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Entered According to Act 9f Congress, in the Year 187
= —_ —_— _

 

 

 

VoL. XXIX,

Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose St.
FRANCIS S. STREET. {6 Rov 4596, Now York.

 

DG

3, dy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

 

 

FRANCIS Ss. SMITH. {Teco < Deltlars Per Year.

 

caer eee oe

No. 7.

 

 

The Brown Princess.

 

A TALE OF THE DEATH CANYON.

 

By Mrs. M. V. Victor,

Author of “BEAUTIFUL TEMPTER,” “WHO OWNED THE JEWELS,”

“THE WIFE'S FOE,” “FORGER’S SISTER,” ete.

 

 

CHAPTER I.
DOOMED TO DIE AT SUNRISE.

An unusual murmur and stir ran through the little set- |
tlement of Digtown, just before sunrise of a summer |

morning only a very few years ago. Digtown people were
not wont to be early-risers; in fact, the quietest hour of
the whole twenty-four was the one following sunrise; but
something had excited them on this occasion beyond the
temptation of their morning nap. Many of them had
been up allnight. Shouts and yells, curses and hooting
laughter had rung out, at intervais, along the one strag-
gling street; the groggeries had kept open, with little
groups of men lounging, in the hot July atmospliere,
about the doors. Quite a crowd was assembied in the
near vicinity of one stout little building of squared logs,
one story in hight, with very narrow windows, and athick
door—the Digtown jail.

The Digtown jail!

For, alas! the day that civilization sets her foot in the
forest or on the plain, the jail must arise, even before the

‘chureh or the schoolhouse. Man, mere dangerous than

the wild beast, must be caught, and caged, and punished
to keep him in mind of the rights of his fellow.
In such wild mining villages as Digtown the jail is a

‘popular institution, extensively patronized. Vigilance

committees are ever on the alert for suitable occupants;
and, on this particular occasion, the Digtown Vigilance
Gommittee had brought there, on the previous evenmg, a
man charged with a heinous crime.

_ A few days previously two miners, coming in on Satur-
‘Gay, at dusk, from their week’s labor—with an uncom-
monly yich result in the shape of an extraordinary big
hugget, prized at one thousand dollars, along with dozens
of smalier ones—had been murdered and robbed on the
road. Now, death met in a fair fight, did not seem a
dreadful thing to the reckless men of that region; but
stealthy murder, against which the bravest could not de-
fend himself—robbery and assassination were sins against
which the indignant sentiment of the community cried

out. <A keen and ardent search forthe criminal or crimin- |,

ais had been kept up ever since, resulting in the arrest of

oid Joe Jackson, whd/ lived in a shanty on the outskirts of |/

the straggling settlement, and not far from the spotwhere
the murder was committed.

There was a general cry of incredulity when the rumor
fiew that old Joe had been arrested, for he was not credit-
ed with the wit or the energy required for such a deed as
that of waylaying two stout men. Lazy, miserable, steeped
through and through with whisky, dragging himseif
to work only when the jug was empty and his burning
thirst compelled him-to some odd job which would refill
it. “What was this poor, trembling, wretched sot that he
should do so boldathing’? People laughed derisively
when it was first mentioned; but when it became known
that the big nugget had actually been found secreted un-
der the foose boards of his cabin-floor, and that old Joe
had been staggering around the streets for days, gloriously
full of rot-gat, and with plenty of little “rocks’’ in his
hitherto empty pockets, public sentiment underwent a
sudden change, and a fierce howl of denunciation, wild
with anger and hoarse with the threat of revenge, went
up to the starlit sky against the miserable man.

Jt was proposed to hang him without a minute’s grace;
but, as it was already dark, and the victim was, besides,
80 stupidly drunk as not to be able to realize the full mea-
gure of his punishment, it was decided to pen him up for
the night in the jail, tosober and prepare him for wirat
was coming. Meantime more than half the people staid
up all night in noisy and eager expectation of the cere-
mony which was to take place at sunrise, and of which
they expected to be spectators. More than the usual mea-
sure of bad liquor was drank that night.

Oaths, howls, songs and shrieks disturbed the soJemn
stiliness of the air, made dark by the mighty shadows of
the great mountains which stood aloof outside this mean
littie village, poor contrast of man’s handiwork with
Heaven’s. ;

As the east began to flame with the fires of approach-
ing day, every man, and many of the women and children
of Digtown, gathered about the jail. Certain leading
members of the Vigilance Committee, who did not need
the impatient urging of the crowd to keep them to their
duty, at length unlocked the heavy duor and disappeared
within, coming out again before five minutes had elapsed,
pulling, byastout rope about his waist, forward into
general view, the unwilling object of their condemnation.

A tall, stoop-shouldered man, dressed in a ragged blue
flannel] shirt and buckskin breeches, his long biack hair
falling about his neck, his weak, watery, red-lidded eyes
wandering vacantly about upon the unfriendly faces which
surrounded him, the pallor of a sickening terror showing
through the fading flush of intemperance, a sight to ‘‘make
the angels weep”? was Old Joe Jackson as they lead him
forth to his doom. ‘Old Joe’’ he had been called since he
came to the vicinity, more from his broken-down aspect
than because his years were really so many. A ciose
scrutiny would assure any one that he was not fifty; his
hair was not even streaked with gray, and if his hands
trembled and his steps faltered, it was with dissipation,
not with age. Now his hands were bound behind him,
while his knees shook more thanever. His fur cap had
veen lost in the scuffle of the previous evening, so that he
came forth bare-headed, and the flush of the eastern
heavens titiged his, drooping forehead with a glow as of
shame. That forehead was not naturally a vileone. In
all the degredation of the man this one feature still retain-
ed some traces of former nobility.

Was there no one in all that throng to pity this fated
creature, dragged forth to his death? Some of the wo-
men did Shrink a jiittle, and look another way for a mo-
ment; buteven these would not have lifted a finger to
save him from a justly-merited punishment; while the
men, with one accord, set up a yellof mingled triumph
and execration.

Yet was this man not friendless. One human being
clung to him, in his hour of peril, as she had clung to him
all her brief life, through want, disgrace, misery of every
bitterest quality. His daughter was still true to him.

She had begged to be allowed to pass the night in the
jail with him, and his captors had not. the heart to refuse
ner, for Lolla Jackson was as much loved as her parent
was loathed. ;

She came forth with him, pressing close to his side, her
slender hand on his shoulder, her young face turned up
to his, with such an expression of agonized love and
griefas came ‘near to shaking the steely resolution of
these unsentimental miners bent on his death. She was
advised, with a rough sort of tenderness, by several of the
eider men, to remain behind; and one woman offered to
take her home to her own house; but as she only clung
the more wildly to her father, she was finally allowed to
keep by his side as therude procession filed down the
atreet, and out upon the plain toward a large tree which
stood by itself on the grassy plateau, and which was
known as ‘“l'he Gallows Tree,’’ from having twice before
served the purpose to which it was for a third time to be
put.

How long atime, whatan age of torture, was passed
by that child during the crowded walk to that fatal tree!
Yet how horribly brief it was, when it was over, and her
‘father stood under the scarred branches, and pitiless
hands began to take the rope from his waist to adjust it
about his neck.

Old Joe made no show of resistance. He had no
strength, and he felt it. He had not even courage to deny
the deed, or to plead for his life. He had come slowly out
ef his long spree, with his faculties benumbed, his heart
like water. He stared weakly at the glorious sunrise—
hopelessly around at the mighty mountains, so calm, so
fair, in the lovely morning light—then whitely and des-
perately into the stern faces of his neighbors. ‘

“I swear I didn’t doit!’ he broke forth, with sudden

e

nergy.
“You shet up, Old Joel Don’t waste yer breath now

voice.

Lolly turned her terrified, tearless eyes upon the speak-
er. He was a man she had_never liked—a middle-aged
man, witha family atthe East, but who had tried to
make himself very agreeable to her—Bar’ Higgilson he
was Called, and keeper of the one Digtown hotel.

“Oh, Bar,’’ she said, ‘‘won’t you try to save,father 5’

‘I can’t do nuthin’,’’ he answered her, dropping his
eyes, for there was something in their wild, eager appeal
which he was not so hardened as to meet unmoyed.

‘‘He didn’t do itt’? screamed the poor girl, as they be-

 

NEW YORK, DEC

on nothin’ but yer pmayers,” spoke one, in‘ a lew, sharp

Robert, just as his horse Sprang forward, had severed-the
rope with a lightning blow of his bowie-knife. What he
had whispered to the condemned man was this:

‘Ride for your life!’ :

Old Joe Jackson rode for his life.

The animal which bore him, maddened by the yells and
outcry in his rear, darted forward like an arrow; ail that
Joe had to do was to hold on.

A shower of bullets whirled about horse and rider.
Strangely enough, not one of them did any harm. A
bullet grazed Whirlwind’s flank, causing him to gallop the
more swiftly; another made a hole through the bine flan-
nel sleeve of his rider’s old shirt; in two minutes both
were beyond reach, and none of the exasperated men
under the Gallows Tree were mounted.

“By ——, some one cut tye rope!’ cried the captain.

Then a howl of rage went up, violent hands ‘were laid
anon Robert Clark, and Lolly fellto the earth in a dead
aint. ‘

“String him up! hang him! in the old man’s place!’
clammered the angry people, closing in about the young
man, who lost a little of the ruddy color from his brown
cheeks, but did not flinch:

“What have you got to say for yourself, Bob Clark?’
asked the captain. 7

“Nothin’ in partikler. _Mebbe the old man was guilty—
mebbe he wasn’t. I didn’t care a cuss for him, either
way. But I wan’t gwine to have a young thing like that,’
pointing to Lolly where she lay, like a lily overblown by
the blast, ‘‘see her own fkesh-and-blood strung up before
her eyes. Why! she would never get over such a sight!
’T would be enough to kill her. I cleared the old man for
her sake; and now, friends, if you want to string me up
for it, string away! I ain’t ashamed of what I done.”

 

He looked about him, not defiantly, but with ealm

EMBER 22, 1873.

ger. He was a young gentleman, dressed in the latest
Eastern style. riding a beautiful horse finely accoutered.
He wore a white shirt-bosom with diamond studs, a fancy
riding-coat, polished boots, and’ his hair was cut short,
and his silken mustache waxed to a nicety. He might
have been taking his morning airing in the Central Park
instead of “out hyar,’’ on a wild plateau a third of the way
up those awful mountain hights. And yet this was not
all the reason why they stared at him in mute wonder.
They were not unfamiliar with the visits of gentlemen, in
those days of speculation and travel, but who ever heard
“Old Joe’? called Joseph Jackson, or his shanty a resi-
denee? ;

It took them half-a-minute to comprehend who was in-
quired for, and then it struck their keen sense of humor
as being highly absurd ‘that they should be asked to tell
where they could find him. ne began to grin, and then
another to ‘snicker,’ until the whole mob broke out in a
loud laugh, and even Rebert’ Clark smiled.

‘Really!’ muttered the stranger, his pale, dark face
crimsoning.

“No offense, stranger,’’ apologized one of the citizens,
controlling his mirth. ‘‘You see it struck us as a leetle
funny your inquirin’ for old Joe just now. Ef you could
tell us whar to find him, we’d be much obleeged. He
would a-been dangling hyer’’—pointing to the rope which
swung from the tree overhead—“‘if this youngster hadn’t
eut the string. In that case he’d a-been easy to find. As
it is, some of our folks is a-going arter him on their
horses. That thar leetie cloud o’ cust ye see out thar was
kicked up by the horse he rode. Olid Joe’s made tracks.”

The young gentieman looked up at the severed rope
with a slight shiver. He shuddered at the idea of what
might have been hanging there—yet, in his secret soul,
he would not have been sorry had the deed these men

 

 

 

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gan to fit the noose about her father’s neck. ‘I know he
didn’t, for he was home in bed the very hour they were
murdered!’? :

“Bosh? “Stop that lyin’!’’ “Better keep stilll’? were a
few of the comments which followed this assertion.

Again Lolly looked appealingly about upon the well-
known faces, which now wore that set look of men whose
minds are made upto an unpleasant work, which shall
be well and speedily done.

Was Robert Olark here? Would he see her father die,
and make no effort to save him?

“O, Robert, where are you???

This silent cry rent her soul. At that moment the sound.
of a horse’s hoofs approaching rapidly caused a brief
pause in the proceedings. Lolly turned and saw Robert
Clark, who had been absent from the village the last day
or two, dismounting from the animal he had ridden.

“What's up?’

“Goin’ to hang Old Joe for them murders.”’

No need of further explanations. Such scenes were
only too familiar to these rough mountaineers. Lolly did
not speak to Robert, but she looked at him, and he caught
her glance, turning his own away almost immediately.
Not a word—yet- she had asked himto try to save her
father, and he had refused. Atleast she thus translated
a look, and her pale face became, if possibie, still more
pale.
“We're losin’ time,’ said one, as the sun showed a
lance of gold above the horizon.

And he pushed Lolly to one side, who shuddered, and
shrunk, and again turned her pitiful eyes to Robert, who
avoided the look which he felt but did not see.

The spot on which ‘‘The Gallows Tree”’ grew was a fine
plateau, commanding one of the most beautiful views in
Denver. Hills, and plains, and valleys stretched away
below toward the sunlit east, mountains towered above,
tothe west. Poor Lolly, looking with strained eyes away
from these cruel men, toward the blushing sky, the pur-
ple plains, the glorious hiljs, almost felt as if these must
befriend her. Since Robert Clark had failed her, she was
more desolate than before. O, what would become of her?
Shiftiess, besotted, miserable as was her father, she had
but him, and she loved him. Bad as he was, he-was inno-
cent of this crime. They should not hang him! They
should not killhim fora sin which he did not commit!
They must not take him from her! She wrung her hands,
and sank upon her knees, lifting her bloodless face to
Heaven in appeal.

“Here! lift himon my horse. We can drive the beast
— under him, and leave him dangling!’’ cried Robert

ark.

Lolly heard the cold, hard words, and struggled to her
feet. They were lifting her father:upon the horse—a
spirited creature, whose strength and speed she had often
admired. She stared, unable to move or speak, chained
as by adread(ul nightmare, while they flung the rope
over the stoht branch of the gallows-tree, holding the old
man upon the restive horse until all should be prepured.

She noticed—no one else did—how Robert brought his
head close to her father’s, as if whispering a hasty word
in hisfear-dulled ear. She noticed the doomed man start,
and hold his head a little more erect, though the rope
pressed cruelly about his throat. Then

“One—two—three—Now!’’ shouted the captain of the
Vigilance Committee, and the throng gave forth one sigh.

*man struck the horse sharply to make him spring
frdm under.

“Go, Whirlwind!” yelled Robert Clark, and the animal
obeyed him. :

Stung by the blow, and urged by his master’s voice, he
leaped forward through the dividing crowd, who gazed
after him in speechless astonishment for, ‘perhaps, ten
seconds. For the man who should have been launched
into eternity was upon his back!

 

 

What had happened? Had the noose untied ? *yo. But

 

bravery, his handsome face glowing with some fire at his
heart’s core.

lf there was anything the men of Digtown admired and
respected it was “‘pluck.’’? Angry as they were at Bob’s
bold interference, their rage cooled somewhat under the
respect they. felt for his courage. They did not, on second
thought, really wish to hang him. He had great influence
in the village—was one of their most sober, steady, relia-
bie citizens, and thoroughly liked. e

They could not punish a deed of such gallantry by hang-
ing its doer, vexed and disappointed as they were. They
muttered a few oaths, fingered the cut rope, hesitated——

‘Dll be blessed if he ain’t in love with the gal,’ sneered
Bar’ Higgleson, white with wrath and jealousy.

“That lam,’ said Robert, promptly, coloring rather
high; ‘I’ve never told her so, but I do love her with all my
heart, an’ if she’ll have me, I'll marry her to-day.’’

“Bully for Bob!’ yelled the crowd.

Meantime two or three women had lifted Lolly from the
ground, and were rubbing her wrists and sprinkling her
face with dew from the bunches of grass which they had
caught up; while several of the men started on a run,
back to the village for their horses, with the purpose of
pursuing the fugitive.

Among those was Bar’ Higgleson.

“We'll have our fun‘at sunset of this day,’’ he remarked,
with an ugly grin to Robert Clark, as he hurried away
after the others. ‘‘An’ I'd advise ye, boys, to hold Bob in
the old man’s place till we git back,’’ he added.

“Yes, put him in the jug, an’ if old Joe don’t turn up,
hang him in his place. Thar’s been a bloody murder com-
mitted, an’ somevody’s got to suffer for it—else we sha’n’t
none of us be able to take a little walk by starlight in
peace an’ comfort. It don’t do to be too soft with these
chaps if we expect to preserve law an’ order in this set-
tlement. Bob hadn’t no business to cut the rope. We
was doin’ our plain duty, an’ he interfered. It’s only fair
he should take the consequences,’’ spoke one of the oldest
men in the community, very slowly and emphatically.

His opinion had great weight with the others, who
closed about Robert more nearly, their momentary enthu-
siasm at his Courage, and sympathy with his love-affair,
giving way to sterner passions.

Bob's Keen eyes were fixed triumphantly on the far-fly-
ing figure of the old man on his own swift animal. When
Lolly had mutely appealed to him, he had counted the
cost, and accepted it, for her sake. To die for her was
not so much; and, ‘at least, she could never accuse him of.
standing by and seeing her father murdered without lift-
ing a hand in his defense. He had comprehended, with
all the swiftness of thought under such circumstances,
that, did he remain passive while the execution went on,
he might never hope for kind look or word from Lolly
Jackson; and Nfe to him while enduring such a punish-
ment would not be particularly desirable.

To live, under the blight of Lolly’s scorn—to die, glori-
fred by her admiration and gratitude—it was a choice,
and he had chosen the latter. Nor did he repent, now
that his neighbors growled, and swore, and laid rough
hands upon him.

“Best leave that rope whar 'tis,’’ remarked one; ‘we
shall use it at sundown,’’ and then they began to take
their new prisoner back to the empty jail.

Just at that instant another interruption occurred. So
pre-occupied had been the crowd with the affair on hand
bhat none had noticed a stranger riding at an easy gait
along the rude road, until he drew rein in their midst.

“Can any of you,’’ he asked, in a pleasant, courteous
voice, “direct me to the residence of Joseph Jackson? I
have been told that he ives in Digtown. Canyoutell me
where to find him?”

CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST LINK IN A LONG OHAIN.

 

For a brief space everybody stared silently at the stran-

had come to do been consummated. To have found Jo-
seph Jackson dead would have relieved him of a disagree-
able duty and have conferred upon him a great benefit.

“As for his residence,’ spoke anether, with humorous
scorn, ‘“‘thar’s his shanty over thar,’’ and he pointed to
the low cabin—built of rough condemned lumber, full of
knot-holes, and with a mud-chimney rising at one side—
which stood on the opposite side of the road, not two
hundred yards from the gallows tree.

‘Has he a wife??? asked the stranger, shrugging his
shoulders as he turned from a contemptuous glance at the
shanty. e

‘“Nary,’? answered one, in the elegant dialect of Dig-

own.

“Or children? I have been informed that he had a
daughter, but that was three or four years ago. Is she
still alive?”

“She kin speak for herself,’’? was the reply, and the man
jerked his thumb in the direction of the little group of
women.

Ifthe stranger had been surprised at every feature of
the novel scene of which he had found himself a spec-
tator, the marvel was not lessened when, following the
intimation given by the miner's thumb, his eyes fell upon
the young girl pointed out to him as the daughter of Jo-
seph Jackson.

olly had recovered from her swoon, and, with the first
instinct of returning memory, had staggered to her feet,
and looked along the path her father had taken. When
she saw that he had safely rounded the base of the near-
est hill and was out of sight, with no enemy yet mounted
to pursue him, a bright color shot into her pale cheeks
and she turned toward Robert with a smile which recon-
ciled him to his fate, whatever his neighbors might choose
to make it.

The sweetness of this smile still dimpled her face when
the glance of the strangey first rested on it. Itis not
strange that he marveled. The threatened fate of old Joe
—the wretched appearance of his home—had not prepared
his visitor for this vision of freshness and purity. The
glimpses he had obtained of the Digtown women had fur-
ther unprepared him for such a revelation.

Seventeen years old, straight as a sapling, slender,
round, pliant—with a complexion which ali the wildness
of the mountain breezes could not brown—with features
delicate as those of the proudest peeress—with glittering,
glimmering, heavy, waving gold-brown hair falling about
her shoulders—with great brown eyes, pure as the heav-
ens, soft and shy as the fawn’s—what mattered it that
Lelly’s dress was a scant and homely calico, that she wore
no stockings, and was unacquainted with the mystery of
waterfalls? Even in the eyes of this young gentleman,
only a fortnight from Fifth avenue, she was lovely beyond
any giri or woman he had ever seen, and _ his cold heart
leaped in his breast with a new, sweet thrill as he looked
upon her. Lo! this was Laura Jackson!

He drew his breath more deeply, while asudden thought
sent the blood flaming to his forehead; but the next mo-
ment he was himself again—cool, calculating, selfish,
sarcastic.

She was all very well Aere—glorious companion of the
glorious plains and mountains! but what sort of figure
would she cut in his father’s drawing-room, for instance?
Still there were boarding-schools, and this fair ereature
was very young.

His thgughts flew back and forth to possibilities and
probabilities. It would be curious to know how thorough-
ly he had canvassed a oertain subject before he lifted his
hat, and bowing to the surprised girl, said, politely:

“Ig this Miss Jackson ?’’

Again the rough mob threatened to break into a laugh;
yet, after all, it liked to hear a grand title bestowed onitS
pride and favorite.

Two Copies Five Dollars.

As for Lolly, she blushed a little at being so formally
addressed; bat the innate dignity of her nature came to
her aid, and she took a step forward, answering, gently:

“T am Lolly Jackson.”’

Then a sudden cloud of distress shadowed her young
face. She was afraid of everything now; perhaps this
gentleman had some accusation to make against her poor
old father. No one ever spoke good of him, or brought
him pleasant news, or was kindto him. At least the
stranger must know that he had been accused of murder
—that he had just escaped a shameful death!

And so the fair head drooped, but only for a moment.
Her father had not committed murder, and if any meant
to accuse him, sie meant to defend him; and she flashed
a defiant look up at the courtly, well-bred traveler, which
almost made him smile.

He dismounted from his horse, and, with the reins
over his arm, came closer, saying, very kindly:

“YT had business with your father. I am sorry that he
is not at home, for [have comea good ways to see him.
Then’’—with a smile all the moreirresistible that his or-
dinary expression was haughty and cynical—‘l take
pleasure in announcing myself asa sort of relative of
yours, Miss Laura—a second or third cousin, I believe.’’

He “took pleasure!’? Then he was not ashamed of her
—not even here, under this Gallows Tree, before these
neighbors, who had condemned her parent! It was so
good and so nobie of this stylish personage! Lolly’s heart
burned with gratitude. The momentary repmgion she

smiled as she said:

“J did not know that I had a relative in the world be-
sides father.” ‘

“But you have,and you must give him welcome. I
suppose I may walk home with you? It cannot be very
pleasant here.”

He spoke in a voice so low as to be almost tender. Of-
fering her his arm, which she did not take, for she hada
feeling that the Digtown people would jeer at such a spec-
tacle. But she turned toward theshanty, and he walked
beside her, leading his horse.

Meantime those who had been for horses returned along
the road, riding at the top of their speed, brandishing re-
vyolvers, and yelling, as they dashed past their friends.

“We'll bring him back in no time! Have breakfast
ready for us, gals. Hold that d—— traitor till we fotch
back the t'other.’’

At sight of these riders, at sound of these cries, the pal-
lor returned to Lolly’s face. Her father was not out of
danger, while Robert had periled his own life to save him.

‘She looked back at Robert as she recalled this fact, with
a@ sad, anxious, unhappy look, which she tried to turn
into a tremulous smile. He met her eyes, but he gave no
sign. His own were like glowing coals, shining outof his
white face. Here he was in the pantherclaws of his in-
censed neighbors—there she was, Walking away with that
cool, handsome cily gentleman.

“There never was a girl vit that wasn’t caught with
fine feathers,’ he bitterly reflected, as his townsmen drove
him along back toward the Digtown jail, and Lolly dis-
appeared with her visitor in the little shauty by the way-
side. ;

He thought more of the stranger than he did of his own

/threatened fate.

“And hecalis himself her cousin! A pretty claim on
ner!?? he muttered, grinding his teeth in his helpless
ealousy. :

But justas the noisy procession had passed the shanty
eg rushed out alone, and made her way to Robert's
side,

“Bob,’? she sobbed, ‘“‘they shan’t hurt you. They shail
kill me first! You did jt for father, and they shan’t hurt
you. If they put yoa in jail, I will come to see you before
the day is over.’? : ;

And then she squeezed his shoulder with her soft little
tiand—his were bound at his back—and darted away into
the cabin.

For hours after they had shut him upin the lonely jail
Bob felt the sweet pressure of that loving hand, and would
have been comparatively happy, had not hisjealous fancy
pictured the stranger enjoying every opportunity for fas-
cinating Lolly, To him the maiden was so beautiful, so

man of the world would judge her.

The little pairef slippers which Lolly wore, and which
were made and presented to her, by a whilom shoemaker
—now a wealthy miner, with plenty of ‘‘dust’’—were to
Bob the hight of full-dress elegance—stockings being a
superfluity in Digtown. Lolly’s red calieo dress was pretty
enough for a bali-costume in Bob’s eyes. He did not
dream of the criticisms with which the stranger amused
himself, passed on poor little Lolly. y

Meantime the young girl was getting on as best she
could with her seif-invited guest.

“You have not told me your name, sir ?’ she remarked,

partly to hide the tears which filled her eyes, as she ran
back, after her comforting message to Bob on the street.
» “True. My name is Alexander Clymer Grafton. Quite
too long a name for you to trouble your rosy mouth over
it. My mother used to call me Allack, andi wish you
would do the same. It would be more cousinly.”

“I hardly think we are really cousins,” she said, shyly.

“Only third cousin, Miss Laura—and I’m not sorry.”

‘Why ?? she asked, innocently.

He laughed, saying:

“J’]] tell you sometime, little lady, but not now.’

“You are ashamed of us, I dare say,’’ she said, a little
sadly. ‘

“Not the least in the world! I assure you, that was far
from my meaning.”’

“Father drinks,” said the poor child, blyshing and look-
ing down; ‘I may as well tell you at once; for, if you see
him, or hear him spoken of, you will learn it, quick
enough. And he ig too broken-down to work. That is
all. Heis not bad. He never struck me, nor spoke cross
to me in his life. Ithink it has been some great trouble
set him to drinking—and his hands tremble so that he
cannot work. Thatis the reason we live so poorly,’’—
looking about the mean room with a sigh. ‘But henever
did that thing they accuse him off He was asleep and
drunk that evening. I know it. Father wouldn’t murder
any man!’?

“She's a little too fast there,” thought her listener, but
said nothing.

“T can’t even guess how the nugget came under our
floor,’’ continued Lolly. ‘‘Some one must have put it
there to get father into trouble.”?

“Why? has he enemies ?”’

“No enemies that i know of—although everybody is

hard upon him. But Bar Higgleson swore to me he’d
have his revenge if 1 didn’t marry him and help him keep
his hotel, and he’s got a wife in Massachusetts, now, sir.
I never even told father about it; but 1 don’t like Bar—
though I don’t say its him. I don’t know who did il, nor
for what wicked purpose.”’
“Hal said her visitor, firing up a little from the cold-
ness of his listening, ‘‘who is this Bar? He’d better let
you alone, Laura. You are my relatives; and I'll see that
he does not tease you. Does he keep the hotel?”

“Yes. They call him Bar because his hair is just the
color of a cinnamon bar’s. I detest him!’?

“So do J, little one. 1 could not think of patronizing his

hotel. You will have tolet your servant get me some
breakfast, I fear. I cannot go to Bar’s, and as I’ve been
riding since two o’clock this morning, I'm out-and-out
hungry for once in my life.”
“My servantl’’ cried Lolly; and then, sad as she felt, she
broke intoaripple of laughter. ‘We do not have such
articles in Digtown,’’ she said. “I will cook you some-
thing to eat, sir; but I’m afraid you'll not like our fare.”

“P11 like anything which you cook, little girl.’

Being really very tired with his long and early ride he
half-reclined on the leather-covered frame which served
both for lounge and bed for her father, while Lolly ran out
for an apron-full of sticks and bits of wood with which she
soon had a fire in the middle of the mud hearth. .

‘How glad I am father got the coffee and the meat yes-
terday,’’ sie thought to herself; and, eveu as she thought
it, there rushed over her this question: ‘How did he get
the money which he has been spending so freely for the
last few days ?"?

It was as if a hand ofice had clutched her heart; but
she shook of the chilly grasp—she would not believe ill of
her father, and, tpuly he was asleep at home, on that fa-
tal evening—and went bravely on with her work. Pork
was soon sizzling in the frying-pan, coffee steaming in
the pot, “hot biscuits’? browning in the bake-oven. All
the time, as she flew about, so quick and graceful, at her
tasks, Aleck Grafton watched her through his half-closed
eyes.

What would the fellows of ourclub say to this?!’ he
asked himself. ‘I wonderif there is a photographer in
Digtown? I'd like to take her picture back with me to
show them. They will not believe me without it for proof.
If there’s no better artist in this curious village, Ill paint
her miniature myself! I usedto think myself ‘some’ at a

 

‘‘As much @ lady as apy where he came from, I’jl bet!”
muttered one.

portrait.’’

 

had felt toward the stranger meited inits glow. She-

perfect, that he did not realize with what different eyes a

 

 

 

 

}4

 
 

nn

 

 

 

.

 

 —that noue of

 

 

 
 

 

 

“Breaklast is ready,” orled Lelly, with silvery she
hess; shaking him, for he had pretended to be asleep, and
retreating very suddenly as his bold, handsome gray eyes
Gpened upon her.

The rosy mouth, as she bent over him, had been almos.
close enough for itm to rob it of a Kiss; but something in
the atmosplere, eee the inuocent and ignorant
girl, kept off every Chought but those of respect and ad-
Wiratfon, ;

He sprang to his feet and followed her to th@ table—a
broad board upheld by the flour-barrel, bué covered by a
perfecity clean brown cloth, which Lolly had manufactur-
ed by sewing two or three flour-sacks together, Now
could he smnile, even in his sleeve, at the barrel, or the
tin dish which held Cho fried pork, or at Lolly when she
said, blushingly:

“You must take your coffee in a bowl, sir; we have no
cups.”

Bie could he despise all this, when that lovely bunch
of wild rogsé8 “scented the room, which Lolly had run out
and gathered, and placed in a cracked mug fn the center
of the table?

“As I have no nice dishes [ usually have flowers,’’ she
remarked, seeing him look at this bouquet.

“You could have nothing more beautiful or more appro-
priate,’ he answered; aud the fop who always grunfbled
al his chub dinners—the best Delmonéco could give him—
actually enjoyed, with a Keen relish, this homely breakfast,
although the biscuils showed yellow sireaks, and the col-
fee—-the best that Digtown everafforded—was half beans,
Phere were two reasons for this new zest—one, the keen
§nountain air and sharp exercise—the other, the sweet
young face opposite him at this tete-a-tete meal.

Lolly drank her coffee eagerly, for she, too, was weary
and worn with the horrible vigil of that night; but she
could net eat. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks redder
than usual, but. it was with the fever of excitement. At
every noise, at every shout, or sound of horses’ hogf, her
hands would tremble, and color Come and go,

“Q, where is father? Wiil they catch hin? Will he
be hung after all she kept crying to her own terrified

soul, _—
CHAPTER IL.
A DAY OF PERIL.

Robert Clark was siiting on the “bunk,” which served
as bed and chairin a corner of one roo of the Digtown
Jail, feclihg rather despondent. It was afternoon, and
Lolly had not yet fuililled her promise to come and see
him; then, too, his excited jailers lad forgotton to give
him any breakfast; and, although he was not conscious of
hunger, this, doubtless, added to his depression.

Some of lis friends, who had calmed down from their
first anger, had come to the narrow window and talked
With hinraf diferent times, giviug him the outside news
the pursuers had returned, that the
stranger was still with Lolly Jackson at the shanty, thas
the Vigilance Committee remained firm in its determina-
tion to hang him in Old Joe's place, provided the latter
Was notre-arrested.

None of these items were very comforting; but Robert
would have listened to two of them with reckless indif-
ference, hadit not been for tha’ most tormenting one
aboutahe long visit the ine gentleman was making Lolly.
That tortured him.

“JE was cyident,’? he thought, “that she had quite for-
gotten him"? : 7

Then he @ooked up at the strip of bluesky showing

 

* through the window, and added, less bitterly and more

sadly: :

What difference will it aake to me, to-morrow, when
Lam but a part of the earth under which they wil have
thrust mg? LT ought to be glad‘she’s found a fricu#t—if he
is a frieifd, whichis doubilull You cau’t trust them sharp
City ohaps. I wasu’t taken with the looks of his eyc—he
could be cruel, smooth au’ handsome as leis, ‘Sort of
retitive,’ he says—jest to strike up an intimacy, Vil bet!
An’ Lolly’s sucha poor little fawn she wouldn’t know
enough to be afeerd of a hunter ef she should sec him
crawlin!' after her.

*“] kind of hope they will string me up,’! he added,
half-an-hour later, his despondency deepening through
the interval. “Ldon’t know as I'mof any use in this
worldt She seems to be able to git along without me,?*—
but just then the bolt rattled aud the dvor uuclosed, let-
ting in a flood of broad July sunshine which seemed to
Stay afier the door was closed again and bolted by the
Keeper outside; for Lolly had come in with tie light, and
She stayed: 7

“My poor-Bob! how hungry you must bel’? coming close
to him with ler litde basket. “I’ve brought you so. ¢
dinner. _I suppose they gave you your breakfast???

. “No, Lolly; but [ didn’t care for any."

“Neither did I, Bob; | couldn't eat, but I was so thirsty.
You seel‘staid here with father all night. He slept a
good deal, but I could not rest one moment. Aud oh, I
did so-pray that you would come back in time!”

“To hang in his place?” asked Bob, with rather a grim
smile. * ‘

“How.can you be so.cruel, Robert Clark? They shall
kill me before tiey do you, be sure of that! Do you think
I could dive and feel that you had been murdered, even to
save father? They will not hurt you. They are angry
anckexcited now; but they mean to be just, and there
‘would be no justice in their hanging youfor what you did.
Oh, bless you for it, Robert! Ibless you and thank you
with all my heart and soul. If you had not thought so
quickly and acted so promptly, my dear father won have
—would—” she could notifinish tile sentence, but,

vered
her face with her hands,

“What have you in the basket 2 he asked, to divert her

thoughts. ~* :

“Your dinner. See! I went out and gathered wild ber-
riegand baked youa pie. It is sweetened with real store
sugar—not molasses,”’ y, ‘

She brought forth from tlie basket cold ham and bis-
cuits, hard boiled eggs, a bottie.of coffee, and the won-
derfal pie. Robert, when he ouce began to cat, discovered
that he was hungry, although he had not previously sus-
pected the fact. Hehad ridden filteen miles that morn-
ing before coming so opportunely upon the gallow’s-tree
drama; and then, Lolly’s pleased looks as he tried and
praised her fare, increased his appetite.

Finally, as he was on the first-half of the pie his evil
spirit prempted him to inquire:

“Did you bake Jun a pie, tov?!

“Why, yes, did. He is a visitor, you know}; and fa-
ther used Lo tell me to give the best 1 had to company,”’

Bob returned the rest of the pie to the basket; it had
lost its sweet relish. :

“Dye no doubt hel take all he can get,*’ he observed,
sullenly. °

‘Don’t you like him, Bob?!
ji “No, I don’(—there!””

“Well, you ouglitto. He's very polite and friendly, and
his family and mine are related—so he tells me.”

*} wish you gocd luck of the relationship.’

“Bob, what is the matter with you? Iuever knew you
to be so spiteful. I guess you want to make me cry, see-
ing L hain’t trouble enough already.’

“You can cry easy about him. Be very tender of him,
Miss Jackson! He don’t look asif he could bear hard-
ships! Is’pose you've got a piece of beeswax with your
sewin' duds?’ ;

“What for ?*? i

“Oh, to keep his mustache in order. Fellows that have
somethin’ to do besides brush their hair and pare their
finger nails, won’t be anywhere, now, in the eyes of the
Belle of Digtown.”

’©You were so brave and so manly this morning, Robert.
i didn’t think you could be so mean.”?

Zhat made him wince. She waiked away like a young
princess, not deigning hima look, toward the narrow
window. He wanted to apologize, but while he was hesi-
tating il what words to say he was sorry, she uttered a
sudden cry, leaning forward as far as the bars would per-
mit, as if watching something ou the street. Bob heard
the swift clatter of a horse’s hoefs, aud the shouts of some
of the people on the street.

“Tuas Whirlwind!’ he exclaimed.

“Yes, it’s Whirlwind,’! :

“And is—is—have they taken

He could not finish the question.

“He has come back with an empty saddic, Robert. He
dashes straight to the post in frout of the jail, as if he
scented your steps. He is panting and overheated.’

“Poor felow! Will you promise totake good care of
him, Lolly, ifthey make way with me?’

«Don't speak of that. What do you suppose has hap-
Re to father, Robert? Do you think they have found
him

“No, or they would have brought him home on Whir!-
Wind’s back. It is likely he has fallen from the animal,
he was so weak, and his nerves so unsteady,”?

“O,.my poor father! Perhaps he is killed by the fall.
At che very least they will overtake him and bring him
pack. ‘

“Tam afraid of it. Still we will hope for the best. If
not too much hurt, he may conceal himself till the storm
blows over, as we say. There are wild spots in the m9un-
tains—caves and tickets, plenty of them. When your
father is notin liquor he is cute enough. He will take
care of himself.”

The jailer now opened the door to tell Bob that his
horse had returned riderless, and that two or three of the
pursuers had also got home, having given up tiie chase.

“They’re mad enough, too, at their lost time,’’ he add-
ed, comfortingly. ‘“‘Diglown hain’t spent a very profitable
day—not a man went to thediggin’s. All loungin’ ’round,
Waitin’ to see What)ll turn up.”

“Dil bet iv’s been a profitable day for Bar Higgleson;”’
said Bob.

“Waal, you're right thar.
of whiskey.’? E

“The consequences of which will be that by nightfall

the men of Digtown wiil be just crazy enough with drink
to want to hang somebOdy, so I suppose they'll do me the
honor to select me.”?
) Bob was not a drinking man—indeed he was almost
the only inhabitant of the village who never touched
liquor. He was superior in education, manners, speech,
and behavior, to say nothing of morals, to the miost of
them, and had hitherto wielued great influence on that
account. But he justly feared that this influence would
not be sufficient for his salvation if these lawless creatures
once gottheir untamed pasgions inflamed by the per-
nicious liquor, which was the bane of the mining commu-
nity. They had been known, when they were just ripe for
it, to string a manup for the funof it. Judge Lynch is
apt to be an unjust judge, particularly whem he is twyo-
thirds tipsy.

“If Bar had been the right kind ofa man he wouldn't
io Sold whisky to-day,’! said Robert, as the jailer re-

ired.

‘YT don’t think he wishes younor me well,’ answered
Lolly, ina low, troubled voice.

“What makes you think so? I did not know that he had
a grudge against me, nor you either.”

“He dislikes you because I—I like you. You gee he has
been vexing me lately with asking me to——!?

She puused, blushing.

1

 

He's opened the second kag

 

“D-

 

eens renee

“He has dared to yex you? - How?!
Bob started from the bunk, walking excitedly up and
down. :

“By teasing me to marry him—but don't speak of it,
please, Bob.”

“He has a wife and children down Kast, the villain!’

“So I told him; and he said that he had been away so
long that he was as good as divorced, and that anyhow,
over,in Utah, they believed in aman having more than
one wife; but he should hever want anotheras long as he
had me—aund 4 lot of such stuil, Robert, that perfectly dis-
gusted me with him.’

“IT should think as much,
you were offeuded ?”” /

“Yes, [did, told him I'd tell father, and if father ever
got sober enough he would whip him. And then he
jeered, and said I needn't look to my dad to protect ine. I
got angry, and told him Lwouldn’t marry himifhe were,
the last man on earth. Then le swore he’d be revenged
upon me; and he mentioned vow hame, too, Robert, in a
way thatshowed he was jealous of you—though I’m sure
there was no reason, for of course you never thought of
me as he said. I told him he was mistakeu—-Lhat you liad
never asked me to—marry you—and that you only cared

Of course youshowed him

‘for meas a friend, which was the truth, wasn’t it, Rob-

ert?’ she asked, sweetly, looking up at him frankly with
her clear, soft eyes.

What she saw in histo make her drop her questioning
glance so quickly cannot be explained.

“And you assured him you had only Sriendship for me,
I dare say.”

“What if I did, Robert Clark?”

How bewilchingly saucy and pretty she looked as she
flung the question at him. But only fora moment; the
next, painewnd anxiety Came back iuto her young face,

“It matters little What IL said, Robert. The plain trath
is that I gained his ill-will. I’m afraid not only for myself
but for father and you, a3 well. Can you thinkof a man
so bad as to punish a girl by getiing her own father mur-
dered?!

“Yes,’? was the thoughtful reply, ‘I have known men
as Vile aS that. It makes me anxious to live, Lolly, thatL
may protect you. If you are left alone Bar will get you in
his Paws as sure as sliooting.”

‘Never!!!

“You don’t Know the man, Lolly.’! £

“But Il Know myself, Il it is necessary I will go armed;
I will never be wilhout the means of self-defense; andil he

makes himself too threatening, 1 will kill him.??

“Good for youl You area brave girl, Lully. Ido not
so much fear for you, even if Lam taken away, for you
have lots of friends, You have only to let Digtuwn know
that you are persecuted by Bar, to have him driven out of
the village witha warning not to come back. If you get
into trouble or danger you must let the people kuow in
time,’’—unconsciously he was speaking as if he were not
to be one of her protectors,

The idea that Bar was his enemy and that he was pur-
posely getting the cijizens drunk that he might inflame
Lheni against their pfsoner, had brought Robert to under-
staud the serious danger which threatened him. After
the first few minutes of clamor and rage under the
Gallows Tree he had been very little afraid of the mob
carrying ouvits threat of making him play hostage for the
mau ne had rescued, But now he saw a deeper and more
dangerous purpose than the quick vexation of an excited
crowd—he felt Lhe steady pressure of a hand that pur-
posely sought to put a rival out of the way, aud a solemn

seuse of his peril subdued him as he spoke.

Lolly was impressed with the same iveling; her hands
grew Cold and her cheeks pale, and one tear alter another
forced its way from ler eyes.

(TO BE CONTINUED.) |

Marriage .
ON THE SCAFFOLD.

By Howard W., Macy.

 

(‘Marriage on the Scaffold’? was commenced in No, 51. Back
Nos. can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. |

CHAPTER XYI.
.THE GRAND CONSTABLE OF NAPLES.

From what he now knows, the reader can appreciate
the peril of Cosmo and his wife, caused by the @elirium of
the latter,

“Heaven forbid!"* was the fervent ejaculation of Cosmo
wheu Vittoria intimated that the soldiers might desire to
search the cottage. “Yet even that mischauce shail be
guarded against,’ he added, “Thou didst not hear aught
that thy poor mother said during the past night, Vittoria?’

. “Oh, father!’ replied Vittoria, weepibg, ‘‘L have not
heard even the sound of dear mother’s voice since she
passed into that deep sleep two days ago.”?

“Ttis well; and yet it seems very cruel to thee, my poor
child,?? said Cosmo, embracing her fondly. “Some day—
Heaven grant my wish!—I may tell thee all. See! neither
Lnor thy pious mother have ever dared tell even to nobic-
hearted Father Anselmo those secreis of which she now
raves in her delirium. ButI must return to her side. Do
thou all thou canst to send the soldiers apeedny. ou their
Way if they halt at the cottage gate.” !

So saying, Cosmo returned to te bedsi¢e of his deliri-
ous wife. -

An hour passed, and Vittoria, standing at the cottage
door, which Commanded a view of the road toward the
southeast for the distance of half a mile, beheld a score or
more of mounted troops coming toward the cottage ata
steady though slow trot. f

The tips of their lances, their polished helmets, merions,
armor aud accouterments gleaimed brightly in the beans
of the morning sun. One among them bore a banner-
staff, frou, Which fluttered a silken and golden-hued ban-
ner, Whose folds gustened and glinted as they swayed in
the breeze. 3

Vittoria, with indefinable fear at her heart, hurried to
the door of her mother’s bedroom, aud after giving it a
gentle though decided rap, ran to the outer door again.

“They are in plain view, father,’ she said, a3 Cosmo
appeared.

“Thy mother sleeps,*’ he whispered, as he glided to her
side; and this powerlul, athletic old man could move with
the light tread of a maiden then. “Put on thy vail and
yon ragged old cloak.” And while Vittoria obeyed, he
gazed keenly at the soldiers.

More,than twenty score of troopers were thenin sight,
and coming into view from where the road swept to the
eastward. Full five huudred men, indeed, all well mount-
ed and perfectly armed, were following those just seen by
Vittoria—a small army, in truth—returning trom a vain
pursuit of the vanished Swords of Sicardo,

“My curse upon the lord aud upon the house of that
banner!’? muttered the old man, as his eagle-sighted eyes
gazed toward the approaching soldiery.

Vittoria, again at his side, heard the words, and asked:

“Which banner, father, for there are several???

“The greatest one—the one in advance—the ‘Gonfalon’
—the war-banner of the Caracciolis.”? ;

“The war-banner of the grand constable!’ exclaimed
Vittoria, sliuddering from a vague sense of terror.

“Ay, the one of black and white, and the broad band
of goid and scarlet. And heis there!’

“Who, father ??

“Gianni Caraccioli—my curse upon him! That banner
of the Caracciolis is never unfurled save in the presence
of the chief of the house. Now, Heaven forbid that Gian-
ni Caraccioii shall enter my cottage!”

“Would he recognize thee, father??

“Nay, Lthink not. When he last saw me my hair and
beard were as black as thy tresses, child, ahd there was
not a wrinkle or furrow on my face. I was slender and
young, too. Nay, I have not-the slightest fear that he or
any there Canrecognize me as the mau lwas. YetI pray
Heaven he may not enter this cottage. There!—uuless
they see thy face they will not deem thee more than a
peasant wench. I would not that any of them should de-
lect thy beauty. Nay, since thy mother sleeps—I did give
her an opiate, Vittoria, aud much against my will, for I
fear the drug will do her no good just now; but 1 fear,
too, the coming of some of the soldiers into her presence,
and her delirious speech. Now, as she sleeps I will even
go witlh'thee. Nay, I fear no recognition from any of
them, child, I will go with thee, that we may.appear as
two simple peasants staring in vacant wonder at the pass-
ing soldiers,”

“Oh, father! why court recognition——”

‘OPTis not that, child,”’ interrupted the old man, quickly. “Tt
is because I tremble to Jet thee alone confront you icllows, some
of whom may dare speak rudelyto thee. And yetif they imagine
the cottage is deserted some of them may wander intoit. Come
—thy arm—I willlean upon it as if only the strength of achild
were in my legs. I will play old man, indeed. They shall think
me over & hundred years oid.””

With a swift, and elastic, and almost noiseless bound, however
—very unlike an appearance ot old age—Cosmo first hurried to
ae. door of the bed-chamber and looked anxiously in upon his
wite. :

She was asleep. The opiate Cosmo had reluctantly given her

ao seized upou her delirium, aud her senses were in a deep
sieep,
\ “Now, then,” said Cosmo, closing the bedroom door, and in-
Stantly assuming the feeble appearance of extreme old age.
And so with his hands clasped around one of Vittoria’s arms, as
it his knees were too weak to support his weight, Cosmo hobbled
from the cottage-door to the low, little gate of the rude picket-
fence that shut off the small front yard from the highway.

AS they proceeded thus toward the gate, Vittoria, obeying a
hint from her father, bound a handkerehiet across her face and
over one of her eyes, ‘

“It may be some of them will ask thee to lift thy vail,” he said.
“Ay, and Gianni Caraccioli himself, for he is with them, and hath
aneye as keen for beauty as his villainous son, the Bastard of
Zapponetto.”

They were soon at the little gate, both leaning upon Its top bar
as they stood side by side; and afew minutes atter the head of
the advancing column was directly opposite the gate, and not
more than thirty paces from it.

The chief of this force, a powerfully framed man, far older
than he seemed, for his mustache and the tuft of beard on ns
massive chin were dyed jet black, wore no helmet but a light cap
ot white velvet, and thus his stern and handsome features were
plainly visible to Cosmo and Vittoria.

_ He was in light and sword-proof armor, however, wearing no
surcoat above it, but a short mantle ot white linen trimmed with
scarlet and gold lace, The long ringlets descending from the
olden band of his plumed and jeweled cap were as black as ink;
ut devoid of their cunning dye they would have glistened as white
as snow. ’

Keen black eyes, flerce and eagle-like, a thin, high Roman nose,
massive but perfectly cut features, a well-shaped mouth, whose
thin, haughty lips, were hidden under the heavy mustache, were
some of the prominent characteristics of this nobleman’s face,
who, 1n his prime, had been the handsomest man, or so famed,
in all Naples—Ser Gianmi Caraccioli, Grand Constable of the
Kingdom, and prime favorite of the queen.

Aknight near him bore the helmet of the Grand Constable,
whose flowing locks made its wearing a torture because of the
heat. Another knight or esquire carried the constable’s steel
gauntlets, and athit

A long, double-hanaed sword hung at Ser Gianni’s thighs, a
heavy dagger at his right side, and ashort-handled, double-edged
battle ax at his saddie-bow. ;

Vittoria had neyer seen a more awe-inspiring personage than

his shield.

    
   

this famous warrior, statesman andschemerof Naples, the father
of Lord Colonna and Alfrasco the Bastard.

It was well for Gosmo that the coustable knew nothing of his
shure in the events that had occurred at the fountain, else Gianni
Caraccioli would have halted and questioned him closely. But
Lord Colonna, at the request ot Lord Alfrasco, had commanded
his followers to say nothing of what had chanced at the tountain
beyond the fact that they had had an encounter with Sicardo in
Del Parso, ‘The plundered. nobles were eagerly willing to keep con-
cealed from their friends in Naples the fact that they had surren-
dered to the despised brigand without a blow, Their swords had
been returned to them by the brigands after the duel, and when
they met the advancing forges of. the constable, they told great
stories of what they had done ere the superior numbers of the
Swords of Sicardo had forced them to retreat.

It was not to be told at Naples that Lord Alfrasco had lost his
ears, That noble had conceived a plan by which he hoped to
wake all boasting of that matter by Sicardo appear as a fable.
How Alfrasco wasto givetbe lie to the story, were it to get
abroad, will appear hereatter. “sy

At tho first intimation of the coming of the Grand Constable,
Lord Alfrasco had disappeared with ail his immediate followers,
Mantredi excepted, on his way to his castle at Zapponetto.

Thus it was not known to Ser Gianni that his favorite, though
illegitimate son, Lad lost his ears, nor that he had attempted to
abduct the daughter of Cosmo, the Forester; nor did he suspect
that Cosmo was he who had s@ long beén Temporary Count Del
Parso; nor imagine that he who had received that commission
from the queen ten years before, was more than some rural
magistrate who had not dared to assume the rights and dignities
of an officer which, if exercised, would expose him to the envy
and plots of others.

In truth, the queen had said to him, ten years before:

“Tam teased by many of my nobles to uppuint them Counts
Del Parso. Now I have heard ofa very quiet and unassuming
forester of Del Parsv, one Cosmo di Sicardeli. Hust thou, Ser
Gianni ?”

“Not I, my liege. Who is he ?”

“A nobody, since Ser Gianni hath never heard of him,” was the
reply of the queen.

“Therefore 1 will make this forester Temporary Count Del
Parso, and so be rid-of the incessant. importuning of those who
desire the office and title has to ruffle aud swell at court.”

And thus it was that Cosmo had been made and was for ten years
Temporary Count Del Parso. Most of the nobles of the province
dwelt at Naples, to be near the court, and as Cosmo never reveal-
ed his right to be chief magistrate, they, assured that the count
had been appointed, cared nothing about Lhe matter, as none ot
their own jealous class claimed the cignities ot the courtship.

Had Ser Gianni suspected that this white-haired old man at
the gate was the late Temporary Count Del Parso, he would have
halted and had speech with him, But he was almost ignorant of
the existence of Cosmo di Sicardoli. He had never given the mau
a thought. The queen had said to him:

“This forester will never act as Count Del Parso, I give the
commission to him only that I may be able to say to all impor-
tuners, ‘There is no vacancy there.’ And thou, Ser Gianni, canst
DOW 80 declare, haying attached thy seal aud signature ty the
grant.

Aud yet the queon knew very well that Cosmo, the Forester,
Stes the outlawed Leonato di Chiaramonti of Sicily, Prince del

rnato.

And she alone, of all her court, knew thisfact. This queen,
evilin many respects, had some nobleness in her character. She
could remember a kindness. In his youth Cosmo had shielded
her from a merited seandal. In his adversity she h@d permitted
Irim to hold secret retuge within her dominions, and granted him
an office upon the condition that he was not to use it nor to re-
Veabit as tiis except to savg his lite upon any sudden emergency;
nov was he eyen then to Inuke known that he was Leonato di
Chiaramonti. °

And Cusmo—I will continue to call him so—had sworn to the
queen to keep inyiolate this secret of his identity—the exposure
of which would inturiate Giauni-+Carracioli and his partasans,
and vex the queen. ;

But of late years it had began to be rumored that Sicardo, the
brigand, Wasa son of the snpposed dead Leouato di Chiaramonti,
and the reader now perceives one of the causes of Cosmo’s eari-
est desire to conceal from ali his relationship to the briganu.
Were it to become known that Sicardo was the son of Launato,
and that Cosmo was Leonato, it Would be discovered that the
queen had not only given refuge, but even a high though unused
authority, toa man upon whose head her ministry bad decreed
decapitation—a man aiso under the ban of the church,

Ht was weil for Cosimo, therefore, that the Grand Constable did
not halt and converse with him, for Ser Gianmi was a man not
easy to deceive if once his suspicious were aroused, and his sus-
pictons Were as uflammable as gunpowder.

Once only the eyes of the great Caraccioli flashed toward the
two at the gate. No warning of fate, no hiut ot instinct, told the
constable that there stood Iris crushed aud hated enemy; afve
who still lived, and who was yet to triumph over him and see
him overthrown and dead at his feet.

Gianni Caraccioli, as haughty and self-confident asa king—and
a king he was in power—saw only an aged peasant in the man at
the gate, and rode on, with @ miud ruffled only by his chagrin iu
having tailed to capture Sicardo the brigand, whom he teared
was the son ot Leonato di Chiaramouti, his supposed dead
enemy.

The soldiery followed, and all had passed when Cosmo said:

“T will return to thy mother now. Thank Heaven, they did
not even speak tous! The great villain of them ail carries his
years like a giant, but he was ever a dandy and dyes his hair and
beard like any macaroni of them all.”

With this bitter sneer on his lip Cosmo tyrned on his heel, and
stilk keeping up the semblance of a decrepit old age, hobvled
away and was soon out of sight in the cuttage.

But Vittoria, pleased with the gay and unusual sight, now that
all peril seemed to have gone by, remained at the gate, leaning
upon it, and with her face turned toward the departing cavalry.

To see better she threw aside her vail, and even ventured to
remove the handkerchief trom her face.

The common sight of two peasants gazing wonderlingly upon
them had elicited scarcely a giance trom tbe soldiery. Not one
of them after riding by had deemed it worth whic to-.cast a
second glance at the gate or the cottage, .

Just as the Just ranks of the column were passing the gate Cos-
mo withdrew, as I have said, and at the same instant the twenty
men in the rear, who were indeed the musicians of the forces,
enter acommand to play and to ride to the head of the
column. :

The clamor of the trumpets, cymbals, drums, and other musi-
cal instruments of tie duy, began instantly, and the musicians
spurred their horsesjint0 # shurp trot to push ahead and marci:
in front. a

Vittoria’s ears wel
sounds, und thus s!

   
 

ed with these warlike and musical
id Pot ear the gallop
Whose‘rider, fur in tig6 rear of the columu, Wus spurrikg to over-
take it, Aud her eydg beipg aurned toward rear of the troops
me os not sec tus solitaty horseman until he was sweeping past
the gate. ‘

Tuen she turned her ffhce, forgetful of its being unyalled,
squarely tuward him; andjthen, with alow ery of dismay, she re-
were the eaution offher lather, and hastily drew down the
vail. Pi hve

Jt was too late; the hofeman had already seen and recognized
raid face of marvelous beauty; aud tie horseman was Lord Co-

ouna. Beis

Fate had destined this second m of these two,

Lord Colonna had aided.in that yan pursuit which had been
made after the Swords of Sicardo, His brother, anxious only to
avoid a meeting with lis father, had,as I have said, hurriea
away toward Zapponetiu; but the prince, cager to shure in the
expected Capture of the tamous brigand, had followed and ac-
companied the forces of the Grand Constable; was with them on
their return; had turned aside alone half an nour before he thus
beheld Vittoria at the gate, tu pay a brief visit to the fountain,
perhaps with a hope that he might then again behold that tace,
now lorever de¢ply eugraved in his heart—nad found no one
near the fountain; and atter there quenching the thirst of his
horse, had returned to the main road and was spurring past to
overtake the soldiery when his glauce flushed with joy:ul recog-
nition ovet the face of Vittoria.

He reigicd up instantly. The visor of his helmet was up, and
the red glow of delight burning over lis fair and handsome
cheeks, and sparkling in his grand blue eyes shot a thrill of an-
swering ecstasy through the heart of Vittoria.

For two days and nights his mind had been aflame with the
remembrance of the glorious beauty of this maiden. In her
dreams she had already given her whole heart to the almest
perfect manly beauty of this young man, And during the two
days since her lips had met his, strange yet ccstatic thrills of
pleasure and hope had danced amid her thoughts of him.

Already, therefore, these two, without kuowing it, were deeply
and forever in love with each other.

Perhaps but for this second chance-meeting they might never
have met again. For, by nature, Lord Colonna was uoble-mind-
ed and just—qualities he had inherited _not from his father, but
from his Roman mother, the Princess Colonna—and though his
whole soul had been protoundly stirred by the wondrous beauty
of Vittoria, he had resolved never to see her again, a resolve he
had scarce well kept in turning aside to visit the fountain.

He was a scion of the highest rauk of the Neapolitan nobility;
and he belioved her to be but a peasant maiden, and yu his heart
he had said:

“T willsee her no more, lest I fall madly in love and do her
wrong. Lam not an Alfrasco,nor canI stoop to degrade my
rank by making 4 peasant my wile, nor my manhood by striving
tommake her less.”

But the unexpected sight of her splendid beauty threw all his
high and just regulations into naught, us the toucn ot fire changes
gunpowder into vanishing smoke.

“Is it thou, peerless Vittoria!” he exclaimed, as he reined up
his panting steed so near the gate that he could have touched her
head by stretching forth his hand. “Thy loveiy face hath not
left my eyes.since they beheld thee in the grotto.”

Had he not spoken of the grotto Vittoria might haye had
strength and courage to auswer him coldly, and to have hurried
a\way to the protection ot her father’s presence.

mo was at that momeut entering the cottage door. Had ha
turned his head he would hayg séen the horseman at the gate
conyersing with his daughter. But for the crash of the music he
might have heard the voice ot Lord Colonna,

But the old man, glad that the soldiery had passed on, and
eager tolookupon his sick wife, heard nothing that was said,
and the next moment saw him at the bedside of Donna Castel
letta.

“Thou sawest me-in the grotto! stammered Vittoria, who till
that instant hud hoped the prince had nothad time to note her
features at the grotto,

“Yes, sweet maiden, and itwas well for thee, perhaps, that I
was there on that morn——? ,

“It was, my lord, and I thank thee for thy-—

“Nay, letime thank Heaven,” interrupted the prinee, drawing
off his gauntlet, and placing his hand gently upon one of hers as
it rested tremblingly upon the top of the gate, “that Lhave again
been permitted to speak with thee.”

Tiiis contact of their hands was like an instantaneous union of
their blood. They felt as if they had but one heart, or rather as
if their separate souls liad with @ single throb of unspoken love
become one. | }

Vitioria, faint with a mysterious sensation, known only to those
who have loved—and therefore indescribable by me—made a
feeble effort to withdraw her hand from the tervent clasp in
whichit was held, but tailed, and unable to ‘struggle against a
sensation 80 novel and exquisite, permitted her palm to rest in
that of the enamoured prince,

Yet she had the courage and prudence to say, falteringly:

“My lord, thou art a prince, and Iam but @ peasant maiden—
so far as thou knowest——”

“So far as I know?’ interrupted the.prince, eagerly. “What
meanest thou by that phrase ? Can it be true, ¢ ord Alfrasco
told me, that thou art of noble blood, though in lowly station ?”

“Did Lord Alirasco tell thee that?’’ asked Vittoria, in much
surprise.

“In truth he did, as we parted two days ago.”

“And how had he heard—nay—I meun, what cause had he to
say so ?” stammered the artless girl. ,

“That I know not, fair Vittoria. Wouldst thou permit me to
love thee then ?”? asked the prince, gently lifting her vail trom
her blushing face. “Ah, 50 fair and nobie beauty cannot be poas-
ant born!”

“Nay, my lord, this is all very wrong!” sighed Vittoria, and at-
tempting Lo cover her glowing cheeks and brow with the vail.

But the prince, with that charming boldness peculiar to ardent
lovers, secured the vail from her trembling hand and thrust the
gauze into his bosom, saying:

“Let me keep this as a sweet memento of this meeting; abd
wilt thou take this simple riug trom me——”

“Nay—thou art a Caraccioli £?

“And what of that?’

“My father loves not even thy name.”

“#nd who is he ?”

“Cosmo, the Forester,’?

“True—but who is Cosmo, the Fcrester 1"?

“My father,’

“Ay—but is he not a man of noble birth 7”

“Who told thee 60, my lord ?”

“Himself,’?

“Oh, Heaven! Himself ?? ®

“Not in words, fair one, but by his actions and manners at tha
fountain,”

“And if he were, my lord ?”?

“Then would I profier thee honorable love, Vittoria,” replied
the prince, gazing passionately into her dark eyes,

“And if he were but a peasant, my lord ?”* asked Vittoria, sadly.

“Then would I remember tnat Colonna di Caraccioll hath never
stooped to a base deed, and bid thee farewell now forever.”

“Thou wouldst not proffer dishonorable love, my lord ?””

“T cannot—yet I love thee, peasant or noble.” ‘

sofa single horse,

 

 

 

 

But go, my lord, for I wrong my father and my mother in thus
eonversing with a stranger. e

“A stranger! Nay—thou hast seen me in thy dreams,” said
the pgince, again taking her hand,

“Tomy dreams!”

“Lord Alfrasco——"

“The rufflan! he told thee that which I was mad to tell him!"

“AN, artless girl—-—”

“away! I hate him and thee!’ cried Vittoria, crushing a sob of
shame, and, springing away, she durted toward the cottage.

t she carried with her the gold ring the prince had placed
on'Ter finger. i

The prince gazed after her with loving eyes; hesitated, grew
suddenly sad in Jook, and then muttered: \

“Nay—ail this is folly which may lead to headrt-burning, I will
see her no more ???

Wigh this resolution, he turned from the gate,and spurred after
the sOldiers, who were now out of sight from abend in the road,

Ere he was beyond the view of Vittoria, he turned his head
and leoked back.

She had not entered the cottage. She had remembered: that
she had kept.the ring just as she was about to go intu her dweli-
ing, and halted, not kuowing what to do with it.

She turned her head as he turned his. They were too far apart
for elther to see the eyes of the other, and yet each knew they
Were gazing toward each other. :

He bowed his head, waved a kiss toward her, and,called out:

“Farewell!” aud thegnext moment was gone, :

“fe is gonel Alas, I shall see him no more!’ sighed Vittoria,
with tears inhereyes. ‘And I havethe ring he gave me! What
shall Ido with it? I cannot throw it away. Never! Nor can I
wear it, for then would father see it, and question me! Oh, I
should tell father all—and yet, Idare not. Ah, what shall £ do
with the ring!”

The first she did was to press her lips to the ring, and to mur-

 

mur:

“Oh, Virgin Mother, I adore him! Ilove him! And he loves
me! But lam never to se@ him again. He said farewell!’ He 1s
gone! But I cannot throw the ring away.”

She cast one long, lingering look toward where the prince had
disappeared from her sight, and then enteredthe cottage. She fast-
ened the ring to a ribbon, and sewed the ribbon within the bosom
of her dress. a iG

The ring was thus concealed, and rested exactly over Vittoria’s
innocent weart. Every throb of that heart was immediately
under the gittof Lord Ovlonta.

And thus resulted the third meeting of the prince and the
maid ofthe fountain. The first was in the grotto, and was searcely
ameeting; the second was at the fountain, and was a stormy
and distracted one; the third was at the gate, and was very much
like a betrothal; for over the heart of Lord Colonna was the vail
ot Vittoria, audover the heart of Vittoria was the ring ot Lord

Colonna. ,
CHAPTER XVII f
AN INTERRUPTED LOVE SCENE,

Three weeks had clapsed after the occurrence of the events
nurrated in the preceding chapter, and still Donna Castelletta
remained seriously ill, The delirium so much feared by Cosmo
had indeed ieft her consciousness free, but she was far too weak
to peendty him to think of torcing herto undergo the fatigue of
travel.

During these three weeks the warm friend of all at the cottage,
Father Anselmo, had. not appeared. This was quite strange to
Cosmo, as the benevolent and ardently pious priest had hitherto
seldom remained even two weeks atatime absent from the
cottage. .

Yet while Donna Castelletta was revealing dangerous aud im-
portant secrets in her deliriuum—that is, dangerous to QOosmo and
important to others—he had every hour secretly trembled lest
even the kind-hearted Father Anselmo should call at the cottage
and desire to see the inyalid. What excuse to give fora refusal
to admit the good man tethe presenceo f Donna Castelletta, Cos-
mo was in great tribulation of mind to imagine.

But Father Anselmo did notcome. So, when three weeks had
passed, and Donna Castelietta had apparently firmly regained
her consciousness, Cogpe began to wish for the coming vf the
priest, and to wonder Why he had remained away so long.

He necded the aid of Father Anselmo in his contemplated de-
oa from Del Parso, and finally he resolved to visit Atrani to
see him.

lie went to Atrani, and learned that. Father Anselmo had de-
parted some weeks before o:i a visit to Rome, and that he would

 

 

   

strength to tremble, t@ palpitate, to snatch for breath was at that
mony nt hers, Soe
.“‘Nay—God and the Virgin be my shield! ¥ do net slink that
thou wouldst wrong i feeble maiden Whose lowe yur they havh
made her mad!” sighed Yjttoria, unable to reeoit frem his fer-
vent embrace, or to resist (Nt passionate kiss he pressed apo her
quivering lips, om
_ “Flalt there !? thunderedoa stern and powerful voice at that
instant; and'the startled lovers, turnitig their eyes toward the
right of the fountain, bebeld a stately form, en angry face, a
pe of flereely gleaming eyes, and a crossbow leveled at the
end of Lord Colonna,

It was Cosmo the Forester, and his hate of the Caraceioli ayd
bis Beapals atthus surprising his daughter, were burning in his
eyes like living flames and under his scowling brows like the
5 bly ad ofa coming stofin beneath the lowering thunder

oud,

“Oh Heaven! my father!” cried Vittoria, throwing her arms
around the prince and thus placing her own breast beibre his,
making herself a shield for him coma the unflown boit,

“‘T am not ten paces from ye,” said Cosmo, in a deep and fear-
fully harsh voice, so bitter Was his rage and despair, “amd at that

through the carcass of a mountain bull—why shall I not spring
my wheel and so slay @ wanton and a Guracciolil’?

‘Harm her not, madman!” cried Lord Coionna, “Thy mo-
ther, whoever she was, noble or peasant, was never mere pure,
more chaste, more junycent than this, thy angelic daugkter! Let
thy wrath fail on ane,af thou art ‘blind and causeless ven-
gence; but, by the Heaven above, Vittoria is innocent, and I
ask her hand an honorable——” } °

“Silence!” thundered Cosmo, his eyes aflame. “Ay, I do be-
lieve she is pure yet, but would she not be what Lealled her hud
my chance-coming been long delayed! Thou art a Garg od
and in my mine and on my longue Caraccioli means DeVI—Sa-
tan!—Beelzebub |”

‘Nay, so help me Ileaven and all the saints!’ replied Vittoria,
cold and pale, and yet with a haughtiness of face, voice aud ges-
ture that pleased the heart of her father. ‘‘Hadst thou never
come, father, thy child would have remembered her henor, her
mother, and thee!?

“And this young man,” said Cosmo, with a bitter laugh in his
white beard, “would have remembered that he was a Caraccioli
ay, as Alfrasco the Bastard would have proved his claim to the
accursed lineage not long ago,”

“T would not have forgotten that I was and ever shall be Colon.

trembling girl, though the weapon of Cosmo was still aimed at
his head.

“Thou art brave at east,” said Cogmo, lowering his weapon.
“Now be truthful, and let me know how far and how long this
courtship hath been carried on.” :

“Tis not fo#me to betray to thee aught that thy daughter may
desire to conceal from thee, Cosmo,” ~~

“How generous in a Caraccioli!” replied Cosmo, bitterly.
“Well, Vittoria, I am still so fund as to imagine thou wid not lie
to me, thongh T see thou wilt conceal—for yetwo must have met
since ye parted here in my presence nut a month since.

Hew
o{ten have ye met Y”

reply.
tht end then f”

my rescue—— ‘

“Ay—and after ?”?

“Once at our cottage gate.”

“Hal our eottage gate!”

“The day the Grand Constable went by —thou didsi leave me at
the gate 7

“Ay—tool that Iwas!” _

“And Lord QGojonna, passing last of all, recognized mo and
halted, and we conversed awhtie—he did not dismouut—but soon
rode on, and bade me farewell—as I thought, till te-day, forever.”

 

“Three meetings. Well?

“And not until to-day, and a few minutes since, did we meet
again

“A few minutes! Do not attempt to deceive me, Vittoria,” in-
terrupted Oosmo, sternly, “The jile of this young man hangs
upon my judgmentof the truth of thy werd, gizi#®.Theu hast
been gone from the cotiage two hours or more.”

“Then has time fled more swittly than I knew,” replied Vitto-
riz, boldly, “Itseems but a moment’ since Lord Gelonna ap-

 

 

not return for a long annem Co ald uncertain,

Cosmo, quite despondent, rettwned to his cuttage, and to his
surprise found his vite alone,

“Where is Vittoriat”? he asked, afler he had acquainted his wife
with the result of his visic. . Ps

“Ttis time sbe was backfrom the fountain,” replied Donna
Castelletta.

“From the fountaini? repeated Cosmo, surprised, and even
vexed. “She has gone tothe fountam!?

“Yes, husband. So feverish a thirst came upon me twoor three
hours ago, that I begged her to take the vaseto the fountain,
and,bring it to me filled to the brim with the cool and sparkling
water—but why dost thou stare at me so, Leonato?”

Cosmo was staring in sudden griet. The eyes and tone of his
wife told him that she was tast becoming delirious again. It was
plain that she was already so. else she would not have called him
by his true and forbidden name.

He comprehended then that she had persuaded Vittoria to go
to the fountain, and that Vittoria had not detected that her
mother was going inte delirium again.

Cosmo had forbidden his daughter to go to the fountain, and
in truth Vittoria had not ventured thither since her rescue from
Lord Alfrasco,

Only the command or entreaties of her sick mother could have
caused her to go there,

“How long hath she been gone didst say?” asked Cosmo,

“It seems an age, it-seems an age, Leouato! And so the good
father was not at home -,

“There, drink thou this, my wife,’ said Cosma ~

“°oTis very bitter.”

. *>Pwill make thee sleep,”

“Am I not in my good mind, Leonato?””

“Ot course thou art, but sleep will be better for thee,” replied
Cosmo, crushing back a groan that was near ‘his lips.

A few minutes passed in silence, and then Cosmo glided from
the cottage. Dorina Castelletta, unconsciously the agent of her
daughter’s fate, was asleep, poor lady. Cosmo, with a deep
ge sudden presentiment of evil upon his soul, hurried into
the forest. .

The sun was still two hours high, and he followed the path,
hoping each instant to meet Vittoria on her return, ang wonder-
ing why a forebodement of peril to her was in his mind. ~

Since the rescue of the maiien no one, so far as he knew—but
of late he had not been very vigilant—had prowled near liis hum-
‘ble abode. He had gaot seen nor heard anything of the hated
Caracciolis since the atest one of them all had passed ta pomp
by his gate. Vittoria had not dared tell him of her conversation
with Lord Colonna, because she would haVe been foreed to.speak
of or in some way reveal her love tor him—a Caracqoli!l She
feared that Cosmo, so bitter in his hate of the name, might curse
herin his rage, were he to discover tha wore next to her
heart the love-pledge of a Caraccioli!

Yet, though she thus secretly loved Lord Colonna, she would
not ventnre to any place inthe forest where she imagined he
might be looking ior a chance to see ler. He bad said tarewell;
and yet the instinct of herlove told her he'would sometime try
toseeheragain. Indeed, it can not be denied that she chérished
asweet hope, scarcely known to herself, that he would try to
have speecii with her again.

Yet she had remained carefully within the cottage, as much as
her household duties permitted.

But on this day of which Iam writing, the entreaties of her
mother prevailed on her togo tothe tuuntain. The day was
serene, the hour not long after noon, and Vittoria set forth with
no fear that any peril was near, nor any justly Lounded hope that
she was to agaiu see Lord Colonna, $

To her it seemed an age since Ble had seen him. In her heart,
as she walked along the forest path, there was indeed the wish
but not the hope that he might be even then at the fountain. It
was absurd to imagine that Me was there; it would be dangerous
to her peace if he were there; there would be more to conceal
from tne father, who loved her so adoringly, and from whom she
had already concealed. s0 much; her return with the longed-tor
water to her sick and fever-parched mother would be delayed;
and yet, being deep in leve with the prince, Vittoria could not
deny in her heart that she longed to meet him at the fountain.

“Phere is nothing wrong in simply wishing to see him, when I
know I shall not see him!” she murmured, as she drew near the
end of the forest path at the fountain green.

When within twenty paces of the edge of the wood, she pro-
ceeded witha slow and cautious step, her eyes sparkling, her
cheeks glowing, her bosom heaving with an expectation of seeing
Lord Colonna, almost as eager as if in truth she were sure he was
seated on the stone bench, awaiting her. ;

“Sf he be there,” she mentally excluimed, “I will fly for home
like the wind.”?

And doubtless she would have done so had she seen the form of
the prince, or any sign ot his presence,

But the bench and all the grassy area before and around the
fountain were vacant,

“Ah me! and what a simpleton I was to imagine such a thing!
He said farewell-—ang that meant he was mever to see me, nor I
him again!” sighe@ Vittoria, as she advanced to the fountain.

She Hlled the vase, and placing it on the ground, sat down up-
on the stone bench, intending torest there but tor a moment.
Gliding her hand into her bosom she drew forth the ring, the rib-
bon to which it was attached being long enough to permit her to
gaze at the gift, and to press it to her lips without loosing the ring
trom the ribbon. ;

Unable in this leafy solitude to resist the swelling emotions
arising from that powerful passion which is the ruling sentiment
of her sex, Vittoria pressed the ring to her lips, and sunk into a
delicious reverie, coinposed of those airy and rosy day-dreams
which make up the chief charm of a first love.

It was while she was thus halt-unconscious of all her surround-
ings that she repeated aloud what she had already said in her
heart athousand times:

“Tlove thee, Colonna Caraccloli! And I will'ever love thee,
though the hate of my father forall of thy race and name must
make me hide my lovcin my most secret soul; and though never,
never must I hope to see theé again, [adore thee, my love, my
prince} And oh, but for this hatred of every Caraccioli, I could
have told thee that my birth was as noble as thine own! I love
thee, I adore thee!”

“And [love thee, Vittoria! sighed a voice at her side, and
the next instaat Colonna diCaraccioli was at her feet—yes, at her
feet, on his knees, his hands clasping hers, his eyes eloquent with
passion gazing into her own. ‘ ‘

“Oh Virgin Mother, save mel!’ ejaculated Vittoria, nearly
swooning ftom terror, delighf, surprise, joy’ and suame all mingi-
ed in one great biilow of overpowering eimetion which that in-
stant surged through and over her sout.

“Nay, fear no harm—no insult—no rudeness from me, dear
one!’ exclaimed the enamored prinee, forgetful of all his resolu-
tions—resolutions already broken by this his third yisit to the
fountain.

His love for the beautiful maiden of the forest had inereased in
its intensity, its resistless yearning to call her his own, from the
very hour that his eyes had first beheld her. Unable to conquer
his passion he had not returned to Naples with his father, but had
retired to the palace of his mother, the Princess Colonna Carac-
cioli, midway between Naples and Del Parso. As has been inti-
mated, it wus the desire of the Grand Constable, who saw with-
out jealousy the doting passion of the old queen for his legitimate
son, that Lord Colonna should pretend to return the love of Jo-
anna IL., and by resisting her as a lover lead her to offer Colonna
di Caraccioli her hand in marriage,

Prior to having seen Vittoria, Lord Colonna, free of heart and
accustomed to unresisting obedience to his father, had seconded
the ambitious desires of the Grand Constable, who, while feign-
ing to favor the succession of Renato of Anjou tothe throne of
Nuples, and to be eager only to defeat that of Alfonso or Sicily,
was plotting to make his own son King of Naples by trapping the
amorous old queen into a love-marriage.

Yet Lord Colonna, who know that the queen was madly infat-
uated with him, and therefore quite willing to yield her consent
were he to ask her wrinkled hand—her royal pride already wa-
vering whether to be asked or to —had always scorned him-
self, while he reluctantly obeyed the commands of his father.

For this reason he had asked leave to journey abroad for a
time, hoping that while absent the usually fickle queen might fix
upon a new opject of love. .

In a pet the queen had granted him his desire, and told him
never to snowhis face to heragain. But, as alreadygtold, her
fondness for his presence had returned, and hence herggrant to
ea of Del Parso, and her request that he shouidsreturn to

aples, .

The command of the Grand Constable had been added to the
request of the queen, and the young prince had reluctantly
obeyed, up to the time he met Vittoria. Having seen and loved
her, he now loathed the thought ot wedding an old and often
Shameless queen, whose character he had ever despised.

Therefore his secret withdrawal from the society of his father,
and his retirement to the palace of his mother, who for years
had refused to live in Naples, where the scandalous reports of
the intimacy of her husband and the queen were everin her

 

ars,

Wearying of the seclusion of his injured mother's home, and
hearing that his tather was about to send a force thither to com-
pel his return to the capital, Lord Colonna fled in disguise to
Atrani, and had been there but a few days when his increasing
passion for Vittoria led him to visit alone the spot where he had
rescued her from Lord Allfrasco,

And thus it was tifat destiny again, and for the fourth time,
brought about a meeting of the lovers.

“I love thee, Vittoria, and not to secure my salyation would I
gnarm thee, dear one,” was the very lover-like and very illogical
remark of the prince as he seated himself at her side—ior she

 

“Peasant or noble would [ not still be Vittoria di Sicardola?

peared ut my side—

“Ay, for time is as naught to billing and eooing lovers. An
hour is a minute tothem. But know that L Know thou speakest
the pret tor my eye was on the Caracciolt as he glided trom the
woo

“Nay, old man, I did notcome as a thief, interrupted the
prince, haughtily.

“Twill dothee the justice to say that thou didst appear both
amazed and ‘pleased to see Vittoria seated, and unconscious of
thy coming,” replied Cosmo. ‘And that I woncered shedid not
detect thy presence ere thou wast on thy knees at her feet. And

 

 

—mark the word—all that hath ever passed between ye 2"

“All, suave that Lord Colonna gave me this ring at the gate, and
that I have worn it near my heart ever since,” replied Vittoria,
her hand clinging to the ring as. it hung from her besom.,

“Aud that [robbed her of this vail, which hath been over my
heart till now,” said Lord Cojonna, showing the gauze, “Cosmo,
thou seest that we love each other h ‘

“Most unwillingly do I see that her heart hath become enven-
omed with a love fora Caraceioli!”
nan. “Give him the ring, Vittoria.’

“But, dear tather——”

“Give him back the ring—I command thee! By Heaven, girl,
Iwill drive a bolt througit him and thee if thou dost not obey!
Give him the ring—thou shalt not keep the gitt of a Caracciolil”

Vittoria, weeping, tore the rivg from its fastening and gave it
to the prince.

“Give her the vail, young man! Thank Heaven thou @idst not
have achance to rob her of her good name!” said Cosmo, sternly.

“ofwas but a mean bauble when I gave it to thee, Vittoria,’
whispered the prince, as he received the ring and slipped it upon
the end of his dagger-lilt, the only weapon with which he was
armed; “‘henceforth it is a most precious gem to me. It hath
slept in thy bosom, dear one—it shail sleep on mine now. :

“Toss me that gauze, Vittoria,” eommanded Cosmo, “or (how
wilt be wearing it, as he has carried it, for loye.of him.”

 

his hate of the Caracciol: name, set his heel upon the vail and
ground it Into the earth as he would have trampled upon the
head of a viper.

“Thou art still my daughter,” he said; “leave the Caracciati,
and kneel there near the vase, Thouart to take 4 solemn oath,
ar as I am thy father, thou shalt#ee the Carazccioli dead at thy

eet. .

As Cogmo spoke, he again le¥eled his deadly weapon at the
head of the prince. * '

(0 RE CONTINUED.)

> Oe~

ITEMS OF INTEREST,

4@- A shrewd thing was recently done by two Iadies of
Morristown, N. J. They purchased tickets for that plece at the
Morris and Essex depot in this city, presented thene to the bag-
gage master and requested him to have their trunks, seventeen in
number, checked. They were informed’ that the express office
Was the proper place m which to apply it they wiustied to take
their trunks with them, as eacit passenger was allowed but one
hundred pounds baggage. Inquiry at the latter place revealed
the fact that $125 was demanded for each trunk. Upen the
ladies remonstrating the expressman relented and u®eeed te
send the contraband goods for $1 each. But the tadies, remern-
bering thata passenger (and a trunk if he choose) is carried over
the road for ey cents, demurred even to this magnanimity,
and without further ado quietly walked to the ticket office ant
bought. fifteen tickets, Tuese they exhibited, and the baggage
official gave the ladies the checks which they sought. The resu
cf this financial maneuver is that the ladies referred to have fif-
teen tickets, only two being demanded of them by the 'conduc-
tor; asthey are good until used, according to stipulation, the
company may be compelled to transport fifteen passengers,
a asmany trunks, if necessary, {rom New York to Merris-

wn.

Aa It is stated in oficial dispatches concerning Hay-
den’s geological survey of the territories that the party starting
from Ogden, Utah, surveyed a route to Fort Hall, and there made
the ra tant preparatious for a pack train up the unknown re-
gion of the Upper Snake Valley. The range of the three Tetons
Was Carefully mapped and immense masses of snow and lakes of
ice were found on its side, They found the elevation tebe 13,858
feet above the sea, thus entitling it to rank among the monarch
peaks of the continent. Yetatthesummitot this peak there
were indications that human beings had made the ascent at some
period in the past. On the tops ot.the Grand Teton, and for 300
teet below, are great quantities of granite blocks or’slabs of dif-
ferent sizes. These biocks had been placed on end, forming a
breastwork about three feet high, inclosing a circular space six
or seven feetin diameter, and while on the surrounding rocks

 

 

 

closure is covered with a bed of minute particles of granite, not
larger than the grains of common sand, which must have been
worn off by ~— elements from the vertical bloeks until itis nearlTy
afootin depth. There wasevery appearance that these granite
slabs had been placed in hele presen sitjon by the Indians, ag
a protection from the wind may conthtics agé. ‘

<q- The Empress of Russia travels in her private train,
which 1a perpaps the mosf complete and luxurious in the world.
It consists of eight saloon carriages and offices, connected by
covered passages, and is divided into dining and drawing-rooms,
bedrooms, and kitchens, Thé dining-rooin has large, oval win-
dows, which give uninterrupted views over the country threugh:
which the train passes; the drawing-room is an elegant apart-
ment, ney furnished; and the bedrooms might be those of &
comtortable house. The beds are seemingly of the ordinary kind,
but.are in reality hammocks, which enable their occupants to
sleep without sustaining any annoyance from the vibration of
he train, Attached to the train are apartments for setvants, of
whom there are a great number, ranging from butlers to engine
drivers and porters. q

4@e- All the paper used to print the national eurrency
on is said to be made inthe Glen Mills, near Westchester, Pa.
The principal peculiarity is that short pieces of red silk thread
are mixed with the pulp, and this is poured on the wire cloth,
without going through a sieve, as this would retain the threads,
Next, from a separate contrivance, a shower ef short blue silk
thread fails in strips onthe paper while vhis is in the process of
formation. One side of the paper is covered with blue lines,
formed by the blue silk thread; and this is uged for the front of
the greenback, on which these threads are distinctly visible,
The value of this machine is to make a paper so peculiar as to be
practically impossible to imitate; and this is.one of the principal”
guarantees against forgery. This paper-making machine is night
and day under tbe charge of treasury employes.

4a~ A man living at the Hoosac Tunnel, Mass., recently
made a match with a girl employed at Rice's Hotel, and in com-
pany with six or eight of their friends they started fer a drive
over the Hoosac Mountain to North Adams, where they were to
be married. Joe was very happy; and Rosa, finding after they
had gone a mile or so that his joviality came from hard drink,
quietly prgpnes the team, got out, and deliberately walked back
to the hotel, where she doffed her wedding-gown, donned *her
calico, and went to work in the kitchen as it nothing had hap-
pened. Meantime Joe and his party had to drive on a mile fur-
ther to find a place in the narrow road where they could turn
round, aiter which they wound their lonely way back to the vil-
lage soberer men,

Sap In Germany the little members of the feathered
creation, generally so shy, are becoming familiar with noisy in-
dustries. Indeed, they begin to take rides upon the railroads.
pair of red-breasts recently made theit home, built their nest,
brooded and fed their young, under a grayvel-car, constantly ply-
ing between Duren and Capallen Gilverath. The little creatures
were reguiarly taken back and forth, and by this their range tor
food was considerably enlarged. A nest of wagtuils re-
cently left their nests, where they had been raised, under the
plate of a switch. Twenty-five regular trains, besides extra
trains, went daily back and forth over them, yet the shy little
family did not seem to be in the least disturbed.

hay Miss May Campbell, of Avondale, Ohio, a young
Jady of philanthropical disposition, anda fine amateur voealist,
recently visited the city ot: Pittsburgh, Pa., and during her stay
of three months went to the county jail = i, Sunday afternoon,
and conducted the musieal exercises, to the delight of the prison-
ers. Onhearing of her departure, tbe inmates of the prison
clubbed together and purchased a silver goblet, which they pre-
sented to her. The testimonial bears the following Inscription:
“Presented to Miss May Campbell, by those nnfortunates whose
sufferings she has alleviated by her inspiring semgs and unselfish
kindness—1873.” ‘ ‘

The odor of cedar is said to ve as persistent as the
cedar itself. Slivers taken from white cedar stumps, found
twelve feet under water at low tide, near the Narrows entrance
to New York harbor, had the odor of the newly wh wood, and
a plece not more than twice the size of one’s t perceptibly
scented a drawer for more than a year. :

aay The Shah, as a.result of his toand through Europe,
has given it out that he will declare and enforce, upon his return
to Persia, religious Hberty, and will guarantee, as a necessity in
the work of reform, he intends to inaugurate that all, whether
Turk, Jew, Christian, or Heathen, shall enjey hberty of con-

 

 

Was so weak from her emotion and excitement that cnly the

aclence and freedom of worship

 

 

 

 

distance the strenzth of my bow can drive its arrow through and ©

na di Caraccioli, old man,” replied the prince, with proud and ©
undaunted sternness, and supporting in his arms the weeping and ©

“Once in the grotto, as I told thee, father,” sobbed Wittoria in —

“Once here at the fountain, as thou knowest, when he came te |

 

 

do ye both swea¥ that such as ye have told me comprehends all —

exclaimed the bitter old

Vittoria dared not refuse, ard the aS old man, relentless in ©
x

there is not a particle of dust or sand, yet the bottom of this in--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

nae ete et

TO ADVERTISERS.

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~~

 

 

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UNIFORM WITH ‘BEAUTIFUL SNOW.”
A HANDSOME HOLIDAY BOOK.

The Young Magdalen;

AND OTHER POEMS.

By Francis $. Smith,

One of the Proprietors of the NEw YoR«K WEEKLY, and Author of
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“Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,”
-“The Sexton of Saxony,” ete,

THE YOUNG MAGDALEN; aNnp OTHER Poems. By Francis
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+,* “Phe Young Magdalen, and Other Poems,” is for sale by all
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*,* Copies ef either edition of “The Young Magdalen, and Other
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: STREET & SMITH,
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GREAT OFFERS FOR 1874.

 

 

 

 

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HERRINGS SARES

IN THE FIRE AT WELLSBORO’
AGAIN PROVE TRUE 10 THEIR TRUST,

WELLSBORG’, Penn., Oct. 25th, 1873.
Messrs. Herrings & Farrel, N. Y.:

Dear Sirs: On the morning of October 23d our
town witnessed the largest fire with which it has
ever been visited, consuming our large Hotel and
eleven business houses, destroying one whole
square. At my place, inthe middle of the block,
and hottest part of the fire, I had one of your Safes,
which proved true to its trust, preserving all my

 

 

books in good order. Next door was another make
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~~. Truly yours,
GEORGE HASTINGS,

’

 

 

/ ANOTHER.

WELLSBORO’, Penn., Oct. 25, 1873.
Herrings & Farrel:

Gentlemen: I was burned out on the morning of
the 23d inst. My books, papers, money, &c., were
in the **Herrings” Safe I purchased of you last year.
Everything was found in perfect order, and entirely
preserved, on its being opened. The building was
‘a large heavy frame one, and made a very hot fire.
The safe falling into the cellar ou top of a large pile
of burning coal.

Iam entirely satisfied with the Safe, as its con-
tents were all saved, my entire stock of goods being
burned. Yours, &e.,

EK. H. Hastines.

 

[MANUFACTURED AND SOLD BY

HERRINGS & FARREL,

*,
251 and 252 Broadway, cor. Murray St. N.Y
807 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa,
60 Sudbury Si., Bosion.

 

AG State St., Chicago, Nii.
wi Ot. 53 Camp St., New Orleans. _
é A DAY. Employment forall. Patent Noyelties.
bi w6-2t. CEO. FELTON, 119 Nassau St., N. iv:
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2 Particulars Free, A, U, BLAIR & CO., St. Louis, Mo.
w6 4.

 

\HORT-HAND.—150 words a minutoin4 weeks. Send
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w6-2t.

PiU Mets ANTIDOTE _discovered
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CURES WITHOUT PAIN. 2

Send stamp for treatise “On Opium-Eating and its Cure,” to
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VICK’S
| FESRAL GUIDE

For 1874.
200 S,500 ENGRAVINGS AND
PACES ORED PLATE.

Published Quarterly, at 23cents a year. First No. for
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Hy to $LOO invested in Wall street
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e LAUDIE, Ag’t., 11 Pine st. N.Y. w7-3t.
Tr. TAY LOR, IMPORTER OF FRENCH
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“GARDEN FLOWERS,” a packet of 12 beautiful Oil
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MILLER’S BABY SYRUP
and never yet failed in a single case. No mother should be with-
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An Elegant Holiday Present.

wrapper. Mailed for 50 cents by C, S. RILEY, Holland, N. Y.

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The ‘Heathen Chinee” Puzzle. ‘Two curious Shadow Pictures,

Te! q 7
MUSTACHE

 

Four Nrw STorris.—Will soon be commenced,
‘“TRACKLESS TERROR, THE UNKNOWN AVENGER; OR,
THE RANGER OF RED RIVER,” by Roy St. Leger, a new
contributor. Also, ‘tA DESIGNING WOMAN,” by “The
Peerless Author,’ and “THE RANGERS OF GOLD 8TREAM,”’
by Maurice Sillugsby :

 

SS

AFTER THE STORM,

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER,

oe

 

“Tt is not till the storm comes that we find out the real build-
ing and timber of the vessel,”’—Miss Mulch.
She has a trim and snowy sail,
And a golden fizure-head,
While up on high, like a living thing,
Floats her penson white and red.

*

Her anchor chains are free from rust,
Her timbers bright and new,

With a trusty captain at her helm,
And a noble, gallant crew!

She leaves the shore ’mid wild huzzas,
With grace the main she rides;

But ah! the wind is fair to-day,
And the sunbeams gild her sides?

Another dawn and the storm comes on,
The lightnings rend the air;

Night eomes—oh, where is the graceful ship ?
And echo answers ‘‘W here ?””

Like many another, fair outside,
She could not bear the shock,

Her poor, frail timbers scattered lie
About the hidden rock!

But yonder sails a stately ship
That dazzles not the eye,

Whose strong, though battered hall, still braves
The tempests from the sky!

Behind her masts, like liquid fire,
The westera sun shines bright,
The storm is over, and she’ll gain

Her wonted haven to-night.

So may it be with our good ship
Outside the harbor gate—

After the storm, may fair winds guide
Her safe, our Ship of State!

A Day.Too Late;

OR, THE
HEIR OF GREYBURN.
By Carrie Conklin.

(‘A Day Too Late” was commenced in No.1. Back numbers
can be obtained of any News Agent in the United States.)

CHAPTER XVI.
FERDINAND'S NURSE.

Kate stayed in London, and gave her receptions during
the summer months, defying precept and fashion with the
recklessness that was in its way a charm; but by this
time she was better known, and society took a more re-
spectful tone when speaking of her. The men were en-
thusiastic about her daring and originality, her ready
wit, dauntless spirit, and extravagance; but mention of
her name at the clubs was neyer accompanied by that
ugly leer which links some old men with satyrs, or the in-
expressive, insoient smile with which languid young
gentlemen are apt to tell. a lie or sully a reputation.

‘The Mesgrevi is out of your world,’’ Captain Tremaine
told his sister, when Beatrice questioned him; “and I
don’t think she would come into it if she were asked. She
does most things after a style of herown, and is, perhaps,
a little too original. There is rather more verve and go
about her than we are used to; but for the rest she is sans
reproche.”? : {

Miss Tremaine lieard the same in substance from Alfred
Cleveland, and was curious enough to wish for an intro-
duction. The Guardsman had informed her that Alired
was a sort of guardian to the prima donna.

“And I should so muchlike to see her—at home, you
know, » People say these persons are so different off the
stage.’

“* ‘These persons’ are, very much like other persons,”’
said Mr. Cleveland, a littie gravely, ‘‘except that they
work harder for a jivelihood than youug Jadies of your
degree would care todo. These persons are, as a rule,
true and faithful women, deserving of our fullest respect
and sympathy. When I tell you Madame Mesgrevi is
one of whem [I should be proud as a wife or sister, I wish
you to understand she is by no means exceptional in her
profession.’?

‘Dear met I thought they were quite unapproach-
able people—impossible to look at even, exceptirom the
stalls.’

“A mistake which they are much too self-reliant to care
to correct. And, then, you must remember they have lit-
tle time te spare. They form friendships in their own set,
where they get appreciation and sympathy.”?

Miss Tremaine listened to this with a pretty air of hu-
mility, and a look which promised to thiuk better things
in future of those she had heardg termed ‘‘stage people.”?

“Society is not very grateful or complimentary to

the genius that Apres to {fs intellect, or the beauty
Mavs _ravities its Nt,” Mir Mieverand aaded. True
reverence for art and genius ng almost exclusively to
the people.” ;

“Let me be penitent, and take. me to see her,” said
Beatrice. “I never went behind the scenes, or saw
any of these people off the stage, and I should like to so
much.’

Mr. Cleveland promised to take her some day. He had
to obtain Kate’s consent first, and he was not sure of it.
Kate did not care for acquaiantances of her own sex out
of her own sphere. :

“If she receives you, you will have to receive her in
return,’’? said Alfredy ‘‘and it may be as well to con-
sider that beforehand. Sire is a very independent lady,
I assure you, and would not give aninch of ground to a
duchess,’? i

“Ts there not some mystery about her?’

“Not that lam aware of,’ was the perfectly truthful
reply, forhe Knew her history thoroughly. ‘Rumor is
sure to be busy concerning &@ Woman whose beauty and
genius are above the average. No, thereis no mystery
about Madame Mesgrevi; and if there were I should not
care to question her.’ *

He did not question her again. He knew she was hiding
something from him, for, though he never saw that pain-
ed expression which had made him curious, he knew by
instinct the pain was in her heart. He set it down to Mr.
Aylmer’s lengthened absence. The suspicion that she had
inet Musgrave had quite gone from his mind.

Kate often longed to tell him the truth, but was re-
strained by a singular feeling of pride. Little as the vis-
count deserved at her hands, she remembered her promise
to him. ; °

But that promise held her fettered to a dreary future.
Love—the intense and passionate love of a husband—was
the stroug need of her nature—some one to cling to and
worship always with a sense of possession—a knowledge
that he belonged to her entirely, and only toher. Some-
times she looked forward with almost reckless impatience
to the waste of years before her.

There is a turning-point in the life of every slighted or
neglected woman—a grave and perilous moment, when
passion and disappointment are balanced against judg-
ment and reflection—a moment when, thinking of what
might or should have been, the heart rises. against its
bondage, and the tempted foot half takes its first step in
the pleasant, treacherous road to sin,

That time hadcome to Kate. As a simple truth, she
could not live without love, and Edward Musgrave had
gone from liis place in hier heart. Nothing that he might
have done could have brought the old times back. It was
enough that he had belonged to another.

But there was not one in all the crowd of men whom she
receiyed—princes, statesmen, and representatives of every
art that makes the beauty of the world—who had an atom
of power totempt her—not one whom she would have
married, bad she been free. There was not one of all
these! Her dreams were always now ofa man with a
quiet footstep and a gentle face, who visited her when
she was poor and thin, hollow-eyed, sick and weary of
soul, in the llttle lodging at Lock’s-fields. 4

He had not changed since. Just ashe was thoughtful
and protective then, when he sat by her bedside, and read
to her, because she was too feeble to hold a book, when he
thought her simpty @ poor girl who needed help, so was
he thoughtful and. protective now, glad of the change in
her fortunes, fond of her in a tranquil way—a very tran-
quil way,

It was unlikely that Mr. Cleveland would eyer know of
this love of hers for him—this love that stole, allunknown
to hew, into the place left vacant when she turned from
Edward Musgrave after the farewell which, quiet as it
Was, meant eternal separation. Except that she was
richer—had power to earn the large sums of money which
came to her, sweetened by the incense laid at her feet—
she was to him as lonely and as unprotected as when he
found her at the Wrens. Uappily for the woman who
might be tempted, the only one who could tempt her is
generally quite unconscious ofhis power. In this case,
had Alfred knownhis power, he would rather have lefé
her sigut forever than spoken one tender word.

She had made a sacrifice for the sake of her first love;
but it was not a willing sacrifice. In the beginning of her
disappointment, she could have said with the proverb
‘call men are liars,’’ and believed it possible to live with-
out trusting or caring for another; but as Musgrave’s
image faded from her heart, she felt that sweet or bitter
need of being loved—the mysterious iustinet which makes
man her master, whether it is her blessing or her curse.

“} told him Ishould hold myself bound to him by no
tie,’? she said to herself, ‘and Ico not; but, still, the past
remains, and for my own sake, as well as Ferdinand’s,
I ought to have insisted on a divorce. What a mockery
the word seems, after the holy ceremony which forbids
man to put asunder those who are joined together by the
ordinanee of Heaven,’? . 9

There was her life before her—its dreary waste of years,
its unloved future; and she so young, passionate, and
veautiful. For the sake of her boy, Kate prayed some-
times that she might not break down inthe long struggle.
Then, when even prayer seemed weak, and there came
the fear of failure, she would take Ferdinand to her arms
and say:

“My child would not reproach me. When he is old
enough to judge, he would know the sin was not mine,’?

The little fellow never. knew how much, im those times
of trial, his mother owed to him for her salvation. Her
most reckless thoughts would die under his innocent
words. He was her only idol.

He was the idol, too, of Emma Wren,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To use her own

 

 

 

 

= oor e ers see a earmc fatn e eaae nam

 

1 expression, she doted upon him, and gave him rather
more nursing than he cared for, being a wilful young gen-
tiemap, with a predilection for the tree use of his limbs,
only @qualed by his Capacity for getting into mischief. He
looked upon knives and forks as legitimate toys, and had
marvellous facility in climbing to apparently inaccess-
ibie places, which Kept his watchful nurse in a Constant
state of terror.

Kate had studied her boy’s interest when choosing her
house. It was within easy access of the park, and there
he spent some few hours daily during the summer months,
He was safe with Emma. His mother would have trusted
him with no one else. The girl had few faults.. She was
careful and truthfal, and she was proud beyond her
station; but Kate was not aware of it. The tailor’s daugh-
ter was pretty, grateful, and devoted, and Kate made
her more a companion and friend than a servant or nurse.

The girl had no followers. She was above the allure-
ments of long-legged guardsmen, or their mortal enemies
the soleinn constables of the Regent’s Park division. The
grocer, a gentlemanly young fellow, with a growing busi-
ness, called in person for orders, and looked'tenderly at
Emma while taking down the items; but Emma had a
soul above a grocer, Her ambition had not diminished
since she turned the poetic shoemaker of Lock’s-fields into
a rabid republican, and caused the barber to contemplate
his razors wilh a gloomy eye. ’

“Gentlemen do fall in love with poor girls,’’? Miss Wren
said to herself, ‘‘when they are intelligent and pretty;
and there’s a great many not better off than I am in those
respects.’

That dangerous opinion became more fixed after a
time. In the shady walks ofthe park, under the fine old
trees, where she could fiud shelter from the sun for her
precious charge, she was often noticed by a gentleman—
areal gentleman, as she kuew by the indefinable air of
easy self-possession which was common to the visiiors at
the house of her mistress. He was singularly handsome,
and very dark , with soft, sleepy eyes, and a cruelly-beauti-
ful mouth. She only saw its beauty, and the grace of his
compact, powerful figure.

He was there day after day, generallyat the same hour,
smoking a cigar, and watching the children at play like
aman to whomthe happiness of little ones was a pleasant
thing to look upon. Master Ferdinand in particular at-
tracted his attention.

Mr. Paul Greville had failedin his endeavors to be placeu
on Kate's list of visitors; but he was not to be turned
from his purpose by that failure. After what he heard
from Mr. Brinsiey, he talked with his Cousin Isabel about
Edward's former days, and the life he led @hile in India.
She told him the story with sympathetic frankness. How
Edward married within & month of setting sail for Bng-
land, and Jost his bride when the Clio went down. She
showed him Kate’s miniature, which she kept, with a
kindness that knew no jealousy, in the private drawer of
her own cabinet,

“And Edward was very fond of her, I suppose?” Paul
had said, gazing at the now well-known features.

“Very,’’ was the innocent reply. ‘‘He loved her almost
as muchas helovesme. He has often told me s0; and 50
I know he must Nave been very fond of her.”

Paul returned the miniature in grave silence. Isabel
knew nothing, andit was evidently not the viscount’s in-
tention that she should know anything. It did not at
present suit Mr. Greville’s purpose to enlighten her. He
was satisfied at a great saving of trouble. Here was proof
of his cousin’s- first marriage—proof that from Isabel and
her child he had nothing to fear. The real and only dan-
ger Jay with Kate—Madame Katrine Mesgrevi—and her
handsome little boy,

“They haveseen each other, and come to some arrange-
ment’? he meditated. “This is the secret ofher splendid
house,‘and her extravagance. I knew it could notall be
done out of her profession, though she makes a consider-
able income. The viscountis ‘as lovesick as 2 lad oftwen-
ty over isabel, and he has made it worth theMesgrevi'’s
consideration to Jet her remain undisturbed, and avoid a
public expose. I think on reflection, nothing could have
suited me better.”

From the time .le made that discovery, Mr. Greyille
haunted the park, making sure beforehand of the identity
of Ferdinand’s nurse. He was glad when he saw that she
was pretty, and dressed beyond her position.

“Easy to manage,” he thought, as he watched Miss
Wren, while smoking his cigar; ‘‘pretty, too, in her way,
“and not likely to be extravagant, ifit must come to that.
The modern Eve doesnot care much for apples. <A case
of diamonds, and a not very expensive dress or two.”?

He angled very carefully for his opportunity. After a
few days there were signs and tokens by which he knew
Emma Wren had begun tonotice him. Inhersimple way,
she was a fair representative of her more highly-trained
sisterhood, conscious of his silent attention while playing
atunconsciousness. He angled for his opportunity, and
it soon came,

Master Ferdinand had a ball—a_harlequin-colored,
buoyant globe of India rubber—as hollow and nearly as
large as a toy balloon. When once set going, it had a
habit of rolling rapidly out of the child’s reach, and once
when he propelled it toward Mr. Greville, that gentleman
picked it up, and restored it. ; ;

“A yery handsome little fellow,’’ Greville said, lifting
his hat, as Emma thanked him for his kindness with an
involuntary courtesy. ‘’Your own, may I ask?” :

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Your little brother, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, sir. Iamonly his—a friend of hismamma’s.””

The silly girl ha@ not courage to tell this fascinating
\aentienan that she was simply his narse—for, apart from
Kate’s kindness to her, she was nething more.

“A very humble friend,” she added, her honest nature
breaking through with an effort, ‘for sheis a rich lady;
but I am his godmother.”

That she threw in as a claim to some sort of equality
with the rich lady, and watched its effect on Mr. Greville.
He did not seem surprised or impressed.

‘If he is as fortunate in a godfather,’ he said, ‘his tem-
poral as well as his spiritual welfare will be well cared
for.’

“His godfather is a very rich gentleman, and a very
kind one, too,’”? said Emma, findings herself strolling un-
consciously by the side of the stranger, with the cliild be-
tween them. :

“Indeed! Ihope you gave this little one a pretty name.”

“Perdinand, after his grandpa; Alymer, after his god-
father. His surname is Musgraye.”’

“Ferdinand Aylmer Musgrave,’’ repeated Mr. Greville,
thinking with a cruel smile, of another tiny fellow, whose
names were very similar; ‘it sounds very pretty, and
quite distinguished. But have they left your name out
allogether.”’

“How could they help it, sir? They could not call him
Emma, or Wren.”

“IT don’t know. They might have called him Ferdinand
Aylmer Wren Musgrave. Emma Wren! There are few
names prettier or simpler. A friend of mine hasatheory
that certain names seems to be identified with certain
faces, and I believe it. Had I been asked to guess yours,
I should have said it was Emuna.”?

“Why ??

“Because it is simple and pretty. Like you,’’ he added,
to himself. ‘Are you often here, Miss Wren?”

“Bvety day.’?

“This is just about the time I choose for my afternoon
cigar,’’ he said, ‘and this is a favorite walk of mine. I
may have the pleasure of meeting you again.”’

Emma dropped her eyes, and her face kindled under the
momentary tenderness he tlirew into his glance. Shedid
not see his half-contemptuous, pitying smile. He lifted
the boy up and kissed him, though a strong shudder
ran through him as he touchedthe velvet cheek. Hegave
his delicately-gloved hand silently to the girl, and she took
it with a timid blush. Sucha graceful gentleman as this
had never treated her with so much courtesy before,

_ “And that is the heir of Greyburn,’’ he pondered, as he
went toward the gates of the park; ‘‘asturdy little fellow,
with the promise of a century of lifein him. It was said
of the pagan deities that those whom they loved died
early. Ifi were a pagan deity, my affection for that little
lad should spare him much sorrow in this vale of tears.”’

CHAPTER XVII.
ROBERT WREN’S COMPANION.

Emma did not tell her mistress of her meeting with the
gentlemen in Regent’s Park—a_ half-consciousness of
danger, a guilty pleasure in the thought of seeing him
again, held her silent on that point.

The girl had changed since she left the atmosphere of
Lock’s-fieldg. Constant intercourse with Kate had refined
her instincts, and purified the somewhat faulty grammar
in which she was wont to snub the presumptuous young
men of that vicinity. She went home regularly every
Sunday, for a few hours, in spite of the neighbors who
waiched her from the garden gates.and open doorways,
with palpably envious sneers at her’silk dress, her pretty
bonnet, and her military heeled boots. She went home
every Sunday, and was never empty handed. An ounce
of her father’s favorite mixture for his snuff-box, half-a-
pound of tobacco for the brown stone jar—her brother
Robert and her father’s mutual.store—biscuit powder for
the baby, a packet of tea for mother, and a bag of oranges,
nuts, aud apples for the intermediate supply of brothers
and sisters, yhom nature, with such mistaken generosity,
invariably gives to the poor.

There was always a pleasure in this journey. It was
pleasant to see the gladness she brought, to know how
much the thought of her arrival had to do with the happy

‘

cleanliness of everything. The annals of the poor are
made up of such simple trifles, they gather and store up
inuch joy from a little affection, alittle outlay, and a little
trouble.

When Emma went home on the Sudday after that-meet-
ing in the park, there was an addition lo the family.circie,
a young man jin whom an experieuced eye would have
seen the highest type of the intelligent working man, and
something more. His manners were good, his figure
strong and not ungraceful, the face, with its square, well-
balanced forehead, steady, deep set eyes, Wide nostrils, and
determined mouth, worth studying.

“Bill Meredith,’ said Robert, ‘‘ias just dropped in, in
a friendly way. He was a good fellow to me when I was
out of work last winter, and I knowed you would be glad
to see him.’’ : ,

Boma gave Mr. Meredith her hand with a pretty imi-
tation of good breeding, which made good Mrs. Wren
look at her husband with delight. Mr. Meredith, with an
honesty which stood in place of etiquette, told her he had
often thought he should like the pleasure of seeing ler,
and was sure of it now.

“There,?? said little Mrs. Wren, “that’s just his ways,
dear, Tommy, you naughty boy, take your fingers from
your sister’s dress, don’t you see it’s 2 beautiful silk, fit for
a carriage, and you've been eating Sugar-sticks, Samuel,
do speak to that tiresome Henry, he’s stretching iis
mouth again, making such a fright of himself, Meggy,
pick up the baby’s sock out of the fender,

 

faces, the bright tea table, and the general tidiness ana |

‘ Wherever | cerning CITRIC ACID,
have I put the lid of the tea-kettle? I uever knew sucll | but good,

 

‘

 

 

children in my life—what with so many Of them and the
room so small. Oh? here itis.?

Poor little Mrs. Wren was alwaysin that state of be-
wilderment. Emma had not noticed it years ago when it
was part of her everyday life, but it grew irksome since
‘she had been used to a well-ordered household. She
quieted the tumult with a gentle ‘Do be quiet, mother,
piease,’’ sent the intermediates into the next room with
their nuts and oranges, put her bonnet and mantle on ker
father’s work board, and busied herself inthe preparation
of tea.

Emma spent her evening pleasantly, but she was very
glad this was her lotno longer. She found the fewehours
once a week quite as much asshecouklendnre. Notfrom
any want of affection; but as Jong asshe could remember,
her mother had always been in » muddle. The serious
evil that lay at the root of it was that Mrs. Wren, in com-
mon with ninety out of a hundred who marry poor mex,
was a wasteful cook, an incompetent housekeeper, had fo
system of management, aud was cursed with a ceaseless
tongue. f

Pieased as Emma was to pay her visit, she was always
glad to getaway. Kate was hberal to her, and most of
her money went to her family. Just now they had more
than she could really spare, for her brother Robert had no
work. There was a strike in his trade, and trades-unions
were not in strong, smooth werking order then. The
mastérs hn@ locked them cut. To capitalit meantsimply
a standstill: to Mibor, starvation.

3 FO BE OONTINUED.]

OUR KNOWLEDGE Box.

A Few Paragraphs Worth Remembering.

 

kG We take pleasure in responding to every question addressed
to us in this cohimn, for the answers generally afford information
not only to the paises especially seeking at, but also to the mass
of our readers ; with the increase of our circulation haS grown
the number of questions soliciting answers by mail. These ques-
tions are almost uniformly important ones, costing, to satisfacto-
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sous in future wishing their queries replied te by mail, will please
inclose 50 cents to defray the expenses necessarily incurred.

 

QUESTIONS ANSWERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
Friend of the New York Weekly.—No..... Robosco.—1. The gold
fish will cost 75 cents, and the can to ship them in $125. 2. The
aquaria cement will cost 50 cents per pound, 3. To MAKE AN
AQUARIUM.—Cut a narrow groove in a board the size you wish;
set four pieces of glass on edge'in the grooves; put a piece of
zine in the bottom; on the boards,make a ight frame the size of
the top, with grooves; pass a small rod through the frame down
the insides the corners, through the bottom, and screw up
tight. Put cement in all the corners, and you will have an aqua-
rium at little cost. To make the cement, take one part, by meas-
ure, of litharge, one part plaster of Puris, one part fine beach
sand, one-third part fine powdered resin. Mix all together.
This may be kept for years, while dry, in a well-corked bottle;
when used, makeitina putty with boiled Munseed oil; a little
patent dryer may beused. It will stand either fresh or salt
water.....’. A Constant Reader, P. S.—1. We do not like to’ give
recipes in the NEw YORK WEEKLY tor anything that may inf&x-
icate. 2. We charge 50 cents for answering a letter by mail......
Nimrod.—For PERCUSSION PELLETS, etc., see No. 52 of .yolume

partof nitric acid to five parts of water. With this moisten a
piece of sponge or cloth and apply to the gun barrel. Repeat the
operation several times; then wash with water,
rub with boiled linseed oil. The shade deepens according to the
number of times the operafion is repeated. 2. To what do you
refer? 3 TO TRANSFER PICTURES, etc., see No. 19 of volume 28.
4and5. Noreliable recipes. 6, To GILD PICTURE FRAMES, ETC.—
The surface to be gilde-i must be carefully covered wilh a strong
size, made by boiling down pieces of white leather or clippings of
parchment, till they are reduced to stiff jelly. . This coating being
dried, more size must be applied, the size being mixed witha
small quantity of whiting. The last coa.ing is composed of size
and massicot, or sometimes yellow echre. Let it dry thorough-
ly, and then dampen the surface a Jittle ata time with a damp
sponge, and apply the gold Jeaf before this dries. It will imme-
diately adhere, aud when dry those parts which are to be bril-
lant are to be burnished with an agate or dog’s tooth burnisher.
7. No recipe...... Igmar.—aA Jitde sulphur aud water will remove
dandruff. Wash off with clean water........ J. P. L.—To remove
TAN and ordinary FRECKLES use fresh lemon juice and glycerine.
Freckles of long standing are very difficult to get rid of. If the
first recipe fails, apply powdered niter. Rub it on the faee with
a soft rag, slightly moistened with glycerine........ Alice,—To re-
move MILDEW use hot chlorine water...... C. H. F. W.—To CLEAN
PLATE GLA&8, MIRRORS, ETO.—Take part of a newspaper, fold it
small, dipitina basin of clean cold water, and when it 1s thor-
oughly wet squeeze it out as a sponge, and then rubit hard over
the face of the glass, taking-cure that itis not so wet as to run
down M streams, After the glass has been well rubbed with the
wet paper letitrestafew minutes, and then go over it with a
fresh dry newspaper till it looks clean and bright, which it will
do almost immediately...... C. H. B.—To REPAIR IxpIA-RUBBER
SHoxs.—A solution of caoutchouc or yirgin India-rubber, for re-
pairtog India-rabber shoes, is prepared in the following manner:
Cut 2 pounds of the rubber into thin, smaU slices; put them ina
vessel of tinned sheet-irdn, and pour over 12 to 14 pounds of sul-
phide of carbon. For the promotion of soation, place the vessel
a nen containing water previously heated up to about 86

eg. Fahr.
will thicken very soon, and thus render the application difficult,
if not impossible, In order totprevent this thickening and diffi-
culty, a solution of rubber and resin (colophony) in spirits of tur-
pentine must be added tothe solution of rubber in sulphide of
carbon, and in such quantity thatthe mixture obtains the con-
sistency of athin paste. The solution of rubber and resin in
spirits of turpentine should be prepared astollows: Cut one
pound of rubber into thin, small slices; beat them in a suitable
vessel over a moderate coal fire, until the rubber becomes fluid;
then add half a pound powdered resin, and melt both materials
at a moderate heat. When these materials are perfeetly fuid,
then gradually add three or four pounds ef spirits of turpentine
in small portions, and stir well. By the addition of the last solu-
tion, the rapid thickening and Daren of the compound will
be prevented, and a mixture obtained fully answering the pur-
poses of gluing fe " rv purfaces. i... K.P,

AKE WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE.—A correspondent recently sent
us the following recipe, which, he says, is “the genuine: Port
wine and mushroom ¢atsup, of each one quart; old ale and strong
vinegar, of each half pint; walnut pickle, one pint; soy, half pint;

unded anchovies, half pound; fresh mon peel, minced, shal-

ots and scraped horse-radish, of each twoounces, Allspiee and
black pepper (bruised,) of each half ounce; curry powder, three-
quarter ounce. Digest fourteen days, strain and bottle...... B.
B.—ToO CLEAN OIL-PAINTED SURFACES.—Take a piece of seft flan-
nel, putitin warm water, and squeeze it tillit feels dry; next
soe gently into some very finely pulverized French chalk, and
rub the painted surface with the flannel; the effect will be the
remoyal of all dust, greasy matter and dirt; the surface is next
washed with a clean sponge and water, and dried with a piece of
soft, wash-leather. This method does not injure like soap, and

produces a very good result...... X, D.—In No. 27, of yolume 28,
you will find recipes for various inks...... J, H. Crask.—VARNISH

FOR VIOLINS.—Gum sandarac, four ounces;. seedlac, two ounces;
mastic, Benjamin, in tears, €aeh one ounce; pounded glass, four
ounces, Venice turpentine, two ounces; pure alchohol, thirty-
two ounces...... Glossy.—Gum-arabic is mixéd with the starch
to make the shirt bosoms “glossy.”......Anm Ola Subdscriber.—
Wash your head in bay-rum, and then apply castor oil and bran-
dy. The first will cleanse the hair, the latter promote its growth.
Repeat the operation twice a week. The proportions of the lat-
ter are, one-third oil, two-thirds brandy...... Astoria.—l. FLEAS
ON CATS AND DoGs.—Dip them in a decoction of pennyroyal ouce
a week. If the herb cannot be obtained, use the ofl. Saturate a
ribbon with it and tie itround the neck. Renew once a week
till the pests disappear. 2. We cannot tell you........ Wrestling
Joe.—We know of nothing that will “prevent the growth
of hair on the face.’...... “Old Nebraska” and Painter G.—1.
Squeeze out the blackheads, and rub a little toilet magnesia over
the sore spots; also bathe your face occasionally in aleolol or
good cologne water, Live temperately, avoiding rich, very salt,
or greasy food of any kind. 2. Castor viland brandy will help
your whiskers. Apply alitile at a time, 3. We know nothing
concerning the ‘“‘stuff’ referred to...... H. Van L.—1, Rub your
face night and morning with good cologne water. If the black-
heads continue to appear, squeeze them out and apply toilet
magnesia to the sore places. 2and 3. We cannottell you........
A, C. G.—Put alittle borax in your hair oil. If your hair is in-
clined to curl it will help it...... Fred.—Castor oil and brandy
will promote the growth of: the hair...... Sweet Toofh, Printer,
Corn Husker, Michigander, A. J. Johnson, C. W., L. R., Detroit,

.W.F, B , G. W. P., Constant Reader, John D,, Cinderella,
S.N., Jim, Sol Slocum, Constant Reader, D.C., Clem Grey, N.
M.—Your ‘letters haye been received, and will be answered as
6000. as possible,

Wedical Department.

Distress, Boston.—The action of the kidneys is sometimes les-
sened by washing the skin all over with cool water and rubbing
thoroughly dry with a coarse towel. A high authority says that
when the complaint proceeds from debility or relaxation of the
neck of the bladder, the compound infusion of trailing arbutus
may be used freely. The plant named has given relief in some
cases when the uva ursi and buchu have failed. Any druggist,
we presume, will supply you with the arbutusin liquid form,
Take a spoonful in a wineglassful of water three times a day,
about an hour after each meal. Avoil rich or salt and greasy
food. Vichy water is generally recommended by physicians for
persons suffering from any disease of the kidneys, but these
drinking it should not take too much of it. i
notion that if a little is good a great deal more is better; but this
idea has done much harm. Athbirdef an ordinary tumbler is
paowee for any eh. water drinker to take atatime. We have
heard of persons being cured of ordinary kidney complaints by
taking a third of a bottle of Saratoga water before breakfast, and
the remaining two-thirds at noon and at bed time—four or five
bottles effecting a complete cure, - Seltzer water is also recom-
mended in simifar cases, but it is not as efficacious as Vichy or
any other Saratoga Spring water. Fountain soda-water—so
called—or, in other words, earbolic acid gas—drank three or four
times a day, May prove of benefit to you. We have heard of an
ordinary bladder trouble cured by this simple remedy.

W. D. J. J.—1. A good physician or surgeon should be con-
sulted. 2. Bathe your eyes in salt water night and morning.

Guy Judson.—The highly spiced food towhich we particularly
referred is that_ which comes on the table nghly seasoned with
pepper, mustard, etc. Thesmall quantity of spice in the article
reterred to will not hurt you. Rice pudding is very wholesome.
The other articles named will not injure you if taken in the mid-
dle of the day.

Nellie Green.— Avoid reading by gaslight, and bathe your eyes
night and morning in a weak solution of salt and water.

Frank McC.—See No. 51 or £6 of volume.28. “We charge 50 cents
for answering letters by mail.

Horse Jockey.—Yours is too serious a case for ordinary treat-
ment. Consult a regular practitioner.

White Vulture.—Follow the advice given to “Lionel,” in No. 47
of volume 28. It is the best we can give you.

Dick and Campaspe.—Confer with a regular doctor. By exam-
ining it he will be able to tell you what to do for it.

Bul Williams.—Marsh-mallow root willhelp your throat. Boil
it till it gets sirupy, and take a tablespoontul of it occasionally
during the day, and at night just before you retire, 2. Cocoanut
is hard to digest. If you are at all dyspeptic let it alone.

J. U, A—l. See No, 4. 2. We know uothing of the Association.

Jeroldine.—l, It isnot necessary to use the sitz-bathif you
employ the sponge freely nightand *morning. 2. Cool water is
the best for you. Rub yourself into a glow every time you take
the sponge bath. 3. You will find ea bark very good asa
tonic. Druggists have it already prepared.

Anxious Rv former.—Go to a good family doctor,

C. 0. D. No. 1.—1. Engage in séme active employment.
3. See No. 51 of volume 28, in reply to “A Sufferer,”

Foggy.—Avold all acidsin eating and drinking, Keep your
feet warm, and oteasionally bathe your face in tepid water.

Harry Hart.—We cannot aid you,

Suspension.—Consult a good doctor. Recipes forsuch cases are
varied according to the form of the disease.

Frank, Boston, Mass.—You may take the buchuif you please,
but do not give up the cold water bathing.

Constant Reader, H. O. D., and Penitence,—Only a regular prac-
titioner can be of service to you,

Inquisitive.—Apply camphor ice,

0. &, 8.—We know of no sure preventive.

L. L. W.—We know nothing coneerning him.

Rosa Lee and Martha D.—Consult and confide in your own fam-
ily physicians.

A Friend in Necd.—We know nothing of the person or the in-
stitution named,

Sea-Cat, A Good Boy, D. W., 8. W.Z., Recluse, Old Hurricane,
Paul Jones, E. Drudge, Well-Wisher, A Constant Reader, Jersey
Blue, W. W.S., Jonnie Raw, Miserable but Repentant, R B.S.
C. B., M. M. M., Michigan.—Your letters hive been received, and
will be answered as soon as possible,

R. 0. R.—In No. 49 of Vel. 28 you will find ail you wish con-

2.. Yes,

Th

 

BWP isi H. H.and L. 0. D.—1. Yo Bronze GUN BARRELS.—One °

Dry, and then.-

The solution will take place promptly, but the fiuid .

Some act upon the

AlsO'a remedy tor STAMMERING—simple .

 

 

 

 

 
 

peel afi, il

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~

NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22, 1873.

 

eee

 

 

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i
The Atrocities of the Cuban War.

There is no milder word than ‘‘devilish”? which will
serve Lo Characterize the spirit in which the Spanish au-
thorities have from the very beginning carried on the war
against the insurgents in Cuba. The atrocities that have
been perpetrated against prisoners—not in the heat of
battle, but with cool deliberation, after they were dis-
armed and helpless—can find no parallels in modern civil-
ized warfare, and they are a disgrace to the Spanish
name. Wholesale military executions of prisoners, tor-
ture, mutilation, and confiscation of the property of al-
leged sympathizers, have been frequent. A remorseless,
bloody reign of terror has been inaugurated, under which
the expression of opposition -to these infamous acts of
cruelty has become a crime, and the avowal of sentiments
of ordinary humanity a peril. They who donot loudly
and fiercely indorse all the atrocities of the government
are denounced not merely as lukewarm, but as disloyal,
and are themselves put in jeopardy. To go over the long
catalogue of enormilies that have characterized this
struggle is a sickening task, and one rises from the peru-
sal of the horrible record with loathing and hatred of the
monsters in human form who could be guilty in cool
blood of cruelties so fearful. The spectacle which Cuba
has presented for years is shameful to humanity. It has
nut been a mere outburst of vengeful feeling, a spasm of
ferocity, but a continuous scene of demoniacal malignity.
It has now lasted so long that its worst features seem to
have grown chronic, and it is time that civilized nations
shouid interpose and put an end toit. The Spanish gov-
ernment have enjoyed ample opportunity to put down
their insurgents, yet with all the terrorism they have em-
ployed, the work seems as far from being accomplished as
ever. In the name of civilization, in the name of human-
ity,in the name of Christianity, let the slaughter cease.
The time has come when the intervention of the Euro-
pean powers and of the United States to stop the work of
useless butchery would be justified by the law of nations;
and there is no law, human or divine, natural or revealed,
to forbid such intervention. If neither England, nor Ger-

many, nor France ,will move inthe matter, let our own
government take the initiative. The recent execution of
the Virginius prisoners, and the massacre of the eighty
prisoners taken at Puerto Principe, should be considered
the final drops that Cause the cup torun over. We trust
that the daily press will agitate the question in sucha
maunert that Congress will feel constrained to give it se-
rious and prompt attention. :

The Young Magdalen.

By reference to an advertisement elsewhere It will be
seen that T. B. Peterson & Bros., of Philadelphia, have
issued a beautiful volume, uniform with “Beautiful
Snow,” entitled ‘‘The Young Madalen and other Poems,’
The work, asthe reader will perceive, is by Francis S.
Smith, the great success of whose ‘Poems for the Mil-
lion’? has emboldened him to make @ second venture in
the field of poesy. The book is exquisitely gotten up,
both as regards paper, presswork, typography and bind-
ing. In fact, to use the language of the Messrs. Peter-
son, inarecent letter, “itis one of the most beautiful
volumes ever issued.’? It isalarge octavo volume of over
three hundred pages, gotten up in the most elaborate
style of art, and is issued in two editions, one sold at $3
and the other at $4. It is embellished by the most accu-
rate likeness of tle author ever taken, engraved on steel,
in line and stipple, by Hali & Sons, and will make a most

beautiful and appropriate holiday present. The work is
now ready for the public, and all who desire to secure a
copy should send in their orders at once, either to T. B.
Peterson & Bros., 306 Chestnut street, Philadelphia, or to
the office of this paper. .

 

 

 

*

 

 

BY THE WATERS OF BLACKWELL.

By the waters of Blackwell,

Lonely and desolate,

Silent in sorrow, alone with his memeries;
Broken his heart and forsaken by friends;
Wrapt in a dream of past glory and splendor,
Gazing far off, sits the Ring King.

What, O thou fallen one, what have they done to thee?

Those who have counsell'd thee, led thee, and guided thee!
Where is thy power? where the might that men feared in thee?
Where all the homage, the worship they gave to thee?

Where, O thou cunning one, where are they? Answer me—:
Are they but memories?

Fiows on the river beside the great city;

On Blackwell’s damp sand now he sits motionless—
In the far sky fades the vision entrancing lAm—
On the soft wind dies the music so sweet to him.
Vision of glory and music of victory!

Wake him, O memories,

And ask him, in thunder tones,

“What is he going to do about it?”

 

PARLOR DRAMAS.
FOR THE LITTLE FOLKS,
LITTLE BOY BLUE.

IN TWO SCENES.—CHARACTERS: CLARA, MR. FIDGET,
ALICE, MR. JONES, LITTLE Boy BLUE.

 

 

Alice.—Gracious, Clara! there’s Mr. Jones’ voice in the
hall! This is the eleventh evening in succession that he
has favored us with his company. What can we do tq
get rid of him?

B. B.—Tell him to stay to home, of course.

Clara.—Hush, Henry! children should be seen and not
heard,

B. B.—You’vye told me that more’n twenty million times
n’ready. [Door opgns, enter Mr. Jones, young ladies rise.)
Claraand Alice.—Good evening, Mr. Jones. /

Mr. J.—Good evening, fair ladies. How are you, Miss
Clara, Miss Alice? Yousee I am heah again. There is a
charm in the atmospheahk of this pawlaw which dwaws
me like—like—ah—the odoh——

B. B.—Of briled beefsteak draws a fellow to his dinner.

Clara {reprovingly}.—Brother!

Mr. J.—Of the clovah dwaws the bee.
at B. B.]

Qlara.—Thank you, Mr. Jones—how very pretty! Henry,
place a chair for Mr. Jones. [B. B. places chair near table;
Mr. J. sits down in it, but suddenly rises and takes an-
other seat. B.B. giggles behind a newspaper.)

Clara.—Think we are going to have a snow storm, Mr.
Jones?

Mr. J.—I should think not—judging by the state of—aw
B. B.—Your crimps, Mr. Jones. I allers knews its dry
weather when they kink as tight as they do to-night.

Alice [aside to B. B].—I shall send you into the dining-
room, sir.

-Clara.—Any one dead among our acquaintances, Mr.
Jones?

B. B.—Yes, sister, Mr. Jones’ hair dyed. I heard the
barber say so. [Young ladies look at each other, Mr. Jones
blushes and changes sabject.}

Mr. J.—Have you heard Nilsson sing since her return to
this country?

B. B.—You know they haven’t. Cuz you come every
night and don’t give "em any chance to go anywhere.

Clara.—Henry Blanchard, leave the parlor and go to
bed! ;

[B. B. gets up and moves toward door, but manages to
get behind the sofa, on the floor, out of sight. Door bell
rings. Enter Mr. Fidget wiro is greeted by the young ladies
and takes seat on sofa.]

Mr. F.—Have you heard the story of the day, young
ladies? No? BobSmith and Sally Brown have eloped.
They say her father says—ouoh! [jumps.]

Alice.—What does he say ‘‘ouch’’ for?

Mr. F.—It was not he who said it; it was I.
Sally climbed out of the wind——oh! h! [jumps,]

Alice.—How funny you tell it, Mr. Fidget!

Mr. F.—I did not mean to be so funny, indeed I didn’t.
And Bob was at the foot ofthe ladder. But first she puta
lamp in the——heavens! [jumps.]

Alice.—What a queer place to put a lamp!

Mr. F.—To let him know that she was ready. When she
was safe in his arms, they say she said—the devil!
{jumps.] De you keep a dog, Miss Blanchard? [kicks
under the sofa.] ;

Clara.—O!i, Lassure yon, nothing of the kind, Mr. Fidget.
What makes you think so?

Mr. F.—Nothing, nothing, Miss Clara.
changes his seat.)

Alice.—You seem very restless to-night, Mr. Fidget.

Mi. F. (looking toward sofa, suspicious)y}.—I’m sure, I
don’t know what is the matter with me! : :

Alice (changing from her chair to the sofa].—I’m sorry
Bob Smith has made such ‘a goose of himselfi lv’s too
bad!

Mr. F.—Why do you care? [meaningly.]

Alice [coquettishly].—i’m sorry for any one who has
misfortuues. ,

Mr. F. {returning to the sofa and sitting quite near the
young lady, while the other couple converse “apart near
the table].—I hope the interest you take in Bob is generat
and not particular [tenderly], otherwise I should be aw-
fully jealous! :

Alice.—Nonsense, Mr. Fidget; you’re such a flatterer!

Mr. F.—No, indeed, I’m in earnest. I have been want-
ing to speak to you of my feel——_ [jumps], are you sure
you don’t keep a dog, Miss Alice?

Alice.—Why, of course. There isn’t adog about the

lace. d
7 Mr. F.—V’ve been jealous of that fellow over by the
table, too. You can’t imagine how it relieves me to per-
ceive that your sister is the object of— [jumps, but says
nothing of the cause}]—lis attentions. Dear, dear, dearest
Alice, you know that I am too poor to marry at present,
and | want my feelings to remain a profound secret, until
I can ask your father, openly, for your hand. My darling,
do you return my affection? Speak, dearest.

A loud voice under the sofa.—Oh, that’s the way they
pop, is it?

[The lovers spring up, and Mr. Fidget brings to light
litle Boy Blue. Mr. F. looks as if he would like dearly to
spank him. The other couple come forward to find out
what is the trouble.]

Alice fhalf-crying].—Yeu ought to be ashamed of your-
self, Heury.

B. Blue.—I ain’t done nuthin’, I just wanted to find
out how they popped. ‘This is the way he does it, Clara.

Alice.—Be quiet. Dogo to bed, Henry. I'll tell mdther,
if you don’t.

B. Blue {rolling up his eyes]—He says, “Do you return
my affection, dearest? Speak, dari——”

{Alice drags him outof the room. She soon returns,
and Clara, to cover her sister’s embarrassment, proposes
a game of parior croquet. They have just began the game,
when Boy Blue’s voice is heard in the chamber overhead,
shouting, ‘‘Fire! fire! fire!??) They throw down their mal-
lets and rush out ofthe room. Curtain falis.

(Looking angrily

+

You see,

(Jumps, and

Scene Second.—Same parior, an hour later.
couples playing croquet.

Alice.—To think of his calling us up stairs to see the gas
on fire! He torments the life out of me!

Mr. F.—He'’s my ideal of an enfant terrible, as the
French say. : :

Servant [opening door from hall and ,coming in].—
There’s some one at the door as says Mr. Joues is to go to
No. 1,000 Prospect avenue as fast as his legs will carry
him. His father has fallen down stairs and broke his
neck.

Mr. Jones.—Good Heavens! [He hurries inte the hall]

The Others.—How sad! How dreadful! Poor fellow!
Oh, dear!

Alice.—Clara, you look pale,

Clara.—it has shocked me yery much.
go to my room.

Alice.—Shall I go with you?

Clara.—No, dear. I shall prefer to be alone.

{She goes out. Mr. Fidget draws Alice to the sofa,
where they sit side by side.]

Mr. F.—This is a very painful affair—very. I’m awfully
sorry poor Jones’s father las met with such a@ serious ac-
cident. I regret that he has fallen down stairs and broken
his neck; but there is no cloud without a silver lining,
and this misfortune has given me the opportunity of
speaking alone with you, Alice, dear. You had notan-
swered my question, you remember, when your little
brether interrupted us. Do youlove me, Alice? Do you
love me well enougl to wait long years? [Here Boy Blue
steals into the room in his night-gown, but they are too
ae engaged to notice him.] Say, oh, say, my sweetest,

oO you?

Alice.—I could wait for the man I loved until my hair
Was gray, Mr. Fidget.

Boy B.—Bully for you, sis!

Alice.—Heury!

Mr. F.—This is outrageous!

Alice.—You are a bad, bad boy! To use such vulgar
language, too! Where did you hear that slang expres-
sion? To your own sister, too!

B. B.—Oh, that’s nothing. All the boys say that.

Alice.—What are you up for at this time of night, com-
ing into the parlor, When there’s company, with your
night-dress on? I shal cry, you are so naughty, Henry!
You love to make me miserabie!

B. B.—Oh, no, I don’t, sis. I wanted to make up for
scariug you under-the sofa this evening, sol came down
to see how my plan worked. I think it works bully.

Alice,—There, that word again!

B. B.—Well, jolly, then.

Alice,—What works jolly, Henry?

B. B.—My plan.

Alice.—What plan?

B, B.—To get ’em out 0’ the way.

Mr. F.—To get who out of the way?

B. B.—T’others, so you could pop in peace.

Alice.—What on earth are you talking about, Henry
Blanchard ? .

B. B.—Talking about getting other feller out o’ the
way, so Mr. Fidget could have the ground to hisself. You
see, sis, I was sorry I made you so much trouble to-night,
so I just made up that story about old Jones breaking his
neck, to get Clara’s beau out o’ the way. Should think
you might ’scuse me an’ not tell mother now. If it hadn’t
a been for me, you don’t know when Mr. Fidget would a
got a chance to pop,

The two

I believe I will

j B..B.—The jolliest little Irish boy

 

Alice.—Did you ever see such @ child?

Mr.F.—I think we ought to forgive him, Alice. lm sure
he’s a boy of the best intentions. I forgive you, Henry,
ali the pins you stuck in me to-night when you were un-
der the sofa. Ané here’s my knife,too—take it, and keep
it in remembrance of my good will. And, look here!—
don’t repeat what you heard me saying to your sister.

B. B.—No, sir; 1 won’t tell anybody but Patrick Flynn.

Mr. F.—Whio’'s Patrick Flynn?
ou ever saw, sir. I
think a great deal of him. It’s he that or ‘bully,’ an’
he’s learning me to dance ajig. Ill just tell him, mayn’tI?

Alice.—No, no; not for, the world!

B. B.—Oh, law, sis, I tell himeverything. I told him
about Olara having false teeth, an’ how fond you are of
fried onions, an’ how Ase box my ears seventeen times a
day, an’ the reason Brother James had to clear out-for
Californey, and about that bile you had on the back of
your neck, and what fun it is to go in your room when
your out and look over your paint and powder, and that
stuff you put on your eyebrows. Oh, dear! I don’t know
what I haven't told Patrick! [All this time Alice makes
frantic efforts to “shut him up.”] I told him about Mr.
Frelinghuysen kissing you in the hall that time, and to-
day 1 told him what father said at breakfast this morning
—tkat he should fail-in less"h two weeks, and if that Fid-
get was going to pro-pose to Alice, he hoped he’d make
up his mind before the crash came.

[Alice gives hard‘push, and B. B. tumbles on his hands
and knees, and looking toward audience.) —

B. B. [whimpering}.—Children should be seen an’ not
heard. [Curtain falls.]

JOSH BILLINGS’ SPICE-BOX.

 

 
   

 
 

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UNIVERSITY DEFINISHUNS.

Professor.—Define an Editor.

Student.—An Editor iz a male being, whoze bizzness iz
to navigate a nuzepaper. He writes editorials, grinds
out poetry, inserts deths and weddings, sorts out manu-
skripts, keeps a waste basket, blows up the ‘‘devil,’’ steals
matter, fites other peoples batties, sells hiz paper for a
dollar and 50 cents a year, takes whiite beans and apple
sass for pay when he Kan git it, raizes a large family,
works 19 hours out ov every 24, knows no Sunday, gils
dammed bi everyboddy, and once in a while whipt bi
sumboddy, livs poor, dies middle aged and often broken
hearted, leaves no muliny, iz rewarded for a life ov toil
with a short but free obituary puff in the other nuzepa-
pers. Exchanges pieze copy,

Professor.—Next define a skool master.

Student.—A skooi master iz a’ man after the image oy
hiz Maker, without enny home, and without enny wile.
He works for 16 dollars a month, and eats here and thare,
just az he Kan ketch it, round the naborhood. He izloved
bino one, and suspekted bi everyboddy. He combs hiz
haire 3 times per day, and uses hogs lard for pomatum.
He iz a long lived kuss, and haz to move into an ajoining
State to die. He iz az kross az an old she goose, setting
on a lotoy broken china, to all the yung skOllars, but das-
sent sass the big ones. He wears @ paper collar a whole
week without washing it, and darns hiz own stockings.
He never see 3 hundred dollars in hiz life in one pile, and
never will; and when he dies hiz assetts seldum exceed
a3 biaded Rogers pen knife and a bulls eye watch.

Professor,—Next, detine aly Alderman.

Student.—Au alderman iz aj philanthropist and a philos-
opher ov unsertain reputashu. He works for nothing,
and dOn’t Kare Whether other pholks tikes the job or not.
He luvs ritch phood, and sweers bi the contingent fund,
He iz aZ pompous az an undemaker wilh two phunerals ou
hand at once, and one ov hiz gratest perquisites iz a free
ticketto a nigger minstrel show. Hiz family looks upon
him az the gratest mam that haz ever lived since the days
ov Kristopher Columbus, but the community looks upon
him aza cheap investment, and generally turn him out
atthe end oy the fust year, and put some other saloon
keeper in hiz place. Republicks are alwuss ungratephul,
and aldermen hay alwuss been jooked upon aZ bummers
bi natur. Ihay been an alderman miself once, and kno
how the thing works.

Professor.—Next, define an auctioneer.

Sludent.—An auctioneer iz an unfortunate individual
who duz other people’s lieing for 10 doNars a day, and
boards himself. e haz got az mutch jaw az & woll trap,
and az muich cheek az a 19-year-old mule. He takes up
the profeshun quite often upon the same principle that a
hoss doktor duz hiz, not bekauze he iz fitt for the bizz-
ness, but just to hav one in the naborhood. Hiz gratest
pride iz to mingle what he calis humor with hiz har-
raunge when he iz on the block, but hiz jokes are gen-
erally az level az a kold: slap-jax. He iz atthe hite ov
hiz ambishun when he haz worried a latf ous ov tiie bi-
Standers, and uses the same retorick and simiees when
he sells out an estate that he duz when he closes out an
old one-eyed peller under a chattel mortgage in front ov
the court-house. The viilage auctioneer iz the hero ov
the 19th century; he iz suppozed to be az kunning aza
fox, and to be in hiz konfidense and taste ov hiz sekrets
izaz hiupinthe skale ov importanse az the common
citizen ever expekts to reach. A Kuntry auctioneer and
a kuntry hoss-jockey are two wonderphull men in the
rural distrikts.

Professor.—Next, define a quack.

Student.—A quack knows he iz a ded beat, but he also
knows that mankind luys to be cheated. He iz entirely
different from a Pedant, and would az soon take ratsbane
az totake hiz own pills. He alwus haz sum speciality,
andthe more diffikult the diseaze the more brazen iz he
in his offers to kure. He preys upon the poor and unfor-
tunate, and it would be az diffikult and unproffitable to
prove malpraktiss against him azit would bigamy aginst
a wharfrat. They are the vilest frauds upon earth, and
like all other common enemys should be hunted with
dogs and guns out ov the Jand.

Professor.—Next define an old maid.

Student.—An old maid iz the last gooseberry left on
the bush, ded ripe, and reddy to phaul oph at the fust
shake. She iz sumtimes a leetie hard to suit, but iz quite
often the most charming relick in the naborhood. They
are atl ov them diamonds, and the excuse that they are
not set and worn iz, that they hay either a flau in
them, or are oph color. This iz only a trick ov the ex-
perts, and i don’t beleave a word ov it.. Next to mothers-
in-law old maids hav bin abuzed more than ennythinug
humag, but they all ov them hayea shiny spot sumwhare
in their hearts that everyboddy iz welkum to kraul into
and sun themselfs. If icould have mi way they should
all have the husband they chooze to pik out, and then
should hay a dozen little yung maids and yung bachelors
to make their glory more perfekt. Old maids and moth-
ers-in-law hay bin trod on enuff, and i am going hereai-
ter to strike out from the shoulder in their behaff, and
sumboddy iz agoing to git itif they dou’t look out. Yes
they am. :

Professor.—Next define a ghost.

Student.—A ghost iz about 5 foot 7 inches in hight, and
Weighs from 4 to6 ounces. They are ov the maskuline
and feminine natur, but principally nutur. They aint
afrade ov nothing, and will hang around a graveyard az
Kareless aZ a skool boy will around an orchard in green
apple time. They are like a grate menny other things in
this world often heard ov, but seldum seen. I will giv 15
hundred dollars to see a ghost, and 250 dollars more to
own one, but i want one kaught whole, and not hurt. Mi
friend Phineas T. Barnum will take a whole drove ov
them at the same price per ghost, and not quarreil about
the gender. Therefore bring your gliosts. Ghosts all-
wuss dress ina white nite gown sort ov a rig, and are
the quickest things that hay ever been trotted out yet.
Their ordinary gait iz amile ina seckund, but it iz sed
for a parse they Kan beat this handy. I wouid really like
to see one go in publik for munny, private time is allwus
Suspishus. Whi don’t sum ov our agrikultural hoss trot
assosiashuns offer a ghost puss, free for all ghosts. It
would draw like a mustard piaster in the month of Au-
gust. Soitwould. | ;

Professor.—Define Judas Iskariott.

Student.—Judas Iskariott iz one ov the 12. He waz the
meanest man that ever et hash for brekfast. He sold out
hiz Chance here and hereafter for 30 bits ov silver. We
hav no ackount ov the size ov theze pieces, but probably
they waz worth about 10 cents each. He got 3 dollars for
the Pook ey ever imagihed, or did, and then hung him-
self befofe he had the time to spend the munny.

Professor.—Next define an old bachelor,

Student.—An old bachelor iz born in a maskuline way,
but changes hiz base to the nuter gender. He iz a long-
lived bird, and generally dies asloven. He iz az phuill ov
partikulars az an inditement for pettit lareeny. He thinks
he hag got a good lone hand, but in playing it allmostall-
wuss gits ukered. He sumtimes, late in life, makes up
hiz mind to git marrid, and then invariably thare iz two
partys who git cheated. Iam giad oy it.

Professor.—Next, define a deakon.

Student.—A deakon iz the fust lutennant in a meeting
house. He iz a good Christian man, but hiz kreed iz too
often aZ mutch bother to him az a yoke iz to an old goose.
He iz az phull ov bizaness az a wimmin’s rites conyen-

 

 

shun, and mourns heavy for the sins oy the people. He

 

«<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3>

 

 

haz more pitty than branes, and often more fuss than
either. Iluy the average deakon, he iz an ornament to
hiz brigade, he luvs hiz flag, he makes a good fite, and if
he gits whipt he dont knoit. A good deakon ina naber-
hood iz a substanshall blessing, and bad deakons hay ail-
wuss been skarse. Wheni group to be a big man i would
like to be a good deakon, and ride to church Sundays in a
top buggy. : .

Professor,—Next, define a tin whissell.

Student.—A tin whissel iz a wind instrument. It iz
about the bigness ov an oid-fashioned brass button, iz bilt
dubble, and haz a hole on each side, exactly in the center.
It iz a good thing to play a noise on, but a bad one toplay a
tune. on. It iz the oldest musik I kno ov, and the boy that
never played one, aint born yet. Daniel Webster played his
fust refrain on a tin whissell, so did Kristopher Columbus,
so did Martin Van Buren. They kost one cent, and the and
fust one a boy haz iz nearer wuth the munny than enny
thing on earth. If thare iz enny thing that Kan beat a tin
whissell in aktual value it iz a stik ov molassis-Kanay. If
think that tin whissells will be in fashion as lopg as boys

am,
SPICE, SPICY, SPICEIST.

JEHU.

Thare iz no end, nor no beginning, to the stories told of
good old Abe Lincoln. . ;

The following I beleave iz out ov print, if there is any
such thing as a good story gitting out of print, but I will
revive it for the benefit of the readers of the Spice Colum:

Honest Old Abe had been in one of the interior towns of
Indiana attending court, and having got through, had
gone to the little hotel in the place, and dropped down on
the sofa in the little parlor waiting for the stage which
was past due. :

While he lay thare in came a pompous young fellow,
With a long driving whip in hand und stepping up to the
mirror in the room, began to arrange his hair, and admire
himself generally. ; }

As he was about to leave the room he discovered the
merciless joker stretched out on the sofa.

P ‘Has the stage come yet?’ drawled out the late presi-
eut.

“The stage, sir! the stage! I have nothing to do with
the stage.’

“Oh, I beg your pardon,’’ resumed Lincoln, “I thought
you was the driver,” SNOW BALL.*

- HUSTLE HIM OUT.

We have a cheerful correspondent in Detroit from whom
we do not hear half as often as we would like to.

To day he sends the following to our collum, with all
sorts of excuses for the antiquity of the story, but we
must confess that it is entirely new to us.

Now for our friend’s sketch.

DEAR JOSH:—Years agone, when the manners and cus-
toms were more primitive, if not more pure, it was not
or custom to have instrumental music in the church
choirs.

In the good old town of Oheshire, Massachusetts, the
leader of the ehurch music had smuggled in a bass viol,
which the parson had detected just as the choir had arose
to sing the hymn that had been given to them. Rising in

} his pulpit, the parson shouted:

“What have you got up there in the choir?’
‘“‘A bass viol,’? meekly responded the leader.
“I say itisn’t,’? replied the indignant preacher; “it is

a gredt big ungodly fiddle—take it out!’
The big fiddie had to travel.

THAT’S SO.

The fellowing bit of touching romance we received late-
ly from some unknown friend:

; JOSH BILLINGS, EsQn.:—Have you ever heard this be-
ore: .

An Irishman, somewhat belated, rushed down to the
boatof oneof the New Jersey ferries, and springing
aboard as the boat was some five or six feet off from her
dock, landed on his hands and knees among the passen-

Looking over his shoulder after the boat had got some
seventy-five feet out in the stream, and befure he had rose
to his feet, he exclaimed: .

“By the howly Moses, what a lape!”? BARBOUR.*

TALK WITH CONTRIBUTORS.—We accept for the spice
collum, and some time during the year they will appear:
‘Alph,’ ‘Bruno,’ ‘B. B.’. Waut of space, and in some in-
stances want of mefit,; forces us to decline: ‘Magdalena,’
‘Orange,’ ‘Soupmeager,’ ‘Dad,’ ‘Euclid,’ ‘Beech Nuts,’
‘Savage,’ ‘Larder,’ ‘F. E. 8.,’ ‘Snaix,’ ‘Gentile,’ ‘Old Bob,’
‘Jerry Jones,’ ‘Gum Arabick,’ ‘P. P.,’ ‘Sam Loyd,’ ‘But-
ter,’ ‘Fun Ahead,’ ‘Nosegay,’ and ‘What is It.’

ONYx.*

 

GOSSIPING.

Of all the mean kinds of business, gossiping is the most
entirely contemptible!

And yet there are thousands of people in the world to
whom it is the bread aud butter, and cheese, of life, not to
say the plum sauce.

If they could not gossip they would die, and we most
sincerely wish they could not gossip. Well, we do.

They are continually on the lookout for something to
talk about. Nocat ata rat hole ever was more thorouglily
alert than they. Their noses are in a srifable condition
ail the time, their ears are ajar, their eyes are *‘peeled,”’
and their feelers are put out, like Whose of the devil-fish.
If there is anything going on, they mean to get hold of it)
They are Keen on the scent of a slauder, as bloodtiounds
used to be after ranaway darkeys.

They pass their time in peeping through closed blinds,
and crevices of fences, and accommodating key-holes, and
they walk tip-toe when they pass their neighbors’ houses,
because they arein hopes that there may be something
going on in the back yards, or the coal cellurs, which is
worth knowing about. ,

Ina locality were a regularly educated gossip resides, we
defy anybody to break a plate, or tear a dish towel, so
secretiy and mysteriously that the gossip will not dis-
cover it!

Everybody comes in for a share of their tongue exer-
cise. First, the minister and his wife, then the richest
family in town, and so on down to Biddy Maloney, who
goes out washing at a doliar a day.

Tne spirit of detraction is rampant in the breast of the
gossip. Nothing is Just as it should be. Nobody is any-
where near right in anything. Everything is weighed in
the balance and feund wanting.

Ifever ove of these eee people gets to Heaven
(which we doubt) he will find fault with the jasper walls,
and turn up his nose at things generally, and confidentially
inform Mrs. A., or Mrs. B., that itisn’t half as nice as it
might be! and he always Knew it wouldn’t bel”’

The worst of it is, there is no protection against this
nuisance of society. No matter how high or how low you
muy be, the tongue of the gossip will cut through your
aifuirs, and make mince-meat of them, and pick them
apart, and serve them up anew for the delectation of the
public, and you cannot help yourself.

For there is no Jaw against gossiping. .

if a man steals two cents from your money drawer, or
appropriates from your henroost a pullet for his Christinas
tuble, you can try him by the Jaws ofthe land, and punish
him therefor, but. if anybody says that “‘she heard Mrs.
Brown say that Mrs. Smith said, that sister Susan’s daugh-
ter Annie’s husband said, that it was the town talk that
you were too intimate with young Stebbins, and youa
married woman!’? what are you going to do about it?

What indeed? KATE THORN,

—_— e+ :

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

To BUYERS.—AIli communications in regard to the prices or the
purchasing of various articles must be dressed to th: NEW
YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, contaif the full address of
the writers, and specify the size, quantity or quality of the goods
desired. Those requiring an answer must have two thres-cent
Stamps enclosed. Owing to the large increase of ietters to be an-
swered in this column, a delay of several weeks Must neces:arily
ensue before the answers appear in print.

TO PURCHASERS.—The new Illustrated Catalogue of the Nzw
YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, 212 pages, is now ready, and
will be sent to any address, prepaid, on receipt of ten cents.

 

~

 

 

e@- GOSSIP WITH RRADERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—
Julius.—After the assassination of President Lincoln, there
being a doubt as to how the parties concerned in the assassination
should be tried, President Johnson plied to Attorney-General
Speed for his opinion as to whether h persons were subject to
the jurisdiction dnd legally liable before a aL commission.
Mr. Speed gave his opinion that. they were so liable, and stated
his reasons for such opinion in a lengthy letter to the President,
going over the entire question of the jurisdiction and legality of
such tribunals. He took the ground that the assassins were not
actuated by private malice, but committed the deed as active
public enemies, and were therefore not amenable to the courts,
but could and should be tried by a military tribune. On the re-
ception of the letter eontaining the opinion, President Johnson
ordered the Adjutant-General to detail the officers to serve as a
commission to try the* case, which was done, and’ the trial pro-
ceeded immediately.

Capt. Storms.—We will send you the “Life of Major Jones” for
$1.76, and the “Caudle Lectures” for $1.50.

Harry Rivers.—ist. Stamp albums are worth from $3 to $25.
2d. The book designated in your note is outof priat. 3d. The
coincan bepurchased. Its value, however, will depend on its
condition.

Sky Rocket.—We will send you “The Pyrotechnist’s Compan-
ion, or a Familiar System of Recreative Fireworks,” for $3.50.
iran Printer.—We will send you small printing presses fer

to .

Bigamy.—Iist. A person guilty of bigamy cannot escape punish-
ment by removing out of the State and remaining away for
a certain number of years. He may be prosecuted on his return,
or he may be brought from another State on a requisition. f
See “Work-Box.”

Beginner.—We will send you “Boxing Made Easy”’ for 25 cents.

Clara.—tst. The ‘‘Slimmens” papers.were written by Mrs. M. V.
Victor. See No. 46. 2d. We do not wish to purchase any MSS. at

present. °
Frank King.—\st. Augustin Daly was formerly the dramatic
and musical editor of the N. Y. Daily Times. Dion Boucicault
has been connected with the theatrical profession as actor, au-
thor and manager ever since his youth. . Send your play to a
manager. Critics donot make it a business to read and criticise
plays which have never been put upon the stage. 3d. Send a
printed copy of the title of your play to A. R. Spofford, Librarian
of Congress, Washington, D. C., with $1 euclosed, and you will
receive in return a certificate of copyright.

J. @. H, Silburn.—We will send you “The Perfect Gentleman”
for $1.50, and “The Habits of Good Society” for $1.75.

B. M. J.—\st. The patent necktie tasteners are intended only
for gentlemen’s turn-over collars. We will send you one for fif-
teen cents. 2d. The fare from West Salem, Ohio, to Niagara
Falls is about $8.

Nebraska.—We will send you De Walden’s “‘Ball-room Com-
panion”’ for 50 cents.

C. N. P.—We will send you “St. Elmo” for $1 75. i

Captain Carnes.—We can purchase no MSS. at present,

Skinflint.—Comanche is prouounced in three syllables and ac-
cented on the second.

Sammy.—Oystets used in stews are of a smaller size than those
served up raw, and usually sell for about half the price of the

| latter, They are sold by measure, while the larger oysters are

sold by count.
Nellie.—We will send you “Guy Earlscourt’s Wife’? and ‘‘A Won-
derful Woman” for $1 75 each,
J.S. W., Jr.—ist. As scon as possible. 2d. The same.
Mamironeck.—\|st. We cannot furnish copies of the first num-

 

ber ot the New YORK WEEKLY. 2d. The postage onthe New

 

YORK WEEKLY is 20 cents per year, payable quarterly in advance
at the office where the paper is received.

Ide Wynn.—lst. Mount Joy isa village in Lancaster county,
Pa., on the Pennsylvania Central R. R., eighty-nine miles from
Philadelphia. It contains 1,8% inhabitants, two or three church-
es, an academy and a female seminary. . Ida, Ella, Isabel
Cora, aaneer nh, Louisa, Phebe and Lilian are all pretty, an
most of them have pretty-sounding nicknames. . We will
cond ou = back numbers containing *‘Wedded for an Hour’?

or 96 cen

and ‘Greenwood.—Of the various games indulged in
by young folks on All Hallow Eve the following will be found
among the most amusing: One is totakean apple and pare it
comer: so that the rind would form one long piece, and then
to take hold of the rind by one end and wave it round the head
three times, Then the eyes are to be shut and the seeker has to
throw it over the left shoulder, Whatever letter it resembles is
the initial of the future lever’s christian name. Another way is
to turn the back to a looking-glass and to eat the apple looking
over the left shoulder backward, When it is half eaten the fu-
ture lover will show his face in the glass. The apples so used
are not ordinary apples; they have to be won either by bobbiug
the head in a pail of water and seizing them with the teeth, or
by gaining them at the quintain, Here the apples are nded
on sticks of wood, having Hghted tapers at the other . The
contestants’ hands are tied behind them, and as the apples swing
backward and forward they have togravforthem with their
teeth, atthe imminent risk of having their curls Singed by the
twirling taper. For the men there is a special divination. iree
saucers are placed on the table, one filled with clean water or
milk, another with dirty water and suds, and the third empty.
The prier into futurity is driven from the room. Outside his eyes
are bandaged, and he is then led up to thetable, If he seizes the
empty saucer he is never to get a wife; if heget the one with
milk, his wife will be chaste and well dowered; but if his adverse
fate gives him the dirty water, then his wife will be all sheshould
not be. One way for a young girl to ascertain her future husband’s
appesrapes is to steal an egg, to boil it in secret, to eat half the
he k and half the white, to fillit up with salt, to place it in the
eft stocking. which is to be rolled up and tied with the right gar-
ter, and then the fatal bundle isto be placed under her pillow.
All these things done in perfect silence, the future bridegroom is
sure to appear in her dreams. Your question came too late fov
the information to be available this year. We regret this quite

as much as you do.

E. P. L.—The only way to join the surveying parties referred
to is te be on the ground when they are or, et i

Ss Year-Old.—The Phunny PheUow is issued monthly from
this office, We will send it to you for one year for $1, or single
copies for ten cents.

fewel, yists are usually employed by lawyers te fill out legal
documents.

J y.—The lottery referred to is honestly conducted and
fairly drawn. é

Wil H.—Marriage licenses are not required in New York State.

C. M. F. K.—We will send you boxing-gloves ior a 50 to $6 50
per set, anda toy billiard board for $825. Billiard boards tor

and patent cushions, $80.
. &. K.—We know nothing of the system of short-hand re-
ferred to. Wewill send Munson’s ‘Complete Phonographer’

or $2.

Seeker.—We know nothing of the scheme. Beware of them all,

Fearless Joe.—Sail boats are worth trom $300 to $1,000, accord-
ing to size, ete. }

Orange.—We will send you.a handsome geal ring for $15, and a
diamond for cutting glass for $3 to $8. ;

.—The concern is unreliable.

Soldier.—The fare from San Antonio, Texas, to Galveston, b
rail, is about $20; to New Orleans, about $35 or _ From Gal-
veston to New York, by steamer, the cabin passage is $65; steer-
age, $35. From New Orleans to New York, cabin passage, $50;
steerage, $25.. By rail, the fare from Galveston to this city is
$68.75; from New Orleans, $50.

Chas. Vernon.—See ry. to “H. G, K.”

R. Vickey.—lst. Mark Twain’s ‘‘Beef Contract” will be found
in Vol. 4 of “‘Richardon’s 100 Choice Selections.” We will send it
to you for 75 cents. 2d. We will turnish the late W. E. Burten’s
“Cyclopedia of Wit and Humor,” two volumes in one, for $7.

feacher. — r’s Dictionary is almost universally used in
this country; Walker’s in Engiand.

W. D. J. J.—\st. We know nothing of the lottery scheme alluded
to. 2d. There are some twenty different d spoken in Aus-
tria, the Germans, constituting but about one-fifth ef the popula-
tion of tbe empire, being the ruling race, theirs is the official lan-
guage. 3d. We cannot teil you the wages of moulders, as they
vary considerably.

Ne —The duties of a captain’s clerk in the U. S-Navy are
similar to those of a private secretary ; the paymaster’s clerk those
of an accountant and secretary.

J. Elieston.—We will send you a catalogue of plays for two cents,
or the plays for filteen cents each. j
< $B will furnish sun-dials for $10 to $150, according to

sn.

Notre Dame.—\ist. Your first query was answered in No. 52. 2d.
See reply to “Lida” last week.

J. C. P.—We will send you a pair of shoes, such as are worn by
Dutch comedians, for $3.50. 5

ence Otvis.—The gentieman’s address is West Thirty-first
street, near Broadway. : :

Monte Christo.—The sum mentioned is one of those curious
mathematical problems which are apt to deceive even the read-
jest calculators at the first glance. Two boys have sixty eggs
each, one of them selling thirty at the rate of three for one cent,
and the remaining ae at two for one cent, or twenty-
five cents in ull. The other boy sélls his at the rate of five
for two cents, and finds on closing out his stock that he has
but twenty-four cents. The difference of one cent results from
the fact that the latter ia disposing of his eggs in the manner he
did actually solid thirty-six at the rate of three for one cent, and
twenty-four ast the rate of two for one cent. ‘

H. J. D.—“A Terrible Secret” was commenced in No. 30, Vol.
XXV{iI, and concluded in No.60f the present volume, The
papers will be furnished for $1.74.

B. H. S.—By the aid of the Webster button-hole worker the
most inexperienced sewers cannot fail to make a perfect and. re-
gular button-hole. Those who have used it would not do without
it. We will send it to you for fifty cents,

W. E.—Yhe individual referred to was connected with the
army as a non-commissioned officer.

Starlight.—|st. The Maritime Register is a weekly periodical de-
voted to shipping interests. It is published at 50 and 52 Pine
street, to which address you may write for specimen copy. 2d.
We do not know the individual.

Priam.—We will send you Warren’s “Introduction to Law
Studies” for $4.

Schoolboy.—The right age for a boy to join a club depends alto-

 

gether on the character of the organization, the time and place
of meeting, and the individuals he is brought in contact with.

J. J. Smith.—Homeless aud friendless boys; no matter what
their omer. may be, are boarded at the Newsboys’ Lodging
House. The terms, to those who can pay, are $1 26 per week,
which includes meals, lodging, Washing, etc.

Roving Tom.—Boys are not enlisted at the naval recruiting
offices. Apprentice yourself tosome good trade, and give up the
idea of going tosea. It is a laborious and ill-paid life.

Rockfield.—We willsend you the works of Alexander Pope for
$2 25, in cloth, or $2 50, in sheep.

Joseph Edward.—Any news agent will procure the London
News of the World for you.

Albert Johnson.—We have no circulars of the lottery.

Dangerous Dan.—We will send you Whipple’s “Elementary and
Practical Treatise on Bridge Building” for $4; Haupt’s “Theory
of Bridge Construction,” with practical illustrations, for $3 50;
and Roebling’s ‘Long and Short Span Railway Bridges, with cop-
per-plate engravings, for $25.

ipa W.—We will send you a book on ventriloquism for fifteen
cents.

Florist, Esq.—ist. Minors cannot legally convey property, and a
deed made out by one is therefore worthiess. di. A small gal-
vanie battery will cost from $12 to $20. :

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Editor's Son—ist. Brown, black, gray, lavender, and various
shades of stone colored kid gloves are suitable for church, prom-
enade or evening calls. White, buff, primrose, or pinkish tints,
are desirable for evening parties. . Agentieman should not
take off his gloves while paying evening calls, unless imyited to
take a hand ateards. 3d. He should call upon his lady friends
as often as the spirit moves him to do so, unless he sees that he
is becoming.a bore. 4th. The best way to overcome basifulness
is to visit frequently, and school yourself to talk with less timid-
ity. Remember that “practice makes perfect.” 5th. Take les-
sons in elocution and learn how to modulate your voiee. 6th. It
isnot needful foralady to ask a gentleman to call again, al-
though it is civil in her to do so. @th. Dress in a dark suit, with
either a white or dark vest, when attending parties in the coun-
try. 8th. Itis proper to have a little chat with a lady in the
street, if it suits both parties todo so; yet it would be better to
turn back and walk a few blocks with the lady than to keep her
standing. 9th, “Faint heart never won fair lady.” So let the
rival “gang his ain gait,” while you continue topay her the
same attention. Then allow her the privilege of a choice.

P. R. P.—I\st. The initials of both parties, and the date of the
engagement, are engraved upon betrothal rings. 2d..The ring
can be ef any precious stone you fancy, or merely of heavily-
chased gold. 2d. “‘Gentlemen” would bea more fitting address
than ‘‘Messrs.,’? which is the plural for Mr.

A Reader.—ist. M is not considered a breach of eti-
quette for the groom to kiss the bride at the close of the mar-
riage ceremony. 2d. The cards of invitation should be sent out
two or three weeks previous to the ceremony.

Hardware.—Send ten cents for New YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency catalogue, and then you can make your own choice of
the intended present. A necklace and pendant of your own hair
would be a unique present. A writing-desk, with pen, pencil,
eee and envelopes, is also useful. A stand of flowers, if the
lady has a fancy that way, is always producttve of pleasure.

J. S.—ist. In asking alady to accompany you to supper at a
festival, say: ‘‘Miss ——, will you favor me with your company at
the supper table ?”’ or “Miss ——, may I have the honor of your
company at supper?” 2d. If you desire to pass your Sunday
evenings with a y, say: “Miss ——, shall you be home on Sun-
day evening, and may I have the pleasure of calling upon you ?”

Cc. A. G.—The lady 1s most decidedly in the wreng, and you did

rfectly right in sealing the letter. As you say, only letters of
introduction, passing through the medium of friends to another
- should be left unsealed. Te show the superscription of a

etter addressed by another, to other parties is an unpardonable
breach of etiquette.

Di Girl, or H.—Your case is truly a hard one, friend, but we
could not publish your letter in full, as it would be impossible to
extend the same privilege to our numerous correspondents.
Yet we would give you the very best counsel in our power. Let
the young lady have her own way, and if she desires privacy and
secresy, why join in the play to her heart’s content. she
chooses to treat you as a str.
gracefully, but make amends torit when you are alone. Thus
you will let her see for herself the folly of the position in which
she desires to place you.

_Lynn C. Doyle.—You evidently seem to be master of the situa-
tion, and we doubt not but in time you will be able to make the
young lady understand how disagreeably conspicuous she makes
herself by ‘endeavoring to attract the attention of well-dressed
young men at the theater, ball-room, or while walking in the

park. frequently tall into these habits from iguorance of
the laws of good breeding, little dreaming what imputations
lookers-on may put upon their characters; yet a due regard for

self-respect should teach them to pass through acrowd of men
with downcast eyes rather than with a bold stare, which cannot
fail to attract attention, but can never win respect.

T. B. M. and A.—lst. The gentleman precedes the lady when
entering either church or theater. 2d. We do not know the in-
oe ofa wink from a young girl; but we should consider
it decidedly vulgar, and no decently-bred girl could commit such
@Mbreach of etiquette. : ‘

New Subscriber.—ist. If your first invitation was declined
because of a previous engagement, it is fectly polite in you te
se another, 2d. Make no allusion to the refusal of the first in-
vitation.

 

Burriel, the Bloodhound.

One reason, and a most powerful one, why the United
States should promptly demand redress and enforce repa-
ration for the Virginius outrage, is the fact that many ef
the crew, beside being American citizens, were ignorant
of the service in which the ship was engaged. It is even
likely that some of them were “‘shanghaied,’’ as the term
is—kidnapped and hurried on board while partially intoxi-

ent te Ouban affairs, and solely to earn a few dollars in a
legitimate manner. They were brutally murdered with-
out giving them the opportunity to account for their pres-
ence on beard a ship of whose destination or character
they Knew little or nothing. Yet they were shot down as

wolves—not because their murderers thought they de-
served death, but to put the seal of the grave upon evi-

 

the most diabolical crime of the century.

 

pane amusement will be forwarded for $20 to $50; with slate —
A

er in society accept the position .

cated. They began their duties ignorant of and indiffer- ©

dence that wouid undoubtedly convict their butchers of. .

 

 

ee

 

 

ae

wore a

 
 

 

 

 

FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS IN GOLD.

 

BY B. P. SHILLABER,.

 

Before the President Madison war,

When we were forced the sword to “dror”
>Gainst Mother Engiand’s bold invasion,

The French and English took occasion

To cenfiscate our ships, and gobble ’em,

And take ail means to try and hobble ’em,
For merely crossing the common seas

Ruled by the French and English “decrees” —
Trying to earn an honest shilling

While the two great powers each other were killing.
So President Jefferson called them home,
No more in dangerous paths to roam,

And to secure each ship and cargo,

He placed on all ports an embargo. -

The merchants growled and sailors swore,
Ships lay rotting by the score,

And imprecations by the ton

Were heaped on good Tom Jefferson.

But now and then a ship slipped out

In spite of gunboats flying about,
Preferring to run the risk of losing

Rather than lie inactively snoozing.

But one good vessel, taunt and tall
Chanced in a cruiser’s hands to fall,

And, by this turn of invidious fate,

To Johannes Bull was confiscate,

A prize-crew chosen in port to go,

And all the sailors shut down below.

All but John Francis—a black man bold—
Dark-‘‘complected,” but true as gold,

Of simple air and guileless look,

Whom the Britons chose to serve as cook.
And he was deep as deep could be

In all the cookery of the sea—

Could tickie the palate with every dish
That the heart of “salt” or “fresh” could wisn;
And John, with his cheerful and artless wit,
Was soon a general favorite,

Walking the deck as free as air,

Nor for his tate seemed a bit to care.

But John well knew that down in the hoid
Were fifteen thousand dollars in gold—

The price of the eargo which had been sold]
Stealthily, like a mouser, by night

Hid by the gloom from the watch’s sight,
He crept below where the treasures lay
And bore it to his caboose away.

But how to hide it—there was the rab— °
Till he saw, half-full, bis old slush tub,

And dumped his load in the noisome mess,
Then chuckled with sly hilariousness,

And rolled his eyes with infinite glee

As he thought of his slushy treasury—

That common tub-hoops should infeld
Fifteen thousand dollars in gold!

Weeks passed by and port drew near,

And, soon as they were fast to the pier,
Jehn Francis was told that he might go,
But the rest of them could not, you know ?
Bo he came to the captain, with comical phiz,
And said he'd a little matter of ‘‘biz:”
Would the captain allow him to take ashore
The siush that had gathered the journey o’er ?
*Twould sell for something, he didn’t doubt,
That might assist a poor lad out.

Then he grinned a grin tyom ear to ear,
And the captain laughed as he bade him “clear |??
When, shouki’ring his tub, he walked away,
The sailors shouted and said ‘‘Hooray!”’
And “Good-by, John,’ but he was hush

As he staggered off with his tub of slush!
Full soon was blazoned the whole land through
John Francis’ trick on the British crew,
And the ewners praised him manifold,

But took the fifteen thousand in gok.
Leaving John but a small per cent.,

But he with little was well content;

Lived in a house of humblest mien,
That still exists upon the scene,

And reared up children, as black as he,

To listen to the history

Of how their sire, of genius flush,

Saved, in a tub of dirty slush,

Fifteen thousand dollars in goHi,

For which the cargo had been sold.

 

Jennie Vail’s Mission |

Silla” OR he

DOOMED FOR LIFE.

By Annie Ashmore,

Author of FAITHFUL MARGARET, HERE-
WARD AND LA MORT, ete., etc.

[Jennie Vail’s Mission” was commenced in No. 2. Back Num-
. bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.)

CHAPTER XIY.

Wever did victim walk the platform upon which stood
the guillotine glittering hungrily for its prey, wilh heavi-
er heart than Jane wa/fked up that narrow, red brick
pathway to the rector’s door, closely escorted by Sir Mar-
cus, who grimly refused even yet to explain matters.

Piying the knocker with a force that brought the cot-
tagers to their doors ali down the echoing street, Sir Mar-
cus brusquely pushed aside the startled maid, who opened
at the summons, and led the way straight to Mr. Gardi-
ner’s well-remembered study.

The door flung wide.

“Here's my daughter, Mrs. Thorneliff,’? barked the bar-
onet, and pushed her in.

"Three persons rose at her entrance.

The first sue saw Was the rector himself. The, instant
their eyes met he made a slight gesture that sent a thrill
of hopé through her. It meant, ‘‘Be silent!’

The next she saw was Miss Ingrave; her lovely face
strained and distorted with evil passions into the visage
of a fury, her gold hair streaming ragged and dusty down
her traveling dress. The sight of her put life into Jane.
She poured fullscorn and defiance into her enemy’s men-
acing eyes.

“Accusation for accusation!’’ said Jane’s look.

Miss Ingrave, understanding her perfectly, smiled in her
face a cool, cruel smile of utter triumph.

Two adventuresses, rivals; two impostors, foes; there
they stood, panting to unvail each other!

The third person was a stranger—Jane knew him for
Miss Ingrave’s admirer. What! he in the secret too? She
bestowed a piercing glance upon him.

He was aman apparently between forty and fifty, a
large man, rather corpuient, and of gigantic hight. His
complexion was of a peculiarly waxen fairness, his skin
flaccid, and high forehead smooth aud cold. With his
coloriess face, and his red lips, and his glowing rouge
beard; with his pale green slow roiling eye,.and his
cold, sensual, satisfied air; with his large, chill, snowy
hands, rose-tipped as if newly dipped in blood, and his
full, sluggish, marrowy body as if it daily fed on blood—
he was so ghoul-like and so monstrous that the mere look’
of him sent a shiver through one asif a spirit had passed
one by.

A voice broke the momentary stillness—a voice as gen-
tle, melodious and alluring as the Angel Gabriel’s,

“Wel, Gardiner, my dear fellow, how say you? What
are we to call this fair lady?’ queried Lord Adderley.

There was dead silence. Jane stood eying the floor.
passive.

Miss Ingrave gloated on her, her eyes flashing like dia-
Poort and a cruel smile waiting to jeap upon her curl-
ng ii

Sir Marcus, with his back against the door, grimly
glowered into space.

The rector bestowed a careful gazeon Jane, so careful
aguze that one might say he was rather trying not to
see her than to see lier.

Then he drew back, and in @ low, hoarse but dogged
tone, said; .

“This is alla mistake. This lady is not Jane Vaill'!

Miss Ingrave uttered a shriek of anger and incredulity,

Lord Adderiey’s blood-tipped fingers hovered about his
mouth with a horribly oraying air, but he smiled superior
for all that.

Sir Marcus straightemed himself.

Jane heaved one deep breath, and was herself again.
She glanced from one to the other with an air of surprise.

“Look again!” cried Miss Ingrave, fiercely. ‘She is in
a different dress now, you may not have noticed that;
look again, Mr. Gardiner, look closely.”

The rector moved not a muscle.

With stern face and down dropped introverted eyes he
seemed to be lost in a trance of horror.

Miss Ingrave s:vooped upon her rival, and grasping her
by the shoulder rudely dragged her to the waning light.

‘“‘Oail the servantl’? exclaimed she, with angry violence.
‘She will remember her face, I'll warrant! Ring the bell,
Lord Dimon; I teli you it ¢s Jane Vail.”

‘Oh come, come, my child!’ spake the beautiful voice.
‘‘We are not polite to Mrs, Thornclifft; she will never lor-

ive us. Evidently, as my friend here says (and he must
speak the trath—he is a clergyman), this is a mistake of
yours.”

Sir Marcus stumped across the floor, put a brawny hand
on Miss Ingraye’s delicate one, plucked it off Jane’s
shoulder and gave Miss Ingrave a shove that sent her
flying half way to the door. "

“Olaws off, ye wildcat!” thundered he; ‘‘Jane Vail, for-
sooth? Pack of ~— fools!” and he burst into a lusty yoi-
ley of oaths.

i Miss Ingrave’s fair cheek blazed up; she stamped with

OFYe;

“TI tell you she is Jane Vaill’’ cried she, shrilly; ‘wheth-
er this gentleman recognizes her or not as the woman that
came here, I know, I KNOW that she is Jane Vail.’”

‘Silence!’ roared the baronet, clenching his fists,

e

 

4 hood.

, another moment.

‘You are all bewitched by her!’? screamed Miss In-
grave; ‘my lady, Sir Marcus, and Mr. Gardiner; she
twists you round her fingers, but she can’t twistme. I
KNOW slie is Jane Vail.”

“Will you tell the good company how you happen to
know it??? menacingly inquired my lord.

Miss Ingrave collapsed.

“Always prove first and assert afterward,” said my
lord, serenely.

“By Jove!l’’ Sir Marcus, burst out, ‘‘it’s come toa pretty
pass when a chit like that may drag my daughter-in-law
forty miles at her heels to stand up like a criminal and be
examined by a booby that’s forgotten our very presence
by this time!’ and he pointed wrathfully to the moody
rector. ‘Ye jealous vixen!’ and he shook his fist at the
beauteous Annabel. ‘I never liked a bone in your body; if
ye don’t look sharp you'll be sent adrift yet for your
hanged, beastly impudence."’

“Why doesn’t she tell us who she is then?’ sobbed
Annabel, in a passion of tears. ‘‘Why doesn’t she tell us
where she comes from, where are her friends;-anything
about herself???

“Because I don’t choose to let her,” said Sir Marcus,
and in the royal hight of hiswrath and championshIp he
really believed what he said.

“Will somebody present me to the lady, who has un-
fortunately raised the suspicions of our beautiful, but
fallible Miss Ingrave ?’’ said Lord Adderley, delicately in-
terposing.

Sir Marcus sulkily responding, gabbled over my lord’s
title, residence, etc., Mrs. Thorncliff’s name, etc., and the
thing was done. '

My lord was a baron, lived at Eywood Ghace. Yes?

Eywood Chace was near Haslemere; at Haslemere,
twenty years ago Lady Annabel Ingrave had lived with
Mrs. iy meg and Anthony had lived in the neighbor-

res

“My lord, with his strange green orbs upon her, in his
distinguished voice uttered fluent and civil explanations.

**T] owe you most humble apologies for the part I have
taken in to-day’s proceedings, my dear Mrs. Thornciiff.
As a friend of the family, knowing somewhat of its past
history I came to hear from my friend, Miss Ingrave, of a
certain silly suspicion she had hatched, that Mrs. Colonel
Thorncliff, the newly arrived widow, was the daughter of
a certain marine, who paid the penalty of his crimes
several years ago on boardaship of which Sir Marcus
Was then ap officer. The said girl has lately turned up,
sending impertinent and silly letters, demanding justice
for her convict father, and naturally, Sir Marcus feels un-
comfortable at the idea of. persecution.”

“Confound ye!’’ snorted Sir Marcus, turning as rel a8 a
lobster. ‘‘You’re too —— sharp to suit me, you Adderley.”’

“If you can possibly forget this piece of discourtesy,”’
continued my lord, daintily taking a pinch of snuff froma
golden box incrusted with gems, and wiping his fingers’
on an exquisite silken handkerchief, ‘‘and magnanimously
admit me to your friendship; for really madame, one
meets with but one actual heroine in a lifetime (you see I
have heard of. the fire)—and I covet your friendship; I
shall do my utmost to condone for my presence here to-
day in the ranks of your accusers.”

Jane Vail, in the character of Mrs. Oolonel Thornciliff,
bowed graciously and smiled upon him. Jane Vail, in the

aracter of the conyict’s daughter, shook with creeping

vorror of him. : s

Sir Marcus btitst in, blatant—a buil in 4 china shop.

“How long am I and my daughter to dance attendance
on your whims, good people? Be hanged if we wait here
Good-evening to ye, Gardiner. Come,
Marian, my dear,’’ and his arm was round her.

“Stop a minute,” said Miss Ingrave, between her teeth;
“I can’t tell you the real ground of my suspiqjens of that
woman—at present, humanity deters me, vet that I have
ground I solemnly swear to you. She is Jane Vail, the
daughter of Anthony Vail the convict. She has entered
Childerwitch under the false name of Marian Thorneciliff. I
know this, but I cannot prove it. I will prove it yet, how-
ever, let her beware! Now Mr. Gardiner, favor us by
calling in your servant to face that woman, if innocent
it cannot harm her, if guilty you will be the first to rejoice
that her course of dissimulation is cut short. Or shall 1?”
and her eager hand was on the beil.

Mr. Gardiner lifted his head.

“It is useless,’’ said he coldly, “the servant I have now
is not the servant I had then.”

“The people with whom she lodged; we can confront
her with them,’ urged Miss Ingrave.

“No you can’t,’ said the rector, freezingly, ‘‘they have
left Little Catesby.”

‘Strange!’ cried Miss Ingrave, her eyes flashing.

“Strangel’? echoed my lord, his craving fingers at his
red lips.

“To the devil with your—piots and counterplots!’’ roared
Sir Marcus, kicking the door open, ‘‘and you after ’en.
Come away, my dear.’’

Crossing the threshold Jane Vail ventured to look back
at the rector.

. With head bowed in humiliation, and face pale with
mental torture, he was looking after her sadly.

She blessed him with her eyes, she poured a passion of
gratitude into his heart, and so passed out.

The first thing Sir Marcus did when he got her to him-
self was to hug her like a bear.

“Ten thousand furies!’’ cried he, joyfuliy,; ‘‘I’d almost
thought I’d have to part with the only woman I ever saw
that could give me my answer and be hanged to me!”

Then, helping her into the carriage, he relapsed into
himself again.

“ ~ 39 roared

ME Ctl IO DOAZS, he.

And otf they went clattering to the only place of that
aon in antique-Litule Catesby, where they spent the
night.

The arch-plotters went back as they had come, by the
railway.

And so this first pass of Jane’s mortal enemy was foiled,
and by the Jast man on earth she would have expected to
turn her champion—the rector of Little Catesby.

Well, Sir Mareus took Jane Vail home to Childerwitch
in triumph. .

Made a fuss over her, dubbed her Heroine, Woman of
Spunk, A Game One, etc. Constituted himself her patron,
admirer, and bottie-holder.

And she let him. She was engaged heart and soul in
examining and analyzing Lord Dimon Adderiey, Miss In-
grave’s elderly Adonis. He came and went; almost every
day he might be scen strolling through the grounds by
fair Annabel’s side; but it was a fact werthy of note that
whenever the colonel’s widow appeared on the scene my
lord was sure to tack himself on to her sleeve, and with
luring wile to seek to draw her out of her icy reticence.

Miss Ingrave dropped hostilities after making a pretty
and graceful apology next morning to “sister Marian,”’ in
Sir Marcus’ presence, and I’m afraid by Sir Marcus’ most
brutally emphasized command.

They never met by any chance alone, trying the mutual
avoidance line of conduct. -

My lady lingered on, speechiess.

The doctors began to whisper that she might live.

That instant hope began to live in Jane’s heart.

My lady would yet finish that long interrupted sen-
tencel Courage then, Jane Vaill

Brave all, let them do their worst, but wait for my lady
to speak!

One day a visitor called on Mrs. Colonel Thorncliff—no
other than the Reverend Octavius Gardiner.

Fiushing with pleasure, for, woman-like, she was burst-
ing with gragitude toward her grim benefactor, she hasten-
ed down the stairs, and had the small gratification of be-
hoiding Miss Annabel Ingrave prettily amusing herself in
the corridor below with a couple of the baronet’s hounds,
both the drawing-room doors being set wide open.
Fearful of provoking the young lady's suspicions, Jane
org in without attempting to close the door behind

er.

The reetor looked worn and haggard; his eyes were as
bloodshot and his face as pale asif he had not slept a
wink since he saw her last.

Miss Ingrave paused in her pretty play to witness the
meeting.

Mr. Gardiner greeted Jane with a bow that was the
acme of formality.

Jane greeted him with acold condescension that was
the hight of propriety.

Miss Ingrave was forced—as their faces were both to-
ward the open doors—to return to her playmates, using
her sharp ears however,

‘Madame,’ said the rector, in his stilted manner, ‘“be-
ing in the neighborhood I mad@ bold to call on you to con-
fer with you on a subject which las pressed. upon my
mind ever since our last meeting. Beware!’ breathed the
rector, fixing his eyes expressively upon hers—(Miss In-
grave was absorbed with Silk and Scarlet’s merry antics)
—‘ ‘listening ears are everywhere.” d

He was sitting beside a little mother 0° pearl table, upon
which lay a Jarge crimson and gold volume; by lifting the
voard as if to look inside, the rector ceuld conceal his face
from Miss Ingrave, while looking at June, and murmur a
few words at a time—eyidently his purpose in coming to
Ohilderwitch. i.

She answered his formal annotincement suitably, in the
character of Mrs. Thorncliff.
“Qo on, sir, I shall be happy to hear you,’’ said she,
graciously. ‘JZ bless you from my heart for the mercy
yw showed me!”’ whispered sie, in the character of Jane

ail. '
“Doubtless you have heard the story of this girl Jane
Vail,”? said the rector—(Mrs. Thornoliff shrugged her
shoulders)—‘‘it is of her 1 would speak. I believe she be-
gan this project of hers with pure and noble motives’’—
(Jane’s eyes shone)—‘would it not be a pity if those pure
motives should change to less noble ones, and the path
that she entered for her father’s liberation should lead her
into imposture 2?’ (Miss Ingrave was at this moment
flitting past the window outside).

. “Must she abandon her purpose ?') whispered Jane,
crimsoning with pain and shame,

“Yes, if it involves deceit! breathed the rector, frown-
ing at her belrind the book board. (Miss Ingrave, with the
hounds, skurried into the corridor again). “Should the
poor girl ever venture here under the supposition that
Sir Marcas would assist her, I assure you she would find
herself bitterly mistaken; therefore, | implore you, if she
ma should come here, to use your influence in her be-
alf,’

“To appeal to Sir Marcus on her behalf?” asked Mrs.
Thorneliff.

“No, to appeal to herself to leave such dangerous
Teer. answered the rector. (Miss‘Ingrave passed out

view). o

‘Who wrote me that letter 2’ demanded Jane Vail.

“Theman who ruined your father,” said the rector
behind the cover, ,

“His name ?” breathed Jane, paling.

The rector, idly tilting the cover of the book up and-
down, waited till Miss Ingrave, ber blossom-coiored skirts
in her hands, and her buckled shoes glancing, flew past
with the lithe hounds in pursuit. Then he rapidly spread

 

open the volume, whirled over the leaves, and put his
finger on a place, turning the book toward Jane Vail.

<4 THE NEW YORK WE

And Jane Vail read:

ADDERLEY BARON.

She uttered a cry. :

‘Hush /? whispered the rector, closing the book.

Miss Ingrave’s maid entered, crossed the drawing-
room, and pulled down a blind. Meanwhile she looked
into Jane’s face with a point-blank gaze of curiosity.

‘ ar in the character of Mrs. Thorneliff, called her
astily.

“See what is the matter with this bandage,’ said she.
“Ts it not too tight?”

Fanny loosened the bandage and withdrew.

I] will do everything I conscientiously can for Miss
Vail if she ever does come here,” said leva. Thornecliff;
“but what can Ido??? —

“You can only bid her fly,’’ said the rector.

“Why, what danger is she in??? asked Mrs. Thorncliff.

“Bid her fly!’ reiterated the rector with yehemence.

Bp Thorncliff—under Miss Ingrave’s eye—civilly in-
8 :

“My good sir, explain yourself.”

Mr. Gardiner—Miss Ingrave’s eye withdrawn—seized
the volume once more, whirled over the leaves, and again
turned it toward Jane, pointing at a place.

i Jane read, under Baron Adderley’s stately paragraph of
ineage:

“Patron of three livings—St, Katherine's, St. Merrow,
Little Catesby.”

“Do you see??? whispered Mr. Gardiner. “J am his
bond slave. I cannot lift a finger against him:

“7 see,” faltered Jane Vail. ‘You dare not openty be-
Jriend me.”

The ghoul-like Adderley swam before her, with incon-
ceivabie horror. She saw again the slow, greenish, roil-
ing eye, the dreadiul crimson mouth, the puffed-out, pal-
lid cheek, and the large, soft, unwieldy body, offeriug to
her simple imagination the towt ensemodile ofa monster
white slug.

And those beast-like éyes had gloated on the sufferings
of Anthony Vail! That ensanguinec mouth had sucked his
none best blood| That giant frame had grown fat on

is ruin!

And that loathly hand, which lately had pressed hers
with luring wile, had written yonder brutal letter to An-
thony Vail’s daughter!

yHY?

Her heart asked it, her blazing eyes asked it, her white
lips asked it.

For the third time—Miss Ingrave slowly pacing down
the corridor, looking in at this door, looking in at that
door, the hounds pattering at her heels—the rector open-
ed the Book of Peerage and pointed to a paragraph.

“DIMON ADDERLEY, P. C., 12th Baron in the Peerage
of Engiand. Born May, 1829; was educated at Harrow;
entered the Royal Navy 1844; become a lieutenant 1850;
succeeded his uncle (ANTHONY ADDERLEY; his cousin,
heir presumptive, having died im 1854) in 1864, Retired
from the navy 1855.”?

In breathless astonishment, cold, sick, terrified, the con-
vict’s daughter read these words.

They burned themselves on her brain, they swam in a
sea of mist before her, taey loomed through soroills of fire.

ANTHONY ADDERLEY, HIS COUSIN, HEIR PRESUMP-
TIVE! 4

‘“‘Rouse yourself, for Heaven's sake!’ whispered the rec-
tor; ‘there comes Miss Ingrave.’!

“Excuse the intrusion!? murmured a. sweet, sweet
voice; ‘but I could not restrain my anxiety any longer.
Dear sister Marian are you ill? Iam afraid Mr. Gardiner
is exciting you very much, and she is so weak!” turning
piteously toward him, and looking hard at the volume he
had been fumbling with so long.

“I have been telling Mrs. Thorncliff the story of Jane
Vail as she told it to me,’’ said the rector, as he put his
elbow on the book, hiding the emblazoned title there-
of; “she is both shocked and indignant. I have asked her
to befriend the girl should she ever come here.”

‘rYes?)? murmured Miss Ingrave, moistening her red
lips sweetly, while a devil lurked in her eye.

“And I shall certainly do so,’’? interposed Jane, lifting
her bowed head high—higher than she had ever lifted it
before, while a grand flash of wrath and grief illumined
her countenance; ‘base-born she may be, but she has
sworn to have her rights.or die?’

‘Yes ?”? breathed Miss Ingrave, as enticingly as before,
and steod looking from one to the other.

Pale and nervous the’ rector rose to go.

“Ring the bell for me, if you please,’’ said Jane, coolly,
to Miss ingrave, and Miss Ingrave was forced to obey.

The instant her back was turned, Jane made a sign to
the rector.

Before she had reached the bell, and got a chance to
look back, the rector had whipped up the Book of Peerage,
set iton a neighboring chiffonier, and put in its place a
Book of Beauty similarly bound.

When Miss Ingrave returned he was bowing his adieu.
Jane accompanied him to the drawing-room door; and
when there he came to a dead stop, and looked earnestly
at her. '

“Will you take my advice ??

She crested her head.

“No, said Jane Vail.

The rector’s hand was in his pocket. Hedrew it out—
ascrap of paper wasinit. He caugiit her eye, dropped
the scrap upon the mat at her foot, bowed again and
walked away.

Flora came in answer to the bell; and with a single look
her mistress Q@jrected her to pick up the paper, telling her
in the meanwhile to bring her a scarf as she wished to
walk in the garden. A)) this passed;se swiftly and Datur-
ally that even Miss Ingraze’s sharp. were not aware
of the by-play.

In a few minutes Flora appeared with the scarf, and
escorted Jane into the garden.

 

 

Mr. Gardiner sti remained on the sweep in front of the
house bustonholed by Sir Marcus. As he saw her pass
him, he settled himself contentedly on a garden Chail
and plunged into argument, :

Jane, attended by Flora, went into the shrabbery; the
arbor was there, aninviting asylum, in whichshe might
peruse the paper free from spying eyes.

She entered it, took the paper from Flora, and unfolded
it.

it was an advertisement
thus:

“Friends of JANE VAIL, daughter of the late Anthony
Vail, a marine on board the ‘Guinevere,’ are requested to
comnfinicate with J. B. Grayley, P. O., Haysthorpe-in-
the-Marsh.’”’

A pitfall under her very feet!

Any moment she might expect to be confronted with
some old friend dragged from obscurity by this plausible
paragraph in a daily paper, to identify her as Jane Vail,
the impostor.

This was the meaning of the rector’s reiterated injunc-
tions for her to fly!

She trembled at the reality and imminence
danger.

And she had found THE Man.

Coiled in his thousand sinuosities, hidden deep in the
caverns of guile, dug by cunning and fear, she had found
him, and dragged him to the light, as she vowed she would
in the rector’s study three months ago!

Here he was the white slug, the ghoul, the demon
baron!

Fly? Never, while that monster fattened on her father’s
inheritance!

This she vowed over the newspaper scrap as she read
the menacing words.

Well, this abyss must be bridged.

She glanced toward the rector.

He was anxiously looking her way.

By that warm heart help was near !

_ She resolved to send the rector to London to warn her
friends not to answer the advertisement.

She bade Flora destroy the paper (for it must be remem-
bered that all this time her own hands were useless), and
then she sauntered back to the house.

When within hail, Sir Marcus hailed her, as she knew
he would, and detained her talking for a minute.

“When Miss Ingrave goes out riding this evening,”
said Jane, giving Mr. Gardiner a significant glance, “I
May come out and walk again. Since you are not going
away from the village this evening’’—another meaning
giance—‘‘I shall be gladif you will walk over with that
book. You will find me in the shrubbery.”

And with a glance at. the summer-house (which Mr.
Gardiner took in and bowed assent to), and a conven-
ie adieu, Mrs, Colonel Thorncliff sauntered into the
10use. :

That afternoon, in spite of all the doctors in Christen-
dom, the letter home was written at last.

Sad work it was, and many a heavy sigh did she heave
over it; but love and fear upheld her sinking strength,
and the task was achieved, *

Nothing for Mr, Gardiner to do but to go to Angel Court,
give a brief outline of her career, and hand her mother
the letter,

Far as she had strayed from the noble path of truth,
Jane humbly hoped her motive would be accepted, and
so her wrongdoing forgiven.

Miss Ingrave was wont to ride out in the afternoon,
escoried by her admirer and followed by a groom, = -

oe Ingrave went out, a8 usual, this afternoon at five
o'clock.

From my lady’s-windows Jane watched the approach
to the house for two hours, yet no rector appeared. It
was pretty deep twilight—almost on the verge of night,
in fact—when, heart-sick with suspense, she at iength
bade Fiora to wrap her in her thick, dark waterproof,
and went out to waitin the summer-house.

A few minutes after she had taken her seat she heard
the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and, peering through the
twining vines which mantied the lattice-work, she be-
held Miss Ingrave and my lord sweep up to the door in
gallant style. She gave up her project in despair. She
could not venture to wait there for Mr. Gardiner without
exposing him to the suspicions of the baron.

She was leaving the summer-house when she saw the
pair, instead of parting at the door, stroll down the ter-
race steps and turninto the shrabbery. ~

She stepped back into the darkness of the arbor to allow
them to pass, So vehement was her detestation of them
both that at any time she would have gone @ mile out of
her way to avoid them, ,

On they came, Miss Ingrave holding up her dark, rich
riding-dress from her pretty, arched feet, my lord’s waxy
face gleaming wan and corpse-like ‘in the dusk—straight
on to the door ef the summer-house,

Jane’s heart turned hot and sick, Suppose they were
to stay there until Mr. Gardiner innocently made his ap-
pearance-in answer to her himt of the morning! She must
pass them, however odious to brushthe person of a
would-be murderess and to touch her father’s foe.

A word was spoken, however, that rooted her to the
spot—as unable to move as if she had been paralyzed.

My lord was leaning hishuge frame against one door-
post, his upturned profile bulbous, dropsical, disgustingly
defined against the pallid evening sky. Miss Ingrave was
leaning against the opposite door-post, her charming blue

cut from a newspaper, running

of her

x

eyes fixed upon him with a singular, dove-like softness
and anxiety. ;

“Marian Brace!’? muttered my lord.
advertise for her friends also.”

A pleasant hearing for the pseudo Marian Brace!

“My lord,’ said Miss Ingrave, uneasily, ‘I jear to do
anything sorash. Sir Marcus would turn me out of yon-
der gates shouldIdothis. Why not advertise for her
friends yourself?’

‘My pretty ally,’? observed he, taking out his jeweled
snuff-box and tapping it with one tinted nail, ‘‘l love to
be served by you. That is why.’?

Two tears rushed into her upraised eyes.

“Do you?” faltered she, in a trembling voice. ‘You
know I would die to serve you?”

“By Jove!’ drawled mylord. Then stopping to take
snuff and be absorbed in nasal sensations for a few mo-
— he continued: ‘“That’s equal to a declaration al-
most.

A hot blush dyed -her cheeks, her head drooped—Miss
Ingrave was abashed.

“You know whatI mean,’ said she, hastily. ‘I owe
all that I have to you, and of course it is my duty to obey
you.

“And you always do your duty, don’t you?” jibed my
lord, wiping the ends of his fingers upon his delicate
handkerchief. “Good girl! What an idiot Thorncliif was
to marry the woman in there instead of you! She doesn’t
worry much about duty, I fancy; ifshe hasa purpose,
she goes through with it neck or nothing.”’

“And so do I, don’t 1??? exclaimed she, quickly.

‘“Humph! yes, with reservations. Rash? bah! What
do you fear?” -

“Defeat,’? said Miss Ingrave, ‘‘and then disgrace. My
lord, you are at times a hard taskmaster. When I haye
done this in obedience to your command——”’ \

“Suggestion, dear girl,’? interposed Lord Adderley.

“It isa command which I dare not disobey,” said she,
sharply. ‘‘When I have performed it, should Sir Marcus
observe the advertisement and tax me with inserting it,
who will protect me from the consequences of his
wrath ??

There was a short silence.

My lord looking serenely down upon her seemed quite
unaware that such a question could be answered by him.

A blaze shot from the lady’s eyes, and she ground her
teeth like a young fury. y

“What has come over you?’? gasped she, her voice
changed by passion; ‘is it nothing to you whether I live
or die? Where are all the kind promises of protection
and reward with which you beguiled me when you first
told me the history of your Cousin Anthony, and com-
manded me to watch for his daughter Jane? I have
done all I could for you—have scarcely eaten or slept since
the night I saw Lady Thornciiff on her knees kissing the
hand of Marian Brace under Anthony Adderley’s por-
trait, and calling her Anthony’s daughter! I have lived
the life of aspy. I have imprisoned myself day by day to
watch her; and because my first trap for her has failed
you treat me with derision, and exact a service from me
which will cost me my position in Childerwitch.”

My lord was buttoning up his riding-coat and. drawing
on his left-hand riding-glove very deliberately.

“Good-night,’? drawled he, holding out his wan right
hand.

Miss Ingtave looked wildly in his cold, stolid face,
struck dumb.

He shrugged his huge shoulder, turned on his heel, and
was lounging otf. .

‘Come back!’ faitered she, choking with agitation.

He came back a step with an odiously indifferent air
of good humor. She held out her pretty taper hands im-
ploringly; tears sparkled in her eyes; a charming diffi-
dence overspread her tair cheeks with rich blushes.

“Are you angry with me, Dimon?” breathed she.

He took her hands loosely in his one great palm, drew
her closer, and looked in her face. ; i

“What! crying??? said my lord, with a slight teasing
laugh. “You young crocodile! What de you intend to
force me to say? Out with it!”

“What is to become of meit you desert me?’’ cried
Miss Ingrave, despairingly, while her large, beautiful
eyes flashed up to his in passionate appeal.

My lord patted her cheek, but said nothing.

“Lady Thorncliff will no longer suffer me in the house,’?
said Miss Ingrave,; putting a fierce restraint upon herself
that she might speak calmly. ‘Her last words were to
accuse me of being in league with you to keep Anthony
Adderley out of his rights; her first words, should she
ever recover—and the doctors say there is hope—will be
to order me from Childerwitch. You are setting me
tasks to perform which will make Sir Marcus also my
enemy, for I assure you he is infatuated with that woman;
and my only safety until my lady recovers enough to de-
nounce me is to keep on friendly terms with Sir Marcus.
You know that whenever my lady can speak that woman
will get from her the whole story of the disinheritance of
your cousin. Can you not find me some safer mode by
which I can get her out of the house before my lady re-
covers? She once gone, my lady will not venture to speak
in behalf of amanof whom Sir Marcus used to be so
jeaious.”?

My lord, indolently lounging against the door post
softly rubbing his large soft hands while he listened to
her eager reasoning, liere deigned to reply.

“My good creature, it not infrequently occurs to me
that all your suspicions of the woman up there are based
on jealousy.”’ ,

She bit her lip and looked- disconcerted—only for a mo-
ment, though. :

“As a perfectly impartial witness, having no personal

interest in the affair, do you see nothing to suspect?’ de-
manded she, bitterly.
- “Dol? Oh, come now, you expect too much of mel”
drawled my lord, lazily admiring her perfect neck as she
‘drew ithaughtily up. ‘‘It is your province to look after
my spyereet ou are here to look after my interests; I
haye nothing to do with it but to listen to your amusing
experiences, and to give a helping hand, if so inclined,
whien your ingenuity seems to fail you.”

This my lord uttered as lightly and teasingly as if he
were indeed an indifferent onlooker, laughing in his sleeve
at her fanatical intrigues.

She wrung her handsin a momentary passion of de-
spair, yet there. was a certain yearning satisfaction in her
tone as she answered:

“I know Iam your bondslave, held in chains which 1
cannot break—and love to wear,’ she added, almost ina
whisper. ‘But, my lord, if you suppose Iam jealous of
Marian Thorncliff because she married my betrothed, you
are wonderfully mistaken. Inmever cared a straw for
Lawry Thorneliff, although, since you had ordained that I
was to marry him and my lady ran mad after the same
idea, [intended to do so. I never loved him. I tell you
so, solemnly.”?

‘“‘Heigh hol’? yawned my lord. ‘What does it matter
whether you did or pot? Who is made better or worse ?”’

She gave him a look of most impassioned meaning.

Intent on his nails he did not observe it.

“You called me jealous,’”’ said she, bitterly.

“Possibly I did not think of the late Colonel Thornciliff,”
observed he, in his most derisive tone.

She gazed at him attentively, and her breast began to
heave.

My lord’s tipped fingers hovered round his faintly smil-
ing lips as if they were feeding him with some delicious
food.

At length she gasped:

“Do you mean that I am jealous of Miss Thorncliff for
your sake ?”

‘“Pogsibly,’? answered my lord.

“J could not be jealous of her in that way,’? said Miss
Ingrave, scornfully, but her bosom was heaving higher
and higher, ‘‘unless indeed her ugliness amouuts to fasci-

atjon.’? j

Lord Adderley Jaid back his huge head and Jaughed en-
joyably.

Then he said:

“Annabel, that vbete noir of yours is positively the
grandest woman [have ever met. Physical beauty sinks
into insignificance beside the enthusiastic bravery, seif-
sacrifice and resolution of her character. If in time you
cannot prove her to be my evemy’s daughter, my oath on
it but Pil be tempted to make her the lady of Eywood
Chace.”’

There was dead silence.

The girl in the twilight gazed into vacancy with a look
to freeze one’s blood; the girl in the dark behind her grew
cold as death with mortal fear.

Was this a wily ruse of my lord’s to goad Annabel In-
grave on to destroy her ?

Or—horrible thought!—was she indeed an object of ad-
miration to Dimon Adderley ?

Miss Ingrave suddenly stepped out in front of my lord,
and with her two wild, flashing eyes fixed upon him and
one trembling hand pointing toward the evening sky, she
said, with blood-curdiing fury;

‘Before Heaven, 1 swear that she shall never live to see
that day!” ;

Lord Adderley, lounging comfortably against the sum-
Mer-house, fogering his red lips, and laughing with his
greenish, globular eyes, seemed so very like a demon
gloating over a glimpse of murder, that Miss Ingrave,
even in her delirious passion, gazed with terror and awe
upon him, and saying, hoarsely:

“Oh, Dimon, Dimon, would youhave me do that 2
staggered away from him, pale as ashes and moaning to
herself. 4

Left by himself Lord Adderley hissed a short laugh or
two, refreshed himself with snuff, carefully flicked the
particles off his riding-coat, and sauntered off to his big,
black horse, which a groom was walking up and down iu
front of the house,

A few minutes subsequently he was trotting gently
down the drive, his white face turned up to the sky.

» Jane sank upon a seat, faint and trembling.

Dangers on every side, threatening—threatening!

The rector had said, *‘Fly!? Lord Adderley’s insinua-
tion echoed warningly, “Fly!’? Miss Ingrave’s menance
had repeated with tenfold urgency, ‘Fly! fly!”

She was helpless; the\game was passing out of her
hands.

These two knew that she was Jane Vail as well as she
knew it herself, They were only hastening to prove it to
Sir Marcus and so expose her as an impostor that she
might lose her only friend. And then what would befall
her?

She crouched in the dark of the summer-house, weep-
bitterly. :

es, she must fly. .
Back she must go to the flower-making days, with her
poor dittle made up story, to her mother, while her heart
was broken over the failure of her purpose. ;

And Anthony Vail must die in his cell. What? Die
there? Nol no! no! Never, while the blood flows in
Jennie’s veins and warms her heart with love!

No! no! no! Never, while a demon usurps his place,
slothful in security, lolling in luxuriousness!

“J will not desert my post!” said Jane, resolutely. ‘‘Suo-
cess or death !”

“True, you might

in

 

ERLY. 22=-

o

She calmed herself to think. A cautious footfall stared
her—a tall, slight figure stood in the doorway, earnestly
looking in.

“Mr. Gardiner,’ said Jane, softly.

It was Mr. Gardiner, and he came in, and stoed before
her very stiffly. ‘

‘Leave this place at once!’ said he, sternly, without a
word of preface. ‘I cannot—I dare not blaecken my soul
by upholding you in your deceit. Wretched girll you have-
ruined me—you have forced me to utter falsehood to save
you from destruction.’

“Heaven must have putit in your heart,’ said she, hum-
pas ye “It was a piece of kindness which I can never for-
get.

‘What could have tempted you to deceive Sir Marcus
Thorncliff??? demanded the rector, not heeding her; “and
above all, to deceive that good, gentle lady, his wife ?””
“There was no other way for me to learn my father’s
history, it seemed,’ faltered she, shamefacedly.

‘Did you never hear,’’ said Mr. Gardiner, sadly, “that
‘God can take care of His world without your lie to help.
Him? And not only yours—see what guilt is mine. Oh,
my poor gir], this is a sad, sad business! Come—will you
accompany me this evening? I will place you in safety
with my sister at Little Catesby.”’

His tone was so unmistakably kind, despite the reproofs,
which he uttered, that tears rushed into her eyes.

She had indeed involved him in her wrong-doing in a@
way that must have been inexpressibly galling to him.
The feeling of degradation which had fallen upon him the
moment he had uttered that falsehood to save her from
the clutches of a man whom he believed wicked enough
to destroy her, evinced its presence in his haggard looks,
and yehement urging of her to release him from a parti-
cipation in her imposture.

 

disgrace of dishonor for her sake, she felt her heart rise
up against the baseness of thus immolating him as well
as herself upon the altar of falsehood. Was it just thathe
should contract guilt that remorse could never wash away
because she chose to walk through a guilty by-way to res-
cue Ber father?
Shame, Jennie! shame!
Oh, bitter day that she strayed from truth!
Her heart tore her two ways—conscience plead for the
rector—love plead for the convict.
She began tocry wildly, distractedly. It was no use for
the rector to ask, in alarm, what was the matter, to
soothe her with kind commonplaces.
. Her poor, generous, brave, erring little heart was
breaking. ;
When he had said “Fly for your own sake,’’ she had
flatly refused to desert her post; but when he now said,
“Fly, for my sake!’? ah! that was a different matter.

She stood up at Jast, shaking, poor soul, im every. limb.
“I will go, then,’ said she, choking with grief. “Heaven
help my poor father! I will go. Take me home toe
mother.’?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

JUST COMMENCED.

Tightrope Tim;

THE HEIR IN SPANGLES.

By Burke Brentford,
Author of SQUIRREL CAP, MOCCASIN MOSE,
GOLD-DUST DARRELL, FLORENCE
FALKLAND, etc., etc.

 

[“Tight-Rope Tim’? was commenced in No. 5. Back numbers.
can be obtained from any News Agent in the United Siates.}

CHAPTER VII.
BRINZSKI’8 NARROW ESCAPE FROM LYNCH Livy,

The steamer which was to convey Brinzski and his
show up the Missouri started at daylight, and the pepula-
tion of ihe border town at which the troupe had last been
performing were heavy sleepers.

Brinzski's energies arose with the dangers that had so
unexpectedly thickened around him. He and his wife
aroused Silas Shanks aud Dismal Drake to a@ sense of
their danger, and were busy all night, while the rest of
the tavern and town were asleep. By great exertion
and greater caution they managed to get their baggage
aboard the boat an hour belore daylight.

 

room, and dressed them warmly and comfortably. The
girl) was so used lo being tyrannized over that a mere
giance from La Vallette prevented her from giving the
alarm. Tim had recovered from his swoon to find him-~

bar-room, which he found entirely deserted, without,
knowing how he had got there. He knew nothing: of the-
commotion his scream had occasioned in the tavern, and
Jooked upon these preparations as the usual ones preceds.
ing a move of the show. : ;

Beside, the application of the salt-water, eruel-as it had
been, had hada beneficial effect upon his injuries, and
he was well able to stand and walk.

The party proceeded noiselessly through the deserted
bar-room to the door, it being Brinzski’s intention, as
soon as they were aboard the boat, to bribe the captain to
get up steam and be off ut once,

But when he opened the door and looked out upon the
slowly-lightening lunding-place, to his dismay, and appre-
hension he saw that the way was blocked. by. an excited
knot of men, who hailed his appearance with a shout
of execration.

‘‘Here they are, thinking to sneak away before any of
us knowed it!’ shouted one. ;

“Gome out here, old boy-skinner, and let’s have a look
at yer!’ jeered another,

“What! they’ve got the young ’uns with ’em, too!’
cried a third, as the signor hesitatingly came out, followec
by his party.

The crowd quickly augmented. The tavern was aroused,
and, as the sun rose, the burly landlord bimuself made his
appearance, followed by some of tiiose who. had been ac-
tors or spectators in the seene of the preeeding night.

The landlord commenced proceedings witha lang string
of oaths and imprecations, aimed chiefly at Bringski and
La Vailette, and swore that whatever was decided,;about
Brinzski, the children should nut be carried away against
their will.

Cruel and barbarous as he was, Brinzski possessed; 2.
force of will which had ere this stood him in good stead,
Word came from the captain of the boat that steam was:
up, and he could not dejay shoving off much longer. The
case was desperate.

Brinzski by a great effort restored his nerves, and, step-
ing iorth, boldly addressed the growd. : ;

He said that he had organized his troupe after great
trouble and expense. All of its members were paid by
him (a scandalous lie, concerning our hero and Little
Cobweb, neither of whom had ever received a cent), and,
the traveling expenses of all were supplied by him. It

performers under their charge, when purposely remiss in
their duties. As for his castigation of the youth under
his charge on the previous night—the second time he had
ever been compelled to do so in his lifell—he admitted
that he had been too severe. But, on account of some
slight verbal reproof on his part, the lad, who possessed
the temper of a fiend, had flown at him like a wild-cat,
and fastened his teeth in his tiroat, the marks of which
he would exhibit to any one present. He admitted that
he had lost his temper, but thought that, in a measure, he
should be held excusable.

* «How about the little gal, okl man?” cried a, voice from

the crowd. ‘She was nearly dead from the licking she
had received from that old tiger-cat of a wife of yourn.
That poor little critter don’t look as if she could hite any
one in the gullet.”

“From my wifel? exclaimed the signor, raising lis
hand to Heaven, as if utterly astounded. ‘My wile never
struck her in her life. It’s the poer little thing’s brother,
Tim, here, who beats her. I tell you he has the temper of
an imp of Satan. We never venture to leave them alone
fora moment, for fear that he wiiltake her life. 3 ac-
knowledge it was unpardonable negiect on our part that
we let them come together last night; but we ask your
pardon, and promise it shall never occur again.”

“You're a liar!’ fairly screeched Tim, fairly appalled at
this tremendous fabrication, his face white and his whole
frame quivering with passion.

“Look at him, gentlemen!” said the signor, pointing at
him with mingled contempt and commisseration, ‘That
is just what his appearance was before he flew atiny
throat last night.”

The Jad’s appearance certainly seemed to confirm, in
part at least, what had been said of him. He seemed to
be ina paroxysm, further words failed him, and what
was really the result of the sufferings he had undergone
Was ascribed by many to be the ebullition of uncontrol-
lable rage.

Another urgent message came from the captain of the
steamer, and still the crowd showed no indications of dis-
persing. The signor was almost in despair.

But at this moment a bilack-bearded, well-dressed gen-
tleman, astranger in the town, pushed his way through
the crowd, and said: :
“Gentlemen, I can vouch for the truth of the signor’s
remarks, and { think he exhibits an extraordinary gener."
osity of character in omitting to mention one of the worst
features of the precious lad’s antecedents. itis well-known
among New York showman that, only a year ago, the
young scamp attempted to poison his little sister here by
putting arsenic in some ice-cream, which her mother, or-
rather the kind-hearted madame had given her, Lam a
complete stranger here, 0A my way up the river, but here, |
sir,” addressing the landlord, ‘is my card. It bears &
name that is not all unknown in the City of New York,’*
The landlord read aloud from the card a name, which,
was, indeed, a prominent one. The stranger's. air ang&
words were those of a polished gentleman; and, the crowg
dispersed in all directions, ,

Without more ado, Signor Brinzski hurried his troupe
on board of the steamer, which, @ moment later, pushed
out into the stream. Tim had no sooner touched the deck
than, overcome by physical aud mental exhaustion com-
bined, he fell senseless. ;

Brinzski took his wife aside, and whispered:

“Take him to your own state-room, and mind, na
further severity to either him or the girl. They can't,
stand any more at present, and we must get them in Cot»
dition for our approaching performances.” _

With the assistance of Dismal Drake, La V alette con-
veyed the unconscions Tim to her state-room, with many
expressions of endearment for the benefit of other puk-

 

sengers in the immediate vicinity.
The steamer had only proceeded a few yards outin the

   

Looking wpon that gentleman of honor suffering the .

They then carried Tim anda Little Cobweb to Bringski’s _

self ensconced in a comfortable chair before a fire in the:

was the custom of all managers to castigate the juvenile .

 

 

ba ae

—— —

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

, fore.

=
N
s

 

 

stream when two men were seen rushing down the land-
ing, beckoning earnestly to be taken on hoard. One of
them was an eccentric-looking, spectacled old gentleman,
andthe other « good-looking, well-dressed young gentle-
man, With a fresh, florid faces ;

Ot course no atlention was paid to their signals by the
captain, as he was already an hour behind time in start-
ing; but the attention of many of the passengers was at-
tracted to the belated ones—among others BrinZzski.

“Do you see the younger of those two men on the land-
ing?’ asked a voice close behind him.

Brinzski turned to reply, and saw in the speaker the
black-bearded, handsomely-dressed stranger, whose ready
seconding had befriended him so materially in the angry
crowd but a few moments before.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Well, mark him keenly,’ said the stranger, ‘‘for he is
following you up to do you misclien”

“Tiiank you kindly,*’ said Bringski, going apart with
the other. ‘And now, will you honor ine by informing
me to whom I owe the service you rendered me this
morning? Singular enough, too,” added the Italian,
With a chuckle; ‘for I never before heard of the infamous
poisoning propensities of Tim, which you lit off so hap-
pily, and which did me more service than I can ex-
press,”?

“Nor I,’ said.the other, coolly.
state-room for a moment?”

Brinzski, as requested, followed? the stranger into his
State-room, and the door was closed. /

“Now, Brinzski, old fellow!” said he, pulling off his false
beard, and disclosing the sinister features of Walter Mout-
rose; ‘‘now, to business!’

Brinzski was sometime in recovering from the amaze-
ment in which this sudden transformation plunged him;
but a draught from the other’s brandy-flask helped him
to do so.

“And what brings you up here, sir?’ said the Italian.
“‘Ain’t I doing my duty? Ain't I fulfilling my part of the
contract ?”?

“Yes,’? replied Montrose; ‘‘that is, sofar as was agreed
by both, But I want more—in fact, to inake a fresh con-

tract.”
OHAPTER VIII.
THE VILLAINS AGAIN IN COUNCIL.

*In the first place,’ said Mr. Montrose, when he and
Brinzski had seated themselves as comfortably in the
étateyoom of the steamer as its narrow accommodations
‘would“admit, ‘tell me all about the circumstances that
a you into troubie among the good peopie on sliore there,

ad, my beauty! you came very near being scragged.
‘With wlese border villains here it’s a short step from the
lightest suspicion to the tightest halter.” ; t

“Yes,’? said Brinzski, growing pale at recollecting the
narrowness of liis escape; ‘‘and it was all along of that
brat of a Tim.”? And he forthwith gave the other a succinct
account of everything that had taken place the night be-

“Will you: come to my

“But what made the lad yell so after you had left him?

Who salted down his back ??? ea

«J more than suspect it was Mr. Shanks, my contortion-
ist, who loves Tim about as much as if he was a scorpion;
and, now that we’re well out of it, 1’m glad that the salve
Was applied,” said Brinzski, laughing quite boisterously.

But Montrose did not laugh. He was nota coarse vil-
lain, merely to rejoice in the sufferings of another when
they served to further no end of his own. , He thought
deeply for amement, and then said: :

“Brinzski, the pkin you suggested at Worcester, and
which I rejected, was the best after all. Change of name,
and all that sort of thing, will not effectually conceal the
identity of the lad. He must be put to rest.”

He said this in a low, intense voice, as if with great ef-
fort, and cast a meaning glance at ee other. But the
Italian, much to his surprise, objected.

“‘It is impossible, for somevime at least, sir,’! said he.
*My combination wouldn't dyaw more thana Punch and
Judy show without Tightrope Tim; he’s the best card I
have. How could I replace him in this wild country ??

“But you must replace him—I mean he must be got rid
of somehow.” j

“But I can’t, sir, Thatis,’’ added the Italian, explana-
torily, “I’m afraid you would not give what the loss would
be to my business.’’

“You've certainly lost Jittle by me, thus far, with the

' two thousand dollars you’ye got of me, you old villain!”
exclaimed Montrose, losing his temper at the yecollection
of how that charming transaction had told upon his own
finances.

“Don’t be so peppery, sir!’’ sneered the other, with a
eool effrontery he would not have dared to assume at
their first interview. ‘There are. young villains as well
as old, and the old ones, of my own knowledge, always
have their price,”

Montrose bit his lip ashe began to realize that he had,
indeed, placed Iimself completely under the Italian’s
thumb, while the latter noticed the effect of his words
With an audible chuckle,

“Well, how much do you want to get rid of the boy?”
said Montrose, controlling himself with an effort.

“In the first place how do you wantit done? With my
own hands or my wife's, fair aud open, or by some acci-
dentin the ring?”

“Any way. Why couldn’t you, for instance, throw him
overboard to-night while we're afloat?

Brinzski shook his head.

“J’ve just come out of too narrow an escape with that
mob back there torisk anythingof the kind,’ was the
reply. “Besides, P ve made the eugagement and placarded
the whole town up the river here, and must go through
some of the performances agreed omorit- mayn't prove
agreeable tome. Them fellows up there are worse than
the ones we’ve left behind.’’

«Well, suppose you bring it about during your engage-
ment, how much do you want?" ‘

“T won’t be hard on you,’ said Brinzski, scratching his
chin reflectively. “No mancan say as how I was ever
hard on any one. Vill boil it down fine—say, five thou-
sand dollars.”?

“Five thousand furies!’? exclaimed Montrose, spring-
ingto his feet aghast. ‘Do you suppose I’m made of
money ?’’ oe :

“Perhaps not now,’? was the cool reply; “but I've my
quiet suspicions as how you would be made of money,
and whole ship-loads, too, if this little Jjob—which was
proposed by you, remember—was carried out to your sat-
isfaction.”

Montrose jwent to the little window of the state-room,
plungea his hands deepinto his pockets, and gazed out
upon the gliding stream and slowly-clhanging shores, ab-
sorbed in gloomy thought. Even with the many pecula-
tions he had made upon the estate of which he was the
executor, he had not halfthe ready money demanded,
and had only brought afew hundreds with him. Indeed,
in his hasty departure from New York he had not alto-
gether decided upon the course regarding Tim he had af-
terward determined to pursue. ’

“At what hour is the boat due at Rum Town—the place
you are to play at?” he suddenly asked, turning abruptly
upon the ltalian.

“To-morrow, at noon.” i

“Well,”? said Montrose, assuming his easy manner and
false whiskers at the same time, “between then and now

‘you will be informed whether J intend to pursue this dirty
‘affair or Jet it drop.”

“Let it drop!” repeated the other, his obsequiousness
retufaing atthe possible prospect of losing a good bar-
gain alter all. ‘However, sir, perhaps you’d best think it
Over. Its a ticklish business,’ he added, approaching
nearer, and speaking in alow voice. ‘Me and my wife
never leave a thing like this done by halves, if it so comes
as you don’t alter'your mind.’

“Don’t imagine that I doubt the capacity of either or
both of you for any dark deed,” said Montrose, with his
hand upon the door-knob, "

“Stay, sir, before you go. Please tell me more about
the young gent as failed to get aboard, and as you warned
ame against.”

“He is the agentand particular friend of the lady in
Search of the lad. Put himout of the wayif he ever
crosses you, and make sure work of it; for his mission, if
successful, means the State’s prison or the gallows for
you, my man.”

And with that he opened the door and disappeared.

‘Perhaps 80, my fine sweill!’? moodily muttered the
Italian, with his eyes fixed upon the closed door; ‘but if
it’s State’s prison for me, it’s State’s prison for you; and
gallows jor me, why, gallows for yourself.’

* CHAPTER IX.
OUR HERO OVERBOARD,

When Tightrope Tim awoke from his swoon, he found
himself lying ina berth of one of the most*comfortabie
staterooms on the steamer. To his still greater surprise,
he found La Vallette bathing his forehead with vinegar,
While Little Cobweb was cozily asleep upon a lounge.

Had not his bitter experience of the past convinced
him that such was the fact, a glance into the cold, cruel
eyes of the woman at his side would have speedily re-
minded him that her ministrations were born not of kind-
ness, but of professional instinct.

Seeing Tim revive, she contemptuously tossed aside the
Sponge she had used, and awoke Little Cobweb by a
sharp kick. The child first rubbed her eyes, and then
Gave a little cry of delight at seeing that Tim was awake
and corscious.

“None of that, you minx!’ exclaimed La Yaliette, shak-
ing her roughly.

Then, as she seized a comb and brush, and began to
dress and curl the child’s beautiful hair, she continued in
a softer voice, but one which was none the less malicious
in its mocking undercurrent:

“Now, my beauty, you and I are to go out among the
afternoon promenaders on the guard. You and our poor,
poor, sick little boy Tim here, are to have this stateroom
between you, The doctor says it is necessary for your
dear, darling little healths, you know. But all of the pas-
gengers are anxious to see the beautiful, cunning little
girl who goes through such astonishing performances,
and what a Kind, benevolent more-than-mother she has
in her good La Vallette, you know. And s0 they shall,
dearie. They don’t guess,” she added, with a muttering
laugh, ‘that we’re ouly mending you up for another fast-
ing, you young wretclies!?

She threw a pretty little scarlet cape over the girl's
Shoulders, made some additions to her own toilette, and
Jed her out by the door that opened upon the shady guard,

Men, while his little companion was being petted by the
ladies, and given cakes and candies by the finely-dressed
Children, aud patted on the head by the gentlemen, and
fil were admiring how tenderly she was cared for by the
smiling Valiette, Tim was left alone in thestateroom wil
his own reflections.

Tie events that had occurred to tim since his quilting
the tavern swam throngh his head in a misty, incisunct
Way, aud he gradually gathered up the links to the mo-
ment when he swooned on the lower deck,

Indeed, his swoon had not resulted 80 mveh from physi-
Cal exhaustion as frem a species Of menial paralysis, or

 

 

dine

 

  
  

anguish. When the angry mob had surrounded the party
on the landing he thought that the hour of his deliverance
Was at hand. (

But the astounding lies of Brinzski, combined with his
physical condition, had appalled him; and the sudden
Gonfirmation of those falsehoods by a stranger—a fine-ap-
pearing gentleman—whom he had never seen before, had
completely paralysed his tongue beyond the power of ut-
terance. Hedimly remembered being walked away from
those rude men who had meant to do him good, from
whom he had expected release, and the duil, aching,
silent anguish and despair that had possessed his ieart
and brain,

He remembered reaching the deck of the steamer, the
sudden, lightning-like shock that it was, indeed, all over
with him, And that was all.

Now and then he would hear the prattle of children
romping by the door, and he wondered whether any ol
those joyous one guessed, or dreamed, that there was any
such life of misery, degredation and despair as was his
and Little Cobweb’s, p

Still, as he grew drowsy, the sounds and impressions
around him assumed a pleasant and soothing character,
until he fell asleep. ;

Wien he awokeit was quite dark. He could hear the
gentle respiration of another occupant of the state-room,
and he knew it to procecd from Little Cobweb asleep on
the lounge upon which he had last seen her.

He knew it could not be very late, for he heard afew
steps yet lingering without, and now and then the glow
from the cigar of some passing lounger would shed a soft
light upon his face.

He sank into another doze. When he awoke again he
Knew the hours had slipped into the dead of night. Not
a step could be heard upon the guard. Not a sound dés-
turbed the stillness of the night, save that of the paddle-
wheels striking the water and the regular puff of the en-

ine.

r His drowsiness covtinued, and he would doubtless have
speedily dropped off again had not his quick ear detected
a stealthy fuotfall without.

It was soft, velvety and gliding, like that of a cat, but
he knewit was not a Cat's step; and presently he felt that
some one was peering into the open door.

He thought it ust be Brinzski, who had come to see Ii
he was in asufficiently revived condition to stand a little
midnight punishment, and he half-closed his eyes and
held his breath to counterfeit the continuance of his
swoon,

But a man’s dark face peered over him, and out of the
very gloom he saw that it was not the face of the Italian.

He sprang into a sitting posture in alarm.

But at that instant a strong hand closed over his mouth
With stifling force, a strong arm wound about his waist,
like aserpent, and despite his struggles he felt himself
lifted up and carried out into the open air.

He was laid across the rail—he saw the foaming water
flash Hehind the revolving paddle-wheel, and it burst upon
him that he was to be murdered—cast into the flood and
drowned.

He kicked,. clawed and struggled like a catamount.
Again and again he bit and gnawed the hand over his
mouth, He brought to bear eyery nerve, muscle and
sinew which the years of tremendous training hdd made
like bands of steel and rods of iron. He fought and
struggled as he lad never done before.

The hand over his mouth, from the pain of those sharp
teeth meeting through its feshy palm, was momentarily
Withdrawn, with a muttered curse. ?

The lad took advantage of that instant to give utterance
to a ringing, piercing, unearthly shriek.

But he was already ouiside the rail, clinging to it with
a clutch of despair.

He gave another shriek. Then his assailant struck
him a tremendous blow with his fist in the forehead.
Tim tost his grip, tottered back, and then tumbled head-
long into the foaming flood.

CHAPTER X.
TIM’S RESCUE.

But those wild, despairing screams which burst from
the lips of our hero before his unknown assailant suc-
ceeded in hurling him into the great Missouri River, had
penetrated the ears of almost every sleeper on the
steamer.

“Man overboard! man overboard!) was shouted by
many voices; and, as the passengers trooped ont upon
the guards and lights began to flash from deck to deck,
the pilot rang the signal to back engine.

The captain rushed out of his cabin in which he had
happily been solacing himself with drinks and cigars, in-
stead of Nature's sweet restorer.

His quick, sharp commands, were acted upon as by
magic. And scarcely five minutes after those shrieks of
terror were heard, two boats, with pine-knot torches in
their prows, and sturdy oarsmen at their rowlocks, were
gliding down the stream to the rescue. yn

The utmost excitement prevailed among the officers
and passengers on the steamer,

“Who is it overboard???

‘Was it a suicide?” ;

“Perhaps & murder—didn’t you hear the shrieks ?’’

The pilot had been relieved, and was down on deck con-
versing with the captain and a number of watehmen, the
whole group surrounded by half-dressed passengers.

“It was a murder, or an attempt ‘at it, ’d take my
oath!” said the pilot, solemnly.

“Speak out what you know, Jack, and be quick!” said
the commander. : :

“I heerd an orfal scuffle goin’ on,” said= the pilot.
“1Peared.to be righthere on the guard, ahind the wheel-
house, and only lasted two or three seconds, and then
some one growled out a cuss or two, then comed them or-
ful squeals, then a splash, and then I heerd some one
went leapin’ and runnin’ along the guard like a scared
cat, and then I stopped the injine.’’ ;

At this moment @ woman’s scream attracted all atten-
tion, and La Vallette came running frantically toward the
group.

She was only half-dressed, and carried Little Cobweb in
her arms,

“It's little Tim!’ she cried, with unaffected excitement.
“He's notin his berth, and was too sick even to crawl,
unless fighting for his life. Oh, it’s poor, poor Tim!”

‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Brinzski, who now made his
appearance upon tlie scene with nothing but his trowsers
on.

He also rushed to the cabin where Tim had Jain; but
returned with the same report. The unaffected hopeless-
ness and despair of his wife and himself excited the sym-
pathy and commiisseration of the ehtire group.

“Had the lad an enemy on the boat?’* asked the cap-
tain, kindly. +

“N-n-n-o! not onel’? stammered Brinzski, gulping at
the lie as his mind reverted to Walter Montrose.

“Could he swim???

“Like a fishi"’ replied Brinzski, this time speaking the
truth with more emphasis than was his wont,

“Search the steamer and see if the littie fellow isn't
stowed away somewhiere,” said the captain, and anum-
ber of watchmen, with their lanterns swinging, started to
do his bidding.

In the meantime, most of the passengers, with some
hasty addition to their dress, Clustered at the stern to
watch the motions of the boats, which were now nearly a
mile away, their torches growing dim in the distance.

To retura to the boats themselves. On quitting the
steamer they took either side of the current and procéed-
ed slowly down the river, their Janterns casting a broad
giare over the muddy waters, and the lookout in each
eagerly scanning the space between.

“We might as well give up,’ said one of the oarsmen
in the foremost boat, after a little while. “The poor fel-
low, whoever he is, must have gone under long afore this.
Who knows but wiiat he was kuifed or clubbed afore he
ever touched water ?”?

« “Howld your music, ye blackguard!”’ cried the lookout
and steersman. ‘We'll niver give up the sarch if we pull
a hoondred miles,”! .

The others applauded this manly Irish sentiment, and
the grambler held his peace.

Presently the lookout gave a shout.

‘Hooray!’ he cried. ‘‘There’s a big sawyer ahead, an’
I see something sticking on its back, like a baby turtle.
Pull with a will, lads!’

Perhaps many of our readers, unacquainted with the
nomenclature of Western river men, would like to know
what a “sawyer” is.

Itisa great snag, or log, which has had one end so
firmly imbedded into a sand or mud bank that the current
cannot displace it, and there it remains with the exposed
end heading either up or down stream, as the case may
be, swaying or ‘‘sawing’’ up and down in the action of
the waters, from which meyement it derives its name. It
is more dreaded by pilots than any other species of suag,
and generally remains in its placed till some great freshet
sweeps it away.

Well, toward one of these monsters: that swayed and
nodded its ugly head almost in the middie of the channel,
the foremost boat now made its way.

The speck upon it grew larger and larger, until at last
the flashing torches showed it to be a human figure,
clinging to it and hugging it as for dear life, or—who could
tell ?—perhaps with adifeless grip. ;

“Hooray! hooray! it’s ahuman! an) it’s a wavin’ of its
hand!’ shouted the Irishman.

In’ afew minutes the boat was alongside, and poor,
dripping Tim, witha great lump on his forehead, but with
his eyes open and his lips moving, was dragged aboard,
where, however, he instantly swooned away.

The crews of both boats shouted and swung their torch-
es AS a Signal to those on the steamer thatthe ‘‘man-oyer-
board”? was rescued and alive.

‘ ange they wrapped him in their jackets, and pulled
ack.

Day was just beginning to dawn when the boats swung
alongside the steamer,

‘Ig the lad alive?’ bawled the captain.

“Yis, yer honor, but he’s swoonded!” was the reply.

They lifted him to the deck, and carried him into the
main cabin, where all the ladies who could crowd about
him ministered to his.,resuscitation, while the steamer con-
tinuedou her way.

She stopped atasmall town toleavea few boxes of
freight, ere it was broad daylight, and then moved on up
the lordly stream,

But it was over an hour before Tim recovered sufiicient-
ly to give answer to the queries of the captain, whose
chief anxiety was to discover the author of the murder-
ous and cowardly assault.

Tim could tell but a rambling tale, He had been stealth-
ily snatched from iis berth by an unknown man, and af-
ter a terrible Struggle, forced over the rail, and then
knocked into the river by a blow on the forehead. He
had been at first completely stunned, but the immersion
restored him. Being a capital swimmer, he had man-
aged to keep afloat for’a long time, when his head grazed
the “sawyer.” He managed to seize the log, and climb
on it, Where he Clung till the boat came that liad rescued
rye ese

 

 

-

 

.

“But eould you not recognize your assailant, if you
were to see him again, my brave litule fellow ?’ asked the
captain.

Tim shook his head.

‘No, sir,’’ said he feebly; ‘it was too dark,’’

“Is there nothing by which you could possibly identify
him?”

The lad shook his head again; but, a moment later, ex-
claimed, as if enlightened by a flashing thought:

‘Yes, sir,’ he cried. “He had one hand over my mouth
to keep me from hollerin’, and Z bit it through and
through Jour or five times 1”

He immediately lapsed into astate of semi-insensibility,
and was carried to his berth; but his words had created
a profound sensation,

“Summon all hands into the main cabin, all hands and
the gentlemen passengers!"* roared the captain, ‘We've
got the clew, and we’?ll follow it up!’

He ordered his mate to examine all his men and the en-
gineers. He then mustered the gentlemen in single file,
and attentively examined the hands of each.

There were scars on some—old ones, though, and long
healed; some had lost a finger or two, long ago; and one
or two were covered with warts; but not a hand bore the
impression of a recent wound.

The mate brought up a similar report from below.

The captain scratched his honest old head in angry per-
plexity.

; ‘Stop!’ cried he, suddenly; ‘‘did any one get off at that
landing below ?"!

No; no one thought that any one had gone ashore, ex-
cept the two who had landed the freight over the gang-
piank; and they had at once returned and were then on
board.

But pfesently the mate brought up one of these men,
who thought he’d seen a gentleman jump ashore just as
the boat was shoving out,

“It was a kinder dim light, sir,’? said the man, “but
I’d almost sweer as how ] seed a gent jump ashore and
run up the bluff, kinder as if in a hurry-like.”

“Call the passenger list and see who’s*missing!’ ex-
claimed the skipper, turning to the clerk. ‘We’llfind the
villain’s name, any how.’?

The clerk brought his register and called it over, every
gentleman present answering to his name and the num-
ber of his stateroom.

One stateroom was found to be unanswered foy, one
passenger missing. ;

It’s no difference what the name was, as it was an as-
sumed one; but the missing passenger was Walter Mon-
trose,

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

False Champion.

By Mrs. Helen Corwin Pierce.

(The False Champion” was commenced in No. 43. Back num-
bers can be had from any News Agent in the United States. ]

CHAPTER XLI.

Esther Mount—for the vailed lady was she—waited long
enough to give the boy his other piece of money; then she
left the railway carriage and joined Sir Robert Calthorpe
and the pseudo Ralph Champion.

*You’ve caged him,’? were Sir Robert's first joyful
words. ‘‘What excuse did you make to get him inside
the carriage? Icould think of nothing satisfactory my-
self, and as you said leave that to you, | did so.”

Miss Mount explained.

From the railway terminus she went with Sir Robert
Robert and Crawley to Plantagenet Square.

All three had seen the man they feared so enter the
trap they had provided for him. They congratulated
each other on the success of their nefarious scheme so
far. :

“Tt is marvelous, ls ever getting back to England after
being disposed of so securely as 1 thought he was,’ Sir
Robert said, in his small, sweet yoice; ‘but there has no
harm come of it fortunately. Heis absolutely friendless
now, and completely in our power. Once in Doctor
Mentis’ hands and he might as well be dead, for all the
chance there is of his troubling us again.”’

He leaned back and rubbed his little womanish hands
together softly and smiled. This disposition of the man
he had so wronged pleased his safety-loving, cautious na-
ture much better than the more desperate and murderous
schemes Crawley had advised.

Crawley sneered openly.

“You haven’t got him inside Doctor Mentis’ Retreat
yet,’? hesaid. ‘I shall be easierin my mind when we
have heard from the doctor."

Sir Robert smiled again calmly. He was easy in his
mind now. Doctor Mentis was not one of the sort who
make blunders.

Esther Mount sat and watched the two men with dark
and glitteringeyes. Her handsome face was a dull jeaden
white, her lips were twitching nervously.

“When the messenger comes from Doctor, Mentis, I wish
to return with him,*’ she said.

“To return with him? To tlw Retreat?’ questioned Sir
Robert, inamazement. ‘What for???

“To see that he does not malireat his patient. I won’t
have that—yet, an a og

 

 

“Ohl? uttered Sir Bébert, in. a significant voice, and
coughing slightly, wit Crawley steered again.

Miss Mount did not J0ok at Crawley. To Sir Robert she
said, slowly, pausing between the words as if to give him
ample time to digest them.

“This man belongs to me—I want you to understand
that. You paid himtome. He was my price for serving
you. You are working for me now Rive to remember,
for me first, afterward yourselves. It is for your interest
he should be kept from any course likely to iead him to
a knowledge of the truth. It is for my interest too, but
be very sure now and for all, if you take one step against
him without consulting me, I wt betray everything.”

You will ?”

Sir Robert’s pale orbs surveyed her with a steelly glitter
in their angry depths. Crawley eyed her scowlingly.

‘“T will,” repeated Miss Mount, coldly.

Sir Robert leaned forward and Jooked at her.

“ “Did you, or did you not, get a letter from me at Wool-
ston, proposing this very arrangement with Dr. Mentis?”

“JT received your letter.’

“And telegraphed me a virtual consent to the plan?!

“I telegraphed you to have a plain carriage waiting
every time a train was due from.the south. That was ail
the consent I gave. I know nothing of your arrangement
in detail. I accepted it temporarily asthe best thing I
could do—for myself.”

“For yourself?”

“We iad just declared tome that he detested me and
would never marry me.”?

Miss Mount moistened her dry lips before she went on,
Her eyes were hard, bitter and threatening.

“We had just told me that he was going back to Austra-
lia alone to look for Elan aud force him to tell him the
truth conceruing himself. Hehad, moreover, just avowed
to me also that he loved Lady Isabel Champion.”

Both Crawley and Sir Robert started violentiy.

“You Jools!’ said Miss Mount, sternly, ‘‘to let her get
away and come to him. That was what did the mischief.
The sight of herin her hateful beauty, calling him her
husband struck upon some half-paralyzed chord of mem-
ory. Then the true Bertrand came. That was another
slip of yours. He came hereto you, he has toldme, You
might have easily put him where you have put the other,
and it would have been much safer for you.”

Neither Sir Robert nor Crawley attempted to reply to
this outburst,

‘At least you will tell us what you propose to do, if we
do not interfere with you? Sir Robertsaid. ‘You would
not persist in that farce of marrying him now?

“Yes | woufd,’’ she said, passionately. I Jove him; I
would slave for him as my Lady Isabel would despise to
doifhe loved me. We might go out to Australia together
and build ourselves up a fortune, i7 he would,”’

Her head sank with the last word, heriips trembled
with agitation and pain, :

Sir Robert and Crawley exchanged glances of contempt-
uous pity.

“But if he will not ?? hazarded Sir Robert.

Miss Mount’s head went up with a passionate jerk,

“Then Doctor Mentis shail keep him.”

‘AP?

Sir Robert drew a long breath of relief.

“My dear,” he said, sweetly, ‘“‘youmay depend upon
our not interfering with you. ou are & woman of sense
and discretion. We can trust you.’

Part of this conversation had taken place in the library
of the mansion in Plantagenet Square, where the three
sat waiting to-hear from Doctor Mentis,

Meanwhile, as the carriage which contained Mr. Elan
whirled away through the London streets, ita excited oc-
cupant glanced carelessly after the boy who had brought
him the note. He saw him go back to his employexn

The vailed lady was giving him the other piece of gold
at that very moment.

For the first time a vague Suspicion, a breath of uneasi-
ness crossed him. The lady, in spite of an evident at-
tempt to disguise herself, looked so Jike Esther Mount.

Was the note a trick ? ¢

Then he thought suddenly of the singularity of a man,
who had Kept a carriage like the one he was in, selecting
such a messenger ws hud brought himthe note. Had he
been entrapped? If so, for what purpose? By whom?
Surely not by Esther Mount,-and yet he was bewildered
at first by the seeming absurdity and possible reality of
his danger. :

Half ashamed of his fears, he tried the handle of the
door nearest him,

It would not move,

He tried the other.

That also was fast.

Was it an accident or intentional? Had Elan sent for
him at all?

At this moment his hand, absently inserted between
the cushions and the back of his seat, encountered some-
thing, Which he as absently drew forth. It proved to be
a crumpled card, with this address printed upon the face:
“Doctor Mentis, Lauderdale, Hampstead.”

He read, and difopped the paper as ff it had been fire.

Doctor Mentis wus a London physician, who made the
treatment of mental diseases a speciaity.

Tiiere were: some very odd. not to say ugly whispers
about the doctor and a sort of Retreat he Kept for patients
out Hampstead way.

Mr. Zlan had heard of him, and had heard these whis:
pers. He remembered in this moment the horrible . thrill
those Whispers had sent through him at the time. The
same horror came over him now, as looking out of the
window again he recognized the Hampstead localities;
the same horror, only teu times more deadly and chill.
Bending forward, ‘he suddenly and violently wrenched

 

 

 

 

with both hands. In vain. They had been built to resist
just such and far mere frantic efforts to break them
Once. .;

Potent Heaveng” {he muttered, ‘‘what can it mean?
Have 1 gone mad at last indeed ? Am Ion my way to
amad-honse? I will not go.’ ‘

And, as before, he wrenched vainly at the two doors of
the carriage.

Then jie reflected & moment. .

“It isa plot,” he said to himself with a shiver.
sure {t is some horrible plot.” ;

One chance remained he reasoned, as he sat quiet now,
trying to still his throbbing pulses, to keep down the fever
of his brain,

Il was growing dusk. The carriage moved less rapidly
now, and he could see thut the houses grew more scal-
tered, :

The carriage stopped at last before a tall, wide mansion
of gray stone with deap narrow casements dotted here
and there almost like portholes in the walls of a fort.

“Ean is not here. I have been deceived. Somebody
means me mischief, It looks like whatI believe it is—a
mad-house,*? muttered the young mah, as he gazed
through the narrow carriage window at the strange,
‘prison-like mansion.

A violent shudder ran through him, Then he leaned
back upon his seat, and quietly braced himself for the
next act in the programme,

Closing his eyes, ie pretended to sleep.

The man who let down the carriage steps and opened
the lockéd door had to shake him hard before he would
rouse,

“He don’t suspect nothing, poor fellow,” the man com-
mented to his companion in an undertone ashe made an-
other attempt to rouse him.

Mr. Elan jet himself be waked finally, but stumbled
fearfully as he got out.

There were two men—one each side—but both seemed
completely deceived by his manner.

He stopped a few steps from the carriage.

Neither man was touching him now,ibut they were both
Hepeercuay neur.

Looking back at the carriage, he said carelessly:

“TI believe I’ve Jeftmy gloves on the seat. Look for
them one of you.” i

One of the men stepped back,

Mr. Elan struck the other down with his clenched hand,
and ran as for his life.

He heard a shout behind him, another—and glancing
over his slioulder—saw the door of-the tall stone mansion
open, and half-a-dozen men dash out and after him.

He smiled bitterly to himself as he ranon. He had no
fear of the result. He knew his own powers too well. He
had not spent those years ‘in the busi’? in Australia for
nothing. He doubled on his pursuers presently, and
when he halted at last in an obscure and comparatively
dark and silent square, he knew that he was safe—cer-
tainly till another trap could be set for him.

As he moved on again soon, though at a leisurely walk
now, he suddenly became conscious that he was hungry.

His purse was quite empty, but ransacking his pockets,
he found a couple of stray coins, enough he fancied from
his Australia experiences to get him a cheap supper and
bed.
He had been up and down the ladder of fortune. This
gentleman he had known, when with Elan “‘in the bush,”
what it was to be hungry many times.

He turned into the first decent-looking eating-house he
came to, and ordered a simple meal.

While he waited for it, he mused anxiously:

“Tt is plain that I have powerful enemies,’? he said to
himself. “The only question is, who gre they? Sir
Bertrand may be one. The man hates me, I suspect, and
fears me if he is guilty, as I believe. Can he have insti-
gated this villainy? There Is Esther Mount, too. She
taunted me in her natural anger, and said that she knew
all that I wished to kuow. But 1 cannot believe her. How
could she know? I thought at the time it was only a
tunnt. QOan she have done this? Can she indeed be so
lost to self-respect as to descend to means of vengeunce
like this upon ine, because I spoke so plainly toher, Itis
hard to believe, and yet it must have been she I saw
speaking with the boy who gave me that lyiug note.’’

CHAPTER XLII.

The messenger for whom the threein the library wait-
ed came at last.

It was Dr. Meutis himself, pale, limp, and out of breath;
and he told his story, amid profuse gasps of amazement
and horror, that any man could exist, mad or sane, cun-
ning enough to evade him—to escape him. i

Miss Mount cut iim short in his voluble explanations.

“Go back to your Retreat, and wait there ee. Dou’t
take any step yourself to recover your patient. He has
no money to use in prosecuting you, and justice costs
money, we all know,” she said, with satirical emphasis,
“He has no-friends. He willtake no step that any of us
need care for if we let him alone till he gets a little over
this, You shall have him yet. Trust me for that.’

She laughed aloud in such a bitter, dreadful way that
Dr. Mentis looked at her in doubt and anxiety, till Sir
Robert whispered a couple of words in his ear,

Sir Robert had promised the doctor a large sum for the
performance ofthis little fayor in Mr. Elan’s connection.
But he had not trusted him with the real reason for de-
string that favor. Here it was now ready to hishand.

Miss Mount was the reason. Miss Mount, rich, hand-
some, highly eee, to ved Mr. Elan, but was not beloved
iD retare. 2 we, 1oned ja. Ras. elst_ inf,

Dr. Mentis, that a short sojourn at his invaluable Retreat
would assist Unis penniless and foolish young man to see
in what direction his own interest lay.

Mr. Crawley had kept himself as nruch out of sight as
possible during this scene. He did net speak while Dr.
Mentis remained. Neither he nor Sir Robert wished the
doctor to be reminded more than was necessary of the
strange resemblance which existed between his patient
and the pretended Ralph Champion.

When Dr. Mentis had really gone, he came ont of the
shadows among which he had been lurking, and again
joined the consultation.

“So its all to do over again,’ he said, with one of his
black scowls. “I’m getting iired of it.’

Miss Mount flashed a curious glance at him.

“It is of no consequence—your moods—Mr. Ralph
Champion,’’ she said; ‘tyou must play the game out.”

Crawley bit nis Ii

“J don't choose,’ he said, sullenly; ‘there is too much
risk; I will have my money and go,”’

“If you try itI will have you arrested for killing poor
Craven. You villain, you did doit. Badas we are we
can’t compare with you, and we’ye done nothing that
couid hang ns.”’

Crawley’s very lips were like ashes, and every separate
hair upon his head seemed to bristle with fright and
rage. He muttered something-inaudibly, at which Esther
Mount laughed contemptuously.

“Where is Lady Isabel? she asked; ‘‘at Lord Cham-
pion’s yet?’

“She is here,*? was the sullen answer.

“In this house??? demanded Miss Mount, in amaze-
ment.

*sYes,??

“i present my congratulations,’ said Miss Mount, sar-

castically; ‘“‘you have been so stupid all along, I did not
give you credit for anything so sharp as. having got her
back here again.’
' It was too true; Lady Isabel had succumbed under the
influences brought to bear upon her by the united machi-
nations of Sir Robert and Crawley. Grief and despair
had broken her spirit. some, and when Crawley intimated
in a satanic Whisper in her ear that he held the key to the
bondage of young Hugh, her beautiful boy, and that her
coniumacy might cost him dear, ail her daring, defiant
spirit melted like wax, and in spite of Lord Champion’s
passionate remonstrances, she went back of her own free
will into the power of these two misereants,

Lord Champion was not angry this time, as before at
Kirston. That experience had been a lesson to him. Be-
side, my lord hated the man who called himself Ralph
Champion, with all his heart, and Jonged to see him
brought 10 exposure’ and ruin. So he held to his alle-
giance to Lady Isabel’s course all the more firmly now be-
pe ie to his wind, she seemed unable to take care of her-
self. ,

“Take me to Isabel,’? said Miss Mount, a wicked light in
her large gray eyes; ‘‘I want to see how you treat her, and
how she feels now. I h@e that woman with her pale
face and black hair. Why do they call her beautiful ?”’

Sir Robert took her to Lady Isabel’s apartments. Craw-
ley would not go.

Lady Isabel was notin herold rooms. After that mys-
terious ‘‘escape”’ of hers from them her tyrants would
not trust her in them. She was now onthe other side of
the house, in‘quite as handsome rooms however, and at-

“Tam

ftended by a respectable-looking Englishwoman as maid.

Her apartments were sacred to her, too—Crawley had
never entered them,

Sir Robert had still enongh decency for that; and the
impostor having asserted his authority, and compelled
that unhappy lady into the power of her enemies again,
preferred to be spared the sight of her death-white face
and reproachfal, accusing eyes.

Lady Isabel lay upon a crimson couch before an open
window. A soitly-shaded chandelier swung above her,
the‘lights from the street shone beyond, and her face, as
she turned it toward Miss Mount, was like alabaster,
hereyes like spectral lamps, so strangely they glowed
from the hollows grief and despair had dug in her bean-
tiful cheeks. She was clad in*some soft, white-clinging
material, which outlined her delicate, perfect shape like
some lovelysculpture. Wan and wasied as she was,
never had she looked more supreme in beauty.

Esther Mount, who expected to behold the ugly wreck
only of the loveliness she envied and hated, could have
struck this Woman, who after all the wrongs and outrages
or had been heaped upon her, could still look so an-
gelic.

“Her ‘heart ougit to have broken long before this,”
Miss Mount said to herself, savagely. ,

Lady Isabel-started and shuddered violently when she
saw Esther Mount. he was so weak and ill that the
shock made her pant like atired child. She averted her
face a moment before she said, feebly:

“Why are you here, Esther? How could you come?”

Esther Mount dropped her bitter eyes.

She did not answer. Even she shrank from stabbing
with the cruel words she had meant to speak—this fragile,
shadowy-looking creature. Sle turned toward Sir Rob-
ert, who stood wailing.

“I date her,” she whispered, “but Icannot say what I
come to, -Let us go.”

Sir Robert had avoided looking at Lady Isabel. He as-
eee silently, and Miss Mount and he departed to-
gether,

Miss Mount was impatient. She could not persuade
herself to wait till the following dey to renew her bold
machinations against Mr, Bian. The carriage which had
brought them 1 Plantaganet Square was, she knew, still

at the door. Sir Robert, had ordered it to wait lest it
meen be needed. Miss Mougt spoke in a low volte to Sir

Obert,

“Tam going out again. I suppose I can take the car-
‘riage. I want some money.’’

Sir Robert flushed uncomfortably. Mone
thing uncommonly hard to part with,
Crawley.

‘““Miss Mount wants some money,” he said,

“Don’t ask me for it,’? scowled Crawley. You have
your income, Tam onan aljowance, and the game is
yours a great deal more than it is mine’!

Sir Robert bit his lip.

“How much do you want, Esther ?’

“A hundred pounds will do now. I‘shall want mere to-
morrow,’ suid Miss Mount, coolly, and looking fixedly in
Sir Robert's eyes.

“Here,”

He gave her the money,

“Be careful how you use it.
limited.” ;

“You will have plenty some day,” retorted Esther
Mount, ‘J must use all that I think necessary, and I shall.
Iftiie supplies fail it willbe at your risk, please to re-
member.”?

Sir Robert bit his lip, but made no answer.

Miss Mount drove to the residenve ofa private detective
Whom she knew.

He was an old man, but asharp ore. He had been on
the official corps of city detectives, but only did a job oc-
casionally now for some private patrons. He was a lit-
Ue, bent old man, with white hair, and long, while Mowing
beard, a wouderlully puckered-up face, and eyes that,
though sunk deep in his head, burned like two fires un-
der their white, een overhanging brows. Tley were
bright, restless, plercihg, keen as sharp stilettos,

His hame was Kabe, ~

Esther Mount told her story her own way, and laid
down twenty pounds,

“i know your man already,” said the detective, quietly.

Miss Mount’s large eyes flashed eagerness and surprise.

“Are you sure ?”?

“Sure, 1 take supper sometimes at a lunch-house below
here, Idid to-night. He came in while | was there, He
is very distinguished-looking, his eyes are as blue as sap-
phires, and his hair is dark, rich, and curling.”

“Yes,’? and Miss Mount’s breath came quicker, and her
pulses thrilled. :

“He looked like a lord, and behaved like a poor mar.
He ordered a poor man’s supper, and tooka poor man's
bed afterward.”

Miss Mount’s eyes flashed again.
money he had.

“You know where he is now ?’?

‘Ido. He is not a madman though.’?

Esther Mount dropped her burning eyes.

“You think sof"? ‘

“I Know he is not."?

‘Do you care one way orthe other—whether he is or
not?’ she asked, without looking up, her voice strangely
significant. *

“Not if lam paid for being indifferent,’’ the man an-
swered, coolly.

“You shall be paid. Now, where is he?’ Miss Mount
demanded, eagerly.

“esWhat do you propose to do with him ?*

‘He must be taken back to where he escaped from.’

See

‘There are plenty of ways.”?

‘Will you risk downright violence?’

“It will not be necessary. If you will come with me to
tlie house where he is, and secure me a responsible intro-
daction to the woman whe keeps it.”

“Very well. What then’?

‘She bent and whispered in his ear something at which
his wrinkled little face puckered itself into still smaller
cémpass.

“We will go,” he said, after a pause, and they went out
together. ——

; OHAPTER XLII.

hey drove to the restaurant. Miss Mount satin the
-carriage while Mr.,Kabe went inside, —

Je came back in & momeut and put his head {nto the
carriage door. .

“He has gone to his room,” he said, ina low voice. “I
‘looked through acrack in the door and saw him asleep
there. He must have been dead tired for he has thrown
himself down with his clothes on, Will you come? 1
have explained everything to Mrs, Neal. She won’t hin-
der you, especially if you tip her a piece of meney.”

Miss Meunt got outof the carriage and weutin with
him.

Mrs. Neal. a ruddy, middle-aged woman, with a some-
what stolid expression of countenance, met them at the
door.

Miss Mount smiled sweetly upon her.

“You have been very kind to my poor brother,’* she
said, eXtending her daiutily-gloved hand. “Mr. Kabe has
been telling me I can never thunk you enough.’’ ‘

She slipped asovereign in the woman’s palm ”s sh
spoke, and Mrs. Neal beamed all over with satisfaction
and eagerness to please. They went into Mrs, Neal’sown
sitling-room & moment.

Then Miss Mount stole by herself and peeped through

was some-
6 turned to

My resources are very

She knew how littie

 

at Mr. Elan, to make sure. It was indeed that injured
gentleman. ,
He had not extinguished hislamp. Itstood on @ bare,
small table near the head of his bed, and by ils light the
paie, beautiful face, withils rich setting of curls, could

“idsther sigued to Mr. Kabe, who was w atching her. He
went out tothe carriage, allera man who was waiting
there, and returning, the twostoodin the passage till
Miss Mount, having vanished noiseless!y within Mr.
Elan’s room, came again to the door and beckoned them.

Miss Mount’s face was deadly paie; her large eyes
gleamed with a startling luster. «

Mr. Elan lay with his face covered with her black vail,
and there was a strange, sweet, sick smell on thie air.

| “It will take all four of us,” she said, excitedly. “Iam
very strong.”

At her direction Mr. Kabe and the man he had brought
in, each took hold of a corner of the large woyen spread
on which the sleeper jay. Mrs. Neal and herseli took their
positions at the other corners,

With some difficulty they lifted him off the bed, ana
carried him in that way through the passage out into the
street, and jifted him into the carriage.

The street was a rather quiet one at any time, and was
nearly deserted at this hour, . But.a policeman came run-
ning presently to see what was the matter.

= Kabe knew the man, and explained in a few
words. ‘
| Mr. Kabe got up outside with the coachman. Tie as-
Sistant was dismissed. Esther Mount sat within, and
supported the unconscious head of the man whose con-
tempt she was daring in the hope of at last winning him.

The carriage was driven rapidly to Louderdale Retreat.

Esther’s glowing eyes were fastened upon the SUll,
white face upon her shoulder, She Jet her lips just touch
that marble brow. . He had never been so near to her be-
fore, and really how far his soul was from her now she
conld not know.

She sighed heavily as she looked down at his pure and

lofty face, so eloquent, even in its unconsciousness, of
high and stainless thoughts. She compressed her scarlet
Ups bitterly.
| “He may never Jove me, but he shall marry me or per-
ish. She shall never mock my misery again with her os-
tentatious happiness,”
_ They were a very brief space in reaching their destina-
tion, and Doctor Mentis and his aids made easier. work
than it was before in moying tue unconscious man inside
the house.

 

Esther went with them, and gave her orders to Doctor
Mentis, who listened respectfully, and promised literal
compliance.

He was lost in amazement at her cleverness in so soon
securing thisman who had slipped through his fingers.

“You ought to be in a ‘retreat’ yourself, Miss Mount,”’
he said, raptorously, /

Esther stared at him with her large eyes.

_ “As its mistress, I mean,” the Qoctor hastened to add.
“It is a position requiring infinite finesse and energy.
I should so like to see you perfor —"'

‘Nonsense!’ said Esther, with an angry shudder.
“Good-night.” : :

It was three days before she went back tothe ‘‘retreat,’’
re had heard from Docter Mentis frequently, mean-
while.

She saw the doctor’first now, and sat and talked with
him awhile in the little reception-room open to visitors.
She did that to calm herself, perhaps, for thé thought of
seeing the man she loved, and had soinjured, agitated
her terribly.

She had dressed herself in soft black silk;
black hair was dressed in a mingling of curis and braids
that became her pale, handsome face. Her large gray
eyes were Strangely luminous with excitement, and her
lips burned scarlet and trembled in spite of her. Doctor
Afentis conducted her to the room in which was he whom
she had come to see. ;

“Remember thatl have warned you you will find him
greatly Changed,” hesaid. “I neyer saw a man so affect-
ed by being shut up a couple of days.”

Miss Mount turned upou him sharply.

“You have not been harsh with him? she asked.

“Scarcely. One of the keepers—a new man—rapped
him alittle. That couldn’t be‘helped. He was as strong
and as flerce asa young lion. It took six of the men to
hold hint, and I literally Wad to put him ina Straight-jack-
et to keep him from killing himself or somebody else.”

Esther Mount shivered and covered her face a moment
—she lad not expected that; then she recovered herself,

‘Open the door, and leave me!” she said, imperiously.

“Will you lock the door yourself??

“No, certainly not. Haven't you two keys?”

“<“Yes.?

He took a second from a bunch hanging in the corridor.
and gave it to her. ;

“Lock the door after me, and take out your key. I will
unlock for myself when 1 wish to come out.”?

Sire entered the room. The door closed behind her.

Mr. Elan was atthe farther side of the bare, narrow
chamber, There was one window with stout, double bars
before it. Hestood by this looking out, breathing the.
air that came through, perhaps, for it was a hot, close
day, and the room had a half-suffocating atmosphere.

Esther Mount stood a moment after the door closed,
trying to subdue her violent agitation. Her heart throbbed
Wildly. her head swam.

Mr. Elan stood with his back to her.
around at the opening of the door,

Advancing presently, she could see his side face, the
pale, beautiful features set in a scornful calm, the sapphire
eyes glowing deep aud dark, as he stood looking out at
rhs res wide air of which he was so infamously de-
parred,

her heayys

He did not look

 

 

‘ ate she whispered in a moment, clasping her

 

 

 

 

 

 
nn,

 

ere rented tan.

 

 

 

 

 

 
  

wet THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. @5e0> 7

 

He looked round at her then, and first, amazement, then
horror and aversion spoke in his white, lofty face.
“How dare you come into my. presence?’? he asked,
frowning and looking at her with such menace in his deep
blue eyes a8 turned her cold for the moment.
‘“T eame to ask you to forgive me for speaking to you
in that crué@l manner at Woolston. I followed you. I
have never rested til 1 found you. Why are you here,
Bertrand ?*?
Esther Mount avas a handsome woman. She looked
more than commonly so at this moment. The tenderness
that was in her heart softened her tones, and gave a pen-
sive radianee to her beauty,

“You know why 1am here. Itis your doing, Esther,”

he said passionately. ‘*Ah, I was rigiit in my first esti-
mate of your character. You are worse than I dreamed.”’

“My doing, Bexgmand?”’

“Iam not Bertrand. Callme Mr. Elan or I will not
answer you. It fs yourdoing. I saw you at the railway.
What is it you hope to gain from betraying me into this
den of madness. Do you want me fo go mad in reality?
I believe in my soul I shallif 1 stay here much longer. I
give you my word, Esther. There was a moment last
hight, when if I could have got through this window, and
had known it would kill me, I would have flung myself
Out without an instant’s hesitation. Do you know that J
have been knocked down, and then put into a horrible
thing they calla Strait-jacket here? But of course you
do, since it is your doing my being here at all. Leaye
the room, or I shall forget you are a woman. You don’t
deserve that I should remember it any way.”

“It was none of my doing, the strait jacket nor the
blow,” said Miss Mount, her lips quite colorless now, her
eyes angry and wretched. ‘Oh, believe me, I weuld
rather have borne them myself thau have yon.””

Her evident anguish arrested hima little. He looked
at her a moment, his eyes less scornful.

“Why did you bring me here? for I know it was you
contrived it.?> Miss Mount lowered her large eyes.

“You were going away, you were going to leaye the
country. How else could I hinder you?” she said, in a
low voice,

“Then it twas you, and you can fake me away from
here. I demand to go, Esther. I feei that I shall go
mad if I stay here. Hark! do you hear that? Itisa
woman, and all day and all night she only screams or
walis or groans or Jaughs like a fiend those words.’*

Miss Mount did listen, her blood curdling at the mo-
notonous yet horrible recitation.

‘Lost, lost, lost, lost! The Blackness of Darkness—the
Blackness of Darkness! Lost, lost, lost, lostl®

**You shall go from here at once, if you will promise me
Not to try to escape," she said. ;

“Escape from whom? From you?!

& ‘From me.”

“Are you trying to make me hate you ??

“I want you to—— Yon know that I— You know
how devoted I am to you?’

“Yes, this is a specimen—to stupefy me with chloroform
and shen cage mein here with mad men and mad wo-
men! ,

“Will you take back those dreadful things you said to
oe at Woolston Grange if I will let you go away from

ere ?

“What did Tsay? “

‘Phat you hated mel"?

“‘bdid not say that then; I never thought I could hate
any woman; I used to think women were ail true, and
gentle, and kind, and good. But you are not. When that
Villain knocked me down with his club, and six other vil-
lains leaped upon me to keep me {rom kiling him for it—
When they dragged me to this horrible room and pinned
me down to the floor by their united brute strength, and
then foreed-me into that demon’s contrivance the strait
jacket, and left me to moan, and groan, and: writhe, and
suffer, and hear that mad creature’s scream, even then I
did not hate you; [thought of you with horror, abhor-
rence and loathing. Lsaid to myself, ‘She is not a wo-
man, but a fiend.’ ~ -

{TO BE CONTINUED. }

 

$$.

Edith Lyle’s Secret.

By Mrs, Mary J. Holmes,

{“Baith Lyle’s Secret” was commenced in No. 33. Back num-
bers can be ebtained from any News Agent in the United States. ]

‘CHAPTER LY.
THE SEARCH IN LONDON.

First to the —— st. Hospital, where officers and nurses
and matron had all been changed since the night nineteen
years ago, when the child Heloise had been left at the
door. But the books remained, and after along time they
found the one bearing date ninéteen years back. Oh, how
eagerly Edith turned the worn, yellow leaves tillshe came
to the date-she remembered so weil. :

“January —,18—. Was received into the House a
female child, found in a basket on the doorstep with the
name Heloise pinned upon its dress.’?

Yes, that was the one, and Edith’s yoice trembled so
miuch that she could not speak distinctly, ag she asked of
the person in attendance: :

“Where is this child nosy? Who tockier roar nere =
and when? .

Mrs. Simmons, the matron, could not tell. She had her-
self been there little more than a year, but a careful
searching of the books brought to light the fact that not
long after the night when the baby Heloise was found on
the steps, it had been taken away by a Afrs. Stover, whose
daugiter Anne was a nuarsein. the Hospital at the time,
and who lived at No. — Dorset street. This agreed per-
fectly' with the story as told by Mrs. Barrett, and thus. far,
all seemed perfectly plain and easy to.the excited woman,
whom Colonel Schuyler followed mechanically whereso-
ever she went. She was taking the lead, not he, but he
submitied with a good grace, and only sniffed a few times
as they drove through the dirty, squalid street, and
stopped at last at No. — Dorset street. It was up two
fligits of stairs, broken, creaking, dirty stairs, and Edith
shuddered as she thought how the little feetof her own
child had probably been up and down this dark stairway,

 

 

 

- And so, with more realinterest now tlian he had felt
When searching for Mary Stover, he drove with Edith one
day to the handsome lodgings occupied by Mrs. William
Westbrooke, recently from Florence. She was i little,
pale, sandy-haired woman, of forty or thereabouts, very
much dressed, and having in- her manner something
haughty and supercilious as she received the strangers,
and, without requesting them tobe seated, asked what
she could do for them,

This was before she had inspected Edith and her dress.
After that, she took a seat herself and waved them to
some chairs. It was the colonel who did the talking this
time, while Edith listened in a pre-occupied kind of way,
which, nevertheless, did got prevent her from hearing
@il that was said.

“We are Americans,’ the colonel began, “and we have
a young girl in our family of whose antecedents we would
learn something. As you have the same name, and bank
at the same firm where her annuity of forty pounds a
year is paid, it occurred to me to oy ty if you have ever
heard of a girl called Gertie, or Gertrude Westbrooke,
twenty-two or three years old, perhaps,”

“Nineteen, husband; Gertie is only nineteen,’ Edith
said, smiling in spite of herself at her husband’s careless
habit of making peopie older than they were.

Only the last census he had given her age at thirty-
eight and his own at fifty, a mistake of two and three
years, made with no intention to deceive, but because of
his carelessness, and now he was making Gertie twenty-
three when she was just nineteen. Mrs. Westbrooke
smiled, too, at Edith’s earnestness in pleading not guilty
to the, extra four yearg, and, womanlike, would have be-.
lieved the man instead of his wife if her attention had not
been arrested by the name of the young lady, which awoke
‘hein fy ofa time when she felt she had been to
blame,

“‘Gertle!—Gertrude!”’ she said. “I did know a child by
that name years ago; but tell me, please, how se came
to be in America living with you?”

It was Edith who talked now, and who told rapidly all
she knew of Gertie Westbrooke and her so-called mother,
Mrs. Rogers.

“UIs it the same? You know. Do you think it the same?’
she asked; and Mrs. Westbrooke replied:

“T think it the same, yes.’?

“Who is she, then? Are you her step-mother?’ Edith
asked; and, with a frown on her wizeued-little face, the
lady replied: a

“No, indeed; she is nothing to me. She was adopted
by my husband’s first wife just after the loss of her baby,
and, as I understood, at the instigation of her nurse, who
must have been this Mrs. Rogers. The first Mrs. West-
brooke was greatly attached to the child, and when she
died she settled upon it forty pounds a year, and gaye it
expressly to the care of her maid.

“About a year after ler death Mr. Westbrooke married
me, and took me to his home just out of London. I did
not like children, and this one was inmy way, and as ny
husband did not care for it either we gave it at Jast to the
nurse, who took it to keep for her own. My first child
was born soon after, and the next year we went to Fior-
ence, where my husband died and where I have lived
until within the last few months, Of Gertie I have never
heard sinoe, I was told that the nurse, Mary, was married
and living comfortably, but from what you say I have no.
doubt that the poang lady in question is the girl, and am
glad slie has falien into so good hands. She was very
pretty, with great blue eyes and bright auburn hair—”
“What was the name of the nurse?’ Edith asked, and
the lady replied:

“I don’t remember whom she married, but dare say it
was Rogers. My housekeeper will know; sie saw. her
married. Mer maiden name was Stover—Mary Stover.’
“Mary Stover\? and Edith leaped to her geet as quickly
as if a heavy biow had smitten her, while her husband
rose too and stood at her side, ‘‘Mary Stover—tell me if
you know where the child came from at first, who were
her parents, and how came Mrs. Westbrooke by her??

“I @o not kuow as she had any parents unless il were
Mary Stover herself. 1 always suspected her of being the
real mother, she was so attached to the ehild and so mnys-
terious about it. She brought it to Mrs. Westbrooke from
some Foundling Hospital, 1 believe.”

“Oh, Gertie, Gertie, thank Heaven,’ Edith gasped, and
the next momeut she lay at her husbanu’s feet with a face
as white and rigid and still as are the faces of the dead!
There was great excitement then in Mrs. Westbrooke’s
rooms, ringing of bells, gathering of servants aud hurry-
ing for physicians, three of whom came together and con-
curred in pronouncing it nothing worse than a seyere
fainting fit, from which the lady would soon recover.
“Shall I order a room for her here?!’ Mrs. Wesebrooke
asked, anxious to relleve herself as soon as possible from
her rather troublesome guests.,

The colonel, who knew Edith would be happier in their
own apartments at the hotel declined Mrs. Westbrooke’s
offer, and @3 soon as consciousness returned took his wife
in his arms, and, carrying her-to the carriage waiting for
them, was driven back to his hotel, where he Jaid her
upon the couch, and then sat down beside her, waiting
for her to speak.

For & moment, howeyer, she could not. The iron hand
Was not on her throat, it is true, but the great shock,
coming so suddenty, had paralyzed her powers of speech,
and she lay perfectly still with the light of a great and
unutterable happiness in her eyes and illuminating every

featur ar aurting, you are very giad?’’ the colonel asked at

last, and then with a quick, gasping sound Edith spoke,
While a storm of tears and sobs shook her frame, and ren-
dered her words almost inaudible. _ :
“Yes, Howard, so glad, oli, so glad. God has been so
good to me, so good that I never can thank Him enough.
That Gertie darling should be my daughter and living
with me ail the time, oli, God, I do thank Thee, I do.
Howard, you are giad too, glad for Gertie?”

She questioned him eagerly, aud le answered her with-
out the slightest hesitancy: é
“*Yes, Edith, very glad.”
And he was. When justas he was leaying Mrs. West-
brooke that lady said to him, ‘‘Pardon me, if lseem cur-
ious, but what is the girl Gertie to this lady?! he had
promptly answered: ‘Gertie is ow daughter,’ and witit
that little pronoun ow he adopted Gertie into his heart
and love, aud felt that she was his as well as Edith’s,
“Our daughter!’ That was what he called herto his

 

while she, the mother, had lived in luxury and ease.

No. — was a “horrible hole,” as the colonel termed it; a
dirty, wretched apartment, reeking with filth, swarming
with children and smelling of onions and boiled cabbage,
and that odor peculiar to rooms where the people sleep,
and cook, and eat, and live, and seldom wash themselves,
The family were Germans, who could not speak & word of
English, and stared wonderingly at the beautiful lady,
who managed to make herself understood. Butshe might
aS well have talked to blocks of wood foraught they knew
of any tenants there before them. She managed, how-
ever, to make out that on the floor above was an old
tvoman, who had occupied the same room for many years,
and to her Edith went next, feeling when she stood inthe
neat, homelike, though liumble apartment of Mrs. Myers
as if she had stepped into paradise. Mrs. Myers was very
old, and had lived there thirty years, and alter beating her
brains for awhile remembered the Stovers, who occupied
the floor below. 5

“Tidy, clever people, and not atall like the ’orrid Dutch
cattle there now,’’ she said. ‘There was old Marm Sto-
ver, and her tivo gals. Hanny and Mary.. Han worked in
some ’orspital, aud Mary for some grand lady in the
country.” :

“Was there ever a child living with them—a little girl
with blue eyes and golden hair?’ Kdith asked.

And the woman replied:

“That there was, mem, and adealof gossipit made
about the girls, though folks mostly laid it to Han, but I
never v’lieved a word on’t. It was took from the ’ors-
pital, they said, and had @ curis name—Eloise—and Mary
Claimed as ’ern; and when old Marm Stover died with
the cholera, Mary, who was out to service, took the child
away, and l’ve never seen her sense, or ’earn teil of her.
Was the child anything to you, mem?

“Yes, everything—it was mine,” Edith said, impetu-
ously, while her husband, who did not care to have her
quite so outspoken, even to this old woman, said, as he
took Edith’s hand to Jead her away: ‘

“Yes, yes—thank you, Mrs. Myers; this lady has been
sick, and ween we are both anxious to fiud some tra¢e
of the child lost 80 long ago; but I think it doubtful if we
do—yes, very doubiful. Come,. Edith, we may as well

0.)

But Edith did not move.
more, and shie said: y

“Have you no idea where this Mary Stover lived? Had
she no friends who could tell me about her?

“None as I] knows on, lLain’t seen or earn of her bet-
ter’n eighteen year. Mebbe the perlice could worrit lier
out for you.”’

‘Yes, maybe they could.’?

Edith had not thought of that, and she was ready to go
now, and hurried her husband into the street, and insist-
ed upon going at once to the head of the police.

But the colonel demurred. If they could proceed
quietiy, he would rather do so, he said, and they would
not call in the aid of the public until they had exhausted
eyery means in their power,

And they did exhaust every means; they inquired every-
where, and hunted up eyery family of Stovers ip the city,
and went to the hospital again, and went to Mrs. Myers
to see if she could not think of something forgotten when

She must know something

wife, who clasped her arms around his neck in token that
she appreciated this last great kindness of his.

Then they talked together of the beautiful girl whom
they had come so far to seek, when all the time she was
there with them apart of their own household, and as
they talked there naturally enough crept into Edith’s mind
the shadow of a fear, lest, after all, there might be some
mistake. But there was none apparently, for the colonel
made every inquiry possible with regard to Mary Rogers,
finding beyond a doubt that she was Mary Stover, and
that her sister Anne: had been a nurse ju —— Street Hos-
pital nineteen years before, and that it was by their
mother, then living in Dorset street, that the child was
taken when it left the hospital. There-could be no doubt,
aud as Edith was far too weak and too mucli overcome to
undertake the journey home immediately, the colonel de-
cided to remain a week or twoin London, and wrote at
once to Glenthorpe, asking Robert to bring Emma to
them, but reserving the secret of Gertie’s birth until they
came. Then he wrote to Gertie herself, but thought it better
notto confide the whole to her until he should be at home
and see her face toface. So he merely said that being in
London he had thought it well to make some inquiries
at the —— Bank, and, if possible, discover something of
her family.

“And, dear Gertie,’ he wrote, ‘‘you will be no less
astonished and delighted than I was to find that beyond
the shadow of a doubt you are ourown daughter. I can-
not explain toyou on paper. I only assure you thatitis
true, and when we returnI will explain itto you. Mrs.
Schuyler is not very well, but I hope she will be able to
return in the Cuba, which sails in two weeks. With love
and a kiss for little Arthur, whio, I trust, is well, lam,
“Your affectionate father, H. SCHUYLER.”?

This was lis letter, which he read to Edith, who said:
“But, Howard, you never told her how my heart is ach-
ing for her, or gave her my love or anything.”

“Never mind,’ the colonel answered, good-naturedly.
“You will have all your lifetime to tell her of your love,”
Aud so the letter which would tell Gertie so much, and
yet so little, was sent, amd two days after Robert Mac-
pherson arrived in London, bringing with him Emma, the
little lady of Glenthorpe, who was perfectly wild over her
husband and her beautiful home among the Highlands, and
insisted that her father should go there if only fora few
days. You must see whata good mistress l make, and
What a high-bred lady Iam to the people who just wor-
ship Robert, and I do believe like him all the more because
his mother was one ofthem. I begin to believe in what
are called mésalliances afier ail.’

Now was the time to tell the story of another mésal-
liance, aud the colonel told it, while Robert and Emma
listened breathlessly, and when the denouément was
reached, the latter exclaimed, joyfully:

“Oh, 1 am so glad, so glad that itis Gertie. She is
your cousin, Robert, your own cousin, and it is all just
like astory. Oh, lam so glad|”

She evidently did not think it so dreadful to be connect-
ed with the Lyles. She hadseen the wiite-haired, sweet-
face old woman in Alnwick, and seen Jennie Nesbit, too,
for Robert had taken her there to call, and she had fallen
in love with the grandmother, and tried to pet Godfrey

 

 

they were there before. But all was of no avail. Nobody
had ever heard of Mary Stover, and Edith’s heart was
heavy as lead when at Jast the case was given to the po-
lice, who had little hope of success, ;
orn out, disappointed, and discouraged, Edith took
her bed at the hotel where they were stopping, while the
colonel, who, though sorry for her, was not so very much
aggrieved at the failure of the searcli, thought to please
and interest her by making some inquiries with regard to
Gertie Westbrooke, about whose antecedents there was
so much doubt and mystery. To trace her history seemed
far easier than to trace the mythical Mary Stover, and he
went first to the company where her annuity was pay
able, In answer to his inquiries as to whether they could
give him any information with regard to the family, he
was told that quite recently a Mrs, William Westbrooke
had done some business with them in the way of a de-
osit. She was a widow, they said, and had come from
lorence, where she liad lived for many years. It. was the
same name, possibly the same family—he could inquire;
they could give him the lady’s address,

This he reported to Edith, who roused herself to some in-
terest in the matter after being assured that no parent or
guardian could take Gertie from them after all these

ears,

“IfT thought they could I would not try to find them,
for I can’t give Gertie up,” she said; while her husband
thought of Godfrey, and felt that although he would be
almost as loath to part with Gertie as Edith herself, he
should not greatly oppose any prior claim which might
remove her from his sou,

Schuyler, now a big boy in jacket and trousers, aud had
sickened and grown hot and cold by turns at the vulgarity
of Mrs, Nesbit, and then in the splendor and eclat of her
home at Glenthorpe had forgotten them all and remem-
bered only that she was Robert’s wife, the great lady of
the neighborhood and the happiest woman living. Gertie
should come and Jive with her, she said, and marry a
Scottish lord; but Edith shook her head; Gertie was hers.
She could not part with her, and her heart was full of an
unutterable yearning to behold the young girl again, and
hear her call her mother, and she could hardly walt for
the day when the Cuba sailed at last from the harbor of
Liverpool, and she knew slie was going home to Gertie,

CHAPTER LYI.
GERTIE,
No. — 80th STREET, NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 18th, 18—.

.

 

To COLONEL SCHUYLER: Your son Godfrey is very
dangerously ill with typhoid fever. Come at once,
Mrs. SOPHIA WILSON.

This was the telegram received at Schuyler HIJl one
morning in February, and read by Gertie with tearful eyes
and a heart throbbing with fearand anxiety for the young
man dangerously ill with typhoid fever, and only strangers
to care for him. But what could she do? The colonel was
in Europe; Julia was in Florida, while sle had little
Arthur to care for, and even if she had not she could not
go herself. It would not be proper under any circum-
stances and the colonel would not like ‘it. Something,
however, must be done, and galling Mrs, Tifle she read
phe telegram aud said to her;

 

 

“You must go’? ;

So it was arranged that Mrs. Tiffe should take the next
train for New York, which passed in about an hour, and
she departed to make the necessary arrangements for her
journey, just as the postman came bringing a letter for
Gertie. It was from Colonel Schuyler, and Gertie tore it
Open and read what it contained with emotions which it
is impossible to describe. At first she was stunned and
bewildered, and thought it must be somebody else, Some
other Gertie he meant.

“It is not I, surely; it cannot be I, who am his
nee she whispered to herself, and then she read
again: ,

“Beyond the shadow of a doubt you are our own
daughter.’?

That was how it stood in black and white, and it was
Colonel Schuyler’s signature, and he signed himself her
father. Then the room turned dark to Gertie; there was
a humming in her ears and for a moment she half lost her
consciousness, but svon recovering she read the letter for
the third time, whispering to hersell:

“My father—his cliild—who then was my mother ?” and
as she said it her face flushed with shame as she thought
what sheinust be if this tale were true aud Colouel
Schuyler her sire. She never dreamed of associating Edith
with the matter in any way. Only Colonel Schuyler had
an interest in her, and that of sucha nature that the
Knowledge of it brought far more pain than pleasure to
one as pure and good as she.

lf Colonel Schuyler were fer father, then the man whom
she vaguely remembered in the home near London could
have been nothing to her, and for this she was not espe-
cially sorry. But to lose the gentle woman whom she
had been taught to think her mother, was terrible, and
Gertie rebelled against it. She would cling to the mem-
ory of that woman even if she had sinned, as the story of
her birth would imply. Aud this was why Mary Rogers
had always been so reticent with regard to her antece-
dents, why she had spoken with so much certainty of her
mother as a lady, and said so little of her father, Possibly
Mary had not Known who her fatlrer was, and possibly
the man whom she remembered was only the brother or
father of the pale woman who died, and that would ac-
count forhis dislike ofher. These and similar fancies
flitted rapidly through Gertie’s mind, until she settled it
beyond a doubt that the man she called father, and who
she thought was buried in Italy, had been her mother's
near relation, and not her father, that no marriage rite
could have haliowed her birth, and as she thought it her:
face, and neck, and hands were crimson, and slie longed
for some place in which to hide her dishonored head.
Then, swilt as lightning, another thought flashed into her
mind, cutting like a knife and making her cringe with
pain. Ifshe was Colonel Schuyler's daughter, eyen in an
unlawful way, then Godfrey was her brother, and alas,
she did not want him that. “She could never be his wile,
she knew; but it was sweet to know he loved her as he
vo never love another, and she could not be his
-sister. .

“Oh, Godfrey, Godfrey!’ she moaned; “‘thisis the hard-.
est part of all, I can forgive my mother, feeling sure that
she was more sinned against than sinning, and: [may in
time forgive your father and mine, but I do not want you
for my brother. Godfrey, Godfrey, I never loved you be-
fore as I do now, when this has risen up to separate us
forever.’? ;

Then she remembered the telegram, and starfing up ex,
claimed;

“If I am his sister I may surely go to him. I havea
right, and no one can gainsay it.”

She was in Mrs. Titfe’s room in an instant, and greatly
astonished that good woman by declaring her intention ¢f
going herself to New York to take care of Godfrey.

“You, you goto nuss a young man! Are you crazy,
child?”? Mrs. Titfe exclaimed. °
Gertie did not kuow whether she was crazy or not; she
half believed she was, but on oné point she was decided.
She should go to New York, and she put on ier Cioak and
furs, dud hat, and bidding Mrs. Tite take» good cire of
Arthur, and send her a few articles of weuring apparel by
the next day’s express, went out of the house and started
for the station-on foot before Mrs. Titfe had time to realize
fully what it meant, and that after all the trouble she had
been to of packing her trunk and ordering the servants
What to do in her absence, slie must stay at home and let,
Gertie goin her place,

-‘It will be the ruination of-her,”? she said, ‘for folks
will talk like sixty,” aud nothing but the fact that the
whistle of the train was just then heard in the distance,
prévented her from starting in hot pursuit. “I can’t get
there now with the swiftest horse ih the stable,’’ she re-
rt and she did not believe Gertie would be in time
either.

But she was, for when she too heard the train she ran
likea frightened deer, and half-stumbled, half-fell upon
the platform of the rear car just agit was beginning to
move from the station.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Heiress of Clanronald.

CHAPTER LXV.
AN APPARITION.
It was the twelfth day of February, and on the thirteenth Sir
Roger Ryhope’s trial would begin. “He was still the guest of
Squire Benthawen weak, and pule, and hopeless,a man who
waited patiently for death.

The sp pein d atternoon was closing in black and stormy, and
up and down the long, bleak portico at Beechwood Hall, Miss Ry-
hope walked, her fair head uncovered, her fair face distorted with
agony. What would the morrow bring for her? Her father was
all she had in the wide, desolate world, would the pitiless law
conyict him of murder, and tear him from her? A little sob 0
agony broke from -her lips. Ah, if she and poor papa could die
and end it all!

A tall figure rose in the gloom beside her, a broad, warm hand
closed over her’own. ,

“Miss Ryhope,” spoke the squire’s cheery voice, ‘I’ve been
hunting for you every where, and find you out here in this pelting
storm, You surely want to catch your death of cold,”

The girl answered by another sob, her heart was so full she
could not suppress her emotion. Mr, Renshawe stood silent, his
tawny, bearded lips quivering. "Then and there he would have
died willingly to spare that little, blue-eyed girl one hour’s’pain.

~ “Miss Ryhope,’’ he said, after a moment, his voice hoarse with
deep feeling, “I’ve wanted to speak to ewe again—ever since
that night poor Ichabod died. May I speak now? I love you—
May+I have loved you all my life-long—ever since we were child-
ren together. It—it—confound it—it-kills me>to see you sutfer
so, and not be able to help you. Miss Ryhope,” with sudden des-
peration, “‘could you ever care for a great, lumbering fellow like
me—well—enoug’ 1 to be my wife f—and then, you see, I should
have a right te help you.”

May was shaking where she stood; she wrested her hand from
his clasp, with a little cry of pain. :
“You are very good, Mr. Renshawe,” she replied, struggling to
command her yoice; ‘better to poor papa and me than any one
else—and I shall never forget you——” 2

“Why not marry me then, Miss Ryhope ?” poor Dick blurted
out, “that would pay off old scores.

“I shall never marry, Mr. Reushawe,” she replied, solemnly.
“Miss Ryhope!”’ , ! f

His voice was 80 full of pain that it brought the hot tears to her
eyes, i
No Mr. Renshawe,” she sobbed, “I am a poor, heart-broken
waif. My father’s good name is dishonored. I shat never marry.”
“But never mind all that,” he cried, with desperate passion.
“Could you care tor me? could you ever learn to loye me f—an-
swer me that, Don’t trifle with me.” F

Her lips quivered painfully, and a deep fed flamed in her fair
cheeks, but she uttered no word in answer to his passionate en-
treaty. : :

“No matter,” she said, after a moment, face and voice icily
calin; “love is a forbidden word to me, Mr. Renshawe—if you are
my friend—if you pity me in this my hour of trial, never speak
of this again.’

He turned without a word, and left her standing alone in the
wild, stormy gloom.

“Ah, if I might,” she murmured, clasping her hands in agony,
“but it can never be now. I must bear my cruel fate alone.”

+ One day while waiting the requisition from France, Sir Roger
was called upon by Sir Hugh, who wasaccompanied by a tall and
graceful woman. Her face was like marble, and her sad, sweet
eyes flashed one switt glance on the pale and quiet baronet.

Ife had raised hishead, He saw the marble face, tie sad, sweet
eyes. For an instant he stood like one in a dream, then a yivid
crimson rushed to his death-white face, he threw out his arms
with a wild and passionate cry;

“Oh, Lucile! Lucile!’

Before they could reach him he had fallen and layin a dead

swoon. eect
CHAPTER LXVI.
LUCILE TELLS HER STORY.

Assoon as the baronet was restored to consciousness Lucile
tolvher story. *¢

Her aaaiden. name was Lucile Dupres, Years before, in the
valley of the Rhone, she married Sir Roger Ryhope. They lived
together one brief, happy year, and then the baronet was called
to Englanal. i ’
During his absence her brother came, and wanted to convince
her that Sir Roger was false to her, and was at that tume medi-
tating a marriage with some noble English lady. He avowed his
intention of taking her to England, and charging Sir Roger with
his infidelity.

She was unwilling to go, but she feared her brother, he was so
violent, and dared not refuse. ek stood together on the bridge,
talking together, and then he left her to procure a carriage.

 

 

He was greatly excited, and charged her with infldelity, and be-
fore she could ulter a wordin explanation, he seized her by the
hair, and hurled her over into the river. . ‘
When she next awoke“to consciousness, she was lying in a peas-
ant’s cottage, lower down the valley, and they told her that
some fishermen had rescued her from a mass of dritt-wood below
he bridge. :
; She lived, but life was worthless, and she determined to bury
herself and her sorrows intherold convent where she was edu-
ated.
“the entered the convent under an assumed name, and lived
there, while the world believed her to be dead. 2 ae

A week previous, by the merest chance, an English ar had
fallen into her hands, {t contained an account ol Sir Roger Ry-
hope’s strange reappearance, and her brother’s charge of mur-
der. She hurried at once to England, and she thanked Heaven
that she was not too laté to save him. vi
The day alter Lucile’s appearance the requisition from France
for the arrest of the baronet arrived, but the statements of his
wite of course rendered it nugatory.
In the cheery sitting-room at Beechwood Hall, the husband and
wife, so long and strangely separated, stood face to face, Sir
Roger was weeping like a child. ;
‘ i am not a: murderer,’ he repeated at intervals. ‘Lucile, I
dare not ask you to forgive me, but it may be that Heaven will
now—I am not a murderer,” A

The pale, sweet-faced nun crossed to whero he sat, and laid her
gentle hand over his bowed head. i

“Forgive you,”? she said, her voice thrilling with the old love
that time and neglect had failed to subdue, “Ah, Roger, I have
nothing to forgive—I have only loved you—loved you always.”

In the meantime poor May, while she was overwhelmed with
gratitude at her father’s marvelous deliverance, was bowed to the
very earth with shame a humiliation. She felt that she could

ever lift her head again,
7 She saw at a glance the truth that had not yet made itself clear
to her poor, bewildered father’s mind. She had no right tothe

roud name she bore, no claim to her father’s title and wealth.

Jer birth was ilegitimate—she wasachild of shame and dis-
honor. Her father’s first marriage was proved to be legal, his
first wife “eo alive, andthe English law would hold no after
marriage vali 7

In her shame and agony she could*not face her father, or this
woman who had saved him; and, on their return to Beechwood,
she made her way to the library, and sat down before the waning
embers in the old-fashioned fireplace,

She had been so proudof her old name, and her old home;
and now she, hey father’s eldest born, had noright to thé name

 

He was scarcely gone, when her husband, Sir Roger, appeared.

 
 

K

 

 

 

 

 

she bore. It all seemed very bitter and eruel. She leaned her
bead on the arm of the velvet chair, and sobbed in-uncontrolled
agony. She die hear the young squire’s step as he entered,
and stood reg oe her in silent sorrow. His touch on her
bowed head aroused her. ,

“Miss Ryhope,” he said, “you forbade me ever to speak to you
of my love again, but for this once I must disobey you. I love
eyou better than my own life—I would die to spare you this sor-
row. Won’t you give me the right to eomfort you—help you—
shield you from it all?”

She rose up, her cheeks flushing painfully.

“You,” she said, ‘with the best old English blood in your veing
—and I—I—what am I? A poor, nameless waif! No, no, no,

. Renshawe, you are good, you are noble, but it cannot be.”

She broke from him as he tried to hold her back, and fled from
the room; and the oung Lord of Beechwood sat down in the
waning firelight, and listened to the wintry gale without witha

bitter pain at his heart. Sa
CHAPTER LXVII.
ANOTHER REYELATION,

“Sir Roger Rrhove was ill unto death, and Lucile sat watching
by his bedside, She had thought to go back to France, to her
home in the convent, but the baronet seemed only to live in her
presence. He clung to her with his poor, weak hands, and @-
treated her not to leave him. If she moved, his eyes followed
her; ifshe spoke, his wan face lit with joy. All. the old love of
his preronars youth lived in his soul again. "

“It won’t be for long,”’ Doctor Wurt said; “he can’t last but a
day or two. I would not leave him.” -

ane Lucile remained, brightening and cheering his last mo-
men :

“How strange it is,’ murmured the baronet, as his daughter
hung over him one evening, ‘show strange!”

“What is, papa, darling ?? asked May, kissing his white cheek,

.. Why, the likeness—you look so much alike—you and Lu-
cile,” replied her father, glancing ‘across at Lucile; “the re-
semblance always struck me, and now I see you together, it is*
wonderful. Lucile, you must be a mother te my poor little girl
when I am gone.”

The woman’s face flushed painf ea andkshe arose as if she was
about to speak, but sat down again insilence.

“My poor little girl,” continued the baronet, caressing May’s
golden hair, his face unutterably sad. “You mustn’t take it so
to heart. The world will think none the less of you, dear, for
your poor father’s faults,”

“O papa, don’t,” sobbed poor May, struggling vainly for self-
oertheres tt don’t ” said Sir Ro

“There, there, don’t cry so,” said Sir Roger; “poor little May—
I know how it hurts your proud heart; but Pye made it mien
tor you, darling. iy name and all my possessions will be
yours, and Lucile will be your mother; you won’t think hard
ot your poor father when he’s in his grave ?””

“O papa, darling papa,” she cried, with a burst of passionate
tears; ‘no, no, you are all I have—I shall die ir you leave me.”

The woman rose up again, her breath coming fast.

“I can’t,’”) she gasped, her eyes on the girl’s tace, with a look of
yearning love; “I can’t keep the secret—I must tell you. O, Sir
Roger, can youever forgive me? She is my child, as well as
yours. O, my daughter, my darling! speak to your poor
mother!”

The baronet had struggled up to a sitting posture, and sat pale
andamazed. May turned, and met the woman's look of yearn-
ing love, and her heart, that had meyer known & mother’s fond-
ness, went out to her with a great thrill of joy.

“You are my.mother, my own mother; 1 feebitin my heart,”
she cried, and Lucile clasped her close. =

“In Heaven’s name, Lucile,” said the wondering baronet,
“tell me what you mean!”

Lucile looked up, wiping the streaming tears from her eyés,

“I mean that Heaven has given me back both husband and
child,’’ she answered, solemnly; ‘‘she is mine—iny own precious
child. Sir Roger, I meant never to tell you. I thought to go to
Iny grave with the secret locked in my heart; but I must speak

or die.

“After that dreadful day, when we saw each other Jast, down
in the peasant’s cotlagé, I gave birth toa babe—your child and
mine. I tookit with me to the neighborhood of the convent,
and an old woman in the valley nursed it,

“Do you remember when you and Lady Ryhope came to
Southern France, and she had that sudden illness at. the old
chateau? Well, you sent to the convent for anurse. My hus-
band, I was-the woman who nursed your wife!”

“You, Lucile ?2

“T was the worfan who nursed her, Sir Roger,” she answered
quietly; “I wore a disguise, and you never dreamed of poor, lost
Sacer. Vuursed your wite faithiully—my soul is clear on that
point.

“When the poor little prentature babe came, a mite of a girl, it
was given into my charge. It died, Sir Roger! Its mother Jay at
the point of death. A horrible temptation seized upon me, to put
ty child in its place. When, upon your wife’s recovery, she
begged me to take care of the babe, till she made a tour toltaly,
thé temptation overcame me. 1 did not tell her—I did not fell
you—that your babe was dead. I wanted my ehild to be yours,
to bear your name, to inherit your wealth and honor,

“You lett France betieving that the babe was in my hands, and
you remember your tour was along one. On your return, I had
my babe all realy, and the few months’ difference in their ages,
Was never noticed. You were charmed to see the child so well.
grown and thriving, and oh, my husband, never dreaming that I
should see your face again on earth, [let you take my precious
babe, because I wanted her to bear your name. Can you forgive
me? [never meunt to tell you, but now I cannot keep it back.”

Sir Roger’s eyes were fulé of solemn tenderness.

*““Lucille’s child,” he said, encircling May with his arm; “no
wonder I have loyed you so, my darling.”

And clinging to her new-found mother, May wept in an aban-

| gratitude.

donment of bliss
OHAPTER LXVIIL
CONCLUSION, .
Sir Roger Ryhope was dead and buried for all time in the old
vault beneath the Ryhope chapel. Life's fitful fever was over,
oe last of all the Ryhope baronets slept the quiet sleep of
eath,
Miss Ryhope, or Lady Ryhope she was now, having come into
possession of her father’s title and estates, the Ryhope entail
providing that said titie and estates should descend to the nearest
female issue, where there chanced to be no direct male heir-at-
law. Lady May Ryhope and lier mother had spent their year of
mourning down at the eonvent in France, and now, in the
early summer, they were making a visit to Clanronaid Castle.
_ Lady Daisy.of Vlapxanal¢ aya rar, uita-ae nome in lier old
Highland castle, :
The wedding was a very quiet affair, in egnsequence of Icha-
bod’s recent death, and it took place in the little square room of
Grand’ther Doon’s cottage. It was a fancy of Daisy’s to have it

so.

Another fancy of hers, equally absurd, perhaps, was to have
Miss Lottie Lovel re-model Jack’s memorable gold-colored silk
tor her wedding-robe. Nothing else would do.

And lovely enough she looked, in her dark, bright beauty, with
foamy laces shading her dimpled arms, and’ pearls glimmering
like summer stars in the meshes of her night-black hair,

A quiet wedding with only a tew guests, and a littlé entertain-
ment given by Dame Turf at the Ryhope Arms, which perverse
Daisy also insisted upon attending,

And now they were at home, in grim, grand Clanronald, and
Lady Ryhope and her mother were her guests.

May was sitting in Daisy’s morning parlor, with a pink flush
on her pretty cheeks,

The morning had been an eventful one. The Marquis of Keith,
now Duke of Clydesdale, true to his old Passion, had made his
way to the Highlands, and that morning had made her.an offer
ot his heart and hand, and silly May had refused him, and he the
very best match in London.

“Such a goose!’ laughed Daisy, her brilliant face all aglow with
happiness; “‘to throw away acoronet! I wonder at you, May!
Ali! here comes Mr. Renshawe to make his adieux, abd a third
person being a bore, Pil vanish.”

She glided out, in her bright, floating draperies, and the squire,
who had come up for the shooting season, came in.

Miss Ryhope bent over her embroidery. She looked unspeak-
ably lovely in her half-mourning robes, the pallor of recent sor-
row on her fair cheeks, Poor Dick’s eyes filed with tears as he
gazed upon her, *
“Tm otf this morning, Lady May,” he said.
go abroad before I see you again???

“Tt is likely, Mr. Renshawe.”?

He heaved an immense sigh.

“Well, you'll be glad to’be rid of me, no doubt,” he said. “I’ve
been a great bore to you, I know, but I couldn’t helpit. I’m off
now—good-by, Lady May |”?

The golden head bent stall lower.

“So, you won’t even shake hands with me ?” he said, sadly.

No answer.

He turned away, cut to the core of his heart.
feet, scattering her silks on the carpet.

“Mr. Renshawel’”

He turned at the soft call. Her blue eyes swam in tears,

“Mr. Renshawe, don’t gol’? : *

“Why ?” he demanded, half-fiercely.

“Because I love you.”

The whisper was just above her breath, but it reached his ear,

and down went the poor fellow on his knees—and down goes our
.

“T suppose youll

*
May rose to her

curtain.

2 * * * * *
A tew months later found them all in Rome.
They had just been discussing some exciting topic, and Mr.
Reushawe had expressed his views with more than ordinary elo-
quence,
; “Why, what has‘some over the squire ?”? laughed Daisy, as he
left the room. “Stupid Dick, we used to call him, May, and now
he’s quite clever.”
Lady May arched her neck like a pigeon.
“That's ugly in you, Daisy,” she replied, “to bring up that
nonsense. Mr. Renshawe’s not stupid—he’s solid gold through
and through, if he’s not so bright on the surface as some others.”
“Bravol’’ cried Jack. “Being one’s own husband changes a
man immensely—doesn’t it, Lady May ?”
“Was there ever a happier couple!” remarked Daisy, looking
out, a moment alter, aud seeing them arm in arm—May and Mr.
Renshawe.
“Are not we as happy ?” said Jack.
“As happy, perhaps, but scarcely happier,”
“T don’t know,” responded Jack; “I think our sunshine is a
trifle brighter. But ’tis just as you have said, love—our life has
been like a spring day—stormy in the opening, but serene and
cloudless in Its nooutide splendor; and I trust it will be all calim-
ness and brightness in its evening repose.”

THE END.

On the first page of this number of the New Yorx WEEKLY we
commence a charming story by Mrs. M. VY. Victor, entitled
“THe BROWN PrINoESS.”” Be sure to read it, as it fs one of Mrs.
VicTok’s best productions.

 

+@

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS, |

THE RUGG DOCUMENTS,
BY CLARA AUGUSTA,

Jonathan was jest as submissive as a lamb all the way,
and I hild my peace, and my tongue, too; which was a
good deal for a woman in my state of mind to do,

He was evidently ashamed of hisself, for he didn’t stop
to smoke as usual, and spit on the stove-harth; he jist
went off to bed to once, and groaned all night.

T asked him what the matter was, and he sed it was the
pain in his stumimak; but I think it was the stringers of
conscience. .

The next day Miss Fitz Bunker rid by on a gray hoss,
and Jonathan was outin the garden hoeing the turnips.
She called out to him that her saddle-girt was out of kil-
ter, and wanted him to fix it. ! :

He started to climb over the fence, but his feet being
allers in the way, he hit his toe, somehow, and went rite
oyer onto his head rite in frunt of the hoss, which was a
kind of a sperituous critter and not used to see men-folks
come at him that way. He sot up his head and tail, and
away he went as fast as ever he could gallop, and the gate
being open into our fiye-acre corn-fielu, he turned in there
and tore through that corn Jike a gray whirlwind on four
legs.

iiss Fitz Bunker was dumped off in the beginning, and,
forgetting her many sins against me, I run out with the
camflire bottle and soused her face till she cum to.

As for Jonathan, he had picked hisself up and slunk off
to the barn, a limping awfully, for that fall had hurt his
worstest corn and riled his temper.

Mose White ketched the loss and led it home, and Miss
Fitz Bunker follered behind, with her vail pulled down,
and her hands full of her torn riding skirt and the bust-
ed up strings of beads and jewelry that we’d gathered up
from the wreck.

The next day Mrs. De Limmons, and herson Augustus,
and her daughter Angeline Arabella arriv to our ’us.

 

 

Mis,.De Limmous used to keasecond cuzzin to me

Waited,2,momant ana +

: — ee

when she was Bets Goolbroth, and lived over to (he Ridge;
but after she married Kimmons, the candle-maker, and he
got rich, she hain’t been so nigh a relation.

She livesin Filecelphy, and she hain’t any idee that
there's any other place in the-world fit to stay in, and how
on airth she ever-happened to cum to Pigeon Holler beats
me!

Jonathan sez that it’s to save her board, and the board
of her son and darter, but that’s all guess work. He sez
that in fashionable Ife, nowadays, everybody must go

that may be; and he, says if they stay to hum they live
down suller, and don’t see nobody. And hesez that Mrs.
De Limmons has cum here because she knows slie'li git
her living for nothing; and if she goes to the Springs, or
the Falls, or the Mountains, she'll have to pay four dollars
a day a piece for all of "em,

I asked Jonathan Perkins how it happened that he
knowed so mach about fashionable people, and he sed he
read it in a fashion newspaper.

Anyhow they are here, and I wasn't tickled to death to
see’em! Not by a jug full!

They brung their maid with ‘em, and two dogs, anda
parrot, and two bobby links, anda pet squirrel, anda
bathing tub, and sfx band boxes, and four ridicules, and
nine trunks, and three hat boxes of Augustus’s, and three
ambrills, and eleven porrysols, and abouta peck of novels,
and guide books, and picter newspapers.

The homnibus brung ?em over from the depot, all of ’em
In three trips. It was nearly all the afternoon a doing of
it, and Sam Hooker, which drives it, sed he considered it
a mighty smart job to do in that time. I guess you never
oe any horses sweat us them did, after they’d made tie
ast trip.

“Dear me, Cousin Perkins!*? sez Mrs. De Limmons,
Stopping in the doorway, with her poodle under one arm,
and her cage of bobbylinks in *fother hand, and a couple
ofisatche) bags swinging from her belt, along with a per-
rysol, and a fan, and something that looked like a pepper-
sass bottle, with a brass stopper, all ehained to her Jeather
belt, “why you live quite in the wilderness! So rural, and
secluded!’?
~ “Oh for a lodge in some vast wildorness!

Some boundless contiguity of shade!”

Sez Augustus, rolling lis eyes around at the cherry ang
apple trees—‘‘this is indeed the primeval forest, and
where are the dryads, Cousin Jerushy 2?

(Augustus is a poit!)

“Dryads?” sezI. ‘I don’t know of anything of the
kind! I’ve got a patent clothes-dryer, and a dry sink, and
the barn-yard wel is dry, and them’s at4 know of.”

“What lamentable ignorance!” sez he, mopping his fer-
rud with a handkereher that smelt like a hull apothecary
shop, with a quack doctor or two throwed in.

“Oh! ma, mal?’ cried Arabella, Hfting up her ruffled
skirts, and Jooking at the grass in our front yard as if it
was full of rattlesnaiks, and alligators, “there are no
pavements! and I shall ruin my satin gaiters stepping on
pe grass. Dear me! how I wish I was back in Plniladel-
phy!

“So do I,*? sez her ma.

“So do I,’? sez I to myself.

“If we only were,’ sez Augustus; “but as it is we must
try to bear it,”? ;

“You needn’t put yourself ont to bear it,’ sez Is
‘“‘there’s a train starts out at 7:50 this very night that’ll
land you in Feledelphy in due time.’

“Pray don’t be offended, Cousin Jerushy,”’ sez Mrs. De
Limmons; ‘Augustus means no harm. Mis is one of
those finely-strong, sensitive spirits that cannot endure
the slightest approach to coarseness or vulgarity, and the
sight of these untamed wilds in all their original rough-
ness has untuned his nerves. Pray excuse him.??

“I guess he’s upsot with the heat, or else he’s took too
much whisky,’’ sez 1; ‘but never mind; cum in, and we'll
See about some supper.”?

So they all cum in. ; .
Mose White and Jonathan they fell to lugging In the bag-
gage and swearing, and Augusfns sunk into the rocking-
eheer and gazed at the moon, which was jest coming up
from behind Pinkham/’s .cider mill, and Arabeller shook
out her skirts and reclined on the sofy.

I went into the kitchen and sot about supper, and I was
afrying some bacon and eggs beantifally, and had jest
got ’em reddy to turn, when a ear-splitting scream cum
from the parlor, follered by the cry of—

“Help!. Murder! Murder!? .

I dropped the pan of eggs and gravy on thie stove, and
nnheeding the sputtering and sizzling of the grease, [
flew to the rescue, fully ixpecting that the house was full
of midnight assassins. Yourn, trewly,

. J. R. PERKINS.
All Hands Below.

A good story is told of a parrot’who had always lived on board
of a ship, but who escaped at one of the Southern rts, and teok
refuge in a church’ n afterward the congregation assembled,
and the minister began preaching to them in his earnest fashion,
fovlng there was novyirtue in them—that every one of them
would go to an endless perdition unless ‘they repented. Just as
he spoke the sentence, up spoke the parrot from his hiding-

place:

Adi hands below!”
To say that “all hands” were startled would be a mild way of
putting it. The peculiar voice and unknown source had much
more effect upon them

“All hands below!” again rang out from somewhere,
The preacher started from his pubpit and looked anxiously
around, inquiring if anybody had spoken,

“All hands below!” was the only reply, at which the entire
panic-stricken congregation got up, and a moment afterward
they all bolted forthe doors, the preacher trying his best to get
peor first, and daring the time the mischievous bird kept up his
yelling:

“All hands below !”?

There was one old woman present who was lame, and could not
get out as fast asthe rest, end in ashort time she was left en-
tirely alone. Just as he was about to hobble out, the parrot flew
down, and, alighting on her shoulder, yelled in her car:

“All hands detow PF? ~

“No, no, Master Devil! shrieked the old woman, “you don’t
mean me. I don’t belong here. Igo tothe other church across
the way.”

Some Sad Results of the Hard Times.

The hard times has Taid its blighting hand upon even tho itin-
erant showmen, whose modest tents were wout to be pitched be-
side the more pretentious circus affair. There we used to seo the
pink-eyed Albino with the stnffed legs, the contortionist with the
dirty tights, the individual who juggted knives, and the gentle-
man who ate stones me swallowed sword-blades with apparent
relish, And we shalMhever forget either the beautiful young lady
who was accustomed to play with boa-constrictors, cobras, and
the rest of the snake family. On the posters outside she was an-
nounced as‘of a beautiful cream color, with blue hair, and was
literally covered with red, blue, and green gems, (worth about
ten cents a peck,) presented to her by the crowned heads of Eu
rope; but in reality she was red-haired and freckled, had lost twa
of her front teeth, and-wore a tawdry dress of Spangles that
looked as if it had never stumbled over a bit of soap fn ita exist
ence. But we liked her nevertheless, and stood in open-cye®
wonder at her daring performance with a sick-looking snake
about a foot long. Where is she now that the panic has come ®
Wil she be forced to cook and eat the friends of her Boa-hood ®
These be solemn thoughts, and eannot be avoided. But he who
ate the stones will be more fortunate, since a lunch of pebbles
ean be found atany time. Well, they have our sympathy now, as
they once had our quarters, and we trust that the time will soon
come when the blue-haired girl will once more take up her
snakes, the contortionist begin to bend, and the sworld-man to
consume his stony food. They have made us all laugh in cur
time, and there are worse folks than they in the world.

A Bottomless Thimble.

A little darkey entered a store, and said to the proprietor, as
fast as he coul&talk:.“Granny wants a thimble what'll go onto
your thumb.”? He then paused, took in a long breath, and ap-
pearec to be in a deep study, and finally resumed: “She wants
one what—what hain’t got Sho bottom init.” The storekeeper
pretended not to understand him, whereupon the boy attempted
to explain: “‘She wants one—one what got a hole in boph ends_?

; JOHN OLIVER. ,
Big Kettles. p
We have a German saloon-keeper in BM See whose princIpal
attractions are his extreme good humor and his 350 pounds ayoir-
dupois. He is an inveterate story-teller, and given somewhat fo
drawing thelong bow. A few evenings since he was entertam-
ing a party of loungers, by recounting certain incidents in big
ast life. Speaking of a soap factory in which he worked, he ak
uded to the large kettles they used. ‘Vy, poys,’’ said he, “tay
vas as pig as—vell’’—looking around the room for a comparison,
then rubbing that most prominent part ef his person—‘'as pig as
my shtomach. I schwear dot’s zo,” R. U

A Ready Letter-Writer Wanted.
The following is an authentic copy of a note written by a pa-
rent toa teacher ina public school of thiscity. The envelope
was addressed to “Mrs, K***"*, teacher in 44 street school, nearer
10 avenue thane 11 avenue city present.”
Nxw York, novembher ait.
MIss K**#e%—j want u tu giv uppe thoze beds* u tuk frome mi
gurlhe ani dunt want ututack Eneything frume her & enny
mor if u dui will sie Mrs ———,
utuck thim frumme heran hay thim know 3weaksour 4
our 5 weakes an 1 just think it is time fur u to ghive them uppe
they belonge to her bige siester, my uther dorter, who aint putty
wel and wants them beds Coz sheze sik with a swel jaw
Yures pectfully, R. TALCOR
* The writer evidently meant “beads.”*

A Seasonable Sonnet.
The fall advances, and along the woods
The shiver of their dénudation sounda,
While crimison glory clothes the solitudes
To the admiring vision’s farthest bounds.
Who stands to-day on some high mountain-top
May see such beauties that his dazzled eye
On its bright loveliness were fain to stop,
And mourn to have its grandeur hasten by.
O, giad is fall! the falling nut we hear,
e apple falls in ripeness from the bough,
The harvest song falls sweetly on the ear,
And fall, enthroned, is relgnimve monareh now.
But far more beauty in the fall] I'd see
That lowered the price of provender and tea. . B. P. S%

IMustration of Texas Life.
A “Ranger” went into the Adams Express company's office, at
Denison, Texas, last week, and told the agent that he wished to
ship the body of a relative to Ohio. The agent asked him if the
man died with any epidemic. The ranger replied: “He didn’t
die with no epidemic. We just shot him this morning.” The
agent made out the receipt at once, A. L. DAMARL

A Bully Irishman,

Bloomington, Ill.; is the abiding place of an Irishman who is
rather quaint in speech. Speaking of citizenship to him, the
other day, I informed him that he would have to be five years
in the country before he could vote.

“I know better than that,”.he responded. “If aman has served
three months in the army, he may yote, although he hasn’t been
in the country two days,”

poaversiog on burying grounds, I asked him how much was
charged for digging a grave in the C—— Cemetery.

man has to dig his own grave.”

A Refined Young Lady.

Polite young host (to Girl ot the’ Period, a visitor): “Will you
have some more turkey 9?

G. of P. Gushingly): “You just bet Iwont. I’m uearly busted
already.”

Youpg man faints,

.

To P. P. CONTRIBUTORS.—-The following MSS. are accepted:
“Model Order,” ‘Let Go My Kays,” “Praying Child.’ “Mugging!
Dilemma,” “Boots to Let,’ “How Peebles Asked the Old Man”
...«.-The following are respectfully declined: ‘Haye You Evet
Heard?” ‘*Paking a Rest,” ‘Lacky Shine,’ “Bridzet Malone,”
“High Pamily,” “What Will You Take? “Pat and the Yunkee”’=~

HORSMAN.

 

old, “Money Scarce,” “Lost Her Lover,*

 

somewheres during the summer, or lose caste, whatever

than the parson’s voice ever had. He |

“Shure there’s no reg’lar sexton in thatcimetary, and go ivery :

Lien

 

 

 
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oe

te oe

on 0 bp tier 1

 

 

 

 

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cnet iti iires ttitiiniati aren ital

LIBERTY'S FIGHTING SUIT.

BY JOSEPH BARBER.

The Revolution’s uniform
To us seems quaint and olden,

The three-cocked hat, the spatterdash,
Blue coat and facings golden,

But ne’er did knightly harness gleam
On hearts more firm and true

Than those that beat for Liberty
Beneath the Buff and Blue.

 

 

The coats of blue were rough and coarse—
Much coarser than the scarlet

That in oppression’s serried ranks
Adorned each British varlet.

But for their rights our fathers fought—
For pay the tyrant’s crew—

And down the flaunting scarlet went
Before the Buff and Blue!

The men in red were mere machines—
Numbskulls with brains of leather—
“Who took their rules of right and wrong

From epaulet and feather.
But our bold sires had hearts and heads—
For home their swords they drew—
And souls in arms as well as frames
Glowed ’neath the Buff and Blue.

The uniform of seventy-six
Shall live for aye in story;
We cherish as proud-heir-looms still
Shreds of that garb of glory.
-And memories with those fragments linked
‘Still Keep us leal and true
‘To all for which the heroes fought
Who wore the Buff and Blue.
i

CHANGED IN AN HOUR.

BY HANNAH HOPPER,

 

 

 

A Picture! A woman half kneeling over a heap
of time-stained letters lying loose on the carpet,
Her form slight and graceful. Her hair dark and
waving and falling loosely to her waist. Her white
hands clasped firmly together and her great eyes
"raised:beseechingly to Heaven. The twilight gather-
‘ing silently and stealthily about her. A single ray
‘from the almost somber west stealing in the hali-
opened window, and falling, not upon the kneeling
form, but upon the confused heap of old letters.

A moan, despairing and hopeless, came from
the half-parted lips, and the picture was changed.

fhe hands were unclasped, and drew, ina kind of

shuddering yet tender way, the yellow missives to-
ward the beating heart—the head was bowed, until
the face was buried among the letters, and then sob
after sob shook the slender form.

‘‘And this is the end of all my hopes and beautiful
dreamings,” she said. ‘‘I must bid farewell to all the
tenderness, the sentimentality, the fond, fond mus-
‘ings, the adoring love which, for years made my life
dlessed. I thought that I had conquered the pain, the
heart-ache, that I couid drop these letters one by one
npon the shining coals, and feel no pang, but I
cannot.” -

She arose, lighted a candle, knelt again upon the
carpet, and placed it by her side. One by one she
‘took the cherished missives, and holding them
tremblingly in the blaze, saw them burn toa cinder.
Over one she hesitated, and half quietly pressed it to
-her fips.

“‘This is the first,” she said, ‘tin which he said any-
thing of love.”

She drew it from the wrapper, and unfolded it.
The first words she saw were, ‘Dear Jewel.” How
beautiful those words had looked to her when she saw
them the first time! Her heart had thrilled withan
inexpressible joy, and she had slept that night with
the letter upon it, and could hardly sleep for the hap-
piness that was flooding her soul.'he memory ofthat
great joy came rushing back, as she held the letter
in her trembling hand. Could she burn that which
had made her once so very, very happy? ‘‘No!”’she
said slowly, and slipping it back into its wrapper, she
pressed it again to her lips, and then placed it care-
‘fully in her bosom.

Si of the others she saw consumed in the blaze of
and knelt at the window, and gazed mournfully {nto
the ‘infinite meadows of Heaven,” where the stars
were blossoming one by one.

“Life is so strange,” she mused; ‘‘and joys are so
fleeting and so few. Once I knelt at this window
without a shadow to mar the perfect happiness of my
heart. I could not think of grief then. I could not
‘kink that sorrow could ever come to me, everything
seemed so fair, so beautiful, so true. Ihadabetroth-
ai ring upon my finger as I have now, but how differ-
ently I looked upon that from what I do upon this.
i remember how I kissed it, and blessed the giver,
‘asking Heaven fe keep him from all pain and sorrow.
‘Thatisgone from my finger now, and here is another.
I try to be glad itis there; I know that he who placed
it there is true and noble, and loves me well, and I
lnave promised tobehis wife. Wasit wrong? I told
him of these tetters. I did not promise to love him
as I have loved, and he looked sad, but said he would
‘be content with less affection if only I would love
him a little and be his wife. He said he would try
te make me happy, and I know he will, but can
he succeed? Oh! if I had never known this other
Jeve, or if I could forget it, then he would be all the
*verid to me, and I should be happy, but I will be.a
Gutiful wife, and trust to Heaven for the rest.”

She drew a long sigh, dropped her head upon her
“elasped hands and offered a silent prayer, and then
svent in where her sister was playing some quaint old
song upon the piano.

It was only a week before the day appointed for
her wedding. In her early life she had loved Aubrey
Milton, and they had been for years betrothed lovers,
but at last he had gone away, and she heard no more
trom him, and grew tired of waiting and watching,
and finally was told that he was false. Years went
dy, and she could not forget him, but at last when
ugh Gordon asked her to be his wife, she had told
him all, and then as he still desired her to be his own,
she promised, andin a week the marriage vows would
be taken.

fhe days passed quickly away and the twilight of
the marriage eve came stealingon. There were few
guests, and all seemed very quiet and even sad as if
they were somewhat influenced by the sadness of the
bride.

he words were said that made them man and wife,
‘the congratulations were over, and the guests grew
more gay, and laughed and chatted together merrily.
‘Helen, now the wife of Hugh Gordon, threw a shaw]
‘cout her, and unseen stepped out upon the broad
piazza. The meon threw down a thousand beams
trom the cloudless sky, and the wind sighed and sob-
bed in the great pine tree near the door. She look-
ed down the shady, quiet walk, anda desire arose in
her heart to visit the old rustic seat at the foot of the
garden where she had spent so many happy and inno-
cent hours in the days forever flown. Noiselessly she
glided ‘neath the great trees and soon came to the
xetired nook she sought, but the seat was occupied;
2nd she was about to turn and go back to the house
when the occupant, a slender man witha black cloak
thrown gracefully over his shoulders, sprang up amd
approached her.

**Helen,” he said, ina deep, thrilling voice. ‘Helen,
is it you 2?”

She took a step toward him, and forgetting every-
‘thing only that her old love was near her she cried
eagerly:

“Oh, Aubrey, Aubrey Milton, how came you here?”

In a moment his arms were about her.

“Tam here,” he cried, passionately; ‘to see you
Helen. My wife hasbeen dead one year to-day, and
‘[ never loved her as I love you, andI come to ask you
te be my wife.”

She sprang away from him.

“Tt is too late,” she said; “I was married not more

‘than an heur ago to Hugh Gordon.”
_**But you do not love him,” he said, approaching
‘ner; ‘‘and you must be mine. Fly with me, Helen,
and we will live in perfect bliss. What care we for
the world? your husband and your friends need
never hear from you—throw that shawlinto the river,
and they will think you are drowned.”

She listened, and the tempter urged her to do as
he desired. She trembled like an aspen leat, but her
pure heart‘could do no wrong, and she turned to flee
from the man who was urging her to sin, but she
was too weak, a mist was before her eyes, and she
fainted\in his arms. With the fleetness of wind he
ore her through the garden walk and out into the
highway, and with the assistance of the driver placed

her within his carriage, and springing quickly to her
‘side the carriage rolled away.

They had ridden but a short distance when Helen
‘opened her eyes, and in an instant the truth flashed
‘upon her, .

“Stop, Aubrey Milton,” she cried; ‘I would die
*rather than go with you; take me back to my husband
Wramhediatély.”

He tried to draw her toward him, and told her how
much he toved her, ‘'and-that he could not give her up.
She grew angry and frightened.

 

 

 

 

*fwas Christmas Eve—and Harry Hall,
His wife and children three,

Sat in their wretched little room
In abject misery.

They had no fire, they had no food,
Their frames were almost bare,

And the.sad group a picture formed
Of hopeless, blank despair.

*T wish old Santa Claus would come, mamma,”
Cried little Sue,
“For I am cold as I can be
And very hungry too,
But then you know he will not come
Till we are all in bed,
So let us go, and then perhaps
He’ll bring us clothes and bread.”

And so the wretched family

And Batty 1s Seat BF might,

t

: — me go,” she cried; “or I will seream for
elp.” ‘

He placed his hand across her mouth and held her
firmly. She struggled to free herself, but there was
no use, she could do nothing, and the carriage rolled
on bearing her farther and farther away from her
anxious friends.

**It is for your good and for mine that I do this,”
he said; ‘tyoulove me better than you love your hus-
band, and will be happier with me. The rules of so-
ciety are all wrong.”

With a mighty effort she sprang from his grasp
screaming:

‘J hate you. Help! help!

It was a terrible shriek, the driver stopped his
horses in affright.

“Drive on,” screamed Aubrey Milton.
have here is insane.
immediately.”

‘*Hold! there !” a voice from the outside eried, and
with a joyful heart Helen recognized it as the voice
of her husband.

In amoment the carriage door was forced open,
and the frightened wife sprang into the arms of her
husband, weeping for joy. Instantly on finding they
were pursued, Aubrey Milton sprang from the door
on the opposite side of the carriage, andfled. They.
would have pursued him, but Helen said as she clung
to her husband:

*‘He will not trouble us again, dear Hugh, let him
escape.”

The driver was ordered to turn about and drive
them back to the house, and the anxious guests never
greeted a happieror more loving bride. Her feelings
were revolutionized. The old love died out of her
heart, and she loved her husband better than she had
ever loved another? The letter which the week be-
fore she had saved, feeling that she could not destroy
it, She consigned to the fiames without a struggle or
a pang, and life was more beautiful to her than ever
before. She soon learned that her old lover was dis-
sipated and worthless, and undoubtedly sought her
hoping to marry her and thereby gain possession of
her wealth. She never saw him again, and lives
happily and contentediy with her noble husband.

————>-2+_____

JACK AND GILL.

BY THE FAT CONTRIBUTOR

“The lady I
Drive to the railroad.station

 

“Jack and Gill went up the hill
To draw a pail of water,

Jack fell down aud broke his crown,
While Gill came tumbling atter.”

The subjects of the above touching verse were two
young people, whose respective. parents were neighbors,
their back yards fronted on eath other. We can picture
their humble little cottages, abodes of happiness and con-
tentment, nestling at the foot of a protecting hill. Being
poor they were unable to maintain a well of their own,
and were therefore compelled to obtain water from the
well of a dairyman who lived on the summit of the hill,
except when he lived on the credulity of his customers,
who didn’t know what a milk-and-water man he really
was. So you see it was up-hill work for the poor people
at the foot of the hill to get any water. It never occurred
to them to tap the well by boring into the hill, and thus
save themselves the trouble of bringing water down in
pails, So they continued for years to obtain their supply
in the laborious manner above mentioned.

But the parents of Jack and Gill found age creeping
upon them, and they couldn’t go for water with the alac-
rity they once displayed, especially on washing and
scrubbing days. Jack's father, who loved his tod, used to
remark thatif it was whisky he was climbing for he
wouldn’t mind it. Atlength it was proposed that the
young people go for the water, as they had evidently been
going for each other for some time. Their being a pros-
pect of their going hand-in-hand together through life ere
long why not practice on the handle of a patent pail?
Both Jack and Gill acceded very readily to the proposition.
They had been kept at the foot of the hill all their lives, as
it were, and they aspired for something higher.

They had read Longfellow’s “Excelsior” together, and
Jack once started up the hill in the character of the youth
who bore ‘‘’mid snow and ice, a banner with this strange
device,” &c., only he hadn’t any banner, only his moth-
er’s old calico sun-bonnet on a cistern pole, and there
was no device upon it, because his mother was a woman
of no devices.

It was arranged that Gill was to run out of the cottage
as the maiden did and implore him to relinquish his Al-
pine trip, but before she could de so the old woman would
catch sight of him and yell:

‘‘Here, you Jack, come right down here, or I'll break
every bone in your body!”?

As they had never been far up the hill they were de-
lighted with the prospect of climbing to the top of it. Be-
side desiring to see the well they had heard so much
about they thought the trip might settle two or three
wow lf problems that ifad puzzled their brains from child-

100d,

For one thing they had observed the sun disappear
over the top of that hiil day after day, and they desired to
see where it went to. Gill entertained an idea that it

Wh

A CHRISTMAS

 

 

BY FRANCIS S. SMITH.

A blessed vision saw—

A vision of old Santa Claus
Replenishing the fire,

And loaded down with everything
His sad heart could desire.

Upon his shoulders, broad and strong,
Large packages he bore,

Containing wholesome bread and clothes—
And near him, on the floor,

A sack of coals was opened wide,
From which; with looks elate,

He filled, while pulling at his pipe,
A scuttle near the grate,

It was a blissful, blessed dream
That Harry Hall slept through,
And best of all, when morning broke,
He found the vision true.
A brother, who had years befure

went down the well, but Jack scouted the idea, because
it wou!d dry up the well and destroy the dairyman’s busi-
ness.. Then raimbows had been seen to rest one foot on
the hill’s summit, and they wanted to discover what it
anchored to!

And so one pleasant morning the two young people
started up the hill, gleefully swinging an empty pail be-
tween them. Young limbs are sturdy, so far as we have
made a sturdy of them, and the ascent was not difficult.
They talked but little, and silence gives assent, though
many wouldn’t give a cent for sucha pun asthat. They
didn’t find out where the sun disappeared to on reaching
the summit, or discover the spot where the rainbow re-
posed. Noone there seemed to possess any definite in-
formation on the subject.. One old milkman, who was
refiectively pouring a little milk into a can of weil water
to give it consistency and color, when asked whiere the
sun set, said his son set around the saloon mostof the
time. Gill observed there were afew beaux up there,
but no rainbows,

Jack drew the water (ke had practised drawing in water
colors), and filling the pail they began the descent. Virgil
Says the descent into hell is easy enough, but adds some-
thing to the effect that the devil of it is to get back again.
But it was the descent that bothered Jack and Gill, al-
though they came of decent families. They started cau-
tiously enough, to be sure, kolding themselves up by the
pail and setting their bare feet into the ground hard, but
they couldn’t avoid getting into a run do all they couid,
and so, like all other mortals when they find themselves
running down hill, it was almost impossible to hold up.
They went faster and faster until a catastrophe occurred.
Jack stumbled and fell, breaking a “crown” which he
had in his pantaloon’s pocket, given him by arieh uncle

‘to set him up in housekeeping when ke should marry

Gill.

Now Gill didn’t want him to break that crown for fear
he might spend it, and as any other prudent and frugal
young woman would do under similar circumstances, she
“came tumbling after’’—the crown, which in the absence
of a waterfall, was her crowning glory, although. there
was quite a waterfall when the pail capsized.

Their subsequent history can be briefly told. They
reached home, soiled, torn and disordered, and minus the
pail, unless it was pale faces. They were scolded, of
course, and as for water shut down to a gill a day, and it
is to be hoped that Jack was entirely happy with his Gill
from that day out.

Two NEW YORK OFFICERS.

Deputy Sheriffs Shields and Cahill, who take
all the Prisoners to Sing Sing.

In the vast. judicial system of the County of New York
there are men who perform most important duties with
a promptness and fidelity which are well known to those
connected with the public business, but not so mucli by
the public at large.

There are two gentlemen in the office pf the sheriff
who take all the prisoners to Sing Sing State Prison, and
who may be regarded as instances of the kind to which
we refer. Itis a position requiring the utmost integrity
and courage. During their term of service they have
taken over eighteen hundred persons, under condemna-
tion, from the Tombs to Sing Sing, and when it is con-
sidered how dangerous these desperadoes were to the
welfare of the community, and how much responsibility
rested upon the men who were_ required to remove them
from the place of trial to the place of punishment, tlie
value of the services of these officers cannot be too highly
estimated. We have therefore been at the trouble to in-
quire into their personal history, so that the readers of
the NEw YORK WEEKLY might learn something about
them, and especially that the merit of their official lives
might be properly presented to the public.

William: Henry Shields was born in the City of New
York, November 2, 1835. His father died when he was
one year old. Consequently, after a short period passed
at Public School No. 44, at the age of twelve he began
work with Morton Brothers in the steel ornament manu-
facture. Two years later he went as a clerk in a grocery
store on the corner of Henry and Rutgers streets, where
he remained until he became an apprentice in the glass
cutting and ornamenting factory of Stuvenel Brothers, in
Vesey street. Six industrious years were spent in this
way. when, at the age of twenty, he found himself out of
his time with the reputation of being an excellent work-
inan. During the same period he had attended a private
night school. After working asa journeyman for two
years, he went into business for himself in the New Haven
Railroad Freight Depot building in Center street.

He became a member of the famous Seventh Regiment,
which he remained for some nine years. When they
were called to the front on different occasions during the
war of the rebellion he went with them, and was noted
as an efficient and brave soldier.

He next went into a business in window glass in Canal
street. In July, 1867, he received the appointment ofa
deputy under Sheriff O’Brien, and was attached to the

arine Court. Having been reappointed under Sheriff

rennan, he has now been in the position for six years.

Michael J. Cahill, who is associated with Shields in of-
ficial duties, was pbornin Rockland County, New York,
May 2, 1846. He was brought to New York when two
years of age, and has lived in the city ever since. He re-
ceived his education in Public School No. 11, and after-
ward went into the law office of Thomas Adis Emmet, but
it did not agree with him. Subsequentiy he was in the
office of Samuel Down, a manufacturer, for two years,

 

TY a\\\ \\
oii

NIGHT V

 

   

    

SION,

Had just returned in time to be
Poor Harry’s Santa Olaus.

And now a word to Santa Claus,
The generous and true,
And thén I'll have accomplished
The end I had in view.
Remember in these panic times
That many girls and boys
Want bread, and meat, and clothes, and fire,
As well as sweets and toys.

So don’t forget, old Santa Claus,
The picture drawn above;
And when you start on Christmas Eve
Upon your work of love,
If you would bring a throb ot joy
To many an aching heart, ‘
Put food, and clothes, and coals, as well
As candies, in your cart.

and then went with James 0. Morse, and learned the
trade of brass work and finishing. In 1863, he joined Com-
pany Aof the Seventy-first New York Regiment, and
went to the war, and was thus engaged up to 1865. He
then worked at his trade again up to 1869, when he went
into business for himself in Gold street, and sold out in
1871. He was appointed a deputy by Sheriff Brennan,
and has shown an energy and faithfulness in the dis-
charge of his duties which has made hii one of the most
prominent of the whole force.

The custom is tosend prisoners from the Tombs te
Sing-Sing twicein each week. About ten are taken at
each trip. Before they set out they are double hand-cuffed
to each other, and go in the prison van to the Grand Cen-
tral depot, when Shields and Cahill meet them and take
the next out-going train for their destination. When any
very desperate criminal, whose friends might attempt a
rescue, is to go up, the time of his going is kept a-secret
with Shields and Cahill, who go at some unusual hour to
the prison, and before any action can be taken the man is
in Sing-Sing. For instance, when Stokes went up, not
even the warden of the Tombs knew when he was to
Start until the officers called and demanded him.

Shields and Cahill, as has been stated, have taken to
Sing Sing no Jess than eighteen hundred prisoners. Of
this large number only one attempted escape, and he
threw himself from the car window, and was killed, being
delivered at the prison dead. Up to January, 1873, the
whole number taken was fourteen hundred and nineteen,
which Were classified as follows: Males, 1343; females, 76;
negrees, 62; for life, 6; fifteen years, 5; seventen years, 3;
twenty years, 20. During the present year three more
have been taken up on life sentences, one of which was a
woman. Of the whole eighteen hundred, one hundred
were women.

Deputy Sheriff Shields is of the medium hight, with a
well-proportioned figure. Heis polite and affable with
all, and is evidently a man of intelligenkand shrewd ob-
servation in life. With no show of special physical vigor,
his face indicates that decision and courage are never
wanting in him when the occasion requires it. In truth,
he is @ model officer with prisoners, for while he extends
to them every kindness which is consistent with his duty,
anda knowledge of their unfortunate position, he is so
firm and faithful that they are entirely submissive to his
authority.

Deputy Sheriff Cahill issparely made, but he is wiry and
active. His face has an expression of firmness, and it ean-
not be doubted but that he always acts promptly and
without fear. He is cheerful and agreeable in conversa-
tion, and can tell many a romantic story about the des-
peradoes he had escorted to Sing Sing. Like Shields he
stands as firm as a rock in the discharge of duty, but in
other respects is one of the most socialand genial of men.

itis a pleasant thus torecord the successful and hon-
orable Official career of these gentlemen. Without on
their own part seeking in any manner pubiic notice, it is
fitting that a press like ours, which is a true representa-
tive of the people, should thus award praise to their fidel-
ity and worth.

THE LADIES’ WORK-Box.

OvuR New CATALOGUB.—The new Illustrated Catalogue of ‘the
New YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency, 212 pages, is now ready,
and will be sent to any address, prepaid, on receipt of tem cents.

 

 

 

“Susie Kent.’’—Make your dancing dress of fine white
organdie or Swiss muslin; form the front and side gores
with perpendicular puffings alternating with Italian lace
over the ribbon. Ruffle the back of the skirt more
than lvalf way to the top, and edge each ruffle with
lace headed by a row of the insertion lined with biue rib-
bon. Line the low, pointed waist with blue silk, and fin-
ish with a blue silk binding an inch or more wide. Close
the waist with tiny blue buttons and buttonholes, and
line the skirt and puffed sleeves with .biue silk, which
may be partly concealed by insertion underlaid with rib-
bon.and edged with wide lace. A pretty bertha may be
formed with insertion, lace and ribbon. Upon the right
shoulder place loops of black velvet and a cluster of hal!-
open damask roses. Upon the other shoulder have a
Similar ornament, with long black ribbon streamers,
caught low down upon the skirt under another cluster.
Piace a bouquet of roses nestling in velvet upon the bo-
som, and auotherinthe hair. Cut the skirt by the new
pattern No. 3,023, price 30 cents. Make the waist after
3.047, price 20 cents. Au evening cloak to wear with this
dress may be cut in dolman style from thick, white woolen
goods, striped with light blue. Have the back slightly
fitted by a center seam, and the sleeves moderately wide,
Border the edge with swan’s down; cut the dolman by
pattern 2,541, price 30 cents. A pattern for Watteau man-
tilla is No. 2,924, price 25 cents. This may be made of
white merino, and lined with silk any color preferred.
Border with fringe color of silk, mixed with white. Place
a ribbon bow with Jong ends upon the Watteau, and a
ruche of the silk about the throat. This may be worn to
the opera, or used for promenade after a dance, or for
carriage wrap.

“Norma Delmo.”’—For winter sacque use a kind of heavy
cloth, such as beaver, broadcloth, Tricot, &c. There are many
different styles for these garments; 2,938, price 20 cents, is half-
fitting slashed sacque; 2,943, price 20 cents, is a double-breasted
short sacque; 2,945, price 26 cents, is in great favor, andisa
double-breasted, English walking jacket. Velvet can be used if
you have heavy lining.

“Nellie L.”.—Make a polonaise or redingote of your black al-
paca skirt. Cord with black silk; also make cuffs and pockets of
the silk. A stylish pattern is 2,751, price 35 cemts; or, if you de-
sire something more puffed, get 2,996, price 35 cents. A very
pretty belted polonaise is 2,467, price 30 cents. The color of the
hair is light-brown. Wecannot give the information in regard

 

 

a ———p

to its value, for only those who make up the braids know the
quantity and length of hair requrred.

‘‘Linone T.”.—You may be abie to bave one flounce on tho skirt
of your dress, but it can be neither deep nor full. For skirt use
pattern 2,484, price 30 cents. A handsome polonaise which docs
not require much material is No. 3,008, price 25 cents,

“Belle Delmar.’!—Write a pleasant, friendly note and make the
request; also mention that you would appreciate the article for
the service he has rendered you,

“Annie P.”—We can send the corsets for $250 per pair. The
globe-fitting corsets have become very popular in the last year,
and these we have sent have in all cases given satisfiction,.

“Lucy.’’—The braid we can send you tor $10, Tie your back
hair in the center of your back head, fasten your braid in with
your own hair. Braid ali together in one large braid, and fasten
the end up on your head near the forehead, then comb the front
hair back from the face and make finger puffs of the ends, which
you can place back of the coronet braid, which finishes this ar-
ra ment.

“W. F. K.’—The color of the hair is brown.

“Lettie.’—The tie will cost you $1 50, the gloves $2 25. for best
quality, in two buttons, and your bridal bonnet $10 to $15.

**Estelle.”—We copy the item you send, but we differ from the
writer in our views of this important subject. In many sections
ot the United States the housework is entirely done by the young
ladies of the household, and without any thought otf disgrace. It
is done as a matter of course. Even in New York we’ find com-
paratively few servants, the inmates of the house assisting in or
entirely doing the required work: ‘‘The education and training
of American women is altogether defective in its way. Instead
of being taught housework, and thereby becoming conversant
with the routine of domestic occupations, they devote their
leisure hours to the reading of novels. Instead of learning to fit
}and make their own dresses, and their fathers’ and brothers’
shirts, they are allowed to go gadding about the streets, and that,
too, at hours that they ought to be at home under their mothers’
eyes, darning stockings or preparing thenext morning’s meal. In
no civilized country in the world is the domestic education and
training of woman considered disgraceful or undignified except-
ing the United States of America.”

“E. V. B.”—Strips for stamping by the French method under
three inches $1.25 a dozen. Those with scollops $1.75 a dozen,
The Purchasing Agency will buy the articles for you with pleas
ure.

‘“Modést Old Maid.’"—Take care, If he is very much in earnest
he may take your broken promise seriously. Your being forty
years old will not prevent the gentleman [rom giving you some
trouble if he is so disposed. A suit for breach of promise of mar-
riage, which was decided in Montreal receutly, had several novel
| features. It was brought by a youth of fifty-eight years against a
young lady of forty-seven (the age was admitted by her,) and
the amountof damages asked for the laceration of his feel-
ings was $408. The plaintiff alleged that he had, after becoming
engaged to the defendant, purchased a property at Varennes, with
a view of making it their home, and that now he had no need of
it; also that he had furnished various sums of money to the de-
fendant, that he had bought clothing for her, and had deposited
} money with her, and that he purchased a suit of clothes for him-
| self to be worn at their wedaing, the defendant having come to
| Montreal and bought the cloth for it, and finally that he had pre-
| sented her with a gold ringin token of their engagemént. Alto-
| gether plaintiffs claim amounted te over $750. The promise of
| marriage was not proved; and as to the money deposited with

her, and the clothing and the gold ring, the defendant pleaded
that she was ready to return them when called on to do 80, but
that she had never been asked for them by the plaintiff. The ac-
tion was dismissed with costs. F
| “Ondecided.”—You of course understand your own busines¢
best. An exchange contains the following item, which may
prove of service to you: “Probably the most venerable couple
| ever married in Seneca County were lately united in the silken
| bonds in our village. We refer to Judge James De Mott and Ra-
chet Covert, widow of the late Dr Covert. The groomis in his
eighty-eighth year, and the bride is nearly seventy-seven. This is
Judge De Mott's third wite, while he is the fifth husband ot the
lady to whom heis now united, sbe being the mother of two
children, seven grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren.”

“‘Mentor.”—We have heard of girls killing themselves when
treated cruelly. The latest instance, and really without cause, 18
the suicide of nine Chinese girls, which is said to have taken place
at Whampoa: “Nine young girls, living with different famihes in
the village, seem to have entertained an aversion to married life,
Seeing the misery and toil to which the members of the tamilies
with whom they lived were subjected, and above ali the slave like
obedience of wives to the wills of their husbands, the damsels
in question came to the resolution of putting an end to their
earthly careers, which is here carried into effect by a different
modus operandi to thatof opium poisoning in vogue in Hong
Kong. The ninedamsels met by appointment on the bank of the
river, atthe entrance of one of the creeks in the vicinity of
‘Beown’s Folly,’ attired in heavy winter garments, which they
had sewn all together in order to prevent a separation. While
thus united im body, heart and mind, the dgmeels plunged into the
deep. As this happened close to the time of the festival of the
seven female genii, who descended from heaven and are called
the ‘seven sisters,’ all sorts of superstitious conclusions are drawn
from it.”’ i

WBDDING ITEM.—Miss Agnes Ethel was married a few dayssince
to Mr. Francis W. Tracy, of Buffalo. Mr. Tracy’s father, the late
Albert H. Tracy, was one of theablest nien of his time. He was
elected to Congress from the district comprising nearly all that
portion of New York west of Geneva before he was of the requi-
site legal age, but attained that necessity hetore taking his seat
in 1819. He was twice re-elected. Subsequently he served four
years in the Senate of New York, and was one of the ablest
men in that body, embracing at that time men ot the highest
eminence in the State. Jolin Quincy Adams offered hima seat
in the Cabinet, which he declined. Mr. Ralph Waido Emerson
regarded Mr. Albert H. Tracy as aman ol the most remarkable
conversational powers he had ever kaown.”

GENTLEMEN'S AND BOYS’ DEPARTMENT.

“Generous.’—Your best plan is to send address and ten Gents
to the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency for illustrated
catalogue, which contains list of many articlesfurnisbed by that
agency, Any others desired may be ordered, for we can procure
any afticle fof our readers that can be found in New York.

“Chathey,'~You aré right. Mothers are not so particular ag
they should be ifi attending to the wishes of their sons. The
word “home” should be stiggestive of kindness and comfort, and
withal the most pleasant place tn the world. You should have
papers, books, games, easy-chairs, and a dressing-gown, which
you can wear with ease and comfort when you do not want to be
full dressed. What wrappers are to girls dressing-gowns are to
havs—eomfort-promoting, easy, gracetul garments, Gray cash-
mére or Merino, Witn coffar, cads, and facings of bright-colored
cashmere of silk, will be neat and el nt; or you can have the
figured cashmere trimmed with solid color. A handsome cord
and tassels confine this garment at the waist. Black lady‘ ciotli
handsomely embroidered in brilliant hues, is productive of quite
an air of oriental splendor. A fine effect can be attained by Mak-
ing up delaine in cashmere pattern, and trimming it with black
alpaca facings, edged - with lines of golden and crimson braid.
Navy-blue flannel is durable, comfortable and aitractive, and can
be decorated with facings of a lighter shade. Three yards of ma-
terial, twenty-seven inches wide, will be required to make awrap-
perfor a boy of twelve years. We can -jurnish the pattern in
sizés for boys trom seven to fifteen yours of age. The No. is
3,033, price 30 cts. This will be a useful and suitable present for
mothers to give to their sons, or sistérs to make for young broth-
ers, fora home-made article iscertain to be appreciated asa

Christmas gift.
——_———_>- © ________

His Own Executioner—A Murderer Starves
Himself to Death.

On the 25th of May vast Christopher Schwartz, a half-wit-
ted German, employed in the Goshen jaii as watchman?
was choked to death in an attempted escape by a negro
nained Alexander Diamond and a white man named Mer-
gan. To this attempted eseape and resulting murder
anotker inmate ofthe jail, Jerry McDaniels, was privy.
Diamond and Morgan were tried at the last term of the
court, and were sentenced to tem years’ imprisonment
each. McDaniels was not tried, and remained in jail. On
the 14th of October McDaniels refused to take either food
or drink. He would give no explanation of his reasons,
talking to no one, but persistently maintaining a moody
silence. Two of his fellow-prisoners united with him in
his plan, Their names wers Jerry Lucy, from Goshen,
awaiting trial for petit larceny, and Jolin MeCarthy, from
Millsburg, who was serving out a four months’ sentence
on aconviction for the same offense. Ali persisted in
their refusal to eat or drink until they became very weak,
and on a physician certifying that longer confinement
would cause death, McCarthy was released and Lucy was
bailed by his friends. No such luck wasin store for
McDaniels. He still persisted in his design. To the inquiries
of the Keeper as to whether he wanted anyhing, he return-
ed surly answers, and resolutely refused all proffers of
sympathy andrelief. In the early part of last week a
physician, who had been called, said that he must take a
tablespoontu! of whisky in half a cup of milk every two
hours or die. He took the mixture a few times, and then
closed his teeth when the cup was proffered him. He
aiso refused to lie upon his bed, and as long as he was
strong enough roiled off it to the stone floor as often as
his attendant placed him upon it. He refused to see a
clergyman, even when told that he must die; and when
Mr. Baldwin, the turnkey, asked him if he wished to leave
any message he mereiy muttered an oath, and at night
when all was quiet he filled the jail with blasphemies. For
seventeen days he took no sustenance so far asis known,
with exception of the few cups of whisky and milk, and
finally on Thursday, October 30, he died. His death was
fearful. He was conscious to the last, and died with an
unfinished curse upon his lips. His death by his own
deliberate act was perhaps a fitting end to a iife that was
not brightened by a singie good or honorable act, and the
self-inflicted agony was but a-natural result of the un-
deviating cruelty that marked all hisacts toward every-
thing to which cruelty would possibly be shown.—Middle-
town (N. Y.) Mercury, Nov 7.
ache ll
A Human Bear.

The Quincy (Plumas QGounty, Cal.) National says:~
“There is in the immediate vicinity of Quincy an idiotic
Root-digger Indian, who, in his general make-up, men-
tally and physically, furnishes probably the best living
proof of the hypothesis of George Comb, Charles Darwin
and Professor Huxley, that under certain conditions of
the mind of the mother, fatal impressions will be perpet-
uated in the offspring. About fourteén years ago the fa-
ther of this Indian boy, in company with the iad’s

nother, was traveling between Rush Creek and Kings-
berry Ferry, when suddenly the Indian was attacked by
a large grizzly bear. The man was not killed outright,
but was most frightfally lacerated and bruised by the
powerful beast. The terrified squaw witnessed the
bloody conflict shortly before the birth of the subject of
this sketch. From the first, the child was not only idiotic
and monstrous in conformation, but in every movement
of its body and limbs manifested the actions of a bear,
This strange monstrosity wears the general contour and
features of a gorilla. It walks on all fours, and cannot be
taught to assume any other position. It growls and
whines like a grizzly. It uses its hands, or paws, pre-
cisely a8 a bear does. In the shambling movement of his
feet, profusion of the tongue, and restless rolling of the
eyes, it is unmistakably bearish. Another mark of the
complete brutishness of this hideous creature is the rudi-
mentary appearance of a tail. ‘The os occygis actually
protrudes two inches beyond the rump, and makes a
well-defined but abbreviated caudal appendage. Even
this caricature upon the human species has some physical
and mental enjoyments. He manifests great delight in
pawing and fondling little papooses, and takes great
pleasure in wallowing in mudpuddles. For several years
past parties have endeavored to get hold of this wonder-
ful Indian for the purpose of public exhibition, but the
mother, true to maternal instinct, tenderly loves this
frightful abortion, and has, until recently, refused all of-
fers of money and every other tempting inducement,
Lewis Bell, an old citizen of Quincy, through the aid of
Chief Allect, a brother to the boy, has finally persuaded
the squaw to temporarily part with her hideous darling.
In behalf of science, and to prove to everybody the possi-
bility of mental impressions affecting the offspring, Mr.
Bell will take this human bear to the State fair for public
exhibition.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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