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ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1872 BY STREET & SMITH. IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON. D.
FRANCIS 8. STREET, Z ve : ps 7 a ee pase — — ; :
VOL. XX VII. FRANCIS S, SMITH, | Proprietors, N EW YORK, AUGUS#® 26, 1872. TEEMS{ male Goudy Witke ete No. 49.

 

 
 

THE

White Rider of tag Damean’

OR,

CHAPTER I.
THE MYSTERIOUS HAND.

It was a lovely autumnal day; the warm, balmy
zephyrs drifted lazily over the pulseless bosom of
the river, and whispered low and softly to the trem-
bling forest leaves. All nature was hushed in si-
lence.

But even upon this day the Des Moines river was
not one of unruffied tranquillity, as it coursed south-
ward through the then territory of Iowa; for, at a
point a few miles below the mouth of the Raccoon, a
large flat-boat was drifting at the will of the slug-

     
  
 
 
 
 
 

Upon its deck, sitting and reclining in various at-
titudes of ease, were a dozen or more men, whose
rough habiliments showed them to be men of the
border, and whose voices, as well as peculiarity of
feature, proclaimed them men of different nation-
alities. America, Germany, Ireland and Africa—
each had representatives among that motley crew
of voyagers, whose various fire-arms, though laying
carelessly around, were sufficient evidence of their |
being in a country in which they were subject to as- |
sault from the dusky denizen. of the forest and
plain.

But we have to do, at present, with but few of this
party. The first who claims our attention was known
as Old Ironsides. He was a man upon whom fifty
years had left no perceptible traces of the decline of
manhood. He was a giant in stature, and a long
life upon the frontier had developed a healthy, ac-
tive and vigorous man.

As a scout and Indian fighter, he was superior to
everybody in the Territory, and in size and strength
there was but one who was his equal, and he was
an Indian, known as Towering Oak, with whom Old
Ironsides had fought in more than one hand-to-hand
encounter.

The sobriquet 01 Ironsides had been applied to him
from the fact that his breast had proven invulnera-
ble to hostile bullets. Butthis strange truth was
readily accounted for by his wearing under his hunt-
ing-shirt a breast-plate, or steel jacket, which he
asserted had come down to him as an heir-loom
from an ancestor who had worn it in the Eastern
land in the wars of the middle ages.

The second individual claiming our notice was
Paul Boniface, of late the companion of Old Iron-
sides. He was a man of perhaps forty years of age,
though you could not have told to a certainty from
his face, for it was covered with a shock of bushy,
brown whiskers, that concealed all but his brilliant,
dark eyes, prominent nose and ample brow.

As a hunter and scout, he ranked next to Iron-

 
   
 
  
 
 
 
  
 

gish current.
It is with this boat that our story opens.
|

  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
    
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
   
    
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
    
  
 
    
 
 
   
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
  
 

 
     
   
   
   
   
     
  

 

 

ing a bend of the 7
Ironsides detected an agitated motion of the water
some distance in advance,
ing each
though the abruptness of the bend in
concealed from his view that which produced those
circling wavelets.

 

“Hal! ha! ha!’? laughed Ironsides. ‘What do you think of

coming night on one of a group of small islands,
known as the Bars, and afew miles further down
the river.

It was wanting an hour of sunset, when on round-
river the watchful eyes of Old

Tiny waves were chas-
other outward from the eastern shore,
the stream

Touching Paul Boniface upon the shoulder, the

old scout called his attention to the disturbed condi-
tion of the water, and in a moment the whole crew
was on tip-toe of excitement.

But none of them could make out the cause that
produced the circling waves, for, whatever it was, it
was moving faster than they were, thereby keeping
the headland between them.

“Well, that’s strange; we can’t git a
the thing, or man, whichsoever it is,” said Boni-
face.

‘Jus’ so,” returned Ironsides, hoisting his head in
hopes of obtaining the desired view; ‘but Ill g’ar-
antee that thar’s a redskin huggin’ the shore in
hopes of takin’ advantage of the bend to elude our
sight.”

‘Then, suppose we run him down?” said Captain
Chris.

“‘That’s the ijee, exactly,” returned Ironsides, then
turning to his crew, he continued: ‘‘To the oars
men, and work with a will—work as tho’ Satan and

Ole Inkpaducah with a thousand of his redshins war

arter ye.”
The men flew to the sweeps and ina moment the
huge craft was gliding forward at a rapid speed.

Old Ironsides and Boniface mounted the most eleva-

vated articles upon the boat and fixed their eyes
with an anxious gaze along the eastern shore seve-
ral hundred yards below, expecting each moment to

bring them in sight of the object of their eager

curiosity. . But whatever that object was, it seemed
to retreat before them with greater speed than that
with which they pursued.

 

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glimpse of

 

Suddenly, however, they |

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caught a glimpse of the sharp stern of a canoe as it |

shot from view around the bend, the water fairly
foaming in its wake.
This discovery decided the cause of the circling

waves. There was a canoe ahead of them hugging
the eastern shore, but now arose another ques-

tion. Was the occupant ofthat canoe an Indian or
a white man?

If it was an Indian, it was very natural that he
would flee, but ifa white man, why should he try to
elude them, unless he had mistaken them for
enemies? Thus reasoning, they concluded that it
must be an Indian, and if so, it argued very strongly
that there were others in the vicinity, and it be-
hooved them to be upon their guard.

A few vigorous sweeps of the oars, however,
brought the boat around the bendin the stream,
when our friends had a full view of the river for
more than a mile before them, and at a distance of
some five hundred yards away, they discovered that
mysterious canoe fairly flying over the surface of
the water. But to still add to their surprise, they
discovered that the occupant of the craft was lying
down within it, and they could only see the outlines
ofthe arms above the gunwale as they plied the
oars. The hands, too, were visible, but the distance
was too great to determine their color.

Our friends now permitted their cumbersome craft
to float again at the will of the current. They saw
at once that it was useless to attempt to run the
feathery canoe down, andas they watched it gliding
away into the hazy distance—the oars flashing in
the setting sun like spectral wings—they felt that
its presence boded evily and that henceforth extreme
caution would necessarily have to be observed.

As it was some two miles yet to the Bars, and the
sun almost down, it was decided as best that two
scouts should be put ashore to feel the way along
either side of the river until that point wasreached.

Not feeling safe to trust this important duty to
their less experienced friends, the two scouts, Iron-
sides and Bonifice, took it upon their own shoulders
to go ashore and reconnoitre the way. As no ob-
iections were raised, they were soon ashore—Boni-

 

 

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that for the Demon of the Gorge ?’’

 

face on the left side of the river and Ironsides upon
the right—carefully threading the deep forest that
lined each shore.

The scouts moved on in advance of the boat,
though keeping in sight ofit. At this point the
river was about two hundred yards wide and owing
to the density of the undergrowth along either
shore, neither of the scouts could see the move-
ments of the other; nor could those on the boat see
either of the scouts.

After Ironsides had left, the command of the boat
devolved upon Captain Chris Watterson, who at
once took his post as a lookout for communications
from the scouts.

They had drifted thus about half-a-mile when the

captain caught sight of something white, fluttering

above the top of a thick clump of bushes on the
eastern shore, directly at the left. At first he took it
for a white strip of cloth tied to the topmost branch
of one of the bushes—in all probability one of Boni-
face’s jokes to test his vigilance—but, upon closer
examination, he saw it was a handkerchief tied to
the muzzle of a gun—the owner of the gun keeping
himself concealed in the shrubbery. Still, Captain
Watterson believed it was atrick of Paul Boniface,
but when he caught a glimpse of the scout moving
along the shore several hundred yards below the
white flag, he knew that he—Boniface—had nothing
to do with it. And so, there was an air of mystery
about it that was beyond the comprehension of our
friends.

The boat, in the meantime, had drifted a few rods
past the fluttering object, and seeing that it did not
move, Captain Cris said:

“Tf it was a friend that wished to communicate
with us, he would not be afraid to show himself, and
thus believing, I shall fire into the shrubbery about
where an enemy would be concealed.”

The captain raised his rifle as he concluded his
remarks, and took a steady aim at the clump of
bushes. But before he could fire the flag disappeared.

‘Ah! that proves that it is some trickery,” said the
captain, lowering his rifle, but he had scarcely done
so when the white object appeared again in the same

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
  
  
  
         
   
  
   
  
  
   
 
  
   
   
  
   
   
  
  
   
   
   
  
    
     
   
   
  
  
    
   
  
    
   
   
   
   
    
  
   
    
  
   
     
   
     
  
   
  
    
  
    
    
   
    
   
   
   
   
  
   
  
   
  
    
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
    
     
   
   
    
   
   
    
  
   
  
  
   
  
   
 
    
   
   
  
    
    
   
      
   
    
 
   
  
  
   
    
     
     

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Again Chris raised his rifle,and again the
fiag disappeared. He lowered his rifle again, with
the avowed intention of firing into the shrubbery
the next time he raised it. But the flag did not make
its appearance again, but instead a white hand and
arm were thrust apo e the top of the bushes!

‘friends were over a hundred yards away, but
was easy ta:see that thejiand and-arm were-small
L shapely, and Cc ‘aptain Chris would hs ave been
illing to be qualified that it was woman's hand
cae arm, And yet he could not believe otherwise
than that it was Some decoy of the Indians

Fora moment the hand continued above the
I s, moving to and fro in &menacing or warning
iInanner, then it disappeared and was seen no, more,
Here was food for imuch conjecture; and for seve-
ul minutes no Jitae wonder and excitement pre-
vailed among those on the flat-boaty

Captain Watterson had begun to discuss, with his
friend Pomroy, the propri tety of going ashore and
restigating the matter, when the clear report of a
» onthe eastern shore, rang sharply out upon

piace,

 
 

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Lilie

   

 

the silence, and rolled in prolonge d reverber ations
back through the forest) aisles» .With a cry, as of
mortal pain, Captain Chris clutched wvildl ly st ‘his
brow, and staggeriug baekwards, sanix lieavily. to
the deck.

“Great Hee ave nt’? cried young Pomroy, kneeling
by the form of his friend. ‘Captain Chris has been
shot dead!”

CHAPTER II.
AT THE BARS,

The wildest excitement prevailed» on board the
flat-boat. Believing themselves set upon by a party
of Indians that had escaped the vigilance of Boni-
face, every man flew to his rifle; and when they
were ready. for. defense..each..eye.. mechanically

barat the shore from whence the bullet had come
that had stricken Captain Watterson down, But not
ihe sign of an enemy could be seen.

“Hullo, thar! what the tarnal fate’s up ?”

Lt was the deep, bass voice Of OM. Tronsides that
asked the question. He had heard the report of
therifle, and saw the commotion on board the boat
that followed, and hurried back along the shore to
point opposite the boat to learn the cause of the
xeitement.

“Good Heavens,
crew, ‘An enemy
captain!”

*Tarnal fate!” cried the old scout; *
and Jet me go aboard the craft.
Pomttey 7 >"

“No, no, thank Heaven!”

 

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«
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”

Tronsides!
on tVother

replied one of the
side has killed the

“put out a boat
Is he dead _ yit,

Pomroy shouted, with
captain had only been
stunned by the bullet, which had plowed an ugly f
furrow across his left temple, but had not touched
the skull or any vital part.

One of the small canoes on the flat-boat was
aes and Old Ivonsides brought on board the

raft by one of the crew. He did not stop to make
ty inquiries, but at once lent his assistance to young

mmroy in bri ning the captain to. By a free use of
water upon ihe face and head, this was soon
ected, and soon as the captain had recovered
sufficient to sit up, his head was carefully bandaged.

Old Ironsides how asked:

“Did you see the redskin that
Vomroy ?”

“No: he was cone ealed in a clump of bushes, 7 ¥e-
iurned Pomroy. ‘I saw the puff of smoke, and that
wasall, It iseurious that Paul did not discover the
ved assassin.”

“Tis purty hard to see asnake in the grass, sum-
times, lad; but when I fust hearn the r’port of the
oun. TV'd a sworn it war the indenticul crack of Paul

Boniface’s rifle; andif it wern’t for the welt on the

captain’s head, Pd go a land title in Jerusalem that
it war the crack of Paul's gun.

“But where can Paul be?” asked Captain Chris in
a suspicious tone.

**Phunder and cats, captain!’ exclaimed Iron-

sides, “hope ye don’t think Paul done it—bet he'll
civ ea good account of himself when he turns up—§
ahal what did I tell yo?”

At this juncture Boniface appeared on the river
bank, waving a glossy scalp above his head, and
shouting tr iumphantly: :

“Ho! ho! ho! roared the ‘giant Ironsides, as he
tossed his cap into the air with joy, *tyou’ve got
an eye fur bisness, and a finger fur skulps, Boniface!

“Thank you for the compliment, old boy,” Boni-
face shouted back from-.the shore, ‘but it wasa
snug little foot-race I had forthe var mint ’s top-knot;
but did he do any damage to the crew ?

“Seratched the ec: uptain’ s head a leet tie, that’s all,”
returned Tronsides; ‘but do ye want to come aboard
the boat ?” :

‘As it’s not far to the Bars,
the shore,” replied Bonifite e,

“Dye think thar’s more reds
sides,

*Nofin this immediate vicinity; I think the lad
that used to sport this ’cre scalp was a scout, (and all

lone; and he’s ¢ still alone, if the wolves havn't got
to his’ eareass yit.’

Paul Boniface turned into the forest and proceeded
rapidly down the stream, keeping a little in ady ance

of the boat

Half an hour and the Bars were reached. . They
consisted of a dozen or more islands of white sand
without the least sign of vegetation upon them; in
fact, they were nothing more than sand-bars, most
of the year under water.

The island upon which our friends landed was the
largest of the group, and covered around the upper
cdge with a lot of old logs and decaying vegetation

that at seme previous time had drifted Dunhe.

“Tarnal. furies!? were the first words of the old
scout as he leaped from the boat on to the island,
und pointed down at the jnnunier ‘able moceasin
iracks in the sand; ‘that’s Been a hull tribe of them
rovers of Satan on this ’ere island, and if 1 Unistake
not, they 7 e been here within the last hour.

Captain Chris and his friends could not help

mee at the blunt, earnest assertion of the scout;
still its import made a deep impression upon them,
He was seldom at fault insuchimatters, . ;
3y Ay time the shadows of evening were gather-
, and so disposifions were at once made for
g the night, By the united strength of the
arty Nhe flaf-boat was drawn partly upon the

cach, aud then mounting its deck, the crew pro-
duces Ltheir supply of provisions. and partook ofa
earty supper, with their “cornpone” sandwiched
with slices of rich wild-honey. 3
ipper over, pipes and *tyarns,”

1 Océasions, Were indulged in for a while by all,

excepting Old Jronsides, who with his heavy rifle
resting in the hollow of his left arm. kept a ceaseless
watch upon all sides. The scout would not allow
zx fire to deny lighted, for fear if would show a lurking
enemy ‘e to ain, is they were not beyond rifle
range of either shore.

So, after their pipes and

 
  

fired the shot,

spect I'd better keep

about ?” asked Tron-

  

 

 

 

as were usnal on

     

     

}

varns had been exhaust-
ed, each of the party rolled himself in a blanket and
lay down upon the dry sand to rest, with his rifle,
primed for ins sti wnt use, at his side.

Soon they were all asicep.

Besides the breathing of his friends the
ld hear the mourntul chir ping of a cricket in the
driftwood, and the harsh croaking ofa solitary bull-

efur down the river. He listened for other
nothing. To him so much silence

 

scout

 

 

 

nds. but heard

 

 

boded evil. When he could hear the hoot of the
owl, the scream of the night-hawk, the ery of the
whip-po-will—in fact, a general song of all animated
nature, he knew that no urking enemy was ee

 

} aa

The moments dragged wearlly on “all the wl ile
the darkness seemed deepei ine over the Bars,

   

 

   

the scout was in 2 manner accustomed to s
pie ats ¢ of darkness, and he never for an ins

ceas Lhis vigilance until induced todo so by sight
of a very strange phenon 1enen,

Inthe middle of the river, about two hundred
yards above the Bars, he saw a dull, red light swing-
inz toand fro likea pendulum. But hé was unable to
tell by what power it was produced, and how it came
there, Or really what itwwas. Sointently did the
scout fix his gaze, in fact, his whole attention, upon
the strange object, thet he failed to see and hear a
shadowy figure moving among the sleepers behind
him, stopping by cach one, and taking up his rifle,
remove the priming, then move on to the next.

We say he failed to hear this mysterious prowler,
for he moved like aserpent, and the sand muffled
every sound of his tampering with the guns,

lronsides kept his eyes uponthe bar of light.
Presently its oscillations began to grow shorter and

shorter—finally it came to arest. Ironsides started
and his fingers tightened upon the barrel of his
rifle.

The object had changed its form. Instead of the
aul bar of light he beheld five /etiers of fire gleam-
ing through the darkness like the red eye of doom,
throwing their long and skeleton-like rays far out
into the gloom and fog.

When his eyes had become accustomed to the

”

“There must be, Ironsides.
It was Captain Watterson who addressed him. He
had arisen from his sleep, and approaching the
scout overheard his soliloquy , at the same time hay-
ing discovered the letters of fire.
“Well, well, captain,” said the scout,
but hist!”

They bent. their-heads and. listened.

“it beats me}
They heard

the vicinity of the object.
“There! if is gone?’ sudde nly exclaimed the scout
in @ whisper. '

True cnough quick as.a flash, dike a falling star,
the letters.of ? fire. disappeared “and all was dark.,

There was a monientary Shlence, then the scout
continued?

“Tw ish Menowedl how to aet and benefit by that
warni if?t war meant fur us. Liknow thyself thars
reds "bout, but IT defy vem to vit onto this isla dd
Ww hile my head’s war m.’

“It may be some device of the robbers who, as
well as the Indians, infest these parts,” said Captain
Chris; ‘tor it may be the ites of some @nemy, in-
stead of the warning ofa friend.”

“It may all be, captain—confound the
I hate *°em—they bother a feller’s noggin.

“Well, Isuppose we have got to accept this as a
my stery, and watch out for its solution and result,’

‘And so they did. Captain Chris did net lie down
again, but remained along with the scout to watch
for coming events, which they believed had already
been foresh¢ owed in the letters of fire.

Another hour passed, but there was not a sound
to break the mournful and yet ominous silence of
the night. Even the breathing of nature in the for-
est and the low murmur of the water seemed hushed
in the silence of death.

At last the great round moon rose and flooded the
forest and plain with its mellow radiance. The fog
which was so thick at the Soetiasue of night soon
faded away, and only that white, smoky haze pecu-
liar to Indian summer hung over the landscape.

The old scout and Watterson sc anned the river
closely in hopes of obtaining a view of the person or
persons who had produced the letters of tire. But
they saw nothing,
still cast their long, dark
bosom of the river.

mysteries!

shadows out upon the

undertone, ‘how Boniface snores! He must be
sleeping sound,”

‘They are all sleeping as though they were inside
of Fort Des Moines instead of an Indian country,”
returned Watterson,

“T know, but I’m afeard Paul's snorin’ will be the

death of us both some time. Why, bless my soul,

parly rattle on the cz vbin.”
Captain Chris could not help smiling at the old
scout’s exagge rated assertion,
“You are a > the captain began, but at this
juncture the old scout sprang away from his’ side as

 

of standing on red-hot coals of fire. He gazed down
at the ground where he had been standing, witha
strange and puzzled expression upon his iron feat-
ures,

Captain Chris advanced and again stood by his
sides.” -

“What is the matter, Ironsides?” he questioned.

“Darn my ole riggin’!” the scout replied, in a tone
of embarrassment, “if [didn’t feel the sand move un-
der my feet, Satan's a hog!” "

The captain suppressed an outburst of laughter
and replied:

“That is, youmean you felt your feet sinking in
the dry s sand, under ihe pressure of a two hundred
pound werght.”

“No—tarnal furies, , no!
der the sand!”

“A mud turtle, Pl guarantee, burrowed there,”
replied Watterson, with a pleasant chuckle.

‘Tortie or no tortle, ’'m goin’ to see *boutit,” said
Pthe scout, whereupon he si unk down upon his knees
and began seratching in the sand where he had
stood.

Captain Watterson felt somewhat amused, yet he
évatched the scout with deep interest. The moon
was shining full upon the spot, and he was not a
little startled when he saw him dig trom the sand
the end of a roll of black, braided hair!

The scout did not pull the length of the dark,
snake-like roll from the sand, for no sooner did his
fingers touch if than he jerked them away again, as
though it had been the slimy form ofa serpent; and
springing to his feet, he se ‘ized Watterson by the

I felt sumthin’ move wun-

the island,

The captain saw that he was terribl:
his usually calm features were wrought
and startled expression.

“What's the trouble, Tronsides’” }
pinch iy arm so, man, you——”

“Great Heavy en, Watterson!”
Whisper, “we're ina qresare pick

Vhy so?”

“Tye made a diskivery.

*Ah—what is it?”

“Ye remember I. sed IT felt sumibis
my feet?”

toy es; what of it?”

“What of *t!” repeated the Scout, “why, ii is a live
Ingin layiw there kitered under the sand?

it was the captain's turn now to start,

‘How do you know that, Ironsides?” he asked.

“Did you see that black roll Is scratched outen the
sand?”

OV eg?

“Wal, sir, it war the end ot an Ingin’s skulp-lock.
I felt if move, and drapped it like a hot. cake.
Heaven cnly. knows how menny more of the red
rovers of Satan Jay hidden under that sand.”

“T tell you, Ironsides, a man could Hot live
under a pile of sand.”

*T know that, captain, but see here: Pheir bodies
are buried under the Sand, while their heads are
hidden on the surface by them little clots of weeds
and leaves that we didn’t examine into when we
last searched, simply because we never dreamt
of only a Ingin’s head bein’? under ’em,. And then
thar was nothip’ s*picious about the clots cit her. I
tell ye, lad, iV a mighty cunnin’ trick to-get our
sculps!) And I'll tell ye more: thar’s a treitor in our
midst!” ’

“What makes you think so?” asked Watterson.

excited—that
With a wild

asked—*‘dou't

 

‘xelaimed) in oa

buried

the varniints here—have ¢ got word some way'r other,
that we war goin’ to stop « on this island, and they've
hurried on and hid tharseives.”

“Then they have heard that we were going to
stop here since noon, for not until th: at time did we
conclude to stop over night at the Bars. . And it is
well known that since noon—up to the time we
landed—wnot one of the crew, exce cepling 2 you grnd Boni-
face, have been ashore, nor had any chance to ci mpfer
with an ene my. So, if there is a traitor in the party,
it is Paul Boniface, for you, Tronsides, are far beyond
my suspicions.”

“Captain, if ye weren't Chris Watterson, I'd
you.” The captain smiled.

“Why so, Ironsides?” he questioned.

“For sayin’-Paul Boniface is a traitor, No,. no,

captain, Paul hes been tried—he’s true to his people
as the needle to the pole.”

“JT only meant that if there was a traitor among

sat all, it was Paul, for none of the rest of the erew
have been ashore since we concluded to. step here,
I cannot think there is a traitor at all in our party,

“Ye may be right, ‘aptain. But thar’s sumthin’
yery strange *bout it. Te thar is a pack of redskins
kivered thar in the sand, they’re ae re fur our
skulps—they knowed we war goin’ to stop here. to-
night, and hurried on and concealed themse lves
here, with the aid of some others, who've skulked
off to the woods arter trampin’ around to conceal all
traces of their snakish work.”

“But how did they know we
here?”

“Thar you've got me, lad. I reckon. they jist
guessedit. Per haps theirinstinect, fur whieh they’ re
remarkable, told’em so, And my instinct tells me
that thar is more than one Ingin buried along those
W ee ds and leaves.”

‘If such is the case, the number concealed there
is without a doubt, sufficiently strong to overpower
us. For, ifthere are Indians there, ‘the Y are there
for a purpose, and that pur pose is death, of which
we have already been warned,”

“That’s it ’zactly, captain; and my life on it, they're
there! And unless we git outen this within the next
hour, mind what‘I tell ye, this island will be wet—
soakin’ wet with human gore!”

shoot

 

were going io stop

Cc HAPTER oR IIT.
“DEATH,”

The old scout’s words sent a chill of horror through
the veins of Captain Watterson. He was not a cow-

 

 

dazzling glare of the light he started with a feeling
ot mysterious awe, for he saw that those five ¢ glow- |
ing letters formed the word, “‘DEATH!”

‘Death! death!” repeated the scout; “is’t a warn- |
in’ of a comin fate? Ah, yes! ves! T told °em thar |
war death in the air! But by what power is sich a |
warnin’ given? Surely thar’s some human agency |
*pcut it.” |

ard by any means, but then the consciousness of an
unknown number of red barbarians lying at his feet
Waiting for some fixed signal to begin their work
death, was such as would’ inspire no Christian heai
with ought but feelings of horror.

The captain had spent much of his life upon
frontier—had had many narrow escapes from dea
yet he had never acquired the habitual precision «

 

the quick, plash of oars and the ripple of water in} t
Ricinks ~ | them) and git from here in’a jiffy.

    
 

heavy to try to git away with in a

for the trees onthe eastern shore |

“Smoke of sacrifice!” exclaimed Ironsides, in an}

boy, he snores of nights 80 loud that the shingles | ,

quick as though he had suddenly become conscious |

arm and fairly dr agged him to the opposite side of

move wnder

“Wal, you see these Ingins—if thar is a pack of

| fully hereafter.

acting upon the instant when dangers faced him in
xases Similar to the one in which he now found him-
selfand friend. So he at once turned to the scout,
inquiring:

‘‘What.are we todo, Ironsides, to avert the threat-
ening massacre?”
 “Pil-tell-ye,” said the scout, still speaking in a
Whispers) “thas three canoes-on i flat- boat, and
hey’ll hold all twelve of usy We'll hii k

 

   
   
   
      

OWe'll have toleavye behiné
stand our chances of gettin’ if

J?
i eo and launch the canoes, We kin
Out excitin’ s’pition, fur Pll warra
feller! be on the wateh.”
nd so thet two again returned t
of the island, an@ proceeded, to la
from the deck of the flat-boat. Ti
complished, without creating asound th: ut Ww ag atdt-
ble to their own acute hearing; yet they were close-
ly watched—a pair of traitorous eyes noted every
movement that they made.

When the canoes were ready for embarking, Iron-
sides whispered to Watterson to go and arouse their
sleeping friends, one at a time, so that there would
be no undue excitement, and break to them the
news of their danger and the course they were about
to adopt to avert if.

Ina very short time the whole party had assem-
bled at the upper side of the island, and in low
tones diseussed the threatening: danger? All were
quite willing to follow the course proposed by Iron-
sides, with the understandi ng that when the shore
was reached-they would all ‘ke ep a watch upon the
island, and if it were proven beyond a doubt that
but the one Indian was concealed there, they would
return for the flat-boat and its cargo of wild honey.

The division of the party now commenced, accord-
ing to the size of the canoes. Boniface and four of
the mew were to take the largest; another party of
four were to take the next largest, while Ironsides,
Captain Watterson and Harry Pomroy were to take
the smallest.

In a moment the three last named had taken their
seats inthe canoe. Old Ironsides then took up the
oars and drove the craft a fewfeet from the bar,
when he stopped for the other canoes,

‘The other parties entered their canoes and seated
themselves; then they essayed to push off from the
bar, but the prows of the little crafts, under their
respeciiy “weights, had become imbedded in the
‘sand and refused to part company. This mishap
proved fatal. During the confusion consequent up-
on the attempt to get off the bar, a low whistle rang
from the lips of one of the crew.

‘The next instant there was heard a dull sound like
the fluttering of heavy, damp forest leaves upon the
ae Then, like so many spirits of evil conjured

| from the lower regions, there arose fully two
res of dark fornis from the san d, and with a yell
chee rushed toward the boats.

Tronsides’ suspicions had proved, alas! too true.

Ina moment a dozen rifles were leveled upon the
advancing shadows, but only one in the dozen
cracked—only a single savage fell dead. All but
Ironsides’ piece missed fire; they had been tampered
with by the hand of a traitor while all but the old
scout slept.

Here was a fearful state of affairs; but a dozen
men, and one of them a traitor! But which one?—
whose low whistle had been the signal that called
the inhuman demons from their cunning covert?

“Tis no use, boys,” cried Old Ironsides; “it’s no
use to contend—we're betrayed! Pull, ‘for your
lives!—pull! pull! pull! Back—back, Lsay!”

The last. exclamations were directed to two say-
ages who had leaped into the water and seized the
canoe in which were the scout and his two friends,
and attempted to drag itashore. But Irensides was
on the alert.. He rose quickly upon his feet, and
with a'single stroke of one of the oars, he brushed
the twowarriors away with such force that their
bodies left a perceptible channel behind them in the
water; and before it was closed, a sweep of both oars
carried the canoe beyond reach. °

The scout’s attention now turned to the other ca-
noes. Both had sueceeded in getting arod from the
shore, but with six or eight warriors clinging to
each one, while a desperate conflict was going on.
Ironsides saw Boniface erect in his canoe, swinging
his clubbed rifle with deadly menace above his head
and shouting at the top of his iron lungs.

It was not the intention of Ironsides to desert his
friends in this trying moment; but in his usual calm-
ness and promptness of decision at suchja perilous
time, he saw disey utterly useless. and suicidal it

 

 

 
  

but to their regret they saw that they were bearing
away toward the opposite shore. They. were still
engaged with the savages who were clinging to the
canoes and endeay oring to board them. Below the
bars, several dark bodies could be seen floating
away, their arms beating the waves in the convul-
sive throes of death; but the trio knew not whether
they were friends or foes.

Suddenly the snapping of a twig and the hurried
tramping of moccasined feet, warned the old scout
that ‘a new party of enemies was in search af them,
and that. a hasty retreat was the only recourse to
prevent an encounter with the skulking foe, in the
impenetrable darkness.

Ironsides led the way—his two companions follow-
ing andimitating his movements of caution so per-
feetly that it seemed as though three dark shadows,
instead of one, were flitting through the gloomy
forest aisles,

Half-a-mile had been thus traversed when they
halted and listened, hoping to gain some sound that
would tell them of their friends’ victory over the
savages. But net a sound—not even the hum of an
insect broke the awful silence ot the wilderness.

The three friends seated themselves upon the
trunk of a fallen tree to confer as to their next
course. Ironsides was the first to speak.

‘Tarnal furies, lads!” he exclaimed, ‘tour bee-hunt
is turning out to be an excursion of death

A moment of silence followed this remark, then
Captain Watterson asked:

“Well, what are we to do, Ironsides ?
remain idle here.

“No; but we kin do nothin’ to-nighi, that’s plain
enuff. The tarnal Sioux have broke loose ’g’in, and
thar’s no tellin’ whar theyll eend. We mought as
rwell go to my Deadfall and stay than r till mornin’,
Then ave hev daylight for whatever's before us.”

aie Ae giao the home, or he adquar ters, 0
the old scout, who had rendered it a place of death
eo every savage \ whe attempted to. intrude—hence
the name—De adfall, But of it we will speak more

 

We cannot

In a few moments they were journeying silently
through the forest with an ease and rapidity that
evinced their familiarity with the country.

As they proceeded onward not a word was spoken,
nor scarcely a sound emanated from their footialls,

Finally they descended ‘a steep, wooded hill and
found themsélves. in a_ni arrow, black defile baypuge
which a small stream of water coursed its wi

In a clump of bushes upon the bank of this vip-
pling stream, onr three friends halted,

It was a dismal, dreary spot.

“Ay, boys!” exclaimed Ironsides,
whar ye stand at this bless’d minit ?”

“No; not exactly,” responded Harry.

sew. all, we're in the Devil’s Gor: ge, or the Ha’nted

Valley,” said the old scout.

The young men shuddered. Like all frontiersmen
of that day, they were a little superstitious, espe cially
in regard to the Devil's Gorge. To the settlers
thereabouts, this valley was regarded with about the
same spirit of awe and fear that the Indians viewed
the Deadfall of old Ironsides.

Although the scout had seen strange things—such
as involyed the mind in great mystery—he laughed
to scorn all reports of the vy
the Evil One, as many of the superstitious settlers
believed it was.

“Well, from all accounts, the place bears some re-
semblance to the abode of the old gentleman after
whom it is named,” remarked Pomroy, attempting a
smile of indifference.

**Precisely,” added Watterson;
the Styx before us.”

“Now add to yer imaginative picter,” said the
scout, ‘a snow-white hoss and rider flittin’ thr ough
the valley; and then a creature, half-beast and half
human—in fact, the devil hisself—mounted upon a
wild bull that goes thunderin’ up and down the crick
like rip, and yell highten the colors of yer mind’s
sketch of the Ha’nted Valley.”

“Then you really believe that this place is haunted
—you mean to say you have seen these creatures,

   

  

“do you know

“and here we hare

 

eh?” asked Captain Chris.
“T do most emphatically!” returned Ironsides;
but mind ye, I don’t say they are spirits and ghosts
1 sich like.”
‘Then what are they ?”
‘Wall, we ail know that there is a den of robbers

would he for the three to attempt to assist them.
They weuld reo place their‘own necks in the halter”
by so do ith not the shadow of a chance of ac-
complis®i apy ingesSe Tron ile peter the oars,
and ambi f& showe; bullets } ey in
ce 1s 5 ee eastern shore elter of its
Woo d '

The trio now turned to look after their friends,

    
  

ralley being the abode of |

somewhar in the vicinity. The Robbers’ Hidden
Ranche hes been a subject fur every mouth, old and
young, saint and sinner, fur the last six months,
Now, | b’lieve these spirits and sich, which the In-
gins ‘contends hes-been here -ever sense the mornin’
stars sung@togepher, are n *but them very rob-
bers, alt though I hey failed repeate dly in findin’ their

  

   
   

 

     
  
     
 

den,--1tsis a ’ sure enul!, buts if, [.cotldesit the
settlers all out ae) a vallyd gil: eeneral
spin? 6 es

probable, and—” bean Po

 

y it is Very
he Blenly interray

ina quick breath. Look
@s one of fem now!—there!—

ted by a i

 
   
 

she spoke, a

\ low-white horse, upon}
WaghnouDs ed a ride

Tobed in w nite “litte

This mysteriousiz ( w as going up the gorge, fol-
lowing the course» thelstream, and riding in the
Ww ater, which was quite’ shallow, yet which served
in a great measure to mufile t the ‘animal's hoofs as
they came in contact with’ the stony, bed of the
creek,

‘“*Wal,” said Ironsides, when the sound of the ani-
mal’s hoofs had died away in the distance, ‘*what
(ye think of that fur the White Rider of the Deyil’s
Gorge ?”

“T think the ridera genuine being, and I'l ven-
ture my life that this creek is the trail leading to
the Robbers’ Hidden Ranche!” returned Watterson.

“That’s. just what Isay,” replied the scout; ‘but
I defy enny not belongin’ to that ranche to find it.
I’ve searched every hole and corner from the river
to the falls, and never found a single trace of the
den.”

“That's strange,” said Captain Chris.

“Ay, wondertiul! mysterious! captain,” cried the
scout; “but fur all that I can’t ‘he Ip believin’ but
what thar is a robber den somewhar bout the gorge,
and I’m detarmined to find it arter our friends hey
been looked arter.”

“Hark!”

It was Harry who uttered the exclamation, but
the same sound that called forth the injunction
caught the ears of his companions.

It was a sound resembling the low bellow of a
bull, mingled with the swa ash of water and the dull,
he avy tread of hoofed feet that seemed to jar the
very earth,

The next instant the trio shrank backward from
the object that burst upon their view, and involun-

tarily crouched their forms in the pushes.

They were not cowards because they thus conceal-
ed themselves, but their minds were unprepared for
the sight before which they recoiled.

But what did they see? “The head, the shoulders,
and the arms of a man clothed, or disguised, inthe
skin of a mountain-lion, even to the claws of the
feet which were upon his hands, and the ferocious
head, which seemed life-like as it sat like a cap up-
on his head. His face was concealed by the long
hair that feil over it from the jaw of the lion’s he: ad.
Without line or bridle this grim creature bestrode a
huge, shaggy beast of the buffalo species, w “he
ey es glowed. like balls of fire, andw hose Ww hite horns
looked like small spectral arms stretching outward
in the darkness to clutch you,

In one hand this grim, demon-like rider clutched
a blazing torch, w hose pale light revealed his form
and that of the ‘animal he rode, . From the re d, dila-
ted nostrils of the beast poured a stream of hot
breath; his flanks were white with foam, and his
dark, shagey coat was dripping with the water that
his hoofs dashed up in his wild, swift career. It ap-
peared as wild and ferocious as though it were just
from its native plain, yet seemingly it Pobey ed every
impulse of its rider's will.

And this is what Ironsides and his two compan-
ions saw, from the sight of which they involuntarily
shrank.

The grim creature was going in the same direc-
tion, and equally as fast, as the white horseman that
preceded him, and ere our friends could scarcely

realize the truthfulness of what they had seen, it was
fone, and they stood alone in the awful gloom and
silence of the woods.

‘Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Ironsides. ‘“W hat do you
think of that for the Demon of the Gor ge?

 

‘4 demon sure enough,” replied Captain Watter-
son, oe ; :

“What is your opinion of oe Tronsides” asked
Harry. d

The scout laughed i in a low, silent

toyed with the hilt of the knife in his bel!

“The buffalo,” he said, is a new ides;

der is nothing more nor less than on :

ner’s robbers--mebby the robber-chief lissell

very next virile © ‘get skcht of Chg as F:: £ propose
sm

mant

 

Wal

to try the virtuke of ole Pannilt akes the
-third time I’velseed it, bu uv
a shot.” }

that this trail

Here agaimwas silence imposea-upon the speaker
by the sound of footsteps in the water,

The three listened.

They start, and erouch low in the shrubbery.

In the center of the stream they saw the outlines
of a dozen or more shadowy figures wading in single
file-up the stream.

“They are Injins!” whispered Tronsides.

But the words seemed to havefallen upon the ears
of the grim shadows, for, witha fearful war-whoop,
they sprang from the streamyand confronted our
friends.

‘Back, boys !"? exclaimed the
run for it!”

The three.turned and began retracing their foot-
steps hastily up the hill; but at the same instant a
long line of gleaming torehes, borne by two scores
of savages, appeared on the crest of the hill before
them—some to the righf, and some to the left of
them.

“Boys!” cried Tronsides,
We must cut_our way, out,

 

scout— “back! and

“we're surrounded, and
or, die in the attempt!”

 

 

   
 
        
      
   
   
     
 
         
  
  
 
       
       
             
       
       
    
            
         
      
      
   
        
      
     
 
      
          
 
       
 
      
       
       
     
             
           
 
      
 
    
       
 
      
   
   
         
     
   
    
          
          
         
   
 
        
       

 

        
  
        
      
 
  
  
       
 
   
   
       
     
  
    
       
   
   
   
  
            
       
       

 

ihe ¥

es he chance of}

“Then, there is not a doubt In my mind now, but
j!

“MIE BACHEL LOR'S ‘SUMMER CHAUNT.”

BY JENNIE STOVIN,

 

 
  
 

Pretip Bits anu, cipst
Peaches and ice crea
Butterflies and rose bud eS
Are-the Summer theme—
Everywhere I meet the ei.
Tn the street and/ store

: il ring : nd my wha.

 

   
    
     
 

  

Still I don
None of t

(Perhaps the truth is told}
That I do not marry—

Think I’m getting ol
1ambers,

   

In my cosy cl
With m
Do not want a woman—
will not have one there.
Chignon, paniers, jewels,
+ J) are sweet to see;
Still Pdo not want them—
None of them for me.

y easy chair;

Lady. Leonora: .
—— OR,

THER’ FATHERS CURSE
By Carrie Conklin,

Author of “THE CHILD-BRIDHE,’ and “TRUE
AS LOVE COULD MAKE HER.”

[Lady Leonora’? was commenced in No. 27. Back Numbers
can be obtained from any News Agentin the United Srates.]
CH: \PTER . XX.
A DESOLATE HOUSE.

In spite of the heavy blow dealt t6 his hopes by the rob-
bery of the Charnett deeds, Mr. Pentiand did not lose
faith indiis power to successfully combat the machinations
of Leonora’s dangerous enemy.

Up to this time the Ludgate lawyer had not connecte?t
the legal with the criminal case, or in any way identified
the new claimants with the assé
tie abduction of his child; but as the locomotive took
them down the Midland line toward their destination,
Pentland expressed his opinion openly.

There were no other passengers in the compartment in
which he and Hamilton were seated, so they could speak
without fear of being overheard.

The doctor was the first to touch upon the subject. ~~

“Should Rodwin Duke not be able to keep his word,”’
he inquired, ‘‘to what extent would the loss influence
our position 7? *

“To a serions extent,’? said Pentland; “it is useless to
disguise the fact. The man who hopes to-be the victor in
a contest must not underrate the strength of his adv er-
sary. lI only hope Duke is correct in what he stated.’

“He would not deceive you?”

‘Not wilfully; but he may be deceived. Should it not
be so, however, we shall have a very handsome move in
adyance of the other party.” :

“What a piece of conkuminate rascality,*? said Hamil-
ton, “in. the lesser scoundrel,,to defraud his master py
giving him copies instead of or iginals. The idea is hardly
credible.

“Such things are done. A deed can be so exactly imi-
tated—the old parchment, every crack, flaw, or blot; the
penmanship, the seals, the stamps, and siguature Ss—that
only an adept could tellthe copy fromthe original. Many
a ruinous litigation has been commenced upon the strength
of a forged document. It takes a large amount of moral
conviction to prove even asmall legal fact; and a weli-
attested fraud is more likely to succeed than a clumsily-
proved truth.’

“What can be Blake's purpose?’

“Ibis so palpable that I wonder on chevalier gave him
a chance of carrying itinto execution. These documents
are only usefuito him in the eyentof Michael's success.
The master of Charnett would then be completely at the
mercy of a London adventurer, & man, whg could at any
time have the usurper ejected.”

“He could get some silence money for his secret.””

“He would be more likely to get silenced,’ said Pent-

  

 

 

land, ‘‘for our opponents do not seem scrupulous as to
.rifles.’’

“You made no outcry about the burglary ?”
} “Tn wi hich I was wise, What could i have d ymne?. Told
; ihe pe and had half-a-dozen thick-

    

j ade inefficient

i bignderé sent after some.of the clev 1

; met polis? No, doctor, in a matter like 1

{ poli For e p the last I would consult. = ny

¥v this mora made publi

eredin the night

hath ould have Deer
y ne of ner crier

i: }

:

  

 
  
 

    

picion to the wa neaabies a

should have found it very diitic
reason for his detention. Beside, sileat way is the
surest; it Keeps the criminal In fear, for while he Knows
steps are being taken against him he does not know from
what quarter to expect hostility, and when it comes it
finds him unprepared.”

‘Silent measures have been taken throughout,
Hamilton, “but they have not done much yet.’?

“The matter is so sarge iy I take the incidents as

they have happened; first, the murder—an undiscovered
crime; then a thing t a puzzles me—the intrusion of a
stranger into Lady Leonora’s chamber.’

“That was the Chevalier de be

‘Tt is supposed so, but who is to prove it ?—the intruder
wore.amask. I cannot conceiye what his purpose could
have been since it was not plunder, and he dared not at-
tempt an Outrage on a lady so well protected. He must
have had an accomplice inside the house, some one who
set a rope at the window.”

‘“‘Kendrake suspects Stephen Lester, the steward.’’

“We willsee into it. I confess I am not gratified at

Ir. Kendrake’s course of action, andI wonder the more,
as I - have heard how entirely devoted he was to the foster-
brother. He has some secret motive for his remarkable
1eticence, and if he does not speak out we must discard
him. Everyman who does not do his best for us is
against us.’?

“You will think differently when youspeak with him.’?

“7 shall not alter my opinion w ithout good canse.”?

The doctor was sorry to hear the forest-keeper doubted.
ie was inwardly convinced that Kendrake’s motives were
bure, and thatin the end he would prove the wisdom of
lis way.

“Then.the abduction; said Pentland. “The motive is
not obscure. there, forthe child was an obstacle in the
vay ofher father’s foe. The last act, the robbery of the
safe, makes i more apparent and gives the foothold to

i hese things have come one by one, and now
hey forma hain that. must be broken link by link; but
until the child is safely home again we dare not move
EXC ept to protect her mother.”

“So said the man you seem to doubt."

“FIle speaks on knowle dge, I on ol seems probable
ome. What we prove we must prove surely and com-
pletely, leaving no loopirole for the*vronger fo es scape,
but attenipting nothing till we have him seetirely.”
Kendrake, as Hamilton remembered, had arrived at
the same conelusion.

The lawyer and his friend were not the only passengers
who stopped. at, Lockstone for Charnett;,. They saw Reu-
ben Uxley ieave the station and walk rapidly homeward.
He was alone. The chevalier had evidently remained
behind.

That circumstance set Pentland thinking, and his
thought was momentarily diverted by another; Wolf
Blake—Pentiland knew him ata glance, in spite of some
alteration in his appearance—ent ered the Lockstone

lotel, and a siranger, one the Jawyer did nut recognise
yet, climbed to the “box: seat of Scofield’s coach.

Only as he made himself comfortable With a rng over
his knees, he turned his head and fixed a peculiar look on
Pentiand. That gentleman knew lim instantly then. It
Was Rodwin Duke.

The sleuth had not lost the scent.

Pentland made no remark to Hamilton. He had sound-
ed the latter's character, and did not find it overweighted
with discretion, The Ludgate lawyer hired a fly, and
with, his companion was driven to Charnett House.

He was giad that the detective had followed. Keen
and foreseeing as he was, with his natural astuteness
sharpened by the constant contact of the astutest people
in the world, he saw the danger threatened by the Lon-
don shagper’s advent. It was no groundless fear which
had impelled him to put the doctor under Duke's protec-
tion. Hamilton was an important part of the case. His
absence in the event of the documents not being regained,
would have made a great difference.

Pentland’s expectation was aroused by the anticipation
of the forthcoming interview. He had never seen the
lady of whom he heard so much by repute. He was inter-
ested, too, in the meeting with John Kendrake.

The doctor found Leonora better. Despair had yanished
before the advance of steadfast faith, and she hoped each
hour to see Alice again. Hamilton found her calm and
composed, and quite prepared to see the solicitor from
London.

Mr. Pentland’s anticipation was more than realized.
He did not wonder, when he saw the lady, that the youth-
ful Lord of Charnett had risked a grand inheritance for
her sake, and had he fora moment entertained belief in
the chevalier’s shameful lie, it would have faded at the
first glance. There was nothing Jess than the pure pride
of stainiess womanhood on Leonora’s regal brow.

The Lady Charnett welcomed him with a sad smile.

“My husband spoke of you asa true and honorable gen-
tleman,’’ she said; ‘‘and in this, the hour of my trouble, I
am glad to see you here.”

The solicitor pressed his lips respectfully to her small,
olive hand.

“If I have not come before,’’ he’said, “it has not been
for want of interest in your trouble, Countess Lois. You
have no more devoted servant than I shall prove. Iam
re here now; thereisathreatol danger nearer

ome.’

arrest of Blake,
Supply sufficient

? said

 

  

     
 
  
   
    
 
    
  
   
       
 
  
   
 
 
 
   
   
 
           
 
  
  
 
 
 
    
       
 
 

 

  

 

 

ssins of Lora Sydney, anc.

eaicd rey eyed: beh
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a SE LT EI

“I know,” she said, composedly. ‘I received a letter
this morning froma Mr. Uxiey, who purports to _be
acting for some one calling himself Lord Michael Ewrick
Lois.”

“Have you heard of him ?? ; a‘ :

“My husband mentioned himin terms of pity, and it
was his intention to act generously toward him. Butl
think the man Uxley has seen you.” ‘

“Yes; he came in company with his friend, a client's
friend, the chevalier.*’ i ‘ i

“Ay, Du Buradoc. aman who haunts me like an evil
genius. Iknew him in France, Mr. Pentland, in Paris,
when Sydney and I were happy with our little one, and
he hated Sydney then—I could see it when he smiled; but
you have seen him, and so you know; and I am spared
the repetition of the bitter falsehood his hireliug has
written.” ,

“Has he dared?’ said Pentland.

“See? and she handed him a crumpled letter. :

It contained the substanée of what Uxley had said to
Pentland in Loudon, the grounds on whicl Michael based
his claim, and how he repudiated hers. : F

“It wants-but lite proof tu crush this insolent lie,’
said Pentiand; ‘should they bring the question into open
court, the certificate of marriage, countess, the name of
the minister who performed it, and the names of the wit-
nesses,’*

“The certificate,’ said Leonora; and then for the first
time it-strack her that she had not seen it since the even-
ingof Sydney's death. Trouble had followed so rapidly
ontroubie that she had not given it a thought, never
dreaming that she would have need to produce it in de-
fense of her honor.

“You have it, of course ?”? said Pentland.

“Tt was in Sydney’s. pocket-book,”’ she said, ‘‘and they
who searched when he was brought home must have put
it somewhere; in the bureau, perhaps, with his father’s

yapers.”? ae
: ieee went to look for it, aud the lawyer waited the
result with an uneasy feeling. - i

Now, while so sorely: tried, she should .have given no
especial eare to the merely legal register of her union,
but to let it be mislaid or lost, andits loss net known,
seemed like an oversight on the part of her protectors.

lie was not greatly surprised when Leonora returned
to say the pscket-book was missing. . He asked her to try
and recollect if she had seen it since her arrival in Eng-
land or jwhile her husband’s body was being searched, but
the one great Sadness had engrossed her whole attention
then, aud she remembered nothing else.

Doctor Hamilton and Kendrake had searched the lat-
ter’s foster brother. - « © ug

Pentiand, upon guestioning them, was startled to find:
how things of great Importance may be entirely over-
looked. 2; 4

“J saw it at the lodge,’ said the forest-keeper, ‘“‘but I
did not think of it afterward, though Ihave wondered
lately whether her ladyship had it.”

Pentland bit his lips in deep perplexity. t t

“Art the lodge,’ he repeated; ‘did his lordship show it,
you 2”? ‘

“Asked me to take care of it, for the presentiment was
upon him then. He told me to keep it for the sake of
those he loved, but I said they would not need a guardian
yet and pressed it back upon him.’?

“And you did not find it when

“When he was brought home dead.
it a thought.’’

«Tam very sorry,’’ said the lawyer gravely, ‘‘bnt the
0 Her ladyship must tell
I must request the favor of a few
The danger in-

 

3?
No, I did not give

 

me every particular.
words with you also, Mr. Kendrake.
creases and we must work.”

The keeper inclined his stately head. The other looked
aloubt that his words did not express.

<Jt is lost,?? Pentland. said, when he returned to
Leonora; “‘the assassin must have stolen it. The motive
for that brutal deed becomes more apparent now. Tell
me, dear lady, and be calm, where you were married, by
whom, and who. were witnesses ?”

“In Versailles,?? said Leonora, rapidly.
not be denied ?”’

“It must be proved.”

“What! Doubt my husband—outrage his honor by an
insult to his wife? Can such things be done?”

“We have proved too sadly what can be done to ques-
tion what our enemies may attempt. Who was the
minister ???

“An aged Frenchman—Pierre Legard. But he is dead.’

“Dead! It is like fate warring against the innocent.
The witnesses 7?’ ; ;

“Qne was the chapel-keeper—Mére Mignon she was
called; the other, a French gentlemau—an exile now—by
name Baptiste Jaconet.’*- va ;

*Pierre Legard, dead,” wrote Pentland, in his note-
book. ‘“Mére Mignon, chapel-keeper, and Baptiste Jauco-
not. now in exile. We must find these two and obtain a |
Quplicate of the register.. There is still hope, though this |
will give us trouble, Now, tell me, dear lady, aud I shail
ask no more questions that wili pain you, where is tle
will that your husband’s father gave you on his death
bed? Hamilton can ssvear to that, though the earl did

li niter the codicil.’?

’

“Surely it will

  

' A mopnent, she bared ler breast and drew \the
apyRen nag froupits resting place. * }
“Here, Mr. Pentland; it has lain’ next my heart s@nee

a

  

usband died, the tokemof a parent's? fo.

a
Shed Ko ; &

ms lyve?
tit eag
HA
had proceeded Tar, ard %
clamatiou of surprise, : ; :

“What is iL?” asked Leonora, troubled by his look.

Tieavens!’ said Pentland, ‘-has some necromancer been
‘at work?? Were you deceived; or did’ you not look at
this before you took it to keep there?”

‘The lady's face whitened as he grew agitated.

“J read every line, and Kissed the writing hallowed by
his father’s hand. What is there wrong ?”’ ;

“Wrong! This is the will that disinherits Sydney
and, gives Charnett to his next of kin, In this Earl
Robert repudiates you, and iuiplies the lie old Uxley is
prepared to swear. Countess of Lois, are we dreaming?”’

She went to his side toscan the parchment through,
and her senses seemed to blend in cixos as she read.
Stie could not doubt—it was there visible to her sight—

a

 

 

    

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» face’ lit. with asmile, as, turning fron# the} ©

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is countenance; y?6peinl |
sth 3

 

ing,’ and she said it in bitterness,”

“Did she ?? said Kenurake, very sadly.
bear it tille!l prove my love; but it pains me.”

He paced the chamber slowly and with bowed head.

“Well, IT must

Hamilton entered. Leonora had sent him for Pentland
and the keeper.

Her beautiful face was pallid, her voice low, and} its
melody unbroken, as she said.

“T leave Charnett to-day for the sake of a proud name,
and because I will not have my husband’s honor sullied
by abreath of suspicion. I shall contest the stranger’s
claim, or prove my own before a public tribunal. I go,
and go alone, to seek my child, and Heaven will guide a
mother’s footsteps.’

“Leave Charnett, and alone?’ said Kendrake.

“Ay, my desolation is my own, and what solace Heaven
may give me shall come to mein loneliness. There isa
curse on the inheritance; but for the covetous greed it
has created I should not be widowed and childless now.
: want nothing but my little one, and surely I may find
her.’?

Kendrake dropped to his knee.

“To go, and doubting me,’ he said, “were worse than
death. I could not avert the misery that has come, and 1
would give my life to alleviate it.”

“T utter no reproach, John Kendrake. Idonbt nothing,
believe nothing; I weigh deeds, not words. I only know
that Sydney is in his grave and my child is gone, and that
he who swore sacredly to be the avenger and saviour will
not unlock his tongue to tell the truth and help righteous
retribution onits way. Come to me when Sydney 1s
aveuged; come to me when Alice rests once more en my
heart; then, and not till then, willl say John Kendrak
has kept his oath.” ;

“So be it,” he said, rising with a great sorrow on his
face; ‘‘and till that time shall come there is no rest or
happiness for me. Until that timeshall comel say fare-
Well to Charnett."? ’

He went with somber brow and mournful eye to Ish-
mael, who was at his book. The forest-keeper closed it
gently and took the boy by the hand.

“Come, Ishmael,’? he said, with a quiver of emotion,
“our place is no longer here, our home 1s not in Charnett.
Will you come with me?* , :

“Whither? asked the boy, wondering and instinctively
clinging to Kendrake’s haud. hs ;

“Into the world—a barren place, poor lid. Anywhere.
The outcast has no choice, and fate must lead him towork
out his destiny.” ae

“To leave Charnett? Does her ladyship wish it?” — »

“She has said it, Ishmael,’? and his chest heaved heay-
ily, “she has said it.”

“Then we will go,” said the boy, springing to his feet,
“T would not stay anywhere on charity. Jcan work.”

“We are not poor, ishmael, my wants were few and I
had a generous master. Our forefathers had a little store
of gold and each left alittle more tolis children. We
have not ‘poverty -to fear.’? © ;

‘““Are we going far?”?

“To find Alice and the man who slew Lord Sydney.”?

“Then I shall take my gun,’ cried Ishinael, ‘‘and
when we see him I will shoot him as [ did the maninthe
mask.’?

“Hush,’’ said Kendrake, with a sigh, ‘‘and come; there
is nothing tu stay for here.’?

“My books.”

“Leave them. I have to teach you other lessons hence-
forth. ‘Terrible lessous,’? he added mentally, ‘‘but it is
what I have sworn.”

The sun was sinking when ‘the forest-keeper and his
sister's chiid left Charnett House behind them. They
went to the old village church, and in the quiet place
where the dead were sleeping Kendrake paused.

He looked wistfully at the vault under the church—Sya-
ney was there. Ife looked more wistfully at a plain gray
slab engraven witl lis sister’s name.

“Kneel with me,’ hesaid, “and kiss your mother’s
grave. We shall not see it again for many a year.”

The boy knelt with tearful yearning and pressed his lips
to the green turf. ‘

Kenurake’s eyes were dim.

“Poor Loo,” he said, “poor Loo, that dying prayer of
yours has brought me bitter sorrow, but I shall not forget
it. My hand will not be raised against him, yet Sydney’s
death must be ayenged. A Kendrake never broke an
oath, and I have two both deeply sworn. Ihave to give
him merey, I have to bring upon him a red retribution—
a strange and sorrowful destiny, but Heaven will help me
to fulfill it.” ;

And so he rose and went from Charnett, leading Ish-
mael by the hand. He took a last sad look at the quiet
graveyard and the grand old hill. When they were out
ol sight he felt like an exile. ,

On the same night Leonora left her husband's ancestral
home, and she went, forth quite alone. Charnett was a
piace of gloom to her, a Sepulcher of death and sorrow,
where,she hau buriedloye. She went, and none knew
Whither, i

The desolate house was closed next day. Mr. Pentland
gave Leonora one solemn. promise. He would guard her

 

 

child’s inheritance, and no stranger could set fooi as
# tit aster on the Charnett floor. It was a sorrowful comfort
{to 15. bat it wasacomfort. It was something to have
} the deserted house kept sacred to the dead, until the
living should come to gladden it again.

| (TO BE CONTINUED.)

i cae itn I late

i 2 te __~

Winifred’s
A MOR

i
| ie
Di
By Margaret Biount,
Author of THE HEIR OF BALFOUR HALL,

BURNT MILL FARM, SYRANGELY WON;
or, THLE BARONET'S SECRET, ete.

Siete

 

 

 

 

 

|“Winifred’s Diamonds” was commenced in No, 40. __ Back
Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

 

CHAPTER Y.
It was in vain that pian after plan was urged upon the
acceptance of Winifred.

 

the instrument that worked out @ father’s curse—and the
one that tuld his forgiveness was gone,

CHAPTER XXVI.
LEONORA GOES FORTH INTO THE DREAR WORLD.

Like a flash of light the truth came to oe

“The man who eame at night,’ she said, in ‘Strangely
intense tones, ‘ty husband’s slayer, ny child’s abductor,
and my destroyer now, he wrought this bitter mockery;
and Kendrake spared him. Keudrake, poor Sydney’s
foster-brother, so loved, so trusted, and so true in seem-
ing. What need | of friends? what use are they, since
they could not save, and are powerless to avenge? Sya-
ney and my child both dead to me, m honor broken, and
Imade to seem athing of shame. It is the curse! the
curse! It killed my husband and has blighted me.” ,

She fell prone upon the floor, not dead, not fainting,
but quite prostrate in despair; she moved not, made no
sign, except to beckon Pentland away.

He dared not interfere yet; her desperate. sorrow awed
him, and he stole softly out to send the doetor to ler, and
to see Jolin Kendrake. ;

‘Pell her there is hope in spite of all,’ the lawyer said
to Hamilton, “that we have power to prove her right, con-
test the other's claim, avenge her husband, and resture
her child, and-she must not despair; itis much to proim-
ise,’? he said, despondently, “ihe evil work has been done
with such infernal skill that my heart misgives me when
l say there is lope.”

The forest keeper, who since Pentland hatlfirst spoken
to him had been conversing with the doctor, knew what
wouid be the topic of the interview, received the dJawyer
with grave, somber quietude; he was prepared to be
doubted, to have his reticence misconstrued, and tis very
devotion suspected,

His purpose did not change, he never swerved from
that; his destiny was so unlike the destiny of ordinary
men that they could not judge his actions by their own.

So he listened while Pentland told him Leonora’s last
and gravest sorrow, how her fair fame was menaced, aud
how her foes iad plotted to rob her child of the inher-
itance. f

“And you know very much,’ Pentland said, ‘enough
perhaps,to change the aspect of uifairs,bring the wronger
Lo justice, and help to restore the child.”

“Po kill her”? Kendrake said; ‘believe me, Mr. Pent-
land, were I to gay all I know, and all I think, it would not
make an atonivs difference, or bring Ue end nearer by an
heur, Vengeance is.sure, but the time is not yet come.’’.

“We can’t wait for it blindly, Mr. Kendrake} each min-
ute lost or misspentin the wrong course endangers Lady
Leonora’s name and welfare; think of it, how your foster-
brother was slain, his children stolen, his widow outraged
in her sleep.’’

The keeper's swarthy cheek fiushed red.

“i think of it—you tell me,” he said, ‘‘as though TI had
ever forgotten it.’

“Well, then, tellthe truth, Out with the mystery, for
you have one, or if you have a special reason for secrecy
give me aciue and will fathom it. Why did you spare
the man who robbed the countess of the will?

“There was a dead face before ny gun, I heard the echo
of a dying prayer, and I remembered an oath. Would
you ask more???

“Where was the oath sworn to Lord Sydney—was it
forgotten?’

Join Kendrake’s broad chest heaved with pain.

“Tt haunted me as it does now, tortured me as does
every word of doubt. Could he rise from his grave he
would exonerate me, I am sure,”

Though Pentland was as much impressed as mystified
by Kendrake’s manner, he still persisted,

“\Who was the man you spared ??

“He wore a mask.”

“But you saw his face?’

“For a moment, yes—in the nicht gloom,”

“Was it the Cuevalier de Buradoc?”

“No,” said the keeper, wishing {rom his soul he had
not been forced to tell the evasive truth, since it was like
helping Michael in his evil. ‘it was not the Chevalier de
Buradog,”?

‘Did you recognize the man you saw ?””

“I should know him again, Mr, Pentland,
must decline to answer further,”

* ve am grieved to hear you say so, if such is your resolu-
ion.’ ;

“Tt is unalterable.”’

“Her ladyship spoke bitterly of you,’’ said Pentland.
“She said ‘you spared your foster-brother's murderer, her
child’s abducter, aud the man that outraged her. Ken-

And now I

She felt that there was but one course for them all,
which was right and honorable to pursue. She said so
calmly, bat decidedly.

“Name it,’? said the earl.
what wecan do.”

“Father,” her voice faltered a little over the dear fa-
miliar word, which must now be unlearned by her. ‘Yes,
let me call you father and mother for the little time that
remains tous. Ol! my dear father and mother do you
n@ see what we ought to do?”

“No,” sobbed the countess. “I can do nothing, love,
if you leave me as.yon say you will.”

“Your daughter—your real daughter—is living in the
house of my mother. She must be sent for without delay.
And when I have seen you. welcome her, when 1 know
that you are nappy, theu Iand my breaking heart will go
forth together.?? (

It was, indeed, a sad scene, each one of the group knew
that Winifred was in the right. Lady Mary Apreece, so
long known as simple Mary Hughes, must be summoned
to,her home and her parents without delay white the in-
nocent usurper who had so long held her place must take
her departure—possibly forever—from the home of her
childhood, ane the friends who had made it so dear. To
the tearful entreaties of the earl and countess, to the fren-
zied appeals of her lover, she had but that gue answer to
give, and they knew only too well thatit was right that
it should. be given.

So Apreece House stood gloomy and silent among its
aristocratic surroundings; its bliuds closely drawu down
as if there were a death in the house; its. portal seldom
opened, except when the earl or Colonel Rhyse came in
or out.

No one called—no cards were left—no invitations sent.
For, as I have said before, the season was already oyer—
those who had remained in town for the sake of witness-
ing the Lady Winifred’s wedding, were far away in the
country.

But even had they remained in town, they would have
hesitated a long time before calling on, or even leaving a
card, to the countess after what had occurred,

The housekeeper at Apreece House, being a staid and
trustworthy person was dispatched to escort the newly-
discovered heiress to her stately homes. She found her a
plain and somewhat awkward girl—bashful, shy, and de-
Jormed, though not so painfully as she might have been.
The likencss she bore to her noble mother was positively
startling, and yet the Countess of Llangallen was generally
reckoned @ fine-looking, if not a positively handsome wo-
man. Such strange resemblances are often seen between
tivo people, ove of whom may be very beautiful, tle other
quite ugly. ‘i

Tie heart of the housekeeper sank heavily when she
glanced for the first time at the protruding shoulder of
Lady Mary, and got a fair view of her heavily-inolded and
unprepossessing face. Such as she was, however, she
Was indisputably the daughter of the earl and countess,
and the heiress to title and fortune alike.

Breaking the strange tidiugs to her as gently as she
knew how, the housekeeper escorted her to London with
every mark of respect, reaching Apreece House quite late
at night—so late infact that she hoped to be able to
snluggie her young cuarge to bed, deferring the ordeal of
presentation to her mother till a niglit’s rest and a careful
toilet should, in a measure, have remedied the defects of
her face and form.

But the countess could not sleep that night, when the
long-neglected daughter was to take the place of the beau-
tiful, petted favorite, Whose joss went nigh to break her
heart, Her quick ear caught the sounds of Mrs. Grey’s
arrival, and ringing her dell, she ye orders for the
housekeeper and the Lady Mary Apreece to be shown in-
stantly to herroom. Then clasping Winifred to her heart
with a burst of tears, she hid her face amid her golden
ringlets, and nervously awaited her daughter's arrival.

Lady Mary, fresh from the seclusion of-a rougily-fur-
nished Welsh farm-cottage, was dazzled and awe-struck
by the splendor of her new home. Yet all the while her
thoughts wandered, though her eye still gazed on the lux-
ury and beauty that surrounded her on every side. She
was thinking of her mother—of her father. On! how
would they receive her—the rough, uncouth peasant-girl ?
Could they by any chance feel one tithe of the overwiielm-
ing love and affection which filled her heart for them? if
so, all might yet be well, and she one of the happiest, as
she was now one of the most sorrowful, of women on the
face of the glad, free earth.

With maty a secret fear and misgiving Mrs. Grey led
the way to her lady’s room, knocked lightly, opetind, the
door, and saying, in a low voice—‘‘Ihe Lady Mary
Apreece!l’’—retreated at once, leaving the young girl

“In Heaven's name tell us

 

 

‘\ter herself and her grie

wees

 

 

for Mrs. Grey judged
rightly that the countess would wish for n0 spectator to
what must of necessity be a very painful and awkward
scene.

The young girl stood mute and trembling by the door,
after one glance around the exquisite room, whose hang-
ings of pale blue satin rose to the cetling in a sort of dome,
giving the air of a luxurious Eastern tent to the apart-
ment. That one glance had shown her atall and sur-
passingly lovely girl seated on the silken sofa, supporting
a drooping female figure. Oh, well she kuew whose that
reclining form must be!

She could not haye moved or spoxen had her life de-
pended on her doing so.

The countess, overcome by nervous apprehension, still
kept her face hid, and dared not look at her.child.

But Winilred, whispering a kind, assuring word or two
in her ear, rose from the sofa, tcok the young girl’s hand
in hers, and kissed her gravely on the forehead.

“Come,’? she said, in a tone that was very sweet and
sad—‘*come, Lady Mary, and speak to your mother, who
is too much agitated by all she has gone through to wel-
come you properly yet. My lady—oh, mother, my dear
mother, look up, and say oue kind word to her!”?

Thus adjured, Lady Llangallen raised her head and saw
them standing before her, hand in hand—the lost daught-
er of her adoption, all elegant and beautiful, while her
own ehild siirank, with her pale, plain face and her de-
formed figure, from the gaze of her mother, as if she
wished to hide herself and her deformify in the grave, so
that they might never offend a human eye again.

The countess was vain, flighty, and nervous, but neith-
er cold nor hard-hearted, and that deprecating look
touched her strangely. Not thus had the bright eyes of
Winifred ever been raised to hers; not thus did they look
at her even now. -Astender feeling of pity and compas-
sion, which was surely akin to loye, stirred in her soul as
she looked at the trembling, frightened creature who
clung to Winifred for protection, and scarcely ventured
to glance at her. i ‘

“Welcome home, my child!’ she said, kindly. ‘Kiss
me, my love, and donot weep. Your father wiil be here
directly, and it will distress him to find you in tears.”

At the first kind tone the poor girl started and turned
pale; before the speech was ended she had thrown her-
self into her mother’s arms, and though she did not weep,
the trembiing of her whole body showed how great an ef-
fort she made to swallow | ‘sand sobs, and obey her
mother’s first commend r

A knock canie at the doo
The earl entered, and wal
took his daughter in his arm
head. | sag

“You are like yonr mothe
ing her with a fixed, attentive g
like. Well, my love, we will forget. all the past now—at
least, all that has been unpleg eae the past—and begin
with the future, which we will try and make as pleasant
as wecan. There i > mother=lere is your sister—
aud here is you ready to love and be kind to
you. Behapp you can, and you will make
us all happy. you, child!—Heaven biess
you all!”?

He held his wife, his daughter, and Winifred in the
same embrace for a@ moment, then turned and left the
room; and, as_ he went, they saw that tears were stand-
ing in his eyes. His heart, like that-of the countess, had
felt the sacred touch of natuve’s hand, and plain and de-
formed though their only chiid might be, they had already
grown to love her—were already willing to claim her for
theirown. Sothe dreaded meeting passed off happily
enough, and the quiet day spent by the party of four at
Apreece House was by no meas @ sad or an unpleasant
one.

‘ne manners of Lady Mary were not, of course, as re-
fined as those of her mother and her adopted sister, bnt
she was neither troublesome nor obtrusive, and was gifted

    
    
    
 
     
    
 

inifred sprang to open it.
straight up to the sofa,
nd kissed her on the fore-

y dear,” he said, regara-
aze. ‘‘Like and yet un-

 
  
 

  
 

teaven bies

with sufficient tact and good sense to convey her through

the ordeal of the dinner-table without a biunder—a result
over which lier noble parents exchanged looks of most
unqualified satisfaction and relief.

Winitred, too, had ‘been busy with heart and hand
around this new-found friend—overseeing her toilet, and
giving a hint here and there, till Lady Mary jooked quite
interesting in the bluck silk dress, with its lace jacket,
that hid the twisted shoulders, and the kKnotof scarlet
flowers in her jet black hair.

Surprise and happiness combined to give the pale cheek
a brilliant color. The large, dark eyes (so like those of
the countess) looked up with a glance of melanclialy fond-
ness. Thesmall, thin hand andslender wrist were adorned
with diamonds, and a velvet slipper with diamond buckles
showed forth the beauty of a true Apreece foot, with its
high instep and its arching bridge. There was still some-
thing peculiarly sad in the face, but there was something
peculiarly interesting as well; and Colonel Rliyse, coming
in that evening for a word or two with his heart’s idol,
could hardly believe that the pale and pensive stranger,
with the winning expression and the gentle smile, was
the deformed cripple whose coming they had ali dreaded
so long. .

So all was going weli, in spite of the adverse beginning,
and even Winifred had promised to remain in her old
home for ashort timeto initiate Lady Mary into the
manners and customs.of the world she was: now leaving
forever. }

The countess, in her longing desire te‘ have her favorite
ever beside her, forgot the suffering sie must necessarily
undergo while faithfuily performing this task. None ever
knew it save herself aud. her Makers’ She would have
scorned to complain—nor could se reiuse,the Jast request
of one whom sliie had ioved With, ail her heart fer so many
brightand happy years. } rn

And yet she longed with a feverish longing {Uf te aay
when. all indeedrshould be over, aud she at libersy to shel-
in.the humb!e home fro@: which
the Lady Mary had been summonéd to her mother’s
arms.

She longed to feel the last kiss upon her lips, althongh
the touch would almost break her heart—she louged to
hear the last farewell spoken, though it would indeed be
like a word of doom to her. Abeve all, she louged to part
forever with Colonel. Rhyse, who asked now only,te be
culled her friend, yet claimed the privileges of a lover
every other minute, and was angry, and sad, and grieved
when she refused to grant them. In soine respects ib was
a happy time, in others it was suffering of no small de-
gree, and it is little wonderthat her health declined under
the trial, and that she grew thin and pale, and longed to
hide herself from the sight of all who had ever known or
loved her—even here! 3

At last the time came, when without wronging any one,
she could really go. Lady Mary, under her tuition, had
proved an apt and ready scholar, and while learning the
jaws of etiquette, had found her way to the hearts of her pa-
rents, So that, at last, they almost forgot the deformity and
plainness of her person, in the freshness and beauty of her
soul. They did not forget Winifrea—she had been, and
still was, too dearto them to be forgotten, but another
seemed to have taken her place, and though she was still
loved, she was no longer meeded here. ‘

Mrs. Hughes, after the day of her disclosure in church,
had never appeared at Apre€ce House. Her daughter
saw her daily in her city lodgings, but the countess,
though she had learned to love Lady Mary dearly, could
not yet forgive her foster sister’$ deceit, aid more than
hinted, as did the earl, that a lifetime of repentance
could searcely atone for the commission of such-a ¢riiie’

Mrs. Hughes made no attempt to appeal from that de
cision. She submitted to it quietly and patiently—saying
jittle in reference to it, even to her daugiiter, but she, too,
looked infinitely relieved when the day of their’departure
Was at last fixed. She had nothing now in London to re-
eret—she had much to make the future pleasant, since her
daughter recognized her claims upon her, and was wiil-
ing to remain with her in her quiet country home.

Only one stipulation did Winifred make, Out of the
liberal allowance settled upon her by the earl she gave to
her mother a sufficient Suin, in the shape of an annuity,
to enable her to live in comfort, without making the
slightest exertion to earn a livelihood. Her mother must
never soil her hands by toilagain—the direction of her
two domastics for the little house being the heaviest task
which she was permitted to assume,

The countess and her foster-sister did not meet before
the latter departed from London. it was thought best
that they should not do so, till the mutual feeling of irri-
tation was allayed—which «might possibly be never, but
a message of perfect forgiveness was sent from the couu-
tess, which Mrs. Hughes received in silence, but with an
air of evident relief and pieasure,

The eventful day of parting came at last, and she, who
one little month before, had been the cherished, only
daughter of a ‘belted earl,’’—the plighted bride—and al-
most wife—of anoble and gallant gentleman of ancient
descent and honorable name—bade a last farewell to her
weeping friends, and departed from the house which had
so long been her home—using the Apreece carriage, liv-
eries, and servants, for the last, time—so she, at least,
was thinking, as she was driven away. She met Mrs.
tHughes in London, and together they journeyed tv their
place of destination,

Winifred was asleep when they arrived there, and Mrs.
Hughes leaned forward and kissed her, saying:

“Wake up, love. This is OUR home!”

{TO BE CONTINUED.)
>-O~< 1

Letter from Texas Jack to Ned

The following letter written by one of our living heroes,
has been forwarded to us by Ned Buntline, who is now in
camp-out West:

 

 

 

 

Fort MCPHERSON, July 1, 1872.

FRIEND NED: I received your kind letter several days
ago. Am very sorry I cannot accept your invitation to
visit you at your cainp.. Iam sure we would have a nice
time. Our buffalo hunt was a perfect success, We suc-
ceeded in capturing seven living bisons in one day; but
owing to the hot weather most of them died during the
transportation. It was one of the most exciting chases
that lL have ever witnessed. I was to take a party of In-
dians with me from the Pawnee tribe. When I got as far
as Omaha, T learned that the commissioners at Washing-
ton had refused to let the parties at Niagara have the use
of the Indians; consequently I have returned to the fort.
I suppose you have seen ali particulars in the Eastern
papers. Aim very sorry that the atfair has turned out so
badly, a8 1 was somewhat connected with it; however,
my portion of the wi tere | carried out all right—
that was to capture the buifalo. In doing that I had my
favorite horse, Tall Bull, badly wounded in several places,
and narrowly escaped being hurt myself by a young brf-
falo bull. 1 had thrown my lasso over him, but he was
too strong for my horse; and as none of the boys were
near to help me, the bullhad his own way. I followed
him to the Beaver River and tried to entangle him in the
timber. While thus engaged, he faced me several times,

   
  

 

 

 

 

gored my horse badly, and once pushed us both into the

*

 

river, jumping in after, and came near crushing the life
out of both. Eventually I succeeded in making him fast
to a tree, and you can bet I was glad of it, for old Jack
Was getting mighty tired of that sort of fun.

We had a dispatch from Buffalo Bill several days ago;
he was at Fort Raudal on the 27th of June, and will be
home at the latter part of this month.

Indians are prowling round in considerable numbers in
these parts. Weare likely to have some trouble with
them soon. Texpect to be put under pay as scout again
in a few days.

Ihave been offered the place as commander of the
Pawnee tribe this summer on their buffalo hunt. Am not
certain yet what I willdo. I am on the war-path this
summer—bigger than a wolf. The Sioux cannot come
down here any too fast to suit me, however. I will try
ate a little civilized by the time you get out to see us
this fall.

Thad arousing time in Omaha for a couple of days.
Hadan invitation to go up in a balloon from there on the
4th of July. Would have gone up had 1 been there.
Wouldilike a trip of that kind.

Tf anything of importauce happens I will let you know.
Ali quiet at the fort.

As ever yours, most respectfully, !

J. B. OMOHONDRO, (‘‘Texas Jack.’’)

P. S.—I received a photograph of the head of the butfa-
lo which the Duke Alexis killed.) 1f you remember, it
was Jost by his party. 1 found it, and sent it to Professor
Ward, of Rochester, N.Y. He has it nicely framed now,
and sent me a picture of it several days ago. JACK.

>o~<—

Buffalo Bill’s
LAST VICTORY:

rest ie

1 7 mn Th
DOVE-HYE, THE LODGE QUEEN.
By Ned Buntline.

CHAPTER XXX.

Snap Carter did not pause one second, after the girls
were in their saddles, but rode off ut terrific speed, head-
ing more to the southward than before, folowing for some
distance a stream that wound along near the base of and
among the hills, most of the time in the shallow water,
not that he took time to study abont hiding his trail, but
because he thus kept the cover of trees and bushes, for
not understanding the firing and yelling he heard far be-
hind him, as he fled. to be anything but the mad action of
his late associates, firing into the bushes where they sup-
posed him hiding, and yelling out their hate with a wish
io terrify the girls, he wanted to keep from view and to
get as far away as possible before the route he took was
discovered.

For he knew that when followed, if overtaken, he might
expect nore mercy from the worst Indians on the plains
than from Hunker Ben and his crowd.

For a long time, leaving the sounds far behind as they
fled, they rode thus madly on, without a word being
spoken on either side. Indeed it was daylight, and the
pace was greatly slackened by actual necessity, for. the
panting animals were much distressed when Snap Carter
did speak.

‘Tt was a close chance!’?he said. “That wretch, Hunk-
er Ben, watched meso close it was very hard work for
me to get the horses from the herd, saddle them, and get
them over where we found them, so as to escape when
wedid. He was moving, too, sooner than I expected,
though I had heard all his plan and knew his intentions.
They were to murder me—take you, poor girls, from my
protection, and—words cannot express ail his horrible
purposes after that, but death would have been a mercy
to you as wellas me. But I overheard alland determined
to save you or die with you!”

“Whatfor? Why did you wish to save us?*? asked
Lottie.

“Because, devil though I was, you pitied me when I
suffered, and tried to lessen my pain. [had a dear moth-
er once—I broke her heart by my wickedness. Aud I
had a sister as pure, as good, as beautiful as. you are.
Aud you drew my heart up from its bad forgetfulness, till
I thought of them. IJ—I can’t talk much—but oh if I can
redeem any of my past, it will lighten the luad here!’

And he Jaid his hand over his heart. ;

«Where will you take us now ?”?

“T hardly Know, for I want to get you back to the set-
tlementssafe. I'd be killed if recognized in most of ’em,
but I deserve it, and I hardly care, if L only see you safe.
{’m not fit to live any way!’

“Oh yes you are—more fit to live than to die, if you are
sorry for what you have done and mean to do right after
this!’? said Lottie, kindly.

“T hardly know whatiI mean to do yet,’’ said Carter,
holding his head bent down—‘‘but this 1do mean. Iwill
not harm you or your sister, or suifer harm to come to
you, if 1 can help it with my life!’? ‘

“God bless you for saying that!” cried Susie, and glad
tears fell frum her eyes.

“Amen, and @men again!’? said Lottie.
your shoulder feel to-day ?”?

‘Better than yesterday, though it issore and stiff yet!’

“Let me dress the wound again!’

“Not now, little lady, for we've no time to stop. Them
devils may have found our track, and if they have, they’!l
be after us like wolves on the track of a wounded deer.
Lwould make.a poor show, defending you against so
mioy. My kindest act would be to send a ball through
each of your hearts aud one through my own, if they were
close upon us.”? \ ,

Susie shuddered, but Lottie said:

“Yes; andlhope you will doit, rather than to let us
fall alive into their hands. I would not flinch or even
shut my eyes.” ;

“JT don’t believe you would. You're the bravest little
woman I ever saw. And—if I were oniy good—l'd dare to
say more. But I can’t.”

“You will never be bad again—never murder or rob any
more ?*’ suid Lottie.

“No, girl—lli starve before I’ll steal again, and I'll kill
Hi before I raise & weapon except in defense of your

ives? -

“Oh, how giad Iam tohear you say so. I did hate you
terribly. I suppose I ought to when—when——”

“You think of your brothers, you would say, little one,
T know what you mean. But in that I’ve one little speck
of comfort. Iwas in charge of the rear guard when we
charged your camp. Bill Deekin Jed the assault himself,
and your brothers were killed before I gotup. I don’t
say it to Jessen my crime, for I was in the party and would
have shot as quick, and maybe quicker than any, if Va
been up, but 1 wasn’t. So the actual shedding of their
blood isn’t on my hands, And that is a little comfort.”’

“To me a great deal, for 1 will not hate you now. But
on aor b speak of my father. Was not he killed?” cried
Lottie. : ts :
: UT thought so at first, but when we were in Stake-down
‘Canyon I‘heard that dare-deyvil scott say something
Perr me think he was badly wounded, but not
killed:

“Oh, if it is so, and we can find him again, how happy
it will make us,’ cried Susie.

“Can you do it?” asked Lottie.

“T can try,’? said Carter, quietly. “TI shall not rest till
Tget you in some safe place. But we are in a bad re-
gion now. You have no idea how bad, This is a kind ot
hunting-ground for bad Indians and for worse white men.
There are hundreds of desperadoes in these hiils scat-
tered about, a large band being associated. That which I
led and froin which we escaped this morning is a part of
it. I must evade all these, keep you Clear of the wander-
ing Indians and get you out of this region, if 1 can.”

“You can, I know you can now, for you haye said you

would try,’? said Lottie. : ‘

 

 

“How, does

CHAPTER XXXI.

We have got to go back to follow the fortunes of Dove
Eye, our heroine, and Buffalo Bill, our hero—the lady
first always—and the reader has got to go with us,

After leaving the Indian war-party which had detained
him so long, the brave scout pushed his horses rapidly in
the direction where the smoke had been seen, and a litile
before night reached the place where the desperadoes had
made their long halt to rest, dry, feed their horses, &¢.

Here Overton, who since finding the letter had been on
the lookout for signs and tokens of her who wrote such
“a beautiful hand,’ found the pieces of silken searf which
Lottie had purposely dropped. These he showed to Buf-
falo Bill as a proof that the girls were yet alive, and he
had his enthusiasm dampened a little when the scout
muttered: ‘“Rags—nothing more.”

But Overton carefully placed these relics by the side of
the letter in the breast-pocket which was nearest his
heart, and muttering something about finding her or
dying, he turned to Norfolk Ben, to whom he had taken
a great liking, and called for acvid lunch that he had en-
trusted to that worthy, so that he could be prepared to
live a little longer for her.

Buffalo Bill made ashort halt here, to let his horses
feed and drink, and to refresh his party, for he feit sure
that the others would camp atthe gap in the hills ahead
that night, and he meant to overtake and surprise them
in their camp.

Alter he had lunched, he called Dove Eye, Red Leaf,
Texas Jack and Overton aside, and told them of his
hopes and his plans. For, though not given to talk, when
he felt that the consummation of their adventure must be
near, he wanted them to share in his hopes and his
plans.

Texas Jack was alone dubious,

“They had a long rest here,’ he said. “By the way the
grass is cropped and trampled, they staid here full half a
day. They'll not halt there.”

He pointed to the hills, and then he added:

“They'll Keep right on for the rendezvous of the gang
in Nick’s Cavern.”

“J don't believe it, said Bison William. ‘They
thought the storm had washed their trail so it could not
be followed, or they would not have laid hereand slept
and fed for at least five or six hours. And, thinking so,
and that we’ve given up the chase, they’ll camp just as
soon as they get to the hills yonder. That is why I am
taking it so cool] now—for with a rest we can ride there
in less than three hours, and | don’t want to be seen till
we are rightin on top ofthem. Then we can wipe ’em

‘out before they can say goose.”

‘‘Maybe so, boss—maybe so,’’ said Texas Jack.*

But the shake of his head told that he was not con-
vineed by the argument Buffalo William had advanced,

After leaving the little valley, Buffalo Bill led his
column quite leisurely until dark, for he did not wish to
be seen from the hills, but now having noticed how ex-

 

actly the trail pointed to a particular notch in the hills,
he rode forward faster.

When he was close ip to the timber, he ealled Red Leaf
to him, and asked the chief if he knew the Jay of the land
where they were.

The chief answered that he did, and then Buffalo Bill
told him to creep up and scout the ground and see if the
camp was there, ashe suspected. If so, to return and
together they would plan the attack.

Red Leaf dismounted, as did all the rest of the party,
red and white, to give their horses breath and strength
for a charge, should one be made, and the chief went
forward swifty on foot, followed at his own desire by
Kionee, the Creeper. ‘

The Indian was gone nearly an hour, and it was almost
moon-rise when he got back.

“Are they there?” asked Butfalo Bill, as Red Leaf came
up where he stood. .

“Yes—all.. The two women sleep by themselves in a
house made from bushes; the men are most all awake,
and they talk mischief to the girls. But they will not
strike tll the moon comes up. The horses feed but a
lithe way from camp. J have left Kionee there to scare
them when we charge, so there may be no horses for the
eee torun away on. We will kill and scalp them
all.’

“Good! That talk suits me,” said Texas Jack.
let’s mount and-be moving.”

“Yes—yes—I want to save the girl who wrote that
beautiful hand,” urged Overton,

“Patience, boys; you shall ail haye a chance,
Buffalo Bill.

Then he made Red Leaf detail the position of the camp,
the location of the bough-house as situated from the camp
fire, which must guide them in the rush, and where the
men were posted.

Then mounting all, and passing the word from man to
man, till all understood, with Dove Hye on his left and
Overton on his right—Red Leaf holding the post of honor
in advance —Buffalo Bill walked his horses forward.

Iie did not mean to charge until the moment that dis-
covery would be certain, but the moon began to rise
above the trees a little sooner than he expected, and then,
just as a glimmer of the eamp-fire met his eyes, he heard
a confused noise in the camp, as if the désperadoes were
roshing to the work ef mischief Red Leaf had told him
about.

It was no time now for delay or hesitation.

Without a word, at a motion of the hand of Buffalo Bill,
Red Leaf led the way at fearful speed, andthe whole
party dashed in upon the desperadoes, who, with fresh
fuel heaped high on the camp-fire, and some with brands
in their hands, were rushing aboat in singniar confusion.

Shooting and yelling as they went in, Buffalo Bill and
his party dashed upon the astonished wretches, who re-
sisted more from hubit than any thought of victory—for
it was more like a massacre now than a battlé.

At the first sound and shot Kiconee the Creeper, with
shrill yells had stampeded all the stock, so that the
raffilans had no horses to get away on, and now those
who could not get temporary hiding places in the bushes,
or between the banks of the streain, were ridden down,
Speared or shot by Indians or scouts with as little corh-
punction and as little merey.as if they had been wild
beasts,

The surprise was complete, the attack so sudden, so
murderous, so overpowering, that while only a few of the
attacking party were wounded, and not one killed, scon
two-thirds cf the desperadoes were slain or helplessly
wounded, while the rest were seattered in concealment
or in vain flight.,

For now the ‘moon rose higher and higher, and shriek
afier shriek from some discovered wretch told tha tthe
pursuit was relentless, the punishment speedy.

Mr. Overton, dropping Hunker Ben with a mortal
wound, rushed to the bough-house from which the ais-
appointed ruffian was emerging when he shot him, but
the girls whom Red Leaf had reported as sleeping there,
were not inside.

“Boss,

or

said

Neither could he find them anywhere, though after the .

melee he rode wildly to and fro im the search.

At last the affair seemed nearly over. QO: all that rufian
band only a few wounded and dying wretches lived, or
could be found.

And these, when questioned, though threatened with
instant death if they did not speak the truth, could not or
would not say what had become of the girls.

“Tm dyin? and I know it!’ groaned Hunker Ber.
“There’s no use for me to lie.“ We chaps had made up our
minds to kill olf Snap Carter, our captain since Bill Dee-
kin was killed, and to take the gals for ourselves. We
were to do it at moon-rise, and when we went for ‘em
they wasn’t to be found, and just then you charged and
our clams were all baked—\e're gone under!”

“Where is Snap Carter? Has his body been found ?’?
asked Overton, eagerly.

“No—and it isn’t like to bel’? said the manwho had
been deputed to kill him, who gasped out blood from an
internal death-wound while he spoke. *He was gone
when I went for him, before you 220’s came for us, and 4
reckon he has got off with the gals some way.’?

Search was. now renewed on every side, but it only re-
suited in finding a few more of the hidden, ruffians who,
dropping their arms, had rushed neck deep into the
stream tO escape.

And light came witheut a sign or token of the girls be-
ing found, except that a part of the brush-house next to
the stream was torn away. :

But when the stock that had been stampeded was looked
np, discovered and brought in—then it was found thatthe
ponies belonging to the girls, with theirside-saddies, were
missing, also the favorite horse of Snap Carter will fis
saddle and bridle,

“They have been carried away by him, knowing what
we were going to do—lI’ll bet!” groaned Hunker Ben.
*iTe’d been real spoony about them gais ever since one of
‘em dressed his wounds. “Iwas that set ws oa to drop
hint and take ’em ourselves! Vil bet they went with him
Willing!”

“Never!’? said Buffalo Bill; ‘never with the murderer
of their brothers!”?

“Hold on, cap! Hedidn’t have no handin that. He
Was aay in the rear when ‘twas done, Meé and Bill
Deekinfired the first shots that dropped them. There's

no use for me to lie—I told you 1] was—a goi’—oh—just
oue drop o? whisky—for—for luck!?

There was no time togive, hii whisky now had it been
om Sethe for as the last, word left his lips—he. sunk back

ead.

“Overton, you've got your man! That’s one notch for
you!” said Bill. ;

“Vm not proud of it—poor devil!” said Overton, gloom-
ily. *‘Oh, where, where can those girls be). :

“Weil soon know. Itis coming light now, and while
Red Leaf and his gang finish up work that I don’t want
to do, you and I will ride out and look up the trail. Will
Dove Eye come too? She has.a womun’s heart and does
not want to take scalps, I know!"? ;

‘Dove Eye will go with Long Rifle and the Brave from
the great village by the seal’? said the Lodge Queen, and
With Kionee, once more mounted and following, Buffuo
Bill led the way outof camp. 7

A Wide circle, taking in the country for at least tivo
miles around the late scene.of conflict, was now made by
the keen and experienced scout and his companions,
While Red Leaf ana his ludians finished the punishment
and took the scalps of those who by their crimes had for-
feited all claim to merey. as

Buffalo Bill had crossed the stream, and was entering a
pass to go around a hill that was iu their way, when he
saw where a stone, moss-covered on one side, had been
broken and partially turned over ina litte brook that ran
through this pass. ;

He examined the mark very closely, and then rode on,
with his eyes following the water-course.

In a little while he spoke.

“Mounted parties have followed up this stream, to hide
their trail in the water,’ he said, as he rode on faster, to
find some point where the tracks could be seen: plainer
aud studied. F

For nearly two miles they rode, and the trail was so
well hidden by the running water that even Buffalo Bill
could only here and there detect that a horse or horses
had passed.

Then they came to a spot where a rock had caved fresh-
ly from the bank in the late storm, filling the channel,
and here the riders had to leave the water,

Then with a cry of joy Butfalo Bili pointed out to Over-
ton the tracks of three horses, side by side, close together
—the one in the middle making a deep impression in the
ground, as if horse and rider were heavy, while those on
aes side left faint impressions, asif the riders were
ight.

“The man and the girls have passed here—this is their
trail,’? said the scout.

“Let us then dash on and overtake them!’ cried Over-
ton, wild with excitement again.

“They have at least four or five hours’ start, and are
mounted on horses that have had feed and rest twice
within less than twenty hours,’? said the scout. “We
Will, aS Soon as our people are rallied and our horses have
fed, take this trail; but we must follow it with care, for
this Snap Carter has been long onthe plains, and isan
old hand at evading pursuit. I'll do my level best to over-
take him as soonasI can, but we have wiped out the
worst of the wretches, and wecan take it a little easier
after this one. He seems to have treated the girls so weit
so far, that his crowd got down on him and meant to kill
him. He got wind of it, and got away. So you see there
don‘t seem to be any immediate danger to them, withous
he falls in with them that are worse than he.?

Overton sighed. We would have swore, if he had ever
learned the useless and vulgar habit, but he hadn’t,

“Its a pity you're married, Bill! he said. ‘You'd be
twice as fast after them girls if you wast.”

are laughed in his dry way, but he made no other
reply,

He merely turned his horse and rode back, saying, as
he went:

‘In two hours or less I’ll take the trail, and keep it till
we find the girls.”

And thus Overton Aad to be satisfled.

{TO BE CONTINUED, }

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A Noble Charity.

One of the noblest achievements effected by a newspa-
per has been accomplished by the New York Times in its
advocacy of free picnics for poor children. It was the
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appeal was so direct and touching that every generous
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present writing over fifteen thousand dollars have been
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it a national affair. The success of children’s free picnics
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honor, then, to the journal that enlisted public sympathy
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political ring which the New York Times was the means
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THE LADIES’ WoRK-BOX.

“Maud C.”—You can wear a trained skirt if you wish,
as they are fashionable, but for neatness and convenience
we would advise walking-suits made with skirts just es-
caping the ground. Make your suits with skirt and polo-
naise, and trim with plaited ruffles of the material. Wear
rose, scarlet, blue, or buff, with your black dress. Your
complexion can bear certain shades of almost any color.
Your hair is brown, neither red nor yellow, simply brown.
In time it will be much darker. You are a rosy blonde.
Will see about your paper. Write a little larger and your
hand will be good. Now itis almost too fine to be read
with ease. Thank you for the compliment.

“Rose Bradwardine.’’—Turpentine and benzine will
both remove oil from woolen goods. If the oil was pure
and clean nothing is better than putting common chalk
on the wrong side of the material over the spot, and al-
low it to remain unti! the oil is all taken out, remember-
ing to change the chalk once a day, carefully rubbing off
the chalk through which the oil has passed before renew-
ing the application. No. Water stains cannot be changed.
The front hair is combed over a braid. Some wear it
high, others rather low. ;

“A, B.Y—A yard-and-one-half is quite long enough for
the skirt of a riding-habit. They are gored slightly, and
faced. Mostof them have leads in the edge to keep the
skirtin place. Basques now seem to be morestylish than
the plain waists, and can be made after any pattern you
most admire. Tall riding-hats are still fashionable, but
some prefer caps or low-crowned hats.

‘“M. M., of Philadelphia,’ writes: ‘‘Dear NEw YORK
WEEKLY, allow me to thank you for the many valuable
hints you have given me in your Work-Box. That
column has done me more service than a magazine I take,
which is entirely devoted to fashion and dress. I am a
dress-maker by trade.’?> Now such a compliment as this
makes the Work-Box feel just as proud as possible, be-
cause we try so much tobe not only of service in the
home circle, but to help those who must work to live.
Many persons ask how we can find out so much, and why
our suggestions are almost always practicable. We can
easily explain: Those who publish magazines are very
kind to the littke Work-Box, and they always send us ad-
vance copies of their fashion hints, and allow us to use
the portions suited to the wants and questions of our
readers. So we borrow, you see, useful suggestions from
them all. And then scarcely a day passes but you can see
the Work Box in Lord & Taylor’s, McCreery’s & Stewart’s,
looking at new goods, peeping into hidden boxes, and up
in the work-rooms questioning the designers about new
styles, and gleaning information,for our friends who ex-
pect us every week to visit their pleasant homes. And
then, too, the Work-Box has another method, which is
decidedly good. To please young people, we think young
eyes should examine, and young heads pass judgment.
Perhaps you did not know that the Work-Box has a lot
of girls, regular stairs, all ages and all sizes, from the
baby of twelve up to our eldest of twenty, five of
them, with hair all shades, red, brown, golden,
black and mixed, yellow and brown, different com-
plexions, and entirely different tastes. Well, we
send out these five pairs of young eyes, and the
result is wonderful. We ask when they return, ‘“‘What
did you see?*? Twenty, with red hair and fair complexion,
says, “I saw such an elegant suit. The skirt was of black
silk trimmed with alternate spaces and deep box plaitings
of silk, the spaces being filled in with rows of ruffles put
on in points. The polonaise was of black and gray mixed,
made apron front, and very much looped at the sides and
puffed in the back. It was trimmed with black and gray
mixed fringe. A frill of valenciennes lace finished the
neck and sleeves. Gloves black, and white-stitched on
the back, a blue bow, delicate shade, at the throat, and
trimming of the same on a white straw hat.”? Eighteen,
with the golden hair, goes into ecstasies over a poplin
suit; we will let her describe it: ‘The shade of the pop-
lin was so delicate, a real moonlight blue. The skirt was
trimmed with one pointed ruffie between two straight
flounces, all three bound with silk a shade darker than
the poplin. The overskirt had draped front, high looped
sides, and the back was double. The edge was pointed
and bound with silk. You don’t know how pretty the
basque was. The back was postillion, and the vest front
was formed of the silk, and deep pieces of the silk were
let into the back of the sleeves, the vest, sleeves, and pos-
tillion all trimmed with silken shells, and edged with
fringe the same shade. <A lace collar and écru bows at
the throat, écrw gloves bound with blue, and a straw-
colored hat with pink trimming completed the costume,
and you cannot imagine how pretty it was.” Our brown-
haired girl of sixteen can hardly decide which style of
dress she shall adopt, for her trouble seems to be the fact
that all colors are equally becoming to her, or, as she
says, ‘‘I don’t look any better in one color than I doin
another.’? We, however, notice when making selections
for her, that rich and positive colors are more becoming
than the delicate shades—for instance, dark-green and
blue harmonize better with the pink of her cheeks and
lips than lighter shades. The suit selected by sixteen is
rather a pleasing combination of slate and fawn colors.
The lighter shade being used for trimming and the over-
garment. Shesays, ‘‘The skirt had four narrow flounces
in it, made of the fawn color, and scolloped round the
edge and bound with the slate. The top flounce was
headed by a twist trimming of the two shades. A tight-
fitting polonaise was of the fawn mohair, and was trim-
med back and tront with bands of slate, A silken fringe
of the darker shade finishing the edge of polonaise and
the sleeves. Frills of swiss, and lace in neck and sleeves,
and a Dolly Varden hat trimmed with rose-colored rib-
bons, and clusters of moss roses, and buds with spray of
buds and leaves. Dark slate-colored gloves and black kid
gaiters. Fourteen has a rich-toned skin inclining to the
Olive, with more or less deep redness about the cheeks
and lips. Her eyes are dark, Over-shadowed by heavy
brows and lashes, and a perfect mass of straight dark
hair. Her nature is strong, she does not admire the ne-
gative in any form; her colors must be bright, positive,
and fully defined. Blendings to her taste, are cold and
insipid. Warm and rich she must have them.

Did we allow her undisciplined taste full sway, no Indian
could be decked in more gorgeous attire than she would
select. See what a costume she has chosen: “It was
the prettiest dress you ever saw; I can’t tell much about
how it was made, but the material was black grenadine
with golden satin stripes running through it, and littie
clusters of scariet, gold, and green flowers all over it.
The fiounces were bound with just an edge of gold, and
the polonaise was looped with golden bows, while but-
tons ofthe same color fastened the front. The hat of straw

 

 

was trimmed with scarlet ribbon, and flower clusters to
match those in the dress.’”? Our little one is rather
dainty, and prefers white to anything else; she is, how-
ever, very particular as to the coior and shade of her
sashes and bows, and we frequently find vacant places in
the ribbon department of the Work-Box, to say nothing
of the missing ribbons from the rooms of the other girls,
which are usually found about the neck or waist of Miss
Twelve, who quietly remarks when detected, ‘Well,
Sissie, I'll lend you mine when you want them,” as if hers
were in suitable condition to be worn by any one! Upon
returning from her tour of investigation, she gives sun-
dry descriptions of windows at candy stores, tells some-
thing about parasols with pink linings and white fringe,
gloves and shoes with tassels, initial handkerchiefs, and
gives a brief history of a dress of white pique with
two flounces headed by a row of embroidery, and a
polonaise with flowing sleeves, embroidered to match
the skirt, handsome, but expensive.

We trust our friends will pardon us for deviating from
the usual mode of answering their questions, and if ‘‘Mrs.
Lawrence,” ‘Mother of a Twelve-year-old Girl,’ *‘Mrs. M.
James,’’ “Mrs, Elbert K.,’? ““R. M. Y.,’? and “Ruth, aged
twenty,’ will read the description of what our girls saw,
they will find all their questions fully answered.

“Country Girl.’’—You might adopt the frizzes that seil
by the yard, and are worn over the forehead by those
who do not like to crimp their own hair. You can get a
yard for fifty cents.

“Mrs. M. B. W...—White Victoria lawn will make a
pretty morning-wrapper. Trim with standard trimming,
or Hamburg edging. Price of pattern for circular wrap-
per is 50 cents. Send bust measure and your hight. We
cannot as yet tell you what will be worn in the fall, as the
new goods are not yet opened.

“A.C. R., or, A Constant Reader.’’—We think you might
easily take out one width on each side, leaving eight gores,
which will give sufficient fullness to your skirt, and the
two widths and the band of silk will trim the skirt pretti-
ly. Cut the breadths up into ruffies, and head with the
band. The polonaise of nainsook will be suitable and
pretty. Make it loose, and wear with sash the same shade
of the blue silk dress; loop on the sides with biue bows.
Half flowing sleeves can be worn over coat sleeves, If
you do not care to take any out of your skirt, the band
will be a sufficient trimming if you have your polonaise
rather long. Weare glad the information we give you is
valuable. We try tomakeitso. We are always glad to
serve. our friends.

————__>9@~4

STRANGE CASES OF INSANITY.
A Modern King Lear.

Frequently actual circumstances in family history
are brought to light which equal any of the creations
of romantic fiction. Such an instance is found in the par-
ticulars of a case of insanity which we now relate. The
facts are so unusual and remarkable that they might well
ne regarded as invention, but, nevertheless, are strictly

rue.

In one of the large English cities, many years since,a cer-
tain will was offered for probate. It was represented that
the deceased person was a gentleman somewhat advanced
in years, who had recently removed to the place, bringing
With him a large amount of personal property. There
was no opposition to the probate of the will, and all the
requisite evidence in such a case being forthcoming, and
all the forms having been complied with, the necessary
papers were duly issued to the parties named in the will.

From that time fora period of some thirty years these
persons and their affairs inno manner attracted official
or public attention. At first, but little known, they event-
ually took a position in respectable society, without, how-
ever, mingling a great deal init. A large body of land
was purchased in the suburbs of the city, where a man-
sion was erected. Here the whole family, consisting of
several brothers and sisters, lived together. Of their
mother nothing was ever known. None of them were
married, and they were considered by all who knew them
as a peculiar and eccentric people. Still they had wealth
and respectability; they offended nobody, and conse-
quently lived with probably as much popularity as they
cared for.

This family, however, had a terrible secret—a fearful
‘“‘ghost in the closet.’? To gain possession of their wealth
they had conspired against their own father. Each
brother and each sister had entered into the unnatural
compact, and each bore a due share of the load of sin and
crime. No wonder they lived together. A partnership of
guilt made companionship with each other agreeable.
No wonder neither men nor women entered into mar-
riage. To further share the awful secret would be to put
both personal liberty and property in peril. :

One night the secret came out by the occurrence of an
event over which the family had no control. A poor
widow and her son had takefl apartments in a tenement.
This was a house into which a great many persons moved
and as quickly moved out. It wasreported to be haunted
—Strange noises were heard, and from its bad reputation
in this particular a very low rental was asked for the
apartments. During the first night of their occupancy
the widow and her son heard singular sounds, and did
not sleep much. The son, a fearless sort of feliow, at
once proceeded to an investigation, and declared that he
heard the moans of a human being,

“There’s deviltry goin’ on here,” he said, to his affright-
ed motier, in a whisper, ‘To-morrow I’ll find out all
about it.’? :

“My son, don’t meddle with it, replied the mother.
“We had better attend to our own affairs.”

Just then came the moans again.

“Hear that,” said the young man. ‘Somebody is in
distress. It’s no ghost, but flesh and blood. Wait until
daylight and I’ll find out what it all means, or I’m a
coward.”

Atintervals during the whole night the moans were
heard. At early light the young man got up, and went
into the yard to investigate from the outside of the build-
ing. He noticed that the windows of a room in the third
story were closed and secured in rather a strange man-
ner. He next went to the roof, and by prostrating him-
self looked over and into the room. At first he could not
see much, but after a time he made out an object crouched
in one corner of the room.

“Is it a dog?’? he muttered. “No; it must be 2 man.
By Jove! I'll call the police and go in there!”

He was as good as his word. Calling a policeman, he
told him what he had heard and seen, and together they
entered the house. After great difficulty, and against the
threats of the landlord, who had come upon the scene,
the door was forced and the room entered.

Such a scene is seldom presented to the human eye.
There was no furniture in the room of any kind; the win-
dows had iron bars; in one corner was a small quantity
of dirty straw and rags, and in the midst of them satan
old man, destitute of clothing. His skin was covered with
a thick layer of dirt, and his long gray beard and hair
were filthy in the extreme. It was an appalling and a
disgusting sight. The policeman and the young man
stood transfixed with astonishment and horror. When
the old man saw them he crouched further in the corner,
and covered his face with his hands, and moaned.

“Who is this old man ?”? demanded the policeman of the
landlord.

“We is my boarder,’ answered the man.

“Your prisoner, you mean,” returned the officer, glan-
cing meaningly at the bars.

‘‘Whichever you please,”’? answered the man, in a surly
tone. ‘“‘Anyhow, I suppose the whole story will come
out now. Some high folks will have to suffer. I’ve done
nothing but what they hired me to do.”

Great excitement prevailed in the neighborhood, and
shortly in the whole city. Crowds surrounded the
place. Clothing was attained for the poor maniac, and
he was removed to a proper place.

An investigation revealed that this old man was the
father of the eccentric family herein referred to. He was
not dead at the time of the probate of the will. This doc-
ument, as well as all the evidence and papers in the case.
were a series of most extraordinary and accomplished
forgeries. The father had been held a prisoner for some
thirty years in the house where he was discovered. His
custodian was a man who had been well paid for his
work, but through drunkenness and long impunity from
discovery had become careless, and even so bold as to
take other tenants into the building. e testified that
the old man became insane in about a year after his first
imprisonment. The sons had often visited the place, and
oe objected to the condition in which their father was

ept. t

The whole family were brought to trial for their cruel
and unnatural crime, and after a speedy conviction re-
ceived the highest penalty which could be inflicted. Be-
fore the conclusion of the trial the maniac father, who
had now reached the extreme age of ninety years, was
called to his rest. Truly had he felt with King Lear,
‘show sharper than a serpent’s tooth” is filial thankless-
ness and persecution.

A Summer Spot.

One of the most attractive of summer resorts within a
short distance of New York is Fire Island, L. I. Here,
beside the invigorating air of the Sound, gooa sailing,
fishing,and ocean and still-water bathing may be enjoyed
These attractions are supplemented by one without
which the others would be almost useless—a hotel where
the appetite, sharpened by fresh air, will be delighted by
the most palatable and well-cooked food. At the Old
Dominy House, kept by Stephen P. Conklin, there is an
aroma of cleanliness from sleeping chamber to dining-
room, that inspires a feeling of confidence on the part of
the guests in the edibles spread in abundance before
them. The attendants are efficient and polite, while the
proprietor is just as genial when ministering to the wants
of his customers, as when collecting his bills. The
charges are less than reasonable—indeed, rather low:
and this is a powerful recommendation in the opinion of
those who desire to spend a week or so in the country
without being subjected to the extortion practiced in sim-
ilar places. Our advice is, make a flyirg-visit to Fire
Island; there you will be so much ‘‘at home,” that what
was intended for a brief stay will be cheerfully lengthen

ed until the demands of business compel a reluctant de-
parture. We repeat our advice, and are infiuenced by
experience; on arriving at Fire Island, make your head

 

 

quarters at a well-conducted hotel the Ola Dominy H ouse
Stephen P. Conklin, proprietor. P :

NOTICE
ALL EERSONS
THAT Do NOT”

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WEEKLY OFFICE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

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The Feathered Ones.
m ‘
The duk is afoul. Thare aint no doubt about this—nat-
uralists say so, and kKommon sense teaches it.
They are bilt sumthing like a hen, and are an up-and-
Gown, flat-footed job. — |
They don’t kackle like th

   
  
   

en, nor kro like the rooster,
nor holier like the peakok, nor scream like the goose, nor
turk like the turkey; but they quack like a root dokter,
and their bill resembles a vetenary surgeon’s,

They have a woven fu kan float on the water az
natral az a sope bubble. |

They are pretty mutch all feathers, and when the feath-
ers are all removed, and their innards out, thare iz just
about az mutch meat on them az thare iz on a krook-
necked squash that haz gone tew seed.

Wild duks are very good shooting, and are very good to
miss also, unless yu understand the binges.

You should aim about three foot ahead ov them, and let
them fly up tew the shot. ,

I hay shot at them all day, and got nothing but a tail-
feather now and then; but this satisfied me, for i am cra-
zy for all kind ov sport, yu know.

Thare are sum Kind ov duks that are very hard tew kill,
evenif yudo hitthem. I shot, one whole afternoon, three
years ago, at sum dekoy duks, and never got one ov them.
I hav never told oy this before, and hope no one will re-
peat it—this iz strikly confidenshall.

TURKEY.

Roast turkey iz good, but turkey with kranberry sass iz
better.

The turkey iz a sedate person, and seldum forgits her-
self by gitting onto a frolik. ;

They are oy various colors, and lay from 12 to 18 eggs,
and they generally lay them whare noboddy iz looking
for them but themselfs. :

Turkeys travel about nine miles a day, during pleas-
ant weather, in search ov their daily bred, and are smart
on a grasshopper, and red hot on a kriket.

Wet weather iz bad on a turkey—a good smart shower
will drown a yung one, and make an old one look and
akt az tho they had just been pulled out ov a swill barrel
with a pair of tongs.

The maskuline turkey or gobler, as they are familiary
called, hav seazons ov strutting which are immense.

I hay seen them blow themselfs up with sentiments of
pride or anger, and travel around a red flannel petticoat
hung onto a clothes line just az tho they waz mad at the
petticoat for sumthing it had, did, or sed tew them.

The hen turkey alwus haz a lonesum look tew me az
tho she had been abuzed bi sumboddy.

Turkeys kan endure az mutch kold weather az the vane
on a church steeple, i hay known them tew roost all night
on the top limb oy an oak tree, with the thermometer 20
degrees belo zero, and in the morning fly down and wade
through the sno in a barn-yard to cool oph.

P, S.—If you kant hav kranberry with roast turkey,
apple sass will do.

  
 

THE HOSSTRITCH.

The hosstritch iz a citizen ov the dessart, and lay an
egg about the size ov a man’s hed the next day after he
haz been on a bumming excursion.

They resemble in size, and figger about 15 shanghi
roosters at once, ‘and are chiefly important for the feath-
ers which inhabit their tails.

The hosstritch are hunted on hossbak, and they kan
trot a mile kluss to 3 minnitts.

They lay their eggs in the sand, and i think the heat ov
the sand ‘hatches them gut.

They ain’t bilt right for hatchin out eggs, enny more

 

than a large-sized figger 4 iz.

I don’t kno whether their eggs are good tew eat or not,
but i guess not fori never hav seen ham and hosstritch
eggs advertised on enny ov our fashionable bills ov fare.

Biled hosstritch may be nourishing and may be not; I
think this would depend a good deal upon who waz called
upon tew eat it.

I shan’t never enquire for biled hosstritch az long az i
remain in mi right mind.

If the hosstritch iz a blessing tew the dessert country I
hope they will stay thare, for so long az we hay the ttr-
key buzzard, and the Sandy Hill Crane, I feel az tho we
could git along, and endure life.

 

 

Iam writing this essa on the hosstritch a good deal by
guess, for i hav never seen them in their natiff land, nor
never mean to, for jist so long azi kan git 3 meals a day,
and liv whare grass groze, and water runs, i don’t mean
tew hanker for hot sand.

_ _ THE PARROT.
The parrot iz a bird ov menny colours, and inklined tew
talk,

They take holt ov things with their foot, and hang on
like a pair ov pinchers.

They are the only bird i kno ov who kan konverse in
the inglish language, but like meny other nu beginners,
they kan learn tew swear the eazyest.

They are kept az pets, and like all other pets, are use-

ess.

In a wild state ov nature, they may be ov sum use, but
they looze about 90 per cent oy their value by civilizashun.

They resembte the border injun in this respekt.

When yu cum tew take 90 per cent oph from'most enny
thing, except the striped snaik, it seems tew injure the
proffits.

I owned a parrot once, for about a year, and then gave
him away, i haven’t seen the man I giv him to since, but
i presume he looks upon me az a mean kuss.

Ifi owned all the parrotts thare iz in the United states,
I would banish them immejiately tew their native land,
with the provizo that they should stay thare.

I don’t make theze remarks tew injure the feelings ov
thoze who hay sot their pheelings on parrotts, or pets ov
enny kind, fori kant help but think that a person who
givs up their time and tallents tew pets, even a sore eyed
lap dorg, displays grate nobility ov karakter. (This last
remark wants tew be took different from what it reads.)

THE BOBALINK.

The bobalink iz a blak bird with white spots on him.

They make their appearanse in the northern states
about the 10th oy June, and commence bobalinking at
once.

They inhabit the open land, and luy a meadow that iza
leetle damp.

The female bird don’t sing, for the male makes noize
enuff for the whole family.

They have but one song, but they understand that per-
fektly well.

When they sing their mouths git az phuil ov musik az
a ~~ duz ov bones who eats fried herring tor brek-
fas’

_ Bobolinks are kept in cages, and three or four ov them
in oneroom make just about as mutch noize az an in-
fant class repeating the multiplikashun table all at once.

; THE EAGLE.

Thare iz a grate deal ov poetry in eagles; they kan look
at the sun without winking; they kan split the clouds
with their flashing speed; they kan pierce the blu etherial
away up ever So fur; they kan plunge into midnight’s
blak space like a falling star; they Kan set on a giddy
krag four thousand miles hi, and looking down ontoa
green pasture kan tell whether a lamb iz phatt enough
tew ste not.

Jupite le Peterfunk, god ov the anshunts, hada
grate taste for eagles, if we kan beleave what the poeks
sing. .

I hav seen the bald-headed eagle and shot them in all
their native majesty, and look upon them with the same
Kind oy venerashiun that i do upon all sheep stealers.

SWEETS FROM THE SPICE-BOX.
POPULAR ERRORS.

Sage is an aromatic shrub used to flavor the stuffing
for baked goose; it is also a term applied to a wise man,
who is supposed to be stuffed with wisdom. Great care
should be taken not to confound the application of this
word, but keep sound on the goose.

Sweet William is a modest flower, and is not what Miss
Agnes Dipthong would have us believe applies only to
her William Fitzwilliam, son of Gustavus Fitzwilliam,
Esq., the rich banker.

Sugar maple is not the same as maple sugar; the sap in
this blunder is just where the mistake comes in.

Morning glories are acheerful flower, but are often
mistaken by lovers for their sweethearts, to whom they
apply this term without the shadow of truth.

Tulips are a choice description of the flower race, and
are not what the young man over the way who parts his
hair in the middie murmurs about in verse when he sings
of Harriet’s two lips, which pout and do various other
things too numerous to mention.

Prim Rose is also a fiower, but does not apply to prudish
young ladies, who are supposed tohaye a good deal of
prim, but a small amount of the rose, this malapplication
of terms is truly lamentable. B iF

DODGING THE QUESTION.
_ The first letter we took out of the Spice Box this morn-
ing, contained what follows, and comes from Kansas City.

  

Our memory is poor, but honest, and we think the story
is older than Robinson Crusoe, but if we insist upon jokes
that are entirely new, I am afraid we shall hardly git
enough tofill our department. Here is the story:

When we were quitea youth, we lived in Buffalo, and
during the year 1832 the cholera visited that city with
dreadful fatality. A degree of terror infected the whole
popninies, but none suffered more than the negroes.

At that time, R. W. Hollister, owned a large warehouse
on the dock, and did a large shipping trade on the lakes,
He had in hisemploy an old darkey, whose name was
Ishmael, and he in common with his race was perfectly
infatuated with fear of the scourge.

His plan was to go each day to the celler of the ware-
house and locking himself in, engage in supplication to
be spared from death by cholera. In his prayer he always
addressed the ‘‘Angel of the Lord” for protection.

One of the waggish clerks knew of Ishmael’s daily de-
votion, and secreting himself near by, when the old darkey
was upon his bended knees rapped loudly on the door,
There was instant silence within. The rap was soon
repeated, when Ishmael, assuming an air of authority
asked:

“Who's dar???

The reply was given in a sepulchral tone.

‘ Angel of the Lord.”

‘‘What he want here ?””

‘He wants old Ishmael.’’

Blowing out his candle suddenly, the old darkey faltered
out:

“No
weeks.’

such nigger here, he’s bin dead more’n tree
’ BABCOCK.*

‘ MIND YOUR P’S AND Q’S, 5

Dear Spice.—They tell the following of a divine in the
neighboring town of W——, who is a dry joker.

A committee had gathered in the church one week day,
to take in consideration the propriety of having the build-
ing painted and otherwise refitted.

The parson was one of the number, and in the examin-
tion that occurred, he came across a pencilling on the
wall, which some thoughtless sinner had written there,
which read as follows: ‘‘Hel is hott.”

Calling the attention of the others to the sacrilege, the
parson said: “What an abomination, my brethern, in
the house of the Lord, and spelt wrong at that.”

GINGER.*
HE KNEW HIM LIKE A BOOK.

This story comes piping hot from Bangor, Maine.

Near Bangor, in a little village, there dwelt, many years
gone by, a lay member, who kept week days a country
stere, and on Sundays he would preach, or exhort, around
among the neighboring towns, where he could find a
vacant pulpit.

He was a man of limber tongue, and could sell Yankee
notions and preach the gospel very handy.

It was his way to load up 4 wagon and peddle all
through the country, leaving his store in the charge of
his wife during his absence.

Finding himself, late in the week, upon a certain time,
too far from home to get back, and having sold out his
load, which at that time consisted principally of dried
apples, which by the way were a little wormy, he gave
notice that he would preach the next day, which was
Sunday, to the people.

Many gathered into hear him, his text was: ‘And by
their fruit ye shall know them.”

He handled this subject in his usual gallant manner,
and closing up his sermon witha glittering paragraph,
he repeated his text, ‘Yes, my friends, and by their fruits
ye shall know them.”

Just at that point, up jumped a retail grocer in the
place, who had dealt with the exhorter the night before,
and said, loud enough to be heard if the church had been
twice as large, ‘“‘Yes, my friends, and by the worms in
theif dried apples too.” DALTON.*

JESS So.

An Irishman leaving his house one morning, asked his
wife what he should get her that would be good tor their
Sunday dinner, next day.

Bridget, placing her hands on her hips, and looking
equal to the occasion, replied at last: ‘7 tell ye’s, Dennis,
you might git fish, and WU ye kant git jish, why git
herring.”’ SPOONS.*

The following offerings to the Spice-Box are happily
accepted: ‘Meriden,’ ‘*Owlet,” **Tecumsah,” ‘Abel.’
Tne following are respectfully declined: ‘‘F. Gu, 0724,”
**Mike,*? ‘“Snow-Ball,”? ‘Custard,’ ‘K. B.,’? ‘Link,’
“Catspaw,’’ “Gingerbread,” “Coffee,” “Sammy,” ‘Lines
to My Dear.”

 

WOMAN'S WORK. .

HOW A WIFE WAS MURDERED.

 

During the past few weeks I have read some sad stories
of poor women’s troubles that have been detailed by
themselves in your excellent NEw YORK WEEKLY. My
heart has been sore for each of these sufferers, and I have

and tell us that they were more comfortably situated and
happier than when they gave voice to their despair.
Ihave lived almost all my life in the city, Mr. Editor,
and have knowna great dealof the terrible suffering
among all classes here. Ihave always felt that it was

 

 

this; but I, who have beeh everywhere, high and low, «.

frequently hoped some of them would be abie to wrily |

impossible for 2 person in the country to know anything | nan ies
of the misery of this great town where all are 80 selfslily | autive
jostling and pushing each other iW the endless strife far a | Ist. gsc
living. People who never see te city can never know of] pho”

of neighboring nobles and monarchs. The contederacy was dis-
solved about 1630. Hamburg, Lubeck, and Bremen, which were
members of the original Hanseatic League, still constitute an
association of a similar character, with Frankfort-on-the-Main,
and are called the free Hanseatic cities of the Germanic Con-
federation. 2d. The League was goverened by deputies from all
the cities, who met triennial!y at Lubeck, and also held extraor-
dinary sessions oncein ten years. 3d. There have been two or
three histories of the League written, but we do not know which.
if any, have been translated ung America.—The word
is pronounced Yo-sem-i-te, the accent on the second syllable. .....
America.—Ist. In order to have your book issued, you will be
obliged to secure the publisher against loss in case the sales
should not meet the expense of printing, binding, etc. 2d. Books
of poems, unless by authors of established reputation, are what
booksellers term dead stock, and yours would probable be no
exception to the rule, the verses being rather common-place......
Henry and Bill.—lst. Yes. 2d, Persons who use initial PARSE
select that marked with the initial of the surname, . See
“Etiquette Department,’ below.......... Sampson K.—We know
nothing of the gentleman further than that he does an extensive
business, but whether his appliances are superior to those of other
dealers, we cannot say. When.-a doubt exists, it is advisable to
act under the recommendation of a pliysician....... John F. Wat-
ker.—Consult a lawyer........ A. Brown.—The price of tuition at
St. John’s College, Fordham, N. Y., is $300perannum. The insti-
tution is under the patronage of the Roman Catholic chureh.....
Annie E, W.—Hallowe’en occurs on the 3lst of October, the even-
ing previous to All Hallows or All Saints’ Day...... Cc. J. H.—\st.
Nea Buntline writes exclusively for the NEw YORK WEEKLY,
2d. The climate of Minnesota is considered very beneficial to per-
sons afflicted with pulmonary affections, the air being dry and
remarkably pure and bracing. 3d. The parties mentioned are
rarely punished, as their victims, by bringing actions for swin-
dling, expose their own cupidity. Instead of receiving well-exe-
cuted specimens ef counterfeit notes in return for their mont
the package usually contains sawdust, old paper, or some equally
valueless material. 4th. A man has no right to desert his wife
under any circumstances. If her conduct is actionable he has a
legal remedy; but if she merely falls short of his ideas of what a
wife should be, he must remember that lovers are apt to consider
their lady loves but little lower than angels, which ideas are more
or less dispelled by marriage. He should also recollect that the
same view of the case may be applied to himself. According to
your own showing, “the lady is virtuous, and tries to do right,”
which is as much as any human beingcando. 5th. Horace Gree-
ley is still astoclholder in the New York Tribune. He was born at
Amherst, N. H., Feb. 3, 1811, and attends the Universalist Church.
5» sietl Guy Melvilie.—ist. Coquette and flirt are synonymous, 2d.
Webster’s Dictionary. 3d. Associate with intelligent, well-bred
ple, and you will learn more of the manners of society than
orty books will tell you.......... E. B. Gray.—\st.. We know noth-
ing of either of the parties, or their wares. 2d. Fair......Mico.—
Ist. Our impression is, from standing alongside of es i I
man, that he is about six feet, rather under than over. “Red
Dick” was commenced in No. 31. The papers can be purchased
through any news agent, or from the office.........- C. F. W.—Iif
going far enough West *o hunt large | the best arm is the
repeater sportingi® | Any gunsmith will furnish the prices....
J. H. Beam.—ist _s. 2d. From eight to ten pages.........Dick
Hollywood.—Be’ .ce of all such. ey are almost universal]
MOGKBy. sisie- ine Neptune.—The habit of blushing whenever ad-
ressed by a stranger or persons of the opposite sex 18 a very em-
barrassing one, which may be overcome by an effort to control
= feelings and retain your self-possession. Instead of allow-
ng your thoughts to run at random and thus become confused,
endeavor to appear natural, and reply to all remarks intelligent-
ly and sensibly. Go into company as much as possible, and the
eeling will wear off. The statement that it is caused by a humor
in the blood is absurd....... K. E. N. 0.—\st. Yes. 2d. No.......
W. T.—We are as much in the dark as yourself. We should set
her down as crazy, judging from her answer..... Jim.—Yes.....-
Rusty Cuss.—Ist. See “Etiquette Department” below. 2d. The
distance from New York to Sag Harbor, L. L., is ninety miles.
Inquire at the office of the Island Railroad for rates of
fare, sss Philip Evans and B. 7.—We cannot make any engage-
ment at present with new contributors...... alt.—One is a run-
ning and the other isa trotting horse, therefore there can be no
comparison between the rates of speed. See reply to “L. S.
.?......F. C. M.—The a containing “Wedded, Yet No
Wife,” will cost $1.74...... Paul Jones.—\st. The Hudson
River is nearly four miles wide at Sing Sing; at Fort Lee, some-
thing over a mile. The water is more or jess salt about forty
miles above thiscity. 2d. You cannot go to Albany from this
city and return on Sunday, there being no morning train north-
ward. 3d. The obstructions at Hell Gate are to be biown out
during the Fall, we believe. 4th. Flushing is located at the head
of Flushing Bay, but West Flushing is about three miles distant,
on the North Shore Railroad. . No person of com-
mon decency would wish to go in or in a nude state on the
portion of either beach trequented by other bathers. Out of the
regular limits, however, there is no objection. 6th. Bathers are
unmolested around the docks it they choose secluded or unfre-
quented spots in the upper portion of the city.... .Cowzter
Jum ae Enclose the printed title of the drama, with $1, to
the Librarian ot Congress, Washington, D. C., and he will return
the certificate of copyright. You may afterward dispose of it to
a publisher or manager...... . M. H.—I\st. Ane person who may
have arrived in this country previous to becoming eighteen years
of age may dispense with the declaration of intention, and take
out his naturalization papers on becoming of age, provided he
has resided in the country five years. 2d. You can procure your
papers on applying at any competent court, at least ten days be-
tore the election. 3d. In order that any unnecessary cay may
be occasioned, take two witnesses with you who can vouch that
you have resided in the country the requisite length of time......
‘A. W. Bert.—ist. Mosaic work is that in which the effect of paint-
ing is produced by the use of inlaid cimens of either wood,
stone, metal or any other substance, of different colors. 2d. Fair.
=i hess Bloo Reader.—Enfeof is a | term used in deeds,
signifying the investing with a fee or title to the property named
therein...... Law Student.—It might interfere to a certain extent
with your practice in open court, but not with the other routine
of legal business...... Farmer Ned.—Farm hands are poorly paid
in California, as Chinamen may be readily secured at $1 per day,
| ......€. W. G.—The French billion is computed at one thousand
millions (1,000,000,000), and the English billion at one million mil-
lions (1,000,000,000,000). The former method of enumeration is
} eased im the United States...... A, M. G.—Consult aschool teacher.
© S. R.—The fastest running mile on record is 1:42 3-4, made
by| Alarm, at Saratoga, on the 17th of July last; the fastest trot-
tinge mile, 2:16 3-4, was made by Goldsmitli, Maid,at Boston, in
Jun} last......... Goldsmith Maid.—Any news dealer will furnish
you With the various sporting papers......Jamees L. Moy -Write
to tie manufacturers of the machine..,..... Red 2. are
newer the impression there were three, but de met re see
rite to the N. Y. Clipper........ Willia Francis.—™'
+ failed 0 furgish the copy thus far... .Gyurskutus_
ly to Willian? ?rancis, 2a: The “Cor plete Phonge,, |

 

 

  

   

‘

e foliewing MSS. haves ff accepted: “The
inking -Mep,” * ‘Ta, we» Phe S at

  

Sei i

: : : Shine in Li As TheTe Owing My appear a1 a BEY Sam
think I Knew so g of it, AndIidid. But some j mo, 1 to be taened: “Give ea Hons ia Your Heart,”
thing has just oce ir us that showed me that with | “an: ws Error.”..... ..The following are réspeetfully de-

all my knowledge I had the worst to learn. #

You have read the account in the daily papers of the
woman who Was beaten to death by.her husband. It oc-
curred only a week or so ago, and right in our neighbor-
hood. I had seen them for ever so long going in and out
of their little home at different times. They always looked
very tidy and neat. The children were clean and happy.
A satisfied and proud smile was always noticeable on the
husband’s face when he came from his work in the even-
ing, and he went away in the morning in such a buoyant
manner thatI knew he must be happy, and that no
heavy heart troubied him when he labored. Always
when he came home his wife and children met him in
cheerful greeting, and altogether I thought it was dbout
the most contented little home I had ever known.

Thus I watched them from week to week, and from one
month to another, but never once saw anything to ruffle the
peace and quiet of the little family. I thought how de-
lightful it would be could all families of workingmen live
in this manner. The peace and love of that home
served in place of many luxuries they could not afford to
have.

But one day I noticed the husband did not go away so
early as usual in the morning, and he did not return home
so early in the evening by at least an hour. Then he
went out again after he had his supper. This was a very
unusual proceeding. I had hardly ever known him to go
out in the evening before, except to take his wife or chil-
Gren to walk. But this night he went out alone, and
alsoon the next, and the next. Hedid not leave the
house until much later in the morning either, and I came
to the conclusion that he had lost his situation.

After a number of days I saw him come home one
evening about eight o’clock. He looked dreadful bad.
His face was red, his hat and clothes covered with mud,
and he reeled up the steps in such a manner that I knew
he was intoxicated. He looked so ugly that I shuddered
at the thought of his meeting his poor wife while in that
condition. But I heard nothing of him again that night,
nor did I see him for several days after. Then he came
home in the afternoon in a worse condition than when I
had seen him before. After we had gone into the rooms
occupied by his family, I heard a great disturbance, and
it seemed clear to me that he was turning that little home,
cence so happy, into a pandemonium. . .

I now began to inquire who the man was, and found
that he was an industrious mechanic who had not an
enemy in the world, but who had been Jed away from the
employment where he had prospered for seven or eight
years, and induced to join the strikers. After leaving his
work he had nothing todo but to go among the careless
men who were associated with him in the strike. In this
company he drank his first glass of liquor, and one day
went home shamefully intoxicated. In this condition he
began to misuse and ill-treat his wife, and the day I have
just mentioned, when he came home in the afternoon, he
whipped her unmercifully.

Then, afew days after that, perhaps a week, I heard
such terrible screams come from their rooms, and such
noises that it made my heart sick. I was alone and could
do nothing, but I felt asif Icould have gone in and
strangled the brute. And then, next day, Mr. Editor, we
all heard that the man had beaten his poor wife to death.
In his drunken delirium he had attacked the poor woman,
striking her with his fists, with the water pitcher, or any-
thing that came in his way, and left her on the floor for
dead.

After a short time she revived and the coroner was sent
or. He came and heard the ante-mortem statement o
the murdered wife, and it was just what J knew it must be
She said that her husband was the best man in the world
until he left his work to go on astrike. She had never
known him to drink a drop of liquor until then, nor had
he ever spoken an unkind word to her. But after he got
on the strike everything waschanged. Hegrew cross and
ill-natured, and after a few days he came home drunk and
then beat the children. It was only a day ortwo after
this before he struck his wife, and from striking her went
to giving her regular beatings, until his passion became
so great that he beat her to death. I suppose you have
seen all this in the daily papers, Mr. Editor, but so many
people read the good old NEW YORK WEEKLY, who never
see a daily paper, that I thought I would write it to you.
It is a story that is true in every particular. The poor
man is now in jail Waiting his trial.

ANGELA FAIRFACE.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

ka Correspondents desiring information through
the different departments, will please place the questions
Jor each on different slips, as this will avoid the use of
the same letter by the conductors of the several columns,
and Jacilitate the answering, thus proving a convenience
to both themselves and us.

Sas- GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—
Kalamazoo,—ist. The Hanse Towns were a number of cities which
composed a celebrated confederacy, deriving their name from
the ancient German word Hanse, meaning an association for
mutual support. The confederacy was organized during the
Middle Ages, for the purpose of defending their commerce against

the numerous banditti and pirates which then infested Germany
and the neighboring seas, and at one time numbered eighty-five

 

 

towns. They were bound to contribute also toward maintaining
ships and soldiers to prevent the encroachments and oppressions

clinea; “The Stile,” “A Sketch from Life,” “The Lighthouse,”
“To My Betrothed,” “The Maiden’s Death,” “Hast Ylou Forgot-
ten,” ‘Children,’ “The Fate of Waver Berle,’ “Yhe Duke's
Daughter,” “A Fight with Grizzlies,” “‘Sweet Nellie Grey,” “A
Physician’s Story,” “The Dying Son,” “Meagher’s Farewell,”
“The Seasons of Life,” “The Brooklet,” “The American Flag.” ,w

 

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.—The answers in this de
partment will be given under a general head, in reply to queries
by correspondents, without arranging them in connection with
the names of the querists.

_It is customary when two parties have agreed to correspond du-
ring the absence of one or the other, for the absent one to open the
correspondence, as soon after his or her arrival at the destination
as isconvenient, giving the address, etc., which may, from some
unforeseen circumstance, be different from that intended when
leaving home. It is also a surety of the writer’s safe arrival,
which may be a matter of anxiety to those left behina.

There is nothing improper in a gentleman asking a lady if he
may keep company with her, if sufficiently intimate to warrant
him in supposing it to be agreeable.

It is not obligatory on a young lady to return presents which
she may have received from her lover previous to the breaking of
the engagement, but it is the wisest course, as there are many
who are mean enough to make unpleasant allusions to the fact.
The course suggested also shows a proper spirit of independence,
and convinces the donor that the interest in the individual was
not owing to the gifts or favors received at his hands. They may
be returned by express, as you can then ascertain to a certainty
that they have been delivered.

It 1s in bad taste at a social gathering to introduce matters of
business or personal affairs into conversation. Select themes of
general interest, which will amuse or edify others, and which ac-
cord with their tastes and understandings. Above all, do not pre-
tend to have a knowledge of subjects with which you are not fa-
miliar, or your ignorance will be discovered, and you will iney-
itably get “swamped,”

 

 

WILL SOON BE COMMENCED

AN IRISH STORY.

A stirring Irish story, which brings vividly to men-
tal view the glories of the old sod “ere the emerald
gem was set in the crown of a stranger,” has been
revised for imm ‘ate publication. In

O’Connor’s Child;

OR, THE

HARP OF INNISFAIL,
By John F. Cowan,

we have a story of two loving hearts that sorrow
only the more closely united—hearts determined to
‘love on through all ills, and love on till they die.”

The heroine, the beauteous Eva O’Connor, the only
daughter of one of the proudest of Erin’s kings, loves
and is beloved by an orphan of humble birth, Cén-
nacht Moran. Her brothers, learning of her passion
for one so far beneath her in rank, forget their for-
mer friendship for the brave soldier who on many a
glorious field fought side by side with them. Pride,
unreasoning pride, steels their hearts against him,
and through the machinations of an unsuccessful
suitor, Moran goes forth from Castle O’Connor a dis-
honored man. The devoted couple thus rudely sep-
arated only verify the axiom that “absence makes
the heart grow fonder.” Instead of forgetting the
outcast, as the proud king had hoped, the affection
of the charming Evafor her wandering knight in-
creases. With a clouded brow the haughty monarch
realizes the uselessness of all entreaty, all stratagem,
to change the steadfast love of his darling child;

‘No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close!

 

The same look which she turned when he rose.”

The most novel complications arise during the
progress of this entrancing story, and the atten-
tion is kept in a continual whirl of expectancy and
wonder, The descriptive passages are vivid and
grand; those illustrating the action are graphic,
powerful and dramatic; and the beauties of Erin’s
scenery are so exquisitely painted that the author’s
poetic imagination seems to have lingered over them
with the admiration which illuminates the eye of
one reared on the sod when Le contemplates the
scenic splendors of the land ot his birth.

 

 

As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,

 

 

 

 

 

 

=

 

 

 

 
a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

> ——

 

 

 

 

 

TIME’S CHANGES.
BY MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW.
My thoughts are wandering back to days of childhood,
Back to the happy scenes of long ago,

Again I’m in the cottage on the hillside,
No care I know.

 

 

I roam again among those vales and woodlands,
And seek for violets in the mossy glen,
As happy asthe birds that sing about me—
For we are ten!

The babbling brook goes laughing thro’ the meadow,
In fancy turns again the dear old mill;
The trailing vines about the cottage windows
Are creeping still.

My father’s scythe rings out within the meadow,
My mother sings beside the whirring wheel,
My brothers’ laughter and my sisters’ music
Upon me steal.

But lo! a change comes o’er my mental vision,
My eyes are filling with their saddest tears,
What of that home, and all its precious inmates
Of earlier years ?

The arms that swung the scythe within the meadow

For many years have been o’erspread with mold!

The hands that turned the wheel within the kitchen
Are still and cold!

The children, that once played upon the greensward,
And nightly gathered round the ingle side,
Are scattered here and there like leaves of autumn,
Both far and wide. :
For strangers live to-day within the cottage,
And other feet walk up and down that hill;
The brook is all that’s left as *twas in childhood,
But turns no mill!
Oh, there’s a home whose brightness is eternal,
That knows no sorrow, feels no care or sin,
There chilling death—that awful king of terrors—
Ne’er entersin!
It hath no need of suns or stars to light it,
For night comes not within those mansions fair;
May we, at last, when life’s briet dream is ended,
Be all found there!

 

{The right to Dramatize the story af “A Wonderful
Woman” is reserved by the Author.]

A Wondertul Woman.

By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming,
[Who Writes Exclusively for This Paper,]

Author of WEDDED, YET NO WIFE, THE
HEIRESS OF GLEN GOWER, ESTELLE’S
HLUSBAND, LADY EVELYN, BARONET'’S
BRIDE, MAGDALEN’S VOW, WHO Y¥VENS.

 

“A Wonderful Woman” was commenced in No. 34. Back num-
bers can be had from any News Agent in the United States.

CHAPTER XV.
“DEAD OR ALIVE.”

The funeral was over, and a very grand and stately
ceremonial it had been. There had been a profusion of
mutes, of black velvet, and of ostrich feathers, a long
procession of mourning coaches, a longer procession of
the carriages cf the county families—a whole army, it
seemed, of the Dangerfield tenantry and the trades-
people of Castleford. For the late Sir John, during his
brief reign, had made many friends, and over his
death a halo of delicious romance hung. Miss Dangerfield
was not Miss Dangerfield—his daughter was not his
daughter, and over in that little cottage on the outskirts of
the town, a. young man lay—dying it might be—slain by
Sa hand of the outraged baronet whom they were burying

0-day. :

It was a very solemn pageant. The bells of the town
and of the hamlets about, tolled all the day long! Scars-
wood Park had been alive from morning until night
with people in carriages coming to leave cards. The
principal shops of Castleford were shut, the principal
church hung in black. And “ashes to ashes—dust to.
dust,” had been spoken, and they laid Sir John, wy the
dozens of otier dead Dangerfields, under the epaneel,
where sturdy Sir Roland Dangerfield, knight, ligg «nelt

Stone) fora hundred years, opposite his Wife Bliza-
with,a stone cushion between |) em.

@ fqieral was over, and in t x¢ pale yellow g!i mmer of

ary Sunset the mourhing coaches and 1) \e family

Ss went their way, and the dead man’s, adopted

aur oe any; a ok, nor® wa QMO SW nat am utter

skery that word must hayesounded in her ears as she

 

   
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 

mv
lay back among the sable cushions in her trailing crapes
and bombazine, and knowing that of all the homeless,
jouseless wretches adrift on the world, there was not one
more hotmeless than she.

The pale yellow glow of the sunset was merging into
the gloomy gray of evening as they reached Scarswood.
Her faithful friend, Edith Talbot, who had been with her
from the first, was with her still. The blinds were drawn
up, shutters unbarred, Scarswood looked much the same
as ever, only there was a hatchment over the great dining-
room window, and in the house the servants, clad in
deepest mourning, moved about like ghosts, with bated
breath and hushed voices, as though the lord of the manor
still lay in state in these silent upper rooms. Tt all struck
with a dreary chill on the heart of Miss Talbot, the gloom,
the silence, the mourning robes, the desolation. She
shuddered a little, and clung closer to Katherine’s arm as
they went up the wide, black slippery oaken staircase,
down which Gaston Dantree had been hurled. But there
was thatin her friend’s face that made her very heart
stand still with awe and expectation. t

She was whiteasdeath. At all times she had been pale,
but not like this—never before like this! Asshe had been
from the first hour the blow fell, so she was still, silent,
tearless, rigid. All those days and nights when Sir John
Dangerfield had lain stark and dead before her, she had
sat immovable in the big carved oak chair at his head,
her clasped hands lying still, her face whiter than snow,
white alinost as the dead, her eyes fixed straight before
her in a fixed, unseeingstare. Of what was she thinking
as she sat there—of all that was past—of all that was to
come? Noone knew. People who had thought they had
known her best looked at her in wonder and distrust, and
began to realize they had never known her atall. Friends

came, and friends went—she never heeded; they spoke to
“ier . soothingly, compassionately, and she answered in
‘priefest monosyliables, and closed her lips more reso-
utely than before. The only one of them all she ever ad-
dressed directly was Mr. Otis, and then only in one short
phrase, “How is he?” The answer as invariably was
“Much the same—no worse, no better.’? Mr. Otis, with
his keen thin face and steel-blue eyes, watched this sin-
gular sort of girl with even more interest than the rest of
the curious. He was a young man who thought more
than he spoke, and who studied human nature. Woman
at best are incomprehensible creatures, scarcely to be
treated as rational beings in the trying hours of life, but
beyond all of her sex this girl wasasphinx. She had
lost lover, father, fortune, home and name all in one hour,
and she had never shed one tear, never uttered one com-
plaint. Other women’s hearts would have broken for
half, and she, a child of seventeen, bore all like a Spartan.
Was it that she did not feel at all, or—that she felt so
much? Would this frozen calm outlast her life, or would
the ice break all at once, suddenly and terribly, and let
the black and bitter waters below rush forth ?

“If itever does, then woe to those who have ruined
her,” Mr. Otis thought.. “This girl is no common girl,
and not to be judged by common rules. I thought so
from the first time I saw her—happy and hopeful, I think
so more than ever now—in her desolation and despair.
She loved the man slie has lost with a passion and aban-
don which (thank Heaven!) few girls of seventeen ever
feel. She loved the father who is dead, tlhe name and
wank she bore, the noble inheritance that was to be hers.
And all has gone from her, and she sits here like this!
Let Mrs. Vavasor take care, let Peter Dangerfield be
warned, and most of all, let Gaston Dantree die, for on
my life I believe a day of terrible reckoning will come.”

But Gaston Dantree was not going to die; that matter
Bvas setiled beyond possibility of doubt before the day of
the funeral. He would live. He told her so now, as she
asked the question; and as Henry Otis spoke the words,
his eyes were fixed upon her with a keen, powerful look.
She did not even seem to see him—her eyes looked out of
the window at the gray shadows vailing the wintry land-
scape, a slight, indescribable smile dawned for a second
pver her white face.

“He will live,’ she repeated, softly; “I am glad of
that.’? She looked up and met the young surgeon’s level,
searching gaze. “I amglad of that,’’ she said again,
slowly, “if such alost wretch as I am has aright to be
glad at all. You have been very kind, Mr. Otis.”? She
gave him her hand with some of her old frank grace.
nuank you very much. I willrepay you some day if I
can.

He took the slim fingers in his, more moved than she
Knew. How could those wan little fingers work? how
deathly white the young tace! An infinite compassion
moved him, and in that instant there dawned within him
a love and pity that never left him. He longed with man-
nood’s strong compassion to take this poor little woman-
iy martyr in his sheltering arms, and hold her there safe
Irom sorrow, and suffering, and sin, it might be, in the
dark days to come,

The only hours in which life and their old fire had come
to the large, weary eyes of the girl, had been the hours

when Peter Dangerfield had come into the death-cham-
ber. Then a curious expression would set her lips hard,
and kindle a furtive, ceaseless gleam in her eyes. Sir
Peter! He was that now beyond the shadow of a doubt—
the legal forms which would prove his right presently
were only forms.

Sir Peter wore the weeds of woe well. He was pale
and restless, his deep black made him look quite ghastly;
his small, pale, near-sighted eyes biinked away uneasily
from that statuesque figure sitting in the great arm-chair.
Mr. Otis noticed this, too—what did not those sharp eyes
of his see?

        

 

 

“I'm a poor man,’ he said one evening, under his
breath, as he watched the dark glance with which Kathe-
rine followed the new baronet out of the room—“‘’ma
poor man, and I would like to bearich one, but for all
your prospective baronetcy, all your eight thousand a
year, Sir Peter Dangerfield, 1 wouldn’t stand in your shoes
to-night.”’

And now it was all over, and Katherine, trailing her
black robes behind her was back at Scarswood. ‘For
the last time, Edith,” she said softly to her companion,
“for the last time.”

‘‘Katherine,’’ her friend faltered, ‘‘what do you mean?
Oh, Kathie, don’t look so—don’t smile like that for pity’s
sake. You make me afraid of you.”

For a smile, strange and ominous, had dawned over
Katherine’s face, as she met her friend’s piteous glance.

‘Afraid of me!’ she repeated. ‘‘Well—l am a hideous
object, I dare say, by this time, and I don’t dare to look
inthe glass for fear I should grow afraid of myself.
Afraid of myself! That is justit—I am afraid of myself—
horribly afraid—afraid—afraid. Edith,” she caught her
friend’s arm with sudden strength, ‘‘you like me a little
now—yes, yes. I know you do; and in the years that are
to come I know you will hate me—hate and abhor me!
Edith, I loved my father—dearly, dearly—but I tell you I
am giad he is dead and buried to-night.”

“Oh, Katherine? Katherine!’

“T am only seventeen,’? Katherine Dangerfield went
steadily on, ‘“‘and Iam strong, and healthy, and likely to
live for fifty years tocome. What sort of a woman do
you think I will be half or a quarter of a century from
now? Think of me as Iam to-night, Edith Talbot, when
the time comes for you toshrink atthe sound of my
name—an orphan, who had no father to lose, a widow in
her wedding hour, a houseless, friendless wretch, trained
to think herself a baronet’s daughter and heiress.”

The passion within her was rising now, strong but
surely rising. Her hands were clenched, her eyes bright
in the creeping dusk, her voice deep, suppressed, and in-
tense. Edith Talbot clasped her two hands caressingly
round her arm, and looked beseechingly up in her face.

“Not houseless—not friendless, Katherine, darling—
never that while my brother and I live. Oh, come with
us—let Morecambe be your home—let me be your sister.
llove you, dear—indeed I do, and never half so fondly as
now. Come with us, and give up those dark and dread-
ful thoughts that I know are in your mind. Come, Kathie
—darling—come!”’

She drew her friend’s face down and kissed it again
and again. And Katherine held her tight for one moment,
and then let her go.

“Tt is like you, Edith,’ she only said, “like you and
your brother. But then it was always a weakness of
your house to take the losing side. I donot say much,
but believe me, 1’m very grateful. And now, my little
pale pet, I will send you home—you are worn out in your
loyal fidelity to your fallen friend. I will send you home,
and to-morrow, or next day, you will come back to
Scarswood.”?

She kissed her, and put her from her. Edith Talbot
looked at her distrustfully in the fading light.

“To-morrow or next day! But when I come back to
Scarswood shall I find Katherine here ?’’

Katherine was standing where the light fell strongest.
She turned abruptly away at these words.

“Where else should you find me? You don’t think
Peter Dan—nay, I beg his pardon—Sir Peter will turn
me on the street fora day or two at least. Hereis your
brother, Edith—I don’t want to meet him, and I would
rather be alone. You must go.”’

The words sounded ungracious, but Edith understood
her—uné@erstood the swift impetuous kiss, and. the flight
from the room. She wanted to be alone—always the 1m-
pulse of all wild animals in the first throbs of pain. And
though Katherine showed it in no way, nor even much
looked it, Edith knew how the wound was bleeding in-
wardly, and that it was just such strong natures as this
that suffer most, and suffer mutely.

“Going tostay all night at Scarswood alone—dused

 

strange girl that,’ the squire grumbled. ‘‘Never shed a
tear since it all happened, they say—a woman that doesn’t
cry is a woman of the wrong sort. She’s got Otis to fetch
round that coxcomb Dantree, but now that she’s got him
fetched round, what is she going todo with him? She’s
got to walk out in a day or two and leave that little cad

 

of an attorney lord ofthe manor. She never says a word or
lifts a finger to help herself, AndIused to think that
girl had pluck.’!

“What would you have herdo? Whatcan she do?”
his sister demanded, impatiently. ‘What can any wo-
man do when she’s wronged but break her heart and
bear it ?”?

‘Some women are devils—just that,’* the young squire
responded, gravely; *‘and I believe in my soul Katherine
Dangerfield has more of the devilin her than even the.
generality of women. If Messieurs Dantree and Danger-
field have heard the last of their handiwork then I’ina
Dutchman. If Katherine Dangerfield can’t have justice
take my word for it, Miss Talbot, she’ll have revenge.”’

His sister said nothing—she shivered beneath her sa-
bigs and looked back wistfully toward Scarswood. She
loved her friend truly, and greatly as girls rarely love;
and as Katherine had said, it was ever the way of her
chivalrous race to take the losing side—a way that in
troubled times gone by had cost more than one Talbot
his head. A vision rose before her of Katherine alone in
those empty, dark rooms, where death had been so lately,
brooding With that pale, somber face over her wrongs.

‘With her nature, it is enough to drive her to madness
or suicide,*”? Miss Talbot thought. “I will go back to-
morrow and fetch her with me, say what she will. Tobe
left to herself is the yery worst thing that can possibly
happen to her now,”

Katharine was not alone, however. There had follow-
ed their carriage to Scarswood another, and that other
contained the heir and the late baronet’s lawyer. Mr.
Mansfield, the Castleford solicitor, was talking very ear-
nestly concerning that unsigned and invalid will.

“You will pardon the liberty I take, Sir Peter, in urg-
ing you to do this poor young lady justice. Probably you
need wo urging—you have been her friend—who so re-
cently thought yourself her cousin. Your late excellent
uncle was my friend since my earliest youth—I know and
you know how he loved his daughter—Katherine, I
mean. I trust and believe, Sir Peter, you will do her
Justice.” =" ne

The smile on the face of the new baronet might have
damped the old solicitor’s hope could he have seen it,
but the fast-closing night hid it as he lay back in the
cushions.

“How, pray, Mr. Mansfield ?””

The sneer was just perceptible. It was there, however,

 

and the lawyer remarked it.

“By giving her at once the three thousand pounds which
he wished to leave her in that unsigned will, if will it can
really be called, drawn up informally by himself, and
speaking of her only. I suppose the knowledge of this
woman Vavasot’s power, and his dread of her prevented
him from making his will properly, months ago. But to
those three thousand pounds, the remains of his late
wife’s portion you, at least, Sir Peter, have no shadow of
moralright. Legally, of course, everything is yours, but
law, as you know, is not always jusiice.”’

“T beg your pardon, Mr. Mansfield,’ the other interrupt-
ed cooly; “law and justice in this case go hand-in-hand.
My late lamented uncle tried his best to defraud me of
my rights—you can’t deny that,’’

“He is dead, Sir Peter, and you know the old Latin
proverb: ‘Speak no ill of the dead.” ;

“Tf truth be ill, it must be spoken, though the dead had
been a king instead of a baronet; and I claim that I have
a legal and moral right to everything—everything—you
understand, Mr. Mansfield—this three thousand pounds
and all. I think, on the whole, Miss Katherine Danger-
field has every reason to be thankful for the life of ease
and luxury she has led—she, who for aught we know,
might have been a beggar born. Tiere is no need to get
angry, Mr. Mansfield—I am speaking truth.”

“Then I am to understand, Sir Peter,” the lawyer said,
raising his voice, “that you refuse to do her even this
scant justice—that you mean to send her forth penniless
into the world to make her own way as she best can? I
am to understand this ?”?

“My good fellow—no,” the young baronet said, in the
slowest, laziest and most insolent of tones; ‘‘nothing of
the sort—I shan’t turn my late fair rejiative into the world.
She shall live and enliven Scarswood and me by her
charming presence as long as she pleases. But, you will
kindly allow me to make my own terms with her, and be
generous after my own fashion. May I ask if it is to visit
and condole with Miss Dangerfield that you are on your
way to Scarswood now? I suppose we must call her
Miss Dangerfield for convenience sake—her own name,
if she ever had a legal right toa name, being enveloped
in a delightful cloud of mystery and romance. I wonder
how she finds it to be a heroine?”

“Sir Peter Dangerfleld,’”’ the old lawyer began hotly;
but the baronet waved his hand authoritatively.

“That willdo, Mr. Mansfield. I have been in your
office, I admit, and I have been an impoverished attorney
while you were a well-to-do. solicitor; perhaps you had a
right to dictate to me then. Our relations have changed
—I deny your right now. . Be kind enough to keep your
temper, and for the future, your advice.”

And then Sir Peter folded his smali arms across his
small chest, and looked with the malicious delight of a
small nature through his eye-glass at the discomfited so-
licitor.

“Lowe hima good many home-thrusts,’” the baronet
thought, witha chuckle. ‘I think I have paid off one
installment at least; I shall pay off all L owe before long.”’

They reached Scarswood—dark and gloomy the old
house loomed up in the chill, gray, wintry twilight. A
crescent moon swung over the trees, and the stars, bright
and frosty, were out. No lights gleamed'anywhere along
the front of the building; except the soughing of the
night wind, no sound reached their ears.

“If one believed in ghosts, Scarswood looks a fit place
for a ghostly carnival to-night,’? Mr. Mansfield thought;
“it is like a haunted house. I wonder can poor old Sir
John’s shade rest easy in the tomb, with his one ewe
lamb at the mercy of this contemptible little wolf.”

“Tam going to the library, Mansfield,” the new baro-
net said, with cool familiarity. ‘If you or—Miss Danger-
field want me, you can send for me there. Only this pre-
mise: I will come to no terms with her in your preseuce.
What I have to say to her, I shall say to her alone.”

He opened the library door, entered, and closed it with
an emphatic bang. The elder man looked anxiously after
him on the landing.

“What does the little reptile mean? I don’t half like
the tone in which he speaks of Katherine. He doesn’t
mean to—no, he daren’t—no man dare insult her in the
hour of her downfall.”*

He sent a servant to announce his presence, the French
girl Ninon; she came to him in amoment, and ushered
him into the room where Katherine sat alone.

It was her old familiar sitting-room or boudoir, all fitted
up with crimson and gilding, for she had ever loved

 

 

bright colors, The firelight leaping in the grate alone lit

 

and gilded chair, Katherine sat. The bright cushions
against which her head lay threw out with startling relief
the ghastly pallor of her face, the dead black of her dress.
How changed she was—how changed—how changed out
of all knowledge. And there were people who had called
her cold, and heartless, and unfeeling because she had sat
with dry eyes and still face beside her dead. ‘“‘Unfeeling!”’
and worn, and altered like this.

She looked round, and held out her hand, with the faint
shadow of her former bright smile, to her friend.

*‘My dear,’’ he said, very gently, ‘I do not intrude upon
you too soon, dol? But J could not wait; 1 came with
Sir Peter straight from the funeral here. As things stand
now, the sooner your affairs are settied the better.”

She lifted her head a little, and looked at him.

“Peter Dangerfieid here—so soon! He is in haste to
take possession. Does he intend to remain all night ?—
and am I to leave at once?’ :

‘You are not to leave until you see fit, for a thousand
Peter Dangerfields!:I don’t know whether he intends
remaining over night or not; certainly not, though, I
should say, if you object.”

“I! What right have I to object? The house is his,
and everything in it. Heis perfectly justified in taking
possession at once, and in turning me out if he sees fit.”

*‘He will never do that, my child; and I thinkK—1l hope
—I am sure, he will act as common justice requires, and
give you at once the three thousand pounds your father
bequeathed to you in that unsigned will.”

She half rose from her chair; a light flashed into her
face; arush of passionate words leaped to her lips. Mr.
Mansfield drew back. It was the old fiery temper break-
ing through the frozen calm of those latter days’ despair.
But all at once she checked herself—she who never before
had checked a single emotion. She sank slowly back in-
to wot seat, and a strange, set expression hardened her
mouth.

“You think so, Mr. Mansfield—you think he will be
generous enough for that? And it isin his power not to
give it to me if he likes—those three thousand pounds ?”’

“Certainly, it is in his power; but no one save the veri-
est monster would think of acting a part so thoroughly
mean and base. He has come into a great fortune sud-
denly and unexpectedly, and you have lost one. Surely
no wretch lives on earth so utterly despicable as to wish
to retain also the portion of the late Lady Dangerfield.
Sir John’s last effort was to sign that will; it ought to be
the most sacred thing on earth to Sir John’s successor.”?

She listened very quietly, the shadow of a scornful
smile on her face.

“Mr. Mansfield, I am afraid there is something wanting
in your knowledge of human nature, in your opinion of
Sir Peter Dangerfield. You forget how long this new-
made baronet has been defrauded of his rights as heir
presumptive. You forget that some months ago I refused
to marry him—that I even insulted him—my abominable
temper, Mr. Mansfield. You forget he owes me along
debt, and that it is in his power torepayme now. And
I think Sir Peter is a gentleman who will conscientiously
pay every debt of that sort to the uttermost farthing.”

“My dear Miss Dangerfield——"’ ‘

“And that is still another injury,” the girl said. ‘I
have presumed to wear an honorable and ancient name—
I, a nameless waif and stray, born in an almshouse ora
hovel, very likely. And you think he will really give me
this three thousand pounds? Did he tell you so, Mr.
Mansfield ?”?

‘No, he told me nothing.’’ The old lawyer shifted away
uneasily as he spoke, from the strange expression in the
large steadfast eyes. ‘‘He said he would see you alone,
and make his own terms with you. Jinfer from that he
intends to dosomething. He is in the library—shail 1 go
and send him here, or would you rather it were to-
morrow ?”?

She was silent for a moment—looking into the fire—her
mouth set in that hard straight line. He watched her
uneasily—he could not understand her any more than the
others, Was she going to take it quietly and humbly like
this?—she, who two weeks ago had been the proudest
girl in Sussex. Was she going to accept Peter Danger-
field’s dole of charity, and thank him for his generosity ?
or did those compressed lips, the dry, bright glitter of those
eyes, speak of coming tempest and revolt? He was out
of his depth altogether.
eon my dear,” he said, fidgeting, ‘‘shallI send him,
re
She looked up, aroused from her trance.

“Let us see

 

“Send him in, by all means,’ she said.
how generous Peter Dangerfield can be.”

He got up, walked irresolutely to the door, hesitated a
moment—then came snddenly back.

“And, Kathie,’ he said impetuously, “if you should
fling his miserable dole back in his face, don’t fear that
you shall ever want ahome. Ihave no daughters of my
own; come with me to Castleford, and brighten the liie
of two old humdrum people. Come and be my daughter
for the rest of your days.”

He gave her no time to answer—he hurried away, and
rapped smartly at the library door. Peter Dangerfield’s
smail, colorless face looked out.

“What is it??? he asked. ‘Am Ito go up stairs?’

‘You are,’? responded Mr. Mansfield, curtly; ‘‘and as
you deal by that poor child in her trouble, may the good,
just God deal by you. I shall remain here and take her
home with me to-night if she will come.”’

Peter Dangerfield smiled—an eyil and most sinister
smile. ; ;

“T think it extremely likely she‘zeiZ go,’’ he said. ‘‘The
two story brick dwelling of Mr. Mansfield, the solicitor,
will be rather an awkward change after the gayety and
grandeur of Scarswood, but then—beggars mustn’t be
choosers.”?

 

“you grossly insulted me,

He walked straight up stairs, still with asmile on his
face—still with that exulting glow at his heart.

“You have had your day, my lady,’’ he said, ‘‘and you
walked over our heads with a ring andaclatter. You
queened it right royaily over us, and now the wheel has
turned, and my turnhas come. There is not a slight, not
a sneer, not an insult of yours, my haughty, uplifted Miss
Dangerfield, that I do not remember—that I will not re-
pay to-night.”

He opened the door without ceremony, and walked in.
The room was brightly lighted now; she had lit the clus-
ters of wax tapers in the chandeliers, and stirred the fire
into a brighter blaze. With its crimson and gold hang-
ings and upholstery, its rich velvety carpet, its little gems
of paintings, its carved and inlaid piano, its mirrors, its
light, its warmth, and perfume, ifdooked, as he opened
the door, a rich and glowing picture of color and beauty.
And in the trailing black dress, and with her white, cold
face, Katherine, the fallen queen of all this grandeur,
stood and looked at him as he came in.

She had left her seat, and was leaning lightly against
the mantel, her hands,hanging loosely, clasped before her.
On those wasted hands rich rings flashed in the firelight,
and on the left still gleamed Gaston Dantree’s betrothal
circlet, a heavy band of plain gold. It was the first thing
Peter Dangerfield saw. He laughed slightly, and pointed
toit. p

“You wear it still, then, my fair Cousin Katherine. And
he will recover, Otis says. Well—who knows—yoli were
madly in love with him when you were a baronet’s daugh-
ter. He may prove faithful, and think better of jilting
you when he recovers, and we may have a wedding after
all. Let us hopeso. He has used you badly—infernally,
I may say, but then your angelic sex is ready to forgive
the man they love seventy times seven.”

He took his place opposite her, and they looked each
other straight in the eyes. It was the grave defiance of
two duelists to the death, f

“Was that what you came here to say, Sir Peter Dan-
gerfield ?”?

“No, Katherine—I wonder if your name really 7s Kath-
erine, by the way; I must ask Mrs. Vavasor; I came here
at old Mansfield’s request to talk business and money
matters. How nice itis for you, my dear, to have so
many friends in the hour of your downfall—the Talbots,
the Mansfields, and that heavy dragoon, De Vere, who
will do anything under heaven for you—well, except, per-
haps, marry you. And you look like a ‘queen uncrown-
ed’ to-night, my tall, stately Miss Dangerfield—not good-
looking, you know, my dear—you never were that—but
majestic ard dignified, and uplifted, and all that sort of
thing. Ah! how arethe mighty fallen, indeed! Only a
fortnight ago you stood here ruling it like a very princess,
on my soul, monarch of all yousurveyed; and now—there
isn’t a beggar in the streets of Castleford poorer than

ou.”’

She stood dead silent, looking at him. How his eyes
gleamed—how glibly his venomous tongue ran. His little
form actually seemed to dilate and grow tall in this hour
of his trlumph. ;

“And that other night,’ he went on; “do you remember
it, Kathie? Oh, let me call you by the old familiar name
to the last! That other night when I—a poor, pettifogging
attorney, as I think I have heard Mr. Dantree call me—I
had the presumption in the conservatory to ask you to be
my wife. It was presumptuous and Itichly deserved the
rebuff I got for my pains; I deserved even to be called a
‘rickety <warf!? No one knows it better than I. You
the heiress of Scarswood, and I not worth a rap. If I
had been good-looking, even like that angelic Dantree,
with a face and voice of a seraph; but ugly and a dwarit,
and only an attorney withal, you served me precisely
right, Katherine, You adored beauty, and Dantree was
at your feet; you worshiped him, and he worshiped your
—fortune; a very common story. Whata pity the Fates
did not make us both handsome instead of clever. What
chance has brains against beauty—particulariy in a wo-
man? You served me right, Katherine, and now, in re-
turn, Iam to come before you to-night, and offer you
three thousand pounds—mine to give or keep as I please.”

He paused, his whole face glowing with sardonic light.
Hers never changed.

“Go on,” she said, in a perfectly steady voice.

He came a step Nearer. What did that strange demoni-
acal light in his eyes mean now ? She saw it but she never
flinched,

“Katherine,” he said, ‘I can do better for you than
that. What is a pitiful three thousand pounds to the late
heiress of eight thousand per annum? I can do better for
you, and I will. Why should you leave Scarswood at all
—why not remain here as mistress still—with me ?”

“Go on,’ she said again in the same steady tone.

“Need I speak more plainly?”? He drew still another
step nearer, and all the devil of hatred and malignity
within him shone forth in the gleam of his eyes. ‘Then
I will—it would be a pity for us to misunderstand one an-
other in the least. Last September I asked you, the heir-
ess of Searswood, tobe my wife. You refused—more,
To-night [return good for evil
—let us forgive and forget. As lord and master of Scars-
wood, I offer you again a home here—this time not as
wife, but as my mistress!” »

The atrocious word was spoken. His hate and reyenge
had given him a diabolical courage to say what he never
would have dared to say in cold blood. But at the last
word he qQvew back. He was a coward to the core, and

 

she had shown herself before now to have the fury of a

 

 

 

 

 

very panther. And they were alone—she might murder
him before he could reach the door. His first impulse
was flight; and she saw it.

“Stop!’ she cried, and he stood as still as though he
had been shot. ‘You coward! You cur!’ No words
can tell the concentrated scorn of her low, level voice.
“You have said it, and now hear me. This is your hour
—mine will come. And here, before Heaven, by my dead
father’s memory, I swear to be revenged. Living, I shall
pursue you to the very ends of the earth—dead, I will
come back from the grave, if the dead can! For every
word you have spoken to-night, you shall pay dearly—
oe I have only one thing left to live for now, and
that Is my vengeance on you. The fortune you have
taken I will wrest from you yet—the shame, the misery,
the disgrace that is mine, you shall feel in your turn. I
swear it! Look to yourself, Peter Dangerfield! Living, 1
will hunt you down—dead, I will return and torment
you! Now go.”

She pointed to the door. It was the most theatrical
thing imaginable. His courage rose again. She did not
mean to spring upon him and strangle him then, after all.
x laughed, a low, jeering laugh, with his hand on the

oor.

“Katherine,” he said, “do go on the stage. You'll be
an ornament te the profession, and will turn an honest
penny. That speech, that attitude, that gesture, that
tone were worthy the immortal Rachel herself. With the
stage lamps, and an appropriate costume, a speech half
so melo-dramatic would bring down tlre house. And if
you die, you’ll haunt me! Don’t die, Kathie—you’re too
clever a woman to be lost to the wort. And ghosts, my
dear, went out of fashion with the Castle of Otranto and
tne Mysteries of Udolpio. Think over my proposal, my
dear, and good-night.””

_ He looked back at her once as he stood there, the leap-
ing firelight full on her white face and black robe, and as
he saw her then, he saw her sleeping or waking all the
rest.of his life. Then the door closed, and Katherine was
once more alone.

[TO BE CONTINUED. |

Brave and Bold;

steht
The Fortunes of Robert Rushton.
By Horatio Alger, jr.

 

 

 

{Brave and Bold” was commenced in No. 39. ‘Back numbers
can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER XIII.
BEN HALEY’S REVENGE.

In spite of his wounded arm Ben Haley succeeded in pro-
pelling the boat to the opposite shore. The blood was
steadily, though slowly, flowing from his wound, and had
already stained his shirt red for a considerable space. In
the excitement of first receiving it he had not felt the
pain; now, however, the wound began to pain him, and,
as might be expected, his feeling of animosity toward our
hero was not diminished. . ;

“That cursed boy!’? he muttered between his teeth. ‘I
wish I had had time to give him one blow—he wouldn’t
have wanted another. I hope the wound isn’t serjous—if
itis, I may have paid dear for the gold.”

Still, the thought of the gold in his pocket afforded
some satisfaction. He had been penniless; now he was
the possessor of—as near as he could estimate, for he had
not had time to count—five hundred dollars in gold. That
was more than he had ever possessed before at one time,
and would enable him to live at ease for a while.

On reaching the shore he was about to leave the boat
to its fate, when he espied a boy standing at a little dis-
tance, with a hatchet in his hand. This gave him an
idea.

“Oome here, boy,’ he said.

The boy came forward, and examined the stranger with
curiosity.

“Is that your hatchet? he asked.

“No, sir. It belongs to my father.”

‘Would you mind selling it to me if I will give you
money enough tobuy a new one?”

“This is an old hatchet.’

“Tt will suit me just as well, and I haven’t time to buy
another. Would your father sell it?”

“Yes, sir; I guess so.”’

“Very well. What will a new one cost you?”

The boy named the price.

“Here is the money, and twenty-five cents more to pay
you for your trouble in going to the store.”

The boy pocketed the money with satisfaction. He was
a farmer’s son, and seldom had any money in his posses-
sion. -He already had twenty-five cents saved up toward
the purchase of a junior ball, and the stranger’s gratuily
would just make up the sum necessary to secure it. He
was in a hurry to make the purchase, and, accordingly,
no sooner had he received the money than he started at
once for the village-store. His departure was satisfactory
to Ben Haley, who now had nothing to prevent his car-
rying out his plans.

“IT wanted to be revenged on the boy, and now I know
how,” hesaid. ‘I’}imake some trouble for him with
this hatchet.”

He drew the boat up and fastened it. Then he delibe-
rately proceeded to cut away at the bottom with his new-
ly acquired hatchet. He had a strong arm, and his blows
were made more effective by triumphant malice. The
boat he supposed to belong to Robert, and he was deter-
mined to spoil it.

He hacked away with such energy that soon there was
a large hole in the bottom of the boat. Not content with
inflicting this damage, he cut it in various other places,
until it presented an appearance very different from the
neat, stanch boatof which Will Paine had been so proud.
At length Ben stopped, and contemplated the ruin he had
wrought with malicious satisfaction.

‘“That’s the first instalment in my revenge,’ he said.
“T should like to see my young ferryman’s face when he
seeshis boat again. It'll cost him more than he’jl ever
get from my miserly uncle to repairit. It serves him
right for meddling with matters that don’t concern him.
And nowlI must be getting away, for my affectionate
uncle will soon be raising a hue and cry aiter me if ’m
not very much mistaken,”?

He would like to have gone at once to obtain medical
assistance for his wound, but to go to the village doctor
would be dangerous. He must wait till he had got out of
the town limits, and the farther away the better. He
knew when the train would start, and made his way
across the fields to the station, arriving just in time to
catchit. First, however, he bound a handkerchief round
his shoulder to arrest the flow of blood. :

When he reached the station, and was purchasing his
ticket, the stution-master noticed the blood upon his
shirt.

“Are you hurt, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, a little,’ said Ben Haley. ;

“How did it happen?” inquired the other, with Yankee
inquisitiveness. ‘

“IT was out hunting,’ said Ben, carelessly, ‘“‘with a
friend who wasn’t much used to firearms. In swinging
his gun round, it accidentally went off, and I got shot
through the shoulder.” :

“That's bad,” said the station-master, in a tone of sym-
pathy. ‘You’d better go round to the doctor’s, and have
it attended to,” ;

“J would,” said Ben, “but 1am called away by business
of the greatest importance. I can get along for a few
hours, and then Vil have a doctor look atit. How soon
will the train be here ?”” :

“Ivs coming now. Don’t you hear it?”

“That’s the train I must take. You see I couldn’t wait
long enough for the doctor,” added Ben, anxious to ac-
count satisfactorily’for his inattention to the medical as-
sistance of which he stood in need.

When he was fairly on board the cars, and the train
was under way, he felt considerably relieved. He was
speeding fast away from the man he had robbed, and who
was interested in his capture, and in a jew days he might
be at sea, able tosnap his fingers at his miserly uncle and
the boy whom he determined some day to meet and settle
scores With.

From one enemy of Robert the transition is brief and
natural to another. At this very moment Halbert Davis
was sauntering idly and discontentedly through the
streets of the village. He was the son of a rich man, or
of one whom most persons, his own family included, sup-
posed to be rich; but this consciousness, though it made
him proud, by no means made him happy. He had that
morning atthe breakfast-table asked his father to give
him a boat like Will Paine’s, but Mr. Davis had answered
by a decided refusal.

“You don’t need any boat,’? he said shortly.

“Tt wouldn’t cost very much,’’ pleaded Halbert.

“How much do you suppose ?””

‘Will Paine told me his father paid fifty dollars for
his.”

“Why don’t you borrow it sometimes? That would do
as Well as if you had one of your own.”

“IT can't borrow it. Will started a day or two since for
boarding-school.”’

“Better still. I will hire it for you while he is away.”

“J thought of it myself,’? said Halbert,’? ‘but just be-
fore he went away Will lent it to the factory boy,” sneer-
ing as he uttered the last two words.

“Do you mean young Rushton?”

‘s¥es.??

“That's only a boy’s arrangement. I will see Mr.
Paine, and propose to pay him for the use of the boat, and
1 presume he will be willing to accede to my terms.”

“When will you see him?” asked Halbert, hopefully.

“J will try to see him in the course of the day.”

It turned out, however, that there was no need of call-
ing on Mr. Paine, for five minutes later, having some
business with Mr. Davis, he rang the bell, and was usher-
ed info the breakfast room. ;

“Excuse my early call,’? he said, ‘‘but I wished to see
you about—” and here he stated lis business, in which
my readers will feel no interest. When that was over,
Mr. Davis introduced the subject of the boat, and made
the offer referred to.

“J am sorry to refuse,” said Mr. Paine, “but my son,
before going away, passed his promise to Robert Rushton
that he should have it during his absence.”’ ;

“Do you hold yourself bound by such a promise?” in-
quired Mrs. Davis, with a disagreeable smile. :

“Certainly,”? said the lawyer gravely. ‘‘Robert is a
valued friend of my son’s, and I respect boyish friend-
ship. I remember very well my own boyhood, and I had
some strong friendships at that time.”’

“J don’t see what your son can find to like in Robert
Rushton,” said Mrs. Davis with something of Halbert’s
manner. ‘I think hima very disagreeable and imperti-
nent boy.”’

Mr. Paine did not admire Mrs, Deyis, and was not

 

likely to be influenced by her prejudices. Without in-
quiry, therefore, into the causes of her unfavorable
opinion, he said, ‘I have formed quite a different opinion
of Robert. Iam persuaded that you do him injustice.”

“He attacked Halbert ferociously the other day,” said
Mr. Davis, determined to impart the information
whether asked or not. “He has an ungovernable tem-
per.

Mr. Paine glanced shrewdly at Halbert, of whose arro-
gant and quarrelsome disposition he had heard from his
Own son, and replied, ‘‘I make it a point not to interfere
in boy’s quarrels. William speaks very highly of Robert,
and it affords him great satisfaction, I know, to leave the
boat in his charge.”

Mrs. Davis saw that there was no use in pursuing the
subject, and it dropped.

After. the lawyer had gone Halbert made his petition
anew, but without satisfactory results. The fact was
Mr. Davis had heard unfavorable reports from New York
the day previous respecting a stock in which he had an
interest, and it was nota favorable moment to prefer a
request involving the outlay of money.

it was this refusal which made Halbert discontented
and unhappy. The factory-boy, as he sneeringly called
him, could have a boat, while he, a gentleman’s son, was
forced to go without one. Of course, he would not stoop
to ask the loan of the boat, however much he wanted it,
from a boy he disliked so much as Robert. He wondered
whether Robert were out this morning. So, unconscious-
ly, his steps led him tothe shore of the river, where he
knew the boat was generally kept. He cast his eye to-
ward it, when what was his surprise to find the object of
his desire half full of water, with a large hole in the bot-
tom and defaced in other respects.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
HALBERT HAS TWO UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEWS

Halbert’s first emotion was surprise, his second was
gratification. His rival could no longer enjoy the boat
which he had envied him. Not only that, but he would
get into trouble with Mr. Paine on account of the damage
which it had received. Being under his care, it was his
duty to keep it in good condition.

“f wonder how it happened?’ thought Halbert.
‘“Won’t the young beggar be ina precious scrape when

 

it’sfound out? Most likely he won’t let Mr. Paine
know.”

In this thought he judged Robert by himself. Straight-
way the plan suggested itself of going to the lawyer him-
self and informing him of Robert’s delinquency. It
would be a very agreeable way of taking revenge upon
him. The plan so pleased him that he at once directed
his steps toward Mr. Paine’s office. On the way he over-
took Hester Paine, the young lady on whose account he
was chiefly incensed against Robert. Being as desirous
as ever of standing in the young lady’s good graces, he
hurriedly advanced to her side, and lifting his hat with an
air of ceremonious politeness, he said:

“Good-morning, Hester.’

Hester Paine was not particularly well pleased with the
meeting. She had been made acquainted by her brother
with the quarrel between Halbert and Robert, and the
mean revenge which the former had taken in procuring
the dismissal of the latter fromthe factory. Having a par-
tiality for Robert, this was not likely to recommend his
enemy in her eyes.

“Good-morning, Mr. Davis,’ she said, with cool polite-
ness.

‘You are very ceremonious this morning, Miss Hester,’
said Halbert, who liked well enough to be called ‘‘Mr.”
by others but not by Hester.

“Am 1??? asked Hester, indifferently.

“You called me Mr. Davis.”

“That’s your name, isn’t it ?’?

“T am not called so by my intimate friends.”’

“No, I suppose not,’? said Hester, thus disclaiming the

title.
Halbert bit his lips. He was not in love, not because
he was too young, but because he was too selfish to be in
love with anybody except himself. But he admired Hes-
ter, and the more she slighted him the more he was de-
termined to force her to like him. He did, however, feel
a little piqued at her behavior, and that influenced his
next words.

“Perhaps you'd rather have the factory boy walking
beside you,’”? he said, with not very good judgment if he
wanted to recommend himself to her.

“There area good many factory boys in town,’ she
said. “J can’t tell unless you tell me whom you mean.”

“JT mean Robert Rushton.’’

“Perhaps I might,’’ said Hester.

‘“‘He’s a low fellow,’’ said Halbert, bitterly.

“No one thinks so but you,’’ retorted Hester, indig-
nantly.

“My father was obliged to dismiss him from the fac-
tory.”

“I know all about that, and who was the means of hav-
ing him sent away.”

“T suppose you mean me,”?

“Yes, Halbert Davis, 1 mean you, and I consider it a
very mean thing to do,’? said Hester, her cheeks flushed
with the indignation she felf.

“He attacked me like the low ruffian that he is,”’ plead-
ed Halbert, in extenuation. ‘If he hadn’t insulted me,
he wouldn't have got into trouble.”

“You struck him first, you know you did. My brother
told me all aboutit. You were angry because he walked
home with me. JI would rather go home alone any time
than have your escort.”

“You're very polite, Miss Hester,’’ said Halbert, angri-
ly. “I can tell you some news about your favorite.”

“Tf it's anything bad, I won’t believe it.”

“You'll have to believe it.”

“Well, what is it??? demanded Hester, who was not al-
together unlike girls in general, and so felt curious to
learn what it was that Halbert had to reveal.

“Your brother was foolish enough to leave his boat in
Rushton’s care.’’

“That is no news.
favor.”

‘Hell be sorry enough now.”?

“Why will he???

“Because the boat is completely ruined.’

“T don’t believe it,’’? said Hester, hastily.

“It’s true, though. I was down at the river just now,
and saw it with my own eyes. There is a great hole in
the bottom, and it is hacked with a hatchet, so that it
wouldn’t bring half price.’

“Do you know who did it? asked Hester, with the
snomentary thought that Halbert himself might have been
tempted by his hatred into the commission of the outrage.

“No, I don’t. It was only accidental my seeing it.’’

‘Was Robert at the boat ?”?

*sNo,??

“Have you asked him about it?”

“No, I have not seen him.”?

“Then I am sure some enemy has done it.
it is no fault of his.’

“How so???

Will was very glad to do Robert a

I am sure

have happened. I offered him a fair price for its use.”

“He won’t be sorry he refused, whatever has happened.
But I must bid you good morning, Mr. Davis,” and the
young lady, who was now at her own gate, opened it,
and entered. ,

““She might have been polite enough to invite me in,’?
said Halbert, with chagrin. ‘I don’t see how she can
be so taken up with that low fellow.”?

He waited till Hester had entered the house, and then
bent his steps to Mr. Paine’s office, which was a smali
one story building in one corner of the yard.

The lawyer was sitting at a table covered with papers,
from which he looked up as Halbert entered the office.

“Sit down, Halbert,?? he said. ‘Any message from
your father ?”? '

*“No, sir.”? on i

“No Jegal business of your own?” he inquired, with a
smile.

“No, sir, no legal business.”?

‘Well, if you have, any business, you ftilay state it at
once, as Iam quite busy.”

“It is about the boat which your son lent to Robert
Rusliton.””

“JT shall not interfere with that arrangement,”’ said the
lawyer, misunderstanding his object. ‘I told your father
that this morning,’’ and he resumed his writing.

“I did not come to say anything about that. The boat
wouldn’t be of any use to me now.”

“Why not??? asked the lawyer, detecting something
significant in the boy’s tone.

“Because,” said Halbert, in a tone which he could not
divest of the satisfaction he felt at his rival’s misfortune,
“the boat’s completely ruined.”

Mr. Paine laid down his pen in genuine surprise.

“Explain yourself,’? he said.

So Halbert told the story once more, taking good care
to make the damage quite as great as it was,

“That is very strange,” said the lawyer, thoughtfully.
“JT can’t conceive how such damage could have happened
to the boat.”?

“Robert Rushton don’t know how. to manage a boat.’?

“You are mistaken. He understands it very well. I
am sure the injury you speak of could hot have happened
when he was in charge. You say there was not only @
hole in the bottom, but it was otherwise defaced and in-
jured ?””

“Yes, sil,
hatchet.?’

“Then it is quite clear that Robert could have had
nothing to do with it. It must have been done by some
malicious person or persons.’’

Knowing something of Halbert, Mr. Paine looked hard
at him, his suspicions taking the same direction as his
daughter’s. But, as we know, Halbert was entirely inno-
cent, and bore the gaze without confusion.

“T don’t see why Robert hasn’t been and let me know
of this,’ said Mr. Paine, musing.

“He was probably afraid totell you,’ said Halbert, with
a slight sneer.

‘| know him better than that. You can testify,” added
the lawyer significantly, ‘that he is not deficient in
bravery.”’

“7 thought I would come and tell you,” said Halbert,
coloring a little. ‘I thought you would like to know.”

“You are very kind to take so much trouble,” said Mr
Paine, but there was neither gratitude nor cordiality in
his tone. :

Halbert thought it was time to be going, and accord-
ingly got up and took his leave. As he opened she office
door to go out, he found himself face to face with Rober&
Rushton, who passed him with a slight nod, and with
an air of trouble entered the presence of his friend’s

father.
CHAPTER XV.
HALBERT’S MALICE.

Robert was forced by Ben Haley’s taking possession of
his boat to give up for the present his design of recross-

it looked as if it had been hacked by a

 

ing the river. He felt bound to go back aud inform Paul
- of Ben’s escape,

 

“Jf your brother had let me have the boat, it wouldn’t ©

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He has carried off my gold,’? exclaimed Paul in
anguish. ‘Why didn’t you catch him?”

“He had too much start of us,’ said Robert’s compan-
ion. ‘But even if we had come up with him, I am afraid
he would have proved more than a match for us. He is
a desperate man. How much money did he take away
with him ??

“More than five hundred dollars,” wailed the old man.
“Tam completely ruined!’? : A

“Not quite so Dad as that, Mr. Nichols. You have your
farm left.”

But the old man was not to be comforted. He had be-
come so wedded to his.gold that to lose it was like losing
his heart’s blood. But was there no hope of recovery ?

“Why don’t you go after him?’? he exclaimed suddenly.
“Raise the neighbors. It isu’t too late yet.’’

“He's across the river before this,” said Robert,

“Get a boat and go alter him,”’

“Tam willing,” said our hero, promptly.
we fiud a boat, Mr. Dunham ??

“There’s one about quarter of a mile down the stream
—Stetson’s boat.”

“Let us go then,’? ere.

“Very well, Robert. I’vyeno idea we can do anything,
but we will try.” ae

“Go, go. Don’t wastea moment,” implored the old
mau, in feverish impatience. i

Robert and Mr. Dunham started, and were soon rowing
across the river in Stetson’s boat.

“Whereabouts would he be likely toland?’? asked the
farmer, ,

“There’s my boat now,’ said Robert, pointing it out.
“He has left it where I usually Keep it.”

Quickly they rowed alongside. Then to his great sor-
row Robert perceived the malicious injury which his ene-
my had wreught. :

“Oh, Mr. Dunham, look at that!’ he said, struck with
grief. ‘The boat is spoiled!’

“Not so bad as that. It can be mended.”’

“What will Will Paine say? What will his father say?”

“Then it isn’t your boat ?”” E

“No, that is the worst of it. It was lent me by Will
Paine, and I promised to take such good care of it.’?

“Tt isn’t your fault, Robert.”

“No, I couldn’t helpit, but still1it wouldn’t have hap-
pened if it had not been in my charge.’’

“You can get it repaired, so that it will look almost as
well as new.” .

lf Robert) had had plenty of money this suggestion
would have comforted him, but it will be remembered
that he was almost penniless, dependant on the fish he
caught for the means of supporting his mother and him-
self. Now this resource was cut off. The boat couldn’t
be used until it was repaired. He felt morally bound to
get it repaired, though he was guiltless of the damage.
But how could he even do this? One thing was ciear—
Mr. Paine must at once be informed of the injury suffered
by the boat. Robert shrank from informing him, but he
knew it to be his duty, and he was too brave to put it off.

But first he must try to find some clue to Ben Haley.
He had now a personal interest in bringing to justice the
man who had made him so much trouble. He had searce-
ly got on shore than the boy who had sold Ben Haley the
hatchet, strolled up,

“Who was that man who come acrossin your boat?’
he asked,

“Did you see him ?!? asked Robert, eagerly.

“To be sure I did,’ said, Tom, Green, with satisfaction.
“J sold him my old hatchet for money enough to buy a
new! one, and he give me a quarter besides for my trou-
ble.

“T wish you hadn’t done it, Tom,” said Robert, grave-
ly. “See what he’s done withit.”

Tom Green opened his eyes wide with astonishment.

“What did he do that for??? he asked,

“To be revenged on me.
time. Now I want to find him.
he went???

“No; I left him here, while I went to the store for a new
hatchet.’

The old hatchet was found under a clump of bushes.
Robert took possession of it, feeling that he had a right
to it, as part compensation for the mischief it had done,

“We'd better go to the railroad depot, Mr. Dunham,”
he said. ‘He'd be most likely to go there.”?

“You're right. We'll go.”

They walked rapidly to the stafion, but too late, of
course, for the train, The station-master was standing
on the platform, superintending the removal of a trunk.

‘Mr. Cross,’ said Robert, ‘1 want to find outif a par-
ticular man left by the last train. Il) describe him.’’

“Yes, said the station-master, ‘that’s the man I was
wondering about. He had a wound in the shoulder.”

“He got that from me,’ said Robert.

“Shol you dont say so,’’ returned the station-master, in
surprise. ‘‘He said he was out liunting with a friend, and
his frienad’s gun went off accidentally.’”’

“I don’t believe he feels very friendly to me,’ said
Robert, smiling. ‘‘He’s stolen five or six hundred dollars
in gold from old Paul Nichols.”

“It'll about kill the old man, wont if?”

“He feels pretty bad about it. For what place did he
buy a ticket?”

‘For Cranston; but that ain*t no guide,
there, he’ll buy a ticket for further on.”

Had there been a telegraph-station, Robert would have
telegraphed on to have Bern Haley stopped, but there was
none nearer than the next town. He determined to give
information to a justice of the peace, and leave the matter
in his hands. But justice in a country town is slow, and
it may as well be stated here, before anything was done
Ben Haley was out of danger. But Robert was destined
to fail in with him at a future day. :

This business attended to, Robert bent his steps to Mr.

iine’s office. This brings us to his meeting with Halbert
Davis. at the door. He was slightly surprised at the
encounter, but was far from guessing the object of Hal-
bert’s call.

Mr. Paine looked up as he entered, and had no difficulty
in guessing his errand.

“What can I do for you, Robert?’ he asked Kindly.

“T bring bad news, Mr. Paine,’’? said our hero, boldly
ee into the subject which had brought him to the
ofiice.

‘It’s about the boat, isn’t it?’ said the lawyer.

“What, do you know about it?’ asked Robert, in sur-
prise.

‘Yes; a disinterested friend brought the news.”

“Halbert Davis ?’?

“The same. He takes astrong interest in your affairs,’
added the lawyer dryly. “Now tell me how it hap-
pened.”?

Robert gave a full explanation, the lawyer occasionally
asking a question.

“It seems, then,’ he said, “that you incurred this
mar enmity by your defense of Mr. Nichols’ money.”

SSVGs:-Bir.?

“Tt was incurred in a good cause. I can’t blame you,
nor will my son. I will get Mr. Plane, the carpenter, to
look at the boat and see what he can do to repair it.”

‘Some time I will pay you the cost of the repairs, Mr.
Paine. I would now if Lhad any money; but you kuow
how 1 am situated.”

“T shall not call upon you to do that,’ said the lawyer,
kindly. ‘It was not your fault.”

“But the damage would not have happened if Will had
not lent the boat to me.”?

“That is true; but in undertaking the defense of Mr.
Nichols you showed a pluck ard courage which most
boys would not have exhibited. I am interested, like all
good citizens, in the prevention of theft, and in this in-
stance I am willing to assume tlie cost.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Paine. I was afraid you would
blame me.”* ’

“No, my boy; Iam not so unreasonable. It will save
me some trouble if you will yourself see Mr. Plane and ob-
tain from him an estimate of the probable expense of put-
ting the boatin order.”

Robert left the office, feeling quite relieved by the man-
ner in which his communication had been received. A
little way up the road he overtook Halbert Davis. In
fact, Halbert was waiting for him, expressly to get an op-
portunity of enjoying his discomfiipre at the ruin of the
boat. ‘Hallo, Rushton!’ he said,

“Good morning, Halbert!’ :

“Are you going out in your boat this afternoon »’ asked
Halbert, maliciously.

“You know why [ can’t.”

“T wonder what Will Paine will say when he sees the
good care you take of it?”

“I don’t believe he will blame me when he knows the
circumstances." *

“You ain’t fit to have the charge of a boat.
you run it on a rock.”

“Then you suppose wrong.’

“You won’t be able to go out fishing any more.
will you make a living ?””

‘Without your help,’? said Robert, coldly. ‘You will
probably see me out again in a few days, if you take the
trouble to look.’?

“How can you go?’

_ “Mr. Paine has asked me to see Mr. Plane about repair-
ing the boat.” :

ie he going to pay the expenses ?””

‘SYeus?

“Then he’s a fool.”

“You'd better not tell him so, or he might give you a
lesson in politeness.”

“You're a low fellow,’ said Halbert, angrily.

_ “You are welcome te your opinion,” returned Robert,
indifferently.

“Where can

Can you tell me where

When he gets

IT suppose

How

CHAPTER XVI.
ON THE RAILROAD TRACK.

Robert saw the carpenter, according to Mr. Paine’s in-
structions, but found him so busy that he would not en-
gage to give his attention to the boat under a week.

The delay was regretted by our hero, since it cut him
off from the employment by which he hoped to provide
for his mother, Again Mrs. Rushton was in low spirits.

“Tam sorry you couldn’t agree with Halbert Davis,
Robert,” she said with a sigh. ‘*Then you could have
ional the factory, and got your wages regularly every

yeek.

“I know that, mother, but Tam not willing to have
Halbert ‘boss me round,’ even for a place in the factory.”

“Then, Robert, you quarreled with the man you took
across the river.”

“I think I did right, mother,” said Robert. ‘Don’t get
out of spirits. Idon’t expect to succeed always. But I
think I shall come out right in the end.”

“Tam sure I hope so.??

_Mrs. Rushton was one of those who look onthe dark
side. She was distrustful of the future, and apt to antici-
pate bad fortune. Robert was very different. He inher-
ited from his father an unusual amount of courage and
self-reliance, and if one avenue was closed to him, he at
once set out to. find another, It is of this class that suc-
cessful men are made, and we have hopes that Robert
will develope into a prosperous and successful man.

 

xtc

I'll tell you what for another’

   
  

 

“Jam sure I don’t see what you can do,’ said Mrs.
Rushton, ‘‘and we can’t live on what 1 make by braiding
Straw.”?

“T'}] tell you what I'll do,” said Robert, “I’ll go on
Sligo Hill and pick blueberries; 1 was passing a day or
two ago, and saw the bushes quite covered. Just giveme
a couple of tin-pails, and I’ll see what I can do.”

The pails were provided, and Robert started on his ex-
pedition, The hill was not very high, nor was its soil
very good. The lower part was used only to pasture a
few cows. But this part was thickly covered with blue-
berry bushes, which this season were fuller than usual of
large-sized berries. Robert soon settled to work, and
picked steadily and rapidly, At the end of three hours he
had filled both pails, containing, as near as he could es-
timate, eight quarts, .

“That's a pretty good afternoon’s work,’ he said to him-
self. ‘Now I suppose I must turn peddler, and dispose
of them.??

He decided to ask ten cents a quart. Later in the sea-
son the price would be reduced, but at that time the ber-
ries ought to command that price.

The first house at which he called was Mr, Paine’s, He
was about to pass, when he saw Hester at the window,
Pride suggested, “she may despise me for being a berry-
peddler,”? but Robert had no false shame, ‘At any rate,
I won’t be coward enough to try to hide it from her,”
Accordingly he walked up boldly to the door, and rang
the bell.

Hester had seen him from the window, and she an-
swered the bell herself. ,

“J am glad to see you, Robert,’’ she said, frankly.
“Won’t you come in??? :

“Thank you,’? said our hero, ‘‘but I called on busi-
ness.”? ° : 7

‘You will find my father in his office,’’ she said, look-
ing a little disappointed.

Robert smiled, phy

“My business is not of a legal character,’’? he said. |
“Pye turned peddler, and would like to sell you some blue-
berries.”

“Oh, what nice berries!

“On Sligo.”

“lam sure mother will, buy some.
minute while I go and ask her ?”’

“T qvill wait-as long as you like.”’

Hester soon returned with authority to buy four.quarts,
TI suspect that she was the means of influencing so large
a purchase.

“They are ten cents a quart,’? said Robert, “but I don’t
think I ought to charge your father anything.”

“Why not?”

‘Because I shall owe him, or rather Will, a good deal of
money.”?

“I know what you mean—it’s about the boat.”

“Did your father tell you?” ‘

“Yes, but I knew it before. Halbert Davis told me.”

“He takes a great interest in my affairs.”

“He’s a mean boy. You mustn’t mind what he says
against you.”?

Robert laughed.

“JT don’t care what he thinks or says of me, unless he
persuades others to think il! of me.”

“I shall never think ill of you, Robert,’’ said Hester,
warmly.

‘Thank you, Hester,’? said Robert, looking up into her
glowing face with more gratification than he could ex-
press. ‘‘l hope I shall deserve your good opinion.”’

“] am_sure you will, Robert. But won’t you come in?”

“No, thank you. I must sell the rest of my berries."

Robert left the house with forty cents in his pocket, the
first fruits of his afternoon’s work. Besides, he had four
quarts left, for which he expected to find a ready sale. He
had not gone far when he met Halbert. The latter was
dressed with his usual care, with carefully polished shoes,
neatly fitting kid gloves, and swinging a light cane, the
successor of that which had been broken in his conflict
with Robert. Our hero, on the other hand, 1am obliged
to confess, was by no means fashionably attired. His
shoes were dusty, and his bare hands were stained with
berry juice. He wore a coarse straw hat with a broad
brim to shield him from the hot sun. Those of my read-
ers who judge by dress alone would certainly have pre-
ferred Halbert Davis, who looked as if he had just stepped
out of a band-box. But those who compored the two
faces, the one bright, frank and resolute, the other super-
cilious and insincere, could hardly fail to prefer Robert in
spite of his coarse attire and unfashionable air,

Halbert scanned his rival with scornful eyes. He would
have taken no notice of him, but concluded to speak in
the hopes of saying something disagreeable.

“You have found a new business, I see,’ he said with
a sneer.

‘Yes,’ said Robert, quietly.
out, I try another.”

“You've made a good choice,’ said Halbert.
what you are adapted for,”? .

“Thank you for the compliment, but I don’t expect to
stick to it all my life.”

‘How do you sell your berries?”

“Ten cents a quart.’

‘You'd better call on your friend, Miss Hester Paine,
and see if she won’t buy some.”

“Thank you for the advice, but it comes too late. She

‘TI didn’t

 

Where™iid you pick them?”

Will you wait a

““When one business gives

“It's

bought four quarts of me.’’

“She dia!’ returned Halbert, surprised.
think you’d go there.”’

“Why not?”

“She won’t think much of a boy that has to pick ber-
ries for a living.”

“[ don't think that will change her opinion, of me.
Why should it?”

“It’s a low business.”?

“T don’t see it.”?

“Excuse my delaying you. Jam afraid I may have in-
terfered with your business. I say,’? he called out, as
Robert was going on, “‘if you will callat our housg, per-
haps my mother may patronize you.’?

“Very well,’’ said Robert, ‘‘if I don’t sell elsewhere, I'll
call there. It makes no difference to me who buys my
berries.’

“He’s the proudest beggar I ever met,’’ thought Hal-
bert, looking after him. ‘Hester Paine must be hard up
for an escort if she walks with a boy who peddles berries
for a living, If I were her father, 1 would put a stop
to it. 7

The same evening there was a concertin the Town Hall.
A free ticket was given to Robert in return forsome slight
service. Mr. Paine and his daughter were present, and
Halbert Davis also. To the disgust of the latter, Robert
actually had the presumption to walk home with Hester.
Hester laughed and chatted gayly, and appeared to be
quite unconscious that she was lowering herself by ac-
conte, the escort of a boy ‘‘who picked berries for a
iving.

The next day Robert again repaired to Sligo. He had
realized eighty cents from his sales the previous Gay, and
he felt that picking berries was much better than remain-
ing idle. Halbert’s sneers did not for a moment discom-
pose him. -He had pride, but it was an honorable pride,
and not of a kind that would prevent his engaging in any
respectable employment necessary for the support of his
mother and himself.

Returning home with well-filled pails, he walked a part
of the way on the railroad, as this shortened the distance.
He had not walked far when he discovered on the track
a huge rock, large enough to throw the train off the track.
How it got there was a mystery. Justin front there was
a steep descent on either side, the road crossing a valley,
so that an accident would probably cause the entire train
to be thrown down the embankment. Robert saw the
danger at a glance, and it flashed upon him at the same
moment that the train was nearly dne. He sprang to the
rock, and exerted his utmost strength to dislodge it. He
could move it slightly, but it was too heavy to remove.
He was still exerting his strength to the utmost when the
whistle of the locomotive was heard. Robert was filled
with horror, as he realized the peril of the approaching
train, and his powerlessness to avert it.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
——- r- 9+
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your readers for more than four years, and of seven papers which

 

    

so seemingly tranquil and self-possessed.

 

I take, I admire the NEw YORK WEEKLY the most.”

WE'LL NOT FORGET THE POOR.

BY MRS, M. A, KIDDER,

 

 

Though summer days have come
With the fruit and with the bloom ;
Though life’s blessings are more sure,
‘Let us not forget the poor.

As we gather up our own,

Let us help them that have none;
We may ward off many a blow
That the rich can never know.

While we help them in their need,
Let us sow the healthful seed;

Let us till the doubtful soil, ;
Bringing fruitfulness through toil,
Let us lead the darkened mind
Into true love for its kind;

Then step by step above

Till we teach a higher love.

And the poor man’s girls and boys,
Let us not, amid our joys,

F Fail to point them to “the way,”
Lest their feet should go astray.
Though the summer days have come,
With the fruit and with the bloom;
Though life’s blessings are more sure,
Let us not forget the poor.

@<—------—

The Cheated Bride;

api Tint

WON BY A LIE!

By Mrs. Helen Corwin Pierce,

 

[The Cheated Bride” was commenced in No. 29. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Baron Chandos went back to his friend. Much as he
dreaded to meet him, because of the uselessness of his in-
tercession with Sybil, he dared not leave him alone, lest
he should do himself a mischief. Somehow he had got it
fixed in his mind that Volney meant to take his own life.
The awful hopelessness of his face_after that inter-
view with his wife, haunted him. He tried the door softty
without knocking. :

It was fastened—not with the key, as he ascertained by
examining, but bolted on the inside.

He stooped and listened. ; ;

He could hear nothing but a faint, crackling sound, at
which he wondered much. What could it be? ‘

He tried the door again, and then spoke Heath's given
name:

“Volney ??

There was no answer, and nosound but the one—no
movement seemingly in the room.

Baron Chandos called again, louder than before. _

Still the same—no response. He experienced a serious
uneasiness,

He reflected a moment.
which he might enter?

He summoned a servant, to ask if there were not. He
remembered the low door he had observed in the wall of
the room, the night of his arrival at the chateau.

The man who answered his call had been a sort of
attache of the chateau all his life. He told him there was
such a door, but objected at first to conduct him to it, till
the baron was compelled to tell him some portion of the
truth and the nature of his fears. The man showed him
then into the room from which the low door opened, but
it was also bolted on the other side. ‘

The baron’s anxiety increased. He knocked violently
upon the door, and called once more to Volney, telling
him that if he did not answer or open the door, he should
force it. ;

To his immense relief he heard a movementin the room
now. A slow, heavy step crossed the floor, The door
opened. ‘ or Att

Volney himself stood in it, and coldly invited Chandos
to enter. As the baron did so, Volney spoke to the man-
servant acurt word of dismissal. A strange smell as-
sailed the baron as he went in.

There was a fire atone end of the room. The picture
which had hung above the mantel-piece was gone. The
rich frame lay on the floor, the canvas had been torn from
it, and was curling and bleckening, writhing Jike a living
thing upon the fire. That was the occasion of the crack-
ling sound he had heard.

The baron turned to Heath. For the first time he saw
that he was dressed for riding. He looked pale and worn,
his eyes were sunken, and burning in the midst of his

Was there not another door by

white face with an intense luster that seemed almost un-

earthly.

The baron regarded him with amazement.

“What does this mean, Volney ?? he asked.

“J Jeave Sybil in your charge,’’ said Volney, in a cold,
tranquil, tone. “I ¢annot pretend to dictate or advise
concerning her future. You will guard, 1 am sure, that
no harm comes to her—more than has already, through
me. Iwish youtoseethat she has this money. Ste
would not acceptitifshe knew thatitcome from me.
Invent.any fiction you like by means of which to convey
it to, her.” :

He gave into the baron's hands a package, which, upon
examination, proved to be Bank of England notes for
thirty thousand pounds. It was what remained of the
money he had received from Lord Dane.

“What are you about to do, Volney ??? Chandos asked,
kindly. ‘‘Nothing rash, I hope?’ ‘

‘T hope not,”? Volney answered, “Iam simply going
away to avoid arrest. Lord Dane may be here any mo-
ment. J wish to spare er the ignominy of such a sight.
I depend on you to keep them from meeting.’’

Baron Chandos listened in a thoughtful, anxious way,
making slight response,

He was relieved on the one hand to see Volney so cool,
But for a cer-
tain drawn, and, as it were, pinched look in his face; but
for its extraordinary pallor, he seemed almost natural,
less excitement in his manner indeed than Baron Chan-
dos had knownin him since he came tothe chateau.
There was only that feverish, strange briliiancy of the
eyes to excite uneasiness.

“You don’t ask me whatI said to your wife or she to
me?” he said, looking at Velney.

‘If you have anything to tell me be good enough to do
so. Don’t call her my wife though now. She might not
like it.”

There was neither passion nor sarcasm in his voice.

“She is your wife, Yolney. That cannot be altered
now.”

“Tt can; it shall.!

“How can it—how shallit? Your desire to give Sybil
her freedom may be very sincere, my dear boy, but it is
entirely vain. If you were even a criminal English law
does not make her free from her marriage ties to you.”?

Volney scarcely seemed to hear him while he was speak-
ing.
His burning gaze was fixed npon the fire. But when
he ceased he said, without lifting his eyes, and in the same
passionless voice:

“Tknow a way.

Baron Chandos gave him a keen, scrutinizing look.

“What if Sybil does not wish her freedom ?”?

An instant a spot of hectic rose in Voiney’s thin cheeks,
then it died and left them whiter than before.

“You are kind enough, baron, to wish to make me think
so,’ he said; *‘but you caunotdoit. I have talked with
her myself. I know thatitis all she would ever wish
to hear me mentioned for again. Ihave wronged her
enough to be willing to do her this one kindness, and I
will.??

‘Will you tell me how ?"!

The baron came suddenly close to Heath and Jooked at
him with a steady, compelling gaze.

Volney avoided his glance.

“That is my secret,’’ he said, in a low voice.

“But you willtellme. You know lam the truest friend
you have in the werld.”

“Yes; but I cannot tell you this secret.
cannot.”?

Still the same unnaturally calm tones.
look at the baron.

Baron Chandos suddenly Jaid his hand heavily on the
young man’s shoulder,

“YT will tell vow, he said, in his magically sweet, firm
voice. “You are mad. You mean to take your own
life, and none buta madman or coward, or both, would
do that, under any circumstances.’?

Heath wiuced very slightly, shutting his eyes quickly
like one brought too abruptly from darkness into light.

“Tam nota coward ow,’ he said, almost under his
breath, without denying the baron’s other charge. “I
was before.”!

“You area greater coward now than ever, to try to
shirk in that Way what you have brought upon yourself,
instead of facing it. What do you imagine will become of
Sybil, without either you or her father???

“You will guard her awhile. Then she will marry—
brilliantly, as She wished to at first.”

“Never 7

Even the stern passion in the baron’s voice could not
make Volney lift his burning glances from the floor.
Perhaps he feared to have Chandos see what fiery looks
were behind those white drooped lids.

“Do you mean that you will oo befriend Sybilif she
should ever need it??? Volney asked.

“J do. You have wronged here—true—bitteriy per-
haps. But you have wronged yourself more than you
have her. Sheis your wife. She gave you her vows for,
your mutual lives. If, through her unwomanly unforgiv-
inguess of a conduct scarcely more venial than her own,
you are driven to take your own life, J will never befriend
her, NEVER, If in her selfish ambitious heart there is one
natural feeling, I mean to live only to find it. I will
make her suffer what you have, if J can.”

Was it the usually cool, wonderfully self-possessed Bar-
on Chandos uttering those passionate words, and in that
violent, denunciatory manner, with that bitter enyphasis?

Even now Volney did not Jook at him, did not seem
stirred out of his own strange calm. Was it as Baron
Chandos. suspected, the awful calm that precedes the
storm, the stillness and brooding that heaves above the
volcano’s crater?

Heath's next words startled him more than anything
that had gone before, though he spoke so quietly.

“I shall be compelled then to wait and see Lord Dane.

Believe me, I
And he did not

 

eraliieee ter taille

He will be only too eager to accept the charge you de-
cline. It is true that should have chosen to leave her
in the guardianship of a friend rather than an enemy.
But Sybil will marry him in the end, at any rate, He is
not her enemy now. She will soon cease to be mine.”

Baron Chandos’ hand dropped from Heath's shoulder.
He was staggered for once. He stared at Heath ina sort
of stupefaction. Could the man surrender to another so
coolly this woman for whom he had asit were sold his
own soul? How he must have changed. Could any man
really change so in six hours? It was certainly little
more than that since they two were riding together, and
Volney had declared with yehement and terrible passion
that he would kill Dane with hisown hand before he
would surrender Sybil to him.

Asecond terrible reflectioncame to Baron Chandos.
This almost superhuman Calmness he had seen occasion-
ally in people given over to die, men standing in such aw-
ful proximity to death that they seemed already to have
passed into that dreadful bound and to have divested
themselves of earthly passions,

“He is beyond argument, persuasion or influence of
mine,’’ he thought, “Perhaps it is better to let him wait
Dane’s coming. Timeis worth everything in his case.
Dane may not come at all, or if he does, matters will be
no Worse then than they are now.”

Baron Chandos had recovered his own equanimity by
this time. He suspected, he felt quite certain indeed that
| he had got a desperately bad business on his hands, That

 

Volney was entirely ip his right mind he did not at all

believe; and he mentally decided to stay and watch him.

He sat down accordingly.

Volney just glanced toward him under his eyelashes,
and bit his lips. Then he walked away to another part of

!theroom without looking up, anid threw himself into a
chair with his back to the baron.

The chair he had taken, had a high, carved, oaken
back, and was wide and spaciousenongh for fio persons.
The baron could not see-him at all, and this trifling fact
annoyed him. The idea had taken such firm possession
of him that Volney meant to destroy himself. :

“He could open a vein in his arm and_ bleed to death
there before my eyes,”? he said to himself, and rose and
sauntered that way.

Heath frowned slightly as he lifted his head at his ap-
proach, without looking at him. - He still avoided meeting
‘the baron’s glance, and the baron noticed it.

“Will you lend me your knife, Volney?*? he asked, as
unconcernedly as he could. He knew that Heath carried
a handsome and sharp pocket-knife.

; _Volney shrugged his shoulders slightly as he gave it to
lim.

Not a word more said either about the money which the
baron still had, not a word more of Sybil, of Lord Dane,
or any of those matters which it would haye seemed na-
tural to suppose in the minds of both,

The baron walked slowly across the room to-and-fro,
the knifein his hand, at first, but presently conveyed to
his pocket.

Ifthere had only been a mirror where he could get
Heath in range of it that he might watch him without his
suspecting it.

Voluey rose now in his turn, and crossing the room,
entered the one beyond.

Chandos followed him instantly.

He dared not remain behind.

He had got one glance into those persistently averted
eyes, and what he saw there, scared even him, resolute
and cool as it was his nature to be.

Volney did not seem to notice him. He wentfo a ward-
robe in theroom, took down a handsome dressing-gown,
and with it on his arm returned to the other room, where
he removed his traveling coat and put on the dressing-
gown instead. Then he took off his riding-boots and re-
placed them with slippers, after which he wheeled a
lounge toward the fire, and with a slight shiver, threw
himself upon it.

The baron could not see whether his eyes were closed
or not; he shaded them with his hand as he lay.

“Tf you don’t mind, Volney,’’ said the baron, carelessly,
‘T'll ring and have my slippers bronght. 1t’s lonesome in
my room to-night.”

“Stay here then, by all means. I should like your
company. 1 believe I've got the blue devils mysell, or
something else.”

Chandos rang, thinking that Heath spoke very natu-
rally—too naturally, indeed, he reflected the next
moment.

“If I could only give him a sleeping powder,’’ he
thought.

Then he went to atable with writing materials upon it,
and ascertaining that Heath could not see him, wrote a
few words on a slip of paper, which he contrived to give
to the man who answered the bell. This man was the
same with whom he had previously spoken, and he gave
the baron a look of intelligence as he took the slip of
paper,

: When he returned with the slippers, there was a tiny-
folded paper in the toe of one, Which Baron Chandos re-
moved and concealed in his breast-pocket.

~ Volney himself helped him to the next step in his pro-
gramme. He rose from his lounge, and brought a bottle
of wine from the other side of--the rogm with
glasses.

“Let us drink together, baron,”’ he said, “it may be the
last time.’? 4

With all my
lightly.
wine.”

He had the tiny-foldec

 

heart,’? Baron Chandos. responded,
“Give me the glasses, and do you pour the

 

paper ready...dJtwas not dim

contents of the paper info one of the glasses.

Chandos had given him in his hand.

“Baron,” he said suddenly, andas it were from some
strange impulse, ‘do you remember the night 1 met Vas-
sar at Leuseleigh, what 1 told you about the horrible
brute he had with him—the dog, you understand ?*

Chandos said yes, wondering what was coming now,
and rate also that Heath. still did not look up as he
talked,

“Did I ever show you where the creature tore my shoul-
der? See here, will yqu?”

He set his glass down on the mantelpiece, near which
they stood, and began to turn back his collar,

Involuntarily Chandos also set his glass down beside
the other, to assist him.

In an instant, while Chandos’ back was to them, Heath
had changed the glasses.

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.
We left Perdita hastening down the dangerons moun-

 

 

tain road as fast as she could urge the animal and vehicle
she had so cleverly obtained possession of. No wonder
Clever Dick stared after her in breathless admiration of
the daring ruse by which she had managed to outwit him.
The wonder was that she did not get pitched out of the
dog-cart upon the rocky road, going at that break-neck
pace; but the horse, one of those accustomed to the moun-
tain ways, was a more-than-ordinarily-sure-footed crea-
ture, and though the cart bumped up and down in a fright-
ful manner, and threatened to capsize every moment,
Perdita clung to the seat, and managed to stay where she
was,

Not so with the lean and vicious-looking cur that had
remained in the cart with Perdita, tied to the back of the
seat. His rope was long enough to admit of his leaping
about in a frantic manner, snapping and snarling, and
coming as near to the courageous girl as he dared for fear
ofthe whip with which she was obliged constantly to
threaten him. In one of the jolts caused by the uneven
and precipitous road, poor Snap presently came to grief.
He was tossed from the wagon pell-mell against the
wheel, and hung so, uttering yelp after yelp, that pierced
Perdita to the heart. She tried now to stop her horse,
but it was not so easily done, and failing that, she con-
trived to get out her faithful penknife once more, opening
it with her teeth, and cut the dog loose from theseat. All
the breath had been knocked out of him, however, before
that was accomplished, and Clever Dick found his hapless
remais lying there in the road when he and Mrs. Griff
came along. :

For thie first time then a spirit of vindictiveness and
malice mingled with his resolve to recapture Perdita and
take her back to the gloomy den from which she had es-
caped. He tramped on to the town in a sullen rage.
keeping a sharp lookout all the way for Perdita and the
dog-cart, or else the fragments of both, for it seemed next
to impossible that the bold girl could have kept up that
pace the whole way aud not smashed everything to
atoms, herself included.

Arrived in the town—not a large one—he looked sharply
in every direction for the cart or Perdita. Neither was
there—in fact, Perdita had proved herself “clever” again.
The little town at the foot of the mountain was not a rail-
way station. Perhaps, also, Perdita had a distrust of
stopping there for other reasons, At any rate she pushed
on toward the next, not even going through this one, but
almost round it.

In consequence, when Clever Dick and Mrs. Griff
reached the village and did not find her, they concluded
they must have missed her somewhere on the road, and
turned back to look, both realizing how much easier it
would be to take her back to Rylands by themselves, than
to have others know about it,

Perdita knew that this was nota railway station; she
Knew nothing more than that. She followed instinct
rather than ref#son, perhaps, in avoiding to enter the
town. She proceeded on the road that led past it, im-
agining it to be the one to the next town. But it was not.
It took her away in a very different direction, but so grad-
ually that she did not soon discover her mistake.

Now and then she looked behind to see if she was pur-
sued, as she feit pretty sure she should be. But no one
was in sight. Indeed, Clever Dick and Griff, when
they came down again from their fruitless search of the
mountain road, had gone toward the railroad themselves
and so missed her.

Perdita drove swiftly on over a way much smoother
than the descentof the mountain had been, but it was
evidently rather untraveled.

Perdita’s spirits began to rise as the day wore on—it
was past noon some time—and she found herself still un-
molested. She had eaten nothing since early that morn-
ing, when Cheeny had stood glowering at her while she
ate, so evidently amazed that she could eat under the
circumstances, Perdita laughed in her bright way as she
remembered it,

“I wish he knew I had got away,” she thought, saucily;
‘*the’d be more astonished than he was about the eating—
and that reminds me I'm hungry. I wonder if any one
lives about here! A cake of oatmeal and acup of milk
would taste deliciously just now.”! ;

She looked eagerly ahead, and on either side, but no
sign of habitation appeared. It seemed a rather wild and
desolate country to lie so near a town, Perdita fancied.
But she drove on in a cheerful mood, too well pleased at
her lucky escape from Rylands to get despondent. ~

 

She had guessed long before that she was going from,

 

sone.

cult, while Heath was wileorking the bottle, to convey tlie }
|
Volney poured the wine, and; stood with the glass |

:
' the door, an

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. tse=-

 

    

 

 

 

instead of toward, the railroad, but. hérsanguine spirit
had immediately found cause for congratulation in that
very event.

“They will look for me that way the first thing,’ she
thoughi, ‘and by the time they get on the right track I
mean to be beyond their reach, ifthe pony don't give out.
He must be hungry too, poor fellow,”

She drove on some hours yet, the horse taking his own
road, and tossing his head now and then, as Perdita fan-
cied, a8 though he knew where he was going. Suddenly
the apimal stood still—stopped as though he had been
told to, andthe young girl perceived at her right a low
old gate setin the midst of what seemed the crumbling
remains of a stone wall.

“It looks as though some one lived here,’ she mur-
mured, climbing out of the dog cart and going forward to
peep through the bars of the gate. She could see noth-
ing but the faint road track, similar to the one outside,
only less traveled,

Perdita stood a moment looking throngh; then she
holds reached the hasp which closed it and opened the
gate.

The horse did not wait for bidding, but trotted forward
and through wilh a whinny of pleasure.

Perdita dropped behind. “Ill see where he goes,” she
Said, with her natural caution, though it had not struck
her with any misgiving—the fact that the animal seemed
to know the place so well. She had noticed it too, but
Without any real distrust.

She watched eagerly for what. might be ahead, and
presently descried an opening in the trees, and then a
wall, with the tops of fruit trees beyond it. As she drew
nearer she could see another wall like, that of a honse,
and a stack of chimneys rising. There were shutters on *
all the windows she could get sight of, and these had
stont wooden bars nailed across on the outside.

Having first tied the horse. who seemed to wonder at
not being at once admitted inside the inclosure, the young
girl made the cireuit of the stone wall, and found a gate,
which was, however, fast locked with a bolt and padlock
too. What she could see of the house on this side pre-
sented the same aspect of barred shutters and unoccupa-
tion, and yet such glimpses as could be got of the gurden
showed that it had been Carefully tended very recently,
and she was almost positive she had seen smoke rise
from one of the chimneys, though none seemed there bow.

Perdita glanced back again at the nailed shutters.

‘Why are they nailed on i; outside that way, 1 won-
der ?? she mused. ‘There is some mystery here,’? she
said to herself again, thoughtfully... ‘It does not concern
me, itis none of my business. I have no right to try to
penetrate it, and yet I feel an irresistible desire to do so.
Beside I am tired and hungry, aud if I can obtain rest
and food I ought.” Fy REED A ID

She examined the wall again, for some other entrance
than the locked gate she had found,

“There must be a gate to the stables,’ she reasoned;
“and as the horse seems to have been here before, he
may know it.’’

She contrived to detach the animal from the dog cart,
and to her delight he started briskly forward, by a path
she had not nouced in the deepening gloom, and sure
enough led her to another entrance, which did not prove
to be the one to the stables. This was locked also, but
not near so securely, and Perdita managed to pry the
fastening off with a stone and a bit of an old horse shoe.

She let the horse enter first; and seeing that he attracted
no attention, she followed, closing the gate by which she
had come in behind her. .

At the opposite extremity of this yard wasanother gate,
only latched, and this ted into wWliat seemed a sort of veg-
etable garden. The flowers lay Still on beyond, an@ 2
pleasant green lawn, detted with bushes, skirted the
liouse near by. :

“T should like to know if any one is inside there,’’ re-
peated Perdita, studying the house as sheslowly advanced
in the twilight; “it don’t look like it, and yet | feel just as
though there is. There’s a door. Vll try at all events.”

She went boldly up and Knocked lightly.

‘There was no answer, and all within the house seemed
silent as a tomb.

Perdita knocked again. She was beginning. in spite of
her courageous young spirit. to feel a little nervous and
uncomfortable. But she quickly threw it off and knocked
a third time still louder. ‘Then she tried the door only to
find it locked. But atthe same moment slic fancied she
heard aslight sound above her head.

She looked up just in time to see a face appear there,
and be instantly withdrawn.

There was a window or some sort of opening over the
door, and it was through that the head seemed to have
been thrust.

A cold shiver ran through Perdita at the strangeness
and suddenness of the incident, not at the face itself, for
even in that brief glimpse she had seen that it was a
child’s face, a thin, pinched, white little face, with big
mild eyes that seemed to half fill it.

“It is very strange,” thought the young girl, forgetting
her own friendless situation, and trying to conquer that
feeling of terror which the ‘hour, the lonely place, the
gioomy, silent house all contributed toexcite. “Can any
one have shut a little child in here to starve?”

sSiabent her bright-head and spoke alend through the
keyho}e Of the door. ee
‘q pave lostmy way, lam tired and bungyy aud know
not wiltere to go. please.to let me in for the Mipat" ">
| There see: a whispered consultation. got
| ineitea, though ‘ard nothing but tie hiss OR ye

f, and sca mudi then “after a lfp
: b-éver the.oor.

ore

 

 

 

 

    

 

ely Uaat
n appears

oie _ gay Me

    
 

 

. PRCT oa eae et
i we sbut up in here,” it said, 10 piping, le
| toliecs; “mamma and I,and mamma is tov sick to open

{ata too litle. Manina‘says if you cunid
j find an ax or a hatchet you could get the blind open

maybe,” f .

Perdita listened with quick intelligence, nodding her
small lead cheerily to the child. ‘ "

“Where shall I look for the ax? This way or that???

The child pointed.

*-There’s a wooud-house round there.”

Perdita ran away to find it. There was daylight enough
to show her, not the ax’she had come for, buta stout iron
fork with a heavy oak hunale,

“This will do,” decided Perdita, and ran back to the
door where she had left'the child.

There was a window each side of ‘this door, and the
shutter of each was closed so that it could not be opened
from within by wooden bars nailed across on the outside.
Perdita slipped the handle of the fork under one bar over
the other and bore down with all her strength.

As it chanced, the bars of this particwar window haa
been nailed to unsound wood; consequently, at almost
the first effort, they loosened and fell uff There was a
large stone garden vase at the foot of the steps. It was
not. so heavy as it looked, and Perdita contrived to bring
it and place it under the window so she could stand upor
it. By that means she got the shutters open and then
the window, which swung inward on hinges.

She stood and looked in upon astrange and moying
scene. The room into which shesaw was large and hand-
somely furnished, a rich carpet on the floor, paintings on
the walls and cushioned chairs and lownges about it.
Upon a heap of cushions in the very middle of the room
& Woman, Whose beauty was very striking even now, lay
dying, seemingly. She looked like a magnificent rain,
her features perfect, like a carving, her biack hair drawn
back in a tangled mass from her face, her black eyes
blazing with luster as, they fell on Perdita, A lamp
burned on a chair nearher. The child whose face Per-
dita had seen stood between the woman and the window,
fixing a bold, bright, questoning gaze upon. Perdita.
He looked not more than three years old, a fearléss, hand-
some child, with eyes and hair like his. mother, but a
something in lus face that was like someone else, who
the young girl did not try to remember, scarce conscious
even of the thrill of repugnance it caused...

Involuntarily obeying the terrible urgency in the dying
woman's eyes, Perdita climbed through the window and
down upon the carpet.

As she drew near the woman she saw that the earpet
forsome distance round seemed wet, its bright colors
soaked in some dark fluid, and the littie boy’s white pin-
afore had red stains upon it.

Then all at once the horrible truth burst upon her. The
stains were blood. Tle carpet was wet with blood.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
————__ 2 ——__

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THE
Midnight Prophecy;

HeIR OF STRATHSPEY TOWERS.

By Mrs. Schuyler Meserole,
Author of “WEDDED FOR AN HOUR,” ete.

 

» Midnight! Prophecy”? was commenced in No. 33. Back
be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.]

 

CHAPTER XXXIil.
AT THE BALL.

The elegant mansibn on the sunny side of St. James's
square, Was one blaze of light, and the princely drawing-
rooms, With their velvet: diangings, and wax-lights, and
gorgeous hot-louse blooms, were rapidly filling with the
elité of London.

In her chaniber overhead, the dowager countess was
stumping up and down, and rattling lier cane in high
anger,

In her gleaming blue tissue, with the Mortlake diamonds
blazing amid her.sunny curls,. and upon her fair. bosom
and dimpled arms, sat Lady Marguerite, wailing to be
presented to the man who was to be her husband, and the
sharer of all her untold weaith, and he did not come.

“Just like the insolent begger,’’ stormed the countess,
“tis what I might have expected of him. But never
mind, my dear,’ turning to Lady Pearl, ‘never mind,
Ili cut the beggar off, and you shall have everything I
possess, and choose yourself a husband in the bargain.
With your beauty and your dowry you can have your
pick of the best menin England. I believe lam glad of
it on the whole. Come, we'll not wait for him another
moment.”

She shook out her stiff brocade, and seized her cane
preparatory to descending, but at that instant, the rattle
of wheels were heard below, and almost in the same
breath, a servant entered.

“Sir Bayard Brompton, your highness,’’ he announced.

The countess rattled hercane,

“Tt isn’t possible,” she cried, “why, my sir baronet,
stands upon ceremony, and makes himself wait! I've half-
a-mind to send him back. But we'll see him—conduct him
to the library, Sinipkins.’’

‘he valet bowed and withdrew, and the countess turn-
ed to Lady Marguerite.

“‘Now, my dear,’? she said, ‘let usgo and look at this
fellow who is to. be your husband.’

The poor little girl was trembling like a leaf, but the
merciless old dowager drew her along, with an amused
langh.

A tall figure came forward to meet them, as they enter-
ed the library.

“Sir Bayard Brompton ?* questioned the countess, re-
tim Keenly above her goggies.
itleman bowed, and extende:t his hand. <A tail
sly gentieman he was, well-dressed, with a fair,

x an wnwistakable air of grace aud
¥

 

 
 

 

very happy to meet your ladyship again,” he te-

 

     

- eanutess Cal him short.
2 Hyd She Su@hted, “yotfTe wondrousiy happy, h
iy ess) FOU come in Syrht of me these fins
ars see me nora?’ J
p bly. t aie
thx us re oeCT Tevin Lover the world,
von Khow, e 3 slow, musi yoice ind be-
sides, J m not the begging y tedyship’s rdon,
to hang round my rich reiations
“You're not, e Too provi-to as what you covet ?

inding off, and praying hourly jormy death

“My dear countess, you do me great injustice.’

“Qh, fiddiesticks! [know you! But never mind, let’s
come to the jioint:in question. You have come at my
bidding, Buyird Brompton Waye you come to obey me?”

Sir Bayard turned, and bowed low before the treinbling
girl who clung to the arm of the countess.

“If this young lady is the onein question,” he said, with
flattering emphasis, ‘1 am ready to obey.”

The old dowager smiled grimly, as she Jed Lady Mar-
guerite forward.

“This young lady is the one,”? she said. ‘Lady Mar-
guerite Strathspey, Countess of Mortlake, I present you to
Sir Bayard Brompton, yeur future husband.”

Lady Marguerite, blushing like a rose, extended her

4

hand. The baronet clasped it, and raised it gallantly to
his lips. ;
“My dear countess,’”? he said, “I cannot express my

gratitude, but I beg leave—might I ask if Lady Marguerite
is entirely satisfied? Wonldit not be better, before any
formal engagement is anuounced, to let us get a little
better acquainted ?”?

‘Do you find any fault with Lady Marguerite, Sir
Bayard ?” questioned the'countess severely.

“Not I, your highness,’ smiled the baronet, his eyes
lighting with admiration, ‘I only fear she may find fault
with me.’?

“If she'don’t ivll be a wonder,*’ snapped the dowager:
“but she’s promised to take you fauits and all. New, I
want your answer, do you agree to my proposal or not?”

‘I agree toit, with all my heart!”?

“Then, there’s nothing more to be said. Here Mar-
@tierite, take Bayard’s arm, and we'll go down at once.
You can settle upon your wedding diy at your leisure.*’

And Lady Pearl, in her gleaming ball-dress, with the
wondrous Mortlake diainonds, encircling her girlish brow,
like a crown of light, accepted the buronet’s arm, and
descending to the grand rooms beiow, made her first ap-
pearance in the eyes of the London world, a countess, and

a plighted bride.
! CILAPTER XXXIV.
THE BARONET PUZZLES H1S OLD’ FRIENDS.

The band was playing a Strauss Waltz, the “Beaatiful
Blue Danube,” and Lady Marguerite, in Sir Bayara’s em-
brace, was floating, like a vision of light, down the long
lancing hail

; es followed the beautiful young debutante with

i, and her father and Lady Neville looked on,
veli s and content,

A dozen marriageable men, who had purposely attended
the ball for an introduction to the earl’s daughter, watch-
ed her, as slie whiried away to the rhythmic numbers of
the music, grumbling spitefully at the folly of: binding
such a pretty creature in chains, before she had a sight
of the world. :

“Pll wager something handsome that she tires of Sir
Bayard, aud wishes herself free,’* remarked Captain
Eversham, a handsome young officer of the Queen’s
guards, Who hoped to make his fortune by a brilliant
marriage.

“You don’t tell me that’s the baronet? cried Sir
Roderic Hughes, an Irish peer, who had once been inti-
mate with Sir Bayard.

“That's the man, and a fortunate one heis,” replied the
captain.

“What! the man she is walking with?’ continued Sir
Roderic.

“Yes; what makes you stare so? Didn't yon see her
enter the room on his arm? And yonder’s the old
countess in their wake! Heavens, what diamonds Lady
Marguerite wears! They’re fairly dazzling, and she’s as
lovely as a primrose,”’

“And that’s Sir Bayard Brompton ?’' continued the Irish
iord; “you are sure of it, Eversham!"?

The captain faced about to look at his companion.

“Yes, I'm sure of it” he replied; “‘what’s to hinder him
from being Sir Bayard 9”?

“Well, whistled the peer, “his own mother wouldn't
recognize him, that’s all! Iused to know Sir Bayard,
and if that’s he, no man ever changed so! THe must have
died and come to life ayain in his travels.’

“Travel in the East always changes a man,” suggested
the captain—“he’s a handsome fellow, and a dused lucky
one! Why couldn’t that old ogre have chosen me for her
heir and Lady Pearl's husband, I wonder!’

Lord Roderic laughed.

‘Don't be envious, captain,” he said, “let Brompton
enjoy his good luck, he deserves it—a finer fellow never
lived, Come, Uli go and make myself known to him, and
get you anu introduction to the young countess, on the
strength of my o!d acquaintanceship.”'

“What's the use,’’ snaried the captain, “if there’s no
oneal of winning her.’

“Many & slip ’twixt the d the lip,’ sugges
Lord Relea, I cup and the lip, suggested

And as the clashing instruments ceased, and the
sweiling notes of the “Beautiful Blue Danube,’ died into
silence, they made their way through the glittering crowd
to the baronet’s side.

Lord Roderic touched him lightly on ‘the shoulder. He
turned with a polite stare,

“How are you, Sir Bayard?’ cried the Irish peer, I

 

 

 

 

 

’
:
'

 

i} Saw tle many-colored coat OF T.s favori

am heartily glad to meet you again, but ’pon my soul
you've changed so, I never should have known you.”

“Shouldn't you?’ returned the baronet, his light-gray
eyes shifting uneasily, and a red flush rising to his cheeks.
“Well—one’s memory will get treacherous—I’m not sure
—well, I really believe you have the advantage of me?”?

‘What?? cried the Irishman, breaking into alaugh,
“do you pretend to say you’ve forgotten me? Don’t you
remember me, Sir Bayard Brompton, your sworn friend,
Roderic Hughes, of Dunkirk Castle?’’

“Why, to be sure,’ replied Sir Bayard, but with increas-
ing embarrassment; ‘‘how stupid of me to let your name
slip. Iam glad to meet you, Lord Roderic. Ailow ine,”
he continued, turning, and bowing to Lady Marguerite,
“to present you to one of my old friends—Lady Margue-
rite Strathspey, I have the honor of making you ac-
quaintance with Lord Roderic Hughes.”

Lady Marguerite bowed inthe most lady-like manner,
and expressed herself very much pleased to make the
peer's acquaintance; and then Captain Eversham was
duly presented. And being a trifle bold, as milftary men
are apt to be, he begged the honor of her ladyship’s hand
in the ensuing dance. And while they whirled away
down the glittering hall, the two oid friends strolled off,
arm in arm, chatting of departed days.

‘‘T tell you, Eversham,’? said Lord Roderic, meeting
with the captain an hour or so later, “if that man is Sir
Bayard Brompton, as you assert, there’s something aw-
fully wrong with him. He’s an idiot, or a Junatic, lcan’t
determine which. Nota whit like the Sir Bayard of five
years ago! I used to be fond of Brompton, but I don’t
fancy this fellow with his oily tongue and restless eyes.
Iam afraid the earl has made a poor choice for his pretty
daughter.”?

CHAPTER XXXY.
THE DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER.

Doctor Renfrew was.getting tobe an oldman. He had
given up his practice almost entirely, and sat through the
pleasant spring afternoons on the sunny grass-plot in
front of his door, looking out upon the bold, bleak cliffs
beyond the Scottish border.

His good wife had long ago gone to her last rest, and
Maggie, his only child, was the old man’s sole comfort
and companion, And arare damsel she was, inheriting
all her father’s shrewd and practical inteliect, and her
mother’s fair and feminine beauty. She was the prettiest
lass in Northumberland, with her pearl-fair face and
golden-brown , hair, and she was also the most accom-
plished scholar and the most skillfnl housekeeper. In
the early years of his married life Doctor Renfrew had de-
plored his want of ason, but as Maggie grew into wo-
manhood the regret left him. She seemed to be son and
daughter combined. She could harness his pony, and
compound a dose of medicine, and write out a difficult
Greek or Latin exercise with the same graceful ease that
she exhibited in making a cup of tea or singing a charm-
ing ballad. She was the most skillful housekeeper, the
most perfect dancer, the most experienced nurse on the
whole border; and at the same time she was the prettiest,
most innocent and unaffected child in the wide world.
if ever man was proud of a child the old doctor was proud
of Maggie. He lived in the sunlight of her presence, and
thought the king on his throne not half good enough to be
her husband.

But Maggie had no thought of a husband, she was de-
voted to her father, ana tenderly attached to her old home,
and thoroughly contented and happy to the core of her
imnocent, girlish heart.

The pleasant years drifted quietly along, deepening the
glow on Maggie's round cheeks, and the womanly light
in her pretty eyes, and bringing the old doctor farther and
farther down the declining hill of life.

He jas an eminently happy man, with but one single
disturbing element in his peaceful old age. And that was
and had been for twelve long years, his regret for the un-
accountable disappearance of the Countess of Strathspey,
and his anxiety in regard toher last charge and re-
quest.

In the little spare ch#mber adjoining Maggie’s bed-
room, under strong bolts and bars, were the jewels and
other yaluables that the unfortunate woman liad leftin
his hands for her segi, the son sheso fondly believed
would one day be restored to his rigiits.

Immediateiy after her mysterious disappearance, Ju-
dith Ford had contrived to deposit them in Doctor Ren-
frew’s hands, in obedience to her lady's last request;
jewels, and antique vases, and gold and silver, making
quite a little dowry; and sacredly preserved with the rest
the little baby slip and quilted jlannel cloak which little
Romulus wore when the old Switzer shepherd found
him.

But of little Romulus himself, since that summer day
when he was caught up and spirited away in the Tyrol val-
ley, no tidings had been heard.

Doctor Renfrew was the last man in the world to make
a promise and fail inits performance. He promised Lady
Strathspey, when warned by astrange and prophetic
presentiment, she entreated him to find her son and look
to his interests, that he would, and most faithfully had he
endeavored to do so. ,

i Once every Summer since the disappearance of the
eentess the old doctor and Maggie had journeyed down
to the Alpine valley, and made the old couple a visit, hop-
ing that they might, have gained some clue to the fate of

 

 

 

 

 

 

the boy, ! ulin vain; inquiry, investigation, the offer
of large rewards brought no tidings, and the little found-
li

of the mountains and -his unfortunate mother both
seemed Te-he.as effectually lost as if they had been spirited

 

 

aWiy to. some other pituel. #4 #
| he old..shepherd-of tihes®yrgk-ard his wife - mourned
over the loss of their favor, 4,.g .«2Ceb mourned wlien he

 

te son, all stained

with blood; and the summers bloomed and faded, and

witter after winter piled its snows upon the Alpine peaks,
1L never a word wassheard of little Romulus,

Doctor Renfrew gave up the search.

“The boy’s dead, and so is the poor countess,
to Maggie, upon the occasion of their last journey. “lve
done all that man can do, and now I must giveitup. L
am getting to be an old man, and there’s no use in pur-
suing 2 shadow any longer. I don’t know what we shall
do about the jewels aud things, unless we surrender
them to Lord Strathspey. They tell me his lawyers haye
laid claim to Aukland Oaks, and that bit of property in
France, long ago; and I suppose he might as well have
ht?»

But pretty Maggte shook her head,

“No, father, we’ve no right to do that—Lady Strath-
spey left those things in your hands for her son, and until
her son is found, it is our duty to Keep them.”

‘But her son will never be found, Maggie!’’

“There's no telling, father dear, what may happen—the
poor countess herself may turn up one of these days! At
any rate we’ll not surrender her jewels yet.”’

he said

gie’s vigorous young will; and the quaint, old jewels,
and massive plate, remained in their hiding-place in the
little spare bed-chamber. But Doctor Renfrew abandoned
the search, and looked upon the whole thing as being ut-
terly hopeless.

It.was toward the close of a May afternoon thal, the
doctor and Maggie, sitting in their southern parlor,
through whose open windows the breeze came cool and
fresh from the Scottish hills, were surprised by a visit
from Judith Ford.

“Why, Judith, my lass,’? cried the old man, throwing
aside his book, and extending his hand, “I’m more than
glad to see you—and looking as blithe. and buxom as
ever. Sit down, my girl, and tellus where in the world
you’ve been hiding yourself these last two or thee years.”’

Judith sat down in the chair that Maggie offered ler.

“oTjs rather a hard matter to tell, doctor,’’ she replied;
“T’'vye been in so many places. I’ve been like Noal’s doye,
traveling to an fro upon the face of the earth.’’

‘Poor thing!’ sighed the doctor, ‘‘and all to. no pur-
pose?’?

“As yet, all to no purpose, doctor,’? she replied.

“And it will never be any better, Judith, you’l never
find your mistress; she’s dead aud gone long ago, poor,
young thing.’

Judith’s brown eyes looked solemnly through the win-
dow toward the far-off Outline of the Scottish hills, full of
asad determination.

‘Perhaps not,’’? she replied; “but Ishallneyer give up
the search.
ing eise to live for now, and one had better pursue a hope-
less search than be idle.”

“True enough, my poor Judith,
pityingly; ‘‘and where are you living now? At your old
place Wilh the Duchess of Caernothan ?"’

“No, sir, lam where [have been trying to get for the
last five years, in Lacy Neville’s family. J. am Lady Mar-
guerite Strathspey’s maid.”

“Indeed! And what Kind of a personage may her
young Jadyship be ??

‘Her mother over again! They are all over at Strath-
spey Towers, now.’’

‘At Strathspey Towers? you don’t tell me, Judith?”

‘Yes, sir. Lord Strathspey and his son and daughter,
and Sir Marshall Neville. and his family, and a gay crowd
from London. We came down ou Wednesday, and this
is the first chance I have had to get to see yon.”’

“How does Strathspey look ?”’ asked the doctor.

“He hasn't changed at all, but he’s very silent and
moody, almost ill-tempered at times, and thoroughly mis-
erable, one can see that at a glance.”’

“As he ought to be,’* returned the doctor, with rising
indignation; ‘‘the black-hearted scoundrel, I’ve seen the
day that Lloved him like a son, and I would not speak to
him in the open street to-day.’

“I’m sorry for Lord Sirathspey,’’ spoke Maggie, looking
up from her needle-work.

“So am I,’ echoed Judith.

“Sorry for him because he broke his wife's heart, and
then connived at her murder??? stormed the doctor.
“Why, Maggie, ’m ashamed of you.”

“Tum sure he had no hand in her disappearance,’ said
Judith; ‘I lave found out some little in regard to her fate,
doctor—she was carried off toa mad-house.”’

“Just what Ihave always supposed; and whose work
was it, if it wasn’t her husband’s?”

‘Lady Neviile’s and Sir Marshall’s,. ITamsure the earl
had no hand in it, yet he’s very bitter against her.”

“The jealous idiot,” continued the old Scotchman; ‘he
ought to suffer, and he will. I’ye never met him but
once since he parted from his wife, and I don’t care to
meet him again, Our interview was anything but pleas-
ant; I let him have my mind pretty freely, and left him in
adelightful rage. They tell me he goes intosociety again;
I wonder if he won’t be taking another wife before long?”

“I think not,’? Judith replied; ‘the loved his countess
too much, and mourns her loss too deeply for that.’?

“Fiddlesticks! Pretty way he took to show his love,
now didn't he ??

‘He was insane with jealousy, father,’’ interposed
Maggie; “and you cannot but admit that appearances
were strongly against the countess. It was @ rash step,
that secret journey of hers down tothe Tyrol, under the
care of her old Jover too!’’

 

’ said the old man,

The doctor acquiesced, as he did in all things, to Mag- |

It may be hopeless, as yousay, but I’ve noth- J

“No matter; her husband should have trusted her, and
listened to her explanation. No man should dare to
doubt his wife’s fidelity under any circumstances, a bit
sooner than he’d presume to murder her.”

“But all men are not so chivalrous asyou are, father,”
said Maggie; ‘‘andI think the poor earl is greatly to be
pitied. Whata romance it would be if the countess were
to come back, and a reconciliation take place! Dear me,
I wish she would! Judith, do you really believe she’s
dead ?”

“They say she is, Miss Maggie! I heard Lady Neville
and the earl talking about it a few days ago. [ wasn’t
savesdropping, but I was in the library window, wiping
off the glass, and they came in and began to talk before I
could get out; and wnenI heard my poor lady’s name
called I remained behind the curtain and listened.”

‘Doing evil that good may abound?’ laughed the doc-
tor.

“I'd do worse than that, sir, to find my dear lady,’ re-
plicd Judith promptly, ‘‘andthink it no wrong either.
Yes, I stood still and listened, and Lady Neville said:

“Well, the poor creature is dead now, and I am glad of
it, and you ought to be glad too, Angus, for the sake of
your children. When Margueriteis married and takes
her place in society as the Countess of Mortlake, it would
be unpleasant, to say the least, for her to find out that her
mother was a poor, depraved creature shut up in a mad-
house!

‘« Wush! said the earl between his teeth, ‘no matter
what I think of her myself, no one else shalt speak ill of
her, not even you, Camilla? And I wish to Heaven you
had not meddled in the matter at all! Ishall never cease
to regret the step you took—it will haunt me till the day I
die; the thought that she died in amad-house,no matter
how weak and erring she was!’

 

   
 

  

ai

     
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
    

 

ungrate-

t
\
t

 

 

room.

“You'll have to hurry a trifle, Janet,’’ Said her ladyship;
*‘we have no time to lose, and I do not care to be late.”
~ So Janet set to work with nimbie fingers. She was an
drtiste in her way, and her taste in dress was exquisite.

“Really, Janet, I must compliment your skill,’’ said the
earl’s handsome sister, surveying herself in the mirror;
“my hair is perfect. And now,’ she added, graciously,
“be good enougit to select what ornaments I shall wear;
no Goubt you know better than I.”’

Janet surveyed her with a critical eye, from. the crown
of her handsome blonde head tothe flowing train of her
sweeping black velvet robe.

‘Diamonds,’ she said, curtly, unlocking the jewel-case;
“the solitaire in your bosom, and these bracelets—not the
bandean, ’tis too heavy—and these camelias are much
more becoming, with a sprig of green aud scarlet to give
them color.” :

Lady Neville smiled as Janet clasped the jewels, and
fastened the flowers in her hair.

“T shall have to bribe you away from Lady Marguerite,”’
she said, pleasantly; ‘tl have not been so weil dressed in
amonth. And there’s the carriage!—and here comes Li-
dy Pearl! My cloak and gloves, please!"’

Janet brought them, and as she threw the elegant man-
tle over the stately matron's shoulders, she said, in her
quiet way:

“Tam very sorry, Lady Nevike, but I shallbe compelled
to leave on Monday.”’

Lady Neville turned, and stared at her in amaze.

“Jo leave, Janet?’ she cried, ‘‘For what reason, pray ?
Do you want higher wages? What isit?’’

“No, my lady; my wages are satisfactory,-but there are
personal matters that force me to leaye, and I regret it
very mucli.’’

“So do I,’ said her ladyship, candidly. ‘‘Youare a@ re-
fined, capable girl, and I should very much like Lady Mar-
guerite to keep you after her marriage, Janet. You would
have a permanent home.”’

“Tam very sorry,’? said Janet, “but Tam compelled to
go, at least for a time.”’

“But you will come back tome, Janet!’ cried Pearl,
who had entered and heard the conversation—‘‘you will
come back to me?”’

“Indeed I will, my dear young lady, just as soon
can,’? replied Janet, the tears rising to her eyes.

‘Well,’ said Lady Neville, ‘Lam softry; but if it can-
not be helped, there’s no use in wasting words about it.
Come, Marguerite, the carriage waits, and we shall bare-
ly make the drive in time.’?

They swept out of the room and down the broad stair-
case, and Janet, crossing to the window, watched them

ag. I

 

ere nen a nn

as they entered the carriage.

f of What it meant.

 

Sir Bayard Brompton, who was a guest at the Towers,
was their escort, of course. Heran down the steps, bow-
ing and smiling, and assisted them into the carriage, and
Janet's watchful eyes saw that Lady Marguerite, in her
golden drapery, shrunk away from his touch with ill-con-
cvaled aversion,

“Poor little Pearl!’? she sighed, and the tears that filled
her eres overflowed and trickled down her cheeks—‘‘poor
| little Pearl! She dislikes him now, and she’ll hate him by-
and-by. Poor little girl, who never knew a mother's love!
It breaks my heart to leave her in the trouble that’s com-
ing; but I must, I must go and find my lady! There’s
something in my heart that tells me I must go!’

She turned from the window into the sumptuous apart-
ment. All the rooms at the Towers were very quaint and
grand, and this one chosen by Lady Neville was very
large, and gorgeously furnished in blue and gold. Just
across was a suite of three, in pink and white and gold,
Which the earl had especially refurnished for his daught-
er, and beyond, gloomy and silent, was the great crimson
state-chamber, the birth and bridal-room of the Strath-
Speys, closed and locked, and filled with haunting
specters,

Janet Burns stood looking about her, the pale, flaxen
hair pushed back from her brow, her heart filled with
memories. of days gone by. She half fancied she could
sce the countess as she !ooked in the early days of her
happy Wifehood, tripping through the grand rooms, and
filling them with music and sunshine. And now, where
Was she? Shut up in a mad-house, or perhaps dead of a
broken heart! The girl locked her hands in fierce deter-
mination, her-cyes glowing beneath. her frilled cap.

“Til find her,’? she said, ‘if she’s alive or dead—l1l find
her, my dear, dear lady!’

She turned to the silver and ebony toilet-table, and be-
gan to gather up the costly trifles and put themin their
respective places—jewels, and laces, and dainty gloves,
and gold perfume-flasks, and all the nameless parapher-
nalia of a fine lady’s toilet.

Presently she picked up a little mother-of-pearl card-
case, and as she was in the act of slipping it into a draw-
er, it fell from her hand, scattering its contents on the
carpet at her feet.
Junet gathered them up, pretty embossed cards, all in-
scribed with noble names, and was returning them to the
case, buf one, coarser and larger than the rest, obstructed
the closing of the lid. She drew it out, and in so doing
tle printed names upon it arrested her attention.
“Milford Grange, Private Asylum for the Insane.
tors J. T. Crane and George McIntosh, managers.’
For the moment she held itin her hand, half unconscious
Then the truth flashed upon her. She
uttered a joyful cry:
“Thank Heaven, I have found the clue at last!”
[TO BE CONTINUED. }

> o<+—_______

RED DICK,
THE TIGER OF CALIFORNIA!

By E. Z. C. Judson,

[Red Dick” was commenced in No. 31. Back numbers can be
tuned of any News Agent in the United States.]

CHAPTER XLII.

Breathless from the terrible exertion made in bursting
rom the strong larfat which bound him to the tree, Cin-
amon Tom rolled forward face down on the ground,
riwere for a few moments he lay even more helpless than
had been before. And wellit was. For through it,
d now, occurred one of those proofs that we are in the
ands of a benificent Providence—which if it occurs but
mce in a long life time, cannot be forgotten, or so disre-
arded as to make the recipient other than a faithful be-
ever in His mercy—in His goodness, in His Almighty
ower, WHO doeth ali things well.

After he felland while gathering breath so as to turn
pbver, Tom heard a heayy, crunching step, and in a second
1e realised that one of those huge monsters of the Cali-
ornian forest, a grizzly bear, was approaching.

Helpless, yet bound hand and foot, he knew that but
pne thing aside from Providential aid, would save him.
tie’ must remain motionless, breathless too, as far as he
ould, and simulate death itseif. He heard its slow,
Bhambling step—he dared not try to look at it, for it was
yery near—a moment more and its hot breath was felt as
t snuffed over his prostrate body.

Oh, what a terrible moment, If it discovered that life
yas there, a blow from its terrible claws—or a crunching
between its fearful jaws, would have put out his lamp for-
ver. And he knewit. Not a nerve trembied, nota
reath shook his frame.

The bear, with one paw, half turned his body, stiffened
by strong will, then satisfied with its inspection passed on
© where several great salmon lay on the bank of the
reck, where the robbers in their sport the afternoon be-
lore had tossed thems

These great fish, weighing from twenty up to thirty and
rty pounds each, were adelicious feast to the ravenous
nimal—that, next to the honey of the wild bees, being
S greatest favorite—and it crunched them down with an
opetite which showed that poor Tom would not have
ksted long had the bear preferred flesh to fish.

Tom had to lie quiet, and Jisten, and hope the bear
ould get gorged so that it would go to its lair to rest,
id it seemed as if the whole day was wasting while the
ast went on and he lay motionless.

To stir and thus attract the notice of the bear would be
ertain death.

Oh, how thought crowded upon him all this time. Where
ow was poor Anita? This was uppermost in: his*mind.
[ad the fiendish Dacotah slain her? Or—he dared not
think—lest his agony would make him shudder, or move,
or groan aloud. ,

Ah, it seemed as if hours—the whole day was gone,
when the bear, gorged-and satisfled, came back to where
he was—again snuffed at his body, and then passed on.
Tom had been cold before—almost chilled to death.
Now the sweat rolledfrom his body in huge, trickling
drops.

But the bear was gone. When he could hear its steps
growing fainter and more faint as it wandered into the
forest, he turned over and gazed first at the sky, to judge
from the sun how late it was, then around him.

He raised his body to a sitting posture and thought how
he might best work to unfasten his hands. For if they
were free, his legs would not long be in bonds. He thought
if he could wet the rope in the brook, he might draw his
hands out from the knots. Sohelay down and roiled
over and over till he reached the water, and then lay with
the knots at his back soaking in it for several minutes.
When satisfied that they were thoroughly soaked, he
rolled out and used every muscle to strain the rope so
that he could free himself. Alas! it wasin vain. His
arms and hands were swollen and numb—he liad but little
strength left in them. He pulled till it seemed as if his
joints would leave their sockets. Hecould not release his
hands,

Without he did, he could not free his legs so as toeven
walk away fromthe camp to which Red Dick and his com-
rades might return at any moment.

What could he do? He could not even gnaw away the
strong rope at his knees—he tried it and failed. What
good, if he did, while his hands were bound behind him?
Tears coursed down his manly cheeks, and he groaned:
“Oh, Heaven! what can I do to save Anita now?”

Ah! he sees a log’blazing up as the wind freshens, and
a thought, worthy of the hero, came to his mind. . Even
though it burned tlie flesit to the bone he would sunder
the lariat by fire. He rolled to the side of the log, worked
till his back was toward it, and then reached back his
hands till the rope Was above the fire.

lt was terrible, that fire eating into the flesh, but he
bore it. The chords of his wrist in front would be the
last to suffer, and though the flesh on his arms went, he
might yet be strong enough to aid her; for, all this time,
he had but one thought—to get free, and help poor Anita.
He could hear the wet hide ‘‘s/zzle’—if I may use the
term—he suffered such agony that the sweat roiled down
from his brows; but he uttered no groan. Firmly he held
iis pinioned wrists to the fire, straining all the time to
part the burning bonds.

——Atiast tiey parted! and with hands, wrists, and arms
rel and raw, burned into the very bone, his hands were
free! a

He loosened the thongs which bound his legs and an-
kes, and turew them upon the log which had served in
its fiery heat to free him. Then he staggered down to
the brook and bowed his head to the cold, rushing waters,
and drank treely.

The water seemed to give him new life. He placed his
hot, suffering hands and armsin it for a moment, then
rose and looked around for a weapon, if one could be
found.

Joy filled his heart when he saw, where the rpbbers had
cut their fish-spears on the day before, a small, sharp
hatchet, such as many hunters wilo camp out carry in
their belts. ;

Grasping it in his right hand, he sprang forward into
the forest, tuking the trail made by Red Dick and his men,
Without the least trouble or hesitution. He was at least
free, and though poorly armed, ready to die for or with
the object of his heart’s adoration.

CGiancing from time to time only on the plain trail of
men who had no thought of pursuit, Tom rushed on, for-
getfulof pain, his ceil giving him a strength and activity
Which was wonderful wien we consider his sufferings.

His eyes, piercing the gloom of the forest, reaching
from tree to tree and rock to rock, swift to catch the sight
of bird or beast, were also intent in watching for those
whom he pursued.

On, on he rushed, until the redwoods were left behind—
on, uutilin a wild and savage region of rocks, thorny
chapparal, and stunted shrubbery, where he could hear
the roar of the distant sea, he lost the trail, It ended ab-
ruptly in asmall stream which coursed from the moun-
tain toward the ocean.

Whether those who entered it went up or down, he
could not-tell, but he knew that thus far they had follow-
ed the Indian, and here were most likely put at fault by
his cunning.

Tom went first a little way up, and then he saw their

yacks again. The four men with boots on had left the
water, aud had hunted right and left where a rocky ridge
spread out, for signs of the Indian. The rocks were yet
wet with drippings from their feet; but they-had evident-
ly come back to the water disappointed.

’ Of course they would now go dojvn the stream. Swiftly
he went a little way, and then, close to a clump of thick
furzy bushes he halted, he heard voices close at hand.

He had bent an instant to think, and in that instant,
with a mighty leap he bounded clear over the bashes and
landed out of sigut of the stream, without having left a
| mark of his exit from if,

Not a second too soon either.

 

Doc-

 

 

In less, than a minute he

heard the voice of Red Dick talking to his men. He could
hear all they said, as they approached wearily and slowly.

They had been down the stream to the seaside, and had
found no trace of the Dacotah—seen no sign of Anita.

From the moment the track reached the water they had
lost it. They were now undecided what to do. They
halted so near where Tom lay hidden, that but for the
screen of bushes he could have looked right into their
eyes.

“Cap'n,’? said one, “why shall we waste time in the
search? Itis mest likely the senorita is dead before this.
Why not go back and hang or burn that cursed hunter,
and then go to look for the new rendezvous of the band.
We have lost the trail, and can’t find it.’!

“You speak truth,’? said Red Dick, gloomily.
Stand much more of this kind of travel. With a horse
under me, I never tire. But this tramping over the rocks
and through the woods on foot wears me out. But I hate
to give this chase up. Ino longer love my cousin, but it
is horrible to think of her being in the power of that red
Indian. But better there than with one I hate more than
fll else on earth—my rival, Cinnamon Tom. Curse him—
he shall burn before I sleep. Lead on—we will go back
to our camp, and I will forget Anita while I feast on his |
agonies! Lead on—I will follow!” | 4

Tom heard them move on, talking as they went. He i
remained supine in his hiding place until he knew they |
had plenty of time to reach their old trail, and then he
began slowly to.creep out toward the stream.

lt was well he went slowly, noiselessly, for before he
was out to the water he heard the sound of something
moving in the water down the stream.

He crept forward, flat on the ground, lacerating his raw
arms terribly with the thorny brush till he could peer out
through one small opening on the stream.

The noise in the water increased, but it was not loud.
Whatever made it moved with great caution, whether it
was man or animal.

Breathlessly he lay and watched; and to his joy, he
saw, With form bent, his eyes evidently foilowing those
who had given up the pursuit, the Dacotah—Wa-nat-awac
himself.

The Indian was alone, and his crafty face fairiy danced
with fiendish glee as he saw his pursuers take their back
trail. For that he saw it Tom Knew, because the Indian
halted and stood while he peered away toward the soutlr.

Tom saw his own rifle in the hands of the Indian, his
belt, with Knife and revolver in it, about the Indian’s
body, and could he but get where the Indian must pass
in reach, he would spring out in a death-grapple and get
his arms.

No—that would not do. Anita was hidden somewhere,
and with such Indian cunning, that except the Dacotah
was traced to the place of her concealment, it might not
be found. He must be followed, to find her. Most likely
gagged and bound, she lay helpless somewhere near by.

Tom held his breath when the Indian, with a satisfied
look, retraced his way down the stream. He saw him
pass within a spear’s length, and ‘he made no sound as
the red fiend went by. Oh, had that rifle been in his owm
hands, how quickly Tom would have stayed his steps.

But Wa-nat-awac went on, and at last hissteps told that
he was down the stream so far that Tom might creep oué
to try and follow him.

Heedless of pain, Tom forced the bushes aside with his
raw arms and creptinto the water. Without rising, for
he knew that a glimpse of his form would cause a loss of
all hope of seeing lier alive, if at all, Tom crept on in the
water,

On, just as fast as lie could, without making mnch noise.

The Indian was out of sight when he gotintothe stream,
but soon Tom saw him again. He was moving on in a
much more Careless Way, apparently satisfied that he
would be pursued no further.

Tom hurried on, and as he went further down and
nearer the sea le was less cautious, for he thought the
sound of the ocean waves in the Indian’s ears would lessen
the danger of sounds reaching him from up the streatn.

Suddenly—where a tree overhung the creek, jutting out
from a rocky ledge above—the Indian disappeared. Tom
could not tell how—he saw that its branches nearly reach-
ed the water, yet he could see below them, and the Indian
Was not in the water.

“He has drawn himself up into that tree and, thus
reached the shore!’* thonght Tom. ‘Thus Red; Dick and
his men passed on, and found no track below, oron either
bank! Nowif I follow the stream he will see or hear me.
I must gain that bank by another route!”?

Tom at once crept ashore. Then creeping, without a
thought of pain, though he was tearing thescorched flesh
from his arms, over rocks and through bushes noiseless,
and oh how slow to one so anxious, he pressed toward the
point where the Indian was last seen,

He found thathe was approaching a rocky ravine—
great ledges on either hand of flinty rock and more free
sheltering bushes in his route than he desired.

Suddenly he came toa dead stop. He heard a low,
plaintive voice. It was hers—it was HERS. He crept on
careless almost if hed@id make a noise, so that he could get
quickly to her side. All too careless, indeed, for approach-
ing asteep part of the ledge, he ¢rept upon a shelving
rock, and ag he did so, it gave way and he rolled with it
down adeciivity into a gully amid acloud of dust, while
the clattering stones made a noise which could not but be
heard by 7er, and, of course, by the Indian if he was
there.

Tom, terribly bruised, groaned, not with his pain, but
the thought that he must be discovered before he could be
in @ position to have anything like an equal chance with
the Indian. And he struggled to rise as quickly as
he might, to do what he could to lessen the distance be- |
tween him and his enemy before the discovery, now in-
evitable, was made.

Alas—even as he struggled to his knees he saw the dark
face of the Dacotah walking down on him, full of hate—
then his own rifle barrel was levelled by the red fiend at
his breast!

“T can't

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

OUR KNOWLEDGE Box.

A Few Paragraphs Worth Remembering,

 

Ba~ Correspondents asking questions of this Depart-
ment are particularly requested to address them to us
on a separate slip of paper, indorsed ‘for the Know!l-
edge Box.”

Cornelia.—TO COLOR CoTTON YELLOW.—For every three pounds
of cotton, take six ounces of sugar of lead dissolved in hot water,
in an earthen vessel. In another vessel of cold water dissolve
three ounces of bichromate of potassa, which can be obtained at
drug stores. Dip the goods first in one then in the other, till cc.
lored. Tocolor orange, dip the goods, after colored yellow, int»
weak lime-water. Dipping the yellow cotton imtova blue dye wilh
turn it green........./ Somers Leslie.—We are indebted to a corres-
pondent for the following recipe to TAN AND BUFF DEER SKINS
FOR GLOVES:—For each skin take a bucket of water, and putinto
it one quart of lime; let theskin lay in it from three to four days;
then rinse in clean water, hair, and grain with a currier’s knife;
then soak the skin in clear water to get out the glue; now scour
or pound in good soap suds for half-an-hour; after which take
white vitriol, alum and salt, one tablespoonful of each to a skin;
and dissolve in sufficient water to cover the skin; and let remain
init for twenty-four hours; then wring out as dry as possible;
then spread on with a brush half-a-pint of currier’s oil; and hang
in the sun for about two days; after which scour out the oil with
soap-suds and hang out to dry; when perfectly dry, pull and work
until soft; and if not sufficiently soft, scour again in soap-suds
and dry, work and pull soft’ as betore. The buff is giyen by
spreading yellow ochre evenly oyer the surface of the skin and’
rubbing it in well with a brush..... .. K. DI. D. and St. Etmo.—To
CoLor Kip GLovEs.—Put a handful of logwood into @ bowl, cover!
with alcohol, and let it soak until it looks strong; one day, per-
haps. Put one glove on the hand, take a small. woolen, cloth. ox.
sponge, wet your glove all over, rub it dry and hard, until it
shines; it will be a nice purple. Repeat the process and it will be
blac ..B. P. W.—To MAKE MOLASSES FRUIT CAKE.—One cup
of b r, two of sugar, one of molasses, one ‘of boiled cider, or
sour milk, one pint flour, one pound raisins, one grated nutmeg, 7
halt teaspoonful exch of cloves and cinnamon, half teaspoonful
soda: beat them into the molasses, and put in the last thing..... a
B. Nicholson.—TO MAKE BIRDLIME.—Boil the middie part of
holly bark seven or eight hours in water, drain it, and lay it in
heaps in the ground, covered with stones or weights, for two or
three weeks, till reduced toa mucilage. Beat this in a mortar,
wash it in rainwater, and kneed ‘it till free from extraneous mat-

   

   

 

 

ters. Put it into earthen pots, and in four or five days it will be
fit for use. A substitute for birdlime is made by boiling linseed

oil for some hours until if beeomes a viscid paste....... B. Carrolt.
—SIMPLE CURE FOR RINGWORM.—It is said that ringworms can
be readily cured by the following simple process: Burnja bit of
linen rag on the bright portion ot au ax-blade; on blowing away
the ashes there will remain a small quantity of thick oily fluid,
three or four applications of which, at intervals of ten or twelve
hours, will effectually end the ringworm..... .... Singer.—To
STRENGTHEN AND IMPROVE THE VoICE.—Beeswax, two drachms;5
copaiba balsam, three drachms; powder of licorice root, four
dracbms. Melt the capaiba balsam with the wax ina new earthen
pipkin. When melted, remoye them from the tire, and while in @
melted state mix in the powder. Make pills of three grains each.
Two of these pills to be taken as a dose, three or four times a day,
on alternate davs........ Olivia Rutledge.—SNow CUSTARD.—Take
one quart of milk und four large eggs; set the milk on top of the
stove ina clean vessel;

 

then separate the eggs, beat the whites
into. stifffroth; when the mulk is scalding hot, slip the whites on
tap of the milk, turning them over gently so that they will cook ;
then lift them out and dish; whip up the yolks with two table-
spoonfuls of sugar; pour into the milk, stirring rapidly all the
time it is scalding. The very moment it comes to the boiling
point lift it off; if it boils it will curdie. When it cools sufficiently,
pour it into the float-dish with any kind otf flavoring, then put the
froth on top, and it will be delicious.... Amen Sterne.—You
can obtain nicotine, the essential principle of tobacco, by intusing
tobacco in acidulous water, evaporating the solution to a point.ot
considerable concentration, distilling*in contact with lime, and
treating the product with ether, Itis a deadly poison, and if you
are determined to experiment with it, you had better be very
careful.

 

licdical Department.
Cinnamon Tom, 1801L.— Bathe in cold waternight) and) morning
for two weeks. If this does not aid you cormfult a physician,
Hansfrien Cork.—Y our blood needs purifying. . Take sulphar— i
athimbletul ina glass of milk before breakfast, twice a week. }
An Old Reader.—We know nothing of the parties named by

you. Our advice is to consult some family physician in good
standing. at i :
John Neusel.—Bathe night and morning in cold water, A

sponge batt: will answer, :
James O' Neal.—Calisaya bark is sometimes very efficacious in
cases of nervous debility. It is a good and harmless tonic.
Bob.—Bathe night and morning in cold water.
Jonas.—We have heard of incipient catarrh being cured by
snufling salt up the nose.
S. 7. Cook.—Persons subject to gravel should be eareful to avoid
acids and ferment¢@ liquors of all kinds, incinding the red wines,
beer, pickles, ete. Seltzer water for a common drink is very

good. Bi-carbonate of soda often affords relief. Take a quarter
of a teaspoonful in a third of a tumbler of water every three
hours.

D.G. G.—1, Cod liver oil is generally recommended to con-
sumptives. You can get it at almost any druggist’s. We do

not know. 3. Rhubarb, and magnesia—not soda—will be found
efficacious. Druggists keep it in packages for sale—a dose in each.
4. Pulverized charcoal will whiten the teeth, but it should not be
used, as a rule, oftener than once a week. Willow charcoal is the
best. All druggists keep it.

Samivell.—Eruptions on the tace are generally the consequence
of impure blood, Take a littie sulphur occasionally—a thimbleful
in a glassof milk before breakfast. Sarsaparilla will also aid

 

you. :

Left-Handed Jack.—1. To strengthen your eyes bathe them in
and water. 2. You will find reading aloud daily of great
benefit to your lungs,

salt

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8 «met THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. thoe-

 

 

AN APPEAL.

BY KARL DRURY.

 

 

Oh, Lily Lindley, shy and pure,
I cannot yet release thee;
And though in truth I tease, be sure
Not willfully I tease thee.
Enchanted by a blue-eyed elf
Beyond the least resistance,
I am not master of myself,
I lead a strange existence!
And though my love she lightly treats
This saucy elf capricious,
And hides her favors’ costly sweets,
Not less is she delicious.
For ah, when stung with scorn like her
In this chill, heartless fashion,
The fate of us poor worshipers
Is only stronger passion!
I know some maidens, blithe and fair,
Who soon, with blushful token,
Would show me they had hearts to spare
If words of love were spoken.
And these, I doubt not, call me fool
To nurse my hopeless yearning.
Ah, me, in what a bitter schocl
My wisdom I am learning!
Oh, Lily Lindley, be my wife,
And lend my home completeness,
And fili the dark void of my life
With sunbeams of thy sweetness.
Yet if thou still art greatly loth
Because thy heart turns scoffer,
Surely there’s love enough for both
In this warm heart I offer!
——>-@~—_—

A PIECE OF STRATEGY.

BY HERO STRONG.

 

“Arch Raymces is coming home!’

Blind Létitia Arnold turned her eyes up to the face of
the speaker as if she could see the blush and the brilliant
smile which she knew must accompany her words, and a
half-sigh escaped her lips. She was thinking of the dead
blush-rose which even then lay against her sad _ little
heart—the heart that somehow seemed to grow cold when
it felt not the gentle pressure of the casket containing that
old love-gift.

Five years before she had said good-by to Archelaus
Raymond when he had gone over the seas to seek his for-
tune. Then she was a laughing, sunny-faced girl of twen-
ty, an heiress, and a beauty; now she was orphaned,
poor, blind, and old at twenty-five. ;

Sometimes she thought that if her father had lived, and
business had prospered with him, she might have had
surgical aid such as would have restored sight to her
eyes. Her blindness had come on by degrees, and was
an affection of the ‘‘cataract’’ class, and wonderful cures
were sometimes effected in diseases of this nature, she
had heard.

But she had no money to spend on doctors, and for a
home she was indebted to her father’s cousin’s wife—
Mrs. Frothingham Arnold.

People said Mrs. Arnold was the very essence of kind-
ness to do as she had done by the friendless girl. No doubt
Mrs. Arnold was a Christian—she professed to be—and
the word of a lady who wore velvet and diamonds, and
carried such a magnificent prayer-book, to say nothing of
the immense sums she gave to the church, surely ought
not to be doubted.

She had two daughters of her own—fair, graceful girls,
with their lady mother’s own blonde tresses and pearly
skin. They were highly accomplished, and quite as heart-
less as our fashionable society could require.

Blanche, the eldest, had been ‘‘out’’ two years, and had
not yet received an eligible lover; but Alice, the youngest,
was engaged to young Mr. Fitz Boodle, the son of old
Fitz Boodle, who had made a million in the soap-boiling
business, and retired on his fortune. Young Fitz wore
the finest broadcloth, and sported the largest watch chain
of any young man in Miss Alice’s set, so of course the
young ladv was to be congratulated on her conquest.

It was Blanche who had given utterance to the sentence
with which our story commences. She had been reading
a letter which contained the important information.

Mrs. Frothingham Arnold laid down the Afghan she
was emoroidering.

“He has made a fortune, they say.’

“Yes, mamma, so he says. Only think of it! Five
years in those horrid mines! I dare say he’s a perfect
bear!??

“But a golden one!’ chimed in Alice. ‘You had better
set your cap for him, Blanche dear. You know ma used
to be his favorite cousin.”’

‘Read his letter aloud,’? said Mrs. Arnold. ‘‘You should
feel so flattered that out of all his relatives he should have
written to you first.’?

“He wishes to make his home here, ma, while Raymond
Hall is undergoing repairs, and he will bring a very dear
friend with him, for whom he begs our hospitality. He
says that Mr. Smith—what a horridly vulgar name!—has
saved his life more than once; and that he is, besides,
under numerous obligations to him. Mr. Smith is out of
health, he writes, and will need a little nursing—he has
just pulled through a fever. He is sure that we shall all
be happy to do the best we can for him. Paugh! to think
of nursing a man by the name of Smith! and a poor man,
too!"’

“Cousin Archelaus was always eccentric!’ said Mrs.
Arnold. ‘He was continually picking up nobodies and
making pets of them. But we must be kind to this Mr.
Smith, and keep on the right side of Arch. He is rich,
and he used to admire you vastly, Blanche.*’

Three or four days after this conversation the brace of
Californians arrived. Both of them were bearded and
bronzed beyond recognition by their own mothers, if they
had had any. Neither of them could be said to bear much
resemblance to the fair, round-faced Arch Raymond of
five years before, but then half a decade of years, hun-
dreds of miles from civilization, must be supposed to ef-
fect some change in a man’s looks.

Of the two gentlemen, Mr. Smith was decidedly the best
looking, but he was yet very weak, and evidently was of
a retiring disposition, since he never spoke save when
addressed.

Arch, on the contrary, talked incessantly, and flirted
with the girls so persistently that Fitz Boodle was jealous,
and there was very nearly a rupture between him and his
betrothed.

Mr. Smith was left entirely to Letitia, for, truth to tell,
dashing young Mr. Archelaus, after the first cordial greet-
ing, never noticed the blind girl any more than courtesy
obliged him to.

And, Letitia, after two or three days spent in listening
to the constant stream of senseless nothings he was pour-
ing into the ears of the young ladies, took from its refuge
against her heart the blush-rose of long ago, and laid it
on the glowing coals in the grate. he dream—and it had
been very sweet—was over! Whatever sympathy there
had been between herself and Archelaus Raymond was
now a thing of the past.

Mr. Smith was her constant companion. Indeed, he
seemed to prefer her to any other, and all unknown te
herself, he was fast taking the place in her devoted heart
which she once thought could only be filled by Arch.

The young people were very gay, and rides, and walks,
and sails on the lake were of daily occurrence. Blanche
and Alice would have left Letitia out of these pleasurings,
but Arch said she entertained Smith, and Smith must be
entertained somehow.

One afternoon Mr. Smith and Letitia went out sailing
by themselves. A shower came up, and the wind made
it necessary to shift the sail. Mr. Smith was quite a
passable sailor for a fresh water one, but by some mis-
management he was struck by the boom and knocked
senseless! At the same moment a violent flaw of wind
struck the boat, it capsized, and Letitia and Mr. Smith
were both thrown into the water. The girl had been a
fine swimmer once, and atthe first touch of the cold
element her strength and skill came back to her. Some
fine intuition told her where to seek her helpless coim-
panion, and in a moment she had seized him by the
clothes, and with the nervous grasp of desperation was
holding his head above water, while with all her voice
she screamed for help.

It wasatough struggle for the delicate girl, for Mr.
Smith was no light burden, and both must have been
drowned in another moment had not a couple of farmer
boys, hoeing in a field negr by, heard her cries and come
to the rescue.

The cold water acted beneficially in reviving Mr. Smith,
but the blow he had received kept him confined to his
room for a week.

The third orfourth day Archelaus asked Letitia to go
to Mr. Smith’s foom and talk to him while he went riding
with the girls.

Mr. Smith was looking very interesting in his dressing-
gown and slippers, bolstered up on the lounge, but when
Letitia entered he sprang up with wonderful agility for a
sick man and took the amazed girl in his arms.

‘Letitia,’ said he, ‘I love you, and the life you saved
the other day will, be valueless to me unless you consent
to take it and watch overit for the future. I must have
you for my wife. Say yes, darling, and I promise you
that I will be well enough in a week to dance at our wed-

ding.”’
“J—that is,’ stammered Letitia. «I am poor—and
blind——””

“But I have a good pair of eyes,’’ said this ardent Mr.
Smith, ‘‘and I promise to see for both of us. And I love
ee love you! Can‘t you care for me a little—just a lit-
tle bit?”

“T do care for you a great deal,” said Letitia; ‘“‘but——”

“Let all the buts go,” said Mr. Smith. ‘‘We’ll banish
that detestable word from the language, and next Thurs-
day you are to be Mrs. Smith—Mrs. John Henry Smith, if
you please,’? and he went to kissing her like a man who
thoroughly understood his business.

How Blanche and Alice did laugh when they heard the
story of Mr. Smith’s engagement to Letitia!

“The idea of that poor man’s marrying that blind girl
was so absurd!"*

They laughed overit to Mr. Raymond, and Mr. Ray-
mond laughed too, and said Mr. Smith had an undoubted
right to marry if he chose.

Mrs. Arnold made Letitia a present of a wedding-dress,
which was really lovely; but Letitia was too happy in
fo a sweet, strange way, to care anything about lovely
aresses,

 

 

The ceremony took place at Mrs. Frothingham Arnold’s
house, and alter it Was over the company toasted the
bride and groom, and some one called upon the groom
for a speech. : :

Mr. Smith made a little speech—a very little one, in-
deed.

“My friends,” said he, ‘‘carriages are at the door to
take my wife and her friends to her new home, I hope
you will all follow us thither.” :

The guests all looked surprised, and Blanche whispered
to Mr. Raymond that she supposed Mr. Smith had rented
gome wretched little basement somewhere; but still all
the guests followed the bridal-party. ‘

They drove to Raymond Hall! Mr. Smith led his wife
into the reception-room, and the others followed. :

‘‘Ladies and gentlemen,’’ said Arch, “I_hope you will
all pardon a little piece of strategy. My friend here,
whom you have all known as Mr. Smith, wanted to be
loved for himself alone, so I exchanged names with him.
Allow me to present to you Mr, Archelaus Raymond and
his wife, and also to introduce myself to the company un-
der my rightful name, which I flatter myself is an old
one, if not a noble one—Mr. John Smith.”

Of course everybody was surprised; but of course, a
Mr. Raymond was rich, everybody declared that it was a
most delightful piece of strategy.

Blanche Arnold ‘cut’? Mr. Smith on the spot. :

Arch Raymond took his wife to Europe, where her sigh
was restored to her; and since the advent of a young hei
at Raymond Hall, nothing has been wanting to complete
the happiness of its inhabitants.

REVENGED AT LAST.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

 

 

“J am very sorry that this should have happened, Miss
Etherege; you have met all my requirements in every re-
spect. In an establishment of this sort, one is forced to be
exceedingly careful—almost over-cautious, as one may
say. I think you will find your salary quite correct as to
the amount.”’

Mrs. Carhart, the smooth-voiced and gracious ‘‘Precep-
tress’ of the ‘Minerva Academy for Young Ladies,’’ |
smiled as sweetly asif she were not cutting off poor
Agnes Etherege’s dependence for daily bread, as she laid
three crisp, rustling bank bills on the governess’s lap.

“T understand!? Agnes said, growing quite white, and
with a strange quiver in her voice. ‘Mr. Lundie has been
talking to you.”’

Mrs. Carhart pursed up her lips.

“J am not at liberty to give the name of my informant,”’
she said, primly; ‘“‘but the promptitude with which you
guess at the name of a possible suggester, certainly would |
give the idea that you were prepared for some such accu- |
sation.”’

Agnes rose up wearily. Of what use were defense, ar-
gument, pleading? Did not Hugh Lundie’s vengeance
follow her everywhere, blighting her every prospect? Had
he not said to her, with a green, glittering light in those
cruel eyes of his:

“J will yet compel you to be my wife.” |

No, he could not do that. She might starve—she might}
suffer for the actual necessaries of life; she might even be
driven to throw herseif, some of these stormy nights, intc
the black, chilly abyss of the cruel river, to find oblivio1)
for good and all—but she never would marry him. I

This was the third situation of which his subtle scher}
ings had deprived her. She was alone and helpless ij
the world; he was so strong and powerful! On! whe)
was the All-Merciful, that He had not mercy upon hea}
Why was it that one human creature had power to exe/ ;
such evil influence over another ? ;

She went home, with a dull, fixed look in her eyes an
a deadly whiteness on her cheeks. What should she a.
now? For she was weak, and young, and slender, an,
perilously beautiful, and the worid was so relentless an P
cruel!

Agnes Etherege was working out the problem thai
many another human soul struggles through—and how do:
we know how many sink eternally in the strife, and never
are heard of more? )

The little lodging-room where she kept her trunk, and
which she dignified by the title of “shome,’’ had never be-
fore seemed so high up and difficult of access; but when
she opened the door, she started back with a low cry.

It was no longer dark, chill, and silent. Lights burned
on the wooden mantel, and a great fire of red, high-heaped |
coals roared up the chimney, while a shrewd-faced, little }
old man, brown, and keen, and glittering eyes, like a hu-
man squirrel, sat spreading out his hands over the blaze.

“Ah!’? He looked up withanod. ‘You are Agnes, I
suppose. You don’t know me, of course.”’

“No, sir,’? said Agnes, half expecting to see the whole
scene melt and dissolve, like the fabrication of enchant-
ment, ‘I do not.”

“Well, I don’t know how you should,”’ said the old man.
“T'm your Uncle Tobit. I’ve come home to live. Hindo-
stan’s a very nice Climate, but it’s a little shaky when one
has passed one’s sixtieth year. I’m going into the bank-
ing business. I want you to keep house for me. Yes, I
know—you always supposed I was dead out in the East.
I let your mother think so.~ I was a wild chap in my day,
and no particular credit to any of my relatives; and when
I had adecent record toshow her, why she was dead.
That’s all over and gone—no use crying over spilt milk.
Come.’’

And Mr. Thanael Tobit rose up and seized a yellow
alpaca umbrella, which apparently constituted his sole
stock of baggage.

‘‘Are you ready ?
minutes.’’

“But, uncle——'*

The old man chuckled.

“Say it again—that sounds good, uncle!’

“Where are we going, uncle ?’’ asked Agnes, her heart
beginning to warm strangely toward this eccentric old
man. i

“To my agent’s. He has hired a house for me some-
where, and furnished it with something. I dare say it will
do well enough as long as the roof don’t leak and the cel-
lars aren’t damp.”’

And Agnes Etherege, feeling as if she were ina dream,
allowed herself to be led away from the old room and the
old life, and the drearily-brooding shadows of the past.

Uncle Thanael Tobit loaded her with luxuries—hung
her with jewels as if she had been a glittering Eastern
idol, and anticipated her slightest wish. Agnes had no
more loneliness or penurynow—yet the one thing over
which she most rejoiced was the complete severing of
aught resembling a link between her new life and her old.

Hugh Lundie did not know where she was now. He
could never track her to this haven of peace. The Lord
had at last provided for this poor, little shorn lamb!

Yet, withal, she had a sort of shuddering horror of him
still. Once when he passed within a few feet of her car-
riage window as she Sat opposite a Broadway store,
waiting for her uncle to call for some trifling commission,
she sank back, white and trembling, among the warm
damask cushions, as if the shadow of some evil spirit’s

 

/

}

I can have a hack at the door in five

 

wing had fallen across her.

“Ts it wicked ?”? she asked herself, ‘‘to hate mortal man
as I hate him ?’’

And once, as she sat, all furs and silks and jewels, in
her uncle’s private office at the bank, she saw the face
pass the little curtained window.

“Uncle,”’ she faltered, ‘‘who is that?’

“J don’t know who you mean, child,’’ said the little
brown-visaged capitalist.

“The man with the blue necktie, and the reddish mus-
tache—there, just beyond the desk.”’

‘A new clerk, I believe,’ said Uncie Tobit. ‘‘Reduced
gentry—sickly wife—necessitious circumstances—all that
sort of trash. Nameof Lundie. Now, my dear, I await
your commands.”’ °

And as Agnes Etherege passed out of the counting:
house, closely vailed, and leaning on her uncle’s arm,
Hugh Lundie never knew whose were the eyes fixed
mournfully upon him.

“T will try to forgive him,’’ she thought; ‘‘but I never
want to speak to him, or hear his voice again.”’

It was New Year’s Eve—a dark, dismal night of snow
and tempest—Miss Etherege was sitting alone in her
pretty boudoir drawing-room, when a card was brought
her.

“Mrs. Hugh Lundie.’’

She could hardly decide what course would be vetter fa+
her to adopt, when the rustling of silken skirts soundd
on the threshold, and a pale, pretty-looking@ittle law
stood before her.

“You are Mr. Tobit’s daughter?’’ asked the stranger,
such appealing accents.

“You are mistaken,’? Agnes answered, her heart #
once softening toward this wan, shadowy creatur.
“Not his daughter, but his niece.”

“It is all the same,’’ Mrs. Lundie rejoined, hurriedl:.
“T_-we have cometo askafavyor of you. Your faces
kind and gentie—I have faith to believe that you wil
grant it.”

And without waiting for Miss Etherege’s reply, she toll
one of the piteous stories which may be too often divulged
by bank officers and employes—a tale of misplaced trus
and betrayed confidence—of money stealthily borrowed
from the funds of the bank, to meet pressing exigencies
in the fond certainty that fortunate speculations wouli
enable it to be repaid—of ruin, disgrace—impending dis
missal!

And the story, told by a wife’s faltering lips, was of :
husvand’s dishonesty and deficiency.

As the poor young creature concluded her sorrowfu
tale, she threw open the door.

“Your influence over your uncle is said to be unbound
ed,’ she added, ‘‘oh, surely, surely, you will use it for
our sakes! Dear Hugh, come yourself and plead for what
is dearer and more precious to you than life—your hono>
—your good name among men!”’

And before Agnes could speak to interpose, she wa3
face to face with Hugh Lundie, the persecutor of her
former years, the humble supplicant for her influence
now!

In the same instant he saw and recognized her. A
crimson spet mounted to his cheek—he grew pale as
death.

“Agnes Etherege!’’

Miss Etherege, with a face sweet and serene as a pic-
tured saint, turned to his wife.

“Your favor is granted. Leave me now!’ Yor old
Thanael Tobit never refused aught to his niece—and
Agnes Etherege felt that she was more than revenged
the moment when Hugh Lundie’s wife, as ignorant of the
past as she was hopeful of the future, came with happy
tears to thank her for the mercy that had been extended
to her erring husband!

—>-@-—~<

WE would advise all of our readers to read the opening

chapters of “Ironsides, the Scout,’ commenced in this

 

number, and we predict they will continue it to the end.

      
     
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
   
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
 
   
  
     
 
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
   
 
  
   
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 

And everybody fell to cheering, and the more they
cheered the harder I swung.

Jest as I begun to sweat powerful, along rushed a
couple of perlice and grabbed me. I cum to myself then,
and | told ’em that I was kinder carried away by the man
with the club—he seemed to work so hard that I wanted
to help him. AndJ asked ’em if half a dollar apiece
would be any object to’em, and they smiled, and sed it
was a pity to meddle with such a good looking lady, and
| they pocketted the script and went away.

I sot down and composed myself, and watched them
singists. They all opened their mouths ata flourish of that
man’s club, and if was an artist, I could draw you outa
picter of the preformance that would beat all the picters
of it you’ve seen out and out.

I declare! I hadn’t an idea that there was so many
mouths in the United States as I seed opened there before
me. And any one of ’em could have took ina codfish,
and no stretching any way.

The sound was deafening! I put my ambrill acrost my
lap, and stuck my thumbs into my ears, and Miss Hop-
kins she begun to grow pale, and roll up her eyes like a
cat with the rebellious collic.

I was afeard she was agoing to faint, and I held a bottle
of checkerberry essence to her nose, and begged of her to
take a turnover.

But she couldn’t eat! the musick had overcome her.

Suddintly there was a dead carm! jest as you've noticed
in a thunder shower, when naturis making preperations
| to give ye a louder crack of thunder than usual—and in
| this case, it cum!

[t shook all creation! I fully ixpected that Jonathan

Perkins would hear it clean to Pigeon Holler, but he de-
‘clares he didn’t. The Collyesom quaked! Everybody
rolled their eyes! and sweat! especially them that was a
singing and a tooting.

Some women folks fainted, and let their sweethearts
kerry ’em out,

I begun to grow skeered for fear the bilding would fall
in and squash us all, but I wouldn’t have it sed that yer
Aunt Jerushy hadn’t as much piuck as anybody, so I just
sot still and hild on!

What took me most of anything in the show was watch-
ing of the fiddles. It seemed as if they was all running a
race with each other, and nobody seemed to ketch up
with anybody.

There was one little feller, with a smallish sort of fiddle,
that was a putting in for dear life, to git ahead of a big-
gish man with a big fiddle, and the little feller sawed as
fast as ever he could, and bent his body, and bobbed his
head, and wiped the sweat on his sleeve, and growed pur-
ple in the face! My sympathy for him got the better of
me. [riz up and hollered, and sez I—“Hit it agin, son-
ny! You'll fix him this time!’’

Nobody on airth could have heerd what I said in all that
thundering, but everybody looked at me as if 1 was the
ghost of their grandmarm.

When they got to the dhorius and the ordinance was
asked to jine, I jined, and I let myself out so much that I
bust the side seams of my pollynay and had to borry Miss
Hopkins’ peasiee shawl to hide the bust.

Ané I couldn’t help beating time with my ambrill, ana
as I did solonfortinitly hita little yeller-headed feller
with it, and knocked him down fatter’n a flounder.

The gal beside him she screeched out and nigh about
went into the highstrikes.

“You've killed him,” sez she; ‘‘you've killed my Benja-
min. The light of my eyes is dead!”

‘You'd better use glasses then,’’ sez I; ‘“‘but as for your
Benjamin, he’ll cum round right. My ambrill hain’ta
murdering wepin, though it cuts down all both grate and
small that is in its way.”

She went to rubbing the little man, and Miss Hopkins
and me we rolled up our sleeves and turned to and helped
her rub.

And jest behind us stood a tall, black-whiskered chap,
a looking on as savage as if he’d like to make a stew-lry
of the whole of us.

Benjamin he soon got over it and sot up, and I give his
forrud a parting rub by way of settling his reasons for
him, and gracious me, the top of his head cum rite off in
my hand, yeller and frizzled to kill, and scented up like a
smelling-bottle.

‘Hurrah!’ sez the black-whiskered chap; “bald asa
Hubbard squash. I told you he was a cheat, Katie.’’

And the gal she looked at the shiny pate a minnit, and
then she turned to the black whiskers, and [’ll take my
Bible oath that above ali the sound of fiddle banging I
heerd a smack.

And upon that
challenged the tother man to fight;
there and then.

And jest as each had blacked the other’s eye the perlice
cum and marched ’em all off and left me with that
skulp in my hand.

And said wig is hereby advertised, and the owner is re-
quested to prove property, pay charges and take it away,
for it den’t fit my head, nor Jopathan’s, nor none of our
family. J. R, PERKINS,

2 lili

Nn

 

SSS

=
OW

—)

Benjamin he stripped off his coat and
and they went at it

Sold !

The announcement in the NEw YORK WEEKLY of
“Goldsmith Maid’s” great triumph at Mystic Park—which
feat I witnessed—reminds me of a “‘turf incident’? which
occurred thete a few days since, that is worth publishing:

An honest up-country-man, all the way from Vermont,
brought down with him a six-year-old colt to dispose of;
and halting at Wakefield, the well-shaped animal caught
the eye of a horse man there, who was given to sharp
practice in this kind of trade, upon opportunity, and who
never allows a good bargain to pass_him-wWhen ‘e
knows if.

“Take him over to *he- track;’’ said B.,
him over. ‘You say he-<ay trot ?’’

“Wall, yass,’? responded’ the countryman. I dunno
haow faast; but I reck’n down in the forties, sart’n.”’

And with this, tae would-be purchaser and the coit-
owner proceededto the Park, to time the good-looking,
up-country nag.

‘“‘What’s your price?’’ inquired B.

“Wal, the ole man thinks we’d orter git twelve hun-
der’d for him; but I shall sell him for jest a clean thousan’
dollars,’’ said Mr. Greeney, quietly.

“Whew!’’ whistled B.

‘Not a cent less, enny haow,’’ said the other.

Arriving at the track, the colt was put around the mile
course in 2:36, while B. held the watch and timed him
carefully.

“What’s his speed ?*’. queried the owner.

“Pid it in 2:58,"’ replied B.

‘“] must give him another turn,’’ said the colt-raiser—
‘he ken do better’n that.’’

And round the course he pushed his trotter, who went
to the score in 2:32, without a Skip.

“How this time?’ asked the countryman.

‘In 2:55,"? said B., pocketing his watch. “You may
take him home,’’ continued B., ‘‘and I reckon we'll trade;
but [ can’t pay no thousand dollars for him. I'll see you
to-morrow, though. He’s a pretty good ’un, but ain’t
worth no thousand dollars, you know.”

Under an old shed by the track-side lay Mike Felton, a
track-boy always on the lookout for strangers there, who
had watched the trot, timed the colt, and had overheard
‘shorse-talk,’? every word. When the would-be buyer

the countryman, he showed himself.

“Purty good colt ye’ve got there,’’ he said.
‘“Yas—fairish.”

‘For sale ?”

‘“Yas,?!

“How much ?’?

‘‘A thousand dollars.’’

“Pll take him !”’ says Mike.
“Yas, as aripe wa’nut.’’
‘“‘An’ comin’ six year old,’’ continued Mike, looking in-
to his mouth. ‘’Ere’s yer money. Gim me a Dill 0’
sale.’

And thus Mike got the promising colt.

Next mornimg, early, B. goes to the countryman, in
Wakefield.

‘‘How’s the colt to-day ?” inquires B.

“All right, I reck’n,’’ says Greeney, who had his $1,000
in greenbacks in his pocket, and felt quite chirpy.

‘“J’ve concluded to offer you six hunder’d dollars for
him,’’ says B.

‘‘He’s sold,”’ says Mr. G., quietly.

“Sold! When?”

“Last night.’’

“But I told you 7 wanted him.”

‘‘Another feller, ’at carries a better watch than yeu do,
wanted him, too,’* adds Greeney.

‘“‘Better watch ?”’

“Yaas. He made the colt’s mile time to be 2:32; an’
planked me daoun the thousand dollars on the spot.’’

“When ?”?

‘Jest arter yeu left the track.’’

‘““Who was he???

“T dunno. Mike—something.”’

‘*Felton ?”?

“That's it. Yaas. Mike Felton.”

“I?ll give you fifteen hundred for the colt.’’

‘sHe’s sold, I tell yeu. An’ I’m goin’ home in the next
train up. Good mornin’, sir.’

The countryman moved toward the coming cars, and
B. went moodily to his lodgings.

Since then the colt has shown a spinning gait upon the
Mystic Park track, and B. has offered Mike two thousand
dollars for him. But the track_lad knows what he’s got,
and he ‘‘doesn’t care to sell just now,’’ he says.

‘‘Bless you,’’ exclaims Mike, ‘the can do his mile in *28
now, jess like fallin’ off a log!
day. He'll make a flyer, bimeby.”

And so he will!

after look

‘‘He’s sound, o’course ?”’

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

 

[Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributing t#
ward making this column an attractive feature of the NEw YORK
WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for publication any-
thing which may be deemed of sufficient interest for general pe-
rusal. It is not necessary that the articles should be penned in
scholarly style; so long as they are pithy, and likely to afford
amusement, minor defects will be remedied.]}

THE RUGG DOCUMENTS.—No. 91.
BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

Miss Hopkins she prides herself on being a grate judge
of moosick; used to set in the quire to the Bangloro Cor-
ner Meeting ’us, and could sing the very hair off from a
feller’s head in her young days. But now her voice is a
leetle cracked, and sounds as if she’d got a water-
melon seeds stuck in her throat crossways.

She was sot right back when she found out that she’d
mistook a hand-orgin for the whole jubilee, but she got
cold into her head, she sed, and hadn’t got her hearings
quite so well as common.

So we passed along to the Collyseum, which is a big
building—big enuff for a sarcus tent, ora town meeting,
or almost anything else.

We had to pay five dollars apiece for our tickets, and
we had preserved seats, which was so little that we hard
work to squoze ourselves into ’em.

Everybody had already arriv, and the house was so full
of human feller-critters that it made me feel kinder wor-
ried for fear the airth wouldn’t be big enuff to bury ’em
all when they*cum to die.

All of °em was dressed and scented up to kill—the place
smelt like a big drug store, with tons of scented soap
throwed in.

It made me feel faint to the stummach.

You'd ought to have seed the singers, and the fellers
that was agwine to toot onto the instruments! and the
orgin was a good deal bigger than the one to Pigeon Hol-
ler meeting ’us, and that’s a stunder when the full head
is turned on!

Bym-by they begun!
thunder!

A man stood up where everybody could set eyes on him,
and he had a club in his hand, which he swung and flour-
ished round his head, and everybody seemed to look at
him and goitjestas hisclub went. I got so ixciteda
watching of him that I felt as if. I must flurish too, and I
clim up into my seat and swung my ambrill round my
head, and round the heads of twenty other people as hard
as ever I could swing it.

B.’s hearing, to “rile him,’’ awfully! GAFFER GRAY.

A Headless Insect.
Joe Downs was a dull boy at school, always backward

number of words from the dictionary, them

give the definition. At the end

spell

above all who missed. Joe’s turn to ‘“‘pop the question’
came, and he gave out the word ACEPH.

the class.
Joe, who turning haughtily spelled and defined it thus:
“ACEPH—a louse without a head!”

All of ’em together, like a clap of | ary, and pointed to the word and definition.
‘*‘ACEPHALOUS—without a head.’
Joe’s name was changed and from that day

called Seph. 3OLD-DUST DARREL.

A Light Summer Costume.

 

are devoid of modesty are altogether wrong.
the
blue paint, fastened in front with buttons of black ink.

An’ he’s improvin’ every

Meantime, you have only to utter the word ‘“‘sold!’’ in

with his lessons and always at the foot of the class. Every
Saturday we were obliged to commit to memory a large
and
of the recitation any
scholar eould ask the class a word and its meaning, the
questioner to answer if none of the rest could, and go

Some of the
boys spelled it, but the meaning could not be given round
It went from head to foot tillit came down to

The roar of laughter did not disconcert him in the least,
but when silence was restored he appealed to the diction-

he was

Those who have supposed that the Sandwich Islanders
In winter
Natives are neatly dressed ina jacket and pants o

Conundrums,

WHEN isa woman wrong? When she is amiss,

Wy is a bushel of hazel-nuts like an army of soldiers ?
Because they have a great many Kernels (colonels),

WHAT man always stands on somebody’s head?
Druff,

Wuart lady is a German letter? A duchess (Dutch 8),

WHat two letters when read successively will be made
to rot? D. K. (decay).

WHAT stocking possesses the most wisdom? A
stocking (a literary woman). Rizzig M.

Dan

blue
L. JONES.

Laughorisms,

A Connecticut family lost their breakfast on Sunday
and the son and daughter were prevented from closing
the Sabbath in the only comiortable way for young people,
by the reprehensible conduct of the new girl, who took
a only bottle of pomade in the house to fry the ham
with,

A boy in Boston blew off a part ofa finger with a pistol,
one day last week. A remarkable coincidence is the fact
that the pistol and the finger went off together, although
not previously acquainted with each other.

A Newark youngster doesn’t think his aunt is as pious
as she pretends to be, when she puts so much starch in
his Sunday shirt that he can’t jump over a single post on
the way to church.

_ The man who bites another man’s nose off in an affray,
is said to have taken a prominent part in the fight.

A bad breath is not a desirable feature, but once ob-
tained, the possesser would not exchange it for the wealth
of the world.

However rich a man may be, he need not despair of
marrying, 80 long as he continues sufficienlty old and his
cough goes on regularly. If his paralysis shows a dispo-
sition to assist, it increases his chances,

‘‘Kepatomeataterin.’’—This was the note sent by a

farmer to the school teacher in the potatoe-digging season,
to explain his boy’s absence from school.
_ A correspondent wants to know why it is that “‘drown-
ing men Catch at straws.’?’ We don’t know that they do.
We have seen a number of gentlemen drown, but those Of
them who had any preference at all seemed to be preju
diced in favor ofa plank. We don’t remember ever being
asked for a straw by a gentleman who was drowning.
And itis just as well, perhaps, because we never carry
one with us.

James Magill, a Brooklin contractor, claims to be an
“artist in marble.’’ It is related of him, that he onee
carved a sleeping lion in stone, and took it to the Queen’s
County fair fora premium. The day for distributing the
honors arrived, and Mac was promptly on hand. Prize
after prize was awarded, and finally ‘‘Statuary,’’ was
reached. The artist’s eyes lit up with the glow of expec:
tation as he leaned anxiously forward to hear these
words: ‘‘James Magill—first premium for a beautiful sleep-
ing bull-pup in marble.”’ e

While a Waterbury, Conn., farmer was mowing his
dooryard, a sly puppy hid in the grass, and then jumped
out to take the scythe by surprise. But the puppy turned
out to be more surprised than the scythe, for he found
himself in two places at the same time.

The Story of All Stories,

Hazel-Eye, the Girl Trapper, while following the Trail
of Death, came across the Lone Ranche, where she met
Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl, who said she had lost
the Charmed Rubies, 80 she dispatched Barnacle Bill to
unravel The Terrible Mystery concerning O’Connor’s
Child.

While the two were talking Wrestling Joe came up and
asked them if they had seen anything of Hark Cringle
who, with The Boy Gladiator, were on their way to the
Wizard of the Mines, who had the Golden Key of the
Steel Casket in which was concealed Luke Peel’s Legacy
and Sybil's Inheritance.

While carrying off the prize they were met by Carlos,
the Terrible, Ramon the Outlaw, and Conrad the Convict,
who robbed them of everything. While grieving over
their misfortunes Buffalo Bill and Little Buckshot came
up.

They immediately set out in pursuit, and striking upon
the apparently Endless Trail they followed Upward and
Unward, and at last came up to them.

Ramon, the Outlaw, on perceiving him so near fled in
the direction of Strathspey Towers, where he was re-in-
forced by Red Dick, the Tiger of California, and his band.
When Buffalo Bill appeared upon thescene, he gaw that
they hada Captive Maiden in their possession. This
unfortunate damsel won the admiration of Cinnamon
Tom who said she was A Wonderful Woman, and he made
the Midnight Prophecy that she would be his wife some
day; and, plucking the Flower of Suda from a bush near
| at hand, he offered it to her. She received it with a dig-

nity becoming Lady Leonora, and then told them her

name was Sweet Eglantine, that she had a Masked Enemy
who had stood with her Three Times at the Altar, and
had at last made her Leap in the Dark, and then she lad
been Won by a Lie. She was, however, Redeemed by
ye by The Unknown Suitor, who gave her the Charmed

 

———————

Rubies.

At thisjuncture Cinnamon Tom came up with his
Cheated Bride whom he had so Strangely Won, and “de-
liberately stabbed her through the heart.

This so incensed Dashing Charlie that he raised his rifie

to his shoulder, and taking a careful aifaat the Injured
| Husband, pulled the trigger and the Dan&y of the Mines
waS no more. GASPARD THE Scow

   

| The History,ef the Myskei >.
Musketoes emigrs i ’
ray al he smallest
oaring &
sores them any
very de il, houg!
| They are sotame that tl will
} a fellow’s hand. Asso

ted to this com ® ips
thats : :

high as ots}

Wis
they 7
+s0me ioniel

| They are

   

nrds of pr
oy come up and eat o
ngsters they are a success, Making
some of the sweetest sounds ever heard. We are so
times constrained to stay awake all night and listen to
their strains, even if it’s ever so confounded straining on
us. If any one doesn’t like their music he can lump it,
and failing to do so they will lump him; andif he ‘‘gets
on his ear’’ about it such a proceeding is foolish, for they
are very accommodating and will get on his ear for him.
I like their music better than anything else about them.
Many a time have I laid on my downy bed and listened
to them as they ‘‘Come Where my Love Lies Dreaming,”’
singing a medley made up of ‘Ever of Thee I am Fondly
Dreaming,’’ ‘‘We Won’t Go Home Till Morning,” and
such like till I have been so carried away (and wishing I
was carried still farther) that l’ve joined in with the mea-
ley, singing ‘“‘Shoo-Fly”’ and cheering them by clapping
my hands together in the hope of giving the little suckers
an affectionate squeeze. GREEN ROCK BILL.

 

An Ugly Couple.

Near Goodrich’s landing, La., there lived, some years
ago, two brothers, Pete and Jake Weir. They were the
ugliest-looking specimens of humanity that ever trod
earth; their hands and feet were of monstrous size, of
which John Mulligan the minstrel might say: “‘l’lifro ‘em
all over ye!’’ One day a flatboat having landed from down
the river, Pete, who was not quite as ugly as his brother,
went down to purchase a barrel of flour. On seeing him
the captain could not suppress a burst of laughter, After
recovering, he said to Pete: ‘‘By Jove! you're the ugiiest-
looking manleversaw. If you can bring me a more
hideous specimen of manhood than you are, you may
have the flour for nothing.’

With a grin of satisfaction Pete turned on his heel, mut-
tering ‘‘Jake's the man!”

The captain was almost dumbfounded to see tim return
soon after with a much worse-looking oddity. He was
shocked at the sight of such a repulsive couple; but his
tongue soon loosened, and Pete and Jake had hardly got
within hearing distance when he roared out:

“You needn’t come on board at all, ’ll have the fiour
rolled out on the Levee.’’ DNOB.

A Subject to be Dropped.

The happy fellow who told a friend that his mother-in-
law made him six months’ visits twice a year, was a
brother to the honest fellow, who, when he wanted to
know what his friends were about, would purchase a news-
paper and look among the robberies. He was, however
no relation to the criminal, who, upon being asked by
judge if he had anything to say why sentence of dea
should not be pronounced upon him, replied:

‘JT think the joke has been carried far enough alr
and the less that is said about it the better; if you picase
judge, we'll drop the subject.” W.

 

 

 

 

The stories named below, which we shall publish as
rapidly as possible, will enable our readers to pass their
leisure hours with pleasure and profit:

Ironsides the Scout; or, The White Rider of
the Demon’s Gorge. By OLL CoomeEs. This
story is commenced in the present number of the
NEW YORK WEEKLY.

The Wickedest Man in the Mines; or, the
Wiystery of Gormsby Ranch. By Mant
POSA WEIR.

O’Connor’s Child; or, the Harp of Innisfail.
A Tale of Ireland in her Days of Glory. By JoHN
F. COWAN.

The Dead Duelist; or, The Mystery of Sea-
Eagle Tavern. By Howarp W. Macy.

A Silver Brand; or, The Secrets of Schwar-
zenburg. By CHARLES T. MANNERS.

Whose Wife is She; or, Bettina, the Italian
Nurse. By ANNIE LISLE (a new contribu
Moccasin Mose; or, The Trailof Death. ‘y
BURKE BRENTFORD.

Barefoot Billy’s Fortune. A Story for Boys. By
TAFFER GRAY.

Chipmuck, the Wyandotte; or, Kenton’s
Bloody Kentuckians. A Narrative of the
Old Frontier. By SANDY GRISWOLD.

The Gold Stream Ghost; or, The Dakotah’s
Revenge. A Romance of Colorado. By Mav-
RICE SILINGSBY. '

Caressing a Snake; or, The Widower’s Peril
By Mrs. M. ¥. Victor.

The Female Pilot. By ROGER STARBUCK.

 

 

 

 

——

Siem

~ a

 

nee te a

ike