“TRESSILLIAN'S HEIR,” A New story by d. F SMITH, Just Begun in the New

York Weekly.

 

 

Vol. 44.

KING AND POET.

BY LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN,
A poet stood by a palace gate,
And saw the king pass by in state,
His crown upon his head ;
But myriad crowns can never buy
A poet’s songs, that never die,
When poet and king are dead.

A poet’s song is like the rose—

We know not how it comes or goes,
Fair Nature’s sweet surprise ;

A breath of color and perfume,

A waif of love’s exotic bloom,
Blown out of Paradise.

The poet stood by the palace gate;
No wealth had he, or rank, or state,
But only the voice to sing;
His song swept up, with its mighty powers,
And circled above the palace towers,
Like an eagle on the wing.

The king leaned over to catch the strains
That drifted in through the purple panes
And silenced the noisy throng;
A sweet sense thrilled through the hearts of all,
And the poet was king in the palace hall
By the royalty of song.

This Slory Wil Not be Published in Book-Form.

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

Wipf

 

 

x
Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1889. sy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O.

New York, September 28, 1889.

 

 

The League the Giuaale,

A Wild Tale of the Texas Frontier.
By MAURICE THOMPSON,

Author of “A Banker of Bankersville,” ‘In Love’s
Hands,” etc.

CHAPTER I.
THE PICTURES AND THE PLOT.

It was a cool, breezy night in June, end the city of
San Antonio, Texas, was uncommonly quiet. True, the
streets had a goodly number of persons on them, going
to and fro, and the gaudy saloons were filled with those
who lost and won, those who smoked and: swaggered,
those who drank, told stories, and sang popular songs,
those who lounged round looking on, and some even
who read newspapers.

But, for San Antonio, it was a quiet time when, at
about ten o'clock, a tall, swarthy young man walked
rapidly up the principal street of the town. He was
dressed in a half-military suit of dark blue cloth that
fitted closely his athletic figure. He wore a dove-colored,
broad-brimmed hat, boots that reached to his knees, and
most enormous spurs, that kept up a constant clash and
jingle as he walked.

His face was almost handsome, though his dark, keen
eyes, and firm, thin, cruelly expressive lips, told of too
much fierceness, and certain lines about his cheeks and
brow spoke, more plainly than words could have ex-
pressed it, of passions dark and uncontrolled.

As he strode along his lips moved in a supercilious |
way, ending in a smile, unpleasant to contemplate, but |
expressive of intense satisfaction.

At length he turned into one of the gaudy saloons of
the place, where a large number of almost every kind of |
men were collected to while away the pleasant June
hours, wrangling over the monte board, drinking at the |
gilded bar, or lounging on the rudely cushioned sofas of
that room of flaming tinsel and gewgaw work.

As this man entered the saloon, he shaded his eyes |
with his hand, and glanced over the motley crowd |
till he fixed his gaze on a face that scowled and lowered |
in the farthest corner of the room. This was the face |
of alow, heavy-Set man, dressed in the buckskin garb
ofa mountaineer. He stood leaning on his long rifle,
and playing clumsily with the heavy pistols in his belt.

As the eyes of these two men Mct there was a flash of
recognition, and they hurried to meet each other.

‘“How’re ye, Captain Flynn? Mortal glad to see you
back just now !”

“‘Ah, Bill, old fellow, give me your hand. I am as glad
to see you as you can be to seeme. What’s the news
since | left San Antonio ?”

“Oh, no great things as I knows of, unless the little |
matter of raising a heavy bag of ‘dust’ and forty odd |
horses from a mess of greasers, is fit te tell.” |

«“Pshaw, Bill! I’ve got better business on foot for you |
now than robbing greasers and miners. But come with
me. I wish a long talk with you in some private place.
There are too many eyes and ears here to suit me,”

This conversation had been carried on in a low tone,
and the last sentence was uttered by the tall young |
man, Captain Flynn, in a mere whisper. But every word
spoken, even the whispers, were heard by the quick ear
of an odd-locking old fellow who lay almost at full length |
on a sofa, with a ccon-skin cap pulled over his tace, as if }
asleep. This individual was dressed in the soiled garb |
of a trapper.

Captain Flynn and his companion at once hurried
from the saloon and took their way. to the suburbs of
the town, tramping along in silence till they reached a
low, dark building, which they unceremoniously en-
tered.

In the room into which they thus abruptly passed, sat
two women. By the brilliant light of the lamp there
burning, you could have seen that one of these women
was old and wrinkled, with small, black, wicked eyes.
The other was a pretty girl, with Spanish features—a
real brunette beauty, whose large liquid dark eyes,
glossy raven hair, red lips, and well-turned form would
strike you as wonderfully beautiful anywhere, more
especially here in San Antonio, where there were so
many women of mixed blood to chill you with their
yulgar forms and coarse faces,

As the two men entered, the young girl gave Captain
Flynn a quick, sharp, fearful glance, then springing up
oe hastily into another room, closing the door after

er,

“By Jove, Mother Ojeda, you may tell the Senorita
Isolina that she need fearmeno longer. Iam heartily
tired of her obstinate refusal to listen to my suit, and,
besides, I have found a maiden who pleases me much
better,” cried Flynn, curling bis lip with a scornful smile,
and addressing the old dame.

“Well, Mr. Bennet Flynn, J don’t care if you've found
forty young women away off where you've been, there’s

|

 

 

none of ’em as sweet and pretty as the Senorita Isolina,
I can tell you, and you might have made the girl like
you if you’d been more pleasaut to her,” replied the old
woman tartly.

“Tut, tut! Mother Ojeda! Never mind, V’ll not
trouble senorita any more. Just tell her so for me, will
you? But, Mother Ojeda, bring insome wine. I have
some business to talk over with my friend here.”

The old lady brougit the wine, and deposited it on a
small table near which Captain Flynn and his companion
had taken seats.

“All is right, now, Mother Ojeda; please retire and let
us have this room to ourselves,” said Flynn, and the old
woman left the room at once.

The captain rose and fastened the outer doors,

“Now,” said he to his companion, ‘‘now for business.”

“Business, to be sure,” was the reply. ‘I like the
word. What are you up to now, captain ?”

Flynn took a glass of wine, and shoved one toward his

Young Upton did not check the speed of his horse, but shouting to Mr. Lamar to *‘ come right ahtad,” fired full in the face of the nearest ruffian!

 

companion, saying, in a low, guarded tone, as he did
SO:

“Bill Bagly, I have a piece of sharp work that I want
done, and [know of no man upon whom! can so im-
plicitly rely to doitas you. You have never failed me
yet.”

‘No, captain, and [’ll not fail you as lofig as you pay
me well for my work,” replied Bill Bagly. ‘You know I

| work for money.”

Yes, and you know I pay money for work, and death
to him thatfails me! You know that, too, do you not ?”

| Said Flynn in an ominous tone, so low that it sounded |

like the purring of a tiger.

«To be sure,” replied the other, with a wink; “I do
know you always paid me well, and I’ve no notion of
fooling with you now. I’m not afraid of you, though,
nor any man that breathes. But name the business.”

“Tt is a peculiar piece of work, Bill, and must be done
right at once. How many of our fellows are in town
now ?”

“Hight or ten.”

‘All right ; six are enough.
do is to take six trusty fellows and watch the Goliad
road until you can capture a gentleman, whom you will
know by this little picture of him.” Here Captain Flynn

| Showed to his companion a miniature portrait of a hale-

looking, middle-aged man.
think you ?” he added.

«Yes, sir; after I once take a good squint at as plain a
likeness as that is, I’m not likely to forget or mistake.
You leave that tome. But this man ?”

‘You are to capture him without hurting him, and
take him to Rock Tavern, and there keep him till you
hear from me,” replied Flynn.

“Certainly. How would it do for me to go down to
Goliad, and hang round there till he comes?) When do
you look for him ?”

‘“‘Within a few days. But, Bill, this must be done very
carefully. You had better disguise yourself thoroughly
before you set out, and be sure you are not suspected.”

“Oh, 1] understand all that, you be sure. Is he likely
to be alone ?”

“I think not. He will, perhaps, have two or three men
with him, and you may ha:e to settle them in a short
way ; but you are to take him alive and unhurt.”

“Take him to Rock Tavern, you say ?”

“Yes, and let me know immediately.”

5 epesen said ; only, captain, what am I to get for the

“Will you know the man,

“Bill Bagly, did I ever fail to pay you well?” satd
Flynn, scornfully. ‘‘Here are five hundred dollars now,

and when Il see my man safe in Rock Tavern you shall |

have two thousand dollars in gold.”

Bill Bagly’s small eyes opened greedily as he clutched
the proffered money with a nervous hand.

“You may depend on me, captain,” he said, as he
counted and pocketed the coin.

“Then, Bill, 1 suppose we understand each other. You
can go now ; but be careful and make no blunders,” and
ree Flynn motioned his companion to leave the
10uUSe,

Bill Bagly obeyed without a word, only pausing to
take a. last deep drink of wine before going.

As soon as Captain Flynn found himself alone, he drew
from his pocket a small ivory case, which he opened,
disclosing the likeness of a beautiful young woman. Ah,
lovely indeéd was the face on which this Gark man
gazed, enraptured. Blue eyes full of soul-splendors,
dark, delicately penciled brows, red pouting lips. cheeks
Softly rounded, pink and healthful, a small straight
nose, and a chin and throat chiseled after the most grace-
ful fashion of nature. But, loveliest of all, over this
bright young face was spread that indefinable soft. light
of maiden modesty and girlish ignorance of Sin and its
sisier, Sorrow.

“So, by Heaven, I will have you yet, my prétty little |

witch! I shall soon be master of the situation at all
points, and then—oh, then!” cried he, kissing the pic-

Now what I want you to |

argu again and again, “then I will be happy, ob, so
appy !”

His soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of
Mother Ojeda. He rose hastily, tossed the old woman
some money, and at once took his departure.

From the house of Mother Ojeda Captain Flynn went
straight to the principal hotel of San Antonio.

CHAPTER II.
MART THE TRAPPER.

The reader will remember that in the foregoing chap-
ter mention was made of an odd-looking old trapper who
lay on asofa in the saloon while Captain Flynn and Bill
Bagly were having their short preliminary conversation.
This trapper’s name was Martin Varner, but he was
known from San Antonio to the Black, Hills as Wander-
ing Mart. He had received this appellation from those
who knew him best on account of his many long jour-
| neys through the pathless wildernesses and over the
| Often desert plains of the North-west,

He was a long, lank, cadaverous looking man of some
fifty-five years of age, bony and muscular, gray-eyed,
grizzly haired, grizzly bearded, slow-motioned, taciturn.

Wandering Mart had a kindly face, and as good a
heart as ever beat under buckskin. AS a matter of
course, he had some of the frontier vices. He liked
| whisky, played monte occasionally, and was given to
| fighting on the slightest provocation ; but Mart was a
| warm friend, kind toa fault, and tireless when in pur-
; Suit of what he deemed justice. He was liked by all who
| were not his enemies, and feared by those who were.

Of enemies he had some bitter ones, and the bitterest
of them all was Captain Bennet Flynn. He and Flynn

had quarreled up in the silver mine country, and a fight
| had ensued, in which Mart was terribly wounded, being
| taken at a disadvantage considered cowardly by all who
| Knew of the affair. Flynnfought with a knife, Mart with
| an empty pistol.

Though this affair was considered as settled, Mart and
| the captain still hated each other with a hatred not
| likely to die.

Mart was well aware that Flynn was a villain and an
| Outlaw, the ruling spirit of what was publicly known as
; the “Hunters League,” an organization looked upon

with suspicion by many, and with fear by nearly every-
| body 1n all that region. More than one daring robbery,
and quite a number of murders, had been pretty well
traced to this ‘‘league,” and it was well known that its
members were the most reckless of all the rough char-
acters that visited San Antonio.

As soon as Captain Flynn and Bill Bagly had left the
saloon, Mart arose to a sitting posture.

He had heard |

 

| Just enough to convince him that some deed of blood or |

; Other dark villainy was to be done.

| head for a second or two vigorously with the

He rubbed his fore-
fore- | death!

| finger of his right hand, a thing he always did when |

making up his mind how to act in a sudden emergency, | charged headlong.

then he sprang to his feet asif tofollow the men. He
had got about half-way to the door whena hand was
laid on his shoulder, and a deep, rich voice, murmured
in his ear:

«Your name is Martin Varner, I believe ?”

Wandering Mart turned

eral strange places, and
| great danger to himself.

always heretoforein times of

| proportioned man of perhaps forty years of age, though |

he looked ten years younger. His face was a command-
ing one—firm, mild, heautiful in its manly dignity and
wonderful intelligence of expression ; massive, lion-like,
yet genial and attractive. The eyes were hazel, those

The speaker was a tall, finely |

|
}

his head and saw standing |

| Strange features of the matter.
vigilance committee of Bexar, he had to go at the call |

|

peculiar brown, liquid, searching orbs, only seen once in |

, a life-time, shaded by
| woman's.

long, silky, black lashes, like a

and slightly inclined to curl; his beard was of the same
hue, and his skin was very dark, asif tanned and em-
; browned by a life-time of exposure to every extreme of

His hair was thick and short, black as night, |

|

Enterea@ at the Post Office, New York, as Secund Class Maiter.

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Conies Five Dollars.

No. 48,

 

 

 

rat N
Rte

, ZA
SN JUST AS

THEY WERE ABOUT E
“| WAS?ACCOSTED BY A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

 

 

THE BOAT, CHAUNCE

 

 

weather. His brow was lofty, broad, full, and marked
with the lines of. thought. His mouth, over which
drooped a black mustache, was one of those firm, smil-
ing mouths that give to a man’s face that peculiarly
attractive dignity so much admired in great military
leaders.

Mart stood as if rooted tothe spot, gazing in the man’s
face with wonder depicted on every feature of hisrough
visage.

“Martin Varner, is it ?” repeated the man.

“Bust my buttons! Yow alive and here! By the
glories, but. this is quar, sartin!” said Mart, still eying
the man from head to foot.
git out’n that scrape ?”

“Give me your hand, Varner. I know itis you, now,
and I am glad to see you, good, brave man that you are!”
cried the man, extending his hand warmly.

“Call me Mart: that’s my handle; Mart suits me best
anyhow. But, geeroody, man, how did you git up from
that leetle whummel ?”

“J haven’t time to tell you now, Varner—Mart, I
should say—but you are just such a man asTI need at
this very time. Are you well armed ?”

‘*| kin be in about halfa minute. My gun, ole Hornet,
and the Twins are in the back room thar.”

Get them, then, just as quickly as possible, and meet
me at the black oak tree On Sims’ outlot’ ten minutes
from now. Be quick and sly; there is much at stake,
danger brewing, and some quick work may have to be
done. You know this sign, do you not ?”

The man made a quick motion with his hand,
the salute of the Bexar vigilance committee,

“Yes, 1 know; all right,” said Mart, returning the
signal.

“T thought so,” was the reply.
and meet me at the oak. I must be off at once.”

So saying, the man glided swiftly past Mart out
through the door and up the street, till lost to view
among the shadows at the mouth of a dark alley.

It was

gazing intently on the floor.

Who was this man? This question Mart asked of him- |
They had met, Mart. and this stranger, four or |
five times in as many different pla°’es during as many |
Once in California, once in the Platte country, |

self.

years.
once in the wild depths of the great forests of Oregon,

once far away among the Black Hills, and, a few weeks |
before the opening of our story, they had met once |
more, when they were both surrounded by a swarm of |

yelling Comanches, thirsting for their blood, out on the
Llanu Estacado.
Together they fought, retreating until

pice.
two mensaw no way to escape.

Closer and closer came the yelling savages.
Death, nothing but

Their ammunition was all expended.
cast himself over the brink of that dizzy precipice. Mart
was saved by almost a miracle. An Indian

time to return the favor.

No wonder that Wandering Mart was surprised to see |
close beside him a man whose face he had seen in sev-| this stranger again so soon, and alive and well.
| much wonder either that the stranger should ask if |
Martin Varner stood before him when they met there in |

the saloon.

But Mart did not stop to cogitate long over the
AS a member of the
of a brother whenever and under whatever circum-
stances that call was made.

to call them, thinking as he went that he would learn
the stranger’s name at the earliest opportunity. Strange
that he had not known itere this! But so it was.

The oak spoken of was a low, bushy tree standing in

“How in thunder did you }
| north and south.

a vacant lot at the north-eastern limit of the town.
Under this tree the members of the vigilance committee

| often held meetings in the still hours of night to per-

| bers, or the honest portion of the community.

fect such plans as were thought of benefit to the mem-
Thither

| Mart took his way by a circuitous route, in order to avoid

 

they found |
themselves hemmed in on the verge of a frightful preci- |
The |

whom he }
had once rescued from death recognized him just in |

Not |

He hurried off to get his |
rifle and pistols, or Hornet and the Twins, as he loved |

| three men found themselves between
The Indians |
Mart threw up his hands in token |
of surrender, and at the same moment his companion

being seen by any person likely to-suspect his destina-
tion. That something of an unusual character was on
hand he did not doubt; but what could it be ?

The trapper burried along through narrow alleys,
now in the full light of the moon, now in the black
shadow of the houses, keeping clear of.as many persons
as possible, till he came to a narrow street running
Up this street, in a northerly direc-
tion, he turned, and was gliding on his way like a
shadow, when a rough voice accosted him from the
phantom of a low door-way in one of the most squalid
hovels of San Antonio.

“What now, Mart ?—whereaway
night ?”

The trapper came to a sudden halt, whipping out one
of his pistols as he did so, the sharp, keen click of the
lock cutting the night air.

“Who are you?’ muttered he, peering through the
shadows.

“Don’t know as I need to answer your question ’fore
you answer mine. I axed what's up?” replied the voice,
in a low, dogged tone.

“Well, ye kin jist find out by yer larnin’. I goes where
I please, and tells no man my business, ’specially a fel-
ler that’s afeard of moonlight,” jeered Mart, beginning

at this time 0’

} to move on.

‘Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the voice. ‘‘Maybel’d better

| gO round to Captain Flynn and tell him I saw Mart
“Now hurry, will you, |

Varner a-sneakin’ off to the ‘Oak,’ and that maybe the

| Vigilance méets to-night, eh ?”

“No, you won’t, neither,” said Mart, stopping short.
“Won’t I, though? Yer bet yer dust on that, if ye

a‘ | want to; but I’m a thinkin’ *twon’t be much you'll win.
Mart stood fora moment rubbing his torehead and

Goon to the ‘Oak,’ Mart, but don’t forget to tell the
Vigilance that Captain Flynn’s men ‘ll attend their
meetin’, Ha! ha! ha!”

At this point Mart made a quick movement. His hand
sprang out ona level with his shoulder; there was a
momentary pause; then a long, keen blaze of fire, and
the sharp report of a pistol was followed by the falling
of a heavy body in that dark door-way. A single hoarse
groan, and all was still.

Mart rapidly resumed his journey to the “Oak.”

CHAPTER III.
THE CAPTURE,

Near nightfall of a fine day about a week subsequent
to the events already recorded, a party composed of
the forks of the
San Antonio River, the nearest settlement ten miles
away. These men were mounted on somewhat jaded
horses, and were making their way toward the city of
San Antonio, which lay forty miles off, ina direction
nearly north-west from where they then were.

One of the party, riding ahead of the other two, as if
in the capacity of guide for them, was a small, swarthy
Mexican, who carried a short blunderbuss and a pair of
huge pistols.

The couple riding side by side, a rod or two behind the
Mexican, were a middle-aged man, fair-haired, ruddy-
faced, stout-built, quite intelligent appearing, dressed
in a suit of drab cloth, anda young fellow, of apparently
two-and-twenty, whose open countenance, wide-awake
bright gray eyes, high, broad, fair forehead, dark-brown
hair, and slender, graceful frame, bespoke him to be one
of those adventure-seekers seen now and then along the
borders of ‘civilization. We say his appearance indi-
eated this. Perhaps the reader smiles. True, such a
young man is met every day on the street herein our
big cities; but away out West you do not often see one
such, and when you do, he is set down forthwith for the

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
=

 

 

 

 

son of wealthy parents, the spoiled pet of luxury, who
has come to the wild border for excitement—adventure,

As they rode rather slowly along, the two men in the
rear were conversing in the way men usually do who
have but recently become acquainted. The two had
joined company at Goliad. The young man had been
down to Refugio to see a friend, who was going to New
York, by whom he wished to send to his parents, in that
city, a lot of fine buffalo robes and sundry other trophies
of his prowess as a hunter.

The elder gentleman was from Mobile.

“Do you say you are the son of Clarke Upton ?” asked
the latt-r, quickly, after a remark from the young man.

“Yes, sir, 1am Wallace Upton, his only son,” was the
frank reply.

“Then you and I must be friends, my boy, for your
father and I were Classmates at school, and have ever
since been on terms of the warmest intimacy, that is,
for persons so far apart, he living in New York, and Tin
Mobile.”

The old gentleman grasped the youth’s hand warmly
as he spoke.

The young man returned the pressure with true
frontier vigor, saying as he did so:

“Tam truly glad to meetin you an old friend of my
father. Now that I think of it, I remember seeing you
once at our house—that is my father’s house—when I
Was a lad, some ten years ago. If you haven’t forgotten
you'll be sure [am no impostor when I remind you of
the Chinese wheel you gave me, and how I burned my
neck with it. See, there is the scar yet!”

“Ha, ha!” replied the elder gentleman; “I do remem-
ber that little affair now. 1 had forgotten you, however,
and should probably never have thought of you again.
I ought to have known you, though, by your resemblance
to your father. You are just what he was thirty years
ago, my boy.”

“JT have often been told the same by others, and I take
it as a real compliment, for my father is as fine-looking
aman as you will see anywhere.”

“True as the Bible, my boy; your father is a noble
looking man, and just as noble as he looks, but, pardon
me, What has brought you away out here in this God-
forsaken country among thieves and desperadoes ?”

‘To tell you the truth,” replied young Upton, “1 am
here on a wild-goose chase after adventure. I thought
I could never be satisfied to settle down to business till
lhad taken myjfill of the pleasures, hardships, trials, and
triumphs of wild Western life. I have been out here
now nearly a year, and shall return this fall.

“Provided, my boy, that you do not get killed by some
of these outlandish Texans in one of the pretty ad-
ventures you are in search of,” replied the elder gentle-
man, with a mirthful twinkle of his light blue eyes.

“Oh, of course, I take that into consideration ; but as
T have thus far been very lucky, I trust to my star. But
may I take advantage of frontier politeness, arid ask
you what brings you here into this wild country ?”

The elder gentleman hesitated a moment, colored, and
Said confusedly :

“Tam here on a delicate errand, a private matter of
the greatest interest tome. I come expecting to find
one who has long been lost—one who——”

The speaker paused a moment, as if at a loss what to
Say. then suddenly changing his tone, added:

“Mr. Upton, are you acquainted with Captain Bennet
Flynn, of San Antonio ?”

“Tl have seen him frequently, but he isa man of such
evil repute, that I have always avoided his company as
much as possible,” replied young Upton.

“Evil repute, say you ?” ‘

“Yes, he is looked upon as the worst of all the wretches
that infest this country. A bold, bad, terrible man, the
leader of an organized gang of villains who are capable
of any crime.”

“Indeed! Well, I will say to you that it is on account
of representations made to me by this Captain Flynn
that I am here, and now 1] fear that I am being duped
by him for some base purpose.”

‘You may be sure of it, sir.” replied young Upton, with
energy. ‘You may be sure.of it, and I would advise you
to. be very careful how you trust him.”

“The captain of a gang of desperadoes, say you ?”

“Yes, ostensibly the organization is a hunter’s league,
but no respectable man belongs to it, and its nameis a
terror to all the good people of Western Texas.”

“Why, this man has been at my house in Mobile, par-
taken of my hospitality, and, sir, he seemed to be a
gentleman. He said he was a planter, andrich. He
has been to Mobile often, and has become a friend of
my family. He even asked to—to—to become my only
daughter's suitor !”

“Mr. Lamar, you astonish me!” cried the young man,
with great energy of expression. “I tell you that this
Ce Flynn is a terrible man, a desperate, hardened
villain.”

“Well, well,” replied Mr. Lamar (the elder gentle-
man’s name), ‘‘we shall see how this is when we get to
San Antonio, but I fear now that some deep villainy is
at the bottom of the affair, sure enough ; but——”

The speaker was interrupted by the report of a pistol
just aliead, and the Mexican, now some distance in ad-
vance, tumbled headlong from his saddle.

In an instant young Upton had drawn his pistol and
dashed forward as fast as his horse could go; andina
second after Mr. Lamar found himself surrounded by
five burly, murderous-looking horsemen, two of whom
presented carbines at his breast, and ordered him to
surrender. Of course he had no choice but to do their
bidding. Hesoon found himself securely bound to his
horse, with his hands fastened behind him,

Young Upton was met by three other ruffians just be-
yond where the Mexican lay dead. He did not ¢heck
the speed of his horse, however, but shouting back to
Mr. Lamar; whom he thought close behind him, ‘‘Come
right ahead!” he fired fullin the face of the nearest
man. The bullet crushed through the miscreant’s skull,
and he threw up his hands witha wild yell, and fell
backward to the earth a corpse. The two remaining
villains fired their carbines at Upton, but without effect.
He kept right ahead.

All this had happened at a place where the trail from
Goliad to San Antonio wound through the point of a
dense wood that stretched off on the left to the San An-
tonio River.

Several of the desperadoes thundered off in hot pur-
suit of the young adventurer, but it was now growing
dusky, and he succeeded in escaping them. They strag-
a back, cursing dreadfully, each blaming the other

or allowing Upton to get away, all panting and ex-
Se beg all vowing vengeance for the death of their com-
rade.

“No need of cryin’ over spilt milk, boys,” cried the
leader of the ruffians, Bill Bagly; “let the young lark
go. ‘‘We’ve got the man we're after, or I’m badly mis-
taken. Mister, what’s yer name 2”

The latter sentence was addressed to Mr. Lamar.

“John Lamar, sir,” was the prompt reply, ‘‘and I'd be
glad to know what you villainous ragamuftins want
with me.”

‘Hip! ho!” jeered Bagly ; <‘gittin’ riled, eh? Maybe
you need something to sober you. Take a drink.” Here
he forced the neck of a whisky bottle against Mr. La-
mar’s lips. ‘Temperance, I,s’pose. But you may as
well take kindly to us fellows, tor you will have to stay
awhile with us anyhow.”

Mr. Lamar made no reply. He saw that he was at the
mercy of aset of desperate border ruffians, and wisely
chose to be as calm as he could, and wait the end of his
first Western adventure.

Bill Bagly gazed gloatingly into the face of his pris-
oner, and with a smile of fiendish delight, muttered :

“Mr. Lamar, you'll soon be in the handsof aman
who'll make you come toany terms he wants. Beton
that!”

“And pray, who is this man?” asked the prisoner, in
a calm voice.

“Whois he? You'll see soon enough. He’s a man
that desires somethin’ at your hands, I don’t ’xactly
know what; but whatever it is, you'll be glad enough to
— ‘fore you git out of his clutches, or I’m mighty mis-
taken.”

“Ts it Captain Bennet Flynn ?” said Mr. Lamar, gazing
Steadily in the face of Bagly as he spoke.

“Ha. ha, ha! Maybe itis,” said the villain. ‘But I
ain’t got time to talk to younow. Boys, take the two
dead fellers and tumble ’em some’rs where they can git
eat up by the wolves ‘ithout any trouble, and then we'll
be goin’.”

Several of the ruffians now seized the body of the Mex-
ican and that of their dead companion, and tumbled
them into a deep ravine hard by.

“Now for Rock Tavern,” said Bagly, and immediately
the party began its march. In the center of the caval-
cade rode Mr. Lamar, securely bound and jealously
guarded.

All night long they rode without halting fora moment.
The moon shone brightly, and, as they were well ac-
quaintea@ with the country, they had by morning passed
over many miles. San Antonio now lay at a good dis-
tance to the south-west of them. Here they changed
the direction of their march so as to head directly for
the mountains on the north-western horizon that
marked the head-waters of the Guadalupe.

CHAPTER IV.
A HURRIED DEPARTURE,

In a magnificently furnished apartment of one of the
Stateliest mansions of Mobile, sat Maggie Lamar, only
daughter of John Lamar, retired banker, now absent in
Texas.

The window by which the young girl sat looked on a
lovely parterre, beyond which rose the. dusky tops of a
fig orchard; but neither the flowers of the garden nor
the heavy-laden boughs of the fruitful orchard now
tempted her gaze. for her soft, sunny eyes were fixed or
the blue line that, far away to the south, marked the
line of the bay. She was thinking of her father.

He and her brother, Chauncey, were all she had to
think of in the way of near relations. Her mother had
been dead many years, so many that Maggie could not
remember her. Chauncey Lamar, Maggie’s only brother,
had been her only boon companion since early childhood.
True, her father had been unchangeably kind, gentle,
indulgent; but he was a man of the world, and, though
a retired banker, still a speculator, and always busy
with his own projects for making money; but Chauncey,
noble, generous, proud-hearted Chauncey, was always
ready to listen to all her girlish desires—Chauncey was
her special idol.

Now that her father was gone on what must be a very
hazardous trip, Maggie thought of him almost con-
Stanty. There was a question, too, that she often asked
herself. Why had her fathergone? That there was a
mystery about the matter she felt sure, and somehow
she connected with this mystery the dark, sinister face,
and tall, lithe from of one Captain Bennet Flynn,
who had within the last year become an occasional vis-
itor here at her father’s house.

At first Maggie was rather pleased with the stalwart
and versatile captain, and allowed him to relate to her

 

many stories of his wild adventures, a thing he didina

very attractive style. But when he beg&An to hint of a
tender feeling that was taking root in his bosom, Maggie
grew cold to him, and finally ceased allowing him to see
her except when her father or brother was present.

Thus matters stood.

Maggie Lamar was a beautiful girl. Besides azfinely
molded form, and a faultless face, she possessed that
crowning glory of maidenly loveliness, a spotless soul
that shone in every feature and gilded every action.

At the time we see proper to thus introduce her to the
reader, Maggie was just approaching her eighteenth
birthday, heart-whole and’tancy-free, as innocent of love
as areal rosebud, and just as sweet and just as unaware
of her beauty as if she had never looked into a mirror.

As evening began to wear on, brin. ing down the deli-
cate curtain of twilight to envelop the couch of the re-
tiring day, whose blushes yet reddened the west, Maggie
began to listen for the coming of her brother. It was
time for a letter from her dear father. Would Chauncey
bring one ? /

She had not long to wait.

A familiar step was heard in the hall, and in a moment
Chauncey Lamar entered the room in which his sister
sat.

He was a fair-faced, square-set young fellow, honest
and intelligent of countenance, not particularly hand-
some, but good looking, earnest, agreeable, most likely
to win friends anywhere he might go.

He came in smiling brightly, holding up a letter.

“Oh, a letter from papa, Chauncey—I know it is!
Have you opened it? Read it at once!” and the fair girl
sprang lightly and eagerly to her feet as she spoke.

“Oho, not so fast, my little fairy ; you’ll have to kiss
me before the letter is opened. See, the seal isn’t broken
yet!” replied the brother, holding the letter far above
the young lady’s reach. |

“There, now!” she answered, kissing him hurriedly,
and reaching as high as she could, ‘‘there, now, do let
me see it, Chauncey.”

The young man, lowered his hand, and seating him-
self on a sofa, drew his sister down beside him.

The letter was directed in a bold, dashing band, with
many flourishes, that instantly caught the eye of the
young girl.

“Fi! it isn’t from papa at all!” criei she, instantly.
“How could you be so cruel as & excite me_ so,
Chauncey ?”

‘Not from our father! Who then ?” exclaimed Chaun-
cey, exhibiting the postmark. ‘See, it is from San
Antonio de Bexar!”

«But the writing isn’t papa’s,” replied Maggie.

True enough, the handwriting was far from being that
plain, round, old-fashioned penmanship belonging
peculiarly to the short, fat hand of their beloved father.

a seal was hastily broken, and the following letter
read:

“Mr. CHAUNCEY LAMAR:

‘‘DEAR SIR—It becomes my duty, and a painful one it
is, to inform you that your father, Mr. John Lamar, was,
on the day of his arrival in San Antonio, stricken down
by paralysis, and is now in a hopeless condition. Being
utterly unable to write himself, he begs me to say to you
that he desires you and your sister to make all haste
hither to see him before he dies.

“J am his attending physician, and say to you, what 1
would be very unwilling to say to him, viz.—that he can-
not recover from this attack. You must make great
haste if you wish to see him alive,

. “With great pain at thus being forced to send you such
sorrowful tidings, I am, very truly,
“Your obedient servant,
“R. L. WOLFE, M. D.”

To this painful letter was added a broken, tremulous,
almost illegible scrawl, which read thus: ’

“Call on my banker for funds.
“Your afflicted father, JOHN LAMAR.”

Who can deseribe the effect of this sorrowful, this ter-
rible news on the two young people now clasped in
each other’s arms, shaken and torn by such agony as is
best left unpictured ?

This, of course, could not long endure; for, was not
their dear father now lying far away in a strange land,
and calling them to his bedside to see him breathe his
last ?

Promptness, energy, haste, were needed. No time
now for trembling and weeping. Nor were these two
young people wanting in strength of will in this bitter
hour.

«We must go, Chauncey—we must go at once,” said
Maggie, lifting her pale, grief-stricken face. ‘We can-
not stay here a single moment longer. Let us be up,
and hurry to our dear papa.”

“Yes, yes, Maggie, we must at once,” replied
Chauncey, springing to his feet with energy. ‘You go
and inform the housekeeper. Have her help you pack
such things as you will need, while I go to the banker,
and down to the bay to detain father’s sloop, which was
to sail for Florida to-morrow. I will return in an hour,
and, if possible, we will sail to-night. Our father must
not die before we see him.”

Mechanically, with an aching heart,.her temples
throbbing fiercely, and with a dull, unreal sense of what
she was doing, Maggie Lamar went rapidly about her
preparations for the long journey that awaited her.

Assisted by the faithful old housekeeper, she was not
long making everything ready for her departure.

In an hour Chauncey returned saying that he had or-
dere#the sloop made ready, but that, owing to some
necessary changes to be made in the matter of the
sloop’s ballast, they could not sail before ten o'clock on
the tollowing morning. 3
‘ It was a dreary time to wait, but there was no help
or it. ;

That was a sleepless night to those poor, sorrowing
children—a night that dragged out its weary hours as if
ee with the impatient hearts that waited for the

ay.

When at length the sun arose, his path lay over a clear
blue sky. A sweet breeze came over the gulf, and sang
merrily in the orchards of orange and fig.

The sloop lay at anchor in the bay,jready for departure,
and the Lamar Carriage, containing Chauncey and his
sister. was driven down tothe pier. Their baggage was
already on board, and nothing now remained but to get
into the waiting boat and be rowed to the sloop, then
away, with aching hearts, to the wild border of Texas.

Just as they were ready to enter the boat, Chauncey
was accosted by a well-dressed, dapper man, who, with
a profusion of bows, asked to be allowed to sail with
th min the sloop. Ths man said that he lived in Go-
liad, that he had just learned that the sloop was on the
point of leaving for the Texas c ast, and that it would
infinitely oblige him if he could be allowed to be a pas-
senger. He gave his name as Juan Lopez, a trader.

Ile was a dark, sleek-looking, slender man, of perhaps
thirty years of age, restless, quick-spoken, rather show-
ily but carefully dressed, and possessed of a waxen, im-
penetrable, mysterious countenance. r ‘

Chauncey Lamar was just thenin no frame of mind
to refuse a favor, and so the stranger was taken aboard
the sloop and installed as a passenger.

The sails were set, the vessel swung quickly round,
and then she sped away, carrying Chauncey and Mag-
gie Lamar to new scenes and new associations. Little
did they imagine how much was in store for them. How
much more wildly would their hearts have throbbed,
could they have had even a hint of the terrible trials
awaiting them in the near future.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
> o~«

IN THE BOARDING-HOUSE.

There is no doubt that the landladies of boarding-
houses have their tempers very heavily taxed, and
have trials to endure such as are not calculated to
develop their motherly feeling toward their boarders;
and she is a woman in a thousand who can keep a
boarding-house and also retain a genial, sunny dis-
position. She is looked upon by many of the fast
youths of the cities as the natural prey of mankind
generally. She is the first creditor who gets “stood
off” on pay-day; for many seem to think, as the writer
once heard a man express himself when dunned for
a long-standing board bil]:

“Money!” said he. ‘‘Well, that’s a good joke. Why,
I can board at a hotel by paying forit. If you, old
lady, can’t run your house without money, you had
better sell out to some one who can.”

The inmates of boarding-houses are, to a student
of human nature, rare studies. There is the old gen-
tleman whe delights in discussing politics at the
table, and is in his element whenever he can find
some one to argue with. He regularly reads the
daily papers, and insists on helping the digestive
organs of his fellow-boarders by imparting his knowl-
edge to them.

He is ably seconded by the spinster who has fanati-
cal views on the temperance question, which*she.de-
Hens in repeating day after day and meal after
meal.

This is an evidence of the good financiering quali-
ties of the landlady, who believes that when people
are talking neither they nor their listeners will eat
as much, and that with this end in view she hires
these cranks to talk as much as possible.

Then there is the young man whose ambition it is
to make people believe he is on the Board of Trade or
Stock Exchange, his conversation being invaridbly
on the subject of bulls and bears, puts and calls,
short and long. ‘

The real estate agent, and life-insurance agent,
too, find their way to the boarding-house table, and
regale their fellow-boarders by talking “shop” all
through meal-times.

The younger ladies, if the boarding-house happens
to have any such within its precincts, discuss seal-
skin saques, their last new dress, Mrs. So-and-so’s
last new bonnet, etc., while the married couples de-
light in telling of the time they “kept house,” and
the landlady, if she happens to be at the table, is not
backward with her laments that butter has raised or
flour gone up.

Then the widow, if any such there happens to be,
insists on recounting to the assembled company the
many virtues possessed by the dear departed. But
life in a boarding-house must be experienced to be
fully appreciated. ‘

> o<———__—_——

ALL the paths of life lead to the grave, and the ut-
most that we can do is to avoid the short cuts.

TEEKLY. $35% une,

 

 

THE IDEAL HUSBAND.

You've a neat little wife at home, John,
As sweet as you wish to see;

As faithful and gentle-hearted,
As fond as wife can be;

A genuine, home-loving woman,
Not caring for fuss and show;

She’s dearer to you than life, John—
Then kiss her, and tell her so. :

Your dinners are promptly served, John,
As, likewise, your breakfast and tea;
Your wardrobe is always in order,
With buttons where buttons should be;
Her house is a cozy home-nest, John,
A heaven of rest below; -
You think she’s a rare little treasure—
Then kiss her, and tell her so.

She’s a good wife and true to you, John,
Let fortune be foul or fair;

Of whatever comes to you, John,
She cheerfully bears her share .

You feel she’s a brave, true helper,
And, perhaps far more than you know,

*T will lighten her end of the load, John,
Just to kiss her, and tell her so.

There’s a cross-road somewhere in life, John,
Where a hand on a guiding-stone

Will signal one “over the river,”
And the other must go on alone.

Should she reach the last milestone first, John,
*T will be comfort, amid your woe,

To know that, while loving her here, John,
You kissed her, and told her so.

——

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Forn,

MARJORIE DEANE

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘In Love’s Crucible,” ‘‘ A Heart’s Bit-
terness,” ** Thrown on the World,” etc.

(‘‘MARJORIE DEANE” was commenced in No. 36. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHAT SIR ROLAND WAS DOING.

F allthe so-called fast clubs
that have sprung into exist-
ence during the past half-cen-
tury, there is none faster than

a “The Daws.” Their club-house

RH lies in a quiet street off St.
James street—a street so quiet
that the unsophisticated and
uninitiated would scarcely be-
lieve that aclub of any sort
existed there. -

And yet, for allits quiet surroundings, and an un-
pretending exterior, the Daws is and was one of the
most exclusive clubs in London. A prince of the
blood-royal is and ever has been its president, dukes
are on its committee, and it always has for its chef
the highest salaried cook in England.

To be a member of the Daws is to be a member of
that mysterious upper ten thousand which rules that
part of London known as ‘‘society.”

It. was long past midnight—the night on whith
Marjorie had decided to accept the situation of
school-mistress at Warley—and the Daws was at its
height. Footmen, inthe gold and blue of the elub

livery, were hard at work conveying the far-famed
claret and grilled bones to the card-room. Hard-
worked Members of Parliament were smoking their
last cigar in the smoking-room, hard-worked do-

nothings were lounging in the drawing-room, and, |

hardest worked of all, the card-players were playing
in the ¢ard-room. 4 * yl icn 284

That fainous game, baccarat, was infull swing. At
one table sat a young duke, or mere boy, with a rent-
roll of fitty thousand, which, large income as it was,
was all too small for his spendthrift habits. With
him was a legislator, one of the men to whom Eng-
land looked with confident hone, and next him sat
Reginald Montressor.

Handsome, beautiful as ever, Reginald reclined in
the satin chair, without a wrinkle on his smooth
brow or a shadow of care in his efe. He had been
losing for two long hours, losing steadily, but his
mien was unchanged, his light, buoyant air undis-
turbed. Between the deals he talked with the duke
with careless nonchalanee, taiked of politics, the
drama, anything and everything, with the same airy
grace. Presently some one near the duke mentioned
a familiar name. .

“Where is Chesterton to-night ?”’ :

It was far beyond night by this time, but no
matter. ee

Reginald smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“T don’t know. He ought to be here by this time.
His mother is in town; perhaps he is there.”

“T hope he’ll come,” said the young duke;: “I
— to give him his revenge. He lost heavily last
night.”

“Yes,” assented Reginald, witha smile, “he has
lost heavily, but I don’t think he cares.”

“No,” said the duke. ‘‘that’s the extraordinary part
of it! You can never take a rise out of Chesterton.
Win or lose, it seems the same to him. What’s the
matter with him, Reginald ?’

“Don’t know,” said Reginald, shuffling the cards;
“he’s a mystery. He’s my cousin, yes; but he’sa
mystery all the same.”

“Some love affair, I suppose,” said the duke, with
asmile. ‘Don’t believe in love affairs nyself; make
you unfit for cards. Sorry for Chesterton! He used
to be such a jolly good fellow. Hello! there he
comes!”

Notwithstanding their natural abstraction, there
was an undercurrent of interest among the ecard-
players as a tall figure entered the room, and stood
looking from one table to another, and as he stood
men looked up with curious glances.

For Sir Roland Chesterton’s name had been on
many lips during the past month, as the name of
one who, unlike the prodigal, had returned to the
world which, after ringing with his exploits, had
been prepared to lose and forget him.

1t is not often that the prodigal does return, but
when he does it may safely be affirmed that the last
state is worse than the first, and with this difference,
that whereas he used to take his wild diversions with
enjoyment, he now takes them bitterly and wearily.

For the last month Sir Roland has been, as Regi-
nald puts it, ‘going it.” Not going it with the old
buoyant hilarity, with the old keen sense of. enjoy-
ment, but with a steady intensity that was,” as Regi-
nald again put it, “ferocious.” :

With a candid, unconcealed earnestness he had
plunged into all the various modes of dissipation
with which our modern, fashionable world supplies
us. There was one form which he avoided, and that
was the intoxication of the flowing bowl. He drank
little. It would have been better, according to Regi-
nald, if he had drank more, for if the flowing bowl
does no other good, it certainly does drown the sor-
row for the moment, let the after cost be what it
may.

Sir Roland did not drink, but he was ready for any-
thing else, and more especially ready for the green
tables in the comforfable card-room of the Daws.

Four weeks of bitter sorrow and cruel disappoint-
ment had passed over Marjorie’s head, and left her
unchanged; but the same could not be said of Sir
Roland. As he stood, tall and stalwartin his evening
dress, the carefully toned lights fell upon his face
and showed how hard the time had gone with him.

He was thinner, he was almost gaunt, in fact; his
dark eyes, somewhat stern at the best of times,
gleamed with a fierce, though suppressed fire; his
face was pale and set; his lips, under the heavy
mustache, were fixed in a hard impassibility; and
there was about the whole man thatindescribable air
of hopeless weariness which is so eloquent of the
restless, dissatisfied soul.

To-night, or rather this morning, he had just come
up by the mail from Melton, had snatched a couple
of hours sleep in the railway carriage, which he had
literally won by a hard day’s riding. It was only by
sheer exhaustion that he could get to sleep.at all; it
was only by incessant. movement—in change of
scene—thagt he could render life bearable.

Sometimes he found himself, in the rare intervals
when he allowed himself to think unwillingly of the
change that had come over him, wondering, with
amazement, at the effect which a girl’s treachery and
falseness had wrought upon him.

There were times when he was inclined to believe
that he was actually and veritably bewitched, or why
should this thing cling to him so stubbornly? Why,
when he slept, did he dream that the soft, warm arms
were around his neck, the sweet voice murmuring
lovingly in his ear? Why,in his waking moments,
did the brown eyes follow him about, accusingly,
pleadingly ?

No man could make a harder fight for it than he
had ‘done. He had plunged into every form of ex-
citement without avail. e might succeed in for-

*

 

getting this bit of a girl. as he called her bitterly, for
the time; but as surely as he sat down quietly, she
came back to haunt and madden him.

Sometimes the wild, unsatisfied love gave place to
a fierce self-reproach. He ealled himself a fool for
acting as he had done. Why had he not stepped in
between those two as they stood in the dark wood?
Why had he not stepped in and wreaked his ven-
geance upon the man? He was a fool that he had let
him go without a word, or—a blow! Besides—be-
sides, who knows if he had so interfered that Mar-
jorie would not have turned to him and sent the
other adrift. It was true that the sense of her
treachery would always have been with him, but still
he would have kept her; and through all his misery
he felt that it was not her treachery that_tortured
him so mueh as her loss. He had loved her—he
loved her still, with the passionate love which a
man, who has known the world, pours out on the
woman who first reaches his heart. He had loved
her and he had lost her, and do all he would he could
not console himself. :

As he stood, looking from table to table, nodding
to this man and to that, a great weariness fell upon
him, an infinite disgust. The sight of the exquisitely
furnished room, the familiar faces, the very cards
themselves, was distasteful and repellent. He had
tried this form of dissipation and found it fail—
fail utterly to bring him any amusement or satis-
faction.

Win or lose, as the young duke had said, it was all
one to the distracted man. He had lost heavily for
three consecutive nights, so heavily that the rumors
of his ill-lueck had reached the house in Grosvenor
square, where Lady Chesterton sat, unutterably mis-
erable and wretched, listening to the stories of his
wild life, and helpless to mend it.

Only once -since she had beef in town, and she
had arrived three weeks ago, had he been near her,
and then he had staid a bare quarter of an hour,
had declined to live in the house, or even to dine
with her, and had worn such an expression on his
pale, stern face that she had not dared to put one of
the questions or remonstrances which trembled on
her lips.

Although he had lost Marjorie, although she had
proved false and unworthy, he could not forgive his
mother for prophesying her unworthiness, could not
;}endure to meet the proud, sorrowful face that re-
minded him so vividly of Marjorie’s.

“Helio, Roland!” said Reginald. ‘Just got back?
Had a good run ?”

Roland nodded. Every eye was fixed upon him.
“Yes, fairly so. I came by the mail.”

The duke whistled.

“The mail! By George, Chesterton, you don’t do
things by halves. You started yesterday, or was it
the day before? One never knows which was yester-
day. It’s morning now, of course. And here you are
back again! Don’t you ever sleep ?”’

Roland smiled grimly. :

“Not much,” he answered. ‘‘What’s the game?”

“Baccarat,” answered Beginald, rising. ‘Come
auc aene my place. “I’ve had the most confounded

uck——”

Roland dropped into the seat wearily, and teok up
the cards, and Reginald signed to the footman to
bring more champagne. Ris

‘“You missed a good thing last night, Roland,” said
the duke. “About the best ball of the season—
wasn’t it, Montressor? Everybody there, and quite
a fight for the best dances. I managed to get one
from Miss Montressor by the skin of my teeth,.and.I
shouldn’t be surprised if I was called out by Grane-
land for it.”

Roland looked up. The Marquis of Graneland was
one of the best known, the most famous (or infamous,
whichever you please,) men about town.

He was a shining light when Roland first made his
entrance into the fashionable world, and bad been
to the fore many, many years before that. In fact,
the age of the marquis was a standing topic of con-
versation. 5 :

z ee Graneland back?’ he asked, with faint in-
erest. . . <

The duke nodded, and, glancing at Reginald, who
had moved out of hearing, lowered his voice.

“Yes, and looking younger than ever, by George!
They were saying last night that he was hard hit by
Miss Montressor. I saw him dance four times with
her. ’Pon my word, I think it’s a case.”

A slight frown crossed Roland’s brow. He was not
himself in love with Helen, but he knew the Marquis
of Graneland, and—— ©

“It’s your deal,” he said, almost sharply.

The play went on until the wintry sun forced its
way between the chinks of the heavy curtains, until
the world awakened to life and activity, until even
Reginald grew tired and sleepy.

‘‘Havn't you had enough, you fellows?” he asked,
coming up to the table. ‘

Roland looked up, his pale face calm and im-
passive. ; 2

“Quite,” he said, inclining his head.

“‘And so have I,” saidthe duke. ‘Wonderfully bad
luck yours is, Chesterton.” a

‘Roland smiled indifferently, = Ay :

“It will change some Gay,” he said. “Meanwhile,”
—and he counted a roll of notes, for all losses are

id on the spot at the Daws. se

A footman breught his hat, and helped him on with
his coat, and Reginald took hisarm. = =

“You must be awfully tired, old man,” he said.

Roland shook his head. ‘

“T ought to be,” he said, “but Iam not. Got forty
winks in the carriage.

Reginald looked at him and shook his head.

“Aren't you—look here, Roland, I don’t want to be
intrusive, you know—but aren’t you going it a little
too strong, eli?” /

Roland looked at him absently. ‘

“How do you mean?” he asked. “What does it
matter?’ 5 ;

“Well, I don’t know,” said Reginald, seriously. “It

.doesn’t matter for some of us, I’ll admit; it doesn’t,

for instance, much matter for a poor devil like me—I
haven't much to lose, and when I’ve lost it, why,
there Iam where I was before. But you—it’s a dif-
ferent thing with you, you know. What’s the tune
to-night?” :

“My loss?” said Roland, stopping to light a cigar,
“T don’t know. Don’t care to try to recall. The time
is gone, and that is the main a at

“Some hundreds,” said Reginald, gravely. “I know
ai ns plenty at the back of you; but is it worth
while ?”’ ; :

“Ts anything worth while ?”’ retorted Roland, with
ahard laugh. “If you have discovered a game that
is worth the candle, I wish to Heaven you would
teach me to play it. You’ve turned moralist, Regi-
nald. Isn't it something rather out of your line ?”’

Reginald blushed—actually blushed.

“By George!” he said, “I think it is, but it’s only
on your account, and—and—I say, what about Gros-
venor square? Aren’t you going to put up there ?”’

“No,” answered Roland. ‘‘Mivart’s is comfortable
enough. Why should I?”

Reginald shrugged his shoulders.

“Look here; Roland. Lady Chesterton has been
dropping down on me like a stone-quarry. She
thinks, as she says, that it’s my fault that you’re go-
ing the pace. Now——’”

oland broke in, with a hard, sarcastic laugh :

“And you promised to put in a word in season.
Well, you’ve done it, and your task is done. Regi-
nald, you are a good fellow, but you'll neyer earn
your living as a preacher.”

“T think you're right,’ said Reginald, candidly.
“Where are you going now ?”

“To breakfast,” said Roland. ‘You had better
come with me.”

Reginald shook his head.

“No, [don’t think I will. That is, I promised to
look in at Grosvenor square early this morning.”

Roland nodded.

“Very well,” and he unlinked his arm.

The two men stood silent for a moment, then
oe yan looking full in the handsome face, said, sud-

enly :

“Ts this true about Helen and Graneland 2”

Reginald shrugged his shoulders, and kicked the
pavement gravely.

“lm half afraid it is,” he answered.
Icould. It’s not all Helen’s fault.”

Roland frowned.

“You mean it’s partly mine?’ he said.

Reginald flushed, and then looked gravely up at
the frowning face of the other. *

“Tf IT ain to speak the truth, I must say that—it is.
It’s absurd to blink the truth between us, you know.
You could stop it if you liked. “A word from you
would do it. Mind, I don't ask you to say it—you
know that—but you put the question to me, and I
have answered it. Of course you could stop it. I
don’t believe any other man could.”

Roland stood silent and grim, and as he stood, the
London street faded from his view, and in its place
rose the sweet face with its dark, loving eyes. If he
could only get rid of it—forget it!

: at an impatient movement, he turned to Reg-
inald.

“Tell my mother that I willcome home to-day—
dine, perhaps. And—and—tell Helen——”

‘He broke off suddenly, held out his hand, and then
strode away.

Reginald looked after him for a moment, and then
made his way to Grosvenor square, where Helen
Montressor was staying with Lady Chesterton.

“Pd stop it if

CHAPTER XXIX.
PREPARATORY,

Breakfast was on the table as he entered, and he
buttoned his overcoat, over his dress-coat with a
half-guilty air.

“Lady Chesterton is up, sir,’ said the footman,
“but Miss Montressor is not down yet.”

“Td better go home and dress, I think,” said Regi-
nald; but at that moment Lady Chesterton entered,
and went up to him. .

“Reginald !” she said, and then she looked beyond
him wistfully. “Ts Roland with you?” was her first
ery.

“No,” answered Reginald; ‘he has gone to Mi-
vart's. I have just left him. Helen is not down
yet?” _

“No,” said Lady Chesterton; ‘‘she is tired. You
have just left him? How did he look? I am very

 

anxious about him, Reginald. They tell me the most

 

dréadful stories about him!” and the proud old
woman compressed her lips.

Reginald looked down.

“He is going the PACE he admitted, reluctartly.

Lady Chesterton bit her lips, and went to the table.

“It is dreadful!” she said, with a sigh. ‘‘And he
was so quiet and steady! I thought that all—all this
sort of thing had been given up. It is ali that mis-
erable girl !” x

Reginald shrugged his shoulders,

“Tam afraid itis. I never saw a man so knocked
over. I couldn’t have believed it was in Roland.”

Lady Chesterton groaned. roe

“It is driving me mad, Reginald! At times I could
almost wish that things had taken their course. Any-
thing would have been better than. for Roland to
have taken it to heart so.”

“It is not my fault,” said Reginald.

“Tknow. I am sure you do the best you can.
—but I cannot understand it. What did he see in her
to go so mad about? For he is mad—he must be!
Lady Sernon told me last night that he had lost four
thonegaal pounds to the Duke of Smalter. Is that

rue ' : ff ke ‘

“I don’t know. He has lost rather heavily,” an-
swered Reginald, evasively.

“T don’t care so much about the money,” said the
proud old woman. “Roland can afford to lose. Itis
not the money I care about; it is Roland. He never
Saree in this way, anyhow, Reginald.

‘FY pa.”

“Do you think he knows what has happened to
these people ?”’

“No, Iam sure he does not. He never looks at the
papers, or if he does it is ina careless sort of way.
He knows nothing. Of course he thinks they are
still down there.”

Lady Chesterton mused.

‘You know that I have bought the place ?”’

“No!.. Have you?”

“Yes, bought it. I had some money to put by, and
[bought it at the sale; and as the land has come
back to us, I thinkI shall pull the house down. I
hate the sight of it!”

“T wouldn’t do that. It isn’t such a bad house.”

“Tloathe it! Yes, I bought it, and there it is—the
land that ought never to have gone from us!”

Reginald nodded.

“And what has become of—of the girls ?” he asked.

The old lady made a scornful gesture.

“T neither know nor care. They have Sane ae
peared. Mrs. Boothe—Mrs. Gore-Boothe, as she calls
1erself, came to me and cried—actually cried about
them, and wanted to know what had become of
them. They have disappeared.”

“She wasn’t a bad-looking girl, Lady Chesterton,”
said Reginald, musingly,

The old lady compressed her lips haughtily.

“A round face and a pair of dark eyes,” she said,
scornfully. You have a strange idea of beauty. [|
could never see anything in her to catch the simplest
of nen, But, Roland! Now, Helen—Helen is beau-
tiful !”

Reginald nodded his head.

“You’ve heard this about Helen and Graneland ?”’

“T’d rather see her in her grave,” said the old lady,
grimly.

“Graneland is the best match of the season,” said
Reginald, musingly. ‘‘There isn’t a girl that wouldn’t
jump at the chance. Helen——”

Lady Chesterton leaned forward in her chair, and
beat the table with her thin white fingers.

“Helen will accept him unless—— ‘There is only
one person who could prevent it,and he is playing
madman for the sake of amiserable girl utterly un-
worthy of being named in the same breath with
Helen’”’—she groaned.—“Do you think he will come
to-night? Cannot you bring him?’

“He said he would come, but I do not know. I'll
try,” he answered, but not very hopefully. ‘Ill try.
Of course I should like to see Helen settled, and Ro-
land, too; it would please me; you know that.”

He went tohis club. Then he had breakfast and
walked around to Mivart’s; but Roland was out—
where, the faithful valet did not know.

With all the rest of the world, the valet was fully
cognizant—and more fully cognizant—of the wild
doings of his master, and the good fellow’s face was
as grave as a sextun’s as he answered Reginald’s in-
quiries.

‘When will he come inagain, Mr. Reginald? Ah,
who can say, sir? I never know. Sir Roland isn’t
as he used to be, Mr. Reginald. He never went out
without telling me when to expect him back. Not
that I complain, sir; you will understand that; but
—I’m afraid there will be a bad end to all this, Mr.
Reginald. It isn’t like the old days. They were
pretty—well, wild, but he’d take some rest then.
Now I can’t get him to take any rest at all. He'll be
ill, Mr. Reginald. No man could stand such a racket
for long.”

Reginald shook his head in oym athy with the de-
voted fellow, and sauntered off. Perhaps, after all,
it would have been better if Marjorie Deane had be-
come Lady Chesterton.

But

 

They dined at seven o’clock at Grosvenor square,
and at that hour Lady Chesterton sat in the drawing--
room, upright in her stiff-backed chair, her anxious
eyes fixed on the door, her angers beating an im-
patient tattoo on the arm of the chair,

Presently the door opened and Helen Montressor
entered. There was a faint flush on her cheeks, a
subdued light in her eyes; but both flush and light
died away as she looked around the room and saw
only the haughty old woman.

With the old graceful, gliding step, she crossed the
room and bent to kiss the white forehead. Then she
stood and looked with a smile into the tall mirror.

She was perfectly dressed to-night, that is, artisti-
cally perfect in taste. Not too richly nor conspicu-
ously. The material was of soft yielding texture that
showed her exquisite figure in all its graceful curves
and undulations. The color was as unobtrusive as
the fabric, a subdued tint that heightened the deli-
cate light of her dazzling complexion. Little clouds
of old lace faintly outlined the white throat and en-
circled the exquisitely shaped arms. Never had the
fair loveliness which artists had painted and poets
sang, shone more palpably than to-night. A soft
wistfulness curved the delicate lines of the sensitive
mouth; a subdued tenderness sat enthroned in the
deep blue of the long-fringed eyes.

Even the haughty old woman looked at her with
silent admiration. Surely there could be only one
man able to withstand the charms of such exquisite
beauty, and that man—this mad son of hers.

The dinner gong sounded, and Lady Chesterton
looked up at the clock witha heavy sigh. .

. He will not come,” she said, despairingly.
‘ The beauty looked down and raised her arched
rows.

“And Reginald ?”’ ;

“He will not come without him. Let us go in.”

They went into the dining-room and soup was put
on. Then the door opened, and the footman said:

“Sir Roland, my lady.”

And his tall figure appeared in the door-way. Lady
Chesterton looked up with something like a gasp,
and half rose; but suddenly recovered self-control
and summoned a smile.

Helen looked up, too, and the flush came back for
a moment to her face, and the light to her eyes. In
her heart there sprang up hope and the determina-
tion to conquer.

She knew the question Roland had asked Reginald
about her and Graneland, she knew the frame of
mind he was in, and she was prepared.

Would she win? It was this night or never!

(f0 BE CONTINUED.)
CIRCULATING LIBRARY BOOKS SPREAD-
ING DISEASE,

It has long been recognized that library books of
the circulating description are liable to convey con-
tagious and infectious complaints from house to
house. When people are sick they can only amuse
themselves with reading, and when they fall ill the
nearest library is drawn upon for volumes of enter-
taining fiction, etc. During their perusal germs of a
dangerous nature, set afloat by the patient’s breath
or otherwise, are apt to lodge between the leaves, to
be inhaled by subsequentreaders. Some of these ob’
noxious germs retain their power to communicate
disease for quite a while, so that one can never be
sure when he takes out a library book that he is not
making a bid fora variety of physical ailments from
scarlet-fever to mumps. As a partial precaution
against this the Boston Board of Health will here-
after cause the public library card in each family
where a communicable disease is found to exist to
be stamped, so as to indicate the presence of infec-
tion or contagion there. The library will thereafter
allow no books to be taken out on this card until the
trouble is officially reported as gone. Furthermore,
when books are returned from a house where such
disease has appeared they will be carefully disin-
fected before being reissued. :

><

SECRETS READ IN THE FACE.

“A man’s occupation or condition,” said a well-
known medical writer, “has a good deal to do with
making his facial expression. Intellectual pursuits
like the studies of the scholarly profession, when
coupled with temperate and moral habits, brighten

the face and give a person a superior look. Magna~
nimity of nature, or love of study and art, will make
a bright, glad face; but, contrary to this, a man may
have a face that does not please anybody, because of
a love of self to the exclusion of all others, notwith-
standing his learning and worldly shrewdness.
Soldiers get a hard, severe look; over-worked toilers
constantly look tired; reporters look inquisitive;
mathematicians look studious; judges becomé grave,
even when off the bench; the man who has had do-
mestic trouble looks all broken up.* :

—>

WOMEN swallow at one mouthful the lie that flat-

 

 

ters, and drink drop by drop a truth that is bitter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 44—No, 48,

4 BACHELOR’S REVERIE.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

The table is spread, and the fire burns bright,
The chops are au fait, and the waffles are light,
I should be extremely contented to-night,
And yet I am not, I confess.
A something I lack at my bachelor board,
My lone habitation to bless,
*Tis the form of the woman I always adored,
With her smile and her neat morning dress.

I’m hardly a cynic; I should have been wed,

A long time ago, so my neighbors all said,

But when at the shrine of her beauty I plead,
Her answer, alas! was a “No.”

I learned that, though one of her favorite beaus,
She’d been won by a lover less slow ; :

It took me so long ere I dared to propose,
That she in a pet let me go.

I see her quite often ; she’s stouter I own,

For since my rejection long years have flown,

Ten fair olive branches around her have grown,
To claim all her motherly care.

And though unto others she may seem passe,
To me she will always seem fair; _

Though her beautiful tresses are threaded with gray,
I still dote on her bright golden hair.

This Story will not be Published in Book-Form.

uly Lauderdale s Yemptation,

By EMMA GARRISON JONES.

(“LADY LAUDERDALE’S TEMPTATION” was commenced
in No. 39. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents.]

CHAPTER XXV.
THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

Tt is Christmas-tide at Mount Storm Manor! The
sky withoutis cold and gray, the wind like a knife,
the snow coming down in heavy, feathery masses;
Within Lady Cassandra’s stately home all is warmth,
and brightness, and splendor.

She is down from London, with a gay party of
select friends, celebrating the Christmas festivities.

St. Aubyn is there, of course. Where else should
he be, since his return from abroad, save at the pleas-
ant home of his cousin and best friend ?

He has had a trip to Rome and Naples,and a few days
at Nivernois Court, and his health and spirits seem
much improved thereby. He has so far regained his
wonted cheerfulness that he did not refuse to join in
one or two of the dances. $

But the grand dinner, and the music, and the danc-
ing. have all come to an end; the gay guests arein
their beds,and the great yule logs are smoldering
down into heaps of glowing coals.

Little Justin isa fine boy now, able to run about,
and to prattle incessantly, and Lady Cassandra
scarcely ever suffers him outof her sight. Wherever
she goes, in her grand, gay life, Bess’ little boy goes
with her. She seems not to have forgotten his dead
mother’s parting words: ‘“‘May Heaven deal with
you as you deal with my child!”

He is with her now, lying dimpled and rosy, and
fast asleep in his dainty crib, while Lady Cassandra
sits before the waning fire in the nursery, and fills
his little stockings from a store of toys and confec-
tionery near at hand.

While she is thus employed the door softly opens,
and St. Aubyn looks in. She makes a charming pic-
ture, sitting in the red light of the fire, in her rich,
warm robes, all her blonde tresses put back, a
pleasing smile on her fair, proud face, her dainty
toot put out, and gently touching at intervals the
rocker of the sleeping child’s crib—a winning, wo-
manly picture, wondrously alluring to the heart of a
lonely and wifeless man. .

St. Aubyn looks on silently, a fiush rising to his
face, a glowing light to his blue eyes; and all at
once he calls to mind those half-forgotten words
- uttered by this same woman in the agony of her

shame. E % 5
you so! etre : 5%

The words had thrilled him even then, when the
wrongs of r Bess were fresh; they thrill him now
into a sudden tremor. ‘

Does she love him still? Would she accept him at
this late hour—she, so passing fair, so nobly born, sv
wealthy, so worshiped? To unite his honors with
hers would secure for him and for his son the first
position in the realm. Heis secure of his own honors
now; habit gets to be second nature, and time ac-
customs us to the strangest things.

That horrible, living secret in the black dungeon
vaults at Beaumarnis Lodge does not constantly
haunt him now. He is learning to forget it. He
rarely ever hears from poor, faithful old Seymour
now; but he knows it is all right, and trusts that
time will end it all before long.

His sorrow for poor Bess, St. Aubyn has well out-
lived, too. His nature is too thoroughly selfish to
cherish a lasting sorrow. He loyed Bess well, but he
has alinost ceased to suffer for her loss.

He enters the nursery with a gentle step and a
glowing face. Lady Cassandra, busy with the stock-
ings, looks over her shoulder and smiles. She knows
his step—would know it almostif it sounded above
her grave.

“TI am playing Santa Claus for Justin,” she says.

“So I see,” responded St. Aubyn, helping himself
to the vacant seat beside her; ‘‘but you should not
keep such late hours—not even for Justin’s sake.”

“Ah, it doesn’t matter; late hours or early ones
are alike the same to me.”

She says this with a little half-stifled sigh, bending
down to force @ miniature soldier into the silken
stocking.

St. Aubyn regards her with kindling eyes. In the
far-gone days of his boyhood he used to be very fond
of his fair cousin, and those old dead-and-gone dreams
are easily resurrected.

“T don’t see why your health should not be con-
sidered, Cousin Cassie,” he responds. ‘‘At any rate,
if your well-being is a matter of indifference to your-
self, it is not-to me, by any means. What should I
do without you? What should I have been now,
and what would my boy have been, but for your
kindness ?”

She looks up at him, her lips trembling and tears
in her eyes.

“Tf T haye helped
softly, “Lam very gla

“You have helped me,” he goes on, growing warm
and ardent. ‘You have been my life, my salvation,
since poor Bess was taken; and, dear Cassie, I de-
served no kindness at your hands—I deserve none
now—but Heaven knows what I shall do when some
fortunate Man marries you and takes you away
from me.”

“That will never happen, 8t. Aubyn. I shall never
marry.”

He looks down at her, irresolute, in doubt. Some-
thing in her averted face and drooping eyes thrills
him with keen delight. He grasps both the hands
that hold the silken stockings. She does not with-
draw them.

“Cassie !’’

“St. Aubyn !”’ j

“Oh, Cassie, can you forgive me? Can you love
me? Will you be my wife, and my boy’s mother?”

She trembles like areed in her supreme joy, but
her eyes are calm,

“Let me put the question to you,” she returns,
quietly. ‘St. Aubyn, can you, do you love me ?”’

“My darling, yes!: I have loved you all my life-
long—I never ceased to love you, not even when

poor little Bess was my wife. You know my past.
Vill you forget it, and forgive me, and be to me now
what you should have been years ago—my loved and
honored wife?’

“St. Aubyn, yes!”

Her queenly head falls upon his shoulder, and he
clasps her close.

“My own at last. Nothing under Heaven shall part
us now!” i

“Nothing shall part us again, St. Aubyn.”

And she means what she says.

The winds whistle without, and the snow falls, and

a great clock rings out a single stroke for one; and
the red coals fall into the waning embers; and still
they sit thus, entranced in their new love, and poor
Bess, sleeping in her watery graye beneath the for-
eign seas, is utterly forgotten.
An early marriage is agreed upon. The wedding-
ing day is appointed for the twenty-fifth of January,
on y amonth hence. Not quite a year-since poor
little Bess was lost on her homeward journey ; but
St. Aubyn does not think of that. His grief for Bess
is gone and forgotten, and he is eager and impatient
for his new wife and his new joy.

Lady Cassandra makes no objection; indeed, in
her secret soul she is as impatient of delay as he is.
She has tasted the bitterness of disappointment, and
she does not care to risk any delay. “There is many
a slip ’twixt'the cup and the lip.” Let the weddin :-
- day come soon—the sooner the better. She preferred

rather to endure the censure of the world than to
have her happiness, so long delayed, so ardently de-
sired, postponed one hour.
So the wedding preparations begin again, and go
on with great speed.. At Mount Storm allis bustle
and excitement. A second trousseau, even grander
and more exquisite than the first, which remains

you St. Aubyn,”’ she answers,
”

Heaven's sake, pity me, St. Aubyn—I loved |

: xX
locked away in the great camphor-wood box, is or-
dered, and comes down from Paris; the invitations
are issued, and all goes merry as a marriage-bell.

The twentieth of January comes, cold, stormy, all
the country-side wrapped in a winding-sheet of
white. Lady Cassandra sits in the great drawing-
voom, in the midst of warmth, and wax lights, and
silken splendor, awaiting her bridegroom’s return.
He has gone to France, to arrange some business
matters with his agent at Nivernois Court, but she
expects him home to-night.

She wears a charming robe of gleaming, lustrous
green, that just suits her fair, blonde beauty; a ten-
der, expectant smile softens her eyes, and curves her
scarlet lip; she is so happy!

On the velvet rug before the glowing hearth, sits
little Justin, playing with his pet King Charles. He
is a handsome, well-grown boy, with his father’s
blonde curls and bold forehead, and his dead
mother’s sweet, meek eyes.

He crosses the room with the tiny dog in his round
arms, and kneels down at Lady Cassie’s feet.”

“Mamma Cassie’—he calls her mamma already—
‘“‘when will my papa be here?”

Lady Cassie bends down and kisses him. Sheis
very fond of the pretty boy, very scrupulous in doing
her full duty by him, actuated by a vague feeling
that in her care and kindness to the boy she is mak-
ing amends to his dead mother.

She kisses him to-night, with a full heart, pushing
back his fair curls, and looking down into his soft
eyes.

: cee will be here soon, darling,”
derly.

“And will he bring the gold collar for Fido, and
not be a naughty papa, and not run off from Justin
and Mamma Cassie any more ?”’

+4 hope so, pet. I hope he will never leave us any
more.’

Her heart thrills with a great joy at the thought.
She stoops and kisses the boy again. F

“How his eyes remind me of his poor mother,” she
thinks, as she strokes back his hair. ‘Poor Bess!
Well, L have scrupulously kept my promise. I have
been a mother to her boy, and I will be a mother to
him as long as I live. Poor little Bess! I wronged her
once, but my tender care of her child shall make
amends.” :

There were tears in the proud lady’s eyes; sheeven
felt a pitying regret for poor Bess, sleeping in her
untimely grave. It is so easy to be good, and kind,
and forgiving, when we hold our own happiness fast
and secure.. Let it slip from us, and: the fiery fur-
nace of temptation glows before us, and few of us,
alas, can pass through unscathed.

A servant entered at this juncture, bringing in the
late wait—letters for Lady Cassandra, and letters
for 8t. Aubyn. He had ordered his mail forwarded
to Mount Storm.

Lady Cassandra looks them over, and tosses them
ina heap upon the table; sheis in no mood for reading
letters to-night; but the very last one-attracts her
notice. It is a letter to St. Aubyn, and it bears a
foreign postmark. Nothing to marvel at in that,
but Lady Cassandra turns it over in her white fingers,
warned by a strange and subtle instinct, that its con-
tents will in some way affect herself. She cannot put
it aside; the dingy, heavily stamped envelope seems
to fascinate her. All at once, as if a voice had spoken
in her ear, a swift thought flashed through her brain.
What if this letter should refer to the Baltic?) What
if, after all, some of her ill-fated passengers should
have been picked up?

The thought turns her sick and dizzy, and a cold
perspiration breaks out en her brow. She starts to
her feet, her teeth set, her hands clenched.

“T won’t give him up,” she says, in a hoarse whis-
per. ‘I'll never give him up, not if she comes back
from the grave to claim him.”

The crunch of carriage-wheels on the snow with-
out arouses her. She hears the servants rush out,
and steps ring in the hall. St. Aubyn has come. She
slips the letter with the foreign postmark in her
pocket, and turns toward the door, and in another
instant she is clasped in bis arms.

“T’ll give it to him presently,” she says, to herself,
again and again; but the evening goes by. and she
does not doit. When she goes up to her chamber
the letter is still in her pocket.

She dismisses her maid, and sits down before the
fire. Then she takes out the letter, and falls to turn-
ing it over and over.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she murmurs, at last.
mine, and [ have a right to know.”

Still she hesitates, touches the seal again and
again, but does not break it. At last she sets her
white teeth, tears the packet open, takes out the
sheet, and reads:

she. says, ten-

 

 

“He is

“My LoRD ST. AUBYN—I have great good news to
write you. IT have only this day ascertained that all
the passengers on board the Baltic were not lost. A
small party it appears sought safety in a life-boat,
and were picked up by some foreign vessel; and two
of them are women. They are now at some sea-
| coast town in Africa, and are to be sent home to
| England without delay. My lord, don’t let me raise
false hopes in your mind, but a faint rumor comes
with this intelligence that one of the rescued pas-
sengers is your wife, Lady St. Aubyn. Whether this
be true or not I shail ascertain at the earliest mo
ment, and let you know in my next letter.”

“Oh, heavens!” she moaned, in a hoarse whisper.
“Bess alive!”

The red blood surged up into her white cheeks,
and her eyes blazed like those of an enraged tigress.
She seized the letter from the carpet, where it had
tallen, replaced itin the envelope, and deliberately
threw it into the mass of burning coals.

“There,” she said; her teeth set hard together,
“burn! [ll never give him up again! I’ve sworn it,
and I’ll keep my oath!”

|
4
|
|
:
)

}

CHAPTER XXVI.
A STRANGE MEETING.

A stately war-ship, with the red pennon of St.
George streaming from its mast-head, plows the
angry waters, beaten and buffeted by the gale, and
well-nigh wrecked.

A number of British soldiers are aboard, on their
way home to old England after a long absence;
and among them is Captain Redmond Carew. He
has never set foot upon his native shores since he
bade adieu to that lonely little grave amid the gloom
and silence of St. Imogen grave-yard. He has wan-
dered in many lands, faced death a hundred times,
and still he lives; and now, bronzed and scarred, and
prematurely aged, he is on the way once more to the
land of his birth.

His great sorrow for the loss of his boyhood’s love
still lives in his heart. » Captain Carew is not the sort
of man to outlive a great grief,any more than a great
love, and his pain to-night, as he stands upon the
deck and thinks of Bess, and how she died in her
sweet young beauty, is as fresh, and as hard to bear
as it was that hour when he knelt beside her grave.

He has had but little news from England; he
knows nothing of herinfidelity to himself; of her im-
prisonment at Mount Chateaufroux, or of her rescue
and marriage to St. Aubyn. Not one breath of all
| this has ever reached him. As he looks abroad upon
the storm-tossed sea, far, far away he sees the glow
ot a conflagration, and at intervals, above the roar
and rush, he hears the faint boom of guns. .

A burning ship, and in all this terrible storm and
darkness. His heart aches with pity for the helpless
ones on board, and as he strains his eyes through the
thick darkness toward that distant glare, a curious
fancy possesses him. He seems to see a vision of a
white face, and it looks at him with entreating eyes,
across the stormy distance. Itis the face of Bess,
with her own wistful eyes, and floating, flossy hair.

He turns away in an agony of pain, but the vision
pursues him. Jt haunts him through the livelong
night, the entreating eyes look at him from every
bursting billow; and once or twice, above the wild
voice of the gale, he seems to hear a pleading voice,
and it calls:

“Oh, Redmond, Redmond, come and save me!”

The poor fellow is half mad with agony, and paces
the deck like a lunatic. Turn where he will, that
white, imploring face is before his eyes.

But the glare of the burning vessel dies out at last,
the fury of the mad storm expends itself, the dark,
perilous night wanes, and a lurid day-dawn breaks
above the sullen sea, and with its breaking Captain
Carew is rid of his vision.

The day goes by, another night comes and goes,
and another lurid morning breaks. Toward noon,
away out apor the murky waters, some one descries
a tiny speck. Captain Carew gets his glass, and ex-
amines it. It is a life-boat, with a signalof distress.

A boat is lowered, ands then comes the question,
who will volunteer for the perilous mission of mercy ?
The weather is yet stormy, the sea treacherous, and
there is no certainty of a safe return.

Captain Carew volunteers, and goes out, accom-
panied by two of the crew.

A nearer approach to the floating speck discovers
it to be an inverted boat driving before the gale, a
little white flag floating from the upturned keel.
They labor on, and at last they reach it.

Four human beings are clinging to the inverted
boat, and two of them are women.

Captain Carew and his two companions unclasp
the poor stiffened fingers, and deposit the poor crea-
tures in the bottom of their own boat. hree are
saved, two men and one woman, while the last one
still hangs on by her slender hold. Captain Carew
turns to unclasp her hands, and as he does so a
sharp cry breaks from his lips. On the right hand
isaring. He knows it in an instant—his own old
ring of twisted Indian gold.

His heart gives a great leap. He looks down at the
Sarg face, all covered with the brown, wind-tossed

air.

“Good Heaven!" he gasps, “it is Bess!’

His face is like the face of a dead man, and his
knees shake under him; but he takes her in his arms
and lays her down beside the others without a word.

She looks up at him, as he bends over her, with
clear, brave, conscious eyes. A sweet smile parts her
white lips.

“Redmond,” she whispers, “Redmond at last. Ah,
Redmond, I thought you would come and save me!”

Then she faints away.

* *

 

 

* *

 

“Redmond, dear, true friend, [did not mean to be

 

 

¥ *

false to you. I wanted to keep my promise, but I
could not help myself—I am Lord St. Aubyn’s wife!”

They are in Africa, on the sea-coast, after a
stormy voyage, driven ashore, their vessel a wreck.
Bess has lain ill for weeks, ill and unconscious, but
Captain Carew has nursed her back to life.

He sits beside her couch now in the cool, still dim-
ness of the African twilight, just as he used to sit
beside her, years and years ago, when she wasa
child, and lay asleep beneath her father’s tent in
the Algerine camp.

She has just been telling him her story, the strange
story of her betrothal to Lord St. Aubyn, her long
luprisonment at Mount Chateaufroux, her rescue,
and her marriage. ;

“Lord St. Aubyn’s wife!”

All the pain and .agony when he believed her dead
was nothing to compare to what he feels now.

“Lord St. Aubyn’s wife !”’ t

He repeats the words in a low whisper, his eyes
bent upon the twisted ring upon her finger.

She follows his glance, and a faint flush rises in her
thin cheeks.

“Yes, Lam Lord St. Aubyn’s wife,”’ she says; “but,
you see, Redmond, [ wear your old ring yet. I did
not wear it for a long, long time; St. Aubyn had it;
but when I was coming away I was ill, you know,
Redmond, and didnot know thatI ever should live
to go back; and—well, it was foolish in me, no doubt
—but you used to tell me your old ring was a talis-
man, and I wanted to wear it on my. long, lonely
journey. Sol asked St. Aubyn, and he let me take
Ts but if you wish, Redmond, you shall take it back
now.

He looks up at her changing face with one swift,
questioning glance. Her heart is in her truthful
eyes, but Redmond Carew is not the man to take ad-
vantage of a woman’s weakness, and that woman the
wife of another. He stills the pain and hunger of
his heart by the power of his resolute will, and looks
at her with kind and pitying eyes.

'“No, Bess, you shall keep the old talisman,” he
says, “to insure you a safe voyage home to England
and your husband. But how is it, child, that he sent
you out iliand alone? Why did he not accompany
you?’ ;

“Well, you see, Redmond, there were business mat-
ters in the way—he could not leave England—and
Latimer thought I should die if Iremained at home.
TI was very,ill, and I wanted to live for baby’s sake.
I have not told you about my baby yet, Captain
Carew ?”

“No; tell me now, Bess.”

The strong face shows no sign of pain, the kind
eyes look down. upon her, full of old love; yet at
Ayat Pies Redmond Carew’s pain was worse than
death.

Bess looks up and smiles, and blushes in her old
shy way.

“He’s a nice baby,” she says, childishly—‘‘a pretty
boy—called after his father. He was four months
old when I came away, and, oh, Redmond, it al-
most broke my heart to leave him! What a
long time it has been! He will be a big boy
when I get back, and he won’t knowme! Only think
of that, Redmond,” with a little sob, ‘‘my baby won’t
know me. And 8t. Aubyn thinks I was lost with all
the rest of the poor souls on board the Baltic!
Ah, it was an awful hour when the vessel burned!
But I did not think I should be lost, Redmond. I
cannot tell why, but I was sure you would come and
save me.”

The tears rush to his eyes, and his firm lips quiver;
but he conquers himself in the next breath.

“So Idid come, thank Heaven,” he replies, cheer-
ily, “and it won’t be long now, Bess, before you shall
be under way for old England. You must be patient,
little one; you shall soon see your husband and your
child again.”

In a little while Bess drops off to sleep like a tired
child; and while the night closes down, and the
great white stars appear, Captain Carew sits there,

keeping watch by Lord St. Aubyn’s wife, with a pain
in his heart that he never forgets in all the after
years of his life-

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE LONG-DELAYED WEDDING.

“Letters for Lord St. Aubyn, my lady!”

My lady nods her graceful head, as she sits before
the blazing tiie in the drawing-room. The servant
enters with a silver waiter in his hand, on which are
three letters for Lord St. Aubyn.

“Put them on the table there, Edwards; Lord St.
Aubyn will be here to-night,”

Edwards obeys, and ows himself out, and my lady
sits alone again, awaiting her bridegroom’s return.
Itis the last nightshe will have to wait. On the
morrow, at noon, she will marry St. Aubyn, and im-

mediately thereafter they start abroad, to be absent |

for years—at least so my lady has planned.

She turns, as the servant leaves, and looks at the
letters on the table, with a fierce tire in her eyes. For
days she has been expecting another foreign letter,
watching the coming of every mail, with a wild,
fierce suspense, amounting to agony. It has come
now, and it brings news of Bess. She knows. it,
though she has not yetseen the letters that lie before
her—knows it in her secret soul.

She stands a full minute, in a sort of crouching at-
titude, eying the letters with a fixed gaze; then she
creeps along, her eyes distended, and her white lips
apart, till she stands beside the table.

There they lie, and one of them bears an ominous
foreign stamp. She snatches it up, her breath com-
ing in hoarse gasps, crushes it into her bosom, and
darts out of the drawing-room, and up the stairs to
her own apartments. There she locks the door, and
crouches down before the hearth, glancing about her
like a guilty creature that flies from justice.

She takes the crumpled letter from her bosom,
breaks the seal, smooths out the sheet, and reads:

“My LorD Sr. AUBYN :—I have good news for you
to-day. Your wife, Lady St. Aubyn, is alive; she was
picked up, with three other passengers, off the
African coast, and will be sent home to England as
soon as she is strong enough to undertake the
journey.”

“Coming home! Great heavens! What shall I do?”

The wail broke from her ashen lips in a whisper
just above her breath, and she sat staring into the
red coals with wild, affrighted eyes. So great had
been her pre-occupation that she had not heard the
arrival of St. Aubyn’s carriage; but now a servant
tapped. at her door with the words:

“My lady, Lord St. Aubyn has arrived, and begs to
see you at once.”

She struggled to her feet, and groping across the
room, unlocked the door.

“T will be down in a mhinute,” she said.

As she gave the answer she caught the sound of
ringing laughter below—St. Aubyn laughing and
gamboling with his child.

-“And the boy’s mother lives, and is on her way
h@me to him,’”’ she whispered, in that same strained
voice. Vll go down and put the letter in his hands,
and confess everything. He must know. His wife
lives, and he must know.”

With the open letter in her hand she went down.
St. Aubyn heard the rustle of her dre8s upon the
stairs and rushed to meet her.

“My dearest love,” he cried out in his cheery tone,
as he caught herin his arms, “Iam so glad to get
back to you. Cassie, darling, [I could not live away
from you now.”

‘You could not, St. Aubyn ?”’

: She looked at him, with an odd expression on her
ace.

“No, my love,’ he answered, ardently, “I would
sooner die than lose you.”

“Would you, really ?” her grave, questioning eyes
still bent upon his face. ‘‘Tell me the truth—would
you sooner take me to-morrow or have poor Bess
eome back to you from her grave?”

He broke into a light, nervous laugh.

“Why, dearest, what a silly question!
Bess could come back from her grave!”

“Yes, but if she could? I want your answer.”

“Well, then, I would sooner take you to-morrow,
my queenly darling, though I loved poor little Bess
very dearly.” ,

She turned, without a word, and approaching the
fire-place, dropped the crushed letter, hidden in her
hands, upon the glowing coals. It scorehed and
shriveled, and was consumed in an instant. The
rubicon was passed, and Lady Cassandra Lauderdale
was given over, soul and body, into the tempter’s
power. 4

re is that, my love?” asked St. Aubyn, curi-
ously.

“Oh, nothing, only a stupid business letter from
my agent, that I forgot to burn.”

* + * * ~

Asif poor

a *

The wedding morning dawns clear, frosty, and
bright.

Lady Cassandra submits herself to the hands of
her maid without a sign of hesitation... She has made
her resolve, and she stands to it like arock. Come’
what may, she will be St. Aubyn’s wife.

“My love,” she says, as they part, for the last time,
in the morning boudoir beyond the breakfast-parlor,
“my love, we go abroad for an indefinite term, do we
not?” ;

“My dear,” he responds, ‘‘would you like such an
arrangement ?””

“T would, indeed, St. Aubyn. TI am weary of Eng-
land, and everything in England. Letus go abroad
—go every wWhere—and not return for years.”

She lays her hand on his arm, and looks up at him
with bright, feverish eyes.

“And the boy, Justin?” questions St. Aubyn.

“Mrs. Garnet loves him as if he were her own, and
IT have engaged a competent nurse and governess.
He would lack for no care and attention, 8t. Aubyn.”

She says this in a pleading, deprecating way, that
touches the bridegroom’s gallantry.

“Certainly not,’ he responds. ‘fam assured of his
welfare, dearest, and I have no wish to burthen you
with him—I mean, if we should travel as you pro-
pose. And I should take great pleasure in gratifying
you, but, really, Cassie, [ cannot see how we are
to go.”

Her cheeks pale perceptibly, and a look of terror
comes into her eyes.

“Why, St. Aubyn, what can there be to hinder us?”

He averts his face from her eager gaze, and the
flush deepens in his cheeks. He has thought of all

 

~ - renee rs
this before, and more than once has half made up his }

mind to confide his secret to her keeping. It would
be better than to make her his wife in ignorance, and
risk the possibility of later disclosures. For St.
Aubyn has a dread presentiment that sooner or later
his secret will come to light. He has great trust in
Lady Cassandra’s good judgment, greater trust in
her woman’s love. He is well assured that she will
not fail him, even if she hears that he is the son of a
nurse-maid, and not the Marquis of St. Aubyn’s heir.
Yet, up to this hour, he has halted between two
opinions, and lacked the courage to speak.

Lady Cassandra watches his irresolute face, and
reads it as she would an open book. She has long
suspected that St. Aubyn had some secret on his
mind, and now she is sure of it. She draws nearer to
him, and puts her fair, round arm about his neck.

“My darling,’® she whispers, her red lips close to
his cheek, her tear-filled eyes upraised, “what is it?
Some secret trouble weighs upon your mind. I have
known it for along time. My love, cannot you trust
me? I haveloved you so long, my dearest, there is
nothing under the sun, even crime or dishonor, that
could have power to part me from you. Dearest,
trust me, implore you. Let no secret come between
us on our wedding morn !”

St. Aubyn is deeply touched. He leans his cheek
against her waving blonde hair, and his broad chest
heaves like the sea. If he might tell her all, and
trust to her woman’s wit to help and save him!

A sudden impulse prompts him. He draws her
down to a sofa near at hand, and keeping her close
in his arm, he tells her all-—the story of the dying
nun’s confession, of that dreadful deed done in the
black turret-room, of the hideous living skeleton
shut up in the dismal dungeon at Beaumarnis.

She hears him through without a word, her cheeks
whiten, but her eyes remain cool and calm.

“Well,” he questions, when allis told, ““what have
you to say ?”’

She looks up at him with afond smile, and touches
his face with her soft, caressing hand.

“My own love, nothing! If the story be true,
which is doubtful, you are a St. Aubyn still. What
does it signify? only this, that ugly secret must end.”

‘“*T wish to Heaven it could,” he replies, with asigh
of relief.

“Tt shall,’ she answers, decisively, “it shall end
forever, before we go abroad. One cannot lead a
comfortable life, with a mine like that beneath one’s
feet. It must end.”

“But how?”

“Leave that to me, my love; I'll manageit. We
shall not be disappointed of our long journey. The
secret shall end.”

St. Aubyn experiences a sensation of relief at
having this heavy load at last removed from his tired
shoulders, and he kisses his bride-eleet with re-
doubted fondness, as she leaves him, with a steel-like
glitter in her eyes.

The winter morning slips by, and noon comes, and
with it the long line of gay carriages. The grand
party sweeps down the winding drive, and out to-
ward the little moorland village where the chapel
stands.

And St. Aubyn leads his queenly bride up the aisle,
under the light of the stained windows, and the
grand guests stream in, and the solemn words begin,
and come to an end. The wedding-ring is placed
upon her white finger, and at last Lady Cassandra is
Lord St. Aubyn’s bride.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE GIPSY SORCERESS. *

It is January, and the snow is falling over the
bright scarlet wraps, and glossy black curls of Josie
Ferris, who is crossing the broad valley, that lies be-
tween Nivernois and the banks of the Loire.

She comes along with a brisk, elastic step, a little
wicker basket on her arm, in which are a bottle of
wine and some fine white bread.

She is on her way to make a visit of charity to old
Keechy, a queer old creature, who inhabits a small
hut on the reedy margin of the river. Old Keechy
is not a favorite by any means; indeed, among the
simple peasant folk she bears the name of a witch
and a sorceress, and all the ill deeds and mishaps of
the country-side are attributed to her malevolence
and black art. oy

For years this old woman, half gipsy and half
Moor, has lived, at_intervals, in the little hut upon
the margin of the Loire ; crooning over the ashes,
and gibbering in a strange dialect, while she knits

 

away on some coarse scarlet wool.

She has out her shingle for a fortune-teller, but she |
gets but poor patronage; the youths and maidens |
are afraid of her, and the elder folks dislike her; and
it is only once in a long while that some adventurous |
youngster or rattle-brained girl ventures across the
threshold of the little black hut to hear the wisdom
of the weird sorceress.

With the coming of spring old Keechy always
vanishes; no one knows where or how she goes, or |
‘when she returns; but when winter sets in the smoke |
is seen curling up from the chimney of the hut, and |
any one passing the dingy window may see the old
beldame crooning over the low fire, with her scar-
let knitting-work in her skinny hands. q
- And now she has fallen ill, and, strange to relate,
has sent a message to Josie, asking her to come to
the hut and see her. |

Dame Ferris objected quite strongly; indeed, she |
forbade Josie to take any notice of this message.
Why should old Keechy send for her? There were
poor-houses in Moulins for paupers.

But, as usual, Josie had it al! her own way. She
made up her mind to go and see the forlorn old
woman who had sent for her, and go she did.

Just beyond the confines of Nivernois Court, as
she trips along, caraling a quaint Moorish rounde-
lay, she meets Leonard. The youth had grown to a
tall, likely lad, with a handsome face. He comes to
a dead halt at sight of Josie, and shows his brilliant
white teeth as he smiles. Josie nods and smiles back
at him. ,

‘Where are your baskets, Leonard?” she asks,
missing the accustomed load of wicker-work from
his shoulders.

Leonard shakes the snow from his curling locks,
and breaks intoa laugh, half exultant, half regretful.

“Why, ’ve given the baskets over, Josie,” he re-
plies; “I’m done with wicker-work.”

“For good, Leonard ?”

“For good, Josie.”

‘How glad Tam! But what do you purpose doing
now, Leonard ?”

“I’m going to Rome, to learn to be a great painter,
Josie.”

“Leonard, is it so?’ she cries, her lips apart, the
red deepening in her cheeks.

“Tt is so, Josie,’ he replies, his handsome eyes |
darkening and growing grave. ‘Uncle Heirick has
sent for me, and I'm going.”

“And your mother ?”

‘Goes with me, of course.
leave her behind?’ |

‘Oh, Leonard, how glad Tam! You will surely be |
a great man now. When do you go?”

“To-morrow, Josie.”

Her face suddenly grows sober, and the quick, im-
pulsive tears rise in her great black eyes. ;

“To-morrow,” he goes on. ‘“‘Uncle Heirick is ill,
and wants us at once. I was on my way to Nivernois
now to tell you the news.” |

He stands and looks at her, the fire of undevel- |
oped genius smoldering in his eyes and lighting his
features.

‘And you are so glad, Josie,” he says, at last, “that
I’m going to Rome ?” :

Josie looks up with her bold, truthful eyes, but in |
an instant they droop before the lad’s glowing gaze, |
and the red on her round cheeks fairly flames.

“Yes, Leonard,” she replies, but in faltering tones,
“Tam glad for your sake. You will learn to paint
now, and be a great man by and by.”

“That I shall, Josie,” a determined ring in his
voice. ‘But there’s something else I want to be
sure of besides my future prospects. I was coming
up to Nivernois to find out, but Pll not go on now
since ’ve met you. Dame Ferris isn’t fond of me,
and won’t grieve at not bidding me good-by. Come,
won’t you take my arm, Josie, and let me walk beside
you alittle way? Where are you going?”

‘Down to Keechy’s hut.”

Leonard utters a long, low whistle.

“Now, Josie, what on earth can take you down to
Keechy’s hut this wild morning? Is it to have your
fortune told ?”’

She gives her head a scornful little toss, but she
suffers him to draw her dimpled hand within his arm,
and they walk on side by side.

“No. Why should I care to have my fortune told?
The old creature’s sick, and she sent for me. I know
well enough what my fortune will be.”

“Do you, indeed, Josie? Would you mind enlight-
ening me? TI should so like to go away with all your
future life clear before me.”

“Very well, you-shall. IT intend to find my parents,
and when [ do find them they’ll be great folks, and I
shall be a great lady, as the fairy tales go, you know.
No need of old Keechy’s witcheraft to tell me that;
I’m sure of it now.”

Leonard stops short, and, turning, looks her full in
the eye.

“And shall you forget me entirely when you are a
great lady, Josie?’ he asks. ‘‘That’s what I want to
know, and what I was coming to Nivernois to ask
you. I can’t go away without my answer. Will you
forget me, and give your love to some one wiser and
greater, when I am gone ?”’

She looks up at him, a little flash lighting her tear-
filied eyes.

“Am I likely to forget and forsake my earliest
friend ?”’

He draws her closer, and passes his arm about her
graceful, shapely shoulders.

“No, Josie. I don’t mean friendship; it is some-
thing else: I must speak plainly and make you un-
derstand me. By and by, Josie, when I am a inan
and you a woman, will you be my wife if I come for
you? That’s what I want to know.”

For the space of a minute she stands silent, her
eyes downcast, all the color gone from her young
cheeks. Then she looks up, her eyes overflowing
with tears; the rich carnation surging back to her
very brow.

“Yes, Leonard,’ she answers, softly, “if you come
back a good man, [ will.”

 

Did you think [ could |

 

| by

| of the Union.
| times.”

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $=

“Then IT shall come back a good man, Josie. May
IT kiss you now 2?”

She leans toward him, like a swaying, graceful
flower, and he clasps her close to his heart, and
presses his first kiss on her ripe, rich lips.

“My darling, my beauty, my own!” he murmurs.
“Oh, I shall come back to you not only good, but
great. Here let me put this upon your finger. You
did not think I had brought you an engagement-ring,
did you, Josie ?”’

He draws a little box from his breast, and takes
out a pretty plain ring, his face aglow with boyish
pride.

Josie opens her black eyes wide.

. Why, Leonard,” she asks, “how did you come by
it?”

“Bought it, my sweet,’ he answers, exultantly.
“T’ve been saving the money for a whole year; and
now you shall wear it till I come back and put the
marriage ring upon your finger.”

He slips it on her round, dimpled finger, and she
looks at it with childish admiration.

“T thank you very much, but what shall I give
you?”

She half draws a quaint old chain from her bosom,
but lets it drop back again.

“No,” she continued, regretfully, “I cannot give
you that. Icould not tind my parentsif 1 did. I
have nothing, Leonard.”

“Yes, you have, Josie.
old locket. Give me this.”

He lifts one of the heavy curls that has escaped
from under her scarlet hood.

“May I ent it off and wear it on my heart, Josie ?”’

She nods and blushes; and he produces a little
pocket-knife, and soon severs the curl and puts it
away in his breast.

“Tt shall be my talisman, Josie,” he says, ‘‘and no
matter where [ go it will bring me safe to you again.
Here is Keechy’s hut, and I must leave you; I have
lots of things to do yetfor mother. I shall write to
you, Josie, and I shall never doubt you. Don’t let
the old sorceress devour you. Now, my pretty Josie,
farewell!”

“Farewell, Leonard !”

She tries hard to keep them back, but her tears will
come; and the last sight her boy lover has of her, as
he turns away through the swift-falling snow, he
sees her rosy cheeks all gemmed with crystal drops.
With a sigh, half pain and half boyish bliss, he hur-
ries back toward Moulins, and Josie, wiping away
her tears, makes her way into Keechy’s.

(LO BE CONTINUED.)

IT don’t want your queer

OUR POSTMASTER’S LAY-OUT.

BY ELM WOOD.

Our candidate for postmaster having patiently
awaited a long time for the opportunity to serve his
country, has at last received his appointment.

The last year the outgoing incumbent served, his
salary amounted to six dollars and thirty-four cents,
an increase of seventy-one cents over the preceding
year.

It being the first government office Mr. Ribb ever
held, he resolved to give a reception. In due time
the cards came out. I have mine preserved, as it is
my first and only one of the kind. It was written on
the back of an express tag, and reads as follows:

“Mr. Woop :—Through the generosity of the Presi-
dent of the United States, I have been appointed
postmaster at this place, and desiring to express my
gratitude to those of my friends who stood by me, I
write you to attend a reception to be heid at Prairie-
dog Springs. )

“Bring a quart, and your fish-pole.

“oW. R. RIBB,
“Postmaster Camp Kettle Cannon,
“Wyoming Ter.”

I was aware that there were no fish out there, but
IT took my pole with me. I was met at the spring by
six gentiemen, each carrying a fish-pole.

A sumptuous repast was laid out, and we gathered

| round the lay-out.

Judge Avery was called upon to respond to the
toast, “Public Office.”” The judge frequently paused
to lubricate his vocal organs as he responded in the
following clear-cut logic:

“Gentlemen—Ont of the mighty whole only afew
are chosen to serve the public. They are selected
men of ilong-ranged vision. They are also

| selected with an object in view, or an object that has
| been viewed.

The persons who are chosen are sup-
posed to be selected from the cream of the intellect
of his locality. Itis also expected that he will take

| all the cream his office will raise, and an occasional
| one has been known to skim a little on the outside.

{Loud eries of hear! hear!)

“In the present instance we Can readily see that the
choice was made by far-seeing men, as our mutual
friend is all that can be required for a public servant.
Let us drink to his health and success.”

Major Allen responded to the toast, ““Our Wives.”

“May they never grow less, May they live until
each and every one of them are five-score years old,

| and may they always think that we put in this day
| fishing.

“Few and short are the prayers we would say when
we reached our firesides if they had but an inkling of
this round-up. Let us drink their health.”

I was called on to respond to the toast, “Our
Babies.”

“Gentlemen, I hardly feel able to do the little ones
justice, never having one in our family; but I ean
imagine how a man can enjoy himself who walks the
floor at the solemn hour of midnighf, carrying a
curly headed baby. The joy that fills his manly
breast as he holds a spoonful of Mrs. Winslow's
Soothing Sirup over the lamp-chimney to warm it,
and as he resuimes his lonely mareh, the floor under
his feet cracking with the frost, and the soles of the
same covered with crumbs of bread and molasses, his
night-garment barely reaching his knees. Picture
him as he stops to warm his fingers over the lamp,
and in an unguarded inoment blows on them to help
warm them, and extinguishes the light. As he real-
izes that he is enshrouded in darkness, he makes a
bold stab for the bed. After crowding a chair-leg
between his toes, and striking his corn, which is
aching with the cold, against the heel of his. wife's

| shoe, and trips the other foot over her bustle, he

bangs both knees against the side of the bed. By

| this time he has reached the height of connubial
| felicity.

“After going through all this, he would not trade

| that haby for the best mine in the Rocky Mountains.
| Bless the babies, and prosper their parents.
| drink to their health.”

Let us

Dr. Ray arose and responded to “The Stars and
Stripes.” d

“Gentlemen, the Stars and Stripes are waving over
every hainlet, town, and city in this vast. universe
to-day. Let’em wave. Let’s drink to her wave.”

Charley Randel said a word for ‘Our Girls.”

“Our girls can put on more shape and put it on

| right side up, wear bigger bustles and not stagger,
| smaller shoes and not limp, and are better-looking

and better dressed than the girls of any other part
Whoop! Let’s drink their health two

Bob Sawyer arose to respond to “Our Country’s
Prosperity.”

“Our country is full of prosperity, and we are full,
too. Three cheers for both of us! Let everybody

| drink.”’

“Our Post-office System” evoked the appended
speech from our new postmaster, Mr. Ribb:

“Gentlemen, I realize my posish. Post-office great
thinge—great responsibility. Want ye all to sign
bonds. Dead gone on politics. Always want gover’-
ment office. Got it. *Rah for our side! Less drink
to our health.” eas.

The reception broke up sine die, but the party all
lived and are doing well.

Suffering somewhat from a swelled head, I took a
melancholy stroll out to the springs the next day.
The skeleton of a grand fele was there. Seven fish-
poles were quietly leaning against a tree. Various-
sized bottles were strewn around, all empty;
crackers, cheese, dried beef, and paper sacks were
silent remembrauncers of yesterday. As 1 shouldered
my weary fish-pole, I resolved never to attend an-
other open-air reception.

 

 

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NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 23, 1889.
Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FRER.)

 

8months - - + - - 75c.{2 copies: = « -« « « $5.00
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TO CLUB RAISERS,—We are at all times ready and will-
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All letters should be addressed to

STREET & SMITH,
P. 0. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

WHEN THE SCHOOLS COMMENCE,

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

In families where there are children, all the ar-
rangements are made with reference to the time
when the schools begin.

“We must get home from the beach,” says the
mother, “‘before the schools commence.”

“T must do my fall shopping before the schools
commence,” says the children’s maternal guardian,
“for Jane needs new clothes throughout—such a
dreadful hard child on her clothes!—and Jamie must
have a new suit, and there are shoes to get for all of
them. They do wear out shoes so fast!’’

“Tt is strange to me,” growls the fond father, who,
mayhap, has been dabbling in railroad stocks, ‘‘that
these children get through so many shoes! I don’t
understand it! Why, when I was a boy I never had
but two pairs of shoes a year, and the rest of the time
I went barefoot. And I am just as well, and as smart,
to-day, as [should be if I had been kept in new shoes
all the time.”

“Do you want our children to go barefooted ?” asks
the wife,in dismay. ‘‘Because if you do,I don’t! and
you ought to be ashamed to think of sucha thing!
Aud, what is more, such a stingy man never ought
to have got married; and if he had, he never ought
to have had a family—so, there!” :

“For Heaven's sake, Maria, don’t fly off that way !”
says the husband. ‘Nobody expects the children to
go barefooted. I was only telling how I used to do.”

And the check he hands to her is bigger than she
expected, and she goes on her shopping expedition
rejoicing.

When the schools commence breakfast is ready on
time, and all the fresh and blooming faces of the
children are gathered promptly around the board.
No dilly-dallying in bed any more, because there will
be tardy marks against the nameof the delinquent,
and that horrid Tommy Smith will get the prizes
offered by the teacher for prompt scholars.

Such a busy hour as it is when the children are get-
ting started for school! It takes everybody in the
house to get them ready.

Resounding through the house their merry, in-
sistent voices make known their wants, and they
come hot and fast.

“Where’s ny hat? I want my rubbers!’

“There’s a button off my jacket! I can’t find my
handkerchief !”

‘Make Sarah give me my slate!”

“T wantan apple! Where’s my ball?’

“Ma, Sam Jones has got asplendid-new bicycle! I
wish I hud one!”

“Oh, dear, [ ean’t find my knife!”

“Crickey ! it’s almost nine o’clock !”

“Come on, Chris! Here’s Charley Smith coming
down thestreet! Hold on a minute, Charley !”

“Hurry up, mother, and tie my searf! Good-by!
Have seme jam for dinner! Whoop! Hurrah!’

And off they go, anda dead quiet settles on the
house, and the mother sets herself to picking up the
debris they have left behind.

And though she may feel tired and out of patience,
perhaps, she turns her thoughts toward the future,
when these sturdy boys of hers will be men—men fit
to fill any position, she fondly thinks, from the Presi-
dential chair downward; and in fancy she sees them,
with handles to their names, honored among their
fellows—men of wealth and distinction, but still her
boys—always her boys! the boys she cradled on her
breast in their infancy; the boys she got out of
patience with time and again; the boys she has sent
to.school to-day. Goa bless them!

e

SPARE THE CHILDREN.

 

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

“But she is five years old, and don’t know her let-
ters.”

“Wel, good woman,” replied our family doctor,
“your little five-year-old is as blooming as a rose.
Why not Keep her so for a life-time ?”’

My wife was sure she would only be too glad to do
so. But how? The wise old man replied, ‘““By keep-
ing her out of the hot, close school-room just as long
as possible.”

The child never entered a school-house till she was
nine years old. She could read at seven; but how
she learned, no one knows. No effort whatever was
made to teach the child anything from books. Yet
within one year she swiftly traversed all that many
children are compelled to drag themselves over in
drudgery from five to ten years. Nor is sheany more
than ordinarily intellectually endowed. She is, how-
ever, of robust health, of iron nerve, of great vitality.
The physician was correct. Thanks to him, the little
girl is well launched.

Nothing can exceed the unspoken misery of child-
hood sent into the prison of school before its time.
Mute, inglorious suffering. A little fellow of my
acquaintance recently caught sight of a “weeping
willow” as we stopped ata railway station on the Bos-
ton and Maine Railroad. It stood near a blacksniith’s
shop. “Why do they call them weeping willows?”
asked a lady of our party. ‘’Cause they gen’lly grow
near school-houses,” was the lad’s instant reply.

The useless grind, as it seems tothe child, before
any sort of interest is taken in the studies, must ap-
pear to him nothing else but pure cruelty. A tyranny
that he is powerless to resist fastens hii into a seat
—for what? Heis areasonable little creature and
he can see no reason whatever for this imprisonment.
There is no motive whatever. Men toil for a motive.
The ehild of tive or six years can have no motive for
the school toil, except to gratify the unreasonable
parent. Nor can youimpart to him the true motive,
while so young—namely, the necessity of learning.
Do. not do it, good mother. Do not hurry home from
the happy country, the green fields, and the dewy
woods, while yet the city streets are ovens, for the
sake of “getting little Georgie into school.” Oh,
how exquisitely the whole thing is managed to make
him fairly hate school! Yesterday he was riding in a
hay-cart up at Uncle Eph’s farm in the Catskill
Mountains. Presto! He is home in New York, and
sent to school with the mercury as high as his
dudgeon. Again I say don’t, good mother, at least
with the small chaps.

To make a child love school is impossible, To entice
his interest forth with skillful effort is possible with
almost any child. By eight years old, say, he can be
made aware of the great world into which learning
is the window. Helovesa story by that time. He
wants you to readto him as often as you can find
time these three or four years past. Now tell him to
read to himself. He wants nothing so muchas to
‘be a man like father.” Well, what does his father,
all day at the office? He practices this “hateful
arithmetic,” adding and subtracting, multiplying and
dividing. Youcan’t bea man, my boy, unless you
have whiskers dnd know the multiplication table.
“You are as tall asI am,” says his mother; ‘but I
am a woman, who can add and substract. Will you

VOL. 44—No. 48,

 

allow mother to distance you? You are head and
shoulders above little ‘Tom. Equal him in knowl-
edge; he can speak a piece like an orator.” In short,
' you must and now ean easily touch his self-esteem.
A child who has passed the dirty-hand-don’t-care
period, will respond to such appeals. But there is a
period when every child has the right to dirty hands,
the period of playing in the dirt; it is their heaven-
born right. Itis a shame to rob the boy of it entirely
and attempt to inspire him too soon to be a Bancrott
ora Lineoln. Besides, you will not succeed. And if
you should succeed, your child would bea sort of
unnatural creature, neither infantile nor manly.
Everybody can be enticed, charmed, Ied into a good
course far ketter than driven.

“Why are not the good things all as lovely as the
bad things ?”’ a child once asked me. They are—far
more so. Ignorance is hateful. Knowledge is lovely.
But we are just beginning to proceed on this line in
schooling. Ah, that old st | school-house at the
cross-roads, where many of us begun! Contrast its
hard bench, its small windows, its box-stove, rosy
hot on one side and emitting smoke through a crack
on the other—contrast it with the new elegance of
the modern kindergarten. Think of the mean books,
the learning by rote without a particle of under-
standing—the commingling of big boys and little,
girls and boys indeed; the culture of rudeness by
strength toward weakness; and I remember that
even the pretty, farmers’ girls took on bearish man
ners in the struggle of the promiscuous play-ground.
The world moves. No one thing in this great century
deserves more notice than the emancipation of the
school-child from many of his woes which we fathers
remember.

Yet the forcing process remains. Too young, they
are sent toschool. Hear ine,all ye ambitious parents!
I plead for a little more time to expand the chest, to
stretch the limbs, to preserve and strengthen the
young eyes, to attune the young spirit with a sure
belief that there is such a thing as having a good
jolly time in this toilsome world.

By every sigh that escapes a weary man’s lips, “T
wish I were a child again.” By every golden sky
that glows on woman’s vision as she takes the back-
ward look. By the memory of sleep that came as
soon as we touched the pillow, and a waking as fresh
as anew birth. By theecho of joy that comes even
now as you hear far off the cry “Hi Spy!” and the
shout of the victorin the happy games of the past
that will never come to you again. By the hope of
“Saturday, and no school,” which thrilled you once
as no hope of fortune ever did in later, sterner years.
By sweet llttle friendship, fit for the gods—alas, how
many are broken never to be restored! By all that
childhood even was to the most favored reader of
these lines, [pray you see that yourchild has a happy
childhood. And since school is necessary, see to it
that the school conforms to this purpose of yours.
Let not the teacher be a bandit to rob your child, nor
the room a prison. no one way can you do more
to these Godly ends than by insisting that your little
ones shall not begin prematurely. Give them time.
Remember that time is theirs. It is you who are
hurried, for your time is shortening. A child’s time
is yet long.

 

>-2e

“TLL SEE ABOUT IT.”

BY DAISY EYEBRIGHT,

 

 

 

“Papa! Papa!” cried Herbert Harrison, loudly, as
Mr. Harrison was shutting the front gate, “won’t
you bring me a nice paint-box andabrush? You
know [ love to paint and draw, and the old one is all
used up.”

“T’ll ‘see about it,” hastily replied his papa, as he
hastened to overtake the street car.

“Oh, May!” exclaimed Herbert, as he skipped up
the front steps, cailing to his little sister, who was in
the hall. “Papais going to bring me anew paint-
box and a brush, and I will paint you a dog end a cat,
and lots of pretty things. I can color some of the

pictures in your Chatterbox, if mamma will let me do
it. I know I can make them a great deal prettier
than they are now. I'll make the dogs brown and
white, like old Rover, and the cats mmaltese-color, like
your Minet; and I'll paint the little girls all pink and
white and blue, and dress up the boys just like me.
Won’t it be jolly fun, May?”

And Herbert danced and pranced about so wildly
that his mammacame down stairs to learn what
made her child so joyous. 5

“Oh, mamma, mamma!” screamed both Herbert
and May. ‘What do you think papa is going to buy
us? A paint-box, and we are so happy we have to
dance and sing.”

“Bring you a paint-box ?” said Mrs. Harrison. ‘‘Are
you sure that he will remember it?” for she knew
from long experience that Mr. Harrison’s memory was
rarely to be depended upon, and that he often prom-
ised to do many things which he never thought of
performing.

“Oh, yes!” eried Herbert; “he said, ‘I’ll see about
it,’ and I know he will bring it this evening. and I
shall be at the gate to meet him.”

“Don’t set your heart too much upon the paint-
box,” replied his mamma, ‘‘because_ your father has
many things to occupy his mind, and very likely will
not think of it again. You must learn, my dear, the
maxiin, ‘Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he
shall not be disappointed.’ ”

But Herbert could not be expected to heed this old-
time proverb; and the hours of the day dragged
wearily, while his usual amusements found little
value in his eyes. The express wagon that he used to
load with blocks, and draw up to May’s house—which
he had built of shingles in one corner of the yard—and
to unload with great delight, as barrels of flour and
sugar, or boxes of tea and other provisions, stood
neglected, and he watched both the sun and the
clock on their daily rounds, wondering, impatiently,
if half-past five would ever come.

In the afternoon, his Aunt Carrie called in, and he
related to her, with glistening eyes and rosy cheeks,
his wonderful expectations, saying:

“Just think, Aunt Carrie, papa is going to bring me
a paint-box and a brush, and I am so happy that I
ean hardly wait for them to come. And [ll paint
you a picture to hang in your own room. I’ll paint
dogs and cats, for you love them, you know, or else
I'll paint little children, like May and me. Which
should you like the best?” and Herbert jumped up and
down in the highest glee, and would gladly have
stood upon his head, had not not his mamma ob-
jected seriously to such gymnastics.

Aunt Carrie expressed great sympathy in his joy
at the anticipation of the new treasure, and said:

“Either picture would be charming, Herbert; and
if you and May will bring your hats we will walk
down to a print-shop and buy a print of some little
children, with adog and cat, for you to color for
me.

So the happy children were soon walking down the
village street, skipping with glee at the thought of
the enjoyment they would receive at the print-shop,
and thinking of what pleasures the paint-box had in
store forthem. Thesize of the box, and the numbers
and colors of the paints, were also duly discussed;
and Herbert's ideas of dimensions were found to beso
extravagant, that Aunt Carrie was forced to diminish
them nearly three-quarters. Butshe did not detract
anything from Herbert’s exuberant spirits.

As thestreet-cars passed only once an hour, Herbert
watched their coming most carefully, for he felt cer-
tain that his papa might possibly arrive an hour
or two earlier on account of the importance of his
errand; and when Aunt Carrie had told him that it
was surely a vain hope, and that papa could not
come until the usual hour, he cried:

“Why, Aunt Carrie! I know he will, for when
Uncle Robert came home from Europe he came down
with him at three o’clock, you know, and my paint-
box is quite as important as Uncle Robert’s coming.”

At this sally Aunt Carrie could not help laughing,
which rather discomfited Herbert, for, like many
other children, he did not like to be laughed at, and
it made him quiet for the space of three minutes;
but little May filled up the interlude with expressions
of her joy, and calculations of the wonders which
Herbert would perform with the much-desired paints.

The print-shop offered pleasing attractions for the

the prints were looked over, and the most suitable
ones chosen.

It now lacked but half an hour of the long-ex-
pected time when Mr. Harrison would return from
the city, aud as soon as they arrived at the gate,
Harry said:

“Now auntie, I'll stay here and watéh for that car,
and if you please, you can carry in the pictures and
show them to mamma. You are real good to buy
them, and I'll make them just as pretty asf can. I
guess, though, I’ll practice on some of our torn pic-
ture-books first, so I can do them extra tine. Won’t
grandmother think I am a clever boy to make such
pretty things?”

And he danced delightedly up and down the side-
walk, which greatly amused several passers-by.

So Aunt Carrie, with little May, sought her sister’s
room, and displayed her purchases.

“You are very good, Carrie,’ said her sister, ‘to
take so mnch trouble to please the children, but I
really fear that Herbert will be sadly disappointed,
and cry loudly, and that will displease his papa, you
know. James has a very poor memory, and often
forgets the commissions I give him. The phrase J’tl
see aboutil, means to my ears I'll take no thought of it.
I tried to eonvince Herbert this morning that there
was little hope of his obtaining the paint-box, but he
is of so sanguine a temperament that it produced no
effect upon him.”

“Ah, well,” answered her sister, “perhaps on this
occasion James may remember. He is very fond of
Herbert, and he is such an attractive, handsome
child, that every one notices him. His head is noble,
and his eve most accurate and discriminating. He
selected all these prints, and they were the prettiest
inthe shop. Our little Herbert may he a great
painter one of these days. Stranger things have
happened.”

She was interrupted by hearing Herbert shout:

 

 

 

children, and half an hour soon passed away while }

 

 

ron —
“Papa is coming! papais coming! Isee the car.’ ! a penny on youif you marry that sailor; whereas, if

And looking out of the window, they saw him rush-

ing up the street to meet him. His amma and aunt,

also feeling interested in the paint-box, hastened

lady stairs, while little May was already at thefront
oor,

“Where is my paint-box, papa? Please give me my
paint-box, papa!” cried Herbert, as he grasped his
papa’s hand, and jumped up and down in the excite-
ment of the moment.

“Your paint-box, Herbert!” replied his papa,
‘What do you mean? I haven’t any paint-box.”

“Why, papa!” gasped out Herbert, *tyou promised
to buy me one, and Aunt Carrie has bought me lots
of pictures to paint, and IT haven’t thoughtof anything
else all day long,” and the child burst into tears.

“What a horrid noise that child does make!” ex-
claimed Mr. Harrison. ‘I never promised to bring
him a paint-box.”’

“Oh, yes youdid, papa. You said ‘I’ll see about
it,’ and that is just the same,” sobbed Herbert.

“No, indeed,” replied his papa. “I did not say T
would buy you one; and IT never gave it another
thought.” And Mr. Harrison shrugged his shoulders
at the sound of Herbert’s shrill cries, and with an air
of indifference for his child’s grief, walked out into
the garden at the back of the house, and began to
gather pears from his favorite tree.

Herbert threw himself upon the carpet of the sit-
ting-room, and his whole frame shook with the agony
of his grief, while his cries resounded through the
house. May also added her quota to the noise. In
aoe did their mamma and aunt strive to comfort
thein.

At length, Mr. Harrison returned from the garden,
and said in tones of stern command:

“Stop that crying at once, children !” Then turning
to his wife he said, ‘‘I’d rather be in a bear-garden
than in such a den as this. I come home from the
city, weary and exhausted with my day’s work, and
this is the comforting scene to which I am treated.
It does seem, Mrs. Harrison, asif you could have
better discipline in your family. These children are
enough to make a man insane.” And he caught up
his hat, and going toward the door, cried out:

‘You need not wait tea forme. I shall spend the
evening in more agreeable society.”

Mrs. Harrison's face turned ashy pale, for she knew
too well what society he would seek at the billiard
saloon, and in what a state he would return home
late at night, with his pockets emptied by the amuse-
ments in which he had been engaged. She sighed
heavily as she lifted Herbert from the floor—parting
the matted hair which covered his brow, and kissing
his disfigured cheeks, as she said, in low, coaxing
tones:

“Herbert is not mamma’s darling when he cannot
bear disappointment better than this, and makes
papa leave us because he cannot endure to hear his
screams.”

“But he said he would see about the paint-box,
mamma,” sobbed the stricken child; ‘he said he
would, and I thought it was a promise. Oh! dear,
dear, dear! I have thought so much about it, and
May and I were so happy!”

And again his sobs burst forth, and his whole form
was convulsed with his childish grief.

Meanwhile, Aunt Carrie had coaxed little May up
stairs, and was beguiling her grief with a wonderful
story about a parrot.

It was a hard task for the mother to soothe the
child, whose heart was so sorely grieved at his
father’s thoughtlessness. She, too, had experienced
it early in her marriage life, and had learned not to
expect any little pleasing remembrances or atten-
tions from her husband, and also not to burden him
with any commissions belonging to her household
cares,

In her childhood’s home, her father had never been
unmindful of his duties to wife or children, but was
always desirous of ministering to their comforts and
pleasures. But Mr. Harrison had not been trained
in a similar school, and he never considered it his
duty to burden his mind with the little trifling things
which go so far toward completing the sum of
woman’s happiness. ‘

When the children’s grief had been hushed by
sleep, Aunt Carrie—who had remained to comfort her
sister, but who had most Wisely refrained from criti-
cising her husband’s behavior—requested permission
to purchase the coveted paint-box for Herbert.

At first Mrs. Harrison rather demurred at granting
the request. She feared that Mr. Harrison might ob-
ject toit; but her sister’s arguments finally prevailed,
and she determined to allow her to gratify the child,
even at the risk of his father’s displeasure.

But Aunt Carrie felt sure that Mr. Harrison had
paid so little heed to the mattér, and was so utterly
unconscious of the effect he had produced upon the
child, that he would not consider her act as intended
to rebuke him, but she said:

“Do, dear Mary, tell Robert how injurious it is to
children especially, to partly promise to do some-
thing for them, and then forget it entirely. You
could surely make him understand what unhappiness
such thoughtlessness causes to those he loves and
cherishes.”

Mrs. Harrison listened to her sister’s kindly advice
attentively ; but she knew her husband's disposition
far better than her sister could, and was sure that
any such attempt upon her part would only lead to
a painful scene, for it would anger him, without con-
vincing him that his conduct was not all that a hus-
band’s should be. :

When Herbert received the paint-box his eyes
sparkled with pleasure, and his cheeks reddened
with joy ; yet there was a little sting in its possession.
But he thanked his Aunt Carrie heartily for her kind-
ness, giving her a close embrace and a kiss as her
reward, and, with the box hugged tightly under his
arm, he darted away to find his sister and exhibit his

orize.
; When Mr. Harrison saw it, he said:

“Halloo! where did that come from, Herbert? I
don’t think you deserved to have it, you screamed so
horribly the other night. But your mamma and
aunt are doing their very best to spoil you.”

The color mounted high on Herbert’s brow, but he
made no reply, yet the way. he set his lips tightly to-
gether showed to the observer that his little heart
had not forgotten the chilling touch of disappoint-
ment.

By his friends Mr. Harrison was considered an
agreeable, kindly gentleman. Yet, as we behold him,
he was selfish, unkind, and bad-tempered, and the
amiability of temper and urbanity of manner which
he had always displayed in society was a mere out-
side habiliment, which, like his overcoat, he could
lay aside whenever he entered his own door.

Herbert really possessed considerable talent for
drawing and painting, and colored the prints his
kind aunt had purchased for him, after a little prac-
tice, in the pages of his picture-books,in quite a
creditable manner. Indeed, so much talent did he
display for this pleasing art, that finally his father
was forced to acknowledge his sons’s ability, and
after his education had been duly attended to, he
made painting his profession, and his studio became
one of the most attractive of its kind in-the city.

But among all its beautiful adornments an old,
worn-out painting could be seen in a conspicuous
situation, and when curious eyes were attracted to
its incongruous appearance, the only information
which was afforded was not always satisfactory to
his hearers.

“Only a relic of my childish days,’ he would say.
“A token from a dearly loved aunt, whose encourage-
ment helped me to become a painter.” 4

THE DOUBLE RESCUE,

BY GUY DECKER.

 

 

 

“Well, Annie, what have you decided? Surely by
this you have had time to make up your mind.”

The speaker was a well-dressed, middle-aged man
—astock broker, residing in St. Mark’s Place. The
person he addressed was his niece, Annie, a lovely
young girl of seventeen.

She was, indeed, a beautiful creature, with her
blue eyes, clear complexion, and light chestnut curls
falling in showers down her shoulders, and reaching
far below the waist. Her form was unrivaled in its
elegant proportions, while the step was like that of
a queen. ;

“Yes, uncle,” she answered, pale but firm, “I have
decided.”

“And your decision is——”

“In favor of Harold Morn.”

“What!-the beggarly young salt, who smells so
strongly of bilge-water! Faugh! surely you do not
mean it.’’

“Uncle, I will not hear him insulted, He is noble,
though poor, and some of these days you will ac-
knowledge it.”

“Listen, Annie. I have done the best I could for

you, ever since you were left a wee child in my
charge. Your mother, on her death-bed, conjured
me never to oppose any choice you might make ina
love matter, provided the object was not a rascal.
Now this Harold, ‘beggarly salt’? though he be, I do
not think is a bad man. He is, however, a sloven
and a lazybones; otherwise he would be something
more, at his age, than the mere captain of a mer-
chant vessel. He acknowledged to me that he
hasn't but a few dollars laid up in the bank. Now
there is young Shellback, who is not as old as he by
several years, and yet has two hundred theusand
dollars in cash and lands. What do you think of
that, Annie?’

“T think,” answered Annie. as she reflected on the
young man’s sneaking qualities of character, ‘‘that
I’d sooner have Harold without a dollar than Shell-
back with even a million dollars.”

“Enough !” cried Mr. Brand, her uncle, impatiently.
“As Twas going to say, your mother exacted from
me the promise I have mentioned, and which of
course I shall keep. Nevertheless, I shall not settle

 

you take Shellback——”

“Pray, uncle,” interrupted Annie, civilly, ‘‘do not
mention his name again.”

“T will mention it!” cried the exasperated uncle.
“Shellback is a smart fellow, brimful of courage, be-
sides other good qualities.”

“Courage ?”

“Yes. You take a man who, like him, commenced
on almost nothing and has attained a position, and
you may be sure that he is a man of ‘grit.’”’

Annie smiled, as in her own mind she had not a
high opinion of Shellback’s courage.

Her uncle, provoked by that smile, angrily left the
room,

A week later, Mr. Brand’s affairs rendered neces-
sary a visit So his agents in Europe.

Shellback, hearing that he was going, resolved to
accompany him.

At that period steam vessels were not as plenty as
they are now. The passage was to be made in a
packet ship.

Mr. Brand, thinking that when Annie should see
more of Shellback she might possibly change her
mind, prevailed upon her to accompany him to
Europe, taking care, however, not to mention the
name of the man she detested.

Soon they were aboard, and away went the vessel,
bowling through the Narrows before a chopping
breeze.

Mr. Brand, as was his custom on a voyage, long or
short, kept his cabin for the first two or three days.
When he came on deck an astounding spectacle
greeted him.

Captain Morn stood by the weather-rail, chatting
with Annie, who, delighted with her companion,
looked perfectly charming. Not far off stood Shell-
back, a young man wearing a little, round gray coat
with short tails, tight pants, and a shining beaver
with an enormous rim, according to the then pre-
vailing fashion.

Shellback was biting his nails; he looked vexed.

“What are you doing here?’ thundered Brand,
walking straight up to Morn.

“Oh, how do you do, sir?” said the captain, in his
rough, shaggy coat resembling a young bear, as he
bowed to Brand. Then, turning to his mate, “A pull
on those weather-braces, Mr. Duck.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered Duck, a short, stout fel-
low, wearing a brown sea-jacket, and having enor-
mous bow legs.

“So you command this ship?” said Brand.

“Yes, sir. That will do, Mr. Duck.”

“Well, then,” cried Brand, in a rage, ‘‘all T have to
say is that, had IT known it before, I would not have
taken passage in the vessel.”

“T am sorry, then, you did not know it,” said
Harold, coolly. ‘‘However, you could not have come
aboard a faster ship,” he added, glancing round him
with an air of pride.

Brand turned away scowling, and went below.

“Next time I shall be careful to particularly in-
quire the name of the captain of whatever vessel I
am to take passage in.”

Days passed. Shellback occasionally found an
opportunity to speak to Annie, and was not slow to
improve it. The girl listened to him through mere
civility, and but for the fellow’s conceit, he might
easily have perceived that his absence was always
more agreeable than his company.

“T think I’m making progress,” he said, one day, to
Brand.

“Do you, really, my boy? You must keep it up.
Don’t let that bear of a captain get ahead of you.”

There was, in reality, nothing of the bear about
Harold except his coat, which was made of the skin
of that animal. He was astrong, active, healthy
young fellow, with clear eyes, and a voice that could
make itself heard above the thunder of a hurricane.

One day, when the vessel was within three days’
sail of the coast of Ireland, a terrific gale pounced
upon the good ship, almost without warning. She
just gave one lurch, burying her lee rail, then up
again with a jerk, as her three topgallant-sails, torn
like rags from the yards, were scooped up by the
wind and carried out of sight.

“Steady, there! Mind yourself at the wheel!”
howled Morn, through his teeth.

Then his agile form was seen swinging far up into
the rigging by a rope, an ax in his hand. One blow,
and the main-topsail sheet, which, like a snake, had
wound itself round the mast, threatening to jerk it
Over, was severed in twain.

In obedience to the young man’s orders, the men,
dashing aloft, soon had all sail in except a close-
reefed foresail and a topmast-staysail.

So there was the ship now tearing along, groaning
like a wounded lion, through the mad waters, which
flew up to her very trucks.

In admiration of the sublime scene, Annie stood
near the weather rail. Not far off was Shellback,
clinging to a rope, and also gazing out upon the wild
waters.

“What a terrible storm! and how high the waves
run!” said Annie.

“Yes,” answered Shellback; ‘but, do you know, I
would like no better fun than to be tossing about
upon their white crests, for the sake of a good
swim.”

Annie had heard somewhere that Shellback was an
excellent swimmer. :

“Surely you do not mean that, Mr. Shellback ?’

***Pon honor !"*

— you try, now,” she said, with sly mis-
chief.

“ve taken one bath this morning,’ answered
Shellback, ‘‘and I heard a doctor say that it was not
good to take too many. I wouldn’t therefore care to
do the thing, you know, unless it was absolutely
necessary.”

The vessel was now pitching violently.

“It makes my head dizzy,” said Annie.
will go below.” :

Shellback was about advancing to assist her, when
the ship seemed suddenly carried up to the very
clouds; then, down she came with a long, mad
plunge, that made every timber crack, as if it were
going to part.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Annie, putting a hand to
her brow, as her brain fairly swam.

“Lookout there !” rang in a hoarse scream through
the vessel, when er-r-ash! came a sea—a great
mountainous wall of water, sweeping the vessel fore
and aft. ‘

There was a gurgling scream from Annie, as, lifted
off her feet, her light form was carried away by the
mad waters—far away to leeward.

“My niece! oh, Heaven, my niece!’ screamed
Brand, who had thrust his head through the com-
panion-way, just in time to see the girl disappear.

“A boat! a boat!” cried Shellback, running hither
and thither, like a terrified deer.

“You'll help us man it, won’t ye?’ said an old, one-
eyed tar, as he sprang to the davits.

we this, however, Shellback shrunk away, trem-
bling. :

Past him bounded a tall form.

‘No boat can live in this sea! no use lowering,
Tom !” came the hoarse voice of the captain.

Round his waist he fastened the end of the studding
sail halliards.

“Stand by to haul!” said he, and plunged into the
sea.

For a moment he was invisible, so tremendous was
the rush of mad waters over him; then his dark hair
ro seen away to leeward, contrasting with the

oam.

“Why don’t you go and help him?’ said Brand to
Shellback. ‘You are a good swimmer.”’

“Ah — yes — I — I—can swim; but—but—but—I’m
afraid——”’ ;

“Tll go myself!’ interrupted the uncle, im-
patiently.

Just then there was a loud cheer from the men.

“He has her! he’s got the lass, bless her eyes!”
shouted the one-eyed tar. ‘Now lads, haul!”

The men seized the rope, pulling with a will.
Harold and his burden were thus drawn every mo-
ment nearer.

Suddenly a fearful cirenmstance was noticed.

The rope, every time it flew up, showed that ata
certain point it was defective, two of the strands
having parted. These strands were seen spinning
round and round preparatory to giving way.

Ominous glances were exchanged. Should that
rope part, the two imperiled ones would be certainly
lost!

Mr. Brand clenched his teeth, and groaned in his
agony.

a will go to their assistance,” said he.

The men would not, however, permit this.

“The rope will part before you can reach them,”
said one.

The one-eyed sailor, however, fastening a good,
strong rope—the end of the main sheet—round him,
jumped over to assist his captain.

He was within a foot of him when the dreaded ac-
cident took place.

With a snap the rope parted!

ony never mind!” cried the captain, ‘‘take care
of her!”

He had just time to surrender his precious burden
to the arms of the one-eyed sailor when a sea caught
him and carried him away to leeward.

This wave, however, soon met another, which,
overpowering the first, washed the young captain
back toward the ship.

“Ts she safe?” he screamed, flinging himself half
out of water, as the vessel went booming past.

“Yes; safe aboard!” was answered.

At the same moment every effort was made to save
the captain. Ropes with bowline hitches and sev-
eral hen-coops were thrown toward him.

The ropes, however, fell short of him, and on went
the ship. So that he was soon lost sight of—far
astern in the dark waters!

“Lost! lost!” was wailed through the ship.

The first mate now took command. Annie re-
covered her senses, and asked again and again for
Harold. Brand kept the truth from her until she
was quite well, when he told all, at the same time
declaring his aversion from that moment to Shell-
back, and his admiration of the gallant captain.

The roses taded from Annie’s cheek. She mourned
day after day for her lover. She would have died
but for an’ unexpected circumstance—a meeting,
face to face,in the streets of Liverpool, with the
gallant Harold Morn!

Explanations were that he had clung to a hen-coop,

“T think I

 

had been picked up by a French coaster, taken to
coaceennemy whence he had made his way to Liver-
pool,

Mr. Brand cheerfully gave his niece to Harold,
settling a large sum of money upon her, and declar-
ing that he would have had hermarry him after
his noble conduct had he not been worth a cent.

 

<> ¢

Correspondence,

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

ce Communications addressed to this department will
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers,

 

Alex. B. F., Concord, N. H.—The French spring-clocks
generally go a fortnight, but most people wind them np
weekly. Occasionally English clocks are made to goa
month by adding another wheel; and even a year by
adding two. Clocks have been contrived to wind them-
selves up by the alternate expansion and contraction of

mercury and other fluids under variations of tempera’
ture. Wind-mill clocks might be made still more easily:
the wind winding up a weight occasionally, Water-
clocks have also been made, the water, which is merely
the weight, flowing from a tap into a hollow horizontal
axis, and thence by branches into buckets, which empty
themselves as they pass the lowest point of the circle in
which they move, or flowing directly into buckets, so
emptying themselves; but, it is stated, the stoppage of
the water, and the rusting of any parts made of iron, and
the cost of the water itself always running, destroy all
chances of such things coming into general use. ;

‘B.L.R., Sandusky, Ohio.—As early as 1565 wine was
made from native grapes in Florida. The first vineyard
in the British colonies was planted by the London Com-
pany in Virginia in 1620, and in 1630 French vine-dressers
were imported by them; but the enterprise was not a
success. Wine, to some extent, was made in Virginia in
1647. In 1683 William Penn tried to establish a vineyard
near Phiiadelphia, but did not succeed. A few years
later, Mr. Tasker, of Maryland, and Mr. Antill, of
Shrewsbury, New Jersey, met with moderate success.
The grape was cultivated in Georgia in 1800, and some
time afterward in South Carolina. From that date to the
present wine has been produced with varying success in
various localities in the United States.

Every-Day Scholar, Springfield, Mass.—ist. Powerful
magnifiers of glass were first employed in the seven-
teenth century for scientific investigation. There is

said to be no evidence that lenses were used before that
time for magnifying, except as reading glasses. 2d.
When a magnifying glass is fitted into a tube so that in
looking through it you look through the tube also, it is
called a single microscope. The compound microscope is
made up of two convex lenses in a tube, one of which
is called the object-glass, and the other one the eye-glass.
The object looked at is first magnified by the object-
glass, and this enlarged image is again magnified by the
eye-glass.

Rebecca L., Columbia, N. Y.—Minerva, one of the most
ancient religious conceptions of the Greeks, is said to
have come into being in full armor. She was an opponent

of the savage Mars. She is represented as the patron of
heroism among men, and aided the Greeks in the Trojan
war. She is said to have invented and excelled in every
kind of work proper to women. She was the goddess of
wisdom as well as war, and the protectress of the arts of
peace, She was clothed usually in a sleeveless tunic,
over which was thrown a cloak. She had no feminine
weaknesses and disdained love.

A Clerk, New Orleans.—The disease known as writer’s
cramp is aspasm which affects certain muscles when en-
gaged in the performance of certain acts, but which does
not affect them when employed in acts of a different kind.

The only sensible remedy that we know of is absolute
rest or cessation from the work with which the attack is
associated. It is true that it has been recommended to
use the opposite hand; but this transfer has, it is stated,
been generally followed by an extension of the disease to
the previous well hand, thus aggravating the trouble.
Rest is the only cure we can suggest.

Rob S.—The following recipe is recommended to restrain
perspiration: Water, two ounces; diluted sulphuric acid,
forty drups; compound spirits of lavender, two drams.

 

 

 

 

 

Take a tablespoontul twice a day. After the supply is
exhausted, intermit for a few days, and resume only
when necessary. Thesulphuric acid, if taken constantly,
and in excess, would be injurious. As it is apt to injure
the teeth, it is best taken through a quill.

R. R. W., Newark, N. J.—1st. Any person may insure
his own life or property in favor of any one whom he may
name. 2d. Executors and administrators are usually un-
der a duty to insure the property of the estate. 3d. A
creditor may insure his debtor’s life up to the amount of
the debt, and make it payable to himself, or any person
whom he may name, the debtor thus insured having no
right or control over the policy.

Leonard S. F., Buffalo, N. Y.—A homestead means the
house itself, with the outbuildings connected with it,
and a part of the land, as’ the garden, fields, éte. If the
debtor have more land than he is legally entitled to, the
court in which proceedings to enforce debts against him
are taken, will define the limits of his homestead accord-
ing to the law of the State upon the subject.

J. J. L. and L. 8., Elburn, Iil.—ist. The first regular
series of weekly newspapers was entitled “The Weekly
Newes from Italy, Germanie, &c.” Date, 1622. 2d. The
population of London is 3,832,441; that of New York in
1880 (last United States census), 1,209,561. It is estimated
to be now about 1,600,000. 3d. The Old Testament con-
tains 2,728,100 letters; the New Testament 838,380,

Mis: C. L. B., Brooklyn, N. Y.—“The Female Assist-
ance Society” was organized in 1813; incorporated in
1840. It is for the relief of the sick poor, without refer-
ence to color or nation. The assistance given is in neec-
essary articles. Applicants must be visited by one of
the committee. Apply to Mrs. Dr. A. S. Purdy, 304
Madison avenue.

Z. L. P.., Flushing, N. Y.—The grandee is the highest
rank of Spanish nobility. In former times they claimed
excessive privileges, even to making war upon the king
without incurring the guilt of treason; but these privi-
leges have been gradually restricted, and now amount to
comparatively nothing.

Mrs. M. G., Denver, Col.—A letter addressed to any
medical college in your vicinity will receive attention.
In this city there is a society of which any person may
become amember by the annual payment of $. It is
called the *‘Association for the Advancement of the Medi-
cal Education of Women.”

A. L. T., Richmond, Ind.—Cloves, in medicine, are tonic
and carminative, but are little used except with purga-
tives to prevent nausea and griping, and to relieve tooth-

ache. The oil is obtained by submitting the cloves with
water to repeated distillations,

B. A. M., Nashville, Tenn.- Mauve is a dyeing ma-
terial obtained by the oxidation of aniline, a product of
coal tar. Mr. Perkins, of England, gave it this name.
The colors it gives are a variety of shades of purple, the
blue predominating in some, and red in others.

M. B., Covington, Ky.—Secretary Chase (afterward
Chief-Justice) resigned his seat in Lincoln’s cabinet, June
30, 1864. He was succeeded by William Fessenden, of

Maine. Lincoln was re-nominated for President on June
8, 1864.

L. A., Brooklyn, N. Y.—In Oregon personal property
goes all to husband, if any ; if intestate leaves a wife, she
takes all the personal property, unless there are child-

ren; in this case she takes one half, and the child or
children the other half.

Schoolgirl, Troy, N. Y.—The white-headed eagle is the
emblematic device of the United States of America, is
the badge of the Society of the Cincinnati, and is figured
on our coins.

Farmer, Poughkeepsie.—“Sidney on the Pig” will cost
50 cents. A more elaborate work, by Joseph Harris, on
the same subject, willcost $1.50. It has been recently
revised and enlarged by the author.

H. B. A., Riverhead, N. Y.—‘‘Hail Columbia’ was
written in 1798, by Joseph Hopkinson, of Philadelphia,
after an air entitled “The President’s March,” compesed
in 1789 by a German named Feyles.

Elizabeth, Plainfield. N. J.—The capital of Louisiana is
Baton Rouge. The_person who informed you that it is
not is mistaken. New Orleans has been, but it is not
now the seat of government ef the State named.

L. B. L., Fremont, Ohio.—The salary of the private
Secretary of the President of the United States. Elijah
W. Halford, is $5,000; Assistant Private Secretary, O. L.
Pruden, $2,500.

B. R. G., Providence, R. I.—The name Mauch Chunk is
- Indian origin, and its meaning is said to be Great
ear.

Rk. W. L.—Homeopathy was introduced in the United
States, in 1825, by Hans B. Gram, a native of Boston, but
educated in Copenhagen.

B. F. G., Petersburgh, Va.—The founder of the Oneida
Community, in this State, John H. Noyes, died at Niag-
ara Falls, April 13, 1886, aged 74.

Susan E., Cornwall, N. Y.—Holden’s “Book on Birds”
will cost 25 cents. If yon desire it, write direct to the
NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.

P. J. MceG., White Mills.—The distance from the Bat-
tery to Harlém River is between seven and eight miles.

Cc. M. W., Baltimore, Md.—We can send youa coin book,
with address of dealer, etc., for ten cents.

oo
A PEERLESS PAPER.

One of the most popular literary or story papers
published is the NEW YORK WEEKLY. In fact it
has no peerin the United States, and, unlike many
papers of its character,it is free from ridiculous
wishy-washy literature. Its great corps of writers
is composed of the more eminent, and those whom
the people have, through distinction and reputation,
become acquainted with. To say that that paper
has a circulation ef over 300,000 is but to reiterate
the truth, and shows that it is a general favorite

 

among the people.—Local Miner, Boulder, Colorado. |

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

   

   
  
   
  
   
 

|

 
Pr
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|

 

 

, ww — -_
Ea aN ——a—4 _— ;

Sac te began

 

 

 

 

eo

 

 

 

   

 

AT THE WINDOW.

 

 

BY THEO. D. C. MILLER, M.D.

 

Sweet face at the window,
Looking out at me;

Fair cheeks, like the roses,
Dear as they can be;

Hair as black as midnight;
Eyes so clear and bright,

Like the sky of morning
Bathed in liquid light;

Voice as low and thrilling
As the softest lute,
Like the tender music
Of the sweet. toned flute.
I would count the dimples
One, two, three, again,
On that face so pretty
At the window-pane.

Sweet face at the window,
Gazing on the lawn,

Where the dew-drops sparkle
At the early dawn:

There are no flowers blooming
Half so fair as thee,

With those blue eyes beaming
Love’s soft light on me.

Speak kind words, in whispers,
To my ears alone ;

Let me feel that pleasure
Soon will be mine own.

While I watch thee, darling,
Smile on me again—

Face of wondrous beauty,
At the window-pane,

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Porm

COPYRIGHTED BY STREET & SMITH, 1882.

TRESSILLIAN'S HELR.

By J. F. SMITH,

Author of “Stanfield Hall,” ‘‘Woman and Her
Master,” ‘‘Minnigrey,” etc.

 

 

 

 

(‘“TRESSILLIAN’S HEIR” was commenced last week, }

 

CHAPTER III.
IN THE LEAD MINE.

Although young and well trained to most manly
sports and exercises, Oliver Castar would scarcely
have threaded his way over the sharp, ragged rocks
of the Triandall without the assistance of his com-
panion.

Nature has bestowed on Cornwall several remark-
able monuments of her eecentric skill, among which
are the rocking stones, huge bowlders of many tons
weight, so exquisitely poised that although a dozen
horses would fail to drag them down, the finger of a
child may cause them to move.

It was before one of these that the two fugitives
paused to draw breath for the first time since their
flight from the cottage of Lena. Although the dis-
tance did not exceed two miles, the younger one
could scarcely have proceeded farther, being com-
pletely worn out by fatigue.

“Safe at last,” said the old miner.

His companion looked around him. As far as the
clear moonlight enabled him to see, he could perceive
nothing in the shape of shelter, nothing but huge flat
stones lying in irregular strata, jagged rocks covered
with gray lichen, and the giant bowlder which
towered above them all.

“Are we to pass the night here?’ he asked.

“T fear so.” ;

“J wish we had brought our supper with us,”
added the gentleman. “I am eee. as a wolf, not
having broken my fast since daybreak.”

“Tt shall be satisfied,” answered Truben, with.a
smile. “Thatis if you can appease it with plain and
simple fare.”

“With anything,” muttered the gentleman. ‘‘Any-
thing in the shape of food.”

“It is waiting for you even now,” answered Tru-
ben.

His hearer looked around him with an expression
of surprise and iacredulity, as if to ask where?

“Mr, Costar,’ continued the speaker, after a few
moments’ reflection, “I am about to intrust you with
the secret of my life.”

“T hope it is not a long one,” was the mental ejacu-
lation of the gentleman.

“Give me your word of honor as aman and a Chris-
tian not to betray my confidence, and never to re-
turn to Triandall without my permission.

“Return !” repeated the fugitive, in a tone of im-
patience. “‘How in the name of heaven should I find
the way back ?”

“J must have better security than that—your
promise.”

It was given, and the old miner, searching among
the depths of the rocks, drew from one of the recesses
along iron crow-bar and a short wedge-like imple-
ment of the same metal. Pushing the enormous
bowlder which in its normal position rested on the
edge of one of the large flat stones, he inserted the
smaller instrument so a8 to keep the huge mass of
rock firm when rolled back from the lesser one,
which he raised with the assistance of the crow-bar,
cere @ harrow passage descending deep in the
earth.

Voices were heard at a distance.

“Our pursuers are upon us,” observed Oliver.

“We shall be in safety before they can reach this
spot,” replied Truben, as they entered the passage,
and he drew back the iron wedge, releasing the
bowlder, which rolled back to its original place.

“Twelve steps,’ said the miner. ‘‘Wait forme there
till I have secured the entrance to our retreat; a
minute will be sufficient.”

Securing the entrance was effected by asimple yet
very ingenious contrivance. A strong chain attached
to the stone enabled any one in the passage to slide
it inte a groove, drawing it to its old place under the
bowlder; a blow from the crow-bar raised it again,
and the iron wedge kept it firmly in its position.

“You must possess a natural taste for mechanics,”
observed his companion, when the old man explained
the contrivance.

“No invention of mine, sir,’’ was the reply. “It was
the work of the Druids.”

“The Druids!” repeated his hearer, greatly inter-
ested. ‘I thought their temples were invariably
built above ground ?”’

“This is no tem™e; it’s a mine.”

“A mine ?” .

“Yes, a lead mine.”

Truben groped cautiously along the side of the
pomenae till he discovered a large lantern, which he
it, and his companion saw at once why he had been
warned to advance no farther than the twelve steps.
A few paces beyond them yawned a deep abyss about
twenty feet wide, which could only be crossed by a
narrow plank, without railing or guard of any kind.
This plank the old miner drew after them. A second
passage, cut like the first one in the rock, brought
them to a large open space, so lofty that the light
they carried barely enabled them to see the roof.

“Quite a fortress,’ exclaimed Mr. Costar, after
looking around him.

“Ay, ay!” chuckled his guide. “I told you that an
any eres not be able to find you here. Wasn’t I
right?

“Quite. Butthe supper, my good friend, the supper
you promised me.”

Truben placed before him a loaf of bread, a large
piece of dried beef, some apples, and a bottle of ex-
cellent brandy. The cravings of hunger satisfied, the
gentleman caught up the lantern and began to ex-
amine the place.

The miner looked uneasy.

“Remember your promise,” he said.

“Certainly,” replied the fugitive, setting down the
light. ‘I did not suppose you would consider my ex-
amining the place a breach of it.”

“Mr. Costar,” said the miner, ‘‘you were the friend
of poor Oscar Tressillian. I know he trusted you. So
will I. There shall be no half-confidence between us.
You shall examine the mine.”

Lighting a second lantern, they proceeded to ex-
plore what appeared to have been originally a natu-
ral cavern, and considerably enlarged by the extrac-
tion of the ore, principally lead; but an experienced
eye wight have detected a far more valuable deposit
unning like a slender black thread through the
eat not in lumps, but granular, in fact almost like
sand.

ine ee said Oliver, after examining a pinch
of it.”

“Ts it valuable?’

Pf more so than the lead you have been toiling
at.
Truben made no reply.

They next came upon a furnace in the largest of the
passages branching from the body of the mine, where
were also a store of fuel, asupply of provisions, and
a number of bottles filled with acids, quicksilver, and
chemicals,

 

 

The latter Oliver Costar examined rather curiously.

“Well, sir, what do you think of the place?’ de-
manded the old man, when they had returned to the
spot where they had supped.

“Very rich in lead,” was the reply, ‘and plumbago,
or blacklead.”

Truben opened his eyes very wide. With all his im-
perfect knowledge of minerals, he knew that black-
lead was very valuable.

‘And silver,” said Mr. Costar, after a pause.

. The miner gazed at him with astonishment. It had
taken him years to make the discovery, and here
was a stranger who had found it out at a glance.

“But your process of extracting it is very un-
scientific,” continued the speaker. “Half the precious
metal, at least, is lost. Why not confide the secret
to——’"’

‘Never!’ exclaimed the old man, passionately. ‘I

kept it for my poor boy Osear, and will keep it for |

his child. Sir John and Wilfred Tressillian shall
never be the richer for me. [ hope, Mr. Costar,” he
added, “you will keep faith with me.”

“Had I a thought of doing otherwise,” said the
gentleman, “should I have betrayed my knowledge
to you? That were poor policy, methinks. No, old
friend; I owe my safety. possibly my life, to you,
and will not repay the debt by mean ingratitude. I
renew my promise—never, while you live, to hint at
your secret. I shall think the world has dealt hardly
with you if you doubt me after this.”

Truben no longer doubted him—that is to say,
doubted him seriously. A vague uneasiness, per-
haps, was all he felt; nothing more.

The rest of the night was passed by the gentleman
in giving the miner practical instruction how to ex-
tract the precious metal from the lead far more
expeditiously than by the unscientific method he had
hitherto pursued. The old man felt not only recon-
ciled, but almost rejoiced, at having brought him to
the place, visions of wealth greater than he had ever
dreamed of rising to his view, and he smiled joy-
ously, till he recollected that the foster-son for whom
he would have amassed it was in an untimely grave;
then a cloud would pass before his mental sight and
his hand dash aside a tear.

‘‘Wilfred shall never have a sixpence of it,’’ he
muttered to himself. ‘I’d shool him first!”

The sound of a distant cannon which startled the
ears of the speakers in their retreat broke off all
further conversation. Truben started to his feet in
a state of considerable excitement. :

“What means——”

“Hush!” interrupted the old man, placing a large,
bony hand upon his arm. “Listen!”

After an interval of two or three minutes the re-
port was repeated; then, after a similar pause, there
was a third discharge, after which all was silence.

“Only a girl, Mr. Costar,’ observed his companion,
in atone which did not betray half the disappoint-
ment the former anticipated. ‘‘There would have
been five reports had it proved a boy.”

“Wilfred, then, will succeed to the baronetcy and
estates ?’”’ observed the gentieman.

Truben muttered a few words, of which his hearer
could only distinguish one—‘‘Perhaps.”

As the event rendered the presence or absence of
the cousin a matter of perfect indifference to Sir
Jobn Tressillian and his son, Oliver Costar decided
on proceeding at once to the Hall, and the two fugi-
tives quitted their place of concealment cautiously
together.

“You know your way now,” said the miner, point-
ing to the town of Penzance, about a mile distant.
“T had better leave you.”

“A word before you go,” replied his companion.
“Tell me honestly, do you believe that any foul prac-
tice has taken place?” ,

“T trust not,’ replied the old man. ‘In fact, I have
no proof—at least, what you would consider such—
that any foul play was intended; nothing but my
own suspicions.”

The gentleman looked him full in the face; but the
eyes that encountered his were as untroubled as his
own.

 

 

BEFORE THEM YAWNED A DEEP ABYSS, WHICH COULD
ONLY BE CROSSED BY A NARROW PLANK.

“You don’t believe me,’ added the speaker, “and
et Ihave told you the simple truth. At present I

now nothing; but [I shall learn all before the day
is past. Nota word to excite a doubt in the heart of
the young mother.”

“Trust me for that.”

“You can explain your not arriving sooner by say-
ing you lost your way among the hills where you
had wandered while waiting for your baggage to be
landed from the Firefly. It will be no lie, although
possibly there are those at the Hall who may not ex-
actly believe it for reasons of their own, but they
will pretend to believe it just to make things pleas-
ant. I willsee you in the morning.”

“Where ?”

“At Penzance,” replied the old man.
find me on the beach.”

The speakers departed, each taking his separate
way, Truben to his home, and Oliver Costar to the
Tressillian Arms, where he ordered a post-chaise to
take bim to Sir John’s, about three miles distant
from the little fishing town.

Oliver Costar was the only nephew of Peter and
Paul Ledger, the great London bankers, who had
taken charge of him when left an orphan at avery
early age, educated, and finally given him a confi-
dential position in the firm. Peter, the elder uncle,
and father of the widowed Mrs. Tressillian, by rub-
bing elbows with noble lords at the levees, had
gradually. contracted certain aristocratic notions,
which much disgusted Paul and his sister Barbara,
both exceedingly matter-of-fact and oe outspoken
persons, who had secretly settledin their own minds
that Oliver Costar should marry his cousin Marian;
but her father decided otherwise, and by a large
sacrifice of money succeeded in uniting her to the
eldest son and heir of Sir John Tressillian.

If the young bride felt no intense love for her hus-
band,it is certain she entertained no positive aver-
sion to him, for she accepted his hand with little
hesitation. How the marriage might have ulti-
mately turned out it would be useless to speculate,
for fifteen months saw her a widow, and after the
first shock she bore her loss with becoming resigna-
tion. Not so her father, to whom it was a bitter
ert ee ea One hope remained; the child.
All might be well if it proved a boy. How he would
receive the intelligence of the birth of a grand-
daughter remains to be seen. He had not heard the
news as yet.

Oliver Costar had rather liked his cousin, and that
liking might have ripened into love had not his uncle
contrived to prevent their meeting, except on such
family reunions when it would have been as im-
politic as difficult to exclude him.

To Marian, Oliver had never hinted a word of his
feelings, and twice during her brief wedded life he
had been a visitor at Cornwall.

It would be difficult to analyze his thoughts as the
chaise conveyed him to Tilney Hall. At starting the
expression of his handsome countenance had been
serious, but once or twice a sinile broke over it.

Tilney Hall steod upon a gentle elevation in an
extensive park, well wooded, abounding in deer and
game, apd presented a noble massive front to the
visitor as he drove up the stately avenue of oaks,
beneath whose shade more than half a dozen genera-
tions of Tressillians had walked and rode,

As Oliver Costar alighted from the chaise, a young
man, about his own age, his gun upon his arm, and
followed by a brace of pointers, quitted the house,
stepping proudly, with a self-satisfied air. It was the
young Squire Wilfred, now peer to the baronetcy and
the wide domain around.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he exclaimed,
Sere a hand to the visitor. “When did you
arrive ?”’

“T landed yesterday from the Firefly.”

“And not put in an appearance before !”

“Lost my way in the hills where I wandered while
waiting for my baggage; but foran old miner who
took compassion on me I should have fared badly.

“Likely enough,” observed Wilfred, laughingly.
“They are inhabited by a rough set. Even I, who am

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,

“You will

 

v : s
well known to them, rarely venture among them

unattended. You have heard the news, I presu:e ?”

Oliver nodded in the affirmative.

“A girl,” continued the speaker.

“So they tell me. It will be a sad disappointment
to her father.”

‘‘He wished for a boy, naturally enough,” observed
Wilfred. “I did not, and [ can’t act the hypocrite by
saying that I did. Look around you, Costar. I was
born in that old mansion, know every wood, valley,
stream, and rock on the broad domain around it,
played under the’ trees in childhood, fished in the
| brooks, shot over the lands. Do you wonder that I
love them ?”

“Tt seeins but natural,” was the reply.

“T thought you would judge me rightly.” resumed
| the heir. “Your cousin’s sorrow is my joy, and yet
| from my soul I pity her.”

“T do not think it will break her heart,” replied
Oliver, with asmile. “She has no ambition, is of a

 

 

 

 

 

“YOUR COUSIN’S SORROW IS MY JOY,” RESUMED THE
HEIR, ‘‘AND YET FROM MY SOUL I PITY HER.”

loving, gentle, domestic nature, and a daughter may
coutribute to her happiness more largely than a son
might have done.”

“TI trust it may prove so,” said Wilfred Tressillian.
“My father is from home, but you know the way of
the Hall. The housekeeper willshow you to your
rooms. I would do thehonors myself but my father
will be expecting me.”

With great apparent cordiality the speakers shook
hands and separated.

“Dissembler,”’ muttered Wilfred, as he directed his
steps toward the wood, “but [can defy him now—
nothing to fear—absolutely nothing.”

“Trickster,” thought Oliver, ‘you have not blinded
me by your pretended frankness, yet I shall keep an
eye upon you.” .

CHAPTER IV.
AT TILNEY HALL.

The apartment into which Oliver Costar was
shown, while the servant went to announce his ar-
rival to his aunt, had formerly been used as @ morn-
ing-room by the late Lady Tressillian. It was spa-
cious, but gloomy, being lit only by a large bay-win-
dow, over whose panes the ivy and clematis had
spread their foliage sufficiently thick to intercept
more than halt the light. Before the fire-place stood
an old-fashioned easy-chair; the carpet was faded,
but soft and delicate to the tread. There were two
antique-looking cabinets mounted with silver, spider-
legged chairs of dark mahogany, and a musical in-
struraent such as our great-grandmothers used to
play upon, a cross breed between a piano and a
spinet.

What chiefly attracted the attention of the visitor
was the portrait of an ancestor of the present bar-
onet, in armor, and very like Sir John; the same
cold, ey eye, which looked as if it could flash
with living fire but did not choose to doso. There
was a smile also on the lips, soft but treacherous.

The original, it is said, redeemed his own lands
from forfeiture by abandoning the cause of the un-
fortunate Duke of Monmouth, whom he had incited
to make his rash attempt only to betray him to his
relentless uncle.

“A bad race,’ muttered Oliver to himself.
was the only true man among them.”

The entrance of his aunt cut short his reflections.

“Oscar

uncertain age over which the shadow of youth still
lingers.

you are come! I feel safe now.”
easy-chair.
aced you here ?”’

drawn sigh of relief, as if a great weight had been
suddenly removed from her mind.
“Has Sir John at

 

courtesy to me, but his courtesy freezes me. Polished
as the steel of arazor, I am sure he looks as sharp
as one. This gloomy old house—people call it grand ;
I consider it comfortless—oppresses me. I want to
get away. Why did my brother permit Marian to
marry into such a family 2?

nervous, filled with strange fancies; then I had such
frightful dreams, and so—so I wrote to you to come
and take care of me.”

Her hearer could scarcely suppress a smile. He
had expected to listen to a tale of dark conspiracy,

stantial fancies. Still, itstruck him as rather strange
that the old miner should have entertained the same.
The attempt against his own liberty, possibly his
life, he could not doubt.

‘‘And how is Marian ?” he asked, willing to change

the current of her thoughts.
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“MY DEAR!” SHE EXCLAIMED, “I AM SO GLAD THAT
YOU ARE COME, I FEEL SAFE NOW.”

“Well—wonderfully well, considering; and so taken
up with her baby that she can’t endure it a single
instant from her sight.”

“Like its father or its mother?’ inquired the
nephew, in atone of assumed indifference, although
he really felt anxious for the reply.

“Babies are very much alike,” observed the old
maid, musingly. ‘I never coufd see any difference
between them. It has great black eyes, like its poor
father—your cousin’s, you are aware, are blue. The
nose is something like your Uncle Paul’s.”

“Were you with my cousin in her trouble?’ asked
the nephew, hesitatingly, for he did not know
whether his relative would approve of such close
questioning.

“Of course I was,” answered Aunt Barbara. ‘‘Never
quitted her day ornight. Slept on the sofa in her
chamber. Poor child! she had no mother near her,
but I did my best to comfort her.”

 

 

Miss Barbara Ledger was a delicate-looking wo- |
man, rather under the middle height, and of that)
‘‘My dear, dear!” she exclaimed, ‘‘I am so glad that

“Safe!” repeated her nephew, leading her to an
“What danger can possibly have men- |

“I don’t know,” sobbed the lady, giving a long-

“No, no! nothing of the kind. He has been all :

As the time approached |

TOR RRO Wines © Snee to Dene toartully | Sir John will care little for his granddaughter, whose

foul practices; but nothing of the kind; merely a)
nervous woman’s vague apprehensions and unsub- |

 

 

“T am certain you did,” exclaimed the young wan,

kissing her.

“Then you are not angry with me?’

“Angry with you! For what ?’

“Sending that foolish letter to you at Bordeaux.”

“Not if it had brought me from the antipodes,”
answered the nephew. “You know I would give my
life if necessary to repay your goodness to your
sister’s son.”

“Don’t, Oliver! not another word, my dear boy. I
have done something, perhaps, but not all to atone for
your grandfather’s harshness to your poormother. I
believe he repented of it in his last moments, but his
will was made, and it was too late. ButI have not
told you all my folly yet. I wrote to Paul three days
ago, I don’t know what, but I believe it was a dread-
ful letter, telling him that I did not feel safe here.”

“Safe, aunt?”

“Yes. Very absurd, was it not?
wretched.”

“But what made you think so ?”

“The gloominess of the place, I suppose, and that
terrible nurse, old Nan, who was always wishing the
child might prove a girl. Sir John always spoke and
acted like a gentleman, so did Wilfred.”

Her hearer came to the conclusion that if any foul
practice had been carried out the speaker did not
suspect it, and but for the adventure on the hills, he
would have discarded every doubt upon the subject.

“Tmustleave you now,” said the old maid. ‘Marian
will wonder at my absence. I shall tell her of your
ae and ask Boctor Marden when you can see

er.

“Only one word, dear aunt, before you go. What
kind of person is the doctor?’

“One of the gentlest, and most skillful of his pro-
fession. He saw how excited [ was and made me
ai a composing draught. I slept so sweetly after
i

But I was so

‘Slept sweetly after it,’ murmured Oliver Costar, to
himself, as soon as he was alone. ‘I-don’t know
what to make of it. Perhaps the old miner can en-
lighten me in the morning.”

In the evening he dined with the baronet and his
son, now the undoubted heir to the title and estates.
The latter he knew to be heavily mortgaged to his
uncle, Paul. The longer he refiected on all the cir-
cumstances the more he felt bewildered, as they were
sufficient to puzzle a wiser head than his. The next
day he met Truben on the sands by appointment.

“Well, Mr. Costar,” said the latter, extending his
hand, frankly, “it seems we took a great deal of un-
~ gan trouble last night, for, after all, it was a
girl.

His hearer looked at the speaker earnestly, but his
features betrayed no emotion, neither did his eyes
shift beneath his gaze.

“And was the danger equally unreal?” he asked.

“No,” answered the miner, ‘“‘conspiracy or no con-
spiracy, motive or no motive, the Tressillians, father
and son, would have prevented your arrival at the
Hall last night at any sacrifice. You recollect the
poor girl in whose cottage we found refuge?”

“Perfectly.”

“Her brother was murdered in defending her honor
against one of the villains set upon our track.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed the gentleman.

‘He was her only support.”

Oliver took out his purse.

“No money, sir,’ continued the speaker. “TI loved
the poor boy like a son, and will take charge of Lena.
Possibly you may be able to serve her some other
way.’

“You may command me in anyway.”

“Thank you, sir. For the present she will remain
with me. I don’t think the assassin will venture to
seek her at my cottage.”

“You know him?’

Truben shook his head.

‘“‘He was disguised,” he said, “in a mask, a long red
beard, and false hair. But God will one day point
him out, and justice claim him. His ways are sure,
and Lena has sworn to be revenged.”

“What can a poor helpless girl do?”

 

      
    
       
             
      
  

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OLIVER IMPARTS HIS SUSPICIONS TO THE LAWYER,

“You don’t know her,” observed the miner, dryly.
“Will Mrs. Oscar Tressillian continue to live at the
Hall, sir?’

“T should say not,’ replied the gentleman. “The
ties between the two families are all but broken by
the death of Oscar Tressillian and the hirth of a girl.

fortune must come from our side of the house.
do you ask ?”’

“For a simple reason,” said Truben. ‘Your inter-
cession might induce your cousin to take Lena into
her service. It would be a more fitting protection
than I can offer. The world is not too charitable, and
will talk.”

T will do my best, Truben—I will do my best.”

On his way back to the Hall, the speaker concluded
to keep any lurking suspicion of foul play a secret in
his own breast. That a conspiracy to change the
children, had it proved a boy, existed, he entertained
no doubt; the adventure on the hills proved it. Had
it been carried out? That was the question that
haunted him. The old miner evidently thought that
it had not.

During the day his Uncle Paul arrived at Tilney
Hall, accompanied by his lawyer, Nicholas Text—
both rather remarkable-looking persons, but in a dif-
ferent way. The wealthy banker was an active,
snart little man, who had never liked the marriage
of his niece into the family of Sir John, and, had she
expressed any reluctance to the match, would have
sustained her in opposition to her father.

His traveling companion presented a marked con-
trast, both in person and manner, being a tall, thin,
sallow man, his complexion yellow as the parchments
packed away in the tin cases of his office, and chary
of his words, even when paid for them. In his pro-
fession, Nicholas Text for many years had been highly
esteemed,

“Well, Oliver,” said his uncle, ‘glad to see you—
although you have quitted Bordeaux on a fool’s
errand.”

He had made up his mind to rate him soundly for
deserting his post, but the bright smile, the affec-
tionate grasp of his nephew, disarmed him.

“Well, well,” continued Paul, “it might have been
worse. I know Bab wrote for you, as she did to me.
But Bab is a foolish woman. Such unbusiness-like
letters! Could not make head nor tail of them.”

“She is a dear, good, affectionate aunt,” replied the
young man, warmly, ‘and I won’t hear her disrespect-
fully spoken of even by you.”

“Listen to the puppy, Text!” said the banker. ‘As
if I had not a right to say what I please of my own
sister !’’

“T hear him,” answered the lawyer. ‘Who is he?’

“Bless me!” exclaimed Paul. ‘Have I never intro-
duced mys nephew, Oliver Costar, to you? Why, you
must have seen him in your calls in Lombard street.”

“Possibly,” observed the man of law. ‘Did you say
his name was Costar ?”

“Certainly I did—Oliver Costar.”

?

“Ah!

Why

‘What do you mean by ‘Ah’?
against him ?”’

“No,” replied the lawyer, emphatically. ‘‘And now
ask me no more questions. My opinions are gen-
erally paid for.”

“No man better able to vouch for that fact than my-
self,” said Paul Ledger; ‘‘but I must confess they are
worth the money.”

At dinner Sir John Tressillian met his guests, and
did not seem surprised at the banker bringing his
solicitor down with him, for he had previously given
him notice of his intention to pay off the mortgages
on the estate, which the death of his cousin, Lord
Alster, enabled him to do,

There was much courtesy, if very little cordiality,
during the repast, and all felt relieved when it was
over. Oliver and Wilfred adjourned to the billiard-
room; the baronet, the mortgagee, and his lawyer,
to the library, where it is searcely necessary to inyite
our readers to follow them. We shall merely add,
that it was arranged Sir John should pay off the in-
cumbrance on his approaching visit to London.

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

Anything to say

 

 

 

The day before his uncle’s departure from the
Hall, Oliver resolved to make a clean breast of it,
and having with some difficulty persuaded him to
take a walk with him in the park, he related his
meeting with Mark and Truben, and the adventures
in the hills that followed.

“The rascals!’ exclaimed the astonished banker.
“Why, itis a clear case of felony—at least in inten-
tion, and who knows whether it has been carried out
or not.”’

“T do not believe it has.”

“Pooh! You know nothing of the world.”

“My aunt says the child is very like poor Oscar.”

‘What does she know about babies?’ replied Paul,
tartly. “I wish Text was here. His opinion would
be worth something now. Never heard of such a
thing! Why, itis worse than forgery! A bad bill is
nothing to it. I must return to the Hall and see Sir
John. His title won’t frighten me.”

“Do nothing rashly, my dear sir,” said Oliver, half
repenting of his confidence. ‘‘Recollect there are
not the slightest proofs, and that probabilities are
against it. Here comes your friend,” he added, point-
ing tothe gaunt figure of the lawyer emerging ata
distance from the wood. ‘Hear at least what he
says.

Mr. Text listened to the tale the speaker repeated
without expressing surprise or interrupting him by
a Single question till he had finished.

‘Have you told me all?” he asked.

“All,” repeated Oliver, with a mental reservation
of the old miner’s secret.

“Tam going up to the Hallto have it out with Sir
John,” observed his client.

“Madness!” said the lawyer.
as to a lawyer, but as a friend.”

Paul Ledger opened his eyes exceedingly wide. An
earthquake could scarcely have astonished him more
than such an offer from the speaker.

‘What,’ continued the latter, ‘is the name of the
miner you speak of ?”’

“Truben.”

A momentary expression of surprise rested for an
instant on the features of the inquirer.

“And his character ?”

“Frank and honest,’ answered Oliver, unhesi-
tatingly. ‘I have proved and know him. Nothing
can shake my faith in that respect. That he is at-
tached to the Tressillians there can be no doubt,
especially to the memory of Oscar, whom his wife
loved. The old man still mourns for him as fora
son.”

“Mr. Ledger,” said Nicholas Text, ‘‘we must re-
main at the Hall at least two days longer. I forbid
you by word or look to hint your suspicions—for at
present they are nothing more—to your host.”

“T will try,” answered Paul, submissively; “but it
will be a hard task.”

“Pooh! Look on the affair as coolly as you would
on a forged bill presented for discount, and it will be
easy enough. Nota lifting of the eyebrow or sign of
suspicion till you have obtained the proof.”

“And then ?”

“Send the guilty ones to prison,” answered the
lawyer, quietly.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THe COUNTY FAIR.

By NEIL BURGESS.

“Leave it to me, net

 

(“THE COUNTY FAIR” was commenced in No. 46. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

CHAPTER IV.
IN THE TOILS.

There are worse neighborhoods in New York city,
perhaps, than Hester street, but there are portions
of Hester street that will hold their own with the
worst.

It was in a foul-smelling room in one of these
places, about two weeks after the county fair at Bur-
lington, that a number of youths were sitting, play-
ing cards, telling vile stories, and relating experi-
ences of successful crime.

The heart might grow sick and the blood curdle at
the stories circulating in that assemblage of boys,
not the oldest of whom was yet sixteen, but there
could be little doubt of the substantial truthfulness
of what was related.

A black bottle and a broken tumbler stood on the
rickety table about which the boys were congregated,
and as one of the most depraved-looking of the lads
finished the story ofa particularly neat piece of
sneak thievery, he poured out a glass of the liquor
from the bottle and tossed it off with the most ap-
proved air, smacking his lips after it with an expres-
sion of satisfaction, which required no little courage,
since the stuff fairly burned his throat as it went
down.

“Here Tim,” he cried, with a dreadful oath, as he
clapped the glass back on the table, “yez ain’t
tetehed a drop o’ the bug juice yet. Swally some
caer now, or I’ll ram the bottle down yer little
throat.”

The other boys laughed hilariously at this and
turned to where a lad, certainly not more than ten
years of age, sat with pale countenance and sleepy
eyes. It was no other than Tom Greenaway, now
known as Tim the Tanner, which latter name had
been bestowed upon him by Conkey Bill, who was in
fact the last speaker.

“T don’t want none,” said Tim, as he may as well
be called.

“He’s sick from the tobaccy,” cried one of the lads,
jeeringly, at the same time puffing some in the poor
boy’s face.

“No, I ain’t,’ said Tim, with a ghastly attempt at
bravery.

“Then why don’t ye take a swig, like a man?” de-
manded Conkey Bill, who had for some time been
playing the part of mentor to Tim.

Cos I don’t like it, that’s why.”
ae you’re afraid, that’s why,” retorted Conkey
ill. ,

“T ain’t no more afraid than you are,” said Tim,
reaching out his hand for the bettle, and pouring
some liquor out of it with an unsteady hand, amid
the murmured applause of the onlookers.

Urged on by the fear of seeming afraid, and the de-
sire to deserve the plaudits of the boys, he drank
down the vile stuff at the risk of strangling himself.
Having gained his point, Conkey Bid turned his own
and the attention of the others from him by asking
of the oldest bey the story of one of his exploits
which had landed him in jail.

Tim made a brave attempt to follow the story, but
the fumes of the bad tobacco, combining with the
vile stuff he had drank, caused him to feel so badly
that he stole out of the room unobserved. He could
hardly walk straight, but he was less intoxicated
than sick, and he was no sooner in the open air,
of which there was not any too fresh, than he was
obliged to lean against the house to prevent him-
self from falling.

How he wished then that he had never left his
good country bome. But it was too late to think of
that. He had leftit, and he would not go begging
back. That was the way Conkey Bill put itto him,
and it had fastened itself in his mind so firmly, that
no longing for the old farm could dislodge it.

He had intended to take a walk, but he was too
faint for that, and he turned about and crawled up
the stairs of the house to the room occupied by him-
self, in company with and by the grace of Charlie
Porter, who had given him his winning mount at the
fair.

He went up slowly and quietly only because he
was too sick to go any other way, and that is why
he heard the voices of two men talking in the room
he was going to. Hestopped and listened in order
that he might make out who the companion of Por-
ter was; but as he listened he had other cause for
continuing to listen. So imterested was he that he
even forgot his illness, and softly approached the
door and bent his head to the keyhole.

‘“Hadn’t we better go slow, Tom? The blamed fool
may be able to get more from the old woman.”

“T tell ye he can’t. Didn’t he say the old woman
had mortgaged her farm to get this money. Got it
from that feller Tim was so fraid of—Hammerhead,
I think, the name was. The old gal said it was all
she could raise.”

“This makes a thousand now, doesn’t it?’

“Yes; three hundred before and seven hundred
he’s got now.”

“The old gal must want the baby awful bad to blow
in the whole farm for her.”

‘‘Her sister’s baby, it is.”

“Well, if you’re sure he can’t git any more, there’s
no use foolin’ over this lot. We’ll take him to Barney
Riley’s room and hocus him. He’ll never dare to
give the thingaway. He hasn’t looked for the baby
at all, has he?”

‘“‘Nary a look, but he’s sent a whole pile o’ stuff to
the old gal about what he’s been doin’, so he won't
dare to squeal?”

It wasall clear to Timin a moment. Miss Abby
had commissioned some man to find her sister’s
baby, and had mortgaged her farm to procure the
money. These two men were engaged in robbing
the man.

There was not a moment of hesitation in the mind
of Tim. If it had been his last act he would have
prevented the consummation of the plot he had
heard discussed.

It was evident that he had heard all that was of
consequence, but his head was not clear enough to
enable him to decide on the best step to take to
thwart the scoundrels and save to Miss Abby her
money—perhaps even to open thus the way to his
return to the farm.

He straightened himself up, and was about to turn
to go down stairs, when the door of the reom was

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

.<0i4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

flung open, and the man, Tom, stood on the
threshold. An instant later he had Vim by the col-
lar, and uttering violent oaths, was shaking him as
if he would dislocate his neck.

‘Listenin’, eh? You little whelp!”

It was a critical moment for Tim. He was not
afraid of what Tom might do to him, but he greatly
feared being prevented from doing anything to save
Miss Abby’s money. A sudden inspiration, born of
a ee very close to him at that moment, came to his
aid.

He assumed an expression, which unfortunately he
had seen on the faces of men only too often of late—
that of drunken imbecility, and stammered:
meet lone. Been hav’n’ good time, Conkey

Sill.’

The imitation was vastly better than he would
have been able to effect had it not been for the con-
dition he was in. And, moreover, it had been pre-
arranged between Charlie Porter and Conkey Bill
that the latter was to do his best in the way of Tim’s
corruption, so that Porter was now willing to ac-
cept Tim’s simulated condition for his real one.

‘Leave him alone, Tom; he’s all right,” he laughed.
“Come in and go to bed, Tim. Sleep it off. We'll
make a man of you yet.”

He removed Tom’s hand from Tim’s collar, and
shoved the latter into the room... Then, with another
laugh at the boy’s supposed condition, he went down
stairs. Tom was less credulous, or perhaps more
careful, for after going down a step or two he re-
turned, and taking the key from the lock inside of
the room, inserted it on the outside and turned it.

Tim was locked in.

CHAPTER VY.
TIM DOES HIS BEST.

It was not yet dark, but it was growing dusk, and
Tim knew that he had no time to waste if he hoped
to do anything to save Miss Abby’s money.

This would be just the time for the two men to put
their plan in operation, for Tim had already grown
wise enough in the ways of the wicked to know that
at that time of the day there would be very few per-
sons in the saloon.

He waited only long enough to hear the footsteps
of the men die out in the hall below before he set to
work to free himseif from his confinement. .

A little violence even at his youthful hands would
have effected his object, but he was desirous that no
one should know of his escape, and perhaps thwart it.

Tim did not know of the maxim that ‘‘out of evil
good may come,” but he demonstrated it by recall-
ing some of the stories he had heard from the de-
praved lads down stairs about burglarious exploits,
and out of them he picked an idea to aid him now.

He looked around for something to take the place
ofajimmy, with which to pry open the door. The
rung of a rickety chair offered itself, and he wrenched
it from its place in an instant.

With some difficulty he sharpened one end into a
wedge-shape by means of his pocket-knife. This he
inserted in the crack of the dooras far as it would
go, and then began to pry.

So far fortune was on his side, and his first lesson
in practical burglary was a success; for the door
yielded to the pressure, the bolt came clear of the
catch, and @ pull brought the door inward.

He was quite gleeful over his success, and was pre-
paring for a stealthy run down the stairs, when the
face of Conkey Bill appeared on the staircase.

The face was blank at first, but the blankness made
room for surprise, which in its turn yielded to a
mocking leer, as the knowing youth realized the op-
portuneness of his arrival on the scene of Tim’s first
attempt at house-breaking.

“Well, I’m blowed, if he ain’t done the trick with a
rung!” cried Bill, with a horse-laugh.

Tim, at a loss what to expect from Bill’s appear-
ance, stood on the threshold in an attitude of inde-
cision.

“Got here just in time, didn’t I?” said Bill, with a
jeering langh.

“Wot d’ye mean ?”’

*“T mean ye’ll walk right back inter that room.
See?”

“Wot fer?”

‘Because that’s where ye belong. See?’

“T guess not. Lemme go down, d’ye hear?”

“Oh, I ain’t deef. No ye don’t!” as Tim made a
dash to pass him.

His greater bulk forced Tim back, and presently
the two boys were struggling inside the room, where
Bill had pushed Tim. Tim had had no notion of try-
ing his strength with Bill’s, and at any ordinary time
would have yielded to the latter on the strength of
his reputed prowess; but now, after the first unde-
cided moment, he threw himself into the struggle,
determined to escape if it was a possible thing.

It was easier than he had hoped it would be, for
Bill had not the full use of his strength in conse-
quence of the efforts he had been making, by means
of the black bottle, to prove his manhood. There
was a Short scuffle, during which Bill did what he
could to frighten Tim by uttering a string of start-
_ ling oaths, but Tim had grown used to swearing, and
persisted so successfully that presently his opponent
lay on the floor with his head bleeding from its vio-
lent contact witb the edge of the bed

Then Tim ran off as rapidly as he could, and made
his way easily to the street, where he still did not
feel safe until he had put a block between himself
and the house.

Having turned the corner, he stopped only long
enough to collect his ideas, and then hurried to
where he knew Barney Riley’s saloon to be on the
Bowery. He was not certain what he would do
when he reached there, but he wished to see if the
two men and their victim were in the saloon.

It was now the time of day when the lights were
ablaze, and the great east-side thoroughfare was
erowded, and though the country boy was a little
confused by the glare and bustle, he was glad of it,
for it was an assurance that he would have plenty
of help if there should be need of it. :

He opened the door of the saloon and peered in
The two men were there, as was also their victim.
All three were drinking, and fora moment Tim could
not see the face of the stranger, though he was
already versed enough in city ways to know that he
was from the country. Presently the man turned,
and then Tim recognized his face as familiar, though
he could not remember his name.

What to do next? He softly closed the door and
stepped back for a moment’s reflection. Of course!
It was odd he had not thought of it before. Tell the
whole story to a policeman.

Feeling very much relieved, he kept his eye roving
up and down the street for one of the blue-coated
guardians of the city, and presently espying one ran
to him and began his story at once.

“Say, mister, there’s a man bein’ robbed down here.
Won’t you come an’ save him 2?”

“Where ?’ demanded the policeman, looking at Tim
asif he was of a mind to take him by the collar an@
drag him to jail for speaking to him.

“In Barney Riley’s saloon. Right down here,
please.”

“Ah, what ye givin’ me? Fust thing you know Ill
run youin. See? Goon, now!” and he threatened
Tim with his club.

Tim drew back, but thinking the man merely
doubted his word, repeated in the most earnest man-
ner:

“True an’ honest, they is, mister. The man’s from
upin Vermont, an’ he’s got a lot 0’ money; an’ they’re
goin’ to hocus him an’ stealit. Won’t you come an’
see fer yerself? I know the woman the money be-
longs to. She brought me up, she did. Won’t ye
come?”

“Get out 0’ this, ye little bla’guard, or I’ll run ye in.
Go on, now!’ and he caught Tim by the collar and
hustled him roughly into a side street. “If I see the
likes o’ yes around here agen, I’ll run ye in sure.
See?”

Tim bad not been long enough in the city to under-
stand by all this that Barney Riley had probably
“seen” that policeman. He thought only that the
man would not believe him, and he despaired of per-
suading him to doso.
~ He pretended to go away, and then evading the po-
liceman, ran desperately back to the saloon and tried
to think of some way of saving Miss Abby’s money.
He might have appealed to some of the passers-by,
but a glance into the faces of a few of them as they
hurried along put him out of conceit with that no-
tion.

The poor boy was by this time in a real agony of
mind over the situation. Gratitude for past kindness
more than hope for the future made him anxious to
save Miss Abby’s money, and he almost cried at his
powerlessness. It seemed so unreal, too, with a
street teeming with people, that he should not dare
to ask one to help hii.

He slightly opened the door of the saloon, and
through the erack he perceived that there still stood
the three men, the stranger by this time very much
overcome, but apparently resisting the efforts of the
other two to induce him to sit ata table in the back
part of the place.

The money was evidently not gone yet, and a des-
perate resolution took possession of Tim. He drew
a deep breath, gulped down a lump in his throat,
and ran into the saloon and up to the trio. He
eaught the stranger by the skirt of his coat, and
cried out:

“Look out for your money, mister!
want to steal it!”

The miserable wretch was too drunk to compre-
hend the meaning of the hastily uttered words, but
Tim had no opportunity to say anything more, for
Tom and Charlie Porter turned on him and caught
him between them, Tom immediately eufting and
kicking him with a heartiness that made Tim ery out
with pain.

He struggled, and writhed, and squirmed until he
had freed himself, when he darted for the door and
flew out of it, pursued to the threshold by Tom.
Hurt, frightened, and crying, Tim would not yet
give up the hope of doing something, and took up
his position on the curbstone, wiping his eyes and
wondering if there was one honest man in the great
city.

He was quickly surrounded by a crowd of boys, all

These men

 

to, for at the first sign of a crowd, the same police-
man to whom he had vainly appealed before swooped
down on the group, and with a quick comprehension
of some aggressive act on the part of Tim, made a
dash at him. Tim. with a ery of terror, evaded him
and flew up the street with a wildly beating heart,
turning first one corner and then another, in the
firm belief thatif caught he would be locked up, his
knowledge of the powers of the police being derived
mainly from the exaggerated stories of his recent
associates.

 

CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH TIM MEETS WITH TAGGS.

In utter despair of being able to do anything to
save the money, and filled with the idea of escaping
the policeman, who showed so willing a disposition
to arrest him, Tim ran from street to street, doubling
on himself so often that he finally lost himself.

That, however, was a small matter, for he had no
place to go to now. He would not return to the men
whom he knew very well for scoundrels, and he knew
of no other place.

There was nothing for him to do but wander aim-
lessly about, and this he did—a hopeless, heart-sick
boy, who would have given anything to have been
able to sit once more at the well-filled table of Miss
Abby, with the prospect of a clean, soft bed to
sleep on.

Now there was nothiug before him in the nature of
either eating or a bed, and he was both hungry and
tired, as well as balf sick, He loitered along, resting
himself now and then, and looking into bakers’ win-
dows with such a longing as he had never before
experienced. :

He wandered about in this way until he was so
weary that he could walk no longer. He found him-
self in an open square in which were a number of
benches, the greater number of which were occupied
by dirty or seedy-looking men and boys, most of
whom seemed to be trying to crowd as much rest as
possible into the present.

Tim did not notice the peculiarity of the occupants
of the benches.
a place where he might rest, and with a weary sigh
he dropped upon one of the benches, and, despite the
cold and his hunger, was soon fast asieep.

It seemed to him that he had searcely closed his
eyes when he was roughly roused, He looked
sleepily up to see a policeman looming before him,
and he was dimly conscious that the other occupants
of the benches were moving away.

“Come! Get out o’ here. Can’t sleep here any
longer, you know. Getup!”

“Won't you please let me stay here, mister? I’m
so tired!” pleaded Tim.

“Ah, what’s the matter wid yer? What ye givin’
me? Move on, now!” and as Tim, too stiff to move
readily, did not jump at once, the burly fellow
caught him by the collar and actually tossed him off
the bench.

“Where’ll I go?’ sobbed Tim.

“Got Why don’t you go to the Newsboys’ Lodging
House? It'll only cost yer a nickel fer a bed.”

“T ain’t got a nickel,” said Tim, hopelessly.

“Ye don’t think I’m agoin’ to give ye one, do ye?
raat Go on now!” and he shoved Tim with his
club.

Poor Tim! he saw there was nothing for it but to
find some other shelter or sleeping place for the
night, and, with an utter hopelessness of finding any
such, he limped slowly away. He might have en-
deavored to dodge the policeman had he not noticed
that all the benches were empty, indicating that the
more experienced had completely abandoned them.

He wandered about aimlessly for atime, and then,
in sheer desperation, sought shelter under the stoop
of a house not far from the park he had been driven
from. Some other lads had evidently been driven to
the same haven, for the place was already so full
that his coming was greeted with a sleepy protest.
He paid no attention to it, however, but sank wearily
down, and soon was fast asleep.

He would have slept farinto daylight had he not
been aroused by the rude practical jokes of his fel-
low-occupants, who had awakened, and, with the
instinct of the city gamin, knew him for a stranger.

Tim was wise enough not to attempt to resent their
tricks, and got away from them as soon as possible.
He felt better than when he had lain down, but was
sore and stiff from his fatigue and exposure. He
was hungry, too, and would have given anything he
possessed forea cup of the coffee he could smell as he
passed the cheap restaurants so numerous in the
side streets around the City Hall. :

After a while he fonnd himself on Park Row,
which, even at that early hour, was crowded with
people going to work. In his desolation he stood
watching the crowd as it .poured along, and in his
heart envied the newsboys as they cried their papers
and frolicked with each other as though they knew
no such thing as care.

They were ragged and dirty enough, but they must
be well fed, he thought, or they would not be so
happy. He had yet to learn that they were too ac-
eoereene to hunger to let it interfere with their
play.

Life seemed an unutterably desolate thing to him
then, and with all his native courage he could not
help thinking continually of sister Sally and the
good home he had left in Vermont,and the tears
were very near the surface. He crossed over to the
park, on the benches in which he recognized the
one he had tried to sleep on the previous night, and
sat down, wondering hopelessly what he should do.

While he wondered, looking listlessly around the
while, a little girl passed him, with a basket of
inatches and shoe-strings on her thin arm. He only
noticed her because she was so small and so young.
She seemed perfectly self-reliant, however, and
there was asingular mixture of baby innocence and
precocious knowledge on her pinched face. She did
not seem more than six years old.

Tim watched her as she went along toward the
street, with a sort of curiosity to know how so tiny a
thing could getalong. She had not gone very far be-
fore she was accosted by three boys, who seemed to be
asking her for something out of her basket—a match,
as Tim subsequently learned. She refused it, and
they endeavored to take it by force.

She fought hard for her property. but it would have
gone hard with her had not Tim, with an instinctive
chivalry, jumped from bis seat and ran to her aid. It
was a timely diversion for the little girl, but an un-
fortunate one for Tim. The boys would have gone
out of their way to seek a fight, so, of course, they

joyfully hailed one that came to them. They set on
Tim unanimously, and, while the little girl ran away,
administered to hima thorough beating. He came
out of the fracas with a bleeding nose and a pair of
blackened and swelling eyes.

Having had five minutes of unalloyed joy, the three
boys went about their business of selling papers;
while Tim, sobbing more with rage and mortification
than pain, retired to nurse his wounds on one of the
benches. He had not sat, there long before a shrill
little voice said to him:

“Got it right in de neck, didn’t ye? Dey was tree
to one, anyhow. Yer could ’a licked’em if dey was
yer size. Sellin’ papers ?’

Tim looked up, showing his face for the first time,
whereupon this precocious child exclaimed, sympa-
thetically :

“Dey put a head on yer, didn’t dey—sa-ay ?” ~

Tim stopped sobbing, and looked at her wonder-
ingly, for this infantile ease of manner startled him.
And then, as he still did not answer her, and as
silence seemed abhorrent to her, she went on again:

‘“‘Where’s yer papers? Ain’t sold out, are yer?”

“T hav’n't any papers. I ain’t got nothin’ to do.”

“Got a job?’ she asked, looking over him more
critically. *

“No,” answered Tim, glad of somebody to talk to 0
his troubles, “I ain’t got no job nor nothin’. I ain’t

got no home, and I ain’t had nothin’ to eat sence yes-

terday noon.”’

The little girl looked at him in -silence for several
moments, and by the expression in her large blue
eyes, Tim expected some sympathetic outburst from
her. Instead of that, she finally cocked her wise little
head on one side, and delivered herself in this wise:

“Den why don’t yer get somethin’ to eat? Ifye
ain’t got no money, why don’t yer get some? That’s
what I’d do.”

“How’m I to get any money 2?” demanded Tim, half-
indignantly.

“Get a job, of course.” answered the little creature.
“Carry a bundle for some swell. Go to the ferry an’
lay around for a bloke wid a valise. See? Oh, there
ain't no flies on me!”

“T never thought o’ that,” said Tim, eagerly. “D’ye
think I can do it?”

“What’s de reason yer can’t? I’ve done it.”

“Have ye? Where is the ferry? What ferry? Will
ye show me how to get there ?”

“Come on. What’s yer name 2?”

“Tim—Tim the Tanner, they call me.

“H’m! Where d’ye come from ?”’

“Vermont.”

“Who keeps it?”

“Keeps what?’

“De what-ye-call-it.”

“Vermont?” queried Tim, looking down on the
little thing trudging by his side, asif he could not
comprehend what she meant.
sea ; Where is it? Who keeps it? Saloon, ain’t
i 2?

“No. It’s a State.”

“What's that?”

Tim looked at her with a sort of pity for her igno-
rance, but when he searched his mind for an expla-
nation of what a State is, he found that it was not
there, and go he changed the subject by asking:

“What's your name ?”’

“Ta ges.”

“Tages

“Um. My, but you’ve got a head onyer! Say!
Strike a woman fer a bundle, an’ when yer carryin’
it, give her aracket. Tell her yer ole man kem home
las’ night wid de jim-jams an’ laid ye out.”

“What fer?” :

“What fer?
rocks? Oh, there ain’t no flies on me!”

It seemed a matter of so much pride to the little

anxious to know the meaning of Timn’s ejection from | creature that there were ‘no flies on her,” that Tim
the saloon; but he was wise cnough not to attempt | found himself wishing that he could prove himself

to confide in them, and it would not have availed

equally free of them. It was extremely mortify-

him at all if he had had older persons to tell his story | ing to him to have the baby by his side acting the

All that he saw was that here was:

Why, won’t she come down wid de

part of tutor to his ignorance, and the desire to prove

himself more knowing, imbued him with a new
courage. After all, why should he be down-hearted,
when such a mite as she was so full of resources?
With his courage, something of his old habit returned
to him, and noticing that the basket on his com-
panion’s arm seemed to weigh heavily there, he
offered to carry it for her.

“Oh, I guess not,” she said, with a knowing leer.
“Some other day. There ain’t no flies on me,’ and
she shifted the basket to the arm -farthest from him,
and winked at him.

Tages?’ he demanded, with a grieved air.

“Yer kin jest bet yer sweet life yer wouldn’t,” was
the emphatic response of the knowing Taggs.

Tim was very much hurt at this distrust of him,
but he made no protest against it, and presently,
under the able generalship of the baby, was trudging
along with aheavy bundle by the side of a stout
woman who was going to the elevated railroad
station.

Tages ran along by his side, as full of interest in
the event as if she was to be the gainer by it. The
stout woman noticed her, with her great blue eyes
staring out of her thin, pinched face, and she asked
Tim who she was. Before Tim was able to answer,
the little creature piped up in her shrill treble:

“T’m his sister, missis. He takes care o’ the hull
lot of us, he does. Look at the pair o’ eyes me fader
gave him las’ night, when he kem home wid his skin
full. Me mudder sick in bed, too!’

Tim looked at the tiny liar with a stare of horror;
but Taggs was putting the finishing touch to the
romance by digging into her eyes with a grimy fis?.
Tim was too much out of breath to deny the story,
and the stont woman had thrust a quarter into his
hand and taken the bundle away at the foot of the
station stair before he could even make up his mind
what todo. . f

Tages hardly waited for the woman to be well out
of sight before she gave way to her mirth over the
successful deception. Tim did not altogether like this
way of obtaining money, but luck was with him for
the moment, and before he could say a word the
quick eyes of Taggs had noticed a “swell” carrying a
valise, and had directed his attention to it also. He

jumped to the man’s side, and a second later was
bending under his new load.

Taggs either had no opportunity, or thought it
would be useless to try her arts on this subject, so
Tim received but ten cents for this ‘‘job.” And this
was his last. He tried several times unsuccessfully,
and then told Taggs that he was going to get some-
thing to eat.

She led him to where he could get ‘a stavin” big
plate o’ beans an’.a cup o’ coffee” for ten cents, and
in his gratitude to her he asked her to eat with him,
an invitation she accepted as readily as it was given.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

Workingman Detective
A Grime Against the Poor,

By DONALD /. McKENZIE,
Author of ‘The Wall Street Wonder,” ‘ Under
His Thumb,” “ The Grand Park Sensatioz,”
“The Reporter Detective,” etc.

 

(‘THE WORKINGMAN DETECTIVE” was commenced in
No. 41. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXIII.
ARREST AND FLIGHT.

HE large man flung back his
Q outer coat and displayed a
% policeman’s badge. His face
J#,Was as expressionless as that
y of a sphinx.
“Which?” he asked with a
glance at Fenway.
s ‘Wish we had a document
! for both, while we’re about.
~ 4 it,” said Stockwell. ‘Then we
Is \B wouldn't have to separate 'em
for alittle while. But you're to take him this time. |
Remember that he is a gentleman, and to be treated
with consideration.”
And the private deteetive indicated Mr. Fenway,
whoup tothis moment had stared at his uncere-

monious visitors in speechless wonder. Even now
Bradshaw was the first to recover speech.

“Wait a moment,” he said to the officer, who was
about to arrest the manufacturer. ‘As a friend of
this gentleman I would like to see fair play. What
do you intend to do?’

“We intend——” Stockwell began, but Bradshaw
shut him off with a glanee that might almost have
blighted his speech forever, had he been at all sensi-
tive.

“When a question is put to you, you may answer!”
said the Workingman Detective, in atone as sharp as
his look. op

Stockwell’s eyes twinkled, but he held his peace
while Bradshaw again addressed the policeman.

“Orders to pull the gentleman in,” was the terse
response to his repeated inquiry.

“On what charge ?”

“Conspiring to defraud the Fenway Manufacturing
Company. Warrant right here. Complaint sworn
by Mr. Stockwell and another.”

And the stoical officer produced the document.

“Tf there is a conspiracy it is against me/” Mr.
Fenway exclaimed. :

“Really, you know thisis no time to defend your
ease,” Stockwell put in, with his disagreeable smile.

“Who pays you to bring this charge?’ Bradshaw
demanded, turning upon the private detective.

“There’s a reward, don’t you know?” said Stock-
well, with another insolent display of his large white
teeth.

“A reward for what?”

“You know without my explaining. And when we
detectives work for a reward we have to do very un-
pleasant things sometimes.”

“And treacherous things, if all are like you, Mr.
Fenway was just telling me that he had confidence
in you as a shrewd detective.”

“All the more reason to feel that way now, hasn’t
he? Ha,ha! Yes, Mr. Fenway and I were getting
to be pretty good friends. And he may be certain
| that I have no personal ill-feeling toward him now.
But duty is duty, and money is money. Better finish
this business, Mr. Policeman, before it gets too late.
The gentleman may wish to retire early—down
town!’ sty

“T will go, though of course I can clear myself of
the absurd charge to-morrow,” said the manufac-
turer, with forced composure. “But I must see
oe and explain before I go. I must see her
alone.” , ;

This was said by way of dignified appeal to the
officer. The latter glanced at Stockwell, who nodded
assent.

“But don’t let anything happen,’ he admonished.
oral aa afford to have our pains for nothing—not

at all.’ :

Mr. Fenway passed from the room, followed closely
by the stalwart policeman, who did not allow him to
get more than aeyard in advance. \

Bradshaw followed as far as the hall, with Stock-
well at his side. While the manufacturer and his
captor ascended to Josephine’s apartments, at the
door of which the policeman graciously waited while
Fenway entered, the workingman and. his rival, the
private detective, waited at the foot of the stairs.

“You like to know all that’s going on—thai’s what
you like,” remarked Stockwell, with his twinkling
eyes fixed upon the face of the engineer. ~

“T suppose I have as good a right to be observant
as you,” was the quiet response.

“Yes, yes. Of course. And especially in a case
that comes so close home, as one might say. You’re
rather deep, Mr. Bradshaw, as I believe I have re-
marked before. But it may not help you-any to
stand by this gentleman and desert your fellow-
workmen. You might miss getting Miss Josephine
after all, and Miss Josephine’s father might not turn

out to be so rich as he makes things appear.”

Stockwell spoke in his most affable tones, which
rendered the sting of his taunt the more keen. And
his eyes twinkled all the while with combined ex-
pressions of malice and craftiness. .

It was all Bradshaw could do to resist laying hands
on the man and administering another lesson then
and there. But with the reflection that Stockwell
doubtless wished to arouse him to some act of im-
prudence, the workingman refrained. At the same
time, however, he resolved to lose no opportunity of
checkmating the crafty intentiors of this private de-
tective, whatever they might prove to be.

hall above.

“Hurry up!” he called,in his loud, bass tones.
“Can’t expect a man to wait all night.”

There was an interval of silence, and Stockwell,
like the wary fox he was, suddenly pricked up his

ears.
“We shall have to see to this,’ he remarked, uneasi-
ly. “I didn’t suppose he would let his prisoner lock
a door between them. Not my way of doing busi-
ness-at all.” F ;
Stockwell fidgeted for a minute longer, and then

 

“Yer don’t think I’d take yer basket, der yer,.

Before they could exchange further remarks they |
heard the policeman knocking upon the door in the |

 

 

iz .
ran up the broad staircase with the speed and noise-

lessness of a cat. Bradshaw followed more leisurely,
but with a strange feeling of excitement at his heart.

Did Gerard Fenway really fear the outcome of an
examination in court?) Was he, as so many vaguely
suspected, a virtual accomplice in the mysterious
crime of which he was ostensibly a partial victim ?

The Workingman Detective found it hard to enter-
tain such asuspicion. And yethe knew that equally
strange revelations took place implicating men
whose integrity was as thoroughly attested as was
that of Gerard Fenway.

Perhaps some thought of Josephine served to
quicken Bradshaw’s feelings in the premises. It is
certain that he would not have lingered to see Fen-
way taken trom the house, but fora half-formed pur-
pose of seeing Josephine, and assuring her that he
should permit no injustice to be done her father.

Up the stairs glided Stockwell, and Bradshaw fol-
lowed closely enough to see him as he stooped and
tried to peer in through the keyhole of the door
guarded by the policeman.

“Locked?” he asked, of the policeman, in a whis-
per. f

“T s’pose ’tis,’’ was the grim retort.

“Have you tried to open it?’

“Man’*

“And knocked ?”’

i Ghee Likely they went inaroom beyond
0 talk. ;

“You dolt—you pig-headed son of a simpleton!”
cried Stockwell, in a frenzy of anger and disappoint-
ment. And, not daring to vent his irascibility in so
summary a manner upon the burly officer, he beat
loudly upon the panels of the door.

“Here! Come out! What're you waiting for?’

And then, as no response came, he turned upon
Bradshaw, his lips drawn away from his teeth with
a canine expression of maliciousness.

“Some of your work, I’ll swear!” he exclaimed.

“Wait until you are sure something has happened
before you bring accusations,” the workingman re-
turned.

Stockwell did not remain motionless for an instant.
He returned to the door and began again to pound
upon the panels and shout at the top his voice. Only
a minute elapsed before a frightened feminine voice
spoke within.

7ne detective ceased his attack upon the door, and
cried:

“Why didn’t you answer before? Where’s Fenway ?
If you’ve connived at his escape, it will go hard with
you. Open the door!”

A bolt was shot back, and in another moment
Stockwell had bounded across the threshold, and
was glaring at the terrified countenance of a servant
girl, who retreated as he advancéd, raising her hands
in mute apped

Stockwell seized her wrist in a vise-like grip.

“Where are they, my dear? Tell me, now, won’t
you?” he exclaimed, in a tone that contrasted strong-
ly with his manner, for it was as mildly persuasive
as the latter was threatening.

“T don’t know, sir. You mean Mr. Fenway, sir?
He is not here, sir.”’ ;

“No, of course, not here,’ repeated Stockwell, re.
assuringly. Forhe had learned that to obtain co-
herent answers to questions from ordinary or timid
persons, care must be taken at the outset not to
alarm them.

“But you must have seen him when he went out,
for he passed through this way. You see, I ama
particular friend come a long distance to see him,
and he wouldn’t miss meeting me for a fortune.
Now, a girl with such pretty blue eyes will surely
speak the truth, and tell me where the gentleman
has gone. That’s a dear!”

“He has but just gone, sir. A
carriage——”

“In a carriage?” the detective interrupted.

“Yes, sir.”

“And Miss Josephine with him ?”’

“T—I think so, sir.”

“And it was them I saw driving down the avenue?”

“They turned the next block, sir, just this minute.
I passed the window yonder and saw them, sir.”

“That'll do, girl. Now, you. get out of the way,
will ye? What’re ye spying ’round to see where your
mistress goes for? Hey?’

And Stockwell, having gained what he sought,
rudely pushed the girl toward the stairs.

~

A rear door, sir.

Then he turned to the policeman, and pointed at |

Bradshaw.

“Tt is Ais work!’ he cried. ‘He is in the game.
Put on the darbies. Trust me to make out a ease
against him.” :

The burly officer attempted to obey. But his hand
had no sooner touched the workingman’s arm, than
rt was sent reeling backward under a powerful
low.

Stockwell, beside himself with anger, sprang upon
Bradshaw, with the determination to prevent his
escape. -

As he did so, however, his drawn revolver was
knocked from his hand, and he was thrust uncere-
moniously into a small room adjoining, and the door
closed and bolted upon him. :

Before the stalwart policeman could return to the
attack, the Workingman Detective coolly descended
to the street. . ‘ Piney

CHAPTER XXIV. -
THE FIRE. _

“Now T am in for it!” thought Bradshaw, as he
hurried to the nearest L station, and took the first
train bound down town.

His mind was in a tumult, under the rapid and con-
flicting circumstances. The explanation made by
Gerard Fenway had done more to settle the engi-
neer’s haunting doubts than anything else. And
now, when Bradshaw was more thoroughly convinced
of the manufacturer’s integrity than he had hereto-
fore been, something had occurred to bring back and
increase the shadows of suspicion. Bi? 3

“Fenway and Josephine have both fied, like a brace
of common thieves!” the workingman thought, with
a pang of disappointment. Sapte

No pen could follow the flood of thoughts that ran
through his brain while he sat in the crowded ear,
and rolled swiftly above the busy street. As yet he
could form no plan for immediate procedure, and
could only defer definite action until he could have
time for reflection. ;

Alighting at a station near the Fenway Mills, he
half-involuntarily bent his steps toward the latter.

The hour was after ten o’clock, and the locality
was almost deserted by both vehicles and pedes-
trians.

As Bradshaw neared the mills, he espied a female
figure moving warily toward the street... Her form
and movements seemed familiar to him, aud yet he
did not recognize her until by a sudden maneuver he
succeeded in intercepting her.

“Jess Horton !” he exclaimed, laying a hand firmly
on her arm to prevent her from running away, as she
would undoubtedly have done otherwise.

“My! what a start you gave me!” she returned,
with a frightened backward glance.

Before he could speak again, she raised her hand
to his lips, and quickly said:

“Hush! Don’t give me away to the cops. They’re
watching for me mighty sharp, and I took an awful
risk coming here to-night. Come this way, dear,’
and she drew the mystified workingman into a quiet
passage close by; and there she detained him with
one hand holding tightly to, his arm.

“You haven’t been to see me since I sent you that
message telling you where to find the vagabond,”
she exclaimed. ;

“T did not know you would wish to see me,” he an-
swered, perplexed by the strange intensity displayed
by her voice and manner.

“T told you the cops were watching me, and asked
you to do something for me, if you could. But Isup-
pose all you want of me is the information I may be
wheedled into giving, and that you don’t care a fig
how soon they get me in limbo. That is the way with
all of them——”’ :

“Stop ’ Bradshaw interrupted. ‘You need not
judge me by the others. I thought that you preferred
that I should keep out of your way. Butif you were
really in trouble, you would have found me prompt
to assist you, if I could do so consistently with honor
and justice.”

“Well, well, let itgo. I won’t quarrel with you, be-
cause I guess your heart is pretty soft, after all.”

The strange girl laughed in a quick, nervous way.

“What were you going to tell me?” he asked.

“Ts there anything you wish to know % And have
you money to pay for it?”

“JT will pay you for any information of value on the
subject which you know [ am investigating.”

“That's a dear. But we'll talk about the pay by
and by. I told you the cops were watching me, so I

-daren’t stir on the street—at least, not by daylight.

Do you wish to know what they’re piping for ?”

“Of course.”

“Well. it is that letter business—the letter I wrote,
and which you found in the mill office.”

“How do they know anything about that?”

“You tell how they found out, if you can. I can’t.
But they have got onto the racket, and somebody
has given away my partin it. Now, who do you
suppose did ‘hat ?”

In the gloom Bradshaw could see an angry gleam
in the girl’s eyes, and there was an eager qfiver in
her voice.

“There are only two persons who could give you
Brady are there?” the engineer deliberately ques-
tioned.

“Who are they ?”

ene one who got you to write it, for one.”

‘And I for the other.”

“Exactly. But you wouldn’t tell what you know
to the cops, because you're piping the affair your-
self. I don’t suspect you, rest easy on that score. If
I did think you were that mean—Lord! how quick I
would shoot you!”

“Be calm, Jess,” admonished Bradshaw, for the
strange girl seemed searcely able to restrain her
emotions. That she had been treated with treachery
was plain, and hers was not a nature to quietly sub-
mit to such treatment.

“So they are trying to involve you in the crime?”
the detective added.

“They'll wish they hadn’t, thatis all! I’m not the
chicken to be caught in that way.”

VOL, 44—No. 48,

“Well, what did you wish to tell me 2”

“What Ihave told you already, and one thing more.
That is, that you may see the original of the message
which I copied. When the cops and crooks both get
after me, then I need a friend if Iever do. Not that
I would count on you except for your own interest,
but it happens our interests don’t clash, and we may
help each other,”

Bradshaw could ill-conceal the satisfaction with
which he welcomed the girl’s decision. He had an-
ticipated tedious difficulty in obtaining possession
of the original of the message, and now tg have it
thrown into his very hands, as it were, seemed too
great a piece of good fortune to be true.

‘Where is the writing ?” was his first question.

“At the place where I am hiding. Had TI been sure
of meeting you I would have brought it with me, but
I would not risk losing it for any money.”

“I will go with you directly and get it. There can
be no more important clew in existence than that
message, in the original handwriting, for if it can be
identified, at least one important actor in the scheme
will be discovered. Come, let us lose no time.”

Bradshaw attempted to draw the girl out upon the
street, but she held out, resolutely.

“No, no! not now,” she hastily cried.

“Why not now? It is my way to make stre by
striking at once. Come, and be sure that I will help
you out if you get into trouble.”

“You can’t have the message to-night, for two
reasons. One is, that I sha’n’t go where it is myself,
for fear of being shadowed by the cops; and the
other, ’ve got something else for you to do. What
do you suppose I have been prowling around the
mills for to-night?’

“T intended to ask you to explain.”

“T followed a man here—a man ‘made up’ as a com-
mon tough. And yet he wasn’l a tough; which I
know by his ear-marks. I can pick out the real
article every time, and don’t you forget it.”

“From where did you follow the man ?”

“He came out of an office in Wall street.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No. But I know he is no ‘tough.’ He's one of the
Fenway Company, I'll bet a penny.”

“You followed him here-—and what then ?” pursued

Bradshaw, his interest deepening.
_ “I saw him skulk around the office, and try to get
in. He had some keys,-and after a while unlocked
the door and wentin. Just then one of the big cops
that the company keep patrolling round the mills to
warn off the workmen that might be up to mischief,
comes along, and I skips. Had to, or get pulled. But
the field is open to you, and if you’re bright you will
look after that ‘tough.’ He’s a fraud, and——ha!
Now, what is the racket?’

Amanran past the entrance of the alley where
the twain were talking, and Bradshaw saw him dart
across the street to a fire-alarm box.

The Workingman Detective waited for no more.
With a hasty appointment to meet Jess Horton on
the morrow, he ran out upon the street, and in an-
ae moment was in the court-yard of the Fenway

ills,

As he came in full view of the latter, he hearda
crackling sound, and saw ared tongue of flame flare
from a window in the end of the mill nearest the
office. A red glare from within showed that the fire
had already gained considerable headway, and that
prompt action must be taken to save the mills.

Bradshaw ran up the office steps, tried the door,
opened it, and in another momeut was groping his
way to a hook where he knew akey to the engine-
room always hung. It was his purpose to start the
steam-pump, and if possible save the mills. He
found the key, and turned to carry out his design.

At that moment, however, the deafening report of
a pistol rang out, and the key dropped from his
hand, the fingers of which were momentarily para-
lyzed by the bullet which had grazed them.

Without a moment’s hesitation he wheeled and
sprang toward his unseen assailant.

CHAPTER XXV.
STOCKWELL’S PROFFER.

The prowptness of the engineer’s action probably
saved his life. His foe being much closer than he
supposed, he came so forcibly into collision with
him that both were nearly thrown from their feet.
There sounded, at the same time, another pistol re-
port, and again a bullet whistled harmlessly past the
| ear of the Workingman Detective. :

Bradshaw instantly recovered from the collision,
and again grappled with his assailant. But the lat-
ter was in a most desperate mood. To be caught was
an alternative he was willing to sacrifice even his

| life to avert; and under such desperation, whether
| the struggle be a physical or a mental one, a man
will accomplish that which, under other cireum-
| stances, it would seem useless even to attempt. And
| thus, by a maneuver which succeeded even against
| Bradshaw’s superior strength and prowess, the un-
| known antagonist slipped. from the Workingman
Detective’s grasp and darted from the room.

Had the circumstances been different Bradshaw
would have given pursuit, and would thus undoubt-
edly have overtaken the fugitive, But°he did not
forget, even for a moment, the object that brought ©
him hither. : ;

He ran from the office, and saw the shadowy figure
of his assailant flit around an angle of the building
and quickly A tiem Instead of giving chase, the
engineer hastened to the entrance to the boiler-
room, where his progress was disputed by a police-
man. Valuable moments were lost in convincing
the officer of the honesty of his intent. Then, havin
gained an entrance, he found the fires low, an
barely enough steam to start the pump. -

But he iost no time. He was cool, and perfectly
familiar with everything. He soon had the apparatus
for extinguishing fires, which belonged to the works,
ready for action. And by the time he had done so
help had arrived, hose was coupled on, and before
the fire-engines had arrived Bradshaw had done all
as could be done-to prevent the spread of the

ames.

The steam-pump panted laboriously, and heavy
streams of water flooded the room in the mill to
which the fire was so far confined.

As s00n as everything was in working order below
Bradshaw made his way up a narrow staircase which
one unfamiliar with the mills would have never
thought of finding.

This brought him to a narrow compartment closed
by aniron door. ‘

Within was a tank containing oil, kept for use in
the mills. ‘ a

The heat and smoke from the fire raging close at
hand were here almost suffocatingly dense.

If the flames should reach the oil that part of the
factory at least would be destroyed, and there
would be small chance of saving the adjacent build-
ings. ;

But here once more Bradshaw’s knowledge of the
mechanical arrangement of the mills came in play.

With close-shut mouth and smarting eyes he
plunged into the small dark apartment, and groped
pong He side until his hand came in contact with a

aucet.

This he turned; and instantly the place was filled
by a dense drenching spray of water, which quickly
flooded the room, and trickled down the narrow
staircase in a miniature cascade.

As he emerged from the oil-room Bradshaw noticed
that the floor of the passage leading from it to the
nearest weaving-room was slippery with oil. The
inflammable fluid had been poured or spilled along
the entire length of the passage; and following this
trail. he was led to a heap of waste lying near a
wooden partition. ;

Further examination discovered other similar col-
lections of waste, saturated with oil. It was one of
these which had been lighted, setting fire to the
building, and an attempt had been made to ignite
others, they failing probably through the too great
haste of the incendiary in the fear of discovery.

Bradshaw’s investigations were quickly made, and
the conclusions drawn from them were these:

The fire had been deliberately kindled by some
one desiring to destroy the mills. And the incen-
diary was, moreover, thoroughly familiar with the
interior of the building.

Of course he connected these discoveries with the
man he had encountered in the office a few minutes

 

 

 

ago. Mie

‘Returning to the boiler-room, where the thud, thud
of the powerful steam-pump still sounded, he found
Hofmann and his weak-minded satellite, Raymond,
there, watching the proceedings.

“You, Bradshaw?’ Hofmann exclaimed, in a
brusque tone of surprise. :

“T understand the fire-extingnishing a
ter than a stranger, and thought I would do what I
could,” was the workingman’s quiet response, as he
gave his attention to the powerful little engine.

“You are always faithful, Mr. Bradshaw, whatever
else one may say of you,” said Hofmann, in his most
genial manner.

And when the new president of the mills spoke in
that way, it was not an easy matter to oppose him.
There was a sincerity in his tones at such times which
would make the hearer fain believe his professions
genuine. Perhaps at some time he had been as sin-
cere and honest in action as he was in speech, and
that the latter remained like a relic of a character
which had been in a measure perverted from its
original purity. ;

he manufacturer would have hurried directly out,
had he not been detained by a hand on his arm.

“Stay a moment, Mr. Hofmann,” said Bradshaw.

“Well, sir, what is it ?’’

. “How do you account for this fire?” was the unex-
pected query of the engineer. s

“Tt was the work of a vicious operative, I presume.
fot all imagine that the company has injured

chem.” ;

“Exactly—vicious operative—always doing mis-
chief of some sort,” said Raymond, who echoed every
sentiment of Mr Hofmann. ;

sa by a

aratus bet-

“The mills are locked at night, and
watchman, are they not?” Bradshaw as

“Yes. But the watchman might have been bribed,
or: 3°

“Nonsense, Mr. Hofmann. You suspect nothing of
that sort. The one who started the fire had a key,
and entered through the boiler-room.”

‘How do you know the incendiary had a key, and
came in by this entrance ?’ Hofmann quickly asked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

PAOD. 4h No, 48,

 

Nee of a ay,

EW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

“Because, in his haste, he dropped the key on the
ground, and I found it.” :

“Ah! that is important. But a key might have
been made from au impression taken——”

‘Another improbable explanation, sir, which I can
disprove.”

“Disprove it ?—how ?”’

“When I was engaged as engineer there was only
one key to the boiler-room. Others were needed
sometimes, and I fitted two duplicates myself. One
of the three keys was carried by me until since
the recent trouble, when I left it at the office.”

“Who had the other keys ?” ;

“That is what you ought to find out. I’m not sup-
posed to know. Mr. Jordon, the book-keeper, had
charge of them, and it would not be a difficult matter
to tind out who was in the habit of carrying, or fre-
quently using, one of them.” ‘ ‘

“That is so, really. I’ll have this looked into,
directly, and if the clew you have furnished leads to
the discovery of the culprit, then you shall be re-
membered in a substantial way. You are a faithful
and able young man, Mr. Bradshaw, and I wish you
could see your way clear to let me do something
handsome by you.”

Bradshaw's lip curled with a contempt for Hof-
ee insinuation which he made no effort to con-
ceal. :

“All that sounds very fine, if I didn’t have proof
that you would not do the first real favor I could ask
of you,” said the engineer. , ;

“What do you mean, sir?’

“That you have refused to do a simple act of
justice to my friends and fellow-workmen.” :

“Our ideas of justice differ, Mr. Bradshaw. At any
rate, you needn’t trouble yourself about that matter.
Fe take care of it all without any of your advice or

e red

“We will bear that in mind, Mr. Hofmann. You
will take care of all this business without any of my
help. Don’t think for a moment, however, that your
dismissal will take me out of your way. I have
promised the hands that justice shall be done them,
and I shall never let go until that end is accom-
plished. The crime that has been committed here is
against the poor, and it shall be sifted to the bottom,
if I have to wake it my life work.”

Hofmann had turned away as though to end the in-

~ terview. ‘

At that moment aman ran in to say the fire was
out, and Bradshaw proceeded to stop the steam-
pump, and afterward to wipe off the cylinder and
other parts of the machine. When he next glanced
toward the place where the manufacturer had stood,
he was surprised to see the lank form, twinkling
eyes, and prominent teeth of Stockwell the detective
there instead.

“Well, what do you think of things in general, eh?’
said the intruder, in asly sort of way, the moment
his gaze met that of the engineer.

“T could answer better if I knew what you were
driving at,’’ Bradshaw replied.

“Could you, now? I suppose so. Now, lookee
here! What’s the use of our fighting each other? We
started in wrong; don’t ye think so? We’re both
working: for the same object, and just because we
don’t work in the same way is no reason why we
should quarrel. Now, Bradshaw, lookee here !”

Stockwell came very close to the Workingman De-
tective, and crooked his forefinger, and displayed all
his teeth in asly, peculiarly disagreeable way.

“Tf you have anything to say, out with it,” said
Bradshaw.

“Jess so. Well, in the first place, it belongs to me
to apologize. Iwas a little suspicious against you,
to begin with, but [see I was mistaken. You mean
well, and you’re a smart young man. A mighty
smart young man.”

‘Goon, Mr. Stockwell.”

“Yes, yes. I find that you looked into this busi-
ness better than I thought you had. Now, there are
certain individuals whom it would have paid to put
up that robbery of Fenway. He might have been
passive, or he might not, but there are others it
would benefit. It practically ruined the company,
don’t you see, and so stock could be bought for a
song. That gave certain persons a chance to get a
controlling interest almost as a gift. Now, in tracing
this affair, it is for us to look around in the first place
and find who was benefited, and who lost by it.
You'll undertake to say—now, [’m sure of that—that
this was no ordinary robbery. The money obtained
wasn’t all there was init. Now, the question comes
up, who besides the man that got the checks—and
we're not sure he made fifty dollars out of the job—
who, Lsay, profited by the affair? Letus put our
heads together, Mr. Bradshaw, and ferret this busi-
ness out, without fear or favor to anybody. Come,
now, tell me who, as it strikes you, made the most
out of the robbery ?” fi

‘“‘What are you trying to entrap me into saying?’
Bradshaw quietly demanded.

“Entrap you! Why, nothing was further from

‘That will do, Stockwell. I don’t wish to talk with
you.” .
“Why not? Lord! but you’ve no need to be so
touchy. I was only talking around a bit.”
“I do not like talki g around. I’d rather be talked
at.. If you have anything more to “ go ahead, and
stop beating around the bush,’ was Bradshaw's cool
rejoinder.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ee

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.
Queen Bess;
A Struggle ‘For a Name.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
Author of “ Edrie’s Legacy,” “The Forsaken
Bride,” “ Brownie’s Triumph,” “ Sibyl’s In-
fluence,” ‘** Geoffrey’s Victory,” etc.

[“QUEEN BESS” was commenced in No. 33. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXYV.
KENNETH MEETS WITH A STARTLING ADVENTURE.

Kenneth was on his way, one evening, from his
office to his boarding-place, when he became con-
scious of some confusion behind him. Then he
heard the sound of a fire-gong, and, looking back,
saw a hose-carriage coming rapidly down the street,
and preceding an engine.

It was almost upon him as he turned, and at that
instant a shrill scream rent the air, and he saw a
woman thrown to the ground.

She had been in the act of crossing the street, and,
not being quite quick enough, she had been knocked
down by one of the horses. ‘

Kenneth, ever on the alert to help any one in
trouble, sprang forward with the fleetness of a deer,
grasped the unfortunate creature by her clothing
and dragged her out of the way of the rapidly ad-
vancing fire-engine, which would have crushed her
instantly to death beneath its ponderous wheels.

The woman was a person belonging to the poorer
class, and was perhaps sixty or sixty-tive years of
age. ,

Kenneth was convinced that she was badly in-
jured, in spite of his timely help, for she could not
support herself, and moaned constantly, as if in
great pain.

A crowd began to gather about them, eager curi-
osity mingled with sympathy depicted upon every
face.

Kenneth begged her to tell him where she was
hurt, and what he could do for her. ;

“My back! my back!” she groaned, leaning help-
lessly against him. E ;

“Where do you live?” he asked, anxiously, fearing
she would faint before he could learn where her
friends could be found. ,

She gave him the street and number—a poor but
respectable locality in the city.

“Shall I take you directly home, or would you pre-
fer to go to some hospital, where you can receive
skillful treatment at once ?” he inquired.

“Home! home!” she moaned, and then fell a sense-
less burden into his arms.

“Call a carriage, somebody !” Kenneth commanded,
as he eased the lifeless form to the ground—for she
was of a somewhat portly build—and supported her
head upon his knee.

A hack was soon brought, the woman was care-
fully lifted into it, and Kenneth followed, deter-
ore, to see her safely with her friends before leay-
ng her.

Aidrive of twenty minutes brought them to the
house which she had designated—an humble tene-
ment in the middle of a block—and upon ringing the
bell a woman of about forty made her appearance at
the door. a

The moment she, caught sight of the still figure in
the carriage, she bégan to wring her hands in great
distress.

“Mother! mother!” she cried, with white lips,
“what has happened to her?” ;

Kenneth gave a brief account of the accident, and
begged her to compose herself, or she would not be
able to give the unfortunate woman proper atten-
tion; then, assisted by the coachman, they bore
her into the house and laid her upon her bed, from
which she was never to rise again. *

She had begun to revive, but she was now very
ee did not appear to suffer as she had done
at first.

Kenneth then inquired what physician he should
call to attend her, and her daughter, now composed

| and efficient, named one whom he knew to be skill- 1

ful, both as a surgeon and physician.

He immediately dispatched the coachman for him,
saying that he would remain with the woman until
Dr. Wentworth’s arrival, as he, perhaps, might be of
assistance to him.

An hour later the great man had made his exam-
ination, and announced the extent of the woman’s
injuries.

“Her back was broken, and he could do nothing for
her, except, perhaps, somewhat mitigate her pain.
She might live two weeks, or she was liable to die at
any moment.’

She insisted upon knowing his verdict, and, though
she was very calm when she learned it, a look of

| horror leaped into her eyes, which plainly betrayed

that death was full of terrors for her.

“She will not suffer much,” the doctor said to her
daughter, ‘‘her lower limbs are entirely paralyzed
already, and the remainder of her body will gradu-
ally become like them, until some vital point is
reached, when she will pass away.”

“It is a strange fatality that cuts such people
down,” he remarked to Kenneth, as together they
left the house, after doing everything that could be
done for the poor creature’s comfort. ‘I have
known the woman for years—she is one of the finest
nurses I have ever met—and she was in a perfect con-
dition, physically, before this accident; to all ap-
pearance she was likely to live twenty or even thirty
oe longer; now her days, even her hours are num-

ered.

Kenneth had been greatly shocked by the occur-
rence, while the look in the woman’s eyes, when ap-
prised of ber doom, haunted him continually, for it
told him that she was hot prepared for the solemn
change awaiting her, and he felt a strange yearning
to direct her mind into a more peaceful channel.

He had learned that her name was Morris. She was
a widow, and lived with her maiden daughter, whom
she called “Marthy,’ while they supported them-
selves by doing fine washing and ironing; though it
was whispered among those who knew them best
that the elder woman had a comfortable income from
money which she had saved during her prosperous
days of nursing, and which had been very wisely in-
vested. ;

Kenneth possessed a large heart, and sympathies
as tender as those of a woman, which prompted him
to do many a deed of kindness among the poor; and,
feeling deeply interested in the poor creature whom
he had saved from instant death only to die linger-
ingly, he went every day to the humble home of the
unfortunate woman, to inquire if he could be of ser-
vice in any way, and to leave some little luxury for
the invalid.

Thus Martha Morris came to look for him with
eager interest, and to depend upon his words of com-
fort and cheer in her great trouble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Mother wants to see you,” she said to him, one
evening when he stopped, as usual, to ask after the
sufferer and to leave his basket of fruit and little
bouquet of flowers. ‘‘Wouldit be asking too much
of youto stepin and speak to hera moment? She
talks about you most of the time.”

“Oh, no,” Kenneth answered, cheerfully, “I will
gladly go in if she wishesit,” and, following the
spinster, he soon found himself beside the spotless
bed upon which lay the paralyzed and dying woman.

“‘Mother, here’s the young gentleman, Mr. Keith,
come to see you,’ Miss Martha said, bending over
the drowsing invalid to arouse her.

The woman opened her eyes and looked at Kenneth
~ a moment, then feebly put out her hand toward

im.

Kenneth took it, respectfully, and sat down in the
chair which her daughter placed for him. :

“IT wanted to see you once more,” she said; “your
face looked so good and kind that night when you
risked your life to save mine, I wanted to thank you
for saving me from being killed outright, because it
has given me a—little more time with Marthy and—
and it is so dreadful to die,’’ she concluded, with an
appealing look, as if she felt that he could give her
sume word of comfort.

Kenneth pressed the hand which clung to him, and
made some kind and sympathizing remark, which
quieted her for the time. >

Her mind seemed to be perfectly clear and vigor-
ous, though he could see that she was much more
ene physically, than on the day when she was in-

jured.

He talked with her for half an hour or more, and
then went away, promising, at her earnest solicita-
tion, to come again soon.

Every day after that when he called, she insisted
that he should come in to see her, and always seemed
to be comforted and cheered by his presence, though
the young man was often impressed that there was
something on her mind which she desired to speak of.

He was not mistaken, for one evening, just as he
arosé to go, she burst forth, plaintively :

“Mr. Keith, do you believe there is a hereafter. Is
there really a God and a—judgment, as some people
say, or do we just die and is that the end of us?”

Poor Kenneth! He had never sat by the bedside
of the dying before, and these seemed very hard
questions to him.

What should he say inreply to these timorous in-
quiries? How could he be truthful and yet bring
comfort is this shrinking soul just on the brink of
eternity

When a child in that Christian asylum, he had been
taught of eternal life and the need of preparation for
it; of God as a kind Father and also as a righteous
judge; but how could he tell her of, this and not
bring despair to her already quaking heart?

“Yes, Mrs. Morris,” he said, after a moment of hesi-
tation, while he bent forward and looked into the
poor woman’s troubled, appealing eyes with a strong,
steady smile, and his tones were very kind and gen-
tle, “I do believe in a hereafter, in a ‘Golden City’
with ‘walls of jasper and gates of pearl,’ where there
will be no more pain or sorrow, and where the
‘weary will be at rest.’ I believe in God as the great
Father, who loves the children whom He has cre-
ated, who would not see one of them perish, and
who invites all to come to Him through His Son.”

“But the judgment! the judgment!” she cried, with
a shiver. “Oh, Mr. Keith! that is what I am afraid
of in the hereafter if there is one.”

“We are judged already,” Kenneth replied, with
sweet solemnity. » “Whoever receives the gift of
eternal life through Christ. is saved; whoever rejects
itis condemned already, even while he lives.”

The woman moaned in mental distress.

“T am sure I don’t know why I should talk like this
to you,” she said, in a troubled tone. “I never
thought about such things very much untilnow. I
have always been so strong, so sufficient unto myself
thatit seemed as if I should never need help from
any one. But now the life and vigor have been sud-
denly stricken out of me, and I feel so helpless, I
seem to he looking down into a great abyss so dark.
so unfathomable that I shrink with horror from it. I
wonld do anything to escape from it; what shall I
do?’

Kenneth’s heart was very heavy, and he did not
know what to say to comfort her.

Then, almost involuntarily, he repeated these
words:

“+T am the Light of the world; who so believeth in
Me, even though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”

“Yes, I have heard that text hundreds of times;
but it never made any impression on me,” the invalid
returned, with a weary sigh; ‘‘do you suppose it is
because——”

She broke off suddenly, and lay with such a pained,
hopeless expression on her aged face that Kenneth’s
heart ached for her.

But he did not like to ask her what she meant by
those last words; he waited for her to go onof her
own accord, ;

And she did at last, as if impelled by some power
that was stronger than herself.

“Suppose,” she began, ‘fa person had wronged
others years and years ago—so long ago that it had
grown to seem more like a dream than a reality—
would that wrong have to be set right before the
‘sift? you speak of could be received and the terror
of death pass away ?”

Very gently, but true to his own convictions of
right, Kenneth replied:

“Certainly, dear Mrs. Morris; does not your own
sense of what is just tell you that?”

“Even though those whom you have wronged
know nothing about it? Even though I may not
know where they are—whether they are living or
dead?” the woman pleaded, with a look of agony.

Then, without waiting for him to reply, she con-
tinued, almost wildly: ;

“J have not been a bad woman. Ihave felt that I
was as good as the eee of people. I know that
Tam kind-hearted. I have often sacrificed my own
comfort to do others a kindness; I have been good
to the poor, and nursed the sick with all the faith-
fulness of which I was capable. But once I know I
did a great wrong, thongh I was tempted to it by
another. It has been heavy on my conscience for
many years, and now that I know that I am going to
die, it is always in my mind, sleeping or waking, it is
ever present with me. Must I confess it, Mr. Keith,
even though I know that I can never repair the
wrong?”

Kenneth sat silent and oppressed for a moment.
He did not feel as if he could decide this vital ques-
tion for her, and yet he knew that was the only right
thing for her to do.

At last he said, very gravely: :

“Tama great dealyounger than you, Mrs. Morris,
and I feel very delicate about advising you regard-
ing anything which may have been wrong in your
life. Ican hardly understand why you should have
appealed to me.” i '

“Itis because of the truth and nobility which I
read in your face,” she interposed—“because of your
te sympathy, which I know would judge kindly

or me.”

“But there is your daughter, who loves you de-
wotediy, Who could judge more kindly for you than
she 2?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have Marthy know anything about

-it for the world!” gasped the sick woman, with a
frightened glance toward the outer room, where her
daughter was ironing. ‘It would break her heart to
know that her old mother had ever done such a
wrong.”

“Then there is your physician, who has known you

 

many years. lam sure he could advise you far bet-

 

 

 

ter than I,” Kenneth persisted, shrinking
more from the duty before him.

“No. Dr. Wentworth is a good man, but he is nota
Christian ; he wouldn’t know what to tell me about
this,” persisted the invalid. ‘I will trust ho one but
you. [will be guided by what you tell me.”

“Then, Mrs. Morris,’? Kenneth said, solemnly, ‘‘I
must tell you plainly that [ believe no person who
has knowingly and willfully wronged others can
ever hope for acceptance with God unless that wrong
is set right as far as possible. I infer from what you
have said that those whom you have injured know
nothing of it; that you haye doubts even that they
are living. Still that does not absolve you from
doing your part. You must be willing to make all
the reparation in your power.”

“T knew you would say that,” the woman groaned,
the perspiration standing in great beads upon her
pale forehead, and showing that the battle which
she was fighting with herself was a severe one.

She lay still, with her eyes closed for a few mo-
ments; then she looked up at Kenneth again, a calm
and resolute expression on her face. ‘

“T myself know that I shall go down into the grave
hopeless—eternally remorseful—if [ hold my peace.
Iwill confess mysin. I willease my own conscience
whether any one reaps any benefit from it or not.
Will you write down my confession, Mr. Keith, as I
give it to you?”

“Tl” exclaimed Kenneth, aghast, and shrinking
almost with horror from such an ordeal. ‘Would it
not be better for some notary to do that—especially if
the matter is connected with any legal transac-
tions !’’

*““No— no legal points are involved,” Mrs. Morris an-
swered. “I want to do right, but I do not want the
whole world to know it, for there is no need of that,
and you can do what I wishas wellas any one else.
IfI can keep this from Marthy, and die feeling that
she still loves and respects her old mother, it will be
a comfort to me. -[ will tell you my story, Mr. Keith.
You can write it down, and then I will sign it. I
reckon [ have strength enough left in these old hands
for that. That will be sufficient for all necessary
purposes, and it will be a great favor to me.”

“Upon one condition I will do as you wish,’ Ken-
neth answered, after considering the matter a
moment.

She turned her anxious, inquiring eyes to his.

“What is it ?”’ she asked.

“That you assure me that it involves no—crime,”
he said, in a low tone.

She threw out her hands toward him as if that last
word had smitten her sorely.

“Tt does—it does!” she groaned; ‘but let me tell
you first about it; then, if you think it necessary, I
willsign the paper in the presence of a notary. Do
not refuse me this,’ she pleaded; ‘something has
impelled me to lean upon you in this dark hour of
my extremity. As you are a Christian, and hope to
help me to heaven, I beg that you will doas I wish.”

more and

CHAPTER XXXVI.
NURSE MORRIS’ CONFESSION.

Kenneth would have given a great deal to have
been able to escape this ordeal.

He recoiled with abhorrence from becoming the
recipient of a confession of a criminal nature from
that aged and death-stricken woman. But he could
not turn a deaf ear to that last appeal, and so, with
a grave face and shrinking heart, he said:

“Very well, then; it shall be as you wish. But you
are weary after our long talk; shall I not wait until
to-morrow ?”

“No; Lam sure of no time but the present,’ she
answered, firmly; ‘‘and, now that my mind is made
up, [want to get the matter off my conscience as
soon as possible.”

Kenneth made no reply but drew forth his tablets
and a pencil, and, being conversant with short-hand,
was prepared to take down her confession as rapidly
as she could give it.

“All my life,” Mrs. Morris began, ‘‘until within the
last five years, I have been a professional nurse. I
studied medicine in the Nurses’ Training School of
this city, and have practiced a great deal in connec-
tion with my other business, and, many times, I have
officiated at births and earried patients through a
fever without the aid of a physician. Inthe fall of
18—, I received, one day, a telegram bidding me to
come immediately to F , one of our suburban
towns, if I was at liberty ; if I was not, I was to send
some trustworthy person in my place. I had no
other engagement, and telegraphed back the hour
when I would arrive in F , and, packing a few
necessary articles, I left home at once, reaching my
destination just at nightfall. As soon as I alighted
from the train, a heavily vailed woman came forward
and addressed me by name, and, upon my respond-
ing to her greeting, she told me to follow her.

“Leading the way through the village, she turned
into a lonely road, walking swiftly, and, without
uttering a single word for upward of ten minutes,
she at length stopped before a small but pretty coun-
try cottage.

“She entered noiselessly with a latch-key and led
me directly up stairs, to a roomy chamber where a
young woman, of perhaps nineteen years, lay upon a
bed in great apparent suffering.

“‘*Have you summoned ror physician ? I asked,
turning to the woman who had brought me hither.

“*No; we were expecting Dr. , mentioning
a noted nurse and practicing physician; ‘but she has
met with an accident, and recommended you in her
place,’ the young woman replied.

“She was a very handsome persgn, of twenty-five
years, I should think, proud and stately in her ap-
pearance, and as cold as an iceberg, and while there
was a look of anxiety and care on her face, there
was not a ray of affection or sympathy for the poor
sick girl.

“*T should prefer to have some physician with
me,’ I told her, for I seemed, strangely enough, to
shrink from the responsibility of this particular case,
although usually I was not lacking in confidence in
myself. :

oe Poa said you were perfectly capable of
taking charge of the case, and we both object to hav-
ing a physician. Is it notso, Annie? she asked, ap-
pealing to the patient.

“The young woman on the bed ‘nodded assent, and
T, of course, had nothing more to say, although I was
both puzzled and troubled about the mystery of the
whole affair.

“Before morning a child—a son—was born to her;
but her own life paid the forfeit, for the poor young
thing died a few hours later, without even knowing
that she had become a mother.

“The babe was a fine little fellow, but his aunt—at
least, I supposed the proud young woman was sister
to the other one, though she did not tell me her
name, nor did I ever learn it—searcely gave him a
look or a thought. She did not even appear to be
sorrow-stricken hy the death of the young mother.
She seemed a little frightened and nervous when I
told her that she could not live, but waited upon
her and did whatever I told her to do in a passion-
a mechanical way, as if she had not the slightest

eeling.

“When all was over, she asked me to what I attrib-
uted the fatal termination of the case, and Linformed
her that it was probably caused by Bright’s disease
—I had similar cases, and recognized the symptoms.

“A strange look passed over her face when I told
her this.

“-Then you can honestly say that she died of
Bright's disease of the kidneys” she asked me, with
an eagerness which puzzled me.

“ «Yes, Lreplied; ‘she would doubtless have done
well enough but for that; but I never knew any one
to live through confinement who had it.’

‘““*Well, then, when you fill out the certificate of
her death, you will please state that she died of that
malady, and say nothing about the confinement,’ she
said, imperatively. ;

“T regarded her with astonishment. The case was
growing more and more mysterious.

‘**T cannot do as you wish,’ I answered, ‘for I must
also make out a certificate of the birth.’

“«*You will do nothing of the kind, Mrs. Morris,’
she returned, with a look and in a tone that made my
nerves creep, although I never thought myself a
nervous person, ‘for no one must ever know that a
child was born here to-night.’

“T was so startled at this that at first I could make
her no reply, then I grew indignant, and flatly refused
to be a party to any such secret.

“My refusal did not appear to disturb her; she had

robably expected it at first; but neither did it move

erin the determination to carry her point—she had
the strongest will of any person whom I have ever
met—for she began to bribe me. She offered me, suc-
cessively, one, two, three, four, and five hundred
dollars to do her bidding, and I as persistently re-
fused. Then she boldly made it a thousand; and,
tempted by the large amount, I wavered. I told
myself that the affair was evidently a story of shame
in high life—that the two young women were sisters,
and the elder was trying thus to shield the good
name of the younger, and perhaps a proud family
from disgrace. Everything seemed to point to this
solution of the mystery; their isolation, the fact that
they were utterly alone in the house—for there was
not even a servant to do anything for them—and
their refusal to allow the attendance of a regular
physician. She promised me, that the child should
be well eared for, that not a hair of its head, even,
should be harmed—all she wished was simply to con-
ceal the fact of its birth there, that night, in connec-
tion with herself, and its mother’s death. So I eased
my conscience by telling myself that I was simply
doing as I would. be done by under like circum-
stances, and I yielded, for the amount she had last
named.

“She said 1 must remain with her until after the
body had-been prepared for the grave, and assist the
undertaker, as it was simply impossible for her to do
anything of the kind; then I might return to New
York, though I must solemnly promise never to men-
tion to any one the nature of my errand to F ;

“Having yielded to her in one point, I felt bound to
do so in this, and made no objection. While pre-
paring the poor dead mother for her coffin, I noticed
that there was what ee to be a wedding-ring,
and also a beautiful diamond, on her pretty white
hand. I asked if I should take them off.

«No! Jet them be buried with her! the young

 

woman said, in a sharp, harsh voice, and with a
frown on her white face that made me shiver.

“There was to be a short service at the house, then
the body was to be taken to Greenwood for inter-
ment. The young mother was dressed, with the
utmost care, in a beautiful white robe, with the
choicest flowers all about her; the caskét was very
rich and expensive, and every mark of outward
respect was paid her, and she looked like some lovely
sleeping figure rather than like one dead.

“The casket was not closed until after the conclu-
sion of the service, at which only the clergyman and
his wife, the young woman, the undertaker, and my-
self were present. The momentit was over she went
up stairs and shut herself into her own room.

“A strange temptation came to me then.

“T could not bear to think of those valuable rings
being buried with the dead woman, and, while pre-
tending to fix the lace about her neck and wrists, I
quietly slipped them off her fingers and hid them in
my pocket. The undertaker never noticed that they
were gone, but securely closed the lid and then sent
me to tell the young woman that he was ready to
take the body away.

“She came down and paid him and saw him go
without shedding a single tear, while I thought her
the most heartless person I had ever seen.

“She then told me that I could leave that night if I
wished or wait until the next morning. She gave
me two crisp five hundred dollar notes, besides the
usual amount for my services; and I said I would go
at once. I was anxious to get out of the house,
where there had been so muteh mystery and strange
doings, anc I came back to New York more thana
thousand dollars richer than when I left three days
before; but with a heavy conscience, which I have
carried ever since.

“Now, Mr. Keith, this is my story; that was the
wrong of which I have been guilty. My crime con-
sists in having concealed the birth of a human being
and in having stolen these valuable rings from the
hand of the dead. Butto make restitution, or right
the wrong, is more than I know how to do.”

The old nurse’s voice had grown weak and feeble
toward the last, showing that she was very weary;
and now, as she concluded, there was a tone of
pathetic appeal in it which told how anxious she
=e that error of so long ago should be set
right.

Kenneth had taken down the story as rapidly as
she had givenit, and had been intensely interested
in it.

“You say that you never knew the names of these
persons ?” he asked, when she was through.

“No. I asked the young woman what I should
eall her, and she said ‘it did not matter about
my calling her anything.’ The only name I heard
while I was in the house was that of the young
mother, whom she called ‘Annie.’ ”

“But your death certificate must have had the
name of the deceased ?”’

“T filled it out, simply certifying to the death, and
the et of it, and she inserted the name after-

yard.

“Tt is the strangest story I ever heard,” said the
young man, musingly. “What was the appearance
of that extraordinary woman ?”’

“She was tall and slight, very handsome and
haughty, with black hair and eyes. She spoke like
a lady, and treated me like one, in all save what was
connected with that mystery.”

‘“‘Was the other one like her?”

“No; she was entirely different both in looks and
manner. She was very fair, with golden hair, blue
eyes, a sweet little smile, and a sad voice that went
straight to my heart. She was as patient as an
angel, and thanked me in such a grateful way when
I tried to make her more comfortable. Once she
began to sob and to give a message to the other for
some one in case she should not live. Poor thing!
she seemed to think she wasn’t going to weather it;
but the proud one sharply rebuked her, and called
her a ‘great baby,’ and she never opened her lips in
a murmur after that.” y

“Poor little mother!’ Kenneth murmured, softly,
and with a choking sensation in his throat. ‘Have
you ever seen the other woman since ?”’

“No, never; and I’ve never wanted to either, for
at times I have been so tortured that I could not
have kept my promise to her if we had met. I be-
lieve I should have denounced her openly on the
street.”

“Do you believe you, would recognize her now if
you should see her?”

“IT believé I should. It seems asif TI could never
forget those great black eyes, and that haughty way
ot hers; but itis more than twenty years since that
strange experience, and people change a great deal
in ot length of time,” the invalid responded, with a
sigh.

“Can you give me the exact date of the event?”
Kenneth inquired, feeling that it was necessary to
have itif he hoped ever to trace the mysterious his-
tory. ‘

“lt was the 10th of November, 18—.”

The young man started. q

“What astrange coincidence!” he thought; “it was
in November of that same year that I was left at
St ‘s Asylum.”

“Of course you never knew what became of the
ehild?”’ he remarked, inquiringly.

RY sg old nurse looked up with some animation at
this.

“That is the queerest part of it, and I meant to
have told you,” she said. ‘A year later I was called
to nurse a lady who lost her babe, and she grieved so
over it, that her husband promised, that as soon as
she was able, she should adopt one in its place if she
wished. This cheered her somewhat, and when she
was well enough she asked me to go with her to an
asylum and help her to select a healthy child, as she
thought I would be better able to judge of its con-
dition than herself. We went to 8t ’s Asylum
for orphans, and there I found, to my astonishment,
the very child of which I have told you.”

“Impossible! How could you have identified it
after all that time and among so many others?’ ex-
claimed Kenneth, incredulously.

“T will tell you. The lady whom I accompanied
first saw the babe and was very much pleased with
it. He was a beautiful child, and, to all appearance,
perfectly healthy. Isaid that she could not do bet-
ter than to take him, and she had about made up her
mind to do so, when the matron came to us, and said,
‘that child was not for adoption, the mother had only
left it there temporarily, and besides, the nurse had
told us of its deformity.”’

“Deformity !’’ repeated Kenneth, a startled quiver
in his voice. :

“Yes; she surprised us by speaking of it as such,
although it did not really amount to much, and,
taking off one of its shoes and stockings, she showed
us his little foot. It had been born with three toes,
on his right foot, shorter than the others, one joint
was missing from each of the first, third. and fifth
toes, the nails growing out perfectly from the second
joints.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a rr © ie

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THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

VOL. 44—No, 48,

 

HARD TIMES.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

A merchant sat in his easy-chair
Reading the morning news—

He skimmed o’er all its contents,
Including the book reviews.

Then he started from his mansion
For his office with a sigh,

And groaned ‘Hard Times!” in anguish,
When a beggar passed him by.

A broker sat in Delmonico’s—
The stock board had adjourned—
"Twas plain to see his work that day
No profits had returned,
For as the waiter pressed him
For a fee, he gave a frown,
And muttering angrily, ‘‘Hard Times
He drank his champagne down.

1?

A lady sat in her boudoir,
All elegance and grace—
Her dress was of the richest,
And trimmed with costly lace.
She sighed, ‘‘My Charlie’s growing
Very careful of his dimes!
I’d have a diamond necklace
If it weren’t for Hard Times!”

In a comfortless, dark apartment
A white-faced woman sat,

While the merchant, the broker and lady
“Hard Times” were railing at.

And her landlord stood before her
With a frown upon his face,

And he cried: “Hard Times, old woman!
Pay up or leave the place !”

Then he turned from the frenzied woman
And went to another reom,

Where the starving, penniless tenants
Sat shivering in the gloom.

Ani here with a scowl of anger
‘“‘Hard Times,” he did repeat,

And when money was not forthcoming
He turned them into the street.

And now the thought comes o’er me
That it might work some cure

For these “Hard Times” if wealthy folks
Could suffer as do the poor.

In other words “‘a still small voice”
This truth to me imparts,

’Tis not the times that ure so hard,
’Tis only human hearts.

Diary of a Minister's Wife,

NEW SERIES.

By ALMEDIA M. BROWN,

Anthor of ‘““The Diary of a Country Schoelma’am.”

[The “DIARY OF A MINISTER'S WIFE” was commenced
in No. 35. All News Agents supply the back numbers. ]

“Please, Doctor Day, say a few words to the
ladies, and explain more fully the great object of
your work,” begged Mrs. Harper.

“Ahem! Madam, as the wise man saith: ‘In the
multitude of words there wanteth notsin; but he
that refrainethhis lips is wise.’ However, being re-
quested by one who has proved herself superior to
most of her sex in her liberality, and we are all
aware that ‘a gracious woman retains the honor, and
strong men retain riches.’ Ladies, one and all! Mrs.
Harper has told you how my wife and myself have
taken our lives in our hands, and are going forth to
instruct the poor benighted sons of the forest, trust-
ing forno reward except as wé ‘go forth, weeping,
bearing precious seed,’ we shall come again, rejoic-
ing, bringing our sheaves with us.’ Ladies, you have
responded nobly, I understand, to our call for help.
The wise man saith, ‘The liberal soul shall be made
fat, and he that watereth shall also be watered him-
self.’ And again: ‘He or she that hatha bountiful
eye shall be blessed, for he or she giveth of his bread
to the poor.’ ‘Every purpose is established by coun-
sel,’ and itis not without counsel and due delibera-
tion that we have set outon this work. You have
done well, methinks, to aid in this good cause. The
wise man adviseth, ‘When thou wilt do good, know
to whom thou doest it, so shalt thou be thanked for
thy benefits.’ By the advice of this excellent lady,
you have not acted hastily in this matter, but have
waited until you knew fora certainty who were to
be the recipients of your bounty, and bear it to far,
lonely Western wilds, there to plant civilization and
religion among the benighted red men.

“Now, Jerusha Ann, say afew words to our
friends, in acknowledgment of their kindness, for,
‘A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures
of silver;’ but remember, ‘As the climbing of a
sandy way is to the feet of the aged, so is a wife full
of words to a quiet man;’ and, ‘Let thy speech be
short, comprehending much in few words; be as one
that knoweth and yet-holdeth her tongue.’ ”

IT was near laughing outright at this character-
istic speech, but most of the ladies seemed delighted.

‘How apt!’ whispered one.

“What a giant mind! He doesn’t use any common-
place expressions at all,” responded another.

“He has seripter to his tongue’s end,” remarked an
old lady. | : ;

“Dear sisters and friends,” began Mrs. Day, with a
blush, “I—I will only say I join my noble, self-
saeriyicing husband in his work gladly. I am willing
to toil, labor, suffer—yea, d-i-e /” and her voice took
a shrill key, while her hands and eyes were raised,
“die in this glorious work!” __

“There, Jerusha Ann, that will do. ‘Much speech
in a woman is like the crackling of thorns under a
pot;’ but, ‘The words of a man’s mouth are as deep
waters, and the well-spring of wisdom as a flowery
bush.’ ”

Some of the young ladies giggled as Mrs. Dr. Day
subsided into a seat, looking reproved.

The gentleman turned sharply.

“ ‘Much laughter createth bitterness of soul.’ ”

The giggling died away, and the great man seated
himself in the big arm-chair, crossed his legs, spread
his white handkerchief over his lap, and repeated,
parrot-like: :

“Lay up thy treasure according to the command-
ments of the Most High, and it shall bring thee more
profit than gold.’ ”

Tearing a leaf from my memorandum-book, I wrote
a few lines to Mr. H. asking him to come in accl-
dentally, not telling him why T wished it. Giving
the note to Ellen Crimmings, who was seated near
me, 1 begged her to carry it over to the parsonage
without any one knowing it. :

She slipped quietly out, and returned in a few mo-
ments without any one noticing her absence, — ;

Some one called my name from the opposite side
of the room. :

Mr. and Mrs. D. started, and the former exclaimed:

“Mrs. Hard—ahem !—rather a singular name.”

“Mr, Day, I presume you have not forgottem me ¥*
T said, advancing with extended hand. ‘Mrs. Day,
how do you do? I did not anticipate the pleaswre of
seeing you this afternoon.” “

The lady took my hand, blushed, stammered a little,
but her husband gave her such a look that she
dropped it instantly. ;

“So you are acquainted with Dr. Alexander Clay-
ton Day! Why didn’t you say so ?’ asked Mrs. Ben-
son, pettishly. : " s

“J am acquainted with Mr. Consider Day and his

' Mr. Jenkins, to be ready to greet the newly wedded

an acquaintance,” [ replied, with some spirit.

The gentleman frowned, turned his back upon me,
and muttered something about ‘‘a mistake.”

“Of course, it’s a mistake! I’m surprised at you,
Mrs. Hardscrabble, confounding Dr. Day with some
common person you have known. Excuse her, doc-
tor; she is always up to some such blunder,” said
Mrs. Harper.

“Oh, certainly, certainly, madam. ‘As a jewel of
gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman without
discretion ;’ and this lady seems to be lacking in that
quality.”

“T believe, Mr. Day, you have quoted that trite
saying to me before, in the little parsonage at Colum-
busville, when I was better prepared with proverbs
to retort than [am now,” and I turned away, while
he moved serenely to another part of the room.

There was aring at the door-bell, and Mr. H. was
admitted. He calls so often that no one minded
his oer only to greet him with some pleasant
word.

Mr. Day turned red and pale, and began looking
oeaee the sofa, as if he would like to find a hiding-
place,

Miss Crimmings arose with a beaming face.

“Oh, Brother Hardscrabble, I have a pleasure in
store for you, an introduction to a celebrated Doctor
of Divinity, who is about to set forth as a missionary
to the Choctaws.”

Mr. H. glanced around, and his eye resting upon
Mr. Day, he said:

“Why, Brother Day, whére did you come from? T
have lost sight of you for nearly three years. I hope
you are well,’ and he extended his hand. i

The gentleman addressed raised himself stiffly,
and said:

“Haven't you made a mistake, sir?”

‘Mistake! How? Ido not understand.” ,

“Indeed, you have made a mistake, This is the
Rev. Alexander Clayton Day, D. D., and a mission-
ary to the Choctaw Indians,” said Mrs. Harper,
haughtily.

“Oh, indeed! I was not aware of his distinguished
title. In my simplicity, I took him for Mr. Consider
Day, with whom I have had a speaking acquaint-
ance for several years, and who I united in mar-
riage to this lady nearly three years ago,” pointing
to Mrs. Day, who drew back into the corner of a sofa
and twisted her handkerchief, while a flush stole
over her sallow face. 5

“You and your wife seem determined to confound
this gentleman with some low person of your ac-
quaintance. Dr. Day comes well recommended by
the officers of our church, as it happens,” remarked
Mrs. Harper.

“T hope so, if he is about to set out on such an
undertaking,” was the grave response.

‘Here is his on reraee signed by the bishops of
our church,” continued the lady, producing a paper.

Mr. Day, with a very red face, attempted to pre-
vent her, but Mr. H. was already glancing over the
paper, while the lines about his mouth grew stern.

He folded the paper at last, and looked keenly at
Mr. Day, who actually shook in his seat.

“T hope you are satisfied now,” said Mrs. Harper.

“Yes—satisfied that this paperis a forgery!” was
the answer.

“**A tale-bearer revealeth secrets; but he that is
of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter,’” said
Mr. Day.

“ «He that deviseth to do evil shall be called a mis-
chievous person,’” quoted Mr. H., from Mr. Day’s
favorite author.

“*A prudent man concealeth knowledge; but the
heart of fools proclaimeth foolishness,’ ”’ retorted
Mr. Day, angrily. ; ,

Mr. H. turned away and began conversing with
some of the ladies, who, however, were very Cool to
him, as if they thought him to blame for not uphold-
ing Mr. Day in his assumed position. Mrs. Harper
was especially haughty, and soon withdrew, with
Mr. and Mrs. Day, to another room.

Mr. H. soon took leave, and the ladies questioned
me in regard to what I knew of Mr. and Mrs. Day. I
simply told them of their marriage at the parsonage,
but declined answering any more questions in regard
to them. Islipped out and came home before tea,
not caring to meet Mrs. Harper again.

Tuesday, Sept. 13.—This afternoon we went over to

pair, who were to arrive on the four o’clock train.
Mrs. J. met us at the door. Her black dress bore
marks of the flour-barrel, white dust lay in her
smooth brown foretop, and her sleeves were rolled
above ber elbows. She pulled them down as she led
the way through the hall into,the parlor.

“T have been making biscuits for tea. I have dis-

missed Betty, the lazy huzzy. I think Isabel and I
can get along with the work, with Lucy Ann to wash
dishes; she is big enough now.”
The parlors were well furnished, but sofas and
chairs wore brown linen covers; the pictures and
mirrors were covered with gauze, which gave a
somber look to the rooms.

“I thought I wouldn’t uncover the furniture, as
the flies ain’t all gone yet. Solomon told me to, but
as his wife is coming here to live, I don’t see any
use in making a stranger of her. She may as well
get used to things first as last.”

After we were seated Mrs. J. called in the children.
These were four girls, all wearing very short pink
calico dresses, small black silk aprons, and their
hair was braided in long queues, hanging down their
backs, and tied with blue ribbons. ‘The boys, four
in number, had close-shaven heads, blue jackets,
white trousers, and straw hats, which they kept on
their heads all the while. They took seats all in a
row, Mrs. Jenkins remarking:

“The girls are the oldest—they came along first;
then the boys followed. This is Lucy Ann, the
eldest girl; then Betsy Jane next; and Thryphem
and Thryphosa, the twins. Albert James is the first
of the boys; then another pair of twins, Harry
George and Henry Gilbert; and Alonzo Fitzherbert,
the youngest, only three years old.”
The old lady had just finished enumerating the |
names of her grandchildren when a one-horse buggy
drew up at the gate, and Mr. Jenkins was seen assist-
ing his bride to alight.

The old lady looked out with a chuckle.

“Solomon told me to send the carriage to the depot
to meet them, but I thought it might rain, so I sent
the buggy. I guess it’s a better conveyance than
she’s used to having. Her father, old Jim Curtis,
used to sometimes peddle milk, and she’d get a ride
with him in his old cart.” :

4

t
wife, if entertaining them a week can be said to form

‘vice, and then get supper an’ go to bed so pa and ma

THE STORY TOLD ANEW.

BY J. T. BURTON WOLLASTON.

In the dusk, and down a lane,
Two walked, hand in hand, together.
Blew the wind, and fell the rain—
Little heeded they the weather.
Cold March winds might storm about;
Warmth within mocked cold without.

Had the road been paved with gold,
They had never seen a shimmer;

Had the stars left heaven’s high fold,
Night to them had grown no dimmer,

Earth, unto its widest hem,

Consisted of four feet for them!

What said he to make her start,
Flush, and glow, with sudden pleasure?
What could cause the woman’s heart
Then to beat a faster measure }
Why did eyelids, prone torise, .
Hide the light of glowing eyes?

’T was the story told anew,
Old, yet never antiquated ;
Just the same words—just as few—
Just the case so often stated—
Just the same in everywise
As once was told in Paradise.

iii
Saas

Pleasant Paragraphs.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

Ladi
—>

A Society Mystery.

Mrs. De Style—‘‘My dear, your wardrobe is three
months behind the fashion. Why don’t you have
your husband buy you some new dresses ?”

Married Daughter—“‘He can’t afford it; he has no
money.”

Mrs. De Style—‘No money? Well! Well!
imagine what on earth you married him for?”

Within the Law.

Wild-eyed Man—“I want a lot of poison right off.”

Drug Clerk—‘“‘It’s against the law to sell poisons
to people who look as if they wanted to commit
suicide; but I'll let you havea bottle of Dr. Black-
Sequin’s Elixir of Life. That seems to be pretty
sure death.”

I can't

Got Back Home.

Mr. Blinks (in dairy restaurant, New York city)—
“Tm most starved for a bowl of milk and some ber-
ries with real cream on ’em. Bring me a double or-
der.”

Waiter—“Yes, sah Been summering on a farm, I
s’pose, sah ?”’

A Sensible Course.

Maiden—“‘What can a woman do when a man that
has won her affection refuses to marry her?”
Lawyer—‘‘Is he rich?’

“No; hasn't a cent.” ;
“She can appoint a day of general thanksgiving
and invite both families to participate.”
Vengeance.

Returned Traveler—‘I have often thought of that
young Mr. Tease, and how he used to torment Miss
Auburn about her red hair. Did she ever get even
with him?’
Old Friend—‘‘Long ago. She married him.”

Nothing New.
Mrs. De Fashion (at Long Branch store)—“Is there
anything new in bathing suits ?”
Fair Clerk—“No, madam, we have nothing more
outlandish than the one you bought last month.”

Satisfaction Guaranteed.

Summer Guest (impatiently)—“I have found dead
flies inevery dish I touched this morning, and I think
you might at least make a reduction in your
charges.”
Hotel Proprietor—“I can’t reduce your bill, sir;
but if you will come with me to the kitchen, I'll let
you hear me swear at the servants.” :

Inquiring Spectator (at the races)—‘‘Which horse
was it that won?’.

Speculative Speculator (gloomily)—“I don’t know
the name of the horse that won; but I know the
names of most of the horses that didn’t win.”

A Day of Rest.

Sunday-School Superintendent—‘‘Can any of ‘you
tell me why Sunday is called the day of rest?’

Little Dick (holding up his hand)—“I kin, It’s
’ecause we get up early and hurry through breakfas’
so’s to dress in time fer Sunday-School, and then
hurry to Sunday-School, so we won't be late, and then
skip inter church ’fore the bell stops ringin’ and then
go home to dinner and get fixed up for afternoon ser-

can get ready for evening service. That's all we do.”

Where References are Not Required.
Stranger—‘“‘I’d like ter gita job at something, but
I’m a stranger here an’ ain't got no references.”

 

By this time the couple were entering the house.
Mrs. Jenkins advanced to greet her daughter-in- |

aw.

“Well, Isabel, I hope you're rested up so that you
can go into the work to-morrow. TPmabout worn-
out.” ,

“Where is Betty, mother? You should let her take
the brunt of the work,” remarked her son, who was
shaking hands with us.

“Pve seat her away; [ thought it would bea great
shame if your wife and I couldn’t do the work. IL}
IT don’t believe in the expense of a_ hired girl when
one has a young smart wife to board anyway. Come,
children, and kiss your new ma.”

They rushed forward with shouts of delight, tug-
ging at her dress, shouting ma in every tone of voice
and in every imaginable key, aud putting up eight
little faces to be kissed.

I pitied the young mother as she stood helpless
amid the group who circled around her like a flock
of chickens around an old hen.

“Say, ma, when will you make my new dress 2”
shouted Number One. ,

“Grandma said you'd dress us all up,” added Num-
ber Two. “I want a new jacket; my old one is all
torn to pieces.”

“Grandma said I should have anew coat the first
thing,” put in two of the boys.

“And ruffled aprons with pockets in’em,” shouted
the girls, in a shriil key.

“And, oh, grandma said you’d trim up our new
hats, with lots of roses and ribbons on ’em.”

“And say, ma, won’t you cut my hair just iike
Susie Drake’s?”’ putin the eldest daughter, giving a
dissatisfied toss at her long braids.

 

“And youll cover my ball with red and black
morocco, won’t you, ma?’

“And dress my doll so much prettier than Jane
Lewis’—I know you will, ‘cause grandma said you’d
do everything we wanted you to.”

“Cracky ! isn’t it fun to havea new ma, that knows
how to do everything?” and Harry George threw a
somerset, a feat imitated by little Alonzo Fitz-
herbert, who brought up against an ottoman, bruis-
ing his head, and his loud screams for a moment
filled the room. :

“There, there, children, that will do. Lucy Ann,
take that screaming brat out ofthe room! Harry,
come here, sir, and sit down and behave yourself;
I’m ashamed of your conduct. You'll frighten this
lady so she’ll go home and leave you,” said their
father, in a loud tone.

“No, she won't, neither, ’cause I heard grandma
tell old Mrs. Reynolds that she hadn’t got no home,
and that’s the reason she married you,” said Albert
James, with a leer.

“Silence! you young scoundrel! A pretty train-
ing you have had since I left. Let me hear an-
other word of sauce from your lips, and I'll trim
your jacket for you!” and Mr. Jenkins looked
like a concentrated thunder-cloud, while his wife
grew white about the mouth, and her cheeks were
ablaze, as she seemed to realize her position in the
tamily.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
+ > @+

TESTING THE ARAB PROPHETS.

The Arabs have a very certain method of ascer-
taining whether one of their prophets is a true one or
afalseone. They organize an army, place him at the
head of it, and make an assault on Egypt. If heisa
true prophet he conquers, but if he is a false one he
fails. Thus farthe number of those who have failed
tallies to a man with those who have embarked in
the prophet business, all of which would be very
discouraging to anybody but a howling dervish who
is not accustomed to making a howling success of

Merchant—“‘In that case there is no chance for you
anywhere, except on the police force.”

In the Front Rank.
Customer (trying on his new pantaloons)—“Great
snakes! These things seem to bea bifurcated skirt.
I’ll look like a guy if I wear these.”

Conscientious tailor—“Can't helpit, sir. If fashion
says men must look like guys, they’ll have to look
like guys if they deal with me.”

He Hit It.
Mrs. Binkins (starting a letter)—‘‘Now, what day
of the month is this ?”
Mr. Binkins (from behind his paper)—‘‘Tuesday.”
Mrs. B.—‘I didn’t ask what day of the week. What
day of the month is it?’ Oh! Here’s a calendar.
It’s the 2d.”
Mr. B.—“‘Yes. Two's day.”
Reservoir Fishing.

Gotham Lady (shocked)—‘*Pardon me, sir, but I
overheard you remark that you were going fishing

Partially Posted. three days.”

of shoes for the lady, $8; eldest girl, $5; boy, $3;
other girl, $3; baby, $1.50. Just $20.50, sir. Thanks.
Can’t I show you some shoes for yourself ?”’
“Father of Family (wearily)—‘‘Oh, don’t bother
about me. I can go barefoot.”

Christian Charity.
Clerk—‘Lady out there with a flashy paste neck-
lace wants to know whether it’s pure diamond or
not.” :
Jeweler—‘Look like a married woman?”
“Wea?
“Tell her it is. No use makin’ trouble for poor hus-
bands these hard times.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

SMART ALECK.—Black—‘Did you ever notice a wo-
nn darning a pair of stockings and observe how
she——

White—“I never saw a woman darning a pair of
stockings in my life.”

B.—‘Oh, well, perhaps your wife doesn’t darn your
stockings.”

W.—‘‘Yes, she does; keeps them in excellent re-
pair. But I never saw her darning a pair. Never
saw her darn more than one at a time.”

Then Black led White around the nearest corner
and drew him down into the depths of asubterranean
lager-beer saloon.—Boston Courver.

_ THE POWER OF Mousic.—The sun had already sunk
in the west when the convict returned to his native
village. During the many years of his confinement
he had harbored but one idea—that of revenge. As
he neared the old school-house—which, by-the-way,
he had made up his mind to fire—the bells in a dis-
trict church-tower rang out upon the air. A feeling
which the convict had not felt for many years filled
his breast. He stood rooted to the spot, and tears—
Lot tears—moistened his cheeks. When the bells had
ceased, he hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his
calloused hand and exclaimed:

“My heart is softened; I will not shed blood to-
night, I will rob instead !’—Hachange.

CONCEALMENT WAS USELESS.—Last week, out in
Ohio, lightning struck a cornet ee knocking his
instrument from his hands and melting it, but with-
out seriously injuring the player. He afterward con-
fessed that he was just going to play ‘‘In the Sweet
By and By,” with the echo refrain. Providence
never makes a mistake.—Brooklyn Eagle.

TomMMY’s SCHOOL ‘“STANDING.’”’—Visitor—‘Well,
Tommy, how are you getting on at school?”

Tommy (aged eight)—*'First rate. I ain’t doing as
well as some of the other boys, though. I can stand
on my head, but. I have to put my feet against the
fence. I wantto do it without being near the fence
at all, and I guess I can after a while.”

Yankee Blade.

COMFORTING FOR THE OTHER FELLOW.—“Waiter,
bring me a couple of soft-boiled eggs.”

Voice at Next Table—‘“[he same for me. But,
waiter, be sure they are fresh.”

“All right.’

Waiter’s voice in the distance—‘Four soft-boiled
eggs; two must be fresh.”—Paris Figaro.

A PooR VACCINATION.~—Literary Man (laughing)—
“Yes, I took to literature naturally. I was vacci-
nated from a quill, you know.”

Friend (grimly)—“Ah. the world would have been
the gainer if you had been vaccinated from a pick or
shovel.”—Eachange.

STRENGTH SUPPORTING WEAKNESS.—Mr. Sterne—
“This tea is very weak.” 4

Mr. Price—‘Then I would advise you to lean it
against the butter.—Detroil Free Press.

Wife (at the opera)—“Mr. Blue Eyes, the tenor,
didn’t do that love scene well at all. Wonderif he’s
sick?” Husband—*Perlhaps he is. The primadonna
sat at the table next to ours at the hotel, and I no-
ticed that she ate nine raw onions.”—Newport News.
When the elixir of life is mentioned to a native
Kentuckian, he is said to reach at once for the black
flask in the cupboard.—St. Joseph News.

open designs and most varied colors, and are done in
silks, tinsel threads, beads, and also in chenille. Large
jet butterflies, jet stars, fern leaves, aigrettes, pompons,
and fountain-like sprays of jet are nsed on either black or
colored bonnets, while peaches, grapes, plums, prunes,
Sher, berries, and flowers are also employed as garni-
ures.

Ettie B., Elizabeth, N. J.—A pretty and economical
dress has the skirt of colored faille, draped in front and
plaited at the back, while the full bodice is of lace on a
very thin lining, drawn in at the waist by a broad-shaped
corselet band, fastened and ornamented in front with
large buttons, like a Directoire bodice, below this band
the lace falling in adeep basque on the left side, and
gradually widening into a long plaited coquille on the
right. The full sleeves terminate under deep, plain cuffs,
which, like the collar and the band, are made of the same
material as the skirt.

Kittie V., Manhasset, N. Y.—A very useful novelty for
a traveling wrap is the Garrick cape, sometimes called
coachman’s cape, as itis warm and can be folded into a
very small compass, They are made ina great variety of
cloths and colors, and Can be finished with the edges shia
or pinked out, fastening with ribbons or hooks at the
neck, according to taste. Another favorite model is in
the shape of a dust cloak, consisting of a long circular,
with the back plaited and gathered at the waist, and
finished with a large hood lined with silk.

Cc. S., Coleman, Mich.—To make chocolate caramels,
take one teacupful of milk, one cup of sugar, one table-
spoonful of butter, and half a teacupful of grated choco-
late; mix all the ingredients well together, and put on
the fire in a lined saucepan; stic constantly to prevent its
burning, and let it boil till thick; then turn out into

buttered plates; when it begins to stiffen, mark it in
squares with a knife.

Mrs. Arnot.—There is a difference of opinion in regard
to the bustle. Steel circles, cushions, and all that which
uphold the skirtin any way are utterly proscribed by
stylish women, while others, equally fashionable, still ad-
here to a few light draperies, and just the tiniest of
feather pads.

Sarah V.—We can furnish a good book on etiquette for
fifty cents.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

T never knu a man whoze name waz agree’ Wash-
inglon Lafayette Goodriteh, Esq., and who alwus
on hiz name for the full amount, but what waz
a bigger man on paper than he waz by natur.

Az a gineral thing, an individual who iz neat in hiz
person iz neat in hiz morals.

Man _ iz mi brother, and i konsider that i am nearer
related tew him thru hiz vices than iam thru hiz
virtews.

Thare iz nothing about which the world makes so
few blunders, and the individual so menny, az a
man’s aktual importanse among hiz fellow-kritters.

A man with a very small head iz like a pin without
enny—very apt tew git into things beyond hiz depth.

The pashuns oy an old man are often like hiz teeth
—they cease to trouble him, simply bekauze the
the nerve iz ded.

The only pedigree worth transmitting iz virtew;
and this iz the very thing that kant be transmitted.

a Affecktashun haz made more phools than the Lord
az.

About the nearest tew absolute insolvency thata
man kan git in this world, and think he iz dieing
ce iz tew leave nothing but a pedigree tew hiz
amily. '

 

——>--o

Items of Interest.
When Captain Cook discovered Australia he saw
some of the natives on the shore with a dead animal of
some sort in their possession, and sent sailors in a little
boat to buy it of them. When it came on board he saw it

 

Itis rumored that Levi P. Morton recently staked
a small sum on a Saratoga horse-race. Can this be
considered a vice precedent ?—N. Y. World.
Policeman (sternly)—‘‘What are you doing on the
street at this hour of the night?” Prowler joyfully)—
“By George, you're exactly the man I want to see.
Vm trying to find a saloon.”—Chicago Tribune.

That the moon is made of green cheese is a mere
idle fancy, but that the honeymoon is made of taffy
is an established fact.—Terre Haute Express.

“We are having a great time here,” remarked a
citizen in a country town to aChicago traveler. ‘‘You
struck this town just at the right time.” ‘‘What’s
going on?” “We've got a big revival. Two of the
best preachers in the country--one a Methodist and
the other a Presbyterian. The’ve been preaching for
“Is that so?’ returned the traveler,
absent-mindedly. ‘What's the score?”

Milwaukee Sentinel.

 

The Tails? “Work-B OX:

Edited by Mrs. Helen

FASHION’S FANCIES.
Solid colors prevail in fall dress goods.
Appliques of black lace adorn wraps and dresses.
Lilac, mauve, and heliotrope will be fashionable.

A stylish toque is made of velvet leaves, beautifully
shaded. ;

Wood.

Velvet ribbon is very popular for trimming fall gowns
and bonnets,

Black will be used the coming season more than ever
for trimming colored dresses.

Light shades, principally tan and mouse-gray, are used
for the cloth capes shown for autumn.

Capotes so small as to be visible only from the back of
the wearer’s head are coming in vogue.

Hats will be trimmed with small fruits, such as red and
white currants, grapes, strawberries, blackberries,
plums, and peaches. .

Fine low shoes of soft undressed kid, most easy to the
feet, are shown in many new shades to match dresses,

Nothing can be prettier for a gardep party than a broad
hat of white shirred net, caer covered with vines of |
white morning-glories and green leaves.

There is a fancy for sewing lace in the necks of dresses,
and letting it fall over the collar, while the sleeves are
similarly decorated.

Corduroy skirts of all colors, with cashmere drapings,
are shown, and bid fair to become popular.

Both wide and narrow ribbons are extensively used on
costumes and bodices.

Reception and evening toilets are being made of the
heaviest qualities of black silks, and black brocaded silks
combined with red are also much worn.

Black lace flounces adorn flowered silk dresses, and this
flounce is usually headed by a puff of the lace, through
which a ribbon matching the flowers is drawn.

The favorite traveling gown consists of a perfectly plain
skirt, with a loose joaeet to match, lined with colored silk,
and worn over a silk blouse of the same color.

 

in the reservoir. Am I to understand that people are
allowed to fish with horrid worms in the reservoir
from which we get our drinking water?”

City Employee—‘‘Oh, no, mum, I don’t use worms ;
I use big hooks with nothin’ on them. Yousee, I fish
for bodies of suicides.”

At a Paris Hotel.

French Dame (in Paris)—“Oui, oui, dat Eiffel
Tower ees cause off thunder-storm, it ees so high.
Ve haf many of zem lately. Hear! Dere is anozzer.
Hear zee terrifeek noise.”

Friend (listening) —“A meestake. Zat is zee Ameri-
cain in_zee next room looking over hees board bill.”
Cash vs. Time.

Tramp—“How much d’ye throw off fer cash?”

. Good-natured Dealer—‘‘Oh, five per cent.

“Allright. Gimme a dime’s worth o’ crackers an’
cheese.”

“Here you are, sir.”

“Very fine weather we're havin’. Good-day.”

“But, hold on! You haven’t paid for those things.”

“No; come to. think, five per cent. off a dime ain’t
worth savin’. Jes’ charge it.”

Probably Mad.

First Dry-goods Clerk (at Long Branch)—‘“Say,
Jack, didn’t you bow to that lady who just passed ?”

Second Clerk—‘*Y-e-s.”

“She didn’t recognize you in any way. Are you
sure you know her?”

“Oh, yes; she’s Mrs, Fourundred. I’ve waited on
her at the store many a. time; but I guess she’s mad
about something. Maybe the last stockings I sold
her didn’t wash.”

An Important Industry.

Traveler (in parlor car, passing a health resort)—
“That is a remarkably picturesque village we are
passing. What is its principal industry ?”’

Porter—‘Embalming.”

Shoes for a Family.

Father of Family—“How much ?”’

 

 

 

 

much of anything.— Washington Post.

All styles for dressy wear in wraps are long and am le»
and for winter fur will be more extensively used than
heretofore, while Matalasse goods in which a touch of
metallic color is woven with somber shades, and heavy
Persian figured brocatelles are all imported for these
long, luxurious cloaks.

Cambrie waists and blouses are shown under reefing-
jackets for traveling wear, and are worn with any color or
style of skirt.

The Empire and Directoire styles still prevail, but, for
those who prefer draperies, there are the new Princess
desigus, with small paniers and short drapery, that will
be worn for street and house costumes.

There is a great variety of new dress trimmings, and
braided galloons, scroll cf Sag ery jet passementeries,
suede kid embroideries, and, in tact, embellishments of all
kinds will be used the coming season.

The laces with deep Vandyke points are revived, and
are extensively shown in fine hand-wrought laces of the
heavier makes, like Irish points, while dealers in lace are
confident that with the return ofrich fabrics and simple
aae of dress, fine hand-made lace will return to fashion-
able favor.

Those who like exercise on a tricycle will be glad to
hear of a new costume especially designed for this pur-
pose. It is made in tweed or cloth, and the model is of a
grayish-brown check, which is a very serviceable color as
not showing dust, with the plain skirt full at the back
and plaited in front, while the novelty of the costume lies
in the fact that the foundation on which it is made can be
let down longer when the wearer is on the machine and
shortened again for walking, this being accomplished by
a simple arrangement of buttons and cord; thus, when
cycling, the skirt is let down and covers the feet, and
when on the ground is raised again to walking length.
The bodice is cut a8 an ordinary Norfolk jacket, witha
belt securing the plaits.

Mabel D.—Bonnets for autumn are either of medium
size, or very small and low, with long crowns, while the
front of the brim may be straight, or irregularly indented,
or slightly rolled back in coronet shape, and many have
short round sides, giving the effect of a toque, and re-
quiring the strings to be placed behind at the end of the
crown. Smooth felt and velvet are the materials most in

use, and there are also heavy straw bonnets that will be
worn throughout the fall. ibbons, velvet, embroidery,
and fancy feathers are the trimmings most popular in
millinery. Double-faced satin ribbons, gros-grain, faille,
striped, and velvet ribbons are most generally used, the
widths varying from one to two and a half inches, while
velvet, cut bias, is fluted on the edge of bonnets, or ex-
tends over the brini. All made crownsare lengthwise, in
soft full folds, coming up from the back of the crown.
Embroideries on cloth, velvet, thin net, or silk mousse-

 

 

 

Shoe Dealer (figuring on back of package)—“Pair |

line, and metallic embroideries on camel’s-hair, come in

was something quite new, so he sent the sailors back te
inquire its name. The sailors asked, but, not being able
to make the natives understand, received the answer,
“TI don’t know,” or, in the Australian language, ‘“‘Kan-
garoo.” The sailors supposed this was the name of the
animal, and so reported it. Thus, the name of the curious
animal is the “‘I-don’t-know.”

The Trappist monks lead a very strict and unpleas-
urable life. They sleep on uncovered boards, arise at two
o’clock every morning, spend: twelve hours each day in
devotional exercises, and about six at hard labor, chietly
in the fields. They rarely converse with each other, and
upon meeting salute each other by exclaiming, “Me-
mento mori”—“‘remember death.” Water and vegetables
form their chief food. They are not allowed to partake of
meat, wine, or beer. ;

From one fir tree recently cut down by E. C.
Stamper, on his farm near Elmer, Oregon, that gentle-
man realized handsomely. It supplied him with suffi-
cient lumber to build a house 14x20, eight feet high; a
shed kitchen 8 feet wide and 20 feet long, a wood-shed
14x20, and he had left 00 boards 6 inches wide and 2 feet
long. He also cut 334 railroad ties and 15 cords of wood—
all this from one tree. For the bark he received $12.

A staggering experience came to a Bloomington
policeman, who entered a freight car to enjoy a quiet
smoke. It was loaded with whiskey barrels, some of
them empty. He thoughtlessly lighted a match, and
thus ignited the gas.from one of the empty barrels. An
explosion followed, the policeman was singed about the
hair and whiskers, and whirled against the car, receiv-
ing painful bruises.

In the recently issued Minneapolis Directory is
the name “Baxter, Carl (colored), watchman.” The in-
vestigation of an inquisitive St. Paul reporter revealed
the interesting fact that “Carl Baxter” is the name of a
brown watch-dog, and it is suspected that it was in-
serted in the directory to help swell the population
record.

Electricity can be used to impart to wine the good
qualities given by age. The simplest plan is to place a
quantity of wine in a glass jar, and around the jar to
wrap a coil of insulated wire, and then apply a current of
electricity. In the course of a few weeks the acid and
alcohol will combine in ether and leave the wie, making
it smooth and pleasant to the palate.

Mrs. Sally B. Weeks Buckland, of Mount Prospect,
N. H., is not fond of changing her abode. Seventy-three
years ago, when a blushing bride, she went to house-
keeping in the house she has ever since occupied. She
has just celebrated her one hundredth birthday, and
among her guests on that occasion were her children,
grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

The longest fast on record is credited to Robert
Marvel, of Marion County, Ind., who, at the age of
eighty-five years, passed sixty-seven days without food
or drink, and then died. He became so emaciated that
the movements of his backbone could be seen through
the skin covering his stomach.

A new wrinkle in the way of mortuary enterprise
has been developed by a stenographer in Cleveland. He
attends funerals, take down the sermon in short-hand,
and goes with a type-written copy of it to the family of
the deceased, and tries to sell it, forsums varying from
$5 to $20. ;

A Glasgow paper, describing a ship-launch, con-
trived to perplex its readers. It said, “The launch of the
Clytie passed off successfully. The christening was per-
formed with the customary rites by Miss Isabella Camp-
bell. Her weight is one thousand two hundred tons, and
she is made to carry six heavy guns below deck.”

The oldest admiral in England is Sir Prove Wal-
lace, aged 98. He was in the fightin 1813 between the
Shannon and the Chesapeake, when the commander of
the latter vessel, Captain James Lawrence, while suffer-
ing from a mortal wound, exclaimed, “Don’t give up the
ship !” .

The King of Siam has four of his sons in England,
receiving their education. Two of them are said to be as
wild as young colts, and often return to their lodgings
bearing every evidence of having succeeded in painting
the town in crimson hues.

The dairy schools of Denmark have been so effec-
tive that within twenty years the exports of butter from
that country have increased from $2,000,000 to $13,000,000.
The Government pays $50,000 a year for the maintenance
of its dairy schools. 4 }

Codfish of excellent size and quality have been dis-
covered in large numbers about eight miles off the
Oregon coast and sixty-five miles south of the Columbia
River. Heretofore the true cod has nut been found in
the Pacific south of Alaskan shores,

British soldiers who cannot swim are not allowed
to enter boats for purposes of recreation ; and even those

e

who can swim must have certificates to that effect before
being permitted to go boating.

Small farms are the rulein China. The soil is se

 

rich that-it is estimated that a square mile will produce
food enough to support 4,000 persons. ‘