a ey : stress, = vaio. . ietseeceaaun Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Yea’ 1873, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, _Washington, D. 0. Vou. XXVUL THE KING AND HIS ASTROLOGER. BY FELIX BROADBRIM. . Tenth Louis, whilom King of France, Who sometimes made his subjects “‘dance,’’ Had near his throne and presence one Whose knowledge of the stars and sun Was wondrous, and his skill profound As Samian sage—apt, shrewd, and sound— By name Dufief, and brave withal, Who came and went at Louis’ call. This monarch'coveted a maid In virtue stern, who duty paid . At court, and whom, with’all his might, He strove to win. But she, by right Of noble woman, that she was, Declined his baleful passion—poz’! Much to the king’s embarrassment, Who illy brooked the harassment Caused by this fair and gentle d(ame— A Daphneé coy; who held her name And honor priceless: And the cliief FRANCIS 8S. STREET, FRANCIS S. SMITH, ell uat * NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 8, iS73.. rERMS Three Dollars Per Year. Two Copies Five DelNars, Was vanquished. “Summon gray Dufiei!”’ Said Louis to his page. And straight The stanch astrologer, in state Of watchful thought, approached his liege, “The Lady Nina stands the siege Right bravely,” said the baffled king. ** But I must win her. | Poets ring The changes loudly on the skill Our ‘wise men’ own; and, when you will, *Tis said that, through your'subtle art, You can incline a woman’s heart To him who craves it. Now, monsieur, To make my conquest certain, here, At once this cunning gift confess To me—that I may quick possess This beauteous girl.” : “Nay, sire-forbear !? The old man gravely said; “and there No farther hope of conquest seel:; For, though I grieve the words to spéak, Yet trust him who now prophesies That seven days hence the maiden dies!" King Louis started trom his throne, Astounded; but the seer was gone, And, as he’d.told, just one week passed, When lovely Nina breathed her last! * Zounds!”’ eried the monarch, whemthe news Was brought him. ‘But this prophet rues The hour he thus foretold her death, Or I’m not king!” With bated breath He shouted then: “‘Bring in the seer, Our guard! _ And, from the window here, Hurl him below upon the pavement!”’ The sage well knew this menace grave meant Death to him, and, when he entered, Angered Louis boldly ventured To tell Dufief, in. words of fire, How, ‘why, and when he’d roused his ire! “ Since late you prophesied so well Monsieur le Sage, perhaps you’ll tell,”’ IS **Whoever sleeps in this room it is said alwags dreams how he will die !’’ mt He WA 4 } i} i] ue wal Sir Robert passed to the door, and opened it himself to gain time. It was the butler who stood there, a very punderous, pompous, insufferably conceited gentleman, with the one fact to recommend him, that he did understand his busi- ness, The domestic affairs at Kirstom Wold were never out of gear, owing to the matchless supervision of this gentieman, and there were few households in the king- dom so perfectly conducted: He was called Jacob Formy}, Said Louis, sharply, “‘when your death Will happen?” Scarcely *bove his breath, The mystic man replied; ‘‘Yes, sire— Since you demand the omen dire! In Nina’s case I did not err, And, for your sake, I'd now prefer Silence to keep.» “No! Oué with it!’ Said Louis; when the sage’s wit Served him, and bright his eyes did glisten, As he rejoined: “Amen, sire! Listen! My mission here will sure be done Three days before YOUR course is run!’ Old Louis saw the point at once, For he was farthest from.adunce! His wrathful plan he now deferred, Warmed to Dufief—discharged the guard— Detained the seer that ¢¥ to dine, Then loaded him with presents fine; Looked to his health and comfort, too, And always kept the sage in view; For tife believed in ‘‘good and wise monsieur,’’ And ever met him with, “My friend, bon jour!’ JUST COMMENCED. — THE False Champion; THE FATAL RESEMBLANCE. By Mrs. Helen Corwin Pierce, Author of CURSE OF EVERLEIGH, THE IN- JURED HUSBAND, &c. and prided himselfon the'“‘y” in his name as much as any gentieman born Smythe. He was very tall, very stout, very red im’ the face, very hugein every way. At this moment he was more than usually 80, for he had just had conveyed to him by the stammering, pale-faced house- Keeper the astonishing fact, that the master, long sup- posed dead and foully dealt by, had come back to his own, alive and well, and had sent for him to the library. For once Mr. Formyl was glowing with expectation and wonder, pot.unmingied with somethiug like apprehension lest a joke was being played on him, or something worse. But he was one of those who made it a principle to be astonished at nothing. If the moon. in the heavens had been suddenly proven to be really nothing but an im- mense ‘‘green cheese’? he would calmly asserted ‘I told you so.”? t His first words now after a mighty stare at the audacious imposter who claimed to be his master, were: “f always said so, Mr. Champion., Iknew you’d come back to your own yet, Heayen biess you, sit.”’ “Thank you, thank you, Formyl. I knew Lady Isabel must have you with her yet, the moment I entered the house. Idoubt ifI should have kaown the place again without you in charge,’ false Ralph hastened to say, while the conceited butler flushed with pleasure at the flattery, and strutted like a peacock. ‘Have you, ai—have you—but of course you have seen her ladyship,*’? questioned Formyl, pompously. “Yes, yes, I’ve seen her,” said the impostor, summon- ing an expression of hypocritical sadness into his beauti- ful face; ‘‘andI regret to say that her ladyship was so overcome. at the sight of me that she seemed in dan- ger of losing her mind. By the adyice of my. dear Triend here 1 at once quitted her presence till she should in some measure recover from the joyful shock my unex- pected return was to her. Iam concerned about her, Formyl, I am indeed.” The villain barely repressed a sneer in his tone, but the pompous and self-satisfied butler did not guess that. “T have never in all the range of my experience known joy to kill anyone,” remarked Mr. Formyl, with his ; thumbs: tucked in the armholes of his white waistcoat, | and looking about him asif his audience had comprised twenty instead of two individnais. “It is her mind I fear for, Formyi,” his pretended mas- ter answered, with a dismal.shaking of his handsome head, and the sneering light in his dark eyes still. ‘“f wish you could contrive to speak with her to-night, and (“The False Champion’’ was commenced last week. Ask your | mention that you have seen me, without letting her know News Agent for No. 43, and you will get the first chapter's. | CHAPTER III. “You lost a chance,”? Sir Robert said to false Ralph. I am still in the house, I have such confidence in your ex- perience, aud your long knowledge of her ladyship’s pe- culiarities. Approach her cautiously, Formyl, and ascer- tain, if you can, if] am unnecessarily concerned, lest the “You should have flattéred Esther Mount by pretending to | shock of seeing me,should ‘inve been too much for her.” be in love with her. then. *must remember better than this, my friend, or you will fail in your mission.” The false Ralph threw himself upon the velvet seat the lady had just left, and looked at lis ally nonchalantly, She would have believed in you The butler. bowed himsc!{ vut of the room, puffing. and She thought you were 2imse/ till youspoke. You | swelling with importance. False Raiph flung himseif back in his chair and laughed like a handsome demon. “How’s that, el?” he asked of Sir Robert. ‘Could you have done it better yourself? I know how to tame my Jady. ‘“‘We shall see,’’? he nodded. ‘Esther Mount is just one |] shall take high ground with her from the first. Her of those creatures a man of my stainp never finds any | mind is the string to play upon at-present. Do you see? difficulty in managing. Ill wager you five hundred to | Gomprehendist thou, fellow sinner?’ one she swears Lam the noble Ralph the first time she is asked.’’ Sir Robert frowned. “T can tell you one thing,” he said, angrily. got to drop those low-bred slang airs and speeches of yours if you mean to pass yoursell off for the noble Ralph. He wasa gentleman in every sense of the word. ‘Too much of one indeed—d——n him—for my taste. He wasn’t in. your style at all. It’s only your looks that are in your favor, and they won’t do you «a great deal of good, if you talk toomuch. I wish from my soul, Crawley, I nad put you in training ten years ugu. It’s too late now to make a gentleman of you, I’m afraid.” The other flushed irritably. ‘1m like your gentleman in one respect, Sir Robert, as you may find to your cost, if you worry me much. I’ve got @ devil of a temper, and I’d as soon knock the bottom out of the whole cursed business, as to be badgered this way, every time you get me by myself. So look out.’ Sir Robert bit his lip. ‘Don’t be a fool,” he said, sharply. .“The stake you’re fighting for is too heavy to be perilled by any slip of that idiotic temper of yours. The devil wouldn’t own to any- thing haif so senseless,’’ At this moment there was @ knock upon the library | door. Both started, and false Ralph glanced at one of the deep windows as though he meditated flinging himself through it. bravado. “Pish,"’ said Sir Robert, “it’s only the butler you sent for. Compose yourself whiie I let him in. Remember what I told you concerning him.” The man was @ coward in spite of his Sir Robert suppressed a movement of disgust and an- noyance. He had the training if not the instincts of a gen- tleman, and neither the language nor bearing of liis pro- “You've | tege were to his satisfaction. “Remember what Ihave told you about pretending to some refinement and chivalry of feeling whether you have it or not,’’ he said, coldly; “it is so much.more natural.to you to play the ruffian than anything else. I wish, Craw-' ley, you would practice on what I teil you.’’ Crawley (for that was his true name) muttered an oath. “There you go again,’’ he said. ‘*Well, d——n it, I will. What do you think she’ll say to my Lord Stupendous?’ “I think you are premature,’ “Not a bit; the sooner the murder’s out.now the better. We must oarry the works by storm or not at all.” ‘Where did you ever see Mrs. Craven before?’ demand- ed Sir Robert, abruptly, The Handsome villain whitened and grew sudky at the question. “Never you mind where I knew her,” he said; “it wasn’t anywhere in this partof the éountry you may be very sure.”’ ‘She knows you well,’’ observed Sir Robert, sternly. “Ourse her. She Knows better than to kuow too much ; Of me. She won’t trouble us.’ “Are you sure of that? Can you manage her?”’ ‘If I can’t Vil kill her,” He ground out the word so savagely, his whole face was so transfigured for the moment with a kiud of horri- ble, threatening ferocity, that Sir Robert was conscious of an uneasy thrill. ‘You look as if you would,” he said, irritably. “‘I be- lieve you would be capable of it in one of your frenzies. What is sheto you? Iinsist upon knowing. There must be something uncommon between you to make you mu- tually so afraid of each other.’ “It's a lie,”? growled Crawley, passionately, but his lips ashy. ‘*Who says 1’m afraid of her must eat the lie.” “You’re.a fool if ever there was one,’ said Sir Robert, angrily. ‘*J'm not afraid of you if. Mrs. Craven is, and | begin to see I may have to wash my hands of you yet.” “It’s too late for that, and you Know it. ou and I stand or fall together, Sir Robert Calthorpe; you and I go shares in the risk new, and the money afterward.”’ He Gropped his voice to a whisper involuntarily on the last words, and some thought embodied in them turned both men cold and gloomy for the moment. Each pair of eyes dropped to the floor as if in avoidance of the other’s. It was Crawley who spoke first, resuming in a lower tone than éither had used most of the time before. “I know I’m not up to your mark, Sir Robert, but I do the best Lcan, and you'll have to chance it. Anything odd in me may be set down to the influences I have been exposed to since I left my wife, six years ago. Six years ought to change aman some. Don’t you think so?” He was sneering again. There was bad blood in the may notwithstanding his marvelous likeness to that lofty- souled and pure-minded gentleman, Ralph Champion. The prospect of compassing wealth and position such as his vagabond soul had neyer dared dream of once, while it elated, did not soften or soothe him. His heart was a fountain of bitterness, his soul & wilderness of rauk weeds and poisonous reptiles. Sir Robert, did not reply atonce. When he did speak it was to change the subject—to return to: Mrs. Craven. “Why don’t she come back?’ he asked, with some anx- iety. ‘‘Sie’s had time to put ten rooms in readiness for you. For aught you and I know, she’s closeted with Lady Isabel ali this time.’ Crawley started and looked black as a thunder cloud, Then he jaughed uneasily. *She’d never dare—-never. Here she is now.” A faint rap sounded on the door. Crawley sprang to it. It was Mrs. Craven. “The room is ready,’’ she said, without lifting her eyes. Crawley pulled her into the room. “Where have you been allthis time?’ he asked, sus- piciously. “Tve been overseeing the women get the room ready,’’ she answered, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Whatelse? It don’t take an hour and a half to make up a bed. and light a fire.’? “Nothing else—the bed had to be aired. It,hasn’t been used in a long time.”’ “Mighty carefal for my comfort,’? sneered Crawley. ‘‘I don’t believe you, but you’d better be dead than playing me any of your tricks. You know that, don’t you?” A sort of spasm crossed the woman’s ashy face. Her leaden lips moved. “T know,” she said. “Lead on, then. Will you come, Sir Robert ?’ noticed her. Sir Robert hesitated a moment. “Can I trust you here by yourself? I oughtto stay, and yet on some accounts I had better not.’ “I can’t be trusted by myself. Stay, by all means, Sir Robert. I don’t see the odds myself.” “Dll stay,”? said Sir Robert. ‘Where is his room?’ he questioned of the housekeeper. “In the east wing.’ “In the east wing ??? exclaimed Sir Robert, turning upon net pale creature with a look of violent surpr ise and agi- ation. The woman barely lifted her eyes, and dropped them again, “It ig farthest from my lady’s apartments,” she stam- mered, almost inaudibly. “Why not in the east wing ?’? demanded Crawley. Sir Robert made no answer, but stalked. gloomily after the woman as she led the way through the sumptuous halls and passages. Crawley followed him silently. A sudden. turn in the corridor at last showed them an open door, and the ruby gleam of firelight beyond it. But the flame was the only olieerful object in the room. Sir Robert strode forward into the apartment so blinded by the gleam of the fire that he did not at the moment recognize it. When he did it was with a gasp and shudder. E “You woman!’ he cried, clutching at Craven's shoul- der, brutally; ‘‘why have you bronght us here ?”” The poor creature looked more like a corpse than a liv- ing thing already. She made him no answer; only her lips moved feebly. Crawley stared about him. “What ails the room?” he grumbled. “It’s gloomy as a cellar—that’s all I can see wrong in it.’’ Sir Robert laughed harshly, and let the woman go. “Nothing ails the room,” he said; ‘‘l’d as soon sleep in @ graveyard, though.’? ‘“Maybe a dead tan did sleep here last,’ sneered Craw- ley. ‘Say, you Bess! who slept here last?’ With a desperate, effort the woman found her voice. “I don’t know,” said she. “How should 1? It’s con- sidered one. of the finest rooms in the house.” She crept toward the door as ghe spoke, hesitated there & moment, and then hastened eagerly away. Craven started violently at the question, but neither The two men remained, darkly surveying the room. It was lofty and spacious, hung and upholstered in satin of so dark a green as to seem arusty biack in the night. Even the huge tent-bed in the middle of the room was curtained in the same gloomy hue, and looked like an immense bier. “I wish you might find your death there—I do!’ whis- pered Craven, behind her clenched teeth, as she hurried away. “If I wasn’t such a miserable coward, you should find it, too!” “Look here!) said Sir Robert, suddenly, to Crawley; “this is what ails the room!" He stalked across)to one of the tall windows, and flung back the thick satin curtain. Crawley ultered an exclamation. The deep, wide casement was not closed with glass, but stone /—a grim, bare, unsightly wall, from which both men recoiled with an involuntary shudder. The next moment Crawley drew near again. “What are these figures carved in the stone?" he ask- ed. “They look as if they might méan something; but they are like no letters l ever saw.’ Sir Robert looked at the figures which Crawley was examining, with haif-averted head. “The tradition is,’ he said, in a low voice, *‘that Kirston once consisted only of this room, It was built by a son of the founder of the family. He was the second earl of the name. He loved and wedded a beautiful, but bad and utterly dissolute and unprincipled woman. He never guessed her infamy till she was dead, and then, auch was his grief and devotion to her that he betook himself hither, built this room and spent the remainder of. his days praying for her soul, His successor, a brother’s son, built Kirston on the very spot where. his uncle had lived his hermit life, and it is said, eve incorporated his stone cellin the castle. Thesiory is that this window was carved by the hermit lord. It is an inscription in the Chaldaic language. Its meaning is, that to whoever sleeps a night in this room, shall be presented in hisdreams the closing scene of his life.”’ Crawley laughed, but his face changed. Sir Robert went on; ‘‘Whoever sleeps in this room it is said always dreams how he wiil die, and there have been some very singular verifications of the prophecy.”’ Crawley whitened again. Then the old eyil sneer dis- torted his handsome, crue) face. “1d give something if it’s so, to dream of dying in my bed. You remember the adage, baronet—peopile who are born to.be hung.”’ Sir Robert shuddered and lifted his hand. Be still,’ he said, ‘it is no jest.” ‘Really! I did not know you were superstitious, baronet.”? Sir Robert regarded him steadily a moment, the somber gloom of his face deepening. “T have slept here once 2?” he said, in alow,stern voice. Crawley started. Then he shrugged his shoulders, “And you dreamed—what, my baronet?” Sir Robert frowned, and dropped his head, seeming lost in dark thoughts some moments. “Never mind,’’ he said, at last, ‘it was only @ dream. You are not afraid to sleep here %’? “I? afraid of adream? Never.’ CHAPTER IV, Six years before the events just noted, at dusk of a June evening, a young gentleman came slowly through the walk that led from the lower part of Kirston Wold toward the sea. He was tall and slight, wonderfully graceful, with a bright, dark eye, shining curly hair and a winning, handsome face, that many a girl might have envied him, it was so fair and gentle; the smile on the perfect lips) was charming. The expression in the wide, dark eyes was most sunny and shadowless. Ralph Champion was just twenty-two that day, and so far few sorrows had marked his life, and fewer acts to be regretted were recorded against him than usually falls to the lot of man so exposed as he to temptation. He had been a ward of Lady Isabel Champion’s father, and was distantly related to him, being the last representative of a remote branch of the same noble family. He had mar- ried the young Isabel at the deathbed of her father only eighteen months before, and though master of but small estate compared with, Lady Isabel, the marriage had been the desire of Lord Champion’s heart—partly, perhaps, because his daughter need not give up the old name in marrying his handsome young ward and relative. He liked that Kept up. / The title went to another cousin, nearerin blood, with a small portion of the vast wealth. The estates in Scotland and the North of England, the castles in Wales, and Kirston Wold, which was in a mid- land seaside County, were entailed in the female line, by special grant. Young Ralph had married the richest and most beauti- ful heiress in England; but neither he nor Lady Isabel thought of anything but each other. Their mutual devo- tion was the remark of their friends, the envy of their en- emies. Ainong this latter class and at their head, stood Sir Robert Calthorpe, whose wife was, next to Lady. Isabel, heiress of those vast family possessions which descended in the female line. Isabel at the death of her father, and had laid his plans accordingly. His rage at the marriage was unbounded, and it was no fault of his that the happy young pair had not quarreled and separated inside of the first month after their marriage.. He had spared no pains to bring about so desirable a termination to their bliss; but he had failed utterly, and after trying twelve months had given that up, and now for the last six had done nothing but seek to ingratiate himself with the beautiful and mutually adoring pair. Young Ralph had parted with him not ten minutes be- fore his present introduction to the reader. Sir Robert had occupied the interval of their walk from the house in del- icate praises. of beautiful Lady Isabel .and hypocritical congratulations of his companion, whict he was too sin- cere and genuine himself to doubt.. Ralpli Champion had parted with him in an,amiable frame of mind, and as he sauntered toward the sea did not retain one thought dis- trustful of him. He, had disliked Sir Robert once, he liked him now, and had full faithin him. He was about to discover what a demon of wickedness the man was. Ralph Champion’s heart was softer than usual this even- ing, with happy tenderness for his worshiped wile, for as be quitted her side but now, in the gathering twilight, she had whispered amid sweetest blushes tiat the delight and desire of both their hearts was about to berealized. An- other was ceming in the fullness of time to round and perfect their ‘ives, whose cup of joy needed but this one drop to fill it to overflowing. “Heaven bless my darling,’? the fond and happy young, husband murmured, as he paused at a rustic seat in sighs of .the sea and sat listening to the distant slumberonus murmur of tlle waves washing the white sands, and think- ing loving ana delicious thoughts. ; He sighed heavily at last, and hastily brushed away some tears \hat.had come unbidden to his handsome eyes. “Pm afraid: ’m too happy,?’.he whispered, softly, to himself. * “I never Knew before that joy could weigh one down so. Jfl were superstitious now I should imagine that this queer sadness is a presentiment of evil. But what evil can touch ‘me save death or harm to Isabel?— and both are unlikely, seemingly, at present. Iam grow- ing nervous, I think, and the air is certainly’ wonderfully chill for June. I think I'll go back to the house.” He rose and moved away in the direction he had come. Ten steps from where he had been sitting the trees gud- denly grew. thick, and the path was shrouded in gloom. It: was at this point that the evil he had a moment before been doubting lay in wait for him. Some demon, crouching there among the shadows, ro: up as he passed and aimed a heavy blow, at him from be- hind. Ralph Champion-fell without a sound.® Unhappy man, For that unfortunate young soul happiness became from that hour and for long years only a memory. He was not dead, though he seemed so, buta fate worse than death awaited him. As he Jay moveless, face downwards, a figure came out ofthe gioom and leaned over him. A moment, and this figure was joined by another. Both wore disguising cloaks, and were masked. They lifted the motionless’ form without a word, and between them bore it swiftly across tlle deserted sands to where, hidden by a curve of the shore, a small rowboat rocked on the water. With some difficulty he was lifted in and laid upon the bottom of the boat. Then the two men entered and rowed away,as if for life. The boat was not gone more than ten minutes. It re- turned with only the two masked. figures, one of which leaped out asit touched the sand, and with a hurried word to the other, dashed into the woods and disap- peared. The one left in the boat rowed swiftly out to sea again and disappeared. Lady Isabel, looking from her boudoir casement, loy- ingly and with full heart watching her husband as he went through the park, saw Sir Robert Calthorpe join him, and a vague feeling of distress stirred in her sensi- tive heart. She liad never lost her distrust and doubt of this plausible kinsman. When it grew late and Ralph did not return, that dis- tress became foreboding agony, but’she concealed her terror for which, she could not by any rational means account, and calmly but swiftly dispatched servants in every probable direction to search for their master. When these did not find him, she sent a peremptory summons to Calthorpe Court for Sir Robert. He came instantly. White, agonized and wrathful, Lady Isabel met him, alone, and sternly questioned him concerning her hus- band’s absence. Sir Robert at first denied having seen him at all since the middle of the afternoon, finding to his dismay that Lady Isabel had seen them together, conveniently remem- bered the fact, but proved by one of the Kirston footmen that he had only walked as far as the lake, midway of the park with her husband. Sir Robert’s wife declared that her husband reached home before it was quite dark, and remained with her ever moment till summoned by Lady Isabel to Kirston. Lady Isabel until this moment had seemed the gentlest of women. Sir Robert had caiculated on finding her most easy of management once deprived of the protection and paralyzed by the loss of her worshiped husband. On the contrary she rose in her might like an enraged lioness reft of her young. The false baronet recoiled from the blaze in her matchless eyes, as though at the flash of the retributive sword. “7 will have the lake dragged,’’ Lady Isabel said with a menacing look on her lovely face, and shuddering at the horrible suggestion implied in her own. words. “You were the last person seen with my lost Ralph. Living or dead T will find him, and hold you alone accountable for his life untilI do. You and your wife alone of all the world have any interest in his death, you alone of all who knew him hated him. IfI find him, if you have had a hand in harming him tremble Robert Calthorpe, Heaven will help me,to avenge him.” itis but justice to Sir Robert to say that Lady: Isabel was the only person who ever breathed a suspicion that he could have had any conuection with the mysterious dis- appearance of lost Ralph Champion. My lady herself never uttered a word of her thoughts of him to any one else. The baronet bore himself very creditably throughout the entire affair. Two weeks after the disappearance of Ralph Champion, a body was washed. ashore by the sea, dressed in his clothes. But the body was so changed, the face especially, by the action of the water, that if was impossible to identify it as himself positively, though it was generally supposed to be so, and was buriedinthe Kirston vaults as his remains. Lady Isabel refused to believe that this battered corpse could be all that was left of her handsome young husband, till Sir Robert deciared himself of the same opinion, when witha horribly sinking heart, she surrendered her doubts. “If he says my darling is alive it must be a lie. He knows whether itisso or not, and he wouldn’t say he was alive if he was,’’ she said to herself first, and after- ward to the man her instinct told her was her bitter enemy. She defied him to his face. ‘‘Ralph is dead, and you Know it,” she told him. ‘You know how he came by his death, too, and if [live Dll ro I mean to live till I do, and Pll be willing to die then, Sir Robert for the most part only looked decorously sor- rowful and compassionate at these outbursts, and affected to believe my lady’s mind was weakened: by her grief. “As you no doubt hope it is,’ burst forth Lady Isabel, passionately again. ‘You would like to have me go crazy, and you’d put me in a madhouse and reign at Kirston Wold, and spend my money? But you nevershall, never, Sir Robert. There’s more than my life between you and the Champion riches.”’ My lady stopped and turned her back upon him, her white face suddenly hot with blushes. She had not meant to tell him that. She was frightened when she thought of it, and worse scared still when lifting her eyes at last, she saw Sir Robert's distorted face im the long pier-glass op- posite. He had scarcely understood her tlie first instant, and then in another the truth burst upon him. An heir was coming. Allhis vile plotting, his murderous, and worse than murderous schemes, were to be foiled after all, and in the simplest way of all others, the way he had not in his wise cunning thought of. My lady saw him gnash his teeth with disappointed rage. She saw his dis- torted, evil countenance In the pier-giass, and the look of fury lie cast upon her averted face, For the first time she feared him. She thought of her unborn child, and feared this deadly, dreadful man, who looked at that moment as if he would murder her now be- Sir Robert was thoroughly selfisk and unprincipled. He fore she could get away from him. ante etnies: acne atid Trix fh an instant’s reflection reassured her. She calmed her lovely features and turned toward him again. The treacherous and wicked baronet had by this time masked his false face in hypooritical hues once more. “While I live, Isabel,’ he said, softly, “I will strive to find the husband you have lost, and return himto you. 1 could not rest in my grave Knowing you had such un- worthy thoughts of me. You shall have your Ralph back from that mysterious void into which he seems to have Vanished so unaccountably. [swear that you shall. He does live. J feel in my soul that he does, and Heaven grant that it may be through my instrumentality that he Muay be reenrned to you,” Lacy Isubel frowned till her slender brows met, and Mashed ber lovely eyes at him in scorn and wrath. “i should alinost doubt my Own Ralph's identity if you brought hin: BACK lo me,” she said, with her sweet lips quivering. ‘‘When Satan becomes an angel of light in- deed, and not till then, I will believe that Bir Robert Cul- thorpe loves me and mine,’! (TO BE O®NTINUED,} A Terrible Secret. By Mrs, May Agnes Fleming, [Who Writes Exclusively for this Paper.]} Author of A WONDERFUL WOMAN, WED- DLD YET NO WIFE, TITLE HEIRESS OF GLEN GOWER, ESTELLE’S HUSBAND, LADY EVELYN, BARONET’S BRIDE, MAGDALEN’S VOW, WHO WINS, Hic. {“A Terrible Secret was commenced In No. 30. Back num_ bers ean bo obtained from any News Agent in the United States. ; BoA BT “PT: CHAPTER XVI. “OH, MY COUSIN SHALLOW-HEARTED!” The middle of the day is pest before one by one they straggle down. Breakfast awaits each new comer hot and LAMARENE. Trix eats hers with relish. Trix possesses two of the chief elements of perpet- ual human happiness—an appetite that never fails, a digestion that, in her own metaphysical American language, ‘‘never goes back on her.” But Edith looks fagged and spiritless, If people are to be su- pernaturally brilliant and bright, dashing and fasci- nating all night long, people must expect to pay the’ penalty next day when lassitude and reaction set in. “My poor Edie !” Mr. Charles Stuart remarks, com- assionately, glancing at the wan cheeks and luster- ess eyes, as he li rhts his after-breakfast cigar. “You do look most awfully used up. What a pity for their peace of mind, some of your frantic adorers of last night can’t see younow. Let me recommend you to go back to bed and try an §. and B.” “An ‘8, and B. ?’” Edith repeats, vaguely. ‘Soda and Brandy. It’s the thing, depend upon it, for such a case as yours. I’ve been seedy myself before now, and know what I’m talking about. Dll mix it for you, if you like.” There is a copy of Tennyson, in blue and gold, be- side Miss Darrell, and Miss Darrell’s reply is to fling It at Mr. Stuart’s head. Itisa last effort of expiring nature, she sinks back exhausted among her cushions, Charley departs to ore. his Manilla out under the wavingjtrees, and Sir Victor, looking tresh afd recuperated, strolls in and bends over her. “My dear Edith,” he says, ‘Show pale you are this ijorning—how tired you look. If one ballis going to exhaust you like this, how will you stand the wear and tear of London seasons in the blissful time to come ?” She does not blush—she turns a trifle impatiently away from him and looks out. She can see Charley and: Hammond smoking sociably together in the sunny distance, ‘1 will grow used to it, I daresay, Sufficient unto the. is the evil thereof.” ; ‘Shave you had breakfast ?” “T made an effort and failed. I watched Trix eat hers, howeyer, and that refreshed me quite as well, It. was invigorating only to look at her.” de smiles and bends lower, drawing one long nin Silken tress of hair fondly through his fingers, i ug would like to stoop and kiss the : ut Trix is over yonder, pretend- g to read, issing is not to be thought of. \*Iam going over to Catheron Royals,” he whis- he, Ww _ pered; ‘suppose you come—the walk will do you good. Iam giving orders about the fitting up of the “old place. Did I tell you the workmen came yester- day 7?” ““Yes—you told me.” “Bhall I ring for your hat and parasol. Pdith.” “Excuse me, Sir Victor,” Edith answers, with an impatient motion, ‘I feel too tired—too lazy, which ever you like—to stir. Some other day I will go with pleasure—just now I feel like lying here, and doing the dole far niente. Don% let me detain you, how- ever.” He turns to leave her h a disappointed face. Edith closes her eyes and tikes an easier position among the pillows, The door closes behind him; down her book and bursts forth: “Of all the heartless, cold-blooded animals it has ever been my good fortune to meet, commend me to Miss Edith Darrell !” The dark eyes unclose and look up at her. “My dear Trix ! what’s the matter with you now ? ‘What new enormity have I committed ?” “Oh, nothing new—nothing new at all,” is Trixy’s scornful response; ‘‘it is quite in keeping with the rest of your conduct. To be purely and entirely sel- fish is the normal state of the future Lady Catheron! Poor Sir Victor! who has won you? Poor Charley! who has lost you? I hardly know which I pity most.” “I don’t see that you need waste your precious pity on either,” answered Edith, perfectly unmoved y Miss Stuart’s vituperation; “keep it for me. I shall make Sir Victor a very good wife as wives go, and for Charley—well, Lady Gwendoline is left to console him,” “Yes, of course, there is Lady Gwendoline. Oh Edith' Edith! what are you madeof? Flesh and blood like other people, or wax work, with a stone for a heart? How can you sell yourself, as you are poing todo? Sir Victor Catheron is no more to you than his hall porter, and yet you persist in marrying him, You love my brother and yet you hand him over to Lady Gwendoline. Come, Edith! be honest for once—you love Charley, don't you?” “It is rather late in the day for such tender contes- sions as that,” Edith replies, with areckless sort of laugh; “but yes—if the declaration does you any good, Trix—I love Charley.” ‘And you give him up! Miss Darrell, I give you up as a conundrum I can’t.solve. ‘Rank and title are all very well—nobody thinks more of them than I do; but if J loved a man,” cried Trix, with kindling eyes and glowing cheeks, “I’d marry him! Yes, would, though he were a beggar.” ate 2 looked up at her kindly, with a smothered sich. “I believe you, Trix, but then you are different from me.” She half-raised herself, looking dreamily out at the sunlit prospect of lawn, and coppice, and woodland. ‘Here it is: I love Charley, but I love myself better. Oh! Trix, child, don’t let us talk about it—I am tired, aad my head aches.” She pushed back the heavy, dark hair wearily off her temples. with both hands, “I am what you call me, @ selfish wretch—a hoartless little brute—and I am going to marry Sir Victor Catheron. Pity him, if you like, poor fellow! for he loves me with his whole heart, and he is a brave and loyal gentleman. But don’t pity your brother, my dear; believe me, he doesn’t need it. He’sa good fellow, Charley, and he likes me, but he won't break his heart or commit suicide while he has a cigar left.” ‘Here he comes!” exclaimed Trix, ‘‘and I believe he has heard us.” “Let him come,” Edith returns, lying listlessly back among her cushions once more. “It doesn’t matter if he has, It will be no news to him.” “It is a pity you should miss each other, though,” Trix says, sarcastically, as she turns to go; “such thorough philosophers both, I believe you were anade for each other, and, as far as easy-going sel- fishness is concerned, there is little to choose. be- tween you, It’s a thousand pities Sir Victor can’t hear all this.” “He might if he liked,” is Edith’s answer, “I shouldn’t care. Charley!” as Charley comes in and Trix goes out, ‘have you been eavesdropping? Don’t deny it, sir, if you have!” Charley takes a position in an easy-chair some five yards distant, and looks at her lying there, lan- guid and lovely. “J have been eavesdropping—I never deny my small vices. Hammond left me to go to the stables, and, strolling under the window, I overheard you and Trix. Open confession is beneficial. no doubt; but, my dear cousin, you really shouldn’t mike themin so audible a tone. Victor, instead of mas” She says nothing, {fe somber look hehas learned > know isin her dogk eyes, on her dark, colorless ‘Poor Sir Victor!” he goes on; “the loves you—not a doubt of that, Dithy—to the depths of idiocy, where you know so well to cast your victims; but gard hit as he js, I wonder what he would say if he heard all this?” Do come, It might have been Sir’ <<4 THE NEW YORK _ ren mae “You might tell him, Charley,” Edith says. ‘I shouldn’t mind—much, and he might jilt me—who can tell? I think it would dous both good. You eould say, ‘Look here—don’t, marry Edith Darrell Sir Victor; she isn’t worthy of you or any goo man. She is full of pride, vanity, ambition, selfish- ness, ill-temper, cynicism, and all uncharitableness. She is blase at nineteen—think what she will be at nine-and-twenty. She doesn’t love you—I know her well enough to besure she never will, partly because a heart was left out in her hard anatomy partly because—because all the liking she ever had to give went long ago to somebody else.’ Charley, Lthink he would. give me up, and.t. respect him for it, ifhe knew that. Tell him, if youhaye the cour- age, and, when he casts me off, come to me and make me rT you. You can do it, you know; and, when the honeymoon is over—when poyerty stalks in at the door and love flies out of the win- dow—when we hate each other as only ill-assorted wives and husbands ever hate—let the thought that we have done the ‘All for love, and the world well lost” business, to the bitter end, console us.” She laughs recklessly; she feels reckless cnough to say anything, do anything, this ae Love, }ambition, rank, wealth—what empty baubles they all look, seen through tired eyes the day after a ball! He sits silent, watching her thoughtfully, “T don’t understand you, Edith,” hesays. ‘I feel like asking you the same question Trix did. Why do you marry Sir Victor?” “Why do I marry him?” she repeated. ‘Well—a little because of his handsome face and stately bear- ing, and the triumph of carrying off a prize for which your Lady Gwendoline and half a score more have battled. A little because he pleads so elo- quently, and loves me as no other mortal man ever did, or ever will; and oh, Charley! a great deal be- cause he is Sir Victor Catheron of Catheron Royals, with a rent-roll of twenty thousand a year, and more, anda name that is older than Magna Charta. Ifthere be any virtue in truth, there—you have it, plain, unvarnished. I like him—who could help it; but love him—no!” She clasped her hands above her head, and gazed dreamily out at the sparkling, sunlit scene, ‘I shall be very fond of him, very proud of him, when I am his wife—that I know. He will enter Parliament, and make speeches, and write political pamphlets, and redress the wrongs of the people. He’s the sort of man politicians are made of—the sort of mana wife can be proud of. And on my wedding day, or oe a day or two before, you and I shall shake hands, sir, and see each other no more.” “No more ?” he repeats. “Well, for a year or two at least, until all the folly of the past can be remembered only as a thing to be laughed at. Or until there is a tall, handsome Mrs. Stuart, or more likely a Lady Gwendoline Stuart. And, Charley,” speaking hurriedly now, and not meeting the deep gray eyes she knows are fixed upon her, *‘the locket with my picture and the let- ters—you won’t want them then—suppose you let me have them back.” “I won’t want them then, certainly,” Charley re- sponds, ‘if by ‘then’ you mean when iam the hus- band of the tall, fascinating Mrs. Stuart or Lady Gwendoline. But as I have not that happiness yet, suppose you allow me to retain them until I do, Sir Victor will never know, and he would not mind much if he did. We are cousins, are we not, and what more natural than that cousins once removed should keep each other’s pictures? By the by, I see you still wear that little trumpery pearl and tur- quoise brooch I gave you, with my photo at the back. Give it to ma, Edie ; turquoise does not be- come your brown skin, my dear, and I'll give youa ruby pin, with Sir Victor’s instead. Perhaps, as tur- quoise does become her, Lady Gwendoline, she will accept this as love’s first timid offering. The rubies will do twice as well for you.” He stretched forth his hand to unfasten it. She sprung back, her cheeks flushing at his touch. “You shall not have it! Neither Lady Gwendoline single Jshall keep it to my dying day if I choose. Charley! what do you mean, sir! How dare you? Let me go!” For he had risen suddenly and caught her in his arms, looking steadily down into her dark eyes, with @ gaze she could not meet. Whilst he held her, whilst he looked at her, he was her master, and he knew it. ‘Charley, let me go! she pleaded. “If any one came in; the servants, or—or—Sir Victor.” He laughed contemptuously, and held her still. “Yes, Edith, suppose Sir Victor came in and saw his bride elect with a sacriligeous arm about her waist? Suppose I told him the truth, that you are mine, not his—mine by the love that alone makes marriage holy ; his for his title and his rent-roll— bought and gold. By Heaven! I half wish he would!” Was this Charley—Charley Stuart ? She caught her breath—her pride and her inso- lence dropping from her—only a girl in the grasp of the man she loves. In that moment, if he had willed it, he could have made her forego _ her plight and pledge herself to be his wholly, and he knew it. “Edith,” he said, ‘‘as I stand and look at you, in your beauty and your selfishness, I hardly know whether I love or despise you most. I could make you marry me—make you, mind—but you are not worth it. Go!” He opened his arms contemptuously and released her. ‘You'll not bea bad wife for Sir Victor, I dare say, as fashionable wives go. You'll be that ornament of society, a married flirt but you'll never run away with his dearest friend and make a oase forthe D.C. ‘All tor love and the world well lost,’ is no motto of yours, my handsome cousin. A week ago I envied Sir Victor with all my heart—to-day I pity him with all my soul !” He turned to go, for once in his life thoroughly aroused, passionate love, passionate rage, at war within him. She had sunk back upon the sofa, her face hidden in her hands, humbled, as in all her proud life she had never been humbled before. Her silence, her humility, touched him. He heard a stifled sob, and all his hot anger died out in pained remorse. “Oh, forgive me, Edith !” he said, “forgive me. It may be cruel, but T had to speak. It is the first, it will be the last time. I am selfish, too, or I weuld never have pained you—better never hear the truth than that the hearing should make you miserable. Don’t cry, Edith, I can’t bear it. Forgive me, my re Drones are the last tears I will ever make you 8 ed.” The words he meant to soothe her hurt more deeply than the words he meant to wound. ‘They are the last tears I will ever make youshed!” An eternal farewell was in the words, She heard the door open, heard it close, and knew that her love and her life had parted in that instant forever. CHAPTER XVII. ‘WHEN THE BRIDEGROOM IS WIDOWED THE DAY UE I8 WED,” Through the warm June noonday, under the fra- grant greenness of the trees, across the fields and along pleasant rustic lanes, walked Sir Victor Cath- eron toward Catheron Royals: “Are you speaking of my mother, dame?” the young man asked, impatiently. “Your mother, You were a baby then, I carried youin my arms many and manya time. She was ittle more than a baby herself, and they killed her, killed her while she slept, and her handsome young husband that wasso fond of her, and so proud of her, far away. There was little sleep that night, nor for many a night at Catheron Royals. He went mad and died—poor pee gentleman, and lies buried in a foreign land. And your honor is that like him, with your fair hair and rer bright eyes, that T could al- most believe I see him again with his bride by his side. But that bride is down in the lonesome vaults —the black, cold, lonesome vaults—and they tell me your bride is yonder—another bonny bride from over the sea?” The dim old eyes looked: at him in uir- | ingly—he nodded in assent... What was the drooling old dame driving at he wondered. “It’s true then, it’s true, and there'll be another grand wedding at Catheron Royals, and the joy bells will ring, and the bonfires blaze,and the people cheer, and feasting and merry-making, and joy everywhere. Maybe I won’t live toseeit. I’ma very old woman, and I’ve lived to see a mort of queer things. Dear, dear, dear! The old must die—the young must wed. But whether I live to see it or not, I'll tell you now. I always said I’d tell youif you lived tobeaman. But maybe you know it already ¥” ‘My good woman, know what ?” Sir Victor answer- ed still impatiently, ‘I don’t understand a word you're saying. Know what?” The watery old eyes regarded him solemnly. “The prediction.” “What prediction ?” “The prediction of the Catherons. Ah! I thought you didn’t know it. My lady, she wouldn’t tell you, but you ought to hear it. You ought, you ought.” “A prediction! This grows interesting,” said Sir Victor, laughing. ‘We have our family ghost. Why shouldn’t we have our family prophecy? Let me hear it, dame, Does it in any way concern me ?” ‘*You and your bride—you and your bride. There’s none of the name lefl now but you.” “It is not an evil one, Ihope. Pray, let us have it vou aréiaciiidngt’’ Alt folks ‘You are laughing! 1! young folks always laugh; it is for the old to weep. You wort believe. it, tony? be, my lady won’t believe it, but it will come true, it willcome. The rest came true, s0 will it.” “Will you let me hear it?” He looked at his watch, feverishly, but the old woman was not to be hurried, “I mind the night we sat up with your father—me and John Hooper. He was butler then, was John Hooper, and he’s dead and gone for what I know. 1 mind the night, it rained and blew, and the dead lady By. down stairs, with the stab in her heart; the young husband lay with us, ravingin brain fever, and she lay in Chesholm jail. The first of it came true that nighhs and I said to John Hooper: ‘Wait and see; mark words ifthe rest won’t come true intime. He’s a bit ofababe,’I said, ‘but he'll grow up to be aman, and he'll fall in love and marry a wife. Andon his wedding day the last ofthe pre- diction will be fulfilled.’ ” If it had not been against Sir Victer Catheron’s instincts and principles to swear, I think he must have swornnow. He suppressed the wicked desire, and looked the rambling old goody straight and stern in the eyes, ‘My good woman,” he said, pathetically, ‘twill you tell me, or will you not? Jn tive minutes I ghall have left this room. Repeat this wonderful pro- phecy of yours, and have done with it.” “TI mind it well—I have it pat,” wasthe old dame’s unmoved answer, with a last, dismal wag of her ae ‘the first of it was about the murder. Here it is: “When murder the foulest that ever was done Staius tue band of a Catheron, the race sual! be run.’ “Stains the hand of a Catheron! Ah, everybody knew it was Mr. Juan, though he got off. A bad bold boy, with the devil in his two black eyes, and wicked thoughts ever jn his heart.” “Go on—do go on!” “This is the next, I’m an old woman, a very old woman, but trust me not to forget this: “When in Chesholm prison, a murderer’s place Is filled by a woman of Outheron race, “That meant her, you know—Miss Inez. She was innocent, but they putherin. She hated Sir Victor’s bonny young bride. She wanted to be his wife her- self; but I never believed she did it—never, never! That was true that night—the rest is to come—the rest is for you.” ‘Go on,” Sir Victor said again. The dull old eyes fixed themselves upon him—the slow old lips spoke: “When the brijegroom is widowed the day he is wed, The race slall be euded, the name shail be dead.’ There was a pause. Sir Victor sat, taken aback, to say the least of it. Latent, in his nature, lay strong superstition, and the rhyme ofthe old woman startled him for an instant. Then he laughed, and arose, “My good soul, is this all ?” ‘All? the old woman repeated, dolefully, “and enough for sure. It will come true—mind! I warn you! The rest came, 80 will this, I’m sorry for it— I don’t want to frighten you, butgmark what I say— it will come.” The baronet took from his pocket a sovereign, and placed itin her 2 He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked steadily and sternly in her eyes. ‘See here, my good woman, you mean well, I have no doubt, but den’t repeat this nonsense to any one again, You hear me! to any one. It is rubbish, of course, but rubbish may annoy. You understand ? You are to repeat this to no one ?” “Tunderstand, I've kept it for three-and-twenty p> years until to-day—I ean keep it till I die. But mind, I’ve told re have warned you—it’s a duty off my mind. it nonsense, if you like, but—the roma true, And when the time comes, 80 will t all. Ss He hardly waited forthe last words. Hewas gone with quick, impatient strides. What folly was this ? It was folly, of course, and yet folly, as he had said, with power to annoy. ‘Then the bridegroom is widowed the day he is wed aa doggere! rubbish, certainly, and yet as some tune haunts one at times, so the a ae him all the way home, “The rest came true.” The croaking yoice of the old 1 was in his again. “When the time comes 80 Will this,” )**W ed the day heiswed.”) ‘hat meant Edith would die, He staried from his reverie in horror. Good heavens! what a fool he was to let this doggerel rubbish trouble him, — “Tam growing more nervous than a school girl,” he thought, ‘How Edith would tangh at. me it she heard this. I wonder if my Aunt Helena knows any- Chas of it? Simply through curiosity, Ill ask ers . sek \ ) Simply through curiosity, of course, he sought her out when he reached Powyss Place, and found her unoccupied and alone. He threw himselfinto a chair, and narrated gayly his morning’s work at Catheron Royals. Then he related the episode of his being waylaid by Johnny, and the interview with ore ‘Old Martha!” Lady Helena said. ‘Yes, yes, she was at Catheron Royals in your infancy.. And what had she to say to you?” “Something to make your blood congeal, I can tell you —the most dismal prediction you ever heard. Or perhaps you may have heard? With his eyes on her face, and a smile on his lips, he repeated the ruyme. Lady Helena listened in silence, “Well,”? he demanded, ‘Ig this new to you or old ¥? “Oid, was the auswer. “I have heard it—read ‘it, Manyatime, It isin a very old vellum book in the library of Catheron Royuls—you cun see it for yourself any lime, if you wish.”? “Indeed! but surely—sturely you don’t believe it?” “I don’t know what to believe. I suppose there may be more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy. The prediction is dated three hundred years ago, aud—the first part las comé true.” “A mere comcidence—nothing more?” “Perlups 80. Jf the Jatter part comes true also, will that be a mere coin¢iden¢e as well?” — “Aunt Helenal for Heayen’s sake what are you saying f"? x “1 don’t want to alarm you,” she answered, quietly; “remeuaber, it is not Layho have told you this. But since you ave leard it, | may own that—” '*¥You believe it will be verified. Aud to be verified it queer | impties Hdith’s deat ow her wedding day!? “Dcan’t say what it implies, 1 only kuow it makes me unco ble when TE thiak of it, aud that it will ve only fuir to @fiss Darrell to tell her.” “Oudy fair??? at “Aud give her a chance to avoid the risk if she wishes it, and if risk there be. You will do as you please, but it meg to me as it involves her most of all; sue sluuld be tokd.? “But, my dear aunt, it is nonsense—it is rubbish, it isa chikl’s foolish rhyme. It ia absulutely ridiculous!” “Then you can both laugh at it together, aud your duty will have been done. Do as you please, hewever—she will not hear it from me.’? There was a loug, disagreeable pause, It is impossible to tell how excessively uncomfortable Sir Victor Catuerun felt. ' “You don't think,” he asked; with:hesitation, at length, ‘that it wiil influeuce—that it wid startle her—that it will cause her to draw back??? “Ido not, indeed? I t would take much more than this to muke her draw back. Miss Darrell is a young lady of uncommon strengtu of ehuracter, und hard, praciical common sense. It will not frighten her in the least, believe me.’! Lady Helena was right. When, with vast hesitation and embarassment, a few hours later, Sir Victor repeated ull this to his betrothed, his betrotued looked - bu his face und laughed aloud, Tue summer twiligut was fall- lug as they stood alone together by the window. Ina soll, white, summery dress, and rose-cuiored ribbons, her perfect shouiders and arms Bparkliug through the guuze, Edith Jooked a@ very fair vision. Her tears were long ago dried, the velyet-brown orbs were at tueir briglitest. Tne die was cust, Churley wus gone, the man beside her was to bethe only man on earth for her, for all time. She would never jovk back or waver more. She listened wow, a skeptical smile on her lips, a sar- castic tone in her voice, au amused light in her eyes. “Are you superstitious, Sir Viciory’? she asked. He evlored all over his fair Scxon face. “Well—yes, Ifear } must piead guilty to that weak- ness, ainoug Many oluers. | um superstitious; I believe 1a dreams, and 1 “In this doleful prediction ?"? Tle half smiled aud stuod galent. “Very well,’? Budith’s clear tones went on, “Iam the person most Concerned [ suppose, and if you are willing tu risk it, L am. JI haven't w nerve about me, I don’t know whut a day's sickuess means, | go to sleep the moment ny head is on the pillow, Lnever dream, and iny digestion is unimpaired. In suc u state of things, I think of the Gray Lady herself appeared to me, she wouldu’t discompose me very greatly. “1 show no symp- tous of heart disease—the organ here,’ tapping lightly on her white coraage, ‘beats all right and regular. Dua nol al apoplectic subject—people with yellow couplex- iuus and Crave necks never ure. Ll won't be utlacked with softening of the brain, because that (what I have of it), i8 already a8 soft as it cum well be. Weil risk te prophecy, Sir Victor, aud laugh at it together, the day after our wedding.’ She held out her hand with asmile. He caught it to his lipgs—his gloom goue—joy, love, hope, radiant in bis face. Wuuat he said need [iell, Ah, you know yourselll but for (hat day the prediction was forgotten, 1TO BK OONTINUED.} THE Linden Farm Bride. By Margaret Blount, {Linden Farm Bride” was commenced in No. 42.\ Back num- bers cun be had iroin any News Agent in the United States. } ONAPTER VIL 4 SURPRISE. The station was crowded with business men on their way to London by the early train, and “excursionisis”’ who were going to Brighton to try the “eight hours by tue seaside for two and sixpenoe,’’—that had been so largely advertised and placarded through the summer and uutuinn, Frauces had no time to speak to her husband while there. They were just in season to hurry through the crowd—and get their ticket before the truiu came up. “Tuis way, my love,” he suid burriediy, and much to her surprise Opeued the duor of the coupe of a first-class carriage, “Have you not made some mistake,’ sho asked, hang- ing back a little. “Not atall. Jampin, and draw your yail down, he answered, more impauenl'y than she had ever heard him speak before. Ste obeyed at once, and when they had Jeft the station and its crowd of passengers and Joungers hie wag his gay, genial self once more. “I hate thase places,’ he said, as he lifted her vail, and stole akizs. “Ifit were possibile to travel wiihout doing so 1 would never take a lady through one of them. They are only tit for meu—great rough auimais that they are.’? “Where are we going!” she asked “To London first—then to Waterloo Station, and down the line But you ureto ask nu questions, love, till we reach our destination, and then I haveasxurprise for you. Your dreasis the very thing—could not be better if you had tried 1 have it,” and he looked wi h approviug eyes at the neat traveiing suitof silver gray merino, with beots and proves ot the same shade, and a gray straw bonnet trimmed with dark bright blue. “You have very guod taste in dress, my dear—quite a French taste, by the way, for not ove glishman in a thousand would have dis- covered that a certain shade of blue looks almost as well in very dark bairas inthe golden locks of a blonde, I am glad you have this taste. You will need it in your tuturg life.” “How?” she asked, with wondering eyes. He laughed. “Are you not the wifeof a great artist—to bef and sure’ya paiuter’s wife should have inore taste iu dress than other women She leaned back upon the cushions of the coupe with a satisfied air. “Ellis, I feel as if we were very rich to-day.” "Do your” “Yes, Look at the style in which we are traveling. I thought only noblemen ever used the coupe of a train.” “That was your misiake, my déar, out tiles who use it from choice.” “But is it not expensive?” “Rather.” “Then how could you afford to take it?” “My love, we bad no wedding trip. I told you then that T was not rich enough to take one, and you came very contentedly in a second-class carriage, by night andin a Pariiamentary train (whieh is the worst and slowest thing on earth), from your home to mine, without a single murmur,” “It was the happiest journey of my life, and I wished some- times that it might never end,’ she said, fervently. He laughed, “You were very good to put up with it, and, above all, to like it. But even the passing of a month can work wonders at times, and I can now afford tou give you the deferred trip before we setile down in our new home.” “We are not to go back to the little cottage, then?’ she asked, with a disappointed lvok. : “Not at present.” “Ah, well—anywhere with you. And when we godowr the line, ag you Call it, shall we bave a coupé thenf” “Yes.” Ihave telegraphed to the Waterloo station to secure it for the trip.” She looked a little startled. “My dear Eilis?”? “Well.” “Are you not going too far—spending too much money in grati- fying these whims of mine¥” “My leve, I told you that a month might work wonders; and the past four weeks have given me far more money for some odds and ends of mive than I ever expected toget. Itis a pleasure to be able to gratify any wish you may express. So think no more of the expense—which I can very well afford to lucur—and en- Laer weddiug trip, my little bride,” “No bride now, but your wife,” she sald, creeping nearer to him and laying her hand upon his shoulder. “My dear, sweet wife!” and he clasped) her hand in his, and I know many people with- they sat looking out together from the glass front of the coupe Bpon the pleasant country, Arrived at London Bridge Station, he displayed the greatest solcitude in vailing her carefully, hurrying her ito a iour-w. cab and driving across to Waterloo station. Once safely within these walls, he left her in the ladies’ room for » few moments while he went to procure tickets. Two elderly ladies, plainly but elegantly dressed, looked up as Frances took a seat pear them, and then started and gazed alter her ¢ompanion with looks of und ised astomsiiment and cu- riosity. One said something to the other ia alow. voice, and she cuuglt the reply, though that was also made ia an uuder- tone: arable. my dear oraino.. Wy he has been tn the ind for ages, you K a we “Tam sure it was le,” rep the first speak “Why, I know him as weil as I do my own be when he? ailad at Eton,” “Sull I think you must havé mistaken @ ovue—but hore he is—aud you-can see for your that I am right. Why no—your } uyshipg ait ow very eH. Will yOu speak to him ?”’ “Husht? sald the other lad y, signifiguntly; aud Frances selt, as well as 84, that 1 both lovked at her Si Ellis entered the room and cr over to het scat, Felt their looks, because women’s eyes havethe atr st power Over other women’s nerves (hat you can well ‘naa { there was some mystery she felt sure, for Ellis, happeniv ere anceielt way, colored bigh, took off his} inae a profound bow, and theu burried her Trom the room Without attempting to speak to the ladies whom he had recogs ul. i : As the ssel the patomarce of fashionably dressed gentle ‘parted and tell stomuake way for her. One of the numbers her somewhat rudely in the fice, and then ird her husbaud, exclaiming: “Why, Poynter, who would have thought——” “Pardon me one instant, my lord,” sad her husband, quietly; and brushing past them he a her safely in the coupe. “Keep your vail down, my love,’ be said, in a low tone; “and sit with your back to this window, ko that those men need not be staring at you. LTmust go back and speak to them for a mo- wnent ortwo. ButT will not be away long.” He closed the door and left her. She saw that he joined the group, shook handy with the man he had called “my ford,” gud seemed on ja timate and familiar terms with all the ot She turned her back upon thewiadow as he had Cesired her to do, and sat there sent and sad, but be lingered so long that sli@couk! not refrain at last from glauciug over her shoulder to sve if he was coming. He was not on the platform. Ter anxious eyes searched eagerly through every group she saw, but caught no glimpse of hin. Presently a great bell 4 rings beside, heavy with wrought gold, and flashing wath drops risoued light, with which he louded her dlender fingers, then id Ler hands up before hertoadmire. But the gemmed fingers were snatched uway suddenly to hide the tears tuat were lalling from her eyes, “My mother! All this takes me so far away from my mother— my father,” sbe sobbed. “Does Look up, dear!” ’ She did look up, aud the next moment sprang with a ery of jo into the arms of a stout, comely little dame dressed in bikck satin, and wearing a pretty lace cap twined with blush roses in her hair. Bebind her stood the stout farmer, —— broad- cloth for the first time in his lie, and looking like an old duke, at the very } in it, Alternately laughing and crying, Frances clung to them both, She had not known till then bow wuch she had mi the dear home-love that bad been round her likes protecting power ever sitice her eyes first opened tu the light. Lord ieoe7s stood apart,smiling at the scene, though rather sadly, till she drew him into the same enibrace and told him that he had made her the happiest creature on earth, and that she Was ready to be a countess or duchess, or anything he chose ay ce aoe yorpeee ph : 1th a ‘xeiatheldid wes 18 evening passed Ou happily, and the grand re’ ns who had assembled to do honor te the low-born bride, were ferced to eat their dinner by themselves, and depart the next day un- cheered by ner presence,sinee “her Jadyslup’s physician ly forbade any more excitement after yesterday’s shock. The litle countess staid in herown apurtments with her pa- rents, and behaved as utterly unlike a countess xs any one eould weil do, until their departure, And when they were fairly gone back to their quiet home and tarm, the polite world was at by the abrupt flitting of the ear] and his young wife to the con- tinent, where they traveled together, “to learn the laws of eti- quette,” as the ma aip-mongers said. - that as it may, at the end ot the three years they returned, bringing with them a lovely “son and heir,” two years of age, —— —, “Nay, do not give me my title. Iam your own Ellisstill, and’ ) said, But betore our wedding day I told them alf, and - an ed f + << ———_ a o~ + d tr a © 4 . e 4 + { * - oe ¢ ™“ ¥ 4 w “te oi ~ * - -. * > 4 > * A - x “a ¢ + r x tr <4 8 £ » y o> “.. ~~< -~. v ¥ a> — & oe ~~ i ; j ! ‘ cag eer es atin nents < pe A - : ? i {.é “if 4 _s who bore the name of Roxton in honor of his grandfather and that of Eltis, in memory ot some happy early days which his pa- rents still remembere only too weil, The little lord throve finely inthe Enghsh air, and his mother made aastately and beantifal a countess as Neart could wish to see. Old noblemen, who had shaken their heads solemuly over Lord Liewellyn’s fearful sin against the laws of caste, were eager enough to forgive him after the countess had given them one of her dazzling smiles, and younger members of tie peerage vowed inwardly that they would follow his.example and go a wooing among the furm meadows if such a lassie could bat be found thereby. Her portrait painted by the greatest of the R. A.’s was the gem of the exhibition that year—her dress was pronounced by the ladies to be perfection—her jewels were among the most magni- Ticent at court—ner opera box was always crowded. Iv short, Lady Llewellyn was the rage, and the perfect simplicity of her manner outshone all the atfectations of the modern school, and won her more victorles, more admirers, than she ever cared to count. She never hesitated to allude to her humble origin. She often spoke of her country home, of her father the tarmer, and her mother who eared for the thirigsof her own house still, even though her grandson was an embryo earl. Nay, sho visited the | place often after her return from the continent, going down with the child and asingle attendant, as if she had been a plain citizen’s wife. So much beauty, affability, grace and goodness could not fail to charm. Every one who kuew her admired and loved her, and she took the uviversal tribute of good will and esteem with a modest pleasure that was beautiful to see. A stately home, an ancient title, a devoted husband, a lovel son, troops of friends, magnificent jewels, dressea costly enough for a king’s ransom, all these had y Llewellyn, and yet those who knew her be-t fancied, at times, that the ‘roe’s egg,” which was lo make quite perfect this Aladdiu-like palace ot ease and pleasure, was yet wanting. [ There was an absent, far-away look sometimes in the soft gray eyes—a dreamy expression about the mouth. A long, long sigh heaved now and then in the midstof the gayest scenes and places that told a tale of their own, if any one could but have been wise enough to read them. What ailed the lady ? Whatcould she (of all tho women on €arth) find room to, wish for ? i {t seems such an absurd thing that Iam half ashamed to write it. In fact I would not do s0 only that without this explanation 7s would not fully understand the Lidden depths of her heart and soul. Decked in all her jewels, with au admiring throng surrounding her, eager to catch every word that should fall from her lips, the gay scene sometimes faded away from betore her eyes.as a scene upon the stage fades and melts into another. And in the place of the proud countess sho saw asiender girl who wore a checked gingham dress, and knelt upou the brick floor ot a. mean little cottage, scrubbing away till it was as clean as soap and sand could muke it. Song atter song fell from the girl’s brightlips,and when the toil was fluished and the soil- ed dress chunged for a fresh one of muslin, a little table wou!d be spread for tea anda young man would join her ata simple meal or walk beside her in the garden with his arm around her waist, when the repast wus over. Seeing this, in her mind’s eye, the countess would sigh and look up, to see the earl beading over the chair of some bright lady, or talking politics with some brother statesman, leaving her the while to the flatterers who surrounded her. A tear would some- times glitter amid: the diamonds that flashed upon her hand. Was it tor this? The en dearer than the palace—the russet wn preterred to the velvet robe—the plain gold ring more ondly treasured tnan those costly gems? The proud countess envying the woman who wrought daily with her hands for her husbands comfort and happiness ? This was the reason why that sad, absent yaze so often met your own in Lady Llewellyu’s sott gray eyes, |THE END.] The Western Boy; enmees AIL cite: THE ROAD TO SUCCESS. By Horatio Alger, Jr., Amthor of BRAVE AND BOLD, ABNER HOL- DEN’S BOUND BOY, RAGGED DICK, LUCK AND PLUCK, TATTERED TOM, etc., otc. [(“The Western Boy’? was commenced in No. 34. Back num- bers can be obtalued from any News Ageut in the United Staies.)} CHAPTER XXXII. ANOTHER PLOT. “So he mastered Bacephalus,” said James Grey, when alone with his son. ‘lle must be a splendid ricer.” “I had no idea he was so used to horses,’ said Jasper. “He sat like &@ rock, und did not seem iu the least frightened.” “I begin to think he is more dangerous than I at first supposed. Did he appear to suspect any thing when the horse began fo behave adly 2? “| don’t think he did.” “He may be surprised that we should give him that horse when we don’t rice it ourselves."’ “He doesn’t know that. Heasked me if I ever rode Bucephaius, and [ told him yes, but not often, asa I pre- ferred my ower horse.” “That will do if Join doesn’t undeceive him." “Jotin is a meddiesome fellow,” said Jasper, in a tone of vexation. “Hetried to persuade him not to ride Bucephalus.”” “John makes a fool of himself. I am afraid he will rouse Gilbert's suspicions, If he does, we must dv what we Can to allay them,” “What shall you do now, father?” inquired Jasper.* “I have not decided. When I have, Ll may not teil you." “Why not?’ asked Jasper, suspiciously. “Not from any feeiing of distrust, for we are both in the same boat, and egaally interested in frustrating your cousin’s desigus. Butit may be necessary to resort to Stroug—perles forcible measures—and it may be welt that you should be kept in entire ignorance ofthem, tis & serious peri) tor both of us, this claim of Gilberi’s, but more svto you. 1 have already enjoyed the estate for a long time. Iu the course of nature I have thirty-five years less of life to look forward to than you. Therefore your interest is greater than mine,’? “All right, father. Whatever you think best [am ready to agree to, but if you need any help that I can give, just let me know.” “That shall be understood. Now you had better go out and jvook for your cousin, It is not best that John and he should be left to themselves too long.’’ Sasper went out into the stable-yards but found that Gilbert had already gone into the house. *That’sa migtity foine lad—that Guibert,’ said John. “Yes, he’s u ciever fellow,” responded Jasper, not very enthusiastically. “He's as smurtas a steel-trap,’’ said John, carnestly. “] didn't know steel-traps were very smart,’’ said Jasper, sarcastically. < He felt instinctively that John con- silered Gilbert s.varter than himself, and his sell-couceit Byas sO great that this truubled him. “Wait till you get futo one,” said John, laughing. ‘If you'd get yoar little finger into one of them things, you’d find tt was too smavt for yer”? “What did Gilbert have to say to you??? Bunt John was too smart to be pumped. “Nothing much,’? he answered. “He says the ugly prute won't give no. more trouble.”’ +*Do. you think so yourself?” “He won't trouble Mr. Gilbert.’” “Will he trouble anybody else ?’ “Maybe not. He’s had a good lesson.’ 44) wonder whether Gilbert. told him what I said,” thouglit Jasper. He didn’t like to ask, for in so doing he wonld betray himself. After a. little pause, he walked back to the house; but he did not see Gilbert for some time, for the latter was still in his chamber. When they met at supper, Mr. Grey said: “| ought lo apologize tu you, Gilbert, for trusting you to such a horse, but he has never cut up such pranks be- fere, aud 1 dil not realize the danger to which L was ex- stew you. From what Jasper says, you must have een in peril.’ “J suppose I should have been, sir, if I had not been 80 accustomed to horses, but Ihave ridden a great deal, re i dou’t think Lever liad such @ sharp contest be- ore.”? “You had better ride Sidney to-morrow; I don’s want you to run any more risk.”? “Thank you, sir, but lam not afraid, Bucephalus has had a lesson, and won’t try to mustermeagain, With your permission, [ will try him again, and -hope to have him wholly subdued before I go."’ “T shall be glad to have him subjngated, I confess, as it will greatly enhance his value, but*L don’t waut you to run any further risk.” “The danger is quite over, Mr. Grey.” This conversatiou, aml the regret frankly expressed by his uncle, did considerable to put to rest the suspicion that had been excited in Gilbert’s mind. It did look strange, to be sure, that Jusper should have made a false claim to have ridden Bucephalus, when he hadn’t done so, but possibly this was because he did not like to have it sup- posed that he was inferior in courage or in horseman- ship. At eopeese, though not quite satisfied, he felt that there might be an explanation. The next morning the boys went out to ride once more, Bucephatus Justified Gilbert’s prediction, and behaved as well as could be expected. Ouce Jie made a start, but a sudden twitch of tue reins recalled to his mind the deteat a the day before, aud he quickly relapsed Into obe- ience, Meanwhile Mr, Grey paced the floor of his library, and thought deeply. To whut means should he resort to avert the danger that menaced his estate? He knew enough now of Gilbert to understand that he was reso- lute and determined. He might be conciliated, but could not be intimidated while he feit that he was battling for his inherited rights. Would if be worth while to concil- jate him? Mr. Grey feared that he would require the sur- render of the major portion of the estate, and to this he Was not willing toaccede, While he was thus perplexed, Pompey made his appearance, and said: “There’s a man wants to see you, Mr. Grey.” “(A nan, or a gentleman?” “A man. It’s Hugh Trimble.” “Bring him up.” Some ideamust have been started in Mr. Grey's mind, for his eyes lighted up with & gleam of exultation, and he muttered: “The very thing. Why didn’t I think of it before ?” Hugh Trimble shuffled into the room—a tall, sliambling figure of uiman, with agenerally disreputable look. He was roughly dressed, aud appeared like a social outlaw, He wis a tenantot Mr, Grey's, living ona clearing just onthe edge of a forest. He had a wife, but no children. She led a hard life, being subjected to ill-usage from her husband when, a8 was frequently the case, he was under the influence of liquor. Such was the ian who entered the library, and evi- dently ill at ease on, finding himself in a room so unfitted to his habits, made a Clumsy salutation. “Well, Trimbie,” said Mr. Grey, with unusual cordiality, “how are you getling on??? “Bad enough,’? returned Trimble, money for you.”’ “Have you been unlucky? “Dm always unlucky,’ growled Trimble, frowning. ‘I was born to bad luck, 1 wus,’? “T haven’t got no ae “Perhaps your Dad luck will leave you afttra time.” “1 dou't see no signs of biat.’? “Sit down,” said Mr. Grey, with continued cordiality. ‘There's a chair next to you,” Hugh Trunbte seated himself cautionsly on the edge of achair, a Htile surprised at the unexpecied altention he Was receiving. “I want to speak to you on an important subject.” “All right, sir,? responded the backweodsman, not Wittiont curiosity. “You say you have been always unlucky ?”? “Yes, sir.’ ta you don’t expect yonr luck to change, [think you saic “Not unless it becomes worse.’! grumbled Trimble, “Would you consider it good luck if sume one should pay oe over a thousand dollars?" “Would 1? I’d think myself a rich man,” exclaimed Trimble. “Bnt who’s a guiu’ to doit?’ he added, ina more subdued voice. “I will, on certain conditions.” “You will give me a thousand dollars?” exclaimed the backwoodsman, openipg wide his eyes in astonishment. “On conditions.” “Name ’em."? “First, you must promise that what I tell you shall be kept secret.’?>) Hugh Trimble made the promise. Mr. Grey now rose and closed the door, which was par- tially open, and drawing his chair near that of his visitor, conferred with him in a low voice for some twenty niinutes.