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LE SUNSHINE,”

 

 

 

 

Vol. | Al,

Office 31 Rose St.

 

 

CREEP CLOSE TO MY WARM BOSOM,
DARLING.

 

BY FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

Creep close to my warm bosom, darling,
And put up your lips for a kiss,

And tell me what joy in existence
Can equal a moment like this ?

I know that Time flies while I clasp thee,
But on let his chariot roll—

While near thee he loses his power,
Thou life-giving light of my soul!

Creep close to my warm bosom, darling,
I envy no king on his throne,
While thus in sweet rapture I hold thee,
My dear one! my treasure! my own!
Oh, what would the world be without thee ?
Who else could my lone heart delight ?
How ’twould darken my life should I lose thee!
Thou day-star that rose on my night!

Creep close to my warm bosom, darling,
And tell me thy hopes and thy fears;

And shouldst thou feel sorrow while talking,
Ill soon kiss away thy bright tears.

Come, tell me again that you love me—
That nothing shall tear us apart—

While I banish thy fears with my kisses—
Thou radiant queen of my heart!

->eo~<

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

WIFE AN
The Bride “the Alps.

By LUCY RANDALL COMFORT,

 

 

 

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

 

 

Author of “Twice an Heiress.” “*The Widowed
Bride,” etc. |
|
{“Wife and Widow” was commenced LAST WEEK. ]
CHA aa IV. :
“I WARNE Fu.” |

The pleasant afternoon sunshine came streaming in |

through the vine-leaves that draped the latticed case-
ment of Edmund Athelhurst’s room in the little moun-
tain inn, and the young man, leaning back in his chair,
with his feet poised on the opposite table, smoked his
cigar in a sort of dreamy maze, and as he smoked he

watched Cerita Elmsley pacing up and down a sort of |

inclosed court beyond, studying her new part with an
earnestness as intent as it was graceful.
“She doesn’t know I'm watching her,” he pondered,

“or she would merge that sweet, natural abandon in |

some of her stage-acting attitudes and grimaces.
beautiful she is!

How |
Dark, brilliant, glittering, like a July |
dusk ; and yet it isn’t a style of beauty that I admire. |

Halloa, old fellow!” as Leonard Stuart lounged into the |

room. ‘I was just feasting my eyes on your inamorata.

Look at her—soft; don’t disturb the spell! Isn’t she
like a picture ?”

Leonard Stuart’s eyes lighted up; his cheeks deep-
ened in their color.

«She is the most beautiful creature that the sun ever
shone on!” he exclaimed, enthusiastically.

Athelhurst. flung his cigar away with a movement of
irrepressible annoyance. ‘

“Hang it, man!” he exclaimed, sharply, ‘I believe you
are really in love with her!”

“And suppose Iam, what then ?”

““eWhy, then—pardon me for speaking the truth ?”

“Say on.”

“Then you are the greatest fool between here and the
Apennines !”

Captain Stuart sat down and leaned his elbows on the
little pine table that separated them.

“Pray explain yourself,” said he.

Athelhurst shrugged his shoulders.

‘The mere fact that it requires explanation proves
you to be hopelessly far gone,” said he.

“Is she not beautiful ?”

“Granted; and graceful and very bewitching,” Athel-
hurst answered.

“Then what is to prevent me from admiring her if 1
please ?”

“Nothing at all, as long as youconfine yourself to
that alone. But——”

Stuart broke into a hard embarrassed sort of laugh.

‘Your good advice comes too late, said he. “I may
as well confess frankly. I love her already.”

Athelhurst rose to his feet, a sudden shadow of ap-
prehension darkening his brow.

‘Stuart you—you don’t mean to marry that common
singing, dancing girl! You, the descendant of a long
line of ancestors, you, the stainless English gentleman,
than which title a duke’s is not nobler, you, a Stuart, of
Russetlands.”

The confession of his marriage was trembling on
Leonard Stuart’s lips, the words already hung on his
tongue, when Athelhurst’s utterance drew them back
again. A gentleman, an officer, Captain Stuart yet
lacked-tha meral courage to say, Calmly :

“T am married to the ‘common, dancing, singing girl’
of whom you speak. We are husband.and wife. Make
the best or the worst of it.”

“You are making a crime out of a very common
affair,” he said, sullenly. ‘I suppose I should not be
the first who has married out of his sphere, if I do mar-
ry her,” speaking the last words hoarsely, and with a
sort of effort.

“Look atthe common sense of the thing, old fellow,” |

said Athelhurst, laying his hand on the other’s shollder,
with the conciliatory movement one might use toward a
refractory child. ‘‘The girl may be pretty enough, I’m
willing to concede that, but reflect who and what she is.
A coarse, bold-browed creature, who exhibits her few
accomplishments nightly to every wanderer on these
hills, and helps draw strangers to her father’s second-
class?inn—a scheming, artful——”

«‘Athelhurst!” Captain Stuart motioned him to stop,
with a crimson expression of mingled rage, shame, and
pain in his face, but Athelhurst paused only for a
second.

«TI know it hurts, dear old boy,”
the conscientious dentist. I’ve got hold of the tooth and
out it must come. She is bold, and coarse, and com-
Mon—she is a schemer. Any one can read it in her
face! No, no, old fellow, go home and marry your
mother’s cook, if you please, or elope with the laundress,
but don’t beso mad as to intrust your future witha
Swiss-English actress like this! It would break your
mother’s heart ; it would blight the whole future of your
sister! Leo, old fellow, promise me that before you do
this thing, you will at least give me an upportunity to
reason a litte with you!”

‘I make no promises,” Leo Stuart answered hoarsely,
with his face still averted from the other’s searching
gaze.

“Let us go away from here,” cried out Athelhurst.
“Let us leave this accursed, beautiful place, at once.
Count Valdina and his party are at Vienna, Lady Sarah
Templeton and the Darcimonts are at Rome. Let us go
either in one direction or the other before this fatal weed
blossoms into full strength in your heart. This inn-
keeper’s daughter is a Circe—asiren. Avoid heras such.
Shake off the spell. Be a manamong men. Remember

said he, ‘‘but I’m like

‘A man must sheer off from the avalanche of fate
| when he {sees it crashing down upon him,” urged |

| Athelhursé.

|

| very night ?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

who you are, and whence you came.
ble about he7’; she’ll console herself fast enough with the
next comer! Come, shall I telegraph to Valdina that
we will join him at once ?”

But just as Athelhurst was beginning to hope that he
was making some impression on the malleable nature of
pa Stuart sprang to his feet with a muttered
oath.

‘Let me alone!” he cried out, angrily. “I have neither |

wished for your advice, nor solicited it! I want no man
to meddle in my affairs.”

‘Just as you please,” said Athelhurst, folding his arms

across his chest and leaning against the odd little |

wooden mantel. ‘Pray excuse me for taking the liberty
to suppose that you would listen to a friend’s disinter-
ested pleadings!”

“Don’t, Edmund!” cried out the other. ‘Hang it all,
man, don’t you see I am hardly myself ?”

‘JT showd hope so,” said Athelhurst, dryly.

“You're the best fellow in the world,” went on
Stuart, wringing his hand with a nervous energy that
made him wince; ‘and of course I know you mean it
all in the kindest part, but you don’t know just where
the sensitive spots are. But [ll take your advice into
consideration—I really will.”

«And you will pack your portmanteau for Vienna this |

“I can’t quite promise that. You see, I—l’m expect-
ing letters from my mother, and—and my plans are
all laid to remain here until the end of the month.”

“J wish you had never come here,” Athelhurst burst
out, gnawing indignantly at his mustache. ‘And
this black-eyed sorceress—this witch of the wilder-
ness—promise me you'll break off with her at once.”

‘“A man can’t be too abrupt,” hesitated Captain
Stuart, uneasily, staring out of the window at the spot
where Cerita was still pacing dreamily back and forth,
the book hanging unheeded down, the wind stirring
her heavy jet-black curls, while her eyes were fixed
on space.

How beautiful she was!—how radiantly, darkly |
beautiful! If she would only go in and vanish out of
sight, Athelhurst believed he could have prevailed on
his friend; but there she paced back and forth, back
and forth, as if some instinct told her that her fate
hung quivering in the scales at that moment.

“Come, old fellow, listen to reason.”
‘Upon my word, there’s no occasion for all this solici- |
pore said Stuart, with an uneasy attempt at a laugh.
«“And—”
He checked ‘himself abruptly, for Cerita, chancing to
turn her head at that moment with a sort of impression
that her father was calling her, met the troubled light
of Captain Stuart’s eyes. Her face brightened, and,
carelessly flinging down her book, she glided lightly
across the space which separated the two ranges of
verandas, and laid her hand lightly on the door. i
“May I come in?”
And, without waiting for an answer, she lifted the |
latch and entered, with glowing cheeks and eyes spark-
ling like diamonds.
To her surprise and infinite embarrassment, however,
she found herself face to face not only with her newly

 

married husband, but with his friend, Mr. Athelhurst, |
whose cold, searching gaze seemed to penetrate her |

very soul.

“T—J did not know,”
were alone. I——”

‘‘We are just going out,” said Captain Stuart, with
almost equal confusion. ‘Pray do not go—do not let
us interfere with your avocations.”

Cerita took her cue at once from his cold, quiet man-
ner, although her heart throbbed resentfully.

Murmuring something about sending the maid in to
arrange the disorder of the room, she turned and glided
out again.

‘“Thave been a fool!” she muttered to herself, wring-
ing her slender white hands and biting her full lower
lip until the red blood was ready to start. ‘When shall
I learn to deport myself as a cold, calm-hearted English
lady would? He was vexed, I know he was, and that
smiling friend of his—oh, I could murder myself for
rushing thus unguardedly into his presence!” And,
throwing herself on her bed, she burst into such a storm
ofsobs and tears that old Carlotta could only conclude

she faltered. “I thought you

 

“I DID NOT KNOW,” SHE FALTERED.

You needn’t trou- |

| how peculiarly 1 am situated.

 

 

\

i “i Lan

\\ LK Hil i a
WM y | i

 

that she and ‘‘the master” had had 4 more serious diffi-
culty than usual.

; Edmund Ethelhurst met his friend’s deprecating
| glance with an expression of cold contempt and arro-
| gance.

“She meant no harm,” said Stuart, weakly attempt-
ing to ward off his friend’s cr “She is only an
impulsive child.”

‘“Humph!” commented , “*Rather bad
taste to Say the least of it. ad naidea the intimacy
between you was of that unceremorious nature.”
| Stuart’s eyes flashed.

“Take care, Athelhurst. You are treading upon dan-

| gerous ground,” he cried out. “She#iay be unsophisti-

| cated, but she is good and pure aS an angel—and any
man who dares controvert that fact, must answer to me
for it.”

Athelhurst turned away, more vexed and annoyed

| than he cared to make visible just then.

“T see,” said he, “I see. Time and tongue are both
thrown away—but you will do me the justice, Leo, to re-
member, if ever trouble comes, thatI warned you.”

And he strode out into the calm, yellow sunshine, with
set teeth and knit brows.

  

 

CHAPTER V.
A NEW ARRIVAL.

‘‘Have I done wrong, Leo? Indeed, indeed, I did not
know that any one was with you.”

Cerita Elmsley, leaning from her latticed casement,
spoke earnestly and with flushed cheeks, as Captain
Stuart stood beneath, smoking his evening cigar, with
his head on a level with the window-ledge.

“You should not have come in so,” he said, almost
petulantly. ‘‘You ought to have more discretion, Rita.
What do you suppose Athelhurst thought ?”

“T hate him!” flashed out Cerita.

“That doesn’t extenuate the imprndence of your con-
duct.”

“But why should it be imprudenta, Why not own our
marriage at once?” persis Weica, With @ Woman’s
fatal impulsiveness.

His brow darkened.

«Because I have asked you to keep
|son. Is not that enough ?”

“Don’t be so cold and stern, Leo, dearest!” pleaded
the girl, with a pathetic quiver in her voice. ‘Don’t
look at me so!”

His face could not but soften.

“T did not mean to be stern, Rita,” he said.

secret for a sea-

“But you

; don’t know how these little things iret and try a man’s

temper.”

Cerita shrugged her shoulders.

“A woman’s temper, I suppose, is nothing.”

He laughed.

“Tt is enough, as I know tomycost. But seriously,
Cerita, it will not be to your interest unduly to. press
this matter.”

«You are not ashamed of me ?”

“Ashamed, my own darling? No!” And for the mo-
ment he really believed that he was not, Athelhurst to
the contrary, notwithstanding. ‘But you don’t know
I must be allowed to
choose my own time for revealing our marriage, and,
believe me, it Shall be as soon as practicable. And in
the meantime, you must be a dear, sensible girl, and
trust me implicitly.”

The angry crimson mounted to Cérita’s forehead.

“Ah, see!” she cried out. ‘You are putting me off
with the miserable pretext of expediency |”

‘“‘My love, you know better than that. You know that
I love you !” soothed Stuart.

“Then why do you not acknowledye me ?”

“T told you why, Cerita, before we were married. You
understood it fully at the time.”

Japtain Stuart’s voice avas beginning to assume a cer-
tain dogged sullenness of tone, which warned Cerita
that it was high time to desist from her importunities.
is perceive,’ she said, coldly, ‘‘that I have made a mis-
take.’

“Tt a possible that we both have, Cerita,” retorted
Stuart.

These, his last sentences, spoken abruptly and with-
out reflection, had somehow infused the gall of bitter-
ness into the two young hearts. Stuart felt that he was
distrusted, Cerita that she was somehow wronged.

ae Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1886, by Street & Smith,-in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O.
_ ae — ~ —— = — —— - — he — ae —  o
New York, Augest 28, 1886.

“Tt THOUGHT YOU WERE ALONE.”

 

 

 

  

 

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“A pity you had not thought of it before!” she cried |

out, passionately.

“The world is full of pities,” he replied, constrainedly
turning away.

But she leaned from the casement, and flung a fra-
grant, full-blossomed rose after him, a crimson messen-
ger of peace.

“Leo, dear Leo! do not leave me thus. Do not part
from me without at least one forgiving kiss. Have we
not both said more than we meant ?”

He came back to kiss her and speak a few caressing,
lightly uttered words, and to all external appearances
the reconciliation was complete. But

“The little rift within the lute”
was then never to be wholly reunited.
i “Cerita! Cerita! where are you chattering away your
time ?
Her father’s harsh voice broke rudely in upon the by

no means pleasant thread of the young girl’s medita- |

tions.

«Come, girl,” he cried, as she reluctantly presented
herself in the chintz-draped doorway ‘youre wanted
at once. Two ladies have come by the early lake boat.
Rooms are wanted at once.
know not what! Bestir yourself, Cerita! Call the
maids! Let Mathieu go for the doctor, for one of the
ladiesisill. Faith,” he addedin an undertone, as he
rubbed his hands, “it’s along. time since the Hunting
Horn had such a show of brave company at once !”

Forgetting, for the moment, her own troubles, Cerita
Elmsley hurried forward to welcome the unusual appa-
rition of lady guests at the isolated little inn.

“Pray, come in,” she said. ‘‘Rest yourselvesin any
room for the present. Your apartments shall be imme-
diately prepared.” And she glanced with instinctive
awe and admiration at the richly dressed strangers who
occupied the waiting-room.

The elder, attired entirely in black, might have been

fifty years of age—slender, with a sallow complexion,
large gray eyes, and rather prominent teeth; the
younger was scarcely eighteen, with superb dark eyes,
hair of as purplish black as Cerita’s own, and a com-

plexion whose bloom and freshness could belong only to |

an English girl. She wore a suit of waterproof cloth,
belted around her slender waist, and a straw hat with a
broad black ribbon around it, and a drooping black
plume.

“How beautiful she is,” thought Cerita, as the eyes of
the young English girl looked composedly into hers.
And in the same instant the consciousness dawned upon
her mind. ‘She looks alittle like me. But, oh, I am
not so lovely.”

She was taking the tea-tray from the hands of a clumsy
Swiss maid, with wooden sabots and a towering white
cap, as these reflections passed through her mind, ana
at the same moment, the elder lady untied her bonnet
and threw it aside.

“Jt is like a hundred pounds weight on my temples,”
cried she, impatiently, in tones which partook slightly of
the French accent, although the English phraseology
was unexceptionable. ‘‘Child,” to Cerita, “give me some
tea at once—and let it be stron. Does your medical at-
tendant live far away 2”

“Only a mile or two across the river,” Cerita answered
reassuringly. ‘Mathieu will soon bring him. Does
your head ache much ?”

The lady, whose name was inscribed in the little
hotel register as ‘‘Madame Therese D’ Audreville,” put
her hand to her head.

“It is as if a score of red hot wires Were piercing my
brain,” she said. ‘And my mind wanders. I know it
does. 1 fear I am going to be ill. No, it is of no
use your offering her the tea. She will take it only
from me. Petite,” to the girl, who still sat impassively
by, ‘‘here is your tea. Drink it!”

The young girl, smiling up into the other’s face, ac-
cepted the cup, and obediently swallowed its contents.
Cerita Elmsley gazed at her with a sudden comprehen-
sion dawning on her mind.

“Pardon the question,” she exclaimed, unable to re-
press her curiosity, ‘‘but—is she erazy ?”

“She is an idiot!” said Madame D’Audreville, shrug-
ging hershoulders. There is no use my trying to con-
ceal the fact—it is patent to all observers. But you need
not fear her,” as she observed Cerita involuntarily recoil.
“She is quite harmless, and as gentle asadove. As you

Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars,

Hot water—English tea—I |

No, 43.

 

 

you see her smile when I look at her.
an irrepressible shudder, ‘that smile breaks my heart.”
She went up to the beautiful girl and kissed her pas-
slonately, then turned away to brush off a tear.
‘Here is Marie to say that your rooms are ready,”

Ah, Petite,” with

said Cerita.
at once.”

And Madame D’Audreville and her fair, insensate
charge followed Marie and the young hostess into two
cheerful little apartments, low-ceiled, but with waxed
fioors, shining casements, and snow-white draperies of
coarse dimity. Whispering to Marie to stay and attend
to their orders, Cerita ran down stairs to send up the
trunks. She paused a moment, being no more exempt
from curiosity than the rest of her sex, to gaze at the
register.

“Madame Therese D’Audreville—Mademoiselle D’Au-
dreville,” were the names written in an angular hand,
while underneath were the words, “En route from
Vienna to Paris.”

When Cerita went up stairs, a few minutes afterward,
the elder lady lay on the bed, her disheveled gray locks
loosened in witch-like profusion, and her temples
drenched with lavender-water and eau de cologne.
While the beautiful idiot sat beside her, patting her
hand with slow, mechanical motion, although she spoke
never a word.

‘‘Has the doctor come?” exclaimed Madame D’Audre-
vile, ‘‘Is he never coming? Are they, then, as slow as
snails in this wilderness? Mon Dieu, I shall perish with
the agony of this pain.”

At the distress which the lady’s words indicated, a
troubled look came into the large dark eyes of the Eng-
lish girl.

“Petite.” Madame D’Audreville’s voice fell to a fiute-
like accent of softness. ‘‘But take her away, child,” to
Cerita. ‘‘How doI know what terrible shadow of dis-
ease may be impending over me? Go, Petite, with the
English girl.”

But the beautiful statue never stirred.

«The doctor will soon be here,” said Cerita, ‘‘can I as-
sist in unpacking your things? If you will let me have
your keys i

“They are in the traveling-bag or in my dress pocket
—or somewhere ; heavens, my brain is all on fire!” im-
patiently uttered the sick woman, “how can I remem-
ber a paltry-bunch of keys, when past, present, and fu-
ture are all intermingling in my thoughts? Yes, there
they are,” as Cerita took them from the table. ‘Unpack
atonce. Make my poor Petite comfortable. She is but
a child, remember. And come here, child.”

Cerita came obediently to her bedside. The stranger
looked vaguely at her with restless, glittering eyes.

“What was I about to say to you? Oh, J remember
now. Unlock the trunks and take out what you need,
but let no one meddle with my writing-desk. And if
anything happens to me; a brain fever, smail-pox—how
do I know what ?—be sure that Petite is well taken care
of. Ah, Isee that you are wondering we have no maia ;
I a lady born, and Petite something higher still. Well,
we dismissed her at Geneva—Lausanne—some of those
places. How can 1, remember names, now? We dis-
i Inissed Wer because phe was peening and prying all the

time. I will not bave my affairs spiet¥into. I will
not——”

“Hush!” Cerita Elmsley was no contemptible nurse,
and the touch of her light hand on the throbbing, burn-
ing temples carried magic with it. ‘Hush, madame.
You are exciting yourself unnecessarily.”

Madame D’Audreville drew a long, shuddering inspi-
ration.

‘Perhaps I am,” she said; ‘perhaps T am. Yes, you
are right. I should keep quiet until this loitering snail
of aamedical man comes. What time Is it ?”

‘A little past five.”

«Not so late as I thought.
piease.”

And she turned her face wearily toward the wall.

As Cerita rose to her feet, Shaking out the perfumed
folds of an embroidered muslin dress, Marie rapped at
the door.

‘‘Mademoiselle Cerita, the doctor is here,”

“Tf you please, I will conduct you to them

 

Go on unpacking, if you

‘ CHAPTER VI.
WHAT THE DOCTOR SAID.

A stout, br6Wh complexioned little man, with a shock
of black curly halt, & Roman nose, and a square chin,
| trotted into the room o€eupied by Madame Audreville.
He nodded carelessly to Cerita, whom he had often seen
before, and walked straight up to the bed. ‘‘Petite,” as
Madame D’Audreville called her, looked up at him, as
he advanced.

“You are not ill, my dear, it is plain to see,” he ob-
| served, cheerily. ‘Don’t fret, don’t fret. We shall have
your mamma well again in no time at all.”

But the young girl seemed neither to hear nor heed
him.

“Take her away,” he whispered to Cerita.
talk with my patient.”

“I don’t believe she will leave her mother,” said
Cerita, doubtingly.

“She must,” said the doctor, briefly. ‘‘Go, my child.”

Cerita took the young girl’s hand in hers, and to her
surprise Mademoiselle D’Audreville submitted herself
passively to her will, allowing herself to be led out into
the sunny balcony. Cerita spoke to her, but she did not
answer, although she evidently heard the spoken
words, for she looked full at her, and then the inn-
keeper’s daughter gave hera bunch of roses to play
with. Petite smiled at this, and occupied herself peace-

 

“T must

 

| fully in picking the perfumed petals from their stalks
| and watching them float over the balcony side like fiut-
| tering pink birds.
Presently Dr. Pineau came out with an abstracted
look, fitting on his yellow buckskin gloves as he walked.
| “Mademoiselle Cerita,” said he, in an undertone,
pointing with his finger to a little colonnaded summer-
house on the hill, a few rods from the main road, ‘‘what
is that for ?”
“Tt is of no use now,” said Cerita, wondering at his
strange adaress. “It was built when my father hoped
| for more custom, as the inn was small and we had but a
| few good-sized lodging-rooms. But people do not come
| here much, and it was used only during one season ag
an artist’s studio.”
| “How many rooms should you say it contained now ?”
| asked the doctor. ;
| «Three or four, I believe.”
| «Just what I need,” said Dr. Pineau, nodding his black
| shaggy head a great many times. “s:Tell your father to
| have it fitted up atonce. Light fireSsin.it to take out
the dampness, air it; and take in a bedstead, a table, a
few chairs—just what furniture is absolutely necessary.
And tell him to be quick about it, unless he wants the
Hunting Horn tobe deserted in short order. My pa-
tient must be removed thither at once.”

«Tg she so very ill ?” breathlessly demanded Cerita.

“She is in the-first stages of typhoid fever. She may
die—she may live. Heaven only knows. But it is neces-
sary that she should. be isolated as much as possible
from all others. There is the risk of infection, you
know. Stop, mademoiselle—I am not through. I have
studied you froma child. I know you have will, cour-
age, energy. This poor Madame D’Audreville needs a
nurse. Who shall it be ?”

“Myself.” said Cerita, promptly.
disease ; I do not fear it.”

“J know that,” said the doctor, ‘‘and for that very
reason I asked you the question. You are a good, brave
girl, and you will be well paid. Inthe meantime let
there be no possible delay. I will remain and see that
my patient is properly moved and comfortably estab-
lished in her new quarters. And, hark ye, Mademoiselle
Cerita, you need say nothing about the peculiar nature
of her disease. It might raise a panic among the
wooden-heads around; it might uselessly injure your
father’s business. All thatis necessary to say is that
the poor madame needs perfect quiet, and perfect
quiet can better be obtained in yonder little crow’s nest
than here.”

«I will observe your directions implicitly,” said Cerita,
rising.

The doctor nodded his head again.

“JT knew I could depend on you,” he said. ‘And re-
member three words, Mademoiselle Cerita—speed, speed,
speed !”

OOF: Pineau had no occasion to complain of any delay,
however. Gilbert Elmsley scented money in the im-
pending illness, and cared little how it was to be ob-
tained so long as it flowed, in a golden rivulet into his
own pocket. The little cottage was thrown wide open

“T have had the

 

to admit the dry wind, while wood fires were lighted

 

 

  

ar

 

 

 
 

«¥

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

i

 

 

—

upon the hearths, thus dispelling every lingering rem-
nant of chill or dampness. Gilbert Elmsley hurried back

and forth, aided by half a dozen of those nameless
hangers-on, who are always to be found around the
stables of a mountain inn, carrying furniture, rugs, bits
ot carpet, and every necessary article..

Cerita, meanwhile, was busy sorting out snowy sheets
and pillow cases from the fragrant depths of lavender
scented presses, repacking the trunks, and superintend-
ing their removal, while, at the same time she kept a
constant watch over the wants of the fretful invalid, an-
swered the doctor’s questions, and kept poor Petite sup-
plied with tresh roses to pull in pieces—an unfailing
source of amusement, apparently, to the idiot girl. It
was not that she was especially impelled by motives of
philanthropic kindness—Cerifa Elmsley was probably
the last person in the world to allow her head to give
way to her heart; it was not that she cared particulurly
Whether poor Madame D’Audreville lived or died. But
she knew that if she undertook to nurse the sick woman
through a dangerous and contagious illness, such as Dr.
Pineau prophesied, she must be paid liberally. And,
young as she was, Cerita had already begun to feel the
want of gold.

‘Tt I can earn money to enable me to appear as Leon-
ard Stuart’s wife should,” she said, to herself, with
fNushed cheeks, and kindling eyes, ‘‘my labor will not
have been in vain. If I can robe myself in silk, and
hang jewels in my ears and on my neck, as other more
fortunate girls do, I should be the more worthy to be
presented to his rich and haughty relatives as his wife.
He is ashamed cf me now. I know he is, let him deny
itas much as he will; but he shall not be when once I
have earned a little money of my own. . My father will
wart me to giveit to him, but I will not. Foronce lam
determined to assert my own rights.”

A little after sundown Madame D’Audreville found
herself comfortably established in light, cheerful
apartments, with their large windows looking on the
upward slope of the mountain, a crackling wood-fire
burning on the hearth, summer evening though it was,
and Petite sitting by her side. For no earthly considera-
tion would induce the poor girl to remain in the inn an
instant after the elder lady had leftit. Ordinarily gen-
tle and docile as a lamb, she became almost frantic
when the attempt was made to part them.

“Well, well,” said the doctor, ‘let her stay. There is
always some risk to be run in these cases, and we must
trust in Providence. We must take what precautions
we can, and perhaps no evil effects may result.”

‘‘Ah, poor Petite!” sighed Madame D’Audreville, ‘‘it
makes not so much difference now, my pearl. I have
stolen away thy brain already ; is life so desirable a gift
now? Ah, do not kiss my brow and fondle me so ten-
derly, my Petite.” she added, shrinking away trom the
girl's childish endearments. ‘I feel like the—what you
English Call the butcher, with his glittering knife at
the throat. of the innocent little white lamb who licks
his hand the while! Go away, Petite! you break my
heart a thousand times anew.

«Delirious !” whispered the doctor, nodding at Cerita,
who stood on the other side of the bed. ‘That follows,
as amatter of course. But you know you're not to
mind what she says. Coax her, humor her. If she asks
tor the sun, the moon, and the stars, tell her you will
send for them at once. If she wants to speak to Prince
Frederic. William of Prussia, step to the door and call
him. ‘That’s'the way, my dear—humor her.”

And so, with an added word or two of directions in
regard to the medicines he had prepared, Dr. Pineau
went his way, promising to repeat his visit early in the
morning, and Cerita Elmsley was left in charge of this
curiously assorted pair.

A Strange and trying responsibility to be thrown thus
suddenly on a girl of eighteen. Any one of a nervous
nature or acutely sensitive temperament could not have

 

endured it, but Cerita was neither one nor the other.
For all the tropic glow and impulsiveness of her outside
Manner the stream of her inner life ran cold and slow.
She was composed, deliberate,, methodical in every-
thing; and as she sat in the summer cottage, with
Petite’s dark eyes fixed vacantly upon her, and Madame
D’ Audreville muttering vague sentences in mingled
French and English, her pulses throbbed no whit the
faster than if she had been in her own little apartment
at the inn across the road.

AS the twilight faded out Cerita rose to light the can-
dles which were ready placed on the wooden. mantel.
As she passed the open window, a bit of folded paper
fluttered in witha pebble tied to it to give it weight,
and fell on the floor at her feet.

Madame D’ Audreville had fallen into a brief and rest-
less slumber, but Petite saw the little white messenger,
ey stretched out her hand forit. Cerita shook her

ead.

“No, Petite, no,” she said, and the gentle creature pas-
Sively withdrew her hand, contenting herself with the
tassel of the light colored cashmere wrapper that Cerita

. had dressed her in.

“It is from Leo,” said Cerita to herself, asshe lighted a
candie and unfolded the billet. It was “short,” if not
exactly ‘‘sweet” in its senor.

“Why have you done this without consulting me?” it
read. ‘You seem to forget that you no longer belong to
yourself alone. [ must see you this evening without fail.
I shall be at the Riven Rock at nine precisely. Meet me
there, and we can discuss the future.

‘Yours, with unalterable devotion,

LEONARD STUART.”

Cerita read the brief missive twice over, a smile dim-
pling her lips \at the last perusal.
the paper ang)tossed it into the fire/ '

“He must Wait.” she said to herself. «He wanted me
to wait. I was not willing, then, but I am now. Cir-
cumstances seem to be oddly shifting around. A little
delay may do you good, Captain Leo Stuart.”

And while Leo was pacing impatiently up and down at

Then she twisted up |

 

 

 

the Riven Rock, wondering why his newly wedded wife |
did not join him, Cerita sat by the waning fire, listen-
ing to the tick of Madame D’Audreville’s old-fashioned
gold watch at the bed-head, and watching the yellow
glimmer of the stars above the pine-thickets that fringed |
the mountain side.
[TO BE@CONTINUED.]
—— > @~<—_____

STRANGE FACTS.

 

Gold-beaters, by hammering, can reduce gold leaves
so thin that 282,000 must be laid upon each other to pro-
duce the thickness of an inch.

Platinum and silver can be drawn into wire much
finer than human hair.

A grain of musk will scent a room for twenty years,
and will at the end of that period have lost little of its
weight.

The thread of the silk-worm is so small that many of
them are twisted together to form our finest sewing-

 

 

thread; but that of the spider is smaller still, for two
drams of it by weight would reach from New York
city to Buffalo, a distance of 424 miles.

In the milt of a cod-fish, or in water in which vegeta-
bles have been infused,. the microscope discovers ani-
malcules, of which many thousands together do not
equal in bulk agrain of sand: and yet nature, with a
singular prodigality, has supplied many of these with
organs as complex as those of the whale or the elephant,
and their bodies consist of the same substance, or ulti-
mate atoms, as that of man himself. Ina single pound
of such matter there are more living creatures than of
human beings on the face of this globe. \ ;
has the microscope opened to the admiration of the phi- |
losophic inquirer ? |

Water, mercury, sulphur, or in general any substance |
when sufficiently heated. rises and ultimately dlsap- |
pears as invisible vapor or gas. Great heat, therefore,

|
|

would cause the whole of the material universe to dis-
appear, and the most solid bodies to become as invisible
and impalpable as the air we breathe. Few have con-
templated an annihilation of the world more complete

|
than this.

>-e—~<
AN UNNEEDED COFFIN.

St. Paul, Minn., isa great place for invalids. Many
people who go there with a faint hope that the bracing
air may prolong their lives, recover their health and
strength, and seem to have taken a new lease Of life.

The story is told of a consumptive who, in 1864, was
stopping at the International Hotel, at the corner of
Seventh and Jackson streets.

There were a good many invalids at the hotel, all up
for their health. The invalid to whom this story refers
was a little fellow from New York named Weed. His
wife, a beautiful woman, was with him. He came out,
as his friends supposed, to die, but he didn’t think so.
He was carried up to the hotel, and soon after his arri-
val began to improve in every way.

His first walk out of the hotel was to an undertaker’s
shop, where he ordered a casket, saying he might need
it, and it would be handy to have in the family. He not
only ordered it, but had his measure taken for it, and
paid for it. :

The next fall Weed went down to Florida greatly im-
proved in health. ' He never called for his coffin, so it is
supposed he had no occasion to use it.

ee ee oe

SINGULAR ACCIDENT IN A LOGGING} CAMP.

 

A singular accident happened recently to a sawyer
named George Flynn, in a logging camp on the Snoho-
mish River, Wyoming. Flynn was engaged in sawing
near a fellow-workman, who was using asteel wedge
and asledge, splitting timbers. As the sledge struck
the wedge a blow a small piece of steel flew off, and fly-
ingin Flynn’s direction, hit him in the throat, cutting an
ugly gash through his windpipe and lodging in the bron-
chial tube. ;

The effect was, that for a short time, Flynn could not
breathe on account of the obstruction. He was seized
with a violent fit of coughing almost immediately, how-
ever, during. which the steel was thrown out, and the
injured man quickly regained his breath.

On examining the wound it was found that in breath-
ing, the air, instead of coming in Flynn’s mouth, en-
tered the aperture made by the steel.

ae

Ig

What a scene |

 

HOPE FOR BETTER DAYS AGAIN,

 

BY T.

 

Though to-day be gloomy seeming,
And obscured the sun’s bright ray,
Soon his luster will be beaming,
All the clouds will pass away.

So, however sad your lot be,
Pressing hard on heart and brain,
You may yet a brighter change see—

Hope for better days again.

Sit not down the whole day grieving ;
Life is worth a struggle still;

Never cease to be believing; —
Much we can do, if we will.

So, however sad your lot be,
Pressing hard on heart and brain,
You may yet a brighter change see—

Hope tor better days again.

*

 

——r0~

MY UNCLE, THE BANDIT.

Translated fromthe French of H, Maxance:

 

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE,

i,

My uncle, I must tell the reader at the outset, was an
honest and plain citizen, with simple manners and pleas-
ant disposition. A bachelor and enjoying an indepen-
dent fortune, he had no ambition and valued nothing so
much as a regular and quiet life. He could not under-
stand what hallucination led nations to war with each
other, and with what object princes were constantly
striving to enlarge their domains. He would have cheer-
fully espoused the opinion of the excellent Abbe de St.
Pierre, who, to prevent European wars, desired a supreme
court intrusted with bringing about peace between em-
perors and kings. My uncle was a peace-loving man,
not at all adventurous, and his chimney-corner was ir-
resistibly attractive to him. He had never traveled
farther than from his little village to the county town,
and that was enough for his sedentary tastes. If the
discovery of a new world had been proposed to him, and
it required a journey of eighteen miles he would obsti-
nately have refused such an achievement. I will not
say then by what unforeseen circumstances, my worthy
uncle was led to Rome to visit his nephew, Cornelius, a
young painter of the French school, and a pensioner of

the Academy. He went, however, with extreme reluct-
ance constrained by imperious necessity.

At Rome Cornelius constituted himself my uncle’s
eager guide, and showed him the most remarkable of
the ancient monuments, which interested my respect-
able relative very little; for, as he afterward told us, he
found the ruins mueh less impressive than the Byzantine
belfry of his native place. However, it may be, after a
diplomacy which did the highest credit to Cornelius, one
fie evening my uncle allowed himself to be carried off
to Naples, rather in spite of himself, it is true, for on
leaving the City of the Czsars, the worthy man only

looked tor a little excursion in the environs; hence ~ |
in the |

was greatly astonished on waking, to find himse
capital of Calabria. “But it was done and he d
cept the fact. My uncle was resigned and C
caprice of his nephew. Ah! if he had then
the romantic adventures which awaited him!

 
 
  

 

i. a

Nothing was talked of at this time in the city of
Naples, but a bandit named Tiepolo, who, at the head of
a large band, pitilessly held to ransom those travelers
whom chance and the postilions condescended to send
him. The authorities by way of suppressing him, set a
price on his head, but nobody cared to go for it, and the
robberies went on with exasperating regularity.

My uncle’s: landlady, Signorita Teresita, nourished an
especial hatred against Tiepolo. She had nothing per-
sonal against him, but she detested him by way of pre-
caution, in view of the injury he might do her some day
or other, an unanswerable argument, as my uncle very
judiciously observed.

Teresita’s son, Beppo, was as much excited as his
mother with respect to the chief of the bandits, only he
asserted that he had been his victim. This Beppo was
a remarkable character, according to Cornelius—intelli-
gent, his bright eyes full of fire, his face delicate and
yet energetic, slenderly but firmly built, perfectly real-
ized the historical type of his countryman, Masan-
iello. He did not live in his mother’s house, and was
engaged in trading with the islands lying along the
coast.

My uncle and Cornelius soon suspected him of being
engaged exclusively in smuggling. His mysterious
ys, the rarity of his visits, which always occurred at

  
    

ightfall, the presents with which he mother,
Lome titties” crtamstances, "s te tat

wéight to these conjectures. : :

AS for Teresita, either she was ignorant of Beppo’s
business or else played her part like a consummate
actress, for she never ceased to praise her son. Accord-
ing to her, he was a model of honesty and virtue. She
did not love him, she adored him.

 

III.

Our travelers had been settled for a fortnight, and
had visited successively Porlici, Vesuvius, Herculaneum,
Solfatara, in a word all the curiosities of Naples and its
neighborhood, when Cornelius expressed a desire to go
to Caserta.

This desire once known my uncle had to agree to it. |
He ventured a few timid: objections, but Cornelius |

silenced him by informing him that in the environs of
Caserta were the remains of Capua, a city so celebrated
that my uncle could not afford not to see what remained
of it.

The trip was, therefore, decided on.

At this news Teresita uttered loud cries. To venture
into the mountains was, she said, to place themselves
at the disposal of 'Tiepolo, and the road to Caserta ran
directly through his dominions.
commit such an imprudence; she would never permit
it.
persuasive eloquence, but in vain.
sincerely agreed with her, but, from self-love, he would
not show himself afraid of an Italian bandit. The little
smile of disdain provoked by Teresita’s fears was full of
war-like promise. If Tiepolo appeared, he had better
look out for himself.

But, by way of precaution, my uncle saw fit to hire a
private carriage, and to leave Naples very early in the
morning, so as to arrive at Caserta before night. In this
way they would have nothing to fear from Tiepolo and
his band, who rarely ventured to make an attack in
broad daylight.

At the appropriate time a carriage came for the trav-
elers. This calesso, as the owner pompously styled it,

by its age and clumsiness called up the memory of an- |
My uncle |

other century. It was a box, not a carriage.
made this remark as he settled himself as well as he

could in a corner of the box, with Cornelius sitting op- |

posite. After which the driver shut down the cover and
short time.
The equipage staggered on, drawn by two restive

to exhibit their ill-temper.

These deplorable beasts were destined to be the cause
of my uncle’s trouble.
of the journey in trying to quiet them.
the soundest lectures, punctuated now and then bya

cut of the whip, which only increased the ugliness of |
| ly ceased speaking when the stranger replied, with the

So half the journey passed without any noteworthy |
incident, and Caserta was only nine miles off, when the |
| one of your wishes.
The road here descended in such sharp curves that |

the team.

rascally mules suddenly took the bits in their teeth.

every moment the carriage seemed about to smash on
the rocks and pitch over the precipice.

urged them on faster.
Finally, the best thing that could be, happened.

pieces.

The travelers came out of the wreck safe and sound; |

the driver received only a few bruises, and the mules, as

near the shattered turn-out.
hair as he looked on its ruined splendor.

My uncle, who did not lack a certain basis of phil-
osophy, addressed a few appropriate consolatory words

to him, and judiciously remarked that the time was not |
| far distant when he would have seen it crumbled into

dust, like the remains of fossil animals which scientists

discover in the bowels of the earth, and which the |

slightest touch reduces to powder.

My uncle left the driver little convinced of the cogency
of his reasonings, and prepared pluckily to go down on
foot to Caserta, which, as we have observed, was not far
trom the scene of the disgster.

Cornelius was not disturbed by the accident, which
permitted him to admire in detail the picturesque
beauties of the country, and evento note them in his
sketch-book. -

So tar everything was going on well.

of the country celebrated by Virgil in his ‘‘Georgics,”
and so tertile that in our days it bears the name of cam-
pagna felice (happy country). The sky was of a limpid
and transparent blue, and the sun, inclining by degrees
toward the sea, left behind ita long and dazzling trail
ot light. The distant horizon seemed a curtain of fire,
against which stood forth, distinctly defined, rustic vil-
lages, smiling fields, herds going home to their barns,
and, finally, Mount Vesuvius. :

It was a delicious and fairy-like prospect, which tran-
sported Cornelius with admiration.

So, in a burst of sacred enthusiasm, he began toclimb
the neighboring rocks that the majestic proportions of
the landscape might m even larger.

My uncle followed

 

not succeeding in reaching it. The poor man, teem-

| iluminate, it burns. Life, heat, signor—the

aa

wey THE NEW YORK W

ing with perspiration, cast disastrous looks on Cor-
nelius, who, notwithstanding his companion’s cries of
distress, kept getting further off the road to Caserta.

The two tourists only stopped onan elevated plane,
whence the eye embraced an admirable view, truly
worthy of a painter’s palette.

Once there, Cornelius prepared his brushes and colors,
opened his sketch-book, and began to draw quietly,
leaving my uncle plunged ir a melancholy reverie.

In fact, of all the views my uncle had only remarked
one thing, that he was in the midst of the mountains,
in a totally deserted place. Naturally the memory of
Tiepolo rose to his mind, and he mentally regretted not
having taken the advice of old Teresita. He imparted
his thements to Cofnelius, but the latter answered, with
a smile:

“What are you afraid of? ‘Tiepolo?
but to show himself and he will be welcome.
be a splendid figure for my foreground.”

“It it’s only that,” replied my uncle, simply, ‘I myself
might answer.” 4

“By Jove!” said Cornelius, “I Should like the adven-
ture. I might give the world a second edition of Sal-
vator Rosa’s scene.” >

He was just-se@§the to speak.
caused by some tallmg stones was heard. ny

At these words my uncle turned pale. I state it with
regret. His tright may be imagined when he saw ap-
pearing above the platform the muzzle of a blunderbuss,
soon followed by a stranger whose dress and aspect were
not calculated to inspire complete contidence.

“Oh!” muttered Cornelius; “has Chance granted my
wishes ?” ;

The new-comer wore the dress of the Calabrian moun-
taineers—short breeches, high gaiters, red sash, and
embroidered jacket. He was short, but his broad shoul-
ders and thick-set form indicated immense muscular
strength. A thick black beard hiding half his face con-
tributed not a liteteto give him that rude and savage
aspect which is the distinetive character of dwellers in
the mountains, and.s¢ems a’reflection of the nature that
surrounds them. My uncle anxiously watched all they
movements of the stranger. He saw him approach Cor-
nelius, look over his shvulder, and curiously examine the
sketch he was }

Really he has
He would

when a loud noise

   

“A fine prospect, nori,” he said, bowing to the two
travelers—‘‘a fine pr pect, but difficult to render.”

 
  
  

VGaae
ing to conéiliate nger's sympathies.

“Does my sketch’ k correctness ?” asked Cornelius,
turning to the unknown.

‘It is correct, but cold,” replied the stranger, care-
lessly. It has not tue warm and luminous sky of Italy.
Your sun seems timid and niggard of hisrays. Ours, on
the contrary, is audacious and prodigal. It does bh
are what

nmered my uncle, wish-

    
 

are wanting to your picture.” a

“Yes, that’s what. his picture wants,” said my uncle,
with an air of conviction which did more honor to his
diplomacy than to his connoisseurship, for the worthy
man, to do him justice, had not even glanced at the
work of Cornelius, but he wished to employ the eternal
method of pleasing which almost always succeeds—
flattery.

While Cornelius was discussing the reasons of his
critic, my uncle was indulging in a crowd of conjectures
as to his identity. Who could the strange man be who,
in the dress of the common Class, expressed himself like
S scheme and rendered his "thoughts in excellent
phrases. }

A bandit! My ung¢le feared so, lam compelled to con-
fess. The confounded blunderbuss suggested doubts,
but still, how admit of a bandit amusing himself in giv-
ing drawing lessons and indulging in esthetics some
bundreds of feet above the level of the sea. -

Such conduct on the part of a bravo strangely dis-

nor twenty without falling into the hands of a brigand.
Then the Neapolitan gendarme is only a fiction.”

‘He exists, signor cavalier,” suddenly said a voice in
myuncle’s ear. ‘“he armed police-officer exists, but he
is more afraid of Tiepolothan Tiepoloisofhim. You
wished to see me—here I am.”

My-.uncle and Cornelius turned; the same cry issued
from their lips—a cry of surprise and stupefaction. In
the bandit chief, Tiepolo, they had recognized Beppo,
Teresita’s son!

The surprise of the latter on seeing them was no less
great than their own. He turned pale, hesitated for a
few seconds, and then advancing, with a smile on his
lips, said : :

“Your exclamation shows that you have recognized
me, and notwithhtanding the trouble your presence here
causes me, I am none the less happy, sigiori, to receive
you. My mother’s guests can sleep quietly beneath my
roof—their persons and their property are sacred.”

An air of ineffable delight lit up my uncle’s face; the

xcellent man was delighted to see the unexpected turn
his adventure had taken.

“By Jove!” cried Cornelius; ‘‘I was a thousand leagues
from expecting such a meeting.” ‘

“Lite is full of contrasts.” said Tiepolo, ‘‘and man
should be prepared for everything.”

“So,” resumed my uncle, ‘‘we have nothing to fear ?”

‘Absolutely nothing, unless——”

“Unless ?” said my uncle.

“Unless,” continued Tiepolo, ‘‘you should desire to
divulge the secret of our interview.”

“Thereupon,” cried my uncle, ‘‘I will be as mute asa
spiked cannon.”

«You can rely on our words,” said Cornelius.

«Then everything is for the best,” said Tiepolo; ‘and,
if you will take my advice, we will finish our conversa-
tion at table. I was just going to sit down myself when
you came.”

It was too late to think of going to Caserta, so it was
agreed that we should not start until the next day.

 

VIL.

Matters being thus arranged, Tiepolo led his guests to
the next story.

A brilliantly lighted hall presented itself to my uncle’s
eyes, who went trom surprise to surprise, and was ready
to think himself the hero of one of the Arabian Nights
stories. A table, sumptuously served, was in the middle
of the room. Everything which comfort, elegance, and
wealth have created in the way of extreme delicacy and
value was profusely displayed—damask linen, a richly
chiseled service of silver, transparent goblets of Bohe-
mian glass, Dresden and Chinese porcelain—nothing |
Was wanting, Every country was represented by some
of its finest specimens. A magnificent chandelier of
gilded bronze projected the light of its numerous wax
candles on all these admirable articles, the merit of
which was increased by the warm and dazzling tints
which challenge and captivate illusion.

Cornelius admired as a connoisseur; my uncle was
transported.

They sat down at Tiepolo’s invitation, and Cornelius
found himself placed opposite his companion of the
mountain, one of the important persons of the ,

This man had received a finished education, but ex-
cesses of all kinds had led him, step by step, to make
war on that society which had spurned him, but notwith-
standing his fall and his present degradation, he had
preserved that air of distinction which never. abandons
a man of the world. ba

Here was the secret of that profound knowledge

 

    
 

 

turbed my uncle’s mains i Suddenly an idea flashed on
his brain and expa “i his face. From inductions to
inductions he had just reached the discovery that the
stranger_ was : shamois-hunter. He remem-
bered clearly mber of mountaineers live
by this lucrative F
greenness in not Tivimg sooner classed the unknown
with this interesting eategory.

Everything was explained in this Way, and the blun- |
derbuss played an inoffensive part.

In my uncle’s eyes, therefore, the stranger was simply
a hunter of the mountains who, like all Italians, pos-
sessed instinctive notions of the beautiful in art.

Fortified by this ingenious discovery, my uncle passed
from fear to the most absolute confidence.

~
1 ge, TM

Still night was co on, and they had to think of

getting to Caserta, u they wislred to run the risk of

sleeping out of doors. — :

Cornelius saw i if, but in the midst of the rocks
and brambles he ed to recognize the path they
ought to take to strike the highway.

My uncle was still less able to point out the road.

The unknown, fortunately, came graciously to their
assistance and offered to serve as guide. Living in the
environs of Caserta, g, he said, to take them
directly through the
half the journey. ;

Our two travelers:
ly, Cornelius with i
think of his new acque

  
   
   
  

 

ax

    
   
  
 
  

aes
\ted the offer—my uncle eager-
ty; for, not knowing what. to
ae he was not sorry to be-

i him.
So the three set forth, and my uncle, to please his
new companion, eyga@ed in a profound
( oe pkins on the —

   
     
  
  
 
 
 

 

   

10
gs

pursued their gamet
crests of the highes# mountains; to which the moun-

ry -gently, that this existence was
really admirable, but that he himself had never felt the
slightest inclinatiga forit. Lot’s wife, changed intoa
pillar of salt, must have felt less surprise than did my
uncle at this unexpected declaration. He was not a
chamois-hunter. What then? And from this point of
interrogation my uncle’s innocent soul was cast into a
sea of painful perplexity.

 

 

V.

Meanwhile, Cornelius and the stranger were speaking
eloquently of Italtém- painting and its great schools.
But Cornelius was astounded when he heard his interloc-
utor give a history of the most distinguished masters
of the Neapolitan and Florentine schools, and pro-
nounced a judgment on most of them which indicated a

 

The driver passed the first hour |
He gave them |

The poor driver |
vainly tried to hold the mules—his cries of distress only |

; painter
At!
one of the turns of the road the carriage was hurled |
against arock with such fury that it was dashed to}

The road skirted a hill, and displayed the perspective |

im unwillingly, trying to bring
himself up to his nephew’s pitch of romance, but

cultivated connoisseur. :
Extremely surprised, the young man was on the point

| Of asking him the secret of the contradiction he ob-
| served between the vulgarity of his dress and the eleva-
Her guests should not |
; deep gorge, which displayed on one of its slopes a great
In a word. the worthy matron employed all her |
Secretly my uncle |

tion of his ideas, when they came into a narrow and

number of lights, appearing and disappearing by turns.
At the same moment a human form appeared behind
the angle of a rock, “nd the blackened barrel of a car-
; ; on of my uncle, who reeled
0 the arm of Cornelius.
g stern Challenge which fol-
lowed this f > demonstration.

My uncle thought-Be had come to his last hour, but the
stranger made a mysterious gesture and the sinister ap-
parition vanished in the shade.

Cornelius turned t>-his strange companion, who, with
admirable coolness, resumed the conversation where it
had broken off, then observing that Cornelius mind was
wandering he said, with a smile:

«You are thinking of the King of the Mountain, are
you not ?”

“Of Tiepolo? Faith, signor, I do not deny it. Confess,
the place is well suited to it.”

«Yes, indeed,” said the Italian. ‘‘But tell me, are they

   
  
  
 
    
 

  

\ | still busy in Naples twisting the rope that is to hang this
climbed to the box, promising to reach Caserta in a/|

formidable character ?”
«J don’t think they're working at it; I’m sure they’re

) ; \ } | not,” said my uncle, in a loud tone.
mules, who from the moment of starting judged it proper |

“What makes you so sure ?” asked the stranger.

«The fear he inspires; and then, between ourselves,
he can’t be so black as public credulity makes him out.
Evil is always exaggerated.”

“Probably,” said Cornelius. “At any rate, I should like
to see the man who keeps a whole province in terror.”

Cornelius had his reasons for saying this. He had hard-

utmost politeness :

“Tam happy to serve you in something and to satisfy
I shall have the honor of. present-
ing you to our captain.”
My uncle stifled acry.
“Gentle
I have

    
  
      
 

» “you are my prisoners.
respect due to artists. A
“moments, I profess the
greatest esteem for my ren, and it is a pleasure
for me to meet 2 them in the mountains.”

Cornelius bowéd ; my uncle could hardly stand.

At one of the turns of the ravine an old castle appeared
before them. The bandit made a preconcerted signal,

l | a Small door creaked On its hinges, and all three entered
if they had expected the catastrophe, halted quietly |
The coachman tore his |

a spacious court-yard, at the bottom of which rose an im-
mense building.

Through the shattered windows came confused noises
and strange exclamations, the sound of glasses clinking
together, and songs, the guttural notes of which, at this
hour of the night, appeared unearthly.

“TI think,” said Cornelius to my uncle, “the time has
come for me to get my pencils ready.”

«And I my purse,” said my uncle, with an undisguised
shudder.

VI.

The two travelers were introduced into a large hall,
lighted by the doubtful rays of a lamp, and the amiable
| brigand who had accompanied them advised them to
| wait patiently fer the coming of Tiepolo.

When alone together, my uncle and Cornelius ex-
changed a look.

“We are in a nice situation,” said my uncle, striding
| about. ‘‘Why did I listen to this crazy Cornelius? With
| his mountains and sunset effects he has led me into a
| brigands’ cave. Weare at the mercy of men without
| faith or law, who, if they took a notion, wouid like me
| at their dessert between the pears and the cheese.
| And all this to see Capua and its delights—three walls
| with thorn-bushes and lizards. ‘But I say,” added my
|} uncle, interrupting .his soliloquy to apostrophize his
| nephew, ‘‘tell me that we are in no danger—what these
| bandits will take pity on us and be satisfied with rob-

ing us.”

| *“} not only tell you so, but I believe it,” said Cor-
| nelius, who was absorbed in the contemplation of a pic-
| ture which hung on the wall.

| “And they puff up Italy!” murmured my uncle, con-

| him the strangeness of the request.

 

EEKLY. 3

ot |

  

VOL. 41—No. 48.

 

calm as if their conscience was not loaded with
crimes.

; ‘They look as if they were braving us!” added another
voice.

My uncle braving a mob!

“Which is Tiepolo ?” asked one.

“The oldest,” replied another.

“J thought so, from his repulsive face,” said another.

“Yes, yes! Death to Tiepolo!”.cried a group of laz-
zaroni who followed the crowd.

“Ay, ay! death! death!” -howled the mob, whose
ranks by degrees infolded the prisoners and their escort
like the rings of a serpent. fe

My uncle felt as if he were ¢
frightfully pale; but the imminence of the peril re-
stored all his energy. He straightened himselti up and
addressed the chiet of the detachment, whe was beside

him. x

“Hear me, sir,” he said, with dignity. «I wish to
make a last protest to you. Our dress, our language,
and our papers indicate t we are foreign travelers.”

“7 know that dodge,” replied the chief of police.

“But, sir, you Must have a description of Tiepolo
which does not suit either of us.”

The Neapolitan, without answering, appeared em-
barrassed. y

“Finally,” said Cornelius, more forcibly, ‘I hold you
responsible for the strange way in which you have per-
formed your duty. Whatever h Pp pens, I give you my
word that the French amb: or will exact a dear
reckoning for the insult to which two of countrymen
have been subjected. We shall know within an hour
whether you have a right to expose the lives of two in--
nocent persons. Now you can do as you please. You
have had your warning.” ;

The decided and firm tone with which Cornelius ut-
tered these words shook the conviction of the chief of
police ; another thing also struck him—that the descrip-
tion of Tiepolo did not agree with that of either of the
prisoners, a circumstance which especially threw him
into the greatest perplexity. a

“However it may be, signor,” he said to-
“my duty ordered me to arrest you.
through my mission by placing you at_
the authorities ; they will judge as to the tru
assertions.” Then putting himself at. the head a
men, who advanced with difficnity, he called out
populace: “Make way there, my friends. Jus
longs to the king. Let the prisoners alone!” ~—

“Death, death !” the mob continued to vociferate.

They were in the center of the city, the shouts increas-
ing every moment. ; :
_ Suddenly a man of herculean frame, with the lungs of
Stentor, turned to the chief of police. and cried:

“The prisoners belong to the people. It is those who
have been the victims who should be the avengers.”

“Yes, yes,” Shouted the crowd, foreseeing a tragedy.
“Death to the bandits! No trial! Death!”

The dragoons could not advance. ‘The chief of police
sent for reinforcements, and in the meanwhile ordered
his soldiers to bring their horses close,together.. One of
the animals bolted, and a man of the people seized the
bridle, and thus made a passage-way through which the
oe be reached, < Paes

_ The crowd took the hint and rushed forward, but
were held in check by the sabers of the troopers,

This critical situation could not be greatly prolonged,

re tiles were raining on the prisoners
g beneath the hurried gallop of
Squad of dragoons came up at
noless than this vigordus dem.
the little band of the chief of po-

dying; Cornelius was

    
  
 
  
 
   
 

‘nelius,

   
 

  
    
  
   

 
  

painting which had so greatly puzzled Cornelius. B 14 J

Uhes aa may, while, the tee was ale Ores with ator ar fag crue
some pan ae a ae about oe our tWO | Oo serious y eC gs ing.
appetite Siimuaeats, wee nae Rot meen ee A quarter of an hour afterward my uncle
Wines of. Rug and oe lius were locked up in the city prison. They

wines of the first quality. Ste , Je

Atter the second course the conversation became gen-
eral; Cornelius talked with Tiepolo’s lieutenant, and my
uncle, with the beatitude of an epicurean enjoying a de-
licious supper, first congratulated the bandit chief on
the excellence of his table, and afterward mechanically
asked him what reasons had induced him to adopt so
dangerous and disreputable a profession.

Tiepolo frowned at this question. My uncle did not
perceive this, and notwithstanding the bandit’s silence,
returned obstinately to the charge.

“What matter ~ motives ?” Tiepolo finaly said. “In
your eyes they would not diminish the greatness of my
crime.

‘A sincere repentance effaces many faults,” replied
my uncle, without exactly reflecting what he was say-
ing.

“Repentance ?” cried Tiepolo. ‘‘A fine invention, truly.
Would it prevent my paying formy former deeds with
my head? No, signor, when one is, like me, on a fatal
slope, he must go on to the end. To turn back is impos-
sible. You may see the abyss before you, but you can-
not avoid it. Another glass of this old Marsala, signor.
Your health.” ; oak

«Here’s yours,” replied my uncle, emptying his glass,
and he had much trouble to make itstand on the table.

“Signor,” said Tiepolo, ‘1 am dar from being a wicked
man. My sentiments are good at bottom.” —

“Good sentiments are famous, sire,” said my uncle, |
who was beginning to be affected by ‘the fumes of the |
Marsala.

Yes; ) sentiments: but, besides these, signor,
there are terribie, inexplicable instincts which carry one
away like a torrent which has burst its dam and cannot
be controlled, 2 here is the por picks and weak side of
Severe i enc. of.us feels-ite infimence more
or less. ,

“Sound logic,” murmured my uncle.

‘Do you wish me to confess one thing ?” continued
Tiepolo.

“ff it isn’t too much-trouble,” said my uncle.

«‘Well,” said the other, *‘I believe in fatality.”

“T, too,” stuttered my uncle. “I believe in it—Cor-
nelius, too—we all do. One more drop of that delicious
liquid. You call it ?”

“Marsala.”

“1 go in for Marsala. It is sweet; it is harmless; it
is perfect—bottled bliss. Lut go on, my dear friend.
You'd got, if you recollect, as far as ‘I believe in
fatality.’”

“Yes,” said Tiepolo, without noticing my uncle’s ex-
treme difticulty in expressing himself; «I believe ina
mysterious law which guides our actions, sometimes
toward zood, sometimes toward evil. We are acting in-
struments, driven by this occult force toward an end |
which our intelligence is too feeble to discover. Is not |
that, in your opinion, the best definition of existence |
which can be given ?” |

“Yours is charming,” replied my uncle. ‘Yes, really |
charming.” |

Tiepolo smiled, perceiving for the first time that his |
guest was far from sober.

“Well,” said he, “if this life pleases you, why don’t |
you enlist in my band ?”

“J enlist! That's anidea! Say, Cornelius, do you feel |
like going into the brigand business ?” |

Cornelius, a little calmer than my uncle, looked at him
with amazement, but. one glance was enough to show

“Life is |

 

 

 

 

 

 

}
|
}
|
;

«Hear me, Cornelius,” continued my uncle.

| pleasant here; the wine is excellent,” he added, with |

tearful tenderness. ‘‘Be a brigand. I’ve no objection ;
on the contrary, you have my permission.”

Cornelius and Tiepoio burst out laughing.

At the same timea violent explosion, followed by a |
great noise outside, shook the windows of the hall. |
Tiepolo and his acolyte rose hastily and disappeared,
without Cornelius knowing how they escaped. My uncle
had suddenly recovered his reason. As tor Cornelius, |
he could not suppress a certain secret terror. As he}
was going torise trom the table, the door opened with }
a crash, and a terrible voice cried :

«Down with your arms, rascals, or you are all dead |
men.” }
’My uncle hastened to throw down the fork ke was
holding.

“Treason!” he murmured.

“That miserable Tiepolo!” cried Cornelius. |

But what was their surprise when they found them-
selves in the power of a detachment of Neapolitan dra-
roons. |
< They immediately protested their innocence, and were |
preparing to exhibit their passports when the chief of |
the secret police who was directing the expedition had |
them bound securely and thrown into a wretched cart on |
aheap of straw. They exclaimed against the unjust |
barbarity of such treatment, but as their remonstrances
only got them a good pounding trom musket-butts, they |
preserved a silence full of wisdom and resignation.
|

Vill. |

The bandits retreat was most minutely and carefully |
searched, but the robbers had disappeared. After this
fact was positively ascertained the castle was burned,
and the commandant gave the order for departure.

Thus the result of the expedition was confined to the
capture of my uncle. It is true that the chief of the
police starting from the point that he had found the
two prisoners seated at a splendid banquet reached the
luminous conclusion that he had laid hands on Tiepolo
and his lieutenant. What mattered the rest of the band
if he had grasped its soul, its mind? Deprived of those
who were their strength, the bandits, abandoned to
themselves, would soon scatter or be taken. Tranquillity
would be restored to the province, entire security would
surround the tuture of travelers and natives, and his
audacity and skill admitted by all would be the outcome
of this new order of things. Such was the nature of the
thoughts which occupied the mind of the worthy chief
of poiice as he proceeded through the defiles of the
mountains.

As for my uncle and Cornelius the incidents of this
drama had followed each other so rapidly that both be-
lieved themselves under the sway of a horrible dream.
My uncle mentally reviewed all that had passed since
the preceding evening, and wrapped himself in sullen
Silence. Cornelius had lost all his gayety, and was}
thoughtful and speechless.

They marched all night, and when day broke the first
houses of Naples appeared in the distance. _Meanwhile
the news of the important capture they had made
spread like a train of gunpowder. People hurried from |
all quarters to witness the spectacle. Men, women,
and children each wished to see with their own eyes,and
insult as he passed by the bandit who, after having so
long braved the search of the police, had suffered him-
self to be captured shamefully in his retreat.

While they were at the gates of Naples these isolated
manitestations had no alarming character, but, on
reaching the suburbs, the two prisoners saw that the
crowd increased every moment, and assumed a threat-

 

 

 

 

 

i tinuing his walk. “How absurd! A country where
you can’t take ten steps without stumbling on a ruin,

ening attitude.

“See these wretches!” cried some. ‘‘They are as

| in place until it heals,

| movement.

mediately inte ‘ated, and it was not diffieu
to establish their identity, and explain their a
at Tiepolo’s table. ey

Terrified at the consequences of the mistake, the goy-
ernment attorney hastened to set them tree with many
excuses and regrets.

The aa chief of police had to beg their pardon,
humbly, and was informed that he would be removed
from office. My uncle and Cornelius interceded for
and saved him with great difficulty.

?

 

 

. xX ramet
After these interesting adventures my untle found
himself sufficiently enlightened with regard to the won-
ders Of ancient and modern Italy, and his first care,
when he teft the lock-up, was to engage his passage on
board a vessel bound for Marseilles, which he reached
without trouble of any kind. He sied tears when he
saw his house again, and declared that in tuture noth-
ing should send him scouring the world in search of
ruins, no matter how Roman they might be. |
Cornelius returned to Rome delighted with his travel-
ing impressions. As for Tiepolo, he disappeared, and
from, this time ceased to ke spoken of, so that for a long
time the people of Naples persisted in betel my
uncle was really Tiepolo the bandit chief, but who,
thanks to his boundless wealth, had bribed the judges
and escaped to foreign parts. Whatever became of
Tiepolo itis certain that, six months afterward, un-
cle received from Italy tifty bottles of that Marsala wine
which had made him fancy the profession of a brigand
so agreeable. This is the pleasantest souvenir my es-
Uimable relative has preserved of his trip to Naples,
5

en fen AEN ea

FEATHERED FISHERS.

In China and Japan, that gluttonous bird, the cor-
morant, although a fisher by nature, has its natural
skill in catching fish increased by training. It lives ex-
clusively on fish, and its rapidity and aptitude in cap-
turing its prey are really wonderful. When a fishis
seized in an inconvenient position, the bird throws it up
in the air and catches it as it descends head downward.

Some European travelers in Japan witnessed a most
interesting sight near Tana, on the Banin River. Five
native fishermen stood on the shore, each of whom had
four cormorants on a pole, two at each end. The cor-
morants were fastened with" light leather straps to the
pole, and each had a small strap lightly fastened below
the crop. When loosed from their perches, they walked
into the water and took a drink; then two of the fisher-
men took a long straw rope and walked into the shoal
water with it, one walking by the edge of the stream,
the other ftartherin. They began to walk smartly down
stream, and then the excitement began. ;

The cormorants followed close to the rope, and made
such a dashing and splashing, never resting a moment,
but incessantly diving and threwing up their heads,
and each time you would see the sparkle of a fish. They
went on down stream for ten or fifteen minutes
they began to get uneasy. Their pouches would
no more, and they had to struggle very hard
fish down. They would stand up in the shoal :
with their tails spread out, and wriggle their necks and
jump about in the most absurd manner. The rope was
then brought ashore, and the cormorants waited till
their perches were brought to them, when they also
were brought ashore. The next operation was to take
them in the left hand by the neck, open the beak with
the right hand, and pour the fish out into baskets. Itis
estimated that each bird had caught on an average
about thirty fish. The fish were all of one kind, and

| much about the same size, from three to tive inches in

length. The men then fed the birds by picking out a
few of the smallest fish and giving them to them, but
instead of unfastening the neck-straps, they took the
birds by the neck and squeezed the 100d past the ob-
struction. The birds were very tame, and made no ob-
jections to sitting on the travelers’ hands. When they
came out of the water they all sat head to wind and
hung their wings out to dry, and as soon as they were
dry they began preening them. Six hauls a day, like
the one above described, is the average for each trained
cormorant.
——_- > o-~+

MENDING BROKEN LIMBS OF ANIMALS.

 

A correspondent tells how the legs of any animal
which may be broken by accident can be repaired by
the use of wet paper bandages. For large ani ; :
strips of paper should be dipped in paste?
cined plaster of Paris, whieh soon sets and
stiff, permanent bandage. which holds the broken bone
The animal, a horse or a cow,
should be held in slings te prevent injury to the limb by
violent motion. The broken legs 0f small animals, as
sheep or fowls, require only to be bro t in proper

| position and bound in strips of wet paper until a suffi-
| ciently strong bandage is made,

A covering of cloth is
then put on and secured with stitches. or tied with a
tape or string. ‘The paper soon dries and becomes hard .
and stiff. Nothing more need be done but to keep the
animal in a quiet, dark piace, to restrain too much
A little movement does no harm, but ex+
cites inflammation needed to produce union and healing
of the bone.

 

—

ELEVENTH-HOUR AFFECTION,

 

 

When a man has been detected in the commission of
crime, such as, for example, robbing his bank, embez-
zling trust tunds left in his hands, or cheating his most
intimate friends, he begins to be extremely, pitifully
anxious about his wife and children. The cries of an-
guish wrung from those who have fled from home, leav-
ing behind them a blasted reputation, are distressing
indeed. How the detection of a criminal can suddenly
develop in his breast an all-devouring passion for his
wife and children, is a problein to be solved by the phi-
losophers. Possibly this retroactive, ex post facto affec-
tion which is born to criminal fugitives is a providentiai
arrangement to make their punishment sure and severe.

science ay a igen Le

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
For Women.
Dr. WM. E. JEWETT, Adrian, Mich., says: ‘I
have found it particularly useful in the nervous
disorders of women.”

 

 

 

  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
  
    

 

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tinea

 

 

 

 
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cry

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hid:

 

 

 
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
 

| i ama

2

 

 

 

 

 

 
     

 

   
  
 
 
  

 

 

   

 

 

 

  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 

~~ Lannches

‘MARGARET HOU

a

~

 

VOL. 41—No. 43,

 

cass THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

2

 

THE SHIPWRECK.

 

BY J. H. OATS.

 

When in the west the summer sun is setting,
Casting its golden rays both far and wide,

» How sweet it is, all earthly cares forgetting,
To ramble by the seg hen Jows the tide!

And while the waves roll in so calm and still,
Smooth asa mirror, pure and undefiled,
Can it be true that oftentimes they will
_ Break into tury like some tnonster wild ?

Musing awhile, and on the ocean gazing,
Some curious object tar off we espy ;

What Can it be. so strange and so ainazing ?
Yes! ’tis a piece of wreckage floating by.

What sad and solemn thoughts are doubtless hidden
Within the breast of the beholder here!

What means this messenger, this guest unbidden,
Filling the mind with wonder and with fear?

Thou bringest with thee, lifeless piece of wood,
Tidings of sights and sounds sad to relate ;

Could we thy silent tongue have understood.
Thou wouldst have told a noble vessel's fate:

How, on the storm-tossed ocean. miles trom land,
_ Far trom ali help, went down the gallant bark;
Death and destruction loomed on every hana,

* Sb its victims in the waters dark. -

Strong men, weak women, on their safety bent,
In desperation crowd the heaving deck,

And ere the storm its deadly rage has spent,
The ship so stately % a hopeless wreck.

Now some fond tather clasps his only child,
While to a broken spar he binds her tight,
her forth, with accents fierce and wild,
isappears forever out of sight.
if her who, with a parent's care,
ven over to Heaven’s protecting hand ?
"Twas to this spar he tied her by her hair,

And prayed that she might safely drift to land.
But thou hast reached alone the sandy shore,

The silent witness of that tragic tale ;
Where are the ship—the crew? Alas! no more

Over ocean blue will they so proudly sail.

ated

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

TWO KEYS;

es

 

 
    

“

S HERDISM,

feet from him, where Louis, not so idiotic after all, had
himself labored for long, weary hours for-his liberty,
only to find himself coming out against a huge fire-
proof wall that extended from cellar to roof, his spirits
would not have been so buoyant as they appeared to be
over his brilliant (?) idea.

Having eaten all he wished, he resumed his labors,
and worked busily for two or three hours, taking care
to keep all his rubbish in a compact pile, where he
could hastily conceal it by wheeling the lounge back
into place if he should hear any one coming.

Midday came, and with it Louis, to strengthen him-
ma tor his afternoon's work with what remained of his
rolls.

Everything in the room was apparently just as he had
left itin the morning, while Arthur was lying at full
length upon his couch, either asleep, or teigning to be
so, he could not tell which:

He had not been encouraged by his own work that
morning ; he had not found a trace of anything to show
that any one had been into the cellar for any unusnal
purpose; but he had not expected that success would
attend him all at once, and he had no intention of relin-
quishing it until he had been, as he said, over every inch
of ground.

He ate his meager dinner in silence, and then betook
himself again to his work.

As soon as he was gone Arthur sprang up to resume
his own operations.

He had succeeded in removing all the plastering, and
now began to work upon the laths.

This was not so easy, for they were tough and his
knife was dull. He tried his pocket-knife, but Joroke it
in re the first one, and was torced-to go back to the
other.

For more than an hour he toiled diligently, but his
success was not encouraging. ;

His hands were lamed and blistered, but that was of
no consequence compared with the object in view.

A Slight noise in the room beyond startled him.

He paused, but could hear nothing.
resume his work, when he was sure that he heard some
one cautiously inserting a key in the lock of his door.

He had not heard Louis come up stairs, and it was not
like him tc exercise so much care.

Perhaps it was the private detective, whom he imag-
ined to be in league with him.

His heart bounded into his throat at the thought.

AS quickly and as noiselessly as he could, he arose
from his knees, brushed the lime from his clothing, and
pushed the lounge back to its place, thus concealing the
rubbish he had made.

The next moment the door swung slowly and silently
* its hinges pushed by some unseen force on the out-
side.

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.
ARTHUR LISTENS TO AN ASTONISHING STORY.

With bated breath anda strange sensation about his
heart, Arthur stood still and watched, wondering at all
this caution and hesitancy.

nother instant and it was explained.
‘Sttering acry of astonishment and dismay, he sank
dows upon his lounge, white, trembling, and horrified.
the. door-way, regarding him with equal amaze-
trusted eoniusion, stood Margaret Houghton, as if
rar *
‘or

  

   
   

  

 
      

i
all at once the'truth flashed upon her.

 

TUN

   

ea *
ELDON,

 

 
  

 
 

 

Se *
Se &

Back numbers |

|
|

 

> ; a ae
Re ay . Keys” was commenced in No. 30.
can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A STRUGGLE FOR LIBERTY.
Meanwhile, Louis was diligently searching for the hid- |

The rooms, as we know, were bare and empty—not a |
thing in them to conceal anything; while, carefully ex- ;
amining the floors, he could see no evidence of a Single |
board having been removed from its place. |

There was a closet in the outer room and one leading |
from the landing at the head oi the stairs; but upon ex-
ploring these he was confronted Only by bare walls,
empty drawers and selves, and ail festooned with Cob- |
webs, and musty from dampness. |

He desceaded to tae lower room ouly to find the same |
unpromising prospect betore him there.

_ Under the stairs, however, he found along deep closet. |
Entering :
above, it was empty and bare, but at hisfeet hesawa
trap door in the Noor. |

Raising this he saw ces flight of stairs, leading, |
as lie conjectured, into the car. {

It was rather late, he Lhought, to attempt to explore |
suclea place that day, and he finally returned to the
room where he had left Arthur to wait until morning. |

He found him sitting as he had left him, sullen and
despondent. s

He looked up, however, with a defiant toss of his head |
and a muttered oath, as Louis entered. |

“| supposed you had gone and left me to my fate,” he |
said, after a moment. :

“Oh, BO; Lintend to pass the nighf here with you. I}
do not intend to show myself in public untii I know |
something definite about that money, and I shall make |
a thorough search of these premises for it.”

“It will be a pity to have so much iabor jost.”

“Jt will not be labor lost,” Louis returaed. “I am sure
that it is somewhere here. Itis my belief that you came |
here to-night to remove it to a place of safety—perhaps |
to take it to some other country to deposit it where you |
could draw upon it without attracting suspicion.” |

«Plato, thou reasonest well,’” was the sarcastic |
response, as the young man paused in these reflections. |

Louis paid no attention to his ill-humor, but, seating |
himself upon a chair, he deposited his revoiver upon the |
floor beside him, and began to inspect the package that |
Arthur was in the act of passing to him when he found |
himself confronted by the muzzle ot Louis’ weapon. |

It contained some fresh rolls, from which he began to |
téed himself, as he was hungry and faint after the ex- |
citement of recent events. ; |

Having at length eaten sufficient to appease his appe: |
tite, he drew forward another chair for his feet and made
bimself as comfortable as circumstances would allow.
Lis
‘and thus the night passed and the morning of a
day dawned.
uis awoke at 1
with some of the rolis left over from the previous night,
stole quietly as possible from the room and began |
again his search for the lost treasure. j

His first venture was to mount into the third story; |
but this was as bare as the rooms below,

He kept on tothe attic, but here the dust upon the
floors had not been disturbed by even so much as a foot-
print, and he knew that it would be useless to waste any
time in looking about among the rafters and beams.

He then descended to the first floor again, where he
removed the trap leading to the cellar.

He erept down then arrow stair-way and round himself |
in a large, open cellar, running under the whole of that
portion of the building. ‘

Here he determined to examine every inch of ground
to see if it had been disturbed; and every stone in the
wall, with the same end in view.

* *

 

* * * * * *

The moment the door was: closed and locked after
Louis, Arthur Aspinwall sprang trom his couch, mutter-
ing a maiediction upon his foe, and began to look wildly
about him for some means of escape

On two sides of him there were those impassable iron
bars fastened into the floor at the bottom, and running
up into a beam above the ceiling. It was impossible even
to stir them, though he threw his whole weight against
them, hoping that some of them might be loosened in

yund himself powerless in that direction. On
two sides of his place of imprisonment, there
} y bare walls that had been painted some
neutral tint.
Te ily his face lighted, as his eye caught the
coor of a substantial-looking knife and fork upon his
table.

“] wonder if I could cut through this plastering. then
whittle through the laths, thus making my way into
another portion of the building, and escape in that
way,” he muttered.

He pounded upon the wall with his fist as if to ascer-
tain What he would have to contend against; but it
only gave forth a dull thud that did not appear very
promising.

“If 1 could have time enough! believe I could do it,”
he murmured; “but if he should take a notion to de-
liver me up within a day or two, [ should have all
my labor for my pains. However, it will do no harm

try.” é

He pulled out his lounge from the wall and marked
off a place to begin operations.

«It I could make a bole I could conceal the debris
under the lounge, and he would never suspect my pur-
pose; he is down in the cellar, and cannot hear me
plainly, aud,” with a little derisive laugh, “he may
hunt there for his treasure until doomsday ; meanwhile
I will not be idle; this kind of life is maddening to me.”

He fell to work at once; marked off asquare which
he thought would be large enough to allow him to
creep through, and then began to cut into the plas-
tering.

He soon found’ that it would not be so difficult as he
had at first imagined; a couple of hours would suffice
to take away the whole square.

This discovery so encouraged him that he stopped
for awhile to eat something, for he was very hungry.

His appetite was excellent, and he partook heartily of
the tood that he had brought for Louis.

“What ‘an idiot he was!” he said to himself, while
making his bi ast; «he might have done this very
thing—worked his way out and escaped me after all.
Strange that he did not think of it! but, blast me! he,
and whoever has helped him, has been cunning enough
at their other trick.”

 
   
  
  
  
    

   
 

| Will hereafter address me as Mis
| speak to me at :
| ‘How long hay
; this building ?”

position he succeeded in catching an occasional |

an early hour, and, refreshing himself |

ie th she could neither move nor speak ;

ouis ha rn € tables upon his foe! ate

 
 
 

He was tree, and the wretch who had caused so

», Much suffering and tr e had been cunning! red ;
Bil | tured at last. i

soon as voice,

J into hi

us do ? How came 2 re?” Arthur
smanded; iooking bewildered and wretched enoug ie
have Satistied his bitterest enemy.
“You are surprised to see ne, “fre you?” Margaret
asked, coming forward into the room and regarding him
curiously.

She had recovered her self-possession somewhat, and
now seemed to take in the situation, it must be con-
tessed, with evident satisfaction.

‘Of course, 1am surprised. How do you happen to
be here ?” be reiterated.

  
 

! Wy » o 97 s < 7 r
ing-place of the missing money. Where is Louis?” she asked, irrelevantly.

What dolIcare where heis? And how on earth did
u know he was here ?” Arthur demanded. :
“T have known or suspected it for some time,” Margie
| answered, composedly. ,

‘You, Margie ?”
“Yes, Margie.

y

But I shall be iged to youif you

ughton, if you must

?

     
  
  

known that Louis Dunbar was in
ded. d

“T have suspect / Since one day when, sitting in my

mother’s carriage, I saw an old gentleman come out of
the alley below and walk up the Rue de Blanc.”

“What old gentleman ?”
‘‘A man with white hair and beard, and dressed in a

| jong overcoat and tall black hat,” and she pointed with

a withering smile at those very articles of apparel which

this he began to investigate. Like the others lay ina heap on the Hoor beside him, where he had |

thrown them.
Arthur groaned, and began to see light.
Too well he remembered the day. she referred to,
wien he had been startled, on going from that place, to
‘find Mrs. Houghton's carriage in that loeality.
He bad not seen Margaret, however, tor she had Cor-
cealed herself behind a curtain, and he bad hoped that
the carriage was empty. AES
«What made you think it was 1?” he questioned.
“You bad recently turned your ankle: you limped
with your left foot ; so did this old gentleman.
the gleam of his eyes as he passed, they had a familiar

look, While the hand in which he carried his keys was |

not the hand of an old man!”

“Curse the luck! Why didn’t you accuse me then
forthwith ?”

“Because I knew how cunning jou were; I could not,
of course, be quite sure that it wag you, although sev-
eral things had already conspired to make me mistrust
that you had something to do with Louis’ disappear-
ance.”

«Such as what?”

«The loss of the diamone from your sleeve-button, for
one thing.”

“How could that be ?”

‘

.

Well, you lost it the very night that Louis disap-
peared. ’

“Yes; but that counts for notaing I might have lost |

a hundred other things at the same time.”

“Did you find it?” he cried, with'a start. Where ?”

Very slowly and distinctly she spoke now, and every
word seemed to fall like a hammer on his brain.

“I found it in the folds of the draperies, in the corner

where he also told me of his anxiety regarding the large
| wee of money in his office.”
i. ene

“You begin to comprehend, I perceive,” Margaret ob- |

served, with quiet irony.
Again Arthur groaned ; too well he comprehended.
«When I found that diamond,” Margaret resumed, ‘I
knew, as well as if you had told me, that you had been
concealed behind those draperies, that you must have
heard every word of our conversation.

tate to do him another injury? I asked myself, and I
immediately began to suspect you of knowing some-
thing about the mystery which so distressed us. I be-
gan to watch you, to weigh ali your words and actions,
and my suspicions were almost confirmed when [
recognized you through this disguise. I had seen you
come out of this building, and I naturally wondered
what possible interest yow could have in this locality,
and in these supposed empty buildings.

“Do you remeniber,” she continued, growing excited
as she thus rehearsed the story to him, ‘‘that stormy
evening when we played euchre at home, how I would
not play with you? I played against you, and I told you
that I was playing against you with all my might. I

was playing a desperate game against you. Then, allat
once, I began to cultivate your society. Oh, how it went
against me. How I hated myself for my duplicity ; but,
I had a secret to worm out of you.”

“Aha, that was your game, then ?” interrupted Arthur,
growing white to his. lips, as he realized how he had
been fooled.

“Yes; do you suppose I would have tolerated your
company for one moment, after what you had said re-
garding my betrothed husband, if I had not been im-
pelled by a powerful motive ?”

“But how, under heavens, did you contrive to get into
this building ?” questioned Anr‘thur, growing interested
in this thrilling account in spite of his own desperate
situation.

“Simply by the use of two keys,” and she held them up
before his astonished eyes; keys precisely like those he
had possessed until compelled to give them up to Louis.

«Where did you get them ?” he asked, breathlessly.

“} had them made.”

“How ?”

“J have already remarked that I began to cultivate
your society, and that I had a powertul motive in so do-
ing.”

“Yes,” he interrupted, bitterly, ‘you led me on, you
tempted me, making me believe you cared for me, only
to betray me, when I loved you to idolatry.”

She drew herself up haughtily.

‘I never gave you the slightest encouragement to
speak of love to me. I always repelled you whenever you
attempted it,” she said, coldly. ‘I confess that, for a
time, I assumed a friendliness wich I did not’feel, and it
was not aneasy thing to do, either, simply to accom-
plish a purpose.”

“What purpose ?”

“That of getting possession of your Keys to this build-

ing.”

fie started to his feet, looking almost wild.

“But you never succeeded ; they have never been out
of my possession for even one hour,” he cried, excited-
iy

“No; but I took an impression of them

He staggered back, striking his forehead with his hand
as he seemed to recall something.

“Then all that was pretense—your fascination for
coins and curious keys ?” he said.

«‘No, not wholly ; I have a passion for old coins. It was
a hoax about the keys, though. I thought perhaps I
could entice you to hand over what you had to me, and
in int I could get an impression of the two that I
wanted.” .

“But you did not catch me that way,” he retorted.

 

ils.
6

If he could have known of another hole, not three

I caught |

“True; but tt counted tor something when I feund it.” .

behind the tete-a-tete, where Louis and I sat on that |
night while we discussed our plans for the future, and |

I knew that |
you had hated Louis for long years, and that once you |
bad done him a great wrong, why then would you hesi- |

meant far more thar I appeared to at that time, for [|

“No,” she returned, regarding him with a curious ex-
pression.

‘For heaven’s sake, don’t sit there and look at me in
that way. You have triumphed, it seems, and I should
like to know just how you did it.”

“Surely, you have not forgotten all that occurred the
day of the fete when I was your guest.”

“No!” the young’man excitedly cried, light at last be-
ginning to break in upon his mind,

‘Well, I went there for a purpose that day, and I ac-
complished it.”

“IT see,” said Arthur, with a crest-fallen air, ‘your
weariness was all a pretense; you ae seen those keys
when I showed you the inside of mY desk; you pretend-
ed that you heeded rest and quiet, and, while we all
thought you sleeping, you improved your time by rum-
maging and taking an impression of thi
honorable return, surely, for one’s hospi
cluded, safiricaly. a

She faced him with fiashing eyes.

 
 
      
 
   

_ “Do you presume t@ talk about an ho : return
for hospitality,” s ed, indignantly, + io had

1 yourself_ behind. the draperies

iter having be ously received
as her guest for many months—aijd listen to a conver-
sation that was purely contidential, almos. sacred; and
then, taking advantage of what you had thus learned,
go torth and commit a crime to ruin the man whom she
loved more than her own life. Really, Mr. Aspinwall,
you need Coaching in the science of discrimination,” she
concluded, with biting sarcasm.

“Yes, I did ‘rummage’ as you express it,” she went on
after a moment of thought, ‘and I felt justified in so do-
i I believed that the fate of one, dearer to me than

side, depended upon the use of that hour

po. I knew I was upon the right trail,
_ while you were out, I had been in
o protruding frormPone of your trunks,
d knew as well as I did later eo
rthat your disguise was there. ut
I wassure that by using a little strategy

the meanness
in a lady’s pa

  
 
  
     
  

spent in your r
for, before 1
your closet
a Jew gray

saw the wh

I
bout the keys;
He was about ti could take their impression—! could have others made,

and then I could come and see for myself what interested
you so in this building. Doubtless you wonder whet did
not contide in my father and save ttesel! all this trouble
and perhaps danger. It was because wished to do you
no wrong in the estimation ot eahops. ay suspicions,
regarding your agency in this cri##e"Siould prove to be
incorrect no one would be the wiser, you would not be
injured in any way, nor be wounde(l by what I had done.
If, on the other hand, they proved to be true, then, I
reasoned, it would be a very easy matter to bring you to
justice.”

* Ok Svcky go on ; I am deeply interested and would
like to heagthe whole of this interesting story,” Arthur

said, bit y, aS She paused for a moment.
“1 do object to telling it,” Margaret returned, with
a slight e, ‘‘it may serve to show you that a woman’s

cunning and intuition can sometimes outwit a vVillain’s
most desperate schemes.”

| “You are getting complimentary as you proceed, Miss
| Houghton !” he interrupted, angrily.

“Tam simply stating tac But to return to my sub-
ject: Left alone in your roo I went directly to your
desk, where I found the keys j
possession of f long, togethe
and it was the Work of but a few mo;
sions of them h. I confess that

  
  
     
 
     
    

 

y and prying

| able to be thus playing the part of a Sp ‘ying into |
your affairs, and ‘nothing but sternest necessity could

 

| have tempted me to violate my sense Of honor in that
+ Way.” o- os
| “Your a

‘comes rather late in the day to be of
| much acco sneered Arthur. ‘ |
“The next. day,” she resumed, without heeding his |

| interruption, ‘‘1 took my impressiom# to a Ck
: $s made, and a few evenings later I came hither be-
est them and the truth |}

} tween eight and nine o’clock,
my suspicions regar LQu
“YOu pOSSeSS COULAYe.2a5 We!
| ton,” Arthur again intermmptea: . 7.
| I would have been willing to €=
| than I did it I had supposed I was going to save Louis
| Dunbar from your malignity. I do not think I really ex
| pected to find rine here; I hoped te find some elew
| would lead to his discovery. But I did expect tc
| some trace of the missing money, and believed that
| revelation of everything would follow if I did.
! «But when | entered this room, and found

  
    

| of yeas
| peyersiss Hough-

     

a

him alive
| bars, oh!’—and Margaret heaved g deep sigh at the re-
membrance of the shock she had suStained—‘‘no one can
ever know, and I never can tell, what my sensations
were, ; ; ek

“Ot course I could not release hith then, tor I had no
key to that ponderous padlock; but, aiter consulting
with him, we arranged for that.
I went out to a hardware store——” :

|
i

I
|
|
1
{
'

‘‘THa-a-a )” {
| “Ys Margaret said, a little smile of triumph flitting
| over her face: ‘J had just purchased a saw and file suit-
! able for working upon iron, and concealed them about
| my person, when you met me at the door.”

“Ob, what a dolt I have been!” cried her listener,
wildly. ‘I understand it
playing fast and loose with me—your queer remarks,
which seemed to imply sO much, aud yet nothing at all
| —the sudden change in your dréss, and your strange

gayety and vivacity yesterday. Wat a dupe you have
| Made of me from beginning to enqt”
| ‘J suppqse the knowledge camnor be
_youwter Indes. ? Marg ga ref assengedes
Pheverdhe éss. Yes, I planned ine
| noon, without the slightest intents

you——”
| “Then your headache was all shay Isupposed Miss
| Margaret Houghton to be abové<hé meanness of lying,”

snapped Arthur, angrily.

“And so lam,” Margaret returned, with dignity. “I
have told no talselioods—not one; I have simply em-
ployed strategy that was perfectly justifiable. My head-
ache was no sham, it was terribly real, proceeding trom
nervousness, lest any of my plans should fail. But as
soon as [ had sent you, and mamma, and Floy Arnold off
on your excursion to Buttes Chaimant——” ;

{
|
|
}
:
|

very gratifying to

   
  
 
 

_OL accompanying

punter even more.

Reeyesterday morning |

now—your capriciousness, |

| Small hasp.

: 10-OD AE, +
yesterday aiter-

' look straight into the uplifted eyes of his betr

| his tone was husky from excessive agitation.

| “And Floy Arnold was only a decoy then!” groaned |

| Arthur.
“Or course !

; Would go and leave me at home, believing me to be ill,
' unless you stood committed to accompany some one else,
' and Floy proved to be a very convenient decoy. I could
not carry out my plans unless you were out of the way,
and something seemed to make me feel that I must
work quickly. As soon as you were gone I came directly
here to bring the file and saw, and I was also inspired to
bring Louis papa’s revolver.”

«Ah! that was Mr. Houghton’'s reyolver then ?”
; “Yes; it was a good thing, my bringing it, for it seems
that Louis has made good use of it,” Margaret replied,
significantly.

fortable situation.
| ‘You are forgetting your
| Margaret said, reprovingiy. ,
| actly kind to exalt over a fa

  
  
  
 
  
   
     
  

ers. Mr. Aspinwall,”

pw nombhink it is ex-
“opi Dut T mist confess
| that it affords me infinite Satistatinn to find you here,
when I believed you had left the ci y. Ishould not have
| come here to-day, for Louis told me hot to venture again
for a few days, but for what you said last night about
going away. I felt that it would: be safe under those
circumstances, and I wanted to ascertain how my hero
was getting along, and perhaps aid him a little in his
work. Ah! I think he must be coming now!” she con-
cluded, as a step was heard upon the stairs.

The next moment Louis entered tle room.

| Ms

CHAPTER XI.

THE SECRET PANEL.

“Margie !” Louis exclaimed in amazement, and glanc-
ing anxiously from her to his captive, as if he feared
she might have suffered some harm in coming near
him.

She sprang toward him with outstretched hands, her
face radiant with happiness.

“Oh, Louis!” she cried, ‘what delight to see you free
once more !—to know that you are Safe !”

He laid down his revolver and candle, and taking her
hands in his, drew her gently out of the room and away
| from those lowering, malicious eyes that were watching
their every movement: and Arthur Aspinwall, almost
maddened by the sight of their mutual joy, threw him-
self, with a groan of despair, at fall length upon his
lounge and hid his face in his hands.

“How happened you to come bere again to-day ?”
Louis asked, as, tor the» Lie x weeks, he
folded his betrothed in’ fond #imkrace.

She explained to him that Arthty had mentioned that
he might be away from Paris fora few days, and, her
father having heard that he had gore, she thought she
might come to him with safety, and perhaps help him
somewhat in the use of the saw aad file.

“What a faithful little woman!’ Louis said, while he
touched his iips reverently to her white forehead ; “but
did you imagine I would allow these tender hands to do
such rough work ?” ;

“It would not burt them ; I could have filed while you
sawed—anything to help you out of that dreadful

lace.”

. Then he related all that had #ccurred—how he had
compelled Arthur to release him and then had driven
him, at-the muzzle of the weapon, into captivity in his

lace. ‘ i

«But the money, dear,” he said, despondingly, in con-
clusion, “I cannot find. I have tried in vain to make
him confess where it is, and I have looked the building
over thoroughly, with no result. I could have taken
my oath that it was somewhere here, for I have heard
him prowling about in this rodip and below many a
time.” er

«There is a closet—is there anything in it ?” Margaret
asked, glancing toward it. i

“No; absolutely nothing, save (lust and cobwebs.”

“Are there no boards loosened anywhere in the
floors ?”

‘Not one; I have examined everywhere.”

Margaret stood thinking @ moment, while her eyes
wandered critically all about the room.

Suddenly she started and sprarig away from him.

“See here, Louis, the room is wainsceted all around !”
she cried, a brilliant flush suffusing her face. ‘You
know,” she went on, eagerly, ‘haw much we have read
about sliding panels and secret closets in the wains-
coting ot old houses? Perhaps tte may find one here ;”
and she began rapping upon *ach panel with which
the room was sheathed for abent three teet from the
floor. :

The wood was of chestnut, and each panel was set
into a molding something like the panel ot a common

door.
Louis smiled at her suggestion, and shook his head.

 
  

 

Arthur swore roundly at this reference to his uncom- |

I knew that neither you nor mamma | a
| freely here.’

| the whole thing has been most artfully planned and

 

|

 
   
  
 
     
     
   
   
     

and well, even though a prisoner behind those dreadful }

} controlled by weights and pulleys. |

 

| Was.” :

| she said, looking up with a faint smile ; but he saw that

 

«You will find more of such things in novels than any-
where else.” he remarked, skeptically.

“You need not laugh at the idea,” she retorted, gayly,
“for, truly, 1 saw one in an old manor-house where we
visited for a little while in England. Come, dear, help
me sound these panels; begin where you stand and
work around toward me; it can do no harm to try, and
who knows what may come of it ?”

Louis was standing by the mantel—a marble one,
fastened above the fire-place, and extending down each
side of it to the wainscoting.

He turned slowly to obey Margaret’s request, but, with
an air that plainly indicated no faith in and no hope of
making any discovery.

He rapped upon the panel nearest the-fire-place on
the right of@$,and instantly it gave torth, a hollow
sound. : re eC ae

“Margie,” he cried, astonished, ‘‘I Ww
woman’s intuition again—there 7
hind this panel.” spa

“Oh, Louis, are you sure ?”
ward him. ‘

Yes,” he replied, gravely;
into it without breaking it in.

“There must be a secret spring somewhere. Let us
look for it ?” said Margaret, eagerly.

But with all their searching none could be found; the
board seemed to be built firmly into its place.

‘There was aspring to the onelsaw in England,”
said Margaret, looking disappointed.

a

        
  
  

“Well, spring or-no spring, lam going to know what
is behind it,” Louis asserted, resolutely, and repaired to
the other room to get his file. “—

He was so intent upon his purpose
Arthur. If he had done so, he woul
was sitting erect and in an attitude
tent listening. s

Returning with his file, Louis”
at the base of the panel between
tried to pry it from its place. — F

To the infinite surprise Chat it at once slid noise-

  
 
     
 
  

he point of it
he molding and

lessly upward, showing that pressure at the bottom
would have accomplished what they wished, while a
small closet, containing a of shelves, was revealed
to their eager eyes. 2%

“Oh,” exclaimed Margaret, excitedly, as she bent down
to look within it. Bae

Alas, it wasempty. Nothing but the dust of many
years was there to reward them for their search, we

«IT was so sure we had found it,” said the young girl,
growing pale from disappointment.

Louis also was greatly tried; he began to fear that he
might not find the money, after all.

‘‘Perhaps,” he said. after aanoment of silence, and try-
ing to speak hopefully, ‘‘there may be a mate to this
closet on the other side of the fire place.” Ss

“Ah, yes; Strange I did not think of that; let us look
quickly,” Margaret assented, eagerly. a

“There is!” Louis declared, after tapping upon the
panel, while his eyes grew large and intensely black w:
excitement. ‘ i

He tried to raise it the same as he had raised the 0
but it resisted all his efforts. :

Margaret was intensely excited. Se

‘Itis there, I am swe it is there,”.she said.

«Dunbar,” called a voice from the other room.

“Well,” answered Louis, going to the door.

His heart had leaped with sudden hope at the call.

Arthur Aspinwall was standing close to the bars of his
prison, his face ashen, his eyes wild, while he shivered
as it with cold. E a rs

‘J have heard what you acm and itis alf up with

 

me,” he said, in a strained, unnatural voice ; ‘you have

eonquered ; you have found where the money is hidden,

and I may as well tell you the rest. I know you will

break in that panel if I do not give you the key, so here

16: 282”

He tossed him a bit of steel about two and a half inches
very thif®and narrow, and cut in a peculiar

in a little slot that you wilt find in
he bottom of the panel, and you are i
hired this place the landlord revealedg

   
 
 

the
ht

 

He turned away again after saying this;
the couch, and dropped his headwupon his han
- Louis stooped and grasped that precious
with trembling fingers.

His face was deadly white, and he staggeredwback to |

the other room almost like a drunken man.

At last! at last! his weary search, his long waiting
and anxiety were over. :

Once more he could go forth and take his,place in the
world, an honorable and respected man.

He had to wait a moment betore inserting the little
key in its lock, for there was a blur before his eyes, and
his hand shook like a leaf.

steady.
The key was in the lock; there was a little click as
he turned it, and, obedient to an upward pressure, this
panel also slid smoothly upward in its grooves, as if |
Margaret’s quick eyes Caught sight of something |
within, and she uttered a cry of joy.
Louis put in his hand and drew forth a small tin box
about twelve inches square, wy.
It was not locked ; the lid was held in place onk

    
  
   
  
  
 

He lifted it, andlo! the box was full of crisp,
yoik-notes and neapy arranged piles ot glittering
He could not ao ye Wort Tartine sight alt Wy

manned him; his strong frame trembled, h

quivered, and his broad chest heaved with the h

throbbings of his grateful heart ; he could only tu’

 

knowing full well that she would understand his
tion and be in sympathy with it.
She crept close to his side and
hands about his arm. wk
“Louis, you are saved!—everything will be all right
now,” she breathed.
“Yes; thank God!” he answered, reverently, though

‘
clasped her trembling |

 

“Ts it all there ?” she whispered.
“Very nearly if not quite all, I should judge,” he re- |
plied. “I presume he would not dare to use it very |

‘How fortunate we have been! Oh! if1 had been a
day later in coming to you!—I tremble to think of the
result,” Margaret said, with a shiver.

Louis smiled, though there were tears in his eyes.

“It was all wisely ordeved, dear,” he said, softly ; then
continued: ‘Ah! but this was very cunningly hidden ;

sarried out trom the beginning, and but for your keen
intuition and brave efforts, it might have been a long
time before 1 could have been liberated, if indeed I ever

“Why do you say that ?—have you learned anything
new regarding his plans ?” asked Margaret, indicating
Arthur by a movement of her head.

“Yes, hecame here last night, bringing a large bas-
ketful of provisions, and informed me that he was about
to leave Paris tor awhile; he even confessed. that he
was intending to take this money out of the country in
order to invest it where he could draw fromit as he
chose. In that event, it is doubtful if it ever could
have been recovered. He also told me that if I would
not take an oath to leave the country and hide in some
remote place, he should have nfe confined in some pri-
vate mad-house, upon his return, where I could never
trouble him again.”

“Ob, Louis, how horrible !” °

“So you can see,” he resumed, ‘“* that your thoughtful-
ness in bringing me your father’s revolver has saved me
from a dreadful fate, and this treasure from being lost
forever to its rightful owners.”

“How thankful I am,” Margaret breathed, leaning
her forehead against her lover’s shoulders, while tears
of gratitude rolled over her white cheeks.

Louis regarded her with tender concern.

“This excitement is proving too much for you, my
darling,” he said, ‘‘you are nearly exhausted by it.”

«“T am soglad and so thankful, that it makes me weak,”

she was very much unnerved.

«Come into the other room, and rest a few minutes,” he
said, ‘‘and then we will go home.”
“Oh, Louis, will you go with me, now ?” she asked,

eagerly.

“Yes; I feel that-I can show myself in the world now,
and be regarded*as an honorable man,” he answered,
drawing his fine figure erect, a flush of pride on his
cheeks, the light of a new hope in his eyes.

He led Margaret to the other room and made her sit
down, while he gathered together what few things be-
longed to him, and made himself ready to leave the
place where he had spent so many wretched days.

He put his revolver and tools, which Margaret had ob-
tained him, into the basket in which Arthur had brought
his provisions, then placing the box of gold and notes
also in it, he carefully covered the whole with several
papers.

“It will attract less attention ifI carry it in the bas-
ket,” he explained to Margaret, who was watching him
intently.

Arthur looked white and miserable as he, too, noted
these’ preparations for their departure.

“What am J to expect now ?” he asked, moodily.

Louis went up to him and regarded him gravely, while
there was also a regrettful look in his fine eyes.

“Mr. Aspinwall,” he said, kindly, but speaking very
firmly, ‘‘as far asI am personally concerned, [ bear
you no ill-will, and I would not lift my hand against you
in retaliation or revenge; but I have been placed in a
very questionable position before the world; my good
name must be vindicated, my honor re-established. If
this could be done without the agency of the law, and a
public investigation of the mystery which for a time
agitated all Paris, I should be very glad to have it so, if
by that means you would learn a lesson, and be per-
suaded never to commit crime again. However, | will
do what I can for you—to shield you from open disgrace
and lighten your punishment.”

“Pshaw ! do you expect me to believe such balderdash
as that ?” eried his listener, passionately. ‘I believe you
hate mé#S heartily as I do you, and that you will exult
in turning me over to the authorities, and then pocket
the generous reward offered for the apprehension of the
thief and the restoration of the money, with a chuckle
over my wretched fate.”

“You are much mistaken,” Louis replied quietly. “I
do not hate you; I have never hated you; I would gladly
have been your friend from the first. As for the reward
offered for the restoration of this money and the appre-
hension of the robber, I shall not h so much asa
single sou of it. All I desire is) ave my good name
and the confidence of the co ‘restored to me. I

   
 

      
       
     

bit of Steel |

; : i ; about fools and swindlers.
But it soon passed; his eye grew clear, his hand | the stranger’s claim to the $50, but has taken his sign in, ~

| not comin’.”

learned to feel a strong regard, if there is any way by

which I can arrange with the company so as to avoid a

public exposure and imprisonment for you—if I can be

eee reinstated without criminating you, I will
0 it.”

“Let me go, then, at once!” urged Arthur, eagerly.

*‘And thus allow suspicion of a great wrong to rest
upon me as long as I live ?” returned Louis, with a curl
ot his lips and a flash from his eyes. ‘No, sir!”

«“T will make a confession in full, as I told you before,”
persisted the unprincipled man.

Louis shook his head resolutely.

“Tt should be arrested at once as your accomplice—
should be regarded as aiding and abetting you in your
crime. Wo; I shall make a tull statement of the affair
to my COmpany and leave the matter with them; but,
for your uncle’s Sake, and with the hope that you may
become a better man, I promise to use my influence for
you. Come, Margie.”

Arthur sank abjectly on the floor, groaning aloud in
his misery. He was not dying so ‘‘game” after all.

Louis led Margaret from the room, securely locking
the door after him, and then together they passed for-
ever out of the building, and Louis stood once more a
free man beneath the beautiful blue vault of heaven.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
——___—__ > @<____.

Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
NEw YORK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for
publication anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-
terest for general perusal. It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are
| pithy, and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be
remedied. } 9

On the Beach.

I am feeling rather nettled,
For I thought it all was settled,
And that happiness was quite within my reach,
AS I sat with Arabella,
Oh, such ahappy feller!
Jnder her umbrella
On the beach.

 

v#

As I said, I’m feeling nettled,
For I fear it isn’t settled,
.» And I’m longing now to tear my hair and screech,
, For there sits my Arabella
And she’s got s'm’ other feller
Under her umbrella
Out of reach.

They Would Taste.

dollars to the man who can prove that any two
t into this ice-chest will taste of the other !”

a refrigerator run out to the curbstone, hung
above sign over each side, and retired indoors to
ait the expected run of customers.

People passing upand down the street jostled each
other in their hurry, glanced at the ice-box and its sign,
and went on.

After some hours of disappointed hopes and expecta-
tions, the dealer saw a pedestrian halt, calmly peruse
the wonderful announcement, .and rather hesitatingly
advance to the door.

‘Do you mean it?” he inquired, in an anxious tone,
pointing over his shoulder to the sign. a

“Yes, sir-ee !” emphatically responded the deal

“Put up your money ?” insinuated the stranger.

“No, sir!” replied the dealer, in a pompous Style.
‘‘My word is as good as the cash.” ‘

“All right, ’ll take you,” responded the stranger, as

he departed.
He returned shortly atter with, x under each arm.
he dealer, wondering

“Stick to your agreement ?”* he}
ered tn
topher Columbus the man

  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
   
 

 

&

ROLAND KING.

 

 
   
   
    
     

“Of course I will!” ans
what in the name of O

ee

 

ad in view. yi oO age
_ Fhe stranger set his’ down on the sidewalk, and a
-erowd began te collect. He told the dealer that he

/was-afraid he (the dealer) would back out of his bargain,
‘but the latter asserted his readiness to put up the
money.i cessary. The stranger opened a box, lifted
out 5 nd placed her in the refrigerator. . Then he
opened the other box and took therefrum a large wire
cage containing a large rat.
| “Now, mister,” said he, ‘‘you jest shut that door ina
hurry when I flop the rat inside and I'll go you another
fifty that one will taste of the other in less than five
minutes.” .
The crowd yelled and the dealer slammed the re-
frigerator door and slid into the store, with a remark
He still refuSes to recognize

 
 

 

Tough Grass.

Mrs. Simson-Hendricks, the landlady, had just re-
marked, with a sigh, that all flesh is grass, when Dum-
dey, who is even with his board, and therefore inclined
to be captious, felt called upon to correct her.

«Some f-flesh may be g-grass, madam,” he said, strug-
gling with his knife and fork, ‘‘but if oc-occurs to me
that th-this particulars piece of flesh c-cuts more like
b-b-baled hay.”

He Had a Character.

At the race fair, Thornhill, in Upper Nithsdate, Eng-
land. a fariner was trying to engage a lad to assist on
the farm, but he would not finish the ba¥gain until be
brought a character from his last place, so he said:

‘Run away and get it and meet me at the cross at four
o’clock.”

The youth was up to time and the farmer said:

«Well, have you got your character with you ?”

“No,” replied the youth, ‘‘but ’ve got yours and I'm

Had a Right to Laugh.

“Hello, Charley! What's up? Never saw you look-
ing so jolly and happy.”

“My best girl just got married.”

“Got married! Why, man, is that anything to be gay
and festive over? You ought to be in the last stages of
melancholy.”

“That’s allright. You see I’m the fellow she mar-
ried. I'll take a little sirup in mine.”

Justly Celebrated.

“Do you know why we celedrate Washington's birth-
day ?? asked Mr. Hendricks of his son Bobby; ‘why
his birthday is honored more than—than mine, for in-
stance ?”

“Oh, yes,” responded Bobby, promptly; ‘‘George Wash-
ingtou never told a lie.”

Pretty Tough.

“What does that fellow across the street wear that
fur cap for this hot weather ?”

“Probably he isa newspaper man and needs a fur-tile
brain.”

The groans of the bystanders reminded one of a field
hospital after a great battle.

Where They All Go.

“Doctor, how is Banker Jones? I heard that he was
very sick.” :

“He has joined the innumerable caravan,” said the
physician, solemnly.

“What! Youdon’t mean to say that Jones has skip-
ped to Canada? Well, well!”

A Coolness.

“Did you know I met George last evening ?” said a
young lady very confidentially to her friend.

“Why, I thought there was a coolness between you.”

“So there was. We had some ice-cream.”

Why We Study.

“For what do we study ?” asked the school-teacher, as
the class stood before him. ‘

There was silence, tor most boys can’t See any use in
studying, anyhow. Then the editor’s little boy, who was
one of the class, recollecting the motto at the head of
his father’s paper, raised his hand and shouted :

“I know. We study to please.”

Mirthful lorsels.

A young man asks:. ‘‘How can I gain a copious flow
of language?” We would suggest that he should try
sitting down on a tack.

A man who has a scolding wife says he is going
through the journey of life by rail.

A hotel should never advertise that ‘it stands without
arrival.”

It is said that the spring time makes the skylark soar.
This must be paintul to the poor skylark.

Customer in restaurant: ‘‘Waiter, this chicken soup
has feathers in it.” Waiter: ‘Yes, sah. If yo’ want
soup made outer chickens dat am old ’nough to be bald,
sah, yo’ll have to go to some odder establishment.”

Strawberry-boxes probably need no cover because the
bottom is so near the top.

A man must not expect to live in clover simply be-
cause he marries a grass widow.

Little Jack—‘‘My mamma’s new fan is hand-painted.”
Little Dick—‘‘Pooh! who cares? Qur whole fence is,”

Physicians should not be afraid to cross the ocean, be-
cause they are used to see sickness.

There is just as much craft upon the land as there is
upon the sea.

> o—-

AROUND THE WORLD IN A SMALL BOAT.

 

Richard Chandler, of Northampton, Mass., where he
was born in 1840, has agreed to make the attempt to
cross the Atlantic in a twelve-foot dory, to be built at
the expense of Dr. R. D. Bibber, of Bath, Me. After ar-
riving in England, Chandler will row his dory to Nor-
way and Sweden, thence to France, Spain, and the
Mediterranean. across the Red Sea, through the Suez
Canal, across the Indian Ocean and Southern Pacific to
Australia; thence to Japan and China, and from there
by steamer to San Francisco, then overland to the Mis-
sissippi, where the dory will be put into the water for
him to row down that river to the Gulf, amd around to
New York. The date of departure has not yet been
fixed. The boat will be 12 feet long at the bottom, with
about 14 feet gunwale. She is to have watertight com-
partments built forward and aft. The only open space
in her will be a cockpit in the center. In width she will
be 4 feet and in depth 30 inches. Besides a large supply
of food, she is to be fitted with life suits, cork pickets,

 

cannot. of course, force you to believe all this; but for
the sake of your uncle, Mr. Forest, for whom | have

tite lines, a Boyton rubber suit, and everything that can
comtort the voyager.

&

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

a

 

 

 

NEW YORK, AUGUST 28, 1886,

 

eh i i i in ae le
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FREE.)
3months. . 6. 0 ES 1 ROODIOR. Fe i's $5.00
4months- . - « $1.00|4 copies . - . 10.00
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Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis-
tered letter.
We employ no traveling agents.
All letters should be addressed to
. STREET & SMITH,
P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

 

A REALISMIC STORY OF NEW YORK Cm.

 

A vigorous and graphic story of Life in the Great
*
Metropolis, will be commenced next week, under the
>
title of

TILE SUNSHINE;

OR,

THE WORKING GIRL’S 0

 
  
   
  
 

By FRANCTS S, SMITH,

Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,”
“Maggie, the Charity Child,” ‘Alice
Blake,” “Eveleen Wilson,” etc.

 
 

Gabriel Flint, who figures prominently in this
dramatic story, is li-drawn type of the avaricious,
cunning, and- ur Ipulous employer. Full of ex-

pedients to line his purse at the expense of his

MISERABLY PAID SEWING GIRLS, |

a

he uses the mantle of philanthropy to cloak his vil-
lainous schemes and give him a reputation for kindness
and benevolence.

Working girls all over the land, and the more for-
tunate girls who are not compelled to be their own
breadwinners, will learn from this story how business

and charity were artfully combined by
A HEARTLESS Hy POCRITRERH,

that he might increase the profits of his business, and,
aided by his equally unscrupulous wife, adroitly

Plunder the Slaves of the Needle,

How the irigecty. of the sleek and oily Gabriel was
exposed to

HIS LONG SUFFERING DUPES,

through the courage of

LIGHT-HEARTED LILLY DAVIS,

whose winning ways and radiant face led her friends
to speak of her as

LITTLE SUNSHINE,

is dramatically portrayed in a series of brisk and
spirited incidents.
There are a number of cleverly drawn characters,

not the least attractive of which is

Tony Tucker, the New York Boy,

a lively, mischievous, but manly and tender-hearted
lad, who is not very fond of work, and deems himself
in the seventh heaven of delight when he is seated in
the theater, witnessing

A WELL-REPRESENTED PLAY.

An ingenious and artistically developed plot unites
the stirring events of this extremely vivid story, which
is certainly in Mr. Smith’s happiest vein.

“LITTLE SUNSHINE” will be placed before our readers
next .week. News agents should be prepared for a
brisk demand.

HINTS ON SWIMMING.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

 

 

Among the important chunks of valuable information
lavishly ladled out by the newspapers during the sum-
mer season, not the least vital are the hints to bathers
and swimmers. These suggestions cannot be too fre-
quently placed before the public. I quote a few from
memory :

Don’t go near the water until you have learned to
swim. By observing this rule many valuable lives may
be saved. It is infallible.

Having mastered the art of swimming, keep out of the
water ifyou are suQject to cramps. Statistics fail to
show a case of a person being drowned on dry land,
when attacked with cramps.

If, while bathing, a shark seizes you by the leg and
drags you several miles out to sea, under the water, you
had better send a telegraphic dispatch to your friends
ashore, explaining the cause of your absence. It would
relieve their anxiety.

In attempting to swim across the ocean on a wager of
$500, don’t take a dog with you. The dog may be worth
twenty-five cents.

lt is not salutary to bathe in water hot enough to boil
an egg.

When a boy, who has been cautioned by his mother
not to go near the river, returns from a swim, he should
be careful not to climb over a fence on his way home.
His shirt might get turned inside out.

If you are bathing at the sea-shore and hear a young
lady bather Scream so loudly that the root on the near-
est hotel raises six inches, don’t frantically rush to her
assistance under the impression that she is being swal-
lowed by a whale. The probabilities are that a sand-
crab has grabbed her by the little toe.

It is not necessary, when swimming in the ocean at a
watering-place, to carry a flask of whisky in the hip-
pocket, to be swallowed as an antidote in case you should
be bitten by the sea-serpent.

a

 

stuff accidentally, and see more sea serpents and other
snakes than the sea-side hotel proprietor ever dreamed

of. j
Should yoo find yourself drowning while in swimming,

you Can save your life by abstaining from going down
the third time.

ae teredale chalet

NOT MEDICINE, BUT REST.

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

 

 

“Doctor, I cannot sleep.”

“That is my case exactly,” replied my physician. “But
I go thr h all the motions just the s p?
The r then went on to tell me of the advantages

of simple bodily When he could not sleep he
consoled himse ‘the truth that, even to lie out
straight and quiet, sither litt hand nor foot, to do
nothing but repose there and breathe, was a medicine
to the exhausted body. He asserted that many people
thought they ‘‘did not sleep a wink last night” who did
in fact sleep a great deal; there were all grades or sleep
as there were of any other bodily function. There was
perfect digestion and partial digestion; the partial was
better than none at all. There was perfect, ‘‘sound”
sleep, and eep not so perfect, and the latter was better
than no a He reminded me it was possible,
when on ng quiet, that the extremities might be
leep which the nervous center, the
brain, had not yet come to share. He pointed out that
such rest, even if consciousness was not lost, stopped
nervous waste, because not a muscle could be moved
without nervous waste. Sleepless people got worked up
into a sort of roolish frenzy; they paced the room, they
read a book, they lighted a cigar, they kicked and
thrashed about. ‘All bad—bad. A slight movement
through the open room may be good for a few moments.
Toeat some light thing is very good; we are recom-
mending tood for insomnia mainly now. The baby
sleeps on a full stomach and wakes up for food.” So do
cattle sleep on as they digest. But quiet is itself rest.
One should determine to be still. Stretch out, close the

 
 
  

  
 
  
    
 

 

yes, let all the world go to the dogs; and don’t fret if
you do not sleep. You are being restored somewhat—
ay, a very great deal—while you lie there not moving a
Muscle. By and by, the sleep that you are forcing upon
ae extremities will force itself in upon the disobedient

Another of the doctor’s figures was this:
“If sleep fills up the feet, hands, limbs, trunk, like
water pouring in slowly toa many-channeled recep-
tacle, at length it will steal in to fill up the head. At all
events, something like this takes place with the rest
that you minister to your extremities.”

He talked long of the medicine of rest. The und
rests a year; you let it lie fallow; youregard the field
as unproductive. farmers know that something is
going on in that “ Ww ground.” The old Jewish law
ordained a fallow year once in every seven. When the
plow is putin and grain sown the results are surpris-
ing. Thisis true of all mental labor. To do nothing,
not a book, not a speech, not a sermon, not a written
line—think of it, oh, ye army of brain-workers, who toil
on these pages—w it may seem you wasted time.
You pack your vac trunks wi books. 2
paper. You feel that in such a leisure tin
be wicked if you were not ‘‘gathering mé

   
 
   
  
   

     
  

 
 

mag cian, the volition, will call on memory to}
t ear’ of impressions of your vacation-day.
e Will-power must rest. The wise doctor said:

ut t
“T know of no medicine on earth that will cure the

weary will. Nothing touches it but absolute rest. And
that surely cures, if taken in time.”

It would seem, according to his theory, that the most
perfect vacation was that in which fone “did not know
What to do next, or cared ;” when one followed the im-
pulse of the moment, when trifies filled up the day,
“cheerful, amiable nothings ,” that the ‘vagrant winds
now blowing one way, now another, and no one knows
why, were a good type of a vacation occupation.”

“But, doctor, they tellus of some cheerful occupa-
tion being necessary.”

Yes, 1know. To be sure, one wants exercise. But

I tell you, that for our terribly worked generation per-
fect laziness is the thing in vacation. Don’t make a sin-
gle plan that requires a half-hour’s thought or ten pounds
ot will power. Be still a week. Be empty a week. Calm
down. Stop! Isee such follyin these exhausting ex-
cursions, with wheel, and oar, and on foot. A long plan
to carry out. The tour goes to such and such a town one
day, on to the next the following, lunch here, sleep
there ; make time and hurry up. The harness, the same
old harness of the working months! It makes me ache
to think of the simpletons. I tell you, it is repose you
Ww.
more you need repose.
The doctor thought it was an alarming sign if a tired
brain-worker could not content himself to lie in a ham-
m and listen to the whisper of the leaves, observe
the Shadows on the mountains, whittle a stick, patient-
ly chat the small-talk of the household, and be surprised
that a half day had gone when the dinner-bell rung. If
he Could not do that he was in a bad way; he was like
an overstrained horse, who never can stand still, but
puts one foot up on the sidewalk and then theother. It
WaS a sign that your vacation was doing you good when
you forgot what day of the month it was, then what day
of the week, then what hour of the day. A man should
come home from vacation hardly knowing what he had
been doing, so full of delightful emptiness and sweet
repose was it. The doctor was especially severe on the
grand tour in Europe. Of course he was speaking of
very heavy workers; not of those who are half idle all
the time.

Whatever may be said of the doctor’s philosophy, I am
sure that there is a vast amount of amusement in trifles
when you once get atit. A colony of ants under your
hammock, the play of light and shade over the land-
scape, teeding your saddle-horse S, Climbing a bank
for the first golden rod, baiting hooks for ladies to drop
in astream innocent of a single fish, reading a news-
paper when you do not care a flip about a thing you
read, and the only serious work you do being to get up
and go todinner. Rest—perfect rest! How little most
of us Americans know about it till premature Death
growls, “Ill teach you!”

 

e®

LOVERS ON EXCURSIONS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

It is a very sweet sight to see a pair of lovers on an
excursion.

You can tell them just as soon as you set eyes on
them.

They bear the mark, and they can no more rid them-
selves of it than a bob-tailed dog can grow out another
caudal appendage.

They don’t mean that people shall know they are
lovers. That does not enter into theif calculations.
They think they are keeping the whole thing very close.
They don’t believe that anybody suspects it, and they
do not realize it when the whole car is laughing at them.

She leans a little away from him and looks at the bon-
nets on the other side of the car, and he holds her hand
under her shawl, and they converse about the cows,
and the grass, and the brooks, and other natural won-
ders of the landscape, through which you are passing.

He gives her some peppermints surreptitiously, as if he
were passing counterfeit money, and she shies one into
her mouth, and looks all round out of the corners of
her eyes, to see if any one observed the performance.

He has her ticket, and she blushes when the con-
ductor snorts out ‘tickets !” and rushes through the car
as if the duse was after him, and his only hope of salva-
tion lay in “gobbling” on to those tickets as quick as pos-
sible.

The young lover picks up everything she drops, and
she generally drops her reticule, and her shawl, and one
of her gloves, and her handkerchief, and her sun-shade,
about ten times each, on a journey of a hundred miles.

When the candy peddler goes through, he buys her
some. When he comes back with peanuts, and prize
packages, our lover buys some of that merchandise.
When he again perambulates with apples and oranges,
he invests again.

He buys her a fashion paper, which is supposed to be
the only style of paper in which a young lady ought to
be interested. She looks at the female figures in the
fashion plates with their round faces like dumplings,
and their mouths puckered up to the regulation size and
contour, and shows them to him, and he looks at them
as most of us look at a rebus, and with an inane smile
he agrees With her that they are “too sweet for any-
thing.”

If a man who has imbibed rather freely looks at her,
the lover bristles up, and his eyes express enough to
make that man go on his way without hesitation.

When the cars reach their ‘destination, you want to
look at him and see him hand her out. He ignores the
conductor, and steps in front of him, and lifts her down
as if she were an egg-shell painted for Easter, and they
both look so happy to think the thing is safely accom-
plished, and then they trip off together to enjoy them-
selves alone.

An Aunt Polly or a Cousin May for company would
completely ruin thei . They go to the ice-cream sa-
loon and get cre: ie has strawberry, and she has
lemon; and he ta ers, and she tastes of his, and

     
  
   

 

You might swallow the

both use the same™ n. But you may safely wager
any amount that the on’t hanker after one spoon

  
 

| even ef you hey to stick to the old bizniss,

. +
«cote THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #8 yams

 

 

 

 

 

when they have had two years of the sober delights of
matrimony.

Then they try clam chowder, and she exclaims at the
black part of the Clams; and he peels her oranges for
her, and presses her to eat some cake; and pays the bill
for both With an air asif he had stolen a sheep; and then
he takes her parasol and shawl, and they seek out some
secluded spot where he can hold her hand, and fan her
with his hat, and tell her how much dearer she is to him
than all the rest of creation combined.

And the day will be a happy one for them, and as it
will be dark before they get home, and the car will be
dimly lighted, as excursion cars always are, he will have
beautiful otek an of wrapping her shawl round
her, and holding it in place after it is round her, and they
will both wish that it was their bridal tour, and they
will be so foolishly, senselessly happy, that while every-
body mwist Jaugh at them, they must also envy them
their ca for enjoyment.

oe

  

4

 

 

 

Boccia
To Rufus Meddle, Who Wants to be Great.

 

DEAR RuFE :—Ef the notion’s true that people descend-
ed from other and lower bein’s, this Meddle family must
hev had some fleas for forefathers, for it’s alluz hop-
pin’ around an’ findin’ new places to be oneasy, an’
make other folks so.

The idee of you not findin’ anyth
about than bein’ great. Want to be
statesman, or spekilator, anythin’, Is
ill talk about you ?

Well, Rufe, my boy, I spose you can do it ef you’ve th
grit. to work your way up to it, but ef any body ever got
the notion thet foiygs got great by accident he got that
notion tuck Qub » the fust time he talked to any
body reelly eee Me

I've knowed lf, an’ the happiest
minute they ever knowed wuz the one in which they wuz
certain sure they wuz goin’ to die an’ git rid of it all.
An’ ther wuzn’t onevef ’em who'd hev ben willin’ to go
through it all agin, for his own sake, for what he got
out of it.’

Still, ef you want to be great, you can fi
of doin’ it, ef you ain’t over puttikilar. As
world, the easiest way is the wust. Youc
scoundrel an’ not half try. "

But ef what’s troublin’ you is the feelin’ thet comes to
every body at least once in a life-time, an’ to some folks
mighty often—the féelin’ that yer leadin’ a dull, awfully
common, down-in-the-ruts sort of alife, an’ you'd like
somethin’ to pen to give you a high-up, good-ez-the
best-man, e-biggest sort of feelin’ I don’t say
yer to be .

In furr

   

tter to think

  
 
  
   
 

me way
in this
a great

 
 
 
  
    

ther’s what they call orders of no-
bility, an’ y that ain’t in ’em wishes he wuz.
Well, in this country any body can be noble thet wants
to, an’ be respected an’ reverenced by other folks ac-
cordin’ to the genuineness of the article.

You can get to be great, even ef yo *t anythin’
but a ditch-digger oF a scrubwoman, very y
about you will see it mighty quick whe uu get re,

The way to look Hike a hero, or a god, or goddess, an’
to feel like one, is to think less about yer work an’ more)

yu to be diggin’ muck
n’ spreadin’ it over the

        

 

ing it So's to gro »)
| little angels called clilidren, an’ to buy other comforts for
j/em out of what extra you can sell—that ought to make

And the more agtive tempemment..you are the |

 
  

ground, b it orashbat you're doin’ it fur—do-

food for a dear wife an’ a lot of

W 18)

} feel noble, an’ look so.

‘Tve seed more than one live king in my time, and they
wuzn't no slouches, éither, ez kings go, but none of ’em
looked so grand as a ragged young farmer 1 happened
to run across just ez he finished spadin’ up the first acre
of ground he could call his own. He looked ev’ry inch a
king, an’ I’ve no. doubt he felt like one.

Speakin’ of kings, do you know what Saul was busy at
when the Israelites picked him out to be their first king ?
He wuz huntin’ for some of his old man’s lost jackasses.
Ramblin’ about in search of stock that’s strayed ain’t
very Stylish work, but I hain’t got no manner of doubt
thet Saul thought somuch more of pleasin’ his father
than about the animals themselves, that he looked no-
ble in spite of the commonness of the work. 7

I know of a big factory where there’s hundreds of wo-
men and gals work, an’ some of ’em’s mighty pooty, but
the one of the hull lot thet my old eyes like to drop on is
a woman thet ain’t no longer young, an’ never wuz over
good lookin’, 1 guess, an’ she dresses mighty plain an’
common, but there’s somethin’ in her tace thet makes
me wish ) could takeoff my hat to her. The foreman of
the room she wo 2 She alluz looks the same way,
z dirty an’ common ez can
OK so? Born of noble parents

ee oo of it; ae sup-
Ne of a er, aan Os she
ork ; toa
ordon, thet lost his life down
>? Well, a tough English ac-
e ls me he once riz out of his chair
ez if he wuz shot up/an™he took off his hat when Gor-
don come into his office, years an’ years ago, though he
didn’t know Gordon trom Adam.

«What made ye doit?” sez I.

«“Somethin’ in his face,” sez he, ‘made me think he
wuz somebody great, an’ yet. all he was doin’ in those
days was teachin’ ragged loafers that he’d picked up in
the gutters of London.” "

See the p’int, Rufe, my boy ? Wasn’t that dirtier, com-
moner work than doin’ all the chores on a small farm
down East? ‘

Of course such kind of greatness don’t look ez fancy
ez that of gineral ina hundred-dollar suit of clothes,
settin a-Straddle of a five-hundred-dollar hoss, or a big
politician keepin’ open house at a hotel where the clerk
won't look at youtor less than ten dollars, or a Wall-
street millionaire drivin’ out the road behind his fifty-
thousan’-dollar team, with half the folks envyin’ him
an the other half gittin’ out of his way. But it’s more
satistact’ry, for folks knows it’s all genuine.

The only kind of greatness that’s wuth havin’, my
boy, is the kind that’s fast colors an’ thet evirybody
recognizes at sight, The world’s greatness don’t alluz
wash. Kings, an’ nobles, an’ swells, an’ millionaires
can’t be warran i 2z they began. Some gets ez

e ‘it all the way down to the
at soldiers generally turn
enough. Great statesmen
beauties fade, great for-

   
    
    
 
 
   
  

be. What makes he
an’ changed in her

 
  
    
  
 

dungeon a
out little, ef
git turned 0

  
 
  
      
 

    

 

  
 

tunes peter “sts find a time when nobody
remembers em; Dub the man or woman who looks ahead
of the daily life to what they’re a-livin’ fur hev got a kind

of greatness that can’t be hid—a patent of nobility thet
can’t be burned upor rubbed out, fur it’s writ on the
face by God Almighty himself. Try it, an’ see how right
the poet wuz when he writ

* *Hdonly noble to be good.”

. An’ now, my boy, I'm goin’ to give the Meddle family
a rest. I’ve onloaded an awful lot of advice on’em,
cause each of ’em thought his or her case peculiar, but
the fact is that human nature is pooty much alike ev’ry-
where, an’ the Meddles ain't any diffrent from their
nabers in trials an’ temptations. an’ longin’s an’ fears.
Next time you want to ask your old uncle somethin’,
just look through the back numbers of the New York
WEEKLY an’ see ef he hezn’t answered the same ques-
tion to somebody else. An’ ef he hazn’t, just do what
you're sure anybody else ort todoef he wuz in your
place, an’ you won’t go fur wrong.

Your affectionate

—l|<_-++re

JACK, THE BUSHRANGER.

AN AUSTRALIAN REMINISCENCE.

The fol urred some years
ago to the hen on his way from

UNCLE MEDDLE.

 

sure against
placed in the
so that the
pass unnoticed were on the alert. For some days
all went Well, nothing unusual or alarming occurring.
They were then well into the bush, and consequently, if
possible, more vigilant, believing that even a mouse
could not intrude itself among them.

One morning it was found that during the night they
had been, spite of all their vigilance, mysteriously and
unaccountably joined by a stranger, who stood in their
midst as if one of themselves. No one could imagine
how or whence he came, and utter astonishment pre-
vailed. He was a fine, portly man, from thirty-five to
forty years of age, with an open, prepossessing counte-
nance and good address—one who, under other circum-
Stances, would have been looked upon as an acquisition
to the party. Not in the least taken aback or abashed
by the scant welcome he received or the undisguised
eer ae his presence created, he came forward boldly,
and told a most plausible story, to the effect that he
was a stranger making his way to the gold-fields—that,
notwithstanding the stories he had heard in Sydney of
“Jack, the Bushranger,” and his comrades, he had ven-
tured so far alone; but as he got farther into the bush
he lost heart, and determined to join the first party he
met.

. It looked strange that he had no luggage of any kind,
not even provisions or anything to indicate that he was
bound for a long journey. He made no attempt to ac-
count for his mysterious appearance, entered into the
arrangements of the cavalcade, and made himself quite
athome. Every man among them, with the exception
ot my brother, believed that no one but ‘Jack” himself
co have so them by surprise, the general belief
being that it could only be from personal experience the
terrible bushranger derived the perfect knowledge he
displayed when making his raids.

The party agreed that the wisest course would be to
await the progress of events, watch his every movement,
and let him see that they were prepared to sell their

ves dearly, if driven to do so.

The stranger seemed,.to have an unlimited supply of

oney, and to be generous about it, paying his way
freely. He took at once to my brother, and the liking
was mutual; in diggers’ parlance, they became mates,
chummed, walked and smoked together. My brother
found him a well-informed, agreeable companion, a vast
improvement on their rough associates ; and he seemed
thoroughly to enjoy the society of the jovial young
Irish gentleman. A friendship sprang up be-
tween them, notwithstanding the disparity in years.

The other members of the party became very anxious,
fearing the man would take advantage of my brother’s

-a sudden surprise. The wagons were
die, sentries posted, and scouts placed
fa bird or the fall of a leaf could not

    
   

    

=

lion, and the lower part that of a man, with the claws of a
vulture and the wings of an eagle; all which forms were
used as architectural ornaments.

Linnie M. S., Cawker City, Kans.—Laura Bridgman, a
blind deaf mute, was born at Hanover, N. H., on Dec. 21,
1829. She possessed all her faculties up to the age of two
years, but at that time sickness attacked her, and she lost
her sight, speech, and hearing, and even her sense of smell
became impaired. Her health gradually returned to her,
but she never regained her lostigenses. She became an in-
mate, at the age of eight, of the Perkins Institution for the
Blind, under the care of Dr. 8. G. Howe, who devoted him-
seli to her education, She was first taught the names of ob-
jects by putting a spoon, or fork, or some other familiar
object in her with its name in raised letters. She was
then furnished with type and a board which had been pierced
with holes for the on of the type. Objects known to
her were then , and she would compose the names

with the type. was next taught to write, and she subse-
quently acquired the rudiments of arithmetic, and took les-

 

sons on the piano, on which she became a skillful performer.
She also learned tomake her own clothing, and to run a
sewing-machine. @ was never happier than when she
could find some person who knew the finger alphabet and
pone. cenveees with her on subjects in which she was most
intereste

Betsey Baker.—i1st. Name some particular one. It is a mat-
ter of opinion who is the greatest. 2d. No knowledge of it.
3d. The crown of iron worn by the Lombard kings, though
chiefly of gold, derived its name from an iron band which
encircled it in the interior, and which was said_to have been

made from one of the nails which served in the crucifixion
of Christ. It is still preserved in the Cathedral of Monza,
and was one of the crowns of the Austriam emperors while
they were masters of the Lombardo-Venetian kingdom.
Napoleon wore it when he was crowned King of Italy at
Milan. 4th. Your handwriting is quite fair, and without par-
ticular signification.

Warren, Providence, R. I.—Bull Run is a small stream in
North-east Virginia, which, after a south-east course of
twenty miles, falls into the Occoquan, a tributary of the
Potomac, about twenty-five miles from Washington. The
two important battles of the civil war i he on its banks

occurred on July 21, 1861, and Aug. 29-30, Jon-
federates the two battles are styled the first es arora
battles of Manassas. Some Union authorities giye name

of Bull Run to that of 1861, and Groveton to that.c
a hamlet near the battle-field. 7 —

A. M., Chicago, Ill.—1st. —Liverpool, England, is the most
densely peopled city in England. The Parliamentary borough
is governed by 16 aldermen and 48 councillors, one of whom
ismayor. The corporation is ed for its wealth

 

unsuspicious, trusting nature to obtain information that
would be useful to him when forming his plans for the
attack which was hourly expected, in fact looked upon
as imminent. Nor were their fears allayed when, after
a little, he would leave the beaten track and walk into
the bush, remaining away for hours, and returning at
the most unexpected times and places, showing a thor-
ough knowledge of the bush and all its intricasies and
short-cuts, quite inconsistent with the story he had told
on joining.

One thing struck my brother as strange, but without
exciting any suspicion on his part. When walking ‘to-
gether he would suddenly stand, become quite excited,
and say: wi,

“Oh, it was here such an outrage occurred. It was
on the spot on which we are standing that the escort
was shot down and a large consignment of gold carried
a They wm fight ae Seronns. ae 2

ie seemed to take the greatest pleasure in givi
minute details of the different outralee as they ad

 

curred da always spoke as if he had been an
ness. so thorough was my brothers
new that even this did not shake

When within a few
stranger sudde
intention of parth plan
tion as to his reason for doing so, though all through he
had seemed anxious to impress it on them that he in-
tended to go the entire way to the diggings with them.
No questions were asked.

After a general and hearty leave-taking, which, how-
ever, did not inspire much confidence, as they were still
within range of a possible attack, he asked my brother
to take a last walk with him, and led the way into the
bush farther than he had ever brought him before, and
a long distance from the beaten trail. The first words
the stranger said were :

‘‘Mate, don’t you carry a revolver ?”

The answer was:

“Yes, and a first-class one.
here. I brought it from home.”

“Show it to me,” said the stranger; ‘I love a really

ood weapon ;” and without the slightest hesitation, my

rother handed him the revolver, which he examined
carefully, and saw that the chamber re loaded. He
remarked that it was the ‘prettiest weapon” he had
handled for a long time. ieee,

He walked a few steps in advance, and, ‘ning round
suddenly, he presented the revolver at brother’s
head, calling out in a commanding tone, “Stand!” his
countenance so changed as scarcely to be recognized.

s of the journey’s \
rand quite unexpectedly de

Not such as is got out

 

At last my brother felt that he stood face to face with
a seenene bushranger, but did not lose his presence of

For a moment there was a profound silence, first
broken by the stranger saying:

“Is there anything on earth to prevent my blowing
out your brains with your own weapon, placed in my
hands of your own free will? The wild bush round us, |
I Know itsevery twist and turn. The man fs not living
who could track my footsteps through its depths, where
I alone am lord and master. Speak, man! What is
there to prevent me ?” ;

With a throbbing heart and a quickened pulse my
brother answered:

“Nothing but your sense of honor.”

The man’s face brightened and his voice resumed its
friendly tone, and handing back the revolver, he said:
“We stand now on equal footing. You hold my life in
your hands, as I held yours a moment ago. Yes, boy,
and your own fortune, too. But I trust you, as you
trusted me. I would not hurt a hair of your head, and
I have spared others for yoursake, How, you will never
know ; but they owe you a debt of gratitude. You are
a noble-hearted fellow, and through the rest of my
stormy life I will look back with pleasure on the time
we have passed together. But, mate, you are the great-
est fool I ever met. I brought you here to-day to give
you a lesson, whick I bope you will bearin mind. You
are going among a rough, lawless crew ; never, as long
as you live, trust any man as you have trusted me to-
day. Where you are bound for, your revolver will be
your only true friend; never let it out of your own
keeping, to friend or foe. You are far too trusting.
There was not a man but yourself among those from
whom I have just parted who did not believe from the
moment that I joined that 1 was ‘Jack, the Bushranger.’
Well, mate, I am not going to tell you who or what I
am, or how or why 1 came among you; but of this rest
assured, that you have no truer friend. You will never
know what I have done for your sake. Now, mate, good-
by forever. We will never meet again in this world, and
it is best for you it should be so.”

Then leading him back to the track by which he could

 

 

rejoin his party, he wrung my brother’s hand, turned
and walk gmekly into the bush, leaving no doubt
upon my brother’s mind that the friend he had so loved

and trusted was indeed the dreaded bushranger.

They never met again. My brother came home to die,
and, unless my memory deceives me, Jack was shot dead
in a skirmish with the military.

 

 

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.]}

 

Mrs. H. E: J., Meriden, Conn.—Southern California is said
to possess a better climate than Italy. South of San Fran-

 

 

 

 

Sydney to the gold figids :

At the time of his atrival in Australia, the country was
in a state of panic; areign of terror existed, caused by
the daring outrages committed on parties or the jour-
ney to and from the diggings. Robbery with violence,
escorts shot down, ard large consignments of gold car-
ried off, were of daily occurrence. The bush was in-
fested by a gang of desperate bushrangers, whose leader,
under the cognomen of ‘‘Jack, the Bushranger,” seemed
to bear a charmed life. For years he had evaded all the
efforts made to capture him, though the military scoured
the bush. Nosoonerwas an outrage perpetrated than

all trace of the perpetrators was lost, as if the ground
had swallowed them. ‘Jack” had a perfect knowledge
of the most secret moyements of the parties he attacked.
He seemed ubiquitous, outrages occurring in such rapid
succession, and far apart. Such an air of mystery hung
about him that «superstitious feeling mingled with the
terror he inspired. He was represented by some per-
sons who had seen him as a fine, powerful-looking man,
with nothing forbidding in his appearance.

Even the mad thirst for gold could not induce the
bravest persons to undertake the journey alone. The
gold-seekers traveled in large cavalcades, well armed,
and determined to fight for their lives and property ;
one of these parties my brother joined. He was a fine,
handsome young fellow, allfun and love of adventure,
and he soon became & general favorite. The trail—for
there were no roads at that time—ran for the greater
distance through the bush, some parts of which were
so dense as scarcely to admit daylight. Every man was
well armed.

My brother had brought with him a first-cl re-
volver. This he kept with other valuables carefully hid-
den on his person, his other belongings being stowed
away in one of the wagons. When they bivouacked for
the night, care was taken that it should be in an open
space, where a good lookout could be kept, to make

 

 

cisco andin the San Joaquin valley frostis rarely known.
Roses bloom throughout the winter, and many trees retain
their foliage green the year round. The air, peculiarly
warm and dry, is very healthful and favorable to consump-
tives and persons subject to diseases of the throat. For this
reason, San Diego, Santa Barbara, San Bernardino, Stock-
ton, and Visalia have become popular winter resorts for in-
valids. In regard to epidemic diseases the climate of Cali-
fornia is deemed remarkable adverse to them. Malarious
fevers occurin many of the interior valleys, but they are
not generally of a severe type. California has a rainy anda
dry season, the former nearly corresponding to the winter
and the latter to the summer of the Atlantic region. The
rains begin at the north early in autumn, but do not fall in
the latitude of San Francisco, in any eter quantity
until about the middle of December, which is the month o
greatest rain. The rainy season terminates toward the end
of May. It has been estimated that in the latitude referred
to there are on an average 220 perfectly clear days in a year:
8 days more or less cloudy; and 60 rainy. A marked
a = ging of the climate is the comparative absence of
hunder and lightning. Earthquake $ are quite fre-
quent in California, but they rarely do any great damage.

Hi. L., Houston, Texas.—ist. A book containing 500 curious
puzzles, with 100 illustrations, will cost 50 cents. 2d. The
sphinx is a fabulous monster of Greek mythology.= Some
writers represent her as one of the women who with the
daughters of Cadmus were thrown into madness and meta-
morphosed into monsters. She was ravaging Thebes and
devouring those who could not solve a riddle which she pro-

posed to all whom she met, when Edipus, being offered the
crown of Thebes on condition of delivering the country
from the monster, solved the riddle, wpon which the Soap
destroyed herself. The following was riddle: “A being
with four feet has two feet and three feet, and only one
yoice ; but its feet vary, and when it has most it is weakest.”
QG£dipus answered that it was aman, who in infancy crawls
upon all-fours, in manhood walks erect, and in old age sup-
himself by a staff. C£dipus was the son of Laius and
ocasta. The sphinx was represented generally as having
the winged y of a lion and the breast and head of a
woman, but sometimes with afemale face, the breast, feet,

y Th pora otingniah ;
and liberality, 2d, Phryne, the aes a noted woman of the
latter part of the fourth century, B.C., is pronounced as if
written fens. _3d. The missing paper (No. 16, Vol. 40) can be
obtained by writing directly to the ce of the NEw YorK
ee: 4th. In due time. 5th. We do not know her present

Al. F. C., Fitzwilliam Depot, N. H.—ist. Most of the meer-
schaum comes from Asia Minor, near the town of Konich,
where it isdug from the earth. It is sent to other countries
er in rough blocks or in partly shape e bowls, which
terward finished by workmen skilled in the business.
e number are made in Vienna and Pesth, and some in
_and other cities. We know of none of the

Wedo not give business ad i

   
  
 
 

  
    
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
   

  

nter, and in 1820 the editor of a newspaper at
Doylestown. He was Secretary of War under President Lin-
coln from March 4, 1861, until Jan. 14,1862. He was Minister
to Russia for a short time. He ac with the Democratic
party until 1854, when he allied himself with the Republican
party. nine

M. L. McB., Jersey City.—Olla-podrida (pronounced ol-la-
po-dre-da) is a Spanish national dish, consisting of several
kinds of meat cut up into small pieces, and stewed with a
variety of vegetables. The dish is a great favorite with the
poor, and is kept so long that i or and flavor become

highly offensive. It is commonly used like pot pourri (pro-
nounced po-poor-ee) metapho: to denote a medley.

L. M. O., Boston, Mass.—ist. Colorado has no bonded debt,
the State constitution expressly prohibiting the Legislature
from creating any debt in advance of appropriations, beyond
the amount actually provided for by taxation. 2d. A poll-tax
ot 50 cents is imposed on males over twenty-one years of age
for a military fund.

Mrs. R. B., Augusta, Ga.—In North Carolina, the property of
a married woman remains her own, free from liability for
the debts of her husband, and may be devised and bequeath-
ed by her, and e written consent of her husband con-
veyed, as if she single. A divorce can be obtained for
any “Just cause”,

J. S., Allendale, 8. C.—ist. The population of Charleston,
S. C., in 1880, was 49,984; Savannah, Ga., 30,709. 2d. For the
latest official figures we suggest that you write to William F.
Switzler, Chief of Bureau of Statistics, Treasury Depart-
ment, Washington, D. C.

St. Margaret, California.—Wep have not seen the book re-
ferred to, but if you will agWai carefully examine the story,
you will find that it is not the same. Your other question
— only be answered on receipt of your proper name and
address.

 

Ww

L. C. P., Camden, N. J.—A lute is a musical instrument of
the guitar species, formerly in general use, but long super-
seded by the harp and guitar. Itis supposed to be of astern
origin, and its invention has been ascribed to the Arabs.

Clothiede, Richmond, Va.—The royal palace in Stockholm,
the capital of Sweden, consists of a huge quadrangle of
solid granite. It is remarkable for the chaste yet massive
style of its Italian architecture.

S. C. A., Harmony.—We can furnish you with a work enti-
tled “The Employment Seeker’s Guide,” for 25 cents. If you
yee it, write direct to the New YorRK WEEKLY Purchasing

ney,

J. N. J,—Cuba-was discovered by Columbus on Oct. 28, 1429.

It was given several names, but none of them supplanted
that of Cuba, by which it was known to the natives. i.
C, B., Brookline, Ill.—ist. There are twelve numbers of

G. C.
“One Hundred Choice Selections”. Price, in | r cover, :
cents each ; in cloth, 50 cents. 2d. No. ee
L. B. S., AYbany, N. Y.—In Maine a poll-tax is required to

be assessed on every male inhabitant, varying in amount
from year to year; but limited to $3. ee

Imogene, Louisville, .—Polygamy was introduced among
the Mormons by a “revelation” of Joseph Smith -in 1843,zbut
for some years only existed secretly.

L. L. D;, Boston, Mass.—The Superintendent of Public
Education in North’ Carolina is Sidney M. Finger. Address
your letter to Raleigh. 4

F. C. B., Portland, Me.—Glycerine diluted with.
cologne water will sometimes prove very efficacious for the

removal of pimples.
Painter, Chicago.—We
be treated like any other,
aid you.
>
W. E._S.,. Montrose, Pa.—A letter addressed to Senator
George Hearst, Washington, D. C., will reach its destination.

J. E. L., St. Louis.—ist. It’is perh some throat affection
that a good physician could remalige i: No, a

Luke.—The Prohibition vote in the United States in the
Presidential election of 1884 was 151,809.

Mrs. L. S., Fayetteville, Mo.—It is a matter of opinion, one
reader differing widely from another.

Alice Brown, Eugene City, Oregon.—Write to “Publisher of
City Directory” in any named place.

An Old_Militiaman.— Write to Adjutant-General Josiah
Porter, Albany, N. Y.

J. A. S., Vidalia, La.—Yes, if in custody of the United
States officers.

Lucrece.—Pomona is the Roman goddess of fruit trees and
gardens.

J. R. L.—Not in our power to enlighten you.
Old Time Reader.—No d 4
—_—__>- 0 +_______
THE LOVER COULD NOT STAND THE TEST.

preva the wood mentioned can
ut we have no recipe that would

 

“Do you see that handsome row of tall poplars on the
Canadian shore, standing apparently at equal distances
apart ?” asked a brave-faced man of a group of passen-

gers on the Fort Erie ferry-boat, at Buffalo.

The group nodded assent.

“Well, there’s quite a story connected with those
trees,” he continued. “Some years ago there lived on
the bluff in Buffalo, overlooking the river, a very
wealthy banker, whose only daughter was beloved by a
young surveyor. The old man was inclined to question
the professional skill of young rod-and-level, and to put
him to test directed him to set out, on the dominion
shores, a row of trees, no two of which should be any
further apart than any other two. The trial proved the
lover’s inefficiency, and forthwith he was forbidden the
house. and in despair he drowned himself in the river.
Perhaps some of you gentlemen with keen eyes can tell
which two trees are furthest apart.”

The group took a critical view of the situation, and
each member selected a different pair of trees. Finally,
after much discussion, an appeal was taken to the
solemn-faced stranger to solve the problem.

“The first and the last,” said he, calmly resuming his
cigar and walking away with the air of a sage.

ee
A SATISFIED GUEST.

 

During a thunder-storm at Lake Minnetonka, Minn.,
the lightning struck a tree near the Lake Park Hotel,
shivering it to splinters. One of the’guests of the house,
who was standing near by, was thrown flat on his back.
A hotel clerk rushed to his assistance and d d him,
apparently more dead than alive, into the hotel office.
When the crowd that caine around was momentari-
ly expecting to see the Nis ages Teiece Te on up

the ghost he opened his eyes, raise on his

Yeoh

 

 

 

and claws of a lion, the tail of a serpent, and the wings of
a bird; and sometimes the fore part of the body is that of a

elbow, and remarked :
“Gentlemen, a little of that fills me up.”

   

 

 

a

 

 

 

 

ferns

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*
SL i ee

stanton
 

 

 
 
  
  

 

ne ign
\ :

~

  
  
  

*

.

 

  

 

UL

   
  

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 41—No. 43,
DID YOU EVER KNOW GOOD COME BY
GRUMBLING ?

 

BY T.

 

This world has its roses and thorns,
Made up both in pleasure and sorrow ;
And often the saddest to-day
Is found to be joyful to morrow ;
So varied the changes we see
While twenty-four hours are gliding,
That wiser that mortal will be,
Prepared for whatever betiding.

The man who doth rise with the lark,
And seek, like the bee, for the honey,
Finds something turn up before dark,
_ That brings tothe pocket the money.
The soil must be tilled for the grain,
The net must be cast for the fishes,
And only by striving, ’tis plain,
Will fortune fall in with our wishes.

Don't always depend on your friends,
Who fly at the tidings of sorrow,
But rather your purse touch with care,
And see that it yields for to-morrow ;
In fact, be a friend to yourself, —
And thus by self-effort succeeding,
You soon unto others can say, ;
“Many thanks, but your aid I’m not needing.”
Then halt not, though rough be the
They fall who are fearful of stumb.

gs
hard as your lot may be found,
Did you ever know good come by

grumbling ?
——_——__>- 9 +__—_
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

LINING WAGES

LENA DUDLEY’S PERIL.

—_——

A STORY OF THE GREAT STRIKE.

By CLINT. CARPENTER.

—

und,

 

% +
(“For Lrvrine WAGES” was
numbers can be obtained of ali Ne
CHAPTER °
THE TRAMP’S JOURNEY.

menced in No. 28 Back
wi Agents.) ej

 

Fa

      
 
 

When Jack Belford came to himself after that fright-
ful plunge through the air, he found himself struggling
in the blinded, deafened,and half suffocated. _

He had been, however, through many tight places, and

 

he found that he still lived. While there was life there
as hope. He blew the water from his mouth, and after
floating a few moments to regain his breath, he lifted his
head as well as he was able and looked around.

Nothing, save a trackless waste of water, met his
gaze.

“Well, ’m in for a watery grave, ‘unknelled, uncoffined,
and unknown’ etc.,” muttered Belford; ‘‘but ‘never say
die,’ is my motto. Wonder what has become of that
cursed rascal of a Conroy. Gone to the duse, I trust.
Ha! what is that?”

His quick ear had caught a sound—which he recog-
nized at once. The splashing of the paddle wheels of a
small steamer. He raised himself as far as possible out
of the water, and uttered a shrill cry. He repeated it
several times, until by the answering call, he knew that
those on board the steamer had perceived him.

The splashing ceased, the steam was shut off; there
was shouting by the captain and crew, anda boat was

got over the side, and rowed rapidly in Belford’s direc-
tion. In five minutes he was hauled on board, and a
little later he was drinking hot whisky punch in the cap-
tain’s little state-room.

The water over which the balloon had sailed, was a
small inland lake, and the steamer was one of many
small boats which engaged in the carrying of freights

and passengers.
_ «How happened you to ke in the lake ?” asked cap-
tain, when Belford had breath enough to speak.

Belford had already resolved not to enter into particu-
lars. Of course, he argued, Conroy and the professor
were both dead, and it was not necessary for the public
to know just how-it was. There wasno one to dispute
his story so he would tell it as he pleased.

“TI was fool enough to go up in a balloon with a couple
of friends. Professor Riley from Allston & Berkeley’s
Combination Show was one of them. The other wasa
fellow named Conroy. A gust of wind struck the balloon,
somewhere up in the air—duse if I know where—and we

to come down. I suppose we must have over-

 

 

gan
turned, for the first thing I knew I was eae down like
a ball shot from a cannon, and then I Daa myself in
the water.”

“And the other two men ?” asked the captain.

“IT know nothing of them. I have not seen them since
we parted in the car.”

“Well,” said the captain, “you’ve had an adventure,

and I don’t mind saying that I think it served you right.
A man has no business to go fooling round through the
air hitched to one of them gas-b: Though I’m sorry
for the other poor fellows. Had they any families?
Where did they live ?”

“They didn’t live anywhere. Professor Riley traveled
with the circus, and Conroy had no relatives.”

The captain was, evidently, a Down-Easter, and was

uite inc to pursue his course of questioning, but
lford cut him short.

“Pye told you all I know about it, and now how soon,
and by what way can I get back to C—— where I am ob-

to be as soon as possible ?”
“We can land you at Bridgeport, where you can take
cars for C——.”
“Very well. Do so,” returned Belford; and before
t he found himself again in the city of C—.
fessor Riley’s mutilated body had been found in a
tract of pasture land and Belford was summoned to be
sent at the inquest. He told the same story that he
told the captain of the steamer, and a verdict of
accidental death was rendered.

And that night Belford lett C——, and turned his face
westward. A hundred miles further on he expected to
find three of his old confederates, and away out in the
Western wilds they were purposing to again establish
themselves in counterfeiting.

Now, Conroy was not dead, as Belford had calculated.
Like Belford, he had “landed” in the water, but he had
been fortunate enough to fall very near a small island
in the lake, and the tide drifted him high and dry in
the sand before he had time to think of his condition.
And from this island he had plainly seen the party from

steamer rescue his late companion.

*“*All the better,” said Conroy, savagely. ‘He shall
die by no means but through me! I alone should send
him to his doom! I have sworn it, and I will live to
perform my vow !”

He was very sore and stiff from the strain he had re-
ceived in falling, as well as from the blows Belford had
given him, a

 

- ¥

ot each other, of a dread epidemic; and a few months

later his wife had followed them. Only Carrie remained.
He had her, but the demon of strong drink had seized
upon him. Affliction had driven him to seek forgetful-
ness, and the sober man had become besotted and de-
moralized. How the little girl had begged of him to de-
sist ; how she had sought with her weak hands :to lead
— home from the nightly temptation of the dram-
shop.
Then the seeds of discontent had been sown in his
mind, and the strikes in Marlboro had given him oppor-
tunity*to vent his spite against the wealthy classes. And
then, the blight had fallen on Carrie, and the evil pas-
sions of his heart had mastered him, and he had made
the- poor girl’s trouble very hard for her to bear. And
then—she had been br t in to him, cold and dripping
from the river—and he had sworn revenge, and revenge
he would have! Though Belford fled to the remotest
ends of the earth, a father’s vigilance should hunt him
an and mete out to him his just and terrible punish-
men

Conroy awoke with a start. The car in which he was
was plunging and rolling over and over, the heavy bags
of grain wed the tramp’s body as ina vise; there
was an awful deafening crash, a shock that seemed to
send the blood from his eyes and ears and through the
top of his head ; and then the car quivered like a dying
animal and stood still.

The train had gone down an embankment.

 

CHAPTER XLIl.
MR. RICH HEARS A STRANGE STORY.

Mr. Carleton Rich kept on with his improvements at
Clitheroe. In afew weeks from the time in which he
took possession the west wing was leveled and the
ghostly cellars were filled up, even to the subterranean

e leading to the monument.

“Tl put all the ghosts under a thousand tons of gray-
el,” said Mr. Rich to his wife, ‘and if they can rise
through that, then I shall know that they are spirits.
But until I see see ’em coming up through, I shall think
they’re nothing but flesh and blood, though pretty con-
founded slippery.”

That night, while Mr. Rich was smoking his pipe in
the vicinity of the Wishing Well, debating the propriety
of having that romantic locality included in his plan of
improvements, a light step sounded on the turt at his
side, and a cold hand was laid upon his.

Mr. Rich started, and turned toward the apparition.
He saw just what he had expected tosee. The tall, shad-
owy form of the woman with the silvery white hairand
the livid scar across her pallid throat.

The wild dark eyes searched his face with a look of
anxious inquiry, and she bent low to whisperin his
ear.

«Are you one of thenu? Did you help them do it 2”

«Well, now,” said Mr. Carleton Rich, rising and stand-
ing beside her, and holding her by the arm, resolved
that this time she should not escape him until he had
fathomed the mystery ; ‘‘I don’t think I know what you
mean, my dear. If you mean to ask me if-I was one of
ie coiners, I am happy to tell you no; I certainly was
not.” ,

She wrung her white hands helplessly together.

‘Not that, not that!” she cried, glancing uneasily over
her shoulder. ‘It is farther back. Oh, years and years
ago. Before I was so sick and ill here,” and she put her
hand to her forehead, *‘before I had such hard work -to
remember. Everything goes from me now. I cannot
hold it. Itis like a picture across which the artist has
‘drawn his brush, and obliterated the figures. It is all
there, but it is confused and, uncertain.”

| “Think it out, my dear,” said Mr. Rich, ‘take time,

and think it out.”

| “J wish I could have the time tothink. I wish I could

Oh, it was horrible! horrible! hor-

see things clearly.
Take me away from it.

Tible! I seem to see it now.
It burns my brain.”

She struggled violently to free herself from Mr. Rich’s
detaining grasp, but he held her fast. Finally her
Strength seemed to fail her, and she sank, panting and
exhausted, on the ground at his feet.

Mr. Rich was a kind-hearted man, and he soothed the

 

terrified woman with gentleness and feeling.

“There now, my dear, don’t get excited again. It
isn’t good for you. Try to think what itis you want to
tell me. Or. see Mrs. Rich—she’s a sensible woman,
and she’d know better how to talk to you.”

 

 

IN FIVE MINUTES BELFORD WAS HAULED ON BOARD.

The woman rose and went toward the Wishing Well.
Rich still holding her arm, followed where she led. She
passed the well, and stepped into the undergrowth by
the side of the path.

“It was here,” she said, ‘right here. And the moon
looked out of the watery clouds, and showed me plainly
his dark and evil face. Dark and evil as it was—as it
has always been. Oh, Charlie! Charlie! how I hear
still the cruel blow that dabbled your bright hair in
blood, and made the cold shadows of death creep over
your face. Oh, Charlie! Charlie! Charlie”

Her tone was so full of tragic agony that Mr. Carleton
Rich shivered in spite of himself, and wished he was safe
back in the cozy room he had fitted up for a sitting-
pips. back of the magnificent parlors in the great

ouse.

‘ Duse take the woman,” he muttered, ‘‘she’s crazy as a
oon.’

“Crazy ? yes that’s what they call me,” said she. ‘I’ve
heard it often. What makes me crazy? Shall I tell you
what.makes me crazy ?”

 

 

 

it was with difficulty that he could
walk.

“IT hope I am not going to give out.” he said, rubbing”

his aching limbs to restore circulation; ‘‘not that I
care for life a pin, after I have killed him. And now,
how can I get away from here ?”
i! traversed the narrow limits of the island, which
tid not contain more than two or three acres of land,
and found to his joy that, instead of being an island, it
was a sort of peninsula, cut off from the mainland by a
breadth of only twenty or thirty feet of water.

jt would be comparatively easy to reach the land, for
the water was not deep enough to offer any serious ob-
struction to a strong and determined man like Conroy.

After resting for some hours, while his dripping gar-
ments dried in the wind, he crossed the peninsula. and
soon set foot on the mainland. He made way to the
nearest house and inquired the road to C——. To his
surprise they told him that C—— was fifty miles dis-
ick er balloon had traveled almost with the speed
of li >

Conroy looked at his floating capital, which was all
contained in a y red leather pocket-book. Ten
cents, a nickel, three trousers buttons, and a suspender
puckle. Not much toward paying a fifty-mile fare.
But Conroy had beenin just such straits before. He
skulked up to the railway station, hung round the
freight cars switched on a side track, and learned that
bor were to be forwarded to C—— with the midnight

t.

He quietly stowed himself behind some bags of grain
in one of the rear cars, and waited with such patience
as he could command.

Time dragged on. The car doors were closed; the
musty smell of grain and feed half stitied him, but he
kept his place. By and by the locomotive was hitched
to the cars, and by the backing and shifting from one
track to another Conroy knew that they were getting
ready to start. In a little while they were off, and
nothing broke the monotony of the click, click of the
wheels as they ran off the ends of the rails.

Conroy fell into adoze. He went back to his young
manhood. Again he wasa suitor for the hand of his
fair young wife—again he felt her soft touch on his
shoulder—again he saw her sweet blue eyes looking in-
to his own. He was an honest man then. An honest,
hard-working man, with no bad habits; a man who
ve his wife and his children, and was willing to work
for them.

 

She drew closer to Rich, and looked apprehensively
around her as she spoke.

«Yes, my dear, I should like to know.”

«You are sure there is nobody near? Nobody to hear
us, and tell Peter? Peter watches me as a cat watches
amouse. Heispaidforit. I have seen the yellow gold
counted out.”

“No,” said Rich, soothingly. ‘‘Peter is nowhere around.

on.

The woman settled back against the stone wall which
surrounded the Wishing Well, and spoke in a low,
monotonous tone, with her eyes fixed on vacancy like a
sleep-walker.

“It was a very long time ago. Averylongtime. I
must have been young. My hair was brown then, now
it is so white and ghostly.” She drew along silvery tress
contemplatively through her fingers, and looked at Rich
inquiringly. She had evidently lost the thread of what
she was going to say.

“Tt was a very long time ago,” said Rich, encouraging-
ly prompting her.

“Yes, it was a very long time ago, and it was ina
strange, wild. country. A country where snow-capped
mountains lost their peaks in the clouds, a country
where it was always summer, and where shores were
washed by seas soft, and warm, and on, We
were very.happy then, Charlie and I, and we used to go
and sit on the warm sands, through the twihghts, and
watch the amber tints go out of the western sky, and
feel the cool breeze as it swept down from the moun-

tains.”

“It’s just like poetry,” said Rich, with approbation.
“Go on.”

“He to visit the country, and look after the gold

nites Ge the mountain streams were full of gold,
yellow and bright, and men sell their souls for gold,
you know.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Rich, wondering if he should have
struck a better streak of luck if he had gone into gold
mining instead of bitters making.

“He was Charlie’s friend, at least he professed to be,
and he loved me, so he said. I was pretty then, at least
they saidso. Peter says so quite often when I ask him
about it.” a

“No doubt Peter isright,” said Mr. Rich. .

“He wanted to marry me. I think I liked him, but I
cannot seem toremember. Everything in that long ago
time is so misty and dark. Did you know him? Did
you know that he could be an angel or a devil, as he
pleased? Did you know that he ought to have lived in
Satan’s dominion, and been Satan’s prime minister?
Did you know it ?”

She had grasped Rich’s arm in her fierce clutch, and
her eyes had grown wild, and her breath came in quick,

hot gasps.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course I know him! Yes, yes, to be
a !” replied Rich, fearing to excite her by contradic-
tion. ©

“Tam glad you did. Then you will be the more like
to believe my story. You will not call it the silly drivel-
ings of amaniac. Charlie consented. He wanted me
to be Trowbridge’s wife ; he——”

“Trowbridge ?” cried Rich, in astonishment. Albert
Trowbridge—is it of him you are speaking ?”

“Itisofhim. You said you knew him. Have you
dared to lie tome? Have you? See here!” She drew
from her bosomasmall pistol and pointed it at Mr.
Rich’s head. ‘If you have lied I will kill you.”

“No, no; of course I told. you the?truth. Oh, yes, I
knew Trowbridge well. He was murdered, and found

 

 

 

Then, three of his children died within a very few days

in the Wishing Well—murdered on the very spot, per-
haps, where we are now sitting.” ©

&

down 6p the body of my brotheifand laid my face against |
his. Tey snatched me yp Ga wot. know what they’
| Said; not remember VE sumons weet But wd)
n-eyed man said, ‘She sha tell no tales? and then |

I felt something cold here” touched the scar on her |

| care; as it is, [can barely remember those things—there
is nothing very distinct about i. After a time they took

“Ha, ha!” laughed the woman; ‘‘and they found him
se a well ; and the night before his wedding, too. Ha,

a, ha!

She wrenched her hand away from Rich and danced
in wild glee on the stone paving; then her mad spirits
seemed to forsake her, and she sank down again in her
old place.

“T married him. They said we loved each other.
They said that we were devoted to each other. He had
a wonderful influence over me; he could make me fol-
low him like a dog; he could force my will to obey him
in whatever he chose. I signed papers which took from
me all control over the fortune which was mine, for
Charlie and I were equal heirs to our father’s vast prop-
erty. My husband gambled and speculated, and he had
afriend. Did you know Jack Belford, too ?”

“Oh, yes, yes—to be sure!” said Mr. Rich, beginning
to feel that the plot was thickening, and believing that
the woman, maniac though she might be, was not with-
out method in her madness.

oe hex SRA Phuc
ee NOG

LS
d it” 4 Ey

Pia
bt

    
  

’

    
  

    

-

 

   

A LIGHT STEP SOUNDED ON THE TURF, AND A COLD HAND
we WAS LAID UPON HIS.

“Belford was worse than he was. I wish I could meet
him. I would send him after the other. Two such inti- |
mate friends ought not to be separated. I shall always |
think that Belford put him up toit. My brother was |
influenced to make a will in my husband’s favor. IL|
can’t tell you the particulars—my head whirlsso. Did
you ever feelasif there was a buzz saw in your head,
and thatit was going to out through the top?
That is howI feel. Oh, it is terrible! terrible!”
she clasped her head with herhands. By and by she went
on: ‘Icansee the room now. It was at the back of |
the house. The windows reached the ground. The |
flaming blossoms of the cactus covered the wide piazza ;
the stately palm trees threw their shadows over the
marble floor. A soft, warm breeze—I can feel it now—
lifted the lace curtains and stirred the oleanders in the
tall vases. I can see it now. Look, it is yonder, just |
where the sky shows through the two tall trees. Hist!
do you see the picture ?”

She pointed straight ahead into t and Mr.
Rich, with the cold pha S rub ino

Lh he

7

 

 
  

   
  

 
   
    

he shadows,
eowyp His back, had |
to make her believe F cue vision of which she |
spoke. pate?
“Charlie is taking a siesta. 00k closely. You will
see him on the velvet divan there by the window, his
soft hair falling over his forehead, one hand, on which
he wears a bloodstone ring, rests on the marble floor,
and holds a rose—and I have hated roses ever since. I
Stand in an outer room and look at him. I think how
good he is, how handsome, and how brave. My bonnie, |
bonnie Charlie. A dark shadow falls over the window. |
Yes, there are two of them. See—see how they creep noise-
lessly in. How they stand and@iook at him. Those two
fiends inhuman shape. The one is dark and hand-|
some, the other has greenish eyes and red-brown hair. |
A glittering knife is in the hand of the green-eyed man, |
and while the dark fiend holds my brother down the |
other plunges the knife to the_hilt into his breast. To |
the hilt, do.you hear?” she criéd, fiercely, again seizing |
Rich = the arm and glaring at him with wild eyes; |
“and the blood spurts to the ceiling and flecks the mar- |
ble floor with crimson. And when Charlie would have
Started up, the dark, handsome man strikes him on the |
head with a brazen vase, and he lies still—so very still. |
Do you know what it is to stang beside a murdered man |
and see him lie still?”

She paused, and passed her hands wearily over her
forehead. She trembled and sfook like an aspen tree,
and her voice was hoarse cen asshe wenton: |

“Then they saw me. Neverjshall I forget the look |
that was on their faces. They fame toward me. I fell |

   
 

 

  
  
   
   
  
 
   
  
    

throat—‘‘and then I knew non
“Afterward, when I got up ff
I was in another country, where snow covered the |
ground, and ice was on the treés, and there were neith- |
er birds nor fiowers. The green-eyed man I never saw,
but my husband was there, and Peter—do you know
Peter? He has been very good tome. They told me I
was crazy, and they said that I was never tosee any
one, and that by and by I would die. I was too weak to

|
|
|
|

n a long, long sickness,

me on along journey, and I came here. I have been
here solong! My husband came to see me sometimes,
but he was always cold and distant, and did not trust
himself too nearme. And [I tell you,” she hissed in
Rich’s ear, “‘that was where he was wise! For I would
have killed him! Day and night I longed to see his
blood spurt out of his heart against the ceiling, just as |
Charlie’s dia; day and night I longed to stand beside |
him and see him lie still, just as Charlie had lain !”

There was the sound of hurried feet through the un-
derbrush, and an old man appeared. who at once rushed
to the side of the maniac and grasped her arm.

“Come with me, Agnes,” said the old man. Come
quick! I ought not to have left you for a moment.”

“Stop, my good friend,” said Mr. Rich; ‘‘this lady has.
been telling me a rather queer stery.”

“No doubt of it, sir—not the slightest,” said the old
man, doffing his hat to the.n™® d owner. ‘Sheis
full of queer stories, ppor4agyPa guoge deal off here,”
and he touched his forehead. © ne

“But look here!” persisted Mr. Rich: “it seems to me
that this is a case which should be looked into. This
woman used to haunt the west wing of Clitheroe, which |
I have had pulled down, and from what we discovered
in demolishing the place, I sheuld say she had lived
there. It ought to be investigated. And I'll do it, by

 
 
         
      

Jove! or I’ll eat my head !”

This terrible threat seemed to horrify the poor old
man. He seized Mr. Rich by the arm, and cried im-
ploringly :

    

oe

  

EB:

     

  

AGNES!” SAID THE OLD MAN.
QUICK ;”

“Oh, please, don’t do anything of the kind—don’t, sir!”

“COME WITH ME, “COME

unfortunate, and her

My poor mistress has been
IT do it the

mind is gone, and I try to take care of her,
best way I can.” i

‘Who pays you for taking care ofier 2”

«She has money of her own, sir—a little, sir. It don’t
take much to keep us.”

“But wit does she mean by all this story about hav-

And |.

Nall

 

 

 

ing been Albert Trowbridge’s wife ?”

be old man started back, with acry of dismay, and
his withered old hands fumbled helplessly in the pock- |
ets of his coat, as though he hoped to find some reas-
suring evidence there.

«~—that is—there is no accounting for the fancies of
crazy folks! Don’t you know that they are full of cranky
turns? My mistress is like the rest.”

‘Your mistress can tell a straight story, though—and
I believe that she has told the truth about the mu
of her brother, and the scar on her throat, and——” ~— |

“Come away !” cried the old man, tremblingly, ‘‘come |
away!” and seizing the woman by the arm he forced |
her into the shrubbery, and in the darkness, before Mr.

 

Rich could find his way nS the underbrush, with
which he was entirely unfamiliar, the twain had lost
themselves to his sight and hearing.

 

«<4 ‘THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. >

Perspiring, and very much blown generally, after hay-
ing tramped over several acres of brushwood, Mr. Rich
came out of the woods, and leaned against the curbstone
of the Wishing Well, while he wiped his damp forehead.

“Tl eat my head!” he remarked, ‘‘if this doesn’t beat
all creation! I wish ’Lizy Ann had heard her talk. And
as to what I ought to do, I ain’t clear. But I’ll lay the
whole thing before ’Lizy Ann.”

 

CHAPTER XLIII.
AT THE TOMB.

The news of Lena Dudley’s death was not unexpected.
It had been known for a long time that the unfortunate
sirl was sinking, but the people who knew Dr. Steinman
1ad great confidence in his skill, and it had been hoped
that he might save her. For throughout the country
surrounding Marlboro, there had been a growing belief
in the girl’s innocence, and a feeling that if Governor
Waldron had done the right thing, her sentence should
have been commuted.

We all know what a powerful thing public opinion is.
We all know how it will grow, and enlarge, until, like
the avalanche which starts at first in some obscure moun
tain fastness—a little ball of ice and snow, it gathers
and increases in volume until at last nothing can stand
before it. And soit had been in Lena Dudley’s case. At
first everybody almost had believed her guilty, but the
fever heat had time to cool, and people began to think
that the girl must have been the victim of circum-
stances.

Sympathy for her father and Harry had grown very
strong, since Mr. Dudley had come into his own again,
and taken his place in the grand old mansion where
once his ancestors had reigned as lords of the land. Peo-
ple who would have thought themselves disgraced by
calling at the squalid tenement-house where the Dud-
leys had lived through the days of their poverty, stopped
their carriages beneath the stately gateway in front of
Dudley Willows, and sent up their cards and waited
with patience till the word came back, as it always did,
that Mr. Dudley was too ill to recéive visitors.

Mr. Woodbury himself had prepared the father and
brother for the sad event which had transpired. He had
told them how feeble Lena was growing—how more than
probable it was that before the summer suns should
make the clover red and sweet in the meadows she
would have passed away from all her unhappiness,

And Mr. Dudley had accepted the situation with quiet
sadness and resignation. It was very, very hard to think
of her, his lovely and beloved daughter, pining away and
dying in a prison cell, where he could not offer her a
word of sympathy, or soothe a single pain, but it was in-
finitely better than that other awful vision which had
disturbed his nightly rest, and made his days miserable.
That awful vision of a gallows, surrounded by a mock-
ing, jeering crowd, gathered together to see a woman
= a Shameful death at the hands of the public execu-

oner.

And when, in the shadows of a gray winter’s morning,
a messenger from the prison brought him a note trom
the warden, he knew the news it contained before he
broke the seal.

“God help me to bear it! Gad help me!” he cried, in
agony, and buried his face in the pillows. A few mo-
ments of sad despair, and then this old man who had
suffered so much broke the seal and read:

“Tam sorry to inform you that your daughter, Lena
Dudley, is dead. She died last night. Mr. Arthur
Woodbury, at whose disposal her body has been placed,
by consent of the authorities, will give you further par-
ticulars, «Yours to command, J. Ross.”

Mr. Dudley passed the letter silently over to Harry,
who read it with a wild burst of boyish grief, and
throwing himself upon the floor, he wept and sobbed
until worn out with excitement he fell asleep, and was
put to bed by the pitying servants.

By and by Mr. Woodbury came and had an in-
terview with Mr. Dudley. Th for the first time did
the tather learn that this true friend had loved his

ughter, and that she had died in his arms—his wife.
_ “And now,” said Mr. Woodbury, ‘I have a special
favor to ask. She was my wife, and she was your
daughter. I ask that you grant me the privilege of en-
tombing Mrs. Woodbury in my Own family tomb. There
I shall be laid when my stay here is over, and I want to
know that she will be beside me.”

"

oy wt ’

pe

—_=”

f
=
oe
t

“WAIT!” SAID THE DOCTOR. ‘FIVE MINUTES MORE WILL
DECIDE WHETHER IT IS LIFE OR DEATH.”

Mr. Dudley wrung the hand which held his.

“It shall be as yousay. You have aright to her. But
she was the heiress of Dudley Willows. If she had
lived, half my estate would have been hers. She could
have held up her head among the proudest ladies in
the land now, if this blight had not fallen on her. I
have often told her about Dudley Willows. I have
painted on her imagination in vivid colors all these
Stately apartments and these spacious halls, where by
right she should have lived and grown to girlhood, and
from whose shelter she should have gone out a happy
bride. She has never been inside these walls since her
very earliest childhoo@. Let her come back now. Let
her lie here near us—near the memories of my happy
boyhood, until—until she goes out of the light and sun-
shine forever.” «@

“She shall come back!” said Mr. Woodbury, turning
away to hide the tears which gathered in his eyes.

= * * * * *

That night, when the sun was setting behind the
bank of purple storm-clouds in the west, they brought
the heiress of Dudley Willows home. White asa marble
statuc, beautiful as a dream, with her pale hands lying
on her breast, and the smile with which she had
greeted her newly made husband frozen on her lips.

In one of the stately chambers of the Willows she
lay, crowned with white lilies, all unmindful that she
had come home to her own, and that her inheritance
was waiting for her.

Dr. Steinman established himself in the house—no-
body thought of asking why—and Mr. Woodbury passed
the larger part of his time with his dead wife.

Three days went on, and then the solemn funeral
service was read, the last kisses were left on the pale
forehead of the young bride, and the long procession
took its way to the tomb of the Woodburys, which was
a solid and costly structure on the borders of the estate
overlooking the river.

Nearly all the working men and women followed
Lena to her grave; and profuse and genuine were the
expressions of sorrow over her untimely fate.

And when the door of the tomb had closed on all that
was leftof Lena Dudley, and the great congregation
had dispersed, only the husband and Dr. Steinman,
Eleanor Trowbridge, and Vance Harley were left.

Eleanor’s soft eyes were swollen with weeping, and
Vance Harley had all he could do to comfort her, as, hav-
ing bidden Mr. Woodbury good-by, she was led to her
carriage.

Woodbury and Steinman were alone, with the black
door of the tomb beside them. A spot of vivid crimson
burned hotly qn the doctor’s sallow cheek ; an unwonted
fire was in his sunken eyes, the veins in his long hands
stood out like cords, and he was evidently laboring un-
der intense excitement.

“The driveling fools,” he cried, angrily, ‘‘they are gone
at last. Every moment is precious. Unlock the door,
and let mein. Then lock it after me and wait near till
dark. Then, when 1 rap thus—three times—come to
me.”

«And leave you in their to die, with the foul air, cried
Woodbury, ‘‘never! I will open the door and leave it
open, and goin with you. Noone will be passing this
Way.”

“You will do as I command,” cried the German, fu-
riously. ‘Oh, that you should be such a dolt. Open the
door, and do asI bid you. I took the responsibility of

| this piece of work, and you will do my orders, or I swear

to you that I will leave her as she is!”

Without another word Woodbury unlocked the heavy
iron door of the tomb, and the doctor passed behind its
gloomy shadows.

«Shut the r and lock it,” came in stern tones from
the abode e dead, and Woodbury did as he was
commande

He had locked the door none too soon, for a half-dozen
funeral stragglers had returned to pass away the time,
and satisfy their curiosity as to how the final arrange-
ments were made, and meeting Mr. Woodbury striding
along with gloomy brow, they apologized and left the

rounds. %

Mr. Woodbury did not go into the house, where his
old housekeeper left the supper hot for him with kindly
care.

«Poor boy,” said the old woman, for the man she had
nursed on her knee when he was a baby would never be
anything else but a ‘‘boy” to her ; ‘the takes it hard. It’s
a pity he ever saw the girl. uld only have taken
to somebody in his own wouldn’t have got
mixed up in murder and thing. But what’s

  
     
  

the use to prate ? Love’ll| ‘ssent. And them
briled chickens that I ro: ins out a fixing will
be spiled.” Aw

Meanwhile the hour between Lena’s burial and the
early darkness seemed an age to Arthur Woodbury.

Would it never come dark ? How long—how veryiong,
the red tint of sunset lingered in the west! Strange
that he had never before noticed how long the twilights
mi and what a century it was between sunset and

ark.

But at last the darkness deepened ; the last red gleam
went out of the west ; the stars, faint and clouded, shone
pre and Mr. Woodbury stood before the door of the

mb.

Not a sound from within, not a rustle, or a breath, to
show him that aught was within but the sheeted and
moldering forms of the dead. He bent his ear to the
keyhole and listened. Only the hollow sough of the
wind was audible, and the creaking of the pine boughs
swayed by the wintry blast. He took a turn through
i. porns of evergreens leading from the house to the

omb.

The great clock on St. Anthony’s tower struck seven.
A homeless dog darted howling across his path, anda
be dead twigs of a decaying hemlock tree fell at his
eet.

All was darkness and desolation. He climbed the
bluff and looked out across the river to the busy town
beyond. The town in which was located the prison from
which she had escaped ; the town where the cruel offi-
cers of the law had hunted her down; where, even now,
perhaps, they were cursing the fate which had taken
their victim out of their power, and cheated them of
their anticipated fees.

He returned to the tomb and listened again. Still no
sign of life from within.

He put his lips to the keyhole and called, first softly,
then loudly :

‘Doctor! Doctor Steinman !”

Only echo answered him.

“Great Heaven! Can he have suffocated ?” cried Wood-
bury, horrified. ‘‘And I have stood here and suffered
him to perish! I will wait no longer; I will go in, and
take the consequences of his anger.”

He turned the key hurriedly and tried to push open
the door, but it resisted his efforts. He put his shoulder
— it and exerted all his strength, but it did not
yield.

It was fastened on the inside.

“He guards his secret well. As if he would think that,
whatever may have been his scientific discovery, I would
revealit. Asif—— But the fancies of these philoso-
phers and learned men can never be accounted for, and
they are counted by the hundreds. Steinman,” he cried,
with his mouth at the keyhole of the tomb, ‘‘open the
door and let me in!”

Still no answer.

Another five minutes passed. The cold wind blew,
and penetrated to the very marrow of the impatient wait-
er’s bones, and the chilly sweat of intense anxiety broke
out on his forehead. :

“I can bear it no longer,” he said to himself; “I will
force the door!” and he turned away to go to the tool-
house for an iron bar, when he heard the slow creaking
of the ponderous door and saw it swing leisurely open.
The tall, lank figure of Steinman appeared in the
shadow.

Woodbury darted forward and clutched his arm.

‘Tell me—tell me the result!” he cried hoarsely.

«“‘Wait!” said the doctor, ominously. “Be silent! Five
minutes more will decide whether it is life or death.”

[v0 BE CONTINUED.]
—— + +
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

For Another's Sin;
THE BRIDE'S CONQUEST

By BERTHA M. CLAF,

 

 

AUTHOR OF

|“A& Fair Mystery,” “Thrown on the World.” “The
| World Between Them,” “Beyond
Pardon,” Etc.

 

(“For ANOTHER’s SIN,” was commenced in No. 1%. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER LXXXVII.
“DEAR LADY, I IMPLORE YOUR PITY.”

As Lady Adelaide, in her blooming beauty, entered
the drawing-room, a small, withered, nervous figure rose
up inthe amber gloom to greet her. It was the old
Monsieur Leon, the father of the famous artist.

‘‘Why Master Leon,” said Lady Adelaide, advancing
and giving him her hand, ‘‘I am happy to see you again,
and to see you looking not less well, and able to be out.
You are very good to come and call on your old pupil,”
and With her ténder courtesy for ag@and infirmity, she
led him to the most comfortable chair, and seated her-
| self near him, with a pleasant smile.

 

“IT was right to come to you. Yes, I was right,” said
| the old man, eagerly. “I knew, I said, you-were all
| goodness.”

“And is there anything I can do for you, Monsieur
Leon? Ishall be most happy that you have come, if it
is so.”

‘But first—there is a little business,” said the old man,
taking a flat packet carefully from a wide pocket. ‘Lord
Carew, your husband, who is abroad, wrote to my son,
requesting him to go to Brooklands and paint him a
copy—cabinet size—of your very beautiful portrait there.
Lord Carew sent full directions all about it, my son went
to Brooklands, and was there a week, and here is the
picture. Is my lady pleased ?” he asked, as he unfolded

the packet.

Adelaide opened the case, and was more than pleased.
The picture was most exquisite—the famous portrait
over again; thegase of blue velvet, with a rim of pearls
about the picture, was lovely as love could devise to
shrine its idol. Adelaide’s heart swelled with joy. In
all these months then, she had not grown less dear—he
could not live without her picture! he had sent for it.
That semblance of her face should plead for her. Oh,
happy picture that was going to him! She could have
kissed her own portrait because it was so soon to be in
his hands. Lady Adelaide had never loved her own fair
self so well before.

“My Lord Carew sent the address, in Italy, where we
were to send it. Unhappily, a gust of wind sweeping my
son’s desk, blew that letter into the fire. I came to get
Lord Carew’s address from your ladyship.”

Lady Adelaide wrote it in the note-book which he held
out to her.

“The picture is admirable,” she said. ‘I know my
husband will be fully satisfied. Still, I prefer you should
not say I have seen it, as he himself has not told me. He
may wish it as a surprise to me, you know.”

“J will remember. We shall send it to-morrow. My
lord was in pressing haste for it. He is very well?”

«Very well; thanks, monsieur.”

The old man slowly closed and wrapped up the picture.
Then he said hesitatingly. :

“My lady, it was not merely to show the picture, or to
get the address, that I came. I have made an excuse of
that. Ihave asore trouble, andit seemed to me that
you are so gentle, so wise, so full of sympathy—you un-
derstand so weil, I am sure, a woman’s heart—that you
would help me.”

“T would gladly help you in any possible way, mon-
sieur,” said Lady Adelaide, her heart overflowing witn
comfort. and hope, in the thought that Allan’s‘heart was
yet hers. She would be doubly gladin that good hour
to help and comfort all the world.

“My lady, I must begin by telling you my story. Itis
a sad story, but you need to know it, if you are to
counsel or aid me—and—one I love—still love.”

«Trust me, Monsieur Leon. Your confidence shall be
sacred.” P
«When I came from France to England, and presented
myself to Lady Carew, who became my patroness, I toid
her, aS was true, that I was of a family who, well
placed in civil life, had lost fortune and position with
the fall of the first empire, and 2. beggared, with no
avenue open in life except in the line of what had been
merely my accomplishments, had earned my poor sup-
port by music. Lady Adelaide, that music was playing
a first violin in an orchestra at.a theater, and the living
it made was meager, but honest. Among the dancers
at that theater the youngest, and most beautiful, and
good—good then, lassure you—was one I learned to
love. Wewere each alone inthe world. She began to

take minor parts in the plays, when I married her.

“Lady Adelaide, she was wonderfully beautiful, mar-
velously graceful. I loved her, once and forever. But
she was one of those whose beauty and genius burst
out suddenly into unexpected flower. She rose by swift
steps to be the darling of is. Gifts were showered
on her, flattery surround r. She was young. hand-
some, ambitious, and passionately fond of luxury and
pleasure. We had one child—-my son, the artist. Our
living was plain and poor, our home was_ humble.
Wifely and maternal cares were irksome to her eager
young heart. Believe me, I was patient, tender. I de-
sired to withdraw her from the stage. But, alas! my
child and 1 were drags and hindrances in the gay path
marked out by ambition and vanity. She fled from
us, abandoned py one-year-old. boy and me; it was
hard, Lady Adelaide—it broke my heart.”

“Poor Monsieur Leon!” said Lady Adelaide, taking
his hand.

“My one thought, then, my lady, was to fly, to take
my child where his name would not be disgraced by his
mother’s mad folly. I fled to England. In searching
for pupils, 1 was recommended to Lady Carew. Her
encouragement brought me more. I have educated my
son; I have developed his genius. We have wanted for
nothing but her.”

And what became of her, monsieur ?”

“My lady, sheyaad changed her place and name. I
avoided for years all chance of hearing that which could

 

 

 

SPONSE tt cP HORN SPT Neate

*

 

 

 
 

 

 

cmt THE NE

| engagement, and we were married. I supposed all
Englishinen were lords, and rich. I found he was only
a second son, with scarcely a thousand pounds a year,
and he had rigid principles, and soon desired me to leave
the stage, and frown on my crowd of admirers. I grew
to hate him as I did you, Leon. We went to Lyons and
he was taken ill. I longed for the excitement and ap-
plause of the stage. I met a stage manager from Spain,
and made an engagement with him for six months in
Madrid and Seville, and writing a note to Desmond
Carew, telling him I must go back to the boards or die,
but I would return to him when the engagement ended,
I fed to Spain, leaving him ill in Lyons.”
“Cruel, wicked woman!” cried Lady Adelaide.

only shame me and rend my soul. I lost all trace of
her. The years went by. yet her name and face were
written on my heart. Her son knew nothing of her dis-
grace. Year after year passed, my lady, till thirty years
lay between us, and then we met.”

“Oh, Monsieur Leon, this is a bitter ending of love
and marriage!”

‘Most bitter; and you will remember that I had al-
ways loved this woman. [had hoped she was dead,
rather than living on in sin; and my son yet believes
his mother died in his infancy. She died to him then,
and to him her memory is pure.”

“And she lives yet, monsieur ?”

“She lives. 1do not know the history of her lite since

we parted. She had married, once or more.” “That is as you look atit. We had been married ten sheen, her white throat, but her face the fire had not touched, “Why, that must have been what took Pharez up to *
“Married? Were you then divorced ?” months; he was terribly repentant over it. I knew it, | I love the pearls that grace the brow of Beauty’s noblest | and it had an eloquence of its own as it shone up at him | London.” :
“No, my lady. France does not readily grant divorce. | and I was sick to death of my Englishman. As Made- queen ; pale as a lily, and sad even in slumber. While he looked “ft was.”

moiselle Latrobe I appeared in Madrid, and there | was
a Star, the fashion, the rage. I had Madrid and Seville
at my teet. 1 resolved never to leave the theater, and to
be free of Desmond Carew. I took a month’s rest ata
little village in Andelusia, and from there I sent him a
last dying letter, and a certiticate of my death.”

“How did you get that certificate 2” cried Adelaide.

ae high for it,” said Isabeau, coolly. Then con-
tinued :

«Three years I starred it in Spain and Portugal, and
I found Desmond Carew had gone to England, no doubt
glad to be free of me. Then, among my adorers, came
the one man that ever I have loved, adored, Count Sil-
vara. He offered me inarriage. With him I had wealth,
title, position, fortune—a man to my heart. We mar-
ried, and I think I was happy.

“Lady Adelaide, you being good, will say it was a
judgment of God, but when several years after my mar-

She had no charge against me; I would have made
none against her. Iwas always willing to rescue her,
if she would have soletit be. But she thought the
laws cruel that would not grant her divorce from a man
whose poverty and rigid notions ‘were hateful to her.
So she made a law tor herself, and, asserting that she
was Single, she married, desecrating the altar—I know
not whom—once or twice. When I met her, almosta
year ago she told me she was living properly, on hon-
est money. She rejected all help trom me, and would
not tell me under what name, she lived, nor where.
She was the wreck of herself, Lady Adelaide; a sinful
and passionate youth does not make gracious age; but
still she was striking and graceful. Ah, Lady Adelaide,
what good years ours might have been it we had lived
them in honor together, bringing up honorably our son,
and now made prosperous by his genius!”

“J gave her, my wandering wile, a card, with my ad-

cloud over the Carews has passed away. Here is her

WwW YO

 

confession, here is her earlier, her only lawful marriage
certiticate. Oh, mother, mother, the seal of silence is
broken! I can send for Allan to come home !”

(TO BE CONTINUED. ]
—_————_-> @~—_

MY FRIEND,

 

BY ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.

 

I love the sparkling diamond, I love the sapphire’s

I love the princely emerald, the ruby’s fiery glow,
I love the purple amethyst, the opal’s pink-white snow.

I love the red rose when she hangs all dewy from the
tree,

I love the haughty passipp-flower, the blue anemone ;

For Beauty is to mew wile, and is to me a snare ;

She noon the key to my fond heart, I love her every-
where

I love the glorious golden sun, when sinking ’neath the
moor,

He gilds the purple heather-buds, that. pave Queen
Nature’s floor ; . \

I love his modest consort-moon, whose beams the cedars
ave, 7

And pour their brightest silver flood of kisses on the
wave.

.

2

1K WEEKLY. @3>

 

«Dear cousin. I am so glad,” Regina said, and on one
of those switt impulses which were so Charming in her,
she kissed him.

Then they went in to Mrs. Ellerslie, and Pharez pres-
ently stole away again to his wife, toward whom, in
spite of the sin and folly of the past, a new tenderness
had arisen in his heart.

She was sleeping when he entered the apartment, the
first natural sleep she had knownince her injury.

He stogd within the shadow of the silken hangings,
and gazed down upon her with pitiful lovingness.

Her little hands, covered now with bandages, lay out-
side the satin coverlid. and her long soft curls streamed
over the lace-edged pillow. There were bandages up to

those sorrowful lips quivered over a name—his own—and
the next moment Flora opened her eyes and saw him.

She knew him at once, Feeling that it was his pres-
ence which had wakened her, and reproaching himself
for that, Pharez yet saw that he could not abruptly quit
the room now. Flora’s gaze clung to him while it
shrank. The agony and pleading of that look, its yearn-
ing and despair made his heart ache.

“‘Dearling,” he said, using the old pet word, and bend-
ing and kissing her lips again and again, while his eyes
smiled fondly into hers, “let us all forget and forgive, as
we hope to be forgiven.”

“But you don’t know ” Flora began.

“I know all—everything trom Lady Sibyl’s own lips,
and I forgive you, asI hope to be forgiven. My love,
could you not trust me for that? There was always
something between us. I felt it, thtough 1 never spoke.
There is nothing now, sweetheart, sweet wite, nothing

 

VOL. 41—No. 43;

 

“IT don’t want to like you at all, sir,” the lady said, be-
tween laughing and crying, and looked so exceedingly
oe Regina as she spoke that involuntarily Pen kissed
ler.

“But you do, mamma! And isn’t he handsome ?—t
dear old Pen! He belongs to you and me, mamma, mi
that; and he has found those papers I was so senseless
as to lose.”

“Has he, indeed ?” exclaimed Mrs. Ellerslie, joyfully,
and then Pen showed them fo her, }

“Are they sufficient, do you think?” questioned Mrs,
Ellerslie, wistfully.

“I have already shown them to your family solicitor,
and he pronounces them everything that is necessary.”

‘And he never told me !”

‘Your nephew was good enough to permit me to be
the bearer of the news.”

Ah!” he is always so thoughtful.
a son to me.” ts

Later, when there was a suitable opportunity, Regina
pie her cousin Pharez all there was to tell of his mother’s

eath.

He was much affected, for discordant as their inter-
course had been of late years, he had loved her with a
passionate affection.

He has been like

 

CHAPTER XXII.
CONCLUSION.
There was some difficulty at tirst in satisfactorily ar-
ranging where Pen and Regina should live. Pen was too
true born an American, too genuine ason of the West,

dress, and from that one meeting in the Temple Gardtn | riage my daughter was born I went mad in that hour. I shall ever peuaente us by so much asa thought again.” | to be willing to permanently dwell out of his own
I Jost sight of her. did not know my husband, or know my child’s face. 1} [love the gorgeous butterfly, I love the toiling bee, Flora could only look at him. She could not lift fond | country.
“Three days ago 1 had a line trom the keeper in the | was raving, dangerous, pronounced incurable, con- | | love the tender trickling brook, I love the open sea: arms and Clasp them about his neck as she longed to} As soon as Mrs. Ellerslie, who improved in health, con-

signed to a mad house.”

lodging-house on the Hampstead Road, saying that a
lady in her house was ill, seemed to be friendless, and
as she had found my card in her dressing-case, she
wrote me that if 1 were friend or relative I might come

 

CHAPTER LXXXIX.

 

|

|

to ler, I went. It was my wife. She has aged in a year, THE WAGES OF SIN. . news had somewhat subsided by the time ofthe arrival |
and seems to have suffered much mentally. Her sur- I love kind hearts, I [6¥e true hearts, whose worth can eae of the grand party, and she was able to meet. . Ellers- }
roundings were good. even somewhat luxurious. She There was a long pause, a dead silence, in which the ne’er be told, CHAPTER XXII. and self-possession of whieh both Pen = |

clock could be heard ticking and a stray fly buzzing
against the pane. Then Isabeau resumed her story :
‘For almost seventeen years I was in charge of some
Franciscan Sisters, who kept a home for insane patients.
During that time the Count Silvara had perished in a re-
bellion; his estates were confiscated, and Lady St. Clair,
whose very distant connection with us it is not needful

had had pneumonia and then paralysis of the right
hand. Now, Lady Adelaide, how can I suffer her to live
there alone, supported I know not how, crippled, finally,
in one of her hands, and so far forever helpless? She
refuses to come to me, or have me come to her, and she
torbids me to tell her case toourson. She wishes to
abide honest in his tancy.

 

 

 

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“Lady Adelaide, the house she is in is in every way | to trace, had taken our child, Juanita, because she was |} Jove the babe of two score hours, the man of four score | Peclag young man to Fernley. ! : self with such gentle courtesy toward all Regina's |
reputable and respectable: she herself seems to have / desolate and a beauty. Of that child’s existence I knew years, ee Had not GmtcedL decidedly elec ay ibaa ete old mates and playteliows, and Regina herself was so |
hidden all that is evil, and to be respected there as a} nothing. When Icame fully to my reason, and found |} love the bright boy stunned in smiles, the sad maid don, having it firmly established in his mind that hi naturally and unaffectedly the warm-hearted and im- |
lady. I want some one to speak to her, to reason with | myself a widow, and impoverished, with only a few jew- bathed in tears: toate git davike S hh i hi: » La 8 pulsive girlshe had always been, that everybody was |;
her—some good woman to aid her to a plan of life, to | els and some twenty pounds that remained in the nuns’ | But over all, and more than ail, and never changed to si pet was wandering somewhere in that wilderness | enraptured. i
coring her to agree to something that shall make my ; hands tor me, I concluded to come to England and find e, 0 aac, ts Mn dendei Atri this “woinae WAS Captain Blane, being written for,came on and met
todo, tell me wliat to advise. Js itasking too much to | dead. She was much agitated ab ney appearing in hes | _ 0° With an undying love, the Rearv that Yoveth me. | any chug.” he satd to Plarez Ellerslie. "| SS °%* | with the cordial reeeption ue deserved. |
to do, tell me what to advise. Is it asking 0 | ; vg f f ar , 1y Be: : cee , ; ‘ 1en party after a year’s stay was a re !
request that you, pure and noble as you are, should go; house. I now know why. She was intent on bringing te nigh auifited Ot oer TUNES Ieee Wann to England, Mrs Payson was with some difficulty pers; i
Ciatkaaiene AA en ee tabs Mi Pode pil ene ed of biel taneinat con (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUSLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.) | prairie land, and that refined and high-bred scion of Eng- be ont ohare cal octane up their residence in |
Lady Adelaide hesitated, but only for aninstant. It| haps be fatal. She treated me coldly, promised me a | 1 eee lish aristocracy had become firm friends on very short England. Pen was in the habit of saying witha droll |
is not in errands of mercy that one is contaminated by | tritie—a little over a pound a week—if I would keep out acquaintance, ills bh eae shake of his handsome head, that he never meant todo |
sin. To go down and lift the fallen is a work worthy of | of sight, and told me my child was dead. I could not Some men judge ies net motives by intuition. 1¢ | it, but he could not ‘stand the pressure.” 1 a
all good.men and women, of angels, of God himself. | live on that pittance, and suddenly I found trom the pa- B | was so with Pharez Ellerslie. He never thought of im-| "yrs. Payson missed her girls, but Pen had always |
For what higher end could she live than to bind broken | pers that Desmond Carew had long ago inherited tromi pugning Pen E Pee s lash es, or of doubting his been the favorite, and having once dared the perils of |
hearts, and bring back the straying? She said: _ _ | his brother, aad was a lord, and fabulously rich. \ 5 straighttor W ard but strange story. much as he had | the ocean, nothing could tempt her to venture again, so |
“Monsieur Leon, I will go; if you will wait until I| ‘There was my opportunity. I searched him out. 1! ag eee ee beat Seat iar .e. i she staid with her beloved son, ana her daughters
have ordered my carriage we will go together now.” { went to Brooklands; I asserted myself as his wife. He | OR. ine evening lights were Just aglow at Fernley as the | came in time and made long visits at Fernley. ;
With trembling gratitude the old man kissed her | ee long oe nee ae wo aie grow eet My i 7 PR re nts ia his friend to his own apartments, Hire, BUG rs ie ed 10. Urea ecandcll areas |
hand. claim made his marriage illegal, his son illegitimate. | arezZ Cé Y Le ‘ L v 7 t st. Le
a really did not dream wnat effect my coming might have. | a and left him to perform his toilet while, for a moment, Co eee vie oe Retiree chine from t |
CHAPTER LXXXVIIL He fell in a fit of paralysis, trom which he never recov- he sought the presence otf his beloved wile, dearer now Fernley estates, save a Small legacy named in his un |
x oe ees eS ered. I seem to have been fatal to every-one. I cannot & I to this strangely generous nature than she had been be- | \yij), Enough it was for comfort aud independel
“THEN, WOMAN, YOU WERE NEVER HIS WIFE! | tell you how it shocked me to have his death in this way a fore he knew her sin. — ‘ ; though not for the luxury and magniticence which .
_.While Monsieur Leon waited, Lady Adelaide took the | on my hands. I took’ an allowance—I admit it was a ; Then he asked a servant, well cautioned, to ask Re- | reigned at Fernley. oe } of
_ picture he had brought and showed it to Lady Carew. | generous one—trom Lady Carew, and I withdrew. And gina to come to the drawing-room a moment and 1 At Mrs. Ellerslie’s death, however, it was found t tan re
1

then, almost two years after, I discovered that Lady St.
Clair had deceived me, and my daughter, the child of
Silvara, lived, that she reproduced my early beauty, that
she had the glorious splendor, and spirit, and speech of

Together they rejoiced over it as a harbimger of hope.
“It is old Monsieur Leon, my teacher,” said Adelaide, |
«and he wants me to go with him to see a person whom
he is interested in. She is old and ill, and lives in a
comtortable place on the Hampstead Road. 1 have said | Spain. .
I would take him in the carriage. Itis quite right, you} ‘Oh, Lady Adelaide, you know how I love her—you
think ?” ; know how I worship her, my darling! my beautiful
“Quite right, my dear. If in these lonely days you | daughter! the love of my life! The passion of all my
could not find aconsolation in doing good, where would ; years is concentrated on her! and I have been fatal to
you turn ?” her! When I saw her in danger of falling from her high
The Carriage was at the door, and Lady Adelaide and | estate; of going on that downward way, so horrible and
her old tutor were soon on their way. With the call on | tatal to me, I interposed to save her, and I was the
his energies Monsieur Leon had lost some of his tremu- | means of her husband's death, and of robbing her of all
lousness and feebleness. He seemed to feel that he/ that state, and, place, and grandeur that she loved so
must put aside all weakness and dependence, until he | well. Surely a curse is on me, wretch that I am!”
had provided for lrer who, in his view, had never, in all| ‘Can you expect other than a curse ?” demanded Ade-
her wanderings, ceased to be his wife. laide. ‘‘You have defied the laws of God and man, |
The lodging-house keeper looking from her area win- | trampled on the peace and holiness of families; you have
dow, and seeing the little old gentleman, her sick | brought ruin and calamity wherever you have come.” |
lodger’s only friend, who usually came in a hansom, now ‘Lady Adelaide, it is because I have understood mar-
arriving in an elegant barouche, with footman and | riage and divorce differently from what you do. I was |
coachman, liveries and coats of arms, and a lovely lady | faithful to Leon and Carew as long as I remained wear- |
dressed in irreproachable costume of fawn-colored silk, | ing their names. ‘To Silvara I would have been faithful |
hastened to throw open her door and do the honors of | to death, for I loved him; and I had no light liaisons, no |

 

 

  

J love the twilight when the heat of June hath passed
away,

And rae tiny twinkling star proclaims the death
of day.

Whose records, al for earth, should written
be in gory at

I love white heads all ripe for death, I love the child-
hood’s prime,

I sige | age, I love green youth, I love the middle
time.

 

 

By MRS. wie COR WN PIERCE,

ZUTHOR OF : |
“THE CURSE OF EVERLEIGH,” “NAMELESS |
HAGAR,” “THE UNLOVED WIFE,” ETC. .

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(“MARRIED IN JEST” was commenced in No. 36. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents.] q

dns
CHAPTER. XX,

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FORGIVEN.

While mother and daughter were happy in each other’s

society, word came that’ Pharez had arrived with the

London doctor, and they had both gone to Flora’s apart- |

ment. ,

Mrs. Ellerslie was in a flutter of excitement at the |

arrival of her nephew, though she said little.

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do, but if ever eyes shone with loving worship, that was
the language of hers.

«How good you are tome,” she sighed, and: his lips
sealed hers from further utterance.

 

PEN.

That afternoon Pharez lett for London again, having
won Flora’s consent to his absence by explaining to her
his errand.

To Penryhn Payson he simply said:

“My aunt begs to see you ;” and so enticed that unsus-

 

 

amine some new decorations which had just been sent
down from London. , |
Mrs. Ellerslie denfarred some at the rather singular |
summons. She was }oth to have her daughter absent |
from her one unnecessary moment.
Regina looked disgppointed as she rose to leave the |
room. She had Hees? looking tor Pharez and Pen all the |
afternoon, apa ee it was almost certain they would |
not come tiff the next day.
She wore an amber silk trimmed with lace of marvel-
ous cost and richness, and clasped with rubies, and her
lovely Hair fell about her like a jetty cloud.
“Hasten back, my darling,” Mrs. Ellerslie said, her |
glance followlig her proudly as she quitted the room, !
“Why, Henry,” Regina exclaithed to the servant, as |
she opened the door and beheld the brilliantly lighted ,
saloon. : j ‘ |
The exclamation died upon her lips. Across the
room, where the glow of the central chandelier fell full |
upon him, looking worn and anxious éven then, for he |
was not expecting her, stood he who filled her thoughts
—her love, her husband—Pen!
With a low cry of mingled rapture and amazement |
she darted forward, and fell sobbing into his arms. |

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trary to every calculation. was able to travel, she with
— and Pen made a journey to America and prairie-
and.

The flutter that Mrs. Payson was in at the wonderful

lie wlth a dignity
and Regina ae. roud, and which quite s
delicate and fastidious taste of the grand lady. -
son was neither ignorant nor uncultured, and native
pride enabled her ‘to play the self co‘itained and not
ungracetful hostess. One need never te awkward where
there is nothing to be ashamed of.

Mrs. Ellerslie enjoyed her visit keenly, and bore hi

   

she had never altered her will made so long before in~ |

Flora’s favor, and a kind and touehing letter lett by her
for Flora, made it easy for this chastened heart f -
cept that token of forgiveness from the mother she !
wronged indeed, but whom she had loved as a dau :
might, as Mrs. Ellerslie well knew. ;

The meeting between them just before Mrs. Ellersiie’s
departure for America was a very affecting one. ‘

Flora’s recovery resulted in the restoration of the old
loveliness of person and character.

She and her worshiped husband were happier than it
often falls to the lot of humanity to be. E

Rubi died at the cottage where he had fallen ill. Re-
gina was With him before his death, and forgave him all
the wrong be had done, or tried todo her. Indeed, sh
persisted in being grateful to him atter it was satisf
torily proved to her that she owed him no gra
whatever. Yo

Jane lived to be forgiven all her shameful doings, but
she was banished from Fernley, neyer to return.”

Mr. Haversham, coming back to England a disap-
pointed man, and not succeeding in originating any new
matrimonial conspiracy, settled down with lazy selfish-
ness, to be supported secretly by Lady Sibyl.

 

 

    
 

 

 

   

 

 

 

  
 
    

“ 7 ¢ 7 ‘ r > ” |
her establishment. | ties unconsecrated by a marriage.” He was the hardest of any one to be convinced,” she | pen was speechless at first, but he knew enough to | Ultimately, however, to everybody’s surprise,- this de- J
‘How is she to-day ?” asked Monsieur Leon. ‘Marriages that were illegal, and no marriages—altars | thought, “and he would never have married Her if it had | hold his heart, and cover with kisses such an intoxicat- cayed gentleman fell heir to a fortune, and rather m
“Sir, she is better. The nurse you hired is an®xcel- | desecrated by lies!” said Lady Adelaide. ‘ not been for my persistan I wonder if he will blame | 128 delusion, if that was what it was, and ‘‘of course it | to the surprise of those who knew him best, marrie
lent nurse, and she says she is better. Will you and} “It seems so, not to me, but to you. No doubt it! ie” Pnainae will cast her off. I don’t think | "22 only a dream”, he said, presently, “but,” with an | Lady Sibyl Treherne.
her ladyship walk up? I was up ten minutes ago, and | seems so to God, for He has punished me by seventeen |™€ much. 1 wonde ; odd flash of the bright hazel eyes, ‘I mean to realize it | ““jt";was whispered that he would never have done this. | |
ail isin order for your visit.” | years of’madness; and now I am alone, triendless, a | she was so er all. all i can while it lasts. ie however, had they not been long before secretly mar- j
“You will please call the nurse down first.’ said Leon. | stranger in a strange land, with one hand and arm dead | no warning of the tling | Regina was laughing and cry ing ina breath. ried. : 4
The nurse corroborated the landlady’s statement. and helpless,” ia “Indeed, sir, Pui, not a dream,” she declared, as soon | “he heirs of Lady Sibyl’s firgt husband pounced upon | a
“Sne is sitting wp in her reclining-chair.” } —“Tsateau,” said Monsterfr Leon, “iwi prowidefor you, § oa Se ee ¥ “she-coma speagie mn » Berplie Pa ; the toffeited property at one@ as they would have dona | 4;
“We will goap alone, if you please,” said Monsieur | for you are still in law my wife, and you are in tact the yesence still unconscions of it. | mike is up rs this ent. Ai i, Pen, it long before if they had been @bie to prove the marriage ~ at fon a
Leon. : mother, of my child. i wil provide for you a mainte- powerful emotion in his hand- | 20es seem like a dream, I'm afraid I shall go crazy with | they suspected. But if there Was any such thing, Hav- way
He led the way up. tapped at a door, and opened it. ; hance, but I will never look upon your face or hear your | ‘ . Ye” ¥ ‘ 7 i disco : ;
ee en pie in char ab ot the ate haee and | voice again.” eiihey . | Some face, and he } unaccountably aged during |" pen laughed rather nervo' as he held her trom cae TA Pee er tee Ne one
sunny. The furnishings were good; various pictures}. “It is just,” said Isabeau. ‘Believe me, if I had my | his absence. ; | him a moment for inspection, then clasped her close [THE END.] 4 4
and orhaments of good taste indicated the habits ot | life to live over again, knowing where pride and passion | He looked a litfle ed at sight of this tall, elegant | again. cs : ; BU ES a 4 i
the occupant. Flowers were on the mantel and table. | lead, I would not do.asI have done. Dol repent? Ido | looking girl, who stood at his aunt’s bedside, and turned “You wouldn’t have known me if I hadn’t kissed you,” F Tt. Ceean 2
The reclining-echair was by the window, and in it, look- | not quite know what it means, but I know I have has- | upon him the soft lus a pair of eyes whose brilliancy | asserted Regina, and Pen declared he took her for an A PROVOKING ROBBER. J wal
ing to to the street, was the invalid, wrapped in a crim- | tened the death of two good men. 1 have made miser- | he had never seen & d. Who could this queenly | angel. ‘Have you recovered your temper, sir?” was 4
son cashmere dressing-gown and a fleecy white Shet- | able, Lady Adelaide, you and your mother-in-law. Iam | looking creature be? Surely he-had met her before, | the next saucy but slightly anxious question. ‘ mer
land shawl; her left hand, slender and white, lay on | a desolate outcasf; in all the world I have claim on none. | somewhere, there waS acuriously tamiliar look in the | Pen lifted the sweet face and looked in her eyes, half} Mounted on an active little Indian pony, I set off
her lap, clasping a large bunch mi are She | Have mt y = me; you cannot tell how my heart hungers | Prey face. He a ip his we inquiringly. a a tas that old memory, the sorrowful separa-| alone from a wood station on the Northern Pacific Rail-
turned her face as the door opened, and there was a | for my daughter.” | ier eyes were swimming in tears. : i . Os i Fel
simultaneous cry : * “Isabeau,” said Lady Adelaide, ‘in this world you have Lash ac wonder you hesitate, when I did,” she said, “If you knew how the recollection of my unkindness road woe SEY, miles Ir am, sg Montana, ) one after
“Lady Adelaide Carew !” left you one Claim, one relationship, one divine right— | softly. ‘But you are struck with the family look just as | that night has haunted me ever since,” he said. ‘I be- | noon early last fall, upon a little hunt on my own ac- pte
“Jsabeau Pierre !” the ae the sear ees That you have not | 1 was. Whois she, ea cy x ; LA ; wee oo She DORs. . finding you keptit from driving | count. After having ridden‘ perhaps four miles over i
“Whatis this ?” demanded Monsieur Leon ; ‘‘you have | cast.off of yourself, voluntarily you have not abandoned | Some consciousness enly flushe S face. ‘me ou Ni : ; f ‘
met ?” | your child. Always provided” thas you are her mother | “It ismy cousin,” he uttered. ‘It is Regina Ellerslie} Regina’s Soft, warm hand touched bis cheek caress- | SUChy, ree country, I ie jab the top of the range
Lady Adelaide stood looking as in a trance at Isabeau. | (and your likeness to her proclaims it), you have a moth- | Payson,” coming forw with outstretched hands, but | ingly. : and discovered a fairly level region, covered here and
Then she looked from Isabeau to her old master again | er’s claim on your child, and I believe she would recog- | with a countenance expressive of much less amazement “Never mind, dear; I was bad, too.” there with clumps of spruce. After looking about well
and again, pressed her hands to her head, bewildered, | nize it.” \ | than might have beep expected. “‘May I kiss you, “My precious pet, [ resolved if I ever found youl I decided to ride to acertain rock a short distance to the a
and as the full light of a tremendous revelation burst | ‘Oh, Lady Adelaide, what do you mean ?” | cousin ?” ; would never, so long as we both lived, assert anything east, and there picket my horse while J eded to ah
upon her, she gave a little cry, and seemed ready to| “I mean you should make yourself known to your; Regina bent her stately head ana he gravely saluted | SO preposterous of youagain.”  __ | hunt afbot My plan in hunting eee Mirnta to find ,
fall; but Monsieur Leon hastily placed herin a seat, | daughter.” | her on either cheek. Then the two cousins as though “You acknowledge, then, that it was preposterous 2” thom before they find me, if possible, not Dern dah
#ud gave her water from a carafe. | ‘What! She would hate me.” | the tie of blood had asserted itself in that cold | questioned she, shyly. | rule, very successful at a shap shi P 8;
In a moment or two Lady Adelaige recovered her- ‘JT feel sure she would not. Prove your maternal place, } caress stood with locked hands oe each the other’s “«Preposterous even if true,” asserted Pen, saucily. Jog “ef on toward a ver y igh eee I suddenly es-
self. Too much was at stake for her to yield to weak- | and she will recognize it. She is not heartless. There | face, while a faint glow suffused each countenance. Regina winced a little and shut her eyes; then, with | ace fine reat black tat buck standin among som,
ness. The fortune and happiness of her life, and of all | are some warm and grand sides to her nature. Alonein | “How do you know that her name is Payson?” de- | a determined air, opened them again. | Pell Shrubeon 500 yards, perhaps, to ne ri te s oh
she loved, trembled in the balance. She rose. She was | the world, as you are, I believe to love you, and care for | manded Mrs. Ellerslie... “Pen,” she said, ‘will you give me your word never to | 9 distant wak an pM es oe of Pah Guestion ae tor ——s
firm. you, and be loved by you, would comfort her. She has} “Oh! Hel en Pen! mention Mr. Haversham’s hame again if T’ll do the i my trusty Bullard rifle. So, without seeming to notice

Pen has come!” exclaimed

‘Monsieur Leon,” she said, ‘‘this—is your wife 2” had her bitter lesson in life. So havé you. 1 hope you | Regina in wild same.”

 

 

 

“She is indeed.”

“Since when ?”

«Thirty-three years ago, this coming 13th of May, Isa-
beau Pierre and I were married, as the law of France or-
dains, first by civil nfarriage, and then at the Madeline.”

“Isabeau Pierre, answer me, on your soul's peril, is
this so ?”

“It is so,” said Isabeau, neither humble nor defiant.

Lady Adelaide made a step forward, and took Isabeau “From Silvara,” said Monsieur Leon, ‘‘you do not re- |
by the shoulder, in a grip as of steel. She looked down | ceive a penny. He had neither true heirs nor inheritance.
into the dark, handsome face, and a splendid light of | I cannot see that you should cover the Ormond family
indignant anger burned in her blue eyes; her voice was | with dishonor, and make it a mark for scandal by pro-
clear and cold. ‘ | Claiming the duchess the truit of an illegal marriage.

“Then, woman, you were never Desmond Carew’s You did evil enough when you deceived at the altar the
wife!” | Count de Silvara; you are not required to cover his name

“1 was,” retorted Isabeau. ‘I had cast off this man. | and his daughter with a brand of shame. He and she
My heart rejected him. I was unworthy of him, it is} were innocent. You have simply to go to her as the ex-
true. I proclaimed for myself the treedom the law | actress whom her father married, and her mother. Be-
would not give me, and I was married to Desmond | lieve me, Isabeau, I shall never assert that I am your
Carew at Marseilles, twenty-nine years ago last Feb- only lawful husband, and my son your only legitimate
ruary.”. ° child. Unfit to be his mother, live in his faney, better

“You proclaimed your divorce! You were married! | than you are.”

Isabeau, you trifle with God and man. Here stands| An eager fire burned in the sunken black eyes.

‘your only husband; you were not free; you desecrated | ‘Lady Adelaide, dare I, can I throw myself on the
God’s altar and your marriage vow. Your marriage | mercy of my daughter? Can I hope to see her face, hear
ae ee Carew was illegal. You were never his | her voice; will she receive her miserable, wrecked
wife!” | mother ??

“So by law it seems.” “I believe she will. Ithink she is capable of filial

“And you,” cried Adelaide, with increasing wrath, | love.”

“you, knowing your claim was false, you intruded into “I put myself in your hands,” said Isabeau.

an honest home, you hurled at a pure English wite ‘‘Monsieur,” said Lady Adelaide, ‘have you your mar-
your prior claim, yow charged on her an illegal mar- | riage certificate ?”

riage, you burdened her with shame and heart break, “Yes, 1 kept it, though she scorned it.”

while the shame and burden were yours!” } “As your son has seen it, and it is net likely in any

“Lady Adelaide,” said Isabeau, “it is true. I never | way to be needed by you, will you give it to me 2”
yet could tolerate but one good and pure woman, and “T will.”
you are that one. In some way you have won me, and “And, Isabeau, will you write, and sign, and have wit-
I like you all the better that you are capable of this | nessed by me, and Monsieur Leon, and the nurse, a pa-
inry. You are right. I had no claim on Desmond | per stating that your marriage with Leon was legal, and
Carew. The Carew house is tree of me. 1 have no| never annulled, and that the marriage in Marseilles with
claim on it. I cheated Desmond twice. It is very easy | Desmond Carew was on false pretenses, illegal and
to dupe really good and honest men.” null ?”

Adelaide, with a shudder and a look of horror, re- “T will.”
leased Isabeau’s shoulder, and stepped back. Then her “To-morrow, then, I shall go to Alderson, to see
indignation flamed up again, and she returned to the | Juanita.”
charge. They rose. The momentous interview was ended.

“In the name of your daughter, I command you to | The nurse was called and the paper signed.
speak! How were you her mother, and Countess de “Tsabeau,” said Leon, ‘‘farewell. We now are parted
Silvara ?” forever.”

“Oh, Heaven.” He went quietly back to the carriage with Lady

The words were wrung as a groan from old Monsieur | Adelaide. They drove to his home, and he gave her the
Leon. certificate of his marriage.

“Give me a taste of that wine,” said Isabeau. Then Lady Adelaide drove to the telegraph office and
vell you both my story.. Y cannot despise and hate me, | sent a dispatch calling home the rector. She had her-
above my deserving. it he story of a woman born | self secured at home: that which she had sent him
‘without a conscience, dangerously dowered with wit, and | abroad to seek. Her suspicion roused by knowing the
beauty, and pride, and thirst for pomp and luxury. | history of Isabeau after leaving Desmond Carew, she
The story of a woman allowed to come up trom the} had divined that her marriage with might have
cradle in her own way, without a God or a religion.” been also’illegal.

She went back to Lady Carew, hope in her eyes. She
came a bringer of good tidings.

She drank*the wine Leon poured for her—then as Lady
Adelaide and the old Frenchman sat down, she began:

“Adelaide,” cried Lady Carew, ‘how long you have
been gone!” :

“Leon, I married you when I was sixteen, not that I
loved you, but you could do better f@r me than 1 could
for myself, and 1 was tired of sharin cold, grim attic “Dear mother, [have done the work and reaped the
with another dancing girl—tired ot being in the ballet rewards of a life-time. Are you strong to bear great
and in utility parts. When I married I was so young | joy?” i.

*Is Allan come home ?”

that neither in face, nor figure, nor air, had I matured to y
“Not yet; but he can, he will! I have greater joy

would not be a dangerous companion.”
“God knows for her I shouid hate all evil- and cherish |
all good. But to go to her, with my history !”
«That part of your history which concerns Desmond |
| Carew is known but to you, to his wife, to me, and to
our clergyman. I claim you have no right to tell that. |
Itis dead. It concerns a good man, dead and gone, and
we choose to bury our dead.”

 

“T will

| tice my daughter's husband here without giving him a

 

my best. I suddenly bloomed forth in all as a flower of
unexpected loveliness. Isaw I might have made for my- | than that—the greatest that can be. Are you strong ?”
self a far better market. I would not risk poverty and «Adelaide, speak—what is this 2”

increasing maternal cares with you. I hated your rigor- ‘‘Mother, the terror of your life 1s ended!”
ous probity. 1 fied from you. Your disappearance trom “Adelaide, is—is

Paris left me free. I became the rage. I took the name “Far better th

9”

  
 
 
   
  

 

I
fempced her to this course of deceit and hypocrisy

remembered suddenly

looked terribly
her letter in time |

that Pen cow /
to have come so soon, —

Pharez Elierslie smiled faintly.

‘Penryhn Payson is in London,” he said.
in response to a letter trom our solicitor, tellin
his presence and of a stange story he told. He
in England over a month looking for you.”

“For me? How did le know I was here?” Regina
could scarcely speak fer joy. Her eyes were flashing
throvgh tears.

‘You will have to askhim. Shall I send for him at
once, my cousin ?”

Regina turned to Mrs, Ellerslie.

“Mamma ?”

The mother winced a little at sight of the sweet face,
so agitated with a rival love, but she said, pleasantly :

“Certainly, my darling. Your commands are law at
Fernley now.”

“Oh! mamma, no.”

«‘Pharez,” said Mrs. Ellerslie, eagerly, ‘‘cannot you en-

 
 
 

“T went up
me of
as been

hint of her presence at Fernley ?”
“I think I can; 1 will try,” Pharez said, with another
of those smiles whose joylessness was sadly apparent.
“I wish no one was ill here, and we would give him
such a reception as he’s not looking for,” smiled Mrs.

 

 

Ellerslie. ‘‘Pharez, how is your wife by this time? I
shall continue toloye her very dearly as my niece.”
“Her symptoms are fauch more favorable than they
have been. But she is suffering terribly,” Pharez re-
lied, growing & spoke, and stead-
astly regal dip

“J shall 1 ed,” his aunt said,
deprecatingly-
Pharez bowed signs without looking toward her.
“Mamma,” asked Regina, “may I speak with my
cousin alone a moment? She gave me a message for
him.” ,

Mrs. Ellerslie smiled assent, and the two passed
through the open. window upon the terrace. There
Regina repeated poor Flora’s m e to her husband.

He seemed much affected, especially by the reference
to the little ballet dancer. ;

“T never suspected that,” he said.

He did not know till Regina told him that Flora had
received her injuries In trying to save Jane from being’
burned to death. ¥

“Your wife suffers as much from her fear of you as
from the anguish of her hurts,” Regina said, looking at
him anxiously.

«You do not mean it,” he said. ‘Why should she fear
me? Ido not deserve that she should. Indeed I do
not.”

“She blames herself for the circumstances under
which she became your wife. She seems to feel that it
will be impossiblé¥er-You to forgive.”

Pharez Ellerslie knew everything. He had been to
Lady Sibyl Treherne while in London, and, by some man-
agement peculiar to himself, extracted from her the
whole story of the deceitful plot to impose the actress
upon the Ellerslies as the rightful heiress of Fernley.
Lady Sibyl had not spared Flora in } rehearsal, not
from dislike of her, but from a sel@Sh desire to favor
herself. Pharez Knew all before he left London, except
the one tact of FloraS identity with the interesting
child whom he had long ago rescued from a similar
fate to that which had overtaken her now. That Flora
was she, that she had loved him always since that,

ne, and that it had been that love for him which had

   
     

‘om which his soul revolted, was the one honeyed
drop in this bitter cup.

 

“JT reckon that is the only way we can settle it.
promised Pen.

«Pen, you must promise me something else, and you
are so good-natured I know you will.”

**Well—but don’t be too sure.”

“Don’t say ‘reckon’ before mamma. If you knew how |
she has laughed at me for saying it. She says I am ter- |
ribly Yankeefied.”

Pen did show his good nature by laughing at the criti-
cism ; but he showed, too, that he was a little annoyed,
by saying:

“Mrs. Elierslie will not like me, I’m afraid, if she calls
you Yankeetied. Have you told her——”

“What aridiculous performance our getting married
was. Notl. It was ridiculous, Pen, but I’ve never
been sorry aminute. We might have been separated
forever if you had not taken that precaution to slyly slip
the marriage noose over both our necks.”

“f[ should never have dared if I had known whata
great and wealthy English heiress you were.”

Regina laughed and colored.

“Vm nothing of the kind,” she said. ‘While I was in
New York I lost the papers which would have legally
established my identity.”

“Lost them ?”

“was.”

«You didn’t come and bring them to me the second
night after you arrivedin New York?’ said Pen, pro-
ducing the mysterious bag, with the bit of ribbon still
attached, which she knew at once.

“Oh, Pen where did you find them?” she cried, ina
rapture of wonder. ;

“I didn’t find them at all. You brought them to me.”

“T? [never did. I looked everywhere for them, and
never could imagine how I lost them. I wore them tied
round my neck all the time, you know.”

‘Either you or your ghost brought them to me.”

“You may be sure it was my ghost, then,” Regina as-
serted, positively.

Pen took a long breath, and shook his head in rueful
perplexity. He then told her all he knew about her bag
of papers. When he had finished, the matter remained
as great a mystery as ever.

But afterward, when Regina was telling the story of
her travels, she chanced to mention the poor little de-
laine dress that had come to such grief and had dis-
mayed her one morning with such a mysterious rent
down half the length of its front breadth.

“ZT shall always think I tore it in my sleep,” she said,
laughing; ‘‘and, oh, Pen, it was the same morning I
missed those papers !”

Pen stared at her; then alight broke over his hand-
some face, :

“I believe you did it al? in your sleep,” he said, ina
startled way. “I’ve heard of such things; and you used
to get up your sleep, you kuow, at home.”

Regina looked at him with an awed expression—a
perplexed one, too.

“It almost seems to me I remember,” she said, anx-
iously. -‘Pen, it makes me afraid of myself.” And then
taking his face between her hands, and looking at him
steadily, she said, solemnly: ‘‘Pen, dear, that was how
it was that night that you saw me with rim., I was
asleep all the time, and the wretch took advantage of it
to vex you.” ;

“My darling, [ believe that was just the way of it.
What an idiot I was not to guess it before!”

And then Pharez came to say that Mrs. Ellerslie
begged them to come to her. She had waited patiently
two hours.

Two hours! And thetwo regarded each other won-
deringly. Could it be so long ?

“Poor mamma! Sne must miss me so!

Yes,”

|
}
|
;
}

 

Come, Pen!”

 

| him, I rode on, turning off to the left a little ; and, think- : 4

ing himself unobserved, I hae’. satisfaction ot seeing
the buck walk slowly behind a bush, to keep out of
sight, By working off to the left for 300 yards or
got behind a slight eminence, which enabled me “to
come up within 200 yards. :

At this point I saw there-were three bucks instead of
one! Now the question was, how could I get closer?
There was one little shrub not over eighteen inches high
and two feet wide farther on and nearly in the course.
I flattened out and crawled to it. Peering over it I could
see that the bucks were there, and, as yet, perfectly un-
suspicious of anything. This was the last bit of cover,
and the distance to my game,was about 150 steps (as I
afterward paced it.) .

Nerving myself for the sure and steady aim which
sends the bullet just right, 1 resolved inwardly to bring
down at least two of these bucks,

And I did it!

Lying flat, I fired the first shot, and saw my game go
down. Then jumping to my feet, I took a determined
aim at the second buck, now speeding away, and before
he had taken ten leaps I tired again. He fell sprawling.
I heard the “plump” of the bullet; he scrambled to his
feet and struggled on, but [I fired no more. He fell
again, dead, not sixty yards trom the first.

Hauling them together under a small, bushy-topped
cedar, I soon had them dressed; but 1 could not hang
them up, for they were too heavy. A slight, shuffling
noise close behind me caused me to turn.

The sight which met my eyes was appalling!

There stood a perfectly monstrous bear—a grizzly—
not twenty feet backof me! Oh, he was the ruggedest,
savagest brute that my eye ever fellon! Why, he looked
as if he could absorb a man by just looking at him. I
had let the monster walk up to me from oUt the tHtese-
ravine back of the cedar without knowing it.

The instant I turned, he bristled, let out a perfectly
blood-curdling snort, and lunged forward, rising on his
haunches, to pounce on me—aiter a grizzly’s peculiarly
ugly mode of attack.

My rifie lay on the ground five or six or six yards to
my leit, as near the beast as to me. In such a situation
there was, of course, but one thing to do—run, Lran.
I just gave one long fox-leap off, and then g for
a life-and-death race. I expected the beast would chase
me and run me down; I knew he could doit. But I had
not gone far when [found that such was not the ani-
mal'’s intention. He had smelled something better—the
venison—and was already afoul of it, with a tremendous
appetite, apparently.

I returned to the place the next morning, and found
nothing of the bear then, though we searched till after-
noon. Every scrap of the venison had either been eaten
or carried off during the night. Altogether, I considered
it a most provoking renconter.

—~-—_- > @ —-— ———--

NOT USED TO IT.

 

A lady went a short time ago to visit one of the newly
rick families in Boston, and was shown through their
recently furnished house with a great deal of pomp and
parade. She was somewhat wearied over their grandilo-
quent remarks, and when she returned to her own
modest home, one of its inmates asked her how she
liked the grand mansion she had been viewing. ‘Oh,
it is ail very fine,” she replied; ‘‘but they acted as if
they were not used to it,”

> e~—___—__

 

“Exquisite,” says Lillie Langtry. “It is the most exquisite

 

 

of Pierre. “Tam all lost; I ine. Tell me?” It was terrible to know that his beautiful, beloved} The pair went up to Mrs. Ellerslie hand in hand. cosn.etic preparation which has eyer been brought to my no-

‘Among those who fell under the power of my beauty “I tell you, and proof. You alone were | wife could have so deceived him, but—it was, perhaps, She, poor loving lady, had been crying, and was trying | tice,” says Mrs. Frank Leslie. Liebig Co's, Her esty’s Fa-
and my acting, was Desmond Carewy an Englishman. | the lawful wife of Carew: Your son is his | his wild gipsy blood that exulted in being so loved. to hide it. She would have met Pen coldly it she could, | Yarite Cosmetic Glycerine. has been mused by Her Royal
He was of my age. We were both twenty. I was his | true and only heir. Pierre was already a wife “She is my wife,” he said, in thrilling tones; ‘it | but not even her jealous heart could resist those bright, of con Beautifies the complexion keeps the skin soft
first passion. He was an honest fellow. He proposed | and a mother—truant from husband and child—when | would not be just for me, who have to be forgiven so | trank eyes, the eager, warm clasp of the two hands Pen! anq delicate, removes disfiguring eruptions, etc. Unrivaled
marriage ; he followed me to Marseilles wh .had an she stood at the altar with your Allan’s father. The ' much, to refuse that to her which I need constantly.” extended. ~or delicacy of Perfume. Price, one dollar.

tre @ 2 =
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Siamese.
   

 

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VOL. 41—No. 43. oem THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. P<

ay

 

 

 

‘SELF-DISTRUST.

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

—

Oh, let me seek my strength
In God, and God alone,

For very, very weak is he
Who trusteth in his own.

Even the smallest thing,
_ Within this world so fair,
May call upon Hisholy name,
And claim His sovereign care.

The Ruler of the earth—
The Architect of heayen—
Never forgets the meanest worm
One day of all the seven.

Then shall I doubt His word,
Or dread to seek his face,
makes the earth to overflow
With glory and with grace!
He bids his children come,
_ As to an earthly friend,

And seek His blessing day by day,
Forever to the end.

a

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

UNDER HIS THUMB

OR

“THE RIVAL DETECTIVES’ GLEWS,
bags os

 

BY THE AUTHOR OF

‘*The Wall Street Wonder,” “ The Grand Park
* sain Sensation,” etc.

 

“UNDER His THUMB” was commenced in No. 38. Back
upp can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
A SKILLED SHOT.

As Croly, the detective, uttered the remark which
clases chapter sixteen, he advanced and placed one hand
lightly upon the arm of the vagabond.

Brandon did not stir a muscle. But a sudden, fierce
light flashed from his dark eyes, and in a low, cold voice
he exclaimed :

“Do you mean to arrest me, sir ?”

“Why should I not? You know, without doubt, who
committed the dastardly murder of Hiram Waldron, and
yet you refuse to give me the light which it is in your
power to give. Thus you become the same as an accom-
plice of the murderer.”

«JT told you I did not know.”

; 7* vu say you suspect.”
Which Ihave aright todo. A man may have suspi-
cions, and yet be unwilling to disclose them.”

es

“J would hold nothing back that would lead to the

clearing up of the mystery.”

“What you would do and what I will do are two differ-
ent things. My suspicions are my own, and for the pres-
ent they shall remain so.”

«Then, aS I said, it becomes my duty to arrest you.”

Croly’s purpose was not, as it might seem, to bulldoze
the outeast into making a confession. He did not sus-
pect Brandon of complicity in the crime, but he believed,
if permitted to go free, the unknown conspirator would

manage to use the unfortunate man as a foil, implicating
him more deeply than ever in the crime.

‘Thus the detective’s efforts would be hampered. There-
fore his determination to place the vagabond temporar-
ily under arrest was as much in the interest of Brandon
as his own labors.

The latter drew himself to his full height. And, in a
deliberate tone, he said:

“] have a duty also, and when it comes to duty you
will find me quite as faithful as yourself.”

For a moment the two men looked into each other's
eyes, and Croly experienced that indescribable thrill
which only a powerfully magnetic gaze can give.

“draw out” the other than anything else.
With unexpected agility the vagabond leaped, back-

rected blow with his clenched hand.

The blow was unlooked for. Yet Croly partially warded
it off, although its force sent him reeling backward
several paces.

“This gave Brandon a momentary advantage, and he
followed it up in a startling manner.

Recovering the weapon which he had flung upon the
ground, he aimed it quickly at the detective, and jired!

They were not separated b, F
quick eye noted the direction of the vagabond’s aim, and
Saw that no Vital part of his body was menaced. Hence
he acted according to the only wise course, aithough it
was as severe a test to his nervesas he had ever sus-
tained. The instantaneous thought flashed through his

brain :

“If I try to avoid the shot I may be struck in a vital
spot. Heintends only to frighten, or, at worst, to tem-
porarily cripple me. 1 must let him do it.”

Such a thought takes form in an active brain much
more quickly than words can expressit. The purpose
and its fulfillment were simultaneous.

‘Hence, as the pistol report rang on the still morning
air, reverberating through the surrounding woods,
Croly stood motionless as a statue, and experienced
that hot, stinging sensation which a builet imparts in
grazing the person.

It was his right leg that was struck, and it seemed to
him that only the skin was grazed by the bullet. But,
as Brandon turned to flee and Croly sprang forward to
overtake him, the wounded limb succumbed to his
weight as though ese and the detective fell head,
long to the groun

Pursuit then would be unavailing, even if the detec-

r>—-tive could have used his limb, for the fugitive had a good

Start, and was uninjured.

Croly sat up and hastily examined his injury. As he
had + 4 , it was only a slight one, yet inflicted ata
point that temporarily paralyzed his limb.

«He intended to do just this and no more, and he suc-
ceeded in a way that shows him tobe a prime shot,”
the detective explained, proceeding to bandage the
Wound and stanch the flow of blood.

In ten minutes he could stand and walk without much
difficulty.

But he did not pursue the fugitive. He could find the
latter whenever he chose todo so, and there was no
hurry in that direction.

He returned to New York, partook of breakfast at a
restaurant, and then made his way toward the 1 ngs
of Steve Lawton.

As he neared them, who should he see but the boy
himself running toward him as if tor dear life, and hotly
pusued by a policeman.

«Gracious, ain’t 1 glad yer happened along ’bout
now !” the lad panted, halting at the detective’s side
and quickly facing his pursuer, who hastened up to them
flourishing his club.

“Don’t yer touch me, less yer wants a broken head!”
Steve exclaimed, defiantly facing the officer.

“J don’t think I shall be frightened by a boy,” de-
clared the policeman, reaching out to seize the young-
ster.

«You will let him alone, all the same, until you tell
me what you intend to do with him,” the low, mild tones
of the detective interposed.

nee have you to do with the affair?” the policeman

demanded.

«Nothing, except that I shall protect the boy.”

“Rather cool, aren’t you, to dispute the authority of
an officer ?” .

«Perhaps I am, but Ishall take the risk. Iam just
about as much of an officer as you are, and I have a few

ains of authority when it becomes necessary to use it.

What has this lad been doing ?”

“He broke a gentleman’s window—was playing thief,
I suppose.” (gy 1
«Whose window did he break ?”

“Mr. Julian Blain’s.”

“Ah! possibly he did. What have you to say, Steve 2”

The boy briefly stated the facts as they are already
known to the reader. When he explained the clever
ruse by which he had escaped from the gentleman’s
mansion, Croly smiled approvingly.

“Yow ll do, my boy.” he said, and Steve felt that his
shrewdness was appreciated by this clear-eyed detec-
tive.

The policeman stared at him in bewilderment.

“S80 you didn’t leave the housé when you broke the
glass?’ he exclaimed. s

“Not much. I broke the window for you and Mr.
Blain to go out by. When you were gone I went out by
the door, that you left open for my benefit,” said Steve.

Croly smiled again, and the policeman scowled.

He recognized the detective, but did not fancy being
defrauded of his revenge for the lad’s trick.

“J have orders to arrest the boy,” he said, deter-
minedly.

«Who gave you the orders ?” Croly asked.

«Mr. Blain.”

‘Well, I will take the liberty of countermanding them.
I tell you to let the boy alone.”

«‘] must do my duty, Mr. Croly.”

«You're not obliged to do an impossibility.”

«What do you mean ?”

“Tf you take him you will have to take me, too, and I
won't give in without a struggle. So if you are going to

ull us both in, begin the picnic as soon as you can, and

ave it over with.”

 

Without waiting for the officer to “begin the picnic,”
however, Croly hastily led’ the youngster toward a
passing street car, stepped aboard, and before the

do, he was too far in the rear to do anything.

The detective took his boy assistant to his private
quarters.

Scarce a word passed between them during the trip.
But in the detective’s private room Steve gave expres-
sion to his wonder in a low whistle.

“If you haven’t got a lot of queer things!” he ex-
claimed, staring at the many curious objects with which
the table and shelves were strewn.

“I will describe and explain them to you presently,”
“aig Croly, admiring the keen, observant glance of the
ad.

“But first,” he continued. ‘‘! wish you to tell me what
you have been doing. [told you to visit the printing
house last night, aud see if you could discover anything
about George Dyer. Did you succeed in doing so ?”

“IT got into the buildin’,.and I saw and heard some-
thing curious,” was the reply.

«What did you see and hear ?”

Steve related his experiences in detail. The intelligent
eyes of the detective sparkled with eagerness.

“And that is all?” he questioned, as the boy ceased,
having recounted the incidents which we have given in
the tenth and eleventh chapters of our story.

“That is all, sir,” the boy answered.

“So Dyer wished to send a communication to Mr.
Blain, and dared not trust it in writing ?”

“So it appears. And Clarence Blain didn’t care to take
it, for fear of getting drunk and blabbing. I guess it
was a mighty ’portant message, don’t you think so, mis-

“T should say it was. And another thing, I must find
out what itis. I must see Clarence Biain—that is the
first thing on the docket. Then I must experiment with
my little clew, the bloody thumb-print. And if [ don’t
have somebody under my thumb one of these fine days,
I shall miss my Calculations, that is all. Now. let me
give you some more directions, Steve. Keep your eyes
and ears open, and see that you do not fall into the
toils. lllrisk you anywhere, if you only do not try to
be too smart. Thatis the only trouble I ever have with
boys in employing them to accomplish important mis-
sions. They often try to do more than they can carry
out.”

Croly followed with several minute directions, which
he charged the boy to bear in mind.

sleep, of which he was sorely in need.

eral important preparations, the result of which was to
be a test of his strange clew, the bloody thumb-print.

During the entire day the detective remained in his
laboratory, only going out for a hasty lunch during the
time.

Upon the next morning he made his way toward the
mansion of Julian Blain.

AS he ascended the steps he saw two men standing
upon the porch, engaged in animated conversation.

One was the Hindoo detective, whose passive face con-
trasted strongly with the excited countenance of the
other, who seemed stricken with mortal terror.

The latter was Clarence Blain.

 

CHAPTER XIX.
AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.

Stella Brandon was so bewildered by the rapid suc-
cession of events, her own terror, and the surrounding
gloom, that for a moment after she saw her friend struck
down she stood motionless and irresolute.

She realized. that Leary had been attacked by some
one, and that he had his bands full for the present, at

slower brained officer could make up his mind what to

Then Steve went to his own lodgings to get some |

When the lad had gone, Croly proceeded to make sev-

lt was still raining heavily, and the wind careered
wildly through the tree-tops.

As they stood and listened they heard a crashing of
undergrowth close at hand; and then, so.Joud and near
that they recoiled in terror, they heard the deep bay of

the hound.

The animal bounded directly toward them, and his
lank, wet body came in contact with Stella’s hand. She
patted his head fearlessly, saying :

«We have nothing to fear from the beast, Katie.”

“But his master may not be so kind.”

«And he miay be kinder. Atleast we can again flee if
it comes to that.” ba

“Or we can fight, to be sure. Haven’t I got a pistol,
Stella—and | could use it, too.”

‘Hark !”

The sound of human footsteps approached. Peering
out into the darkness, only the swaying branches of the
trees were visible. But a voice, crisp and distinct,
called out:

«Nero, where are you ?”

Stella caught the hand of her friend in sudden terror.

“f have heard that voice before,” she breathlessly
whispered.

“Who is it ?”«

“T—J cannot think.”

ee isn’t the detective, Croly ?”

“No.”

“Nor a policeman that you have spoken with ?”

“T think not. And yet how familiar the voice sounds!”

The dog for some reason did not obey the man’s call.
He crouched close to the girls, and did not stir.

“Where is the hound?’ impatiently exclaimed the
voice from the darkness.

Then the footsteps approached, and the girls dimly saw
a man’s figure cautiously advancing. ;

‘Shall we flee ?” Katie asked, in the ear of her friend.

“Wait. If I could only recall where I have heard that
voice before !”

‘Is it that ruffian, Bill Leary 7%

“Oh, no.”

“It is strange you can’tremember. But if we are go-
ing torun from him we haven’t a minute to lose.”

‘We will stand our ground. Ido not believe this hut
belongs to him, and there is no need of running froma
shadow. Here he comes. Iw allenge him.”

And in the same breath the brave girl demanded, in a
clear tone:

- «Who are you, sir ?”_ >} “>.

The man halted, uttered a startled ejaculation, and
then exclaimed : ’

*“A woman in this place! Ah, there are two!”

As he spoke the man produced alantern which had
been concealed until then.

The light flashed into the faces of the girls, at the
same time illuming his own.

‘Stella Brandon!” the man cried, huskily.

“George Dyer, the missing foreman!” uttered Stella,
in consternation. :

It was a Strange meeting.

i

 

CHAPTER XX.
THE RIVALS MEET.

AS may be imagined, Croly’s interest was keenly ex-
cited by the scene upon the steps of the Blain mansion.
The knowledge of the Hindoo detective’s almost fabu-
lous skill in detecting the most secret crimes, and un-
earthing clews where no clews seemed to exist, Croly
naturally apprehended danger from the rivalry.

Never before had the two great detectives been en-
gaged upon the same case.

The Hindoo was older and more experienced. His
methods were original and marvelously successful.

 

 

least.

That the ruffian’s assailant was an officer from New
York she naturally inferred, and the fact, instead of dis-
pelling her fears, intensified them. For she feared the
officers scarcely less than she did the lawless ruffian.

 

ward, at the same time s@gding out a powerful, well-di- | me ascent

Springing to the spot where her companion had fallen,
she found the latter in the act of rising to her feet.

“The villain, to strike down agirl! Where is he 2”
| exclaimed Katie Byrnes, angry and breathless, but un-
hurt.

“Some one has attacked him, and he has his hands
full for the present,” Stella returned. And she eagerly
continued : ‘But we must not stay here amoment. If
his assailant is an officer, our peril is greater than
ever.”

“That is so. But it isn’t easy to find our way in this
darkness. I really believe that it is raining ink, for I
never Saw a night so black in all me life.”

The resolute [rish girl grasped the hand of her com-
panion, and together ‘they resumed their flight along
the dark, muddy highway.

Had they only known that they were fieeing from
one who would have proved their most substantial
ae their action would have been very different in-

eed.

For the one who had attacked Leary was the brave
Hindeo detective: and he had followed them for the
aes purpose of guarding them inst their foes.

ret had they known the identity of the detective,
without knowing of his purpose, they would doubtless
have refused to trust to his protection.

Hence, in blindness to their own welfare, the two
girls fled from their best friend—fied on and on through

 

“What is your duty ?” the detective asked, more t0/ the darkness and storm, into new and unfathomed

depths of danger.
For an hour

came
densely shaded on both sides by tall trees.
Katie came suddenly to a halt, uttering a gasp of

dismay.

“T believe we’re wrong!” she exclaimed.
«‘Wrong—how 2?” ;
“We've gone off on a crossroad, some way. It was |
so dark that I didn’t notice. But J know it isn’t this far |

the road we ought to have taken isn’t so narrow nor
stee

y a dozen feet. Croly’s | fromthe station to the village. AndI know, too, that |
|
|

as this one.” |
“Then we're lost, I suppose.”
“If it wasn’t for the darkness we would soon find the |
right road.” {

They were silent for a minute, the rain beating in |
their faces. Stella was next to speak. |

‘“‘What shall we do ?” she asked.

“We can go back.”

“And fall into the hands of our enemies, it is likely.”

“Then we Can go on.”

“That is the only way. We may come to a house,
where they will take us in for the night.”

“Like the pair of tramps that we are.”

Again they pushed on up the hill. A moment later
Stella exclaimed : oz)

“Yonder is a light.”

Sure enough, there was a faint glimmer quite close at |
hand. They hastened toward it, but the light seemed |
to 7 suddenly extinguished, and once. more they
halted.

“If it is a house the folks have gone to bed, it is likely,”
said Stella. ‘Yetit is our only chance of obtaining
shelter, so let us make bold to seek admittance.”

AS they advanced, they beheld the dim outlines of a
low, Shapeless building—neither a house nora barn. It
was a mere shanty of rough boards, without window or
door. One entire end was open to the weather, serving
as anentrance. All was dark and silent within.

“Shall we enter ?” Katie asked, in a whisper.

“Why not? We can thus escape the rain until morn-
ing and then we Can find our way to better quarters.”

“But the light that we saw—you forget that.”

“Some one may have passed with a lantern.”

“Sure, this is an uncanny place, Stella. Butif you’re
not afraid, it isn’t the likes of me to forsake you.”

“J fear nothing except pursuit.”

Stella Brandon led the way, stepping cautiously into
the hut. Of course she could not discern an object be-
fore her. She cautiously groped her way for two or
three paces. and then ‘tremblingly demanded :

“Is there any one here? If there is, let him speak.”

Katie, usually courageous, was timid now. She would
not shrink from visible dangers. But the unseen and
unknown perils were to her the hardest to defy.

They waited breathlessly for a response to Stella’s
challenge. But none came. A loose board upon the hut
was rattled by a passing gust of wind; this was the only
sound audible above the patter of the rain and rustle of
the overhanging foliage.

“Come—we have nothing to fear,” said Stella,
courage returning. : :

They entered and sank down upon the mossy earth |
which was the only floor of which the hut could boast.

Fortunately it was dry, and the girls experienced a
sense of comfort and security such as they had not
known since the commencement of their flight.

Attaining a comfortable position, and lulled by the
pattering rain and whirring foliage, the fugitives fell
asleep.

How long they slept they did not know. They were
awakened with a start. Both sprang to a sitting pos-
ture, clutching each other’s hands. They instantly re-
called their situation, and realized that some unusual
sound must have awakened them, tor they were too
greatly fatigued to have been aroused otherwise.

“What is it ?” Katie asked, in a whisper.

«“7’m not sure.”

“What do you think it was, then ? Sure, and we heard
something.”

“Tt sounded like a shout. Hark! there it is again.”

Above the sounds of the storm came a prolonged, dis-
mal cry, that caused the two girls to clasp each other’s
hands in terror.

«A call for help, wasn’t it?” was Katie’s whispered

uery.
“7 think not.”

“Sure and it didn’t sound human at all. I believe it
is a spirit, Stella.”

“Nonsense. It was aman or—— There!”

Once more the cry sounded above the storm. This
time it was nearer than before, and there was no mis-
taking its character.

“It is a hound,” exclaimed Stella, with a sigh of
relief.

‘Maybe there’s a hunter roving about in the woods,
then.”

‘Very likely.” ;

“And who knows but this is his hut ? But he wouldn’t
be so unkind as to turn us out of doors in the storm, I
am sure.”

“Of course not. If he does not betray us to our pur-
suers I shall fear nothing else.’

Again and again the baying of the hound sounded on
the night air, each time nearer than before. But pres-
ently it ceased, and for a long interval it was not heard.

The fugitives rose and went tothe open end of their

her |
}

man, with areputation to e. Should he win over
his distinguished rival upon’ this blind case, and
through that unique clew of his, then his reputation

ae at least be on a plane with that of the wonderful
yjan. TT hears
The detective quickly ascendéd the steps, and was in |

time to hear Clarence Blain exc#aim :

“ET tell youl know nothing the crime.
know where George Dyer is hiding.”

Croly advanced in an unconcerned manner, and

I do not

| aSked :

;

“Is your father within, sir ?” : :

“He is in bed, I think, sir,” answered the young man,

Mwah shrinking under the penetrating gaze of the de-
ective. ;

“Then I could not see him ?”

“If necessary; sir. But it is yet early.”

“It doesn’t appear to be early for you.”

The young man averted hisface and seemed on the
point of entering the house. At the same time the Hin-
sete having nodded in recognition of his rival, turned to

epart.

Croly, stepping between them, quickly placed a hand
upon the arm of each. i

‘Do | interrupt an interview 7” he questioned.

‘ane, had finished,” Hyjah quietly replied.
added:

And he
“Pardon meif Lleave you, as [am in great

 

| ¢

|

| inquired, recalling the summ
| received at the hands of this
former occasion.

ghey struggled along the muddy road. |
grew steeper at every Step, and they ve- |
presently aware that the road was narrower, and |

|

 

 

 

 

 

shelter.

=

haste.”

He descended the steps, while Croly turned to the
young man, saying:
“Then it is my turn; so you need not go in.”
“What canIdotor you, sir?’ Clarence Blain coldly
; treatment that he had
nder, wiry man upon a

*Youcan give me some very Waluable information, if
you wilh” Croly declared, , ; r

“I may not choose to dO SO,di 8 Gan.” 7

“You may not act wholly acé@ording to choice in the
matter, young man. Upon akother occasion, if I re-
member rightly, you desisted from persecuting’ a young
lady somewhat before you che todoso. Do you re-
member it ?” 3

“You meddled with that whi¢a did mot concern you,

”

  
   
 

“That is all right.”

Croly’s eyes gleamed from behind his spectacles in a
way that made the young mian feel very uncomfort-
able.

The detective continued, in a milder tone, however.

“Of course, I am seeking information only concerning
the criminal mystery, which I am trying to solve. And
you are doubtless as eager aS myself to have the matter

| cleared up. I do not wish to be discourteous, but I shall

expect direct answers.”

Young Blain was silent, but it was plain that he was
illatease. <Aitera pause that was unpleasantly long,
he asked : @

‘‘What do you wish to know ?”

‘In the first place, are you acquainted with George
Dyer, the missing foreman ?”

“IT knew him slightly.”

‘Are you familiar with the details of your father’s
business ?”

“T am not.” ‘

‘What is your employment ?”

“Tam a gentleman of leisure. I do not like business ;

I detest work, and I do as I plegse in these matters.”
“You are candid to (ER ae of
“Tintend to be candid; cape-grace.

5
That is what I am called, and [suppose I am one.”

“You visit the printing-house sometimes ?”

“Frequently.”

“For what purpose ?”

«To see that pretty compositor, usually.”

“You are in love with her, you say ?”

“T am, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

‘Would you make her your wife ?”

“Gladly, if she would consent.”

“When were you at the printing-house to see her
last ?”

Croly asked these preliminary questions to throw the
young man off his guard, and calm his excessive agita-
tion. And the ruse was succeeding admirably.

Clarence Blain seemed reassured, and calmly replied
to the last question.

“JT have not met her since the day of the tragedy.”

‘Have you tried to see her since ?”

‘No, sir.”

«Do you know where she lives ?”

“J do.”

“And you have not been there ?”

**NO, Sir.”

‘You have been once to the printing-house since that
day ?”

‘*No, sir.”

“Tut, tut. Tell me the truth; and keep clear of tan-
gles that yov will have to unrayel afterward. You have
been at the printing-house, as I said, since the day you
mention.”

Clarence started, and
suspicion. ‘ ; “ a

‘Have you been shadowing me ?” he demanded.

SMO

“Then why do you dispute my statement ?”

«Because I know better. You visited the building at
hear midnight, night before lagt.”

The young man caught at a pillar for support, his
face growing deathly white. But by a powertul effort
he controlled himself and exclaimed, in a tone of com-
parative calmness.

“I did visit the printing-house at the hour you men-
tion, but not to meet Stella Brandon,”

“What was your errand ?”

*‘\ private matter.”

“An appointment ?”

“Yes, Sir”

‘With George Dyer, the foreman ?”

Instead of growing more excited the young man be-
came calmer. He firmly answered :

“TI went there to meet George Dyer, the foreman.”

«How did you know you would find him there ?”

“He made the appointment.”

“You saw him ?”

‘7 did, sir.” Bed

“And received acommunication from him ?”

(cy Omr

“Concerning the murder of Hiram Waldron ?”

“Indirectly.”

«Will you state the communication in detail ?”

“T am not at liberty to do so, sir.”

“Does it implicate any one ?”

“It does.”

eyed the detective with sudden

«Then what right of you, young man, to withhold the |

facts ?”

“Because there is a divine law of fidelity above the
human law of vengeance. You detectives seek only to
punish unhappy human beings for so-called crimes
which you would yourselves commit under like circum-
stances. J will tell you frankly, Mr. Croly, that I have
evidence involving some onein this crime. But it im-
plicates an innocent person—one as innocent as an
angel.!”

Sroly was impressed by the sudden vehemence of the
young man. The latter’s words, although seeming to

SS

or not.

‘nearly all the points he had to give that were worth lis-

Croly, on tue other hand, wasacomparatively young | gifection is pardonable, and I am willing to satisfy it. If

 

 

admit much, yet left the truth as deeply hidden as
before.

The detective regarded the other fixedly fora mo-
ment, and then quietly said :

“You are attempting a wild impossibility, my man, in
trying to shield a guilty person by so plain a subterfuge.
You expect me to infer from your words that the person
implicated is a woman—perhaps that pretty compositor.
Perhaps they have masculine angels, but when that
epithet is used as a comparison, we generally infer that
afemale is alluded to. You probably love your father
dearly, for he is evidently very indulgent. But I fancy
he would smile to be called ‘innocent as an angel.’ Of
course I know you refer only to him.”

Clarence Blain recoiled-with a startled cry, his lips
white and quivering, his small, delicate hands clenched.

One of those small hands was thrown outward with
impetuous force, and but for a timely movement to one
side the detective would have received the full force of
the blow upon the side of his face.

Before the young man conld repeat the audacious at-
tempt, however, his arms were seized in a grasp of iron
and he was forced back against the closed door.

In vain he struggled and writhed under the stern gaze
of Croly’s spectacled eyes.

“Foolish boy!” the detective exclaimed. after a mo-
ment of silence. ‘‘I have learned more than I expected,
and at present I shall not request you to add to my in-
formation upon this point. 1 ask you to inform me con-
cerning the hiding-place of George Dyer, however. Do
you know whither he went after your interview of night
before last ?”

“J do not,” Blair huskily replied.

«The truth, remember, for I shall detect a falsehood.”

«On my life, I swear it!”

‘That will do, unless you have seen him since ?”

“T have not.”

«Then you may go. But let me warn you not to make
abad matter worse by hasty action. If your father is
involved in this crime. it is bad enough for you. And I
more than half suspect that he is.”

Clarence Blain unlocked the door without a word and
éntered the mansion.

Croly turned away, but was amazed to see a tall,
shadowy form leaning against one of the pillars. It was
the Hindoo detective.

Croly bent his head forward, a scornful smile curling
his thin lips.

‘So this is your style of beating a rival—stealing his
points while he does his work ?” he exclaimed, a fine |
scorn in his tones. i

Hyjah’s impassive countenance did not change its ex- |
pression as he met the other's gaze. \

ee are mistaken, Mr. Croly,” was his calmly uttered |
reply.

“Do you deny that you came back to listen ?”

“? certainly deny. it.”

“Then piease explain your purpose.
overheard our interview, whether
So the result is the same.”

“T overheard only afew remarks, and those were of |
no importance, Mr. Croly. The fact is, 1 had pumped the
young man pretty dry before you began. I think I got

 

|
|

You must have
you intended to do so |}

tening to. Of course, you and I both know that Julian
Blain is not to be suspected.”

Hyjah spoke with such *quiet conviction that Croly was
again nonplused. Was the Hindoo really so far ahead
oi him in this case ? The younger detective realized that
‘he must work hard to win his spurs in this race of skill.

“Why did you return, then ?” Croly quietly asked.

“To satisfy your curiosity upon a point which troubles

you.

“What is that ?”

“You just asked Blain about George Dyer’s hiding-
place. As youarea young man your interest in that

you will follow me now [ will guarantee to bring you
Jace to face with George Dyer himself \”

Croly, after a moment’s hesitation, said, in an in-
credulous tone:

 

 

 

 

‘IT shall hold you to your promise, sir.
lose no time.”

The rival detectives hastened away from the mansion
side by side.

Come, let us

(TO BE CONTINUED.]

re gt

DIED AT HIS POST.

 

Some time last fall a well known huntsman of Provi-
dence, R. I., lost a very valuable pointer dog, and the
most strenuous exertions to find the animal proved fruit-
less, so finally he was given up as being hopelessly lost.
Last Monday the owner of the dog, in company with

three other gentlemen, was traveling through a section
ot Buck Hill woods, when they came across the skeleton
of a dog in attitude, the left fore-paw raised, and the
tail sticking out straight as a ramrod, the bones being

 

 

held in position by the sun-dried cords and sinews.
The collar around the neck established beyond a!

| doubt the fact that the remains were those of the long-

|

lost Leo, and a further search brought to view, about a |
rod from the dog’s nose, the bones and feathers of: a. |
partridge.

The mystery now became clear as day. With the won- |
derful and inscrutable instincts that control birds and
brutes, the partridge had lain perdu, afraid to rise, |
while the dog, like the Roman sentry at Pompeii, had
died at his post of duty.

The hunter exhibits the recovered collar as proof posi- |
tive of the truth of his story.

 

a

SEA-WATER A REMEDY FOR OBESITY.

 

Some of the Paris physicians warmly recommend the
treatment of obesity by the administration of sea-water,
combined with a residence at the sea side. It is urged |
that sea-water, taken internally, acts like diuretic and
purgative salts, a remarkable fact being that the

diuretic effect increases when the purgative diminishes.
The water is to be obtained, when possible, from some |
depth, and far from the shore—being then left to settle
for six to twelve hours, and filtered. It is to be taken
three times a day, in doses of a small tumberful, or in
half that quantity at a time with fresh water or milk.
The claim is that sea-water thus used facilitates the
oxygenation of the blood, and that it hastens the elimin-
ation of effete materials. In combination with this
treatment, sea-water baths are to be taken, free exer-
cise is to be carried out, and at the same time fattening
foods are, of course, to be avoided.

-e~<

NINE KINGS AND QUEENS OF SPAIN LIVING.

There are at the present time, including the Carlist
dynasty, no fewer than nine kings and queens of Spain.
First, there is the infant king upon the throne, and his
mother the queen regent; then come the gx-Queen Isa-

bella and her husband, King Francis; thirdly, the ex-
King Amadeo, brother of the King of Italy; and lastly,
the four Carlists—Don Juan II]. and his queen, Dona
Beatrix of Este, the former of whom abdicated a few
years ago in favor of his son Don Carlos, who, with his
wife, Dona Margaret, makes up the total. An anecdote
is told of the ex-King Amadeo paying a visit to the ex-
Queen Isabella in Paris a few years ago, when Don
Carlos was announced, whereupon Amadeo took his
leave, observing with a smile, ‘1 don’t think three
sovereigns of Spain ought to be in one room.”

i ay

ON THE ROAD TO FGRTUNE.

 

It was a Maine girl of whom the story is told that she
refused to marry a most devoted lover until he should
have amassed a fortune of $10,000. After some expos

tulation he accepted the decree and went to work.
About three months after this the avaricious young lady,
meeting her lover, asked :

-*Well, Charlie, how are you getting along ?”

“Oh, very well indeed,” Charlie returned, cheerfully.
“ve got $18 saved.”

The young lady blushed, and looked down at the toes
of her walking-boots, and stabbed the inoffensive earth
with the point of her parasol. °

“J guess,” said she, faintly—‘I guess, Charlie, that’s
about near enough.”

 

 

 

(

HE who has neither friend nor enemy is without talent,
power, or energy.

THE more honesty aman has the less he affects the
air of a saint.

 

 

 

Unequaled.

For the relief and cure of all disvases
of the Stomach, Liver, Kidneys, and
Bowels, the value of Ayer’s Cathartic
Pills cannot be overestimated. ‘This
remedy is also unrivaled in curing
Rheumatic and Neuralgic affections.

For keeping the Stomach, Bowels,
and Liver in good working order, I have
never found any medicine egual to
Ayer’s Cathartic Pills. I always use
this remedy when occasion requires. —
Ranéolph Morse, Lynchburg, Va.

About five years since, my son became
a cripple from Rheumatism. His joints
and limbs were drawn out of shape by
the excruciating pain, and his general
health was very much impaired. Medi-
cines did not reach his case until he
commenced taking Ayer’s Pills, three
boxes of which cured him. He is now
as free from the complaint as if he had
never had it, and his distorted limbs
have recovered their shape and pliancy.
— William White, Lebanon, Pa.

After suffering, for months, from dis-
orders of the Stomach and Liver, I took

Ayer’s Pills. Three boxes cured me. —
A. J. Pickthall, Machias, Me.

Ayer’s Pills,

Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass.
Sold by all Druggists and Dealers in Medicine.

 

This lady’s hair looks very pretty.
It is ali ‘‘herown.’’ Not very heavy

nor thick, but it looksso. It is because
she wears the Braided Wire

   

(Patented March 9, 1886.]
Mikapo Harr RoLts,

which weigh only % an ounce each,
and do not heat the head, as wool or
hair will. By holding the hair out
loose they keep it from getting musty
or gathering dampness from perspira-
tion. They are made to match any
color hair. Sold by all dealers.

If you do not find the ‘‘ Mikado’’ where you trade,
we will send one by mail, post paid, for 15 Cents, two
for 25 Cents.

THE WEstToN & WELLS Mec. Co.,
1017 Chestnut St., Phila., Pa.

 

“For

 

The only perfect substitute for Mother’s.
milk. Invaluable in Cholera infantum
and Teething. A pre-digested food for Dys=-
pence, Consumptives, Convalescents.

erfect nutrient in all Wastin Diseases.
Requires no cooking. Our Book, The Care
and Feeding of infants, mailed free.
DOLIBER, GOODALHB & CO., Boston, Mass.

 

 

PENNYROYAL PILLS!

LADIES! “CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH,”
THE ONLY GENUINE. NEVER FAIL. Safe and always Reliable,
Particulars in letter by return Mail 4¢.(stamps.) Name Paper,

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Sold by Druggists. Ask for ‘‘ Chichester’s English,” take no other.

CURE (or HED E AF

PE: K’S PATENT IMPROVED CUSHIONED EAR DRUMS Prr-
FEcTLY Restore THe Hearne and perform the work of the natural drum.
Invisible, comfortable and always in position. All conversation and~even
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RUNKENNESS or the Liquor Habit Positively Cured
in any of its stages. All desire or craving for stimulants
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of the patient, by placing it in coffee, tea, or articles of food.
Cures guaranteed. Send for particulars. GOLDEN SPE-

CIFIC CO., 185 Race Street, Cincinnati, Ohio.
Debility. Loss of Vital-

TO WEAK MEN ity, Weakness of Body

and Mind, etc. Iwill send youa valuable treatise, containing
full particulars for certain restoration to health and vigor,
free of charge. Address PROF. F. FOWLER, Moodus, Conn.

 

 

suffering from Nervous

 

 

FACE, HANDS, FEET,
all their imperfections,including Facial development,superfluous
Hair, Birth Marks, Moles,Warts, Moth, Freckles, Red Nose, Acne,
BVk Heads, Scars, Pitting. and their treatment. Dr. Joun Woop-
BURY. 37 N. Pearl, ALBANY, N. Y., Est’b 1870. Send 10c. for book
25 cents. Makes 5 gallons of a delicious,

HIRES sparkling, and wholesome beverage. Sold

by all druggists or sent by mail on receipt of 25 cents.
C. E. HIRES, 48 N. Delaware Ave., Philadelphia, Pa.

SUPERFLUOUS HAIF

 

 

 

IMPROVED ROOT BEER. Packages,

 

Pilla Solvene
permanently dis-
solves Superflu-

 

ous Hair in 5 minutes, without injury. Particulars (sealed),
6c. WILCOX SPECIFIC

 

) MED. CO., Philadela, Pa,

OPIUM een apes ge in 10
lays. No pay till cured.
Dr. J. Stephens, Lebanon, Ohio.

 

 

THE GREATEST OFFER EVER MADE TOSPORTSMEN. A FINE
IMPORTED DOUBLE-BARREL BREECH-LOADER with Outfit, 12.00,

HANDSOME ENGLISH GARVED'& CHECKERED WALNUT: STOCK;

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SNAP ACTION G

   
  
   
     
 

  

> warranTED HANDNADE
‘WILLKILL AT 100 YARDS,

We havejust purchased AT A GREAT ‘
SACRIFICE from a LEADING NEW YORK

GUN IMPORTING FIRM[who have recently failed] their entire stock of the well-known and at
BREECH-LOADING SHOT GUNS. AS ABOVE DESCRIBED,

pS) MOUNTINGSAIL CASEHARDENED, CHQKED BORED

SG oe

AULOMATIC ~SHELE.!
EJECTOR.

 
 

y werent
Z21010 Ibs.

BELDEN” DOUBLE
It is equal in every respect toa COLT, PARKER

  
 

andard

BARREL
or REMINGTON for brilliant execution AND OTHERWISE. As we bought a large number, we have decided to offer a LIMITED

NUMBER at only $12.09, each, UP TO DEC. |

5.1886 !for the nurpose of introducing them more thoroughly in the United

States), AFTER DEC, [5. we shall charge the REGULAR RETAIL PRICE of $26.00. SPORTSMEN AND OTHERS can now lay
aside their muzzle loaders and secnre this most SUPERIOR BREE H-LOADER at the UNPARALLELED LOW PRICE of S12.
The Uarrets of the ** BELDEN”’ AS OFFERED BY US are mace of the finest Sheffield Steel. and each Gun is 80 BRANDED,
besides we willsend a GUARANTEE witheach one. NO OTHER FIRM WILL DO THIS. Upon re-+ipt of part of the amount, to show
good faith in ordering and to cover us on Express charges, we will ship C.0.D. by Express, with privilege to examine before you accept

it, or if the full amount of $12,
un. ORDER Now. corse

and most ADVANTAG EQ)
Money returned, less Express ch
BARGAINS,

  
 
   
   
   

FER,
« itis notas represented and
Complete Set o

Call on or addre 8S, THE

  

O is sent with order, we will send A CARTRIDGE BELT FREE

| ADVERTISEMENT OUT, t> save contusion, AND RETURN WITH YOUR ORDER.
Again. and it will be a very long time before we will ever again be able to make such another great
Nothing gained by correspondence, as the Gun is fnllv described above.
Reloading Tools onlv $2,00,
BELDEN ACENCY,

with each

and 25 Shel's

No Catalogue,

AT $212.00 IT IS THE BARGAIN OF ALL
9 West Broadway, NEW YORK.

satisfactory.

 

 

 

 

 
 

  

   
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
   
     
 
 
  
 
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
   
    
     
   
  
  
 
 
 
  
   
   

 

 

 

 

 

ors

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

YORK WEEKLY. #3

VOL. 41—No, 43,

 

 

 

 

GIVE ME PEACE.

 

BY GEORGE ARNOLD.

 

A harmless fellow, wasting useless days,
Am1; I love my comfort and my leisure;

Let those who wish them toil for gold and praise;
To me this summer day brings more of pleasure.

So, here upon the grass I lie at ease,
While solemn voices from the past are calling,
Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees,
And pleasant sounds of water idly falling.

There was a time when I had higher aims
Than thus to be among the flowers , and listen
To lisping birds, or watch the sunset’s flames
On the broad river’s surface glow and glisten.

There was a time, perhaps, when IT had thought
To make a name, a home, a bright existence;

But time has shown me that my dreams were naught,
Save a mirage, that vanished with the distance.

Well, it is gone; I care no longer now
For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises;
Rather than wear a crown upon my brow,
I'd lie forever here among the daisies.

So you who wish for fame, good friends, pass by;
With you I surely cannot think to quarrel;

Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie,
And spare me both the labor and the laurel!

 

o~

THE WIGWAG PAPERS.--No. 13,

BY CLARA A®QGUSTA,

 

 

THE NETTLETON PARTY:

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The hall lamp had been throwed down and busted,
and all the light there was come from the upper hall.
But it was enough to show us something with eyeballs
like fire, and horns that sot up high above ’em, anda
voice like the cracking of doom. And this thing was
rolling over and over with another thing that hada
head like an ivory billiard-ball, and was a screeching
‘‘murder” enough to split Washington City in two.

“Good gracious!” cried Fitz Doodle, “it’s Satan him-
self! Horns, hoofs, and all!”

“It's a goat!” cried Judson, who always remembers
that he was named fora missionary, and manages to
keep his head level on all occasions; ‘‘and it’s your
woman’s rights guest, ma, only she has lost her hair in
the scrimmage.”

‘Heavens and earth!” says I, ‘is that you, Sabiny ?”

“Yes, it’s me,” says she, ‘“‘and if you don’t call off this
demon, [ll take the law on you. It’s a pretty way to
treat old friends. I——”

And here the goat sot his head against her chest, and
lifted her, and flung her right at Fitz Doodle, and Fitz,
being rather limbeg-legged, went down before her, and
grabbed the hat-stand as he went, and pulied that over,
and stove the looking-glass all to kindlings, and my
best bonnet and seven or eight tall hats was scattered
round permiscuous.

Judson, meanwhile, got the goat by the horns, and
Peleg sot the front door wide open, and they shoved him
down the steps, where he was just in time to butt overa
policeman that was coming up to see what the row was.
He found out without asking any questions.

“It was that Tommy, of course,” said Miss Sabiny, as
she tied a handkercher over her head to keep the frost
from striking her brains. ‘‘The critter was in my closet,
and when I went to hang up my dress, he rushed at me,
and butted me clean down over the stairs. If I could lay
my hands onto that boy, ’'d give him something he’d
remember if he lived till Bunker Hill moved out to San
Franciscus !”

We had a hard job to cool Sabiny down, but Wigwag
promised to present her petition to Congress, and we
agreed to board Tommy out while she stayed—Fitz
Doodle having offered to take him, and run all risks, for
six dollars a week.

It seemed, on questioning Tommy, that he and Jack
Pray, one of his chums, had coaxed Mrs. McGinniss’
goat up stairs, with turnips, and shut him into Sabiny’s
closet. J don’t uphold the boy in his actions, but the
doctor says that he’s got a remarkably active set of
brains, and he must let off, somehow. I’ve had some
thought of giving him Jenkins’ Bitters for a month or

‘two, to cool his blood, and I think I shall, when Congress

busts up, and we go home to recooperate.

Sabiny got in her petition, but Wigwag said it was laid |
_ on the table—which means thatit was respectfully de-

clined, with thanks.

Sabiny stayed a week, and went home a good deal dis-
gusted with Washington. She’s going to write a book
on it, as most people does that comes here,. and I’ve sub-
scribed for fifty copies.

Day before yesterday, we was invited to dinner at
Senator Nettleton’s. The senator is aman that weighs
two hundred and fifty, and his wife can go him ten better.
There is a good deal to the Nettletons.

They’re awful aristocratic. I’ve heern it said, since
I’ve been here, in Washington, that Mrs. Nettleton dis-
charged a washerwoman because she biled Nettleton’s
shirts in the same biler with the footman’s shirts, and
wouldn’t give her no character either.

I had a new dress made to wear. It was white satin,
with short sleeves and no neck to speak of, and a wo-
man might as well go to meeting in her corset cover as
to wear one of these stylish Washington ball dresses ;
but it’s the fashion, and you’ve got todoit. The dress
happened to be about three inches too small for me, and
there was no time to alter it. It took Judson, and
Marie, and my maid, all three of ’em, to button me into
that gown, and Judson pulled his finger nails off, and
Marie perspired like a tin quart full of ice-water in July.

When I was into it, I felt as if I should be liable to fly
to pieces if I drawed a long breath. Dear me! howl
envied Our washerwoman, that was a-hanging out
clothes with nothing on but a loose wrapper. She looked
big enough, and free enough, to draw in all the oxygen
that was a-lying loose between the North Pole and the
empire of Japan. 4

The Nettletons had a big gathering. It was to bea
very reeshashy affair—which is the Latin, or French, I
don’t remember which, for select. Fitz Doodle was
there, with a new pair of double-barreled eye-glasses
cut acrost the middle, so’s he could see both sides of the
question by looking once.

I got through the dinner as well as could be expected.
I hain’t got over feeling nervous about the waiters yet.
They’re a good deal more dignified and sot up than their
employers are, and they watch every movement; and if
you should let a drop of soup run down your chin, they’d
know it. And if {I don’t like any particular dish I das-
sent say so, because they always look so horrified, and
they take it away just as if they’d left youa legacy in
their wills and you hadn’t showed no gratitude.

The waiter brought me some maccarony. Now, if
there’s anything I hate, it’s that stuff. {t looks just
like biled worms, and I should think it tastes about like
’em. It makes my stummuk crawl to see it.

I didn’t like to hurt the man’s feelings by telling him
I didn’t want it, sol took itjand the fust chance I got,
when nobody was looking, I just dumped it into my
handkerchief.

It was mixed up with cheese and was quite hard, and
I calculated I would go into the conservatory and heave
it out of the window after dinner.

The pudding was brought on, and it was one of the
best puddings I ever tasted, Almost everybody feels
complimented when you praise their cooking, and I
cleared my throat and spoke about that pudding.

«Your pudding,” says I to Mrs. Hon. Nettleton, ‘‘beats
anything I ever see! It’s delicious! It melts in your
mouth! How did you make it? I should like the resate
to carry home to Muddy Flat. It would be real nice
when our church had a fair.”

Mrs. Hon. Nettleton lifted her eye-glasses and looked
atme. Sheis narrer-sighted, or pertends to be, as is
everybody else that’s stylish. I’ve been setting up in
the narrer-sighted business some myself, as I guess I’ve
mentioned before.

Then, when she had looked me over to make sure that
it was me, she says: .

“Well, really, I don’t know anything about the way
my cook gets up these things. I never go in the kitchen
myself. But I’ll inquire.” '

Everybody looked at me, and I felt asif I had been
caught robbing a hen-roost, and I grabbed the pepper-
box and peppered my jelly, and the pepper flew into my
nose—and, heavens and airth! I sneezed! I couldn’t
help it, and whenI did so there was acrack, and my
dress busted down the back, and I felt asif I had gone
into the land of treedom and liberty!

And I up with my handkerchief to wipe my eyes—
and that cheese and maccarony was plastered over my
face, and the little worms went down into my bosom,
and I thought I should faint away. ;

THE CRIMSON PLUME,

BY MARGARET BLOUNT.

The farm-house, though but a plain, red, four-roomed
structure, stood pleasantly on an eminence, far from the
high-road, and commanding a magnificent view down
the valley of the Ottoqueechee—a view that extended
for miles, and was bounded only by the smoky outlines
of the Granite Hills.

But the little farm-house had served its time. In spite
of its view—in spite of all the countless associations
that cluster around the first home of a family, it was to
be abandoned on the morrow, and its present inmates
were to be scattered far and wide.

The “old people,” as by common consent they now
began to be called, were to go farther down the valley,
to reside in the home of their only son—their only mar-
ried child. Their daughter was to leave in the early
stage for one of those great cities of the spindle and the
loom, where girls like her could find ready work and
wages. And the adopted son of the family, who had
lived with them as one of themselves, from his seventh
to his twenty-first year—he was to enter as Freshman
at Yale, and fit himself for the life of intellectual strife
and effort, for which no one knew his powers and capa-

bilities better than himself.

Step by step he had worked his way upward to this
long-desired goal. Faithful service done on the farm
for fourteen years had given hima tall and stalwart
frame, and a healthy coloring to the somewhat square
and massive outlines of his face. His broad, high brow
gave good promise for his future; and the square, strong
chin, the firmly closed lips, the grave blue eyes, the
whole aspect of frank, unconscious daring, seemed to
make that promise good. He looked ‘‘the born leader ;”
and the girl who stood beside him by the open window
on that lovely summer eve, thought secretly in her own
heart that a king upon his throne could never have
borne himself more regally than he.

‘To-morrow evening, at this hour, and the old home
will be lonely and deserted,” he said, in a low, musical
voice, with a lingering glance around the familiar
room.

The ready tears rose in the soft, dark eyes of the

irl

girl.

“T dread it,” she said, softly. ‘I dread it more than I
can say. It is bad enough to leave home, anyway. But
T could bear itfar better if I could think of father and
nee here in the old place, just as I have always seen
them.”

‘It is better for them to make the move, Verona,” re-
plied the young man. ‘Your father is growing old,
and it will be easier for him to help your brother than
to undertake the eo of a farm by himself,”

“TI know it, Raymond,” she answered, with a sigh.
«But, oh, if all could have gone on in the old way, how
much happier——”

*‘For you, perhaps, Verona,” said Raymond Ellis, with
a slight frown. ‘But would you have been willing to
see me waste my life here ?”

“Not unless you were willing to stay, Raymond.”

«‘And I never should have been,” was the brief reply.

The girl sighed again.

“Strange,” he said. looking down at her. ‘Strange
that you should feel like this. We have talked over my
future so often, and you have seemed as eager as I could
be to have things work together to this end. And now
that we have reached it, you seem out of heart and
spirits, and almost angry with.me because I am willing
to go.

‘Oh, no, Raymond,” she answered, gently, but with a
look of pain ; ‘‘not angry ; don’t think it. I could never
be angry with you, never. But I did not dream how hard
this parting would be untilitcame. To let you gois
like tearing the very heart out of my breast. That is why
I cannot rejoice, even though you have your heart’s de-
sire. And then, when I look forward—oh, Raymond,
there is nothing in the future to give me hope or com-
fort—nothing, nothing!”

‘‘What do you mean, Verona ?” he asked, half angrily.
“Have I not promised myself to you as solemnly as man
could do? And yet you are always distrusting me. It
is hard to bear.”

“Raymond, you will go to college, and every day you
Stay there we shall grow farther and farther apart. [|
must work hard to earn my own support now. I shall
have no time for study, even if I had the taste; and so,
when ae SES, you will come bagk only
appointec

 

  

can say or do will remove the impression from my mind.
It will not be your fault, and-you will strive against it
with might and main, and I shall see the struggle and
release you. Then, with some woman who has been
educated and trained up to your requirements, you will
make a home. Raymond, our real parting will be
now.”

He flung his arm around her waist, and, drawing her
closely to his heart, kissed her with the kind of impetu-
ous ardor that was characteristi@ of all his movements.

“Tll hear no more of this, on the last evening we have
here in the old home,” he cried. ‘You shall not wrong
yourself and me by such speeches. Have faith in me,
Verona, aS I have in you; and when six years have
come and gone I shall be rich enough to build you a
home. We will have it here—we will build over the
dear old house, and be as happy in the new one as your
father and mother were in that. Now what are you
shaking your head at, my pretty little Verona ?”

“t cannot drive the foreboding away, Raymond.
Something tells me what is to come in the future.”

“Let it stay there in the future,*then,” he said, kissing
her again. ;

‘Like seeks like, dear Raymond, and however much I
aa = you now, I shall not suit you then!” she
sighed.

He pointed to the hills opposite, crowned with a dia-
dem of trees, whose leaves were just begiuning to shed
the scarlet, golden glories of the early autumn time.

“There is our tree, Verona--the maple, that in the
autumn you have always called the ‘Crimson Plume.’
Before the frost has painted that plume six times again,

| you and I will be living here together—married, and

happy in our quiet little home.”

She did not answer. She turned her face toward his
and her hand stole softly round his neck as she returned
his kiss. But all the while her heart was heavy within
her breast, and the words of hopeful love that he whis-
pered found no echo in her timid, doubting soul.

* * * * >» * *

*
So five years passed away, and brought their changes
with them. :

Raymond Ellis was a well known and successful law-

 

 

 

yer in the great city of New York. His clients were
among the wealthy and fashionable; his home was a
“brown-stone front” in one of the most aristocratic quar-
ters of the city. Though he went quietly down to busi-
ness in a street car each morning, his wife’s carriage
was remarkable for its elegance and beauty. Driven by
a liveried coachman, escorted by a liveried footman, and
with a coat of arms upon the shining panels, who
would have thought that three years of ‘‘practice”
could have done this ?”

Therein lay the secret of it all. The three years of
practice by themselves would scarcely have supported
Raymond Ellis in that expensive city, even had he been
content to live on bread-crusts and cheese-parings. He
was not so content. Luxurious by nature, he had grown
doubly luxurious since his first introduction to a world
where, to use his own words, ‘‘people lived like human
beings, not like savages.” When once he found how
much of beauty and luxury there was on earth, he
burned‘and craved to possess and taste it all. He looked
back, with a fastidious shudder, to the days when he
slept soundly and contentedly in the “unfinished cham-
ber” of the old red farm-house on the hill; the days when
he had made his toilet at the pump, with a crash towel
and a piece of yellow soap; the days when he ate hugely
of baked beans, and ‘‘boiled dihners,”’ and knew no con-
fection sweeter or rarer than a three-cornered piece of
mince or pumpkin pie.

All this was changed in his coliege days. His own
studies, his own observation, and the familiar talk of
companions better born and bred than he, gave him
ae thoughts and notions which he burned to see made
real,

Pictures, statues, books, a luxurious home, delicious
repasts concocted by the genius of an expensive French
cook, rare wines, and-last, but by no msans least, the
society of persons of culture and refinement, to whom
all these things were as their daily breath—these were
the things that Raymond Ellis wanted. What was more,
he wanted them now! Now, in his youth and fervor,
while he could appreciate and enjoy them! Not in
twenty or thirty years hence, when the bloom would
have been brushed off the fruit, when the beauty and
the perfume shouid have left the fiower.

How was he to win all this, at the best season for
thorough ‘enjoyment—he, a poor and unknown man,
who must depend on the labor of his brain and hands
for the barest means of existence ?

How, indeed ?

By night and by day he tortured himself with this un-
soluble problem.

And the Spirit of Evil, seeing this, presented him sud-
denly with a solution in a tangible and tempting form.

A woman fell in love with him—a woman who had in
her bestowal all the good gifts for which he pined—a
widow, some ten years his senior, of good birth, high
breeding, and still in the bloom of her beauty and at-
tractiveness. Struck by his peculiar beauty, she distin-
guished the young lawyer by her notice at some public
Jete where they met. Hi iends jested with him over
the lady’s apparent nee, never dreaming that
he intended to avail himself of it, as a stepping-stone
to all that he most desire

In a month’s time their jests were silenced—Ray-
mond Ellis was the husband of the beautitul widow,

 

established by her as master in her luxurious city

  

to -be dist:
in me.° I know {—I feel it—fnd nothing oe 5

home, and rapidly rising to eminence in the profession
he had chosen through the influence exerted in his
tavor by the influential friends of his wife.

He had taken the tide ‘at the fiood,” and it had led
him on to fortune. Whether to happiness or not, 1
cannot say. But I know that all the ease and luxury
his artistic taste had craved were his. He was received
cordially in the very best society—at first on his wife’s
account, but finally on his own. He dressed elegantly,
he fared sumptuously, he lived luxuriously. His wife,
it is true, did not worship him with the fervor of a
young girl; but she admired his beauty, and still re-
tained enough of her first penchant tor him to make
her manner as pleasant and caressing as he desired it
to be, To all outward appearance they were a model
couple ; to all outward appearance he was a happy, a
successful, and a contented man.

If any ghost of the past came persistently to haunt
him, he kept his visits a secret. If he felt a pang of re-
morse now and then for his betrayal of a heart that had
loved and trusted him, he made no sign that the world
could recognize. A quiet home, successin his profes-
sion, and the promise of high honor in his political
career. What mera cotiid the heart of Raymond Ellis

ask.

  
 

* *

* * * * * >
It was the harvest month in the sixth year after the
departure of Raymond Ellis trom the homestead on the

The Crimson Plume burned brightly among the trees
on the mountain side, and the promise which it was to
herald had not been kept.

But the old homestead was no longer silent and de-
serted. A new house stood in the place of the old one,
a@ comfortable looking, modern, two-story building,
whose windows looked down the valley toward the
river and the mountains, just as the others had done.

The garden was terraced down to the grass-grown
road. Flowers bloomed everywhere around, and the
casements that looked toward the “Crimson Plume”
were shaded over by the running vines of the honey-
suckle, the morning glory, and the scarlet bean. The
great barn doors were open, displaying stores of hay
and clover, of golden ~#sts, and corn, and pumpkins, of
India wheat, and garden vegetables, all ready to be
stored away forthe 2)

Now the “posal <iere.
gathered and pi

 
   
   
       

dug, and the apples
; heavy work of the
farm for that yea vas Over, had been a bountiful
harvest, and the heart of the owner was glad within
him, as he sat on the door-step of his house after the
evening meal was over smoking his pipe and looking
with calm, contented eyes at the peace and plenty
everywhere around him.

The house-door opened straight into the kitchen, and
there, stepping from table to pantry, with a swift and
stately tread, was the mistress of the pretty home. It
was our old friend Verona.

She had never been handsome, even as a girl; but
there was something pleasing and interesting in the
grave, quiet face, with its look of inward peace; and
the dark eyes of her husband often rested upon her
with a look that the most beautifulof women might
have coveted.

The girlish love was not forgotten, perhaps, but the
girlish pain, now over, had left wiser and more gen-
tle in her ways to all. The heart of her husband might
safely trust in her, according to the words of Holy Writ,
and she made for him, by every means in her power, a
happy and a peaceful home.

ow, when by a glance over his shoulder he saw that
her work was ended, and the room restored to its usual
orderly appearance, he called her to his side. He could
not bear to belong absent from her, and he watched
her with a peculiarly happy look, as she sat in the door
busily plying her knitting-needles.
“Your hands are never a. Verona,” he said, fondly.

king for me.

“Always working-
1 band on hers as he
y,in return for the

  

 
   
   
   
   

“How red the leaves of that maple are, yonder on the
hill!” he said, glancing toward the ‘Crimson Plume.”

Verona bent her head over a dropped stitch, and did
not glance toward the tree.

“Autumn is here in good earnest, when a tree turns
like that!” her husband wenton. ‘And a fine harvest
we've had this year. You have brought me nothing but
good luck, Verona! Two years this month since we
were married. And each year a better harvest, and the
house and farm both paidfor. Weshall have something
to leave the little one, when it comes our turn to go.”

“Yes,” said Verona, and her whole face softened sud-
denly. Fora child’s low cry came, just then, from the
open window of a room near them. seat

“He is awake. Bring him out,” said his father, his
face kindling, as hers had softened.

Verona laid aside her work and went tnto the inner

room.

nily she came back and stood in the door-way.
An infant of six months was in herarms. A great,
sturdy, broad-chested, sunny-haired fellow, with a

 
 
  
  

“There's his photograph. I’m a good mind to take it!
Taking photographs isn’t stealing. It’s a respectable
trade,” and all three laughed.

“Oh, goodness gracious!” cried Miss Kitty, «he writes
poetry! Only hear it.

“TO MISS CATHERINE —.
“Resplendent orb of day!
Infold her in thy light!
Ye stars of cloudless skies
Envelop her so bright !

“Rare blossoms bloom for her,
Roses and lilies, shed i
Your perfume on the fairest thing
On earth, my Kitty’s head!”

“Good gracious!” cried Mollie. “Does he mean a
cat !”

“What if he means me ?” queried Kitty.

“Oh, pshaw! he never saw you but twice, and both
times you were eating clam chowder with onions in it.
The idea!”

“There’s probably more poetry round here,” said
Kitty. ‘I wish I could findit. I dote on try. Per-
haps he’s got a trunk full under the bed. That is where
Aunt Dora, who wrote for the papers, and was so senti-
mental she couldn’t eat pork, or have influenza, or any-
thing like other folks, hid hers. I’m going to look and
see.’

“Oh, Kitty, we ought not! It ain’t honorable! And
he gone away !”

But Kitty had got down on her knees and was pulling
up the quilt. And our hero, realizing the situation,
pulled on the other side of the quilt, and whisking it
around him as best he could, he made one mighty
scratch and scramble, which lift d the bed from its
foundations, and out he leaped on the rear side, and
streaked it for the door.”

“Good gracious!” cried Kitty, “its a ghost! I shall
die! Oh, lordy, lordy!”

And she ran at Mollie and grabbed her round the
neck, and held on, and screamed ‘‘murder” at the top
ot her lungs.

And Mrs. Taylor and all the household made their ap-
pearance, armed with mops, and brooms, and carving
knives, and our unlucky hero, clad in his winding-sheet,
was squatted in the entry, behind a box of old boots,
hoping the storm would blow over.

ut the cook was a brave-hearted woman, who had
married and buried three husbands, and she was not
afraid of anything in the masculine shew, She spied
George Jefferson, and waved her carving-knife.

“Come out of that,” says she, ‘‘or I’ll yank you out!”

“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t!” yelled all the other women,
in terror. ‘‘He’ll murder us, and turn the house down,
and——"

“Come out, I say,” persisted the cook, or I'll yank !” and
she mounted the box and seized George by the spare
end of the quilt.

“My good woman,” said he, ‘‘don’t, for Heaven's sake!
I’m your boarder, Mr. Briggs. I am, upon my honor!”

“Mr. Briggs has gone a fishing,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“No, he hasn’t. Zam Mr. Briggs. Mr. George Jeffer-
son Briggs, ma’am. Don’t you know me? don’t you
recognize me, ma’am ?”

“No, 1 don’t!” said Mrs. Taylor, coolly. ‘I should
like to know how I am to recognize anybody done up in
a bed-quilt! Put off the quilt and show yourself.”

“Good gracious me!” cried Briggs, ‘‘I—I—that is, Iam
not exactly presentable—I,” and just then the cook laid
hold of his precarious covering, and George Jefferson
made a leap for liberty which prostrated the cook, the
house-maid, and the black-and-tan dog, and knocked
Mrs. Taylor down the stairs, bumpity, bump, till the
whole crowd brought up in the lower entry, and rescued
themselves from each other, and found that no bones

“Mrs. Margaretta M.”—1st. Rough straw hats, having the
brims rolled up in the back and on the left side, are worm
both by young ladies and misses. 2d. Pale shades of pink
are the fashionable tints for millinery urecees. Transpa-
rent bonnets of tulle and jet are trimmed th bright flow-
ers, poppies being the favorite garniture. 3d, Large sun-
shades of ecru etamine, embroidered in gay ¢ and lined

hye red silk, are the fashionable parasols for dressy occa-
8 8.

“Mrs. B, 8.”—Wool challies, particularly those in bright
stripes of red, blue, white, yellow, brown, and black, make
pretty and inexpensive dresses for children, and for girls
under thirteen years of age. Children’s and young girls’
dresses are made gracefully loose and easy around the waist
and in the armholes and sleeves this summer.

“Ella,” Camden, N. J.—High-necked guimpes with long
sleeves are worn by little girls under bodices that consist
mostly of wide bretelles laced across the front back,
peeberiod with a long looped epaulet bow of me on on

oulder.

“Margaret.”—Flower epaulets, fastened with ribbon and
wire around the armhole, with a large rose on top, and
smaller flowers growing less and less as they follow the arm
hole seam, are pretty and fashionable. o

“Miss M. G. W.”—We can furnish a very good pronouncing
dictionary of the English language for one dollar. The book
also contains other valuable information, and is fully illus-
trated. :

“Louise B.”—The basket coiffure consists of many small
three-plait braids, wound round and round the back of the
head very flat.

“Mabel L.,” Charleston, S. C.—Fashi
are, at present, ornamented only with

  
  
 

-_dinner-tables
ves and leaf

plants. ee & +s
“G. 8. H.”—The price of “Cameron Pride,” by Mrs. Mary J.
Holmes, is $1.50, on receipt of which we w bry it. ,

“Maud,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Chantilly, but not Spanish, lace
may be worn in second mourning. j

“Daisy.”—Lace cuffs on children’s dresses sho
turned back over the sleeves. Wi stoans Fad

a tera
A HISTORIC LITTLE Ci

  

 

General Hector Tyndale Post, No. 160, of Philadelphia,
has been presented with a small brass cannon, which is
apparently a toy, but it has a historical interest. It was

 

deadly effect. It was drawn from Sharpsburg while the

lived in the vicinity, and who went into the conflict upon
his own personal responsibility. He took a position on
an elevation and with his little cannon faced the enemy
and poured load after load of deadly missiles from the
muzzle of his miniature cannon into the ranks of the
Confederates. The young hero fought for hours in the
ranks of the Union Army. Among the hundred thousand
men with whom he fought there was not one with whom
tan

he had any personal ce.

While thus engaged he was shot, it is believed, by a
Confederate sharpshooter. When found he was lying
upon his face, with his body across the little gun. ‘Atter
his death the cannon was kept until , when it
was sold for old brass and brought to Peres with
other old metals. A comrade of -the Tyndale Post, who
little piece of artillery, then dirty and corroded, and
Bropenied it to the society. It has been cl and

 

were broken.

In the melee George Jefferson’s face was exposed, and
Kitty cried out:

“Oh, Aunt! it is Mr. Briggs! {[ should know that
mustache anywhere. There never was one so dread-
fully invisible! Never!”

Then George Jefferson was allowed to go to his room
and invest himself in his clothes, and that afternoon he
took the train for the city. .

He prefers to take his sun-baths where there are not
quite so many inquisitive women.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

It iz eazy enuff to find a man that will endorse yure
paper, but to find a companyun for everyday life iz one
Ov Lhe most diffikult jobs i kno ov.

Thare iz one thing that yu kant find, espeshily if yu
hunt for it, and that iz the end ov a woman’s tung.

Fashion haz dun more to make men and wimmen
polite toward each other than any other one thing.

. Mankind are so artifishall that even when they are

 

 

bright, frank face his father’s large, dark eyes.
Seeing his father, he began to spring and crow in his
mother’s arms. 8 a
“That’s my boy !” cried farmer, proudly. And lay-
ing down his pipe, he bezan to play at bo-peep with him
beneath the shadow oi slustering vines,
While Verona stood tus, checking the wild springs
of the laughing child, looking on, with a grave
at the noisy pik the hoofs of a horse
pe ¥, and looking: down

   
 
    
    
   
  

:

    

 

    
 
  

 
   
   
   

‘garden; she saw a’ gentle-
o by, With his eyes fixed upon her face.

The elegance of his dress and the easy grace of his at-
titude, as he lounged upgn the back of the thoroughbred
steed, were new and w ‘liar things to her. But what
of the classical beauty of the stern and haughty face—
what of the chestnut hair, with its gleam of gold—what
of the beautiful lips thatclosed so firmly, and the grave,
unsmiling eyes of deepest blue ! °
aoe and silent she stood one moment, and gazed at

m. :

The next, and he waved his hand, set spurs to his
horse, and dashed away at a gallop.

Roused by the sound of the flying hoofs, Verona’s
husband turned round.

«Some city chap, I suppose, by his dress and looks,”
was his comment. ‘What a beautiful horse! and how
like the wind he goes!” ‘

“Take the child'a moment, dear,” said Verona.

And then she went back into the inner room, alone.

In afew minutes she came back, calm and quiet as
ever. |

The house door wasclosed, the infant hushed to rest.
And as the honest farmer laid his tired head upon the |
piliow that night he little dreamed that his wife had
looked upon the ghost of her past—or that Raymond |
Ellis had come back for 4 moment to remind her of his }
broken promise, and look once more upon the Burning
of the Crimsen Plume. —

Sa

 
    
 

 

 

 

  
 
 

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

 

George Jefferson Briggs was a firm believer in the
efficacy of sunshine as a cure for all earthly ills.

“Keep in the sun,” was his motto.

He always walked on the sunny side of the street,
and he lay in his hammock bare-headed, that the sun-
Shine might enter his brain and act on it to his ad-

 

vantage, and every day when it was fair weather he
took a sun-bath, and decided that he was growing |
strong on the treatment.

Last summer he went to Pottsville to spend July. He:|
took lodgings with a widow lady named Taylor. It was
a nice, sunny house, and Mr. Briggs was charmed with
everything.

His chamber looked toward the south, and a piazza
ran under the windows. A few days after his arrival at
Pottsville, three nieces of his hostess came from the city
to make a visit. They were three charming girls, and
Mr. Briggs was prepared to fall in love with any, or all
of them, as opportunity might offer.

One mo the D. Wa
Briggs

 
   

nice and hot, Mr.
bath. He had not
felt quite so ic lay ortwo. He hada
dull feeling in his head, and almost a pain in his left
side, especially when he was near Miss Kitty Wells, the
prettiest of the nieces. ©

But he did not mean the girls should know anything
about it. There was no lock on his room door, and
naturally he felt somewhat insecure. So he told Mrs.
Taylor that he was going fishing, and should be gone
all the forenoon; and le believed that in telling her
this little lie he had secured his apartment from in-
trusion.

He retired to his chamber, took off his clothes, and
Stretched himself out on the carpet for the sun to work
on his six feet of manhood.

He was just falling into a doze with the gentle
warmth, when he heard the sound of voices outside, on
the piazza.

“Is this his room ?”

“So auntie said.”

«An awful queer fellow he is. Drinks nothing but cold
water. And sits in the sun for chilblains, and con-
sumption. And fever has a doctor.”

“Rather good-lookifig;* says the voice of Miss Kitty;
“or would be, if he had any mustache to speak of. I
adore a mustache !”

“TI wish we could see his room. I'll venture to say he’s
got lots of funny things init. All these eccentric people
have lung protectors, and liver pads, and electric bat-
teries, and books on health.”

«And he’s got the best room in the house. A thousand
times better than those old attics where we sleep. Let’s
peep in.”

«Good gracious !” cried Briggs to himself, ‘‘they never
will!” but he sprang to his feet, and looked wildly round
for shelter.

There was no closetin the room, but the bedstead was
a high-poster, and there was quite a space between its
mattresses and the floor, and with frantic haste our hero
plunged underneath the bed, and lay quiet.

The girls had stepped in through the open window,
and were looking round the room.

«Awful smell of hair oil!” says Miss Kitty.

  

      

 

«Puts it on his mustache to coax it to grow,” sug-

 

gested her sister.

lame they kant limp natral.

I luv the old maids. Tho they don’t bear fruit, they |

are the evergreens ov kreashun. $

I am a firm believer in ghosts, and i would giv 14 hun-
dred dollars to see one.

He who aims at perfekshun will probably miss the
— but he who aims at nothing iz sure to hit it every

2.
The most unkomfortably akting persoy i ever saw was
ak woods man with a iu suit ov storeclothes on.
Trusting in Providence iz a good general rule; buti
knu a church once that would rather trust in Providence
than buy a litening rod, and one day litening knokt that
church higher than a boy’s Kite. -

The man who iz allwuss anxious to bak up hiz opin-
yuns with a ten dollar bet, haz more konfidence in hiz
munny than he haz in his statements.

Thare are more people who akt from impulse than from
judgment.

If we should hay all our wishes gratified, we should
miss a large share oy happiness that rightfully belongs

a

rightened and looks like new. It is about three feet in
length and has a bore of less than two inches. oe

—_—_+_ 6 + —________

WHY THE INDIANS ESCAPK.

 

There is a young lady in Carson who is reported to be
the greatest beauty on the Pacific coast—or any other
coast, for that matter. She has a lover, a lieutenant in
the army, who is very devoted to her. He is down in
Arizona fighting Apaches. Three times a day—morn-
ing, noon, and night—she writes him a twelve-page
letter, and once a day she sends him a telegraphic
dispatch, to all of which he responds in like manner.
This, perhaps, accounts for the inability of the troops to
catch up with the Apaches. The lieutenant is probably
heading the pursuit of the hostiles. But, of course, his
letter-writing occasions some delay.

 

 

Items of Interest.

Dr. Shelby, of Huntsville, Ala., had a couple of patients,
an Irishman and his wife, who were suffering from the ague
As they lived in a place remote from drug stores he left some
quinine with them, and told the man to mix it with whisky
and both of them to drink it. On calling some days after-

 

ward, and perceiving that his patients were no better, the ;

doctor asked the man if he took the medicine according to
directions. The man replied that he did, but he took the
whisky and gaye his wife the quinine.

A noige like that of a moving train of cars was heard
by Henry Diederick, and his harvesters, on his farm, near
Grafton, Wis. The unusual sound seemed to come from the
heavens, and gazing upward the men saw what seemed to be
a huge ball of smoke rapidly descending to the earth. This
object, which proved to be a meteor, struck the earth within
a few rods of where the men were standing, and buried itself
deep in the ground.

A double-headed turtle was lately found by Michael

Jerson, near Kingston, N. Y. The heads are perfect and are
joined together at the neck. The turtle eats with both

 

to us.

When i argy with a phool i allwuss agree with him;
this iz the only way i kno ov to beat him.

ate hav enny sekrets unless yu kan keep them yure-
self.

Men will sumtimes find themselfs placed in sutch auk-
ward posishuns in this life that the only safety iz to de-
fend themselts, right or wrong.

Yu mite az well put a thing off forever az put it off
until to-morrow ; and yet perhaps thare are more things
done too quick than too late.

I never knu a man yet who waz allwuss watching
hiz helth to die enny whare near as soon as he ex-
pekted to.

It ain’t branes that the world lacks; it iz to kno how
to use what we hay got—that’s what’s the matter.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.
Helen Wood.

Edited by Mrs.

 

 

 

“Mrs. Mary C.”—There are a great number of small man-
tles in vogue this summer, in various shapes, and yet, most
of them recall the visite by the make of the sleeves, and the
jacket by the cut of the backs and fronts. There are also
mantles which come down straight to the waist at the back
and in pointed pelerine-lappets in front. These are chiefly
made of plain sicilienne, trimmed with two or three rows of
Chantilly lace, close gathered, and coming down in the
shape of a ladder in front, so as to form scarf lapels. We
also notice very small mantillas, being modifications of the
visite, but tight-fitting at the back and finished by a postilion
basque arranged in flat plaits, or cut out in three small
pointed or square lappets, not coming down two inches be-
yond the waist. Mantillas with sleeves, entirely made of
lace, trimmed with embroidery and beads, are also most ele-
gant. The sleeves do not come down below the elbow, and
they are plaited with bead galloons, finished. pendants
placed in the intervals between the plaits, or gathered, and
sometimes trimmed on_ the shoulder with a net-work of
beads, forming asort of epaulet, or with a shoulder-knot,
composed of narrow black satin ribbon, For cold and damp
days there are pretty little velvet mantillas, in such colors as
bishop-violet, ripe-chestnut, greenish blue, etc. The back
and fronts are cut on the cross, so as to avoid pinches, and
to fit the mantle to the waist without them. There is no
trimming, but the sleeves are of lace, not above ten inches
long, edged with black jet pendants, or embroidered with
beads to match the velvet in color. More dressy mantles,
suitable for driving in a private carriage, are of gauze, em-
broidered with beads of all the colors known as oriental
tints. These mantles are very short at the back, come down
toa point in front, and are trimmed with lace and bead
fringe. No less pretty, but much simpler and easier to wear,
are the mantillas of woolen grenadine, embroidered with
beads, matching in color, and trimmed with woolen lace,
also of the same shade asthe grenadine. These latter are
fashionable for the sea-side.

“Constant Reader,” Buffalo, N. Y.—lst.—Loose blouse
waists are preferred for little girls’ play-frocks, whether of
wool or wash goods. Dotted muslins are popular for girls in
their teens, and Normandy, Valenciennes, and’ marquise
laces are the correct trimmings for these dresses. Pale, dull
terra-cotta faille silks are made up charmingly with full
plastron. waistcoats and sashes of plaided soft surah for
girls under fourteen, the plaided silks reproducing the dull
terra-cotta shade of the faille, with brown, yellow, bright-
red, and pale-blue lines. Wide white Hercules braid, fringed
and knotted at the ends, is also used as sash_belts for little
girls. 2d. Parasols for children come in red, blue, terra-
cotta, pink, and ecru, and are unlined, and very small.

“Alice D.”—1st. Foulard and India silks arein great de-
mand for sea-side and watering-place toilets, and twilled
surahs are also popular. Black and white plaid silks are

tastefully combined with ane black silks or surahs, while
brown and white plaid surahs are used with pongees. Waists
of watered silk, satin, or lace are worn with black skirts, and
the waists may be either of black orof bright colors. Crepe
de chine, in delicate tints, and richly embroidered, is em-
ployed for evening SSes. Corsage bouquets are worn
in the center of the waist.

“Smma W.,” St. Louis, Mo.—ist. Kilt-plaited skirts are
fashionable, but the plaits should be either extremely wide
or very narrow. 2d. The favorite dresses for young women

this summer are of white nainsook, profusely trimmed with
Valenciennes lace. hort, high draperies are quite as
stylish as full, long draping, while short basques with full
effects in front are shown on some of the imported costumes,
The surplice front is popular, and white vests may be used
on dresses of any material

*

mouths at once, its four eyes glaring furiously around when
any oneisnear. This is not the first time that turtle has
been seen, as it bears on its back the date 1853.

Never talk in your sleep. A young man in Palmer,
Mass., who had made up his mind to propose to his girl the
next evening became so much occupied with the question of
how it was to be done that he even talked about itin his sleep
His roommate heard it, and, calling on the girl the next
afternoon, proposed and was accepted.

There 1s a negro boy on Mr. James Buttrell’s planta-
tion near Hogansyille, Ga., whose head has attained an enor-
mous growth, measuring 33 inches around aboye the ears,
and 35inches around the chin and top of the head. Heis 16
years old and in good health; and his body is about the size
of a 6-year-old child.

An owl that beats the barometer in foretelling storms,
has taken up its abode in East Haven, Conn. George L:
Barnes, of that town, informs us that it always hoots just
eight times several hours previous to a rain-storm, and long
before the barometer indicates a coming change of weather,

At a recent meeting of Texas editors the proprietor of
a brewery sent a written invitation to them to come over and
inspect his establishment. Ten seconds after it was read a
light dust might have been seen settling down on the empty
chairs in the hall—if there had been anybody there tosee it.

The daughter of Dr. John Todd, of Pottstown, Pa.,
while breaking eggs for cooking purposes, found in the yolk
of one of them a cent of the date 1881. How the cent got in
that egg is what no one can tell, but it was there, that is cer-
tain, for several persons saw it before it was removed.

While setting a fence post, near Akron, Ind., Mr. L.

 

Bowman was astounded to see the post vanish. After enlarg-
ing the hole, he found a cave or underground room about
twenty feet square and nine feet high, in which were the
petrified bodies of thirteen men. Rare

The bride’s outfit, at a recent fashionable marriage in
Paris, was displayed on‘ dummy figures ranged on a plat-
form. Assistants from the dressmakers who had produced
the toilets attended to point out the beauties of their
creation. 5 Be Some:

A mouse went into a Sunday-school in Aroosoc
County, Me., last week, and the superintendent knocked
him down and killed him with a Bible.’ Such little incidents
as these make the exercises very interesting to the children.

One of the peculiarities of a lately deceased New York
Tombs lawyer, whose scale of fees ranged from 10 cents to $1,
was that he never wore a shirt. This was doing much better
than lawyers who did not leave a client one.

A Philadelphia lady, whose dog died a short time ago,
showed her love for the animal by hanging crape on the
door. The dog always ate at the same table with his mistress,
and had a napkin tucked under his collar. bi

A beautiful head of jet black hair was lost, by Robert
Smith, of Lexington, Ind., through an attack of typhoid
fever. In its place has come acrop of kinky hair, just like a
negro’s, but perfectly white. ‘

A twelve-year-old boy in Troy, named Tommy Miller,
wanted to experience an electric shock. He threw a piece of
wire over the arm of an electric light, and the shock killed
him.

A Pittsburgh woman, who owns a house in that city,
astonished her neighbors the other day by putting on male
attire, ascending a ladder, and painting her residence.

There are several towns in Montana without even one
unmarried woman. and the local papers tell piteous tales of
rich and eligible bachelors who need wives.

A Philadelphia physician asserts that much of the so-
called malaria is pure laziness, and heart disease nothing
worse than indigestion.

It is said that a bruised fresh onion, tied around the
neck, causes sleep. Sufferers from insomnia should make a
note of this.

Linen and cotton fabrics are now bleached by elec-
tricity.

 

used at the battle of Antietam, September 17, 1862, with —

battle was in progress by a boy sixteen years of age, who

is an extensive metal broker, learned the history of the

  

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