A FASCINATING STORY, BY MRS. M.

V. VICTOR, WEEK AFTER NEXT.

 

 

 

 

Fintered According to Act of Conaress,

 

 

in the Year 1885. by Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washinaton. D. C —

Anterea at the Post Office New York. as Second Olass Matter.

 

 

 

Vol. 41.

THE HUMA.*

BY LOUISA P. SMITH.

Fly on, nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,

Or the warbling now so sweety heard
May lose its note of mirth.

Fly on, nor seek a place.of rest
In home of ‘‘care-worn things ;”

*"T would dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnishing wings,

To dip them where the waters glide

That flow from a troubled earthly tide.

The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free ;

I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life’s stormy sea.

I would never wander, bird, like thee,
So near this place again ;

With wing and spirit once light and free,
They should wear no more the chain

With which they are bound and fettered here,

For ever struggling for skies more clear.

There are many things like thee, bright bird ;
Hopes as thy plumage gay ;
Our air is with them for ever stirred,
But still in air they stay.
And happiness, like thee, fair one,
Is ever hovering o’er,
But vests in.a land of brighter sun,
On a Waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of ‘‘living waters” springs.

- *A bird peeuliar to the East. It is supposed to fly con-
stantly in the air, and never touch the ground.”
> @<

TLL NOT BE PUBLI

Office 31 Rose St.
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

hag
{TH RY IN BPN FORE.
a “~\

RACY. ARK.

By, MURS. MARY J. HOLMES,

4

we

Author of “Bessie’s Fortune.” ‘‘Homestead on the
Hillside,” . “Darkness and Daylight,” “Edith
: Lyle’s Secret,” ““Queenie Hetherten,” ete.

ut

os vans “BREVOORT House, New York, Oct. 6th, 18—.
“To Mr. Frank Tracy, Tracy Park, Shannondale.
“T arrived in the Scotia this morning, and shall take the

train for Shannondale at3 P.M. Send some one to the sta-
tion to meet us. ; ARTHUR TRACY.”

CHAPTER 1.
THE fELEGRAM.

 

 

This was the telegram which the clerk in the Shan-
nondale office wrote out one October morning, and dis- |
patched to the Hon. Frank Tracy, of Tracy Park, in the |
quiet town of Shannondale, where our story opens.

Mr. Frank Tracy, who, since his election to the State |
Legislature for two successive terms, had done nothing |
except to attend political meetings and make speeches |
on all public occasions, had an office in town, where he |
usually spent bis mornings, smoking, reading the pa- |
pers, and talking to Mr. Colvin, his business agent and |
lawyer, for, though born in one of the humblest of New
England houses, where the slanting roof almost touched
the ground in the rear, and he could scarcely stand up-
right in the chamber where he slept, Mr. Frank Tracy
was a great man now, and as he dashed along the turn- |
pike behind his blooded bays, with his driver beside |
him, people looked admiringly after him, and pointed |
him out to strangers as the Hon. Mr. Tracy, of Tracy ;

Park, one of the finest places in the county. It is true
it did not belong to him, but he had lived there so long
that he had come to look upon it as his, while his neigh-
bors, too, seemed to have forgotten that there was
across the ocean a Mr. Arthur Tracy, who might at any
time come home to claim his own and demand an ac-
count of his brother’s stewardship. And it was this
very Arthur Tracy, whose telegram announcing his re-
turn from Europe was read by his brother with mingled
feelings of surprise and consternation.

“Not that everything isn’t fairand above-board, and
he is welcome to look into matters as much as he likes,”
Frank said over and over to himself, as he sat staring
blankly at the telegram, while the cold chills ran up and
down his back and arms. “Yes, he can examine all
Colvin’s books; he will find them straight as a string,
for didn’t he tell me to use what I needed as remunera-
tion for looking after his property while he was galli-
vanting over the world; and if he objects that I have
paid myself too much, why, [ can at once transfer those
investments in my name tqhim. No, it is not that which
affects me so; it is the suddenness of the thing, coming
without warning, and to-night of all nights, when the
house will be full of carousing and champagne. What
will Dolly say? Hysterics, of course, if not a sick head-
ache. 1 don’t believe I can face her till she has had a
little time to get overit. Here, boy, I want you!” and
he rapped on the window at a young lad who happened
to be passing with a basket on hisarm. “I want you to
do an errand for me,” he continued, as the boy entered
the office and, removing his cap, stood respectfully be-
fore him. ‘‘Take this telegram to Mrs. Tracy, and here
is a dime for you.”

“Thank you; but I don’t care for the money,” the boy
said. “I was going to the park anyway to tell Mrs.
Tracy that grandma is sick and can’t go there to-night.”

“Oannot go! Sick! What is the matter?” Mr. at
asked, in some dismay, feeling that here was a fresh
cause of trouble and worry for Dolly, as he designated
his wife when off his guard and not on show before his
—e friends, to whom she was Dora, or Mrs.

racy.

“She catched cold yesterday fixing up mother’s graye,”
the boy replied; and, as if the mention of that grave had
sent Mr. Tracy’s thoughts straying backward to the
past, he looked thoughtfully at the child for a moment, |
and then said :

“How old are you, Harold.?”

“Ten, last August,” was the reply; and Mr. Tracy |
continued :

“You do not remember your mother ?”

“No, sir; only a great crowd, and grandma crying ‘so
hard,” was Harold’s rer

«You look like her,” Mr. Tracy said.

“Yes, sir,” Harold answered; while into his frank, open
face there came an expression of regret for the mother
who had died when he was three years old, and whose
life had been so short and sad.

“Now, hurry off with the telegram, and mind you don’t
lose it. Itis from my brother. He is coming to-night.”

“Mr. Arthur Tracy, who sent the monument for my
mother—is he coming home? Oh, I am so glad!” Har-
old exclaimed, and his handsome face lighted up with
childish joy, as he put the telegram in his pocket and
started for Tracy Park, wondering if he should encoun-
ter Tom, and thinking that if he did, and Tom gave him
any chaff, he should lick him, or try to.

“Darn him!” he said to himself, as he recalled the
many times when Tom Tracy, a boy about his own age,
had laughed at him for his poverty and coarse clothes.
“Darn him! he ain’t any better than I am, if he does
wear velvet trousers and live in a big house. ’Tain’t
his’n; it’s Mr. Arthur’s, and I’m glad he is coming home.
I wonder if he will bring grandma anything. I wish
he'd bring me a pyramid. He’s seen ’em, they say.”

Meantime, Mr. Frank Tracy had resumed his seat,
and, with his hands clasped together over his head, was
wondering what effect his brother's return would have
upon him. Would he be obliged to leave the park, and
the luxury he had enjoyed so long, and go back to the
old life which he hated so much ?

‘No; Arthur will never be so mean,” he said. ‘He |

 

| his chair and began to pace the room.

New

York, N ovember 9, 1885.

 

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

No. 1.

 

 

‘L’racy Far

MARY J. HOLMES.

 

 

 

 

has always shown himself generous, and will continue ; the park was as green as in early June, while the flowers

to doso. Besides that, he will want somebody to keep
his house for him, unless And here the perspira-
tion started from every pore as Frank Tracy thought:
“What if he is married, and the ws in his telegram
means a Wife, instead of a friend or servant as I im-
agined !”

This would indeed be a calamity, for then his own
and Dolly’s reign was over at Tracy Park, and the party

| they were to give that night to at least three hundred

people would be their last grand blow-out.

‘“Confound the party!” he thought, as he arose from
“Arthur won't
like that as a greeting after eleven years’ absence.

Dolly wants to please everybody, thinking to get me
votes for Congress, and so she has invited all creation
and his wife. There’s old Peterkin, the roughest kind
of a canal bummer when Arthur went away. Think of
my fastidious brother shaking hands with him and
Widow Shipley, who kept a low tavern on the tow-
tong She’ll be there, in her silks and long gold chain,
or she has four boys, all voters, who call me Frank and
slap me on the shoulder. Ugh! even I hate it all;”
and, in a most perturbed state of mind, the Hon. Frank
and would-be Congressman continued to walk the room,
lamenting the party which must be, and wondering
what his aristocratic brother would say to such a crowd
in his house on the night of his return.

And if there should be a Mrs. Arthur Tracy, with pos-
sibly some little Tracys! But that idea was too hor-
rible to contemplate, and so he tried to put it from his
mind, and to be as calm and quiet as possible until
lunch-time, when, with no very great amount of alacrity
and cheerfulness, he started for home, where, as he had

; been warned by his wife when he left her in the morn-

ing, “he was to lunch standing up or anyhow, as she
had no time for parade that day.”

CHAPTER I.
ARTHUR TRACY.
Although it was a morning in October, the grass in

He |
| never fancied being cheek by jowl with Tom, Dick, and
| Harry; and that is just what the smash is to-night.

 

in the beds and borders, the geraniums, the phlox, the
stocks, and verbenas, were handsomer, if possible, than
they had been in the summer-time ; for the rain, which
had fallen almost continually during the month of Sep-
tember, had kept them fresh and bright. Here and
there the scarlet and golden tints of autumn were be-
ginning to show on the trees; but this only added a
new charm to a place which was noted for its beauty,
and was the pride and admiration of the town.

And yet Mrs. Frank Tracy, who stood on the wide
piazza, looking after a carriage which was moving down
the avenue which lead through the park to the high
way, did not seem as happy as the mistress of that
house ought to have been, standing there in the clear,
crisp morning, with a silken wrapper trailing behind
her, a coquettish French cap on her head, and costly

i} jewels on her short, fat hands, which once were not as

white and soft as they were now. For Mrs. Frank Tracy,
as Dorothy Smith, had known what hard labor and
poverty meant, and slights, too, because of the poverty
and labor. Her mother was a widow, sickly and lame,
and Dorothy in her girlhood had worked in the cotton
mills at Langley, and bound shoes for the firm of Newell
& Brothers, and had taught a district school, ‘‘by way
of elevating herself,” but the elevation did not pay, and
she went back to the mills in the day-time and her shoes
at night, and rebelled at the fate which had made her
so poor and seemed likely to keep her so.

But there was something better in store for her than
binding shoes, or even teaching a district school, and,
from the time when young Frank Tracy came to Lang-
ley as clerk in the Newell firm, Dorothy’s life was
changed and her star began torise. They both sang in
the choir, standing side by side, and sometimes using
the same book, and once or twice their hands met as
both tried to turn the leaves together. Dorothy’s were
red and rough, and not nearly as delicate as those of
Frank, who had been in astore all his life; and still
there was a magnetism in their touch which senta
thrill through the young man’s veins, and made him for
the first time look critically’at his companion.

She was very B geod he thought, with bright black
eyes, @ healthful bloom, anda smile and blush which

“YOU HAVE NOT TOLD ME ALL. DID SHE SPEAK OF ME? LET ME SEE THE NOTE.”

 

 

went straight to his heart, and made him her slave at
once. In three months’ time they were married and
commenced housekeeping in a very unostentatious way,
for Frank had nothing but his salary to depend upon.
But he was well connected, and boasted some blue
blood, which, in Dorothy’s estimation, made amends for
lack of money. The Tracys of Boston were his distant
relatives, and he had arich bachelor uncle, who spent
his winters in New Orleans and his summers in Shan-
nondale, at Tracy Park, on which he had lavished fabu-
lous sums of money. From this uncle Frank had ex-
pectations, though naturally the greater part of his for-
tune would go to his godson and namesake, Arthur
Tracy, who was Frank’s elder brother, and as unlike
him as one brother could well be unlike another.
Arthur was scholarly in his tastes, quiet and gentle-
manly in his manners, with a musical voice which won
him friends at once, while in his soft black eyes there
was a peculiar look of sadness, as if he were brooding
over something which filled him with regret. Frank
was very proud of his brother, and with Dorothy felt
that he was honored when, six months after their mar-
riage, he came for a day orso to visit them, and with
him his intimate friend, Harold Hastings, an English-
man by birth, but so thoroughly Americanized as to
pass unchallenged for a native. There was a band of
crape on Arthur’s hat, and his manner was like one try-
ing to be sorry, while conscious of a great inward feel-
ing of resignation, if not content. The rich uncle was
dead. He had died suddenlyin Paris, where he had
gone on business, and the whole of hig vast fortune was
left to his nephew Arthur—not a farthing to Frank, not
even the mention of his name in the will; and when
Dorothy heard it she put her white apron over her face,
and cried as if her heart would break. They were so
poor, she and »Frank, and they wanted so many things,
and the man who could have helped them was dead and
had left them nothing. It was hard, and she might not
have made the young heir very welcome if he had not
assured her that he should do something for her hus-
band. Ana he kept his word, and in course of time
bought out a grocery in Langley and put Frank in it,
and paid the mortgage on his house, and gave him a
thousand dollars, and invited them fora few days to

| such a lookin his e

, ea che ardoy of his

 

visit him; and then it would seem as if he forgot them
entirely, for with his friend Harold he settled himself at
Tracy Park, and played the role of the grand gentleman
to perfection.

Dinner parties and card parties, where it was-said
the play was for money, and where Arthur always al-
lowed himself to lose and his friends to win; races and
hunts were of frequent occurrence at Tracy Park, where
matters generally were managed on a magnificent
scale, and created a great deal of talk among the plain
folks of Shannondale, whose only dissipation then was
going to church twice on Sunday and to the cattle show
once each year.

Few ladies ever graced these festivities, for Arthur
was very aristocratic in his feelings, and, with two or
three exceptions, held himself aloof from the people of
Shannondale. It was said, however, that sometimes,
when he and his friend were alone, there was the sweep
ofa white dress and the gleamof golden hair in the
parlor, where sweet Amy Crawford, daughter of the
housekeeper, played and sang her simple ballads to the
two gentlemen, who always treated her with as much
deference as if she had been a queen, instead of a poor
young girl dependent for her bread upon her own and
her mother’s exertions. But beyond the singing in the
twilight Amy never advanced, and so far as her mother
knew she had never for a single instant been alone with
either of the gentlemen. How, then, was the household
electrified one morning when it was found that Amy
had fled, and that Harold Hastings was the companion
of her flight ?

“T wanted to tell you,” Amy wrote to_her mother in the
uote left on her dressing-table, “I wanted to tell you and be
married at home, but Mr. Hastings would not allowit._ It
would create trouble, he said, between himself and. Mr.
Tracy, who, I may confess to_you in confidence, asked me
twice to be his wife, and when I refused, without giving him
a reason, for I dared not tell him of my love for his friend,
he.was so angry and behaved so strangely, and there was
ves, that I was afraid of ‘him, and it was
this fear, I think, w ich made me willing to go away secretly
with Havolaand be married in New York. We are going to
Europe; shall sail to-morrow morning at nine o’clock in the
Scotia. The marriags ceremony will be performed before we
x0on board. I shall write as soon as we reach Liverpool.

fou must forgive me, mother, and-I am sure you would not
blame me, if you knew how much I love Mr. ae I
know he is poor, and that I might be mistress of Tracy Park,
but Ilove Harold best. Itis ten o'clock, and the train, you
know, passes at eleven, so Imust say good-by.

“Yours lovingly,
“Amy Crawford now, but when you read this,
“Amy HASTINGS.”

This was Amy’s letter which her mother found upon
entering her room aiter waiting more than an hour for
her daughter’s appearance at the breakfast, which they
always took by themselves. To say that she was
shocked and astonished would but faintly portray the
state of her mind as she read that her beautiful young
daughter had gone with Harold Hastings, whom she
had’ never liked, for though he was handsome, and
agreeable, and gentiémanly as a rule, she knew him to
be eS selfish and indolent, and she vwrembled for

 

her daughter's happiness when 4 littie{time had quepeh-
acsion. Added to\this was another,
thought wich made her brain reel fora moment, 4s sj
thought what* might. have beén. Arthur ‘Tracy §
wished to make Amy his wife, and mistress of T-¥
Park, which she would have graced so well, for in ai
the town there was not a fairer, sweeter girl than Amy
Crawford, or one better beloved.

It did not matter that she was poor, and her mother
was only a housekeeper. She had never felt a slight on
that account, and had been reared as carefully and ten-
derly as the daughters of the rich, and if away down in
her mother’s heart there had been a half-defined hope
that some time the master of Tracy Park might turn his
attention to her, it had been hidden so closely that Mrs.
Crawford scarcely knew of it herself until she learned
what her dauzhter was, and what she might have been.

3ut it was toolate now. There was no turning back the
wheels of fate.

Forcing herself to be as calm as possible, she took the
note to Arthur, who had breakfasted alone, and was
waiting impatiently in the library for the appearance of
his friend. ;

“Lazy dog!” Mrs. Crawford heard him say, as she ap-
proached the open door. ‘Does he think he has nothing
to do but tosieep? We were to start by this time, and
he in bed yet!”

“Are you speaking of Mr. Hastings?” Mrs. Crawford
asked, as she stepped into the room.

“Yes,” was his crip and haughty reply, as if he re-
sented the question, and her presence there.

He could be very proud and stern when he felt like it,
and one of these moods was on him now, but Mrs. Craw-
ford did not heed it, and sinking into a chair, for she felt
that she could not stand and face him, she began:

“J came totell you of Mr. Hastings, and—Amy. She
did not come to breakfast, and I found this note in her
room. She has gone to New York with him. They took
the eleven o’clock train last night. They are to be mar-
ried this morning, and sail in the Scotia for Europe.”

She had told her story, and paused for the result,
which was worse than she had expected.

For a moment Arthur Tracy stood staring at her,
while his face grew white as ashes, and into his dark
eyes, usually so soft and mild, there came a flery gleam
like that of a madman, as he seemed for a time to be.

“Amy gone with Harold, my friend!” he said, at last.
“Gone to New York! Gone to be married! Traitors!
Vipers! Bothofthem. Curse them! If he were here
I’d shoot him like a dog; and she—I believe I would kill
her.”

He was walking the floor rapidly, and to Mrs. Craw-
ford it seemed as if he really were unsettled in his mind,
he talked so incoherently and acted so strangely.

«What else did she say ?” he asked, suddenly, stopping
and confronting her. ‘‘You have not told meall. Did
she speak of me? Let me see the note,” and he held his
hand for it.

For a moment Mrs. Crawford hesitated, but as he grew
more and more persistent she suffered him to take it,
and then watched him as he read it, while the veins on
his forehead began to swell until they stood out like a
dark blue net-work against his otherwise pallid face.

“Yes,” he snapped, between his white teeth. ‘I did
ask her to be my wife, and she refused, and with her soft,
kittenish ways made me more in love with her than
ever, and more her dupe. I never suspected Harold,
and when I told him of my disappointment, for I never
kept a thing from him—traitor that he was—he laughed
at me for losing my heart to my housekeeper’s daughter!
I, who, he said, might marry the greatest lady in the land.
I could have knocked him down for his sneer at Amy, and
I wish now I had, the wretch! He will not marry your
daughter, madam, and if he does not, I will kill him!”

He was certainly mad, and Mrs. Crawford shrank
away from him as from something dangerous, and going
to her room took her bed ina fit of frightful hysterics.
This was followed by a state of nervous prostration, and
for afew days she neither saw nor heard of, nor in-
quired for Mr. Tracy. Atthe endof the fourth day,
however, she was told by the house-maid that he had
that morning packed his valise and, without a word to
any one, had taken the train for New York. A week
went by, and then there came a letterfrom him, which
ran as follows: ;

“NEw YORK, May —, 18—.

“Mrs. CRAWFORD :—I amA for Europe to-morrow, and
when I shall returnis a matter of uncertainty. They are
married ; or at least I supposeso, for I found a list of the pas-
sengers who sailed in the §$cotia, and the names, Mr. and
Mrs. Hastings, wereinit. Sothat’saves me from breakin
the sixth commandment, asI should have doneif he hac
pares Amy false. Imay not make myself known to them
put I shall follow them, and if he harms a hair of h ead
shall shoot him yet. My brother Frank is to liy ;
Park, That will suit his wife, and as you will not to stay
with her, I send you a deed of that cottage in tt 6 by the *
wood where the gardener now lives. It is a pretty little place,
and Amy liked it well. We used to meet there ar imes,
and more than once I have sat with heron that Begt under
the elm tree, and it was there I asked her to be my wife.
Alas! Iloved her so much, and _ love her still as I can never
love another woman, and [could have made her so happy ;
but that is past, and I can only watch her at a distance.
When I have anything to communicate, I will write again.

‘Yours truly, “ARTHUR TRACY.”

“P.§.—Take all the furniture in your room and Amy’s, and
whatever else is needful for your house. I shall tell Colvin
to give you a thousand dollars, and when you want more let
him know. I shall never forget that you are Amy’s mother.”

This was Arthur’s letter to Mrs. Crawford, while to
his brother he wrote :

“DEAR FRANK :—I am going to Europe for an indefinite
length of time. Why I go it matters not to you are any one.
I go to suit myself, and I want you to sell out your business

in Langley and live at Tracy Park, where you can see to

 

 

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——- —— ——

«coisa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

=

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things as if they were yourown. You will find everything
straight and square, for Colvin is honest and methodical.
He knows all about the bonds, and mortgages, and stocks, so
you cannot do better than to retain him in your service, over-
seeing matters yourself, of course, and drawing for your
salary what you think right and necessary for your support
and for keeping up the place as it ought to be kept up. Tin-
close a power of attorney. When I want money I shall call
upon Colvin. I may be gone for years and perhaps forever,
“T shall never marry, and when I die, what Il have will
naturally goto you: We have not been to each other much
like ieothers for the past few years, but I do not forget the
old home in the mountains where we were boys together,
and played, and quarreled, and slept up under the roof,
where the blankets were oupE + keep the snow from sifting
ough the rafters upon our bed. ; ;
“And, Frank, do you remember the bitter mornings,

when the thermometer was below zero, and we performed
our ablutions in the wood-shed, and the black eye you gave
me once for telling mother that you had not washed yourself
at all, it wassocold? She sent you from the table, and made
you go without your breakfast, and we had ham and johnny-
cake toast that morning, too. That was long ago, and our
lives are different now. ‘There are marble basins, with silver
chains and stoppers, at Tracy Park, and you can have a hot
bath every day if you like, in a room which would not shame
Caracalla himself. And I know you will like it all, and Dolly,
too; but don’t make fools of yourselves. Nothing stamps a
erson as a come-upfrom the scum 80 soon as airs and Os-
entation. Be quiet and modest, as if you had always lived
at Tracy Park. Imitate Squire Harrington and Mr. St. Clair.
They are the true gentlemen, and were to the manner born.
Be kind to Mrs. Crawford. She is a lady in every sense of the
word, for she comes of good New England stock.

one now, good-by. I shall write sometimes, but not
often.

“Your brother, ARTHUR TRACY.”

CHAPTER Il.
MR. AND MRS. FRANK TRACY.

Mr. Frank, in his small grocery store at Langley, was
weighing out a pound of butter for the Widow Simpson,
who was haggling with him about the price, when his
brother’s letter was brought to him by the boy who
swept his store and did errands for him. But Frank
was too busy just then to read it. There was acircus in
the village that day, and it brought the country people
into the town in larger numbers than usual. Naturally,
many of them paid Frank a visit in the course of the
morning, so that it was not until he went home to his
dinner that he even thought of the letter, which was
finally brought to his mind by his wife’s asking if there
was any news.

Mrs. Frank was always inquiring for and expecting
news, but she was not prepared for what this day
brought her. Neither was her husband, and when he
read his brother's letter, which he did twice to assure
himself that he was not mistaken, he sat for a moment
perfectly bewildered, and staring at his wife, who was
putting his dinner upon the table.

“Dolly,” he gasped at last, when he could speak at
all—‘‘Dolly, what do you think? Just listen. Arthur is
going to Europe, to stay forever, perhaps, and has left
us Tracy Park. We are going there to live, and you will
be as grand a lady as Mrs. Atherton, of Brier Hill, or
that young girl at Collingwood.”

Dolly had a platter of ham and eggs in her hand, and
she never could tell, though she often tried to do so,
What prevented her from dropping the whole upon the
floor. She did spill some of the fat upon her clean table-
cloth, she put the dish down so suddenly, and sinking
into a chair, demanded what her husband meant. Was
he crazy, or what?

“Not a bit of it,” he replied, recovering himself, and
beginning to realize the good fortune which had come
to him, ‘We are rich people, Dolly. Read for yourself ;”
and he passed her the letter, which she seemed to un-
derstand better than he had done.

“Why, yes,” she said. ‘‘We are going to Tracy Park
to live; but that doesn’t make usrich. It is not ours.”

«I know that,” her husband replied. ‘But we shal
enjoy it all the same, and hold our heads with the best
of them. Besides, don’t you see, Arthur gives me carte
blanche as to pay for my services, and, though I shall do
right, it is not in human nature that I should not feather
my nest when I have a chance. Some of that money
Ought to have been mine. I shall sell out at once if I
can find a purchaser, and if I cannot, I shall rent the
grocery and move out of this hole double-quick.”

His ideas were growing faster than those of his wife,
who was attached to Langley and its people, and shrank
a little from the grander opening before her. She had
once spent a few days at Tracy Park, as Arthur’s guest,
and had felt great restraint even in the~presence of Mrs.
Crawford and Amy, whom she 7éc6gnized as ladies, not-
withstanding their position in the house. On that occa-
sion she had, with her brother-in-law, been invited to

dine at Brier Hilti; the country-seat of Mrs. Grace Ather-

ton, & gay widow, whose dash and style had completely
ov ed the plain, matter-of-tact Dolly, who did not
ts hat half the dishes were, or what she was ex-
ec todo. But, by watching Arthur, and declining

ne things which she felt sure were beyond her com-
rehension, she managed tolerably well, though when
he dinner was over, and she could breathe freely again,
she found that the back of her new silk gown was wet
with perspiration, which had oozed from every pore
during the hour and a half she had sat at the table.
And even then her troubles were not ended, for coffee
was served in the drawing-room, and as Arthur took
his clear, she'did not know whether she was expected
to do the sam® or not, but finally ventured to say she

vould h fe ‘‘trimmin’s.”

    
 
  
     
 
  

“Changing your plates all
X winter greener than grass,
nothing under the sun with them, and arinking
ee out of a cup about as big as a thimble. Give me
~ the good old-fashioned way, I say, with peas and pota-

toes, and meat, and things, and cups that will hold half

a pint and have some thickness that you can feel in

your mouth.”

And now she was to exchange the good, old-fashioned
way for what she termed ‘‘folderol,” and for a time she
did not like it. But her husband was so delighted and
eager that he succeeded in impressing her with some of
his enthusiasm, and after he had returned to his gro-
cery, and her dishes were washed, she removed her
large kitchen apron, and pulling down the sleeves of
her dress, went and stood before the mirror, where she
examined herself critically and not without some degree
of complacency.

Her hair was black and glossy, or would be if she had
time to care for it as it ought to be cared for; her eyes
were bright, and perhaps in time she might learn to use
them as Mrs. Atherton used hers.

Mrs. Atherton stood as the criterion for everything
elegant and fashionable, and naturally it was with her
that she compared herself.

«She is older than I am,” she said to herself; <‘there
are crow-tracks around her eyes, and her complexion is
not a bit better than mine was before I spoiled it with

. SOap-Suds, and stove heat, and everything else.”

Then she looked-at her hands, bvt they were red and
rough, and the nails were broken and not at all ike the
nails which an expert has polished for an hour or more.
Mrs. Atherton’s diamond rings would be sadly out of
place on Dolly’s fingers, but time and abstinence from |
work would do much for them, she reflected, and after
ali it would be nice to live in a grand house, ride in a
handsome carriage, and keep a hired girl to do the
heavy work. So, on the whole, she began to feel quite
reconciled to her change of situation, and to wonder how
she ought to conduct herself in view of her future posi-
tion. She had intended going to the circus that night,
but she gave that up, telling her husband that it was a
second-class amusement any way, and she did not be-
lieve that either Mrs. Atherton or the young lady at
Collingwood patronized such places. So they staid at
home and talked together of what they should do at
Tracy Park, and wondered if it was their duty to ask all
their Langley friends to visit them. Mrs. Frank, as the
more democratic of the two, decided that it was. She
was not going to begin by being stuck up, she said, and
when at last she left Langley four weeks later, every
man, woman, and child of her familiar acquaintance in
town had been heartily invited to call upon her at Tracy
Park if ever they came that way.

Frank had disposed of his business at a reasonable
price, and had rented his house with all the furniture,
except such articles as his wife insisted upon taking
with her. The bureau, and bedstead, and chairs which
she and Frank had bought together in Springfield just
before their marriage, the Boston rocker her mother had
given her, and in which the old mother had sat until the
day she died, the cradle in which she had rocked her
first baby boy who was lying in the Langley grave-yard,
were dear to the wife and mother, and though her hus-

band told her she could have no use for them at Tracy

Park, where the furniture was of the costliest kind, and
that she would probably put them in the servants’ rooms
or attic, there was enough of sentiment in her nature to
make her cling to them as something of the past, and so
they were boxed up and forwarded by freight to Tracy
Park, whither Mr. and Mrs. Tracy followed them a
week later.

The best dressmaker in Langley had been employed
upon the wardrobe of Mrs. Frank, who, in her traveling
dress of some stuff goods of a plaided pattern, too large
and too bright to be quite in good taste, felt herself per-
fectly au fait as the mistress of Tracy Park, until she
reached Springfield, where Mrs. Grace Atherton, accom-
panied by a tall, elegant looking young lady, entered the
car and took a seat in front of her. Neither of the
ladies noticed her, but she recognized Mrs. Atherton at
once and guessed that her companion was the young
lady from Collingwood, who, rumor said, was soon to
marry her guardian, Mr. Richard Harrington, although
he was old enough to be her father. :

Dolly scanned both the ladies very closely, noting
every artiele of their costumes from their plain linen
collars and cuffs to their quiet dresses of gray, which
seemed so much more in keeping with the dusty cars
than her buff and purple plaid.

“J ain’t like them, and never shall be,” she said to her-
Self, with a bitter sense of her inferiority pressing upon
her. ‘Il ain’t like them, and never shall be, if I live to
be a hundred. 1 wish we were not going to be grand.
I shall never get used to it,” and the hot tears sprang to
her eyes as she longed tobe back in the kitchen where
she had worked so hard.

But Dolly did not know then how readily people can
forget the life of toil behind them aud adapt themselves
to one of juxury and ease; and with her the adapta-
bility commenced in some degree the moment Shannon-
dale station was reached, and she saw the handsome
carriage waiting for them. <A carriage finer far and
more modern than the one from Collingwood, in which
Mrs. Atherton and the young lady took their seats,
laughing and chatting so gayly that they did not see
the woman in the big plaids who stood watching them
With a rising feeling of jealouey and resentment as she

      

    
   
   
   
   
    
  
  
   
 
   
    
   
   
 
 
  
   
  
   
 
  
  
  
 
 
   
    
  
   
   
  
  
  
    
  
   
    
   
    
   
     
   
   
   
   
   
    
 
 

 

 

  

‘me!

| tention.

thought of Mrs. Atherton, ‘She does not even notice
me.” .

But when the Tracy carriage drew up Grace Atherton
saw and recognized her, and whispered, in an aside to
her companion :

‘Kor goodness’ sake, Edith, look! There are the
Tracys, our new neighbors.” Then she bowed to Mrs.
Tracy, and said: ‘‘Ah, I did not know you were on the
train.”

“T sat right behind you,” was Mrs. Tracy’s rather un-
gracious reply; and then, not knowing whether she
ought to do it or not, she introduced her husband,

“Yes, Mr. Tracy—how do you do?” was Mrs. Ather-
ton’s response; but she did not in return introduce the
young girl, whose dark eyes were scanning the stran-
gers so curiously, and this Dolly took as a slight and in-
wardly resented it.

But Mrs. Atherton had spoken to her and that was
something, and helped to keep her spirits up as she
nn along the turnpike to the entrance of the
park.

On the occasion of Mrs. Frank’s first and only visit to
her brother-in-law it was winter, and everything was
covered with snow. But it was summer now, the month
of roses, and fragrance, and beauty, and as the Car-
riage passed up the broad, smooth avenue which led to
the house, Dolly’s eye wandered over the well-kept lawn,
sweet with the scent of newly mown grass, the par-
terres of flowers and shrubs, the winding walks and
clumps of evergreens here and there formed into fancy
rooms, with rustic seats and tables under the over-
hanging boughs; ané when she reflected that all this
was hers to enjoy for many years, and perhaps for her
life-time, she felt the first stirring of that pride, and sat-
isfaction, and self-assertion which was to grow upon her
so rapidly and transform her from the plain, unpreten-
tious woman who had washed, and ironed, and baked,
and mended in the small house in Langley into the arro-
gant, haughty lady of fashion, who courted only the
rich and looked down upon her less fortunate neghbors.
Now, however, she was very meek and humble, and
trembled as she alighted from the carriage before the
great stone house which was to be her home.

“Isn’t this grand, Dolly ?” her husband said, rubbing
his hands together and looking about him compla-
cently.

“Yes, very grand,” Dolly answered him; ‘‘but some-
how it makes me feel weaker than water. I suppose,
though, I shall get accustomed to it.”

(fT0 BE CONTINUED.)
> e<
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

BERTHA,

Sewing-Machine Girl;

OR,
DEATH AT THE WHEEL.
By. ke. RANCLS, Se SMITH,

Author of “Eveleev Wilson,” “Little Sunshine,”
“Maggie, the Charity Child,” ‘Galenus,
the Gladiator,” etc., etc.

 

(“BerTHA, THE SEWING-MECHINE GIRL,” was commenced
in No. 49. Back numbers be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XVII.
JACK RYERSON FINDS HIS SISTER.

After parting from his new-found friends, Jack Ryer-
son walked moodily along, turning over in his mind all
which had occurred during the previous twenty-four
hours.

His head was hardly clear yet, and a burning thirst
possessed him such as no one but the victim of strong
drink has ever experienced, and as he passed a fash-
ionable liquor saloon on Broadway, wherein he had
often imbibed too deeply, he was suddenly accosted in a
familiar manner by a person who stood in the door-way.

This was a man about forty years of age—short, stout,
and of florid complexion. He had a well-developed fore-
head, large, steel-blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a
long, pointed beard of chestnut hue, which he from time
to time stroked gently and passed his hand over ca-
ressingly. ‘ ’
“Hello, Jack!” cried this individual; ‘‘you are not go-
ing by at this time in the morning without your usual
cocktail, are you?” | Ree rst. aes
_ “Yes, doctor,” replie® the

 

   

 
    

ing for

   

«Do you mean it ?” asked the doctor, placing his hands
upon the shoulders of the young man, and gazing earn-
=f in his face. ‘Do you mean it, Jack ?”

“T do, Doctor Wells,” replied Ryerson, firmly. ‘I have
yea a solemn Oath this morning never to taste liquor
again.’ card

“Then may Heaven help you to keep that oath!” ex-
claimed the doctor. ‘‘I never took such an oath—I never
will, because I could not keep itifI did. [ am a physi-
cian, Jack; [know my own temperament and habit of
body exactly; I also know exactly what effect the con-
stant use of intoxicating drinks will have upon me in
the end; I shall die, either of apoptexy or deliriwm tre-
mens, and, with this knowledge in my mind, I musz
drink when I feel the desire, and I never see a man who
can refrain from it but I envy him.” ¥ :

“Excuse me, doctor,” said Jack Ryerson, biuntly, “but
in my opinion that’s all humbug. I don’t believe that
man ever lived who couldn’t let liquor alone if he
pleased. Noman, unless he wanted to commit suicide,
would swallow a glass of liquor if he knew there was a
deadly poison at the bottom of it, and there is the proof
that he could let it alone if he pleased. I’ve heard it
said, doctor, by those who pretended to know, that
you’ve got some secret trouble on your mind—something
that you ought to forget—and because you won’t forget
it, you drink to drown thought. That’s what’s the mat-
ter with you. You ought to forget. Brooding over old
sorrows is like keeping a corpse in the house, and there
ain’t a bit 0° use in it.”

“Oh, if I could forget!” exclaimed the doctor, ab-
stractedly—‘‘it I only could forget!”

“Tl tell you how to forget.” returned Jack, as a bright
idea seemed to strike him. ‘‘Get married! That'll cure
you, sure. When I want to cure a lame horse I blister
him, and I advise you to try marriage fora blister. But
I don’t want to argue the point, doctor, and I’m glad I’ve
met you, for it will save me a walk to your house. I want
to know how Carrie Montgomery is getting along.”

‘Nicely, nicely!” replied the doctor. ‘When I saw her
last she was progressing finely, and I believe 1 could
have her out in afew days if that villainous policeman
would do her justice. The fact is, her sickness is more
of a mental than a physical character.”

“He shalt do her justice, and that before long, too!”
replied Jack Ryerson, in a determined tone. ‘I’ve gota
little rod in piekle for him that he don’t dream of, and
he will either marry Carrie Montgomery before he is
much older or go to the State prison. If the poor girl
wasn’t so fond of him, I don’t think I'd let him take his
choice ; but as it is, 1 suppose 1 shall have to. In the
meantime, doctor, I wish you’d iook out for the poor
thing, and whatever your bill is [ll pay it.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort, Jack,” replied the doc-
tor. ‘I’m poor enough—poorer than [ought to be, I sup-
pose—but I don’t charge anything for such cases. I
wouldn’t have taken money trom you for attending you
with your broken legif you hadn't forced it on me, and
I certainly shall not charge for attendance on a poor girl
who has not a friend in the world.”

«Doctor, yowre a trump!” exclaimed Jack Ryerson,
as he seized the physician’s hand and shook it heartily,
“and it’s a great pity there ain’t more like you. But I
must be going, for this is dangerous ground for me to
stand on, with those decanters and glasses inside there
staring me in the face. So far as money alone is con-
cerned, I'd give a thousand dollars this moment, if I
had it, tor a stiff gin cocktail; and yet I wouldn’t swal-
low one, and my oath along with it, to be made as rich
as Astor. Good-morning, doctor. I hope you'll be able
to forget, some day!”

And Jack Ryerson went on his way, whistling a lively
tune.

As he walked slowly along, suddenly his eyes rested
on a female figure just ahead of him which seemed fa-
mIniliar to him. He quickened his pace, came up with
her, and gave a short, sharp cough to attract her at-
The plan adopted had the desired effect ; the
girl turned suddenly, and the next moment they were
in each other's arms, and had kissed each other
heartily.

“Oh, John!” exclaimed the girl, a pale-faced, blue-
eyed young creature of twenty; “chow glad I am to see
you! How long have you been home ?”

“T have been home about six months, Maggie,” was
the reply; ‘‘and Ihave tried hard to find you. I even
went so far as to put a personal in the Herald ; but it
did no good, and I began to think that you had left the
city. I never heard a word concerning you, good or
bad, till a few hours since, and then i heard that you
had left old Curson’s shop, and got married privately.
Bub who you married, or where you went to, my in-
formant couid not say, Is it true, Maggie? Are you
married, really ?”

“Yes, John; Iam married,” replied the girl, sighing
deeply, and looking up at her brother with tear-filled
eyes; “butI did not intend that you should know it.
At least, not now—not just yet. But who told you,
John ?”

“A sweet little girl, almost as pretty, and, I’ve no
doubt, just as good as you are, Maggie,” replied Jack
Ryerson. ‘Her name is Bertha Bascomb.”

“Dear Bertha!” exclaimed Maggie, affectionately.
“Oh, if [had only taken her advice, John, what sorrow
and trouble it would have saved me! But where did
you meet her ?”

“In a queer place,” replied Ryerson, ‘for an honest
girl to be—in the Tombs police court !” Y

‘Merciful Heaven !” exclaimed Maggie, ‘‘what was she

 

doing in that dreadful place ?”

whom I4vorked——”

“She was accused of robbing her employer of fifty dol-
lars,”. replied Ryerson.

“She was falsely accused!” exclaimed Maggie, indig-
nantly. ‘‘Bertha Bascomb could never have been guilty
of such a crime! She! Why, she would not possess
herself of a farthing, dishonestly, to save her life! I
tell you, John, there is some dreadful wickedness at the
bottom of this charge !”

‘IT think so, too,” replied Ryerson, “but the proof
against her is positive, and I’m afraid it will go hard
with the poor girl. But now about your marriage,
Maggie. I didn’t think you could ever be sly about any-
thing—I didn’t think it was in your nature, and I could
hardly believe it when I heard it. You were always so
candid and outspoken about everything, that I couldn’t
understand how you could make such a mistake—for it
was a mistake, Maggie, to say the leastof it. There is
nothing to be ashamed of in honorable marriage, and
the fellow who will ask a girl to marry him and keep the
matter secret, don’t love her well enough to be her
husband:. No matter what the circumstances may be,
1 don’t believe there is a lawyer in the country who
could study out an argument to justify it. When a man
asks a girl to marry him without saying anything about
the matter to her friends, his object is a bad one, swre/
every time/ You mustn't take what I say to heart,
Maggie,” he continued, as the girl began to weep vio-
lently ; ‘syou know it was always my habit to be plain
and blunt, and I couldn’t help expressing my opinion,
but I don’t blame you half as much asIdo him. And
now, dry your eyes and tell me all about it, won’t you ?”

By a strong effort the girl subdued her emotion, and
after reflecting a moment, said :

“7 think | ought to be candid with you, John. Weare
orphans, and you are the only relative I have living.
You have a right to know of anything that so nearly
concerns me, and I_ywill give you the full particulars of
my folly, but ere—the street is no place for such
a revelation. Come home with me, and you shall
know all.”

“That’s right, Maggie,” replied her brother, approba-
tively, ‘‘and it’s like you. It can do no harm for me to
know all, and it may do some good. The fact is, little
sister, I wouldn’t have pretended to control you in any
way, six months ago, for I needed a strong hand over
me then, more than you did. But I do feel now as
though I ought to be your guardian, for I am perfectly
able to take Care of you, instead of looking for you to
take care of me, asl once did. If it hadn’t been for you,
Maggie, I should have been in a drunkarda’s grave long
ago—nothing saved me from going to ruin completely,
but your tears and pleadings, and even they couldn’t
always keep me straight. I feel as if I ought to be
whipped at a cart’s tail when I say it, but it’s the truth.
Oh, rum is a powerful master, Maggie. He’s the great-
est of all wrestlers—rum is. There isn’t anybody strong
enough to stand up against him always. Some manage
to hold their own with him tor a long time, but he is
sure to throw the best of them in the end. But,
Maggie, dear, he has lost his hold on me, thank Heaven.
I have taken asolemn oath this morning, that I will
never touch another drop of intoxicating drink, and I
will keep that oath if I die while fighting to conquer my
appetite |”

“Oh, John, I am so glad!” exclaimed the girl, whose
bright eyes beamed with pleasure, and whofor the mo-
ment entirely lost sight of her. own trouble. “I am so
glad to hear that you have determined to let that terri-
ble poison alone, for I know that nothing can shake your
resolve since you have sworn to abstain. Oh, if you had
only taken this course before you left home the last
time, how different might have been both our positions
to-day! If { could have looked upon you then as a loy-
ing, clear-brained, earnest brother, I should not have
had the tale of misery to tell which you will now listen
to. But I will not upbraid you, brother. Let by-gones
be by-gones, and let us trust in God to make our future
bright. Here is my home. Come,” and as she spoke
she mounted the steps of a small, but neat brick dwell-
ing, and inserting a key in the night-latch, entered, fol-
lowed by her brother.

She took Jack Ryerson’s hat, placed a chair for him to
rest in, and then laying away her own street garments,
she seated herself near him, and waited for him to open
the conversation.

‘Bertha Bascomb said that your husband was the son
of a rich man,” Jack ventured to say, after taking a sur-
vey of the plainly furnished but neat and comfortable
room in which they were seated; ‘‘but he can’t have a
poe deal of money himself, or it he has he don’t spend

t on you—although the place is comfortable enough, for
the matter of that.”

“Oh, John!” exclaimed Maggie Ryerson, earnestly, ‘1
don’t. desire any nicer home than this, so far as the
house and furniture are concerned. I am far happier
here than I should be in a grand house full of servants,
who would become familiar with my trials and troubles,
and make me the subject of their daily conversations. I
could not bear that. It is bad enough to suffer in secret.
It would be ten times worse to have my misery made
public. Oh, John, I have learned by sad experience the
bitter truth that wealth cannot purchase happiness,
whatever else ay buy.” Be 20.

“Ah,” replieg whose face grew red with pas-
sion, and whg witched nervously, ‘‘then this
ried don’t love ou, eh? Worse

  
   
 
 
  

      

 

 
  
 
  
   
  
  
  
  
   

 

     
 

"speaking,

d,as he finished Ryerson passed
both hands over his head, as though to sniooth his pas-
sion down. f

“Be calm, brother,” answered Maggie, <‘or 1 ‘shall
never be able to get through with my story. I shall
need all my fortitude, and you will make me nervous if
you get angry, SO pray be patient.”

“Oh, Tll be patient enough,” rejoined Ryerson; ‘go
on, goon! There ain’t no discount on my patience—
nary time! Go on!” and his fingers opened and shut
nervously. 2

Maggie paused for some ‘moments to collect her
et ha and then, heaving a deep-drawn sigh, she

“Just after you left home, the son of the man for

“Old Curson’s. son,” interrupted Ryerson; ‘yes, I
never saw him to my knowledge, but he’s a loafer, any-
how—some such fellow as the one I shook up in the cell
last night, I suppose. Goon!”

“The son of my employer,” continued Maggie, “began
to pay me marked attention. 1 did not encourage him

Want Ut me kaw k ble. But.
|W: { know tor i Ti
She needn’t have been afi

of honor, that he shall meet with no violence at your
hands,”

“Can't I hit him once, Maggie?
little one ?”

“You must not strike him at all,” replied Maggie.
*‘YOu may talk to him as you please, and make any
terms with him regarding me that you may think proper;
but no blows, no violence.”

“Well, I suppose I shall haye to promise,” replied
i ho dejectedly; “but ifs rough, Maggie—awful
rough !”

“You have promised me, andI can trust. you,” said
Maggie; ‘and now you had better hide in this closet,
and remain there till I call for you. I want you to judge
of his treatment of me.”

She opened the door of a closet as she spoke, and Ryer-
son entered and shut himself in, after which Maggie
descended and admitted the man who had married her
only because he could not gain possession of her in an
0 y, and who, now that his base ends were served,
Vv ‘in daily dread lest his father should become ac-
quainted with the step which he had taken, and who
had determined, one way or another, to make his mar-
riage null and void.

“Now, then,” he said, sharply, when they had ascend-
ed the stairs and entered the little sitting-room, ‘are
you prepared to act reasonably, Maggie ?”

“I always try to act reasonably,” replied the girl,
quietly.

“Are you prepared to give up your certificate of mar-
riage, and to sign an agreement, the terms of which
are, that I pay you a stipulated sum weekly, and you
give up all claim to me as your husband ?” asked Curson,
fiercely.

“Iam prepared to give up my life first!” replied Mag-
gie, resolutely. ‘Nothing shall ever induce me to com-
mit an act which may place me before my friends ina
questionable light. I will die before I will give anybody
the opportunity to point the finger of scorn at me. I
value honor far above life.”

“Well, it may be that I shall have to take your life
yet,” remarked Curson, deliberately; ‘‘but that is a dan-
gerous step, and I will try everything else before I resort
toit. Of this you may rest satisned: You shall have
” Seti night or day, till you have complied with my
wishes.’

“Ido not expect any,” replied Maggie, calmly ; ‘‘I sup-
pose I shall be subjected to persecution from you as long
as this poor heart beats, but you cannot force me into
doing wrong, try as hard as you may. Already, after
leaving me penniless for weeks, you have sent your crea-
tures to me, one after another, with tempting offers, hop-
ing thereby to affect my ruin, and each time you have
signally failed, as fail ‘ae will should this unnatural war
continue forever, for I had rather beg my bread from
door to door—nay, I had rather lie down and starve than
sell my honor.”

“The more fool you!” exclaimed Curson, brutally!
“Honor! Whatisit? Will it feed and clothe you, or
furnish you with the luxuries of life? Honor! Humbug,
It’s all very well to be honorable when you’ve plenty of
money, but a woman in your condition is little short of
idiotic to prate of honor.”

Just at this moment Curson’s gaze, for the first time,
fell upon Jack Ryerson’s hat, which Maggie had placed
upon the table, and which Jack had forgotten to take
with him into the closet.

‘Hello !” he continued, in a tone of exultation. “I hope

Only once; just a

 

 

two and then approach him on the subject. If I can get
her to go home with me, I will keep her till her trial
comes on, and then I will accompany her back to New
York and procure her acquittalif it beggars me to do
80, for I am as well satisfied of her innocence as though
it had been made plain beyond ¢ayil;” ;

ventured toreply to his brother. He had determined
when he first saw Bertha that she should never enter
his brother’s house, and he had forced Bascomb, as the
reader is aware, to withhold his permission. Within
the past few moments, however, a new idea had seized
him. the girl was where he could reach her, it would
be easy for him to operate against her still further, if
necessary to serve his base purposes. He therefore de-
termined to drop Bascomb a line instructing hina to let
Bertha accompany his brother, and at length, in a
plausible tone, said in reply to Jasper: :

«Well, 1 guess you are right, brother, after all, and I
suppose I have almost too large a share of suspicion in
my composition. But you must make allowances for a
man who becomes soured by misfortune. Had my wife
and baby lived, I should have had something to make
lite pleasant ; but after worrying through life alone for
twenty years, and seeing very little in the world. -
itis not strange that Ishould be a little uncharitable.
The girl may be as good as you sw her to be, a
in justice to herI must say that she does not carry a .
dishonest face around with her. On the contrary, her
countenance is full of honesty and sweetness; and I
must admit that even I shouldn’t object to trusting her,
much as appearances are against her. I promise you
faithfully that I will say nothing to prejudice Lilian
against her, so take her with you if you can, and I think
there is little doubt that she will accompany you now.
Her parents would be queer people, indeed, should they
object to placing her beneath the protection of one who
has proved so firm and so valuable a friend to her,
especially as she is not yet out of danger.”

“You seem to have altered your opinion of the giri
quite suddenly, David,” returned Jasper Cartex, signifi-
cantly. “A moment since you could see nothing pre-
poereening in the girl, and now you think she has an

onest face, and would not be afraid to trust her your-
self. Ihope you are not altering your views to humor
me. I want you to think as I do, of course, if you can
do so honestly ; but I had much rather you would ex-
press your true sentiments, even though they were at
war with mine, than to give utterance to that which
i do not believe. Whether you are sincere or not,

10wever, makes but little difference to me, for I would
espouse the girl’s cause though the whole world should
oppose me.”

David Carter pretended to be quite indignant that his
brother should accuse him of duplicity, and, to show
his displeasure, he remained silent. The conversation, °
therefore, ended here, and the subject was not again
alluded to. :

In the course of a few days Jasper Carter called on
Conrad Bascomb, and again desired that Bertha should
be allowed to accompany him to Philadelphia. He had
less trouble than he had anticipated. Bascomb had re-
ceived a note from David Carter but a day or two before,
in which that worthy had advised him to allow Jasper
to take charge of his daughter, and he would hardly
have dared to refuse had he felt soinclined. It would
have given him the liveliest satisfaction to have placed
Bertha in the care of the merchant had he been certain

 

 

 

T may never fight the tiger again if there isn’t a man’s
hat! Well, well! Wonders will never cease! How
about honor, now, my angel? You’re a smart one, but
the smartest will make mistakes! I’m thinking I came
upon you almost too suddenly! ‘Your lover has taken
French leave without his hat! But it don’t matter! My |
old friend, Lawyer Fox, has procured divorces with less
evidence than that! What with my money and your
poverty I see a certainty of release in that hat, Maggie
dear, and yet I should like to know the name of the man
whose head it fits. I should like to thank him, cordially,
for the service which he has unwittingly rendered me!”
and as he spoke, he walked up to the table, picked up
the hat, and began to examine it closely.

While he was thus employed his back was toward the
closet in which Jack Ryerson had ensconced himself,
and the latter, opening the door noiselessly, advanced |
on tiptoe till he stood directly behind his unprincipled
brother-in-law, whose mind was so entirely absorbed by
the subject that filled it that he was not aware of the
presence of a third party, till Ryerson, taking him by |
one ear with a yise-like grip, turned him suddenly |
around, exclaiming as he did so: |
“You needn’t go any farther to make the acquaint-
ance of the owner of that hat! That’s me! Take a good
look, and tell me what you think of me!”

Joe Curson uttered a sudden cry of alarm, and his hair
stood on end as he met the furious gaze of the butcher,
whose voice he recognized at once, and of whom, it is
needless to say, he stood in test dread.

“Don’t be rough, my friend” he whined, deprecatingly.
“Don’t be rough! ‘Take your fingers from my ear! You
hurt me! There’s no reason whatever why you and me
should quarrel! Not the slightest reason! On the con-
trary, we ought to be the very best of friends! You like
Maggie, of course, or you wouldn’t be here!- And if you
like her, take her and welcome! I won’t stand in your
way. NotI. I’'mglad youlike her, and I’m glad she
likes you. If she had only told me before we shouldn’t

i trouble. ] she didn’t

   

DpOSe
a

ho , Lor

man, and I'll prove it. Imight get rid of her altogether
now, if I pleased, of course, but I'd rather keep this
thing: still, if possible, and if she'll allow me to geta
divorce quietly I'll bind myself to pay her five hundred
dollars a year. I will, by gracious!” |
“Well, that’s better than I thought you’d do,” replied |
Jack Ryerson, with well-assumed satisfaction, as he let |
go his hold of Curson’s ear, which he had nearly pulled |
from his head. ‘But we don’t want your money—if |
you’ve got any cash to spare, give it to the poor girls |
that your greedy old father is robbing every week. The |
fact is, Maggie and me do love each other very much— |
she loved me long before she ever saw you, and if you'll
draw up a little agreement, acknowledging Maggie to
be your wife, and pledging yourself never to interfere
with us in any way, I'll call it ago, and I’m certain
Maggie will, too—won’t you, darling?” and he looked
fondly at the girl. }
Maggie didn’t much relish the idea of duplicity in any |
Shape, but she had placed herself in her brother’s hands,
and thought she must agree with him whatever plan he |
eo adopt. She therefore answered his question |

atively, and then, after procuring writing ma- |
terials at the request of Curson, she seated herself to |
await the progress of events. . |

 

 

 

 

at first, for, to say the truth, I did not like him very well,
but he was very persistent in his endeavors to please
me, and treated me so kindly at all times, that I could
not find it in my heart to be rude to him, and so at last
We became quite intimate, and he asked permission to
visit me at my boarding-house. Aiter much persuasion
on his part, I consented to this, and his visits were made
regularly two or three times a week, till at length one
night he asked me to marry him. I refused him posi-
tively at first, but he would not be denied. He grew all
the more earnest and devoted in his attentions to me,
and pleaded so hard that 1 would reconsider my deter-
mination, that I at last promised to do so, and I let him
know the result of my deliberations at a stated time.
He had always been very considerate and gentlemanly
toward me. He had never been guilty of the slightest
impropriety in my presence——”

“Of course not—of course not,” interrupted Jack Ryer-
son, ‘‘the loafer knew who he was dealing with. If the
devil wanted to pull the wool over a saint’s eyes he
wouldn’t let him see his hoofs, woula he? Go on—go
on!”

“7 sat down deliberately to consider his proposition,”
continued Maggie—‘‘I looked at the matter in every
possible light. {£ was poor, friendless, and without a
relative in the world except yo if, and I did not
know whether you were living or dead——”

“Leave me out of the question, Maggie,” again inter-
rupted Ryerson—‘I was worse than no relative at all.
I was no use to you, but on the contrary a great trouble,
the way I was going on then and I wouldn’t have blamed
you, a bit if you hadn’t eyen thought of me. But go
on!

«To be brief,” continued Maggie, «I accepted his prop-
osition and agreed to a private marriage, because he
said his father was a man of violent passions and parsi-
monious nature, and never would agree to his marrying
a poor girl, but that he could reconcile him to the mar-
riage atter it had actually taken place.

“It was the most imprudent act of my life, dear
brother, for I had not been married a month before I
discovered that the man to whom I had joined myself
for life was a selfish and unprincipled tyrant, who had
rere: tired of my beauty, and was anxious to getrid
of me.

“My suspicions were first aroused by his asking to see
my marriage license. I don’t know why it was, but Iwas
impressed with the idea that he wanted to destroy the
proof ot our marriage and cast me off as a worthless
weed to be trampled under foot.”

«There’s where your head was level,” again interrupt-
ed Ryerson; ‘‘that’s just what he wanted todo. Nota
doubt of it! But you didn’t let him have the certifi-
cate ?’

“No,” replied Maggie, ‘‘I refused absolutely, again and
again, and I have never known a happy hour since. He
provides for me, to be sure—ke knows [ would call upon
his father and explain all if he did not—but sometimes
he is absent for a week, and when he does come home
he treats me brutally in the extreme, and has even
gone so far as to strike me!”

“What!” yelled Jack Ryerson, jumping up so sudden-
ly that Maggie involuntarily uttered a little cry of alarm,
“struck you! ‘The miserable lumix! The sneaking
loafer! the cowardly cur! NowI1d@o want to see him!
Now I want to see him bad /”

“Oh, John, you must not give way to such frightful
outbursts of passion!” said Maggie, admonishingly.

“You frighten me dreadfully, and you promised me that
you would be patient.”

“Well, ain’t I patient ?” exclaimed Jack, as he strode
up and down the room, his eyes flashing furiously and
his great fists tightly clenched. ‘I haven’t broke any
furniture, have 1? or swore any? or tried to stand on
my head? I'd like to know if I ain’t patient!”

Just then Maggie, who had been looking from the win-
dow, uttered a low cry, half terror, half despair, and
turning deadly white, exclaimed:

“Here he comes now, John !”

“Oh, ain’t I glad!” exclaimed Ryerson, joyfully. ‘I’m
a goin’ to see him sooner than I thought I should. Go
down and open the door for him, Maggie, right away!
I’m hungry to see him !” :

“John!” exclaimed Maggie, firmly, as she laid her
hand upon her brother’s arm and looked him steadily

 

 

in the eyes; ‘the shall never enter the house while
you are here, unless you promise me, upon your word

 

Curson wrote the agreement, signed, and passed it |
over to Jack Ryerson, who, after perusing it carefully, |
said: : |

“Well, as near as I can make out, that is all right. I |
ain’t much of a lawyer, but I understand plain English, |
and I ain’t nofool. And now J’'ll tell you what I want |

mation which you might as well take with you, a
which is this: My name is Jack Ryerson—I’m a butcher
—and this little girl is my own sister, Maggie. Now, |
you ain’t a-goin’ to get any divorce from Maggie—nary |
divorce. She may get a divorce from you some day, but |
we'll take our time abput that. Not that 1 want her to |
bear your name. I’da good deal rather she wouldn't, |
but it can’t be helped. For my own part, I'd much |
rather take an honest scavenger for my brother-in-law |
than you with all your money. It’s because I don’t want |
Maggie to be known as your wife that ’’m willing to |
keep silent. Such a miserable loafer as you are would
bring disgrace on the commonest woman, let alone my
sweet little Maggie. You ain’t fit to sweep a slaughter- |

ever gotin yourlife. You and I have met once
to-day, and not a great. while ago either. You told me
then that you didn’t know the man who was prosecut-
ing the sewing girl. Youlied, of course. You’d rather

charge agin her was your father, and you're his own
son—there ain’t no doubt about that. I got your meas-
ure in the cell exactly. I knew you was persecutin’
that poor girl, and that’s the reason I warmed your jaw

the next time I lay my claws on you. Now, get!

save you the trouble of going down stairs by pitchin |
you out o’ the window! Move! D’ye hear?” ya

Joe Curson needed no second invitation to vacate the |
premises. He was through the door in an instant, and |
fiying down stairs as though pursued by the foul fiend

tore along the pave,

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
BERTHA GOES TO PHILADELPHIA.

Having secured the liberation of Bertha Bascomb
on bail, Jasper Carter determined, if possible, to induce
her father to allow her to accompany him to Phila-
delphia.

«T’m sure I don’t see why you have taken so great an
interest in that girl,” said David Carter, to whom Jasper
had communicated his intention; ‘for my part, I can’t
see anything very prepossessing in her. Besides, I don’t
believe your daughter Lilian will tolerate her for a mo-
ment. I believe you are about half crazy, brother.
Pause for a moment, now—look the iy | squarely in
the face, and see what you propose to do. Here is a girl
whom you see for the first time ina workshop. You
have scarcely laid your eyes upon her when she is ac-
cused of theft, arrested, examined, and held to bail.
Now, she may be innocent I hope she is—but the testi-
mony against her is certainly very strong, and it is pos-
sible, at least, that she may be guilty. And yet you pro-

to take her to your home and make her a member
of your family. I don’t believe that either your wite or
daughter will agree to any such arrangement, and I cer-
tainly should not blame them if they did not. You may
succeed in inducing your wife to receive her, for you can
talk her into almost anything, however absurd, but
Lilian, I am certain, will object to being on terms of in-
timacy with her.”

“She will if you undertake to influence her,” rejoined
Jasper Carter, testily, ‘but not otherwise. Lil is far
more like you in disposition than she is like me, and you
seem to wield a strange influence over her. I grieve to
say it of my only daughter, but Lilian lacks charity sad-
ly, and is different in some other respects from what I
would like to have her. However, in spite of you, or
Lil, or Mrs. Carter, or the whole household combined, I
will take the poor girl to Philadelphia with me, if her
father will consent to her going. I understand that
Bascomb is quite ill at present, so I shall wait a day or

 

  
  
  

you todo. I want you to take and gét out o’ this sud- |

dent. But before you go, I’ve got a little piece of eet .
n

house, you ain’t, and if I hadn’t promised Maggie not to |

ay ive y he liveliest warmin’ }
Rerareea: + RAD. SE eres yd TS VOR, betore | and she was not long in reading the true disposition of

amiable temper herself, an
lie than tell the truth. The old sucker that brought the |

for youand shook youupabit. But what I gave you |
then wasn’t a fea-bite, compared with what I'll give you |
You | vent it.
measley, lantern-jawed, slab-sided, hide-bound, mutton- | ae ‘
headed loafer, or I’ll forget my promise to Maggie, and | Steps at once to crush his victim,

|
|

  

that she would be constantly under his eye, but he had
great fear that David Carter would spring some dia-

bolical trap on the poor girl; and although he gave his

David Carter reflected for some moments before he iv

consent that she should go, he could not help begging ~
%,

earnestly that her protector would look after her
ly, night and day. - f

“The poor child has enemies, Mr. Carter,” he said—
‘powerful enemies—and I beg that you will guard her
with unceasing vigilance.”

“She undoubtedly has enemies here,” was the mer-
chant’s reply—‘‘that is evident enough from her pres-
ent difficulty—but she certainly can have no enemies in:
Philadelphia.” Bp :

“But her enemies may follow her to Philadelphia,”
cpt Bascomb. ‘There is no great difficulty in

at.’ 5

“Very true,” returned the merchant; “but even if
they do, they will find it hard to gain entrance into my
house, and 1 will see to it that she does not go out with-
out an escort.” —

“I beg of you to watch over her even in your own
house,” Said Bascomb, earnestly. “I dare not let you
know my thoughts, but I beseech you to look after her
carefully, even while she is bene your roof.”

“IT know what you are thinking,”
chant. ‘You are doubtful as to the reception w
will receive from my wife and daughter. Y
they may oppose her entrance into my f i ;
fears are but natural, but give yourself no apprehension
on that head. 1 know that they will receive her kindly
after listening to her story from my lips; but whether
they Sgro I promise you faithfully that I will watch
over carefully as though I knew ever, r of
my household her deadly enemy.”

“Oh, thank you, sir—thank you!” exclaim
with tears of gratitude. ‘You don’t know

ch she
ar that.
Such

 
 

 
   
      
     

     
  

 

  
 

   
    
  

 

   

en Se eee wy pare
- “And when my pretty Bertha be ready to
ed the merchant. ;

bO-mor : Ses

“So much the better,” replied the m
morrow be it. And now, my good friend, I WH pid}
good-by, for I shall not probably see you again till Ber-
tha’s trial takes place. In the meantime, it is not likely
that you will be able to resume work for some time to
come, and people can’t live in a world like this without
money. I must therefore beg your acceptance of a small
loan till you are able to labor.” f

And, without stopping to listen to objections or ex-
pones: he Bees, a roll of bills on the invalid’s

d, and departed. {

 

CHAPTER XIX.
PHILIP HAMILTON INTERRUPTS A CONVERSATION.

It was not without fear and trembling that Bertha
Bascomb entered the merchant’s house, although the
old gentleman had assured her again aud again. that she
would be welcome. Young as she was. peor girl
had already seen enough of the world to know that
charity was a quality not too frequently met with She

ad made up her mind to meet with @ chilling recep-
tion, notwithstanding the promises of her patron, and
she was therefore not less surprised than gratified to
find in Mrs. Carter, to whom she was first introduced, a
bustling, pleasant little lady, about forty-five years of
age, who took to her at onee, and set her Br at ease.
by her motherly kindness. The daughter Lilian she did
not see till the day following her arrivak and in the
meantime the old merchant had pleaded the cause of
Bertha with so much eloquence that even the fastidious
Lilian condescended to smile upon her when introduced.
She did more. She even went so far as to say that she
had been wishing for a companion of her own age for a
long time, and was glad that papa had at length brought
her one. This was going a great way for Lilian, who
was not over demonstrative at any time. To say the
truth, she was not naturally of am amiable disposition,
and her more objectionable qualities had gathered
force from the fact that she was am only daughter, and
consequently a spoiled child. Naturally she was vain,
fickle, selfish, passionate, and fretful; but she could be

leasant when she tried, and as her father had bribed

er with a diamond ring to give Bertha Bascomb a
welcome reception, she made herself quite pleasant,
and the sewing girl felt that she had indeed fallen
among friends. ;

Bertha was a pretty good judge of character, however,

She saw that in order to be
1umor her, Naturally of an

full of love and charity for
all, she did not find this difficult to do, and she had not
| been in the house a week, before the petted and

her patron’s daughter.
| friends with her she must

spoiled beauty loved her better than any acquaintance

whom she had ever made—a fact which did not escape
| the scrutiny of David Carter, who was much annoyed ©
thereat, and who determined that his niece should not
become a fast friend to the sewing girl, if he could pre- —

He did not think it necessary to take any decisive
but he began to lay
the foundation for future operations, by making Bertha
the subject of conversation on every occasion that of-
fered, and by hinting vaguely that his brother, although |
a highly respectable old gentleman, was a man of strong

ions, and had a keen eye for a pretty face, and that ~

ertha, when she consented to enter his household, was

himself, he made his way to the street, and proceeded | |
hastily homeward, muttering threats of vengeance as he |

very well aware of the fact. }

Of course, he was not open-mouthed and careless, ‘
while prosecuting his diabolical work. On the con
he was exceedingly sly and cautious. Like all
sins of character, he endeavored to stabin the
He made confidants of those only who would be most
likely to spread the slander quietly, and these he pledged
to secrecy.” ;

“J wouldn’t have you mentionit for the world,” he
was wont to say; ‘‘if it should reach the ears of Jasper
he would be terribly angry, and very reasonably so, too
—for, after all, it may be mere surmise on my part. The
girl certainly has a very innocent face, and she may be
all that she seems to be. But then{i know Jasper so
well. He was always a sad dog among the opposite
sex. ‘This is by no means the first affair of the kind in
which he has been engaged, demure as he looks. Be-
sides, that charge of thett against the girl isn’t at all in
her favor. The testimony against her was positive, and
| a girl that will steal will not stop at anything to obtain
money. But then, she shouldn’t be condemned till she
is proven guilty. I would be the last one to say any-
thing against her, and as 1 said before, I wouldn’t have
you mention this for the world. I sup I had no
right to speak of the thing at all, but one cannot always
be guarded. I do think it high time, however, that
Jasper should mend his ways. A man at his time of life
to become infatuated with every pretty face which he
sees! Ridiculous! Why, the girl is as young as his own
daughter! He ought to be ashamed of himself, and that
is the truth of it!” .

The reader will not be surprised to learn that in a very
short time this poison began to work. Although noth-
ing was said openly, the idea became general that Jas- —

 
  
   
    
 

 

 

 

creature—and that Mrs. Carter.and her daughter Lilian —
were very short-sighted and gullible indeed. =

But a circumstance soon transpired which convinced.
David'Carter that he had pursued the wrong course to |
gain the end at which he ultimately aimed. teen ee

é (10 BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

   

 

 

rejoined the mer-_

‘

ae

ra

“

 

 

 

    
      
      
         
            
       

      
     
     
     
     
     
      
        
       
      
     
         
       

   

per Carter was not the staid, sober, reputable individual #
which his acquaintances had supposed him to be—that J
Bertha Bascomb was a very pretty but a very frail #

 

 

 

 
    
  
   
  
  
   
 
 
   
    
   
   
 
  
 
   
 
   
  
      
     
  
       

       
   
  

 

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as though

before he
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ad Seized >

it would
urther, if
efore de-
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aritable.
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CSS

 

 

THE LITTLE STEAM.

BY JAMES H4é

 

 

A little stream went gurgli/ past
A lowly peasant’s humbleome ;
And pleasure sparkled in i tide,
And music slumbered inS tone.
There came a child to cule flowers
That on its verdant mam grew;
And long he watch’d its ser flow,
Nor cared he for the fio2rets’ hue.
Then up he threw his tintands,
While round his lips soSmiles would flay,
For in the stream he sawimself,
And fain would lisp itpundelay.

Long years had rolled tir noiseless course
-When next he soughtiis little stream,
And on his brow lurkeaare intrenched,
And frowns usurped vere smiles should beam.
But winds and rains, a; mighty storms
The meandring strealet had assailed ;
And he who languishecor its song,
A current’s ceaselessl'awl bewailed.
An angry glance his ey shot forth ;
His lips with imprecions moved—
That Fortune, friends,n4d little stream
Should all alike inco;tant prove.

Then from the stream, cheerful voice

His objurgations thy withstood :
“‘Think’st thou the laps which formed thee man

Would feave me in ry babyhoud ?

In thoughtless joy thelays I passed
When last my breasthy impress bore ;

But now I swell the tie that bears
The seaman to the @tant shore.

Then go—it thou woulst happy be—

 

For public good thypowers combine ;
The wronged one rigif. the wretched soothe—
Time's far too preciflis to repine !”

Thus havinfspoken,
Off to the qtan
Thicurrent dashed ;
And the niftal felt
The repro¢ it dealt,
Ail Stood abashed!

—_7jo-~<
[THIS STORY WILL NOT § PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

AUDREY'S RECOMPHNSE

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “BROWNE'S TRIUMPH,” “THE
FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “STELLA ROSE-
VELT,” “THER LILY OF MOR-
DAUNT,” etc.

 

 

[“AUDREY'S RECOMPENSE” was commenced in No. 48. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]
CHAPTER XIV.
A YOUNG MAN’S PLANS.

“Will you truly ?” Grace questioned, eagerly. ‘If you
will, I promise to wear them when I go sleigh-riding,
and I know they will be just as comfortable as can be.”

A shrewd smile hovered about the old maid's thin lips,
and, bobbing her corkscrew curls back and forth, she
Said, in a meaning tone:

‘You shall have them, dear—you shall have them.”

And let us add justhere that before the first snow fell,
there came to her Fifth avenue home a little box direct-
ed to Miss Grace Campbell and postmarked ‘‘Starkey-
Ville, Me.”

“My mittens!” she cried, with the merriest laugh in
the world, as soon as her glance fell upon that post-
mark, while she expected, upon opening the box, to find
a pair of coarse, clumsy ones like the stockings which

she had seen the woman knitting.

But what was her astonishment to find instead
a dainty pair madé of the loveliest shade of blue silk, |
beautifully fine and even. such as only experienced fin-
gers like Miss Starkey’s could fashion.

“J tell you, mamma, there is more in that queer old
maid than any of us imagined,” said the delighted girl;
“and I am going this minute to write her a letter, and
tell her how pleased I am.”

Rich, who had won her favor by his manly conduct,

 

alga. rec ived a pair of fine woolen hose, which he put
c iay aWay- with inia . fishy

ng suit, to be ready for
trouting next summer. a

About Christmas-time two boxes, containing some
pretty reminders of the season, went flying over the
rails to Starkeyville to gladden the hearts of the quaint
brother and sister, whg scarcely knew what Christmas
meant except in Dame.

The morning aiter Grace Campbell’s apology the
steamer reached her destination, and our New York
friends turned their faces toward the great metropolis,
while George Washington Starkey and his sister, with
others, kept on fo “do” all of the great lakes before re-
turning to theirhome.

* *

* * *

* * *

During the next two years Rich devoted himself assid-
uously to study, and at the end of that time was exam-
ined and admitted to Yale College, where he remained
for the succeeding four years, and closed his college
career by graduating second in his class.

Then, after asix weeks’ trip to California and the Yo-
semite with a tutor and two or three classmates, he re-
turned to New York, intending tospend a year abroad
with Miss Waldemar before settling down to the real
business of hislife.

But there came a crash in the financial affairs of the
country about that time, which disarranged these plans,
and which wasto prove of what kind of stuff Richmond
Waldemar was made, and to give him a chance to see
what he coulddo for himself and the fair, sweet woman
whom he loved as well as he could have loved his own
mother.

Audrey Waldemar had always supposed herself to be
independentlyrich. Not a thought or care had ever
disturbed hertegarding her future in a pecuniary way.
She had neverfknown a need or wish that could not be
gratified, andhad always been as free and generous
with her money as if her purse had been inexhaustible.

She had not, however, exceeded her income—her man
of business had taken care of that—but she had never
thought of being at all saving of it, since she knew that
each quarter would bring its accustomed supply

But one day her lawyer called upon her and informed
her that, beyond a few hundred dollars, she was penni-

less.

After remaining in New York three or four years, Au-
drey had resolved to sell her large estate in the country.
She had tried going back there to spend a couple of
summers, but somehow she felt very gloomy and lonely
in the great house, and preferred to travel, or visit some
quiet mountain retreat during the warm weather. It
seemed all folly to keep the place and leave it shut up
the year round, while of course it was a continual ex-
pense; so it had been sold, and the proceeds invested in
stocks.

But now abank, in which Miss Waldemar was a heavy
stockholder, suddenly suspended payment, and it was de-
elared that the assests were only sufficient to pay
ten cents onthe dollar. Then there was a Western rail-
road in whieh Audrey had a number of shares. It had
paid a large dividend for a long time, but during the last
year or two had been running behindhand at a fearful
rate, until now its stock was considered almost worth-
less.

Allthis was astounding news to her; she could not
comprehendit, and was so disturbed that she could not
decide upon what course to pursue.

“‘{ supposemy railroad stock possesses little marketa-
ble value now,” she said to Mr. Hosmer, her lawyer.

«Even if iteould be sold, it would net but a very small
sum just now.”

“Tf I should dispose of it for what I could get, and take
ten cents onthe dollar for my bank stock, how much
would all net me ?” Audrey asked.

“Very little—so little that I hesitate to name the
probable sum; less than you have been ascustomed to
spend in a year,’”’ he answered, reluctantly.

«And if I should let matters rest as they are, is it at
all probable that they will better themselves in the
future ?”

“Barely possible. Indeed, I should say it is extremely
doubtful. However, I feel somewhat sensitive. since I
have been acting for you, and I will allow you five per
cent more than their market value on your railroad
stocks, and trust to luck in getting my money back.”

Mr. Hosmer seemed to feel as if to some extent he was
to blame for this calamity. ‘

‘Well, lam not in a condition to-day to decide the
matter,” Audrey said, after thinking it over for a few
moments. ‘Iwill consider it, and let you know inafew
days.”

When Rich came home she told him of Mr. Hosmer’s
evil tidings, and asked his advice.

“I know but very little about either railroad or bank
stock, Aunt Audrey,” he said, thoughtfully, ‘‘but I be-
lieve I can find out something if ! make inquiries. You
know that Mr. Remington, the architect who has taken
so much interest in my drawings, is considered a very
rich man, and I am sure he will be able to tell me all
that we wish to know. But first tell me, Aunt Audrey,
just how youstand pecuniarily. How much money can
you lay your hand upon to call your own ?”

“Less than five hundred dollars, Rich,” Miss Walde-
mar answered, sadly, and heaving a deep sigh as she
realized how very little it was.

She had spent more than half that amount often upon
a single costume.

“Why Aunt Audrey! that is only half what you al-
lowed me a year for spending money while I was in col-
lege,” the young man exclaimed, a quick flush mount-
ing to his brow.

‘Don’t imagine, Rich, that .J begrudge one penny of
what has been expended upon you,’ Audrey returned,
thinking he was making himself uncomfortable in view
of what it had cost to educate him. ‘It is a great trial,”

 

 

 

 

she added, ‘‘and it will upset all our plans. I regret it

most on your account, forI very much wanted you to
have a year of travel abroad.”

Again that crimson flush suffused Rich’s fine face, but
he made no reply, and in a few minutes got up and left
the house.

He did not refer to the subject again for a day or two,
though he noticed that Audrey often scanned his face
questioningly, while she looked worn and anxious.

The third day, however, after receiving their ill tid-
ings, he came into her presence with sparkling eyes and
an animated countenance.

“T am ready to talk to you now, Aunt Audrey, about
our future,” he said, fondly and half playfully, ‘and I
shall want you to pay strict attention, for I have con-
stituted myself your man of business from this time on.”

Audrey laid down her work, smiled at his eager man-
ner, but did not make any reply, and he continued :

“tT have had along talk with Mr. Remington: I took
the liberty to state our trouble plainly to him, and I find
that he is also aloser by these same corporations, al-
though not to such an extent. He advises you to wait—
let everything rest just as itis, and he hopes that mat-
ters will right themselves, at least in a measure, by and
by. That is what he is going to do.”

“Yes, but, Rich, he doubtless has other resources ; he
can afford to walt; but it will take our all, if we do so.”

“Not quite, Aunt Audrey,” Rich said, eagerly. ‘You
know,” he went on, his face reddening, while he ap-
peared considerably embarrassed, ‘‘that you allowed me
a thousand dollars a year while I was in college ; but—
forgive me for referring toit again—I could not quite
forget that I was really only a poor penniless waif, who,
but for your bounty, would have had hard work to make
his own way in the world. I knew that my other ex-
penses were very heavy, and—my conscience wouldn’t
allow me to spend what you gave me, I saved all that I
could without appearing mean, or compromising my
Aunt Audrey's character for generosity ; I invested it in
a bank, and, dear Aunt Audrey, there are more than
two thousand dollars to my credit there to-day. Of
course it is all yours, you dear, blessed woman,” he went
on, gathering her two hands into his and regarding her
with almost worshipful fondness, ‘‘and I only regret
now that there isn’t half as much more—I might have
saved more just as well as not, for there were lots of
fellows there who had to get along on far less than I
should have had then,”

Audrey was overcome by this tale. The great tears
rolled over her face, and her heart was full of love and
gratitude for this noble boy whom she had rescued from
a life of poverty, and perhaps of degradation, and who
was repaying her so grandly in this hour of trouble.

“T didn’t tell you anything about it, auntie,” Rich con-
tinued, apologetically, ‘‘because I was afraid you might
think me mercenary, perhaps mean; but I kept think-
ing to myself that some time it might come handy. I
knew you had abundance, and that I was doing no one
any wrongin storing it away; while, at the same time,
I felt I had no right to cultivate extravagant habits by
spending the large amount you so generously allowed
me. Now one thing more and then I shall be through.
This money will not last forever; we must have some
other resource for the future. It has been settled for a
long time that Iam to be an architect; Mr. Remington
has told me many times that ‘I was cut out for one’—
that I havea great deal of talent in that direction, and
he is the man under whom I should like to perfect my-
Sselfin my profession. Aunt Audrey, I have let myself
to him to-day for five hundred dollars for the first year.
Iam to work seven hours each day in his office, and he
has given me permission to add to my income, if I can
do so, by picking up outside work that would not be
likely to come’to him.”

“Rich, my dear boy—” began Miss Waldemar, brokenly.

“Yes, I know I am,” he interrupted, tightening his
hold upon her hands; but hold on; I haven’t quite got
through yet. This five hundred will more than take
care of me for the year. and I believe that my two
thousand, with what you have, will insure comfort for
you for a couple of years, and by that time, I feel confi-
dent, if my health is spared, I shall be able to take
care of us both handsomely ; so you can let your doubt-
ful shares rest and see if they will come to anything.”

Audrey could not bear another word; she put forth
her arms around her boy’s neck, dropped her gracefnl
head upon his shoulder, and sobbed with all her might.

Rich’s arms crept about her waist, and the two sat
there speechless for the space of ten minutes.

“There!” Miss Waldemar at last said, raising her
head, wiping her tears away and smiling, though it was
a rather tremulous smile. ‘I have done, Rich—the
shower is over and I feel refreshed ; but let me tell you
I never was so proud and happy in my life as I am at
this moment. It is worth the whole of my fortune to
find out what there is in you.”

“T am afraid you overestimate my worth,” Rich an-
swered, smiling; ‘‘and just remember, please, that if
there is anything really good in me, I owe it all to you.
I believe if I could sell myself to give you back your for-
tune I should be tempted to do it:”

“JT wouldn’t part with you, Rich, for a dozen fortunes.
But how nicely you have calculated everything for our
future! Now we will take good Mrs. Allen into our
confidence, and see what we can arrange about a dif-
ferent home—of course we cannot live in this expen-
sive way any longer,” and she glanced around the luxu-
rious apartment as she spoke.

Mrs, Allen was accordingly consulted, and at once
solved ai difficutties by proposing to rent a suite of
rooms in some quiet, respectable locality and ‘set up
housekeeping on their own account.

This proposition was eagerly adopted by both Audrey
and Rich, and, after a diligent search for a few days,
they at last secured a suite of six rooms just adapted to
their needs.

Audrey had reserved a good many things both useful
and ornamental, when she sold her house, so they had
plenty to furnish their modest home with; and in less
than a week after their decision to go housekeeping,
they were in their own home—not settled by any means,
for that would take time; but Mrs. Allen had advised
the move, arguing that what it cost them to board for a
week would more than support them for a month.

She took the management of everything—planned the
carpets and arrangement of furniture, found a young
girl to act as servant, and who, under her supervision,
soon developed a wonderful talent for cooking and gen-
eral housework, and they were as happy a family as
could be found in New York city.

Rich had already entered upon his duties in Mr. Rem-
ington’s office, and he gave his whole heart to his busi-
ness.

He had, for years, been cultivating his talent for archi-
tecture, taking private evening lessons from three to six
months out of the twelve, and he had not been with his
employer a month, before the latter expressed his sur-
prise at his pupil’s proficiency.

Rich worked faithfully during the seven hours allotted
to him, while before and after office hours he might
have been seen in different portions of the city, where-
ever new buildings were being erected, trying to gain
an insight into the coarser and more practical part of
his profession.

Mr. Remington had achieved such renown that he de-
voted himself only to expensive structures, and had
more business than he could attend to.

Rich, upon discovering this, set himself, during his
leisure hours, to studying the needs, and drawing plans
to meet the wants of people who were compelled to
ee the cost closely and build upon a more economical
scale.

One day he was looking over a block of houses in the
western part of the city, and while asking the master-
builder some questions regarding their construction,
the latter said :

“T take it you are studying to be an architect.”

‘Yes, I have been studying for that since I was a boy,”
Rich answered.

‘“T suppose you have done something, then, on plans
for buildings ?”

“Yes; lam constantly at work upon them in the office
of W. B. Remington.”

“What! Remington, the great architect ?” asked the
man, in surprise.

“Yes, air.

«Well, well! you must be pretty well up in your busi-
ness to work for him; but he’s too high-priced an old
codger for me to have any dealings with.”

Made you ever plan your own buildings?” Rich
asked.

No. I can build a thing well enough after it is
planned, and I know good plans when I see them, but I
am not good at originating. Now I might get a tip-top
job out at yonkers, if I could only make good plans.
Some parties out there have advertised for bids ona
large block of houses, and if I could only find just the
right kind of an architect to goin with me, I’d like to
undertake them. I claim to be a first-class builder, but
nothing more.”

«When are the bids to be in ?” Rich questioned.

“By the first of January.”

“Two months from now,” remarked the young man,
reflectively.

He asked a great many more questions regarding
— block, and then went home ina brown
study.

For several days after that he left home very early,
and did not oeturn until long after dark; but when
Audrey questioned him about it he merely remarked
that he had a little more business on hand than usual.

Then for three weeks he rose at five o’clock in the
morning, and worked busily at his desk until it was
time for him to go down town, returning promptly upon
the closing of Mr. Remington’s office, and working often
until eleven or twelve at night.

At the end of these three weeks he again sought the
builder before mentioned.

“Can you spare me half an hour of your time, sir ?”
he asked.

“Yes, indeed,” was the cordial reply.

“You remember telling me about a block of houses
to be erected in Yonkers ?”

Yes,” the man answered, with an upraising of his
eyebrows and a quizzical glance at the young man.

“You also said if you could find the right architect
job go in with you, you would like to undertake the

ob.”
The man nodded, but with the same quizzical expres-
sion in his eyes.

‘‘Will you look at some plans that I have been at work
A oa: since Isaw you, and tell me what you think of

em ?”

“Yes, [ll look at them,” was the reply, but with a
doubtful emphasis upon the verb.

Rich drew from under his arm a roll, and, unfolding
it, laid out several sheets of drawing paper upon a car-
penter’s bench and pinned them down.

There were plans of the first, second, and third floors
of a block of houses, all drawn out in a neat and mas-
terly manner ; and besides these, there were designs of
the front and side elevation.

 

 

 

 

 

The master-builder examined them critically for a
long.time, and with increasing interest.

At last looking up at Rich, he demanded, in a voice
that sounded almost stern:

“You don’t mean to tell me that you drew these
plans ?”

‘*Yes, Sir, every line in them,” he returned.

«Are they original ?”

«They are original in this way, sir: After you de-
scribed to me what was wanted at Yonkers, I went to
look at a number of blocks of the same character. I
went through them thoroughly, making notes of what
particularly pleased me in each; then I went home and
drew these plans, combining what I had gathered from
different sources with other things which had suggested
themselves to my mind, and this is the result,” Rich
said, pointing at his drawings.

“Have you copied anything that has been used by
your employer ?”

“Not a curve, line, or dot.”

“Does Mr. Remington know what you have been
doing ?”

“No, sir; but I have his permission to secure any busi-
ness for myself that I can after office hours.”

The builder turned his attention again to the plans,
and studied them over and over. Evidently he was very
much pleased as well as surprised at them.

«Where do you live ?” he asked, at length.

Rich gave him the street and number.

‘Roll these things up and don’t show them to any one,
and I’lleome around this evening and look them over
again with you. I can’t stop any longer now,” said the
builder, with a thoughtful expression.

Rich obeyed and left the place, scarcely knowing
whether to feel elated or depressed by the interview.

But when evening came, and with it, at an early hour,
his visitor, and he spread out his plans again and began
to enter into the details of them, he forgot everything
but his interest in his work,and grew almost enthu-
siastic over it. : eS ae

When they had been over the whole thing two or
me times, his companion leaned back in his chair and
Said :

“Well, young man, I must say that, for a greenhorn,
you have done the smartest stroke of business on these
plans that it has ever been my lot to see.”

“Will they suit, do you think ?” Rich asked, eagerly,
his face flushing with pleasure.

“That's more than any one Can tell until the parties
at Yonkers have seen them,” the man returned. “But J
like them, and if you'll submit them to your employer
and get his permission to use them—lI never go at any-
thing underhanded—we'll make out the specifications
and our estimate of the cost, and send them in to the
parties who have advertised.”

Rich agreed to this most heartily, and, the next
morning, carried his plans to Mr. Remington, explained
_ what they were intended, and asked leave to use
them.

That gentleman was taken by surprise by the achieve-
ment of his young clerk, and complimented him highly
upon his work.

More than this, he took his own pencil and made a
few changes which greatly improved them and en-
hanced their value, while he readily gave Rich his full
and free permission to use them for the purpose for
which they were intended.

“You have made a grand success of this, your first
effort,” be said; ‘‘and evenif these plans do not meet
the requirements of the parties at Yonkers, you may feel
assured that you have made a long stride toward the
goal you are so anxious toreach. Such designs as these
—sensible, practical, and economical—must find a mar-
ket sometime. Iam gladfor you. My only fear is, that
you will outgrow my office before very long, and before
I shall be willing to spare you.”

 

CHAPTER XV.
‘*I WONDER WHO SHE IS.”

Rich and his new friend, the builder—Mr. Mason by
name—were some time making out the specifications
for their plans and completing everything to their satis-
faction, bus they were all finished at last and sent forth
to judgment!

Then there came a long time of waiting and suspense;
but Rich did not allow himself to dwell anxiously upon
it, nor did he say anything to Audrey about his venture
—there was time enough for that by and by ifit should
prove asuccess, he thought; if it should be a failure,
it would be better to keep his disappointment to him-
selt.

Meantime he continued to work diligently and faith-
fully at his post in the office during the day, devoting
his evenings to plans of his own.

He sent one or two simple designs toa periodical
which published articles upon architecture, and they
proved so acceptable that he was requested to contrib-
ute something every month, for which the publishers
serena to give him fifteen dollars for each contribu-

on,

One day, during the winter, a young man came in
from the country to consult with Mr. Remington regard-
ing plans for a house that he was going to build. But
after listening to Tita, for afew moments the busy great

man said : ek

“I cannot attend 60 you,sir, 1am sorry to say. Such
a small job wouldms »me anything; in fact, it
would be more of & s¢ than otherwise. You will
have vo Consult g om se; or stay—— Waldemar,”
turning to Rich, W Sat work On the other side of
the room, ‘can’t Something for this gentleman
out of hours 277 oan

Rich came ff @ and was introduced, and, after
conversing a few moments with the applicant, made an
appointment with him for later in the day.

He had quite a number of plans which he had drawn
for his own amusement from time to time, and he
thought that one of these, with some changes, might
meet the wants and come within the means of the
stranger.

It proved even so, for he found just what he wanted
among Rich’s collection ; and our ne, friend received
his first regular fee—a hundred-dollar note, for Mr.
Remington said the plans were well worth that amount
—with a feeling of pride and joy such as he had never
experienced before.

“Aunt Audrey’s birthday will be the day after to-mor-
row,” he had reflected upon receiving the money; ‘‘I
shall keep this a secret until then, when I will give it to
her, and it will be my first veal gift to her.”

It is needless to say that Miss Waldemar was both
proud and delighted, and she would not disappoint him
by refusing it.

She took it with her heartiest kiss and thanks, but
went the yery next day and deposited it in a bank in his
name. e

Time passed, the breezy month of March was here,
and still the result of Rich’s first venture was un-
known.

The fifth of March was a dull, stormy day, and when
evening came our young architect had just settled him-
self before a cheerful fire, his feet incased ina com-
fortable pair of slippers, and an entertaining book in
his hand, which he was going to read aloud to his Aunt
Audrey and Mrs. Allen, when the door-bell rang an im-
perative peal.

A few moments later the little maid-of-all-work ush-
ered Mr. Mason, the builder, in to see Mr. Waldemar.

He entered with a quick, elastic tread, went straight
up to Rich, and seized both hands in his.

«We've got it,” was all he said, but his face was full
of triumph.

“The contract, do you mean ?” Rich questioned, grow-
ing suddenly pale.

“That's exactly what 1 mean, and I believe Iam more
glad on your account than my own,” responded Mr. Ma-
son, heartily. ‘The parties were delighted with the
plans, and there is not one word of fault with specifica-
tions or price, and the work is to be begun the third of
April.”

Rich sat down half dazed, and feeling decidedly weak
and trembling. He had not known until that moment
how much his heart had been set upon the contract.

He had not even asked his visitor to be seated, nor in-
troduced him to the ladies, who were regarding them
on with astonishment, he had been so taken by sur-

e.

But he recovered himself after a moment.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, rising again and smil-
ing; ‘‘I believe you have scattered all my wits with your
news; allow me to introduce you to my aunt, Miss Wal-
demar, Mr. Mason, and Mrs. Allen.”

The introduction over, Rich drew a chair forward to
the fire for his new friend, and then turning to Miss
Waldemar, before resuming his own seat, he said: ©

‘Aunt Audrey, Mr. Mason is a master builder, and we
have been negotiating a little business together. Ihave
drawn some plans for him fora block of buildings at
Yonkers, and he has secured the contract upon them.
The bargain was that I should receive five hundred dol-
lars if he succeeded. That will do fora first venture,
will it not ?”

Miss Waldemar looked amazed now.

But she would not allow herself to betray any emotion
before a Stranger; so after the first shock of surprise
had passed she said, quietly :

“IT am very glad, Rich,” but the look which accom-
panied the words expressed a whole volume.

Mr. Mason spent the whole evening talking over the

  
  
 
      
   
   
  

matter, and appeared very much elated, as the contract |

would yiela him a handsome profit.

When he arose to go, he again grasped Rich by the
hand, saying ;

“T feel very grateful to you, young sir, and I predict a
brilliant future for you. I believe I should not have
secured this contract but for you, and I hope that this
our first mutual transaction will not be our last.”

“| hope so, too,” Rich answered, heartily ; and it was
not, for he drew plans for him in the future, while the
builder sent many, people to him, and there was no lack
of work for him from that time.

Mr. Remington, too, threw considerable business in
his way; work which would have been but a hin-
drance to him, so that our young friend began to realize
quite a handsome income from his energy and perse-
verance.

One day in May he went out to Yonkers to see how
the buildings were progressing.

Mr. Mason was delighted to see him, and took him
Se hiite. every portion of the buildings with a good deal
of pride.

On his way out Rich passed a young man about his
Own age, or bi ea a little older, who was Reh at
a bench, and he noticed that he was regarding him
very earnestly, and with a disagreeable scowl on his
dark, swarthy face.

There was something familiar, too, about him: he
was sure that he had seen him somewhere before,
though he could recall neither time nor place.

| soon as he set his eyes upon me.”

 

 

“Who is he?” Rich asked of Mr. Mason, when they |
were beyond his hearing.

“His name is John Crouch; he’s a surly kind of a fel- |
low, but he’s a good carpenter and a smart hand at |
work. By the way, he looks asif he knows you,” con- |
cluded the builder, glancing back at his employee, who
had suspended his work and stood regarding Rich with
no friendly look.

“Tam very sure I have seen him before ; but I cannot
place him,” the young man said, reflectively.

But he forgot him entirely after a while, in his in-
terest in the development of the plans over which he
had spent so much time and thought; but when he
stepped upon the train toreturn to New York, that
evening, he almost stumbled against the same young
Ceca who was just leaving one car to go into an-
other.

«Curse you!” he was sure he heard him mutter under
his breath.

“T beg your pardon,” Rich said, courteously: ‘‘I did not
see you in season to step out of your way.”

The fellow made no reply beyond a disagreeable
scowl, and pushed ahead into the smoking-car, while
Rich, forgetting the circumstance, or thinking nothing
of it, save that he had run against a coarse, ill-man-
nered boor, settled himself comfortably in a seat and
began to read his evening paper.

But he was destined to see another face that day—one
that he could not forget, and which was to haunt him
tor weeks before he discovered the name of its owner.

Arriving in New-York, he sprang lightly from the
train and made his way outof the station, softly hum-
ming a tune.

He was in excellent spirits, for Mr. Mason had been
consulting him regarding plans for some Queen Anne
cottages that a capitalist wanted to build in the sub-
urods of Brooklyn, and he had strong hopes of securing
the contract if he could get designs to suit.

He passed out upon the street and took an up-town
car, but after riding a short distance he suddenly
thought of an errand he had promised to do for Miss
Waldemar, and alighted before a store on Broadway.

He made his purchase and then concluded that he
would walk home as he felt just like taking the exer-
cise.

He had not proceeded far, however, before he noticed
the slight, graceful figure of a girl, clad ina neat dark-
brown suit, just alittle in advance of him.

Almost unconsciously he slackened his pace and kept
ea 9 her, feeling strangely interested in and attracted

y her.

His quick eye took in every detail of her neat, though
inexpensive costume, from her simple brown hat to the
toe of her small, perfectly fitting kid boot.

She carried a bundle in her arms—quite a bulky one—
and_Rich wished he knew her, so that he migh relieve
her of it; it nettled him that such a pretty girl—he
knew, instinctively, that she was pretty, although he
had not yet had a glimpse of her face—should be so
disagreeably burdened.

He was so intent upon observing her that he had eyes
for nothing else, and all at once he was startled, and his
blood set to boiling with indignation, as a newsboy sud-
denly flew around a corner, running plump against the
girl, nearly throwing her off her feet, and sending her
bundle fiying out of her arms upon the sidewalk,
where the string, with which it was bound, giving way,
its contents—the materials for a dress, with spools of
silk and thread, whalebones and buttons—were scatter-
ed about in confusion.

Rich’s first impulse was to seize the boy by the shoul-
der, stopping him short in his mad career.

“What are you about. young man?” he demanded,
“running against people in this way? Have a care over
yourself in the future or you will get into trouble.”

Administering a slight shake to enforce his reproof,
Rich let him go and turned his attention to the unfortu-
nate victim of the encounter.

As he did so there flashed upon him the memory of an
incident of a somewhat similar character which had
occurred when he was a boy, and when he had defend-
ed a little girl from the abuse of a low born bully.

Then in an instant it came to him who the fellow was
whom he had seen in the new buildings at Yonkers, and
whom he had also encountered upon the train.

“He was that mean-spirited bully as sure as I am
alive ?” he said to himself, “and he recognized me as

These thoughts passed through his mind with the
rapidity of lightning, and he was astonished to find how
little a thing had aroused memories that had long lain
dormant.

Then he turned to assist the young girl in recovering
her property.

“Will you allow me to help you, miss,” he asked, po-
litely, and lifting his hat to her as if she were a fashion-
able belle, instead of a poor sewing: girl whom he now
knew she was.

She lifted her face to him as he spoke, and he thought
it the fairest one he had ever seen.

A pair of beautiful blue eyes met his, looking out
from beneath a finely shaped brow, upon which rested
light waves of rich golden hair. Her complexion was
faultless, with a delicate bloom upon either cheek; her
nose and ears were like a dainty bit of sculpture ; her
mouth was a scarlet line of befuty.

She gave a violent start as she looked at him, then
grew crimson; while to Rich, as he noticed it, there
came a Shadowy memory, like some strain of music
heard somewhere in the dim past; but the time and
theme it was beyond his power to recall.

‘Thank you,” she responded, in a low, sweet tone, a
shade of sadness stealing over her face, ‘I donot be-
lieve I need to trouble you; 1 think 1 have recovered
everything,” and she began to make up her bundle
again as she spoke.

“I know I can assist you about that,” Rich said, as she
tried to tie it up, but found the package difficult to
manage.

He noticed, too, that her little brown-gloved hands
were trembling violently, and he wondered at it, for be-
yond scattering her work, the clumsy newsboy, he
knew, had done no damage.

Gently taking the bundle from her, he drew her out, of
the jostling crowd into a door-way, where he tied it
neatly and securely, feeling sure that she would have no
further trouble with it, even if it should fall again.

“Thank you,” she said, and as her deep blue eyes were
raised for a moment to him, he thought there was a wist-
ful, almost appealing expression in them, ‘tyou have
taken a great deal of trouble for me.”

“No, indeed ; it has been a pleasure, I assure you,” he
said, ‘‘and if you are going much farther this way [ shall
be happy to carry it for you, as 1 am bound in the same
direction.”

«You are very kind,” she replied, and he was sure that
the sweet voice trembled, ‘‘but I believe I will take a
car. It would have been better if 1 had done so in the
first place.”

Rich bowed acquiesence, but he was disappointed. He
would have been delighted to walk by her side and carry
that clumsy bundle, had it been twice as clumsy. But
he hailed a car for her, saw her safely into it, then with
a lingering look, lifted his hat, and went on his own
way.

“What a pity that any one so lovely and delicate
should need to toil for her living,” he mused. ‘I wonder
who she is. I wonder if I shall ever meet her again.”

{TO BE CONTINUED.]

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<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 9, 1885.

 

 

  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 

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All letters should be addressed to
STREET & SMITH,
P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

PREPARING FOR COMPANY.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

 

It is surprising how muck stir and confusion the an-
nouncement that company is coming will make in any
family, even a well-regulated one.

A woman is always solicitous that company shall see
everything about her home at its best. Though she may
give her husband and children pieked up dinners fora
week on a stretch, there will be no dinners of that de-
scription when company comes. Probably she does not
care a continental for the company, and it is to be sup-
posed that she loves her husband and children, but she
is sure to treat the company with more consideration.
All the rooms ig the house are swept and garnished.
The cupboards and closets are cleaned out and made
scrupulously neat, the attic is brushed up, the cellar
receives attention, for every woman knows that no
female friend of hers, or of anybody else, ever went any
where without wanting to peep into every room in the
house, and then look to see “if there is a good cellar.”
The best women in the world have this weakness, and
if there be unsightly cobwebs, and little rolls of lint, and
fly specks on the paint, this same “best woman” will
see it all, and she is an angel if she does not speak of it
to somebody. It seems to be human nature to do it.
And why it is that everybody does like to note the short-
comings of friends, instead of their virtues, still con-
tinues a problem ; but it is so, and we all know it.

The woman who is preparing for company will be in a
tearing hurry. She won’t stop to take her hair out of
papers, or to put on a Clean collar, and the probabilities
are that she will have about five buttons of her boots
buttoned—two on one foot and three on the other. It
takes time to button boots, and she is expecting com-

pany.
The husband wants a button sewed on, but she has no
time. He mustletit go. She has got her hands in the
pastry, and can’t take them out. And he swears in-
wardly, and sews a button ona fine shirt, with black
linen thread, and splits the batton in two just as he has
got the last stitch set, amd runs the needle under his
thumb nail, and kicks over the button box, and flings the
shirt under the bed, and rams himself into another one,
and wishes the individual to whom polite clergymen re-
fer as the Great Adversary, had all the company.
But the woman who is expecting company, doesn’t
mind ris tantruins. She has something else to attend
to. The fruit cake may refuse to rise. It may be heavy.
» What shall she do, if itis? Her soul is harrowed by the
thought. She holds her breath, for fear the doughnuts
will soak fat, and she sees no peace until the gingerbread
is out of the oven, and she receives ocular demonstra-
tion that itis allright. Ifthe bread gets too brown on
the top, she endures torments, and wonders why it is
that when anybody tries extra Hard to have things nice,
they always turn out badly, aid so we all wonder at the
same thing. y
She drills the children for a week, before company is
expected, as to their behavior. They mustn’t shout.
They mustn’t ask twice for cake at table. They mustn’t
insinuate that the Chicken pie was made out of an old
hen. They mystn’t say anything about the large words
pa used: when he heard that company wascoming. Poor
pa! he is bothered about his business, and his temper is
fretful at such times. They must always say ‘thank
you,” and “please,” and they mustn’t put their feet on
the sofas; or prowl round into the rooms of the visitors,
smelling of their cologne bottles, and asking them what
they do with that pink flour in the box.

The husb'and is warned not to tell too long stories, and
not to icavp his mustered-out paper collars on the center

not to eat his pie with a knife, and to limit

Sone piece at a meal.
Tne dog is slut up in the barn, the cat is ousted from
her cozy place behimd the kitchen stove, the clouds are
watched to see\if it is going to rain, the butcher’s boy is
bullied about the meat, the grocer’s clerk is made miser-
able in trying to sell second-best groceries for No. 1 arti-
cles. All creation is turned upside down when a woman
is going to have company.
Does it. pay ?
Yes, after all, we think it does; for it is a variety, and
anything which can bring variety to the monotonous
round of a housekeeper, ought to be welcomed.

Ain SS Renae

“The Kings of Conversation.”

 

 

A very clever and entertaining article on ‘‘THE KINGS
OF CONVERSATION” Will appear in the next number of the
NEw YORK WEEKLY.

Rev. H. M. GALLAHER is the author, and this is suffi-
cient guarantee that the contribution is extremely inter-
esting. Among the notable personages to whom pointed
reference is made, are Dr. Johnson, Edmund Burke,
Goleridge, Charles Lamb, Thomas Macaulay,

p ie = Mr. GALLAHER possesses an erudite mind,
and is not afraid to impart a little of the information he
has gleaned in the course of a very studious life.

@

“UP TO CHARLEY’S.”

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

“T’]] throw on my shawl and run up to Charley’s house
for an hour,” said an elderly lady at whose house my
wife and I had been guests for a few days.

After she had gone, my wife and I, who are both wide-
ly separated from all our brothers and sisters by many
miles of distance, both sitting thoughtfully silent for
many minutes, both exclaimed in a breath to the lady’s
daughter in the library with us:

«How nice it is that your mother and you can at any
time run up to Charley’s !”

To many who read these words it is possible to put on
a hat, and in a minute’s walk, or a run through the back
yard, be in the home of your married sister, or your
brother, or your parents. To many others who will pos-
sibly read this, a thousand, yes, thousands of miles lie
between you and Charley’s. Why is it that we, who
love our only sister so well, are so fondly attached to
our brothers or our parents, are by marriage or business
changes sent so far away? Why, when you—some of
you, at least—who do not seem to appreciate the bless-
ing at all, always continue in the same Village, or city,
or even in the same block with your nearest kindred ?
God only knows why. Ah, me! If we only could run up
to Charley’s as easily as you can, how soon we would go
—this very minute! Dear old Charley! my playfellow
on the nursery floor, my companion at school, my de-
fender on the play-ground, my purveyor in business, my
loyal friend—how hard the parting was when I moved
away! how hard it is still! I have found other friends ;
but itseems to me such a mystery of destiny that I
should be forced to find the friends and intimates of life
beyond the circle of my home.

To be able to send down word when one is ill anda
sister comes in answer to your need. To know every
evening that mother and father are well, for some one
was up from the house, or you were down and sat an
hour there—not obliged to wait for tardy letters or to
say each night, ‘‘All well when we got the last letter.”
To keep your face as familiar and as valued as the
others ; and not suffer under a half suspicion that ab-
sence is letting you drop out of the group, that they are
getting used to your loss, that the tie is weakening ; not
because they want it to, but from the very nature of
things. Since John, and Hattie, and Bill see each other
constantly, and only see you once a year or so, of course
John, and Hattie, and Bill cling closer together. They
would indignantly deny it and protest their love for you
if you mentioned such a thing. Butfor all that—well,
well, distance is a cruel thing. Distance works wonders
that we never meant it should, alas! How 1 would re-
sist a daughter’s marrying a lord and going to live in

 

 

 

 

far off England! What heart-breakings there are when
the steamer sails from European shores, the emigrant’s
farewell!

Yet I believe many people do not care a straw
for the separation. A father talks foolishly and unfeel-
ingly about the boy’s ‘‘seeing the world,” ‘‘paddling his

own canoe,” and all that sortof thing. Asif all this |

could not take place just as well, and a great deal more
safely, in the helpful circle of kindred-—unless the boy
as a little child has been pampered and spoiled at home.
The wanderer himself is generally responsible for his
wandering. One goes off at a distance to look for work.
He might have found it nearer home. The Chicago lad
comes to New York looking for a situation. The New
York lad goes to Chicago on the same errand. Why
could the two not have tound a place at home and so
saved mother’s heart-strings? The fact is it needsa
fixed resolution and patience to keep the family together.
If you really value proximity to your brothers and sis-
ters you must resolve to sacrifice something, if need be,
for the sake of settling near home. If you, girls, really
prefer a home near your parents you must watch your
heart when Cupid is nigh you, for it is certain that he
will lead you aroving life. Why do you allow yourself
to “like,” to fallin love with the fine young chap who
lives a thousand miles away? You are not so silly as to
believe in this love-at-first-sight fiction, are you? Why
not say, coolly, to yourself, at the very first glance of
“sheep’s eyes,” now I must not like that man for a hus-
band. I do not intend to go to Mexico to live? But to
marry him is to go to Mexico. Put your foot on the
springing sentiment at once; thatis, if you do not want
to go to the world’s end. You say I talk prose, and
young people live in poetry. But a young girl is particu-
lar about the color of a young man’s hair, or the size of
his income. She is not unwilling to aSk what sort of a
house he will give her tolivein. Will any bright girl
answer me why she should not also ask, where does he
expect me to reside? If you do not fancy residing in
China—where he is engaged in business—why on earth
do you fall in love with him? If girls please they may
keep the home much nearer together than they do.
aOee they are separated from kindred is often their own
ault.

Parents may do much more than they often seem in-
clined to keep their sons near them. I observe that some
parents, in whom the heart-life is a tremendous force, do
manage this. The father makes a place for his son in
his own business. The man has had that in mind for
twenty years—a place for his boy. Other fathers con-
tract a disgust for their own calling in life, and allow
their sons to knowit. They encourage them to ‘‘strike
out.” Some fathers take a son-in-law into their very
hearts, and insist that the other children shall love their
sister’s husband. They inculcate a tamily unity. They
continually preach that all shall cling together. Some-
how it transpires that money is loaned, help is afforded,
advise is given from brother to brother-in-law, from
father toson. The whole is a net-work in which to cut
one thread is to unravel the whole. Such groups are
one—are strong. Many hands, many eyes, many
thoughts. People come to know them as hanging to-
gether. Iam free tosay I likeit. It is the old Hebrew
idea. The modern Jew clings to his children. It is
beautiful. I hope my children will do the same. It is
dreadful to think of this little circle about me being
broken up, one of these days, some rich, some poor, when
by clinging together they might all have a moderate
competence. I hope my children will keep near each
other ; within callin times of trouble; within reach in
times of prosperity ; within helping distance in times of
temptation. And you, too, reader, hope the same of
your children. But it costs the resolution and the sacri-
fices of Jove toinsure it. Even then, alias, some of us
cannot, when the heart is so sore, ‘throw on a shawl
aud run up to Charley’s.”

 

~4

SHORT TALKS WITH THE BOYS.

BY M. QUAD.

 

 

[AU proper inquiries addressed to this department will be
answered as promptly as possible.)

 

NUMBER 2.

Last week we gave eight trades—butcher, harness-
maker, shoe-maker, tinner, baker, carpenter, painter,
and wagon-maker—and posted the boys as to the term
of apprenticeship and the wages they would receive,
both as apprentices and journeymen. This week we will
continue the list of trades.

The plumber binds his apprentice to serve for three
years. If the boy boards in the family, his wages will
not be over $50 for the first year. If he boards himself,
he will be paid from $2.50 to $3.50 per week. The wages
will double in the second year, and during the last six
months of the third year the apprentice will be paid at
least $2 per day. One who goes to learn the plumber’s
trade should calculate to include with it that of gas-fit-
ting. The plumber may flourish in a town which has
water-works but no gas, but in the average city he is
expected to combine both trades, and will work at both.
The wages of journeymen run from $2.50 to $3 per day,
but in large shops a smart, trusty workman will have no

trouble making $22 per week the yearround. There is
no lost time in the trade, and it is not one to break a man
down early in life.

One of the trades which improved machinery and State
prison contracts have seriously interfered with is that of
cabinet-making. A first-class cabinet-maker may al-
most be called an artist. Someof the sideboards and
mantels of the present day are real works of art. The
apprentice serves for three years, receiving for the first
year his board and $50; the second year he would receive
$2 or $2.50 per week, and the third year from $ to $6.
The average cabinet-maker will not average over $10 per
week. One who can do the very finest work, and handle
ae tools, is lucky to keep a situation paying $15 per
week.

In towns and villages the house-painter is expected to
hang wall-paper, but in cities the trades are separate
and distinct. The paper-hanger is also a decorator, and
a good one may class himself as an artist. The boy who
would become a paper-hanger and decorator must serve
an apprenticeship of two years. His wages will be $2.50
per week, without board, the first year, and from & to
$6 the second. However, unless a boy has natural taste
for decorating, he should let the trade alone, as he will
only make 4 botch of it. A good workman will receive
from $3 to $5 per day, but there are seasons of the year
peor his work is not in demand, and when he must be

le.

Biacksmithing is a fairly paying trade, and the cost of
setting one’s self up in business is not great. Appren-
tices are bound for three years, and the pay is from $2
to $3 per week the first year; $ to $6 per week the
second, and from ten to twelve shillings per day the
third. The wages of a journeyman in a good shop are
never less than $2 per day. The boy who goes to the
trade of blacksmithing should count on becoming a
horse-shoer as well. In the citiesfew blacksmiths touch
a horse’s foot, while no horse-Shoer would think of mak-
ing en to a vehicle. Nevertheless there is no rea-
son why the two branches should not become consoli-
dated in the case of the village blacksmith. Indeed,
they must be from necessity, but the shop which has
the reputation of doing the best shoeing will have the
most custom in the other branch. When an apprentice
has finished his trade he can set up business for himself
for about $100.

The trunk-maker binds his apprentice for three years,
and the pay for the first year is, without board, $3 per
week; for the second, $5, and for the third trom $7 to
$8.50. It is a trade which is never pursued in towns and
villages, but a good trunk-maker is seldom out of work.
The wages of a first-class journeyman will average $15
per week. It is light and tasty work, andthe journey-
man works by the peace in most cases, thus making it a
matter with himself how much he earns.

The carriage trimmer is the right-hand man of the
carriage-maker, the two trades never being combined,
though generally worked at under the same roof. The
trimmer’s apprentice is never taken for less than three
years. If he boards himself his pay for the first year
will be $2 per week; for the second $3.50; for the third,
$5. The work is light and requires taste, and there is no
lost time on account of bad weather or change of sea-
sons. A good trimmer can count on $2 per day the year
round in the smallest shops, while in the large cities,
where the more expensive upholstering is done, jour-
neymen are paid as high as $3 per day.

The gunsmith is, or should be, a locksmith as well.
Indeed, he should know how to repair fire-arms, fit a
key, file a saw, sharpen a lawn-mower, solder a leak, or
rivet a knife-blade. A boy who is a natural machinist
can make such a trade a success, but no other need try.
No bargain would be made with an apprentice until it
was seen that he was handy with tools. He would then
be paid from $2 to $3 per week, without board, for the
first year, and from $4 to $5 for the second. After that
his wages would be as could be agreed upon. There is
no such thing as finishing the trade, because there is
something new to be learned every day in the week.
One who had worked at the business for three years,
however, could command from $12 to $16 per week. In
tow _ the apprentice would set up in business for

self.

In the village, the tailor makes, mends, repairs, and
cleans, and his hours of labor are long and his income
small. In the city the taflor is an important individual.
Society, or the male portion of it, would go to wrack
without him. The man who measures, fits, and makes
must have taste and skill or his trade will prove a curse
tohim. Tailoring in cities is divided into two depart
ments—fitting and sewing. Years ago the latter work
was done by men in the shops, and entirely by hand.
Nowadays it is mostly done by women on machines, and
the real tailor is the cutter. It will surprise you to
know that a tasty cutter and fitter in a fashionable
tailor shop has an income ranging from $35 to $50 per
week. They are paid not only for making exact meas-
urements of a customer’s arms, legs, and body, but for
concealing his weak points. They must make a stoop-
shouldered man look just as trim as the other sort ; they
must conceal a lop-shoulder, hide scrawny legs, shorten

‘long arms, and lengthen short waists. Praise or ridi-

cule bestowed upon a new suit makes or breaks the
cutter. It isf{one of the very best.trades a boy can take
up, providing. he has natural taste. The apprentice re-
ceives no pay at all for the first six months, and for the

 

second only $2 per week. If he has developed talent he
will be paid from $3 to $5 per week for the second year,
and from $7 to $10 for the third. The average journey-
man can demand $15 per week. This is for assisting to
fit, sewing, pressing, etc. One who acquires the art of
cutting and fitting may be certain of $30 per week in any
shop in the country.

—

BIRDS WERE NOT MADE IN VAIN.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

 

 

A farmer once—

A youthful dunce—
Stood staring o’er a field

Of springing corn,

By blackbirds shorn
Of half that it should yield.

Said he, ‘Bright birds,

Mark ye my words,
Your doom is surely sealed.

**Ye have had your share
Of my produce rare—
Ye have ranged my broad fields o’er,
And pick’d and ate
At such a rate
That half my crop or more
Has felt the blight
Of your greedy bite,
But now your reign is o’er!”

He kept his word—
Each joyous bird

That on the morrow trilled
His joyous song
The meads along

Was mercilessly killed.
“Now,” cried the lad,
With visage-giad,

“My barn will sure be filled !”

Time sped along—
The blackbird’s song
No more was heard in air—
The farmer stood
In solemn mood
And features full of care.
His eye roamed o’er
The fields, but saw
No vegetation there.

On each green leaf
A reptile thief—

Erst the blithe blackbird’s prey—
A full meal had ;
The farmer lad

Had sent their scourge away,
And the Poa wight
Possessed not quite

The blackbird’s power to slay.

He viewed the scene
With thoughtful mien—
His heart was touch’d with pain—
“Oh, bright-winged birds!”
He cried, “that words
Would bring ye back again!
For now, in sooth,
I feel the truth,
Birds were not made in vain!”

@

MYTHOLOGICAL MUSINGS.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS,

 

 

 

 

There is an air of probability meandering through the
stories of Greek and Roman mythology that enchains
the mind and fascinates the truth-loving reader. The
remarkable feats performed by the immortal gods may
be looked upon with disbelief by some nineteenth cen-
tury persons; and yet, when compared with some of the

achievements of our own day, they appear insignificant:

enough. Jupiter, whose nom de plume was ‘‘Zeus,” was
aman of great strength. When he shook his ambrosial
locks the whole of Olympus trembled. IfJupe had the
distribution of political favors, and announced to his
constituents, with a shake of his head, that he had de-
termined to adhere to the civil service rules, and re-
move from office only for cause, it is not strange that
Olympus trembled—with indignation. Hardly.

The gods who lived on high Olympus enjoyed one con-
tinual round of picnic. Their food was nectar and am-
brosia, with which the market was bountifully supplied.
The price of a pound of ambrosia and a pint of nectar is
not stated, but an impression prevails #hat it was more
than is charged nowadays for the saah@ quantity of Lim-
burger cheese and lager beer. Le

Jupiter, who was boss of¢

the thunder-bolt business; ang’
vertise inthe pena “Manutaeg
Her Gracious Majesty the Queen)?
sidered the best in the market, aad Re
entire trade. None were genuine”
mark on the handle. Jupiter becamegoe

vertised by eating one of his wives, and attacking and
overthrowing the government of his father, that he
joined a theatrical company, and is now traveling as a
“star,” if we have not been misinformed.

Mercury, the wing-heeled youth, was a telegraph mes-
senger-boy, and it didn’t take him two hours to carry a
message half a mile either. He conveyed important
messages over sea and land with remarkable soonness ;
but when he undertook to get the result of a New York
boat-race to London in five minutes, he got badly left.

Once upon a time, Hercules went gunning for a hydra-
headed sea-Serpent that annually made its appearance
at the various watering-places on Mount Olympus, and
which committed great depredations among the Texas
cattle and other stock belonging to the farmers in the
vicinity. At last he drove the reptile to its lair, and
began the work of annihilating it. Every time he cut off
one of its heads, two would spring up in its place.

The incredulous reader may say this story is a wild
piece of exaggeration, and stubbornly refuse to invest
faith in it; but let him or her pause and consider. Are
not things quite as marvelous occurring in our day? If
we were to inform Hercules that when the President of
the United States strikes off the head of an office-holder,
about five hundred immediately spring up to take its
place, he would be apt to look skeptical, and sneeringly
observe, ‘‘Tell that to the marines.”

It was the unanimous opinion of Augeas, King of Ellis,
that when Hercules assumed the contract to cleanse the
king’s stables, he had bitten off more than he could con-
veniently masticate, as they say in the classics; but he
turned the course of a couple of rivers through the stalls,
and the job was done. A river is not easy to turn from
its course, and it is believed that Hercules lost money on
his contract. It may create some surprise &t this late
day that the stables were not also washed away; but the
stability of the structure is attributed to the fact that
the foundations were not erected under the supervision
of a New York Buddenseik builder.

In this country the politicians frequently call upon
their respective parties to ‘cleanse the Augean stables,”
but the cleansing process seldom cleanses. The “dirty
pool of politics” is turned through the Government Stalls,
so to speak, and the “‘stables” are left as filthy as ever.
If Hercules were to undertake the task of purifying the
modern Augean stables, he would soon throw up his
contract in disgust, or strike for higher wages.

The account of the birth of Minerva is permeated with
an air of dime fiction, but when you come to think about
it, its plausibility is quite plausible. Jupiter ordered
Hepheestus to cleave open his—Jupiter’s—head, and
Heph clove, when out sprang Minerva, the goddess of
war, in full armor, full grown, chanting a war song.

Hepheestus was a very accommodating god. We don’t
suppose there is one man in a hundred living to-day who
would oblige a friend by splitting his head open, no mat-
ter how urgent the request might be. The manner of
Minerva’s birth suggests the belief that Jupiter had been
“making a night of it” with Bacchus, Vulcan, and some
more of the boys, and found himself with a «big head”
next morning. A man’s head under such circumstances,
we've been told, feels as if it were going to split, and
this feeling may have induced Jupiter to resolve to enjoy
the genuine article, for a change. Such births are no
longer en regle, and it is greatly to be regretted. Jupi-
ter didn’t lose any sleep o’ nights by the howling of his
offspring, and it was not necessary to pay $75 for the
latest style baby coach in which to deposit Minerva
when she was taken to visit her grandmother; no jump-
ing out of bed at. midnight and knocking his shins
against the rocking-chair in the blind search for the
paregoric bottle.

It is extremely doubtful, however, whether the chant-
ing of a war song at birth is preferable to the aggravat-
ing music made by the new-born babe of modern days.
Minerva was a brilliant woman, but she would not have

 
 
   
  
  
 
 
    

been permitted to vote for President in this country;

and, with all her reputation, the mercantile gods never
honored her by putting her portrait in a soap advertise-
ment. She had great strength of character, and was
fairly oozing with wisdom, and yet she had one great
failing. She invented the flute. Fancy a goddess of
war inventing the flute—and playing upon the instru-
ment! It is too much. A Mr. Phidias sculpt an ivory
and gold statue of Minerva thirty-nine feet high. The
money necessary for its erection was not raised by ten-
cent subscriptions. The success of the Minerva Monu-
ment Fund is attributed to the fact that each State in
Olympus contributed to the national monument, instead
of manifesting jealousy and resolving to build a monu-
ment on its own hook, as it were—and failing.

Apollo was the handsomest of the Olympian gods, but
he didn’ pose as _a professional beauty. He didn’t wear
a single-barreled eye-glass, nor a collar possessing so
much altitude that his ears had to be pinned up to save
them from amputation. He had brains as well as beau-
ty, and was never called adude. Apollo was the foe of
all that was evil and impure, corrected abuses, and pro-
tected the weak. But all the same he was not perfect.
He played on the lyre, and was the president of the
Olympus Nine. It was a musical nine—not a base-ball
nine. They were called the Muses and played “star”
engagements. The criticisms in the daily papers on the
morning after the Muses gave an entertainment were

very conflicting and amusing. One critic said Miss Mel-
pomene’s voice was weak in the lower register, while
another declared that her singing was perfection itself,
and rivaled the nightingale’s in volume and clearness.
It is surmised that the writer of the adverse criticism
didn’t goin on afree pass. Judging from the paucity
of the wardrobe worn by Apollo, as Shown by the artists
who sketched him ‘‘on the spot,” and handed his full-
length portrait down to posterity, the ‘heated term”
in Olympus lasted twelve months a year. His principal
dress was a benevolent smile and a bow and quiver. He
al know what it was to be dressed by a tailor or a
atter.

Diana and Apollo were twins, and the latter couldn’t
tell his age without “giving away” his sister. When
Apollo celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday, Diana said
she was only sweet twenty-one, and this marked differ-
ence in the ages of twins puzzled the heads of the old
ladies of Olympus more than considerable. They couldn’t
understand it, and the village debating society discussed
the problematical question several nights without reach-
ing a satisfactory conclusion. The humorous paragraph-
er of the Olympus Sun solved the vexed problem the
first time. He said Diana lied.

Diana belonged to an archery club, and she had such
an unerring aim that a spectator could stand within five
yards of the target without having an eye put out. The
safest spot nowadays, when a female archery club is
practicing, is immediately in front of the target, but
when a cross-eyed girl draws the bow, it is more healthy
to be in the next county. Diana was fond of the chase,
and when she started out loaded for bear, or dear, she
didn’t want any horrid man along to protect her from
tramps, rattlesnakes, black beetles, and other terrors
young ladies are apt to encounter on such excursions.
She was made of sterner stuff, and organized a girl’s
‘“‘We-can-go-it alone Society”. She sought a terrible re-
venge on a young warrior named Actszeon who came
peeking around one day when she and her nymphs were
in bathing. It is supposed she wore one of those
microscopic costumes now seen—or barely seen—on the
young ladies at Cape May, Long Branch, and other
American watering-places, and Diana was modest. She
changed Actzon into a stag, who was then torn into
pieces by his own dogs. That cured him of his peeping-
tomism. He was never seen on the beach when Di and
her girls were splashing about in the breakers after
that. Despite the severity of Actzon’s punishment, it
doesn’t seem to have caused much of a sensation on
the heights of Olympus. Diana was notarrested for ag-
gravated assault and battery; nor does it appear that
she was even censured by the coroner’s jury. If a young
lady in our day were to visit such eee bo gion
young man who had overstepped the bounds of pro-
priety, the daily papers would devote almost as much
space to the tragic affair as they do to a game of base-
ball or a boat race, and all the illustrated papers would
have a double-page engraving, showing the metamor-
phosed youth being torn to pieces by the dogs—and the
modern Diana would be so pestered by persistent news-
paper interviewers that she would either get hertoa
nunnery or turn her persecutors into stags and have ’em
torn apart by dogs.

Venus was a professional beauty, but her dresses were
not made by Worth. All her costumes were cut so
scandalously decollette that she always looked as if she
was going to attend a fashionable full-dress reception.
Her photographs were displayed in all the shop windows
of Olympus, and all the susceptible young gods of the
male persuasion had her picture in their photographic
albums. Venus possessed a magic girdle which was
more efficacious in winning the love of the opposite sex
than all the so-called “love powders” ever advertised.
When she loaned this girdle to others its power would
go with it. Applications for the loan of her girdle, from
young ladies who failed to insnare a young man at the
summer resorts during the season, were SO humerous
and annoying that Venus was frequently impelled to
resort to subterfuge. She would inform the applicant
that the girdle was at Vulcan’s blacksmith shop getting
repaired, or that Annethusia Maria Jane Electrisia
Scroggins borrowed it three weeks ago and had not re-
turned it. It is a mighty good thing that such a magic
love-girdle is not possessed by any one young lady in
this nineteenth century of enlightenment and jealousy.
Its owner would frequently be tempted to take a mean
advantage of her valuable possession. For instance: if
Miss Patrochio Tympanus sent out invitations for a
grand german, and ignored the possessor of the magic
girdle, the latter would remark, “‘the nasty, mean
thing !” and then cause Miss Tympanus’ affianced young
man to fall in love with herseif=.On the following Sun-
day evening Miss Patrochio would sit in-the front parlor
with her hair artistically pinned on and banged, and
her eyebrows nicely penciled, and wait, and» ptt
and wait for ber dear Charles to come around with f
light of love in his eye, and a pound of chocolate cara-
mels in his coat-tail pocket. But he would cometh not,
and the deserted girl would not sleep a wink all night.
If a homely old maid with a falsetto voice and a false
set o’teeth got possession of a magic love-girdle, the
young men would have to take to the woods as fast as
their legs could carry them. And woe betide the youth
who stumbled.

> e+

Correspondence,

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

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

 

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

 

Knowledye Seeker, Wilmington, Del.—ist. Jefferson Davis,
the President of the Southern Confederacy, was born on
June 3, 1808, in that part of Christian County, Ky., which now
forms Todd County. Soon after his birth his father re-
moved to Mississippi, and settled near Woodville, Wilkinson
County. Jefferson Davis received'an academical education,
and was sent to Transylvania College in Kentucky, which
he left in 1824, having been appointed by President Monroe a
cadet in the West Point Military Academy, where he gradu-
ated in 1828. 2d. His father was a planter, and, of course, a
slave-holder. 3d. Lucius Q. C. Lamar, the Secretary of the
Interior, was born in Putnam County, Ga., on Sept. 17, 1825.
He graduated at Emory College in that State at the age of.
twentv years. Two years later he was admitted to the bar at
Macon, and two years later still he removed to Oxford, Miss.,
where he was chosen professor of mathematics in the State
University. A year afterward he returned to Georgia to

practice law in Covington, and in 1853 was elected to the :

Legislature. Another year passed, and he returned to his
plantation in Mississippi, and in 1857 was elected a Repre-

him on a fruitless diplomatic mission to Russia. In 1866 he
returned to the University of ee and subsequently
was again elected Representative and then Senator in Con-
gress. 4th. His immediate progenitors were Georgians, and,
we presume, slave-holders; further we cannot ee
you. 5th. Either Harvard or Yale College would be better
for you than the West Point Military Academy if you do not
desire a military education. The French and Spanish lan-
guages are taught at the academy in lieu of Latin and Greek.
6th. Authors are not agreed to what particular branch of
learning the term belles-lettres should be restricted, but it
may be said to include especially rhetoric, try, history,
philology, and criticism, with the languages in which the
standard works in these departments are written. 7th. The
continent of Europe. 8th. Henry Lee, the father of Robert
E. Lee, was married twice. The name or his ife was
Matilda; the second Ann. See “Life of Robert E. Lee,” by
John E. Cooke, published in this city. 9th. Zachary Taylor,
the twelfth President of the United States, was engaged on
his father’s plantation in Kentucky until his 2th year. His
brother Hancock, a lieutenant in the U. 8. Army, died in 1808,
and the vacant commission was assigned to Zachary. He
was made a captain in 1810. 10th. We can furnish the books
named for $1.50 each.

Kate D.—\st. The phoenix was a mythical bird living in
Arabia, and resembling an eagle, with wings partly red and
partly golden. On arriving at the age of five hundred years
it built a funeral pile of wood and aromatic gums, and, light-
ing it by the fanning of its wings, was consumed to ashes,
out of which rose a new pheenix. The fathers of the church
employed the myth to illustrate the resurrection ; and sey-
eral of the Roman Emperors used it on coins to ee the
return of the golden age under their rule. 2d. ‘ANZ

imm’s “French and German Self-Taught” will cost 2%
cents per book. 3d. You will find ‘Put *s Best Reading”
very useful. It gives hints on the selection of books or
courses of reading, and on the formation of libraries. Price,

aper cover, $1. if you wish it, write direct to the NEw

ORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. 3d. We suggest ““How to
Live,” by Horatious Bonar.

Ira, Woodville.—ist. Starch forms a large part of the food
of man. Rice is nearly nine-tenths starch, and Indian corn
and barley more than two-thirds starch. Rye, oats, and
wheat contain nearly as much. Potatoes are one-fifth starch.

Arrowroot and tapioca are kinds of starch made from the
roots of plants, and sago is starch made from the pith of the
sago palm tree. 2d. The principal salt springs in this country
are in New York, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Missouri,
Ohio, and Michigan. There are salt lakes in Minnesota, Cali-
fornia, Utah, New Mexico, Texas, and other States. There
are also salt wells in different parts of the country, made by
boring very deep into the earth. 3d. Much salt is made from
sea water in the West Indies, especially in Turk’s Island.
This salt is usually hard and coarse, as the water is driven off
slowly by the sun and not by boiling.
Lennoz,Massachusetts.--Ist. Winter green is so calledbecause
its leaves are green all winter. It isa plant which grows wild
in the woods almost all over the Northern United States and
Canada. Its leaves are dark shiny green above and light
green beneath, its flowers are white, and it bears little scar-
let berries. They are sometimes called partridge berries, be-
cause partridges and other birds live largely on them in
winter. Both the leaves and the berries are good to eat. Oil
of wintergreen distilled from the leaves is used for flavorin
confectionery and for disguising the disagreeable taste o
medicines. The deepest Artesian well is in Germany,
about twenty-five miles from Berlin. It is over four thou-

 

 

 

 

sand feet deep. .The first Artesian well was dug in the proy-
ince of Artois, France ; hence the name.

Anson M., Montgomery, Ala.—ist. The disease known as
writers’ cramp is a spasm Which affects certain muscles of
the hand and renders the act of writing impossible. In the
treatment of this functional spasm the only effectual remedy
is said to be absolute cessation from writing. Peculiar forms
of pen-holders and other mechanical contrivances have been

suggested, but as a whole they are represented to have failed
to help the sufferer to any great extent. Sometimes relief is
pape by briskly rubbing the fingers that are cramped,
or exercising the hand in some other employment. a
work on the Swedish-moyement cure will cost $1.50; one on
massage $1.

Willie Douglas, Garden Valley, Ga.—lst. Guano was known
to the ancient Peruvians as a very valuable fertilizer. The
greater portion of the guano of Peru is sent to England. 24.
It is the product of sea-fowl intermixed with their decom-

posed bodies and eggs. 3d. Address your letter to “U. 8. Min-
ister,” Lima, Peru.” 4th. The following costume will an-
swer: Sailor jacket, and wide, turn-over collar, with loose
silk tie; ordinary pantaloons, but wide at the bottom; and
white stockings and low quarter shoes.

A, G. C.—The simoom is a hot, dry wind common in Syria,

 

Arabia, and India. In the first-named countries it never
lasts long, though it sometimes returns for several succes-
sive days. It comes from the deserts, and fills the air with
dust, and not infrequently produces death by suffocation.
In India the simoom is singularly fatal. It usually occurs in
June and July, by night as well as by day, and is sometimes
preceded by a cold current of air. Its course is on a narrow
path, and it is not accompanied by dust.

Basil, Rochester, N. Y¥.—There should be a thermometer in
every hot-house, and it should hang where it cannot be
affected by the rays of the sun. The temperature should not
exceed 66 degrees by day, nor fall below 45 degrees at night.
The plants should be frequently turned round soas to keep
them in good shape, thus by frequent changes of position

iving all a chance at the bestplaces. Watering may be done

y a sprinkler or syringe. Take care to give water to the soil
and roots, as well as to the leayes.

Old Subscriber, Cumminsville, Ohio.—To make mocking-
bird food, mix together two parts of corn meal, two parts of
pea meal, and one part of moss meal; add a little melted
lard, but not sufficient to make the mixture too greasy, and
sweeten with molasses ; fry in a frying-pan for half an hour,
stirring constantly, and taking carenot to letit burn, This
makes itfkeep well. titin a covered jar. The moss meal
is prepared by drying and grinding the imported moss seed.

O. M.L.—Sublime Porte is the title officially given to the
Ottoman Government. Orkhan erected in his capital Brusa
a palace with an imposing entrance, on which he bestowed
thename of “Sublime Porte,” which from that time to this
day has been ag as stated. This use of the term is

artly owing to the oriental custom of transacting public
Pusiness at the gate or in the antechamber of the palace.

B. M. S., Motley’s Depot, Va.—ist. “Fred, the Factory Boy,”
was commenced in No. 27, Vol. XXX VIII., and ended in No.
30 of the same volume. The papers will cost 24 cents. 2d.
From Vol. XXXI. 3d. No. 4th. See No. 16 0f Vol. XL. 5th.
Itis notforustosay. 6th. A fine ag Ned Buntline—
“Bill Tredegar ; or, The Outlaw of Blue Ridge”—you will per-
ceive, is now running through the paper.

S. L. C., Allentown, Pa.—To mak¢ lemon sponge cake, take
eight eggs, ten] ounces of sugar, half a pound of flour, and
the juice and grating of onelemon, Separate the eggs, heat
the yolks, sugar, and lemon, until thick and light. Whisk

the whites until dry, which add with the flour, half of each

at a time, and mix all together, but avoid beating. Butter

your pan well, and bake in a moderate oven.
Newfoundland.—ist. We can only suggest the purchase of a
work on dogs. One by Richardson, which treats of their dis-
eases, and gives directions as to their management, training,
etc., will cost, in paper cover, thirty cents. It has numerous

engravings. 2d. The “Dog Fancier’s Directory and Medical
Guide,” Charles Hallock, will be sent to you for 75 cents.
Both books will aid you..

T. L., New Brunswick.—A very nutritious wine jelly for
persons recovering from sickness is made as follows: Boil
and clarify half a pound of loaf sugar,and dissolve one
ounce of isinglass in a small quantity of warm water. Strain
it into the sirup. When nearly cold add half a pint of sherry
or madeira wine. Mix it well, and pour it into a bowl.

M. OC. M.. Astoria, L. I.—The tambourine is made of a thin
hoop of wood or metal, covered with tightly stretched parch-
ment, and hung with little bells. Itis avery ancient inven-
tion, and has always been the favorite instrument of gipsy
‘and ‘peasant dancers. The word tambourine is from the
French tambourin, from tambour, a 3

A Very Anzious Boy, Newark.—A letter addressed to
“School-Ship St. Mary’s, foot of East 23d street, New York,”
will receive attention. The training school is under the con-
trol of the Board of Education, of this city. The rooms of
the Board and their offices are at 146 Grand a.

Marguerite.—\st. The ‘Ladies’ Manual of Fancy Work” will
cost 50 cents. 2d. No one can become proficient without a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

teacher. 3d. What kind of flowers? Natural or artificia]?
4th. Bernard signifies bold as a bear; Bernice, bringing vic-
tory; Bonnibel, good, lovable.

Mc. M.. Astoria.—Yes; yeast is made without hops as fol.
lows: Boil a pound of flour, a quarter of a pound of brown
sugar, and a little salt, in two gallons of water, for one hour.
When milk-warm, bottle and cork close, and it will be ready
for use in twenty-four hours.

Ettie.—1st. ‘A Guide to Porcelain Painting” will cost $1.25.
2a. Use the tube oil colors. 3d. Yours is a serious grievance,
but you can do nothing in respect to it without humbling
yourself. Maintain a dignified silence until a proper ex-
planation be made.

J. C. L., Hawaiian Islands.—ist. We can send you Herman
Melville’s ““Omoo,” “‘Typee,” and ‘‘White Jacket” for $1.50;
“Moby-Dick” for $1.75; and ‘“Mardi,” 2 vols., for $3. 2d. We
can furnish numbers of the NEw YORK WEEELY as far back
as Vol. 31.

Wilhelm.—The acorn is the seed or fruit of the oak tree.
Some kinds which are not bitter are largely used as food in
Spain and other countries. In California the Indians pound
up acorns in a mortar, and make cakes and mush out of
the meal.

Langley C. T., Bridgeport, Conn.—‘‘Eaten me out of house
and home” occurs in Shakespeare’s “King Henry IV.” Part
Second ; act II., secene1. The words are spoken by the hostess

i ard to Falstaff.

of the inn in reg:

Admirer, Woodstock.—“Byrn’s Complete Distiller” can be
furnished for $1.50. Duplais’ treatise on the manufacture
and distillation of alceholic liquors will cost $10. It isa
translation from the French.

E. F., Spencer, Ind.—**McGinty’s Horse” will be found in a
a book entitled ‘““Wit, Humor, Pathos, and Parody.” Price 25
cents. If you wish it, write direct to the NEw YorRK WEEKLY

chasing Agency.

Mildred.—The best test of the freshness of eggs is dropping

| them frie a nen of cold water. Those that sink are fresh
ck away.
sentative in Congress. In 1861 he entered the Confederate enoug pac ae

Army as an officer, and was wounded at the battle of James |
Island, near Charleston, S.C. In 1863 Jefferson Davis sent

Constant Reader.—Better reman single all your life than
marry a man of confirmed intemperate habits.

L. F. W., Boston, Mass.—We are unable to oblige you.
—___—_ > © <+____—_-

A MILL GIRL BECOMES AN HEIRESS.

 

There is aromance connected with the life of one of
the mill girls of Pawtucket, R.I. Until recently pretty
Mary Garrity was employed in the ConantThread Works,
and was a popular favorite. She was supposed to be an
orphan, having no relations but an aunt and a brother
who worked as a laborer in Natick, Mass. She had been
in the mill since she was a little girl, and all were ac-
quainted with her story—of how her mother died when
she was young, and that her father had deserted her
and her brother, and had perished in a strange land.
About ten days ago, while at work, a Message was
brought that two gentlemen wanted to seeher. In sur-
prise she went down stairs, and a few minutes later the
superintendent of the mill was astonished to see her in
the arms of an elderly, handsome man, who was crying
bitterly as he held her in his embrace. The news spread
that Mary's father had come to life and was going to
take her to a rich home.

The story was soon told how Mr. Garrity, nearly

twenty-five years ago, had been cruelly robbed of his
children by a designing relative. Soon after the death
of Mary’s mother, her father, whose former domestic re-
lations had not been pleasant, married an old acquaint-
ance, which so incensed his former wife’s relatives that
they determined to have revenge ; and so, while he was
out at business one day, a sister of his first wife took the
children away, and he found them absent upon his re-
turp. Mr. Garrity made a fruitless search for them, and,
in despair, he went West, locating in Chicago, where he
prospered. By accident he heard, about three weeks
ago, that working in a mill in Pawtucket was a young

1 whose name was Garrity, and who was said to have

en deserted by her father when young. He took the
first train East, and discovered Miss Garrity’s where-
abouts. She had been brought back to Pawtucket by
the aunt after Mr. Garrity went West, and the story of
his desertion and death was made up to deceive the

1.
The recognition was mutual, as aay one could see the
great resemblance between the father and daughter.
From a mill girl Miss Garrity has become an heiress, as
her father is wealthy. The dazzling prospect has not
turned her head in the slightest degree, and congratu-
lations are being showered upon her from all sides. Mr.
Garrity intends taking up his residence in Boston. With
his daughter, he has gone to meet his son in Natick, who
is married and living in humble circumstances.

Oa

Enter Mr. Suave (with his son Tommy). Mr. Suave—
“Ah! bow-do, Mr. Jones? Tommy, this is Mr. Jones;
you've heard me speak of him?’ Tommy—‘Oh, yes;
that’s the man you told mother was the biggest fraud
in the city.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. @—>

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TO MARY.

BY FRANCES 8S. OSGOOD.

My heart goes to your wedding,
Mary dear!

It shares your timid smile
And tender fear.

 

¢ It wreaths the orange-blossom
In your hair;
It parts the silken curls
That cluster there.

It sees the blush that changes
On your cheek ;

It hears the vows you murmur,
Low and meek.

It breathes its warmest blessing
On your way,

And prays that Heaven will watch
Your bridal day.

Then think, amid the friends
That gather near,
My heart is at your wedding,
dear!

wn M : 4

‘IN BOOK-FORM.]

  
  
  

LL Nor BE PUB

IL TREDEGAR ;

blue kidge.

/ s
(tfaw of BI

A Story of the Secret Service.

By NED BUNTLINE.

Author of “The Smuggler’s Daughter,*? “Laura
Brayton,” “Harry Bluff,” “Orthodox
Jeems,’’ etc.

 

TH

 

[Bill Tredegar” was commenced in No. 61. Back numbers
can be obtained of all Newsdealers.!

 

CHAPTER X.
RESTORED TO CONSCIOUSNESS.

When the artist thus cried out, the face of Cora Ash-
more had turned in a breath to a death-like pallor, her
eyes closed, she clasped both her hands over her heart,
gasped three words, ‘J thought so,” and fell in a swoon
at his feet.

Alarmed, he would have cried out for help, but he saw

‘mo one near. Mr. Forbes had gone into the_house, a
servant had taken his horse to the stables.

A fountain of cold spring water was near, and to this
the artist rushed with his drinking-cup, and filling it,
raised the lovely head and tried to pour some water be-
tween her pale, set lips.

Pouring some on her forehead and temples, he at last

_ heard a sigh of returning consciousness break from her

lips.

OPENED HER EYES—DIM AND MOIST, THEY
HARDLY SEEMED TO SEE HIM.

Gently supporting her head, he fanned her with his
hat, and succeeded in getting her to swallow’a little
‘ater.

“Bernard! Bernard!
ryurmured.

He shivered, and looked as if he too would faint.

SLOWLY Sa
vy

Is it a wild, mad dream!” she

v“y"*{f.cannot be, must not be that this queenly creature

cares for me ?”
* Slowly she opened her eyes—dim and moist, they
. Fdly seemed to see him.

~**‘Bernard—Mr. Wilde—what is it? Did 1 faint? Oh,
my heart, my heart! How strange I feel!”

“Can you sit up till I summon help to carry you into
the house ?” he asked, anxiously.

“No, no; do not leave me. I shall be better presently.
Piease bring me some more cold water.”

He hurried to the fountain.

“Cora Ashmore, be true to yourself. Let pride sus-
tain you, if nothing else,” she muttered, fiercely, while
he was away.

When he came back she was sitting up. Drinking
Steely of the water, which came almost ice-cold from a

uuntain spring, she was so much better that she rose
ter feet, and, aided by him, took a seat on a bench

par the fountain.

~ Do not speak of sudden fainting fit at the house,”
She said. ‘It will only give my father needless alarm.
Thave a slight heart trouble, I think.”

“J fear you have, fair lady. Iwas terribly alarmed,
you were taken so very suddenly.”

«Would you have grieved, Mr. Wilde, had I died then
and there ?”

“How can you ask such a question? It would have
been a terrible blow to all your friends.”

“Ah, yes: some of them might miss me,” she said,
bitterly. Then calming herself again, she added: ‘You
were telling me something about a fairy you had seen in
the mountain, when that, strange faintness came upon
Me. Continue the story, please. It will interest me,
While I sit here and gain strength.”

‘It was not much, Miss Cora. I fished much farther
upthe mountain brook than I ever have done before,
and having caught all the trout I desired, sat down to
Test. It wasin a deep and shaded glen, cool and de-
lightful, and I Sat in a dreamy reverie, thinking of a
new work I wish to put on canvas, when, suddenly, I
heard the harsh voice of an old negress cry out shrilly :

« ‘Honey ! don’t go so close to de edge of de rocks.’

“Looking up, I saw far up above me, on the verge of
the perpendicular cliff, a young maiden, whose form,
revealed between me and the sky, seemed to have been
cast in perfection’s mold. 20d a glimpse of a lovely
face, and then, like a hideous cloud, an old black woman
rushed in front of my fairy and drew her back.”

“What an adventure! Are you sure, Mr. Bernard
Wilde, that you never saw this—/airy before ?”

“Never, on my honor, Miss Cora. Neither did I dream
theré were any people living up there. I never saw a
house there, or even smoke to indicate a habitation.
Had it not been for the black reality I heard and saw, I
would have believed I had had a dream and had seen
the fairy vision in that dream.”

‘“Will you go to the house with me now, Mr, Wilde?
Iam very much better. And, while we walk, I have a
great favor to ask ofyou. Do not repeat what you have
told me to any one, and, to-morrow, when I have fully
recovered, I will tell you a strange story about the Blue
Ridge—a tradition that my mother told me before her
death, and which I fully believe. It was about a white
wraith and a black specter.”

“Then you think it was an illusion ?” said he.

“T will not say so. But hear the story, please. I will
be alone in the parlorall the morning after breakfast.
I breakfast aS you do, early—before the other ladies in
the house are up.’

“‘L will be there, Miss Cora. I am glad to see that you
are beginning to look and act naturally.”

“Thank you. You must be very tired ; you have been
out since early this morning.”

“IT do not tire, Miss Cora. [am naturally lazy, 1 be-
lieve. 1 walk quite briskly fora way, and sit down in
some shady nook and rest. When I find a good point
for a sketch, I sit down and dash off the outlines. en
when I arrive at some tempting pool, I take my rod and
cast of flies, lure a few trout to creel, and rest again.
Oh, Ilead a very lazy life, I assure you.”

“A very pure one,” she said, gently. «‘You do not use
strong drink, you do not play cards, profane words never
leave your lips, the nauseating scent of tobacco never
permeates your garments. You are so unlike all other
men, Mr. Wilde.”

»

 

 

 

 

 

“I simply strive to live as agentleman should,” was
his quiet answer. ‘I claim no superiority to others, but
loving art and the beauties of nature, enjoy life in my
simple way. Dissipation and fashionable habits would
soon undermine a not very rugged constitution and end
my days.”

“You look strong. You are tall, finely formed, and I
know you are strong, for you held that vicious horse
that was trying to throw me with an iron grasp, till I
dismounted.”

“My habits—pure air, plenty of exercise, and early
hours, both to retire and arise—keep me in good health,
Miss Cora.”

“Undoubtedly they assist the nature which has done
so much for you. *But here we are at the house. Not a
word now, Mr. Wilde, my dear friend, about my illness
or your strange adventure.”

“Not a word, Miss Cora. You knowI have no con-
fidants.”

“And do not forget to meet me early in the parlor,
that I may tell you that strange story. Ah, listen to
that welcome sound—the supper bell.”

 

CHAPTER XI.
‘WE'LL CROSS THE RIDGE FIRST.”

Over the river with horses and men, in the darkness
of night, with no certain trail to follow, Captain Rector
could only wait for the light of another day to resume
his pursuit of the outlaw.

So at the nearest farm-house he procured food for his
men, forage. for his horses, and there rested for the
night. He knew that few men could endure the strain
that he could, and to make his force effective it must be
well cared for.

Thus, while Bill Tredegar and old Ceesar were thread-
ing a lonely side-road that led up the river until near
midnight, the Secret Service men were resting—horse
and foot.

Just at midnight Bill Tredegar and his man reached
an old ruined mill, which once had done a fine business,
for it was on a rapid stream near the river and canal,
and, before its destruction, was owned by a man of in-
dustry and nerve.

This man’s sympathies were all on the side of the Con-
federacy. Though in Maryland and on neutral ground,
the machinery was broken up and much of the mill torn
wore by order of a Union generalin the early part of

e war.

The owner, angered by his loss, threw all he had, and
his person also, on the Confederate side, and in the
battle at Culpepper Court-ho lost his life. Then the
mill went to ruin, and no one was left to rebuild it.

In the rear of this old mill there was a spacious olq
stone warervom in fair condition, and here Bill Trede-
gar had found shelter. Food for his horses was obtained
from a corn-crib not far distant ; Caesar had dismounted
and killed a small shoat shortly after they crossed the
river, and he was too good a camp-cook not to know
what to do with it.

So after supper on pork-steak broiled over a good fire,
the outlaw, his man, and the horses slept the sleep of
the weary, shut in amid the old ruins, which seldom
had a visitor.

There, too, they remained all the next day, their ani-
mals regaining all their native fire and vigor; while out
to Frederick, through every little town and back to the
Point of Rocks, Captain Rector and his band were riding
in their search.

Not finding a clew on the Maryland side, Rector told
his men he should cross again into Virginia.

“J will not, dare not return to Washington and say
we've given this man up, when we have had him under
our very noses—almost in pistol range for half aday. I
believe he has come into Maryland only to mislead us,
and is even now on his way back to his old haunts in
the Blue ene:

So they rested with a wealthy farmer named
Wright near the Point of Rocks on that second night,
and before dawn were ferried across the Potomac.

Two hours after they breakfasted at Leesburg, and
then headed for the nearest pass in the Blue Ridge.
Rector had made up his mind to strike the spot where
he had first met the outlaw west of the Ridge, and from
that point to act as circumstances might indicate.

Rested a whole day and night, Bill Tredegar mounted
before day, at the time that Rector and his men were at
Wright's saddling up to cross the ferry.

His hiding-place was but a few miles below, and, rid-
ing up the river, he was soon near the ferry, and that
just after they had crossed. Here he halted and sent
Ceesar ahead on foot. The old man, on pretense of look-
ing for alost mule, was to question the ferry-master,
and learn if any people had crossed that would answer
for Rector and his party,

Ceesar was not long in finding out the truth, also that
the party that went over had kept ‘‘very still mouths,”
asking no questions and making no statements as to
their route or business. The ferryman had no doubt
that they were Revenue men after some illicit distil-
leries over on the Ridge. They had askei how far it
was to the nearest pass in the Ridge.

Satisfied that he could do it safely, the outlaw rode
boldly on to the ferry-boat, leading Czesar’s horse, while
the negro, pleading poverty and the loss of an ‘‘old black
mule wid one eye gone and de odder not much use,” got
over free, the ferrymaster not thinking he had anything
to do with the handsome, well-mounted stranger, who
threw him two silver dollars for his ferriage, asking the
best route down the river to Gainesville.

Safe over and rejoined by Czesar, once more mounted
on their fresh steeds, Tredegar rode swiftly along,
rs nag on the track of the men who were hunting

em.

Knowing they were ahead of him, Tredegar meant to
keep their position in view as nearly as possible—in
short, to hunt them while they were hunting him, and,
if he got a good chance, to make them sick of the job
they had undertaken. He disliked to be long absent
from his idolized child, whom he knew to be so helpless
if peril approached her in his absence. Hidden as she
was, he never left her without dread—never returned
without looking carefully to every point which might
show signs of prowling visitors in the neighborhood.

The outlaw avoided Leesburg, but riding rapidly from
a hill on a by-rode south of it, he saw Rector and his men
ride out about nine o’clock, taking the direct road for
Snedecor’s Pass,

‘“‘We will cross the Ridge first!” he said. with a quiet
laugh. ‘They are going ten miles out of their way !”

 

CHAPTER XII.
THE PORTRAIT.

During the long heurs of an almost sleepless night,
Cora Ashmore had studied and planned how to keep
Bernard Wilde from pursuing his adventure in the moun-
tain glen, and to persuade him not to look any further for
the “fairy” whom he had seen.

Therefore, when they met in the parlor alone next
morning, as she desired, she was all ready for action, so
to speak, and had her story—a creation of her own fancy,
we are sorry to say—all ready.

Seating Mr. Wilde in her favorite chair in the bay-win-
dow, she took a seat close by him, where both could look
out on the ragged peaks she was to talk about, while a
rather chill air from that direction filled their veins fora
ghost story, or anything else weird and strange.

‘“‘My mother was a singular woman,” she said; ‘‘well
informed, and naturally strong-minded. She was not a
woman to believe in supernatural appearances, or to fear
anything, either mortal or ghost-like. She had ever held
herself aloof from all foolish fears and fancies until her
only brother, my Uncle Robert, met with a terrible ad-
venture in those dreadful hills, and shortly after was
found dead, his body horribly mangled, near the foot of
a huge rock over there.

“He told my mother of his adventure and predicted his
own death, which followed so soon and so surely, that
from that hour my mother became a changed woman.

“He said he was hunting up there, and had trailed a
wounded buck by its blood up into one of the highest
ae expecting every moment to find it, the trail was
so plain.

‘Suddenly, in a little glade, he came upon the deer,
and over it, weeping, stood the loveliest girl he had ever
seen. The deer was in the death-throe, and he would
have given the last dollar he had on earth to have seen
it bound away free and unharmed, its death seemed to
grieve that lovely girl so much.

“He approached her, spoke kindly and regretfully of
the act. She did not answer, but she turned on him
a look of such unutterable woe and despair that tears
ran down his cheeks, and he implored her forgiveness.

“At that moment a hideous negress rushed forward,
and the lovely girl seemed to melt away in the air, she
was lost to view so soon.

“The negress, shaking a skinny hand almost in his
face, cried out:

«White man, go to your roa ! Go and make your
affairs right! You hab spoken to de white spirit ob de
hills, and your doom is sure. Noman can look her in de
eyes and speak and live! In ten days, no more, no less
—be you in a church, or on your hoss. or in de very arms
ob your own muder, you will die!’

«When she said this, she, too, went out of sight, just
as she came, too quick for him to know how or where
she went. :

“Uncle Robert left the deer where it fell. His veins
were like ice; and he staggered like a drunken man
nae he got home, though he never drank liquor in his

e:

“He was sick then, and grew worse nextday. He
sent for mother and told her the story; and he told her,
too, that he believed he would die at the time named—
that he had seen only spirits on the Ridge.

“She tried to cheer him up—to laugh him out of the
idea; but he remained firm in his belief. He arranged
his affairs, made his will, and grew worse.

“They set a watch on him day and night; for mother
said if the ten days passed and he still lived, the illusion
would leave his mind.

«The night before the tenth day my uncle seemed so

uiet, and to sleep so soundly, his watcher fell asleep.
hen he woke it was day, and my uncle was gone
from his room !

“Instant search was made, and in a little while his
mangled body was brought home. He had died on the
tenth day. My mother never smiled afterward.

“And now, Mr. Wilde, Wear me. I believe you have
seen those mountain specters. Yet you are safe, for you
have not spoken to them. Oh, do not go near that fatal
spot again—on my knees [implore you! lt is weak, it
is unwoiuanly, for me to say this; but your life is very
precious tome. Do not tempt a cruel fate, and break
my heart!”

She was weeping bitterly; her hot tears fell in show-
ers on the hand she ha@ seized and held in both her
own.

“Rise, Miss Cora—rise, I beseech you,” hesaid ‘I will
do nothing to give you pain. But let me think over this

 

strange story. Let me rally my mind, which your story
has really set awhirl, and we will talk more calmly of it
hereafter. I shall not go out to-day.”

“Thanks! thanks!” she sobbed.

Pensive and thoughtful, Bernard Wilde kept his prom-
ise not to go out that day. He brought his easel into
the parlor, and set towork with colors on one of his
pretty sketches. The scene was a nook by a Small bend
in the creek, where he loved to fish.

A wild grape-vine had crept over the gnarled trunk
and leafless branches of a huge dead oak which had

 

TREDEGAR RODE SWIFTLY ALONG, ALMOST ON THE TRACK
OF THE MEN WHO WERE HUNTING HIM.

been stricken and killed by lightning. The vine hung
laden with bunches of purple fruit, and birds were seen
feasting amid the branches.

Beneath, a mossy bank, in the shade, seemed to invite
a wearied one to rest, where the ripple of bright waters
and the twitter of happy birds could lull him to slumber.
A trout leaping up for a hovering fly threw silvery spray
from its sides, and made a finish to the pretty picture.

“It lacks but one thing,” said the artist, after he had
worked faithfully on the canvas for at least three hours
—hours made unutterably happy to Cora Ashmore, who
sat near the artist, en; apparently on some em-
broidery, but most of the time studying his face and
form, and listening to his gentle words, when he felt
like talking.

“What is the one thing lacking ?” she asked, after he
had made his last remark. ‘To me your conception
seems perfect, natural—so sweet!”

“Tt would be good, Miss Cora, if a strong figure was
seen reclining at'the foot of the old oak. Cannot you
pose forme? Throw yourself carelessly on that lounge,
your crimson shawl thrown lightly over one shoulder,
—— and I will place your picture in the scene, which

intended from the first to present to you.”

She did not hesitate a second. Graceful by nature,
she threw herself in position, knowing that she could
not look other than lovely, with the soft light falling on
her peerless face and rounded form.

Rapidly, not waiting to pencil even an outline, Wilde
dashed in the figure in color. The thought was happy,
and it made up, as he said, the one thing lacking to ren-
der the painting perfect.

At last, when the lunch-bell sounded, he rose from
his re saying he would touch it upin detail aftera
rest.

‘*‘What do you think of it, Miss Ashmore ?” he asked.

“Oh, itis lovely! Yet, there is one thing still lacking.
If you will add that, the pieture will be to me a priceless
treasure.”
ane it, Miss Cora, and I will try to make the ad-

on.

“Your portrait, Mr. Wilde, sitting by my side and hold-
ing my hand.”

“Tmpossible, kind lady. No artist with common sense
ever attempts to paint his own re I would spoil
the whole picture if I attempted it.”

CHAPTER XIil.
THE QUEER MOUNTAINEER.

“Honey! Oh, Miss Louise !”

‘Well, Chloe, what is the matter?” asked the blind
daughter of the outlaw, ag her old servant came to
i she was seated near the cpen door-way of the
cabin.

“Ym gwine up de hill to my pe/tridge traps. I reckon
you is gettin’ tired o’ bacon and hominy. I has luck,
you'll have a br'iled bird for your supper, honey.”

e = am content, Chloe, always with such fare as we
ave.”

“T knows it, honey. You is jest dat patient dat you
wouldn’t scold if 1 didn’t put nuffin’ afore you. But Tl
do my best. When Mars Willum comes, he'll bring
sumfin’ nice.”

“When—ah, when will that be ?” sighed the ee
girl. ‘Hunted for his life—even now perhaps wounded,
dying, or dead—I go almost mad with suspense when
he is absent. I sit here and listen to the bleating flocks,
the lowing herds, the bark of the honest watch-dog, and
envy those who live without fear, lead quiet lives, have
friends to love and cheer them, and dear ones to make
home happy.”

“Hope for de best, missis; hope for de best. Mars
Willum isn’t gwine to coop his darlin’ up here for al-
ways. He is waitin’ for suthin’. I hearm him tell Cesar
dat. He had a brudder, a big man, dat went ober de
water along time ago. When dat brudder comes back,
if he has to die his own self, he said he’d see that you
went out into a world where danger and sufferin’
wouldn’t come anigh you.”

‘Dear, dear father! I will share his life and fate
whatever it be. But go, Chloe, for night is not far
— I feel the chill of its coming shadows in my
veins.”

“The sun is two hours high, honey. I'll be back in
half an hour.”

And the old nurse hastened away, leaving her young
lady in her seat near the door.

When she returned, half an hour later, her young
mistress was standing close to the verge of the ‘‘trap-
rock,” listening to the sounds she loved to hear as they
rose from the plains.

With a cry of terror she rushed in front of her blind
mistress and pushed her back from her dangerous
position.

Even as she did so she saw a manatthe foot of the
cliff looking up.

Chloe was too much frightened to speak.

If harm came to his daughter while he was absent, the
outlaw would murder her.

At least so old Chloe thought. And the presence of a
man so near meant danger—imminent danger. At
least so it seemed to her.

She had not paused to look, or she would have recog-
nized the artist and fisherman whose movements she
had been watching through the glass.

« And now she dared not inform Louise of her dis-
covery. Perhaps it would have been better if she had.

“Come right in, honey,” she said. ‘‘The night is damp
and cold. And I have sixofde fattest birds you ever
felt of. IJ’lisoon have de jackets off of two of ’em, and
dey’ll be ober de hickory coals.

While getting supper Chloe was usually very lively,
singing, and chatting. To-night she was silent. Louise
noticed it, and asked the reason.

 

 

RAPIDLY, WILDE

NOT. WAITING TO PENCIL AN OUTLINE,
DASHED IN THE FIGURE IN COLOR.

“J doesnt feel berry well, missis. Iseen a snake to-
night, an’ it skeered me awful. ‘Deed, honey, it did,
and I don’t feel lively a bit. But Tll git ober it, honey,
an’ if I see dat snake again I'll drap a rock on its head,
I will for suah !”

Louise accepted the excuse, and as the birds were
soon ready, laid on some fresh-buttered toast, she
turned to them with a keen appetite. For till then she
had not eaten anything worth mentioning since her
father rode away.

 

 

“Oh, I wish I knew where father is—at least, could

oa was safe, and his hunters foiled in their cruel
pursuit.”

This she said when Chloe had made all secure for the
night, putting two heavily loaded shot-guns close by the
barred door, in front of which she lay down on a blan-
ket atter Ker mistress had retired.

And it would-have been sudden death for any stranger
to try to enter that door while the faithful negress was
on guard.

That night, not forty miles away, when the sun was
going down, Bill Tredegar and Csesar, from a by-path
on the mountain, watched Rector and his party as they
came to a halt at a tavern a few miles from Port Royal.

The outlaw, through his glass, could see every motion
of the ‘‘man-hunters,” for they were but a couple of
miles away. He saw them unsaddle, enter the country
inn, then come out, see their horses watered and
stabled. He knew by this where they would remain for
the night.

And he told old Cesar that he would pay them a visit
and teach them a lesson before day broke.

It was dark down in the valley, while it was yet light

on the mountain-top. In a glade where the grass was
good, near a large spring of clear, sweet water, the out-
law unsaddled and had Ceesar hobble the horses so they
would not stray from the rich, nutritious feed he put
them in.
Then over a good fire, built well inside acave ina
huge wall of rock, invisible thirty yards away, they
made coffee, broiled the breasts of two young wild
turkeys that had been shot by the outlaw, coming over
the Ridge, with his pistol, and made the first hearty
meal of the day.

‘You will stay here. Keep camp and look out for the
horses,” said the outlaw to his faithful man. ‘I will be
back before the dawn of day.”

“Be careful, Mars Willum, be ’ceedin keerful. Dem
Uncle Sam men is wide-awake all the time. An’ if dey
get the drop on you we is all gone, Miss Louise, my
Chloe, an’ me.”

‘Never fear, my good lad. Ill be careful. I know the
trail—it is blind—most of it down the brook where no
track is left. And down at the tavern old Mills is my
friend every time. If he saw me in his house, he
wouldn’t betray me for all the goldin America. You
know I saved his girl’s life when her doctors had given
her up. He never will forget it. Andon the way down
Tll stop at Nick Masterton’s cabin and change clothes
with him. If he has any venison on hand I'll take it
and his old smooth-bone, smoke up my hands and face a
bit_ and add a little red dirt, and the Secret Service men
will like as not try to hire me to hunt Bili Tredegar
down. If they do we'll have some rare fun yet.

“Yah, yah, Mars Willum, you is wuss dan de Old Boy.”

> * * * * * * >?

“Tm en sorry, folks, that I haven’t any fresh on
hand. You'll have to eat hog and hominy here,” said
old Mills, the landlord of the Cedar Brook tavern, to Rec-
tor and his men, when they came into the house, gees
spent nearly two hours in thoroughly grooming an
caring for their horses.

“Well, that will do when we can’t get better,” said
Rector. ‘If we had afew cuts of venison with your
bacon, it would go nicely.”

‘‘Then I reckon Nick Masterton has got acustomer for
a saddle from the fattest buck he has killed this year,”
said a harsh voice, and a rudely dressed mountaineer of
huge proportions strode in through the open door and
arened a@ saddle of venison from his shoulders to the

r

oor.

A quick, startled glance from Mills might have be-
trayed the new-comer had not every eye been bent on
the meat, a most welcome addition to the larder.

But Mills was all right when a finger on the new-
comer’s lip told his intention of ‘interviewing” these
men, incognito. So he said:

“Till buy your meat, old man, it’s just what I wanted.
Light your pipe, set up your gun in the corner, and I'l
pay you after supper.”

“Good as Shucked corn. Gi’ me a drop 0’ red-eye. I’ve
had a long tramp, an’ 1’m dry as that powder-horn.”

Rector eyed the new-comer with interest. By his
dress, arms, and language, he took him to be one of those
rough mountaineers that live literally from hand to
mouth, improvident, careless, and thoughtless, content-
ed with their lot, happy in the bliss of ignorance.

‘Much game around where you live ?” asked the offi-
cer.
“I squat, stranger, I don’t live. There's a power 0’
bar among the oaks an’ chestnuts. There’s some deer,
but they’re skeery, an’ hard to get. I got that buck a
layin’ for him at alick ’d made. He sneaked in with
two does, but old Bets’ don’t shoot but once, and when
she goes off she shakes the hills and skeers everything
oan in five miles of her. But she is a boss gun for all

at.’

Rector was amused. He had heard much about this
class of men in the mountains, but had never before
come in direct contact with one of them.

“Much acquainted along the Ridge ?” he asked, in a
careless tone.

“Should say I was, stranger, some consid’able. I know
Bill Jones—cross-eyed Bill, I mean—an’ his darter Suse ;
she’s a screamer—can jump a four-foot log and kick her
heels together goin’ over. And me and stumpy Jim
Jobnson, we're thick as two fleas on one leg. And
thyte’s Soft-sawder Ben Wood and his cousin Harve—
thjpy’re not much to brag of, but I know them, too.
That's all.”

«‘Are they all hunters like you ?”

“All but Ben Wood—he runs a rag cart, and Harve he
works a stump-machine. They live in our clearin’,
*cause it don’t cost ’em nothin’. They’ve got an old
cabin that Mosby’s men put up to winter in time o’ the
war.

“You know all the roads and trails in the Ridge ?”

“Roads? Stranger, what did you drop from? I’d
like to see a road in the Ridge where I’m acquaint.
There’s runways, where deer and b’ar git through the
thickets, but they’re skeerce and hard to find.”

“T am sorry to hear this. Iand the men with me are
looking for mineral, and I didn’t know but we could hire
you for a guide.”

“Mineral? Sho! what’s that ?”

“Gold, silver, copper, and iron ore.”

“Sho! lthought you was Revenue men lookin’ for
stills. There used to be a power 0’ them about, but the
Yanks cut down all the orchards, and we ’uns never

lanted ’em again. Sho! you’re arter gold? I don’t be-

jeve there’s a mite on it round here—leastwise I never
hearn tell of findin’ it.”

“You'll eat supper with us, will you not ?”

“T reckon so; thoughif he pays me for the meat, I’m
good for what I eat an’ drink. Have some red-eye,
Stranger ; 1 like a drop when I’m dry, an’ there’s a’most
always a drought in my throat. Dad said I was born
that way, fer I’d suck at his whisky-bottle afore I cut
eS teeth.”

ector declined the drink, for he was abstemious to a
fault himself, though he let his men drink when they
wanted to, if they acted with moderation.

In a little while busy servants prepared the long table
—for sitting and dining-room were one—and the fra-
grant scent of hot coffee, broiled bacon, and fried veni-
son filled the room.

Yellow butter, corn bread, baked sweet potatoes, and
boiled hominy, with great bowls of rich new milk made
up bad bill of fare, and a set of hungry men sat down to
enjoy it.

The hunter ate and drank heartily with the rest, and
kept the men at the table in a roar with his quaint sto-
ries about Suse Jones, Cross-eyed: Jim, and the rest in
his clearing. .

After supper he filled his corn-cob pipe, lighted it with
a coal from the huge fire-place, got his money from the
landlord, and a treat of ‘‘red-eye,” or apple whisky,
and then took up his gun to go.

«“Whereabout might your clearing be ?” asked Rector,
as the hunter stood in the door.

“You go down theriver about two miles till you come
to the shop of Goggile-eyed Jim, the cobbler. Then you
quit the road and take a trail up Rattlesnake Hollow,
and look out, too, for there’s a power 0’ them reptiles
thar. When you're to the head o’ that, streak it through
Laurel Swamp about a mile, an’ youcome to Hickory
Ridge. Git over into Piny Scrub and go another mile,
and then into Squash Hollow, and thar’s our clearin’.
Come an’ see us, stranger, an’ sich as we have we'll
sheer—it isn’t much, but we’re not stingy.”

“Thank you. If wesee mineral signs that way, we
may callon you. Good night!”

The hunter nodded, pulled his slouched hat closer
down over his ears, and stepped off in the darkness.

Rector now turned to his men, and advised them to
retire early, since he intended to be in the saddle by the
dawn of day.

Paying the landlord his entire bill that night, so as not
to be bothered in the morning, Captain Rector made
ready for turning in himself.

His men were quartered for the night in a long cham-
ber in the second story, but he as the leader was favored
with a neat little bedroom on the first floor, an
apartment generally occupied by the landlord’s pretty
daughter, but she was away on a Visit.

The captain had a light, and sat in his room, after
partially undressing, for a short time, thinking what
course he would take next day.

He was aroused from his reverie by strange noises from
the direction of the stable, and a second later they in-
creased :

“Up men, and out!” he shouted.
loose and off !”

The thunder of rushing horses, a clatter as of a thou-
sand wagon wheels, and by the time the captain and
his men, undressed, half dressed, or dressed anyway, got
out near the stables not an animal could be seen, but far
down the river a sound as of a cavalry charge told which
way the animals were gone.

Lanterns were lighted, the stables visited, and every
halter, cut, showed that the loosening of the animals
had been ne done.

Landlord Mills, passing the bench in front of his milk
house, muttered to himself:

“Every milk pail I had is gone. That was what made
that infernal clattering. Them horses will never stop
this side o’ Harper’s Ferry.”

Angry and annoyed, not even now coupling that green
old hunter with this new mishap, Captain Rector re-
turned to his room to finish dressing, for sleep was out
of the question till the lost horses were recovered.

He started in amazement to see on a table where he
had left his watch and chain, a note addressed with his
fullname. Opening it he read these words:

“Cap: You'd better go back to Georgetown to buy a fresh
supply of stock. Yours havegone off on afresh trail. Hav-
ing lost my watch, I’ll borrow yours. BILL TREDEGAR.”

The ink was not dry on the paper, and it had been
written in that room while he was out.

“Our horses are all

 

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

‘*A FRIEND THAT STICKETH CLOSER
THAN A BROTHER.”

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

 

I have one true, unchanging Friend,
Who ne’er will turn His love away;
But heed the faintest, meekest breath

Of supplication when I pray.

He bids me not His presence seek
In outward garments rich and fine;
“Just as I am” He bids me come,
And taste the joys of grace divine.

In sorrow’s dark and weary hour
His hand it holds the bitter cup ;
And, full of tenderness and love,
When friends forsake, He takes me up.

His name is written on my heart

In characters that will not fade;
He is my brightest sun by day,

By night my solace and my shade.

To serve a love so kind and true,
May 1 be faithful to the end,

That I may dwell eternally
With God, my Saviour and my Friend.

—_—_——__>- = ___.
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

THE LOST BRIDE:

OR,

The Price of Silence.

By HERO STRONG,

Author of A Beautiful Woman’s Sin,” “Born to
Command,” ‘‘Man’s Love and Pride.”

 

 

(“THE Lost BRIDE” was commenced in No. 44. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
PLUTO, THE AVENGER.

“T suppose you are all getting tired, but I am in the
mood for talking, and it is best that the whole of the cat
should be let out of the bag. After Mr. Wilmington’s
death, which came off in due season, I pressed Mrs. Wil-
mington to name the day. She put me off, because it
was too soon after his death to speak of such things; so
I waited. Power came into my hands, and I used it,
and enjoyed it. I think I was cut out for a rich man.
Mrs. Wilmington hated me, I suppose, but I felt a sort
of a love for her. She was a fine animal, physically, and
I admired her just as I would a handsome horse or dog,
you know. She did not treat me much as a betrothed
bride ought to treat her expectant husband; but then I
had the prospect of all her property to spend by and by,
and that had a sweetening influence on my temper. She
was cold and snappish at times, and then she was

 
 
  
  
        
  
    
    

     

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BILL TREDEGAR.—SHE RUSHED IN FRONT OF HER BLIND
MISTRESS, AND PUSHED HER BACK.

smooth and pleasant as oil. One day 1 succeeded in
winning her to agree to marry me in a week. Now, I
know that she never intended to keep her promise.
“One summer night—the next, 1 think, after giving
me this promise—she asked me to walk with her. I was

pleased, because it was rarely that she ever paid me
any attention. She suggested that we should go to Gip-
sy’s Cave. It was done carelessly enough, but she had a
motive in it. You all know what Gipsy’s Cave is. An
infernal hole, full of pitfalls and sunken pools, dangerous
enough by day, tenfold more so by night. But my lady
professed to be romantic, and wanted to see the cave by
moonlight; and I was fool enough to be takenin. We
went, and stood on the brink of one of those sink-holes,
and looked down. Fool that I was, I feared that Mrs.
Wilmington would lose her balance and fallin. Off my
guard for myself, I put out my arm to support her, and
she—she pushed me in!

“Down, down, down I went, dizzied and suffocated with
the swift rush of the air, until at twenty or thirty feet
below the surface I struck the water... She listened, I
dare say, until she heard this most welcome noise, and
then she felt sure she had done forme. Curse her!” and
he shook his fist in the face of the cowering woman.

‘‘Klizabeth, is this true ?” asked Reinhold, through his
shut teeth.

And she answered, as before :

“Tt is true!”

“‘T suppose she thought me dead, but I am hard to
kill. I am half-cat by nature, my mother used to say,
and, faith, I believe she was correct. Well, when I
struck the water, for a moment I wasso stunned and
benumbed that I did not realize anything; but aftera
minute or so my senses began to come tome. I lay
quiet and took my bearings. Iwas sensible of a current
in the pool setting steadily toward one place. Then I
remembered having heard that these pools in the cave
had a subterranean connection with the river. I might
yet be saved if this were true. So I let the current drift
me along. The way grew narrower, and I was Satisfied
I was in a passage leading somewhere, The current ran
swifter and swifter. I was like a stick or a straw inits
powerful embrace. I was whirled hither and thither,
tossed from side to side, and frightfully bruised and
mangled by striking against the sharp rocks that lined
this terrible sluice-way.

“At last the beating and roaring of the water subsi-
ded, and 1 felt sure I was inthe river. I made an effort
and rose to the surface. Yes, I was on the river—half a
mile below the entrance of the cave. The moon shone
full in my face and gave me courage. I tried to swim to
the shore, but could make little headway, for one of my
arms seemed dead: I could not lift it from my side.

“But with what power I had I struck out for the shore,
and succeeded in reaching it after a struggle which
nearly took the breath out of my body. I lay there,
faint and exhausted, till morning, for | was too ill to
move. As the sun warmed me I began to feel better,
and I crawled to a haystack not far distant, and secret-
ing myself there remained until night. As memory
fully returned, I was boiling over with rage toward this
woman who had deceived and tried to murder me!
Racked with pain, and so sore that I could not move a
muscle without groaning, I swore to be revenged on
her. I made my way to a neighboring town, and saw a
surgeon whom I could trust. He looked at my helpless
arm, and said it was impossible to save it. It had been
so torn and dismembered, and then the neglect had in-
duced mortification. I must have it taken off! I swore
i would kill the man who attempted it. Very well. he
said; then in twenty-four hours I should be a dead man.

“T wanted to live for only one thing. To be revenged
on Mrs. eat tT So I submitted to the operation.
After I recovered I went to New York. I staid with
the friend who kept Pluto, and perhaps I may as well
say that we lost Pluto not long ago, and all efforts to
find nim have thus far proved unavailing. I wish he
could be found, for I am sure he would prove a powerful
witness against yonder murderess.”
shuadaee brief, if you have aught more to say,” said the
hop.
“Ohi don’t hurry a fellow,” returned Ferris. “A
church is the place for long-winded speeches, you know,
though I flatter myself, my sermon of to-day has been
more interesting than any your reverence ever delivered
yourself. I have not much more to offer, though. I
kept watch over my lady and waited. I knew just how
it would be. I knew that she had set her trap for the
young parson yonder, and, of course, she would not fail
in catching him. Women like her never fail. When I
knew the wedding-day was fixed, I arranged my pro-

amme. I came here, and carried it out. And now,
f the young man desires to marry his choice, he can do
so. J have not the slightest objection.”

And the cool-blooded rascal shifted his legs, and lean-

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

  

 

 

The
The as-
The bridal party

a good dinner and is waiting to be entertained.
silence was deep, and feartul in its intensity.
sembled company scarcely breathed.
stood dumb and motionless.

And once more the great church door opened with an
ominous creak. One of the wardens came in. Doubtless
he had got tired of waiting, and thought the ceremony
must be finished by this time. As he stood an instant
in the door, a large dog pushed by him, and stalked
down the aisle.

A dog with massive breadth of breast, a head strong
as a lion’s, and eyes that glittered savagely as he took a
hasty sniff of the air and scented his prey.

«The lost dog!” cried Ferris. ‘Pluto !”

_ But Pluto looked neither to the right nor the left. He
dashed forward with one wild bound, and giving utter-
ance to a.cry Which those who heard it forgot not to their
dying day, he plunged through the Norror-stricken com-
pany, and seized Mrs. Wilmington by the throat.

“He knows her! He knows her!” cried Ferris, tri-
umphantly. ‘‘He knows who killed his master.”

Reinhold sprang upon the dog—so did one of the
groomsmen. But they were nothing in his clutches.
AS well might they have tried to choke off a raging
Bengal tiger.

The fated woman sank helplessly down, pressed by
that terrible weight. The blood spurted from her breast,
and still this dreadful avenger did not relax his hold.

With limbs that could scarcely support her Edith tot-
tered to the altar, and with her two feeble hands essay-
ed to pull the dog away. Her strength was nothing,
but her touch and her voice had their influence. With
an instinct that was almost human reason, Pluto seem-
ed to understand that he was doing what his mistress
condemned, and slowly, with a downcast air, he relaxed
his hold and crept to Edith’s side, whining and caress-
ing her with his huge head, still warm with the blood
of her father’s murderer.

Do you wonder that she fell backin a deadly swoon
irom which she did not recover until long after they had
taken her home, and the shades of night had fallen ?

To her eager inquiries they answered her that Mrs.
Wilmington still lived, but her recovery was impossible.
She had been by her own request brought to Grassmere.
Edith started up with a cry of horror. This was too ter-
rible! Her father’s vile assassin beneath her roof! Her
soul revolted at the thought.

«Don’t be too hard on her,” said Aunt Margaret; ‘‘she
is going to die, and she says there is a reason why she
wished to be brought here. Dr. Alcott and the doctor
from Milbury are with her and both agreein saying
that she cannot live the night out. That terrible dog
has finished her evil course in this world.”

Just then a servant entered with a message.

“The woman that is torned by the dog,” said the
round-eyed Celt, ‘is after wanting to see the misthress,
and a masther, too. She has something foreninst her
mind.”

Edith dressed hurriedly and crossed to Oakley’s cham-
ber. Already he had been put in possession of what
had occurred at the church, and to her surprise Edith
found him with his dressing-gown and slipperson. He
was deathly pale, but he was firm in his resolution to |
see Mrs. Wilmington. |

“} believe she holds the secret of my birth,” he said,
“and I must urge her torevealit. 1 have but a little
time to live, but still I want to fathom that mystery.”

And, supported by two of the servants, he followed
his wife to the chamber of the sick woman.

It was a place of gloom and silence. All the windows
were open to admit the air, for Mrs. Wilmington drew
her breath with the greatest pain and difficulty. The
fire they had kindled on the hearth to assist in ventila-
tion had burned low, and the embers sent forth a sickly |
light, which played on the ghastly face of the woman, |
as, propped up by pillows, she lay on the bed, her white |
robes stained with blood: and the bridal vail, which had |
not been removed, streamed down over the counter-
pane, and rested on the carpet like a fleecy cloud. On
either side of the bed stood the physicians; leaning over
the foot-board, with his face buried in the curtains, was
poor Reinhold.

Mrs. Wilmington’s strangely glittering eyes were fixed
on Oakley as, tottering feebly along, he entered the
yoom and sank into a chair. A look, in which were
blended shame, remorse, and love stronger than death,
came into her face at sight of him. For a moment she
closed her eyes and lay still, then she beckoned Edith
and her husband to come nearer.

They obeyed.

Edith wept silently, for, in spite of what this woman
had done, there was yet in the gentle heart of Albert
Verner’s daughter pity for her terrible sufferings, and
forgiveness of her crime.

«Edith Verner,” said Mrs. Wilmington, in a hoarse
whisper, ‘‘1 deserve no pity or mercy at your hands. It |
Tecould live Ishould expect none; but I am to die, and |
thus cheat the law and justice. Iam gladof that! I |
thank your dog for killing me; he has been my best |
friend! Thank Heaven that I did not put an end to his
life when I thought to do so, for he has saved me from
‘rial, conviction, and death on the scaffold !”

She paused a moment to recover herself, swallowed a
spoontul of wine given her by the doctor, and went on:

“J owe you._a few explanations before I die. I shall
have to make them brief. I was innocent once, but a
villain betrayed me. My child was born, and I was
driven forth from my father’s house with ignominy.
Days and nights I wandered—sick, suffering, hungering
for bread. What could I do? Idid as many another
poor girl has been forced to do. [entered on the life
which held out its arms to me. There was nothing else.
Rich men build asylums for children, and inebriates,
and for old men and women; but who has built an
asylum where the fallen woman can be received with
kindness, and led back to the path of virtue by gentle-
ness and love ?

“JT entered on my life of sin unwillingly. I wanted to
be better. I wanted to live purely, and rear my boy to
be a good man. ButIcould not. It was sin or starva-
tion. I gave my child away, and for years did not look
upon his face. The tenth year of my wretched life I
met Albert Verner. Iloved him. Smile, if you like, at
the idea of my loving any one. I did love him, fondly
and purely. He professed to love me. He wanted me
to go away with him to live in a villa just out of Paris. I
would not consent, and he married me. At least, I
thought he did; but I now know that it was a mock
marriage, performed by a sportive friend of-his.”

Again she paused, and tried to wipe the sweat from
her brow. A bluish gray line of shadow was settling
around her mouth, and beneath her eyes were two
cireles of purple. Dr. Alcott deaned over her and felt
her pulse.

“Every word you utter,” said he, ‘‘shortens your life.”

‘What matter, so that I have said my say?” she asked,
wearily. “Do not trouble me; it will soon be done. I
went to live with Verner. He was kind to me, but he
wearied by and by; and then circumstances occurred
which forced him to leave the vicinity. It was long be-
fore I knew that he had gone home to America. When
that knowledge came, I resolved to follow him. I did so.
T found him married to a beautiful woman. I hated her,
and, one night, I sought her out and told her the cir-
cumstances of her husband’s connection with me. She |
was a sensitive thing, and it broke her heart. ’

«J rejoiced when I heard of her death, but I swore to
be revenged on him through his child! At first I
thought to kill it, then I conceived a better plan. I had
a son, a child born in shame, and educated into a young
man of reckless habits, and destitute of moral principle.
Still I loved him. J said to myself I would bring about a
marriage between this son and Albert Verner’s daugh-
ter! But I, myself, would keep my hand in the business
concealed until all was over, and then I would proclaim
my triumph.”

‘A slow intelligence was beginning to steal over Freder-
ick Oakley’s face, but Edith sat in silent wonder, guess-
ing nothing of the revelation which was to come.

“Ferris told you the truth in respect to the murder, so
IT will not go over it.: A few words and I am done.
Frederick Oakley, your father was a peer of France.
Your wretched mother is before you. Curse me if you
will, and let me die.”

But instead of cursing her, he burst into a wild passion
of caresses and tender words, and flinging himself on
the bed beside her, he drew her passionately to his
bosom.

“My mother! oh, my mother!” he cried, hoarsely.

“My son,” said the feeble voice, and stopped suddenly.

Those around the bed drew back. The sharp ticking
of the clock on the mantel alone broke the silence.

Edith rose at last, and approached the mother and her
child. She called her husband’s name, she touched his
hand, but he never spoke or stirred. She raised her wild
face to Dr. Alcott.

“Took at him! Look at her!” she said, and hid her-
self in the folds of the bed-curtain.

Alcott obeyed, but one glance revealed to him the dis
mal fact. They were both dead!

The erring mother and her erring son had gone on the
last, long journey together. Life had divided them, but
death was more mercitfui.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
AUNT MARGARET'S ADVICE.

They buried Frederick Oakley and his mother together
in a clump of beeches on the estate of Wilmington. Pub-
lic opinion seemed to revolt at the idea of laying this
sinning woman beside her deceived husband in the fam-
ily tomb of the Wilmingtons, and it was deemed fitting
to let mother and son rest together.

There was no pretense of mourning at Grassmere.
The house was quiet, but it was always that, and
Aunt Margaret knitted on as ever, and Edith, pale
and sad, assumed her old place at the head.of affairs.

At Kdith’s earnest request, Mrs. Street disposed of her
Southern property, and took up her abode permanently
at Grassmere.

Eugenie de Palestro was settled near them. Her
parents had come from France thither, and found a
home, and as she had a brother in business in New York,
it was not probable that the family would ever return to
their native country.

The days wore monotonously away, and brought no
change, save the inevitible change of seasons.

Edith meant to pass her life here in quiet spinster-
hood. She had nothing in this world, she said; she had
lived out her little day, and seen all its morning glory
dimmed with clouds. Existence had few charms for
her, but she liked to see others happy, and she was con-
stantly devising ways to entertain the poor of the vicin-
ity, and to make their hard lives easier to live.

She was growing so very old, she told Aunt Margaret,
half sadly, that she could wear no bright robes; and
she put her beautiful hair all away in a net, and tried to
comp out the little crinkles and curls, which would per-
sist in falling over her white torehead. No curls, and
ure: and girlish follies for her, she said, and be-
Heved it.

 

 

 

Of Milton Hargrave she thought as we think of the
dead whom we have cruelly wronged. Remorse was in
her every thought of him. Why had she doubted his
truth? Why had she wronged him thus bitterly and
deeply ? Why had not her eyes been anointed that she
might have seen clearly ?

Aunt Margaret, matter-of-fact and methodical, urged
her to write to him and explain herself.

“If he’s the right sort of a man,” said she, ‘‘and loves
you still, he will forgive you. Anyhow, itis his right to
be told what the matter was when you gave him the
mitten; and if you follow my advice, you'll sit right
down and write to him to-day,” and the knitting-needles
clicked louder than ever.

“Aunt Margaret,” said Edith, “I would die before I
would do this. I cast himoff. Do you think 1 would
give him reason to think that I was seeking to win him
back? Never! I am a little too proud for that.”

“Ah! so you’re going to let pride stand in the way of
justice. Well, it’s none of my bread and butter, but it
seems to me you were not quite so much on your dig-
a when you crossed the ocean to explain a little mis-
ake.

Edith colored painfully.

“Your reproof is just. But, Aunt Margaret, I had not
lost faith in everybody and everything then. I acted
just as my feelings dictated. Now I am wiser,” and she
sighed because of the wisdom.

“But not happier. One seldom is happier for worldly
wisdom, I believe,” said Aunt Margaret, thoughtfully.
“But, child, I would not let this sharp experience you
have passed through destroy all trust in life. You are
young yet, and ought to have a good mdny years of
peace and comfort yet before you. Be advised, dear, and
confess the whole to Milton Hargrave.”

But Edith shook her head sadly.

“T cannot. He would never forgive me for doubting
him—for suffering myself to be weak enouge to believe
him guilty of that terrible crime. But, aunt, I was not
quite myself at that time, and Frederick Oakley made
everything seem so clear tome. But I should have be-
ro in Milton and trusted him in spite of every-
thing.”

Aunt Margaret did not reply, and the conversation
was dropped, never to be resumed. Edith strove hard
for forgetfulness. Sometimes she thought she had
reached it, and then a scrap of writing, a line of poetry,
a strain of music, a breath of tragrance, would bring it
all back to her. You who have loved and suffered, and
who say you have forgotten, know how daily, hourly
maybe, these trifles wake to life the memory you
thought dead and buried out of your sight.

* * * * * * * *

When the gloomy apartments of Wilmington were
opened andinvestigations made, among the papers of
the late mistress a will was found—executed only two
days before her death. 1t was evident from the peculiar
wording of the document that she must have had some
vague premonition of her death, but how it came to her
must ever remain a mystery.

The will bequeathed all her property, real and per-
sonal, to Gerard Reinhold, aud, greatly to the surprise
of Many persons who knew so well the delicate sensi-
tiveness of the rector’s pride, he accepted the inherit-
ance and quietly took possession.

The income he never touched a cent of, except for the
poor of the parish, and, under his wise management, the
long-hoarded thousands of the Wilmingtons made many
a fireside bright and happy.

In a private drawer of Mrs. Wilmington’s desk was
found a sealed package. Itcontained a bloody hand-
kerchief, marked with the name ‘Albert Verner,” and a
revolver. The size and shape of this weapon was to-
tally unlike the one which Frederick Oakley bought at
the gunsmith’s, and which had belonged to Mr. Har-
grave, but it carried the same size of cartridge, and was,
without doubt, the instrument which had given Mr.
Verner his death.

Why do murderers always preserve these tokens of

their guilt? Why do they always keep in their posses-
sion proofs by which, under certain circumstances, their
guilt is sure to be discovered and established? Who
knows ?
A year passed—two—three. And still no change at
Grassmere. Edith’s hand had been sought by more
than one ardent suitor, but she had the same answer
for all; and by and by it came to be understood that she
would never marry, and so they left her in peace.

CHAPTER XXIX.
A HOLIDAY FOR AN OLD SERVITOR.

Meantime we have left Milton Hargrave in India to
take care of himself, which he showed himself quite
capable of doing.

His business prospered wonderfully. He devoted him-
self to it body and soul. He seemed to have no thought
but as to how he should best heap up money. And he
succeeded. His word was as good as his bond, and
his bond was good for any amount among those who
knew him.

His uncle died, and left him both houses. These he
consolidated, and removed the business entirely to Cal-
cutta. ;

After this change a rigorous revision of had newpe

 

took place. Clerks were made to work who had ney
earned their salt before, and old, hard-worked, super-
annuated quill-drivers had their salaries increased and
their labors lightened whenever Mr. Hargrave deemed
it practicable.

One day, in going on his rounds of inspection, Milton
noticed a man verging toward old age. He was hollow-
eyed and stooping, and had asepulchral sort of cough
which struck a chill to the listener.

Milton asked the business manager about him.

“Oh, he’s a regular pack-horse,” returned Mr. Stetson.
“Always does his work, and the work of half a dozen
more of those young poppinjays on his side of the room.
But he’s one of your timid, retiring sort of men, that
never dares say his soulis hisown. Give him the Bank
of England for his own, and he wouldn’t be any better
off than he is to-day.”

Milton went around to Mr. Fairfield, for that was the
clerk’s name, and addressed him.

“Are you not well, Mr. Fairfield ?”

He started nervously. Evidently he was not accus-
tomed to being spoken to, and he glanced up with an air
and manner which seemed the most abject apology for
having coughed so much as to have made himself an ob-
ject for observation.

“Oh, ah, excuse me, sir! But I have alittle cough
now and then. Constitutional, nothing more, I assure
you.”

; And he might as well have added:

«No offense, I trust, sir.”

Poor fellow! he trembled as he sat there, for he was
afraid his treacherous cough would earn him a dis-
missal.

Milton put his hand kindly on the old man’s shoulder.

“You look pale and tired. This confinement is too
much for one of your years. Take a holiday, and get
rested.”

A smile like sunshine went over the wan face which
from force of habit was still bent over the dusty ledger.

«Thank you, thank you, indeed! You are very good,
but then the work, sir, the work !”

“Let the work go!” said Milton, warmly, ‘don’t fret
about that. All work and no play makes Jack a dull
boy.”

ait is very good of you,” murmured the old man ina
choked voice, ‘‘and my little girl will be so glad. Only
this morning IJ saw tears in her eyes because I told her
my head got confused sometimes so that the figures
ran together. I don’t mean to complain, sir,” depre-
catingly, “but I’m notso young as I was once, and
figures are bad for the eyes, you know.”

“Go into the country somewhere,” said Milton, ‘‘take
a week if you choose, and take the little girl along,
“and leaving the poor fellow in the midst of his stam-
mered fiow of gratitude, Milton found Mr. Alcott, the
head clerk, and made some further inquiries concerning
Mr. Fairfield.

Aleott was a methodical man, and carried his brains
in a thick note-book which was always in his pocket.
All the knowledge he had ever acquired was written
down inthat book. He produced it now.

“Fairfield? Let mesee. Yes, hereitis. George Jay
Fairfield; by birth American. Been in the house of Har-
grave and its connections twenty-five years. Came
here for his wife’s health. Exactly.”

“Is his wife living ?”

Alcott consulted the book.

“No, she is dead. Died twenty years ago, leaving an
infant daughter. Sober, industrious, and trustworthy,
but not thrifty.

«(Who ?—the daughter 2?”

“No. The father. Indeed I know nothing about the
daughter. I have nothing down in my book. And Fair-
field is not a man who talks of his private matters.”

Milton felt a strange interest in this poor, hard work-
ed fellow who never prospered, and he watched for his
reappearance at his desk for more thana week. But he
did not come. Then Milton found out where he lodged,
and called there.

A fair, delicate young girl opened the door, and in
answer to his inquiries told him that her father was
very ill,and she had been unable to leave him, or word
would have been sent to the counting-house. -

“It is not of the slightest consequence,” said Milton.
“IT mean it is of no consequence that you have not sent
word. Marston has kept Mr. Fairfield’s work along.
Can 1 see your father ?”

The apartment into which she ushered him was small
and furnished meagerly, but it had an air of neatness,
and the stand of flowers by the window seemed to Mil-
ton like a glimpse of what he had once dreamed his
home would be.

In an adjoining room, propped up by pillows, lay Mr.
Fairfield. His eyes were very bright, his hollow cheeks
had a hectic flush, and his dismal cough bent him up
nearly double.

He was very glad tosee Milton, and the spasmodic
grip of his hand was close enough to be almost painful.

“IT got so tired, you know,” said he, apologetically, as
he always said everything, ‘‘so tired with that day in
the country! It was nice—very nice, and Annie en-
joyed it like a chiid, but I was not used to it, and I was
very tired. That is what ails me, Isuppose. But I shall
be all right in a day or two, eh, Annie ?”

“JT hope so, papa,” she returned, trying hard to keep
her voice cheerful, but the blue eyes were full of tears.

Milton niet ain a long time, and said a great many en-
couraging things, and when he rose to go he felt alto-
gether like an old acquaintance.

“Fairfield,” said he, ‘give yourself no uneasiness about
the work.. I will have it kept straight, and I will keep
the place for you until you get well.”

At the door he took Annie’s hand. She looked sofrail,
so sad, so helpless altogether, that he could not refrain
from offering her some tender word of sympathy. And
she seemed so like a child to him!

 

 

“My dear girl,” said he, ‘you must let me advance

your father’s salary. It is too low by half, and I will see
that he receives an increase regularly hereafter. Take
this for present necessities, and keep up a good heart.

I will send a doctor to-night, and come round again my- |

self in the morning.”

He left two golden sovereigns in her hand and went
away. And simple-hearted Annie Fairfield stood gazing
after him until long after he was out of sight, and could
hardly realize that he was not an enchanted prince who
had stepped out of some wonderful old story-book.

The doctor came, but he was not very communicative.
He left some medicine, and would come again next day.

Milton Hargrave visited the sick man daily. His pres-
ence brought cheer and comfort to both father and
daughter. Sometimes it seemed to Annie when think-
ing it over, that but for his kind sympathy she should
have fainted by the wayside.

It was not long before Milton saw how it would end.
The doctor made no secret of it when talking to him.

“Tt is a clear breaking down of the entire system,”
said he; ‘‘the man has worked like a machine, and even
machines wear out. He may last a month, but it would
not be sufprising if he went any day.”

One day Milton and the doctor went together. Fair-
fleld was worse. Any one could see that. His mind
wandered, and he did not fully recognize any one but
poor Annie.

“My poor little lamb!” said he, pitifully, stroking her
head with his wasted hand. ‘‘The wolves will devour
her when Iam gone. And I am so weak and feeble, and
the figures swim together so. Oh dear! dear! what
were figures made for? Only to puzzle poor fellows like
me. Annie! Annie! where are you ?”

“Here, papa! clase by your side!” returned the sob-
bing girl.

“That is right. I thought you were lost—lost in the
woods. Oh, Heaven! Annie! who will take care of you
when I am dead ?”

“T will take care of her,” said Hargrave, deeply af-
fected. ‘Trust her tome. She shall be to meas a sis-

ter. You know me, Fairfield? You are not afraid fo |

leave your child to me ?”

The dying man’s face brightened with a quick intelli- )

gence.
“No, 1am not afraid. T give her to you! I make you
my heir. All I have to leave—my little Annie—and may

Heaven bless you both !”
After that he did not speak.
Milton led the weeping girl away, and tried to speak
words of comfort.
This kind friend took upon himself all arrangements |
and responsibilities.

Mr. Fairfield was buried beside his wife, and the shade |

of the same green palm,tree fell over both graves.

He procured lodgings for Annie in.a pleasanter part of |

the city, and there he visited her frequently as a brother
might have done. Fora little while she was too deeply |
absorbed in grief for her father to think of other things,
but by and by as time softened the sting of this sorrow |
she began to grow uneasy at thought of the relation she |
sustained to Mr. Hargrave.
She could not bear to be dependent on him. She)
wanted to work for herself, and to go away where she |
never should see him again. For in her loneliness and |
desolation the poor child had learned to love him with |
her whole soul, and the knowledge brought to her the
deepest and bitterest sense of Shame. She feared to |
trust herself longer in his society, lest in some un-
guarded moment she might betray her love, and lose his
respect forever. ;
So one day she timidly told him of her desire to go |
away into some country where a woman could earn her |
own living. |
Milton was not altogether unprepared for this, and he |
had made up his mind what to do. Some idle jest from
his friends had perhaps helped on his decision. He had |
become painfully well aware that even in India a young |
unmarried man cannoz be the protector of a young and |
beautiful girl without subjecting her to uncharitable |
comment.
He did not love Annie Fairfield. He had never loved |
any woman but Edith Verner—he never should; but |
Annie was fair, and pure, and innocent asa child. She |
was so desolate and unprotected, too, that she appealed
powerfully to his stronger nature, and besides had he not
promised her father to care for her. He was not blind |
to the fact that his coming brought light to her eyes and
color to her cheek, and though he was not a vain man,
he could not be ignorant that this poor child loved him.

[TO BE CONTINUED. ]

“St ERE Cah

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

MILDRED'S SECRET FOKS:

The Trail of a Crime.
By ROBERT J, BANGS, Detective

{“Mri~pRED’s SECRET FOES” was commenced in No. 46.

Back oumbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]
CHAPTER XX.
A STRANGE RIDE.

Kenshaw advanced to the bedside, trying to assume a
look of profound wisdom, as became the character he
meant to play.

“J do not think your services will be required,” said
Margrave.

“No. The gal is doin’ very well, I borrowed a bottle
of yarb bitters from neighbor Hotchkiss, and it’s all she'll
need,” said the old woman.

“But I mean to pay you, doctor, since 1 sent for you,”
said Margrave, and he placed a sum of money in the de-
tective’s hand.

“You need not mention this visit, and if you do not
you can always rely on our patronage,” he added.

Mildred groaned, and moved uneasily.

She seemed to suffer.

“Let me feel her pulse. It may be that the young
girl’s condition is more serious than you suppose,” said
the pretended physician.

He placed his hand upon Mildred’s wrist.

The truth was the poor girl was returning to con-

 

It was all over soon, and |

} sion of the facts of the case, led the detective to surmise

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3==

 

 

Craig, whom the boys expect, and now he tells you he

is a doctor.”

Margrave was surprised, and so was the old man,
when he saw that there was no man in the room except
his hopeful son.
| ‘Where is he? where has he gone?” the old fellow
| went on.
| Margrave comprehendeds
| ‘He just left the room a moment ago. He pretended
to be going for his medicine-case, which he said he left
| in his buggy at the door.”
| ‘Aha! the cunning fox. He made that excuse to get
| out. Now it is proven that he isa spy, because he has
|no carriage at the door. The only vehicle about the
| place is a covered two-horse coupe from the village liv-

ery stable, which has just arrived,” answered the old
| Man,
| Margrave was troubled and alarmed.
| Herushed from the apartment and down the front
| stairs, which he had heard the detective descend.
| Throwing open the door, he sprang out of the house.
| No vehicle and no man were in sight except the coupe
| he had ordered Carter, the charcoal-man, to send him,
| and the man who sat on the box.
| Itwas a bright moonlight night, and the villainous
| plotter could distinguish objects at a considerable dis-
| tance.
|. He was surprised at his failure to discover the man
| who had cleverly deceived him.
| This seems like Kenshaw’s fine work, I know of no
other man who could have successfully accomplished
this stratagem. After all, can it be that the ubiquitous
| detective lives, and that he is at hand again?” thought
| Margrave.

Then he turned to the driver of the coupe.
| ‘Did you see a man leave the house by this door just
| now ?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; and he seemed to be in a great hurry about
| something. He ran as fast as possible through the field
| yonder,” said the driver.

He pointed with his whip, as he spoke, in a direction
| exactly opposite to that taken by the man with whom
he had made the exchange of hat and coat.

For amoment Margrave seemed about to institute a
| pursuit; but he changed his mind as he thought :
| ‘The spy may have assistance near. No doubt he is
one of Kenshaw’s followers, if he is not the detective
himself, and | surmise he will make haste to return lo
the rescue, of the girl.”

These reflections caused Margrave to decide that it
was important that he should hasten away with Mildred
without the least delay.

Girty and Barker had not yet returned from the vil-
lage, and the men’s voices which Kenshaw had heard
when he was in the upper story of the house, were those

}
}
;

 

| of the driver of the coupe and Margrave’s father,

The former had stepped into the house for a moment

| to procure a light for his pipe.

Entering the house, Margrave gave his father certain
instructions, and then he brought Mildred Heath down

| stairs, and placing her in the coupe, he sprang into the

vehicle himself, and said to the driver :

«Put your horses to their best speed, and drive in the
direction or B——. Ten dollars extra for yourself if you
make good time.”

“All right, sir. The ten dollars is as good as earned,”
answered the pretended driver.

He pulled up the reins and drove out of the yard.

When the highway was gained the driver whipped up
his team, thus evincing a natural eagerness to earn the
promised extra fee, which evoked several commendatory
remarks from Margrave.

The team was really a superior one, and as Kenshaw
did not spare the whip, rapid progress was made.

Upon this Margrave congratulated himself, little
dreaming that the man he most feared was the com-
panion of his flight.

Margrave was at Kenshaw’s mercy; but the detective
postponed the denouement that must eventually come,
it seemed.

“T will play my part until I determine precisely the
nature of the rasval’s scheme regarding Mildred,”
thought Kenshaw. ‘1 hope, also, before the night ends,

| to make some‘discoveries which will be of future service
| to me.”

He surmised that, although, as we are aware, an ab-

| duction had not been the original purpose of the enemies
| of Mildred Heath, when Girty and Barker found the fa-

vorable opportunity we have described to make her a
captive, they had not hesitated to secure her, and Mar-
grave had approved their course.

Since fate had placed Mildred in his power, Margrave
had suddenly arrived at a decision to take a course with
reference to the girl which he believed would accom-
plish the purpose he had in view, and doom her to the
dreadful end he and his confederates had determined
she should meet without further delay.

As he drove swiftly along, Kenshaw reviewed the

| Situation.

“What takes him to B—— ?” the detective asked him-

 

 

self; and, after some thought, a startling idea entered |

his mind.

B-—,, the town to which. Margrave directed the dis- | face, he was disappointed as well.”

guised detective to drive, was located some fourteen or
fifteen miles across-country, and it was an unpretend-
ing interior village. But it recurred to Kenshaw’s mem-
ory with startling significance that Dr. Vagnu’s private .
lunatic asylum was located in B .

The detective seldom trusted to chance, and he liked |
to foretell occurrences by means of deductions from
known facts, and he possessed a wonderful faculty in }
this respect which was often of the greatest service.

A series of natural deductions, which the reader can
make as well as the detective since he, too, is in posses-

 

that Dr. Vagnu’s private insane asylum would prove to
be Margrave’s destination.

Occasionally Margraye would address some remark to
his driver, and the latter ventured to ask:

“Ts the young lady sick ?”

“Yes,” answered Margrave, laconically, but he gave
no further explanation.

The environs of B—— were reached at last, and as his
team was pretty well blown, Kenshaw permitted the
animals to slacken their pace as he drove along the
shaded road between long rows of tall cedars that stood

} saw the Clerk througy a& Second-story-*

| him we have taken Mathew Ennis’ murderer. —

 

like dusky sentinels, shutting out the moonlight almost
completely from the highway.

From time to time Margrave directed his driver’s
course, and the detective noted with surprise that they
were skirting along the suburbs of the village without
entering it.

Finally, after making a detour according to Margrave’s
guidance, Kenshaw found himselt driving back over the
very route which he had traversed.

The carriage had not once stopped.

Neither had it been driven anywhere iu the vicinity of
Dr. Vagnu’s insane asylum.

The detective was amazed, but he drove steadily on-
ward, taking the return route that would eventually
terminate at the farm-house of Margrave’s father.

“Some consideration has induced Margrave to sud-

 

sciousness.

The drug which the old woman had administered was
not as efficatious as the beldame fancied. |
Margrave suspected this, and although he had sent for
a physician when he believed Mildred to be in danger of |
dying, and when she was unable to make any state-
ment which might reveal the truth, he now feared lest
upon regaining possession of her senses, Mildred might
say something to awaken the suspicions of the physi-
cian. Indeed Margrave presumed that his victim would

implore the supposed doctor to protect her from him.

This occurrence he meant to prevent at all hazards.
“J think she is in pain, doctor, and after all I would

request you to give her a sleeping potion at once. She
has met with a great sorrow, and I fear she will become
hysterical again if she awakens So soon.”

Now, of course Kenshaw did not carry a medicine-
case, and it seemed that he wasin a dilemma, for he
could not refuse to comply with Margrave’s request
without an infraction of the attributes of his character.

But again the detective's fertility of resources served
him well.

In the most natural manner in the world he felt his
breast-pocket as he said :

“Ceriainly, sir, certainly.
cine case in my carriage at the door.
once.”

Thus speaking he hastened from the room.

He had gained the second story of the house by
way of the rear sight of stairs, but he now descended_a
flight that led directly down to the front door.

As he reached the hall below he heard Margrave’s
father and sister conversing in the next room, and he
paused for a moment to listen to them.

“J wonder where Jerry Craig has gone? Must a
stepped outside, I suppose. So the doctor’s come, eh ?
What doctor was it, Sarah ?” asked Margrave’s father.

“I don’t know, father. He’s a stranger tome. I’m
sure he is not one of the R—— doctors. They have all
been pointed out to me.”

“That’s curious. What did he look like ?”

Sarah described Kenshaw in a few words as he looked
in his disguise.

The old rogue gave a violent start, and he said:

«That's the feller who told me he was Jerry Craig.
Ha! I understand. J¢sa plan !”

During his eventful career as a bank burglar the old
rascal had obtained a great deal of experience regard-
ing the devices and stratagems of detectives.

He was confident now that one of those emissaries of
ustice, whom he both feared and hated, had deceived
im, as well as his daughter and his son.

‘Tll spoil his game, Sarah, and Mart won’t leave a
whole bone in the sneaking spy’s body,” he said, and
Kenshaw heard him ascending the back stairs as stealth-
ily as possible.

Mart was Margrave’s given name.

Kenshaw noiselessly opened the front door and glided
out.

Beside the house stood a covered carriage, and the
driver sat on the box.

Kenshaw sprang to the side of the vehicle, and con-
versed with the driver a moment.

Then the latter sprang from the box and exchanged
coats and hat with Kenshaw, who took his place on the
driver’s perch, and tearing off his full beard, substituted
an immense mustache and a goatee.

Then he picked up the lines and seemed to be per-
fectly at home in his new character.

The driver crept away into a field of grain near by
and concealed himself.

The detective’s metamorphosis had been accomplished
with lightning-like rapidity.

Meanwhile Margrave’s interesting parent had gained
the door of the apartment Kenshaw had vacated but a
moment before.

He meant to surprise the man he suspected; and sud-
aay, darting into the apartment, the old reprobate
c

Ah, I have left my medi-
I will get it at

 

ed:
‘“‘He’s a fraud! he’s a spy! He told me he was Jerry

| dred back,” reflected Kenshaw.

denly change his plans again, and he is bringing Mil-
“Before we reach his
father’s house, if that prove to be our destination, ’ll
throw Margrave out of the carriage and quietly drive to
| the village with Mildred. I am tired of playing the part

of driver to no purpose. True, I could arrest Margrave

now for abductjon, but I do not care to put him in the
| hands of the law until I have the complete evidence to
bring home to him a graver crime.”

About a mile from the residence of Margrave’s father
the former called upon Kenshaw to stop.

Kenshaw pulled up his team, and Margrave alighted,
and handing the supposed liveryman a roll of bank-
notes, he said :

‘You can drive home now. 1 shall not need your car-
riage any longer.”

The carriage had stopped where there was densely
wooded timber-land on either side of the road for a
short distance, and as he placed the moneyin Ken-
shaw’s hand, Margrave turned quickly and vanished in
the woods.

Kenshaw’s astonishment was boundless, and he could
think of but one explanation of Margrave’s remarkable
| conduct.

“Can it be that he has murdered Mildred in the car-
riage and left her dead body there ?”

Shuddering from head to foot, Kenshaw leaped from
the box, but the dread of the horrible discovery he ex-
pected to make caused him to hesitate for a moment
about opening the door of the carriage.

CHAPTER XXI.
HOW MARGRAVE DROPPED MILDRED.

“Tf Margrave has murdered the innocent girl’ I shall
never forgive myself; but I will pursue him now upon
the instant, and drag him to prison, or send a bullet
through his craven heart.”

. With these thoughts, Kenshaw tore open the carriage
oor.

The darkness within the closely covered vehicle was
complete, and Kenshaw leaned forward in order to ob-
tain a distinct view of its interior.

«Merciful Heaven!” he exclaimed, reeling backward,
a moment subsequently. «‘What in the name of the
wonderful is the explanation of this mystery? Mil-
dred is not here! The carriage is empty !”

Kenshaw stood like one dazed as he sought for an ex-
planation of the affair.

He considered that, judged by the standard of ordina-
ry events, Margrave’s conduct was improbable and.
unnatural, although his motive might be clearly divined,
and he acknowledged that the rascal’s success in over-
reaching him was due to his having resorted to a seem-
ingly improbable device.

The element of mystery in the affair was most per-
plexing.

In mental retrospect Kenshaw went back over the in-
cidents of his nocturnal drive.

“It may be that he murdered her while she was insen-
sible, and stealthily dropped her body from the carriage
when the sound of the wheels drowned the noise of his:
movements,” muttered Kenshaw.

But this was but conjecture. ,

“If Margrave meant to murder Mildred he would not
have been likely to have done so under the present cir-
cumstances,” finally concluded Kenshaw.

He reasoned that Margrave would have feared: the
future evidence of the supposed driver, whose suspicion
could but be aroused by the termination of the night’s
adventure.

“Tt must be that he has found a way to accomplish
the purpose of his drive, and that he congratulates him-
self that his driver, if questioned, cannot possibly give
any information regarding the whereabouts of the girl
who was one of his passengers on this midnight jour-
ney.” Thus thought Kenshaw, andi headded :

“This is a calamitous occurrence. I have lost Mildred:
ain just as I had succeeded in discovering her,. and:

e I-was planning for her future:safety.”

 

a
Ww.

‘hiding-place to which Margrave’s supposed confederate

 

 

But Kenshaw never gave way to useless regrets, and
leaping upon the box, he drove rapidly to the village,
where he surrendered the coupe to its owner, whom he
_ bribed to permit him to assume the character of

river.

The unexpected developments, ‘and the course events
had taken, of course prevented Kenshaw’s keeping the
appointment he had made with Bradley, to whom. he
had sent a message by Norman Radburne to the effect
that he would meet him in an hour from the time of the
former's arrival at Sage’s.

But Kenshaw knew that his auxiliary was ever obedi-
ent to instructions, and that in all probability he would
await his coming at the village church until daybreak,
if he did not sooner appear at the trysting-place.

There was but one church in the hamlet, and this
single temple of worship was situated in one end of the
village, in a grove of trees of patriarchal age,

At the side of the church, and within the same inclos-
ure, was the village cemetery.

Kenshaw approached the church and entered the
ground about it.

He discovered a man standing under a tree near a
marble monument.

“Ah! as 1 thought—Bradley yet awaits me,” Kenshaw
mentally said, and he strode forward, saying aloud :

“Well, Bradley, I have come at last.”

As the words issued from the detective’s lips he sud-
denly leaped backward, for he made the startling dis-
covery that the man whem he addressed was not Brad-
ley, but, on the contrary, the rough-looking fellow who
had guided’him from Marker’s to the hut of Carter, the
charcoal-burner.

But Kenshaw’s movement was not accomplished with
sufficient celerity to wholly evade a terrible blow which
the ruffian aimed at him with a slung-shot.

The detective staggered and stumbled to his knees.

Leaping forward, his assailant aimed a second blow
at Kenshaw’'s head; but at that moment, with a flying
leap, Bradley cleared an intervening grave and seized
the fellow’s arm as Kenshaw regained his feet. :

The baffled desperado wrenched away from Bradley
with a herculean effort and fled, pursued by Kenshaw’s
assistant.

Leaping the church-yard fence, the fellow disappeared
in the gloom, and the detective called his faithful confi-
sent back, presuming that further pursuit would be
useless.

While Bradley returned to Kenshaw, his assailant ran
through the village, and he muttered :

‘‘Now to see the Yorker, and if he puts up half the re-
ward money, I'll give away Wareford, the murderer,
Old Marker whispered to me, as 1 left the tavern to
guide Kenshaw : ‘Down him if you can, Jack. He knows
about the peddler.’ Since { hada hand in that little
affair I meant to fix the detective for a funeral.”

When Kenshaw had paid and dismissed this treach-
erous rascal, he had, after passing out of sight around a
bend in the road, immediately crept back under cover of
the bushes, and listened to Kenshaw’s instructions as
he gave them to Radburne.

He therefore knew that Kenshaw had an appointment
at the church-yard, and he had lain in wait for the de-
tective there for several hours.

In the excitement of the moment naturally attendant
upon the interview between Kenshaw and James Ware-
ford the voices of these two men had at times become
quite loud, and the quick-eared rascal (who, with Rad-
burne, had retired out of sight, in order to leave the de-
tective alone with Mildred’s father) heard Wareford’s
name, and comprehended that he was the escaped or
missing night-watchman, who was accused of the mur-
der of Mathew Ennis. :

The fellow tracked Wareford when he left the detec-
tive, and he was now in possession of the: secret of his
hiding-place.

That very day, at the post-office in the village, he had
heard that a New York man, who was supposed to be a
detective, was in the town, and the partyin question
had been pointed out to the fellow.

It was the supposed detective whom the rascal meant
when he spoke of ‘‘the Yorker.”

‘You were just in time, Bradley,” said Kenshaw,
grasping his devoted assistant’s hand as he rejoined
him. ‘You learned nothing at Marker’s that I do not
know. The peculiar course of events rendered your in-
vestigations there useless,” continued Kenshaw ; and
then he proceeded to acquaint Bradley with the occur-
rences regarding which he was yet ignorant.

“T?s the most astounding episode I ever heard of!’’
exclaimed Bradley, when Kenshaw had told him of Mil-
dred’s disappearance from the carriage while he was
driving it.

“The ruse was a most intricate and shrewd one,” said
Kenshaw, ‘‘and reflection convinces me that a confed-
erate must have aided Margrave to accomplish the
stratagem. But J have not asked you is there any news
from Sage’s ?”

*‘No—thatis to say, nothing except that Pethrick 1
ceived a telegram from New York since I saw you le§.
and, after reading it, he seemed to be very muen ©
tated, and, if I could judge trom the expressi

  

“So you saw Pethrick when he read the disp:
Yes: You see I was concealed in the top

you that fellow is guilty. He’s our man.

in the service twenty years, and I am not to be deo
regarding the evidence of guilt when I see it,” sa
Bradley, in a tone of absolute conviction. . a.
“And yet James Wareford is equally positive that
Pethrick is innocent,” thought Kenshaw.
While they were conversing they had
the church-yard. .

ceived some intelligence in the telegram which would
cause him to leave Sage’s, and I took the liberty to in-
struct Radburne to prevent his doing so,” said Bradley.

“Quite right. But now let us concentrate all our
minds upon the subject of Mildred’s disappearance, ind
determine upon our next procedure.
to presume that Margrave merely threw her from the
carriage and left her to wander where she Would upon.
her return to conseiousness, for in that case”she woula
return to her friends, and Margrave would have gained.
nothing?’ 2

“That is true. Wecome back, then, to our previous
conclusion—that Margrave had a confederate in waiting
somewhere along the road you traversed.”

“Yes; our reasoning necessarily brings us back tk
that, excluding as we have the possibility of Mildred’}
murder.’ :

“Since the carriage did not stop. Margrave must '
known that, at acertain point previously agreed upon
his confederate would be in waiting.” :

“Yes, undoubtedly ; and the solution of the myste
must be that Margrave handed the insensible girl out
the carriage and placed her in the arms of his conied
ate, who stood ready to receive her, while the carria
was in motion. There was a particular reason why |
Margrave’s confederate was in waiting near B—— in-
stead of in any other direction ; for I reason that he was
stationed near that town, otherwise had Mildred’s dis- —
appearance not been accomplished there, there would
have been no occasion to make so longatrip. I con-
elude that Mildred is secreted either in B—— or the
environs. of the village, and there our quest must ip
directed.”

“You reason admirably,” said Bradley. _

“Leannot rid myseif of the impression that Dr. Vag~ ~
nu’s private insane asylum will be found to be tle

has eonveyed Mildred Heath, as it is located in the
suburbs of B——,” Kenshaw said. ;

Then he remembered the remarks made by Barker ©
and Girty at the bridge where the two villains had at- ~
tempted his assassination, and he added:

“We must visit the telegraph office at the depot. The
necessities: of the railway service oblige them to ketp
the telegraph office open all night, and we shall find tie
operator there.

The two detectives turned their steps in the directibn ©
of the depot, and, as Kenshaw had foretold, on thtir
arrival there they found the office open and the teleg-
rapher on duty.

’ a entered the office, and Bradley remained ©
withoat.

In a few minutes the former rejoined his assistant.

It is almost certain now that Mildred is immured in 2

Dr. Vagnu’s lunatic asylum,

‘Here is a copy of a dispatch sent by a man who, fom .
his description as given by the telegraph operator is ©

surely Girty,” said Kenshaw; and by the light which ©
streamed from the office window, he read as follows: :
“Dr. Vacnu, B—., New York.

“Send for the goods at place mentioned in my dispateck of
this morning at 12 P. M.”

There was no signature.

“At twelve o’clock the carriage I drove was moving

along the road in the environs of B——,” said Kensinw.
“We have tound the trail. But about the telegram
a in this dispatch as being sent in the morn-
ing ?”
“J could not obtain a copy of it, and the operator did
not recollect its import.”

Fhe route to B—— was taken at once by Kenshawand —

his associate.

Meanwhile,. Mildred’s disappearance from the carriage

had been accomplished precisely as Kenshaw divined,
and: she had been received in the arms of the villainous
Dr: Yagnu himself, who was in waiting by the toad-
side where the long line of cedar trees shut out the
moonlight.

The insanity specialist had been heavily bribed tc per-

form. a certain part in the plot against Mildred.

He was accompanied by one of his keepers, a low-
browed,. brutal appearing fellow, who was evidently ex-
ceedingly muscular.

The telegram: sent by Margrave in the morning had
thoroughly instructed Vagnu, and carrying the insen-
sible girl in their arms, the rascally doctor proceeded for
some distance.

Mildred had for some time been slowly recovering
consciousness; and aS she was being carried along by
the two: men to whom: Margrave had intrusted her, her
senses were completely regained.

With rare presence of mind she made no outcry, and
in: no war betrayed. the fact that she had returned to
consciousness:

Suddenly her escort halted, and glancing up, Mildred
saw before her a dark stone building, surrounded by a
high: wall;.and over the entrance she read the sign,

“Dri. VaGNnu’s ASYLUM FOR THE INSANE.”’

Then: an: awful fear seized upon the imperiled girl,
and with: a'terrible scream: she leaped from her Ccap-
tor’s arms-and fied with terror-inspired speed.

There wassa field of tall grain just beyond the asylum
grounds}. andlinto this the‘hunted girl plunged.

{0 BE GONTINUED.]

 

 
   
    
   
   
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
     
  
   
 
  

aa
walked out of —
“The idea occurred to me that Pethrick may have re-~

It is irrational”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

A PAIR

my

_eostly gems
de

’

- had thrown her

 

4

“THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ee

 

 

have a young sister
_ Far beyond the sea;
_ Many are the presents
That she sent to me.
She sent me a cherry
Without any stone ;
She sent me a pigeon
~ ‘Without any bone ;
Without any thorns,
‘She sent me a brier:
She bade me love my lover,
And that without desire.
How can a cherry
Be without a stone?
How can a pigeon
Pe Be without a bone?
How can a brier .
Be without a thorn ?
And whoe’er loved without desire
Since true love first was born ?
When the cherry was a blossom,
Then it had no stone ;
When the dove was in the egg,
Then it had no bone ;
When first the brier sprouted,
Never a thorn it bore :
When a maiden has her loyer,
Oh, then she longs no more.

—__—_ + - e+
{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

IYSTRRY.

_ THE STORY OF A COQUETTE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Ree tas AUTHOR OF
- “pUT ASUNDER,” “THROWN ON THE WORLD,”
“LADY DAMER’S SECRET,” ete.

_ [A Farr Mysrery” was commenced in No. 38. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

_ CHAPTER XLVI.
AN IMPORTANT LETTER.

A few days after the events described in the previous
hapter, a paragraph went round the principal English
newspapers which created some little sensation. It was
headed ‘‘Romance in High Life,” and ran as follows:
that the Earlof Linleigh has

erally known
manic and Tost his wife. The marriage—which took
i ee oung and gallant captain had little expecta-
of the earldom of

igh—was in itself, we believe, a

: re of the young officer

young wife, we are

setae i Sn nt
was in 0: e’s frien:

i t authority, that the young 1 who

e her title as the Lady Doris Studleigh,

accomplished girl, who will be a

2 :
at : ion to the shining lights of society. The earl is
shout fo ta Up his residence, with bis beautiful daughter,

Considerable sensation was caused by this, but no one

| was in the least surprised. Captain Studleigh had been

known as a great flirt ; those who remembered him as

the handsome young man of his day, smiled and said,

«There, that is why the gay gallant never married. I
’ ehanon.”

nailed on him, and smiled in

tle whem he had married,

most probably a nobody—a

ever cared for any other—

hat was certain. The an-

no other remark, and was very soon

Lady Doris Studieigh was anything like

5 | be sure to be beautitul—they

tion” the handsomest

a: t heiress, no
looked for

: tx Hien Lire.—We are informed that a nob
se recent accession to a m cent estate and an-
oleate lyeneal itr te lovely ans
soon ; en r the lovely and ac-
daughter of one of our most respected peers.”
knew at once that the Earl of Linleigh was
who was the lady? First a rumor—a whis-
was Lady Estelle Hereford.
t T nad Okéd her, and Dad tried
up a yn before he went abroad. Gos-
y wore itself out, In the meantime strange
l occurred at the farm.
1ere came a cold, snowy morning when Doris had
2 home some few days. She was growing impatient.
me change was so great from gay, sunny Florence to
> ; from that luxurious villa, where
ers and light abounded, to the homely ee
from the honeyed words ot her lover to the somewh
cold ae of Mattie and Mrs. Brace. Mark had
but little to her.
ou tried your wings, my bonnie bird,” he said; “I
glad they brought you back here.”:
ie did not seem quite so much at home with her as he
1d been. Morethan once Earle saw him look in won-
at the lovely face and white hands; then he would
e his honest. sel she wad and Earle knew that he

bat

vas thinking to himself She was out of place at the farm.
Mrs. Brace had said but little to her; she knew it was
Earle bh eed her to be silent, while Mattie
may. Would Earle never see

Doris was unworthy of him ?
Ot her adventures but little had been said. Earle told
them that he had met her in Florence, where she was

‘st as governess to some little children, and,had in-

ayin
- duced her to come home with him—that was all they

Ot the story told to Earle they were in perfect ig-

1own some little sense; she had taken the
her fingers. In any case it would never

be safe to wear them again; they would attract too
much attention. She told Earle, laughingly, that she
tty, false stones away, when, in real-
ity, she had safely packed them where no one but her-
lf could find them. Then, after the novelty of receiv-
again had worn off, she began to

‘stay here long, Earle,” she said; ‘it is too
terrible. When shall I hear any news ?”

«Soon, Iam certain,” was the reply. ‘Do not—pray,
do not precipitate matters by any imprudence. Doris.
Wait a few days longer.” :

_ But the news came at last. On acold, snowy morn-
ing, while the farmer and his wife sat at breakfast, they

heard the postman’s horn outside the gate.
“News ought to keep this weather,” said: Mark, laugh-

‘ ne is cold enough.”

Brace hastened to the doer. There was a steam-.
cup of coffee to be carried to the frozen postman, who
it gratefully, and gave her a large, thick letter.

“Tt is registered, Mrs. Brace,” he said, ‘‘and your hus-
‘band must sign the receipt.”

- Now, if there was anything in this world of which

- Mark Brace really stood in awe, it was of pen and ink.

He could plow, sow, reap with any man; place a pen in
his hand and an inkstand before him, and he was re-

- duced to a state of utter imbecility.

“

1 a receipt !” he said to his wife. ‘The man knows
he has brought the letter ; that ought to be enough.”
When he found it must be done, he submitted to it.

for Linleigh Court. I+ is also absolutely necessar y that Mr.
Brace should i i a ange

 

e should b with him his wifefand the young lady
known as Doris. The earlincloses a check for fifty pounds
to cover traveling expenses, and he earnestly entreats Mr.
Brace not to delay one hour in coming.”

«Send for Earle,” gasped Mark, ‘‘before there is an-
other word said about it—send for Earle.”

Then he was struck by the peculiar expression of his
wife’s face. She bent down and whispered to him.

«That is it!” he said, with sudden conviction; ‘that is
it! Heaven bless me! I never thought of it; send for

“Is it anything of any harm to you, father?” asked
Mattie, anxiously.

“No, my child. Doris, you say nothing.”

“What canIsay? You are a great man to be sent for
by a mighty earl. What can he want us for?”

“Tt has come at last!” said Mark. ‘Well, thank Heav-
en, we have done our duty. I shall not be afraid to face
him or any one else.” :

Then Mark sat in silence till Earle came, when he dis-
missed the two girls from the room, little dreaming that
Doris knew far more of her own story than he did.

‘‘Read this,” he said, placing the letter in Earle’s hand,
‘then tell me what you think.”

Earle read the letter attentively.

«I think,” he said, ‘‘that this concerns Doris, and that
you will most probably find the earl is either her father,
or that he knows something of her parentage.”.

“I expected it,” said Mark, with a deep sigh; ‘‘and
Heaven knows, Earle, I shall be thankful to get the girl
off my hands without any more trouble. She frightens
me, my dear boy—she does, indeed : she is so unlike the
restof us. Lam always wondering what she will do or say
next; she is out of place here altogether. It will be a
relief to me.” And honest Mark wiped his brow with
the air of one who was glad to get rid of a great burden.
‘““My wife has more sense and better judgment than any
woman in England,” he continued, ‘‘and she thinks he
will turn out to be Doris’ father. Where is the mother,
Il wonder? What do you advise, Earle?”

“I advise you to do exactly what Lord Linleigh says.
Start at once, and take the ladies with you, The matter
is See pressing, or he would not’write so ur-
gently.”

«J must go then; but it is really a trouble, Earle. I
can get on with an honest plowman or a sensible farmer,
but with lords and ladies I am quiteatsea. My dear

. I shall never forget what I went
e duchess. Of course I know about all
x sons of Adam to begin with, but I like
my own sort of people best, Earle.”

“J do not know that you are wrong,” was the er

“Earle,” said Mark, suddenly, ‘will you tell Mattie
about this affair when we are gone. I know she will
feel it terribly; she is very fond of Doris, and neither her
mother nor I have ever hinted it to her.”

«J will tell her,” said Earle, gravely. ‘Now let me do
what I can toward helping you. I will drive you to
Quainton Station; you must go to London first, and
from London to Linleigh. It isin the south of Kent.”

“T believe that you know every place in the wide world,
Earle,” said the farmer, admiringly.

In a short time they were all on the road to London,
while Earle, left alone with Mattie, told her the whole
story, and had the satisfaction, for once in his life, of
seeing genuine surprise. :

 

CHAPTER XLIX.
‘WELCOME, MY DAUGHTER, TO YOUR FATHER’S HEART.”

Linleigh Court stands on the southern coast, where the
southern sea kisses the shores, and the fertile lands yield
sweetest fruits and flowers. It has not the stamp of an-
tiquity ee makes some of the fair homes of England
so celebrated. The architecture is not of the grand old
Norman type ; itis of modern build, with large, cheertul,
airy, sunlit rooms, each having a balcony filled with

fairest flowers.

The chief reco! ndation of Linleigh Court is that
the whole place d not contain one dull room; they
are all filled with warmth, light, and fragrance. The
grounds are large, extensive, and magnificently laid out,
and ot nil to the very edge of the sea. They are sweet,
old-fashioned gardens, where grow.all the flowers poets
have ever loved.

On a bright summer’s day, when the sun was shining
on countless flowers, when the white doves and birds of
bright plumage fluttered among the trees, it would have

 

leigh Court. On this bright, cold winter’s day it looked
warm and cheerful; the evergreens were all in perfec?

mn. é

The journey had been a comfortable one, thanks to
Earle. He had seen that the travelers went first-class,
which, notwithstanding the fifty pounds, would never
have occurred to Mark. He had attended to every detail
of comfort, liberally feed the guards and porters, in spite
of the printed regulations looking him in the face and

forbidd g any such erat
When they reached Auderley station, there was a car-
ige with a coronet on the panels, asmart coachman
footman awaiting them.. Mark looked aghast: the
grandeur of the whole affair dismayed him; while Doris
stepped into the carriage with the dainty air and grace
of one who had always been accustomed to such luxu-
ries. Then they drove through the rich Kentish scenery
until they came to the park. Mark first caught sight of
the tall towers of the court from between the trees, and

he cried out in 3
i. “This is a ma nt place, Doris. I thiak it is even
better than Dow: Castle.” .

“Tf you had seen the grand old Florentine palaces, you
er not think much of either,” said Doris, indiffer-
ently.

Whatever happened, she had made up her mind not to
admire; they should not find her easily surprised. Yet
as the magnificent terraces, the fountains, the superb
building itself, came inte sight, her heart swelled higher
and higher with vanity and gratified pride. No sweet
compunction or humility such as sometimes visits a mon-
arch about to ascend a throne came to her. No grati-
tude to [leaven that she was to share in such glorious
gifts; noresolve to make others the happier for her
happiness; nothing but a sudden elation, a vain, self-
en sensation, and contempt for the life she had lett

‘hind.

“So this is my father’s‘-house,” she mused. ‘I have yet
to see why he has lived in this affluence, while I have
been brought up as a farmer’s daughter ?”

The two who were watching her wondered what
brought that rapt expression to that beautiful face.
They little guessed the nature of her musings.

“I wish this was all over,” said Mark, as the carriage
drew up at the stately entrance. ‘Only Heaven knows
what we have to do now.”

Doris laughed, a low, rippling Jaugh of perfect con-
tent; then the great hall door was flung open, and they
| saw the magnificent interior, the liveried servants, the
| shining armor, and Mark’s heart sank within him. Then
| he recovered himself & little, and when he looked around
| him, they were all three standing in one of the most
| magnificent halls in England. A servant was bowing
| before them, and Mark heard him say :

“My lord is anxiously expecting you; will you come
this way ?”
| They passed through two or three rooms which, by
| their splendor, completely awed the farmer and his wife.
| Mark’s shoes had never seemed to be so large and so
| thick as when they trod on that velvet pile. The won-
drous mirrors, pictures and statues dazzled him, the
quantity of ornaments puzzied him; he wondered how
one could possibly move freely in such over-crowded

 

 

rooms.

«We cannot all be earls,” thought Mark, ‘and I am not
sorry for it. I am more comfortable in my kitchen than
I could be here.”

Mrs. Brace followed with a pale face. She wondered
less about the externals, and more what they were about
to see. When they reached the library, chairs were
placed for them.

“My lord will be with you in afew minutes,” said the
servant, and they were left alone.

‘I cannot help trembling,” said Mrs. Brace. ‘What
have we to hear ?”

The words had hardly left her lips, when the door
opened, and a tall, handsome man entered the room.

ey saw that his face was pale and agitated, and his
lips trembled. He looked at the farmer and Mrs. Brace,
but not at the young girl who stood near them. As yet
his eyes never met hers or rested on her. He went up
to Mark with outstretched hands.

lost my wife ; but the child continued with you.

been impossible to have found a fairer home than Lin- |.

 

I made
no effort to reclaim her. I do not seek to gloss over my
fault, believe me. The truth is, to a soldier in India a
baby is not a very desirable object. The existence of
child was a source of embarrassment and confusion

tome. I had not the means of supporting it as a daugh-
ter of the house of Studleigh should be supported, so I
did what seems so fatally easy, yet always leads to bad
consequences—I let cil stances drift along as they
would. The end of all that as years went on I al-
most forgot the child's existenc

“But the money,” said Mark, wonderingly, ‘always
came the same.”

The earl looked up quickly.

‘“Yes—oh—of course that was attended to,” he said;
but his face flushed and his eyes fell.

“To my t surprise,” he continued, ‘‘I found myself,
by a chapter of accidents, suddenly raised to an earl-
dom. Iam Earlof Linleigh now, and that is a very dif-

ferent matter from being simply Captain Studleigh. The:

daughter of Captain Studleigh might always remain un-
known ;- the daughter of the Earl of Linleigh has a title
and wealth of herown. You understand the difference,
Iam sure, Mr. B re :

“Yes,” said Mark, ‘I understand.”

One of the first things I turned my attention to, after
my accession to the estates, was the daughter my wife
sent to you.”

He looked nervously at the farmer and his wife, still
never looking at Doris.

“Well, my lord,” said Mark, ‘‘we have done our best by
her; she has had a good education, and she is clever.
The money sent has always been spent upon her. We
love her very much, but she is not one of us, and never
could be. So that it is something of a relief to us to give
her back into yourown hands. Doris, my dear,” he con-
tinued, turning to the beautiful girl by his side, “it is of
you we are speaking. You are not my daughter, my
dear; my good wife here is not your mother; but we
have been very fond of you since you were left a little
La gb baby at our door, in the cold darkness and pour-

ng rain.”

The girl s face turned deadly pale. It was no news to
her—this secret which poor Mark never dreamed she
knew; it had long been no secret to her. She caught
her breath with a low, gasping sigh.
hate have been very kind to me,” she said—‘very

nd.’

‘Poor child,” said Mrs. Brace, gently.
loves us after all, Mark.”

Then, for the first time, the earl turned slowly to look
at his daughter. They could all see fear as well as anxi-
ety in his eyes. At first his lips quivered. and his face
grew deadly pale; then gradually every other emotion
became absorbed in tion. Hecame up to her and
raised her face to the light ; then, as the two faces looked
at each other, the wonderful likeness between them be-
came apparent.

“Nay, daughter,” said the earl, gently, ‘no need to ask
Mark Brace if this be indeed my daughter. Herface tells
the story—she is a Studleigh. She seems like one of the
family pictures eoine down from its frame. Welcome,
my daughter, to’‘your father’s heart and home!”

And as he spoke, the earl kissed most tenderly the
lovely, blushing face.

("0 BE CONTINUED. ]

“You see she

—_-—---—> e<+_____
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

THE BLACK SCOUT;

THE QUEEF THE CANS,

A Taleof Arizona.

By BURKE BRENTFORD,
Author of “SQUIRREL CAP,” “THE STEEL
CASKET,” “GOLD-DUST DARREL,”
“FLORENCE FALKLAND,” etc.

,
[The Black Scout” was commenced in No. 42. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

- CHAPTER XXVI,
AFTER THE BATTLE,

Jingo Josh, not satisfied with the wonders that he had
alreagy performed in the fight, sprang upon a pony
whose rider had been slain, and joined with the soldiers
in the general pursuit of the Indians.

Bertie and her lover rode slowly behind and watched
the pursuit, but they were chiefly occupied in exchang-
ing mutual accounts of their adventures and hardships.

«poor darling! héw you. must have suffered 1” sighed
Bertie. , a
“Believe me, Bertie, I am paid for my suffefings a
thousand-fold by their having furnished me such proofs
(although those were not needed) of your steadfast love,
devotion, and bravery.”

«And what could I have done for you or myself, if it

had not been for Josh ?—noble, faithful fellow !” }

«JT am half-tempted to believe in the supernatural,
when I consider his exploits—those that Ihave witnessed,
and those that you tell me of,” said her lover. ‘The fel-
low seems to be utterly insensible to fear, and he per-
forms prodigies. Should fortune ever smile upon our
love—and I doubt not that she will so smile—we will not
forget him in our happiness, will we ?”

“That we will not.”

The time passed swiftly in their earnest talk, and

when they next directed their attention to the field, |
they saw that the pursuit had been given up, and that |
the soldiers were making their camp beside a little tor- |

rent that seamed the plateau, like a band of burnished
steel, ere it leaped with a shout into the canon’s depths.
When they reached them, the weary steeds were un-
saddled and cropping the scanty herbage of the plain,
and the soldiers were lying about in various attitudes of
rest.

But a group of them were surrounding the indefat-

igable Jingo Josh, who, improvising an accompaniment |
picked up somewhere— |

with a jaw bone which he had
the relic of some ancient browser of the plateau—was
already celebrating the victory with rough-and-ready
rhymes in a full, rich voice, which the toil of battle had
in no whit robbed of its viger.

“Oh, white folks, hab you seen de Injuns,

Wi’ de war-paint on de face, |

A pilin’ ober de great big prairie,

is’ like he runned a race ? i

Dey hab lef’ behin’ a hundred Injuns,
As nebber’ll fight no more,

An’ we'll kill de res’ afore we wander
To ole Virginny shore.

“De Injun grunt, ‘Hi, hi!
De hunter shout, ‘Ho, ho!’ 5
It must be dat de kin, dom’s comin’,
An’ de year ob jubilo.

“Dey tought dey had de cap’n handy,
Fur to fricassee an’ brile 3 i
Dey t’ought, when dey seed Miss Bertie comin’,
Dat den day had struck more ile.
De squaw an’ little papoose war-laughin’,
To tink how dey would squash
De little girl, long wi’ her soldier lover,
An’ along wi’ Jingo Josh.

“De big bucks danced aroun’ de fire,
An’ drank der whisky straight,

An’ whooped an’ squalled, like de bery Old Boy,
Jist out ob de ’fernal gate. :

An’ de prisoner t’ought his time was comin’,
An’ his heart was awful sick,

 

 

She turned away with a shudder, for she vaguely
guessed his meaning. Hard experience and the bitter
remembrance of comrades tortured and slain oftentimes
make calious hearts.

It was now about the middle of the afternoon, and the
party rode slowly toward the fertile valley which
Flynn had spoken of. Markham rode with Bertie a
little apart, leaving the sergeant still in active com-
mand. The bliss of their reunion was still so great
within them that they were jealous of every moment of
time lest it should separate them for an instant. AS
they recounted to each other the almost incredible ad-
ventures through which they had been guided as by an
unseen hand, their present safety seemed more a dream
than reality, and they drew still nearer to each other,
lest some bitter wakening should shatter their hap-
piness.

In the meantime Josh was astonishing Sergeant Flynn
and the soldiers with a plain and unvarnished account
of the adventures which had befallen his mistress and
himself, the terrible episode of the Canon of the Lost
River especially filing them with wonder.

*‘An’ so the big shtone drapped doon an’ flattened out
the red divils, like fiays unther a flath-iron,” comment-
ed the sergeant. ‘An begorra! the gerrul must have
her heart in the right place to shpit the blackguard as
she did with her shpear.”

“And it was after that you found the body of Long
Sapling ?” said one of the men.

e at Dere warn't a hull bone in his skin,”
osh.
knocked him ober de prec’pice wi’ de rock.’

An’ didn’t the little gal faint away when the fust
grizzly made a rush at ye ?”

“She ain’t one ob dat sort,” replied Josh, with some
indignation. ‘Didn’t I tell you dat she run him into de
eye wi de spear ?”

«‘An’ you finished de she-b’ar with your knife alone ?”

“In course I did. You doesn’t suppose I war gwine to
fit her wi’ my toe-nails, does you ?”

They reached their camping-ground a little before
sunset, and while some of the men were preparing sup-
per from bacon and biscuit and jerked meats, Markham
and others made the best shelter they could for Bertie’s
accommodation.

They had little fears of Indians for that night at least,

replied

and after their supper, while the last rays of sunset |

still lingered on the surrounding heights, some one sug-
gested to Jingo Josh that a good-night song would be in
excellent keeping with the order of things.

A pensive air overspread the sable features of the
Black Scout, but he slowly swept the rattling dentals of

the jawbone and responded : é

‘De fight am o’er, de foe’am fled,
De shades ob ebe am fallin’ roun’,
An’, noddin’ now, each sleepy head
Will soon be laid in slumber soun’.
An’ dreams alone will haunt de vale
Aroun’ each sleeper, still an’ pale.
“Ohi O! hi O! my deary,
De Lord our res’ will keep ;
Dere’s nuffin’ fur de sad an’ weary
So sweet as balmy sleep.

‘De han’ dat waved de saber higher

Am tired out an’ ene, now ;
De eye dat blazed wi’ battle-fire

Am fadin’ underneaf de brow ; .
De mouf dat shouted, cussed, an’ swore,
Will soon begin to toot an’ snore.

“De moon am climbin’ slowly up,
An’ pours her soft an’ silber ray,

Like water from a bright tin-cup,
Upon de scene ob strife an’ fray.

I hear the wild coyote’s bark,

An’ soon de world will all be dark.

“De wild coyote snuff de air
Whar all de Injun co: s lie
An’ soon dere bones Will all be bare
Beneaf de silent midnight sky,
Dere war-whoop now alone resoun’s
Up in dere happy huntin’ groun’s.
“TJ wish dey all was in dem groun’s
Ober de dark an’ dismal sea.
Den dey no more would sneak aroun?
To come an’ bodder you an’ me.
An’ we might till de meller sile,
An’ in de desert strike some ile.

‘But let de fierce coyote bark,
Am let the raben flap his wing,
An’ let de night w dim an’ dark,
> o’er de earth her shadder fling.
Ob all dese tings we tink no more,
De while we snooze an’ gently snore.
Ohi O! hi O! my deary,
De Lord our res’ will keep ;
Dere’s nuffin’ fur de sad an’ weary
So sweet as balmy sleep.”

The melancholy tones of the rude singer died away,
and not long thereafter the tired camp was buried in
profound slumber.

CHAPTER XXVII.
A NEW STATE OF AFFAIRS AT RED RANCH.

In spite of his joy and gratitude at having escaped
from a cruel captivity, Markham was not without mis-
givings, as, at the head of his little band, with Bertie at
his side, he approached the neighborhood of Red Ranch
at about noon of the following day.

The different bands of undisguisedly hostile Indians
which had been encountered by Bertie, and Josh, the
soldiers, and. himself, in their several wandering@ indi-
cated that a great war movement was on foot among
nearky all the_Arizona tribes. Might they not have made
another combined attack on the ranch and the-soldiers’
eamp during his captivity? If so, what might have
been the result? He knew his subordinate, Lieutenant
Granger, to be a gallant officer, with some experience as
an Indian fighter, but he had scarcely fifty men under
him, and this was but a scant handful to the large force
which the Indians, acting in concert, could muster
against them. Besides, the ranch itself might have
been taken by surprise, which would deprive the mili-
tary of the assistance which they might otherwise
have received from the peons of the ranch, and the har-
dy trappers and hunters in its vicinity.

He could not refrain from mentioning these misgiv-
ings to Sergeant Flynn, and as Bertie spiritedly refused
to go out of ear-shot, she also heard them perforce.

“Sure, and it’s the same I’ve been thinking of mesel’,
all the while,” said the sergeant, scratching his head.
“The Injun is a desateful insect. We've met so many of
the divils, there’s no tellin’ how many of them there are
at all, at all. But, of coorse, the only thing is to wait
and say.”

This conversation was, of course, not very soothing to
Bertie, but she had the good sense not to make an ex-
hibition of her fears.

In a short time they found their apprehensions at
least partially well-founded. While approaching the
summit of the last ridge that overlooked the junction of

the two rivers, they encountered a trooper who had |

been detailed as a lookout by Lieutenant Granger.

The soldier was overjoyed to meet his comrades, and
to see his commanding officer alive and well, but he
met their questions with confused and hesitating replies.

“Speak out, Baldwin!” said Captain Markham. ‘‘What
has happened? We have seen hard times ourselves,
and are prepared for anything. Has the camp been
again attacked ?”

“Not the camp, captain; but the—the ranch was,
night afore last,” said the soldier, still hesitating, and
turning an uneasy look at Bertie.

‘Do not think of me,” said the young girl, mastering
her emotion by a great effort. ‘“My father! he—he—is—
not—dead ?”

“No, miss,” said the trooper, reassured by her calm-
ness; ‘‘but he is badly wounded, though our surgeon is
taking fust-rate care of him, and thinks it will all be right.
You see,” he went on, obedient to a sign from Markham,
while the entire band gathered around him, ‘‘a big
party of redskins crossed the Rio Virgin night afore last,
at midnight, an’ began to stampede the hosses and
mules which the squire always kept herded at night up
in'the canon back of the ranch. The squire and his
peons made an awtful fight for the animals, and that
young Texan feller they call senor, he fit like a tiger-
cat, but the Injuns were too much forthem. They not
only stole more than half the squire’s hosses and mules,
but they run off lots of sheep and cattle, and burnt
down all the outlying huts anda part of the ranch it-
self. Six peons were killed and the squire wounded.

“But de cap’n hab gone an’ tole you how he |

| treacherous littie minx, Anita, bring me the message?
| And is she not his favorite—his slave ?”
| “it may be that she was,” said the other; ‘but there’s
itherub. The little Anita cannot be found. She disap-
; peared on the very morning that her mistress quitted
| the ranch, escorted by the Black Scout, and nothing
| has been heard or seen of her since. I showed the note
| to Camargo, in the presence of his uncle, and he seemed
| perfectly stunned.

‘««T never saw this before,” said he. ‘‘Where is Anita ?
Send her here, and force her to tell who prepared this
| infernal trap for Captain Markham.”
| “Of course, the girl was not found. And so the affair
| remains. If Juan is an actor, he isa thorough one, Iam
| sure.”
| «Trust me, however, he is one, and nothing else,” said
| Markham, whose train of thought had nevertheless been

considerably disturbed by what he had heard. ‘Is Mr.
Bounty severely wounded ?” F
“He will not get over it, my boy,” replied Granger, in
alow voice. “The doctor secretly told me as much, say-
ing that he might linger for days, but that eventually
| he would go under. He received an arrow—a chance
| Shot, I fancy—through the left lung, and suffers excru-
ciatingly.
«Poor Bertie !” sighed the other.

“J sympathize with her greatly,” Granger went on;
| ‘but you know she will be a great heiress, although this
| wencn is completely played out and stripped of nearly
| all its stock,”

“How the duse will she be a great heiress, then ?”
| “f forgot how ignorant you were of what has trans-
| pired during the past few days. Early in the morning
| of day before yesterday, the day before the attack on the

ranch, a lawyer-chap came up here from the fort. He
was all the way from New Orleans, and brought intelli-
| gence to the squire that all of his immense sugar and
| cotton plantations in Texas and Louisiana, which were
| thought to have been confiscated by the United States
| Government, were still intact, and held by his lawyers
| in his name, it having been fully proved by them that
| the squire was at heart a Union man throughout the
| war, although, on account of his having buried himself
| out here, and: concealing hisreal name at the same
time, they were not able until recently to discover his

| whereabouts.”

|. Markham could scarcely credit what he heard, and sat
ee dreamily at his triend, without a word of com-
| ment.

| The squire could hardly contain himself for joy at
| this intelligence, notwithstanding his grief at the un-
ss. of his daughter's fate,” continued the lieu-

tenant. ‘He came to my tent with his lawyer, and told

-}me all®about it—much to the apparent chagrin of the

little senor—and even told me his real name. It is
Pierre de Vaney. He is the head of the great De Vaney
family of Louisiana. What do you think of that, my
boy ?” No answer.

‘But the best joke of all,” rattled on Granger, ‘‘is that
the lawyer believes, and said as much, that the little
senor knew all about his uncle’s good luck before he
came here, and only,kept him in the dark so as to marry
the daughter and secure the fortune, don’t you see ?”

No answer,

“The squire didn’t exactly fall in with this idea, but
the lawyer—who, by the way, is a jolly little fellow,
with a bald head, a genteel thirst for milk-punches, and
able to tell a good story and crack a good joke—stuck
to it through thick and thin, and, of course, hasn’t made
a bosom friend of the little senor in consequence. In
fact, Juan looks as though he would put a dirk into his
midriff with the greatest pleasure in the world.”

“JT am so dazed by all these things you recount to me,
that I must have time for reflection, my dear fellow,”
said Markham. ‘In the meantime, I shall go up be-
hind the chaparral and take a wash. As you may guess,
I need it badly.”

“All right,” said the cheery lieutenant; ‘‘and I will
rummage through your portmanteau, and have a com-
plete change of Clothes laid out for you by the time you
come back.”

Markham did not see Bertie again until late in the
afternoon, when he met her near his tent.

She had also refreshed herself with a bath and proper
food, and was attired in a costume more appropriate, if
something less picturesque, than a la Queen of the
Canons, but her smile at seeing him could not altogether
dissipate the troubled look of her pale face.

She was accompanied by Mr. Bounce, her father’s law-
yer, who at once impressed her lover favorably.

He was a short, sturdy little gentleman, of five or six-
and-forty, with a bald head, round, ruddy face, and
small eyes that twinkled with good-humor and profes-
sional shrewdness combined. >

Though there was nothing of the Far West pic-
turesqueness in his costume—which gaye him a hybrid
appearance between that of a fox-hunter and a genteel
dog-fancier—he seemed not a whit out of his element,
and well able to take his share of hap-hazard life with-
out grumbling.

He held out his hand, introduced himself, and greeted
Markham upon his return from captivity in tones so
cheerful and hearty as to banish at once any suspicion
of affectation, and then went into the tent to see the
lieutenant.

“Yes, dearest: Granger has told me everything.” said
the captain, taking Bertie’s hand in his and leading her
toward the bank of the near-flowing stream, before she
could speak to him of what had happened, as she had
intended to do. ‘Everything has so changed that it
seems like a dream. But how is your father ?”

“Asleep now, and apparently resting easier. But oh,
Jasper! I fear—I fear——”

_ She pressed her forehead against his shoulder,pand
wept and sobbed aloud. ~ - hiner ae ‘

e soothed her agitated frame, and after some time
succeeded in calming her a little.

“Yes, Jasper, I know it!” she murmured, with yet
quivering lips; ‘‘my poor papa will die. The lines of ap-
proaching dissolution are already written on his face.”

“Nay, nay, dearest. Let us hope tor a happier end.”

“It is hoping against hope, I fear,” said she, control-
ling herself with that strong will which seemed ever to
stand her in such good stead. ‘And, Jasper, he has
changed a good deal toward you. He likes you now, and
makes no concealment of it.” ;

His pressure of her hand showed her how much this
announcement rejoiced him.

‘‘But,” she continued, ‘‘he still likes Juan, and will
listen to no suspicion against him, and Juan is with him
constantly.”

“Of course!” exclaimed her lover, with bitter em-
phasis.

«What do you think of Anita’s disappearance, Jasper?”

“What do you think ?”

“J think that she has fled to the mountains—back to
her people, you know—through fear of my resentment.”

«And I suspect that she has been put out of the way,
in short, murdered, to rid Juan Camargo of the only wit-
ness to his treachery!” cried Markham. ‘Oh!” he con-
tinued, flercely, as a look of horror and incredulity
sprang into Bertie’s face at this accusation of her cousin;
“In what other way can you account for it? Who else
but he could have imitated your handwriting so skill-
fully, and led me into that trap, from which it was never
dreamed that 1 would escape alive? Granger has the
missive still in his possession, and will show it to you, if
you desire.”

“Oh, I don’t Know what to believe!” exclaimed the
girl, clasping her hands. ‘‘Maybe Juan is not so bad as
circumstances make him appear.”

“Why, how now ?” exclaimed her lover, dropping her
hand. ‘You know of your own knowledge, from the
evidence of your own eyes, what attempts he had al-
ready instigated against me, and against Jingo Josh:
How did he act when he first encountered you and dis-
covered that I had been rescued ?”

‘“T will tell you, darling, if you will not be so cross to
your poor little girl,” she replied, repossessing herself of
his hand, and lifting her soft, beamy eyes to his clouded
face. ‘There, I knew you did not mean to be nauglity.
Well, he was, to all appearances, really rejoiced to see
me again, and when he heard of your escape he seemed
so startled that I could not at first tell whether he was
glad or sorry. He then said that he was overjoyed at
your escape, but troubled for fear that you had all along
misjudged him, and ascribed wrong motives to him.”

“The hypocrite !”

“My father——”

“Ay! what said he ?”

“Oh! he was so glad to hear that you were alive and

 

 

eH _ Then it was discovered that the only inkstand in the
house was in Doris’ room, and that young lady asked
- wonderingly what they wanted ink at that early hour of

he grinned an’ laughed, as if it war funny, 1 \
Sih wit eak ateudioran’ a bela , well; and when I briefly told him of the sufferings
through which you had passed, the tears rolled down

| his thin cheeks. He said that, now that he was rich,

For some reason we were not notified in time, but some |

“You are Mr. Brace,” he said. |
of us got up as the last of the redskins were fording the |

“Let me introduce my-
self—I am the Earl of Linleigh.”

a suddin’, dere came a poppin’

 

 

 

answer.

the morning for.

] ee my father is not taking to literature, Mattie!”
e cried.

_ My dear sister, when will you learn that it is in bad

taste to be always Sneering at our father ?” was Mattie’s

“What does he want the ink for? Tell me?”

«There’s a letter-—a thick, registered letter—seemingly
_ayery important one, and the receipt had to be signed.”
- She wondered why the mecking smile died so suddenly
from Doris’ face—why she grew pale, and agitated, and

unlike herself. ;
“7 shall be downin one moment, Mattie,” she said.
When she was left alone she clasped her hands to-

‘gether.
“Tt has come at last!’ she said—‘‘at last!”

_ It was ten minutes before she went down; then Mark
signing oe the ee . had made in
e receipt—the postman had departed—and,

e all simple-minded people, Mark and his wife were
mdering trom whom the letter had come, and what it
was about. listened quietly for a minute. Mattie
was engaged in preparing tea for-her sister. Then Doris

_ “Do you not think it would save all trouble and discus-
sion if you opened the letter 2”
Mark laughed'sheepishly, and said :
“She is right, you know.”
- Then he opened the letter. It was not'very long, and
y saw a slip of pink paper fall from it. Mrs. Brace
ed it up and saw that it was a chéck'tfor fifty pounds.
eanwhile Mark read on slowly and‘laboriously,; then
ooked around him with a bewildered face, and read

n.

hat is it, Mark?” asked his wife,*anxiously.
“Stop!” said Mark, waving his hand. ‘Steady. 1 have
had many a hard puzzle in my life, but this is the hard-
Icannot understand it. Either the man who wrote
mad, or | am—I cannot tellwhich. Patty, read that

aloud ; let me see if it sounas.as ‘it reads.”
Brace took the letter obediently from her hus-
ands. No one saw the torture of suspense in

e. Mrs. Brace read aloud::

atl of Linleigh presents his compliments to Mr

oe, an i begs that pe wal gear dim a favor. The |
ant business, an Pa ee ee a ee oe lin. Phey wrote to me and told me what they had done,

ess, and as the éarl ¢

mot go to
e glad if Mr. Brace will with

kk
start + foot delnes

“JT thought as much,” replied Mark, anxious to do his
best. ‘I have done what you wished, my lord—brought
Mrs. Brace and Doris with me.”

The earl held out his hand in silent greeting to the
farmer’s wife, but never once looked at the young girl,
Then he drew a chair near to them.

“J must thank you for coming,” he said. ‘You have
been very prompt and attentive. I hoped you would
come to-day, but I hardly dared expect it.”

“We thought it better to lose no time,” said Mark.

“You did well, and 1 thank you forit. I have some-
thing of the greatest importance to say to both of you—
something which ought to have been told years ago.
You, perhaps, can almost guess it ?”

Mark nodded, while his wife sighed deeply.

“Twenty years ago,” continued the earl, “I was a
young man, gay, popular, fond of life, an officer in the
army, and the younger son of a noble tamily, but poor.
You do net know how poor a man of fashion can be.
was very popular—every house in London was open to
me—but I knew that I was sought for my good spirits
and genial ways. As for marriage-—well, it was useless
k of it, unless I could marry some wealthy heir-

 

to tk
ess.”

He paused for a few minutes, and Mark shook his head
sadly, as though he would say it was indeed a wretched
state of things.

“J speak to you quite frankly,” said the earl. ‘It might
be possible to gloss over my follies, and give them kindly
names—to say they were but youthful follies, no worse
than those of other pean men ; |mightsay that I sowed
my wild oats; but I come of a truthful race, and I say 1
was no better—hot one-half as good, in fact, as I ought
to have been. Then, as aclimax to my other follies, I

| fe in love, and persuaded the young girl I loyed to

maarry me privately. That was bad enough, but I did
worse. When we had been a short time married, we
quarreled. Neither would give in, and we parted. It
matters little to my story who my wife was, whether
above or below me in station, whether poor or rich—suf-
fice it to say that we parted.

“Some time after I left England a little daughter was
born to her. She still kept her secret. This little child
‘she confided to the care of a servant. The servant must
have known you or heard of you, for she left the little
sone, as you both know, at your door, and you took her

 

 

 

faraway in India. I was helpless to interfere, Then I

 

 

But all ob
Ob rifles all aroun’, 14
An’ de soldiers come, a swingin’ dere sabers,
An’ strewin’ de dead on de groun’. |
An’ de buzzard ob freedom on de white man’s banner
Screeched troo de libe-long day. :
Ad’ de ae seemed to hab forgot somet’ing
"Bout fifty miles away.
“Oh! de Injun grunt, ‘Hi, bi?
De hunter shout ‘Ho, ho! :
It must be dat de kingdom s comin’,
An’ de year ob jubilo!’

“Bravo!” cried Markham, as he and Bertie joined in
the general applause which this effort elicited; ‘but if
you would describe the fight properly, Josh, my good
tellow, you should not neglect to say something of your
own exploits ; for, by my faith, the boys in blue would
have had a pretty even thing for it if it had not been for

ou.”

“So they ,would, by Saint Patrick!” cried Sergeant
Flynn, for neither he nor any of the command wished to
withhold from the Black Scout a tithe of the praise that
was his due. “But now, captain, I am under your or-
thers, of course. If ye will allow me to make a suggist
something, I will mintion that, about five miles to the
west, we crossed a purty valley, as full of wholesome
water and grass as anut is of meat, where we might
camp and rest till to-morrow at daylight, and then make
our way back to the Colorado.”

“Nothing could be better, for I see both horses and
men are badly used up. But how about the bodies you
have left upon the field? There were plenty of them, 1
noticed.”

“J have sent two men,” said the sergeant, “to bury
the poor fellow we lost. It was Peter Houseman, and a
capital fellow he was. And they'll also bring a report of
the number of redskins on the ground.”

‘How about their burial ?”

“Sure, your honor, the wolves and vultures will furnish
them with living tombs,” was the somewhat unfeeling
reply, which, however, did not strike any one, excepting
our heroine, as being brutal at the time.

The men soon afterward returned, reporting that their
mission had been performed, and that the Indians had
left fourteen of their number upon the field.

“What! all dead? none of them merely wounded ?”
exclaimed Bertie, with a look of horror.

«They is all dead now, ma’am, any way,” said one of
the men, a dark smile playing about his bearded lips.

 

stream, and killed half a dozenof them. They were
so numerous that the lieutenant would not permit a
pursuit.”

“Are you camped at the same place ?” demanded the
officer, drawing a long breath.

“No, sir; the lieutenant ordered the camp to be moved
yesterday. It’s now on the peninsula, right alongside
the ranch.”

“Tt should have been there from the first, and would
have been, but for——-”

A glance from Bertie’s pale face caused Markam to cut
short a remark which might have reflected somewhat
bitterly upon her father. He simply ordered the scout
to continue in the duty that had been assigned him ; and
then the whole party once more pushed forward.

The ruins of the huts were still smoking as they dashed
down the ridge toward the ford.

The soldiers were almost beside themselves with joy
at the return of their captain and their comrades. This
was the best—at least the next to the best—invigorator
the young officer had yet received since his release from
captivity.

While Bertie, with the faithful Josh directly behind
her, went at once into the house to see her father, Mark-
ham accompanied Granger into their tent.

The lieutenant gave in detail.an account of the attack,
which was, in substance, similar to that related by the
picket, and listened, almost incredulously, to the narra-
tive of his superior officer’s adventures, and those at-
tending the romantic expedition of Miss Bounty and her
sable follower.

‘It is strange that you were not notified in time to
come up here and attack the Indian thieves in full force,”
said Markham.

“Jt is,” assented Granger, ‘‘and, but for the brave and
desperate manner in which this Senor Camargo is gener-
ally conceded to have fought the Indians, I would sus-
pect him of having purposely withheld information of
the attack from me.”

“He must have done so. Depend upon it, his fighting
was all a sham!” exclaimed the captain, fiercely clench-
ing his hand at the remembrance of his wrongs. ‘Did
he not forge the message that befooled me into the ene-
my’s hands ?”

“J still think so, myself; but he denies it point
blank.”

“Denies it!”
“Why, how can he, out of all conscience ?

echoed Markham, in astonishment.
Did not the

| he was going to bequeath you a fortune in his Will.”

| “And does he suppose that I would accept a legacy
| from him?” cried the young man, his proud nature
wounded to the quick. ‘Oh, it is ever so with the arro-
gant and rich. They think that a golden plaster is a
cure for every wound. Iamatrue man and a soldier,
and want not his money.”

“And yet, Markie, dear,” said Bertie, very softly, and
drooping her head with coy modesty, ‘if I] am rich, how
can you expect to remain poor, and—and, at the same
time——’

He interrupted her by catching her in his arms.

“Does he really tavor mé that far ?” he exclaimed.

“He certainly did not signify that he disfavored you in
any way whatever,” she replied. ‘‘But now let me go;
J must run back to him. See, there is Lieutenant
Granger and Mr. Bounce coming out of the tent to look
for you.”

She broke away from him and ran toward the house
But before he reached the tent Jingo Josh crossed his
path, apparently in a great hurry.

«Where now, Josh ?”

«’Scuse me, massa!
ob Brazos Bob.”

“Wh-a-t’s the matter with him ?”

“He got a hit in the fight, an’am down here in an ole
cabin. Sort ob ’lirious, out ob his head, you know,” said
Josh, tapping his head with his finger.

“And you are nursing him ?”

«Wall, massa, how kin I help it? Nobody else keers
fur him. Must treat him like a Christian, you know.”

And Josh hurried away on his mission of mercy.

[T0 BE CONTINUED. ]
a

Horsford's Acid Phosphate

A Good Thing.
Dr. ADAM MILLER, Chicago, Ill., says: “I
\have recommended Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
to my patients. and have received very favor-
able reports. It is one of the very few really
valuable preparations now offered to the afilict-
ed. In a practice of thirty-five years I have
found a few good things, and this is one of
them.”

I’se a nuss now. I’se takin’ keer

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

emis THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

THE CELESTIAL TELEGRAPH.

BY SHELTON CHADWICK.

The wild swan hath its last hymn sung,
’Mid tropic reeds in music dying;
And dewy winds with silver lung,
I hear around it sighing, sighing.
It is not lost, that plaintive psalm ;
It soars above those groves of balm.

The blossom cradled bee low lieth,
Dove and butterfly have flown,
The rose in leafless beauty dieth,
The violet shuts its eye unknown,
The universal Soul exhales ;
But Heaven’s grand purpose never fails.

A pale, unnoted star hath set!

1 saw its kingly shape go by,
Begirt with cloudy coronet,

A strange, wild trenzy in its eye.
“T go, mad world, it seemed to say,
“To make for thee a Judgment Day !”

Along the corridors of stars

The deeds of men and empires run
Through arteries like golden bars,

And nerves that stretch from sun to sun;
And, though our human lot be hard,
There is no mead unflowered, unstarred.

The infant’s lisp, the poet’s song,
The smile of love, the glance of scorn,
The Truth, whose neck is crushed by Wrong,
And Freedom, of her strong locks shorn,
The simmering guilt of ages past,
God will avenge in wrath at last.

Oh, earnest heart! Oh, soaring soul!

The Titan-molded Truth shall grow ;
From Freedom's grave the stone shall roll,
And Despots quail her power to know ;
Each thorn twined in the crown she wears

Shall blossom through eternal years.

——--—_- > @-—<¢

MULLEN LEAVES—No. 24,

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

4 GO CART.

 

«You little limb of Satan!” sez I, grabbing one of ’em
by the arm, and giving him a shake that nigh about
took his head off, ‘‘what ave you doing ?”

“Roasting pa!” sez he. ‘We're cannybils, and pais a
missionary! Sent out by the board! He’s inside there!
Golly! ain’t it fun to hear him holler ?”

We rushed round to the side of the summer house, and
my soul and body! them children had lugged kindling
wood out of the shed, and piled it up aginst the door,
and sot fire to it, and they had got Pilkins tied with my
clothes-line, which they had took down from the posts,
and it was full of wet clothes, that Biddy Moore had jest
hung out to dry, and every one of them things had to be
washed over! I declare for it, if them little imps had
belonged to me, I’d a walloped ’em till there hadn’t been
enuff of ’em left to make one decent-sized ten-year-old
Pilkins.

Ned kicked the fire to pieces, and bust in the door, and
let the “imminent barrister” out, more dead than alive.
His hair was singed, and he had swallered enuff smoke

to cure twolegs of bacon, but he didn’t scold worth a
cent. And when I told Mrs. Pilkins about it, she said it
was strange that people should ever forget that they’d
been young themselves. As for her, she hoped that she
weren’t so selfish as not to be willing to see young folks
enjoy themselves in theirown way. And I made up my
mind that if them youngsters undertook anything on her,
it wouldn’t be my fault if they didn’t enjoy themselves
in their own way. .

And ’twarn’t long afore they did.

Ned and the hired man had left the hay-cart setting
on the top of the hill back of the barn, with a little med-
der hay in it that warn’t quite dry. I was out in the
sass lot, a picking some shelled beans for dinner, when
Mrs. Pilkins came out with hernovel. She spied that
hay-cart, and thought the hay would be soft, and she
clim up into it. She was a good while about it, for she
is a hefty woman, and ’tain’t no fool of a job to climb
into a hay-rack. She settled herself down and went to
reading.

In a minnit or two three of them Pilkins hats appear-
ed. I seed’em whispering together, and I knowed there
was mischief a brewing. But I kept ona picking beans.
’Twar’t none of my bread and butter.

«She'll never mistrust !” sez Billy, in a confidential loud
whisper. ‘‘She’ll think a cyclone struck her. Push,
Lanty! Push with all yer might. Golly, won’t she

. Spin when she gits down by the big rock !”

And all three of them imps pushed behind that cart,
and started it down hill backards.

I’ve seen baloons and railroad cars travel, but I never
seed anything go like that cart.

The hill was long and steep, with a swamp at the bot-
tom of it, and the further the cart went the faster it
went. The air was full of dirt, and flying hay. Mrs,
Pilkins stood up in the cart swaying from oneside to
tother, all her hair blowed off, her novel in one hand,
and a palm-leaf fan in tother, yelling for the Lord to
save her!

Half way down the hill, with an umbrill over his head,
for fear of gitting sunstrick, was Mr. Mudge a taking a

icter of Bent’s hen-house, and a clump of leelock

ushes; and he was so took up with his bizness that he
never seed nor heard nothing till the hay-rack was upon
him. Iseed his ambrill fly about ten feet into the air as
the rack struck it, and then I heerd a howl that was
enuff to split the globe asunder.

1 dropped my beans and run. But, law! what was the
use of running? I couldn’t ketch ’em any more than I
could ketch the comit. But I seed that the cart had
turned part way round, and Mudge had ketched onto
one of the rounds, and was a-clinging for dear life, and
yelling as he went.

It was only a secont before the whole consarn plunged
into the swamp and upsot, and stood up on end, and the
mud fiew as if a waterspout had busted, and Billy
screeched out: :

ea Tom! didn’t she jest spin when we touched
her off 7”

The two dogs came barking like mad after their mis-
tress; Mrs. McDingle waddled out to see what the mat-
ter was; O Finnigan wanted to know if we thought it
was dynamite or nitro-glycerine, and Miss Billings stood
and called upon ‘‘the infinite atomy of a vast infinitude
to make their exodus, and restore from primeval chaotic
chaos all that was sublunary of the wretched icono-
clasts.” I hain’t sartin as I’ve got all the words
in right, because I didn’t have no dictionary to hand
when she delivered her speech.

Pilkins appeared on the scene just as his wife and her
vehicle struck the swamp, and he put on his eye-glasses,
and sez he:

«“Hosses run away, Mrs. Mullens? Much damidge
done? Shall I bring an action aginst anybody ?”

‘7 think likely you’re a widder, Mr. Pilkins,” sez I.
“Them young ones of yourn have committed rigicide
onto their ma, and squelched Mr. Mudge, and busted up
my hay-cart—drat ’em !”

And we all run down the hill to the swamp. It wasn’t
so bad as we expected. Mrs. Pilkins stood bolt upright
in about four feet of mud. All that was to be seen of
her was her head, which, being round and bald, made
her look like a drum-head cabbage with the leaves
picked off. Mr. Mudge had got his nose badly barked,
and he had lost his hat and both shoes, and had got
a stripe of blue paint and a stripe of yeller paint down
between his eyes, but otherways he was sound.

We turned to and pulled ’em both out of the mud, and
wiped ’em off with some hoss-blankits. It took Ned,
and the hired man, and Bent’s two hired men, halfa
day to dig that hay rigging out of the mud and bring it
ashore. ut I didn’t mind the ixpense, for I noticed
that Mrs. Pilkins was reddy to snap them young ones’
heads off, and never said nothing about their having a
good time.

The oldest Pilkins gal, she played onto that violin a
good deal, and if I hadn’t a been busy, I should have had
a hydrostalick fit. I never did have anything harrer up
my innards as that fiddle did. She used to set on the

peazzy. after dark, and scrape away, and thar used to be
five of the neighbors’ tom cats that held consarts under
that peazzy every night, but they all scooted. with their
backs up, and their tails as big as yer arm, and their
eyes spitting fire at every jump. It was too much for
their narvous cisterns, that music was!

One night when she was a scraping wuss than com-
mon, Granther Hayes heerd it. Granther is pritty deaf
in his ears, but somehow he manages to hear a good
deal that he don’t need to hear. .

“Injuns! by jingo!” sez he. War-whoops! Keep still,
Hanner! I'll make a sortee! Strategy is what tells in
war!” and Granther grabbed the fire-shovel, and began
to creep toward the door.

He is an old man, as I have sed before, but he is quick
as a weasel, and before I could grab him, he had slung
the shovel through the winder, and jumped after it.

And I jumped after him, and there on the peazzy was
a sight for a painter. There was Granther, and the Pil-
kins gal, and the violin, and the two poodles, and Mr.
Mudge, and our dog Rover, and Bub Stebbins, all a
rolling over and over, in a gineral scrimmage, and Gran-
ther a yelling:

“Give it to the redskins! Drat their hides!
ter! Up, boys, and at’em!”

no quar-

THE HOME ‘UNDER THE STAR.”

BY DAN DE QUILLE.

About three years ago a gentleman of Nevada re-
turned to his native village in Vermont ona visit. He
spent several weeks among brothers and sisters whom
he found married and settled in the neighborhood of the
old homestead. Uncle William, or ‘‘Uncle Will,” as his
nephews and nieces called him, at once became a great
favorite with all the little folks. One of the Western
wanderer’s brothers hada bright and beautiful little
daughter about two years of age. This little girl—little
Wilhelmina—young as she was, soon became strongly
and strangely attached to her “‘Uncle Will from Washoe,”
whose namesake she was. She would have nothing to
do with father, mother, sister, or brother, when her
Uncle Will was present. Wherever he went about the
place, little Wilhelmina must go, for she clasped her
arms about his neck and refused to be separated from
him.

Although she could talk but little—no more than the
average child of her age—yet she understood almost
everything that was said to her or in her presence; as

was to be seenin her eloquent eyes as she turned her
gaze from face to face. 4

In the pleasant summer evenings, Uncle Will often
took his little niece in his arms, and seating himself in
the veranda looking toward the setting sun, talked her
tosleep. At such times he would point out the evening
star, and tell the child that far, far away, just under
that star, was his home. The little girl would look long
at the great bright star, hanging like a lamp in the west,
then toss back her golden hair, and steadily gaze up
into her uncle’s face, as though thinking on what a
bright and beautiful place his home must be.

Every evening little Wilhelmina begged to go out to
the veranda and See the star that st over the home of
Uncle Will. She would clap her hands and cry:

“There it is, Uncle Will! They’ve lighted it up—it’s

oing !”
At last came the day when Uncle Will was to leave for
his home in the far West. Little Wilhelmina was as
well aware of this as any one about the house, and, with
both eyes and ears, was on the alert.

“Oh!” she would cry, ‘‘Uncle Will is going to leave me;
he is going away to his home under the star.”

Not tor a moment could she endure to have her uncle
out of her sight. Several attempts on the part ef Uncle
Will to steal away resulted in such fits of crying that he
was obliged to return and soothe the child.

Wearied with weeping and watching, the little one at
last fell asleep in her uncle’s arms,

When she awoke Uncle Will was far away—was speed-
ing on and on toward his home under the star.

For weeks the little girl was in daily expectation
of the return of her uncle, and often, even in her sleep,
called his name. Many times of evenings she was found
alone on the veranda, earnestly gazing upon the great,
bright star that stood guard over her uncle’s home. For
along time she thought Uncle Will could see her as
plainly as she could see his star.

As the little girl grew, her love of the star deepened,
and she talked more and more of it, and of the home of
her uncle, both so far away at the edge of the sky. Even
when three years had passed, and little Wilhelmina was
five years old, her belief in the story toid her by her un-
cle continued. She would listen to no explanation from
any one in regard to the star, nor to the whereabouts of
her uncle’s home.

Poor girl! another year was never added to her age.
It was her sad fate to die a shocking and painful death.
By accident she was scalded over the greater part of her
body, and lived but about five hours.

She seemed to read in the faces of the loved ones that
surrounded her that she must soon die. Her eyes wan-
dered from face to face, and so bravely did she bear her
pain, that only an occasional moan escaped her.

As the shades of evening began to rise up from the val-
leys, She was observed to grow restless. She tried to
turn her face toward the window, the top of which was
reddened by a roseate after-glow.

At last she asked:

“Ig it there—the star ?”

She was told that the star was in its place, and shin-
ing brightly.

‘eebly she said:
«Take me to the window.”
Gentle hands lifted her, and carried her to the win-

dow.
Eagerly she bent her gaze upon the western sky, then
a smile lighted up her face, and she said :

«Oh, there itis. Now I can find my way to Uncle Will
—I can see his star.”

She then closed her eyes, as if wearied, and the smile
faded out of her face. One long-drawn sigh, as she was
laid on her bed, and the light of her life went out and
away to meet and mingle with that of the star she had
so long watched, and so fondly loved.

* * * * * *

2

When news of the death of his little favorite and
namesake reached Uncle Will in his far-away Nevada
home, he sent a large, bright star of pure silver, to be
set in the slab that was placed over her grave.

There to this day she Sleeps, and there she will slum-
ber on, in her home Under the Star, until that great day
when she will be awakened to dwell forever amid a
splendor. everywhere spread, far exceeding in bright-
ness the light shed upon her mortal eyes from the one
gleaming star in the western sky.

Let us hope that Uncle Will may so live that at last he
shall be found worthy to join, in those realms of ever-
lasting light, the awaiting little one whose soul went out
to seek him along the guiding ways of his star.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

‘Miss Susie B.”—Pretty house dresses are made of dark
cashmere, and have for trimming three or four rows of
worsted lace insertion let in the skirt above the hem at equal
distances. The lace insertion is of the same color as the

dress, but_silk of some bright contrasting shade is placed
beneath the face bands. Poppy red silk on a navy-blue or
olive green dress is particularly effective. Many dresses are
now made with two skirts cut nearly of equal length, and set
into a short-waisted but pointed corsage in thick gathers or
heavy plaits. The upper skirt is faced for a considerable dis-
tance with a contrasting color, and caught up high on one
side. The bright facing is intended to be shown, and its
color is repeated upon the vest, collar, and cuff facings.

“Edith Verner,” Pittsburgh, Pa.—The latest street and tray-
eling dresses are made without flounces, and have very few
plaits in the lower skirt. A stylish costume has a plain velvet
skirt, showing narrow zigzag stripes or cardinal and black,
with the corsage drapery and jacket of black ladies’ cloth. A
handsome evening dress is made of brown faille, brocaded
with gold, combined with gold net worked with pink tulips.
The pink silk low bodice is covered with embroidered net; a
bouquet of tulips is fastened on the left shoulder and crosses
the bodice. The pink silk underskirt is bordered with a tulle
kilting, headed with two embroidered net flounces, also
edged with a kilting. The broche train is square on the right
side and oval on the left.

“Bertie.”—Cloth or camel’s-hair overdresses are fashion-
able, and plain velvet or plush skirts are worn with them.
With cloth overdresses striped skirts are used. The tailor-
made suits for winter are trimmed a good deal with seal-
skin, while cloth Norfolk jackets have a leather belt, with
collar and cuffs of alligator or seal-skin. Wool costumes are
greatly in vogue for winter wear, and repped _ silk, with vel-
vet or plush Hones. will take the place of cloth for dressy
costumes. A very effective toilet is made of light Havana
brown cashmere, set off by dark leather shades.

‘Mrs. Rebecca D.”—1st. With black toilets collars and cuffs
of jet beads strung on twist are very effective. Small beads
are ‘threaded together in a solid manner, with an edge of
larger sized beads as a finish. 2d. Primrose note-paper is
much in vogue, and has the flower stamped in gold upon it,
entwined with the monogram in bronze. 3d. Velveteens in

olden brown, in dark green, and in black, made in severe

ailor style and trimmed with — or the new wooden beads,
are quite fashionable. 4th. “ e’s Fortune” is in book-
form, and the price is $1.50.

“Fannie B.,” New Orleans, La.—Woven borders near a sin-
gle selvedge form parts of many new dress patterns, and are
of boucle stripes broadenough to be arranged as panels, or
as entire fronts of skirts in combination with plain goods.
A new woolen fabric to combine with plain goods is of seve-
ral colors woven in small, irregu its, like mosaics or
crazy patchwork. It trims nicely, and is called mosaic cloth.
Heavy woolen canvas goods, in fine or large meshes, come
plain, in stripes, and large plaids, and are used for under-
skirts and trimmings.

“Mrs. Libby M.”—The short Zouave and Russian house-
jackets retain their popularity. Some of the richest looking
are cutin vandykes around the edge, and have each point
tipped with a bead pendant as well as being covered with

 

 

embroidery. A new style of Jersey waist is shown. It is

 

quite short, is cut with numerous seams, has a point in front,
and asquare postilion behind. There isa vest, a high mili-
tary collar, and narrow cuffs of rich plush or velvet, of a con-
trasting shade.

Margaret S.,” Great Neck, N. Y.—Short mantles of heavy
woolen goods have the back either plain or plaited, dolman
sleeves or scarfs forming the front, and long or short tabs.
They are generally worn with a dress to match, and are pro-
fusely trimmed with woolen lace, or are covered with rows
of mohair braid. New cloth jackets are shorter in the back
than in the front, and are nearer tight-fitting than they were
last season. Large flat buttons are used for trimming, and
there are side pockets bound with braid.

“Jennie W.”—Mohair wool laces come in flounces a yard
deep, to cover the dress skirt as far as itis visible. The pat-
terns are small, and a scolloped design finishes one edge,
which is to serve as the foot of the skirt. There are mohair
trimmings in a variety of designs. Some are in bands and
others in set pieces. One pattern consists of .three rows of
daisies, precisely like hand-work in crochet. These come in
all colors, to match the fabric.

‘Alice Smith.”—Ist. Either momie cloth or linen would be
appropriate material for a wash-stand cover, and it could be
fringed out to the depth of half an inch, or finished with a
hem. Then choose some pretty design for each corner, and
work it, in etching or outline stitch, with colored silk or cot-
ton. We can furnish the designs in Perforated Patterns. 2d.
We know nothing in regard to the firm mentioned. 3d. It is
a matter of opinion.

“Mamie C.,” Harristown, [ll—ist. There are a great many
fanciful designs for basques, but those most popular are cut
quite short, square, or pointed in front, curved over the nae
and finished at the back in postition fashion. 2d. Since the
introduction of open or halt-open bodices there is a demand
again for chemisettes, guimpes, and old-fashioned stom-
achers of every sort, and made of every kind of fabric.

‘Hattie H.”—There are a great many double-breasted
basaues worn thisseason. A favorite shape buttons from
the left shoulder to the right of the waist, and may be simp]
ornamented with a ane row of buttons, or have revers fol-
lowing the outline of the opening. Dresses cut in this way
are very stylish.

“Trene C.,” New Haven, Ind.—Novel gossamers for wet
weather are made of pretty fawn-colored mohair, made per-
fectly waterproof. They are cut in close surtout shape, are

gh vet with a cape, and are long enough to quite cover
he 5.

“Emilie H.”—Large-sized carved wooden beads are placed
on the edge of bonnets and woven in galloons and fringes.
They are at rosary beads, and come in the natural shades
of the wood.

“Boston.”—The crowns of hats are higher this season than
ever. One of the latest hats has the brim tied down over the

ears and raised in front, the crown being very high.

“Mrs. Gussie 8.,” Boston, Mass.—ist. The ‘Business Letter-
Writer” will cost fifty cents, 2d. “The Practical Mesmerist”
can be sent for twenty-five cents.

“Miss Hattie B.—White wool lace, of exceedingly fine de-
signs, is now used for cravat bows, and for the neck and
sleeves of handsome costumes.

“Gertie,” Barnard, Mo.—There are three styles of fall and
winter wraps, comprising jaunty cloth jackets, short, dressy
mantles, and long cloaks.

“KE. D. B.”—We can furnish a book entitled “Self-Cure of
Liquor and Opium Habits” for seventy-five cents.

“Miss E. C. B.”—*Famous People of All Ages” will be mailed
to you on receipt of fifty cents.

“Mrs. Christie L.”—We can send you “German at a Glance”
for thirty-five cents.

“Estelle.”—The price of “How to Draw and Paint” is fifty
cents.

TRIED AND TRUE.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

“That little friend of yours is really very pretty,
Carrie,” said Mr. Horace Dewey, yawning fearfully be-
fore the glass. ‘‘What did you say her name was ?”

Caroline Dewey looked up surprised; it was seldom
that her brother troubled himself on the subject of her
feminine associates.

“Lilia Gray.”

“Lilia Gray! Why, that’s a name fit for a novel; and
she looks like a lily, too, now one comes to think of it. I
say, Carrie, I'm half disposed to fall in love with your
little friend.”

Carrie's eyes brightened.

“Oh, Horace, 1 should be so glad!”

“Ask her to ride in the Central Park to-morrow, then,
and I'll drive you.”

«{ will write a note this minute,” said the delighted
Carrie.

Lilia Gray was sitting in her little reom all by herself
that bright August afternoon, turning her pretty fore-
finger fund and round, as she looked smilingly at a

slender golden ring that encircled it—-something, appa-
rently, whose mute gleam conveyed a very precious
meaning to her heart.

“My engagement-ring,” she murmured, with a sweet,
misty.light in her brown eyes ; and then she glanced at
an open letter lying in her lap, and read half aloud one
sentence :

“As long as Ba wear that ring, Lilia, I shall know that
your heart is my own.”

“Then I will wear it always—always!” she whispered,
kissing first the sentence and then the ring.

Of course all this was very foolish; but then, you
know, little Lilia was in love. And Bernard Wyman
really was avery brave, noble young fellow, though he
was but a teacher in a public school, and poorer than
Job’s proverbial turkey.

Lilia was yet dreaming delicious day-visions over her
ring, when the servant brought in Carrie Dewey’s note,
scented of heliotrope and written on _ violet-tinted
French paper. Lilia read it with a deepening color.

“The Central Park! Oh, I should like it of all things!”
she thought, joyously. ‘Of course I will go.”

* * * = * * = =

“So you're engaged, eh, Bernard ?” said the dry, snufty
little old uncle. ‘‘Well, well, young people will be young
people ; but when I went to Canton you wore checked
aprons, and had long curls hanging down your back.
How time does fy! What did you say her name was,
Bernard ?”

“Gray—Lilia Gray.”

‘Why, that’s the very. young lady I met at Penn
Dewey’s last night. Brown eyes, hasn’t she, and a pug
nose, and a little mouth like a strawberry? I thought
so. Well, then, I'll tell you what, Bernard, you'll have
to look out rather sharp for that pretty personage.”

«What de you mean, Uncle Jogeph ?”

«Why, Imean that Dewey’s spoiled son is wild after
her, and makes the most persistent sort of love to her,
and that she’s an exception to her sex in general if she
doesn’t prefer Horace Dewey’s money and rank to ‘love
in a cottage’ with you, young man.”

“Yes; but, uncle——”

“Yes, yes,” irately interrupted the snuff-dried uncle,
‘‘but she doesn’t know it. I’m quite aware of what you
would say, Bernard, but she doesn’t know it!”

“J do not doubt her love, uncle,” said Bernard, with a
quiet smile._ i

«Well, we'll see ; we'll see !” said Uncle Joseph, looking
alittle incredulous. Uncle Joseph was sixty, and Ber-
nard Wyman was but six and twenty, and people see
things so differently from those respective standpoints
in life.

It was hardly a month since Lilia had received her
plain gold ring, and she was in the same room, her
brown eyes fixad on a second ring a gold hoop, with a
star of diamonds blazing from its center,

“My dearest Lilia,” ran the note that lay in the velvet
casket which had contained the jewel. ‘‘My heart goes
with this ring. You cannot fail to have seen how de-
votedly Ilove you, and if you wear this ring to Carrie’s
party to-night, I shall know that my love is returned.

, HORACE DEWEY.

She laid down the note with pale cheeks, and eyes
that wore a troubled, musing look. Upon the table be-
side her lay a heavy bracelet of Etruscan gold, a tiny
watch studded with pearls, and a diamond-stoppered
vinaigrette. :

“TI know where they came from, now,” she said, in a
faltering voice, ‘the same Landwriting is on every en-
velope. And he knew I was engaged to Bernard, too,
for Carrie told him long ago. Does he thing his wealth
would buy me away from Bernard? Wealth——”

Lilia stopped short here ; she was but a woman, with
all womanly hopes, and fears, and desires, and fancies.
and at that moment she did think of the brown-stone
palace where the Deweys resided, and their fast horses,
and swift going yacht, and recherche «little picture-
gallery with a momentary pang. Lilia would have
liked very much to be rich, but Lilia valued one thing
more than wealth, and that was Bernard Wyman’s fond,
faithful heart.

It was but for a moment that she hesitated, and then
she put watch, bracelet, vinaigrette, and sparkling ring
all in one little box, and, wrapping paper tightly around
it, inscribed Horace Dewey’s hame upon its top.

“If I send everything back without a word, he cannot
misinterpret my meaning, she thought. And then she
sat down and wrote a little letter to Bernard Wyman,
entreating him to come to her.

= * = * * * * *

«Well, my own dearest? Why, what ails you ?”
she was looking very grave in the twilight.

He took her to his heart, and she told him the whole
story of the temptation that had assailed her, and its de-
feat

“Why did you not say yes, Lilia?” he asked. ‘Horace
Dewey is very rich, and you would have been the most
envied bride of the season.”

She looked reproachfully into his face.

«Because I loved you. Bernard !”

“And why did you tell me this ?”

‘I thought it was my duty never to have any secrets
from you, Bernard.”

. ‘My little white dove! Then, of course, it becomes
my duty to have none from you, as well. Listen, while
I impart one to you, dearest. I am no longer a teacher
in a public school, but a partner in the mercantile house
of my uncle, who has just returned from China with an

For

 

 

 

independent fortune, which he says is to be mine at his
decease. So you see you are destined to become a rich
lady after all, Lilia.”

“But why did you not tell me before, Bernard ?”

“My uncle prevented me. He saw that Horace Dewey
was laying siege to your heart, and he wished to prove
your faith and constancy. J knew the little heart was
mine, and mine alone, but to please him I kept silence.
And now, shall I exchange the plain gold ring fora dia-
mond solitaire ?”

“! oe: said Lilia, softly; ‘‘llike the plain gold ring
est.’

And Uncle Joseph had to acknowledge that his new
niece was ‘‘an exception to the sex in general.”

THE ARABIAN LANGUAGE.

BY BILL NYE.

The Arabian language belongs to what is called the
Semitic or Shemitic family of languages, and, when
written, presents the appearance of a general riot
among the tadpoles and wrigglers of the United States.

The Arabian letter ‘“‘jeem” or ‘‘jim”, which corresponds
with our J, resembles some of the spectacular wonders
seen by the delirium tremens expert. I do not know
whether that is the reason the letter is call. jeem or jim
or not.

The letter “sheen” or “shin”, which is some like our
“sh” in its effect, is a very pretty letter, and enough of
them would make very attractive trimming for panta-
lets or other clothing. The entire Arabic alphabet, I
think, would* work up first rate into trimming for
aprons, skirts, and so forth.

Still it is not so rich in variety as the Chinese language.
A Chinaman who desires to publish a paper in order to
fil a long felt want, must have a small fortune in order
to buy himself an alphabet. In this country we geta
press, and then, if we have any money left, we lay it out
in type; but in China the editor buys himself an alpha-

bet and then regards the press as a mere annex. If you
go to a Chinese type maker and ask him to show you his
goods, he will ask you whether you want a twoora
three story alphabet.

The Chinese compositor spends most of his time
riding up and down the elevator, seeking for letters and
dusting them off with a feather duster. In large and
wealthy offices the compositor sits at his case with the
copy before him, and has five or six boys running from
one floor to another, bringing him the letters of this
wild and pecular alphabet.

Sometimes they have to stop in the middle of a long
editorial and send down to Hong Kong and have a letter
cast specially for that editorial.

Chinese compositors soon die from heart disease be-
cause they have to run up Stairs and down so much in
order to get the different letters needed.

One large publisher tried to have his case arranged in
a high building without floors, so that the compositor
could reach each type by means of a long pole, but
one day there was a slight earthquake shock that spilled
the entire alphabet out of the case, all over the floor, and
although that was ninety-Sseven years ago last April,
there are still two bushels of pi on the floor of that office.
The paper employs: rat. printers, and as they have been
engaged in assorting,and distributing this mass of pi, it
is called rat pi in China, and the term is quite popular.

When the editor underscores a word, the Chinese com-
positor charges $9 extra for italicizing it. This is noth-
ing more than fair, for he may have to go ali over the
empire, and climb twenty-seven flights of stairs to find
the necessary italics.» So it is much more economical in
China to use body type mostly in setting up a paper,
and the old journalist will avoid caps and italics, unless
he is very wealthy.

Arabian literature is very rich, and more especially so
in verse. How the Arabian poets succeeded so well in
writing their verse in their own language, I can hardl
understand. I find it very difficult to write poetry whic
will be greedily Baappee up and paid for, even when
written in the English language, but if I had to paw
around for an hour to get a button-hook for the end of
the fourth line, so that it would rhyme with the button-
hook in the second line of the same verse, I believe it
would drive me mad.

The Arabian writer is very successful in a tale of fic-
tion. He loves to take a tale and rewrite it for the press
by carefully expunging the facts. It is in lyric and ro-
mantic writing that he seems to excel.

The Arabian Nights is the most popular work that has
survived the harsh touch of time. Its age is not fully
known, and as the author has been dead several hun-
dred years, I feel safe in saying that a number of the in-
cidents contained in this book are grosely inaccurate.

it has been translated several times with more or less
suecess by various writers, and some of the statements
contained in the book are well worthy of the advanced
civilization, and wild word painting incident to a heated
Presidential campaign.

Pleasant Paragraphs.

(Most of our readers are peeaneeny. capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of
NEw YorK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for

ublication anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-

erest for ears perusal. It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are
pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be
rem E

A Home Run.
«What is the similarity,
Miss Ethel,” asked the beau,
“Between a game of ball and me?”
Yawned Ethel, ‘‘I don’t know.”

‘Why, it’s a match, of course,” grinned he,
With idiotic bliss,

«In which a miss is caught, you see,
Because I court a miss.”>

‘How smart!” said Ethel, who announced
She had a riddle, too;

«The ball you play with must be bounced,
Why like the ball are you?”

He eyed the clock. ‘‘Because,” sighed he,
«Because I’m always round!”
“Oh, always, 1 suppose,” said she ;
«For runs you are renowned.”

“Indeed I am, and home runs, too—
Why all the boys allow——”
“Oh, I'm so glad!” she smiled; ‘‘for you
Can make a home run now.”
H. C. DODGE.
A Musical Animal.

Having heard for the first time the rather old pun
about the dog being the most musical of animals ‘‘be-
cause he wears a brass band around his neck,” Smithers
determined tospring it on the first party of friends he
gotinto. An opportunity soon came, and he electrified
his victims with the exclamation :

“Boys, I’ve got a good one. Why isadogthe most
musical of animals ?”

The crowd gave it up.

“Because,” exclaimed Smithers, confidently and tri-
umphantly, sure of having a good one, “‘because he
wears a. brass collar round his neck.”

The joke fell with a dull thud.

Total Depravity.

“You don't mean to say you believe in that antedi-
luvian dogma of total depravity, do you ?” asked Spook
of his friend Babster.

«‘Well, Spook, I never believed in it at all until last
December. Since then | have been a firm believer.”

x «Why, what could have changed your views so sud-
enly ?”

«Why, you know it was last December I first became
acquainted with you.”

Angels’ Visits.

“Why are we like angels’ visits ?” said a pretty girl on
a sofa to her bashful lover, who was sitting lonesomely
on a chair at the other side of the room.

“Really,” he stammered and blushed, ‘‘I must give it
up. Why are we?”

“Because,” she replied, significantly, “we are few and
far between.”

He destroyed the similarity almost instantly.

He Had Been Tried.

A Galveston gentleman applied to a friend for infor-
mation in regard to a certain man whom he wished to
employ on his ranch.

«Ts he honest and reliable ?”

“| should say so. He is tried and trusty. He has been
tried four times for stealing horses, and he got clear
every time,” was the reply.

Not Entirely Unincumbered.
Friend X.—“‘I hear you are going to marry Miss Smith,
the heiress, Gus ?”
Gus—‘‘Yes, next week. She's a dear girl.”
«“Friend—‘‘I congratulate you, old boy. Fine property,
eh? Any incumbrances ?”
Gus—‘‘Er—none but Miss Smith.”

He Knew What He Was About,

“My little boy,” said a gentleman, ‘‘you ought not to
eat those green apples. They are not good for little
boys.”

“They hain’t, eh?” the boy replied, with his mouth full.
«Guess you don’t know much about ’em, mister. Three
of these apples ‘ll keep me out of school for a week.”

Where He Couldn’t Meet Any One.
‘When I owe a man anything,” remarked Short, ‘I
hate to meet him until he is paid.”
“So!” replied Fogg. ‘Well, I don’t know what you
are going todo unless you take up your residence on
some uninhabited island, out of the path of the world’s

commerce.”
He Did Write Poetry.
Phrenologist—‘‘Your bump of imagination is abnor-
mally large, sir. You should write poetry.”
Citizen—‘‘I do write poetry. Only yesterday I took a
poem to an editor, and that bump you are feeling is
where he hit me. Don’t bear on so hard.”

Wild-Cat Insurance.

Wife—‘‘Here is an article, John, in this newer
which pitches into wild-cat insurance companies. Now,
John, what is wild-cat insurance ?”’ :

Husband—‘Well, Jane, to make it plain, if I should

ouch ! murder! let go of my hair!”

Why the Doctor Carried that Gun.

“Ma,” said a Stockton youth to his mother last Tues-
day, as they stood on Hunter street and saw the Pio-
neers’ parade, ‘“‘why does Doctor Reid carry that gun
when he’s riding the mule 2”

“To distinguish him from the mule, Johnny.”

Humorous Brevities.

Mother (who with her little boy is dining ata friend's):
“Johnnie, Iam ashamed ot you. You never behave so
badly at home.” Johnnie: “I know it, ma. But when
I ca, a chance at a good dinner like this I’m apt to get
exc Le

When a man with two heavy satchels is running to.
catch a street-car, and a small boy turns the corner just
in time to get all tangled up with his legs, it is not per-
haps the most fitting moment to shove a tract into his
pocket, addressed ‘‘To the Profane Man,” but it is very
aee o strike the market for which it was manufac-

ured.

“If I were you and you were I,” she sang vigorously
at the piano, and turning to him, said: ‘““What would
you do?” “Wea, love,” he answered, ‘judging from
your disposition and the color of your hair, I’d say you
would take a club and knock me off that piano-stool if-I
didn’t stop singing.”
The piano sounds the knell of parting day ;
Next door the singing pupil shrieks high C;
The cornet practices across the way,
And gives the night to anguish and to me.

“Is anybody waiting on you?” said a polite salesman
toa young ludy from the country. “Yes, sir,” replied
the blushing damsel. ‘‘That’s my young man outside;
he wouldn’t come into the store.”

At a college examination a professor asked : ‘“Does the
question embarrass you?” ‘Not at all, sir,” replied the
student—‘‘not at all. Itis quite clear. It is the answer
that bothers me.”

Gay old gentleman to boy, on twelfth birthday—‘I
hope you will improve in wisdom, knowledge, and vir-
tue.” Boy, politely returning compliment, totally un-
conscious of sarcasm—‘‘The same to you, sir!”

“Smith, did you see my wife go down this street?”
“Yes, she passed about an hour ago. ” «Wonder what
my chances are for overtaking her?” ‘Good. The side- —
walk is just lined with show windows.” ‘

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
 SaLTy.

Habits are just so mutch karakter; the man who haz
no partikular habits haz no partikular karakter.

A well-bred man, even if he says nothing, haz a cer-
tain atmosphere about him that yu kant mistake.

The vulgarity ov life iz the most odious part ov it.

Itiza —S fact that the religion and civilizashun
ov oe world haz thus far been achieved bi fire and the
sword.

Necessity makes its own laws and executes them, haz
no master, makes no apologys, and asks no questions.

Chastity, like a broken vase, may be mended, but all-
ways shows whare the flaw waz.

Genius iz allways sober, and often sad.

Kindness iz the queen ov all virtews.

Labor iz the gratest blessing Heaven haz bestowed
upon man; without it there would be no thrift, no
energy, no happiness in the wo} Id.

Aman kan be haff a phooland all an idiot, but he
kan’t be haff an infidel. B

All genuine charitys are duplicated in heaven, and
when the great box iz opened we shall be suprized to
see the pennys outnumber the rest,

There iz nothing so rare az true friendship, because
there iz nothing so skarce and self-sacrificing.

i If we —_ see ve cahon be _ the most suck-
essful men hay barely eskaped, their successes would
look dredphul tame to us and them, too.
at will do to divide mankind in this way: thoze who
hay too much powder for their ne“ and thoze who hay
ie, — lead for their powder—it iz the average that

The tounge iz a bizzy member; one oily tounge will
wear Out two sets ov brains.

An immitation, if it kan sho the weakness ov an
originality, iz the originality itself.

Faith iz the beleaving in things that kan’t be proved
otherwize ; two-thirds ov all we know we hav leorsed
by faith.

All prudes were once coquets, and would be again, if
they only had sufficient capital to begin business with.

Mi friend, don’t fail to do a good turn whenever yu
kaye the chance to do a good turn don’t happen every

ay. ;

If thare iz sutch a thing az fixed
ov the righteous are a mockery, and even omniscience
and omnipotence hav exausted their power.

There iz no posative strength in an excentricity, but
there iz often a posative weakness.

—_————_>-0<+—______
A SALTY REVENGE.

haith, the prayers

A Lansingburg druggist received an order for a half-
gallon of fine port wine foraninyalid. He chanced to be
out of the special quality wanted, so he stepped into a

neighboring grocer’s and asked the clerk to put him up
a half-gallon of the best port wine. The order was filled
and the demijohn sent to the invalid. A half-hour later

the druggist was met by an indignant messenger from

the inyalid, who, placing the liquor on the counter, de-
manded ; ;

‘‘What. kind of stuff is that for a sick person ?”

The confused druggist hastily investigated, and found
that the grocer’s clerk had put up, instead of port wine,
pork brine. ,

>o~«

Items of Interest,

Eyesight among civilized people is by no means so
strong as among savages. An American in Zululand, by the
assistance of a powerful glass, made out two distinct objects
on the horizon, which he guessed to be a mounted man with
a walking companion. The Zulus with him were able at
once to inform him who the man was, and that he was ac-
companied by his wife on foot.

A Benedick in Chambersburg, Pa., while being mar-
ried, held a cigar in his right hand.» When the clergyman
told the couple to join hands, the young man was so embar-
rassed that the possession of the cigar bothered him. At last
a happy thought seemed to strike him, and he put the cigar
in his mouth!

Pennies were so scarce in Mount Joy, Lancaster coun-
ty, Pa., the other day, that business was languishing to some
extent. The stores, banks, and post-office lacked nickels. An
organ-grinder was found who gladdened the heart of the
business community by exchanging 1,300 pennies for bank
notes.

‘It is proposed in Spain to start a fieet of ships, repre-
senting all maritime nations, from the little port of Palos, in
Spain, on .Aug. 3, 1892, the four-hundredth anniversary of the
sailing of Columbus, and to have the fleet sail to San Salva-
dor over the route taken by the great discoverer.

A tricky beggar in London made quite a large income
by carrying around with him a tongue in a bottle of alcohol,
which a label on the bottle stated to be his own tongue, lost
by a surgical operation. An examination showed it to bea
sheep’s tongue.

This is the way in which a Nebraska paper announces
a local wedding: “In Omaha the other day Mr. Isaac New
married Miss Rachel Newman. Rachel dropped the man
from her name and took him to her bosom.”

The following note from a girl's father is attached to
the marriage license record in the County Clerk’s office at
Indianola, Iowa: ‘“‘“Mr. —— has permission to go ahead—the
girl is not of age, but we have caved.”

In 1855 the population of Nantucket, Mass., was 8,064;
now it is only 3,143. There are 150 towns in Massachusetts
which have lost in population during the last five years. The
principal cities show large gains.

Mrs. Barbara Bitter. of Floyd county, Iowa, has just
celebrated her one-hundredth birthday. She is the mother
of nine children, eight of whom are alive, the oldest 80 and
the youngest 50 years of age.

An Iowa court has decided that the hotel keeper who
receives guests while aware that there is a contagious dis-
ease in the house, is liable for damages to the guest who may

| contract the malady. ote

Mushroom hunting is the favorite diversion of King
Humbert of Italy. This amusement has one great point of
superiority over fox hunting. A mushroom can’t run.

The seventieth anniversary of their wedding was cel-
ebrated on the 5th instant, by Mr. and Mrs. Aaron F. Ran-
dall, of Monroe, Wis. They were married in 1815.

It is said that the hatching of shad’s eggs may be has-
tened from ten to fifteen hours by placing the eggs in bright,
shallow pans, under the direct rays of the sun.

A man in Orlando, Florida, has a parrot which has
been in his family 92 years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

get your mother's life insured, that would be wild-cat—