nN: i ce, et Another Stirring Emotional Story, “No. 4 —_—=—=— t mournij med with ve and dice, yor l and « dee lack ribbé - mourniy am, take k, half 2} colate, an¢ 28 and stil r half an Sweet, as 3 ell, and pv dresses ar her seasol Olopaise d is the fay or sea-sid ible as eve .or India urniture ¢ wooden fi e fans, or ferns, cat- ame. d lace is r ‘urkey red: he prettie: ‘ably with ure for cor ussian bé flat rings are. 2d. 1 ket coil i : like the lso a fang ; clasp, OL > shown od are lod left shou! ck silk t¢ colored ci misettes, and are l® ; May A. for leathe 1t constay liberty, f in Middk in a buy al times, he other iat the j¢ ey were | nit an ide Guelph, ¢ homeward mplored fh ying insi in consen} the ineby } ndle the nd after ; and Fre hile play; in. Hel lis friend) istol, cral nissed hj oad of bu antly. base ball pet ween vard Coll! , Was stru ‘ mocked ou der his ari ion won t) m her cam uous bla/ y disfigw that eve ce with he ance befol unruly ¢ of the wa titchen an soon afte it have ye ply. “On grows i substan¢ A Stuttgaz Ss a subst 2 per cenf san be key ef reafter b the mout} ely photé; ils, thoug) them, an ograph, a ard corm¢ y read. . -d to be gs y writtei ) which i h the hole swallow’s birds were e releasec 1 thirteer ven and & $4,000 a ticut con- ney must ed. Whyss ood. selves by 3; but af- oys, flew he blood Fork, N.) e a duel! A line? ed at thes im, Ala. 12 night, \ epy peo- r the in- t to the # irt front t-boko. eking 3, 4 liver his ch from any by s off for | weeks versified thinks, under- it Ree sane. pork- e open fushal, Vol. 41, Office 31 Rose St. P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. New York, September 4, 1886, a Entered According to Act of Congress, wn the Year 1886, by Street & Smith, in the. Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O0.——Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. No. 44, VA TZ Uy PNY) | AIM yeh et NS ui : we ( ( it Mee llliveallly Lil te il i | : | } t _ i i ae = a" jp GY = \\ . eS Nth. Laren AK 4 ‘ S A ii) wT ONT bid ot ns Ab NZ yh —a a “YOU NEED NOT ATTEMPT TO SCARE ME WITH BIG WORDS AND SAVAGE LOOKS,” SAID LITTLE SUNSHINE, *“* FOR I FEEL THAT I AM RIGHT.” i Mie |S (le (i BANAT SAG a yj Yi a cA y | WY i Hi Hl Co wa : is Sees | LITTLE SUNSHIN “oS ©®@ Ory, The Working Girl’s Oath. ——— BY FRANCIS 8S. SMITH, AUTHOR OF “RMeortha, the Sew ings=Machine Girl,’ ““Magsie, the Charity Child,’ “Alice Blake; or, The F*erry" EXouse Meetings,” “Eweleen Wilson,’’ etc, CHAPTER I. THE FLINT BENEVOLENT SOCIETY. Our story opens in arear room on the first floor of a building situated on one of the avenues in the upper part of New York city. ‘ The front room was occupied as a shirt store, and over the door was asign which bore in bold charac- ters the proprietor’s name, which was Gabriel Flint. The proprietor, however, was better known among his acquaintances and those who worked for him as Old Skin Flint, the reason for which appellation the reader may very easily divine. He was a penurious, money-grabbing old scoun- drel—a hard taskmaster, dishonest, when he dared to be so—as cruel as the grave, and thoroughly con- scienceless and unscrupulous, His wife was a proper mate for him. sessed all his most objectionable characteristics in an exaggerated degree, if possible, and was known |; among the girls of the shop as ‘The Old Cat.” Mrs. Flint had been forewoman for Mr. Flint for two years before he married her, and had she not been exactly what she was, he would never have dreamed of making her his wife. He had lived to the age of fifty unmarried. He had no faith in wo- men—or men either, for the matter of that—and he was too cunning to take any risks, but a close scru- tiny of his forewoman, day after day, for two years, satisfied him that she would add to, rather than, She pos-, take from, his wealth, that she was his exact coun- terpart both in heart and mind, and, in short, that she was the woman of women to be called Mrs. Ga- briel Flint. Mr. Flint was a bullet headed, low-browed, bull- necked, square-shouldered, dumpy man. He was entirely bald, with the exception of a trifle of dirty- looking, iron gray hair which fringed his temples and ran around the back of his head—his eyes were eat-like, both in color and expression—his nose was a decided pug—his mouth large, his lips heavy, and the entire expression of his face unprepossessing in the last degree. His unamiable life-partner was very like him in every feature as well as in form--the same shaped head, the same style of nose, the same colored eyes, the same quality of voice. Anybody would have taken them tor brother and sister, and dressed in man’s clothes, with a hat on, she would have passed easily for his brother, for she was decidedly mascu- line both in voice and feature, and although she was some fifteen years the junior of her husband, she looked nearly as old as he did. It was early on Friday morning (hangman’s day), in the month of November. It had been raining hard all night, and the wind ' still blew in fitful gusts, dashing the rain against the ' window-panes, swinging the creaking signs to and fro, and shaking the awnings till they snapped and cracked like a discharge of small-arms. The store was not yet open, and Mr. and Mrs. Flint stood behind the counter, laying out work for the girls and talking confidentially of their projects and prospects. Mr. and Mrs. Flint had established (in imagina- tion) a humane society, under the title of “The Flint Benevolent Society, for the Relief of Aged and Indi gent Widows,” of which the former was president and the latter vice-president ; and two or three times | a year they were in th¢ habit of calling upon the girls in their employ to contribute something toward the support of the institution. It is hardly necessary to say that this was one of the many cunning expedients resorted to by Mr. and Mrs. Flint to obtain the means of swelling their al- ready plethoric purse. No society ever reaped the benefit of the money thus dishonestly wrung from the poorly paid and overworked slaves of the nee- die, and, to Say the truth, they had ashrewd suspi- cion of this fact, but what could they do? To refuse to be swindled, was to subject themselves to dis- missal, and work was not so plenty that they could afford to do this. As we have already said, it was Friday, and this was the day generally chosen by the unprincipled Flint to levy his contributions, so that he might de- duct the amount from the wages due on the day fol- lowing. One of Mr. Flint’s rules was that his employees should reach the shop at least fifteen minutes before the hour for commencing operations arrived, so that they might have their things put away and be ready to sit down at their tasks immediately as the clock struck seven. the hour for beginning. “T have thirty operators,’”’ he would say, some- times, “and if each one should lose even one minute, that, in the aggregate, would be thirty minutes, and reckoning the prite of labor at ten cents per hour, that would be a loss of five cents to the establish- ment, and five cents is mMoney—five cents a day amounts to fifteen dollars and sixty cents per year, the loss of which sum annually would be ruinous to any establishment in which the profits areso small.” To make himself entirely safe, Mr. Flint imposed a fine of one cent per minute for every minute that an operator was behindhand, and it was therefore very seldom that any girl was absent from her seat when the clock struck seven. “The benevolent society dodge was a very shrewd one, wy dear,’ said Mr. Flint to his wife, as he pro- ceeded to assort the work, and he chuckled content- edly as he looked up at her. “Tt was, indeed, my love,” responded his partner, approvingly. ‘It pays well, but how much longer it will continue to do soisa question. The girls, you will remember, did not like it very well the last time we tried it on, six monthsago.” Anda look of anx- iety shaded her face as she spoke. ‘“Pshaw !” exclaimed Flint, carelessly, ‘you are too easily frightened. They grumbled, to be sure, but they paid up, didn’t they? That’s all I care for. Let ’em grumbleif they find any comfort init. Their grumbling don’t cost us anything, you know.” “No,” returned Mrs. Flint; ‘that’s true enough, but I’m afraid they’ll do something more than grum- ble this time. You know Lilly Davis—or Little Sun- shine, as they call her—said positively when she con- tributed last, that she would never submit to be taxed again.” “Yes, I know it,’? returned Flint, with a savage scowl. “Curse the little baggage, I’m sorry I ever took her into the shop, and I wish I could get rid of her with safety to myself, but she has succeeded in making herself such a fayorite that the girls all do exactly as she wants them to. She musn’t presume too much, however, or I will discharge her, let the consequences be what they may!’ And Mr. Flint’s yellow eyes snapped savagely. “Nonsense, Gabriel !” ‘jotted Mrs. Flint, in a tone of decision. ‘Such athingis not to be thought of fora moment! Itis ale well enough to be passion- ate when one can afford it, but we should never al- | low our anger to run away with our bread and but- ter. Do you suppose | don’t hate the impudent little hussy as much as you do? Do you suppose I wouldn’t gouge her eyes out with her own scissors. and fill the sockets up with hot lead, if I could do so with safety? And yet you see how kind, and affec- tionate, and sweet Iam with her? You haven’t got } command enough of yourself, Gabriel! You must | learn to swallow your indignation, and use strategy when force is useless. You must cajole, and flatter, and coax, when you feel like killing. You know once before you discharged her for being impudent, and every girl in the shop, without a single exception, struck at once, and you were obliged to reinstate her, because you had some five or six hundred dollars’ | worth of work under way, which it was absolutely necessary should be finished at a given time. And | how do we stand now? The holidays are coming on —we are loaded down with custom work—and a gen- eral strike would ruin us. No, no—the girl’s dis- charge is not to be thought of.” “Well, I guess you are right, Barbara,” assented Mr. Flint, after a moment of deep reflection. ‘‘I suppose we shall have to humor her, if she should prove rebellious, but, curse her, I’ll be even with her ret {7 : As he ceased speaking, the clock over his head struck the half hour, and, looking up, he exclaimed: | “Half-past six, and that lazy vagabond, Tony, has | not yet taken down the shutters. The scoundrel! I’ll murder him yet. He went tothe theater last night, and did not get in till twelve o’clock. I know he went to the theater, for that is the only kind of amusement he cares for, unless, indeed, I except playing policy. Every cent he can beg, borrow, or steal goes either to the theater or the policy shop. I suppose the scoundrel thinks I didn’t hear him when he entered the house, but he’ll find out his mistake when he feels the rawhide about his shoul- ders.” Then raising his voice, he called aloud: CaeRe Tony Tucker! you vagabond, where are you?” Almost immediately the door leading to the work- room opened, and the person called for made his ap- pearance. He was a somewhat singular-looking boy, about eighteen years of age. Tall, raw-boned, angular, and spare in flesh, but muscular and wiry. He had a little pear-shaped head, with a heavy growth of tow-colored hair, unkempt and straggling, large eyes of so very faint a blue tint as to seem almost white, a large nose and mouth, and high cheek bones. The expression of his face was a mixture of eunning and good-nature, but there was also a cer- tain something about him which spoke of danger should he be aroused. He was a city waif, and had been taken from one of our public institutions by Mr. Flint when but fourteen years old, and entered into the service of that individual as a bound apprentice. The reader may imagine what sort of treatment he had met with at the hands of so severe a task- master. “Here I am, sir!” exclaimed the boy, in answer to Mr. Flint’s summons. “Yes,” sneered his master, “here you are, sir; and why were you not here before? You were not very far away, it seems. I shouldn’t wonder, now, if you had been standing with your ear at the keyhole, lis-| to call upon you once more for a slight contribution tening to what Mrs. Flint and myself were saying. Were you—were you, you scoundrel? If I were cer- tain of the fact, I’d set the savage bull-dog in the yard upon you, and have you torn piecemeal. wouldn’t my name isn’t Gabriel Flint!” And the proprietor of. the establishment glared savagely atthe boy. Now, this was just what Tony Tucker had been do- ing, but he was not going to say so. He had so often suffered the keenest torture for the most trivial ofienses that he had grown to be a first-class liar, and he therefore answered. with a look of injured innocence: “Oh, boss, how can you go for to say that ’ere ? Why, I wouldn’t take and do such a thing as that for the world—hope I may die if I would!’ “Silence, you. scoundrel!” roared Mr. Flint. ‘TI wouldn’t believe you if you were on your death- bed! You’d rather lie than tell the truth any day. Away with you, and take down the shutters and sweep out the shop, and after that I’ve got a little settlement to make with you for being out last night.” “Oh, Mr. Flint!’ exclaimed the hoy, “how can you take and go to work and say that? Hope I may be struck deaf, dumb, and blind if I wasn’t in bed last night by eight o’clock.” “T know you were,” replied Mr. Flint, ironically; “and immediately after eight o’clock you got ont of bed, and sneaked down stairs and out into the street and went to the theater. I heard you when you came in, sly as you were. Away with you to your work, and by and by I’l) give you a taste of rawhide for breakfast that will astonish you.” Tony Tucker made no furtherreply. Past expe- rience had taught him that it would be useless to do s0, but he muttered to himself as he proceeded to take down the shutters: , “T b’lieve that old feller’s the devilin the disguise of a shirt-maker. If he isn’t, how should he know when I sneaked out 0’ the house, and how should he know I went to the theater, and how should*he hear me when I came in, when I didn’t make as much noise as a falling snow-flake? Yes, he’s the devil— there ain’t a doubt of it. But I ain’t a-goin’to stand his wallopin’ any more, cuss me if I will! I’ve had onough of it. When I was alittle feller he used to wallop me every time he had any spare moments on hand, jist to amuse himself, and because, aa he said, wallopin’ loosened my skin and made me grow; but now that I’ve growed all I’m a-goin’ to, that argy- ment won’t answer, and blame my skiw if I’m goin’ to stand it any longer!” By the time Tony Tucker got his shutters down and the store swept out, the girls began to arrive, and were severally intercepted on their way to the work-room by Mr. Flint, who stood ready with the subseription list in his hand. The first to arrive was a sickly looking girl about eighteen years of age, with faded blue eyes, which had in them a weary, tired expression. Her dress, though scrupulously clean and neat, was made of the very cheapest materials, and her whole appearance betokened one whose whole existence was a sfrug- gle with poverty. She nodded a morning salutation to the proprietor and his wife, and was about to pass on, when the former, smiling blandly, stopped her. “One moment, Miss Rice,” he said,in atone of well-assumed affability and sweetness—‘‘one mo- ment, if you please. Iam truly sorry to be obliged y Bertha M. Clay, entitled “A Heart's Bitterness,” Next Week, toward the support of our aged and indigent widows. I assure youl would not do soit I could possibly help it, but the funds of the society are entirely ex- hausted, and unless they are replenished in some way the aged and indigent widows must suffer. You may be an aged and indigent widow yourself some day, Miss Rice—I sincerely hope you never will, but you may—and then you would be very glad if some- body would help you.” “Indeed, Mr. Flint,” returned the poor girl, with a deep-drawn sigh, “I cannot afford to spare any of ny wages this week—I have so much to do with my money.” ¥ “Why, Miss Rice,” exclaimed Flint,in a tone of deprecation, “I’m astonished at you! Can’t afford to contribute anything to so worthy a@ charity, and here you have earned eight dollars this blessed week—well, well! Tne hardness of heart exhibit- ed in the actions of some people passes Ccompre- hension!” and Mr. Flint rolled up his eyes in pious horror, “Indeed, Mr, Flint,- my disposition to help any- body who is worse off than myself is good enough,” replied the girl, in a tone of deep dejection; “but my father has been a confirmed invalid for a year past, and my mother is not over strong. Besides, I have . two little brothers and a baby sister, and the family depends mainly upon me for support. It is true that J have earned eight dollars this week, but I have worked every night till ten o'clock to accomplish it, and even now I shall not be able to meet more than one-half our weekly expenses.” “Then you must be a very extravagant family— that’s all I have to say !” exclaimed Mr. Flint, indig- nantly, ‘Why, on eight dollars per week a family of five ought to be able to live in absolute luxury. Your plea for exemption is a very flimsy one. Miss Rice—very flimsy indeed—and I wonder at your of- fering it. My dear,’ addressing his wife, ‘put down one dollar opposite Miss Rice’s name.” Then again turning to his victim: “One dollaris the yery least we Gal assess you, and you ought to consider your- self lucky to get off so; it should be two dollars, but Thad rather the society should suffer than run the risk of being unjust—I will therefore tax you only one dollar. There—pass on to your work without any further quibbling, for here comes Miss Brown, and you must not block the passage-way.” Miss Rice, with a look of deep dejection, accord- ingly passed on. She knew. that she had been robbed of one-eighth of the week’s wages for which she had toiled so hard, but she also knew that she must either suffer this injustice or else give up her situation, and this she could not afford to do. Miss Brown—a lively-looking brunette, with full round cheeks and merry eyes—succeeded Miss Rice, and in her turn was stopped by Mr. Flint, She had been but a few ayeeks in the shop, and consequently had never as yéwbeen called upon to subscribe to the funds ot the society. “Good-morning, Miss Brown,” exclaimed Flint, ob- sequiously; ‘tl believe I have never yet called upon you to subseribe a trifle tor the support of the Society for the Relief of Aged and Indigent Widows. [Ihave absolutely impoverished myself in the effort to keep this truly charitable institution going, but in spite of all that [ can do I have to solicit aid occasionally. I know that I shall not appeal in vain to you, for if there ever was a benevolent countenance in this world yours is one. Come, now, how much shall we put down for you?” “Well, Mr. Flint,” returned the girl, good-natured- ly, “Iam afraid you are notthe best reader of faces in theaporld. Idon’t think Lam stingy, but then I attach considerable importance to the homely old axiom that charity begins at home. I should be very willing to assist your aged and indigent widows if it were not for the fact that I need assistance sad- ly myself, I had been out of work for a month be- fore Ecame to you, and I still owe my landlady for baek board, while at the same timelI have hardly a decent dress to wear.” “Yes, but you have a splendid situation now,” re- turned Mr. Flint; ‘‘and you ouglt to think of those whe are not so fortunate. You have earned six dol- lars this week, and you did not work on Monday. Only think of it. Six dollars for five days’ work! Why, you should getrich at that rate. Why, poor Miss Rice, who has a sick father, an ailing mother, and three little children fo support, subscribed a dollar cheerfully, and surely you, who have only yourself to care for, ought to give at least as much, My darling,” to Mrs, Flint, ‘put Miss Brown down for one dollar, Please get out of the passage- way, Miss Brown, and give the other young ladies an opportunity to subscribe. Here comes Miss Finkle.” ; Miss Brown, as directed, took her way to the work- shop, muttering, as she did so: “The hypocritical old scoundrel! Idon’t believe one word of his story about the society. He and his crusty old wife are the society, and if I were not so pinched for means, I would not submit to the r »b- bery.. If he isn’t hung some day, it will be because justiee is put to sleep with chloroform.” . Miss Finkle—a pale, melancholy looking girl—suc- ceeded Miss Brown. , ath ‘pine. Mis ; ? “tor ade eee er Fy eliarming this morning, and I can see by th snlilte that irradiates your countenance that you are justin the humor to doa benevolentaction, You will remember:that once before I called upon you fora trifle to help our society, and now I am obliged to ask you again to help us along. You cannot imagine what distress the indigeut and aged widows are in for want of means. Their condition is truly deplo- rable, and if it were not for the kindness of such benevolent young ladies as yourself I don’t know how they would ever get through the coming winter. You see, my dear young lady, Mrs. Flint and myself do not claim any credit for our efforts on behalf of the society ; we are only too glad to give freely both of our money and our labor to so glorious @ Gause, contented to know that we shall surely get our re- ward by and by. ‘Cast your bread upon the waters and it will return to you after many days’ is our. motto. We have been casting our bread upon the waters fora long, long time. but it has never re- turned to us yet. We are willing to wait, however, even though we should be obliged to go to the poor- house before our reward comes—which is most likely, for really we are impoverishing eurselves as fast as possible. But, oh! Miss Finkle’—and here the tears of eestasy filled the eyes of Mr. Flint—“‘is if not a sweet recompense to know that the prayers of a hundred aged and indigent widows are ascending to the Throne of Grace in our behalf ? Is it not inexpressibly gratifying to alleviate the distress and misfortunes of our fellow-creatures ? Is it not soul-sustaining to feel that we are doing good? Oh! it is, my dear young lady—believe me, it is!” Here Mr. Flint wiped his tear-tilled eyes, blew his ! nose vigorously, and continued, addressing Mrs. Flint: ; “My darling, put Miss Finkle down for one dolar. It is true she has earned six dollars this week, and would probably, if left te her own will, wish to con- tribute more; but I don’t think we ought to take any more than that from her, because she has a blind father.” “Oh, Mr. Flint!’ pleaded the girl, clasping her thin white hands and looking beseechingly at her em- ployer, ‘please don’t take adollar from imy wages! Please don’t? I need the mouey so much—so very much !” : “Is that Miss Nixon coming, my love?’ asked Flint of his wip the same time looking through the window as though he had not heard the shop- girl’s pleadings; “why, yes—I see her plainly now— it is Miss Nixon! Then looking with asweet smile at Miss Finkle, he continued, blandly: ‘There, that will do, Miss Finkle. We can’t think of taking more than a dollar from you, so please don’t cbstruct the passage-way, but pass on to the work-shop—there’s a good girl!” With a sigh of utter hopelessness Miss Finkle passed on, muttering to herself as the tears gath- ered in her eyes: ‘No shoes for poor little Mary this week! And the weather is getting so cold—oh, so cold! Will Heaven let these bad people go unpunished 2?’ Then Miss Nixon entered, and after her, Misses White, Smith, Dickson, Jones, Harrington, Morri- sop, and a number of others, who were severally robbed of a portion of their wages by their con- seienceless taskmaster, and every one of whom, as they passed on to their work, muttered maledictions on his head. CHAPTER II. LITTLE SUNSHINE REFUSES TO BE SWINDLED, ‘Well, my love,’ said Mr. Flint to his wife, as he cast his eye over the column of figures before him, “T think we have done pretty well on the aged and indigent widows’ dodge; the column of contribu- tions—voluntary contributions—mark that, my pet, voluntary contributions, of course+foots up thirty- two dollars and fifty cents, which is all elear gam. The formation of the society was a brilliané idea, ny pet, and it was yours. Oh, what a woman you are, my own precious love! Whata woman you are, to be sure! You are worth your weight in gold!” And in hisintense delight Mr, Flint threw his arms around Mrs. Flint and kissed her eestatically, “Have done with your nonsense, Flint!” exclaimed his better-half, somewhat pettishly. ‘This is no time for fooling. Business is in order now, and let me tell you, you may be counting your gains too quickly. You forget that Lilly Davis (or Little Sun- shine, as they call her) has yet to come. You know how she opposed the last assessment, and you may judge from that how she will oppose the present one. For my part I am afraid we shall have trouble with her.” “T am afraid so, too, my darling,’ rejoined Mr. Flint, as a shadow passed over his sinister counte- nauce: “but we must manage her somehow—we must be gentle with her, We must smooth her down, my pet—we must smooth her down—that’s the way to manage her.” “Yes,” returned Mrs. Flint, in a tone of doubt; “but suppose she refuses to be smoothed down, what then ?”’ “Why, then, my love—thens my sweet pet,” replied "Mi. Flint, while his lips twitched nervously and a ” demoniac hght shone in his yellow eyes—‘then we shall have to get rid of hersomehow. Idon’t know exactly how this is to be done just at present, but some method will present itself, and sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, so don’t bother. Ah, here she comes!” he continued, as a light form pagised the window and a shadow fell npon the threshold, “Now for it, my darling—now for it! We must do our best.” A moment later and the girl of whom they were speaking stood before them. She was below the medium height, but beautifully formed and of excecdingly graceful carriage. Her eyes were large, full of vivacity and intelligence, and “deeply, darkly, beautifully blue.” Her nose was of the Grecian pattern, her mouth small, her lips full and voluptuous, her chin*peautifwily round- ed, and her whole expression irresistibly charming, But the most wonderful feature about her was her hair, which was golden in color and fell unrestrained in a thick mass around her graceful neck and shoul- ders. This it was, combined with her ever cheerful disposition, which had gained for her the sobriquet of Little Sunshine. As she entered the door song: “Tf a body meet a body comin’ thro’ the rye ;” she Was humuining the old and the proprietor of the establishment, while he clapped his hands loudly by way of applause, as- sumed the most fascinating look of which his repul- sive features were capable, and exclaimed : “Well sung! well sung, my Little Sunshine! Why, what a merry little creature it is, to besure! The idea, my love,” turning to his .wife, ‘‘of the dear with the wind blowing a gale and it raining cats and dogs, Why, my darling,’’ to Mrs. Flint, ‘‘she’s a wonder, she is !” “She is so,” returned Mrs. Flint, approvingly; “there isn’t another girl-in the shop like her. I've often said it behind her back, and I say it now to her face—although I ain’t given to flattery—that she’s the sweetest, darlingest young lady that ever work- ed for us, and I don’t care who says tothe con- trary.” Little Sunshine mused a moment as she gazed first at one and then at the other. “They are not so sweet for nothing,” she thought; “they have some favor to ask, or they would not be 80 exceedingly complimentary. I know them, and must .be on my guard. If they sueceed in hood- winking me, they will be smarter than I think they ane,’ Then looking at Mr, Flint, she said, aloud: “T don’t see that there is any great meritin sing- ing, Mr. Flint, even if it does rain. I always sing be clear or cloudy, and why should I not, when all nature sings? The birds make the woods ring with their songs in the early morning; the rivulets sing as they leap joyously over their pebbly beds; the branches whisper a lullaby as they are gently rocked by the sweet south wind; the great waves sing a wild, weird song as they break upon the shore. and the fierce wind sings as it rushes around the eaves and shakes the window-casements. Why should I not sing ?” j “Trne enough, Little Sunshine!’ asserted Mr. Flint, blandly—“true enough! Why not, indeed? It is the most natural thing in the world for one so good, and so pretty, and so charitable—so very char- itable—so kind to the aged and indigent widows as you are, to sing. You believe in relieving the neces- sities of the aged and indigent widows, dayou not, Little Sunshine ?”’ The secret was out how. Little Sunshine saw at once why old Flint and his wife were so compliment- ary. She had contributed to ‘tthe society” only a few months previously, but she had ascertained to her own satisfaction in what direction the money went, and she had determined never to be swindled in a like manner again. ; “Yes,” she replied, quietly, ‘I do believe in allevi- ating the necessities of the aged and indigent widows, and it is my intention to apply my whole week’s wages this week to that purpose.” “What a darling she is!” exclaimed old Flint, turn- ing to his wife in a perfect. frenzy of delight; ‘:but you must not be allowed to make this sacrifice, Little Sunshine,” he continued, again addressing the shop-girl; you are too generous, tvo selt-sacrificing, and I can’t listen to it fora moment. You have earned nine dollars this week. and I cannot allow you to contribute”’more than seven of it—not one penny more. She must not give it all, my love, must she?” and he looked appealingly at Mrs. Flint. “Ob, but I insist,” interposed Sunshine, firmly ; “surely I have a perfect right to do what I please with my own, and I tell you Iam determined to de- gent widow.” ; “Do let the dear child have her ; claimed Mrs. Flint, in a toue of adma almost too generous for her own go¢ ecouldn’t put her money to a better use, ue, my darling!” rs “then you (will, ‘ BN down f e dollars.” | Mrs. Flint was about to make the ed, when Little Sunshine stopped he “Tt is hardly worth while to put on that list, Mrs. Flint, because I sha s The’ y ilege of expending my money forthe relief of one particular widow, whose ease was brought directly beneath my notice only last Monday.” ~~ - A cloud passed over the sinister countenance of Mr. Flint at this unlooked-for declaration, andin a tone of expostulation he ventured to say: “] hope you do not intend to interfere with the action of the society, Little Sunshine. Surely, we who have loved, and eared for, and sympathized with, and become coufidants of these poor creatures know what their necessities are better than you do- Let me beg of you to subscribe your money as the rest of the girls have done, and leave the poor widow to whom you refer to the kind ministrations of the society. Furnish us with her address, and [I assure you she shall be well taken care of. The so- ciety will allow no aged and indigent widow to go unprovided for.”’ “Excuse me, Mr. Flint,’ returned Sunshine, some- what pointedly; ‘but the poor woman to whom I refer has made application to the society frequently for relief, and has always been refused; [I must therefore insist upon relieving her myself.” “Tmpossible! impossible!’ exclaimed Mr. Flint, decisively. “No worthy aged and indigent widow ever made application to the society in vain. You have been imposed upon, my dear young lady. Some shameless impostor has been playing upon your too sensitive nature. There are plenty who make a liv- ing at this sort of thing. The monsters! It is frightful to contemplate such depravity. Such per- sons deserve hanging, my dear—hanging, nothing less!” And Mr. Flint’s fat face grew red with indig- nation. . : “The person of whom I speak is not an impostor,” rejoined Sunshine, quietly. to inquire as to her character, and know her to be exactly what she represents herself to be. She is a poor widow, in the last stages of consumption, who occupies a solitary room in a tenement-house. to the poor creature. Curiosity led’ me to call upon aw Worse opinion of human nature than I had ever en- closely related to her. Her name is Monroe—Marian son.” And as Sunshine finished speaking she fixed her ee blue eyes witha searching glance upon Mrs. ‘lint. . To say that Mrs. Flint was excited as she listened to Sunshine’s story, would but very feebly express that person’s true condition of mind. She was abso- lutely petrified. Her face was ashy white; her breath ‘came bard, and it seemed. for a moment as though-she were about to fall into a fit. With a strong effort of the will she managed to control herself at length, however, and, while a malignant fire glowed in her eyes, she said: “T fear you are growing slightly impertinent, Miss Davis. What do you mean by one-half the society?” : “When I say one-half the society, I mean you, Mrs. Flint,” returned Little Sunshine, undauntediy. ‘Do you suppose that Tam ignorant of the fact that Mr. Flint aud yourself constitute aJl that there is of the society of which you speak?—that you have con- trived this swindle to rob your employees of their hard-earned wages ?—that you have never contrib- uted one farthing to relieve the necessities of any human beingin your lives? Do not deceive your- selves. I know ail about you and your society ; and I know more than you ever dreamed I would know. I know that you two combined to rob William Mon- roe, the husband of Mrs. Flint’s sister, of his entire property, and that having ruined him and driven him into the grave. you allowed his ill-used and heart-broken widow to languish in sickness aud poverty without so much as giving her a crust of bread to keep her from starving. I know all this, and, as truly as Iam speaking now, the world shall know it, too, if you stop one dime out of the wages of any one of the girls who are working tor you. I have not much ability as a writer. perhaps, but I ean tell a story of wrong, and persecution. and in- justice in plain, unvarnished terms, which any news- paper publisher would be glad to print, and which. if printed, would send athrill of horror through the coninunity, and interfere somewhat, probably, with your profits in the future. You need not attempt to scare me with big words and savage looks, for I feel thatI am right, and should not hesitate to do my duty even though I were certain that death would be the consequence.” Mr. and Mrs. Flint stood aghast, and knew not what reply to make to this unlooked-for spcech. Had there been any doubt of the truthfulness of the charge which the girl had made, they would have driven her rudely from their presence, but inasmuch as they knew she had said that only which could be little creature singing on sucha morning as this,’ when there is no grief in my heart, whether the sky. vote my entire wages this week to the aged and indi- | | means of saving us all. “T have taken the pains | The | woman who does my washing livés in the same | house, and she it- was whofirst called my attention | her} aud, in answer to questiois-which I put to her, | 4&¢ that would render your marriage illegal, and so she Narrated a story o1 persecution and wrong which caused my blood to curdie with horror, and gave me | } Monroe—and her maiden name was Marian Thomp- | tertained berore. I think the society is well acquaint- | ana fet het. and Wares Or caty hs Pre ae ead with her, and one-half the society at least is | Siti Saints atonegreegie eS obit proven, they were afraid to deal harshly with her, and thought it best to coneiliate her if possible. Mr. Flint, therefore, choked down his rage, and,in as bland a tone as he conldassuime, said : “My little girl has been led astray by some miser- able impostor. Mrs. Flint has no sister, and never had one to my knowledge. But she can speak for herself. How is it, my love?, Is there any founda- tion for the very extraprd@hary story which our Little Sunshine has just Pbtiined y”? “What aridiculous question for you to ask, Flint!” rejoined Mrs. Flint, with well-assumed contempt. “Of course it is pure romance, and romance of the most nonsensical character at that. My sister, in- deed! The person who has so successfully hood- winked Miss Davis if» it doubt some miserable beggar who has at worked forus and been discharged for stea m astonished that any person with a grair ence could be so eéasily duped.” “Well, if there is’ tion will be sure & course you will pro this yiew it is my tainly do so unless her full wages.” Little Sunshine shop when Mr. F1 ‘Now don’t bes “Don’t let the fi wretch, who is p tiary, lead you teé class, the aged an my dear girl—now | their privations, t sufferings,” : ** Bah!” exclaim ‘your canting hy assistance from y body else in trouble IT shall carry out required promise sary, to write out ed to me, and to-n to every paper in aver you could 1 may as well save essayed to pass o1 “Then you will course, even thou from my establi threateningly. “Yes, even thous plied Little Sunshi Mr. Flint. I do no if you see prope meanness or not. labor is my own, to do as we please % fied here I can lea are not satisfied me. But Ido dex nate employees of earned, and, whleth whether [leave you, honestly by these v can always get wor ed to you for retai any complaint agai so long as you pa dues. So, as tar ag your pleasure.” “My reputation i Flint, pathetically he continued, turnir have a tissue of li and fair dealing, pt it would not injure know us thorough! itable, and there ar worst that can be s we ean’t afford to r and I fear we sh rash young creature gent widows should sickness.” : Then turning to L he wiped a tear fr nose vigorously > “You know not fortunate, Miss Da suppose, to save fuse the donations W to force upon me, and indigent wido rest on you ould their wage: _ ful happened. your serv IPOs tN ee the story, its publica- the impostor, for of >for Slander. Even *n lish it, and I shall cer- 1ise to pay to each girl o pass on to the work- er, tle Sunshine,” he said. neuts of a miserable ash from the peniten- inst that unfortunate widows. Don’t do it, ink of their loneliness, their temptations and hop-girl, indignantly ; zusts me! The idea of ffering widow, or any- ridiculous. I tell you f you donot give the up all night, if neces- hich has been impart- ling I will have it sent Tf you should talk for- is resolve, and so you ath.” And again she is obdurate and unjust lead to your dismissal exclaimed Mr. Flint, lead to my death,’ re- e] “Understund me, r right to discharge me whether I expose your y is your own and my bh haye a perfect right If Lam not satis- nployinent, and if you you can discharge to rob your untortu- iclh’they have honestly 1 in.your service or jasist upon your dealing ryou. Fortunately I 106 feel at all indebt-_ 3; hor would I make uld you discharge me, of the girls their just neerned, you can act = ar tome,” whined Mr. ‘tome. My darling,” fe, “we ean’t.afford to ng upon our integrity he papers. Of course imation of those who world is so unchar- willing to believe the ithe best people, that ult of a false statement, compromise with this h the aged and indi- suffer in poverty and 1ine, he continued, as edy eye and blew his aa you are doing the un- eaven forgive you! L ion, T shail have to re- ear girls are so eager ar misery to the aged ow this action must girls shall all receive rse, after what has iy for ime to say that hinent are no longer ned Lilly Davis, quietly. | That is all righ er employer and entered the work-rooi. (TO BE CONTINUED.) \ >e~ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] For Another’s Sin, By BERTHA MM. CLAY, AUTHOR OF “A Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The World Between Them,” “Beyond Pardon,” Etc. —— (“For ANOTHER’sS SIN,” was commenced in No. 17. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XC. “J OWN THE INFINITE TIE.” “Adelaide!” cried Lady Carew, ‘‘you have been the It is your gracious nature that has finally disarmed this wicked woman, and forced her to speak the truth, and your kindness and courtesy gave | your old teacher courage to come to you for help in his trouble.” “JT had greatly feared,” said Lady Adelaide, ‘‘that Isa- beau would tell her story to the duchess last summer, and she would drive Allan to despair and send him from his home, by telling him of Isabeau’s claim to a mar- stain his name and birth with dishonor. You cannot tell how I feared that. To prevent it I humored her, natural compassion for the poor woman dictated. Then the night when the duchess was hurt, she came, and I discovered surely that she must be Juanita’s mother. I could not drive a mother from her child. J thought then she was Desmond Carew’s wife—erring, but still his wife —and I could not drive her from under the roof which had been his ; and yet, under that roof you and your son slept, and I seemed to dishonor you both, by admitting her there. J was in asea of trouble.” «Dearest child, and now it is all over, said Lady Ca-. rew. : ‘ «All nearly over. Will you do whatI so much wish 2” “Anything that you wish, Adelaide.” “Then I want to take Jane and a groom and go to Al- denson, this evening, to see the duchess. I must tell her about her mother—that part which it concerns her to know. I think that im all that regards Juanita this poor Isabeau wishes to be good and prudent. I think she will help her. and never influence her for evil. And, then, I want that ring. I know now that Isabeau had your husband’s ring, and gave it to Juanita, and I want it back, so all trace of the Carew connection with that misery shall be gone. Then, dear Lady Carew, Allan is to be sent for; we will dispatch to him—I will: . ‘Come home; all shall be fully explained.’ That will be all he will wish. He will come. But I do not wish to meet him here in noisy London, in the whirl of society life. i want it to be at home, at Brooklands. At Brooklands he learned to love me; at Brooklands he said sweet words of love to.me; at Brooklands we parted, there let us meet. for all clouds to be cleared away. While 1 go to Alderson, will you, to-morrow, go to Brooklands, so that [can go there instead of returning here, and from there I can send for him ?” “I will, indeed. I like the thought. But, Adelaide, I wonder why you did not telegraph at once, this morn- ing, to Allan.” . “Was I wrong? I will tell you why I did not. I wanted him to get the pictvre. We drove to Monsieur Leon’s before we went to Hampstead Road, and the pic- ture went off by the noon express. Allan may have had time to feel angry, or forget me alittle. I want my pic- ture to reach him first, thet the dispatch, so it will seem at as if, the picture said: ‘Come home, I will tell you a.” Lady Carew laughed joyously, the horrible weight was gone from her heart, she was ten years younger. “Adelaide, you are romantic, but it is a pretty ro- mance. Doas you please. In truth he deserves to wait three months before he knows his happiness. Three or four days; they are a smalj penalty for him when he let pride rule and parted froja such a woman as you are, merely for a secret.” Lady Adelaide laid lips. “No, no!” she cried. a . her white hand on Lady Carew’s oa ; let even you find fault “mother. With Allan. . You do ] y very nice, and good, and noble he is.” “Tf you are to get to Alderson, you will have to defer the account of his virtues until another day,” said Lady Carew. It was just before the duchess’ eight o’clock dinner, when a fly drove up to the Dower House, and from it stepped Lady Adelaide and her maid. The duchess and her widowed chaperon were pacing the terrace, both in deep mourning. Juanita, amazed as she was at seeing THE N EW YORK WEEKLY. =o, 1-No, 44. Lady Adelaide, was also overjoyed. She was terribly | lonely at Alderson, and she held now for her former rival warm affection and gratitude. She flew to clasp her in her arms. * “You dear, good, cheer me up ?” “J have come for only about a dozen hours, but I hope I shall do you good even in that little time.” «You cannot fail. mirable creature who dropped pearls and diamonds every time she opened her pretty little mouth. Lam going myself to your room with you. Right next to mine it shall be; I cannot spare you out of my sight a minute.” wk ? $ They went up stairs hand-in-hand, as two sisters, and Jane made her lady’s brief preparations for dinner. After dinner the duchess showed Adelaide the Dower House, its gardens, its parks. © «To-morrow I will show you the village. What would you say that I was turning a sort of Lady Bountiful here! Ireally sometimes remember to speak to an old cripple or so. There are two or three of the children— the prettiest—whose names I don’t always forget. I have examined several long seams, and bestowed a pound on the prize seamstress. And I went to see the schools, and gave three pounds to the teacher to let me come away quick.” “You are improving,” said Lady Adelaide. “One could not help it, with this dear, good creature whom you and Duke William got me for companion. She surely is an admirable person. Suppose I tell you that I really read some, and some quite useful things— history and the like, she reads to me; and J absolutel, have done some knitting and embroidery. Some day may turn out a proper Englishwoman. Do you think it is too late for me, Adelaide, to be good, after all the evil I have done ?” “By no means, my dear. I think you did not realize all the evil, and there were many excuses for you.” “You excuse me more than I ever shall myself,’ said Juanita. “J came here to have a long, important talk with you. Can we go up to my room early?” asked Lady Adelaide. : “We can go at once. The evening is falling a little chilly, and 1 have ordered a wood-fire there.” In afew moments the two were seated before the fire in Lady Adelaide’s room. Said Lady Adelaide : “Lady St. Clair is home, and I went to see her to-day.” “T suppose I shi invite her here. . She was, in her way. kind to me; to her hard, worldly lessons I owe the chief faults and troubles of my life.” by “She Ss not care to come here, | think. I went to speak to her about your mother, dear duchess.” “My mother! What interest had yow in my mother ?” «What reason had you, dear Juanita, to think her dead ?” «Reason ? motherless.” ‘Suppose that were not true? best friend! Have you come to ing love—that your long separation was from no fault of hers?” “Suppose all that,” cried the duchess, ‘‘and then do | spent inv you not know | would seek the world through to find | watch at home the time is long. I would say,~‘Mother, my home is yours. Now at | fiber than men; they think themselves unloved; they to me—some one to | droop—they die. her? last Ihave some one who belongs love and to love me—some love that is all unselfish.’ I | and should own with all my heart the infinite tie.” Lady Adelaide clasped Juanita’s hand in hers. “Dear Juanita, there speaks your true heart. Listen | | while I tell you your mother’s story. he ‘She told Of the beautiful and popular .actress, left motherless and friendless in her early youth—of her marriage and her madness—her unconsciousness of her child’s living—her final recovery, and her coming to Lady St. Clair. “And why did not Lady St. Clair tell me? Why not x restore that long-suffering heart her child?” cried |. Juanita. ' “Lady St. Clair is thoroughly worldly; she has little heart. She was ready to give a pittance that would keep your mother from starvation. She had resolved to make a great match for you, and she thought a mother with antecedents of the stage and insanity would be in your way.” ¥ Then she told h Isabeau had by slow degrees assured herself of the Child's existence, and had herself denied her mother-heart, lest she mar her child's for- tune. She told of her long | t-watch, the night of the duchess. injury. ‘ lita slid to her knees lap, and told of that other ng wildly to- « e and monly as COME G@ have! ; love to “Give me this ruby ring that she gave you. have her andI great joy.” The duchess gave her the ruby ring. will have the ring ‘to remind me of a CHAPTER XCI. THE BRIDE OF GOD. The next day the duchess hastened to London to meet and bring home her mother. She had planned all with Adelaide. She would leave Eloise ata hotel and go alone to engage a maid and buy a dowager’s mourning for her mother, ordering the things to be sent to the hotel. Then she would go alone to Hampstead Road and bring ber mother to the hotel, and, in a day or two, take her to Alderson, where the new life, all dissevered from JIsabeau’s stormy past—of most of which the duchess would be torever ignorant—would begin. ; While the duchess went to London, Lady Adelaide, re- lieved and happy, blooming with hope, and the joy of good deeds well done, went on to Brooklands. Brook- lands was an establishment always in order; the faith- ful servants had allready oh an hour’s notice. Lady Carew was already there to meet Lady Adelaide. The rector would be back onthe morrow; and now, ina day or two, after letting the portrait do its work accord- ing to her pretty whim, Lady Adelaide would summon the Lord of Brooklands home and tell him all that yet was to be unfolded of this singular mystery. Meanwhile, in all these months, what had been the fortune of Lord Allan Carew? He had left his home angry, miserable, tormented between pride and love; doubt and dread of what was vailed behind the inscru- table silence of his. wife, in all else so» yielding, con- tented with ardent longings to remain where she was, to rest in the charm of her We and be lulled from all his doubts and unrest by the sweet musicofr her voice. At Paris, Lord Carew, unable to endure reminders of his home, sent his valet, Robert Dorham, back to Brook- lands, and engaging a bright, well educated, poetic Italian youth, half as valet, half as traveling companion, pursued his journey. Switzerland, South France, were equally wearisome to him, because he had lett his heart behind him. He could not endure places where he would meet English people, and where by letters and | failed to charm ‘him. You always do good, like the ad- \ | women are not like men, signor, I was_always told so—always called | Suppose she lived | happy still?) Suppose she loved you, with a passionate, ador- | Egypt } 1 } | | | | } | , hy she | fore ten.” go tor | - ain gate | } You | he felt that the greatest speed | | | | | to happiness and health. ; journey ! young girls in white, carrying a white bier, and behind these more girls in white carrying torches, and these girls were singing that low, sweet, mournful, mohotonous cadence. But the figure. on the bier was the figure that held Allan Calew and rent his soul. It was a second Ade- laide. Pure, snowy, statuesque, in death, her golden hair falling in waves over her last pillow, white roses on her head, white roses*in her hands, white roses lying on her pulseless bosom’s snow, white roses at her feet— the dead one lay as like his Adelaide as the portrait now lying on his heart. © A cold, icy agony laid hold of Allan Carew, He be- lieved Adelaide, too, was dead. ‘That now, in London orin Brooklands, she, his loving, lonely, and neglected wife, lay flower-strewn in her last sleep.. He had sinned against her until it was too late for repentance. The letters from home had come regularly; they had been tender but sad, as his had been brief and constrained. That sadness had meant that his Adelaide was silently fading from earth! A chilldew of horror gathered on his face; he tried to rouse himself. He could still see the lovely face of the slowly borne dead. The chant had called Antonio trom the room, and he stood with bared head lind Lord Carew. — «Antonio, what does this all mean ?” he cried. “It is the burial of Madonna Carola Berti,” signor.” “But I never saw such a funeral as this before.” ‘No, it is not common; the case is not common, Madame Carola was ‘a bride of God.’” “What do you mean? Was by ey eee want 7. “Oh, no, signor, not at all—‘ ‘ide of God.’” The procession, with its lights and its chanting and flowers, was drifting away along the road by the sea. “They carry her to the old grave-yard beyond here. You can see the place to-morrow, my lord. She will have a grave alone, and for thirty days it will be cov- ered with flowers. See, yonder follow her parents and her friends. They weep, and as they weep they keep at a distance, not to mar the spectacle; tears are not to fall near the bier of ‘a bride of God.’ ” Pye ee to me your phrase, Antonio. / story.’ " «Every one here knew Madonna Carola child. She was fair, smiling, blue-eyed, golden-haired—not like our usual dark haired children. Our people call such children ‘Incarnations of the smile of the good God.’ And such was she—gracious, pure, true, sweet. Such she grew up. You know here, my signor, some- times young people love and so make their own mar- riages, and again the parents see some reason fora match, and choose for them, and itisdone, It was so here. The parents of Madonna Carola betrothed her to Enrico Berti. It came to pass that just as the wedding off. Now as he was well-educated he was to be at once asergeant; and then, presto! after a little service, he would be a lieutenant and a captain; so he was not un- pleased to go; being young and ambitious, and so much a lad, he had not yet fallen in love with Carola, seeing he was to get her any way. But his friends and hers said the. wedding must be, and on the day of his de- parture, signor, they were married, and went from the altar to thé railroad station, and so good-by! But It happened that Carola, as he was to be her. husband, loved him. He | went off with the army—it is nearly two years; he was s/he liked adventure; he was in Algiers and in he is made lieutenant; he writes, were never thin at Carola is eating her heart out. Women, my | Sign. wn die thus. Men go away and f tt. Time the busy world flies fast. But to those who ‘Women are ot finer So did she. She who was a bride a wife; who parted at the altar from her husband—it does not often happen so—we call her ‘a bride of God,’ and she goes in white, crowned with white flowers, to her quiet grave. Qne only sings for e dare not begrudge the good{God one he chose to so early, so pure, so fair. They pass like the spring flowers, signor, And yet, after all, 1 think her heart was broken.” — CHAPTER XCII. ALWAYS THE MYSTERY. The quaint pr n was out of sight. Lord Ww returned to his sitting room, and paced uneasi nd down. Antonio lingered within call on the y. Finally Lord Carew cried : ie ty «Antonio ?? “My lord.” «Pack up my things, pay Baaieng atonce. When is ne?” fe ah VPS “My lord, at ten, but——” - “At ten then we leave, let nothing hinder.” 4 «But, my lord,” protested Antonio, ‘it is impossible— with the shirts in the woman’s hands to bleach—the bootmaker with two pairs of ordered boots, not tinished, the owner of these rooms never in town | ten, and the bank not open, so my lord’s business can be done be- : ae “ Pan “Nonsense !” e1” cried ‘Lord Carew, impatient as a boy. ‘My lord’s command is law. I perf vm the I fly to the country house. I pack al night. ie bills, we are going to he first train in the morn- & was to be Berti was drawn for the army, and must go — . 3 es ‘0 maker! It shall be done, ant t hereafter sible, ye shall see it cannot be done. and iS impossibk Lord Carew laughed aloud at this speech. Hi laugh now. His pride was under his feet, and a burden lying heavy on his soul. But as he of steam was all to to take him home as he would wish’: that Anton i the luggage were hideous hindrances on his way. “There, Antonio,” he said, cheerily, “I will not de- mand the impossible. Put my dressing Case, and afew things in my portmanteau, and I will go at ten. You shali settle up affairs, collect the boots and the linen, and come to London in a day or two.” Cae eet ' «But my lord, to travel alone !” i ¥ “I have done it many times. Get the portmanteau ready. Eleven o’clock, eleven mortal hours before I can start. Why did I not arrange this yesterday, last week? Why, in the name of sense, did lever goaway?” The next morning Lord Carew was among the first to enter the ten o'clock train from Leghorn. : Shortly after he had driven trom his house beyond the Porta Mare, a messenger boy arrived with a small tawny envelope. Antonio recognized a telegram, and hiring a. cab from the near stand, Grove with all speed to the Station. As he entered, the iron gates clanged shut. Antonio cried to be let pass, he leaped upon the gates, he shouted for ‘‘Milord Prince Carew, of London!” The guard opened the gates, but of what avail? The train © was already gliding up the track. Antonio leaped to the ties and began to run after the train—but also, of what avail? Thicker poured out the volume of black smoke trom the smoke stack, the wheels went faster, the train was at full speed. “My lord must wait for his dispatch, till I carry it to him, finally,” said Antonio, returning breathless. This was Lady Adelaide’s telegram : wore to Brooklands, all is well, and all can be made clear.” ’ Unconscious of this, but strangely elate and happy, in the thought of going home, Lord Carew gave himself up to dreams of futtre bliss. He knew Adelaide too well to think that she would visit his absence on him by resent- ment, when he returned. It was one of her shining qualities that she so readily forgave. If he should find her pining and worn from this sorrow, caused by his an- ger and departure he would devote ali his future to atone- ment. He would by love and tenderness win her back How weary he was of the How slow the train went! Would he ever | get home? | The varied and lovely spring landscapes of Italy Why had he not taken newspaper items all his doings would be reported in | Adelaide with him toltaly? How she would have en- England, and rouse question why he was idling away’| joyed it. She had traveled but libtle, only between | Brooklands, London, and her school, not far trom Paris. time on the Continent when his wife and his duties called him home At his heart this wife and these du- ties tugged remorselessly. that he had from the first behaved monstrously to Ade- laide, and she divinely to him. Had she no right to any secret of her own? Was he harmed because there was She should arrange a tour to suit herself. It should be One while he told himself | their wedding trip. He could scarcely eat or sleep. By sion that should make his time pass. He found it ina chatty Frenchman—a junior partner of a Paris lawyer. . the time he reached Moulins he was ready for any diver- something she could not tell him? She felt honor-bound | The Frenchman was the only one in the same compart- to refuse to reveal some seeret-of Some dead person, and | ment as Lord Carew. He had entered while it was dark, he abandoned her because she did not gratify his child- | and when the day was clear, he happened to see the ish curiosity. Decidedly he was a brute; he would go home and say, ‘I have sinned!” There, too, was his She grew old. The days would come when nowhere on God’s earth would, there be a mother for him to abandon or revisit? he might seek vainly for her face. Evil son that he was to fly his mother’s home while yet God spared her to bless him! He must go back to her at once. But close on the heels of these good thoughts came thoughts of pride, anger, suspicion, and that self-knowl- edge that told him that he would grow more and more nervous, moody, irritable, knowing that people about him knew some great secret about him or his, of which he was the one in ignorance. Held by these thoughts, he did not go home. At the suggesSfion of his new man, Antonio, he went to Leghorn, and took lodgings at a villa by the sea, just beyond the city gates. All that repose, blue skies, blue Bea. balmy a scenes fair as Paradise, could do te soothe him, waS now at his command. He made little trips to Capri, Corsica, Elba, Gorgona. He went out on the tishing-boats with the red. and yellow sails, and he was the good providence of many a fisher and many a porter and his struggling family. Bet all this did not mee his grief Day by day grew his longing for Ade- aide..." . It was then he sent for her picture, and the days seemed weary until he saw her lovely semblance. When the picture came he shut himseif up in his room and looked at it for hours, telling Over to himself all her sweetness, all her fine traits, and his soul was full of Adelaide. . P It was late, and Antonio, for the fourth or fifth time, begged him to come to supper. It had grown dark; the night was warm, and the windows were all open. Caring little for his supper, Allan Carew, after a cup ot tea, went out upon the balcony. A sound, low, plaint- ive, sweet, was in the air. % » Looking in the direction of the city, ne saw a proces- sion coming toward him—many torches, their gleam falling over figures shrouded in black; then more figures that under the torches seemed to nt the night with whiteness; and still the low music. ~ Bending from the balcony, Lord Carew watched this quaint array as it drew near. First, bearing torches, some twenty Misericorde Brothers, In black robes and masks, covered from head to feet. Then some little girls in white carrying flowers, and a double row of surpliced | | name Allan Carew on some of Lord Carew’s belongings. The name so startled him that he pronounced it aloud : “ “Tt “es I 1 answe “é W oT V The lation Lor myst fish, | we le i oh Sen. > oD tet * aie —— nn that held ond Ade- nd behind and these onotonous er golden e roses on Ses lying her feet— trait now He be- 2 London neglected id sinned ice. The had been Strained. 3 Silently hered on Still see nant had th bared nor.” ommon. Uang ?” ing and sea. id here. she will be cov- nts and ey keep 2 hot to wes this iid. d—not Call e good sweet. some- on mar- | fora SO her to dding iSt go b once ce, he ot un- much eeing hers iS de- a the But that He >was pd in lever l my Time who finer y ride _ her os ? S for hose - the her ' UL LV ~ Ne —————— 9@~<— A DOG HERO. The writer ran across this dog one rainy morning in | Charleston, 8. C., while the poor fellow was wandering | "—this ! i | ; ; | | | about, apparently in search of some one to take charge | of him. Having always felt a special sympathy with such canine outeasts I immediately adopted the crea- ture, who, by constantly licking my hand and wagging his delighted tail, manifested his appreciation of the | kindness. * | What to call my new piece of live stock somewhat puz- | zied me; and while thinking aloud on the subject I hap- | pened to pronounce the word Carlo, at which the dog | pricked up his ears and bounded and pranced about in | the most energetic manner, as if to show me his happi- | ness becausel had actually guessed his name. I had} secured a very affectionate, and as I soon learned, cour- | ageous companion, of no peculiar breed, he probably weighing about eighty pounds. His dingy black coat was | extremely rough and shaggy, his head and ears much |} too large “for the rest of him, and what might once have | beena “very respectable tail had lost about half its orig: | inal length, so that the vigorous wagging of if which he | otten indulged in, seemed to destroy his balance and | twisted him about in a most comical fashion. Indeed, it was an actual example of the tail wagging the dog. A day or two after my find, when at the railway sta- | tion about to leave for Florida, { set my traveling bag | down, and the instant my back was turned it disap- peared. Though no one was observed to go out or in, a careful search failed to reveal either the bag or the cul- prit until black Carlo, who had been quietly smelling | about, suddenly pounced upon a very solemn aud inno- | cent-looking old negro, who was sitting on a large dry- goods box. This ancient darkey had “excused himself not helping hunt for the bag ’ ‘because de rheuma- | tism has froze up all my bones.” But the dog, without | the slightest regard for the old fellow’s age cr irtirmity, grabbed him by the coat collar, and unceremoniously | pulled him over backward, tipping up his seat, and ex- | posing the stolen property, which this expert thief hg placed under the box when no one happened to be loo ing. The rapidity with which the dusky scamp left the depot proved the falsehood of his talk about rheumatism ; and he would surely have made good his escape if Carlo | had not overtaken him just as he was darting through a | door-way, and getting a firm grip on bis immense toot, | held fast until a policeman came up. | One evening after a long tramp through the interior, I we came out wpon the sea-shore, where the bottom be- | ing smooth and gently sloping, offered opportunities for -agood swim, which some of the party improved, leay- | from sharks: but as this par ticular locality gave no signs of the murderous Creatures, our boys tumbled in without fear; and Charlie Butler, a mere lad from | Savannah, to sbow what he could do,swam out to a | coral reef, nearly a mile from laud. Before he was ready to return I became tired of the sport and went to the | camp to look after the preparation of supper. I had just | succeeded in making the cook understand what sort of | a meal we required, when a sudden outery toid me | something was going wrong on the shore. Grabbing a rifle,and hastening back, with Carlo at | my heels, | beheld Butler some distance away, switm- ming with all his might, and only a few yards ‘pehind him the vertical fin of a huge shark, There seemed no possibility that the boy’s life could | be saved: we were without boats, and ‘tish and man | were so nearly in line from us thatI did not dare to fire. In a second Black Carlo, comprehending the situation, dashed through the surf and started to swim toward Charlie witha speed I have never seen equaled by any land animal. The boy, having leisurely covered most of the distance between the reef and shore when the man-eater started after “perate effort ‘to escape. In another instant Carlo was | “close to him! Just then, however, the shark, having | come near enough, turned so that we could see his | white belly giistening in the twilight, and was already ; for the spring that would surely lave ended Charlie's life, when Carlo, leaping clean over Butler’s form, ap-! peared to go straight into the monster's mouth; and | the latter, hav lng got his supper, disappeared in deep | water, while the lad in afew seconds more was Safe on shore. That night our joy over our comrade’s rescue was | mingled w ‘ith sorrow for the life so gallantly sacrificed in his behalf.» And to this day the memory of that thril- ling scene fills me with sadness for the ‘loss of Black Carlo, my dog hero. —__—__>-0-+____—_—_- ICE THAT BURNS. The other day, while the thermometer was ninety-six | in the shade, a snovw-storm was in progress at Under- wood Springs, Me., which lasted five minutes. The snow did not actually come down from the sky, but was “manufactured, and it was a perfect storm while the snow lasted. It was the result of some astonishing ex- periments performed by scientific men from Germany to test some machinery which is to be used iu the bottling of water gas at the springs. Professor O. Brimler con- ducted the experiments, and said to the scientific gen- tlemen assembled : “I propose to show you something never tried outside of a laboratory, and then only as an experiment. [ will take this water gas and make it solid and of arctic prop- erties, beside which the ice will seem like fire. This is a discovery which will enable ply sicians to do wonder- ful things in the way of relieving pain.” Mr. Brimler then attached to the machinery used in the work of charging the water a thoroughly made can- vas bag and gave the order to start the machinery. bottling room was intensely hot, but Mr. Brimler was observed to button up his coat to the throat before start- ing up, and in a short time the temperatnre was ob- served to be getting arctic. To the complete surprise of those present snow began to fallin tiny 1 ing a room and escaping through the door in a thick clou The professor raised his hand, the machinery stopped, and the snow disappeared. Then Mr. Brimler took trom the machinery to which it had been attached the canvas bag, now full and of considerable weight. A touch of the outside of the bag chilled the blood. The intense cold, the territie chill it gave, was simply not to be described. Cutting open the bag, Mr. Brimler displayed a mass of beautiful white, a re crystal, he but by its side common ice melted as when exposed to fire. Mr. Brimler_ exclaimed, as a gentleman reached out his hand to tlt mass: “Don’t touch it; it will burn you.’ «That ice burn me? Absurd!” was the reply. But the professor insisted that it be let alone except to give the slightest touch. One unlucky individual was given too prolonged a touch on the back of the hand, and tound that his hand was devoid of all feeling. The professor looked at it and said: “That fixes it for four hours, after that it will ache for forty-eigut hours, will blister and make trouble; it touched if too hard,” all of which followec. For four hours the hand was abscuutely without feel- ing: a needle insertea produced no pain, and yet the hand was not powerless. No blood followed the punc- ture. Itis claimed that this gas will completely take the place of ether. No ill effect except the possibility of blistering follows its administration. The substanceis a local anzesthetic, but it is claimed that its action is com- plete, and on the instant the member touched is com- pletely numbed. | arranged awning. | ceasing tide of human beings which flows past from | | sunrise until midnight. j length. One may stand in the | gaze at the long perspective of busy life until it termi- | I of his secret | Bastile. | their coffee and chatted in a friendly way. | their arms aad: luggage at our MF CARRD, back on the \ had oecurred between Lion not q a these Waters there is always more oF less danger | money was too tempting for this professional rogue, : His ingenuity was not at fault for one moment. |; man who is a customer of yours. him, was comparatively tresh, and when he saw } the noble dog hastening to his help, made a final, des- | The flakes at first, and soon thick and fast, fill- MEET ME ALL ALONE. When the belis are sweetly ringing, Making music in the breeze, When the birds have ceased their singing ’Midst the branches of the trees, Then meet me in tiie forest glade, Ere vet the light hath flown ; Oh, meet me neath the hawthorn shade, t But meet me ali alone. Sy 8 | BY D. W. T. | | | | ¢ ; I Oh, not in glaring sunlight } Should the songs of love be sung, | j But in the stilly twilight, le With a passion on the tongue ; i¢ When nature seems reposing, Ere she gently sinks to rest: When the shades of night are closing detective. ‘He must know whether he admitted me or In the portals of the west. } not.” , Oh, not in strangers’ listening ears s Should tales of love be told, But to a heart whose trembling fears Are valued more than gold. Oh, ’tis the lovely twilight hour That love hath made its own ; Then meet me ‘neath the hawthorn bow er, But meet me al! alone. --—- > @ 4 | A PARISTAN THIEF, BY LIEUTENANT MURRAY. if : The Cafe Cardinale is situated on the Boulevard | Italiens, Paris, and is the constant resort of throngs of people, who not only fill the large rooms inside the | establishment, but also are served af small tables lo- | cated outside upon the broad sidewalk, beneath a well- | Here the customers sit, and as they | sip their coffee, wine, or absinthe, watch the never- | This is one of the gayest and busiest thoroughfares in | all Paris, broad and straight for a mile and more in| Place de Opera and | nates at the Column of July, the famous locality of the The Cafe Cardinale is located in the most at- | tractive part of this famous boulevard, a situation un- | surpassed in the French capital even by the best ea . upon the Champs Elysees. About three years since a young Parisian named Louis Bonn was sitting at one of the tables in front of if | the Cafe Cardinale with a Companion, while they sipped Louis Bonn | mentioned incidentally that he had just come into pos- session of five thousand francs, and that they were in bank notes, locked up in a drawer in his chamber, adding that he didn’t intend to work any more that day, and invited his friend to join him in an excursion to AS- nieres. “That's a good idea,” responded his companion. “We will have a little boating.” “Good.” “And a fine dinner.” “Good again. “And attend a ball in the evening.” ‘Best ot all,” said the friend. “Let me see,” said Louis Bonn. “I’ve got a hundred ranes with me; that will be enough.” «Plenty, and to spare.” “Then we are all right.” | ‘Let us finish our coffee and start at once.” “Very good.” While Louis Bonn had been talking to his companion ) he had not observed the keen glances of aman seated at the next table who had listened carefully to what he aa : bad said, but without seeming to do so, and who, when Louis Bonn deposited his hat for a moment upon an | empty chair by his side, quietly but quickly changed it | for his own, then paid his bill and hastened away. This man was well dressed, and bore all the outward | appearance of a gentleman, screening his face most of | the time. however, behind the broad sheets of a daily | ;. | newspaper, with the perusal of which he seemed ab- | Ss rbed. But in reality he was an accomplished Parisian thief, | well known to the detective force of the city as one whose ingenuity kept them at fault. indeed, he had but lately returned to Paris from a pro- | tracted absence found necessary on his part, while the | fresh excitement attendant upon some piece of daring | roguery should die away. He had been “wanted” by the } detectives, but his operations were so ingenious as to | leave no evidence behind by which he could be con- victed ; | 2 He had not lost one word of the conversation which Louis Bo $ com | panion.” “Fhe bait-of five the ; /and he determined to try and possess himself of | it. But how to find out where this young man |} lived? Paris is a very large city, and without one} word as a clew, how could he trace out his residence ? | | | | | | He had Louis Bonn’s hat already in his possession. He | read the hat-maker’s name inside, and hastened to the } establishment indicated. it was in the Rue Rivoli. Hav- | ing arrived here the thief walked into the store and | said : “T have by some mistake changed hats with a gentle- | If youcan identify the | | hat and tell me where he lives, I will at once return it | | and doubtless get my own in its place.” The hat was a new one, had evidently been sold with- | | ina day or two, and after a little inquiry among the | | clerks iis owner was remembered as a regular customer rj | of the store, and his address was willingly given to the | | cunning thief, who, with thanks to the merchant tor his | politeness, hastened aay to Louis Bonn’s quarters. | Here an adroit story to the concierge soon gained him | | admittance to the chamber occupie dl by his victim. | So far all went well with the cunning thief. About an hour after the hatter had given the rogue | the address he desired, Louis Bonn himself appeared at | | the store in the Rue Rivoli, and was told of the visit of a | | stranger and the circumstance we have related. | Ah, well, then I shall doubtless find my hat when I | | o home, but in the meantime, give me a Straw hat. I won't delay any longer, as we are going to Asnieres.” “We have lost time enough already,” said his friend. | «7]] leave the stranger’s hat w ‘ith you,” said Louis | | Bonn to the hatter, and was soon off upon his pleasure excursion. In the meantime the thief, who had foreseen that his | victim would pursue just about this course, took mat- | | ters very easy, and was in no hurry about his little | game. After securing the money, he looked about the \ chamber, and into the occupant’s private cabinet, the | aos of which was no impediment to him, and here fell | upon two packages of love letters. $45 can see a possibility of making these useful to | myself,” he said, as he put them ‘carefully into nis | pocket. Then setting matters to rights, he quietly de- parted. Turning his steps toward the Pont Neuf, he erossed | the Seine, and was soon threading the narrow and dirty | streets of the Cite. Here he entered an obscure lane, | and afterward an old, dilapidated dwelling-house. | When he emerged thence an hour later, it might have | been observed that his hair and mustache were no | longer of a light blonde, but quite a deep black. The long, light blue trock-coat had also given place to one of black and a more fashionable cut; the figured yest was replaced by a plain white one, and ribbed pants ot dark texture had been substituted for the checkered ones before worn. In short, the cunning rogue com- pletely changed his personal appearance. Louis Bonn did not return home until about day light the next morning, and was only too happy to tumble into bed at once, sleeping until noon before he awoke after his dissipated night at Asnieres. It was some hours before he thought to look tor his money, which he, of course, discovered to be missing, and hastened to the police headquarters to give information. “Who knew about your money ?” asked a detective, to whom he had been referred. “No one but my friend, who was with me.” “When did you tell him ?” “The same day—that is, yesterday, just as we went awa «Where were you when you told him 2?” “Sitting before the Cafe Cardinale.” “Drinking ?” “Taking a cup of coffee together.” “Anybody near you ?” “Yes. Now I remember it. There was a man close by us, and he got. my hat in place of his own and took it away.” “Oh, he did ? “Yes; but he went to my hatter’s and found out where I lived, so as to take it to me again. ’ abies. ‘Very accommodating, wasn’t he? ” fy tipent so; but what do you mean? Oh, I see! Do you think that eae was the thief?” “Of course he was,” replied the detective. “{ didn’t think of him.” “Do you remember his appearance ?” “NO, “Pe rhaps they W ill remember at tne hatters.” “Very likely.’ So the detective and Louis Bonn went together to the hat store in the Rue Rivoli, The merchant did remember the stranger’s avpear- ance, and described him very clearly and corre .ity, as did one of the clerks. The store-keeper was curious to know what all « inquiries signified, but the detective kept his counsel. ‘You say you did not notice this man ?” asked the de- tective as they lett the store. “No, I did not,” answer Louis Bonn. «From the character of the transaction and the de- scription of the store people, I think I have a clew to the guilty party. IfLe Vert has got back trom the provinces 1ese oOWh “a thorough and accomplished thiet. | good many times. were considerably puzzled at his altered appearance, Sstablishment in the | to his identity, er’s store in his life. he could prove that he was not in Paris at all on the day just lishment where monsieur lives 2” count asa w fitness,” and asked if he knew him. apartments ?” concierge, observing Le Vert carefully. among themselves. there was no chance of escape. | tur ning pale. the letters of both these ladies addressed to yous) : doubt but that the man who stole his money was before | it was a false alarm, and Le Vert continued: ; Will place those letters, eve | hands within twelve lfour | “but I always keep my word.” | ent. | local Candidate, and great curiosity was experienced by | vote for the man that he likes best, an’ Pll vote for the < o~< A SOLVED CONUNDRUM. ‘ “How many toes has a cat? This was one of the questions asked of a certain class during examining week, and simple as the question appears to be, none could answer it. In the emergency the principal of the school was ap- plied to for a solution, and he also, with a good-natured smile, gave it up, when one of the teachers, determined not to be beaten by a simple question, hit on the idea of sending out a delegation of boys to scour the neighbor- hood for a cat. When this idea was announced the whole class wanted to join in the hunt. Several boys went out and soon returned successful. A returning board was at once appointed and the toes counted, when to the relief of all it was learned that a cat possesses 18 toes, 10 on the front and son the hind feet. ee See A a THE sky is blue ten times where it is black once, and so do our joys outnumber our sorrows. Indigestion. Many persons lose appetite and strength, become emaciated, suffer, and die, because of defective nutrition, who might have been restored to health by Ayer’s Sarsa- parilla. This medicine acts upon the digestive organs, through the blood, and has effected many wonderful cures. For years I suffered from Loss of Appe- tite and Indigestion, and failed to find relief, until I began taking Ayer’s: Sar- saparilla. Three bottles of this medicine Entirely Cured me, and my appetite and digestion are now perfect.—Fred G. Bower, 496 Seventh st., South Boston, Mass. I have, for years, Dyspepsia, scarcely within the past few mo suffered acutely from taking a meal, until hs, without en- during the most distressing pains. of Indigestion. My stomach sometimessre- + * : jected all food. ‘I became gr eatly, PAs in strength, and very despondent. Sa fied, at last, that my trouble was oe z scrofulous nature, I began tuking Aye Sarsaparilla, and believe it hus saved ai life. My appetite and digestion are now good, and ny health is perfect. — Oliver T. Adams, Spencer, Ohio. Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass. Sold by all Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $5. NO ONE NEED SUFFER. DR. TOBIAS’ CELEBRA ate D VENETIAN LINIMENT CHOLERA MORBUS, DIARRH@A, DYSENTERY, COLIC, CRAMPS, NAUSEA, me aye Ne ry ering &c., &C. ike a charm WARRANTED SH RFECTLY HARMLESS. Adult dose—30 dropsin a wineglassful of water. Those who have used this valuable preparation state that they would not be without it, even were it $10 a bottle. Sold by all drugyists a, at depot, 42 Murray Street, New York. Price 25 and 50 cents. PENNYROYAL PILLS! LADIES! “CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH,” THE ONLY GENUINE. NEVER FAIL. Safe and always Reliable who ekes out his poor existence with the aid of a poor | | monkey and a worse hand-organ. To Garibaldi comes | Dennis one evening, and, after passing the time of day, | warms up to the subject in hand. “Ay, ye plaze, Misther Garibaldi,” says Dennis, in his | most unctuous and wheedling tone, ‘‘wud ye have any objections to loanin’ me, yer munkey for an hour or two ivry mornin’ ?” “What-a for you want-a munk ?” inquired the count. *“Niver ye mind,” replied Dennis. ‘‘What wud ye charge a mornin’ for the use av him ?” The count suggested that ten cents an hour would be the proper figure, after vainly attempting to find out what Dennis was going to do with the monkey. Dennis haggled and tried to beat the Italian down, but Gari- baldi wouldn't have it that way, and the deal was closed at his figure. Every thing went beautifully for a few days. The money was paid promptly and the monkey was returned { | regularly in time not to interfere with the requirements | of the count’s profession. | a little hollow-eyed and care-worn, but in the main was | in good condition. To be sure, the animal looked Finally, however, the Italian’s curiosity got the better of his avarice, and he told Dennis that the monkey would not be loaned any more. This announcement had a most depressing effect upon Dennis. His megath- erian intellect rose to the emergency, though, and he proceeded to effect one of those masterly financial coups which dazzle people who are not familiar with the work- ings of the capitalistic mind. “Garibaldi,” said Dennis, ‘‘ay yell promise to act square and not give the racket aw ay, Lil be after takin, Patented March 23, 1880; August 23, 188z; August 25, 1885; January 19, 1886. THE HEALTH BRAIDED WIRE BUSTLE, No. 3.—This we believe to be the best medium- sized Bustle ever made. durable; Steel, and weighs only 2 oz. Retail Price, 75 cents. Patented March 23, 1880; August 23, 1881; August 25, 1885; January 19, 1886. THE HEALTH BRAIDED WIRE No. 2.—Made of blue-tempered Steel Wire, same quality as No. f. 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STOKES, THOMPSON & CO., Agents, 235 Chestnut Street, Philada. ill send them to you post-paid on receipt of retail price. oats THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #82 wiomu 4 NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 4, 1886, IOs 8s ms IE IO 000 Ose Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 3 months . . 1c} 2 copies . y $5.00 4 months- . $1.00| 4 copies . - . 10.00 Year 3,00 | 8 copies . 20.00 Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis- tered letter. ; We employ no traveling agents. All letters should be addressed to STREET & SMITH, Another Brilliant Emotional Story By BERTHA M. CLAY. Another life-like story, powerful in style, ingenious in plot, and artistic in development, will be commenced next week under the title of A Heart's Bitterness By BERTHA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OF ‘Kor Another's Sin,” “A Fair Mystery,” etc. The plot of this extremely fascinating story is fresh f and unique. An amiable young lady, of high social rank, has hosts of admirers, to whom she is indifferent, and manifests a strong aversion to matrimony. Why she, deemed eligible in every respect, should be -POSED TO MARRIAGE, is perplexing to all who know her; but her friends are utterly astounded when, without the slightest previous intimation of her change of heart, her engagement is suddenly announced, and everything is hurried in PREPARATION FOR THE WEDDING. The ceremony is over, and the happy husband rejoices in the possession of a bewitching bride. His joy, how- ever, is of brief duration ; tor his endearments are re- pulsed and he realizes the agony of . A SPURNED BRIDEGROOM. This is merely a hurried outline of the main incidents in the opening installment. The story is one of BERTHA M. Cuay’s most powerful and vivid productions, grace- ~ ful in diction, strong in characterization, with the in- terest sustained to the end. ‘“‘A HEART'S BITTERNESS” Will’ be commenced next week, a at HOT, BY KATE THORN. Hot is a short word, but it is a very expressive one. It means a great deal more than the average polysyllable. It means wilted collars, flabby laces, collapsed mus- lins, no frizzes, greasy faces, perspiration on the brow, alike of statesman and of coal heaver. It means fans, lots of them, and the cheaper the bet- ter. Nobody ever thinks of using a high-priced fan in hot weather. Fancy fans are all very well at the right time, but when one settles fairly and squarely down to the business of fanning, a three-cent palm leaf satisfies his desires, and meets every requirement. The end and aim of life is to keep cool. When one friend meets another, out come the pocket handkerchiefs of the twain, the moisture is mopped off of the two faces, and the original remark is passed : «“Awfully hot weather !” “ When the merctiry climbs into the nineties, people be- gin to compare their thermometers. There seems to be a sort of honor, at such times, in owning an instrument which can go a little higher than any other in the vicinity. Every one likes to be ahead. It is human na- ture. Why, if you were going to have the mumps, you would like to have them a very little worse than your neighbor, so that you could refer to yourself, afterward, as the worst case that the doctor ever saw! He had no hopes of you! Nota hope! We all read the papers to see how hot it was in Wash- ington, in Baltimore, in New Orleans. Our old uncle from the country comes in with a load of ‘garden sass,” and he tells us that “the weather now is nothing to what it was when he wasa boy. They didn’t have any thermometers then, and it was lucky they didn’t, for it would have busted ’em up. So hot it burnt the paint off from the buildings, ard half the folks at the Corner were sunstruck !” 2 Ab! it must have been a great thing to have lived a hundred years ago. : When it is hot, we sigh for cool weather. We think we will never, never again murmur against fate when the north-wester sweeps down from the white hills, and our potatoes freeze in the cellar, and our pipes burst, and our house plants, that were just ready to bloom, fall like grass before the mower. Oh, no indeed! all these things would be blessings compared with the present state of affairs, when the perspiration runs down our backs, and we feel as if we had been put through the initiatory stages of a Turkish bath, and the rubbing down and cooling off process had been omitted. When it is hot everything sticks. The concrete of the sidewalks, the feet of the gay and social dog-day fiy, the varnish on the church pews, the book agent, the man who wants to insure your life so that your widow will be able to marry her second husband to good advantage after your death, and the city cousins who come out to help (?) you through haying. Everything is in a melting mood, especially the butter. A fly can get mired in it, and be able to crawl through it half a day on a stretch, and not get away—it is strong enough to hold him. The fisherman seeks the mountain brooks, and spends two dollars’ worth of bait on a five-cent fish, and calls it rare sport.’ So it must be, for the fish that are specta- tors of the performance. The small boy eats green apples, and winds up with he colic, or else he goes in swimming, and is drowned, which is easier for all concerned, Straw hats sell like hot cakes. Hammocks wave from every piazza. Tents rise whitely on the rural landscape. Cows wade into the streams, and make pictures for artists, or break into cornfields, and raise the dickens with the farmer’s morality. The minister of our church takes his summer vacation, and sees a little dancing at the sea-side hotel, and some mild representations of the Mikado, so that he can be prepared to preach understandingly against such follies. And the days go on, and we fret, and sweat, and com- plain ; and when winter comes we shall all cry out for summer—dear, delightful, beautiful summer! ** TIME WILL TELL !” BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER, Have you duly taken heed ? Have you sown the needful seed ? Have you, friend and neighbor, cast Bread upon the waters vast ? Do you doubt the sun and rain ? Do you seem to watch in vain, For the crop that promised well? Willit prosper? ‘Time will tell! Have you made a noble start ? Have you opened wide your heart, In a good and honest cause ? Plunged in doubt, then, do you pause ? Still go on and never stop; Honey gathers drop by drop In the bee’s most curious cell— Hope still whispers, Time will tell! On the mountain, in the glade, By the sunlight and the shade, By the rain, and by the dew Nature works as well as you Never pausing night or morn, Sober eve or golden dawn— re all her labor well, Will it prosper? Time will tell! > ©<«—- _ OFF THOR HEAD. AN OLD CAPTAIN’S YARN. BY CONRAD PULTZ, “T shall stop ashore, my son, the rest of my days, if the salt money lasts.” This grand old man was pleased to call me his son; yet I was such only in the allegiance of a reverent affec- tion which would have proved itself by all a son’s devo- tion. Have you ever met aman so pure, so noble, and so wise, that his friendship for you made you value your- self more highly? The thought is, if a man can see value in me, then some sort of value I must possess. And you have often used that friendship as a men- tal shield against the slanders of your enemies, even preserving your respect in moments of self-accusings by the thought of your sterling and discerning friend’s changeless trust. Capt. Stevens was one of the two best men that ever lived, so far as I know, my own father be- ing the other. Of course your salt money will last,” Ireplied. ‘God forbid that any ill fortune should ever betide your sav- ings, captain, and you are much too carefula man to make insecure investments.” “JT don’t know ‘bout that, my boy. Fact is, when I was on the seal was a man, with alla man’s courage and heartin me! But here on shore these c’mercial fellers would often prove too much for me except for my partners. There’s lots of men meaner than rats ina ship; they run between your feet, and over your back, and gnaw. Why,” with a hitch at his waistband, “T’ve seen many an old sailor come ashore with enough to stop off the rest of his days,; but, goin’ into business, the landsharks eat him all up in no time. Ah, Natureis a rough foe, as we meet her on the broad Atlantic; but she is an honest one! The winds are honest. The sea hits straight out from the shoulder. I’ve seen many a day of fog on the Banks not half as ugly as the fogs on the other kind of banks we’ve been runnin’ into o’ late. Fog at sea is fog, and you know it,” with a dreamy look of old memories which instanly sobered his smile at his own little play on the banks. ‘“Butin afog on shore, a panic, a dense what-next, whe can take soundin’s and feel certain where he is ?” “You, gentlemen who follow the sea must, neverthe- ‘less, offen feel the weight of an unspeakable responsi- bility,” I suggested, hoping to draw him out with some sea tale. «Dreadful, at times. Sit down here, and I'll tell ye,” and he drew me to a seat on the hotel veranda, whence the Hudson River valley, for miles, could be seen at our ! feet. It was a soft September afternoon on the Catskills— just the day for youth and age, those dreamers, to in- dulge their fancies, and just the vista to recall the past or conjure the future. “I’ve often found my face,” Captain Stevens resumed, “at the end of a thirty-days’ voyage which our old pack- et ships used to make from Liverpool to New York—lIve often found my face when I stepped asifore as rigid as if my flesh were sheet iron. I tell ye, boy, | have had to take my cheeks betwixt my thumb and fingers and wrinkle them forcibly afore I was fit to go up to the house and laugh on the wife and babies, in Roosevelt street, aS a happy Sailor ought to. And, sir, it has seemed to me, from the long austerity and silence, that my mouth ought to crackle like ola leather when I tried to kiss’em allround. ‘That comes 0’ thinkin’, and plan- nin’, and self- relyin’, and silence. We old packet-ship masters didn’t used to play the gallant much, nor say much anyway to passengers.” ‘How many passengers ?” “This particular time ’m about to speak of, I think we had a thousand. We considered a thousand a full complement, and‘l think the Martha Howard—that’s my last ship and the one in question—was full. You know the old packets were the racers, the fashionable ships, afore the steamers came. The Martha Howard, if I do say it, was all that the Servia, or the Alaska, or the Etruria are now. Daniel Webster has crossed with me; so’s Edward Everett, and all that grade of men: Many’s the fine dining-room, here in New York, to which I used to be invited by my partial and wealthy passengers, just as these Cunard and White Star captains are now. It’s the same old story. hist’ry repeatin’ itself. By and by these fine gentlemen who tread the bridge o’ their steamers ’ll become old and shelf-worn like me. I tell ye,” with a pat on my knee, *‘a sailor's a man when he’sa sailor; but get him stoppin’ ashore, and he soon droops, like that gray-hawk would if you caged him,” and he pointed to a bird flying two thousand feet above the valley. “But your story,” I insisted. “Yes; I'll get at my yarn. It was a home passage— that is, to the west’ard; for our ships were American manned and owned in those days. Now these English steamers Call comin’ to New York the out/ard, and the goin’ to Liverpool the home passage. See? The more’s the pity. It was July, and the days were long; sol s’pose that’s one reason why, on a sudden impulse, I thought I'd take advantage of the wind and go out 0’ the north-west. That takes you to sea round the north of [reland, instead of St. George’s and the Queenstown way. It’s about’s broad as it’s long, as the map will show you, so far as nautical miles count; and if the days are long and the wind right, it was makin’ some- thing for us packets. But Heaven forbid that I ever try that north channel again! Safe enough, no doubt; but, somehow, I hate it. “However, we got a very early start out o’ the Mersey and ran past the Calfin good time and the wind kept strong all the way along the Isle 0’ Man; I calculated to make Fair Head about an hour afore sundown, and then get out by Ratlin Island into open water afore dark. I kept on deck, lookin’ for Thor Head. The passengers were down below me there, all laugh and talk; they were, a good many of ’em, able to be up and enjoy the fine weather. To them it was like an excursion or a kind 0’ picnic, in the cool breeze, and not a bad sea on; for when we left Liverpool the mercury marked 90 degrees. ‘Iwas glad to see so much fun on board. «There was one passenger in particl’r who attracted my eye, as I sort o’ mused on the crowd below. She was a beautiful girl and all alone. She was goin’ to meet her husband. He had a place over in America; bein’ an engineer on some railroad, asI gathered, and doin’ well; gettin’ rich was the way her friends talked it as they- cried over her, and kissed her, and tried to cheer her by actin’ very foolish themselves. But she hadn’t cried any, ‘I saw, as the Liverpool lighter took her old parents and all the rest back to the docks. «Wonderful, is it not, about a woman’s love for her husband. Perhaps that’s what drew my attention to her; that and the fact that she was really very hand- some, with brown, gentle eyes, those eyes, you know, that seem to talk. AndI just said to her—in my mind, you understand—‘My dear young woman, I'll take ye straight to the man you love! The old ship shall surely doit. And I hope he’s worthy of ye, and you'll be, per- haps, the mother of a president after my day.’ Captain Stevens, the old poet, was about to drop off into a reverie as he recalled the scene. «You are quite romantic, captain,” I remarked, rous- ing him. . ewell. now,” he resumed, turning suddenly from his gaze on the curious clouds that floated below us, and which were being drawn ata down the Catskill creek, “there is some romance about a ship, after all. My ship often broke he hearts, as it were, tearin’ asunder arent and child; and L.often upbraided her for it. But e this instance the old craft was to make two young folks very eps and I liked her for it. I was bound she should take this bloomin’ creature safely over to her hus- band. Still,” witha stiffening of his tones, as if to dis- miss the sentiment from the story, ‘‘you must not sup- this sort o’ stuff dwelt much in a shipmaster’s mind, navigatin’ up that mean coast and tryin’ to get beyond Thor Head and out to the open afore nightfall. Only, a man can think two things ata time: I was thinkin’ of the ship and Thor Head, and kind o’ pausin’, once in a while, with hands in kets, and thinkin’ how little these careless people Knew ’bout my cares. And then, too, this girl, I heard them say, was from some village up there by the Giant’s Causeway. That accounted for her keeping her watch, steady, all the time we were plowin’ along’ that coast. Quitef likely she knew Thor Head and Ratlin Island from her chamber window. She wanted to see the dear land again and wave a good-by. Why, my boy, you never heard such music, with such power to move your heart, as the ‘Immigrant’s Song,’ sung just at twilight, as the land sunk out of sight, the way they used to render it on the old packet, once in a while.” ‘No. Sing it, captain.” ‘You make me blush,” he laughingly answered. ‘You know Fs eidaad sing anything except ‘The Sword of Bun- ker Hill.’ ’ Yet upon my sincere urgency Captain Stevens com- plied with a stanza or two of the doubtless familiar lay : “Shades of evening, close not o’er us, Leave our lonely bark awhile. Morn, alas, will not disclose us Yonder dim and distant isle. Still my fancy can discover Sunny aoe where friends may dwell; Darker shadows round us hover ; Isle of beauty, fare thee well.” “Fine! Fine!” I shouted, till the little echo answered and made the old singer blush indeed, as if his audience was too numerous. “Now you keep still and let me get the Martha How- ard out past Ratlin Island. It was about five o'clock, I should say, that I began to dislike the looks 0’ the glass; it sunk very fast. And yetT hadn’t made the Irish coast. Within an hour there swept down on us from over the Scotch Mull of Cantyre the ugliest thunder- storm that you ever met at sea. I took in sail to meet the wind, of course, and didn’t care much, if it was only to be what it ought to be, a sharp summer puff, for I could spare an hour. It don’t get dark up there, you know, in July till ten o’clockor so. While it rained everybody ran to cover, naturally. We, the ship’s people, had the decks to ourselves. Except this same Irish bride. She just got under lee o’ the house and kept her watch, as much as I did, for the rocky head, which | began to be quite anxious to see. For you will understand,” leaning over to mark out a chart in the dust with his stick, ‘‘that a Scotch wind was blowin’ in right onto those rocks of Ireland. All this shore is very bad here,” pointing it out ; ‘‘and the cliffs are gigantic. There isn’t a harbor nor a shelter. You could run up till your yards touched the rocks above your head; but a Wharf rat couldn’t get.a foothold to climb up there, anywhere. “Well, I kept my patience till eight o’clock, and that nasty, contrary wind continued right on after the worst of the thunder-storm had gone by. And, what was worse than all, every now and then there would come a crack o’ thunder out 0’ one of those rainless after-clouds that sort 0’ got the sailors out of spirits. Sailors were more superstitious forty years ago than any of you boys can understand. I, bein’ a church-member, had no such notions ; but even my first. looked scared. I contess myself that I didn’t quite know but Heaven meant sometl when, as J] was standin’ there talkin’ an occasional w with the mate, all of a sudden I saw a ball of fire drop down out 0’ the sky, hit the the mainmast truck, and slide, smooth as oil, to the deck. I tell ye, boy, it just brought me to one knee ir at least, as if Pd been felled by a blow on the e “With that, sir, the troops of mists came down from over that Scotch foreland and out of Jura sound, gang on gang, pack on pack. It is only a dozen miles across there, from rocks to rocks: Brakers were poundin’ on both sides of us like the beginning of the world’s de- struction. Oh, it must re been sublime, the leap 0’ those big Atlantic waves, as they struck round on the rocks of Cantyre. Buton that quarter there was no danger. Our trouble was the Irish coast, with the sud- den nor’-west wind hurlin’ us straighton. The roar of the sea [could hear along the Antrim rocks; but the mists wouldn’t let me make Thor Head. You see, a ship can’t stand still. My only hope was to run in twixt Ratlin Island and so out past the Giant’s Cause- way. That would give us the lee of the nor’-wester. But you see, don’t ye. that I just simply must make that head on the Irish mainland-——” _ «What one, captain ?” “Why, Thor Head, man; can’t yesee? That’s how to know when to turn to the left, as a tradesman would say. If 1 didn’t make that Head in fifteen minutes—the most dreadful fifteen minutes in my life—there was nothing for it but togo asuore. And if we had, in no time there would have begga lot of corpses scattered in the sea. Nota soul alive to tell the tale. Not a wretch of us could ha’ hoped to escape. “T stood there in agony. Not for myself. No. You were askin’ me about the load on a ship-master’s mind. That’s what brought out this yarn. In those last ten minutes I seemed to voyagé over my whole life. What had I done that Providence should ha’ let me into this murderer’s trap? I, [alone was responsible for comin’ up this way. I, I alone had all these lives in my hand. I, I alone was to sink this pretty bride, dash her up against that ledge, rather, andmangle her forthe fishes. No- body else seemed to realize the situation, unless it was my officers, and officers never say anything unless asked to. The mate just stood there watchin’ me. I just stood there, with my hands in my pea-jacket pockets, my legs braced, the spoon-drift and mists blindly fillin’ my eyes, a acola sweat, all over me. But my head was like re. mi “Thor Head! Thor Head! ShallI ever see it? If it had been the gate of heaven, instead of the black brow jt really is, I couldn’t have longed to see it more. I re- member that my steward announced supper. The idea. I could have feasted on a piece of that rock; but any other food—bah! I remember that I laughed at the thought of the other people’s eatin’—a sort o’ bitter laugh, as I b’lieved it was their: last meal. In fact, my lad,” with a slap on my knee, and a turn of his glowing face on me, “‘I was sure that by the time the ship’s cab- in got seated at the table tye crash would come. “I gave the ship five m# five minutes. She hadn't I just gave the order, hit ; We had all sails proper! you over that, though 1 Sail——” 4 “That’s strange, forty years away.” “No. I can give you the exact positi#n of every stitch o’ canvas; but I will not. Ieven got ready to peak the yards, that is, lift ‘em so as to avoid strikin’ the cliffs if we ran too close. Well, sir, sudden as a vision of the better land, the fog lifted, and there was the old Head of Thor! We were safe—we were on the right course—our troubles were over. : «You should ha’ seen my mate—he that stood there, just below, ready for orders, with folded arms. The old leather-face, he just turne@tin me, and leered up at me, and half-laughed, and changed his quid into the other cheek. But it meant worlds. The honest fellow! He and I had carried that load for the last hour, which “By-by,” said the fond husband to his wife, when she started out to match some ribbon. And when the bills came in a few days later, he found that she had done nothizs but ‘buy, buy” all the afternoon. She had taken his advice, though he didn’t spell it that way. Joughnes has lost faith in the proverb, ‘‘The early bird catches the worm. He staid out all night recently, and when he returned home at four A. M., all he caught was a terrible tongue-lashing from his wife. We are giad to notice a marked improvement in the tone of journalism at Brandy Corners, Dakota, It has grown more refined and elevating. Last week’s Cim- eter referred to the editor of the Howler as a ‘‘festering carcass oozing filth and corruption,” and this week the latter pleasantly retorts by denominating the former a ‘“plague-producing pimple upon the fair face of nature.” Heretofore they have en calling each other hard names. The editors of the New York morning dailies, who have been engaged for some time in a bitter war of words, should imitate their esteemed cotemporaries at Brandy Corners, and ‘‘draw it milder” hereafter. “The True Sphere of Womanhood” was the subject of an essay read by a young lady graduate at a recent high school commencement. Next day she played lawn tennis five hours, and embroidered a blue cat on a red _piece of cloth in the evening. “Everything grows more valuable as it grows older,” remarks an zesthetic writer. All the same, the older an old maid grows the less valuable she is as a factor in matrimony. The Shah of Persia is an artist. He painted a master- piece recently, and invited an art critic to view it. The critic said he never saw a more brilliant and natural landscape put on canvas, when the Shah informed him that the picture was 4 family group of his wife’s relatives, the critic shot outof the doorso suddenly that the monarch’s cimeter hacked only a small piece off his right shoulder. An embezzler—the man who steals $500,000. A thief— the man who embezzles aham. This is a distinction with a considerable difference—in the amount stolen. An increase of seventy-five per cent. in the sales of carving-knives and broad-axes is noted since the daily newspapers adopted illustrations. ‘How to tell a man larger than yourself that heisa liar,” is the title of an article going the rounds of the press. Take our advice. Don’t tell him. Let him re- main in blissful ignrance of the fact that he possesses such a lamentable weakness. You will wish you had, if you don’t. é > As an American He Fought the Duel. Soon after the Cubans were compelled to surrender the Virginius to Uncle SamI landed in Havana as the agent of an American agricultural works, says a writer in the Detroit Free Press. Fortunately for me in this case I could chatter away in Spanish with any of them, and though I was born and reared in Ohio I was sup- posed to be an Englishman. Had I given out that I was a straight-haired Yankee the chances of being mobbed, or knifed, or shot, would have been excellent. The feel- ing against Americans was so very bitter that one from the States was liable to insult and violence on the pub- lic streets. I had been there about a week when an American named Charles Whitley, from Michigan, arrived with his wife. Whitley was an invalid, and he had come to Cuba by the advice of his physician. I remember him as a tall, pale-faced, and extremely courteous: gentle- man, while she was a little bit of a woman who was all hope and sunshine. Itso happened that I made their acquaintance the first day they landed, and I felt it my duty to warn Whitley of the feeling entertained against our nationality. My advice to him was to keep close for a time and to carefully avoid being mixed up in any dis- cussion of a public nature. He had been there a week without anything being said to him, when one day, as we sat in the hotel reading-room, a couple of Cubans who spoke very good English came in and took seats near us. There was no doubt in my mind from the first that they meant to draw Whitley into a trap. They be- gan by abusing and maligning Americans and wishing for war, and when he persistently refused to take notice of - eges one of them deliberately turned upon him and said: 7 ‘Havana is no place for such as you.” “The gentleman is an invalid,” I replied. ‘But he is also a Yankee,” continued the Cuban. ‘Our government should not permit them to even land on the island.” Whitley’s face grew paler, and he bit his lips to keep back ef hot words which wanted to come, but he made no reply. The larger of the two men, who appeared to be a na- tive fire-eater, waited fora moment, and then rose up and said to the Michigander : “All Yankees are cowards! Demand Satisfaction if you dare !” “J do demand it!” answered Whitley, in alow voice. «You evidently want a duel. You shall have it!” “Good!” hissed the other. ‘‘My triend here will ar- range the details with your friend. You have more Iinsult you! courage than I thought for.” : He walked away with a nod to me, and was fol- ane by his friend, who promised to return in half an our. «You can’t mean to fight him ?” I inquired of Whitley, when we were alone. “But Ido. Heinsulted me as an American, hoping a provoke a duel, and as an American I will fight m 1” «But your health 2” “Never mind my health. All I wants to keep the affair from my wife untilitisover with. Arrange to fight him to-morrow morning.” “With what weapons ?” “TI never had a sword in my hand, and I have had no experience with pistols. Choose pistols, however. I know enough to sight and fire one, and I must take my seemed a year, all alone. We understood each other, though very few words had been spoken. I wish I could describe the feelings that came next. How weary a man is—how his knees shake till his tall boot-legs hit togeth- er—how something else besides spoon-drift moisténs an old salt’s eyes—yes, sir, true’s ye live, actual tears! I wish I could tell you how, if a man is in the habit o’ prayer, he thanks God for delivery from causin’ such Slaughter. And how hungry Iwas! And how ready to go to sleep I was! And how I went down below to tum- ble into my bunk as the great Atlantic waves from the free, open Sea were soon hammerin’ on our bow and I knew we were safe in the arms of the dear old shoreless ocean. ut it can’t be told. I ought not to have tried to tell you. It’s no more than all masters have been through, and are goin’ through every day. It’s only duty. Yetitis such hours of duty as that as makes sailors old afore their time. Think well of the sailors, my boy—they are not the worst of men, by a good deal.” ‘‘But how about the pretty bride ?” I asked. “Oh, yes. Heaven forgive me; I forgot. Why, sir, when that fog lifted and showed us Thor Head, if she didn’t just flash out 0’ the lea o the house and wave her kerchief at it again and again, and kiss her hand!” “But her arrival——” «Wait. Itook herto her husband. I know her and him well. I don’t mind telling you, privately, that that gh is the mother of Governor ——, of the State of ——.” «A romance of the first order.” «And out 0’ real life, thank Heaven! keep the names to yourself.” Which I have done. ———_> 6 +—_____—_ FOLLY AS IT FLIES. BY J. H. WILLIAMS. But you must A woman’s journal asks: “Is a woman’s time worth anything ?” Well, in a great many cases—No. Aska woman the time, and she will consult her watch, which she either winds up four times a day or four days at a time, and after ‘holding it to each ear alternately, and shaking it several times, she will reply, ‘‘I believe it’s run down again.” If the thing should happen to be running, and she says it’s “twenty minutes to ten,” the chances are that you will be fifteen minutes late for the train, if you consider her time worth anything. A scientific journal announces that one of the most recent discoveries in science is the fact that a ray of light produces sound. This is something new; but it is an old and well-known fact that a ray of light frequently abolishes sound. For instance: a sound, with a dull thud, suction-sort of attachment, emanating from a darkened parlor containing a young man and his best girl, ceases as if by magic when a ray of light from .the approaching mother’s lamp penetrates the room. Itis rather curious that aray of light should both produce and kill sound. According to Prof. David Swing’s belief, the ‘ideal church will be one in which piety shall outrank doc- trine.” When Prof. Swing’s ‘ideal church” arrives, it will be able to boast of a smaller membership than any other church in the world; and as a house in which to show off the Easter fashions in all their glory and so forth, it would be a dismal failure. An eminent physician says that Americans don’t walk enough. He ought to know that walking is too slow for this progressive age. And besides, some people would find it very unhealthy, and calculated to restrain their liberty. Defaulting bank officials would be over- taken on the way to Canada if they were to walk. They must fly. és A fashion item says that many young ladies are fol- lowing the fashion introdyical by Mother Eve in the matter of wearing the hair. \Well, that’s all right—if itis their own hair; but it is hop&c, in regard to the fashion introduced by Mother Eve, { the young ladies will draw the line at her style of wearing the hair; though chances.” There was no doubt that the Cuban was an experienced duelist, but the more I argued with Whitley the more determined he was to fight. Under all the circum- stances, it would have been no disgrace for him to re- fuse, but from the very first his mind was made up. Such affairs are easily and quietly arranged in Cuba. When the second returned, we settled on pistols for weapons, and he was kind enough to say that he would arrange for a surgeon to be present. We were to be at a certain spot about four miles distant at a certain hour in the morning. The fellow wasa pink of politeness, and I carried the idea that I had been mixed up in sev- eral affairs of the sort, and that my principal was not a green hand on the field of honor. Idid not see Whitley again until we took a carriage in the morning to drive to the grounds. He was calm and self-possessed, and on the way out arranged with me about sending his wife home in case of his death, and provided for other emergencies. The little woman had not received the slightest hint of what was on the tapis. Wefound the other parties waiting for us, and the details were speedily arranged. The men were placed fifteen paces apart, and it was understood that they were to fire until one or the other was killed or wounded. in case either was wounded and wanted to continue the fight, the duel should go on. The two pistols were loaded and handed to the principals, and the awkward manner in which Whitley held his made the Cubans smile. I had told him how to stand so as to resent the smallest possible target to his opponent, but as they took their places I was horrified to see him present his full front. It seemed as if any one whocould sight a pistol must bore him through at the first fire. He wasa trifle paler than usual, but he stood firm on his feet and was in nerve. The word was finally given—one, two, three, fire!— and both pistols were discharged at once. I was look- ing at Whitley. Isawa piece of cloth from his shoulder fiy in the air; and as 1 turned my gaze toward the Cuban, I saw the latter sink down in a heap, as if he had been struck on top of the head. We ran to him, to tind a bullet-hole in the center of his forehead, and he was stone dead. His bullet had chip Whitley’s right shoulder, but without drawing blood. 1 never saw two men so dumfounded as the surgeon and the Cuban’s second. It was a minute before they could realize the disaster. Everything had been fair and according to the code, and nothing remained for us except to return to the city. Whitley was very calm and self-possessed ; neither astonished nor exultant. “What spot did you aim for?’ I asked, as we rode homeward. “None at all,” he replied. ‘I had both eyes shut when I pulled the trigger.” -e~ CHEAP AND DURABLE PAVEMENT. Two years ago a new pavement was laid in Steuben- ville, Ohio. The contractors dug one foot below the surface of the street, put in four inches of sand, four inches of gravel, and then set four-inch fire-brick on edge. Then they covered the top with sand for a time, and now they have a fine and durable pavement. This is on the main street of Steubenville, and after two years’ use shows no perceptible wear at all. It cost eighty-three cents per square yard. This price includes the brick, the other materials, and the work of laying. Belgian blocks cost from $2.50 to $3 per square yard, and asphalt costs about the same. Steubenville’s brick pave- ment is almost entirely noiseless; ice doesn’t adhere to it, and it can be taken up and repaired at very little ex- pense. ® > o<_____—__ A STORMY WEDDING. A sudden shower caused Squire Carver, of Waterville, Me., to seek shelter on the covered bridge that spans the Sebasticook. He there saw two young men and two young women, who had come there for the same reason as himself. As soon as they recognized the squire they conferred eagerly, and then one of the men asked him if he wouldn’t marry the other young man and one of the young women then and there. They had the necessary papers in proper form, and so, while the rain pattered over their heads and the Sebasticook rolled beneath their feet, William McClintock and Almira Jones were this, we understand, has not been done in Washington society. Correspondence, GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. t2"~ Communications addressed to this department will not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers: [We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart- ment which we intend to make a specialty in our journal, Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared to render the answers to questions absolutely reliable.] H, N. C., Fayetteville, N. C.—A lithograph is a picture print- ed from a drawing on stone. The stone used is a kind of limestone, found in Bayaria. Itis made up chiefly of lime, clay, and silica; is usually of a pearl-gray color, and has a very fine grain. The stones are taken out of the quarry in large pieces, and afterward sawed up into slabs two or three inches thick, and of any size wanted. The face df the slabs is then ground perfectly flat and polished smooth. After the drawing has become dry, which can be made with a crayon or with pen and ink, it is ready to be printed from. The crayons used are made mostly of tallow, wax, hard soap, shellac, colored with lamp-black. The ink is alittle piece of favor, mixed with some water. Very frequently the picture, instead of being drawn on the stone, is made on thin paper, called transfer paper, which is coated on oneside with a mix- ture of gum, starch, and alum. The dra thus made on the coating, and not on the paper itself. © paper is then laid on the stone face downward, and ‘ the ink of the drawing sticks fast to the stone; the back of the paper is next moistened with water, which loosens the gum, and the er may then be taken off, leaving the drawing sticking to he stone. Therest of the gum is now w off and the stone can be prin from just as if the drawing had been made on the stone. Success in the process described '‘de- pends a great deal upon the quality of the paper used, for if it gritty it will soon act upon the stone, and upon the man- ner of regulating the press. In fact, only an experienced per- son can do the necessary work properly. A. C. D., Albany, N. Y,—The harmattan is a dry, hot wind, which, blowing from the interior of Africa toward the Atlan- tic Ocean, prevails in December, January, and February, along the coast of that continent from Cape Verd to Cape Lo- pez. It comes on at any time Surin the months mentioned, continues sometimes one or two, and sometimes even fifteen or sixteen Gays, and is accompanied by a fog which obscures the sun, rendering it of a mild red color. All vegetation is checked, young or tender plants are destroyed, and_ grass is turned to hay, It affects the human body also, making the eyes, nostrils, and lips dry, and at times causing the skin to parch and peel off ; but it checks epidemics, and _ cures per- sons afflicted with dysentery-feyers, or cutaneous diseases. It is the same in its character as the sirocco of Italy, and the kamsin of Egypt. The word is pronounced har-mat-tan. Lemuel B., New Providence.—Geysers (pronounced as if written gi-sers) are intermittent hot springs found in various parts of the world. In Iceland, in a circuit of about two miles, there are more than one hundred springs which send forth hot water; fifty or more in the space of a few acres. ‘The so-called. geysers of California are in Sonoma County, Those at the head waters of the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers are thought to be the most wonderful on the globe, One called the Giantess, when in action, throws a column of water to the height of 219 feet. Another, Old Faithful, so called for its ; arity, spouts at intervals of about an hour. For geysers in the United States see the fifth and sixth an- nual reports of the “United States Geogr hical Survey of the Territories,” by F. V. Hayden, publis in 1872 and 1873. Morrison Ives, Petersburg, Va.—ist. William Maxwell Evarts, who represents in part the State of New York in the United States Senate, was born in Boston on Feb. 6, 1818. 2d. He graduated at Yale College in 1837. He received the degree of LL. D. from Union College in 1857, from Yale in 1865, and from Harvard in 1870. 3d. He has been a Repub- lican from the o ization of that party, though in the im- nee trial of President Johnson, in the spring of 1868, ie was the principal counsel for the defendant. 4th. He was Secretary of State under President Hayes. 5th. He was the senior counsel retained \ by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher in the action brought by Theodore Tilton. 5th. He was a candi- date for the United States Senate in 1861. L. C. A.—1st. The area of the City Hall Park, excluding the part occupied by the Post-Office Building, is eight and a quarter acres. 2d. Gramercy Park, in this city, between 20th and 21st streets, and 3d and 4th anes, comprises about an acre and a half set aside by Mr. . Ruggles to be used as a place of recreation by those pe in the neighborhood. 1t is not open to the general public. The old Gramercy farm embraced the land now forming the park; hence the name, 3d. Madison Square is a public park of about six acres. It is bounded by Broadway, nm avenue, 23d and 26th streets. Cc. M. O—Ghee is a kind of butter used in many parts of India, prepared generally from the milk of buffaloes. The milk is successively boiled, cooled, and mixed with a little curdled milk. The process is completed by churning the curdled mass, to which some hot water is once added. It is an article of commerce in India, but unpalatable to Euro- peans from its strong smell and flavor. It is said that it may be kept from rancidity by boiling until all the water is evaporated, and then adding curdled milk and salt, and pre- serving it in close jars, It is pronounced ge. Fred W., Long Island.—Ox gall, the bile of the ox,is a viscid green or greenish yellow fluid, of bitter and slightly. 9 sweetish taste, found chiefly in a membranous bag In the ox. Itis sometimes very Seer and at other times like a sirup. It isthe properties which it possesses which renders it of value to the arts, for it dissolves greasy matters on guy: and for cleansing woolen stuffs it is sometimes preferred soap. Itis much by artists on account of its combin- ing with colors and increasing their luster. co American Student.—Lord Palmerston succeeded Lord Aber- deen as prime minister of England in 1855. In 1857 the House of Commons censured his China policy, but, the House being dissolved, the new elections were in his favor. The defeat of the “conspiracy to murder bill,” introduced. with erence to the attempt of Orsini against Napoleon III., in February, 1858, occasioned his retirement, but in 1859 he was again premier, and held the post until his death. Alex. Me. B., Hudson, N. ¥.—Lake Pontchartrain, a salt- water lake in'the south-east part of Louisiana, was so called in honor of Count Pontchartrain, a minister of Louis XIY. The lake is about twenty feet deep. Its south pi bor- ders on New Orleans. itis about forty miles lone and twen- ty-four miles wide. Its northern shores are more eleyated an the southern, and afford sites for country seats and summer resorts. Alice, Inez, and Cecile, Chicago, IlL—To save you much care and trouble we recommend you to have on hand a book en- titled the ‘Painter, Gilder, and Varnisher’s Companion.” It contains rules rela’ to the tice of gildi ter or marble, lass, poreelain ewe i craves aan amateur gilder should be withoutit. Price $1.50.. If you desire it, write direct to the New YoRK WEEKLY Purchasing ney. F. M. C., Philadelphia.—Sir Walter Scott was offered the office of poet-laureate of England, but declined it. The fol- lowing is a list of those who have filled the office: Ben John- son, William Davenant, John Dryden, Thomas Shadwell, hum Tate, Nicholas Rowe, Lavine Eusden, Colley. Cibban William Whitehead, ‘Thomas Warton, Henry James Pye, Robert Southey, William Wordsworth, Alfred Tennyson. Gustave, Wilmington, Del.—Among the important domestic events of Washington’s administration were the admission into the Union of the new States of Vermont (1791), Kentucky (1792), and Tennessee (1796), and the Whisky insurrection against an unpopular excise law, which in 1794 threw Western Pennsylvania into confusion, but was energetically sup- pressed by the President, who called out 15,000 militia. Lady Adelaide, Omaha, Neb.—ist. You will find a book on etiquette of much service. We can send you one for 50 cents. 2d. It is not obligatory upon you to make the gentleman a present. 3d. You can make your call any time within a week. 4th. The simple words, “Permit me to congratulate you,” will suffice. 5th. As a rule, questions are answered only in this department, and without charge. Daisy Jennings, Jersey City.—Ist. Flaxseed tea will keep the hair in curl along time. 2d. If not exposed to the dust, once in every two or three weeks will be frequent enough t wash or cleanse the hair. 3d. If napkin rings be hot seed, the napkins may be left unfolded on the table. 4th. The cost will depend upon the teachers employed. Sibyl, Flushing, L. I—To preserve natural flowers, dip them in melted paraffine, withdrawing them quickly. The liquid should be only just hot enough t i ts fi A and the fowems uhould be dipped one ate ties iekt Eee — and moved about for an instant to get rid a air a es. Mc. N. B., Philadelphia.—Wabash College is an institution of learning at Crawfordsville, Ind., under th Presbyterians. It was founded in 1832, and opted ead tae —, oe There are scholarships for needy and deserving studen Rambler, Albany, N. Y.—Collodion is gun-cotton dissolved in ether. Itis lied with a camel’s hair brush to cuts, burns, wounds, leech-bites, etc., over which it forms a thin — or skin, protecting the injured part from the atmo- sphere. Mahlah, Newark, N. J.—William He: Waddington, a dis- aaa archeologist, was born in Petia in ia His pa- rents were English protestants. His second wife was Miss King, of this city, whom he married in 1875. “Two Keys,” Boston, Mass.—ist. We cannot recommend coloring the hair; for all hair dyes are more or less injurious. Let them alone. 2d. Itis not our practice to give the ad- dresses of our contributors. D.S. G., Jersey City.—The liver is the 1 t o in the body, weighing about four pounds. Its ce iy to acre bile. It lies under the short ribs on the t side, below the diaphragm. Miss Marcia D., Pulaski, N. Y.—ist. The locks of hair in- closed are light and dark brown. 2d. It is not necessary to use black-bordered paper in the case referred to. Pansy, Paris, Mo.—ist. No. 2d. It is etiquette ‘to leave on your plate a little of the article of food £1 ase of, to indi- bi at you have had a sufficiency of i R. G.—\st. Manuscripts of any description are not in re- quest by us at present. 2d. Apply to'some German publisher. L. L. S.—To clarify honey, melt the honey in a water-bath, remove the scum, and pour off the clear. To ConrrisuTors.—The following MSS. are shee 4 ter Five Years ;” “Under Oblization :” “A Patient Man ;” “A Stolen Interview ;” ‘“‘How Nettie Won Him. i MSS. are res: ‘ully declined : ‘The Old Man’s So made one. pectf sic in Sorrow ;” “The be vip Reyenge ;” “Sketches on the Wing ;” “‘Slanderers ;” ““The Painted Face of Age ;” “House- keeping and Servants.” [THIS are Na en ee ie ek ek ee rr tn e oy Beige Sap Renee a we cence _Xife opened her } = interview, ‘‘are you tired of me already ?” ‘Stuart. —— vo. anu, eoomese THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 ere " ‘THE IVY WREATH. BY ASTLEY H. BALDWIN. Wreathe not for me the victor’s wreath Of laurel or of bay, Nor roses for the summer love That winter whirls away In clouds of scattered petals, white As his own frost and snow ; Nor wreathe for me the lover’s wreath Of mystic mistletoe. The laurel wreath with time must fade, The martial bay grow sere, But there is one—one wreath I hold, Most tender and most dear : Theivy! everlasting green, It is no type of fame, Of glory, or of passion’s fire, But changeless and the same. It tells of faith and constancy, Friendship that thinks no ill; In utter ruin though the house, It clings the closer still. It changeth not with winter’s chill, AS Earth’s friends fall away, When on the once fair building show Some blight spots of decay. No winds, no storms have power to wrench Its tendrils from their grasp ; It but infolds its loved one still More warmly in its clasp. Then wreathe for me the ivy wreath, Since others fade away; That is not for a time alone, But ever and a day. >e~< (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] WIFE AND WIDOW; OR, ~The Bride of the Alps, By LUCY RANDALL COMFORT, Author of “Twice an Heiress.” ‘‘The Widowed Bride,” etc. (“Wife and Widow” was commenced in No. 42. Back num- bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.] CHAPTER VII. 418 FPA BSPELL2* i Slowly the long summer days passed, and still Cerita. ‘Elmsley remained a close prisoner in the summer cot- tage of the inn at Valgrun—prisoner, but not against her will. She was quite satisfied to let things remain as they were. Madame D’Audreville was sinking, that was quite evident, and her decease was now but a ques- tion of time. The old doctor looked grave and shook his head, the wiry little fellow-practitioner who came down from St. Cecile-on-the-Hill to ‘‘consult,” shook his also. “A bad case, very,” Said the wiry little doctor, whose name was Nemours. “You think she will not recover?’ half questioned, | half asserted Dr. Pineau. . Nemours touched his shoulder with a warning glance toward Petite, who occupied her unvarying seat by the sick woman’s bedside. “Oh, she don’t hear,” said Dr. Pineau. ‘‘Or if she does, she doesn’t know what you are saying. She is an imbe- cile. You comprehend ?” touching his forehead, mean- ingly. “A pity—a great pity,” said Nemours. ‘Such a pretty creature, too. But they have great success with such cases at the Maison Sanitaire, at Bressy. In fact Iam sure that at least fifteen per cent——” Hie checked himself abruptly, as Therese D’Audre- pened h ge, fear-glazed eyes, and stared. “Don’t believe what they say to you, Petite!” she wailed, clasping her weak, transparent fingers together. “For [loved you all the time. I would have given my own life for yours, Petite, and now it is too late.” «“Hush-sh-sh!” whispered Pineau. ‘She thinks she is talking to her daughter. Poor lady! poor lady !” “She can’t recover,” said Dr. Nemours, refreshing him- self with a pinch of snuff. 7 And so the two doctors went away. They had said nothing that was new to Cerita. She was quite aware of the fragile hold poor Madame D’Audreville had on life—a hold that was weakening with every day. At night, when the invalid lay in asort of delirious stupor, and poor Petite slumbered like a peace- ful child, she had improved the opportunity. She had turned over ana investigated the trunks, she had studied out the entries in various little memorandum-books and pocket diaries, and she had, by dint of putting two and two together, studied out the fact that Petite and Madame D’Audreviile were not what they seemed, that, instead of being mother and daughter, they were in fact not related at all. Petite was alluded to more than once—at least so Cerita’s quick perceptions told her—under the title of ‘Lady Isola.” It was a life problem, that aroused all of Cerita’s curiosity because it seemed to point to Madame D’Audreville’s treasured secret, and the Swiss mountain girl resolved that she would solve it. Bold and unscrupulous though she was, Cerita never yet had made the attempt toopen Madame D’Audre- ville’s writing-desk. She had eyed it covetously—she had wondered which of the glittering steel keys on the invalid’s ring would turn the wards that hid so much from her longing eyes, but beyond that she never had ventured. To-night she felt that the time was drawing short. “I must know the contents of that desk,” she solilo- “and Iwill. Knowledge is power,” and if this oor idiotic child”—how scornfully she ignored the fact at Petite was at least as old as herself—‘‘is really of high rank, and mysteriously secluded from her friends, I can make my possession of the secret a golden key to open the gates of Success. If it is without their knowl- edge, I shall deserve substantial gratitude for discover- ing her to them; if with their connivance, then the dread lest their schemes should be unvailed will give me unlimited power over them. In either event I can mould Fortune to my own purposes.” Any ordinary girl would have taken her lover-husband into her counsels, but Cerita Elmsley had an individu- ality of herown. She had had one or two brief inter- -ylews with Captain Stuart since she had assumed the position of nurse to the sick woman—interviews re- stricted to a few hurried words spoken from the case- ment, while Leonard Stewart stood below. “IT begun the task and I shall go through with it,” she said, indifferently, when he reproached her with having taken up too heavy a burden without even consulting him. Truly, their relative positions were strangly reversed. Cerita was cool, impassive, languid. Captain Stuart was the feverishly eager lover, pining for a loving look, athirst for the liquid glances from which he had once turned so indifferently. “Cerita !” he exclaimed, on the occasion of their last “Tired ?” she elevated her lovely brows. not; but it is not best to be precipitate.” “Do you think, then, we have n too precipitate ?” he asked, bitterly. ' “Sometimes I do think so, Leo.” she retorted, im- patiently. ‘You persecute me so.” «But Cerita, you do not know, perhaps,” he cried out, anger-flushed and excited, ‘that [can claim you at any instant—that the law will uphold me in bearing you away at any instant from these people and these scenes.” «Dare to do such a thing!” she flashed back, ‘‘and 1 will teach you what it is to win a woman without win- ning her heart.” «Cerita!”’ he uttered, shrinking back as if she had plunged a dagger into his breast, “what do you mean ?”’ But she had closed the casement and vanished from it, and the stinging bitterness of her last words had taught him not to press her too hardly. Under these circumstances, it was not wonderful that Leonard Stuart grew strangely moody and changeful, that his health failed, and that none of his former fa- vorite occupations could charm him now. Athelhurst had congratulated bimself at first on his friend’s entire and total separation trom the innkeeper's fatally beauti- ful daughter; but he began to think something was still wrong. “Old fellow,” said he, ‘you are played out. Let’s go to Paris. You need change.” But Stuart would entertain no suggestions of the sort. “He was well enough,” he said ; “‘he liked the shooting and fishing. It was lonely, to be sure, but he was in no mood for miscellaneous society. He wished Athelhurst would only let him alone.” «You act as if you were under a spell,” cried out Athel- hurst, much marveling at his friend’s churlishness. «There’s no old witch in these mountains, I hope, with a caldron and——” «‘Pshaw !” broke in Stuart. «Pshaw with all my heart, if you choose to have it so,” laughed Athelhurst. ‘But one thing I can tell you. I’m not going to stay here to be quarreled with and abused. I shall leave Valgrun to-morrow morning.” “Leave it then, and be—done with it!” ‘No, I sup- snarled “I wish I couid persuade you to go, too!” persisted Athelhurst, looking with kindly compassion on the other’s pale cheeks and sunken eyes. “You can’t, then, so there’s an end of it.” “Have you any message to send to your mother and sister, in case I should touch English shores before you ?” patiently questioned Athelhurst. ‘None at all,” curtly responded Leonard Stuart. ‘In any event, I shall probably go home early in the fall.” So Edward Athelhurst packed his valise and left Val- n. ‘7 shall see you again before a great while, old fel- low,” he called cheerily out, as he rode away on the back of a slow-moving and philosophic mtle. Alas! if he could but have foreseen the terrible events that were destined to transpire before he should again set eyes on Leonard Stuart’s face! But he went away ; and Captain Stuart was left alone to dwell in the coldness and indifference of the young wife who was his only in name. “Am I growing a monomaniac?’ he asked himself, bitterly. ‘‘Truly it is naught else, and yet I cannot help myself. I wish I had never looked upon her face. ‘But having looked upon it, | am powerless to break the fatal charm. Athelhurst was right—it is a spell!” CHAPTER VIII. MADAME D’AUDREVILLE’S CONFESSION. ‘How long will she last, doctor ?” Dr. Pineau and Cerita Emsley stood side by side by the g bed of poor Therese D’Audreville as the latter uttered the words in alow tone. The little man of med- icine shrugged his shoulders. “Itisamere question of time,” said he. ‘Perhaps three days, perhaps five, scarcely a week, I should say. You are quite certain she has no papers which might afford a clew to the whereabouts of her friends ?” And Cerita answered, without a quiver of the eye- lids or a flush of the cheek : “Quite certain.” «Pity—pity,” said Dr. Pineau. money, except that in the chest ?” *None,”’ Cerita answered. “Well, that will pay for having the poor Petite taken care of awhile by Marie Trenard. Marie is a kind soul, and takes d care of the wretched creatures I have sent her. Petite belongs altogether to a different order, but she needs care. Marie will give it to her for a mere pittance untilI can succeed in getting her into some institution. Poor thing!’ with his watchful finger on “And no jewels, ne her pulse, ‘‘apparently she suffers but little, and—thank Heaven! it will soon be over.” ‘ So he went away, and Cerita, carefully closing the blinds and drawing the curtains close, sat down to ex- amine more circumstantially and at her leisure the con- tents of the leather portfolio she had abstracted from Madame D’Audreville’s desk. _ Without a summer rain-storm was raging, inside the red light of the oil-lamp cast its peculiar glare upon the eager, beautiful face of the young girl, as she turned over the written pages of a small manuscript, tied with black ribbon, and headed : “My CONFESSION.” «Confessions are useful,” Cerita said to herself. ‘TI will study this carefully. In the meantime, here are notes and gold—more than fifty pounds, I should think,” and her eyes glittered exultantly, ‘‘and letters directed to the ‘Honorable Mrs. Berkeley, No. —— Grosvenor —s London,’ unsealed letters. Hold! I will read em. Written on coroneted paper, satin-finished and tinted with the palest lilac; the letters were from “Agnes VYictorsfield to her dearest sister Sophia,” committing to her charge her youngest daughter, Lady Isola Rutledge, for a few months. «7 send her to you, in care of Madame D’Audreville, her governess, whom you will find all that could be desired as a companion and guardian for her,” wrote the aristo- cratic mother. ‘Isola has been her charge ever since she was ten years old, and they are tenderly attached to each other. Madame D’Audreville is an accomplished traveler, and I trust Isola to her care with perfect confi- dence. Ishall probably join you in the spring with Angela. In the meantime, dearest Sophia, give this youngest child of mine, this pet lamb, whom you have never seen, iene in your heart next your own Ethe- linde. I should not have thought of sending her to you, but for your urgent wishes; but I think a winter in Lon- don would make her very happy, and afford an agree- Bey Hd bs I Wie Bea 54 S afl > Ax e { i: SES ! ct ‘DARE TO DO IT!” SHE SAID, ‘‘ANDd WILL TEACH YOU WHAT IT IS TO WIN A WOMAN WITHOUT WINNING HER HEART.” able change. Pray write me at once, as soon as Madame D’Audreville hands you this. Idonot know just how long they may be on their route—madame wishes to show my darling a little of Paris on her way, and they may loiter away a few summer weeks on the Rhine. Isola has not been quite strong of late, and I desired Madame D’Audreville to give her as much change and variety as possible.” And with a few personal allusions to English friends, the letter closed. Upon a slip of paper pinned around it, Madame D’Audreville had written : “From the Countess of Victorsfield, at the Palazzo Foria, Rome, to Hon. Mrs. Berkeley, No. — Grosvenor Square, London.” “J begin to see through it,” thought Cerita, studying the letter with intent eyes and knitted brows. ‘And now for the confession. Petite is fast asleep—Lady Isola, I suppose I ought to call her now—and poor Madame D’Audreville is in the torpor that means death. Neither of them will disturb me now.” She leaned composedly back in her chair, settled her head against its cushioned back. and moving the lamp so that its light might fall more directly on the closely written pages, began to read the manuscript headed— My CONFESSION. ‘Even to the poorest and most hopelessly degraded criminals, is allowed the privilege of a confession. J also, viler and more wicked than the worst of them, claim the same. This is my confession—to be read by you, Countess of Victorsfield, when I have hidden myselt away from you and the rest of the world. For I dare not face your anger. Iam too great a coward to stand in the arrowy lightnings of your just wrath. When I have sent my poor darling to her aunt, I shall hide my- self in the eternal sanctuary of some far, secluded con- vent, where no earthly search will avail to discover me. And then Countess of Victorsfield, I shall send you this manuscript to read. Curse meif you will—heap male- dictions on my head. Iam only too conscious of having deserved it all. “Petite sits opposite me as I write. She is idly amused by the glitter of a sunbeam against the prismatic side of my glass ink-stand. And now the sun goes behind a cloud and Petite’s face lapses into that dead blankness of an unwritten sheet of paper. Ah, my God, who would think, to look upon her now, that she was so short a while ago, the sprightliest, merriest, most vivacious of girls. She is not dead—but her brain and reason are gone. Would to God that I had laid her in her grave, in- stead. d é “We left you, at the Palazzo Foria, in early June. I need not recall to your memory how Lady Isola—my Petite, as I have called her ever since she was placed in my care, a dark-eyed, sparkling child of ten years old— ran back to kiss and caress yourself and her elder sister, the Lady Angela, even after we had bidden our Jast farewells. All the first stage of our journey she was full of mirth and merriment and gay caprices. . “ Listen, madame,’ she said. ‘I am tired of the mean- ingless adulation of these people who fall down and worship an English title. Let us travel incognito, for the fun of the thing. You shall be Madame d’Audre- ville ; I will be your little daughter, Petite. We will have neither maid nor courier, nor solemn-faced foot- man. We will wait on ourselves. I will do your hair, and you shall do mine; and we will be the happiest traveiers in all the wide world.’ , “Of course [ yielded. Petite could always do what she willed with me. I was no more before the sunshine . her entreaties than wax between the molder’s supple ngers. “We lingered down the beautiful Rhine. I wrote you from Geneva, aS you will remember, I told you not to be anxious if you did not receive immediate advices from London, as Petite was curious to get a glimpse of the inner life of Switzerland, and her health was mani- festly improving during the long bright hours of our travel. Ah, how little did I dream what would be the tenor of the next letter that I should write you! Kind Father In heaven, what a merciful dispensation is that by which we read the book of our lives but a little ata time ! “And now comes the saddest part of my wretched tale. At a rustic hostelry, but a little way from Lau- sanne, we stopped to spend Sunday. My Petite was in her wildest and gayest spirits, and while on the ve- randa, after our dinner, she caught sight of a spirited saddle-horse which was being led up and down in front of the door. «* ‘Oh, what a beauty !” she cried out, in her impulsive way. ‘Whose horse is that, hostler ?’ “The groom told her thatit belonged to Madame di Porta, a lady who had sent iton from Vienna. She her- self was to be there on the folowing Monday. Madame di Porta rode the wildest and least manageable horses, Hugo told us. «« «J must ride that horse,’ said she. “In vain were our entreaties and expostulations— although, | must confess, that I felt so proud of my Petite’s skill in equestrianism, so certain that she could manage any steed, that I but feebly opposed her will. The groom was easily convinced by the ready logic of a piece of gold. «But for Heaven’s sake, mademoiselle, be careful!’ she said. ‘Madame values this horse as some would value a Christian's soul.’ ‘Petite ran in to put on her riding-habit. How bril- liant and beautiful she looked as she came out, her long jetty curls streaming over the olive-green habit, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. WS, ew eB | \\ Zz o yh ey) ! Z| as "fe a — =. Ninian “YOU ACT AS IF YOU WERE UNDER A SPELL,” CRIED OUT ATHELHURST. F ‘« ‘Petite,’ I cried, ‘think again, my darling! [do not like the way that horse lays back his ears and shows the whites of his eyes.’ ‘*« Dear old darling, you are so timid ! laughed Petite ; ‘itis only his way. Some horses always do it.’ «But, Petite, only stop and think! How could I ac- count to your mother, if—” “She never stopped to listen, my wild, winsome, will- ful thing, but sprang lightly to the saddle, as if her fairy feet were winged. «« ‘Never fear for her, madame,’ said Hugo, the groom, admiringly, as he placed the reins in her hand. ‘She understands a horse—it is easy enough to see that.’ «The fiying rush of her habit, the white glimmer of her waving hand, the thundering tramp of the satin- skinned demon’s feet, and Isola was gone, with Hugo, the groom, following on a secoxud horse. “Alas! my pen quails before the rest. The horse started at the sudden apparition of a white goat on the rocky road-side; he threw Isola, and they brought her back, apparently unhurt, yet quite lifeless to all outward appearance. We summoned af once the best surgeon the little place afforded ; a telegram brought Dr. Mirandi himself from Lausanne on the following day; yet still Isola lay there, breathing, it is true, but in all other re- spects like a beautiful corpse. They all believed Lady Isola Rutledge to be my daughter, nor did I disabuse them of the impression. I dared not. ‘It is concussion of the brain, madame,” the great surgeon at last pronounced his dread fiat: ‘Your daughter may live to be an old woman, after the first shock and danger are over; but she will be hopelessly insane or idiotic—either the one thing or the other.’ “T fell senseless to the floor, as though stricken down by a mighty blow. Countess oi Victorsfield, I say this as if it were written on my dying-bed, if Lady Isola had been my own child by birth, as she was by affection, my anguish could not have been greater. - “T pass over the wretched days that followed. What is the use of dwelling on the constant self-reproach and misery that made my life a burden to me? I prayed for death, but death would not.come. I prayed for the living death that wrapped my lovely Petite in a tomb of unconsciousness. Even that was denied me. Petite recovered, aS much as she ever would—so the council of surgeons told me—and nothing was left for me but to proceed on my miserable journg «Countess, I dared not writ@ynd tell you the awful truth. As we journeyed on b srt and easy stages, I continued to write brief bull you. Yen will re- member that I only said, ‘We at such and sucha place. Lady Isola is well.’ So she was, in. body; but oh, God! her mind would never be well again! And this I lacked courage to teli you. “T have written this brief record in the evenings, after my Petite was asleep. I have wept over it, prayed over it, wrung my hands over it in anguish such as must, if the good Lord be as merciful as they pretend to say He is, Fo pr in some expiation of my sins. I shall take Lady Isola to London and leave her at her aunt’s door. Once assured that she has reached a safe haven of refuge, neither you nor any other living soul who knew me once will ever see me more-”— “Lady Victorsfiela, forgive me. On my knees I write the words. With the fainting cry of a crushed soul, I plead for pardon. And, oh, I pray that Petite may never know that it was through my culpable negligence that her beautiful life was pur Pity! forgive! ardon! are the last entreaties of the poor wretch now ead to you and the world, who once called herself “THERESE D’AUDREVILLE.” CHAPTER IX. : “WHY DOES SHE NOT DIE?” This was Madame D’Audreville’s confession. And Cerita Elmsley read the. words, written as they were in a plain, distinctly legible hand, totally different from the ordinary flourishes of French caligraphy—read them with deep flushes on her cheeks and strange, shifting lights in her deep eyes.. When the last page was perused, she flung the manu- script aside and once more caught up the coroneted letter to re-read afew lines only curiously glanced at before, which had now obtained new and important meaning in her eyes. “In the meantime, dearest Agnes, give this youngest child of mine, this pet lamb, whom you have never seen, a place in your heart next your own Ethelinde.” Rising, Cerita took the lamp in her hand and glided into the adjoining room, where lay sweetly sleeping the beautiful and unfortunate heroine of Madame D’Audre- ville's tragical tale. She stooped and intently studied every curve and feature of Lady Isola’s face, then looked at herself in the small circular mirror that hung above the plain pine dressing-table. ‘ \ | | Hl itt head bd ipa i" oe ' = . a he aie SHE STOOPED AND INTENTLY STUDIED EVERY CURVE AND FEATURE OF LADY ISOLA’S FACE. “We are alike,” she murmured, in low, tremblin tones. ‘‘The style of face, the profile, complexion, an color are almost exactly similar. Her forehead is a lit- tle higher and broader than wine, her eyes are larger, and her figure taller and more willowy in its grace. But, nevertheless, those relatives who have never seen her would not know that I was not herself. There is no time to pause and hesitate now. The golden wave of opportunity has rolled up on tht barren strand of my lonely and eventless life at last; and upon its current I will float to success. This wretched creature cannot survive many hours, at the farthest; when she is dead, the last link that connects Lady Isola Rutledge with her past and future is severed. ‘She will remain here the idiot.orphan of Madame Therese D’Audreville. I will become Lady Isola Rutledge, and go to London to claim the love and loyalty of my unseen relatives. I will assume the mantle of rank, wealth, and fashion. I will forget that Cerita Elmsley ever existed, and I will drink my fill of Sm hee cup of luxury.” Her heart throbbed, her cheeks ed, and a restless fire glowed and smoldered Ss, as she crept < i it noiselessly back into the sick-room. A small ivory min- iature of Lady Isola Rutledge, taken, as the inscription on its back informed Cerita, several years ago, lay among the other papers. Cerita took it up and scruti- nized its outline and color. ‘Not like me,” she soliloquized; ‘neither very unlike. But I can afford to run no risks.” Kneeling before the fire, she raked a hole in the hot ashes, and filling it with live coals from the smoldering logs, she thrust the dainty velvet-cased picture into its fiery depths. And then she folded the letter and the confession, together with Madame D’Audreville’s pen- ciled accounts, and the precious money-wallet in her pocket-handkerchief, and hid them carefully away. “Henceforward,” she mused, ‘these are my property. A foundation upon which I shall rear up the golden pin- nacles of my future. Oh, if 1 had only discovered this road to fortune before I flung myself away upon that cold-blooded, passionless Leo Stuart !” The turned sharply as Madame D’Audreville stirred, and moaned feebly among her pillows. “Why does she not die ?” Cerita muttered impatiently. ‘Why does she linger on thus ?” Upon a small table close to the bedside, stood two or three vials full of pale, colorless fluid, the strong stimu- lants which were yet keeping the feeble spark of life alight in the siek woman’s wasting frame. A large square bottle, with a cut-glass stopper, stood on the mantel, filled with some dark, thick liquid. Cerita knew that it was a powerful agent of the narcotic order, used once or twice, wnen Madame D’Audreville’s sufferings had been extreme. She looked at the watch. It was time for the medicine to be given. “Dr. Pineau warned me against the dark medicine,” she thought. ‘He told me that a very little of it would be fatal to one in her weak condition. Well, would it not be a real kindness to expedite the poor creature out of the world ?” Cerita Elmsley was only eighteen, but she had lurking within her nature all the dormant instincts ot a Lucrezia Borgia. Without a fiutter to her breath, or a quiver to her eyelids, she measured out a half-teaspoonful of the dark liquid into the medicine glass. “It will be easy to say that it was a mistake,” she thought, ‘if any suspicion should arise. How can I, exhausted by the vigils of so many days and nights, be expected to know exactly what [am about? Accidents will occur, and people must run the risk.” But as she advanced with the soft tread of a panther Madame D’Audreville suddenly opened her eyes and looked her full in the face. Not with the glassy stare of delirium, but with the light of reason shining faintly out from her sunken eyes. Cerita, shrinking guiltily back, as if she had been caught in the very deed of murder, let the medicine glass fall, spilling its contents on the hearth and diffus- ing a faint, disagreeable odor through the room. *“Madame.” she faltered. ‘‘you are better.” “T am not better,” feebly uttered Madame D’Audre- ville. ‘I shall never be better. It needs no soothsayer to tell me that Iam dying. You are the innkeeper’s daugh- ter, are you not?” “Yes.” “Good! I thought so,” murmured Madame D’Audre- ville, in a voice so faint that it was scarcely audible. ‘““My papers—you know where they are ?” “Yes,” Cerita had not meant to make the admission, but it somehow slipped from her unawares. “See that they are sent to their proper destination. Send some one with my poor Petite to her aunt’s house in London. The address is among my papers; you will learn all there. Take care of her. Be eyes, and soul, and heart, and brain, for my Isola, as you would answer to me for it before the throne of God. She is helpless as a babe, and her sacred helplessness makes the charge all the more precious. She is here, alone, in a land of strangers ; you, at least, are English, like her relatives.” Madame D’Audreville had spoken the words slowly, with many pauses and intervals of silence. Cerita listened with a strange sensation, as if she had held the amulet of fortune within her grasp for a second, only to lose it at last. The sick woman closed her eyes and seemed to slum- pi egy a second or two. Suddenly she 6pened them ain. © «The world is drifting, drifting away from me,” she gasped, feebly. ‘Send for a priest. Don’t let me die without the Holy Cross beside my bed !” “Be calm,” soothed the young nurse. shall be attended to.” fy AD Ae pea “Your wishes Reid CERITA, SHRINKING GUILTILY BACK, GLASS FALL. “Lose no time—no time,” urged Madame D’Audreville, LET THE MEDICINE her breath coming in short, quick sobs. ‘Go, at once.” Cerita Elmsley left the room, and passed into the dewy coldness of the outer air. The storm was over— the sky was full of stars, and she stood there, her beau- tiful face turned upward to the silver shrine of Heaven’s luminaries, her hands clasped, like those of a Madonna. t there was no corresponding sweetness or sacredness in her thoughts. Send for a priest!” she repeated bitterly to herself. «To have confided to his ear, under the seal of the con- fessional, all those precious secrets upon which my own future ‘hinges.’ To lose the key of fortune, at the very moment when it is within my hands. Never! I want no other eyes prying into the secrets of Madame D’Au- dreville and Lady Isola Rutledge. To me and to me alone is it given to know that yonder idiot girl is any other than the daughter of the woman who is already as good as dead.” “Mademoiselle Cerita !” She started at the words, whisperingly cleaving the silence of the night—but it was only the hump-backed postilion. “What is it, Mathieu?” Mathieu kept a respectful distance, entertaining in his mind a holy horror of the deadly fever, but his sibilant voice plainly reached the ears of his young mistress, “The poor lady, mademoiselle—is it not true that she lies at the point of death ?” : “— suppose so,” impatiently answered Cerita. ‘“‘Why dio you ask? Itis no secret, I suppose.” “Blessed San Nicolo and all the other saints preserve us!” muttered the hostler, reverently. ‘Had I not bet- ter go for the priest, mademoiselle ?” “You had better mind your own business, Mathieu,” sharply retorted Cerita. “But, mademoiselle——” “JT tell you there is no such pressing necessity,” cried out Cerita. ‘She may linger for days yet. Do you sup- pose Pere Antoine wants to come into such a hotbed of infection as this ?” “Pere Antoine would not mind that,” officiously per- sisted Mathieu. ‘‘My word for it, he would not, The holy father takes’ no thought of such things in the pur- suit of his duty. If mademoiselle would but say the word, I could borrow Marceau’s mule, and——’” “You will do nothing of the sort,” retorted Cerita, ex- asperated beyond the bounds of endurance by the man’s obstinate persistence. ‘Go back to your work at once, and do not presume to interfere in my affairs until you are bid. When I think it necessary, I shall dispatch you for Pere Antoine ; until then, cease annoying me.” Mathieu retired, somewhat disconcerted, and Cerita Elmsley once more returned to the sick-room. The air was oppressively close and fever-freighted. She opened the window to let in the damp, delicious freshness of the rain-scented atmosphere without. The sound roused Madame D’Audreville from the stupor into which she was sinking. “The priest! the priest!” she faltered, piteously grop- ing for Cerita’s hand. ‘‘Did you send for him ?” “Yes,” the girl unhesitatingly answered. «*Will he soon be here ?” > rt soon now. Lie quiet and do not exhaust your- self.” “The letters—the papers—you will promise me?” reiterated Madame D’Audreville. i “I promise that they shall be delivered,” soothed erita. Once more the poor dying wretch lapsed into semi- unconsciousness, and Cerita, impatient only for the end to arrive, leaned from the window, glad to feel the rush of the cool wind against her fevered brow. Was there no pitying tenderness in her heart toward the solitary woman dying at her side? No touch of womanly compassion which might move her tolay a loving hand upon her throbbing brow, or wet her parched lips with cool water? No vague similitude be- tween this hour and that which surely must come one day to herself ? No—none. Cerita Elmsley’s heart was too full of restless ambition, scheming plots, and confused reach- ings after the Possible to entertain softer thoughts. Neither mild pity nor heavenly compassion found place within her brain. Hush! a cigar spark showing redly through the starry dark- ness ; a voice, low-tuned and tender, calling her name : “Cerita !” A footstep on the rudely terraced walk below; | She bit her lip with annoyance; it was Leonard Stuart’s voice. “I cannot speak to you now,” she said, impatiently. ‘Why do you annoy me thus ?” “Tannoy you, dol?” he retortea. not have said that, Cerita.” “But you know I am busy now, Leonard. Madame D’Audreville is dying,” Cerita whispered. ame you have told me repeatedly during the past fort- night.” Leonard’s voice was bitter, and his accent incredulous. ‘But it is really true at last, Leo. And I shall soon be free,” she urged, anxious to rid herself of him on the easiest possible terms. In the meantime I must not linger here. Good-night.” “But, Cerita . The clang of the casement cut his sentence short. He compressed his lips, coloring them a dark purplish red. ‘‘Heavens!” he muttered, ‘‘she treats me as if I werea liveried servant !” “Once you would [TO BE CONTINUED.] So [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.} TWO KEYS; OR, MARGARET HOUGHTON’S HEROISM. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author ot ** Brownie’s Triumph,” “ The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘Audrey’s Recompense,” etc. (“Two Krys” was commenced in No. 30. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XLI. THE DIRECTORS ARE AMAZED. “J shall go straight through this alley to the Rue Cas- tiglione,” Louis said to Margaret, as they stepped into the narrow street, ‘‘the distance is not great and we shall not attract attention this way. I can get a Ccar- riage for you there and send you comfortably home.” “Louis, I shall go to the office with you—you may need my testimony, .you know.” “I hope that the company will accept my explanation of the affair without adopting any legal proceedings, for I dislike, exceedingly, the thought of dragging you before the public.” Margaret glanced up at him. His face was very pale and wore an anxious expression. i “I shall go with you,” she repeated decidedly, and he ~ made no further objection. ; They walked on silently and swiftly, both feeling a desire to get the precious contents of that basket into a place of safety as soon as possible. ; They reached the end of the alley, furned the corner to the left, and were at the door of the office. The outer door was open, and the young couple en- tered. Louis hesitated a moment as his hand touched the knob upon the inner door, and Margaret could see that he was greatly agitated. But it was only for an instant—the next he had en- tered that familiar room, followed by his faithful be- trothed. There was no one in this outer office, the clerk had evidently just gone out, and fora few moments only, as his desk was littered with papers and letters. Louis passed with a rapid step across the room to the inner office, where the cashier was sitting before his desk busily engaged in making up some accounts. He glanced up with an impatient air, as Louis entered, as if annoyed by the interruption. But instantly a look of astonishment spread over his face. It grew to one of horror, as if he almost believed him- self confronted by a disembodied spirit. His pen dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he staggered weakly to his feet. «Mon Dieu! Dunbar \” he cried, in a hollow voice. “Yes, itis Dunbar, and not his ghost as I see you are half inclined to believe,” Louis said, putting down his basket, and holding out his shaking hand to his old comrade. ihe | The man took it mechanically, but still regarded him with a sortof dazed air. ; ae reo you must be—dead,” he stammered, at last. “Then you did not believe that I had absconded with the company’s money ?” Louis questioned. | ‘Dunbar—if itis indeed you, asl am half inclined to doubt,” began the man, shaking himself, as if to arouse his benumbed faculties—‘‘I knew you were as true as steel. J never believed fora moment that you played any trick upon us.” “Then others believed it, if you did not ?” quickly re- turned Louis, with a pained quiver in his voice as he noticed the emphasis upon the pronoun. “Well,” he answered, flushing, ‘‘of course people will | surmise all sorts of things when a man disappears as | you did and alot of money with him; but I knew you | too well to believe anything of the kind. I was confident | that there had been foul play in the matter.” “Thanks. There fas been foul play,” Louis answered, deeply hurt that the company, or any member of it, should have doubted his integrity. “Well, [never was more glad to greet any one,” said the cashier,” heartily shaking the hand he still held. “But come, tell me how it was—give an account of your adventure, for adventure Iam sure you must have had. Ah! pardon,” he continued, as he caught sight of Mar- garet, who had remained in the background. “Miss Houghton, Monsieur Froque,” Louis said, pre- senting Margaret to him. They saluted each other in mutual recognition, and then the polite Frenchman sprang to get a chair for the young lady, after which he again turned eagerly to Louis for an explanation of his startling appearance. “T must not tell you anything—I cannot rest,” Louis said, as he uncovered his basket and removed the little tin trunk from it, ‘until this money has been counted and safely lodged in the bank.” “The money! the money!” almost shrieked the ex- cited cashier. ‘‘Have you brought the money back also ? Where did you getit? Ah! how——” He could not go on. A hundred theughts flashed with lightning rapidity through his mind at this startling intelligence ; and, for the first time since Louis’ strange disappearance, some- thing like a doubt of his integrity disturbed him. Louis saw it. He was as keenly sensitive as a woman to feel this mistrust, and involuntarily his lip curled. “If I had been dishonest enough to run away with it, it is not likely that I should bring it back myself, even if I had repented of the deed. But come,” Louis added, with nervous impatience, ‘‘lock that door, pull down the shades; The money must be counted. I must know how much is missing.” He himself strode to the door and locked it, while the excited cashier drew the shades before the windows and the half-glass partitions that separated the inner from the outer offices. Louis then put his precious burden upon the desk, threw back the lid and revealed the treasure within. Monsieur Froque grew white as death as he looked upon it. Anan, this is wonderful, wonderful!” he murmured. “Count,” Louis commanded, while he lifted the crisp notes out for himself and pushed the gold coins toward the cashier. ; For a long time there was not a sound heard in that room ee the rattling of paper and the musical chink of gold. 5 : Beopie came into the outer room, tried the door lead- ing into the inner Office, and finding it locked, wondered what private business was being transacted within. But no attention was paid to them, and they were obliged to wait, or go about other affairs, as they saw fit. “The bills are all here!” Louis at last said, as he laid the last package down; ‘‘the villain evidently did not dare to pass them, fearing their numbers had ‘been taken and be would thus be detected. How does the coin come out ?” : The cashier had not finished his counting and did hot answer; he simply pushed a heap of the gold toward Louis, motioning him to assist him in his work, and an- other silence of ten or fifteen minutes ensued. At last it was finished. “How much is missing?” Louis asked, with dry lips and a husky voice, when Monsieur Froque had footed up the different amounts, “Less than a thousand francs.” “Thank Heaven! That amount can easily be replaced, and the interest of the whole be added to it,” responded Louis, fervently. “Yes, yes. But now tell me about it—I am boiling over with curiosity,” urged the cashier, “Not yet. We must send this money to the bank; it must never remain in this office another night. After that there will be time enough for my story,” Louis re- plied, while he hastily returned it to the tin box. ‘“] will take it myself,” said Monsieur Froque, after a moment spent in thought. He put on his overcoat, donned his hat, and taking up the box, left the room. | Jn the outer office he stopped to confer a moment with the clerk, who had returned soon after Louis had en- | tered, and who was as much astonished to learn of his | presence as the cashier had been by his sudden appear- |ance; while, judging from the glances of suspicion directed toward the inner office, and the strict watch | kept upon its door while M. Froque was away, he had | not the utmost confidence in the man who had been so long and strangely absent. At the same time messages went thrilling along the | wires, summoning the directors and other members of the company for an immediate investigation of the matter, Kas . Louis knew very»well, as soon as the door closed after the cashier, that he was to be held a prisoner in that yooin until an examination of his statements had been held. But this did not disturb him; he had expected it, and was as anxious as any one could be to have the mystery explained, and his own position and honor re- established. «How long he is!” Margaret when a half-hour had elapsed and M. return. «Yes; it will take some time to deposit the money, for of course it will have to be counted again at the bank.” At last there room without. The door was then thrown open, and M. companied by tour other gentlemen, made his ance. Louis arose to receive them, and was greeted with profuse expressions of delight over the fact of his safe return and the restoration of the money. The cashier explained that he had immediately telephoned for the gentlemen upon leaving for the bank, thinking that time would thus be saved if a number of the directors could hear his story at the same time, This would have given Louis no uneasiness, neither would he have suspected the motives of M. Froque, if his quick glance had not caught sight of an armed policeman in the other room as the gentlemen en- tered. He knew that the cashier had some misgivings still, and had determined to secure his arrest if his story should not prove satistactory in all points. But he related all that had occurred upon the night of his disappearance, and described the subsequent events. At first the directors were inclined to doubt his story : but as it progessed, all suspicions of its veracity disap- peared. Long before Louis had finished, they began Lo realize how unjust they ‘had been to the man w ho haa suffered so much. As Louis finished his narrative, one of the directors stepped forward and grasped him cor- dially by the hand. “Jf there has been a doubt in any of our minds, it has vanished. Now about the bird that you have captured ; may we detain you here still longer while we send an officer after him, and learn what he has to say for him- self ?” “Ceffainly ; it is my wish -that’ this affair be settled as soon as possible. But may I ask as 4 personal favor that you will deal leniently with him ?” The gentlemen regarded Louis with astonishment as he made this request, «J will gladly make up the amount that has been taken.” Louis continued, ‘‘also the interest on the whole for the time that it has been lying idle; aud—if it could be possible to persuade you not to arraign bim for pub- lic trial—if we could settle this privately——” - “This is certainly a most Singular request,” inter- rupted one of his hearers, sternly. The man has been guilty of a twofold crime. One would suppose, from what you have suffered at his hands, that you would deem the severest sentence that could be pronounced upon him insufficient to atone for your injur les.” “Heis one of my own countrymen,” urged Louis., «We were school-mates in our youth, and the peculiar circumstances under which he has recently labored may have made the temptation greater than it would otherwise have been. He has always been accustomed to every luxury, but recently has lost both parents, and with them a large fortune, which all his lite he has ex- pected would be his upon their death. He found him- self in a strange country, without even money enough to return to his native land, except what was given to him by a friend; so you perceive he was sorely tempted.” The directors consulted together for a few moments and grew considerably excited while discussing the matter. They did not appear to be in favor of granting the request, even if it was in their power to do so, which some of them doubted. «We cannot decide that question now, Mr. Dunbar,” one at length remarked; ‘‘but,” with a smile, ‘there is another upon which we are ali agreed—the large reward offered for the recovery of the money and the apprehen- sion of the thief is yours.” Louis flushed deepest crimson. He had said he would not touch so much as a sou of the promised reward, and he had not intended to} do so. But, after thinking deeply for a moment, he looked | up with a smile, saying: “Gentlemen, to show you how much in earnest I am | regarding this matter, if you will grant my request and hash this affair as much as possible, allowing my coun- tryman to go free—he is young, and upon this act may depend his salvation—I will cheerfully resign all claim to the reward.” “But he may do the same thing again to some one else.” “No, no!” said Louis. ‘‘We will exact a pledge from him that he will heed the lesson and strive to become an honorable man. I do not believe he will ever become a thief again.” You are more fit to be an abbe than a business man, Monsieur Dunbar; but we cannot promise.’ And Louis was obliged to let the matter rest for the present. The policeman that he had seen outside was dis- patched with one of the clerks to conduct Arthur to the office, and, after consulting with Margaret a moment, Louis asked permission to send a message to Mr. Hough- ton requesting his presence, also. This being granted, the party fell into social converse while waiting for the appearance of Arthur. remarked, uneasily, same the sound of many footsteps in the Froque, ac- appear- CHAPTER XLII. AN INTERESTED MAN. As soon as Louis and Margaret left the building after finding the gold, Arthur commenced with renew ed vigor to dig away at the hole he was making in the wall. Jt was astonishing to see with what energy the usually indolent, pleasure-seeking young man toiled. The knife was dull, and it was slow, hard work. At last, however, he had two laths cut away, then something confronted him for which he was wholly un- prepared. Iehind that lathing there was a solid brick Wwall—a fire-proot wall! He sank down upon the floor with a groan, all hope crushed out of his heart. He lay there in a crouching attitute for some time, then he glanced up eagerly at the other side of his prison—the rear side. There might not be any wall Oe that side. His table stood in the corner; he sprang up and moved it out, and in doing so discovered another hole not quite the size of the one on which he had been at work. Al! the diamond-worker who had owned the shop in the years zone by had seen to it that his treasures should be carefully guarded; while Louis had not, after all, been such a fool as he had at first supposed. He, too, had tried to escape in the same way, and been baffled by that impassable barrier. But what had he done with the debris ? The sate! He sprang toward it. Yes. it was half full of lime and broken latks. ' He threw himself upon his couch with an oath, that ended in a groan of despair, Must he stay there and berun down like a rat ina trap ?—be arrested like any common thief—be tried and condemned to a fate that to him would be worse than death ? His eye caught the gleam of his pocket-knife, which he had thrown upon the floor after breaking it upon those tough laths, and he started, while a shiver ran through his frame. It had been very sharp and a steady, determined stroke across an artery, even with that broken blade, would place him beyond all fear of man or the law, Yes, all fear of man! Dare he doit? Had he courage and nerve to make that fatal stroke ? He grew faint and sick; there came a sudden shock, a strong revulsion at the thought. A blur fell before his eyes; a ringing, as of discordant belis, was in his ears; a cold sweat Started out upon his forehead, and his heart beat with heavy throbs. No, he had not the nerve; for, away back in the past, When he-was a little child and had knelt at his mother's knees to be taught to lisp his childish prayers, there had been instilled into his tender mind the fear of God, and | accountability to Him. He might succeed in escaping the bar of human jus- tice by becoming a suicide, but -he knew it would only be to find himself before the bar of God to be judgea— yes, and condemned—for all eternity. His mother had been an amiable, Christian woman, and he had loved her as well as his selfish, exacting, arrogant nature would permit him to love any one. She had been faithful to him, instructing him, as many an- other mother has done her boy, and reaping no return during life; but he knew that all her life she had prayed to the God in whom she believed for him, and that with her latest breath she had spoken his name, and pleaded that she might be allowed to meet him by and by in the upper world to which she was going. She was gone; but, though dead, she yet seemed to Speak to him, and in the awful silence of that room, where for a moment the mad thought of taking his own life had come to him, he seemed to feel her presence, while a vision of his past arose before him. What had it amounted to ? He had lived for himself alone, for the gratification of his. whims and caprices, making everything subservient to. his own selfish desires. He had plotted and intrigued from his earliest boy- hood to gain his own ends; he had allowed nothing to stand in his way, if trickery, or meanness, or deceit weuld avail. He had never, that he could remember, done a noble act, performed a really good deed, or de- nied himself for the sake of nother He had sown the wfnd—was he about to reap the whirlwind ? For the first time in his life he stood face to face with his own soul and saw it as it was, realizing how he had warped, marred, ana misused that God-given treasure. Was it too late to redeem himselt ? He groaned aloud in mental agony at the thought. Yes, he thought, it was too late, for soon the world would know him as he was, and he would be branded for all time with a mark which nothing could ever efface. Suddenly be heard a noise below! Some one was coming. Was it Louis returning, or had he sent a gen- darme to arrest him ? In afew moments a key was inserted in the lock, the door was thrown open, and two men entered, one of tham a gendarme. “Why are you here ?” Arthur questioned, hoarsely. “You are wanted, monsieur,” was the brief reply, as the gendarme produced his key to his prison and un- ey ey Froque did not | | rs aver aa locked it, bidding him to come forth ‘io prepare to go | with them, and he knew then that Louis had given hii } up to justice. With a tace that was perfectly ashen, he obeyed the command, and, each taking him by the arm, they led him from the building into the Rue de Blanc, where there was acarriage waiting. This they entered and were driven rapidly away. Ar- riving at the office where they were expected, the | prisoner was led directly into the inner room, where the door was immediately locked and the key with- drawn. Here he found those whom we have already men- tioned, while, during clerk, Mr. and’Mrs. Houghton had arrived, and, to the astonishment of Margaret and Louis, they were ac- companied by Mr. Forest. This gentleman had made his appearance in Mrs. Houghton’s parlor soon after Margaret went out upon her visit to Louis. Almost his first inquiry was regard- ing his nephew. Mrs. Houghton, of course, could tell him nothing ex- cept that he had mentioned his intention of leaving Paris for a few days. Mr. Forest appeared surprised and troubled by this intelligence. Then he asked for news of Louis Dunbar. “Poor Louis! bave you not heard the sad news re- garding him ?’ asked Mrs. Houghton, surprised. “Sad news, madam! Great “heavens! has anything happened to him?” Mr. Forest exclaimed, greatly agi- tated. VES Paris, and nothing has been heard of him since.” “Nothing? Is there no clew—nothing to lead any one to-suspect what has become of him ?” “No; and that is not all——” “Tell me quickly!” interrupted Mr. Forest, growing pale, and actually trembling with apprehension. “A large amount of money —torty thousand dollars— disappeared with him.” “Impossible !” “Tt is true, my friend,” said Mrs. Houghton, sadly, although she wondered somewhat at his excitement over the matter. “Do they say that he took it and—ran away ?” de- manded her companion, hoarsely. “Some suspect him of being the defaulter ; but “NEVER! J would stake my life upon his ane a “Se would we,” answered Mrs. Houghton, wiping a tear from her eye: ‘‘but whatever has become of him— Whatever became of the money, noone has been able to learn as yet. The whole affair is a deep mystery.” “Ah, madam you unnerve me. young man. . There was nothing but truth in his eye, honor and manliness in his countenance and bearing Begin at the beginning and tell me the whole story Mr. Forest begged, with emotion. Mrs. Houghton complied, and rehearsed what is so familiar to us all; her anxious. ‘What is it, Wallace?” she asked, rising hastily and | going forward to meet him. Her first thought was always for Margaret. “Where is Margaret ” he asked, regarding her ear- nestly. “She went out some time ago— yes, a long time ago,’ she replied, with a start, as, glancing at the clock, she saw how late it was. ‘Has ‘anything happened to her?” ‘No, dear; 1 do not think any harm has happened to her,” he replied, reassuringly ; ‘‘but I have a note from her, asking me tocome to the office of the telephone company immediately and bring you with me.” ‘How strange ? What can it mean ?” ‘We will not stop to conjecture,” Mr. Houghton said ; ‘we must go to her without delay.” “Mrs. Houghton led him torward to greet Mr. Forest, Sra then hastened from the room to prepare to go to Margaret. In less than ten minutes she was ready and back again in the parlor, and at her almost impatient o~+ Horsford’s Acid Phosphate In Sleeplessness. Dr. HENRY TUCKER, Brattleboro’, Vt., says: “I have used it inseveral cases of sleeplessness with very pleasing results.” you | his | mother, a lovely, Christian woman, who spent the best | that you will suspend all proceedings against | and excited over such an As- | while Arthur himself | seemed to have forgotten tor the moment his own situa- | place Miss Houghton, who, I may as wellinform you, is | disagreeable po- | Arthur cringed beneath the words as if some one had | cried the | THE N EW YORK WEEKLY. #30 : THINK K OF ME. | | BY AGNES KENDELL. When the birds are homeward flying, Over the hill; When the shadows low are lying, Dark and still; When the sun is slowly sinking, In the sea; Then as I of thee am thinking, Think of me. When our earthly cares are ended For the ds Ly, And the lights are sotily blended Far away, When past hopes wit h future linking, Follow tree, Then as I of thee am thinking, Think of me. > @ (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] NOR LIVING WAGES; OR, LENA DUDLEY’S PERIL. A STORY OF THE GREAT STRIKE. By CLINT. CARPENTER. (“For Living WaGEs” was commenced in No. 28. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XLIV. WHO KILLED ALBERT TROWBRIDGE. The strikes were virtually over in Marlboro. The laboring classes had learned their strength, they had learned the power there is in organization, and they had learned, also. that a man to achieve success in any undertaking must first deserve it. The employers had yielded something, and for the | most part wages had been advanced. And it is hoped | that in Marlboro, as well as elsewhere about the coun- try, everbody may at the present time be receiving | Living Wages. The site of Trowbridge’s mills remained as the ex- oe had left it, but little of the debris had been re moved, and the splendid water privilege was going to | waste. It was hoped by some that Mr. Rich, when he pur- | chased Clitheroe, would become the owner of the fac- | tory site, and take up manufacturing, but he had had | good luck in bitters, and to bitters he meant to stick. “There ain’t no risk in it,” he said, to one of the pub- lic-spirited citizens of the town, who was urging him to | buy the water privilege, and set up manufacturing; “and it don’t cost much to get the yellow dock, and the snake root, and the ginger, and such, of which my bit- ters is made. And1tell you there’s money in ’em. Peo- ple will go without clothes and food, but they won’t go without ‘something to stir up their livers. the fashion to keep harrowing your liver all the time, and my bitters is just the thing forit. It works to a charm.” | So the public-spirited citizen found that hisarguments | | were so much labor lost on the rich man, | who was able to do just as he pleased. Meanwhile Mr. . over what the Ghost, as he always spoke of the myste- | rious woman who haunted the vicinity, had told him. | $oon after supper, one evening, Mr. Rich put on his | hat, went out, and took the path to the Wishing Well. |The place had a strange not a romantic, or imaginative, or | but he was possessed of a good. deal of curiosity. | liked to find out about things. He stood and leaned over the stone curbing which had once been built around the well, but which was now fallen down and half dismantled, and aiforded but a slight protection to the incautious loiterer. He looked down into the well and saw the water, black and gloomy, thirty feet below. As he stood there a hand was laid on his shoulder and a voice whispered in his ear: «Jt would be death, certain death !” Rich turned suddenly and saw the ghost beside hin. : «What would be certain death ?” he asked, shudder- ing in spite of himself, as he saw the maniacal glare in the eyes of the woman, and realized how easily she might have pushed him in while he was off his guard. She laughed wildly. “Down there,” she said, pointing into the well. «Don’t you see iis face just under the water? Look— look, I tell you! There! see how white it is, and how the eyes stare! Itis strange how dead men Stare, and i they tell us. wise men do, that the dead cannot see. ey ou think they can ?” a fascination for him. He was superstitious man, He tion. He shook himself loose. “Of course they cannot. But why do youask? There is nobody dead in that well.” «TJ tell you that thereis! Strange that you cannot | see him. You must indeed be blind! I see him now! I see him all the time! Ican see him whenIam not looking! Look closer! There! he lifted up his hand! He is beckoning me, but I will not go! No, no! AndI he deserved it! 1 tell you he deserved | | 1 | am. not sorry ; : it’ | “Well, I'm sure I don’t know what you are talking | about,” said Mr. Rich, feeling strangely muddled and uncertain. “Don’t you? Well, I'll tell you. Not even the birds must hear; they tell tales. Peter might be coming. He is alw ays coming. , know who killed Albert Trowbr idge ?” And old t | } Do you No; do you?” A ‘Don’ tI? Ha, ha! Don’tI, indeed? I was his wife; | surely I should know, "—n0w, shouldn’ LS 27 “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Rich, encouragingly. “Well, now listen; Iam going to tell you about it. I couldn’t help anything that happened. Something |tempted me all thé time. Wasit Satan? Was it my | own heart? What is it that tempts men ?” “Well, really, now,” said Mr. Rich, very much in | doubt, “I can’t say. I’ve never given much thought to a sort of thing. I expect it’s their evil passions, and — “Oh, don’t trouble yourself about it,” said the woman, | with evident irritation. «One could see at once that ee no parson. We'll let the question pass. Now tell me this—did ever you kill anybody ?” * “Not that I know of,” returned Mr. Rich, sti!l doubt- fully, and wondering if his bitters ever had really has- tened any fellow-mortal on his way, as some of the reg- ular school of physicians had insinuated. “Then you don’t know how it feels. You don’t know what it is to lie awake through the long dark nights counting the strokes of the clock when it strikes— | counting the very ticks, even, and wondering if it will | never be daylight, which scares away the phantoms. Have you ever had such an experience? Do you know what it is 2” «Well, Ishould say it must be nightmare,” said Mr. | Rich, at a venture. | ‘No; it is conscience. Conscience—what is con- science? Itis something which you can never get rid | of—something that is always with you. Even when your head fails, as mine has, it still sticks by. Oh, if it would only die, as anything else docs!” She sank down on the ‘ground, and laid her face on her folded arms, as they rested on the pile of loose stones at the brink of the well. She sobbed, but no tears came from her dry eyes. And that choked, pitiful, despairing sobbing was the saddest sound Mr. Rich had ever heard. “Don’t now,” said he, entreatingly, ‘‘please don’t. You haven’t done anything to make you feel like that. It’s only your head ain’t right, and you fancy things.” Do 1?” she cried, springing to her feet, «do1? Look there, and see itl do! See hisface! see his wide-open eyes, and the cola, dead mouth. and the clammy fore- head! Oh, Heaven! how well I remember that night! My head had been dreadful. The world whirled. all around me, and I heard voices in my ears like thunder. Oh, it was terrible! terrible! And /e kept coming before my eyes. Ifhe had staid away I might not have done it. 1 escaped from Peter. I had a way of getting out when he was not on the watch. I had a seeret door— ah, you didn’t know aboutit! Nobody knows about it but me. I slipped out that night just after dark. They told me he was going to be married. And he had one wife already. Strange that men will be so wicked! I] went out in the forest. The coolness and the shade I loved. My brain did not throb so fiercely in the shad- ows. I1stole along noiselessly, watching, always watch- ing. I saw him; he was talking to a woman—a young, fair girl—he called her Lena. She was angry with him— they were talking excitedly. And while they were there, that terrible temptation to see his blood spurt, hot and fiery, trony his heart seized me—and I—killed him! “Great heavens, woman!” cried Mr. Rich, starting back in horror at the woman’s earnestness, ‘“‘whom dic you kill ?” «| killed my husband, Albert Trowbridge!” «What for ?” ‘Because I could not help it.” «And what then ?” “Ah! what then?” she said, reflectively, putting her hand to her forehead and losing herself in thought. “What then?” - “Yes, What became of him then ?” It’s got to be | Rich’s mind was very saeieds exercised | heame to respond to this Summons. on of footsteps echoed along the holiow rooms inside; cers 4\1—No. Ad, ‘We leaped forward and went down there !”—she | pointed with trembiing finger to the well—‘‘down, down—and, oh, how the water splashed when he reached the bottom! Don't you hear it now ?” and she assumed the attitude of breathless listening. Instinetively, Rich found himself listening, too. ‘Ah! you hear it? I thought you would. There! it has stopped. He is dead by this time. It doesn’t take one long to die when there is a bullet in his brain. And the girl that was with him—the Lena I told you of—she started and ran, and I saw her pick up the pistol I had flung away—the pistol that caused his death. I have the mate of it here.” She opened the bosom of her dress and half drew out th murderous weapon Rich had once before seen in her possession and then re- turned it to its hiding-place. Something rustied the shrubbery atthe side of the path, and the woman started forward and disappeared. Mr. Carleton Rich decided that here was a case for rater ition. How much credence he conld place in the ravings of a lunatie he did not know, but he felt that his secret was more than he could bear, and he went at once to the office of Judge Brayne and laid the facts, if they were tacts, before him, The judge heard him through attentively, and looked thoughtful. oy e must find this Peter of whom the woman speaks, and we must find the place where they live or lodge, as the case may be. Then we will see. I shall put the matter into the hands of Detective Stevens. Until you hear from me, keep quiet.” Mr. Rich went home, and for the first time in his life he kept something from his wife. He felt guilty in doing it, and he was so near bursting withit that it seemed to him she would be likely to discover it if she looked at him, and when she broke out, after dinner, in this wi8e, - thought she certainly must have found out the whole thing: “Oh. Carleton, I have made such a discovery !” “Yes, yes; oh! ah! what is it you have discovered, Eliza Ann ?’ es ange know the picture of the girl in our chamber ?” “Well, Maggie and I were giving the place a thorough turning over to-day, and says Maggie, says she, ‘T hat ould picter ought to be dusted, Yor shure.’ And says I, ‘Yes, but how are we to get it done?’ Then Maggie mounted on a step-ladder, and give the picture a h'ist, and, my soul and body! it slid right back into the wall, and there was a door into what had been the west wing. iItled rightout onto the ruins. And IJ want it stopped up atonce. I never should feel sate to go to bed any more, for burglars and robbers might come in onus any time. And we got the picture out of the wall, and looked at the back of it, and saw there the name of the girl, ‘AGNEs, 18—.’” “Agnes!” cried Mr. Rich, eagerly. ‘“‘Agnes! By Jove! Jill eat my head if that wasn’t the name the old man cailed her by! And now that I think of it, I wonder I didn’t notice it betore.” ‘Notice what before ?” asked his wife. | ‘Don't bother me, ’Lizy Ann. Let me think it out. | yes, ’m certain of it. That picture and the Ghost is one and the same woman; and l’m blessed if I don’t believe | that, crazy though she is, she tells the truth !” Two days passed, and Mr. Rich received a summons to Judge Brayne’s office. Mr. Kivel was present, and Mr. Detective Stevens. Mr. Stevens was a quiet little man, but he understood | his business so well that he had discovered all Judge | Brayne wanted to know. The Ghost was a maniac woman. Her name was Agnes. Nobody knew trom whence she came, At | pr resent she lived in Stonehedge Cottage, just outside | the borders of Clitheroe. The cottage had been taken : since Mr. Rich purchased Clitheroe by an old man who {gave the name of Peter Lecroix. Peter had told the | landlord that the insane lady was once the wife ot his | master, who was dead, and who had left an annuity, or income, for the poor Jady’ S support. : “Was that all?” the judge asked. “That was ail,” Mr. Stevens said, modestly. The judge summed up the case in a few words. “This woman called Agnes may have told the truth. Insane people often do. It is a strange story, but many parts of it are corroborated by facts which ‘we have in our possession. But the worst of it is, it comes too late to be of service. Lena Dudley, poor girl, is dead, and | all the discoveries in the world cannot bring her back. But if this thing can be substantiated, it would clear her memory from the foul suspicion which now hangs | over it; and it would comfort her father to know that | her innocence was established. Yes, J think we must | follow it up. Old Peter must be intimidated, and made | to tell what he knows. And we must take him by sur- | prise. ‘To-morrow night we will give Stonehedge Cot- tage a eo ” Some few preliminaries being arranged, the parties rere to meet again the next evening at eight oe OCK | Stonehedge Cottage was a small house on a desolate moor, and around the back part of the grounds ran a low stone wall surmounted by a scraggy hedge; from which the place took its name. It was a dreary enough place in the day-time, but it was doubly drear this dark and storm, evening. There was one solitary light burning in a high window at the back of the house, and it was vith great difficuity that the men were able to pick their way along tre stony grounds and find the door, upon which they thumped lustily. They were nearly tired of the exercise before any,0 At Tength the s¢ : was a noise of chairs rattling, and of bolts being drawn back, and the door Opened, and an old man appeared, holding a smoking oil lamp. The men startec back at sight of him. He was so gaunt, so pale, so horror-stricken, that for a moment no one spoke. Then Mr. Kivel addressed him: «Are you Peter Lecroix ?” The old man stared at him like one suddenly roused from sleep. The question | was repeated. “Yes; that is my name.’ “Well, we are herein the interests of justice,” said Mr. Kivel, sternly. ‘“lamalawyer; this gentleman is Mr. Stevens, the detective.” e clutched his arm fiercely and repeated her ques- | Hist! let me listen! | The old man bowed mechanically, but manifested no emotion. “We have reason to believe that the woman called Agnes, of whom you have charge, has committed a mur- der, and we are obliged to detain you as a witness.” “y es,” said the old man, apathetically; ‘1 am a wit- ness—I suppose so—yes «We must see your mistress. She is your mistress, I believe ?” «Yes: you are right.” ‘Can we see her at once; or will you need to go for- ward and prepare her ?” “No, I shall not need to do that.” “Good heavens! old man. look alive, can’t you? You act and look like a dead man. Lead on to your mis- tress, and look well to it that you do not try to elude us!” The old man lifted his sad eyes to the lawyer’s keen face, and the look of abject despair which sat on his countenance awoke a throb of pity even in the-lawyer's well dried fountain of sympathy. «Don’t take it so hard, my poor fellow,” he said, kind- ly; ‘if your mistress was insane, she cannot be punished tor what she did.” “No,” echoed the old man’s hollow voice; be punished for what she did.” He walked before them, carrying the light aloft in one shaking white hand, disturbing, as he went, colonies of death’s-head moths, and dark, ominous looking bats. she cannot Up the creaking stairs, and along a dark and winding passage, he led them, and stopped before a high and narrow door at the end of the corridor. An immense black cat, with flaming yellow eyes, crouched on the threshold, and at sight of the strangers she drew up her back, with a low growl, and crept slowly back into the shadows. _ Acold shudder ran down Mr. Carleton Rich's” back. There was something terribly uncanny about the whole proceeding. The old man paused before the door, and turning round, looked at his companions. “You come in the name of the law,” he said, slowly; ‘your power is infinite; step in, and exercise it to the utmost.” He threw the door wide open, and let the dim rays of the lamp shine into the darkness of the chamber. When the men’s eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, they saw before them an unfurnished chamber, through whose half-open windows came a draught of cold and dismal air, Which sw ayed the light of the smok- ing lamp hither and thither, and caused it to shed gro- tesque Shadows over the only article of furniture in the apartment—a tall, high-posted bedstead, arvuund which the white curtains were closely drawn. — The old man stepped to the bedside and drew back the curtains, and the wonder-stricken men Saw, lying on the pillows, Calin, and pale, and motionless, the Iace ot a corpse. “My mistress is there,” said the old man. ‘‘Do your worst. Nothing in this world can harm her more. Thank heaven, she has passed beyond it!” He sank on his knees by the bedside, and buried his face in the sheet which covered her, and the men gazed, silent and'tawe-stricken, upon.the dead face of Agnes, the Ghost ot the West Wing. CHAPTER XLV. ON THE TRACK. The shock fully roused Conroy. He Knew what had happened, and the love of life strong as ever, and the desire to live tor revenge, urged him to almost superhu- man effort. He succeeded in freeing himself from the pressure of the grain bags, but the car door was blocked, and he found it impossible to break his way out of the car. He must sit still anv. wait for help. But it seemed asif help would never come. © onroy hallooed until be was hoarse and completely spent—no- body heard hiim—and by and by what he had fearcd took place. The train had caught fire! He could see the glare of the red light through the erevices—he could hear the roar of the flames, and he fancied that already the stifled air in the car was grow- ing hot. He shoutea . gain and again. but still nc response. He could hear mcu’s shouts in the distance. and knew that wiliing hands were working somewhere—hands that would-work for him it he could only bring them to his aid. The smoke began to penetrate the car—it choked his lungs and made breathing very difficult. The crackling of the flames sounded nearer, and Conroy rushed from one side of the car to the other, vainly ‘seeking some openil make Gr screal an an ringin that b And succet tame: E ag a plac deeds W her spoke ward, His time } how 1 unde! and v this t very | a tow For coura at thi gaze. rags, and § AY the a rest, had | fathe «tht of th hung gath you | 1 Gar oN ing i & you. Co face. befo! ring: face sunl the. ter): . *| was and dar} trou ey eye: han pur +e a belt fate etl tet hie mS . 3 > G Te ° 4 OCS & \ ASO VOL. 4l —No. 44, ICs eh : ) 2 iid ae iy ® e!’—_she =e Ee Sah ; a a S : -“downh, 7 5 ae ae ne. 3 nes openine by which he might wrench off a board, and | — eee of the silent sleepers in costly mauso- i ~ latter’s good-humored badgering of Johnny evi- eo cold-blooc¢ od crime that caused the city to ring with z “George Dyer is here for me to look at by your or- 2 make his escape.~ | leums and in carved tablets of marble and granite. ently quieted the stranger’s suspicions, for the man | indignation. -— ers ?”” : : “Great heaven, to be roasted alive like arat in his} ‘The doctor put up his watch, and touched Woodbury’s | turned his back full upon ‘the boy and strode along the So tar the vagabond was above suspicion. -*That is no secret, so I admit it.” : a hole !” he cried, in bitter despair, and once more he | cold hand with his burning fingers. Street as though in haste to reach his destination. But ther@ was another possibility—a dreadful, lurking “Very well: we will go.” a screamed at the top of ee voice. He patter, joy—; ‘If zn are sure you can centrol yourself, come with The street was near the New York approach to Brook- | possibilitywhieh “gyn have ne aaa except in the They returned to the street. There, before parting, et ene an answering shout, and in a moment more the sharp. | me, and remember that if the result sho be what we | lyn Bridge, and it speedily became evident that the | case of a man with dissipated habits. Hyjah said: ° ne And ringing blows of axes on the side of of the car told him | have dared to hope, one moment’s excitement may be | man intended to cross. Carl Brandon was often intoxicated. Not untrequent- “T will favor you with still further explanation, as it ate that help was at hand. | fatal.” “If he’s goin’ over, SO am I,” Steve decided, following | ly all his native dignity was clouded by this fatal weak- | may be of use to you and no injury to my chances of suc- . on And it Came none too soon, for even as the rescuers; ‘‘You can trust me—I will be ice and snow.” at a safe distance behind. ness. And at such times he was not always fully con-| cess. I have met and talked with George Dyer, and he Have succeed in making an opening through one side the! ‘Then come!” The man did not take a car to cross the bridge, as the | scious of his own acts, although he would apparently be | has given to me the name of the person who shot Hiram 1 Of her lames burst in at the other. | He softly pushed open the door of the tomb. and drew | boy had expected, but kept to the promenade instead. | comparatively sober. He had committed many petty | Waldron. I forced him to make the statement, yet I do ™ Rich Eager hands pulled Conroy through, and bore him to | it close behind them as Woodbury passed in. A faint | ‘I can’t lose him now, that’s certain,” he commented, | offenses, while in that condition, at various times. And | not feel sure it is correct. In fact, I am convinced that Len re- a place of safety, and then the men went on other | light shone in the farther corner, coming from a small | and waited until the slouching figure had passed well | upon each of those occasions he afterward retained not | it is not, and that 1 am no nearer proving the culprit’s deeds of mercy and the pdor tramp was forgotten. | pocket-lantern which was placed on the topmost of a | from view. : the slightest recollection of his own action. guilt than in the beginning.” Bf the When, sometime afterward, he was remembered and | pile of coffins. Steve groped in his pocket fora penny for toll Ashe] _ If this were possible in lighter offences, was it not «You think, then, that Dyer is mistaken ?” ae ed. spoken of, he was several miles further on his way west-| The foul air turned Woodbury sick for a moment, but | did so a look of consternation came over his face; for | likewise so in the case of the Waldron tragedy? __ “J did not say that.” ‘ “ase for ward, in pursuit of Belford and revenge. | he conquered the weakness we all feel in the presence | there was not a coin of any denomination upon his per-| _ Stella did not like to think for even a moment of this «You are evidently following out a definite theory.” ace in His journey was a long one, when reckoned by the | of entombed mortality, and followed the doctor. son, and he had no other money, - dreadtul possibility. Yet it would obtrude upon her mind “Tam following the slender thread of a clew which elt that time it took to perform it. It would be tedious to tell} Arthur Woodbury’s wite had been placed beside the cof- | _ A treacherous hole in his pocket explained his situa- | in spite of all her efforts to banish it. | you overlooked in your investigation. Slender as it is, Went at how much hé endured, and still never flinched in his | fin of her husband’s mother, in the tenth vault of the arch- | tion. He had started out with money enough for pres-| Abd now, with the words of George Dyer ringing in | however, I believe that it will defeat the sophistry in acts, if undertaking. And at last he reached the goal he had set, | way devoted to the reception of the dead, and the doc- | ent needs, and now he tound himself unable to pay the | her ears, the horritying suspicion became stronger, and | which you place so much confidence.” loos and by skillful inguiries—he had become very wai% by | tor passed on until he reached the place. Turning the | one-cent toll required. fora moment overwhelmed all her courageous conti- The spectacled eyes of Croly met those of the Hindoo’ ooked this time—he learned that Jack Belford had ieft that | lantern so that its rays fell full upon {the new coffin. he “Pretty go, if I must lose that chap jest ’cause I ain’t | dence, which until then had been unyielding. - with penetrating keenness, while a slight flush tinged . : : very morning by an early train, with a ticket for L . | looked on the tace of the still tenant. gota cent!” he exclaimed. : For an instant she stood weak and trembling under | his smooth, pale cheeks. be , = aks, a town On the very verge of civilization. * |. A flush of triumph lighted up his sallow countenance, But he was at a loss only fora moment. A swift | the unwavering gaze of the young man. | “To what sophistry do you refer ?” he quickly asked. uge, 62 For a moment Conroy’s swart cheek grew pale, his | his deep eyes burned with feverish brightness, he lifted | glance about him, and he espied a portly, good-natureé | Then her resolution returned, reintorced by a realiza- “That of the lines on no two human thumbs being ex-/ i é 1e courage seemed about to fail him, and he looked up | his tallform until his height seemed most ghostly and | looking gentleman sauntering past. He was plainly a | tion of a new necessity. : : actly alike, upon which your jealously guarded clew is you at the arid skies of that western world with despairing | unnaturalin the dim light, and sinking his voice to a/} stranger in the city, bent upon crossing the bridge for Perhaps her father di@ commit the crime. In a drunk- | based.” ; ; é ; bi gaze. His clothes were ready to drop from his body in | whisper, he said: the magnificent view which it affords. en trenzy he might have shot Hiram Waldron, and upon Croly was astonished to discover that Hyjah had S life rags, his shoes were gone, his. bare feet were swollen | ‘Itisa suecess! She will live \” Steve stepped up to him and touched his arm. recovery of his senses no recollection of the act lingered | fathomed his secret. He supposed that his theory and eene and sore, and would hardly sustain him. ee _| “Thank God! thank God!” cried Woodbury, sinking | ‘Beg pardon, mister,” he said, by way of accosting | in bis mind. ee : hi the strange clew were known to no man save himself. ied at s A BA d man, bbe me platform pi st8t of | on his knees beside the coffin and gazing on the sweet | him. asi * e tt Se eas as nie retanl ie a ere: ue hope you have not been spying upon me?” he ex- & 1e depot, where Conroy had sank Gown on a bench .to | face within its shadows. WwW is it, my 2?” the man ced. and with electrical rapidity she decided what to do. claimed. S wike, rest, Teens at hing? xis seine lige. iene denticnan : Scone ih ctentek than destiny! Greater even than Ob ey Nene ia 6 spare ty Apu. oO ach my toll, Whether ieecp oda ‘unvonsclously guilty, her vaga- “Not at all.” : ‘whole had his little daughter with him, and she had called her | the law!” cried the doctor. ‘‘And now she must be | and haven't a red tomy name. Hole in my pocket, yer | bond father must be defended. And, friendless and an “Then how did you know ?” : : father’s attention to the poor tramp. | taken at. once trom this place. Are your plams perfect ? | see.” ; outcast, who but herself could defend him ? “How? I had my eyes open, thatisall. Isaw thata “He looks sick and tired, papa,” said the sweet voice | Is the carriage in waiting ?” The man took out three or four-pennies, but hesitated} Braced by this thought, the brave girl resolutely met | piece had been cut trom the window sash in the count pvered, of the girl, ‘‘and see how ragged he is. Andhe must be! ‘Everything is as we have arranged it.” as he was about to proffer them to the boy. the gaze ot the foreman. ing-room where the murder took place. I knew that no nis hungry, too. Papa, it must be dreadful to be hungry.; ‘Who drives the horses ?” . “St I give pennies to everybody that asks me, I shall; ‘‘if 1 desire it, you can tell me the culprit’s name ?” she | one but a wide-awake detective would do such a thing. er? Please give him some something to eat.” | «f drive the horse myself. 1 will trust my wife’s | have enough to do,” he exclaimed; adding: “I've just | repeated, in a low, clear tone. _ I have also heard of the theory about the lines on human 4 The rich man put his hand in his pocket and gave a | safety to no third person.” paid toll for one man; I must draw the line somewhere.” | ~“‘That is what I said,” he replied. thumbs. Iconfess that I never tested it, because I did rough Silver doliar to his little girl. He never denied her any-| ‘Good,’ muttered the German, ‘‘where there are se- And he coolly returned the pennies to his pocket. “If you know who shot Hiram Waldron, why do you | not think it worth while.” Big ber - le , ; | crets, Servants are better lett out of the programme. We He wouid have roe on, had the youngster not oe o Stas it i a consider it worthless, then ?”’ ays 4, She went up to Conroy and touched his shoulder be- | can manage it alone.” | clung tenaciously to his arm. f yer hesitated, and then answered : “Edo.” lagele Pai en as as $ ; | He had already Pee eng = ye oe ne ina. | “vid you pay ior that slouchix.chap ?” Steve eagerly | ee not imagine v ion conperea tly pare ne fear “y ne as ip pet Ast, “Please don’t be cross,” she said, seeing a frown | moment more he had lifted up the slight form of Lena, | asked. ; “tL eannot. “you are very Sharp, andif you had anything like a F wall, gather on the man’s face. ‘I am so sorry for you, and | and wrapped it in a blanket, he had brought with him.} “Yes.” , | ‘You know what I have told you many times—that I | reasonable clew to work on I should have my hands full > west you look so sad. Is anybody that you loved dead ?” | He gave her into the arms of her husband, and proceeded | ‘‘He asked yer to ?” | love you. and that I would spare you any pain chat I | to get ahead of you. You will learn not to put contidence rr ; poe ’” repeated the tramp. ‘Yes; everybody that | rapidly to place everything as it was when he had en-| Yes.” | — at whatever ey to ee : eh es ; cs a : ‘ sot cared for is dead.” } tered the tomb, . | ‘What else did he say 2” | The young man spoke earnestly, yet a fiash of resent- sroly smiled, and quietly answered : me in “Mamma is dead, too,” said the child atear gather-} The coffin was ballasted with some fragments of stone | ‘That be had lost all his money, and that he must | ment from the girl’s eyes showed that she distrusted| ‘“Perhaps1 shall. But you must not believe me too wv all, ing in her dark eye; “and papa and [are alone. Have | gathered from a pile of debris behind the vault, the lid | cross over to see lis sick mother,” : | him. eM ae : gullible. I do not swallow everything that doesn’t hap- me of you any little girl like me 2” ie was placed on it and screwed down, and then the doctor | ‘Did you swaller that yarn 2” | “AE do not believe you,” she slowly said. pen to be a W hale. I m much obliged to you for j our Bia: _ Conroy turned his blood-shot eyes on her fair young | lifted it to its piace beside ‘‘Adelaide, wife of Charlton “Just the same as i swallow yours, sonny. Sotrudge| ‘Do not believe that f{ care for you? caution, and I respect your skill even more than you e! face. A picture of Carrie, as she was at that age, rose | W oodbury,” and having settled it into its niche to his | along.” ; | “T do not believe you would make SO great a Sacrifice | think; still I shall try and swing my end of this case till rT peta ae es ae Pee oe clustering | es he stepped eee and ee ane art | ‘The*man flung off the boy’s grasp impatiently, and | for mS om id get ih epee yourself. eee, 2 go aS out ahead we'll shake rings lair, Lhe Sweet red and white of herinnocent; ‘‘it tits as square as a brick in a wall,” he said,-in a | hastened on. : “You me injustice.” __ ‘ ands. If I an y s—— 2 f ee ene pi vated a it oo ? Lying cold and} well ae ates SANG. Ane a pre ae or that no! steve watched him from view with a mischie wats. erin, Ff gee poe Beene Wa he mine in pe end.” Bt —e shake hands the same,” said Hyjah, as Croly Sunken under the frozen clods of the pauper’s corner of | one will ever trouble it. 1f any one should do so, 1 hope | and a moment later advanced, paid his toll with a| ‘1 would shield your father for your sake.’ sitated. t out. the grave-yard, forgotten by ali save him, unwept, bit- | the contents will well repay hiin for his pains. Of course, | pright new copper, and then trudged on his wayiap pur-| _ ‘“This is not what I wish you to tell me, George Dyer. | Thus they parted. ny ; IS one terly disgraced ! | you will have her name and age placed on the tablet | suit of the slouching stranger. ~ | You say that you saw the shot fired that killed Hiram] Croly, the detective, hastened to the printing-house lieve “t hada daughter once,” he said, fiercely ; «and she | above ?” | “My hand is small and the old duffer’s pocket was big, | Waldron ?” and entered the counting-room which was open. ns to aad ‘killed he and T ake 1 De Sue. up Te cane sd. | oe A Row th t act in the d Gad pe ee es war Boe ee yi ae bins a oe | (nd ther efore you can tell me the name of the cul- | h ; ek saan tiriam ten de and killed her, 2 saw her brought up trom the cold, | “And now for the next act in the drama. Gad! give it back if I ever see him ag’in..1ain’t nopick-| “An refore you c i sul- | haggard. : : d Mr. oor ot eee by notes a opes dripping | ro sont ie poaris and the pared ae Juage, ar: ae | pocket, but I barist Baye a pee When so much depends | nL ; Oran an tea Hatake a ee eas aw: in er hair! , Heaven! | can hea now !” | Cursed hard-hearted governor, dance with fury, if they it,” Steve remarked, with a chuckle. | ‘*¥es.” : mtn . eer obliga stood The child stood still and gazed at hita with dilated knew how we had cheated them ont of haere ?* , ee yeti tad aoee. nothing of the man of whom he was ! “Then do so\” Croly ?” . F : ° udge eyes. Her breath came quick and fast, the delicate | “Stop,” cried Woodbury, ‘don’t you think I have any | in pursuit on the bridge. He hastened forward, lest he | : The young man stared at the Speaker in amazement. “Oh, yes,” was the ready reply. a " wae Drea clutched the silver dollar until the nails were | eae 2 should lose him, after all. oo he nary toward Katie Byrnes, who had not ut- i 2 you suspect any person of the crime ? | urple. ; | .“Pardon me, but Iam beside myself with exultation. | Still the stranger did not appear, and at length the lad | tered a word. ‘ idk dating “1 0.) : At “Where is the man ?” she asked, slowly. I have demonstrated a theory which has occupied ten | halted and looked backward. r | ‘Do you wish me to tell in her presence ?” indicating “May I ask whom ?” ; crak ; “He is in the | world still. Girl, I ask you—you, Who | years of my life. This is the second time I have done it. | “He’s given me the slip, after all,” he exclaimed. the Irish girl by a nod. Bee era ; “T ae rather not et aren at this stage of my < being young and innocent, should know the right, what | [tis a triumph! and you cannot possibly understand; «No, he hasn’t; he’s right here!” exclaimed a gruff | Yes, in her presence—she is more to be trusted than | investigations. But I will allow you to infer what you t = fate does such a man deserve ?” * | me—I don’t expect you to. Lead on.” | voice, so close at. hand that the lad sprang backward | you are!” was the steady reply. please trom that which I am about tosay. I desire you : a _‘He should die !” said the child, steadily. “Heshould| They closed and locked the door of the tomb, and | with a startled ejaculation. | ‘The young man uttered something like a smothered | to assist me in an experiment, and also to answer a few : 7 die, so that never again in all the world can he hurt any | Woodbury, still carrying his dead bride, passed aloug | He found himself face to face with the slouching figure | oath. __He stretched out one hand and rudely seized questions. | a ae a Sa a y> other girl like your little girl that died.’ | the northern wall of the inclosure to a gate, outside of | which he had been pursuing ; apd betore he could recoil | Stella's arm. A . ‘ Go on, sir. I am ready to do all in my power to aid . Then she gave him the dollar, and her father came which, tied in the shelter of a clump of weeping tir trees, | beyond his reach, the stranger had seized the boy’sarm | ‘You will goad me too far!” he cried. ; you. ; Rigo ae and led her away. , Stood a powertul black horse, and an ordinary covered | with no gentle hand. ‘ | _“f£ wish to goad you to telling the truth—that isall. I “Have you lately met the vagabond, Carl Brandon ? Conroy looked at the money wistfully, and thought of | wagon. | “Bill Leary !” Steve exclaimed, recognizing the coarse, | 40 not believe my father committed the Waldron mur-| ‘Yes, many times.” ; ES Aes SE oe the good square meal it would purchase, andithad| The horse whinnied softly in answer to his master’s | brutal face of the ruffian. : der.” If he did, and. you know it, 1 wish you. to tell me, |, ‘Ten you are perfectly familiar with his personal ap- nay been so long since he had known what a meal was. | voice, and Woodbiry piacell its sili burden on the back | "And: you was playih’ wateh-dog at my eels!” the Is it worse for me to know thin to fear the worst? i pearance and pecuitarities | ra 1en hi a dingy handkerchief and wrapped | seat, and motioned to the doctor to get in. | man growled, in return... j ave a rig y. LOOK a Ss 8 rer, Xes. : : : a ve in the coin carefully in one corner, and thrust the whole | “I will drive, if you prefer,” said the German, gather-| Steve realized upon the instant that the man had | and tell me the truth. Now, now!” — ‘Did you ever notice his hands particutarly ?” a inside his ragged shirt. ; | ing up the reins. ; : | fathomed his purpose. He perceived also that there | She had torn her arm free from his’ grasp, and now “Why do you. ask 2 ee it “No, no,” he said; “I would not use it to save me, ‘No one can drive Tigris but myself,” said Woodbury. | was no one near on whom he could call tor assistance | clutched his in turn. Her face was very pale, her eyes Has one finger upon his right hand been amputated ak from starvation. She looked at me out of Carrie’s eyes, | “He knows my hand. ‘Take care of Her, and trust to me, | should he require any. A bevy of girls were strolling | glowed, she trembled Rey ae tite , : Se aos Uy ne and she, the little innocent, pitied | the girl, the poor no matter how the horse goes.” | past them, chatting and laughing. An old gentleman He recoiled before er, his eyes fell, and in a low, i es, the forefinger.” aot icine ae that girl, who was so stained and guilty. | He mounted the narrow front seat, loosened the reins, | stood near the rail, gazing out upon the panorama | dogged tone he said: gt “And are his hands rather narrow and long ? Set a pee Look up his gedukee. BAT pulled his rags to- | spoke to the horse, and away they dashed through the | spread upon the river. Farther away were other pe- dine ee _ oe oe Dear re me he me if I s nies By Sib dike WARM cee ho WAMU wecainiaela wade Behe bo oc pa a bass wp 5 im Keak: Wekiiervibn one ee ye me ae ot ae pee siaie eel Sab of | ferre but, as luck would haye it, all were women or ohn ane A him agionie tah. her impetuously ery that tha rece rot Mr uldren escaped he ata eens 3 rl : s head, t F and | orse striking fire troin the flinty road at every step, | children. . ’ Pa ceee. ten : ae : AOU fh CS Tne oon parching winds of the plains beat in his face, the wild | and scattering the loose gravel like hail-stones against | The lad took in the situation at a single glance. Then | ing: : regs toexamine the sash closely. His own person was be- Ol- oe straggled on doubltiully behind him, but still he | the giass. P | he turned his eyes up to the tlerce face of his enemy. “ oe you do not know. phe pe we oe oh ake deuacie hich he cept on. | ‘How madly the beast goes,” cried the doctor. ‘Are; «§ go!” he exclaimed. “1 do know. J UbY ACCOMPUSNED WAS NOL OOSErr over. ‘ties Sometimes the kind heart of a settler’s wife prompted | you sure you hake him in hand? It might be gakward ren wae pte you was doggin’ me for, then?” the| ‘‘Why do you refuse to tell?” Returning to the gentleman, he said: — ight her to offer him adrink of milk anda slice of bread, | to get spilled out, with our present load of passengers.” | ruffian fiercely retorted. : : ‘Because I dare not disclose the truth.” ‘Brandon is a taller man than yourself, is he not ?” tate || | Where Re-esked eharity, and the dogs were sob upon | Kiows his driver ™ nt at Nogami, THEE | ctiamany 1 dest as 8000 @ HEHE Yo cross Chia Rrldge Be) ves Croiy’ seized several quires of blank printing paper : w Lhe : ere 1K S$ his driver. | you have ? . he 4 : eos than Mere se P rs F SNES : te hin to drive him away. ; ‘ } _And through the deepening darkness, up hill and | Q “You've no right to watch me.” ° ; “Then you are a coward. That a5) why you fled as soon Mt hich - ina chair, and placed it upon the floor under By and by he stumbled upon a ranchman who wanted ; down, over long stretches of smooth road, and through | «Yer don’t know as I was watghin’ yer, mister.” as the authorities began a investigate the mystery—be- sat? fp lgtang hil é hs : tit den Ne Nad plahted In the wilderness. Couroy stata | {armp-houses, with nove and there. & lighted window | ali erste: tay tine Younsster nWow, took here’ Wie | “You donot understand, Stella, Tam ina terrible| Mr. Blam complied, bs Chee 2 3. Conroy sta arm- Ww 3 re a lig: yindow-— | all the time, my tine youngster. Now, r Of. | sere BN aa i < ype aera : vs : re three days, and took the three dollars the ranchman : through village streets, silent and deserted, the covered | sent you to dhadew' ines hep pe . | Situation, and in which it is not easy to say what is duty. ‘Now you stand about as high as Carl Brandon, were the gaye him, and went on, He might have worked there | wagon with the black horse passed on. “Nobody.” ; _| If you would only be more triendly I would tell you all, | he in the same position ?” the detective inquired. hat tor months it he had chosen, but a relentless fate urged | (LO BE CONTINUED.) “The truth—who sent ye 2” ‘| and act upon your advice, for you are interested as well “T should say I did.” : ; ; ony hii to go on. B CO} le “J said nobody did. Ifyou thik yer can make me say | 28 J, you may be sure of that.” “Now, please, raise the window-sash. Do itas though Dp At night he slept under the shelter of the sage-brush, —_———__+ 9+ anything different, jest try it, t’s all I've got to say.” “T can | you what todo. If the one implicated is you were in haste. Wait! 1 wish to stand back so I and looked up at the stars during his waketful hours, The ruffian east a furtive g e about him. Never | hear and dear to*you, shield him, though that may not | Can see you. s ‘ ‘ : : one — ay chev WEES DALY. and wondered jt anywhere beyond | [THIS SrORY, WLLL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] | avas that section af the bride re_ deserted than ab.| be the high tour of duty. But the public isso blood- | Mr. ‘Blain complied. But he found it difficult to do 7 thein, away fin etomn te reais of space, there was | F that moment. Everything seer favor the ruffian’s | an i do ‘hoe auiways do a crimiital justice. So SO, because he was too tall-to grasp the sash to ad- i a world “where ail the good were gathered sate from brutal purpose. _ | Lwouldshield one whom I loved at any cost. Bat other- vantage. COREE aes ; ig n trouble, never to weep and suffer any more, but always E “Youre too crusty by half, my‘Sharp lad,” he exclaim- | Wise, expose the miscreant. That is you®duty.? W hen the window was raised, Croly said: ed, to be happy? It was a legend he had heard away back éd, tightening his grip upon the boy’s arm. "oe “You are braver than I. : “That is right; thank you. lnow see just low the in the days of his childhood, and he had also heard that “Let go of me!” 3 Ry “J trust I am.” yee act was done, and it is a great help where one must so there was another world where all the wicked suffered , E The boy struggled with all his might against th “J have half a mind to confide in you, Stella,” work out a clew almost wholly trom imagination. You o and never ceased suffering through ali eternity. Where’! powertul clasp. ~ «Ff the secret is yours 1 should not keep it.” may step down now, and IJ will close the window.” ; was Carrie ? She had sinned, but she had been led to it Of course Lis assailant was far too powerful for bim ta| s I say it is yours also.” Mr. Blain did so, and Croly quickly approached the ea through another § terrible sin ; and who was responsi- OR cope Witi successiully, by means of physical strength | “Then tell me, as I have urged you to do. window, scrutinized it closely, aud then closed the ble ? In the gener al making up ot accounts, to W hom | ? alone. But weight and muscle cannot always overcome | _ The young man hesitated, glancing turtively out into | sash. : ; fe : : would Carrie Conroy's fall be charged? Was God good a determined will, when that will has an active brain | the darkness that so densely surrounded the hut. “What do you make out of it ?” Blain questioned, in- and merciful? Did He see things trom the very begin- ; 5 | behind it. | ‘Then he bent toward the girl and quickly exclaimed: | tensely interested in the singular investigations of the ot ning, all the way through? Why, then—oh, why did | Steve writhed and wriggled with so much agility that | ‘Listen, Stella—I will tell you. all'I know concerning | detective. ae A He not keep Jack Belford away trom this poor girl and : for a minute the man lad all he ‘could manage. ‘Then, | the printing-house tragedy. : “T make a great deal out ot it. suffer her to live gut her harmiess, simple life as a vir- | when he felt that he could resist no longer, he gave ut- Stelia Brandon could not wholly restrain the eager- | ¢ ‘Does the experiment contirm a suspicion ?” no tuous maiden and a chaste wife ? terance to a loud, prolonged cry. | ness which she felt to hear the revelation, for she in- “J cannot tell at present.” : rm Poor Conroy exhausted his ignorant brain over pro- BY THE AUTHOR OF The instant that the cry passed his lips he ceased | Stinctively felf that the young man really intended mak- | _ ‘Do you suspect Carl Brandon of committing this ec blems like these, as many another, tar Wiser than he, iene visit Ha ea struggling, and with a low moan of pain sank as though | ing her his contidante. His weak, wavering nature had crime ? a ; oie ar- has done before him, but he got no nearer the solution | The Wall Street Wonder, The Grand Park | jirejess at the rutfian’s feet. | yielded to hers, which was so strong and resolute. I must decline to Say. ‘ ’ by thinking, than he was before he had given the matter Sensation,” ete. : In the fading light the lad’s face assumed an almost; _ “Katie, stand back—what he has to say is for my ears “I do not think he would commit so heartless a crime, r ntithe days and Mghts wore on, and every setting sun | Bhastly Rue, Wille IMs ips alld élicek wate smeared With | “ior ichtul iriend compiled with the reques, “At the | “Uuless—what? 2 ays é A 7 ry ~, » Te : . Cc 2 , * . df 1e “Un What? » T found the tramp yet a little nearer L——, where he ex-| [“Unper His Toums” was commenced in No. 38. Back rao ‘ -elaxed his gras d allow ad | Same time Dyer stepped nearer the outcast’s daughter. ‘He was crazed with liquor.” ‘pipes : on hale cau beoptained of all Mumae Acuet Leary instantly relaxed his grasp, an lowed the lad ‘ . : + y g is : peur ’ pected to find the man he had sworn to put to death. As | numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] to lie as he had fallen, at the same time glancing hastily | _ It is a short story that I have to tell,” he began, speak- Does he ever reach a stage of intoxication resem- he approached nearer his spirits rose ; he stood nore about to see if he was observed. He saw a man running | ing scarcely above a whisper. “But it requires a little bling insanity ? ; s r: erect, the blood flowed wore freely through his veins? | CHAPTER XXI. toward him ; and without waiting to see whether it was | Preliminary expkmation. Ujea the morning of the| ‘I have known him to do so. he felt himself younger, stronger, more ot a man than ; an officer or citizen, the ruffian darted away, and ran as | tragedy, soon after my arrival at the printing-house, I j Does he aiterward recollect what has taken place, befor e. He never thought of the possibility that Belford | THE STRUGGLE ON THE BRIDGE. for dear life toward the Brooklyn side of the bridge. saw your father enter the counting-1 oom. ‘This was be- when he recovers his senses ? : : Ou _ mig he have gone farther, or even doubled on his track, EES RRS Lic P RRS i: jean The man, who was a bridge policeman, did not at- | tore you visited Mr. W aldron, upon the same morning, ‘He does not, W hen in that condition. 5 : is- and returned to the east. He would not think of it. He ~~ ucartcandaghens ly Sinart, and no mistake— | tempt to pursue the ruffian. Instead, he hastened to | Which I also observed. Then, as ]—” This is a marked peculiarity of Brandon’s fits of in- de wgwould surely tind him atL. And then ? regular nonpareil, he is, from A to Z!” the side of the boy, who was in the act of rising to his) _ George Dyer’s eyes, which had until this moment | toxication, is it? , He was two day's journey from the end. A hot and} Giove Lawton was trudging along the busy street as | feet. ‘ been tixed steadfastly upon the face of his beautitul “Yes, sir. , : 4 ee Sri OAR Ee tne ea De Oe a this aollloguy hoodies or PEA 4 “What's the rumpus ?—did he try to kill you, boy >” | listener, now looked past her toward the entrance of | “You speak trom your own observation, Mr. Blain ? is down behind the distant sun-capped mountains, and | he made this s quy, Signts and seunds | tne officer demanded, catching sight of the lad’s blood- | the hut. j : It is important that I obtain evidence of that sort upon i) left behind on the western sky a trail like blood. to which he was so accustomed, yet too alert to permit | smeared features. At the same time they became suddenly distended | unimpeachable authority.” Conroy ate his supper on ary bread, and drank from the most trivial incident to escape his keen, restless Steve Lawton uttered no response. He eluded the out- | With terror; his jaw fell nervelessly ; his countenance “th speak concerning Carl Brandon only from my own d- the sluggish stream, beside Ww hich he had thrown him- : , stretched hand of the patrolman, and the next instant | assumed a sickly, ashen hue. } experience with him. I have known him for many 2d self down, and by dark he was asleep. eyes. : was running like the wind in pursuit of Bill Leary, the; At the same instant a tall shadow appeared outlined years. I have know hand pitied lim. ; si ‘ Hs aha reins ie Rad wepene a ; oc. oes a It was toward the close of the day marked by the ac- | «tough.” against the dingy walls. ; ieee ay Ras ill do. a must now pursue my in- ong 10W_ sed to sleep, the | ,, ee, oe ee : co —. vestigations in another quarter.’ healthful, dreamless sleep of an honest laboring man. | 400 recorded in the preceding chapter. CHAPTER XXIII. Out upon the street went the detective, and hastened 1e€ He started up continually, and then fell back againand| The boy had no special object in view at the moment. | CHAPTER XXII. GROLY USES HIS. SKILL to a spot where he would not be observed. of dozed. ‘ ; * star for 4 , . e : een Z Then trom his pocket he drew a piece of wax, upon S. Something wakened him suddenly; he sat up and Het Hae MORAN! 2 NGG APEC STO eee en The Hindoo detective had promised to lead Croly, his | one side of which Nasa impression bt the Window cists ig gazed sleepily around him. His weary brain did not act do something brilliant. It was indeed George Dyer, the missing foreman of| more youthtul but no less determined rival, to the | just where the piece had been cut. On the other side dh readily, but he felt overpowered by a Strong sense of im-| “I loafed round yesterday, and didn’t do nothin’, and | Blain & Waidron’s printing-house who stood in the door- | hiding-place of George Dyer. : ‘ was the impression, perfect in every lihe, of Julian se pending danger. if 1 loaf to-day without strikin’ a leader of some sort, | @Y of the lonely hut, face to face with Stella Brandon Mr. Croly was Skeptical, yet sufficiently curious to fol- | giain’s trum! 5 le A moment more, and thoroughly aroused, he sprang S ; ; eet ” | and Katie Byrnes. \ low him. ee “He little thought how important a elew he was fur- rT to his feet and saw what was coming. The air was thick | “at smart detective will take me for a ninny—sort of} It was no wonder they uttered expressions of mutual} They hastened to the building upon the same street | nishing me while I distracted his attention with ques- 1€ and stifling, the faint puffs of wind which lifted the long | dead matter that’s no good any more.” amazement as they recognized each other. se 2 upon which the printing-house stood. Most of the build- | tions and details for which I didn’t eare a picay une,” lair.on his temples, felt like the blast from a hot oven, ‘The boy paused at a corner which he reached at the The young man gazed in silence into the beautiful face | ings upon that section of the street were old, and this | Croly muttered, as he examined his prize. ; R a tala odor of smoke pervaded everything, a dull, roar- : ; : of the vagabond’s daughter tor a full minute. Then he | one was no exception. : “It is perfect,” he added, a moment later. “And now e ing rumble like the mutterings of distant thunder | ™0mMent of making this observation, and glanced alert- | jowered his lantern. and stepped under the rude shelter. | Three other buildings stood between it and the scene | | will compare it with the bloody print that the Hindoo sounded in the distance, and along the western line of | ly about him. Almost at the same moment hesawa}|_ ‘J’m not going torunaway trom you, Stella,” he de-| of the tragedy, and these were devoted to various kinds | scoffs at. We'll see whether the murderer of Hiram g the tramp’s vision a low, red glare, stretching for miles, | jarge man, with a slouching figure, glance furtively to- clared, something like an expression of relief in his | of business, some of the floors being occupied as offices | Waldron falls under his thumb or mine!” belted in the broad plain on which he stood. % ¢ ; z tones. and a tew tenements. ; The detective hastened to his own private quarters. rs The prairie was on fire! ward him from the opposite side of the street. “Why should you flee from any one, George ?” she de-} The door by which the Hindoo entered admitted them | But he did not reach them far in advance of the dwark- € A moment more, and he heard the dull, heavy thud of | The glance was but momentary, and was so hastily | Manded, stepping backward and eying hita suspiciously. | to a salesroom, through which they passed unchal-| ish being known as Spider, whom he had once beture a herd of fleeing buffaloes, the air was filled with dust | withdrawn that it was evident it was not intended t ‘Phat is not easy to explain,” he replied. And atter a | lenged, descending a tight of stairs, after which they | encountered under such peculiar. circumstances. if trom their flying hoofs, as with mad and savage bellow- ee LAGE O° | moment’s pause he added : n ; found themselves in a dimly lighted room, stored with (20 BE CONTINUED.) ings they plunged headlong past. The weaker ones | attract the boy’s attention. : “Were you running away, too? bales and boxes. ios ; ; ‘ e were trampled down by the way, and their dying groans} But in this intention the man failed. Steve was as + Vege? Here the Hindoo paused, and said: PS pila a a mingled with the rumble of the wild stam pede, aud with | Wide awake as a weasel. And he was as Sly as he was “From whom ?” i “Let it be distinctly understood that you are not to MISSIONARY WORK IN 1 TA ft the mighty roar of the approaching flames. : observant. Without appearing to have seen the slouch- ‘The detectives. take advantage of this opportunity to arrest or inter- MISSION it IN IOWA. . Conroy ere him, Nothing, he knew, was Set ani as od Mae puypenios an soRhiucel Fe tec pakon aa say, Stella, that they suspect you | ee ene Se eord tat tee Ott ae sis . - there but a trackless plain for miles, covered with tall and, ch Was atl “Os jOUNgS of amything wrong : “x AVE TOY 2 he a, ae ne train was half way acr he State of Iowa and . rank grass, tiierapersod with patches of wane alkali, and | Somewhat older than himself. e *[— do not know what they suspect. But they are try- “Yet, in due time, if you wish to return to this place fs v erren i ag as a inns cae eee Re a ie er : clumps of sage-br “How’s trade, Johnny ?” Steve familiarly asked. ing to take me—as a witness, perhaps. They suspect | alone for the purpose of taking him, you axe at liberty | had stopped at a small station. The conductor entered To attempt to ‘fore he danger was sheer folly, ‘Nuthin’ ae wae How’s yourn ?” some one else.” to do ye pin iii the car and said with a loud voice : c in twenty minuteS- these: galloping tlames would over-| ‘1’ out of a job.’ “Whom ?” tt ee ““f will bear that in mind. “Here is a telegram from Des Moines inquiring if any L take the swiftest race-horse that ever swept beneath the | . “Get Oe a rect: aie webel’ She looked straight into the young man’s eyes as she | “But Car ie nie aay ae eee se ae a tO | Kentucky men are on this train ?” . ; : wire, amid the wild shouts of the excited muititude, on |. “Naw, ee en x » as it were. itis _,_ | answered : sea e has, dain make ae of rm a Y,, YOU are not to Speak vo him. | “seven men at once arose in their seats. The conductor a grand Derby day. How's that? Thought you was publishin’ a news- You can guess as well as I can tell you. He will not speak to you. aes) counted them and withdrew. When the train reached’ : He could burn a space around him—the device fre- | Paper instead of peddlin’ em as yer used to do. ‘Your father, | suppose—Carl Brandon. s “Very well. Let us lose no time.” sey | Des Moines a sedate-ldoking man boarded the car with a quently adopted .by hunters und backwoodsmen gen- Johnny's speech contained a comminglin of sarcasm “Ot course. He is Suspected of everything evil. And Hyjal led the way along a passage-way lined with | packet containing seven oblong, flat packages, wrapped erally—and then lying flat on his face allow the smoke | aud eager interest. He and Steve had once been chuins. | yet he never wronged any one. . | Stacks of bales and boxes, and they soon came to a door | jy paper, which he sold in about two minutes at fitty 3 to pass over him, and leave him in safety. He gathered | Hence the older boy entertained a degree of envy to-| ‘Perhaps they may be right, Stella. Carl Brandon | with glass panels. ; cents apiece. : " : a tew handtuls of the dryest grass, and felt in his | Ward the other when the -latter was picked up by Mr. | has a bad temper, you know.” 4 Beyond this door was a Small, bare room, lighted by “What are those things ?” inquired a passenger of the 2 pocket for matches.- A look of dire dismay shadowed | Waldron and made an apprentice in the great printing- “He is innocent, George Dyer, and you know it!” a single gas-jet. The light was sufficient to reveal with sedate-looking man. a Ts his face. He had scratched his last match. His match- RRS sam ; At a “7 know it? Souk Sho shot Hi Waldrda, T.| Sate ere Tt fear Oe ede ie hg upon a | «Bibles !” he replied, in a solemn tone, as he opened pox was empty. ok he ous oe got | ey mono onous for me, so I took to ‘¥ es, yOu. oe eo w af . 1ob Hiram Waldron. I— | Bs ey hair ne tng a fe n ne e ; ates ea the | the door and went out. Betors He eee ereney eins AWAY, TONG Mamma wall | HOP SLT CSS Teta, “Lhe slouaibth cr Taree .Upih tinevGul cohen rescues aa tll tes Man cites or idee hee clk he [ele et ee eho reee ead. begs Benen epon the | ‘The seven men stared straight. ahead of them and said of fire ten feet high; the heavens were black with the | he kept an eye on the slouching figure upon the other | The young man’s tace flushed to a livid hue, and he | glass with his foretinger. : nothing. A deep silence fell upon the car. rolling volumes of smoke; clouds of cinders and burnt | Side of the street. once more raised the lantern so as to throw the light; The man sprang to his feet, flung down the paper, leaves darkened the stars, and Conroy stood still and| ‘‘Guess you didn’t suit tother man when the chap that | full upon the girls countenance. | and advanced toward the door. : 2 > 6. — : waited for his doom to come to him, ‘picked yer up was shot, eh?” Johnny shrewdly ob “I can prove your accusation to be false—sofaras ij, ‘Now, look,” said the Hindoo detective to his rival. MASTERLY SELF-PROTECTION : served. am implicated, at least,” he said, his voice husky with | Croly stepped to the front, and found himself face to iN Sahoo ene. Prey . “7 suited well’nough. But he didn’t suit me. That’s | suppressed passion, *‘But I will admit that I know who | face with George Dyer, the foreman. ; CHAPTER XLVI. how it stood. And when it come to me or Mr, Blain git. | tired the fatal shot. And it yeu wish, 1can tellyouthe| ‘The young man evidently recognized the detective at| Captain Jack Adams, formerly of the 19th Massachu- 4 tin’ out of the business. I thought that on the whole J d | culprit’s name! a glance, tor he recoiled slightly, his countenance as- setts, the present sergeant-at-arms of the State Legisla- OUT OF THE TOMB. better be the one. Make less talk, yer know. Don’t| He said this so unwaveringly that it sent a sharp, | suming a death-like pallor. Se en : ay “Five minutes!” cried Arthur Woodbury, seizing the | wanter sell out yer stand here, do yer ?” deathly pain to the girl’s heart. But he did not attempt to flee. Instead, he stood mo- | ture, has a keen sense of humor, and can appreciate doctor's arm in his frenzied clutch—‘five minutes is an “What yer give?” . ‘ She knew that George Dyer was not believed to be tionless as a statue, gazing squarely into the eyes of | anything that has even 40 per cent of a joke about it. eternity! Let me goin. Let me see her; let me stand | “Dollar seventy-five. py guilty of the murder. She knew thas he was believed Croly, ey A One afternoon, during the late war, the captain was by if she is to die! Let me see life come back to her “Oh, you go eat yerself! Think yer can git stock and | to have been a witness of the tragedy. Therefore, if} He did not open his lips; his hands hung at his sides, walking along a lonely road in Virginia, some distance face, if it is to come back !” good will of a mercantile ’stablishment at that figger? | her father was, even in appearance, a party to the | his fingers worked nervously, it could be seen that he | +o.) pig camp, when a peculiar noise in an adjacent «Rea ’ } 2 . } ‘ ” offs "O jer of ying : 7 A > 7 O r oa %, ts is : : = 7 ee Be quiet)” said the doctor, stili cool and calm out- | Guess not, Steve.” af ; ek affair, the for eman had the power of giving him over to trembled violently. oe aie _. | field attracted his attention; in double time he arrived wardly, though the sharp beat of his heart could be dis-; ‘Glad you didn’t take me up, ’cause I don’t like the | the authorities. For a full minute Croly gazed into Dyer’s face, to make | 14h the scene: there lay the carcass of as fine “a mut- tinctly heard, and the spot of crimson on his cheeks | peanut business anyway. More ’propriate for old wo- Not that Stella for a moment really suspected her | sure there could be no mistake. He had met the fore- ton” us ever eraced the table of an epicurean brigadier ; burned with a steady heat. ‘ men and no-legged soldiers than ‘tis for a young fel- | father ot guilt. There was an intrinsic nobility in his | man several times before the day of the tragedy. and st anding over it with & “sheepish” look WHS & sieTObK adde Seatcingly Wah ana discet in the Uae ehcnos haves Godgenan opis milk the elle in tia wrath | craton or deliberate erimibeNGh, ce, tadereeatn oil | waukitie yaks lus motions aed eesenres. wrnichere as | ures soldier, wit bis rife, Under Captain Jack's sounded startlingly loud aud distinct in the dead silence Steve dodged an apple which the other in his wrath | shadow of deliberate crimin ‘ty. U, UNGETNeAaLn. a 16D i ya Sey bates Bye eee, penetrating and questioning glauce the boy-in-blue of the place. flung spitefully at him, but succeeded in catching the | her confidence, struggling agaiust her love, her convic- | useful as faces for the identification of individuals. never winced, but with a laok of injured innocense «will you not tell me——” began Woodbury, but the | fruit before it rolled into the gutter, and sauntered | tions, the power ot her own will, was a halt-defined, yet Dyer bore the scrutiny as though it were a disagree- volunteered the remark : : ptt doctor checked him instantly. ; down the street, coolly eating i ; haunting Sein oe asin that she had not neat ae oa es ne tem “}'l]l be hanged if ’lllet any darned sheep bite me!” “Wait. I myself do not know.” While Steve was enjoying the discomfiture of the other | dared even mutely to Shape in words. At last, when Croly turned away, the young man gave a : eee | Silent the two stood there, the half-closed door of the | boy, he had not been idle in his capacity of detective. Carl Brandon did, in truth, possess an impetuous dis- | an audible sigh of relief. _ ; ac a i ag tomb, black with shadows, behind them, the tall monu- | He had seen the slouching figure on the other. side of | position. He felt keenly the sfing of injustice which “Are you satistied, Mr. Croly ?” Hyjah asked. Picton eo WORD. M.D. LilicD. Dear of the: Univer ments to the shrouded dead rising all around them. | the street saunter past, quickening his pace as he in- | had been Shown him by the firn atioaaa ie, membership ae pogcite 0 sity of Georgia (editorial in. Southern Medical Record), says: } Here, for hundreds of years, had the dead members of | creased the distance between himself and the boy. | of which he had been crowded out cause of his hen we will go.” “Tn view of the favorable effects of the Coca:in counteracting f the Woodbury family been laid; here the living had! ‘Wants to keep out of my sight, that’s certain,” was | irregular habits. Despite these circumstances, nothing “Wait: one question. THE OPIUM HABIT, the Liebig Co’s Coca Beef Tonic is admi- € wept, and planted trees and flowers, and commemo- | Steve's mental comment. could have tempted him, in hig right mind, to commit “Go ahead.” rably adapted for the relief of this unfortunate habit.” } They are so tired of public life, Mrs. Hon. Nettleton 8 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. &s2=> VOL. 41—No. 44, WHAT DOES IT MATTER ? BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. Wealth and glory, and place and power, What are they worth to me or you? For the lease of life runs out in an hour, And death stands ready to claim his due ; Sounding honors or heaps of gold, What are they all when all is told? A pain or a pleasure, a smile or a tear— What does it matter which we claim ? For we step trom the cradle into the bier, And a careless world goes on the same, Hours of gladness or hours of sorrow, What does it matter to us to-morrow ? Truth of love or vow of friend— Tender caresses or cruel sneers— What do they matter to us in the end ? For the brief day dies, and the long night nears. Passionate kisses, or tears of gall, The grave will open and cover them all. Homeless vagrant,-or honored guest. Poor and humble, or rich and great, All are racked with the world’s unrest, All must meet with the common fate. Life from childhood till we are old, What is it all when all is told ? oe THE WIGWAG PAPERS.--No. 14, BY CLARA AUGUSTA. AN ELOPEMENT IN HIGH LIFE. = ~ i ~—s rh “«Goodness gracious, Rhody!” erled Wigwag. ‘Are you sick? Send. for the doctor! Somebody go for the doctor. She’ll die afore he’ll ever git here. Oh! I wish I’d never ’a come here. The climate don’t agree with her. It’s the Pottimack water. It’s made up of dead frogs and polly wogs.” And Wigwag grabbed me and fell to rubbing my hands, and blowing into my mouth, like asif I’d been drowndid, and he was a bellerses. “To, for mercy’s sake, behave yourself, Wigwag,” says I. ‘We shall git into the papers. Don’t you see that fellow over there sharpening his pencil, and preparing tointerview us? I hain’t sick. 1 only sneezed and the maccyrony busted out of my handkerchief.” ) was anxious to get out of that company, for they were all lookin’ at me as if I was a curious animal. We hastened from the dining-room, and found our things, and Fitz Doodle made our adieus to the Nettle- tons. We sha’n’t see ’em any more, I expect, for Con- gress will adjurn in a week or two, if there hain’t any more pensions to vote to anybody, and we shall go to Muddy Flat, and the Nettletons is going to Europe. says, but people in Washington say that his party is tired of him and ain’t a going to send him here any more. *He made his fortin by biling scrap-grease, and they do say that she used to be a table-girl in the tavern where he boarded. Oh, there’s a good deal of common sense in being aristocratic here in these United States, where everybody’s father used to work hard for a living, which is a good deal more to one’s credit than putting on airs because you happen to have alittle money. I’m sick of airs, myself. When we fust come here we hired a man to see after, And Peleg and I talked it over, and concluded that it wasn’t any good to cry over spilt milk, and Martin would be handy to have in the family. And Peleg sent this dispatch : : “Come home. All will be forgiven.” > e~ A Case of Circumstantial Evidence. BY EMERSON BENNETT. It is said that circumstantial evidence is the strongest evidence. 1 do not deny it, but I am going to cite a case to prove that it is not always infallible. I am a lawyer by profession, and the case occurred in my own practice some years ago. On reaching my office one morning and glancing over the papers, my attention was drawn to an account of a horrid murder that had been committed during the pre- vious afternoon. The article went on to state, that some time between four and six o’cluck an old gentleman named Simon Clarkson, living in the suburbs of the city in a secluded house, had been murdered; that he was a rich and ec- centric old bachelor, and resided all alone in a large dwelling ; that ic was known that during the afternoon he had drawn three thousand dollars from bank, and had then gone home; that it was supposed he had been seen and murdered for his money, as none of it could be found; and finally, that a clew tothe murderer had been obtained, and it was thought he would soon be ar- rested. During the whole morning I could not keep my mind from reverting to the murder of Simon Clarkson; and this fact struck me as the more singular because the de- ceased was neither a friend nor acquaintance, and be- cause in a large city murders and other crimes are so frequent as to make only a passing impression on the mind of a lawyer constantly engaged in criminal trials. But no matter what 1 would do, the question would continually come up as to who was the murderer of Si- mon Clarkson. I was just putting on my overcoat, preparatory to go- ing home from my office in the afternoon, when a gen- tle tap sounded on the door. ] opened it, and there stood a beautiful young lady, of about twenty years of age, dressed in deep mourning. I invited her in, and inquired in what way I could be of service to her. She replied, in a sweet, plaintive voice, that she had called upon me to see if I would not assist her in a mat- ter involving life and death. “Tn what way ?” I asked. She then told me, in a tremulous voice, with tears in her eyes, that she had a few days previously lost her dear mother, who was her only parent, her father having died some two years before; that her brother, who was then in his twenty-fifth year, was the only relation she had left; and that he was now in prison, having been arrested during the morning and accused of being the murderer of an old gentleman named Simon Clarkson. She then begged piteously for me to undertake his de- fense, saying that she knew he was innocent, and that if she could get agood lawyer he might be saved. I then told her that my time was very valuable, and that it would cost her a large fee to obtain my services. She replied that her brother and herself were poor ; that all th ad in the world were twenty-five dollars and a gold , Which had belonged to her deceased mother; but that she would gratefully give me every- oe gg possessed, and would some day pay me all I required. She pleaded with me so long and earnestly that I at last consented to visit her brother in the morning and see how the matter stood. I then took down her address and the name of her peg and she went away, shedding tears of grief and joy. Early the next day 1 called at the prison, and, as his counsel, was conducted to the cell of Richard Toland, for that was the name of the accused. “At the request of your sister, Mr. Toland, I have called to see you professionally,” I remarked, as I enter- ed hiscell. ‘I ama lawyer by profession, and my name is William Hampton.” ‘Heaven -bless my poor, dear sister!” he said, with deep emotion, as he came forward and grasped my hand. ‘And you, my dear sir, I thank most kindly for taking an interest in one so unfortunate as my poor self,” he warmly added. I was favorably impressed with his appearance, and concluded to take his case, fee or no fee. “Well, Richard,” I again said to him, ‘for the sake of your sister, who has pleaded so hard with me, I have decided to act as your counsel. Now give me all the particulars, and do not conceal the least thing. If guilty, say so; if not guilty, let me know everything, without the least reserve.” Gs “As sure as there is a God in heaven, Mr. Hampton, [ am as innocent of this crime as a child unbori 1” “All right, sir; and I Sincerely hope we shail | to prove it. Noy tell me all.” “Well, sir, I than the evidence produced at the preliminary hearing yesterday morning.” «What was that ?” “Yesterday morning, just after I had left home, I was arrested by a police officer, who told me I was wanted for the murder of an old gentleman named Simon Clark- son, and I was then taken to a police-station, and there locked ina cell. At eleven o’clock I was given a hear- ing, and committed to prison without bail. : “Well, what was the evidence produced at the hear- ing ?” I inquired. the horses and drive us out. He was quite a dark-com- plexioned feller, and might have been mistook for a | darkey if anybody hadn’t been very sharp-sighted. He was nice looking, and as polite as the President, or any other gentleman. His name was Martin Clay, ard he come from Virginia. Night before last there was the sound of a gittar out- side our house, and I listened to it as long as I could, and then I spoke to Wigwag. The feller that was playing on it was singing, ‘Oh, take me to my home again,” and every verse of it was mourntuller and mournfuller. “I wish you'd go speak to him, Peleg,” says I, ‘‘and ask him where his home is.” | “Do go to sleep, Rhody,” says Peleg, whopping over | on the other side, and pulling all the bed-clothes over his head, and leaving me out in the world, so to speak. “It’s some traveling, moon-struck lover. -Let him howl. I can stand it, if he can.” But I got up, slipped on a wrapper, riz up the window, and spoke to him. “Why don’t you go to your home, you poor man ?” says I; ‘or is it so fur off that you hain’t got the money ?” He stopped squalling, and I heerd a giggle that seemed to come from somewhere inside our house, and the man says, Says he: a AL beg your pardon. I hope I ain’t disturbing any- ody.’ ; ) “Yes, you be,” says I; ‘‘you’re a disturbing me the wust kind, and I can’t go to sleep. It puts me in mind of the way our old mare took on when the colt died of the blind staggerations. Couldn’t you go out and set in front of the statost of Jackson, and sing it to him? He’s a riding hossback, so he wouldn’t mind it.” The feller started off, and I heerd thet giggle again, and I knowed now it was Marie. I went in and spoke to her, and told her to go to bed and behaveherself. — The next morning when I went into her room to speak to her about laying abed so late, she wasn’t there! Her bed hadn’t been sleptin. Her traveling dress and her jewelry was gone, and there was a note on the buro ad- dressed to me and to Wigwag. You could have knocked me down with a feather. “Oh, dear, dear,” saysI. “It this is high life, give me Muddy Flat again,” and I sot down on the side of the bed and had a good cry. Then I thought I’d read the letter. It wasn't much to do. . ‘DEAREST PA AND MA:—When you read these lines I shall be on my way to a new life. Martin and 1 were married this morning at dawn. We knew you would never consent. And we could not live without each other. You little thought, ma, when you listened to his sweet voice singing ‘Take Me to My Home Again,’ that he was giving me the signal that was to bind our lives together. We shall go to Europe, if Martin’s money holds out. Good-by. «Your daughter MARIE.” «Good land of Geshen!’ says I. ‘Who is Martin 2” And Judson, who had come into the room, and Tom- my behind him, took the letter and read it, and says he, coolly enough : «Well, mamma, we can take our place with the best families in the land now. Marie has eloped with the coachman !” “The coachman !” says I. ‘““Why, he’s a darkey !” «So much the more ton tonnish,” said Judson. «He ain't a darkey,” says Tommy. ‘He only stained his face so’s to get more wages. Darkeys is a good deal Brees than white men in Washington. Martin said so imselt.” “Well,” says I, “I don’t know what your father will iy. But Peleg took it better than I expected. “Jt ain’t nothing unheard of,” says he; ‘‘and you see if they don’t give mea puff when it 8comes out in the newspapers!” So they did. The Evening Budget had it in big letters. ‘‘ELOPEMENT IN HigH Lire.—The beautiful and ac- complished daughter of the eloquent and popular Sen- ator Wigwag elopes with the coachman! The elegant wife of the Senator prostrated with grief! Senator Wigwag pronounced by good judges to be the most eloquent man in Washington!” : And then followed a long string of big words, giving an extended account of the affair, and ending with the startling information that Marie had been for some time engaged to an English peer, but had broken her en- gagement out of love for Martin. Oh, what won’t the newspapers tell for the sake of making a sensation ? The next night Peleg got a telegram from New York. This is it: “It was in substance that one Simon Clarkson, an eccentric old bachelor, who lived alone in a large house in the suburbs of the city, had drawn three thousand dollars from bank in the afternoon, and had entered his house some time later. About five o’clock a friend of the old gentleman had discovered the door open, and, upon going inside, had found him lying on the floor in a pool of blood. I was seen, it was said, between four and five o'clock, walking down the road toward the city, and apparently coming from the house. During the day there had been a slight fall of snow, and the impression of the murderer’s shoes had been leftinit. The size had been taken, and, upon measurement of my shoes, it was found to correspond exactly. I was searched, but nothing of value was found on my person, though there were spots of blood on my clothes. “That was all the testimony produced, and upon it I | harsh and stern to now nothing more about the matter | was committed for trial.” «Well, how much of it is true ?” I asked. «TI am sorry to say, sir, that it is all true, except that I committed such a foul crime as murder. If ever there was an innocent man, I am one.” , «You were near the house at the time stated, were Fou 9” . “Yes, sir, I was at the house.” “For what purpose ?” “IT was on my way home, and stopped to ask for a drink of water.” “Did you get it?” “No, sir—no ohe answered my ring.” «You were on your way home, you say; where had you been ?” “To the village of ——, to see about getting a situation in a drug store.” «Well, what -about the blood found on your clothes ?” “It came from my nose bleeding on the way.” ‘All this has a bad look, Richard.” “7 know it, sir,” he sighed ; ‘‘but, unfortunately for me, Such are the facts.” «Why did you not ride into the city ?” “Tam poor, and could not spare the money, and so walked in.” G “Did you get the situation ?” F “No, sir—another was engaged before I got there.” “Do you know the person you called to see about the position ?” ’ “F do not. Isaw the advertisement in the morning paper.’ : “Do you know his name and address ?” “Yes, Sir.” ‘Would he know you again ?” “7 think he would, for I had quite a long conversation with him, which I think he would recollect.” see were you last employed, and where, and by whom ?” “About a month ago, at 18 M—— street, by Messrs Jones & Turnbull, wholesale druggists.” ‘What was the cause of your leaving ?” “Business became dull, and they thought they could get along with less help.’ “How long had you been there ?” «About three months.” «Where were you employed before that ?” “In Cincinnati.” “In what capacity ?” “As a druggist, sir—that is my vocation.” «Why did you leave there 2” / “My mother was taken sick, and I came home.” After interrogating him somewhat further, I left, promising to do all in my power to save him. The evidence was purely circumstantial, but was very strong, and I believed thatjunless'something unforeseen should occur, he would be convicted. At last the trial came on, and the same evidence pro- duced before the’ committing magistrate was again given before the court, but in a more detailed manner. The only testimony for the defense embraced the prisoner’s good character from his boyhood down to that critical period in his history. His sister was present all through the trial, andI made the hest appeal to the jury I ever madein my life. I really felt that the young man was innocent, though T could not have told why, for the evidence was clearly against him. The judge charged the jury in a very impartial man- ner. Every body seemed to pity the poor fellow; but no one except himself, his sister, and myself, believed but that he was guilty. The jury retired, and it was nearly an hour before they brought in their verdict. His sister, pale and trembling, only spoke once, mean- while, to ask me if I had any hope of an acquittal. “T am almost certain that the jury will convict,” I re- plied; “‘but,we must still keep up our spirits, and en- “DEAR PA: Pleasesend me a hundred dollars. out of money. Weare MARIE.” deavor to get his sentence commuted to imprisonment for life, and then let no stone be unturned until we find | the real murderer.” The poor girl remained pale and silent until the jury filed solemnly into court, and in answer to the clerk’s inquiry, pronounced their verdict of “Guilty !” As soon as the word was uttered Mary Toland fell back in a swoon, and had to be carried out of the court- room. The prisoner was then taken back to prison, and some days afterward was sentenced to death. There had been created sO much sympathy for the young man and his fair young sister that nine out of the twelve jurors signed a petition to have his sentence com- cutee imprisonment for life, which we at last accom- plished. But the strangest part of the affair is yet to come. It was nearly two years after Richard Toland’s con- viction, and I had given up all hope of. finding the real murderer, when one afternoon his sister came to my of- fice and asked t® have a private conversation with me. linvited her into my back office, and she related to me the following dream of the night previous : Her brother, she thought, was upon the gallows, with the rope around his neck, and the next instant the drop fell and he was launched into eternity. She then ran to- ward him, but was detained by some one taking hold of her arm and saying to her: ine : “Mary, where are you going? Don’t you see that that man is not 1? Don’t you see that he has been shotin the breast, and that it is your brotaer who is now talking to you ?” And then, strangely enough, she found it was her brother who was standing next to her; and that the man on the gallows, whom she had sup to be her brother, was some one else, who really bore not the least resemblance to him. With this she awoke and found it was alla dream; but it made such an impression on her that she had has- tened to inform me of it. I soothed her as best I could, and told her to go home and still keep up hope, for kind Providence would not let an innocent man suffer forever, and that when the proeer time should come, all would be made clear and er brother would be released. That night I was aroused out of a sound sleep by the report of a pistol. a I hastily put on some clothing, and started to investi- gate the cause of the pistol-shot, for it sounded as if in the house. : Upon opening my chamber doorI saw my coachman hastening along the corridor toward me. y ‘What is the matter, John ?” I inquired. “Oh, good sir, a robber’s broke into the house, and I’ve shot him, sir!” he cried, in great agitation and alarm. «Please, sir, I did it in self-defense! What will be done with me now, sir?” “Where is he, John? Did you kill him ?” ‘ “7 don’t know; sir, if I killed him. He’s down stairs in the hall.” — re “Come with me, then, and we will investigate the matter.” ,~ “Oh, str please, will they hang me?” “* “No, John—have no féar of that. You only did that which the law gives you the right to do. You were protecting your own life, as well as that of your mas- ter. The scoundrel had no business in here, and he must suffer the consequences.” Upon arriving at the foot of the stairs, in the hall-way that led to the street, we found the burglar, lying on the floor, with blood flowing from a wound in his side. I spoke to him, but found he had lost consciousness. I then sent John for a physician, and another servant for an officer. They both arrived at the same time; and the doctor stated, after he had made an examination, that the man Was mortally wounded, and that he could not survive many hours longer. He managed to stop the fiow of blood; and then the burglar came to his sensés and asked if he was to die. Upon the doctor inforrning him that he could not live longer than morning, he asked to have a magistrate sent for, as he had something very important which he wished to communicate before he died. When the magistrate Game he made a dying declara- tion that he was the murderer of old Simon Clarkson, and that Richard Toland wasinnocent. He gave full and minute particulars of the occurrence; and within an hour after signing the ante mortem deposition he expired. With this statement I soon had the pleasure of having Richard Toland released from prison, and honorably clea, of the crime for which he had so ignominiously suffered. And now a question: Was it a mere dream that Mary Toland had? or was it a spiritual prognostication, vouchsafed to her by divine Providence ? I afterward procured Richard Toland a situation; and both he and his sweet sister Mary, whois now happily married, have never ceased to be grateful for what I did for them ; and I myself have ever since been the hap- ph hed having saved an innocent man from a shameful eath. a ae THE HUSBAND'S LESSON. “T love your da “I know you de ‘gentle and sensitive a heart.” —_ vag A frown darkened Mr. Arnold’s tace, but it quickly re- gained its usually calm, self-contained look. N “Hester loves me,” he said, still more pointedly. Mrs. Earle looked uheasy, and there was a rather awk- ward silence. ° «J will speak to Hester. If it be as you say, you need not fear that I shall attempt to control either her affec- tions or actions. But I had hoped that her feelings were not enlisted.” There was a Satisfied look upon Mr. Arnold’s face as he left the house, for he had no fears as to the result. «Do you love him, my child ?” What need were there of words? The vivid blush that overspread the face; the world of tenderness that broke into the soft dark eyes told more than the most eloquent tongue. ; Mrs. Earle sighed, and there was as much pity as ten- derness In the soft touch of the hand, that rested upon the head, that had nestled down upon her shoulder. Hester felt this, and ashadow fell across the bright young face. «Are you sorry, mother?” 4 “JT am sorry for you, my child.” “Why, mother? Albert is very good—far better and wiser than 1. My only fear is that I shall not make him so good a wife as he deserves.” “Mr. Arnold is a man of excellent habits; I know of few men so free of faults or vices as he. Still, I fear that he will not make you happy. I have watched him nar- rowly. He is self-willed and opinionated, and, at times, seems to have very little sympathy and ‘tenderness of feeling.” - “I know what you mean, mother. I have sometimes thought Albert too harsh and uncharitable in his judg- ment of others; he is so wise and good himself that he has no patience with those that are different. But 1am sure that he will always be kind and gentle to me.” Mrs. Earle said no more. If there were ‘any doubts in her heart as to the trath of this assertion, she forbore to give them utterance. She not only withdrew her op- position to Mr. Arnold’s suit, but, through the prepara- tions for her daughters marriage that followed, assumed a cheerfulness of look and manner that she was far from feeling. But Mr. Arnold saw her unwillingness, and knew had it not been for his strong hold upon the daughter's heart, his wooing would have had a very different termination; and though he said nothing, it was what he neither overlooked nor forgave. He professed to be be a Christian, and would have been highly indignant had any one intimated that he was capable of harboring revengeful feelings, but a set- tled dislike of his wife’s mother sprang up in his heart, which he justified to himself by various mental stric- tures upon her way of management, especially in refer- ence to her children. Mr. Arnold was not demonstrative in his feelings; whatever affection he had was rot easily called forth, and rarely manifested itselfin his words and manner. On the contrary, Mrs. Earle’s manner to her children had always been exceedingly affectionate and caressing, and as a natural consequence, so had been theirs in their in- tercourse with herand each other. They were, as a fam- ily, very strongly attached, and their frequent and warm demonstrations of it were looked upon by Mr. Arnold as childishly absurd. - “Tt may be all very well in Hester Earle,” was his in- ward comment, ‘‘but I will tolerate no such nonsense in a Arnold ; she must have more dignity and self-con- trol.’ And he determined, as soon pase ge mi a husband’s rights and authority, that he would separate her as far as possible from her mother’s influence. : ‘All for her own good, of course,” he repeated to him- self again and again. ‘Hester will never learn to rely upon herself while she has her mother to learn upon— never. : And such isthe deceitfulness of the human heart, that he really believed that he was actuated by the kindest and most praiseworthy motives. With this object in view, he gladly availed himself of anew opening for his biisiness in an adjoining town; removing thither a few weeks after his marriage.. Mrs. Arnold was a sensible woman, and cheerfully acquiesced in her husbarid’s decision ; and her mother. quite as sensible, endeavored ‘to make her view in as . pleasant a light as possible a separation that could not but be painful to both. Mrs. Earle perceived her son-in-law’s distrust of her, and well knew its‘origin; but she wisely forbore to notice it, thinking that it would in time wear away. “Jcois such a short distance that I shall visit you very often.” said Hester to. the little group that gathered around the carriage to bid her good-by. ‘Shall we not, Albert ?” Mr. Arnold made n response to this appeal, but he inwardly determined iat “very often” should be very seldom. Mrs. Earle’s health would not ad ot her visiting her daughter, even if Mr. Arnold h expressed any wish to that effect, whigh he was careful not to do; but \ A your nature is too * Hester had counted confidently on going to her old home frequently. As there was a good deal of traveling between the two towns, she could easily have done this with but little loss of time and no inconvenience. But Mr. Ar- nold contemptuously frowned down any such proposi- tion, ridiculing the idea ‘that she must always be run- ning home to mother.” Hester’s sweet disposition enabled her to bear pa- tiently what would have aroused in most women a strong feeling of indignation; but she felt keenly this evidence of her husband’s want of tenderness and con- sideration. ’ At last news reached Mr. Arnold of the sudden illness of Jamie, Mrs. Earle’s youngest child—a fine boy of ten, and to whom Hester was strongly attached—together with an earnestly expressed wish for her immediate presence. It reached his store in the early part of the day. But Mr. Arnold had always considered Mrs. Earle fanciful in ears to her children; besides, he haif suspected that it was a mere ruse to get Hester there; so the news did not reach his wife until his return home at night, and he then made light of the whole thing. ut Hester was so greatly distressed, and so urgent in her entreaties, that her husband harnessed up in the morning and took her to her mother’s himself, in- wardly resolving, unless he found the boy as ill as was represented, that she should return the same day. Hester’s worst fears were realized. She reached her darling brother’s side only to see him die. Hester’s father had died before her remembrance, and this was the first time that she had seex the shadows of death gather over the features of any one she loved; and her heart seemed almost crushed by the sudden- | ness of the blow. Wife, for he did, and strove to soothe her by pouring into her ear the trite saying with which so many seek to comtort the bereaved. But these failing of their in- tended effect, he lost all patience. Returning home one day, he found her in tears, and sharply reproved her for what he termed her want of sub ion to the will ot God, who had but taken his own. A year later Mr. Arnold stood bending over the cradle of his first-born. One would hardly have recog- nized the usually set, almost stern features in the warm, loving light that flooded them. ‘“‘How very beautiful he is, Hester.” Mrs. Arnold approached the cradle, and there they stood, gazing silently upon its little occupant. : se mother’s heart swelled with pride. He was very ovely. The soft, lustrous hair lay in rings of gold upon the blue-veined temples, the dimpled cheeks were flushed with sleep, while the half-parted lips looked like a cleft rosebud. “The birth of this child seemed to have caled forth all the hidden tenderness of Mr. Arnold’s nature, and as months rolled on, and little Willie grew daily in intelli- gence and beauty, there seemed to be no limits to the tond father’s pride and affection. And when he began to take notice of him, and holding out his little hands, lisp the name of father, he felt that earth did not contain aught so fair and lovely. And when the little fellow toddled to meet him, and climbing his knee, laid his rosy cheek to his, his heart thrilled with a feeling of ecstasy that he had never be- fore experienced. But a change soon camé to all this. There were nights and days of anguish ; prayers and watchings that were unavailing. = “Oh, God! spare my child,” burst from the heart of the agonized father. But even as he Spoke the breath grew still upon the lips of the little sufferer, and he saw that he was hold- ing in his arms, not the rosy and laughing boy of a few weeks ago, but a little lump of lifeless clay. They took the child from the arms of the unresisting father, who Sat still and s hless in his mighty grief. He heard, as in a dream, the hurrying of feet to and fro, and the sobs and wails of the nearly heart-broken moth- er. Kind friends approached him and spoke comforting words, but he turned gloomily away and shut himselt up in his own apartment. Dark and rebellious repinings filled his heart. “Why bas the Almighty dealt thus with me ?” he said, as he walked up and down the room. The long, gloomy night passed away, and the bright summer morning dawned in all its glory. The sweet carol of the birds jarred harshly upon the heart of the bereaved father, as he opened the door of the chamber of death. He turned, involuntarily, toward the empty. cradle, almost expecting to see the dimpled arms stretched out to greet him, and then, witha heavy heart, he entered the adjoining room. What was it that lay so cold, and beneath that white" drapery ? Actas Arnold lifted the covering, and gazed upon the The fragrant breeze, which came from the © dow, toyed with the bright curls that cluste: the smooth, open brow, the jong. iden lashes reposed quietly upon the rounded cheek, while around the half- parted lips lingered a smile of more than mortal beauty. As he stood there, the door opened, and a e form glided into the room. It was his wife, whom he had sel- fishly left in her loneliness and sorrow. As soon as Hester's eyes fell upon her husband, her tears burst forth afresh. ‘Have you no word of comfort for the mother of your child, Albert?” she sobbed. “When I laid my only brother in the grave, you had many a wise counsel and admonition to bestow, have you nothing to say now that I am written childless ?” Mr. Arnold remembered but too well his arrogance and self-confidence, his want of tenderness and sym- pathy for the anguish that now pierced his own heart. ‘How has God humbled my pride, and taught me my own weakness !” he cried, aS Clasping his wife in his arms, he mingled his tears with hers. In the years that followed, other children came to make glad his heart and home; but by his patience and sympathy with human weakness and suffering, did Mr. Arnold prove how well he remembered the lesson that n win- around We do not say that Mr. Arnold did not feel for his |. ‘Mrs. D. W.”—I1st. A dinner dress for slight mourning has the skirt of checked black and gray silk, trimmed with bands of black velvet. The tunic, part of the sleeves, and bodice. are of gray lace cloth, while the back of the bodice, yoke, and qoutes belt are of black velvet, embroidered and edged with aoe, sas the pio 35 — 7% my. of geo ribhem vel- vet. 5 containin: e ; of mourn be furnished for fifty cen rf — — “Winnie M.”—To make chocolate ice-cream, take half a pound of chocolate, one pint of boiled milk, half a pint of cream, and three eggs, First grate the chocolate, and pour upon it the milk boiling hot ; beat up the eggs and stir in; then add the cream, and let it boil for half an a then sweeten to your taste, It must be very sweet, as it its sweetness in freezing, When cold, mix well, and put itin the freezer. “Leah C.,” Philadelphia, Pa.—ist. Foulard dresses are very cool and pleasant to wear during the summer season, and are made blouse fashion, or with a long polopaise draped over a short-plaited or gathered skirt. Blue is the favorite color, hnt red and buff are alsomuch worn for sea-side cos- tumes.%2d. Striped goods are just as fashionable as ever. “Sophie,” Jersey City, N. J.—Madras muslin or India silks in @olors to match or harmonize with the furniture of the room, make the best drapery for the cheap wooden frames around mirrors or pictures, ribbon, Japanese fans, or band screens decorating the 7 corners, while ferns, cat ; and club rushes finish the lower bar of the frame. . “Effie,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—ist. Twine-colored lace is much _ worn on cotton materials, and especially on Turkey reds and dark blues. 2d. Turkish crapes are among th ttiestin- expensive cotton dress goods, and trim an biy with ie é 3d. The latest fancy in cheap bedroom f for country houses is to paint the pieces a brilliant red. wis “Annie H.,” Middleboro, Mass.—lst. The Russian bang is lighter than the Langtry, and falls in light, flat rings in a point on the forehead, leaving the temples bare c coiffures are going out of style, and the basket oat vag t. 2 latest fancy. “Mollie S. M.”—Folds of crape, lace, or silk like the vest are worn in the neck and sleeves. There is alsoa fancy fo: pomenns high collars on one side with a bow, clasp, Grane 8. " “Miss Mamie W.”—Scarfs of Spanish lace are show few black hats. They hang trae the back, and are a ae thrown around the neck, with the end over the left shoulder “Nellie S.”—It is fashionable to wear on black silk toilets full waistcoats and neck and sleeve folds of colored crape, tinted or white laces, or silk mull. “Martha M.,” Paintsville, Ky.—Guimpes, chemisettes, plas- trons, and vests are as much in favor as ever, and are to remain so. “Olga.”—“The Actress’ Danga ter,’ y Mrs. May Agnes 1.50. Fleming, is in book-form, and the price is $1. “Mrs. D. 8.”—Red is the fashionable color f isch for ani nable color for leather ar- * ———_ r+ e~« Items of Interest. The liberal use of liquor by a Connecticut constable, caused him to lose his dignity, as well as his liberty, for a time. He was bringing a prisoner from a town in Middlesex County to the Haddam jail, and both were in a buggy. While going the couple partook of whisky several times, and when they got to the jail each insisted that the other was bringing him to jail. They were so drunk that the jailer was unable to tell which was the officer, and they were both was taught him, as he stood by the lifeless form of his first born. Josh Billings’ Philosophy. Silence may be the effekt ov grate wisdum, or none at all, but it iz safe either way. Ir a man claims a good deal, he will git sumthing, and if he claims nothing, he will git that, too There iz a grate deal ov honesty in this world that wants more watching than the devil duz. Ifaman smotes yu real hard on one cheek, yu may turn him the other, if yu hav a mind to—but i won’t. A suspicious man makes more blunders than a kred- ulus one duz. When a thimble-rigger offers to bet me 5 dollars that ikan’t tell whare the little joker lies, i allwuss give it right up. The philosophers hav spent a grate deal ov valuable time trieing to prove that adversity iz: better than prosperity, buti never herd ov their making a convert yet. “The only way to be positively safe iz to be humble. A bravado amung men iz az harmless in the end aza mad ant amung the insekts. If a man cheats me the seckond time, he ain’t haff so mutch to blame for it az i am. Thare iz no certain rule for a long life, but thare iz for a good one. Thare are a thousand honest ways to get into debt, but only one to git out. What a diffrence thare iz between our follys and other people’s—ours are only aimable weaknesses, other people’s are kriminal. Listen to all things, but approve but few. Don’t be afrade ov ennything; this world, and every- thing in it, waz made expressly for man’s subjekshun. Thare iz nothing so painfull and ridikilus to me az to re) a 3-minnit horse, or man, trieing to strike a 2-40 gait. When I waza boy I used to hang around a black- smith’s shop a good deal, and I learnt thare not to tutch ennything that waz hot. I notiss that thoze who and koddle the mostin publik, pinch and pull hair the mosé in private. Thare iz a grate deal ov ekonemy that there iz no proffit in. I hav known people to sett a large-sized hen on 2 eggs, just to be saving. , 9 The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood. “Miss Edith L.”—A pretty dinner or evening dress for a young lady is of moss-green China crape. The skirt is round, and trimmed with five rows of very narrow ribbon; the round tunic, or upper skirt, is trimmed in the same manner andis looped up with rosettes of the same narrow ribbon. The bodice is three-quarters low, and forms two draperies, crossed over the chest and confined around the waist by a belt of gros: ribbon, being completed by a chemisette of spotted tulle, finished around the neck by a a narrow P ng, trimmed with small loops of the ribbons used in the rimming of the dress. The sleeves are gathered up at the bend of the arm, and finished with a tulle pufling and rosettes of ribbon. “Annie H.,” La Salle, Ill.—The coat-shaped sleeve is still very popular for dresses, but for yachting, lawn-tennis, and sea-side costumes the sleeve is now very generally made fully gathered on the shoulder, while from the elbow down it is quite plain. The bodice is made either jersey fashion, or gathered on a plain shoulder-piece, like a blouse; or itis a jacket, with loose fronts opening over a full plastron. Striped summer serge and etamine are favorite materials for such costumes, which usually have a very simply over- skirt and a plaited underskirt. “Essie L.”—Suimmer shawls growin popularity. Those in cashmere, in white, cardinal, or pale blue, are used even more this year than last. White shawls, with their quaint embroidery and long knotted fringe, are the exact counter- part of those worn twenty-five years ago, while silk, knitted shawls, in shell patterns, are light and graceful, and the French shawls, with tinsel bands run through their bright colors, are pretty for evening use. : locked up until they were sober enough to permit an identi- fication. : An odd mistake was made by a lady in Guelph, On- tario. As a young druggist was proceeding homeward, at night, he was accosted by a strange lady, who implored him to help her home with her husband, who was lying inside a garden fence helplessly drunk. The young man consented, and after infinite trouble succeeded in getting the inebriate home as was supposed. But on bringing a candle the wo- man discovered that the man was not her husband after all. The real husband afterward came home sober. Deadly enmity existed between Jim Adams and Frank Bunton, of Music, Carter County, Ky. Adams, while playing cards, saw his enemy approaching with a shot-gun. He held a good hand, and, laying it face down, asked his friends to wait until he had settled Bunton. He drew his pistol, crawl- ed under a freight car, fired at Bunton, and missed him. The latter saw Adams under the car and fired a load of buck- shot into his upturned forehead, killing him instantly. A peculiar play was made in a game of base ball at Marion, a summer resort near New Bedford, between the Sippicans and a visiting team. Austin, the Harvard College pitcher, who was pitching for the former club, was struck by a liner between the shoulder and chest and knocked out. When he came to, the ball was found lodged under his arm, and the batsman was declared out. This decision won the game for Austin’s club. One of the belies at Long Branch fell from her Can riage at the race course, and received a conspicuous bla eye. Although much mortified, the temporary disfigure ment did not prevent her from attending a ball that even ing. The young men thougt it an honor to dance with her, and her engagement card was filled for every dance before she had been in the room a quarter of an hour. A Boston boy, three years old, became unruly at home, and his mamma, wishing to get-him out of the way, lifted him over into a great wood box in the kitchen and bade him stay there. An older brother came in soon after, and, seeing him there, said: ‘Well, Charlie, what have you been doing now?” “Oh, nawthin’,” was the {reply. “Only mother’s having one of her bad spells.” The seed of the oily cocoa, a tree which grows in Mexico, is almost entirely composed of a fatty substance which has sometimes been used in making soap. A Stuttgart baker has successfully used the oil of this seed as a substi- tute for lard in making cake. The seeds contain 12 per cent. more actual grease than ordinary pork lard, and can.be kept for months without spoiling. The teaching of deaf mutes to speak will hereafter be assisted by photography. All the movements of the mouth neccessary for pronunciation have been accurately photo- graphed; and in this manner the deaf mute pupils, th not able to hear words pronounced, are able to see them, and — : study their lesson of pronunciation from the photograph, as we learn it by the ear. ‘ Correspondents should write their postal card com- munications so distinctly that those who walk may read. A Toronto postman, the other morning, was observed to be so deeply engaged in reading one of these illegibly written cards that he walked twenty paces past the house to which it was addressed, and had to go back to put it through the hole in the door. An experiment to test the speed of the swallow’s flight has been made at Pavia, in Italy. Two hen birds were taken from their broods, carried to Milan, and there released at agiven hour. Both got back to their nests in thirteen minutes, which gave their rate of speed eighty-seven and a half miles an hour. : : A clergyman in Lynn engaged for a salary of $4,000 a year, but agreed to refund $1,000 of it. A Connecticut con- gregation, thinking a man who got that much money must be a good preacher, offered him $4,500. He accepted. Why he pretended to receive $4,000 salary is now understood. A number of boys in Fall River amused themselves by throwing green apples at a lot of English sparrows ; but af- ter a while the sparrows made a dash at the boys, flew straight at their faces, pecked some of them until the blood ran, and actually forced the boys to retreat. The first number of a paper issued in Town Fork, N. C., had acurious blunder, which will probably cause a duel between a stupid typo and a glass-eyed proof-reader. A line under the heading declares the pape “entered at the post-office as second-class water.” ; -A queer old custom is continued in Birmingham, Ala. The City Hall bell rings loudly every hour during the night, just to inform the residents what time it is. Sleepy peo- ple, aroused by the bell, are not at all thankful for the in- formation imparted. As the fashion is to wear vests buttoned almost to the throat, and conceal almost every particle of the shirt front with a broad neck-searf, why not abbreviate the shirt-bosom and save useless ironing ? A Jewish congregation at Saint Paul, when seeking a candidate for its pulpit, will not permit him to deliver his pet sermon. They give him a text, and let him preach from that. i A Hartford man circumvents the gas company by storing his meter in a safe deposit vault when he goes off for the summer. Every birth in Brookings, Dakota, for several weeks past has been a girl, and the local papers call for diversified production. ; A crank is said to be a man who continually thinks, talks, and writes upon the only subject he does not under- stand. Ney A cross-examination of a female witness at Ree Heights, Dakota, was so severe that she has become insane. Kansas City has 100,000 inhabitants, and its pork- packing industry ranks next to that of Chicago. Bananas have been grown this season, in the open air, at Sacramento. A rich copper mine has been discovered near Mushal, Arkansas. 2 fe & -k oe ea en a ij Biatshaet g ue € it rn S Nance pcan A | | OR cathe a ‘ ith ) 5. Orit named PON at ian re 3 ett atari nls. paisa capil Fos Tl reared a ar ate ped 66