes distended, her whole look that ofa
person who had been frightened and who had not recoy-
ered from the agitation.

«What is the matter ?”

“Oh, Mister George !”

«Troops in sight ?”

¢

Z
a
Al

That was the young gentleman’s first thought.

“No, master. It’s only about this book.”

«What about it, Glora ?”

«When I held it to the coals, as you sent word, it came

out all full o’ writing.”

“Full of writing?” cried George, his curiosity
aroused at once. “I have heard of such things before,
You neea not be iri ned; it’s chemistry, not

girl.
witchcraft. Let meseeit.” —

 

fire, sir, if you'll take the trouble.’

“Oh, yes, I'd like to see it,” answered the young gen-
tleman, whose mind was in that idle condition when
small matters interested if,

They went to the kitchen together. George took the
apparently blank book and Held a leaf of it to the coals,
when the heat immediately brought out the small,
cramped writing with which it was covered.

“It’s the devil’s work,” said Giora, solemnly, ‘‘an that’s
why it takes fire to bringitout! JI always knowed that
woman had sold herself to Satan, and she knew I knew
it. 'That’s why she tried to kill me.” —

““Who—yourmistress?”? = ges

“Bless your heart, no}Mrs. Henderson.”

 

yer 5
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DIARY WRITTEN WITH “‘DEVIL’S INK.”

Young Sterling fully intend ask Glora when and
why Mrs. Henderson had tried to Kill her, and who Mrs.
Henderson was, but for the present his attention was
too much taken up with the little diary. On the first
page. which he was holding to the heat, was the date of
the writer’s arrival at Lisbon Place : ; ;

: -. “EISBON PLACE, June 3d, 1859.”

He read it out. ie

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Glora, excitedly, “that was the
day she came. 1 remember it distinctly.”

He went on with the diary : :

‘Lisbon Place is a pretty name and this is a pretty
place. It almost seems to me asif I could be at peace
here. Surely no one will ever come to this remote spot
who will recognize me. I may throw off that fear, at
least.. Oh, what a relief it is! If I had remained in
New Orleans another six months it would have killed
me. Never to dare to look a human creature in the face
without that fear. It was done for my benetit—although
not so intended—this coming of the family to Cuba.

-«“Tminediately that I set my foot on the shores of this
island did I resolve to keep here. I was doubtful about
the family giving me,agrecommendation, after my
throwitg up my sifi ‘with ghem, Hut they were
kind €nough to de pac &ft them all the
same. To get as far Away uS possible trom the scenes ot
my misfortune is my object. Away! away! it seems
as if the whole space of this world was not wide enough
to divide me from (that spot. Good Heaven! when I
came down that morning along with the others, and
looked in the room and saw him sitting there behind the

  

| door in his chair just as we—— There, there, there! I

never can take up my pen but it seems of itself to run
back to that subject..Then why do I write? Simply
because I dare not speak; and my own thoughts and
feelings would destroy me, if I did not now and then
allow them some freedom.

“Tt is very sweet and quiet here. Oh, howl hate a
crowd! If I hear a noise of shouting, or see many
people thered together, I begin totremble. Yes, I
am safe here. If I can, J intend to remain here, resting
and recovering my shattered nerves until something
better offers to my adventurous spirit.

“Mrs. Jardine is very lovely and lovable ; at least, she
must be so to others. J never can love any one again.
But innocent and unsuspecting as she is, even she feels
that there is something wrong about me. I understand
now about ‘the brand of Cain.’ I feel it on my forehead.
It is invisible, like this writing, but every ray from the
eyes of purity brings it out. I feel it there—I feel it
there. She saw it. Poor fool! she saw and shrank from
it; yet she knew not what it was, or she never would
have taken up with me. I hated her for her indecision;
yet I felt a sneer curling my lips when she finally ac-
cepted me. Flatter a mother’s vanity, and you have her
fast. I made the child plead my cause. She has opened
the door, and let a serpent into her sweet, Southern
paradise. I feel snaky, somehow. I am almost tempted
to turn and sting myself.”

“Was this woman insane?’ asked George, who had
with some difficulty slowly read out the cramped char-
acters.

“No more’nI am, ’cept with the devil. Snaky/ kum,
I should say that was the very word, sir—handsome,
and silent, and soft—gliding about where you didn’t
look for her. Haven’t you heard of children being
snake-charmed, sir ?”

 

 

= a, =
“WHEN I HELD THE BOOK TO THE COALS, Ir CAME OUT
ALL FULL 0 WRITING!”

“I haye heard ot it, Glora, but I must say I never saw
tt.’ ae

“Well, Jhave. I’ve seen children dividing their bread
and milk with black-snakes, sir; and I saw my little
missa, bless her pretty gold head! charmed by that wo-
man so that she would follow her, and lie in her lap,
and look up at her—under a spell she was.”

The pages which followed for a third of the book were
so moldy that only a word here and there could be made
out. George tried them all, for he had begun to be in-
terested in the diary. Finally he came to afew more
lines which were legible:

“I have been here six months. In all that time Mrs.
Jardine has not had half a dozen visitors; and 1 have
easily avoided the few who came. My health and
spirits are better than when I came. I am beginning to
recover from the shock of those events; but prison-life
took the color out of my face, and it does not come back.
As I say, Iam safe here; but one does not wish to live
merely to feel safe from identity. I would be glad of
more to take up my mind. The restless spirit with
which I was cursed will not allow me to endure this
monotony without constantly tempting me to-—

 

 

 

“It’s all gone in agin. You will have to come to the.

“am giving her Fowler’s solution now, in small quan

tities. Curious; but thus far it has really seemed to
improve her health. I am trying to stop giving it to
her. Ilike her. She has been as good as a sister to me.
I will stop if Lcan. But 1 must have something to take
up my mind. It’s a comfort to hate some one freely,
andI hate that mulatto girl with avim. She returns
the sentiment. She watches me; I am convinced of it.
She suspects me of something, the Lord knows what;
and she is always spying upon me——”

“VYhat’s so!’ exclaimed Glora, springing to her feet—
she had been down on her knees blowing up the coals to
vivify the writing—‘‘l did spy at her, night and day.
Oh, oh, oh!” she burst forth in a sudden sob of grief, ‘‘if
I had watched closer it might never have happened.”

“What might not have happened ?”

“Any of it, sir. Please goon. Can you make out any
more ?” :

He turned another page or two, and continued :

“She is very impatient to have her nephew arrive. I
wish it also. She has promised to take me with her to
Mexico. There will be some chance for adventure in
that land of volcanoes and revolutions.—— ;

“We are disappointed. Senor Sebastian writes that
his wife is dead, and that he cannot come for several
months. She tells me this gentleman is vastly wealthy.
Now that he isa widower, it might interest me even
more than | imagined to make his acquaintance. I wish
he would come. I have left off giving the solution. I
had some words with Glora to-day. She’s an imperti-
nent hussy !——”

“If IT had only warned my mistress!’ moaned the
eolored woman. ‘Butit was only a feeling. I couldn’t
prove anything.”

There was scarcely anything more decipherable in the
book, until near the close a few pages came out as dis-
tinctly as if just written.

“Tam mightily pleased with the insurrection. I think
Isee my opportunity through it.

“J have managed to intercept Senor Sebastian’s
letters, and have written to him not to come at present.
I think even Mrs. Jardine would not know my hand-
writing from hers, I have become so expert, which
shows what long and faithful practice will do... I began
more than a year ago... The.poor lady is very much ex-
cited about the lawless acts of the soldiers, of which
she hears rumors. There may be danger. I welcome
it. I welcome any change after nearly three years of
this stupid and farcical part which I have been playing
at Lisbon Place. My plan begins to shape itself; al-
though still far from perfection in the details. When
one attempts a matter like this she should be most care-
ful about details. 1 was nearly ruined in New York
from my neglect of some of the accessories.

“My plot isas nearly perfect as it can be. I much
need a confidante to aid me in communicating with
H——, who commands a regiment of Spanish soldiers.
But I know the danger of conjidantes. 1 must trust to
a letter. I have informed H—— that Mrs. Jardine is a
rabid revolutionist.

“They will be here in less than a fortnight. I have
fooled H—— as well as his victim. He thinks her plate
jewelry and a portion of her money are in the house,
or he would not take the trouble to pillage the place.
He ought to be satisfied with the stores of provisions
for his men and their animals which he will obtain, as
this raid will take him but two days’ march out of his
way. Now, about the child. 1 cannot make up my
mind. She is five years old. Almost too old to be de-
ceived. Yet I shrink from allowing harm to fall upon
her pretty head. Yes,I believe Iam sincerely attached
to the little creature. She has never felt toward me the
repulsion which others are sure, sooner or later, to be-
tray. I saw Mrs. Jardine watching me to-day. When I
looked up quickly, she colored, and then turned pale.
Glora has been taiking about me, I suspect. Let her
chatter, her days are numbered.

“T shall have little difficulty with Ferraro Brothers. It
has been years since they met the lady. I wish I had
some morphine. There is none in the medicine-chest.
But there are plenty of poppy-seeds in the garden. If
infused with the coffee | wonder if their flavor would be
perceptible. I must experiment, and find out before-
hand. If I succeed it will be a bold and clever stroke of
business to be done bya woman. I am not much afraid
of failure. The people on the plantation are as stupid
as donkeys. They could betray nothing, even if they
were questioned, which I shall prevent. It will be
safest to dispose of Glora entirely.

“We practice with our revolvers every day. Poor Mrs.
Jardine is so nervous and timid she never hits anything

 

“J PLAYFULLY POINTED ONE OF THE REVOLVERS AT HER.
OH, HOW SHE DID SCREECH !” ’

except what she tries not to. Yesterday our weapons

disappeared. I said nothing, but looked for them. I
found them, after a few hours, under a flat stone in the
flower-garden. Glora must have put them there. I said
nothing, but took them in, and the next time I met her I
playfully pointed one at her. Oh, how she did screech.”

«I did,” said Glora, who had stood, with folded arms,
and stern, darkening features, listening to the slow
reading. ‘I screamed to see that she had found them.
Is there any more writin’ sir ?”

“Nothing more. The last page is torn out. Now,
Glora, what does all this rigmarole mean? Have you
the clew to it, or isitafew pages copied out of some
story ?”

ae ats tell you all about it, sir.. The Lord knows it
isn’t no rigmarole, when my poor mistress lost her
life.”

“But she didn’t lose it, Glora; there’s where you are
mistaken.”

She stared at him a moment with her great black eyes
enlarging.

“Come, let us take it easy,” added young Sterling,
finding the hearth rather warm, and, seating himself on
the cool stone step of the kitchen door, he prepared to
listen.

Glora was too excited to think of sitting. She walked
up and down the flags in front of the door, occasionally

ausing before her hearer, or moving away from him, as
her feelings prompted.

«The writer of that was a woman, sir, who came to
Tisbon Place to be a companion to my poor, pretty,
lovely missus after the master died. Her name was Hen-
derson—leastways that was one of her alivis, sir.”

“JT have heard of her,” remarked George, refraining
from smiling at her misuse of the word.

“J never liked her from the beginning. Mistress used
to laugh and say | was jealous of Mrs. Henderson. I
’gpose 1 was, for mistress used to set great store by my
company before she_ came. Howsomever, I knew she
was abad woman. I could tellit by the cut of her jib,
as Sam says. After she’d been here a few months I got
a notion she was putting somethin’ into Mrs. Jardine’s
coffee. NowI see 1 was not mistaken. What’s that
stuff she speaks of——”_. ;

“Fowler’s solution. That’s a preparation of arsenic,
Glora.”

“Tf knew it! I knew it!” excitedly clasping her hands ;
“but [ watched so close she left off.” -

“But why did she do it, Glora? I don’t see that she
had anything to gain by it.” ;

“T cannot tell,” was the solemn response. ‘I s’pose she
sold herself to Satan and did whatever came in her
head. All the time, after the war broke out, 1 was
dreadful uneasy. Not half so much about the soldiers
as about Mrs. Henderson. I saw the evil spirit workin’
inher. I knew, as well as I knew I was alive, that
something wrong was up; yet I could not find out what
it was. I laid awake nights, an’ I thought. till my head
was on fire; but I couldn't fix on nothing wrong to tell
my mistress. Stilll kept a warning of her. She used
to get out of patience with me and call me silly; yet
she was troubled and nervous, too. She didn’t suspect
Mrs. Henderson, but she was awfully afraid of the sol-

diers.

“The two ladies used to talk about defending them-
selves. Mrs. Henderson got Mrs. Jardine to send to
Havana for a pair of revolvers, and then showed her
how to load and fire. I didn’t like them revolvers. Just
because Mrs. Henderson wanted ’em I didn’t want her
to have ’em. One day I hid ’em, as sbe tells. No won-
der I screeched when she got ’em again and pointed one
at me. Isaw murder in her look; she just smiled that
cold, cruel way which she had.

“It was not a week after that. It was a hot night;
the stars were all out, twinkling; the air was sultry. I
was tired, but I wasn’t sleepy. I couldn’t feel like goin’
to bed. Allers, since master died, I had slept in a closet
out of misses’ room orrolled up on a mat beside her bed.
Little Bella slept on a cot in her mother’s room.- That
night, about ten o’clock, 1 went up to their chamber.
Mrs. Jardine had forgotten all her troubles, and was
sleeping sweetly. Little Bella, too, was in a deep sleep.
| thought it strange they should be so sound asleep so
early, but I see into it now: ‘twas that poppy-tea in
their coffee, sir. Ihadn't tasted any coffee that night,
though cook offered me some. I was thirsty, and took
cold water. :

“Well, I couldn’t rest, as Lsay, and I went and stood

 

afew minutes by Mrs. Henderson’s door. She was up,
for I could hear her walking about. I peeped_ through

 

the keyhole, and I saw her busy packing a large hand-
bag. with papers—bundles of papers, like deeds, an@
that, and with clothing. I wondered what it meant.
All at once I thought what it meant, and I began te
tremble so that I could not stand. Fora minute or two
I set right down on the floor. Then I got up and glided
softly down stairs to look tor Sam. Sam was beginning
to court me in them days, and I knew he could be trust-
ed. Ifound him asleep on the pantry floor, and his gun,
which he kept with him, had been takenaway. I shook
and shook him to wake him. He was very stupid.. At
last I roused him, and he started to his feet.

«Where is your gun ? I asked him.

a $6.41. dunno,’ he said; ‘it was by my side when J lai&
own.

«« ‘Sam,’ said I, ‘the soldiers are coming here to-night..
I am certain of it. Mrs. Henderson is packing her bag>
to run away. Oh, oh! what shall we do? We shall alk
ee My poor mistress and little Bella will be mur-

ered!

“He didn’t half believe me. But when he considered
about the gun being taken from him he began to be:
airaid. He said that he would go out and warn the
guard and get all the negroes up. For, see, we had a
guard every night in those times. He crept through the
pantry window, and went off to have a look about and
to warn the three men on guard. I leaned out the win-
dow, listening, a few minutes. I heard persons in the:
stable getting out the horses or doing something to the
carriage. I was certain there was mischief afoot, and
had turned to go and waken mistress, when shots were
fired, and there was a horrid shouting, and firing, and
tramping all over the place. A cabin, not far from the
house, burst into flames. It had been lighted to give
the soldiers a chance to see to plunder the place.

“T rushed up to mistress’ room. Before I got to the
door I heard a pistol fired in the room. Mad with fear,
I bust in, and saw a sight which has made my whole life
since wretched, by turns. Mrs. Henderson had shot my
mistress in her bed where she lay, and had set fire to the
bed-clothing. She still held the smoking revolver in her
hand, and was lifting little Bella, whom not all the noise.
had wakened, out ot her cot. I ran, and tried to drag,
my mistress’ dead body from the burning bed.

; sey Glora! called out Mrs. Henderson, taunt-
ngly.

“Then, having pulled my lady to the floor, I turned,
thinking of the child. As I turned, a shot took me in
the shoulder; and then, having killed, as she thought,
the two whom she had planned to kill, for | fell instant-
ly, Mrs. Henderson fied down the stairs, carrying the
little girlon her arm. I dragged myself along the floor
until [ came to the head of the stairs, calling for Sam,.
thinking of the poor baby. When I tried to creep down,
I got dizzy, and knew no more.

“They say I fell to the foot of the stairs, where fF
swooned away, and would have been burned alive but
for Sam, who risked his life to drag me out, after the
place was full of fire an’ smoke. He got me out an’ car-
ried me off, with the soldiers hootim’ an’ laughin’ at him,
and firin’ their guns after him, for sport. But not a bali
hit him, thank Heaven! and he laid me in a negro eabin
a good ways off, aud stopped the hole in my shoulder
with a piece of my dress, and there I lay for dead a good
while. Sometime the next day I come to, and Sam
brought me water, an’ took care o’ me; and in a day or
two Some of the colored women fixed up the hut, and
staid by me. "Iwas three or four weeks afore I knew

What had happened, and then I didn’t want to live, 1 felt -
so bad.

“But Sam was sot upon my getting well, and I did, in
the course of time. And we got married, and would be
as happy as folks could be, if 1 could ever forget my poor
mistress’ bones found after the fire was out, or could
know what that woman did with that child, or couid
forget what a sweet, pretty place this was before that
she-devil brought the soldiers to spile it.” ‘

“But your mistress was not killed after all, it seems,”
repeated her listener; and then suddenly he gave a start,
as an idea flashed through his brain, and his troubled
eyes, seeking a solution of the enigma, turned upon the
perplexed ones.of the mulatto woman.

{TO BE CONTINUED. ]
> o<—____

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

For Another's Sin:

OR,

 

THE BRIDE'S CONQUEST |

By BERTHA MM. CLAF,
AUTHOR OF

“A Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The:
World Between Them,” “Beyond
Pardon,” Ete.

 

(“For ANOTHER’s SIN,” was commenced in No. 17. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.].

 

CHAPTER XLV.

LADY ADELAIDE, IN ANGELIC CALM, STEPPED BETWEEN
THEM.

Lady Adelaide was not the only person who saw into
the plans of the Duchess of Ormond. Beauty Randolph:
had divined them. His admiration for Lady Adelaide ha&
deepened day by day. It was no base or transient pas-
sion, it was a strong, true, brotherly love for a beauti
ful, unselfish woman, whom he saw neglected and un-
happy, beset by the wiles of a brilliant rival, and bravely
concealing her pain.

Lady Di Vereton also saw these wiles. Fond of her
cousin and of his wife, puzzled at the mystery of their
married existence, and longing to see between them the;
love and sympathy that made happy her.own heart an@

home, cordially resolved to give, as she said, ‘‘every”

chance to Adelaide, and outgeneral the duchess, ever:
if she could not bring Allan to his senses.”

Indeed, strive to conceal it as he might, there ha@
been a Shade of reserve between Allan and his Cousin
Di. since she had spoken so frankly to him at Brook-
lands.

To aid in ‘giving Adelaide a chance,” Lady Di had ar-
ranged several riding parties in which her fair cousin's
grace and elegance as an equestrienne had been in
nothing exceeded by the duchess.

AS the season was now closing, Lady Di arranged for

her concluding festivity a dinner at Richmond, and ai?
the party were to repair thither on horseback. The
guests chosen were but few, all young people,
chaperoned by Lady Di herself. The Duke of Ormond
was occupied by the concluding business of a very busy
session, and excused himself from the Richmond party,
intrusting his Juanita to the care of Lord Carew and his
wite.

Every new mark of confidence thus given him by the
duke roused Allan Carew to combat his admiration for
his triend’s wife, and his lingering regret for the past—
regret which she so recklessly set herselt to foster. The
friendship and trust of his grace of Ormond were a con-
stant appeal to the manly honor, the knightly taith of
his younger friend.

On the Oe ink of this expedition to Richmond, the
duchess had had news that was to her a pleasant sur-
prise. Her aunt, Lady St. Clair, had announced to her
that she should immediately close her town house an@
go to Switzerland for the remainder of the warm sea-
son, and then to Paris for the winter. ‘She was tired
of London life, and desired rest and recuperation.”

- The duchess was unfeignedly thankful that her former
guardian was going to tle Continent; it released her
from the espionage of one anxious pair of eyes.

“One does not care about having too many guardians,”
said the duchess to herself.

Then to the duke, at breakfast :

“T really cannot see why she is going. Twat is all non-
sense about her needing rest or recuperation. Sheis
the mostthealthy, vigorous person I ever saw.”

«Perhaps she is wearied of London life; I think I am,”
said the duke.

«You have your Parliamentary duties, Gervase, to tax
you. Well, this is the first flight of one of the birds of
fashion, foretelling the close of the season. One swal-
low does not make a summer; nor does one departure
close society life for the year, but it shows the season
has turned. What shall I do?”

“The season has been a most splendid one, and you
have reigned a queen,” said the duke. ‘Now I look
forward to my Scotch estates with increasing eager-
ness.”

“Oh, please, Gervase, do not let us go while so many
of our friends remain. It is delightful here still.”

The duke liked to be calledGervase in that tone.

“T will not hurry you, my dearest,” he replied.

To Juanita the idea of the Scotch residence was hor-
rible.

“f must do something to delay it, at least,” she said.

All was charming at the Richmond dinner. The duch-
ess was so delighted that none of the responskbilities of
a hostess were on her, and that the keen-eyed Lady Di
had her attention distraeted by the claims of all her
guests.

“Surely,” said the duchess, as the dinner was ending,
‘we never came all the way here merely to eat and
return.”

“We came to give ourselves a distraction,” said
Lady Di.

«And todo as other people do, and obey Fashion, as
she this year dictates—go to Richmond,” cried Alice
Carr.

“But for what?” said the duchess. ‘Fashion, I hold,
is not an idiotic goddess. She has her reasons; she
sends us to Richmond to harmonize ourselves with na-
ture, to cultivate poetry. Consider our opportunities—
the river flows at our feet—the scent of roses and lilies
is in the air—oaks, and chestnuts, and cedars against the
red and gold sky, are a study each one; the nightingale

 

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sings—let us all go out on the balconies and talk
poetry !”

She rose, calm and astute; she moved toward the very
smallest balcony—only fairly large enough for two.
Lord Carew, who was at her side at dinner, must follow
her, but no one else would intrude. She lifted her lovely
round arm and swept back the curtains: the sunset fell
over her hair, and shot rays of gold among its black
shadows, hen she sank in a charming attitude into
one of the waiting-chairs, rested her round chin in her
soft palm, and fixed her great dark eyes on the river
flowing toward the sea. There was no need to talk
poetry—her attitude was poetry, her look was poetry;
the waning sunset touched her face, and made it inex-
pressibly beautirul in the softness of the flying light.
The duchess was transfigured—the duchess herself was
a poem.

“Shall I talk poetry to you, Lady Adelaide?” asked
Beauty Randolph, hearing the duchess’ challenge to
Lord Carew.

“I think Alice and I prefer prose,” said Lady Ade-
laide, laying her hand on herfriend’s arm. ‘You, Cap-
tain Randolph, may tell us legends or histories of the
Thames, and Prince Gadstein shall match them with
legends of the Rhine.”

Thus the duchess maneuvered for solitude with Lord
Carew, and Adelaide composed gracefully a party for her
balcony. Beauty Randolph was not the only one who
noted the difference. Allen Carew saw it, and the
graciousness and fitness of his young wife’s conduct
deeply impressed him.

The duchess was a long while silent. The murmur of
voices from the balcony where Lady Adelaide sat with
her three friends, and from the yet more distant bal-
cony, where Lady Di, with her full flow of wit, enter-
tained the others of her guests, came to them on the
soft evening air. ;

“They are all merry and talking, all but me,” she
said, softly. ‘“‘Why isit that when you and I are alone
together we are so apt to fall into a reverie ?”

“TI think we do,” he said—for his part he knew why,
he was afraid he would go too far—he always held him-
self in check fiercely in her presence, aS one who reins
arestive steed. He had begun at times to dread him-
selt.

“I wonder,” breathed the duchess, soft as a distant
flute, ‘‘whether, if it had been our lot to spend our lives
together, we should both have grown dumb, as fish
which lose their eyes, having no use for them in dark-
ness ?”

“That would be terrible, to silence the music of a
voice like yours.”

“TI think it is that we both enjoy the same things, and
kfiow each other's thoughts, and so do not need to
speak. Did you ever fancy I was romantic ?” asked the
duchess.

“I have heard that all the women of the South are.”

«Like Mariana in the South? How does it read ?”

‘**Oh, cruel heart, she changed Her tone,
And cruel love whose end is scorn,
Is this the end, to be left alone
To live forgotten and die f orlorn ?”

Yes, you are right ; the warm Southern heart ever holds
its dear romance, but, as you see, there is little room for
it in my life, and I keep it crushed in my own bosom.”

“I think most people keep their deepest emotions shut
in the silence of their own souls,” said Lord Carew, tak-
ing refuge in generalities.

“People should have no emotions!” cried Juanita.
“My ideal life is shallow—shallow as a pool of dew, and
cold as an iceberg, and calm as a field laid deep in snow.
Emotion wears out iife and wrecks beauty, and brings
age before its time. Give me cold, still, unruffied rest—
the life that moves by rule and method, like some
strong, silent machine, that does not know how to suf-
fer, or rebel, or enjoy.”

“Js that your ideal, Nita! Could you live a life without
pleasure or pain ?”

«What pleasure I have ever had has been dearly bought
by pain, and pleasure has nothing to compensate for
pain, 1 think,” she said. ‘But every heart must bear its
own burden. Yes, a’ tranquil life, absorbed in the un-
exciting joys ot nature, of fair scenes, of music, of birds,
and books, and murmuring leaves, tones that wake no
pang and stir no regrets. Do you dream how I love
nature ?”

Then, in fervid, melodious speech, she painted to him
the glowing southern beauty of Italy, Sicily, Spain; she
spoke of streams, and birds, and flowers, of vintagers
with their songs, of fishers at their nets, of colored sails
skimming over reaches of blue tideless sea; life severed
from cares, from turbulence—life of dreamful beauty.
Her words wove a spell; he listened entranced. She
exulted.

The curtains swept apart, and Lady Adelaide, in an-
gelic calm, stepped between them, and her gentle tones
followed soft upon the duchess’ fervid speech.

‘ “Is the poetry ended ?” she said ; ‘‘Cousin Di speaks of
ome.”

Lord Carew reached out and grasped her cool, satiny
hand, aS one grasps his sole hope of safety. ‘The
poetry is ended, all but one verse, which I saved for
you:

: hag ate of mysteries,
aintly smiling Adeline,
Scarce of earth, nor all divine,
But beyond expression fair.’ ”

CHAPTER XLYI.
AN ARTFUL WOMAN'S CAJOLERY.

Lady St. Clair has taken Lady Carr’s advice, and is go-
ing to the Continent for an indefinite pera she id
well. Women wear out in London life.” said Lady Ca-
rew. They were at breakfast. ‘

.**T suppose we must all leave soon,” said Lord Carew,
with a sigh. To leave London of course meant to leave
Juanita. e ;

“Yes; it is time for Brooklands,” said Lady Carew.

Lady Adelaide did not speak. Dear Brooklands! And
vet, she had not been very happy at Brooklands! Did
Lord Carew expect her to return there. with him? On
the whole, she had been happier in London. Sometimes
he had been so kind. And in London he was in danger,
and she felt necessary to him. In Brooklands he would
be safe. She would not be needed in Brooklands. She
toyed with a cluster of violets, as she thought these
thoughts. Then the letters came in, and she opened
hers, idly. She had never had an interesting or eagerly
looked tor letter, in her life. The others were looking at
their letters. Lord Carew gave a cry.

‘Mother! Terrible! Strange! General Clavering is
dead! He died suddenly, while his ship was passing
through the Suez Canal!”

Lady Carew said not a word. Ghastly white, she rose,
clutched vainly at her throat, and fell senseless.

Frantic with terror, Lord Carew rang a bell, called for
his mother’s maid, and for a physician. Lady Adelaide
was already kneeling by Lady Carew, loosening her
dress, and bathing her face. They carried her to her
room, and in a few moments she recovered.

“What—what did Ihear?”’ she gasped to Lady Ade-
laide.

‘Be calm, mother,” said Lady Adelaide, softly, <‘you
only heard that your husband’s friend, General Claver-
ing, was dead.”

“Only !” gasped Lady Carew, in her daughter's ear,
“only! Adelaide! he was the only witness—her only
witness.”

‘Leave all with Heaven,” whispered Lady Adelaide.

«Adelaide,” said Lord Carew, coming to his mother’s
et later in the morning, and finding her asleep, ‘show
S$ she ?”

«Better, quite herself, do not be alarmed ; it only was
the sudden shock. Itis over.”

«But my motber was not used to faint, at news of the
death of almost a stranger. I think she needs rest and
change, aS much as Lady St. Clair. 1t is quite time she
went down to Brooklands, Adelaide.”

«You are right, Allan, 1 think it is,” said Adelaide,
ealmly.

Let the worst come, it was better to have suspense
over.

«T will write to-day, that they are to expect the family
in a week,” he said. ;

“T think it will be well,” she answered, still quietly.

Lord Carew went out. It had become.a habit for him
to see the duchess daily. There was always one excuse
or another. He had made thousands. of the most pru-
dent resolutions. He thought them shut in his own
soul, but the clever Juanita saw them as clearly as he
did—and laughed at them! She had lulled his fears and
suspicions to sleep. Frank, affectionate, simple as a
child, curiously questioning, skillfully wondering at the
differences between English and Spanish nature and
ideas, he now fancied that between then was the sweet-
est and loftiest platonic friendship. And just as nobly
unsuspicious of the ulterior motives of this willful beauty,
was the duke. He trusted her fully and honestly. And
just so he trusted his friend Allan Carew. He did not
know that the wife he loved called his love, rank, wealth,
lavished on her, Dead Sea fruit—that she hated Lady
Adelaide, and inch by inch contested with her the king-
dom of one heart. The duchess did not care that Lady
Adelaide was more generally popular than herself. The
sweetness and self-forgetfulness of Lady Adelaide won
all hearts, while the pride of the duchess, and her entire
disregard for friends or intimates of her own sex,
alienated hearts from her. The duchess would not have
regretted seeing Adelaide besieged by particular atten-
tions of Prince Gadstein or some other. It might help
set Lord Carew free.

“J came to tell you,” said Lord Carew, ‘‘that we are
leaving London. We return to Brooklands in a week.”

“To Brooklands, so soon !” sighed the duchess.

“The season is nearly ended. It is the proper time to
go,” said Lord Carew, smilingly. ‘But the pressing
reason is that my dear mother seemed not quite well.
She had an attack of fainting to-day that alarmed me.
Brookiands will revive her.”

‘Lady Adelaide is to be congratulated that you have a
Brooklands to take her to. I have heard that it is one
of.the loveliest places in England—all song, and sun,
and flowers, and depths of shade—a paradise! We, too,
are to leave London. The voice of doom has spoken.
We go to Scotland.”
+s “The duke’s seat there is very magnificent, I be-

eve ?”

“Yes; grand, ancient, forbidding. Oh, Allan, if you
knew how I dread Scotland! The skies are so gray;
there are so many days of rain; the cold comes so soon,
and in the early fall the days grow so short, and I am a
child of the sun,” she added, piteously. 2

“I hope you will fill your castle with such charming
guests that you will not notice other matters.”

‘How can [ help but notice? Do you know what they
eall a forest there has not a tree init? Just shrubs, I do
assure you—only a low, close covert for deer and fowl;
and then the duke revels in the sound of bagpipes, and I
think it is tae most dreadful noise. And it goes on and
on, and on there forever. Oh, so different from the

 

 

 

sweet tones of guitar and mandolin, mingled with the
musical flow of my Guadelquiver !”

Surely this lovely duchess did not look a fit candidate
for a residence in an ancient and gloomy northern pal-
ace. The room was filled with a soft, rose-colored light,
and fragrant with heliotrope and mignonette. p

The duchess leaned back in a chair of crimson velvet,
her dress was of pure white with crimson ribbons, a
scarlet camellia glowed in the coils of her dark hair,
and her slender fingers toyed with other scarlet blos-
soms.

“If you hinted to the duke your dread of Scotland 1
know he would go elsewhere,” suggested Lord Carew.

“Oh, I would not dare. He would be offended that I
did not fancy his Scotland. Besides, where would we
go? To his other seat in Cornwall! 1 think the Or-
monds have indulged in the most desolate countries to
hold castles in. Cornwall! Fancy—have you ever been
there? Swept by the winds, ravaged by the sands, at-
tacked by the waves as legions of demons. Flowers,
mere starved scent creatures, perishing by inches; sea-
birds shrieking like wizards of doom ; stupendous gorges
and cliffs to make your heart quake; for music, the
most direful picking on worn-out harps. Oh, me!
Cornwall !”

Lord Carew could not forbear laughing at this ani-
mated disgust, :

“| wish I could do something for you, Nita.” ;

“Ah, so? You can”’—(very slowly) ‘‘but I am afraid
to ask you, or hint it; it would be dreadful,” (sweetly).

“Afraid! To ask me anything, Nita! Only speak.”

«And you won’t be shocked or angry ?”

“Angry? Perish the thought.”

«Then, 1 long, yes, I long and pine to see Brooklands!
So invite us there, for ever So little a visit; a day—two—
four! AmI very bad to ask it? Will your wife be very
disgusted ? Oh, please never tell that { really asked an
invitation, Allan!”

A thriil of re rm passed through Allan Carew’s heart,
To continue at his own home this bright, unique, en-
thralling friendship! To put off the parting day !”

“We could have such glorious horseback rides!” said

6. .

His face flushed. Already he was taking himself to
task for his over-much joy in thought of the visit.

«Would the duke really accept, do you think ?”

“If you could—if you would—ask us, 1 should secure
the acceptance 2” she said, hurriedly. ;

“Believe me it will make me only too happy. I will
write to the duke to-night.’” ;

She laid her little, dainty, warm hand on his:

«And, oh, be sure you never, never hint thateI asked
an invitation! I should be overwhelmed with con-
fusion !” \

Lord Carew made his departure, and as he went, the
beautiful Juanita lifted her fan to her red lips, and whis-
pered to it;

“So much for your self-defense and keen sight, oh,
lord of creation !”

vi — next morning the duke entered his wife’s bou-
oir. ;

“Juanita, here is an invitation, and I hardly know
what to say toit.”

‘Ah! from whom ?” she asked, carelessly.

‘From Carew. He invites us to Brooklands.”

“To Brooklands! I see!” and she laughed. ‘Not sat-
isfied with taking lessons in affairs from you all winter,
he wishes to carry his mentor home to instruct him fur-
ther. Will he become wise enough for a prime minister,
eine But it is better to disappoint him than your-
self.’

‘Disappoint myself? Well, really, Iam fond of Carew.”

«Well you might be, for he considers you the crown
of all Englishmen. But you are tired, and your plans
are made, and your heart is set on going north. You
are the one to be considered.”

“Still, I should enjoy Brooklands. I ought to help
Carew, and give him my political experience, if I can.
He is arising man. Would you enjoy it? You like Lady
Adelaide ?”

“Oh, much. But whatever you wish pleases me.”

«You are very considerate, my dearest.”

“Why not? You are always thinking of me. Yes, I
would like to see Brooklands. I have heard of its gar-
dens, and I really like riding with his lordship.”

‘Perhaps we had better go there for a fortnight.”

“You are sure it would not incommode, or tire you, or
disarrange your affairs? I can ‘get on anywhere, you
know.”

‘“T am sure we shall both enjoy it; and I appreciate
for you the friendship of Lady Adelaide.”

The duchess’ ready fan concealed a little scornful curl
of her lip. She gave him her jeweled hand.

“IT will write an acceptance to-morrow,” he said.

CHAPTER XLVII.
A WIFE’S PREROGATIVE.

It was noonday. The Cannon street railway station
was crowded and noisy. Among those preparing for the
departing train was Lady St. Clair. She stood near a
window and looked out upon the platform. Behind her,
her maid and footman indulged in a little by-play, as
they gathered up rugs, dressing-case, shawls, and other
paraphernalia of traveling, without which Lady St. Clair
never moved.

A tall, slender woman, of singularly graceful motion,
passed between the servants and their mistress, and
Said in her ear:

«You fear me, then! You fly!”

“J do not fear you,” said Lady St. Clair, in the same
restrained tone. ‘‘I have done all I could for you both.
Iowed you nothing. Isimply refuse to be turther in-
commoded. I see you are resolyed to destroy yourself,
and her, and I wash my hands Of all further interference
in the matter. It is done.” E oa *

‘rang. Th mam and maid caught up the last
articles; dhe footman flew to open the door of the first-
class carriage; and Lady St. Clair, gathering her robes
about her, swept out of the waiting-room, without a
look at the woman with whom she had been speaking.

This woman stood, leaning forward, looking after the
departing train, her hands loosely clasped. eel ops
seemed rather on past years than on the long, trailing
cloud of smoke from the engine. - ‘

“Sixteen years!” she Said, slowly—‘‘sixteen years! It
isa long time to lose out of one’s life!” and she went
her way. :

At that same noon hour, Lord Carew went into the
morning-room, where the ladies of the house were’seat-
ed, his mother at her pet silk knitting, his wife drawing.

“T have some agreeable news,” he said; but his tone
was constrained; in truth, he doubted how agreeable
the news might be.

Lady Carew picked up an intricate stitch.

“And what is that, my son ?”

“The Duke and Duchess of Ormond consent to go to
ere shortly after our return, and spend a fort-
night.”

Lady Carew es hastily at her daughter-in-law.

Lady Adelaide had marvolous self-control for one so
young. She gave no sign of commotion or pain. She
looked up, her pencil suspended over the drawing-board.

«You will enjoy that, Allan,” she said, cheerfully.

Lord Carew offered the duke’s letter to his mother.

“His esteem is worth having,” said she, much pleased
at the warm terms of friendliness employed. Heisa
truly noble man. His beautiful young duchess will im-
prove with time.” :

“In what way ?” laughed Lord Carew.

“In prudence, in good sense; her manners are rather
free for an English lady; but, then, she is not an English
lady, and with years, no doubt, will be less fond of ad-
miration.”

Lord Carew desired amore definite expression from
his wife. Her noble spirit had unconsciously become
his criterion of judgment. He leaned over her chair.

‘Adelaide, you have real artistic genius.” ;

“Perhaps, if genius is what Michael Angelo affirmed
it to be, ‘eternal patience.’”

«Adelaide, I hope a large party at Brooklands—I hope
this party will not incommode you.”

‘J should enjoy entertaining any of your friends.
The duke I greatly admire. The duchess is not a favor-
ite of mine, yet that would not prevent my endeavoring
to make her visit a pleasant one for us all.”

“She is not afavorite with any ladies, and I wonder
why? I might think with some persons,that she is
too. beautiful; but that cannot be your case, Adelaide,
as you are queen of fair beauties, as sheis of dark
ones.

Lady Adelaide was called from the room.

“My son,” said Lady Carew, ‘it seems to me that the
lady of the house should be consulted before any guests
are invited. They should be invited with her definite
concurrence.”

Lord Carew rebelled against the implied rebuke.

“~ hope I am yet master of my own house,” he said.

“And she is mistress of it,” said Lady Carew, flush-
ing. ‘In all my married life, my son, no guest was
asked to Brooklands until your father had consulted my
preferences. We were in all things one.”

Her voice trembled,

“I know you were,” said her son, with a sigh.
case is different.
careless.” a

“IT am sure it was simply an oversight,” said his moth-
er, mollified by his admission.

“The invitation was brought about in such a way I
had no time to consider or consult, and J am sure the
presence of the duke will do us honor; and the party is
one you will enjoy, and Adelaide also. The one great
thing I prize in Brooklands is opportunity to exercise a
large hopitality. If Adelaide has any especial prefer-
ences, they must be met in the remaining invitations,
and I shall tell her so.” :

“7 know she will like the Carrs.”

“And Randolph on account of Alice. Lady Carr is
your especial friend, mother. I cannot see but we shall
all be suited and our party delightful.”

He went to his library, idly thinking as he went that
his mother was the most devoted of mothers-in-law,
and seemed of the two to consider his wife’s position
more than, his. He wondered lightly why Lady Carew
was so intensely tenacious of the rights of Lady Ad-
elaide, and the deference due her. Adelaide herself
was far from the least assumptions of any kind.

Meanwhile Lady Adelaide, in her room, faced this new
crisis in her fate. She had believed that the close of the
season would rupture the bond between her husband
and the seductive duchess. And instead they were to be
further riveted in the intimacy, the romantic surround-
ings and enticements of a country house. She felt sure
that the duchess would make use of all these to secure her
captive—blandishments that might pale by repetition
in London life would be freshly fascinating in the new
setting of the country summer. She felt sure that her
husband was acting in all honor and good faith, uncon-
scious of danger, strong in his integrity, but what storm
of passion might suddenly sweep away these outer de-
fenses of a soul ungarrisoned by an abiding love?

“At all events,” said Lady Adelaide to herself, ‘if I

“My
And yet I admit, mother, this was

 

 

 

am to go to Brooklands and defend him against himself
and her, even it I cannot secure his happiness, securing
his honor, I must know where I stand, what right 1 can
claim, I must be in assured position.”

The troubles, deep and silent, of her year of mar-
ried life, had matured Lady Adelaide wonderfully, the
girl's heart had become the steadfast heart of the wo-
man.

She went down and tapped atthe library door. As
she entered, Lord Carew turned to her with a smile.
Under that smile was a conviction that she might justly
have come torebuke him, as his mother had, for lack of
consideration. ;

That cordial smile, so different from the cold stare
with which he had received her in the library at Brook-
lands, almost disarmed Lady Adelaide. She faltered :

“T came to speak to you. I hope [ do not disturb ——”

She flushed. paled, trembled; he saw her emotion,

“Is anything wrong, Adelaide ?”

 

“No. 1 must speak to you—of what is not pleasant,
and I fear——’

“Fear nothing,” he said. ‘Frank speaking is best
speaking.” :

«You—remember—our wedding-day. ?” -

“Certainly !” a shadow fell over his face.

“Oh, fatal day !” she hurried on, gathering her failing
courage. ‘‘You know then, to avoid_gossip, you said-
that we should seem to live together fora time, and
later separate, when we could do so, with less scandal.
I do not wish to burden you. When we left Brooklands
you said 1.was to come here, and all should go on as at
first. Now, if the time has come when you wish to be
free of me, it may be arranged. I could join Lady St.
Clair in Switzerland. There are a thousand explana-
tions that would serve.

“Adelaide, -he cried, ‘‘what are you talking about?
How in the name of reason do you expect me to explain
a separation now more than then. Have you given me
the faintest shadow of a chance by your conduct ? Have
you not all our friefids and all society on your side—all
won by your charms. _As for temper, and he laughed,
if I pleaded incompatibility people would say it was
that I was out of harmony with the angelic.”

She took courage—even smiled,

“Then the arrangement you made, out of deference
x my feelings and position, has not too heavily burden-
ed you ?”

“No! Certainly not.”

She turned her lovely face toward him, a sweet hu-
mility in look and tone, grace in her whole attitude.

«And Iam notin your way? 1do not trouble you so
very much.”

“You do not trouble me at all,” he broke out eagerly.

«And you-‘wish me to go to Brooklands and take—my
—a—place there.” ,

“By all means. I thought you understood it.

“And you will tell me when you wish me: to go
away ?

“To go.away !” he felt like crying out, ‘<Never, never,
be my wife really as well as in name.” For the first
time he longed to clasp tliat lovely figure to his bosom
in-a tender embrace. Then, hot and bitter, the old
trouble poured back on his soul. What was this mys-
tery between them? He would know.

“Adelaide! There is just one frank question I wish
you would answer me fully, clearly.” ~

‘What is it ?”

She spoke quietly, but she shrank as from a blow,
and at once he saw she was on her guard. Under the
sweet softness of that gentle face grew a something

Still, fixed, resolute, even hard, as if he saw, er the

tender, warm flesh, the forming of a woman an

impenetrable, unvanquishable woman. ate
‘Adelaide, tell me only one thing, why did you marry

me 2?” - pete eg
[TO BE CONTINUED.] —

—————-- > @ ~ . s

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

——s

ee”

 

Married at Midnight.

By JOHN A, PETERS.

was commenced in No. 14. Back

(“MARRIED AT Mrp
tf all News Agents. ]

numbers can be obtail
“ . CHAPTER XXXVI.
MARTHA AND HER ADMIRERS.

Jason Craft lay in his coffin like one who had fallen
asleep, so placid a look was on his face. A sheaf of
wheat stood at its foot. It was the hour of the funeral.

“Let me be buried from my own] use,” he had once
said to his wife when in robust health, and the subject
of funerals was being discussed; so that fair summer
morning, when all nature wore a ful look, when
the sky was blue, and the sun shone’ htly, alarge con-
course of people assembled at the red farm-house to pay
their last respects to the dead.

He had been loved by all, this patriarchal old man who
reposed so calmly in his coffin, his poor old hands, which
had worked so for long’ and weary years, folded
over his breast, at EE

Sst at las’
done, so the § ‘Father }
“Che neighborggwergdall thi Mie Snany
The n eremall they: eo.

» fistance all nere Dut theaters. wicked son. Mrs.
Graft hoped and prayed till the very last moment that
he might come, but as the hovir appointed for the funeral
ree and he was not there, she gave up looking for

i ka

 

  
  
 
  
    
  

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r friendsfrom

   

    

All had loved and reverenced this good old 1
rigid in death, and laid out for burial, but his |

good-by. You failed to bring him when his father was
dying ; couldn’t you persuade him to come now ?”

“I will at least make the trial,” said Martha; ‘don’t
give up hope.”

The one-horse wagon was broken; it was too distant
for her to walk to the. Springs; if she went at all she
would have to ride one of the work horses. To dispatch
any one on the errand would be useless. Somewhere in
the house was an old bottle-green riding-habit which
she had worn years ago. This, after a prolonged search,
she fished out of a dark, cobwebby corner in the garret,
where it had been hung as of no further use. It was
moth-eaten, scanty of material, and woefully short, but
it would have to answer the purpose. She brushed it
vigorously, but nothing could make it presentable, and
when she Shad donned it she made awry face at the
ludicrous figure reflected in the glass. She looked prim
and old-fashioned, and her turban was not in the least
becoming. She went to the stable, saddled one of the
work horses, and cantered away to the Spa.

“If some good genius would place the count in my
path,” she thought. “I don’t want to lose any time,
and I don’t particularly care to run all over the hotel to
hunt up Jerome Graft. The caitiff! How could I ever
have loved him ?” ‘

She was flushed and heated when she neared the
hotel; the horse she rode had cast a shoe and hobbled
along unsteadily ; and she was conscious of being eyed
narrowly by the croquet-players on the lawn, and a
knot of men lounging on the steps of the bowling alley
suspended their conversation and removed their cigars
from their mouths as she rode by, and one of them re-
marked loud enough for her to hear:

“Boys, the damsel’s horse is lame; she’ll hardly get a
bid,” and then all laughed immoderately, and the indig-
nant blood rushed to the damsel’s cheeks. She wasina
quandary what to do, when she espied the count in an
immaculate loosely fitting brown linen suit, lounging on
a bench and chatting with two ladies. Surely he would
pilot her out of her difficulty! But no, he made no mo-
tion to approach her.

She dared not call to him, she could not dismount be-
fore all those curious eyes without. assistance, and she
heartily wished she had not been prevailed upon to
come. ©

The count had recognized the perplexed damsel on
the lame horse, but remembering his unsuccessful chase
after the unruly cows up and down the steep, stony,
brier-infested pasture-lot, he pretended not to notice the
st ‘she was in till he felt she was sufficiently pun-
ished, when he excused himself to the ladies and stepped
up to ha, just as a hall-boy emerged from the hotel.
Deepl .ortified, and angry with the gentleman for
being so dilatory, she at first feigned not to see the
count, who. enjoyed her discomfiture hugely, inasmuch
as he heal néver had the pleasure of seeing her embar-
rassed Before, and she was turning to the hall-boy,when
Count Trevlyn interposed and said ;

& “TH attend to the lady, boy. Good-morning, Miss
ross.”

Her anger did not subside. He had no business to be
so slow in proffering assistance. She returned his salu-
tation coolly, asking him :

“Are you ubiquitous?” and adding, caustically: “I
did not want,to see you this morning, count, but as you
are here, you can assist me to dismount and tie my
horse, too, in the shade, if you will. Yes,” incensed
anew at the ghost of a smile hovering about his lips as
he scrutinized the beast on which she was mounted, and
the faded, moth-eaten riding-habit she was attired in,
“its asorry quadruped to ride, but it brought me safely
here, which is much to its credit. My habit, too, has
occasioned invidious remarks among the fashionables
on the lawn, and I shall toss it into the rag-bag when I

et tothefarm. The costume of the equestrienne is
ess desirable than that of the milkmaid or currant-
picker. J can’t help it. Iwas obliged to come. Oh,
Count Trevlyn, would it be asking too much of you to
repeat your favor of afew days ago? It is again neces-
sary for me to hold communication with him who is
known here as Walter Blake. I'll ensconce myself in
some obscure corner on the lawn while I have to wait.
Oh, there he is now. Summon him, count. Think what
you will, only send him to me and let me get away from
ere. . : . ;

And with the conviction that some strong tie united
the two, the victim of a jealousy, which, like Iago’s, did
gnaw him inward, he did his errand, and from the
piazza moodily watched the two, who met without
shaking hands, and neither one sat down, as they
talked earnestly for not over three minutes, Martha's
hands unconsciously clasped as she interceded for the
mother.

What did it mean? Did she love this man? Twice
had she interviewed this black-visaged lawyer to his
knowledge, and she had not explained the nature of her
previous missign, as she had promised. _

Remorse, sharp and relentless, had been at work with
the ambitious lawyer; in memory he had lived over
those happy, care-free days on the farm; and rest to
him was impossible since his father’s death and burial.
He could have cried as remorsetully as the Reformer
| once cried in his cloister at Erfurt, “‘My sins! my sins!’
He had determined to go to the farm and beg his
mother’s forgiveness, then return to New York and put
forth every energy to win a fortune, as his prospects
were dead as far as inheriting Mrs. Thornton’s property
was concerned.

He expressed his willingness to accede to her demand,
and Martha was making her way to the old horse when
the count joined her d offered to take her to the
farm-house in his own riage, adding, by way of in-
ducements, “that her beast was too lame to carry her,
| and she would be an age on the road, and that a boy

should fead her sorry guadrwped ty the blacksmith’s,
have a #ew shoe put en, and take: the farm.” But
Martha fefused decidedly, saying : :

«T’ve put you tonoend of trouble already. I'll stop
myself at the blacksmith’s in the village ;” and, mount-
ing Le crippled steed, she went at a snail’s pace down
the hill.

Jerome Graft had. been at the farm-house fully an
hour when she reached it, warm, tired, and out of pa-

 

( “son. }
The clock he had kept going for forty years, and whiniitionee. What took place between mother and son she
had given twelve solemn strokes just as the breath had | never knew; the interview was a long and pera one,

left his body, for some cause or otier had never struck
again, never even ticked. Its hands were on the figure
twelve, and no one had wound it up or would ever wind
it up as long as the stricken wife lived. To her it had
mysteriously stopped to tick the moment Jason died.
She had brought herself to say, ‘‘Not my will, oh, Hea-
ven, but thine be done.” But all who looked at her
wasted figure, her face grown years older within the
past two days, knew she would not: be long in following
him who had gone to the land beyond the skies.

The rooms below were filled to overflowing; people
stood in the hall, on the piazza, and in the yard under
the shade-trees. It was all very solemn, very affecting,
but there was none of the gloomily splendid parapher-
nalia belonging to the burial of the dead as seen in large
towns and cities. No flowers were in the coffin, nothing
but a bunch of wheat garnered from the field that was
the old man's pride, but there were great handfuls of
roses, and lilies, and fragrant balm, on mantel-piece and

brackets, and clusters of lovely pansies and sweet- |

breathed mignonette looped back the snowy curtains.
Mrs. Northrup, Ethel, Vane, and the count, had driven
over to attend the funeral. ;

Mr. Graft was a stanch Presbyterian, and a Presby-
terian clergyman preached ths’ funeral sermon, taking
for his text the tenth verse of the third chapter of
Isaiah :

“Say yet to the righteous, that it shall be well with
him,.for they shall eat the fruitof their doings.”

The widow listened to the sermon without an out-
break. ;

“J shall soon follow him,” shé thought. ‘I, too, shall
soon be safe with Jesus; his loVing arms will infold me
close. Jason is not dead, but sleeping. My spiritual
eyes opened, I would behold him near me, as the disci-
ples beheld Moses and Elias.”

It was a long line of vehicles that wound slowly down
the road leading to Slate HillCemetery, where he was
to be buried. The carriage containing the party from
the Pavilion formed one in the procession. Mrs. North-
rup carried with her an exquisite cross composed wholly
of fragrant white lilies to place above the new-made
grave.

The sun never shone more brightly; there could not
be a fairer, lovelier day; and a truer Christian was
never entombed than he who-sleptin the coffin which
was lowered in the grave hollowed out of the slaty soil.
The clods rattled down on the coffin; Lucy laid the
odoriferous lily cross near, the man shoveling in the
slate promising to place it aboye his breast when the
grave was filled up, and sadly all re-entered their car-
Tiages and left him in that peaceful graveyard sleeping
sweetly with other sleepers. :

The bereaved wife never made a moan, never spoke
on her way to and from the cemetery, but when all the
triends and neighbors had taken their departure save
her husband's niece, who still superintended affairs at
the farm, and Martha, she sat down in the easy-chair in
which Mr. Graft had been wort to rest himself after his
woe toil, and her frame fairly shook with suppressed
so

Martha let her alone,.and when the sobs ceaSed, Mrs.
Graft said : at

“T feel better now. I cried, not because Jason has left
me and I am not reconciled to the parting, for I shall be
with him very, very soon, but because my boy was not
here to see his father in his coffin, and did not stand by
his grave when all that was mortal of him was lowered
therein. I long so for rest. I shall slumber so sweetly
by Jason’s side under the daisies, in that quiet spot.
where marble slabs pointeupward like fingers of faith
to Heaven. Martha, I’ve been thinking I ought to make
my will. I want to leave all I have to leave to my way-
ward boy. This house with all its appurtenances, and
its thirty acres of tillable soll, belong to me when the
five hundred dollars which you took from your hard
earnings to pay off the mortgage arerefunded. Heaven
forever bless you! You’ve been kinder to me, done more
for me than my own flesh and blood.”

From the day of the funeral Mrs. Graft began to fail
perceptibly. The doctor could diagnose no special dis-
ease. After dwelling at some length upon her pitiably
weak state, and saying she required most Careful atten-
tion, he prescribed a tonic and left. But it was beyond
the power of mortal to help her ; she was wasting away,
dying of a broken heart—fading as an autumn leaf.
Finally she took to her bed and remained there too weak
to rise, and one morning, when Martha, as was her cus-
tom, carried in something nice and dainty to tempt her
appetite, she said to the girl: x

“Martha, to-day my soul will be in paradise. I am
thankful to go, y Sole regret isin leaving my son,
who has forsaken the path of the righteous and taken
the crooked one that leads to destruction. . Heaven be
merciful unto him a sinner! Soften his heart and re-
store to him the faith of his childhood,” she prayed.
‘Martha, I can’t leave this world without bidding my boy

| and he did not take his departure when ended, but lin-

| gered there tosee his mother die. He rambled aim-

| lessly about the dull place, and was in and out of the
| house, and did his best to make friends with Martha
|}and regain his olden power over her, but she treated
|; him as she would have treated any slight acquaint-
| ance, never familiarly, and managing to infuse into her
| speech occasionally a subtle poignancy that did not
| tend to put him at his ease.

| Just after the sun went down Mrs. Graft breathed her
| last—died as peacefully and silently as the leaves that
| drop from a withered rose; and two days later, at the
| Same hour that Mr. Graft’s funeral had taken place, the
| people gathered at the farm-house to listen to another
sermon by the Presbyterian minister, and the wife was
| buried by the side of her husband.

| The son made arrangements with a sturdy married
| couple to oversee the farm, intending to return to the
| city on the following day.

| He was deceived by Martha’s manner, which had
' softened perceptibly toward him, and he indulged a

| hope that were he to press his suit now he should not

| fail. He appeared truly penitent, and his grief for his

| mother was certainly sincere. He had no time to lose,

| for Martha was to go back to the cottage with Mrs.

; Northrup, who, with the count and Vane, was present

| at the funeral.

Martha wanted to take a farewell look at the dear old
| place, which she might not see again for years, and she
| Stole softly out of the house while Mrs. Northrup was

resting, intending to be gone but afew moments. She
| Viewed the familiar scenes through misty eyes; she
| strolled on and on, and was astonished to find herself
| finally in the pasture-lot, where the two cows lay in the
| long grass lazily chewing their cuds and switching their
| caudal appendages to scare away the flies and musqui-
| toes that troubled them. She perched herself on a huge
bowlder which some extraordinary convulsion of nature
had wrenched from earth’s rocky,interior and tossed
there, smiling as she thought of Count Trevlyn’s ex-
citing chase after the cows, and growing sober as she
mused upon his clouded brow when told of her wish to
see Walter Blake.

«What dol care what he thinks?” she angrily cried,
pulling up a tuft of daisies at her feet and ruthlessly
stripping off the petals, unable to keep her restless
fingers still; and in this unprofitable business she was
engaged when she heard her name called ; and, tearing
the heart out of the last daisy, she said: ‘I am solita-
rily inclined, Mr. Graft. Go away and let me be,” as he
prepared to take a seat at her side.

7] cannot go, Martha,” he replied, bravely, ‘‘till I
have explained to you my erratic conduct in the past.”

“Save yourself that trouble, sir,” she interrupted,
shaking opt her drapery ; ‘it is unexplainable. n’t
exercise your fertile imagination and invent any plaus-
ible lie. I must get back to the house. Mrs. Northrup
will not care to wait for me longer.”

And realizing it was his last chance, the lawyer im-

petuously poured forth his love, a ich, he said, had

never grown less even when, as ed of his humble
lot, and he pleaded as only a man Gesperately in love
can plead for her to be his wife.” .

“Your wife, sir? Your wife? Did I hear aright?”
and she adroitly evaded the hand stretched out to de-
tain her as she leaped from the rock. ‘‘Were you the
last man on the face of the earth, I would not marry
you! No, sir, not if I had to beg my bread from door to
door! Iloved you once, Jerome Graft—orI thought I
did—and had you been true to me, I should not have
broken the engagement under any cirumstances what-
ever. I forgive you your desertion, sir, for I do not love
you. You are less to me than those daisies at my feet,
whose petals I stripped off and whose hearts I tore out.”

“JT do not believe you,” he declared, vehemently. “You
cannot have ceased to love me, and you reject*me be-
cause you are ambitious as Lucifer, and aspire to be a
countess. Youseek for higher game. Count Trevlyn
will never marry a country-bred old maid; he’s simply
fooling you.”

«Count Trevlyn is a gentleman, Jerome Graft, which
Iam sorry to say you are not. He has no inclination to
flirt with me—no desire to make love to me—but treats
me as any noble, courteous man would treat a friend of
the opposite sex. I do not aspire to be a countess.”

“But itis in your power to bea countess, Martha
Cross, whether you aspire to the position or not.” :

Had a thunderbolt-dropped from a clear, blue sky, the
two could not have been more startled. There stood
Count Trevlyn, who had heard the girls answer as he
approached the two, unseen, and who hastened to apol-
ogize to Martha for his intrusion.

«Pardon me, Miss Cross, for unavoidably hearing your
words. Mrs. Northrup sent me in quest of you. You
were gone so long that she began to get anxious and
uneasy. Sir,” addressing the crest-fallen man, ‘‘you are
in error in regard to my attentions to this lady. I es-

 

a

teem her as one of the noblest women of my acquaint-
ance; more—I love ber; and I shall deem myself a fortu-
nate man indeed, if she says ‘yes’ to the question I mean
to prefer, as heartily as she said ‘no’ to the question
already asked by you. Sir, will you be so polite as to
leave. us? We can dispense with your unwelcome
company.”

The disappointed lawyer walked away. His humilia-
tion was complete; and the count detained the blushing
Martha, and pleaded as eloquently as a Demosthenes
for the love that had been growing gradually in his heart
‘tor her; and Martha knew that she would be happy and
content as his wife; but not then would she give hum a
decisive answer.

“T respect you, Count Trevlyn, and could be reasonably
happy as your wife,” she said; “fam almost sure that I
love you; but I am afraid it is not love, but admiration,
you feel for me—a certain lukewarm liking for my so-
ciety which would not last were I to become your wife.
The lofty tion you would lift me to has no terrors for
me, and does not deter me trom saying ‘yes’ promptly,
for I am wonderfully ambitious, and I am not one to
think myself inferior to another in whatever rank of life
he may be. But, sir, I want to test. your love. I shall
not alter my plans for the winter. hall teach in Troy.
When Spring gladdens our hearts with her birds and
flowers, if youcare to repeat the question, come to me,
and I will not say you nay.”

And with this decision the count had to be satisfied.

 

CHAPTER XXXVIIL.

AT THE SHADOWS.
Gordon Graham was removed from the dingy abode in
tbe ravine to a pleasant, commodious private dwelling
in the village. edid not improve as the days passed
and he was petulant and exacting; and Rizi

~ .

, who
continued to care for him and anticipate his = had
scarcely a2 moment she could call her own. Did she
leave his bedside he would call for her, and James could
do nothing to satisfy him. He had repeatedly petitioned
Rizpah to bring him a mirror, so he could ‘see how in
the duse he looked after his tumble ;” and, as usual,
when reverting to the mishap, he would roundly curse
Beelzebub. . 78%

“We killed the father and he meant to kill the son,”
he swore, ‘‘but by ——” and a horrible oath rolled out of
his mouth—‘*T’ll come out of this scrape, never fear, If
he had not been shot on account of his broken leg, I'd
do the job myself when my hand regained its firmness.
Get me the glass, Rizpah, do,” F

But Rizpah invariably put him off, fearing a scene
should she obey. But one morning when she was not
in the room he coaxed James to get him one, and to
hold it for him while he studied the image retiected
therein. A single glimpse revealed a face that was hid-
eous with its scars, and he shivered the glass in pieces
with a blow from his fist.

“Td rather die,” he groaned, ‘‘than live robbed of the _ -

beauty [ worshiped.”
But the love of life was strong within him, and a.
week later he said to his patient, soft-voiced nurse :
* “Rizpah, you are good; pray that I,a sinner, may
ye.” oan
And Rizpah did pray, and earnestly, that he might
live to repent and become a follower of Christ. When
she took out her Bible and prepared to read some con-
soling passages, he did not bid her put it up, as he had
done heretofore, but listened attentively, and was grave
ane an the remainder of the day.
asked :

make me well, and I am a better man, will you remain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

with me ?” p

And Rizpah touched the weak hand, whiter than th
counterpane on which it rested, and murmured:

“I will not forsake you. So long as you need me, and
ty es a me, I willstay with you and try to be a duti-

ul wife. .

Believing it to be her duty, she had made up her mind
to live with her husband; she knew that he. would be
crippled and helpless all his days—that he would never
boast of his beauty and strength again. 2 eee

“Thank Heaven!” burst from the husband’s lips, and
for the first time since a child tears.rolled down his
cheeks, and he prayed to be a better man. After that
Rizpah never heard him utter an oath, and he often
asked her to read a chapter from the Good Book, and
gradually he grew to be achanged man. Through suf-
fering he was being purified and made fit for the King-
dom of Heaven. F ee eae

Mrs. Thornton dropped in to see him codastojeag abt
her daughter’s sake, but she cuuld not be cordial .
and he was always relieved when she went away.

“If we could go home to the Shadows I should be con-
tent,” he said, to Rizpah, when, in mentioning the past,
thoughts of the beautiful pl came tohim. <I shall
never be any better in this world,” he added, sorrowful-
ly, ‘‘and, Rizzie, I want to go home to die.”

“Gratify him oo going,” ordered the doctor, when
Rizpah questioned him as to the expediency of favor-
ing his desire; ‘‘a journey will neither shorten nor pro-
long his days.”

So Rizpah and her crippled husband went to the
Shadows. Mrs. Thornton and Richard Frost accom-
panied them. + ee

“IT cannot let you go from me, my darling,” the
mother said; ‘‘for the sake of my child I'll live ’neath
the roof that shelters the man whose father murdered
your father. I believe Gordon Graham to be a thorough-
ly contrite man.” ‘

She had become deeply attached to Richard Frost, her
son-in-law, and Gordon too was fond of his society, and
when his wife could not be with him, he would say :

“7 want you, Richard.” —

;,, 50 the two took entire care of the . His
formation was wonderful. He was’so
of his language, so afraid of hurting the feelings of
those around him. ; + oo

It was a bland, lovely morning when they started for
home. Mrs. Northrup, Sibyl and Martha, and the count
and Vane were on hand to see them off. Gordon ex-
pressed a desire to see them separately, and one by one
they went into the room, where he was propped up in a
chair, to bid him good-by. When they gazed upon his
shrunken features, his cadaverous, scar-lined counte-
ee they realized that his days on earth were num-

red. “~

He thanked them all for their kindness to his Wife.
As Sibyl took in hers the wasted hand her eyes were
humid with pity. 5
i e am so sorry for you, Gordon,” she murmured, bro-

enly. .

“I know you are, Sybil,” he replied; ‘but this inflic-

   
 

tion was what 1 needed to bring me to a sense of my _

wrong-doing—to convert me from the error of my ways.
Sybil, I treated you shamefully. Deprived of my
strength, my beauty, a wreck of my former self—a sin-
cerely repentant man—can you forgive me? Itis much
to ask of you, but I am passing trom the world I have
loved so well. A few short weeks and my misspent life

|is ended; and I should die more contentedly if you

whom I have wronged would forgive me.” ‘
“Gordon,” and truth breathed in every syllable she

malice toward you, no ill-will. “Gordon,” she whi
Par “I have conquered my mad passion for you, and-
-——— | ——_ ° x
ace love another?” interpreting her blushes
rectly.

she nodded her head, touched her lips to his hand,
and lett him.

To his rival he said:

“Vane Hunter, you are a noble man. When 1 am
dead and gone I leave Rizpah to yourcare. Remember!
You love her, and she”’—he could not bring himself to
say “‘loves you” as he meant to have done, but substi-
tuted the words ‘trusts you,” instead ; ‘‘and some day I
want you to win her for your own.” ; :

The journey proved long and tedious, they were
obliged to stop so often on the road for Gondon to rest,
but finally they were all gathered together at the Shad-
ows, and Gordon declared he was content, and willing
to die whenever the Lord saw fit to call him.

‘Not that I do not care to live, Rizpah, but I am not
worthy of you, and no man of my acquaintance but
Yane Hunter is. Rizpah, I shall never mention this
subject again, but now I must speak for fear I might die
with the words unspoken. I revoke the curse I was das-
tardly enough to utter. I know you will be a true wife

to me if I live, but, if I die, I hope you will one day be
Vane Hunter's wife.” .

“Oh, Gordon, you burt me! You must not say such
~things to your wife. I want you to live. I am learning
to love you, Gordon, now that you are so kind to me.”

He didnot contradict her, and went to sleep with a
smile on his lips, his hand claspedinhers. _,

Shortly after their arrival at the Shadows, Mrs. Thorn-
ton and Richard Frost went together to Rachel's graye.

_—

Flowers blossomed above it, birds warbled in tha
boughs of the willow dropping its silver-green hat |

over it.

Toward night he. i
“Rizzie, if the God you believe in should see fit to

trans- +
ent, so choice

uttered, “I forgive you with all my heart. 1 bear io

 

 

 

 

 

“The spot is such a beautiful one, Richard, for Rachel 3

to lie in that it seems a pity to remove her elsewhere,”

sighed the mother, as she plucked a sprig of mignonette _

from her dear one’s grave. st cok

“Others equally as pretty are in the yard, mother.
Let us look around and select one, and we will pur-
chase it, and then we will have the father’s remains ex-
humed and interred here, and they will slumber side by
side. You are delighted with this neighborhood; you
want to be near the daughter so recently res | to
you; then why not purchase the adjoining estate,
Sunnyside, which is for sale, and which, with the ex-
ception of the Shadows, is the most elegant residence in
this vicinity ?” y .

The proposition struck the lady favorably. a

“Vll agree to all you propose, Richard, on condition
that you stay with me asmyson. |! am an old woman,
and I must have some one to lean u

n—to care for me.”
And Richard pressed the lady’s hand and answered :

son.”

And he registered a vow before Heaven never to for- _
sake her or requite her confidence with treachery, as —

the ambitious lawyer had done.

Mrs. Thornton could not rest tillshe had seen the
spot where her husband was buried, so
went to the dull little hamlet where Jerome Graham
had lived, and at whose house the man with the wild
eyes, and the child in his arms, sought admittance on
that stormy winter’s night years ago, and in the grave-
yard, among the graves scattered thickly there, the
found the one they were in search of, 0n whose head-
stone was engraved the name ‘‘George Graves.” we

When they returned to the Shadows a coffin went
i them, and side by side in the green spot inclosed

y

lot, Rach.1 and her father sleep; and ag long as there

 

daily over uheir graves. , :
_ Gordon Graham lingered with them until late in the

e and Richard ©

raceful shrubbery that adjoins the Graham burial
are flower to be had Rizpah causes them to be strewed

“Dear Mrs. Thornton, | will live with you and be your —

i |

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

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— Rpm T _ enqmenpemmer cence ate aye ET er

 

  

 

name, «cea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #5

 

 

 

 

fall, cared for tenderly by his wife, whom he almost wor-
shi i

Hiepah's unremiting kindness and devotion were not
unrewarded ; Gordon Graham died blessing her—loving
the Lord—at peace with all men.

Immediately after his death Mrs. Thornton and her
widowed @aughter and Richard Frost sailed for Italy. be-
neath whose sunny Skies they were to dwell for a year,
believing a change of air and scenery would be beue-
ficial to them all.

Prior to going Rizpah received a letter from Martha,
who was in Troy, from which she learned something of
the dramatis persone who had figured in the scenes in
which she participated in Sharon. Some words of sym-

thy, touchingly expressed, then followed a long me-
toes of personal art and gossip.

“Fam at my old tread-mill work again, Rizpah,” she
wrote. “In other words, lam teaching. I find it pro-
vokingly irksome, at times, this Ixion-like turning of the
wheel, and when night overtakes me I am almost
dragged out; but after afew hours’ rest I recover my
strength and habitual serenity, and go to work deter-
mined night shall not again find meso tired and dis-
couraged. But, alas! the spirit is willing, but the flesh
is weak.

‘Have you heard from Mrs. Northrup? It was late in
September ere she concluded to bid adieu to Sharon.
She and her brother are in New York, and Ethel Granger
is to nd the winter with them, as her father has gone
to Callfornia to recuperate. She has not renounced all
hope of eventually becoming Mrs. Hunter. Vane treats
her civilly, but plainly shows that he cares nothing for
her. The dark entrancing Miss Murray is captured at
last.' Her captor is the celebrated sculptor, Neil Gilbert.
Need 1 assure you that she isa willing and happy cap-
tive. Report says they are to be married on Christmas-
day, but of course you will be honored with cards.

“Would it surprise you greatly, dear, if the old maid
from the country became a countess? Actually the
count has proposed, and if he does not prove as recreant
and faithless as my first lover, | shall grant him an af-
firmative answer in the spring. .

“By the way, ere I close, let me say that Vane is prac-
ticing law, putting forth every energy to win for himself
a name niche in the world. Jerome Graft, too, is
applying himself unremittingly to his profession, and
winning fresh laurels every day. What a sad pity it is
that he is conscienceless! 1 was glad that I was able to
pay him back in his own coin. 1 had the exquisite pleas-
ure of refusing to become Mrs. Jerome Graft. You see
there is no road, however long, without a turn.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—_—___——__>-9@—<___—__-

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

 

Grand Park Sensation

THE SKILL OF HYJAH THE HINDOO,

By DONALD J. McKENZIE,

Author of “THE WALL STREET WONDER,’
“THE MURRAY HILL MYSTERY,” etc.

 

“The Grand Park Sensation” was commenced in No. 21.
Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]

 

CHAPTER XXY.
CONQUERING AN ENEMY.

The Hindoo detective realized that he had a desperate
man to deal with. .

Grote, the giant, possessed indomitable courage as he
had already proved, and when a courageous man is
brought to bay, he will make a terrible struggle rather
than yield. s

Hyjah was likewise determined in his intention to se-
cure the dangerous foe. .

“You will make a fight, will you ?” the detective ques-
tioned in his quiet tones. ;

“If you force me to do so, I shall.”

“Do you expect to win ?”

«] think I have a fair chance.” :

“You have forgotten your experience at the rink,
then ?” ‘ ‘

“Not at all. But the case is different now.”

‘How ?”

«There I dared only the mildest measures for resist-
ing you. The spectators thought if was in sport, you
know, and the sight of a pistol, or anything desperate,

would have dispelled their illusion.” :
“So you did not do your best upon that occasion ?”
“T will show you, if you persist in pressing me.”
“Who is it t pays you to take such risks in the hope
me?

of co!

“That is my affair.”

“Then you admit that you are paid ?”

“J admit nothing.”

«Do you propose to use that revolver ?”

“Just advance a pace and see.”

“All right—ZJ will!” :

No sooner had these words passed the lips of the Hin-
doo than the latter bounded into the air.

The direction of the leap was not directly toward his

foe, however. It was ally to one side, yet it brought
him nearer the nt.

It availed ano purpose, as the detective had rea-
son to ex

Grote was on ays alert at rt agra first ee we
his finger ligh ressing the trigger of his weapon,
hence, when the detective leaped, the other fired halt
involuntarily, and point-blank in the direction toward
which the weapon pointed.

But as the detective leaped sideways, the bullet missed

_its mark.

Before the pistol could be cocked again Hyjah was at
the side of his foe, and grasping the uplifted arm.

There was no further chance to use the revolver; the
struggle must be settled hand to hand.

The weapon was dropped, and the two men clinched,

each with a desperation that showed his own doubt of
the result.
_ Grote, as we have before stated, was the heavier of the
two, and he muscles trained by constant ex-
ercise. But in point of agility he was inferior to the
nimbie Hindoo.

Yhe arms of the latter writhed about the form of his
foe like powerful serpents, pressing tighter and tighter,
and forcing Grote to resist to his utmost to prevent be-
ing taken at a disadvantage.

he Hindoo also had perfect control of his lower
limbs, and the other had all he could do to keep a foot-
hold upon the slushy surface of the ice.

For several moments the struggle continued without
ap) nt advantage upon either side.

ut suddenly: there came a change. Grote found him-
self lifted from his feet. Struggle as he might he could
not retain his foothold, and in another instant he went
down with a shock.

But he still clung to the Hindoo, and the latter went
down also. They were too much engaged in their strug-
gles to notice what was going on around them. There-
tore they were unconscious of a danger that threatened
them both alike—an appalling danger that increased
each moment. ; 7

The ice upon which the combat took place was, as has
been before described, detached from the main body
upon three sides. It was this which had prevented
Grote’s continued flight.

And now, unnoticed by the combatants, another seam
appeared in the ice—this upon the fourth side of the
now detached fragmente ;

The latter was now but an ice raft, and at any mo-
ment it was liable to become broken into smaller frag-
ments, which would not sustain the weight of. the
two men. —

The seams were all widening; every moment new
fr: ents became detached from the main field and
dri with the tide.

Hyjab was the first to become aware of their danger
from source. At the moment of maxing the dis-
covery, however, he had completed the conquest of his
antagonist, having the latter in a helpless position, with
his knee upon his breast.

Grote ceased his struggles and gasped :

*‘] yield—you have won !”

At the same time he extended his hands for the fet-
ae which he expected his conqueror to place upon
them.

But to his astonishment the detective released him
and sprang to his feet. j

Hyjab had already eres his handcuffs, but these
he returned to his pocket, at the same time saying :

“J shall not fetter your hands at such a time as this.
It would be placing you at the mercy of the river, and I
am not the brute to do that.”

Grote rose to his feet, staggering with exhaustion. He
stared at the Hindoo in amazement.

“Youre not—going to—fetter me *” he exclaimed, in-
ae:

a2 0.

“Why not ?”

“Because if we were compelled to swim for our lives,
as appears likely, you would have to drown.”

" on So you show me merey, do you ?”

4 r

“IT wouldn’t have done so much by you.”

“I cannot help that.”

‘You are a strange man, Hyjah! I thought you were

merciless.” ,
‘“Now you know your mistake.”
«What if 1 should take advantage of you now? I
. might do so, by ep pan my chance.”

“TI do not think you will.” =
“What if I should say that I will ?” c
«That would make no difference. [have no ri,ht to

murder you, and ishan't doit. If I could save you from

iO

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

drowning I should do so. You're a man, and you have
courage. Jf you were a brute it would be no reason why
I should prove myself to be no better.”

Grote averted his face. gazing out over the expanse of
ice in silence. The small field upon which they were
standing was now drifting. They were half a mile from
shore, and there was no telling how soon they might
both be struggling in the black, eddying water.

Grote turned, again facing the Hindoo, who was on the
alert for a chance of leaving the drifting fragment for an
unbroken field.

“See here!” exclaimed the giant, extending his hand.

‘“What is it ?”

“Can’t we Shake hands ?”

“Certainly, if you wish.”

‘*And be friends ?”

Hyjah took his hand. He hesitated only long enough
to assure himself that Grote was sincere in his friendly
proffer before responding. ;

‘We can be friends,” he then said, in his low, deep
tones, which were so full of power, whether their accents
were stern or conciliatory.

‘Thank you, sir. You may depend upon me in future,
whatever happens. J am an ugly customer, as you well
know. But you have used me as though I were as hon-
orable as you are, and you Shall not regret it. I have
nothing against you, and never had, except that I
fancied I was big enough to whip you. You have satis-
fied me in that respect.” j

Hyjah felt convinced that the giant was sincere; yet
there was a possibility of intended treachery, for the de-
tective’s experience had taught him to be always on his
guard, it mattered not how sure he might feel that there
was no duplicity. ‘

Therefore, while the Hindoo appeared to fully trust
the protestations of his late antagonist, he did not for a
moment relax his vigilance.

Hyjah was eager to take advantage of the peaceful
overtures of the other, to test his sincerity by question-
ing him concerning the Grand Park sensation. But be-
fore he could do so something occurred to postpone such
investigation—perhaps forever.

They stood scarce six feet apart.

At this moment, however, the ice cracked between
them, and both sprang backward as a black seam rent
their ice-raft.

They now drifted rapidly apart, and very soon the fog
and darkness concealed one from the view of the other.

The fragment upon which Hyjah was adrift, floated in
a half circuitous course, and presently camein contact
with the main field, upon the New Jersey side.

The detective did not lose a moment's time in leaving
the treacherous fragment. .

For the next hour he worked his way cautiously
shoreward.

The ice was breaking so rapidly that he several times
came near going adrift again. And once or twice he be-

“came half submerged in the icy waters of the Hudson.

At last, when he reached the New Jersey shore, he
was cold, wet, and exhausted, while the hour was long
after midnight. Y

He was too weary to go farther without rest. So he
crawled into an old boat-house that he found in the
emey, and before he could resist the impulse fell fast
asleep. ‘ 3

When he awoke he was stiff and sore in every limb,
aga J was only by a most painful effort that he rose to

eet.

A gray, misty morning had dawned.

The Hindoo detective emerged from the boat-house
and walked slowly up the steep bank of the river.

Suddenly he heard a gruff, startled exclamation.
Glancing up, he saw a human figure run swiftly from
view beyond a clump of adjacent shrubbery : while con-

.| fronting him, with a fragment of roast chicken in one

hand and a cocked revolverin the other, was the most
reckless-looking man the detective had ever seen.

 

CHAPTER XXYVI.
A PISTOL-SHOT.

Hyjah would not have been more amazed had he en-
countered a sheeted ghost than he was by the appari-
tion we have described.

_ He halted and stared at the man in mute surprise.
The latter very deliberately took another mouthful of
chicken ; then, in his hoarse tones, exclaimed :

an can’t have none of this fowl, notif I knows my-
self!”

“J have asked for none,” the Hindoo returned, not
knowing what else to say.

«Yer better not.” . ¢

med Buckley—tor the eceentric man was he—con-
tinued :

“This yer is a private picnic, so yer might as well
perambulate. I guess Coney Island would suit ye better,
though it ain’t just the right season.”

Hyjah made no reply. He was mentally wondering
who the person was of whom he had caught a vanish-
ing glimpse.

“Ain’t yer goin’?” Buckley demanded, his great
square jaw working vigorously. ,

«Yes, in due time.”

«Well, the present time is due, 1say. I ain’t foolin’.
You're a ogee but yer make a good mark for me to
shoot at. tter toddle along, cause I’m an 4awful bad
man. I’m bad clean through!” ',

Hyjah was amused, and notin the least frightened.
At the same time he determined to satisfy his curiosity
concerning the fleeting figure of which he had obtained
a glimpse. ; vie

Nhat. it was pruden’
ever, he was warned by a certain reckless gleam in
Buckley’s deep-set eyes.

This gruff stranger looked like a man who would not

hesitate to resort to any measures, however desperate,
in self-defense. That he was a fugitive criminal the de-
tective divined at once. But the Hindoo was not one of
those officers who are eager to persecute the lawless
ones for his own glory. or eng od for reward. He be-
lieved no man to be evil unless was first tempted to
evil; and if tempted, who may not fall ?

‘You need have no fears of me,” the detective de-
clared, in his most reassuring tones.

‘Nobody said I was afeard,” Buckley returned. And
he dryly added: ‘Looks to me as though you was the
one to feel shaky if anybody does. I could drop ye
there in your tracks "fore ye could say scat!”

“You would not shoot a defenseless man.”

“Why not, hey ?”

‘Because you don’t look like a brute.”

‘Don’t 1? Mebbe I have the out’ard appearance of an
angel, hey:?” ;

“Not exactly. But you have got courage, and a brave
man will do nothing cowardly.”

“IT wanter know! But [told ye—didn’t I—that I was
bad clean through ?”

“That's all right, and I do not doubt but you would
shoot me if I attempted to interfere with you. But you
wouldn’t otherwise, because Iam defenseless so far as
weapons are concerned, and just. now I would not
amount to muchin a tussle.”

‘‘Hain’t yer got no pistols ?”

“Yes, but I have been.in the river with them, so they
are useless.”

“TI guess yer right. Queer time to goin swimmin’!”

“J broke through the ice.”

«Tried to cross, did ye?” ,

“Yes, and succeeded, though it was a close shave.”

‘Are you a fool, or are ye crazy ?”

‘Neither. lt was a case of necessity.”

Buckley had partly lowered his weapon, being some-
what reassured by the Hindoo’s candid speech and man-
ner.

The man’s keen eye surveyed our hero critically.

“You didn’t jest come out of the water,” he declared.

“No. Ihave been asleep down in a boat-house yonder
since I came ashore,” 2

«What are ye—keepin’ shady of the cops ?”

It occurred to Hyjah that, by pretending to be himself
a fugitive, he might gain the confidence of this man. So
he promptly replied :

«What made you think of that ?”

To the Hindoo’s amazement the other leveled his re-
volver again, at the same time fiercely exclaiming: ”

“None of that, ye sneaking dog! S’pose I ain’t got
eyes and wits? Toddle along or I’ll let daylight through
ye, sure as I’m a sinner!”

The man advanced several paces with an air of such
fierce determination that the detective, for the sake of
ee took refuge behind the trunk of a neighbor-

ng oak.
Buckley halted within a few paces of the tree, with-
out lowering his revolver. ’

Hyjah saw that he had a shrewd and resolute man to
deal with. Yet he was not ready to desist from his pur-

pose.

«Told on, my man!” he called out, in a voice of quiet
yet firm command.

“Then own up, confound ye!” Buckley fiercely re-
torted.

“Own up'to what ?”

ae xe meant to pull wool over my eyes.”

ee Ow ? ” 4

“By pretending to be hidin’ from the cops.” :

Hyjah saw that the better way to deal with this man
was to use the utmost frankness.

Therefore he promptly replied :

“J admit it. ButI meant you no harm.”

«‘Who are ye, anyhow ?”

“JT am a detective.”

“So I thought. Trackin’ me, I s’pose ?”

«You are mistaken. I have not the least idea who you
are. Iam ‘piping’ the Grand Park Sensation. I pre-
sume you have heard of the affair.” -

Hyjah had stepped forth from behind the tree, and
now confronted the city outlaw. Not three yards sep-
arated them.

An odd gleam shot from the man’s deep-set eyes.

ana down to facts, ain’t ye ?” he observed.

“There is no use in trying to deceive you.”

“Lucky ye found that out.
mean ?”

“I am known as Hyjah, the Hindoo,”

ane ‘so? I‘s’posed he was a smart chap.
ain’t.”

“T do not claim to be.”

“Think I’m mixed up in that affair ?”

“No. I suspect others. But you can be of service to
me.’ :

‘How ?”

“You had a companion when I first appeared.”

“S’posen I did ?”

And he concealed himself as soon as he saw me.”

“Who said he didn’t ?”

“Who was this person ?”

‘Expect me to tell you ?”

“IT can find out, whether you do or not.”

“Find out then.” ,

“Do you refuse to answer my question ?”

‘I certainly do.” And Buckley, with a laugh, added:

Who are you—yer name, I

You

to proceed with caution, hoiw- | -

 

 

“You're a howling smart detective, aren’t ye? I would
go and hang up my fiddle if I was in your place.”

The Hindoo saw there was no use in trying to per-
suade this man to yield a point. Nor could he deceive
him in any way. ¥

There was nothing left for him to resort to except
force, and this stout, rugged-faced man was not to be
easily coerced.

Hyjah suddenly straightened his tall form, while a de-
termined light leaped from his dark eyes. >

“See here, my man!” he said, in a low, even tone.
Every word seemed to cut the air like a bullet.

Buckley could not fail to be impressed by the power of
that gaze, as well as by the half-repressed intensity of
the Hindoo’'s voice.

“7 intended you no harm,” Hyjah went on, in the same
even tone; “and I would gladly spare you if you would
only be reasonable. If the one you have with you is not
concerned in the mystery I am ‘piping’ I will go on and
leave you in peace. But you must tell me the name of
ee companion, else you must allow me to see for my-
self.”

“Must is a pretty big word, mister,” the other re-
turned.

“I mean every syllable. Will you tell me what I wish
to know ?”

“No, I won’t.”

“And if I seek to find out for myself ?”

‘Tl shoot you, that’s what Ill do.”

“T think not. And I will tell you. why.
take that pistol away rom you !”

The audacity of the detective’s threat caused the out-
law to recoil with a gasp of amazement.

At the same instant Buckley found himself grappling
with the Hindoo detective hand to hand. How it hap-
penied Hyjah’s movements were too, bewilderingly swift
tor the assailed to comprehend.

The weapon was not discharged. Instead, it was
sent spinning from the hand of Buckley. ;

The latter was a powerful man, and in the detective’s
effort to disarm his antagonist he had no opportunity to
shield himself from a blow.

Hence the brawny fist of Buekley struck the Hindoo’s
shoulder, and sent him reeling backward.

But Hyjah instantly recovered himself and again
sprang toward the other. »

As he did so, the sharp report of a pistol smote the
air. Simultaneously the detective experienced a pierc-
ing sensation in his head; strange lights seemed for an
instant to flash before his eyes; then he fell to the
ground, blood spurting from his temple and dyeing the
dark earth underneath. :

Buckley stared for an instant at the motionless form
of the fallen Hindoo. ‘Then he bent over him, glanced
at the wound, sprang erect again, and darted toward
the clump of shrubbery amidst which Kingsley had con-
cealed himself.

The young man was not there. He could hear the
sound of retreating footsteps, however, and started in
pursuit. But they suddenly became inaudible, andas he
paused to listen he beheld a boy of ten or twelve years
standing before him.

The lad would have run away had he not been seized
by the arm, while the fierce eyes of Blue Buckley were
bent piercingly upon his.

“Where do- ye live, boy ?” he demanded, in a hoarse
whisper.

“‘Over—over yonder !” was the trembling response.

«Ye’ve got a father, or somebody, haven’t ye ?”

‘Yes, sir.” 2

“Can ye find him quick?” /)

“Yes, sir.” ,

«Then go and tell him a man has got hurt down here
by the river. Tell him the man'll die if he don’t see to
him now. Will ye tell him ?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then start yer boots !” ;

The boy, frightened half out. of his wits, ran off upon
his errand. 4

And Blue Buckley dashed off in the opposite direction,
muttering as he ran: . a og 3

“7 didn’t s’pose that Kinemey was rash as to do
that. I wouldn't, by Joseph, and I’m ut as bad as
they make ’em !” he

The words had scarcely passed his ips when he saw
Kingsley himself a dozen yards ahead of him, .

[To BE CONTINDED.]

POG sa RSS

Iam going to

 

(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED .

ioket-of-Leave Mar.

By LEANDER P, RICHARDSON.

(“THE TICKET-OF-LEAVE MAN” was commenced in No. 25.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

 

 
    

MRS. WILLOUGRR a. KEYS.
When Mrs. Willoughby the Bridgewater Arms,
she had not the slightest kno,fledge that the keys which

gave admission to Mr. Gibsoli’s building, of which she
was janitress, had been removed from her pocket. The
poor old woman had been violently agitated by the start-
ling discovery that her grandson was gambling in a pub-
lic house, and had paid little attention to anything save
the problem of inducing the boy to go home. It was not
until she reached the main door of the building that she
found the keys were gone. 3

That was.the final blow, and it completely bewildered
her. ‘She looked about in a helpless and amazed condi-
tion for several minutes, haying been so completely par-
alyzed with astonishment at not finding what she
sought that her hand still remained stuck fast in her
pocket.

Sam, who was in a sullen frame of mind consequent

upon the events of the evening, waited impatiently for
the door to be opened; but nof hearing any movement
on the part of his companion, he finally turned, and saw
her standing as if changed to Stone, and gazing vacantly
about her. ml

«-Well,” said the boy, sharply, ‘‘why don’t you go
ahead? Come! don’t be all night about it!”

But this demand had no effect in arousing the old wo-
man, and Sam, at once divining that something unusual
had occurred, shook her vigorously by the arm.

“Granny, don’t go to sleep out here on the street! |

Wake up, and stir your stumps!
«What's up—the keys is up !” ,
‘Keys! You haven't lost ’em, have you ?”

«Which what with running out in haste after you, and
the dark streets, which are an abomination and a shame,
and the crowd in the tavern I can’t abide, the keys is

‘one !”

She had managed at least to understand that part of

the mysterious oe

“Are you sure you had ’em at the tavern ?”

“Certain sure, my dear; leastways I let myself out at
the street door, so I couldn’t have left that one on the
kitchen window-sill, and I had the little ones all in my

ocket, which J noticed a hole in it only yesterday—and
vs the best Holland goods, at one-and-six, and only
worn three years—and they ain’t dropped into my skirt,
nor they ain’t hanging to my crinoline.”

She was as hopelessly involved as ever.

“Oh, bother!” cried Sam, impatiently. «‘We can’t have
aregular custom-house search out herein the street.
Let’s go back to the Bridgewater Arms. Perhaps the
keys have been found there,”

Mrs. Willoughby suffered herself to be led away, little
dreaming the real state of the case. Unconsciously, they
had left the coast clear for the burglars..

The old woman and her grandson had proceeded per-
haps a dozen squares when a cab drove rapidly past
them. A moment later, another vehicle rolled by, and
directly after that, a third. ‘

In the first rode Melter Moss, and in the second sat
Jem Dalton and Robert Brierly. But who was the occu-
pant of the third ?

What's up ?”

~

 

CHAPTER XX.
HAWKSHAW ON THE TRAIL,

When Jack Hawkshaw made himself known to Rob-
ert in the tap-room of the Bridgewater Arms, it was a
critical moment.

The reader will recollect that.even as the detective
was in the act of casting aside his disguise, the sound
of wheels approaching in the street was heard, followed
by Jem Dalton’s footfall upon the pavement.

Hawkshaw had barely time to seize the note which
Bob had written, thrust a loaded revolver into the
lad’s hand, and drop back into his former position of
simulated intoxication at the head ‘of the table, when
the door opened, and Dalton strode hurriedly in.

“Come, Bob,” he said, hastily. ‘‘There’s no time to
lose. In an hour; if you are faithful to us, we shall be
on jby five thousand pounds. But where’s Melter
Moss ?”

‘He just stepped down these stairs for a moment, to
hold a light for the landlord.” replied Robert, carelessly,
as he opened the trap-door. 4

A second later the old Jew appeared in the aperture,
entirely unsuspicious, and the three started upon their
journey. :

Robert’s cunning ruse had been successful.

As soon as Hawkshaw saw that the men had left the
room, he rose and passed rapidly out upon the walk.
The coast was now clear before him. He was sure of
his prey. But his first duty was to see to the delivery of
Brierly’s letter, as he had promised.

He looked warily up and down the narrow thorough-
fare. No creature was in sight, and Dalton’s cab was
just disappearing around a distant corner.

“No hurry about them now,” muttered the detective.
‘IT know just where to find them when1so desire. It
will require some time for the cracking of the safe, and
in the meantime I have something else to do.”

Raising.a small silver whistle to his lips, Hawkshaw
blew ashrill blast. Waiting a specified time, he repeat-
ed the signal.

As the echoes died away in the distance a tall and

¢

4

>, Wee,

 

powerful man, clad in police uniform, came rapidly
around a neighboring building, and saluted the detective
respectfully.

“On hand, Mr. Hawkshaw. What shall I do?”

“Good. I felt sure this was your beat, Crampton. |
You’re the very man I want.” :

“Well, sir, glad to serve you.”

“Good again. Take the fastest cab you can find and
tear down with this note to Peckham road. Bring the
old gent back to his office on St. Nicholas lane. Say
he’ll be wanted to make acharge. There’s a crib to be
jumped, and I’m after the burglars. Hold on a minute ;
lend me your barker. That's right. Now be off. Spare
neither horse nor cab, for it’s the most important arrest
in ten years. The Tiger isin this job, and I’ve got him
dead to rights. Now get away, and lose no time.”

The officer gave an exclamation which denoted his
satisfaction at the thought of having a hand in the cap-
ture of so important a criminal as the Tiger, and then
sped away upon his errand like the wind.

Hawkshaw stood for a moment looking after him, and
still holding in his hand the heavy revolver which he
had just received.

“It is well,” he muttered. ‘Crampton is a thorough
officer, and is sure to obtain promotion through this job.
Jem Dalton isa tough customer, but I don’t mean to
use this weapon upon him if I can helpit. I always feel
rather ashamed of myself for burning powder in this
sort of business. Any fool can blow a man’s brains out,
but it takes a cool head anda steady nerve to catcha
clever rascal like Dalton without bloodshed. That lad
Brierly is true blue after all. By Jove! I began to think
they had persuaded him to join them in dead earnest.
Who'd have thought he tumbled totheir game? He
managed that letter uncommonly well. Hi, Cabby, this
way !”

The detective’s last exclamation was caused by the
appearance of a cab close at hand. The driver was for-
tunately unoccupied, and came at once in answer to
Hawkshaw’s call.

‘In asecond the door was thrown open, and the de-
tective raised his foot to the step asif to getin; but he
drew back, with an exclamation of surprise, and ran
hurriedly across the. street. His watchtul gray eyes
had fallen upon the figure of a woman passing rapidly
along the pavement. He had soon come up with her.

“For whom do you search ?”

A pale, frightened face was turned toward him. It
was Bob Br *s wife, May.

“Don’t be frightened, young woman,” said Hawkshaw,
kindly. . ‘Though you don’t know me, 1 am acquainted
with you. I am Jack Hawkshaw. Are you seeking
your husband ?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, timidly.

“T am just going where he is. Jump into my cab, and
Tll place you beside him in half an hour, safe and
sound.”

“Oh, sir, tell me—what is he about to do ?”

«The lad’s all right, never fear. He ought to, be a de-
tective, and he’s already doing what will restore him to
all he’s ever lost.”

There was a glad throb in May’s breast at this an-
nouncement. Then she had done Robert a wrong in
supposing he had meant to be harsh or cruel to her, a
short time ago.

“Come,” repeated Hawkshaw; ‘jump into the cab,
and I’ll explain all to you as we go along.”

May had no longer any hesitation in obeying him, and
they were soon bowling ahead in the direction of St.
Nicholas lane.

As the carriage sped onward, urged to a faster pace
than usual by a promise of liberal reward, the detective
told as rapidly as possible all that had passed. Inre
sponse to May’s inquiry if Robert was in serious danger,
he said nothing was to be feared, and assured her that
the results of this night’s work would fully vindicate her
husband’s character.

When the cab stopped within a square of Mr. Gibson’s
office, Hawkshaw sprang lightly to the pavement, and
bade her remain where she was, for the present. Then,
turning to the cabman, he added :

“Stay here till you hear my whistle; then come at
once to the spot whence it sounds. Good-by, Mrs. Bri-
erly. Keep a good heart, and all will be well. Ina
short time your worst enemies will be under lock and
key, and your husband will be restored to you, freed
from the load which now bears him down.”

With tears of gratitude welling up into her eyes, and
and her heart quaking between hope and fear, May
watched the tall form of the detective creeping silently
away upon his dangerous errand.

How wouldit end?

 

 

CHAPTER XXI.
CRACKING THE CRIB.

When Moss had rattled away from the Bridgewater
Arms in his cab, Dalton took his seat beside Brierly in
the second vehicle. As he settled back upon the cush-
ogee his elbow touched something which was heavy and

ard. s

In the darkness Robert could not see his companion’s
face. Otherwise he would have observed an expression
of astonishment and inquiry suddenly developed there.

“Where could he have got that barker trom ?” thought
Dalton. ‘I fancy it will be safer if I fix it so it won’t go
off, in case of accident. I don’t half trust him yet.”

The Tiger’s talents were not alone confined to the
high art of burglary. He was likewise a skillful pick-
pocket, and in a trice he had removed the dangerous
froma. the-coat-pocket into which Bob had ire:
lessly thrusi it. By a little manipulation he soo re-
moved the #aps from the nipples, so that the arm be-
came useless, He then returned it quietly to Robert's
pocket, chuckling softly over the success of his work.

In a few moments the cabs drew up at a place some
distance from the scene of the proposed burglary, and
were dismissed.

The trio then passed silently along the walk until
they came to a tall iron fence which inclosed the grave-
yard back of Mr. Gibson’s office. gh scaling the
barrier they dropped among the tombstones, and were
soon under the deep shadow of the bank itself.

Dalton soon found the tools where he had secreted
them hours ago, and all was ready for the contemplated
robbery. It was arranged that Moss should patrol the
street in front of the bank, and should whistle sharply
in case of danger. If all went smoothly he was to re-
main silent. They were about to step forward when
Dalton laid his hand heavily on Brierly’s shoulder.

“Now, my lad,” he said, in alow but determined tone,
“take care. I'm a man of few words, and the pal who
sticks by me, I stick by him till neath. But the man
who tries to double on me, had better have the hang-
man on his track than Jem Dalton. Remember that,
my lad, and act accordingly.”

Robert shrugged his shoulders.

“Jf you doubt me,” be answered, slowly, ‘‘let’s part
company here and now. Otherwiselll goon. Butdont
threaten me more.” °

‘All right. I only gave you fair warning, that’s all.
Now lead on.”

They had soon scaled the second fence and ascended
the steps. The key which Mrs. Willoughby had lost,
readily admitted them, and in a few moments they were
within Mr. Gibson’s office.

The bag of tools was opened at once, and by the light
of a dark lantern which Robert held in his hand, the
work of forcing the gafe was begun.

In the meantime old Moss was walking slowly up and
down the street outside, looking’ sharply about for any
movement that might denote danger. In spite of his
age, the old Jew had remarkably clear vision, and his
senses were as quick as those of many men at an earlier
age.

He had been patiently strolling about for pen fit-
teen minutes, when his alert ear caught the sound of
cab-wheels in the distance. He bent his head and
= but the noise soon ceased, and then .all was
still.

One, two, three minutes passed, and still no sound.
The silence was almost oppressive in its intensity.

“Everything works lovely,” muttered Moss, ‘Not a
bit of noise. Why it’s like a paradise for cracksmen.
Humph!” he added, after a pause. ‘Tiger is working
slow, to-night. Mister Gipson’s safe must be a good one,
or it would be open by this time. Never fear, though.
Jem Dalton is at work, and the safe is not made that he
can’tcrack. Oh! the Tigerisa good one! The police will
never catch him. They’ve been at it a good while, but
they haven’t done it. Nor they haven’t taken me, yet,
either. Old Moss is too cunning for’em, and they’ll
never trap him in the world. He's——”

The foxy old scoundrel did not finish his sentence, for
at that instant an iron-like grip closed upon his throat,
and a voice he had heard before, hissed in his-ear :

“Stir or speak, and you’re a dead man? Hold out
your hands.” ‘

Moss mechanically obeyed. He was frightened almost
out of his senses, and knew that cunning as he was, re-
sistance was hopeless. There sounded a couple of sharp
clicks upon the damp night air, and Moss was securely
handcutfed. His race was run. Jack Hawkshaw had
found him out at last, and all his boasted sharpness
could not help him,

The old man was quickly gagged, and then stretched
at full length upon the walk, under the shadow of the
building.

This had scarcely been completed when there came
from the direction of Mr. Gibson’s office a muffled thud,
and Hawkshaw knew the safe had been blown open. A
few seconds later, just as he had secreted himself in a
niche in the wall close at hand, the doors ‘swung open,
and a voice which he recognized as Dalton’s came
through the gloom.

“Hang the cloud,” it said, impatiently. ‘‘Moss.”

‘All serene,” was the reply, in a tone which was such
a startling imitation of the old Jew’s manner of speech
that it might have passed for the original any where.

“We've done the job,” added Dalton, stepping out
upon the street. ‘Bob has the box of coin, Come, lad,
hurry up.”

“Vm coming,” was the reply from within the hall.

A second later Robert, with the heavy cash-box under
his arm, came down the steps. :

“All right,” said Dalton, hurriedly. ‘‘We’ll divide the
plunder at old Moss’ crib. Come, let’s be off before the
nailers are down on us.”

But if he was in haste, his companion was not. In
measured tones Robert said :

“A word or two first.” .

‘We can talk in the cab,” replied the other, with an
impatient gesture.

“We'll talk here and now.
my ruin.” ;

‘V’ve paid you back twice over to-night. Come, the
box! Do you want to stay here till you're nabbed ?”

‘T suffered then for your crime,” continued Robert,
taking no notice of his companion’s words. ‘‘Ever since
then you’ve come between me and an honest life.

Four years ago you were

 

You've broken me down at last, and brought me to

«IT suppose you mean you've a right to an extra share
in the spoils ?” asked Dalton, anxious to get out of dan-
ger on any terms.

“No!” exclaimed Robert, scornfully.

He was toyinz with a weapon in his pocket.

«What then ?”

“IT mean that you’re my prisoner.” ,

At the same instant he covered Dalton with his pistol,
a, the box of coin, and seized him firmly by tho
collar.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
RIGHTED AT LAST.

‘Hands off, you fool!” ejaculated Dalton, menacingly:
Robert pulled the trigger, but there was no explosion.
The burglar laughed aloud.

‘You should have asked me for the caps,” he sneered.
“T took ’em off. Come! end this folly. You are in for it
now, and you must stay in.”

“Never! Armed or unarmed, you don’t escape me.”

The brave Lancashire lad sprang forward tO grapple
with his foe. But Dalton was ready to meet the attack.

He had talked with Bobert on purpose to gain time in
which to draw a heavy slung-shot from his pocket. And
as Robert advanced, the scoundrel brought this deadly
weapon down upon his head with a crushing blow.

Uttering an involuntary groan, the victim staggered
back and fell senseless upon the pavement.

With a brutal laugh of triumph, the Tiger lifted the
cash-box from the ground and started to run with it.

‘i But he was too late. The way was blocked by a burly
gure.

The burglar came to a sudden halt, as the stranger
said, coolly :

“Now, Jem Dalton, it’s my twrn!”

The Tiger was at bay.

Gasping out the word ‘Hawkshaw !” and uttering a
tremendous oath, he dropped his burden upon the
ground and sprang savagely at the detective’s throat.

But this time his victory was not so easy.

He had met his match.

The struggle that ensued was terrific. Both men were
extremely powerful, and both were thorougly versed in
the art of wrestling. lt was a bout that would have
made many a professional fighter open his eyes in won-
der and envy.

It was a desperate battle. One of the men had deter-
mined to capture the greatest ruffian in England, or die
in the attempt. The other had sworn never to be taken
alive, and each exerted every muscle of his body in the
fray. ¥

At last, after writhing and twisting together like two
brawny oaks ina storm, they fell together. Thus far
neither of them had the advantage. Could either have
brought a pound -more of ‘pressure to bear upon his an-
tagonist at this instant, that slight weight would have
won the battle.

They were side by side upon the walk, and were so
evenly matched that neither coulda roll over upon the
other. One of Dalton’s legs was thrown across the de-
tective’s body, but the latter’s arms encircled the ruf-
fian’s shoulders so firmly that he could not move.

At this moment an unexpected arrival put a new face
upon the situation. Sam Willoughby, hearing the scuffle
from afar, came up at a run, and seizing Dalton’s leg
with all his strength, forced it back.

Weak as the boy was, his aid was what settled the
contest.

In a moment Hawkshaw was astride of the burglar,
and had placed the handcuffs upon him. His legs were
soon pinioned, and the fight was over. ‘

“There !” exclaimed the detective, with a great sigh
of relief. ‘‘Now, Jem Dalton, remember poor Joe Sker-
ritt! I promised him I’d do it, and it’s done at last!”

The robber’s only reply was an oath.

Hawkshaw now raised his whistle to his lips, and the
cab in which May had been awaiting the result, drove
up. In a moment the girl was supporting Robert’s head
upon her knees, and kissing his lips passionately. He
was senseless, but the detective assured her he would
goon recover.

A little later, while Sam Willoughby was amusing him-
self with kicking Dalton and Moss in the ribs, by way of
retaliation for having cheated him at cards, a second
cab approached, and Mr. Gibson and the policeman,
Crampton, descended.

“An!” exclaimed the old banker; here we are! Were
the burglars successful ?”

“No,” responded Hawkshaw; ‘‘they were foiled.”

“By whom ?”

“The man bleeding yonder—Robert Brierly.”

“Thank Heaven he is not dead!” exclaimed Mr. Gib-
son, raising Bob’s hand from the ground. “I can repay
him yet.”

The old man was completely softened by the proof of
Robert’s loyalty.

“Oh, he’s worth a dozen dead men,” chimed in Hawk-
shaw. ‘Men like him don’t die so easily.”

“See!” cried May, gladly; ‘‘he opens his eyes!
ert, speak to me—it’s May—your own dear wite !”

The prostrate man looked slowly from one to another.

“Darling,” he said, softly, “I’m giad you’re here. I’m
none the worse for this blow upon the head. You for-
give my seeming cruelty? It was all my game to snare
these villains. Who’s that? Mr. Gibson! You wouldn’t
trust me, sir; but I was not ungrateful. You see there

al

“Robert,” replied the old man, ina gentle tone, “I 1

have cruelly wronged you. ifican repay the debtI
owe you-aird drown the sorrows of the past in a happy
future, I pledge my word to do it. Henceforth you
shall be what nature has until now denied me—a son.”

The detective removed his hat reverentially, and said,
in a more solemn voice than was his wont:

“Heaven will bless that alliance, Mr. Gibson, and re-
ward you tenfold.”

*

* *

The end of our narrative
tle lefttotell. —

Jem Dalton remained taciturn but determined to the
last. Through the enormous proof that was brought
against him by the detective, he was found guilty of
—_ daring crimes, and sentenced to transportation
for life.

One dark night a year later he made a desperate
effort to escape trom his quarters at Botany Bay. He
fought for his liberty with unequaled desperation, and
at last, riddled with .the bullets of his guards, fell into
the sea. He never reappeared, and it was reported that
he was drowned. That, most probably, was the truth.:

Melttr Moss, who was convicted at the same time,
died wretchedly in his cell before his sentence had been
carried into effect.

Sam Willoughby became a sober, manly fellow after
the example he had seen, and was a stay and comfort
to his grandmother’s decliningyyears. He is now chief
clerk in the bank in St. Nicholas lane.

Mr. Gibson was as good as his word, and Robert
Brierly was taken into his family asason. <A few years
later the old gentleman retired trom business, and Rob-
ert took his place. Never had London known a more
skillful operator or a more popular business man than
he. And to-day the paper of ‘‘Robert Brierly, Banker,”
is as much worth its face in the world’s metropolis as
are the notes of the Bank of England.

Mr. Gibson and his wife are still alive and well. They
occupy a splendid mansion in a suburb of London, and
are happy in their home.

May has become a handsome and matronly woman,
and is the mother of two manly lads, one of whom bears
the name of his adopted grandfather (who is prouder of
him, if possible, than May herself). while the other de-
lights. to sign his name ‘‘Robert Brierly, Junior.”

And often of a winter evening, while the family party
sit about a cheerful fire, Hawkshaw, now retired from
active life with an ample competence, drops in upon
them. He is ever a welcome visitor, and the children
love to listen to his stories of hair-breadth ’scapes by
flood and field,

But of all the many tales he weaves for their pleasure
the one which finds the readiest echo in their hearts is
the story of ‘“‘THE TICKET-OF-LEAVE MAN.”

(THE END.]

*

* * *
approaches, and there is lit-

©
A WONDERFUL SPRING.

A wonderful spring, which possesses remarkable cura-
tive power, has been discovered in Ashe County, N. C.
Jt was found by a boy, amid a mass of dead leaves and
other vegetable rubbish. To clear away the dead leaves
he repeatedly thrust his arm to the elbow in the water.
This arm was in a swollen and inflamed condition from
poison oak, and had been so forsome time. The next
morning it was noticed that as much of tthe arm as had
been in the water was improved. Tne vnange had been
so sudden that its relief was attributed to its having
been so long in the water on the preceding day. The
boy determined to try a second application of his Wew
remedy, and on the next. morning his arm was well.
The boy’s father then tried the efficacy of the water
upon sores which had annoyed him for many weeks, and
in a marvelously short time he was entirely relieved.
He then concluded to keep secret the locality of the
spring, allowing no one to go to it but himself, but al-
ways keeping a supply of water at his house. The
neighbors swarmed to his house to try the magic water.
Many were healed of various maladies, and all were
eager to know where the spring was situated. The old
man kept his secret, however, going under cover of
night to fetch the water. Finally he was followed to his
life-giving fountain. In less than twenty-four hours
every brier and bramble for many a yard around had
been beaten down by the feet of men and hoofs of horses,
so great was the throng coming and going. A “basket
meeting” was appointed by the Methodist circuit rider,
to be held at the spring on a certain Sunday. It is esti-
mated that 700 persons were present. The preacher
told of his wife’s wonderful cure. In consequence of a
kick from a cow one of her legs had been in a painful
condition for four weeks. Within fifteen minutes after
the first application of this water she began to expe-
rience relief from pain, and after twelve or fifteen hours’
treatment the pain was entirely gone. This was one of
many instances related by the preacher to his eager
listeners. From that day people came from far and
near, driving sometimes thirty or forty miles in a wagon
and waiting several days for a chance to fill their bar-
rels. On Sundays from 300 to 400 persons are to be
seen on the spot. There is no house within half a mile
of the spring and no hotel for several mites, so the
neighbors, much to their annoyance and inconvenience,
are frequently obliged to take in the weary sufferers
seeking these healing waters.

——> @4—-.

Scott’s Emulsion of Pure Cod Liver Qil’ with
Hypophosphites. Is prescribed by Physicians all over the
ond. It is a remarkable remedy for Consumption, Scrofula,
and wasting diseases, and very palatable.

 

 

 

 

 

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GRANDMOTHER’S PATCHWORK.

 

 

BY P. L. BLATCHFORD.

 

The firelight cast a tender glow

On grandma’s hair, as white as snow,
Who with her blue-veined hands so old
Matched silks and velvets manifold,
And joined them with a patient care,
To torm a quilt of beauty rare.

Thus sewing all the evening through,

On bits of crimson, gold and blue,

She said: ‘‘I weave my story, dears,

A tale that’s full of smiles and tears,

For each gay silk and rich brocade

With thoughts of days long since are laid.

“This dainty square of violet hue
(Full oft I've told the tale to you)
is from the dress I wore the day
Your grandpa stole my heart away ;
And all the world in my young sight
Seemed (for his love) so wondrous bright.

“This white silk with the silver thread,
I wore the day that I was wed.
My mem’ry loves to linger yet
On bridal wreath with jewels set.
Ah, me! what weary years divide
The widow from the blushing bride ?

«Here's Cecil's tie of sailor blue,

_ Here Harold’s sash of crimson hue ;
And this small piece of ribbon fair
Once bound the curls of Baby Claire,
With your first, ball-dress, Phyllis mine,
To tell my story all combine.

«So, dear ones, let me dream and sew,
As evening hours come and go. /
These strips of crimson, blue and gold,
My sweetest hours of life unfold ;

The happy past comes back once more
In tender thoughts of days of yore.”

>-eo~<

A SPANISH ROMANCE.

BY LEANDER W. HARTZ,

 

 

«So you are really going to Spain, with your uncle.”

“Gosh, you have hit it ’zactly,” replied the young man.
«You know dad’s worked-hard in the last lection, up
here in Vermont. And Uncle Bill’s got a consul’s sitooa-
shun near the place what we study ’bout in gogerphy,
the capital of Spain, Madrid. And I’m jest agoin’ over
with Uncle Billy tew beagen’r’l helper and complete
my educashun—ha, ha!”
- And yet there never was a shrewder Yankee farm boy
born than the speaker, Ike Dodd. Ike was sixteen. He
was Well connected, as you perceive; but his father was
one of the ‘poor relations” of a very proud and well-
known family. Ike’s father had been given a Vermont

* farm; and, being half an invalid, he had been con-

tent to let his boys do just enough work to keep the old
farm from the starvation point, careless of much more.

dike hated school and took to the situation kindly. What

Ike did not know of horses and cattle was not worth
knowing.

ike Dodd was a handsome fellow. He stood, that day
when the village postmaster asked the above question

and get the above reply, six feet two inehes in his fine
new city-cutsuit. His eyes were as black as a Spaniard’s,
his hair likewise. It was a ruddy, weather-tanned face,
or course. It was a pair of giant arms and awful hands
that sought in vain for the customary thrust into pants-

ockets which the Prince Albert coat made impossible.

ut until he spoke—why, he might have been the
polished commodore of the New York Yacht Club, for
aught you could have told. The best part of it was, too,
with all Ike’s love of fun and mischief, with all his dar-
ing and impudence, that he had a good face, a kind
heart; and he was always truly chivalric with women,
except that he was afraid of them.

“When do you sail;?”

“Git, do ye mean? Waal, we're off ’bout t’morrer.
Thatislam. Down to Bostin and then teu New York,
and then straight ter Spain—straight’s an arrer.”

“Don’t fall in love with some pretty Spanish lass,
Ike,” was the postmaster’s parting laugh, ‘‘and go fight
in the ring for her.”

“See here, Mr. North, a bull-fight d’ye mean? Gosh!
and here’s jest the chap as ken take the heart out 0’ any
bull asever bellered. V’ll show’em. ’Taint likely there'll
be any gal in this scrape, but I've heard o’ them bull-
fights, and mean ter jest show ’em what a live Yank
kin deu with the lustiest bull as ever tore turf in all
Spain! I’ve practiced with ’em. Now there’s our old
Durham-—”

But the postmaster was obliged to cut the story short,
and so to this day it was never told.

The purpose of this brief sketch is to portray Ike’s
prowess in the real, historic Spanish arena, at the bril-
liant capital, even at Madrid itself.

First item. Ike Dodd fell in love within five days of
his arrival on Spanish soil. The fair Dona Ximena was
a widow. But she was only eighteen years old, mind
you. She was peeping through the small window in the
enormous street-door of her residence one day as Ike
passed. He saw, he was conquered! Those black,
diquid, languishing eyes! He could see little more than
the eyes. Poor fellow, he surrendered at once!

Now a Spanish aristocrat is as shy as a brook-trout.
Travelers never see much of them. They rarely extend
you hospitality, and, mainly, because they are all as
poor as they are proud. They live in secluded flats, and
boast an ancestry as ancient as their debts.

But a Yankee boy is nothing if not impudent, when
that will carry his point, . Instantly Ike had discharged
his uncle’s errand he returned past the magic door, saw
the bewitching eyes again, went mad and approached,
saying:

«Good evenin’ to your fair self. Hot night.”

Dreadful! dreadful! The eyes disappeared entirely.

Then Ike. put his lips up to the iron wicket and
whistled.

Oh, was there ever such indignity? And yet the
youth’s very boldness astonished and shocked a curiosity
that brought the childish widow back again to peep.
Ike was coolly seated near by, whittling a stick and
waiting. But he saw the eyes and was up in a moment,
tossing in a kiss that even made him blush to realize
what he had done. ; |

He said, in English, ‘‘Guess we’ll have a shower afore
midnight.”

She said, in Spanish, ‘Depart, depart, thou shade of
my husband! A new mass Shall be said for thy repose,”

What? Then it seems that the Yankee resembled her
recent lamented husband! this Yermonter with the
black Sair and black eyes. ;

“7 don’t quite git your meanin’ marmormiss. But if
ye ask my name I’m Ike Dodd, e pluribus unum, U.S. A.
At your sarvice, ef I can do ye any small chores.” ‘This
was in Ike’s English.

«Jam yet true to thy memory. All saints witsess!”
and she turned her eyes up rapturously, at sight of
which 1]ke pulled his straw hat off reverently. ;

“That’s beginnin’ ’bout orthodox. TI ain’t much on
prayin’ myself, howsomever. Leta fellerin? Let’s take
a walk and sit on the fence and talk.”

But as he offered to enter the locked door, the tearful
Dona Ximena disappeared, and leit him to the twilight
alone.

This was the sort of introduction that the young fel-
low began with. He followed up his advantage, how-
ever, for a month or so, till, it being evident to her
Spanish mind that he must be of ‘‘noble blood,” since
he was attached to the consulate of the great United
States government, he got a more formal introduction,
and sort of recognition.

One Sunday, as he and she were returning from the
cathedral, he said to her:

“You will certainly marry me ?”

«Ah, sir, it cannot be. Thou art no hero.”

As neither understood very much of the other’s lan-
guage, the communieation of ideas was not altogether
satisfactory. Yet love smooths everything, you know.
Catching here and there a word, they got along.

«Hero? <A big feller ?”

«My husband had killed fifty bulls in the arena.”

“Ge-whittaker! Well, I’m the feller what will stick
fifty-one bulls for yew !”

«And he died at last, a blessed martyr to the popu-
lace!” clasping her small hands, while she gave those
really glorious eyes one of the upward, heavenly turns
that always drove the boy wild.

Ike slapped his big palms across his chest, with a
sound like faint thunder, and rolled up his eyes, which
were as handsome as hers, exclaiming :

«That's me! I’m ready!”

«Are you, indeed, by St. Sabastian, ready to fight the
bulls ?”

‘We allus mention Patrick Henry. By Pat Henry, I’m
ready to meet the tarnationest critter that ever wayged
a tail on the red sands !”

“‘Oh, you divine one !”

“Say it again!” and he smacked her hand on the in-
stant.

It was Monday in Madrid, the day given up to bull
fights. The city was in holiday attire. The spectacle
was announced in the king’s OWn name. Already it
was four o’clock of the summer afternoon, the eventful
hour. Since noon the crowds had been pouring along

the Avenue de Alcala, whieh for a mile was gay with
pedestrians of all rauks—carriages of royalty were
there, hacks and gilded Spanish cabriolets, with the
pretty girls and lovers clinging to their curious seats,

The imposing amphitheater, with its fifteen thousand
people round and round, gave poor Ike the chills at first,
but in the end spurred him like a June training, though
he missed the gingerbread and lemonade men. The
arena is about 250 feet broad; it is surrounded by a high
fence—indeed several fences. What an array of man-

tillas! All the ladies wear them. What a fiutter ot
curious fans, which are used also as sunshades! The
fellows passing about to sell them made Ike think of the
circus. The youth saw a circus also in the stately pre-
Hminaries, the circle of gayly caparisoned horses mak-
ing the rounds, and the chap in tinsel whoread the
king's order for the fight. The mayor of the city, when

he rode round, made Ike think of the chief. clown. What
aroar of voices when the throng began to shout, ‘‘The
bull! the bull!”

It should have been explained that ‘‘the distinguished
foreigner’—that was Ike—*‘who would this day appear
for the first time as picador”—that is, bull-fighter—‘‘was
reserved for the last.” Meanwhile Ike was peeping
through the cracks in the sort of anteroom allotted him,
and dividing his time between a dmiration of the Dona
Ximena, up there with all her high-flown kindred, and a
vain attempt to make his big legs feel at ease in his
tights.

‘Tarnation on all this toggle! A feller might as well
be bare-legged and done with it. Iswow, I b’lieve I
shall be bare as a hoss’ back afore I git through.”

There was only one consideration that reconciled him
to his tights; that was, they were red, white, and blue.
He contemplated these national hues with pride; and,
as his nerves were highly wrought by waiting. he fre-
quently ended a study of his variegated person by slap-
ping himself in the proper way,-and, leaping up and
down, softly shouting to himselt :

“Glory! Hurray for Yankee Doodle !”

The doors opened. The bulls flew in one after an-
other. Some bulls will.fight, Many bulls are as tame
as sheep and have to be angered ; often they cannot be
even goaded into fighting. When a bull declines the
fight they throw fire at him; then he wakes up and
kills a man or two, which delights the people immensely.

One bull ripped a fine horse, and the poor animal ac-
tually trotted around, treading upon his own entrails.
This almost got Ike beyond self-control; for he was de-
voted to a good horse.

“The peskey scamps! Let a feller out!
try that old Durham !” he cried.

I want ter

Ah, poor lad! How little he knew the aristocratic
pedigree of that bull. He was a proud creature from
Navarre.

But it was, indeed, arranged to give the “‘illustrious
foreigner” that particular bovine monster, whose horns
were already red with the blood of six picadors and a
horse. Ike heard the word with delight and marched
in. ;

Ike was not statuesque in motion; his theatrical school-
ing had beenscant. Though he was a giant of perfectly
symmetrical proportions, on whom all the soft eyes
looked with surprised admiration, yet he spoiled it all
instantly. He put his arms akimbo and spread out his
hands on the hinder part of his hips, as a fellow does
when he is just about going in swimming.

Thus stood Ike Dodd, contemplating his toes, for he
couldn’t-help blushing red as fire at the thought ofap-
pearing before so many people so scantily clothed, as
it seemed to him.

However, a laugh of derision awoke him; if it had
not, the furious beast doubtless would; the creature
had cleared the arena, ‘‘as slick as a whistle and as
clean as a barn-floor on thrashin’ day,” as Ike had been
wont to illustrate it.

The attention was breathless. All the more intense
was the anxiety because the youth was so singularly
defenseless. He carried no sword. He had a simple
two-tined pitchfork—which, goodness knows, he had
found difficult enough to get made to his order. The
beast came for him. He actually jumped, by aid of his
fork, clean over the bull's neck!

“Aha!” It was notacheer. It was a breath of sur-
prise and disappointment from fifteen thousand people.
The trick seemed hardly lawtul.

The bull came on again, in a perfect frenzy. The foam
flew from his nostrils and was streaked with blood. The
brute fairly roaredin his anger. Nothing is more ap-
palling than the rush of such a creature. Few men have
the nerve to confront a runaway horse; much less an
infuriate bullock, absolutely blind to all danger through
rage.

But Ike went clean over the creature’s neck again,
landing for a carom on the bull’s back and thence drop-
ping to the ground. It was not a popular move. It dis-
appointed the people. It was not the Spanish way. It
was never before seen soin Spain. Then when he gave
the creature the pitchfork in the flanks till he actually
began to run, it was too much. -Hiss on hiss, like the
rattle of small rain, filled the stridulous air.

The next moment Ike deftly vaulted on the bull’s back.
The boy sat astride but a moment. He got upon his
feet, he goaded the bull with the fork. The bull fairly
flew, bellowing, round and round the ring. Ike got
more speed out of that taurus than ever he had seen on
his native pastures. He was intending to make even
better time, when—oh, the luck of it—in his excitement
he lost his pitchfork! But he was only ey:
dismayed. There is an open secret of the farm-yard.
If you violently twist the caudal appendage of any bo-
vine you extract roars of rage and speed that is amaz-
ing. Look on the classic scene, ye children of the Cor-
sairs! A rude Yankee, in red, white and blue, sitting
astride the bull, with face to the rear and intent on the
-twisting work in hand, the bull showering the lower
benches with the sand that flew from his split feet.

The populace could have killed that Yankee. They
gnashed their teeth and called on all the saints at the
same time that they held their sides from splitting with
laughter. They were mad. They laughed. They were
mad that they laughed. They had come to witness a
tragedy. They saw a roaring farce! ;

Well, it is impossible to say to this day just how Ike
got back safely to the consulate of his uncle out in the
caer of Madrid, but he got back, and in due time

ome.

Of course the Dona Ximena was too disgusted ever to
notice the young man again. But as he is well married
to a wholesome New Hampshire girl, anal a very sensi-
ble and reasonably prosperous attorney ij his village, he
does not care. Uk

a a io!

BILL PERKINS’ MISTAKE.

BY ARTHUR L. MESERVE.

 

 

 

“Quite a spring-like day, Uncle Bill,” I remarked to
the old gentleman, as [ came up the street the other
‘morning and found him in his shirt-sleeves, sitting on a
log at the woodpile. ‘‘All signs seem to point now
to warmer weather.”

“Yes, that’s a fact, mister. It is warmer for sure, and
I hope it will’stay so. It has been a pesky cold winter,
and ittells on old folks. As for signs, thar’s plenty of
’em. J read one this morning that I never knowed to
fail. Old Peter Stillings has got his hogs in the road for
the summer campaign. I wish the Old Boy had him and
his hogs together.”

“J should think it would be rather annoying to have
them running at large, Uncle Bill.”

“I guess you would think soif you lived where I do.
Thar ain’t a day in the year but some of old Peter’s crit-
ters are tearing round my premises. Why, I'll tell you
what them pesky hogs of his did for me this morning.
All day yesterday I was lugging the taters out of the
cellar, and sorting them on the barn-floor. 1 ’spects that
I must have left the door open last night, for when 1
went out thar a spell ago, thar was them varmints
a-rooting and mashing them into the awfulest mess that

you ever seed. They had mixed the pile of little ones
in with the big ones, and thar was my sorting all to do
over agin. Such a mess you never seed. I declare it
was enough to make a church member swear like a
pirate.”

‘It was too bad, Uncle Bill; but Isuppose you held
your temper ?”

“J got a good lick at one of ’em with the handle of the
pitchfork, and he has gone home on three legs. I ex-
pect to see old Peter a-coming every moment to see
about it, and then won’t thar be war ?” :

«J thought, Uncle Bill, that there was a law that hogs
running at large should be yoked by their owners? If
it was not done by them, then there was an ofiicer of
the town whose duty it was to doit, and then make
their owners pay them for the trouble.”

“So thar is, mister, but like a good many other laws,
it ain’t putin force. Thar is a town officer called a hog-
herd, whose duty it is to catch all such critters going at
large and yoke’em. I was one myself once.”

“How did you like the office, Uncle Bill ?”

“Gosh! I got enough of it in one year. Then 1 made
an awful blunder, which will be throwed at me till Tm
under the sod for good.”

“What did you do, Uncle Bill ?”

“Sit down on the end of this ’erelog and I'll tellye. 1
*spects you'll call me a tarnal fool, and so I was.”

I did as I was bid, and the old gentleman began :

«You see it used to be the fashion to make a hogherd
of somebody who had got married since last ‘lection
day, and when ] and my second wife hitched up in the
harness it only lacked ’bout three weeks of town meet-
ing. I never once’ thought of getting that office, as I
was then above forty, and they always took a younger
chap forit. But when the meeting was nigh about over
Peter Stillings hopped up and yelled: ‘Mr. Moderator!
And when he had got his eye he went on to say that Bill
Perkins expected an office, and that he ought to have
one, and therefore he made the motion that he be "lected
hogherd. Eben Tasker, he seconded the motion, and
everybody yelled for me and I was elected. I had to
treat, of course, and it took two gallons of New England
rum to goround. JI was mad, but it wa’n’t ro use to
show it; but I vowed I would get even with Peter Still-
ings before the year was through. He had but one hog
that year, and I knew that assoon as it was bare ground
he would turn it into the road, and I made up my mind
] would do my duty the first time I had a chance.

“One rainy day I went to work on the sly and made
the darndest hog-yoke you ever seed. It was long, and
nigh ebout as heavy as a man could lift. My hog and
Peters was about the same size, as they were of one lit-
ter, so I fitted it onto the neck of mine one day when my
old woman was gone so she could not hear him squeal.
It was all right, so I took it off and hid it under a mess
of peastraw until I could get a chance to use it on
Peter’s. I knowed that I shouldn’t have a great whiie
to wait, and I didn’t. One day I and my hired man, Ike
Stanton, was to work in the field above the road, and all
at once Ike, who knew about the yoke, hollered out :

‘* «Bill, thar’s Peter’s hog as sure as guns!’

“T looked up toward the house, and there he was sure
enuff, a-rooting in my door-yard. My time to get even
with Peter had come, and, dropping our hoes, we made
for the house.

“T had jest seen my old woman, Nancy, go down the
road, and i was glad she was gone, for I ’spected if she
» saw the yoke and what I was up to, she would put the

 

 

eae stick over my head afore we could. get. the job
ne. i sie

“Ike oe in the road to mea og from starting
for home if it should take it into its head to, and I went
and got the yoke. Then we tackled the brute, and of all
the tussles we had! Sometimes he would have Ike
down and sometimes me, and then he would appear to
be a-top of both. When we thought we had him we
didn’t, and we never should have got it on in the world
if Major Hall hadn’t happened to come along on horse-
back. It was jest afore the May training, and the major
was practicing riding with his-uniform on. He was ter-
rible proud of his title and his clothes, and felt every
inch as big asa king. I told him what I was trying to
do, and he was tickled nigh about to death. He got off
his horse to lend us a hand, and it wan’t a minute afore
that tarnal hog had ran atween his legs and sent him
sprawling on his back into. a great mud-puddle. Such a
sight as he was when he got up and shook himself you
never seed in yer life or a madder man.

we all pitched in togetber, and arter an awful tussle we
got the yoke on and p’inted the hog toward home. We
laughed until we most cried to see the critter manuver,
and then after I had treated the major to a mug of cider
and brushed his clothes, he rode off, and {ke and I went
back to our work arter we were sure that the hog would
bring up at Peter’s without any more driving.

About half an hour arterward we heard a tumult
down theroad. We looked up and seed the hull nabor-
hood acoming in prosession. Thar was my old woman
heading it next to the hog. and arter her came Peter
Stillings and his hull tribe, Eben Tasker, wife, and chil-
dren ; Dick Garland and his’n, and the Lord knows who.
It was as big a prosession as they had when Judge
Obed Hall was buried. ‘They turned into our door-yard,
and the next minute Nancy yelled at ‘the top of her
voice :

‘ * “Bill Perkins, come here as soon as yer legs will
et ye!’

“Ike and I was nigh about bursting a-larfing ; but we
obeyed the call, and in a minute or two we were in the
door-yard among ’em.

‘What do ye want, Nancy? What’s all this uproar
for ?’ sed I, trying to keep a straight. face, while every-
body else about,me was grinning from ear to ear, and
the hog was tearing round in the yoke like mad.

“What is all this uproar for? That’s a pretty ques-
tion to ask!’ she screamed. Who yoked that hog ?’

‘“T did,’ sed I. ‘And I’ll learn you, Peter Stilling, to
keep yer hog to hom’; and more’n that, not to nominate
me agin for such an office in town meeting.’

«Peter, instead of being mad, seemed to be about
bursting a-larfing. He tried to speak, but for the life of

him he couldn't.

«Bill Perkins, you are the biggest fool on the foot-
stool! screamed Nancy. Yow ve been and yoked yer
own hog. He got out of the pen to-day, and I couldn’t
get him back alone to save me.’

“I took a look at the tail of the hog, andI knewina
minute that Nancy was right. Peter had docked his
hog, but I had let mine grow the natural length. Other-
wise they looked as much alike as two peas in a pod.

«You are doing right,’ said Peter, as soon as he could
get his breath. “You'll make a good town Officer in
time. Inever seed a neater job than that. Keep on
practicipg with yer own hog for awhile yet afore ye
tackle yér nabors’. °

“I declare I was never 30 took down in my life. I felt
so sheepish that I almost wished that the airth would
open and swallow me up. But I made the best of it
that I could, and treate®’em on cider till they were ail
filled up. But I’venever heard the last of it, and never
expect to, while I’m a-top of the airth.”

—>—@—<_______

MILLY DARLING.

 

BY NEMO.

 

Twas not those bright. and lovely eyes,
Nor yet that graceful form,

Which‘kindled that first fond surprise,
And took my heart by storm ;

’*Twas not that sweet, arch, sunny smile,
Which heightens every grace,
. But shows no trace of art or guile,
_ To mar thy angel face ;

  

was not thy manner—Nature’s own—
~ So full of truth and ease,

Which scorns to ape the world’s cold tone,
And only seeks to please.

No, Milly! such was not the wile,
But what I loved to view

Was that I saw in every smile
A heart was shining through.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

THE PARTRIDGE.

 

The patridge iz a kind oy wild hen, and they liv in the
swamps, and on the kt 43 that are woody.

They ar& very, li wilh the hand, if yu kan
git near enuff sates tsalt on their tale; but
this iz alwus diffixtuy niu beginners.
© Year they will drum a tune with
erted old log, and if yu draw ni
unto them tew observe the musik, they will rize up, and
kut a hole thru the air with a hum like a bullet.

    
  
 

‘He didn’t care anything about his uniform now, and |

“then asked :

 

Thare iz no burd kan beat a patridge on the wing for
one hundred yards; i ani authorized tew bet en this.

The patridge are a game burd, and are shot on the
wing, if they are not missed. _

It iz dreadful natral tew miss a patridge on the fly,
especially if a tree gets in the way.

1 hav hunted a grate deal for patridge, and lost a grate
deal ov timeat it.

The patridge lays 14 eggs, and iz az sure tew hatch all
her eggs out az a cock h iz who feels well.

When a brood ov yung patridges fust begin tew toddle
about with the old burd, they look like a lot ov last
year’s chestnut burs onlegs.

Broiled, patridge is d if yu kan git one that waz
born d the present century, but thare iz a grate
menny patridge around that waz with Noah in the ark,
aie they are az tuff tew git the meat oph ov az a hoss
shu. i

But broiled patridgeiz better than broiled krow, andi
had rather hav bro: krow than broiled mule just for
a change. Re

“RHE SNIPE.

The snipe iz a gray, misterious bird, who git up out ov
low, wet places quick, and git back again quick.

They are pure game, and are shot on the move.

They are az tender to brile az a saddle rok oyster, and
eat az eazy az sweetmeats.

The snipe haz a oon (about the length ov a dok-
tor’s) and git a living bi thrusting it down into the fat
raha and then pumping the juices out with their

unge. J

1 hav seen snipe so phatt that when they waz shot 50
feet in the air and phell on to the hard ground, they
would split open like an egg.

This will sound like a jie to man who never haz seen
it oe 2 ut after he haz seen it did, he will feel different
about it.

1 ee

 

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
NEw YorK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for
eee anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-

erest for poe pert It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be eon in scholarly style; so long as they are
pithy and like be

y to afford amusement, minor defects will
remedied.

 

Josie.
Many are the pretty girls
Whose cheeks are sweet ane rosy,
Who, I well know, could love me so,
But I'd live and die with Josie.

Many are the damsels bright
Whose charms are all so cozy,

But I declare, I am sincere—
T'@tiveand die with Josie.

Many are the maidens fair,
But none I love like Josie ;
Id all resign, and not repine,
To live and die with Josie.

What Utopia Is.

One morning a minister chanced to drop in at a meat
market, where he was aregular and well-known cus-
tomer, just as the proprietor was in the midst of a warm
discussion with another butcher. As soon as the rey-
erend gentleman appeared and had given an order for
his porter-house steak, he was appealed to as an arbi-
trator of the vexed question.

_ “Now, Mr. Putnam, you know all about these things.
This Utopia that people talk about—what is it, any-
how ? . :

‘Utopia 2?” said the clergyman, contemplatively watch-
ing the meat dealer, who,.having weighed the steak,
was engaged in chopping off about two-thirds the regis-
tered weight in bone and fat—‘‘Utopia isa place of im-
aginary but impossible happiness and protection; a
place, for example, where the butcher cuts off the bone
ar before he weighs the meat, instead of after-
ward. ; %

The ensuing silence was broken only by the rhythmic
fall of the cleaver, while the two tradesmen pondered
on the question what kind of Utopia that would be—for
the butchers. ;

He Supplied the Provisions,

“Uncle Stead” is what they called a shrewd old gen-
tleman who used to live in Winthrop, Me., a little way
out of the villiage, up the side of the pond, near Read-
field. One of his fellow-citizens was a man named Love-

Bony GRIBS.

y:

Uncle Stead met Lovejoy in the village one day, and
he said to him: :

“Lovejoy, there’s a poor woman lives out on the edge
of the town that needs some provisions. Pm willing to

 

supply her, but Tyesold my horse and have no means

Pleasant Paragraphs. 4

a 7

of flower, and a ham, and other supplies if you'll carry
them out to her with your team.”

Lovejoy said certainly he’d be very glad to doit. Ac-
cordingly, Unele Stead boughta barrel of flour, a ham,
a bucket of sugar, etc., and, telling Lovejoy where the
woman lived, sent him off on his errand of charity with
the good things in his pung. Lovejoy easily found the
house where the woman lived. He unloaded the goods,
puffing like a grampus as he rolled the flour in, and said
to the woman:

“Mr. Steadman sent you the provisions. He's a
mighty kind-hearted man to send you all these things.”

“Well, I don’t know why he shouldn’t send them to
me!” exclaimed the woman, in surprised accents, ‘‘He’s
my husband,”

Just as Before. }
She held the reins—oh, memory bright,
Of that sweet sleigh-ride long ago!
Twas on a clear and starry night ;
The hills were overtopped with snow—
There was no biting wind to blow.
She held the reins,

Its recollection brings a glow!
Ere we returned I had the right
‘ To clasp her dainty waist, I know—
’ She held the reins.

A year and we were married. So,
In time, all romance takes its flight ;
She rules me now, in wifely might,
~ To her sweet will I bend ; for, lo!
She holds the reins.

How Wars Begin.

«Papa, how do nations get into war with each other ?”
asked Tommy Seasonby.

“Sometimes one way, sometimes another,” said the
father. ‘Now, there are Germany and Spain—they
came near getting into war because a Spanish mob took
down the German flag.”

“No, my dear,” put in Mrs. Seasonby; ‘‘that wasn't
the reason.”

‘But, my darling,” said Mr. Seasonby, ‘‘don’t you
suppose I know? You are mistaken; that was the
reason.”

“No, dearie ; you are mistaken,
Germans——”

“Mrs. Seasonby, 1 say it was because——”

“Peleg, you know better! You are only trying to——”

“Madam, I am not aware that your opinion was asked
in this matter.”

“Well, I don’t want my boy instructed by an old ig-
noramus !” :

“See here, you impudent——”

“Don’t you dare bristle up to me, you old——”

“Never mind,” interrupted Tommy; ‘I fancy I know
how wars begin.”

Increasing Benevolence.

A Maine Doctor of Divinity went over to Scotland, the
land of his birth, and soon after his return he preached
a sermon on ‘‘Giving.” He said that liberal giving helped
aman in more ways than one. ‘To illustrate his point
he presented the case of one of his old friends in Scot-
land. He was a lawyer who had become rich as well as
eminent.

-‘This friend told me,” said the doctor, “that one of
the causes to which he attributed his success was his
habit of giving liberally. He said he had always made
a practice of setting aside one-tenth of his income for
gifts. And my friends,” the doctor spoke with much
earnestness, ‘‘he assured me that it had his life to
live over again he would increase it to one-twelfth.”

Somebody to Boss.

A man stopped at the house of a Dakota settler to get
adrink of water. He found him sitting in the shade,
while another man was working near by.

“J shouldn’t think you would need to keep a hired
man on your small farm,” the traveler said.

“Oh, I don’t need to; I keep him so’s to have some-
body to boss around.”

«7 should think it would be cheaper to let the man go
and boss your wite.”

“Stranger,” replied the settler, solemnly, ‘you don't
know Sary—it’ud be nec’ssary to have a comp’ny of the
reg’ler army here all the time it I wanted ter see any of
my bossin’ carried out.”

How She Walked.

A teacher in one of our public schools, when trying to
define the word “slowly” to her pupils, walked across
the room so slowly that she wobbled in her gait, and

lt was because the

 

“How did I walk ?”

A big boy in the back part of the room paralyzed her
by blurting out:

«Pigeon-toed, ma’am,”

What Made Him Feel Bad.

A teacher in a Yorkville school was endeavoring to
explain to a dull and stupid scholar the essential princi-
ple of human conscience.

“Now, Charley,” said she, ‘‘when you have done any-
thing that you know to be wrong, what is it that makes
you feel bad, and makes you sorry that you did it »”

dark surface. They are made with plain skirts, and long,

and gray clo
to wear with them, and are sty.

n
and are set edgewise or ap
and with wide and narrow widths.

ing out of the fronts of basq

Men do not learn to swim on
to the deep and buffet surges. —

 

 

 

 

«Why, papa’s big leather strap,” was the feeling re-
joinder. |
Mirthful Morsels. - |

MILITARY EXAMINER—‘‘What must a man be to be}

}Jack—Grandma, have you @ood teeth?” Grandma-- |
“No, dear, unfortunately, | have not.” Jack—‘Then I'll |
give you my walnuts to keep till I come back.”
“Are we running on time?” said the conductor, re-
peating the nervous passenger’s question. ‘No, sir, we
are doing a strictly cash business. Fare, please.” |
“7 like smart women well enough,” said Fenderson,
‘but 1 wouldn't care to marry a woman who knew more
than I did.” ‘And so,” suggested Fogg, ‘‘you have
been forced to remain single.”
The downward path—the one with a piece of orange-
peel on it.
Visitor of the dime museum to the little girl who;takes
the cash—‘‘We have made a bet and we want you to set-
tle it. Is the bearded lady your mother or your aunt?”
The little girl—‘‘You are all wrong. She’s my father.”
“Do you know how to count, my dear?” said an old
gentleman to alittle girl. ‘Oh, yes, sir, Pll show you—
one, two, three—you have three teeth.”

—________»>@-«

The Ladies’ Work-Box,

Edited by

 

Mrs. Helen Wood.

 

“Constant Reader,” Bristol, Conn.—In lingerie there are a
number of pretty new models of plastrons in embroidered
tulle or crape, trimmed with lace and bows of gauze, or
faille, or moire ribbon. There are also very dainty blouse
chemisettes of fine cream-colored etamine, trimmed with
insertion and borders of colored embroidery ; these are to
wear either over the high bodice of a dress or under an open
jacket, and cuffs to wear over the long sleeves of the dress
are made to correspond. Collars of gauze, tulle, or crape,
trimmed with rows of colored 8, and fasten t the
side with a bow of ribbon, are fashionable to wear over high
dresses. Attractive new tuckers for the neck show a mixture
of tinsel. beads, silk, net, velvet, and plush. One model con-
sists of a band of plush an inch wide, lined with a canvas
band, at the top of which thereis a row of gold beads. In
both brown and green plush this arrangement looks well, as
the beads run in a continuous line, and the effect is neat and
becoming. The Thedora galloon is of gauze, with bead
tassels in brilliant colorings, such as gold, red, n, opal,
etc. Metal ‘trimmings are on the increase in Paris, where
they also wear steel imitations of chain armor for a border

on basques, cuffs, and collars. 3

“Henrietta G. W.”—Ist. We advise you to make your sateen
dress after the following style. Underskirt plain, with flounc-
ing of lace. Overskirt, which is short on left side and drawn
in plaits to the hip, isto be trimmed with lace. The back,
full, is gathered and ornamented with five small tucks.
Bodice plain, covered with lace and sleeves trimmed to match

2d. Ahandsome evening costunie can be made of red, blue, or
bronze surah, the skirt covered witha deep flounce of black
chantilly lace, the overskirt of the same lace, fastened at the
side with a wide sash of moire. Plain bodice, covered with
black lace, and a fichu crossed in front, with a ribbon bow
upon the left shoulder. Sleeves to correspond with the bodice,
trimmed with lace and ribbon ws. 3d. Congratulate the
newly married couple on the event and wish them many
us of happiness together. 4th. December 16, 1863, fell on
Wednesday.
‘Nellie S.”—Ist. At an afternoon tea you could wear a
handsome walking or carriage costume, but on no account
full dress. 2d. The cards of invitation are usually as fol-

lows:
MRS. C. W. BROWN,
AT HomMgE,
Thursdays in April.
Tea at 4 o'clock.

3d. The refreshments should be of a light natu
tea, milk, chocolate, some very thin sandwiches, a_ basket of
sweet biscuits, and one or two kinds of cake. 4th. The usual
hours for the reception are from four to six o’clock.

“Mamie C..” Charleston, Miss.—I1st. The old-fashioned
gauze ribbons of half a century.ago have come in vogue
again. Some of them have a satin edge, some are in two
colors, and many are striped. All stripes go down‘the ribbon,
not across, while some of them are graduated, and the colors
are very lovely.~ 2d. Pointed lace is somewhat worn, but
Chantilly, Spanish, and imitations of Mechlin are more
largely used, while Brussels and Valenciennes, in cream
tones, are fancied with velvet toilets.

such as

“Katie.”—Long cloaksiare, quite out of date, save for travy-
eling or for rainy weather. All spring wrappings are short,
and of varied but decided shapes. The wrap may be dolman,

mantle, jacket, or cape, or a combination ef all these shapes,
but if itis made short, it will be fashionable. Whatever the
trimming selected, whether it be fringe, lace, galloon, or
passementerie, it should be brightened with beads of some
sort.

“Becky D.”—New buttons are shown in fine olive wood,
walnut, and logwood. They are round, square, andin vari-

ous odd shapes ; some all of wood and others with metal rims.
Clasps are more worn than ever, and a popular style is two
buttons mounted. Small clasps of this kind will be used to
some extent on spring and summer wool dresses and travel-
ing suits.

“Miss J. C. L.”—Tweed and cheviot dresses are made in
simpler styles than formerly. The prettiest patterns are

 

ot getting the stuff to her. Now, I'll buy her a barrel
pal Vay é

 

woven in hair stripes, and have a tiny thread of color on the

buried with military honors ?” ¢ Recruit—‘‘Dead.” \

   

SHIH THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ated

full draperies, without plaitings piesy: kind, and are usually
worn ee a smooth cloth jacket of a darker shade, fancifully
rai

“Julia,” Fall !River, MassThe fashionable dog wearsta

collar of smooth, ribbed, or chased silver, with a padlock
hanging in front, upon which his or her name is vi
Another style is of crocodile skin, edged and clas wi
silver, or set with

front, with a plate

ed.

th
lates of antique silver, and bu in
anging below for the name.

“Mrs. J. T.”.—The one-dollar outfit of ‘‘Perforated Pat-
terns,” for Kensington painting and embroidery, consists of
fifteen patterns, two initials, powder, an ad, € at-
terns, book of men Hundre Designs and shel i

eedlework.” The NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency
will furnish it on receipt of the money, — 3 . wo ,

“Lucy,” Grinnell, Iowa.—Theré is a full skirt. pénéath the
draperies of most spring dresses. This skirt maybe partly
plain and partly gathered, or else pot wide, loose-look-

Z ;

ing plaits. It is usually made of material, ; in
many cases the stripes are_arran; horizon
fashion only becoming to tall women, ; .

“Genie W.”—1st. Lace, festooned over colored silk, is of the
latest devices inlamp shades. It looks lightand pretty, and
is often finished off with a bunch of fruit near the 78 2d.
“Put Asunder,” by Bertha M. Clay, is in book-form, and the
price is $1.50. 3

“Tillie,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—The rubber gloves are worn to
save the hands when gardening or doing other rough
work. The short en cost $1.50 and the eae ones gis a
pair, upon receipt of which we will mail them. .

‘Mary Ann.”—The old-fashioned leg-of-mutton sleeve,
which is full above the elbow and close-fitting below, is com-
re

*

ing in use again, and appears on many of the new impo:
costumes, ; }

“Dollie,” Lyons, Kans.—Many of the spring suits of bei
th ine small w Loiar the same material enile
i lish-looking.

“Bertie B.”—Braids and b are used in various ways,
fist epplies plainly or i patierne

“Martha Cross.”—Colored silk handkerchiefs are worn peep-
ues, with two or three corners

pinned back with fancy pins. _

“Belle V.,” Bedford, Ohio.—St ylish jackets for oo rl
are made of dark-blue or black tloth, braided ory one ?

“Mrs. C. T.,” Churchyille, Md.—We can furnish the words
and music of “Flirting in the Twilight” for forty ane

ao
“Annie H.”—Pretty and inexpehsive chair scarfs can be
n

made of Madras curtain muslin.

o~<—___-
Words of Wisdom.

2
THE appellation of gentleman should never be affixed

 

Mess

to a man’s circumstances, but to his behavior.

Wirnovt trial you cannot guess at your own strength.
1a table, They must go in-

EvERY man has a paradise around him till he sins and
the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his
Eden. And even then there are holy hours when this
angel sleeps, and man comes back, and, with the inno-
cent eyes of a child, looks into his lost p a
through the broad gates, at the rural solitu ot
nature.

Too many young men believe that ‘the world owes

every man a living,” and that it requires no efforton
man’s part to make the collection. ;

Ir is pride that makes us commit the greater number

of our faults, and which prevents our repairing them. —

A MAN without discretion may be compared toa ves-

sel without.a helm; which, however rich its cargo, is in
continual danger of being wrecked.

THE happiness of your life depends upon the charac-

ter of your thoughts; therefore watch well over them,
and entertain none that are contrary to purity and truth,

so that, if your soul were laid open, there would appear
nothing but what would bear the light and callup no

blush. a“

Ir a life will bear examination in every hour, it is pure
indeed. ” :

Force may subdue, but love gains; and he who for-
gives first, wins the laurel. t

Ir is not enough to shed tears at the misfortunes of
your fellow-creatures, you must be able tosmile at those
which befall yourself. as

A BAD compromise is better than a good lawsuit.
a 8
THE BEST OF OCCUPATIONS.

 

Any man or woman can determine that leisure shall

be well spent, and that time shall be found for the cul-
ture of the mind. In favoring circumstances we can get
help from others. But he is best served who serves
himself.
social intercourse by the society of books. Reading is a

He only is independent who can vary his

pleasure within the reach of all. It is the best of occu-
pations, and is withal the cheapest—even desultory
reading is better than none. The young especially
should acquire a habit which will make their homes
pleasant and save them from many temptations to folly,
or worse. Of all house-furnishing, books pay the best
profit, and, of all evening entertainments, they furnish ~«
that which is the safest to go fo bed upon. — re fol-
lows no morning dullness or headache, no rebuke of con:

science, and no beggarly account of empty pockets.

 

— >- © ~<—_______

A LOVER OF CATS.

 

Gustavus Nicholson, the Baltimore banker, who died

some time ago, was very fond of cats, and left a free
asylum for them. He had over a dozen of his tabbies,
and these were permitted to invite their friends, so that
hosts of the feline species were entertained at the bank-

er’s home. He took cats to bed with him, and some-
times a matronly cat would provide a nest in his com-
fortable feather bed, and there a litter of kittens would
be born and raised. Te old gentleman always had sev-
eral cats sleeping with him. ‘The servants testified that
at one time he had six Maltese cats living in his room ;
these were the favored ones, Six commoner cats were
kept down in the kitchen. ;

Items of Interest.

During the recent difficulty between Bulgaria and

 

Servia, Gabdan Effendi was the envoy from Turkey to the |
Bulgarian Government. He wears a false nose. When he
set out from Sofla for Constantinople, the Bulgarian authori-_
ties gave him a passport, upon which the words, “A paste-
board nose” was written under the head “Particular Marks.”
The Turk immediately complained bitterly to Prince Alex-

ander of the rudeness of his employees. The prince apolo-
gized with a smile, and made the diplomatist a present of a
snuff-box forconsolation. | : os

In North Chatham, N. Y., there is a trotting horse that
catches rats. A dead rodent was found in the manger the
other day ; and when the owner of the horse next fed him, he
kept watch, and soon saw a rat slowly making his way to the
manger. When he began to eat his meal the horse laid back
his ears and made a dive for the rat, caught him in his teeth,
gave him one pinch, let him drop, and calmly kept on eating.

An inquisitive cow looked over the side of a well in
Atlanta, to see what was going on below, and tumbled in. -
The owner was unable to hoist her out ; so he brough ht many
loads of shavings from a neighboring planing mill and
gradually threw them into the well. As fast as they fell the
cow trampled them under her feet, and thus she came to the
surface and walked away. Syke

After midnight, recently, Squire Dickson, of Clayton,
Ga., hearad a thundering on his door, and hastened down to

Jearn tlie cause of the noise. He found there a pair of im-

utient lovers—Jephtha Littleton, aged 82, and Mrs. Ruthey
an Thompson, aged 75—who had eloped from their children
and wanted to be married at once. They were gratified. _

A Rondout lawyer became so earnest in his appeal to
the jury that the perspiration streamed down his cheeks, He
spoke of his client, the prisoner, as the only support of an
aged mother with three children.” The jury mistook the per-
spiration for tears; their hearts were touched, and therefore ©
a verdict of acquittal was rendered. 3 5

The fashion of wearing biv~3 on bonnets is condemned-
by some of the Toronto clergymen. A local paper lends its
aid to the reform, and says that “a turnip on the crown, and
arespectable carrot on each side of the head, nuld be
healthier, quite as tasteful, and in no degree either as cruel
or sq injurious.” i.

Scandal is not admired by a certain lady in Columbia,

§. C. To admonish those who indulge in it, she keeps on her _
dinner-table a penny box; and when any person talks ill of -
an acquaintance, she exacts a fine of a penny, which is at
once dropped into the box. :

Pensioners are proverbially long-lived. Their tenaci-
ty after death is exemplified in the cases of some dead soldiers ~
in Banks County, Ga., who still continue to draw their pen-
sions. The detectives are _atter these money-loving dead
veterans. * ¥ des

ager ee
That was a ghastly joke that a sinful chap in a South- —
ern town played on a stranger whom he promised to intro- 5

sented him to the leading undertaker.

Dan Arnold, of Macon, Ga., saved $700, and hid the
greenbacks in a hole in his yard. A sudden flood came, and

 

watered his stock of wealth, and it floated off. Dan can’t
even find the hole where he hid it. iy

 

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duce to arich planter, and then took him around and pre

  

 
  
  

 

 

  

  
   
     
   
   
 
  
   
   
   
    
    
  
  
    
     
    
   
  
  
     
     
  
  
    
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

   
  

 

  

 

 

     
 
          
         
 
      
       
       
     
        
     

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