Or A

gg gana

 

  

 

 

 

a
Entered Accomding lo Act of Congress, in the Year 13889. dy Streer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O.

New York, July 20, 1889.

Office

Vol. 44.

TO MY CIGAR.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH. .

 

 

Thou roll of aromatic leaf,

Of soothing ministers, the chief,

When thy rich perfume I inhale,

Let those who hate thee rant and rail,

And I will only love thee more,

And sing thy praises o’er and o’er.

Thou brown-hued, thought-creating manna!
My mild Havana!

Without thy aid how should I fare

When tired out and pressed by care?

How could I earnest work begin

Without thee, soothing medicine?

I cannot keep thee long, ’tis true,

But proud man comes to ashes, too.

Death musters all beneath his banner,
My rich Havana!

I see thy azure incense rise

In eddying rings toward the skies,

And as it swiftly floats away,

My thoughts unbidden heavenward stray ;

And then the lesson comes to me

That human life is brief, like thee,

And then my musings cease, for Anna
Steals my Havana.

> o~<

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.,

MARJORIE DEANE

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

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

 

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

 

CHAPTER YI.
THE COUNTY BALL.

The days glided by into weeks. Mrs. Gore-Boothe,
alady whose social position was somewhat in ex-
eess of her means of maintaining it, had been so
gracious as to chaperon Marjorie, and the result
had been that everybody had called upon her and re-
ceived her. That is everybody but the Chestertons,
who were stillin the profoundest ignorance of the
existence of the young lady.

It must be said that Marjorie did not receive the
attentions of the gentry in the spirit in which Mrs.
Gore-Boothe had at the outset intended that she
should. It was that good lady’s intention to pa-
tronize Marjorie; but the fact had been that Marjorie
had rather patronized Ler, and not only her, butevery-
body else who had made her acquaintance.

It was not done boldly or presumptuously, but in
an indifferent, but queenly fashion which made resist-
ance impossible. It now came about that Mr. Deane
and his vulgarities were no longer the topic of Cran-
ford gossip; everybody talked of his beautiful and

queely daughter, who took her place in society as 1f
she had been accustomed to rule there.

When it was announced that the time for the
county ball had been set, Mrs. Gore-Boothe hurried
over to Harley House and plunged at once into the
absorbing question of what Marjorie should wear.
Marjorie listened and said indifferently that she
doubted if she would wear anything there.

Then there were horror and dismay, and it required
all the arts of Bessie and Mrs. Gore-Boothe combined
to persuade her to change hermind. And when it
was changed it was very nearly driven back to its
original position by the discovery that the Chester-
tons always honored the county ball with their pres-
ence. And then, again, with the abruptness which
occasionally characterized Marjorie’s decision, she
declared, with whatseemed an unnecessary warmth,
that she would go.

And so, when the time came, she did. But she
was not on time. She kept her father pacing the
hall and studying alternately his watch and the
broad staircase, and she horrified Mrs. Gore-Boothe
by declaring to her that she was in no hurry and did
not propose to be. Oh, she could be as capricious as
a veritable empress when she chose, and that night
she chose.

“My dear,’ said Mrs. Gore-Boothe, ‘I left your
father fuming, literally fuming in the hall.”

“Don’t let that alarm you,” said Marjorie, coolly.
“Papa always does fume; he likes it.”

However, she was ready at last, and Bessie, who
was on her knees before her, a position she had taken
the better to arrange the white satin gown, leaned
back in speechless admiration. And even Mrs. Gore-
Boothe could find no words for the moment.

Pretty and piquant at all times, Marjorie looked her
best that night. Dressed merely in white satin, with
asimple flower in her hair, she was not only ravish-
ingly beautiful, but was the embodiment of elegance
and good taste. Bessie was ecstatic, Mrs. Gore-
Boothe was positively awed.

“Come, my dear,” she said.

They went down to the fuming Mr. Deane, and tke
two gorgeous footmen ushered them into the car-
riage and shut the door with an imposing bang.

They were late, and by the time they reached the
Town Hall they found that the staircase was crowded
by a noble army of young men, who, not yet being
warmed out of their diffidence, preferred to cling
about the entrance to entering the mazy dance.

It was Marjorie’s first ball; but no one would ever
have suspected it; for, delighted and dazzled as she
was, she exerted all her self-command to appear in-
different and atease. In truth, her young soul was
in arms against the class into which her father’s am-
bition had thryst her, and she was intent on showing
that she was not merely equal to everything that
might present itself, but superior to it.

verybody went to the county ball, but in fact the
reom was divided into two parts. At the bottom, and
by far the coolest and most comfortable part of the
room, congregated"ihe nobodies, the farmers and
small people, the herd that did not belong to Cran-
ford society. Through this Mrs. Gore-Boothe fought
her way, and after a long and arduous struggle,
reached the upper end of the room. There, enthroned
on velvet fauteuils, sat the elite of Cranford, and to
that privileged part Mrs. Gore-Boothe made her
way.

Late though it was, the Chestertons, the important
people, had not yet arrived. Rumors of the attend-
ance of Miss Montressor had gone forth, and the elite
were on the tiptoe of curiosity and expectancy.
Could it be péssible that she would not come
after all?

It was a dread possibility ; but for a while it was
even forgotten in the sensation which the entrance
of Marjorie created. Had eons cared enough for
it, she must have been gratified by the triumph of her
appearance. The young men fairly flocked about her,
besieging her for dances; and she would probably
have promised them all, had not Mrs. Gore-Boothe
suggested that she reserve some.

As it was, she was engaged for five dances, and was

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

 

“BEN HAMED,” by Sylvanus Cobb, dr., in No 8 of the Sea and Shore Series

 

 

 

31 Rose St.

 

 

f\ fh

With

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ Enterea@ at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

Three Dollars Per

Two Conies Five Dollars.

No. 88,

Year,

 

j

ty

 

 

 

SIR ROLAND DROPPED ON ONE KNEE, AND MARJORIE’S RIPPLING LAUGHTER PROVIDED A SORT OF ACCOMPANYING MUSIC TO HIS PERFORMANCE.

 

 

soon whirling in the arms of a languid captain of
dragoons. With every sign of success, the ball goes
on its way.

The Chestertons had not put in an appearance by
midnight, and Marjorie, permitted by their absence to
forget herself, entered into the full enjoyment of the
occasion, dancing every dance since her arrival. The
bright color bloomed on her round cheeks, and a
happy light glowed in her brown eyes.

Suddenly, while she was dancing with a county
magistrate, who had addressed her but twice during
the intricate tigures of the Lanciers, she was sensible
of a marked sensation in the room. Some one had
arrived.

She looked around just in time to see an old lady in
black satin and lace enter the room. Following her
was a tall man with a tawny mustache and dark,
piercing eyes; on his arm leaned a beautiful woman,
with golden red hair and a pale, fair face.

Marjorie did not need to look twice. In an instant
abe recognized Sir Roland Chesterton and Miss Mon-

ressor.

Behind them came a yellow-hairec man, with one
of those perfect Anglo-Saxon faces which one sees,
say twice in a life-time. Beautiful blue eyes, match-
ing the crisp, wavy hair, and a clean-cut mouth—that |
feature, which is so generally bad, completing the |
picture. This was Reginald Montressor, the beauty’s
brother.

But though nearly every woman’s gaze, after scan-
ning the group, returned and became. fixed on the
beauty, Marjorie searcely looked at her, passed even
the fair perfection of Reginald Montressor, but fixed
her eyes on the calm, impassive face of Sir Roland
Chesterton, while a swift flush mounted to her own
face, and one thought passed through her brain:
“Will he see and recognize me ?”

As a matter of fact, Sir Roland did not seem to see
any one. With thatimpassive composure for which
he was famous, he conducted his stately mother to
her place amid the mighty ones, and then looked
down at his ecard with an expression which, if it meant
anything, was significant of intense boredom and |
weariness.

To tell the truth, it had required all Lady Chester-
ton’s persuasive eloquence to bring him, and now
that he was there, he saw that the affair was even
worse than.he had pictured it, and he began to turn
about for some excuse for deserting the festive scene
and smoking a cigar in quietude and peace some-
where out in the street.

Tall and picturesque, in one of the attitudes which
the photographers had rendered so familiar, Helen
Montressor stood beside the black-satined old lady,
her long, exquisitely gloved hands folded on her fan,
her face wearing that smile of amusement, largely
tinged with contempt, with which a skilled actress
might view the efforts of a company of amateurs;
her blue eyes wandering slowly, majestically languid,
over the bustling mass.

“What a barbaric horde!’ she murmured sweetly
to Reginald, who, with his eye-glass, was critically
scanning the multitude.

“Yes, slightly mixed,” he answered, ‘“‘but—— By
George!” he broke in, interrupting himself. “Whata
pretty girl! What a regular beauty ye

 

And, without another word, he dropped his eye- |

glass and mingled with the crowd.

A few minutes later he was being presented to the
delighted Mrs. Gore-Boothe and the steely cold Mar-
jorie. With a well-turned compliment he sent the

good lady into the seventh heaven of delight, and |

then turned to Marjorie with a request for a dance,
which Marjorie would have coldly refused had not
her chaperon interposed :

“How fortunate! She was just saying that this
one was not engaged.”

After that there was nothing to do but yield, and
before she very well knew what had happened she
was whirling with him in a waltz. Dancing was one
of the many things which Marjorie could do to per-
fection. Ali that there was of her was in harmony
with the music, and the supple figure which Reginald

Moutressor’s arm encircled was as lithe and full of |

life as a Nautch girl’s.
A thrill of pleasure, as distinct as any that the

,in the general admiration of these two. Even the
professional beauty was forgotten, and ere long there

exquisite had experienced for many a day, went |
through him as he recognized this fact. And a half-
inaudible “By Jove!” of satisfaction and surprise
escaped his clear-cut lips.

“What did you say?” asked Marjorie.

“T gaid you danced beautifully,” he promptly an-
swered.

“T didn’t think you had said so much as that,” she
retorted. !

“It’s the truth,” he rejoined, emphatically. ‘I do |
hope,” he added, with an earnestness that surprised
himself, “that I have your step. Am I too fast— |
too slow ?”

His step was perfect, but Marjorie was not to be
eonciliated.

“Tt does not matter,’? she answered, icily; and
Reginald Montressor was forced to be contented with |
a perfect dance without conversation.

And the dance was perfect; so perfect that the |
majority of the couples on the floor were unnoticed

were not more than half a dozen couples besides |

| Marjorie and Reginald Montressor on the floor. The
‘latter was enjoying himself as he had not done in

many a season, and, for that matter, Marjorie soon
entered into the full spirit of the delightful motion
and was thinking of nothing else, when, of a sudden,
she became aware of the fact that she and her part-
ner were the center of observation, and, with a swift
flood of crimson, she abruptly stopped.

“Ts anything the matter?’ asked Reginald, dis-
mayed. “Anybody stepped on your dress? Don’t
say you are tired, Miss Deane.”

“Thank you,” was the cold answer. “1 will sit
down now,” and she laid just the tips of her fingers
on his arm.

“That was a waltz!” he murmured, enthusiastic-
ally. ‘Will you be so kind as to see if you have
another open, Miss Deane ?”

“T know that I have not,” was her chilling answer,
without even looking at her card. ‘And there is
Mrs. Gore-Boothe—thank you,” and, with the faintest
of bows, she slipped from his side.

Reginald Montressor, ‘the handsomest man of his
; day,” stood, stricken motionless. Snubbed! He could
| hardly believe his senses. But it was so, and the

worst of it was that he felt it.

Sir Roland, in the meantime, had entered into a
| talk on politics with an old gentleman, and was try-
| ing to forget where he was, when Lady Chesterton

demanded:

“Are you not going to dance, Roland?”

He looked up with an air of resignation, and, then,

seeing his cousin near him, said, with a grim smile:

“Will you venture, Helen? I dance like a bear on
hot plates—vilely! It is only right that I should

warn you.”
| “At least a bear can help me up,” she replied, with
her most dangerous smile.
| That Helen Montressor was an accomplished
| dancer was evident from the fact that she could
make even Sir Roland’s performance seem respect-
lable. Forit is quite true that great and all-powerful
as he was, he danced execrably. And the proud
beauty felt herself growing red and breathless with
the effort to maintain something like harmony of
motion. ¢

Before the waltz was half over he stopped. He was
| flushed and hot, but self-possessed as he would be—
say in the midst of a charge of cavalry.

“JT won’t torture you any longer, Helen,” he said,
in his quiet, deep voice. ‘You deserve a better per-
former than I am, and I have seen a score of men
scowling vindictively at me. Let us walk around.”

“Why do you apologize ?’’ she murmured. “Do you
| think I care so much for dancing as that? I dislike
' dancing men as I do beauty men—they trench on our
| preserves.”
| “T gha’n’t incur your displeasure in either way,” he
said, with a smile. ‘*Here is Barnwell—let me intro-

duce him. He can dance, and is good-looking enough
' to ineur your dislike.”

Lord Barnwell was delighted to make the ac-
, quaintance of the London beauty, and bore her off,

leaving Sir Roland to cool himself.

|
|
|

 

Wiping his forehead and only half concealing a

alpable yawn, he leaned against the wall with his

1ands behind his back, and watched the scene with |
an expression which certainly did not betray either
amusement or interest, and which speedily developed |
into one of utter weariness and Irritability as the
skirts of the women swept against his legs, and one
or two reckless couples bounded against his waist-
coat.

He abandoned his position and went in search of
the bar, determined to do what he could to quench
his thirst, and then go away to some safe and se-
cluded spot until the affair was over.

“Champagne, Sir Roland?” asked the waiter, ob-
sequiously.

Sir Roland nodded, and the man opened a fresh
bottle—he knew better than to offer him stale wine
—and Sir Roland had tipped the glass to his lips,
when he heard a voice behind him saying:

“Can I have some water?”

Setting the champagne glass down, he turned and
saw the face which had been haunting him for weeks.

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

SIR ROLAND MAKES ANOTHER EFFORT.

For a moment surprise- unmitigated surprise—
was his predominant feeling. As it had appeared to
him, waking—ay, and sleeping, too—it had been a
face full of haughtily passionate disdain and anger;
now it was flushed with pleasure and excitement, the
dark-brown eyes alight—positively alight with en-
ra a young girl’s intense enjoyment of her first
ball.

Instead of the dark jacket and straw hat in which
he had previously pictured her, she was clad in shim-
mering white satin, her glorious hair uncovered, one
creamy flower nestling in its soft silkiness.

There she stood, a vision of fresh youthfulness and
beauty, sufficient to stir the blood of the most lym-
phatic of men, and Sir Roland’s blood was not lym-
phatic.

Untasted, he put the champagne down on the green
baize counter, and stared—positively stared!

For a moment she did not see him, her face being
turned to the dumpy little man by her side—a lord of
the manor and lieutenant of the county for all his
dumpiness—but suddenly she became aware of the
Mere stalwart figure by her side, and, turning, saw

im.

Face to face they stood, a rich crimson glow spring-
ing into her cheeks, the dusky red—which stands
with him for a blush—into his; then, before either
of them could speak, had either intended to do so,
the lord-lieutenant exclaimed:

“How do you do, Sir Roland? Pretty full attend-
ance. Thought you weren’t here. Have they any
water? Not any water,” to his partner. ‘Will noth-
ing else do? Champagne, for instance ?”’

Hurriedly, precipitately, Marjorie declared that
anything, champagne or anything else would do.
But Sir Roland had recovered his wits and was too
quick for her.

“Water?” he said. “Certainly. Wait a moment,”
and utterly ignoring her murmur that champagne
would do, he strode away to return a few moments
later with a glass of the precious liquid.

“Thanks,” said the ford-lisutaunte, taking the glass
asa matter of course, and handing it to Marjorie.
“Pm afraid it’s not very wholesome, not the sort of
thing to drink when you're hot; but a lady’s wish—
ahem!”

Marjorie sipped the water, and the two men
watched her as if they believed the liquid some magic
potion, the drinking of which would result in her
sudden disappearance from before their eyes. Sud-
denly Sir Réland, who had been turning a little pro-
ject over in his mind, said to the lord-lieutenant,
speaking with the utmost innocence and gravity of
expression :

‘Ah, Sir Morton, was that somebody calling you?
IT suppose you stewards are very much in demand.
Don’t wait. Dll see that your partner wants for
nothing.”

And Sir Morton, being, as Sir Roland very well
knew, a conscientious steward, left his beautiful

| securely held, dropped
| stooped and picked it up.

! partner and hurried away to see what was desired of

him.

But Marjorie was not as easily deceived as he,
and immediately rose with surpassing dignity, the
color coming into her face with an indignant flush.
Without a word she made a movement to pass Sir
Roland and return to the ball-room. He quietly bar-
red her way, Saying, politely:

“Since your escort has been called away——”

“T heard no one ¢all,”’ interrupted Marjorie, her
dark eyes flashing with the promise of battle.

“Nor did I,” answered Sir Roland, with an outward
calmness that belied’ the irregular beating of his
heart. “ButIam sure he must have been wanted—
and I—I want a moment in which to ask if you have
forgiven me. Have you?” he asked, in a tone of the
deepest reverence and humility.

“Forgiven you?’ repeated Marjorie, crimson now
to her round throat. ‘For what?”

“Ah,” he said, “you have forgotten, no doubt—
that is too probable. ButI have not.”

“No,” she said suddenly, and with a subtle inten-
sity, which puzzled him, “I have not forgotten.”

“Nor forgiven?” he asked, ina low tone of real
anxiety.

Marjorie looked down.

“Can it matter to you?” she asked, simply, and with
an utter absence of coquetry. ‘‘Canit matter whether
I have or not?”

“Yes,” he said, sincerely, “it matters very much. It
matters so much that I have been uneasy ever since
you left me so—so—well, so angrily—and all for no
fault of mine A swift glance of the brown eyes
stopped him, but he went on again—‘‘for no fault of
mine. Are you still implacable?’

He seemed so sincere—she had been enjoying her-
self so much—she hesitated before answering; she
was lost. She glanced up into the earnest gray eyes,
and answered :

“Tf you lay so much stress upon it, I will say that I
have forgiven you.”

Then she made an inclination of her lovely head
that said plainly enough that the interview was at
an end; but at that moment her ball programme, in-
from her hand, and he

 

“You have taken a load off my mind,” he said,
seriously, and with that grave look which gave im-
portance to his lightest word. “But you are sure?
It was but areluctant absolution. May I put it to
the test ?”

“The test?” murmured Marjorie.

He inclined his head.

“Will you give me the next—any dance ?”’ he asked.

The request brought out all her aggressiveness,
and she answered coldly, hardly looking at him:

“Tam engaged.”

“For all?” he demanded.
May I look at it?”

She put out her hand swiftly, but it was too late.

“T am fortunate,” he said. ‘The next dance is un-
claimed. I may haveit? Tf you refuse me I shail
pink that your forgiveness goes no deeper than your
ips.

. “If Tam not engaged,” she faltered, biting her red
ips.

“No, look,’ he answered, and she bent forward
until her head was so near his that he could smell
the sweet fragrance of the flower in her hair. ‘‘You
see, you are not,” he said. ‘Will you give itto me?
Itis ashame to ask you, for I am, I suppose, the
worst dancer in the room; but still ask it as a proof
that I have won your forgiveness. Imay have it?’

Without a word, she put the merest end of her
gloved hand on his outheld arm, and he led her into
the crowd. They had just begun a mazurka, an old-
fashioned dance one seldom sees on a modern pro-
gramme, but which the country balls cling to. It
was a dance of which Sir Roland was as ignorant as
a Laplander might be expected to be; but he put his
arm around Marjorie and started desperately. Of
course they had not gone a quarter way around the
room before he had made a dozen—twenty false
steps.

You see,” he said, ‘“‘what your clemency has cost
you! Iam as ignorant as a bear, and you have lost

“T have your card here.

yourdance. I would give the world to be able to
ee with you.”

There was so much sincerity in his voice that Mar-
jorie was touched.

‘Let me show you,” she said. “See! You take a
step like this—and this—and then like this.”

And in her eagerness she illustrated her meaning,
standing a little away from him, and forgetting
every thing—that anybody might be looking, or that
he was a hated aristocrat who had offended her be-
yond pardon.

“T gee,” he cried, eagerly as herself. Eagerly! when
but a quarter of an hour before he had declared the
whole thing a bore. ‘Now, let me try.”

“That is a little better,” said Marjorie, doubtfully.
“Don’t take such enormous strides.”

“T won't,” he said, humbly. ‘It seems to me that
one’s legs are rather in the way of executing this ex-
tremely Sphinx-like dance; and I have rather long
legs,” he added, ruefully.

“Never niind,” said Marjorie, smiling encourag-
ingly. “You are improving.”

“Growing shorter, do you mean?’ he asked, with
deep gravity.

“No,” she laughed, ‘‘dancing more like a——”

“A civilized being,” he finished for her, ‘thanks to
your tuition. You have been very patient with me—
more patient than I should have expected—had any
right to expect, I mean,” he corrected, quickly, an
ominous arching of the straight, dark brows warning
him that the hot temper was only dozing, and neede
but a word to rouse it and—separate them.

And Sir Roland would not for worlds be separated
yet from the capricious creature, who in some way
1ad unwittingly raised him from the depths of
weariness to the giddy heights of amusement and
pleasure.

It was not her beauty, it was not altogether her
sweet, young grace, though he saw and appreciated
both, as he felt the lithe figure on his arm and looked
down at the face, with its blood-red lips and softly
flashing eyes, all life and youth. It is something
more than this—a nameless charm, springing from
her sublime indifference of conventionalities, her un-
stained innocence of self-consciousness, and her
amazing independence.

“Tll-tempered !’’ he thought, as he glanced down.
“I pity the wretch who dances at the end of the
chain she holds!”’

But even as the thought entered his mind she
raised her eyes, and his pity for her future husband
was swallowed up in a sudden irrepressible admira-
tion, overpowering his cold judgment, and making
his heart beat quick and fast against hers. So en-
grossed was he in contemplation, admiration, and
half a dozen other emotions ofthe heart and brain,
that he had forgotten that they were not the sole
possessors of Cranford Town Hall, and that two or
three hundred persons were remarking his rapt face
and close attention to his partner, and that his lady
mother sat upright as a dart, in her black satin, and
watched him with a set face and eyes that were crys-
tallized with surprise, behind those gold-rimmed
glasses.

“Will some one be so good as to tell me with whom
my son is dancing?” she asked at last, and in a voice
as stony as her stare.

Then the dowagers and countesses raised their
glasses and pretended that they noted for the first
time that Sir Roland was dancing. They shook their
heads. Not one of them knew her.

But Sir Roland was utterly indifferent to the satis-
faction or chagrin of the onlookers, and struggled
valiantly and happily on. He had forgotten that he
had distinctly deserted Helen Montressor, and that
she must be watching him and the rival for whom he
had deserted her. It did not occur to him that there
were at least a score of high-born damsels with whom
he should have daneed before offering himself to this
fair unknown, and a civil word to whom he had not
yetevenspoken. _

Nothing “of: thatro@eurred to him, and if isdad it
would ngt:have troubled him. It was enough for him
at. that Moment that the sweet young face rested
almost on his shoulder; that the fragrance of the
flower, lying like a jewel incased in her silken hair,

 

 

 

Price 26 Cents. For sae by all Newsdealers: or, Address
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—

 

'
stole over his eager senses; that the young maiden

heart beat so near—n) perilously near—his own.

And the truth shall be told—Marjorie, too, had been
unconsciously enjoying, not the dance, but the situa-
tion, until she suddenly realized it. when immedi-
ately her step grew slower with the intention of
stopping. - .

“One more turn,” pleaded Sir Roland, with an
eagerness that surprised himself. :

Marjorie yielded, as the easiest way of ending the
dance; but it was a fatal request, for they had not
made a circuit of the room when his uncertain feet
stumbled, and a Sharp, tearing sound told the story
of arent gown.

Flushed and panting, Marjorie looked down as she

disengaged herself. A slit a yard in length ran along
the front of her white satin.

“There!” said Sir Roland, remorsefully ; ‘‘I knew I
shoulti do some damage! That comes of dancing
with an untaught savage. Whatis to be done?”

From looking ruefully down, Marjorie looked up at
his aghast countenance, and she could not but laugh.

“How did you manage to do it?’ she mirthfully
asked, ‘

“Upon ny word I don’t know.
caught in it.”

“But how? You haven’t spurs on, have you?” and
she glanced demurely at his heels. ,

“How good of you not to be furious with me!” ex-
claimed Sir Roland, with a gratitude in which there
Was some wonder. r

“Tt must seem odd in me,” said Marjorie, with a
twinkle in her brown eyes. ‘Well,’ with a sigh, “I
suppose I must go home.” . De

“Wome? Nonsense!” cried Sir Roland, in positive
alarm at the idea. ‘‘Why, the ball isn’t half over, and
I was to have had another dance.”

“Another dance!’ repeated Marjorie.

“Well,” said the unabashed, and yet somewhat
fearful Sir Roland, ‘‘I was going to beg very ard for
one, At any rate, you mustn’t go yet. Let us go into
the gallery, out of the way. Can’tsomething be done?
Can’t we pin it up?” : ;

“A pin at a ball!” exclaimed Marjorie. “You might
as well ask for a battle ax.” ?

They were in the gallery by this time, and Sir Ro-
land was looking round in despair, when he saw one
of the female attendants passing near, and called out
to her, with a request for pins. Fortunately she had
some, and would have set about fixing the rent at
once, but Sir Roland would not have it so. He
dropped on one knee, and held out his hand for the

ins.

- “Give me the pins,’”’ he said. ‘“That’sit. Now an-
other. One more will doit. What's the matter?’

For Marjorie’s rippling laughter, which had_ pro-
vided a sort of accompanying music to his millinery
performance, died suddenly away, and the satin was
jerked so swiftly and unexpectedly that a pin ran
into his finger.

“What on earth have I done now?” he demanded,
staring up at her. Then, following the direction of
her eyes, he, still on his knee, turned his head.

There, close behind them, stood my Lady Chester-
ton, like a statue of Fate robed in black satin. Be-
hind her, pale and contemptuous, shone the fair face
of Helen Montressor; while, to complete the picture,
Mrs. Gore-Boothe sailed in, and, stopping suddenly,
stared likewise. 4

Tt formed what a stage manager would call an in-
teresting tableau.

But not for even a moment was Sir Roland ata
loss. Still kneeling, he very coolly confronted the
three pairs of eyes, and even threw a tone of relief
into his voice, as he said:

“You have just come in time! Mrs. Gore-Boothe,
you may well stand transfixed with wrath and dis-
may. I am the sacrilegious wretch whose barbarous
foot has wrought this deed! Show your consideration
for apenitent soul by assisting him to repair the
wrong he has committed.”

This purposely verbose explanation had enabled
Marjorie to regain her self-possession, lost in the first
moment of dismay.

Mrs. Gore-Boothe, too, grasped the situation, and
hurried forward to take Sir Roland’s place.

As for Lady Chesterton, she merely stared at Mar-

“jorie’s face for a moment, then put her hand, firm as
adamant, for all her furiously beating heart, upon
Helen Montressor’s arm, and was about to turn
away.

But Sir Roland was not one to let matters go so.
With his most courtly air, concealing perhaps a touch
of imperiousness, he turned to Lady Chesterton,
saying:

**Mother, let me introduce you to this lady, who will
perhaps accept your assurance that I ain not gene-
rally given to this crime——”

There he suddenly stopped, as the fact flashed upon
him that he did not even know Marjorie’s namie. But
Mrs. Gore-Boothe had retained her wits, and was
quick to comprehend the dilemma. She rose from
the floor, and softly, even deprecatingly, said :

“Tam sure my young friend has forgiven you long
ago, Sir Roland. Lady Chesterton, this is Miss Deane,
of Harley House.”

But Marjorie raised her eyes with a quick gesturé
of repudiation, which made Sir Roland’s pulse beat
with admiration, and the color flashed into her face
as she lifted it haughtily and confronted the proud
old woman’s steel-cold eyes.

For a moment Lady Chesterton looked at her;with
haughty disdain; but presently—it seemed an age—
the steady, defiant pride in the young brown eyes
staggered—it is the only word—staggered her, and
she bent her head.

But Marjorie did not give the faintest acknowl-
edgment of the salute. She stood statuesque and
immovable; and, for the first time in Berkshire his-
tory, Lady Chesterton of the Wold, received a decided
rebuff.

My foot inust have

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Pals In Book-Form.

THE QUAKER SPY.

A Tale of the Revolutionary War.
By JASPER W. WILDWOOD.

(“THE QUAKER Spy,” was commenced in No. 32. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

 

CHAPTER XXII.
WHAT TWO WOMEN DID.

As the door, all shattered and broken, fell inward,
John Roberts and Abraham Carlisle, followed by the
woman before spoken of, rushed forward.

Naomi, holding up her bleeding hand, confronted
them with a fearless face, for she felt assured that
God had heard her prayers, that help was indeed
near, else how would the one who @ealled for her
signal know her name and captivity.

“Has the Jezebel been attempting to escape?”
eried John Roberts, who saw the broken window and
her bleeding hand.

“What folly! A bird could scarcely fly through
that aperture,” cried Abraham Carlisle. .

Both these men were now dressed in Quaker. cos-
tume.

“Nevertheless, she hath tried it. Look at her
bleeding hand!” said Roberts. ‘Ha! she hath a
paper in her hand. A letter, mayhap, from some
arch-traitor. Girl, give it.here!”’

“Never!” said Naomi, and she instantly put the
letter in her mouth to swallow it.

The brute sprang upon her, clutched her by the
throat, and strove to tear the paper from her mouth;
but in a secortd, with a scream of agony, he released
his hold and tore his lacerated fingers from her
mouth. She had almost bitten them off; and now,
before he could renew his dastardly attack, she swal-
lowed the paper.

“Thee hadst better have died at once than thus
have treated me!’ cried the maddened wretch. “I
will have no mercy on thee now. . I would not marry
thee now for thrice thy dowry. Thou shalt kiss the
dust I walk through in thy agony and——”

John Roberts ceased his loud threats as suddenly
as if he had been struck by paralysis, and he shook
from head to foot with sudden terror, for within six
inches of his face the muzzle of a huge dragoon
pistol bore fairly on his eye, while the finger of a
stern-faced woman pressed the trigger.

“Breathe not, move not, or you die as you stand,
you miserable wretch !” said this woman.

John Roberts looked and saw that Abraham Car-
lisle was on his knees before another woman, who
held a pistol close to his pallid face.

The servant-woman cowered terror-stricken in a
corner.

“Naomi Bliss,” said the woman who held the pistol
to the head of John Roberts, ‘“‘take the cords from
thy bedstead and bind this wretch hand and foot,
and then I will show thee how to gag him. After he
is secured, we will attend to the other. And if either
breathes a loud word now, it is the last he speaks on
earth. I have sworn it!” :

Naomi needed no second bidding, no instructions
now. She knew what must be done to secure her
liberty. She tore off the bed-clothes, unknotted the
strong bed-cord, and cutting it with the knife which
protruded from the waistcoat of Roberts—the very
knife he had threatened to kill her with—she bound
his hands behind him and his feet together. Then
she forced a portion of a sheet into his mouth, by
direction of the strange woman, and tied it there
with a part of the cord, drawn around back of his
neck with cruel force.

Then Abraham Carlisle was sectired and gagged in
the same way, and the woman-servant, also, though
cn promised silence and pleaded piteously for re-

ease.

 
 
 

 

   

os THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

EI VOL, a4-N, 38,

 

“Our own safety demands thy detention,” said the
strange wolnan.

Then turning to her companion, she said :

“Now, Deborah, hasten home with Naomi. I have
some other work to do at this post of the enemy, but
will see thee again. Leave my garments and my
horse where I bade you, and keep my secret.”

“Yea, that will I,” said the young Quakeress whom
she called Deborah. ‘‘Remember thy promise, too,
for I shall not rest easy till I see thee again.”

“T will not forget,” said the woman, and she said
to Naomi, “Follow Deborah without fear, and when
you meet Adab Slocomb, tell him his friend, who
lives now only for ‘Washington and Glory,’ has saved
you that he may be happy.”

“Heaven will reward thee; I never can,” mur-
mured Naomi, and casting one look at the prostrate
aud helpless wretches who had caused her so much
agony. she hurried out, with Deborah holding her by
the hand. ,

“Tell Adab Slocomb, if you meet him, to keep thee
hereafter well guarded, and get away from this
vicinity quickly,” cried the woman after them, as
they went out.

Naowi trembled when she got on the street, but her
companion said:

“Thee need not fear. We will soon be out of the
town, and at my father’s house. He will speedily
place thee beyond all danger of recapture.”

“T will strive to be calm,” said Naomi. “But I
would rather die than again fall into the power of
those wicked men.”

In a very few ininutes they were out of the crowded
streets and on the outskirts of the town, and Naomi
began to breathe more freely.

All at once a deathly pallor came upon her face,
and she stopped still on the road, gasping for breath.

“What aileth thee?’ asked her companion, in

alarm

“Look—look—it is Adab—it is Adab/!” cried the
pallid girl, pointing to one of two men who were ap-
proaching them from the opposite direction.

And she fainted, and would have fallen but for the
sustaining arm of Deborah Stacy.

“It was indeed Isaac Stacy and Adab Slocomb,
who were on their way into the town to look for the
very persons they now met.

Adab rushed forward, and clasping Naomi in his
arms, wept like a child for joy, while Isaac Stacy
said, tenderly:

“Tam glad to have found thee, Deborah, for my
heart misgave me greatly. “What hast thou done
with that young soldier ?”’

“He has gone his way and I have come mine, dear
father,” said the girl, demurely. “Why dost'thou not
help thy friend ?—for yonder maiden hath fainted!”

“She is coming to herself,’ said Adab. .‘*Lean on
me altogether, dear Naomi. Thou art safe, and no
mortal power shall tear thee from me!” .

“‘Adab, oh. I have suffered so much!” she moaned.

And it seemed as if she would faint again.

“Do not speak; do not try to tell me now. We will
go quickly back to the house of Friend Stacy, and
thou shalt rest and be refreshed.”

“The sooner she is on her way to a safer hiding-
place the better,” said Deborah. ‘‘I and another have
rescued her from the direst peril, leaving her ene-
mies bound and gagged; aud if they are released
from whom we took her the British soldiers will be
sent after thee and her.”

“Thy daughter speaks truly,” said Adab to Isaac
Stacy. “Our stay with thee must be brief.”

“T have a wagon in which she can rest while -we
travel,” said Isaac Stacy. ‘The Lord forbid that I
should shrink from any toil or peril when one. as
good and innocent as mine own cbild is in deadly
danger. I will harness up as soon as we reach the
house, and we will take a route they will not sus-
pect, one which will speedily carry us into the Ameri-
can lines near the camp of Washington.”

“TI will forever be indebted to thee,” said Adab.

They now moved quickly back to Stacy’s house, and
within twenty minutes the good old Quaker was
driving off in a light covered wagon, while Adab rode
behind on his rested horse.

Deborah waved her adieus as they drove out of
sight up toward the head waters of the Raritan.

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE IMPERILED CAPTIVES.

Left prone on the floor, facing each other, John
Roberts and Abraham Carlisle glared at each other
in rage and agony, neither able to speak, neither able
to move. The woman alone had been left in a sitting
posture in a chair near the window, butshe could not
speak er move from her position, for she, too, was
bound hand and foot, though not with the cruel
tightness of the two men. The rope which secured
her was also fastened to theiron bar which protected
the window.

John Roberts strove, till it seemed as if his veins
would burst open, to loosen his bonds, butall in vain.
Abraham Carlisle watched him, and seeing that he
struggled in vain, only exhausting himself, remained
quiet for his own part, evidently hoping some one
— come in, discover their situation, and release
them.

Suddenly there was heard a tearful commotion in
the town outside of the window. Plainly the sounds
came in to the ears of the helpless ruffians. The
ringing of bells, drums beating the assembly. and
then, louder and plainer, the shouts of—‘Fire !
Fre!

The woman, who was seated so she could look
from the window, seemed terror-stricken, and yet,
unable to move from the spot where she was, could
not explain her terror. Her eyes were wild with
fear, her face turned to an ashen hue, and she shook
from head to foot.

Roberts and Carlisle heard the wild alarm, they
saw her face, and they seewed to know that they, as
well as she, were in deadly peril.

The warehouses where the British kept their stores
were on the river-bank, just above the house where
they were now lying helpless. If these houses were
on fire, what could save those two men and that
helpless woman? Nothing—nothing!

The terror of the woman seemed to increase with
the clamor. Great clouds of smoke swept past the
window, obscuring the sky beyond. Yells, shouts,
the crackling of leaping flames, reached the ears of
the poor wretches on the floor. The woman wildly
dashed her head forward against a corner of the
wall and loosened the gag in her mouth, and finally
got it clear so she could speak.

“Curse ye!” she shrieked to the Quakers. “You
two cowards got me into this scrape. The ware-
houses are all on fire, and this house must come next.
We must die—we must die!”

Great drops of sweat oozed out on her ashy face
as she tried to gnaw asunder the rope that bound
her to the iron bar. She could reach no other, for
her hands were tied behind her back, and she could
not raise her feet.

The Quakers were wild with the agony of terror,
but utterly helpless. They tried to roll toward the
door, but it lay a broken heap on the fioor and they
could not pass it.

Nearer and nearer came smoke and flame, the
sparks driving into the woman’s face as she shrieked
wildly through the window, for she had dashed out
all the glass with her head, heedless of the cruel
gashes it made. E

“Help! help!” she screamed, in the wild agony of
a certain—a terrible death.

Darker and darker swept the smoke-cloud on until
it came stifling into the reom, and then the flames
lighted up its night-like blackness as it swept past
the narrow window. : :

“Help! help!” screamed the wretched woman, in
tones that seemed to pierce the very walls.

And now, if she was not heard, death must soon
end the agony of all in that room, for the craekling
flames overhead told that the house was all ablaze. |

But a shriek of joy broke from her cracked lips, and
she shouted, ‘Saved! Saved!” as rushing footsteps
came up the stairs.

A band of soldiers, rushing in, found the woman and
the two helpless Quakers, and carried them out, as
the flames came sweeping into the room where they
had lain so helpless all this time.

In twenty minutes more the whole row of houses,
with all the British stores and munitions, was in
ashes, bare walls alone standing to show what had
been there.

Unbound and placed on their feet, the woman
and the two Quakers told their story in their own
way. They were carrying off a rebel girl to New
York, to punish her lover, who was with Washing-
ton. They had been surprised—they would not say
by two women, but by armed men—who knocked
them down, tied, and gagged them. These men, they
said, were doubtless rebels come to rescue the girl,
and they had most likely set the storehouses on fire
to cover their escape with the fair fugitive.

Iustautly the British commander ordered scouting
parties out to try and find the girl and her rescuers,
and to capture or slay them wherever found.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A FRIENDLY WARNING.

As soon as Isaac Stacy got out of sight of the town,
he drove rapidly forward, anxious to put as many
miles as possible between himself and the British
lines before darkness compelled him to go slower.

Both Adab and himself heard the distant alarm
when the fire broke out, but for some time did not
imagine the cause; but when dense clouds of smoke
rose in the direction of the town, they knew there
was a large fire somewhere in the place or -its imme-
diate vicinity.

That it might be his own domicile, entered the
mind of Isaac Stacy, for he knew he was not liked by
the British, but he said nothing of this to Adab or to
Naomi, who was able to sit up by Adab’s side and talk
cheerfully. Yet Isaac knew if his house was burned,
his wife and daughter would be homeless, if not ex-
posed to greater danger before his return.

But he had set his heart on one duty, the putting of
that poor orphan girl beyond the reach of Be perse-
cutors, and he,would not turn back, nor for an in-
stant hesitate in his course.

Nothing occurred for several hours to denote dan-
ger or pursuit, and the high grounds, where Adab
knew he would find the American outposts, were in
sight as twilight began to close in upon them. They
were how going quite slow, for the horses began to
show unequivocal signs of fatigue.

 

 

Suddenly a horseman at full speed came dashing
up in their rear, and Adab had only time to see that
he wore the Continental uniform, when he cried out,
in a shrill, startling voice: :

“Drive on! drive on at your utmost speed and gain
the hills. A scout of British dragoons is following
close in your track. Haste! I will cover you as long
as I can.”

In aninstant Isaac Stacy comprehended his danger.
If overtaken and recognized his home would be de-
stroyed, if it had not been destroyed already, and his
leved ones imperiled. If overtaken by a force of
armed men, how could he and Adab, both unarmed,
hope to save the eons ae at his side.

-Furiously he plied his whip, and his horses dashed
on over the rough road at a gallop. Adab turned and
saw that the strange horseman rode but a little way
in the rear, and he kept his own position near the
wagon.

They were now dashing along by theside of a rush-
ing breok, and on both sides a covert of small trees
threw a shadow over the star-lit road.

Suddenly there was a erash, and Isaac Stacy
groaned aloud, His fore axle had struck a stump,
and his wagon was disabled.

And close upon them in the rear, shouting as they
came, rode six burly dragoons, their drawn swords
flashing as they came. :

Adab set his teeth hard together, and turned his
horse as he saw the Continental soldier wheel and
confront the enemy.

Two sudden flashes, two loud reports, and Adab
saw that but four dragoons rushed on the undaunted
ae. whose sword now flashed out from its scab-

ard.

“The Lord help him!” groaned Adab; and driving 4
the spurs into his horse, he dashed over the road to
the aid of his unknown friend.

And he was needed, for the hero was only able to
parry the shower of blows rained upon his defending
blade by all four of the dragoons, when Adab bore
down, shouting:

‘‘WASHINGTON AND GLORY !”

For he had recognized his friend of.aforetimes, and
now, clutching adragoon by the throat and hurling
him furiously to the earth, he drew the attack partly
on himself and enabled the heroic soldier tocut down
two of his opponents and wound the third just as he
made a fearful cut at Adab’s head, which, descend-
ing on his shoulder with terrible force, opened it
deep into the bone, utterly disabling him for the
time, though he did not fall from his horse.

The wounded dragoon, keeping his saddle, turned
and fled, leaving five of his comrades on the ground,
and their horses and arms in the possession of the
party they had so fruitlessly attacked.

. “Are you badly hurt ?” asked the Continental sol-
dier, approaching Adab, who had dismounted.

“Sorely—but tell not the damsel in yonder wagon,”
said Adab, faintly. ‘I bleed terribly.”

“Tsaac Stacy, come hither,” cried the young soldier.
“Help Adab Slocomb into thy wagon, and when I se-
cure these horses and the arms scattered about, I
willcome and aid thee te stanch his wound. We
will not be followed any more to-night. This is the
only party that took This road, and but one has
escaped, and I doubtif he lives to return to his post,
for he hath a prod through and through his right
breast just below the shoulder.” ;

Isaac Stacy came just in time to “er Adab from
falling, and in a second more Naomi, who had heard
all, was with him too, and together they got Adab
into the wagon, where the soldier washed the wound
with ice-cold water, and then bound it up with heavy
bandages made from linen or lint with which he was
provided.

As Adab was nearly insensible, he could make no
objection or resistance when they laid him down in
the wagon, and now Isaac Stacy and the soldier left
him to the care of Naomi, and went to repairing
the broken axle. i ;

With a piece of timber, providentially found in the
road, aud a strong rope, they so spliced it that with
eareful driving they could proceed, and once more,
after fully two hours’ delay, they moved slowly on—
the arms of. the defeated dragoons allin the wagon
and the horses tied behind.

The Continental soldier rode in the rear of all, say-
ing he would keep watch and hold guard until the
American lines were reached,

This occurred just as the gray of dawn began to
brighten the east, and then, while Isaac was explain-
ing who he was to the advanced guard, the Conti-
nental soldier rode past and said to the officer in
command :

“Be pleased, sir, to send these people with a guide
direct to General Washington. I will tell Deborah,
Friend Stacy, that thou art safe and will return to
her speedily, if it be safe for youto return. If not,
you shall have timely warning, and she and your
wife safe escort to your side.”

The soldier waited for no reply, bnt dashed away
over the road they had just passed, and was out of
sight in a moment. Bs

“Strange! Strange! He talketh of Deborah as if
she and he were very closely connected!” muttered
Isaac. ‘‘Butheisa good youth, and a brave one.
The British dragoons went down before his pistols
and sword like stubble before the fire! He is a good
youth, and if he loveth Deborah, and she him, it is
the will of the Spirit, and I will not gainsay it.”

Adab, very feeble, was yet sensible and had heard
all. He knew that his head was pillowed in the lap
of Naomi, and that she was safe. That he would also
soon be in the presence of his beloved chief, and that
he could report that he had used his best endeavors
to arrest the traitors, though they had escaped for
the time. ;

It was near noonday before the wagon of Isaac
Stacy drew up in. front of Washington’s lead-
quarters.

There Adab was helped out, and soon, waited upon
by the chief himself, his story was told; Naomi and
Isaac Stacy were introduced, and the heroism of the
strange Continental soldier was once more made the
subject of discourse. :

The mystery which surrounded him—his invincible
hefoism, his constant presence when Adab was in
peril, were all talked over and again. General Wash-
ington said the moment his name could be brought
to light it should fill a captain’s commission.

The five dragoon horses, with the arms and full
equipments, were valuable acquisitions just then,
and five more men in the picked Life Guard were
armed and mounted.

On the next morning, just as Isaac Stacy, with his
wagon repaired, and ten bright guineas in his poc-
ket, was starting on his return, the sergeant and es-
eort which Adab had left in oe came into
camp, and they wondered much when they found
that Adab had returned before them.

His wound, now dressed with care, proved less
dangerous than might. have been feared, but it was
bad enough to disable him for some weeks.

As the enemy at this time showed no signs of
moving on Philadelphia, appearing to have given it
up since their many reverses in New Jersey, Wash-
ington advised that Adab, with Naomi for his nurse,
be removed by easy stages to Philadelphia, there to
remain until his wound was entirely healed, when
Washington said he would again welcome him to his
military family, on the same footing he had held be-
fore as a confidential scout.

Adab, knowing that it was best Naomi should be at
home, away from the scandals of a camp, gladly con-
sented to this—for he knew himself he could be of no
service to his country for some time, and that his
mother and Petrunia Stone would be greatly relieved
by his return with Naomi.

And—this in a whisper to you, dear reader—he had
found Naomi so dear to him as a nurse that he
yearned to call her wife, and she had consented, if
on their return it met with the approval of his
mother and her aunt, to go before the Meeting as
soon as Adab was able, and there have their public
espousal made known. :

Washington had, at the request of Adab, within an
hour after his arrival in camp sent a special mes-
senger to Hannah Slocomb to announce the safe ar-
rival of Naomi and Adab inthe American camp—
that her aunt might rejoice in her escape from John
Roberts and his vile colleague.

CHAPTER XXvV.
A MYSTIFIED FATHER.

Isaac Stacy was very anxious to reach his home
speedily, but he did not make quite as good time on
his return as he did in his flight with Adab and
Naomi. ‘

In truth he wanted to so time himself as to reach
his home in the night, so as not to have any out-
siders witness his return to report from what direc-
tion he came. As he could not reach there the first
night, he so regulated his speed as to reach his farm-
house just after dark on the second night, which
made his full absence amount to four days.

He was greatly relieved ashe approached the farm
to see the outlines of his house and capacious barns,
for he had feared all the time it was they which had
been set on fire when he was speeding away.

He drove up a lane, softened with grassy turf,
making little noise with his wagon wheels, and
helted at the barn, a hundred yards or so from the

ouse.

As he drew his horses up, he saw a sight which as-
tonished him considerably.

It was evidently his daughter, bidding farewell to
a horseman who stood by the door, and judging from
the fact that her arms were around the neck of the
horseman and her lips pressed to his, it was a very
affectionate farewell.

Isaac Stacy determined to see into its meaning,
and he strode toward the house rapidly, taking no
care to conceal his approach, but the horseman--the
Continental soldier again—was mounted and ready
to ride off, as he came near.

““Good-evening, Friend Stacy; I’m glad to see you
safe home,” he cried, in a cheerful tone, and then,
without waiting for a reply, dashed the spurs into his
horse and galloped off. :

“Deborah, I am astonished at thee!’’ was the ex-
clamation of Isaac Stacy. “Did I not see thee kiss
and embrace that stranger—that soldier, whose hand
is red with the blood of his fellow-men ?”’

“That soldier is no stranger to me, dear father,’
said Deborah, promptly. ‘I did embrace and kiss
him, and I will do it again whenever I meet him. Is
it for thee to speak of his having shed blood when

“T am rebuked,” said Isaac, who felt that she had

the point on him. ;

“But because he hath helped ne and my friends
and thine in the-hour of trouble, doth it behoove
pane or become thee, to kiss him asif he were thy

over?’

Deborah laughed till the air rang, and her mother
came to the door to see what was the matter.

‘Tsaac, I am glad to see thee back again,” she said.
“Hast thou left thy friends in safety ?”’

“Yea, safer, it seems to me, than those I have left
behind me here,” muttered Tsaac, and he turned
toward the barn to house his team. By

“What is the matter with thy father? He seems ill
at ease, and not very glad to be with us{again,” said
Deborah's mother.

“Thee must ask him when he comes in,” said
Deborah, again laughing merrily.

“He did not discover, did he, the secret?’ asked
the old lady.

“Nay, and he must not at present,” said Deborah.
“Thy word and mine are pledged to that.” ~

“Yea, verily, that is so, though it is not seemly to
have secrets in the family. But in this, surely there
is no harm.” :

“And so much fun, dear mother!” cried Deborah,
who could not restrain her laughter.

“Levity is unbecoming,” said the mother; but she
seemed to find it difficult to keep a sober face.

In a little while Isaac Stacy came in.

“Where was the fire on the day we left?’ he
asked. .

“It started in the houses used by the British for
the storage of provisions, arms, and clothing. It
Swept away some other buildings owned by Tories
in the same row. The captors of Naomi Bliss barely
escaped with their lives, being well smoke-dried and
somewhat scorched when rescued by the soldiers.”

“It would have been better.for the country had
they burned!” said Isade, sternly. ‘Was the fire ac-
cidental ?”

“An accident, done on purpose,” said Deborah,
laughing. “I think the young soldier who shed the
blood of the British dragoons who pursued thee sét
the warehouses on fire, so as to distress the enemy
by the loss of stores and munitions.”

“Thy lover, why didst thou not say at once?’

“T did not wish to displease thee, my father.”

“Tf thee kisses him again, thee will displease me,”
said Isaac, impatiently. ‘‘The next thing I know
thee will be running away with him!”

: “Or he with me, dear father; said Deborah, laugh-
ng. eel
Her mother laughed also.

“Ruth Stacy, if thee sees anything to laugh at in
the conduct of thy daughter and mine, J do not,” said
Isaac, angrily.

“T have not seen any misconduct in the child,” said
the mother.

“Then thee is very blind. See if thee can get me
some supper,” said Isaae. ;

Deborah sprang to set out the table, and when her
He jeg arose to prepare some coffee, the cloth was

aid.

In a little while Isaac had put a good supper under
his waistcoat, and felt in a better humor.

Seated by the fire, he related the events of his
journey—how kindly he had been treated by Wash-
ington, and how Adab had got along after his’ ter-
rible wound. He could not avoid giving the particu-
lars of the encounter with the pursuing dragoons,
and, in spite of his aversion to the shedding of blood,
his eye kindled and his face flushed as he told how
the brave young Continental faced six armed foe-
Pe alone, leaving three down before aid came to

im.

“Though he sheds blood in Self-defense and burns
up the property of our wicked enemies, he is a very
bad and wicked person, is he not?” asked Deborah,
with a twinkle in her a pees brown eyes.

“IT did not say that. I only objected to thy hugging
and kissing him,” said Isaac, sharply. “But say no
more about it. Idare say he will go back to the
army and stay there.”

“Yea, unless I send for him,” said Deborah. “But
should danger come upon us, he will not be so far
away but that I can signal for his assistance. He is
a true friend of Washington. and of our country.”

“And of thee also, judging from what I saw this
evening,” said Isadc, with less asperity than before.

“T will vouch that no harm will come upon our
daughter, no matter how much she loves him,” said
his wife. ‘So set thy heart at rest, Isaac.”

“IT must, whether I will or not,” he answered,
smiling. ‘Milk that is spilled cannot be gathered
up again.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

“THEODORA” is an exciting dramaticstory, founded
on the play of the same name, by Victorien Sardou.
Complete for 25 cents, in No. 5 of THE SEA AND
SHORE SERIES.. ;

oe

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

A Titled Counterfeiter

OR, THE

AMERICAN DETECTIVE IN. FRANCE,

By NICK CARTER,
THE GREAT NEW YORK DETECTIVE,
Author of ‘‘The Crime of a Countess.”

 

{A TITLED COUNTERFE ‘TER” was commenvcedin No. 26
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XXXI.—(CONTINUED.)

HE blow upon Wat’s head provi-
dentially had not done any
more than stun him, and even
as he lay there he had tested
the knots by which he was tied.

They were better tied than
those which had bound him

earlier in the evening, but he
Ih knew that if he had time he
could free himself. es
i! my It was certain, however, that
he could not be able tofree himself without attracting
attention to himself and therefore he made no attempt
at all then.

«We have brought your Monsieur Robinson here,” said
De Virenne, ‘“‘in order that you might see with your own
beautiful eyes that he is powerless to protect you.”

Wat would have liked to say something encouraging
to Lucette now, but, consulting prudence, refrained.

“You see,” went on De Virenne,” “he is only a man
after all. Nothing more. Something less, perhaps—a
Yankee detective who hopelessly pits himself against an
ordinary Frenchman. That is all I pretend to be.”

“You triumph now, It will be his turn next,” ans-
wered Lucette, coldly.

She would not have spoken at all had she not noticed
that Wat was looking at her, and she wished him to
understand, with all a woman’s generosity, that his fail-
ure had not'shaken her confidence in him.

Wat looked his thanks, but did not speak.

De Virenne now came up to him, and eying him nar-
rowly saw that he had recovered conscidusness.

«So,” he said, with a wicked gleam in his eye, ‘“‘you have
fallen in my power at last! Well, I shall take good care
of younow. Francois keep an eye on him, and if he
makes the least attempt to escape, run that long knife
of yours into him.”

To this Wat made no answer, and De Virenne, seeing
he would not speak, went on:
é ,‘Ab, you have learned the value of silence at last,
have you, my braggart Yankee? And I suppose you
hope to serve me some trick for the defeat of your plans
to marry a duke’s daughter? Set your mind at ease on
that score. I am going to marry this dear little Lucette;
and as for you, why, when you see the light of day
again you will not bein a condition to play tricks on
anybody.

“He laughs best who laughs last,” said Wat with as
_— unconcern as if he bad no occasion to fear any-

ng.

“True! And now, Francois, as we have shown our
bird to the ladies, let us take him to where he can have
his laugh out undisturbed.

With this ominous speech, he and Francois took Wat
up again, and preceded by De Rouville, as before, disap-
peared through the panei.

Down the stairs they carried him through the dining-
room into the hall. Out of that into another room, and
So on through a series of halls and rooms until they
came to apart of the castle which apparently had never
been much used.

There in a room, paved with great square flag-stones,
De Virenne called a halt.

Taking the candle from De Rouville, De Virenne be-
gan a search, which ended in his calling from an adjoin-
ing room:

“Here, Francois !”

Francois went to him, and, after a short absence, both
came back, and once more taking Wat up carried him.
into the room where they had been.

Pe ~~ at once to be seen what they had been busy
abou “

One of the great flag-stones had been lifted out of the
ann disclosing a flight of stone steps leading down-
ward.

Down here Wat was carried, passing several landings
before being put down. . .

It seemed as if the castle must have as many stories
below ground as above.

And the air was at every step more damp and
noisome. ;

“Now,” said De Virenne, when they had put Wat

     

  

 

it was in ‘hy defense?”

down, ‘‘search him, and take every weapon from him.
He is to go to the floor below alone. We will release his

 

 

hands, since you wish it, De Rouville, and down there
he will find as much food and drink as he will ever have
use for. In other words, water drips constantly from
the walls, and rats swarm by the hundreds, or thousands
reer ues Cut his bonds, and tumble him down, Fran-
cois.” ;

Francois, who had already received his instructions
how to act, thrust Wat head first into the hole, and
then, with a stroke of his knife cutting the cord, pushed

—_—

him down.
CHAPTER XXXII.
IN THE TORTURE CHAMBER.

The movement by which Wat was thrust down into the
dungeon was sudden, but it did not take him so much
by surprise that he had not presence of mind enough to
put out his hands to break his oes fall:

He fully Specie to go crashing on his head, and per-
haps break his neck.

tter fortune awaited him, however, and though he
did not land fairly on his hands, they did prevent his
head coming in direct contact with the stone pavement.

His fall stunned him somewhat, but did not iajure
him, and after he had lain a moment on the slimy stones
he rose to a sitting posture, and began to rid his body
and limbs of the ropes which still remained on them.

That was soon done, and even as Was doing it he
was reflecting on his position. paras
nee py in a dungeon far below the level of the

und,

It was, as De Virenne had truly said, swarming with
rats and dripping with moisture.
ofte could both feel and hear well enough to be sure
Not only was the floor damp and slippery, but he could
hear the drops of water as they fell here and there to
the pavement.

As for the rats, he could not only hear their squeaks,
but he could feel them as they scurried over him.

Even, had he been sure of getting out of the place in a
few minutes, he would have felt decidedly uncomfort-
able ; but withthe prospect of remaining phere, perhaps
to die, he could Not repress a cold shudde® ;

He rose to his feet, determined not to give up hope
until he had exhausted every chance.

It was with some difficulty that he gained his feet,
oe to the thick slime covering the floor.

And_he was obliged to move with the greatest cau-
tion in order not to lose his footing.

He put out his hands and endeavored to reach the
wall, but it was too far away, and so he stepped cau-
tiously forward.

The stantled rats scampered in every direction as he
did so, and more than one attempted toe run up his
trouser legs, giving him a most unpleasant sensation.

As he walked, he kicked against something on the
floor which made his heart jump to his throat with a
sickening horror.

It was a human skeleton.

He knew it from the way the bones rattled.

He turned the other way, and sought the wall on the
opposite side. .

When his hand touched it, he uttered an exclamation
of disgust and withdrew it at once.

Clammy, moving things were on it, and in that black
darkness even his bold spirit received a shock from the
unseen.

A moment of reflection taught him that what he felt
could be nothing but snails, but stil he refrained from
putting his hands on the stones again.

Dark as it was, he tried to distinguish something.

That was impossible, for in no way, even In broad day-
light, could a ray of light penetrate that noisome dun-
geon.

“Then,” said Wat to himself, “I must even feel my
Way around this horrible hole, in spite of thoughts of
skeletons and the contact of slimy snails. Ah! if] had
but five minutes of light!”

He sighed, and then clapped his hand to his waist,
with a cry almost of terror.

“My bull’s-eye! They did not take it!” he whispered,
in a tone that carried all the thankfulness of the most
fervent prayer.

‘‘Heaven is kind to me!” he murmured.

And the next instant he had the lantern from his belt
and had flashed its blessed light around the dungeon.

It was of more spacious size than he had thought,
being longer than it was wide.

And he understood, now that he had the light to aid
him, what its use so far underground must have been.

At the farther end was a frame made of iron, covered
with rust, and apipping red drops which shudderingly
reminded Wat of blood.

He recogrized the frame at once as something anal-
ogous to a rack.

The skeleton on the floor, with its moldy bones
mingled with a rust-eaten chain, told the story of the

rack sufficiently well.

And then the bold and squeaking rats swarming all
around him!

Had they lived long enough to know what to expect
from his presence there ?

These were horrible and awesome reflections for a
man situated as Wat was, but the very nature of his
situation forced them on him.

There he was, and with very little possibility of ever
getting out, so far as he could see.

And yet it was not in his nature to give way to despair,
and already an idea had half formed in his mind.

Until he had followed that idea to its conclusion, he
would have enough to occupy his attention. :

And until he was sure that there was no escape for
him he would hope.

3 a he would put such awesome ideas out of his
ead:

Again he studied the dungeon. :
Here and there along its dripping sides were iro
rings, to which, no. doubt, human beings had one day

been chained. ,

This had doubtless been the torture-chamber of the
days when it was common for the wealthy to add to
their riches by extortion, compelled by racking pain.

Here the powerful barons trom whom the Duke de
Villepont was so proud to claim ancestry had wrung the
honest savings from the weak.

No doubt then extra care had been taken against es-
cape.

Was there any chance for him ?

There still remained the idea that clung to him
through all his gloomy thoughts, and that was founded
on something Lucette had said.

ae castle is full of secret passages,” Lucette had
said.

Wat loved Lucette, and so he had remembered her
evely word.

It he had not loved her he might have forgotten that.

He had upbraided himself for his carelessness when-
ever he had thoughts of her in his mind.

Might he not now owe his life to his love for her 2”

Was there perhaps a secret passage out of this torture-
chamber ?

There might be, because what would be more natural
than that the jailer should want to overhear the con-
versation of his prisoners, in order that he might sur-
prise what he could not wring out by torture ?

For in those days there were men who could die with-
out a word that would give pleasure to their tormentors.

On the other hand, there might not be any secret
passage, since every chance of the prisoners escaping
would naturally be guarded against.

A rat, emboldened even more than his fellows who
bee ae ceped * the Per aoe light, ran up to his

nee and lea off upon oor as if playi some
hideous game with him. eee

He kicked at it.

The frightful vermin! : :

Frighttul, yes; but how did they get in there ?

They could not find food in that small room—small at
least for so many.

He threw his light directly on the rats at the farther
oS of the room, and then ran threateningly toward

em.

They scampered over each other, a writhing, wriggling
mass, and then some of them turned and ran back past
Wat to the other end of the room.

dep in front of him merely kept tumbling over each
other.

He turned his light, and could see that the number
was diminished there.

He ran threateningly toward them. They crowded
toward one corner.

It was there that they had their means of exit.

He drove the rats until all had gone out by a hole,
which he now could see,

——

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE ESCAPE FROM THE DUNGEON.
< He hurried to this hole, and sank on his knees before

For a moment he hardly dared to examine it.

On the nature of it might depend his fate.

He turned his light upon it at last, and with a beating
heart scrutinized it closely.

He had in truth expected to see a hole made by the
ewan of mortar, or even by the disintegration of
the rock.

What he did see was the displacement of one of the
stones.
as this his heart leaped with joy, and he almost cried
ou

It seemed to him already that he was saved.

That must be a secret passage. :

Why else would that stone be out of place?

He examined more closely, and could see no signs of
mortar ever having been about it.

He put his hand against it and pushed lightly.

It did not budge.

He pushed harder—harder still—with all his force.

It did not move. No more than the castle itself would
have moved. :

Was he mistaken, then? Had he permitted_himself a
false hope ?

Perhaps he had not pushed hard enough.

The floor was indeed slippery, and he had no means of
bracing himself. ;

He caught the corner of the stone in his hand, and
tried to shake it.

‘ was eee nent F

ne agony of defea ope passed over him, and
beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and
rolled down over his face. -

If he only had something to pry with!

He thought of the iron torture-frame, and in an in-
stant was by it.

Catching one of its sides in one hand, he braced his
foot against it and gave it a violent wrench.

The rust-eaten iron yielded too soon.

It was probably too frail todo him much good as a

ry

pry.
Neverthelesy, he tore the frame to pieces and chose
the stoutest piece for his pry.

 

 

 

 

   
    
    
     
      

    
   
  
     

   
    
    
 
   
      
     
 
   
 
 

 

 

 

 

        
       

   
 

      
     
    
        
         
        
        
  

  

    
       
  
       
       
  
    
    
      
   
       
      
 
 
 

 
 

   
  
      
        
      
        
    
    
        
     
 
      
       
     
    
  
          
   
   
    
      
   
     
    
   
  
 

 
   
    
   
      
     
      
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
   
    
     
 
    
  
  
    
    
     
    
      
 
  

 
  
  
 
   
   
    
    
   
   
     
   
      
      
     
      
      
       
     
     
   
       
    
   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL, 44—No. 38,

ae THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ese

 

This he placed under the stone and then slowly ex-

erted his strength.

Was it the stone yielding at last ?

Alas! no.

It was only the bar bending.

The rock was immovable for him.
the place, atter all.

The real outlet, granting that one existed, might as
well be in some other spot. ;

And the way to open the trap would surely be by a
concealed button.

So he went around his dungeon, tapping every inch of
it with the patience of despair.

Nowhere was it even hollow sounding.

But that was not strange, since the stone blocks were
so thick.

He had better try pressing with his finger.

And so he did that.

He once more passed around the room, pressing the
unyielding wall until every finger ached. 2

He pulled the rings. First one and then another.

He pulled two together, lest the opening should be
worked by combination.

And yet he was no nearer freedom that he had been
at the first.

Well, then, return to the hole and study it once
more. : ;

He did that.

_ With his iantern close to the hole, he examined every
portion of the stone surrounding it.
' Nothing showed itself to elucidate the mystery of it.

Perhaps it only opened into another dungeon as hard
to escape from as this.

He put his nose to the opening, into the opening, in-
deed, and sniffed.

The air that came in there was fresher than the heavy
atmosphere he breathed.

Then that hole opened on liberty.

He at once en anew his pressing, tapping, push-
ing, pulling, prying.

e did it with a forced calmness, a deliberate energy
that was frightful.

Then his manner changed, as the conviction began to
force itself on him that he had been the victim of a
foolish delusion.

As if De Virenne would not know if there were any

- other outlet than the trap at which he had thrown
Wat in.

As if it was likely that there would be any way of get-
ting out of the dungeon.

Way in besides the regular way there might be.

But way out, no.

And now, as he felt that his only hope of escape
lay in some almost impossible chance, he became un-
reasonable.

He assailed the rock about the hole as if it bore a
share of responsibility.

He hammered, he pulled, he hauled.

And then at last, in a frenzy of despair, he rose up and

lared wildly at the hole, which seemed to him then to
Be blinking back at him.

And as he looked, a rat, which had no doubt been
waiting itechance, popped its head through the hole.

Then Wat, with the child‘shness which sometimes
comes over strong men, gave a fierce cry and hurled his
iron rod at the twinkling eyes.

‘And then, without looking to see the result of his
shot, he buried his face in his hands and turned away
with a groan. :

Sick at heart, and yet angry with himself for giving
way, he paced the dungeon as well as the slippery floor
would allow, trying to regain that command of himself
without which he had never accomplished anything of
importance.

nd by and by he was successful.

What should he try next ?

Give up be never would.

How long could he exist there without food ?
~ A week and work hard? He was sure he could.

A week! And could he not in that time dig around
the stone that blocked his way to freedom ?

Probably. But was he sure then that he would find
that the stone really did block his way to freedom ?

That was the chance he must take.

Could he possibly get out the way he had come in?

He had looked up at the trap more than once already,
but now he studied it more carefully.

No, that would not do. It was far out of his reach,
and he had no means of raising himself to it. +

Better go to work at once with the idea of digging
himself out. .

“He selected a piece of iron from the frame he had
destroyed and went back to the hole.

He was calm now, and not likely to run into extrava-
gances again. :

He stooped down and ran his eye over the stone.

Then he started back and rubbed his eyes. Then
looked again.

“It has moved,” he said, hoarsely.
less than that when I looked last.
wits ?”

He looked again.

“No. It has moved.”

There could be no doubt of it. The opening was
twice as large at least.

How had it happened ? ;

An investigation soon showed.

When in his despair he had thrown the rod of iron at
the unoffending rat he had turned aside without seeing
the result of his blow.

The iron idly thrown had effected what all his well
directed tappings and pressings could not do.

It had penetrated the hole and struck against the
spring which controlled the block of stone.

Wat comprehended this as soon as he had examined
the stone. 3

He believed, but did not dare trust his own belief un-
til he had once more taken hold of the block and pushed

Perhaps it was not

“The opening was
Or am I losing my

ii*

Slowly and gratingly it opened.

The abit oe whatever it was that controlled the
opening, was rusty from disuse.

Had it not been it would probably have opened full
width at the first touch of the bar.

For a full minute after it was open and large enough
for a man to crawl through, Wat sat before it motion-

less.
it was hard for him to believe that only a minute be-
fore he had been a prisoner and in danger of death, and
now was at liberty to leave when he chose. ~ i
But he did not hesitate for more than a minute.
Thrusting his lamp ahead of him, partly to scare the
rats and partly to light the way, he crept through the
hole.
He found himself in a passage-way large enough to
stand upright in with ease.
It ended at the dungeon and led but one way.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE CHAMBER OF THE SECRET PASSAGES.

First pushing the stone back to its place, Wat went
along the passage.

It did not go far betore it took a slight turn, and then
disclosed a flight of steps.

Wat mounted these with as little noise as possible,
not that he fancied that he would be heard, but he was
now inclined to be over cautious rather than not cau-
tious enough.

Prese: tly he was made aware of the reason of the in-
flux of fresh air.

Itcame in through a crevice in the outer wall of the
castle, made probably for that purpose, or even for a
peep hole for things outside. :

Wat could see the sky through it, and had no doubt,
as he afterward found to be the Case, tbat it overlooked
some important part of the grounds.

There were no branches to the passage, and so Wat
had no difficulty in picking his way.

For the most part the passage was up a flight of
stone steps.

But finally the steps ceased, and Wat went along a
corridor.

This suddenly came to an end, and Wat knew that he
was at the opening.

Now came the opportunity to exercise the caution he
had detern:ined to practice until he had Lucette safely
out of the way.

He studied the blank wall in front of him, and had no
difficulty in discovering the way to open it, for there
— been no attempt to conceal the machinery of the

oor.

It was a simple but strong spring, and so well made
that it had lasted through all the years since it was
made, and was now in good working order.

Wat shut off his light, and then listened long and
carefully before he ventured to open the door.

Aud when at last he did, he let it moveso slightly, that
unless one had been watching that very spot, he might
have been in the room and not have known that any-
thing was being done.

The room into which the door opened was pitch-dark,
but, still pursuing his plan of caution, Wat did not step
into 7 until he had listened carefully for the faintest
sound.

Once convinced that either the room was unoccupied
or occupied by some one sleeping. which was unlikely,
Wat turned on his lantern and looked about him.

He was in a sleeping-chamber of great size, and, judg-
ing by its furnishings, the one occupied by the lord of
the castle.

It was probable that he retired here from the gayeties
of his little court, and then went to the somber regions
just quitted by Wat to apply the torture to his victims.

As this thought entered Wat's head, it was followed
by another thought.

Perhaps it was from here that all or most of the secret
passages of the castle sprang.

Certain it was that the room was paneled in a way to
lend color to such.a fancy. | ;

If so, might not Wat profit by knowirg it?

He shut his own panel behind him, after noting care-
fully how the button worked on his side, and how it was
ee eet
. With this for a guide, he moved cautiously around the
room, seeking other secret buttons.

a very next panel responded to his touch and

ned.

It was the same with the next, and the next, and so
on with every panel in the chamber.

ao was an important discovery, but how should he
use it ?

Should he explore every passage until he knew where
each one led to?

If he did not, his discovery would profit him nothing

at all.
If he did, would he not be consuming too much valu-
able time ?
He pondered these questions a few minutes, and then
made up his mind to take the time, and explore the pas-
es one by one.
nd this he did, and in so doing came upon two facts

 

of the greatest importance to him and the two girls he

was bent on saving.

One of the passages went to the very chamber in
which the two girls were confined, and one of them went
down to the dining-hall.

It was much to him to know that the young ladies
were still in the castle.

He had yet to discover if the men were still in the
ouse. «

He had no doubt that they were, but he wished to
know where before he ventured upon any step.

They were not in the dining-hall. -
oe might be, and probably were, in one of the sleep-

g rooms.

He had not yet finished exploring the passages.

With the hope strong within him that one of them
ee take him to where they were, he resumed his
searc

Fortune, which had seemed to turn her back upon
him but a short time before, now favored him.

He had come to the last of the passages, and had
opened the door at its end with no abatement of his first
caution, and was rewarded by hearing thé regular
breathing, not to say snoring, of more than one man.

He listened more intently, and was certain he could
make out-the breathing of three persons.

Reassured by this discovery, he returned to the cen-
tral chamber, and frcm there went to the chamber oc-
cupied by the young ladies. r

Tied as they were to their chairs, they were so worn
out that they had fallen asleep.

Wat stole softly into the rvom, letting the panel close
behind him. :

He turned his light on for a moment—just long enough
to allow him to get his bearings—and then advanced to
Lucette and touched her on the shoulder. ~

She started up at once, crying out:

“Whatisit? Whois it?”

Wat was on the point of answering, when a bright
light suddenly illumined the room.

“Ah!” exclaimed a voice at the same moment.

Wat turned toward the light and sound, and there, in
the open panel of the secret passage from the dining-
aa. stood De Rouyille with a lighted candle in his

and.

He seemed for a second too much astonished to move,
but as Wat with a bound went toward him, he drew
back and closed the panel behind himself.

. out as he went he cried out to his companions for
GID. <<.

Wat sprang to the panel and pressed the button, in-
tending to pursue the young man.

But he realized that he could not overtake him now;
and, weaponless as he was, it might even be disastrous
for him todoso. -

More especially as his cries would certainly arouse the
other two men, and would infallibly bring them to his
aid before he could accomplish his defeat.

Under the circumstances, then, it would be best, he
thought, to try to escape with the two girls.

By this time they were both fully aroused, though un-
able to understand the meaning of what had occurred.

There was no time now to lose, and Wat therefore
turned his light on at once, and said:

«We must escape!”

“You!” cried both of them ina tone of joy.’

«Yes, I,” answered Wat, at the Same time trying with
all possible expedition to unloosen the cords which
bound Lucette.

But as he worked he could hear, as it seemed to him,
the sound of footsteps on the stone steps of the secret
staircase.

One touch of his knife would have freed Lucette, and
another touch Suzanne, but without the knife it was in-
evitable that his enemies would return before he was
half through.

Indeed he was not yet through with Lucette’s bonds
when.he could distinctly hear hurried steps in thesecret

passage.
Suzanne had followed Wat’s movements with feverish
anxiety, and realized as well as he the danger he was

in.

Like the brave girl that she was, she cried out as soon
as she saw Lucette released :

Never mind me. Escape with her!”

“Never!” cried Lucette.

“Tt is our only chance,” said Wat,
last knot.

as he threw off the
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

—- Oe

The thrilling adventures of “OLD MORTALITY, THE
KING OF DETECTIVES,” are graphically narrated by
Young Baxter in No. 9 of THE SECRET SERVICE
SERIES. Complete for 25 cents.

This Story Will Not be Published in Boo-Form,

THE LADY OF HARROW.

By ANNIE ASHMORE.

“THE LADY OF HARROW”: was commenced in No. 25.
ack numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXXIX.
GERALD HALCOTE DISCOVERED.

Arriving in due time, Miss King found the Orita
Plantation to be a really handsome estate.

The first glimpse of it was decidedly agreeable.

The river Hoogly made a bold semicircular sweep
around a gently undulating eminence, and upon this
eminence was the mansion built.

The shores of the river were fringed with cocoa-
nut trees; the house was luxuriantly embowered in
a erescent-shaped thicket of teak and other um-
brageous trees; and the richly cultivated mead was
adorned with clumps of eastern fruit trees.

Beyond the teak trees spread the vast cotton fields,

with the offices, work-sheds, and barracks for the
army of work-people who found employment upon
Mr. Halcote’s plantation. :

The house itself was handsomely built in the Moor-
ish style, forming a ° “drangular court in the center,
and entered through a graceful archway.

Tiers of pillared verandas ran round the house, and
all the pillars were swathed by monstrous creepers,
whose blazing efflorescence dazzled the eye.

As they slowly rolled up the glittering white-
sanded cvarriage-drive to the archway, Violet could
not choose but succumb to an absorbing reverie, in
which she saw little Gerald Halcote, a lovely boy of
six, herown sweet brother, trotting up and down
that same smooth e¢arriage-drive, between the
prickly, flaming, flaunting hedges of cactus, mock-
ing the shrill, piping cries of yonder gaudy paro-
quets, screaming with delight as this rainbow-
plumed bird flashed by on its way to yonder gorgeous
passion-flower.

In the meanwhile Messrs. Thirlow & Crowe had
been looking about them with keen and envious ad-
miration.

Oh, if they could only transfer such a splendid
estate as this to some lucky young fellow, how that
young fellow would worship them. And how in-
ee they would turn his gratitude into hard
eash.

Colonel Delmotte, observing Miss King’s agitation,
lost himself in sympathetic contemplation of her
beauteous and adored countenance. ;

But Ned, the humblest, the least concerned of any,
forgotten by allin that sudden hush, was beginning
to tremble heayily, ’

But speak he did not.

Alighting at the gate-way, and inquiring for Mr.
Withers, the overseer of the plantation, who occu-

ied afew rooms upon the ground floor, and took
ittle interest in the moonshiny proceedings of old
Martha Beck to eject the present possessor in fayor
of her nursling, the little party were conducted by
a bead-eyed, dusky Hindoo servantinto the presence
of Mrs. Withers, the overseer’s wife.

Sallow, indolent, and sickly, this lady received
them without rising from her cushioned divan, or in-
terrupting the performance of asleepy man-servant
at the punka.

“Ah! glad to see Miss King,’ quoth she, stifling a
yawn, upon Mr. Thirlow’s presenting the lady in
question. ‘‘How suffocating the weather is. You

| must have some sherbet, madam.”

Mr. Thirlow insinuated that they had not intruded
that sultry morning without an important object in
view.

“Ts there a native woman upon the estate of the
name of Pomara?”’ he tremblingly inquired.

“Pomara? Ah, miserable old creature! Yes, to be
sure. One of the cotton-pickers. So you wish to see
Pomara? Go, Omichund, send Tara to the punka,
and fetch Pomara here. Quick, now!’

Away glided the Hindoo with servile alacrity.

Now, during this colloquy, Ned had remained in
the open door-way, looking into the central court.

This court was entirely inclosed by the suites of
rooms entered only through the archway, and open
to the sky. Two tiers of balconies, covered in with
light lattice-work, ran round the lofty walls of this
court, each successive floor being marked by a bal-
cony, and each baleony being reached by a stair-
case.

Ned, too modest to intrude among gentle folks, was
absorbed in study of a certain object which occupied
a place in the middle of the court,

t was a huge fountain, which flung a thin, pale
spurt of water twenty or thirty feet skyward, and
ing the descending spray in a great red clay

asin.

Suddenly Ned was heard—by Mr. Crowe, who was
as sharp as he was cautious—to mutter: .

Pers this the rummest go! Dashed ef I don’t go
an’ look.”

Off he trudged to the other side of the basin, stooped
down, and looked.

“Jingo!” attered Ned, aloud.

Something in that quick, startled exclamation
caught the ears of the party in Mrs. Withers’ parlor.
Miss King, hastily excusing herself, stepped out to
Ned; Mr. Thirlow inquisitive, Mr. Crowe anxious,

*

for a moment—followed.

They saw what Ned had seen, and exclamations of
surprise burst from each.

ea cut upon the brim of the basin were these
words:

PATTY’S BOY,
LITTLE GERALD.

Mr. Crowe, keen as a needle, burst upon Ned with
the query:

“Now, my good fellow, how came you to know that
any words were carved here? You couldn’t see them
from where you stood, you know.”

Ned scarcely heeded him, but stood the picture of
perplexity, gaping at the inscription.

“The rummest go!” he muttered to himself. ‘‘Why,
I knowed they was there whenever I cast my eye on
the old thing. By—Jingo!” feeling the words with
his horny fingers, ‘‘this—is—the—queerest thing!”

Violet, whose eyes were dilating every succeeding
second with keener astonishment, here opened her
mouth to speak, but was checked instantly by Messrs.
Thirlow and Crowe, who as one man fell upon Ned
Browning. —

“This.is indeed an amazing circumstance!’ quoth
Crowe. ‘Were you ever here before ?”’ _

“Of course—of course you have been here before,”
eried Thirlow. :

“Me out in this outlandish place? Not I, yer
honor!” said Ned, earnestly, and next instant forgot
them in his resumed scrutiny of his surroundings.

At this moment Mrs. Withers appeared at the door
of her parlor, anxious to learn the subject of the
stranger’s excited colloquy. :

She was just in time to hear the sailor say, with a

half terrified glance over his shoulder :
* “Blamed ef I don’t feel as queeras ef I’d got a
warnin’. I could swear I’ve been in a place like this
afore, an’ seen them very words too, an’ this very
basin that they’re cut on to. -An’ not on’y that, but
the lay of the land, whenever I clapped my eyes on
toit. IEseemed to remember. Lor’! it comes quite
nat’ral! Why, blessed ef I don’t mind that there
flibber-ti-gibbet as nat’ral as the nose on my own
face, an’ t’other statue inside that door, that jest
mates it——” 3 '

Breaking off his muttered soliloquy, Ned strode off
to the Opposite side of the court from that in which
Mrs. Withers had her apartinents.

A hideous stone statue, representing the Indian
god Doorgah, with her ten arms, kept guard at a
door under the first balcony, and toward this image
Ned walked straightway, and regarded it with a gaze
of astonishment and growing perplexity which was
really impressive.

Mrs. Withers, forgetting the heat and her feeble-
ness, made arush round the fountain and confronted
the pair of breathless lawyers. .

“Ts that your long-lost heir?’ hissed she, ina low
tone, and between her teeth. ‘‘Oh, you miserable
plotters! Here, Suraja! Nana! fly for your master;
fetch him here to me!”

Thus screaming, two Indian youths broke from the
group of inquisitive domestics who, chattering in
Bengalese, and hustling each other to obtain a sight
of the strangers, occupied every available spot on
the baleony of their mistress.

; a bland as milk, addressed the disdain-
ul lady.

“My dear, good madam, what room is that which
our eccentric friend is so anxious to enter?” - 3

“How do I know?” snapped Mrs. Withers, with
venom. “That side of the house has not been opened
for twenty years. Ask youreccentric friend; hemay
remember that, too.” J

“Thanks forthe suggestion,” murmured Mr. Thir-
low, and telegraphing an anxious look to his part-
ner to maintain silence among the auditors for a
time, he softly approached Ned, who was lost in a
puzzled reverie. :

“So you recollect having seen this image before,
sir?’ insinuatingly murmured he; ‘and also another
like itin this chamber. Do you recall any other ob-
ject to your mind ?”’

- “See here, mate,’ quoth Nea, confusedly: ‘this is
about the oddest tack Iever sailed on. It’s enough
to make a chap b'lieve he lived afore he was born.
kin see as plain what’s inside that door as ef I was
standin’ in the middle of the room. There’s a image
like this, an’ a white critter on the reof, an’ some-
thin’ striped an’ shinin’ on the walls; an’ ef I was to
die for’t, I couldn’t call to mind how I come to
know it.”

Staring solemnly and appealingly into Mr. Thir-
— face, Ned saw that it had turned as white as
ashes.

Glancing past him at his dear mistress, Ned saw
that she had caught the arm of Colonel Delinotte for
support, and, pallid with amazement, was gazing
upon bim witha terrible look of dismay.

Appalled, Ned recollected himself, and hid his face
in his hands, overwhelmed with shame.

Mr. Crowe, as much agitated as Mr. Thirlow, re-
ceived that gentleman’s expressive nod with an anx-
ious smile, and whispered to Mrs. Withers, behind
a trembling hand: iz

“Ts the door locked ?”

“Of coyrse it is,” snarled the lady, ‘but of course
it can be opened.” :

Quite as curious as the others to see the inside of
that chamber, described by the sailor, she went her-
self to the housekeeper’s room, brought forth a great
bunch of keys, and after due delay in finding the
right one, during which time Ned looked as if he
would like the earth to swallow. him up, and Violet
eyed him wildly and strangely, she unlocked the
eet! and threw it wide open.

A deep, breathless sob attested to the fidelity of
Ned Browning's description of the room which had
been locked for twenty years.

Opposite the door was carved in bas-relief upon
the wall an image of the ten-armed god; in the cen-
ter of the gaily painted ceiling sat Siva, the Hindoo
Supreme Being, upon his white bull; the walls were
draped with muslin, which had once been white,
slashed with stripes which had once been gilt.

Faded tapestry upon the floor, tarnished brocade
upon the ottomans and divans, closed jalouses and
dusty panes of glass, all proved how long had been
a time since that moldering chamber was inhabi-
ted.

They all seemed petrified. Ned as wonder-struck as
any.

Violet, who had uttered the sob of excitement, was
the first to break a silence which was eloquent with
such amazement.

With a little nervous laugh, and flashing up two
terrified eyes at Ned, she said:

“Come, come, Jack—what does all this mean? Do
not tell us that you don’t understand it yourself.”

“No more [ don’t, Miss Violet,” muttered poor Ned,
tremulously. “I’ve sailed the seas over, an’ I’ve
sailed ’em ever since I knuowed myself, an’ I’m
blamed ef ever I trod this here country in all my life
afore. An’ yet Imind everything here I see, as clear
as ef I’'d seen ’em yesterday. Danged if I know what
it means!”

Thirlow and Crowe, who had been excitedly whis-
pering together, here stepped forward, one on each
side of him, and with a new and strange deference
briefly examined him, thus:

Thirlow—‘“‘You say you have been on the sea ever
since you can remember. Do you not know then who
were your parents ?”’

“No, indeed, yer honor.”

Crowe— ‘What are your earliest recollections,
then ?”

“T were the sailors’ pet aboard the Sumatran
trader, ‘Cowrie,’ an’ they had picked me up at sea
somewheres.”

Thirlow—‘Were you in Calcutta eight months
ago?” a Be, ;

, . “¥ oa,”

Thirlow (breathlessly) —‘And fell in with a woman

named Martha Beck ?’

» ?

Ay, ay, Sir,” ‘

Crowe (as breathlessly)—‘‘What did she say to
you 9? E
“She said she know’d who I was.”

_ Crowe (with a gasp)—“Ah! My dear sir, did you
not suspect her meaning—that you might be some-
body thought dead, and so on——”

‘“No—yes. I had my own idees on’t.”

Crowe—‘‘You can swear that you never visited the
Orita Plantation, within your recollection?” This
with intense meaning.

Yes.”

Thirlow and Crowe—“Then, my dear sir, let us be
the first to congratulate you as our honored client,
the long-sought-for Mr. Gerald Halcote !”

Both bands eagerly extended, a warm shake from
each bestowed upon the hard, brown hand of poor
dumb-smitten Ned.

Mr. Gerald Halcote!

Mrs; Withers uttered a shriek of derisive laughter ;
Colonel Delmotte drew up withan incredulous smile;
Miss King made a little rush, seized the sailor by
both arms, gazed at him; he whitening, quivering,
beseeching her with adoring yet apprehensive eyes ;
gazed at him wildly, pushed him away, caught him
again, and eyed him all over in the strangest way.

But all at once her strained face melted, the hot
thrilling blood mounted from her warming heart, up,
up into her cheeks; with a low cry of rapture she
curled her lovely arms about him, hugged him close,
elose to her heaving bosom, and burst into hysterical
tears upon his shoulder. ,

The lady had accepted him.

Poor Ned, looking hither and thither in distraught
confusion, dared not so much aslift an arm to sup-

ort the trembling form of his adored lady, but suf-

ered her passionate caresses like a log of wood, un-
responsive.

Said Mrs. Withers, red and bitter:

“J dare say Martha Beck has given him a descrip-
tion of this room.”’

And she snorted defiance.

At that, Miss King raised her head and looked upon
Ned with unmeasurable haughtiness, nay, with posi-
tive dismay. ;

“Monstrous !” she breathed, half aloud, a hysteric
eateh in her breath. “You the Earl of Savvery!”
and burst out laughing as if it was the drollest jest
imaginable. f

Then she repented, pulled him back to her again,
and with a thrilling transition from mirth to
pathetic love, cried softly:

 

and Colonel Delmotte loth to lose sight of hisdivinity ! “Oh, Jack, my dear, can this be true? Can you and

I be children of one mother?’
‘Miss, I daren’t look youin the face!’ muttered
Ned, sadly. ‘Let me go away afore ye come to des-
pise me!”
“T won't!” cried she, imperiously.

“Are you not
my own brother?

Let who dare despise you. I
never will. But, oh, am I dreaming? A common
sailor! Ha! ha! ha! Oh, am I not insane? The
Ear! of Savvery—impossible!’’

She sank upon the nearest ottoman, excited be-
yond description, and well-nigh distracted between
conflicting emotions.

Think of itif you can, the preposterous disparity.

of.the man and his station. ;

Think of the life he had led, think how that life
had fitted him for the life he was now to lead.

Fancy that simple, unlearned fellow clad in the
purple and ermine of an earl, his brows encircled by
the pearls and gold of a coronet, those stammering
lips addressing the best blood of a kingdom, in the
presence of royalty, in the immortal House of Lords.

Think of that humble, daunted tar dispensing the
august hospitalities of Castle Savvery, shining as a
political star, conducting with skill the honorable
duties of a government office, upholding, in fact, the
glittering distinction of rank as a Savvery should
uphold it.

Is it wonderful then, that the Lady of Harrow,
realizing all these incongruities in a flash of recollec-
tion, should, in spite of a noble inherent aristocracy
which honored the Good above the Great, in spite of
a passionate affection for him, as Jack Faithful, fall
back in a swoon when she recognized in him her
brother ?

While Mrs. Withers coldly ordered in a couple of
her chattering myrmidons to restore the lady, the
man who had during the last five minutes found him-
self transtigured from the sailor into the peer, stag-
gered forth into the court, and leaned upon the brim
of the red elay fountain, disconsolate. _ ~

The lawyers, driven forth by the hostess, whis-
pered together excitedly, laying down the law to
each other with anxious insistence.

All at onee Mrs. Withers joined them, grimly
smniling.

“T have just now remembered a test which I would
like to see employed to prove that yonder young
man is Mr. Gerald Haleote. Martha Beck was not
so far wrong when she sent you here to see Pomara,
the old Hindoo. Pomara bas often told me how she
pricked, in Indian ink, a string of cowries round the
foundling’s neck, so that he should never be lost
again. Such tattooing is, you are aware, indelible
Are you satisfied to put this test to the proof ?”’

Driven to bay. both gentlemen hastened to say
“ves,” and approached Ned Browning for that pur-
pose.

They were interrupted by the entrance of Mr.
Withers, the overseer, and an old native woman—
slight, straight as a lance, black-eyed, and olive-
skinned.

Iz a few words Mr. Withers was acquainted with
the circumstances which had occurred. and Pomara,
the old woman, was presented to the lawyers.

In language fitted to her comprehension, she was
intormed that the young man before her was sus-
pected to be Gerald Haleote, and was requested to
look whether he bore upon him any mark by which

she could identify him.

How the old eyes flared up!

How like a vulture she swooped upon Ned. and,
with an indeseribableturn of the lithe hand, laid his
neck bare, and exposed a string of cowries pricked,
in a pattern as fine as a hair, into the skin with
bine ink.

“My sahib!” shrieked the crone, and was on her
knees in a noment, covering his hands with frantic
tears and kisses.

“God bless your lordship!” cried Messrs. Thirlow
and Crowe, faltering with joy; and down the two
toadies bowed to the floor, absolutely fawning upon
the fellow they had secretly voted an incumbrance
to the party not half an hour before.

- Silenced with this enormous surprise, struck stupid
by such a colossal stroke of fortune, Ned answered
not their congratulations.

When he tried to understand—to comprehend what
was this which had befallen him, he turned sick in-
stead of exultant.

The sudden blaze of splendor was too much for
him, as the broad flare of the sun is too much for the
eyeballs. Such dazzling elevation blinded him.

But what a difference was now apparent in the
manner of the convinced Mrs. Withers !

What. consideration she showed for the young
gentleman, overcome—and no wonder—by his unex-
pected good fortune, :

How earnestly she placed the best room in the
house at ‘his disposal! And when his triumphant
lawyers had supported him into it, how touchingly
she ministered to him until he had somewhat revived
from his first stupefaction !

No sooner was Ned himself again than he walked
off to the room in which Miss King was lying, and
requested permission to enter.

So that she, upon opening her eyes, saw first of all
the white, saddened face of her Faithful Jack, as he
stood near her awaiting her reproaches.

She sat up. with along sigh, eyed him wistfully,
then stretched out one little yearning hand witha
kind smile.

“They tell me that Pomara has proved you to be
Gerald Halcote,” murmured she, ‘and in that case
you and I are brother and sister. Jack, my darling!
Jack, don’t think that I welcome you coolly. You
know that Llove you!”

Here her face beamed upon him so fondly that the
poor fellow broke down and turned away quickly.

“Oh, miss. to think that I should be the one to give
ye this disappointment!’ groaned he. “What a
brother for a lady like you to find! If l’d a knowed
that comin’ out here was agoin’ to do it, ’'d ha’ ended
my life afore I come!”

“Hush, my dear!’ said she, passionately, ‘As you
are I accept you with joy; as you willbe I shall yet
be proud of you. What! is a man who is true to the
eore, and heir to the Eternal Kingdom, not fit to be
an equal of princes on earth, or to wear the peer’s
coronet? Fie! Cheer up, my dear; think of the
good you shall do; think of the chances you shall
have to serve Hin whom we both love so well!” .

And so she consoled him.

CHAPTER XL.
THE BAN REMOVED.

A short chapter of explanations may not come
amiss here.

Ned Browning had, previous to the explanations
just recorded, confessed to having got a ‘maggot in
his brain.”

He meant, that ever since the day on which Violet
had told him the story of her brother, Ernest Evesby,
he had been aware that some unknown entity was
continually cutting athwart his bows, and identify-
ingitself with himself.

Thus Miss King informed him that Martha Beck
had seen the long lost heir, Gerald Halcote, eight
months ago.

Ned recollected that eight months ago he arrived
in Caleutta with the ship Canton, upon his flight
from England, and was taken to her house, ill of the
yellow fever, and nursed most tenderly by her, until
upon his convalescence, she one day terrified him by
averring that ‘she knew who he was,” and intended
+o give him his own. :

ow was Ned to understand that during his illness
she had discovered Pomara’s well remembered de-
sign around his neck, and knew him for her nursling,
Gerald; and in the pride of her heart meant to as
tonish him some day by putting him into his true
station ?

He merely supposed that in his delirium he had let
out something about the Tom Ryder murder, which
she had caught up; and that she threatened him
with arrest. ‘

Upon the first opportunity then, Ned had decamped
from Martha Beck, who, confident that he under-
stood that she was his best friend, expected his re-
turn from week to week, and meanwhile allowed
Messrs. Thirlow & Crowe to set up the case. 3

This reminiscence, seen by tha light of Miss King’s
story of Gerald Halcote, alias Ernest King, had
troubled Ned not a little.

To think that he mightbethatunknownheir! What
more likely? But the dream of claiming this hon-
ored lady for his sister, what intolerable presump-
tion!

So Ned anxiously awaited the result of violet’s in-
vestigations, never daring to go near Martha Beck,
and was on the point of flying from the field, when
ehance confronted him with all the forgotten sur-
roundings of hisinfaney; and faithful Memory re-
lighting her lamp, he had recognized them, and by
that recognition been himself recognized.

This identification being established, Ned would
have given up all claim to the Orita estate, had not
his lynx-eyed friends, Thirlow & Crowe _ piteously
begged to be perniitted to carry through the case, to
which, at length, he consented with a proviso which
Violet highly approved.

This secret intention of Ned’s was simply to receive
the estates willed to him by his generous benefactor,
Colonel Halcote, with one hand, and to pass them
over to Mr. P. Haleote with the other, all parties
being therewith content. ;

There was one duty, however, which Ned did not
fail to perform.

He set the authorities searching for aatry. Maguire,
the murderer of poor Jem Brace; and when Larry
was found, and learned the turn affairs had taken,
to save his skin he disclosed a tale that took the ban
off Ned Browning forevermore, and sent him back to
England proved guiltless of the crime for which he
had suffered so much. 3s 23

_Larry’s confession also cleared up a portion of the
mystery which had surrounded the course of Engel-
hardt Zeiber, and laid bare the SECRET MOTIVE of
that course in all its hideous reality.

Driven ‘by their partnership in the murder of the
the sailor in the Liverpool dock, Zeiber had taken Ma-
guire so far into his confidence as to inform him that
he had been obliged to put Ned Browning out of the
way, because Ned Browning held his life in his hand.

“How was that?’ Maguire had asked.

His question had been waved aside with a dogged

 

persistence which no threats could move.
Ned Browning, heariug of this, looked as if he had

 

seen a ghost, and faltered forth a resolution to see
the friar of the Meyringen Monastery immediately
upon his arrival in Europe, begging his advisers to
ask nothing of him until he had done so.

Ned’s innocence was established thus:

Zeiber, judging by his refusal to sign a confession
of his guilt, even at the muzzle of the pistol, that he
was innocent, set himself to find out how Tom Ryder
could possibly have died of poison and no one be im-
plicated.

Perhaps the miserable nan was glad of any inter-
est by which to divert the pangs of conscience after
the murder of Brace; for so zealously did he throw
himself into this investigation that in time he actu-
ally came at the truth.

By following up Tom Ryder’s movements a few
weeks previous to his death, Zeiber discovered that
his fits of so-called ill-humor were always followed
by a visit to a certain druggist in the nearest city to
Fairport, who, quite ignorant of the name of Ryder,
from time to time supplied him with a simple ano-
dyne to allay the pain in his head of which he com-
plained. _

That anodyne was none other than HYDRATE OF:
CHLORAL! eis

He had described his symptoms to the druggist,
who warned him against undue excitement, judging
from those violent headaches that the young man
was threatened with apoplexy.

The reader will recall Tom’s bitter accusation
against Ned Browning—that “the had been the death
of him.” He had remembered the druggist’s caution
when too late, and visited his seizure upon Ned, who
had induced his excitement.

These facts were discovered by Zeiber showing the

druggist Ryder’s photograph, when he identified it
eek as that of the young man who had consulted
him. «
_ Tom’s concealment of his malady was character-
istic of the man. Knowing how much disappoint-
ment such a fact coming to the knowledge of his
backers would cause, he had stubbornly concealed
it, trusting to the timely use of his anodyne to sur-
mount each attack.

These cireunistances laid before any courtin Eng-
land would prove Ned guil. less of the murder of his
enemy.

Maguire had been dispateaed to India by the hor-
rified Zeiber upon hearing that Ned Browning (whom
he, by a mysterious pre-history, knew to be Ernest
King), had, after all, escaped with his life. Maguire’s
orders were to assassinate the sailor before Miss
King arrived to claim him for her brother.

And now the terror-stricken Violet had learned the
true monstrosity of the character she had fondly
innagined perfect.

CHAPTER XLI.
THE LADY OF HARROW BECOMES A BRIDE.

Colonel Delmotte began presently to awake to the
fact that the sweetest episode in his life was about
to close.

She was going away, the loveliest, the noblest, the
seen eee woman that ever man had worshiped from
afar.

There was to be nothing left. but dull and lifeless
military routine, broken by a tiger hunt now and
then—long, aimless months and years of it, and no
reprieve but death.

They had suffered much together.

Heaven! on the bottom of the drifting boat they
had wrung each other's hands, and, side by side, tad
looked for the yawning of ecernal doom!

They had lived in each other’s presence for many
wild days of trial; had wept together, had hoped
together, had starved together. er hands, which
were hot with coursing fire, had smoothed his
anguished brow; her tears, which came from a heart
of despair, had dropped upon his face, which an-
swered but by misery. Had they not traversed the
valley of death over and over together?

And in happier days had they not looked hope at
each other, wrung each other’s grateful hands, borne
each other’s suspenses, synipathized in each suc-
cessive step of the brightening way?

Ah, noble lady, you have won the soldier’s best
love, his purest, his most heaven-like; and, soldier,
she cannot untie those bands, triply forged by ter-
ror, trial, and happiness; they bind her to the past,
and to you.

A Christian lady, and a Christian gentleman, each
gives to each a love that is worthy of the other.

So one day the Lady of Harrow marries her dear
compagnon de voyage, and he leaves for love of her
the land of gems—sells out and steams back to Eng-
land with his bride and her ‘Faithful Jack.”

The mighty Hoogly ran like an amber sea down to
the ocean, the skies were lambient, and the winds
were fair; and so, like the grand steamship that
sailed superbly down the stream, seewed their future,
to speed auspiciously onward to a happy goal.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a

NOTABLE DIAMONDS.

The principal diamond mines are in Africa and con-
trolled by English companies, who regulate the output
in such a way that the price of diamonds is about the
same asit was five or ten years ago. The fabulous
values set upon noted stones by their possessors are in
most cases far in excess of their worth, and, when a
purchaser is found, the price is fixed regardless of this
fictitious value if the person really wishes to sell. The
primitive method of washing for diamonds was carried
on for centuries by thousands of slaves under the whip
of the most merciless taskmasters. Now there has been
invented most ingeniousand powerful machinery, which
allows fewer diamonds to escape than would the keerest
and most disciplined army of washers. In the Kim-
berley mines alone there are seven shafts and inciined
planes, 170 miles of tramway, 2,500 horses and mules
employed, 350 steam-engines, and £1,000,000 is expended
annually for labor, to,ether with an equal amount for
fuel and other supplies. Ten thousand natives are em-
ployed with 1,200 English overseers to superintend the
work.

The natives go into the mines for a certain number
of weeks at a time, and are not allowed outside the in-
closure until their period of service has expired. They
are housed and fed, provided with amusements and
liquor in the homes belonging to the company, and
every night when they come up ouc of the mines they
must, entirely nude, pass before an official, who ex-
amines their ears, hair, finger and toe nails, and mouths
for diamonds, and the suspected ones are sometimes
compelled to take an emetic and disgorge the gems they
have swallowed.

Frequently the Kaffirs dig holes in their flesh with a
sharp stone and make running sores in which they con-
ceal stones, and on one occasion some Officers, thinking
that a Kaffir had stolen diamonds, caught up with him
just after he had shot one of his oxen, using the stones
for bullets. Itis estimated that nearly one-quarter of
the yield failed to reach the proper owners before the
establishment of the methods now employed and
the passing of a law prohibiting all persons from
buying diamonds except those authorized and termed
patent agents, who are at the Kimberley mines less
than fifty in number.

The earth from the mines is partially disintegrated by
water and the action of the atmosphere, then broken
up by hand. and taken to the ‘‘compound” or diamond
sorting machines which so thoroughly pulverize the rock
that all diamonds, even to the sizeof a pin-head, are
saved. :

The yield of three South African mines equals nearly
$20,000,000 in value, and more diamonds weighing over
75 carats after cutting have been found since they were
open than ever before. The famous Imperial diamond
is supposed to have been found in these mines. It is so
precious that it was surrounded by a guard all the time
the workmén Were Cutting it, and it is said to have de-
rived its name from the Prince of Wales, who exclaimed
on seeing it for the first time, ‘‘Imperial !”

The famous Kohinoor, now in the possession of the

ueen of Great Britain, which weighs 123 carats; the

rlow diamond, belonging to the Russian Emperor,
which was once the eye of an Indian idol, and weighs
102 carats; the Regent, or Pitt, diamond, weighing
136% carats, and which decorated the sword hilt of the
first Emperor of Germany, and the Sauci diamond,
weighing 106 carats, which, after an interesting history,
fell into the hands of a French gentleman named Sauci,
and which being sent by a servant to the king in trib-
ute was swallowed by the servant to prevent its being
stolen by a band of robbers who attacked him, and was
found by his master upon opening his dead body, and
passed into the possession of the English crown, are
some of the most notable diamonds the world has ever
known.

 

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NEW YORK, JULY 20, 1889.

 

ems

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AN ADMIRABLE STORY,
BY A FAVORITE AUTHOR.

 

 

 

The proposition that Fate rules in matters matri-
monial, and overturns the machinations of man, is
impressively illustrated in anew story by a favorite
contributor, entitled

LADY LAUDERDALE'S TEMPTATION,

By EMMA GARRISON JONES.

Author of “A Great Wrong,” “The Midnight
Prophecy,’ “‘A Southern Princess,”
“A Terrible Crime,’’ Etc.

 

~~ “LADY, LAUDERDALE’S TEMPTATION” is a story of

remarkable power, with an artistically elaborated

plot, brisk-in Action, and animated in dialogue. In

the opening chapters the author effectively shows

how trifling incidents exert a mighty influence in the
ARENA OF LOVE,

playing shuttlecock with human hearts, causing bit-
ter disappointments to the over-confident, and

RAISING THE LOWLY
to the plane of happiness and honor. With force and
vividness is pictured the unconquerable hate of

A SLIGHTED WOMAN,
who has been coolly put aside by the man on whom
she had set her heart, and we behold her keen agony
when the discovery is made that

A POOR RELATION
is likely to be elevated to the position she éoveted.
There is a variety of novel incidents, and the per-

vading mystery is very cleverly elaborated,

 

*“ LADY LAUDERDALE’S TEMPTATION,” Mrs. EMMA
GARRISON JONES’ new story, will be commenced
neat week,

aia

“IM LIKE MY FATHER."

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

“T’m just like my father; I shall die young.”

The speaker was playing the arrant fool, and I told
him so. He wasa bit ailing, had been for some
months offcolor. I called on himin his sick-room
and found him much depressed. He had the notion
that he had inherited ‘a short-lived constitution

whatever that may be. The life insurance people}
had asked him, in their curious catechism, whether

he resembled his father or his mother the more
strongly, and if either, which. This was a revelation
to him; he had never thought of it before. He con=
cluded that he resembled his father, who had died at
thirty years of age. My friend is already forty-six.
His physician assured both his-wife and me that

nothing gravely threatening was the matter with
him. We found—his devoted wife and I—that his
father had died of fever contracted on the Isthmus.
But it is no use; the poor dunce has the notion that
he is to fade away “like his father.” Of course this
is nervous fatigue, nothing more nor less; it is in-
cipient nervous prostration. But the item of hered-
ity in the case presents a common delusion.

People presume on longevity as well, because they
“come of a long-lived family.” Singularly, a gentle-
man boasted this other extreme to me the week be-
fore last. He was quite sure of advanced age, “‘be-
cause his father, grandfather, and away back all his
ancestry, were long-livers.” And yetas I write, that
very gentlez:an is dead.

I am certain that both hope and fear are inspired,
without reason and against reason, by the popular
notion. It may be true that longevity or short life
is inherited; but the trace is so feeble that in the
battle of life it is not worth either expecting or
dreading. If you get such a notion into your head
it is a fatuous demon. Your father, for instance,
died at sixty years of age. You will dread the epoch.
You will erect a stone wall of fatalism for yourself
right there. Unconsciously to yourself you will con-
tinually be calculating upon it with apprehension.

You will not talk about it, even to your wife, till you |:

have approached your fifty-eighth year; then, as
you get a trifle worn, and perhaps sick, some day,
you will let out your fear. It will torture your loved
ones; it will baffle your physicians as they wonder
what can ail you, and you are ashamed to tell them.
It will actually cripple your nervous force, subtract
from your stock of vitality; and there is little doubt
that the pure, unmixed foolishness may hasten your
death. Your father will have had nothing to do with
your death; but you may hasten your own death by
psychic depletion. There is far more evidence that
men do actually cause their own premature death by
apprehension, than that a hereditary limit causes if.

To presume that you inherit the longevity of a
grandfather who lived to four-score is even more
absurd. It may not have been vitality with the old
gentleman at all. He may have had no more power-
ful organism than ordinary men. But a quiet, un-
eventful life, exceptionally free from any heavy
strain, may have kept his heart throbbing so long.
If you are hard pushed and overdoing; if you solace
your alarm by referring your guilty mind back to the
shadowy grandsire rather than taking wholesome
rest, the probabilities are that you will snap your
mainspring before you know it. The theory will
make one more victim, and you are the man. Theory
is one thing, but facts are better. Quite likely your
grandmother will tell you that you lookand act older
at forty-five than her husband did at sixty. You live
in a more exciting and exacting age. You are a city
man; he was acountry man. You like fancy dishes,
he homely food. You sleep mornings, he nights.
You are fretted by money, as by polities, he was
fretted by nothing worse than an unruly ox or a
shower on his new-mown hay. You are housedina
shop, or factory, or office, with the devitalized air of
modern furnace heat; he, this noble octogenarian,
lived among mountains, or breathed the breath of the
wide, wide sea. Do not presume on the venerable fel-
lows that went before you; there is a temptation
and a snare in it every time.

Every man must sail hisown ship. In thename of
the kind Creator, do not think you are going to
cough your life away because “consumption is hered-
itary in our family.” Facts show that the decided
majority of victims of this terrible malady are the
original cases; no taint can be discovered in an-
cestry. Think of it? The majority of consumptives, I
reassert, are the first cases in the family. I have it
on good authority in pulmonary maladies that de-
cidedly the vast majority of the offspring of con-
sumptives finally die of other diseases. It is not to
be denied that there is a law of heredity in disease.
But the children predisposed to gonsumption, for in-

| tions, can be found an insane ancestor.

 

stance, being forewarned, are forearmed to caution ;
taking excellent care of themselves they outlast their
more thoughtless neighbors. Probably over eighty

| per cent. of the insane are original cases; that is, in

neither branch of the family, within their genera
I will not
attempt figures, but medical authority tells us that
disease of the heart, the liver, the kidney is almost
always original. ; :

Reader, live under no ancestral shadow. Live in
your own sunshine. A merciful Creator has given us
each our day. The dead can neither hinder nor help
us much. We have our chance. Each life is unique
in its own individual beauty or deformity. Itis my
father’s good example, which, admiring, I purposely
copy, which benefits me. It is the heritage of his
worthy naine that helps me, more than blood or gold.
It is the subtle copying of his virtues or vices that no
doubt is a powerful impulse. To be like my father in
characteris quite possible ; but even this I must seek
after with resolute purpose. The bugbear of heredi-
tary brief life is too shocking, is a cruel fetish of
quasi-science that I would be glad to drive out of the
home of many asufferer. There is, however, this
curious discovery that_I have made: Many people
seem to actually regard such respect for their heredi-
tary bents in the nature of filial piety. They think it
sacrilegious to die of any but an inherited malady.
They insist on it.

—————__ > 9+__—_—__

Getting Ready for the Simmer Campaign,

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

The blankets are packed away in camphor, the
furs are tied up in bags, the furniture is swathed in
brown Holland, the maid-of-all-work is given a two
months’ vacation, and the mother of the family and
her daughters are going into the country.

The father of the household is going to take his
meals in the vague and somewhat indefinite region
know as ‘down town,” and come up to the house to
sleep nights, and feed the cat, and see after things
generally. The feminine portion of his household
sympathize with him in the loneliness which is going
to be his portion, and they tell him so sweetly how
they do wish he could leave his business to come
with them, and they assure him that they shall think
about him so much, and that they shall be quite
miserable on his account.

And he takes it all in, and wears a properly be-
coming sadness, and longs for the time to come when
they will be off, and he shall be at liberty to stay down
town with Brown and the other fellows, and make a
night of it, without being reminded by his wife that
he is the father of a family, and a church member in
good standing, and that he ought to be ashamed of
such conduct.

He knows just how he shall spend his time. He
anticipates the pleasant trips down the harbor, and
the excursions to the different beaches—‘just for a
day, you know’’—and a fish dinner, and dancing in
the pavilion; and he feels that he has honestly
earned the right to some diversions of this kind,
when he has given his wife a check for five hundred
dollars, and told her to have a good time, and kissed
her a dutiful good-by. But still, he wouldn’t exactly
want her to know just how well satisfied he feels at
the prospect before him.

The mother of the family has packed her trunk,
with her customary forethought. She has planned
for every emergency that can possibly arise. She
labors under the idea that one can buy nothing in
the country by way of personal necessities, and that
Jamaica ginger, and bay-rum, and hair-pins, and
dime novels, and toilet powder, and corset springs,
and pocket handkerchiefs, are never found outside of
the great city stores.

The young ladies take along plenty of cold cream,
and vaseline, and curling fluid for the hair, and they
pack their lawn tennis suits, and their Japanese par-
asols, and picture to themselves the charming ap-
pearance they shall offer to the admiring observer as
they sit on the shady boarding-house piazza and
lounge away the morning hours.

They bid adieu to their stay-at-home friends with
great empressement, and some way contrive to convey
the idea that people who do not go to the country for
weer might as well be buried alive, and done
with it.

They read up all the guide-books which treat of the
natural curiosities in or about the region to which
they are going. .

“Oh, ma!” says the gushing one of the family, “it
will be so lovely! Only think! there are a ruined
mill and a gipsy camp right in the same town! And
a waterfall, and boating, and fishing, and high hills,
from which elegant prospects can be had! Anda
dear, romantic old stage-coach passes the door! Oh,
how delightful it will be!”

The practical daughter of the family takes another
view of it.

“Only ten minutes’ walk to the post-office; same
distance to the depot; good roads; fine water; fresh
eggs and milk; vegetables raised on the farm; cool
rooms; no flies or musquitoes. Oh, I know we shall
have such a comfortable time !”

And the mother of the family wonders if she re-
membered to tell her husband to have another bolt
put on the back kitchen door, and she is in a flurry
of anxiety for fear the trunks will go wrong, and she
does not feel quite sure that she put the stopper of
that Jamaica ginger bottle in tight, and she wonders
if she took the key of the china closet with her, and
she hopes poor, dear John will not get so terribly
homesick without them; and then the train is off,
and they are started for the country.

QNLY A PHOTOGRAPH.

BY GENEVA MARCH.

 

 

 

‘Til never, never speak to you again, Will Dixon !”
said Jennie Stafford.

Will Dixon was myself. Jennie Stafford, besides being
the prettiest girl in Wahoo, was my promised wife. The
cards were ordered ; the cake was underway at Dough,
Pastry & Co.’s—a twenty-pound lump of indigestion,
with a whole swarm of sugar Cupids and roses built on
top of it. Ihad even seen her in her wedding-dress—
something that looked like a glorious snow-storm, of
white silk, tulle, and flowers. And here she was, telling
me to my face that she would ‘‘never, never speak to me
again.”

Irubbed my eyes, and pinched myself, to make sure
it wasn’t an active fit of nightmare, after the lobster-
salad we indulged in after the close of the opera last
night.

“Jennie,” said I, ‘‘you're crazy !”

“No, ’m not,” said she, from behind her handkerchief ;
‘but youre a jlirt—a mean, miserable male coquette!
Goaway! Here’s your ring; I never want to see it, or
you, again !”

And the little solitaire diamond twinkledgbewilder-
ingly at me as she flung it toward my feet.

‘What have I done?” demanded I, gaining courage
from the exigency of the position. ‘Jennie, I insist
upon some explanation of this very unaccountable con-
duct.”

“You've been corresponding with Lilly Thomas!
You’ve been sending her your photograph !” hysterically
wailed my bride-elect. ‘Go away, you false, vile
brigand !”

‘TI don’t know Lilly Thomas from Eve,” I protested. <I
haven’t an idea what you’re talking about.”

“How dare you deny it,” cried Jennie, <‘when I saw it
with my own eyes? It was a feigned hand, to be sure,
but there was no feigning in the photograph. Annie
Wilson saw it, and told me, and brought Miss Thomas
here, and she showed me the picture herself. So there
now! :

“Annie Wilson is a meddling old maid!” cried I, nearly
distracted.

“But Lilly isn’t. Lilly is a pretty, giggling miss of six-
teen, just the one to take a gentleman’s eye,” said Jen-
nie. ‘But I didn’t think it of you, Will, after all your
vows of eternal constancy, and never-changing love !”

“Lilly Thomas may be as beautiful as Hebe,” protested
I, ‘but I solemnly swear to you I never set eyes on her
in my life.”

‘Don’t perjure yourself,” said Jennie; ‘remember
your precious soul. I dare say youcan argue very finely,
but you can’t make me disbelieve the evidence of my
own senses.”

‘“‘Won’t you let me plead for myself, Jennie? Won’t
you listen to me ?”

“No, I won’t!” said Jennie ; ‘‘I won’t, I won’t, I won't.”

And she ran out of the room with two little dimpled
hands over her ears.

I went home, with Jennie’s engagement-ring wedged
as far as it would go on the little finger of my left hana,
feeling very much as if the world had made a sudden
revolution and turned everything upside down.

“I don’t know who Miss Thomas can possibly be,”
quoth I to myself; but she’s done for me whoever she is.
Lilly Thomas! I never before heard the name. But
Jennie is in earnest, that’s plain enough. 1 wonder
what it all Means 2”

I sat staring at the fire, very low-spirited indeed. And
small wo:.der. An hour ago 1 was a happy individual,
with the wedding-day close at hand, now I was nothing
more than a jilted lover, with my sweetheart mortally
incensed at me, and all for no possible fault of my own.

“IT don’t know what I shall do,” said I, half aloud, ‘‘un-
less I discover this Miss Thomas, and ask her what Jen-
nie can possibly mean. There issome mistake, of course
there is, and an explanation is very desirable.”

Iwas sitting thus, with my head in my hand, my
elbows resting on my knees, when there came a loud
knocking at the door and in rushed my old college chum,
Tom Meeker.

‘Halloo!” bawled Tom, nearly wringing my hand off
in the boisterous cordiality of his greeting. ‘Wish you
joy, old chap! When’s the happy day? When will you
introduce me? But, what’s the matter? Neuralgia or

 

toothache ? BranGy’s good for toothache, orif she doesn’t

like the smell of iton your breath, try Spear’s Toothache
Annibilator.”

“It isn’t that,” said I, gloomily. ‘‘Tom, I’m glad
you've come in just now. I need a friend to confide in.”

“Eh,” said Tom rumpling his hair till he looked like a
native of Australia.

«She has thrown me off forever.”

“No?” cried Tom.

“It’s too true. And all on account of one Lilly
Thomas.”

“What!” roared Tom, jumping up, ‘‘Miss Thomas?”

“Yes; and what’s the best of it, or rather the worst
of it, I don’t know Lilly Thomas from Queen Victoria !”

“I do,” said Tom, moodily pulling at his carrot-col-
ored mustache.

“Perhaps,” said I, with a gleam of hope, ‘‘you’ll in-
troduce me then. Because she may be able to help me
to see daylight through this curious muddle.”

“Old fellow,” said Tom, “I didn’t meanit! But don’t
kick me down stairs—it’s all my fault.”

“You are mad!” said I.

‘You will be when you hear all about it,” said Tom,
ia 5 effort at a smile. “I sent that photo-
graph.

«“‘What photograph ?”

“Yours.”

“You Sent it ?”

“To Miss Lilly Thomas %”

“Yes; and I'll tell you how it came to pass. I corre-
sponded with her just for fun. She’s a cousin of Fondy,
who has the law office next to mine. She wro‘e to me
for my picture. I’m a homely sort of a lubberat my
best, and my photographs look seven degrees worse
than ldo. Your picture was sticking in my looking-
glass frame, so I just sent that instead. It was enly for
a lark, I give you my word.”

I looked reproachfully at him.

“It’s a lark that will last me my life-time,” said I. ‘‘She
showed it to some old catamaran who exhibited it to
Jennie—and Jennie very naturally concluded that I have
been playing a double game all this time.”

“Now, look here,” pleaded honest Tom, ‘things aren’t
as bad as all that. Tll go to her myself and tell her ex-
actly how it all happened.”

And Tom Meeker was as good as his word.

Jennie Stafford, as he afterward reported to me, was
a Niobe, all in tears, when he sent up his card with.
“Upon important business,” written in pencil under the
“T, Meeker, Attorney.”

“She said at first,” stated Tom, ‘‘that she never would
forgive me. But she thought better of it afterward, when
I told her I knew I deserved nothing short of aterm of
years in State prison. But I told her, too, ’d cut my
right hand off to serve you, if any trouble came to you,
and that my life would be forever unhappy if I had been
the cause of bringing serious trouble to you. And then
she cried and laughed, and said if you could forgive me
she would.”

And even while Tom was telling his tale a pink three-
cornered note was brought to me from Jennie.

“DEAREST WILL,” it said, ‘if-you can ever pardon my
cruel words, come to me to-night. J. 8.”

Of course I obeyed the little tear-blotted missive. Of
course there was a general kissing and making up, and
of course Jennie vowed she would never, never, doubt
me again.

«But you must own yourself, darling,” said she, while
I fitted on the diamond ring again, ‘that I had good
reason this time.”

And I answered her with a lover’s best argument—a

e

AN ADVENTURE WITH MEXICAN BANDIT,

BY KATE LUBY,

 

 

 

The facility afforded highway robbers to escape
by the close proximity of the Texan border to Mexico,
has made it highly dangerous to travel through the
Rio Grande Valley.

The Mexicans consider that Texas was unfairly
wrested from them, and they rarely lose an opportu-
nity of revenging themselves on Americans. Blessed,
as they are, with an extremely fertile soil, they do
not care to cultivate it, not comprehending the dig-
nity of labor. They spend their days in smoking,
lounging, plotting, and their nights in stealing, or
in strumming on the guitar, and singing roundelays
to some real or imaginary Dulcinea.

During the War of the Rebellion, Brownsville was

occupied by General Bee, who had a company of
Mexicans, under Adrian Vidal’s command. These
fellows, about two hundred in number, deserted from
Bee, and prowled about, with impunity, as the Fed-
eral troops were on the point of occupying Browns-
ville.

At that time, Pierce Randolph, a native of Ohio,
and his lovely young wife, had to pass from Browns-
ville to Nueces County to dispose of some stock and
other property which he owned there.

They proceeded on their journey, without having
encountered anything to disturb their felicity, until
they arrived at Rancho Santa Rita, where, finding no
inmates, they continued on their way for about two
leagues, when they heard the stifled sobs ofa child
and the wailing of an infant.

Alighting from the ambulance, they penetrated
through the chaparral, and were astonished to be-
hold a lady, with three children, crouching in terror
under the busbes. It was Mrs. Barlow, a German
lady, of the Jewish faith, and who was well known
to the travelers. She was waiting there for a ferry-
ere it was near the river, and was utterly pros-
trated.

Her husband, Jeff Barlow, had been sheriff of
Brownsville, but espousing the Federal cause, he left
the city, and returned to his ranch at Santa Rita.

Mrs. Barlow’s story was truly heart-rending; she
stated that early in the morning, Adrian Vidal, the
Mexican captain, took a cow belonging to some of
her laborers, and, with daring impunity, was in the
act of killing it before the house. Mr. Barlow, who
was on terms of intimacy with Vidal and his family,
stepped out to remonstrate with him.

Vidal shook hands warmly with Barlow, and drew
him away to some short distance from the ranch,
then making a sign to his men, Barlow was roughly
surrounded, had his hands tied, and was dragged
into the wood.

In the meantime four of the ruffians entered the
house of Mrs. Barlow, who was entirely unconscious
of her husband’s danger. They ransacked the house,
demanded money and arms, and took a saddle be-
longing to her son, a lad of ten years. The poor boy
cried bitterly at this mean, cowardly, act, and a
neighbor named Antonio Cruz, who was his god-
father, came in and asked the marauders to leave the
poor little fellow’s saddle, as it was too small for
them. They answered him by presenting a long
dagger to his heart and tying his hands, then turned
him toward the wood where Barlow had been
driven.

Mrs. Barlow counted the moments until her hus-
band should return, and was onthe pointof going
out to look for him when a little Mexican boy, whom
she had often served, ran breathlessly up to her,
erying:

“Fly, madam, with your children, at once! Vidal
has murdered your husband and Antonio Cruz, and
will soon be here to kill you too! Make for the ferry
and cross to the other side. I will go before you to
secure a boat.”

Snatching her baby in her arms, with the other
children clinging to her side, she ran, in the burning
sun, until she arrived near the ferry, where she
awaited the appearance of the boat. The little boy,
who had saved her, then appearing, Mrs. Barlow im-
plored of him to tell her the particulars of her unfor-
tunate husband’s death.

Barlow and Cruz had every insulting epithet
showered on them by Vidal and his gang.

“You are an American,” they said to Barlow, “and
brought to justice some of our friends many years
ago. You must hang like a dog; and you, Cruz, are
his companion. You shall share his fate.’

They then chased poor Barlow up and down the
wood, inflicting upon him the most cruel blows with
their swords, and after having satiated their ven-
haga in this way, they prepared the rope to hang

him.

“Take off my hat,” said he. ‘I am a Christian. Let
me pray to God for my poor wife and little ones!”

“Oh, we will take care of her. It is our intention
to hang her with her young cubs!’

They had little life now to take from poor Barlow,
whom they hung to a tree, and were butchering the
unhappy Cruz when an angel of merey touched the
little Mexican’s heart, and he secretly stole off to
warn Mrs. Barlow. ;

Randolph and his wife, Amanda, mingled their
tears with those of the afflicted woman, giving her
every assistance in their power. Randolph offered
to accompany her and the boy in search of the boat.
The Mexican boy expressed many doubts about ob-
taining one, and it was arranged that, should they
not succeed, the unhappy widow and her children
should accompany Randolph and his wife as far as
King’s ranch, where she would be protected.

Leaving Amanda with Mrs. Barlow’s children, the
three started off to seek the boat, promising to return
in a few minutes.

They had not been gone more than twenty minutes
when Amanda became melancholy and nervous. The
old majestic oak tree seemed to frown on her, and
the murmuring of the rivulets sounded like a dirge.

Presently she was startled by the tramp of horses,
and looking forward, her heart sank within her on
perceiving a black, murderous-looking Mexican
riding furiously toward her. She saw that he was a
barbarian, for he never reined in his horse, but
almost rode over her. She despised the coward, and
would not let him see that she feared him; so, step-
ping forward to meet him, she reached out her hand
in welcome.

The villain was so surprised as not to be able to
speak, but she came to his rescue, saying, in good
Spanish :

“Pardon me, sir. I have mistaken you for my hus-
band, who is not far off, and whom I am just ex-

 

pecting. Run,” she continued, addressing Mrs, Bar-
low’s son, ‘‘and see what detains him.”

The boy ran off, and, without further ceremony, the
Mexican said:

“Tam Vasquez, the outlaw, and a great admirer of
beauty !”

Saying this, he seized Amanda, with a hereulean
grasp, and seating her before him in the saddle, gal-
loped off, leaving the two little ones of Mrs. Barlow
screaming at the top of their lungs,

In a short time the boat was obtained, and Mrs.
Barlow and her family were safely landed on the
other side,

Randolph expressed much surprise at not seeing
his wife, and was informed by one of the children,
before they entered the boat, that ‘a big, ugly man
had taken her out to ride against her will.”

He hoped this might have been only imagination
on the part of the child, as it was so terrified. He at
once went to the ambulance to see if Amanda was
sleeping, but no wife greeted him there. Every
search was unavailing.

“Oh, Heaven,” cried he, “take my life, but spare
that pure, gentle creature, for whom I would lay
down a thousand lives!”

A cloud of dust on the road announced the ap-
proach of a band of men. He thought it must be
Vidal and his murderous crew, so he examined his
pistol, and prepared to sell his life as dearly as
possible.

_ Great was his joy on finding the party to be Amer-
icans.

It was Captain Matt Nolan’s company of the Texan
Rangers, on their way to Brownsville.

Randolph approached, and told, in a few words,
the horrors perpetrated by Vidal, together with the
loss of his wife; and Nolan, answering him, said:

“We are men, and know how to feel for you. An
Irish mother taught me early to feel for the sorrows
of others. A Mexican passed us, a short time since,
bearing a large bundle in front of him. Perhaps it
was your wife, in a fainting condition, for the fellow
turned into a small hovel, and we took no further
notice of him. Come, boys,” said he, with a yell, ‘to
the rescue!”

All his men, twenty-five in number, started for the
cabin into which they had seen the Mexican enter.

Vasquez was there, trying his best to restore
Amanda fromthe effects of the swoon, from which she
was just recovering. His quick ear catching the
shout of the Rangers, he saw, at a glance, that his
game was lost, and mounting his horse, with Amanda
in front of him, he rode to the river-side, and heav-
ing fis insensible burden into the water, darted off
like lighting, shouting ‘‘Death to the Americans!”

It was useless to pursue the wretch. Every ranger
was in the water as soon as Randolph himself, and
the gallant Matt Nolan soon emerged from the river
with the dripping form of Amanda in his arms.

In a short time she completely recovered uninjured,
and united with her husband in offering her warmest
gratitude to Nolan, who detached five of his men to
guard Randolph and the lady, and they shortly after
arrived at their destination to enjoy home, happiness,
and a heaven of love.

 

eo~

LOVE AND PRIDE.

BY HAROLD DEBAR.

 

 

“Miriam, Miriam—listen to me, Miriam,” and
Richard Ralston’s voice sank low and was almost
husky with emotion, as he pleaded with Miriam Lane.
“Miriam,” he said, “I have loved you long; I have
waited patiently until now; I did not wish to hurry
you or importuue you; I knew you were proud and
loved your liberty, and that you had boasted that no
man could ever win your love. But now, Miriam,” he
continued, firmly, “I have waited long enough. I
can be in doubt no longer. You know whether you
can return my love, and I must have my answer.”

Richard's closing words were almost sad. He felt
that Miriam Lane loved him; but he bore in mind
that her pride was stronger than her love. She was
haughty, independent, and loth to acknowledge

that any man could subdue her heart.

Which would conquer, pride or love?

“Mr. Ralston,” Miriam answered, after a pause,
and with a touch of hauteur, ‘‘you are too imperious.
Other men have waited and wooed much longer than
you have done,” and she ceased speaking, as if dis-
daining to go further.

“Miriam, [must have my answer,” he repeated,
firmly, gently. ;

“Must, Mr. Ralston? Really, your words argue ill
for the woman who shall become your wife,” and
Miriam laughed with assumed indifference. “If you
begin with must,’ she added, “‘the imperative mood
will characterize you altogether. No, I thank you,
Mr. Ralston, I prefer to be my own master.”

“Is that your answer, Miriam ?” and Richard Ral-
ston awaited his reply as a brave man might await
his death-sentence, yet his voice barely escaped being
tremulous.

“Yes,” she almost whispered.

“Farewell, then,” came his words, and ina moment
he was gone. .

Miriam drew herself up proudly, while a disdainful
smile made feeble attempts to cross her lips. ‘*Did
he expect'to take me by storm, to offer his heart and
have me accept it with an ‘I thank you, sir? If so,
he was mistaken. And yet, and yet,” she added,
suddenly changing her demeanor, while a look almost
of anguish swept across her face, ‘‘what have I
done? HavelIsold my heart to my pride, rejected
the love of atrue man in order to satisfy a whim?
Oh, Heaven, itis too true! Richard, Richard, my
heart and soul are yours! Do not desert me!”

Then Miriam recovered her control, regained her
composure, became her old self, cold, unmoved, and
saying, ‘‘Never shall word of this folly escape me,”
she passed from the room apparently as calm as
ever.

She was strong, and her self-control quite marvel-
ous. ;

Richard Ralston’s mind worked rapidly after he
left Miriam Lane.

“So allis over,” he said. ‘I had hoped otherwise.
“But I shall not die,’ he added, with a grim smile.
“JT will now execute my plan. I need diversion. I
can have it.”

The next day he had enrolled himself as a sol-
dier. He had no near relatives to suffer if he died,
and so he had no hesitation on account of others.
The civil war was at its height; men were pouringin
to stay the northward march of Lee; regiments were
hurrying on from Philadelphia, where Richard re-
sided, and he knew of no better way to forget him-
self than to plunge into the “‘sound and fury” of war.

Time passed; Gettysburg came, and Miriam Lane
satin her room reading the account of the bag bb
battle. She hurriedly scanned the list of the kille
and wounded. Why did her heart beat so rapidly?
Why was she 80 much concerned ?

She was looking for one name.

She found it; Richard Ralston, severely wounded.

Would he die? she questioned, breathlessly.

Miriam was roused. She paced her room rapidly.

“Wounded!” she repeated, again and again. ‘He
may die; he may. need care; what shall I do?’ she
asked herself.

She stopped suddenly; she thought deeply, hur-
riedly. Duty, love, pride were contending in her
mind and heart.

“T must go, I will go,” she said at last, while an in-
vincible determination came over her face. “I will
not, cannot, dare not go to him as of old, but I will
goto him asto a soldier and a man. He shall at
least respect me.”

And Miriam Lane went away tothe scene of car-
nage tolearn of the whereabouts of Richard Ral-
ston, and to perform a woman's mission of love.

At evening, as the shadows were beginning to settle
around a low farm-house in the neighborhood of the
battle-field, Richard Ralston lay upon his bed, weak
from the loss of blood, yet in full consciousness. He
had been dangerously wounded, yet the surgeon as-
sured him that by the best of care and constant
watching he might recover.

He was meditating whether he really desired to
come back to health and strength, when he was told
that a lady wished to see him.

He wondered who it could be; he could not
imagine.

He heard the rustling of a dress, and felt a tremu-
lous hand upon his forehead.

“Richard,” a well-known voice murmured, “TI have
come to take care of you as aman anda soldier. Do
not move, do not be excited; for my sake, be calm.
All depends upon this; let me be near you, watch
over you, and when you are well enough I will leave
you if you wish.”

“Thank you, Miriam,” he replied, in tones so low
re obliged to stoop tohearthem. “Beit as you
wish.

From that time Miriam was his nurse; he gained
rapidly; they conversed on various topics, as his
strength allowed; but they never approached a cer-
tain subject.

At length Richard had sufficiently recovered to be
able to walk about with the aid of a cane and by lean-
ing upon Miriam for support.

Gna afternoon they were oe ee usual stroll
about the house, he leaning upon her arm and find-
ing it very pleasant.

There had heen a pause in their conversation.
Miriam broke it.

“T must return home to-morrow,” she said.

*I do not send you, Miriam,” Richard replied. “TI
too, may go,” he added. ‘And yet, if I do, to what
do I go. Miriam,” he went on rapidly, “‘we have
avoided one subject carefully since you came here.
Now I must speak. You do not forbid me?’

Miriam gave no sign.

“Miriam, you came here to——”

“Watch over you as aman and a soldier,” she in-
terrupted, with a smile which he could not mistake.

“And may I fight all your battles for yau,’” he
asked, with a little gayety and with deep meaning.

“Tf you wish, Richard,” she ‘added, and without
resistance she suffered the imperious fellow to take
possession of her hand and lay a conquerer’s claim
to her lips.

“My pride, Richard, has received a terrible fall,”
said the proud woman; “but,” she added, archly, “it
has fallen into excellent hands.”

Richard secured an honorable discharge from the
army. He looked at patriotism with new eyes, and
declared it better that unmarried men should serve
the country. For himself, he would enter a service
where there were more peace and happiness than in
the din of war.

Miriam teaches her daughter that pride has its
proper place, and that it becomes folly when it en-
ters the field against love.

> oe~<~_______—__
Correspondence.
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

te 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,

 

Schoolgirl, Chicago, Ill.—lst. The dress of the Bul-
garians, who comprise about forty per cent. of the popu-

lation of European Turkey, consists of a sheepskin cap
dyed brown or black, a short open jacket, a broad girdle
which answers the purpose of pockets, drawers buckled
at the knee, and folds of flannel wrapped round the legs.
The women wear a bodice, a cloth jacket, a skirt which
does not reach the ankle, and on the head a small stiff hat
with gold or silver coins sewed upon it. 2d. Their houses
are built of wood, and sometimes of earth and pebbles.
3d. The Bulgarians ype d themselves chiefly with agri-
culture and rearing cattle, Excellent wine is made by
them, the grape being extensively cultivated. 4th. Gram-
mars of the Bulgarian language have been published ;
also dictionaries. In 1849 the Rev. E. Riggs, an American
missionary stationed at re sent a Bulgarian trans-
lation of Gallaudet’s “Child’s Book on the Soul’ to this
city. Bulgarian poems and songs—especially national
ones—are quite numerous.

C. M. L., Springfield, Mass.—ist. “Astrea” was the sig-
nature of Aphra Behn, an English dramatist and novelist,

who died in London, April 16, 1689. She married Mr.
Behn, a London merchant of Dutch extraction. Charles
Il. selected her as a political spy on the Continent during
the Dutch war. She subsequently renounced politics,
and devoted herself to authorship. Her works, in six vol-
umes, were published in London in 1874. As a writer she
is described as graceful and sprightly, but as indulging
in unbounded license. She mingled in the gayest society
ot London, and among her acquaintances were Rochester,
Etheridge, Southern, Crisp, and Dryden. 2d. The poem
of “The Grave,” in blank verse, written by Robert Blair,
Sere poet, appeared after his death, 1747. He died

Reader.—If we understand your question aright, the
following recipe to make a beer to make yeast, will an-

Swer your purpose, especially if you are a distiller or
brewer: Ta. e nine gallons of boilin water, and let it
stand until it is 170 degrees ; then add one peck of malt,
put in by degrees. Let it stand for three hours, until it
is settled, then pour it off and add halfa pougd of hops;
then boil down to half which must be strained through a
tin strainer, and squeeze the hops out well. This will
make about four gallons of juice. Let it stand until
ninety degrees. Then put into this juice one quart of
good yeast. Letit stand and work for afew days, until
he foam will fall back. Put the beer into a stone jug,
ind it will be good for months.

J. S., Plainfield, N. J.—The summer drink to which you
refer is called nectar, and is made as follows: Take a

pound of the best raisins, seeded and chopped, four lem-
ons, sliced thin, and the yellow rind pared off from two
other lemons, and two pounds of powdered loaf sugar.
Put into a porcelain_preserving kettle two gallons of
water. Set it over the fire, and boil it half an hour. Then,
while the water is boiling hard, putin the raisins, lemons,
and sugar, _and continue the boiling for ten minutes.
Pour the mixture into a vessel with a close cover, and let
it stand for four days, stirring it twice aday. Then strain
it through a linen bag, and bottle it. It will be fit for use
in two weeks. Drink it from wineglasses, with a small
piece of ice in each. ,

NV. W.N., Brooklyn, N. Y.—ist. Yes. New J: ersey was
frequently the theater of war during the Revolution,

The battles of Trenton, Princeton, Millstone, Red Bank.
and Monmouth were fought on its soil. 2d. the first Leg-
slature met at Princeton in August, 1776. The first gov-
rnor elected was William Livingston. 3d. The Federal
constitution was adopted by a unanimous vote, Dec. 18,
1787. 4th. The number of troops furnished to the Union
army during the civil war was 79,511.

k. L. W., New London, Conn.—A nuncio is a prelate
representing the Roman Pontiff near a foreign govern-

ment. He represents, strictly speaking, the Pope only as
temporal sovereign, but he is often commissioned to treat
of spiritual affairs, and to report on the condition of
churches and the character of church dignitaries, espe-
cially of candidates for the miter. A nuncio visited the
United States in 1853. It was Archbishop (afterward Car-
dinal) Bedini.

Ralph K., Petersburgh, Va.—Much of the beverage
known as lager beer is not genuine, because it has not
lain a sufficient length of time in the cellar to be so
called. It is, in fact, a beer known to the brewers as
draught beer, or beer ready to be drawn. It contains less
alcohol than genuine lager, and less than the various
kinds of beer which are brewed in Bavaria. It occupies
much less time in fermenting, and is said to lack the keep-
ing properties of German beer.

L. A., Buffalo, N. Y.—Behring Sea is that part of the
Pacific Ocean which lies immediately south of Behring

Strait, and between the continents of America and Asia.
It was first explored by Behring, in 1728. Behring Strait
between East Cape in Asia and Cape Prince ef Wales on
the American side is only thirty-six miles wide. The
depth of water is from twenty to thirty fathoms. The
strait is estimated to be about four hundred miles long.
It is frozen over every winter.

B. J. P., Washington, D. C.—Chang and Eng, the cele-
brated Siamese twins, died at their residence near Salis-

bury, N. C., within two honrs of each other, Jan. 17, 1874,
aged 63. Chang died first.” The sickness of the one did
not affect the other, but when Eng awoke at night and
found his brother dead, the shock to his nerves was so
great as to produce a syncope in which he died. Both
were married men, having married sisters, and both had
normal children.

Mrs. L. G. L., Saratoga, N. Y.—In regard to moles,
which originate, as is stated, in augmentation of pig-
ment, or coloring matter, and rise above the surface of
the skin, in every variety of size, form, and color, and the
unsightly appearance of which is frequently increased
by a growth of bristly hairs surmounting them, it is con-
sidered unsafe to tamper with them; the only safe and
certain mode of getting rid of them being by a surgical
operation.

Mrs. N. N. N., Chauncey, Ohio.—To make clabber cakes,
take one pint of clabber, one tablespoonful of butter, one
pint of flour, one teaspoonful of salt, and one teaspoonful
of saleratus. If not stiff enough add a little more flour to
the batter. Bake in muffin rings and let them remain in

the oven until soaked, or they will be clammy. Bake in
a quick oven. ;

Mrs. A. M. G., Somerville, N. J.—To cure prickly heat,
mix a considerable quantity of wheat bran with either

cold or tepid water, and use it as a bath twice or three
times a ony As soon as the eruption begins to appear on
the neck, face, or arms, wash those parts freely with the
bran water, and relief will soon be afforded. It is almost
sure to effect a cure if persisted in.

Rk. W. B.—The use of toothpicks for removing particles
of food which get lodged between the teeth is to be com-

mended, but the practice of continuing their employment
after the purpose in view has been accomplished, is apt
to induce inflammation of the gums. Besides, it is an
unsightly operation, and is unbecoming well-bred persons.

Invalid, Brooklyn, N. Y.—Berkeley Springs, or Bath,
in Morgan County, West Virginia, is visited by invalids
on account of the water of the springs, which is regarded
as cacious in cases of neuralgia, dyspepsia, and chronic
rheumatism. The temperature of the water is 74 degrees.

Rk. W.—Mont Blanc, White Mountain, so called from
the snow which covers it, is the highest of the Alps, and
with the exception of Mt. Elburz, in the Caucasus, the
highest mountain in Europe. Ascents are quite fre-
quent.

I. M. M., Savannah, Ga.--The remains of President
Monroe were removed from this city to Richmondy Va.,
July 3, 1858. They were escorted by the Seventh Regi-
ment.

Henry Wallis, Hawley, Pa.—ist. “The Phonographic
Teacher” will cost 30 cents. 2d. About $10 per week. 3d.
We have sent you by mail a catalogue from which you
can make selections.

Mrs. D. S., Oneida, N. Y.—ist. We can send you a coin
book, with address of dealer, etc., for 25 cents. 2d. Aug.
19, 1850, came on Monday.

A Constant Reader, Logan, Kans.—The “Engineer's
Handbook” will cost $1. Address the NEW YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency.

4. C. G., Long Branch, N.J.—The steamer River Belle,
which ran between Sandy Hook and this city, was
burned at her pier, No. 8 North River, on Sept. 3, 1874.

NV. N. G., Albany, N. Y.—The Williamsburgh Savings
Bank, Brooklyn, E. D., has 61,681 accounts. Totalamount
due to depositors, July 1, 1888, $26,222,830.

. H. D., Hepworth.—We can send you the “Carpenter’s
and Builder’s Guide” for $1.

THREE NEW STORIES,
By Popular Contributors.

 

°

 

LADY LAUDERDALE’S TEMPTATION. By
EMMA GARRISON JONES, Author of “A Great
Wrong.”

THE WORKINGMAN DETECTIVE; Or, A
Crime Against the Poor. By DoNnatp J.
McKENZIE, Author of “The Reporter Detec-
tive,” etc.

THE TEST OF LOVE; Or, The Beauty of
Bonaccorde. By ANNIE ASHMORE, Author of
“The Lady of Harrow,” “Jennie Vail’s Mission,’
ete. :

The first of these stories will be begun next week,

 

| and the others will appear soon after.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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vous, emt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #333

 

 

 

 

 

THE QUIET EYE.

 

BY ELIZA COOK.

 

The orb I like is not the one

That dazzles with its lightning gleam ;

- That aares to look upon the sun,

As though it challenged brighter beam.
That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll;

Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly;
But not for me—I prize the soul

That slumbers in a quiet eye.

There’s something in its placid shade
That tells of calm, unworldly thought ;
Hope may be crowned, or joy delayed—
No dimness steals, no ray is caught.
Its pensive language seems to say,
“T know that I must close and die ;”
And death itself, come when it may,
Can hardly change the quiet eye.

There’s meaning in its steady glance,
Of gentle blame or praising love,
That makes me tremble to advance
A word that meaning might reprove.
The haughty threat, the fiery look, ©
My spirit proudly can defy ;
But never yet could meet and brook
The upbraiding of a quiet eye.

There’s firmness in its even light
That augurs of a breast sincere ;
And, oh! take watch how ye excite
That firmness till it yield a tear.
Some bosoms give an easy sigh,
Some drops of grief will freely start;
But that which sears the quiet eye
Hath its deep fountain in the heart.

 

Reynolds’ keen eyes espied it instantly, and he re-

garded the costly affair in amazement, for he knew
that, hitherto, Kenneth had carried a very cheap sil-
ver watch, and could ill afford, with his moderate
salary, to purchase one so expensive, while, too, he
saw that his chain was in keeping with the watch.

He knew, also, that he had no friends or relatives
who would be likely to give him so valuable a present,
and his curiosity was at once piqued to ascertain
how he came by it.

“Tt is quarter-past eleven,’ Kenneth at last re-
plied, opening the case and glancing at the time.

“Um—got a new watch, haven’t you?’ questioned
his companion.

“Yes,” Kenneth returned, with a preoccupied air,
as he replaced it in his pocket, and again turned his
attention to the work in hand.

‘Let’s see it, will you?” pursued Reynolds, reach-
ing out to take it.

“Exeuse me,’ Kenneth responded, feeling just a
trifle irritated at being interrupted, ‘I am very busy
with this article; it must be in the printer’s hands
within an hour; some other time,’ and he went
steadily on -with his work, his pen literally flying
over the pages as he made the necessary alterations.

Egbert Reynolds frowned darkly because his re-
quest was disregarded, and he bent a suspicious look
upon Kenneth.

All at once he gave a slight start, sat in thought-
ful silence for a few moments; then, giving vent to
a low, prolonged whistle, he arose and abruptly left
the room.

The act seemed trifling in itself, but it was omin-
ous of serious consequences, aS we Shall discover

later.
x *~ * * * ‘*

Mrs. Sherman and her two daughters returned to
New York in October—toward the last of the month—
and both she and Alice were greatly improved in
health, while meet Bess had entirely recovered from
the effects of the fire.

Her hands were still somewhat scarred from her
burns, but these marks were growing fainter with
every day, and the physician assured her that they
would entirely disappear in time.

Her hair was growing out again with beautiful
luxuriance, while there was just curl enough in it

She did not believe that it was right or best for |

young girls to marry men so much older than them-

selves; her observation had told her that, as a rule,

they were not happy in forming such a union, and

she was too conscientiously interested in Alice not

= wish her to have the very best that life could give
er.

She had great confidence in her brother’s skill as a
physician, for she believed that he thoroughly under-
stood his profession; but she had not quite so much
eee in the purity of his motives and prin-
ciples.

 

CHAPTER XVI.
SHERMAN OBJECTS TO HER
BROTHER’S SUIT.

“John,” Mrs. Sherman said to her brother one
morning when he called to see Alice, who had, how-

MRS.

 

 

 

{ffi 2”

 

Mr. Stark, the publisher, who was a relative of the
hostess, came later, with his two pretty daughters
and Kenneth Keith.

Alice espied Kenneth the moment he entered the
room, and no one would have recognized in the
blooming, sparkling, and animated creature, which
she suddenly became, the cold, pale, and silent girl
who had entered the room a half-hour before.

Dr. Ashton was quick to mark the instantaneous
change in her, and wondered at its cause. 5

He watched her, and it was not long before he wa
enlightened.

After Kenneth had made his bow to his hostess and
been presented to Miss Florence Ames, the debutante,
he began to look about him to see if he could discover
any acquaintance among the numerous guests.

He saw Mrs. Sherman and her party almost im-
mediately, and at once made his way to her side.

Then Dr, Ashton understood the secret of the sud-
den change in Alice, for the color flooded her cheek
and a light gleamed in her eyes, such as he had never
seen there before, as she greeted the young man with
a cordiality such as she rarely favored any one with.

“Who is this Mr. Keith? Where have you met him
before?” the doctor demanded of his sister, after he
had acknowledged the introduction to him.

“Why, he is that brave young fellow who saved us
all from that terrible fire last August. Have you for-
gotten?” returned Mrs. Sherman, surprised that he
should not have remembered the name.

“Humph! I should think he was some prince of
royal blood, by the enthusiasm with which you all
greeted him,” grumbled her brother, with his sus-
picious glance still fixed“upon Alice, who was chat-
ting with the object of these remarks with a vivacity
which betrayed that she found him a most congenial
companion.

_ ‘He has a princely nature and the courage of a
lion,” Mrs. Sherman heartily responded. “Heis my
eet ee anoble young man; I wish I had ason like

im.

“Perhaps you would not object to him as a husband
for your charming ward,” sneered her companion.

“John, you can be very disagreeable when you
choose,” replied the lady, with a shrug of her shoul-
ders; “but, to be frank with you, I should not object
to him if he wished to marry her, neither would she
herself, if I am not mistaken,’ she concluded, with a

ment in having secured Kenneth as her partner dur-
ing supper.

Doctor Ashton thought that he might as well im-
prove his opportunity, for this little by-play had not
been lost upon him.

“That is the young fellow who made such a hero
of himself at the beach last summer, isn't he?” he
whispered in Alice’s ear.

“Yes,”

“Quite a comely looking chap he is, too,” the man
coolly continued, as if entirely unconscious that
every word was a dagger in the heart of his com-
panion ; “‘and he sees to greatly admire our princess
royal; don’t you think so?”

“If you should reverse that statement it might be
+e to the point, perhaps,’’ Miss Sherman returned,
icily.

“Ah! is that the way of it?’ her companion ex-
claimed, with well-feigned surprise. ‘Well, all I ean
say is, I hope he is worthy of my pretty niece’s
regard. What do you think about it, ma belle?
cone he make a suitable husband for the dear
child ?”’

It was all that Alice could do to restrain a moan of
anguish at this question.

Kenneth Keith the husband of Queen Bess!

She had thought that they migh/ learn to love each
other, but her wildest fear had never reached that
point, and she felt that the day which should con-
summate such a union would blot out all future hap-
piness for her.

It was only with a mighty effort that she forced
her colorless lips to say:

“T do not feel myself competent to judge of his
merits in that respect.”

She knew that she was giving utterance to a false-
hood, even while she spoke, for she knew that if
Kenneth should ask her that night to become his
wife, she would have yielded herself and all that she
had to him, and felt honored in so doing.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Whose Child Was She?

 

: : ; 5 ee it.very becoming to her bright,,piquant = ie significant glance at Alice and her handsome com- OR,
is She had been so sweet and patient during her suf- : ( men PanlOn. : ;
Ts Story Will NOt be FUME I OOF hat haat oa warn heel STAs Ne) |nctiewstanite eetntsich oe eve weenea] A LIFE-LONG CURSE.
who. Bad BO BOSPISDIy Spened hs Lots. Fe Feneeye neth was trying to be politely entertaining his eager pees

Queen Bess:

them in their emergency, and Mrs. Everet, finding a
congenial companion in Mrs. Sherman, had insisted
that they should all continue to be her guests as long
as they remained upon the island.

Two or three times Mrs. Sherman had said she
must return to New York, for all their clothing had
been destroyed, and much would have to be done to
prepare for winter; but her hostess beguiled her

 

 

 

 

 

glance kept wandering to Queen Bess, who, after she
had given him one smiling look and cordial hand-
clasp, had stepped back a pace or two, and was now
standing by herself, with downcast eyes, but a very
happy face, for his tone and manner while greeting
her had told more strongly than words could have
done how glad he was to meet her again.

By MARY GRACE HALPINE,

Author of ‘The Missing Bridegroom,” “The Hus-
band of Two Wives,” etc.

 

(“WHOSE CHILD WAS SHE?’ was commenced in No. 31.

 

= oe oe ae i Back numbers can be obtained of all N A ts.
A Stru le For a Name into making necessary purchases and then have the See =— -== => _——_ —— Mrs. Sherman had begun to suspect, wher they all News Agents. ]
ee ¢ | dressmaker and seamstress, whom she kept inthe | | (=——3e_ 7S im were at the beach in the summer, that both girls had CHAPTER XXII
house, do the needful sewing for her. — — = become deeply interested in the young man, and that .
es It was all very delightful, and Queen Bess, a few — we this was the secret of Alice’s strange behavior of A MISHAP,

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 XV.
DR. ASHTON’S SCHEME.

Kenneth was deeply touched by this evidence of
the young girl’s gratitude to and her regard for him,
and an answering thrill of tenderness and affection
swelled up in his own heart for her.

He was greatly disappointed that she had left the
country—or was about to leave it—for her note had
been dated the day before, and it said, ‘‘to-morrow.”

her for the delicate act of kindness, even if he had

months later, looked back with peculiar comfort
upon this season of pleasant idleness which her
mother had so enjoyed for the last time in her life.

The young girl herself was growing prettier with
every day, and every Tuesday she appeared to bloom
with unusual loveliness and satisfaction, for that
day brought her, with unfailing regularity, a certain
newspaper, published in New York, in which one or
more articles were marked with a simple cross in
pencil, and which she perused with absorbing in-
og knowing that Kenneth Keith had written
them.

Alice, however, during all this time, had grown
strangely reserved and silent, while a barrier, like
an iron wall, seemed to have arisen between the
two girls. ;

In vain Queen Bess exerted all her powers of love
and kindness to exorcise it; in vain she tried to
appear as if everything was upon the same footing
that it always had been. Alice was: persistently
distant and uncomfortable to get along with,
especially so after the arrival of every paper

 

   
 

 

 

 

 

s
‘*IN OTHER WORDS, YOU MEAN TO IMPLY, I SUPPOSE,
THAT I AM AFTER HER MONEY!”

ever, gone upon ashopping expedition, for which she
was very thankful, as it gave her an opportunity she
had long desired, ‘‘John, what is the meaning of your
sudden devotedness to Alice ?”

“My sudden devotedness? Haven’tI always been
devoted to both of the girls?” he asked, with well-
feigned surprise.

“Well, yes, after a fashion; but never so emphati-
cally devoted to Alice as you have been of late. You
have always been a faithful medical attendant, but
recently your attentions have partaken more of the
character of a lover,” Mrs. Sherman returned, de-
termined to speak plainly, now thatshe bad the op-
portunity.

John Ashton winced as she made mention of his
faithfulness as a physician. -

“Well, suppose they are those of a loyer—what,
then?” he demanded, thinking that he might as well
bring matters to a crisis first as last.

“T do not believe that she would be happy as your

late.

She was forced to believe that the girl possessed an
intensely jealous nature, which, however, had never
been stirred till now, and she feared that she would
even turn against her best friends if, through them,
she was thwarted in the dearest object of her life-—if
they should come between her and the man whom
she loved.

She could not help fearing that she would have to
suffer a life-long disappointment, for she could read
the signs of the times very readily as she stood there
and watched the difterent faces. -

Just now Egbert Reynolds approached Queen Bess,
made some request of her, then offering her his arm
led her away to another portion of the room. Mrs.
Sherman saw the quick flush that mounted to Ken-
neth’s brow as he, too, witnessed the act, and a
pained, anxious expression was in his fine eyes as he
watched the two move away.

A moment later Laurence Fane excused himself
for interrupting. and solicited the pleasure of Alice’s
hand for a quadrille.

 

It was a beautiful morning in June, and Georgie
Graham stood on the banks of the river, which ran
below the house, the smooth, clear waters mirroring
forth the bright young face that bent over it.

She was only thirteen, but remarkably tall and
well developed for her age.

“What a delightful day for a sail!” she cried. ‘I
declare, it’s a shame for uncle to be so afraid of his
boat. We haven’t been in it once this year.”

“Papa is afraid to trust us,” said Robert, as, fling-
ing asmooth pebble into the middle of the stream
he watched lazily the eddying circles. ‘He thinks
Arthur. can’t manage the boat; but you can, can’t
you, Arthur?’

Arthur looked up from the fishing tackle he was
mending.

“Thope so. I’ve rowed Tim Ruggles’ boat from the

He looked at his new gift to ascertain the time. WLLLLLOD Wit) TS Mrs. Sherman flushed. a

It told him that it "ie nearly twelve o’clock, and Mf LL zt ' a oe not approve of any such arrangement,” iano eu en Si Wages ed Sie
: ' per SN she said. ‘ oe esis sas pai ay
he knew that at least two steamers for Europe were y Wf 4 ; | “Why not?” daar cast a glance of girlish admiration at the
: : : < ‘ “ ; 3 it s . i

about Se their piers, and doubtless she t 1) l eee ne because of the great disparity in “Of course he could manage it, I shouldn't be th e
was upon one o em. oie “ “Wor one thing,’ he repeated. “What other ob- east bit afraid. What a nice day to go to Duck’s
Lt p45 > hss «shia ~~ es fh Island! I’ve been dying to go there ever since we
epiphanies aba h ange gd fea Ween er arent Galloee oe had the picnic. Oh! but didn’t we have a splendid

known the name of the vessel she was going in.

“So she is a little English lady,” he said, musingly»
“and her home is beyond the sea. I wonder if Miss
Kavanagh also lives there; if she does I may as well
give up all hope of ever learning anything through

her of my early history. Perhaps, after all, the fact,
that the handwriting in those two notes seems to be
identical, is only a singular coincidence.”

He sighed heavily and felt greatly depressed; it
seemed asif his way was hopelessly hedged in.

But that afternoon he left the office earlier than
usual, and bent his steps toward No. 85 avenue
to ascertain if Miss Kavanagh had remained in
America. ;

He found the residence dismantled and empty,
while there were placards in the window announcing
that the place was for sale and to whom to apply for
information. Kenneth went directly to the broker’s
office, determined to follow the matter up, now that
he had undertaken it, and there he learned that Miss
Kavanagh had been a resident of England for a num-
ber of years, although previous to thatshe had lived
in New York.

She had returned to America early in the spring of
this year to dispose of some property, that until now
had been rented; she had spent the intervening
months in travel and sight seeing with her niece, and
had now returned to England to reside permanently.

Kenneth felt almost discouraged upon learning
this, for now it seemed almost impossible that he
could ever learn anything more about himself, and

et-he was impressed that Katherine Kavanagh was
n some way connected with his past, or at least that
she knew something of his birth and early history.

“Tf [had the means I would follow her to England,
or even to the ends of the earth, if it was necessary,
and compel her to divulge what she knows,” he told
himself, as he wended his way dejectedly toward his
boarding-place, “I ought to have sought her immedi-
ately after receiving her note and demanded an ex-
planation of her strange behavior on meeting me
that day on board the ferry-boat, and also of the
fact of the similarity in the writing of those two com-
munications. Now I doubt if I could find her even
if I should go to Exgland, forthe broker did not
know her address, as she settled everything before
leaving the country.

Tears of disappointment and regret actually arose
to his eyes as he thought of those two who were
being borne on the wings of the wind and by the
power of steam, across the broad Atlantic. Astrange
yearning for that sweet girl whom he had saved
came over him, and he rebelled almost angrily against
the thought thatthey might never meet again.

But from that time the precious gift which she had
sent him was treasured as the dearest thing in his
possession. He wore it constantly, and although he
never made any parade of it he was very proud of it,
and regarded it almost superstitiously as some
sacred talisman which might bring him some great
good in the future.

He never had a suspicion, however, that it might
be the instrument of some overwhelming calamity to
him; but such was to be the case nevertheless.

In the same office with himself there was a young
man about his own age.

He was the only son and heir of a wealthy gentle-
man, who was an intimate friend of Mr. Stark, the

ublisher, and who had the good sense to insist that

is boy should learn some trade in order that he
might be prepared for the emergencies of life, in case
Dame Fortune should ever, in a fit of caprice, see
fit to knock the bottom out of his well-filled coffers
and leave him penniless.

Egbert Reynolds was this young gentleman’s name,
and his conceit and pride of purse and position were
equaled only by his arrogance and insolence toward
those whom he regarded as beneath himself socially.

These feelings had betrayed themselves in connec-
sion with Kenneth ever since Reynolds entered the
publishing house, while a mean spirit of jealousy had
been manifested because of Kenneth’s superior lit-
erary attainments and position in the office.

This young man was an intimate friend of Laurence
Fane, a promising fellow, of whom we have spoken
before as an adinirer of Alice Sherman ; though what
the two could find in common was a matter of won-
der to all who knew them, for Laurence Fane was
the type of all that was generous, manly, and noble,
while Egbert Reynolds was known to be rather fast,
and was sometimes concerned in matters of a rather
questionable nature.

As has been stated, Kenneth had been with Mr.
Stark ever since he was twelve years of age. He had
always conducted himself in such an honorable,
straightforward way, and shown so much interest
and diligence in the business, that he had become a
great favorite with that gentleman, who had steadily
promoted him and done everything that he could to
advance his interests, and now it had even been
hinted to him that he might hope to become junior
partner in the great publishing house at the begin-
ning of the new year.

Already his name, asa reporter and talented letter-
writer, was beginning to be popularly recognized in
the paper, and his employer, although he did not say
soto him, feltsure that there was a brilliant future for
him if he continued to improve his opportunities as
industriously as heretofore.

A few ne after Kenneth received his elegant gift
from Isabelle Langford, he and young Reynolds were
alone in the ‘manuscript den,’ as the room where all
manuscripts were stored was called, when the latter,
glancing up from his work, remarked, in a somewhat
arrogant tone:

“T say, Keith, tell afellow what time it is; my
watch is at the jeweler’s.”’

Kenneth, very busy with his manuscript, drew
forth his elegant time-piece, without looking up, and
held it in his hand until he had finished the sentence
that he was correcting.

 

 

|

   
  

 

 

‘*I HAVE CHANGED MY MIND REGARDING THE
DISPOSAL OF MY PROPERTY.”

from New York, when she would shut herself in
her own room and remain there the entire day, to
the distress of both Mrs. Sherman and her hostess,
who poaree that the young girl was unhappy as her
guest.

But at nicht after every one else had retired, Alice
would steal down stairs to the library, secure Queen
Bess’ precious Paper, and pore over its contents with
intense interest for hours, and then wind up witha
fit of passionate weeping.

Matters went on thus until they all returned to
New York in October, when Dr. Ashton was taken
entirely aback at the improvement in his patient.
Nevertheless, he professed to be greatly rejoiced over
her recovery, and even when, one day, she told him,
in a jesting way—which, however, was not entirely
devoid of malice—that she did not owe her restored
health to either him or his drugs, but to the pure air
and good living which she had enjoyed during the
last two or three months, and explained how she
had forgotten her medicines. He curbed his anger
sufficiently to laugh with her over the matter, and
told her that she must not imagine that all doctors
or all medicines were humbugs, simply becatise she
had managed to be cured for once without them.

She only smiled in a scornful way in reply, and
shot a suspicious glance at him, which he was not
slow to interpret.

Indeed, the young heiress seemed to have grown
morbidly suspicious of all her friends of late; even
Mrs. Sherman came in for her share of coldness and
reserve, and was made very unhappy by it.

One day Alice startled Dr. Ashton by telling him
that she had decided to destroy the will she had
made and desired him to bring it to her for that pur-
pose when he came again.

Dr. Ashton was dismayed at this freak, and began to
fear that he should lose the handling of her fine for-
tune, in spite gf all his plans.

“What is the matter with you and our princess
royal?” he asked. ‘You don’t seem to get on as well
as you used to. Have you been quarreling ?”

“T never quarrel with any one,” Alice returned,
coldly. ‘I have simply changed my mind regarding
the disposal of my property.”

aoe duse you have!” exclaimed the man to him-
self.

Then a bold scheme suddenly took possession of
his fertile brain.

“Why shouldn’t I marry the heiress, instead of
waiting for her to die?” he thought. ‘I’m not so very
much older—I’m only thirty-six ; and though I don’t
enjoy the idea of being incumbered with a wife, it
might be the quickest and easiest way of making my
fortune. Yes, I will lay violent siege to the citadel
of my lady’s heart forthwith, and settle the question
Pt good and all. I wonder I did not think of it be-

ore.’

He saw that something was very wrong between
Alice and Bess, though he could not ascertain what
it was. Hitherto the girls had professed to love each
other devotedly, and he felt sure that something very
serious must have occurred to set Alice so strongly
against her, as to prefer that her fortune should go
to strangers instead of to those who had always
seemed so near to her.

“The fortune shall never go out of the family,” he
told himself. “If I cannot get the handling of it in
one way I willin another.”

Accordingly, he began to assume the role of lover
at once, and constituted himself the girl’s attendant
upon every possible occasion; attending places of
amusement and frequenting social gatherings which,
in his character of bachelor and cynic, he had long
since eschewed. He made Alice costly gifts, which,
however, she did not receive with the most encour-
aging cordiality, and kept her supplied with the
rr as of flowers, the latest of music and periodi-
eals.

Mrs. Sherman understood these signs at once, and
on to be greatly troubled by the turn affairs were
taking.

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

wife; Ido not believe you would make her a good
husband.”

“Indeed! Why not, pray?’ the man asked, with
some bitterness. i

‘‘Because, having lived so long as a bachelor, your
habits are confirmed, and would not yield to her.
You have always lived chiefly and solely for your-
self, John. You perceive that I am very blunt.”

“T should think so,” he interposed, with a sneer.

“T cannot helpit. I feel it to.be my duty, even
though I offend you,” Mrs. Sherman pursued, gravely.
“Alice has no father, no own mother to shield her
from the snares and evils of life, and I feel that I
should be sadly neglectful of my obligations, if I did
not do everything in my power to secure her happi-
ness; andlam afraid, John, that you are more in-
terested for yourself in this matter than you are for
her good.”

“Tn other words, you mean to imply, I suppose, that
Iam after her money,” Dr. Ashton retorted, with
considerable show of temper.

“Tell me one thing,” said his sister.

“Anything you like.”

“Ts it really your intention to marry Alice?’

Yes, if she will have me.”

Mrs. Sherman lost her color.

“T shall object to such a union,” she said, de-
cidedly.

“That may not make any difference with my inten-
tions, you know,” he coolly retorted.

‘ “Then let me entreat you, John, not to persist in
this project; it may ruin her life,” pleaded Mrs.
Sherman, looking deeply distressed.

“Really, Sadie, I must say you are complimentary
to your own flesh and blood,” he sarcastically re-
turned.

“T do not believe you would ever have contem-
plated such a thing if Alice were penniless,” said the
lady, excitedly.

“Well, perhaps not,” Dr. John answered, smiling
disagreeably. ‘And now that I think of it, maybe

ware not so entirely disinterested as you would

ave me believe; it would make quite a difference
with your income if Alice should marry.”

“John Ashton, you ought to be ashamed to men-
tion such a thing,” cried his sister, indignantly. ‘If
Alice Sherman loved you, and I was convinced that
her happiness depended upon her marrying you, I
would not lay a straw in her way. Of course, I ex-

pect that she will marry some day, and I have never

given a single thought to any pecuniary loss that I
might experience on account of it. I only wish tobe
sure that the dear child will be PADRE. She has a
peculiar disposition—I never realized how peculiar
until recently—and she ought to hayea kind, con-
siderate, and unselfish husband.”

 

 

 

 

“WHO IS THIS MR. KEITH? WHERE HAVE YOU MET
HIM BEFORE?” THE DOCTOR DEMANDED.

“Thank you again, Sadie, for all that your objec-
tions tome and your kind wishes for Alice imply;
but allow me to say that I shall give Miss Sherman
an opportunity to accept or reject me just as soon as
I think it will do to put my fate to the test.’:

The man arose as he concluded this defiant speech,
Panes leaving Mrs. Sherman in tears, abruptly left the

ouse.

Dr. Ashton’s antaggnism was aroused to the
highest pitch by this interview, and as another inci-
dent occurred within afew days which added fuel to
the flame, he carried his threat into execution much
earlier than perhaps he would otherwise have done.

They were all invited to a reception to be given in
honor of one of the school friends of Alice and Queen
Bess, who was about to make her debut in society,
and upon their arrival at the scene of festivities they
found Layrence Fane and Egbert Reynolds among
the guests.

 

G

2 )

eS
>’ ay

R=

¢

 

Pn

Al Mi

 

 

‘‘“WHAT SHALL I DO? MUST I MAKE YOU DRAW
LOTS TO SETTLE THE QUESTION?” SHE ASKED,

She politely refused his request, and sent him away
evidently deeply disappointed, while she resumed
her conversation with Kenneth, and apparently ob-
livious of all save his presence.

Doctor Ashton, too, was observant of all this, and
his white teeth gleamed beneath his mustache in a
bitter smile.

“T can read no less than three romances in those
few tableaux, and a fourth may be said to exist here
in the background, only possibly with less of senti-
ment in its construction than the others contain,” he
muttered to himself.

“Itis very evident that my fiancee-elect is very
much smitten with our young man of the ‘princely
nature ;’ it is just as obvious, however, that he does
not reciprocate, his affections unquestionably having
been bestowed upon my charming niece.

“You shall have my blessing, young man, and a
snug dowry besides, if you will take her and leave the
heiress tome. But there’s another aspirant in the
field, it seems. Mr. Laurence Fane appears to be
quite fond of the wealthy ward of my estimable sis-
ter—his face was astudy as she sent him about his
business a few moments since. But it wouldn’t be
fair at all, Sir Laurence, for you to win that fortune;
it would be like ‘carrying coals to Newcastle,’ for
you are a millionaire in prospect yourself. I think I
must try to checkmate you in this little game at my
earliest opportunity.”

An hour after that Kenneth and Egbert Reynolds
both met and bowed before Queen Bess at the same
moment, and with the same request upon their lips—
the pleasure of her companionship at supper.

The young girl glanced at them, and a roguish little
laugh rippled over her lips, although she flushed
rosily as she met Kenneth’s appealing look.

“What shallI do? Must I make you draw lots to
settle the question?’ she asked, perching her pretty
head upon one side, and pretending to be gravely
considering the matter, while really she was only
trying to think how she might get rid of young Rey-
nolds and secure the hour with Kenneth.

“TI think it is hardly a matter to be settled by lot-
tery, Miss Marchmont,” the rich man’s son replied,
while he drew himself haughtily erect, and bestowed
a withering look upon his rival, as if be scorned the
thought of being put upon such equality with him.

Queen Bess’ bright eyes flashed ominously as she
noticed his supercilious bearing and tone.

The young man was far from being a favorite with
her, and this treatment of her beau-ideal of manly
excellence aroused her indignation.

“You are right, Mr. Reynolds,” she replied, coldly,
“it is not a question to be settled in any such way.
Thank you for reminding me of my duty. And, since
Mr. Keith is an old friend, I will ask you to excuse
me for this time.”

Egbert Reynolds, deeply chagrined, could only bow
in submissien to this decree, then he turned quickly
away, frowning darkly upon Kenneth as he did so,
while the latter thrilled with strange happiness over
those sweet words, ‘‘Mr. Keith is an old friend,” and
inwardly blessed the beautiful lips that had given ut-
terance to them.

“Thank you,” he whispered, with a look that
brought a deeper color to her cheek, ‘I shall mark
this evening with a white stone—you have conferred
greater pleasure than you are perhaps aware of in
giving me that title.”

On their way to the supper-room the happy couple
overtook Alice, leaning upon Doctor Ashton’s arm.

Queen Bess, thinking only that she would like to
have every one as happy as herself, leaned forward,
her lovely face all aglow with kindly feeling, and
asked, affectionately :

“Having a good time, Alice ?’
party, isn’t it?”

Alice shot her one angry, freezing glance, but did
not open her white lips to reply, while Queen Bess,
pained and grieved by the slight, passed on with her
escort, but never dreaining that the jealous girl be-
lieved that she was taunting her with her own enjoy-

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria.

It is a delightful

 

 

time? Such quantities of flowers and berries. I
hated to come away and leave them.”

“Joe Baker says that strawberries are just getting
ripe, and that there’s going to be oceans of ’em. He
and Patsy Daly were there Thursday,” said Robert,
from the long grass where he was lying.

“Mamma went to town with uncle this morning,”
said Georgie—Georgie always calls Judge Linscott
uncle—“and won’t be back till night; so we could
take our dinner and stay all day. I know I could
coax Ann to put up a nice lunch for us.”

“Ah, but you can’t coax the boat out of the stout
bolt that holds her!” laughed Arthur, as he glanced
up at the animated face of the speaker.

“T know where the key is,” suggested Robert, keep-
ing a close watch on Arthur's face through his half-
shut eyes.

Arthur looked at his brother without speaking.

“It hangs behind the doorin Aunt Dolly’s room.
And I saw Aunt Dolly going across the fields to the
village, not ten minutes ago,” resumed Robert, after
a momentary pause.

Georgie flashed upon her brother a look that he
well understood.

“Why don’t you go and get it, then ?”

: ae a laughed Robert. “Oh, I’m too tired and
azy.

Here he began to whistle softly to himself, satisfied
ar = had axe ball eee y ’

“There’s no danger of your burnin our fingers!
No matter, I'll get ft miyselt.” pot ae

The pole dropped from Arthur’s hands.

“Stay, Georgie! I’ll get it; you attend to the
lunch.”

And before Georgie could reply, Arthur had started
for the house.

In less than half an hour the happy trio were
afloat, gliding swiftly along, propelled by Arthur’s
sturdy arms, and all in the highest possible spirits.

Robert, no longer ‘‘tired” or “lazy,” stood up in the
boat, waving his cap to the receding house, his fair
face flushed with excitement and his eyes sparkling
with fun and mischief.

The island was small, but literally covered with
flowers and vegetation.

The morning was spent in gathering strawberries,
with which the ground was red in some places, laden-
ing the air with their fragrance.

eorgie was a great favorite with the cook, as the
unpacking of the lunch-basket proved, when dinner-
time came.
‘There were cold tongue and chickens, and fresh
biscuits and iced tea-cakes.

Georgie spread a cloth on a smooth, flat stone un-
der a huge willow tree, on which she arranged this
tempting repast, the crowning glory of which was a
heaping dish of strawberries, over which she had
strewn sugar with a lavish hand.

A cool, clear spring near by supplied them with the
best of all drinks. .

Georgie’s childish love of flowers had strengthened
with her growth, as the array of fragrant buds and
blossoms on the rustic board testified. She had rare
taste in their combination. ‘She not only wove a gat-
land for herown head, but arranged a bouquet for
Arthur and Robert.

“It is the feast of flowers!” she gayly cried; ‘and
you must wear my colors.”

Arthur’s pulse stirred more quickly, he scarcely
knew why, as he looked down into the face, as fresh
and sweet as the flowers she fastened to his vest.

“Georgie,” he said, with a sudden vehemence that
almost startled her, ‘‘I wonder why it is that I feel
so much happier,so much kinder, so much better
every way, when I am with you.”

“Do you? I did not know. To me you always seem
kind and good. But come, our dinner is ready and
waiting.”

The keen appetite of youth would have found de-
licious a much less tempting repast; as it was, there
was little left of it.

“T really think that this is the most delightful day
I ever spent,” sighed Georgie, as she looked out
upon the lovely scene around them. “I would be
content to spend my whole life here.”

This was said to Arthur, who was assisting her in
putting the empty dishes back into the basket.
Robert had been seized with another lazy fit, and
was lying under a tree at a short distance.

As Arthur looked at the speaker he thought that
he would be content, too, with such a companion.

Then coloring atthe boldness of the thought, he
hastened to say :

“It wouldn’t be so pleasant in the winter.’’

“No, indeed; it would be dreary enough, then,”
laughed Georgie, as she scattered some crumbs on
the grass for the benefit of the birds that made so
much music in the branches over their heads.

Arthur, at Georgie’s suggestion, now proceeded to
make a swing out of a grape-vine, that formed a cool
and shady arbor in its clamberings and twinings
around the trunks and branches of acluster of trees.

“Uncle would have been quite willing that we
should have the boatif he had known how strong
you were and how well you could manage it,” re-
marked Georgie, as she watched him.

Arthur had his own thoughts as to this, but did
not care to cloud that happy face by their utter-
ance,

“We must start early, so as to get the boat back in
its place before he comes.”

When tired of swinging, Georgie took a fancy to
explore the island, to which Arthur agreed.

As Robert declared himself to be too tired to ac-
company them, he was left to keep watch of the
boat that his brother had secured to a tree which
bent over the river. But either weary of solitude, or
impatient for their return, Robert deserted his post,
and went in search of them.

It was some time before he succeeded, and when
he had he met them on their way back.

As soon as Arthur caught a glimpse of his brother,
he pushed ahead, proceeding directly to where the
boat had been moored.

 

 

 

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To his consternation it was gone, and, in looking
up and down the river, not a trace of it could be
seen.

It had evidently been stolen by boys, for, on ex-
amining the banks of the river, the prints of bare
feet could be seen in the sand.

“What was to be done now?” was on the tongue
and in the eyes of each, as they leoked from one to
the other.

Night was at hand, and to cap it all, a storm was
coming up from the west. : :

Meeting his brother’s loud exclamations of dismay
and apprehension with an angry reproach for leav-
ing the boat, Arthur tried to comfort Georgie by the
suggestion that probably some boat would pass that
they could hail, though he well knew in his own
heart the probability to be very small. ;

Georgie’s pale cheek showed a fear that her lips
did not utter. She tried to smile, but could not keep
the tears from her eyes. ‘ ,

“T do not care so much for myself,” she said, with
quivering lips; ‘‘but poor mamma will be almost dis-
tracted, thinking we are drowned. Oh, how I wish
we had not come!”

Arthur’s heart echoed this wish most devoutly.

They now had barely time to retreat to the shelter
of some trees, when the rain came pattering down
through the green leaves. i

In spite of Georgie’s remonstrance, Arthur took off
his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, her
thin mantle being but small protection against the
rain that fell faster and faster. Fortunately it was
but a passing shower, vanishing as quickiy as it
came.

There was no moon, but the stars came out one by
one, mirroring themselves in the clear waters that
went rippling past, and making less gloomy the wild
and lonely scene that surrounded them. :

Arthur kept a sharp lookout on the river, hoping
that some passing boat would rescue them from their
unpleasant predicament. He had nearly made up
his mind that they would have to pass the night on
the island, and was trying to devise some plan by
which they could do so with as little discomfort as
possible, when his eye caught the gleam of a light
that came dancing over the water.

“There’s a boat!” he cried.

And immediately both boys hailed it, giving utter-
ance to a shout that made the woods echo.

The solitary man it contained made no response,
but it was evident that he was making for the island,
his long and vigorous strokes showing that he was no
novice in the art of rowing.

They were all. down upon the banks before it
touched the shore.

“Why, itlooks like Tim Ruggles!” eried Arthur,
getting a clearer view of the boatman. ‘Is it you,
Tim?’ :

“Tt’s me, young gentleman,” responded the man, in
a gruff, but not unkindly voice, turning his weather-
beaten face toward the speaker; ‘‘and a fine chase
this freak of yours has made me! Are you all there?
Then git aboard, an’ be lively about it.”

None of them needed any second bidding.

“T declare, if it isn’t our boat!” exclaimed Robert,
as he looked around from the comfortable seat that
he had secured for himself. ‘‘Where did you find it,
Tim ?’

“T didn’t find it at all. I took it away from anum-
ber of boys that was towingitup Sandy Creek. I
knowed it was Judge Linscott’s the minnit I sot eyes
on’t, an’ I made that young scamp, Jim Haskins. own
up to where an’ how they got it. When I took it hum
the judge sent mearter ye, in double quick time,
you'd better b’ lieve.”

“T suppose mamma was terribly frightened ?’? fal-
tered Georgie.

“You may bet your life on ‘hat, miss,” was the old
man's emphatic rejoinder; ‘ther face was eenamost
as white as that gown 0’ your’n. But chirked up a
good bit when [ telled her I knowed where you was,
an’ that there was no danger of none of you bein’
drownded.” ;

As the boat neared Forest Hill, whose gleaming
lights could be seen in the distance, the jubilant
mirth of the two brothers at their unexpected re-
lease was followed by a silence, which spoke more
plainly than words of the apprehensions that were
busy at their hearts. But it was not in the nature of
Robert to keep them long to himself.

“Papa will be terribly angry.” he whispered, look-
ing up wistfully at his brother’s moody face.

“Not at you,” was the curt response.

“T—T did not unlock the boat.”

“Oh, no! Nor get the key. Don’t be in the least
alarmed ; no one will blame you /”

Though half angry at that sarcastic look and tone,
Robert’s tace visibly brightened at this assurance.

Georgie’s thoughts were not much more pleasant,
though she knew that she had nothing to fear from
Judge Linscott.

Altogether, it was a sad ending to a happy day.

CHAPTER XXIII.
ARTHUR’S PUNISHMENT.

Judge Linscott stood upon the threshold of the
sitting-room door when the culprits filed slowly into
the hall, headed by Arthur, the rear being brought
up by Tim, whose self-satisfied countenance was in
strong contrast to those that preceded him.

As soon as he saw the judge he struck an attitude,
and waving his hand toward his charge with the air
of a man that had done his duty, thus delivered
himself:

“Here they are, yer honor, safe an’ sound, as you
see.”

No one not intimately acquainted with Judge Lin-
scott would have perceived anything unusual in his
look or manner. He was a mau who prided himself
on his ability to control, if not his anger, at least its
outward manifestation.

He paid Tim liberally for his trouble, and then
motioned the three to enter the room, in which were
Alice and Miss Dorothy, the latter rising on their
entrance and turning toward them a grim, accusing
look, which did not tend to enliven their spirits.

“Who took the boat-key from Aunt Dorothy’s
room ?”’

Before Arthur could reply, Georgie, who saw the
danger that menaced him, came bravely to the
rescue. :

“Unele, we are all equally at fault. If any one de-
serves punishment, it is I, hecause——”

“That will do, miss!” interrupted the judge. “That
you deserve punishment I have not the least doubt,
but I leave your mother to deal with you as she
sees fit.’

“Georgie!”

It was Alice that spoke. Pale and silent until now,
she had retained her seat at the farther end of the
room.

Georgie instantly retreated to her mother’s side.

Robert cast a timid look at hig mother’s averted
face, and then drew nearer to his aunt, who stood
ready to defend him, as he well knew.

Arthur alone kept his place, a fierce, defiant look
coming over his face.

“Again I ask, who took the key ?”’

That calm, measured tone struck more terror to
the hearts of the culprits than the harshest language,
as they knew well what it foreboded.

“Tt was Arthur!” burst forth Miss Dorothy, unable
longer to keep silent. ‘I know it as well as if I saw
him. He sneaked into my room when I was out this
morning, and now he wants to sneak out of it and
lay the blame on Robert, whom he is always leading
into mischief.” :

Arthur’s anger flamed forth at these words.

“‘’ve no idea of sneaking out of it. I did take the
key. What of it?’

Arthur addressed these words to Miss Dorothy, for-
getting in his excitement his father’s presence.

But he was not allowed to forget it long.

“You'll soon find out ‘what of it,’ young man. Go
to your room. I’ll break that lawless, rebellious
spirit of yours, or I’ll break you!’

Without a word, Arthur obeyed, and his father im-
mediately followed.

In a few minutes he passed the door, which was
ajar, armed with a heavy rawhide.

Georgie’s eyes dilated with horror.

“Oh, mamma, won’t you intercede for poor Arthur?
Uncle is going to whip him, and he is no more to
blame than I or Robert.”

Alice looked greatly distressed. Whatever she
might think, she would never acknowledge before
her children that her husband was too severe in his
discipline.

“T have often told you, Georgie, that I have noth-
ing to do with Arthur. His father will do right by
him. I must say that he has behaved very badly—
you have all behaved very badly.”

As Alice said this she closed the door, to shut out
the sounds of the struggle that had now commenced ;
but they were still distinctly audible.

Georgie’s tirst impulse was to cover her ears with
her hands. Then, springing to her feet, she turned
her eyes indignantly upon Robert.

‘Shame on you, to sit there and let your brother
take the punishment that you deserve more than he!
Yes, and you know it! You told where the key was,
though you wouldn’t get it, and but for you the boat
wouldn’t have been taken. You are a mean, selfish
coward! and I hate a coward!”

Alice listened to this outburst with amazement.
Very seldom did she evince so much displeasure as
now.

“My daughter, I am pained and shocked to hear
such language from your lips. Retire to your room,
and stay there until I send for you.”

Georgie was out of the room before her mother had
ceased speaking, fleeing to her chamber, where she
could give free vent to the grief and indignation
of which her heart was so full.

Abeut an hour later, Judge Linscott entered his
wife’s room.

As she raised her eyes to his face an involuntary
ery burst from her lips. It was deadly pale, and
there was a livid mark across the forehead.

“You are hurt!”

“That boy dared to raise his hand to me!
has cost him dearly.
will not svon forget.’

Alice knew that her husband could be hard and
pitiless when aroused, but she was ill-prepared for
the tone of almost savage exultation with which this
was spoken.

“Where is Robert ?’’

The mother’s heart sank at this inquiry.

 

d 2 But it
I’ve given him a lesson that he

’

 

 

“In his room. He seemed far from well, and being
wet and chilled by the rain, I thought he had better
go to bed.”

Judge Linscott turned to the door.

Ts it necessary for you to see him to-night ?”

feY¥ eg.7"

On the landing Judge Linscott met his sister, who
had just been to Robert’s room with a bowl of gruel.
She looked not a little startled as she saw whither he
was bound.

“T hope you won’t be too severe with poor Robert,
brother; he is really ill from fright and exposure.
Had it not been for Arthur’s bad influence and ex-
ample he would never have gone, and he has been
punished quite enough.”

“T thought you were a great advocate of the rod,”
said the judge, dryly.

“And so I am, with boys that can’t be governed
without it; but Robert can. And I must say, brother,
if you had listened to me, and had not been so sparing
of it when Arthur was a child, he wouldn’t cause you
so much sorrow and trouble now.”

“T don’t think that I’ve been sparing of it to-night,”
muttered the judge, as he passed on.

Robert had a morbid dread of physical pain. Hear-
ing his father’s voice, he shrank under the bed-cover-
ing until only the faint outline of his form was
visible.

“Robert!”

The only response to this was a faint moan.

“Are you in pain, Robert?”

Reassured by the tone in which this was spoken,
Robert uncovered his head.

“Oh, papa, my head aches so hard!”

“You see, now, the fruits of disobedience, my son.”

“You won’t punish me, papa ?”’

“No; not that I think you don’t deserve it, but be-
cause you have had punishment enough. But let this
be a lesson to you. You are too easily influenced.
You should have more sense and stability of mind
than to do wrong because your brother does.”

In the feeling of relief that came over him Robert
experienced a pang of compunction, for he could not
fo know that he was as much, if not the most, to
blame.

“Papa, I don’t think Arthur meant to do so very
wrong. You see——”

“There is no excuse for him,’’ interrupted his
father. ‘Not but what I am glad to have you evince
so kindly a feeling for your brother,’ he added, in a
gentle tone; ‘‘and wish he was more worthy of it.”

Robert’s predominant feeling, as he listened to his
father’s retreating steps, was that of satisfaction at
having got off so easily.

“It’s too bad about Arthur; but papa was bound to
whip hum. anyway. It would do him no good for
me to get it.”

With this thought he turned over and fell asleep.

In the meantime Georgie remained in her chamber.
It was evidently intended that she should have the
benefit of solitude and reflection, for not a soul came
near her except Katy, who surreptitiously brought
her a couple of buns from the kitchen.

But it was in vain that Georgie tried to persuade
her to perform the same friendly office for Arthur.

“TI darsen’t, Miss Georgie. If the judge should tind
it out, he’d——”

Katy concluded her sentence with a mysterious
shake of the head, which expressed more strongly
than words her sense of the penalty she would incur.

The house was quite still. Georgie had extin-
guished her light, but had not retired, being disin-
clined to sleep, when she was startled by a faint tap
on the window.

“Are you asleep, Georgie?”

Drawing back the curtain, the young girl sprang
out upon the veranda, upon which the window
opened.

“Ts it you, Arthur ?”

“Yes,” said the same low and cautious whisper.
“Be careful and make no noise. I could not go with-
out bidding you good-by. Georgie.”

“Go! Where are you going?” :

“T don’t know; anywhere, away from here. Father
_ treated ne worse than I would treat a dog. Look
there!”

And turning down the collar of his coat, Arthur
pointed to the livid marks, where the cruel whip had
cut deep into the tender flesh.

The clear, soft rays of the moon revealed them dis-
tinctly to Georgie’s horrified gaze, and she shuddered
at the sight.

“It is ashame—a cruel, burning shame!”

“It is the shame that I feel most,” said the high-
spirited boy, brushing a scalding drop from his
lashes. “The pain I do notmind; but I am now
almost aman grown, and I will not submit to it any
longer. I told father that he should never strike me
again, and he will find my words true. Robert can
do nothing that is wrong in his eyes or Aunt Dolly’s.
My mother told me, the last time I saw her, that as
they hated her so would they hate me, and never
were there truer words spoken.”’ 3

As Georgie looked up to the flashing eyes and the
proudly lifted head, a feeling of admiration mingled
with the sympathy and sorrow with which her heart
was filled. From achild Arthur had been her ideal of
everything that was brave and chivalrous.

“HOw I wish I were a boy, so I could go with

ou!”

As Arthur looked upon that sweet, ingenuous face,
the tide that rushed over him swept away the boy-
ish shyness that had hitherto sealed his lips.

“T would rather have you as you are. [do not
want you different—for, oh, to me you are the best,
the dearest, the loveliest being in the world!”

The young creature, half child, half woman, flushed
slightly beneath that ardent, admiring gaze, then she
raised her eyes smilingly to his.

“You think so, because you love me.”

“Yes, I dolove you, Georgie. I loved you when
you were alittle bit of a thing, and I was but a boy,
and you have grown dearer to my heart every day
since. I liked all your pretty baby talk and ways,
just as Ilike all your words and ways now. How can
IThelp loving you, who were always so gentle and
good to the lonely-hearted boy to whom no one else
poe it worth while to give a kindly word or

ook ?”

“You have been kind and good to me, too, Arthur,
and I love you—oh, very dearly !”

“But by and by there will be some one that you
will love more!”

‘Never !. you will always be dearest and best.”

Arthur smiled—the sweet, rare smile that brought
so much sunshine to his face.

“Tf I live, I shall some day remind you of this as-
oh which gives me so much strength and com-

ort.”

“You are so strong and clever you will surely be-
come rich and famous. Professor Nugent said that
you were the best pupil he had.”

“Did you mean to give me this?”

Here Arthur pointed to the cambric handkerchief
that Georgie had wrapped around his throat.

“Yes; it will keep the coat from chafing your poor
neck. Stay, let me fix it more securely.”

It seemed to take Georgie a long time to accom-
oe this, nor was Arthur at all inclined to hurry

er.

Tt was not until he was many miles away that he
discovered the cause, in the two tiny. gold dollars
that she had contrived to tie in one corner of it. Dire
necessity forced him to part with one, but the other
he always kept.

In the happy and prosperous days that followed
the stormy years of his youth, Arthur often related
to his children the history of the gold dollar that
hung on his watch-chain, and with which he never
parted.

 

CHAPTER XXIV,
A WEARY WANDERER.

We will now return to our old friends at Riverside,
Jonathan and Polly, who, since the marriage of
Alice, had remained in undisturbed possession of the
place, forwarding promptly to her the value of half
that was sold, according to agreement, and which
Judge Linscott, who was strictly honorable in such
matters, invested for the benefit of his step-daughter.

The sunset fires burned redly in the west as Jona-
than came whistling up the lane, a brimming pail of
milk in either hand. As he put up the bars he saw a
young man, scarcely morethan a lad, leaning wearily
against the fence. His dust-ladened garments indi-
cated that he had traveled some distance.

He took off his cap as Jonathan approached, dis-
closing a frank, intelligent face that seemed strangely
familiar, though Jonathan could not recall where he
had seen it.

“Do you want to hire any one, sir?”

“Wall, I can’t say as [ dew. I don’t hire any stiddy
help, ’cept in ploughin’ and harvest time. Air you
used to workin’ on a farm ?’

“No, sir, but I can learn; I am strong and willing.”

“You don’t look over an’ above strong,” said Jona-
than, looking kindly into the pale, wearied face.
“You ain’t one of Deacon Bailey’s boys ?”

“No, sir; I don’t belong around here,” returned the
stranger, making a movement as if to pass on. Then
he stopped. ‘Do you know of any one that wants to
hire a farm hand ?”’

Jouathan looked reflective. :

‘Le’ me see. Peter Higgins is wantin’ help; least-
ways I heerd his boy Tom say so the las’ time I was
tew the village. He’s got a big farm, an’ I shouldn’t
wonder a mite ef you could git a chance there.”

‘How far is it?”

***Baut three mile up the river.”

As the stranger wearily took up his bundle he cast
See look upon the contents of the pail at his
side.

Fumbling in his pocket he brought up a couple of
cents, Saying:

“IT am thirsty; will you sell me a drink of milk ?”

“No, youngster, I won’t sell you a drop, but you’re
welcome to all you kin drink, and a bite of su’thing
to eat, tew, if you’d like it?” p
: ie haven’t tasted food since yesterday morn-
ng. .

A faint flush crossed the face of the speaker, leav-
ing it paler than before.

“How you dew talk !”

And away went Jonathan’s long legs up the path
that led to the kitchen door, where Polly stood, dish-
cloth in hand, looking down at them.

“Who’s that? an’ what on airth air you goin’ to
dew with that dipper?”

“A young fellow that’s lookin’ fur work, Polly—

’most starved, I really b’lieve, Give me a plate o’
them doughnuts and a hunk of cheese.”

“We’s lookin’ fur su’thing tew steal, more like,”
retorted Polly, compressing her thin lips, and glaring
at her husband in a way that would have dauntec
most men. “If you ain’t the most easily imposed on
man J ever see yit. How long is’t sence that young
scalawag come with the same story, taking away
with him your Sunday shirt an’ my bran’-new petti-
coat, that was out dryin’? No, Jon’than Hooker.
I’ve said it once, an’ [ say it ag’in, I won’t have
no more tramps about, an’ that’s the long an’ short
on’t!

“But, Polly——”

“Yes, an’ ‘but Polly.’ Hand that dipper over tew
me, an’ git away from that table.”

And arming herself with the dipper, Polly turned
to the door, a heaping plate of doughnuts mm her
hand, and a severe expression upon her counte-
nance.

“Why, where on airth has he gone tew ?”’

Sure enough, the trembling form that Jonathan
had left leaning against the gate-post had apparently
disappeared. : ;

But Polly’s sharp eyes detected something lying in
the path, half hidden by the tall grass, and ran down
to it, followed by Jonathan.

“Fur the land’s sake!’ she exclaimed, as she caught
a glimpse of the white face. ‘He looks as if he was
‘dead, or dyin’ !’’

“He’s fainted clean away, I declare!” said Jona-
than, bending over him.

“Yes, an’ Is’pose you’d leave him here,” retorted
Polly. “I must say, Jon’than, fur our one that per-
tends to be a Christian, you’ve got the hardest an’
most onfeelin’ heart. Why don't you take him up an’
-kerry him intew the house?’

This was what Jonathan was doing with all pos-
sible dispatch.

“T s’pose I’ll put him on the settle in the shed-
room ?” he said, as he paused, panting, on the step.

“You won't do no such thing,’ responded Polly,
throwing open the door of her own bedroom. ‘Put
him here.”

And on the bed, whose immaculate whiteness was
her boast, the insensible form was laid.

Then Polly’s nimble fingers quickly loosened the
neck-tie and vest, and removed the dusty shoes.

Uttering a faint moan, the eyes opened, looking up
bewildered into the strange but not unkindly face
that was bending over him. :

He partook eagerly of the nourishing broth which
Polly gave him, but sparingly, fearful of the ill
effects of breaking too suddenly his long fast.

He was too weak and exhausted to rebel against
the kindly injunction ‘‘that he mustn’t talk any,”
and soothed by the comforting assurance given him
“that he was in good hands,” sank into a deep and
heavy slumber.

Polly gazed on the face upon the pillow with a feel-
ing of interest unusual in her hard, practical nature.

Something, she hardly knew what, made her lay
her hand with a caressing touch on the bright brown
hair that was tossed in tangled masses from the fore-
head. — ‘

Jonathan stole softly in, in his stocking-feet.

“‘He’s han’some as a pictur’, ain’t he, Polly ?’

Polly looked half-ashamed of being caught thus.

“Han’some is, aS han’some does,” she said, reprov-
ingly. ‘I wonder who he kin be.”

“T know who he reminds me of.”

Polly looked at that unconscious face, and then at
her husband.

“Who?”

“Some one that used tew live here, an’ that you
wa’n’t over an’ above fond on.” j

Polly started.

“Jon’than Hooker, what dew you mean? ’Taint
possible! Don’t you remember ’twas a gal baby?’

“T don’t mean that one. Miss Lottie had more’n
one, didn’ teshe 2”

“How redic’lous! As though Judge Linscott’s son
would be wandering about this way.”

“P’raps not,” said Jonathan, quietly. “But jest
look here, Polly.”

Here Jonathan pointed to the cuff that surrounded
the hand which rested on the counterpane, and which
was of the finest linen.

“Did you ever!” ejaculated Polly, as she slowly
spelled out the name of ‘‘Arthur Linscott.”’

“An’ look at this.”

Here Jonathan lifted from the floor a handkerchief
which had fallen from the vest. It was the one
Georgie had given to him, having her name in one
corner of it.

Polly lifted up both hands.

“Did you ever! What on airth possessed him to go
tramping about in this style ?”’

“My idee is that he had some trouble with his
father, an’ so run away.”

“He don’t look like a bad boy,” said Polly, as she
turned her eyes upon the tranquil face of the

 

sleeper.

“That he don’t. But he’s enough of a Linscott to |
like his own way, an’ there's too much Graham blood
in hiin to take kindly to too harsh a rule. I know
the judge is a great favorite of your’n, Polly, an’ I
don’t say he hasn’t his good p’ints. But he’s got)
hard streaks in him fur all that, an’ the trouble he
had with the boy’s mother hain’t softened ’em any.”

“Wal, if it ain’t cur’us that he should come tew the
old homestead, where his mother an’ uncle was born, |
an’ their father afore’em. To my notion, he looks a |
deal more like his gran’ther and Mr. George than his |
mother. IT s’pose you'll let the judge know where he
is? You orter,’ added Polly, severely, as Jonathan
turned toward the door.

“Wall, there ain’t no hurry ’bout it. He won’t be
able to run much further, not fur onespell. His feet
is blistered, an’ he looks as if he’d had ahard time,
giner’ly. If he don’t bave a spell o’ sickness, he’s got
a tougher constitution than mos’ folks.”

Jonathan’s pregnostications were verified. The
next morning Arthur was unable to rise, and by
night he was raving with the fever that had mounted
to his brain.

Everything was done for him that was possible by
Polly and Jonathan, but ashe grew roy worse,
the latter telegraphed to Judge Linsecott, who came
on immediately, bringing with him one of the first
physicians of Carlingford. :

If anything like regret for his harshness touched
Judge Linscott’s heart as he looked upon the uncon-
scious form that lay tossing and moaning with the
fever that was burning in his veins, he was not a
man to give expression to it.

Still he evinced considerable feeling and solicitude.
His official duties would not admit of his remaining,
but he paid frequent though brief visits to River-
side, until Arthur was pronounced ‘out of danger;
being careful to provide everything that would tend
to promote his comfort or recovery.

At none of these visits was Arthur in a condition
to recognize his father or any one, and when con-
sciousness returned, Dr. Harmon, who partially
understood the relations between the father and son,
interdicted any intercourse while his patient con-
tinued in his present weak state.

Without expressing either surprise or dissatisfac-
tion at this prohibition, Judge Linscott discontinued
his visits to Riverside, contenting himself with the
daily bulletins he received in regard to Arthur's con-
dition, which indicated gradual recovery.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

You should buy a copy of “A STORMY WEDDING,”
by Mrs. Mary E£. Bryan, and read about that interest-
ing affair. Your newsdealer will furnish it complete
for 25 cests, in No. 6 of THE SELECT SERIES.

or

COURTSHIP’S PROGRESS,

 

When a young girl detects the signs of a mutual at-
tachment between herself and a man whose tastes
and position in life are suited to hers, she can do no
better than confide her thoughts on the subject to her
mother, or if she be motherless, to some woman who
is much older than herself, and upon whose sympathy
and wisdom she can rely. If the older person ap-
prove, there are many ways of arranging opportu-
nities for the pair to become better acquainted, and
to discover whether their first impressions of each
other were correct. A wise mother can easily ar-
range the social setting of her children. If she
gathers about her only such young people as she

deems fitting companions for them, the most natural
consequence is that ties are formed which will be
satisfactory to parents as well as children.

The young man finds easy and natural ways of ex-
pressing his regard fora young girl, and by a kind
of intuition she can usually satisfy herself from the
first of the nature of his feelings toward her. He will
show considerateness, deference, and a preference
for her society at all times, and yet he will carefully
avoid anything that might convey to others the im-
pression that he believes her to hold the same atti-
tude of preference toward him. He will always
accept her society as a courtesy which she has
graciously conferred, and apart from which he has
no Claim. Indeed, in all manly «and chivalric ways
he will testify his admiration for her, until he feels a
sufficient assurance of her interest in him to warrant
him in putting the vital question to her.

If she be an ingenuous and high-minded girl she
will admit or deny with kindness and candor that she
values as he wishes his devotion to her. If her con-
sent is obtained‘he will then seek the approval of her
parents or guardians. If her family objects to the
proposed alliance it is the girl’s duty to reserve her
final decision, out of respect for them. If time and op-
portunity for knowing each other better only deepen
their regard, and parental disapproval continues, the
girl has two alternatives—patient waiting and an un-
happy assumption of the consequence. of dis-
obedience. Each girl must determine this matter for
herself, remembering, however, that no one can have
a nee ubselfish interest in her happiness than her
parents.

Work for Workers! Are you ready to work, and do
you want to make money? Then write to B. F, Johnson

 

& Co., of Richmond, Va., and see if they cafinot help
you.

| mies have some new plan for your ruin, I fear.

 

GLASS HOUSES.

BY BANBURY CROSS.

 

Look here, now, I’m in for a grumble,
Though snarling’s not much in my way;
But, really I can’t remain silent,
While gossips keep “pegging away,”
Like razor-beaked, famishing vultures,
Some fault in their neighbors to find;
By Jove! I can stand it no longer,
So here’s a wee bit of my mind.
My text is that truthful old proverb,
Though homely and simple its tones—
The dwellers in little glass houses
Should always avoid throwing stones.

There’s that back-biting Tabitha Jangle,
A busy tongued spinster is she,

Who'd subsist from July to December
On scandal and dishes of tea.

And then there’s our bachelor gossip—
His name I’d much rather let pass—

Some call him a fool, but I think him
Much more of a snake in the grass.

Toall the quaint, homely old proyerb
Speaks out in admonishing tones—

The inmates of shaky glass houses
Should never presume to throw stones.

I’ve plenty more striking examples;
Indeed, if the test were applied,
I fancy we all should be striving
To shuffle the ordeal aside.
For scandal, like flattery’s sweetness,
Misleads e’en the truest at times,
While Conscience sits brooding in sorrow,
To witness the tongue’s silly crimes.
Then let us all treasure the maxim,
And own the sound truth it intones—
We all of us live in glass houses,
And therefore should never throw stones.

Phis Story Wil Not be Published in Book-Pom.

For Her Father's Honor;
A LAMB AMONG WOLVES.

By HARRIET SHERBURNE,

Author of “Willful Winnie,”’ ‘“‘Love and Honor,”
ete., etc.

-

 

(“FOR HER FATHER'S HONOR” was commenced in No.
22. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XLV.—(CONTINUED.)

T WAS just the night for a
tragedy; the rain beat down
slowly but steadily, andadamp
east wind gave a moaning
sound through the trees.
Swollen streams of water
made the roadways like
muddy brooks, and a dense
mist hung over the river.
Involuntarily Mary shud-
\ dered, and kept pace with the

man beside her as they walked toward the point at
which madam had designated the lovers should
meet.

Presently, against the white fog rising above the
river, they saw two dark forms standing.

Lena and Philip had exchanged greetings, and in
deep bewilderment each heard that the other had
planned this meeting.

“You wrote to me to come, rain or shine, and so I
am here,” said Philip.

“T did not write you at all!’’ declared Lena.

“And I did not write you at all,” vowed Philip.

And then, asif frightened, in-the darkness they
tried to read each other’s face.

“Philip, what does this mean?” asked Lena.

“Treachery !” was bis reply. “My dear, our S26

’
Lena, how I will thank Heaven if [rescue you from
them alive!” ~ ‘

‘Do you think there is danger of my life?’ she
asked.

“There is every danger, my poor little lamb; you
have fallen among wolves, and they will rend youif
they can. Youronly hope is in flight. The deeoying
of you here is proof that treachery is intended. You
must leave Elmwood Hall to-morrow.”

“But where can I go?” questioned the poor girl. ‘I
have not a friend here but Gwendolin.”

“You must go to Gwendolin then, until your
mother comes.”

“You know best,’ sighed Lena, ‘‘and I will take
your advice.” a

“That is right,” said Philip; and then he described
the route she could take for a journey which she was
never to commence.

As they were about to bid each other good-night,
Ira’s voice cried, near them:

“Ah, you miserable creatures! at last I have found

ou!”

“What do you mean?” asked Philip, turning on
him, while Lena stared in amazement.

“Mean?” repeated Ira, in a melodramatic man-
ner, “I mean that [have discovered your guilty love
tor each other, and that I shall proceed at once to
obtain freedom from a woman who has so little self-
respect as my wife. Here, before this girl, her maid,
I charge——”

“T see it all,” interrupted Philip. “Lena, they have
plotted to bring us here that they might humble you
and make you powerless. Return to the house, and
leave this villain to me!"

Was this Philip, that thundered his orders in such
furious tones?

Halt afraid of him, Lena said:

“TI dare not leave you alone with him, Philip.” _

“But [command you to do so. This is no place for
you; go.”

“Then you must promise me not to strike him,”
said Lena, firmly. ‘“‘Remember you are very angry,
and do not raise your hand, Philip.”

“Go, little one, go,” he begged.

“Promise,” she insisted, ‘‘and [ will obey you.”

There was a short pause; then Philip said, in a re-
luctant voice:

“T promise not to strike him to-night.”

Without another word Lena turned and, followed
by Mary, went up the path. ;

As they did so they heard Philip say, in an awful
voice:

“So you are seeking to free yourself from the wife
you forcibly married, by plotting against her fair
fame. Ira Chancellor, 1 warn you this is the last
thing you will ever do to harm her.”

Lena shuddered, and stumbled on through the
darkness. :

She was terribly shocked at this new discovery of
her husband’s perfidy; and Mary’s recital of his
previous conduct made her comprehend how utterly
viie he was.

She grasped his idea of ruining her as soon as the
maid told her how he had acted in her apartment
while searching for Philip’s letter; and with terror
she wondered how the two men were progressing in
their stormy interview.

A dread which she dare not put in words caused
her to sink down by her window and watch for Ira’s
return.

Time after time she started as the hours rolled by
and she thought she heard him coming; but the clock
struck one, then two, then three, and still he had not
appeared. :

Mary had long since been dismissed, and Lena’s
teeth chattered with nervousness and cold, as she
questioned:

“Can he have walked up any other way, or—or has
something happened ?”

A chilled, agonizing dread crept over her as the
gray dawn broke.

A terrible voice kept saying in her ears:

Hee is murdered. You will find him dead on the
cliff.

Finally, unable to bear the uncertainty longer, she
rose and picked up her wet cloak from the chair on
which it had fallen the previous night, and stole out
of the silent dwelling.

It was still raining slowly, and the gray mist yet
hung over the river, but Lena did not heed nature.

Telling herself she was foolishly nervous, like one
fascinated by danger, she drew near the spot where
she had left Philip and Ira the night before.

With a sigh of relief she saw no one there, and went
on alittle farther; then alow ery escaped her, as she
beheld a dark object lying on the wet ground near
the edge of the cliff.

Her heart gave a bound and then stood still; a
leaden weight seemed to attach itself to her feet.

For a time she could not move, but finally, with a
great effort, she dragged herself up to a man’s body,
which was lying, face up, on the sodden earth.

It was Ira’s face, cold in death, which met her
view, and with a little moan she thought:

“Philip has broken his promise, and, to free me
from shame, has lost his own soul.’

 

 

CHAPTER XLVI.
PHILIP MUST BE WARNED.

“Dead! he is quite dead,” muttered Lena, starin
at the rigid figure with vacant eyes. * :

A kind of trance seemed to fall upon her, as she
sat there beside that awful form, from which death
had taken all vulgarity.

Suddenly, with a mirthless, agonized sound, that
was neither laugh nor ery, she murmured:

“T told Philip that I could bear this life no longer,
and he has freed me from my tormentor.”

Yes, she was free from the man who had marred
her life, free from the marriage yoke which had fret-
ted her so sorely ; but there was no joy in her eyes
as she thought of it.

Never was a more despairing visage raised to the
sky than hers, as she thought:

“T have tempted Philip to this deed; T have been
the modern siren that called him to his death. He
meant to do this last night, when he warned Ira that
he would never more disgrace me. Oh, Philip,
Philip, my love!” she passionately exclaimed; “I
would have suffered any martyrdom rather than
have had you stain your soul with crime!”

Yet the thing was done. Even as she said the
words Lena felt that it was vain for her to remain
here and weep over an act that no power of hers
could undo, ‘

But she was bewildered by Philip’s terrible situa-
ion.

She could not think how to act.

“Shall I go to the house and tell them of this dire-
ful tragedy ?” she asked herself.

And then, with a shudder, came the reflection that
people would be very likely to question why she had
gone down the cliff walk at four o’clock in the morn-
ing. :

“Teould not tell them thatTIleft Philip and Ira
here last evening, and say I have been up all night
watching for yonder man to return. No, no! I must
just go back to the house, and let some one else dis-
cover the body.”

She rose as she made this resolution, and staggered
up the path; bur suddenly she paused.

“That letter is in his pocket; the letter Philip says
he did not write, but which brought both Ira. and
myself here. Should it be found on him people
would know we were all on the cliff last night. But
I must guard against discovery.. No one must dream
that Philip was here.”

She said the words firmly asif man
mine fate.

Then, with an ashen face and faltering step, she
moved back toward that rigid body.

Twice she paused and shrank from it, and twice
compelled herself to go on, for she had resolved to
keep the world from knowing that Philip had been
there the night before; but if she was to do so she
must obtain that letter. Ee

Trembling in every mnusele she knelt by the dead
man, and opened his coat to place her hand in its
eer As she did so a low moan broke from

er lips.

. To touch the deadis hard for a person who has
loved the living being, but to Lena, who had felt only
bitter hatred for Ira, the task was-terrible.

She closed her eyes, and felt in the pocket blindly.

There was but one letter there, and she drew it
out.

As she glanced at it she saw it was wet with blood,
as was the sleeve of her dress.

With a horrified exclamation she dropped the en-
velope on her lap, and stared atethe body, to see that
it had been stabbed just above the heart.

But Ira’s disarranged clothing showed that he had
first had a violent struggle with his adversary.

Sickened by the sight, Lena clutched the letter,
which had left a red mark on her dress, and darted
up the path to the house.

Fortunately, she met no one on her way, as her
ghastly face and terror-stricken eyes would have
told even a stranger that something awful had be-
fallen her.

Unseen, she gained her own room, and sank down
on a chair, and remained for over an hour as motion-
less as if she were unconscious.

_ But her bright, frightened eyes showéd that noth-
oe so merciful as deprivation of thought had come
o her.

Indeed, in anticipation she beheld the horrible

scenes in store for her.

She saw Philip arrested and made a prisoner.

She went through his whole trial for murder, and
shuddered as if her imagination were real when she
heard him sentenced “to be hanged by the neck till
he was dead.”’ ;

Over, and over, and over again, she repeated every-
thing that would point to Philip’s guilt.

“Even I will be called to testify against him!” she
exclaimed.

«

could deter-

the house—the servants moving around the corridor
at their work.

“Oh, Heaven, if they only knew what a day it is to
be for us all!’ moaned Lena.

But she fully realized the importance of concealing
every indication of her distress.

“Tt must be calm, and appear myself, until the
body is found,” she said; and then came the ques-
tion, “Can I go down to breakfast, and meet madam
and Hilda?—make light remarks, and eat? Oh, no,
no! It would be inhuman for me to do it!”

But what excuse could she give for not doing so?

“T will go to bed, and say I have a violent head-
ache,” she decided, and throwing her stained dress
in her closet, she put on a dressing-gown, and cast
herself on her bed. ;

Hours and hours seemed to go by before the dress-
ing-bell sounded and Mary entered her room.

Lena briefly informed the maid that she was not
feeling well and should not rise that morning. She
told the girl to carry her excuses to madam, and to
beg her not to wait either breakfast or luncheon for
her, as she desired nothing to eat. ;

Mary was full of sympathy, and left the room, to
return presently with some toast and a cup of tea.

Lena felt she could not eat, but she drank the re-
freshing beverage eagerly, and then begged Mary not
to disturb her again that morning.

After the maid had left the room, her mistress be-
gan pacing the floor in restless impatience.

“It is after nine o’clock, aud no one has found the
body! Oh, whataterrible thing it would be if he
should be left another night out there !”’ she thought.

Like one fascinated, she kept going to the window
and looking out, hoping, fearing, and half-expecting,
each time, to see sume one bringing Ira’s corpse from
the cliff.

When noon came, she felt as if she had lived a life-
time since morning.

After luncheon Hilda came to the doer and knocked
for admittance; but Lena ealled to her that she de-
sired nothing but to be left alone, so sha went away.

A few moments later Mary tapped on the panels,
and said she had some refreshments.

_ Lena allowed her to enter, but turned with loath-
ing from the dainty little repast the girl had brought.

“Sure, miss, you must not take on so,” said the
kind-hearted maid, seeing Lena’s despairing counte-
nance. ‘Mr. Ira can’t get no divorce from you, and
he won’t try it. Don’t you fret about him. Mr.
Philip will settle him.” :

To her amazement, Lena put down her teacup and
burst into tears.

She had quite forgotten till now that Mary was
aware of the meeting between Philip and Ira, the
night before, and she feared the girl would tell all
she knew when she heard the awful news that Ira
was dead.

“Philip will be arrested at once. Oh, he must be
warned, so that he can make his escape!” she
thought. :

But how could she inform him of his peril ?

To whom could she trust a letter?

She looked up at the honest face before her, and
impulsively said :

“Mary, will you take a note to Mr. Philip for me?
Itisa matter of life and death, and you must not
give it to any one but him.”

“Surely you can trust me, Miss Lena ?”

“Yes, I can.” said Lena, clasping her hand. “I
will write the letter, and you must take it at once.”

She ran to her desk, and hastily scribbled a few
lines to Philip, which ran: ~

“DEAR PHILIP :—If any one knew of your being on
the cliff last night, bribe him into silence, and you
yourself leave here for an unknown address imme-
diately. 4 LENA.”

Having dispatched Mary with this note to Philip,
Lena again began her weary watch by the window.
__Four o’clock sounded, and she began to fear that
the dead man would not be discovered that day.

Suddenly her heart was set wildly beating, and
every drop of color left her face, as she saw a hat-
—_ man running up the cliff-walk toward the

ouse. ‘

“The news has come!” she decided, when, a mo-
a later, she heard a wild shriek from the hall

ow.

Then an awful stillness settled over the place.

Lena rose and went out on the corridor.

She saw a frightened group of servants standing in
the lower hall, and madam frie like a dead woman
on the marble floor. : P

A thrill of pity for this cruel female came over

Lena.

‘After all, Ira was her only son, and she loved
him,” the girl thought, as she went down the stairs
and approached the falien figure.

The servants drew back as if afraid of her, and she
heard some one whisper:

“‘Who can tell her?’

‘What has happened?” she asked, in a tone that
commanded an answer.

_ For a moment there was a pause ; then the waitress,
in a few pitying words, told her that Mr. Ira had
been found dead on the eliff.

They all noticed that Lena expressed neither sur-

ghastly pallor.

She quietly ordered them to bring madam into the
library, and sent the lady’s maid for some ammonia.

But madam had received a terrible shock, and it
was only after an hour's attention that she revived
and opened her eyes.

They fell on Lena’s face, and she asked :

“What is the matter? What has happened ?”

“Have you forgotten ?”’ questioned Lena, gravely.

The woman stared at her and shook her head; then
she saw some of the servants in tears, and, like a
flash, memory came to her.

 

She turned on Lena furiously.

 

 

Presently she began to hear sounds of life about :

\

prise nor emotion, though her face was awful in its

   
 

 

 

    
 
 
 
    
 
 
   
   
   
  
 
   
  
  
  
   
   
 
  
 
  
   
 

  
 
   
   
     

0 OMOSE Ne. Saint tangs) ONT

 

 

 

 

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PRL NII IB I:

  

 

 

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eatomears “a mmr aa

 

 

       
 

  
    

    
   
 

 

 
 
   
   
   
   
 

  
 

  
   
 
  

 

 
 
 

 

      
 
 
    
    
   
   
   
   
   
 
     
   
   
   
 
 
 
 
   
   
    
 
 
 
   
 
 
     
       
  
 

 
 
 
 
  
    
   
 
 
 

 
  
  
    
       
     
        
 
  
   

  

 
 
 
 
   
 
    

 
  
 
     
    
     
  
 

 

  
   
      
      
 
   
  
 

 

  
   
     
   
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
   
 
 
     
   
  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL, 44—No. 38.

 

 

W YORK WEEKLY. ese

 

=

 

“They say my son is dead!” she cried, ‘‘and if so,
you or Philip Royallieu have killed him! Oh, my
boy! my boy! you shall be avenged. I—I——”

She struggled as if to rise, and again fell back un-
conscious ; but Lena saw thatthe servants had heard
her words, and were staring at her as if asking them-

_ selves if they could be true. . :

“Heaven help poor Philip,” muttered the girl.
“This vindictive woman has vowed that Ira’s death
shall be aveuged, and she will leave no stone un-
turned to bring Philip to justice!”

At that moment, conscious that some one’s eyes
were fixed on her, Lena looked up to see General
Royallieu standing in the dark door-way, staring at

er.

“Has Philip confessed to him? Has he come here
to tell me his son is guilty, and that he curses me?”
wondered the unhappy girl, while she looked at him
with imploring eyes.

“T heard what madam has said,” answered General
Royallieu, coming forward, till he was close beside
her. Mrs. Chancellor. I would like to hear from you
what cause she has for thinking that either my son
or you committed this dreadful deed? Speak! and
say gna neither he nor you were on the cliff last
night.

But Lena did not speak, she hung her head in a
dumb sort of agony, and prayed that Philip might
escape the awful fate his crime merited.

“Girl, do you mean to tell me that you were there?”
demanded the general, drawing himself erect.

“Do not ask me anything,’ implored Lena. “At
the inquest I shall be obliged to answer questions,
but until then, I beg of a do not make me speak.”

For one instant her sad eyes met the general's, and
he stared in them as if reading her soul. :

Then, regardless of the servants, he came forward
and took her hand.

“My child,” he said, “‘it shall be as you wish. As
soon as I wastold about this awful thing I came here
to break the sad news to yonder woman, but she had
already heard it; now, is there anything I can do for
either of you?’

“Nothing,” replied Lena.

“Are yousure? Think—is there no one to be tele-
graphed for, or written to, or——?”

“Yes, yes. Gwendolin must come home at once.
She was to have returned for the reception; but at
‘the last moment she telegraphed that she would not
come, and we have not yet heard the reason why. I
fear she is ill, but she must be here now.”

“T will send for_her,” said the general. ‘Can I do
anything else for Wu ?’

“Thank you, no,” replied Lena, “unless, if you
should see him, you willask the doctor to come here.
I think madam will require him.”

At this moment there was a loud scream in the
hall, and Hilda soon after rushed into the room.

*Lena! Lena!” she shrieked. ‘‘Have you heard the
awful news?’ :

“Hush!’ commanded Lena, sternly, pushing her
out of the room. “You are disturbing madain, and
our pity must be for her, for she loved him.”

“And you never did,” sobbed Hilda. ‘You always
loved Philip, and are probably glad that you are free
to wed him.”

“Heaven knows that though I have always loved
Philip, my freedom has brought me no joy,” said
Lena. with a ring of agony in her voice that made
the general hasten from the house, and ask himself:

“Her conduct is perplexing tome. Her sufferings
cannot be the result of grief fora man she never
loved! Did she commit this deed?’

CHAPTER XLVII.
HIS ATONEMENT FOR HIS SIN.

“Tf Iam to tell you my story, Gwendolin, I must
begin at the very beginning,’ said Anthony Throck-
morton. “I will show you all my wrong-doing, and
then ask you if you think my renunciation of name,
home, and ‘friends, has not been ample atonement
for my sin.”

“You shall tell me all in'your own way,” said
Gwendolin, as she took his thin hand in hers, and
smiled up at him.

His sad eyes rested on her as he said:

“Years ago, while [was a mere boy, I displeased
my mother’s father by being childishly impertinent
to him. He was one of the old countrymen who
could not endure a child’s disrespect for age, and for
my omission he disinherited me. I shall never for-
get how angry I felt when the will was read which
bequeathed all the property to my elder brother.
Both father and I reproached poor Arthur as if it
were his fault that grandfather had admired his
noble nature, and had rewarded it. Instead of re-
joicing in Arthur’s good fortune, I sulked until it be-
eame both a curse to him and to me. Father, too,
treated Arthur very unjustly about the matter, as I

yas the old man’s favorite son.

“We often told the poor fellow that he had cheated
me out of my birthright, and never shall I forget
once, when I had goaded him almost to frenzy, he
turned to me and said, ina desperate kind of de-
spair: -

“Would to Heaven that you had the money, and
that you might suffer for it as I have done.”

A shudder passed over the old man as he spoke,
and he said. sadly: :

“He got his wish, Gwendolin. He got his wish,
and sinee then, day and night, I have prayed that
the noble-hearted fellow, whom I so wronged, might
forgive me. Looking back, I can see now how un-
happy I made Arthur. Under our reproaches, almost
persecutions, he fled from the society in which my
father and I mingled, and devoted himself to books,
and scholarly companions. a, Brown, now called
Royallieu, for the uncle from which he inherited a
fortune, was his great chum, and when it was too
late, and I saw whatI had done, I loved Philip for
Arthur’s sake.”

He paused, and sighed heavily, as he resumed:

“When I was a mere lad I met, and married, your
mother. We had been schoolmates together while
children, and a better woman never lived. Arthur
did not hurry to marry, und I had begun to entertain
hopes that he would never do so, when the news
came that he was engaged to beautiful Linda Van-
deveer. Oh, Gwendolin, from that day I acted like a
fool and a madman.”

“What did you do?” :

Gwendolin’s voice was anxious and excited, and
her father replied, immediately:

“Instead of writing to congratulate him, I sent him
a bitter note saying I hoped his bride would enjoy
the money he had stolen from me.”’

“Oh, that was cruel,” sighed Gwendolin.

“Cruel? it was fiendish! but the sins of the father
were visited on us two. Grandfather’s vindictive
nature ruined Arthur’s life, and mine.

“Poor fellow! I cannot shut out the expression of
woe on his pale face when he came to see me after
the receipt of that letter. Your mother, you and I,
were boarding in the house kept by the present Mrs.
Anthony Throckmorton, and you were playing about
the parlor when he was announced.

“ ‘Send the child away,’ he begged, and I did so,
for [saw he had something important to say to me,
and you were an intelligent girl of seven years, and
might repeat what you heard.

“Unhappy Arthur; he had not only received a
harsh letter from me, but father also had written
him, most unkindly, about his engagement.

“Almost mad, he had come forthe third time to

- ask me to permit him to divide his fortune and give
me half of it. Grandfather’s will had forbidden him
to do this, but he said Imight be paid the interest
secretly.” 7

“And you refused?’ asked Gwendolin, softly.

“T refused, and the wretched fellow went away
nearly heart-broken A} i

“*T wonder if any one in this world loves me but
Linda”? he said, as he looked at me reproachfully.

“He would have gone up to see your mother, but I
would not permit him to do so. I said:

*«*Itis your fault that she is too ill to meet you,
eet Tam not able to give her the comforts she
needs.

“Gwen, he raised up his eyes and looked at me as
if I had cut him to the heart; then he went out, and
I never saw him again.”

“Oh, father!’ murmured Gwendolin, as he bowed
his head in his hands and a dry sob shook his form.

“My child, I cannot tell you what I suffered when
the news was brought that he was drowned in the
Bay ef Fundy. I felt as if I would have given my
life for his most gladly. Ah, I knew how dear he
was to me when it was too late to comfort him. I
saw all his noble traits, I felt for all the pain we had
given him. But it was too late—too late.” m4

He paused, and a long silence followed. It was
broken by Gwendolin, who said :

“He would not have wished you to grieve so,
father.”

“No; he was too kind to do so. Ah, well. Gwen,I
hope you will never know what it is to feel as I do
now—that I would give half my life to be able to go
to my brother and say, ‘Forgive me. God knows, I
loved you always, though I was so unjust.’

“There is but little more to tell,” he went on, hur-

Yiedly. ‘‘Your poor mother died that winter, and
the present Mrs. Anthony Throckmorton constituted
herself your caretaker. For that reason [ continued
to live at her house.

“After a time—I really do not know how the thin
happened—I awoke to find she claimed to be engage:
tome. I was most indifferent to the woman; in fact,
she was hardly agreeable to me, she was so inferior
to my soft-voiced, refined wife; but you seemed to
like her, and mostly for your sake I permitted myself
to drift into a marriage with her,

“Tt was a very unhappy union, Gwendolin. JT was
a poor man, on asalary, and madam was not con-
tented without diamonds, and seal-skins, and velvets,
and laces, Your mother, being a true lady and a
cultured person, was very simple in her dress and
mode of living, but nothing but the most extravagant
costumes ever contented this woman.

“My father (who had never known a happy mo-
ment since Arthur's death, as he felt that he had
acted so unjustly to him for me), had been furious
over my marriage with my landlady; he had utterly
refused to receive Mrs. Throckmorton, and, as I was
poor, we led a miserable life. ‘

“T had our faithful friend, however. Philip Royal-
lieu, since Arthur’s death, seemed very fond of me.
He had come into his fortune, and he often insisted
that I should call on him if I needed money. My wite

|

 

one day heard him, and was furious that I would not
accept his offer, and buy her a blue velvet dress.”

A flush of shame stained the old man’s face, as he
continued:

“One morning I went to my office and was handed
a bulky letter; it held a sealed envelope and a slip
of paper, on which the following words in my father’s
handwriting were written:

“<I have read all your previous letters, and have
told you each time I forwarded you money it would
be the last. Yet you have dared ask again. At
my death you will inherit your brother’s—my re-
eee brother’s—fortune. You must wait for it till
then.’ :

“T should not have known what to make of this had
I not glanced at the sealed envelope.

“It was addressed to my father in my writing. Yet
I had not written it!”

“Father !” panted Gwendolin.

“T tore it open and read the sheet inside, which
was written in my characters, and begging the old
mau for money. Oh, Gwen, I alinost swooned as ny
suspicions pointed tothe only person dishonorable
enough to do this thing—my wife!

“T was unfitted for business, and hurried home to
accuse her of her sin, and she coolly acknowledged
it.’

Again Gwendolin’s hand sought his in a pitying
clasp, and his voice quivered and sank away.

After a few moments he resumed:

“T was utterly discouraged, and madam and I liter-
ally parted from that moment. Though we lived
eer oue roof, we never spoke or looked at each
other.

“So several miserable months passed away. At the
end of that period I was startled to hear from a bank
director that my name had been forged to a check
drawu on Philip Royallieu for two thousand dollars.
It had been presented by a young man about twenty
years old. I saw through the thing atonce; my wife
had counted on my friendship with Philip, and had
believed he would keep silent about the money if
my name were on the check.

In reality, never suspecting me of the forgery, he
had given the check to a detective, that the mystery
might be elucidated, and the criminal prosecuted. . I
returned home more dead than alive and told madam
what had happened.

“She was terribly alarmed, and made a wild scene.
She begged me to protect her; to tell Philip I had
done this contemptible thing, aud then trust to his
friendship to spare me.

__ “f explained to her that it was out of his hands;
that it was an offense against the law; and then she
defied me. 3

“She said I could not prove that she had done this

thing; that if I attempted to do so the world would
only think me acraven, shielding myself behind a
woman. ;
_ “There was truth in what she said; and—and feel-
ing I could not shame the one who had been my wife,
I consented to go forth from my hoine forever, and
to stand disgraced in the sight of all men. Gwen-
dolin, you know the rest of the story.”

“Yes, dear father; I know that for years you have
borne your cross like amartyr. But have you never
thought that you were cruelly wronging the friend
a loved you, by not telling him you were inno-
cent.”

“What do you mean, Gwen?”

“T mean that you wrecked General Royallien’s
faith in man by not informing him you were guilt-
less. Dear father, undo what you havedone. Go to
him, I beg of you, and tell him your story, as you
have told it to me.”

“My child, it is impossible, what proof have I——?”

You will need none. He will believe you as I be-
lieve you. I beg of you to try him; not only for his
sake, but for Walter’s and mine.”

Seesmic he looked at her, fixedly, then he
said:

“It willgive me great pain, Gwen, but for your
sake I will reveal to the man I respeet the frailty of
the woman who has gone through life like a whitened
sepulcher.”’

Gwendolin thanked him, and then the two decided
she should notreturn home for Ira’s wedding-recep-
tion; but afew days afterward, she and her father
would journey together to Tarrytown, and he would
put her old friend’s faith to the test. :

Alas; how little they dreamed what would hap-
pen first.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

a ee

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Forn,

FORCED APART.

By LIEUTENANT MURRAF,

Author of ‘* UNDER A CURSE,” “ THE MASKED

LADY,” etc.

{“FORCED APART” was commenced in No, 21. Back

numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XVII.—(CONTINUED.)

Axsthur Hammond sprang instantly to his feet at
the strange announcement, while Mrs. Van Zant also
rose from her seat and regarded him intently. It
seems impossible for him to take in at once the full
signification of what her words implied, and for a
single moment he stood perfectly aghast, paler than
she had been during their interview. Then the hot
blood rushed like an avalanche to his temples, and
he breathed as though he were choking. The faint-
est idea of such a possibility had never before en-
tered his thoughts, and no wonder that he was so
dazed at the first announcement.

“My daughter! Delia, my daughter, our child?’
he half whispered, as soon as he could collect him-
self.

“Even so, Arthur,” replied his companion, with
downeast eyes, and cheeks of crimson.

“Oh, Laura, Laura!’ he exclaimed, in agonizing
tones, ‘how happy we might have been!”

Her head dropped upon her bosom as she stood
there before him after the revelation she had made,
and her arms hung listlessly at her sides. She was
the picture of dejection. She saw the truthfulness
and the loyalty of him who had so early plighted to
her his love, and all shadow of blame which might
have rested upon him in her mind, was now utterly
dispelled. In her heart she had long, long ago for-

given him. But now she saw that she never had |

aught to forgive. No doubt she had mentally suf-
fered more acutely even than Arthur Hammond, but
still it had not worn upon her marvelous beauty of
face and form. She was in -the very maturity of her
loveliness.

she was thinking of the last words which he had
spoken to her:

“How happy we might have been!”

After one moment of silent admiration, during
which all her loveliness was photographed upon his
heart, be caine to her and drew her close within his
arms. She did not resist the embrace, but let her
head rest for a moment on his shoulder, while she
yielded to the ardent pressure of his arms. It was
but one eee delicious moment of affection, while
he whispered softly in her ear:

“Laura, are you not my wife?’

“I am glad you spoke, Arthur,” shé answered,
while by an overmastering effort she calmed her
emotions. “No! Iam not your wife. [am the res-
pected wife of an honorable man. Let us not forget
that,” and as she spoke calmly, though in a tender
tone, she gently. disengaged herself from his em-
brace.

“You are right, Laura,” he answered, offering not
the least resistance to her movements.

“We must accept the inevitable,” she continued,
with gentle dignity, ‘‘and in our respect for ourselves
we will respect each other.”

Her strong sense of, propriety had come to the aid
of both. :

“We know each other now, Laura,” he answered,
seriously, “better, far better than at first. I feel
happier for this meeting. Though it could not bring
me peace of mind, it has cleared away much of the
bitter memories of the past. Will you answer me
one question? I know—I think I know now how
you will answer it, if at all.” :

“What isit, Arthur?”

“Say that you would not have left me voluntarily.”

“In your heart, dear Arthur, you know that I would
not,’ she said, extending her hand to him without
hesitation.

He held it tenderly in both his own.

“You see, Laura, that drowning men catch at
straws, andin my misery I want to find some con-
solation.”

“Poor Arthur !” she sighed.

Once more, under an irresistible influence, he drew
her to his heart and pressed his lips to herown. It
was “the seal upon the tomb of hope.” As she had
done before, she again gently drew away from him,
still resting her head confidingly upon his arm. Ah!
how lovingly she would have hung about his neck
had she consulted her heart alone and not listened
to herreason! When there had been no barrier be-
tween them, in the long, long ago, she had not loved
this man as she now loved him in the maturity of her
affections. She had not been chastened by disap-
pointment and sorrow in those girlish days; experi-
ence had purified and intensified her capacity for
love.

“The memory of one far away,” said Arthur Ham-
mond, “recalls me to myself—that dear, sweet child
in France.”

“Ts she so very lovely, Arthur ?”

“Almost as beautiful as yourself,” he answered.

“She was very young—little more than an infant—
when we parted.” er

‘You have not seen her since ?”

| definitely ascertained. é C I
| supposed to have been occasioned by defective drain-
|; age.

| hands of the ruffian.

 

“It was impossible to do so and to carry out the

policy which I had adopted, after long and careful
consideration.”

And then she told him how she had shrouded her
heart in a cloak of seeming indifference, all foreign
to its real promptings, lest the child should ever sus-
pect the truth. She explained how caretul she had
always been to cover up and keep secret the mystery
of her birth; how she had wept over the tiny pic-
ture she had kept of the dear little-gir] she had left
in France, and, above all, she explained how very
necessary it was still to kéep inviolate the story of
her innocent life. : ;

“[ can act understandingly now,” he responded;
“but up to this day. you must remember, I have been
only groping in the dark. Tell me, Laura, my darling,
am I to come to you again ?”’

And as he thus spoke he looked tenderly into her
eyes.

“Oh, how it tears my heart, Arthur, to speak the
necessary words which a sense of duty dictates!”

She drew even nearer to him while she said this,
and looked appealingly into his face, as though she
wished to beg of him not to misunderstand her. — -

“T know what you would say, Laura. I know it all.
You are wise and discreet, as you should be. I can
but honor you for it, and thank Heaven that you are
prudent enough to think for us both. But, oh, great
Heaven! to find you only to lese you again!”

And the strong man shook like a leaf as he wrung
his hands together in his intense emotion. 4

“It is the will of Heaven, Arthur, and we may not
oppose it. I can see no other way. We must say
farewell.”

“Ah, those significant words, Laura! And so we
are again to be forced apart; and I may not even see
that dear one far away ?”

‘That would lead to inevitable exposure, sooner or
later,” she replied; ‘it would be the height of im-
prudence.”

“You shall have no additional anxiety through me;
your wish is my law, my own dear love.”’

And then he pressed her yielding form once more
within his arms; once more their lips clung to each
other. No word was spoken, but he now turned from
the room and rushed from the house.

CHAPTER XVIII.
FREE ONCE MORE.

Mrs. Van Zant hastened to her private apartments
the moment that Arthur Hammond left her after
that eventful interview. She had been far more
severely tried than she had shown openly. Her
course, so contrary to the dictates of her heart, had
been heroic. She nad been true to herself and to her
sense of honor. She did not feel that she had aught
to blush for, and was grateful for that immunity.
However deeply her heart might ache, she must
strive to bear her: anguish with patience; but she
had not forgotten her self-respect. When Arthur
Hamuinond had appealed to her, she had frankly told
him that they must meet no more, and she was glad
that she had had the resolution to do so. :

“Hard as my fate seems to be,’’ she said to herself,
as she sat there alone; “yet, somehow, life appears
brighter to me than it did, though why this is so, I
can hardly say; the weight upon wy heart is certainly
less. Dear Arthur! He is the same true, frank, and
manly soul that he ever was. So the marriage was a
legal one after all! How eruel and false was his
father’s dealing with me! It acquits Arthur of all
deceit, and, above all, it legitimatizes our child.
Thank Heaven, no other can claim the name of
mother from me!”

Her brain was very busy as she sat thus alone with
her own thoughts, and still exhibiting the unwonted
stimulus imparted by the excitement of her late
interview. She wondered if Providence was guiding
her life to some critical and culminating point. She
lived still in hourly dread of her dissolute father’s
appearance, which was another complication giving
her acute uneasiness, for she knew nothing of the
terrible tragedy which had been enacted at Clifton.

Mr. Van Zant had been performing the duties of a
political delegate to a convention in Chicago, and was
now on his way homeward, by way of Washington.
While stopping at a hotel in the capital city, he, with
several other guests, suffered from a sudden and
mysterious malady, the cause of which was never
It was a malarial complaint,

Mr. Van Zant, though he recovered so far as to
enable him to reach his home in New York in a shat-
tered condition, took at once to his bed in an ex-
hausted state, upon arriving at his own house. The
best medical advice which was to be had was, of
course, at his service incessantly, and the best of
nursing was bestowed upgn him by Mrs. Van Zant,
whose true womanly nature never shone out more
admirably than in the untiring performance of her
conjugal duties at this time.

It was a slow and wearing illness. Mr. Van Zant
faded gradually, until he could not but realize that
he was in a most critical condition. He had always
been, as we know, proud and fond of his wife, and
her devotion to him in this most trying illness com-
manded his sincere gratitude. He even feared that
he had not sufficientiy appreciated her excellence in
every domestic relationship since they had been
companions together, and now, as he lay upon his
sick-bed, he showed for her a tenderness that touched
her very deeply.

“Ruth,” he said, one day, feebly, from his couch,
“T fear that I have not fulfilled all my duties to you
asahusband. [do not know, but it seems to me that
we are soon to part froin each other. You have been
everything tome that a kind and considerate wife
should be, and you will find that I have, in a business
ei of view, tully recognized this. You are my sole

eir, my dear wife.”

“Oh, pray do not talk so seriously. Let us hope for
the best. You donot seem especially ill to-day; in-
deed, do you not remember the doctor thought you
were brighter this morning ?”’

“Perhaps he is right,’ said the sick man, wearily.
“I think there are no new symptous in my case, but
still, Ruth, I am conscious of growing weaker and
weaker every day.”

His realization of increasing weakness was only
too true. From that day and hour Herman Van Zant
sank so rapidly that his mind was no longer clear,
and ere another week had passed away his body
rested in the tomb.

No one could have known him without respecting
his sterling qualities, his ripe intelligence, his liberal
and unostentatious charities. His wife had during
ali their companionship honored and respected him,
while the intercourse of so long a period with such a
man had not been without a marked and elevating
influence upon her own character. She had the con-
solation of having tried to do her duty in the con-
nection she had formed, and if she had erred, she
prayed Heaven to forgive her sin.

As Mrs. Van Zant sat alone taking her solitary
breakfast and reading the morning paper, not long
subsequent to her husband’s death, her eyes sud-
denly fell upon the following paragraph, which she
read over twice before she could take in its full sig-
nificance. ‘ ‘

“Our readers will doubtless remember the detailed
account given in these columns, not long ago, rela-
tive to the bold attempt which was made to rob the
bank at Clifton, on which occasion the burglar who |
was left to guard the cashier and his family, after |
they were bound and gagged, was shot dead by that
brave officer of the bank, after a violent struggle in
which he succeeded in wresting the pistol from the
Detectives have been on the
track of this man’s confederates for some time, but
so far have failed to make any arrests of the parties.
An incident, however, relating to the affair has just
been brought to our notice. It appears that the de-
tectives traced out the matter so as to connect the
dead robber with a former boarder.at the Herbert
House in this city, where he had been living for some
months under the name of Horace Fay. In his room
at the hotel was found some baggage, and some sus-
picious tools, designed evidently for lock-picking.
This man’s real name is believed to have been
Thomas Hawksley, a famous California burglar, who,
came east after San Francisco, and that region, had
become too hot to hold him any longer. He is said
to have been connected in some way with the mur-
der and attempted robbery of Smith Ludlow, the
well-known California banker, for which crime he
was tried and sentenced to prison for life. He, how-
ever, broke jail in San Francisco, and made good his
escape from his pursuers, eventually appearing in
New York. But let his record be whatit may, his
career is closed at last, and he now lies buried ina
nameless grave in the cemetery at Clifton.”

“There can be no doubt but that it was he,” said
Mrs. Van Zant, not a little excited at what she had
discovered. ‘‘The mystery of his absence is thus ex-
plained. He would certainly have sought me for
funds on the first of the month if he had been alive,
and now that I am alone, without a man’s protection,
he would have persecuted me beyond endurance.
How strange it is that I feel no grief, not a single
sigh of sorrow at the violent death of this unnatural
parent. But he was no real parent to me. I never
saw him until he came like a robber to importune me
for money. It is terrible, nevertheless. Shot dead
with all his sins upon him!”

She read once more:

“His real name is believed to be Thomas Hawksley,
a California burglar, who came east, ete.”

“The name of Horace Fay, then, is thought to have
been assumed. Well, it is far better that it should be
so, though he must be forgotten even in Deersford
after thirty-five years of absence.

“Why does this not free me ouce more ?”’ she mused
to herself. ‘‘What possible disgrace now lies in my
path? Whom need I fear? Husband and father
poth dead within the month. How strange itis! May
not a new and peaceful career be opening for me at
last. Yet to think that I ain rejoicing over a parent’s
death. Have I grown hardened, then? Is my heart
turning to stone?” +s

The constant dread of her connection being discov-
ered with this disreputable and guilty parent, had
been a fearful weight upon her mind. She had felt
far more actual terror of this discovery than she had
of the fact that Delia Morris, so called, was her own
child. She could palliate that fact in some way, she
believed, if it should become necessary to enter into
an explanation, for she had married Mr. Van Zant as
a widow.

Mrs. Van Zant was, perhaps, a little surprised after

the lapse of some weeks not to have heard one word
from Arthur Hammond, under the circumstances
which surrounded her. That a feeling of true deli-
cacy should have withheld him from ‘her presence,
or from even communicating with her for a certain
period, seemed very natural. But nearly three
months had passed since their meeting, during which
period she had not received one line from him, nor
heard aught of his whereabouts. It was perfectly
natural that her thoughts should revert to him now
with tenfold force, and she wondered at his con-
tinued silence.

It was about this time that Herbert Mott called
upon her ceremoniously, as an old. acquaintance,
especially of her late husband. When his card was
handed to her, she told the servant to say that she
was at home, and at once descended to the parlor to
meet this man, whom she knew to be such an in-
timate friend of Arthur’s. After the usual exchange
of formal greetings, and a few appropriate words
from the caller relative to her late bereayement, the
conversation took a more general turn.

“By the by,” said Mrs. Van Zant presently, and as
though it was quite an accidental thought which had
occurred to her, ‘‘is your friend Mr. Hammond still
in Boston?’

“Why, did you not know, Mrs. Van Zant, that he
had left Boston?” he asked, in no slight surprise at
her query.

“Indeed I did not,” she promptly answered, trying
to conceal her intense curiosity. ‘Where has he
gone?

“Arthur is in India,’ said Mr. Mott.

“Tn India?’ said his astounded companion.

“Yes; he sailed from here more than three months
ago, and, I presumed, had taken leave of you among
his other friends.”

“No, Mr. Mott. I was not aware of his purpose.”

“You knew Arthur Hammond many years ago, I
judge?’ continued Herbert Mott, a little curiously.

“Yes. Iknew him when I was a-schoolgirl in Bos-
ton,” she replied, somewhat absently.

“He and I were classmates at Harvard.”

“Tt was in his college days that I knew him,” re-
plied Mrs. Van Zant, with a thoughtful expression
upon her brow.

“He was always a favorite among us at Cam-
bridge.”

“And justly so,” said Mrs. Van Zant, ‘‘for he is pos-
sessed of many noble and manly qualities.”

Herbert Mott would have liked to ask her more
particularly about her early acquaintance with his
absent friend, but he was far too polite and delicate
to press the subject. He remembered vividly the
singular influence which this beautiful woman had
seemed to exert over his friend; he could never for-
get the strange first meeting when the lady fell like
one stricken with death at the mere sight of Arthur
Hammond. &

“How long will Mr. Hammond remain abroad ?’
asked Mrs. Van Zant, after a few moments’ pause.

“He said it was uncertain, but I think he will be
away for some years,” added Herbert Mott.

“For years?” half echoed his companion.

- “You know he is axreat traveler, Mrs. Van Zant.
He has been a wanderer most of the time for years.”

“True. I have heard so”

Herbert Mott saw that Mrs. Van Zant had at once
become very much absorbed in thought at the intel-
ligence he had communicated, and he felt more
curious than before as to what interest connected
this beautiful woman with his absent friend. He
was not so blind but that he could read the expres-
sive face of his companion, and it divulged even more
than she was aware of to her watchful caller.

“She could not have jilted Arthur when she was a
young girl,” thought Herbert Mott, as he walked
away from the Van Zant mansion a few moments
later. ‘‘He was handsome and rich; everybody liked
him; but that there is a delicate secret between
them is as plain to my mind as the light of day.
What alovely woinan sheis? I have never seen her
equal. I don’t wonder Arthur is a little dazed about
her. Besides, she is free now. Rich, free, and hand-
some.

It was a great relief, when Mr. Mott departed, for
Mrs. Van Zant to be left alone. Arthur gone to
India! She could hardly realize the fact, and after a
few moments’ calculation she understood that he
must have gone almost immediately after their last
meeting. Ther she began to think about Delia, and
to lay plans for having her by her side. This thought
gave her new life. She had been compelled by pru
dential considerations to deny herself all the tender
sentiments which naturally sprang up in her bosom
toward the little girl from whom she had separated
herself in order to fight the stern battle of life and
to win a support for both. She did not lack for the
tender promptings indigenous in a mother’s breast,
but never until nofv had she been in a situation to in-
dulge these maternal sympathies.

“Oh, how jealously I shall watch over this dear
child! Heaven grant that she may never have any
of ner mother’s sad experiences. Stay, there is Carl-
ton Leeds. [ had nearly forgotten him. That was a
brave and noble act to save her life at the risk of his
own. It would be quite enough, in a romantic light,
to win Delia’s affections, and to bind her to him be-
yond all contingencies. I wonder what Carlton
Leeds is like. He is certainly a gentleman of refine-
ment and education.”

“So Arthur could go away, and almost instantly
after our meeting. Well, it was like him, and unlike
almost any one else. It was nobly resolved, and
heroically executed, for he loves me still. And I—
God only knows how dearly I love him! He can
know nothing yet of my widowhood; that is impos-
sible. I wonder if Herbert Mott isin regular cor-
respondence with him, If so, he will send him the
information.”

(TO. BE CONTINUED.)
a re

SUSPENDED ANIMATION,

Cases of premature burial have frequently come to
light. Dr. Tanner speaks of the body of a young
man which was placed in a vault. “In three months,”
says Dr. Tanner, ‘‘the body was removed and found
not to be decomposed. The physicians considered
that fact strange, and laid the body on the dissect-
ing table to study it. An incision was made with a
scalpel, and instantly the man arose, being thor-
oughly resuscitated. He lived for years, too.

“Thad the pleasure last fall, ‘‘he goes on to state,

‘of interviewing a lady near Indianapolis who came
to life after fourteen days of suspended animation.
Her little brother clung to her against the will of the
parents. Six doctors came in and made their usual
tests, and at last it was considered foolish to keep
the body any longer; but the boy threw himself on
his sister and said they should not put her under
ground. Mind you, six Indianapolis physicians had
said that she was dead.

‘No, no! Sadie is not dead!’ cried the brother.
Accidentally he pushed aside the bandage which
held her jawin place. It fell, and the people in the
room saw it. The brother saw it, too, and noticed
that his sister’s tougue was slowly moving. ‘See!
see!’ he cried, ‘she is alive!’ They all saw, and were
horrified. :

““*What do you want, sister? asked the boy.

““+Water, water!’ came the answer from the woman
supposed to be dead.

“They gave her water and she revived, and is still
living, having since married. I had a talk with her
shortly after.

“Tam making this subject my special study, and I
tell: you it horrifies me to learn all that is going on.
It is impossible to tell what person is so constituted
as to be liable to fall into a trance. Therefore friends
ought not to rely on the mere word of a physician.
It does no harm to wait.a few days. As long as the
body maintains a good appearance it will hurt noth-
ing to delay the burial. From the beginning of this
year I kept a count of the cases of suspended anima-
tion discovered and reported in the newspapers.
They averaged one a week in the United States. That
isa fact which should cause physicians to be very
careful when they pronounce patients dead.”

To insure health, so far as human effort can con-
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OUR SECRET DRAWER.

 

BY ISABELLA L,

 

There is a secret drawer in every heart,
Wherein we lay our treasures one by one—

Each dear remembrance of the buried past,
Each cherished relic of the time that’s gone.

The old delights of childhood long ago;

The things we loved because we knew them best,
The first discovered primrose in our path ;

The cuckoo’s earliest note; the robin’s nest ;

The merry haymakings areund our home;
Our rambles in the summer woods and lanes ;
The story told beside the winter fire,
While the wind moaned across the window panes;

The golden dreams we dreamt in after years ;
Those magic visions of our young romance ;

The sunny nooks, the fountains, and the flowers,
Gilding the fairy landscape of our trance ;

The link which bound us later still to one
Who fills a corner in our life to-day,

Without whose love we dare nofdream how dark
The rest would seem if it were gone away; .

The song that thrilled our souls with very joy;
The gentle word that unexpected came;

The gift we prized, beeause the thought was kind;
The thousand, thousand things that have no name;

All these in some far-hidden corner lie,
‘Within the mystery of that secret drawer,

Whose magic springs, though stranger hands may touch,
Yet none may gaze upon its guarded store.

Diary of a Minister’s Wife,

NEW SEHERIES.

By ALMEDIA M. BROWN,

Anthor of “The Diary of a Country Schoolma’am.”

 

 

 

(The “DIARY OF A MINISTER’S WIFE” was commenced
in No. 35. All News Agents supply the back numbers. ]

 

It seems that Mrs. Kingsley went hastily into the
store and told such a tale of my sudden illness, with
such agitation and seeming anxiety to get home im-
mediately, that he did not hesitate a moment in send-
ing the article.

Iwas so indignant at hearing this tale that I de-
clared Mrs. Kingsley should leave at once, and went
to her room to-tell herso; but found her in sucha
drunken stupor that I could not arouse her.

Looking around I found the bottles, one already
half emptied, and threw away the contents of both:
She shall leave on Monday morning if I have to eall
an officer to send her off.

Several of my friends came in this evening to see
how I was, Mr. Beals having told several during the
day of my illness. Miss Julia Crimmings came in
first, looking quite pale and excited. She met Mr.
Hardscrabble in the hall.

“‘Oh, my dear sir, I have just heard of Mrs. Hard-
serabble’s illness. Do you consider her condition
dangerous?”

“Not immediately,” was the response, aS with a
smile he ushered her into the sitting-room.

I fancied she looked a little sorry at finding me
quite well. Mrs. Field came next, and Mrs. Hubbard,
a lady I much esteem; while Mrs. Converse brought
up the rear. The three latter spent the evening, and
we had a pleasant chat.

Monday, Aug. 20:—The dreaded day has passed,
and I have lived through it, but my cheeks tingle
now at the recollection of the indignities heaped
upon me.

This morning we told Mrs, Kingsley she must leave;
she did not seem to care. I presume she is used to it.
She took the cars and went to join her husband, who,
it seems, has been at work in a neighboring town all
the while.

Every thing has gone wrong to-day. This morning
Kate broke half a dozen cups and saucers, and I had
to send out to the store to match them. A lady called
on business connected with the sewing circle, which
is to meet at my house on Wednesday, and settle
upon some plan for furnishing my parlor.

While she was here my pies burned to acrisp, I for-
got to put soda in my cake, and it came from the oven
black and heavy, and I had to make other pies and
cake. The painter, who was varnishing the parlor,
upset his dish of varnish all over the floor, and the
eaunee used up all his paste and he wanted more
made.

Our oa came early, before I had my dress
changed, the beef was tough, and Eddie’s behavior
to-day has been the very worst I ever witnessed. He
has really disgraced his parents, and exhibited more
of what Father Stevens terms “the old Adam” than I
ever knew he possessed.

Our guests exchanged significant glances as Mr.
Hardscrabble took him screaming from the room,
and Mrs. Harper, beginning a disquisitioh on the man-
agement of children in general (and ef ours in partic-
ular), said there was too much lenity shown them; she
believed in breaking their spirits early; the rod
could not be applied too often, ete.

But why detail the events of the day? I have
passed through too many such to need to transcribe
the whole. Let it suffice that I was worried all day
by eam | rd of my unfitness for the position of a
minister’ ife. Mrs. Stevens raked up every old
grudge she had against me, and detailed some little

isagreements we had had in Columbusville.

I made several saucy replies, which only made my
visitors shake their heads dubiously.

A little episode occurred this afternoon to relieve
the monotony of the visit. A young couple came
from a neighbering town to get married. They were
plain people, both quite bashful and embarrassed
during the ceremony, which Mr. Hardscrabble made
very short. They did ~ot tarry, but left immediately,
ae glad to get away from the scouting of our
guests.

Mr. Stevens reproved Mr. Hardscrabble for per-
forming the ceremony so hurriedly, saying “such a
matter ought to be entered upon deliberately and
with due consideration, for the most solemn results
attended a marriage.”

“T am aware that parties entering into a marriage
contract should do so with a due sense of the impor-
tance of the step, but I always take it for granted
that when they come to be married they have made
up their minds to the step, and I do not deem it
necessary to require them to pause and consider over
it; besides, a lengthy ceremony is positively cruel in
such a case as that this afternoon, when both parties
are 80 embarrassed.”

“Well, I don’t see the need of any one feeling so.
Now, when I got married, I regarded it merely in
the light of a business transaction, and did not act
like a fool about it, and lam happy to say my wife
was of the same opinion.”

“Well, you were an exception to the general rule.
I have united many couples, and have always found
more or less feeling manifested.”

At the table Mr. Stevens descanted on the extrava-
gance of ministers’ families in general, and the rest
of the party assented, even while helping themselves
liberally to every delicacy on the board.

“Everything has gone wrong to-day,” I remarked to
Mr. Hardserabble, after their departure. “Kate has
been careless, Eddie cross, the pies would burn, the
cake wouldn’t rise, and the bread was sour. Oh, dear,
what a day it has been!”

‘‘Was there nothing else that went wrong, Minnie?”
asked Mr. Hardscrabble, in a meaning tone, and I
looked up to meet his glance of grave reproof.

 

gone wrong, too. I scolde
when I was irritated.”

“I’m sorry for that,” and he took up a book and
os himself to read, having apparently freed his
mind.

TI could but sigh as I reviewed the day’s vexations,
and more than one tear fell on my work as [ went
step by step over each petty detail.

I arose at last and went out to the kitchen, where
Kate sat by the window singing in alow tone. She
ceased on my entrance.

“Kate,” [said, “I have been very cross to-day.”

‘And sure, wasn’t if enough to try the patience of
a saint, the bad luck you’ve had.”

“Not quite, and I am not a saint. These vexations
are no excuse for my losing my temper. I am sorry
I was so hasty to you this morning.”

“And you need not think of that. Sure, I was care-
less myself, and I’ve laid up nothing against you,
marm, for I knew you was plagued wid the company
and the pies.”

Wednesday, Aug. 22.—The new furniture arrived
this morning, and surely such an incongruous lot
was never selected for one room. Each member of
the committee selected according to her own taste,
without regard to each other, so there are crimson
lounges, blue velvet easy-chairs, a hair-cloth sofa,
embroidered ottomans, white lace curtains over blue
damask, and dashy gilt shades beneath. The carpet
has every hue of the rainbow, but red, green, and
yellow predominate. The painters put on very nice
white paint, but the paper is too conspicuous; large
gilt flowers on a pale-blue ground, while the border
is crimson and black.

The sewing-cirele met this afternoon; Mrs. Benson
and Mrs. Baxter took the lead, and amid a great deal
of altercation and snapping of shears the carpet was
cut, but when they came to makeit up, the flowers
didn’t match.

“Oh, dear, it’s spoiled,” said Mrs. Baxter, throwing
down her shears.

“Well, yow cut it,” exclaimed Mrs. Benson.

“But you told me where to cutit. You shouldn't
have been so officious if you didn’t know how,” was
the retort.

“How should 7 know anything about matching car-
pet? LIalways have it done for me,” said Mrs. Ben-
son. ‘I never made a carpet in my life.”

Kate, and punished Eddie

was a rag-carpet your Aunt Jerusha might have had
in some of the apartments of that roomy farm-house,”
muttered Mrs. Baxter, loud enough for all to hear.

“Oh, you wretch!” I’ll never speak to you again,
Clara Baxter, till my dying day;’” and Mrs. Benson
took a seat in the corner.

“Well,” said Mrs. Lobdell, “the carpet is cut, and
we may as wellmakeitup. It won’t make much dif-
ference, I guess, one breadth isa little short, but we’ll
put ig to the back of the room, and set the sofy
there.”

So at work they all went on carpet and curtains,
and busy tongnes wagged while needles flew.

“Mr. Jenkins is really going to be married,” said
one lady.

ae? the day is set, I understand,” replied an-
other.

“Who is the fortunate fair one?” asked Mrs. Field.

“A Miss Curtis, from the southern part of the
county, has won the prize,” was the prompt re-
joinder.

“No great catch,” exclaimed Mrs. Baxter, tossing
her head. ‘He’s nothing but a widower with a snarl
of children. For my part I don’t see why so many
were trying to catch him.”

“Why, Mrs. Baxter, I’m surprised to hear you talk!
They say you tried as hard as any one to eatch him,
and his ‘snarl of children’ you called ‘darling little
angels!’ said a young lady, laughing.

“T tried, indeed! Perhaps I might have succeeded
if I chose, and been mamma to eight interesting
dears!” and she nodded her head in a knowing
manner.

“Pshaw! don’t put on airs, Clara,” said a blunt
woman in the corner. ‘We all know sour grapes
hang high, and everybody knows you tried to catch
Mr. Jenkins and failed, and you and Miss Cummings
poets caps for him, but he was too cunning for you

oth.

As considerable feeling began to be manifested I
rapped the ladies to order, reminding them of the
rules of the society that forbade such unkind and
personal remarks.

Mrs. Baxter, with a flushed brow, resumed her
needle, breaking the thread repeatedly in her haste,
while the others turned to a new subject of con-
versation.

Mrs. Harper had gathered a group of ladies about
her at one end of the room, and as I passed them I
heard her giving an acceunt of her and Mrs. Stevens’
call upon me last Saturday, dwelling at length upon
my lightness and levity.

“Mrs. Harper,’ I said, as mildly as I could, ‘‘we
have arule against slander, I believe. I think I must
demand a fine from you.”

The ladies lookéd up in blank amazement, while
Mrs. Harper’s brow grew dark.

“Do you mean to insult me, Mrs. Hardscrabble ?”

“By no means; but you will remember you in-
sisted last week on my enforcing the rule when some
of the ladies were detailing petty scandal, such as I
was sorry to hear from you a moment ago.”

“Seandal, indeed! It was the truth!”

“But the truth very much dressed up to suit the
oceasion. But even the truth need not be told un-
necessarily, when the utterance of it is merely to
injure a person.”

“Do you presume to lecture me? I will not stand
it 9

“You have favored me with lectures at all hours,
Mrs. Harper; and, more than that, you have preju-
diced many of the ladies against me, counteracting
every good influence I might exert by your insinua-
tions as to the motives that actuated me. You cannot
deny that your course toward me has been marked
by enmity and bitterness of feeling ever since I came
here,” and my voice began to tremble.

“Well, if this isn’t past all belief! She attempts to
arraign me for my conduct! Ladies, will you pa-
tiently see me thus insulted? Ihave always taken
the lead in our societies—have borne the heat and
burden of the day, as it were; have always upheld
the purity and goodness of the church, and striven
to have it purged from all that was wrong. And
must my labors all be lost, and I set completely aside
by a young, giddy thing whose greatest ambition is
to write for a silly paper?”

After awaiting a response to her excited speech
and not hearing one, I resumed:

“If [eannot enforce the rules of the society im-
partially, I will resign the post of president. Please
nominate some one to take my place.”

As no one ventured to speak, [ proposed Mrs. Har-
per; but the motion was not seconded, and Mrs.
Harper's brow grew dark.

“Ladies,” I said, imploringly, ‘“‘will you not aid me
in this matter? I am in earnest in my wish to resign.
I have long felt that I did not meet your expecta-
tions. You will gratify me, and aid the society ma-
terially, if you will choose a new president.”

“Now look here,” said Mrs. Lobdell, “‘do you mean
to shirk out of work entirely? Let us understand the
matter. If you’re going to leave us entirely, we
sha’n’t agree to it; but if you only w..nt to be a pri-
vate member, we may consider it.”

“Oh, Iam willing to work with you,” I returned,
“only I do not wish the responsibility.”

“Well, then, I nominate Miss Catherine Crimmings
for president. We were foolish to let her leave us,
and this will somewhat atone for it. She has a great
deal of taste, and we need her.”

I seconded the motion, and put it to vote, and she
was chosen, with only two or three dissenting voices.

I requested Mrs. Myers to go over and itera: her
of her election, and beg her to come over imme-
diately, and relieve me of my charge.

Mrs. Harper and her clique looked chagrined, but
did not venture to remonstrate.

Mrs. Myers was gone but a short time, and returned
with Miss Crimmings, who looked flushed and tri-
umphant, as she nodded condescendingly to Mrs.
Baxter.

I resigned the chair to her, and, with a feeling of
relief, resumed my work. I have felt for a long while
that I was not the presiding officer. Mrs. Harper
has ruled with an iron hand, and every act of mine
had to meet her approbation before it was accepted
by the ladies. Miss Crimmings, I fancy, will not
yield to her whims as I have done.

At five o’clock I went out to help Kate arrange the
tables. The ladies had brought their own refresh-
ments, so it was no great task. The carpet was fin-
ished and nailed down before tea, and really looked
quite showy, notwithstanding the mismatched fig-
ures. The ladies were delighted. During tea their
tongues were busy discussing the arrangement of the
furniture; and after the repast busy hands soon put
each article in place; the curtains were hung, and
one or two pictures placed upon the wall.

Just at dusk, a box was left at the door. It con-
tained two handsome lamps, and several beautiful
china ornaments. There was no name attached, but
all decided that Mrs. Clinton must have sent them.

“Just what was wantea!” exclaimed Miss Smith.
“T wonder none of the committee had thought of
them.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
_ > 0 or

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

‘The way to git ennything iz to ackt just az tho yu
didn’t kare whether yu got it or not. This iz a first-
rate way to git a cold too.

It iz az diffikult to define a suckeess az it iz to ac-
kount for the meazles.

It iz dredful eazy for a man to dispize 1itches who
haz got about two hundred and 50 thousand dollars
well invested.

If Fortune haz enny favorites, it iz not the indifi-
rent, but it iz thoze whom she haz to pay to git rid
ov their teazing.

Luy iz like the meazles; if we hay really got them,
they are sure to sho.

When a man iz puffed up with a harmless kind ov
pride that don’t do ennyboddy any hurt, it iz a

 

rewel piece ov bizzness to take the konsait out ov

“My temper, I suppose ra mean? Yes, that has!

“No; nor saw one till you were married, unless it’

him ; it iz az krewel az to pull the feathers out ov a
pekok’s tale.

The harte iza misterious thing; we kan allmost
allways find out what izin aman’s hed, but the things
that sleep in the heart are often unknown even to the
possessor.

Every one who trades with the devil expekts to git
the best ov him, but i never hav seen it did yet.

One reazon why advise costs so little iz bekause
every one haz sum of it to spare.

We are so avarishus that even when we trade with
ourselfs we go for gitting the best end ov the bargin.

My philosophical kreed iz—*‘Giv a bear the whole
ov the road if he will take it.”

My sentimental kreed iz—‘Strawberrys and kream
if they are handy; if not, kream anyhow.”

It may be diffikult to decide which men persew the
most eagerly, interest or fame.

Yu kan find men who will sumtimes repent ov a
sin, but seldum oy a blunder.

Thare iz nothing so natral az to lie, and then dodge
behind it. A

Mankind kan be divided into two heaps, and not
wrong them mutch-—a heap ov geese and a heap ov
ganders.

I observe more phools among the old men than ido
among the old wimmin.

I think I am honest when i say thare iz no man who
luvs to be praized more than i do, or who hates to be
flattered worse.

I would rather watch two raskals than one phool.

To kno how to talk iz a grate art, but to kno when
iz a grater.

The only sure way to keep a sekret iz to forgit it.

Pleasant Paragraphs.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

 

A Juvenile Taste Explained.

Little Boy—‘‘Our cook has gone away, and I’m awful
glad. Now mamma will have to make the cake, and
mamma’s caké is always heavy.”

‘‘Guest—‘‘Well, I declare! Do you prefer heavy cake?”

Little Boy—‘‘Yes’m. You get more chewin’ in one
piece.”

Too Much to Expect.

Toy Jobber—‘‘Seems to me your charge for ‘liquor for
customers’ is enormous.”

Traveling Salesman—‘‘You sent me on the road with
a great lot of Christmas toys and Christmas tree orna-
ments ?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, you don’t suppose a drummer can sell people
Christmas things in July without getting them drunk,
do you ?”

What He Needed.

Mr. Woodware—‘‘That young fellow you have in your
Office is the most conceited puppy I ever ran across.”

Mr. Queensware—“‘Yes, I know; but you must re-
member he is young yet, and his characteris not fully
tormed. He has never been tried by fire.”

Mr. Woodware—‘‘Then you'd better fire him.”
An Inning.

Mrs. Minkum—‘‘How tired and worried you look, Mrs.
Winkum !”
Mrs. Winkum (wearily) —‘‘Yes; it’s the girl’s day in.”

Sharp-Eyed Ushers.
He (indignantly)—*‘Those insulting church ushers put
us into a back pew.”
She (calmly as a quiescent voleano)—‘‘They probably
noticed that IE wore a bonnet whieh I wouldn’t care to
have seen.”

Professionals Barred.

Mrs. D’Angler—‘‘I see by the Gentleman’s Magazine
that professional fishermen are barred out of the com-
ing fly-casting tournament. What is a professional fish-
erman, my dear ?”

Mr. D’Angler—‘‘A man whe catches fish when he goes
fishing.”

Rural Delights.

Tired City Child—“Mamma, I’m awful sick of city
streets.”

Mamma—‘Well, my dear, next Saturday we'll go to
Central Park, and you can have a lovely time all day
long keeping off the grass.”

A Palpable Plot.

Mrs. Du Ille—‘‘John, my dressmaker arrived to-day,
and I must have the materials to-morrow.”

Mr. Du Ille—“Eh? What? You said you had written
to her not to come until next month.”

Mrs. Du Ille—‘‘Yes, I did, but she never got the let-
ter.”

Mr. Du Ille (clasping his hand to his breast-pocket)—
‘Woman! This is a plot—a vile plot! If you had really
wanted her to stay away you would have handed that
letter to the postman yourself; you wouldn’t have given
it to me to mail.”

, Nothing to Fear.

Lady—‘“Little boy, isn’t that your mother calling
you?”

Little Boy—“‘Yes’m.”

«Why don’t you answer her, then ?”

“Pop's away.”

Chances for Dull Boys.

Anxious Father—‘‘I don’t see what is to become of my
son. He seems to be a born blunderer.”

Old Friend—‘‘Um—there is no reason why he should
not succeed as well as the rest as a weather prophet.”

Goodfellow’s Mistake.

First Clupbman—‘‘How does it happen that Goodfellow
has such a hard time getting into society ?”

Second Clubman—‘‘Society found out that he wanted
to get in.”

Knew the Facts.

First Little Boy—‘‘Papa was readin’ somfin’ about
Mind Reader Bishop bein’ killed, but I couldn’t make out
how it was.”

Second Little Boy (solemnly)— ‘‘He had two doctors.”

it’s An Ill Wind, Etc.

Patrick—‘‘The paper says bustles is goin’ out of fashion,
Biddy.”

Biddy—‘“‘Oi’m glad av it. Now they'll soon be on the
dump heaps, an’ the poor goat wull get a square meal.”
Mysteries of Navigation.

Sweet Girl (in a rowboat)—“‘What is this place in the
back of the boat for ?”

Nice Young Man—‘‘That isto put an oar in when you
want to scull the boat. Rowing requires both oars, one
on each side ; but in sculling one oar only is used. That
is placed at the back and worked with one hand.”

Sweet Girl (after meditation)—‘‘I wish you would try
sculling a while.”

Out of Condition.

Hostess—‘‘Miss Hightone, won’t you sing for us ?”

Miss Hightone (society soprano)—‘‘Really, you must
excuse me to-night, I have such a cold.”

Hostess—‘‘Mr. Lowvoice, I am sure you will sing.

Mr. Lowvoice (society basso)—‘‘Pardon me, but I do
not see how I can sing to-night; I haven’t a cold.”

5 An Appropriate Motto.

Cemetery Sculptor—‘‘You wish a monument to your
aunt? Yes, sir, I knew your dear, departed relative
very well, sir. She was all her life a boarding-house-
keeper in my neighborhood. Do you wish a motto in-
scribed on it, sir?”

Englishman—‘‘Ho, yes. Put hon ‘Peace to ’er h’ashes.’,”

The Only Safe Plan.

Mrs. De Pencil—‘‘How does it happen you are never
accused of misrepresenting eminent men in your re-
ports of speeches and interviews ?”

Mr. De Pencil (an experienced reporter) — ‘I don’t
print what they say, but what they ought to say.”

Gaining Self-Control.

«Your husband looks like a man of great self-control,”
remarked Mrs. Gadd to Mrs. Gabb. F a

‘Well, he hadn’t much when I married him,” replied
Mrs. Gabb, “but,” she added, with a cold-steel look in
her gray eye, ‘he’s getting it.” .

Fatherly Advice.

Little Boy (looking up from the paper)—‘“‘Papa, George
Francis Train eats nothing but fruit.”

Papa—‘‘Indeed! Well, well, who would have thought
it? My son, avoid fruit.”

Business and Politics.

Mr. Stealall—‘‘I have done you a good many favors in

the past, buying up delegates for you, carrying conven-

 

tions for you, hiring repeaters, counting votes, and so

 

8 cag THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32

on; and now, as 1 am outofa job, I thought maybe you
might give me a chance in your factory. I hear you are
in need of a confidential \ook-keeper.”

Great Statesman (also a big manufacturer)—‘‘Um—er,
I don’t think you would suit in that position. But rll
tell you. what I'll do; I'll back you for county treas-
urer.”

Subjects Exhausted.

Little Alice—‘‘Oh, dear, I'm afraid if Mrs, Blank don’t
go pretty soon we won’t get our ride with mamma,
Ain’t her call most over ?”

Little Dick—“I guesso. Mamma is talking about the
second girl now, an’ there is only the nurse an’ the jani-
tor left.”

Glad to Get Away.

Immigration Commissioner—‘‘According to your own
confession, sir, you have come to this country under
contract to work.”

Foreigner—‘“I received a letter from an American
manufacturer, asking me to come over and show him
how to make some goods now made only in Europe, and
[ accepted the offer after the amount of compensation
had been agreed on.”

“Aha! I thoughtso, You came under a contract to
work.”

‘‘May I inquire who these people are you are now ad-
mnitting ?”

“Oh, they are socialists, and anarchists, and agita-
tors, and tramps of.one sort and another. They did not
come under contract to work, though. They wouldn’t
work anyhow if they could help it. They can stay, but
you will be sent back.” ‘

“Thank you. I shall be glad to go.”

Cause for Rejoicing.

Bystander (at a fire)—“‘Who is that grinning lunatic
dancing a jig in front of that burning house ?”

Policeman—‘‘He is the man who owns the furniture,
and it is insured for half its value. He expected to have
to move to-morrow.”

Doubtful.

Suitor (who has been out of town for a week)—“‘Is Miss
De Pink in ?”

New Girl (engaged that morning, and rather mixed
about her instructions)—‘‘Sure1 don’t know phether she
be inor not; but if you bees the young man phat was
here lasht noight till eliven o’clock, an’ was caught
huggin’ an’ kissin’ her in the parlor, she ain’t in.”

One of Many.
Mr. De Dude—‘‘Cawn’t I intwoduce to you my fwiend,
Abthur Wemington? He is a literawy man, you knaw.”
Miss De Belle—‘‘Indeed !”
Mr. De Dude—‘‘Aw, yes. He sent the Society News a
list of the guests at the last pahty,and the editah ac-
cepted it, bah J.ve!” ;

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

A REASON PROMPTLY GIVEN.—‘‘Why is it,” demanded
the lecturer, in stentorian tones, “that we see so many
brutish-looking men in the bar-rooms of our cities ?”

‘Don’t know,” replied a stubby-faced man in the gal-
lery, ‘“‘unless it is that you go there.”—Boston Tran-
script,

DETERMINED TO RUN No RIsks.—Citizen—‘‘Here, cab!”

oe (looking at him critically)—‘‘Is it a reception,
sir ?”

Citizen (angrily)—‘‘What difference does that make to
7 u 9”

Cabman—‘All the difference in the world, sir. You're
in full dress. If it’s a reception, it’s all right; if it's
suicide you pay in advance, sir.”—Chicago Tribune.

BREAKS His WorpD.—‘‘I never could trust him—he
breaks his word every time he opens his mouth.”

«He does ?”

«“Yes—he stutters.”—Chicago Globe,

CoMING EvEntTs.—In the natural course of events the
green apple and green melon and the small boy will
soon come into collision.—Pittsburgh Commercial.

GALLANT.—Freeleigh—‘‘Why don’t you get your wife
to learn the violin ?”

Henpect—‘‘She wouldn’t do it.’ While she was play-
ing, you know, she would have to rest her chin.”—Jown
Topics.

His SECURE RETREAT.—‘‘Have you any particular ob-
ject in loafing around here ?” asked the contractor of a
new building of an idler who was in the way.

«Yes, sir,” was the prompt reply.

‘Well, what is it ?”

“T want to dodge my creditors, and they will never
look for me where there is any work going on.”—Detroit
Free Press. : :

THE WIFE’s PosiTion,—‘“‘Now,” said the bridegroom
to the bride when they returned from the honeymoon
trip, “let us have a clear understanding before we settle
down to married life. Are you the president or vice-
president of this society ?”

«TI want to be neither president nor vice-president,”
she answered ; ‘I will be content with a subordinate
position.”

“What is that ?”

«“Treasurer.”—London Fun.

THE LAST OF OUR SHIPPING.—‘‘The mannerin which
the English are buying up our breweries is getting to
be a serious matter.” .

“That’s so. With the lager beer schooner departs the
last vestige of our American shipping.”—Boston Tran-
script,

A FULL FORGIVENESS.—The Rev. Mr. Wilgus—‘‘I hope
you and Brother Wiggs became fully reconciled before
he died.”

Deacon Podworthy—‘‘Oh, yes. I went around and
told him that, as he was about to pass in his checks, I
would fully forgive him for all the dirty tricks he had
ever done me, though I didn’t presume to say that the
Lord would do so, and (gleefully) you ought to have seen
how the old sinner looked.”—Terre Haute Express.

AN HONEST REASON.—Drug Clerk—‘‘I won’t sell you
the morphine without a prescription. I’m afraid to let
you have it.”

Customer—‘‘Do I look like @ man who would kill him-
self ?”

Drug Clerk—‘‘I don’t know. It seems to me if I looked
like youl should be greatly tempted to kill myself.”—
Omaha World.

IN THE RESTAURANT.—Gus—“‘Is that a Westphalia ham
you are eating ?”

Fitz—“‘No, it came from Maine; itis an East-failure.”
Pittsburgh Bulletin.

AN EMBALMED GENIUS.—Assistant (to great magazine
editor)—‘‘I see this young Miss —— is making herself
quite famous through the medium of the newspapers.”

Great Magazine itor—‘‘Yes—um—haven’t we got a
story of hers sent in four or five years ago ?”

Assistant—‘‘Yes, sir.”

G. M. E.—‘‘Run it in this month, and give a page edi-
torial to ‘A Newly Discovered Genius.’” — St, Paul
Pioneer Press.

SurRE Sians.—Wife—‘‘Cyrus, Iam sure young Spoona-
more is becoming serious in his attentions to our
Susie.”

Husband—‘‘Nonsense! What makes you think so?”

“He wears a new necktie every time he comes.”

“Do you think Susie cares anything for him ?”

“Yes. She hasn’t eaten an onion this spring.”—
Chicago Tribune.

He was sitting at a hotel table and the waitress was
pretty but red-haired. He asked her to please pass the
‘white horse” radish, and she froze up so solid that up
to the time he left, the next day, snow wouldn’t melt on
her.—Dansville Breeze.

Algernon—‘‘Say, grandpa, here’sa picture of a Roman
banquet, and they are all lying down to eat. They don’t
do that way now, do they ?” Grandpa—‘‘Er—well, yes,
there is more or less lying done at public dinners still.”
—Grip.

Rejoice, oh, young man in the glory of thy youth, but
remember that, big as he is, the whale does not blow
much until he reaches the top.”—Terre Haute Express.

When we are told that a Kansas bride received a bar-
rel of salt as one of her wedding presents, we do not
need any further explanation of the undue freshness of
girls in the great grasshopper and cyclone State.—Pitis-
burgh Bulletin.

“Pa ain’t turning out the sort of man I expected,” said
a little eight-year-old West Ender as he returned, rub-
bing his legs, from a woodshed seance with his father ;
“and, ma, the next time he whips us let’s get a divorce.
— Washington Post,

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Woad.

 

 

 

FASHION’S FANCIES,
Narrow-brimmed sailor hats are agai fashionable.

Pique stn bonnets are coming in fashion fo¥ littie
girls.

White and willow green form a popular combination.

Draparigs aré Mapidly disappearing in favor of straight
skirts.

The skirts of stylish hotise dresses are made to touch
the floor at the back.

The bishop’s cravat, a-wide tie ef white silk or mull, is
worn in the street with morning costumes.

Waterproof cloaks are now as dressy in appearance as
any article of feminine attire, those of shot silk being es-
pecially admired.

Soft clinging fabrics, which hang naturally in graceful

folds, are most suitable for. empire dresses, China crape
being the favorite material.

 

Infants’ dresses of white China silk are coming in favor,

 

VOL. 44—No, 38,

 

2
as they wash —_ nicely; but this material is more suit-

able for short dresses than for the first long robes.

Dressy traveling gowns for parlor cars have as their
only waist a plaited blouse of soft silk or white wool, worn
= - a jacket of serge or cheviot like that used for the

irt.

_ The back hair is worn in coils either high or low, while

in front there may be a bang or Pompadour roll, or else

eee may be parted in the middle, as is most becoming
e face,

“All round hats are very large,” says a Paris corre-
ee “the brim being dented here and there, most
often in the middle of the front, where it forms a groove.
Straw hats are literally heaped with flowers; in slender
garlands they edge the brim, inside or out; in thick clus-
ters they are piled on the crown, and in long s prays they
straggle about the brim in studied negligence.’

For pleasure parties on the water, tennis, or camping,
no material has yet been found quite so comfortable and
lasting as the white and colored serges. They may be
shirred or plaited, draped or allowed to fall in long folds
made in solid shades of fine unfaiding blues, browns,
grays, and reds, or bought in fanciful stripes, but they
never fail to withstand sun and water, and fora a charm-
ing costume.

The yards and yards of striped ginghams that were
bought up so rapid “S in the early part of the season are
now in the hands of dressmakers and are converted into
charming gowns. Here is one of pearl gray ground, cross-
barred in lines of blue and red. The full skirt front
shirred at the waist is bordered with twelve rows of red
linen braid ; the sides fall in straight folds, and the back
is caught up on the back of the bodice in two droopin
loops. Over the gingham revers of the basque turn bac
narrow ones of red silk, exposing a vest of gingham crossed
with red ribbon, while a red silk sash composed of one
long end and loop aoe at the left hip and breaks the
round fullness of the skirt. The hat worn with this gown
is a gray rough straw English turban, turned up with a
broad band of red velvet, with loops of red ribbon and one
long-tailed gray bird forming the only trimming, while
gray suede gloves anda gray silk parasol lined in red

nish the toilet.

 

Mrs. Laura C.—ist. A pretty costume with a contrast-
ing bodice has the skirt of broad-striped gray cashmere,
the bodice of dark blue cloth, though any dark woolen
material may be used. The foundation skirt is hidden
front and back by tlat plaited breadths, the plaits always
meeting in the middle, while the sides are covered with
two plain pieces of stuff coming together in the middle

above and open below, to show the plaited skirt. The
hind edges are caught up in a few @plds, and disappear
under the plaited breadths. The fronts of the bodice are
turned back as revers, three and a quarter inches in
width, over a silk jabot, which hides the hooks fastenin
the lining, and is composed of a straight piece of stuff,
rounded off somewhat above and gathered here as well as
below, while the jabot is put under the cloth revers on
one side, and ornamented on the other with silk revers
puton the cloth. Large mother-of-pearl buttons, stand-
ing collar, and cuffs of silk, finish the costume. 2d. All
important questions on matters of etiquette are fully
answered in ‘The Usages of the Best Society,” which we
will mail on receipt of the price, fifty cents.

Miss Betty, Camden, N. J.—Navy-blue and white serge
composed the skirt and waist of a charming yachting
gown recently seen in New York. The underskirt was
of white, cut round and plain, and blue revers, turned

back from one side, exposing a long, pointed panel of
white, at the foot of which were embroidered a blue
anchor and cords, while the Directoire jacket was also of
blue serge, had square pocket flaps at the sides, large
white serge revers and cuffs, and big pearl buttons. The
inside vest, doubled and buttoning close, was of gray
twilled silk, cut open in front to display a high linen
colar and chemisette, with a blue foulard scarf, while
on Pes head was worn a white serge cap, with blue bands
and visor.

Mrs. B., Springfield, Mass.—A pretty dress for a little
girl is of pale old-rose vailing, and has a full skirt,
trimmed with three rows of black watered ribbon,
mounted on the full vodice, and drawn in around the
waist with three rows of ribbon run through casings,
with button-holes worked at intervals. The ribbon is
passed in and out of these openings, and tied in little
bows at the back, while there is a similar arrangement
at the neck, simulating around yoke, the ribbon being
tied in the same way at the back. There are full sleeves
drawn in with ribbon at the wrists, and long bows on the
shoulders.

Lottie R., New Haven, Conn.—Figaro jackets, in velvet
or silk, richly embroidered with gold or silver, are very
popular, and are worn with dresses of all descriptions,

and they are most useful in black with gold embroidery,
as they can be worn with a greater variety of skirts. For
home, dinner, or theater toilets, they may be worn with
a black lace skirt, plaited in accordion plaits and mounted
en a red silk foundation, with a full under-bodice and
sleeves matching the skirt, and a sash of soft red silk,

Items of Interest.

 

A noted physician of Marseilles, who was never
known to acknowledge a blunder or mistake in treat-
ment, during his round of inspection in one of the hos-
pitals, approached a cot, and after feeling the patient’s
pulse, remarked: “Hum—he is doing very nicely; his
pulse is much better.” “It is as you say, doctor,” replied
the nurse; “butitis not thesame man. Yesterday’s pa-
tient is dead, and this one has been putin his place.”
“Ah,” said the doctor, “different patient,eh? Well, same
treatment.” And he walked on.

The cunning of the Heathen Chinee in outwitting
speculative Americans is seen in the success of the
Chinese Lottery in California. It is largely patronized
by Americans, who, it is estimated, weekly pour $200,000
into the pockets of the Mongolian managers, and are per-
mitted to win about $15,000. It flourishes, although laws
are in existence for its suppression. A few days ago, at
one of the agencies in San Francisco, 30,000,000 tickets
were seized by the police.

In the office of a newspaper in Luther, Mich , near
a window, hangs a saber captured in the Mexican war.
It hangs sothat just the point touches the glass. About
300 feet from the office is a saw-mill, and the minute the
gang saw starts the pointof the saber begins to tattoo on
the glass. An increase of five pounds of steam is notice-
able in the increased noise on the glass. When the saw
has passed through a log the saber indicates it instantly
by Keeping quiet.

England owns over half of the entire ocean ton-
nage of the world. The exact figures are 51.4 per cent.
The increase of the steam tonnage of the world in 1888
was 633,948 tons,and half of this increase was built by
British owners. In the same year the United States
added to her tonnage only twenty-seven new steamers
and 10,274 tons. Even Japan has gone beyond this figure,
in the same period, by the addition of fifty steamers and
36,084 tons.

Rila Kittredge, aged 77, of Belfast, Me., does some
microscopically fine work in the line of penmanship. He
has written the Lord’s Prayer eight times on a space the
size of a five cent silver piece, and is now engaged in the
work of putting 28,305 words upon a postal card. The
work is so fine that a powerful microscope has to be
used in reading it, but then every letter appears distinet
and beautiful. Mr. Kittredge uses a common steel pen.

Crowds gather nightly at the mouth of the Midland
Railroad Tunnel at Leicester, England, to listen to the
nocturnal warblings of a nightingale which sits in a
thorn-bush just over the tunnel, apparently delighted
with its audience. It continues its music regardless of
noise and steam, drawing such dense crowds of listeners
that a special force of police has to preserve order.

For fifteen years Mrs. Todd Lattie, of Bronson,
Mich., suffered from total blindness. The other day her
sight was suddenly restored. The first person upon
whom her eyes alighted was her daughter. After gazing
at her in wonder for a few moments, the mother ex-
claimed, “My! how you’ve grown!”

To secure a more exact record of vital statistics, a
new law has just been enacted in Massachusetts. All
doctors are required to report births, and for each birth
reported the doctor gets afee of twenty-five cents. No
penalty is fixed for failure to report.

A gentleman named Humphreys, who dwells in
Fleming County, Ky., has five daughters, and their names
are Arkansas, Florida, Louisiana, Tennessee, and Vir-
ginia.

A gravestone in Randolph, Mass., bears this re-
markable epitaph: ‘Jona Mann, Born Dec. 7, 1786; died
April 23, 1873. His truthfulness no one doubted. He wag
very poore, consequently not respected,”

The lance is coming into favor in Germany as 4
weapon for the cavalry. Evéli the cuirassiers, who for-
merly were merely armed with saber and carbine, now
carry lances.

Wild goats are 86 iiliiierous On the island of Gaude-
loupe, that they are being killed for theit skins and tal-
low. Most of these products are sént to Sati Diego, Cal.

It is said that rattlesnakes know how to choose a
healthful hotne. Where they make their liome, there is
no malaria, the ait is dry, and the water is pure:

The house in which Beethoven was born, at Boiitie,
is about to be converted into a museum of objects illus-
trating his life and works.

Women are permitted to practice as physicians in
Russia, but they must confine their services to children

 

 

and female adults.

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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